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siberiascaravan · 2 years

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Betraying Hearts: Prologue

A quick note from the author:

To keep my fiction inclusive as possible and to make my writing better, we are going to be doing some stuff a bit different than the usual (y/n).

Using they/them pronouns. But, if you want to replace those with your pronouns as you read. I am all for it.

Instead of (Y/N) we are going to go by a ‘Code Name’ - Fern Vesper. Again, should you decide to change it to your name as you read along, totally understand 🙂

I won’t be describing skin color, eye color, or hair color/texture. However, I will say that this character isn’t bald. So, there will def be hair.

Age limit: I recommend my material be read by adults only. But, I understand it’s the internet and I was young once too. Please understand that this material might not be suitable for minors.

Happy holidays. I hope this is a good intro! More to come ♥

Enough blabbing, I just wanted to make sure everyone was on the same page ♥

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Adrenaline rushed through your veins like an electrical current riding with the flow of your bloodstream. Each pump of your heart brought on a new wave of electricity. How long has it been since you had been brought to this room; surrounded by walls painted in an inky blue hue that made it feel as though one were suffocating in the ocean at night? A clock, the only thing in this empty holding cell sat right above the door into and out of this room; Your eyes glued to the surface, burning from lack of blinking. Maybe if you watched the clock time would go slower and whatever was about to happen would happen later rather than sooner. The heavy clunking of the gears working behind the face of the object sounded with each passing second; taunting you with an omen of what was to come.

Why did you have to open your big mouth? Was it worth all the trouble it seemed to have gotten you into? The only reason you get pulled into a room by yourself is to be fired. Or worse. A groan sounded as you ran your fingers softly down your cheeks.

The expression on his face after you had spoken up and 'corrected' him.. The memory alone was enough to tug at one corner of their mouth in a smug smirk. It wasn’t often one got to correct someone of higher standing. Especially someone like him, whom no one dared question; According to the agent who brought you in here anyways.

~*~*~*

The day started so normal as Fern opened their eyes and went on with the same morning routine they had for years. It wasn’t much, just the basics. Hygiene, basic skin care, teeth care, you know the usual. Work had gone about the same excluding the mention of a new section of the RDA opening with employees to fill all positions. Aside from that one shred of news- It was almost like living a rerun of your life every day. Though, you would be lying if you said they didn’t love what you did for a living. Honestly, Fern Vesper was the ‘Jack-Of-All-Trades’. Combat knowledge, tech-savvy, and crafty. Another plus was Fern’s smarts; despite not having a degree- the RDA simply tested them to make sure Fern was as good of an asset as they were claiming to be. Once you passed that test it was a breeze to get a job there. Their overlooking your lack of college experience when it came to hiring was one of the reasons you joined. One of them. Another reason was due to your history. The RDA didn’t seem to mind too much either provided you didn’t cause them any issues.

The past IS the past. Nothing more needs to be said about it. People make mistakes. But, they grow from it and learn.. Still, it didn’t stop some of the guilt that ate away at you while you lie there in bed.

It was after work hours, you had been looking through work emails on your tablet. No jobs or requests meant you had all the time in the world to do what you did best: Researching whatever the hell you wanted. All information was valuable after all. The newer the discovery - the better.

This deep, rough, commanding voice echoed through the halls from an upcoming room with its door open. This wasn't typical since all information was kept on a ‘need-to-know basis. Doors were closed when in conference rooms. SO, Knowing the door wasn’t closed, you saw this as an opportunity to see what was going on. Maybe there was food involved, like a potluck. Who would miss out on free food?

‘CERTAINLY, NOT I’ you think, chuckling to yourself as both feet stopped just before the threshold. You inhaled slowly and softly, making sure you weren’t making too much noise to not alert anyone within, just in case you weren't meant to see or hear whatever was going on. Ever so slowly, hues round the corner to peek in.

The room held a ‘squad’ or ‘team’ of men and women who stood rigid unmoving towards the front of the room facing the aforementioned door. Luckily it seemed they didn’t take notice of you at the time; Their eyes never faltered from the source of the voice. Without warning a muscular body would move in front of them effectively blocking them from your view, but, facing the soldiers standing at attention. What a sight to see. The entire room still with that many bodies in there- it was kind of freaky. Like a bunch of statues.

“Alright, I’m feeling particularly jolly this evening soldiers.” He began, moving down the line of his group- “If any one of you can tell me what the most important thing is when you find yourself in new territory.. I’ll let you all go for the evening. It is Friday after all.” a dark chuckle followed as the men and women in that room looked around at one another. Finally, they all attempted to answer him but to no avail. Some even began to look disgruntled.

“I’d suggest securing a food suppl-”

“That’s not true! A shelter is the first thing you should secure!”

You cant tell who said that. It wasn't until people started to shift their attention to you that you realized that voice was YOUR voice before your brain could even process the fact your lips had moved. And with that single slip up all eyes were now on the intruder standing in the doorway. Especially his. Those icy blue hues drank in the other form. Every single detail. Every curve. He was taking a mental image to remember for later. In case this little disturbance decides to book it out of here and run. You could tell- this man was sizing them up.

Finally, his hues met yours and it felt as though you had been thrown into an icy Volcano. Like the ground beneath your feet quaked. Something had changed that day. He had narrowed his eyes, his hands still behind his back as he slowly moved to them like a serpent about to strike.

"Excuse me?"

"I-I just mean the average human body can go up to at least two weeks, if not more and while it isn't ideal-... you can use at least the first part securing a shelter and once that is taken c-care of.." It was like this man's presence sucked the air from whatever room he was in. Or maybe it was your social anxiety working itself up. Your eyes broke from the commanding body before you to look at the soldiers in the room who held no expression on their faces. A few had their brows knitted in a sort of: How could you question our leader??

A gust of breath sounded from the elder male, his pearly whites coming into view as he smiled- a smile that said: you done goofed. Lifting his left hand, he spoke:

"All of you are dismissed. Lyle, Please take our new friend into Room 2-C... I think we have some things we need to... discuss." One last look up and down before he pushed past Fern and Jones. This meant the conversation was done.

Was it worth it? Probably not. Fern never was smart when it came to social situations. They’d much rather be off alone somewhere with their nose in a book, or out in the field doing research work. But, surely they couldn’t be in too much trouble, besides they were the newbies here, Fern huffed at their internal monologue. Was only trying to make sure he understood that his men and women would be better working on a shelter and making sure everyone was okay before walking off to find food. At the same time, his statement as well could be true. But, you won't lose energy until around the two-week mark. Not the critical amount he is trying to make it seem anyways. On week two without anything accomplished one might as well accept their fate. THEN AGAIN SOME FACTORS CAN PLAY A PART TOO. Why didn't you blurt that out too?!

"I am not to be disturbed. Understood?"

Your heart began to beat in more rapid successions upon hearing the growl that fell from that man’s lips. It was enough to bring you back from your thoughts- cleverly disguised as an internal scolding. The door opened and closed in one fluid movement. Your orbs watched his massive, bulky frame fill up the room as he entered, moving around you, circling his prey in a sense, stopping just in front of you. His hand grabbed the chair seated directly across from yours and pulled it closer before he sat. Silence engulfed the room once more. Except for that massive pounding in your chest. Could he hear it? No, of course not. He was human. A dangerous-attractiv-

"What's your name?"

"Fern Vesper.. I'm a part of the research team and-"

"Awful long name. Fern Vesper, I'm a part of the research team." Visibly, you flinched as he reminded them he ONLY asked for your name.

“Fern.”

“Alright, Fern.” He retorted, his signature grin returning to his face as he leaned back, muscular arms crossing over his chest, fingers tucked under his armpits. His smile seemed to soothe you as you felt more at ease and oddly warm.. Matter of fact, it was getting warmer. Your cheeks felt as though they were on fire! Hues lifted to look back at the man as he had laughed softly, only to find that he was looking at the nervous mess in front of him known as: Y.O.U.

Shit.

“Colonel Miles Quaritch. Just joined as the leader of the-”

“Security Administration.”

Annoyance was the dullest thing the Colonel was feeling at the moment. This little pipsqueak was brave for as scrawny as Miles thought they were. Maybe he was right, only time would tell as that baggy uniform wouldn’t be what you were wearing here soon. Running his tongue across his teeth the former marine leaned forward, resting his forearms upon his knees. It caused a cold shiver to run up your spine.

“You ever heard of the old saying: ‘Think before you speak?’” The man before you finally stated, opting to ignore the obvious flushed face of yours. It was a beautiful sight for him. The blood pooling beneath your cheeks mixing with your skin tone made you radiant. And damn was he a sucker for a pretty little thing like you. “That means, shut the hell up if I am talking- until you have permission to speak. Do we understand?”

The muscles in your jaw clenched as you pursed your lips slightly. Something you did to stop yourself from speaking up and shoving your foot in your mouth. A single nod only came from you in response. That, however, was not good enough for him.

“I can't hear you nod, agent! That’s why god invented mouths, now let’s use ‘em”

“. . . Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“What..?” Confusion flooded your face as you felt the anger quickly being replaced by the aforementioned emotion. This only made Quaritch grin. He felt as though this relationship was going to be his favorite kind. The kind that would remind him of those nights in Nigeria. On the battlefield. He simply growled out to be addressed with a title. Sir or Colonel. Nothing less. Maybe it was him tilting his head to the side that made you become less- confrontational. “Yes.. Sir..”

“Now damn, was that so hard?” Straightening himself back up in his chair, his hands resting on his knees, he continued. “So, a smart person such as yourself must have a pretty good understanding of this place- right?” You could only nod as the man continued. He didn’t seriously want to hear from you preferring to have you listen. “So, I suppose you’ll be my little helper until I am settled or until I dismiss you.”

“Uhhhh- hah- what? No, listen I have-”

“The RDA has stated I may take what resources I need to help me settle in. And you by opening that trap of yours, have volunteered.” Outstretching his palms, his face twisted into an expression that said: Go ahead and argue with me. When no argument arose he slammed his massive palms together in a clap, the noise loudly echoing in the room making you jump. As he intended. “Seems like we are finally getting somewhere. Good.” came his low, growl of a voice, his boot hooking one of the legs of your chair, pulling you closer as he continued to discuss with you deep into the night..

~To Be Continued~

#Quaritch x reader #Quaritch fanfic #miles quaritch #colonel quaritch #colonel miles quaritch #avatar #avatar 2009

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jeannedarkterraguard · 1 year

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So after reading through my last post again now that i'm not sleep deprived (and also now that we watched more of them) i feel like i should address a few of the things i said even though it probably doesn’t matter to anyone but me

first the thing about there being no tall girls in hololive:

I really wasn't talking about the actual average height (which google tells me is about 160 cm for women so i guess from that perspective Nerissa is quite tall) i meant from my perspective.

For reference: i am 187 cm tall... sooo... yeah...

and i know what's going to happen because it always happens when i tell people on the internet this

"Oh LiSa Is SuCh A lUcKy WoMaN!" well... i like to think she is but not because of that, because she's actually taller than me at 191 cm... in fact i am not even that tall compared to friends and family:

my mom: 197 cm

my sister: 186 cm

Lisa's parents: both 190 cm

my best friend: 193 cm

my uncle: 180 cm

my cousin: 178 cm

my sisters husband: 205 cm!!! (he regularly hits his head when walking through doors. It's kinda funny)

really the only outlier was my dad at 168 cm... Yeah, HE was a lucky man

so when i hear someone being 175 cm tall it just doesn't seem tall to me

next the EU-Time thing

and i know every time this is mentioned someone will inevitably go "oh but you have Vesper and Kiara and the ID girls and you can just watch VODs" and this wasn’t actually meant to be a complaint but well...

yeah of course we can (and do) just watch VODs but sometimes you just want to watch live (and we do watch several non-hololive vtubers live if we can but hololive just seems to hate Europeans sometimes)

With the ID girls and Vesper a big problem is that they might stream during the day in Europe but just "during the day" doesn't translate to "at a good time to watch live" you see they usually stream during the early morning... when people are either at work or still in bed...

also Vesper is still MIA

and Kiara... well to me at least she struggles from a combination of three problems

her time slot: her streams usually start at 3 pm in our timezone (which is the same timezone as almost all of Europe with the exception of the UK and Portugal) so even if we assume just a regular 9-5 job and an average of 30 minutes to get home you're already missing the first 2,5 hours of her stream which wouldn't be much of a problem if it wasn't for point number 2

her choice in games: Kiara tends to stream long story driven games like Fire Emblem, Zelda or Yakuza. This means that missing 2,5 hours of a stream could mean missing significant portions of story and feeling completely lost for the rest of the stream which brings me to point number 3

her long streams: While i personally really like long streams they do make it hard to catch up. Let me give you an example...

Kiara starts streaming Zelda while I'm at work. I come home 2 hours later and can't watch the rest of the stream live because i have no idea what's happening in the story so i decide to watch the VOD the next day but she streamed for 8+ hours so watching it takes me 2-3 days...

now if she decided to stream Zelda again during those days i can't watch that stream either even if i am at home when it starts... and so the backlog just grows and grows...

Funnily enough the best schedule for European timezones is faunas...

you see fauna usually starts her streams at 10pm for us and streams for about 3-4 hours max so you can easily put one of her streams on, watch it and then go to bed once it ends... at around 2 am which probably isn't the best time to go to bed when you have to wake up at 6 am but let's not get into that...

anyway i hope i managed to clear up what i was trying to say in the last post... bye

#jeanne watches #jeanne watches hololive #hololive english #holoadvent #jeanne watches vtubers

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sanstropfremir · 3 years

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So I got my wisdom teeth removed which means I’ve been sitting in bed binging kpop content as one does when they have a mouth full of gauze and I may or may not have listened to Gambler by Monsta X for like the past two hours on loop so I’m curious what your opinions on it were. I think I saw somewhere that you had plans to put out a post on it but I’m assuming you got busy with other stuff unless I missed it then it that case ignore me.

I’m very glad that I.M continues to be horny on main. For the longest time, I thought his line was “Hard as F” instead of “Hot as F” and I did not question it. Monsta X are really the only group that are allowed to have absolutely random and incomprehensible English lyrics (and also maybe Lucas). Like “I’m a handsome sum of money”, “my suit is black, my suit is fresh”, “Zero, Zero Lucky Bang”. I don’t know what that means but they say it so well that I don’t care. The intro to the song was interesting with the monotonous singing and I was a bit worried until that electric guitar started and IM and Kihyun’s parts and then I was absolutely sold. That bridge with the “she’s gone” part and the final chorus absolutely kills me like this song just continuously gets better and better and builds and builds and it’s so satisfying. It’s 4 minutes long and it feels it but in the best way? Like it toys the line between being too long but having enough interesting, different things in there. I’m of the opinion that this is Monsta X at their finest. Like they are such a consistent group and they know exactly what is expected of them and they delivery every time.

i hope you are recovering from your wisdom teeth surgery!! i got mine out when i was 17 and it was awful. i couldn't eat real food for two weeks and now i can't drink protein shakes without getting war flashbacks

you are correct i am going to talk about gambler! however i did kind of re-jig what i wanted to talk about about it, which is a very weird sentence to type out and read back in my head. i originally wanted to talk about the steadicam work in the music show stages, because it was one of the first comebacks that i've seen that in this year, but then over the last month or so there's been a whole bunch of steadicam stuff so i was compiling it all to make into one bigger post talking about several different songs/groups. but then also someone sent me an ask about want and then i got a bit off the rails because you know me and taemin, so this actually gives me a chance to talk about some of the other stuff in the gambler mv that i found interesting!

i do agree (and i've said this before) that mx is one of the most consistent groups active right now. they've established a really strong group brand that's been relatively consistent across their korean promotions and it's a look that really works for them as an "older" idol group (they're not old, it's just that they're not 22). although their mvs have usually been very sharp and well styled, i think these last three (korean) comebacks (fantasia, love killa, gambler) have had the strongest aesthetic and thematic unity, in addition to branching out a bit more from the general visual structure of a kpop mv. a thing that happens sometimes with kpop mvs is that the performers don't look like they belong in the sets; this happens most frequently with white/black voidspaces, but it also happens when, for example, they're out dancing in an empty dilapidated warehouse wearing pristine tailored suits. but the fantasia mv is practically draconian in it's commitment to colour palette and ornament, so by sheer visual force everything is integrated. love killa has a very cinematic and referential style without being overly obnoxious about those references. and gambler follows along the same vein as love killa but goes that extra bit further. i would not be surprised to find out that these are all directed by the same person.

to answer the question that you were not really asking, a fair amount of lyrics are referential to james bond. so the "my suit is black, my suit is fresh" -> famous for the traditional black suit/white shirt combo. "zero zero lucky bang" -> zero (0) zero (0) lucky (number 7) bang (the famous shot from the gunbarrel intro). "i got a vesper martini" -> a type of martini that the bond girl from casino royale is named after (vesper lynd), also martini (shaken, not stirred). it's obviously not a 1:1 because the mv takes more from bank heist tropes than strict spy tropes, but there's enough crossover that the comparison still works! another good example of using an existing property for spice rather than as the sole theme.

gambler, like fantasia, has a very strict colour palette, and does a really great job of integrating costume into enviroment. it's not perfect, since i think in the cinematic language that they're trying to establish the leather looks are a bit kpop, but i don't really have a real complaint about them because if mx can do anything, they can pull off leather. but in every other look, they look like they belong in those environments. it helps that a lot of it was filmed on location in (i think?) a hotel, so there was an oppotunity to match the style of the suits to the architecture and decoration of the preexisting rooms, as well as doing additional set dressing.

it's kind of interesting looking back at their mvs, prior to 2020 they were very focused on the performance/dance element of the mvs, which tracks because their performance and presence is one of their stronger traits. but the last three comebacks, which have been post pandemic and post wonho, have spent more time on creating a different viewing experience with the mvs, and then leaving their music show stages + other performances to pull out the big guns (shownu's arms).

