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storytellingdreamer · 1 year

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Watching Granada Holmes: The Six Napoleons

Image description: Holmes and Lestrade shake hands at the inner door of 221b. / end image description.

A bit late with the recap this week - I think my recap days will most likely move to weekends from now until the finish. My schedule has become fuller, and I’m also writing more for Seize the Light (Star Wars Episode VIII rewrite, for those unaware).

This one was a fun case in some aspects, though the xenophobic treatment of Italians (apparently, according to PlaidAdder, it’s worse in some ways than the original canon!) was a bit much.

I’m filing this under “Case for Someone Holmes Knows”, given that Lestrade is the one coming to tell Holmes and Watson about it. Let’s begin.

The very first scene is... cringey, and irritating, and demeaning because it plays on stereotypes. The rest of the intro is interesting mostly because the dialogue is all in Italian without subtitles; you have to rely on the intrigue of the acting. Given it’s a long intro, I think this choice worked. Though it’s still cringey. That pattern continues for the rest of the episode whenever the Italians appear by themselves, so I’m skipping those scenes.

After the title credits, we open at the lounge room of 221b.

A lovely cozy scene, with the gentle music from the episode soundtrack, the fire crackling, Holmes reading the paper, and Watson with drink and cigar in hand.

But what’s this? They have a guest - Lestrade!

This scene sets the tone for the episode. Lestrade looks as if he’s come over for a relaxing evening, not case talk (cigar in hand, relaxed sprawl against the couch). He even tries to say he has “nothing... in particular” on (no cases) - only for Holmes to say, with a knowing smile, “tell us about it”. As Watson chuckles, Lestrade then admits (with a smile of his own), “Well, now you mention it...”

The atmosphere is very congenial, as if they’re all old friends - though it switches to “old colleagues” once Lestrade begins his tale of course. This is interesting given Lestrade’s previous appearances.

In Norwood Builder, he was an Antagonist of sorts. In Empty House, he was Watson’s Colleague and awkward acquaintance. In Second Stain, he was both hindrance and help.

In this episode, he’s the Apprentice - following along in Holmes and Watson’s heels. Sometimes he and Watson get to have a Moment, and other times Watson is shown to be ahead of him - or helped to be ahead by Holmes.

There are some delightful Holmes/ Watson scenes in this episode, too. For example, the scene after the opening, when a young, uniformed (and very eager) note-runner rushes to deliver a note from Lestrade to 221b.

It is Watson who receives the note, so it is Watson who tells Holmes who the note is from, and deduces why it was written.

And for once, it’s Watson who tells Holmes arrangements are already made and they’re leaving shortly: “Finish your coffee, there’s a cab at the door. Two minutes!”

Watson is quite pleased that he has the opportunity for this bit of role reversal, and Holmes seems amused by it also. Another “known each other forever” moment.

Other scenes include:

Holmes’s little smug moment to Watson about his gambit with the press having paid off - note Watson’s look of rueful tolerance as he says, “Very cunning, Holmes”.

That much gif’d scene of Holmes spying Lestrade peering at his papers and calling Watson over silently to show him.

Finally, a bit near the end of the episode where Holmes is explaining himself, and Watson begins to ask a question. Holmes gives him an answer of only two words - a name - and Watson instantly understands.

Now, onto Lestrade’s Apprenticeship. Prominent scenes include visiting the scene where the latest bust was smashed, visiting the morgue, the stakeout scene, and several scenes in 221b. Culminating, of course, in the best one of the lot.

Let’s start with the visit to the bust-smashing spot.

Lestrade, the junior apprentice, asks questions.

Holmes answers the first (which was a direct query for his opinion on matters) then walks ahead, leaving Watson to field the rest.

Watson does so quite well - and then gets stuck.

He glances at Holmes, who - rather than taking over - gives him a hint by gesturing with his walking stick out of Lestrade’s direct sight.

Watson is then able to answer, though is completely stumped again shortly and must verbally ask Holmes for help.

To which Holmes only says, “Remember it for later” (paraphrased).

I.e. “not enough evidence to answer it yet.” A neat insight into Holmes’s thought processes.

Then Holmes can’t help but be dramatic a moment later, when he announces their next destination: the morgue.

(Here, Holmes takes a moment to ponder “the one mystery not even [he] can solve: death itself” - which... is this a story quote or what???)

Anyway. The other pattern continues after that.

Lestrade and Watson talk between themselves again, before Watson notices a potential clue (photograph isn’t whole) and passes it to Holmes.

Holmes then examines the body closely - perhaps comparing it to the photograph?

Lestrade thinks aloud about the next steps and is disappointed when Holmes at first does not react - he has to prod him with a direct question. A sign in itself that Holmes is concentrating on other lines of thought.

This part of the scene gives off Autistic Holmes vibes to me.

They prepare to split off for a while, with Holmes and Watson following one line of inquiry while Lestrade follows another.

Holmes encourages Lestrade on this - after all, if they each follow separate avenues, they can “return and compare notes”.

Another apprentice moment for Lestrade, or so it seems to me. Though Holmes is not so accommodating as to share the photograph.

Note Watson’s little commiserating head tilt and smile before they head off!

And when they’ve gone, Lestrade leans over to study the body, trying to see what Holmes did.

They reconvene in 221b.

Everyone is playing the information game.

Holmes pretends not to care too much about his day’s work, summarising it vaguely.

Lestrade feels smug about his day’s work, and gets to glow in Watson’s encouragement for a moment, before Holmes becomes impatient.

For it’s going to be a long evening - so, Holmes suggests, how about a nap, once we’ve arranged the particulars?

Lestrade is Unamused, at first, with another perplexed glance at Watson, who only nods (it amuses me we can’t see Watson’s expression here).

Our next Team Scene starts with Holmes in his shirtsleeves, flinging papers around.

At least he’s only confining it to one of the smaller rooms, I guess - less work for Mrs Hudson!

The reason for that, of course, is that Lestrade and Watson are napping in the main room.

Until Holmes wakes them up, coats and hats in hand.

Lestrade is particularly tired, it seems, causing Holmes to tease: “Watson, I think you’ve been over-generous with the port!”

Lestrade grumbles: “You’ve been frugal enough with your information...”

You’d think Lestrade would be used to stakeouts, being a police detective - but he seems rather a novice.

Fortunately, their man soon arrives, running across the lawn. The three follow discreetly, leading to several lovely images.

One is the shot of them all peering cautiously over the hedge - Holmes, Lestrade, Watson, in a row.

The other is the one of them peering around a corner together.

But, though they apprehend their man, and Holmes has a delightful exchange with the owner of the house (that finger to the hat brim in acknowledgement!) it’s not over yet.

It’s back to 221b the next morning for the final denouement, leading to the scene that tops them all.

It begins with Lestrade explaining his own theories, rather smugly... only to find that Holmes is Not Listening so intently that Watson must resort to calling for Holmes’s attention on Lestrade’s behalf.

again... Autistic Holmes vibes.

And then the knock at the door, with Holmes adopting a pose - leaning against the mantel - so he can swirl around with quite the dramatic flair when their guest asks if he’s here.

The final bust is delivered and paid for handsomely, the guest ushered to the door, and Holmes turns around with a particular look towards Watson and Lestrade. They just blink back at him because they haven’t caught on yet.

So Holmes of course shows them, in quite the dramatic fashion.

He sweeps the tablecloth off one table (while not disturbing the tea things!), places it on another, and sets everything else up with plenty of flair. All the while with Watson and Lestrade looking on in befuddlement, and sharing confused looks.

Holmes: “Now gentlemen if you would give me your undivided attention...” *brings his walking stick down on the bust with a satisfying thwack-smash.* Then digs through the pieces of the bust to find... “the famous black pearl of the Borgias.”

This dramatic bit of theatre causes Watson and Lestrade to gasp and then clap - Watson even says, “Bravo!”

They pass the pearl from hand to hand in excitement, with Lestrade filling us in on why it’s just so important.

Then Holmes takes the pearl back so he can hide it reveal how he knew it would be in the bust.

(This is another “precious stone” story, so of course Holmes is the one who apparently keeps the thing.)

It’s quite an excellent tale this time, and puts together all the separate parts of the mystery - including bits we didn’t know were connected - together.

Watson is naturally impressed... and so is Lestrade.

“I’ve seen you handle many cases in my time, but I don’t know if I knew of a more workmanlike one than this.”

Holmes is abashed but pleased - offering a little smile with quick glance, then looking away again.

But Lestrade isn’t finished.

“We’re not jealous of you, you know, at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we’re proud of you.”

And Holmes freezes.

Stunned, and - as Lestrade continues speaking - overcome. You can see the emotion on his face, especially his eyes.

Once Lestrade has finished, Holmes says, “Thank you,” twice.

The first is loud, and trying to cover up just how touched he is.

The second, only said after he’s taken the briefest pause to swallow back tears, is much softer, rougher, and very heartfelt.

Oh my god. Just - Jeremy Brett, you marvel! All of that emotion conveyed so thoroughly in just a few microexpressions and tone of voice! Making me feel things, how dare.

After that display, with Lestrade still watching him, Holmes abruptly asks Watson to fetch another case’s files (for an excuse), and shows Lestrade the door. Hurrying him out before Lestrade could continue looking (too) closely and perhaps see more than Holmes intended.

At the door, however, Holmes stops Lestrade and, after saying a little something that basically amounts to the sentiment of, “um, thanks, if you have any more problems, I’m always happy to help”. And then he holds out his hand for Lestrade to shake.

Holmes does not shake hands with just anyone. He’s usually happy with a nod. We’ve had several instances with other characters where they’ve offered a handshake and Holmes has refused it. Now, after Lestrade’s appreciative words (which included mention of the Yarders shaking his hand in praise), he offers Lestrade his hand.

Idk if I’m making too much of this, I can’t check the earlier Lestrade episodes atm to see if it’s the first handshake they’ve had... but the fact that Holmes offered it seems significant, especially coming after the moment just before.

We leave them there, with Holmes releasing his feelings by playing the violin (Granada theme tune <3) and giving Watson his own private concert.

Image description: Watson sits in a lounge chair in 221b, his back to the audience as he watches Holmes, who is in front of the window playing violin, facing the street below. / end image description.

#granada holmes #watching granada holmes #the six napoleons #jeremy brett is the perfect sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes #john watson #inspector lestrade #jeremy brett #edward hardwicke #colin jeavons

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josefavomjaaga · 11 months

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Soult’s plundering (part 1 of ?)

As so far I have been posting all the nice and kind things about marshal Soult … uh, yes. Those were the nice and kind things! … it’s about time we address the elephant in the room: the fact that Soult was considered one of the great plunderers among the marshals, together with Masséna.

Not even Nicole Gotteri in her biography denies that Soult was constantly trying to make money for himself, though she, and I think rightfully, points out that this was true for almost all of the marshals. It just does not get adressed in most other cases. As to Soult’s methods, I have the impression that he went about it in a very different – and more prudent - manner compared to people like Masséna, Ney or Mortier, who usually just demanded contributions from occupied towns and kept some of the extorted money for themselves. Only to be severely rebuked and punished whenever Napoleon felt like playing the generous ruler and defending the oppressed.

From what I have read so far, Soult did not overtly abuse the inhabitants of conquered countries. He abused the French army administration instead.

Already in Vienna in 1805, after the battle of Austerlitz, Austrian texts repeat that the French soldiers called marshal Soult greedy and the greatest plunderer.

To be noted: The French called him that.

Artillery officer Pion des Loches relates an incident that might explain how this worked. It involves a certain general Salligny (or Saligny), who during this campaign held the position of Soult’s chief-of-staff.

Setting out alone with colonel Demarçay on 28 Brumaire (19 November) for Unterwesternitz, I witnessed one of General Salligny's masterstrokes. [...] Towards midday, we arrived in a village where there was a castle of fairly good appearance and from which we saw carriages of wine being taken out by an officer to 5th Corps.

That would be Lannes’. Uh-hum. More reason for discord.

We entered and the intendant served us dinner. No sooner had we sat down to dinner when General Salligny entered with his entire staff; he reproaches in very harsh terms the colonel for having strayed from the army corps and asks the intendant what are these carriages of wine that he has met in the village; he has them detained under the pretext that Marshal Lannes cannot requisition provisions so close to the passage of Marshal Soult's army corps; he confiscates them for us, then sells them to the intendant, and we could distinctly hear the sound of coins being counted in the next room by one of the general's aides-de-camp.

During the five days that our march from Znaïm to Austerlitz lasted, General Salligny, at the head of his staff, requisitioned victuals from all the villages near which we passed, then sold them to the authorities who had supplied them, and one day the Vandamme division ran out of bread. I heard him accuse Salligny at the head of his division and even pass the blame on to Marshal Soult.

So, I guess the procedure is clear: requisition victuals for the soldiers, then sell those goods back and pocket the money.

To be fair, I am completely at a loss as to how the distribution of victuals in the French army worked (or rather: was supposed to work, as for the most time it seems to have not worked). The army was often spread out over huge distances. What happened if one unit managed to requisition large amounts of bread, or shoes, or alcohol? They could not share their booty with their comrades easily, even if they wanted to. Would the surplus then be sold to French army suppliers by one corps, in order to be sold to other corps by those? - In all seriousness, I do not know in how far selling (some of the) requisitioned goods may even have been part of standard procedure.

Selling them to the very people you had taken them from, however, and letting the soldiers starve, clearly was not. (It should also be added that, from what I have read, Soult usually was not known to be that careless towards the soldiers under his command.)

The incident of Vandamme – who, by the way, seems to have a long history of financial misappropriations himself, so he probably knew all the tricks - publicly accusing Saligny is well-documented, too. Gotteri cites some of the letter Soult wrote to Vandamme on that occasion in her book (I can try to find it and quote it if somebody’s interested).

Needless to say that general Saligny, for the campaign of 1805, is a key figure when it comes to financial shenanigans. He also seems to have been notoriously disliked by Soult’s aides, according to Petiet. After 1805, he will leave Soult’s service and enter that of … wait for it ... Joseph Bonaparte 😁. Who clearly appreciated guys with a knack for making money at least as much as Soult did. Saligny even received a title of nobility from Joseph and would later accompany him to Spain.

---

(Continued in Part 2)

#napoleon's marshals #jean de dieu soult #napoleon's generals #charles saligny de san germano #campaign of 1805 #third coalition war #marshals'n'money

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cha-melodius · 2 years

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napollya + "We’re dating and I didn’t know you were a mobster/biker" (except replace monster/biker with "spy" or "secret police")

(Double dipping with Whumptober No. 25: "You Better Start Talking", which seemed appropriate for a fic about secrets. This is a canon-adjacent AU in which Napoleon is still an art thief and Illya is still KGB, and they start a whirlwind international affair where neither of them knows what the other is. I hope you enjoy, anon!)

A Hard Habit to Break

Read it on AO3 (M, 5.9k)

Napoleon should probably be more alarmed by being unexpectedly dragged off into a secluded corner and kissed within an inch of his life, but he’s long since passed that point by now.

It is, of course, not entirely unexpected. He’d gotten the message, called into the operator at a particular hotel in Rome, that Peril would be in Geneva for a couple of days. Given that Napoleon had been languishing in Lyon, fishing for his next job, it had been a no-brainer to make the trip. Ok, so he pretty much drops everything whenever he gets a message from Peril, but that’s beside the point. Judging by the speed at which his Russian lover sometimes appears after he leaves his own message at the hotel, the feeling is more or less mutual.

He hadn’t known for sure that Peril would be at this party, though it’s the kind of thing he often showed up at, full of political bigwigs and their trophy wives. People like that love to brag to each other about their latest art acquisitions, which makes these shindigs valuable scouting grounds for Napoleon. He’ll probably come away with at least a half a dozen good prospects, depending on what his usual fence thinks of the market. What Peril does at these parties, given that he’s neither a political bigwig nor a trophy wife, Napoleon couldn’t guess, and he doesn’t really care. They have an arrangement that works for them, and asking those kinds of questions of each other certainly is not part of it.

What is part of it is large hands dug into his hair and gripping his hip, the solid press of a muscular body against his, and the scrape of stubble across his pulse point. It’s Peril tugging him into a quiet room and locking the door behind them before he drops to his knees. It’s Napoleon being fucked hard and fast past the oversensitivity, until he’s somehow coming again with Peril’s teeth sunk into his shoulder. It’s probably-too-soft kisses stolen as they attempt to set each other to rights again, and whispered promises not to let it go so long until the next time, and knowing that they have no way to keep them. It’s a long, lingering look as Peril disappears into the crowd again, trying to commit every line of his beautiful face to memory, as if every part of him isn’t already indelibly written on Napoleon’s skin.

