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outofsstyles · 3 years

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a/n: This is by far THE MOST requested fic I’ve ever had and (a year later) it’s finally here!! First of all, sorry that it took me so long but when I first wrote Wildest Dreams I never intended on it having a follow up, but the amount of love I got from it was so overwhelming that I decided to put this together for you all :) I’m not gonna lie, I’m a bit nervous about it, considering the amount of requests I’ve had the past year, I know there’s gonna be a lot of expectations and I wanted to do something a bit different so it’s not too predictable lol. So yeah, as always, feedback is very much welcomed!! If you enjoy please reblog it to support my writing, it would mean the world to me <3

word count: 13.7k

warnings: none!

concept: It’s Evan’s birthday and he decides to do something a bit different.

Wildest Dreams: read part 1 here :)

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

In the last two steps, you have to use your leg to support the box as it starts to slowly slip down your fingers. This serves as a reminder to start exercising again now that the midterm is over — meaning that you should finally give in to Nia’s pleas to join her in the free week of Pilates classes she got when signing in at the gym, “Exercising is one of the best ways to relieve stress!” She would argue, to which you’d simply reply with something along the lines of: “So does binging another trashy reality tv show!”

Thankfully, no one seems to notice your struggle, sparing you the embarrassment of listening to their teases due to your difficulty in carrying one of the smallest boxes of the bunch. Nate barely glances at you once you finally reach the car to hand him the box, only shooting the longest smile you’ve ever seen coming from him—which somehow still manages to be probably the quickest when compared to any other regular person. His girlfriend, who stands with hands on her hips, entirely held his attention. Nia’s purple strands of hair poke out of her half-bun in every direction and her bottom lip has found its permanent spot between her teeth as her eyes fixate on the vehicle in front of her, barely blinking.

“Everything alright, Ni?” You prompt, trying to even your breathing. “Forgot something? There’s still time to check.”

“It’s not that.” She mumbles, shaking her head to break out of her thoughts. “My keyboard doesn’t fit.” Nia nods at the instrument lying on top of the car’s ceiling.

“Oh,” You say, frowning your lips as you take in her stressed figure. Clearing your throat, you attempt to blurt out a joke, “Maybe it’s a sign you shouldn’t move it and stay right here in our little flat with creaky doors.”

She breathes out a sharp laugh, finally looking at you as she drops her arms. “Don’t start.” She warns, “You promised; no crying today.”

“Don’t worry, I’m good at holding back the tears.” You give her a soft smile, pulling her smaller frame into a hug. The sudden reality of your best friend and roommate leaving you hitting you at once. “Gonna miss you, Ni.”

You feel her sigh into your shoulder, arms circling around your middle. “I’ll be ten minutes away.”

“Not the same.”

“I know.”

The two of you sway in silence for a moment, and you watch from over her shoulder as Nate attempts to awkwardly pick up the keyboard, almost dropping it on the sidewalk in the process. He grunts, the instrument tilting in his arms, and you giggle as you hear Nia sigh once more. Tightening your arms around her, you release each other as she turns to check on her boyfriend who holds the instrument as you would a newborn — except this one is half his size and hard as a wood plank.

He glances between the both of you, helpless. “Uh, where does this go?”

“You can put it with the other big boxes upstairs, babe. We’ll take them Sunday.” Nia says, moving to close the trunk. She looks back at him, calling back in a sing-like voice before he disappears inside, “Thank you!”

You lean back against the car, a playful pout plumping your bottom lip. “Am I only seeing you again on Sunday, then?”

“Nope, I’ll pick you up for Evan’s birthday — did you forget about it already?”

You have. “Of course not. It’s on — tomorrow.”

“Is it tomorrow?” Nia gasps, eyes widening. “Holy shit, tomorrow’s Friday.”

You nod slowly, just as shocked as she is about how quickly the past couple of weeks have flown by. Between piles of book reports and stress-tear-stained essays during midterms week, you also had to find some time to help Nia with packing boxes while searching for a new roommate for yourself. If you managed a five-hour sleep on these past days, that would have been a well-rested night. So you can’t really blame yourself for forgetting about Evan’s birthday when Nia herself had it slipping through her mind.

“This is an emergency,” Nia says, eyes focusing on a point beyond you and, you feel like, if you listen close enough, you can hear the engines inside her head working. “I’ll have come here earlier so you can help me with my outfit.”

You chuckle. “What even is the theme this year?”

“He didn’t tell me,” Nia says in a huff. “But, on the bright side, I don’t think this year he’ll do anything too crazy — he was too busy these last couple months with that short film I told you about, remember?”

“Evan doing something low key? That’s a first.” You raise your eyebrows, skeptical.

“I mean, I don’t know. I’m just guessing.” Nia shrugs, picking at her nails. “I’m only saying because he mentioned once he was only inviting, like, twenty people.”

Now, this is a surprise. “I’m glad I made the cut, then.”

It’s not a secret to anyone who’s ever had any kind of interaction with Evan that he’s fond of the dramatics of life — his bright-colored outfits with mismatching patterns being the first example that comes to mind — and that reflects as well in his events. Especially when it comes to his birthday.

To be fair, you’ve only actually been to two birthday parties of his so far — considering the invitation usually finds you because he’s close to Nia and sees you as some sort of extension of her. Nevertheless, they were both impactful enough that left a clear impression of how much he enjoys celebrating himself. Last year in particular you remember quite well. It was what he called “Evaney” themed; being a mix of himself and his favorite artist: Britney Spears. And, while you and Nia showed up as one of at least fifteen different variations of the Baby One More Time schoolgirl outfit, Evan pulled a perfect match of the Oops! I Did It Again red bodysuit that he got one of his fashion student friends to tailor for him, as well as freshly dyed beach blonde hair to suit it. He even went as far as photoshopping pictures of himself on Britney’s body and had them printed on posters hung on every single room of the house. There were even custom-made cups and napkins with them — two of them that Nia stole at the end of the party still sit somewhere in your kitchen to this day.

Another particular thing you remember quite clearly was that there were enough people crowded in his living room to fill up your entire apartment, as you recall. And that’s about how a typical event at his home is like — even on his friendsmas dinner there were much more than just twenty people eating turkey out of disposable hot pink plates. So, Nia’s information leaves you wondering what he could have in mind for tomorrow with such a limited list of people.

Before you can voice your wonders to her, though, Nate pushes through the entrance door again. You can tell he, much like you minutes ago, is trying to cover his heavy breathing. “I left it on top of those big boxes with a bunch of books in ‘em.”

“Brilliant! Thank you, baby.” Nia grins, wrapping an arm around his middle. “By the way, we just remembered Evan’s birthday’s tomorrow.”

“Is it tomorrow already?” Nate asks, and you hold back a giggle at the way his face scrunches in discontent. He hates going to Evan’s to a point that’s nearly comical. “Fuck’s sake.”

“And I think I’ll come here early so we can get ready together.” Nia nods towards you.

Nate grunts. “Do I have to go this time?”

“Of course, darling.” She rises to her tiptoes to pinch his cheek, to which he brushes it off.

Nate looks at you, and you only send him a tight smile in solidarity. The two of you share similar experiences with Evan, considering the only reason either of you even gets invited is that because you’re close to Nia, and she’s close to Evan. Although you like Evan, even if you’re not that close with him, you can still put on your social mask for a couple of hours and have fun at his parties. Nate, on the other hand, is likely the least sociable person you’ve ever met, and it’s obvious how uncomfortable he gets every time.

Nia seems to sense how tense he gets as well, because she steps in front of her boyfriend, finding his eyes with her doe-like ones. “I mean, if you don’t want to, then you don’t have to.”

He sighs, “Of course I’ll go with you.” He looks up at you. “Maybe this time we can actually count how many faces of his we can see from the couch.”

This time you don’t hold back a giggle. “I have a feeling we’ll have an easier time this year.”

“Hope so.” Nate taps on Nia’s back. "Let's go, then? Is everything you need in the trunk?”

“Yup.” She answers, circling the car and opening the door to the passenger’s side. Before entering, she gives you one last look. “Do you want me to bring anything for you tomorrow?”

“I’m good.”

“‘kay!” She enters, closing the door behind her in a click and leaning over Nate to wave at you from his window. “See you tomorrow! Don’t cry too hard tonight!”

“I won’t!” You wave back.

Watching as the car pulls back, before driving away and disappearing around the corner, there’s a light breeze that raises goosebumps on the exposed skin of your arms. You cross them under your chest, leaning back into the wall of your building, not quite ready to go back to your empty home yet. The seconds blend into minutes and you stand there The promise you made to Nia not even a minute ago already pooling in your eye, knowing you wouldn’t be able to keep it anyway, you let it tickle its way down your cheek.

A rougher gust of wind hits you and, this time, you turn to go inside.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The days are still not long enough so that the sun can shine proudly at seven in the afternoon, but as spring just about rounds the corner there’s still a golden glow as the rays provide one last warmth before disappearing on the horizon. And that’s how the sky greets you once you step out of your building to make your way towards Evan’s house for his birthday.

As planned, Nia arrived at yours with plenty of time so the two of you could help each other get ready, a bag filled with clothes she’s just taken to Nate’s yesterday under her arm for you to help her choose. “I’m thinking something monochromatic tonight.” She said as she walked in, making you jump in your spot on the couch as you didn’t hear her using the spare key. “I’m just not sure what color.”

She ended up choosing red. There was an old box of red hair dye you found lost inside the bathroom cabinet after Nia left — along with two different brands of shaving cream, although those belonging to Nate — and, after presenting it to her, she decided to go all for it, taking it as a sign. Nate showed up just about an hour after his girlfriend, still in his work attire and barely batting an eye at Nia’s new hair color as she blew dried it. The only comment leaving his mouth being, “You look like a tomato,” before kissing her forehead and excusing himself for a nap while the two of you finished getting ready.

What neither of you realized was that Nia’s last-minute decision took more time than you predicted, giving you barely enough time to get dressed. To her, that wasn’t exactly an inconvenience considering she had an outfit ready to match any color she wanted — in this case, was a red-dyed denim two-piece. and a matching jacket that ended up discarded after she noticed it covered her newest shoulder tattoo (though you tried to argue she could just have Nate carry it so she could wear it considering she eventually would get cold at some point). To you, however, was more of a stressful task, seeing you hadn’t taken in mind to think of an outfit beforehand. So you ended up just going with the safest option that didn’t give you a lot of room to overthink, choosing to finish your makeup on the way so Evan wouldn’t have any of your heads on a plate for being late.

You’ve found that applying mascara on a moving vehicle is not the easiest task, as Nia holds your elbow to help you keep steady while talking nonstop with the driver about a topic you stopped paying any mind to about ten minutes ago.

“I’m loving our black and red moment, by the way.” She turns to you, loosening her hold as you finish the last coat. “You look like one of those hot businesswomen with your teenage daughter who likes to dress like an animated character.”

You laugh at her comparison, only now noticing the discrepancy between both your outfits. Without even realizing it, you also ended up going for the monochromatic look. Except unlike Nia’s, yours completely lacks any color. “That’s actually the best comparison you could make.”

“I know — You can take a left right here — Here, I have lip gloss.” Nia fetches a small tube from her jacket (that she ended up taking, after all), presenting it to you.

“Do you not have lipstick?”

“Are you not planning on smudging it later?” Nia wiggles her eyebrows, teasing. The hint behind her words makes you roll your eyes, snatching the lip gloss from her hand without bothering to give her an answer. There was about a month or so, just before winter rolled around, that Nia felt as if she had a mission to get you with someone. You suspect, knowing too well how her mind works, that she must’ve felt some sort of guilt for what happened during her film project last year. It was clear that her attempts came from a place of good heart, but this doesn’t mean that it made them any less annoying. However, after her plans to move in with Nate became more concrete, her cupid persona seemed to have disappeared, or so you’d thought. But now that there’s nothing else filling her mind anymore, it looks like she’s back at it, and you can’t help but snort. “What? I’m just saying-”

“You say a lot of things, most of them are incorrect.” You say, “I’m not smudging anything tonight. Not on a party with twenty people, for fuck’s sake.”

“Don’t say that before — right there! The big house on the corner!” Nia leans over the console, signaling to the driver where to park. It’s so sudden that you notice how he jumps just slightly from his seat, chuckling to yourself at how Nate snaps his eyes at her.

The front of Evan’s Victorian home is unusually quiet once you step out onto the sidewalk. So much so that, if it weren’t for the lined cars parked along the street and filling his driveway, you would’ve thought you’d typed in the wrong address.

The discrepancy is clear to you when compared to other gatherings Evan hosts in his house, but especially for his birthday. Last year, you could hear Toxic blasting from his place from the moment you turned on his street, and a small crowd gathered on his front yard — most of which you recall being comprised of people plastered out of their minds, particularly one semi-naked man who was using one lamppost as a strip pole while swinging a stuffed snake

That’s more or less the standard one could expect when invited to a party at Evan’s. So, to find the street as silent as any regular day is, to an understanding, odd.

“Are you sure it’s the right date?” You ask as the metal creak of the front gate mends with gushes of wind whistling through the air.

“Yup,” Nia says simply, walking in front of you. “You can hear the music inside, shush.”

You come quiet, listening in, and, surely, you can hear the faint keys of a piano coming from the other side of the stone walls, but it only brings up more questions to your head than answers. Evan seems like the last person on Earth who would listen to classical music. Deciding not to voice your question this time, you follow short behind Nia, kicking some loose stones on the gravel path leading to the front door.

There’s no need for more than a single knock for it to open almost immediately, revealing a lace-clad Evan downing the last bits of his wine. Without the barrier you can hear the music more clearly, the keys of the piano meshing in a peculiar way, not like anything you’ve ever heard in a classical song— at least not ten years ago when you tried to learn piano for a year before giving up.

“Look at my favorite people!” Evan says with his purple-stained lips, pulling Nia for a hug with the arm that’s not holding the door open while pointing at a spot behind her. “Did you greet Jonathan when you passed him? It’s his birthday as well.”

He points to a spot where a gnome statue sits in the dry grass, face painted in clown makeup. Nate’s voice comes from behind you, “Christ.”

“Nate!” Evan chirps, going straight for the man standing with a sharp smile and throwing his arms around him. “You know you’re my favorite grumpy, right?”

Nate only taps on the shorter man’s back, quickly moving to Nia’s side as soon as he’s free from the embrace. With that, Evan turns to you, hands finding your elbows as he takes you in, “And what have you been up to, bug? It's been ages.”

“You know… Books and… Stuff.” You chuckle, brushing it off. “Happy birthday, E.”

“Thank you!” He claps his hands together. “Now, c’mon, let’s get all of you started.”

Following him inside, you’re met with a glittery box standing right next to the entrance; rolls of tape seal it shut, and a hand-sized hole has been cut on top of the lid. You try to peek at what could be inside, but strings of colorful crepe paper are stuck to the hole, making it harder to know its contents.

Evan picks up the box, holding it to his side. “So, I need each of you to grab a piece of paper inside the box. There will be a number in it but for now just hold on, drink, and chat while waiting for further instructions.” His voice lowers at the end to give his words more of a mystery behind them.

Nate tenses in front of you and you have to keep yourself from chuckling at his desperate gaze moving from the box to his girlfriend as he moves uncomfortably on his feet. Nia, however, only gives him a pat on his back, barely looking at her boyfriend as she does a little dance in excitement. “Oh, this feels fun.” She says, quickly reaching her hand inside the box and retrieving a piece of paper. “Mysterious, but fun. What do you have in mind, sir?”

“Nothing too crazy this year, darling, you can relax — We’re all too tired.” He moves the box towards Nate, who reluctantly reaches inside. “Just something to mesh people together that won’t give me too much of a headache to clean tomorrow.”

“Smart.” You say, peeking at the box as it’s presented to you before reaching for a paper inside, quickly reading the number eight written on it before folding the piece between your fingers.

“Nice! As always, drinks in the kitchen. We’re starting in ten minutes!” Evan claps, hushing the three of you further inside.

Surprisingly, this time around there are no posters of his face in sight as you follow Nia and Nate to the kitchen. There’s a mild mash of voices coming from the living room — where the sound of the piano is the loudest, and you wonder if he got an actual piano or if it’s just a Bluetooth speaker —, but it’s not nearly as loud as you’re used to from past times. The lighting has been lowered to a buttery yellow; you realize once you enter the kitchen that feels too bright to your eyes in contrast to the hallway.

“Is there any alcohol?” You wonder out loud, and Nia glances at you with her eyebrows shot towards her hairline. “What? I’m just asking ‘cause everyone is unusually quiet.”

“There’s wine and — what are these guys right here?” She picks up one out of four plastic jars sitting on the kitchen island, reading the label stuck to it out loud, “Strawberry Mary — ooh, this looks fun.”

You reach for the other three to check their contents, but all have names similar to the one Nia now fills her cup with — fruity, yet mysterious: Lana Banana, Jenny Berry Mix, and Pineapple Suzan. “Did he come up with these?” You chuckle, reaching for the berry mix.

“It was probably Adam,” Nia says, and you frown. “That bartender guy? The one with the pet snakes.”

“Oh, yeah. I know him.”

The room comes quiet as you serve yourself, and only after you glance up you realize a tension lingering in the air. Nate stands awkwardly in a corner, eyes fixed on Nia as he moves his head around subtly. Glancing between the two of them, you notice how their expressions change as they keep their eyes locked, not a single word being uttered out loud. To you, it almost feels as if they are reading each other’s minds, and the heat of their silent argument becoming clear once Nate huffs, shaking his head.

Nia clears her throat, seemingly uncomfortable, shooting you a knowing look. It’s only when she gives you a toothless smile that you realize the silent question behind it. “Uhm, I’m going to check if there are any sweets outside.”

Beelining towards the doorway, you quickly make your way out of the room. The hallway is empty and, from where you stand awkwardly in the middle of it, you can tell Evan’s left his spot by the front door, meaning he’s likely gone to the living room where the rest of the guests are. You can hear them chatting, although like you previously pointed, the voices are much more controlled than what you’re used to, and that makes you oddly flustered by the thought of walking in alone.

Considering the limited amount of invitations this year, the chances of you knowing anyone are slim and, to add to your sudden nervousness, most of the people from Evan’s closest circle of friends are — like himself — inexplicably intimidating. This is mostly because it feels like this unspoken competition that everyone has settled with each other, to subtly brag about your success whilst simultaneously pretending to be impressed about the other’s accomplishments. And for you specifically, considering you’re not part of this artist clique that they lock themselves into, it feels particularly tiresome to be part of those interactions.

So, you opt to wait for Nia, pretending to admire one peculiar painting hanging on a wall opposite to where the doorway leading to the living room stands. Every so often, you catch yourself glancing over your shoulder one way or the other, either towards the kitchen to check if your friends are joining you, or to the doorway where the rest of the guests are in. At one point, the voices get louder, joining in a laugh before tangling together in a mess of noise you can’t make sense of. It’s after a minute that you hear footsteps coming from the living room, making you freeze on your spot, carefully turning your back to whoever’s about to catch you avoiding the party, and focusing on the piece you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes.

The painting you first thought was just random strokes of earth tones abstractly put together you now realize it’s a man and it doesn’t take you more than a second or two to recognize Evan’s side profile in a peach shade. Your hand claps on top of your mouth as you fight the urge to laugh. The sound comes out muffled, but it stops as you hear the footsteps falter as they turn into the hallway. Keeping you back to them, you listen as the wooden floor creaks as whoever was approaching makes their way back. You peek to catch sight of who it might be, but all you make out is the shadow of mustard corduroys turning the corner.

As if on cue, Nia and Nate finally appear from the kitchen, thankfully neither appearing to be sour after the talk in the kitchen.

“Finally.” You say, still feeling giggly from your finding. “Nate, you have to check this-”

“Okay! Let’s start, then. Do we have everyone in the living room?” Evan’s voice interrupts you as he calls out. Nia guides you along with her to the living room. And, as soon as the three of you enter, Evan nods at you, before continuing, “Now that all the bunnies are trapped, we shall begin!” He laughs, clapping his hands together before motioning vaguely to everyone. “Before I explain what I have planned, I want to pair you all. So, I’ll call out the numbers that each of you picked when you arrived, so everyone can find their pair.”

You frown, confuse yet curious about what Evan’s up to as he calls out the numbers. Now that you stop to glance around the room, you note how there are more people than you’d expected. It’s still not nearly as many as previous parties of his, but it still feels like the room is nicely filled, maybe just a dozen people above twenty. And amongst them, there’s quite a few you recognize as they pair up together — like Georgia, the first one to be called, whom you spent a good half of the New Year’s party with, or Taylor, who gets paired with Nia (you remember him particularly from a film festival that Nia had been part of — he produced and directed a short film comparing the second wave of feminism to the wildlife in the Amazon Rainforest, and Nia couldn’t stop complaining about how bad it was for the entire week after).

It’s when Evan jokes with someone on the other side of the room, however, that you see him.

He’s tucked in a corner, right next to the bookshelves, arms crossed under his chest in a way that makes his tattoos pop out of his biceps, something you notice even standing on the opposite end of the room. His smile is subtle as he watches the scene in front of him, but it’s still enough for a dimple to poke at one side of his face -- it’s barely there, but you’ve seen it up close enough times that you notice those details. His hand holds a drink, but you pay no mind to it because what calls your attention is the mustard corduroy hugging his hips, the same one you watched run from you not only five minutes ago.

He laughs, and you avert your eyes, mouth still hung open. You wonder if anyone will notice if you leave.

But, as though he could read your mind, Evan calls the number written on that sits crumbled inside the pocket of your jacket. “Where are my number eights?”

You step forward and, like a magnet, your eyes glue on Harry as he raises his hand.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you have to fight against an urge to shut your eyes tightly as the regret of having left your room at all tonight becomes almost overwhelming. All you expected for the night was to forget about book reports and endless essays piled up on your computer, to relax, maybe drink a bit more than you should while watching Evan’s friends dancing with a taxidermy beaver or something of sorts (that was on his friendsmas party two years ago). Instead, here you are on what feels like the first day of class dynamic your teacher has imposed to make everyone interact with each other. And, suddenly, the long pages of (insert boring book) don’t seem that bad right now.

And to make matters worse (because the universe just likes to add a little more spice to your tragedies) of all people standing in this living room you just had to be paired with the one with whom you had a fling-like relationship six months ago.

It’s awkward before he even approaches you, the tension making you fidget in your spot anxiously, barely being able to shoot a tight smile his way.

The last time you saw Harry was through the rearview mirror of a car, standing on the sidewalk like an abandoned puppy with his tail between his legs. Though you admit you let your dramatics take away when you turned away from him to leave, the feeling behind it was genuine. You were upset. He had led you on, after all, made you think he wanted to have something more just to ignore you for months and, later, appear with a redhead under his arms and call her his girlfriend. So, yes, it wasn’t the best note to leave on.

But despite how you left the last encounter, the spark of nervousness that shoots through your stomachs right now doesn’t come exactly because of his presence, but more so for the awkward nature of this encounter. At the time it happened, you avoided any activity that had the slight possibility of seeing him again like the plague. You were hurt, and you were mad — though the second part was more directed at yourself than at him. But that was six months ago. After all, as much as you felt enchanted by him and as much as those two weeks you spent together were nice, that’s all that it was: two weeks. Yes, you were sad and, yes, maybe you shed a tear or two while watching Love, Rosie with Nia afterward, but that passed as quickly as it came.

That is, until now.

“Your hair is shorter” This Is all you blurt out when he stands in front of you again.

“It is, yeah.” Harry runs his hand through his hair. The strands that last time you saw him, curled around his jawline, now peek just under his earlobe. “Did it myself, actually.”

“Really?” You take a big gulp from your drink, gaze going anywhere but meeting his own. “Found yourself another talent.”

“Another?” You can hear the smirk in his voice.

“I mean, besides acting.” You grin, holding the cup to your lips and sparing him a glance. “Suppose after your debut you’ve gotten yourself busy with casting calls”

“Of course” Harry laughs. Now that you’re closer you have a better look at his dimples as they pop out, as well as the constellation of freckles hugging his nose, and the mole right under his lips. You avert your eyes again. “I’m set to be the next Bond, in fact”

“Oh, wow.” You raise your brows, grinning at the brim of your cup. “I can see it.”

He turns to you, “Can you?” You peek at him. "Why is that?”

This is exactly what you were afraid of all those months ago after last seeing him. The entire reason you ran from any possibility of seeing him again afterward. You can still remember clearly how much of a flirt he is, even when he doesn’t mean to be. It’s not a secret that Harry’s a charming man. His words are like honey, and when he uses them just right, you know is enough to have you melting. And it doesn’t help how well you seem to click together. Even now, you still feel it by your impulse to flirt back, to look him in the eye, and get just close enough to feel the scent of his cologne. Do all that just to turn away in the last second. Tease him the same way he did you. But you don’t do any of that, of course, because you’re as petty as you are bitter. So, instead, you click your tongue. “Don’t get too comfortable, Harry, bet your girlfriend wouldn’t be happy about that.”

He chuckles. “What girlfriend?”

This time you turn fully at him, brows shooting up not in defiance, but surprise. “Yikes.” You say before you’re able to hold back.

“Yikes.” Harry still holds a smile when he repeats it, head falling as he lets out a — nervous? — laugh.

A question pops into your head. One that lingered in your mind for a good while now, but comes back a bit louder now that you have the information that his relationship was short-lasted after all. It’s a short one, but one that requires a long answer, you suppose. What happened? You think. But you don’t dare to voice it, you don’t want to have this conversation with him. Whatever the explanation is, it’s not going to change anything. So you just avert your gaze back to Evan, who now calls for everyone’s attention again.

“I know you’re all dying to know what this is all about. So, I’m going to explain it all.” And with that introduction, Evan dives into a monologue you only pay half mind to. It’s hard for you to focus on the words rapidly leaving his mouth as you can feel Harry glancing at you every so often from the corner of your eye. You listen in to Evan describing himself as a feisty kid and mention his love for drama, and then you feel the ghost of Harry’s arm bumping against yours as he sways on his feet. You try to pay attention to the story being told of the events leading up to this birthday party, and then you have to hold yourself back from meeting Harry’s eyes once you feel them at the side of your face once again. He makes a comment under his breath that you don’t quite catch, and you’re about to question him before Evan’s voice comes in an even higher pitch. “I wanted tonight to be exactly that: chaotic. I didn’t want anything to quite make sense, and I didn’t want to think much, if I’m honest, last year of film school is taking a big chunk of my functioning neurons and m’dad’s whiskey collection is taking the rest of them.”

