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chocoholicannanymous · 3 years

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If the Spit Hits the Fan (Glee) Pt XVII

This is the penultimate part. The last one is written and drafted - I did finish while on vacation. Expect it for next weekend.

Follows pt I, pt II, pt III, pt IV, pt V, pt VI, pt VII, pt VIII, pt IX, pt X, pt XI, pt XII, pt XIII, pt XIV, pt XV and pt XVI.

It's as everything happens in May. Kurt feels as if he should be used to it by now, but this year is worse than any before. It's understandable, he guesses, what with it being his senior year, but understanding doesn't help. Some of the squares on his wall calendar has so many things on them they're barely legible, and there are days when he wants to just quit it all.

He can always work in his dad's garage for the rest of his life. Surely that's not the worst thing ever?

The only reason he's not a complete wreck when Nationals comes is the Warblers meeting held right after Regionals where David had used logic (how dare he) and suggested their approach to Nationals.

Kurt's first, immediate reaction is “we're never going to win with that” which he also says out loud, only to be met by “so what”.

“I don't say this lightly. I've been a Warbler for four years. It's been amazing to be surrounded by all of these talented people, and make music just because we like it, and that's why I've kept it up even with all the hints I've gotten that my 'future career' would be better served by me spending that time on learning another language or studying harder. After all, what use is singing and dancing for a lawyer?”

There's a bitterness in David's voice, and it's echoed in a number of murmurs around the room.

“This is the one thing I do for fun, that I do just for me, and some days the only thing that makes slogging through my mountain of homework bearable is knowing that once I'm done I can go enjoy Warblers. This year's group hold more talent of all my years here, which is why it hurts to say that I don't think we can win, no matter what setlist we go on with. We're simply not the kind of group that wins a contest like this.”

Which, probably true. The Warblers are good, yes, but they're an all boys a capella group performing in uniforms. They don't have the productions that teams who wins Nationals do. Doesn't mean that it hurts just as much to hear as it hurts to say.

“The truth is – and I'm sorry, I know we don't talk about him, but I have to – the truth is that we didn't even compete before Blaine.”

Kurt expects it to sting to hear his name. It does, but not much. He's moving past that.

“Blaine walked in here and wanted to compete so badly. He spent his first semester here trying to talk us into trying, even with all the reasons we had for not going so, and he got his way. That doesn't change the fact that this is only our second year competing, and we've surpassed all expectations by making it to Nationals. To do so again and win, or even place in the top... I don't think we can do that, not even with all the talent in this room.”

No one likes hearing that, but no one's disagreeing either. They aren't going to win. That's just how it is.

“So why not do that we like? Why don't we pick songs we like and that showcases our strengths? Why don't we sing a song that will make you happy, Kurt? And if it knocks us down in the ranking to do so, who cares? I don't.”

To hear someone say that Kurt's happiness should matter more than placement – to hear David say it, after everything the year before – causes tears to well up in his eyes. To hear every single Warbler agree make those tears fall.

They'd walked out of that meeting stronger than they'd gone in, and Kurt lets himself gather strength from that memory for a few seconds before he steps forward and lets his voice soar.

“Something has changed within me, something is not the same / I'm through with playing by the rules, of someone else's game”

They finish eleventh. It's better than they'd dared to hope, with all the absolutely excellent teams competing. It the joy is tinged with a little bitterness? Who can blame them? Maybe, more than one of them wonders, a more conventional setlist could have placed them among the top ten. At the same time they're all aware that maybe it would have have placed them dead last. There's no way of telling, and no use speculating.

They did their best, enjoyed their performance and finished eleventh at Nationals. That's nothing to look down on. In fact...

“We did better than New Directions last year” Kurt says with a smirk.

They've beaten his old team, his so-called friends, in every way possible and he allows himself to see that as a win.

Finn posts video of all their songs on his Facebook and is proud (and smug) enough to also post the “Defying Gravity” performance in the Glee group with a comment about how Kurt obviously could hit that note, tagging both Rachel and Mr Schue. It's petty, and Kurt should be big enough of a person to ask Finn to remove it, but no. If his brother wants to stand up for him Kurt isn't just going to let him, he's going to be grateful.

Feeling loved and protected is not something he's ever going to scoff at.

Nationals is followed by finals, the less said about the better, and then prom. Or well, “the Dalton Academy and Crawford County Day Joint Spring Formal”. Same thing right?

Wrong.

The spring formal is every thing junior prom wasn't. It's not really the fact that Sebastian asks Kurt properly to be his date for the formal, and compliments his outfit. It's not that even without decorations Dalton's auditorium is more grand than McKinley's gym. It's not even the grand dinner with lit candles, waiters and three courses before the dance or that there's a band that plays waltzes and foxtrot for the first two hours before the DJ is allowed to take over.

It's that even before they've entered the transformed dining hall Kurt spots half a dozen same-sex couples, a number that keeps going up during the evening. It's the fact that he gets to dance the whole evening, not in a group or with a girl, but with Sebastian and the occasional Warbler. Mostly it's Sebastian's arms he's in, and it's amazing.

It's so far from his junior prom and Blaine that it almost hurts.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No. Everything is... This year everything is perfect.”

Sebastian doesn't look entirely convinced, but decides to drop it and instead lean closer for a kiss.

The evening really is perfect.

The morning of his birthday Kurt walks into the dining hall alone only to be met with a table full of Warblers that stand up and sing for him as soon as he clears the door. There's one place left at the table, next to Sebastian, set with the kind of breakfast not even Dalton serves (fresh croissant, strawberries, a piece of brie and a one-person pot of tea) with a rainbow rose in a vase. Kurt sits down with a smile and leans over to kiss his boyfriend's cheek.

“So, rainbow roses are going to be our thing, is it? I love it.”

He spends the day with a smile on his lips, because his boyfriend took the time to do something special for him on his birthday and his friends have promised cake in the Warblers' room after dinner, and he feels loved.

“Cake” turns out to be cheesecake and presents, and more singing, and so much more smiling. Afterwards Sebastian walks him back to his room. There's no kissing though, which Kurt finds unacceptable.

“Isn't there some kind of rule that you get kisses on your birthday? I would have thought that was a part of the boyfriend experience, and to be honest I'm feeling very much unkissed.”

That nets him a crooked smile, but still no kisses. It's almost enough to worry him.

“You can have all the kisses you want, and not just on your birthday, you know that babe. However, there's something else I wanted you to have first.”

Sebastian pulls out a small package from him pocket and hands it over with a smile, which begins to fade when Kurt doesn't immediately take it. It's just, well.

“Another present? You shouldn't have.”

“Another? What do you mean?”

The truth is that Kurt fully expected breakfast and a rose to be the whole of Sebastian's congratulations, and he doesn't quite know how to take getting more than that. He doesn't really know how to explain it though, and definitely not in a way that won't start Sebastian on another rant about how Blaine was unworthy of Kurt's affection. Especially since it's not just about him.

Turns out he doesn't need to say anything – and apparently he's getting yet another present in the form of the absence of that rant.

“Breakfast was a treat. This is your actual present, which I hope you'll like at least as much as that.”

Sebastian looks a little worried as Kurt removes the paper and opens the small box inside (and if he's a little shaky to open a jewelry box from his boyfriend no one needs to know). It's a pair of gorgeous cufflinks with just the right balance between classy and unique and he absolutely loves them.

“These are amazing! They're too much, really, but they're so gorgeous that I'm going to pretend they're not. I love them!” I love you. But that's a bit too early to say, and so instead he leans forward and does his absolute best to communicate exactly that through kissing.

#chocoholic fics #kurt fic #kurt hummel #sebastian smythe #kurtbastian #itshtf

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cicada-bones · 3 years

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The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 2: Hunting

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rowan soared out, over the turrets and bridges, and towards that faint pulse of dark power he could still sense within the palace.

He shifted and landed lightly on the pads of his feet in a small interior courtyard with a central fountain, then turned quickly down the hall to his left and pushed open a plain stone door that sat halfway down the passage. Inside, he was greeted by a bare space that held only an immaculate bed, a cold fireplace, and a wooden desk at which sat a tall, dark, brooding figure facing away from him, studying a worn piece of paper.

“Whitethorn,” Lorcan said without turning to look at him. “What in rutting hell do you want.”

It had been nearly a year since Rowan had seen the male, and yet there was no greeting, no warmth from him. Not that Rowan expected anything else.

In earlier years, when he had first encountered Lorcan, Rowan had pitied the male. Had wondered what had happened, what had been taken from him as a child on the streets of Doranelle, for him to be this way.

Now…he no longer needed to.

Rowan and Lorcan were the same. Two sides of one coin, black granite and solid ice. Perfect killing tools. A match made in hell.

Exactly where Lorcan got his magic – straight from the fiery pits of hell. Blessed by Hellas, god of death, Lorcan’s power was that of will – of death and thought and destruction. Perhaps that was why he was so attracted to a queen who collected the wills of others as if they were her own.

When Rowan did not reply, Lorcan turned around, revealing features hewn from granite and piercing onyx eyes. “What.”

Rowan hesitated slightly, unsure how to ask the questions he harbored. Lorcan would not take well to questioning their queen. “I assume you know why I was called back from the east.”

“I didn’t even know you were in the east. But yes, I know why you were called to Doranelle. What of it.” The words were blank and empty, and Lorcan’s features barely moved from their cruel cast as they escaped his mouth.

Rowan’s voice was hardly any warmer. “Why.”

Lorcan finally seemed to actually see Rowan. “Gavriel is in the north, Vaughan off with another garrison on the other side of the world. Fenrys is already in Varese, and Connall is upstairs somewhere doing gods know what, and isn’t allowed to leave.” Lorcan’s voice was hard.

“I have been called to the fleet, heading south along the coast and then east through the southern inlets, to send aid to the Erriagti people. I’m set to leave in the next few days, but I should be back before the end of the season. I do not have time for other errands, and you are the next in line.”

Rowan pursed his lips slightly. “There’s still something different about this one. It feels almost as though Maeve is…hiding something.”

Lorcan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What are you insinuating.”

He sighed. “Nothing specifically. This just feels – off.”

“I assumed it was a roundabout method of punishing Fenrys. He’s been pulling at the leash even more than usual lately.”

That explanation didn’t sit well with Rowan, for some reason. “She didn’t reveal anything to you indicating why she wants the girl so badly?”

“I’m sure you remember tell of her power.”

Rowan’s silence was answer enough.

“Well then, there’s your answer.”

Rowan clenched his jaw. “She really seeks to recruit?”

“So it seems.”

“A fire gift for the Queen of the Rivers.” Rowan’s statement was wry, almost skeptical.

Lorcan narrowed his eyes again. “And why would you say that?”

“Maeve built this city of stone and water. She fears fire.” Rowan was almost surprised at his daring for voicing these thoughts aloud. “Why would she covet it so?”

Lorcan’s words were merciless. “Perhaps, all those millennia ago, if our queen had acquired Brannon, we would not watch over a kingdom but instead an empire.”

“So she seeks to conquer.”

“I do not know, Rowan. And frankly I don’t understand where this sudden desire to question our queen’s motives is coming from.”

Rowan didn’t know either.

So he moved on. “What do you know of the girl? I was in the north, fighting in that useless excuse for a war, but you were here when she came to light.”

Lorcan sighed. “She’s demi-Fae. As far as I remember she had shifting abilities – human and Fae forms. Rare, but not unheard of. We don’t know how well trained she is in her powers.”

“So they could be formidable.”

“They could be. Another reason for Maeve sending you.”

Rowan turned his head and narrowed his eyes slightly, considering. Magic had been absent from the western continent for nearly a decade, meaning that the princess wouldn’t have been able to train her powers in her homeland. But her master, Arobynn Hamel, could easily have sent her to a foreign nation to do so.

“And what about as the assassin.”

“Not much had been known about Celaena Sardothien, other than that she was a col-blooded killer. Ruthless and arrogant. Rumors were rampant, and if our queen could divine fact from fiction, she isn’t sharing.”

“But obviously proficient?” Rowan pushed.

“At least against mortals.”

“But she isn’t fully mortal.”

“No she is not. And we do not know if the assassin’s guild trained her in her Fae form.”

As Fae, the princess’ speed and strength would rival even theirs. But only if she had been trained to use it. Rowan’s blood thrilled. “This could be quite the fight.”

Lorcan’s answering smile was brutal. “I’ve never known you to shy from a challenge, Whitethorn. Don’t disappoint me now.”

Rowan’s grin was small and cold as he responded. “And what about you? What are you going to face in the southeast?”

“A royal has turned, and the people have revolted against him, burning wherever they go. Maeve sends aid to the foolish king, setting the price of winning his kingdom back for him that he must lay much of his authority at her feet.” Lorcan grimaced. “At least its more interesting than an errand run to Varese.”

“We’ll see.” Rowan goaded, even though he knew Lorcan was probably right. The princess would likely be as much a pain in his ass as Fenrys was. All royals were the same – spoiled, selfish, and entirely useless. Especially the powerful ones.

Lorcan just huffed a laugh. “Sure. We’ll see.”

“Who knows. Maybe the princess will be so completely useless that Maeve disposes of her the moment they meet at Mistward, and I’ll be able to join you in the southeast.”

Lorcan’s brow furrowed slightly. “Mistward? The western outpost?”

Rowan nodded.

“Maeve is leaving Doranelle?”

“Yes.”

Lorcan’s lips tightened as he turned his head to face the wall. Their queen did not leave her city lightly. Rowan hadn’t been wrong, something had shifted. This meeting was more than just a formality.

Lorcan turned back to face him, and they reached an understanding.

The male’s eyes were dark. “Regardless, your mission remains the same. Go, collect the princess, and leave the future to the oracles.”

Rowan just nodded, and left.

···

The dawn sun stretched its comforting hand out to brush Rowan’s feathers. He hadn’t bothered to transform back into his Fae form to sleep, choosing instead to perch on a convenient branch until morning.

The trip would normally take him three days. Now, with Fenrys waiting for him in Varese already, he’d hoped to half that. So he’d flown through the previous day, pushing his body to its limit. But he hadn’t had even a moment to rest while in Doranelle, meaning he couldn’t move as quickly as he wished. No matter how it irked him, he’d had to sleep last night.

Rowan opened his eyes quickly, jerked from sleep by the sudden warmth while his nightmares slowly faded, the familiar images leeching from behind his eyelids. He sat on the oaken bough, waiting for the screams to dissipate. Lyria.

Rowan sighed into Mala’s embrace. The sun goddess had always favored him, and now she seemed to smile lightly upon his skin, a promise of some kind. Tomorrow, he would reach Varese, and begin the hunt.

Rowan let out a screech of anticipation. He could be walking into the fight of his life, and his blood thrilled to the challenge.

Aelin Galathynius very well could be a considerable threat, one trained in both Fae combat and fire magic. Whose power at nine years of age had people across the world worried about their borders and their futures.

Even in Doranelle they had feared that the princess would one day take her magic beyond Terrasen's borders and across the sea to the city of water and stone. Where she might be powerful enough to pose a threat. But then the world had twisted, and Terrasen fell, like so many other kingdoms in the west this past decade, and Terrasen’s heir was no more. Or so he had thought.

Now the princess was nearing her second decade. She was still young, but a child no more. And her power will only have grown with the passing years. Then, somehow she had come into the service of Adarlan’s King, the man who had overthrown her country, who had murdered her family. And she was in Wendlyn to kill for him.

The princess of Terrasen had abandoned her nation and become a killer. Had become Adarlan’s assassin, Celaena Sardothien.

Even on the other side of the world, rumors of that girl had reached him. She would disappear for a time, and then violently resurface, carnage and destruction in her wake. Rowan had never paid much attention to the stories, rejecting them as fanciful tales. But now he wished he’d paid them more heed.

The girl was obviously proficient in combat. Just the fact that he had heard of her, had noted her existence, attested to that. Even if her strength as a mortal couldn’t hold a candle to any well-trained Fae. But would he be facing her as a mortal?

As it always did before a test, his blood spiked with adrenaline. But this time, the eagerness was tinged with something else. A thought he couldn’t contain. Particularly as the date, the dreaded anniversary, loomed over him like a guillotine blade.

Perhaps today he would see her again.

Rowan violently battered at the hope that yawned its tiny head with the unwelcome thought, a futile attempt to strike away the agony that followed surely after. Lyria.

He shook himself, shuttering the pain away behind walls of ice, and took off into the light of the rising sun.

As Rowan flew, he calculated.

His quarry was a princess of Terrasen, descendant of Brannon and gifted with his fire magic. Once Rowan was in close proximity to her, he would probably be able to sense her power just as he did with any magic wielder. But from a distance, he wasn’t familiar enough with her to sense a gods-damned thing.

Her scent could possibly mark her as Terrasen royalty, but she had spent so many years as another person, in foreign nation, that he couldn’t rely on it alone to track her down. Her scent might not have any traces of Terrasen left.

She would most likely have an Adarlanian accent, or perhaps a Terrasen one. But then again, she had been trained as a spy and assassin, she could be adept at disguising her accent, as well as her distinctive appearance.

But the spy’s information had been predicated upon the princess’s golden hair and turquoise-and-gold eyes; meaning Rowan could be assured that at least within the last week the princess had retained those features.

He couldn’t easily ask around after her either. With the name Aelin Galathynius, or Celaena Sardothien for that matter, she wouldn’t provide any names that would be recognizable at bars or inns. He had to rely on description alone.

There was also the chance that she had found sanctuary with her relatives, the Ashryvers, and he would have to spirit her away under the noses of royal guards.

This was proving to be even more of a challenge than he had originally supposed. From a distance, he would be forced to use that which she could not easily change about herself. Namely, her eyes, her age, and the feeling of her power.

···

The day waxed into night, the miles dissolving beneath his wings. Then the sun rose once more, bringing with it the promise of contest.

Where to look for a princess in the city of Varese? Rowan mused.