It’s the fact that Napoleon is hopelessly in love with him, and he doesn’t even know his name.

~~~

The first time Illya sees him, he nearly walks face-first into a column.

It is, frankly, embarrassing. Illya is a spy, the KGB’s best, he shouldn’t be distracted by a pretty face. He shouldn’t be so affected by a laugh that somehow has the ability to turn his insides positively molten. But this man exists—sharp jaw, chin dimple, sparkling eyes, full lips quirked into a mischievous smile—and everything Illya should and shouldn’t be doing apparently goes right out the window. He has a job to do tonight, contacts to make, intelligence to gather, and yet he can’t seem to keep his eyes from seeking out the dark-haired man in the immaculately tailored grey and blue plaid suit. His attention does not go unnoticed, which is also embarrassing. Illya has spent most of his life watching people without them being aware of it, but this man clocks him almost immediately. Maybe it’s just that he also seems to be watching Illya. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s not polite to stare?” teases a smooth voice from beside him, and Illya doesn’t have to turn to know it’s the dark-haired man. Just when Illya thought this situation couldn’t get any worse, it does: he’s an American.

It’s late, now, the evening winding down, and Illya normally would have left hours ago but something had kept him there. Fine, there’s no use denying it: he’d lingered because the other man was still there, chatting up young heiresses and charming diamond-encrusted septuagenarians. Why Illya had stayed was another question altogether, because he hadn’t intended on making contact with the man; there was no operational reason for him to do so, and no personal reason he could justify. Still, leaving before him felt impossible, so Illya hung back and nursed the vodka he’d allowed himself once his job that night was done.

He hadn’t banked on the man approaching him, though. Illya was, typically, nothing if not unapproachable.

“It seems your mother also did not teach you this, Cowboy,” Illya counters, watching him carefully and trying to ignore the way his stomach swoops when the American grins. He’s not sure where the nickname comes from, nor why it seems to fit despite the fact that this man could not be farther from a cowboy with his sharp suit and carefully coiffed hair.

“Cowboy,” he muses as he tips his head like he’s turning the word over in his mind. “Haven’t gotten that one before.” He pauses, and if his earlier attention had sent a thrill through Illya’s veins, getting the full brunt of it is intoxicating. “I suppose it’s not unexpected, given the source. Whatever could bring the Red Peril to a fancy gala in Rome?”

“Work,” Illya answers simply. “And you?”

Cowboy’s smirk sharpens. “Oh, you know. The same.”

As Illya suspected, there is more to him than meets the eye. Whatever he does, he’s not about to go around advertising it, which Illya can certainly understand. It’s possible that he might be a spy himself, but there’s too much flash to him, too much indulgence. This is a man who is too used to luxury and getting what he wants, and in Illya’s experience men like that have no interest in intelligence work. There are unfathomable depths in those blue eyes—one of them, with a splotch of brown—but whatever they’re hiding, it’s not state secrets. Illya feels confident about that. Still, that’s no excuse for what happens next.

“You know, I’ve got a bottle of very nice Scotch back in my room,” Cowboy says, eyeing him slyly. “It would be a shame to drink it alone.”

“It seemed to me that you were not lacking in potential companions.”

“None of them were so… intriguing.”

“It is late,” is Illya’s token protest. He can tell that it comes out about as convincingly as he attempts to make it, which is to say, not very.

Cowboy sidles closer, close enough that Illya can smell the warm spices of his cologne, and looks up at him through long, dark eyelashes. “Are you going to make me beg?” he asks in a low voice thick with innuendo, and something impossibly white-hot flames up deep in Illya’s gut.

Fuck, this is a terrible idea. A worse one is how he lets Cowboy back him up against the wall in the elevator, leaving only centimeters between their bodies, his warm breath ghosting across Illya’s skin as his mouth skims teasingly along the edge of his jaw, achingly close but never quite where Illya wants him. Illya’s eyelids flutter closed and he closes his hand in a fist, vainly trying to get a grip on himself.

“You are,” Cowboy murmurs, “quite the specimen, as I’m sure you’re aware. Christ, I wanted you the moment I saw you.” He pauses, and pulls back just enough to look Illya in the eye. “Especially since it was obvious you wanted me, too.”

That should be distressing, to say the least. Instead, it’s exhilarating. They haven’t exchanged names, never even asked each other for them, and yet Illya feels like the American sees him like no one else. Yes, Illya wants him, and for once in his life, he’s not going to deny himself. Maybe Cowboy likes to tease; Illya plays no such games. He closes the remaining gap between them and captures his lips in a blistering kiss, immediately deep and hard and desperate, and Cowboy makes pleased noise low in his throat before returning it with equal fervor.

The drinks are forgotten, at least until after they’ve taken each other apart, until after Illya has, in fact, made him beg in the most delicious way possible, the broken oh christ, Peril on his lips as he comes sending Illya over the edge after him. Once they’ve come back down to Earth and cleaned themselves up, Illya expects that’s that, but Cowboy surprises him by disappearing from the bedroom, still naked, and reappearing moments later with a crystal decanter and two tumblers.

“You are offering me a drink? Now?” Illya asks stupidly, even as Cowboy pours two glasses of the brown liquor.

“Still a shame to drink it alone,” Cowboy replies with a shrug. He hands one tumbler to Illya and sets the decanter on the side table, then pushes Illya back down onto the bed and settles himself right in Illya’s lap, knees straddling his hips.

“I see,” Illya says, though he’s not sure he does. His free hand comes up almost automatically to grasp Cowboy’s hip, and despite their recent activities he feels his spent cock twitch in interest at his proximity again. “And then?”

Cowboy quirks an eyebrow at him as he takes a sip of his whisky, then kisses Illya deeply again, the slow, sensuous kisses more intoxicating than the sweet, smoky Scotch on his tongue. “Then,” he murmurs, smiling against Illya’s lips, “we’ll see.”

~~~

Napoleon isn’t sure what possessed him to leave a message at the hotel in Rome; in his world, impulsive nights of passion don’t usually result in trying to find each other later, no matter how mind-blowing the sex had been. Because it had been, truly, and to say he wouldn’t mind another such tryst would be putting it mildly. He wasn’t, however, in the habit of giving out information on his whereabouts, much less something like a phone number. He had a feeling Peril wouldn’t have used it, anyway. Instead he’d just told the operator at the hotel that if anyone called to ask after him, he’d be in Paris in two weeks time. He hadn’t even given a time or place, just figured that if fate wanted to draw them together again it would, or something. Maybe he just didn’t want to seem too desperate.

He hadn’t expected anything to come of it, but then he’d seen a familiar figure standing on Pont Neuf two weeks later, tall and windswept and so dashingly handsome it should be illegal. Not that Napoleon is particularly concerned with obeying laws. That had been the real start of their whirlwind affair, meeting up in cities around the world, sometimes for an evening together, sometimes for a mere few stolen moments. More than a year later, he still doesn’t know what most people would consider the basics about the Russian, and yet Napoleon would argue he knows everything he needs to. He knows that Peril is brilliant, and resourceful, and has a razor-sharp sense of humor that can leave Napoleon in stitches. That he’s a voracious reader and can debate the finer points of everything from classic Russian literature to pulpy sci-fi, but is stumped when it comes to popular music. That he’s deadly serious during a chess game but surprisingly playful in the bedroom. That sometimes he calls Napoleon solnishko instead of Cowboy and holds him like he never wants to let go.

He always has to, though, in the end.

“Mm, you should call in sick,” Napoleon murmurs, his voice still deep and raspy with sleep, and underneath him, Peril snorts in response. Even if they don’t have any idea what each other does, they both know they don’t have the kind of jobs you call in sick to. “Do you ever get any days off?”

Peril hums softly, and for a moment Napoleon thinks he won’t answer. “No. Not really.”

“Not even for these?” Napoleon asks as he trails a finger along a scar arcing across Peril’s shoulder. It’s a new one, still pink against his pale skin; Napoleon had frowned disapprovingly at the stitches when Peril had shown up with them a few weeks ago.

“I think you would not like it if I got kind of injury that gives days off.”

“You’re probably right about that,” Napoleon sighs, before burying his face half in Peril’s chest and admitting, “I wish we had more time.” It’s not exactly what he wants to say, that he doesn’t want Peril to leave, that he misses him too much when they’re apart, but it’s close enough.

“Yes,” Peril says, and somehow, Napoleon gets the feeling that he’s agreeing with everything he left unsaid as well. “Me too.”

Spending the night together—the whole night, and waking in each others arms—is probably a bad habit, but a hard one to break. Their relationship has limits, which are for both of their benefits, and which have been made more explicit over the time that they’ve been lovers. There are things they don’t ask about, discussions they don’t have, like how they both know that this doesn’t have an end date, but it doesn’t have a future, either.

Wherever he has to get to must not be too pressing, because he lets Napoleon push him into the mattress and kiss him deeply. There is heat there, but smoldering embers rather than a blaze; their movements hold no urgency, just the languid roll of their bodies together and the slow exploration of every inch of each other’s mouths, as if they were not already experts on the topography. They linger in bed, just being together, and Napoleon orders breakfast to be sent up to the hotel room during a lull between kisses in a last-ditch effort to keep him a little longer. Eventually, inevitably, Peril has to go, though.

“Probably going to be in Seville in a couple of weeks,” Napoleon offers as he walks Peril to the door, where he takes the opportunity to drag him into another lingering kiss as they pause.

A pleased hum rumbles in Peril’s chest, and he smiles into it. “I’ll do my best, Cowboy.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask,” Napoleon replies lightheartedly, even though he wants to ask for so, so much more.

~~~~

When he gets the call, Illya is in Lisbon and wrapping up an operation a couple of days early in the hopes that he might get away to Seville without the KGB realizing he’s done so. He’s started pushing the limits of what he might get away with to be with Cowboy, taking bigger risks, and he finds it hard to feel bad about it. For the first time since he enlisted, he’s started wondering what it would be like to have a life outside the KGB. Not that he believes he’d ever be able to leave, but… it doesn’t hurt to dream a little, he thinks.

Until it does.

He ends up in Seville anyway, there to clean up a mess that two junior operatives had made in what should have been a simple information extraction. All they had to do is break into a vault and steal the files, yet somehow they had ended up taking someone captive, an American. Moscow feared CIA involvement and didn’t trust the other agents to find out without triggering a series of retaliatory acts neither agency could afford, so they sent Illya. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can take care of this and still have time to find Cowboy.

“They told me you found him in the vault,” Illya says to the two visibly nervous agents, barely holding back from pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“Yes, sir. He was there when we arrived,” one of them—Illya has not bothered to learn their names—confirms. “We tried to question him, but he refuses to say who he is working for.”

“What does he say?” The two agents exchange a look. “Not much, sir.”

Illya begins to understand why Moscow sent him when he sees the captive. They are holding him in an old train car in an abandoned rail yard outside of the city, tied very thoroughly to a chair inside, as if he has tried (and nearly succeeded) in escaping before. Based on his condition, the two agents have clearly already attempted to extract the information the more usual ways, and if they gained nothing then the man must have something worth hiding. Now, though, whatever fight he possessed seems to have gone out of him; he sits slumped forward in the chair, as far as his bindings will allow him, his head of dark curls drooping towards his knees. His all-black clothes no doubt mask much of the damage inflicted by the other agents, but there are drops of blood littering the floor around him, and his left shoulder is hanging at an odd angle

Illya stands in front of him, arms folded in front of his chest. “They tell me you do not want to talk.”

The man’s head snaps up immediately at his voice, blue eyes blown impossibly wide in shock, and Illya only just doesn’t voice his own distress at the bruised face that greets him.

Cowboy.

It’s not possible. It shouldn’t be possible. Cowboy isn’t— he isn’t—

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Illya doesn’t know who he is, not really. Or rather— Illya likes to think he knows who the man in front of him is, but he doesn’t know what he is. All those months ago he made a gamble that Cowboy wasn’t a spy. He supposes he’s about to find out once and for all. Before him, Cowboy’s eyes slide to the side, to the junior agents lurking in the corner of the room. They’d asked to watch, wanted to see a senior agent, the KGB’s best, at work. Illya might laugh if everything wasn’t so indescribably terrible.

“Right, well,” Cowboy says slowly, his voice rough. Illya tries not to think about what made it that way. It’s hard enough to look at his bruised face, or how his split lips quirk upward at one side—lips that Illya had delighted in kissing the last time they’d been in the same room. “Not much to say, is there?”

Distantly, Illya thinks he should have known Cowboy would be a sarcastic shit, even under torture. “I think you should reconsider that position.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Your life,” Illya answers honestly, trying to ignore the fear that flicker through the other man’s eyes. His hands curl automatically into fists against the tremors that threaten, and he takes a steadying breath. “You should start talking, Cowboy.”

Well, shit. That was an unfortunate slip. He doesn’t glance back at the other agents, doesn’t want to know what they might think of the unexpected nickname. Maybe they’ll just write it off as one of Illya’s quirks. He’s well enough known for being a bit odd as it is.

Cowboy looks back at the other agents and his tongue slips out to lick his parched lips before his gaze snaps back to Illya. “Just you,” he whispers. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. But not them.”

Illya knows it will raise questions, that his superiors will want to know why he didn’t follow protocol and he won’t be able to tell them the truth. He also knows that, as he has been from the start, Cowboy will always be the exception, the one person who can manage to make an unfailingly obedient KGB agent betray his orders. There is no question of what he is about to do, and it is not what it expected of him.

“Illya? Sir?” one of the agents prompts.

Illya sees the moment that Cowboy registers his name. It’s another thing he’ll never be able to get back, another reason that tonight spells the end of whatever they had before. He closes his eyes for a moment, then turns toward the agents. “Leave us.”

“But sir, shouldn’t we—”

“You have time-sensitive information to deliver, no?” Illya interrupts. “This”—he gestures vaguely toward Cowboy—“is a mess that could have been avoided. You are lucky I am here to clean it up so you can complete your mission. You are dismissed.”

He can practically sense the agents’ unasked questions, but they’re too well trained not to follow orders. With matching nods, they exit the train car and disappear into the night. Illya cannot afford to take any chances; he follows them, making sure they don’t see him, until he’s sure they’re not circling back around to monitor his interrogation. That’s what he would do, after all, if a fellow agent was acting as strangely as he is. Fortunately, these agents are clearly not made of the same stuff.

The moment he steps back into the train car, he can feel Cowboy’s eyes on him, watching his every movement. Cataloging all this new information and putting it together with what he knows about Illya, which, as it turns out, is quite a bit. Far more than anyone one person should know. Illya can’t bring himself to meet his gaze, not yet, and neither of them seem willing to end the heavy silence that’s settled over them, only broken by the sound of Illya’s footfalls ringing in the hollow space. He steps around the backside of the chair and pulls out his knife, slicing through the bonds in one smooth motion, before returning to kneel in front of the chair to cut the ropes at his ankles.

“So. You’re… what? KGB?” Cowboy finally asks, breaking the tension.

He rubs at his abrasions on his wrists, and it is all Illya can do not to reach out for him. Every part of him wants nothing more than to draw him close and press soothing kisses to the raw skin. Instead, he sits back on his heels, putting more space between them. Maybe he was always going to let Cowboy go, but that doesn’t mean he can afford not to find out what’s really going on here. Illya forces himself to look up and meet his eyes, their innate curiosity and spark tempered by a heartbreaking layer of wariness and fear. Even if Illya could risk letting this continue afterward—which he certainly cannot—surely there is no way that Cowboy will ever look at him again the way he used to.

“Cowboy,” he says quietly instead of answering the question. “Why were you in vault? You are working for the Americans? CIA?”

“You know—” Cowboy starts indignantly, before cutting himself off with a huff. “Of course not.”

“And I am just supposed to believe you?”

“Yes. Yes, Peril, because it’s the truth.” He makes an abortive movement, reaching out as if he’s wants to take Illya’s face in his hand, but apparently thinks better of it. “It’s the truth.”

Illya has to close his eyes in a desperate bid not to give himself away. He is still kneeling at the other man’s feet, like a supplicant come to worship at the altar of his person, praying for a measure of grace. As if Cowboy, beaten and bloody, is still the one with all the power in this scenario. In a way, he is. The effect that this man has on him is frankly terrifying.

“So answer the question. Why were you there?” he forces out through gritted teeth.

No answer. The only thing he can do now is walk away, if indeed he can manage that. Mechanically, he gets to his feet, slips his knife back into his pocket, and starts to move toward the door.

“Illya, wait,” Cowboy calls after him, Illya’s name on his lips ringing deafeningly in the small space. He turns back—what else can he do?—to see a surprising amount of desperation written on Cowboy’s face. Perhaps he thinks it’s a trick. Perhaps he doesn’t realize that he could leave at any time and Illya would not stop him. He doesn’t have to give himself away. And yet, he does. “Look, I’m an art thief, ok? I was there to steal a painting, not files or secrets.”

Illya blinks at him. “A thief.”

“Yeah. The best in the business,” he says, a shadow of his cocksure smirk flickering onto his lips.

“Why did you not say so earlier?”

“You don’t stay a thief very long if you go around telling just anyone.”

Illya lets out a huff of exasperation. “You also do not if you are dead.”

“By those two?” Cowboy counters, grinning now, as he shrugs his good shoulder. “Nah.”

His attempt at rising from the chair puts a damper on that insouciant confidence, though; he sways as he gets to his feet, and Illya has closed the gap between them and caught him around the waist before he even knows he’s moving. For a moment they just stand there in each other’s arms, achingly close once again and yet somehow not close enough.

“I have to admit I was a little worried about the guy they said they were bringing in, though,” Cowboy says into the space between them, and even though he clearly means it to come out as a joke, it very definitely is not.

“You should have been,” Illya murmurs back. His fingers itch to push back the disheveled curls from Cowboy’s forehead, and he wants nothing more than kiss him—one last kiss, before the end—but he knows if he starts he’ll never be able to stop. “Now you finally see I am not who you thought I was.”

Cowboy scoffs. “I see nothing of the sort. If you think anything about this has changed the way I feel about you, that I don’t—”

“Cowboy,” Illya interrupts before he says what Illya fears he might. He carefully extracts himself, leaving a steadying hand on Cowboy’s arm but restoring the distance he so carefully needs. “Can you walk?”

Cowboy stares at him for a moment, the realization of what Illya intends clearly dawning on him. “Yeah,” he croaks out.

“Good. You should see a doctor, tell them you got robbed. Several men beat you up, took your wallet,” Illya tells him brusquely, not meeting his eyes. “The chance that you will run into KGB again is low.”

“And what about you?” Cowboy asks. Illya pretends he doesn’t hear the tremor in his voice. “Will I see you again?”

Illya is silent, because the only possible answer is one he cannot put voice to. “Try to stay out of trouble, Cowboy,” he says instead, his own voice far too thick with suppressed emotion. Then, finally, he tears himself away and walks to the door.

“Illya,” Cowboy says again, just before he reaches it, and against his better judgement, Illya stops to look back. “My name is Napoleon.”

