#most of them involve being in the streets with thousands of people singing at the top of my lungs | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sourholland · 3 years

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Ooooh angst “what about us?” “there is no us, there never was.” with tom plssss! Really love ur work 🌸

Last Kiss || Tom Holland

Summary → After a fling you and Tom had started while filming a movie together, he tells you that you two can’t be together anymore. Once you get home, Tom let’s you know that he made a mistake.

AN → This was supposed to come out yesterday, I just got lazy and waited to edit it. I can’t tell if I like how this came out or hate it, either way, I hope you guys like this. Also in honor of the Fearless re-record!!

Pairing(s) → Tom Holland x Fem!Reader

Warnings → Strong Language, Suggestive, Alcohol Use

Prompt(s) → 38

Word Count → 1.9k

The ringing of your phone sounded through your apartment loudly, the sound of the rain pattering loudly against the windows out-looking New York City. You set down the remote, feet padding against the cold hardwood while you looked for your buzzing cellphone.

You didn’t bother glancing at the caller ID, picking it up bringing it to your ear all in one quick motion.

“Hello?” You said, pulling a wine glass down from the cabinet.

“Y/N?” Tom’s voice came through the phone.

Your heart dropped, a breath catching in your throat while you stood in your kitchen. He was across the country, wanting nothing to do with you. He repeated your name through the phone, asking if you were there.

“Yeah, I’m here,” you answered, pouring more wine than you’d originally intended into the glass.

“Isn’t it like one in the morning in England?” You asked, listening to the muffles coming through the speaker.

“Yeah—yeah, it’s late here. I just couldn’t sleep, and I started to think of you. Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have called.”

You sat at one of the barstools, swirling the red contents of the glass around. You wanted to yell at him, or maybe you wanted to tell him how much you loved him. You sat silently for a few moments, bare legs cold from the draft.

“Tom,” you started. “I just don’t get why we have to rehash the past, you know? I came back to New York, just like you told me I should. You’re working on whatever new movie, I’m doing the same. I don’t know—I just think we should leave whatever happened between us alone. You made it very clear that it was me that you didn’t want,” you mumbled, pulling at the sleeves of your sweater.

He audibly sighed, the ruffling of sheets coming through the phone. He was probably in bed, if he wasn’t so far away you’d have asked him if this was a sad attempt at getting you to sleep with him.

“I was fucking stupid, and I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m so fucking sorry, I’ve said that a million times,” his voice was hoarse and tired.

“I’ve already forgiven you, Tom. I just can’t keep doing this—this thing with you.”

You both went quiet for a minute, the only sound being the noise from outside in the bustling streets of the city and the rain. You knew you should hang up, block his number and forget about anything you two ever had. You’d tried a few times, unable to bring yourself to doing it.

“What about us?” He asked lowly, a twinge of hurt in his tired voice.

“There is no us, Tom,” you replied. “I’m not even sure there ever was.”

He didn’t say anything, you wanted to let out the repressed cry and tell him you didn’t mean it. That you were sorry and that you thought about him more than you’d like to admit. Something in you knew if you didn’t do your best to cut it off, you two would continue down the same everlasting cycle.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay.”

The line went silent for a moment, and then your home screen lit up. The call had been ended. You downed the remainder of your wine, ditching the cup and just going for the bottle. You thought about calling him back, about apologizing and booking a plane ticket like some lovesick teenager.

You opened Instagram and began scrolling through your feed of posts, liking and commenting occasionally. You weren’t anywhere near drunk, merely tipsy and heartbroken. Your finger lingered on the button to go live, wondering if you really wanted thousands of people to see you in this state.

You left the kitchen and instead propped your phone against the couch, taking a seat on the white rug of your living room. You wearily pressed the go live button, raising the bottle to your chapped lips once more. You are pathetic, you thought.

“Hey guys!” You smiled at the camera and outpouring of greetings in the comments. Within a few minutes you’d racked in a few thousand viewers. You grabbed the guitar sitting against your wall and strummed the cords lightly while it sat in your lap.

userone: you are so adorable

usertwo: can you please say hi?!!!??

userthree: it’s my birthday y/n!

“I’m sorry I haven’t been very active on social media, guys. It’s been super crazy traveling back and forth from London to New York and then having to leave again in a few weeks. And now I’m sitting on my living room floor with a bottle of wine,” you laughed. A few familiar people popped into the comments of the live, some you’ve worked with and some you’ve yet to meet in person.

florencepugh: y/n!!!

gracieabrams: might just bust out the wine just for u

“Florence, I can’t wait to see you soon!” You smiled, “Gracie, I swear it’s making everything like a hundred times better.”

userfour: i’m in love with her

userfive: y/n saving 2021???!!!

“I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be singing,” you flushed. You did sing, before getting into acting you’d post a lot on Instagram and TikTok. It’d always been more of a hobby, something you loved to do, but weren’t good enough to pursue.

“I’ve had a little too much to drink,” you added. “So don’t get upset if I’m a little pitchy, guys.”

usersix: if she’s pitchy i’m not sure what i am

userseven: sing taylor swift!!!

“Okay, okay!” You chuckled, scrolling through the hundreds of comments saying to play Taylor Swift. You’d only just been crying to like three of her albums a few hours before.

“How about the chorus—and maybe the bridge too, yeah, that’ll work,” you mumbled to yourself, fiddling with the strings. “Alright, guys, Last Kiss it is. I won’t bore you all with the whole thing, though. I could never do Taylor justice.”

“And I’ll go sit on the floor, wearing your clothes”

Getting involved with him was singlehandedly the most stupid decision you’ve ever made, you thought. Late nights in his flat after long nights on set, ordering in and just talking, you two would talk as if you’d known each other your whole lives. It was something about the way he’d let you wear his clothes, or the way he’d tuck your hair behind your ear while you told him about whatever insignificant thing that had happened that day.

“All that I know,

I don’t know how to be something you miss”

The car ride to the airport was the worst, it was grey and cold outside. There was makeup running down your face, mascara covering your eyes generously. You’d wrapped filming a week earlier, unable to bring yourself to walk away from him.

You couldn’t tell the driver to turn you around, or could you? Tom had already made it clear that you were both in different places in your career. This wasn’t what he wanted. You weren’t what he wanted.

“I never thought we’d have our last kiss”

He had held you just a little tighter, you ran your fingers through his hair for just a second longer. The taste of each other lingering on the both of your lips. Like you knew it would be the last time he’d hold you without knowing.

His stupid smiled, the way he pulled away and ran his thumb over your swollen bottom lip. You were almost wrapped around his finger, absolutely sickened with desire and infatuation for him.

“I never imagined we’d end like this,

Your name, forever the name on my lips”

The day you’d left to come home to New York started with a huge argument between the two of you. He’d basically just told you that you’d both known from the beginning you wouldn’t last together. It wasn’t a matter of how much you cared for one another, but that it was impossible, as he put it.

His eyes glossed over and bloodshot, you a complete and utter mess. Slamming the door behind you as you left was one of the most painful things you’d ever endured. Even more painful, the fact that he never came after you.

“So I’ll watch your life in pictures like I used to watch you sleep”

“I can feel you staring at me, love,” he murmured against the pillow.

Your face heated, eyes averting to the stream of light through the sheerness of the curtains. He leaned into you a moment later, his lips soft on your own. He was warm, he was always so warm. You cupped the side of his face gently, pulling him in a bit harder.

“And I feel you forget me like I used to feel you breathe”

You dropped your bags, stepping into your apartment after months of being away. It felt quieter than usual, desolate and empty from your being away. It was dark out, the illumination of the bright city lights from your windows.

You glanced down at your phone for a moment, not a missed call, not a text, not even a fucking notification. He’d simply told you to go home, nothing more nothing less.

“I keep up with our old friends just to ask them how you are,

Hope it’s nice where you are”

You’d texted Harrison a few times, regretting it almost immediately after. He was sweet, telling you that Tom would come around eventually and to just be patient. You’d relied on those kind words for some time, eventually deleting them all together.

After Tom’s first text, you’d realized he wasn’t coming around or regretting what he’d said to you. He was lonely, maybe even a bit desperate. For months you had been there to listen to him and hold him, and now you were gone.

You’d fed into it the first few times, sitting on the phone with him for hours at a time. Then you started to feel worse hearing his voice, silent sobs escaping as you’d listen to him ramble. Then your finger would linger over the decline button a little longer than usual when he’d call, until eventually you started to use it.

“And I hope the sun shines and it’s a beautiful day,

And something reminds you,

You wish you had stayed”

Once you started to go out with other guys, Tom’s ‘I miss you’ texts became more infrequent. Paparazzi would snap pictures, and the next morning they’d be plastered all over the internet.

There was no doubt he was seeing you going out with other people, watching article after article about who you were dating surface. Would he be jealous? No, you thought. Tom was probably doing the same thing as you. Hopeless hookups, meaningless blind dates.

“You can plan for a change in the weather and time”

One early morning, you found yourself in a sweatshirt you’d stolen from one of his drawers and forgotten to return. Listening to the morning rush of traffic and hugging yourself, noticing the lingering smell of his cologne.

You wondered if he knew you’d taken it, if he would think you were pathetic wearing it months after you two had broken things off. This only made you clutch yourself a little tighter, closing your eyes and trying to remember.

“But I never planned on you changing your mind”

#tom holland imagines #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader

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trans-advice · 3 years

Text

Excerpt from “Transgender History” (2017) by Susan Stryker (“Chapter 3: Trans Liberation”)

[...]

Stonewall:

Meanwhile, across the continent [from San Francisco, California, USA], another important center of transgender activism was taking shape in New York City [New York, USA], where, not coincidentally, Harry Benjamin maintained his primary medical practice. In 1968, Mario Martino, a female-to-male transsexual, founded Labyrinth, the first organization in the United States devoted specifically to the needs of transgender men. Martino and his wife, who both worked in the health care field, helped other transsexual men navigate their way through the often-confusing maze of transgender-oriented medical services just then beginning to emerge, which (despite being funded primarily by Reed Erickson) were geared more toward the needs of transgenderwomen than transgender men. Labyrinth was not a political organization but rather one that aimed to help individuals make the often-difficult transition from one social gender to another.

Far overshadowing the quiet work of Martino’s Labyrinth Foundation, however, were the dramatic events of June 1969 at the Stonewall Inn, a bar in New York’s Greenwich Village. The “Stonewall Riots” have been mythologized as the origin of the gay liberation movement, and there is a great deal of truth in that characterization, but—as we have seen—gay, transgender, and gender-nonconforming people had been engaging in militant protest and collective actions against social oppression for at least a decade by that time. Stonewall stands out as the biggest and most consequential example of a kind of event that was becoming increasingly common, rather than as a unique occurrence. By 1969, as a result of many years of social upheaval and political agitation, large numbers of people who were socially marginalized because of their sexual orientation or gender identity, especially younger people who were part of the Baby Boomer generation, were drawn to the idea of “gay revolution” and were primed for any event that would set such a movement off. The Stonewall Riots provided that very spark, and they inspired the formation of Gay Liberation Front groups in big cities, progressive towns, and college campuses all across the United States. Ever since the summer of 1969, various groups of people who identify with the people who participated in the rioting have argued about what actually happened, what the riot’s underlying causes were, who participated in it, and what the movements that point back to Stonewall as an important part of their own history have in common with one another.

Although Greenwich Village was not as economically down-and-out as San Francisco’s Tenderloin, it was nevertheless a part of the city that appealed to the same sorts of people who resisted at Cooper Do-Nut, Dewey’s, and Compton’s Cafeteria: drag queens, hustlers, gender nonconformists of many varieties, gay men, lesbians, and countercultural types who simply “dug the scene.” The Stonewall Inn was a small, shabby, Mafia-run bar (as were many of the gay-oriented bars in New York back in the days when being gay or cross-dressing were crimes). It drew a racially mixed crowd and was popular mainly for its location on Christopher Street near Sheridan Square, where many gay men “cruised” for casual sex, and because it featured go-go boys, cheap beer, a good jukebox, and a crowded dance floor. Then as now, there was a lively street scene in the bar’s vicinity, one that drew young and racially mixed queer folk from through the region most weekend nights. Police raids were relatively frequent (usually when the bar was slow to make its payoffs to corrupt cops) and relatively routine and uneventful. Once the bribes were sorted out, the bar would reopen, often on the same night. But in the muggy, early morning hours of Saturday, June 28, 1969, events departed from the familiar script when the squad cars pulled up outside the Stonewall Inn.

[Source text Inserts “Sidebar: Radical Transsexual” here]

A large crowd of people gathered on the street as police began arresting workers and patrons and escorting them out of the bar and into the waiting police wagons. Some people in the crowd started throwing coins at the police officers, taunting them for taking “payola.” Eyewitness accounts of what happened next differ in their particulars, but some witnesses claim a transmasculine person resisted police attempts to put them in the police wagon, while others noted that African American and Puerto Rican members of the crowd—many of them street queens, feminine gay men, transgender women, or gender-nonconforming youth—grew increasingly angry as they watched their “sisters” being arrested and escalated the level of opposition to the police. Both stories might well be true. Sylvia Rivera, a transgender woman who came to play an important role in subsequent transgender political history, long maintained that, after she was jabbed by a police baton, she threw the beer bottle that tipped the crowd’s mood from mockery to collective resistance. In any case, the targeting of gender-nonconforming people, people of color, and poor people during a police action fits the usual patterns of police behavior in such situations.

Bottles, rocks, and other heavy objects were soon being hurled at the police, who, in retaliation, began grabbing people from the crowd and beating them.Weekend partiers and residents in the heavily gay neighborhood quickly swelledthe ranks of the crowd to more than two thousand people, and the outnumberedpolice barricaded themselves inside the Stonewall Inn and called for reinforcements. Outside, rioters used an uprooted parking meter as a batteringram to try to break down the bar’s door, while other members of the crowdattempted to throw a Molotov cocktail inside to drive the police back into the streets. Tactical Patrol Force officers arrived on the scene in an attempt to contain the growing disturbance, which nevertheless continued for hours until dissipating before dawn. That night, thousands of people regrouped at the Stonewall Inn to protest. When the police arrived to break up the assembled crowd, street fighting even more violent than that of the night before ensued. One particularly memorable sight amid the melee was a line of drag queens, arms linked, dancing a can-can and singing campy, improvised songs that mocked the police and their inability to regain control of the situation: “We are the Stonewall girls / We wear our hair in curls / We always dress with flair / We wear clean underwear / We wear our dungarees / Above our nellie knees.” Minor skirmishes and protest rallies continued throughout the next few days before finally dying down. By that time, however, untold thousands of people had been galvanized into political action.

Sidebar: Radical Transsexual

Suzy Cooke was a young hippie from upstate New York who lived in a commune in Berkeley, California, when she started transitioning from male to female in 1969. She came out as a bisexual transsexual in the context of the radical counterculture.

I was facing being called back up for the draft. I had already been called up once and had just gone in and played crazy with them the year before. But that was just an excuse. I had also been doing a lot of acid and really working things out. And then December 31, 1968, I took something—I don’t really know what it was—but everything just collapsed. I said, “This simply cannot go on.” To the people that I lived with, I said, “I don’t care if you hate me, but I’m just going to have to do something. I’m going to have to work it out over the next couple of months, and that it doesn’t matter if you reject me, I just have to do it.”

As it was, the people in my commune took it very well. I introduced the cross-dressing a few days later as a way of avoiding the draft. And they were just taken aback at how much just putting on the clothes made me into a girl. I mean, hardly any makeup. A little blush, a little shadow, some gloss, the right clothes, padding. I passed. I passed really easily in public. This is like a few months before Stonewall. And by this point I was dressing up often enough that people were used to seeing it.

I was wallowing in the happiness of having a lot of friends. Here I was being accepted, this kinda cool/sorta goofy hippie kid. I was being accepted by all these heavy radicals. I had been rejected by my parental family, and I had never found a family at college, and now here I was with this family of like eight people all surrounding me. And as it turned out, even some of the girls that I had slept with were thinking that this was really cool. All the girls would donate clothes to me. I really had not been expecting this. I had been expecting rejection, I really had been. And I was really very pleased and surprised. Because I thought that if I did this then I was going to have to go off and live with the queens. And I didn’t.

Stonewall’s Transgender Legacy:

Within a month of the Stonewall Riots, gay activists inspired by the events in Greenwich Village formed the Gay Liberation Front (GLF), which modeled itself on radical Third World liberation and anti-imperialist movements. The GLF spread quickly through activist networks in the student and antiwar movements, primarily among white young people of middle-class origin. Almost as quickly as it formed, however, divisions appeared within the GLF, primarily taking aim at the movement’s domination by white men and its perceived marginalization of women, working-class people, people of color, and trans people. People with more liberal, less radical politics soon organized as the Gay Activists Alliance (GAA), which aimed to reform laws rather than foment revolution. Many lesbians redirected their energy toward radical feminism and the women’s movement. And trans people, after early involvement in the GLF (and being explicitly excluded from the GAA’s agenda), quickly came to feel that they did not have a welcome place in the movement they had done much to inspire. As a consequence, they soon formed their own organizations.