The city’s sprawl came into view beneath the clouds, a hilly expanse of red terracotta tiles and white stucco walls. The sun had fully risen now, and was baking the city streets and its many colors into a white-bright haze. In the evenings, the streets would glow golden, falling into lovely streaks of yellow and orange. But during the day, the capital scorched and blistered under Mala’s heavy gaze.

The vegetation that survived the sun’s glare was hardy and tough, but still a dark and vibrant green, contrasting well with warm tones of the capital. Outside the city walls, the evergreens gathered into a thick forest that spread towards the distant mountains and the city of rivers hidden among them.

The buildings were all piled on top of each other, climbing onto each other’s shoulders and resting on each other’s backs, a pile of limbs. It was haphazard and chaotic, a mess of noise and color and scent.

A perfect hiding place.

He swooped down low, heading past the centrally located palace and towards the northwest section of the city, making sure to avoid the gazes of keen-eyed castle guards. Varese was a city of magic, housing a substantial Fae population in addition to the many Fae nomads that regularly came through the city. The palace guards would know how to recognize a Fae in animal form, and he had no desire to be spotted and stopped.

The northwestern part of Varese was the oldest part of the city, and underneath all of the carelessly stacked additions you can still find the original ancient courtyard that the capital city was built around. It now housed a small market that teemed with magical trinkets, potions, fortune tellers, spells and tools, as well as gifted street performers and defected mercenaries that now traded their powers for a few coins.

This district held the highest concentration of Fae, and unsurprisingly, it was the area of the city Rowan was most familiar with.

He remained in hawk form, soaring high above the market stalls and avoiding any watchful eyes. In his Fae body, his presence would be noted wherever he went. He was too powerful, too recognizable, and far too memorable.

Rowan swooped down a familiar alley and towards a secluded doorway. Without hesitation, he soared through the open curtain and transformed, moving to sit on a plain wooden chair. The space was painfully small and almost entirely bare, the consequence of so much time traveling.

The apartment was one of many spread throughout Wendlyn, all inconspicuous, tiny, and sparse. Kept by Maeve’s blood-sworn warriors as outposts, ready to be used whenever needed.

Rowan could feel a familiar presence in the only room adjoining the main space.

Good, he was here.

Rowan let out a grunt of annoyance. There was no way that his presence hadn’t already been sensed. He was being ignored. But before he could break down the door and pull the male out by his teeth, it opened and Fenrys lurched out, a wild look in his eye and a short dagger in his hands.

Rowan snorted, his eyebrows raising. Or maybe not.

“Pleasant sleep?” Rowan asked, his voice laced with derision.

Fenrys only grunted, and sat in the only other available chair. The male was disheveled; there were heavy bags under his dark eyes, his golden curls were matted, and his bronze skin was ashen. Rowan had obviously just woken him after a late night.

Rowan’s jaw tightened. At least the male was where he was supposed to be – even if he hadn’t actually achieved anything other than debauchery in the days since his arrival.

But Fenrys just frowned back at his icy glare. “Took you long enough.” His words were muddled with sleep and leftover drink.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed still further. Barely anyone in the world would dare to speak to him like that. Unluckily for Rowan, Fenrys was one of those very few. “Have you done anything other than drink yourself to death since you got here?”

“No. And I promise, I did it just to annoy you.”

Rowan blinked, while his muscles tensed.

“Now now Rowan don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m not that stupid.” Fenrys’ grin was wicked, his eyes bright enough to set the apartment on fire.

Rowan just sighed, leashing his anger and dredging up that well of patience hidden beneath it. It wasn’t particularly deep. This time of year, early spring, was always the hardest for Rowan. He wished he could just leave, could fly into the waiting winds and rage at the waning sun. Instead he was trapped here with this male and his infuriating mouth.

Fenrys spoke up. “I’ve been here nearly a week now. I wasn’t expecting you so soon – you must have hauled ass from Doranelle.”

Rowan just grunted.

“I’ve spent the past three days and nights almost entirely in the palace. Galan Ashryver, the crown prince, is honorable – he will be a benevolent ruler. He spends most of his days in council, or with his army. Adarlanian forces venture closer every day – threatening outright war. And he’s become a blockade runner.”

Fenrys grinned at that, his eyes warm with respect for the young prince. Rowan nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“The people love him for it. Maeve will probably have a hard time with him in the coming years – he’s intractable. Stubborn. And righteous to a fault. The king however is different story – you’re familiar with him, I’m sure.”

Rowan grimaced.

Fenrys cursed. “Bastard. Can’t shine his shoes without checking in with at least three advisors, and even then, he’d probably still avoid going through with it. Her majesty has wrapped him utterly around her finger. There is no way that he is knowingly hiding Aelin Galathynius under Maeve’s nose, absolutely none. And with the princess’s eyes and age…she’d probably be discovered within days if she tried to infiltrate the court.”

Rowan agreed with the assessment. “But?”

“But there’s a chance that Galan Ashryver is hiding her. A small one, but still a chance.”

Rowan nodded again.

“His patterns are very regular – and much of the time he is in company. He only rarely has time alone, and even more rarely is he out of the palace grounds. Their security is fairly tight – enough so that even Adarlan’s Assassin couldn’t easily slip through.”

“The princess was ordered to assassinate the Ashryvers – ”

“Yes,” Fenrys interrupted, causing Rowan’s frown to deepen, “and that is why my focus these past few days has been on the palace, and not on tracking the girl down.”

“And?” Rowan spoke through his teeth.

“Nothing.”

“No threats, no attacks, no one scouting them out?”

“Absolutely nothing. I’ve mentioned the possibility of a threat to his guards, and they are planning on upping his security. Not that the assassin is likely to get a shot at him before we track her down.”

“Not that that is going to prove an easy task.”

Fenrys’ eyes glinted. “You doubt our ability to overpower a teenage princess?”

Rowan scowled. “I am cautious when that teenage princess has a power great enough to attract the attention of our queen, and of nations across the world.”

“Oh Rowan, what a worrier you are turning into in your old age.”

Rowan’s anger pulled on its leash. He sighed. “That wasn’t what I meant anyways. The girl has every reason to stay out of sight, and as an assassin, she must have been trained to disguise her appearance. She could prove very difficult to track down.”

Fenrys frowned, and nodded.

Rowan shifted in his seat. “What did Maeve tell you before you left?”

Fenrys cocked his head, his eyes dancing once again. “What? Are you thinking I may have received more information than you, oh-great-immortal-warrior?

“Just tell me.”

The male relented. “Only the princess’ description, her purpose in Varese, and her identity as both Celaena and Aelin.” Fenrys’ eyes darkened slightly. “Maeve also said that she was sending for you, and you were to collect the girl and ferry her back. I was ordered to stay away from her, which I’m sure was intended as a punishment. Instead I have to stay in Varese to ensure that the Ashryver prince doesn’t get any ideas about attacking Adarlan before Maeve decides it’s necessary.”

“From what you said, that might also prove a challenge.”

Fenrys nodded. “You know how these royals are – still upset about Maeve ignoring Terrasen’s call for aid all those years ago. Slow to trust. Just got back from a long night of ingratiating.”

“If that’s what you call it.” He eyed the undergarments strewn through the apartment.

Fenrys grinned wickedly. “Nothing wrong with enjoying a few nights of freedom.”

Rowan’s lips tightened slightly. No matter how infuriating the male was, Rowan still sympathized with Fenrys. He bore the brunt of Maeve’s attentions, shielding his twin from her. Fenrys was still young by Fae standards, but the twin wolves had still served Maeve for nearly a century. And all that time, Fenrys protected his brother from Maeve.

Fenrys hadn’t sworn to Maeve out of devotion, or desire for power, or even out of desperation as Rowan had. He had sworn out of his love for his brother, and his need to protect him.

Maybe as a result of that, out of all of them Fenrys chafed the most under Maeve’s rule. He never betrayed her, never undermined her, but he was the only one of Maeve's blood-sworn who perhaps truly regretted taking the blood oath.

But it didn’t matter – now that it was done, he would serve for the rest of his life or die in dishonor. There were no other options.

Rowan shook himself from those pointless thoughts. “How long will you be here?”

“Her majesty bade me stay till the end of the month.”

“Good.” Rowan paused. “Well you'd better not have any other plans for your day – we’re going hunting.”

Rowan waited for a rebuttal, but none came. Fenrys was just nodding his agreement, a wicked light gleaming in his eyes. “Getting worn-out, old man? Need some assistance on your little chase?”

Rowan growled as the words cut through him. He pushed the fury away through sheer force of will, snarling, “You know why I asked.”

Fenrys grinned wide. “What, the ancient, all-powerful warrior needs my help interrogating barmaids?”

“You’re less conspicuous than I am.”

“Friendlier, you mean.”

“A bigger pain in the ass.”

“Better at flirting with the barmaids though.” Fenrys laughed outright, ducking to avoid Rowan’s swipe at his left cheekbone. “Don’t worry Rowan, I’ll ask around for your missing princess.”

Rowan closed his eyes briefly, strangling the fury that threatened to break through his icy walls.

“Aww I’ve got you all hot and bothered now – care for cool drink little birdie?”

Rowan’s nostrils flared warningly. If he could manage to avoid slaughtering Fenrys, this male would put him in the ground one day.

Fenrys just laughed again, letting go for the time being. “I’ll start by checking the tabernas in the old parts of the city, see if anyone’s spotted someone that fits her description. Maybe she’s more comfortable around other Fae. Then I’ll check the slums. Easiest place to hide in a city of this size.”

Rowan nodded.

“You?”

“I’ll scout from above.”

“I knew you’d be useful someday.”

···

The day passed slowly, dully.

The rhythms of the capital had not changed since Rowan had last visited, and were unlikely to change for centuries to come. It was peaceful, and the city guards were calm, collected, and reliable. There were no threats to be uncovered, no spies lining the rooftops or assassins in the shadows. Nor was there any scent, any hint, of wildfire.

The fight he had anticipated, had almost longed for, did not materialize.

Still, Rowan catalogued every unusual figure that passed below, marking every person that could conceivably fit the princess’s description, and many others besides. Even so, there were not many.

When dark fell and the streets began to empty, Rowan returned to the apartment to meet with Fenrys.

He stewed in silence, forced to wait for the male to reappear. The walls of the apartment were close, confining. He was claustrophobic in the tiny space. Even so, the anxiety was less to do with the apartment and more to do with the thoughts trapped inside his head. He couldn’t get away from them, had no escape. The date loomed over him, a clock running out in his head, an anvil waiting to drop.

Even after all these centuries, his grief was still the weight of the world on his back.

The burden of his anguish and his guilt, his endless shame, had not lessened by one single drop. He could still feel the rough wood of the shovel between his fingers, still taste the copper of her blood on his lips. Could still sense the heat of the mountain home burning before his eyes.

And the images rent him through just as thoroughly as they had that first day.

He longed to move, to escape, to allow the wind and moonlight to coat his body in ice until he no longer had to breathe – no longer had to think. Until his very bones were made of ice. But he couldn’t, so he sat and waited. Not for his brother to walk through the door, bearing news of the princess they sought, but for the foe who would finally best him, and send him back to his love.

It was late into the night when Fenrys finally reappeared.

The moon was full, and a soft white light illuminated the space through the open window. Pale blue curtains ruffled as the front door clicked open and shut.

Fenrys moved through the room efficiently, grabbing a dirty bottle of some amber liquid and collapsing into the chair opposite Rowan. He took a long draught, then handed the bottle over to Rowan, who drank without hesitation.

“So I asked around.”

“Hmm.”

“And I’m not sure how reliable the information I managed to get is.”

Rowan grunted.

“It’s not that people were unwilling to talk – its more that the description we have to give is so sketchy. In Varese, Ashryver eyes are common enough, even when paired with golden hair and aristocratic features.”

“Bastards.”

“Yep. It seems that over the years the Ashryvers have managed to spread their line pretty far throughout the city.”

“So, nothing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Rowan waited.

“I managed to find a few possibilities. All new to the city, all young women, traveling alone, matching the description. One is staying in a wayhouse in a southern section of the city, arrived three nights ago. I visited her earlier this evening.”

“And?”

“Beautiful. Great taste in furniture. But unless your princess is planning on marrying a merchant’s son and eloping to Fenharrow anytime soon, she’s not your girl.”

Rowan raised his eyebrows.

“I take it no dice.”

“Just keep talking.”

“Another was just passing through, heading for a ship to the southern continent. I managed to catch her before she left. Not her. Great flirt though.”

Rowan frowned at the cocky male.

“There were a few others, all shaky matches, not really worth checking up on unless we get desperate. And the last one was a bit of a mystery. Apparently, there’s been a young woman showing up each night in tabernas around the western edge of the city to gamble. Always keeps her face covered.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah. I ended up talking to a few guards and barkeeps, and last night a city guard finally got a good look. She’s young – at the latest in her mid-twenties, with light hair and the right eyes. Stood out to him – she’s quite pretty apparently, but the man didn’t want to pursue any of his bosses’ cousins.”

Rowan frowned.

“She’s a shit gambler though, plays dice all night and ends up robbing back what she loses. Started a few big fights the past couple nights. The guards are looking for her, but she doesn’t seem to have an address in the city, and she isn’t renting a room anywhere. She’s a ghost.”

Rowan’s lips twitched.

"Doesn’t sound much like royalty – but since she’s successfully hidden from Adarlan’s soldiers on her own all these years, I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

“Any leads?”

“Nope. Whoever she is, she’s good at hiding her tracks. But I can give you the names and locations of the bars she’s been spotted at the past few nights.”

Rowan nodded as Fenrys relayed the information, then asked, “Would you purchase a couple of horses for me in the market tomorrow? Whether or not this girl is the princess, once I do find her I don’t want to let her out of my sight. I’m going to need a way out of the city, and I would prefer it not to be on my feet.”

Fenrys frowned, but agreed, and Rowan nodded his thanks.

Then the male’s eyes seemed to shift, and he hesitated for a moment, considering something. His lips pursed, brow furrowed. Worried. Rowan found himself automatically tensing in response.

Fenrys shook his head as he said, “Why this girl Rowan? I was in Doranelle, with nothing to do. The girl is powerful, yes, but she is young. And mortal. Any of us could probably take her. But Maeve still took you from another assignment and asked you to collect her.”

Rowan turned to look out the window.

“And now she’s going to leave Doranelle to meet with her. Leave Doranelle. I don’t think she’s done that this century. Why?”

“I don’t know.” Rowan’s voice was hard.

Fenrys frowned and nodded, parsing his real meaning from the non-answer.

Something had shifted.

Change was on the horizon. Aelin Galathynius had reappeared, the lost princess found. And their queen was intent on acquiring her. War was stirring in the west, coming ever closer to their shores. Adarlan was poised to attack, had even schemed to murder royalty, a risky and underhanded ploy. The chess pieces were moving.

The two males said a quiet farewell, Fenrys still lost in thought.

Rowan took off into the darkness, the wind tearing at his feathers.

···

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insanityclause · 4 years

Text

Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

A Director Making His Mark in More Ways Than One

LONDON — The director Jamie Lloyd was giving me a tour of his tattoos. Not the Pegasus on his chest or the skeleton astronaut floating on his back, though he gamely described those, but the onyx-inked adornments that cover his arms and hands, that wreathe his neck, that wrap around his shaved head.

When I asked about the dragon at his throat, he told me it had been “one of the ones that hurt the least,” then pointed to the flame-licked skulls on either side of his neck: his “covert way,” he said, of representing drama’s traditional emblems for comedy and tragedy.

“I thought maybe it’d be a little bit tacky to have theater masks on my neck,” he added, a laugh bubbling up, and it’s true: His dragon would have eaten them for lunch.

It was early December, and we were in a lounge beneath the Playhouse Theater, where Lloyd’s West End production of “Cyrano de Bergerac,” starring James McAvoy in a skintight puffer jacket and his own regular-size nose, would soon open to packed houses and critical praise.

Running through Feb. 29, and arriving on cinema screens Feb. 20 in a National Theater Live broadcast, “Cyrano” — newly adapted by Martin Crimp, and positing its hero as a scrappy spoken-word wonder — capped a year that saw Lloyd celebrated on both sides of the Atlantic.

In London last summer, his outdoor hit “Evita” traded conventional glamour for sexy grit, while his radical reinterpretation of Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal,” starring Tom Hiddleston, was hailed first in the West End, then on Broadway. Ben Brantley, reviewing “Betrayal” in The New York Times, called it “one of those rare shows I seem destined to think about forever.”

When Time Out London ranked the best theater of 2019, it gave the top spot jointly to all three Lloyd productions, saying that he “has had a year that some of his peers might trade their entire careers for.”

Lloyd, who is 39, did not spring from the same mold as many of those peers. There was for him, he says, no youthful aha moment of watching Derek Jacobi onstage and divining that directing was his path. Epiphanies like that belonged to other kids, the ones who could afford the tickets.

If there is a standard background for a London theater director — and Lloyd would argue that certainly there used to be — that isn’t where he came from, growing up working class on the south coast of England, in Margaret Thatcher’s Britain.

The first time I laid eyes on him, chatting in the Playhouse lobby after a preview of “Cyrano,” he was the picture of working-class flair — the gold pirate hoops, the pink and black T-shirt, the belt cinching high-waisted pants.

He looks nothing like your typical West End director. Which of course is precisely the point.

What’s underneath

“It’s quite often said of him,” McAvoy observed by phone, once the reviews were in, “that he strips things away or he tries to take classical works and turn them on their head. I think he’s always just trying to tell the story in the clearest and most exhilarating way possible.”

The “X-Men” star, who put the number of times he’s worked with Lloyd in the past decade at a “gazillion,” calls theirs “probably one of the most defining relationships that I’ve had in my career.”

Yet Lloyd himself is on board with the notion that his assertively contemporary stagings pare back stifling layers of performance history to lay bare what’s underneath.

Like the tiger and dragons that he had emblazoned on his head just last May, though, the unembellished nature of his shows — as minimalist in their way as his tattoos are the opposite — is a relatively recent development.

