#{Inquiries of a False Prince; ask} | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ingek73 · 1 year

Text

Harry and the Press: Read All About It?

A prince of the realm taking on Britain’s biggest newspapers is surely newsworthy? Not if you’re a reader of one of these titles, writes Liz Gerard

Liz Gerard

24 May 2023

In the 45 days from 28 March to 12 May, members of the Royal Family featured on our national newspaper front pages 320 times. These appearances included 133 photographs and 82 lead stories.

What do you expect? you might ask. We’ve just had a Coronation for the first time in 70 years. And we can all pledge allegiance to the new King. And Kate had a go at climbing a wall. And Charlotte had a birthday. And Louis wore blue. And some of them went to the pub and drank beer or a gin and tonic. And Camilla’s a jolly good egg. And Meghan is self-centred. And Harry…

Ah yes, Harry.

Harry flew in from America twice during that period. Once to make a brief appearance at the Coronation; and once to attend the High Court, where he has launched three cases, accusing the Mail, the Sun and the Mirror of illegal breaches of privacy.

He was joined in his case against the Mail by Baroness Lawrence, Elton John, David Furnish, Sadie Frost, Liz Hurley and Simon Hughes. Only Hurley and Hughes were missing from court on day one – 27 March. Quite a big deal, you might have thought. Five very big names, including a royal prince, appearing in court in person to sue our most popular news brand. Imagine the sort of coverage that turnout would have achieved were they taking on the BBC rather than the Mail.

So how many of those 320 front-page items did this four-day hearing account for? Six – almost all on the first day.

The Times and Telegraph both had a main photograph of Harry with a caption explaining why he was in the country; the i and Mirror had puffs – the i referring to the court case, the Mirror ignoring that altogether in favour of the King being too busy to see his son. The Guardian also had Harry as the main picture, alongside a splash that focused on Baroness Lawrence’s assertion that she felt betrayed by the Mail – which has made great capital over the years from its pursuit of her son’s murderers.

But the case was covered inside, wasn’t it? Up to a point, Lord Copper.

The Times, i and Telegraph had page leads. The first two focused on the allegations against the Mail; the Telegraph – in common with the other papers that carried anything at all – went on the line that Harry wouldn’t be seeing Dad while he was here. The Mail, which had described the lawsuits as “a pre-planned and orchestrated attempt to draw it into the phone-hacking scandal” and the allegations as “preposterous smears”, ploughed its own furrow with a page five lead headlined ‘Key witness says hacking claims “false”‘. A private investigator who had told the plaintiffs’ lawyers 18 months earlier that he had acted illegally on behalf of the Mail – “hacking phones, tapping landlines and bugging cars” – had now produced another signed statement retracting it all.

The paper’s owner, Associated, wanted the case thrown out, arguing, among other things, that it was based on material given in confidence to the Leveson Inquiry and because it was out of time. It also applied for anonymity for its journalists “in order to prevent distinguished journalists having their reputations destroyed in the event that the case never proceeds to full trial”. The granting of this application was phrased as “the judge quickly awarded victory to the Mail”. Somehow the factoid that it had been made under the auspices of human rights legislation – which the Mail has repeatedly said should be repealed – did not make it into print.

So much for day one. If Baroness Lawrence was a tasty starter, day two brought a seriously meaty main course in the form of Prince Harry’s witness statement. There were two central features:

The Royal Family had known about phone-hacking, he said, but didn’t tell him and did nothing about it for fear of opening a can of worms. There was even, he said, a private agreement with the Murdoch papers not to “engage or even discuss” the possibility of bringing claims against them until the hacking litigation was over.

His assertion that he had decided to sue Associated because “if the most influential newspaper company can evade justice… the whole country is doomed”. The statement continued: “I am bringing this claim because I love my country and I remain deeply concerned by the unchecked power, influence and criminality of Associated. The evidence I have seen shows that Associated’s journalists are criminals with journalistic powers which should concern every single one of us. The British public deserve to know the full extent of this cover-up and I feel it is my duty to expose it.”

Wow. Just a reminder that this is a statement by a royal prince in documents to the High Court – not a barb thrown out by some bloke in the pub. And he was there, in the flesh, to hear his words read out.

It may be that it shows, as the Mail attests, that he is obsessed. But it surely merits reporting. Apparently not on page one. Only one title – the i – had any mention of the case or Harry’s allegations on the cover, and that as a small puff. The Times had a new portrait of the King, the Telegraph told readers that Charles would be dining with his cousins in Germany. Even the Guardian was too busy with its mea culpa on its founder’s links to slavery.

Most papers ran page leads inside, although the i and The Times did not mention the alleged pact with its stablemates at News Group Newspapers (the Sun and News of the World’s parent company) or Harry’s explanation of why he was suing. As to the two titles whose owners have paid out millions in hacking damages to prevent hundreds of other cases going to court: the Mirror managed five paragraphs in a small single on the royals knowing about hacking; the Sun nothing.

And the Mail? Not a word of those key elements from the Harry witness statement. Instead, it led its spread on its own statement, building on the private investigator’s recantation, with a panel on the side with his “point by point” rebuttals of the claims against Associated. It’s one thing to get your retaliation in first, but this took one-sided reporting to another level.

Harry’s next action, which he watched by video-link, started on 25 April to take on the Sun, which – like the Mail – has always denied phone-hacking. This time his central claim was even more sensational: that News Group Newspapers owners had paid Prince William “a very large sum of money” as part of a private settlement to stop him suing for hacking.

This time the story made the splash for the Guardian and for the Telegraph, which “understood” that the figure was about £1 million. But its headline wasn’t the ‘Prince’s £1m phone hacking deal’ you might have expected, but that the claim had “left Coronation peace hopes in tatters”. There was, however, a spread inside as well, which was more than anyone else did.

The Times had a page lead and the Express a chunky story on its Coronation spread. But the Mail had just a small single-column on page 10 that started “Prince Harry has dragged William into his war on the British press”. The Sun and the Mirror ran nothing. Royal developments deemed worthy of front-page coverage included a chocolate bust of the King and his resistance to having Heathrow’s Terminal 5 named after him.

There was more interest the next day, after the judge said he was troubled by “factual inconsistencies” in Harry’s story, with more prominent coverage, including a small story in the Mirror (albeit on a different angle) and an early righthand page lead in the Mail.

As with the case against the Mail, third day coverage was more limited – the angle this time being actor Hugh Grant’s claim that stars’ homes were burgled at the Sun’s behest. For the third successive day, the case made the front of the Guardian, a page lead for The Times – and not a single word in the Sun. The Mail may have skewed coverage of its own case for the defence, but at least it was there. The Sun, whose lawyers wanted the case dismissed as out of time, just pretended it wasn’t happening and ignored it altogether.

Harry’s next homecoming was what the Mail called his “blink and you’ve missed it” trip for the Coronation. He may have gone back to California swiftly after the ceremony, but he hadn’t finished with the courts. For just under a week later, on 10 May, a third case started – against Mirror Group Newspapers. And this time it wasn’t a preliminary hearing, but a proper trial, expected to last seven weeks. Harry wasn’t in court for the opening speeches, but was lined up to give evidence, possibly for as long as three days, in June.

The two key features of the first day was MGN’s admission of, and apology for, a single instance of illegal information gathering – by the People – that it said was worthy of compensation, and the assertion by lawyer David Sherborne that it was “inconceivable” that Piers Morgan was unaware of phone-hacking under his editorship. This claim had been made in one of the previous cases and was, indeed, the subject of two identical Guardian front page headlines.

Morgan – a former Editor of the News of the World and the Daily Mirror who now presents a show on Rupert Murdoch’s Talk TV and writes a column for the Sun – had (coincidentally?) just recorded an interview with the BBC’s Amol Rajan in which he was asked about hacking on his watch. He said he didn’t know how to hack a phone (even though he had written about it in his autobiography and is reported to have explained how to do it to a Tony Blair aide), and that he was unaware that hacking had been going on at his papers. He also declared that he wasn’t going to take lectures on privacy from Harry and Meghan, who had, he said, constantly invaded the Royal Family’s privacy.

What did our papers make of all that? Apart from the Guardian, only the i and Telegraph had anything on the front, in each case a puff. The i took the ‘Morgan knew’ line, while the Telegraph went with ‘Morgan mocks Duke’. The FT had the earliest inside coverage with a five-column page two story headlined “Mirror accused of industrial scale illegality”. Everyone else pushed the story back as far as they dared. The Sun, Express, Mirror and Star all went on the apology, while The Times and Mail both majored on the defence line that stories Harry claimed were the result of hacking had in fact been fed to journalists by members of his family and royal courtiers.

As for declarations of interest, The Times mentioned Morgan’s current role with Talk TV and listed Harry’s other cases against the press, but did not note that News Group Newspapers shared its ultimate ownership by News Corp. The Mail also mentioned its own case in its coverage. The Sun did not say that it, too, was being sued by Harry. The Express quoted a Mirror spokesman as saying “MGN is now part of a very different company” but did not add that that company was Reach, owners of the Express (and Star).

Only the Guardian, The Times and Mail bothered to print anything about day two of this trial, when Sherborne told the court that Morgan “lies at the heart” of the claims. The Times and Mail both led on the Mirror contentions that stories put down to hacking might have been leaked by a palace aide or the result of an interview with Harry. The Guardian went on Morgan “approving” the illegal blagging of Prince Michael of Kent’s bank details. The reporter allegedly given the assignment was Gary Jones, now Editor of the Express. The Times and Mail did not include this in their stories; the Express ran nothing on the case that day.

But nobody reads print newspapers any more. Dead tree news is dead. People get their news online. So what about live coverage on the day the Mirror trial started?

Broadcasters featured it prominently; independent websites ran live feeds. The Times, FT, Independent, Guardian and Telegraph all had it among the top four stories online. But scroll as far as you could on the Sun, Mail and Mirror home pages and you would find not a word. Click on the ‘royals’ or ‘celebrities’ tabs and you’d find Kate and George and Charlotte and Sophie, and more Sussex bad-mouthing, but nothing on the trial. Only by searching ‘Harry and High Court’ did the Mail offer agency reports of the case on a page called ‘wires’, which has no tab or link from the home page. This is what you call burying bad – or inconvenient – news.

By day 45 of this little snapshot, not one single national newspaper had presented to its readers a full and fair account of any of the proceedings in the High Court.

The Times and Telegraph came closest, but the rest were either partisan, deliberately blind or uninterested. The Guardian, which of course uncovered and doggedly pursued the phone-hacking scandal from 2009 and blew the whole thing open with its Milly Dowler bombshell in 2011, played the cases up, while most of the others tried to play them down.

When you have such high-profile litigants taking on the country’s biggest news brand – actually accusing its journalists of being criminals – it is worthy of proper attention. When you have a royal prince claiming that the heir to the throne accepted £1 million in hush money to stop him taking the second-biggest news brand to court, it is worthy of proper attention. When you have the King’s son accusing one of the country’s most prominent television presenters of overseeing industrial scale law-breaking, it is worthy of proper attention.

There are those who accuse the British press of a culture of omertà, a reluctance to acknowledge, let alone confront, malpractice within the ‘club’, even by rivals. They will be able to cite the Harry coverage in support of that complaint. Regardless of whether they are right, this widespread refusal to face challenges to our industry is troubling. But more so is the fact that it raises the question: if reporting of these cases is so unreliable, what does it say about what we are served on everything else?

Meanwhile, the vilification of Harry and his wife continues apace. The day after the Coronation, the anti-Brexit author Edwin Hayward tweeted that he had logged more than 100 negative stories about the couple on the Express website in the space of 72 hours.

These papers know full well that the press has hounded Harry since boyhood and that he blames the tabloids for the death of his mother. But now they brush all that aside as ‘other people’ and ‘all in the past’. It is absolutely in all of their interests to discredit the prince as he stands up to them in court – and they are doing their damnedest to avoid letting their readers know why.

This is an extract from ‘Royal Reporting: The Media and the Monarchy’ edited by John Mair and Andrew Beck. It will be published by MGM Books on 1 June

#prince harry #byline times #phone hacking trial #uk tabloids

10 notes · View notes

mrs-gucci · 3 years

Text

Rough Around the Edges {Prince Kylo Ren x Reader}

author’s notes: hello, hello! taking a quick break from all the fourth of july stuff to submit this piece for this week’s writer wednesday :) thanks @autumnleaves1991-blog and @clydesducktape for organizing this wonderful weekly event!

this story takes place in a medieval AU and is lightly inspired by certain elements in “Beauty and the Beast”.

warnings: angst with a hopeful ending. partially unreciprocated feelings. arranged courtship. time period-authentic sexism (women are meant to please men and that’s all). there’s a kiss.

(possible) tw’s: arranged relationship. implied age gap (not specified, but everyone’s above age).

word count: a touch over 2k

my taglist peeps: @frank-and-honey @shygirl268 @icarusinthesea @gildedstarlight @mrs-zimmerman @soldmysoulagain @roseepossee @pascalisfairyy (if you’d like to be added to or removed from my taglist, the link to the google form is HERE or on the top of my masterlist.)

You sit in front of the mirror while Anna pulls your hair into a flattering updo. Your eyes begin to tear up at the painful sting of your hair being manipulated in such a forceful way, scalp throbbing with each of Anna’s harsh, calculated movements.

"Must you be so rough?”

She offers little empathy in her expression as she looks at you through the mirror’s reflection. “The Prince insisted that you wear your hair up tonight, madame. He was absolutely furious when you wore it down the last time, and I’m the one who had to stand there while he threw a tantrum over it.”

Your eyes roll, knowing all too well of your betrothed’s legendary fits of anger. He’s much too old to be doing such childish things, but god forbid you ever say that to him.

Anna finishes up with your hair, much to your relief, but now the real pain begins. You look over at the corset waiting on the bed and already, your ribcage aches.

“What, are you trying to turn it to stone?” She asks, and you shake your head. “Well, you’re certainly staring at it long enough. Come on now, stand up, we don’t have all afternoon.”

You sigh, rising up out of the chair and walking over to the bed where Anna’s standing, corset in-hand. She wraps it around your torso, pulling the laces impossibly tight over your ribs and stomach, caging them both within the garment.

After the corset is very securely tied, Anna grabs your dress and helps you step into the golden yellow skirt. She ties the top part with just as much aggression as she tied the corset, making simply breathing a painful process.

“Try to at least look like you don’t want to jump out of the East tower’s window.” Anna remarks as you scowl at your reflection in the mirror. “Have you ever considered smiling?”

“I have absolutely nothing to smile about.” You reply curtly, unamused by this conversation or her suggestions.

She sighs in defeat. “I’m only trying to help, madame. You need to learn how to be a princess, or at least try and act the part.”

“I’m not interested in being a princess, Anna. But, if you ever asked my opinion on the matter, then you’d already know that. Now please, I wish to be alone.”

Anna’s surprised at the hostile tone of your words, but she keeps her lips pursed, knowing she’s in no place to press the issue any further. She simply nods, backing out of the room, leaving you alone.