~~~~

It’s been two months since Seville. Two months since he’s heard anything from Peril—Illya, he reminds himself, turning the name over in his head. He’d left Napoleon with little else, beaten and broken in more ways than one. The bruises and the dislocated shoulder have long since healed, but his heart certainly has not. He can just about hear the pity in the operator’s voice whenever he calls the hotel in Rome now. It’s what he expected, of course, but he still hasn’t fully been able to cut the thread of hope that lingers on within him. Maybe if he just gives Illya enough time. Maybe things don’t have to end this way.

Maybe he should stop calling.

Napoleon can’t do it, though. He keeps on leaving messages as the weeks spell onward, though the gaps between them get longer and longer. He does a few jobs and strikes up an unlikely friendship with a mechanic in East Berlin who helps him out of a jam in her absurdly souped up car. Napoleon’s exceptionally good at smuggling stuff across the Wall, so he brings her all kinds of contraband and she doesn’t ask questions when he falls into his more sullen moods, just lets him stay at her shop and makes sure he drinks something that isn’t whiskey. He tries to keep busy, to keep his mind off it, but it doesn’t really work.

It’s five months since Seville, and Napoleon is back in Rome for a job. Because apparently he hates himself, he stays at the Plaza, room 807. It’s been nearly two years since that fateful day when he’d picked up the mysterious stranger who would upend his life in the most wonderful and terrible ways possible, and the room hasn’t changed a bit. The same ornate decorations, the same bowl of fruit, the same bedspread that Illya had pressed him into and taken him apart for the very first time. Well, maybe not the same one. They might have ruined that one.

This was a mistake. He’d come here hoping for some kind of closure, to put a bookend on that part of his life and move forward, but instead it’s more like picking a scab. The pain is just as sharp as it had been five months ago, the blood just as thick and hot as it oozes from the wound.

He’s contemplating either drinking the contents of the bar cart or going out to find company for the first time in two years—perhaps both—when there’s a knock at the door. He assumes it must be one of the hotel staff, because no one else would be visiting him, so he calls out for them to come in. Instead, the knock sounds again, as if they don’t have a key. With a sigh, Napoleon drags himself over to the door and pulls it open, then finds himself paralyzed when he sees who is on the other side.

“Peril?” Napoleon breathes, not sure he’s not imagining him.

Illya stands before him in a dark turtleneck and classic grey slacks, with a bottle of something cradled in his hands and a tiny, hopeful smile on his lips. “Same hotel room,” he says, a little tentatively. “I did not realize you were so sentimental, Cowboy.”

“What are you doing here?”

Illya’s smile falters, and Napoleon hates it, but he also can’t afford to let himself jump to conclusions. Sure, things look promising, but if Illya is just here for one last hurrah, to put things finally, unequivocally, to an end… well, he’s not sure he’d survive it this time.

“Can I come in?” Illya asks. He hefts the bottle in his hands and holds it out. “Brought a bottle of very nice Scotch. It would be a shame to drink it alone.”

Something clenches in Napoleon’s chest. “Ok,” he agrees as he accepts the whiskey, even though he probably shouldn’t. “Yeah, why not.”

He retreats into the room and heads to the bar for tumblers, trying to ignore the way his hand trembles, just a little, as he pours. The door closes with a soft snick and then Illya is standing behind him, close enough that Napoleon can smell his cologne. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath before he turns back. Illya looks a little off-kilter when Napoleon thrusts a glass into his hand, like he wanted to do something else, but he accepts the drink anyway and takes a sizable sip before almost immediately setting it to the side.

“I never apologized for what happened in Seville.”

“And after?”

Illya flinches, but defiance flickers in his gaze. “You could not have expected any different. Both of us knew this was not supposed to last forever. It was built on not knowing what each other was.”

“If you think that after all this time that I don’t know you—” Napoleon starts hotly.

“Napoleon,” Illya interrupts, his voice soft, and Napoleon abruptly feels like all the air has been knocked out of him at the sound of his name on Illya’s tongue. Moving slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away, Illya reaches up to gently brush his fingers over Napoleon’s cheek. “You are the only one who does.”

Napoleon wants to be stronger, but he can’t resist turning his face into Illya’s palm, can’t keep himself from pressing his lips to the swell of his thumb. That’s all it takes, apparently, because then he’s being pulled into a desperate kiss, and there is no hope on this planet or any other of him not melting into it. Illya kisses him with aching care and tenderness, with a softness that shouldn’t be possible, the kind of kiss that Napoleon would call a declaration if he didn’t know better. He’s missed this so much, and for a moment he just lets himself get lost in it, in the feeling that, finally, he is whole again.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s not whole, and he won’t be whole again if this goes the way he assumes it will.

Napoleon forces himself to pull back and takes a deep, shuddery breath before he looks up at Illya again. “What are we doing, Illya?” he asks, searching his eyes for answers he both hopes for and fears. “If this was always meant to end, then why are you here?”

“Because I do not care what this was meant to be. I only care what it is,” Illya says. “I only know that I tried to give you up these past months and it nearly broke me.” He ducks his head to press a gentle kiss to Napoleon’s lips as he threads his fingers into his curls. “I am in love with you, Napoleon, and I finally understand that nothing matters more than that.”

“Oh,” Napoleon breathes, stunned. “What about the KGB?”

“I did not say it would be easy,” Illya cautions, “but KGB will not be forever. This is forever, for me.” At that, his expression goes cautious. “If it is for you.”

“I think it always was,” Napoleon confesses. “Ever since I left that very first message.“

It is Illya’s turn to look stunned. “Since the beginning?”

“Yeah,” Napoleon confirms, “the whole time. It’s the truth!” he adds with a laugh when Illya narrows his eyes in playful suspicion.

“Have you ever considered covert intelligence? You would make good spy, Cowboy.”

“I may not be particularly patriotic, but I’m not defecting, darling.”

Illya lets out a huff at him, shaking his head. “Not KGB,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate until Napoleon quirks a questioning eyebrow at him. “I was approached after recent mission by former British Naval Intelligence. He wants to start independent agency. Spirit of international cooperation or something like that.”

“Will do you it?”

“Maybe,” Illya shrugs. “You should meet him.”

“You really think he’d want to recruit an art thief?” Napoleon asks skeptically. It’s almost laughable to think about: him, a spy. Giving up a lucrative, if illegal, career and going straight. Well, straight-ish. Somewhat astoundingly, he is actually thinking about it, though. After all, if it meant they could be together all the time, rather than subsisting on stolen moments… well, that’s hardly a choice at all.

“I think you would be surprised, Cowboy,” Illya tells him, a carefully encouraging expression on his face.

“But what if I absolutely hate working with you, Peril?” Napoleon teases. “You are always complaining that I talk too—mmphf!”

His words are interrupted as Illya drags him into a kiss—one of his favorite methods of shutting him up—but even as he gives himself over to the delicious pleasure of it again, the thought lingers in the back of his mind: maybe, just maybe, Illya might be on to something.

#whumptober2022 #no.25 #you better start talking #the man from u.n.c.l.e.#fic #napollya #tmfu #napoleon x illya #napoleon solo #illya kuryakin #the man from uncle #tmfu fic #napollya fic #my fic

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ladyhindsight · 1 year

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After the last evening’s pasta fiasco, i.e. Luke being unable to handle water boiling over to conveniently interrupt Clary and Jocelyn’s conversation, Clary is now asleep and dreaming her prophetic dreams.

I wonder if this imagery later influenced the conception of Ash.

Independent body parts → Clary opened her eyes.

So, Clary wakes up and feels someone next to her. At this point, whenever there is anything Clary and Simon say or think about each other, it’s almost always some throwback to when they were kids and what cookie cutter stuff they used to do. Almost like their relationship now is as hollow because nothing can be said about it rather than always going back to them being kids.

AnYwAy.

It’s Jace. Hooray. The tone of the following scene is... strange. Clary already knows something is wrong for Jace to be so buddy-buddy with Sebastian, sees here that this is not how Jace normally would look at her, and yet the approach is going for sexy. What. Even.

I am uncomfortable. I don’t think I can appropriately put into words how unsettling this scene is. Clary’s attraction to Jace is so all-consuming, hot-and-heavy type of deal that any sense of danger or concern is all wiped away. Because the focus here is how, good heavens, their bodies are pressed against one another, I’d assume this is supposed to be regarded as attractive scene. Not the abhorrence it actually is.

Me. Me, me, me. Clary later does bring up Jace’s family, but the fact that she is written talking about herself first and foremost shows what Clare actually wanted to focus on: Clary’s pain in the center. If Clary would’ve been written as more considerate, the narrative less focused on romantic partners being the essential point of focus as to whatever tragedy is at hand, it might have gone something like this:

You let all of us think you were gone,” she said. “Before that. Everyone thought you—we really thought there was a chance you were—” She broke off; she couldn't say it. Dead. “It’s unforgivable. If any of us had done that to you—”

Just food for thought. Clary and Jace’s reunion then gets interrupted.

Napoleon invaded Russia in late June 1812.

Clary seeing clearer here is an excuse to once again describe Sebastian’s appearance, no matter that she already did it in the Institute library in chapter 3. Which was detailed enough as well:

So this was what her brother looked like. Really looked like, alive and moving and animated. A pale face, all angles and planes, tall and slim in black gear. His hair was silvery white, not dark as it had been when she had first seen him, dyed to match the color of the real Sebastian Verlac’s. His own pale color suited him better. His eyes were black and snapping with life and energy. The last time she’d seen him, floating in a glass coffin like Snow White, one of his hands had been a bandaged stump. Now that hand was whole again, with a silver bracelet glittering on the wrist, but nothing visible showed that it had ever been damaged—and more than damaged, had been missing.

In City of Glass, Clary describes Sebastian when first coming face to face with him:

She’d put everything she had into dreaming up her dark, romantic, shadowy prince, and here he was, standing in front of her—the same pale skin, the same tumbling hair, and eyes so dark, the pupils seemed to meld with the iris. The same high cheekbones and deep-set, shadowed eyes fringed with long lashes.

What essentially changed was his hair color. That’s it. “The differences” Clary here sees is nothing new to her, with the exception of the scar on Sebastian’s wrist Clary did not see before. She has noted everything in his appearance, so trying to justify this passage as a comparison to Clary’s memories from Idris is dumb. ↓

It was Sebastian.

His hair was paper white, his eyes black tunnels fringed by lashes as long as spider’s legs. He wore a white shirt, the sleeves pulled up, and a red scar ringing his wrist like a ridged bracelet.

Like, just get to the point without all the meandering justifications.

Also on the chapter 3, in the library scene, Clary notes that: “Now that hand was whole again, with a silver bracelet glittering on the wrist, but nothing visible showed that it had ever been damaged.” Later, like somewhere in the middle of the book, Clary notes that the bracelet hides the scar on Sebastian’s right wrist. So where is it nooooow???

Hypocritical. Clary and Jace thought they knew they were siblings also, and that didn’t stop them from pining after each other and smushing faces, at least twice, despite the fact that their knowledge turned out to be false.

So kind of you to mention them. Yet the primary focus is Clary’s feelings about Jace’s disappearance.

Implicating that Clary wanted to uncover herself in front of Jace before this point. Also “lovely predatory smile” is... something. Jace regards and regarded Clary like a prey, and her first instinct is to feel all hot about Jace’s appearance and body touching her. It truly is something.

So Sebastian stalks off. Jocelyn sees him in their kitchen and screams. She is in her yoga pants and t-shirt and her hair is in a messy bun because she’s hot like that even after waking up in the middle of the night. Clary runs to Jocely, Jace follows right behind her. A confrontation ensues, and Luke also makes his appearance.

→ Please do.

→ Is that not what Sebastian literally is? Valentine’s son. How is Luke supposed to think of him instead?

It is true, Luke has defended Jace the most to everyone aside from Clary. But his characterization on the page has never been gentle and kind. Clary reiterates the point how Luke is gentle and kind, but whenever Luke is on the page saying stuff and doing things, he is more like incredibly serious, constantly berating the Lightwoods/the Clave, criticizing people, and acting holier-than-thou given the opportunity. No matter how many time Clary describes Luke as kind and gentle, and although how Luke has treated Jace can be considered kind, I would never in a million years call him gentle. Because he isn’t.

In this scene it is revealed that whatever happens to Sebastian, physical harm or injury, will also happen to Jace. Clary witnesses this as Jace’s chest also gets sliced open when Jocelyn attacks Sebastian. Luke ends up punching Jace.

Clary has already noted:

Beside Clary, Jace sucked in his breath. She whirled to look at him. There was a spreading red stain across the front of his shirt. He touched his hand to it; his fingertips came away bloody. We are bound. Cut him and I bleed.

It barely needs an explanation why Sebastian’s lip might be bleeding. So:

→ He was bleeding from a split lip. Jace swung into her field of vision, and there was blood on his mouth where Luke had hit him.

Sebastian stabs Luke. Sebastian and Jace make run for it. Jocelyn calls for aid while trying to help Luke.

Similarly to Jace prioritizing his own guilt and punishment over helping Clary in City of Fallen Angels, Clary prioritized her own guilt and punishment over helping Luke (who is actually dying) in order to score sympathy points for her. Woe is her. What about what Luke deserves? Does Luke not deserve her help, her comfort? Clary thinks about herself and not Luke and what Luke would want.

I once wrote a long-ass post about Clary and her guilt, and though it was about an entirely different matter, Clary’s guilt here is similarly incredibly disingenuous and self-centered.

#Clary Fray #Jace Herondale #Sebastian Morgenstern #Jocelyn Fray #Luke Garroway #CoLS Chapter 5 #City of Lost Souls

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vvatchword · 1 year

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I have a lotttt of centrist/conservative friends and family and i tell you the only thing more annoying than leftist moral performatism is right-leaning moral performatism. At least lefties' performatism can be reduced to concepts like, "Yeah! Creativity!! Freedom!! Wear anything you like! Fuck any way you prefer! Neopronouns! Modify your body to look like a cat i don't give a fuck. If we don't like it, we'll change it. A billion different flavors of human experience can't be wrong!"

Righties are like, "Eew why is everyone not straight and white and cis? I need a full essay about why it's okay for this piece of fiction to have so many Hispanic people in it. Why have they dyed their hair green? They would look so much nicer if they [insert very narrow view of human beauty/social roles here]. Why isn't everyone keeping their weird shit secret in front of me so i don't have to ever be offended or challenged in any way?"

Then they cry about seeing two dudes hold hands in public and you're like. You fucking infant. Pluck your eyes out.

And they produce literally the worst artistic and creative takes. Overwhelmingly into themes of good v evil, very narrow ideas of presentation (they're the people who think the only art worth extolling is oil paintings of Napoleon and pale women in ponds and farm scenes or whatever the fuck), if it's not a happy ending they cry about it, swearing is enough to make them stop listening to an argument entirely so you have to talk like an academic, appearances and superficial takes are prized while inherent qualities are ignored, intellectualism is derided, authority is good because authority, old is good because old. Whole swathes of human experience are anathema to them. If their poorly-educated racist dumbfuck of a grandpa wouldn't like it, they won't like it on principle.

Whenever i read, "on a plane, you need right and left wings to fly," I can see the typist in my mind's eye. They are white, cis, het, a dude, 30-50 years old, and at least middle-class. They have not suffered sufficiently to learn humility and they probably never will. They have never held a challenged social position or have successfully squashed urges to join one. Every form of media has catered to them since birth. They have a stunted imagination and an atrophic empathy.

They are kinda dumb, but socially so, and they completely lack the equipment to understand that. They've never had to practice the ability.

