#because i have no avenue to send charming letters to people

[fictionadventurer]

How can I be known to history as a charming and witty correspondent if I don't write any letters??? This is a problem!!

#random thought of the day #a trip to the bigger-on-the-inside used bookstore netted me a book filled with letters between presidents and their wives #which neatly marries last summer's interest in epistolary books with this summer's obsession #i've only barely started and am already lamenting the lost art of letter writing #there's a charming bubbly one from a courtship-era abigail adams #a surprisingly sweet love letter from john tyler to his soon-to-be first wife #a witty start to a letter by grant where he teases julia for how long women take to answer letters #between this and the julia sand letters and 84 charing cross road i am in distress #because i have no avenue to send charming letters to people

[majestyeverlasting]

hi! prompts 16 and 27, if that's alright with you? thank you so much!

♡ Hi! Thanks for sending in this request. As for a summary, let's just say that there's nothing like summer in the city. Bucky and the reader decide to leave Brooklyn for a night out in Manhattan and have a mini hotel staycation. I hope you enjoy!

♡ Prompt 16: “You’re not good at pretending to be asleep.”

♡ Prompt 27: “What do you want for breakfast, grumpy.”

♡ To make a request for my One Month Tumblr-versary, check out my Fluffy Prompt List :)

As Long as It's With You

It had been an hour since night had fallen over Times Square. In the midst of the crowds, chatter, and array LED screens, you and Bucky sat at a small red table with a basket of fries between you. You remembered the words he spoke to you earlier that evening, let’s go be tourists for the night. It was a last minute suggestion, one you almost made the mistake of turning down. But because it was the weekend and there was a sparkle in his eyes, you figured why not? That’s how the two of you found yourselves in a cab from Brooklyn to the heart of Manhattan with overnight bags in the trunk. He managed to book a room in a hotel on 8th Avenue.

As the energetic atmosphere encamped you, you were glad you came. As hectic as it was, the familiar charm is what always managed to draw you back. There was always something new to experience, and an abundance of interesting people to watch. When Bucky took a break from eating to look around, you admired the way his face was illuminated by the lights. Not too far away, a man was playing a smooth melody on the saxophone. It flowed up into the air and mixed with the symphony of voices and laughter.

Upon meeting your gaze once again, Bucky smiled and told you that he loved you. When you told him that you loved him more, he shook his head but didn’t say anything. There was just an intensity to his gaze that suggested you didn’t know half of how highly he thought of and valued you. Everything within you wanted to melt in gratitude for the pathways that had led him to you. Out of everyone and everything, he was one of the good ones.

The moment he rested his hand face up on the table for you, you grasped it. It was warm. Times Square seemed to still as he started brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. There was something different about his touch that night, more reverent. And it remained that way even as the two of you arrived back at the hotel. In the elevator, he cupped your chin and kissed you as if you were a treasure. You didn’t mind being one if it meant being admired by him time after time again.

The room was small, and the accent wall behind the bed was a beautiful cobalt blue with the phrase ‘Lights Out Please’ printed across it in big letters. Everything was still tidy because all you and Bucky had done was drop off your bags before venturing back out. The scent of the fresh sheets lingered in the air with a pleasant undertone of lemongrass. You allowed yourself to fall back onto the bed with a sigh. Light from the city skyline helped illuminate the room along with the lamps Bucky had clicked on.

“Tired?” He eyed you.

You sat back up to the sight of him toeing off his shoes, and smiled when he stumbled a bit. “Only a little.”

“We can go ahead and get ready for bed.” He started undoing the buttons on his black shirt. “We don’t have to go to sleep—maybe we’ll be able to find something on TV.”

“Even though hotel TV channels are always wonky,” you noted.

Upon reaching the last button, his shirt split open to reveal his chest and stomach. There was a dusting of hair over his pecs and a line of it trailing down from his belly button.

“Fingers crossed then,” he said.

“Yeah... hey, Buck?” He raised his brows in encouragement for you to continue. “That’s a good look on you.”

He looked down at his torso and the parted halves of his shirt. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm. You look handsome.” You crossed the room to meet him, and he smiled when you pressed your lips to his.

“Thank you.” He quietly spoke those words against your lips. “You already know that you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. At least in my eyes, you are. Always gonna be that way.”

Bucky was the first to stir the following morning, only moments before you. Your back was turned towards him and you heard the sheets ruffling as he stretched, quiet grunts escaping him. When his foot grazed your calf, you thought it was unintentional at first. But then he draped his whole leg overtop of yours, his leg hair tickling your skin. The two of you laid in that comfortable silence for a while, aware of the other, but feeling no immediate urge to engage yet. Based on the amount of sunlight slipping in from around curtains' perimeters, you could tell the room looked out east towards where the sun had risen.

Eventually, you felt Bucky scoot closer to you so that the front of his body was against your back. You basked in his pleasant warmth and the feeling of his soft exhales gracing your neck. He was the first one to speak, his voice joining the distant sound of car engines humming from the streets below. “G’morning,” he said, kissing your nape.

You responded in your head, but remained quiet in reality, eyes slipping back shut in content. Bucky peaked over you to get a look at your face, because he could’ve sworn you were awake. But finding that your eyes weren’t open made him conclude otherwise. When he settled back into his previous position, he pressed more gentle kisses to your neck in hopes of rousing you. Not knowing you were awake.

“Doll?”

You were messing with him at that point, purposely ignoring him. But when Bucky’s flesh hand started to caress different parts of your body, it became harder for you to suppress the reactions that someone who was actually sleeping wouldn’t have had. He didn’t call you out upfront when he caught on. He waited until a small sound rose from the back of your throat at the feeling of his fingertips trailing over your thigh beneath the sheets.

Bucky’s voice was deeper and had a slight rasp when he spoke. “You’re not good at pretending to be asleep, pretty girl.”

After a beat, you finally rolled over to face him, and he scooted back to give you more space. His hair was disheveled and the skin around his gorgeous steel eyes was the slightest bit puffy. The lazy little smirk on his face made your stomach flutter.

“You have to admit, though, I had you for a second,” you said, voice soft and hopeful. A tad sleep ridden.

“No you didn’t.” He tried to keep his smile from growing wider.

“Doll?” You mimicked his rousing attempt from earlier.

"Okay, maybe you had me for a second," he admitted. "But that's all."

That response prompted you to pull the sheets over your head with a fake grumble of disappointment, making him laugh. It was so easy for the two of you to be playful with each other. Especially on a morning like that when you woke up in a different borough with no obligations. All there was to do was enjoy each other's company.

He tried to pull them down but your grip remained firm. "C'mon, lemme see you," he drawled.

"Nuh-uh."

You heard him shifting. "How about food—you hungry?" His hand squeezed your leg. "What do you want for breakfast, grumpy? We can go anywhere you wanna go."

You didn't say anything, so he continued talking. "Westway Diner's a block or two over I think. I know you like it there. And we don't have to check out till noon, so we've got time," he said. "You wanna hop in the shower with me?"

Bucky was smiling when you lowered the sheets from your face. "Yes," you answered.

"Which part are you saying yes to?"

"Everything. Being hungry, the diner, the shower… everything. As long as it's with you, I'm game."

-

Previously fulfilled request: “No Such Thing as Winning By Default Tonight”

#bucky barnes #bucky x female reader #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #dad!bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan #winter soldier #tfaws bucky #marvel #marvel fic

[storytellingfandom]

It Had to be You ~ Part Seven

Summary: Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she walked into hers.  Lin Beifong saw the world in two colors; black and white. That changes though when she meets the siren working with one of the largest gangs in Republic City.

Azami never had a choice. Didn’t have a way out. But she could destroy things from the inside. She could move information around. She could lie and smile with the best of them.

Neither needed anyone. Neither needed love. So what happens when fate ties them together? Can they save each other? Or will a smoking gun end something before it begins

A/N: A 1930s/40s LOK AU. Note that there will be themes that were present during this time including smoking, drinking, underlying homophobia, and potentially smut later on down the line. Writer’s views are not that of the characters.

Word count: 15,899

The figure on the couch was sound asleep. Her eyes were swollen and her face blotched from the drink she’d consumed and the sobs that had managed to escape from the stoney exterior of the police chief. Over her, a well loved blanket covered her. In her sleep she had shifted and on the ground a piece of paper had fluttered to the ground, the curving handwriting was noticeable.

Dearest Lin, 

If you’re reading this, then two things may have happened. One is that I’ve been killed by Takao, and hopefully my plan has worked. Or, you opened it not long after I left because you’re wanting to know the truth. You deserve the truth…

I’m sitting here, at two in the morning, trying to decide on what to write. I suppose I’ll start from the beginning. I give you a special power. My name is Azami Matsumoto, and I was born in Republic City. My parents were killed when I was young. My father’s bones rest in the bottom of the bay, and my mother lays in an unmarked grave, where I could not say. I took to the streets, I was five years old. I begged and I stole to get by. To help other kids get by. That is, until I was lucky and June caught me. She and Tapeesa took me in. 

Do you remember the old bar? The one off of Kiyoshi avenue and Yue boulevard? The Dancing Fan? That was June’s place, a lady’s club. Information was run out of there, information and supplies went to the smaller gangs that wanted to help. That were trying to get people at the bottom to a place where they could survive. When she had to give it up, and her niece sold it, the gangs you know now moved in on our neighborhood. They loaned out money, only to murder family’s in their bed when they couldn’t pay the interest. 

When I was sixteen, I started to work for June. I moved information, kept the larger gangs eyes off of our people. Helped to get things to the people who needed them. I sang in her bar, and everything was great. But then Takao’s men heard about me. Caught me with my first girlfriend, and threatened to send me off, reporting June and Tapeesa while they were at it, if I didn’t work for them. So, here I am now. 

When you came into the bar, you were different. You were the most stunning thing in the room with your cheekbones and your eyes. The most elegant of all the women who stood in that room. I couldn’t help but feel a pull to you. Takao saw this, knew that, and knew I had the charm to maybe get close to you. The night that we went walking together, some of the kids on the streets helped me to get the map that sat in your pocket. The map with your plans on how you wanted to trap Takao’s men. They knew you were coming. They would be waiting, ready to take your head. So I took it. And since I know now you probably won’t see me again, I gave them a different version of it. I gave your men information that would help them get some of the lower wrung people, and when your men show up in the place you set up, no one will be there. There may be some patrolling, but you will be safe. Because no one will be able to win this war, except you.

The days that I spent with you were some of the best I’ve had in such a long time, Lin. You started as a job, but the more I got to know you, the more attracted I became to you. You are beautiful, smart, funny, and you are so willing to help those who can’t help themselves. You’re brave, you’re magnificent, and I wish we’d had more time. 

I’m running out of time, I still have to write a letter for June and Tapeesa. When you go after Takao, there are a group of four running with him. They’re looking to turn the city upside down, let the chaos take root, then take the city for themselves. They’re dangerous, Lin. Included, there are sketches of who I’ve seen. 

Perhaps one day you will find it in your heart to forgive me for all of this. I was only trying to save the people that I love, and that includes you. And that kiss? Meant more than you’re thinking and will be what I take with me, no matter where I go or what happens. 

My hearts is yours, in this world and the next,

Azami

********

The throbbing in her head pulled with the chime of the clock. Her mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Opening her eyes, light green eyes frowned as she looked around, disorientated and on guard as she tried to sit up on the couch. 

“Well, sleepy beauty awakes.” Tapeesa said, bringing over some water. 

“Tapeesa…? 

“Don’t worry dear, we phoned the station to let them know you won’t be in.They seemed to expect it.” Tapeesa continued, waving her off and headed back to the stove. “Coffee will be done in a moment, along with breakfast. June is out, but she should be back soon.”

Lin was about to ask how she’d got here, why she was here, and then her eyes fell to the crumpled piece of paper that sat innocently on the ground. Daring her to pick it up, daring her to look at the last words that Azami had left for her as the events came back, partly, to her. 

Her head came to rest in her hands, breathing trying to even out even as tears snuck out of the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there when Tapeesa came to her. The older woman knelt down in front of the police chief, reaching out gently to touch her. 

“Lin darlin’, what is it?” Tapeesa asked, blue eyes looked up at her in concern. 

“What do you mean what’s wrong?! Azami is dead! Why aren’t you more upset?!” Lin answered, her voice rising in pitch and volume as the outrage spread through her. “You raised her and you’re not even upset!” 

Confusion crossed Tapeesa’s features, a frown that crinkled the skin between her eyes until realization dawned in her blue eyes. “Oh Lin, honey, she’s not dead.” 

Green eyes snapped to her, denial shining as her face hardened and she shook her head. “Then you didn’t hear yet. Tapeesa, my men came last night…”

“Lin, they were given incorrect information.” Tapeesa answered, reaching forward, she took Lin’s hands in her owned, calloused fingers running over Lin’s. “She’s alive Lin. It was close, but she’s alive.”

“Take me to her.” 

“Lin, you need--” 

“Take. Me. To. Her.” 

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Lin Beifong. Chief of police or not, you are in my home.” Tapeesa answered, watching the younger woman back down. “You can see her, but you’ll drink that water there first. And eat something.”

Nodding, Lin let her squeeze her hands before turning to drink the water that had been left for her. Her head was throbbing, but it raced even as the haze still worked to clear itself. 

Azami was alive.

Her men were wrong. 

She was alive. 

Her heart raised so fast that it reverberated off her ribs. Her hands were shaking. Forcing herself off the couch, she grabbed the letter from the ground and made her way to the table. Seeing the old piece of furniture made her freeze. While it had been mostly cleaned, bright red still stained the top. It was unmistakingly blood. Azami’s blood. 

Flashes to June answering the door and she hadn’t realized it then, but she’d been covered in blood. It hadn’t registered. Looking at herself, she only just noticed her white tank top had spots from where June’s arm had held her to get her inside and the discolored browns and reds that stained it alerted her to the fact that Azami’s blood was on her. Her blood on her hands. 

Dropped to the side was a gown. Walking to it, she picked it up and let the silk slip through her fingers as she started to look it over. Finally, she found the hole where the bullet had gone in. Fingers touched the dried blood that had been soaked in. Saw the small piece of fabric that had been dyed completely red. 

Tapeesa saw Lin staring at the items, touching them here forced her to realize that Azami was here. She and June had received a letter from Azami and it sat on the table. It was probably similar to Lin’s, begging forgiveness for what she was going to do. In that moment though, all that mattered to June and herself was that she was alive. They could handle the rest later. 

“Come eat now and I’ll take you to her.” Tapeesa said, bringing a plate over to the table. 

Lin nodded, still clutching the dress in her hands as she walked over. Letting the older woman gently take the garment from her, prying it from her fingers, she sat at the table as she stared at the eggs and the toasted bread and ham in front of her. 

The door opened not long after and both women’s heads shot up to look at the door as it did so. When June slipped into the apartment, Tapeesa set the plates down and hurried over to her, throwing her arms around her. 

“You’re safe.” 

“Of course I am.” June murmured, wrapping her arms around her waist. “Anything to avoid your wrath.”

Swatting at her, Tapeesa kissed her partner, nuzzling against her chest. “Come and eat then, Lin is awake so you can tell me what you decided on when she goes in to see Azami.” 

Nodding, June kept an arm around Tapeesa as they walked to the table. Taking her seat, she accepted the food and the coffee that her partner offered her. “Thanks love. How’re you holding up chief?” 

“I...I don’t know.” Lin answered truthfully, picking at her food. 

“I can imagine. A lot to process.” June nodded, digging into her breakfast. She could remember Lin when she opened the door, convinced Azami was dead and drunk off of her ass. June still didn’t know how the woman had managed to get here. 

Finishing what bites that she could, Lin pushed the plate away. “Can I see her now?” 

“Of course. Follow me.” Tapeesa answered, motioning her wife to stay sitting. 

Leading the woman back to their back bedroom, she opened the door as quietly as she could. Lin took in the scene, Tapeesa quietly leaving her to settle her own nerves regarding her wife. 

The room had the dim glow of the early sun fighting against the dark curtains, highlighting just how pale Azami was when her eyes found her in the bed. Looking at the form, she would have said she was dead in that bed. It was after moments that felt like eons that Lin finally saw the shallow movement of breaths. Slipping into the room, she shut the door quietly behind her before making her way to the chair that was next to the bed. The basket next to the chair held brightly colored yarn and the start of a scarf, or perhaps a blanket. Sitting in the chair, she reached for Azami’s hand that rested on the bed, her fingers immediately finding the woman’s pulse point, counting each beat.

Thump. Thump-thump. 

As long as she could feel that echo into her fingers, it meant there was a chance. It meant that maybe she’d wake up. That they’d have a chance to talk about what happened. A chance for…

“I’m really pissed at you, you know.” Lin said to the unconscious form next to her. “You didn’t have to lie, I could have--” 

The words died on her lips though, because Azami’s words had always been correct. The force couldn’t protect her. Not from the world that they lived in. In their world, only those that were willing to sacrifice themselves survived when it came to the games these gangs played. And in order to keep those who didn’t have a prayer to fight the system, someone often had to be sacrificed. 

“Why didn’t you just tell me that day? I could have been there...I could have done something.” Lin murmured to the form, Her hand had moved, instead of searching for a pulse, she entwined their fingers. “You can’t fucking leave it like this. With a letter with only half answers. You can’t. I won’t let you.” 

Willing her to stay alive. That sounded about right. Instead of sitting up to argue with her though, uneasy breathing continued. The bottles of varying greens and browns sat on the table. Something for pain, something to keep her resting, something that they hoped would restore blood.

Sighing, Lin looked at their fingers again. “I wanted to take you to Shao’s for dinner. That new Earth Kingdom place, supposed to be some of the best food from that area in town. You would have worn a dress, nothing like what you wear on stage, but something that you’d still look stunning in. After we had dinner...we would have gone to the pier where you would have begged for some of that frozen mango and cream that they sell. You’d be stuffed but we’d still get some to split. You would have flirted, I would have brushed it off, but you always found a way to tug that side out. At the end of the night I would have walked you home. You’d inist I come up for coffee or tea with how cold it’s been. We’d go up and sit together, talking over those warm drinks before I finally convince myself I’d have to go home. You’d walk me to the door and I’d hate to leave you. Instead of that kiss in the office, this would be it. With my arms around you, and a smile on both our faces.” 

She brought their combined hands together to press her knuckles to her lips. Resting her forehead against them, Lin could all but hear Azami’s voice. 

“Well don’t stop there chief! Tell me how our second date goes.” 

A sigh escaped from Lin as she settled into the chair, fingers still laced with Azami’s as she made herself comfortable to be there for a while. 

