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timbarrus · 2 years

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The interview was too backslappy for me. Most points well-taken. Both Maddow and Klein deep think this stuff. I like that. And they are way independent. Kinda. They work for huge companies. The New York Times employs 15,000 people. Billions are made from the news in and about New York City. I lived there for years on Fort Charles Place. I was a writer. I loved writing for American Baby magazine. I was writing books, plays, film scripts, newspapers, politics, advice columns, sex, sex, and more sex bring on the sex just bring it on hot to trot but hot to trot on what. I have taken all of this on hard with all my second selves. Has anyone recently lived in Manhattan. Just move into a bank. Excuse me, Sir, but this is my bedroom, and deposits are over there. Most people in America can’t imagine it, and I just don’t think New Yorkers actually believe they live in a tourist town being assaulted by tourists from Floida where it’s supposed to be the other way around. Ezra lives in San Francisco. I had to leave there, too. These places become tourist traps which is what my family was. Maddow lives in Manhattan. God, I loved living there. Fort Charles Place was a gift from my agent. Who. Was the best agent in the world. I played reporter for New York Papers. My favorite was the Long Island Connection because I could give them dirt. Coast 2 Coast was my first interview with Charles Chainsmoker Bronson. I was very professional (Hollywood paper) and I did not flirt much. Dirt is best discovered in person. So you can flirt. A there there. I had interviews with many creative types called Hollywood lawyers from Brentwood who have no reason to live. I loathe famous people. They’re all everylastone of them is filthy filthy is is is rich. What do you think Santa Monica is, and how would I know where Jack lives. I do know where Jack lives. I’ll give you a ride to Santa Monica on my dirt bike. I try and stay away from rich people. I have escaped some of that with my life. An editor I was working for asked me if I would be interested in doing an investigation into very strange things going on over at Roy’s house. Duh. I am still afraid to write the word Cohn. There, I wrote it. It’s like giving head to the devil and the dead. I don’t write journalism anymore. Day after day. I covered a murder for a paper in Grants, NM. The hard part of the job is getting past the FBI. Murder scenes are for people who love murder scenes. It was like the air had wretched the wrecked winter is coming. Like Jurisdiction. They say jurisdiction is a set of lines. I would argue that jurisdiction is a family event in the dead sun’s glare of pain and you find your friend hanging from his neck in the backyard. I am sorry that the suffering all around me, especially at the school, is all still there, and I am sorry I wrote about it like I did because there is no free lunch, and if autism is tough for anyone who has it, kids with fetal alcohol syndrome like the one in my book are in every single culture on the fucking planet. I want to see more of that. Not less. And not less by firing squad. and there are huge prices for everything, including but not limited to disease, mortal disease, disease after disease, after disease. By allowing this to happen, white culture is a disease. I lied and no one can feel your pain or loss, and all I can do is beg you to write to tell your stories and make them compelling and make them great and make them vivid and make them cherry bombs that go off wherever you have to make a point, but remember what they did -- to him -- an artist, I believe he’s innocent. Make all the art you can and make them publish you. Because attention must be paid. They knew me at the ambulance garage in another town far far away. I had a phone. I would argue that jurisdiction is the moon Europa. No one really knows how much wood you need to get through a winter. Start chopping in July. End the last week in June They will drop bales of hay from helicopters for livestock stuck in the snow. The bodies of dead horses dragged away by animals, a lot of them feeding. I see coyotes getting scraps. Guts. The sun again. The Big mud. Drenched in wild blood. I am a coyote. What I get are mainly scraps. I am the scraps king. Long tongue. War lord of the scraps. A pornography of manuscripts of scraps scraps scraps don’t publish him he is not stable okay I’m not stabe but I am not pretending to be stable, in fact, I can pretend to be normal for about an hour at a time. Then, I need a break or my stupid head is going to explode. In Portland they tried pulling us into unmarked cars and they had guns. Riots are a murder of what was once politik. Get their plate numbers. Run them. Some might be with DMV but maybe not all. Check that against government vehicles and where they’re at. How does that tie into murder. Who is the man from Santa Fe. Used car dealers (or chop shops) can run Driver ID. Even plates in the mail. It had a flow. All that energy had a flow. And when they tried to herd us into a trap, we turned on them. We turned on them. Dn’t tell me I don’t know anything about authority. I’m autistic. They shoot. Us. Too. I would have to go write, and I would slip into the campgrounds at Inscription Rock. I wrote entire books on a picnic table. Or in a tent in the rain. I am not against anyone. But I am not going to commit suicide for anyone, either. Murder was kinda fascinating and mysterious in a Higgs Field way. Interacting with what particles. Two men in suits sitting in a Dodge Charger, Just Watching. One had laser beam eyes. I could feel his black leather gloves on my lips. He’s twisting my tits. Where are the lines in the sand. I can never really tell you the story of