There’s a collective laugh that takes place and, once again, Harry’s eyes peeking at you. “Everyone can relax, it’s not one of those murder mystery parties, as I’ve heard some people guess — for fuck’s sake as if I have the time and patience to plan something like that.” He says with a sip directly from a wine bottle you just now realize he’s been holding. “It’s a scavenger hunt, you have a partner and an envelope with clues. Each pair will find something related to moi and after it’s all done, we’ll eat burgers and talk about me for the rest of the night.”

“Sounds easy enough.” Harry mumbles.

Evan claps his free hand on his wrist, hushing everyone. “So off you go, c’mon! I’ll be hungry in an hour.”

“This is gonna be…” You start. “Interesting.”

“Interesting is a great word to describe it.”

“Well, let’s try to do this as quickly as possible, then.”

The side of his lips quirks up. “On a rush?”

“This is not exactly a comfortable position to be. I think you get it.” You say, fidgeting on your feet. You wait for a second for him to say something so you can start the activity, but he doesn’t and you realize there’s a piece missing. “Do you have an envelope?”

Harry nods, reaching for his pocket where the envelope sits folded in half. He swiftly opens it, taking out a card.

“Well?” You prompt, “Read us the first clue, Bond.”

There’s a smile that Harry fights against at the nickname and you’re not sure due to the dim light, but you think there’s a hint of a rosy tone on the apple of his cheeks. “An activity that grows lives and ruins manicures.” He reads out loud, pausing for a moment before laughing to himself. “I know this one.”

“Grows lives?” You frown. “As in, a pregnancy?”

Harry shakes his head, leading the way towards the corridor. “As in, gardening.”

“That’s a very weird way to put it.” You say, following him. “Does he garden?”

He walks into the kitchen, greeting two people you don’t recognize who are searching for something — their clue, you assume — inside the cabinets. “No, but his sister does. There’s a greenhouse in the back.”

You simply hum in response, muttering a quick thank you as he opens the door for you that leads to the back garden. The greenhouse is not unfamiliar to you from the outside, there have been a good amount of summer gatherings in his back garden for you to know of its existence. But you’ve thought nothing more about it. If you’re honest, you never really paid much attention to it. If anything, you assumed he used it as storage at most, never taking Evan as someone who enjoyed gardening. Though now you know you were right, you've also learned that his sister lives with him and you wonder why he’s never mentioned it before.

The curiosity inside of you wants to question Harry about it, to ask him what else he knows you don’t. When you think about it, there’s a lot you want to ask him about. Not just regarding Evan, but also regarding him. You wonder what he’s been up in the past six months if he ended up adopting the kitten he’d told you about back when you were still filming or if he read any of the book recommendations you wrote on his notes app one particular night the two of you chatted for longer than the moon could hold itself up in the sky. The part of you that begs for you to say something on the short walk is so strong you have to physically bite your tongue to be able to hold back.

You don’t have to hold for long, however, as Harry takes it upon himself to say, “So,” He starts, clearing his throat, “How- uh- how are you doing?”

Somehow, his words click something inside of your mind. They remind you of why you shouldn’t let that curious part of you win. The sole purpose of it not falling for his charm. You shake your head, “We’re not doing this.”

“Doing what?” He frowns, his steps faltering for a second.

“Small talk.” You answer, focused on your goal. “We’ll just solve this thing as quickly as possible so I can go back home and finish my Euphoria marathon.”

“Right.” Harry nods once, and you can’t help but notice the way his lips quirk down, the frown not leaving his face. You can’t lie and say it doesn’t make your stomach drop the slightest bit to see you’ve upset him, but you have to remind yourself how much he’s upset you, too.

It’s protecting yourself, you think. After tonight, you don’t have to see him ever again.

Inside the greenhouse, you’re greeted with a mix of scents you’re not prepared for before stepping in. The space is compact, with a single corridor narrowed with garden beds on each side. Dozens of branches and leaves tickle you as you walk in, most of them belonging to different flowers that, despite the chilly weather that still lingers outside, are already blooming. It’s a blend of colors, bright reds, and ocean blues, soft purple petals kissing pink and yellow ones.

“We should look for gloves.” Harry’s voice startles you, chuckling as you jump a bit.

“Huh?”

“Gloves.” He says. “I think whatever we’re looking for has to do with the gloves, ‘cause he mentioned manicure.”

“That makes sense.” You look around. Many gardening tools are piling under the tables that hold the garden beds; watering cans and empty pots. You look between bags of fertilizer and drawers filled with shovels. There’s so much stuff to look through that, at one point, you sit back on your calves, glancing around, lost.

You hear Harry leafing through as you’re doing, feeling his legs brushing against your back as he passes by and you stop, watching him from your spot on the floor. He’s got a concentrated look on his face, bottom lip worried between his teeth as he scans through the walls before he opens another drawer. That’s when his gaze falls, catching yours. You quickly turn away, pretending to go through another pile of empty pots and blocking the sound of a chuckle coming from his spot.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the clicking of ceramics and the opening and closing of wooden drawers. That is until you hear from Harry, “A-ha!”

You look up again, seeing him move to the back where few pairs of gloves hang on the wall — so obvious yet still hidden between raincoats and summer hats. “Right under our noses.” You say, getting up.

Harry searches inside the gloves, tongue trapped between his teeth. “Bingo!” He says, pulling out two tiny bottles from inside one pair.

“What is it?”

“Liquor.” He grins, peeking at you from under his lashes before ripping a piece of paper attached to it. “It says ‘one for each, now get to clue number two.’” He holds up one bottle, offering it to you, to which you take it. “It’s chocolate flavored.”

“Of course it would be a drinking game.” You open it, feeling the artificial chocolate scent braid with the alcohol. “Christ.”

“Don’t smell it, or it’ll be worse,” Harry says, downing his with one quick tilt of his head. “‘S not that bad, actually.”

You mimic his action, letting the drink swiftly burn its way down your throat. Unlike Harry, you can’t help but scrunch your nose at the taste. “You’re a fucking liar.”

Harry only giggles in response, taking the empty bottle from you and placing it back inside the gloves, along with his own.

And then again, silence. You turn to the flowers to find some comfort.

A family of tulips glances back at you, their petals in a full red, it’s the kind of beauty you’re scared to ruin if you touch, so you just rest your hand on the wood. “They’re beautiful.” You only notice you say it out loud when Harry hums back in agreement.

“They are.” He says quietly but somehow feels loud by how close he is. “Tulips are my favorites.”

You stop, brows raising incredulously at him. “No, they’re not.”

“What?”

Cursing the universe for playing with you like this, you can’t help but laugh at the situation. “It’s just- they’re my favorites, too.” You look at him. “My nan used to plant them when I was little.”

“That’s sweet.” He says, smiling and you nod. “The red ones represent true love.” He points. “And the purple ones represent royalty.”

You blink at him. “Do you just look up tulip facts in your free time?”

Harry laughs. “Yeah, basically.” He looks down at you, and you can’t help but notice how the greenery around brings out the shade of his eyes. “I worked at a flower shop for a tick.”

“Really?”

He nods. “For eight months. My favorite part was writing on the store board every morning.” His face lights up as he recalls his experience. “I used to write silly stuff like, ‘one day I’d like to meet tulips.’ The old ladies loved it.”

You shake your head, breathing out a laugh. “You’re dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Why’s that?”

Because you’re sweet, you want to answer, because when I think I won’t get charmed by you again, you hit me with tulip puns. Your lip finds its spot between your teeth, you’d be damned to give him the satisfaction of hearing you tell him that, so, instead, you shrug. “Because.” You can tell he wants to dig more by the way his lip twitch up, teasing a smile, but you just nod towards the door before turning away from him and heading out.

There’s a distinct change of temperature when you step outside, and it’s only when you do that you notice the greenhouse was heated. Thankfully, the night is not too windy as it would get a week or two ago when winter was still insisting on making itself present, but it’s still chilly so that it makes you hug your jacket closer to your body. Harry also notices the difference, as you hear him wince as he steps out from behind you — unlike you, he’s not wearing anything to protect his arms from the cold, which only makes it harder for you to not ogle the tattoos hugging his skin.

“So, what’s next?” You prompt.

Harry reaches for the card again, taking it from its spot on his pocket before reading the second clue. “‘Not feeling too creative to write this one, it’s on the third tree on oak.’”

“I mean, at least we don’t have to think too much on this one.” You say, “Oak Street is the one to the left, right?”

“Yeah.” Harry sighs. “Can’t believe he’s making us go out on the streets.”

You start to make your way back towards the house. “Too tired for a stroll?”

“‘S cold,” Harry says, scrunching his nose. “Here, there’s a side gate.”

He guides you through a gravel path to where the black gate stands, hidden between bushes and branches. Strings of fern hug the bricked fence and the surrounding grass is high enough that it tickles your calves through your tights, making you believe this path has probably been left unused for at least a couple of months now. This information brings out an extra worry for you, as you take a better look at it, noticing how the gate is closed shut to the fence.“Is it open?” You wonder out loud.

“Shit, I don’t think it is.” Harry huffs under his breath. “But, I mean, we could easily jump it.”

You stop, turning to glance at him as the suggestion leaves his lips. He stands there, hands on his hips, examining the gate, tongue poking out as he frowns. After a second, he meets your eyes. “What? It’s not that tall.”

“I suppose.” You say, looking back at the fence that ends just below your shoulder length. It would be easy enough for you to climb it with a boost, however, “I’m wearing a dress.”

“Oh,” Harry scratches the back of his neck. “Let’s just go inside-” He turns back.

“Wait,” You stop him, not sure if it’s the slight amount of alcohol in your system already making you more adventurous, you train your gaze at the gate, analyzing it again, before looking back at him. Squinting your eyes, “You have to close your eyes.”

He laughs, “Are you sure?”

“It’s not that high.” You shrug. “But I need your help.”

“Of course.” He moves next to the brick wall, kneeling before it and nodding towards you. “C’mon, step up.”

Hesitantly, you glance at his thigh stretching his trousers, a sudden wave of insecurity hitting you. “Are you sure you can lift me?”

Harry simply puts his hand out in a silent request for you to hold. “Of course.”

“No peeking.”

He shuts his eyes tightly, chin meeting his chest as he looks down. And then you take his hand, feeling his fingers lock in a firm hold as he helps you use him for support. You hesitate again before using his thigh as a step, “Wait, I’m gonna ruin your trousers.” You worry, but Harry only shakes his head, still keeping it facing the ground, the strands of his hair falling above his eyes in a makeshift blindfold. When he doesn't feel you stepping in still, he encourages you with a squeeze in your hand.

You attempt to do as quickly as possible with your dress clinging to your legs, tightening your hold to Harry’s hand to step on his thigh. Once you let it go, you can still feel it lingering behind your back as you use your arms to boost yourself up the wall, sitting on it for a moment before jumping to the other side with a huff.

“Can I open them?” You hear Harry’s voice calls from the other side, and you smile, nodding even though he can’t see it.

“Yes!”

And then his face appears as he stands up in a jump, grinning at you. “See? Easy Peasy.”

“I feel like a teen sneaking out.” You say, and you instantly give another meaning to your words as Harry boosts himself up. This time, you certainly don’t hold yourself back from staring at the way his muscles flex at the movement, the tattoos on his arms stretching, and his shirt rolling up. He makes it look so easy, so effortless, barely taking five seconds until he’s jumping in front of you.

“That was fun.” He puffs, patting his trousers lightly.

“So, how are we finding the tree?” You ask, taking a quick glance to where his hands brush on the fabric of his trousers. “Should we read the clue again?”

“I know which one he’s talking about,” Harry says, nodding to the left before beginning his stride in that direction. You follow him, trusting his words as the two of you turn the corner where Evan’s house is located.

The street in question is much calmer than the one you were just in, with no cars coming or going from the residences — that stand much closer to one another, you notice, giving the whole street more of a narrow feeling to it --, which is not exactly odd, but certainly is a contrast with the main street that Evan’s home faces, that one being more lively with people either coming home or leaving it to enjoy their Friday night. The sudden lack of background noise makes the walk to your destination a tad awkward, as none of you make an effort to strike a conversation. Instead, you resort to silently observing the surrounding area as you walk alongside Harry, noticing how the trees here bend over the sidewalk, their naked branches slowly but surely growing back the leaves they lost months ago — it makes you wonder how beautiful this must look during the peak of springtime, their full branches blending together, making a ceiling of flowers.

“Here.” Harry stops abruptly, making you almost bump into his shoulder, as you were too busy with the scenery you’ve made in your own head. “‘S this one.”

“I thought it said the third one.” You frown, looking back and noticing the way you’ve passed way more than just three.

“This one is the third.” He says, motioning to a small birdhouse stuck to its trunk with a number ‘3’ painted to the front in blue. “It’s a bit of an inside joke,” Harry chuckles to himself. “Now I get why the bastard wanted me to have this card.”

You look closer at the tree, trying to see if there’s something attached to it besides the birdhouse, but there’s nothing. Before you can question it, Harry opens the front of the tiny house, retrieving two tiny bottles from inside of it, similar to the ones you found in the greenhouse. “Oh, no.” You say, laughing. “Did he just put liquor inside a stranger’s birdhouse?”

Harry shakes his head, “This is not a stranger’s birdhouse.”

“Huh?” You frown, glancing back to the house where you stand in front of, its front completely dark, showing that no one must be at home. You point to it over your shoulder. “Do you know who lives here?”

“Yeah,” He starts, offering you one bottle. “I do.”

Your brows shoot up in surprise, glancing back and forth from the house to the man standing in front of you, an amusing grin growing on his face. “You live here?” You ask, “This is your birdhouse?”

“It is, yeah. In fact, I was the one who built it.” He gives the birdhouse a small pat.

You can’t help but let your mouth hang open for a second. “That’s-” You pause, not sure which word to use. Impressive? Amazing? Hot? “That’s nice.”

Harry smiles, and the two of you stand there for a moment, admiring his work in silence. You suck your bottom lip in, keeping yourself from inquiring further.

Being presented with how little you know about Harry only peaks at your curiosity at what had happened last year in your brief experience with him. When you were with him it felt as if you’d known him for months rather than weeks, but looking back at it now, you wonder if your infatuation fooled you into thinking the two of you were close. Maybe that’s why you were so upset at the premiere after all because all that did was prove to you how much you didn’t know him at all. No matter how many sleepless nights you spent together sharing bits of your lives, it wasn’t enough for you to get to know him.

It’s only when a car turns into the street that you break away from your thoughts, looking up at him and clearing your throat. “We should take this back to Evan’s.” You say. “I’m not sure how it would look from an outsider’s point of view to see us downing these tiny bottles in the middle of the street.”

“You’re right,” Harry says. “Should we read the last clue while we’re at it?”

“Sure, yeah.”

He reaches for the card inside his pocket, presenting it to you. “You do the honors this time.”

You take the card, brushing your thumb over the words before stopping for a second to read them out loud, “You’ll find your prize behind the words of buried legends.” You snort. “That’s so corny.”

“Words of buried legends,” Harry repeats, letting out a hum. “Bet he was feeling quite poetic when he wrote this one.”

“Maybe because it has to do with poems.” You peek at him, a slight raise to your eyebrow. “‘Words of buried legends’? like dead poets and stuff?” Upon reading it again to make sure, you mumble, “He really made this card especially for you, huh?”

“Makes sense.” Harry agrees before nudging you playfully with his arm. “Look at you with your literary mind!”

“Could’ve used some better wording but I’ll let it pass.” You giggle, shrugging as you hand him back the card. As you do so, you notice there’s something written on the other side. “What’s in the back?”

Harry’s brows meet. “Huh?”

“In the back of the card, something’s written on it.” You nod towards his hand as he’s about to pocket the card again.

Harry turns it around, reading it with a chuckle. “Ice breakers.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” Your mouth drops open in amusement. “Well? Go on, then. Break the ice.”

Harry makes a show of clearing his throat before reading the question as an announcement, “What celebrity do you think you could pull on your best day?”

“Is this the actual question?” You squint your eyes at him and he turns the card to allow you to read it as well. Surely, the same question reads right on top of it and, as you take a glance at the ones below it, they’re not that much better. You shake your head, “God, I have no idea.”

“I know mine.”

“You didn’t give a single thought on that one.” You say. “This should be good.”

“Jennifer Aniston.”

“Jennifer Aniston?” You stop on your tracks, raising your brows at him. “You know she was married to Brad Pitt, right?”

“Ouch.” Harry makes the theatrics of putting a hand on his heart, head falling dramatically to the side. “Right where it hurts.”

“I’m not saying you’re bad-looking, but he’s Brad Pitt.” You emphasize with a laugh, pushing him playfully as you keep walking. “Like he is the male beauty standard. Personified.”

The front of Evan’s feels more vivid than it was when you first walked in hours ago, the lights inside seeming lighter and the curtains having been pulled back, showing people wandering around on the inside. You walk past another pair crouched in front of the bushes that line next to the front gate that creaks as you open it.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Sure, let’s hear yours, then, sweetheart.”

“Ew, don’t ever call me that again.” Your nose scrunches and your face grows hot, but you attempt to shake it off, stopping to think of the question. “Huh, on my best day? I think… I don’t know, maybe Drake?”

“Oh, no!” Harry’s hands cover his face as he shakes his head into them. “I feel like that’s the most basic answer anyone could ever give to this question.”

You gasp. “Did you just call me basic?”

Harry holds the front door open for you and, before he’s able to give you an answer, you bump right into Nia. She instantly blurts out your name, as if she’s been expecting you to appear. “I’ve been looking for you!” She says, sparing Harry a glance over your shoulder before pulling you slightly to the side. “Do you think we could talk for a second?”

“Sure.” You hold out the word, looking at Harry before focusing on your friend again. “Did something happen?”

“No, no, nothing happened. Just—” Nia starts, locking your arms as she guides you back outside, pulling you to a corner a few steps away from the front door. “How are you? How's it going?”

“I’m fine. Why?” Your brows knit together at her interference and you wonder if it has anything to do with her conversation with Nate.

“I’m talking about-” She looks over her shoulder, clearly checking if anyone is listening in. Even after making sure that there’s no one there, she still lowers her voice. “When I saw he was your pair, I wanted to rescue you right away, but fucking Taylor pulled me with him and I didn’t get the chance.”

Oh. “Oh.”

“Is it too awkward?” She keeps her inquiry, holding your hand close to her chest. “We could ask them to switch so we can do the rest together, I’m sure Evan’s too plastered to notice.”

“Nia, I-” You smile as you come to realize that she pulled you aside just to check if you’re uncomfortable, having witnessed first-hand your whines and cries over Harry last year. “It’s okay, really. It’s not that bad, surprisingly.”

“Really?” Nia blinks, taken aback. “I- What happened?”

“Nothing.” You reassure her with a squeeze on her hand. “We’re just chatting, it’s not that awkward.”

“Okay.” She nods and nods, before falling serious again. “But if anything happens you just have to scream for me and I’ll be right there, okay?”

“Okay.” You say, pulling her for a brief hug. “Thanks, Ni.”

The two of you return inside just as Taylor brings up his brother’s hair sculpture collection that’s being exhibited at a local gallery — a subject you already have been the victim of hearing for about an hour during New Year’s and, by Harry’s face, he seems as helpless as you did back then. Nia doesn’t waste a second before pulling her pair away, “Let’s go, pal, those clues won’t solve themselves,” she shoots you a look over her shoulder, pushing Taylor towards the living room and you chuckle.

“He really is one of a kind, that man,” Harry says with a sigh before meeting your gaze. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, just lady talk.” You brush aside. “Let’s find those poets, shall we?”

“We shall.” Harry smiles, looking around for a second before guiding you down the hallway, turning just before entering the kitchen where a staircase. This is a way that — like the greenhouse — you’ve never been to. Still, Harry navigates so casually as if it were his own home and, to some degree, you suppose it is. You follow him up the first flight of steps, stopping just before turning into the next one where a door you never really noticed before stands. Harry rests his hand on the handle, turning to you before saying, “There’s an office hidden right here.”

You watch as he opens it, motioning for you to walk in first. And, indeed, the inside of it is an office, just a bit smaller than the living room on the opposite side of the house. Two bookcases that go from the floor to the ceiling mostly covered the wall, only leaving a single space in the middle for a dark wooden cabinet. In front of it, an L-shaped desk takes up the middle of the room, most of it is filled with files and paper stacks, as well as two computers lying asleep. For a moment, you just stand by the doorway, admiring this room you’ve never known of its existence, your eyes quickly sweeping through the bookshelves completely packed with dark cover books of all sorts. “Do you think this is where it could be?”

“Probably, yeah.” Harry nods, turning on the lights. “I don’t know where else he could have any poetry hidden.”

You move towards one bookshelf, the one closest to the door, reaching to brush your finger through the spines perfectly lined. “But look at the size of these, we’ll take forever to find anything in here.”

“Those big ones are mostly law books, I think,” Harry says, opening cabinets at the other side of the room, right next to where a white couch stands. He turns to look at you, “His sister’s a lawyer, this is her office.” Harry says, “But Evan’s got a corner right here where he keeps some of his stuff— like books of sorts. It’s the only place I could think of.”

You hum, not knowing exactly what to respond to this information.

“You can go through the ones on that side, it could be there as well.” Harry nods towards a cabinet right next to the door where you came from, and you nod.

The first two cabinets are of no luck, both being mostly filled with boxes full of children’s books and old toys — some of them mixed with more stacks of paper, but those, instead of having long texts, have drawings of all kinds from what you could gather in a glance, from child-like scribbles to actual sketches. You can hear Harry going through drawers on the other side of the room and, upon closing another empty cabinet, you peek at him, watching his broad back flexing under his shirt as he moves around. Averting your eyes as swiftly as you looked, it’s still enough to bring warmth to your cheeks.

Finally, you open the cabinet at the very bottom of the shelf. On the top, there are piles of DVDs, most being different variations of Barbie movies, but, right at the bottom, you find books. You don’t stop to check their genre at first, simply moving them away until you stumble upon a small box, the top of it marked with the word ‘prize’. “Found it!” You call back, taking the box away from the pile before setting the books back in place again. “Under Rupi Kaur? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure she’s very alive.”

“Don’t tell Evan that,” Harry says as he crouches next to you, taking the box from your hands. Inside, there are, as expected, two tiny bottles like the ones you found before but, what calls both your attention, is a small bag of sweets lying in the middle. Harry takes it, “Oh, those are nice.”

He hands it to you and you open it, quickly shoving a jelly candy into your mouth before nodding. “Yeah.”

“So…” Harry starts, peeking over his shoulder, “Do you want to go back there?”

You glance at him, his eyes hovering above yours, lips twitching up just barely. “Uh… Maybe not right now.” You answer, “Unless you feel like sharing our Jellies with other people.”

Harry only laughs, shaking his head as he sits back and you do so too, right next to him. He reaches for his pocket, presenting another tiny bottle, the one you found inside his birdhouse, “We still got these.”

“Right!” You fetch your own out of the pocket of your jacket.

Harry opens his, holding it up towards you. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” You say, mimicking him.

Both of you down your drinks, the liquid tasting bitter, like medicine on your tongue, the only reminder of alcohol being the burn as it slides down your throat. You rest your head back on the cabinet behind you as the two of you fall into silence once more. A part of your mind is already beginning to swim around the space inside your head, and you decide to not take the last drink just yet, laying it next to your leg. Though you’ve only had the equivalent of two shots, you realize the long break you’ve had from drinking for the past couple of months -- which wasn’t exactly an intentional choice, but more like the result of your lack of free time -- is showing itself to have been enough to make you more of a lightweight.

And even though the night so far has been strikingly surprising in terms of how comfortable you felt being around Harry again, it doesn’t mean the questions you’ve been carrying since last year have gotten any quieter. They’ve only gotten louder. More persistent, even. The curiosity you feel to know what happened is almost suffocating now. And you’d be damned if you let a drunken mind stop you from having this conversation.

You glance at him from the corner of your eyes, only watching the back of his head bobbing along with the music -- still the piano -- that comes faintly from behind the closed door. Your lips part, feeling the question form right at the tip of your tongue, but not knowing how to voice the words. Will it be awkward? You think so, but what if it ruins the night? Tonight, that’s been so oddly refreshing. A night that only served to remind you how you became so infatuated with him in the first place.

But you know you won’t be able to let go of this ich inside your head unless you bring it up. And you want to, you do, but as you take too long to think of the right way to do so, Harry decides to break the silence, murmuring next to you, “That’s a good one.”

Your brows knit together, trying to make out any trace of familiarity within the song that’s playing, but you don't find any, which only leaves you even more confused. “Do you like classical?”

“Love,” Harry says simply, his eyes closed as he moves his head with the piano keys. “Especially this one. One of the greatest works from one of the greatest contemporary composers: Billie Eilish.”

Your lips fall open, “Shut up. Is she playing this?”

Harry laughs, a full one, that brings a grin to poke at your lips. “I mean, as far as I’m aware, no. It’s a version of her song — listen in.” He points to his ear, nodding with the melody as he sings along, “So you’re a tough guy, like it really rough guy.”

You shake your head incredulously, “Of course he’s playing classical versions of pop songs!”

“Did you really think Evan had a taste for Chopin or Debussy?” Harry asks both dimples poking on his cheeks.

“I think at this point I’d believe anything you tell me about him.”

Both of you laugh, the air surrounding you light and warm, before falling quiet again. This time, however, you simply stare at each other for a beat. You watch his eyes, with their almost hypnotizing jade shade, glancing between your own. He rolls his lip between his teeth, nibbling at it. This is the closest you’ve been to him all night, and the details on his face only feel like a reminder of your doubts. Like the nostalgia you feel with a bittersweet memory.

“Should we-“ You stop, the words falling from your lips before you can think about them. “Should we talk about the elephant in the room?”

You half expect Harry to frown, to play dumb, and question you the meaning behind your words. For a second, you even expect him to shake his head, to get up and leave the room. And, for some reason, you kinda want him to do so. To finally break the mask of the nice, sweet guy he’s been putting on all night and allow himself to play the role of cold prick you put him on for the past months.

But he doesn’t do it. He only gives you a short smile. “I was thinking about how to bring it up.” Harry’s gaze falls to his lap for a beat as he scratches his nose. “We should, yeah.”

You nod, more to yourself than to him. This is it. The moment to ask what you’ve been waiting for for six months now. You decide not to think much anymore, allowing the question to roll freely, “I don’t really know how to word this better but- pardon my French- what the fuck happened?”

Harry chuckles, but not an amused one. It’s more of a dry, nervous laugh. “How cliche is it if I tell you I was really fucking stupid?”