*********

Lin wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, stuck between dozing, talking to Azami’s quiet form, and constantly feeling for her pulse in her wrist. The door opened with a quiet creek though and drew her attention away. 

June’s head was the one that appeared. “We need to talk strategy. Tapeesa can sit with her a while.” 

The younger woman wanted to argue that she should stay there, but Tapeesa’s darker hand reached out and gently rested on her shoulder. “I’ll let you know if there’s any changes, I promise. I’ve kept her safe this long. Besides, I should be looking at her bandages and at the wound to keep it clean.” 

Nodding, Lin finally stood from her chair, very carefully putting Azami’s hand back on the bed and tucked it under the blanket before following June out of the room. It was at that point she was able to really take a look at her. June was tall for a woman, standing at nearly six feet. Hair was a dark steel color and piled into what could probably pass a bun at the top of her head. Golden eyes were tired, and she collapsed into the chair with none of the grace her wife would normally have. Angled and defined features were rubbed by hands before she motioned Lin over. 

On the table, a map of republic city, and a second one that showed the old sewer routes that Lin wasn’t as familiar with. 

“What is all this?”

“My world.” June answered simply, reaching for a pen. “Takao’s got his eye on you, has for a while. With Azami missing though, and a loose end, it makes him more dangerous.” 

“We can protect her--”

“Not in the normal way we can’t.” June answered, golden eyes flicking to her. “You’re new to these rules. In the next few days if they don’t find her, they’ll blow her apartment, then come for yours. Those men you think are loyal, a bunch of them are bought off. With enough money, they’ll turn on you. You need to get out of here for a while, ‘till we can get this under control. You can keep her safe that way.”

“I can’t just abandon the city.” Lin pointed out.

“Can’t protect it either if you’re dead.” June answered, leaning back in her chair. 

Cursing under her breath, Lin ran a hand through her hair. She had forgotten she hadn’t pinned it up and she shoved at it impatiently. “I can’t just leave the city, they’d figure something out.” 

“That’s where we come in. Information was my business, whether it was correct or not well, that depended on who was asking. Got some old friends back in the Omashu area on the force, owe me some favors. Anyone asks, you’ve been there helping them with their own gangs. Few well placed women and you’re there.” June answered, smirking when Lin’s eyes went wide. “Been doing this a while, kid. Know a thing or two.” 

“We could use you at the station, spirits.” Lin muttered, accepting the cigarette that June offered her.

“You have to convince my wife that I can come out of retirement first.” June pointed out, lighting her cigarette before offering to light Lin’s. 

“Fuck.” Lin muttered, taking a long drag off the cigarette, blowing the smoke towards the open window. “Alright, show me what you’re thinking for getting out of here.” 

*******

Tapeesa sat with Azami, humming to the asleep woman quietly. She’d changed the bandages for the wound and cleaned it thoroughly. She’d also washed the woman’s face of the sweat and grime from the club, singing softly to her. Songs from her tribe up north, songs she heard on the radio. She didn’t have the voice Azami had, but June had never complained. 

She doubted she would even if she was bad. 

A smile crossed her features at the thought. Her silver hair pushed into a traditional Water Tribe ponytail to keep out of her eyes to allow for her to continue to work on her knitting. She didn’t know what it would be, but it kept her hands busy. Anything to keep her busy as she went over everything that could go wrong between now and Azami maybe waking up. 

“Come on, sweet darlin’. We need you to wake up now. Someone here really needs it…” Tapeesa murmured, gently stroking the young woman’s hair. “You can’t leave me and June now. You can’t leave Lin. Your cage is broken now...you have so many more songs to sing now. Please my girl, just hang on a little while longer.” 

Sighing, the older woman, she stood from her chair and went to open the window. Breathing in the fresh air, she turned and watched the unconscious form for a long time before the small twitch of her hand brought her attention to her. Gasping softly, she hurried towards her. 

“I saw that...you’re in there. Come on darlin’. Let me see those green eyes.” Tapeesa encouraged. 

When the form went deathly till again, Tapeesa sighed softly and sat back down, resting her forehead against her hand. And then she felt the fingers in her hand twitched against her skin. Opening her eyes again, she reached out. 

“I’m here, I’m here baby girl. Come on.” Tapeesa murmured, frowning. 

Eyes fluttered behind eyelids, and a small groan escaped from Azami’s mouth. Spirits it felt as if she’d been run over by the train, then they ran back over her again when trying to see what happened. Her abdomen was on fire. Everything hurt. But still, she could Tapeesa calling out to her through fog, and it was that voice that guided her. 

Green eyes dragged themselves, shutting immediately against the bright lights. Tapeesa let out a gasp and hurried to shut the blinds again. 

“Yes...yes oh thank the spirits.” Tapeesa murmured as she hurried back to her. 

“Wha--what happened?” Azami asked, her voice graveled from not using it. 

Pouring some water from the pitcher, the older woman helped her to very carefully lift her head up just enough to pour water in. “You were shot, my love, by Takao if I had to guess.” 

Drinking the water slowly, Azami fell back to her pillows. “Lin?” 

“Is here, I’ll get her.” Tapeesa said and hurried for the door. 

*********

Lin and June had been pouring over maps, going over safe houses and the best way to get them there. Cars were out of the question, but an old truck that June’s friend could work if Tapeesa was the one driving it. They’d use the old tunnels to get out. 

She’d been reaching for another nut to pop into her mouth when Tapeesa’s footsteps caused them to both look up. Lin saw the look on her face and her heart stopped. 

“Azami?”

“Awake, and asking for you.” 

Lint was around the table and into that bedroom in record time. Azami’s eyes had closed in her waiting, but fluttered open when she heard the door flying open. Smiling weakly at the other woman, Azami just took her in for a long moment. 

“Hi chief…”

#lin beifong #lin beifong x oc #lin beifong/oc #legend of korra fanfiction #legend of korra fanfic #lok fanfiction

[silenthillmutual]

(based a little on rp w/ @steppe-father & pre-this fic i wrote)

He always gets up before Artemy is awake, before he can really process that Daniil has moved and why, so he won't hear things he shouldn't or see things he doesn't need to. He just wants to preserve some semblance of dignity, though there's not much he has left and his reasons for keeping it are pretty stupid: he has nothing else. He feels like everything here has been constructed to break him. He can almost see the threads where his body is pullinh apart, like his arms are close to being ripped from their sockets and his eyes are coming loose. He's sewn together, and badly. If he lets himself wake up chest-to-chest with Burakh, he'll unravel completely. There's so little of him left as it is.

But he doesn't want anyone knowing how unhinged he's becoming. Its bad enough he lets Artemy convince him to sleep, lets him tempt himself with things he can't have. Get too comfortable in the light and the darkness will blind you. Distancing himself is...the eyepatch. It's a crude solution, one that can't hold forever, but he has to do something.

The first thing he does is pull on his gloves, and the second is check his mug by the window. It lets him know how much time has passed, since he never pays much attention to the clocks.

The tea is frozen almost solid. Damn.

He can pretend to work while he shuffles about. He thinks Artemy might actually be upset if he left the house entirely before he wakes up, but that doesn't mean Daniil can't reorganize, can't gather his thoughts while his partmer rests. He isn't good at this, at subterfuge; he's never been much of a liar, but concealing his feelings isn't difficult. His voice rarely shows much, no matter what he tries to change it, and people care less about the words than they do about the intonation. No one hears what they want from him, and no one wants to believe he feels anyway. It makes almost everything easier.

(People's perceptions aren't reality.)

(He still feels things, no matter how often he tells himself not to.)

At least he can pretend to work. At least he can look unaffected and uncaring when Artemy wakes. Like he hasn't been warming up, getting comfortable, getting closer. It's what everyone expects, and everyone wants what they expect. Even Artemy Burakh.

He doesn't catalogue how long he sits there, drafting letters he won't send to people who won't read them. Artemy wakes him out of what he might call a daze by saying "Jesus, emshen, don't you ever sleep?"

Something feels crooked in his chest at the notion that Artemy really doesn't remember them falling asleep together. His hand stops writing, and it takes a lot for him to not start screaming. He has to backtrack further now, regress harder, coil into himself like his feeble body is enough to give him warmth and his limbs won't stick together alone like this. He doesn't cry, but he sniffs, like that'll stop it when he has time to himself in the middle of the night. "No, you know the old adage- 'I'll sleep when I'm dead.'"

"You go on like this, and it'll come sooner than you think." His voice sounds like a warning, but Daniil guesses all the same that it's a joke. "What are you working on, anyway? A new avenue for your vaccine?"

These words shatter bone. They make splinters of him. The vaccine is a bust, he's utterly useless here, in over his head, but, "Yes," he lies, because he can't very well ask if he can be of any help to someone else (he can't, of course he can't), "I'm sure there's something I'm missing, something I'm overlooking," (there are other cities and they need protection, there are people still healthy and they need protection), "And once I figure out what it is, I'll be..." (worthless, doctor, and maybe this is why your research has led you no where.)

(maybe your research here is a failure and your research back home is a failure because you are a failure. surely the thought has crossed your mind?)

"You'll be what?"

Daniil blinks at nothing. He feels it running down his cheek, and is thankful Artemy hasn't moved from the bed to confront him. "Sorry?"

"You stopped talking in the middle of your sentence," Artemy tells him. "You're falling asleep in the middle of your sentences. You should lie down."

"I'm fine," he says, voice flat, mind screaming.

"I'm not convinced," Artemy counters. "You need to sleep, at least an hour. I can cover you. Maybe I'll pick up something in your notes?"

He thinks of something to say in response. Can you read cursive? Because his notes are a jumbled mess, half and half. If Artemy can find something, he'd love it, of course - but he has better things to do than entertain Daniil's curiosity on a broken idea. And Daniil has tasks he needs to complete, errands that take him far away from Artemy Burakh and his goal.

"Daniil?" He needs to say something. He's going to bother someone if he doesn't get back on track. But what is there to say? "Daniil, look at me?" When did Artemy get so...close to him? Not just metaphorically, but physically, he has his hand on Daniil's shoulder and he doesn't think he could make his arm move to shove him away. If he wanted to.

The world doesn't care what you want. He wouldn't be here if it did, he'd be in the Capital with his lab still standing instead of in the middle of nowhere surrounded by strange, judgmental people spitting venom at him for trying in vain to save them. Or he'd be here with Eva when they're not under constant threat of dying, getting to know his bound as people instead of patients insistant on trying his patience. Or...

No... No. No. Oh, no. This place has grown on him and now he doesn't know what he wants anymore.

He feels fingernails on his cheek and realizes, body still not moving, that Artemy is touching him. He hasn't asked in that voice, the one they all have, amazed at signs of life, if he's crying. He's just touching Daniil's cheek softly, frowning at him. "You need something," Artemy mumbles. "Maybe not sleep. But you need something."

"I already slept," Daniil mumbles. He keeps trying to look somewhere else, anywhere else so he doesn't have to keep looking at Artemy and his- and his- his disappointment, or whatever that expression is. His sadness. "I lied. But you forgot, anyway, so it doesn't matter."

"It does matter, actually," Artemy says, voice sounding lower, sounding closer. "It matters a lot. Its means something else is wrong."

"That doesn't matter - It doesn't! Don't you get it?" He wants to run his hands through his hair, tug at it until he starts to rip the whole doll apart, but he can't feel anything. He can't feel any of it: any scrape that he's gotten, his lungs when he wheezes or the burn, the taste of food. He feels it all turned down, pushed down under the weight of something else. Something bigger. Something more important. "I don't have time to do any of this, any of - whatever. And even when this is all over, there are still things -"

He feels something slide into his hand, breaking the monotonous feeling of worn leather against his skin...with rougher leather against his skin. He thinks he can make out the shape, but Artemy’s fingers prevent him from opening his hand to look at it. “It’s a charm,” he says, squeezing Daniil’s fingers. “I know you don’t believe in the custom, or the mysticism, but please take it.”

Daniil feels like he’s spinning, his head dizzy. “The custom?” he repeats. 

“Trading,” he says. “When you barter items with people here, you give some of yourself away. So take this charm, and with it, some of my warmth. To comfort you in the day to come.” 

So it’s not just the stores lacking food. Another thing he hasn’t understood, another thing he’s gotten wrong. Daniil sighs, feeling like he’s losing something else, coming more unbalanced. “Right. And what would you like in return?” 

“You don’t have to give me anything, erdem.” His hand slides off of Daniil’s, going to stand. “It’s not about the object, anyway. It’s about what it means, what you give of yourself to others.” 

He can hear the words in his head, what Artemy must be thinking. You don’t get it. You never will. You’d never give anything of yourself to others. They mean nothing to you. Heartless. “No, no,” Daniil says, mentally waving the words away. “I want to do this right. I want to give- give an equivalent exchange. I just -” Nothing you have is worth giving. You’ve saved everything valuable for somebody else. “All I have is bandages.”

“It’s alright, really.” His words don’t give Daniil the sense of hostility, but then he’s never been great at reading intention. “You don’t need to give me anything.” His voice is a bit softer when he says, “You’ve already given me more than you know.” 

“I insist,” Daniil says. “I want to try.” He licks his lips, thinking. He’s got one thought, clumsy, barely thought out, and he’s going to do it before he has a chance to change his mind. “Alright. Close your eyes.” He looks up, to see if Artemy has, and lets his breath go. He couldn’t follow through if Artemy watched him as he does this, removing the pin and sliding the cravat from around his neck. It’s a stupid idea, he’s sure; he can’t imagine what on earth Artemy would do with it, but it’s a little too late now to back out. He bites his lip, using the hand with the charm to grab one of Artemy’s, laying his hand out to drop the cloth in his palm. He feels Artemy’s fingers close around the garment and lips draw in confusion. “Take this,” he says, and watches Artemy’s eyes open and go down before he has to look away. “And with it, take...” Take what? Take my - “Take my vulnerability.” He hasn’t thought the words through, and he can feel Artemy staring again, intense, scrutinizing. He wonders what it is he’s thinking. “So that...you may know honesty?” 

Daniil stares at Artemy’s hand, waiting for it to close as he rubs his fingers against the fabric. He thinks for a moment that Artemy might reject it, but then he watches the hands join together, folding it. When he says, “Thank you,” it’s in the softest voice Daniil’s ever heard from him. 

And he doesn’t know what to do now, what he’s just done. He knows he’s just undone himself, and somewhere inside he can feel his stuffing coming out, the tear in the seam too big to sew shut. He thinks about bolting, but where would he go? It’s not as if Artemy would be unable to catch up to him. “I feel like I haven’t given you enough,” Artemy finally says. “But I want to be selfish. I don’t want to give it back. So can I give you something else, later?” 

The charm has a loop that fits around his wrist, pulling it tight. It’s something to look at that won’t give him some sort of attack. “You don’t have to,” Daniil starts.

“I insist,” Artemy parrots. There’s a moment of static silence, before his hand is soft on Daniil’s cheek again, and he says, “I’ll come back tonight.” 

#burakovsky #icarus.txt #i felt like writing some h/c #nori writes #pathologic #ok to rb #feel free to suggest a title for this #icarus.docx #mine

[cherriii]

Yes, I’m actually participating in something for once. I really wanted to write something for the Tomione Smut Fest 2018 hosted by @weestarmeggie17, and well, this is what I came up with.The prompt is Blackmail. This was written on the fly, so forgive any clumsy typos and weird phrasings. 

Warning for Underage and Slight Dub-Con. 

Summary: Tom Riddle is a bored Ministry official, and Hermione Granger has just arrived for a hearing.

A subject for a great poet would be God's boredom after the seventh day of creation.

                  - Friedrich Nietzsche 

                                                         ***

Boredom is never quite boring. It is a state of waiting for something better to arrive. There is something delicious in putting your instincts to sleep so that you may awaken them later.

Some say Tom Riddle became a Ministry official because he was too brilliant to pass up the chance, but the truth had more to do with boredom. Working in the hub of bureaucracy offered him so many avenues for biding him time, for waiting in the shadows. A spider never runs to his next meal, he glides.

FF.NET

He licks his finger now as he turns the page of the report in front of him. It is a most entertaining read, despite the formal language and wooden turns of phrase. In fact, he has never read a more outlandish tale in the whole of his uneventful career.

He flicks his wand and stamps the top page. Yes, he will listen to this one.

Petition no. 205 – Ms. Hermione Granger, Muggleborn, Age: 16

Misdemeanor: Underage Magic with Attenuating Circumstances

Verdict: To Be Decided

Petitioner must report to the Improper Use of Magic Office for an Interview.

Riddle looks up from the parchment. She must be waiting outside, crammed in with the rest of the unremarkable souls who have to languish in these hallowed halls. But she is not unremarkable, if this file is to be believed.  

He presses the buzzer on his desk. “Send in petitioner number 205.”

There is commotion beyond his door. Vociferations, the scraping of chairs. Finally, there is a modest knock.

“Enter.”

His initial reaction is disappointment. His lips twist in annoyance. The girl before him is a scrawny, nervous animal, all knobby knees and sharp elbows. Her frizzy hair is trying to escape the confines of a clumsy braid. She is wearing a prim blazer and long skirt, punctuated by heelless, sensible shoes. Fingers stained with ink. She has an eager, rabbity expression. No doubt, she seeks approval.

Is this the same girl who “accidentally” imprisoned the hack journalist Rita Skeeter in a jar?

It does not seem conceivable.

“Have a seat, Ms. Granger,” he instructs tonelessly. He should have known a Muggleborn would never be truly interesting.

The girl sits down, ankles crossed neatly. She holds her hands folded in her lap.

“Start from the beginning, leave nothing out. I will know if you’re –” He is about to say lying. But he doesn’t get a chance.

Granger’s hand shoots up. Before he gives her permission to speak, she says in a voice that is soft but unhesitant, “First off, it should be remarked, Sir, that this is not really a case of Underage Magic Use.”

Riddle lets the quill sag between his fingers. “Pardon?”

“The underlying assumption has been that I performed illegal magic to entrap Rita Skeeter, but the illegality was committed by her,” she continues more confidently. She sounds like a pedantic student correcting her less informed teacher.

Her expression is less rabbity and more vulpine, now that he looks at her better.

Riddle feels a stab of irritation, but it is not altogether unpleasant.

“Do tell,” he nods coolly. He does not say anything else. He has often found that people like to fill up the gaps in conversation.

“Well.” She twirls the tip of her braid nervously between her fingers. More frizzy locks escape the knot. “Skeeter is an unregistered Animagus, a fact which must have escaped the Ministry. I did not transfigure her into a beetle. My only action was to catch her with a jar. A jar, as you well know, is not a magical object by default.”