Your bottom lip begins to tremble as your vision blurs with tears, abruptly turning away from the mirror so that you don’t have to look at what you’ve been forced to become.

There’s nothing that you wish for more than to be free from this life, free to live the way you want to live instead of the one that was chosen for you to live. You loathe the mask you must wear, the painted face that looks back at you through the mirror.

But, you have no choice...you’ve never had a choice.

The palace is aglow this evening, thousands of candles burning and casting a warmer shade across the normally-bland ivory color. Your shoes clink on the marble flooring as you make your way to the front steps, looking over the railing at the grand room below.

Lords and ladies, princes and princesses are all arm-in-arm, walking through to the ballroom. Some have stopped to converse with each other, fake smiles plastered on their painted faces.

You huff to yourself as you reach the top of the staircase, and at the bottom, stands your betrothed. He looks up as you make your way down the stairs, a pleased smirk tugging at the corners of his lips with each step you take.

Kylo holds his hand out to you when you reach the bottom, guiding you down the final stair before looping his arm through yours. The two of you walk towards the ballroom, smiling and nodding politely at the other guests.

“You look nice.” His voice is flat, emotionless.

You huff in false amusement, physically having to prevent your eyes from rolling. “Am I supposed to thank you for saying that?”

"Ah, you’re learning.” He says, stopping to look down at you, fingers holding your chin and forcing you to look up at him while his eyes linger over your face. “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet, little dove.”

You yank your chin from his grip, snarling softly. “Don’t touch me.”

His hand suddenly comes up to wrap around your throat, teeth bared. “I can touch you however I please, young one. You’re mine, and you ought to learn your place.”

Once he feels you relax, feels you surrender under his touch, he lets go of your neck and continues walking as if nothing’s happened, dragging you along with him.

He wears you on his arm the whole evening as he talks to various noblemen and you just stand there, silent with a small smile, pretending like you don’t exist.

Then, the two of you take a seat at the big table with King Han and Queen Leia, beginning to feast on the royal spread. You barely eat, partially due to the fact that you’re afraid to bust the ties on your corset if your abdomen expands even a little bit too far, and Kylo seems to take notice.

“I promise I didn’t poison it.”

You look over at him with widened eyes. He simply smirks, laughing softly to himself.

“I’m only joking, little dove.”

You’re incredibly surprised, stunned into utter silence at the fact that he’s just joked with you. You'd been convinced up until this point that humor wasn’t a part of his emotional capabilities, that he was only capable of anger, hatred, and inflicting fear.

His hand hesitantly rests on top of yours, which makes you flinch. He looks conflicted in the moment, as if he’s deciding whether or not to be upset that you react this way to his touch.

“Why aren’t you eating? You need to eat.”

You look away, jaw clenching. “I know you don’t actually care why I’m not eating, Kylo. Plus, none of my answers will be good enough to please you, anyway.”

He stiffens, pulling his hand away immediately.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

Your eyebrows furrow at the tone of his voice. He almost sounds...upset. Not upset at you, though, upset at himself.

The rest of the time he’s silent, only glancing over at you occasionally. Dessert comes around and you don’t even touch it, simply sitting up straight with your hands in your lap.

Couples rise from their tables as the musicians begin to play an upbeat tempo, gathering on the ballroom floor. Kylo stands up next to you, holding out his hand without a word.

You rise from your chair and take his extended hand, allowing him to lead you out to the ballroom floor. Dancing was customary in Alderaan and was a very popular practice at gathering’s like this.

Kylo’s large hands drop to your waist as soon as you reach the floor and you reach up to rest your hands on his broad shoulders. The two of you sway in unison and make your way around the dance floor skillfully, gracefully.

After the song comes to an end and another slower one begins, the Prince tilts his head down to look at you. His face is stoic, unchanging, but there’s something different about this look. It’s not as harsh or as emotionless as it normally is; there’s a certain gentleness to it.

Your eyes keep his gaze, looking back up at him with a curious glint in your eyes, drinking in his up-close appearance for truly the first time since you’ve arrived in Alderaan. He’s intoxicatingly handsome, there’s no getting around that, but his personality and temper leave a lot to be desired.

Yet, despite his hostility and distaste for you, you still find yourself temporarily entranced by his presence, melting under his gaze. It’s in this moment that you catch a glimpse into your own psyche, recognizing the true source of your vehement hate and closed-off behavior towards him.

All of it is done out of a desire to hide your attraction to the man that you’ve tried so, so hard to dislike. There’s always been a small part of you that’s known this, but you figured that if you pushed it down long enough and acted otherwise, perhaps you’d eventually convince yourself otherwise. But, alas, those feelings of attraction have only grown and festered beneath the facade of hatred.

It is true, Kylo Ren is a moody, closed-off, hostile and frankly childish being, but you’re somehow able to look past that and see the diamond-in-the-rough quality to the young Prince. You know that somewhere, behind the stone wall he’s so clearly built up around himself, there’s a goodness to him. You’ve seen glimpses of it throughout the time you’ve known him, but he almost immediately shuts it down instead of letting it show further, a fact you find incredibly perplexing.

“Y/N?” His voice pulls you from your thoughts.

You snap from your temporary trance and shake your head. “Sorry, I was deep in thought.”

“I gathered.” He chuckles softly. “If I asked what it is you were thinking about, would you tell me the truth?”

“Probably not.”

He nods. “I appreciate your honesty.”

The two of you continue to move around the floor before the handsome Prince clears his throat, cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink.

“May I ask you a question, completely unrelated to my previous inquiry?”

You nod, and he swallows harshly.

“What is it about me that you loathe so much?”

Your stomach drops and you suddenly feel a touch of lightheadedness begin to pressurize within your skull. You’re frozen for a moment as you try to decide whether or not to tell him the truth.

“I don’t...why are you asking me such a thing? I know you don’t actually care about the answer.”

His jaw clenches and his grip suddenly tightens on your hips. “Why do you always insist that I don’t care?”

“Because I know you don’t, Kylo. At least, not truly.” You reply, squirming beneath his grip.

“W-Well, what if...” He huffs, looking away. “What if I do care? Or am at least trying to care?”

You’re genuinely surprised by his words, taken aback for a moment. This is a turn you certainly didn’t see coming...

“I find your ever-changing moods and stubbornness often makes you difficult to deal with. You never try, at least up until this point, to understand my feelings or show any sort of interest in getting to know me, which just makes me feel even more unwanted than I already do, and I--”

Before you can continue, you’re cut off by a sudden presence on your lips. It registers in your mind, then, that he’s kissing you. You stiffen, and he pulls away slowly, eyes staring into yours.

“You are not unwanted, Y/N.” He says, voice low. “Never...p-please never think that.”

Did he just say ‘please’? That’s almost the most shocking thing he’s said thus far.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Kylo. Just...a little rough around the edges.”

His entire demeanor shifts for a moment, and for a split second, you swear he looks happy; truly, genuinely happy. Perhaps a bit of relief was sprinkled in, too. He wears a small, barely-there smile as he continues to look down at you.

“I would like to try and change. We should at least try to get along, considering the fact that we’ll be wed soon. I know you don’t want to be here, but I’d like to at least try to make things a bit easier, h-however I can.”

You can’t stop the smile that quickly spreads across your face, delightfully pleased to hear these words. Your expression widens his smile ever so slightly.

“I think we can certainly give it a try.”

Kylo nods, a subtly optimistic expression etched on his features.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

#mrs-gucci #writer wednesday #mrs-gucci writes kylo ren #medieval au #medieval kylo #prince kylo ren #kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren angst #adcu #adcu community #adcu fanfiction #adcu fanfic #adam driver #adam driver character #adam driver angst #tw: implied age gap #arranged courtship

215 notes · View notes

risingsouls · 2 years

Text

@regulus-regent asked: For Geets and Nabs: Amuse me

Drabble Prompts || Open!

[I know you sent two but I’m just going to post them separate because this was too damn cute and I wanna post it NOW]

Leave a “Amuse Me” in my ask, and I will write a funny drabble about one character trying to cheer another up.

Vegeta never excelled in areas that required a…softer touch. Physically, verbally, emotionally. He was a warrior bred for battle, for conquering and destruction. A prince raised to rule an entire race of the same and, perhaps, the universe with an iron fist. Drastic life changes had not altered that, but it did have a way of reminding him of this fact far more often than he was used to. And it often required him to assess with more consideration which problems required more finesse and patience over blasting it to oblivion and moving on.

Nabooru, he found over the years, fell into that category. Irksome as it could be. But, of all the people on the planet–in the vast universe, perhaps–she was on of the miniscule few whose company he tolerated and even enjoyed. Thus, the idea of running her off with his cruelty and callousness (which she brushed off anyway) or his stubborn, closed off nature like he would anyone else didn't appeal to him. In fact, the thought of her absence had a tendency to bother him.

The changes he noted in her were subtle, easy to overlook amidst her practiced and near perfected skill of maintaining the status quo to keep those who would prod her on the matter off the trail. But Vegeta was observant and had the advantage of spending day and night with her, witnessing her routine and getting to know her more intimately than anyone else. When he first noticed the oddities–skipping training session, skimping on her beauty regimen she painstakingly perfected, less teasing and jokes, lackluster laughter when she managed it, more naps, worse insomnia, instigating sex less, the sighing and letting her charade lapse when she thought he wasn't looking–he thought it was simply a bad few days.

But then it went beyond a few days and stretched to a week. And when she never spoke of whatever bothered her on her own as she usually would, Vegeta began the ill-fated attempts to find the source of her trouble. Inquiries, blunt as they were, met with falsely cheery dismissals and insistence that she was fine and she would "correct" whatever behavior she thought had brought on the concern. He wasn't charismatic enough to lure her into talking about her woes through conversation, and she always swung the topic back onto him or something else before he realized what happened. He would even try to bring up a specific moment of her moping, looking as though she was close to tears, and she always found an excuse. He tried stupid jokes, flirting, taking her to her favorite places. Tactics that worked. But only temporarily.

That day, she left the house early after their morning training for some modeling gig for a sports magazine, leaving the prince to his own devices. Frustrated with how low her mood remained, with his own failed attempts to help her return it to normal, he was out of ideas. But who was he kidding, really? If he could barely cheer himself up, how could he truly expect to help her genuinely smile again? To laugh, and fight, and fuck with all her zeal like she used to?

He snatched the bottle of water from the fridge and kicked it shut again, the contents clanging together inside from the force. He drank tail lashing the air behind him. On top of the cabinet, he spotted a bright red book, "SIMPLE RECIPES: DESSERT EDITION" written in gold on the side. He lowered the now empty bottle and floated up to pull it down from the shelf. On the cover was a picture of a pink-frosted cake topped with strawberries. It gave him an idea.

Dropping the book on the counter, he flipped through recipes for eclairs, cupcakes, bundt cakes, and pkes until he found the recipe for the cake on the front. Strawberry Dream it was called.

Though he didn't understand it, Nabooru had quite the sweet tooth and cakes were easily her favorite. He scanned the recipe. He had never baked before. He hardly cooked. But surely he could handle this. He was a prodigy and learned quickly. Baking a cake couldn't be so hard.

He tore through the kitchen in search of each ingredient, comparing labels with the name of the ingredient in the book. He turned on the oven. He squinted at the measurements. Cups? He grabbed a cup from the cabinet. Table and teaspoons? He hadn't the slightest idea what that meant so he just filled the mixing spoon and tossed the ingredient in. He cut the strawberries without trouble, at least.

But then, he drew the electric mixer from beneath the cabinet and plugged it in. He lowered the attachments into the combined ingredients and flipped the switch to high. A mistake. Flour, egg, vanilla, and strawberry exploded from the bowl. It splattered on the walls, the counters and ceiling, on him.

Vegeta quickly turned it off. A feral growl ripped through his throat and he raised the mixer high above his head. Halfway through his downward arc, he stopped, the sound of the front door opening saving the device from being slammed onto the counter and shattered.

With only an island impeding her view from across the living room into the kitchen, Nabooru stared, head tilted and lips slightly parted. Vegeta felt heat rush to his cheeks.

"Vegeta?" she asked at last, hanging her bag on the snake-shaped hook beside the door. Her crimson hair had been twisted into two long braids and her makeup was different than when she left. She strode into the kitchen, stepping around a puddle of batter. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" he snapped, ripping a towel from the oven handle and mopping it over his face. "I'm making a cake."

Confusion knit her brows, and her gold eyes shifted from him to the near empty bowl. "But you don't…"

Nabooru trailed off, noting the open cookbook. Her eyes softened, and realization slowly curved her lips into a warm smile. She wiped some goop from the page.

"You don't like sweets, and you've never shown interest in baking that I've seen," she finished, returning her attention to him. "You're making this for me."

His cheeks on fire, he had no doubt they were as red as the remaining strawberries in the container next to him. "Tch, it's not a big deal. It doesn't hurt me to try something new." He folded his arms. "And you haven't been yourself, which has been detrimental to our training."

Nabooru reached out and swept her index finger over his cheek, ridding it of batter. "I guess I haven't been. But this is…sweet of you. All of your attempts have been and…I'm sorry I worried you and didn't communicate."

She licked her finger. Her nose scrunched and her lips pursed. "Urgh…but that is not sweet. What did you put in this?"

"The ingredients the damn recipe called for!" He huffed. "Earth's measuring system is ludicrous! Teaspoons? Tablespoons? Cups? A dash? What does that even mean?"

She laughed. Full-bodied and uninhibited for the first time in days. Vegeta had missed the sound. “Honestly? I don’t really know, either. I haven’t actually tried to make anything out of that book yet.” She wrested the towel from his grip and cleared his face of the remnants of batter. Her gold eyes sparkled with mirth.

“I appreciate this. And everything else you were doing, too.” She leaned down and pressed her lips to his.

Vegeta’s tail coiled low around her waist and forced her closer to deepen the kiss. The taste of his failed cake lingered on her lips; far too salty with a bitter aftertaste he couldn’t place. Maybe next time he could get it right. Maybe.

#.:ask:.#// vegeta ♅#:: nabooru ☀#/ i'll vanquish any foe because you're mine ♅☀ vegbooru #regulus-regent #askldjf this was stupid and cute #vegeta is soft for her sometimes

3 notes · View notes

kelyon · 3 years

Text

Golden Rings 24: A Stranger

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Rumpelstiltskin seeks out the mysterious man on a motorcycle

Read on AO3

August Wayne Booth.

The man had been at the forefront of Rumpelstiltskin’s mind for weeks now, ever since Jefferson had mentioned him in passing. His friend had only known the stranger as a man on a motorcycle, someone who had come to town in January and stayed.

Outsiders weren’t supposed to be able to come into Storybrooke and they certainly weren’t supposed to stay. The only person here who hadn’t been born in the old world was Henry Mills. The people affected by the curse didn’t notice it’s constant effect because that had been their reality for twenty-eight years. But a normal person would notice the oddness around Storybrooke, the little things that didn’t quite add up. Henry had, and he was only a child. If an adult who had been born in the world without magic slipped into town, the curse was designed to fill them with an unfathomable dread, a soul-deep revulsion that would make them want to leave as soon as they could.