“Pretty cliche.” You say, “But also pretty true, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry for that.” He looks up, eyes meeting yours again, his own softening upon seeing you. “I really am.”

“Thank you for apologizing.” You smile a little, “But I think I deserve an explanation.”

“You do.” He speaks quietly before clearing his throat. For a second, he doesn’t say anything else, just takes a sharp breath, focusing on his fingers that play with the hem of his trousers. “I- Uhm- I know this might come as a surprise, but I’m not very good at letting people down.”

“A bit, I guess.” You try to humor, but your tone doesn’t show it. You sound quiet, hurt.

He peeks up at you, and continues, “Jess- the girl you met at the premiere- she’s lovely and all, but- how do I say this- we were never really supposed to be together.” Harry sighs, “I didn’t like her like that.”

You frown, “Then, why did you?”

“A couple of months before we met- before Evan even mentioned the film project to me, one of my mates kept insisting that I should meet his sister.” He pauses, “That was Jess.”

“I figured.”

Harry nods, “As I said, she’s a lovely girl, really nice, but we just- didn’t click like that, you know?” You hum in agreement, ignoring a small twist in your stomach when he repeats the endearment term. “But I guess she really wanted to try it, and, for months, I just kept pushing and pushing, cause I thought maybe with time I could bring myself to feel the same way.” And then again, another humorless laugh, “But- spoiler alert- I couldn’t and I should’ve just told her that.”

Your mouth hangs open for a beat before you decide against saying anything. It’s clear as you watch him explain that the entire situation for him felt more complicated than you’d ever considered. Not once did you think about the possibility of him being caught in a twist of his own decisions, and not once did you regard his feelings with the whole situation. In your bubble of gloominess, all you could think of was how he played you and used you for a bit before moving on to the next girl that fell for his sweet talk.

Looking at him now, however, his head low and brows set on a permanent crease, lips frowning down, you can feel the internal conflict pooling out of his pores. You’re not sure if it’s exactly a look of remorse that he gives you, but it sure seems close to it.

Harry huffs in what feels like frustration as he keeps recalling the events, “But all my mates kept taking the piss, pushing me to ask her out and then, in the middle of it, I met you.” He finally smiles a bit, and you have to look down to hide the warmth that spreads on your cheeks, “And we-uh-” He shrugs, “I mean, we clicked, didn’t we?”

“I think so.” You say, just above a whisper.

“I think so, too,” Harry says, holding your gaze with his own. “And when I was with you I let myself forget about that, forget about the pressure to be with someone else, I guess.” His lips fall again, eyes meeting his lap, “But when we came back, there wasn’t much running away from it anymore. The night we got back I met that friend of mine and, I’m not sure if he said anything to Jess, but she asked me out.”

“And you said yes.”

“I said yes.” He repeats, shaking his head, “I shouldn’t have, but I said yes.”

“So you just dated her? Even if you didn’t like her like that?” You say, trying to understand his thought process. Even if his words tug at your heartstrings -- which you try to not think about right now -- you still can’t help but feel a bit for the other girl.

“I thought I could- I don’t know, I thought with time maybe I could-” He stumbles around with his speech, before finally letting out a sigh, “I don’t know what was going through my head, to be honest. I was a prick.”

“At least you can admit to it.”

“I was a prick to both of you.”

You fall quiet, hoping he takes your silence as an agreement. When he doesn’t offer anything else, you speak up again, “Did it work, though?” He frowns, and you clarify, “Letting time force feelings into you?”

“I found very quickly how hard it is to develop feelings for someone when there’s someone else on your mind.” He says, and you bite back a smile that wants to spread on your lips.

“It’s very easy to say that now.”

“I know.” He agrees, “And I wish I could’ve realized that earlier, before even bringing you into this mess.” Harry reaches for your wrist, which lies on top of your lap, giving it a gentle squeeze. “For that I really am sorry.”

“I know you are.” You reassure, turning your hand to find his, squeezing it back. “And what happened to Jess?”

“She was rightfully upset when I told her.” His thumb brushes against your knuckles, moving the rings on your fingers around just slightly, and it’s almost enough to distract you from his voice. “We broke up a day after the premiere.”

“Ouch.”

“But it’s fine now, she’s got a boyfriend now who actually cares for her the way she deserves,” Harry says.

“That’s nice to hear, at least.”

“It is, yeah.”

You look down at your hands locked in your lap, squeezing his one more time before letting it go with a sigh. “You really made a big mess, huh?”

He chuckles, a guilty smile poking on his face, “I did.”

You nod, finally reaching for the tiny bottle left forgotten next to you, opening it. This time you only take a sip, but it’s still enough to end half of the liquid inside. You click your tongue, “I’m glad we talked, though.” You look up at Harry again, who’s already watching you, giving a small tap on his thigh. “It’s nice to have closure, you know? To give it a conclusion and wrap with a nice little bow.”

Harry rolls his lip inside his mouth, “Is this a conclusion, then?”

You raise your brows, “Is it not?”

“I guess it could be.” He shrugs one shoulder, leaning closer to you just barely, eyes trained in yours. “But I’m hoping that, after today, maybe we could start over?”

You laugh, scrunching your nose at him as you shake your head. “Not a start over, no.” You poke his side, “You’re not getting away that easy.”

“You’re right.” He says, still not budging as he frowns his lips. “But I wish it didn’t have to be an ending as well.”

“Is that so?”

Harry nods, you can tell his eyes hold a shyness that wasn’t here a minute ago, but at the same time -- as paradoxically as it seems -- there’s a boldness as well, one you’re more familiar with. “Maybe we could chat again. This time with fewer ice breaker cards and more bags of sweets.”

You smile, rubbing your chin as you pretend to ponder about his suggestion. “That does sound very promising.”

“I really do think we clicked.” He drops his playful tone as if wanting to make sure you feel the sincerity behind his words. “Wasn’t just saying it.”

“I know.” You say, “And I think so, too.”

His smirk grows, and he doesn’t offer anything else to say, but you can tell he’s holding something back. With the silence, you suddenly become too aware of the way your arms brush together, and how his knee bumps against yours. You notice how his eyes fall a bit from yours, so quickly you could’ve imagined it, but you choose to not think so. If you lean forward, you know he will too, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. You’re not letting yourself make the first move.

Surely, you’re aware these thoughts are a direct result of the alcohol sweeping through your mind, testing how much of your pride you’re willing to ignore. There’s no questioning of the wall that you built all those months ago after walking out of this very house with this very man on your tail blurring out apologies. It still stands, tall and strong, and you're not letting sweet words mixed with a drink or two pull it down. Not that easily. But at this moment, looking at his stupidly beautiful face with his stupidly beautiful eyes so close to you, you feel like maybe you could peek through a window, or open up a door — just a creek, just to have a sample of what it would feel like if you were to pull it down.

“Do you want to go back?” Harry asks again, this time more quietly, this time his question has a different implication than it did before.

You're quick to shake your head, voice quiet, “Not yet.”

The corner of his lips quirk up and you raise your brows, silently daring him to ask what he’s been holding. You see his hand moving from the corner of your eyes, but you don’t break your gaze from his, not even when you feel his fingertips moving so gently against your cheekbone, brushing your hair away from your face. Harry leans closer, again just barely, and again, you stay still, only smiling softly in encouragement. Now, you’re stuck in your own silent conversation; both seeking the same thing but not making the move to achieve it -- either for pride or apprehension.

“I’d really like to kiss you right now,” Harry whispers finally, eyes moving down again, this time slowly, making sure that his intentions are clear.

“Do it, then.” You tease.

Harry breathes out a laugh, his hand caressing its way down to your jaw. He rubs his thumb against your cheek, a feathery touch, taking another second to look at you before pulling you in. Your eyes fall closed, as you focus on your senses, and allow yourself to peek from that window, or creek that door open just a bit, to have just this moment to remember when you first got lost in his touch.

First, it’s the warmth of his breath tickling your cupid bow, making your hold your own breath in anticipation. Then, the tip of his nose, gentle against your own, and you can’t help but lean in a bit more when you feel the ghost of his lips on yours. But he pulls back, just so slightly, hoping to have you reach for him again. Except you don’t, knowing what he’s trying to do.

“Uh-uh,” you shake your head, pulling back just a bit to look him in the eye. “You don’t get to tease me.”

Harry huffs out a laugh, “That’s fair.”

This time, there’s no teasing. Still, he goes in just as slowly as he did the first time around, curving his lips around your bottom one so softly it almost makes you lean in again. His kiss is cloud-like in a way that makes you a bit dizzy and when he presses his lips harder, you have to refrain from letting out a dreamy sigh -- still too stubborn to give him the satisfaction. It’s when you feel the tip of his tongue poking out to lick at your bottom lip in a silent request, that you pull away completely.

It’s your turn to smirk now, licking your lips before announcing, “I think we should go back now.”

#harry styles #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles smut #harry styles imagine

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toujourspur13 · 4 years

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The Black family / Walburga Black / canon.

As I said before I do not care that much about canon/fanon/headcanon because transformative works by definition include a wide variety of different interpretations. However, I am forever perplexed when I see uncompromising opinions on the Black family - particularly the unwavering certainty that Sirius Black’s parents were psychotic abusers. All personal opinions aside - why is this so popular?

I mean - it’s absolutely ok to headcanon this version and to play with it - but saying 'don’t you dare say they did not physically and emotionally abuse Sirius' is a little strong, isn’t it?

This is a mystery to me. So…let’s discuss my favourite subject…Again.

Let’s stick to the facts. The frequently cited things proving the abuse in the Black family are as follows:

Sirius said his parents were awful maniacs (pureblood ideology)

he ran away from home

he was severely depressed in OoTP

Kreacher

Portrait

So…when you say that Sirius’s parents were abusive…you mean exactly what? These people got cold feet when they saw the real nature of Voldemort - I guess it somehow implies that they did not share his methods…that they were against violence as a tool to get purebloods in charge.

But then it usually goes this way: ‘well at least he was verbally and emotionally abused by his family’ - but is it so? Is this based on the portrait of Sirius's mother? She insulted strangers who took over her house and her runaway son - how does this prove anything about how Sirius and Regulus were raised and treated when they were kids? I agree it’s rather impolite - jkr did a good job showing how purebloods perceived others ( those below them) -but in all honesty, this has very little to do with Sirius and his childhood.

Why to make Sirius a victim at all? - c’mon he was tougher than this, he spent 12 years in Azkaban; are you actually saying that a portrait throwing insults at everyone is worse? I doubt that. And is it such a surprise that a mother who lost her son (that said son actually ran away and abandoned his duty) would be that furious at him when seeing him again...even if it’s only a portrait...I believe it to be a rather unpleasant experience for a parent when a child runs away.

We already talked about the portrait a lot - I don’t even want to mention it here- - I feel we should rather pay more attention to the fact that Sirius himself was not an angel.

I am not saying the colourful vocabulary of Walburga Black should be used…but Sirius himself upon seeing Snape immediately recognised his weakness and went for it without any hesitation …we are talking about Sirius who in fact was quite a renowned bully ( I mean - we know for a fact that from time to time Sirius and James got carried away)…

And it was Sirius who sent Snape to meet and chat with a real werewolf (yes, I agree - he was not thinking this through - he probably was just vexed and fed up with Snape and thought he wouldn’t go there, would get cold feet or idk run away…But it actually changes nothing. If a drunken driver hits someone it will be 100% his fault whether he means it or not. Whether he is in a fragile mental state or not - such situations are definite. It’s the same with Sirius - even if he did not mean anything bad he should have understood the cost of his mistake - all teenagers make silly things but not all of them send their classmate to meet a werewolf - James thought it not a very good idea as I recall… -

So we see that Sirius was not an angel from the start and I can hardly believe he was a victim by nature. His behaviour loudly manifested that he used to get what he wanted with no thought of the consequences.

And all those pictures of bikini-clad girls on the walls in his room prove that he was quite a spoiled boy who had nothing to fear from mum and dad. Harry himself noticed «Sirius seemed to have gone out of his way to annoy his parents». All this shows that Sirius was not afraid of his parents at all. What kind of masochist would suffer for motorbike posters? That would be ridiculous.

Let’s move to Kreacher: If Sirius’s mother had been a monster why even mention her heart? JKR wrote this for a purpose and this heavily implies that Sirius's situation was never meant to be ‘the abusive heartless parents vs the poor helpless victim’.

The fact that Sirius ran away and hence broke his mother’s heart says against the popular idea that he was not loved by his family, that he was always the second one, that they abused him. I’m 100% certain that Kreacher told the truth in that scene. Why would he say something like this if it were not the truth - something like…that his beloved mistress having been so upset over Sirius running away that it broke her heart. Just tell me one reason that would have justified such a lie - why to say this at all?

Then this: “Leave?” Sirius smiled bitterly and ran a hand through his long, unkempt hair. “Because I hated the whole lot of them: my parents, with their pure-blood mania, convinced that to be a Black made you practically royal … my idiot brother, soft enough to believe them … that’s him.”…. “He was younger than me,” said Sirius, “and a much better son, as I was constantly reminded.”

I’ve already said it before - this ‘better son than me’ is exactly what insecure 14-year old kids like to say. Well...he’s a bit older but it’s not as if he had a life and a chance to mature. Moreover, I don’t know if it comes as a great shock but a lot of teenagers like to badmouth their parents…usually, it involves something like ‘those bloody uptight retrogrades know nothing of the real world’ (it fades away when they get closer to thirty).

To be serious, I find that it’s just another example of similarities between Sirius and his mother. They clearly did not know what it means to be composed, polite, and respectful. Yeah…I think that, on the whole, parents are owed their children’s respect (unless they are completely inadequate - somehow I don’t believe this was the case). Someone should teach both of them what mutual respect means. Anyway, there is nothing in this quote that says that Sirius was subjected to any forms of abuse - it’s about how Sirius justified his running away, how he saw the situation.

There’s also the fact that Sirius was incredibly unhappy because he was back at his childhood home and having to spend time around anything that reminded him of his family: “Hasn’t anyone told you? This was my parents’ house,” said Sirius. “But I’m the last Black left, so it’s mine now. I offered it to Dumbledore for headquarters — about the only useful thing I’ve been able to do.” Harry, who had expected a better welcome, noted how hard and bitter Sirius’s voice sounded”.

Here it comes…the severe depression that makes people question the severity of his abuse… I have thought a lot about this because it is the reason why some consider ‘the abusive blacks' canon while others believe it was more of a tragedy of the family rather than the banal brutality.

Of course, Sirius was upset in that house - but I don’t think he suffered the memories of his unhappy childhood - I think he suffered from the strong feeling of guilt. Being in that house meant an everyday reminder that he was a failure. And it’s not even a lie. If you look at his whole life you’ll see that he literally failed everyone in his life: he failed James and Lily - they were dead and he unwillingly became the reason. It was his plan that turned everything into a tragedy.

And, to some extent, he failed Harry- he was not around him like James and Lily would have wanted. Sirius did not give him the real family - he only promised they'd be the one «when it’s all over».

And finally - he failed his parents, his brother, his own family.

Is it possible to live with so much guilt in your heart?

I don't think that Sirius completely forgot who he was born to be. If the family keeps traditions and can trace its existence back in centuries you can't shake it off even if you want. I doubt Sirius switched it off just because he had griffindor friends. He was the last Black - it is tragically poetic that he was once the hope of his family and then this family died with him. If Sirius had heart (and I truly believe he had a heart) he knew exactly what it meant to be trapped in the house that represented the death of his family. A constant reminder that he was the last one.

“The others’ hushed voices were giving Harry an odd feeling of foreboding; it was as though they had just entered the house of a dying person”.

I think that the scene when he threw his father's ring away - he threw it away because it was all over for his family. It was the end of the dynasty - and for him it was all over long before he met Bellatrix for the last time.

Well, I admit Sirius' situation is open for wide interpretation but I don’t think the abusive black household is a canon thing - of course, it’s fanon. It makes Sirius a hero who broke the chains when in fact he ended up being a victim of his own life.

You know, it always seems strange to me that fandom when discussing Walburga usually overlooks the simple truth of life - that even if you are clever enough and mean good for your loved ones it is still possible to end up on the losing side, on the dark side. However, mistakes don't automatically turn humans into monsters.

To some extent Sirius’s story represents the consequences of war. No-one is protected; the whole families could be wiped off the face of the earth. It’s a simple yet profound idea. It correlates with the main idea of hp books far better than the ‘abusive psychopaths’ (there are already Voldemort and Bellatrix - there is no-one who can beat them in this department).

All I say - it’s okay to imagine them bad if you want- your right - but don’t write everywhere that it’s canon because it is not.There is no need for such inflexibility especially when it comes to the fandom - a place where everyone should be welcomed and their views on the books be respected.

#the noble and most ancient house of black #hp meta #harry potter #sirius black meta #walburga black #orion black #regulus black #harry potter meta #Order of the Phoenix #Sirius Black

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askaceattorney · 3 years

Photo

Dear Asexual-Deesasters,

Mod Edgeworth:

If you want to know the answer to that question, go to this link.

Dear Skibot99,

Co-Mod: I’m fairly certain it was The Mod, but I don’t know for sure. He actually had another one before it, made from an old Ace Attorney musical animation. I haven’t been able to locate that video, unfortunately, but here’s the old banner:

Ah... Those were good days. Good days.

Dear Dawsongfg,

Co-Mod: It’s fine. Besides, it won’t be too long before those letters are accepted, so maybe we’ll hold onto them until that time.

Dear skibot99 again,

Mod Edgeworth: The Lost Turnabout hands down. All logic is thrown out the window the moment Phoenix had amnesia. It’s clear the Judge knew something was wrong with Phoenix, so why didn’t he call for a recess or check on Phoenix? Not to mention Wellington was annoying. He’s probably the only character I would be hesitant to play as when answering letters, if only because he was so unbearable.

As for Turnabout Ablaze, I do agree that it is a drag to get through in the end, though the entire game of AAI was boring, aside from the game mechanics. As a case by itself, I wouldn’t put it as my least favorite, if only because I did get some funny parts out of it. It also contributed to the overall story, whereas The Lost Turnabout could just be taken out and it wouldn’t effect the overarching plot.

Co-Mod: I’d probably have to go with Turnabout Big Top. I honestly couldn’t figure out the part where you have to present Max’s poster without consulting a walkthrough. Why couldn’t we just present Max himself? Besides that, the ending was largely underwhelming -- the murder weapon was hidden under Acro’s blanket the entire time, but instead of seeing a screenshot of it there, we just have to imagine it. Maybe it was a filler case, but that was no excuse for it to end so poorly. Not to mention one of the witnesses was a literal puppet.

It’s hard truth, Trilo. Live with it.

Dear skibot99 and Anonymous,

Mod Edgeworth: I… think I heard from her when the localization of DGS was announced? I know Mod Kristoph and Mod Maya introduced themselves when I came into the group. There’s a third person, but I only heard from her once. As for what’s going on with her… I don’t know.

As for the flooding the inbox, it’s fine. I won’t promise a letter or two won’t be deleted, but we may make an exception and I’d hardly consider 4-5 different letters flooding the inbox. However, I do highly suggest lowering your letter sending to no more than three a day to prevent deletion of your letters. The only time I’d say your letters are flooding the inbox is when you’re sending 10-20 of them, especially of the same letter, and we have to scroll down for a while to get to the next letter. We will only choose three out of that pile and delete the rest.

And yes, we do have a few that send us 10-20 of the same letter to multiple characters in the span of five minutes. Geez.

Co-Mod: Mod Paups has had to remain absent for personal reasons, and sadly, has recently communicated to me that she wishes to leave the blog entirely. Thanks for all you’ve contributed to this blog, Mod Paups, and best of luck in whatever you do next!

(Referenced Letter)

Dear mungeondaster,

Mod Edgeworth: Since I answered this one, I shall answer your letter.

(^ Why do I always use this sprite? ^) Actually, the localization never specified if Manfred Von Karma was born in Germany or not. In fact, we never knew the German part until Justice For All when Franziska Von Karma was stated to have flown all the way from Germany. It never specifies any reason for this and fans were quick to jump to the conclusion that it means the Von Karma family were German, which… isn’t entirely true? Manfred Von Karma never said he lived in Germany and, for all we know, Franziska could’ve lived in Germany to study law or something.

Now, the OG does give us more specific detail on this, being why I answered this the way I did. In the OG, both Von Karma’s were born Japanese, but lived in America or at least have an estate there. It specified that they were originally born in Japan, which would be translated to LA, California in the localization. While using the OG canon isn’t normal here, I will use it, if the localization doesn’t specify things. In this case, it never specified if the Von Karma’s were born in Germany or if Manfred Von Karma lived in America. Since he had to wait out the Statue of Limitations for DL-6, we can assume he lived in LA for 15 years or more. That means he’s American.

I am still getting the hang of writing letters, but I try to stick to canon as much as possible. If you believe we’ve made an error in our letters, feel free to let us know, but also show proof, if we go against canon. We’ll be sure the letter is sent to the right mod or else fix it.

Dear Bluedragoncody,

Mod Edgeworth: I... don’t know how to feel about that.

Also, I accidentally deleted your previous letter before this one when trying to post it on here. I’m so sorry about that. If you could remember it, would you send it again?

Co-Mod: I’ll just respond to this with an old classic:

Dear Aceattorneyismyjam,

Mod Edgeworth: I-I’m not a pro! I accidentally deleted an important mod question from bluedragoncody, because of my inexperience. Oof! Again, so sorry!

Granted, I am good with digital art and writing essays, but I’m still trying to get the hang of being a mod here. Believe me, I do get corrected on several mistakes I do here. I can’t really call myself a pro just yet. I’ve only just started becoming a mod here last month lol

Dear Dahlia,

Mod Edgeworth: I thank you for your support of this blog and my essay. Manfred Von Karma is also my favorite villain and someone I do feel is underestimated as a one dimensional villain. I think people hate him so much, because of how he ruined Miles Edgeworth’s life without looking at the bigger picture. They focus on the bad things with their black colored glasses without dissecting Manfred Von Karma’s character as a whole.

One thing I love about this blog, even before becoming a mod, is that no one here ever portrayed Manfred Von Karma as the one dimensional villain. He can be snappy at times, but as proven in many of our previous letters, he’s also portrayed as being calm when threatened, polite at times and absolutely loves his wife and children. Yes, he’s a terrible person, but that’s what makes him so interesting. He’s a bad, evil person that does good things from time to time. It doesn’t justify any of his horrible deeds, murder included, but it does make him human.

Co-Mod: I’m...going to assume you’re a different Dahlia. (I’m grabbing a Magatama of Parting just in case, though. I’m sure you can understand.)

Anyway, thanks for being such a loyal follower! This blog’s been through a lot of changes since it began, and since I joined it back in 2017, so I’m glad it’s still a good source of enjoyment for you. I’ve seen all sorts of cringe by now, by the way (some of which I wrote myself), so don’t worry about it.

I’m also glad that the characters still sound like themselves and not like us. The hilarious personalities and quirks given to them by Capcom’s writers, as well as the humanity in so many of them, make them easy to relate to, and thus fairly easy to mimic. I may have said something like this before, but I see myself in a lot of them -- in Athena’s fear of inadequacy, in Apollo’s desire for justice in a world where it’s hard to find, in Sebastian’s confusion about where to go next after his world falls apart, and possibly even in the von Karmas’ desire for perfection. I of course identify with their positive feelings as well -- Phoenix’s smugness when he gets things right, Athena’s joy after pulling off a victory in court, Adrian’s pride after her self-confidence is restored, etc. -- but there’s something about the struggles they face that make them easier to relate to, on top of being that much more awesome in the end.

Unfortunately, I can’t promise anything about this blog continuing on in perpetuity. For one thing, I don’t plan on being around forever (I’m fairly certain the other Mods don’t, either), and for that matter, there’s also no telling how long Tumblr will be around. All I can promise is that I’ll give my best while I’m here, and that the love from you and everyone else who shares it here is sure to be what keeps us going. Thank you for your contribution!

Dear TurqouiseJavelin,

Mod Edgeworth: Hm... not bad ideas. Though, we mods choose our own mod names under the condition that it doesn’t match anyone else’s mod name.

Co-Mod: What Mod Edgeworth said. Choosing the name “Mod Athena” may or may not increase your chances of being hired, though. *wink, wink*

Dear Anonymous,

Mod Edgeworth: Actually, Gregory was stated in the Autopsy to have died by a gunshot. However, you do bring up something interesting. If Gregory Edgeworth realized he was dead and last remembered Robert Hammond strangling him, he wouldn’t think “I died by the shot of a gun.” Since the Detectives weren’t aware that victim had died unconscious, they’d assume the victim would recall being shot and killed. This makes me wonder if Gregory Edgeworth was channeled, but never brought to court to be cross-examined.

There are still holes, but I do like your aspect on DL-6.

Co-Mod: Dang... No matter how many times you come back to this game, there’s always something new to think about. I honestly hadn’t considered those details about Yanni Yogi’s trial. Your explanation makes the most sense to me, but there’s one other possibility regarding Gregory’s testimony -- he may have chosen to lie about who murdered him in order to protect his son from a murder charge. That’s all open to interpretation, of course, so your guess is as good as ours.

It’s a good thing we’re not actual defense attorneys, huh?

-The Mods

#asexual deesasters #skibot99 #dawsongfg #mungeondaster #bluedragoncody #aceattorneyismyjam #young and vain #Anonymous #Mod Post #Mod Edgeworth #Co Mod

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emilycollins00 · 4 years

Text

A3 actors! Art in bloom

Type: One shot

Pairing: Miyoshi Kazunari x Reader

Theme: Passion / Art / Clash

Contrary to what many people and even classmates of yours thought, being an art student was not something you should chose to do lightly.

Sure, it seemed enjoyable, cute even. But no one ever talked about how many hours you would spend with a single portrait, drafting about abstract concepts or trying to discern at two in the morning whether a sculpture should turn more sideways or look at the ground to create a deeper perspective.

Art was wild.

But you loved it and, why not admit it, you took it pretty seriously. Maybe a tiny bit more than most people.

That’s why you had always liked how Kazunari Miyoshi, although being the loud person he was, frequently went on and on with you discussing ideas when there was some debate in class. That brain of his was something else. His works and usual approach when mixing modern and traditional Japanese culture fascinated you. It really did.

But that had been changing lately, and it angered you.

Up until this year you hadn't really cared about it. Everyone had their right to live however they wanted after all.

However, without being able to tell when it began, you started casually observing him. You watched him talk to your other classmates as soon as the lecture, frowned as he concentrated on the draft they had one hour and a half to finish or taking selfies and live videos of the works you all were demanded to do. You even discovered yourself staring and how the sun caressed his profile first hour in the morning.