In 1970, Sylvia Rivera and another Stonewall regular, Marsha P. Johnson, established STAR—Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries. Their primary goal was to help street kids stay out of jail, or get out of jail, and to find food, clothing, and a place to live. They opened STAR House, an overtly politicized version of the “house” culture that already characterized black and Latino queer kinship networks, where dozens of trans youth could count on a free and safe place to sleep. Rivera and Johnson, as “house mothers,” would hustle to pay the rent, while their “children” would scrounge for food. Their goal was to educate and protect the younger people who were coming into the kind of life they themselves led—they even dreamed of establishing a school for kids who’d never learned to read and write because their formal education was interrupted by discrimination and bullying. Some STAR members, particularly Rivera, were also active in the Young Lords, a revolutionary Puerto Rican youth organization. One of the first times the STAR banner was flown in public was at a mass demonstration against police repression organized by the Young Lords in East Harlem in 1970, in which STAR participated as a group. STAR House lasted for only two or three years and inspired a few short-lived imitators in other cities, but its legacy lives on even now.

A few other transgender groups formed in New York in the early 1970s. A trans woman named Judy Bowen organized two extremely short-lived groups: Transvestites and Transsexuals (TAT) in 1970 and Transsexuals Anonymous in 1971. More significant was the Queens’ Liberation Front (QLF), founded by drag queen Lee Brewster and heterosexual transvestite Bunny Eisenhower. The QLF formed in part to resist the erasure of drag and trans visibility in the first Christopher Street Liberation Day march, which commemorated the Stonewall Riots and is now an annual event held in New York on the last Sunday in June. In many other cities, this weekend has become the traditional date to celebrate LGBTQ Pride. The formation of the QLF demonstrates how quickly the gay liberation movement started to push aside some of the very people who had the greatest stake in militant resistance at Stonewall. QLF members participated in that first Christopher Street Liberation Day march and were involved in several other political campaigns through the next few years—including wearing drag while lobbying state legislators in Albany. QLF’s most lasting contribution, however, was the publication of Drag Queen magazine (later simply Drag), which had the best coverage of transgender news and politics in the United States, and which offered fascinating glimpses of trans life and activism outside the major coastal cities. In New York, QLF founder Lee Brewster’s private business, Lee’s Mardi Gras Boutique, was a gathering place for segments of the city’s transgender community well into the 1990s.

#pride was a riot #lgbt+ history #lgbtqia+ history #pride month #pride #marsha p johnson #sylvia rivera #stonewall riots #stonewall #susan stryker #usa centric

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janetbrown711 · 3 years

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“Why are you shaking?” Yakko >:)

Yakko’s leg bounced up and down so quickly, it appeared to simply be vibrating. In truth, Yakko had to be forced to sit down, his pacing was driving the others in the hospital waiting room insane.

Dot had begun her surgery about an hour ago, and they should’ve heard something by now... at least Yakko thought. In truth, he hadn’t asked how long it was supposed to take, and even if he had he didn’t have a watch for which to keep track.

Either way, Yakko was anxious to hear if Dot was okay. A million things could happen during surgery, a million things his mind loved to jump around and explore while he waited. He tried his best to listen to the advice of his younger brother and Plotz (a sentence he never thought he’d ever form) and remind himself that this was necessary and Dot needed the surgery and that everything is going to be okay, but Yakko was Yakko and his anxiety continued.

His brother was right for calling him a ‘worry-wart’, but ‘worry-warting’ had kept them alive so far so he wasn’t exactly going to stop now.

After a while of that, however, Yakko just put his elbows on his legs to stop the shaking and just hoped for the best. All the pacing and shaking was tiring. Quickly after that though, none other than Doctor Scratchnsniff himself entered the waiting room, and Yakko and Wakko hugged each other nervously.

“Ze operation vas a complete success!” The doctor smiled and Yakko and Wakko practically jumped with joy as a wave of relief washed over them.

Finally, it was over.

“However... there is one thing we’d like to talk to you about, Yakko,” Hello Nurse said, appearing next to Scratchnsniff.

Well... at least, Dot’s sickness was over. They still had a lot more loose ends to tie everywhere else.

“But I wanna see Dot,” Wakko frowned and pulled on his brother’s arm.

“You’ll get to later, she’s just in recovery for now. Surgery is quite the tiring process,” the nurse explained. Wakko huffed and pulled down his hat.

“I’m gonna be boredddddddd,” Wakko groaned.

“I’m sure you’ll find something to do in that head of yours,” Yakko teased, standing up. Wakko huffed, but didn’t say much outside of that, so Yakko took that as his brother’s permission and he went off with the nurse and doctor.

“So... what’s this about? Is Dot okay?” Yakko asked once they were alone in a room.

“No, Dot is doing vonderfully,” Scratchy shook his head. “Zis is about... something else.”

“Yakko, do you know why you came to Acme Falls?” Hello Nurse asked.

“Well, my mom told us- why are you asking?” Yakko raised an eyebrow.

“Well, you see, your father actually grew up here, before he was a squire and moved away,” She said. “As such, Queen Angelina II and King William knew that you three would be safe here, in case anything happened to the two of them. We knew what to expect and more importantly, they knew we wouldn’t harm you or turn you in to King Salazar.”

Yakko paused a long moment.

“You mean... you guys knew?” Yakko asked.

“Vell... yah. Of course ve knew. Not everyone looks like your family, you know?” The doctor looked at him in a way that pointed out the stupidity of the question. Yakko facepalmed.

“Right, yeah,” Yakko cringed. “So... why are you telling me this now?”

“Well, as I’m sure you’ve heard, the people of Warnerstock’s hatred of Salazar has only grown over the years, and rumors have spread about the Wishing Star and you three’s survival of the attack and now people are suggesting that you three inherit your parent's thrones, and well... we have proof,” The nurse explained, showing Yakko their birth certificates.

Yakko’s eyes fell upon the familiar handwriting of his father, and he touched it carefully.

“I-i... I don’t know what to say,” Yakko managed to get out.

“It’s a lot to process, no?” The doctor said. Yakko nodded.

“I-i just... I don’t know... I haven’t thought about actually returning to our old lives in... a really long time,” Yakko set down the certificates and scratched the back of his neck.

“It’s one thousand percent up to you, we aren’t forcing you to do anything, we’re just... pointing something out, so to say,” Hello Nurse explained, feeling bad.

“Yeah, I get that,” Yakko said. “Still it’s... wow. I mean... my dad really used to live here? Why didn’t anyone say anything?” he questioned.

“Well... I suppose there was never a right time. We did our best to make sure the three of you were well, but with everything going downhill so fast... well, there was only so much we could do,” She did her best to justify. Yakko slowly nodded.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” He admitted. Looking back, he could see their acts of kindness and how they did try their best to have sympathy and help while the world went sour around them. The looking away when they borrowed food, the conveniently placed goods, the constant hiring of Wakko while they could. Acme Falls was good like that.

“Well... I’ll need to talk to my sibs about this... and do some thinking... a lot of thinking,” Yakko said.

“Of course, you shouldn’t rush a zing like zis, no?” The doctor agreed. Yakko bit his lip.

“So when will Dot be okay enough for guests?” Yakko asked.

“Oh, not for a little while. Don’t worry, we’ll be sure to keep you two updated,” Hello Nurse said. “Should give you plenty of time to think.”

“Yippie,” Yakko laughed pathetically. The doctor and nurse gave him looks of sympathy.

“You must be in your head often, no?” Scratchy asked. Yakko nodded. “Not fun.”

“Yeah, you said it,” Yakko said, standing up.

“Well... I’ll give what you said a thought... this should be fun,” He nodded at them.

“We’ll send for you if Dot wakes up while you’re gone,” The nurse suggested. Yakko nodded at that, and headed out of the room, pausing briefly outside of Dot’s room.

“Please recover fast. I don’t know how much more of this thinking I can handle,” He thought, before walking back to the waiting room.

“What’d they talk to you about?” asked Wakko.

“Oh just... things,” Yakko couldn’t think of a lie fast enough.

“What kind of things?” Wakko raised an eyebrow, painfully curious.

“Legal things,” Yakko said, deciding the truth was boring enough. Wakko groaned.

“Everything is so boring now,” Wakko complained. “Why can’t everything be death defying and a mad chase for the Wishing Star?”

“There’s nothing boring about safety,” Yakko frowned, hoping his brother wasn’t already getting ideas.

Then again, becoming prince again would be entertaining...

Yakko groaned as he felt a headache come on.

“I’ll be back, I have a lot to think about,” Yakko said.

“You’re gonna leave me again?” Wakko pouted.

“Look, it’ll only be a minute. I’ll buy us some food, that sound good to you?” Yakko asked. Wakko nodded and handed Yakko his remaining ha’penny.

“Just come back soon, Mr. Plotz is so boring... though now that he’s asleep...” Wakko looked at him, mischief gleaming in his eyes. Yakko snorted.

“You do what makes you happy, just don’t pretend I was involved,” Yakko winked and left the hospital, happy to get out and get some fresh air.

In truth, the day was still quite young. The Warners had gone to the hospital first thing in the morning, and after a quick, reassuring peptalk from Yakko, Dot’s nerves were soothed and she was taken into surgery. Now it was roughly two hours later, and the streets were full of people who were eager to spend the money that had been returned to them from the Baron, who kept his promise. Yakko couldn’t help but smile at the sight, reflecting on how it had only been two days ago the streets were barron and covered in snow, and the town lifeless and grey.

It seemed Acme Falls was welcoming a bright, new future.

A bright, new future they were probably all hoping was staring- well...

Him.

His sibs.

God, how their days of royalty felt like a million years ago.

Yakko used to have plenty of happy memories of his parents dancing around in his head, but nowadays it seemed they were all tainted. Any time he remembered his mother singing and kissing him goodnight, he’d remember the last time he saw her, all bruised and bloodied. Any time he’d remember a funny story his father read to him, he’d recall his father telling him he’d never let anything bad happen to him or his sibs.

He had made promises to his parents too: that he’d be able to protect them and keep them safe no matter what.

Yakko sighed, as guilt weighed on his back as it so often did. He couldn’t help but wonder if there would ever be a day the guilt would go away. It wracked his mind for as long as he could remember, whether it was about not being able to save his mother, the orphanage closing, Dot’s health, Wakko going away, or how he had failed to protect them and almost lost both of them in one day.

Determined to not dwell, Yakko quickly began to make his way to the market in the town square and filled up his bag with fruits and veggitables, as well as a loaf of bread and couldn’t help but smile as he payed for it with the ha’penny.

That was one benefit if they decided to inherit the throne: him and his siblings would never have to be hungry again. They’d have a nice, warm home and never want for anything ever again.

But at the same time, Acme Falls had become a home to them. They knew most everyone around town, and it would feel strange not to see them. These people had done so much for them over the years, it wouldn’t feel right to leave them.

Yakko thanked the grocer, and decided to stop by their home before going back to the hospital.

It would probably do wonders for them to have a nice, warm home without giant holes in the roof that let in piles of snow and rain, and to have nice, warm beds that were stuffed with feathers and cleaned every day by servants instead of the uncomfortable bare-bones wooden ones Wakko and Yakko had. Goodness knew his back would probably appreciate it.

Still... as he looked around he recognized it as home. He had lived their for a whole year- the longest he’s lived anywhere since before the attack. It would be really hard to say goodbye.

Yakko sat down on his bed and groaned, annoyed as the headache flared. He really thought his mind would be used to all of this over analyzing and stressing by now, but it wasn’t.

He then figured it was best he delay thinking about it until he was ready to discuss it with his siblings. For now, he’d head back to the hospital and wait for Dot to wake up. He had ignored Wakko long enough anways.

Turns out, Yakko didn’t have to wait much at all, as Dot was already awake by the time he had made it back.

“Yakko! Do you like my scar?” Dot beamed when he entered her room and showed off the scar on her chest where they had operated. Yakko laughed and nodded, feeling his headache disappear entirely.

“Very cool,” He said, setting down the bag of food in the corner of the room.

“I think it’s faboo,” Wakko grinned with his tongue sticking out like a puppy.

“How’re you feeling though? Do you feel well rested?” Yakko asked, going to the side of her bed and stroking her head.

“I feel fine Yakko, really,” Dot reassured.

“Yeah, she feels fine. You’re such a worry-wart,” Wakko teased him.

Yakko rolled his eyes. “It’s kept us alive this long, and you can’t argue with that.”

“Yeah yeah,” Wakko mumbled. Sometimes Yakko swore his brother was still four years old.

“Anyway,” He said, giving his brother a look, “I was wondering if you’re okay enough to have a long and kinda tough conversation.”

“What do you mean? Are you gonna yell at me again?” Dot blinked.

“No, no. It’s not like that conversation,” Yakko said, feeling a pang of guilt. “I mean... well...” He sighed, not knowing how to say it other than to outright say it. Instead, he patted for Wakko to sit on Dot’s bed and he did.

“Well... you two know how Mom and Dad were once king and queen before King Salazar, right?” Yakko asked. His siblings nodded.

“Well... you see, now that Salazar is on the way out, now the people of Warnerstock are looking for the true heirs to the throne... us,” Yakko explained, his sibs taking a moment to process what he was saying.

“You mean they want us to rule the country?” Wakko tilted his head.

“I mean- basically, yeah,” Yakko nodded.

“I’d get to be a princess?” Dot beamed.

“Well- yes, but it’s a lot more than just fancy dresses and a castle,” Yakko warned.

“What do you mean?” She frowned.

“Well, for starters, it’d mean we’d have responsibilities, and big ones. We’d have to make sure to take good care of Warnerstock, and it’s citizens,” He explained.

“Psh, we can do that,” Wakko blew it off.

“Oh? And what makes you so confident?” Yakko raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve taken care of us two for six years now, and you’ve done just fine,” Wakko said plainly.

“Yeah right, you two almost died countless times,” Yakko rolled his eyes, but decided not to get into.

“A whole kingdom is a lot more than just two people,” Yakko said.

“How would the people even know we’re the heirs to the throne?” Dot tilted her head.

“Outside of looks? The hospital has our birth certificates,” Yakko said. “They’re signed by our parents and everything.”

Wakko and Dot blinked.

“Can we see them?” Wakko asked.

“Uh- okay,” Yakko nodded and asked for the nurse to bring them over. She did, and Yakko handed them to his siblings, surprised to see how much they captivated them.

“Wow- my name is really long written down,” Dot remarked.

“Well yeah, what else did you expect Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francesca Banana Fanna Bo Besca III?” Yakko joked.

“I honestly have no idea how you remember it all. I get them all mixed up,” Wakko commented.

“Yeah, your name is nice and short, Wakkorotti,” Dot teased.

“Dad’s handwriting was really neat and curly,” Wakko said, tracing the cursive with his finger.

“That’s because it’s cursive and he was trained in calligraphy,” Yakko explained. “Which- if we decided to claim the throne- would be one of our responsibilities.”

“I wanna learn how to write curly letters!” Dot bounced up and down before wincing.

“Take it easy Dot, no need to overexurt yourself. Dont’ forget you’re still recovering,” Yakko warned.

“What else would we do?” Wakko asked.

“Well... we’d make laws, sign treaties, keep people safe and happy, throw parties, and take a lot of classes that will probably be really boring for things like maners and such,” Yakko tried to recall what he could of his past for reference, but very little came up.

“Would we still be together?” Dot asked. quieter.

“Of course,” Yakko frowned with concern. “I’d never let them separate us.”

“We’d get a big fancy castle? With nice warm beds? And warm food?” Wakko quizzed. Yakko nodded.

“O-of course, but it’s not that simple Wakko,” Yakko said, frustrated his worries weren’t getting through.

“Then I don’t see what the problem is. Sign me up,” Wakko officially declared his support of reclaiming the throne.

“Me too!” Dot agreed, and declared her support as well.

“Well- I-... okay,” Yakko rubbed the bridge of his nose. In truth, he knew his siblings would be estatic about hearing that they could become royalty again, and that he’d be the only one with any problems.

Well, he promised he’d listen and ask them, and that he did.

“If you guys are one hundred percent sure then... I’m sure too. Let’s go reclaim the throne... however you do that.”

.o0o.

After about a week of planning, they had finally done it. Salazar was gone and was never, ever coming back, Yakko made sure of that.

He was amused by how scared the king had looked, knowing that he had been beaten by literal children. It was pathetic really, but Yakko enjoyed kicking him out nonetheless. After all, now he’d be rotting a cell for the rest of time. Yakko could finally rest easy about that.

However, as he watched people redecorate the castle around him to become more and more like he remembered, he couldn’t help but feel like a ghost, viewing things that had once been. He had been dazed as he watched old tapestries get hung, and he had been left speechless when they asked for suggestions on flowers or colors.

Thank god he had Wakko and Dot, otherwise he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do this.

Yakko smiled softly. Wakko and Dot had been so excited during the whole ordeal, only getting sad when they had to say goodbye to Acme Falls. They loved their new rooms (though they always ended up sleeping in Yakko’s room out of habit) and all the foods and dressing up and preparation for their corination.

Oh god, their corination was today. Yakko was standing and getting his pants fitted for the ceremony which was in an hour. He was wearing a crown.

He still couldn’t believe any of this was happening.

“Now... how does that feel?” One of the seamstresses asked him, stepping back and giving him a good look up and down.

“Feels weird to have pants that fit,” Yakko snorted, but admired himself in the mirror.

He looked regal, almost. If he smiled and puffed out his chest, he looked like the epitome of confidence and charm. Thank god, he needed that or else everyone was going to realize he was just a scared kid.