Lloyd’s first “Cyrano de Bergerac,” starring Douglas Hodge in 2012, was also his Broadway debut. It was, he said, “absolutely the ‘Cyrano’ that you would expect,” with the fake nose, the hat, the plume, the sword-fighting.

There is, granted, sword-fighting in the new one — but the audience has to imagine the swords.

Lloyd’s productions, including a lauded revival of Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine’s “Passion” in 2010, long marked him as a hot young director on the rise. But he sees in some of his previous work a noisy tendency toward idea overload.

The pivot point came in 2018, with a season that the Jamie Lloyd Company — which he formed seven years ago with the commercial producing powerhouse Ambassador Theater Group — devoted to the short works of Harold Pinter. The playwright’s distillation of language forced Lloyd to match it with his staging.

That immersion led to what the director Michael Grandage — one of Lloyd’s early champions, who tapped him at 27 to be his associate director at the Donmar Warehouse — called Lloyd’s “absolute masterpiece.”

“I had quite a lot of ambition to do a production of ‘Betrayal’ in my life,” Grandage said. “And then when I saw Jamie’s, I thought, ‘Right, that’s it. I don’t ever, ever want to direct this play.’ Because that’s, for me, the perfect production.”

Playing dress-up

Charm is a ready currency in the theater, but Lloyd’s is disarming; he seems simply to be being himself, without veneer. Like when I fact-checked something I’d read by asking whether he was a vegan.

“Lapsed vegan,” he confessed immediately, with a tinge of guilt about eating eggs again.

Pay no attention to any tough-guy vibe in photos of him; do not be alarmed by the sharp-toothed cat on the back of his head. In conversation, Lloyd comes across as thoughtful and unassuming, with an animated humor that makes him fun company. If he speaks at the speed of someone with no time to waste, he balances that with focused attentiveness.

His father, Ray, was a truck driver. His mother, Joy (whose name is tattooed on his right forearm, near the elbow), cleaned houses, took in ironing and ran a costume-rental shop, where young Jamie would sneak in to dress up as the children’s cartoon character Rainbow Brite.

“It’s very embarrassing,” he said, squelching a laugh.

Seeing professional theater wasn’t an option then for Lloyd, whose grown-up passion for expanding audience access — one of the things he has made himself known for in the West End — grew out of that exclusion. His company has set aside 15,000 free and 15,000 £15 tickets for its current, characteristically starry three-show season, which will also include Emilia Clarke in “The Seagull” and Jessica Chastain in “A Doll’s House.” At the 786-seat Playhouse, that adds up to just over 38 full houses.

Lloyd, who was studying acting at the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts when he decided he wanted to direct, found his way to theater as a child by acting in school shows and local amateur productions. Twice he was cast as a monkey; in “The Wizard of Oz,” thrillingly, he got to fly.

The details of his early days have always been colorful — like having a clown as his first stepfather, who performed at children’s parties under the stage name Uncle Funny. But Lloyd is quick to acknowledge the darkness lurking there.

“It sounds a little bit like some dodgy film, because he was actually a really violent man,” he said. “And there were times where he was very physically abusive to my mum. There was a sort of atmosphere of violence in that house that was really uneasy. And yet masked with this literal makeup, but also this sense of trying to entertain people whilst enacting terrible brutality behind the scenes.”

This is where he locates his own connection to Pinter’s work.

“A lot of that is that the violence is beneath the surface,” he said. “And on the top there is this sort of, what I call a kind of topspin, a layer of cover-up.”

Long relationships

Lloyd was still at drama school when he staged a production of Lapine and William Finn’s “Falsettoland” that won a prize: assistant directing a show at the Bush Theater in London. Based on that, Trevor Nunn hired him, at 22, to be his assistant director on “Anything Goes” in the West End — a job he did so well that Grandage got word of it and hired him to assist on “Guys and Dolls.” While Lloyd was doing that, he also began directing in his own right.

The costume and set designer Soutra Gilmour, who has been a constant with Lloyd since he cold-called her for his first professional production, Pinter’s “The Caretaker,” said theirs is an easy relationship, with a “symbiotic transference of ideas.” Even their creative aesthetics have evolved in sync.

“We’ve actually never fallen out in 13 years,” she said over mint tea on a trip to New York last month, just before “Betrayal” closed. “Never! I don’t even know how we would fall out.”

Of course, the one time she tried to decline a Lloyd project five years ago, because its tech rehearsals coincided with the due date for her son’s birth, he told her there was no one else he wanted to work with. So she did the show, warning that at some point she would have to leave. Now, she says, he understands that she won’t sit through endless evening previews, because she needs to go home to her child.

Lloyd and his wife, the actress Suzie Toase (whose name is tattooed on one of his arms), home-school their own three boys (whose names are tattooed on the other). Their eldest, 13-year-old Lewin, is an actor who recently played one of the principal characters, the heroine’s irresistible best friend, on the HBO and BBC One series “His Dark Materials,” whose cast boasts McAvoy as well.

Enter the child

Lloyd’s interpretation of “Betrayal,” a 1978 play that recounts a seven-year affair, imbued it with a distinctly non-’70s awareness of the fragility of family — the notion that children are the bystanders harmed when a marriage is tossed away.

Its gasp-inducing moment came with the entrance of a character Pinter wrote to be mentioned but not seen: the small daughter of the couple whose relationship is imperiled. In putting her onstage, Lloyd didn’t touch the text; it was a simple, wordless role. With it, he altered the resonance of the play.

To me, it seemed logical that Lloyd’s production would have been informed by his experience as a husband and father — and maybe also as a child in a splintering family. How old had he been, anyway, when his parents split up?

“Five,” Lloyd said. “The same age as the character would be.” He paused. “Oh God, yeah, fascinating. I’d not thought about that. Exactly the same age.”

If that fact was of more than intellectual interest to him, he didn’t let on. He volunteered a memory, though — of being a little one “amongst these kind of big giants, and I guess what we can now see as the mess of their lives.”

Blazer-free

Doing “Betrayal” in New York, Lloyd was struck by how eager Americans were to chat about his tattoos. Still, he told me after I texted him a follow-up question about them, he hadn’t expected his appearance to be such a talking point in this story.

It’s not just idle curiosity. It’s about what the tattoos signify in a field where, in Britain as in the United States, the top directors tend to have grown up very comfortably. It’s about who is welcome in a particular space, and who gets to be themselves there.

For a long time after Lloyd started working in the theater, he wore a blazer every day: a conscious attempt to conform in an industry where he felt a nagging sense of difference.

“Every other director at the time was from an Oxbridge background,” he said, “and looked and sounded a particular way. I spent a long time pretending to be like them.”

It was a performance of sorts, with a costume he donned for the role.

It was only about seven or eight years ago — around the time he left the Donmar and started putting together his own company — that he stopped worrying about what people might think if he looked the way he wanted.

“My dad had tattoos” was the first thing he said when I asked him about his own.

“I guess it’s partly getting older,” he mused, “but it’s just sort of going, ‘You can’t pretend to be someone. You’ve got to be who you really are, in every way.’”

The tattoos that have gradually transformed him are from a different aesthetic universe than his recent work onstage. Yet the impulse, somehow, is the same.

In shedding the blazer, in inking his skin, Lloyd has peeled back layers of imposed convention to show who’s underneath.

And should you spot him at the theater, where he is hard to miss, you’ll notice that he looks just like himself.

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idolizerp · 5 years

Photo

LOADING INFORMATION ON JINX’S MAIN DANCE NAM SOOJUNG...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: N/A CURRENT AGE: 28 DEBUT AGE: 20 TRAINEE SINCE AGE:14 COMPANY: Midas SECONDARY SKILL: Variety

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAME(S): Soojung Bolt, because no one outruns other idols (or their problems) the way she does Hot Body Soo, self explanatory. Thank god the excessive exercising paid off. Sooj, it’s ugly but it’s there. INSPIRATION: Pushed by her friends from school who recognized her talent, Soojung auditioned with quite a few of her friends to various idol agencies in hopes of making it big and debuting in a group together. SPECIAL TALENTS:

athleticism: she runs fast, and puts her all in korean wrestling. there’s a rumor rookies pray they don’t get pitted against her at ISAC

cooking: [ +44, -489 ]: wow she cooks so well for someone who looks like they only have rocks in their head, i’m so fcking hungry just looking at the screen

one-liners/cursing: Jeolla-do’s finest one-liners, insults, and curse words, she knows them all and will share them with or without express permission

NOTABLE FACTS:

younger brother is Seoul FC’s center-forward Nam Taewoong, does not seem to acknowledge this fact very much if at all

has admitted to getting plastic surgery on her nose, eyes, and jaw probably to her manager’s extreme chagrin

was once punched in the face by an Olympus sasaeng after leaving practice, has since distanced herself from the group publicly

prior to her viral fancam was nicknamed JiNX’s most prominent backup dancer” by less-than-kind netizens

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

She’s not an idiot, or at least she’s certainly not as stupid as everyone seems to suggest she is. Banking on new found popularity Soojung’s number one goal is to monetize as much as that popularity as she can, if she can possibly make herself known as something other than the girl who pelvic-thrusted her way into the nation’s attention she wouldn’t oppose that either.

LONG-TERM GOALS:

Nothing lasts forever, certainly not the career of a female idol and though she may not admit it, at least not publicly, she knows there’s nothing left for her once contract expire. She’s too old to continue to pretend that she enjoys putting on cutesy acts or playing dumb and funny for public consumption. In the end, she’ll sink into obscurity and hopefully with enough in the bank to live comfortably in her self-imposed insignificance of an existence. While not ideal, as far as Soojung’s concerned it’s certainly better than aging in front of a camera trying to retain some vestige of a career built off of her late-teens and twenties. Leaving in dignity is the ideal.

IDOL IMAGE

She’s supposed to be like this.

The better part of seven years practicing a relatable smile in the mirror every single day, twenty minutes a day. She’s supposed to be the girl-next-door-turned-sex-pot, or whatever it is her CEO said she was supposed to be. She can’t remember what he said in that meeting all those years ago, it’s not like it matters anyways.

She’s supposed to be like this. Smiling dumbly, content with her lot in life, pretty in a sort of forgettable way.

Maybe that’s what the CEO told her. Smile pretty and let people think what they think. She can’t remember anymore.

If they think she’s an idiot, so be it. That’s what she’s supposed to be like; glib and sedate. No one wants a girl who’s mouth runs a mile a minute, snapping in satoori without a second thought, curse-words decorating sentences like they’re just another adjective.

The people want a girl who’s demure, who knows what to say and how to say it. No one wants the real girl they grew up next to, they want the idealized image of what she should’ve been per societal standards. Pretty with a mouth tinged with the taste of blood, a tongue with noted teeth marks along it’s edges.

She’s supposed to be this fucking fool.

Her manager says no one really wants the reality of who she is. A girl that drinks more than she should, a girl that spends her days off bared-face practicing recipes and watching documentary after documentary. No one begs to see the girl who jogs down the street with her over-sized dog because she’s reformed from her wild child days into a grown woman with a painfully average existence.

People want fantasy, people want the grandiose. Nothing in the reality of who Nam Soojung is at her core fits the desire. But she’s willing to play the part, smile blankly at a camera and basks her in new found fame that’s seven years too late to do her any real good, move her hips in a way that makes tongues and fingers wag all the same.

It’s all for the money. It’s all for the love a desperate little girl was looking for ages ago.

None of it really matters, but she’ll give it a go. If only for a life worth more comfort; pride isn’t worth half as much as everyone seems to claim it is. Not when her checks cash so nicely and everyone bends over backwards to tell her how they adore her.

It’s all bullshit but it’s fine.

This is who she’s supposed to be. This is who she’s supposed to be.

IDOL HISTORY

Life is told in five parts.

i. Her father’s life is ruined the day Soojung is conceived. She knows this because he tells her just as much over the years.

Nothing is as awful as getting saddled with a baby you don’t want to a girl you don’t love. A lack of control born out of lust and a bottle of beer, that’s all she owes her very life to.

He never lets her forget.

ii. Soojung is good but Taewoong is better.

Maybe it’s three years that make the difference. Maybe it’s their parents halfway falling in love with each other. Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s a boy and the youngest and she’s a girl and the oldest.

Things always work out differently for the pair of them. Even if their mother insists they’re loved equally; the disparity is as obvious as the sun.

The son gets lauded with praise, and the daughter is weighted down with lectures. Halmeoni says this is just how the world works, her mother was raised the same way with her younger brother; it’s just how things work.

Soojung hates it all the same; hates her brother a bit too just for making things that much harder.

No one cares if she runs fast because Taewoong’s always faster. No one cares if Soojung gets first place at a talent show because Taewoong has brains in his feet and the football scout said he was a prodigy.

No one cares about Soojung because the world revolves around Nam Taewoong who clings to her like a shadow.

She can’t stand him, not really. Not when she’s the only one who sees him as he is, a sniveling brat who steals away affection and has the nerve to beg her for it too as if he doesn’t get enough.

Sons receive too much and daughters too little in their home.

It’s the way life is but even still she can’t stand it.

iii. The story goes like this:

Soojung, Eunhye, Minsoo, Kyungwan, and Jinah all audition for Midas entertainment. Ride a train up to Seoul and try their hands at fate.

The details get muddled in the middle. Someone says it’s because they’re all Gemini fans, a group of men singing sweet songs and gyrating motivates a group of teenage girls from bumfuck nowhere to make something of themselves. The other version of events is Jinah’s a great singer, Soojung is the best dancer around town, Eunhye is the prettiest girl any of them know, Minsoo’s hilarious and a decent dancer, Kyungwan has a nice voice and charisma no one can touch.

They’re the perfect girl group set to take the nation by storm. Only nobody knows it yet.

It’s all just a fairy-tale though, Soojung still remembers the truth.

She begs and pleads her friends to come with her to Seoul. Fills their heads up with stupid little dreams, her stupid little dreams, and convinces them they have the God-given talent to be someone the whole nation wants to know. She begs them because she doesn’t want to be rejected alone in a city she doesn’t know.

She lies. She lies. She’s a liar.

No one she knows is as talented as her. Jinah is only okay, Eunhye’s pretty only to countryside eyes, Minsoo can’t dance but she tries her hardest, Kyungwan has the kind of personality that only gets you far in Jeolla-do.

But Soojung’s different. Soojung has life in her bones, vitality in her steps; a God-given talent. People flock to see her back home, they only watch the others out of polite respect.

All of the stories end the same way.

Soojung becomes the only trainee, two of the others go to other companies but end up back home with the rest of their cronies after a few years.

Soojung is the only one who matters in the end.

iv. Halmeoni sends her letters every week. They all read the same way.

Be pragmatic, be kind, be resilient, be strong, work hard.

It’s as if she knows he only granddaughter has turned to a holy terror. Divine intuition, she thinks it’s called.

Arrogant, teenage vain-glory takes hold. Soojung is good and so is everyone else, and they’re all vying for the same stupid little spots. Familiarity breeds contempt breeds a bitter girl who’s a little crueler than necessary because she can be.

Insecurity breeds a girl who pushes herself too hard in every which direction because she’s desperate to be someone who matters, desperate to be another face smiling on a screen for millions to be seen.

She wants to be loved, she has to be adored. Her confidence is too fragile to accept any other option as a possibility.

So Soojung does what she has to. She gets the plastic surgery some higher up suggests with the smaller face and bigger eyes and nicer nose, learns how to be more charming, gets a crash course in the world of sex appeal and what it means and what it earns girls like her.

And when the day is done she runs over to her little group of friends who are just like her with frayed nerves and driven solely by hormones and desperate desires.

It pays off in the end, she knows it does.

v. In a way, it’s all for naught.

All the blood, sweat, and tears. All the wasted hours spent in a practice room, all the youth she wasted living for some desperate desire that she could be adored.

It’s all for nothing.

People like her, but only as Soojung, the other girl in JiNX. No one really loves her as Nam Soojung, most people don’t even care.

Nothing really matters because she’ll never be the nation’s first love. She could claw her eyes out to be the nation’s second or even third love, but everything pales when she stands only a few feet away from the first.

Her father always used to tell her brother, “if you’re not second you’re last.” Soojung doesn’t understand what he means until she’s standing five feet behind the nation’s first love and two other people who are a little bit more than she is.

Her manager says it’s a lack of versatility that’s the issue. She can’t act, she can’t really sing, she can’t rap, all she can do is dance. It doesn’t matter if she’s funnier than everyone else. It’s what people pick up on and run with that matters. Girls who are relatively funny are a dime a dozen.

No one cares.

Even still, Soojung pushes herself a little harder to be someone people could love. She smiles brighter, eats less, works out more, makes herself more attractive in the ways society demands, moves a little more sensually. She could be the nation’s second love or even third love. She’s willing to settle.

Still, no one cares.

She runs fast, she laughs loudly, she looks every fan in the eye, acts graciously, pretends it doesn’t hurt that people call her a fucking fool, pretends she doesn’t know the internet calls her the nation’s first back up dancer. It’s back-breaking work to get the love of the public and it doesn’t pay.

No one cares about Nam Soojung, not really.

A rumor of an iljin past complete with bullying, smoking, and underage drinking comes out. Midas releases a statement about a nice girl from the outskirts of Gwangju who used to write her grandmother every week as a trainee complete with pictures of letters and her grandmother who smiles with closed eyes and a chubby arm raised.

Another rumor flies around about a relationship with an Olympus member floats around Pann. Pre-debut photos of her with her old nose and smaller eyes and bigger jaw, and there are notes from crazy fans about how she’s hung around their boys for too long, desperate for love and affection. A few comments she’s just desperate for attention. Then it culminates with a girl punching her in the eye one day after practice for the next comeback and Midas releasing a statement about criminal actions and false allegations with no proof.

A million rumors could brew, none of it means much until it’s far too late for her Soojung’s liking. No one cares until Soojung no longer bothers.

The girl who’s desperate for attention feels a lifetime away by the time Soojung finally gets the notoriety she spent years searching for.

It turns out pretty smiles into cameras and painstaking work don’t win a nation’s heart. It’s all hip movement that leaves little to the imaginations and smiles that say “come fuck me” is all that anyone wants.