Her knees bob slightly as she speaks. Her fingers card her braid obsessively. She wets her lips once, twice. Riddle is riveted by the telling reactions of her body. Her patronizing tone has a girlish shadow; she is telling the truth, but she is also hiding something.

A scrawny, audacious thing. He feels himself grow taut.

He makes a note in the file about Skeeter’s unregistered Animagus state.

Granger watches him write intently. She follows the quill’s tip, alert to every generous loop and lingering curlicue. She is trying to make out his ciphered letters.

Her eyes, he notes, are furtive and impatient, like two glittering beetles. The metaphor is ironically apt given the circumstances.

“I suppose I don’t have to mention that a simple Reverse Spell will show that my wand has not performed the transfiguration,” she adds eagerly.  

Oh, she is clever. She knows a Reverse Spell does not always distinguish between several instances of the same charm. She must have also read the new Ministry regulations where it is stipulated that, should Reverse Spells be cast on the wand of the transgressor, said transgressor may appeal to the Wizengamot and sue for faulty proceedings.

She came prepared. Very few people come prepared for anything.

He finishes writing but he keeps his eyes on the report, tapping the feather end of the quill against the parchment. A few moments pass in excruciating purgatory. Time feels at a standstill. Boredom purified. Boredom finally reaching its much desired apex.

“Well, do you believe me?” she finally bursts out, a frayed, imperious edge to her voice. “Can you verify my claim?”

He notes that her front teeth are long and sharp and predacious as they stab her lower lip, but he does not grace her with his attention. He rests his elbows against his desk, laces his fingers together and brings them to his mouth, affecting a posture of deep thought.

Granger shifts in her chair, the folds of her skirt coming stuck between her thighs. She must be warm underneath, warm and a little damp with sweat.

She checks the gleaming name tag on his desk. “Mr – Mr. Riddle? May I be so bold to ask what you’re deliberating?”

Her elaborate politeness rings false. He should know, he has affected the same obsequiousness in the past. In fact, she is of his breed. Less calculated perhaps, but just as determined to get her way.

The difference between them is that he can wait.

He draws his chair back and pulls a left-side drawer out. He rummages through it until he finds the documents he requires. He makes a show of thumbing them thoroughly.

Granger leans forward, her fingers scraping the edge of his desk.

“Please, Sir. I believe other petitioners are waiting. My case is fairly simple, you’ll agree.”

Riddle suppresses a smile. She is insulting him under the guise of assistance. Such tactics are like water off a duck’s back.

He scolds himself for not seeing through her the moment she walked in. Her plainness, like his handsomeness, hides the auspices of a different world. Inside them is a teeming, swarming army, the dictator’s army. They are autocrats. They wish to superimpose their world over the one they have to negotiate daily.

He slaps the papers in front of her, making sure she sees the bold lettering.

“But…” Granger trails off dryly, eyes widening. The forms required for her sentencing and expulsion from Hogwarts. “But I have committed no actual crime.”

Riddle’s lips quiver. He allows himself a smile.

“Are you quite sure, Ms. Granger?”

“Extremely,” she says, voice shaking with righteousness. Her expression has not darkened and yet the lights have gone out of her face.

“No, perhaps you do not consider it a crime. Privately, I would be inclined to agree with you, but the Ministry will not share our view.”

Granger frowns. “Our view?”

“On the matter,” Riddle continues calmly. “You and I may care little if a bothersome woman goes insane trapped in a small receptacle, but…others care deeply for the sanctity of life.”

Granger opens and closes her mouth. She tries for shock, but fails. She works her lips in silence.

Finally, she expels a breath. “Of course I care about – about the sanctity of life.”

Tom’s smile becomes sinusoidal. “Then why did you hex the jar?”

There it is.  There it is. Her eyes flash with diamonds. Her nostrils flare. He’s caught her. She thought she was clever. She thought no one would be able to tell.

“I –”

“An Animagus could break an ordinary jar. An Animagus can also break a jar which has been magically locked. But they can’t put their mind to it when they are in constant pain.”

He tells her these facts with relish, like spreading marmalade on toast and biting into the crisp middle.

“You made sure she could not even attempt to escape. A good word for it is torture, isn’t it?”

Granger shakes her head repeatedly, the loose braid dangling over her shoulder like a hanging rope.

“N-no, that’s not – I merely wanted to make sure she did not harm anyone.”

Riddle picks up his wand, caressing its irregularities.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions. That’s a Muggle saying, isn’t it?”

Her spine straightens, making her stand taller. Her fingers are clenched into the folds of her skirt. “It does not apply here, Sir.”

Riddle is growing tired of these dissimulations. It is not every day that he finds a symphonious being who sings in the same choir.

He must have her, and quick. After all, she is right. There are other petitioners.

“Tell me, Ms. Granger, do you want to pursue your studies further?”

“Of course I do.” She tries to control her despair.

“You are vying for the position of Head Girl next year, aren’t you?”

Her jaw clicks under the skin. A second mouth, buried underneath. “Yes.”

“It would be a shame if you were not there to fill it,” he says, tapping the forms of expulsion with his fingers.

“It – it would.”

Tom leans back in his chair with a lazy smile. He touches the knot at his tie, but he doesn’t loosen it. No, he tightens it.

“Well then. What shall we do about it?”

He does not insult her by asking What are you willing to do for it? He knows she is capable. What he wants to underline is that he will not abandon her to the task. No, they are doing this together.

“What – what do you propose, Sir?”

Tom flicks his wand imperceptibly in the direction of the door.  She can hear the locks turning, fastening.

“Start from the beginning,” he says, in a mockery of his initial remarks. “Leave nothing out.”

She is not exactly obedient.  Fastidious maybe. Curious most certainly.

She unravels the braid with a subconscious sense of relief. She has never done well with her hair tamed. The curls fly out of their enclosure like Medusa’s snakes, hissing venom. He is arrested by her lioness mane, the way it frames her face, the way it denies her girlishness. It is hair with intent, hair with a separate mind. What an alteration it produces.

They both seem to give up a breath they had been holding.

“Put your elbows on the desk.”

He walks around the desk, letting her observe his sleek form, letting her admire the intelligent muscles underneath the suit. She might not entirely agree with this arrangement, but she can at least appreciate what she is being given.

Tom Riddle knows his powers. When he stands behind her and places a soft hand on the base of her spine, she can’t help the shudder that rakes over her.

“Lower, if you will.”

He presses her down on the desk until her pert little ass sticks out from her clerical skirt.

“I want you to look over your shoulder. Can you manage that?”

The girl is wrestling with her own hair, but she makes the effort to stare at him. She is trying to glare, but she is too nervous, too expectant. Her eyes are glittering beetles.

He fingers the folds of her skirt, pulling them up and letting them fall against her thigh. He does not touch her flesh. He bunches the fabric between his fingers and drags it up, up, up, until he can almost see her white knickers, and then lets it glide back down, scratching her puckered skin. The exchange of heat and cold makes her vibrate. He can see her fingers are clawed into his desk. He repeats the motion three times.

Granger inhales sharply, rubs her thighs together. He steps forward so that his trousered leg brushes up against her calf. The contact makes her push back imperceptibly, rubbing herself against the tweed.

He continues this little game until her staccato breath is the only sound in the room.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says after a while, pressing his thumb against the zipper of her skirt. “Is he ever going to touch me?”

“I don’t – don’t want you to touch me,” she says, her voice slightly hoarse from his ministrations.

“Oh, but I don’t have to. I can make you come just by taking a seamstress’ measurements. Hips, waist, circumference…”

He can see her predacious teeth stabbing her lower lip repeatedly. He imagines what he could do to those canines, what she could do to him.

“Would I also be remiss in guessing you are a virgin?”

She blushes and nods, head bowed further into the desk. But the lioness watches him through the forest of her hair.

“I don’t suppose you have a strapping boy in mind to get you past this inconvenience. Your classmates must be…quite unable to handle you.”

He can feel her body trembling with rage, fighting against the truth of his assertion.

He smiles. “If this is too hard for you, I can just tell them what you did. You might be able to enroll into Beauxbatons in a few years.”

The girl shakes her head. “No.”

“No, what?”

“I don’t want you to do that.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

She grits her teeth. “I want you to get me past this inconvenience. Sir.”

He smiles. “There’s a clever girl.”

He cups her ass through the skirt, kneading the fabric with the flesh. He feels her buck against the desk. He unzips her. The clerical skirt becomes a rag on the floor. Next he drags her underwear down slowly, but not all the way down, lets them hang despondently from her knees. He spreads her legs and rolls up her blazer. He places an almost fatherly hand over her bare belly, as if checking for an ache. He feels the tension coiling underneath, loves the way she gasps when he spreads his fingers and brushes against her pubic hair.

“Did you sleep with the jar next to your bed every night?” he asks conversationally, fingers sinking into her pubic hair, lower, hooking against the tip of her clit, dragging her forward against his crotch. She seizes up momentarily, has no answer for him.

“Did you touch yourself as you watched her knock her limp, insect body against the glass?”

She moans - tries to suppress it - moans again as he flicks her clit, as his finger dips between her folds and returns to the nub, a backwards motion which multiplies, an echo which burns into her skin.

Her senses are diluted as he applies two fingers to the task. She does not even notice when he unzips himself.

“What did I tell you about keeping your eyes on me?” he scolds her softly, slapping her bare ass with his other hand. The small assault jolts her, makes his fingers sink in deeper.

She struggles to comply. She’s finally accomplished what she wanted before. She is glaring now, but it is a glare of lust. The autocrat demanding her rights. Very well.

His hardness rubs against her thigh, along with the tweed of his trousers. He molds his length to her, makes her feel him against her cunt, slides himself between the folds but does not penetrate.

Her hands shake uncontrollably against his desk. She knocks his name tag off.

“I know what you’ve been told, Ms. Granger. The first time stings, the first time hurts. The first time stretches you inside out. It is torture. It can be. But sometimes, a jar is just a jar. It doesn’t have to be a device for pain.”

A lesser mind would not have understood, but she does. Of course she does.

Part of her relaxes under his grip. Another part steels herself.

“What do you say, Ms. Granger? Hermione?”

She nods her head, swallowing hard. “A jar is just a jar.”

He eases himself in her, like a diver testing the morning waters. When he plunges, she is ready to envelop him. She doesn’t scream. There are other petitioners outside and they forgot to secure the room for noise.

Luckily, she knows a few handy charms to clean up her skirt, but even so it looks a frightening mess.

Since it was abandoned on the floor between their feet, it was the unfortunate recipient of their repeated climax. Her sweet, riverine cum, running down the back of her knees as she buried her fist in her mouth. His sperm, leaking heavily into her sensible shoes, spilling over. His mouth was against her ear when they both came a second time. He inhaled the scent of her damp hair. Hermione tried to crane her neck and witness the abandon on his face. But it was hard to fight the waves of pleasure.

Fuck me, Sir, she kept thinking, because that’s what the women in her mother’s cheap erotica often clamored. She never understood what they meant, and she was not sure now, but she knew that what she wanted was not just the fucking, but the fucking to completion. Perhaps that’s what the novels should say. Fuck me till I’m empty, till I’m a husk, till I’m no more.

Tom Riddle was thankfully skilled in Legilimency, otherwise he might never have guessed the bend of her mind.

He drank in her thoughts, a deep groan wrenched from his throat.

He increased his pace, gripped her thighs and buried himself in her to the hilt, until he felt trapped, until there was nowhere else to go.  A jar is just a jar.

She tries another scouring charm.

Riddle tightens the knot in his tie. He smiles. He’d like to see her walk out of here without a skirt.

“I am glad this was all a misunderstanding, after all. But I advise caution,” he says in the cadence of a Minister official. “You wouldn’t want to come down here for a second interview, would you?”

The skirt is sticky against her thighs. Her shoes squelch with muck. She combs her wild hair to the side and starts pleating it.

“No…I would not.”

Her voice is thick with subtext. Inside her, many things swarm.

Riddle picks up his name tag and places it carefully on the desk. A spider never runs for his meal, but he could make an exception for her. He wants to have her again, as many times as her body and spirit can withstand it. He wants to cover her mouth and hair with him. He wants to be covered by her mouth and hair.

But she must be the one to transgress, or will he have to force her hand?

Hermione Granger smiles. It does not reach her eyes.

“Thank you, Sir. Shall I send in the next petitioner?”

Tom Riddle leans against his desk, regarding her. He returns her parting shot. “Please do.”

Yes, she will return to him. He will make sure of that.

#tomione #tom riddle #hermione granger #tom x hermione #tomione smut fest 18 #mine

[tgunn64]

Favorite Villains - Sideshow Bob (The Simpsons)

The Simpsons is one of my favorite shows, and I believe full stop my favorite show you could relegate into a sitcom (barring most of its later years AHYUCK)--in its heyday it was a perfect subversion of the suburban nuclear family and tackled every avenue it attempted to excellence. I originally didn’t want this to have villains from works that are considerably from shows that are episodic sitcoms in nature, but I see enough arc, menace and charm to encompass Sideshow Bob. The performer called Sideshow Bob on TV was once the sidekick of Springfield’s local celebrity, Krusty the Clown. Every day Bob would endure cream pie after seltzer spray after dunk tank to the laughter of millions and his own chagrin. Behind the scenes, Robert Terwilliger resented his position, fancying himself a man of culture high above his pay grade. He starts by trying to frame Krusty for a crime he didn’t commit to be rid of the clown for good, but his plan is foiled, largely thanks to Krusty’s number one fan, Bart Simpson. From that day on, he plots to kill Bart in the most horrible and theatrical fashion he can imagine.

His nature as a thespian, connoisseur of fine wines, and scholar are what make Bob a perfect nemesis for the Simpsons family; who are defined by being lower middle class, TV dinner munching suburbanites that aren’t trying to put on airs for anyone. Bob is precisely the kind of person that decried the Simpsons in real life for being low low brow, and I think there’s sort of a funny juxtaposition that way. Of course the most cultural of the Simpsons cast must have the most cultured of all voices--provided by Kelsey Grammer, who is just one of my favorite voices and personalities I love to see pop up in media. Sideshow Bob is very clearly influenced by Frasier (to the point that the show eventually introduces Cecil, Bob’s brother played by David Hyde Pierce), and he has the same great timing and over the top baritone delivery here. You get to see if Frasier became a psychotic killer (as opposed to just a psychotic) in essence, and it’s a lot of fun.

Despite being in a show that’s considerably lighthearted all things considered, the episode where Bob is released from prison and stalks Bart is actually a bit terrifying. He, at one point, trails down the neighborhood in a truck with an intercom announcing everyone who “won’t be dying soon” and listing off everyone in town except, deliberately Bart. As cutthroat and competent as he is, the Simpsons is a comedy first and there’s a lot of levity to Bob too. He’s someone who presents high enough stakes but doesn’t at all break the tone of the show, whether it’s by his jazzercising habit to stay fit or writing letters in his own blood only to pass out on his desk. He stalks the Simpsons onto a boat and corners Bart, who outsmarts Bob by playing to his ego, requesting he sing opera before killing him so he can know culture before dying. Bob agrees to ‘send Bart to heaven before sending him to Hell’ and sings long enough for authorities to put a stop to his scheme. As downright silly as this is, it’s so on brand for Bob and I think defines him incredibly well, his intellect and narcissism being his undoing.

Although he started as an episodic guest star, Bob eventually became almost a seasonal treat, appearing nearly once per season (give or take), and while his schtick of hating Bart never subsided they always tried new things with him. Upon his next venture he tries to destroy television itself, blaming it for the slack jawed, dim witted nature of the populace, and does so by threatening the entire city with a stolen nuclear weapon (which turns out to be dud) unless the television lines are cut. Referring back to what I said above about how controversial the Simpsons was in the 90s, Bob basically blaming Simpsons-esque television for people LIKE the Simpsons is just meta and wonderful. Bob also has a venture running for mayor, linking up with the Springfield Alliance of Republicans (set with a clash of lightning, bats, and transylvanian manor) for a fraduluant victory. The fear that a criminal that has it out for Bart becoming the mayor is a good way to lift up the stakes, and once more it’s his sheer refusal to allow his big ego that overpowers him. Bart and Lisa, aware it was Bob that rigged the polls in his favor, accuse Springfield’s local conservative shock jock. Bob immediately outs himself, infuriated that his machiavellian scheme could be accredited to anyone else, and is immediately arrested. The Simpsons excels at its consistent character writing while clearing new hoops, and this is highly evident in Bob’s downfalls.

For being possibly the most evil Springfielding (barred only by Mr. Burns), Bob is hard to hate because his anger is practically relatable. Everyone in Springfield is a moron, and it’d drive everyone insane. At the same time he has his own scruples and it’s not as if he’s above the wacky antics. Despite the studio not being able to afford Kelsey Grammer week to week, he feels like an integral part of the Simpsons world and every time he appears is something of a fun event. The perfect villain for the Simpsons, strange as that may sound. Even as the Simpsons grows old and vapid I still like to tune in for Bob who is always at least a little fun. A cultured and hilarious villain whose broom esque hair makes will sweep you off your feet.

#tommy's favorite villains #sideshow bob #the simpsons

[unconventional-hero]

Chapter 5-- A Cloud on the Horizon

Written by “Slug 5″

(In which Jack Morningstar-- the Real one!-- arrives in New York.)

* * * * *

The grand central depot in the heart of the great city was scene of dire confusion. The great engines, carrying their car loads of human freight, puffing, blowing, snorting, then backing, had suddenly come to a stand-still and the weary passengers began to descend en masse. 

Those who stopped to look eagerly over the great multitude for some familiar face, or to exchange some kindly word of greeting with a long-looked-for friend, were jostled and almost thrown down by those who hurried forward to their destination and the rapidly incoming tide; there were hundreds arriving eager to catch the departing trains. All was hurry and confusion as the crowd mingled in kaleidoscope variety.

[Editor’s Note: the following passage contains archaic words and descriptions that are considered by today’s standards to be racist and/or offensive. I do not condone their use at any point in time, but have included the passage below the cut for historical and educational purposes.]

There was the slick-tongued Hibernian and the obese German; the turbaned Turk and the swarthy Italian; the moon-eyed Celestial with his baggy trousers; the negro, with his porcine lips and white teeth; while others, in endless variety, bespoke their Anglican, Gascon, Scandinavian and Andalusian blood. Above them all and by far the most numerous in number was the American, with his hurried step and independent bearing, and the tramp, tramp, tramp, of the great throng sounded like the deep thud of the waves breaking upon a shining beach.