“But I like it. It looks great, thank you so much,” Yakko smiled and nodded at her. He then stepped down and decided to go looking for his sibs, noticing it had been awhile since he had seen them and he needed to make sure they hadn’t destroyed anything.

“Yakko! These halls are so long, and really good for racing!” Dot said, nearly crashing into him as he turned the corner to see them.

“Dot, what did I say about running around? You’re still recovering, take it easy,” Yakko shook his head and chuckled. As much as he warned against it, it filled him with joy to see her running around like a little kid again. After all, it had been over a year since she had been healthy.

“Lame,” Wakko rolled his eyes as he slowed down to join them. Yakko copied his motion as he scooped Dot up in his arms.

“So, what’re you two doing in this hall? I think this is the one part of the castle I haven’t seen yet,” Yakko said.

“A bunch of old art and stuff. The maid ladies said they haven’t decided where to put them up yet,” Wakko said, catching his breath.

“Really? I thought I’d seen it all by now,” Yakko commented, now wanting to see them. Dot bobbed her head.

“Oh yeah! They’re a bunch of old dresses and suits and stuff too, though a lot of them are really dirty,” She remarked. Yakko furrowed his eyebrows, not knowing what to think, as he started walking.

As he walked, he noticed a lot of the furtinture in this hall was covered in while cloth, so he set Dot down and pulled them off before snorting.

He remembered this one. It was a painting of an orchard from one of his Dad’s stories. It had been about a knight returning to his home village after years of being away, and falling for his childhood sweetheart before having to defeat a giant and saving the day for everyone. His father’s words had been so descriptive and precise, Yakko could recognize the painting in a flash. He was pretty sure it had been a birthday present to him when he was seven, though paintings were hardly what he’d consider a proper gift for a seven year old.

Still. It felt nice to see it again.

“What’s that? Who painted it?” Dot asked.

“It’s a painting from one of Dad’s old stories. I’m pretty sure the royal artist did it... Pappy... Pabby... I don’t remember his name,” Yakko shrugged, not caring.

“Can we have a royal painter? I wanna get a portrait done of me. Cuteness like this should be preserved,” Dot posed in her big pink dress.

“I’ll think about it,” Yakko snickered, before moving to one that was much bigger than the others. Tilting his head, he pulled off the heavy cloth and took a step back as a layer of dust got into the air. After coughing and clearing the air, he looked at it and his body froze.

“Woah, so realistic,” Wakko remarked, wanting to touch it.

“Who are those people?” Dot tilted her head.

“Th-thats... th-that’s them,” Yakko said, unable to take his eyes off of it.

It was a portrait of them, their whole family. It had been done a few weeks before the attack, and Yakko had never gotten to see the final product. But here it was- and it was so... so lifelike. Yakko wanted to reach out to it and touch it, hoping that he could feel his mother’s soft gloves and or his father’s fur cape.

“Them?” Dot looked up at him. Yakko gulped hard.

“M-mom and Dad,” he struggled to say.

“Why are you shaking?” Dot asked. Yakko paused. He hadn’t noticed he was.

“S-sorry sibs... it’s just... It’s really, really lifelike,” Yakko shook his head, trying to force himself out of the trance. “I can’t believe it survived. There’s no way any portraits of them should’ve made it. Most of them were burned or torn to pieces.”

“Wow... that’s what they looked like?” Dot asked, looking at it closer. Wakko nodded.

“I only have one or two memories of Mum and Dad, but that’s them alright,” Wakko smiled a little, and Yakko wrapped an arm around him, before feeling himself start to shake again.

“Oh god- what am I doing?” Yakko let go and took a step away from Wakko. His sibs looked back at him, equal parts concerned and confused.

“I-i should be happy to see that a painting of them survived. I-i... I’ve missed seeing their faces a lot. B-but here I am, shaking like some idiot,” Yakko ran his fingers through his hair. He tried to gain control of his breath as he looked in the eyes of his parents in the painting, and felt another wave of emotions go down his spine.

“I-i just... seeing them again, I-i...” Yakko tried to analyze his feelings, but it was proving to be very difficult.

“It’s hard?” Wakko suggested. Yakko nodded slightly.

“Y-yeah...” He sighed. “They just... they look so... regal. In control. They always knew what they were doing. They knew just how to protect us. No matter what happened, they had a plan to keep us safe, even if that ended up costing them,” He said, crossing his arms, as he felt guilt crawl into his throat and his eyes begin to fill with tears.

“I just... I don’t think I’ll ever be able to match up to them,” He admitted, feeling a rogue tear escape.

“God, I’m turning into such a cry baby,” Yakko muttered and wiped his eyes.

“There’s no shame in crying, Yakko,” Dot frowned. “You should know that. You’ve told me all the time.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Wakko said, stepping closer, clearly wanting to hug him.

“Of course you two would say that,” Yakko sniffled, laughing a little.

“Of course we would, we love you,” Wakko said, running to hug him. “And I know Mum and Dad loved you too.”

“I-I’m sure if they were around, they’d be proud Yakko. I mean- look at you. Somehow, you kept me and Wakko alive in Acme Falls for six years, and you’ve kept us safe and gave us food and protection, all while putting on a brave face to keep us happy,” Dot pointed out, joining the hug. “That’s incredibly brave and regal, if you asked me.”

Yakko patted her head softly. “Thanks sis.” Dot just smiled in return. Taking in a deep breath, Yakko tried to regain his composure.

“You know... I’m really lucky to have you two,” Yakko said, and he meant it. He couldn’t imagine how his life would be if he didn’t have Dot or Wakko with him, especially right in this moment.

“Really?” Wakko asked, his tongue now sticking out, as it so often did.

“Of course,” Yakko ruffled his fur. “You two are honestly the best siblings and co-rulers a prince such as myself could ask for,” Yakko smiled.

“Thanks, you’re not so bad yourself,” Dot winked at him. Yakko snorted.

“Seriously though, I couldn’t imagine doing this without you guys. You guys are probably the only thing keeping me sane right now,” He said, only half joking.

“It’s okay Yakko, we aren’t going anywhere,” Wakko laughed a little.

“Yeah! We’re a team, we all agreed on that. You’re never gonna have to worry about being alone ever again,” Dot said with a big smile.

“Good,” He said, hugging the two of them a little bit closer as he wiped away another tear. With a breath, he looked at his watch and gasped.

“Brain is gonna kill us if we’re late, we have to hurry. It’s almost time,” Yakko said, and Wakko and Dot nodded.

“You gonna be okay?” Wakko asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” He nodded. “I got the best team ever. And if all else fails, I’ll improvise a little, that’s always worked out, right?” He said, in reference to the speech he was going to have to make to the kingom. He had written cue cards, but in all honesty he thought those ideas were garbage and he’d figure it out when he got there, which was probably a terrible idea, but if he could improvise a way to keep the three of them from being killed by Salazar, he could probably improvise an acceptance speech to the kingdom.

“We believe in you,” Wakko and Dot gave him big thumbs up.

“You two are dorks. Go finish getting ready, I’ll be there in a minute,” Yakko said. Wakko and Dot nodded, scurrying off to get some final touches done (mostly redoing their hair since they had just spent goodness knew how long running around).

Once they disappeared, Yakko sighed and turned back to the portrait.

“H-hi Mom... Hi Dad,” He gulped.

“I-it’s me. Yakko. I-i don’t know if you recognize me, it’s been a while since you’ve seen me,” He said, cringing at how stupid he must’ve sounded. Still, he felt... better talking to them, so he continued.

“I-i just want to say... thanks. For everything. You’ve left some really big shoes to fill- well... not shoes exactly, we’ve never really worn shoes, but... you know,” He joked.

“And I just... thanks for giving me Wakko and Dot. Seriously. If you were still here, you’d be so proud of them, I just know it,” He said.

“I wasn’t kidding earlier: I really don’t know if I could’ve made it this far without them... They’re so much like you two in so many ways, you’d be surprised. Dot as your kindness and your strength, while Wakko has your optimism and your courage...” Yakko smiled weakly.

“I guess despite everything, we did turn out okay,“ He said, feeling a wave of comfort and relaxation wash over him.

Despite all the hell they had been through, they were okay, and right where they were always supposed to be.

Yakko had done a good job after all. He truly had kept his promise to his mother. He had protected and watched over them and kept them safe and sound.

“Yakko! Brain said to come and get you before he kills you!” Wakko called from the other end of the hall.

“Be right there!” He replied, before returning to the painting.

“I miss you a lot... but it’s okay now. I’m okay,” He said.

“I have my sibs, and no one is ever going to separate us ever again. Not even death itself.”

Yakko took a deep breath and smiled. “I have to go now... but I’m sure I’ll be back. I just gotta go rule a kingdom, I’m sure you understand,” He joked, before shaking his head. He waved goodbye to the painting and ran to go join his siblings at the tower where the balcony where they were going to give their speech was.

“You two ready?” Yakko asked, adjusting his cape.

“Born ready,” Dot gave a toothy grin. Yakko snorted.

“Ready to go when you are Yakko,” Wakko grinned as well.

“Are you ready Yakko?” Brain asked.

“With a team like this? Of course,” Yakko nodded at the mouse. Brain accepted the corny response, nodding at a guard, who them opened the doors wide.

Yakko then held Wakko and Dot’s hands and gave them a tight squeeze, before together, they stepped out into the rest of their lives, secure in the fact that no matter what life threw at them next, they’d always have each other.

Always.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

#animaniacs #yakko wakko and dot #my fics #wakkos wish #angst #family feels #fluff #yakko warner #wakko warner #dot warner #Wakko's Wish collection #long post #jeez this one took forever to write #like- wowza #im exhausted #hopefully its good tho

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jafreitag · 3 years

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Grateful Dead Monthly: Gaelic Park – New York, NY 8/26/71

Fifty years ago today, on Thursday, August 26, 1971, the Grateful Dead played a concert at Gaelic Park in New York City.

Gaelic Park is located at West 240th Street and Broadway, five miles north and east of Yankee Stadium, in the Bronx. In 1926, the Gaelic Athletic Association purchased it to host the Gaelic Games. What are Gaelic Games? I’m a sliver Irish (just learned that a few years ago from a cousin who did some DNA stuff), but I didn’t know about such games until I asked the Google machine. Here you go, from the Wiki:

“Gaelic games (Irish: Cluichí Gaelacha) are sports played in Ireland under the auspices of the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA). They include Gaelic football, hurling, Gaelic handball and rounders. Women’s versions of hurling and football are also played: camogie, organised by the Camogie Association of Ireland, and ladies’ Gaelic football, organised by the Ladies’ Gaelic Football Association. While women’s versions are not organised by the GAA (with the exception of handball, where men’s and women’s handball competitions are both organised by the GAA Handball organisation), they are closely associated with it.”

Some to unpack there. What’s Gaelic football? It’s basically rugby. (The rules are probably way different, but this is a music blog, so don’t judge.) And hurling? Rugby with a small ball and sticks that look like sporty pizza paddles. (Again, don’t judge.) Gaelic handball? Racquetball, except you use your hands and you’re outside, not in some bougie health club from the ’80s. Finally, rounders? It’s actually alot like baseball. Pretty cool.

Why were the Dead there? A 9/2/71 piece in the Village Voice by Carman Moore, now archived on the Grateful Dead Sources blog, said that Gotham promoter Howard Stein, a Bill Graham competitor who booked the Dead to play at the Cap Theater in Port Chester, NY and the Academy of Music in NYC, had turned “the drab little Riverdale soccer field … into a summer rock mini-festival.” (Check out the poster above.) Moore’s writing has an early-70s sizzle, and he refers to his colleague, now-legendary rock scribe Robert Christgau. Here’s an excerpt:

“Last week’s Grateful Dead concert up at Gaelic Park was a usual Dead session, meaning that the band-to-fan-to-band electro-chemical process for which rock music is famed was on like high mass at Easter. Although I think I know most of the time what they are doing musically (Christgau will like this notion); I don’t quite understand them electro-chemically. Like the New York Knicks of two seasons ago, they can do excellent things together though they are not a group of deathless superstars. Garcia gets his songs across, but he can’t sing, and Bob Weir’s voice rises to about average…maybe better when he gets to screaming and the music sweeps him along. I still find it difficult to recognize the Dead songs that aren’t “Truckin'” or “St. Stephen” one from the other. I am not one of their fans, but seem to be one of their admirers. Their music speaks in a special language to their live listeners, and that language has the vocabulary of everybody else, but a convoluted syntax all its own. The note sequences are not completely dependent upon musical factors but are also dictated by how involved the band feels and also upon what kind of heat the audience is giving off. I’m trying to get to some essences of this thing.

The drama of a Dead concert revolves around the fact that wherever the band plays they know that a certain number (several tons) of their partisans will be there and that their crowd knows the Dead potential to excite them, but they also know that the Dead may not get into gear until the crowd begins to apply some heat, and so forth. Both parties also know that the concert will be long enough and informal enough for anything to happen on either side of the footlights, and so audiences improvise (smoke, go to the hot dog stand, kiss and snuggle, cheer, dance, listen like star-struck fools) just like their musician friends on stage (who play light and funny for awhile, retire backstage awhile, stand around, or get lost in a piece and turn on the heavy jets). Like good lovers, the Grateful Dead know the secrets of good foreplay, taking your time, surprising the partner for awhile, and then just reacting for a spell.”

The timing of the show seems odd. The band was on the East Coast in July, but began August back in Cali – LA, SD, Berkeley – before a three-night run at Chicago’s historic Auditorium Theater. Then they trekked back to NYC. Our resident Deaditor ECM explains that aspect: “This show was supposed to be played the day before the Yale Bowl concert on July 30, but some issues with the equipment trucks and/or weather prevented it from happening from the scheduled date. There are a few stories on the web about people who didn’t get the message (no twitter back then!) and dropped some acid only to show up to an empty stadium. Haha!”

Moore said that the show reminded him of “a high school stadium I used to know – low stands, unfulfilled infield grass, mud holes here and there, beer sold at one end in some quantity.” He continued:

“The formal shape of the concert was a general crescendo, light at the beginning and heavy-groovy at the end – not a shooting-star, call-the-law finale, just a heightened physical-emotional climate…the goods delivered as promised…sort of like good preaching in a church known to be a happy place. I did not enjoy their country-westernish opening tunes; maybe they didn’t either, because the pieces were awfully short. But by the three-quarter mark they had involved themselves, the crowd, and me too.

First they got the rhythm engaged and finally, courtesy of Jerry Garcia’s lead and interplays with Lesh and Weir, they went into the soloing and jamming which are the real magic music territory of this band. Much is made of the Dead soloists, but it became clear to me by last Thursday that bassist Phil Lesh plus those two drummers create the atmosphere that makes the Dead thing possible. The drummers were exceptionally understated, but Lesh kept bopping and thrumming away, heavily at all times, until his patterns were consistently getting the other players off. In the middle of “St. Stephen” there was a special coming together: Lesh had found a nice ambiguous but compelling set of licks; Garcia eased into a solo; Weir strummed a cross-time lick over all of it; it built; it quieted; Garcia started to play strange classical kind of lines; the drums dropped out; the audience got quiet; nothing at all could be predicted for a minute or so; then Lesh began to grope his way out with two chords and rhythms which began to regularize; audience began to jump and then to clap; guitars began to straighten out; the band came home to the cheers of the fans. Good music-making. The listener goes home without a little tune to whistle, but he hears music. As if they were finishing off some personal solos based over the last riffs heard, the fans went out of Gaelic Park without a thousand encores and without a lot of fuss on the streets outside.

It’s all very interesting, surprising, and I guess mystifying as before. All I know is that the Dead, or their fans, or the combination of both lure you into planning to return when they’re all assembled and back in town again.”

Apparently, there was some grief about bootlegs at this show. The GD Sources blog has a post that archives a 10/6/71 piece by the excellently-handled Basho Katzenjammer (Basho, the 17th Century Japanese haiku master; Katzenjammer, the German word for hangover) that gripes about an army of 200# “muscle freaks” at the direction of tour manager Sam Cutler liberating a handful of tapes from 100# weakling Johnny Lee. It’s a truly fun read. An excerpt:

“The biggest piece of shit spewing from Cutler’s mouth is about the reasons the Dead have for being so pissed off: they don’t like the quality (remember Garcia’s line in “I Got No Chance of Losin”? He says, “I’m only in it for the gold.” Yeah, music has a way of being more honest than the artist intends it to be at times…) The “quality”? Anyone who has bought a bootleg recently will know and agree that the bootleg stereo album called “Grateful Dead” is one of the best underground products yet. The tape was taken from a concert the group did at Winterland, on the coast a few months back. Yeah, Garcia fucks up a bit on “Casey Jones,” and Pigpen’s ego may have been deflated a bit by his voice coming over poorly on “Good Loving” but that was a concert. You do a concert and you stand by your performance, good or bad. That’s show business.

This effete artistic bullshit doesn’t matter anyway … When you’re out to get all the money you can out of your gigs, like the Dead seem to be (like all the groups seem to be) you might be accused of being a bit piggish; when you use strong-arm shit to insure that you get every last penny that you deserve — by making Amerikan standards — you are a Pig. Jerry Garcia, is that you?