But it’s too many years too late and Soojung can’t truly be bothered by the time what she’s looking for finally finds her.

“I’m not so needy for love these days,” she tells her manager when he asks why she doesn’t seem happier about her situation, “maybe when I was younger but none of it really matters now that we’re at the end of the road does it?”

Adoration, as it turns out, is overrated. It doesn’t win her father’s love, doesn’t make her better than Taewoong. It doesn’t make her relationships any better. Doesn’t make her feel any better any better about the pitfalls of a somewhat pathetic life that she only regrets in retrospect.

All the time she wasted wanting to be loved. All the years she wasted screaming into a void, being the worst possible version of herself. All the time wasted living as a human train-wreck that only serves to disappoint. A nation’s love doesn’t make up for any of it, not the way she thought it would.

There’s too little validation for her liking.

In the end, the belated affection of a nation only earns her more work and grief. Still, the love of a nation lines her wallet nicely and maybe that’s all that matters to Nam Soojung these days.

#id.bio #id.midas #id.jinx #id.reign #id.kim jaekyung

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streiknine-blog · 6 years

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Task 001.

BUT RED WAS WHAT YOU WRAPPED AROUND YOU. BLOOD RED.

—Ted Hughes

BASIC INFORMATION.

Full Name: Vincent James Ouellet Nickname(s): Vin, Vinny, Strychnine, Striker; Strike Age: 28 Date of Birth: 13 February 1990 Hometown: Québec, Québec, Canada Current Location: Dertosa, California Ethnicity: white Nationality: Vincent is Canadian, but his mother was American, so he’s got dual citizenship Gender: cis male Pronouns: he/him Orientation: Vincent is bisexual — but also fun fact he’s never had sex Religion: agnostic — he doesn’t think too hard about it, but I could see him going for something like Roman Reconstructionalist if he actually put thought into it. Political Affiliation: (I don’t know stateside politics and neither does Vincent) Occupation: full-time Poison babey — see also: hitman Living Arrangements: he’s got a small apartment with sparse decorations — really what he was looking for when he got it was somewhere that he’d be able to relax and cook.

The kitchen is the most put-together part of the one-bedroom place, with well-loved pots, pans, and bakeware. A couple nice dishtowels in a white with navy stripes pattern hang from the handle of the oven, and a much more ragged bleach-worn dishtowel is usually seen on the counter (used for wiping up messes as they happen). Little (fake bullet) shell casing salt and pepper shakers sit on the back of the stove, along with a little porcelain rooster — “You have to have a rooster in the kitchen.” Vincent would say, “It’s good luck.” — which its paint is chipping from how old it is.

The living/eating area has a navy and grey rug that looks like he’s had it since he was in his early twenties (and, honestly, he has) and a dark-stained wooden table with four chairs — the insert to make it into a six person table for if he ever had the Poisons over sitting against the far wall, in plain sight — and just a single placemat, that is pastel and multi-coloured and looks like he stole it from a sixty year old’s kitchen décor, sitting on the table at all times.

He’s got a small, grey, apartment-sized couch that he likes to curl up an nap on, so there’s a throw blanket and a single pillow always on it.

Language(s) Spoken: English; French Accent: Light buzzing on ‘TH’, ‘Z’, and ’S’ sounds — a holdover from his Québécois upbringing; for the most part has a fairly neutral “Seattle accent” that he’s taught himself as a consequence of being around Americans and wanting to sound less ‘different’. Still has a light Québécois accent tinging his words.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

Face Claim: Zane Holtz Hair Colour: dark brown Eye Colour: blue Height: 6’1” Weight: 220ish lbs Build: lorge Tattoos: n/a Piercings: n/a Clothing Style: Simple, dark sweaters (navy, forest green, maroon, black), white dress shirts (buttoned to the top), dark sports coats, charcoal or black slacks are the standard, but he’ll wear dark wash jeans occasionally. Usually the jeans are paired with a crisp dress shirt (in any of the sweater colours) that may be rolled to to the elbows. If he’s doing the sweater + dress shirt + jeans outfit, his favourite combination is his maroon sweater with a navy dress shirt. He thinks he looks fancy in it. He’s not opposed to wearing light, airy colours (like powder blue, or dusty pink) but he gets a bit self-conscious when he wears them — thinking that they don’t suit him well enough for him to pull it off. So he sticks to dark colours and neutrals. They’re easier to hide bloodstains anyway, and the white shirts can be bleached.

Fan of French cuffs but never wears them because cufflinks are easy to lose at a scene. When he’s not on the job he’s totally breaking out the French cuffs and his silver cufflinks. There’s the occasional t-shirt + sweatpants combo but usually reserved for when he isn’t going out anywhere/not seeing anyone but the other poisons or the flower he’s booked.

For accessories, he’s got a dark grey tungsten carbide band that he wears on his left ring finger.

Usual Expression: neutral, vaguely aggressive leaning. His eyebrows make him look mad when he’s not holding them up in some form of expression. Distinguishing Characteristics: I’d say his biggest distinguishing characteristic is that he is tall and wide — like not only is this kid over six feet tall, he’s jacked as shit too.

HEALTH.

Physical Ailments: needs glasses, and he’s nearsighted — it’s partly why he prefers knives to guns. Neurological Conditions: nothing I can peg but I’m sure there’s Something. Allergies: n/a Sleeping Habits: king of the cat nap, and honestly whenever he can knock out he’s gonna. He snores too. Eating Habits: he eats a Lot and he’s decently healthy… please see his favourite food section for a more detailed food thing. Exercise Habits: Boy loves to workout — gotta keep fit for murder, y’know? He’s fond of free weights, and bars… boy loves a heavy deadlift, and he’s gotta bench press his friends at least once. He’s also one to do sprints for his cardio, especially resistance sprints. Gotta go fast.

He works until it burns and he’s comfortably sore. Totally one to have a protein shake with oats added after a hard workout.

Emotional Stability: Vincent isn’t necessarily the most emotionally competent but he’s also not especially volatile. He’s got his moments — blind fury or just enjoyment of a kill can cause him to go a lil overboard. When he laughs it’s a whole body laughs — boy’s gonna feel things all at once if he’s going to feel them at all. Sociability: He likes to be with other people but he is just so painfully awkward. He doesn’t quite realize sometimes that he’s making jokes that aren’t funny and that he should stop making poisoning jokes to the flower that is eating the meal he prepped himself but, hey, we can’t be perfect and Vinny certainly isn’t. Body Temperature: I’d say he’s a slight onto the warm side — summer is hell for him. Addictions: can I say the high of a kill? But nah he ain’t a straight up murder-obsessed guy, he just really loves that feeling. In all honesty, he loves sweet things. Drug Use: Never Alcohol Use: Rarely drinks — he doesn’t like the feeling of being drunk/tipsy, but he will go for a lite beer or two, or a mixed drink that is “light on the alcohol, heavy on the mix, please.”

PERSONALITY.

Label: the aggressor; the cold-blooded; the loyalist Positive Traits: Fearless, determined, willing Negative Traits: Ruthless, detached Goals/Desires: his biggest thing is having a balance to things, it’s a driving force behind his actions. Fears: spiders — too many legs they creep him out. Hobbies: cooking, reading, watching movies Habits: absently rotates his wrists/cracks his fingers when he’s focused on something. Mutters in French under his breath if he’s trying to figure something out.

FAVOURITES.

Weather: cold, crisp winter day with large snowflakes floating down lazily — not a flurry, just pleasant and relaxing. Probably around -15C / 5f. Colour: navy and light blue Music: top 40 hits — 22 year old Vincent was the type to sing along to ‘Call Me Maybe’ in his car by himself. Movies: comedies, supernatural themes, French and Québécois cinema. Sport: Lacrosse; hockey (fan of the Canadiens and the Maple Leafs) Beverage: Hot chocolate!

He’s one to pick the drink up from a coffee shop on the way to an appointment, or to make himself a fresh one after he’s back home. He has several different kinds of it — from those hot chocolate wands, to tins of powdered mix, to single-serve portions of it for a on-demand coffee machine — and he’s not picky. He likes the sweetness of it, and, if he’s getting one from a coffee shop, makes sure to ask for extra chocolate sauce. At home it depends how tired he is. It’ll either be basic, with just hot milk and melted chocolate or fancier on his days off with tiny marshmallows or peppermint syrup. He especially likes to make hot chocolate for those he considers friends.

Food: He’ll give most things a try, honestly.

He’s definitely fallen back on the ‘pan seared broccoli with wild rice and baked chicken breast (with smoked paprika, thyme, and black pepper)’ as a basic dinner meal for when he’s feeling lazy. If he’s not feeling lazy the sky is the fucking limit. He’ll make everything from a whole chicken or a roast with accompanying veggies, to stir-frying tofu and veggies. For lunch he’s usually eating something he’s packed — quinoa, lemon-dill salmon, asparagus; rare steak, sweet potatoes, broccolini; Cobb salad with an extra hardboiled egg or two; homemade “instant” ramen in a jar — and for breakfast he’ll either just straight up have a protein shake with oats and fruit, or some of the egg muffins he makes every few days (mushroom, cheese, ham,, quinoa) or he’ll really go all out and have French Toast or waffles.

Homemade stovetop mac n cheese is a comfort food he likes if he wants something quick (25 minutes, start to finish), but if he’s gonna make a comforting meal to distract himself he’s totally the type to go with a braised lamb sort of deal.

Animal: dogs

FAMILY.

Father: Étienne Jean Ouellet (53); president of an insurance brokerage Mother: Lillian Grace Ouellet née Richardson (51); homemaker Sibling(s): none Children: n/a Pet(s): n/a Family’s Financial Status: solidly upper-middle class. Don’t you know the insurance business is practically a license to print money?

EXTRA.

Zodiac Sign: Aquarius; 13 February 1990 MBTI: ISTJ Enneagram: type 8 — the challenger Temperament: melancholic Moral Alignment: totally pegged him as a Lawful Evil — uses murder to get his ends tidy, but has a strong sense of needing balance for things. Not one to just willy-nilly McMurder. Primary Vice: Wrath Primary Virtue: Charity Element: Earth

#tcrp.task #about #this is so extra i'm so sorry

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dynoguard · 6 years

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NaNoWriMo: Return of the DinoKnights (Day 20)

Day 1 & 2 text is here.

Day 3 is here.

Day 4 is here.

Day 5 is here.

Day 6 is here.

Day 7 is here.

Day 8 is here.

Day 9 is here.

Day 10 is here.

Day 11 is here.

Day 12 is here.

Day 13 is here.

Day 14 is here.

Day 15 is here.

Day 16 is here.

Day 17 is here.

Day 18 is here.

Day 19 is here.

“Good morning Sagan, I’m sorry for the wait, I am surrounded by hatchlings.”

Cora ducked under the entry to the observatory’s central foyer as she spoke.

“Its okay.” Sagan said. He was less strange after a rest. He was wearing a blue tunic of some woven material and blue canvas pants. His clothing fit him, a realization she couldn’t help but make given her own borrowed clothes. “You’re busy, its a lot to take in, and as far as I knew, it was a custom for your people to keep guests waiting.”

“Thank you. How can I help you today, Sagan?”

“Its what I’m here to do for you.” Sagan replied. “With the observatory mostly gone Gloria assigned me to make sure sure you have what you need. Food, materials, supplies, assistance with repairs, medical assistance, that kind of thing.”

“That’s really neighborly of you.” Cora said. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you or Mrs. Anning any more than we have. We are the more technologically advanced group, and we did destroy your observatory.”

“Sheriff Horne.” Sagan said. “I’m not a diplomat or negotiator. I bet you aren’t either.”

“Not in the fates-of-nations sense.” Cora replied.

“Then lets stop pretending we are and just talk. Like people, or dinosovians, not to imply thay you’re not people-”

“Alright, regular talk it is.” Cora replied. “We have a self-sustaining reactor, we don’t need power, but our stocks of food and clean water will eventually run out. The superstructure of our tower is compromised, and we have no medics and almost no medical supplies. We can manufacture a lot of what we need, but raw materials are also a problem.”

“That’s about what I’d have guessed.”

“We can offer trade, we haven’t done an inventory yet but I’m sure we can scrounge up some valuable metals, see if we have some technology we can spare.”

“Mrs. Anning was very clear on this, Sheriff.” Sagan looked her in the eye as he spoke. “We’re not taking anything from you.”

“What?”

“Unless this is a cultural obligation, in which case we will take the smallest gift that won’t cause offense.”

“I’m just surprised you don’t want anything in return.” Cora looked around the room they were standing in. “It looked like a very expensive observatory.”

“Gloria said she wanted you to share only with us what you want to, no obligation or coercion involved. My new official job title is chief ambassador of trans-temporal brotherhood.” he paused. “For the mid-west region, for some reason. The point is, she sees this as her chance at a place in history.”

Cora paused for thought. Her instincts told her Sagan was telling the truth. He was Anning’s subordinate, however, and Cora didn’t know what to think about the human woman. Her overtures seemed sincere, but she was hard to read. She would have been less suspicious if Sagan had brought a shopping list of gadgets to haul back with him.

‘Then again.’ Cora thought. ‘Maybe that says more about me than it does about them.’

“So where do you suggest we start?”

“Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.” Sagan said. “Lets start with food, water and shelter, and move on up from there.”

“Sounds good, taking inventory will give everyone something to do, once I know what we need I will let you know.” Cora paused. “Not sure how.”

“That reminds me, I have this for you.” He handed her a small black block of plastic and glass the size of her first thumb joint. “Its a communications device and miniature computer. We call it a telephone.”

“Telephone. Got it. What’s a computer?”

“A machine that does complex math, often in the form of programs to perform specific tasks”

“I don’t know why my translator thinks that’s something different from an interociter. How does it work?”

“Well, first tap the screen, right here, to turn it on.”

Sheriff Horne gently tapped it with the tip of her claw. Nothing happened.

“Try the flat of your finger, at the skin.” Sagan suggested.

She attempted again. The screen lit up, a space of four rows of three symbols apiece appeared.

“The default lock code is 1-2-3-4, you’ll want to change that later, but for now, hit those numbers.”

Sheriff Horne’s finger mashed the surface of the phone, selecting a seven, five, and eight in rapid succession. She tried again, this time getting two ones, a four and a three.

“It’s a little small.” Cora said.

“An oversight on my part. I’ll bring a stylus the next time I come by.. or a tablet We’ll figure it out.” Sagan said. “For now, just push the round button, and when it beeps, just say ‘call Gloria’ or ‘call Sagan’.

“Thank you for the tiny computer-telephone.” Cora said, slipping it into the a pocket on the left side of her chest.

“You’re welcome. Oh...” Sagan’s voice was hesitant. “There is one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Did anyone leave the tower last night?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Something attacked the police near the Natural History Museum.” Sagan said. “Something big enough to pick up and throw a car. And there have been rumors of monster sightings in the woods around the city.”

“No, we were all here.” Cora said. Sagan could hear a tinge of worry in her tone. ”Do you think its the thing that attacked me in the vehicle bay?”

“Not sure, but ironically, it’s better if it is.” Sagan says. “Because if it isn’t then either there’s a dinosovian wandering around the city alone and confused, or-”

“-or there’s more than one monster.” Cora replied.

“All gather and behold!” Kyle shouted excitedly. Lynn, Brach and Zara watched from near the doorway of the previously forbidden laboratory. Kyle had a bracer clasped onto his prosthetic arm. The bracer held a polished sphere of gray stone with a gash of glowing green crystals within it, staring out like a reptile’s slit pupil. “I have definitely cracked the mind-boggling secret of Project Zero.”

“I’ll bite.” Brach said. “What’s the mind-boggling secret of Project Zero?”

“Next gen Aegis armor powered by a time core.” Kyle said. “Self-recharging when not in use, a real-time chronal-synch to allow for near-perfect mind-machine interface, which makes the dinobond twice as effective.”

“Clawsome!” Linn chirped. “Tell ‘em the good part.”

“Alright, alright.” Kyle smiled, and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Best of all... the armor stores in null time, around you, and when it snaps out, you’re wearing it!”

“Losing one arm not enough for you?” Brach asked. “What if it’s off a bit, You’ll wind up in one of those time crystals or something!”

“No he won’t, see-” Zara asked. “-if the alignment is off by even a little, the returning mass, which is metal armor, would displace the less dense material, which is any part of him, into the next available space. Instant compression, tissue damage, shattered bones, sure, but you need two dense materials intersecting to make chronite.”

“That is why the field materializes the armor away from the body, and basic thether-plates snap it around you. Zero danger, and they were so close to getting one finished-”

“Wait a minute.” Brach said.

“-It was really just a simple code problem, and some adjustments to the sensors-”

“You could not have finished and tested anything this quickly.”

“Finished, sure, tested, no. That’s why we’re here.”

“Hazardous Materials Aegis, Experimental.” Kyle said in a loud, confident voice. The device on his arm flickered to life, the glow from the crystal intensifying. “Armor-Up!”

The crystal spun in its chamber, the crystal filled opening becoming a glowing crescent of green light against a shimmering gray orb. A blast of wind rushed outward as a ribbed orange undersuit, opened in the back appeared in the air, followed by a mass of armor plates, a backpack with a pair of towering chemical tanks, and gauntlets affixed to hoses leading to that backpack, all flashed into existence in a burst of white light.

Just as Kyle described, the armor rushed toward him with the intent of encasing him.

Unforunately, the suit was upside-down.

Before anyone could react, Kyle’s head was warpped in the tail-sleeve of the bodysuit, his own tail poking out the neck-hole, as a pair of metallic boots assembled themselves around his hand. He lost his footing as the gauntlets intended for his hands encased his feet, and tangled them in the empty chemical hoses. He fell to the ground in an immobilized heap, the translucent semiglass helmet with its air filters and neural control link was wrapped uselessly around the bony club at the end of his tail.

“Zaur! Kyle, are you hurt?” Brach ran up, kneeling to examine him.