But not Mr. August Wayne Booth.

For a few weeks, Rumpelstiltskin kept tabs on the man. Gold had a loose network of informants, people who wanted to stay on his good side. It was easy to make subtle inquiries. Emma Swan had given him the name, as well as the fact that he was a writer. That had piqued his interest. A storyteller coming into a town made of stories. Wasn’t that awfully convenient?

“Booth” was clearly a false name. If he was a writer, it was a pseudonym. If there was something more nefarious going on, it was an alias. Either way, the name was a lie. What was the truth? Who was he, this dark-haired young man who had been born in the old world but had come to the land without magic without being part of the curse?

And why did he seem to be watching Gold as much as Rumpelstiltskin had been watching him?

****

It started with Henry. One day after school, the boy came into the shop. Thankfully, Mrs. Gold was out at the time. Rumpelstiltskin hated to imagine the sorts of things that woman might try to get away with in front of a child.

Rumpelstiltskin liked Henry. He liked most children--they were so refreshingly direct. Henry reminded him particularly of Bae. It was something about the dark hair and wide brown eyes, the conflict of innocence and experience that made both boys wiser and more haunted than they should have been. Bae’s life hadn’t been an easy one, and Henry had been raised by Regina, a woman the boy had correctly identified as the Evil Queen.

“Good afternoon, Henry.” He left the back counter to talk to him. “What brings you in today?”

Henry looked around the shop with a half-frown on his small face. “I wanted to buy a present for Mrs. Nolan,” he said. “You know, since she didn’t die.”

Kathryn Nolan’s disappearance, various sightings, and eventual re-appearance had been headline news for weeks. The poor woman had finally made it to the doorstep of the sheriff’s station, dehydrated and malnourished but clear in her mind. She reported that she had been abducted, had escaped several times, and had been recaptured and moved to different locations before finally making a break for it.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t wonder who might be responsible for something so tragic happening to the woman Prince Charming was married to in this world--or who might benefit from it becoming public knowledge that David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard were having an affair while Kathryn was in such peril. But he did wonder how things might have been different if Regina had asked someone more competent to do her dirty work. He would have refused, but she should have at least tried to come to him first.

That was all in the past. Now, Kathryn Nolan was recuperating in the hospital and young Henry wanted to buy her a gift.

“What were you thinking, my boy?”

Henry shifted from one foot to the other. He seemed focused at some point over Rumpelstiltskin’s shoulder. “Um.... Maybe something musical? Something that makes a lot of noise.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Interesting choice. Perhaps a music box?” He went to the case where he kept a few antique music boxes. He wound each one up and set them on the counter for Henry’s inspection.

“They’re not very loud.” He held one shaped like a golden harp up to his ear.

“I also have a mechanical nightingale.” Rumpelstiltskin pointed to a clockwork bird that was covered in jewels. In the old world, it had belonged to an emperor, who had valued its song over that of any real bird. “Though I fear it may be a touch out of your price range.”

There was a noise from the back of the shop. Rumpelstiltskin turned to look that way, but then Henry spoke up again.

“What about a bell?” he asked loudly. “Do you have any bells around here?”

“I’d be happier if I had one more,” Rumpelstiltskin joked to himself. “But yes, they’re in the case on the other side.”

He got them out--glass and porcelain, silver and pewter. Henry had to ring them all, of course. Several times. It was only when the boy was done that Rumpelstiltskin noticed more noise from the back.

“Excuse me,” he said to Henry as he limped over to the curtained door.

There was a man in his office. August Wayne Booth. Looking through the shelves of unpriced antiques.

“May I help you?” he threatened.

Booth put on a boyish grin. It was meant to look disarming, which only made Rumpelstiltskin arm himself more thoroughly.

“Yeah, I was looking for some maps, if you had any.”

“They’re out there,” Rumpelstiltskin nodded behind him. “In the shop.”

“I thought this was the shop,” Booth chuckled.

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin came toward the man, who backed away without losing his shit-eating grin.

“This is my office.” He kept his voice low, to make sure Booth was listening. “Private.”

“Ah!” To Booth’s credit, he kept up the ruse, no matter how thin it was getting. “Sorry. My mistake.”

Why did the memory suddenly come to him of Baelfire insisting that he had washed his hands before dinner, even when Rumpelstiltskin could see the dirt on his palms?

Booth made a hasty retreat through the curtained door into the showroom. A moment later, the bell over the front door rang. Without looking, Rumpelstiltskin knew that Henry and Booth were both gone.

****

“Will you be able to watch the shop today?” Rumpelstiltskin asked Mrs. Gold the next morning. She had started coming down for breakfast again, though she still made her own coffee and toast.

For some reason, she seemed to be warming up to him lately. In the evenings she lounged around the house instead of staying cooped up in her room. She offered to help him with dishes and other chores. She stood close to him again. Sometimes she even tried to take his hand.

She set down her section of the newspaper. Instead of reading to him as she once had, now they divided the paper and read in silence. “You won’t be in?”

“No, I have some business that would bore you.”

For a moment, he wondered if she would question him. When the curse was in full force Mrs. Gold would have obeyed her husband without thought. Her trust in him--damaging and perverse though it may have been--was absolute. But since Rumpelstiltskin had given up any pretense of acting like Gold to her, she didn’t know him anymore. It had hurt her at first, especially when she had seen him with Jefferson. But lately, for some reason, the breakdown of their marriage didn’t seem to bother her as much as it once had.

She just nodded. “Feels like I haven’t been in the shop in forever.”

She hadn’t. When Mrs. Gold avoided him that meant avoiding the place where he spent the most time. Should he have done something different with that? Should he have arranged that they alternate days in the shop, just to give Mrs. Gold something to do? Would keeping her busy have made her happier? Would it have prevented some damage to her heart or her mind?

Was it too late for him to make things better for her?

****

The question of regrets, of apologies and restitution, weighed heavily on Rumpelstiltskin’s mind. Everything he had done for the last several hundred years had been to get to the moment he was in now. He had created a curse that would destroy the old world and bring them to this one. He had manipulated events so that Regina would have enough power and enough rage to cast it, and that Snow White and Prince Charming would have enough True Love to create a Savior who could break it. All of that was just the first step, just the way to get to Baelfire. Now he had to find him, and he had to make things right by him.

But what if Baelfire had found him first?

The thought was too precious to believe in. It didn’t help that he had no idea how old his son would be. Time worked differently in different worlds. In some places it stopped altogether. Jefferson once spoke of a world where thousands of years could pass between one of his visits and the next. In this world without magic, Bae could still be fourteen. Or he could be an old man.

Or could be an adult who rode a motorcycle.

Booth was staying at Granny’s Bed and Breakfast. As the owner of the building, Rumpelstiltskin could have insisted that Granny Lucas pull out her master key and escort him up to the room. But there was no need to make a public display. Not when a set of lock picks could achieve the same result.

Tit for tat, after all. Booth had invaded his territory. It was only fair that Rumpelstiltskin repay him in kind.

After four months of him living there, the hotel room had plenty of information to offer about Booth. Housekeeping had made the bed, but dirty clothes still littered the floor. A desk was strewn with books and papers, with a typewriter sitting in the middle. That gave some credence to the idea that Booth was an author. There was a page in the typewriter carriage, the end of a paragraph about a smirking blonde woman.

There were two stacks of papers on the desk. The larger stack appeared to be a ream or two of blank printer paper, waiting to become the next Great American Novel. The smaller stack was the actual results of Booth’s work. Typed pages held down by a wooden carving of a donkey.

Rumpelstiltskin picked up the figurine. There was no brand on the bottom, it could be hand-made. Once, Baelfire had asked him to teach him to whittle, as he had seen other men around the village teach the other boys. Rumpelstiltskin had been forced to admit that he didn’t have that skill. His father had never taught him either.

He leafed through the pages until his heart skipped a beat. Hidden with the rest of the papers was a drawing. Baelfire had loved to draw, as Milah had before him. And this drawing was certainly something that only Baelfire would have made.

It was the dagger. His dagger.

He had told his son about the power of the dagger, that it was the source of his magic, the only weapon that could hurt him. That anyone who used the dagger could control him and make the powerful Dark One a slave.

Bae had hated the dagger. He hated what his papa had become--and hated more that Rumpelstiltskin didn’t hate it. How could he? The power, the knowledge, had been like nothing he had ever known. Once he had lost his soul to dark magic, Rumpelstiltskin felt like a man for the first time in his life.

But Bae had only wanted his father.

And when the time came, when Rumpelstiltskin had to choose between the dagger and his son--the son he would die for but could not protect without magic--he had made the worst choice he could have made.

By the time he realized what he’d done, it was too late. Bae was gone. Rumpelstiltskin lived for centuries without him. Centuries trying to find him. And now…

And now his son might be in Storybrooke.

****

Later that afternoon, he took Gold’s car and followed Booth on his motorcycle. The Sisters of St. Meissa Convent was an odd visiting place for a man as worldly and rough-edged as Booth appeared to be. But Baelfire had goodness in his soul, the kind that time could not erase. He would talk to nuns as easily as he would talk to fairies. How fitting that the Blue Fairy was now the Mother Superior over a superfluity of nuns.

Booth was talking to her. Bae had once asked the Blue Fairy how to remove the darkness from his father, and the gnat had given him a magic bean. The bean had opened a portal to get to the land without magic--this world.

If she had offered the same courtesy to Rumpelstiltskin when he had demanded it, the curse would have never happened and none of them would be in the mess they were in now.

The fairy and the man spoke for some time. They walked around the convent grounds while Rumpelstiltskin waited in the car. From the far side of the large parking lot, he kept an eye on the motorcycle. Once Booth came back to it and started the motor, Rumpelstiltskin got out and made his way to the convent.

“Mr. Gold!” Mother Superior squeaked when she saw him waiting for her by the entrance. She quickly recovered and straightened up in a display of determined self-righteousness. “It isn’t Rent Day. Are you here to repent of your sins and beg for forgiveness?”

“My sins are far beyond your forgiveness, dearie.” He showed his teeth. She might be stupid enough to think it was a smile. “Who was that man you were talking to?”

The fairy lifted her chin in the air and began to walk on. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

“And I don’t have to not double your rent.”

She stopped in her tracks, her back to him. She was dressed in wool from her stockings to her habit--all of it dark blue. At least some things hadn’t changed. The Mother Superior stomped back to him.

“What do you want?” she asked through a clenched jaw.

“That man,” Rumpelstiltskin repeated. “What did you talk about?”

Fidgeting with the sleeves of her cardigan, the Blue Fairy didn’t look him in the eye. “He’s a lost soul looking for his father. He asked me for advice on how to approach him.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s throat went dry. He stayed very still and gripped the handle of his cane. “What did you tell him?”

Her temper seemed to flare. “The same council I would give anyone in that situation: To be selfless, and brave, and honest.”She looked at him pointedly. “You have to care about the other person’s feelings more than your own pride, you know.”

“You would know a thing or two about pride, dearie.” Rumpelstiltskin turned away and began to walk, leaving the gnat sputtering in his wake.

****

Taking time to chat with the Blue Fairy made Rumpelstiltskin lose track of Booth’s whereabouts. He drove back to town, knowing he would run into the man again. Especially if he was looking to reconcile with his father.

Should he believe what the fairy had said? Mother Superior would know better than to make things worse between herself and Gold. Nothing she had said seemed to be a lie. But there were so many ways to deceive without lying.

He parked the car by the shop, but didn’t go in. Without knowing that he was doing it, he began to walk down the main street. He needed to think.

What he really needed was to talk to someone. Belle would know what to do. He could talk to her about anything, and she would understand, or try to. At least she would listen. In the too-brief year of their marriage, he had poured out his soul to her a hundred times. She had always known how to help him, how to see what he needed to do and how he might go about doing it. He could be weak with Belle, in a way he could never be weak with anyone. He could admit his confusion, his inarticulate mass of fears and sorrows--and always, she would help him untangle the threads of his thoughts, without judgement, with nothing but wisdom and love.

No one else could do what Belle did.

He might reach out to Jefferson, but the poor man was so caught up in his own misery. Little Grace didn’t know who her father was, it would be cruel to talk to him about a possible reunion with his own child. It also occurred to Rumpelstiltskin that Jefferson didn’t know Bae existed. His son--his life before he became the Dark One--was one of Rumpelstiltskin’s closest secrets. Only Belle knew the whole story. It would be too much to burden Jefferson with all of it at once.

After circling the block, Rumpelstiltskin’s feet stopped in front of a building across the street from the shop. It was called the Hepworth Building, Gold had owned it for years. Among other businesses, it housed the office of Dr. Archibald Hopper, the town’s resident psychiatrist.

In the old world, Hopper had once been a petty thief named Jiminy. After getting caught up in some magic he didn’t understand, Jiminy had been transformed into a talking cricket. To atone for his previous crimes, he had made it his duty to act as the conscience for confused humans, to encourage them to do the right thing.

Rumpelstiltskin sighed as he knocked on the office door. Whatever might happen with the cricket, it had to be better than stewing around in his own head.

Dr. Hopper opened the door. A tall, bespectacled man in tweed, he radiated a kind of earnest goodness, a guileless sincerity that made Rumpelstiltskin itch.

Belle would like this man, he told himself. Belle would want him to talk to someone.

“Mr. Gold.” Hopper’s voice was always soft, even when he was surprised and confused. “Are you… here about the rent?”

Of course that was all Gold was to these people. Nothing but a monster set out to take as much from them as possible.

“No.” He leaned on his cane and looked at the carpet. “No, I’m… I’m not sure I could tell you why I’m here.”

Hopper’s frame had been taking up the entirety of the doorway. Rumpelstiltskin stood in the hall, far enough away that no passerby would think he was waiting to go into the psychiatrist's office. With a single step Hopper went out into the hall. Now the door was wide open.

“Would you like to come in?” he said. “I’ve got some time before my next appointment. If there’s something on your mind…?”

Rumpelstiltskin brushed past the doctor before he could change his mind. Once in the office, he had just enough time to find a chair before his knees gave out and he collapsed, like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.

Hopper sat down in the chair across from him, so they were eye to eye. Some deep, primal emotion burned in Rumpelstiltskin’s throat. He wanted to talk. He shouldn’t talk. If he started talking--about Bae, about himself, about Belle--he would never be able to stop.

“So,” Hopper began, “what brings you in today?”

A coffee table sat in between Rumpelstiltskin’s chair and Hopper’s. He looked at it, at the fake wood grain that covered up the cheap plywood. He breathed.

Gods, he wished Belle was here.

“I think I might be seeing my son again soon,” he said.

Hopper was silent for a moment. His head tilted to the side. “I--didn’t know you had a son. How old is he?”