#and yes if you are wondering i have in fact seen every bond film #mx w #and skyfall is one of my favourite movies of all time #the cinnamon topography......immaculate #the adele bond song........stunning #ive been thinking about the final fight sequence in the moors like once a month for the last 9 years #also the shot of him riding the boat into the dragons maw in macau......so heavy handed but MWAH it looks so good #also i keep wanting to write gamblr instead of gambler........sigh #i risk putting myself on thin ice but i actually really like all about luv and think its a very cohesive album #someones someone middle of the night and who do u love are some of the best english releases by idols #monsta x #kpop analysis #kpop questions #text #answers #group analysis #im going to finish this want writeup (its convoluted) and then move on to steadicam stuff #im going to cover gambler/dont call me/advice/sf9 teardrop/kingdom karma/ace higher/maybe taeyeon weekend?#im taking suggestions though if you've noticed steadicam in any music show stages that's been interesting please send me a message!

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vexing-imogen · 4 years

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the persistence of 2/?

read from the beginning | on ao3

Percy holds his breath, waiting for Vex to react to Pike’s statement. He likes to think he knows his wife well enough to guess at her potential reaction. He’s expecting confusion, shock, fear. A demand for answers. Possibly denial.

He’s not expecting her to laugh.

Vex holds Pike’s gaze for a good thirty seconds before she snorts and dissolves into helpless laughter. “Alright, that’s a pretty good one,” she says, pausing to wipe away tears. “You really had me going for a minute there.” She takes a breath to compose herself. “Did Vax put you up to this?”

“This isn’t a prank, Vex,” Pike says softly.

“Oh, come on,” Vex says, her tone shifting from humor to exasperation. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that, do you?”

Scanlan shifts uncomfortably. “Do you really think we’d lie to you about something like this?”

Her response is immediate. “Yes.”

“Okay, fair,” he relents. “This does sound like something I might have pulled back in the day. But do you really believe that Pike would go along with it? Or Keyleth, or Percy?”

“Hey, what about me?” Grog protests.

“You would,” they all chorus.

Vex goes quiet, her eyes flicking from person to person. Percy can see the change in her expression, in her posture as she takes them all in. He sees the moment where she shifts from annoyed confidence to genuine fear.

“Prove it,” she finally says, her voice catching.

Keyleth frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Prove it,” Vex repeats. “If you’re really not fucking with me, tell me something that you’ve learned about me in the past five years. Something that you couldn’t possibly have learned from my brother.”

“You’ve showed me your titties,” Grog offers before anyone can stop him.

Vex’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm. Percy and Scanlan audibly sigh, while Pike facepalms.

“That’s not...really what she meant, Grog,” Keyleth stutters.

“It’s the truth, though,” he says. “And it ain’t like Vax could-”

“Okay, technically, you’re right,” Keyleth interrupts. “I mean, at this point, I think we’ve all seen them in some capacity.”

“I beg your fucking pardon,” Vex says, and Percy might have laughed if he weren’t completely freaking out.

“Not in, like, a creepy way or anything,” Keyleth defends. “You’re just naked. A lot. Sometimes. They’re really nice?” She turns to Percy. “Help me.”

He closes his eyes and thinks. Remembers a conversation had in bed one night, shortly after she’d earned her title of Grand Mistress. The way she couldn’t face him until after she’d told her tale. The tears she’d tried to pretend weren’t falling.

“Trinket,” he says, and her eyes snap to him, her gaze intense. “You once told me the full story of how you acquired Trinket.”

She swallows hard, her eyes darting around the rest of their friends, all of whom are watching him intently. If they’ve heard any of this story, it’s bits and pieces. He suspects he’s the only person she’s ever told the whole truth, that there are details she chose to hide even from Vax.

“Leaving out the bits that you asked me to never speak of,” he starts, “you were kidnapped by poachers. Trinket and his mother were also prisoners. You couldn’t save her, so you took him to raise as your own.”

His heart breaks just a little more when she turns away from him, a single tear falling down her cheek. She gives a tight nod.

Scanlan clears his throat after a minute. “Well, now that we’re acknowledging that this has happened.” He looks to Vex for confirmation, who nods again, sniffling. “I think the big question here is how did this happen? And how do we fix it?”

“I’d like to know that, myself,” Vex agrees, deceptively calm. “I’m guessing I got knocked out, somehow, since I woke up on the ground, but obviously I don’t remember how that happened.”

“We were getting ready to all go home after spending the weekend in Emon together,” Pike says. “We were saying our goodbyes when we got ambushed. It was a pretty easy fight, we scared most of them off pretty fast, But their mage hit you with a spell that I didn’t recognize. It sent you flying, and you hit a tree and were out cold.”

“Did anyone recognize the spell?” Percy asks. “Keyleth? Scanlan?”

Keyleth shakes her head, and Scanlan shrugs. “It could have been Modify Memory?” the gnome guesses. “I don’t know, I’m the worst person to ask about this stuff.”

“We could just ask the mage,” Keyleth suggests. “Can’t you speak with the dead, Pike?”

“Well, I could,” Pike says, “if Grog hadn’t turned the guy’s head into putty.”

“Sorry.”

“Regardless, Pikey, you were able to fix Grog and Percy when they lost their memories of the Feywild,” Scanlan says. “Couldn’t you just do...whatever you did then?”

Percy nods. “That’s right. Greater Restoration, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Pike agrees. “But I kind of used up all of my high level spells for today. Keyleth can do it though, right?”

Keyleth winces. “I...don’t have Greater Restoration prepared today?” She huffs a sigh at their disbelieving looks. “I didn’t think I’d need it, okay!”

Pike sighs. “I guess we just all go to Whitestone, and try it in the morning.” She turns to Vex. “Is that okay?”

Vex gives her a weak smile. “I guess it has to be.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Um. You still haven’t said.” She sighs. “Where’s Vax?”

There’s an unspoken agreement in the moment that their eyes all meet. Lie.

“He’s not with us right now,” Keyleth says carefully.

Vex frowns. “Why not?”

“He’s working for his goddess at the moment,” Scanlan says. “He became a follower of the Raven Queen a few years ago, and then her champion.”

“He’s on a vision quest,” Pike adds. “He had this dream, about a week ago, and he just...left. Said it was a solo mission. And we don’t really have any way to contact him.”

Vex presses her fingers to her temples. “My brother. Is the champion of a goddess?” She lets out a shaky breath. “I think I need a minute. Or ten.”

They retreat to the other side of the clearing, and Keyleth’s hand is on Percy’s arm the moment they’re out of earshot.

“Hey, how are you doing right now?”

He sighs. “I am having about three separate panic attacks, but other than that...” He gestures at Vex helplessly. “What do I do, Keyleth? How do I help her?”

She shrugs. “What are you going to tell her about, you know, the two of you?”

“How do I not tell her everything?” he asks. “She’ll see it all once we get to Whitestone. The house, and her title, and gods Vesper.” He scrubs at his face. “I don’t want to overwhelm her, she barely trusts what we’re saying as it is, but I’m not going to let her hurt our daughter because she doesn’t remember that she exists.”

Keyleth tries to smile. “I know this sucks, but we’ll figure this out. We always do, right?”

They all sit in awkward silence for a few minutes, occasionally glancing over at Vex, who hasn’t moved. Eventually the silence is broken by Vex’s voice, tentatively coming through the earrings.

“Um, Percy, if you can hear me, I think you and I need to talk?”

============================================================

She watches Percy freeze in place for a moment before he stands. Pike says something that her lip reading doesn’t catch, and he nods. He doesn’t look at her as he crosses the clearing, his eyes fixated on a spot just above her head. He doesn’t look at her until he’s sitting down in front of her, his expression unreadable.

“Hi,” she says softly. “I wanted to start by saying I’m sorry for slapping you.”

He shakes his head. “Vex’ahlia, you don’t...given the context of the situation, you have nothing to apologize for.”

She shrugs. “I’m still sorry.” She looks down at her hands. “I also have some questions that I think only you can really answer.”

“Ask away.”

Vex sighs. “Are we...married?” she starts. “I only ask because you did kiss me, and everyone looked at me funny when I said that we weren’t, and I’m wearing this ring-”

He takes her left hand in his, rubs his thumb over her knuckles. “Yes,” he confirms. “Yes, you and I are married.”

“How long?”

He thinks for a moment. “Oh gods,” he mutters. “Not quite four years.”

“Oh.” Fuck, that’s longer than she was expecting. “Do we. Um.” She chews on her bottom lip. “Dowehaveanychildren?”

He squeezes the hand he’s holding, nods. She gasps, feels as though all of the breath has been punched out of her.

“A little girl,” he offers after a moment. “Vesper Elaina, after my sister and your mother.”

She doesn’t try to stop the tears from falling. “How old?”

“Three,” he says with a small smile. “Just barely.”

“Fuck.” She wipes away tears with her free hand. “Pike mentioned a place. Whitestone? Is that...”

Percy nods. “That would be home,” he says. “The de Rolo family, my family, has ruled there for generations. Still do, in a fashion.” He smiles again. “You’re technically a Lady.”

“Huh.” She sighs. “One more question.” He nods. “Has Grog really seen my tits?”

He almost laughs. “You have flashed him on more than one occasion.”

She snorts. “Yeah, that does sound like something I would do.”

She loses track of how long they sit together, her hand in his, neither of them looking at the other. Their bubble is only broken when Keyleth approaches, twisting her hands.

“Hey guys,” she says. “Um, we were just talking about how we should probably get going soon. It’s getting late, which means it’s probably really late in Whitestone, and Cass will probably get worried if you guys aren’t home soon.”

“My sister,” Percy mouths when Vex glances at him. “You’re probably right,” he says to Keyleth. He stands, offering Vex a hand.

The world tilts and her vision blurs as Percy helps her to her feet. She’s back on her knees in an instant, and this time she actually does vomit. “I think,” she manages, breathing deep, “I think I might have a concussion.”

“All the more reason for us to get you home and resting,” Percy says, rubbing her back. One arm goes around her waist, and she realizes his intent as he asks, “May I?”

She nods, keeps her eyes closed as he gathers her in his arms and stands. It helps with the nausea, but the pounding headache has returned, and she thinks she may have to ask Pike for another heal soon.

Vex hears, rather than sees, everyone gather around them. She briefly wonders exactly how they’re going to get where they’re going, but before she can ask, there’s a tearing sound just in front of them. She opens her eyes to see Keyleth opening a portal in one of the larger trees. There’s a city on the other side, and she doesn’t have time to ask before Percy is hurrying through.

It’s cooler on the other side of the portal, the sun is setting. They’ve apparently crossed the continent in mere seconds.

“What the fuck was that?” Vex asks weakly.

“Ohh, right,” Keyleth says, “I forgot you wouldn’t know about that. That’s how we travel for the most part. As long as I know of a tree in any given place, I can get us there.” She pats the trunk of the enormous tree they just stepped out of. “Hi, Sun Tree.”

“She always does that,” Percy murmurs in her ear. She feels his chest move with a sigh as she takes in the city square around her. “Welcome to Whitestone.”

#critical role #critfic #vox machina #vex'ahlia #perc'ahlia #percy de rolo

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nvvermore · 4 years

Text

I Just Wanna Get a Little Bit Closer

What I Need Is A Good Defense [ by @vissenta-senadz] from Amaryllis’s point of view

words: 2920

cw:

accompaniment

—

Amaryllis is just leaving a disagreeable afternoon tea with Vesper when they spot the countess and an unfamiliar face in the palace halls.

Thanks to the events of said tea, they’d become quite irritable, and while it wasn’t exactly their brother’s fault, he had always excelled at not knowing when to back off. Though ‘tea’ was the nice way to put it, as thanks to the topic of discussion the wine got pulled out by Vesper about halfway through. Part peace offering, part neither of them could bear to talk about their parents completely sober.

Now, Amaryllis had planned to skip dinner, instead pondering between hiding away in their practice room or even calling it a day and going straight to bed. But the very pretty stranger trailing behind Deirdra piques their interest enough for them to at least get an introduction.

“Vissenta, I’d love for you to meet our court musician. Amaryllis, this is Vissenta...” she frowns and turns to her guest, “what was it? Sa-“

“Senadz.” Vissenta answers quickly, too quickly for how little she’d been paying attention just moments ago when she almost walked straight into them.

“Vissenta Senadz. My new shopkeep.”

Amaryllis extends a hand in greeting to Vissenta. “Court musician is a stretch,” they say. “I prefer the term court fool, myself.” It was free entertainment to witness strangers grapple with the concept of addressing them, with their air of intimidation, as a fool.

It’s barely a second, but they pick up on the way Vissenta falters when they speak. She also studies their outstretched hand a moment before taking it, still hesitant as they make contact. Amaryllis can feel the sorts of roughness on her skin that comes from magic and from combat. She's quite a bit shorter than them, with haphazardly plaited hair and tired emerald eyes that avoid looking directly at Amaryllis. Dressed down, a little ragged even, something about her intrigues them.

“They’re too modest,” Deirdra declares. “They have the most incredible voice, and their compositions? Perfection. Some of the greatest magic I’ve ever seen or heard.” Vissenta’s brow— which they now notice is notched— rises at the mention of magic.

“Her Grace flatters me,” they say, leaning just a little closer to Vissenta to address her. “I am but a humble artist, honored by the court’s patronage.”

Vissenta disguises the way Amaryllis ruffles her up quite well, but the faintest flush to her cheeks gives her away. They’re curious to see if she’s always this easy to fluster. With all their attention focused on the pretty new visitor, their agitated mood from minutes before slowly slips away.

“I’d love to hear you sing sometime,” Vissenta finally speaks up more than just a single word. There’s something vaguely familiar about her voice, but Amaryllis can't place exactly what it is.

They grin at her from behind their veil, close enough for her to catch the upturn of their wine-colored lips. “I’m sure you would.”

Deirdra continues along the grand hall, Amaryllis falling into step at her side while Vissenta trails behind. They may or may not put a just little extra sway in their step, as long as she’s privy to the view. As they walk, Deirdra explains that Vissenta is new to Vesuvia, and that— much to their amusement— she'd be staying for dinner. They decide not to skip tonight after all.

Amaryllis swears they can feel Vissenta’s gaze burning into their back, and they glance over their shoulder to confirm their suspicions. They’re quite pleased to find her eyes locked onto them. They look back at her just long enough to see her cheeks grow a little more heated.

Reactions like Vissenta’s are hardly a new occurrence for Amaryllis. In most cases, it’s more surprising when someone doesn’t show at least a little interest in them. But what isn't a common occurrence for Amaryllis is how much they already enjoy Vissenta’s attention in return.

Court seems to be a particularly stuffy event this evening, some of Amaryllis’s favorite acquaintances— it was in their job description to call them out after all— being in attendance. Nadia sits at the organ near the window, half-heartedly fingering out a broken melody with one hand. But once she sees Deirdra she lights up, and in turn the countess rushes across the room to greet her Nadia, leaving Amaryllis with Vissenta.

Amaryllis leans in to murmur directly into her ear. “She’s not as intimidating as she seems.”

“I’m not intimidated,” Vissenta defends, and they have to hold back a chuckle at her obvious lie.

“The tension you carry yourself with says otherwise,” they rest a hand on each of her shoulders, “Come.” Amaryllis directs her through the throng of socializing nobles, Vissenta remaining stiff as a board.

“And who might this be?” Nadia asks once Vissenta is before her. Amaryllis squeezes lightly before releasing their hold on her, moving to join Nadia on the other side of the organ bench. Deirdra introduces Vissenta all over again, with more detail this time, but it’s still no full picture. Amaryllis listens attentively, eager to learn whatever they can about her. Every so often they glance over to Vissenta, who in turn glances away from them. Nadia’s welcoming attitude seems to comfort her momentarily, but then Deirdra drags her off for more introductions around the room.