“Trenton! Philadelphia! Harrisburg! Train No. 1, West!” and a sonorous voice rang through the long corridors, “All aboard!”

Hurried “good byes” and leave-takings of husbands, fathers, mothers, friends, and aye, lovers, perhaps forever, and the trains begin slowly to pull out of the station. “Grace! Grace Darling! O my God!” A cry of agony pierced the air and chilled the blood of those who heard it. The cry came from a mother whose child had escaped her sight and ran out into the street to secure her pet dog which had escaped from its chain. Unconscious of the danger around it, the child ran on and was directly beneath the feet of a prancing horse. Another step and it will be crushed to death but no, a strong hand grasps it and carries it out of all danger and lays it in its mother’s arms. The child meantime crying for “Fido! Fido!”

“O, my child! Hero! Hero! do you not know how bad you have been to disobey mama?” said his mother kissing him over and over again. “But to whom are we indebted for the preservation of our child?” she said, turning to the man at her side and extending her hand with queenly grace. “I feel as though I owe you a life long debt.”

“Don’t mention it, madam-- it’s nothing-- any man would have done the same for a life in peril.” He bowed confusedly.

“Nothing? it’s everything to me; Mr. Reynolds and I shall not soon forget the act! It was brave, heroic, manly! Shall we not have the pleasure of knowing our Hero’s protector?” He silently handed her his card and then, with graceful turn and gallant bow and lifting of his hat, walked quickly away.

“Jack Morningstar-- Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

“What a romantic name and how gallant he was! His eyes, too, are as bright as morning-stars. I wonder who and what he is.” With this touch of woman-like curiosity she grasped more firmly the hand of her child and walked to the coupe awaiting her.

Jack arrived in the metropolis two days ago and as yet had found no trace of his fallacious friend Jim Paxton. To be sure he had made it convenient to walk up Fifth Avenue quite often and as he neared the McClure mansion his heart would beat fast and his pulses quicken. Was he not destined to see the girl who for so many years had occupied his thought and who, unconsciously, had been the spring which touched the nobility of his manhood and prompted every good deed?

How many nights while herding his father’s cattle had he lain on the open plain, gazing at the blue sky and bright stars above, but dreaming of the blue eyes and golden hair which had grown so dear to him, until the morning light began to dawn in the far-off east and called him to his cattle and to duty.

As he grew on to manhood he suddenly became aware that the sweet child-face had enthroned itself too deeply in his heart ever to be effaced and he began to invest her with every charm he could think of belonging to true, pure womanhood, and would listen to no thoughts whispered in her disparagement.

True, his knowledge of the gentler sex was by no means extensive, but during his lovely life as a herder he had formed an ideal woman of his own to which none of the girls of the village ever aspired. Betty, he knew was good and true but she was lacking in “something” he told himself; he would never make out exactly what.

The short stay of the McClure’s at his home had given him an insight of better surroundings and, though young, all the desires and energy of his soul, so long dormant, were suddenly stirred to life and he began to wish for things beyond his daily routine of life and to make himself a fit associate for the gentle, refined girl.

It was this desire, perhaps, above all others that had made such a complete metamorphosis of his life; changing the rustic herder into the man of noble bearing; cultured in the purity and magnanimity of his thoughts.

In the depths of his dark, clear eyes lay the greatness of his soul and when he chose to look at you could read your innermost thoughts. They expressed a whole world of tenderness and generosity and love. In this open, frank expression and in the charming, healthy hue of his complexion could be read no story of dissipation, nor about his friendly cut, mobile lips were there any tell-tale lines of ill-formed habits or misspent days.

“Should he make himself known to the McClures? and how would Clyde receive him?” were questions that he asked himself over and over again. He longed to meet Clyde before Jim reached the city and explain all, then Jim’s stories would avail naught should he try his hand at deception on the McClures.

Had he dreamed that even now Jim was seated in the McClures’ drawing-room with all the ease of polished diplomat he would have lost no time but rushed pell mell to the mansion and disclosed his treachery then and there. But as it was he waited, somewhat impatiently however, until some more propitious mode of proceeding should present itself.

One morning some days after his arrival and the next after the scene at the depot, he had arranged his portfolio before the window overlooking Fifth-avenue and was busily engaged writing a letter to Betty when a knock at his door startled him. Upon opening it the porter handed him a beautiful basket of roses.

“You are mistaken; these can not be for me?” said Jack, raising the basket on a level with his eyes with so much unaffected simplicity and astonishment that the porter could not help smiling.

“For Mr. Jack Morningstar of No. 400.” and he left Jack standing in the door way too much astonished to speak.

“Now I say these are glorious! They beat our ‘Prairie Queens’ all to pieces!” as he received them over and over again and inhaled the delicate aroma.

He espied a small card nestling among the leaves; he turned it over and read, “Compliments of Mr. and Mrs. H. T. Reynolds, 507 Madison Square.”

“Well now, I never! I say that’s mighty clever; what would Betty say? I’ll first pack these up and send them to her; they’ll please her mightily.” He set the basket down tenderly upon a table before him and resumed his writing.

He knew it was a mark of respect; that these people appreciated him. He had never received flowers from anyone before and it pleased him. He loved flowers passionately because he said, “they reminded him of heaven,” and always guarded with tender care the few plants in his window at Bozeman.

The next morning Mr. Reynolds himself called upon Jack and expressed his gratitude and upon learning a great deal of his past history was so well pleased with his open, frank manner and utter self-forgetfulness that he shook his hand warmly at parting and said, “I should be pleased to show you our metropolis, Morningstar, and it it suits your pleasure shall call for you this evening half-past six.”

Jack thanked him heartily and said he would be very glad indeed as it was lonely going alone.

At half-past six therefore the two started forth. As they passed down Broadway and turned into Wall Street Jack was awed by the magnificent architecture and grandly dressed ladies far beyond his brightest imagery; and he wondered what these people were all thinking about and where they were all going hurrying along so fast.

“Shall we turn in here, Morningstar?” said his companion, after he had enjoyed himself for a while in looking at the inspired rapture of Jack’s face, and stopping before a lofty building above whose entrance the lights shone on the word “Casino.”

“Your scruples do not prevent you attending the theater eh? We shall see some tall acting tonight.”

As Jack had never attended the theater, except “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” which had been played in the city hall at Bozeman some years ago, he consented, little dreaming what seated in one of the prebendal stalls within was the Venus of his love. His time of waiting was nearer its close than he thought.

#Victorian era #period drama #1800's #late 1800's #An Unconventional Hero #volume 1 #Slug 5

[daniellebest90]

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How To Win Back Your Ex Wife After Divorce

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How Can I Get My Ex Girlfriend Back If She Has A Boyfriend

#How Do I Get My Ex Back Over Text All Time Best Tips #How To Get Your Ex Boyfriend Back By Text

[filmforthought]

Lady Bird

Starring Saoirse Ronan, Laurie Metcalf, Lucas Hedges and Tracy Letts

Rating: ★★★½

June 23, 2015 was the final obligation of seniors at Steinert High School. It was a scorching hot day as I picked up my friend of ten years, Tom, in my father’s 2000 Buick LeSabre. Dressed in our Shrek green gowns, we were sweating in bumper to bumper traffic on Hamilton Avenue because the air conditioning and back windows were broken. Today the air conditioning works, but the heat went just in time for winter.

When we entered the cool Sun Center in Trenton, we were directed to our chairs. For the last time, the class of 2015 would be together under the same roof. It was nerve wracking sitting in those chairs because after each speech the end was drawing near. All the school dances, hanging out with friends, asking the teacher to use the restroom and pasta Thursdays in the cafeteria would all be over. Once our caps were thrown into the air, it was the beginning of a new chapter.

This day serves as a precious moment not only for being with my high school class for one last time, but for the memories that led up to it. Senior year in particular was a pivotal moment for all students to determine what path to choose after graduation. These memories rush back while watching a film like Lady Bird, which represents all the peaks and valleys of senior year in high school.

Lady Bird, played by Saoirse Ronan, a senior in a Sacramento Catholic High School, is one of the lesser known people in her class. She wants to go to college on the East Coast, but Lady’s grades, financial situation and mother are obstacles in her way. As Lady applies for colleges, she gets a role in the school play, falls for a boy and gets involved in other extracurricular activities.

Lady Bird is the definitive coming-of-age feature by capturing all the major events during senior year of high school in genuine fashion. The film also addresses parental relationships, socio-economic issues and adolescent choices.

We all remember those petty arguments with our parents over doing the dishes or coming home late from jenga night at a friend’s house. They lasted for a day or so, and in the end, we hugged it out. Lady, on the other hand, honestly feels that her mother hates her. At seventeen-years-old, the world revolves around you and if Mom tells you to clean your room after the homecoming dance, it’s official: she hates your guts. Lady is usually arguing with her mother over something, whether it's after listening to The Grapes of Wrath audiobook cassette or sifting through the stylish outfits at Thrift World. The High School senior feels that her mother is too controlling, but she doesn't see her mother’s love through the lectures. Lady’s mother, Marion, played by Laurie Metcalf, lectures her child because she wants her to reach her full potential. Not everything can be handed to Lady on a silver platter, including a college education on the East Coast.

Usually around November is when college applications are due. Remember the fun of that? Picking the right schools and writing all those essays and checks to College Board for sending SAT scores to colleges; that was a blast. Lady goes through the same challenges, but she wants to continue her education on the East Coast, despite pushback from her mother. This will hurt her mother not only in the heart, but wallet as well. Lady’s mother has picked up two shifts at the hospital because her father, played by Tracy Letts, has lost his job. This is another example of the mother’s unrecognized love. Not all affection for one’s child is shown through hugs or kisses. Many children take their parents efforts for granted when it comes to working hard for paying the bills. If paying your child’s bill for tuition isn’t one of the highest forms of love, I don’t know what else is.

While Lady deals with family and financial issues at home, she also gets involved with the juicy high school drama we all miss. During play practice, Lady falls for its leading actor, played by Lucas Hedges. The two embark on their puppy love relationship, which has surprising twists. Meanwhile, Lady begins associating with the cool kids who hang in the parking lot and smoke cigarettes they probably got from the chill gas station employee. Those cool kids are the ones we all loved in high school, who got a BMW for their seventeenth birthday. To back them up, a $50,000 vehicle was essential to roll up in the Wawa parking lot after school.

Along with the social climate of high school, it navigates through all the important events in a typical school year. The first day mass, homecoming dance, the play’s opening night, Thanksgiving break and of course, prom. Ah, the prom was a great time especially when the dude who graduated two years ahead of you was DJing the event. Nothing like shuffling to “Trap Queen” in a tuxedo to send off our last year of high school. With each event, it’s impressive to see Lady evolve into a young adult.

These features are expected for a coming-of-age flick, but Lady’s genuine curiosity stands out compared to other films with similar themes. When she first kisses a boy, Lady runs in the middle of the street, screams to the high heavens and falls to her knees. I had the same reaction when I found out peer leaders got an additional study hall period. Additionally, as Lady and her friend hang out prior to mass, they are snacking on communion bread like chips. It’s okay though, because the bread hasn’t been blessed yet. The humor sprinkled in these moments make Lady’s experience a sincere portrait of adolescence.

The film’s charming humor and original feeling is accredited to first-time director and screenwriter Greta Gerwig. Gerwig has recently starred in terrific films such as Frances Ha and Mistress America, which she also co-wrote. The dialogue between high school students, along with children to their parents feels like the camera is rolling through an actual conversation. Also, the situations are relatable and ones we have all found ourselves in. I mean, haven’t you been at the homecoming dance, swaying closely with your date and a nun approaches you saying, “make room for the Holy Spirit?” Amen to that!

Lady Bird is the definitive coming-of-age film. In today’s cinema, we are lucky to come across some films in the same genre like The Edge of Seventeen, but they don’t portray the same personal touch that Gerwig brings. Watching this takes me back to June 23, 2015. The sadness of a stage ending, but the excitement for a new one to begin. While harping on nostalgia, Gerwig successfully makes this a beautiful love letter to mom. Many parents may feel their love goes unrecognized through all the bickering and arguments. However, once the dust is settled, it’s important for us to be grateful for the things we have and to see love in different ways. Our parents pour love into their work and lectures to give us a better life. Lady Bird is not just about reflecting on the angst of high school, but rather recognizing the efforts of our loved ones.

#Lady Bird #Soarise Ronan #Greta Gerwig #Tracy Letts #Lucas Hedges #Laurie Metclaff #Movie #Movies #Movie Review #Film #Films #Film Review #Cinema #Cinema Review #Cinemas

[eventuallyfall-blog]

13 Envelopes

pairing: reader x lin summary: After graduating from UCLA, you would find any way to escape having to go back home. Lucky for you, your Aunt Jasmine Cephas Jones had organized a way for you to have the adventure you’d never gotten to have before. You’re ready to take her up on the offer. warnings: rpf (naturally), mentions of teen pregnancy a/n: did someone call for a 5.3k chapter? no? sucks you’re getting one anyway and you are going to like it, dammit. [ted mosby voice] my parents live in ohio, i live in the moment. tagged: @defenestrate-yourself-please @justabravelittleblogger

(part 1) (part 2) (part 4)  (part 5)

As it would turn out, the Schuyler Sisters was a highly energetic number revealing that this particular musical was set in the revolutionary era. All you could think is that whoever came up with the idea for this musical was definitely an insane, crazy genius. It was something that shouldn't have worked but it did. You were absolutely entranced – to the point where you'd almost forgotten about envelope number three that was still waiting to be opened. Pippa reminded you of it after rehearsals. “So what did letter number three say,” she asked. “Jas would not tell me what she was writing at all.”

From what you could tell, Aunt Jasmine truly was friends with everyone in this cast. It just reminded you that Aunt Jasmine had always been able to make friends anywhere she went. Even in LA, Aunt Jasmine had pulled off most of the amazing adventures she'd dragged you on simply by being charming in a way that you were incapable of. Now you wondered how much of what you liked about Aunt Jasmine could only be there if you were with her in person. The third envelope featured a mini drawing of the MET and you instantly realized this envelope was a little thicker than the ones before. The minute you opened it, an old ticket to the MET was included and you instantly felt guilty until around two hundred dollars fell out of the envelope as well.

You realized even before you read the letter what the intention was – to send you to go see a show at the MET. A hazy summer memory came to you from when you were thirteen and Aunt Jasmine had been talking to you about her theater program in her fancy New York City high school. You'd been jealous and asked her if she'd ever been to the MET. It seemed like this adventure suddenly had proof it had been planned with you specifically in mind, with the hazy memories of hanging out with Aunt Jasmine and wistfully longing to go to New York City and soak in the culture.

Honey bun,

Do you remember those times in LA when we'd go down to the various outdoor theaters and watch plays for only five bucks for the both of us? Some of those plays were horrendously acted (budget actors, I'd assume) but every now and then we'd find a diamond in the rough. I think my personal favorite was one that had been their debut of the play – they were all so nervous but they managed to convey confidence that wasn't there. You said they truly sucked and maybe it was true, but I was charmed by how confident you had to be to book a space to put on a play that you hadn't tested with anyone. I've seen dozens of amazing plays, but nothing matches the confidence of that show. I hope one day to be that confident in something.

I think the most important of this letter is the point of making a memory. The MET is full of opportunities to make a memory for the night. I've arranged you a ticket with a full VIP treatment but if you have no interest in seeing this particular opera, I've also included 200 bucks so you can get the same VIP treatment for another opera. You have to arrange in advance for the VIP treatment, so make sure that whatever you decide to do, you decide it quick! That's right, the only task in this envelope is to go see a show at the MET – the same place you said you'd always wanted to go. You might want to go shopping as well. Have you checked your bank balance yet? If not, go do that. You'll find you'll have more than enough to cover a new dress, shoes, and whatever else you think you might need for a fancy night at the MET. You may go solo or you may invite someone if you'd like.

When you have completed that, you may open envelope number four.

All my love, Aunt Jas

It struck you then that you realized no... you hadn't checked your bank balance. How was it that even after years of not seeing you that Aunt Jasmine could know everything you'd possibly want out of a New York City trip? She knew always what you wanted and what you hoped for. Suddenly you felt guilty for being angry with Aunt Jasmine over not seeing you for a while. Perhaps it had been selfish to react with such anger to Aunt Jasmine not being around. Pippa wasn't at the apartment and she had explained she might not be back until late which meant you had a chance to go explore New York City.

You'd already gotten a metrocard, figuring it would come in handy as you stayed longer in New York City and you realized something with an odd feeling on the train: you were falling in love with the city. It had only been three days and you were already finding yourself looking at the city the same way a straight man might look at an attractive women in the club. Was it love – or did you simply lust for the city and what it could potentially make you feel? You were scared of it, if only because Los Angeles was safe in comparison to this brand new city.

You knew you had to check the bank account balance so you stopped by an ATM that belonged to the bank card and stuck it in, pressing the pin in. You had to change that, you remembered, if only because Pippa and Jas had stated many times that they did not wish to have access to the account. Your eyes widened when you saw the balance – two hundred thousand dollars in checking, five hundred thousand in savings. You exited out of the account, stepping back in pure shock. You couldn't simply text Aunt Jasmine and ask her the original starting balance. You were certain this had to be a mistake; people like you didn't just get seven hundred thousand dollars as a gift.

So you stopped in the bank, who confirmed the balance was correct and that while there was indeed interest on the account, the original starting amount in savings had been one thousand eight hundred and checking originally only had seven hundred and twenty. The teller explained that because the accounts went untouched, they accrued interest over the past two years, yielding the current balance. You had been able to successfully change the pin number on the account, explaining that you had no idea the account existed in the first place and that the account had been a graduation gift of sorts from your aunt.

It was the shaking realization that you were beyond overdue for some shopping. You were suddenly rich, thanks to your Aunt Jasmine. The realization hit you like a truck – your old phone was on your mother's plan. You could get your own phone today if you wanted to. You could replace your old laptop with something better. Which you did – you went straight the Apple store and bought yourself a new Macbook Pro as a quick treat yourself and didn't even feel guilty about it. You'd followed the spirit of the trip by leaving everything you knew behind and you missed having access to social media.

However, you did have a promise to keep with the envelopes. You decided to wait until Pippa got home, figuring bonding with her over a shopping trip would be a nice enough gesture. Back at the apartment, you discovered that Pippa didn't really keep the snacks you wanted around – not a whole lot of salty options to chose from. So a quick trip to the corner store later and you had what you decided was at least two weeks of snacks. It was a way of saying you were in it for the long haul. The only thing you couldn't bring yourself to do when you got back to the apartment with the snacks was set up the laptop. It felt like you were betraying your aunt, in a weird way. You owed it to her to follow through on this trip proper. So you put the laptop in the nightstand next to your bed.