Nobody buys that anti-bootleg shit about the artistic integrity of the artist in saying what goes out. One, you stand by your performance; two, even if you don’t want to, Jerry, somewhat, and say “all your private property is fair game for your brothers (especially when they sell records of concerts that don’t compete with coming releases) and your brother (who’s gonna continue to dig you as we live off your comets we’re gonna keep ripping you off because it is possible. As simple as that.” If you and Cutler and Stein continue your shit, though, we’ll just have to sing the song the same old way, you guys being put in the position of being the same old reactionary establishment that we’re all ripping off. It’s all around. You break your back playing gigs for ten years and suddenly success is staring you in the face. Bread: lots and lots of bread. You turn your back on your poor, ripping ’em off roots and start to tighten up. You’re in the biggest rip-off industry around, but no one cares as long as they’re having fun.

Money. That’s the whole story, isn’t it? If these were other times, in another land under a different set of rules maybe you could justifiably complain about the people who want to give your recorded performances out free because you didn’t screen them and pick out the sections you didn’t like and do them over for the cat, ’cause no one charges for their music, and because the means of production belong to the people, and they can turn out all the good sounds they can, and you have a natural right to screen all releases. But we’re here. Now. You guys are making millions — or soon will be. Money is power, especially as the concept of money is crumbling nation-wide and power freaks like Stein are cornering the market on it. The channels that the green-power the Dead bring in travel aren’t the healthiest for the generations of revolution to come. Stein is one of these hopeful images of a freak with a chance to change things positively gone sour, who uses all his power to consolidate his power; who’ll go to any extremes to insure the natural expansion of that power. Fuck him. Fuck you.”

Speak, Basho! Quaint that the beef about bootlegs back then was sound quality, rather than copyright. Stuff got figured out at some point, I think. Like when Bobby shut down the LMA, lmao.

Ed featured part of this show in the 2016 edition of his epcot 31 Days of Dead project. Here are his listening notes, which are typically spot-on (and better than than the not-quite-on-the-bus commentary from Mr. Moore):

“Less than three weeks after Pigpen’s definitive performance of Hard To Handle at the Hollywood Palladium (8/6/71), the Grateful Dead play the final date of their summer tour in 1971 at Gaelic Park in the Bronx. It will be Pig’s last show until December and the last time the band will ever perform in their original quintet configuration of Jerry, Phil, Pig, Billy and Bobby. By September, Keith will be rehearsing with the band to assume a full-time role on the keys. Perhaps anticipating his absence, Pigpen leads the band through 6 of his songs including the rarely-played Empty Pages and the last Hard To Handle. It is also one of the last performances of Saint Stephen, until the band revived it in 1976 with a major facelift, never to be played the same way again. When you consider these historical milestones along with the departure of Mickey Hart and the closings of the legendary Fillmore East and West earlier in the year it makes you realize that this concert carried a little more weight than anyone could have ever foreseen at the time. It truly was the end of a chapter in the life of the Grateful Dead. As you listen to each song you can’t help but feel a certain degree of nostalgia.

For me, the hidden gem of the show is the outstanding version of Uncle Johns Band. Jerry’s first guitar solo is an absolute joy to hear. His notes sing with irresistible melody and happy sunshine which perfectly capture the nostalgia of those carefree early years. If you listen closely you can hear Pigpen playing the wood claves.”

Speaking of Pig, this show features the second and final performance of Empty Pages. The NYS Music blog, which has a nice write-up of this show, describes it as a McKernan original that “pairs his traditional crooning style with a slow blues jam that’s nicely peppered with fiery guitar licks from Garcia. It’s a true rarity and a shame that the band wouldn’t be able to further develop this one.”

youtube

I feel like this was a try-hard post. It might be tl;dr, idk. Here’s the true goodness…

Transport to the Charlie Miller remaster of the soundboard recording HERE.

More soon.

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smutbymia · 4 years

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streetracer!mark (pt.2): 2 Fast

Click here for streetracer!mark (pt.1): Go

Mark hadn’t said much since he started driving. You had tried to make conversation here and there about racing but he seemed to dismiss everything you said fairly quickly with curt responses. He did however, slide his hand over your thigh as he gripped it for the remainder of the ride, sometimes tapping his fingers against it to the beat of a song as he hummed or simply rubbing his thumb back and forth over the delicate flesh.

You couldn’t help but feel uneasy at the sudden display of affection but why? There’s no way I’m actually... feeling things for him, you thought to yourself. After only having sex once? You accidentally let out a deep sigh. Mark snapped his head around to face you with a look of concern before squeezing your thigh softly.

“Babe, are you okay?” he asked suddenly. “I-i mean... shit my bad,” he stuttered as he pulled his hand away from your thigh to grip the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles went white. He was next to let out a deep sigh, but the awkwardness didn’t last long before his phone rang. He fumbled around for it in his pocket before putting it on speaker and dropping it into the cup holder.

“Hyung, where the hell are you?” said a voice on the other line. “Ah, haechan... I’m on my way into town now. I’ll see you in a bit, I’m driving,” responded Mark. You recognized that name. Haechan was one of the 6 boys in marks crew and a rookie racer who had competed and done fairly well in smaller circuit races.

“Driving what? We have your car!” responded Haechan. Mark sighed again “Are you at the spot? Im 5 minutes away and I’m coming to get my car. Don’t even think about getting in it if you idiots have been drinking again. I have to race that thing tomorrow night,” he scolded. It was the first time in a while that he seemed like the Mark you were most familiar with.

“Race? What race?” you tried to whisper. Official races were never scheduled back to back. “HEY, whose voice is that hyung?” teased haechan in a sing-song voice. Mark ended the call immediately without giving the boy a chance to say anything else. You met his gaze and raised your eyebrows at him.

“He’s drunk and annoying, don’t mind him,” he said. “Oh, and that race... let’s say it’s a bit of a side thing. It’s not an official race for the competition.” All races were illegal but you heard that there were other ones that would happen even without the knowledge of officiators because the stakes were incredibly high with houndreds of thousands of dollars up for prize money.

With stakes that high, the races were considered to be the most dangerous as they had very little rules in place. The amount of “accidents” that would occur during them were far too high to be a coincidence and a lot of the racers that participated were ones that were kicked out of the main league for racing too dirty.

“Mark... why would you get involved in those kinds of races? You know you could end up being disqualified from the main league, right?” you asked, sounding alarmed. “Besides, you could get killed if you even come close to winning. I heard —“ you began.

“Cut that shit out,” mark said frankly as he interrupted you mid sentence. You were taken aback by his sudden disrespect. The shock turned into anger almost immediately. “Excuse me?” you proclaimed. Mark ran one of his hands through his hair as he silently cursed himself. He knew he shouldn’t be speaking to you that way but, fuck it.

“Just shut up, okay. I know what I’m doing,” he said. You had arrived at some bar in town where a bunch of racers would gather after a night like this. Mark pulled the keys out of the ignition before you both got out of the car. He tossed them to you over the hood as you made your way back over to the driver seat.

“Go home,” he ordered as he walked past you and straight for the entrance. “Asshole,” you yelled after him, your voice cracking slightly. He seemed to hesitate a bit before turning around and walking back over to you.

“C’mon baby girl, don’t tell me you thought I’d be a changed man after one fuck,” he said in low and hushed tone as he approached you. That darkness was back again. He stood over you now, reaching for your chin the way he had done earlier that night, gripping it so tight you couldn’t look anywhere but at his face.

You clenched your hands at your side as tears pooled in your eyes. Marks eyes glanced quickly at the fists you had formed next to you before laughing quietly. “I can tell you want to hit me again but you already know what that does to me,” he began. “I know you’d probably love it if I fucked you right here for everyone to see but I don’t have anymore time to play with you tonight,” he said as he pressed his body onto yours as your back remained forced against the driver door of your car.

“Maybe another time though, yeah?” he said as he landed a wet kiss on your lips and wiped a tear from your cheek as he forced a fake — almost evil, smile onto his face. You shoved him off of you as he laughed again, before you got into your car and sped out of the lot. You watched as a couple of faces pressed against the bars windows as they tried to see what the commotion was about.

Mark stood in place and watched as your car disappeared down the street. Despite how it seemed on the outside, Mark couldn’t stop the feeling that was growing inside of him. He didn’t even bother to stay and hang with the guys. He took his keys from haechan and headed straight home. He knew you were right. He knew he was taking a big risk. And because of that, he couldn’t afford to fall for you any faster. He couldn’t feel as though he had anything else to lose other than the bet he had placed on the race for tomorrow night. It was better for him to cut his most significant losses now.

You didn’t see mark again until the following weekend. Neither of you participated in the race that week so you hadn’t gone anywhere near the track, but you were out celebrating at the official after party being thrown that night at a club in the city to commemorate the halfway point of the competition being reached.

The private rooms on the second floor were reserved for the racers. Taemin was back in town and had convinced you to join him and his friends in their room with his girlfriend being the only other woman there to keep you company. It had been a rough week and all you cared about at this point was drinking until you didn’t even know your own name anymore.

You watched as people greeted your superstar brother from left and right as they grilled him about his latest races and praised him for his accomplishments. Because of him, so many young people saw street racing as a mere phase in their lives that would lead them to doing the real thing one day. They saw potential in themselves. You couldn’t help but feel proud.

“Yuri, cover for me please?” you begged Taemins girlfriend. You had spent most of the the night so far ranting to her about mark. She nodded and you used the opportunity to slip out of the room and head to the bar. 5 shots later, you were starting to feel so much more at ease. At this point lots more racers had finally started to arrive since the weekends race had finished up.

You set your eyes on a tall beautiful boy who donned a black leather jacket who you recognized. His name was Lucas. You had met in passing at races and talked on a few occasions so when he met your gaze from across the room, you knew it was only a matter of time before he made his way to you.

You skipped the pleasantries. “How was it tonight?” you asked him. He filled you in on the races as you guys chatted casually and drank together. He cracked jokes and flashed his heart stopping smile and you were thankful for the distraction because a minute later, you felt the energy around you shift. You looked over Lucas’ shoulder and locked eyes with Mark who was at the other end of the bar just as he slammmed a shot glass back down on the table in front of him. Lucas followed your gaze before turning back around to face you.

“Is your brother around? I should go say hello,” he said as he brought your attention back to the conversation. “Oh, yeah... I’ll take you to our room,” you offered as you slipped off of the stool. Lucas towered over you as you slipped your hand in his and dragged him through the crowded space. You didn’t even need to look because you could feel marks gaze follow you the entire time until the both of you disappeared out of his sight.

Mark was pissed. His friends chattered around him but seeing you had killed his mood entirely. It had been a week since the last time he saw you and had tried hard to distract himself but he cursed you for being right. Every time he got in his stupid car all he could think about was your soft voice calling him daddy and the way you rode him that night. The thought of tasting you again was the only thing that got him through that awful illegal race the next day but he felt uneasy knowing he fucked things up between the two of you. Now he was drunk, pissed off, and horny all over again and the one thing mark hated most was losing.

“I’m gonna go take a piss,” he lied, as he dismissed himself from his group of friends. He headed down the hall to the private rooms in search of you as music blasted around him. The lights had fallen low as the party went into full swing and he found himself shoving thorough groups of people in search for that bastard Lucas.

You had brought Lucas to see your brother before excusing yourself to head to the bathroom to avoid their boring conversation. You had just finished splashing some water on your face when you walked out and collided with a firm body, sending your own drunk body stumbling forward into it as they gripped your forearms to steady you.

“Sorry—“ you began to say, until you saw who you had run into. “Oh, it’s you,” you finished as your expression went cold.

“Mmm, you don’t seem very happy to see me,” taunted Mark as you pulled away from him. He stepped in front of you, blocking your path back towards the party. “Sexy,” he muttered as he ran his hand across the hem of the little black sphagetti strapped dress you wore.

“What the fuck do you want this time, Mark?” you asked him. It wasn’t until he had stepped backwards a bit out of the darkness of the hall did you realize he had a cut on his face that still semed to be healing underneath one of his eyes. Your voice dropped. “What happened to you?” you asked.

“Oh this?” he asked, as he ran his finger across the red line that had began to scab over, “Mm, I did pretty well at that race. They didn’t seem to like that very much though.”

You reached your hand up to run your fingers over the cut, sighing softly. You knew something would go wrong. Marks eyes fluttered shut as he let out a relaxed hum when your skin made contact with his. He slipped his arms around your waist and soon it felt like you were back in that world where only the two of you existed that night. He looked like that soft boy you only ever got to see a glimpse of, before he turned back into the asshole he typically was.

You dropped your hand from his face, suddenly remembering your last conversation. Marks eyes flew open and he pouted at the loss of contact. You tried to push past him but he blocked your path again before grabbing your hand and pulling you quickly in the opposite direction down the hall where no one had been all night. The darkness was so overwhelming that you had no idea how mark was even navigating you through it. You reached a small room, almost out of breath by then and he pulled you in before shutting the door behind you both.

“Mark, what the hell -“ you said before his lips crashed down against yours. He roped his hands into your hair and pulled gently, tilting your head back to expose your neck to himself. For a few seconds he did nothing but drop his face into the crook before taking in a few deep breaths. “Don’t ask me to explain myself,” he began. “Please.”

You had no clue what he was talking about. He lifted his head and released your hair from his grasp. This time he roped his fingers around your neck as he sprinkled soft kisses on your lips and across your face. “You better stay five feet away from Lucas and any other guy for that matter, at all times,” he whispered.

You couldn’t believe he even had the audacity. “I don’t belong to you, Mark,” you stated. “But don’t you, though?” he snapped back as he finally started to kiss his way down your neck again, gripping it softly in his hand. You let out a soft moan as you felt him press his body into yours, his erection planted firmly against your stomach.

“Mmm... you’re only trying to claim me because you desperately want me to claim you,” you said as you forced his hand off of you. The only way you could describe this interaction was as if it was a standoff of some sorts. You knew Mark was always putting on a tough guy act and you were determined for him to finally crack.

This time you took the lead on the kiss, leaving him flustered when you pulled away. You placed your hand on his shoulder pushing down slowly. Mark tried his best but you both knew he seemed to lose control the second you worked him up enough. He dropped to his knees in front of you as you began to hike up your dress. He kissed at your thighs as he dragged your panties down the length of your legs.

“Mark...It’s you who belongs to me, don’t you think?” you asked in a sultry tone. Mark froze, looking down at the floor. He hated this.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath. “Just consider this as my apology... for being an asshole that other night,” he said in a quiet voice.

He buried his face between your legs, licking you with every ounce of energy he had in him. It was this very feeling you had been yearning for since you last saw him. His tongue lashed against your clit, knowing it was the quickest way to get you dripping for him before he directed his attention to your center, licking at the hole to taste your sweet juices. He hummed against your skin. He pulled away to slip a finger into you slowly, hooking it to massage against your g-spot. You arched your back and moaned at the sensation. Mark was so focused that he hadn’t even looked up at you once. He kept his gaze glued between your legs, mouth open in awe as he inserted another finger and watched as they both pumped in and out of you. He groaned at the sight alone before slipping both fingers out of you and popping them right into his mouth before pulling you towards him again for more.

At this point you were seeing stars. If this was his way of apologizing then you’d let him pick fights with you whenever he felt like it, you thought to yourself. Another moan escaped your lips as he explored every inch of your folds with his tongue, even stopping to kiss at your flesh in worship. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, mark thought to himself. He wanted every lick, every kiss, every taste to convey that message to you because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud. He wanted to be yours so badly but he had too much pride to let such a confession slip from between his lips and so he committed himself to the sole objective of making you fall apart completely with his mouth and his mouth only.

The muscles in your abdomen contracted from the pleasure. He was begging for forgiveness and you could feel it. You whimpered and tried to pull away from him as the pleasure intensified. He pulled at your thighs, forcing you back into his grasp as he suckled on your clit, trying desperately to push you over the edge. He worked his fingers back into you as he targeted your g-spot once more. The combination of both sensations were too much to bare and your body convulsed against your will. You felt whatever feeling you had left in your legs disappear as they shook beneath you. Mark held you up until he felt your body relax and layed you down on a couch inside of the room. You took in deep breaths of air before allowing your eyes to flutter open. He hoevered above you and planted a soft kiss on your lips before speaking.

“I-i won’t be like that again, I promise. It was shitty. I’m shitty most of the time but you’re cool so i shouldn’t be so shitty to you, at least,” he said shyly. It was the closest thing to an apology you were going to get. You watched as his erection fought against the fabric of his jeans before you slipped your hand down to palm him gently. He let out a deep breath as he locked eyes with you.

“Your mouth is magical, Mark,” you responded as you trailed one of your fingers over his bottom lip. He kissed them sweetly. “I don’t care what you do to me as long as you keep making me cum like that,” you joked. He let out a soft laugh mixed with a groan as you unbutton his jeans and slipped your hands into his boxers to feel his flesh.

“Seriously,” he said as he planted another kiss on your lips. “You shouldn’t be okay with that kind of stuff,” he scolded. You raised your eyebrows at him before breaking into a smile.

“Wow, Mark Lee... do you actually care about me that much?” you teased. He blushed before he pulled your hand away from him. “Stop being funny y/n... don’t make me say it, because I will,” he warned.

The smile fell from your face and you felt your heart begin to race. You weren’t sure if you were ready to hear it yet. You sat up to pull his shirt from over his head and gasped when you saw the bruises that covered his torso. Patches of blue and purple were scattered over his body.

“Mark, what... what did they do to you?” you said as your eyes filled with tears quicker than you had ever expected.