“Let’s start with something simpler.” Rumpelstiltskin took a shaking breath. “I haven’t seen him since he was fourteen. I…” He trailed off, then began again. He was here. He was talking. He was determined to plunge in the knife as deep as it would go.

“I haven’t seen my son since I abandoned him.” He looked up, stared directly into Hopper’s eyes. “I can’t imagine that he doesn’t hate me for what I’ve done. I know I deserve his hate. I deserve all the anger and rage he wants to pour out onto me. But I’m still afraid of it.”

“Well of course you are,” Hopper said simply. “No one wants to deal with negative emotions, or the consequences of actions they regret. The past can be a scary place, and it sounds like you’ve got some real causes for concern.”

Rumpelstiltskin blinked. He’d forgotten how good it could feel to have someone agree with him, to look at the facts of the situation and say that his reaction was justified.

“I do want to see him,” he said. “But… but how can I make up for what I’ve done? If I make myself vulnerable to him, I might as well put my head on a chopping block.”

The dagger was the only weapon that could kill him. Did Bae want it for that reason? Had his son decided that enough was enough, that he would end the evil of the Dark One no matter what it cost?

“Vulnerability,” Hopper said, “is a very scary thing. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but you don’t strike me as a person who is comfortable with being open.”

Rumpelstiltskin sighed. It had been the greatest gift Belle had ever given him--the chance to open himself up to her. Could he trust Bae in the same way? Could he offer his son all he had, all the weakness and cowardice? Could he trust his boy to understand everything he wasn’t, as well as everything he was?

“When he was growing up,” he said, “I always wanted to be strong for him. I didn’t want him to… know.”

“Know what?”

“What I lacked. As a father, as a--man.” Rumpelstiltskin’s hands balled into fists. “I didn’t want him to know that I wasn’t good enough for him.”

The confession escaped him like air from his lungs. It left him feeling hollow, deflated. He looked at the ground.

The office was silent. Hopper seemed to be waiting to see if he would say more. When it was clear that he wouldn’t, the doctor put his hands together, entwining his fingers.

“It’s clear you have regrets,” he said gently. “If you want to talk about those things in the future, we can schedule an appointment. But you came here because you have concerns about reuniting with your son. On that end, I have a question for you.”

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t speak, but looked up from the ground to let Hopper know he was listening.

“Do you think your son doesn’t know about what you think of as your faults?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Everything you were trying to hide from your son when he was a boy, everything you didn’t want him to know--do you think, right now, that he is unaware of those things?”

Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth. “No,” he said after a moment. “No, I don’t see how he could be ignorant anymore.”

When Bae was small, he had tried to be a regular father to him. He’d tried to keep him from understanding how wretched their poverty was, how unhappy Millah was, how far Rumpelstiltskin fell from being anything their world thought a man should be. But Bae had grown up and he had learned. And then he had seen that not only was his father less than a man--he was a monster.

Bae had known that. And he had run from it. But now he was back. He had chosen to come back, to seek out Rumpelstiltskin.

“If that’s the case,” Hopper said, “though it might still be frightening, I don’t know if there’s any reason for you to feel like you need to hide from him anymore.”

He didn’t speak. He was too overwhelmed. He should see his son. He would see his son. He had to.

“Do you know where mold grows, Mr. Gold?”

Wordless, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head.

“In the dark,” Hopper answered his own question. “Any rot, any corruption, it’s mostly going to happen in dark, hidden places. Basements, attics, the back of the fridge. It’s the same with emotions that people keep secret. If you don’t bring them out into the light, they’re just going to get… yucky.”

He allowed himself to grin. “You know, that sounds exactly like something my wife would say.”

****

That night, when Rumpelstiltskin followed the motorcycle, it drove off into the woods. It took him a few minutes to realize that they were headed to Gold’s cabin. The same place where he had buried the dagger all those months ago.

Good. That dagger had been the linchpin of the conflict between him and Bae. No matter how that conflict ended, the dagger would surely have some part to play.

He parked the car beside the motorcycle. The cabin was dark, but moonlight reflected off the lake. The figure of a man stood by the shore.

Rumpelstiltskin hesitated before going out to meet him. How was this going to play out? How angry would Baelfire be? How could he ever make up for leaving him, for embracing the darkness he had hated so much?

How could he ever be a father to him again?

Do the brave thing, Belle would have said. Bravery will follow after that.

Leaning on his cane, Rumpelstiltskin stepped onto the grass and walked out to meet his fate.

The man didn’t move as he heard him approach, but he did turn his head as they stood side by side in front of the water.

“I didn’t know if you would come,” he said calmly.

Rumpelstiltskin planted his cane in front of him. Just barely, he resisted the impulse to weep. He wanted to throw his arms around his son, to get on his hands and knees and beg forgiveness from his beautiful boy.

“I didn’t know if I would be welcome,” he said honestly. “After… everything.”

Now Bae faced him fully. In the moonlight, his eyes sparkled blue--so like Millah, so like Belle. His eyes shone with unshed tears.

“Papa.”

It was all he said. It was all he needed to say. Rumpelstiltskin’s resolve melted. His son was in his arms. They hugged and cried and apologized. Bae assured him that everything was alright, everything was forgiven. They were together again. They could be happy again.

“Look at you!” Rumpelstiltskin held his son’s face in his hands. He had changed, but he had grown up to be a handsome, strong, capable man. Bae was everything he had ever hoped he would be. “Belle will be so happy to meet you at last.”

Bae looked confused. “Who’s Belle?”

“My wife. Your--well, she’d like to be your step-mother, if you want to think of her that way.”

Belle had wanted to be a mother to his son, a mother to all the children they could have together, once the curse was broken and the world was safe.

“Of course, Papa,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll love Belle. She’s got to be a better wife to you than that girl who hangs around your shop.”

Rumpelstiltskin winced. He patted his son on the arm and began to walk toward the cabin. “Don’t judge Belle by Mrs. Gold, son. This curse… it is a terrible thing.”

“I know.” Bae began to walk ahead of him. Then he stopped and looked back. He waited for Rumpelstiltskin to catch up.

Limping, he chuckled at his son. “Just like old times, isn’t it?”

For a split-second, the man’s face was blank. Like he had no memories of running to the village on market day while his father hobbled on a staff, urging him to slow down, to stay close. The blankness remained in his blue eyes, even as he smiled and laughed. “Oh, right.”

Had Bae always had Millah’s eyes?

Rumpelstiltskin felt his jaw clench. A worm of worry had gnawed into this perfect moment. But he couldn’t worry. He couldn’t be afraid now. Not when he finally had Bae again.

He had Bae. And Bae had forgiven him. It was so easy.

Too easy?

They kept walking, past the cabin and to the patch of woods where he had buried the dagger. There was a shovel in the cabin. The young man insisted that he do the digging. Rumpelstiltskin watched him work. He tried to keep a level head.

The deeper the man dug, the more worried Rumpelstiltskin found himself. Was that just his connection to the dagger? Dark magic knew when it was being threatened, it always worked to protect itself. Bae had tried to separate Rumpelstiltskin from the Dark One before. Did the dagger know that? Was it afraid that Bae would win this time?

Or was Rumpelstiltskin afraid that Booth wasn’t really Bae at all?

After unearthing the metal box, Booth handed it over to him.

“Can you unlock this, Papa?”

The keys were in his trouser pocket. He didn’t reach for them. He held the box in both hands, in the dark and silent forest.

“You know,” he said. “I gave the dagger to Belle, before I asked her to marry me. I knew it was the only way we could be together. If I kept my magic, she would have the power to control it.”

The young man looked up at him from his hole in the ground. “That’s… really sweet, Papa.”

Rumpelstiltskin let out a breath. “Funny thing, though,” he said. “In this world, I don’t have magic. Wasn’t that the whole point of coming here, Bae?”

Thinking clearly for the first time in days, Rumpelstiltskin looked August Wayne Booth in his lying blue eyes.

“There is no magic in this world,” he said. “My son wanted to escape from magic. He would leave this dagger buried in the earth. You are not Baelfire, so who the hell are you?”

Booth opened his mouth and held up his hands. “Papa, how can you--”

“Enough!” Rumpelstiltskin roared.

By the time Booth had scrambled out of the hole, Rumpelstiltskin had unlocked the box and taken out the dagger. He pushed Booth up against a tree and held the point of the dagger to his lying throat.

Booth’s breath went ragged. “You just said it doesn’t have magic.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t sharp, dearie. I think you should talk while you still have a voice box.”

He tried to swallow, then seemed to realize what a dangerous endeavor that would be. “I-I-I’m not your son.”

Rumpelstiltskin bared his teeth. “A little fairy told me she advised you to be honest. Now tell me something that I don’t already fucking know.”

“I know where he is!” Booth gasped out the words. “N-Baelfire. I’ve met him, I’ve talked to him. I can find him again.”

“See, if you started with that, you might have some credibility. But now I’m going to make you bleed, just because you insulted my son’s name by putting it in your mouth.”

He pushed the dagger into a spot under Booth’s ear, far away from any fatal areas. Rumpelstiltskin had seen blood in the moonlight before--it looked black and otherworldly and beautiful.

But Booth wasn’t bleeding. A trail of clear liquid rolled down the man’s neck, much more slowly than blood usually did. Rumpelstiltskin reached out a gloved hand to touch it.

“Who are you?” he asked. “What’s wrong with you? Were you not born in my world?”

Though clearly feeling pain, Booth was able to grin. “That’s where you’re wrong, Dark One. I wasn’t born at all.”

Rumpelstiltskin eased up on the point of the dagger, but kept Booth pushed up against the tree. “And?”

“I was carved,” he explained. “From the wood of an enchanted tree. And enchanted trees don’t do well in a land without magic.”

Now Rumpelstiltskin stepped back. Far enough away that Booth couldn’t grab the dagger away from him, but close enough that he could still rush the man if he needed to.

“You need magic,” he said to the wooden man. “Did you think you could control me with this? Use me to keep yourself alive?”

“There are three people in this town who might have access to magic.” Now Booth leaned against the tree. He rubbed at his neck, wiping away the sap that had leaked from his skin. “It’s Emma, you, and the Evil Queen.”

Understanding dawned. “You’ve been hanging around Emma for months.”

“Trying to get her to believe.” Booth shook his head. “Hasn’t worked.”

“Well, you couldn’t claim to be her long-lost child, could you?”

He had the good grace to chuckle at that. “I don’t have anything to offer Regina either. Hell, she wants me to be a pile of kindling.”

“You haven’t exactly endeared yourself to me either, sunshine.”

Hanging his head, Booth looked at him. Blue eyes--Bae’s were brown, they had always been brown, dammit!--had no hope in them. “Do you want to kill me now?” he asked. “Or do you want to watch my limbs and lungs and brain slowly turn into wood?”

“It’s a day in the park either way.” Rumpelstiltskin didn’t hide his satisfaction at this news. This man had lied to him, betrayed him in one of the most personal ways possible. He deserved to die. “Any guess as to how long you’ve got left?”

“Maybe weeks.” Booth pressed his hand to his thigh, then rapped his knuckles against his leather jacket. “Maybe days.”

“Hmm,” he grinned. “Well, Mr. Booth, for as long as you’re flesh and not furniture, you have a job to do.” He stepped up to the man, grabbed him by the collar and spoke loudly into his ear. “Get Emma Swan to break the curse. She is the Savior. Her magic is what will save us all.” He released Booth, tucked the dagger into his inside coat pocket, and walked back to the car. “Even those of us who don’t deserve it.”

#golden rings #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #ouat

8 notes · View notes

ask-ikeprichevalier · 3 years

Note

Prince Chevalier,

I honestly feel quite embarrassed and I fear it may be a bit rude of me so please forgive my inquiry but…

Is the Seventh Prince always so… for lack of a better term… eccentric? I’m not assuming anything bad by this of course! I’ve just noticed that he’s quite peculiar, it’s rather entertaining to be in his company as compared to the usual stuffiness of the court. Are all your brothers like this? I imagine your kingdom must be so lively!

I need to unfortunately steer from the lightheartedness of my previous words and mention that as much as it pains me, we fear that there may be Obsinianite spies pretending to be visiting citizens from Seog-Yeong infiltrating your kingdom. This will be discussed between your brother and my court while he is here, of course, but I wanted to ask for your input as the future King of Rhodolite.

I hope all is well for you, your brothers, and your kingdom. How are things with you and my dear friend? It makes me overjoyed that the both of you get on so well.

Until next I write,

Gongju Areum of the Seog-Yeong Empire

Gongju Areum,

You are correct in assuming his eccentricity. Unfortunately there isn't much I can do to fix his manners though he is an excellent negotiator and strategist and will be of service while he is there. Should he do something unbefitting Royalty in your court he will be punished accordingly in Rhodolite.

All Princes in Rhodolite have their eccentricites in some right though all of them are excellent allies to our neighboring Kingdom's. I can assure you all will be well.

We will conduct a thorough investigation and dispatch those coming to Rhodolite under false pretences. I'm certain Nokto will say the same but they will be no threat to us and we will make sure they won't become a threat to you and your people.

Evangeline is doing excellently she and I are planning our union spectacularly. You will be invited to the festivities and wedding. I feel the same with your union to Licht. May it be a long prosperous relationship.

Best,

Chevalier Michel, Second Prince of Rhodolite

4 notes · View notes

zorkaya-moved · 3 years

Note

"but will you return?"

@lorddiiavolo

There’s a pause in her actions. The silver-haired exchange student didn’t look at the Prince of Devildom as she stood in front of the window, looking at the expansive lands and noting the differences from the view she was getting in the House of Lamentations. A glass with some liquor was in her hands as she remained silent at his inquiry, in the reflection of the window her reflection showed her surprise to hear the question before her eyes were closed and she took a sip from the drink.

The fact that Diavolo had to ask made her wonder if he wanted her to stay or he wanted her to return. She was no kind soul, she was no gentlewoman, she was no pure being who would be preaching beauties of Devildom to those outside. In her eyes, humans were not prepared to become united with demons, but when they will ever be? Vile, easily corruptable, and so filthy. That’s why she expected so many to be drowning in the pits of Hell, she’d join them after her eventual death, Sokolova thought to herself.

It almost made her proud that he was asking this question. Golden eyes were opened as she turned around, leaning with her bottom against the windowsill and taking another sip of her drink. Did he really want her to come back of all people? Wouldn’t Solomon or Simeone or Luke be better to come back? Not that she lowered herself down, it was a rational thought in her mind. Though... she’d miss his company more than she’d say out loud without being asked.

“Make me come back,” she dares to say while stepping forward, pushing herself off and away from the windowsill. With the sound of her heels clicking against the floor, slowly but loudly in this silent room, she placed the drink on the small table before coming closer to where he was sitting at his desk. Her gloved fingers danced across the surface as she moved away from the document before sitting down on the table, one leg dangling, and one hand placed on the desk as support. The way she acted and behaved was far from being the usual player, it was closer to showcase her true self even though it was much harder. Yet there’s no fear, no dislike, no shame in her words and actions. “Give me a reason to come back. If you say you want me to come back, I will. But if you say it’s for the program, I won’t.”