#vvatchword #social justice

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diiegosaur · 1 year

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🎭 🍟 💅

Headcanon prompts || Accepting

🎭: How does your muse handle their emotions? Do they bottle them up or pour them out as soon as they start to feel?

[[ diego is the type to bottle things up, emotionally, something that he's done since he was quite young but something that's become a genuine problem due to his political position in this post-SBR au.

keeping a lot of himself concealed to save face is draining now that he's a public figure that now can't justify disappearing off sometimes- its not easy. but fake it till you make it and all that yk

🍟: How does your muse feel about their body? Would they change it if they could?

[[ diego is very aware he's attractive, something that he does sometimes use to his advantage if he gets the sense that someone is attracted to him. he dresses well and generally looks good-- he's not the kind to big himself up that much about appearance though (his accomplishments deserve far more discussion after all).

that being said, his injury from the train is a big point of self consciousness. diego does have a lot of scars, but none quite as big or noticeable as this one, and he sees it as a permenant reminder of his failure. if there was one thing he could change, it would be that.

also on this note: he does have a bit of a napoleon complex as he's pretty fucking little (4ft11). obviously in his field of work, this is an advantage, but whenever its mentioned to poke fun at him, he gets super mad LMAO

💅: How does your muse feel about gender roles? Do they conform to them, or do they play by their own rules?

[[ a little bit of both? i mean he's from the late 1800s where gender roles were fucking rife in society, so he only has so much wiggle room. i think diego moreso doesn't enforce them; his closest colleague (ferdinand) & ally during the race (H.P) both have defied gender norms in their own ways, so in general, i like to think he simply does not care, but has no desire to express differently.

also, diego's not exactly the most masculine of men either-- he's rather effeminate, but tries to ride the line of what's socially acceptable and what isn't lmao. so yeah he doesn't care for them and does not enforce them on people, either.

#[ ooc. ]#🦖 ⦙ 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐅 𝐈 𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ? 𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 . ( mailbox. )#anonymous #[[ ty for da ask :3 #[[ i love rambling about this guy. hjkdfafj

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fremedon · 4 years

Text

Brickclub I.1.11, “A Qualification”

Holy cow I had a lot to say about this chapter.

Firstly--more than anything, it’s a commentary on the previous chapter. The title, “A Qualification” (“Une restriction”) makes that pretty clear, and the chapter starts out by telling us that the Bishop’s encounter with G--- did not make him a philosopher or a patriot: it “made him still more charitable: that was all.”

I’m going to come back to that word “charitable.” Moving on for now:

Back in 1.1.2, the Senator’s letter of complaint about the bishop’s carriage expenses ends with a sudden outburst of anti-papist sentiments and a parenthetical from the narrator: “Relations with Rome were touchy at the time.”

I had forgotten how touchy until I got to the line about the arrest of the Pope in 1809. Tl;dr—Napoleon’s armies, or those of his puppet kingdoms, had occupied and annexed Rome and most of the Papal States in 1807-8. In May 1809 he declared his intention to annex the remainder of the Papal States and instructed the Pope to hand them over, on the grounds that they had been part of the Donation of Pepin, granted to the Pope by the Franks, and now the Franks were taking them back.

Pope Pius VII—shockingly—did not comply, and instead excommunicated Napoleon. Napoleon besieged the Pope in Castel Sant’Angelo and one of his lieutenants, acting on his own initiative, broke into the fortress and kidnapped him. Napoleon, despite not having ordered this, declined to release him and would keep in him captivity until he was freed by Allied forces in 1814.

FUN FACT: The general who occupied Rome and governed the Papal States from 1807 until Napoleon’s abdication? Sextius Alexandre François de Miollis, veteran of the French and American revolutions and brother of François-Melchior-Charles-Bienvenu de Miollis, the real-life Bishop of Digne of whom Myriel was an acknowledged expy.

The real-life bishop’s brother, with his exemplary revolutionary credentials, was the military governor of the occupied Papal States. I can’t even. This is obviously crucial but I don’t know how; please help me figure it out.

I am a little more confident of the meanings and functions of the rest of the chapter, but there’s a lot of it, so stashing it behind a cut.

So, the captivity of the Pope is the context in which Myriel insults the Church’s wealth and his high-living fellow ecclesiastics. There’s a digression on the importance of charity, which, for all that Hugo means it (and that it will become a critical key to the end of the chapter) I think truly is a digression--its placement here is Hugo throwing dust in our eyes. After this, Hugo assures us that Myriel “had little to do with the theological quarrels of the moment and kept his peace on questions where church and state were compromised; but if hard-pressed, he would have proved more Ultramontane than Gallican”—meaning, more of the belief that the Pope should have authority even in French secular affairs, rather than that the church’s authority should be subject to that of the state.

So not just the charity digression but all the anecdotes about the synod and the bishop being a breath of fresh air are sandwiched between the mention of the pope’s arrest, and our being told that the bishop Would Not Have Approved of it. Which feels like a thing Hugo is trying to underscore without seeming to but also seems totally unsurprising, so I’m not sure why. (Once again, HALP.)

Moving on. It’s after this that we are first told Myriel was cool toward Napoleon in the decline of his power. And it’s after that that we hear about the two brothers—on a prefect, whom he is on good terms with, and one a general, whom he is a little cool toward because the general was insufficiently hostile to Napoleon at the landing at Cannes—that is, at the start of the hundred days.

This fictionalizes the general brother enough to make it clear he’s not actually the MILITARY GOVERNOR OF THE PAPAL STATES. It also brings the timeline back to 1815, the year established as the present in the first sentence. We were just in 1814 at the start of the first Bourbon restoration—we jumped back five years or so to refresh the reader’s memory about Napoleon’s relations with Rome—and now we’re jumping forward, to Napoleon’s return.

With all this as context--Napoleon’s conquest of the Papal States (and the Bishop feeling a way about that), his decline, the Hundred Days--the narrator finally tells us what the Bishop’s political leanings ought to have been.

And first of all Hugo tells us he shouldn’t have had them, though his phrasing in FMA is odd: “Certainly, such a man deserved to escape political opinions.” Anyone want to weigh in on the French? (“Certes, un pareil homme eût mérité de n'avoir pas d'opinions politiques.”)

The next sentence is easier to parse: “Let no one misunderstand; we do not confuse so-called political opinions with that great yearning for progress, with that sublime patriotic, democratic, and human faith which, in our days, should be the basis of all generous thought.” This is Hugo assuring the censor that, no no no, this is not a political book. There’s nothing political about wanting ~progress~, no sir. (Please ignore the next 1300 pages, in which I conclusively demonstrate that Progress can only be achieved by overthrowing Napoleon III and instituting a socialist republic.)

Next sentence: “Without going further into questions that have only an indirect bearing on the subject of this book (translation: are DEEPLY RELEVANT to the subject of this book), we would simply say, it would have been better if Monseigneur Bienvenu had not been a royalist (translation: what it says on the tin) and if his eyes had never been averted for a single instant from that serene contemplation, steadily shining above the conflicts of human affairs, in which are seen those three pure luminaries, Truth, Justice, and Charity.”

Truth, Justice, and Charity are names of god in this book; that was established by a note in the Bishop’s own hand. The last chapter established them as the objects of the Revolution—which is to say, of progress. To be devoted to truth, justice, and charity is to be devoted to revolution.

And to be devoted to the monarchy is not. This sentence confirms what the last chapter implies: Revolution = God. Monarchy = Not God.

…and then I really don’t get the next bit either, about how Myriel didn’t have the right to oppose Napoleon in his decline because he hadn’t opposed his rise.

But the last portion of the chapter is an anecdote about the doorkeeper of the City Hall losing his job under the Restoration for constantly railing against the Bourbons. (Which is another bit of timebending—we’re not only back to the present, but to a more specific present than we started in—the first sentence just established the year, 1815, but this account puts us firmly post-Waterloo, somewhere in the second half of the year: the stage is being prepared for Valejan’s entrance.)

Myriel hires him as the doorkeeper for the cathedral. So however royalist he was--even if it was more royalist than he ought to have been, which is to say at all--it doesn’t prevent him from exercising charity, at least. (Or, at most, this chapter having already established that charity is the most important virtue for a priest.)

The anecdote does in miniature what the whole chapter is doing: tying up the encounter with G--- by showing that Myriel is “apolitical” in the sense the censors cared about--and also, in Hugo’s sense: devoted above all to charity and the betterment of the people around him. (And how do we do that, boys and girls? Starts with an R…)

#brickclub #napoleon again #it's always about napoleon #ursula le guin once compared Tolkien's influence in later fantasy to Mount Fuji in Japanese prints:#sometimes it's so close you can see every detail #and sometimes it's almost invisible in the distance #and sometimes you can't see it at all #because you're standing on top of it #I think about that whenever Napoleon appears #or disappears #lm 1.1.11

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manunelle · 2 years

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{Ikevamp} How many kids would they have? {Headcanon #1}

I’m finally continuing the masterlist that I organized months ago, so I decided to go with and Ikevamp prompt, since I hadn’t written anything for my vampire gay boys yet.

Just like in my Ikerev headcanons, each character has a different partner/MC, so the children exist in the same universe. I’ll be posting the other characters any day now, so please be patient. I hope y’all enjoy it!

Napoleon Bonaparte

One boy.

Literally the most sweet and polite child you will ever meet. MC and Napoleon did a really good job, thank god.

He’d look a lot like his dad, but his eyes resemble his mother’s.

Participates in Napoleon’s classes and gets along with the other kids. I imagine them treating him kind of like a little brother, haha.

Napoleon would always read to him before bed, and he always observed MC writing in her journal, so reading and writing became his favorite ways of spending time.

Sleeps easy and quickly, just like his daddy. However, unlike Napoleon, he’s an early riser.

Has frail health, so Napoleon and MC are always keeping an eye at him whenever he’s down.

He doesn’t seem like it, but he’s actually really touch starved. Enjoys headpats, hugs, kisses on the cheek, on the head, on the nose, as a child he would always snuck into his parents bed in the middle of the night just so he could feel their warmth and be safe between them.

Group that I picture him getting along with: Jean’s daughter, Mozart’s youngest daughter, Isaac’s son, Arthur’s son, Dazai’s daughter and Will’s daughter.

Leonardo da Vinci

One boy as well.

I think Leonardo would be reluctant to start a family with MC, since they don’t know if the child would be a human or a vampire. Just the idea of losing her to the unmerciful time is haunting, but losing a child? He doesn’t know if he will be able to move on after that.

That’s why I picture this child’s birth as something unexpected.

After a lot of talking and thinking, the couple decided to keep the baby.

The boy is a bit quiet and aloof, but only those that are close to him know how caring and sweet he can be.

Resembles MC in appearance, but with Leonardo’s amber eyes. Girls and boys are always gawking at him whenever he goes into town, but he never notices it.

His parents are always the ones that start affectionate hugs. He just doesn’t know how to start those.

Gets along well with le Comte. He’s like a second dad, and I think that’s sweet.

I think Leonardo’s negative view of his nature as a pureblood vampire condition would not be a good example for his child. Of course he has no intent of causing it and would probably blame himself even more for being the cause of it, but I think it would cause a lot of insecurities for his child.

He enjoys carpentry and sewing.

He can play the violin!

Just like Leo, can nap anywhere!

Group that I picture him getting along with: Will’s oldest son, Theo’s son, Vlad’s son.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

This man, lol.

In real life, Mozart had 6 children (not sure if they all survived childhood though). So, I can’t not picture how chaotic it would be for Ikevamp’s Wolf to have 6 children.

4 boys and 2 girls.

The order goes like this: Boy > Boy > Boy > Girl > Girl > Boy.

Except for his youngest daughter, they all play instruments.

His oldest son looks like him in both appearance and personality. However, I think he would be less uptight in some aspects, especially because he’s the oldest and he needs to be both caring and “strict” towards the youngest ones. Plays the piano.

The second son always has a calm smile on his face, looking around as if he knows exactly what he is doing in this world. Spoiler time: he doesn’t. Is really insecure about the way he looks, the way he acts, how people perceive him and how he should act around them. Despite looking calm and polite, he’s one of Wolf’s children that always starts fights with his siblings (usually with his older brother or his youngest). Plays the cello.

The third son is soooo sweet. Is the less problematic one in the Mozart residence. Is always smiling and trying to be supportive of his siblings, especially of the younger ones. Is a little scared of his older brothers, since they are always fighting and being chaotic. Plays the flute.

Mozart would never say it aloud, but his oldest daughter is his favorite. Her personality is just like his and her looks are a mix between Wolf and MC’s. Because she’s a bit arrogant and shy, she doesn’t have many friends. Is close to her sister, but because she doesn’t pay attention to what she says, has said something hurtful once or twice. Her oldest brother is her favorite, and she’s always bullying the third brother, so MC always has to interfere and even punish her sometimes (nothing physical, of course. MC is a good momma!) Plays the piano, just like the first son and her daddy.

His youngest daughter is a cheerful little thing. Is really sweet and considerate of other people’s feelings. She’s a little clumsy and a bit of an airhead, so her siblings and the kids at school are always picking on her. Of course she’s aware of what is going on, but pretends she doesn’t because she doesn’t want to trouble her parents. Her hobbies are singing and baking. Can’t play any instruments, and because of that she feels distant from the rest of her family.

His youngest son is a tsundere. He is always being teased by his siblings, so it’s pretty normal to hear him shouting around the house. He gets along the most with his second sister and prefers MC over Mozart. He’s really protective of these two. Besides his difficult personality, he’s really careful of what he says to other people and is really considerate of his family and friends’ feelings. He plays the tuba, which is one more reason for his siblings to tease him, because he looks even smaller whenever he holds the instrument.

#Ikemen Vampire #ikemen series #ikevamp #ikevamp napoleon bonaparte #ikevamp leonardo da vinci #ikevamp wolfgang amadeus mozart #headcanons #my writing #kids #parenthood

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jeweled-blue-eyes · 3 years

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I was going through the manhwa and it hit me that unlike Athy and Jennette's dresses, we never see anyone dissecting the meaning behind Claude or Anastacius's costume, even though they have much underlying symbolism to offer with all their varying colours and motifs. And these are the two most rich characters in terms of backstory and human relationships. Ur detailed dissection on Jennette's costumes are so good that I'm scarily tempted to tempt u to do this one. Will u do this one analysis🥺???

I don't know anything about the medals or the flowers on Claude's clothings since I'm don’t know flower language... But I can give my thoughts on some of his clothings.

Claude wears three types of clothings throughout the manhwa: 1. royal military uniforms 2. togas 3. victorian children clothings of the upper/middle class (play suits + sailor suits).

What is striking is that all three types of clothings he wore can be associated with freedom and oppression equally (1. military 2. ancient romans 3. royal navy).

Let's start with the first outfit he wore as a child: The sailor suit.

In 1846, the four-year-old Albert Edward, Prince of Wales was given a scaled-down version of an enlisted man’s sailor suit. It was almost certainly a carefully chosen decision calculated to make the public associate the monarchy which had declined in popularity with the most popular institution in Britain -The Royal Navy.

What do we know about the royal navy? Besides it’s role in British colonialism and the suppression of many Asian and African peoples, it helped to defeat a series of opponents for the most part countries goverened by authoritarian or dictatorial rulers (Philip II, Louis XIV, Napoleon, Kaiser Wilhelm II), in other words: tyrants.

Sailor suits which are associated with childishness and innocence stand in juxtaposition to it’s militaristic origin . It’s a reminder how young Claude was still pure and innocent, yet without being fully aware of it he was thrown into a battle for succession at such a young age, and expected to survive or die trying.

We could also dvelve into color theory a little bit: Brown is mostly associated with humility, plainness and poverty. It could be a reminder of his commoner origin. Perhaps it tells us that his mother didn’t have much money back then and Claude had to get dressed in clothes that didn’t gave away easily how often they got mended or got dirty, because his mother could only afford a few sets of clothing. This is only a speculation: perhaps the money meant for Claude was mostly used for the treatment of his mother’s sickness. (I can’t see the Emperor paying the treatment of a chronically ill lover. Unless he actually loved her).

We could also assume that Claude intentionally picked out plain brown clothing that would allow him to blend well with the environment. The flashback in chapter 73 shows us little Claude hiding behind the bushes from the palace guards. Considering his state of increased alertness, he seemed to be used to sense danger approaching and find ways to hide quickly and efficiently.

Ah before I forget too much brown can also create feelings of sadness, isolation and loneliness...alright, you get what I mean, I stop here.

Now to Anastacius. While Claude’s attire is more lowkey about it’s violent origin: Anastacius’ is more upfront. He’s already aware of the situation he is in. He knows his little brother is more talented than him and feels threatened enough to consider the words of Caracks who tried to lure him away. Anastacius wears something resembling a mix of military uniform and a victorian play suit in blue and red.

Blue was also considered the most prestigious colour, and was granted to “royal” regiments.

I think Anastacius and Claude’s outfits were meant to show that they were at a crossroad in life. When Ana was still friendly with Claude he started out wearing play outfits and then as his relationship with Anastacius deteriorated, gradually started to wear normal suits and uniforms until he was wearing his ceremonial military uniform at the day he killed Ana.