What seemed like hours later, Pippa finally returned back to the apartment. Normally you were the kind of person who waited and hesitated. Isn't that why it took you two years to get to those letters? Here, you wasted no time. “Would you like to come shopping with me sometime? Aunt Jas wants me to go to the MET and I kind of need a new dress for that.”

Pippa looked as if Christmas had come early.

It had been difficult to find time in Pippa's busy schedule to go shopping together but they managed to squeeze some time in between Pippa's rehearsal schedule to take a quick trip to fifth avenue. You never saw yourself as being the type to be able to afford anything here. You'd never gone shopping with friends out of embarrassment of being broke and with parents who had struggled their whole lives to provide. Perhaps it had been unfair of you to be so harsh to your parents who were trying to provide but you had been ashamed in California surrounded by people who could afford things and who weren't struggling to get by. It was like a reward for twenty-four years of struggling and working hard to study to graduate and escape home. It was doubtful Aunt Jasmine could've predicted you letting the accounts sit for two years – seven hundred and twenty would've been a large sum to you even two years ago and it would've been enough to buy a new dress and new shoes for the MET at a decent price.

Those thoughts were swirling in your head as Pippa pulled out dresses in excitement at some fancy store with a name you'd already forgotten. Pippa's tastes seemed more boho than your own, picking brown and black dresses with lots of fringe on them. With little experience in shopping in high end stores, you felt a little out of place – almost like you were playacting at shopping. Pippa noticed your discomfort with a look on her face that you'd long learned meant determination. “We're doing this all wrong.”

“Is it possible to do shopping wrong,” you asked, still checking the price tags and having slight discomfort at the price tags. You considered eighty dollars a splurge. These price tags ranged from one to five hundred dollars, with some reaching into the thousands. Pinching pennies was an ingrained habit, it would seem.

Pippa's hands were on her hips and glaring at you checking the tags on each of the dresses you picked off the shelf and putting the ones that were over a hundred dollars back. While you were still getting to know Pippa, it seemed that Pippa was definitely the type of woman to take some control. “Y/N Jones,” she stated, ignoring you correcting her on your last name. “Your aunt went out of her way to make sure you'd have enough cash to treat yourself. Now you are going to stop glancing at those tags. Grab three dresses you like – you're going to try them on.” When you hesitated, she sighed. “Pick three or I'll pick for you.”

You sighed, grabbing a golden dress that hit mid thigh and flared out, a red a line sleeveless dress that looked like it'd hit the floor on you, and glittering silver one shoulder dress that look like it'd cling to you. Pippa was grinning as she shoved you to the dressing rooms and you had a feeling each of these dresses already outclassed your prom dress. And as you tried on the first one, you had a pang of weirdness glancing at yourself, unable to believe how something as simple as a dress could make you feel like you were a completely different person. Pippa was on the other side of the dressing room, half begging you to come out and model the gown for her. “You're being ridiculous,” you said with a shake of your head as you left the dressing room to show her how you looked in the golden dress.

Pippa clapped her hand to her mouth, her dark eyes glittering. “Oh gosh,” she said softly. “You look beautiful! And since you're definitely coming to the premiere of Hamilton, you're going to need more than one dress. So you should definitely get this one.”

A Broadway premiere? That wasn't your life. You didn't go to premieres, you didn't go shopping for gowns to go the MET, and you didn't shop on Fifth Avenue. Except somehow... it was your life. It was all yours. You could almost cry in happiness. “So I'm officially invited to the premiere?”

“It's August 6th. And I won't allow you to be late,” Pippa said brightly. You couldn't doubt her on that. “And you are definitely wearing this gold dress to the premiere! Everyone will think you're some famous model!”

Normally you'd protest the cost, insist that it was too much to spend on yourself. But you figured that Aunt Jasmine had left that money in your account as well as the cash gifts for you to take a leap and spend money on yourself. “Alright,” you said with a slight grin as you looked in the full length mirror and smoothing out the skirt. Looking at the price tag would only make you second guess yourself so you returned back to the dressing room to change out of the golden dress, Pippa insisting you hand it over to her so you couldn't go put it back on the rack.

After you'd shown off all three dresses to her, she insisted you had to buy them all and said it was a “treat yourself” day. She dragged you to another shop on fifth that exclusively sold shoes and made you buy three sets of shoes that matched – each of them with heels over three inches and a sandal like feel to them. They were not the kind of shoes you bought – you bought sneakers and flats, things that you could walk around campus in. You supposed that it was nice to have shoes that you could wear to fancy events, especially since you'd been invited to a nice Broadway event.

Pippa dragged you to Sephora next, commenting that it was so sad that you didn't really have a wide range of make up. “You know, if you're going to be living in New York City, you're going to need a wider range of choices for looks,” Pippa said brightly. “Also, some treat yourself face stuff doesn't hurt! Don't you dare look at the price tag!”

You wish you had a cell phone to pull out and check your bank balance – you had a feeling you'd already spent a ridiculous amount today already. You made up your mind – later today you were going to buy a new cell phone. The anxiety of not knowing how much you had spent was driving you crazy and the fact Pippa kept swatching products on you then chucking them in the basket she'd made you grab. She swiped some red colored lipstick on your lips and grinned. “You look great in red lipstick,” she declared. “Especially with those undertones – you need blue reds for sure, but you look great in warm reds too. We're getting you some.”

And that's exactly what she did – she chucked more lipsticks than you'd ever seen in your life into the basket as well as a few foundations from different brands that she swatched on your cheek. She dragged you all over the store, throwing over a hundred different products into the basket. When she finally pulled you to check out, you nearly died at the nearly three thousand dollar total. “Pippa,” you exclaimed in horror. “We can't spend three thousand dollars on make up and skincare!”

“Of course we can,” she said with a bright grin as she motioned for you to swipe your card. She was definitely not going to let you say no to splurging on yourself. “Think of all the Beauty Insider points you'll earn!”

You knew there was no point in arguing with her so you swiped the card with a slight wince. This went against the grain – you'd already spent almost ten thousand on those dresses and almost five thousand on shoes. And now three thousand at Sephora. This was definitely not you. You could count the number of times you “splurged” on  yourself – the last time had been fifty dollars on a sale that had got you the backpack you had used to come to New York City with and two of the jeans in your bag. On top of that, you still had to buy the MET tickets. You wanted to get the same package Aunt Jasmine had originally gotten the first time around, if only because you wanted to experience this trip the way she had intended.

“This entire trip was insane,” you said the minute you two were out of the store with your new purchases. While you were admittedly pretty excited about having an actual make up selection to chose from, you were miffed at the amount that you had let yourself spend. You knew you could've said something, but you hadn't. You wondered why you kept not saying no when you wanted to say no. Somehow, it seemed like the ultimate goal for you now: learn to say no. That was a good goal to make, you were certain. “You just bullied me into spending almost twenty grand!”

“You needed to learn how to spend money on yourself,” Pippa said rather dismissively. “Since you got here, you haven't really bought anything except for snacks. I know your aunt gave you a ridiculous amount of money and you have barely spent any of it on yourself. Besides, now you have a dress for the MET and for the premiere and for envelope four.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Envelope four?”

Pippa's eyes went wide and she clamped her hand over her mouth. “Shoot, that's right! I wasn't supposed to say anything! Forget I said anything! Hey, let's get some Starbucks!” She dragged you towards the Starbucks, clearly trying to deflect the whole way. “So you know that musical we're doing? Lin, the guy who wrote it, has been going nuts. The closer we get to the premiere of Hamilton, the more he freaks out.”

“Lin wrote it,” you said in surprise, remembering the fact he'd mentioned meeting everyone on the crew and was involved with rehearsals. “So he's just hanging around?”

“No,” Pippa said, shaking her head. “He's playing Alexander Hamilton. But you knew that, right?” A quick look at your face showed that no, you did not know that. “Oh! Oh, I just assumed he'd mention it to you since you two were talking and he had that look of...”

There was a lot to process. You couldn't figure out where you'd heard the name Alexander Hamilton before, first of all. Second of all, did Pippa think that Lin had a crush on you or something? “Look of what?”

Pippa grinned. “He was looking at you like you were the most beautiful girl he's ever seen,” she said as she placed her order for her Starbucks order. “You should totally at least get to know him. I bet you two would get along.”

You wondered where she figured that from. You thought about that as you two made the trip to the MET with Pippa to organize the VIP experience with her. You figured you might as well pay for her ticket as well since she was being nice enough to take time out of her schedule to hang out with you. It could've been like your roommate situation in college where you barely saw the girl you lived with and when she was there, neither of you talked to each other. It was awkward and you aren't even certain you remember the girl's name correctly – you wanted to say Stacey but you were certain that wasn't it.

The problem with an experience that had to be arranged in advance meant that you both now had to wait until Saturday, Pippa's next free day, to actually go to the MET. Which meant that Pippa dragged you to rehearsals again the next day with a bright grin on her face, insisting that you at least try to get to know Lin better. So with winged eyeliner applied carefully and a test drive of one of the bright red lipsticks you'd bought yesterday paired awkwardly with your old raggedy jeans and a white tank top, you'd agree to come along with her. “Is this musical really based on a founding father? Wasn't there already one of those?”

You were being rhetorical – you already knew there was another musical based on a founding father due to the fact your Aunt Jasmine had dragged you to a production of 1776. You couldn't speak for the quality of the production and you still weren't certain if you'd liked it. History was never one of your favorite subjects. The thing you didn't like about history is how it was exclusively white men telling the story, however with this particular musical you couldn't help but notice how little white men were involved in this project. “Well, yeah,” Pippa said as she led you through the Richard Rogers to her dressing room. “But this one is different. It's a hip hop musical.”

With that, you couldn't help but burst into laughter. It was the single stupidest thing you'd ever heard but the energetic performance of Schuyler Sisters was still in the back of your head. For some reason, you could somehow see it working out if every number was as good as the one you'd witnessed. “That is the dumbest idea I've ever heard.”

“You're breaking my heart,” came a male voice from the doorway. From the look of sheer glee on Pippa's face, you had a guess who it was. “Though I will admit, on paper it does look crazy.”

Your cheeks heated up as you turned around to face Lin, who had a pretty easy going grin on his face for a guy whose work you just insulted. Was he always this chipper? It was nine in the morning and here he was, grinning like he didn't have a care in the world. You didn't know if you liked that or not. “Crazy? Try totally insane,” you said, figuring if you were going to insult him, you might as well go all out. “Who looks at a founding father and thinks yeah, he'd be great material for a hip hop musical.”

“Well, if you'd like, I could tell you all about the thought process while I give you a tour of the theater.”

You turned back to Pippa, as if asking for her permission. She gave a quick nod, letting you know it was totally fine to ditch her. So you turned back to him with a grin. “I'd love to take you up on that tour.”

It turns out that Lin wasn't just a pretty face that vapidly filled the void with as much words as he could as you'd previously assumed. No, it turns out that he was definitely a smart, charismatic guy and that combination was all it took for him to go from background noise chatter to having your full attention. He'd explained his thought process to you about how he had been reading a biography on Alexander Hamilton and just started thinking of it in terms of rap. While you still barely understood his thought process in music, you could appreciate his story telling chops. When he told a story, he commanded attention in a way you'd never seen before. It was effortless.

You'd wondered how you'd never heard about him before as he mentioned that he already had done another musical before in 2008. Aunt Jasmine never shut up about theater. Your father's Latino heritage should've been reason enough to mention a musical that featured an all Latino cast. “So. The casting process here. From what I vaguely remember when Dick Cheney shot that guy and Hamilton was being mentioned as the only other guy who'd been shot by a sitting vice president... Aaron Burr is that vice president, right?”

Lin laughed though you weren't sure if it was over the reference to Dick Cheney or the sheer humor in the fact that someone being shot by the vice president had managed to happen to twice in American history.. “Yes, Aaron Burr is the vice president that shot Hamilton. Maybe in another two hundred years, they'll be making a musical about Henry Whittington.”

“Doubtful,” you said with a snort. “Henry Whittington is kind of a boring dude. But back to the point – Aaron Burr in history is a white guy. You casted a black guy to play him. And my aunt – a black woman – is playing a historically white woman. And Pippa is playing who was historically a white woman. And you casted yourself, a Latino, as Alexander Hamilton, who was historically white. So what's up with that?”

“Reclaiming the story,” he said simply. Your face must have given away your confusion because he ended up elaborating. “Traditionally, it's white guys who get to decide how the story guys and what stories get told. Exclusively using a cast of color, save for King George the III who's an outlier anyway and only there because it's funny, is the best way to take back American history for people of color. It's the ultimate way of reclamation of the narrative.”

You nodded thoughtfully, the reasoning you never liked history coming front and center. It had always been about white men claiming power and being in charge and fighting for power. History as a story was compelling but also it got tiring to read about white men exclusively. And then the Schuyler Sisters number came front and center. “Isn't the Schuyler Sisters a reclaiming itself, too? You so rarely hear about the women of that time era and here, the Schuyler sisters are given motivations and personality beyond the usual motivation of 'I want a husband and a few kids' that are given to women of that time era. I mean, Angelica even says she's looking for a mind at work – that she wants a mental challenge.”

There was an excited look on his face – a look that told you that he was definitely pleased you'd put something together. Once again, you weren't certain if you liked it or not. “You know, Hamilton's story is craddled by his wife. She fought to preserve his legacy, making sure that none of his writings went into obscurity. None of this would exist without her. So yeah, you're right: it's a reclaimation of what women were capable of doing in that particular era.”

Now that was an empowering statement you could get behind. It actually made you curious about the history behind the musical – a feat not easy to do. “Well, I normally really don't care to learn about colonial history... for obvious reasons,” you said, grinning when he laughed, “but what you have here seems interesting. And worth learning about. Though... I have to ask. Why rap? You could've chosen any genre but... you went with rap with R&B and some soul thrown in.”

“You sound like an interviewer,” he commented, causing your cheeks to heat up again.

“I mean, I'm just fascinated with the artistic process,” you stumbled out. “I did major in English, so the process behind the writing and the meaning of the text is kind of fascinating. Almost close to what I wrote my thesis on.”

“Oh? What did you write your thesis on?”

Suddenly you realized that you'd never really had a conversation of this caliber with a guy outside a classroom. You regretted tuning him out last time he spoke to you and wondered if he was spilling this kind of intelligence last time. “Uh, on representation in fiction. How what we see in books can shape our world view. How seeing only white bodies on screen can lead to the dehumanization of kids of color and affect their self esteem. Sort of written out of spite, honestly.”

“That honestly sounds like something I'd love to read,” he said with an easy going grin that made you melt. “But I did sort of side step your question. I think the main reason I chose rap is because it fits. Rap itself is the music of a revolution so it just works.” You nodded slowly as he checked his watch and your heart sank a bit – were you boring him? “Fuck. We're going to have finish this tour later. I gotta go to rehearsals. Would like you to join me?”

And just like that the quick feeling insecurity fled. “I'd love to.”

This time, you got to see them rehearse “The Battle of Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down)” according to the sheet music on the piano. According to Lin, the guy at the piano playing it was named Alex Lacamoire, but Lin seemed to refer to the man exclusively as “Lac”. It was the same with the man who was playing King George the III – you recognized him from Glee as Jonathan Groff, but Lin exclusively referred to the man as “Groffsauce”. It was definitely a pattern with him, calling people by nicknames. You wondered if he had a nickname for you yet. Hopefully it wasn't the childish nickname your Aunt Jasmine insisted on calling you ever since she heard your father call you that.

Once again, the music and cast stunned you at how incredibly well thought out and intricate it was. It felt almost empowering in a way you couldn't quite pin down yet. You were certain once you got to see it all the way through, you were going to leave a change woman. Just watching all sorts of different people up on stage playing revolutionaries felt like something you'd never seen before. It made you impatient for August sixth to arrive.

Pippa was more than excited herself. It was like a reminder that everything in this moment was merely temporary and you suddenly realized the point of splurging all that money on yourself: because nothing was promised. So why not? And the more you immersed yourself into the city, the more grounded in the moment you felt. The more it was obvious you were watching history unfold in front of you with each rehearsal you attended. By the time the MET experience rolled around, you felt more than a little out of body. You chalked it up to the fact you hadn't used your phone or a laptop in ages – everything felt hyperreal.

Entering the MET was grounded even more in reality as you realized you were wearing a red ballgown and designer heels with over a hundred dollars on your face alone. It felt like you had walked from your normal life into a scene from a movie. It didn't feel like you because the day to day you didn't wear bright red lipstick and certainly didn't get their hair done at a salon before going to a fancy opera. It was surreal enough to be sit in a seat that had you less than two rows away from the stage right in the middle. And these actors weren't just good – they were amazing. You had never witnessed anything of its caliber, really.

It took you until intermission that you realized you'd fallen in love with theater in a way that you hadn't been before. As for the cause, you weren't certain. You'll chalk it up to the fact the food was phenomenal.