Nadia turns to them. “And what do you think of our new guest?”

“I’m not quite sure yet,” they place an elbow onto the edge of the organ and rest their cheek in their palm. “But I am certainly interested.” Nadia gives them that look, the one that she often uses to warn them against causing problems. Also the look that Amaryllis always gets away with ignoring.

“Perhaps, give it more than one hour. Maybe even wait a full day?” Nadia teases.

Their attention is then drawn to commotion across the room, where a haughty voice speaks over every other conversation in the room.

Amaryllis almost gets up to intervene when Valerius begins to run his mouth, especially when he complains about ‘witches’ and provokes them by looking their way. But Nadia’s hand on their shoulder keeps them in place, and so they yield, trusting her intuition.

When Vissenta speaks up, she’s holding herself like a completely different woman, speaking with complete confidence as she expertly points out Valerius’s poor-quality drink. Frankly, Amaryllis has little idea what exactly she means with her wordy assessment on the wine— they care very little for the details as long as it tastes good— but Vissenta sounds so sure of herself. She knows this topic well, and she knows that she does.

“...Sensible of you, to bring out the table wine for casual drinking.”

Amaryllis has to physically put their hand over their mouth, even at the risk of smearing their lipstick, to keep their laughter at bay. Thoroughly embarrassed, Valerius storms off and Amaryllis rises to make their way to Vissenta’s side.

“If there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s seeing Consul Valerius cut down to size,” they whisper into her ear, and they can feel the shudder that runs through her. “I think that you and I are going to become great friends.”

- - -

At dinner, Amaryllis is quite pleased to find Deirdra has seated them next to Vissenta. All throughout the night, they relish in every instance they’re able to fluster Vissenta. Light teasing and innocent touches do the trick so effortlessly, and something about her reactions strike them as unused to being on the receiving end of such attention.

Of course, Amaryllis’s only goal isn't just to tease her, but to include her. If they aren’t conversing with someone else, they’re talking to her, and even then they’re always turning back to ask Vissenta what her opinion on the matter is. Each time Amaryllis does so she seems a little less shocked.

And, Amaryllis is dying to get anything out of her that they can about her mysterious origins. Vissenta answers carefully and keeps her answers vague, which in turn only serves to make them even more interested in asking.

“So, have you come a long way to get to Vesuvia?”

“From across the sea.”

“Why Vesuvia then?”

“The city was calling to me.”

“Is that so?” Amaryllis smiles at her from behind their veil. “Incredible.”

“It’s really nothing-“ Vissenta stammers.

“Nonsense. You must be quite the magician then.”

“I never said it was magic,” she corrects.

Amaryllis eyes her knowingly. “What else do you do besides divination?”

“Not very much.” They recall the callouses on her hands that reflect the years of work tell them otherwise.

“Well, if you’re as exceptional as Deirdra says, perhaps you’d know how to assist me.” Amaryllis leans across the gap between them to murmur. “Between you and I, the truth is I often struggle with readings.” They sit back up in their chair.

“You read tarot?”

“I try to. It’s not exactly my specialty,” they take a sip of their wine, “My aunt was a remarkable diviner, she taught me much of what I know.”

“As long as you’re not just some fortune-telling fraud,” Vissenta laughs, “maybe I’ll have to show you a thing or two.” Amaryllis watches as she tucks a loose coffee-colored strand behind her ear, incidentally revealing some sort of mark on her skin. They focus on it for a moment, thinking it a normal tattoo. But then the symbol is one they’ve seen before, but can’t quite place.

“Oh, I’m sure you could.”

As not to alarm her, they focus on her face instead of the marking, as if they’d never even noticed it.

Once dinner has concluded, Amaryllis’s first instinct is to ask Vissenta if she’d like to join them for a nightcap. They don’t really want her to go just yet, as there was still so much more to learn about her. And the more she withheld the information the more Amaryllis craved it. And they wanted to keep her company, for less selfish reasons too. There was something about her that reminded them of when they first arrived in Vesuvia. Surely she could use a friend in the city.

But before Amaryllis can make such an offer, Deirdra swoops in talking of going over shop business. So instead, they bid Vissenta farewell for the night.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Vissenta,” Amaryllis says, taking the woman’s hand in theirs and placing a kiss to the back of it. Their painted lips leave a faint, barely visible mark on her skin. “I do hope we have the chance to meet again.”

“Me too,” is all Vissenta can stammer out before Deirdra is dragging her off and down the hall.

It’s not until later, when Amaryllis is unlocking the doors to their chambers that they’re able to recall exactly what the mark behind Vissenta’s ear symbolizes.

Well, they do hope she’d truly meant it when she said she’d like for them to meet again.

- - -

“Bonsoir, Dame Sauvage.”

Vissenta’s face drops.

In her shock, Amaryllis breezes past her, without proper invitation, into L’Étoile d’Or. They’re already well acquainted with the charming little shop, likely more so than it’s new manager, and make their way into the backroom. They select two glasses, from one of the shelves that line the walls, and pours them each a full glass. When they turn to take a seat on the sofa, Vissenta has finally decided to join them, seemingly composed compared to a few moments ago.

Amaryllis takes a long drink of the fine Sauvage red. They’d specially— and secretly— selected the bottle straight from Valerius’s personal collection. Such a feat couldn’t have been done without Styx’s assistance of course, whose swarming kept the consul occupied during their little heist.

“Don’t worry, you weren’t so obvious that just anyone could figure you out,” they grin, “But I’m not just anyone. It used to be my job to know everything.”

Without a word, Vissenta joins them, sitting tense with her back straight, feet on the floor. Amaryllis, on the other hand, lounges with a booted foot up propped up on the cushion. It’s ironic, how she looks ready to bolt and they waltz around like they’re the one who owns the place. The two sit in silence, Amaryllis watching Vissenta drain her glass, while she pointedly avoids their gaze.

It isn’t until they’ve both emptied their first glass that Vissenta speaks up. “D'où êtes-vous?” she asks, and Amaryllis almost laughs. They definitely expected her to have realized by now.

“Chevaisé.” Amaryllis refills each of their glasses. “Have you ever heard of the Vicomte de Tristesse?” With that, they can see the pieces beginning to connect in her mind as they refill the glasses.

“You were his songstress,” Vissenta asserts after a moment.

Amaryllis smiles, but it’s strained. “You might be more familiar with me as Mallorie.”

“There was such an uproar when you disappeared, even I heard the following rumors.”

“Oh? I would have been disappointed if there hadn’t been,” they take a sip, “I do hope they were at least interesting rumors.”

“The one I heard most was that the previous heir had you assassinated.”

Amaryllis roars with laughter, though Vissenta does not join in their amusement. “That is a good one. Can’t even say he didn’t try it. Unfortunately, the truth isn’t as exciting as that. I simply ran away in the night. Here, to Vesuvia.” They watch her, waiting for her to understand just how alike they are. Hoping that now she’ll let them in a little more. Not that she’d know, but they were currently presenting her with quite the token of faith.

“So the other stories were true too? The kind of magic you do?” she asks, and they can tell she’s trying not to look so curious.

“Yes, I’ve always excelled at casting enchantments and charms through song. It was something the vicomte was very excited to exploit.” As engaged as Vissenta seems to be now, there's only so much talking about the past Amaryllis can handle in one day. And even with all the drinking they’ve done today, they’ve been far too sober for any of it. “I haven’t heard as much of late from your family. Granted, I haven’t had my ear as close to the ground these days. Without Lucio on the throne, my days in dealing information have long since gone.”

It was a good thing that Nadia finally had the control and consciousness to get Vesuvia in order, but it made for a fairly boring underground. And there was the part where Nadia generally wasn’t a fan of Amaryllis blackmailing the nobility that were her responsibility to keep appeased.

When Vissenta all but says that the Sauvage family is no longer standing, Amaryllis feels a pang of jealousy. And then, of course, they feel like a monster.

“Well,” they add a little more to their glass, suddenly self-conscious about the way they overfill their glass in front of someone so knowledgeable. “I know what it’s like,” they begin, eyes on Vissenta. “To be alone in a new city, to run from your past, to need a friend. Quelqu'un à qui se confier.”

Finally, Vissenta relaxes against the couch, though her expression still doesn’t quite match her body language. “Et je devrais te faire confiance?”

For the first time, in a very long time, Amaryllis answers such a question honestly. “Absolutely not.” It’s in hopes that, one day, she might actually be able to place her trust in them.

When Vissenta finally asks about their choice of wine and Amaryllis explains how they came across it, they watch her laugh and smile and it feels like they’ve finally gotten through a barrier. It’s a small victory, even if there were surely many more battles to come. In a more blatant show of confidence, they slip their veil from their face. If Vissenta notices, she makes no indication of it.

In that moment, Amaryllis comes to the conclusion that, despite only knowing Vissenta for a few hours, they’ve hardly ever felt so connected to someone. Vesper may have come from the exact same background, but rightfully a few points had been deducted for attempted murder, even if he didn’t mean it. And as dear of a friend as Nadia was, she grew up loved, happy, and supported— it was impossible for Amaryllis to relate. But Vissenta didn’t even need to divulge all the details for Amaryllis to understand, and vice versa. And the details were hardly important; they’d both come from the same horrors and managed to get out alive.

As they trade stories with Vissenta and finish off the rest of the wine, Amaryllis scoots just a little closer to her. When Vissenta begins to proudly tell her story of flashing herself to get out of a debt— gesturing to her chest and ample cleavage as she does— they don’t bother averting their eyes. Vissenta is so absorbed in her anecdote that she doesn’t notice, she doesn’t have a chance to stutter or turn red. But over the course of the night, Amaryllis had come to enjoy the way they could put her out of her element.

“I’m sure they’d have been enough for me to forgive your debt.”

And she falters. “Amaryllis…” she says, voice breathy.

“Amie,” they correct.

“What?”

“I think, if we’re to be friends, you can call me Amie.”

“Amie…” Slowly, they start to mimic the way she leans towards them, emerald eyes locked onto theirs. “Amie, when are you to kiss me?”

#finally #here u go #a lil treat #are they u kno #amaryllis leroux #vissenta senadz #visamie #my fic #amie fic

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mermaidsirennikita · 4 years

Text

i was tagged by @loisfreakinglane (muah)

RULES: Copy/paste and bold your fic preferences because why not, gotta choose one (near impossible, but go with your first gut instinct), and tag someone because, again, why not.

slow burn or love at first sight

is it love if they aren’t just slowly building towards a painful love for one another that they cannot speak of

fake dating or secret dating

both are fine, but i really enjoy secret dating when it involves the couple sneaking around and like, fucking in random places and their mutual friends are like “hmm, whose panties are on the floor here” and the guy is like “oh those are lizzie’s” very casually before everyone REALIZES

enemies to lovers or best friends to lovers

i live for drama, so the greater the enemies, the better. like if they’re physically fighting and then it suddenly turns into fucking? PLS

oh no there’s only one bed or long-distance with correspondence

bonus points if they wake up accidentally spooning and one of them has an Inconvenient Boner

hurt/comfort or amnesia

neither is like, MY FAVORITE, but if i’m hardcore into a ship i do love like.... the scene in casino royale where vesper is traumatized in the shower after being involved in Killing Men and bond sits down and says he’ll wash the blood away and he begins sucking on/kissing her fingers? THAT KINDA SHIT

fantasy au or modern au

i really love fantasy AS THE BASE, but if it’s an AU modern AUs are usually more fun

mutual pining or domestic bliss

i have no time for bliss, give me pining always

smut or fluff

lol i can always imagine them having a fluffy fun time myself, i will literally skip thru fluff to get to smut, smut is kING

canon compliant (missing scenes) or fix-it fic

both are almost equal, but i think fix-it has better potential

alternate universe or future fic

AU just has more potential, again. like i remember listening to the Fated Mates podcast about fanfic and how a lot of the current romance novelists that are popular now cut their teeth on writing Twilight AU fic... (and for SURE some popular newbs rn wrote Reylo fic) and that kind stuff makes AUs more fun to read for me

one-shot or multi-chapter

i like a short-ish multi-chapter. enjoy

kid fic or roadtrip fic

i enjoy a fun and wacky raodatrip fic

reincarnation or character death

ohhhhhh reincarnation for sure

arranged marriage or accidental marriage

man lol i really am a...... sucker.... for arranged marriage. i love accidental marriages too, but arranged marriages? OH BOY

high school romance or middle aged romance

girrrrrrlllll i very much prefer grown up love

time travel or isolated together

time travel is just fun and easily spun into a romantic vibe and there’s a corniness to it that i just love

neighbors or roommates

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES

sci-fi au or magic au

sci-fi confuses me a lot of the time, so probably magic

bodyswap or genderswap

genderswap, though neither is my fave tbh

angst or crack

ALWAYS ANGST PREFERABLY WITH A HAPPY/HOPEFUL ENDING. ALWAYS. I WANT BLOOD AND TEARS

apocalyptic or mundane

eeeeh, i think i’ve been overloaded by dystopian stuff lately, so.... mundane probably

tagging: @thewritersramblings @maxfieldparrishes @ravenkings and anyone else who wants to do this!

#memes #me basically

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sparklycitrus · 5 years

Text

Cellophane 6

Cellophane Bond/Vesper, Bond & Camille friendship, eventual 00Q

Blurb, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

They worked well, he and L. The comm chats were short and to the point; L’s knack for reading and responding to volatile situations was almost as good as his own, plus she had access to the entirety of Q-branch at her disposal. His gadgets were nondescript but wholly reliable. Sometimes he’d try to sweet-talk some fresh technician to add a bit of flare to his arsenal. The result varied, depending on whether L and her uncanny hunch of what he was up to stopped it in time. He usually still managed to cajole the poor techie to his bed. L would then give him a stern dress-down and turn in a report to the Quartermaster to allot said techie some time with Psych. James, rather than offended, found it oddly endearing.

A full year flew by before he ventured to ask L out for a cup of coffee. She looked at him with thorough suspicion, a refusal on her lips but he cut her off before it was uttered. “Just to chat,” he clarified, holding his hands up in a facsimile of surrender. “Nothing more.”

“Why?”

“Can’t an agent just want to know his handler better?”

“Not with us, no,” she said, meaning him. Not with him.

“Fine,” he acquiesced. “Then how about I just buy you a cuppa on the way? You’ve been here since last night. A little pick-me-up before you have to brave the Tubes.”

He was right. There was a major incident with Agent 2’s mission and Q-branch was in all-hands-on-deck mode for two days straight. James was on his mandatory downtime, and rather than puttering around in his empty flat he stayed in the bullpen, alternating between giving tactical advice and fetching sustenance for the staff when needed. Things finally calmed down in the early morning. L was on her way out when he stopped by her meticulously organized desk.

She gave him one more dubious look before giving in. “Alright, Mr. Bond. There’s a place I like to go just a few blocks north.”

“We’ve been partnered for a year, Camille, you can call me James.”

“No, thank you,” L replied. “I like my coffee on the sweet side. No milk or cream, and get the largest size they offer.”

James smiled. It had been a long time he asked anyone for anything outside missions. It was like he had forgotten how to socialize for its own sake, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, the exchange felt nice. Exhilarating, even, and although they had a long way to go before even approaching friends territory, this small step made him feel semi-human again.

He bought her a large cup of black coffee and went their separate ways. The week after they went to a different café, and despite what L said of her preferences she still stole half of his latte when she gulped down her own in less than five minutes. It became a sort of ritual thereafter. Different places, depending on the time and weather, and the take-out became actual sitting down unless they were saddled with missions.

She still didn’t call him James, but didn’t corrected him of the use of her own name in public. “A letter sounds outlandish in normal conversation,” she said between sips of Americano at one of their usual haunts. “Aren’t spies supposed to be experts at blending in with their surroundings?”

“Good-looking people like us never blend in anywhere,” his retort was full of cheek. “In fact, we would actually fit in better if we do more than sitting so far from each other and drinking coffee.”

L leaned over their small shared table. James could smell her perfume, bright and flowery, a perfect accompaniment to her cream-colored dress embroidered with birds-of-paradise. “Are you propositioning me, Mr. Bond?”

“Am I?”

“I sincerely hope not. M would surely reassign me otherwise, and I’ve become quite attached to the weekly free caffeine.”

James sobered at the mention of M. “Would she really?” he asked. “Reassign you just because we happen to sleep together one night?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s a miracle she hasn’t done so already, judging from the cost of your last mission.”

“Our last mission.”

“An abysmal display of utter lack in both finesse and subterfuge. I wouldn’t be surprised if they dock my pay to make up for Q-branch’s budget.”

“It was one radio and two handguns.”