He had a nice profile.

By that point, something inside you was getting frustrated. He participated in class and attended to the lectures, but at the same time…? you felt he was starting prioritising social media over art, or looking for people for one of his popular mixers, like so many of your other classmates, who had most likely entered this major without much thought, did.

You would understand if he would have a part-time job, but the thought of him being able to do so much more and deciding to stop midway left you speechless.

You wished for him to take more things seriously.

“Miyoshi, were you able to clean all the supplies from last class?" you called him out between the break. Everyone in class traded places to carry the main boxes with brushes, paints and whatever main source they had to work with each week "Our teacher told me to take some clay from there. I'm planning to use them for my final project, but I can't seem to find the key in the secretary office”

The university student lifted his head from his mobile and tipped on his chin, trying to remember "Supplies from...? Oh man, THAT is why I had them in my working space!” He palped his jeans looking for it “My bad, I was totes in a hurry and just closed as soon as we were done!”

You contained an exasperated groan “Why would you get the key unless it was to clean the practice room?”

Kazunari laughed nervously under your intimidating glare “True, true! It's just that I was talking with some friends over the phone and they were in a hurry so…” he showed you the key taking it out of his pocket, maybe to show that at least he hadn’t lost it “Do you need them now? I could go clean for you”

The vein you had tried so hard to maintain calm popped altogether. Not wanting to keep talking, you rapidly grabbed the key from his hand and headed to take the supplies. God grief how you hated that carefree attitude.

……………………..…….

“No prob, dude! Next time just hit me up with a DM and I’ll come running to your uni here! In exchange, I’ll need your help to finish the flyers so…”

Recognizing the flashy voice, you slowly looked behind, witnessing the blond with another person. Was he meeting with people to play around here too?

You couldn’t believe it. You all had your final projects deadlines almost spitting in your faces! That’s why you had to come to this other university to ask for permission to use a kiln for your final, as you didn’t have lectures prepared today and your university didn’t have any. Didn’t look like it was Kazunari’s case.

“Uh? No way, Y/N-pyon!” he waved at you with both hands, confirming it was you indeed, as he got closer “Looking fleek today too! What are you doing here in Yosei?” the person walking next to him whispered something “They’re a friend from my major Tsuzuroon, I told you about them, dude!”

You mentally scoffed. Without returning his greet and turning on your heels, you headed for the teacher’s office.

“You said friend but…” Tsuzuru squinted his eyes, watching you leave “…It doesn't look like they like you very much”

“No worries! Nowadays they are always like that. But their works are so lit! Y/N-pyon is the ultimate remix of you, Ten-ten and Yukki!”

“That’s… not a good thing, Miyoshi-san”

…………………………………………

“Y/N-pyon, about-”

“Miyoshi, sorry. I am on my way to Yosei University to finish my work and unlike your usual approach of work to play, I actually don’t have time to waste”

“Uh? My works are…”

“Are what? I’ve been seeing you doing half-assed things all over the semester. This last week you didn’t even come at the afternoon lectures” you were pretty sure this was just you venting at this point “You’re amazing Miyoshi, I honestly think that, so why? If… If you only put more of yourself into it, your art would be even more unbelievable!”

He went quiet, a rare sight.

“Art it’s not something you just do for laughs; I thought you were one of the few people here that felt the same and-” the phone in your bag started ringing. Head teacher. Inhaling deeply, you answered it “Yes?”

“Y/N-san? I am so sorry. Could you come to Josey university?”

Losing the eye contact you had been maintaining with the blond boy, your heart sank as you heard the words ‘kiln’ and ‘malfunction’. “…Please tell me my final project is ok”

……………………………….

You stood in silence, looking at the mess when you heard a knock at the door.

“I know I shouldn’t have followed and am expecting you throw me out the door but…” you didn’t move an inch so Kazunari took that as a free pass.

Just as the teacher told you, the electricity in the small building had had an issue and there had been a combustion, meaning, the sculpture you had kept here while working for weeks was now cracked and in shreds. You sniffed, brushing away the tears that were trying to come out from your eyes. All your hard work. All the time spent, had been for nothing.

“The Kiln is burnt. I don’t have anything good to save” you felt emotionally exhausted “Damn, I should have used air dry clay since the beginning… or not tried to sculpt anything” your vision became blurry again “I don’t know why do I make everything more difficult that it is”

Kazunari contemplated the situation, studying the seemingly full cracked sculpture from afar.

“Teach probably told you she would wait for you to turn on the work, right?” He saw you vaguely nodding you head “You got this!” he put his hand on your shoulder, you barely glancing at him “Look, If you still wanna use this base I’ll go ask for some moisturize and clean water to mix. Then I will maintain the upper part as you work down there, not bad idea right?”

You stared at him, finally grasping that he had come all the way here and was now trying to help “Why are you here? I… was being a busybody telling you how to work in our major” you had realized you had crossed the line back then.

Kazunari laughed, shaking his head “You were not saying anything that was a lie though, I don't want to admit it, but it’s true I've been a mess for a while”

“I guess parties require a lot of work” you bite your tongue hard. He was being a decent person trying to help and you couldn’t stop for two seconds to pick on him? You wanted to punch yourself.

“Mmm? Ah, our theatre troupe is almost opening for performance and the next troupe is on practices so flyers and scripts are running at full gas”

You stopped looking at your sculpture. What did he just say about a theatre?

“…What?”

“You’ve never come, Y/N-pyon? Mankai company is the best theatre in Veludo way! You totes should come, I’ll even send you the tickets for our new performance!” before you knew it, he had already DM you what you imagined was all the background information.

The moment you unlocked it, you almost dropped the phone. The photos and drawings of the posters were amazing, and you just knew who it had done “You… never said you had a job”

Kazunari considered what you pointed out. Mankai had managed to recover from what they needed to pay but they still didn't have enough founds “I’ve never thought about our acts as a job thought”

Your mind was a mess. Being an actor and doing publicity didn’t count for him as he studied? No wonder he usually left early! Now you felt even worst. You had behaved like a… “Uh, are these original templates?” you browsed over the performances’ posters, each one more astonishing than the other “This is… wow and this one?”

He blinked, noticing how the tone of your voice was now more soothing. You had somewhat calm down. He would high-key enjoy hearing you talk to him like that more often “Hey, enough about me. We have work to do”

You agreed, putting away your phone “You’re right but again I… I am sorry, Miyoshi. And thanks, for staying”

“No prob, Y/N-pyon!”

“Would you tell me what I could do so you stopped calling me that?”

“Eeeeeeh why? I think it fits! It's super-duper cute, like you!”

Thump!

No. You told yourself.

Coming back to your senses you told yourself the warm you felt in your cheeks was due to summer starting earlier. It definitely wasn’t because of Kazunari smile directed at you, helped you or how the sun reflected on his perfect profile as you both started working on your work.

Art was wild… but it was also an evocative of feelings.

_________________________________________________________

This one has been a difficult one! I wanted Reader to kind of clash with his mindset

Hope you guys enjoy it. Have a wonderful day! 💕

#a3 #a3! act! addict! actors!#A3! Actor Training Game #a3!#a3! game #kazunari miyoshi #a3 kazunari #reader insert #reader #kazunari x reader #a3! kazunari #miyoshi kazunari x reader #kazunari miyoshi x reader #one shot #a3 tsuzuru

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daesungindistress · 4 years

Note

im glad im not the only one who found the truck ad thingy strange.. i mean do people seriously think yg has or will ever give a shit? bc I don't. of course, some staff members might care about bb as people but the company won't? and why do I feel like ot5s are always demanding stuff they don't even know the members want/need? its a nice sentiment i guess but i always get the feeling they don't trust the members somehow? oh well. yb said what he said, i'll take his word for it. it'll be alright.

The project wasn’t what I was expecting -- and by that I mean it wasn’t as BAD as I was expecting -- so I’m not too bothered by it. But it was still embarrassing and IMO reflected poorly on IVIPs as a whole. Because in some ways it was a bit tone-deaf. BB aren’t having activities right now primarily because of COVID, sure, but there is of course another reason why they’ve been keeping things on the down low since last year and giving their image time to slowly recover. You know who. He is so hated by Korea at the moment that the Korea Subway Transportation Corporation refused an ad for BIGBANG bearing his name and face not because he isn’t a member of the group anymore but because he’s considered “immoral”. So, what do OT5 IVIPs do? Go and put him in a paid ad for BIGBANG demanding protection against hate. Aimed at YG, no less, who he no longer has a contract with 🤦 “Foreign roaches should read the room,” one knetizen commented. Yeah, some of us can. OT5s can’t. I swear these people wake up every day with the goal of finding new ways to get the guys dragged.

In another recent fan project (Fanplus) a fanmade OT4 poster was selected to celebrate BB’s upcoming 14th anniversary in Korean subway stations. OT5s raged online and bombarded the company with hate to the point where Fanplus issued a statement politely requesting that fans stop sending them profanity. This made the news in Korea, by the way. These fans ran amok on Twitter, plotting to sabotage the project (yes that’s the word they used), promising to vandalize the displays, and threatening to tear them down. Y’all. Who needs antis when you’ve got fans like that? Ironically, these OT5s don’t seem to realize they’ve become the very thing they’re asking YG to protect BB from.

And no, they don’t trust the members in the slightest. If they did they would stop screaming at them about Seungri daily and trying to strong-arm them into giving them what they want. They would stop baiting them into making statements about him... then manipulating, misinterpreting, and mistranslating their words when what they get isn’t quite what they were hoping for. They would see the foolishness of slapping his face on promotional posters and would think twice about demeaning the members by placing him front and center. If they truly trusted BB they would stop shoving him on them, where he no longer belongs, and on us, where he’s no longer wanted. They would quit forcing the issue, give up their demands, and simply let it be. Accept what’s happened and what is -- quietly.

If they trusted the members they would also let go of this pretense of concern they’ve been flaunting lately. “We care more about the members’ mental health than a comeback,” they boast, in a seemingly well-meaning but actually backwards attempt to disguise the fact that they’re reluctant (and for some, downright unwilling) to support new material from a four-member BIGBANG. It’s only a nice sentiment until you understand where it’s coming from, this faux caring. They are hoping the guys will lie low a little longer, quietly and uneventfully, their creative energies suppressed until their disgraced ex-member returns from the military and ~rejoins~ them. They’re pushing a tragic narrative that says the members are too depressed and broken to make music without him. Believing they don’t want to come back as four and patting themselves on the back for telling the guys to take it easy until they can be five again. Yeah, that sounds an awful lot like wishful thinking to me, from a group of fans who still, after a year and a half, haven’t come to terms with our new reality. We all know whose mental health they’re really protecting by balking at the idea of new music -- and it ain’t BIGBANG’s.

What’s especially funny about this is -- well, you know those teasers from TOP over the last few days? The clips from the studio with the caption “working,” him spitting lines with a vengeance, dancing in his PJs and looking for all the world like someone who’s ready to take on the stage, and even dropping a “Big Bang,” getting us all stirred up with excitement? He posted those just as these “we’re not asking for a comeback because we care” arguments were making rounds on Twitter. The timing could not have been better. Thanks, TOP, for serving a reminder to those who’ve forgotten (or have never known) that the most healing thing a creative person can do is keep creating 😘

In short, the truck project was messy, reckless, and unnecessary. And Youngbae’s “Cheer up, guys” that followed, with a fun message about shaking off hate, is all the encouragement I needed, personally, to keep believing good things are on the horizon for BIGBANG. I trust they know what they're doing. All there is for us to do is be there for them when the time comes. Until then, we wait.

#bigbang #ask #anon #had to write this twice lol #because the tumblr app is shit and ate my post when I tried to post it #it had been so long since I typed out a lengthy post on the app... I forgot how unpredictable it can be #sigh

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ridiculousyoungicarus · 4 years

Text

Self Para 002: Cry Me a River TWs: Alcohol, Alcoholism, Alcohol Abuse, GRAPHIC Suicidal Ideation, HIV, Zander is a dick Word Count: 3,247 Setting: From immediately following the Thanksgiving Picnic until after the event has been concluded on Luxor’s Blenheim, New Zealand campus. Notes: If you have NOT looked at the posters previously posted onto this blog, you need to look at those first and then come back to this. Zander’s text thread from the event with Elliot also gets explained in this, as that was going on in the middle of all this crap. Sorry I had to complicate the Luxor Extended Universe this time, folks.

Once the initial shock wore off, the rage settled in. Zander was pacing around his common room, whipping his head to glare at whoever was stupid enough to open the door to the room. Now wasn’t time. He didn’t want to talk. But when he realizes it’s Ches he pauses, “what do you want?”

“To figure out what the fuck is going on with you. You’ve been grouchy all afternoon, more so than normal.” Her movements are cautious as she turns to close the door behind her and slowly walks into the room. “Is it because I made you talk to your brother? Because I swear I was only trying to help.” He had barely remembered she’d done that, it felt like a lifetime ago, but it’d only been a little over a day. Two?

He takes a deep breath, opening his arms to her as he speaks. “I’m not mad at you.” But she doesn’t come to him, and instead opts to settle herself onto his couch, pulling her knees up to her chest. “I swear it’s got nothing to do with you, stop giving me that look.”

“I’m not giving you a look! I just feel like shit, and maybe fixing your problems will fix me. Okay?” She snaps back at him, and usually he’d pause and try to figure out why she felt so broken, try to take on whatever she was upset about. But, tonight he had bigger priorities and he sat down next to her on the couch, patting her knee a bit awkwardly before he just comes out and says it.

“I found out who gave Balo HIV.”

He wasn’t expecting how defeated his tone would be at the confession, but it made sense. And for a minute he watched Ches try to figure out who it could be. “So it was your dad?” She guesses, after a few moments. Wouldn't that be the better alternative?

He thinks back to his conversation with Claire, the way he’d tried to defend Jack. How he actually hadn’t wanted it to be Jack, for once in his life. After all, why wouldn’t he tell them? He claimed he cared so much about Balo, and in spite of the fact before this he had been starting to trust him when he said it, now Zander called bullshit on that now more than ever. If he cared about Balo, he would have told her the truth. He would have been there for her, supported her instead of just leaving her alone in the dark terrified. No, Jack didn’t care. He never had about anyone, and he never would.

“Jack. His mother told me-” “His mother is dead, Zan. Jack doesn’t like it when people call Claire his mum.”

“Does it matter what Jack likes? Claire told me he said he gave Balo HIV himself, that he’s been lying about his status the entire fucking time. Who knows what the fuck he’s given to Juliet... you’re probably safe, you’ve been on prep but it’s beyond fucked up, he still won’t tell Balo, and according to Claire he won’t.” He groans, leaning back into the couch. He had no idea what to do, how to handle it. “I’ve never hated him more than I do now.”

The girl beside him starts to move, and he raises an eyebrow at her as she goes into his cupboards trying to find something. “God, we might as well be drinking rubbing alcohol but it’ll do.” She huffs, but she still pops the cork on his cooking wine and brings it over, taking a long chug of it before she offers it to him. She seriously couldn’t expect him to drink that crap, right? But as he looks at the bottle, he reaches out to take it from her, taking a long sip of it himself and making a face as he offers it back. “Don’t tell Elliot I’m doing this.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.” He didn’t see why he’d have any reason to tell, although he doubted Elliot would believe him even if he did. It seemed like assurance enough for the redhead as she takes the bottle back from him and chugs more as she sits down beside him again. Maybe he should be trying to stop her, but he didn’t have a fight with her in him currently. It wasn’t as if he’d win it anyway, he’d tried. She never seemed to cared when someone told her to cut it out. “I don’t know how we’ll get through to Balo, she needs to know.”

“Can you let me get drunk first before we discuss this shit?” She groans. Was her alcohol really more important than Balo? He raises an eyebrow at her as he stares at her, and after a few moments she sets the bottle of wine down next to her. “Nothing sends a message better than revenge? I don’t know, Zan. I can barely handle my own shit lately. If I could put posters up all over the school telling everyone but you, Elli, Sky, and Balo to leave me the fuck alone until after I’m dead, I would.”

“Ches, if you’re not going to help me, go cry to Elliot. I can’t handle your shit right now either.” Zander reaches over to his cooking wine and steals another sip before he sets it back down. The wine really was awful. Why were they doing this to themselves again?

Still, she reaches out to grab the bottle again, cradling it close to her chest as she gives him a dirty look. “You can have it when I’m done, it’s my turn.” She hisses, “did you talk to Jack about this yet?”

“He doesn’t give a fuck, Ches. I don’t think he’ll ever tell her.” He explains as he reaches out to take the bottle from her. Maybe it wasn’t fair to withhold the fact he hadn’t even tried, but Jack had months to tell. If he could lie straight to everyone’s faces in the aftermath, it was easy to assume he wouldn’t ever care enough to tell the truth. And he knows the look on her face as she continues to hold onto the wine bottle, as if it was the most precious thing in the world, and moves away from him to keep him from taking it. The way the rage sparked up in her eyes, an expression that usually even made him step back in fear. But for once, the intense flash of anger was welcome. He needed it.

“I said it’s mine! I want it!” She snaps, darting out of his grasp with it in the direction of his dining table. “You really want to force him to do something? Take away his choices. And if you want to use his tactics against him, you need to make sure they’re not absolutely pathetic like Windsor’s posters were. I wanted to blow my brains out looking at them. Not like it’s hard to feel that way around here, most days I want to.” There’s something off about her tone, her words, and for a brief moment he questions if he should actually be pushing this currently at all. She clearly wasn’t okay, but neither was Balo and he supposed this once, maybe it’d be okay to be selfish. “You need to go in hard and quick. If you over complicate it, nobody gives a fuck. The more minimal they are, the better. So, you don’t want to aim too low, you don’t want the mob trying to kill you but...”

“I don’t give a fuck about the mob, Ches. He needs to pay for this.” Zander corrects her. Did it matter if people hated them? They were doing the right thing. Nobody else could get hurt like Balo had been if they told. Maybe Juliet would be okay? Sure, she’d hate him, but what Jack has done was inexcusable.

“You should be afraid. Everyone’s going to hate us if we actually do this.” “If they hate us for going after Jack, good riddance. Please, Ches.”

He watches her reaction to his words, the conflict on her face as she considers her options. She takes a long drink, tilting the bottle up high if she was trying to get as much alcohol as she could inside of her at once without choking in the process. “Fine, I’ll help with your fucking revenge scheme if you let me keep the wine.” She growls. He nods in agreement, holding his hands up in a peace offering as he slowly approaches her. After what felt like ages of watching his every move, she finally speaks again, “get your laptop. We have work to do.”

—-

Ches had fallen asleep over an hour ago, in the middle of talking, but by that point her suggestions had been barely coherent anyway. He’d already picked her up and moved her to his bed after finishing the last of the posters. And despite her protests at being woken up in the process, he just propped her up on her side, tucked her in, and waited for her to go back to sleep. Once she had, he went back to the common room to grab his laptop. For the most part his attention had shifted, revenge was well on its way and now he had time to worry about her. Balo might have contributed to it but she hadn’t been what set Ches off. She’d already been spiraling the minute she’d walked in his door. He saw that clearer now more than ever.

He glances away from the girl to take a glance at the test run of posters he’d printed. For a moment, as he reads what they’d written, he hesitates. How hadn’t he noticed they included Balo’s name in a hashtag? Perhaps he’d been too busy trying to translate what seemed to be a mix of French and slurred gibberish to think about it. It’d be easy to fix, he supposed. Simply replacing the hashtag with another resource link like Ches had suggested for each of the posters. But, he didn’t want to. Wouldn't it be better if everyone knew it was Balo who’d be affected? The ray of light everyone had watched get extinguished over the past few months. He hesitates, only a moment longer, before he goes back to his laptop to hit print on the run of them.

He sighs before going back to watching the body in his bed. Hyper focused to make sure her skin wasn’t changing colors, and her breathing hadn’t shifted. God, he really should have stopped her, or at least tried to limit her. He should to tell Elliot, right? If their roles were reversed he’d want to be told. Maybe Ches would be pissed off later, but, he didn’t know what else to do. He’d fucked up, he let her keep the bottle in exchange for her help with these posters. She had every right to be mad at him for it too.

[To Elliot:] Hey, I know you don’t want to talk about Ches with me but I’m really fucking concerned right now. She showed up on my doorstep drunk, and I’ve seen her in pretty rough shape before but this is the worst I’ve ever seen her ever. I’m keeping an eye on her atm but I thought you’d want to know [To Elliot:] Do you want me to bring her to you? She’s out of it but she wakes up if you poke at her. [To Elliot:] I think it’s Leo related? I dunno, she was too busy rambling about wanting to steal you stars to tell me what was wrong before she dozed off 😖

Maybe pinning it on Leo was fucked up too, but, if he had to guess what else was going on, wasn’t that the easiest guess? It was that or Cade. He had seen her step brother stumbling a lot during the picnic, obviously already back to using not even a full week after leaving rehab. Whatever it was, if Elliot wanted to deal with this he’d let him. If not, he’d have to multi-task. As he waits for a response he pulls out the map of the school, trying to think of where the best places to put posters would be on this campus.

The more people who saw them, the better.

After all the parents left Luxor, he’d slip one of them under Jack’s door. Warn him of the storm that was coming under the guise of giving him a chance to amend things just to see what’d happen. As he waits to see if his phone goes off, he reaches over for a sticky note to scrawl a message on.

Figured I should give you a heads up. I did tell Claire that if you wouldn’t tell her, I would. What do you think? Pretty, right?

Perhaps he should make a version of a poster without Ches’s name attached for this. He glances over to the sleeping girl again, no, she definitely wouldn’t be in the state for Jack’s crap tomorrow. The longer he could keep her out of this, the better. Neither of them would have peace in the end, but, at least she could keep hers a tiny bit longer.

—-

[From Chessie ☀️:] I CAN NOT BELIEVE YOU [From Chessie ☀️:] ELLIOT DID NOT NEED TO KNOW LIKE THAT [From Chessie ☀️:] WHAT THE FUCK, ALEKZANDER?

Zander had been helping to pack up the book club’s table when her texts came in, and he ignored them momentarily to continue trying to clean up their booth for the fair. Even when his phone goes off again and again, probably berating him about leaving her on read with his receipts on, she needed to wait a few minutes. He was a bit too busy for this, he needed to get this cleaned up quickly so he could sneak the warning under Jack’s door.

[From Chessie ☀️:] You do not just get to leave me on read [From Chessie ☀️:] Did it ever occur to you I SHOULD BE THE ONE TO DECIDE WHAT I TELL MY BOYFRIEND [From Chessie ☀️:] I was going to tell him, you had no right [From Chessie ☀️:] I’m so pissed off at you, Zan, I stg. Not cool.

He groans as he reads her messages, this time opting to send back a quick, fast reply in hopes it’d get her out of his hair until he has time for her shit.

[To Ches:] Cleaning up club fair, text you when I’m done. Sorry, didn’t think you’d tell him shit and you scared me [To Ches:] Can you wait to yell at me til you see me later? We need to discuss Jack’s posters.

And as his phone starts to go off again, he puts it on silent and gets back to work. He’d deal with her later. Right now, he had way bigger fish to fry waiting on him. She wasn’t on the priority list, not today.

—-

He should have expected Ches to be waiting for him, but as he enters his room, he still jumps when he sees someone sitting on his bed glaring at him. “I was concerned.” He defends himself, immediately, as he sits down at his desk.

“Why did you lie about it being your wine?”

Was she really going to immediately start in on that? He didn’t see why it was a big deal, he’d been protecting her. Both of them, actually. What did she think would have happened if he told Elliot the truth? He’d spared them both a headache. At least, he thought he had until she started blowing up his phone. “I didn’t want to deal with the lecture while finishing up our posters. Plus, did you want to tell him why?” He moves to hand her one of each poster, and she groans as she reads them. What was wrong? He thought she wanted minimalism.

“We included our names? Fuck. I’m so getting dumped.” She throws herself back onto the bed, tossing it to the side. “At least we’ll both be on Elliot’s shit list. I told him the truth, you know. I’m not about to start lying about what I’m doing, or where I’ve been, to him. I love him, Zan.”

“So you told him about the posters?” That gets his attention. How much had she told? Was she trying to ruin everything they’d worked for? Finally, they were going to be able to get back at Jack for everything he had done. Every time he made their lives hell, and she was willing to throw it away.

But as she starts to answer his question, his concerns dissipate. “Of course not. I was hoping to stay unassociated with this shit, I didn’t tell him about Balo either before you get on my ass about that too. Can’t we just reprint them without our names to avoid the attention?”

“No. They’re staying as is.” “And Jack still hasn’t told her?” “He’s not going to tell her, Ches.”

“Fine.” She sounds so defeated, deflating into a heap on his bed with the word. “I can’t believe you fucking lied to Elliot, so I had to deal with how disappointed he is in me and go directly against what you said.”

“Did he believe you?”

The way she gets up and storms out of the room was more than enough of an answer for him. She was offended, which meant either he hadn’t or that Ches was annoyed he even had to ask. Either way, as much as her being angry usually bothered him, he didn’t have time to care currently. He grabs the keys to his rental car before he takes one last glance at the posters ready to go on his dresser. He needed tape, an abundance of it.

After all, he had a lot of posters to hang later.

—-

They hang the posters the next morning in silence. On occasion, he’d glance over to her to watch how seemingly robotic her motions were, and every time the guilt got to him as soon as he looked. The show had to go on, she knew that better than anyone. But as he hangs the last of his posters, his phone buzzes. He waits until he’s done to read the text message, realizing within seconds she’d sent it out to everyone. “Fuck.”

[From Chessie ☀️:] I’m sorry about the posters around the school today. I don’t want to get into my involvement, because frankly the details don’t fucking matter. The damage has been done, it was taken way too far, and I wish I never helped at all. My intentions don’t matter, nor do the events leading up to it. I fucked up, and I’m sorry. Just, remember if you’re a dick about anyone’s HIV status you’re an even worse person than Jack was in this situation. I expect a lot of you will be angry, rightfully so, but please leave Balo out of this. She had no idea about any of this.

He groans, of course she was going to try to distance herself from this. Anything to keep her precious Elliot on her side, right? He makes a face, quickly sending out his own mass text.

[To All Luxor Students:] If you have an issue with those posters and your name isn’t Balian Grace Driskell, cry me a river. Balo, call me.