She’s honest with him, sharply and almost darkly in the sense that she didn’t sugarcoat anything and didn’t give false hopes. It was a clean-cut answer about the wish to come back. Why would she come back for other people who would wish to visit her themselves? After all, the only person who was not free to act as he pleased despite having the most power in her eyes... was Diavolo himself. Chained to his throne, wasn’t he unable to do everything he pleased whenever he pleased? Such was the price for power in her eyes, but only in her clear molten gold eyes.

“If you want me to, then say so. Don’t ask, because if I don’t hear your wishes, I won’t consider it. Do you know why?” With her free hand, she tucked some hair behind her ear, exposing the silver earring in the form of a snowflake. Her necklace was also silver in a form of a snowflake. “Because there’s no one who needs me here that I heard of. But if... if you ask me to come back, I will just for you.” A chuckle follows as she tilts her head to the side, silver hair beautiful akin to a waterfall. Will he tell her nothing or will he tell her everything? She can’t say, but Zarina made it sound like she was both serious and not. After all, she was a villainous thing without a care about the other world aside from those she swore to protect.

#queue.#lorddiiavolo #☼ DIAVOLO. ―▐ whisper poems of hellfire in my ear，i’ll kiss you to silence them to have you know this seal’s already yours.#❄ ― IN CHARACTER. ╱ you breathe by the sun，i breathe by the moon.#❅ 𝐕. OBEY ME ⤻ tragedy laments while demons cackle in purgatory，chains of destiny will drag you down. ❞#dances at that tag i hope u'll like it !!!!!!!

5 notes · View notes

elmidol · 4 years

Text

The Shackles of Fate - Six

Dark Faerie Tale AU

Read on AO3

Pairing: Kylo Ren/Reader, Ben/Reader

Warning: nothing explicit for this chapter

The Shackles of Fate

Six

Flustered was one term applicable for describing how you felt. Remorseful in regards to what you may or may not have done. The syragh who had warned you to proceed with caution now uttered an apology; guilt was something going around in the cottage, a contagious malady that weighed heavily on your heart. Finn turned to you as a repetition of his request to be forgiven emerged. Along with it came an explanation that you had not thought of. You had human blood in you, which meant that, as a guardian, he could not strip you of your free will. When it came to defending you against the imps with music, there were no laws to prevent him from fulfilling this task. As for dissuading you from listening to the succubus, that did have limitations. It was how Phasma had been able to silence him; because of your choice, your interest in hearing what the temptress was saying. Finn was incapable of robbing you of the ability to choose. Your own guilt was not lessened by this explanation. If anything, you recoiled and balled your hands into fists as frustration welled up inside of you. How could you have been so blind?

Despite having spoken in a more severe tone, the light—balanced?—side of the faerie directed a softer gaze your way. It seemed to have dawned on him that whatever you had done, it had not been intentional. Ben lowered his arm, the thread that connected the two of you dangling in the space between your bodies. You could not help but stare at it. You recalled having previously glimpsed a red thread or string on the slumbering Ben when he had been a sprite. At that time, you had not noticed whether or not it was tied to your own wrist. The braid of red and gold that connected you with Ben now made you think on the succubus’s words.

His fate in your hands. It had been, or was supposed to have been, nothing more than a childhood fairie tale along with the rest of this new part of your reality. Your fates were more intertwined now than before you had touched the red thread. The gold?

“What does…” You started to point at the edge of the gold. “...this…” Ben caught your wrist with his free hand. “...mean…” You frowned, more than a little offended that he believed you foolish enough to touch the thread for a second time. Your frustration mounted when the faerie gently shoved your hand away only to take up the thread in his own grasp. “Why can’t I—”

“You can cut it. I cannot.” Ben was apparently more forthcoming than Kylo; it was a little confusing to you that the same person could be so different. You sucked your bottom lip into your mouth. Chewed lightly on it while scanning the length that connected the two of you. The braided thread flickered in and out of sight. This prompted you to squint, which proved to assist in bringing the object into focus. There were countless questions that arose in your mind the more you observed it; some of those questions were the very ones that had previously faded away when Ben had first asked you what you had done.

It was difficult for you to choose which inquiry you should first pose. On top of that, you worried that you were being perceived as rude for not answering Ben. Then you wondered if he had expected a reply at all.

The syragh strummed the instrument, a return of the music having an instantaneous effect on the faerie prince. Those dark wings twitched in a manner that suggested he was growing more relaxed. Still, his eyes traveled to the door through which you had caught a glimpse of Skywalker. It was when Ben half-turned his body that you realized there were, in fact, two golden threads rather than a single strand as you had originally believed. One connected to the faerie, while the other was from you. You did not dare touch either given how Ben had reacted as well as what his words implied. There was something dangerous in regards to your apparent ability to cut the threads.

You placed distance between yourself and him. Ben startled, his head jerking back in your direction, however he made no move to intercept you. You stared at the braided threads rather than focusing on the fae’s reactions. With each step, the length seemed to grow. Your back hit the wall on the opposite side of the room before you stopped. There was a brief moment in which you considered checking if circumnavigating would extend the length as well, or if the thread would grow and shrink based on the angle of your distance. You wondered, too, if the thread could snag on objects or people.

“Uhm...Finn?” The syragh’s name rolled easily off your tongue. It felt familiar to you, friendly even. That warm feeling within you strengthened as Finn looked your way without pausing in his playing. He reminded you quite a bit of Poe; he did not treat you as being someone lesser. An orphan. A, well, whatever you were. That had never mattered to Poe and it clearly had no bearing on how Finn would behave around you. “No one…” Your mind flashed to the children. How they sometimes gleefully ran past you. How the sprite would likely be in your pocket or somewhere else on your being when came the day. “The thread, will it catch on objects or people?”

In your peripheral, you could see immediately the way Ben’s lips began to shift. A small grin, albeit not one that left you feeling mocked. He was so different with his soul whole, you thought. Finn shook his head. It took you a moment to remember what you had asked. That was strange to you, foreign. You had never felt this way towards another. It evoked a sense of panic. Your heart began to race in a similar manner that it had when the succubus had been present. Phasma’s words rang in your ears. The way those lips, the ones set in a smile, had nearly been on top of yours.

You would have to deal with that later. Shoving aside those thoughts as you felt the heat in your cheeks rising, you found yourself content with the knowledge that the threads were not in any danger from the children. Only you.

This called to your mind’s eye the dark fae cowering when you had stopped running to face him. In that moment you had believed yourself to be on the defense rather than an aggressor. The idea that you were a danger held an appeal due to your childhood, while at the same time it repulsed you. You could unintentionally harm, or even kill, someone because you did not, in point of fact, fully know who you were. That you would have to go on a quest for self-discovery strengthened your attraction to both Finn and Ben. More than that, it had you craving the company of Kylo, the being who had been present for the start of this journey.

The juxtaposition of behavior within the two halves of the faerie prince rolled in waves within your mind. The kindness that Ben offered, you realized, had started to lull you into a sense of false security. He was more forthcoming, but failed to be as blunt as Kylo. That had originally put you off. You had been frustrated with Kylo treating you almost like a child, however now you acknowledged that it had been your naivete and ignorance that had encouraged him to behave as such rather than your age. He would be willing to change his opinion.

If one were to use kid gloves, so to speak, in continuing your introduction to your abilities, you would remain forever vulnerable and susceptible to creatures like the succubus. Or you would harm someone, as you had potentially done with the threads.

You attempted to sort through all of the faerie tales of your childhood. Threads. There were quite a few tales. Countless varieties.

When you looked at the faerie prince, he had averted his gaze. He was saying something, or at least mouthing the words. His attention darted to the door. What had happened to make him hate his uncle? Like the stories with the threads, there were too many renditions of Ben’s fall. It pained you to think of your legendary hero as being something so much...less. You wanted to direct the entirety of your anger on the demon king. Moreso now that you had caught a glimpse of Skywalker’s power, had felt and seen a fraction of his light.

You pinched your left index finger with your right thumb and first two digits. This was your chance to ask the questions weighing on your mind, however your tongue felt like lead. Kylo had informed you that he may not answer. This may have been due to the possibility of personal questions or being evasive was part of his personality. You wanted to try your hand when Ben was there. The same person, but also different.

“That succubus.” A clipped sentence. You put effort into keeping your tone light, nothing accusatory. Ben shifted, his shoulders slumping though he stood taller. His dark wings folded like a bat’s, wrapping around his body. The white of his attire was almost completely concealed. “Did you know her?” The syragh struck an incorrect cord. Just one, but that was all you needed. Ben shot his guardian an accustory look then turned to you. His lips were set in the beginnings of a pout that you doubted he was aware of.

“Not intimately.” Your heart fluttered at those words, at what they could or maybe did not mean. “She and I were in the same house when you”—he put a strange emphasis on that you that gave you the impression he might not remember your name— “finished tying our fates together.” That explained the red thread. “She could sense...the feelings.”

Desire. Passion. Lust. A strange attraction.

You considered the dark fae that had led you to Finn. His teasing. The way he had described your scent. And from there your mind returned to Kylo’s behavior in your bedroom. Specifically, when he had smelled you. Next when he had tasted you, when you had allowed him to do so. His hunger for you both exhilarated and terrified you.

“And the change in my fate. If she is not soon satisfied, she will inform the demon king.” Ben had started to pace. He stepped around the feline creature that you had observed on your previous visit. Its tail flicked to the side. Once more it cooed. Ben lowered himself into a crouch and cupped a hand along its jawline. “Artoo.” Having noticed that you were watching him, the faerie prince offered you the creature’s full name: Artoo, the Second Duke of the Naboo Cait Sidhe. “He belonged first to my grandmother. Next, my grandfather. My uncle last… Until Skywalker disappeared.”

There was it was again, the venom in his voice. It faded by the time he next spoke.

Ben sighed while stroking the feline’s head. “I should have known. You conjured his image.” Another coo, as though the creature could understand what was being said. You reminded yourself that the beings of this realm were not always identical with their human realm counterparts.

Artoo stood on his hind legs. The room dimmed, which allowed the syragh, faerie prince, and you to better see the image that flickered into existence. A woman who could not have been much older than you stood shrouded in white. The relation to Ben was undeniable. You were unable to decide whether she was a sister or cousin before the image distorted, replaced by an older woman. The same female faerie, only aged at least two decades. A child ran up to her. His tiny wings fluttering behind him. Dark wings.

The present-day Ben threw himself away from the scene, spinning on his heel and resuming his pacing. Artoo was not deterred. The Cait Sidhe walked forward without disrupting the projection. His coos were conversational. Imploring you to understand whatever it was that he was trying to show you. This had to do with the faerie prince. His fate in your hands. The last time the faerie queen had entrusted her son’s life to someone, it had been her own brother. Skywalker had failed to prevent Ben from falling to Snoke and becoming Kylo. At that point, Luke had disappeared. The queen, though, she was still watching for ways to fight the demon king. She was still waiting for her child to return.

How could she not be? You ached while observing the image that played on repeat. That child running into his mother’s arms. For so long, that was what you had dreamed about as a child. Your own parents, whatever and wherever they were, loving you unconditionally.

You reached out to pet the feline. Artoo lowered himself to where he was once more on all four legs. “Thank you,” you whispered, earning a new sound, the equivalent of a pur, from the creature. You understood now, remembered where it was you had heard about a golden thread. Life. Those few beings from the Upper Realm—in any of the realms—that guarded the path one’s life would take. Their fate and mortality both observed.

You drew your hand back from Artoo to next address Finn. The syragh gave a nod to indicate he had witnessed the moment of your epiphany. A nod to confirm your suspicions. You faced Ben. Your expression was set with your determination. There were many things you still had yet to learn, but this you knew:

“I will find a way to the Fates, and I will ensure they undo the tangled mess I’ve put us in.”

A thank you or similar manner of appreciation would have been grand. For your oath, however, you received nothing more than a slow-blinking Ben. The Cait Sidhe released a sorrowful coo. Off to the side, the syragh released a cough that sounded quite like a suggestion. Checkyourpocket. The hairs on the back of your neck rose. Just when you had thought you had learned something, another layer of this mystery was added. You stuck your hand into the pocket that had previously held the slumbering sprite. It was empty. Finn’s eyebrows rose when you looked to him.

You explored the bag that you had brought with you. The small body was similar but different from the one you had previously guarded. Your chest began to ache. You had stopped breathing, had clenched your jaw, until you were able to gently withdraw your limb with the...not a sprite. Sprites were light magic, you reminded herself. This tiny dark faerie was not that, and it—he—was very much awake. Hence the difference. His back to you. Arms crossed over his chest.

He...isn’t whole right now. Your eyes meet his brown. A touch of light in Kylo, a touch of dark in Ben. They were two halves of a whole, neither complete without the other. A gold thread shimmered between the light faerie and his dark half. Their lives were connected. A shared red thread of fate. You and Kylo were also connected by a thin strand of red. Yet between you there was only a single golden thread, and you could not tell who it belonged to.

The undeniable proof that you had altered the fate of the fallen faerie prince stood in your palm. No longer did the light sleep, which meant that it would not be so easily concealed. “They should trade places,” the guardian offered after watching your eyes dart between the two halves. You absently nodded, understanding the unspoken portion quite clearly. Their altered fate meant that Ben-Kylo would not experience the agony of being torn in half. One would think that an improvement...if not for the vulnerability it left Ben with. The seal was stronger in the faerie realm for now, which was why the prince had not pressed to leave.

And why he is sticking close to his syragh. You winced, a fresh wave of guilt assaulting you. “Is… Did the witching hour not end then?”

“Not yet,” Ben said, his eyes on the floor. Kylo impatiently tapped his foot on the palm of your hand. “A few minutes more.” He did not look once at his dark half. You silently thrilled at the knowledge that the faerie glanced at you every handful of seconds. He was shy, awkward, curious—but he did not invade your personal space as Kylo was wont to do. “You really have no idea.” Gentle and amused. This was where Kylo would have been blunt while remaining cryptic, except the tiny being refused to look your way. “Phasma also believed that I was whole. There will be no bargain if she learns the truth. The moirai will not interfere with fate, will not stop the succubus from reporting to Snoke.” Kylo made a gesture with his hands, earning Ben’s attention for the first time. “I know what I should have done.” Not reprimanding. An acknowledgment. One part of the faerie prince had been willing to kiss you as the temptress had desired.

Ben raised his gaze to you following his darker half making a hand signal that you were unable to decipher. “Finn and I will teach you.” A pause. Ben’s eyes darted to the side, his brow furrowed. “Unless I still sleep at day.”