“No.” Kyle’s muffled voice said through the tail sleeve. “I don’t think so. Everything is self-adjusting, but I can’t- I can’t move.”

“Can you just shunt it back into null time?” Zara asked.

“If I could, do you think I’d still be lying here like a cerowrap?” Kyle mumbled. “At least pull the tail-sleeve down!”

Linn did just that, the smart-material reshaping to help her d”o so. Kyle’s head popped, unharmed but embarrassed, into view.

“Oh sweet Zaur what is going on here?” Cora’s voice rang from the doorway. Sagan was standing there with him and both of them were staring at the trussed up Kyle. .

“Oh, hello Sagan, Sheriff Horne.” Kyle said. “Good news, I’ve almost cracked the mind-boggling secret of Project Zero.”

#dinosaur #dinoknights #return of the dinoknights #kyle #linn #brach #zara #sheriff horne #sagan james

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themusesofmars · 7 years

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Fanfiction Posted - Final Fantasy XV

I was not about to let Noct’s birthday pass by without him getting to bang Ignis as his present! XD I’m not used to writing “older IgNoct” but I absolutely adore it. So please enjoy some romantic, mature IgNoct. It is smutty but I tried to write it tastefully so~ “Noctis’s 31st Birthday” ***NSFW*** Synopsis: Insomnia has been rebuilt, but it hasn't been easy. King Noctis has been so busy he's neglected to take care of himself, but his chamberlain isn't about to let His Majesty forget his own birthday! http://archiveofourown.org/works/11956080

King Noctis set his briefcase down in the hallway outside the apartment door so he could fish into his pocket for the keys. He’d caught the last train from the Citadel after a long day of work, and now nothing sounded better than relaxing at home with his lover.

Ignis lived in a small flat on a quiet street in Insomnia, an apartment Noct referred to as his own home, though officially it was not. There might be a handful of people who worried over his whereabouts when he disappeared most every night from the Citadel to make his way here, but those closest to him understood: Ignis may be chamberlain and the king’s partner, but he needed his independence to prove he could still have it; Noct, on the other hand, relied on Ignis for more than just his advice in matters of state, and could not bear to be apart for long.

The king turned the key in the lock at last and, pocketing his keys, picked up his briefcase and turned the knob to gain entry into the apartment.

Ignis had never required much space to be happy. When he had lived at the Citadel, many years ago, he spent more time in the library than in his room, so had only kept a bed, desk, and lamp in a virtually barren space. The man’s current apartment was only a little less spartan. He did not amass clutter; someone had told him long ago not to dwell on the past, and he had taken that advice to heart. His home was tastefully decorated but sparsely so, with a kitchen of bounteous utensils, the staple television and stereo, a shelf containing some tomes in Braille, and a few plants scattered throughout to freshen the air and give Ignis a sense of purpose. But he had no need of decorative vases, ornamental antiques, or even photographs of his friends. Still, his apartment was warm and inviting, especially tonight.

Noctis walked into the foyer and smiled at the romantic mood lighting. Ignis had no need for lamps, but had turned one on in the living room for Noct in addition to a dozen or so candles lining the ledges of artful alcoves. Something delicious was in the air beyond the lingering fragrance of Ignis’s cologne.

Noctis saw his lover entering the living room from the balcony on the opposite side of the apartment and smiled. “Ignis, you’ve outdone yourself,” he said, noticing a candlelit dinner for two was waiting for them outside on the veranda.

Ignis smiled at his king and untied the apron from around his waist. “Welcome home, Your Majesty.”

Noctis mirrored his love’s happy expression. He hadn’t told Ignis he was coming tonight, but Ignis had expected him. Noct loved the feeling of leaving work behind him for the night, even if he had the most important role in all the nation, just to enter into this small world that belonged only to the two of them.

Noct closed the front door behind him and set his briefcase down next to it before beginning to loosen his tie. “Something smells good,” he remarked appreciatively.

“Fresh lobster and herbs, a crisp Caesar salad, rice pilaf, clam chowder, and grilled scallops served with the finest Chardonnay the city has to offer.” Ignis enumerated everything he had prepared with pride.

Noct shrugged out of his suit jacket with a low whistle, draping the garment over one arm as he reached for Ignis’s hand. Their fingers entwined. Ignis leaned down and placed a tender kiss upon the king’s mouth, then Noctis allowed himself to be led out onto the balcony. There a small table was waiting, draped in a white cloth and set with an exquisite meal the likes of which he had never seen. “Damn! You went all out.” Candlelight danced in Noct’s eyes. “What’s the occasion, Iggy?”

“Have you sincerely forgotten?” Ignis asked with surprise, drawing a chair out from the table for his king. “Well, it’s no surprise party, but…happy birthday, Noct.”

“Oh!” Somehow, he had forgotten. Noct draped his jacket over the back of the chair Ignis had pulled out for him and claimed his seat. Ignis slid the chair beneath him and then sat down opposite from the king.

Ignis reached for the wine bottle and uncorked it expertly. He didn’t spill a drop or bump a single dish as he filled both their glasses, then he set the bottle aside and raised his drink. “To His Majesty’s long reign…and another year of bliss for the two of us,” he toasted with a contented smile.

Noct sighed. “Another year older,” he murmured, gently clinking his glass against his lover’s.

Ignis chuckled, then took a satisfying drink. “You’re fortunate to have had another year,” he reminded the younger man, recalling the hardships that had come before their triumphs. “I know I’m glad for it.”

“Yeah, well, at least you can’t see my wrinkles.”

“Perhaps not, but I did feel a beard.” Ignis reached across the table to stroke Noct’s cheek. “You’re due for a shave, love.”

“Mind if I eat first?”

“Of course. Don’t want your birthday dinner to get cold.” Ignis draped a cloth napkin across his lap. “Do you want to tell me about your day?”

Noct watched as Ignis served each of them a side of salad from a larger bowl, noticing that his own portion was much smaller than Iggy’s. He smiled. Ignis knew how little he cared for vegetables, and even if he insisted that Noct have a little each day, he didn’t overwhelm him with nagging demands. He’d taken care of him—for years, ever since they were children. And now, even blind, he wasn’t breaking routine.

“I’d rather tell you how grateful I am—not for just this, but for everything. I hope you know how much I appreciate you.”

“Oh. No need to butter me up. I’m quite happy to cook for you, Majesty,” Ignis said modestly. Then he added, “And, of course, this isn’t your only present…”

“Present?”

“Well, it is your birthday.” Ignis cleared his throat gently.

“I see.” Noct couldn’t keep from grinning. “You’re definitely a gift worth savoring.”

“But first, you need a shave.”

Noctis laughed. “All right, all right. I can take a hint.”

The corner of Ignis’s mouth curled into a mischievous smile. “I promise to make it worth your while.”

“I’m counting on it.”

An hour later, the plates were in the dishwasher, Noctis had freshened up with a hot shower, and Ignis had shaved his king’s face to smooth perfection.

“I swear I’m going to lose you some day to some pretty young thing who’s never held a razor in his life.”

“Nonsense; I loved you when you were a boy, just as I love you now, my darling Noctis.” Ignis nuzzled his cheek against Noct’s face, inhaling the clean scent of him. “I will always love you.”

Noct’s arms encircled his slender lover’s waist. He raised his chin to kiss the taller man’s mouth, but Ignis drew back before their lips touched. “I have a special treat for you tonight,” he said in a low, enticing voice that made Noct shiver. The king hadn’t bothered to dress, but there was still a towel around his waist.

The bedroom was aglow with the light of dozens of candles. Their aroma and soft heat tinged the air with a romantic aura. They hadn’t made love in weeks—there was endless paperwork for his lover, and endless meetings for Noctis, and then Ignis had been gone for four days on a business trip and the men hadn’t even had a chance to exchange a phone call in all that time. But even when their lives grew this hectic, Ignis had remembered his birthday and planned for it as only he could.

Ignis led the way to the bed, taking a pillow from the mattress to set on the floor. Then he knelt down, his knees resting on its soft cushion. Noctis drew a sharp breath as he felt his body respond in anxious anticipation. “Come to me,” Ignis whispered in a voice so thick with hunger it was almost unrecognizable.

Noctis drew slowly closer. Ignis could not see him, but he sensed his presence and his breaths quickened. Noct stopped beside him and ran his fingers gently through his ash blond hair, then with both hands he drew open the towel wrapped around his waist and let it drop to the floor.

He was already aroused, from looking at Ignis, from understanding his intentions, from the nearness of his mouth. Ignis reached up and took hold of his hips, kneading them sensually as he urged his king to sit down on the bed. Noctis did, spreading his thighs apart and letting his feet touch the floor on either side of Ignis’s knees.

Noct watched his lover as the other man deeply massaged his thighs. “Ignis…”

“I love you, Noct.”

“Ignis… You’re my all.”

The blond leaned closer, lips parting. Even in the dark, even without his sight, he found Noct’s length without needing to use his hands. As he took the swollen member into his mouth, Noctis sighed at the warmth enveloping him. He stroked Ignis’s soft hair tenderly as he let himself enjoy the older man’s wet kisses, until he was too weak with want to sit up straight any longer.

Noctis let himself lay back on the mattress. Ignis’s arms wound around his waist as he buried his face between the king’s legs, taking his cock more deeply into his hungry mouth. Noct’s back arched involuntarily. Ignis knew exactly how to rob him of all strength, tie his nerves into pleasured knots, and deliver him into the arms of ecstasy. Within moments his excited groans gave way to senseless pleading for more, for release, and his hips were writhing on the bed. He grasped at Ignis’s back, pushed him away by the shoulders, and completely fell apart under his passionate, torturous kiss. The king struggled to simultaneously find and stall his release, until at last he could resist no longer and shuddered in his perfect lover’s hold, his entire body melting as he reached his climax and came down Ignis’s throat.

His lover drank his seed, his tongue encouraging every drop of precious nectar to spill into his mouth. Ignis’s hands roamed worshipfully over the lean muscles of his thighs, the gentle jut of his hips, the toned expanse of his abdomen. Noct lay catching his breath as his length slipped free of Ignis’s mouth. He could hear the other man panting as well and couldn’t resist opening his eyes to admire him, even if he didn’t yet have the energy to lift his head and gaze at him fully. But a moment later Ignis was crawling onto the bed—onto him—and he didn’t need to.

Ignis’s dick was flushed and erect, and his chest was heaving faintly with craving. Noct ached to kiss him, but Ignis couldn’t see the desire on his face as he settled himself onto Noct’s hips, their manhoods hot and pressed tightly together.

“Give me a moment,” Noct murmured, but Ignis shook his head.

“I won’t rush you,” his lover said, his voice husky but soft. “I just want to be near you.”

Noct reached up to caress his bare thighs, relishing the feel of his creamy skin. “You’re the most beautiful birthday gift I’ve ever received,” he whispered.

“Your flattery is wasted, Sire… I could refuse you nothing tonight.”

“Why would you?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Only tonight?”

“Well…it is your birthday…”

“I won’t be finished with you tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“Ignis?”

“Yes, Noct?”

“You really are beautiful.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I just…wanted you to know.”

“Thank you.” Ignis caressed Noct’s cheek, freshly shaved and as soft as it had ever been in his youth. “Will you take me now?”

Noct sighed deeply. “Yes, Ignis. I want to make love to you.”

Ignis spread his legs wider, lifting himself from the other man’s body. He winced in pleasure so intense it was almost pain, aching for Noct so desperately he would have cried if he could have. At last his lover was inside. They adjusted their position until Ignis was comfortable, then Noct laced fingers with him and arched his hips. Ignis rode his lap in slow, sensual motions, their bodies joined as one. Noct’s thumbs caressed the backs of his hands as soft words of praise poured continuously from his lips. “That feels good, Ignis… Your body is beautiful… We were made for one another…” Since his decade-long sleep inside the Crystal, when they had nearly lost everything to bring peace and light back to the world, Noctis had had little difficulty telling Ignis all the things he’d never had the chance to say. They maintained a professional working relationship in public, but when they were alone together at night, naked and in each other’s arms, Noct was so open with his heart and emotions it was hard to believe he was the same stubborn boy who had once been afraid to admit to anyone—perhaps even to himself—he desired the company of a man, one man in particular. But at last he had confessed it was Ignis he wanted. It had always been Ignis.

As Noct’s excitement mounted, he began bucking harder beneath Ignis. The chamberlain’s fingers tightened painfully around his, so Noct pried his hands free and instead took hold of Ignis’s hips, forcing their bodies even closer together. Ignis arched, throwing his head back to cry out in pleasure. The way Noctis felt inside him was the most incredible sensation he had ever known. He didn’t need his eyes to see that Noctis loved him; he felt it in his touch and heard it in his voice.

Noct could tell Ignis was weakening. He recognized the higher, more urgent cries his lover made in the moments leading up to his orgasm. It excited him and filled him with renewed energy to know how he made Ignis feel.

The king sat up, his legs still dangling over the edge of the mattress, as Ignis collapsed against him. The older man’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and Ignis buried his face in Noct’s neck as Noctis hugged him low around the waist and drove himself into him. Both men grunted as they established a new rhythm, struggling together and against one another to find release. When Ignis’s groans turned into whimpers, Noct knew he was close. He moaned the other man’s name to let him know nothing else was on his mind, repeating it again and again as his own voice tightened: “Ignis… Ignis! Ignis!”

The chamberlain cried out loudly as his body trembled in Noctis’s embrace. He pressed his mouth against Noct’s neck and gently bit down, muffling another cry and another as his cum splashed both their torsos. Noctis came inside Ignis a second time tonight, clinging to him with all his heart and might.

Later, when they had finally stopped kissing and whispering “I love you” and curled up together to catch their breaths and touch each other’s skin, Noct found himself burning to ask Ignis what he most desired of him. But in his heart he had doubts—not of his feelings or of Ignis’s, but of Ignis’s willingness to give up his independence and let Noct give him a ring and a title more intimate than simply that of Chamberlain. He reminded himself how much he loved the privacy of this little apartment; it was a world that belonged only to them, without red tape or formalities. And yet he yearned to make Ignis his husband.

Just when he thought he could not hold back any more and started to bite down on his tongue, Ignis interrupted his internal struggle to say, “Happy 31st birthday, Your Majesty.”

#ignoct #ignis scientia #noctis lucis caelum #final fantasy xv #ffxv fanfiction

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raitchparker · 7 years

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February 12, 2017

Normalizing Illness in the Age of Not-Normalizing T****

During these early days of President 45 (I won’t write his name), it’s very hard to remember that there is anything else do to, to write, to discuss. It’s only been three weeks. It’s been my privilege as a white person to live most of my life in relative comfort. I’ve known, of course, that people of color, especially queer people (I’m from the 90s and I still like that word) and women, live in a different universe and always have.

We are all now, as a country, the patient who wakes up in the burn unit, scarred, in unthinkable pain, wondering where her beauty went. We are all huddled together, listening to the doctors who are telling us that the beauty, the very skin-deep kind we knew was relative anyway, may never come back the way it was before. We know we are going to be scarred. We just don’t know where or how badly. We don’t know which scars are bound for permanence.

Yet, we are disfigured. We are all on the same foot now. The words of James Baldwin, James Brown, and Angela Davis have come flooding back into the now, slamming into the faces of white people everywhere, reminding us all that they’ve been telling us who we are for years. The most accepting of us, those of us who have been living even the most open of lives for years, who have held the hands of people of color as lovers and friends, supported our gay, lesbian, and transgender brothers and sisters step into the light into safe spaces, we are left feeling like nothing we’ve done ever amounted to enough.

So, I stopped writing creatively mostly during this time. A rhino horn pierced what was left of my broken heart. I’ve probably written somewhere on this very site about the dangers of being frozen with grief. It is no way to live. Since Herbert became ill and since our money troubles started in L.A., I’ve been alternately frozen or thawing myself out. This, I realize, is what it means to normalize illness.

There is a huge, empty, dismembered cardboard carton sitting in our entry hallway, engulfing it, really, that held within it a treadmill that Herbert now uses every day in lieu of onsite therapy at the hospital. Were we in a different phase of our lives, Herbert would have already broken it down and taken it to the trash. We would have already carefully separated recyclable from trash. It would be gone.

Instead, it sits like an abstract effigy of both of us. It took our friend helping us get the massive thing into the house. He stayed through the afternoon and helped us unpack the treadmill and set it up. I would have been helpless to do that alone, and Herbert is at least from a physical standpoint, utterly helpless in general. That same week, my sweet Cassidy and charming baby Dot took me to IKEA where I finally invested some $200 in shelving to replace the metal shelves the movers lost. Those now sit, unassembled, in the living room because, if anyone knows IKEA furniture, it’s not something that anyone should attempt solo. There are just some things in life that, for me, are two-person jobs and putting together IKEA bookshelves is surely one of them.

So, I’ve got all these piles around the house that are reminders of what we can and can’t do in a timely way right now. I can do the following with some regularity (thankfully thankfully thankfully):

Buy all our food

Write mind-numbingly boring content about office products in exchange for a meager amount of money

Write not-nearly as mind-numbing blogs for somewhat more money

Cook everything we eat except Herbert’s breakfast turkey patties which he makes himself

Make all the key financial decisions for our household because that’s not Herbert’s thing and, even if it was, he gets tired when he takes a shower now, so...

Go to at least one political action per week (last week: visiting Claire McCaskill’s office in the City and pleading with her staffer)

Ponder why I still haven’t taken the dog to get his nails trimmed

Read. Read more. So much reading. We have so much reading to do every day now

Keep the house clean

Do all the laundry

Listen to my husband cough, watch him struggle, and remind myself that we’ve come to the spot in the road where I can’t drop everything and cry all the time anymore.

Normalizing illness isn’t any more normal than this president is. They are both equally challenging in completely different ways. I question my ability to handle them simultaneously. Herbert’s disease and our nation’s woes are both unstoppable freight trains of shitty. Both are completely indifferent to my pain, and yet they are both destroying things that I, without hesitation, love more than anything.