#lmm x reader #lin manuel x reader #reader x lmm #reader x lin manuel miranda #lin manuel imagine #mywriting #13envelopes #beta? what's that #you mean posting directly the minute you finished ISN'T how people usually write stuff? #get stuffed i do what i want #this chapter has ridiculous levels of ''this could not get more blatantly escapist if it tried'' #escapism is like... my main goal when writing fanfic tbh

[papi-priest]

Killer Avenue;

||My first time writing for the SOA fandom. My first time putting up my fanfiction on Tumblr in general. So here you go, enjoy. *Note that I am kinda doing my own thing when it comes to the storyline and what not. Thanks, and once again enjoy|| •you can also find all my stories on quotev.com my username is Coltofcarrie• PROLOGUE; Jax didn't know why Unser had called him down to the sheriff's station. When Unser hand anything about anything he would go to his mother, Gemma, or possibly even Clay. Seeing as he was technically on Samcro's pay roll. Yet Unser had called him, told him specifically to come by, not let his family know.  And that in itself had the blonde a little worried. So after dropping Able off at TM with his mom, he let her know he had to go grab something and he'd be right back. She had no questions for him, at least she didn't speak of them. Gemma did give him a look though,  one he knew to well, like she was suspicious. As soon as he stepped into the building his baby blues found Unser chatting with a few of his deputies.  Almost like he felt his stare, the older man looked up. He subtly sent his men away, and headed towards Jax. "There's something for you in cell C. I'll tell you this, I was just as surprised as you will be.." Jax was even more confused by Unser's cryptic sentence. He raised an eyebrow, the sheriff just shook his head and pointed him in the right direction. Sighing, Jax shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans and decided to just go with it. He made his way towards the back of the building where the cells were. His vision became more clearer when he walked towards cell C. It wasn't empty. Not at all. His eyes widened, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Like he was in the desert and was witnessing his first mirage.   "Holy shit!!!" Hearing his voice, Adrianna's head snapped up from being between her knees. He brown eyes landed on the prodigal son. Her older brother Jax. She slowly stood up from the ground and walked closer to the bars, her slim fingers finding themselves around the cool metal. "The black sheep returns to Charming...what a plot twist." She teased, tilting her head to the side. Jax took in her appearance. Her dark brown hair pushed out of her face and tied up into a messy bun at the top of her head. Her facial features could slice open any man's heart. She was taller now, taller than he had expected her to be when they grew up. But one thing that remained the same were those big brown doe eyes. Those still got to him. He still couldn't believe what he was seeing.  Adrianna had left 5 and a half years ago, right after graduating highschool she escaped as she liked to  all it. Went to college from what he remembered from the letters she would send. That was another thing, she barely remained in contact with anyone. Sending about 1 letter every 6 months to let the family know she was still alive. That she found a piece of everyone in her daily life some how or some way. But she never came home. Never visited. Not on holidays. Not for any reason. It was as if she was just some fairytale some days.  "How? Why?" He questioned.  Adrianna sighed as she stared at her big brother, she leaned the side of her head against one of the bars, ready to finally be out of the cell. Unser slowly crept up on the kids, feeling the awkward tension in the atmosphere. "Picked her up in a rag tag bar causing trouble. Could you believe that? Didn't think it was her I was seeing..but she had that look in her eye. One just like Gemma." "I wasn't causing trouble!" She demanded. "I just don't put up with classless men....the pool stuck was just there by chance..." Jax looked between the two, his confusion only getting worse.  "The other two got away" Unser continued.  "Other two?"Jax questioned,  now focusing on his sister.  "Stilettos are hard to run in. You can't blame a girl..." Sighing Unser shook his head. "No charges are being fild so you can take her home whenever you'd like.....good to see you again kid." Leaving the siblings alone, Adrianna huffed in frustration. "Okay delinquent, take me home." Jax snorted, rolling his eyes. "Says the one behind the bars." He confirmed. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and stepped forward, his eyes searching hers. Letting out a small laugh, he placed his forehead against hers.  "Let's get you home." ------- Motorcycles lined one of the outside walls of Teller-Morrow that evening. Though it was dead silent as they drove into the parkinglot, Adrianna could only imagine the kind of ruckus that was going on inside. It had been 6 years since she had even seen the place. Seen the people. What did they all look like now? Aging? Was Bobby still wise? Chibbs still funny? Would her mother smile when she saw her? Gemma Teller-Morrow was a tough woman. Hard to understand. She loved fiercely and her throne as the queen of, well everything, was something she held dear to her. Almost as much as her children.  Adrianna buried her face into her brothers back as he pulled up next to the other bikes to park. He had yet to question her more about the previous jail situation, something she was grateful for, the whole ride had pretty much been silent.  "You're not getting out of this one you know? Sooner or later mom's gonna find out you were in the town's jail. Sooner or later. Just not from me." He stated looking over his shoulder his baby sister. He gave her a small smile. Yeah he was beyond pissed at the way she left and do easily stayed away. But he was happy that she was here. That she was safe and in one piece. "Come on, you look hungry " Adrianna gave Jax a pat on the shoulder before climbing off the bike and taking in a deep breath. It literally was now or never. She had never in a million years ever dreamed of coming back to Charming. But life doesn't always work out the way you want it to. Things can go your way all the time. That was just the way things went.  Jax led the way, his sibling falling in toe. Her stomach felt like it had bubbles in it. Her chest felt tight and somehow heavy. She shouldn't have been nervous. The only reason for nerves was because she had done something wrong. In the back of her mind did she know she was in the wrong to leave? Maybe. But she would never admit her wrongs, just like her mama. Jax opened the door, stepping inside first. The whole gang was here, relaxing around the club house. Even Kozik and Happy were around, getting ready to join the Samcro team down in Charming permanently. His eyes quickly landed on his mom, who had laid down his son Able who slept soundlessly wrapped in a blanket on the couch.  "Where you been boy?" Clay called out, the others finally noticing him. The president of the club found it odd that his step-son had randomly vanished earlier, not giving anyone any information. "Ayy Jackie-boy, ya take some time to put on fancy dresses. Opie said he saw you a few days ago playing with some lipstick." Chibbs spoke, trying to lighten whatever mood Clay was about to start. Adrianna listened on from just outside the door, still behind Jax.  'Now or never' "Well he sure as hell ain't borrowing any of my lipstick. They're​ expensive, and we all know that the prince of Charming has trashy taste.." Adrianna spoke up, stepping into the club house for the first time in years. She looked around it, deliberately skipping all the faces looking at her. "No fucking way! Where you been doll?!" Tigs questioned as he abandoned his beer and headed towards the girl, he quickly scooped her up in his arms. For the first time in a while, Adri let out a laugh. Which caught her brothers attention.  She had seemed different when he first saw her. He just didn't know how. Hearing her laugh made him grin.  "Put 'er down, stop hoggin'" Chibbs swooped her into his hold as soon as Tigs let go. The others swarmed around her, Bobby, Opie, Piney. She smiled at them, genuinely, glad to see their faces.  "Your mother is going to flip her shit when she lays eyes on you.." Clay spoke in all the commotion, stepping in front of Adrianna as the little crowd split up a bit. "Our little college grad." He stated, motioning with his large hand for her to come hug him. Taking a deep breath, the dark haired beauty gave him a smile as well, though not nearly as genuine. Though Clay Morrow helped raise her, he could not compare to her real dad. He never would. Through out her life, Adrianna always thought Clay was a little fishy.  She just wanted to see her mom. |Happy's POV| It wasn't often that the clubhouse wasn't jumping, or at least full of some sweetbutts. But it a Tuesday afternoon, things were a bit slow. Not that the Tacoma Killer was really complaining. He was still exhausted from their last ride, the knuckles on his right hand still a little bruised.  So here he was sitting at the bar with Kozik, both of them nursing their favorite beers. For the passed hour, Happy had been tuning in and out of his surroundings. Only bearing witness to when Juice tripped over something and flew across the room. He was ordering around the prospect about another drink when he heard cheering behind him. He slowly turned his head over his shoulder to take a glance, that's when he saw her. She had to be the most gorgeous woman he had ever laid eyes on. Everything about her was perfection. But it wasn't something out of the fairy tales. It wasn't something romantic that could be written in a book. No it was something more powerful than that. A desire. She was so caught up with all the other members that she had no possible way of knowing....but from the moment that she had stepped foot into TM, she was his. Only his. He watched on as the other members of the Sons hugged and kissed her, smiling ear to ear. "Come meet the other members," Tigs told her, taking her back into his arms. Happy completely turned around, noticing that Kozik was doing as exactly as him, staring. As she got closer, happy subconsciously licked his lips.  "Now this is Juice, right there behind the bar...you need a drink, he got you."The​ curly haired man said, pointing out to a tanned skin man with a mohawk who gave her a little wave. "Then we got Kozik right here.." Tigs didn't give him enough time to respond before he turned Adrianna towards the last Son.  "And this right here, is Happy." They stared at each other for a moment, not really saying much. Happy picked up his beer and brought it to his lips. He grunted in response to his name bring revealed. Not wanting to give her too much attention.  "Happy huh?" Adrianna mumbled pulling herself away from Tigs. "How cute.." she stated looking away and at all the mugshots hanging on the wall. Kozik busted out laughing at the look of horror on Happy's face. "How cute..." He mimicked. Happy snarled at his Tacoma charter brother before standing up and glaring at the woman in front of him. She definitely needed to be taught a lesson. And he sure as hell was willing to give it to her. He gripped the bottle of his beer tightly, eyes turning into slits. His mind quickly wandered to having the brunette bent over his knees receiving the spankings she deserved for disrespecting him. Tigs tried to stop whatever was about to come out of the Killa's mouth, but he was far too late.  "Listen here little girl," he started, an unpleased look settling on his face. "You're about to learn a lesson real quick! I'm gonna pl-" "YOU'VE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME.  IS THAT MY LITTLE GIRL?!"  That particular voice shut him up real quick. Her little girl? Shit. Adrianna turned around, finding her mother standing in the doorway of the clubhouse. Her sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. She looked the same, almost. Minus the light blond streaks in her brown locks. Adrianna gave her mom a sad smile, "Hi mommy..." She said softly, as the two crossed the room towards each other. Wrapped up in a hug, Adrianna sighed contently, giving her mom a small squeeze. "You know what this means don't you?" Clay spoke out, seeing how happy his old lady looked. "We gotta throw a party tonight!!" The rest of the Sons cheered in agreement. Ready to drink and fuck the night away, then again, weren't they always. Pulling back from her mother, Adrianna gave her a look. Hoping that she would disagree with Clay. She was in no mood to party, especially not with the Sons. She might have been know as the princess of SAMCRO, but she was far from the lifestyle. She got out. Well at least she thought she had. Yet here she was again. Back where it all started.  Back in the shithole.  "Let me pick up some food, I'll head to the store with Juice...wouldn't want my baby girl to party on an empty stomach." Gemma smiled, a smile all to familiar. She was glad to have her daughter back. But she had so many questions. So many. But she supposed that they could wait till another time.  For now.  ----- The party had been in full swing for about 2 hours now. Empty bottles had called creveces home, and all the crow eaters collective smells seemed to blend with the odor of smelly sweaty bikers. At first Adrianna had enjoyed her time trying to reconnect with everyone. But it didn't take long for her to feel out of place once again. So she found herself sitting on the arm of a leather chair in the corner, drink in hand.  "You don't look like you are having fun..." Nursing her drink, her hazel eyes found some guy standing in front of her. He had a kut on, and shaggy brown hair, but Adrianna had never seen him before not that she would really know anyone.  "Tacoma charter..." He stated practically reading her mind. Nodding her head to acknowledge him, she continued to drink from her bottle. Not really entertaining him. Ignoring her demeanor, he stood directly in front of her. "So, where are you from? They don't really have that good looking crow eaters here, so you obviously came from some where else...not that I mind..." Her eyes widened. This guy was serious wasn't he? How did he even get invited let alone make the journey across the club to conversate with her? "Go away....." She mumbled. His eyes went dark as a look crossed his face, one of disgust. "You dumb bitch...you are what I want tonight!" He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her up, hard. Pulling her close to him. "So be a good little girl and get on your knees.. now!" Jax was sitting with Opie and Chibbs, tossing Chex mix into his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he could see sudden movement.  "Ayy looks like Jared is getting angry again.." Chibbs mumbled and a shot.  "Tell me again why we give him alcohol??" Jax laughed and looked over, his laughter shutting down. That dumb bastard had his little sister in a tight grip.  "Son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill him!" Pure venom in his voice. He stood up, Opie and Chibbs mirroring his actions. Before Jax could even step away from the table he noticed one of his brothers storming over towards his sister.  Adrianna glared up at the dope infront of her. Fire in her eyes. Her Ruby red lips parted to spit venom, but she never got the chance.  "Let go of her or else I'll be getting another smiley face tattoo." The voice was cold, dark...and though she only heard it one time earlier that day she knew exactly who it was.  Happy. Jared let go of her arm but didn't step back. He took in Happy's frame and smiled. "Happy...brother. You gotta wait your turn...unless you're down to share. Just no crossing swords." That was the 2nd strike.  "My old lady doesn't like small dick, now get away from her!" It just came to him, not even thinking. Adrianna's eyes widened but she took the chance to step closer Happy who instinctively wrapped his arms around her. Jared looked like he had seen a ghost that or he was in the process of shitting himself. By now more than just Jax had noticed what was going on, the music had been cut.  Clay stumbled out of the room they called church, to see what was going on, his old lady coming up behind him.  It was a sight to see, her little girl wrapped protectively in the arms of the Tacoma Killer. She tilted her head. A smirk on her lipstick smudged lips.  "Listen Happy, I didn't know man. I mean you of all people, having an old lady.... everyone would be talking about it...besides she looked more than a little willing." A growl erupted from his chest, Happy wanted nothing more then to murder this dude and see the life vanish from his eyes. Slowly.  Adrianna bit her bottom lip, her face burried in Happy's chest. She wrapped her own arms around him and hugged him tightly and that's when she felt it. His gun. She took a deep breath and swiftly grabbed it, turning around and cocked it mid movement and aimed it Jared's forehead. All that could be heard was Gemma's gasp.  "Get...the fuck..out..." Adrianna breathed, her hand steady. "Or in five seconds your brain matter will ruin my fucking party!" Happy had never been so turned on in his life. He slowly licked his lips absorbing every inch of the Princess of SAMCRO from behind. 'God damn.' He thought.  "Hey! Hey! Hey!" Jax interupted, coming over and gently wrapping his hand around his sister's wrist. "You are not a killer....I think you've had enough to drink" he said softly easing the gun out of her hand. Adrianna sighed and let him take the piece, she looked down at the floor for a moment.  "Thank you Jax! She is fucking crazy!" Jared added. Jax nodded his head at him before he glared and punched him full force in the face, not even bothering to watch him fall. Adrianna sighed and turned walking off not wanting to bother with the commotion any more. She walked towards the rooms in the back and looked for her big brothers room.  Which one would it be? "You can lay down in mine if you need a break."  Happy came up behind her, still on protective mode. Adrianna raised an eyebrow watching him open the door to a room. She debated on whether or not this was a good idea. "I promise little girl, no funny shit." She gave him a small smile before walking into the room he opened up. "How kind....killer.." The way his nickname rolled off her tongue caused something to awaked inside him. He tried to remind himself that she was the daughter of Gemma. Practically his 2nd mom. But those thoughts were faint. Barely even there. Adrianna slowly strutted into his room. It was surprisingly clean, and smelled good. She slipped out of her shoes and walked towards the bed. "I literally put a gun to someone's head....my first 24 hours here and I pulled out a gun..." She mumbled crawling onto the bed. She took a deep breath and sat in the middle of Happy's bed. Her legs folded underneath her. "Thank you...you stepped in and saved me...my hero." She teased.  Happy stared at her expressionless. He could tell she had a few drinks by the way her eyes were hooded and her face was flushed. He slid off his kut and walked over to the bed.  "Or, from what I have heard, my killer...." She continued looking up at him, watching each subtle movement.  "Lay down little girl and be quiet." Grinning at him she rolled her eyes and laid back. "if it was any other time I would tell you to suck a dick..." She whispered her eyes slowly closing.   Happy stared at her laying form. She was so beautiful, something he didn't deserve. And yet he was hooked on her already. He pulled a blanket over her and headed over towards the door not giving into what he wanted. He hit the lights and went to step out.  "Hey don't I get a good night kiss?!! That's no way to treat your old lady!!" Happy chuckled and shook his head. "Go to sleep little girl, don't make me come back in there." He threatened before closing the door all the way.  Adrianna smirked, and rolled over onto her stomach her thoughts jumbled until one thought popped into her mind. Happy. "Ahh fuck..."

#sons of anarchy #soa #soa fanfiction #soa imagine #imagine #fanfic #fanfiction #happy lowman #jax teller #chibbs #tigs #juice ortiz #juice #teller Morrow #sons #samcro #opie winston

[supershrinkingviolet]

You Don’t Know How You’ve Betrayed Me || Self

Violet gave a small sigh as she finished getting ready for the day. She wished she was still in sweatpants and curled up in bed. She wished she was wearing one of her oversized hoodies and her comfortable jeans. (Even in her own head she couldn’t go so far as to think that ‘anything’ would be better than what she was currently wearing, but the fact that she had to qualify even that much to herself was telling). The truth of the matter was that she just didn’t want to go to work. Having to get dressed for work was too much like admitting she was going to have to be there.

She was stuck. She was completely stuck in the case and she knew it. It didn’t matter what angle she tried to work, how many times she tried to talk to the father, he wasn’t budging and nothing she was doing was making a difference. Lara wasn’t going to get the kind of justice she deserved. Andy was going to be left uncertain and grieving for the rest of his life. And she would have proven to herself that she was a failure.

Fuck she hated this. When she’d been recruited for her skills at shield charms, she’d assumed she would be working some sort of protective detail. Training. Being partnered while somebody else headed investigations and mostly just being in the line of fire to protect the more important aurors the Ministry wanted to keep around. She’d never anticipated having to bear this much weight alone, especially on so little training. Lara deserved better than this. But she was all there was to give.

She knew her family was worried about her. She was eating better than she had in school, but all this physical activity meant that she was dropping weight at an alarming rate. And she didn’t actually have that much to lose. Her mind was constantly racing, constantly focused on the case, but it meant it was hard for her to hold a conversation in the moment (unless it was about books or comic books, and then she could usually pull herself back together). Her sleep pattern was all over the place as she either went through the day on only 3 hours of sleep or slept over 12 hours. She had no appetite to speak of, and most things had started to taste faintly metallic. She knew she should be worried. She knew that she was in a bad state. She knew that she was running herself into the ground with basically nothing to show for it. She just didn’t care.

Gardner was the only one who wasn’t saying much. Oh sure, he’d make the occasional comment. But it was all simple things. ‘Get some sleep Parr.’ ‘You got this?’ ‘Did you check out this angle?’ Just normal work stuff, and the job of working the case. Of course, in name it was his case. He was technically the lead investigator, and if it went unsolved, the mark would be on his record. But both of them knew that in the end, she had claimed this case as hers.

Violet was shaken out of her thoughts by the sound of an owl knocking at her window. Curiously, she looked over. It was a Great Horned Owl, and not one she recognized. But it must be Jack-Jack using one of the school owls. Who else would possibly be writing her? Especially at this time?

The first hints of trepidation came when she looked at the envelope.

Violet Parr

The handwriting was unfamiliar and more feminine than anyone’s she knew. There were no blots or mistakes, so the person wasn’t particularly emotional as she wrote the letter, but was also clearly skilled. It spoke of confidence and authority. Slowly she took a sniff. Vanilla and lavender twined together, overpowering the scent of the ink (high quality). Under that was the scent of a stranger. What was a stranger doing writing her a letter? At home?

She opened the letter, trying to swallow around a nervous ball in her throat. And then the import of the message struck her and everything else stopped.