The Obelia brother’s wearing a military uniform signifies that they are at war with someone. They are ready to spill blood. You can see it in The Lovely Princess, where when Athy meets Claude for the first time, instead of a toga he is wearing a military uniform and continues to do so almost until his death. We know that Diana was the one who introduced him to Siodonna’s fashion. With the memories of her gone, so was the peaceful presence in his life and he became a misanthrope. The memory spell had taken full affect and he was incapable to love or care for Athy in any way. Athy became his biggest torment, his enemy. Similarly our! Claude is only wearing a military uniform at official occations like Athy’s debutante ball, where he had to face the nobles which he resented so much. And even now, in the latest chapters he bothered to change his clothes with magic from a toga into a uniform when he reunited with his elder brother.

Whenever Anastacius and Claude are wearing a military uniform they are meeting someone hated (LP verse Claude met Athy, birthday baquet! Claude met the nobles (Roger), and now in chapter 109 he met his brother who had tried to kill him), they either want to demonstrate strenght (the uniform at Athy’s birthday baquet was more show) or they are ready to attack (the uniform in the recent chapters was more practical to move in).

However they are also stress on the fact that they belong to the royal family and are ought to be respected.

Ana wore almost constantly military uniforms, because he felt the need to show that he was the heir. Not only by birthright, but also in appearance. Only when he went undercover he switched his wardrobe to suits (still, in purple in the color of royality) and puffy shirts. You can see it when Anastacius entered the palace with Jennette. When Ana is fighting against Claude he is either wearing a royal blue (past) or a combination of red and black (present).

“ Black and red. In western culture, these are the two most sinister colors, as red typically conveys the meaning of blood or anger, and black is that of darkness or death. Being a very visually striking combination, they can also convey a sense of power. Together, they additionally give the impression of burning coal or wood, i.e. "fire and destruction".”

(TV Tropes: Red and Black and Evil All Over)

In his previous life he bought fire and destruction upon Obelia...like in Athy’s nightmare remember? So it’s is kind of a bad omen as well.

Anastacius uniform in black and red forms a strong contrast to Claude’s uniform, which is dyed in colors of purple and pure white. “The color purple is often associated with royalty, nobility, luxury, power, and ambition. Purple also represents meanings of wealth, extravagance, creativity, wisdom, dignity, grandeur, devotion, peace, pride, mystery, independence, and magic.”

My point is that Ana’s appearance reflect his state of mind. Being all the time at war with his brother. The paranoia to get overthrown. The fear not to be enought. He insisted on wearing the ceremonial royal uniform, the crown and the coat, in royal colors, because he felt inferior towards Claude and it made him feel safer. If he thought his own skills as heir were lacking he sought to compensate with the way he presented himself in public (his inferiority complex might have contributed to his lavish livestyle and tendency to waste money).

The only exception where Ana is not wearing a uniform is a scene during the time of Ana and Claude’s falling out. But he still emphasizes that he belongs to the Imperial family in another way: The brooch on his vest, has the same blue shade as the color of his eyes, which are a trademark sign that only the Imperial family possesses. In chapter 109, Claude and Athy chose to wear a similary colored brooch to show that they are the “true” heirs.

#does this make sense #I'm tired #anon #answered asks #wmmap outfits #wmmap #who made me a princess #sbapod #suddenly became a princess one day

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nad-zeta · 3 years

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Vincent - Better together

Fandom: Ikevamp

Pairings: Vincent x Reader

Genre: Fluffffff

Words: 1100+

Comments: Eeeeep so ill let yall guess who this is for hehe! Eeeek so excited! Whooop Whooop! //dances around ❤❤ ❤😳🥺! 🥺😳❤🌈

.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’･ﾟ｡.*:・’ﾟ: ｡.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:

Oh, how you were truly a sucker for getting roped into all sorts of time-consuming tasks. You were too kind, honestly, and you worked far too hard. Your latest task? To grade the various exams of the learners attending the makeshift school founded by Napoleon and Isaac. To be honest, it wasn’t even your task to start with; it was fostered onto as the result of a bet lost.

Lessons had been learned the hard way, NEVER EVER challenge Arthur to a friendly wager, as you would be so lucky to leave with more than the socks on your feet. Regardless, the task allocated to him was now shifted to you, unfortunate really, but alas, what were you to do.

You sat at your writing desk burning that good ol midnight oil, clock tick ticking away. Naturally, neither Napoleon nor Isaac wanted to grade the students’ papers as that would be too biased—or that was the lame excuse they used—but you knew the truth.

Not that you minded this kind of work, it reminded you of your part-time job back home, the fond memories washing over you of helping out lecturers and students alike.

But this, this was different, this was hell! You must have read the first paper over and over, hells if you could only understand what was written. Chemistry, math, and the theory of relativity. Just how old were these kids, heck you studied these subjects at a university level and still, the words seemed like gibberish?

After the third paper, you were practically banging your head on the table in frustration; the least they could have done was given you a decent memo to follow. Losing all hope and succumbing to the darkness, it appeared as though the universe had heard your silent prayers and sent to you your very own ray of sunshine.

The soft knocks at the door were like a God sent, with Vincent peeking into your room, gentle blue eyes finding your own, ”oh, if you’re busy, I can always come back later,” his soft voice spoke with hints of hopefulness. 'NO NO NO, don’t leave me alone with these papers. I might just go mad', you wanted to shout out in desperation, but instead, you shot a weak smile over in his direction, gesturing for him to come inside.

“Nah, I’m just grading these papers, but if you are not busy, I’d love the company,” you offered, hoping, nay, praying he would stay. It had been a while since the two of you had spent some time together, with him being busy with painting and you, well, we all know Sabastian is a slave driver.

You mentally danced for joy when Vincent indeed did take up residence beside you, curious china blues gazing at the papers sprawled before you. “Need some help?” he offered, picking up one of the papers to examine the contents.

“How much do you know about maths and science?” you prompted

Vincent scratched the back of his neck, blue eyes never once losing their sparkle. ”Nothing! But I’m willing to learn or help out any way I can,” he affirmed cheerfully, tilting his head to the side, trying to decipher the string of numbers and letters.

His sunny features clouded over the longer he looked at the paper, and you could tell he was just as much out of his depth as you were.

Just then, an idea popped into your head, ”oh, I know! How about I mark, and you count them up and write the final score!”

“I can do that!!” he exclaimed happily, clouds dispersing and sunshine illuminating the room once more.

And so you marked and Vincent... drew?

You watched Vincent from the corner of your eyes, counting up the marks and charting them down in a little circle. His brows furrowed in concentration, voice barely above a whisper, letting go of a little sigh, “oh, this won’t do.” Honestly, his hands moved to their own accord sketching out cute little doodles next to the circled score.

You noticed he had been taking a while with each test handed to him, but you assumed he just double/triple checked his counting and final tallying of the scores. Not thinking much of it at the time, it was only after the last test was marked and handed off to him that your eyes dared to drift across the table to see what he was up to.

They widened slightly in surprise as you struggled to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “Cent? What are you drawing,” came the curious question, after watching him doodle out the smiling sunflower with the words’ Good Job’ neatly written beneath

Vincent’s face bloomed into a bright smile as he proudly held up the newest motivational doodle, “well,” he started to trail off, “you know how some of the students did really badly?”

You nodded, humming thoughtfully as you urged him to continue,” I just thought it would make them sad to see they did so terribly, so I decided a little sketch might cheer them up.”

Oooh, bless his little angel heart, for only Vincent could be so sweet. You smiled back at him, eyes falling to each of the papers to take in the various little motivational sketches and messages left for the students to find. Although soon, your eyes found one test in particular that piqued your interest.

A test in which the student managed to score a near-perfect score, you held up the paper in confusion, “but, what about this one?”

“Ah, well, you see, I thought it would make the students who achieved top scores happy to receive a little sketch in acknowledgement of their hard work,” he continued to beam with pride.

You chuckled, shaking your head, “so what you’re saying is everybody gets a doodle?”

“Jip”

You almost had to laugh; it reminded you so very much of an Oprah show. You get a sketch; you get a sketch; everybody gets a sketch. “You are honestly too cute, Vincent,” you beamed at him, collecting the paper into a neat pile, shaking your head with a chuckle.

Vincent returned your smile with a sunny one of his own, taking your hand in his and squeezing it affectionately. “You are the cute one,” he said in all seriousness, bumping his shoulder against yours playfully.

You rested your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes and simply enjoying the moment. After a few seconds, you peeked your eyes open to gaze up at him, “hey, vincent? Thanks so much for helping.”

With a brush of his soft lips against your forehead, he spoke tenderly, closing his eyes as he reaffirmed his love for you. “I promised you, didn’t I? Whenever there is a problem, I will always be there to help find a solution together.”

#ikemen vampire vincent #vincent fic #vincent van gogh x reader #vincent van gogh #vincent x reader #ikevamp vincent #vincent

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olivia-anderson-fanfic · 3 years

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Stalker X Stalker, Part 10

First

Perma tag: @nathleigh @peachmuses

Stalker x Stalker taglist: @aespades @jayjayspixiepop @blueslushgueen @fan-written @seraphichana @nerd-nowandforever @toodaloo-kangaroo

Marinette’s collection of vigilantes in her house was still growing, somehow. You’d think it would stop with just the ones that consistently lived in Gotham, but no.

Nightwing started dropping by whenever he was in town to try and teach her escrima. She wasn’t good with them because she wasn’t used to fighting people up close, but she didn’t really think that that was the reason why they were doing it.

Still, it was fun…

(Except for that one time they’d been heading back to her house and she dropped her phone down the drain and had to beg the rat-person -- she was pretty sure Nightwing had called them Ratcatcher? -- for help. It was very traumatizing. He’d given her a new phone but she was never going to recover emotionally from that day.)

And then, a few days before Thanksgiving, Flamebird had made an appearance.

The reason why was less fun, though.

She’d opened her blinds and stared at him for a few moments. He was leaning against her fire escape, hand pressed to his stomach.

“Hey, Robin, does Flamebird usually do the Napoleon pose?”

“The…? Oh, no, he does not.”

She sighed. “Yeah, I thought so.” She swung her window open. “Hi. Nice to meet you. What happened?”

“Got stabbed.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Okay, yeah, obviously, want to elaborate?”

“Got stabbed in the stomach,” he said, after a second’s thought.

So, no, then. She shrugged to herself and let him come inside.

“Right, Robin, go get the medkit out from under my sink,” she said, pulling a hairband from her wrist and tying her hair back.

Flamebird frowned. “Can’t you just undo everything with your magic?”

“Not magic,” supplied Tikki, popping her head out of Marinette’s pocket.

“FUCK,” yelped Flamebird.

Damian made the quiet clicking sound he made whenever he was about to say something rude but Marinette cut him off with a glare and pointed him towards the bathroom. Damian grumbled a little under his breath but obeyed for fear of being thrown out.

She turned back to Flamebird. “Also, that’s not how my ‘magic’ works. If I’m not involved in a fight…” She made a ‘poof’ motion with her hands. “No miracle cure.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Man, if I’d known that I would’ve just dealt with this myself.”

“Well, it is too late for that,” said Damian, who had come back out with a medkit. “Now, sit down, we will tend to your wound.”

And they did.

(Or, rather, Marinette did. It didn’t matter if she knew, logically, that he already knew how wounds looked and how to treat them, she just didn’t feel comfortable making him help. She sent him off to play with the cat and worked on dressing it. She’d made a mistake here by doing the normal routine while stitching someone up: asking about things they liked to distract them. He said he was an ‘avid reader’, she’d laughed and said that she probably wouldn’t know any of the books he mentioned because she hardly ever read in English, and now she was apparently in a book club. That was on her, she supposed, but it was still a little irritating.)

And that was all the vigilantes. They all came over from time to time. Sometimes they’d see each other and give each other awkward smiles or actively ignore each other, but it became a constant part of her life.

But it all came to a head one seemingly regular day.

She had been walking up the stairs to her apartment with Tim, ten bags of groceries loaded onto her arms and five on his (he was to open the door), and had nearly bumped into him when he stopped suddenly.

“Cass?” He asked, confused.

She raised her eyebrows just slightly. She’d thought everyone knew about each other but, now that she thought about it, because of the scheduling Tim wouldn’t really be around when everyone else came by.

He took Cass’s arrival in stride, though, fishing his key out of his pocket and pushing the door open.

He did not take in stride the fact that Duke, Damian, and Nightwing were all inside her house already. Duke was sitting on her counter, wrapped in a blanket as he scrolled through his phone. Damian was playing with Vanelope. Nightwing was doing stretches on her floor.

“Hey, look, more people that don’t live here,” Marinette said with only a hint of bitterness.

Nightwing glanced up. “You’re out of chips.”

“Already --?!” She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Fine. Fine. I got more, anyways.”

Tim snapped out of it. He closed and locked the door quickly before sending Marinette a pout. “Alright, I can get you cheating on me with Cass, but come on,” he half joked.

Marinette rolled her eyes. “If one of the people I’m apparently cheating with is a five-year-old --.”

“TWELVE.”

“-- then I think you have more things to worry about than my serial adultery, darling.”

“... guess that’s true.”

“Also, I only buy groceries with you, so you’re clearly my favorite concubine.”

Duke grinned. “Actually --.”

“Except for that one time I asked Signal to go find ricotta because I’d forgotten it,” she conceded. “I guess he's my second favorite.”

Cass pouted and raised her hand.

“She makes a good case for herself. You’ve both been demoted,” she joked.

Tim was still pouting. Probably has something to do with going from favorite to second favorite. Who knows.

She rolled her eyes. She had bigger problems. Like her food. There were frozens and she was not going to lose her food to something as stupid and useless as the air. She waved him along as much as she could with the bags digging into her arms and started putting things away.

She tipped her head back after a second to squint at everyone. They were awkwardly staring at each other, for some reason… oh, right, they technically didn’t know each other.

“Uh, introductions, I guess. Signal, Robin, and Nightwing, meet my friends. Tim, Cass, meet my annoyances.”

Tim perked up a little at being called a friend rather than an annoyance. Problem solved. Kind of.

He set down his bags and leaned close to her ear. “So, they don’t know you know?”

“Duke does,” she mumbled back. “I’m not going to tell them about it, though, I want to see how long it takes them to notice.”

He snickered. “I can get behind that.”

“Good. You didn’t have a choice in the matter,” she joked, leaning forward to press a kiss to his nose.

She could hear Cass groan a little at the obvious affection and both Duke and Damian cringed. She fought the urge to laugh. It was just a little kiss on the nose, they didn’t have to act like it was scandalous or gross.

But, apparently, it was gross enough for Damian to grab her arm to try and pull her attention away from Tim (and physically pull her away from him, she noted, as she was forced to take a half-step back from him).

“Did you get more of my gummy bears?”

She rolled her eyes. “Did you ask for them? Did you tell me you were out?”

He looked a little put out and she felt bad enough to give up the act quickly:

“Yes, kid, I got you your weird vegan gummy bears.”

He beamed and started sifting through her bags.

She smiled fondly and ruffled his hair, ignoring the knife that was sent her way for the action with practiced ease, then started putting things away.

Everyone except Damian made their way over to help. There were no ulterior motives, they insisted, even as she watched Nightwing slip a bag of chips into Damian’s hoodie for safekeeping and Duke pocket an apple.

At least Cass and Tim were reasonably well-behaved, she thought right before she watched him split an orange with her.

Tim squinted at the three people below him.

Jon had come to visit because a) the no metas in Gotham rule had more or less stopped being enforced due to constant complaints from the Justice League, b) Damian needed friends his age, and c) it was Christmas and Jon was so sure that this year was going to be the year that Damian finally understood the holiday.

And, because Jon had come to visit, so had Conner. The worst part of being an older brother that Tim understood all too well.

But, now, he looked down at the three people gathered at the bottom of the stairs.

They were apparently competing to see who could be the stupidest. Steph was standing on a banister, Marinette was trying to sit on a vertical bo staff, and Conner was doing a handstand on both of their heads. It was a little shaky, what with Steph’s barely restrained laughter and the fact that bos are not meant to be balanced on and Conner trying to do tricks, but they were clearly having fun.

Tim crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the entrance to the cave. Did he have a type?

Their comms crackled to life and all three went stock-still, grins wiped from their faces briefly as they listened to see what had happened.

“I am requesting the night off to have an outing with Superboy.”

Bruce gave the grunt that meant ‘fine’.

The three relaxed now that they knew that everything was okay, quickly going back to their game. Marinette had added a surfboard. Steph was struggling with an exercise ball. Conner was slowly taking off fingers.

Tim sighed to himself. Yep. Dumbasses who can only be serious for truly important things -- and, even then, only for a few seconds at a time. That was his type. Someone, please, save him.

It had been a while since Marinette had gone out on her own (with the intention of staying alone, leaving for patrols didn’t count). Really, she normally wouldn’t, but she needed to pick up a piece of fabric she’d forgotten to get the day before and it wasn’t even a meter’s worth. She didn’t need help for that.

Besides, going by herself was much quicker. She was able to go by rooftop as Ladybug.