“It will be worse if you remain switched during the night,” the syragh stated. He addressed you next. “Be careful what you touch.” Kylo’s shoulder’s shook, and Ben and Finn each seemed to grow uncomfortable, flustered.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #faerie kylo #elmidolfanfic #theshacklesoffate

13 notes · View notes

diallokenyatta · 4 years

Note

Bro Diallo can you chart how Umar Johnson aka Jermaine Shoemake went from being a respected public speaker and advocate of Black issues and agendas, to the butt of jokes on the internet regarding Black consciousness? There are dozens of youtube channels dedicated to either clowning him or exposing him. On twitter he's little more than a meme. Some say he's on drugs, others say he's a crazed con-man. What happened?

I don’t know anything about him doing drugs. I would call him a ConMan because he’s actively engaged in the deception of the public to get them to contribute money to him under false pretenses, and I believe he’s still actively engaged in the Con by giving false updates about the FDMG Academy. But my issue with Dr. Umar isn’t really centered around the ongoing School Con he’s pulling, my beef with him is ideological, and I think his flawed ideology & Demagogary are at the root of all of his other issues; so that’s what I’ll speak on.

Dr. Umar was ultimately self-defeating. He built up a moralist, puritanical persona and failed to embody the very principles of manhood, family, and the discipline he advocated for and falsely told the Black community were the paths to empowerment and freedom. Dr. Umar only rose to prominence by engaging in what I have come to call Black Puritanism. Black people are primed by the Dominate System to have certain core beliefs about sex, gender roles, family, work, material value, education, and morality. Many Militant Black Leaders who claim to not only oppose White Western Culture but to be African Centered or Pan-African fully embrace the core practices and beliefs of White Western Culture, they simply infuse it with Black Militant Rhetoric and African esthetics, but at the core, it’s Western, Judeo-Christian ideology; that’s Black Puritanism.

Umar exploited the fears and indoctrination of the Black masses, he didn’t educate our people, he encouraged our people to be more regressive, not Revolutionary. If you remove all of the Black Militant Rhetoric and the African Aesthetics from his teachings you will have an ideology that is identical to Racist organizations like the Republican Party, Focus on the Family, the Proud Boys, & most other Neo-Fascist & Far-Right organizations. Also, just like the Far-Right Demagogues he mimics; he does the opposite of what he professes and teaches. From lying about celibacy to failing to marry the women he impregnates, to pursuing sex with the very type of women he rebukes (strippers, women with perms, etc.). Dr. Umar shuns Christianity and other “Slave Religions,” but his rebuke of homosexuality is drawn directly from those Slave Religions. Dr. Umar is a Ph.D., but fails to give an academic, evidence-based source for his claims about the harm homosexuality is doing to the Black community or Black manhood. I personally have been asking him, his supporters, and the larger Black Straight Pride Movement for a secular, rational, evidence-based support for their claims and condemnations for years. They call me a homosexual for simply making the inquiry. Dr. Umar’s methods and positions are an easy, quick, and profitable way to prominence and power within the Black community, but it’s a circular path, not a progressive one, it causes the Leaders who do this to take us in a circle where we always end up where we started. Many of his defenders like to point out the areas where Umar has been correct like in the over-drugging of Black youth for “behavioral issues,” and the criminalization of Black youth; and he should be commended for that, but when you use the accolades and attention you gain for accurate teachings to manipulate and fleece the public while trying to erect a cult following you deserve to be called out. Again, it’s Umar’s own misdeeds and lunacy that detracts from the good works he’s done, not his opponents and critics. As Dr. Umar or any Black Demagogue remains prominent and their views and teachings become better known outside their core followers they always evolve into caricatures of Black Militancy because their teachings can’t stand up to critical analysis or any form of intelligent scrutiny. Since hey can’t fight back academically or intellectually they start ranting and raving, making wild accusations about their challengers, threatening detractors, and a develop a Martyr Complex; in nutshell: They Go Crazy. Dr. Umar isn’t the first to go through this spiral, nor will he be the last. At this stage some Black Demagogues fade into obscurity, others manage to hold on to some level of prominence but their influence is greatly reduced, some Demagogues like Minister Farakahn constantly morph their positions and adopt new (still irrational, but new) positions to remain relevant. But the more rigid the Demagogue is the more insane they appear and the smaller their circle of influence becomes.

If you want to help Dr. Umar here are some suggestions, it won’t be a complete list but it’ll go a long way towards Dr. Umar actually making a Positive Contributions to the Just Aspirations of African People, and truly advancing the Pan-African Struggle: 1. Don’t center yourself when it comes to educating, uplifting, or leading the community; make the ideas and agendas the core. Men are flawed and we’ll all eventually fall, but the ideology and mission should be beyond any individual. Pan-Africanism doesn't need a “Prince,” it needs rational, committed organizers. 2. Don’t tout your personal morality as a reason anyone should follow you; especially if you don’t actually follow that personal morality! Your analysis, the viability of your agendas, your commitment to the protracted struggle should be what you offer and be used to measure your worthiness, not who you have (consensual) sex with or how you have sex, or any of the other shit Umar lied about. If your personal “outlets” don’t detract from the movement, then keep it to yourself. No one would have given a damn about Umar’s relationship with a Stripper if he hadn’t sold himself as the embodiment of sexual morality and restraint; he made it an issue, not his detractors. 3. If you can’t defend a position, rework or abandon it. Be teachable. 4. Everyone who criticizes you isn’t your enemy. Never threaten anyone online, never threaten or commit violence against another Black person based on verbal or ideological disagreements. 5. Stop competing with other public figures, and only debate the merits and efficacy if their ideas, conclusions, and agendas. 6. Stop attacking the mothers of your children on social media! Stop attacking Black women. Stop...just stop. 7. Stop projecting your insecurities with your own masculinity onto Black women and LGBTQAI+ community. 8. Let go of the Alpha Male persona, there’s no value to be found within it. 9. Stop giving yourself titles of esteem, if the community wants to bestow titles upon you accept them with humility & live up to them. 10. Open the school, redirect the funds you raised to another project of equal value to the community, or return the funds to your supports. Set a hard deadline for doing one of the three listed here. Finally; I can’t be too hard on Dr. Umar, cuz I held many of the views and engaged in some of the behaviors that I criticize him for (I never dupped the Hood outta $500Gs, nothing that horrible). But I had people who were patient with me and willing to educate me, if not I’d probably be spewing the same BS as him well into my 30s and beyond. So, I always try to root some real insights and guidance in my criticisms and mockery of Dr. Umar in the hope that he can learn and grow. www.diallokenyattta.com www.patreon.com/diallokenyatta #BroDiallo

6 notes · View notes

realityhelixcreates · 4 years

Text

Beta, Theta, and Me

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: PG Warnings: Swearing, Homelessness, Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now) Characters: Tony Stark, Thor(Marvel), Loki(Marvel) Additional Tags: A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses, Managerial Differences

Summary: As it becomes clearer that your immediate superior hates you, and clearer that Tony needs to put someone somewhere else, you get caught up in things that are way above your paygrade.

“Mr. Stark!”

“And now I gotta deal with this.” He muttered, closing a holo-screen and whirling in his rolling stool to face her. “Florence! Surprised to see you. Isn't there somebody else to see to whatever problem you have?”

“It has to do with that new hire, Whom you forced on us. Since it has to do with her, I bring it to you.”

“Hey, do I pay you for sass?”

“No, you pay me because I am the best at what I do. I mean to continue doing it.” She slapped a paper down in front of him.

“I don't like being handed-”

“That's why I didn't.” She tapped the paper. It was an application. “She has falsified information. Look.”

He looked. He couldn't help it. Florence reminded him altogether too much of one of his old nannies. He could never disobey that woman either.

On the application, next to Secondary Gender, you had scrawled not the usual α, β, or Ω, but a θ instead.

“Maybe...it's a sloppy Beta? Like just a really sloppy B?”

“Except she writes a perfectly legible B later on. Also, this address is false. No one lives there, it's a storage center. I wouldn't put money on that phone number being legit either. On top of that-” She said, cutting Tony off. “I have caught her filching food from the employee cafeteria.”

“Oh yeah? What did she take?”

“Creamers, jelly, crackers, and salad dressing packets.”

“So...all the stuff we offer for free?”

“With purchase of something else.” Florence sniffed. “Also, I caught these this morning.”

She held her phone out, showing slightly blurry pictures of a person who might be you climbing out of the dumpster behind the building.

“Okay, that doesn't necessarily prove anything.”

“And I've caught her sleeping around the building.”

“On the clock?”

“On breaks, and sometimes before her shift.”

“So, not on the clock.”

“Sir, she is breaking the law!”

“Well, so did you when you took that picture without her consent. I don't tolerate spying on my employees.”

“Sir!”

“What's the real problem here, Florence? That she's homeless? Don't we want them to go get jobs? Then suddenly she's got one, and you're like, no not like that?”

“I just don't understand why you are rewarding a stranger for breaking the rules. Indecent exposure in the bathroom, and you give her a job. Lying on her application, and you defend her. You don't even know this girl, you don't know why she was on the street, what warrants might be out for her, what problems she might have, what havoc she might cause. That nonsense symbol on her gender identification alone shows she's not taking this seriously!”

“Theta.” He murmured.

“Pardon?”

“It's not nonsense, it's a Theta. It's just another letter. We use it in mathematics all the time; it means there's an angle.”

“Is she trying to tell us she's crooked?” Florence demanded.

“She's probably just a Beta who thinks secondary gender inquiries are an invasion of privacy. It's all the rage among the young people these days. In any case, just keep her on for a week or two. If she's gonna wash out, you'll know by then. It'll give you the chance to do a few more interviews. You're still looking for extra help, right? You've got permission, go on ahead and do it. Two, three more people.”

“Well...Alright.” Florence said, mollified. “Thank you sir.”

“You know I got your back. But we gotta shake things up every now and then, keep things fresh. Get in people from all walks of life, keep in touch with the pulse of society, all that. Now run along, dear. You've got a ship to keep shape, don't you?”

“That I do, sir.” Florence left, forgetting the application behind her. Tony held the paper up, examining it. Fake address for sure, and likely the number was for a burner phone. Age, education, and work history looked legit. There was a year and a half gap between your last job and this one: it probably marked the amount of time you'd been on the streets.

A Theta symbol. Why that, specifically?

“You're not too fond of Florence, are you?” F.R.I.D.A.Y. asked.

Tony shrugged. “Not really, but she's damn good at her job. That's all I really need from her. Would you do me a favor and look up gender expressions pertaining to Theta? There's a lot of new terminology I need to get caught up with. This might be one of them.”

*****

You sneaked another sugar packet from the ground floor coffee shop, fully aware that the amused barista was watching, and didn't care in the slightest.

You sprinkled a tiny bit into a little container of coffee creamer, then knocked the whole thing back like some kind of shot.

Everybody knew now that you worked here, and if they speculated about your bizarre eating habits, none of them said anything to you about it.

As long as you didn't break any rules, nobody seemed to care.

Fine by you. Even though they were small, simple snacks; salad crackers with tiny packets of jelly, butter, and salad dressing, sugar, salt and pepper packs, creamers, ketchups, mustards, and mayonaise, these were quick and easy sources of calories that hadn't been readily available to you before.

Having a fresh uniform each day was kind of amazing. Florence insisted that all uniforms be cleaned and disinfected properly, which meant they all got left behind at the end of the day, and were clean by morning. It had the added bonus of no one seeing you wearing a Stark-affiliated uniform while you were sleeping on the fire escape, or hanging around near the dumpsters outside

You weren't exactly friends with the baristas here, you never even talked, but ever since you had run a creeper out of the shop by being generally stinky and unpleasant to be around, they had started disposing of their expired muffins and cookies by wrapping them in wax papers or bags. Their boss hadn't caught on yet, but you were deeply grateful to them for every bite you salvaged from the trash.

Soon you would get your first paycheck, and then you could buy a decent meal. You'd been planning and dreaming of what it would be. Steak and potatoes? An omelet? Maybe just a regular old hamburger and Coke?

It might be the only paycheck you saw from Stark Industries though. You'd overheard Florence and Khalil talking, and she was determined to be rid of you. Khalil didn't really seem to agree, but he had kids at home, and probably couldn't afford to argue.

It didn't matter. Even if it was less than a week, you could put Stark Industries on your resume forever now. That would get you in the door. Janitorial training was a pretty good skill too. Every business needed cleaning staff, no exceptions.

Things were really looking up for you.

No one had even called you on all the weird stuff you'd put on your application.

You hadn't lied, exactly. Not exactly. Sure, you didn't live permanently at the address you'd provided, but you did sleep there sometimes. And you had gone to the school you named...before your parents completely succumbed to their paranoia and pulled you for homeschooling. The hadn't wanted public educators to fill your head with 'propaganda'.

And that was your phone number, though you'd have to buy some minutes when you got paid.

It was all at least semi-true.

Even the Theta was a symbol you had picked up off the internet, when researching what was wrong with you.

You tossed back another sugared creamer.

Having a routine again felt good. It had been over a year, but you slipped back into civilization pretty easily. You were so lucky. You always told yourself that.

Yeah, even if Florence gave you the boot, you still had options. This chapter in your life might soon be coming to an end.

Soon. You just had to wait, and work.

*****

Tony looked over the long, primly written list with amused disbelief.

“Is this...Is he serious?” He asked Thor. “I literally cannot tell when he is being serious, and when he is trolling me.”

“Welcome to the last thousand years of my life.” Thor said dryly, taking the list from Tony, and skimming over it. He held his hand out for a pen, and when Tony handed him one, he began crossing things off of the list.

“No...No...Absolutely not...Oh, he just put that one in there to annoy me...” Thor handed the list back. “But for the most part, yes. He is serious. Whatever else he may be-” He paused at Tony's muttering of 'war criminal' then forged on. “He is still the Crown Prince of Asgard, and the true King of Jotunheim. He is entitled to certain amenities. And then there is his...condition to think about.”

“Crown Prince of-no offense-a set of postage stamp sized fishing villages in Nova Scotia, and true King of a planet so far away that they can't even reach us to take him back. What exactly does he think he's entitled to on an enemy planet? He's here for punishment, right?”

“He's here for rehabilitation. And so that we can try to winkle out the information that we need. The goal is that he comes back to one of Asgard's 'postage stamp' villages eventually. But that man is still out there, and it's altogether too likely that he will make his way here. We're going to have to indulge my brother a bit, if we are to get information about it. Besides, he has proven himself a hero already, and suffered for it. He has earned a bit of leniency.”

“So you say, your majesty, but...” Tony scanned the revised list. “...I think I can provide most of this. But...servants? We don't really do that around here.”

“He will need assistance. And Loki has never been unduly cruel to servants who had done nothing to trouble him.”

“Okay, but what do you mean by 'trouble'? I mean, I have a few people in mind, but they all live here, and might not be instantly comfortable around him. Is he gonna whip someone over dropping a plate, or folding a cape wrong?”

“He is in no position to do so. And he never went so far back home, so I honestly doubt he would do so here. He knows full well the effect he has on the people of this world.”

“Anger and terror?”

“Pretty much.”

“Look. I'm not going to send him a servant. He'll get a maid, and nothing more. If he drives them off, he won't get a replacement. One chance. I'm not putting people at risk for his whims.”