Dear Violet Parr, You have been recommended for mandatory psychiatric evaluation following the events of some of your recent cases. Come to 1800 Ravenbriar Avenue, London on January 12 at 11 am. Everything said in this session or any sessions following will be completely confidential. I look forward to speaking with you.       Dr. Jennifer Hayes

Recommended? Based on cases?

Gardner.

Fucking Gardner.

Violet didn’t pause to think, wasn’t capable of thinking beyond the wave of rage and betrayal that swept through her. He was the only person who could potentially shove her back into therapy based on work, and he was the last person she’d expected to ever do something like that. What right did he have? What goddamn right to put her back there?

She didn’t remember the journey from her home to work. Later she would probably have to think about what she’d looked like to people she’d passed on the street, but right now she had no idea if she’d passed anyone at all. She had eyes only for her boss sitting calmly at his desk. The boss she’d trusted. The boss who hadn’t thought it worth noting that he was going to make her visit yet another goddamn therapist without talking to her about it first.

“What the fuck is this?”

Vi didn’t swear at work. Normally she didn’t swear. Professional standards and trying to live up to her hero and all of that. But the old rules didn’t really apply in the moment.

Gardner looked up at her and almost straight into the letter she had shoved in his face. His expression barely changed, but Violet had watched him enough to see him putting on his ‘work’ poker face that meant he didn’t want to give anything away. The realization only infuriated Violet more. “Ah. I see you got Jen’s letter.”

“And I want to know what the bloody hell it means.”

“I’d think that is pretty clear.”

“’Mandatory psychiatric evaluation following the events of some of your recent cases.’ So basically because I’m fucking up handling Lara’s case I have to have someone else poke at me until they’re satisfied that I’m not going to slit my wrists in the bathtub.”

Vi saw the first flicker of something in his eyes. A little bit of shock and frustration before he snapped his shield back in place, and she felt a perverse sort of pleasure in it. Damn right he should be affected by what he’d done to her.

“You’re not sleeping Violet,” he snapped. “You can’t shut off the case and the guilt is eating you alive. Normally aurors are taught coping skills for this, but you haven’t been, so I’m sending you to someone who can. And especially with your history – “

At those words, Vi froze. “My history.”

She couldn’t say what she looked like, but whatever it was was enough to have the man pausing before he gentled his tone. “You know me. Do you really think I’d have anyone working under me without getting their school and hospital records?”

No. No she didn’t. But she’d hoped. She’d hoped because he so rarely looked at her with the same fragile mix of fear and pity that most other people had around her – especially adults. She’d hoped because she’d wanted this to be a fresh start where she could be accepted entirely on her own merits. She’d hoped because she’d wanted the chance to be Violet Parr, auror, instead of Violet Parr, the fucked up suicidal they were stuck with. And once again, she was getting pushed into something she didn’t want because of actions she couldn’t really control. She was only ever going to be the kid that needed therapy.

He paused for a moment, as if waiting for some sort of response, but she was too numb to be able to say anything. “Look. Dr. Hayes is one of the best. She works with the aurors, and sometimes she helps on cases. You can talk about the case to her, talk about anything else, and it doesn’t go anywhere. Not even back to me.”

Maybe not. But he still knew that he’d sent her. And she would know that too. And worse, so much worse, he hadn’t said anything to her about it. He just did it. Maybe it wouldn’t have gone any better if he tried to talk to her about it, maybe they still would have been fighting about it, but she wondered if she would feel this hurt.

“You had no right,” she said quietly.

“I’m your boss. It’s my job to keep you together so you can do the job.”

“I may work for you, but I am still mine.” Vi took a deep breath as fury began to cover the hurt until she could deal with it privately. “My brain is mine. My thoughts and feelings are mine. You have no right to force me back into some fucking office with yet another goddamn person who wants to poke and prod at everything until they can get me into their neat little boxes or fucking fix me. I don’t care that you’re my boss. I don’t care that you’re Andrew Gardner, best auror on the force and recognized maverick. You had. No. Right.”

Turning around, Vi stormed away from the desk, just wanting to get out into the open air before she did something pathetic like break down in tears and only confirm all of his worst thoughts about her.

“Parr, where are you going?” his voice cracked like a whip behind her.

Violet paused at the door, glaring back at him. “Out. I have a job to do. And apparently I’ve got an appointment on Thursday.” And with that, she turned and left.

#self #fhogself #I meant to write this months back but what's a grad student to do #self harm mention tw #not bc vi is participating at this point #but with her epic tantrum it gets mentioned so I wanted to bring it up

[ritamcgee]

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How Long Should You Wait To Get Your Ex Back

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Text My Ex Back Reviews

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[biofunmy]

They Were Victorian Dandies Who Made Art. Now They’re On the Outs.

Once in the late 1970s, somebody insulted David McDermott’s mother at a party, so he went to Tiffany & Company and had a note engraved: “Mr. David Walter McDermott is pleased to announce the elimination of _______ from his guest list.”

The note, which was mailed out to the offender’s friends, now hangs on the wall of Peter McGough’s apartment in Greenwich Village. “Now, that’s pretty brilliant, to insult someone at such a high level,” he said, laughing at the memory.

But it is now Mr. McGough’s turn to be disinvited.

Half of the Victorian-inspired art duo McDermott & McGough, Mr. McGough has written a memoir about his partnership with Mr. McDermott, “I’ve Seen the Future and I’m Not Going,” in which he recounts their bizarre journey as time-traveling artists known as much for their retro lifestyle as for their pseudo-historical art.

They dressed in Edwardian clothes, drove a 1913 Model-T Ford and eschewed modern conveniences. As lovers, they shared an apartment on Avenue C that lacked a telephone, television or electric lights.

But they have not had a cordial conversation since last spring, which not only makes it awkward for Mr. McGough to promote his new book, but also practically impossible for him to finish a series of drawings based on their paintings from the 1980s.

“He’s very angry with me,” Mr. McGough said, in his walk-up apartment stuffed with artwork and bric-a-brac. “We fight about money, and he blames me for a lot.”

Mr. McDermott is said to be living in Ireland, having left the United States after the Internal Revenue Service seized the couple’s upstate house and other assets because the men didn’t pay income tax (he later renounced his United States citizenship).

As the more doctrinaire of the two, Mr. McDermott never joined the digital age. He has no smartphone or email, Mr. McGough said, and it’s not clear if he has even heard of Facebook and Twitter.

Contacting him is not quite as antiquated as sending a messenger on horseback, but close. Mr. McGough has to first send a text message to a man named James, a friend of Mr. McDermott’s in Ireland. If James happens to be in Mr. McDermott’s presence, he passes on the message, at which point Mr. McDermott may or may not agree to speak.

If Mr. McDermott is not in the room, it’s unclear if the message is ever conveyed. “He’s been fighting with me for a year,” Mr. McGough said. A recent attempt at détente was met with silence. “He didn’t want to talk to me. He said he’s not in the mood.”

Instead, Mr. McGough received a letter from Mr. McDermott, sealed in black wax, with the lyrics to the old song “Thanks for the Memory.”

Old-Fashioned Party People

That certainly would not be their most epic fight. Their roller-coaster partnership began in 1980, shortly after Mr. McGough, then 21, moved to New York City from a suburb of Syracuse, N.Y., seeking glamour and excitement.

One night, while attending a New Wave Vaudeville show at Irving Plaza, he met Mr. McDermott, who was 27 and a downtown club performer. A few weeks later, he went to a dinner party at Mr. McDermott’s apartment on Avenue B and became fascinated with his 1920s-era lifestyle.

“He is incredible how his brain works — that’s what fascinated me,” Mr. McGough said. “I found most people were nice and fun, but it never went anywhere. But with him, it went someplace.”

The two became inseparable, not only as lovers, but also as artists who collaborated on paintings, photographs, films and sculpture. Mr. McDermott brought time and history to their work, and Mr. McGough brought homoeroticism and sexual politics.

“A Friend of Dorothy,” perhaps their best-known painting, features slurs like “queer” and “mary” written in antique typeface on a sunny yellow background.

The men spent their 1980s in downtown Manhattan dancing at the Mudd Club, attending openings at Fun Gallery, dining with the Schnabels at Indochine. And as their art career took off, they attracted people into their fantasy world, a candlelit “Barry Lyndon” on the bombed-out Lower East Side.

Their 18th-century house in upstate New York had a hand pump for water, a hearth for cooking and tin tubs for laundry.

When they dropped by Andy Warhol’s Factory wearing top hats and dress shirts with detachable collars, the receptionist would announce, “Those old-fashioned people are here again.”

“It was this mania for fun,” said John Patrick Fleming, a fashion designer who has known both men since their days partying at Danceteria. “Lots of important, successful people got lured into the McDermott and McGough fun train. One time, they had Bianca Jagger upstairs, wooing her with vegetarian food.”

Burning Through Money

The partying, however, was not sustainable. “With David, there was never any control,” Mr. Fleming said. “He was not controllable when he had a penny, and he was not controllable when he had millions. There was never any reasoning. There were no boundaries.”

In the book, Mr. McGough, who is more compromising in temperament, recounts how Mr. McDermott fought with gallery owners, alienated their friends and burned though a fortune to build his antiquated world.

There was the 1930 Graham-Paige automobile and the Model T; the $7,500 monthly rent on a Brooklyn studio in a former bank, where the duo once hosted a costume party inspired by Louis Comfort Tiffany’s Egyptian Fete of 1913; the team of assistants; the rooms of period antiques; the construction of a $50,000 stone wall at their circa 1790 house in Oak Hill, N.Y.

When Mr. McDermott became enamored with a young man that Mr. McGough calls “Bastian” in the book, the pair moved him into Oak Hill and made him a living doll. They bought Bastian two Morgan horses, sent him to train as a carriage driver at a Virginia farm and dressed him in old-fashioned riding gear.

Although Mr. McDermott and Mr. McGough ended their romance around 1985 (Mr. McGough said that Mr. McDermott had multiple affairs that precipitated the breakup), they continued making art for decades after.

Their works were included in three Whitney Biennials, and were exhibited by prestigious galleries including Cheim & Read in New York, Galerie Jérôme de Noirmont in Paris and Bruno Bischofberger in Zurich.

But in 1992, the I.R.S. showed up at their studio. The couple owed six figures in back taxes, having ignored all their bills. The government seized the Oak Hill property and auctioned off its contents. The Brooklyn studio was soon gone, as were the Model T and Graham-Paige touring car.

Mr. McDermott was devastated by the losses and moved to Ireland in 1994. Mr. McGough joined him, but he missed New York and his friends, and moved back to Manhattan in 1998. (Mr. McGough was also suffering from AIDS, which he learned he had in 1997.)

By the mid-2000s, McDermott & McGough were again riding high. But earlier mistakes were repeated, and the couple burned through more money. Mr. McDermott “lost this big mansion in Ireland and he blamed me,” Mr. McGough said.

(Several attempts to reach Mr. McDermott through his friend James were unsuccessful. James eventually responded to an email query, apologizing for taking so long to reply, but follow-up emails went unreturned.)

In writing the memoir and telling his side of the story, Mr. McGough could be seen as evening the score, since Mr. McDermott’s erratic behavior so often derailed the duo’s career. “Isn’t this his ‘Mommie Dearest’ moment?,” Mr. Fleming said.

Mr. McGough downplayed any psychodrama behind the memoir. The motivation was simpler, he said: “I thought maybe there’s money in it, because I was broke.”

‘Odd Bookends’

These days, Mr. McGough seems to have settled into a scrappier bohemian life in the Village. If he is no longer rich, he is still making art and grateful to be alive.

“I get out of bed, I stand up and I say, ‘You made it.’ And I immediately get in a good mood,” he said on a Thursday afternoon last fall.

He was perched with his Chihuahua, Queenie, on a French divan upholstered in green velvet. He wore pale-blue trousers with a pin stripe, which he had custom made in the wide-legged, high-waisted style of the 1920s. His thick, steel-gray hair was swept back Gatsby style and lacquered with what looked like pomade.

He still lives like a man out of the past, though he has moved up in period and incorporated semi-modern conveniences. “My cooker is from 1930, and the kitchen sink and the bathroom are 1930,” said Mr. McGough, who was charming, fun to talk to and utterly un-self-serious. “I like to think I’m a bohemian living here during the Depression.”

Perhaps out of habit, Mr. McGough seemed to want his partner’s opinion of his aesthetic choices, since Mr. McDermott had never visited his one-bedroom railroad apartment, which he began renting three years ago.

“If he comes here, what would he like and not like?” he said.

Pointing to a side table of his own creation, affixed with large graphic phalluses, Mr. McGough said, “He’d probably think the table is vulgar.”

Despite an ocean separating them and Mr. McDermott’s unresponsiveness at present, Mr. McGough still sees himself, and perhaps always will, as one half of McDermott & McGough. “We’re so bound together,” he said. “We are odd bookends that held up a life and a career. I can’t imagine my life without him in it.”

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[rickaposts]

Rick Aidekman-The Crazy World of NYC Landlords

The Crazy World of NYC Landlords-Individual Stories-Other Characters

Part 1

In 2001, I happened into a real estate opportunity in the most unusual way.   A good friend of my wife lived in a rent stabilized property on Madison Avenue in the Upper East Side.   The property had over 100 apartments, was located in the most expensive area of NYC at the time and was uniquely subject to the rent regulations under the Rent Stabilization laws of New York State.    This meant that the tenant in each apartment could stay there for life (unless they didn’t pay the rent or do some other action that violated the lease and the law).    This friend was subject to the Rent Stabilization rules, which not only allowed her to live in her apartment for life and to receive nominal rent increases each year (or every two years) enabling her to have a rent well below market.    She had a lovely one-bedroom apartment and was paying about $700 below market, if the apartment were free market, not Stabilized. 

As it happens, the friend received a letter from her landlord threatening to evict her for having a dog, as the rules of the building prohibited dogs, which was a legal prohibition.     She called my wife, knowing that not only was I an attorney, but also in the real estate business and might be able to help her.   She had another dog for years, which was allowed, since she had it before the rules of the building were changed.   The dog had passed, and she got another one, purposely getting a new dog that was similar to the other dog with the intent that the building owners wouldn’t know, and that the superintendent wouldn’t tell.    No such luck.  She asked if I could help.   I told her that I had a friend who was a Landlord Tenant attorney and would likely be able to give her advice and assist her.  

 I got her on the telephone with my attorney friend.    He said he would do his best to help.   He asked her to read the letter.    As she read the third sentence, he said “STOP, I wrote that letter.”   Turned out he did indeed write the letter and was the attorney for the building owners, two brothers.    He asked her whether she had paid the rent and did her check clear.   She said that she in fact had paid two months since the letter and both checks had cleared.   He told her that the fact that his client cashed the checks would be considered a waiver and that she was safe in keeping the dog.   He later told me that he wasn’t surprised because his clients always would deposit the rent, even if there was a chance that they might get an eviction and a rent increase with a new tenant.   

I asked him if he thought that his clients would want to sell the building.   He told me that they were twin brothers in their 70s and were tired of running this and their other properties.   He called them and a meeting was arranged.   We went to their offices and through discussions with the twins, we learned so much about them and their history.

Their father had built a portfolio of some top-quality properties, all in good Manhattan neighborhoods.   Their story was quite unique, if not shocking.     In their 20s, the twins wanted to try and make it on their own, so to speak.    They borrowed $1 million from their father and took off for Southern Florida to build their real estate empire.    Unfortunately, they made poor investments in land development deals and lost the million in  a couple of years.   The father didn’t want them to join him in the business but didn’t want to disown them either.   What he did was send them monthly checks from the cash flow from a three-building portfolio so they could live decently.    The checks were written from the entity that owned the properties and was shown as distributions from the properties.    The twins hatched a plan to get into the father’s business, even without his invitation.   They sued their father for control of the three properties claiming that by virtue of the distributions, he had intentionally, or unintentionally, gifted them control of the properties.    They won the case and the father was out of the three buildings.

There was no way that they were going to sell the three properties, which together had over 300 apartments, but they were open to us managing and getting a piece of them.  Additionally, we would receive a right of first refusal, meaning that if they wanted to sell the properties, we could match any offer and become the buyers.

As we negotiated the terms of the overall transaction, a few unique items came to our attention in reviewing documents during our due diligence.   What we found clearly indicated the nature of these two “stingy” millionaires.    In the lease for a retail bakery in one of the properties, it actually stated that anytime either one of them entered the store, they were entitled to a free pastry of their choosing.   In the parking garage, they got free parking when they were in the neighborhood.   When in the coffee shop, the lease called for free coffee and breakfast twice per month for each of them.    And so on.

Well, as the negotiations were in full speed, it became clear to us that a deal was not going to happen as they basically believed that we should do 100% of the work and that they should keep 100% of the money.    It was fun, however, as they were always charming, and our breakfast meetings were always free (of course) as we would meet in the diner at one of their properties.

Part 2

I was at my desk one morning when my assistant advised me that there was a boiler outage at one of our largest properties in Washington Heights, NYC.   She knew this from a few tenants that were affected and decided to call her.   Even though tenants knew that they should first reach out to their super and if not satisfied with the results, they had a building specific contact in our building repair coordinator department.   However, there were always those tenants who wanted to call the “boss,” meaning me or my partner.    I immediately contacted my partner, who, I still believe to this day, was the best operator/manager in the multi-family business in the City.   More about him in later articles.

He advised me that he was awakened in the middle of the night by the property manager who had this property in his portfolio to manage and oversee the super and the property operation.    Apparently, an underground gas line had ruptured from the extreme cold of the winter.   He ensured me that he was on top of it and that our boiler repair company was there and doing what they could.   Dealing with ruptured gas lines is always a difficult issue for property owners as it is not something you just go in and fix like a water line.    At the time, the process was to first notify Con Edison, the gas provider, who immediately shuts down the line to protect against the risk of an explosion that could not only cause greater damage, but injury to people as well.    

Once Con Edison shuts down the line, the boiler repair company can trace to find the part of the gas line that has ruptured, figure out the necessary repair and to then submit a plan to the City to obtain its approval to make the repair.   After obtaining the approval, you then need to go to Con Edison to set up the repair process and ultimately the resumption of service to the property.   Often, an owner, upon determining it is not an immediate fix, will hire a temporary heat producing boiler to be parked on the street and pipe heat into the building's heating pipes.   These were the steps that we were taking.

We were also ready to provide hot plates for the tenants to use to make their meals due to the gas also off for their stoves and ovens.