Of course, going as Ladybug had a risk to it that she didn’t realize until it was too late: responsibilities.

She groaned to herself as she made to jump to the next roof and her eyes landed on a person getting mugged in the alleyway below her.

She looked down at the bag with her fabric inside it and wondered if it was even worth leaving it there while she got rid of the attacker. Most of the time the people mugging people in Gotham were using fake guns. Even if they weren’t, muggings were common enough that most people had little on them and were only slightly annoyed when people tried to rob them. The person below was no exception, it seemed. They scoffed when the gunman poked their back.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” they said irritably.

Wait, shit, she knew that voice.

She squinted down into the darkness and, yep, she would recognize that almost unhealthily pale skin anywhere.

She dropped down into the alley between them and, to her slight surprise, it turned out the gun actually did have bullets in it. A shot rang out. She fell back a step, cradling her shoulder.

The gunman’s eyes widened. He hadn’t meant to shoot her. It had probably just been a split second reaction.

Unfortunately for him, getting shot really fucking hurts and she was going to take it out on him. Especially since he’d been trying to mug one of her friends. She glanced back at Tim, who was shaking and a little pale, and grit her teeth. Yeah, this guy was fucked.

Eventually, though, the pain in her shoulder, worsened by all the movement, got too unbearable and she rolled off of the mugger. She tied the man’s hands and feet behind his back with her yoyo and, after calling Miraculous Ladybug, called it a day. She’d get her yoyo back later.

For now, she pressed a hand to her ear. “Hey, Signal, I’ve got one for you.”

“You’re joining me for daytime patrols now?” He asked, his voice somehow brighter than the powers he had.

“Nah, just happened to come across…” She considered embarrassing Tim but decided against it when she saw her friend’s face. “... someone getting mugged while out today.”

He huffed a little but she ignored it in favor of relaying the address.

The perpetrator to be taken care of, she turned to the victim. She didn’t know whether the rules applied to people you knew, but she figured she might as well go through with the normal procedure. Tim liked procedure, it might help him.

So, step one: connect with the victim. She unzipped her hoodie and smiled brightly, making sure her eyes crinkled behind her mask.

Step two: check to make sure they aren’t going into shock.

Normally, she was able to skip this step. The miracle cure got rid of it if they had gone into it before the attack… but his eyes were somehow both fixed intensely on her like he was scared she’d disappear if he chanced a look away and extremely vacant.

She took slow, careful steps towards him, hand out to check his pulse.

Once she was close enough, he grabbed her hand and pulled her into a hug. Marinette didn’t quite know what to do. The part of her brain still doing the normal procedure told her to hug back because this was a scared victim that wanted comfort, but the other part was tempted to push him off to check for a concussion… even though, logically, he shouldn’t have one because she had cast Miraculous Ladybug so her arm wouldn’t have a bullet in it anymore --.

Oh. She was stupid.

He’d watched his friend get shot and now he was freaking out. Like people are supposed to do.

She hugged him back, bringing a hand up to run through his hair.

“Would you like me to take you home?” She asked.

“My… my friend lives near here,” said Tim quietly, mindful of the fact that the mugger was still within earshot.

She nodded. “I’m going to pick you up, okay?”

He bit his lip so hard that she worried he’d break the skin and nodded.

She took him home and, with only a brief stop to keep Vanelope from escaping, set him down on the couch. She kept a hand touching him at all times as she gathered the blankets and pillows strewn about by all the visits the bats made. For once, she was glad she never really had time to clean, she didn’t want to let go of him when he was clearly so concerned about her.

Less than five minutes later she’d wrapped them both up as tightly as she could with as many blankets as she could reach. He rested his head against her shoulder, arms loosely draped around her under the blankets. Vanelope settled on their laps and started to purr; she made a mental note to give her a bunch of treats later.

But, for now…

She cupped his cheeks in her hands and waited patiently as he struggled to pull himself together enough to actually be present.

“Darling, I said I wouldn’t go anywhere. I’m not breaking that promise. Okay?”

He nodded slightly, finally releasing his lip to speak: “Okay.”

She pressed a kiss to his nose. A half smile made its way across his face.

“Now, how do you feel about Big Fish?”

He squeezed her a little tighter. “The circus scene is cute.”

She nodded her agreement. “I like the daffodil scene better, personally, but it is pretty cute.”

She turned the movie on.

Tim was sure he was overreacting. Of course he was. She hadn’t died, she wasn’t even hurt any more. It clearly didn’t bother her, he had ‘accidentally’ chosen that shoulder to rest his head on and she hadn’t so much as winced when he had. No, the only worry she had was about him.

So, he should be fine.

But he wasn’t.

She’d been shot and, for a second, he’d feared it would be another Darla situation. And he couldn’t deal with another Darla situation. He couldn’t. He had to believe that he was better than that high school Tim that had let all his friends die. Because if he wasn’t better than that meant he couldn’t have friends and he couldn’t deal with that either.

He didn’t want to be alone again.

No, he wouldn’t let that happen. He could think of a plan, surely. He was a planner, he found problems and he dealt with them. That had been his coping mechanism pretty much since birth and (if you ignore all the workaholic tendencies, independence issues, and General Trauma) it was working out pretty well for him. Can’t be sad if there’s work to do, after all.

Yeah. Work. He was good at work.

He bit his lip.

Alright, so the problem stemmed from his fear of being alone… which wasn’t going to be fixed anytime soon. Good coping mechanisms? In this family? Please. Next.

Alright, so the problem stemmed from his fear of her getting hurt.

Simple solution! Don’t let her get hurt!

… not as simple a solution as it sounded on paper.

She wasn’t going to stop vigilantism anytime soon. He wouldn’t make her, and she wasn’t going to do it on her own accord. Even if she decided to at some point Tim didn’t have much hope for it. Every person in the family had tried that already, it never worked. They’d say that it would be fine, that they were going to stop for their mental health or even just permanently end it… but family was family and how could someone sit back and watch family get hurt when they could do something about it?

So, that wasn’t going to happen. What other answers were there?

Well, he supposed that she had left on her own and that was the main problem. If she hadn’t left on her own then he wouldn’t have followed after her in secret and he wouldn’t have gotten attacked in the first place.

But he couldn’t be around much more without it being weird unless he…

He couldn’t…

Could he?

He figured it was worth a shot. And he should ask now. If she said no he wouldn’t have to worry about her thinking him weird, she’d just assume it was a request made while in the middle of shock and forget about it.

He hesitantly let go of his lip.

“Hey, Bean?”

She stopped pretending to watch Big Fish for the sake of giving him privacy. “Yeah?”

“Remember when… I…” He bit his lip, trying to think of a better way to phrase it, but he couldn’t. There really was no casual way to ask. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “Can I, maybe, move in with you?”

She stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, before quickly shaking her head.

He must have looked pretty put out, because she rushed to explain herself:

"You’re under emotional duress, darling, it wouldn’t be right to say yes.”

He nodded his understanding and it was silent for a bit before he eventually said: “But, if I asked tomorrow… would you say yes?”

She looked at him for a while, her face unreadable, before she gave him a hesitant smile.

“Well, I already said that you basically lived here. I suppose there wouldn’t be anything wrong with making it official.”

#stalker x stalker #timari #timmari #maribat #timinette #shutterbug #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #red robin #tim drake

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cinebration · 3 years

Text

Jealous Kiss (Napoleon Solo x Reader) [Request]

I was trying not to use that cliché but I can't help it 😅 Could you please write for me an imagine with Napoleon getting jealous when the reader has to make out with Illya for a mission and they get very close, but just platonically? And when he's paired with her for another mission he kisses whenever he can and she notices that it's because of Illya. You can choose if Napoleon and reader are a couple already or not 😊 — Requested by anon

Tagged: @bichibibi, @bluerose512

Warnings: none

Gif Source: tonystarkz

Agitation buzzed through Solo’s nerves. Though he appeared outwardly calm but for a slight crease in his forehead, he felt like fidgeting.

No, what he really felt was like storming over to you and Kuryakin. Flipping the table was Illya’s move, but Solo felt it might be something he could appropriate in this instance.

He watched Illya lean forward, whispering something in your ear. You laughed, gently slapping his chest, before pressing a kiss to the Russian’s lips.

Solo jerked his gaze away, his fist tightening on the table. Trying to focus on the task at hand, he strained to decipher the accented voices of the men at the table adjacent to yours and Kuryakin’s.

The men, both belonging to foreign intelligence services, quietly paid their bill and excused themselves, stepping out of the range and direction of the listening device. A few moments later, you and Kuryakin made your way to the van. You hopped into the convertible parked in front of it, Illya in the driver’s seat, and took off.

Solo followed slowly, per instructions, and took a different route back to Waverly’s base of operations.

When he arrived at the building, he all but leapt up the stairs and stormed into the topmost floor. You had already changed into something more comfortable, Kuryakin somewhere in another room.

“What’s got your goat?” you asked.

“Nothing,” Solo muttered.

You shook your head, pulled the phone toward you. Dialing the secure line, you connected with Waverly on the other end. “They are moving. It looks like they are making a stop in Napoli.”

Solo waited for you to nod, as you always did whenever Waverly issued orders, before plucking the handset out of your grasp. “Waverly, a word.”

“Solo? Whatever for?”

“I want the positions in this operation reassigned.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think it feasible that Peril be the playboy.”

“We can’t risk exposing your presence to these men. They will almost certainly recognize you.”

Solo knew Waverly spoke sense, but he pinched his nose anyway, irked eyond his comprehension. Shaking his head, he muttered a goodbye and replaced the receiver in the phone.

When he glanced at you, he found your eyebrows arched. “This is really bothering you, huh?”

“Peril is as stiff as a board with you. It doesn’t look genuine.”

“Uh-huh. You mean to tell me this has nothing to do with your pride being hurt?”

“My pride?”

“I mean, the playboy part is practically made for you, and you don’t even get to play.” You smiled thinly. “Maybe next time, Solo.”

Kuryakin entered from the other room. “Why have you not set up the tapes?”

“I was busy lampooning you,” Solo quipped before stalking away from the room.

The evening sky’s starscape was obscured by the light pollution, but the moon beyond the hazy layer was bright and full, almost larger than life.

His arm linked with yours, Solo navigated the boardwalk, sauntering leisurely. In the reflection of a nearby shop window, he saw two men following a ways back. Beyond them loomed Kuryakin��s imposing silhouette in the fog rolling off the ocean.

Approaching a crowded area around a cotton candy machine, Solo paused in the line and peered down into your face. You smiled up at him, making his heart flutter.

He tried to ignore the feeling. Over the last few months, he had been experiencing strange emotions around you. He had a sneaking suspicion what they were, but he desperately avoided acknowledging it.

Seeing your face turned up to him, however, he couldn’t resist—not with Peril able to see him. Leaning down, he pressed his lips to yours, ignoring the thrill that course through him at the touch. You responded readily, your lips curving up in a smile against his.

Pulling back, he smiled nervously at you. Whispering your name, he began, heart thundering, “I’ve been meaning to tell you—”

His smile slipped when your attention shifted over his shoulder. Suddenly, you stepped back, your arm pulling out of his.

“Is this some kind of joke?” you asked, your voice raised.

Solo frowned. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. This is all because of Illya, isn’t it? Some weird competition thing?”

Solo’s mind scrambled, trying to pick up the thread of your logic. He thought back to the previous mission. “No, I—”

The slap caught him off guard, made him stumble back a step. Cheek stinging, he jerked his attention up to you in time to see your dress disappear in the crowd. Ignoring the faces of the strangers peering at him, he rushed after you with as much dignity as he could muster.

He couldn’t see you on the boardwalk ahead. Panic tightening his chest, he nearly cried out your name when something jerked him aside behind a closed shop.

“How was that?” you asked, breathless.

Solo stared down at you, bewildered. “You’re asking for a rating of your slap?”

You laughed. “No, the performance.” You peered around the corner. “Illya needed a distraction to incapacitate the men. Nice thinking with the kiss.” You turned your attention back to him. “Sorry, I interrupted you earlier. What were you going to say?”

Panic surged through him again. Coughing quietly, Solo opened his mouth, hesitated. You looked up at him expectantly.

“Nothing,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “We had to make it look like we were having a conversation.”

Nodding, you tugged his arm to lead him back into the lighted portions of the boardwalk. Solo concealed his disappointment beneath a nonplussed expression.

Even so, he thought about the way you had responded to the kiss.

Maybe there was hope yet.

#Napoleon Solo x Reader #Napoleon Solo #Napoleon Solo imagine #Henry Cavill x Reader #Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill imagine #The Man from UNCLE #The Man from U.N.C.L.E.#TMFU #requests

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incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 3 years

Note

Heyyyy! SO as a local comteologist- okay sorry lmao 😂 I was wondering! Could you maybe write about an mc that is very affectionate? Because I am like that and I would give my ALL and just everything for someone I love. So, maybe the guys are pretending to be asleep and they hear mc admitting her undying love for them? I don't want to burden you! So, I think Will, Jean, Leo and Napoleon would be fine :D

I love you! And please take care of your self cuz corona is a hondje- sorry lmao

Have all of my uwus my lovely, I relate HIGHKEY I’m ungodly affectionate irl~

You take care of yourself too! Tyty 💖💖💖 nothing to apologize for I love a good clowning, esp if Theo gets clowned in the process 😂😂

And never apologize for using my esteemed title I will die on this Comte-thirsting hill (☆｀• ω •´)ｂ

I hope these attempts bring you joy!

William Shookspeare:

Our v creative playwright boy was just vibin’. He had a long day at the (obnoxious thespian voice) theater and while he loves the art with all of his being, the man is t i r e d. MC was late to bed and while he prefers to wait for her to join him no he is not horny perish the thought he just started dozing off from the exhaustion. He’s not sure when the lights go out, but he feels an immeasurable warmth around him. Faintly, he can make out a voice murmured at his ear, a gentle hand running through his hair. (I s2g if this bih says “Puck?” I’m gonna smack him for MC)

“Had a long day, hm?” He’s only just coming to, and can’t muster the energy to reply or open his eyes. “I’m sure this next performance will be the best one yet! You surprise me every day, Will...”

“Try not to work yourself too hard, sweetheart. Your work may one day be the world’s greatest marvel.”

He wasn’t sure what it was about the words that made his lips tremble. Was it the praise that always seemed to flow forth at a moment’s notice, the real kind he was so unaccustomed to? Or was it that unshakeable calm; her faith in him unmoved by any fear or doubt--the kind that made him wonder briefly if she was dull all those years ago. Now he was just thankful it was still here, no matter how undeserving he may be.

“But you will always be my entire world, my greatest marvel. I love you too much to let the world have you.”

Jeanne D’Arc (REEEEEE MY GOODEST BOY OTL):

It was early one morning, frost blossoming in fractals along the transparent surface of the bedside window. An inevitable, biting chill lingers in the room while the sun is fighting to climb past the horizon, its time so limited in these winter months. She watches as the light casts a gentle gray over the bare walls--something she promised to remedy soon--so reminiscent of how he appeared to her at first. Pure and bright, but still fighting off a darkness she knew so little about.

The thought made her draw him to her protectively, careful not to wake him up as she tucked him close to her heart. He was so warm, even despite the frigid weather. A product of his time as a soldier? She was never sure, but she was always touched by how often he used that warmth in service to her.

She remembered earlier the other day, when she returned home from some grocery shopping with Sebas. Concern was overflowing from his stoic face--it was there if you knew where to look for it; his eyes a little more narrow, the line of his mouth closer to a frown. All at once his hands were reaching for hers, relieving her of whatever she allowed him to carry while walking into the kitchen alongside her. When Sebas stepped out again he took her hands in his, pressing them along his face. She had cried out, knowing her hands were freezing--it had to be painful to warm them in such a way. But he only smiled that beautiful smile to quell her distress, the one that always took her breath away, and insisted he could do no less.

“The same goes for me too, though, Jeanne.” she looked at the fierce mark on his face, so unworthy of someone so gentle. She resisted every urge to soothe her fingers across it, loathe to wake him up. She didn’t notice the fingers that twitched at her hip, his signs of stirring subtle. “Whenever you need me, whenever you can’t think of a good reason to walk out of this room. All you need to do is find me, okay? I love you so, so much.”

Leonardo Da Binchi (no i will not apologize. he deserves to be clowned, glorious moron):

Once again her lover was gloriously strewn across the library floor, arms crossed and fast asleep. An exasperated smile found her face at the sight. Perhaps it would have been a surprise at first, but nowadays she would just roll her eyes and walk past. Sometimes, if she was feeling forlorn or a little reckless, she would climb into his lap just as he was. He seemed to enjoy being woken up that way though, so of course she couldn’t give him the satisfaction every time; a woman likes to change things up. And sometimes she was too busy to spare the time.

Even so, the slowly dimming shadows under his eyes were a relief to see. While the celebration of his birthday could only be a blessing, she knew what a double-edged blade it could be. It invoked so many wounds that hadn’t yet healed. While she wished he would share that burden with her--however heavy it may be--she slapped her own cheeks lightly at the impatient thought. Give him time...