it. There are too many voices from hell and beyond and kicking up cow dust for the slaughter of the animals so you might eat them and eat them and eat them. I don’t think it’s just the fact that I am an alien, but Homo sapiens are strange. You grieve over murder. Unless you want to eat it, drink it in. The past fifty years has seen the extinction of seventy percent of species on the planet. The other thirty percent will be murdered and who gives a flying fuck. You should. You should. Dodge City is about the mainstreetsmeanstreets of yesterday. Directions to Dodge. Buy a horse. I want to be there when it snows because I like making angels in the snow and you’re looking up at such a black hole of gravitas and sorrows are a chord around the necks of history. Hangs a dead man and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’s, they will do their worst. The gangs moved in with fate and meth. There are doors in Dodge you just don’t want to knock on. The paint on the door has peeled and there is a car in the front up on cement blocks as if it was one of those rusted flying desert Dodge Charger Air Machine fly by gizmos from Star Wars. Autism makes us other autistics cringe because maybe we broke the rules, I’m never sure. Just edit my stuff and don’t tell me about it. My work does not in any way validate me. If you are in need of being validated by a business that only knows how to validate itself. I would never help cover a murder again. I can only harden my gut for a while. Autism creeps in at any given opportunity. They are going to scream at me about the whole long paragraph paradigm of persnickty. And the lack of quotation marks but from my perspective, I am describing what the voices in my head are saying and while it is someone else’s words, it’s coming out of my mouth and some of that is why I use the term, second self. Take as many as you want. They’’re free. I had never heard a story like this, but all stories are in varying degrees, secrets. It blew me away when I discovered that this was the same team who had done Oklahoma City. Same guys. Same suits. Same shovels. It’s easy to get past lines at media events because no one wants cameras on knife fights. Except for the ones digging up whatever it was they were digging up. Turn on the Klieg lights. Cohn owned that stock, too. I had to take a deep breath and talk to a source in Central Park. I kid you not. I am Faye Dunaway. And I’m not going to take it anymore. Isn’t that the same sort of lights I had never covered a murder before. It was ho hum. I went back to covering the drought and listening to ranchers the real kind. Our second selves are secrets. Where do they live. I do not know about you, but I do not want to live in the same state as Roy Cohn’s graveyard. The last graveyard Roy Cohn owned was Manhattan. The legal paperwork alone, all of it public but no one cared, strange corporations owned by other corporations whose box stores were located in the Cayman Islands in a Post Office Box. I have this press pass I made from a Xerox machine in Kansas where I have set my next book, so you have to go there. I did go there. More than once. It will be in the book. You will in terms of who owned what and where was perfectly legal, it’s really a bad idea to treat the people who work for you badly since they know where all your bodies are buried. there was nothing about it whatsoever, of laundry facilities. Which brings me to my other point. I was Director of the Manhattan Childrens’ Writers Group. Then, there was the Childrens’ Rights Group. I know. I know. I had other jobs in between. I didn’t mean to. I repent. I got to attend a lot of publishing events. I can’t talk about a lot of it (I value my life). Publishers would be making deals and steals. In their heads, considering all their heads know is no. Always no. Eternally no. Their mouths just go nnnnnooooooooo like they’re kissing the wall which they do from time to time. If they let the homeless into a le bank, it doesn’t mean the bank is going to give the homeless loans. Because some intern from Brown says go fuck yourself. The Literary Influencer. They run publishing. Previously referred to as the Great Machine. Some people don’t even have a driver’s license. The clicking clacking song of sex work sex work sex work sex work makes the pills go down the pills go down with a clicky clacky empty sound of the wheels go round and into town my dirt bike town it’s pills and pills and I learned so much from Mr. Cohn gone wrong. You have no idea. I don’t want to push the margins anymore because they get to stereotype me into things I cannot be. Having autism can sometimes mean you are able to hold a job. Sometimes not. I keep putting myself -- and I hate myself -- in these high risk situations where I can take it apart piece by piece. I can’t do it anymore but journalists have to motivate themselves to please get off the phone. The sidewalk is not a fun sidewalk. It’s HIV and Disney. Pills and bongs and happy songs it just make the worlds in the spins and town, and clowns go down, the world not not -- I repeat, not -- like go around Times Square, it’s fucking Disney on steroids. Tink in Times Square. The Old Times Square is gone because everyone is dead. and in my stupid life, I could never have imagined doing any of this at any other time. You feel stupid in disguises, especially in New York. Steak tartare and champagne. No. Try gin from the corner. Just move to a different hotel room on Times Square every night. Bed bugs. Roaches. It’s just easier to sleep in your leather because the rats don’t usually bite into it. I’m telling you, people will linger outside your door. There is an answer that solves all of these problems in one fell swoop. Run. Do you ever look under the door with the fleas and stare at the shadows of feet lingering.