#alcoholism tw #alcohol tw #alcohol abuse tw #suicide tw #HIV tw #no chains won't hold me down ( musings )#make no mistake i live in a prison that i built myself ( self paras )#yeah that's not who we are; we are not beautiful ( ches | balo )#suicide attempt tw #better safe than sorry y'all #debated waiting decided to not

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panstutteringbill · 4 years

Note

*clears throat* PLEASE TELL ME ABOUT BEN x BILL!

THANK YOU

this was a while ago but please enjoy!

they meet the same way they do in 2017 canon - with Ben stumbling along Bill, Richie, Eddie and Stan with his injuries from Bowers and they help him out.

And Ben’s first impression of Bill had been in a classroom surrounded by the Bowers Gang and stuttering out a chapter one of their teachers made him read while a pretty rogue flush ate at his cheeks and he looked on the verge of tears that made Ben want to protect until Richie Tozier had said, “Fuck off, sir!” and then the topic had changed and when the class had ended (Richie with one more detention than previously), the Losers had gathered around Bill’s desk as he slammed his head against his desk and Ben had been quiet enough as he collected his books to hear Bill groan, “I ha-ha-hate my st-st-st-st-stutter so fu-fucking much.”

That had been his original first impression though he had vaguely heard about ‘Stuttering Bill’

His second had been when he had been in the middle of research and he had looked at one of the articles and it read ‘George Denbrough’ in the same line as, ‘missing with concern from his older brother, William...’ and Ben’s breath had caught.

( all of the research he did, he didn’t hear a single survivor and his heart goes out to Bill in a way that feels painful)

But then, he meets Bill and it’s actually Bill - it’s not Bill Denbrough, or Stuttering Bill, or Grieving Bill - it’s just Bill.

It’s Bill with gentle, concerned eyes and sure hands to pluck him out of the dirty sewer water with a stuttered, "Sh-shit, you okay?"

And then despite the shit water all over him, Bill pulls him onto the back of his bike Silver with no hesitation

Ben rides into Derry's main town with a flushed face as he clings to Bill and he wants to blame it on the injury but he can feel the lean muscles of Bill's stomach beneath his green shirt and he feels too close too fast

It shouldn't feel intimate, he guesses from the other Losers casualness - though Richie looks at his flushed cheeks, pauses, looks at him with the ghost of something like familiarity and understanding before he nods, and says, "Glad I got to meet you before you died."

Ben doesn't get these boys but he thinks he likes them

(He even likes them when Bill is a little too close to his blooming crush, Beverly Marsh)

(( it's a confusing feeling when he has a crush on both Bill and Bev))

But then they go to the Quarry, and Bill is all azure eyes, reassuring smiles and a bare chest but Ben can't stop thinking about how odd it is to be friends with these boys - how they all arrived fully clothed and just started stripping while not looking at each other (though, if Ben were to focus, he does notice Richie Tozier's spectacle gaze linger on them for a moment but Ben wipes it off as for material in a joke that never comes) and then they just, hang out? And it feels exponentially weird to Ben and he's staring at the concave of Bill's stomach below the prominence of his ribcage and he both hates himself and loves Bill.

(it's a weird day)

And then, they're all together in the Quarry, and they're goofing off and Bill has Bev settled on his shoulders and Richie is on Ben's as they play something the loudest boy called "chicken" and then Bill and Ben are close and as he feels the jostle of Richie and Bev tussling, he looks and Bill...Bill is smiling at him, all whistful eyes and something that says 'well...hi there, I never noticed you were here before'. It makes Ben feel oddly warm.

Then Bill is staring at Bev and he's trying to say something but the words are getting caught in his throat and Ben knows where it's going but can't listen to the broken compliment come from his crush anymore so he says, "Your hair looks beautiful, Beverly." to get the moment over with

Bill sends him a dejected, almost hurt look and Ben tries for a reassuring smile. It doesn't come. He feels bad.

Then they're in his room and the others are digging through his things and he thinks he sees Eddie lift up one of his cologne bottles to smell it and he thinks concerned is this what having friends is like? and Richie and Eddie and Stan talk in murmurs and laughs and Richie says 'ha, nerd!' but then shoves his glasses up his nose and his eyes are all goodnatured and Ben doesn't mind. Bill's question about the sewer line diagrams comes a moment later and he's over there, standing near Bill and talking about it as Bill's thin and gentle fingers grip the picture and Bill nods at him as he rambles about them and he would find it in himself to feel stupid but Bill has a look in his eyes that makes Ben feel like the other boy finds him particularly important.

Then they're in Bill's garage and they're looking at photos when it becomes haunted and flicks over to a photo of the Denbroughs and he's stunned Bill's smile looks forced but his grip on Georgie is genuinely loving and Georgie looks ... different but Ben has only seen him in Missing posters (Ben had torn that one down before Bill came into the room and hoped the older boy wouldn't notice) so he thinks it's obvious.

Bill stands as they all run and he's rigid, a possessed calm in his entire body and while Ben is thinking of a plan, Mike saves him, drags him closer to him and is the one to Bill (figures, he thinks with no bitterness, Mike is awesome)

Bill runs to Neibolt and Ben follows, Ben follows because the Losers follow, Ben follows because he couldn't imagine doing anything else

Bill gives them a speech on the doorstep of the haunted house and Ben wants to cup his cheeks, stroke his hair and offer him apologies and assurances he can't prove right. Instead, he comforts Bev when she gets nervous and pretends he doesn't see Stan crying.

He gets sliced into by Pennywise but it still doesn't hurt as much as Bill's tearful rasped, "Ben?" like he can't believe that Ben is leaving after the others abandon and he wants to assure Bill that he's a call away, that he's always going to be thinking about this, about Bill.

Ben Hanscom offers a half-believable lie that tastes like i don't know how to love a boy like you, Bill - I don't know if I even am supposed to.

Beverly gets kidnapped a month later by Pennywise and Richie's voice is frantic on the other side of the phone but he can hear Bill's stutter vaguely in the background and forgetting the fear washing over him with Beverly being taken, he asks Richie why Bill didn't call him and Richie's voice is more somber than he's ever heard it - even during their fight - when he says, "He was worried you wouldn't come...if it was him."

He comes. Of course, he does.

For Bill, for Bev, who knows?

He kisses Bev and it's alright - she makes a little part of him warm and beat harder but his body breaks out in a full hot flush when he thinks what if Bill saw us? what if it was Bill?

Pennywise knows where their heart and determination lies so IT drags Bill away from the group and promises that IT would leave them alone if they only gave It Bill and Bill rasps out an apology and tells them to go.

Ben doesn't consider leaving for a second.

He curls around the group as Bill cries and he wants to press kisses to his cheeks.

He leaves after the blood oath - he knows what has been going on between Bill and Bev and he thinks that they both deserve this.

(He may cry a little walking away, but maybe, he thinks, he deserves that?)

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migleefulmoments · 5 years

Note

So... Abby responds to her family's intervention by obediently telling them she'll stop (ie. lying to them). She then immediately tries to find ways to keep the blog in secret, hiding behind various usernames, lurking on her coven's blogs, more time deleting posts from both blogs we know about. Meaning, instead of getting help, she spends even MORE time online engaging in more batshit crazy crap to cover her ass. Yeah, sure, that doesn't signal dire need for mental health intervention AT ALL.

It looks like that is what is happening. We will have to see what the future holds. What does Abby do?

So far the fandom is flailing. Cassie got a couple of anons- one that reads like those anons Abby used to send herself as it covers all the issues they are most upset about so perfectly well (My comments in parenthesis and italicized::

Anonymous asked: Even if I am unsure about CC itself, I don't buy M*arr*n. I just don't. And the other side is using doxing and the fact that you and others say things they don't like about M as an excuse to do so and as a way to detract from the fact that their couple goals have some pretty big, glaring plot holes in their love story. I've not seen anyone on this side of the fandom out or dox anyone publicly as a way of humiliation. M gave up her privacy by dating D, but Abby didn't and they were wrong. Period.

cassie1022 answered: Nonnie, I swear every time they diagnose us as mentally ill or say we’re bitter hags, an LGBTQ angel gets his or her wings. We all know my beliefs, but there are MANY people that are like you and don’t know for sure about CC but sure as hell know Miarren isn’t a normal, healthy relationship. (Funny thing, I don’t remember anyone diagnosing Cassie as mentally ill. Cassie is alwasy the wallflower that nobody wants to dance with and she tries so hard to be part of the fun people. Last week she was sad because I hadn’t sent her a “hate” message (See comment in last post below)

Even if I remove D from the situation, I would still think M is a lazy, spoiled toddler with no discernable work ethic coupled with a superiority complex that rivals the Cheeto in Command of the US.

You are absolutely correct. Our fandom just wants to be left alone. We don’t send hateful asks to the other side. We don’t have to. They feel they have the right to dox CCers because they don’t like what we say about M, a woman that would light a cigarette from the flames engulfing them and not call 911 to help them. I mean, honestly, it doesn’t get much lower than mocking someone’s death. Plus, as you correctly said, M put herself in the spotlight “dating” D. If she didn’t want that attention, she would have stayed in the background. There are plenty of celebrities married to non famous people and we don’t see them at every event like we do M. (It is BAFFLING to me that they can’t comprhend something as simple and obvious as the reasaon they “see Mia everywhere” is because they fucking stalk her and they hyperanalzye every photo Darren is in looking for her. If they started stalking Ben Feldman they would see his wife just as much as they see Mia).

Bottom line is what they did to Abby was deplorable, but, just like their kween, they feel justified in doing whatever they want. This isn’t the first time they’ve crossed a line with regards to my friend, but it was the worst.

notes-from-nowhere Anon, they love to throw the guilt of their actions on our shoulders, it’s how they justify what they do to themselves. They need us to be the bad guys otherwise what is the only option left? (I never know what the hell Notes is trying to say- throw the guilt of our actions on their shoulders? I’d love an example of that. I can’t imagine what guilty action I put on their shoulder. As for needing them to be the bad guys or what do we have left? OMFG are you kidding me? We critcize the cc fandom for being misogynistic, homophobic, bullies who attack Mia, Darren, Ricky and their own Nonnies. They have viscioulsy attacked people in their own fandom who dared to question them. But the biggest reason we push back is because THEY LIE. All the damn time. So what do we have left? Being on the right side, being correct, not lying, not needing to lie, and the joy of watching Darren live his best life)

Leka got a couple of asks but her answers were weak, confusing and pointless. It’s clear she isn’t ready to take over as their leader. She repeated Abby’s main talking points, tried to use big words to sound smarter and basically ended up not making a lot of sense:

Anonymous asked: I could be wrong, and I hope I am, but I think the character on the HW poster holding the girl is D's character, it would fit if you look at the other guys on the poster, maybe this is already the first hint to show D's character is not gay and so technically not breaking the no more queer roles rule his team set for him. It won't make it any better because it's still a career on the bag of LGBTQ+ people with it's teams but it's technically not a broken rule. I just really need for things to change, I want them to so bad, it kills me seeing someone so kind in a situation like that, and I truly believe D is one of the kindest people in that horrible town. He deserves better than M, I wouldn’t even mind if he goes onto another beard but she and RR just need to go. I really think it’s crazy people still think everything HW is real and PR relationships don’t exist, I wished that place was just better and had a moral compass, people deserve more it kind of shows just how jaded this situation has made me, I can’t even enjoy amazing promo material without directly twisting it into something negative, I don’t want to be this way and if I feel like this I can’t even imagine how D must feel. He is stronger than I’ll ever be living through hell every day, even if he’s not ok he’s still here and holding on, I don’t know if I could in his position. Sorry for the long message and the unneeded negativity, I guess I just had to vent a little

*********************************

Leka answered: So let’s look at the way HW is described:

“Each character offers a unique glimpse behind the gilded curtain of Hollywood’s Golden Age, spotlighting the unfair systems and biases across race, gender and sexuality that continue to this day. Provocative and incisive, HOLLYWOOD exposes and examines decades-old power dynamics, and what the entertainment landscape might look like if they had been dismantled.”

I do consider this the very intriguing thing about the news. (And it just goes to show that believing everything you’re sold is being utterly and completely ignorant.) Let’s say you’re right because ofc it’s possible. How does R/aymond fit in here? Given the excessive way team shit has pushed that article, a technicality won’t be good enough. There has to be a better plan. This doesn’t match what’s been said in his name.

What I think is this doesn’t necessarily have to mean much. You know very well what you see doesn’t have to be the (full) truth. That doesn’t just apply to the real HW. Especially considering the time period of this show. And let’s not forget the pap pics we got at a gas station. This doesn’t rule out SB as an inspiration. I would advise anyone to read up on him. We don’t know at this point. As we keep saying, the best thing to do is to wait and see. I’m certainly interested in finding out more.

As time goes on, the danger of this situation keeps becoming even clearer to me. D deserves much, much better. He’s incredibly strong, but the most toxic person in his life needs to go and she’s more than welcome to take the jumping jackass with her. That’s definitely the most important thing right now. (I’m curious what the danger of Hollywood is?)

awesome-fanfictionada: @leka-1998I’m just wondering - it must have been D who got himself this job on HW, right? Couldn’t this have been done on purpose to counter that ridiculous statement - which wasn’t even accurate, if the source was that interview where he stated that he wouldn’t want to be a casting director? Could in this case RM be a friend?

leka-1998: @awesome-fanfictionada Yes, he did that himself. Again. And he said the show’s been sold late in 2018. According to an article that came out later, it happened in February 2019. Not true.

HW has been a thing before that statement was made, which is indeed very different from the answer D himself gave during the interview. That’s what makes the article seem like sabotage by team shit. And standing in RM’s way is never a good idea. So while I will obviously never like him, I’m reserving judgment on his current role until we know more.

Anonymous asked: The underlying issue in general is really that social media has made it so people think they get an accurate glimpse into the lives of celebrities, when in reality social media, like everything else that is publicly released about them, is used as a marketing tool. People are actually more inauthentic than they've ever been because they feel pressure to maintain a certain image for social media at all times. So anyone who decides D is living honestly, it's because they want to believe he is.

Leka: True, nonnie. Just look at the text lines that are becoming more popular again. Not nearly as genuine as people want to believe. In D’s case, what has to be brought up? M. Oh Halloween and her amazing shopping skills praised on SM. The work fam honeymoon pic promoting the place they stayed at. Coa/chella for the H&M ad. Mardi Gras posted shortly after the mockery to promote the designer. I could obviously go on. Most of what we see on SM shows the person the 10 year crew wants him to be. And what looks like a split personality if you compare certain posts. Which brings me back to ‘they want to believe’, as what you’re saying clearly isn’t a secret. Anyone can choose to ignore it but at this point, if that’s the case even though you’re more or less paying attention, it’s really a conscious decision.

Oh btw, there’s a HW IG account now and it already has a D follow. Imagine that. R/oyalties co-stars, anyone?

Flowers didn’t get any asks. Amazing since she has more followers than I do and she bragged about getting more “notes” than me. She did answer azscc who posted an odd rant that baffles me. Who the fuck is azscc and who is posting anything about her? I realize I am not the only person in this fandom posting about ccers But I just checked all the blogs that I know of and nobody is talking about her;

azsc its so weird how chillarrens call me a bully while i only say something rude towards them if they write bullshit towards me. and its just ironic how chillarrens go around calling people bullies while they are the reason why tons of cc accounts use their accounts private or don’t post their opinions and etc. the real threat to the fandom are people like you. so instead of going around throwing shit on people and calling them “mental, delusional...” get a life. no cc believer goes around hunting for chillarren pics and insult the account owner so why don’t you all grow up and realize no one has to agree with your opinions. every crisscolfer blog/twitter page/insta acc basically stan accs never asked for your opinions on their pages so why don’t you just let it go? no one cares about what you all say or do so why are you forcing it this much?

call me a bully i am pretty much okay with that. its obvious that people are unable to understand basic sarcasm and irony and i am not judging because to actually understand what people say you have to at least have an average IQ level. and if you don’t have it, it’s okay but that doesn’t mean you can twist people’s words and post them all over the internet. but its lowkey really funny that i only had my instagram acc for something like 4/5 months and i received over 300 hate/insult/blackmail/death wish messages and etc. and who are you people to call us bullies? (Nobody is a Chillarren. Darren and Mia are married and Chris and Will are in a long-term relationsihp, Nobody has to “ship” them in order to believe they are together. In America, we accept that when someone introduces their wife or their boyfriend they are telling the truth. It is customary to address that person as their wife or boyfriend respectively. The crisscolfers on the other hand, must use a fandom ship name because they are shipping two people who are not in a relationship and never were. All evidence indicates Chris and Darren are no long friends; they are nothing more than former co-workers-friendly and polite when they see one another but no longer involved in one another’s lives. Chris and Darren both have denied (more than once) that the were ever in a relationship). .

flowersintheattic254 I have never in my whole time here posted an anon to a Miarren account. I have no desire to. I’m confident in my beliefs.

The interesting thing for me is that I’ve been here for about four years now and in that time I’ve seen the head of the fandom disappear, other people disappear because their families have been doxed, established long-term cc blogs with a wealth of history deleted without warning. I myself have had my daughters threatened. This sort of stuff doesn’t happen anywhere in the fandom but here here. If we are a bunch of delusional crazy middle-aged women then this shouldn’t happen. (Who was doxed? Who dissappered? It’s all “liar liar” with everything ccers say. In the last 4 years Abby has been the only leader of the cc fandom. Michelle left between 4 and 5 years ago because her outrageious cc comments threatened her ability to raise money for her little Klaine-fanfic rip-off movie. I vaguely remember someone asking flowers how her daugther’s would feel if they read what she writes- hardly a threat. If there was something more she never posted any proof. As for blogs being deleted- so was D-Criss News. It happens. The only cc blog that I know of that disappeared was DisneyPrincessModelWorld’s original blog which had was a hot mess of lies and catfishing. She visciously bullied Mia. Hardly someone to mourn their blog being deleted).

It’s shocking that an actor may lgbt causes such drama. (HUH?)

Flower’s comment is so disingenuous. While it is technically true -she hasn’t sent me anons, she HAS instead publically ridiculed me and frankly, I can’t see how that is any different? I’d say it’s worse because they wanted their followers to see what they wrote and the only way to ensure that is to post it on their blogs. Flowers and Abby posted many public “Michy” posts. Here is her most recent:

flowersintheattic254Oh and I guess Michy sent us all some hate today.

I guess I have way more followers than you and only about 4 that send hate. You haven’t for ages.

I think I have over 70,000 hits currently to my blog. I must be saying something interesting.

He’s been married allegedly for a year and people still doubt. That’s gotta hurt you. Anyway......

✌️

ajw720 Michy told me today today that the outing couldn’t possibly be promo, because JS was only cast in September! What a moron who clearly doesn’t know how HW works. Sweetheart, it was ANNOUNCED in September;)

I was waiting for a few more months, but in 4 years, since i have been tracking, i have almost a million! (976,695 to be precise).

It is amazing that so many people care about what us bat shit crazy, irrelevant, psychologically unstable, threatening, hateful tin hats have to say! And that does not include people reading on their dash or that hit you on the app! So yep, Michy, clearly what we are saying is being monitored by someone. And clearing making people think!! But you keep wasting your time writing for your audience of 4:)

cassie102 I feel left out, Michy didn't come at me today. Must hurt like hell knowing you're a joke that perpetuates a bigger joke.

leka-1998 Birds of a fake feather flock together. When the right person says tomorrow’s Christmas, tomorrow’s Christmas. Get ready, everyone.

If I narrow it down to the last six months, about 10,000 btw. Hm strange.

flowersintheattic254 @ajw720 the number of hits you have give me oxygen. If Michy thinks they are haters then she is delusional. People know when they are being sold something fake and they look for answers.

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judelaw · 5 years

Note

Can you explain how Yon Rogg wanted made Carol to kill him?

Of course! To fully understand what’s going on we first need to look at the context of the scene: Yon-Rogg got ordered by the Supreme Intelligence to get them both Carol and the core. We (and Yon) know that if he’s lucky he will just get killed by the SI if he fails to do that. He’s the hero and poster boy of the Kree Empire but the SI obviously doesn’t value his life at all.

Now I said ‘lucky’ because apparently Yon-Rogg is used to the Supreme Intelligence’s abusive behavior and expected this whole conversation to go much worse. Just killing him could obviously be a possibility but judging by Yon’s reaction and how the SI seems to humiliate him with glee, they probably consider it an easy way out for him and will punish him much harder than that.

Notice how he backs away (which he never does in the film; neither when he’s fighting Carol not when he’s fighting the Skrulls) before he leans into the hand when he realizes they aren’t going to hurt him right now?

He shortly crawls away from Carol after she injured him and surely is afraid of her (or death), yes, but even then he doesn’t look nearly as terrified as during his entire encounter with the Supreme Intelligence (who, unlike Carol, should technically be on his side).

Either way, no matter what the SI will end up doing to him, it will be incredibly painful at least and most likely cost his life.

So when Yon-Rogg is facing Carol on Earth and there is no chance for him to get the core anymore, she is the only “thing” that he could at the very least attempt to get to not die by the hands of the SI - which is why he’s struggling so much. He’s in love with Carol and therefore doesn’t want to attack and hurt her but he also doesn’t want to return to his God/abuser/leader with empty hands. He even says he cannot go back like this (and also Kree warriors are supposed to either return victorious or die in battle).

You can see he’s fighting with himself, still unsure what to do; clearly nervous instead of holding the gun steadily like he has all the times before.

Until he has made his choice: Carol.

Carol, who before he said that looked at him with a ‘you hurt me, fuck you’-expression

now seems surprised and almost softens a bit (which makes sense considering what a huge part he was in her life; she only learnt about him lying to her like 2 hours ago so there’s probably still some hope in her left that he actually isn’t an asshole and that their friendship wasn’t a lie).

If he wanted to manipulate her into letting him go, which makes no sense to begin with as he had plenty of time to flee while she was taking care of Ronan’s ships, he would use that to his advantage. He could continue talking about how much he likes her, could tell her that even though he lied to her, their relationship was never fake - and in this case he wouldn’t even be lying - but he doesn’t want her to let him go.

At this point, Yon-Rogg has already chosen to not attack her, to not even try to fight (he could have easily shot her before all of this while they were walking towards each other, during his speech, when she came close to him as he was sitting on the ground, when she drags him to the ship, and when he’s in the ship itself but he never does) so he adds the following.

And this is Carol’s reaction:

She immediately becomes more tense again and is back at the ‘fuck you’-expression.

No matter what you think of Yon-Rogg, you can’t pretend he’s stupid - especially not if you think he’s a manipulative asshole. He’s looking directly at her, saw the positive change on her face when he said ‘I’m so proud of you’ and the negative one when he added ‘You’ve come a long way…’.

(In case the difference between the two isn’t clear as both are technically compliments: ‘I’m so proud of you.’ is very personal, it’s something you say to someone you care about or even love, not your enemy/someone you hate/don’t give a single fuck about. ‘You’ve come a long way…’ is a statement in itself but more importantly: it immediately reminds her of his lie and therefore naturally provokes negative emotions.)

So at this point he would have to stop and either go back to the “good” (or better) compliments or even say nothing at all if he didn’t want to make her attack him. But he keeps going.

Again, Yon-Rogg isn’t stupid. And he knows Carol incredibly well - from all we know about her personality on Earth and Hala she always was the same person so even though she isn’t Vers anymore, he knows how she’ll react to him saying that. After all he has tried to teach her the same lesson over and over again for six years.

She laughs at him at first but when he continues his lecture and provokes her by attacking her, she get’s angry. Which has the following result.

Even without the books we know this happens fairly often. She loses control and uses her photon blasts against him even though a) he is her friend and b) simply isn’t supposed to do that.

Yon-Rogg knows what makes her mad. Which is why he still doesn’t stop.

Notice how he keeps shifting from one foot to another? We have never seen him like this before. Usually he’s calm when facing an opponent.

He’s moving when they are facing the “Torfans” but that’s in no way comparable and simply normal movement for someone who’s up against a potential threat he doesn’t want to attack. It isn’t nervous and if anything it’s meant to keep them away.

You could argue he’s moving so much because he’s scared of Carol now that her full powers are activated, which is already wrong considering he has already fought her and even casually held on to compliment her diversion but why would he even be afraid of her powers if he was manipulating her to make her attack him without her powers because he thinks he can win against her that way? At this point he had several opportunities to change his approach to get the result he wanted - which in this scenario would be her fighting him in hand-to-hand combat - but he never did. So he should be sure of what he’s doing.

And in reality he is, he is sure she will end up shooting him. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t afraid of dying - after all fearing that is what even got him into this situation.

He’s afraid, and yet still provokes her into attacking him, hoping to die, because that’s a much better fate than going back to the Supreme Intelligence. Keep in mind he wouldn’t just return having failed his mission, at this point he failed on purpose. He withdrew his weapons, he refused to even try to attack Carol. And the SI can see his memories, his intentions. They would know all of that. So despite of being afraid of dying by Carol’s hand, it’s still the better option for him.

His plan works. At least partly.

Carol has enough of this and attacks him, just like he did during their training at the beginning of the film. Originally they were supposed to have a fight similar to their training in which Carol ends up being victorious to come full circle and even though they didn’t do that, the similarities are still there.

The provocation was the same and so is the outcome - and there was no reason for him to believe it would be differently.

However, and that is the sad irony in this, even though he has gotten her to do exactly what he wanted - she did have herself under control.

Despite having easily destroyed entire space ships just minutes earlier, she didn’t kill the person who originally hurt her. No matter how mad she is at him. And that will result in a worse faith for him, which Carol obviously doesn’t know, otherwise she wouldn’t have sent him back as she clearly didn’t want him to die - and she’d also never send an abuse victim back to their abuser.

Yon-Rogg knows what he will have to go through, even says

yet he doesn’t actually tell her what’s really going on, he doesn’t make excuses, he isn’t lying to her, he isn’t manipulating her - despite knowing she kind of already showed him mercy and he most likely could make her let him stay (or whatever people think he wants).

I think, and this now is really just speculation, Yon-Rogg is used to following others. He’s the leader of the Starforce, yes, and a great leader, boss even, but he always had other Kree above him and most importantly: the Supreme Intelligence. Serving them was his life, he would do anything for them, he was depended on their “love” and “affection” (which is how the relationship was even able to get as abusive as it is; Yon-Rogg is clearly seeking their affection since he probably never got any in his past - and even on Hala, as the hero and leader of the Starforce, he gets along with his team etc., but Vers seems to be his only actual friend). Just look at how he leans into their touch once he realized he isn’t going to get hit.

But he has turned against them now. He chose Carol over his life and the SI. However he isn’t used to healthy dynamics so he’ll simply do what Carol says. She is his new “SI” now, the being/person he looks up to and serves. And Carol wants to send him back so he accepts that and doesn’t even try to reason with her.