However, on the same day that I heard about the gas line rupture, I was called by a local community activist, who asked to meet with me to discuss how we were going to deal with the tenants and the outage of their heat and the gas for their stoves and ovens.    I was happy to meet with him and set a meeting up for later in the afternoon at his office.    I decided to take my assistant with me in the event that some of the tenants from the building would be there, many of whom spoke only Spanish. She could be of major assistance because my Spanish was mediocre, and she was raised speaking Spanish.   (At the time, I was taking Spanish classes at the Learning Access, as it was something that would help in my relations with the tenants, most of our superintendents.)  

We entered the Tenant Advocate’s office, which was on the second floor, above a small grocery store.   I did not know him, nor had I ever heard of him, but I wanted to hear what he had to say and to assure him and the tenants that we would do the right thing to protect them and help them in this emergency.

He was extremely cordial and quite friendly.    He told me that he had spoken to only a few of the tenants but was totally aware that the gas was turned off and that they didn’t have heat.    I filled him in on what steps we were taking and our expectations of how long it would take to put the situation back to normal.   By the way, there were no tenants there, nor did he have any other of his staff with him (if he had any).    After I finished explaining the process that we had undertaken, he asked if my assistant would leave the room for a few minutes so that he could speak with me privately.   Although this felt rather odd, I thought maybe he wanted to give me a hard time privately.    

So, we are sitting there alone, and he takes out a yellow pad and scribbles something on it.    He then turned it towards me, without a word, to show me what he had written.   On the pad he wrote:

                “$10,000”

In big bold numbers.    My immediate reaction was:

“Is that for the tenants?”

He didn’t say a word but pointed at himself.

I said:

“It’s for you?”

He shook his head affirmatively.    I said:

"Not what we do. "

I then told him that we would do what’s right by the tenants and I got up and left.

When I told my partner, he said to ignore him, and my partner assured me that he would get the job done quickly.

My meeting was on a Thursday.   On the following Tuesday, it was reported that the same Tenant Advocate was found bludgeoned to death and dismembered.   His body found in trash bags in the Bronx.   Six years later, a NYC building owner and his brother were arrested and charged with his murder.   The Tenant Advocate in their case was harassing this Landlord as the Landlord was allowing drug dealing to run rampant in his properties and not taking care of violations.

 Rick Aidekman and The Crazy World of NYC Landlords Part 3

One of the oddest cases was with an owner of some absolutely beautiful buildings in the Bronx  located near the Bronx Zoo, in an area where the properties were built in the 1930s and 1940s as luxury properties for the affluent families living in the Bronx.   To my taste, the properties built in those times for the high-income tenant were the most beautiful ever in New York.   In a later article, I will discuss these buildings versus those built both before and after that era that still remain occupied in the Bronx, as well as in the rest of the City.   But simply said, for the most part, these buildings, again built for the upper middle- class tenants had large rooms, many with sunken living rooms, marble bathrooms, beautiful wood flooring, large vaulted ceiling lobbies and walnut or bronze elevator interiors.   Of course, they all had elevators.    But, back to this owner.   When we met, in 1988, he owned about a dozen of these art deco buildings, each with between 75 and 100 units, all large and beautifully maintained and well located.   This individual was at the time, very ill, in a wheelchair with an oxygen mask.    He was operating the business with a son, who I believe was in his 20s.   

At the time we met, he had been trying to refinance his properties through paying off the existing debt, which had now become due, and replacing it with a  new loan that would not only pay off the existing debt, but would give him some extra cash to put back into the properties and protect him with cash to defend against any future downturn in the economy.   At the time, all of his tenants were rent regulated, either rent controlled or rent stabilized (I will explain the difference later).   The problem he confronted was that over the years, he collected a substantial amount of his rent in cash from the tenants and did not report it to the government (tax evasion) and did not show it on his financial statements.   Thus, where typical competitor owners would show collections of 95% or more, his books showed collections of around 55% (the cash not showing).  

As a result of the information he provided to the existing lender and prospective lenders, he could not receive a loan that would even pay off the existing debt.   He was in a real bind.   With his failing health, and this financial predicament, he decided to sell the portfolio.   One other issue, which will be further understood in a moment was a problem he had with the future of the company.   

We met him in his office.   It was a bit odd, that, when we entered the office, located in one of his beautiful buildings, at the entrance was two desks.   A receptionist and his son.   We thought it odd, that his son was in the entrance and not in a normal office, but we just ignored it.  As stated, the owner was suffering from his illness and could not hold a totally normal conversation.   However, since we loved the properties and had the capital and were in an expansion mode, we felt we could meet his price, make a deal and take our competitors out of the race for his properties.    Once the price was agreed, which, as I recall, was around $40 million, he said to us quietly, that he wanted $2 million in “shmatas.”   “Shmatas” is a Yiddish word for rag and had acquired a new meaning in NYC real estate.   Initially, people in the textile industry would criticize other merchants as being in the “shmata” business, meaning their clothing was low class, or rags.   However, in NYC real estate in took on the meaning of cash, under the table.    The primary focus for this was to not show the money to the government for tax purposes (fraud).   In this case, there was a difference.    Being surprised that he would say this to strangers, which my partner and were, caught me off guard.   My immediate response was “You want us to pay you $2 million in cash so you can hide it from the government?”   “No,” he said, “I don’t want my son to know.”

I think to this day I am still frozen by that response.   Needless to say, the conversation went downhill from there.   Here was a man, experience a life-threatening illness, and he wanted to screw his son.  

We of course said no, and the meeting ended.

 Rick Aidekman and The Crazy World of NYC Landlords Part 4

In this article I am going to stray from the wacky landlords to some of the situations that we had with City employees and the courts.    There are thousands of dedicated City employees that do their best to make things work for the tenants without making the situation impossible for the Landlords.   They recognize that the Landlords, to continue investing in the various communities, must be able to make money.    They also recognize that there are Landlords who will take what they can at the expense of the Tenants as long as they can.   Occasionally, and I believe rarely, there are City employees that take advantage of this situation depending on a Landlord’s fears, especially a good Landlord.   This is where our story starts.    In the late 1980s, we had just purchased a property in a lower middle -income neighborhood in Brooklyn, from a bank that was about to foreclose on the property, but had the agreement of the owner/debtor, that they could sell the building and avoid the costs of a court foreclosure.    The building was a beautiful small elevator building with 42 apartments.   The problem was that it had over 400 violations issued by both the Housing and the Building departments.   Many were serious violations, such as not providing heat and dangerous elevator violations.   As we had in all of our acquisitions, we had the capital resources to make the improvements necessary to bring the building to the condition that the Tenants were entitled to have.    

 As this acquisition occurred early in our growth, we were not yet known to the City or the City employees.    As we took control, a building inspector appeared and to perform an inspection.   While he inspected the property with our superintendent, our field agent happened to arrive at the building for his weekly inspection.   He met up with the inspector and the Superintendent.    Our agent told the inspector of our improvement plans and the inspector appeared pleased.   He told our agent that he would like to come back and meet with him privately to discuss our plans.    The agent told my partner and I about this conversation, which he felt to be suspicious and that he had agreed to meet with him at the property the following week.   My partner and I also felt that there was something wrong.   Both of us being attorneys felt that we should contact the Building Department attorneys’ office and ask if this was acceptable practice.   The attorney took the information and agreed to get back to us.   Apparently, he discussed the matter with their internal investigators, who actually had their own concerns about this particular City employee.    They came to our office to speak with us and our agent.   They asked our agent if he would meet with the City inspector wearing a wire.    We felt this was a bridge too far to put on our own employee, but, he seemed anxious to do it, especially with the fact in his mind that he deals with these inspectors every day and if corruption is allowed to exist, his job and the lives of Tenants and Landlords would be miserable.    

 The meeting between our agent and the inspector was set.    When he arrived at the building, he was aware that City investigators would be nearby listening in to the conversation.   We were in our office unaware of the events as they occurred.   When the agent arrived at the building, the inspector said he wanted to meet on the roof so they could have privacy.   When we heard this after the fact, we were stunned that our agent agreed and went with him to the roof.     What happened, was what we all expected.   The City inspector asked for a payoff for which in return 100s of violations would be removed and new violations avoided.    When the meeting was finished and our agent said he would discuss with his boss and would meet again in a week, they proceeded to leave the building.    They were met by City investigators who took the inspector into custody.   Although he was not criminally charged, the inspector was fired, lost his pension and was banned from working for the City forever.    I do not think the punishment was strong enough,  but I understand the fact that a criminal case would be hard with only one conversation taped and that the City wanted to send a message quickly.

 On the subject of violations, there were two humorous incidents that I can quickly describe.   Prior to going on my own, the individual I worked for owned an SRO (Single Room Occupancy Hotel).    (This hotel now gone, torn down and replaced with a high-rise is another story I will discuss in a future article).   Located in the West 20s the property was always of interest to City inspectors due to the fact that the occupants were generally unemployed men, many of whom would beg on the street.   In any event, showing the sometimes inefficiency of City Inspectors, we received two violations within about ten days of each other.    One stated that the fire escape staircase was rusty and needed to be repainted. The other violation stated that we did not have a fire escape that was required by law.   My staff member that handled violations, went to the Housing Department and stood before one of the Supervisory Inspector and asked, “how he can paint the non-existent fire escape.”   Upon his assurance that he would paint the fire escape they removed both violations.

Sometimes the inspectors would err in their entry of violations in what was an early version of computer programs.     Very standard violations were:

               “Replace with new, paint and plaster”

               “Eliminate infestation of mice and roaches”

We received a violation as follows:

               “Replace with new mice and roaches”

It happens.  

[clairefail]

Leap into the unknown

Chloe woke to the sun piercing her eyeballs through her shitty, broken blinds. She was bleary and hungover, and slow to rise. Despite her bedroom looking over busy Dekalb Avenue in Brooklyn, the street was quiet. At 10:00 on a Tuesday most of her neighbors would be at work. As she came to she groaned and turned over, looking at all of her possessions crammed into this tiny room. To the right was a small closet crammed so thickly with party clothes there wasn't any room for even one more hanger. Beside the closet was a dark walnut vintage sewing desk. A perky Singer sewing machine was perched on top of it, although Chloe barely knew how to use it.

It helped contribute to her self proclaimed image as a DIY, anti-capitalist, self-righteous activist, however inaccurate it may have been. At one time, Chloe did believe in these ideals, and on some level still did. However, as her period of unemployment dragged on, she found herself wanting more stuff. It didn't matter what stuff, just anything to make up for the months of spending as little as possible. She was lucky to live with 3 roommates; it made the rent on her room only $560, an absolute steal.

She was actually amazed she was able to scrape by on her unemployment check. When she had been laid off 8 months ago she had been certain she would get a new job right away. She always had in all her years of working before. Things were desperate sometimes. Her phone got shut off more than once but she always figure it out. It’s not like she had ever been late on her rent. She was scared of screwing up that much and having nowhere to go. She had no safety net, no savings, no mom and dad who could help out. It made her careful to never fall too far, no matter what she had to do to scrape by. Eating little and staying in wasn’t much of a hardship, honestly. At least she was as thin as she’d been in years. That was something.

The months of unemployment had made her feel like she didn’t have anything worth offering. Having a desirable body felt like a commodity she could trade on for now while her finances were waning. At the very least it always seemed to make her on-again, off-again girlfriend, Samantha keep her around often enough to get a few nights out and some meals every week. The constant rejection from Samantha was hard, but she always seemed to answer when Samantha called. It was something to do at least. She lived in Staten Island and was from Missouri, making her exotic to Chloe’s sensibilities.

She didn’t know many people from the Midwest, but Samantha seemed like a good representation of them. She was a bit chubby, and didn’t really believe in recycling, or vegetables. Her blonde hair was kept in a dated soft butch swoop, but she used a hair straightener and wore makeup daily. To Chloe it was as foreign as she was to Samantha, and somehow the differences kept sparking interest between them. They didn’t have much in common, actually. Chloe’s previous work had been at a science museum, working the box office. Samantha marketed Camel cigarettes to pharmacies. Chloe barely knew of the bible, Samantha had been quite religious until recently. Maybe the only thing that kept bringing them back together was loneliness.

Samantha hadn’t lived here for very long and didn’t know many people. Her only friend was Arthur, a tall, prematurely balding, outspoken gay man. He worked at a pharmacy, which is how he had met Samantha. As two obnoxiously extroverted people, they had quickly struck up a friendship based on being outlandish. Chloe had gone to college with Arthur, which is how Chloe and Samantha had met.

Chloe’s alcohol fueled birthday party had been a few months ago and Chloe, determined to make new conquests, had charmed her way into Samantha’s bed. When Chloe woke up the following morning in Staten Island, Samantha had told her to stay the whole day.

“Don’t you have work today?” Chloe asked. “Well...yeah, but. Well, I work from home mostly.” Samantha responded. “What is it you do exactly? Something with cigarettes?” Chloe pushed harder, trying figure out how someone could get away without working all day. “It’s outside sales. I drive to the stores and set up the displays. Once a month my boss comes with me and checks out what I’ve been doing. I always get really nervous, because I’m afraid I’ll get caught. I don’t go that much, and then I rush to catch up when I know a visit is coming soon.”, Samantha finally admitted. “Wow, that sounds pretty easy! So we can just do whatever we want today?” Chloe wondered out loud. “Pretty much!” said Samantha.

Their days had continued in that vein for months, although there wasn’t a purpose to them. They would bum around, smoking cigarettes and watching TV. They never had food, so when one of them got hungry enough, they would run down to the bodega under Samantha’s apartment and buy Kraft Mac and Cheese in a box. At a dollar, it was pretty affordable, but it tasted like orange styrofoam. It wasn’t as good as they had remembered. Every time Chloe bought some she felt depressed, wondering how she had ended up in a run down dump in Staten Island with a girl who she often didn’t like very much.

She yearned to get out and start over. Three years ago she had moved back to New York after a short stint in San Francisco, to be with her girlfriend at the time. The relationship hadn’t worked out, and she always worried that she’d made a mistake. She probably would have been making a zillion dollars a year at a startup if she’d just hung in a little longer. It was another depressing thought to add to the laundry list of what kept her up at night, or in this case, got her out of bed.

She knew she really shouldn’t be sleeping in. She needed to get up and start looking for a job again. She had to get out of this room, this apartment, this city. Something had to change. She sat down at her desk and pulled up her favorite Craigslist job search - “box office - SFO” on her laptop. Most of the jobs were barely better than minimum wage. They certainly weren’t good enough to move 3,000 miles for. She kept searching, hoping against hope that one day something with a living wage would come up. Samantha actually wanted to move to California as well. United in their hatred of the grey coldness of New York, they both dreamed of moving West. Like their forefathers, it seemed like a kinder, gentler world awaited, just a short cross country trip away. When Chloe had lived in San Francisco, although life hadn’t exactly been easier, it had certainly been more exciting. Everything was so new, so different, the most mundane activities were full of wonder. She had to get back there to make something of herself. “Go West, young [wo]man”, her brain practically shouted at her.

The page loaded and she quickly scanned the results, expecting the same. This time, there was a brand new listing, titled “Box Office Magic”. She clicked on it and realized at once that she had found the perfect job for her new imaginary life. A ticketing startup was looking for an Account Manager. The job listing was in the heart of downtown San Francisco, on Market Street, and she easily met the qualifications. Without even pausing for her customary coffee, she set to revising cover letter. She prepared a long sermon on the future of box office ticketing, surprising herself at her apparent passion on such a mundane topic. Finally, all her cocktail party conversation that had made people feign excuses to walk away was being put to use. She explained how her generation no longer bought tickets in person, but only online, and that in person box offices weren’t sustainable any longer. Although that seems fairly obvious now, in 2010 this was a radical idea in slow-to-change industry filled with the technologically illiterate.

Hours ticked away while Chloe wrote and re-wrote the cover letter, revised her resume, and researched the company and staff in order to further tailor her application to their needs. Finally, she was ready to send it, if nothing else, to get the pain of the dream off of her back. After spending all day on the company, she actually had her heart set on it at this point. With a whoosh from her email client, she sent it off, with a silent prayer that this would be the one to turn into something.

Finally having sent it off, she immediately started thinking about mistakes she had made. [Maybe expand on this? Why would you feel worthless?] Once she felt sufficiently worthless, she was ready to shower and go out to meet Samantha. Chloe carefully prepared her body, hoping to con Samantha into a date on her dime. At least it would take her mind off of the job. It was an arduous commute to Staten Island from Brooklyn, taking the better part of two hours, if her train was even running. Half the time it was cancelled at night for “track work”. It was already 4:00. It was already getting dark and she had a subway, ferry, and bus ride ahead of her just to get back into Samantha’s good graces. She had better get going.

Chloe left her apartment, walking briskly to give off the all-important “don’t fuck with me” vibe so important to New York City survival. She lived next to a boarding house which featuring roommates who settles disagreements with bullets and pitbulls who looked for throats to rip out, so she was always anxious to walk by quickly. Thankfully the subway was just a couple blocks away and she quickly made it there. Her MetroCard even had a few bucks on it, just enough to get Samantha’s apartment. She could probably make her drive her back to Brooklyn, if things went her way. She’d have to lay off about Samantha’s profligate use of pot to avoid conflict. It bothered Chloe, how incapable Samantha was of having any sober moments in her day.

Chloe’s train arrived - a new one. Those were always much more comfortable to ride, with their baby blue clean seats, computerized schedules and graffiti free windows. They were great to get a good view while crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Chloe anxiously looked at her phone on the last few minutes the train was above ground, praying Samantha hadn’t sent a message to cancel. She hadn’t. She released a sigh of relief and put in her standard issue iPod headphones to listen to some Ani DiFranco. That always calmed her down. Set up in commuting mode, she sat down to relax and zone out for the rest of the ride.

About 45 minutes later, she emerged in Downtown Manhattan and began her walk to the ferry station. Judging by the crowds lingering, she had plenty of time until the next ferry. The twilight softened the lines of the bank’s skyscrapers. Combined with the Hudson River’s cooling air, the night seemed almost magical. Beginning to hope again, Chloe sat down to check her email. In case of bad news, she first pulled out a Camel crush cigarette. Samantha had demoed their special menthol bead, which turned a regular cigarette into a menthol. That way she could share a pack with Samantha even though Chloe smoked menthols and Samantha regular cigarettes.

Taking a drag of her cigarette, she pulled out her cell phone and opened her email. Her heart immediately fluttered as she realized she had a response from the startup. Holy shit. They were asking for an interview for tomorrow. She was gobsmacked. Not only had they thought enough to give her an interview, they had written her back an hour after sending her application! This was a sure sign of their interest. She knew she would nail the interview and change her life.

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