“I couldn't ask for better than that. But time is of the essence my friend.”

“I better get some royal kickbacks for this.” Tony grumbled.

“I'll send you some Asgardian postage stamps.” Thor joked, leaving the lab.

Tony turned back to his desk, pulling up his holographic display. A short list of Greek letters that he'd been learning about popped back up.

“Okay, Theta.” He said. “Time to show me what you're worth.”

*****

The fight started out as an accusation of theft. Florence had caught you with an Iron Muffin-a specialty of the ground floor coffee shop-which you had filched from the dumpster that morning. You'd tried to claim that you'd bought it, but then she'd demanded to see your receipt, and it had just escalated from there.

You were two words away from just quitting then and there, mostly so that she couldn't fire you, when Tony Stark had reached out of the elevator behind you, yanked you into it, waved goodbye to Florence, and shut the doors. As the elevator began to rise, you wiped a few angry tears out of your eyes, embarrassed that he had seen that.

You seemed altogether too prone to show this man your worst sides.

“I'm sorry sir.” You said. “Florence and I don't really get along.”

“She needs to be challenged sometimes. However, I am perfectly able to sass her myself, and I can't have disruption in the janitorial team. Can you imagine the uproar if the floors didn't get waxed properly at night?

Anyway, I thought we might chat about some of the information on your application.”

You were screwed. Could you be arrested for lying on an application?

“Oh geez. I'm sorry about that, but-”

“Yeah, I know. You have to write down an address, but you don't really have one, do you? But you can't leave it blank, so you improvise. I looked you up though. Your family seems to have a history of...shall we call them 'rebellious acts'?”

You hung your head. Fuck. He knew about that too.

“I'm not like them.” You muttered. “I'm not that stupid.”

“Sure hope not. Anyway, wanna tell me what a Theta is? Like, in your words.”

“You won't believe me.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Nobody does.”

“I can fly. I've been finding things easier to believe since then.”

Well, that was fair. He was Iron Man. He'd been involved with aliens, and killer robots, and terrorists. Why would this be too weird?

“It's kinda like a Beta, but I have an Omega's sense of smell.”

“And Alpha's pheremones don't effect you. Right?”

“R-right...” How did he-?

“You presented me with a conundrum, and I couldn't leave it alone. I needed to find out what you meant, but it wasn't exactly easy. I had to get on tumblr to figure this out. I had to learn what a demi-omega was, to figure this out. I never thought I was out of touch, but damn if you young-uns haven't come up with some creative new lingo.”

“It's just that the world is more complex than a mark on a paper.” You said.

“Don't I know it!” He laughed. “But that's not too bad, is it? Not being overpowered by Alphas? Sounds nice.”

“It's not so bad, but most people think there's something wrong with me. It's not just the Alpha pheremones, I just don't feel-wait a minute, where are we going?”

The elevator had passed the labs, far above the highest floor you were supposed to be allowed to access.

“We're headed to the residential area. Me and Pep aren't the only ones who live up on the top floors. Top dozen or so are basically penthouses, though they aren't all consistently occupied these days.”

You remembered watching footage on the news of a fight at an airport. Avenger versus Avenger. It was terrible; both you and your old roommate had cried a little. It was an awful thing, watching your heroes come apart.

You were kind of glad you didn't have any superpowers or anything like that. You wouldn't want to be at the beck and call of any government, much less more than one. It was something you had actually agreed with your parents on.

“Why are we going up there? I'm not supposed to be here.”

“You're with me kid; you can be anywhere. And anyway, the best way to keep cats from fighting is to separate them. So, from now on, you are a maid.”

“A maid? I don't know how to be a maid, I just started being a janitor!” You protested, then told yourself to shut your trap and not argue with the boss for not firing you.

Tony shrugged. “What's different about being a maid? You still clean stuff, only it's a home instead of a museum. You might need to cook something every now and then. Can you cook?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“Not gonna lie; it's not a walk in the park. But it comes with a pay upgrade, and an apartment off the penthouse, so that's two of your problems solved.”

Suspicion began creeping in. This was all way to good to be true.

“Why me? You have to know that I'm not as qualified as the other janitors. What's the catch?”

“Well, the catch-” The elevator dinged. “Oh, look! We're here!”

The elevator doors opened. Standing right in front of them, in horned helmet and armor, stood Loki, the destroyer of New York.

#theta thursdays #betathetaandme #loki x reader #loki (marvel)#thor (marvel)#tony stark

7 notes · View notes

kindcstguardian · 5 years

Text

MISC.

Name. ( 류 현 ) Hyun Ryu Age. KOR. 24 years old / INT. 23 years old. Date of birth. April 1st. Zodiac. Aries. Blood type. B. Sexual orientation. Pansexual. Status. Single. Occupation. Actor, model.

→ Physical traits. Eye color. Red. Hair color. White. Height. 182cm Alt. FC. A character from Survive as the Hero’s wife.

VERSES.

Main verse / Common route. Tag. 「 V00 · 𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓷 ; Zen 」

MC and Zen have to yet met in person. However, he already seems fond of them given they didn’t instantly brush him off. Thus, he’s both interested in either developing a close friendship or, perhaps, something more yet he’s unsure about this second option because on ocassions, his contract specifies a no dating rule.

Pre-Mc after Rika’s death. Tag. 「 V01 · 𝓹𝓻𝓮-𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓷 ; Zen 」

Filled with grief much like everyone in the RFA, he barely logs in the chatroom. However, he tries to keep it slightly active with ocasional comments that, surprisingly, aren’t about his supposed narcissim and rather about offers from plays or videogames he plays which either earns a frown or a positive reaction.

Pre-Rika’s death. Tag. 「 V02 · 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓹𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓽 ; Zen 」

Still pretty much adapting to everything with a bad (but completely one-sided) relationship with Jumin, Zen is grateful for everyone’s welcoming selves and was soon to develop a close bond with everyone while also pressuming about his appearance without being too pushy.However, he is still not used to Seven’s methods of proving to be helpful through creating a virus with his YT channel.

Tba. Tag. 「 V03 ; Zen ／」

For RFA shipping, the events of his/their route take place after he develops a romantic relationship of sorts with any member which might complicate the plot further. * In this verse, if you are interested, tell me through IMs for plotting.

Route. Tag. 「 V04 · 𝓲�� 𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓮 ; Zen 」

Taking an instant interest on MC, Zen tends to display a more transparent version of himself with them alone while also keeping his narcissist facade on the chatroom. Jaehee, most likely his first fan and closest friend, frowns upon their interactions much to his dismay but he is happy whenever he interacts with MC.Regardless, when everything truly takes a negative turn is due Echogirl’s obsessive behavior towards him and fake accusation without clear evidence about him sexually harassing her. * How advanced is his route should be discussed in IMs.

Post-game. Tag. 「 V05 · 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽-𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 ; Zen 」

Tba.

Alternative ending / Bad ending. Tag. 「 V06 · 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓽 𝓮𝔂𝓮 ; Zen 」

Constantly drugged, he believes this delusion of his caused by Unknown is no other than his actual reality. He can no longer distinguish reality from the play—therefore, he’s always stuck in a loop of a prince trying to save the one he loves.

Swapped to M.E. / Heavily inspired by Myetie but not following the storyline. Tag. 「 V07 · 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓮 ; Zen 」

What would you say if a man, known for his talent but connections, offered you a job to save you from yourself? What if you found peace withing yourself by joining his side? What if—This is the story of how Hyun Ryu along Jumin, Seven and Yoosung joined Magenta—the ever lasting party. Paradise, whereas pain does not exist in such perfect place.His looks haven’t changed, only his eyes are mint much like the name of the organization. Hyun keeps both his ‘normal’ life as a highly recognized and requested actor but he is also in charge of recruitment for paradise.

Past. Tag. 「 V08 · 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓽 ; Zen」

Tba

Takes place in his route / Alternative situation Tag. 「 V09 · 𝓪𝓶𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓪 ; Zen 」

On a ride to forget on his motorbike about how chaotic his life had become, how his thoughts were all over the place making everything too hard for him to even realize, no matter how little the task. He failed to realize a drunk person crossing light in red, purely blind by his thoughts. His situation was resolved, however, as this person driving the car was caught and Yoosung found a witness to help the false acussations. However, Zen suffers from amnesia and his last memories consist on after Rika’s death. * He can be either hospitalized or discharged to live with someone. Just tell me through IMs.

Tba. Tag. 「 V? · Zen 」

Tba.

Relationships

Family. Zen is the youngest son in his family, and lived with his mother, father and older brother. However, his relationship was horrendous due his abusive mother constantly verbally harassing him about his looks—his brother was the only one he thought he could trust but in the long run, their relationship drastically changed as he figured out acting or gaining a certain fame would benefit the image of the family instead of him as an individual with his own merits.

Rika. Tba.

V. Tba.

Han Jumin. Tba.

Kang Jaehee. Tba.

Choi Saeyoung. Tba.

Kim Yoosung. Tba.

Ignis Crane. / starryburglar Tag. ✘ ˢᵗᵃʳʳʸᵇᵘʳᵍˡᵃʳ · ZenIg ♡（ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖˡᵃᶜᵉ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐˢ ᵃʳᵉ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ᵒᶠ, ᵗʰᵉ ᵖˡᵃᶜᵉ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵉˣⁱˢᵗ ） Much like everything regarding this situation, their meeting was through the app and soon enough, they were constantly talking with each other—phonecalls, messages. Even visiting his place. Zen felt attracted to her as soon as she sent a simple text to him and shortly, he slowly fell for her artistic side. Her shy side—her everything. And albeit he appears to be flirting with her, every word he says about loving her, he means it but he has to yet officially ask her. .

Name. Tba.

Tags.

「 Hyun ❛ Zen ❜ Ryu ／ 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 」

「 Zen ／ INQUIRY 」

「 Zen ／ MUSINGS 」

「 Zen ／ VISAGE 」

「 Zen ／ INTROSPECTION 」

「 Zen ／ HEADCANON 」

「 Zen ／ ROMANCE 」

「 Zen ／ MUSIC 」

「 Zen ／ CRACK 」

✘ · Name ♡（ Quote ）

2 notes · View notes

ingek73 · 3 years

Text

Of course Prince Andrew isn’t sweating over this lawsuit – he can’t

Marina Hyde

The Duke of York is the subject of a US civil suit brought by Virginia Giuffre, who alleges she was abused while a minor

Published: 16:40 Tuesday, 10 August 2021

“I could have worse tags than ‘Air Miles Andy’”, Prince Andrew once remarked, “although I don’t know what they are.” Yeah, well … SPOILERS. I’m not sure if the Duke of York would have better luck if he considered the question again today, in light of Various Events of the past few years. His infamous Newsnight interview revealed him to be a man of such baroque stupidity that in some ways its most sensational revelation was that Prince Edward must have been the clever one.

And so to events overnight in New York. For the first time, the Queen’s second son has been made the subject of a US lawsuit, a civil case brought by Virginia Giuffre, formerly Roberts, teenage victim of Andrew’s former close friend, the late underage sex trafficker Jeffrey Epstein. Giuffre alleges that the Queen’s second son sexually abused her when she was a minor on three occasions – in London, in New York, and in the US Virgin Islands. Quite a lot of air miles, there, though I fear we can rule out HRH cashing them in for a free flight to the US any time soon. The prince has not commented on the case but he has always denied the claims saying they’re false and without foundation.

He won’t be sweating even now, of course – as Andrew famously explained, he is biologically incapable of perspiration because he OD’d on adrenaline in the Falklands. And you know, no matter how many times I type that, I always need to take a moment to get my eyebrows down off the roof.

Anyway, this latest development may well represent Giuffre’s last available option for personal agency in pursuit of justice for her claims. Otherwise, she can only await the glacial creep of the various investigations into the now-dead Epstein and his associates, including the financier’s alleged procurer Ghislaine Maxwell, who is herself awaiting trial in the US.

Alas, accounts differ as to the level of the prince’s assistance with any of these various inquiries. Last January, the then-New York attorney general, Geoffrey Berman, declared HRH had offered “zero cooperation” up to that point. According to Berman, not a lot had changed six months later. “If Prince Andrew is, in fact, serious about cooperating with the ongoing federal investigation, our doors remain open,” he reiterated last summer, “and we await word of when we should expect him.” Reading that, you might have felt minded to pencil him in for the 12th of never, but the prince’s legal team countered that he had “on at least three occasions this year offered his assistance as a witness to the DOJ”. In the suit filed on Monday, the documents state: “Again Prince Andrew stonewalled - ignoring (the) plaintiff’s letter and emails without any reply or response, thereby making this action necessary now.”

Let’s move on, then, to a recap on the three locations referenced in Giuffre’s case. The Virgin Islands relates to Epstein’s private property in the territory, apparently known locally – though perhaps not altogether opaquely – as “Paedophile Island”. On the New York allegation, Prince Andrew has already asserted that he couldn’t have had “activity” with Giuffre at Epstein’s Manhattan address that night as he was staying with the then British consul general in New York, Sir Thomas Harris. Or as Harris put it: “It doesn’t sound like he stayed with me,” adding that he had “no recollection” of the claimed royal visit, and it had not appeared in the Court Circular as would be convention. The London allegation arguably comes with the most helpful aide memoire for the prince, what with the existence of a photo of Andrew with his hand resting on the bare hip of Giuffre in an upstairs room of Ghislaine Maxwell’s home. Maxwell herself is smirking in the background of the picture, allegedly taken after a visit by her, the prince, and Epstein to Tramp nightclub.

All sorts of claims have been made about this photograph and what it shows. Placing those allegations and denials to one side for a moment, let’s just focus on what we can see, and ask ourselves a basic question. Namely: what are three big-hitters in their 40s doing hanging round late at night with a 17-year-old runaway? Is this the behaviour of non-weirdos? Not really, let’s face it. Virginia Roberts wasn’t a whole lot older than Andrew’s eldest daughter at the time, which perhaps ought to have crystallised his thinking. Far better to take her to Pizza Express than to run the gauntlet of the aged slimeballs at Tramp.

Nor was it the behaviour of a non-weirdo to continue to hang out with a Tier 1 sex offender AFTER he had been to prison for procuring an underage girl for prostitution, as the Duke of York undeniably did in the case of Epstein. And let’s not forget it wasn’t just one girl, in some kind of he-said, she-said situation. As the Palm Beach police chief who ran the case summarised: “This was 50-something ‘shes’ and one ‘he’ – and the shes all basically told the same story.”

As for what’s next for Andy, I wouldn’t pin hopes on him being a blockbuster Tower of London exhibit for autumn. It was almost exactly two years ago that the fallout of his Epstein friendship hotted up for him again, and back then the prince headed straight to join the Queen’s summer retreat to Balmoral, where he was accompanied by his ex-wife Sarah Ferguson. Andrew was even prominently displayed in the prime seat next to his mother in the car on the way to the local church. He and Fergie then private-jetted off for a second time to Sotogrande – though oddly some random private plane Meghan and Harry had recently taken was deemed of far more febrile and condemnatory interest to most of Fleet Street at the time.