“It was one radio capable of sending signals in the midst of the Himalayas and two handguns equipped with bullets powerful enough to penetrate a foot of steel and concrete. The techs spent no less than a month on each component. I told them not to bother – they knew it was going to you before they started.”

The corner of his mouth tilted up. “Then they only have themselves to blame.”

She stuck her tongue out at him instead of replying. James laughed. It surprised him, the ease of it. The way it felt bubbling from his chest and spreading through his core. They were two co-workers griping about office politics and budgets on a break from work. The world was not on fire at the moment and the only injury he had leftover from his last mission was a line of bruises along his side, not even worth a drugstore painkiller. For the moment, everything was perfectly mundane.

“What do you say to a dinner date with me some time?” he asked her. Had to push a little; he was James Bond, after all.

“No, Mr. Bond,” L shook her head, but her smile was warm like the sun.

tbc

#cellophane #fanfic #james bond #camille montes #00q

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plasma-space-pirates-blog · 5 years

Text

The Hatchlings in the Flower

“Ghetsis! Ghetsis! The flower is stirring! It’s about to bloom!”

Ghetsis raised his head from his cold pillow and yawned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His ears and wings twitched and he turned his head toward the speaker. Zinzolin continued to shake Ghetsis’s shoulder and yelling.

“Wake up! You’re going to miss it! Are you really going to sleep through this?!”

Ghetsis grunted and smacked Zin with a wing. The half-elf spat and sputtered, trying to get the blue feathers out of his mouth. The Ice Angel slipped out of bed and tied his hair back in a loose ponytail.

His flower. It was about to bloom after years of tending to it.

He looked down at his feet, his wings drooping. Why wasn’t he happy? He should be. Yet, there was a hole in his heart and even felt a twinge of regret for what he did.

“Ghetsis, you got feathers in m-” Zin was about to get into a whole tangent on how he deserved more respect when he noticed the pensive king. “...Are you alright?” He grabbed his best friend’s hands. Despite hating the cold, he kept a firm grip on the king’s icy cold hands. Ghetsis looked up, managing a sad smile.

“I just wish Mother and Father could have met him or her...Viola and Vesper as well. Then again, I don’t. He is not natural. I should have done in the normal way. I should have married Lucina just so things would be nor-”

“Shut up.”

Ghetsis’s pupils narrowed when Zinzolin muttered the order.

“What.”

“Just shut up please.”

He pulled Ghetsis onto his feet and cracked a weak smile.

“This is supposed to be a happy day. Don’t worry about that now. Come. Before you miss it,” Zinzolin assured. He gently pulled Ghetsis through the hallways. Halfway to their destination, Ghetsis pulled his arm away and trotted up so he was besides his advisor.

“...Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Zinzolin pushed opened the doors to the secluded room. Moonlight shone through the windows, letting the two see the room. Vines and leaves twisted and turned, growing wild all over the room. They all led to the center of the room, where a massive pink flower rested. It was still a closed bud but it occasionally nudged and spat out pollen with each movement. Zinzolin scrunched up his face and sneezed.

“Alright...” He took a step back, covering his mouth and nose with his hands. “Go on.”

Ghetsis’s wings puffed out. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, ready to burst out at any moment. This was it. His hard work, three years of growing and raising this flower...it was all for this. His claws clicked against the floor as he walked over to the bud. His tail curled up and his breathing hitched as he was only a few inches away from his creation.

He used his free hand to assess the bud. He dragged his fingers up to the very top. The petals were already prying open and he just felt the urge to tear it open himself but at same time, he feared ruining all his work. What if he killed it? What if this was too soon? Even though he studied the process intensively, it was still an old method with little to no success. Maybe...maybe he or she needed some intervention. Maybe they were too weak to come out himself. By the name of the Mother Dragon, this was all too much!

“Can you hear me? Surely...come on out. I have been waiting for you for years, All of Unova is excited to see you...” He scratched his claws near the top. He already made his choice. He just had to be very, very careful...

“Ghetsis...” Zinzolin muttered, poking his head in. “Let them out by themselves.”

“But...what if he or she is struggling? Just...” He grunted and he grabbed the top of the flower.

“Ghetsis!” Zinzolin ran forward but the Ice Angel pulled down two of the petals. The half-elf let out a soft gasp and covered his mouth.

“What did you do...?” He murmured. Ghetsis looked down at him and continued on, pulling down the rest of the petals. He worked slowly, his hands shaking and his knees buckling. It was a shocker that he didn’t fall to the ground or pass out from the stress.

The flower opened up as a huge eight petal flower. While the outside was a dull magenta, the inside was a pastel pink. The inside was dotted with black dots near the center.

In the center laid three newborn Ice Angels.

Ghetsis covered his mouth and his pupils widened. He only expected there to be one or maybe two. Not three hatchlings! This was a miracle! But...if they were alive was another issue. He did rush the process.

He leaned in and got a closer look. The hatchlings were the size of his palm. Newborn Ice Angels usually big enough to be held in both arms. They wouldn’t have made it out themselves. Thank the Mother Dragon he took that risk.

He picked up the biggest of the clutch. He was covered in a thin layer of nectar but he could still make out his features. It was a boy that looked like his exact clone. Pale green hair, matching tail, bluish grey skin, huge pointed ears. He was perfect.

“Zinzolin. Towel,” he muttered. Zin gave a quick nod and ran off to get a towel. He came back with three and handed his king one. The Ice Angel wiped off as much nectar as he could and turned him over onto his stomach. He gave a firm pat to his back and the hatchling spat out some nectar and coughed. The soft whining that followed filled Ghetsis with euphoria. He bounced on his feet and grinned wide.

“Zinzolin! Help me with the other two!” Ghetsis gently held the newborn to his chest and the hatchling immediately latched onto his shirt, settling in. He picked up another baby and Zinzolin grabbed the other. The process was repeated: clean them up, pat them on the back and get them to latch onto Ghetsis. After a few minutes of adjustment for the new father and babies, Ghetsis looked at Zin.

“They’re so...perfect.”

“Indeed,” Zinzolin replied. He was doing a fine cleaning of the hatchlings’ wings. The two girls had pale pink and yellow wings while the only boy of the clutch had the baby blue wings of his father.

“...What are you going to name them?” the advisor asked. Ghetsis looked down at them once again and smiled.

“Is it an obsession to say I already had names in mind for years?”

“...A bit.”

Ghetsis laughed and Zin felt his heart stop for a moment. It had been a long time since he heard a hearty laugh from his king. And he, of all people in this galaxy, was the one to make him laugh. Ghetsis was truly happy and he hoped it wouldn’t go away any time soon.

“Well now, for their names. I think the blondie will be Concordia...yes, that is a fitting name...Anthea for the pink one. And...” He pursed his lips together and ran his claws through his son’s messy green hair.

“Let’s see...I’m debating between the name I wish to give him and the one that follows family tradit-”

“Your son, your rules.”

“But Zin-”

“Your son, your rules”

He huffed and gave his son a kiss on the head.

“Natsu it is then.” He continued to focus on his newborns, who whined and clambered all over each other. They were moving so much that Anthea even fell and Ghetsis had to catch her and put her back in her place.

“...What are we going to do about G-Cis?”

Ghetsis’s smile dropped and he sighed, continuing to play with his new children as he gave his orders.

“I will be rewriting the nondisclosure form and I need you to distribute and make sure all the palace staff read and sign it. This includes the Triad and yourself. We will not have a presentation ceremony until after the Plasma Pirates leave our planet. For now-”

He turned toward Zin and his pupils narrowed.

“I am still the last living Angel in this world. I am still all alone in this galaxy. No one outside of these walls will know about my hatchlings. Am I clear?” He leaned in, being mere inches away from Zin’s face. All Zin could see were the huge blue irises and the thin black pupils. He could feel his body tense up and he had to back up a step.

“Y-Yes, Ghetsis...” He cleared his throat and adjusted the cloth around his eyes. Ghetsis backed up as well and his pupils relaxed and he continued to look down at his babies.

“I cannot risk losing them. I do not have the time to raise another flower to bear more children. They...will be our little secret until G-Cis is dealt with.”

“Understood.”

Ghetsis smiled and wrapped his tail around Zin’s leg.

“I knew I could trust you....now then, I need you to dispose of the flower. Make sure it is beyond recognition. I don’t want G-Cis to get any suspicions.” He yawned and continued to run his claws through his children’s sap matted hair. The babies stirred and N opened up his mouth. Anthea followed suit and Concordia too. He chuckled.

“Oh they’re hungry...” He turned on his heel and started to head out the room.

“I need to feed them, bathe them, get them dressed...just do this for me, alright?” He turned his head so he could just barely make out Zin in the corner of his eyes. The half elf nodded.

“Of course. It will be done.”

“Again, thank you so much for this. I am so grateful for your help. Now then, I’ll leave you to it.” He slipped out the room, leaving Zinzolin alone. He sighed. Well, that well. Really well. An hour ago, his best friend was all alone but now, he was the father to three tiny hatchlings.

He turned toward the rest of the room and his content expression changed to one of exasperation. He was going to be here all night taking care of this flower.

#mod athena #writing #the hatchlings in the flower #((Athena wrote this alllll by herself in a few hours))#((Then didn't edit it for another week and some change ;; I got too excited I had to post immediately))

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void-sufferings · 2 years

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One: hhhhhhhh

Two: got rid of all the doxxing of us on dA and left a note like “lol sorry yoko’s not the host anymore if you knew us before and wanna talk I literally don’t know you but I’m down” which is probably funny to come across on someone’s 18-year-old deviant art account but like if any of them read the old journals and didn’t think Yoko was straight up lying probably could manage with that info. Those journals were really fucking eye opening though like god damn I was trying to work out shit in therapy with feeling weird hating her because I don’t actually remember the problem and wow was she abusive. I’m supposed to work on “accepting” first instead of forgiveness rn. And like I guess I am because I’m getting third person flashbacks to triggers I never had before to memories I don’t remember and boy is that bullshit. Getting flashbacks really easily now which is unfun. And there’s still like that “this is a trigger of mine” thing that I should really say but publically mentioning a trigger is still illegal because someone could use them against me so,,, yeah. Paranoia is a fun symptom too. /s I trust my kids! But not everybody on the system does so that’s fair because frankly me and Yoko trusting too easily has caused trauma so,,, also like my triggers that i have mentioned tend to get accidentally forgotten which isn’t their fault but like it’s hard to trust.

Unrelated but I’m wondering if any fictives formed from yoko’s hyperfixes still or if for whatever unholy reason we literally only get introjects from characters we wrote. And if that’s the case Blaze was really gender (I think? Or was that passive influence? It not my memory so it’s fucky) I think so would we have a blaze? We’d have to have an erravi right? Like we’d have to.

Spent like 6 hours dissociated guess the brain decided to catch up by ranting lmao

I miss toaster strudels again is that vesper or am I just yearning tm probably just yearning idk nothing is as clear as “hmm I wanna do coke” with degare lmao though the “I long for alcybooz” is a lot of them yeesh

Oh yeah wild convinced someone in another system to burn things in a park the other day very on brand you go wild

Ugh come on brain time to turn off already I got shit to do tomorrow and need to go to bed

Been trying to get Yoko out here to read her fucking pompous pep for days I know she wants to maybe I’ll get lucky tomorrow night

Been suffering a lot of anxiety again for unknown reasons lately it’s probably the whole moving thing but like making me scared of reading things I want to read that I already know are trigger free or watching things I want to watch is a little ridiculous

Uuugghh I need more YouTube to drown out by brain enough to get sleepy

0 notes

wineanddinosaur · 3 years

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Cocktail College: How to Make the Perfect Martini

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The Martini has an important role in drinking culture and is beloved by many. It’s James Bond’s drink of choice, the classic cocktail emoji, and host Tim McKirdy’s favorite cocktail. In this episode of “Cocktail College,” McKirdy is joined by John Clark-Ginnetti, owner of 116 Crown in New Haven, Conn., and a Martini connoisseur.

Clark-Ginnetti makes sure every customer who is served his Martini at 116 Crown has an experience that indulges all the senses. He shares his personal preferences on how to make the drink and what he thinks makes the combination of gin and vermouth so special. Clark-Ginnetti even teaches cocktail culture at Yale University — so, rest assured, his opinion is one you can trust.

Tune in to learn how to make the perfect Martini.

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MAKE JOHN CLARK-GINNETTI’S MARTINI

Ingredients

3 parts Plymouth Gin

2 parts Boissière Dry Vermouth

Garnish: lemon peel

Directions

Add all ingredients to a mixing glass.

Add ice and stir until chilled.

Strain into a chilled Martini glass.

Garnish with a lemon peel.

CHECK OUT THE CONVERSATION HERE

Tim McKirdy: John Clark-Ginnetti, thank you so much for joining us today and welcome to the show.

John Clark-Ginnetti: Thank you very much. Happy to be here.

T: I’m excited about this one. I’m a huge Martini fan, so this is a big episode for me. I really can’t wait to break down the cocktail with you.

All cocktails start with a great story. Cocktail history is documented by people who enjoy a liquid libation and they don’t let facts get in the way of a good tale. So, can you tell us what are some of the most recognized theories behind the genesis of the Martini? What’s the one that you believe?

J: I will tell you the truth: Of all the commonly dispensed versions, I believe almost none of them. I think this is one of the drinks that is so ubiquitous, fraught with differences, and bandied about for years on bar stools, at tables, and restaurants in epicenters of the world, there’s almost too much motivation by interested parties to ever settle on one true beginning for the Martini. It cannot be one.

I mean, we can’t even agree on whether or not we’ve been visited by aliens. That seems to be a pretty straightforward one. So I don’t know if we’re ever going to come up with who had the brilliant idea to put gin, vermouth, and a lemon peel together to make what I would call the most classic, most delicious drink ever.

T: I think it is an otherworldly cocktail. Is the fact that, if I go into my phone to text you, search for the cocktail emoji, and the Martini glass comes up, is that a sign that this is the most iconic cocktail in the world?

J: Yeah…

T: You’re hesitant there?

J: I’m not an avid emoji user. I have three or four and I’m very sure that I’m using them wrong. But, I think [the emoji] certainly points to the fact that it’s the most thought-of drink. Part of that is just because of the physical stature. It’s got its own glass. Once you get to that, you’ve reached a certain point. It’s like when you can just go by your first name.

T: Madonna. Cher. Martini.

J: Martini.

JAMES BOND AND THE MARTINI

T: Bond, James Bond. That’s a nice segue there. Building upon that iconic status, you do have this conversation that I think, within the bar world, is not even an argument anymore — shaken versus stirred. Even outside of the bar world, I think most people know that is an error. I’m not sure that everyone knows why that is, though. Let’s start by breaking that down.

J: I tend to see some charm in it as well. I don’t think it was intentional — I don’t think Ian Fleming said, “I’m going to sew this little mistake into the rug because everything else is so perfect.” Everybody makes mistakes.

As a Bond fan, one of the cool things that we’re seeing in some of the more recent Bonds is that he’s fallible and he’s been made to be a little more human. But there is no reasonable argument to be shaking vermouth, ever. I wonder if the statement is true that pretty much everyone knows. I think everyone has heard it, but I don’t think they’re really believers.

I am a huge advocate of a Martini being three ingredients and three ingredients only. I don’t think that olives belong in it. I don’t think that vodka belongs in it. I certainly don’t think that espresso or peanut butter belong in it. I’m also not so in love with myself that I’m unwilling to concede that there is going to be some degree of the population that believes everything that comes in a v-shaped glass with a stem is going to be a Martini. I’m sure there’s somebody with a wall of Bond posters and collectibles that is going to shake their Martini, gosh darn it, no matter what you say to them.

The other interesting part about the Bond legacy is that, while the Martini is the most understood, agreed on, and ordered drink by Bond, throughout the years he has segued and had some Vespers. He’s getting a little less uptight.

T: As the advertisers come in, he’s partial to a Heineken these days and whatnot. You mentioned that vermouth should never be shaken, in your opinion. Can you tell us why that is?

J: It’s actually very striking that this comes with the Bond conversation. For me, principally, it’s a matter of looks. I subscribe very profoundly to the idea that all of the senses should be engaged when enjoying a drink or food. That’s why I think that the lemon twist is so important to the Martini.

When that glass rises to your face, before it even gets near your nose, that lemon just serves to wake up the senses and say, “Get ready for something delicious.” By the same extension, when you’re shaking wine — which is what vermouth is — it doesn’t look very good. A Martini should always be crystal clear. It should almost look innocent. It should look like spring water. There should be that wink of vermouth when you look at it.

As somebody who’s been staring at beverage alcohol for 20 years, sometimes my younger employees are struck when I can tell that they’ve added a little bit of vodka into their soda, just by the viscosity. I might be taking things too far when I analyze a drink, but nine and a half out of 10 times, the drink I’m analyzing is either one that I’m going to drink or one that I’m going to serve.