“Hey, don’t cry. I’m fine. I promise,” he said as he wiped at your cheeks. “Just be a little gentle with me, okay?” he said as he flashed you a wink and drew your face in for a kiss. Gosh, what is wrong with me? You thought to yourself.

Soon things between you both had heated up again. You covered each others bodies with kisses, not waiting for the other to stop or to even give each other turns. You were fighting to give each other affection. Mark suckled on your nipples and you ran your fingers through his hair planting kisses on top of his head. Sex this time was different. It was like you were having a conversation with just your bodies.

It wasn’t until he was in between your legs and slowly slipping into you that you felt doomed. Your eyes locked into place with his. This time, each thrust wasn’t filled with just pleasure but raw emotion as he held you close, not daring to look away for even a second. Your shallow breaths and the sound of your wetness each time he pushed himself deeply into you was all that filled the room.

“Y-y/n, listen,” he said between grunts. “I was being a dick when I said it before but I’m going to say it one more time,” he moaned.

“Me and you, we can’t keep doing this forever,” he said. Your heart dropped, confused by his words. “Don’t get me wrong, It’s fun. But I can’t keep playing these games with you anymore. Especially when I keep losing,” he rambled on. He was quickly unravelling above you. His monologue was interrupted by a series of curse words that escaped him as he thrusted into you.

“I have too much of a temper to see you with other guys,” he confessed. “It’s bad enough I have to race those bastards to survive, I don’t want to have to compete against them for you too,” he said angrily. His thrusts became a little more agressive. He groaned loudly as he dropped his body down against yours and burried his head into your neck, sprinkling it with kisses as he moved in and out of you. You could feel your second orgasm approaching.

“Mark, don’t stop,” you ordered. “Please, baby!”

The sound of the precious pet name caused goosebumps that you could feel beneath your fingertips to raise over his skin. He was slowly unwravelling as well. Like electricity you felt the climax reach you through every inch of your body as it went into shock. Mark grunted, letting the prettiest, softest moans spill from his lips, seconds away from his own release. “I-I’m yours,” he said with his final thrusts “if you’ll let me be,” he finished. He released his load into you, warm cum spilling against your walls and filling you up.

“Ah, fuck,” he said as you felt his body relax overtop of you. You almost forgot where you were until smalll bits of the clubs music drifted into the room. You couldn’t help but be annoyed at the sounds of people nearby snapping you out of your dream like state with Mark. Soon you were shaking him off of you. “We have to get dressed,” you said.

He quietly pulled his clothing back on and helped you into your dress, zipping it up and running his hands down your arms as he planted a kiss on your shoulder from behind. “You look pretty tonight,” he murmured. You turned to face him and he gave you a soft smile. Before you could respond, the door flew open.

Haechan stood there mouth open as a smile danced across his face. “Sorry to interrupt but I had a feeling I’d find you here,” he said as he broke into a fit of giggles.

“Oh good, you guys actually have clothes on,” he continued. Mark sighed and rolled his eyes. “Haechan, what’s going on?” Mark asked.

“Oh, nothing... Taemin was just asking to see you,” he said with a devilish smile on his face. You and Mark exchanged a look.

You both rushed out of the room, trying your best to look composed.

“Y/n?” you heard your brothers voice call as he squinted at you from down the hall as his gaze became stern. He looked back and forth between you and Mark with a bit of anger dancing behind his expression. You knew him well enough to know he was silently scolding you. “Taemin, hey, I’m gonna get another drink!” you tried to say casually to escape the situation. You stumbled a little and both Taemin and Mark reached out to steady you.

“I’ll take you home,” the two of them said in unison before their heads snapped up to look at each other. Taemin held Marks gaze firmly as Mark blushed and seemed to stumble over his next words. Haechan truly tried his hardest to conceal his laughter but failed as he watched his friend falter under the pressure.

“We have some business to discuss,” Taemin said to Mark. Marks gaze went dark but he nodded.

“Y-you should go wait in your brothers car. Haechan will take you there,” he said to you. You nodded before quickly grabbing his face between your hands and planting a kiss on his lips. “Gosh, y/n...” he whined as he rubbed at the nape of his neck the way he always did when he got nervous.

You turned to your brother, shoving him on his shoulder. “Be nice to him,” you squealed as he pinched at your ear in retaliation.

“Wow, you’re really trying to get him killed aren’t you?,” Haechan said as he offered you up his arm and you linked yours with it. Taemin threw him his car keys and he slipped them into his pocket. You turned back to wave at both boys, who were looking at you with matching expressions that said you were going to be in lots of trouble with both of them later on.

However, you decided that you’d cross both of those bridges whenever you got there. Then it dawned on you. You looked up at Haechan as you shook him by his shoulder.

“Wait, what business do they have to discuss?” you turned around with the intention of going back but both boys had already disappeared and Haechan was forcefully tugging you through the party towards the safety of your brothers car.

Click here for streetracer!mark (pt.3): highway to heaven

#nct smut #nct imagine #nct fanfic #nct angst #nct scenarios #nct scenario #mark lee x reader #nct mark #mark lee smut #mark lee fanfiction #mark lee x reader smut #mark lee scenarios #mark lee imagines #markhyuck #superm smut #nct hard hours #nct blurbs #mark lee au #mark lee angst

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meloncubedradpops · 4 years

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Repo! The Corona Opera

For every rotation that Earth has completed around the sun since the dawn of humanity, humans have created art to cope with the realities surrounding our everyday life. We weave stories in songs, movies, plays, books, paintings, and so forth, that help digest the world around us and provide an entertaining escape from the cruelties we endure. Some stories take place in abstract universes or in the future, and we rely on what we know in our present reality to build upon these fantasy societies. My favorite movie, Repo! the Genetic Opera, certainly makes this list. We are currently experiencing perhaps the most surreal year of our collective lives, and with each passing day I argue that we find ourselves closer to the world crafted in Repo. I have seen this movie, at least 20 times. If you haven't watched Repo! the Genetic Opera or you haven't seen it in a while, I recommend giving it a view. The movie is unique in that it falls under three distinct genres: musical, horror, and sci-fi. And while the jury is out on whether our future society is going to go full on gothic aesthetic, I can say that the Repo! movie experience offers a glimpse into a dystopian fascist post-plague world wrapped in unapologetically hilarity with a heaping side of camp. It doesn't offer any spiritual cleansing that our souls collectively need, but it does show us what a new normal could look like if we really go off the rails.

As things stand, right now, so much of our daily lives and culture are impacted by the coronavirus. All of our institutions have been impacted, from school, to work, to family, to the way we interact with strangers, and especially our economy. We have all felt the effects in one way or another, and honestly? Most the impacts are of our own undoing, for better or for worse. I am going to write three pieces analyzing Repo! the Genetic Opera. First I will create the foundations that bridge our contemporary life and the world of Repo! Second I will explain how the Repo! universe operates under the definitions of fascism. And third I will weave together parts one and two into our contemporary world (particularly in the context of the United States) to highlight the dark path we heading towards. My viewpoints are of mine, and my own alone. Let's dive into part one.

Part I Repo! the Genetic Opera takes place in the year 2056. Humanity was on the brink of collapse as a result of a medical crisis that caused massive organ failure.

I never gave the premise much thought, at least not until recently. We aren't given much detail beyond the fact that entrepreneur Rottissimo "Rotti" Largo solved this crisis through his company GeneCo. GeneCo provides organ transplants that can be repaid through a payment plan. Witnessing the coronavirus unfold in real time and seeing its wrath, particularly on severe cases, honestly makes me wonder if the writers had some sort of "super plague" in mind when creating this universe. For the purpose of this analysis, I will assume that humanity suffered at least one infectious disease crisis. And just to reiterate covid-19 particularly, we really *don't* know what it's going to do to us long-term. Let the parallels begin.

The world in Repo! the Genetic Opera, operates as normally as the citizens possibly can, which appears to be quite limited. I have noted how dated some the technologies look.

For a world 30 years in the future, it lacks cell phones and easy access to internet. When we enter Shilo's world (aka her bedroom!) she watched Blind Mag sing on a busted up tiny ass TV and the program itself looks like an ad on Home Shopping Network.

The Graverobber is shown reading headlines on a newspaper. The news reporters shown in the ribbon cutting ceremony during the 1st Italian Post-Plague Renaissance have old school cameras with flashbulbs.

The most contemporary technology appears to be a Wish.com version of an Apple watch, and even that looks like a leftover prop from Spy Kids.

Obviously the people who made this movie intentionally inserted these anachronisms, but why? This is a science fiction movie after all. I speculate that they reverted back because the impact from humanity's crisis resulted in an overall professional "brain drain" from the sheer volume of professionals that dropped dead. In fact every scene depicting medical procedures looks dimly lit and lacking in sanitation. We will see this as we struggle to contain the coronavirus, at least in America. Healthcare workers have already died from this thing, and I am sure many prospective college students will have second thoughts about a career in healthcare. I mean hell, look at no other than GeneCo itself. That company employs workers called "Genterns" who are most definitely not in full PPE. I don't doubt their medical expertise, but they appear to be disposable (please see: that time Luigi killed one for NO REASON in "Mark it Up").

On that note, it really was quite incredible how China built the pop-up hospital in Wuhan in under 4 days, but it was also not the most safe or structurally sound building by far (it collapsed, people were hurt!). Maybe at this point, the people in Repo! don't have much of a choice. I am sure there were likely legit hospitals, but the fact that the Renaissance had gross surgery tents is a bit unsettling.

This is a world that is completely built upon the social more of valuing your health above all else. There had to be a turning point in the GeneCo business model where they really played on up-selling organs for the benefit of "genetic perfection". "I needed a kidney transplant desperately. GeneCo showed this single mom sympathy. This makeover came for a small added fee. Now I look smashing on live TV!" Imagine signing the documents for your power of attorney while actively going into renal failure, when your doctor chimes in with an up-sell for breast implants. When all is said an done, your body is now not only functioning again, but you're hot! Even in a post-plague dystopia we are still holding value to having a nice rack. What's not to love about GeneCo? Obviously we know right away that GeneCo has a dirty side. Rotti Largo personally lobbied to make organ repossessions legal, and he does not hesitate to recollect his property. The concept itself is, of course, wild. In America, our healthcare system is incredibly broken and expensive. You would wonder how it could get worse without us backpedaling many steps on the industrialization timeline. And in a lot of ways, I could see a company like GeneCo thrive here. We already hate the poor, and we have political think tanks that salivate over the idea of cutting social programs that keep people alive. Our president has wanted to repeal the Affordable Care Act while many people are unemployed during a pandemic. In Repo! we hear about those who don't pay, but obviously there are plenty of people who do. Those who can will happily pay, either for vanity reasons or to stay alive.

And while society cites Rotti as being a "hero" for humanity, we see more and more evidence that the crisis is both not under control and life is cheap.

His son murders multiple people, in front of others, with seemingly no repercussions. In the scene where Shilo meets the Graverobber for the first time, adjacent to the graveyard and tombs owned by wealthy families who could afford grave markers, lies a poorly constructed wall hiding thousands of corpses piled on top of one another. We even get a glimpse of a truckload pouring more onto the pile. I would not be surprised if there is a disinformation campaign there keeping the public in the dark (although you'd think the smell would be unbearable at this point).

There are multiple indications that propaganda works in society (still), and no one is getting the full picture of how much of a raw deal the people in Repo! have. We see poster after poster about GeneCo, in the literal absence of other corporations.

And a lot of them bear resemblance to 20th century Russian propaganda. It would be a real shame if the goals outlined The Foundations of Geopolitics: The Geopolitical Future of Russia were actually realized. Imagine going to visit your mother's grave and hearing commercials for hardcore analgesics play through the cemetery. Also, there's a police presence too. Apparently the police are called Genecops and have authority to execute any assumed graverobbers on site.

Imagine the hellscape it would be to live in a world where your loved ones may have died from a terrible pandemic, and you face a non-zero chance of an over zealous cop murdering you thereafter, and because their qualified immunity bypasses the judicial system entirely...oh wait. Anyways let's circle back to the Graverobber character.

Graverobber's role in Repo! appears to be minor on the surface. Rotti's daughter, Amber Sweet, appears to almost despise her relationship with him. And that relationship involves him supplying Amber with what he describes as the "21st Century cure". This cure you ask? A super effective painkiller with the clinical use to accompany GeneCo surgeries. This drug is called Zydrate, and it has a street version that he acquires and sells, with clients including Amber Sweet.

Graverobber makes his living sucking the glowy blue brain corpse goo and injecting them into people on the streets. Yum!

Not everyone who needs an organ transplant can pay for it all upfront. Luckily for them, GeneCo provides payment plan options! The caveat to this is if you fail to make those payments, legally GeneCo can come and repossess your newly acquired organs. If you find yourself past due, you will soon see the last face before your doom, the Repo Man. He will harvest GeneCo's property, and it won't matter where you are or what you are doing. There is no anesthetic, and you will likely die! This was all made legal through Rotti's lobbying efforts.

Society, as it's set up today, allows for property repossessions. This can be as straightforward as a repossession of your vehicle to as heartbreaking as a foreclosure on your home. At the end of the day, the impacts of that are difficult and life changing. Currently millions of people in America are out of work, and the threat of losing everything is at stake for many. We could lose our homes, our vehicles, and our sense of purpose. And while many government bodies have created temporary moratoriums, they have not provided any substantial financial relief to keep the proverbial repo man at bay. What went wrong in this dystopia to normalize the concept of death due to nonpayment? Fascism! Ah yes, the dreaded f-word. In my next essay, I will outline the 14 characteristics of fascism and how it relates to the universe in Repo! After I will relate that to our modern world so that we can try and stop this from becoming our reality.

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radiojamming · 4 years

Note

This a weird prompt but would you write jonmichael? Asking solely because I want to read Elias and the archives staff dealing with that

good-ish AU where sasha’s still sasha and everyone’s cool with stuff, i guess? :DDD

- - -

The door-that-wasn’t-there-a-minute-ago slams open against the wall, shaking the shelves and knocking one cheap vase to the floor in a small explosion of sad porcelain shards and accumulated dust. Martin lets out a high-pitched, “Jesus Christ!” in surprise as much as raw shock when Jon Sims himself staggers out the door like a teenager doing the walk of shame. Granted, he’s bleeding from his hairline and one sleeve of his sweater appears to just be missing, but he looks more sheepish than injured.

Just as he makes the last step over the threshold-that-shouldn’t-be, Martin sees a vague person-ish shape wobble in the mysterious beyond. And it is, in fact, wobbling, like a bobblehead or one of those playground toys shaped like horses that waver on oversized springs until they fling some unfortunate child headfirst into sand. Extended metaphor it may be, but the wobbly thing gives a high, wavering giggle before cooing, “Don’t forget this, love!” in a voice tiered in multiple pitches like an eldritch wedding cake. Jon turns just in time for an arm-that-shouldn’t-be-that-long-oh-my-god-what-the-fuck to come shooting out of the door, an iPhone clutched pinched between its enormous fingers. Martin might be hallucinating, but he thinks the razor-sharp fingernails are lacquered in sparkly purple nail varnish.

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it before Jon gingerly takes the phone with a mumbled, “Thanks,” and the hand recedes back into the hellish landscape beyond the door.

“Of course!” garbles the wobbly thing. Then, with a range of voices topped off with an impressive soprano flourish as light as meringue, it yodels, “Call me!”

As abruptly and shockingly as the door appeared, it disappears with a sharp crack, causing the shelves to slam back into place with a small cataract of old books falling into the pile of broken ceramic.

Jon and Martin stand in the stuffy office, each caught in the awkward position of how the hell do you talk about that?

Finally, Jon gives Martin the most soul-deep, weary look before quietly beseeching, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

All Martin can do is nod before Jon shuffles out to the hallway

- - -

Sasha sees him at the flower stall again.

Through the warped windowpane, she watches him scoop up a great, garish bouquet representing nearly every spectrum in the visible rainbow, and some colours that might not exist save for the eyes of the mantis shrimp. When she gets to ground level and sees him semi-properly, he’s just a blond man in a beanie, carefully regarding a sorry bunch of daffodils held together by what looks like clingfilm cinched shut with twine. Rather than being all spooky and mysterious, Sasha thinks he’s actually deliberating. There’s a pinch in his brow as he lowers the daffodils in favor of prodding the drooping lower lid of a sorry little orchid suffering in London’s less-than-tropical climes.

Sasha kind of feels… sorry for him?

Granted, he’s a monster with terrifying monster hands and monster tendencies and apparently a taste for caffeine, but he really looks caught on what to get. That in mind, she does remember that he bought lilies the last time he was around. Maybe that was less of a coincidence and this Michael creature really does like flowers; or he may have some fellow monster friend that he deems worthy of buying flowers for. Honestly, Sasha doesn’t want to think of what kind of friends Michael keeps.

Against her better judgement and sense of self-preservation, Sasha walks across the street to where Michael forlornly weighs his options. He looks up at her approach, and the first impression she gets is that his eyes are more like spinning tops prone to rotate anti-clockwise. She blinks and sees stationary blue eyes regarding her with confusion, and then… relief?

Huh.

“Sah-shah Jaaayymeeesss!” he almost sings, lifting up the dying daffodils like a salute. “What a pleasure to see your radiant face again!”