I am normalizing the illness because I have no choice. I do, of course, still have moments of terrible grief. However, because Herbert doesn’t melt into self-pity and sadness at every turn, I can’t either. It’s his body failing him, after all. If he can hold it down, the least I can do is the same.

Here’s an example: treadmill day was busy. Our friend, Herbert’s able-bodied friend from North Carolina who happens to live in Wildwood (a blessing of a wild coincidence in a terrifying year) also helped us schlep what was left of our steel bookshelves to a scrap metal yard (so, yes, at least we disposed of them responsibly, dammit). It was the only cold day we’ve had in weeks (it snowed a bit) and we were expecting our treadmill to arrive at a FedEx center near us so we went to lunch. After we ate, Herbert’s friend single-handedly loaded the human-sized cargo into his truck, unloaded it for us, helped me take it out of the carton, and kept Herbert company while I slogged through the horribly-written instructions to get the thing ready for use.

After he left, Herbert was exhausted. He did very little doing that flurry of coming and going, packing and unpacking, but whatever he did, it was too much. He sat at the edge of our bed using the oxygen concentrator (which provides a straight stream of air, unlike the portable tanks which spit tiny bursts of air at regular intervals), his eyes downcast, his body sagging.

He was exhausted. In weeks past, I would have immediately excused myself to collapse in a corner somewhere. Normalizing illness asks you to do that, too, to crumple and weep, usually uncontrollably, for months until the grief becomes, as it always does, into something else. That day, though, I just sat next to him.

“You overdo it?” I asked. Because it’s always too hard for him to talk when he’s that exhausted, he nodded.

“Should I sit here and rub your back?” I asked. He smiled a warm smile of relief. I needed that smile. Sometimes, a lot in fact, illness forms a great shadow over the sick person and you forget who they are. Herbert always finds a way to break through. His smile exploded the shadow. I’m noticing that it’s his light that’s getting us through this far more than mine.

I sat next to him and let my hand wander softly across his still very broad shoulders. The yogi in me suddenly started driving the bus. I can’t tell you what it feels like when the yogi arrives. Maybe it’s something you already understand. Some people call that feeling God. I call it my reward for years of patience and practice of a very specific discipline. But there she was. She took over my body and reminded me to take in the moment, this perfect moment where, even though the breath was a struggle, it was still there.

I wonder how many women there are in the world who would give everything--literally every single possession--to hear their husband’s breathe again. There I was, nestled next to mine, squeezing him around the shoulders while his hand rested on my thigh. There have to be millions of women who would sacrifice anything namable, save their own children, for the luxury of comforting their now dead husbands. For now, the yogi reminded me, he’s here. He’s breathing. He knows you and knows your love.

I don’t know how to have an afternoon like that during the era of T**** (I will not write his name) and then be the same person who breaks down the gigantic pile of cardboard that’s drowning her front hallway. We’re a man down in this house, and we’ve lost our more functional one. Herbert was our dish doer, our trash remover. He’s done it all so well for so long, I kind of suck at that now. Also, with the title of “I do all the things now,” I’m just tired.

That night, I was downstairs doing some deep, pot-tinged yoga and mat work, and Herbert was playing bass in his future man cave of a bedroom. The door was open and hearing the familiar thumping of his guitar made the whole place come alive. Suddenly, I remembered in a flash that we were still very much in a place of transition. We’ve been through so much and all at once: the move, Herbert’s diagnosis, the motherfucker of all elections, selling the house, buying a new house, another move...the yogi whispered to me then.

“Everything,” she said, “is fine. Anyone would find it hard to take out a pile of trash right now. You’re normal. Please start loving yourself right now, this instant.”

I popped up and went into Herbert’s room and I said some version of that: that I knew in another life, this place would be looking much more settled. I said it like I’d just uncracked a great code. i said it like my name belonged in a published research paper for coming to this conclusion.

He laughed like he’d known this all along. Herbert, for all his shyness, is far wiser than I am. He didn’t even look up at me from his bass.

“We have a functioning kitchen. If I weren’t sick, I’d have my record player up I’d be pressing you about getting Lacey’s old T.V. Now? I could live like this for another year and I wouldn’t even give a shit.”

Of course he knew already what I’d just caught onto: we are in a good place. We are still in a better place than we were before. If nothing else, we’re settled in a way. We’ve arrived into something better than L.A. We are the lucky ones.

So, I’ve normalized Herbert’s failing lungs, or at least I’m working to normalize my acceptance of them. I will not, however, in any way, normalize The Republican Administration. To do so is a veritable act of insanity. I will not normalize them, but I do, as do we all, have to normalize our resistance to them. We’re all accepting right now that protests are the new brunch (a friend said on his Facebook feed the other day). I’m going to a postcard writing party this afternoon, for example.

There is an important balance to staying vigilant without losing your shit. I’m looking to the experts, like Jeremy Scahill and Shaun King, for help. I was on Glenn Greenwald’s Facebook feed the other day and even he posts videos of taking his dogs to the dog beach. If Glenn Greenwald can go to the beach, I can keep living, too.

Regarding living:

I went to Cass’s Superbowl party last weekend and met her friends who live merely a mile from me. The husband is one of Drew’s oldest friends; he played guitar in Cass’s wedding. He is lovely and she is a firecracker. They just had a sweet baby and they seemed like died in the wool city kids like me. She had a “Galentine’s Day” party and invited me and I went on Thursday night.

Not surprisingly, all the girls there were lovely. Creative, bright, warm, funny. It felt like the kind of scene I’d go to in L.A. only no one cared what I did for a living. I got there about a half an hour before Cass. When she came in, wearing an adorable hot pink beanie, she saw me sitting on her friend’s couch with a glass of wine.

“Is it weird to see me at your friend’s house?” I asked.

She laughed right away, her big bright-eyed laugh she’s had since she was a baby. “No,” she said. “It feels normal now and THAT feels weird.”

I some lovely women and they were all smart. I felt right at home. The house is maybe a mile away (probably a little less) and it made me feel like moving into this neighborhood is maybe the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

Cass and I walked out together, after we’d had one of those generational conversations where I told her all about the original Mad Max series which she’s never seen. My sisters and I have gradually getting better at saying goodbye. When we first got to town, I think all three of us experienced the most shock not when we showed up somewhere together, but when we parted. For 30 years, those goodbyes have been usually pretty awful.

I could feel all of us tugging in those early days of reunion to make immediate plans. It’s taken six months for that to change for all three of us. Normalizing our togetherness is more complex than it sounds since it’s never, ever happened before. Not like this.

Cass mentioned something to that effect as we walked to our cars. Something like: “And we don’t have to say goodbye!”

“Isn’t it great?” I responded.

“It is great.”

“You’re great,” I said plainly.

“You’re great. I love you, Rachel.”

“I love you, too. I like your friends.”

“They’re awesome, aren’t they?”

“They are. See you later.”

Cass barked a “See ya!” over her shoulder.

The comings and goings with my sisters is the kind of normal that is making the other not lovely but also normal things survivable. I’ve never known what it’s like to live with supportive family around me. It’s the very kind of normal that I can get used to.

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gymwrites · 7 years

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Here’s To Ties

The Raistafina Chrismukkah one shot I finally got around to finishing - better late than never. Hope it warms the heart a little :)

“Hello? Anyone there?”

McKayla Maroney pokes her head through the arched entrance door. She unwraps a thick woolly scarf around her neck, a bagful of elegantly wrapped presents balanced against her hip.

Pausing for a moment to even out her slightly labored breathing (she had decided to take the ten or so flights of stairs up to the penthouse, rather than the private elevator), McKayla pricks up her ears. The comfortable silence of the warmly lit hallway is peppered every now and then with distant clanks of pans against a stove, the sudden on and off of a tap, and the muffled sounds of playful scolding.

She waits. Sure enough, a thundering patter of footsteps rapidly grows ever closer. McKayla grins. Dropping the heavy bag to the floor, she bends down just in time to catch the enthusiastic ball of energy hurtling towards her.

“Aunty Mack! Aunty Mack!”

“Mimi! God, I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re a full grown lady now!” McKayla laughs as she sweeps five-year-old Amira up into her arms, planting a kiss on her forehead. With her free hand, McKayla reaches up to brush a few wild strands of dark brown hair out of the excited girl’s eyes.

“Are any of those for me?” Amira eyes the bag of goodies on the ground, searching for something with her name on it.

“Maybe. You’ll just have to find out later tonight, when your mommies officially start the gift-opening ceremony.”

Slightly deflated, Amira sighs and rests her cheek against McKayla’s shoulder.

“That won’t be until forever. Gifts start only after we eat all the food first.”

McKayla raises an eyebrow, a tiny smile hanging on her lips. “And just how much food have they cooked this time?”

Lifting her head to look seriously into McKayla’s eyes, Amira leans in to whisper, “A lot. And…” Amira’s hushed voice trails off.

“Let me guess. We have to judge who Queen of the Kitchen is again?”

Amira chews her lip and nods silently. McKayla’s eyes glint with anticipation. “I see. Well, then. We had better go and make sure they haven’t started World War III.” Bending down to scoop up the bag, Amira’s arms still wrapped tightly around her neck, McKayla starts striding down the hallway.

True to Chrismukkah tradition as celebrated by the Mustafina-Raisman household, it looks like the Big Bang took place on their massive oakwood dining room table. Every inch of it is covered in food, glorious food. Crispy, golden brown latkes sidled with applesauce, a huge pot of steaming solyanka ringed with mushroom pies, leafy salads galore, a roast chicken with Seda and Laurie’s names on it, a mountain of pelmeni accompanied by generous dollops of sour cream… It’s as if all the exertion that normally goes into winning Olympic medals has been channelled into creating the most magnificent Chrismukkah feast the world has ever seen.

Aliya Mustafina and Aly Raisman stand side by side at the head of the table, exhausted, but feeling like they’ve accomplished something great. Milling around the table is what over the years has become their big, jumbled Russian-American extended family - Simone, Masha, Laurie and Seda jabbering away about their planned trip to the Cayman Islands, Dasha and Madison swapping bar coaching tips, Gabby and Viktoria bent over an intense game of chess.

Looking sideways over at Aly, Aliya takes a moment to appreciate her partner’s adorably flushed cheeks, the crystal lashes she had spent a full hour applying, and the super nerdy Santa hat she has on. Feeling Aliya’s gaze on her, Aly turns and grins at her.

“What?”

Fighting back the impulse to tell the American she looks ravishing tonight and perhaps maybe they should cancel the Chrismukkah dinner right now so they can… have some time to themselves… Aliya bites her lip and instead fixes a careful smile on her face.

“Your - how you say - lat-kee? Taste good. But little burnt.”

Aly shoots Aliya an indignant look. “I never burn those. They’re perfect.”

Aliya chuckles. “We will see.”

A joyous chorus of greetings from the Olympians in the room distracts them from their pre-competition banter.

“Sorry I’m late! Work at the studio was crazy.” McKayla’s signature exuberance brightens the festively decorated room even more. She sets Amira down onto the floor and immediately goes around to pull each of the other girls into a fierce embrace. This is the one time of the year Team USA and Team Russia get to be in the same room together - a near impossible feat, what with their combined number of international competitions, TV appearances, judging panels and coaching workshops to attend.

Aly and Aliya both make their way over to the beaming vault champion, elated at McKayla’s arrival. Now the party - and fight for this year’s Queen of the Kitchen title - can really get started.

“Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha'olam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah.”

Amira claps her hands in delight as Aly lights the final candle on the menorah. Hugging her daughter close, Aliya’s joy is more contained, but no less genuine. Every time Aliya watches Aly say blessings on behalf of their family, she never fails to get shivers at how beautiful the Hebrew language sounds, how special it feels to share this moment with the people who mean most to them.

Aly sets down the lighter and grins around at the illustrious bunch seated around the table, noting with satisfaction the empty plates and bowls spread out on the table. The guests, for their part, feel like they won’t have to eat for another week. At least.

“Aliya, Amira and I just want to say how grateful we are that you all could make it again this year. You guys are as close to family as family can be. Chrismukkah is about bringing people together, regardless of faith, background, nationality, and…” Aly chokes up as a surprising wave of emotion hits her. Everyone exchanges small sympathetic smiles at the sight of the former American team captain tearing up. Despite the rivalry between their countries they have all known for most of their lives, the last few years have knitted them closer together, more than anyone had expected.

“Yes,” Aliya steps in gently. She slides her hand into Aly’s. “You are all very important to us.” Amira, sensing the gravity of the moment, sends the most love-filled smile she can muster up towards her mom.

Finding the strength in Amira’s smile and Aliya’s touch to pull herself together, Aly decides to steer the night towards a lighter note.

“Speaking of important, it’s time to count your votes to see who this year’s Queen of the Kitchen is!”

Aliya nods. “After lose to me in the last year, Raisman not let me hear the end of it. When she lose again tonight, we all can have true peace.”

“Excuse me, it doesn’t count as winning if you bribe everyone with expensive Russian vodka that isn’t yet legally available on the market,” Aly retorts. “As I recall, we’re meant to do this all in the spirit of friendly international competition.”

Simone rolls her eyes. “To skip all the drama, we made sure to vote so you both …Ow!” She suddenly yelps as someone’s foot kicks her in the shin under the table. Viktoria shoots her a barely visible warning that’s immediately replaced with a sweet smile. “Go on, Aly,” the demure Russian says.

Aly gives Viktoria a quizzical look, but continues. “Gabby, would you do the honors?” Both she and Aliya look expectantly at Gabby.

Gabby clears her throat. “Well… After tallying everyone’s votes for each of the main dishes, it appears we have…” She looks around at the table, trying hard not to laugh at how everyone is avoiding looking directly at Aly and Aliya. “Well would you look at that, I can hardly believe it. A tie. You are both equally amazing in the kitchen.”

“A tie! Hooray!” Amira clinks a silver spoon against a glass, something she’s loved doing since McKayla taught her it’s a secret noise that attracts the faeries to come out and play. It also helps fill in the silence of everyone collectively holding their breaths at Aly and Aliya’s reactions.

Sure enough, their reception to the tie is slightly more suspicious.

“You guys. We told you - you don’t have to spare either one of our feelings. Vote with no fear of the Russian mafia coming after you…” Aly stifles a grin at the sight of Aliya’s stormy eyes widening.

Before Aliya can fire back a response, Madison quickly and strategically raises her glass in the air. “Here’s to ties!” Sitting across from her are Viktoria and Dasha; they all burst out laughing the second they make eye contact. In wholehearted agreement, the other Olympians around the table follow suit. “To ties!” Mouthfuls of champagne are quickly downed.

Moving hurriedly to muffle the protests of Aly and Aliya, Laurie jumps to her feet and with a flourish of her hand announces, “Okay party people! Seda and I have been working on a little something for the past few days… How does a Russo-American Chrismukkah song sound? Da-vai!”

The still of the night merges with soft, intermingled breathing.

Despite the madness of Chrismukkah celebrations, neither Aly or Aliya feel the slightest bit tired. It might be the effects of the peach-tinged, medium-dark Colombian coffee brew McKayla had whipped out at and made everyone down in shots. Or the impromptu half-drunken rap Seda and Laurie had conjured up at the last minute, lampooning everything from the FIG to floor judges to Olympic after parties. Amira had passed out from pure exhaustion after the tenth verse.

But mostly, it’s the familiar comfort of fingers laced through each other’s, legs entangled, the scintillating heat of their bodies pressed together, that’s keeping them awake. Moments like these make reality better than dream; sleep, an unwelcome prospect.

Aliya shifts her head slightly so she has a direct view into the deep swirls of hazel against honey, the boundless love in them wrapping around her like a protective blanket. She brings her hand up to trace the outline of Aly’s cheekbones. The Russian doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t have to. Aly smiles, tilting her face in closer, close enough that their noses brush together.

“How many times was that?”

Aliya laughs softly. “Four, I think.”

Aly sighs, closing her eyes for a second to take in a deep breath, and to savor the feeling of not knowing where she ends and Aliya begins. She opens them to find Aliya smiling sultrily at her. It prompts a gentle kiss from Aly. “After the third time I thought there was no way, but wow. That was amazing.”

"We are together so long, and still you are surprised at my superior skills," Aliya chides in mock indignation.

“Superior skills? Do I need to remind you how many times you…”

The Russian leans in to nuzzle Aly’s ear, her hot breath sending ripples of pleasure down Aly’s being, cutting her off mid-sentence. “We call it a tie.”

“I thought you hated ties. Actually, we both hate ties. Like tonight’s dinner. I know my latkes were incredible. No offence to you babe, I know how much time you spent on that soup… what is it called? Sol… sol- something…” The teasing in her voice is palpable.

“Aly?”

“Hm?”

“Shut up.”

Aly can hardly fail to comply. Not with Aliya’s hands suddenly embarking on another insistent exploration beneath the sheets…

#raistafina #one shot #chrismukkah #it's a bit late but still

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throwingideasatthewall · 3 years

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Clone Wars Episode 19

Storm over Ryloth

Inter- sting

I know (how ) this likely means ‘storm’ as into breach or, to take by force

But I can’t help thinking about space weather

It’s so fricking cool

But getting into the story;

[Quote; It is a rough road ahead, leads to the height of greatness

I’ve spoken about this before; You don’t need suffering or conflict to be great (Or to write a good story)

Productivity (and happiness) doesn’t require suffering

Someone might heck you over but that’s just a momentary inconvenience

When you’re chasing (and doing) your dream

And it won’t really matter after you’re done dealing with it

And in light of your actual goal

Now continuing on;

Droid army

I like how it’s “subjected,”

Like you know the adults can get out of this at any time

Same brain, Same abilities (Yes) Same in- tell-I gence

(Same Ability (To escape)

And are assholes if they dragged children into this

(Enablers if they didn’t (Directly)

Starving

Again, Fixable

Also, one blockade Screws You Over?

You can’t like self sustain

On your own planet?

That’s.. kinda cringe ,bro

Evil

Is anyone not in this circumstance?

Like not the children obviously...