#tim barrus #tim barrus dirt bike town #tim barrus and the new york times #dirt bike town #dodge #getting out of dodge #novel #writing literature #tim barrus on twitter #tim barrus on facebook #tim barrus photographerm tim barrus art #times square #publishing

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buckyownsmylife · 3 years

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girl boss II - temptation

When Ransom Drysdale learned that his grandfather was cutting him off the will, he knew life as he knew would disappear. What he didn’t expect was that the only person that would be willing to give him a job was a woman half his age - a woman who despite her youth would come to teach him many things, especially outside the office...

Or the one where Ransom learns he’s a huge sub.

for general warnings, please go to the fic’s masterlist.

I should have known it wouldn’t be easy.

I wasn’t used to working, for one - although that wasn’t even the hard part. I found myself enjoying the editing process, the intricacies expected of someone with my role in the company. I’d always liked books, after all. It was interesting to see what went on behind the scenes until the readers managed to get their hands on a shelved copy.

My main problem had little to do with my lack of practice in the work department. Despite hating how tired I felt when I got home every night - to a small, little apartment that my own paycheck could afford - the most difficult part of my job was having to handle being around my boss all the time.

Oh, she was lovely. She was open and welcoming, unlike any authority figures of the same title that I was used to seeing on TV. When she smiled, it was like she shined from within, brightening up the entire office - which was already pretty bright, with its floor-to-ceiling windows.

It was impossible not to stare. And there laid my problem with this job: she was a constant distraction, almost a nuisance, really. And the clothes she wore didn’t make my job any easier. They were just enough to bait me while still keeping her professional elegance, and yet I found myself constantly dragging my eyes over the little bit of skin she let show.

It looked so soft. I’d constantly forget what I was doing just by following the edge of her skirt, exploring her thighs with my eyes.

It got even worse when she caught on to it. She’d wear blouses with cleavages and a necklace hanging low, just above her breasts, only to ask me about it when she caught me staring.

“Do you like it?” I’d stumble my way through a yes, trying to make it seem like I wasn’t actually fascinated by her breasts, but whenever I checked to see if she was offended, I’d find amusement in her eyes.

She seemed to revel in my admiration of her body. Only the meeting of that admiration with the one I already had of her mind made my own imagination run. I’d never experienced this before. I didn’t know how to act.