I think taking that editing eye to it is important. Much like you wouldn’t put your Châteauneuf-du-Pape on a paint mixer before you drink it, you shouldn’t be shaking your Martini, right?

T: Well, I’m sorry to say that they’re doing it in “Succession.” But yeah, you shouldn’t be, of course.

J: There’s no point to it. You’re not trying to aerate the drink. You’re not trying to introduce citrus to the drink, especially when being enjoyed by a guy who’s wearing an Omega, Brioni suit, and packing a Walther. No shaking.

T: I was probably wrong earlier in saying that everyone knows not to shake, but I do think we’ve put that to bed as to why we shouldn’t be doing it.

This cocktail is going to be very different from most of the ones that we’re exploring in this series in that there is no one fixed recipe. The Martini is so personal, which is what I love about it. I find, maybe the more interesting conversation to be about the ratios. Again, there’s this amazing tie-in to history. Can you tell us about some of the more recognized ratios? Maybe some of them have a cool backstory? What’s the one that you personally go for yourself?

J: I think that the ratios are much more up for debate than anything regarding shaking or stirring. As the person who is stomping my feet and lighting a match over the proper way to make this, I always have to concede that the Martini that I serve, technically, is a Gin French. The ratio has more vermouth than would be counted on by your average Martini imbiber. That said, I think the only responsible way to understand the Martini and really be a student of it is to investigate what the fans have to say about the drink.

If the Martini was a baseball player and was being inducted into the Hall of Fame, there are stats. You’re standing on this stage because you hit this many home runs. You committed this many errors. For that, you get a reason to stand on the stage. There’s going to be something written on the plaque that’s going to be hung on the wall and acknowledge that those numbers got you the right to have that place. I think that’s really where the debate comes in with the Martini.

Shaking gin and vermouth will not get you onto the stage. Off brands will not get you onto the stage, or if there’s no attention paid to ingredient quality. The Apple Martini is never going to be part of the Cocktail Hall of Fame. Once those attributes are satisfied to get you onto the stage, it’s really about what gets written on the plaque. That, whether it be baseball or Martinis, inherently goes back to the fans.

Some of the best literature that’s been written about the Martini is always talking about how there are the senses — the smelling of the lemon, the fact that it needs to be ice cold — but what happens afterwards is where I always find the poetry. In the class that I teach at Yale College with Dr. Jessica Spector, when we talk about the Martini, the title of that day’s course is “The Martini Is Civilized.”

I like to read from “The Sun Also Rises.” Hemingway is choosing Martinis to set a mood. They’re talking about how, “It’s good. Isn’t it a nice bar?” You could be hoisting a Heineken. You could have an ice-cold beer. But, the fact that they’re having Martinis is in there for Hemingway to set the understanding of what’s trying to be achieved by both parties sitting there.

As you said, the Martini is going to be different from anything else that gets discussed on your show. When the Martini is in a book or on TV — I hate to keep going back to Bond, but I’ve made this case in the class — you have to ask, “Why is Bond drinking a Martini?”

My theory is that he needs to be civilized because he’s a murderer. He is a mass murderer. He’s an assassin. He’s probably killed more people than any of the horror villains. Bond’s got the Freddy Kruegers of the world beat by the thousands. How do you take this horrible person and temper him into somebody who’s doing it for the honor of sovereignty? Everything else has to be that. He has to be well dressed. He has to have an Aston Martin. When you consider the drink, he has to have a Martini.

HOW TO MAKE THE PERFECT MARTINI

T: At the beginning there, you talked about your preferred serve being the Gin French. In terms of technical build, what are we looking at there, gin to vermouth? On top of that, given how we’re speaking about this being a very personal drink, do you actually have a standard serve at your bar that you’re teaching your bartenders? Are you saying, “OK, unless someone says anything, this is the way that we’re going to serve them?”

J: We have a menu, and when somebody orders a Martini — as you said, it’s a personal drink — the first question that’s asked is, “Do you want our Martini or would you like something else?”

In the case that they’re ordering from the menu — that’s, of course, what I prefer, because I like them to be buying what we’re selling — the thing that also figures into that is the brand. If you were to look up the Gin French, you’re going to get three parts gin to two parts vermouth. Now, there’s nothing in there that calls for a brand.

As we know, gins and vermouths both can taste very different. This is one of the reasons that I felt comfortable calling ours the Martini, because I thought that the Plymouth gin, the Boissière dry vermouth, and the lemon twist conveyed more of a Martini taste and feel. Again, the origin of this is so dubious that we’ll never get there. We came to that combination by reading through countless great books about the drink, tasting that, and, honestly, hearing from other people who were tasting it that said, “Yeah, this is the Martini that we want to sell. This is what we’ve been reading about. This is the feeling. This is the taste. This is the look. This is the smell. This is a Martini.”

If you’re not accounting for those brands, it’s really hard to qualify that. If we were to make this with something with a much more juniper-forward flavor, the ratios would change. Then, in my mind, it wouldn’t be a Martini.

T: I love that you do have it on the menu as well, because that’s how I like to start a night. If I go to a cocktail bar full of proprietary drinks, I feel like a bit of an asshole ordering a Martini, but that’s how I love to start the night.

How important is it, even if you don’t have it on the menu, just to have a house spec so that, when that situation arises, unless someone has their preferred way of it being served, that everyone at your bar is making it consistently?

J: I think it’s incredibly important. If you open a bar, you’re going to be making them. It’s not something that’s never going to get ordered. It’s the same as a Manhattan. You can leave it off your menu, but you’re going to be asked for it. There should be a house spec because it’s going to become part of your identity.

There’s two sides to every bar. They serve good drinks. They don’t serve good drinks. Once they serve their drinks, that’s going to be one that you’re measured on. Whether or not it’s on the menu or not, if you have three different bartenders making it three different ways, that’s an issue.

Somebody who knows about restaurants as intimately as you do, knows that consistency is of the utmost importance. People come back because they had a good experience. No one is showing up because the last time they came it was garbage. They might show up despite that, but they don’t show up with that in mind. It’s incredibly important.

In fact, my favorite uncle talks about his days bartending. I cringe when he tells the stories from time to time. He talks about how he would make up a pitcher of Martinis and a pitcher of Manhattans and just shove them in the ice. He was playing catch up. These are the good old restaurant war stories where somebody walked out or hurt their foot, and you had to make drinks for 1,500 people. At the very least, though, if he was making 10 gallons at a time, at least they’d all taste the same.

T: Every Martini he served that night might have been consistently bad, but they all tasted the same, which is good. You’ve got to be consistent.

J: Yeah. They could have been dog water, but they were all dog water.

T: That’s pretty good. I would say that that’s actually a better indication of a bar, that I know what I’m going to get. If I go to a local bar and I know that their draft beer is lousy, I’ll get a little bottle of Modelo. I don’t want it to be great one day and then the next day, the line’s rubbish. The beer’s got no head. If you know what you’re getting, I think we like that as humans. I think that’s important here.

J: That was the argument for bar tools 20 years ago. I would hire people and they’d say, “I can eyeball two ounces. I know how to pour an ounce. I don’t want to use the jigger. What are you talking about?” I had a guy, when I was doing my first training 14 years ago, say, “Did you ever use a jigger?” I said “No, and I know the drinks were inconsistent. So we’re going to do that here.”

T: Exactly. I think it’s those small incremental changes that all combine to really up the quality.

I want to talk about the specific ingredients now. I have a confession to make: I got into Martinis via the New Western style of gin, if you want to call it that. I actually got into it through a Japanese gin that was very light and more citrus-forward. For the longest time, I’d been put off by the flavor of juniper, but that’s a horror story going back to my kitchen days, for a different time.

How do you feel about New Western gins versus the classic London Dry? Of course, you’re using Plymouth, which I would say falls in between, somewhat. Maybe it’s a little bit more New Western. What are you thinking about within those three different styles of gin?

J: I’m always an advocate for progress and change, so I don’t think that something is so sacred that it should never be touched or messed with. Nothing’s above reproach when it comes to that.

I don’t think that all gins, regardless of where and when they were founded, are going to be in a Martini. In my mind, the Martini is the brands and proportions that we use at 116 Crown. Again, I love any sort of progress. I’m not even that opposed to people calling it a Martini if it’s got a spicy green bean in it. If that’s the expression that you’re looking to make, then good on you.

I am consistently mesmerized when I see the expressions that people are putting on gin. Gin sort of lends itself to that as well. As long as it’s got some juniper, anything else goes. That almost has a nod to the culinary world, where sometimes it’s hard to judge creativity because you don’t know where the lines are. You can say, “This is a gin because it has juniper, but then we’ve done all these other things to it. So, this is our expression of gin.”

You could see it in molecular gastronomy. You might order a strip steak and get a bowl of tapioca bubbles, but they were filled with gravy and redolent of steak. You could grin and understand the sometimes comic message that the chef was trying to get across. I see that very much when it comes to the newer expressions of gin. If you have something coming out of the East and it’s featuring produce that’s associated with the East, you think, “Oh, OK. Japanese gin. Got it.”

T: Exactly.

J: It’s going to have that juniper. I think Hendrick’s was really early to the party with this. I always say to people, if you’ve got three or four minutes in the afternoon to waste and you want to see a really well-produced, likely extraordinarily expensive website, go to the Hendrick’s website.

There’s cucumbers getting launched out of cannons. Roses are falling from heaven. It’s just cucumber, rose, cucumber, rose, top hat, unicycle, cucumber, rose. But, when you look at the bottle, there’s no cucumbers and there’s no roses. There’s a sprig of juniper.

You have that history and, in the case of Hendricks, you have playfulness. In the case of some Eastern gins, you have a sense of place. I thought St. George’s gin lineup was always so cool because they’d promote that “This is the one that grows outside the distillery. Enjoy. Take a shot at that one. That’s super cool.

T: Talk about bringing terroir into spirits. We talk about it in different forms and you can argue whether you can taste terroir in whiskeys that have been distilled using a base of organic grain, but then aged in barrels for 10 years. Another great example is The Botanist, where they hire a full time forager on their island, who’s going around all year picking ingredients for that gin. That’s gin with a sense of place. You can’t argue against that. I think that’s one of the incredible parts of it and informs what you’re saying. You know where the line is. You can use new ingredients. You can use different ingredients. But, you’ve always got to question why, and whether they work.

J: Absolutely. Even in the case of the Martini, I think it was Franklin Roosevelt who was mixing the Martinis himself and did not make his usual recipe. He poured it for some heads of state, presidents, and secretaries of other countries, and was so unwilling to admit that he made a mistake. Henceforth, that’s how they were served in the White House.

For terroir, The Botanist is a great example. For the London Dry ones, look at the ingredients on Bombay Sapphire. It’s a London Dry gin called Bombay. They were obviously looking to get your head somewhere else and possibly celebrate some conquering and possible other things.

T: Things we probably wouldn’t celebrate today.

J: Yeah. Well put. Thank you. Advancing the agenda is always in the favor of the medium. You have to advance the message to get attention to the medium. How many people want to drink the exact same gin that their grandparents drink, unless they’re thinking of their grandparents?

T: That really brings us back to the soul of the Martini and it being this cocktail that you can personalize. Maybe there’s different Martinis for different times of day. If we move on from gin to vermouth, again, it brings us back to that ratio conversation. I personally think the 50/50 is a crime against the Martini, but I know that it’s very fashionable these days. I can see a place for it.

Maybe you’re using a vermouth that’s more expressive than your classic styles that you might get from France or Italy. (We’re talking dry vermouth here.) I’ve tried newer ones or smaller-production ones that are more expressive. I can see why you would probably want to mix that in a 50/50 Martini. What’s your approach when it comes to that? Obviously you want the harmony of the two ingredients, but the vermouth is the supporting actor and it’s got to know its place. We’re not shaking it, so we’re giving it respect.

J: It has to be the supporting actor. That’s why there’s awards for supporting actors.

T: There’s perennial supporters out there who just do a great job.

J: Yeah, I agree. Unfortunately, vermouth is a beautiful thing. Vermouth is wonderful with a sprig of celery at 1:30 in the afternoon in somebody’s garden, whose child you might be involved with and meeting parents for the first time. You don’t want to fire anything back.

T: You don’t want two Martinis?

J: Don’t want to have the double size Vesper, you know, and have to have somebody’s folks calling you an Uber. For sheer assertiveness on the palate and alcohol content, vermouth should be there to help the gin achieve its greatest expression.

T: I’m going to move us onto something after this. I want to ask a quick yes or no question, which is orange bitters?

J: I am in the yes business.

T: You’re in the yes business for bitters?

J: For me, though, it’s a no.

T: Oh, OK.

J: I’m in the yes business, but that one, for me, it’s a no. It’s unnecessary. It’s too much.

T: Is that the chef trying to have their imprint where it’s not needed, going too far, and not letting the produce shine?

Let’s move on to stirring. You mentioned engaging all the senses, not just when you’re drinking, but when you’re making this drink. I’ll shout-out Maison Premiere in New York. They have a fantastic tableside Martini service. When they make it, they tell you the story of it as they’re doing it. It’s a whole procession. They pull their gin from the freezer, stir it, and they’re not gauging by how cold the glass gets or how many revolutions. It’s all by sight and viscosity.

Is that something you subscribe to? Can you tell us a little bit more about what we should be looking for, if that’s the case, in that scenario?

J: I really like that sort of a presentation because it’s so deeply personal to that restaurant. Unless you’re going to a chain, you’re looking for an original point of view. I think them doing it that way — it might not be my way — is a wonderful way to do it. Just the act of them forcing you to put your pleasure in the hands of their senses is interesting. They’re looking at this. They’re judging by viscosity. They’re using their eyes. There’s something that is deeply caring in there that all restaurants and bars should have. It’s a really great way to get that point across without having to put it on the website: We deeply care about you. If you walked in stone cold off the street, didn’t know where you were, and ordered that Martini, you would come away feeling that. It’s also quite brilliant.

You can always argue good and bad, but that’s opinion. Once you give something a story, once you give it a history, it’s much harder to refute. You can always say, “Hey, I don’t like Martinis without orange bitters, because I don’t like them.” But, this is why you see so many restaurants who are using grandma’s recipes and so many places that have this deep sense of purpose and place. That’s because it’s irrefutable. That’s the story. If that’s your grandmother’s sauce, that’s your grandmother’s sauce. I wasn’t there.

T: That’s something that will come up a lot, I believe, in these conversations. You’ve got to have conviction. You have to have questioned why and have a reason for why you’re doing something. Maybe one of the reasons I do love the Martini so much is because it reminds me of cooking.

There’s all these things that you’re taught in the kitchen: You should season mushrooms as you’re sautéing them, but other vegetables you should season afterwards because the salt’s going to concentrate. There’s all these little techniques. Scientifically, can we prove them? Absolutely not. At least you’re thinking about it, though, and you have a reason for the way that you’re doing whatever it is. That comes back to that viscosity and the other things that you’re talking about.

J: Those are also nice little tip-offs, too. I had a chef friend tell me one time that one of his “tells” for what kind of kitchen he was in was seeing if they had soy sauce and where they grabbed the handle of the spoon. The metal spoon in the pot is hot at the top, but cooler at the bottom. You could have somebody come in with this dynamite resume and they’re burning their hand when they try to stir the sauce. He would just know right off the bat. If you’re watching somebody sauté mushrooms and season at the same time, there’s a sense of reassurance that they at least check that box.

T: This might be, again, just one of these individual things. I’ve got two little things to run by you. One is cracking the ice before you stir it. The other one is that someone’s told me before that I should be stirring my gin over ice first and then adding vermouth to finish and stir so that we’re not diluting the vermouth too much. Where do you stand on those two things?

J: I think that it’s a matter of your ice and environment. I have another chef friend of mine that keeps his risotto in the same place in the kitchen and it’s not on the stove. He just knows his kitchen so well and knows exactly what he’s going to get when he grabs from that risotto every single time.

For instance, the bar at 116 is lit stone. Three or four years ago, we replaced the lights from fluorescent to LED. All of a sudden, the ice is melting much slower in the bin. It was so strange. We were like, “Oh, God, the ice well. Why is this lasting so much longer?” It was because it wasn’t as hot. The LEDs aren’t throwing any heat. Then, we were able to dim them. That was the other thing. Things are looking different. The area is changing. So I think this is another place where you really just have to trust the methods that have been developed in the place that you are. I would be reluctant to give a full yes or hard no on either of those.

We’re talking about temperature and dilution. Does the shaking tin go under hot water right after you serve your drinks? That’s going to change things as well. If you’re keeping your gin in a freezer and it’s going into a hot or cold tin, you’ve got bigger problems to figure out than cracking the ice and adding the vermouth. If I was going for a really, really dry Martini, I would probably stir some of the gin over the ice, pour that out — because that’s going to be the most watered down — and then start over. If I really just wanted that cold gin in the style of W.C. Fields, glancing at the vermouth, I would want to go as far as I could in that direction.