Watt-ton-boar

Interesting

Name

Also please be more nuanced and put in more Thought than the colonizers episode

Please

(My head can’t stand that headache.)

.. .

“Iron fist,”

Well he is made out of iron

(Or at least a metal suit,)

Senate

Oh Palpatine cares!

(I know not really but run with me on this)

Grand army of the Republic

Mount a bold - offensive

Again the escalation of this goes from 10 to 1

It’sa amazing

Like last episode was biological warfare

(Now it’s a grand army)

And it’s just off the chart how this conflict works

Going from stabbing each other To throwing more paper airplanes at each other

(None of it done seriously)

And without any consideration to how terrifying that is with children... involved

Like it’s their game but their actual living nightmare That... they’ll be left to clean up, if it doesn’t kill them first

That’s terr- -fying

Also this is one planet (System?)

(But you showed...

Ergh

In- Consistent-ly

Asoka is already glaring

And more focus on her

Than Anakin

Aight

Really focusing on Ahsoka there movie

Anakin gets shifted by the holograms

Obi-wan’s Ground Assault

Seriously it’s one planet

Big Planet

Big Station-

Oh I thought Obi-Wan - was flirting with the villains again

Never mind it’s just some random Sergeant

(Good for him)

And like the Titanic he’s fecking jinxing it

“Un- destructible” Yeah I know a few people that said that

Tragic irony, get ‘em

Okay

Dude has mood lighting

Knows the Republic is going to attack

Let’s get the shitshow on the road

(The battle that’s likely going to unfold, not the story,)

Surprise

In-teresting

so good

so far

You

Re-public

Invade

Good for him

Get-ting assigned an important mi-ssion

Good

Into the Blue!

(Here we go)

Aight

Let’s See

Okay

Lots of build up for the admiral

Aight

Hey the clone actually talk to him in an accurate show of decent accountability

Good Job

I like the Admiral when he’s not micromanaging stuff

He looks practically adorable

- with his little mustache...

“Prepare for battle,”

Never mind it was ruined by logic that they should always be ready for battle

They are on a war ship after all

-still a nice moment

Raise the shields

- Fair order

Aight, two more

This... is Anakin’s command after all

Aight

Right

Okay

Good for them.

Okay

Ahsoka gets a starfighter Why?

Commanding a squadron

Wait they gave her a squadron?

I thought-

The character is a Mary Sue

There

DONE

[either that or Yoda’s an idiot]

Or, Anakin an unaccountable bastard

[They’re both un-accountable]

“Idiot,” is just short for an unaccountable at this point

[I can’t stand to correct it every time]

Any-way

Let’s make a good impression

That was almost a good child-like impression

Still a bit too much emotion and not stunted enough

But fine...

As is...

—-

“ of course I’m not nervous,”

Never- mind there it went with all the goodwill towards the character

- Who shouldn’t be capable of nervousness

Shit show on the road

[”Snips,”

First Command

Nervous

All the things wrong with that conversation with a child

Good Job

Every-one

Abom ination

De-pend- ing

Child soldier ...

Lives? Who put the child soldier in charge,

Also Bull Shit Adults

Pressure Off

Whatever ..... Handle It

Aight

And...

Great

Back

Force be with you

Made the presence of self (which you can’t have because you’re a child) Be with You

“I won’t let you down”

Child.

Soldier.

Hope

Aight

[Mary Sue,]

Okay

]

It’s... rolling out

Kick- Back .... Knows Some Non -Sense Is going- down - He’s likely going to die

Being the only person that sees something wrong with the whole “child soldier,” Leader -ing thing ... Aight

‘Mother Bird,’?

Please tell me that isn’t Ahsoka‘s nickname?

Couldn’t it have been anything else?

[i’m aware “mother,” Generally Refers To Base Or Lead -ing - Ship - Just that we see plenty of other names - For the lead ship - That would’ve been less - - - Dis - turb -ing

(It’s a nitpick but one that I will carry to my grave)

(She’s a hec’kin Child!)

I am a little bit fumed

At them never writing her like one

And still trying to take any credit for good writing

.....

Shows on the roll

Aight

..Those Do... ... Kinda. look like vultures .. Maybe wrong ship ... IDk .. Okay There They Go .. Aight ... There They Go ... Perfect time to get your Padawan involved ... Back with this guy..

“Lau-,”

Okay when I originally heard this (I paused it) I thought he was saying “lunch” To show his decadence or lack of care,

What he’s actually saying is a “Launch,”

Still good

(A (relatively) smart move)

Just a funny anecdote

Okay

Again what is with the mood ... lighting?

(On his hat?)

Okay .... Right,

Whelp

They’re screwed

(Way to send the inexperienced Padawan first dickhead,”)

Also; where the heck is Obi-Wan?

Like I normally never usually complain because they never hold him responsible and treat him like a kicked puppy

( “In this nonsense ‘adults are the savior of everything, leading down, other adults, capable of initiative, the Glorious path Of stag -nation

And ooh, Obi-wan is the victim!

Saving his previous grooming victim from the evil of not stagnation (And being even the tin-iest bit upset about that whole grooming set up!

(Never mind Accountability [Shutter])

I see them doing it

I’m just giving the writers the benefit of the doubt that that’s not what they’re going with

(Until I’m certain that’s the narrative)

Anyway, Yeah, they mentioned him like five minutes ago

We haven’t seen him since Or ever

Switching over to Anakin‘s Admiral

When it’s supposed to be Obi-Wan’s mission ...

For his attack it’s surprisingly empty

Then again when has he ever focused and done what he was supposed to do

[Man is a dumpster fire]

[And yeah he has another child soldier to train so he’s probably busy with that]

- Last episode snark

He really can’t restrain himself to one

[ Anakin’s old news now...]

.....

Okay, I’ll stop the jokes now

Back to this episode;

Fleet is ready?? !!

You’re all clear

For What?

Dying?

There’s a million ships heading right for her

She’s going to be destroyed...

“Softened them up,”

A child dies when an adult wants them to die

There is no way she makes this

R7 —- Ready —- Action —-

What-ever

My brains already going numb?

This is going to be an ‘Asoka’ focused episode, isn’t it?

Argh

[i’m starting to wish I read the pre-views

(Or the title description)

Note; you’re going to hear a lot of a ““Uhmms,” “Uh-hahs,”, and ”what- Evers,”

As my brain shuts down to make way for the authors favorite Mary Sue

...

Boss

Arghghhhhh

God help me

Ahsoka should be dead

Ahsoka should be....

Movie, you do you know how children work

Children... Can’t survive An Adult wanting them dead

Those are bots programmed to kill every man woman and child

Ahsoka, should be dead

What really bothers me-

It’s the fact the child soldiers is something that you have to do carefully

You have to think through it

There’s not brawns because children don’t have the brawns to win that fight

Nor anything else

The adult has to let them win

(Or let them live at least)

Which goes well with a story about a narcissist. playing both sides

If the narrative (didn’t) what are used to hold the scene with culpable

The tension should come from the fact That Asoka isn’t aware of the danger she’s in

Completely unaccountable for her situation

And would be unaware up to the death

That is the tragedy of child soldiers

(They are by very definition glass tanks)

Fodder Of ...... Amorality

If you want to write an adult, write an adult

Don’t push these backwards morals

Write responsibly ........ Accountable for the ideas you bring into the world ... Ahsoka the unchildlike Narc

(That thing is not a child; I will be addressing it as the quasi-adult abomination it acts to be Showing how the actions (at least) Work better with the adult

While still holding its culpable for writing a bad character (Child) (Un-real -istic-)

[also they’re leading into a Patroclus like twist]

I don’t care

Here we see Ahsoka, taking the blame for some-thing an older (Enabler) Generation Did, Taking the heat [for the blame]

And by the energy the enabler (toxin instigat -or has gained, by the Ena-bling

That’s what I would say if the story actually took it self properly, and didn’t write Ahsoka poorly

- additionally with Anakin’s emotions of guilt (for enabling) addressed

[Alt ernatively]

Child;

This represents the complete power Adults [Enabling- over involved- generation breakers] hold over the naïve and defenseless, And how enablers care about their games more than for any concern about the well-being of others]

However that’s not what Happens;

Ahsoka, the abomination culpable to neither odds or groups, Makes it through

OY, Writers, Plot armor only applies to adults,

For children it’s unrealistic and bad writing

Because while adult humans maybe space orcs

Babies are... Not

They die when they are killed

While an adult can survive so long as they know what they’re getting into

Okay. everyone except Ahsoka

Who should be dead

.......

Clone enables ...... Okay ... Whatever ..... There is .. Oh yeah when they’re right on top of you .. That’s the right time to call for reinforcements .. Not like they were arrive - just in time to see you get blown up - Good idea .. Smart guy

[Also Anakin lent Asoka his ship so she can be Patroclus-ed did I mention that?

And how stupid it is?

[The characters I mean] . . Alright . .. There we go .. Right ... Whelp ..... Four enemy cruisers

So she’s

Totally

Dead Now Right .... Warn those fighters

Why

Does Anakin looks so pissed off at everything?

Also like not going to pull the child soldier at any time?

Caught

“You’re over reacting Admiral.”

Do you know those fanfiction’s where it states that someone has a problem but he’s never brought up in any meaningful way?

Just there .... . To make her seem quirky and relatable?

With a child character acting way beyond her age? (Or his’ having been no stranger for calling Anakin out for his shenanigans; even though Ahsoka is the most oblique case]

As a child they shouldn’t have any preferences besides eating and sleeping on un-interrupted

As an adult that would be a good study of how assumed authority and toxic behavior (Such as enabling) leads to a worser quality life (Ahsoka’s preferences and dislikes; no longer a concern,)

With the feeling of instability toxic peers bring

(Small goal; why cutting toxic peers, out of our life, and society, is a good idea, a necessary to prevent society from becoming an unstable mess)

However here it is nothing due to the story’s refusal to commit

And instead creating a non-human abomination of a main character, that sucks all the tension and stakes from the story like an on branded Mary Sue straight from Fanfiction

I hope the writers are proud to know they wrote such an abomination of a character

That it ruins any semi-decent plot they have written

And their decision to irresponsibly inflicted on the world are not unnoted

Though I do hope to forget this character as soon as possible

And that it’s existence will be lost to time and space

And not inflicted on the future generations

(And hopefully not many more people from this generation either*)

Or the older brother* generation

* Specifically

With that we are 19:17 minutes in (From finishing)

“Blue leader”

Do you think I won’t be done with a premise* so early on

*Episode

But the premise was already such a bad one

And the characters so badly miss handled

Which is a shame because I actually look forward to an episode of this premise

Heck they were redeemed Jar-jar Binks, you’d have to figure an episode with Ahsoka being redeemed was waiting right around the corner

However this is clearly not it

Well I hold out hope that the writers will eventually practice accountablity when writing Ahsoka’s character

That light is getting shorter and shorter

(It doesn’t excuse all the mediocre episodes or episodes turned mediocre by the lack of acc- oun tability

In her writing)

Con- tin- Uing On

“Admiral attempts to order a Jedi,”

I don’t think he has the authority to do that

Movie did you just break your own rule of command?

For a stupid trope?

Show how “bad ass” your Mary Sue Character is?

Argh

Also Anakin’s just a dip shit

(An Unaccountable dip shit)

Who en-dangered a child’s life on his own volition Like he’s already Darth Vader to me

No need to put on the mask

Just start playing the theme

(Not charming)

(Will never be)

Okay ..... There should be no question about that

(Unless it’s trying to insinuate Obi-Wan as a secondary groomer

Or the Chancellor’s second victim)

But seeing as the writers practice the accountability of a squirrel

Probably not...

.....

Heck off

Un child like abomination

Whelp

But the (un) child-like abomination is getting people killed

When by all the realism she should be the one dying

........

Writers ....

Not cool

“Our lines,”

You sent one group out there

We’ve seen you do literally nothing else ....

[this doesn’t make Asoka look cool, this makes everyone else look stupid

[Un-accountable]

[and I know what they are going with the survived beyond all odds when no one else can nonsense,”

No, movie

Just... No

[so many critical (mis)understandings (intentional mis-carrying), that drives this story into extinction

“Alright, alright,”

She only comes back when she’s needed more!

Fuck off...

Movie

That character got someone killed...

And has had enough sentience to understand the consequences of her actions

[and the system she enables]

And the concept of death

[Fair enough that dude could’ve saved himself]

But Ahsoka assumed authority and fucked it up Well enough Herself

No innocence in that

Retreating

Dude is ready to die [and while I don’t actually respect to or encourage that]

You kind of have to respect*/laugh At his commitment to his toxic job

Aight, Mate

Orders

That I pick and choose

And should’ve followed without a second thought if I was an actual child

Abomin -ation

Well

what

hope that was good

Oh he was actually doing some thing

That would’ve been nice to see when he uttered the “We’re out-numbered,“ Line

“Intensify deflector shields”

How?!

There’s too many

[really setting up the odds for Ahsoka to be the Big Damn hero [Un-realistic -ally]

Aren’t you ,movie

Aight

Fighter Squad

Bull-shit

Also isn’t it supposed to be the whole damn army?

Like, where is their enforcement is my question

Because it should be like baseball bat to glove

With them out numbering those guys 1 to 10

So what is up?

And also where is Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Y’know

The guy

this mission is actually supposed to be about

Seriously, that’s becoming a littered detail

Alright, okay

ARGGH

Dear God

She just said “cool your jets,”

To the fuckin Admiral

Are you trying to DIE

Child?

That’s an adult

They can

(And might)

Try to kill you!

WTF

We’re at 18:03

And already having this many problems with the story

Like even an essay on why this character doesn’t work

Hasn’t done much to sustain me

Through This Bull

Too late!

What.......?

What-

Happ -ened

Sky- Walker..

Okay

Just- Okay movie

You- don’t get any reaction beyond that

And.. the ship’s down

You know if this is in any other situation

With actual good characters

And set up

That might’ve been a bit actually tear jerking

As Ahsoka is forced to reckon with the fact of what the toxic behavior has done to her friends and family

And even as enablers - of a terrible military complex -( of toxic behaviors) you can’t help but feel - despite this being on making up their own creation - that it’s still too cruel for a human being (or sentient) and that accountability will be a blessing for them, where their hurt to themselves and everyone around them will be lesser

But that isn’t the case

Because Ahsoka

And toaster

Hang on Admiral

Fuck’in Jedi -under breath

Like seriously Comms guy here gets lot of our beef

But he seriously gets put through a whole fecking lot this episode

Like yeah he could stop this at any time

But He Doesn’t

And as noted above, It’s like dude you could be doing better for yourself...

You deserve better

Human reaction

Just Ouch

Out of Here

Fighters

Like yeah let me just try and contain the inhumane abomination of nature Sure, sir Right after- [Ship shaking]

I get these fires contained

[Feckin’ Jedi]

Well shit got more wrecked

Return

Oh shit yeah I fucked that up

Oh, Right

Few seconds

Why are you riding this guy’s tailplate?

Retreat

Whelp

Why?

Also, this is just like one fleet

I thought this was supposed to be like a multi facet thing

Like it said that the whole entire army

And we’re dealing with is extremely small slice of the pie

(Like not even supposed to be part of the pie As Asoka is a Jedi in training,”

We didn’t even see what Anakin and the Admiral are doing otherwise

Seriously all their hopes...

On a “teenager”

Who should be uncapable of intuition (Or initiative)

And Yoda (and surprisingly* every one else) Signed off on this

*Presumably * Nothing is surprising about A bunch of child groomers Agree- Ing to throw -ing A child into danger

That’s ex -pected

Smart Guy

Given that we literally haven’t seen any other bit of the Army

Ahsoka meant that she’s going to invade the enemy ship didn’t she?

Like it was cut so we couldn’t see the direction

The way she said that other clone’s name

I’m sus.

Good job

If you do your job well enough No one can beat it with half-ass ery

Okay

Failing?

Since when?

Anyone that got hit died!

How?

Stay with me

In this surprisingly stupid attempt

... ....

Aight,

He’s Dead

Good job everyone involved

“Axe,”

Apparently the only one that survived (Almost)

Also, Ahsoka how does it feel to have enabled that behavior?

Because you played a part

Skipping over the part that that was her fault?

And the consequences of enabling extremely toxic actions?

Like that person’s dead

Might not have been dead if everyone didn’t enable this

Like there was a part there

Close up the hangar doors

Why?

Also, That’s your reaction, To seeing all this shit

We’re home

That’s a bit better

Could’ve use a bit more conflict Over her role Eyes widening and shifting in horror Actually shocked

And expressing the full emotions of an adult

(If that is what we’re going for)

Okay, Alright

Also, someone survived?

Why?

Didn’t

He-

(Guess he only survived out of his own initiative)

And was just very done

Alright

Okay

Sucks

Hey- “jump to lightspeed”

Aniken- actually did some thing in this whole episode

Well,

Hope the other traids of this multi-facet -Ed

Invasion

Also, how is one ship not on fire?

Bull shit that’s Anakin’s

His ship... was on fire

Hold your characters accountable For the situations they caused

Now I’m going to assume Anakin and Ahsoka have the standard clichéd ‘You should’ve listen to orders/ I do what I want,” or Anakin comforts the un-child-like abomination for consciously Enabl -ing Bad Behaviors, As An Adult, As that the only situation that conversation would happen

(The narrative refusing to hold her accountable)

With a child it would just be an over involved adult comforting their own orders That and only that

Himself and only himself

Because children do not require comforting if you do not put them in distressful situations

“Sorry” Doesn’t quite cover it

Head Count

Aight

Can’t make me feel bad drama queen

Stop bothering the tech guys and get off

“Dis-appointed,”

She’s capable of making her own decisions

She’s either one an un child like abomination Or an adult Who should be how to accountability for repeated tox

Anakin held accountable (For enabling)

The second he hits an accountable adult

Point being they’re both in the wrong

And if movie is trying to paint one of them as a more or less innocent (Accountable) Movie is wrong

(You can be more or less toxic than someone, But after rule of five; you’re both equally accountable (Aka, should be held accountable)

(Equally irredeemable)

(By audience)

(Different People)

Point being; they’re both toxic

And I wish the writers would stop treating Ahsoka as deserving of any of the inn -ocence Un-account -ability

Of a child

When she doesn’t act, talk or have any say to it besides in name

Story telling us

Then contradicting by showing us what is almost the exact opposite (Quasi-)

Wanting to give Ahsoka of the responsibilities, (and dialogue) of an adult

But the subjective accountability Of nothing

Same with the tone

Creating a wholly Inhumane Character

With the loss of any sympathy as consequence

It sucks

[Too much emotions]

Like an un childlike abomination

Children shouldn’t have initiative!