And therefore finally accepts his faith.

#for some reason it won't let me put it under a 'keep reading' so rip all of you #long post #reply #anon #captain marvel #marvel #yon-rogg #abuse #I'll try to fix it again later i guess??#thanks for not working properly tumblr #I tried it like 12 times even with different browers I'm so sorry sadfghg #cm reply

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yurionice-secretsanta · 5 years

Text

To @cadencekismet From @vilchan

Purrhaps Not Today

Yuri kicks open the door of the animal shelter and stomps off the snow stuck under the soles of his leopard print vans. An elderly couple and the girl behind the counter stare at him, pen held motionless in the air over a form of some sorts. Yuri lifts his chin and raises an eyebrow, squinting in that way Mila once described as ‘a delinquent waiting in line to pay for a carton of milk’.

The elderly couple startle a little and are quick to huddle closer together, mumbling under their breath. The girl behind the counter—who can’t be older than twenty—raises an unimpressed eyebrow in return, holding his stare for a moment before she turns back to the couple and points her pen on the next clause to explain.

The wall behind her is covered by posters of cats in the arms of smiling children and dogs leaping after frisbees or tennis balls, with titles like ‘Become someone’s forever home now’ and ‘Make a difference today’. She doesn’t quite fit in with the vibrantly coloured backgrounds and photoshopped faces—on the contrary her messy bun is lopsided and coming apart at the seams, her t-shirt wrinkled and covered in dog hair from the looks of it, and there are not one, but three coffee mugs next to a computer who looks as if it’s been running since before he was born. If it weren’t for the customer friendly smile and the easy flow of her speech as she informs the couple about the different options they have, Yuri would’ve easily mistaken her for one of the many stressed college students he sees in front of him in line at the 24-hour open supermarket, arms full of comfort food, painkillers and coffee grains.

Two waiting chairs and a table take up most of the space in the small room. Yuri ignores them and leans against the wall, skimming the pamphlets spread out on the table briefly before his attention wilts and his fingertips start itching. Hidden in the pocket of his hoodie, he twists a tiger shaped keychain around his pinky.

The elderly couple give him a wide berth on their way out, and the pleasant smile from the girl slips once the door shuts. She looks him up and down, dark eyebrows pinched together—Yuri is long used to stink eyes, it comes with the territory of being a child prodigy who also spent his teens being a total asshole, but an animal shelter wasn’t the place he expected to meet one.

«Can I help you?»

He plants his elbows on the counter, chews thoughtfully on his chewing gum as he skims the mess of papers and loose documents strewn across the desk and observes her idly as the girl’s lips purses themselves into a frown as she waits. Her name tag reads ‘Natalya’.

«I wanna volunteer,» he says, tilting his head slightly to the side so his hair falls away from his eyes.

Not what she was expecting, he could tell. A moment passes in which she just stares at him, stone faced with a disbelieving tilt to her mouth. Her eyes narrow and she looks him up and down again, this time with none of the welcoming hospitality she showed the couple from before. Yuri clenches his jaw, considering for just a moment to leave if she won’t take him seriously—but back home is an empty apartment and the looming threat of a phone call from his grandpa where he’ll again have to make his uneventful days sound healthy and engaging.

«Do you have any prior experience volunteering?»

«No.»

«Any experience handling animals?»

«I had a cat,» he replies, fingers twisting and untwisting around the keychain.

Natalya rummages through a drawer, curses quietly when she doesn’t find what she’s looking for and pulls out another. Eventually she slides a form over to him, the paper slightly crinkled and with what looks like coffee stains in the corner.

«You don’t get a lot of volunteers, do you?» He asks, mostly out of curiosity, but also to see that annoyed twitch in her expression.

She makes the kind of face Yuri over the years has learned to recognize as a warning; she pulls the form back over the counter and Yuri has to yank it back, banging his hand against the polished wood in the process. A mutual glare is shared before Yuri snatches a dog face-printed pen from a cup next to his elbow and stalks back to the chairs. He can feel the force of her glowering as he discards the top and lets it fall to the ground.

He takes his time reading through the document, paying extra attention to the clause in which they promise not to divulge personal information like his phone number or email; Yakov had at least taught him that much. He scrawls down his name, address and contact information. He writes down his date of birth and age, and for once it doesn’t make him feel old to write down 24 years old.

He ticks off ‘walk dogs’, ‘shelter care’ and ‘cat attendant’ when they ask what types of volunteer work he’s interested in, and after a moment of hesitation he ticks off the box next to ‘other’ as well, for good measure.

A question about when he’ll be available comes up, just to estimate the amount of time he’ll be able to devote. He checks off the box saying ‘at least five hours a week’, but beneath it he scrawls ‘anytime’.

Natalya looks up from her paperwork as he slides the form back to her, their gazes locked in a steely staring contest as they both hold onto the form.

«We’ll be in touch,» she says briskly and goes back to her paperwork, apparently done with him. Yuri bites the inside of his cheek and wonders for a brief moment if this is how Yakov felt all those years. Maybe he should send him a gift basket for his birthday.

He turns on his heel and marches out, making sure to slam the door just as hard on his way out as he did on his way in.

***

“Yurotchka. It’s been too long since your last call.”

Yuri looks down briefly and his grip around the phone tightens; beneath the chiding gruffness is worry, and he hates it when his grandpa worries.

“Sorry, it slipped my mind. How’s your back? The weather must still be cold in Moscow.”

His grandpa barks out a laugh at that. “My back is fine—it’s you I worry about. Are you eating well?”

“Of course. …Actually, I’m thinking about volunteering at a shelter. Just part time, but it’ll get me out of the apartment at least.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end and Yuri has his lip held between his teeth, holding his breath because this is another kind of nervous than what he’s used to.

“I’m glad to hear that,” his grandpa says, calm and collected where he is not, and Yuri can finally breathe again.

***

A week later he’s called in for a basic introduction on how the shelter operates. It’s not Natalya who shows him around, but an older man with greying hair, big glasses and worn leather shoes who introduces himself as Josef. Yuri pays rapt attention as he’s given a tour of the shelter, informed about the different procedures and what volunteering entails. When he asks how many other volunteers they have, Jakob rubs his neck and chuckles awkwardly.

“There haven’t been many volunteers except Talya, lately. I’m the owner and deal with most of the paperwork, while she handles the animals and reception along with some college students who drop by once a week or so.”

Jakob looks at Yuri through those comically big glasses, and for a moment it’s like being fifteen again with one skate on the ice and Yakov’s steady hand on his shoulder just before a competition, both to ground him and to give him that extra push. Yuri recognizes very well that hopeful, expectant expression.

“I guess that means I’ll have plenty to do, then,” he says and turns on his heel. Once he stepped out on the ice he never looked back at Yakov, and he doesn’t look back at Josef either. Eyes forward. “The cages are next, right?”

Deep in his pocket, the keychain is wound tightly around his pinkie.

***

«I wasn’t sure you were gonna show up,» Natalya says as the door slams shut behind him. She doesn’t sound happily surprised.

Yuri holds back an eye roll and twists his hair up into a ponytail. She watches stoically from the counter with only one coffee cup this time—still steaming. Hopefully she isn’t one of those people who get grouchier with more caffeine.

«Well, here I am,» he says, «What do you need me to do?»

She waves him along to the door behind the counter which he already knows will lead to the back rooms with the animals.

The first back room is for the dogs, and they all perk up when they enter, barking and panting for attention like a certain poodle he’s glad is currently on another continent. Natalya tries to shush some of the barking and leads him quickly past the cages—stopping only to ruffle the ears of a moping golden retriever who wags weakly with his tail in response.

“I’ve already cleaned the dog cages, so you take the cat ones. Someone set up an adoption meeting in—” She glances briefly at her locked phone screen, “—thirty minutes, so I’ll do one cage for you to see before you’re on your own.»

The cat room has thirty cages lining the walls and within are cats of all colors and shapes. Some stay curled up on their bedding and will barely turn an ear in their direction, while others get up on their hind legs and wail like sirens for attention.

A siberian with long, smokey grey fur pushes their face close to the bars and blinks up at him. Yuri reaches out to let them sniff his hand—

«I wouldn’t do that if I were you,» Natalya comments drily from behind his shoulder. «She likes to act all innocent, but that one’s got some claws on her.»

Yuri has half a mind to ignore her, but the cat’s tiny paws are indeed armed with a set of sharp claws she methodically digs in and out of the bedding with her blue eyes firmly fixed on him. Better let scheming cats lie.

«What’s her name?» He asks. The finger he moves from side to side in front of her cage must either smell like dead mice or look suspiciously like a red dot, because her eyes follow it with searing focus.

«Belle.» Her tone is clipped and dismissive and if she had pigtails Yuri would have to fight back the impulsive need to tug on them. But, he reminds himself, she does not have pigtails and therefore he should not tug on them. That would be immature and petty.

Natalya gives him a quick rundown; pull out, shake, laundry basket, fold and repeat. A dry ‘good luck’ later and he’s on his own.

Cleaning cages is—unexpectedly—a shitty job. It’s smelly, moist, tedious and it’ll take forever to get through just one row. At the pace he’s holding it’ll take at least another hour before he’s anywhere close to finished, but the thing is…

Yuri kinda likes it.

Except for the smell and the symphony of thirty cats crying out for food, Yuri really doesn’t mind the task. Every cage comes with a new furry face, and it feels good to use his body for physical work again; his height is for once an advantage instead of a pain and saves him the effort of pulling out the ladder Natalya pointed out for him earlier.

Around the time he reaches the halfway point, Natalya pokes her head in to check on him.

«Things alright in here?» She asks, sounding remarkably, almost friendly. Just a tad less grouchy and he might even give her credit for trying. «I’m gonna go for a walk with the dogs. You good to stay here for another hour?»

Yuri nods, doing his best to keep his expression from screaming ‘my schedule is a black void of nothingness with the exception of the weekly calls to my grandpa’. Every now and then he gets a text from Yakov reminding him to eat a minimum of two meals a day and get something between eight to ten hours of sleep, but other than that his time is his to do with as he pleases.

«If someone rings the bell, just tell them to come back some other time.»

Yuri raises an eyebrow. «And if I can actually help them?»

She looks him dead in the eye. «Don’t. Most likely they want more info about the adoption process or they want to schedule an adoption meeting—you’ve been trained for neither. Just tell them to come back. If they’re serious, they will.»

Her semi-friendly tone is all but gone as she observes him. The way her gaze lingers on his leopard printed vans and the bold print of his hoodie reminds him of Lilia when he first met her—but unlike Lilia who always fought to bring out the potential she saw in him, Natalya looks more like she’d like to see him reduced to dirt than anything else.

She stares at him and some old, stubborn part of him wants to bite back, call her a hag and stomp off somewhere to stew until she comes creeping back. But that tactic never really worked with Mila or Lilia or Victor, and imagining the faces of his grandpa or Yuuko if they saw him behave like a literal fifteen-year old just… doesn’t appeal to him.

«Fine,» he says, «But chasing them away doesn’t sound as the best tactic if you want them to come back.»

And in true fifteen-year old fashion, Natalya glares at him with the power of a thousand burning suns and slams the door—or, well, more like shuts it firmly to not scare the animals, but the intent is there.

A drawn out, raspy meow from Belle reminds him of the dirty bedding he’s holding and what he should be doing with it.

«Yuuko better be feeling fucking proud right now,» he grumbles and whips it once, twice; successfully transferring a ton of cat hairs from the bedding onto his newly washed, black jeans.

***

Natalya is, in fact, not back within an hour. Yuri finishes up with the cages, and since he’s not allowed to help any clients if they happened to stop by anyways, he waits in the back, mostly out of spite. But fifteen minutes passes, the cats are pacing in their cages and complaining, and she’s still not back, so he refills all of their water bowls and then—after a quick glance at the feeding schedule taped to the wall—he refills their food bowls too.

Josef is the one who finds him thirty minutes later on the ground making funny faces at a dozing tabby who really couldn’t care less. The cats all perk up at the sound of someone entering the room; even Yuri’s lazy tabby meows for attention.

«Ah… I see you’re having fun?» Josef says, absently pressing his knuckles against one of the cages to let one of the cats sniff them. «Have they’ve been out already?»

«What? No. Natalya told me to clean the cages, but they’ve been acting weird ever since I finished.»

«Wow, she sure isn’t going easy on you, giving you the crappiest job first,» he says, and Yuri has to physically ease his hold on the keychain he’s been fiddling with to avoid breaking the chain. In the beginning it could be accounted to a bad mood, but now it’s really starting to look as if she doesn’t want him here. Either Josef doesn’t notice the tight set of his jaw or he chalks it up to the fact that he’s just spent two hours cleaning cages; there’s nothing but a curious tilt to his voice as he continues:

«She didn’t tell you about the socialising? We usually let them out of their cages after cleaning for some playtime. If they were to adopted by a family with kids, for an example, we want them to be fairly used to humans. So we take them out in batches of ten to play.»

At his blank look, Josef waves him up. «I’ll show you.»

Three batches of ten for thirty minutes each; they carry them one by one into a playdate room with boxes of cat toys, water bowls and a cat tree stationed in the corner. Belle scratches him in thanks before she darts out of his grip, tail lifted high and haughty like she owns the place. Even though she’s small in size, Yuri doesn’t miss that some of the other cats shy away from her, so that might very well be the case.

When every cat is safely moved and the exit properly barricaded, Josef gives him a few safety instructions and tells him to yell out if he needs him. Something about paperwork or responsibility or whatever, Yuri had two cats in his lap and tried to secure a third one climbing from his shoulder to his head at the time, and multitasking was never a specialty of his to begin with.

The lazy tabby who didn’t appreciate Yuri’s funny faces earlier is apparently called Rolf. Josef carried him in earlier, and the second he had all paws back on earth he headed for the cat tree, probably to continue his day-long nap with a higher vantage point. A single narrow eyed look and a flick of Belle’s tail as Rolf nears is all it takes to dissuade him from that idea.

Instead he curls up at Yuri’s side and keeps a watchful eye on Belle, tail curled around himself. Yuri’s hand finds its way into his fur almost on its own, and after a tense second in which Rolf contemplates wether protection is worth the ear scritches, he softens and closes his eyes to doze.

«Hmph, coward,» he says, carding his fingers through the soft fur of his neck. «Letting her boss you around like that, where’s your pride?»

Rolf rumbles with a deep, vibrating sound and offers no other response except the lazy curl of a paw.

The cats look happy to do their own thing; dozing on the different levels of the cat tree, sniffing around the water bowls in search of food, snuggling up to him for some attention or just to be petted for a while.

One of the boxes next to the door is filled with cat toys, and especially the younger, more playful cats seem to enjoy chasing after jingling balls and swatting at stuffed mouse toys. Yuri manages to lure some of the lazier cats in the cat tree down by using a plastic fishing rod with a feather at the end of the line, tickling their noses and pulling away when they try to bat at it until they’re leaping from one spot to another with their claws out to catch and kill.

When the first half hour is up, most of the cats aren’t all that happy to be picked up again and placed back in their cages. A new set of scratch marks join their comrades on his arms, courtesy of two worked up cats whom he doesn’t know the names of.

Cute little bastards.

Natalya is having her own playtime with some of the dogs in the other room, wrestling them for a chewy toy and scolding them lightly when they get overeager and jump up on her.

She hasn’t noticed him yet, so he leans on the doorframe and crosses his arms as he observes. A moment later he realizes that he looks like a moody teenager and plants his arms back at his sides, shuffling his feet a little to rearrange himself.

«I thought you said you’d be back in an hour.»

Her smile slips for a moment and one of the dogs bark triumphantly as he finally manages to steal the chewy toy from her lax grip. Immediately, two of his smaller cage mates leap on him, yipping and shoving their noses beneath him to snatch the toy away for themselves.

Natalya fixes him with a sour look. «I took a longer route and came back twenty minutes ago. What about it?»

«Oh, I don’t know, you could’ve told me?» He says and crosses his arms. «Or you could’ve explained that I was supposed to do the socialising thing after I was finished, instead of leaving me waiting for you to toss me a crumble.»

She snorts, and Yuri scowls. «What, is that too much to ask? I’m here to help, but it doesn’t really look as if you want me to.»

«Yeah, sure, you’re here to help,» she snorts. «Believe it or not, but I’m not gonna waste my time training someone seriously when you’re obviously not taking it seriously.»

«Where is that even coming from? I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me—you’re the one who’s not taking me seriously!»

«Oh, for fucks sake, you’re an olympic champion and my brother has your posters plastered on his walls! You show up here in your flashy clothes with no experience volunteering, and I’m supposed to what? Act as if it’s not a publicity stunt? Sure, you can clean cages and cuddle with cats as much as you want, but at the end of the day you’re gonna make your dramatic return to figure skating next season with a better reputation than Jesus himself. I want nothing to do with it,» she says, looking slightly redder in the face than before.

It’s Yuri’s turn to snort, and he doesn’t bother to hide the sceptic look on his face. «Who the hell shot your Santa Claus? First off, I’m not going back to skating. Long story short, my injury from the Grand Prix was just the feather to tip the scale; my body’s so busted the doctors won’t allow me to even look at a rink, so that’s a big no. Second, I get three worried phone calls a week from people who want me to get out of my apartment, so I thought doing something nice for the society would be a good start. And also: cats. I really like cats.»

He looks down his nose at her and raises a sharp, blond eyebrow. «Are we done here?»

***

The next morning, Yuri wakes up feeling like piece of shit gone through the drier. His shoulders are sore from leaning into cages all day yesterday, aching in ways he’s grown unaccustomed to after so long away from the ice and the training regime following it. He twinges as he reaches up into the cupboard to retrieve a mug, but he sucks it up; feeling like a piece of shit after coffee is usually better than feeling like a piece of shit prior. Maybe it’s time to pick up a membership at a gym or something.

The thirty minute long bus ride to the shelter sounds about as tempting as eating the leftover kibble in the dogs’ feeding bowls, but being a no-show after yesterday’s shitshow is absolutely out of the question. Natalya and her entitled opinion can go die in a hole for all he cares, but hell if he’s gonna let her think she’s right about him.

His closet has been forty percent workout clothes and fifty percent tiger stripes and band logos since he turned fourteen, but he fishes out a plain, black hoodie and a pair of white sneakers he’s used maybe two times in his life. Not that the chance of being recognised out on the street was very high to begin with here, but he knows his absence has made the atmosphere among his fans more… turbulent than usual.

He leaves his apartment with the hood pulled down low and arrives at his bus stop five minutes early. He keeps his earbuds in and his nose buried in his phone for most of the ride, and for once he doesn’t make a ruckus on his way in, instead shutting the door gently behind him.

Natalya looks up, for once not with a frown. Her hair is pulled away from her face with a bandana, and it takes him back to an onsen in a has-been town with nothing to speak off except their broken ace and the people who love him. But unlike Mari, Natalya has none of that easygoing confidence. She looks at him with weariness in her eyes, pen halting in the air and stumbling in its steadfast ‘taptaptap’ against the counter. She looks ready to say something, but makes no move to do so.

«Where do you need me?» He asks, tilting his head to the side in a manner his grandpa would scoff at. It’s a bad habit he hasn’t quite managed to shake since his teens, and an annoying coworker isn’t what’s gonna inspire him to get rid of it. It’ll take a heartfelt apology and a bag of newly baked piroshki to even consider, and Natalya hasn’t even made it halfway.

«Uhm, dogs,» she says, blinking a little to compose herself. «I’ve finished most of their morning walks, but Yoda, Dany and Eloise haven’t been out yet. Take them to—you know that park two blocks from the mall? The one with the little pond and oak trees, right by the dentist office? Take them there.»

Unlike the cats, the dogs’ cages are all marked with their names and are thus easy to find. Yoda is apparently the shi tzu who always greets him with a hoarse ‘bork’ when he passes by his cage. He and Dany, a standard poodle and are two of the older residents well-used to the routine. He fastens leashes to their collars and leads them down the hall to the last cage. Unlike her buddies, Eloise is a bundle of endless energy, constantly pulling at her leash to run ahead and very insistent in where she wants to go.

Except for the occasional jogger and elderly person passing by with sneakily hidden bags of bird seeds, the park is theirs to rule. They keep a leisurely pace so that everyone will have the time to stop and sniff at lampposts, flecks of grass or a bush of interest. Natalya gave him the ok to let Dany loose without a leash if it wasn’t crowded, and she trots diligently a few steps behind him, sometimes slacking off a bit or taking the lead as it suits her.

Yuri’s experience with poodles is limited to Makkachin, and seeing Dany leaping ahead does bring back memories of the countless times Victor had him dog-sit for the weekend whenever he planned to whisk his husband away. But Dany doesn’t jump onto him or bulldoze him down with wet kisses and snouts pressed under his chin like Makkachin. It’s been a while since he though about her, actually. Maybe he should give those two idiots a call later.

Once everyone has found a spot worthy of their droppings, they head back. On their way in, Yuri holds the door open for a father and his daughter. Between them is a carrier, tightly shut and with a familiar, furry face hiding behind the bars.

“—can’t wait to introduce Ketchup to Billy; do you think they’ll get along? I hope so since…”

Is all he hears of their conversation, even as he turns to watch them leave with Rolf; or Ketchup, as it seems he’ll be known as from now on. Good for him.

Yuri leads the dogs back to their pens and hangs the leashes back on their hooks. He refills their water bowls and spends some time showering a long faced mixed breed with affection.

While he’s been out, Natalya and Josef got started on cleaning the cat cages and are almost finished by the time he pokes his head through the door.

«Ah, there you are, Yura. Could you just get started on the socialising while we finish up here?» Josef asks.

Natalya has her back to him, shoulders tense and hunched. Josef hands her some clean bedding, and their gazes meet for a split second across her shoulder before she breaks it off.

***

They meet in the playroom with the eyes of ten cats on them. Belle has finally accepted his existence and even lets he pet her; the first touch to her furry, little head is hesitant and careful, ready to pull away at any sign of hostility. She stares at him as he pets in slow, light movements, and then her head sinks back to the floor and her eyes close slowly.

Yuri holds his breath, almost moved to tears at the display of tolerance trust.

Natalya joins him on the floor with her back to the wall, and she is immediately surrounded. One cat comes out victorious and settles on her lap, purring loud enough for him to hear six feet away. Two others settle down on each side of her thighs, pressed close to steal some of her warmth.

They sit in silence for a while. Yuri has no need to break it; he’s not the one who should be apologising right now, so if Natalya wants to stew, he’ll let her stew.

“I’m not really sorry. I mean— My thoughts, not the way I treated you. The way I treated you was pretty shitty, to be honest, but I don’t think it’s weird for me to be suspicious when an Olympic champion stumbles in and wants to volunteer at an understaffed shelter. But I guess it wasn’t very fair to you, and we need more volunteers, so, y’know, you’re welcome to stay.»

It’s a pretty crappy apology in his opinion; no eye contact, no bag of piroshki, and he never actually heard the words ‘I’m sorry’ in there. But well, he’s probably delivered much worse apologies himself when he was her age—not that that’s a high bar to reach.

«I could show you how to work the computer system later, if you want,» she offers.

«Sure.»

He can’t waste time on grudges when there are cats to pet and cages to clean.