“Michael,” she replies, a little colder than she intends. Last time they met, there were far more meaty hands and worms involved, and she’d rather get to work unscathed.

If he thinks the reply is chilly, he makes no sign of it. Instead, he flops the tortured flowers around in his terrible hands. “Actually, I was hoping to see one of you lovely little Institute-dwellers around. I think I gave Martin a bit of a fright laaaaast time!”

Sasha frowns, but can definitely picture Martin having to be peeled off the ceiling after a Michael encounter. “Oh,” is all she says.

Michael goes on, gleefully undaunted. “You see, you and I have a mutual acquaintance! And I think he’s in need of a little—” He gives the daffodils a vigorous shake. “—cheering up these days! But I just don’t know what he’d like! Silly me for not being obseeeeervant!”

“I… A mutual acquaintance?”

“Yeeeessss! Your lovely boss!”

“Elias?”

Michael laughs. Well, more like he laughs in a way that sounds like he laughed ten minutes ago and ten minutes into the future, and then layered the sounds over one another like phyllo dough in a hellish baklava. It’s impossible, but Sasha hears it all the same. “Noooo!” he giggles. “Not in a million endless cycles of time or those dimensions yet unperceiveeeeeed!”

Sasha won’t even start on that statement, except that it isn’t Elias, which means it has to be—

Oh. Jesus.

Grubby, curmudgeonly, insomniac Jesus.

“Jon?” she gasps.

Michael laughs again, louder and higher so that a glass breaks somewhere in the distance. “Yeeeesssss! Poor Jonathan, always working so hard in that dismal cave you call an archive. I offered him office space that would appeal more to a sense of aestheticism, but he… Oh, what did he say? He thought it was a little heavy on the—” And here he speaks in an exact mimic of Jon’s dry voice when he says: “Impossible, improbable, and honest to God, Michael, my brain would shatter into a thousand pieces if I looked at that painting for another minute.” Michael dissolves into a fit of giggles before saying, “It’s just a lost Hieronymus Bosch painting, honestly.”

So Michael McMeatyhands is buying flowers for Jonathan Sims. Sasha’s having a hell of a time wrapping her head around that particular fact.

The infernal giggling stops and Michael seems to circle (spiral?) back to his previous predicament. Dying daffodils or suffering orchids?

For a lack of anything more to say, Sasha wordlessly points to a bouquet of slightly more enthusiastic-looking daisies, bobbing peacefully in a tin pail of water. “Those,” is all she can manage to say.

Michael looks thrilled. He actually hums some impossible tune (in full SATB with orchestral arrangement, all localised in his throat) as he puts the daffodils back, scoops up the daisies, and drops four quid into the stall owner’s hands with a wet, meaty thwap that the owner doesn’t seem to hear. Then, Michael swivels back toward Sasha and grins with the corners of his lips somehow curling up near his eyes like a particularly twisty Cheshire Cat.

“Thank you, Miss James!” he says. “You’re a lifesaver!”

“You’re… welcome? I think?”

But Michael’s already walking away, taking steps in a gait that doesn’t seem to match the rhythm of the rest of his body, like two halves of entirely different people drunkenly attempting synchronicity. Sasha half-expects his legs to walk away from his torso.

Toward Jon.

She sighs and rubs a hand over her face before heading in the direction of the Underground station.

- - -

The boss is dating someone. This, Tim is absolutely sure of. He’s watched Jon like a hawk for a week now, carefully comparing his moods in the morning with how early he left work the night before. Long work nights equal really bad mood. Long not work nights equal better mood with less shouting and calling people morons under his breath. This is good.

This is very good.

Tim is pleased with his enviable knowledge. Whoever somehow won the heart of the boss must be a pretty special person, or at least someone with an endless well of patience. Or maybe they’re Jon’s opposite? Either way, Tim’s got a hankering to send them a box of chocolate as a thank you for chilling the boss out and making him more tolerable to work with.

He tries to picture who this mystery person is, as Jon’s definitely not the type of person to take his personal life to work with him, inasmuch as he likes to take work home. Tim pictures someone easygoing, like a Margaritaville type. They balance Jon’s stick-up-assery out, maybe giving him massages over the back of the couch while Jon watches dry documentaries about the actual speed of drying paint. In his mind’s eye, Tim gives this person a hideously neon Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, but a winning smile that melts Jon’s ice-locked heart and makes it so he can’t help but smile back.

Tim likes them, whoever they are.

And when he gives Jon a little wink after dropping off a follow-up report, says, “Had a good night?” in a way more than a tiny bit suggestive, he only relishes a teensy bit in how dark Jon’s cheek become and how he ducks his head down. He mumbles something before actually thanking Tim for the report.

Yeah, this is awesome. Tim owes Jon’s mystery partner a thank you card and maybe a cake.

- - -

“Eliaaaaas.”

“Michael.”

Staring. Lots of staring. Cold, unflinching irises to a set of psychedelic, rotating disco balls set in a grinning face. Behind Michael, blue and purple streaks like the top of a wildberry Pop-Tart flash about and dance madly as Michael gives him the strangest of staredowns. Occasionally, his head appears to flip upside-down a few times on his swirly straw of a neck, and half of his teeth try to glitch through his lips in a way that Elias thinks of as an attempt at a sneer.

Finally, Elias sighs and calmly folds his hands on the top of his desk, ignoring the waves of tangible static pouring out onto the floor and possibly leaving a stain on the carpet. That’s going to be difficult to explain to the janitorial staff. “We may have to set some ground rules,” he says.

“I’ll bring him home by eleven,” Michael cackles in reply.

Elias narrows his eyes just as he feels Beholding roll its great omnipresent gaze in irritation.

“I mean to say that you’re not to interfere in Institute business any further than you are right now,” Elias retorts. “I should completely ban all Spiral-related statements on grounds of personal involvement.”

Michael grins. His smile rises up to his forehead like a crescent moon before rolling down the side of his face and hooking back up into the empty space where a normal mouth should be. “I can make this weirder. I can spiral any statement in this place. Every little word can bend in and around on itself like a pipe cleaner.”

Elias glares. “You won’t.”

“You can’t stop me!” Michael sings. “But I’ll keep courting your Archivist nice and proper as long as I’d like, or he’d like.”

“If this is an attempt to draw him into the Spiral’s influence—”

When Michael laughs this time, it seems to be drawn from every laugh that was ever laughed in the history of the muscular and diaphragmatic spasms that caused them. It’s so charged, so loud and explosive that Elias nearly winces at it. And when it’s over, there’s a vacuum of sound in its wake, so it takes a full minute for Elias to hear anything properly again.

Then, Michael taps his horrible fingers on Elias’ desk, eliciting a sharp tak-tak-tak-tak-tak that repeats in on itself fifty times over. “Not everything is about influence,” Michael hisses through too many teeth. “Not every attempt on a person is to draw them in and mark them, unlike what you do. Maybe sometimes, one of us can authentically like one of them. Is that too hard for you to understand, Man-of-the-Eye?”

Beholding tries to truly See Michael, but something about the Spiral’s nature twists the image.

“No,” Michael goes on, followed by another round of tak-tak-tak-tak-tak. “I rather like the Archivist. And he likes me. Aaaand if you try to get in the way of us, I will peeeeerrrrsonallyyyyy claw your precious little eyes out of your sockets. Understand?”

Elias doesn’t have time to make a reply. Michael is gone in a gunpowder-bright flash of light and a shock of sound. If there was a door, it’s gone. So he sits alone in his office, staring at the space where the Spiral was, and he feels something terribly empty and terribly familiar.

- - -

Jon picks their next date and opts for something as normal as the last one was strange. He chooses a walk at St James Park, eating ice cream and admiring the pelicans while Michael regales him with some bizarre story that sounds more like a backwards recitation of the Jabberwocky poem. He pauses in between stanzas to eat more of his pistachio ice cream with a delighted gusto before he presses on in gibberish.

Something about it makes Jon feel oddly warm and content, even as the early spring wind chills him.

Their last date was to Annwn, which Jon had originally suspected was in Wales. He was half-right; it was Wales as much as it was also the traditional world of the afterlife in ancient Welsh rites. It was rather lovely and Jon thinks very highly of their honey cakes, although he suspects he probably wasn’t supposed to eat them.

But Michael looks just as pleased to be in this park as he was to be in ancient Welsh paradise. His Jabberwockish story comes to an end and he finishes the rest of his cone before throwing the little paper ring into a nearby litter bin. Then, he stretches his arms out to the side and sighs in contentment. “Just bonny, as they say!” he cheers before reaching down and taking Jon’s free hand in his. It’s got a mind-boggling weight and an odd texture, while appearing to be a normal hand. At first, it gave Jon such an acute sense of discomfort that he found himself involuntarily withdrawing. Now, it’s just another aspect of Michael that he’s learned to like.

Love, maybe. He hasn’t thought on that overmuch.

Yet here they are, holding hands like all the other couples in the park. It’s so simple, so normal. Jon’s life has been so ridiculous lately that the fact he’s holding a Spiral avatar’s nigh-impossible hand on a date in a park is just… maybe the most normal thing that’s happened so far. Michael’s not trying to kill him or throttle his mind to the point of madness.

They’re happy.

Jon’s happy.

He smiles, and so does Michael. Yes, Michael’s smile is making an attempt to summit his head like Everest before flickering back into place like he remembers where he is, but he does smile and it’s perfectly authentic.

It could be weirder, and for once, that thought delights Jon.

#prompt fill #tma #the magnus archives #jonmichael #THIS WAS RLY FUN ;w;#tried to fix the wonky mobile formatting!

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koscheimaryas · 3 years

Note

send me a ship yada yada + dexther

send me a ship and i’ll tell you ─ starring esther and declan

where was their first date?: that might still be up to debate, since esther has already lost count of how many casual first encounters she and declan had before starting to actually go out together. the one that is still the most vivid in her mind, however, is the memory of making plans to see him in a party alpha would throw, the one they hadn’t even bothered attending before sneaking off to get to his kombi.

what my muse would do to cheer yours up: declan always has the worst mood downpours when stressful things happen and there’s little he can do about it. over the months, esther learned how to deal with those by forcing him out of his misery state by talking to him, coming up with new things and places for them to visit and absolutely anything where she could actively help by being there for him. but just like herself would say, there’s nothing like sex to lighten up one’s mood.

who wakes the other up with kisses (and where)?: since declan is the early riser, he’s usually the one to wake esther up with neck kisses, all the way up to one shoulder before she’s out of her sleep and perfectly ready to retribute him by doing what she does best.

who would pour water on the other to wake them up?: esther, probably, since she’s just oh so funny. it would be one of the worst pranks ever since both sleep in the same bed, but her boyfriend’s pissed reaction would be absolutely priceless.

how my muse would wake your’s up: she’d probably spend a good 10 minutes just staring dreamily at declan’s soft, relaxed expressions that prove that he’s far, far away in sleepland. she’d then proceed to pepper kisses all over his face, her fingertips tracing his skin and pretty much anything that she can get her hands on before he wakes up and throws her off her own game.

who would start a food fight while baking or cooking?: esther would playfully smear some flour on his face and end up dirtying one of his ten thousand black t-shirts. he’d do the same. next thing they see, it is food war I and no one’s safe from the mess they made in their kitchen.

who would suggest putting marijuana in the brownies?: esther, obviously. she’d bring up the subject once and after any of his slightest agreements she’d put the task into gear. they’d probably end up feeling sleepy as fuck and collapse on top of each other for 12 hours.

who said i love you first and how (or when) did they say it?: declan gave a hint about it first, back in the camp trip their university had prepared. esther almost ruined everything by trying to do it through texts, but later that night, at the fireworks exposition, declan brought her close and said it first.

who would get into a physical altercation over the other?: esther would, for literally any reason she could find to justify it. it would probably be because of jealousy.

who insists on purchasing a pet together (and what kind of pet?): both really wanted a dog since way before they even moved in together. hannibal, their big, stupid and maddening dog, is the best thing that happened in their lives. he makes a mess out of their loft and eats his fair share of shoes and clothes, but he’s still the most beloved pet.

who is louder (in and out of bed)?: esther is the one who’s extremely loud in bed, bless her heart. it really is all because of declan’s doing, though. out of it, however, they’re both pretty much quiet people, esther’s exceptions happening when she’s got two or three drinks in her system.

who takes more risks (in and out of bed)?: they both like to try out new things whenever the subject is brought up, but esther’s probably the one who does it first. she just knows he will be on board with whatever she suggests, anyway.

who would bring up the word ‘daddy’ first?: none of them, since they find that the daddy kink is a very disgusting kink to have. when discussing the subject once, through text, esther innocently asked if declan had a daddy kink, and then proceeded to never think about the idea of it again.

what is their shared, favourite kink?: anything aboard the bdsm train is their go-to choice, mostly bondage and making good use of their dominant/submissive roles. there’s no need to wonder about who’s playing what: esther’s the little sub bitch through and through.

describe their typical kiss: it is usually the maddeningly slow one, the one that’s deepened as each second ticks by, which ends up becoming way more than just a kiss, since they can’t help themselves as soon as they’ve got their hands on each other and the slightest bit of privacy. there’s not even the need for privacy, depending on their situation.

how my muse shows their love for yours: esther is constantly finding new ways to show her love for her boyfriend. she loves searching up for new songs that express how they got to know each other, how they got involved, how life’s been a rollercoaster ever since they got together. one of her favorite ways is sharing poems, lines and beautiful things she finds during her days, always the most romantic ones possible. she wonders if there really is something that could ever fully express how stupidly in love she is.

their favourite ways to give affection: sharing songs and thoughts with each other, touching each other constantly, confessing how they feel on a daily; how even the slightest things make them remember about their moments together and how blissful it is.

who is more dominate?: this is not even up to debate. declan is.

who sings in the shower?: esther is not much of a singer, so it would probably be something that declan does and that’s absolutely out of his context. his song choices must always be any great 2010 punk-rock hit.

who washes the other’s hair in the shower?: esther does, and she simply loves to do it. one of her favorite things ever is feeling his strands between her fingers, no matter the context of it.

who initiates shower sex despite being in a rush?: that is probably a conjoined idea that they put to the greatest use, no matter how late they end up being. esther will tease him first, try to get away with it and then realize how hopeless that would be as soon as he puts his mind to making her suffer.

who teases the other under the table at dinner with the family?: esther does, and she thinks it’s the funniest thing ever to watch declan squirm as he tries to maintain a conversation with his mother, since they don’t really visit her own family. his mom probably even knows what must be going on in the places her eyes can’t reach.

who has the weirder taste in music?: they’re both avid music consumers, but esther went through more phases during her life, even dipping her toes in the reggaeton pool once. declan likes his alternative rock better, no matter how doubtful his choices are every once in a while.

who would initiate dancing in the rain?: declan would twirl her around the street first and she would take it upon her to get them waltzing until they’re back home, laughing until her cheeks hurt.

who would be the one to suggest marriage?: they both want it so much that it probably was a very conjoined thought. and it might happen soon enough.

what would they name their children?: some nice, simple name for a very sexy child, esther would say. one that would take from something they admire a lot. no, it won’t be ryan ross

who would their children take after more?: declan, probably. their little four-eyed gremlin would be the same as his father, all quiet, brooding and brilliant. he’d get his looks from his mother, though.

#love them more than life its true #deathcabforplots #𝐭: answered #𝐨𝐭𝐩: esther x declan

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kuramirocket · 3 years

Text

The historic center of Puebla city, where I live, is a World Heritage site. Tphe nearby post office, like many buildings in the area, is beautifully decorated in the traditional tiles. But among theses buildings there is also a McDonald's, Dominos, Oxxo (a Coca Cola store), Subway, and Burger King, and there is a Pizza Hut, KFC; and Starbucks one block away.

Starbucks has 670 stores in Mexico, Subway has 900, and Walmart has 2,610—the largest number in any country after the US, and a figure that is likely to increase given their profits during the pandemic.

The impact of this change in urban landscape and consumption on Mexicans' identity, lifestyle, and culture, shouldn't be underestimated. More and more US transnationals have opened up in Mexico over the past few decades, taking advantage of unfair trade agreements, super-exploitative labor conditions, and cheap utilities. Local restaurants and traditional Mexican tianguis markets struggle to compete.

"There isn't any equality of conditions, so it isn't really a competition," says Iktiuh Arenas, an expert in urban planning and human rights, and a specialist with Mexico's Secretariat of Agrarian, Land, and Urban Development (SEDATU).

Arenas says shopping centers, department stores like Walmart, and transnational chain restaurants have advantages compared to local markets and craftspeople, because they have a big marketing budget. They encourage people to buy products that weren't produced locally, and they have the money to secure the best locations in squares and main streets.

Over the past few decades, he argues, "development" has been limited to building shopping centers and supporting chain stores, while green areas and museums have been deprioritized. "This policy of urban development is based on copying the US model," he says.

Walmart in Mexico (which operates as Wal-Mart de México y Centroamérica) is the biggest retailer in the country, and it includes other brands, like the smaller Bodega Aurrerra supermarkets, the wholesale Sam's Club, MaxiPali, and Superama. In 1994, it had just 25 stores in Mexico, but the NAFTA agreement (1994-2020) meant it could easily sell hundreds of products imported from the US, without paying customs taxes.

Since then, Walmarts have been built on forested areas, threatened buildings of artistic value, and been built on or near ancient ruins. There is a Walmart near the archaeological zone of Teotihuacán, and local resistance managed to prevent one being built in the Indigenous town of Cuetezalan.