Nothing

Obi-wan

Yeah- where the FECK is Obi-Wan?

He was mentioned at the beginning

That’s it

We haven’t heard (or seen) lip of the guy

Until now

“ I know you meant well snips,”

No she didn’t

If she’s capable of initiative, She knows she’s enabling the military complex

Fuck off with your subjective accountability movie

You can’t make me sympathize with a war enabler

(One doing it completely of her own sentience)

You get in that corner with your own (un) accountability

And stop focusing on this moment like there’s anything interesting or we’re supposed to sympathize with these characters

Without adjusting the lighting or showing any sign that you’re (assuming acc ounta bility For dis- play ing An enabling conversation And not normalizing a bad situation (Which should not be taken lightly)

Bigger Picture .... That You’re Not Aware Of

Assuming a sentient being is uncapable of understanding your logic

Tox

First rule of war

Don’t do war

It’s unaccountable

“Listen and obey your superiors,”

Yep there’s that assumed authority

Also she spent her whole life being groomed for this

There’s no doubt in my mind that she knows

That was malicious disobedience

(Something uncapable of children

“But sometimes you get carried away,”

Yeah he’s an adult he does it maliciously

You’re supposed to be a child But you’re capable of malacian

But the story refuses to hold (both you and him) Accountable For multiple acts of deliberate tox

And por -tray this conversation, As between two tox individuals Debating which one of them is more tox, with no stakes

To put it shortly, The story has commitment issues (And Severe characterization issues) That causes of the story to be unstable and flounder

(As it deserves)

“ understand what you’re going through,”

Being an enabler?

(To this un -childlike abomination’s toxs?)

No one is innocent in this scenario, movie

You better get it right

....

“ that I failed,”

Yeah you specifically screwed that up

....

“it wasn’t your fault,”

Hold up, hold up, hold up

(You put that soft music back where it belongs

Movie!

That was completely her fault!

(Enabling be damned)

“So many of my pilots,”

Put that light music away

Play something heavier

She’s the villain of the story

Now

This is disturbing

Not cute

Anyway...

“that’s the reality of command,”

That’s the reality of being toxic

“General we’re approaching our staging area,”

This is the circumstance you allow Skywalker

“Very Good Captain,”

Continue enabling The military complex Anakin

It’ll pay off one day (No; it won’t)

“ Master Windu,”

Seriously first time hearing (Never mind Seeing) Windu; This entire time;

“Progress,”

Oh so Ahsoka did fuck up the plan

Big Whoop

No surprises there

Mary Sue’s breaking the rules and getting no consequences is pretty on par

“Our progress ,huh,”

Hey you actually nearly had some bitterness appropriate for the situation!

Almost a good job writers!

“ we haven’t made any progress yet,”

Yep both a group of feck ups in a group of enablers

Great- situation that is

“No, Rex,”

Rex is half a Narc

Still an enabler

But he gives some care

(Still bad)

(And tox.)

(Myself)

Movie!

Put that sad music back where it belongs so help me

Screw that

Un-deserved-

You cannot make me feel bad for the enablers-

You shouldn’t be damn trying!

On the damn line, this movie is

Okay

....

She made this hole

Like good for her for taking some basic self accoun- tability and getting (temporary) away from his toxicity

That was almost an appropriate emotion

Okay, Whatever

Ahsoka’s going to do something reckless and stupid (Un- Acc oun Table) To “Prove” Herself, Do the same exact thing, That got her reprimanded, And be rewarded

,isn’t she?

....

Jedi Crashed

One very small piece

Of one facet

That shouldn’t exist

Did

And they had no back up plan

Besides the child soldier

(That acts like nothing like a child)

That’s something really to brag about

More so to shout “what the heck is that thing?!!”

At the clearly on unchild “child”

Yoda, And Plo, Have some explaining to do

Over where they found such a child

(A lab?)

It’s always on my mind that no one screaming about how fecked up it is that a “child” is capable of initiative

In every scene No one’s screaming, ‘You’re like 13! How are you capable of anything besides following orders??”

That’s how the clone facility got shut down

*gets

There’s some things even they won’t touch .....

Aight ... This dude bragging .... Okay

What-ever .... Blockade

Al right

Remember this is just the blockade

There’s a whole slave colony (Or whatever)

That we still haven’t got to

(Nor Obi-Wan‘s arrival)

How long is this thing?

Con-gratulations

But do not underestimate the Jedi

‘Except Obi-Wan underestimate that bitch all day, He still won’t do shit!

[Hasn’t even shown up!]

Seriously...

Commander bring me the data on general skywalker,

I know this is working up a ‘don’t underestimate the young,’ But babies?

Underestimate that all day they’re still Help-less

(As Ahsoka should be)

Yeah you shouldn’t underestimate the younger generation, Because you shouldn’t heck with the future at all!

The tragedy of child soldiers (And abused children) Is that there is no instant karma

Only Capable After The 22 Mark.

Writing your character an un child like abomination Isn’t clever movie

It’s un acc Ount Able

(And Terrible)

Asoka should be a worse version of general Kenobi/ Skywalker Due to having the orders But none of the initiative .. Of an adult ....

Aight

Okay

Surprise

No Asoka almost systematically Screwed up your unaccountable plan Relying completely on her

How this conversation should go;

So, the plan revolving around the child soldier went horribly

Ob; “wouldn’t have guessed,”

A; Yeah, I suppose...

[Angry bick -ering and Snark -ing comm ences]

While Ahsoka sits by blankly, awaiting an order [Be-cause Child]

[End]

....

What actually happens;

Aniken lies and says they were “out numbered”, [didn’t even try]

Sent out like one teem

[To our knowledge]

Cruiser

Wait, what?

When did this happen? We didn’t see that!

Everyone made it to the safety of hyper space

[Last I checked]

Except for Ahsoka’s team!

And I’m no expert on ships

[i’ve gotten the Separtists And Republic ships confused more times than I can count]

But Ahsoka’s team was the only ship we saw go down

And there was definitely more than one of those...

So like...

Show don’t tell movie

Plus an entire squadron of fighters

PLUS!

Dude I’d rather see the ship go down!

Seriously?!

What the heck happened there!

What the Heck!

That’s an important detail!

You could’ve use that as contrast!

Or to show that Anaken was further along in enabling!

- ——-

!!! !

And your Padawan

And your Padawan what...

What part of the plan are you aware of that we’re not?

(Because apparently a cruiser went down!)

So clearly some nonsense happened that we didn’t see!

Also, wait what happened to Comms guy?

That is prime guilt trip material!

Knowing the consequences of enabling bad behavior! (Toxic behavior!)

Seriously...

What?

Ahsoka’s fine

The authority assumer’s fine

Yippee!

I was so con cerned

About the childlike abomination that it doesn’t seem able to die

“Hard,”

HAHAHA

Are you kidding?

She was more concerned with her failure then the fact That those guys died!

She treated them like skill points more than actual people!

“ give her time,”

Give her time to get over it and enable more people in danger!

- Advice with Obi- Won-

“ you will need her help-”

Th-

The CHILD soldier’s ?

WTF

Not Cool!

Through This

“I know,”

I know child soldiers are the new in!

Also, wow. Even when she’s not in the scene, the universe bends to talk about her and give her props Sign 1; that you’re writing a Mary Sue

Seriously, You didn’t bother to put this character through like a Mary Sue checklist?

(Or did you use that as writing guidelines?

For This Character?

I’m getting really heated..

I’m just going to blank my mind for a bit

And maybe skip past these scenes

[because there was just nothing with redeemable about These Characters Or This Plot]

Thank you Windu for not focusing on Ahsoka..

Postpone The...

Urgh

[it’s not worth it It’s a badly done “Child screws up one thing (And the entire world) and must overcome your measurable odds (completely unrealistically) to Atone,”

It is literally the candy bar of plots

The most unhealthy .... And unappealing (Sorry to candy, It Has some thing over these plots)

If I stop at anything that makes me angry, I’m going to be here all day, [For Years!] - Switching into summary mode .... Meaning that the commentary won’t be immediate .....

And will be more like when there’s a Tumblr refresh Without The Brackets...

Not even worthy of the, “Uhms,” “Oh yeah, and “That’s great,” I usually start falling into about this point

.....

[Oh my god....

No, Just No

[Everyone is tox, Ashoka is an adult, tries to assume some accountability and leave, Anakin guilt trip her into it [she’s an adult so she didn’t have to go with it] but still, the Clones show the tiniest bit of Accountability, the Admiral showed reasonable hesitance, confirms And enables Ahsoka’s Un-accoun tability]

And the story ends up as clichéd and [even worse] broken as I predicted, going full Mary Sue, having Ahsoka take the helm at the rip age of 13 [Acting on Quasi-22] having the basic decency not to blow my ears out with a happy theme but it’s still appears nauseatingly constant in the background, despite none of this being deserving, staying enough under the radar, near “fiercely annoying,” instead of “actively harmful” And Dis gus ting

Like it’s predecessors saving it from a strike

But not from being a terrible episode

[Worthy of being forgotten,]

Ahsoka; the tales of being a Mary Sue?

Skip It

Which is a shame

because This character could be so much better

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junker-town · 7 years

Text

Still comin' to your city: Inside college football's national anthem

That Big & Rich music video you say you can't stand, but still watch on ESPN every fall Saturday? It has to be recorded somewhere. That somewhere is Tennessee in May. (This story was originally published in 2014.)

The original version, without all the football.

Whites Creek, Tenn. -- For a college football fan in mid-May, it could pass as a detailed hallucination for a college football fan. Out in a big nothing of Tennessee woods sits a fully operational "ESPN College GameDay" set, replete with smoke and strobe lights and football highlights playing on Jumbotrons.

And hey, there's Big & Rich singing "Comin' to Your City" to real, live football fans.

At the moment, the "zing" and the "zang" are not matching up between the live action and the audio. Consequently, the "ting" and the "tang" aren’t either. It makes sense, once it’s explained, that when shooting a music video, rapping is much harder to sync than singing. There's a decision amongst the producers to break for lunch and resume with rapper-specific coverage shots afterwards. The extras wander off to drink bottled water in the shade.

"Gets. You. Fired. Up.," says the middle-aged man with the lit cigarette. He had the bad luck of forgetting to bring any of his Clemson gear to "rep on TV."

He answered the email a friend forwarded him. Sixty bucks for a day's work as an extra.

He repeats himself with a broad smile.

"Gets. You. Fired. Up."

A version of the theme song from a recent season.

A pair of Alabama students, Shelby and Alex, had nothing better to do between the time they finished final exams and Alex drove home to Michigan, so they came up for the day.

"I mean, you see 'College GameDay' every Saturday. We thought it would be fun, plus we wanted to rep Alabama," says Shelby, a communications major at Bama. "We figured there would be a lot of Tennessee fans here."

Are there?

"Yeah, they're... see, way over there," he says, pointing a location at the far end of the crowd. It's worth nothing that, through entirely natural self-segregation, the Alabama and Tennessee fans have distanced themselves as far away from one another as possible.

"Of course a few [Alabama fans] show up," says one of the way-over-there Vols. "That's okay. We got the cheerleaders."

The cheerleaders are actually the University of Tennessee dance team, the national title-winning UTDT, as they're described by their coaches. They responded to ESPN's request, with the caveat that the girls dress in non-school-affiliated gear.

I'm also informed UT provided the dancers for Hank Williams Jr.'s famous "Are You Ready for Some Football" video introduction for "Monday Night Football" years back, which was also shot in the greater Nashville area. If you need a music video montage to hype a football institution, this here's the city, apparently.

"I'm not sure exactly why that is. I guess this being the home of country music helps," John Rich says.

"It's because people enjoy getting wild, and this a town to have a good damn time in!" Big Kenny follows.

★★★

You know the words to Big & Rich’s 2005 single "Comin' to Your City," even if you're a self-serious music fan who likely once hated the song. Like, really, really hated it.

And maybe you still do, but you really don't. After a decade as the anthem of "College GameDay," it's as much an American folk anthem as "Seven Nation Army's" zombified stadium chant.

You know all the words to all the verses even though they change every season, because sometimes they feature your favorite college football team, or the one you hate, or both. You especially know all the words that aren't even words, that famous honky patois you and your friends now recite in a social media battle cry every Saturday morning.

If you want a little bang in your yin yang

If you want a little zing in your zang zang

If you want a little ching in your chang chang, come along

And even if you claim to hate ESPN because it's a soulless conglomerate hellbent on owning all of sports or whatever, you really love "College GameDay." It's a deep and abiding love, and it's well earned. "College GameDay" is ESPN at its best. The network flexes its influence and coffers to provide us with hosts who blend insight with rapport while afloat in real, live seas of fanaticisms. Best of all, it's programming built with the purpose of raising up a sport most often referred to as a true religion. It's why Alex and Shelby drove four hours, and it's why executive producer Lee Fitting is standing on set just hours after having accepted an Emmy win for "GameDay" the night before in New York.

Smoke machines blast. The song concludes. And as the crew and talent immediately scramble for another full take, Fitting defends "City's" mainstay prowess on the show.

"I can't really explain it. It's one of those things that we really liked at the time, and we just rolled with it and kept our fingers crossed. As it picked up steam, we tried to tweak it and help evolve it."

If you need a music video montage to hype a football institution, this here's the city, apparently.

So no, there isn't a dubious licensing arrangement (or ransom) that's kept the song around for a decade.

"Every single part of the show goes under the microscope after each season. We're always trying to improve things. We wouldn't change it just to change it. Right now, we feel like it's still rolling. We can go to Fargo, North Dakota and people are screaming about 'Coming to your cit-ay,' and it's the same with South Central Los Angeles," Fitting said.

You will have another season of "Cit-ay," although with a few extra wrinkles added to the customary team shout-outs that Rich and company re-write at the behest of ESPN each season. They are as follows:

A notable reference to Stanford and "The Farm" in Rich's lyrics. I can't remember what this replaced from previous years, although I didn't hear anything about "Rocky Top" in Tennessee or "the Big House" in Michigan. ("That's the trickiest part each year, when ESPN calls and asks us to use certain names. You take a few liberties as a lyricist and sort of make 'Gator chomp' and 'tomahawk chop' rhyme," Rich says.)

A few video clips of Northwestern in action. Along with the Cardinal, nerd schools seem très chic for country pop anthems this season.

The usual suspects: Georgia, Ohio State, Notre Dame, Alabama, and a healthy helpin' of national champion Florida State. There's a fan sweating through an authentic Jameis Winston jersey in the front of the crowd, and every time the video board flashes the Heisman winner, the kid jumps up and down emphatically. Every time.

The last two clips during the big crescendo feature Urban Meyer's Buckeyes charging the field and Les Miles clapping. As it should be.

The addition of an extra rapper (Gym Class Heroes' Travie McCoy), to play off of longtime Big & Rich associate Cowboy Troy, and hard guitar provided by rock band Halestrom's Lzzy Hale. It's still the same song, just with that... rock edge.

And if that sounds like it was a focused-grouped decision, it probably is, but maybe that's the joy of licensing from Big & Rich: tack on an extra rapper and a fuzz pedal to "City," and it's not like you turned "Sunday Morning Coming Down" into dubstep.

"We're all for it," Rich says. "We've always viewed the Muzik Mafia [the duo's collective of fellow artists] as having strains of rock and rap and country, from all genres of music. That's like football fans. Football fans come from all walks of life."

McCoy, one of the song's two new performers.

"GameDay" almost entirely defines the national perception of his music. Rich doesn't offer a hint of indignity about this.

"Look, a lot of people don't know "A Country Boy Can Survive," but they sure know [starts singing] "Are you ready for some foooootball?" We never thought we'd be doing this, right now, 10 years later. We owe ESPN thousands of bar tabs in airports or hotels when people ask who we are. We start naming hits, then we say 'College GameDay,' and bam, everybody lights up and buys us beers."

Rich is a lifelong Texas fan, while Big Kenny claims allegiance to "any Virginia team, but just any team out there doing well, man. I like to ride the wave." Cowboy Troy is a Dallas native and a Texas graduate who steers an otherwise informal conversation into a serious discussion of Charlie Strong's team management style.

"It's really going to be interesting, honestly," he says. "I've heard from a discipline standpoint, the first time any player misses a single class or study hall, he runs until he's exhausted. The second time he misses, his entire position group has to run until they're exhausted. And then if there's a third time, at least from what I've heard, the player, the position group, and the position coaches have to run."

"And if he misses four times, they just shoot him," Rich says.

★★★

Behind a barrier, the extras are re-upping on gloss. The dance team re-applies makeup and re-curls hair, to combat the May heat. A makeup artist repaints the individual letters in "GAMEDAY" on the stomachs of dazed-looking extras.

"I had no idea I was gonna take my shirt off today," one tells me. "I just graduated from MTSU last week. I figured this was something to do. I mean, I'm cool with taking my shirt off," he says to the stranger painting over his belly button hair.

The smoke machine sets off again, the song plays again, and the intricacies of staccato rap and carefully placed team references are tracked. On the monitors, it all reads as slick and big and ridiculous, and yet the effect is undeniable. Seventeen takes in, the FSU fan still jumps, and the song you probably used to hate by that band you may never listen to otherwise elicits a perfect, pure Pavlovian response.

Squint. It's October, and Chris Fowler is setting a scene against the most famous fiddle solo in modern America. It gets you fired up, man.

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