T: Like you said, there’s so many different variables there when it comes to ingredients and equipment, temperature-wise. I think one thing we can all agree on is that the glass should be coming from the freezer. Do you still subscribe to the Martini glass yourself, or are we talking coupes, Nick and Nora? I mean, those glasses look great.

J: They do look great. I like a Martini glass for a Martini. I am not stuck on the very conventional “v” with no extra ornamentation. I have used Martini glasses with pronounced lips, which is always very much appreciated by the staff because it’s a lot harder to spill them. I’ve used a concave “v,” a convex “v.”

It’s not that different from the conversation we’re having about gin itself. It’s harder to be creative in a way that’s going to be understood by an audience if they don’t have a touchstone. Once you understand that emoji-shaped Martini, the rest can be more easily internalized.

I say this all the time to people about the restaurant. Is this the best drink I’m ever going to make? Absolutely not. Unfortunately, I have to sell them after I make them. If I only made it for me, then I’d only have one guest a night and it’d be me. You have to be cognizant of your audience as well. If you’re going to have a place that has a more sophisticated audience, I think it’s a little bit easier to get creative in that way.

When it comes to the Martini going in a Martini glass, I think it’s appropriate and appreciated. That being said, — and this happens from time to time at 116 — when somebody wants a half a Martini, we put it in the Nick and Nora because it’s a much nicer presentation than serving somebody a half drink. At that point, why don’t we just serve it to them lukewarm with bugs in it?

T: I’m wondering if you have any final thoughts on this drink? I think we can definitely talk for longer about it. I know I could, but is there anything pertinent that we haven’t covered?

J: Any time I have these types of discussions, I always like to temper it a bit with the idea that what’s really important is for the end user to be satisfied. I could sit there and tell you this is the right way all day long, but if it just doesn’t do it for you, you shouldn’t be scared off or write off the drink automatically.

One of the cool things about the Martini is that, no matter how right I think I am, at the end of the day, it’s all up to your taste. There are very few things that I don’t like to eat and drink, but if they ever come across my plate, I’m not doing it. I’ve eaten and sipped my way through so many different genres and flavors. There’s not a lot that just doesn’t do it for me. If somebody tells you that they don’t like to eat fish, it’s probably not the mountain you want to die on. If you can get a little bit of salmon dip onto their plate once in a while, you’ve got to be happy with that.

Especially with the Martini, it’s so nuanced. My first Martini order was done to impress the people I was with. I had never tasted it. I didn’t know if I liked it. I ordered it completely wrong. The bartender, who was not excited to make the Martini, asked if I wanted it up or on the rocks. I didn’t know what I was talking about, so I asked for it on the rocks. When she gave it to me, I said, “Can I have it in the better looking glass?”

A lot of the Martini itself is in the glass, but a lot of the Martini comes from somewhere else. I think a really great quote about the Martini is from James Carville, where he says, “The ultimate feeling in the world is to be about two- thirds of the way through my second Martini with people I like. Anything seems possible.” If you can get there — I don’t care if you have orange bitters and are drinking it hanging from the ceiling by your feet — that’s what it’s about. That’s what it is.

T: Then you’ve got to stop. If you get the full way through the second one, then not a lot is possible.

J: It can be, but what are the proportions of these? Are these 50/50, because I could probably have two more?

T: That very much is true.

GETTING TO KNOW JOHN CLARK-GINNETTI

T: It’s been great to explore this cocktail with you, John. I loved the discussion. Could even do another one on this. Right now, I’d love to get to know you a little bit more for our listeners with our stock quickfire questions at the end here. How’s that sound?

J: Sure. Great.

T: Fantastic. First question for you. What’s the first bottle, brand, or general category that makes it onto your bar program?

J: Geez, that’s tough. How about genre? Because it would be gin. I love to work with gin just because it’s got so much character and there are so many ways to influence the character. We talked earlier about terroir. I think whiskey is a beautiful thing, but you’re giving it if the expression is from the wood. You just have so many more options with gin to give it that character.

T: Yeah. Gin’s the best.

J: Gin’s the best.

T: Second. Which ingredient or tool do you think is the most undervalued in a bartender’s arsenal?

J: This is just my opinion. Since we’ve been discussing the Martini, I think it is the fine-mesh strainer. If you are serving a drink up, which is to indicate without ice, I think that there should be no ice present at all.

T: 100 percent. I hate shards of floating ice in a Martini. That is a no from me.

J: Absolutely. I’ll take the bill, please.

T: Next question: What’s the most important piece of advice you’ve received in this industry?

J: Probably to just be yourself. Be creative. I’m not trying to sound too much like a Whitney Houston song, but that’s going to be the thing that’s most easily deliverable. If you’re out there and you have talent and you’re dialing it back at all, be as far in the “you” direction as you can go, because you’re going to do that better than everybody else 100 percent of the time.

T: Love it. If you could only visit one bar in the rest of your life, which bar would that be?

J: Not mine?

T: Oh, it can be yours.

J: Then it would be mine. Too much blood, sweat, and tears to go anywhere else.

T: I love it. Final question for you. If you knew that the next cocktail you drank was going to be your last, what would you make or what would you order?

J: Oh, it would be a Martini.

T: 100 percent.

J: All day long. The one I’ve been serving. I think it’s perfection, and if I was only going to have one more drink, it would have to be a Martini.

T: At least you’d feel somewhat happy to go, I think.

J: I agree.

T: Amazing. Well, John, thank you so much for joining us for today’s episode. It’s been a blast.

J: My pleasure. Very much my pleasure. Thank you so much for having me.

T: Look forward to the next time.

J: Let’s do it.

If you enjoy listening to the show anywhere near as much as we enjoy making it, go ahead and hit subscribe, and please leave a rating or review wherever you get your podcasts — whether that’s Apple, Spotify, or Stitcher. And please tell your friends.

Now, for the credits. “Cocktail College” is recorded and produced in New York City by myself and Keith Beavers, VinePair’s tastings director and all-around podcast guru. Of course, I want to give a huge shout-out to everyone on the VinePair team. Too many awesome people to mention. They know who they are. I want to give some credit here to Danielle Grinberg, art director at VinePair, for designing the awesome show logo. And listen to that music. That’s a Darbi Cicci original. Finally, thank you, listener, for making it this far and for giving this whole thing a purpose. Until next time.

Ed. note: This episode has been edited for length and clarity.

The article Cocktail College: How to Make the Perfect Martini appeared first on VinePair.

source https://vinepair.com/articles/complete-guide-martini-recipe/

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cwnerd12 · 4 years

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Mercy (10) sleeps in a big, fancy bed in a big, fancy room. The door opens, and Vesper comes in. Gently, he shakes Mercy awake, “Mercy, sweetie.” Mercy groans and stirs, “Hm?” Vesper, “Mercy, sweetie, you have to get up. We’re leaving.” Mercy, “What?” Vesper, “You have to help Isolda and Amada get ready. Come on.” Cut to: a lone highway at night, Vesper drives a van with a once again pregnant Esperanza in the passenger seat. Mercy and Amada (2) sit in the middle row, Elías (7) and Isabel (4) in the back. Mercy tries to stop Amada’s crying. Vesper talks angrily to Esperanza (everyone is speaking Spanish), “This is no nation go God. I wanted to build a government that protects its most vulnerable citizens, not forces them to get married!” Esperanza, nervous, “Where are we going?” Vesper, “There's a place in Carmel. I have a plan, I’ll tell you when we get there.” Mercy speaks up from the back seat, “What about Grace and Wayne? Are we gonna be allowed to see them again?” Vesper, “Pray that we do.”

The Abbadons are all dressed for a formal royal family portrait. They’re in a makeshift compound, but they sit in front of a backdrop that makes them look fancy. Esperanza wears the sunburst tiara along with fine jewels and a beautiful dress. She holds a newborn Gabriel in a fancy bundle in her lap. Esperanza speaks to Vesper in Spanish, “I don’t know if this is necessary.” Vesper, “If Carmel is going to be an independent nation, we have to project ourselves at its royal family. I can’t just declare myself king, I have to act the part.” Mercy says to Esperanza, “You look beautiful, Mama.” Esperanza smiles down at her, “Thank you, sweetie.”

Vesper and Warner scream incomprehensibly at Royal Council. Kings Lawrence, George (Aram), and Harold (Samaria), along with Gerald all listen intently and try to make sense of the back and forth. Silas and King Norris (Moab) exchange eye-rolls of extreme boredom. Warner, “You couldn’t build your own army, so you set a camp full of war criminals free!” Vesper, “When I vowed to build a kingdom of God, I vowed to build one in which its people would be free, not further oppressed!” Warner, “Carmel is a part of Ammon, it has always been a part of Ammon, and you cannot just declare yourself independent!” Vesper, “You can’t just declare yourself king.” With the Judds, Mae is once again pregnant, and she now has at her side Grace, Wayne, Bonnie, Mackynzie, and Hank. A translator translates for Grace. Across the massive ballroom, Esperanza sits with Mercy, Elías, Isolda, Amada, and baby Gabriel in her lap. Mercy and Grace catch each other’s eyes across the room. Mercy sadly waves at Grace, and Grace waves back.

Vesper paces in a run-down situation room at the compound, surrounded by formerly Royal generals who still wear the old uniforms they wore under King Allen. General, “We have the resources to defend ourselves for a short time. Our best hope is that if Warner declares war on us, we can get foreign aid and hold him off. Invading the rest of Ammon is out of the question. Vesper, “Not if the people rise up against Warner!” Aide, “I don’t know if that’s going to happen. He out front during the war, being a hero while you just made speeches.” Vesper, “It will happen! It has to happen!”

The Abbadon children huddle in a dark closet. Mercy holds a wailing Gabriel in her arms and tries to hush his crying. Outside the door, the sound of Esperanza yelling, “Not the children, Vesper! Not the children! I won’t let you!” A long, horrifying scream. Mercy sobs and cuddles Gabriel close to her. The sound of a commotion, men yelling, “Put your hands up, now! Put the knife down! PUT THE KNIFE DOWN!” Elías positions himself between the door and his sisters. The sound of softened voices. Slowly, the door creaks open.Mercy braces for the worst. Silas stands on the other side, staring down at them with a mixture of horror and pity.

On a TV screen with closed captioning, a news anchor reads, “Vesper Abbadon was executed today for crimes against humanity.” Warner turns the TV off. Grace and Wayne both sit on a sofa, watching the TV with him. Warner turns to both of them and signs as he speaks, “You need to pray for Vesper’s should tonight. Mercy signs, “What happened to Mercy?” Warner, “I don’t know. If I could, I’d have them all here, and I’d raise them as your brothers and sisters. I asked King Silas himself, and he won’t say anything.” Wayne, “Are they dead?” Warner sighs and shakes his head, “They might be.” Grace sobs. Warner kneels down and hugs her tightly.

Mercy sits on a sofa in a suburban living room. Her new adoptive parents, Joe and Marcia, speak to her. Marcia, “Your name is Elizabeth Garcia now. It’s going to take some getting used to, but it’s the best way to keep you safe.” Mercy, “I want to see my brothers and sisters.” Joe, “You know we can’t do that, sweetie. Keeping you safe means nobody can know who you are.” Mercy, “This isn’t fair! You’re not my parents!” Marcia kneels down and puts a hand on Mercy’s shoulder, “Yes, we are.”

At the Rabbath Academy for the Deaf, teenage Grace and her female classmates receive sex ed from an Aunt Lydia-looking instructor, “Sex is a holy act that God created to be experienced between a husband and wife in the creation of new life. It is a beautiful expression of love and devotion. As women, we must protect our virtue, our special gifts intended only or our husbands. Virtuous women are modest in every way, through dress, expression, and action.”

“I LIKE BIG BUTTS AND I CANNOT LIE” pounds over the speakers of the private room of a fancy strip club while teenage Wayne, Jack, Quentin, and all the other princes chug bottles of champagne and enjoy the debauchery of Prince Club. Wayne throws a wad of cash at a stripper’s twerking ass.

Joe and Marcia sit in a classroom with a teacher. Teacher, “I’m aware of Elizabeth’s story.” Marcia, “She lost her family in the war.” Teacher, “Yes, I have other refugee students, some of whom also lost their families. Elizabeth is a very bright student, and I’ve never seen any behavior problems from her, which is why I was so disturbed when she claimed to be Mercy Abbadon… I mean… there’s no truth to it, is there?” Joe an dMarcia look at each other. Softly, Marcia says, “She… She has this delusion. She believes that she’s Mercy Abbadon. She uses it to cope with losing her siblings… She says they’re still alive, just living with other families. Just call King Warner, she’ll be with her best friend, Princess Grace, again. It’s a coping mechanism. She clings to it. We’ve been taking her to doctors. I don’t know how much good it’s doing.” Out in the hallway, teenage Mercy fight back tears of rage, and uses a bent paperclip to gouge a long, shallow cut into her arm.

Back at home, Marcia screams at Mercy, “If you don’t stop it, we’re going to have to move again! Do you want to be sent to another school?” Mercy, distraught, “Why?! Why can’t I tell people who I am?!” Marcia, “Your father murdered thousands of innocent people! Millions of people want revenge on him, and they’ll settle for you!” Mercy, “King Silas just uses me to antagonize Warner!” Marcia, “It’s King Warner, and King Silas is keeping you and your siblings safe!” Mercy, “You don’t even know where my siblings are, how can you know if they’re safe?!” Marcia, “They’re safe because no one knows who you are!” Mercy sobs, “You don’t know that they’re safe!” Marcia, “The bottom line is if you don’t keep your mouth shut, you’ll end up like your father.”

Mercy, pale and drawn, wakes up in a hospital bed. She peers through a gap in the curtains surrounding her, and sees Marcia talking to a doctor. Marcia, “She has this delusion. When she wakes up, she’s going to claim that she’s Mercy Abbadon…” Mercy tries to raise her arms, but she’s held down with restraints. She has bandages on her wrists. Marcia looks over and sees her. She enters the curtained area, “Elizabeth! You scared us!” Mercy sobs helplessly, “Why didn’t you let me die?” Marcia, “No, please, sweetie, don’t talk like that.” Mercy, “Why didn’t you let me die?!”

Mercy sits hunched over miserably in a psychiatrist’s office. Psychiatrist, “When did you start claiming to be Mercy Abbadon?” Mercy looks at him, “My name is Elizabeth Garcia. Mercy Abbadon is dead.”

Late night, Wayne lays in bed, staring at an old photograph: the royal Abbadon family. Mercy, as Wayne knew her, vibrant, beautiful, and dignified. Wayne sticks his hand down his pants and begins to pleasure himself.

Adult Mercy works her coffee shop job with a name tag that reads ELIZABETH. She hands a customer cup, “That’ll be $4.75.” The customer pays and steps away. Mercy glances up at the small TV that’s set up for waiting television. Warner gives a press conference. A second customer approaches Mercy, “Yeah, I’d like a caramel latte…” Mercy ignores her, “Hold on, I want to hear this.” Mercy’s POV on the TV. Warner, “For fifteen years, King Silas Benjamin lied to the world. He said that Vesper Abbadon was killed in the conquest of Carmel, but that is not true. Abbadon is alive and well, and he has been held in the palace of Gilboa.” The scene quickly fades to black. Suddenly, Mercy is on the floor of the supply room, screaming and clutching her head. Her co-workers gather around her, “Liz! Liz!” The male co-worker, Brendan, looks at the female co-worker, Ashley, “Do we call 911 or something?” Ashley, “I don’t know! LIZ!” Mercy gasps and wails. Brent catches her as she leans over, and tries to comfort her, “Hey, Liz, are you okay?” Ashley, “Fuck. I mean, she said she was from Carmel.” Brendan, “Yeah, I’m from Carmel. Leave me alone with her, I’ll get her to calm down, okay?” Ashley looks at him uneasily for a moment, and then says, “Okay. Get me if you need me.” She leaves. Brendan gently strokes Mercy’s hair, “Hey, it’s okay.” Mercy moves away from him, calming down somewhat. Brendan, “I… I didn’t lose my parents or siblings, but I still lost like half my family. Why the fuck did Silas keep Abbadon alive?” Mercy shakes her head, “You don’t know… You don’t know.”