Joining the Walmarts are hundreds of other companies, including Pepsico, Uber, 19,558 Oxxos, The Cheesecake Factory, Baskin Robbins, 718 Dominos, over 400 KFCs, Pizza Hut, Home Depot, Office Depot, Citigroup, JP Morgan Case, and thousands of factories, from Ford to General Electric.

With NAFTA's lifting of tariffs and trade barriers, these companies also benefit from some of the highest rates of exploitation in the world. While a Mexican worker in the US will earn US$1,870 per month on average, in Mexico the figure drops to US$291.

NAFTA also saw a mass displacement of rural workers in Mexico, and Arenas says public policy has abandoned rural areas in favor of cities. He argues that "classism and racism towards rural workers" has also been a factor.

I also talked to Isis Samaniego, a poet and traditional market worker, and an expert in native Mexican fruits and vegetables. "Department stores, shopping centers, and fast food joints from the US displaced local businesses here, like the tlapalerias [Mexican stores selling paint and hardware goods]," they say, arguing that those shops sold products that lasted, whereas the new shops sell cheaper, but lower quality goods.

As more and more farmers moved to the cities, they became the new cheap labor. Bertha Meléndez is a lifelong activist and well known musician. She sings in 10 Indigenous languages and researches and compiles Indigenous songs, while collaborating with community radios. She says the new arrivals to the cities were then sold the idea of junk food as a way to feel modern.

"It wasn't just a change of diet, but a change of lifestyle, as people left communities where there were strong connections between neighbors and a slower approach, and came to the cities where they were then so exploited that they didn't have time to prepare their own food," she says.

As she talks, we eat tortilla soup. "This is a Mexican dish," she says. "It takes time to prepare."

"People are abandoning the street markets and going to supermarkets because of the status … When a family goes to McDonald's, its because they want to look like they are upper class. People think the food is better there, but it has a lot of chemicals in it, it can be very addictive and bad for your health," comments Samaniego.

Many Mexicans feel the need to put on appearances. That involves pretending their living conditions are better than the poverty they face, as well as imitating US or European ways, and buying products or brands from there. For hundreds of years, colonization and imperialism have taught people that their culture and way of life were inferior.

Prior to the Spanish invasion, and well after it as well, people ate food according to the seasons, Arenas notes. "But now, Walmart sells products all year round, and so it breaks with the old way of doing things," he says.

He explains that producers compete for the privilege of Walmart shelf space, and consumers buy things they don't need as part of aspiring to be something better. "It strengthens those issues of classism and loss of identity," he says.

Before the Spanish invasion, people gathered in main squares and central areas and laid down woven petate mats, then arranged their products on them. They either exchanged goods, or sold them for cacao or for tools made of copper. These tianguis markets were a key part of people's culture and way of life, and they continue to exist in some form today in towns like Cuetzalan, Tianguistengo, Otumba, Tenejapa, Chilapa, Zacualpan, and more.

"In Walmart you exchange money with someone, but you don't exchange knowledge, you don't have a conversation," says Samaniego. But in the modern and traditional tianguis, you can talk to the farmers directly, or to the artists who made the handicrafts, they argue.

That's why Meléndez sees companies like Walmart and McDonald's as displacing communities, as well as their food and lifestyle.

"We are the children of corn. Since ancestral times, we have depended on corn," she says. She describes a relationship with the land and environment that is a key part of people's identities.

"Indigenous culture is alive, but it isn't as visible," she says. Some of the languages she sings in, such as Nahuatl and Mixteco, are widely spoken. But others are almost extinct, spoken by a few hundred people. Colonization, then US economic and cultural imperialism have seen people rejecting their indigenous roots, and "instead they imitate US culture. Being indigenous is stigmatized," she says.

That's why Meléndez sees her songs and Indigenous and Mexican art as being vital for people's sense of identity, and their visibility. There are 12 million professional folk craftspeople in Mexico. But they have been one of the sectors most negatively impacted by the pandemic. They often live in regions without Internet or phone signals, and frequently don't have the technical literacy to promote their products online—instead relying on interactions in the street and squares. During last year's lock downs, many artists were completely cut off from their income.

Stores like Walmart, on the other hand, have adapted to selling online. Walmart's profits in Mexico had increased to 162 billion pesos in 2020, from 148 billion in 2019.

"Mexico is dominated by the US … culturally, economically, and they even choose our presidents so that they can keep sending their companies here and enjoying cheap labor … and with that comes a policy of making people reject their culture, and that means rejecting themselves," Meléndez says.

Foreign corporations have a lot of freedom in Mexico, and they are backed by trade agreements like NAFTA and USMCA that were created within very unequal power dynamics. One activist, Gustavo Esteva during the 2002 protests against plans for a McDonald's in the main square of Oaxaca put it succinctly, "This is nothing less than a cultural conquest."

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douglashonorscollege · 3 years

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Burn the House Down

essay by Olivia McDougall ⌂

IT WAS 2006 in the heart of New York City. The New York Knicks failed to make the play-offs for the third consecutive year. President George W. Bush’s approval rating had hit at an all-time low. Panic! at the Disco released “I Write Sins Not Tragedies” and Justin Timberlake performed “SexyBack” on the MTV Video Music Awards—hosted by Jack Black—at Radio City Music Hall. For the American people, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times… and three young kids were out pursuing their dream in the streets of Manhattan.

Adam, Ryan, and Jack Metzger were trying their hand at busking in Central Park and Washington Square. The youngest at nine years old, Jack led vocals while his older brothers backed him with instrumentals. The boys played covers of songs old and new, anything to get enough money for new instruments with which to experiment. The brothers spent many years on street corners serenading strangers, earning their 10,000 hours. In the following years, when YouTube started gaining traction, the boys put up videos of their covers: more and more inventive spins on pop songs. Jack and Ryan also started trying their hand at writing, directing, and acting in their own little sketches for video content. At that time, the boys had very few followers, but nonetheless continued to play, to save up, to buy more equipment, to make more music.

As they grew, the boys were exposed to their parents’ old records and the sounds of a very different generation influenced their style. The Beach Boys; the Beatles; Peter, Paul, and Mary among many others inspired them, but more contemporary artists like Kanye West also came into play. Later, while eldest brother Adam pursued his degree at Columbia University, the younger two brothers took note of sampling—the music trend of artists taking sound clips and reusing them in their songs. Jack mentioned to his brotherhow cool it would be if someone sampled Spongebob Squarepants on a track.

“Well, why don’t we do it?” was Ryan’s reply.

In spring of 2013, the brothers, naming themselves AJR after their own initials, released a video of their first single “I’m Ready.” The song sampled the popular Spongebob catchphrase, and became a classic, upbeat, dance-floor pop song. The brothers sent the link to their video to several celebrities over Twitter, until famous singer-songwriter Sia noticed them and passed it along to her manager. The song was then commercially released that summer and began to see regular radio play, and the band was labeled as the next up and comers in the music scene.

After “I’m Ready,” AJR released a five song EP of the same name. Their first song continued to grow, receiving millions of views on YouTube and going platinum in Canada and Australia. The brothers continued to create music (and go to school; the eldest was only in his early twenties at this time), releasing another single and EP titled Infinity in 2014. The majority of the band’s music was pop songs, easy to listen to with familiar rhythms and lyrics of love and youth. Remarkably, the boys chose to mix and record all their own music in their NYC apartment living room, instead of paying for studio time. Paying homage to their workspace and independence, the band released their first album Living Room in 2015. Except for some bouncier, odd-duck tracks like “Big Idea” and “Thirsty,” most of the songs fit the same earlier patterns of the pop genre. However, in 2016, the band experienced the shift that would change their music career forever.

Before the What Everyone’s Thinking EP came out, AJR had little recognition beyond their break-out hit. However, the tracks on the latest EP sounded entirely evolved from the brother’s previous style. The lyrics were brimmed with honesty, abandoning the emptiness of many other pop tunes. The boys sang about missing out on their friends while pursuing their dreams, about being unsure about what love means, about not trying so hard to be cool, about being human. Their style of composition had also matured. The band would release videos on how they made their songs, revealing that they took whatever strange sound they could make and mix it however they could to make it new and interesting. They had people who were not musicians or artists, such as their ever supportive father, come in and sing to add a new dimension to their songs. They used something they called “spokestep,” a technique of recording a someone singing, then cutting it up over a beat in editing. They continued to utilize sampling, taking bits of anything from Fountains of Wayne to yodeling competitions. The EP was well-received with hundreds of messages from fans who deeply related to the music. This was all the push the brothers needed to keep writing freely, and not what they thought would sell.

On June 9th, 2017, the three brothers dropped the album that would unknowingly launch their music career to a unimaginable level. Several songs on the album made it to regular radio play, giving the band more recognition and growing their dedicated fan base. The Click clearly communicated AJR’s desire to get real in their music, with songs about the detached feelings of growing up or distaste toward the typical party scene. One of their most successful songs, “Sober Up,” featured Weezer’s Rivers Cuomo and paved the way for more collaborations with artists such as Steve Aoki and Lil Yachty. The band had been on tours before, playing small venues where the opener drew more fans than they, but now they began to sell out everywhere. The kids who had been playing to no one on street corners now began to sing for thousands.

Shortly after their album The Click debuted, AJR announced that they had been asked to create the theme for Supersize Me 2: Holy Chicken, a documentary attempting to expose the fast food industry’s lax safety regulations. The band had been asked to write for other people before, but never for a movie. The theme song, “Burn the House Down,” would live to surpass its original purpose and become the honest encapsulation of the political attitudes of its time. “Burn the House Down” expresses the band’s indecision to either “keep things light” or to get involved in important issues. The song, with compelling lyrics such as “Or should I march with every stranger from Twitter to get shit done? / Used to hang my head low / Now I hear it loud / Every stranger from Twitter is gonna burn this down” further cemented the band’s dedication to revolution and their abandonment of passivity. The song called out deception plaguing the media cycle and public affairs, and the need to burn it all down in order to expose the truth.

* * *

The election of Donald Trump in 2016 acted as a catalyst for various protest movements around the country. Marches have occurred on the White House doorstep since the signing of the Constitution, but the Trump administration triggered a marked influx. Beyond Washington, protests like the Women’s March and National Pride March were seen nation-wide. People from all over rallied together to advocate for science and evidenced-based policies, for immigrant’s rights and racial justice, for transparency over Russian involvement in elections, and even for the publication of Trump’s tax returns. People, especially those liberal-leaning, felt that their voices weren’t being heard and that the President was not reflective of their values. Change in politics is gradual and incremental, but it felt like everyday a new injustice was being thrown at the American people. Families were being separated at the border, more evidence that Russia swayed the 2016 election came to light, allegations of sexual abuse from the President were revealed, racism, sexism, and hate seem to run rampant and unchecked, and overall many people felt disheartened and disgusted with the state of the nation. So, with the power of social media, users of popular sites such as Facebook and Twitter planned protests. The marches drew thousands of people together, uniting many for a common cause. Today’s youth, often labeled as lazy and entitled, came together in the March for Our Lives, an empowering result from one of many tragic school shootings. High-schoolers fed up with feeling unsafe on their campuses advocated for stricter gun control laws and led the biggest youth rally since the Vietnam War, to the tune of hundreds of thousands of people. Americans refused to take anything sitting down and demonstrated their needs loudly to those in charge.

The effectiveness of these protests is a tricky one to determine, as many perceived different goals for the marches. Some believe getting people out on the streets and building a community of like-minded people is a strong start, but others think success is nothing less than immediate change and tangible evidence that they have been heard. Further, some argue that current protests lack the solid political backing that are required to enact true change, and that the marches will never be as powerful as they mean to be without that factor. However, even though many of the things modern protests have demanded have yet to come to fruition, it does not necessarily mean the marches have been for naught. Many of the marches throughout history that today are viewed as world-shattering did not see the change they were fighting for immediately. Politics take time, and the justice and change in policies the people demand to see might still be a long time coming. However, it is necessary to take up the fight, for the people to demonstrate that enough is enough.

Protest songs in the past like “Fortunate Son” by Credence Clearwater Revival or “The Times They are A-Changin” by Bob Dylan rallied people for their cause, stoking the flames of change in hearts across the nation. Music was a way for artists to contribute to the fight, giving a voice to those silenced and reflecting the opinions of the oppressed or wronged. Protest songs today have the same effect, uniting thousands to sing in one voice and empowering movements. “Burn the House Down” provides a battlecry for a whole new generation of people. It is a warning of accountability for those in the corrupt establishment; the harbingers will burn it down.

Works Cited “Burn the House Down” Music Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UnyLfqpyi94 AJR Zach Sang Interview: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQnXGsKwaIU&t=1725 Recent Marches Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_rallies_and_protest_marches_in_Washington,_D.C.#2018 Supersize Me 2 Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Super_Size_Me_2:_Holy_Chicken! Article on political protests, bustle.com: https://www.bustle.com/p/do-political-protests-actually-change-anything-29952 2006 NYC Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:2006_in_New_York_City AJR Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/AJR_(band) One of AJR’s “How We Made THE CLICK” Vidoes: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YWj3DAo6xM ∎

More on Olivia ~ Minerva’s Owl Homepage

#journal #journal2021 #2021

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sellyoursoulforagoodfic · 4 years

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The Montgomery Files: Chapter 7

Dredd x reader

By @adventuresintooblivion

Word Count: 2194

Summary: A gala. With embezzlement. And Wolfe’s family. Oh joyous day!

Note: Takes place after my series that you can find in the Masterlist.

Montgomery sighed softly, picking idly at her Lo Mein. Tonight was a weird night. Dredd and Y/LN were on a mission together for fucking once but it was guard duty of all things. It was for a fundraiser for kids or something like that. But not only were they undercover, the event was hosted by the Wolfes of all people.

After Chief had told the couple about their assignment, Montgomery had been called into Control for a special favor. While the Chief didn’t cash in her special favors very often, this one seemed to be particularly important. And illegal. Hence, why it had been given to Montgomery.

Her skills with a computer were somewhat infamous amongst her peers. However, they all were aware that what she did wasn’t always within the confines of the law. Most people tended to turn a blind eye since it kept street Judges alive. This was different though.

This assignment wasn’t dangerous and it was almost impossible for either Dredd or Y/LN to get injured let alone killed. It was a fundraiser for crying out loud. What were they doing, hiding guns in the punch? But with the Wolfe’ involved, Montgomery couldn’t help but wonder if this was a bit personal.

Despite the fact that she usually thrived on this underground night life, Montgomery couldn’t help but wish she was at home watching some stupid mystery show. Over the past couple years, she’d practically begged Operators and Handlers alike for a chance like this. To be working with the two best Judges to walk the planet and be allowed to do as much shady shit as she wanted? It was a dream.

And five minutes in it became obvious that Dredd had a stick up his ass the size of the empire state building. His tux was bare minimum. He refused to drink or even grab Y/LN anything. Something about not being intoxicated while on duty. Then to top it off, he wouldn’t dance.

Again Montgomery was staring into the live feed, the gaudy decorations making her go a little cross eyed. For some relief she happened to glance over at a separate screen which displayed, in live time, the charity funds and where they were going. A list next to the sum of money in the account caught her attention. It was all of the guests credit card information, security number and all. Even the bogus cards that had been given the Dredd and Y/LN were listed. If Montgomery wanted to, she could get herself a nice pair of boots.

She pushed the thought aside as she began tracking the funds. Money began to pour in as the bidding started. The website said the money was supposed to fund a research program for children affected by pollution. It was called KIDS2BCURED. While the name was cheesy enough to make it sound real, it didn’t mean anything.

Montgomery flipped through the half dozen windows she had open for this project before finally settling on the bank accounts. It was supposed to arrive in a joint bank account for employees and supervisors to use in order to fund their research. However, no matter how much bidding was done at the fundraiser, no money showed up.

Montgomery frowned. Maybe there was some weirdly high tech security on this.

But then she got curious and began tracking down the paper trail from KIDS2BCURED. It existed on a couple pieces of paper but besides registering for the name the actual company didn’t exist.

Suddenly one of her windows pinged as it begam active. As she pulled it up she glanced at the headline. This was a list of all the bank accounts owned by the Wolfe’s respective business ventures. The one labeled as DuoCare Pharmaceuticals was suddenly filling up with hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Montgomery followed the paper trail on this as well, wondering how real this company was compared to KIDS2BCURED. Soon she found a copyright license for the name and a deed to a warehouse. The nice a reputable kind that’s surrounded by the shittiest part of town and other empty warehouses. And the bank account itself was owned directly by Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe.

“Welp, that’s illegal.” Montgomery couldn’t stop the chuckle as it came unbidden to her lips.

Rodrigez peeked around the wall of the cubical, “Oh? Illegal? Now you wouldn’t be snooping around unauthorized locations again?” His sing-song voice barely penetrated the drone of the party coming through her headphones.

This time Montgomery rolled her eyes, “No, I’m authorized to go where I want this time. But you know the friendly neighborhood fuck-up?”

He nodded eagerly, slowly making his way over to peer at her computer screen.

“Her parents are totally embezzling money from the richest and most powerful families in the Megacity.”

“Aren’t half of those Mafia?”

Montgomery nodded and continued typing.

Rodrigez continued, “No fucking way. That’s too ballsy to be someone related to her. Wait, do you think she knows?”