“I know you think you have to carry everything alone. And in some ways, it’s something I admire so much about you--the way you always seem to know just how to move forward. Like nothing can shake you.”

She leaned down close to him, bracing herself against the bookshelf as she pressed a kiss gently against his temple. “But know that whenever you find yourself wavering, or even if you just need a place to rest, I’m right here. I’ll always be right here. I love you so much more than you think, Leonardo...”

She stopped herself before she could finish the thought, knowing it wasn’t what he wanted to hear: “more than my own life.”

Napoleon Bonaparte (oh my little lion man...):

They were spending a nice afternoon in the courtyard, as a lovey-dovey couple do, and they went under the veranda to find some relief from the midday sun. Surprising literally no one, our sweet emperor started to doze after some yummy tea time snackies--drifting asleep against MC’s shoulder. She adjusted a bit to change the angle of the lean, making sure he wasn’t putting too much pressure on his neck. Little puffs of air made her bangs flutter as he breathed low and even, and she smiled.

He’d had a guard jobs back to back recently, which meant precious little time to spend with him. Restless and quieter than usual, she had suggested a little stroll together around the courtyard; admiring the flowers and telling him about the books she’d been reading to fill the silence of those lonely nights. It wasn’t long before he started to smile more, snickering when she gave ludicrous summaries of the characters and plot.

Early that morning she had taken the time to make perfect tea time sweets, fully anticipating--and hoping--it would encourage him to rest. So often he would be worried about her missing out on things or trying to plan more elaborate dates, but if she were honest she didn’t care much for extravagance or constant excitement. These tender moments where he could trust her (and the mansion’s perimeter) enough to fall fast asleep, no nightmares in sight, was enough to fill her heart with so much joy.

“I know you can’t help but want to do everything you can for the people around you; protecting and serving others is your life. I never want to be a reason you feel you need to stop doing that.” She murmured in the silence, playing with the buttons on his coat with a faint smile. “But even so, remember you always have a home to return to. More than that, no matter how powerful or skilled; you’re also one man. A man I love more than anything else in this world, a man I always want by my side--if he’ll have me, that is.”

She took the hand that was entwined with her own, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his palm as his lashes trembled. “I love you, Leon. Whether I see you every moment of every day, or only in stolen moments between assignments. That will never change. There will be times where you belong to the whole world, but this” she placed a hand gently over his heart “will always belong to me. Let it lead you home to me, sweetheart.”

And because I can’t help myself, I added Comte, Mozart and Vincent:

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (he’s the melody I can’t get out of my head DON’T LOOK AT ME):

Despite all of his promises to quit his bad habits, she opened the door later that evening to find him fast asleep against the covered keys of the piano. His shock of white hair was nestled comfortably against his arms, piled together as a makeshift pillow. The sight made her think of those long, long nights in college; thinking you’d close your eyes for a minute--only to be adrift in seconds.

Smiling wryly, she reached into a nearby closet to retrieve a blanket before draping it gently across his shoulders. Torn between waking him up and guiding him to bed or leaving him be, she decided on the latter. She got the feeling that waking him up would only mean “a few more minor edits” to the composition he was working on, leaving sleep an afterthought. While she knew he often couldn’t help himself, she didn’t want him neglecting his health all the same.

She’d be back with some hot chocolate in a few hours, just how he liked it.

As she was about to slip back out of the room, the hand at his elbow clumsily grasped for hers resting on the covered keys. Heat bloomed across her face, ears burning as he clung to her warmth.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” She sat down on the piano bench carefully, trying not to jostle him awake. “Your music will never stop being the most beautiful and soulful sound I’ve ever heard. But even a mind as impressive as yours needs plenty of rest--even more so, I’d wager. You work yourself too hard sometimes, Wolfie.” She leaned until her shoulder brushed his, “But I’ll always be here to make sure you don’t overdo it too much. Sweet dreams my only love.”

Vincent van Gogh (he’s babie your honor):

MC was on her laundry rounds, Vincent’s aprons now thoroughly washed and folded for his use once again. She knocked on the door murmuring a greeting--though fully anticipated he might not respond. While he was usually so sweet and attentive, it was almost like he became an entirely different person when painting. Utterly serious, intensely focused; any attempts at speaking to him would require many tries before he came back to himself with a beaming smile.

She sighed dreamily, easily picturing it. His eyes would always be stunning, a cerulean to rival the calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea. But in the midst of his greatest passion? They burned bright enough to make her forget the rest of the world existed.

Trying not to embarrass herself on unsteady feet, she opened the door cautiously to find his easel abandoned. Shocked, she scanned the rest of the room until she found him strewn across the couch; a blanket haphazard in its provision of cover. With a gentle smile she stored away the fresh aprons in the dresser before she approached him, kneeling close to the couch so that she could tuck him in properly.

He let out a pleased little huff before shifting slightly in his sleep, body angled in her direction. There was a faint smile on his lips, evidence of what was likely a pleasant dream or peaceful rest. She traced the outline of his ear cuff with insatiable fingers, eyes glistening a little when he nuzzled into the faint touch--trapping her between his cheek and his arm.

“You’re more precious to me than anything else in this world, Vince,” the murmur was barely audible, he didn’t stir. “I can’t imagine my life without you, and if I’m honest--no part of me really wants to imagine it. This warmth is the greatest gift I’ve ever known; thank you for choosing to share it with me. I love you so much, sweetheart.”

Le Comte de Saint Germain (SAN GERUMAN HAKKSHAKKU):

Every day is a long ass day when you have 10+ children (yes, Leonardo, you are in that child count I hope you’re happy >:| ). For all his half-hearted complaints about the exhaustion and noisiness though, he loves his bubs, and wouldn’t have things any other way.

Even so, it doesn’t stop the delighted giggling that shakes her shoulders when she finds him fast asleep in his favorite armchair. His tie is undone and askew, head lolling to the side--any attempt at his usual poise long forgotten. While she most often found him to be charming and delightful, she loved it even more when he felt comfortable sharing these parts of himself too.

She set aside the tea she would always have prepared at this hour and reached for the coat he had draped across the opposite chair, settling it carefully over his form. Resisting every urge to join him--Sebas would need her help preparing dinner--she carded a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear so it wouldn’t tickle him while he was asleep.

He was so lovely like this, face unmarred by the weight of several lifetimes that found him when he was awake. No matter how early she rose when they were together, she rarely ever got the privilege of seeing him a little drowsy, lost to rest as he was now. She brushed light kisses to his eyelids, smiling when he half-sighed her name.

“Tuckered yourself out did you? You big worrywart.” She resisted the urge to find his hand and entwine it with hers. “I promise to watch over them, so rest easy, my dearest love.” She played with the collar, tucking him in further. “I know everyone here is precious to you. But remember that you’re the most important person in my life too,” she leaned her forehead gently against his. “While I love to see everyone get along, I love to see you happy and well-rested even more. You’ll always be the only one for me, [insert Comte’s real name].”

Bonus continuation because I still can’t help myself apparently, somebody please take my laptop away from me:

Arms like steel bands enclosed her in his embrace, a sleepy exhale washing over her ear as she shivered a little at the sudden warmth.

“Mm, ma cherie, surely you didn’t think you’d get away with that kind of teasing...”

“But I wasn’t teasing you! I was completely serious.”

Laughter shook his chest and hers too, making her melt at the undisguised affection in the hands that settled her close to his heart.

“Then you must be punished for such foul play. To think you would ruthlessly attack me while asleep, bien-aime.”

“And how might I atone for this egregious indiscretion?”

She could feel him smile against her shoulder, the rascal. “Stay here a little while longer with me.” As if he had any intention of letting her go. Not that she minded, honestly.

“Threaten me with a good time.” she mumbled, stroking a hand soothingly along his back as they closed their eyes for a while.

A few more minutes couldn’t do any harm, could it?

#asks #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp shakespeare #ikevamp jean #ikevamp jeanne #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp napoleon #ikevamp mozart #ikevamp vincent #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp comte #ikevamp headcanons #ikevamp hcs #back at it again with that fangdad propaganda #I love him so much oTL #it would be worth getting flicked/chided by Sebas i regret nothing #im so softe chirren (**offkey kazoo** CAAAAN YOU FEEL THE LOVE T O N I G H T)#also though it was probably obvious i am 100% team MC will become a vampy and stay with leo forever someday #i Pretend I Do Not See ikevamp canon #also for the record idk why i went from his perspective to hers after the shakes hc but here we are Welcome To My Twisted Mind #im sorry if that caused any confusion or dissatisfaction with the rest of the writing hasjfgdhskj kind of set a false precedent by accident #anywho please enjoy what my spoons have managed <3333 #now i need to work on that masterlist i promised you all #i do be chugging along slowly but surely #not incorrect quotes #rambles

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sunshineandcybertronians · 3 years

Text

It’s Nice to Have a Friend - (Secret Solenoid) TFP Starscream x reader

Word count: 5,599

Warnings: none

A/n: This is my Secret Solenoid gift to @sheabeeprime. This ended up way longer than I meant it to be. The ideas for what I could do just kept piling up and I decided to do all of them. And in true Scarlet fashion, I named this after a Taylor Swift song.

The view was amazing from where you sat on the edge of a cliff. Staring at the amazing view ahead of you. The wind in your face and hair. Just you, your thoughts, and the giant robot on your left.

Yeah, you honestly had no idea why Starscream decided to sit with you. And no idea why he always came to your home to pick you up when he was hunting for energon. Maybe he just needed company? Whatever the reason, an opportunity like this was too cool to pass down. So you tagged along whenever you were free. Which sometimes meant having to tell him you were busy or why you weren’t home when he came last. Though it was amazing how he would avoid being seen.

You didn’t know much about him. All you knew was that he was grumpy, had a huge ego, and his ex co-workers sucked.

You bit your lip. Today was the only chance for you to ask this. You pushed a strand of hair that flew in your face.

His helm faced forward, but his optics were on you. “What is it, human?”

“Hmmm?” You looked up at him as innocently as you could manage.

“’I know you were going to ask me something. Just ask me and get it over with.”

“Well,” you began, “There’s this parade going on…”

“And?” he raised one of his large eyebrows.

“It’s celebrating all the different countries in the world.”

“So?”

“I was thinking we could go?” You shrugged and gave a strained smile.

“No.” He immediately shot down the idea.

“But you could learn all about different human cultures.”

“Why would I want to learn about other humans anyway?”

“Wouldn’t simply knowing those kinds of things get you ahead of, and make you more knowledgeable than, the Decepticons?” you asked nonchalantly.

“Hah! You think saying that will make me go?” A look of amused triumph was on his face, but you could see the metaphorical cogs turning in his helm. He soon let out an angry and reluctant hum. “But I suppose I could take some of my precious time to come to your… ‘celebration of opposing humans’.” He waved his servo.

You let out a laugh. “We aren’t enemies or any like that just because we’re from other countries. Yeah, there can be some wars, but we’re mostly allies.”

Starscream gave you a perplexed look with his head tilted. Eventually, he just huffed and turned away, mumbling, “That doesn’t even make sense.”

You examined him, then shrugged. “Okay. But whether or not it makes sense to you, I’m honored you’ll bestow your presence upon the parade.”

He considered your words and, once he processed that it was praise, he puffed out his chassis with his helm held high.

There was a bit of trial and error in figuring out how to get there. You didn’t have exact coordinates and Starscream didn’t know where it was. Finally, you both decided on a method. You would give him directions while looking at a map on your phone. Once you steer him in the general area, you should be able to see the parade from the air. Upon this decision, Starscream jumped off the cliff to perform a flawless, midair transformation. He soared back up to meet you, showing off a few spins, and opened the cockpit for you to get in.

You eagerly got in and he took off. He shot through the sky like a comet, reaching up through a puffy white cloud, which resulted in a huge smile on your face. There was something amazing about being that high above the ground. Clouds stretching out made it feel like a new, hidden world.

“Which way?”

“Oh, right!”

It was strange how people appeared so small from up above. The whole event would probably have seemed grander from the ground, but you weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to see it from the air. Especially with a giant robot.

“Wow. Look at it,” you commented. Suddenly, the rule of ‘if I can see you, you can see me’ came to mind. “Uh, are they going to find it suspicious that a jet is just floating here?”

“You tell me.”

You thought for only a second. “Definitely.”

Starscream maneuvered himself into a cloud, enclosing around him as though it were just a hologram. The nose poked out and there was a thin layer of cloud over the glass off the cockpit.

“You can still see, right?” he inquired.

“Yep. Thanks.”

You leaned back comfortably. The view was amazing. However the wonder slowly wore off and the silence began pricking at you. You almost wished for him to start complaining, or asking you questions, or for a radio. Though you doubted that he would enjoy human music. Or would he? Maybe you should try introducing some to him, but which genre?

“So what’s going on?” Starscream’s question brought you out of your thoughts.

“Oh, well people representing each country are walking in their group with a flag of that country. Like Italy, over there. They invented pizza!” You sat straight and pointed.

“What now?”

“Pizza, it’s a type of food that has cheese and tomato sauce an-“

“Nevermind. I don’t want to hear about the things you fleshies consume.” You thought you felt his alt mode shudder.

“Hey, if you were human, you would like it too,” you said. You fought the feeling of being offended that was taking over your thoughts.

“Then thank Primus I’m not.”

“Whatever.” You crossed your arms and slouched back. “… But we do need to eat to survive you know.”

He hummed in reluctant consideration. “I suppose you’re right.”

Some time passed as you continued to sit there. Occasionally you would comment on a ‘country’ that was passing by. Sometimes he would ask about one. It was surprising how much your mind blanked out when you tried to talk about a country. You would have assumed that you wouldn’t have this problem considering you grew up on Earth.

A white flag with a circle and black lines on the corners caught your eye. You couldn't see the details from so far away, but you knew the circle was a blue and red yin yang. "Oh! That's the flag for South Korea."

"South? That sounds more like a location than a faction."

"Faction? What? Well, yes, it's a location. A location with its own government and own way of doing things. Like how you're a cybertronian. Because you're from Cybertron? Were you thinking about it like that? Factions?"

He hovered slightly higher then fell back into place. "How was I supposed to know? Cybertron had one government and leader. Much simpler."

"Hmmm." You considered the thought. "That's either really nice or there was a lot of corruption."

"Oh, you bet there was corruption. But does that mean there's a north, whatever it's called?"

"Korea. And yes, there's a North Korea. It split into north and south a while ago. North Korea has a dictator and isn't a place you want to go."

“What kinds of governments does each of these ‘countries’ have?” He asked.

“Well, the USA is a Democratic Republic. And there’s also socialism in some places, and at some point I think Russia was communist? Why can’t I remember anything?” You cursed yourself.

“Remind me why there isn’t one large government and leaders over the whole Earth?”

“That would be hard to do. A lot of people just wouldn’t agree to that. One of the reasons being that people want their own way of doing things. Since all of these countries formed on their own, having them all agree on giving up their own leadership to have a universal government is nearly impossible. There will always be someone who disagrees on how to run things.”

“It would be easier if someone just conquered the Earth.”

“You think people haven’t tried? There’ve been quite a bit of attempts, like Napoleon, but they all failed in the end. It’s a big place and people fight back.”

Another silence fell upon you both. You bit your lip as you scanned over the parade again.

"There's Japan. They have anime," you said.

Starscream finally lost his patience. “I’m not learning anything of use here! I’m just sitting here watching humans walk! The most informative bit was what you told me about North Kaon!"

"North Korea."

"Whatever it was! You expect me to remember all of these names?”

“Well, at least you can get an idea of what each country is like.”

“Admit it, you just told me to go because you wanted to come.”

“Maybe,” your voice rose an octave higher.

He scoffed.

“But,” you added, sitting up, “I did genuinely want to see it with you and show you a little more of Earth.”

“Why would I want to stay here even longer?!”

“I didn’t say that.” You looked at the gauges softly as if it were his face.

“Ah,” there was a nervous stutter present in his voice, “right.”

“Why did you come to Earth if you hate it so much?”

“It’s one of the last locations where we can find even scraps of energon. And you’ve come along to aid me enough times to know it’s important,” he said.

“It’s one of the only things you do.” You recollected everytime you were with him.

“Because ever since leaving the Decepticons ranks, I no longer have access to our storage or equipment to effectively find it. But I promise you, if it weren’t for Cybertron becoming a desert wasteland during the war, I would have never come to this mud ball.”

“Well. Even if you really wanna get back to cybertron, I’m glad I met you. And that I got to experience your awesome flying skills.” You tugged on a strand of your hair and ran your fingers through it.

There was a brief silence.

“I mean, of course you would… How much longer did you want to see the parade?”

“Maybe a half an hour.”

“Hmmm. I’m going to be sore after hovering in the same spot for so long.”

“I could always rub your wings later if you want,” you offered.

“And let your grubby, little, fleshie hands on my magnificent wings? I think not.”

“Okay.” You rolled your eyes playfully. “It was just an idea.”

For a few more moments, neither of you said anything.

“Would you like to see a demonstration of my aerobatic skills later?”

“Actually, I would.”

A comfortable pause fell upon you.