Thank you for reading! This was a gift for cadencekismet! I had some trouble coming up with something for your prompts, but I hope you liked it :)

#cadencekismet #vilchan #gifts19 #YOIsanta19 #fanfic #Yuri Plisetsky #Yuri!!! on Ice #submission

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inappropriatefangirlneeds · 6 years

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Gotham s5ep4 “Ruin” Personal Review

“There goes the element of surprise..” Warning spoilers below (ahaha not this week, boy am I late, not that anyone would have missed this though, also little meta content this week)

What I loved about the episode is that it´s the “apocalypse” and then it comes down to a crime scene investigation! I would take much more of that! Much more! Just less of a bloodthirsty MOB. Like would they really want Zsasz hanged? The evidence was pretty clear, Jim Gordon really got no reason to lie to them, actually it would greatly benefit him if he did. Do they really not want to see the real culprit punished? I´m not a fan of lynch/mob law in general but does it make sense for the mob to want the wrong guy hanged, that way the police probably will think / claim everything is settled and call it a day, which means the real culprit is free to do that again, but then again I wonder how many people know about Zsasz and him having been a hitman, did some of them have had relatives that got into Carmine / Sal Maroni crossfire, was this partly a he´s a guilty filthy criminal *anyway* thing? * “You don't need to smuggle in explosives when you can detonate 250 gallons of highly pressurized heating oil that's coursing through all the floors.” Ah damn, they really had Edward Nygma do it, I kind of didn´t want them to follow that route. Also why put that running guy with bomb in there then, huh .. damn exploding herrings. HOPE goes on and off this week: “But whoever destroyed that building can't destroy the hope we've built. Not unless we let them.” “I told the people it was safe. I made them into a target.” “Jim, you gave 'em” “Don't tell me I gave 'em hope. They're dead.” * It´s GOOD vs. EVIL “This city will never be what you want it to be, Jim. It's always gonna belong to the bad guys, like me.” “People like you are always trying to own this city. But you never will.” * It´s GOOD ft. EVIL Oswald Cobblepot poses as if he was the synthesis of both those opposites: A bad guy that cares. “I lost people, too, Jim. People you lured with promises of safety and security, only to have them incinerated.” Oswald arms the GCPD talking about working together just to take over and get his own trials and justice going. He´s claiming to provide what Jim can´t. While both Barbara Kean & Oswald Cobblepot claimed their help came no strings attached Oswald´s help does not include staying aside and letting them do their work. Although to be fair he said “Save for the one that we will cinch around the neck of the Haven bomber.” What is it with people that it always needs a couple hundred dead people that they can focus on nice things. Anyway everyone is appropriately appalled with this atrocity. They also gave all the villains some selfish reasons. OSWALD COBBLEPOT wants people and their cheers. EDWARD NYGMA wants the file of the inmate. “I've been putting out feelers.” BARBARA KEAN is worried Sirens might be next, making her probably the least “selfish” one because she seems to care about the people that she protects and might not demand the same level of praise that Oswald does. (I know probably other things but unless canon proves me wrong I headcanon slightly differently) She feels hurt but understands Jim would suspect, even for a moment that she could be responsible for the destruction Haven. They slowly get her back on suitable for Jim Gordon to kiss track, which phu idk. I liked her and their relationship in S1, but there´s just so much happened in between. And plenty in Barbara´s characterization I didn´t like so it´s nice to see her on a more reasonable track now but how about they just gave her an awesome relationship with Tabitha ........ Characterization questions aside I really loved that she did not and could not kill Oswald in the light of the explosion! That was a touching moment! Also her outfit is nice, although they toned down the make up. And Jim gripping her arm during the kiss almost gives old timey movie vibes. I´m sure I don´t need to write on Babs / Oswald paralells, I assume I just can reblog better words on it from someone .. * Also something tells me if JIM GORDON had gotten that shoot out with VICTOR ZSASZ, that kiss would not have happened …… “Inmate number 1215 knows! Knows what???!!??!” Ha, distressed, puzzled, annoyed EDWARD NYGMA is a joy to watch. I don’t really have to say more on that. Edward snatching the blanket from the woman when walking into the GCPD makes me wonder, what would he have done if that woman hadn´t been there? Just walked in? Did he have a stupid disguise and was like, oh no wait that´s better. He and LUCIUS FOX were a delight. Edward trying to snatch the file from him and run was wonderful! Him preening in pride when his expertise is wanted was delightful! Lucius claiming, he´ll deny having said the praise he gave Edward in the end, precious! Lucius playing him like a fiddle, and moving him with barely more than his fingertips, damn! Just that the whole thing was shot like when Ed pursued Kristen Kringle! Their dynamic is just wonderful: “Impressive. Calculated the angle of incident to follow the trajectory through the window, into the fuel oil tanks.” “Yep. That, and the RPG case is right over there.” * One thing that stressed me was Ed sending the Files flying around him on the rooftop. Like at that moment he didn´t yet know that the woman he saw in the window was connect to the note he put down on his hands. Even when the inmate was dead there could have been some hints in the file or who knows in hid grave. Like, no Edward! No! Go run and pick them up. * Someone needs to do a Parallel Meta for 5x04 & 4x12 when Ed found out he hired the hit on Leslie Thompkins. * “I did not make that building go boom, Jim.” Yeah, that´s a VICTOR ZSASZ line. Love him. * ““Hey, do you guys have any canned peaches? Man, I'd trade an arm and a leg for that right now. Not mine, somebody else's.” Food and cut off limbs, that´s another one. Love him. * And that one: “Do the math. If I blew up a building full of people, I would have covered every inch of my body in sweet, sweet scars. You guys want to do a strip search?” “I'd let Alvarez do it. He's handsome” * Him shooting Oswald´s head on the major poster after he said something was a great detail! * Him drinking while waiting for the bullet hail to stop as well. * I´m gonna make a post about the Gunman magazine that fell on the floor, after Jim tackled him so majestically ... * Zsasz usurping the applause afterwards, and later was adorable. * “Is this about Sofia Falcone? Because you should really move past that. It's not healthy.” DOES HE KNOW SHE KILLED CARMINE, DOES HE OR DOES HE NOT ???? They had him express sympathy towards Carmine in Season 1, they showed that he cared when Carmine got killed. I get that he might abandon issues like that in the current environment but they can´t open up such a plotline and then just drop it. Does he know that Oswald didn´t kill Carmine? Like honestly .. I know it´s the Jim Gordon show but I would have loved it if Victor Zsasz just had saved himself!! I would have loved it even more if along the way they somehow figured out the whole misconception, Zsasz would recognize that Sofia and not Oswald is to blame and maybe even apologize. * But hey Oswald´s “Well said” about the mumbled last words was mean but awesome. * Soooo who went in the trashy local torture museum to get the guillotine? * How does Zsasz work? There where zero people shown around him. What is it like to live on Zsasz turf? * Zsasz mumbling must have been bewildered that they aren´t honouring the tradition of the last meal before an execution, like he got his order ready, that was the last silver lining, if he´s really going to face his end at the hands of penguin in those halls at least he´s going to get his teeth into something juicy and tasty before it happens .. SELINA KYLE, (Bruce Wayne), JEREMIAH VALESKA, ECCO * Sykes and the Soothsayers digging a tunnel for Jeremiah Valeska. Is that poetic justice? Also is this a new tunnel, when the Soothsayers had the children dig it they went out of their way to state that their cruelty is even more infuriating because the whole endeavour is very likely futile. Like they made it damn clear that the TUNNEL is not going to go anywhere. Also would Jeremiah, who made the bridges go boom want a tunnel that remedies that issue partly? Only for himself? His cult? Is he doing something else altogether? Is it about what he can get into the city through it? Is he better at static issues and remedied the tunnel digging plan? Was he involved before? * “Yes you certainly have set a very high bar - for devotion.” Fucker gave me an earworm, Ordo Rosarius Equilibrio & Spiritual Front - A Song 4 Hate and Devotion (live) I mean quite a fitting mood considering all the other portrayals of the Harley and Mr. Jay relationship, but maybe they give ECCO and JEREMIAH VALESKA a different path. Aside from that the little dance was slightly nice. * “Bruce Wayne and his sidekick Curls Or is he the sidekick?” Yes! Ecco got the right spirit. I wonder if Ecco sees herself as sidekick? “You see, a river cuts through rock not because of its power, but because of its persistence.So what do we do when we feel like giving up?” “Dig a little deeper.” “And what do we do when we can't possibly go on any longer?” “Dig a little deeper.” “And what do we ..” “Deep enough?” I´m afraid it was not deep enough, I´m afraid it was quite shallow because the show is not as clever as Ecco, I bet that he isn´t dead, if he was it if could have actually been just about her. Honestly, I would love that. All the BatJokes built up and then it´s about Selina. And she has plenty right for it to be about her, Jeremiah almost killed her. What else does it need. * SELINA KYLE keeping in the shadows investigating, disguising herself as one of the people there, then getting close to Jeremiah dressed as Ecco: She´s good! She´s awesome! * That GCPD woman that was doing PAPERWORK when Ed sneaked into the building. Do they do regular paperwork? Cause damn, considering the governmental neglect if Jim got them to bother to do the regular paperwork he must have given one hell of a speech. Or is it paperwork related to organize a place like Haven? How do they do things? * Oswald destroying all strategy with a megaphone: “There goes the element of surprise.” * “Elevated position, back to the sun.” * “Never ever ask me to do anything like that again. Pull yourself together.” Harvey does not approve of Wild West Jim * “ I know the wheels of justice turn slowly, so I'm here to provide - a modicum of grease.” / “I did not expect you to go soft, Jim. Actually, I did.” / “By the power vested in me by well, me, I sentence you, Victor Zsasz, to die.” * “One of the areas in which I excel is the loosening of tongues.” “No. He's mine” Oh damn I thought Jim said “it´s mine” as in he´s better with interrogations. Well there goes my whole comparison with the Edward Nygma & Lucius Fox expertise quip: “So, the second smartest man in Gotham needs my help.” “Explosives are not my expertise.” “Didn't realize you had one.” *“Jim Gordon cares more about protecting a murderer than he does about protecting you!” Okay look who is projecting ....

#gotham #gotham meta #gotham s5ep4 Ruin #Victor Zsasz #ecco #Selina Kyle #mine Gotham full episode reviews

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hollenka99 · 6 years

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Lost and Found

Summary: Jameson spends time with his kids, creates one of his most famous shorts and a jazz singer threatens to kill the Jolly Gentleman.

Warnings: Reference to blackface,

September 10, 1923 Dear Mother,

Already, Anthony is in middle school. He has begun attending Joseph Le Conte Middle School. They only began admitting students last year. Therefore, his class is only the second to join the school at sixth grade. I asked him what he thought of this but he seems to be nonchalant to a degree.

In your last letter, you spoke of your hands. I am empathetic. I understand not wanting time to leave you behind. For you, it is the inability to sew because of your osteoarthritis. For me, it's the inability to speak properly due to my vocal cord paresis. I am willing to bet genuine dollars that they will discover a way to incorporate sound into the pictures and make the shift within a decade. I have half-heartedly made peace with my limitations. I fear it's long due that you do the same with yours.

Don't make any dolls for any of your younger granddaughters, not if it is guaranteed to be at your expense. If you're dead set on sending such a gift, ask Mabel to help you with crafting it. Please don't abuse yourself. That is the last thing any of us wishes for.

Yours, Jameson

December 4, 1923 Dear Jameson,

I recall you saying Floyd was a 'ghastly name'. I am guessing you never said that to Clifford. I doubt you ever will now. Especially with his birthday and Christmas almost upon us.

Yours, Mabel

December 18, 1923 Dear Mabel,

Please do not bring that up. When he announced the name to us, I held my tongue. Why Floyd? Of all the names he could have chosen to bestow upon his son, why is God's name did he pick Floyd? Not only that, what on earth possessed him to prefer Floyd to Lloyd? Lloyd is a perfectly good name, it is practically the same and I am sure it is more popular too. Who even calls their child Floyd anymore? By my guess, this time next century, Floyd will grow so unpopular in favour of Lloyd that it will be a rare occurrence to meet one.

Still, he is our nephew. I do struggle to imagine how he went from Louise to Floyd. Louise is such a pretty name for a girl. When Siobhan was pregnant with Sophia, it was one of the names we considered. If in two months we have another daughter, we may opt for Grace, Victoria or Eleanora, now that Louise is off the table. Should you also have a daughter next month, I'd ask you not to steal those names. This business is already tricky enough without reducing our options.

If Floyd wishes to change his name once he comes of age, I won't blame the boy.

Yours, Jameson

Harriet Victoria Jackson Female February 8, 1924 Los Angeles Siobhan O'Hara Jameson Jackson

February 9, 1924 Dear Mother,

We have finally been blessed with the second daughter we had been hoping for. Therefore, six grandchildren is all you're getting out of me. At least there won't be any more debates between myself and Siobhan.

We've given her the name Harriet Victoria. She was born late last night which, yes, means her birthday is February 8th. I was aware it was a possibility but I convinced myself the chances were unrealistically smaller. I don't seem to have much luck when it comes to when my daughters are born, do I? If they're not being born far too early, they're born on what should have been their uncle's 44th birthday.

Her name is deliberate. We both like Harriet and Victoria but couldn't decide between them, among other contenders. We almost picked Eleanora. However, once she was actually born, Harriet Victoria seemed to be the perfect combination. It is fitting for her birthday.

Yours, Jameson

April 29, 1924 Pearl,

Do you mind fixing the stitches on Sophia's new doll? Mother barely managed to get the thing to stay intact. With her osteoarthritis, I'm surprised she got as far as she did.

I don't want to rush you but I would prefer if it was done quickly. I spun a tale about the doll needing the night to get used to America. Sophia believes the toy is going to explore our sitting room as she sleeps.

I am sorry for asking this of you at such short notice. You know how I hate to be a burden. With your expertise, there is no doubt you will do a fine job.

You have my eternal thanks, Jameson

May 1, 1924 Dear Mother,

On Sophia's behalf, I'd like to thank you for the doll you made for her birthday. She adores and refuses to part with it. You certainly succeeded in making her happy.

She may love it unconditionally but it makes me uneasy. I know it must have caused a great deal of pain to make it. Your hands aren't the same as they were when I was six years old. You were even struggling when I was preparing to get married. That was 14 years ago. You should stop pushing your hands past their limits. It must hurt you to do basic tasks such as cooking. Why would you deliberately put yourself through it for your granddaughter's sake? You could have gotten Mabel to do the stitching for you. Sophia would not treasure the doll any less.

Hoping you are caring for yourself, Jameson

July 13, 1924 Jameson,

Would you be able to visit Saint John this summer? I feel this may be your last chance to bid farewell to the house we grew up in.

The truth is I am debating whether I should sell it. I know, it is a major development that possibly seems to have come from nowhere. In actuality, this has been on my mind for a while. Edward keeps me in better comfort than our parents did. This isn't about increasing our prospects. I'd never be that selfish. The issue is our mother. She can't stay there forever. Half the time, I'm visiting her to help with the chores she cannot do any longer.

She is stubborn though. I'm afraid that is a trait you've gotten from her. It isn't like you were the only one she passed that irritating habit to. We all have first-hand experience with that. I am coaxing her with unlimited access to my children. I'd like to believe that aspect is causing her resolve to slowly wane. Nevertheless, she wishes to stay in the home she's lived in since the 70s. No reminder of Granny living with us sways her either. She only replies with the fact her own mother lived the entirety of her widowhood without requiring to move to her child's house. What Mother neglects to acknowledge is that Grandma's husband was a headmaster while she ended up marrying a labourer. The difference in salaries is considerable. By this point, I can only assume the largest factor is vanity. God forbid she has to end up like her mother-in-law.

I spoken to Edith. She has supported my argument. Infuriatingly, Mother doesn't see her viewpoint as entirely valid anymore. Since announcing her impending marriage, Mother hasn't been quite as warm towards Edith. She states the only connection they share is Edith's daughters. Expressing my opinions is futile.

Still, my offer stands. Visit the house before anything is finalised. After all, she cannot remain in that house alone. I will have to sell that house despite not wanting to part with it either. The three of you in California can easily pay the bills for her with your routine sending of money to Canada. As much as I wish finances were the issue, therefore making my plans unnecessary, it is instead her health. Unless some madman attempts to replace her hands with a younger version, there is no other option for her other than to partially relinquish her independence.

Wishing you well, Mabel

July 30, 1924 Mabel,

The three of us have been discussing this matter between us. We agree with you. However, we think there is a better solution. One of us could buy the house from you. That way, Mother will live with you and be under your care but none of us will have to bid farewell to such an important part of our lives.

Tell us when it would best suit you for us to arrive in Saint John for any negotiations necessary.

Yours, Clifford, Jameson and Pearl

November 6, 1924 Dear all,

I came across a compilation of Wilfred Owen's poetry recently. I decided to buy the book. It is fitting for this time of year.

'Dolce et Decorum Est' struck a nerve with me. I was angered by the message but not in disagreement. In fact, I could hardly read past the second stanza. I was fine with the imagery of soldiers marching across the trenches wearily. However, it is difficult to read a description of a man 'drowning' from gas when your own brother suffered a similar fate. I don't know whether the type of gas mentioned in the poem is the same Harvey inhaled but the vivid image is harrowing to picture nonetheless. Yet, I persevered and reached the end. The last two rhyming couplets forced me to sit in my chair simply to absorb them fully. A Latin phrase is used, translating into 'It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country'. Never was there a saying so incorrect.

I enquired about Owen himself, only to learn the poor bastard met his end a week before the war met its own. A year younger than Pearl too. I'm glad his loved ones strived to publish his poems. People should read them and have a better understanding of what those men truly experienced. There was that ridiculous propaganda poster several years ago that I always hated. It was the one with two children asking their father what he did during the war, implying he did not enlist and was therefore less of a man. If any of my six were to question me, I'd tell them I tried to bring some laughter to such tragic times. That is an admirable feat to attempt.

I'll leave you with the lines that moved me.

My friend, you would not tell in such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Yours, Jameson

January 9, 1925 Dear all,

Yesterday, we returned home from our holiday visit to Ireland. It's been too long since I set foot in the country. Siobhan has taken the children to see their grandfather and uncle occasionally. Unfortunately, there never ceases to be something or other preventing me from taking my leave to join them. Until now, that is.

The chorea has begun to set in, leaving his handling of utensils clumsy. Throughout our stay, Michael was as irritable and impulsive as Henry or Theodore can be in their worst moments. He is in the intermediate stage, their father tells me. He has also relayed to me how my brother-in-law's dependence on him is increasing, some examples of which I have witnessed first-hand. Having never met an individual with the condition, I must say it was quite the shock. Siobhan warned me about he may behave. I still wasn't prepared. Neither, it seems, was Siobhan. Though, that is to be expected. After all, Michael is her brother.

Siobhan pulled me to one side last night, shortly after we sent the children to their own beds. She asked if I was willing to let her return to Limerick once the time comes for her father to require assistance. I understand it's expected for her to 'obey' me as her husband but the notion I would deny her request is preposterous. This Christmas wasn't some experiment to sway my views. Her brother is chronically ill and, however much we wish it wasn't the case, he is most certainly going to die from his illness. How could I refuse to allow her to help a dying man, especially when he is family?

I will say this, I am dreading her leaving. Although it may be years away right now, she will have to leave. I am going to miss her dearly when she does. Not only that, when she finally returns to us, there's no doubt the experience will change her. I am unequipped to provide her with adequate comfort.

Yours, Jameson

May 14, 1925 Dear Mother,

I seem to be in a creative slump. All I ever seem to do is adapt previous works or allow my writings be based on historical events. Everyone appears to be interested in creating another story inspired by cowboys and the wild west. The local landscape allows for that. I don't particularly care for the genre.

Anthony is at that awkward age where I can no longer use him as a child nor can I pass him off as a young man yet. He's enquiring if there are any roles he can fill. I despise having to constantly turn him down. The boy wants to follow in my footsteps professionally. I have the power to help with that, provide him with an advantage most won't have. It frustrates me when I am unable to do so.

If you have any plot ideas to send me, especially ones that involve a thirteen year old boy, I'd be much obliged.

Yours, Jameson

August 16, 1925 Dear all,

We spent a few days to see the Redwoods in North California. I've been wanting to come face to face with them for a while. They are larger than I'd expected, this coming from someone who had already braced himself for a massive tree. To some's disappointment, they are impossible to climb due to their width and lack of low-lying branches.

It's good that we've shown them nature. They're being raised in a city, same as their parents, and not exposed to woods or rivers. Sophia thrives in this environment. Henry usually sticks by her so he has a better chance of coming across wild animals. Theodore tags along as well, likely to be part of their group. I usually asked Anthony to keep an eye on them whenever we were preoccupied with Harriet or the dogs. We didn't bring Lyra with us, unfortunately. At her age, she wouldn't have enjoyed all the stress of travelling.

I recall promising to stay by Sophia's side should she ever need the company when she was born. Instead, I'm giving her things to keep her busy because she broke her leg while exploring near our campsite. She's trying her hand at whittling which she has taken to thus far. Additionally, Theodore stole a potato from his dinner plate a few days ago. It's since had pins stuck in it and a smiling face drawn on one side. He has been named George. I will have to dispose of George when he stops looking so fresh.

Yours, Jameson

October 6, 1925 Dear all,

After asking around, I have found an outlet that will suit both Sophia and Henry. It's an organisation founded roughly 15 years ago by a British couple. It encourages children to develop into upstanding citizens through earning badges and camping. The Americans adopted it not long after. Canada must have introduced the organisation earlier than the US, considering it's part of the Empire.

Girl Scouts begin at age 5 with Brownies, which I understand to be mythical creatures. When she is 10, Sophia will move on to become an Intermediate and thereafter a Senior after her 14th birthday. Likewise, Cubs are the first stage of Boy Scouts until the boy turns 11 whereupon he will be promoted to a Scout.

The two of them look smart in their uniforms, don't you think? The photographs were taken as soon as they returned home from their first meetings. They're demonstrating their variants of the salute. Girl Scouts have their three fingers to the side while Boy Scouts are more militaristic by having their hand next to their head.

They enjoyed their first meetings so hopefully, this is a sign their enrollments were a successful move.

Yours, Jameson

November 10, 1925 Dear all,

Has 'Carving For Beginners' reached you at the Imperial yet? I am hoping to learn of your reactions as soon as possible.

This short heavily involves the children. For instance, the pumpkins at the front? Those are all carved by Oliver and Sophia. Henry scooped along with Theodore. For some reason, Sophia specifically wants credit for the wide one. The accompanying music? Siobhan's own composition. Anthony is the one who hands me the knife halfway through.

Can you guess who was responsible for clean up? That's correct, myself and Siobhan. I will give Anthony credit where it is due. We were all meant to take part in the disposal of waste materials. While the others wandered off after becoming bored, he stayed behind to finish the job. We couldn't finish fast enough. My love for preparing pumpkins with the children just about surpasses my hatred for the smell. The Gentleman doesn't exaggerate on that.

Some of the title cards were inspired by things that happened while the five of them were preparing the pumpkins. Ollie struggled to get the lid off his pen and begrudgingly accepted my help. The pumpkin screams after the Jolly Gentleman makes the first cut because Theodore held one in front of his face before roaring like he was some pumpkin monster.

I wrote this short for them, almost as if the Jolly Gentleman was instructing them on the practise. I cannot express how much fun I've had whilst making it. I should make another short involving them behind the scenes before sound is introduced to film. I'll likely wait a couple years so Harriet may be old enough to be included.

Still detecting the faint smell of pumpkin somewhere, Jameson

February 24, 1926 Dear Mother,

Recently, I've been reflecting on the events of February 1897. A lot happened. I became afflicted with something we had never come across previously. There was a race for Father and Harvey to get their wages. I played soccer with Clifford before he sent me to bed because my heart was beating unnaturally fast. Harvey sprinted whilst carrying me because he was a faster runner than Father and I woke delirious that morning. Then, after all that, we celebrated your birthday while I was recovering from the operation.

This is somewhat of a tangent but do you recall me saying I was stuck for ideas? I have one but I'd be extremely surprised if you approved of it. It involves a boy named James and his twin sister Olivia, eternally nine and two years of age. Their names are non-negotiable. If they are grounds enough for you to think less of me then I'm sorry to hear that. But this censorship outstayed its welcome years ago.

I want to honour her. I think you forget I came close to losing a daughter myself. I respect that isn't the same but I'm certainly closer to understanding than Mabel, Clifford or Pearl. The story won't be published in your lifetime either, if at all. This project is for my benefit.

I apologize for being blunt but I am not prepared to stay silent on the matter any longer. I promise it will be tasteful.

Yours, Jameson

April 30, 1926 Dear all,

Would you say I am an irresponsible father for bestowing my daughter a penny knife for her eighth birthday? Fear not, I haven't thrown caution to the wind.

There are some conditions Sophia must adhere to if she wishes to make full use of her present. She cannot use it without one of us supervising nor can she have it on her person when she isn't working with it. It will be securely stored away during those times, somewhere her brothers and Harriet are unable to access it either.

In the very least, this will save our kitchen knives from being used to artistically mutilate sticks. Working with wood seems to be her calling at the moment. She will whittle and craft wooden figures whether we approve or not. We may as well give her the tools so she may move past this phase to seek safer pursuits.

Henry questioned if he was receiving a similar present in September. Certainly not.

Yours, Jameson

August 2, 1926 Dear Mother,

Well, we've returned to the place it all began. The journey was a little chaotic with a party of eight travelling the width of the country. If anything, our time in New York has made me realise it's been a while since I relied solely on a bicycle for transport.

Ollie sounds like he has set himself high standards for his future. When he overheard his mother and I discussing the city while planning the trip, he became interested in learning more about Julliard. Now he's seen the building, he's motivated to attend. I've advised him to slow down a notch. He's still in elementary school. If anyone should be considering their education past their eighteenth birthday, it should be Anthony. Even so, he still has a few more days of being thirteen and won't begin high school until next month.

The time for college is not yet upon any of them. Should Oliver wish to apply to Julliard in several years and be accepted, I will be exceptionally proud of him. Even more so if he finds success thereafter. Moving to America at the age of 18 was risky, even with my brother by my side. I can't imagine moving to the other side of the country alone at that age. Still, if we were able to make things work in our favour, I can't see why Ollie can't.

And how could we visit New York without checking in on our favourite statue? When I retold the story of our joint trip to the Statue of Liberty and the revelation I had during it, the reactions were mixed. I don't mind. The only person whose approval of the story I need is Siobhan's.

Yours, Jameson

September 19, 1926 Dear all,

Today marks 20 years since Cliff and I first settled in New York. That city changed our lives in more ways than one. Despite all the grief we got from Edison's lot and their schemes, I look back on New York fondly. I'm glad I went there this summer. Due to all this reminiscing, I managed to dig out all my old records. Let me tell you, it was quite the trip down Memory Lane. I was almost 20 years old again.

'Streets of New York' was the first ever song I heard Siobhan sing, you know. Later, once we'd gotten to know each other, she confessed to me the song made her uncomfortable. Given its contents, I am not entirely surprised. That song earned her a lot of unwelcome attention. I can only imagine how many men asked her which street they could associate her with. In fact, she admitted to me earlier she was wary of me when I first approached her.

'Arrah Wanna', now that is a song. Oh, I remember how 'Mrs Barney, heap much Carney from Killarney's Isle' used to be my favourite sentence, even more so when Siobhan said it. Whenever I visited her apartment, she'd sing it in the thickest brogue she could muster in an effort to make me laugh. In response, I'd try impress her by playing 'Frog Legs Rag'. That tune's not an easy one. Good for a dance though. 'The Entertainer' as well. I think we played those two together on various occasions.

All of these songs mean a lot to me. However, none of the above could claim the title of my favourite of the era. That undoubtedly goes to 'The Galloping Major'. I cannot count the amount of times Cliff would play while I acted the part of the Major himself.

One time, likely at some point during 1907, the two of us spent an evening drinking. We may have recounted the Major's misadventures a little too enthusiastically. Our landlord paid us a visit after hearing complaints from our neighbours. How could we be too loud? Gramophones possess just two volume settings: On and Off. They've only devised a way to change that recently. Nevertheless, as soon as we rid ourselves of him, Clifford sang 'Nobody' and 'Moving Day' as loudly as his voice allowed him. I must have attacked the keys to match him.

On reflection, I'm surprised we weren't evicted for being highly disruptive under the influence. Not to mention Cliff was barely of age to drink so I certainly wasn't. The man could have landed me in dire trouble if he so wished. It's a good thing he was ignorant enough to believe I went about my day lacking sandwiches to picnics. I would have been fine in California. College freshmen could drink alcohol before the prohibition.

I noticed Anthony's face blanked when he truly listened to the lyrics. Yes, I'm afraid the song he associates with me giving him piggy-back rides when he was small isn't quite as innocent as he recalls. On the other end of the spectrum, Theodore probably has a year or so before he becomes too big for me to carry him as well.

Yours, Jameson

November 1, 1926 Dear all,

I've just read about Houdini in the papers. On my birthday, no less. What an odd coincidence. Although, the method of death appears to elude the reporters. I'm sure those who deal with this sort of thing need time to come to their conclusions. The man only died yesterday. Not everything is so obvious. I do, however, like to entertain the idea it'll remain as much of a mystery as his methods were in life. It seems fitting.

When I saw him, he'd recently retired his handcuff act due to an increase in imitators. Was it 1908 or '09? I can't recall. Definitely before we left New York. I took Siobhan with me to see him. The atmosphere that day was so good I almost wish I could revisit it. All these posters, promising you that 'Failure Means a Drowning Death' got us riled up for a great show. During his Milk Can routine, he'd invite an audience member or two on stage to hold their breath with him. Neither of us were lucky enough to be involved that way. I will say, the curtains were a bit of a cop-out on his part. His shows must have been more exciting when you could watch him escape.