Before she could answer Rodriez hopped back on his computer and began typing furiously. His face lit up with an intense focus. Montgomery glanced over curious. All she could see was Wolfe’ picture on the screen.

“Oh Montgomery, this is poetic. She’s there.” he exclaimed.

Montgomery felt her mouth fall open, “She’s at the fundraiser?”

He nodded, “She requested off just for it.”

Montgomery squealed happily, “Oh this is gonna be great. Wait, am I a bad person for wanting this to happen?”

Rodrigez shrugged as Montgomery switched the comms on, “Y/LN, Dredd?”

It was Y/LN who replied, “Yes?”

The Handler grinned, “So how’s babysitting?”

“Dear God, Montgomery, don't get me started. Is there something you need?” She groaned into the microphone.

“Hmm? Oh nothing except a possible arrest warrant for Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe.”

There was a long moment of silence on the other side of the comms, “Hello?”

Y/LN cleared her throat, “Yeah, I’m here. I just...What for?”

“Embezzlement. Turns out that little fundraiser they host eventually works around to line their own pockets.”

A deep chuckle came over the comms, “Oh that is too perfect. Has the warrant been made official yet?”

Montgomery rolled her eyes, “Come on, Dredd, what do you take me for?”

Montgomery quickly sent the information to the Chief as a soft groan emanated over the speaker.

“I think you’re a Handler that straddles the line of the law and who frequently dips their toe into questionably legal activities. You’re also really fucking loud,” he replied. The screen finally flickered to life as he finished.

“So why haven’t you arrested me yet?”

Dredd didn’t dignify her with an answer as the scanners began to identify party goers. People dressed in the most expensive of fabrics this city could create. Montgomery chuckled dryly as she noticed the copious amounts of potpourri. So this is what the rich did to hide the stench of the squalor that surrounded them.

A soft ping pulled her from her thoughts as a notification appeared on Dredd’s screen.

His deep voice soon followed, “Arrest order received. We will commence with caution.”

Y/LN grumbled, “You know if it was anyone else besides the Wolfe’ the we wouldn’t be waiting for a warrant. We’re Judges.”

Dredd sighed softly and turned to look at his wife, “They donated thousands of dollars to the Academy since Wolfe joined. Not to mention they have a monopoly on the materials used to make our uniforms bullet proof. Understandably, the Chief is a bit nervous about this whole thing.”

Montgomery interrupted, “Hey guys, maybe we should talk about this later when we aren’t being recorded.”

Y/LN pressed her lips together before standing and making her way towards the Wolfe’. Dredd followed close behind. His hand rested on his firearm gently as they got within speaking distance. Judge Wolfe was standing beside them.

In Montgomery’s opinion, her dress was hideous. It was a silver strapless monstrosity. The color plus the copious amounts of ruffles left her looking like a pale scrawny chicken with no breasts. Her badly dyed hair didn’t help matters in the slightest. And she was about to get the shock of her life.

“Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe you are under arrest for fraud, embezzlement and forgery. You’re coming with us.” Y/LN pulled out her cuffs and began restraining the suspects.

Mr. Wolfe stammered, “E...Excuse me? We’ve done no such thing! Where is the proof?”

Dred spoke over Mr. Wolfe’ rambling, “Sir, you know how this goes. We are waiting to sentence you away from your daughter. Don’t make this any harder on yourself.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? These are my parents, they can’t do anything illegal.” Judge Wolfe’ shrill voice pierced through the clamour of the crowd.

“Stand down Judge. This isn’t your case.” Y/LN shot her down. She wasn’t about to deal with her tonight.

“No I will not stand down! I mean seriously, this can’t be happening. They wouldn’t steal. They donate to a bunch of charities-.”

Y/LN finished for her, “While lining their pockets. We’re not going to discuss this further.”

Wolfe whipped out her badge, “I am a Judge too and I order you not to take them.”

Dredd began pulling the Wolfe’s away, “You don’t have that authority. Stop making a fuss.”

“Also, I’m your partner. I know you’re a Judge. You’re supposed to know how this process works,” Y/L/N grumbled.

Wolfe stomped her foot, “If you take another step I’ll arrest you for...uh...kidnapping.”

Y/LN growled, “Wolfe this is your last chance, get out of the way.” Wolfe folded her arms in defiance, “Alright, you’re charged with obstruction of justice. One night in a holding cell.”

Wolfe’ mouth fell open. She didn’t move in time to escape the cuffs and before long all three Wolfe’ were escorted out.

Y/LN let out a large sigh of relief as she smiled at her husband, “That was so satisfying.”

“DAMN FUCKING RIGHT IT WAS!” Both Y/LN and Dredd flinched, grunting at the pain that lanced through their ears.

Dredd growled, “What the fuck, Montgomery?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. That was so cool. I had to put the comms on mute so I didn’t yell your ears off.”

“Don’t worry; I recorded it,” Rodrigez chimed in.

The heavy door on the transport closed with a heavy thunk. The Wolfes all hung their heads in shame. Y/N was about to leave but before she could get very far, something tugged on her hand.

She turned to see Dredd giving her only what she could call a sheepish grin. She couldn’t stop her answering smile from spreading across her lips.

“What?”

“Well.” He pulled her closer until their bodies were pressed together. “I can’t help but notice that you’re all nice and dressed up.”

She smiled as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her body molding against his, “You look rather handsome yourself.”

Dredd chuckled, “Why thank you. Now, we have a rare opportunity presented to us. We are both dressed up, out on the town and have the rest of the night free. Fuck the Wolfe. They’ll still be there in the morning.”

Y/N blinked in surprise, “Judge Dredd, putting off the law?”

He pressed his lips against hers, silencing her before pulling her away from the gathering crowd. They quickly disappeared into a nearby hotel. Y/N laughed nervously as she looked around.

The place was decorated lavishly. Even though they’d never been here before it was obvious it’d been decorated for some event. The chandeliers glinted like thousands of stars against a marble ceiling. Plush chairs were set around a large fireplace. Tables and desks shone with an intense red that Dredd didn’t know could belong to wood.

A clerk dressed in a tux glanced up from the front desk, “Hello, are you two here for the Midnight Gala?”

Dredd pressed his lips together, “ Yes?”

The clerk nodded before typing quickly on his computer, “Names please?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Y/LN,” Y/N answered.

After a few clicks he smiled, “Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Y/LN I’m so glad you could make it. I have your reservations right here. Would you like me to print out your invitations?”

Dredd shared a look with his wife before replying, “That’d be great.”

As they were being escorted through the hotel, Y/N leaned over to her husband, “What the fuck?”

The comms buzzed to life, “You’re welcome.”

“Montgomery? You’ve got to stop this, you’re being creepy.”

“Then turn off your cameras.”

Y/N grumbled before finally asking, “You did this?”

Montgomery chuckled, “You two looked so adorable such busy busy Judges. I figured you could use the break.”

Y/LN smiled despite the fact that the Handler couldn’t see her, “That’s awfully sweet of you. So, what’re you planning?”

“Nothing.” She replied. “But after you’re done I”ll be rooting for you to fuck him sideways.”

Y/N suppressed the urge to admonish her but instead turned off her camera and squeezed Dredd’s elbow, urging him to do the same.

#dredd x reader #judge dredd x reader #dredd imagines #judge dredd imagine #dredd imagine #reader insert #the montgomery files #Dredd OCs

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emsartwork · 4 years

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Oh, could you tell us about specific festivities or holidays each planet has? Like, are they significant to events or locations, are they based on legends or mythos, that kinda stuff!

They’re based on all kinds of things!

below the cut this is hella long

Starting with the basics, Day of the Rose is a reference to a famous lady magic user(Lesya) who focused on caring for outcasts in society, she used a mix of Fairy transformations and Witch style magic but her title is Mage of Roses. When she died, thousands of people placed roses over her grave, and started giving roses to women who were similar to Lesya and the flower itself became a symbol of honor and respect for compassionate and inspiring women. It originated on Magix but is celebrated Dimension wide. Mothers are the most common recipients of roses, but anybody can give a rose to any woman they want to show appreciation for. Magix city has a large parade with floats and dancers and street food and carnival games, other parades vary.

Hala, or, The Storm Celebrations. Andros has a a lot of rain in general, but early spring is monsoon season, boats don’t go out and people stay inside unless absolutely necessary. Hala is both a celebration of the rainy season which brings life afterwards, and a ceremony that is supposed to ease the potential damage from the storms. Always held on a full moon, Hala is celebrated with feasts, traditional/ceremonial dances, and large bonfires in the evening(with more dancing and food). Hala also includes a commemoration of Queen Nephele, who protected the capital city from a record breaking storm for more than a week(she survived but had lasting health complications due to over use of magic). Aisha is pictured here in Hala ceremonial dance wear, featuring a headdress, braided cords, shells, and fan leaves.

The most practical of Holidays, Zenith “celebrates” the end of winter with a few days off and a relieving breath of fresh air. Zenith technology keeps the most bitter cold out of communities, but the difference in air temperature can lead to the snow melting and re-freezing at the boundary. Eventually this leads to a build up of packed ice creating a “zenith snow globe” as its jokingly called. Once the temperatures rise enough that the dome won’t reform, the dome is shattered and the ice packed up and shipped out for various purposes. The shattering of the ice dome is considered especially beautiful to off-planeters, but zenithians consider it a matter of necessity.

Solaria has the Summer Center Festival, held twice a “year” when the planet is in the center of it’s orbit. It a huge, three day party, Solarians feast, dance, drink, and decorate themselves, their hair, and literally everything else with ribbons gemstones and glitter. Each day is supposed to represent one of Solaria’s suns, the Dawn Star, the Dusk Star, and the Second Sun of Solaria(not a real sun, a magical power source), but much of the distinctions between each day have been lost as the festival has gotten older. Another holiday on Solaria is a much less popular one called Iahlayculi (ee-ah-lah-koo-lee, don’t ask its a mash up of like three words and languages) or the Night of Many Eyes. Its celebrated once a year, whenever the most moons will be around the planet (calculated with astronomy and physics and shit). It’s much more somber than The Summer Center Festival, and is considered a time of great self reflection and magical potential. Practitioners wear a loose draped dress, a wreath around their head, and craft a lunar lantern(usually magic but sometimes by hand). The wreathes are burned, and the lanterns released to the sky as offerings to the moons of Solaria. This celebration is a favorite of witches(especially Mediums and Psychics) but the general population views it as a little too occult.

Firefest is held at the height of summer. There isn’t really a central location for the celebration, though the capital city is known for it’s fireworks display. Each community puts together it’s own local festivals featuring a large bonfire, large and small fireworks, and food/game booths. The Firefest honors the first king and queen of domino, Volenae(queen) and Zaphiric(king). They were also the first holders of the Dragon Flame and Phoenix Flame. They aren’t a married couple but siblings, sharing a joint reign over Domino and eventually creating two bloodlines for the dragon and the phoenix to flow along. Volenae’s symbol is antler like horns, and Zaphiric’s symbol is a black feather, both of these feature prominently in folk art and Firefest masks.

Celebrated in late summer, The day of the Singing Whales is the one time a year the whales surface for a breath of air. It is unknown if the Whales are Natural Animals, Fairy Animals, or Ethereally Blessed beings. While the Whales only surface in one specific bay, music festivals are often held inland, and everybody participates in fireworks and festival type games after sunset.

The day of Returning is an odd holiday for non-Lynpheans. While Lynpheans are known for their nature preservation and association with living plants, the Day of Returning celebrated the ever present death in nature. Lynpheans are very familiar with death, and don’t view it as a “bad thing” most of the time. Untimely death or unwarented violence is frowned upon but Lynpheans understand that death follows life and life follows death. In fact in some Lynphean dialects, “death” is refered to as “returning” (ex: Old Uncle Bush returned peacefully in his sleep last may.) Mushrooms are the central icon of “returning” being organisms that live off of death in a very tangible way. The Common Lynphean Green Cap is the most popular to use. The cap of Green Cap contains psychedelic substances that can very often result in death. However, the stalk of the Green Cap contains the anti toxins. When taken alone the cap results in severe hallucinations and eventual death. When the stalk is taken alone it clears the body of toxins and has pain relieving effect. When taken together the cap and the stalk produce a mild euphoria, sometimes with (usually auditory) hallucinations(basically its kinda like acid). On the Day of returning Local Temples/Sanctuaries open up the use of the mushrooms as a way to come in to hear the voice of nature and connect the spirit with the physical manifestation of death. These Mushrooms are easy to get addicted to, and are a controlled substance limited to ceremonial or pharmaceutical use, but possession isn’t criminalized and the Lynphean community is very involved with addiction recovery programs.

A Lady I’ve mentioned in passing a few times, Reagis the Cruel, Fairy of Lace. When the Anscestrals first started looking for the Dragon Flame, they placed a Fairy on the throne of Eraklyon as pawn, “blessing” her with their power and tying her core magic to the planet itself. Reagis is Eraklyan, and reigned with an iron fist. She had no empathy for basically anyone, but hated men especially(bad childhood and lots of trauma combined with a superiority complex and power equals big yikes), placing them lowest on the social status and promoting women like her above them. Compassion was a social sin, an act of kindness towards another could lead to public censure and imprisonment, and the people of Eraklyon started to abandon each other emotionally. Sky’s Grandfather and Grandmother, Oris and Edra(along with a young Erendor), resisted and became anonymous figures who helped people in trouble. Eventually they had enough of a following to hold a proper rebellion. Oris and Edra lead the charge and Edra(a warrior) fought with Reagis while Oris(a magic user) worked on disconnecting Regis from her power sources which revived her every time Edra did manage to land a blow. When Reagis was finally un-linked her magic core freaked tf out and Edra landed one final blow with her spear to make Reagis’s magic go completely berserk and burn her up. Edra unfortunately took too much damage and passed after that. Oris was crowned king, established New Earklyon Day, and ruled for a few years before also passing away (due to complication in his core magic because of the way he un-linked Reagis’s from the ancestrals and the planet), and Erendor took the throne. New Eraklyon Day is celebrated with a parade in the capital city and is a national holiday(ie, day off work). Street fairs along the parade route are also common. Reagis’s reign is partially why women aren’t trusted in positions of power or the emotional realm of decision making, and are instead usually pushed towards physical fighting and enforcement.

Vaonaa celebrates the Festival of Threads! The festival is to honor the Ethereal Fairy known as The Threaded One. The Threaded One is unusual for Ethereal Fairies, in that they have regular, benign, interactions with a specific people at a specific time in a specific place (ethereals are usually much more unpredictable). But for whatever reason, The Threaded One seems to enjoy the Festival of Threads. The Festival is centrally located at the Woven Temple, but smaller scale local festivals are also common. The event happens over four days, with a different activity and group each day. The first day the grass fibers are gathered by the youths in the community, this is preformed as a game with kids leading lines with a flag and running/ducking in a pattern across fields to grab the grasses. The second day the adults preform the spinning dance, rotating and using drop spindles to spin the grass fibers into threads. The third day is when the elders groups together and weave the story of the year into the textile in a mix of group chants and oral poetry. The fourth day is for everybody, and the fabric created for the ceremony is burned in a hug bonfire as a sacrifice to The Threaded One. The bonfire is usually when The Threaded One publicly appears but some years they appear periodically through the other four days.

(psa: Vaonaa is very heavily based on Navajo native american culture, I very loosely based this festival on some of the four/nine day healing ceremonies, but ultimately I didn’t want it to just be a weirder version of a religious and culturally significant ceremony so I changed and added a lot. As always, please let me know if you have issues with this im always willing to listen and learn.)

Another practical society, Zhen’s featured festival is the Spring Shear. Just as winter is ending, local communities on Zhen start a flurry of activity. The domestic herds of Argali are sheared, and the wild herds are searched out and counted, hunted, selected for domestication, or moved to a different location. While Argalis do produce a wool like substance, they do not absolutely need to be sheared the way our sheep do. Their wool is shed or scrapped off by the sheep naturally, and it comes off in fluffy chunks, but the Zhen people find it useful and easier to shear their herds for a clean fleece. The fleeces are carded, spun, and wound onto spools in huge huge amounts, a lot of weaving is done at this time as well but its not the main focus. After the majority of the work is done, Zhenese relax and eat/drink/play in a fair like environment, usually held in market squares of estate courtyards.

On Koyu, the Koyuvian Silk Moths are an iconic animal. Uniquely adapted to it’s environment, the Koyuvian Silk Moths are one of the only creature to live in the outer reaches of the Tangles, feeding off the radiation and burrowing into the living fungal limbs. However, the pupal stage is too fragile to survive the outer Tangles, so the moths travel inward to lay their eggs. The caterpillars eat a the leaves of a luminescent plant called Naemtaj, and eventually produce a silk strand cocoon and transform into the moth. After the moth wiggles out of the cocoon, they’re wings begin to glow and they begin to flock together to travel to the outer Tangles. This is the signal for the Koyvians to begin hunting for the cocoons when begin to give off a faint glow as they deteriorate with out the moth’s body chemicals to keep it intact. The Koyuvians must move fast and usually have several locations in an area with a boiling pot to stabilize the strands as they hunt for the cocoons. Eventually the searching dies down and the silk strands are brushed and wound onto spools for future use. The anticipation before the moths are born is buzzing with energy and bets are placed on who can find the most cocoons. After the work, the Koyuvians relax with food and drink.

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