“…Would you like to go down there?” he offered. He tipped his nose ever-so-slightly to the ground.

“Nah.” You leaned back in your seat with a smile. “I like it up here with you.”

It had been two months and six days since you last saw him.

Yes, you were counting and had no idea why. Maybe he finally got tired of your fleshie self and left. Maybe you should have seen it coming with how much he disliked humans. Maybe you annoyed him so much that he decided to never see you again without a word.

Yet, when you truly thought about it, it didn’t make sense. He seemed to enjoy being with you, even if he never showed it outright. He was always the one who decided to bring you along when hunting for energon. Even when he was a giant robot, and clearly had some sort of prejudice against humans, it felt as though he still treated you as an equal to some degree.

But maybe he truly did get tired of you.

You stood by your window. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the last ghosts of light had faded away into darkness. You stood in your sweat pants and baggy t-shirt. Your hair was brushed and you were ready to relax. A warm cup of hot chocolate was in your hands, the warmth seeping into your skin. You stared into the cup, thinking of nothing in particular when you blinked at a sudden light.

Your eyes instinctively followed the light. Outside the window, hovering just above the ground, was a large, greenish blue, swirling vortex. You stepped back, but promptly leaned closer for a better look. It didn’t seem to be pulling anything into it. It seemed gentle, yet powerful. You would have found it beautiful if your mind weren’t preoccupied with confusion.

Something seemed to appear inside of it. It was tall, and metal and--!

You nearly dropped your glass mug. After placing it safely to the side, you grabbed a jacket and rushed out the door. You raced to where you saw the portal as fast as your feet would carry you. It was still there when you reached it. Starscream held a device in his hands and his red optics searched the area, as if looking for something.

“Starscream!” You ran up to him, nearly in tears. “Where were you? You’ve been gone forever!”

His optics avoided your eyes. “Well, I…” His mouth pushed into a thin frown. “I lost my T-cog.”

“You’re what now?”

“T-cog! It’s what allows cybertronians to transform.”

Your current expression dropped as it finally dawned on you. The reason he had suddenly disappeared. Then you remembered that there were other people nearby.

“Why don’t we go back through your portal thing and talk about it there?” You began to jog into the portal.

“Ground bridge.”

“Whatever it is.”

You ran while he walked in. The fact that the ground seemed to be made of swirling energy, though it felt completely solid, messed you up. You being smaller didn’t help either. You were running and still falling behind. After a half a minute, Starscream turned around to pick you up and carry you through.

A flash filled your vision and you had to blink several times to adjust to the dark, new area. The walls, ceiling, and floor were made entirely of metal. The only light source came from a dim glow from an foreign, alien screen. It was clear from the dust that no one had been there in a long time. The scale was so large that you felt confident that this was something cybertronians built.

The portal behind you shrunk until it vanished. Starscream lowered you down onto the ground. As soon as your feet hit the floor, you dashed to Starscream’s foot to give him the biggest hug you could.

“I missed you,” you mumbled. Of course, he might have not heard it if it weren’t for nearly every surface being made of metal, causing an echo.

His posture went rigid. He began to reach down to pat your head, then pulled his hand away. He stayed like that without moving a servo the whole time you hugged him.

“Ah… Me too.”

You let go. The cold of the living metal still lingered on you.

“Where have you been? How did…?” You stared up at him.

“I came across some other humans,” he began as he walked over for something to sit on. He helped you up onto it and you sat next to him. “I tried to asist them in building a cybertronian. I believed that they would allow me to keep energon I allowed them to find.” He stared at the floor the entire time.

Your eyes stayed locked on his glowing optics. “Build a cybertronian? Wait, if that was what happened, how did you lose your T thing?”

“I-They needed a t-cog in order to build a cybertronian. The one they already acquired was lost and they decided to take mine instead.” He almost seemed to curl up at the last words.

This settled on your mind like a ton of bricks. You didn’t say a word. Suddenly the room felt very heavy. The silence was like a suffocating blanket that you couldn’t seem to push off. You swallowed.

“They took… it? But, you could have fought them off easi-“

“They shot me with some sort of stun mechanism then proceeded to rip me open to take it!” His talons clenched into fists before him.

Once again, you couldn’t speak.

“Why is it that the first humans I meet, other than you, are no better than the Decepticons?”

“… Because some people can just be like that. Just like humans have potential for both good and harm, it seems like cybertronians are the same in that way.” You stared at the ground. “So… You can’t transform anymore?”

“No.”

“And that’s why you couldn’t fly back to me?”

“Not until I found the Harbinger and a portable ground bridge.”

You nodded. You pulled your legs to your chest and stared off into nothing. “That must stink. Not being able to fly.”

“It’s been terrible! How do humans survive like this?” He lifted his fists to his face. His eyebrows, or whatever they were called, dug into his optics.

You shrugged. “We’re just used to it.”

The metaphorical blanket came back onto you, but somewhat more comfortably. Somewhat. You both continued to sit.

“… Are you upset about my not being able to transform?” Starscream cut through the silence. Almost so softly that you could hardly believe he was the one who said it.

“Huh? Well, yes,” you let go of your legs, “because you’re upset. I know how much you love flying!”

“But what about you?”

“Me?” You pointed to yourself.

“Yes!”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“How do you feel about me not being able to transform?!” He stood up and spun on his heels to face you. His wings stuck up on point.

“Well,” you thought for a second, “I did enjoy flying, but it honestly doesn’t matter too much to me if you can turn into a jet or not. I’m just happy you came back.”

“Oh.” The frustrated expression fell from his face and he looked away. In any direction except at you.

“What’s wrong?” You straightened your back as if it would help you see what was up.

“Nothing, I think. I had simply thought that you only liked me because of my flight capabilities.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because Megatron only kept me alive because I was useful? It was always like that on Cybertron, and with those other humans. Once I become useless, I’m tossed away.”

You felt your heart twisted and your blood boiling. “I hate people who are like that. Forget them. They aren’t worth your time. I’m glad their out of your life.” You stood up. “And to me, as long as we get to hang out, I’m good.”

Starscream tilted his head. “You truly don’t make any sense.”

You shrugged. “The best people in life are free.”

“Huh?”

“People who don’t expect anything in return,” you elaborated. “They care and love you unconditionally.”

“I don’t believe anyone like that exists.”

“They exist. And so do I.” You confidently stared up at him.

His gaze darted between you and away from you. He took a few steps back, as if you were a mysterious creature that could become hostile or blow up any second. Eventually, he gave in to a beautiful, natural smile. And the room suddenly seemed brighter.

“So, Starscream, I was thinking…” You walked into the room.

“If it’s anything about making a giant s’more again, I’m not interested.”

“No.”

Starscream had been feeling down, pun not intended, about losing his t-cog. You had cleared out two days in your schedule to have a sleepover with him. He had surprised you when you jokingly offered for him to brush your hair and he accepted. He also tried to braid it when you taught him how. It was surprisingly well done, considering the size of his talons, but still sloppy. You had to remind him that he wasn’t a failure at braiding. While laying in your sleeping bag and bundle of blankets you brought for the occasion, an idea came to you.

“I was thinking,” you continued, “that since you’ve been down about not being able to,” Starscream gave you the stink eye, “you know. So I decided it would be fun to do something similar to that one day with the parade.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I can’t fly you to another one.”

“No, not that. I mean that there’s this scout group doing a world presentation or whatever near where I live. They’re going to have cardboard stands set up for each country they researched about.”

“I really don’t think you’ve thought this through,” Starscream sighed, “I do not think these, or any, humans would react well to seeing a cybertronian.”

“I’ve already figured that out!” You bounced on your toes. “I’ll be carrying a camera that will stream video to you over here. That way you can see it without having to be there! And I have some earbuds so I can start a call with you and be able to hear and answer back if you have any questions.”

“Will the humans be suspicious about you speaking to no one?”

“Nope! They’ll just assume I’m on a call with someone, which technically isn’t wrong. So what do you say?”

“Okay. So you can still see the video feed, right?” you asked while readjusting the camera on your hat.

“Yes, now stop shaking around!” Starscream’s voice came through your earbud. You swore that you would go deaf if this lasted too long.

“Okay,” you mumbled.

The sky was overcast. You walked into the building along with families that had come to see the scouts’ projects. There were tons of tables and three paneled boards lined up. People wandered around. They would stop to read, then turn and walk to the next one that caught their eye. It was clear which groups were family because they would greatly compliment the child’s work.

You figured you needed to start somewhere. It was a stange feeling to be there when you didn’t know anyone, even if the event was open to the public.

“Are we just going to stare?”

This snapped you out of your daze. You blinked for a second. Right, you weren’t alone. You had Starscream.

“Right,” you said and stepped forward.

You walked along the rows, glancing over them until one caught your eye. “France,” you said while pointing to the printed out flag, making sure your finger could be seen by the camera. “It’s in Europe. The capital is Paris. The population is 66 million.” You read off of it. You walked over to another. “Germany. It’s also in Europe. You know, maybe this whole row is European countries. Anyway, capital’s Berlin. Population is 83 million. Their currency is euros.”

“Ironic how these give more information than you did that other day.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes. Ironic.” You walked a few more steps and stopped. “Some place named Estonia. The flag looks cool.”

“It’s three lines of color, like the other ones.”

“I like the colors.”

“There’s a lot of writing and pictures on each report,” Starscream commented. “Did each of these children research, find the information, and organize it in a presentable way?”

“Yes?” your voice came out as more of a question.

“Impressive.”

You smiled. “Some kids don’t do scouts, but they end up doing things similar with science fairs in school. They’ll do experiments or research, and they they have to make a presentation about it, like a vinegar volcano.”

“A volcano?!”

“No, it can’t do anything dangerous.”

“Then what’s the point? I wouldn’t call that science.”

“It’s simple science that kids are able to do. You know, since they’re kids?”

You noticed one of the parents staring at you and you gave an apologetic look while moving your hair to point at your earbud. You continued walking and eyeing some of the posters to read to Starscream. You had gotten to the Asia section and did your best to pick out something to show him.

“And see? The rainbow bridge.” You pointed.

“Huh? Oh, yes. Very nice,” he said absent mindedly.

You quirked an eyebrow up, but eventually shrugged. He was probably getting bored with all of this. A part of you was beginning to wonder why you thought this was a good idea. This thought detracted you from the sounds surrounding you. You suddenly felt cold and like something was hitting you?

You looked around and suddenly noticed that the fire alarm had gone off. Loud beeps filled the room. Everyone was trying to get out. Kids looked in all directions in confusion. Adults tried to keep them calm and safely head out. Your clothes were beginning to dampen. Instead of trying to get out, your first instinct was to get out of the sprinkler. You crawled under a table and peeked out.

The last few people were almost through the door. That’s when you decided it was time for you to go, but something caught your eye. Something in one of the upper windows that lined the wall near the ceiling. Starscream? His red optics stared down at you and he signaled for you to stay there, along with whispering to you through your earbud. You were confused, but you hid under the table once more.

You waited until the water stopped pouring. Once it was over, you pulled yourself out and to your feet. You glanced around. That was rather sudden. And now there were puddles all over the floor.

A loud rattling echoed in the room.

You turned to see the large door, the kind you would see in a garage, at the back of the room open up. The temperature of the room changed to match outside. Starscream held the door up with a mischievous smirk. You took your earbud out.

“What did you do?”

“I may have gotten bored simply watching through a screen and decided to come. And I may have possibly started a fire, opened a window, and held it next to one of those fire alarms.” His grin grew with each word.

“Really?” You asked rhetorically with your hands on your hips. But you couldn’t help but crack a smile yourself.

“What? I was bored.” He shrugged and waved a hand.

You shook your head with a laugh. “Whatever.”

Starscream ducked in. He had to stay bent down to order to fit. You moved out of his way was he came in.

“So, you were actually interested in this?” you questioned.

“I thought it would be better to see it in person with you.”

“Yeah, but some fire trucks or someone else is going to eventually come back here and see you.”

“Hmm.” He looked back. “I see. But one look for a nanoklick couldn’t hurt. I just did all of this so I could see it anyway.”

“Okay.” You shrugged. “Just hurry.”

After his wing nicked the roof when he tried to straighten himself, he quickly realized that it was easier for him to be on his knees. As he got down on his knees, you helped direct him down in the small free space between the tables. The legs skidding against the floor echoed through the room and made you jump. You were surprised he was even trying to do this when he could barely fit between the rows.

He had to lean in close to get good look of the displays. He would occasionally ask you the meaning of a word he didn’t know. You had to admit, it was more fun to have him there in person. Unfortunately you couldn’t enjoy this for fear of being seen. You constantly looked over your shoulder.

Eventually your paranoia dropped by a few notches. Though, by then Starscream had gotten tired of being crammed in a small space and probably noticed your concern. It was awkward getting to the garage door, between him being unable to move much and him blocking you. But you made your way out.

He lifted the door and ducked under and out. You followed when you noticed him freeze. Confused, you followed his gaze. Your blood went cold and you felt as if your mind was being squeezed into a box.

Staring up at Starscream was what looked to be a five year old child. The little boy was alone, probably wandered off, and had an orange jacket and hat. His expression twisted into disbelief then fear. Your heart rate quickened when you saw his face wobbling.

“Scrap,” you let out as you both turn the other way in panic.

Starscream closed the door with a loud bang that sent a shiver up your spine. You didn’t noticed what Starstream was doing behind you, since you were already running on instinct. When he came into your field of vision again, he was twisting on one foot to regain balance and lifted up the remote ground bridge device. In his panic, he hesitated on which button to click, but quickly pressed it once he remembered.

“Is it a good idea to open it up in here?” you questioned as the piece of cybertronian technology swirled and grew before you.

“I would have preferred a larger space, but I don’t believe we have much of a choice.”

He scooped you up and pulled you through. Like always, you blinked when a flash filled your vision. The air suddenly changed and you were back on the Harbinger as the ground bridge closed behind you. When he held you to the ground and you finally collected yourself enough to jump off, you realized that three of the cardboard presentations had managed to come through along with you and Starscream.

You stood there. “Well, that was interesting.”

“One shouldn’t cause any problems, right?” He looked to you before his eyes darted back to where the ground bridge was.

“That was a kid. They won’t believe him. They might look around, but after seeing no giant robot, they’ll dismiss it.”

“That’s good to hear.” Starscream groaned and held his shoulder. “That made all of my joints stiff. And the tip of my wing caught on the top of that door.” He glanced at his wing with a slight pout on his face.

You stared up at him, taking a moment to consider your words before you were unable to take them back. “… Would you like it if I massaged your wings?”

His optics widened and darted around the area. “Fine,” you could barely hear in the midst of low grumbles.

You blinked twice before fully processing what that meant. As you were trying to figure out how to even reach his wings, he held out his hand. You stepped onto it and he carried you to a table or whatever it was. It was too large for you to tell exactly. You carefully got off of his hand and he sat with his wings facing you.

You sat with your legs hanging off the edge. Your hands reached out to his wings. He readjusted himself so you didn’t have to lean forward in order to touch them. Your fingers shook. You hesitated. Finally, your hand laid flat on it. It was cold. You didn’t know what you expected. It was basically like touching a regular piece of metal. You weren’t sure what you were expecting. But somehow it felt different. Maybe because he had trusted you to touch it. You began rubbing it soothingly. You prayed that you weren’t doing anything wrong.

He hummed as you rubbed patterns onto it. Although you were sure he could barely feel it, you saw him relaxing. There was silence for several minutes.

“Why are you so kind?” he said.

“Huh?” You did your best to peek around to look at his face.

“How can humans be like this? At least you and the ones you talk about. Those small humans, no matter how well they proformed with their research, were praised. And how can other humans get along well enough to be allies despite having separate territories and governments? How can anyone do anything for someone else without expected anything in return.” He turned his helm to you. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“No?” You tilted your head in confusion. “I just wanted to because it was the nice thing to do?”

“How? Why?” He turned his whole body, leaving your hands floating in the air. “Why are you always so nice to me? Has it ever occurred to you that you would get nothing in return? Especially from a grounded Decepticon defect?”

“I’m not looking for anything in return,” you started calmly. “I might get to learn about cybertronians, and do some cool things with you. And I get to spend time with you. I get that in exchange, but I’m not expecting anything more. Can you please accept that there are some people who are just nice? Who actually like you and want what’s best for you?”

His face twisted, as if about to argue. But paused, like he had never considered that before. He opened his mouth again, but closed it again, when no words would come out.

He eventually sighed. “I suppose I’ll simply have to trust you,” he said softly. He stared at you closely. “Your hair dried.”

You suddenly remembered it had been wet from the sprinklers. He reached out and touched your hair, letting it fall on his talons. Then he flinched back. “Uh… apologies.”

You reached out to pull his finger close to you and hug it. “It’s okay.” You smiled. “I like it.”

Starscream appeared shocked by this, but relaxed and smiled. A genuine smile.

#starscream x reader #secret solenoid #secret santa #starscream #transformers #transformers prime #tfp #tfp starscream #tfp x reader #I swear I didn't see the thing about IaCon just because you were my giftee #someone I followed reblogged it XD

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