You certainly wouldn’t bet against the same pattern being followed this year. Prince Andrew and Fergie are already reported to be imminently expected at Balmoral, suggesting he is not exactly the Banned Old Duke of York. Perhaps we shall see him with mama again, pursing his lips with the grave satisfaction of one who knows that Balmoral’s humble kirk does not actually have an extradition treaty with hades.

In the immediate wake of the Newsnight interview, a YouGov poll found that a mere 6% of the UK public believed Prince Andrew to be telling the truth. It does seem particularly notable that he asserts he was “acting honourably” in flying all the way to New York in 2010, supposedly to end his friendship with Epstein. Strangely, he has yet to regard it as a matter of honour to fly to New York to clear his own name. If he fails to take up this new opportunity to do so in a court of law, he and his surrogates can hardly complain about being tried in the court of public opinion.

#prince andrew #duke of york #royals #brf #the guardian #prince andrew lawsuit #british royal family

5 notes · View notes

ghostiedoesherbest · 6 years

Text

Patches - IV

Trigger Warning: talk of abuse and abusive relationships

Of course, all good things must come to an end. Pidge had returned to the castle without her father and she was sad despite rescuing all of the other scientists that had been held captive. Mateo and Lotor had been sitting in the former’s room, enjoying each other’s company as they regalled one another with funny stories from their adventures, unaware of the offer that Zarkon had made to the Paladins in their absence. Lotor was busting his gut over the story Mateo was telling him about he and Lance finding a turtle while they were on vacation in Florida. Lance had always been afraid of turtles for some reason and that fear increased when the turtle had these loud squeaking noises. Lance immediately started screaming which only caused the poor terrified turtle to squeak even louder.

“What happened after that?” Lotor was barely able to wheeze out as he held his sides.

“I went back the next day with some strawberries and I saw that same turtle. I put one in front of it and it ducked into its shell. It took some patience but eventually it came out and started nibbling on it. I was going to leave it there with some strawberries but it started following me but it was so slow that it was pitiful. So, I got permission to take it home and keep it as a pet,” Mateo explained with a wistful smile. “I learned that he was male and named him Toby.”

“How long can these ‘turtles,’ live?” Lotor asked in concern, not knowing how long the human had been in space.

“Well it depends on the species. Small turtles can live for about eighty years and the big ones can live well over a hundred years - I mean deca-phoebs. So chances are, Toby might outlive me,” Mateo chuckled as he scratched his neck. “Lance’s older brother, Luis promised to take care of him since I couldn’t keep him in the barracks with me while I was in the Garrison.”

Lotor was about to delve into the story of how he almost adopted a flesh eating monster that used its cute appearance to lure its prey into a false sense of security when Mateo received a message from Shiro. Lotor watched as Mateo’s smile faded when his eyes scrolled over the holographic text that appeared before him. He turned to the prince with a grim frown, “We’re needed in the control room.”

Lotor quickly sobered and Mateo gave him the time to gather himself before they left his room. The brief walk was filled with tension and Mateo was trying not to show his worry for Lotor as not to worry him as well. There were even more grim faces upon entering the control room. Mateo ignored the glare that was leveled at him and the prince at his side from a certain Altean princess. “What’s going on?” he asked, taking in everyone’s resolute expression.

He crossed his arms when no one answered as he patiently waited for them to answer his question. It was Shiro who finally broke the silence before Mateo could grow impatient. “Pidge wasn’t able to rescue her father but...we know where he is and how to get to him.”

Mateo blinked in surprise, his brow furrowed in confusion as he and Lotor shared puzzled looks, “Then why all the long faces?”

Shiro sighed in exhaustion, “Zarkon has Commander Holt and he’s willing to trade him for Lot -.”

“No.”

“What?!” Pidge shrieked in outrage. “What do you mean no! That’s my dad!”

“And this is Zarkon we’re talking about!” Mateo snapped back. “Do any of you honestly think that he’d actually hold up to his end of the deal even if you did go through with it?”

“What do you mean ‘if?’ This is my dad we’re talking about!” Pidge snarled,

“You have all of my sympathy but we have to think about this objectively. Our goal is to take out Zarkon and someone has to take the throne after him. After the first attempt, I’m pretty sure he gets that and he also understands that Lotor would be able to take over after him. If he gets Lotor then this would have all been for nothing. Zarkon wins because for all we know Lotor is the only Galra willing to work with us outside of the Blades of Marmora.”

“Who -”

“Sh sh sh,” Mateo interrupted Lotor’s inquiry with a finger to his lips, “I’m on a roll here.” He returned his attention to an obstinate Pidge and continued, “We need to have a plan - multiple plans in fact because we can’t trust Zarkon.”

“But we can trust Lotor?” Allura scoffed.

“More than Zarkon that’s for sure,” he retorted.

“What if they’re working together?” Pidge demanded. “What if this is all some big plan to earn our trust and betray us later?”

“Then it’s even more important to keep Lotor out of Zarkon’s hands. I know you want to jump at the chance to have your father back but we need to think this through.”

Shiro put a hand on Pidge’s shoulder, “Mateo is right. We need to be prepared.”

“My father has held the universe in a death grip for millennia, but he sees it slipping from his grasp because of your efforts and because of mine,” Lotor said, hesitantly resting a hand on Mateo’s shoulder to feel grounded. This will be one of the most difficult things that he will ever have to do. “With our forces combined, we would provide the greatest threat Zarkon has ever faced. He knows we could topple his empire, so this is his attempt to tear us apart. But united, we could forge a new path, open doors to new worlds, and crush the tyrannical ways of an old regime.”

“It’s a regime you ran! We can’t listen to him. He just wants to save his own skin! He shouldn’t even be out of his jail cell!”

“If you return me to my father he would surely see to my demise. And with his most legitimate threat to the throne removed he would only grow stronger,” Lotor admitted.

“One less threat to Zarkon and one less threat to us,” Pidge coldly retorted.

Lotor turned his gaze onto Allura and took a step forward to stand in front of Mateo, “Your father, King Alfor, once stood side by side with Zarkon and protected the universe from harm. There was no foe the paladins of old couldn’t defeat. Sadly, that time of peace has been lost, but, together, we can find it once more. Princess, imagine a new generation that could lift the mantle of peace. The children of King Alfor and Emperor Zarkon, you and I, a royal alliance between Altean and Galra.”

Lance grew defensive when he interpreted that as Lotor making a pass at Allura, “How ‘bout we don’t imagine that!”

“Lies! Every word is a lie!” Pidge insisted unwaveringly.

“So suddenly Zarkon speaks the truth?” Mateo asked as he watched the very one sided exchange. “You’re still ignoring the fact that Zarkon is our biggest threat and he’s lining everything up so that either he or someone like him could be on the throne. Do you really think he’ll do as he says and return Commander Holt? You expect the corrupted leader of a ruthless empire that has murdered his friends, crushed civilizations under his heel, and ceaselessly chased us through the universe will honor his word?”

“You think he’ll double cross us,” it wasn’t a question on Shiro’s part.

“I don’t think, I know, Shiro!” Mateo implored.

Lotor nodded in agreement. “I believe he would do anything to rid himself of me and claim the Lions of Voltron.”

Allura’s expression was troubled as she thought over this information, “An alliance with the Galra heir could end the war.”

“What?!” Pidge demanded in outrage.

“It’s not ideal,” Allura said, trying to placate the volatile Green Paladin. “I don’t like trusting the Galra but it could be our best option.”

“No!”

“Pidge think of the lives we could save. Think of the countless worlds we could free,” the princess tried to reason.

“Think of my father!”

Mateo sighed in exasperation and approached the Green Paladin before bringing his fist down onto her head.

“Ow! What the heck Teo!”

Mateo regarded the younger girl with disappointment. “Pidge I don’t want to be that guy but shut your trap and listen. I’m gonna go slow so you can keep up. We’re at war, a war that will never end if we don’t screw this up. If we hand over Lotor everyone else is screwed because Zarkon’s place is secure and even if we did manage to take him down afterwards, the empire would have a power vacuum and we all know how that would turn out. We have the chance to end this war in our lifetime and giving Lotor to Zarkon might tip the scales in his favor in one way or another.”

“You wouldn’t understand, you never even met your dad!”

Lance and Mateo both took in sharp breaths for entirely different reasons. Lance, because he’d seen the murderous look in Mateo’s eyes for a split second and Mateo, to keep himself from throttling the petulant Paladin. He leaned down to glare into her hazel eyes.”I’ll let that go because you’re Lance’s friend,” he said in a deathly quiet tone. “But your voice and wants aren’t the only ones that matter. Hunk, you’ve been quiet. What do you think?”

Hunk flinched, surprised at being addressed. He began to twiddle with his fingers as he tended to do in tense situations, “I don’t know - I mean. If this dude here is on our like he says he is,” he turned to Lotor with uncertainty, “you are saying you’re on our side right? Then, couldn’t he lead the Galra toward peace from the inside like they’ve been saying?”

This was as much as Pidge could take as she rose her voice over Hunk’s, “We are turning him in and getting my dad back. We have Voltron to bring peace to the universe.”

Mateo scoffed, “Voltron is a weapon, not a miracle worker. How long would we have to fight if we turn Lotor in? Months? Years? All because you value your dad’s life over others? How many will die for this Pidge? How much blood are you willing to have on your hands for this?”

“That’s not fair!”

“Life’s not fair,” Mateo snapped at the Paladin’s weak response. “If we do this your way we lose more lives than necessary because of you and you better be ready to live with that because I’m not.”

“That’s enough, both of you,” Shiro scolded, getting between them. “We’re trading Lotor for Commander Holt and that’s final.”

“But Shiro -” Mateo tried to protest, not noticing the way Lotor tensed or how his fists were clenched.

“That’s final, Mateo.” Mateo grit his teeth and glared at everyone in frustration. Lance, Hunk, and Coran avoided his gaze, Allura and Shiro gave him looks of resignation, and Pidge met his gaze head on with one of disdain and anger for not being on her side.

“If you’re gonna send him to his death, then you might as well make him comfortable beforehand,” he grunted, knowing that he was outranked by the Black Paladin. However, he dared anyone to contradict him as he led Lotor away. Lotor followed in silence, unsure what to say about what he’d just witnessed. The tension in Mateo’s back set him on edge, until he stopped and let out a sigh that seemed to make him deflate. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what we’re about to put you through.”

Lotor chuckled in an attempt to reassure him, “I’m honestly surprised that you still defended me as much as you did. Although, I must admit that I didn’t expect the Paladins of Voltron to be so...”

“Impulsive?” Mateo offered him a bitter smile. “Yeah, it’s actually pretty amazing that we’ve survived this long. There’s only so much you can do when you put an insanely powerful super weapon in the hands of children. Someone’s gotta play devil’s advocate and often times that makes you the devil in some eyes.”

Lotor hummed in thought as he continued to follow Mateo, recognizing the hall that they were walking in. Mateo stopped at a door and Lotor was met with the sight of the brunette’s room. Nothing had changed since they had last been there, but Lotor noticed with intrigue that Mateo had a little compartment that went unnoticed before. He watched the human tap that compartment and open it to take out a small touch screen device wrapped up in a long blue wire. Lotor sat on the bed next to Mateo when he absently waved him over while unraveling the wires from the device.

“I don’t know what the Galra have for music, but this always puts me at ease,” Mateo said as he offered Lotor an earpiece.

The Galra prince hesitantly took the earpiece and placed it in his ear. He watched Mateo scroll into a playlist, not recognizing any of the songs written using one of earth’s many languages. Mateo selected a random song and it began to play. Lotor was intrigued by the sound of stringed instruments and high hats filtering through the earth device, and glanced out the corner of his eye to see Mateo leaning back on his arms with eyes closed. His chin was tilted back, baring his vulnerable neck to Lotor as he lost himself in the music. The prince mirrored his position and closed his own eyes, letting the melody and words envelope him and set him adrift.

He felt weightless as the music took him away from his problems and tried to ignore the dread that came from the anticipation of coming back down to them. His eyes fluttered open when the song ended. “What was that song about? The singer sounded like they were in deep despair.”

“That’s because the singer is narrating the life of someone in a really bad relationship. He’s hurting her and lying to her, breaking her heart and then promising to never do it again only to repeat the cycle. She makes an effort not to set him off, thinking its her fault but nothing she does ever works. The one thing she finds solace in is the rain. It’s cooling and comforting for someone coming from such a heated place and it gets her mind off of her situation if only for a few moments.”

“Why is she still with someone that hurts her?”

“Because she loves him, and love can make even the most perceptive people blind sometimes. She wants to leave this man behind and get better but her heart is trapping her with him. She believes that this man loves her as much as she loves him despite the abuse and that’s what keeps her there. In the end, she does end up leaving him to start a new chapter of her life. She’s decided to put herself first because she knows she deserves better. This was one of my mom’s favorite songs,” Mateo sighed, not even flinching at the twinge his heart gave at the mention of her. He’d long gotten used to the ache.

“Why would your mother love such a sad song?” Lotor asked in confusion, the phrasing not lost on him. Sure, he could appreciate the song but in his experience, most people favored more upbeat and joyous music than what he’d just heard.

Mateo chuckled, “You know I asked her the same question and you know what she told me?” Lotor gave him a puzzled look, queueing him to continue. “She told me that this song is a testament to strength. This woman wasn’t some great warrior with a legendary weapon. She was a tired woman who wanted more than to be beaten down by life, but she had the strength to be her own savior. No one came to her rescue because no one was going to come. She had to do the saving on her own and that takes a strength that I don’t know if I’ll ever have if put in her situation.”

Lotor stared off in thought, reminded of certain aspects of his own life, “I suppose I can see where she was coming from.” He returned to his previous position, listening to the next song that had already begun to play while they’d been talking.”

Mateo watched him out of the corner of his eye and made up his mind. He reached into the still open compartment that held his phone. It didn’t take a genius to know what Zarkon would do to Lotor once they hand him over, so he took out the only possession he had that would at least allow the prince to put up a fight. Wordlessly, he slipped it into Lotor’s hand and the prince curled his fingers around it like it was a lifeline. Neither of them said a word as Lotor placed the knife in his boot and they tried not to think about his looming fate. This was the most Mateo would be able to do for Lotor and he hated it. They were supposed to be the good guys, so why were they doing something that felt so damn wrong?

Tag List: @starfaring-princelotor @motheroflittlelions@fandomsoffeelings@done-with-your-shit-shirogane @kirahhhh@legendofcarl @lotor-for-emperor@marvelheaux @yanderemommabean@lotorrential @planet-jumping-warrior

#lotor #prince lotor #prince lotor imagine #voltron #voltron fanfic #Voltron Imagine #emperor lotor #welcome to the lotor deserves better coalition #i hope you can't tell #that pidge got on my nerves this specific episode #have some goddamn empathy girl #the universe doesn't revolve around your problems #smartest #and most insensitive paladin

12 notes · View notes