Vesper sits alone in a jail cell. The door opens, and Warner enters. He sits down across from Vesper, and they stare at each other for a moment. Warner, “Do you have anything to say?” Vesper, “I’ve had fifteen years to say everything that I need to say. I kept journals, wrote very long letters to my children. I think I got it all out. Do you have anything to say?” Warner, "I have plenty to say.” He thinks for a long moment, then laughs a little bit, and shakes his head, “I just can’t seem to think of any of it right now. When I look at you, I get filled with this rage, this howl of betrayal. I want you to feel what you put me through.” Vesper, “Many people do.” Warner, “Do you know what happened to your children?” Vesper, “They were separated, raised by Gilboan families. I got to meet them briefly before coming here. They… I know they’ve been hurt, and it would take me much more time than I have available to even begin to comprehend the extent of that hurt. But they survive, carry on. I want nothing but peace and happiness for them. If that involves my execution, so be it. I gladly accept what I deserve.” He looks Warner in the eye, “We fucked it all up, Warner.” Warner, outraged, “We?!” Vesper, “Yes, we. I didn’t know what I was doing, I though my moral righteousness would build a nation for me, but I put too much faith in my own ego. You, you knew how to lead, how to build, you just did it without love.” Warner, “Ammon is a nation of God!” Vesper, “It is a nation of purity without love! If I have not love, I am but a resounding gong-” Warner, “Don’t you dare quote scripture at me!” Vesper, “I’m a professor of linguistics and theology, all I have is scripture! I listen to it! I ask questions and search for answers! All you’ve ever done is recite, never question!” Warner, “Where was your scripture when you ordered those troops to kill civilians?!” Vesper, “I never claimed I wasn’t a sinner. I’m a monster, a beast. But you can’t see the plank in your eye. You have failed your people failed God, and failed your children.” Warner, “My children have nothing to do with this!” Vesper, “Where there are prophesies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. When I was a child, I thought as a child, I reasoned as a child. When I became a man, I put childish things behind me. And now three things remain: hope, faith and love. But the greatest of these is love.” Warner shakes his head, “Are you ready to meet God, Vesper?” Vesper, “I am.”

Warner stands beside Wayne in an execution chamber. Vesper stands at the gallows, the noose around his neck. Warner stares at him, and he gives one last smirk as the executioner puts a hood over his head. Wayne murmurs to Warner, “Send him straight to hell.” Warner looks at Wayne, “Pray for him.” The executioner pulls the lever, and Vesper falls. Warner looks back at the gallows, but he’s missed it.

The Abbadon siblings gather around the dinner table in Mercy’s small apartment. Mercy spoons out portions of chicken mole. A smiling picture of Esperanza is up on the wall. Mercy, “I remember Mama making this. I tried to make it like she did, but I don’t have her recipe.” She sits down. Elías tears into a wing, “Oh my god, this is so good!” Mercy, “Like Mama made it?” Elías, “Not quite, but close!” Gabriel tentatively pokes at his piece with a fork, “I’ve never had this before?” Mercy, “Really?” Gabriel, “Yeah. My parents- we, ugh… we don’t eat much Mexican food.” Mercy, “There’s plenty of time to try new things.” Gabriel takes a bite, and smiles, “It’s really good.” Mercy, “I’m glad.” Gabriel, “I used to think that I would never know anything about my parents. It’s so weird to think about my mom, to give her a face and a name, and eat her food.” Mercy, “She loved us all very much.”

At Grace’s wedding, Mercy, the maid of honor, reads and signs, “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.” Grace beams as Mercy reads. Warner looks up at her with a curious expression, pained and loving at the same time.

Grace and Gus dance at their reception. The song ends and Gus finishes with a romantic kiss. At the sidelines, Mercy smiles and applauds. Warner approaches Grace and takes her for a dance. Wayne approaches Mercy, “Would you care to dance?” Mercy, uneasily, “Wouldn’t you rather dance with Hattie?” Wayne holds out his hands, “She won’t mind.” Nervously, Mercy takes his hand, and he leads her out to the dance floor. They once awkwardly for a little bit. Grace looks uneasily over at Mercy, but Mercy gives her a reassuring smile. Wayne, softly, “You know, I always thought I’d marry you.” Mercy, “It’s kind of late for that, isn’t it?” Wayne, “I suppose.” He leans in close and sniffs her hair, “You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” Mercy sees Hattie giving her a dirty look, “Wayne, Hattie can see you.” Wayne pulls his head back, “It’s truly a miracle that you’ve been brought back to us.” Mercy, “I've always been here. Just hidden.” Wayne, “Miracles happen. I just have to keep my faith.” Mercy smiles uneasily.

Warner sits at a dinner table with his family. Everyone is there: Wayne, Hattie, Gus Grace, Bonnie, and her husband. Grace signs, “I’m so happy to be teaching at my old school. I’m really grateful that I was able to have deaf teachers. They’re so important for deaf kids to have.” Warner is sweaty and somewhat uncomfortable-looking. He takes another sip from his whiskey glass, and winces. Mae glances at him, “Are you all right, Warner?” Warner, “I’m fine, just… Ugh, I think I might have picked up a bug somewhere.” He tries to stand up, but collapses to the floor. The women scream and rush to him. but Wayne stays calmly in his seat, enjoying his meal.

Mercy sits in the council chamber with David, Jack, Abby, Asher, Joel, Shay, and his other generals. David, “He can’t just fucking declare war because he wants to!” Abby, “David, by now you should know that Wayne is going to do whatever the hell he wants.” David, “Yeah, but why is he doing this shit now, instead of waiting for something to happen so he at least has a bullshit excuse?” Shay, “If he wants to attack, let him attack. We’re fortified, in position, and ready for anything he can throw at us.” David, “I’m not sacrificing lives so Wayne can go on some bullshit ego trip! We can’t be out of diplomatic options!” Abby, “And we’re not, but we’re running out of them. I think we need to face reality: if Wayne is determined to do this he’s going to do it.” Mercy, “Let me talk to him.” David, “What?” Mercy, “Let me talk to Wayne. I… I think I can make some sort of deal with him.”

Mercy sits in a small room with Wayne on a screen. Wayne, “Tell David that the only thing he can do is hand over Carmel. It's a part of Ammon, and I’m not letting him keep it.” Mercy, “I know this, and David's going to defend it.” Wayne, “Then war it is!” Mercy, “Wayne, wait.” Wayne, “What?” Mercy sits for a moment, thinking, and then says, “Is there anything I can do? Anything I can give you, that will make you call this off?” Wayne stares at her, considering all the implications of this question. Finally, he says, “Marry me.” Mercy, “You’re already married!” Wayne, “A king can have multiple wives! I married Hattie because I thought I’d never see you again. I love her, I won’t divorce her and leave her alone, but I know what I want, and what I’m entitled to. I have spent years loving you, not knowing if you were even alive. Now that I know, I can’t be happy unless I know you’re mine. If you marry me, Mercy, I’ll call off this war. Please.”

David talks to Grace and her interpreter in a hallway. A door opens, and Mercy steps out. They both look at her. Quietly she says, “I… I got Wayne to agree to call off the war.” David, “What? How?” Mercy, “Can I talk to Grace in private?”

(“Bottom of the Deep Blue Sea” MISSIO) Mercy sits in a white dress while people do her makeup and brush her hair. She shuts her eyes as someone places the sunburst tiara on her head, and then pulls a veil over it. Cut to: Elías walks Mercy down the aisle. The pews are empty, except for immediate family members. Isolda, Amada, and Gabriel sit in the bride’s side of the chapel, all of the Judd’s on the other. Grace can’t help herself from crying. Hattie stands beside Wayne, stony-faced, her rage and sorrow buried deep within her. Wayne is blissfully oblivious of all this. He take’s Mercy’s hand as she approaches him, and then removes the veil from her face. They stand and watch as a pastor recites, “Wives, submit yourselves unto your husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing.” Mercy faces Wayne. Pastor, “Do you, Mercy take Wayne to be your husband?” Mercy, “I do.” Pastor, “Do you, Wayne, take Mercy to be your wife?” Wayne, delighted, “I do!” Pastor, “I hereby pronounce you husband and wife.” Wayne embraces Mercy and kisses her passionately.

After the ceremony, the Abbadons stand grouped in a circle, a tight group hug. Mercy, “Os quiero tantísimo a todos. No te preocupes por mi, ¿de acuerdo?” Everyone nods glumly, “Si.”

Mercy sits in a fancy bathroom, wearing a silky pink dressing gown. She stares down at the ground. Outside the door Wayne’s voice, “Mercy, are you ready?” Mercy takes a deep, shaking breath, “Yeah, just… just give me a moment.” She breathes out, her breath still shaking. She presses her hands against her face, still breathing deeply. She composes herself, and then takes a bottle of lube from the counter top. She squeezes some onto her fingers, reaches between her legs, and puts it on herself. She wipes her fingers off. She takes one final moment to herself, and then stands. She opens the door, and Wayne stands on the other side, in the master suite of the royal yacht. He’s naked, his overwhelming maleness is on full display. He stares at her, his eyes taking in every inch. Nervously, she approaches her. Wayne, "This is what God wants. He wanted our families united. She takes her robe off. Wayne steps forward and kisses her passionately. She turns her face to the side, “Just be gentle with me, okay? I’ve never done this before.” Cut to: Wayne moans ecstatically as he makes love to her, “Oh, you don’t know how long I’ve dreamt of this.” Mercy stares off and doesn’t say anything. Wayne, “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I love you so much.” He cries out in pleasure. She tighten her arms around him. He pants as he nears climax, “Mercy, Mercy…” She makes a tiny gasp, “Wayne.” He cries out again as he finishes, and then falls limp against her, “Oh, Mercy…” He strokes his hair, contemplating, determined. It's done. She’s in control now.

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faithfulnews · 4 years

Text

Privileged & Vulnerable

By Robert P. Imbelli

April 10, 2020

The first sign appeared on the door of the priests’ retirement residence where I live. It was March 10 and the sign read: “No Visitors Until Further Notice.” Of the approximately thirty residents, perhaps only six or seven get out with any frequency, helping in parishes and attending an occasional concert. But all follow the news closely and were aware of the increasing threat from the insidious virus that had made its way from China to Europe and was now reaching New York. So the posted sign, though unwelcome, did not come as a complete surprise.

A second sign was the decision to reduce the “density” at the evening meal. We changed from one sitting to two so that, instead of four men at a table, there would be only two—one across from the other. Though this meant extra work for the staff, they accommodated themselves to the new arrangement with generosity and kindness.

A third sign appeared on March 21, and this more foreboding. Our usual custom is to celebrate Mass together in the late morning, with those attending seated along the chapel’s walls, some in wheelchairs, others with walkers. Only the main celebrant would stand at the altar. It became apparent that we were physically much too close and that, even without an actual exchange of peace, our proximity could be a risk. And so the sign posted on the chapel door declared: “Mass Suspended.” Of course, some continue to celebrate Mass in their rooms, but others have joined the dolorous Eucharistic fast suffered by the immense majority of God’s people.

I have lived here since the residence opened about three and a half years ago. In that time close to twenty men have died of causes ranging from Alzheimer’s to cancer. Most have been older than myself, but a few younger. As I would sit in the chapel, the words of the “Benedictus” about those “who dwell in the shadow of death” took on new significance. They seemed not morbid but actual and pertinent. In a culture in which death denial is so prevalent, any reminder of death’s inevitability can be salutary. It can help one appreciate the present moment, its grace and possibilities. It can focus attention on what is truly important.

Then on Saturday, March 28, a yet more ominous sign appeared. An ambulance drove up to the entrance of our residence and two EMS workers in protective gear emerged and wheeled a gurney into the building. After a brief time they came out, bearing one of our retired priests. The following day a sad notice on the bulletin board reported his death. It was only the following Tuesday that the news came that he had tested positive for the virus.

Four men, who by then showed symptoms that caused concern, were taken either to the hospital or to a nursing facility. A new protocol was instituted for the remaining residents. All meals would be delivered to the rooms and left on a chair outside the door. Masks were to be worn during any necessary interaction. We were in effect quarantined within our rooms.

Since then two men who had been transferred from the residence have died. To my knowledge neither was tested, though one surmises that the virus was a contributing factor. Our experience here only reinforces the general impression that the number of deaths attributable to the virus far surpasses the officially announced total.

Although I’m a diocesan priest, both my temperament and daily routine have always been somewhat monastic.

I am acutely aware that here in the residence we are both privileged and vulnerable. Privileged because of so many committed workers who provide for our needs—health-care providers, kitchen staff, maintenance people, food-delivery people, postal workers. Yet I am also aware of the vulnerability of elderly men, who often have other health problems. And though those who come to work here are checked for symptoms and take ordinary precautions, like simple masks, there is the real possibility that some of them are asymptotic bearers of the invisible enemy.

I am also aware of the many in New York and elsewhere whose challenges far surpass our own. Those on the frontlines whose dedicated exploits we see morning and evening on the news. Families confined in homes both small and large, with restless children and teenagers. The homeless…one can barely imagine the plight of the homeless.

And so a new realization impresses itself: our unity in the Body of Christ. Not as some stirring theological notion, but as an ever-present reality. Never has prayer been more somatic, more alert to our oneness in the Body of Christ. Strange to say: in a time of diminished sacramentality, an enhanced corporeality may be growing. We may be beginning to fathom the mysterious truth of Paul’s words: “I am completing in my own flesh what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ for the sake of his Body, the Church” (Colossians 1:24).

A good part of this enhanced corporeality is a closer attunement to the rhythms of bodily existence. I have always appreciated the Divine Office and its relation to the rhythms of nature. Lauds at sunrise, Vespers at sunset. But when I’m awake in the middle of the night, the Office of Readings joins me to relatives and friends in different time zones: Australia, Italy, the United States from east to west. Whatever time of day or night it is where they are, all pulse to the rhythms of divine grace and praise. “From the rising of the sun to its setting a sacrifice of praise is offered to the Lord.”

Although I’m a diocesan priest, both my temperament and daily routine have always been somewhat monastic. Regular patterns of prayer (the Benedictine Opus Dei), study, teaching, writing. These continue but with an even more deliberate pattern. Rhythm again. Prayer has pride of place, but reading (the monastic lectio) takes up a good part of the morning. When inspiration strikes, I may undertake a short article. Since I’m an early riser (and an Italian) I usually take an afternoon nap, which sets the stage for further study in the afternoon.

I’ve also picked up a new habit: before bed I watch a musical performance on DVD. I have always loved to listen to classical music and have a wide selection of CDs. But lately I have found that watching musicians play the music concentrates my attention. It allows me to experience the music more deeply, to resonate with the gestures and expressions of the musicians. Their joy communicates itself to the viewer. We are not alone. A friend recently alerted me to the fact that on Amazon Prime TV, if one searches “Abbado,” one has access to all the Beethoven symphonies conducted by the great maestro with the Berlin Philharmonic. One can follow the arc of Beethoven’s genius, culminating in his Ninth Symphony. And then begin again, discovering new riches with each listening.

I have spoken of “privilege.” One of the surpassing privileges of our residence is the land that surrounds it, crowned by an overview of the Hudson River and the Palisades. Just to be able to walk outdoors safely in this time of quarantine is a privilege. To be able to do so amid such beauty is sheer grace. Spontaneously, St. Francis’s Laudato si’ wells up.

Images assume ever greater importance in this time of confinement. Imageless prayer may be fine for disembodied angels, but for us mortals images are life-giving and sustaining. Atop the dome of the chapel that my window faces is a bronze statue of Christ, beckoning with outstretched arms. Every time I glance up from my desk I see Jesus inviting: “Come to me all who are burdened.” Wondrously, the statue is illuminated at night. So day and night Jesus stirs and soothes my heart.

But it need not be an imposing statue. A simple crucifix, a favorite icon of Our Lady, a small print of a patron saint can equally well remind and impress upon each of us: “None of us lives to himself, and none of us dies to himself. If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord. So, then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. For to this end Christ died and lived again, that he might be Lord both of the dead and the living” (Romans 14:7–9). Easy enough to quote. Our challenge, more than ever, is to make these words our own.

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nimueriesa · 7 years

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THE IDYLLS OF THE QUEEN → SENTENCE MEME [ 3 / 3 ]

Part two of a three part series of lines and dialogue taken from The IDYLLS OF THE QUEEN by Phyllis Ann Karr, an Arthurian murder mystery featuring Sir Kay and Sir Mordred as Begrudging Buddy Cops ™. Feel free to change pronouns or anything else to better suit your needs.

I hope you have enough magic to get this mob to _____ on the appointed day.

_____ is one of the chiefest of your suspect traitors, is she not?

It is hardly worth reading the future at all.

You see, sister, I have answered your invitation at last.

How like your mother you look, boy!

May I take it that we’re here under a sign of truce?

If you look for treachery and insist on having it, then I will oblige you.

My house and food are substantial, and most of my people are human.

Have you arranged your questions?

I had somehow fancied that you would have abandoned Ihesu for older gods.

I did not wish marriage.

I wished to be Ihesu’s bride.

There are two ways of joining oneself with the immortal Power: the path of virginity and that of fertility.

I lost the path of virginity, and that not even in the arms of a man I loved, or could have loved, but in the arms of one I disliked at first meeting and soon came to hate.