He retired the Milk Can too. I always did plan to see his act once more. I would have liked to witness him escaping from that Water Tank of his for myself. Work, family and life in general prevented me from doing so. That's how it is sometimes.

Regardless, I hope his family will be allowed to grieve in private. I suspect Hardeen will carry on performing without his brother. He always came across as the plus one to me. I'm sure I remember seeing posters referring to him as 'Brother of Houdini'. Hardeen was the one who opened the curtains during acts. He made worthy contributions himself. Perhaps this unfortunate turn of events will allow the public to see that for themselves.

Yours, Jameson

December 30, 1926 Dear all,

Christmas in our household has been another success. Theodore, especially, has found himself quite happy with his lot. We bought him Winnie The Pooh by A. A. Milne. It tells some tales of a bear having fun with his friends, who know him as 'Pooh', in the woods they live in. I bet he would have dragged his two favourite siblings to go find sticks to throw into a stream, had we not stopped him. The next time we are in Saint John, I will make sure I bring the three of them to play this stick game on Reversing Falls Bridge.

Sophia has requested if she may have some felt and stuffing for a 'special project'. I'm looking forward to seeing what she creates for him. You'd be proud of how much her skill with a needle is improving. Not only that, I'm certain Theodore will enjoy the handmade gift too.

Nevertheless, I hope you had a good Christmas and we all wish you a pleasant 1927.

Yours, Jameson

April 14, 1927 Dear Mother,

A young woman arrived in Los Angeles with her brother several days ago. They waited for us outside the studios when we were heading to work. They are in California because she has applied to the school of medicine in Stanford. They claim they wished to see the state properly before she moves to Stanford later this year. Their journey must have been long seeing as Stanford is hours away by train and the duo hail from New York City.

Clara doesn't look anything like Clifford but there is something about her that strikes me as odd. I cannot explain it. When she smiles, I am immediately reminded of Father. It is nearly identical. If you saw it, I am sure you would make the same connection. While she doesn't appear to have inherited more of her looks from either parent, Daniel very much has gotten his appearance from his mother, at least from how I remember her.

Daniel, from what Cliff has relayed to me, is interested in pursuing studies in business once he is his sister's age. He shares that quality with his father, it seems. Back when we were living in New York and founding what was then Jackson Brothers Productions, I may have been the one overseeing things from the ground but Cliff has always been the one truly adopting the leadership role. I sincerely hope his boy succeeds in any business endeavours he sets his mind to.

The biggest mystery to me is how the two of them are 18 and 15 respectively. I was aware Clara is a year older than Alice and Daniel has a year on Anthony. That knowledge doesn't translate to actually seeing them before me as young adults. It is incomprehensible to me that the young children I once knew are practically adults now. At 14, Anthony is fast maturing to the point of becoming a man. I had been under the assumption that he would be the first Jackson to attend college. Yet, here he is, presumably demoted to the position of third. He appears to be slightly disappointed to have lost his bragging rights. I've reminded him all is not lost, he can still truthfully say he was one of the first in our family to receive a degree. Even so, he has no clue what exactly he wishes to study when the time comes.

Clifford has advised them to visit Canada if they ever found the opportunity. If they are willing to reach out to their father, they may be willing to extend that to his family. For now, they have returned to the east so they may celebrate Easter with their mother.

He has also refused to cease speaking about the few days he was able to spend with them. My ears are half spoken off from his ecstasy. I won't complain. He has regained a vigour he lost so long ago I'd forgotten he had ever possessed it in the first place. I have enjoyed acquainting myself with his eldest children. Some of my children briefly met their cousins as well. Henry has been enthusiastic about the discovery of Clara pursuing a career in medicine. He already plans to write to her on the subject.

Yours, Jameson

June 1, 1927 Dear all,

I am set to become a father for the seventh time shortly before Christmas. I know, we had planned for Harriet to be our youngest. It's always the way, isn't it?

We are hoping for another girl, purely because Siobhan would prefer the boy-girl ratio to even out. I wouldn't mind either but another daughter sounds appealing. Whichever sex the child is, I won't get to see their earliest years.

Michael's condition is worsening. I suspect he has a handful of years left. As such, Siobhan will move back to Limerick to help her father care for him. She plans to leave in January. I know she would go earlier, were she not pregnant. There is no way she would leave the baby with me. An infant needs its mother. As such, you won't be able to meet them until after she returns.

Nevertheless, I don't wish to dwell on the negative. The birth is months away. I will have to make the most of the short weeks with this new addition before I have to bid them and Siobhan farewell for an indefinite period.

Yours, Jameson

September 8, 1927 Dear Mother,

Theodore has entered kindergarten but instead of being excited, he is feeling down because Oliver has now begun his time at Joseph Le Conte. I don't understand why he is so upset by this. It is not as if school is the only place he could see his brother. Theodore acts as if he does not have Sophia and Henry at Selma Avenue also. They're in 4th and 2nd grade respectively. If this has anything to do with having a brother at the top of the elementary hierarchy, what can I say? He will do fine with those two looking out for him.

If anything, he should strive to avoid finding himself in as much trouble as they do. The two of them got a caning across their hands in the summer after an incident with a sparrow caused them to skip a class. While I sympathise with them, discipline is there for a reason. Better a ruler now than an actual cane later. I could tell them a story or two about the times I've returned to my desk for an uncomfortable remainder of the day. Knowing the trouble Cliff got himself into, he can probably beat me tenfold in regards to anecdotes.

What's worse than all that is the fact we are still very much missing Lyra. Holly and Woodrow may be able to fit on our laps but that doesn't compare to the way Lyra would curl up besides the children when they played on the floor. It broke my heart to have her put down. Siobhan loved her slightly more than I did. After all, Lyra was meant to be her dog and she spent more time with Lyra than I did. She was always a sweetheart and so gentle towards the children, even when they were young and not so gentle towards her. Holly and Woodrow also appear to be missing her. Still, she was thirteen and I could see old age was bothering her. Human and canine alike are sticking by each other's side to comfort ourselves with the other's company.

Yours, Jameson

October 18, 1927 Dear all,

The future of the pictures has finally come.

Despite everything, I'm not bitter enough to ask you don't give the Warner brothers your money. Truth be told, 'The Jazz Singer' isn't terrible. Although, I still retain the opinion that blackface looks ridiculous. Actors need to improve their make up or find a genuine black person who wants to act. I haven't come across one yet. The majority of them sing instead. They write great music too.

It doesn't matter. I'm going to try not be impressed we now have the technology to have dialogue and singing all synchronised to the visuals. It's over, what more is there for me to say on the matter? I'm on borrowed time professionally. My Gentleman is going to be left to gather dust.

It's ironic, isn't it? My youngest child will grow up not watching silent pictures when their father was a big name of the era. I almost want to laugh at that.

Failing to be optimistic, Jameson

Eleanora Margaret Jackson Female December 11, 1927 Los Angeles Siobhan O'Hara Jameson Jackson

December 31, 1927 Dear all,

How was your Christmas?

Mine was spent making the most of my time with my third daughter. We've named her Eleanora, although she'll be known as Nora. She is going to be 3 weeks old tomorrow.

I have little over a week left with Nora. Every time one of my children was born, I enjoyed having them in my arms. I loved wondering what kind of individual they would become. Doing so with Nora causes a faint, unexplainable dread to rise in me. Many of her firsts will be on Irish soil, far away from me. Who is to say she won't return and be literate.

I know I have six other children, all of whom are dependent on me to varying degrees. I just can't stop hating the feeling of missing out. Like the rest of them, I want to be as much of a part of Nora's life as I am able. I suppose I should think of Siobhan. Lord knows how much she will miss. I lose one but she won't be able to see six. I really should stop these foolishly selfish thoughts.

Wishing you a happy new year, Jameson

#the life of jameson jackson #tlojj #jameson jackson #jacksepticeye #writersofjack #my writing #crosspost #originally posted on Quotev and AO3 on Jan 7th 2018 #spot the easter eggs

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diveronarpg · 6 years

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Congratulations, MINNIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of MIRANDA. Admin Kaitlin: Oh Minnie. God knows that I love Maeve, but you bring something to her that even I don't think I love her enough to ever understand how to put to paper. She is just... god the way you write her makes me want to say that is is made of pure light, that she has a soul that glows so brightly you could see it from the moon--but she is so much more than her goodness, so much more than her heart. You write a Maeve that is fierce in her softness, courageous in her love, and is so brutally herself that it just breaks my heart. I am so glad to have you back writing her. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Minnie

Age | 23… ugh I hate that I’m 23

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | I’ve been pretty active so far on Paola, and I hope to continue being so :) I usually do replies when I need a mental break from work or in general at home, and it’s been working out very well for me. I would give myself a 7/10.

Timezone | EST

Current/Past RP Accounts | I really don’t think that’s necessary at this point hehe

In Character

Character | Miranda.

What drew you to this character? | I’m here for a third try!! I love, adore, Maeve, she’s so sacred to me and I’ve tried to leave her alone but.. I miss her!! It’s still that pure goodness and undeniable strength that calls to me now, just like it did before. She has so much potential and she lives so far off the ground that her head is in the clouds. It’s easier to touch God this way — but it’s also much farther to fall. I just love her you guys know how much I love her idk how not to love her, she’s a part of me at this point.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

I never did get to write Maeve learning how her mother died, and I’m adamant about making it happen this time. Last time, I made Montagues the source of Maeve’s mother’s death - but I think this time, I’d like to make it the Capulets who intentionally manipulated the situation to recruit Philip into their ranks. I’d like her to try, so damn hard, to be accepted by the Capulets to please her father and to save them all… only to learn that they were the ones to destroy her and her family first, that she owes them nothing but revenge. Oh man, I’m getting goosebumps just thinking about it.

I’d also like to see Maeve intentionally dismantle Montague/Capulet animosity - or rather, try to. She has such! a soft! heart! and it is undeniably hard to not love Maeve, so I have no doubt that this is exactly what will happen. I’d like to see her become a Joan of Arc again, a martyr for the sake of love, willingly throwing herself into the fray to protect one and to protect all. I’d like to see it go to shit, of course - but I’m hoping that first, Maeve will be disillusioned by the Capulets already and considering going rogue, running away from Verona, etc.

With Maeve being so lovable and also fucking stubborn, I imagine she has quite a bit of information under her belt. I’d like to see someone use her for her information, information that she may not even realize is valuable - Juliana’s favorite color, her father’s weapon of choice, etc. I’d like to see her be manipulated because I think it’s incredibly realistic, and she can appear to be an easy target — though of course, they’d be wrong. Maeve has a certain way of getting under someone’s skin, whether it be through her goodness or her kindness or her surprising ferocity.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | I KILLED HER ONCE AND IDK IF I CAN DO IT AGAIN but we’ll see. :)

In Depth

Please choose between the interview or the para sample (or both, if you like!)

In-Character Interview: The following questions must be answered in-character, and in para form (quotations, actions written out if applicable, etc). There is no minimum or maximum limit for your response - simply answer as you would if you were playing the character.

What is your favorite place in Verona? |

“Oh, there are so many.” Maeve folds her legs against her chest, resting her chin atop her knees and smiling like she has been offered a present. With the light falling in from the window behind her and her curls surrounding her face like a halo, she looks younger than her nineteen years. Far younger - but there is a knowing look in her eye that stands the test of time, makes them question their assumption of her age.

“Okay, I’ll tell you my favorite place, but you can’t tell anyone.” She leans in conspiratorially, nearly falling off her seat as she did, “it’s Verona’s hidden gem, I swear.”

Maeve waits for their promise before continuing. “There is a small local market on the outskirts of Verona, just at the city’s edge. It only sells secondhand goods, but that’s the best part of it - everything sold has already been loved, and buying things there feels like letting another person into your life. You know?”

They shrug their shoulders, not able to understand her fascination with used junk. Maeve’s smile does not dim, actually glows brighter still; she’s used to not being understood, and she knows how to take discouragement in her hands and mold it into something kind and gentle. “It’s like, everything there has such history behind it. And when you take something like that, something that’s kind of old but so precious that the owner can’t bear to throw it away… it’s like you’re keeping that love alive. And the best way to honor love is to keep loving, even when it’s hard. Even when it’s a little rusty or needs to a good thunk before it turns on.”

She shrugs and presses her cheek against her knees, looking up at them sideways through her lashes. “Do you get it now?”

They swallow, and slowly nod. Yes, they do.

What does your typical day look like?

“With a really annoying alarm,” Maeve laughs. “And then I try to stay in bed for a little bit longer, but if I take too long, Papa will leave without breakfast, and we can’t have that.” Well-fed men are alert, she remembers learning, and the hungry die first. “I always start by making breakfast fresh for the both of us, and if I can, I meal prep for the next two meals, too. It’s a nice and slow start to my day, and I’m always grateful for a chance to take my time and enjoy every small moment.”

Her head cants to the side as she ruminates on the rest of her day. Her mornings are the most consistent part of her day, the most cherished hour as the light trickles into the Petre home and Verona waits for Maeve to enter its embrace. “After that, I go to work at the flower shop if I have a shift that day. Sometimes, I go to the library and read everything I can. Or go to the coffee shop and people watch for awhile. It really depends!“

They quirk an eyebrow. “What about school?”

Maeve hesitates, eyes shifting from left to right to make sure her Papa is not around. “Someone has to stay home and take care of the house,” she says once she’s confident they are alone. “I could have gone to university, and I was really excited to go for a long time, but…” She sighs, dreamy and sad. “There are more important things, and I am still learning so much now without being in school. The world can wait for me. My Papa, though - he needs me.”

Her lips lift to a small and secret smile. “More than he knows.”

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

She remembers her Papa coming home, his shadow sinister in the moonlight and the blood staining his hands and his cheek. She remembers swallowing her fear and asking, quietly and plainly, what he was out doing. If she will let herself, Maeve knows she can feel the same drop in her stomach and the sudden, violent urge to vomit at his feet.

She remembers marching up to the Capulets and demanding recruitment. “Enlist me,” she remembers saying, “and I will be the most valuable person in your army.”

She remembers the glint in their eye, an old friend of her father’s and surely a pawn in the Capulets’ game. “You have no experience with violence, weapons or warfare. You’ve been kept in the dark your entire life, and you think you offer value?”

“Yes."

She remembers their approving hum. She remembers the quick and rapid process of becoming a Capulet as her Papa watched, horror in his eyes. She remembers being proud of herself.

No, joining the Capulets is not the mistake Maeve is thinking of.

“My biggest mistake has been letting the world make decisions without me. My entire life, I’ve loved Verona more than anyone - and never once did I ask the right questions. I thought I knew my Papa, thought I knew Verona.. For so long, I lived… I lived a lie. Because I never tried to see what was right in front of me.”

Her fingers are shaking, Maeve realizes with a start. She folds them together and wills them to stop trembling. “It won’t happen again.”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

“When I told my Papa I planned to join him in the Capulets, he was furious.” Maeve fiddles with the ring on her right ring finger, a dainty thin gold band with a single diamond in the center. Her mother’s engagement ring, and her most prized possession - and often the first sign of her emotional turmoil. “It was the first real fight we had,” she reminisces out loud, “and he insisted I take it back.”

Her lips twist regretfully as she recalls how ugly their words had gotten. “He asked me to be my mother’s daughter - not his. He told me I was meant to be a flower only, his little girl… and I was.” Her voice cracked. “I am."

Maeve clears her throat quietly and takes a second to gather her composure. When she speaks again, it’s with undeniable conviction and passion: “I cannot be less than who I am, and I will be the one to decide who exactly that is. And right now,” she smiles, “I am a Capulet.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“Haven’t you heard?” Her eyes are sparkling, as if they are sharing some private joke. “I’m the poster child for anti-war.”

But the joke is short-lived, and before they get the chance to smile along, Maeve’s expression sobers and the atmosphere of the room changes. "It’s a never-ending circle, and it is destroying us. We’re sacrificing everything that truly matters: the people we love, the city we live in, ourselves. And for what? Revenge?”

She bites her lip, unmistakeable distressed. “I won’t fight in this war. I know I’m young, and I know I’m just a soldier — but I will be stronger than my Papa. Where he was weak, I will be strong for the both of us.“ She pauses, and then — "For my Mama, too.”

Maeve smiles kindly, knowing the reaction her speeches usually receive. If she believed any less, then she might even be sorry — but her ideals are too important, and she will be damned if she even considers apologizing for them. “I know that this might be hard to understand. We have lived like this for so long, maybe even without realizing it. But I do believe there is hope. For Verona, for all of us. There is a brighter day coming; I just know it.”

In-Character Para Sample: Again, write as much or as little as you need to get your interpretation across.

“Papà, you must remember. Please, tell me you remember,” Maeve begs, her hands clasped together like a child’s prayer.

Her eyes are just like her mother’s. The thought comes unbidden before Philip can close his heart against it. The memory of his first love, staring up at him with eyes as warm as the earth, with all the feeling in the world — it is crippling and heartbreaking and all too much. His heart falters at the reality of her death as he remembers and relives it, over and over again.

She is just like you, Maria.

He takes another hearty swig from his glass, avoiding his daughter’s gaze like she is the angel of death.

“Papà,” Maeve says again, her voice a low whisper. “Papà, please.”

How can a girl so young move his heart so? His own flesh and blood, and he is too afraid to look at her for fear that he won’t be able to breathe.

Another swig.

“Oh, Papà.” Before he can close his arms and resist a child’s love, his daughter is climbing onto him, curling in his lap and pressing her ear against his chest. “I forget, sometimes.”

She is searching for my heart. The poor creature. She won’t find it. My heart is gone, it is torn into pieces and all that is left is something cold and silver.

“I forget that you must miss her, too.”

The cup falls to the floor, and Maeve flinches in his arms at the crash of it — but still, she holds on tight.

He answers her unspoken question gruffly, his throat raw and blistered: “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I miss her, too. But… Papà?”

“What, stella mia?”

“I miss you, more.”

And this is the final crack in his chest; and the river is opened up to him; and silent, steady tears begin to fall.

“We don’t have to talk about Mamma. It’s okay. It’s just you and me now.” A hand holds his cheek like a ghost used to, in another life.

But that was the past, and this is the present, and the future is in his arms trying to save him from the darkness he carries, the darkness she is too young to understand. He knows it is Maria’s influence; such light could only come from Maeve’s mother, for Maria was the sun that carried the weight of his entire sky.

He will not fail Maria, and he cannot fail Maeve. He will pour his heart and soul and mind unto Maeve until he can hardly recognize himself, and he will hide his burdens from Maeve so she will never look like him.

Maria. Maeve. Maria. Maeve.

“How I love you, stella mia.” With newfound courage and determination, Philip holds her close. “How I love you.”

“Oh, Papà. I love you, too.

* Maria: meaning “sea of bitterness” or “sea of sorrow”; “rebellion” “wished-for child” and “mistress or lady of the sea”

II. a diary entry

A long time ago, I was afraid of the night. I can’t tell you how or when it began, but I have carried this childish fear with me for too many years to count. I thought it was a part of me, just another piece of the puzzle that had no origin and no explanation. There was so much that I did not understand: my father, my mother, the world I so longed to see.

But one day, I thought. One day, I might understand it all.

A long time ago, I was afraid of the night, but I loved it, too. When the sun had set and the light had all but faded, the sound of the one you love coming home would ring out like church bells on a spring morning; the smell of cigarettes would hold tightly to the air like an embrace after a long, weary voyage.

For the night brought many terrors, but it had some comforts, too; didn’t all nightmares end with the whispered comforts of I am here, stella mia, I am here and the day will come and the monsters are only bad thoughts who have overstayed their welcome?

A long time ago.

A long time ago, I only thought of my father returning; I did not know and did not even think to question where he was returning from.

I shall never forget the emptiness of his eyes. I shall never forget the tired droop of his shoulders, the black silhouette of his that seemed so familiar at night. I shall never forget the silver in his hair, which I had not seen before until the moonlight brought its cruel light to every secret I had not considered.

I tried, very hard, to forget the red. I chose to remember the rest, the cold silver and black and blue of it all — but the red, I desperately tried to forget. But I could not let go of the scarlet, as hard as I tried.

I… had a reason for staying up waiting, for running to see him. I can’t remember it now, but — there was a reason.

Ah, I remember. I wanted to read him a poem.

I was a child.

He did not say a single word that night. He shook his head, ever so slightly, and walked away.

Papà. Beloved Papà.

The burden of knowing and still not fully understanding has haunted me since. For even after seeing him in the silver and black and blue and red, Papà merely patted my cheek and sent me on my flowery way. I felt so small, so strange, as if I could hardly recognize myself.

He told me that when I was older, I would understand. I wanted to tell him that I have been waiting my entire life to understand. Even as a child, I so yearned to know about the mother I didn’t remember, and I never received an answer. It pained Papà to hear talk of her, and it pained me to see him weep. So I stopped, but I always wondered, and I always dreamed of a woman’s soft hands and laughing eyes.

I never told him this… and maybe if his secret had been softer, forgiveness would have come so easily. I can empathize with shielding the one you love from pain.

But not like this. Not like Papà did. It wasn’t just his secrecy that wounded me deep to the bone; it was the secret itself. I would never have imagined Papà, who was my entire sun and sky, to be… like that.

It wasn’t just the fact that I didn’t know everything about him. It was that when he came home in scarlet, I didn’t recognize him at all. It was that I loved him still, even with my shattered heart.

I have made peace with this. It might seem strange to you that I can say with full confidence that I have forgiven Papà and that I still love him as my own sun and sky, after writing all of this. But I have. My love for him is stronger than any betrayal, and even that night cannot steal that from us.

These thoughts are so much louder these days because tomorrow, I will be a Capulet soldier. I am older now, just like Papà said, and I must know why Papà ran to their shadows all those years ago. For I have come to the conclusion that to love someone is to know them.

Tomorrow, I will know. Tomorrow, I will begin to understand.

Or so I hope.

III.

Each night, Maeve held her bleeding heart in hand and tucked it under her arm to keep it warm while the wind howled with despair. Be still, my heart; the sun will rise again, and the war will be ours to win.

Because it was a war, though not the one the Capulets enlisted her for. No matter what they told her, Maeve would choose her own battles, and she was determined to fight for peace until it was Verona’s triumph — for she had no other choice, for the only alternative was to lose her father and her home to blood and guns.

From the shadows, a man appeared: her target. Her mission was to retrieve the full payment for an order placed exactly one month ago. He was a new, and so far unreliable, client, and therefore needed extra… encouragement to pay the Capulets in full.

The job fell to Miranda, who had never run a solo mission before. Though she might be green, she was confident; she had impressed the others with her sheer will, if not her skill with the knife. They might not take her seriously yet, but they would, for Maeve was determined to make her voice heard.

“They tell me you’re called Miranda,” the man said.

“Yes,” was her simple answer, short and straightforward.

The street lights illuminated the cruel crook of his lips, the sharp slant of his brows. “They also tell me that you are here for my money.” He was sneering at her, his lips curled in a resentful snarl.

Maeve stepped forward, the softness of her eyes coming to view. “That’s true.”

At the sight of her pretty face, the man’s expression shifted to one of surprise. “They sent a pretty girl like you,” he moved closer, “alone in the middle of the night?”

“Is that so strange?” She adjusted her grip on the knife hidden in a sheath inside her sleeve.

“Not strange,” the man shook his head, “dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Maeve offered a kind smile as she continued to adjust her fingers on her knife’s grip, wondering — if she needed to bring it forward. If her knife was worth using at all. “I appreciate the concern, but I think you know that we don’t send soldiers into battle unprepared.”

“What battle is there, girl?” His laugh was unexpected and rang false in the night, too jaded to be true. “You think I don’t have the money? You think I won’t pay?”

“I don’t think anything. I’m here on orders, and orders alone, to retrieve the payment in full for the last transaction between you and the Capulets.”

He spat onto the ground and thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants, staring off into the night sky. “It’s all about money with you folks.”

“Not all of us — but you did make a promise, sir, and you must honor it. It is the gentlemanly thing to do.”

The man fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke, it was with the barest hint of vulnerability. “So you think I’m a gentleman, huh?”

“I assume most men are gentlemen until they prove otherwise,” Maeve said gently.

Her compassion seemed to ease the man out of appearances and reveal his true nature; a look of panic came over his features, wild and dangerous. “What if I told you I didn’t have the money?” A tremble shook through every word, and his eyes seemed to widen by the moment. “What would they do to me, then?”

She wanted desperately to reassure him, to tell them that she was only a soldier, new and inexperienced and unknowledgeable. But it was not that Maeve did not know; it was that she did not agree. For how could Maeve threaten (or worse) a man who, in that moment, seemed so human.

“I… don’t think you want to know,” she finally answered, sympathy passing over her features.

The man groaned and threw his hands in the air. “I had the money, I swear I had it. But then that bastard got me drunk and the women were so pretty…”

The tale of a proud man, who wanted nothing more than to prove himself. Maeve sighed and loosened her grip on her knife. There would be heavy consequences to bear for her next words, but there was nothing else she could do. For her heart was soft and could not bear to harm another. “I will do my best to grant you an extension.”

The man breathed out a long sigh of relief, wrapping his arms about his torso tightly like a congratulatory embrace. “Thank you, thank you. You are kind, Miranda, kinder than I deserve. Tell them that I will have it immediately, I only need a little more time. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Please,” Maeve only let a hint of desperation show in her tone, “don’t do this again. The next time, you will not be forgiven so easily.” With a nod and a faint smile, she turned and walked away from the now-incoherent man.

She would pay for this later — but nothing worth having came without a price.

Extras: If you have anything else you’d like to include (further headcanons, an inspo tag, a mock blog, etc), feel free to share it here! This is OPTIONAL.

I kept a few headcanons from the old app I thought still applied:

Knives. When Philip first handed her a 9mm Glock 17, Maeve’s hands shook as she forced her fingers to wrap around the grip. He put his hands on her shoulders and methodically explained just how to use a weapon, and when he stepped back, she knew it was not in her. She turned to her father with silent tears already staining her cheeks and pushed the weapon back into his hands. Papà, a gun is for killing, she said gently, and I am not a killer.

But to be a Capulet was to wield a weapon like a musical instrument, a paintbrush, a masterpiece; so Maeve chose the knife, for at least it was more than just violence. Just like her, a knife could be both sharp and soft, it could be used for bad and good. It all depended on her choice, and Maeve knew that she would always choose good.

Part-time job. Maeve works at a local flower shop in Verona, making conversation with the regulars and reading a book when the shop is slow. It’s a nice way to pass the hours, and she’s been there for so many years that it’s become a second home.

#accepted #accepted: miranda

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