All right, you didn’t need such an elaborate defense for the charge of adultery.

Not every unfaithful wife tries to cut off her husband’s head in his sleep.

Who was it told that tale?

For a dame who despises the magical arts as much as you claim to, you use them often enough yourself.

The world had thrown the stone at me, and I threw it back at the world.

You’ve hated _____ for years. You’ve tried to destroy her time after time!

You’re jealous of her because of _____.

If _____ were out of the way, you think you might yet lure the Mirror of Perfect Knighthood into your bed.

Come with me. I have made up my mind to show you something I have shown to very few.

Who can be sure whether he meant these pictures as boasting or confession?

You knew. Do not pretend it takes you be surprise.

Of course he knows. We all know except _____, who blinds himself willfully.

It is not willful choice, but pure foolish, doting, conceited faith that keeps his eyes and ears closed to the rest of us find so obvious.

How could his best knight and his loving wife betray him, the greatest of all mortal kings?

His mind will no more accept such a thought than oil will accept water.

I needed a tender bedfellow to teach me what love should be.

He did have true power and true secrets, and he was a better teacher than practitioner.

Will you teach me some of this knowledge?

And for these reasons I should instruct you in the knowledge and uses of the Power?

Do you refuse because of my birth?

I refuse because of your intent.

You would use your skill to greater destructiveness than did the Devil’s son.

Is that a prophecy or a command?

Prove your good intent, then.

I’ll find my own opportunity, I’ll succeed where you have failed.

After years of your deeds, you expect me to believe your words instead?

And you pretend to love _____.

And you pretend not to love _____.

The flowers already show the full promise of summer...

I have never loved _____.

I have never even, as a mortal woman, particularly desired his body.

Should not the earth be plowed by the best and strongest of farmers? And should I not seek the strongest and best of plowmen for myself?

For all the enchantments I used to bring him near me, I never clouded his understanding at the moment of choice.

And now, what new trouble is it you have come to accuse me of causing?

I can see the past and present, but in only one place at a time, and the images move no faster than reality. It would be impossible for me to watch everything.

_____ read my entire life yesterday with a touch.

I am hardly flattered that any of you should have taken this for my handiwork. Does it bear the marks of my infamy?

Maybe you should be ashamed of opening yourself up to our suspicion.

Be careful how you continue to insult _____, lest she lose her extreme patience and turn you into a toad.

Forgive me, I had not meant to strike you quite so hard, but I worked very quickly.

What did you do to him, Dame?

I judged the time had come that you should stop bickering between yourselves.

Did you not tell me yourself, two evenings ago, to be tender with him?

Am I absolved?

That young Satan!

In my opinion, you may touch him with your melancholia spell whenever you please.

I schooled myself long ago in how to fight the demons of melancholia and survive.

I weary of your suspicions.

Ah, so at last you trust me and my magic!

If your memory searching doesn’t put you under a seal of silence, you could at least blush when you scatter your victims’ secret thoughts.

Hated, feared, and mistrusted. But recognized as a power to be reckoned with.

At times I think you remember my memories better than I do myself.

What are you doing in the company of that Paganess?

Dearest darling, shall I fight him and run him through?

Better a good Pagan than a bad Christian.

I will not attend your Devil’s Vespers.

Brothers of the Round Table should not draw iron against one another.

If _____ deserved to die like that, what must the rest of us deserve?

How thrifty of heaven!

But, of course, in your pride you mistake many things.

Rude actions as well as rude words, _____?

I have something important to talk over with your wife.

Do you trust her alone with me for a few moments outside?

I would be more than your match with my head and left side unarmed and my left hand bound behind my back.

I’m glad one other person here besides myself can think with some wit.

My lady, I do not break in upon you?

I would not try to make peace with him tonight, if I were you.

This is the night for unwelcome intruders, it seems.

Churl to the last!

She was a very beautiful lady, and my wits were dulled with sleep and wine.

I had not meant to betray you.

You can go as soon as you like, Sir Most Important, and we’ll be glad to see your backside.

For the love of God and His Mother!

You might try forgiving yourself.

Since you will not leave my company, I will leave yours.

You have fallen under that evil woman’s spell.

I think you’d better give me that dagger.

You will lay down your weapon.

I am a bastard, do you understand me?

Aye I killed her --- I freed her from his snares.

We have murdered an innocent man!

You killed her for jealousy!

The truth, you say --- you bring us together to teach us the truth of ourselves, and you lie?

And some day they’re going to remember us as the cream of chivalry!

Now sleep again, and I will heal you.

#sentence meme #OOC┊▌❝ ˡᵉᵃᵛᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗʳᵉᵉˢ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵃʳᵉ ᵃᶰᵈ ˢᶤᶰᵍ ❞ ┊► ᴍᴇᴍᴇs #( finally finished it up ~ )

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vexing-imogen · 3 years

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the persistence of 7/?

read from beginning | read on ao3

“Is my brother dead?”

Percy has to duck his head, can’t bear to see her face when he tells her. “Yes,” he whispers, and the hand that’s holding his goes limp. “Yes, he’s...yes.”

She chokes out a sob, and his heart breaks. “How long?”

“Three and a half years,” he admits.

She’s quiet for a long moment, and he finally gathers the courage to meet her eyes when she asks, “How did he die?”

He swallows. “We were fighting a wannabe god. He was...far too powerful for us, and he. He killed you both.” Vex stiffens, her bloodshot eyes going wide. “Pike brought you back, but there...there wasn’t anything left of Vax to bring back. We escaped, and we made a plan to bring him back. Keyleth had a plan. But then we woke up in the middle of the night and he was just...there. Alive. Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“Vax had made a deal with his goddess,” Percy starts. “With the Raven Queen. She brought him back to life, but only long enough to help us defeat this god. And we did. We saved the world, but we lost your brother.”

Vex goes quiet again, far longer this time. “Why did you all lie to me?”

He takes a deep breath to compose himself, lets it out. “Part of me was scared of how you would react,” he admits. “You were already so overwhelmed with everything we were telling you, and barely trusting that we were telling you the truth. It didn’t seem right to burden you with that on top of everything else.” He sighs. “And I thought about the Vex from five years ago, and tried to think of a reason that she would stay with us if Vax was gone. There wasn’t one.”

“You thought I would leave?” she asks, sounding hurt by the implication.

Percy shrugs. “Part of me did.” He shakes his head. “But all of that aside, I suppose I was trying to protect you.” She lets him take her hands in his. “Vex’ahlia, I’ve watched you grieve for your brother for over three years. I know from experience that pain like that never fully goes away. It can fade, with enough time, but it’s always there. So, if I could spare you that pain, even if it was only for one day, why wouldn’t I?”

“Fuck,” she mutters. “How the hell am I supposed to stay mad at you when you say shit like that?”

“I am sorry,” he says. “The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you.”

She studies him for a moment. “You’d do it all again, wouldn’t you?”

He almost laughs. She always could see right through him. “In a heartbeat.”

============================================================

Vex doesn’t fall back asleep. Percy encourages her to try, they have a long day ahead of them, but she can’t stop her thoughts from racing. She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to face tomorrow. The cruel irony that the one person in all of Exandria that can heal her is also the one responsible for taking her brother away isn’t helping. How is she supposed to stand in front of this Raven Queen and ask for her aid when all she wants to do is haggle with her for her brother’s life?

Take me instead, you Raven bitch!

She flinches at her brother’s voice, a distant echo. Muffled, as though she were underwater.

Don’t worry about me. I am safe and taken care of. I am always with you.

She throws her covers off, almost falling out of the bed in her haste. She grabs a coat and runs, thinking of the garden, and the relief that the fresh air provided the night before.

(She thinks that perhaps Percy was right. If they’d told her straight away, maybe she would have run.)

Vex is halfway to the door when a noise stops her. Percy’s voice, low and soothing, coming from Vesper’s room. He’s singing, she realizes. A lullaby. It draws her in until she’s standing in the doorway, watching.

He’s pacing the room, Vesper cradled in his arms as he sings. The language is unfamiliar, but she knows the tune. It’s one that their mother would sing to get them to fall asleep when they were little. One that she and Vax would sing to each other when they couldn’t sleep in Syngorn. She finds herself singing along, and the look that Percy gives her when he notices is almost enough to melt her.

I should have told you. It’s yours.

Vesper sees her in the doorway just as she’s starting to doze off, reaches out for her wordlessly. Vex takes her, settles them into the rocking chair in the corner. Percy sits on the floor in front of them, still humming.

There was a hole in my heart, and I truly believe the only reason I didn’t perish from it is because you were holding my heart so tightly.

Vesper is sound asleep within minutes, and Vex can feel sleep finally starting to claim her as well. They get Vesper tucked back into bed, and then Percy takes her hand and leads her back upstairs. If he notices her attire (which he most certainly does. He’s nearly as observant as she is, and, well, she’s wearing his coat.), he doesn’t comment on it. She curls into him when they’re back in bed, lets the steady beat of his heart lull her back to sleep.

It is yours. Forever and always.

#critical role #critfic #vox machina #perc'ahlia #vex'ahlia #percy de rolo

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autumnslance · 6 years

Note

Dill: For a drabble about my muse being in a flirtatious situation. Your choice on character

((OK so it’s more than a drabble, and I didn’t write it tonight. It’s a couple pages from a draft folder where I have been sticking scene ideas for if I ever get around to writing stuff for Aeryn. But it seems to fit, so why not. In my headcanon, she has a little more time to adventure with the various Scions before meeting Minfilia, and is given a couple days to decide if she’s going to stay at the Waking Sands and join the team or not. So very early ARR timeframe, and more Aeryn’s reaction to being flirted at, because, well, this is how that works….))

Aeryn watched Thancred saunter off, and turned her attention back to her half-forgotten book. She tried to return to where she had left off in the borrowed tome, but found herself replaying the discussion with the bard in her mind. Wait…

“Soooo,” Yda flopped into the newly vacated chair next to Aeryn, startling her. Where in the seven hells had the girl come from? “I see you spent some time with Thancred. I hope that doesn’t make you reconsider Minfilia’s offer.” She grinned, a hint of bright blue eyes peeking through her ever-present visor.

“I think…he was flirting with me?”

Yda guffawed. “Well, you’re a woman, and it’s Thancred, sooo…probably, yes. He does that. Not with me, though. He says it’s because he’s known me too long, and because I’d punch him. Which, while the first part may be true, I wouldn’t punch him, but he can keep believing that if he likes.”

Aeryn blinked at Yda’s rambling, and then nodded.

“You really didn’t notice? He’s not that subtle.”

“I…tend not to notice such things. Not ‘til I think about it later.”

Yda headtilted and seemed to study Aeryn, the pugilist’s rough knuckles tapping her smooth jaw. “Do you like girls more, then?”

Aeryn peered at her quizzically.

“Y’know. Instead of men.”

“Oh. No, I just…” Aeryn considered how to explain, and wondered if this sweet, strange young woman would think her ‘wrong’, as others had. “I don’t really…’like’ anyone. Or at least, don’t…notice anyone. Not that way.”

“Oh.”

Aeryn frowned. She was not sure what that meant.

“Just the physical intimacy…stuff, or do you not care about the mushy romantic…stuff, either? I think both or either could be nice, but it really depends, doesn’t it?”

Aeryn took a moment to catch up to Yda’s question. “I…guess I like the idea of romance, and companionship, I just…never have?”

“Mm,” Yda replied. “And I suppose most people expect both parts. In Thancred’s case, he likes the idea of romance, too, but he also enjoys the first thing a lot. So, you can safely ignore his flirting. It’s mostly just how he talks, anyway, he doesn’t really mean anything by it. And he is nice, when he’s not being an arse. I really have known him forever; he’s like an annoying older brother, I guess.”

Aeryn studied Yda for a long moment, trying to keep up with the other woman’s ever-spinning thoughts while also trying to get a read on her. It was damned hard with that mask.

“What?” Yda asked when she noted Aeryn staring.

“I just,” she frowned, and tried again. “You don’t think I’m…broken?”

“Whhhyyy would I think that?”

“Other people have, before. Because I don’t think about, or really care about, sex.”

Yda’s nose wrinkled. “Other people are stupid.”

Aeryn could not help but laugh over Yda’s declaration, with more than a little relief.

Yda shrugged. “I’ve seen you help people just because they needed help, not because of the rewards; I saw how you helped protect Gridania, and I know you can fight. Oh, and of course, you’ve Hydaelyn’s Blessing. Dunno why what you do—or, don’t, I guess—in bed matters.”

“Thank you, Yda.”

“You’re welcome! Really, don’t worry about it. Besides, it’s not like you’re the only one.”

Aeryn blinked at her again.

“Y’shtola could have loads of suitors—and plenty try!—But she ignores all of them. All work, work, work. She is so boring, honestly.”

“Um,” Aeryn looked past Yda.

Yda grinned. She might have winked, but the mask made that nearly impossible to tell.

“What are you saying about me over here, Yda?”

“Nothing!” she sang, leaping out of the chair and dancing just out of reach of the frustrated conjurer. Yda laughed, and with a wave to Aeryn, dashed toward the door.

“Ugh, such childishness,” Y’shtola shook her head. “I know not what you two were discussing, but her method of ending the conversation was unnecessary—and not pertinent.”

Aeryn nodded. Though the Seeker was obviously annoyed, Aeryn could hear the underlying fondness for the younger woman and her antics. There was a comfortable, long-time familiarity among the archons.

“Beg pardon,” Y’shtola said. “I have work to do, without Yda’s assistance.”

Aeryn set aside the book; it was a lost cause at this point. “I can help.”

Y’shtola raised a brow. “Oh? It will be research; not the most exciting, which is why our masked friend fled.”

Aeryn simply nodded again as she stood to follow.

Y’shtola smiled up at her; Aeryn was on the tall side for a midlander woman, putting her quite a few ilms over the miqo’te. “Very well,” Y’shtola said. “You will have the chance to see some of the more tedious aspects of our duties, and it shall keep us occupied until dinner, at least.”

That was several bells away, if Aeryn had the timetable right. Still, her offer was genuine, and she had never balked at research. If Yda was correct, then there would be no further awkward conversations with Y’shtola, at least.

Aeryn could not help a glance at the door as she crossed the common room after Y’shtola, however. ‘It’s mostly just how he talks, anyway’, she heard again, and resolved to remember it, lest she be taken off guard by the charming bard again.

—————–

“Well?” Thancred demanded as soon as Yda stepped out of the Waking Sands.

“Gah! Don’t do that,” Yda said, turning to the rogue. He was leaning on the wall right outside the door, where there was just enough shade to stand in and avoid the merciless sun glaring down on Vesper Bay.

“But it’s fun making you jump,” he replied with a smirk. “Anyroad, did you—“

“Yes! I talked to her!” She threw up her hands. Gods, why had she agreed to this again? “It’s not that she isn’t interested in you.”

“Oh?”

“She isn’t interested in anyone. Not like that.”

“Oh.”

Yda shrugged. “Better luck next time.”

“I suppose. Probably for the best, really, if she does join us.” He sounded like he was convincing himself. Yda really should have stayed out of this; he was going to be moody for days now.

“Probably. Especially if those reports about kidnappings and stolen crystal shipments in Thanalan are what you think,” she pointed out. “Minfilia’s bound to send Aeryn along, just in case. At least, that’s what Papalymo thinks.”

“And what do you think, dear Yda?”

She thought about that a moment. “I think he’s right. I’ve seen Aeryn fight; she’s really good. And she has the Echo, so if it is Ifrit, well, I guess you’ll be a little safer.”

“I am flattered by your concern, but I shall be fine—and hopefully we can stop the Amalj’aa before they do anything rash.”

“Uh-huh. Hey, Thancred?”

“Yes?”

“Are you just leaning on that wall to look suave, or because you forgot to eat again today?”

He frowned at her. “I am fine, Yda.” He turned his face away, suddenly studying the docks. “And I did not forget, I was simply busy.”

But not too busy to try and flirt with Aeryn. Typical.

“Well, see, I was just about to go to the Pissed Peiste for their lunch special and could reeaallyy use the company.” She clasped her hands, leaned forward on her toes, and gave him her brightest smile.

He sighed. “Well, when you put it that way,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. He did give her a small smile in return, though. She decided to take it as a victory. Telling him he was working too hard only made him surly, but turning it into an offer using her best little sister voice? That worked. For now.

Besides, it would distract him from his latest interest being uninterested, which was a definite plus in Yda’s book. And besides, she thought, Aeryn was too nice to get mixed up in Thancred’s affairs.

#Final Fantasy XIV #Thancred Waters #Yda Hext #Y'shtola Rhul #Thancred x WoL #Lyn Writing #shippy nonsense #Aeryn Prompts #Aeryn Striker #nirahsa #Also 3k posts whoo go me?

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