So I just kept staring. When we were alone in her office and she was going over some of my notes, her pen in her mouth, attracting my attention to it. I wasn’t a romantic by any means, but right then I was sure I’d propose on the spot if it’d get her to swirl her tongue around my dick.

It didn’t take much longer to find myself getting off to thoughts of her. It’s not like I had any time to go out and date, with how hard she was riding me. Sadly, not in the way I wanted her to, however.

It all came to a screeching halt at the first author-editor mixer I attended as her employee.

The night started pretty well. She looked gorgeous in her deep red dress, and I absentmindedly licked my lips at the sight, feeling my cock stir to life so easily at her mere existence.

That was, of course, until someone approached her from behind and laid a very intimate, very possessive hand on the curve of her hip.

Barber.

I knew who he was even before that fateful day when I was hired. One of the biggest lawyers in town, he was in charge of a good part of my grandfather’s legal interests, and yet our paths hadn’t crossed as often as one might assume.

In the time I’d worked for the publishing company, I’d come to learn a little bit more about the guy and his relationship with my boss. Apparently, they’d been an item a little over a year ago, but then they kept this sort of on and off thing and now it had been off for a while and he just didn’t seem to be able to accept it.

It wasn’t jealousy - I had no reason to feel that way - but I couldn’t respect someone who was behaving the way that he was. It was actually sort of pathetic, the way she immediately tensed up upon feeling his touch on her body, turned around and then pushed him away.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying from this distance, but I imagined by her expression - and what I’d heard her say the day of my interview - that she was telling him off.

Unfortunately, the son of a bitch had a smug smile on his face. The kind of smug smile that let everyone know he was used to getting what he wanted. And it was clear that what he wanted was her.

I tried to distract myself and not focus solely on either of them throughout the party. I had made a few friends - well, actually, colleagues - and their jokes were entertaining enough to prevent me from getting bored, but as the night grew closer to an end, I was getting increasingly more annoyed with their sexual puns at our boss’s expense.

And then Barber decided to join in.

“You boys have no idea what you’re talking about.” The laughter immediately disappeared, everyone scared he was about to make us all feel bad. Shockingly, that wasn’t his chosen course of action. “You all wouldn’t be able to handle her even if she came with an instruction manual.”

The scoff left my lips before I could help it. “Not that you would be of any help,” I commented. “I mean, there has to be a reason why you two aren’t together anymore, huh?” Andrew immediately straightened up, cocking his eyebrow and taking me in.

“I’d watch your mouth, if I were you,” he warned. “I’m gonna get her back eventually. And once I do, you better learn your place, and quickly.” I was pretty pissed off by then, so all of my rational mind turned off as I stepped closer to him, making sure he heard what I was about to say.

“I’ve seen her reject your advances at least twice, so I’m sure it has happened more times. I think you’re the one who needs to learn your place, Barber.” My lip curled, I gave him a once over. “A real man knows how to take a no. Don’t push her boundaries and we won’t have a problem.”

I noticed something was wrong the second the look of defiance disappeared from Andy’s face, quickly replaced by a smirk. My heart started pounding as I turned around to find her standing right behind me, and suddenly I felt incredibly shy.

“Leave,” she ordered, eyes glued to mine and everyone scrambled to get away, Andy included. I’d somehow understood the order wasn’t directed to me, so I didn’t move an inch, instead frozen in place as she circled my body, taking me in.

I could feel her analyzing every inch of me.

“You know, Ransom…” She started, at last coming to a stop in front of me again. “I can read right through you.” My blood ran cold as my cock hardened in my slacks. I had no idea what she was referring to, but she didn’t leave me wondering much longer.

“You make it seem like you’re this dominant, Alpha male…” She tilted her head, her smirk drawing me in. “You don’t fool me.” Her words sent a thrill up my spine, the room suddenly feeling overwhelmingly hot, too hot to stand there in a full suit.

Especially when she took a step closer and rested her hands against my torso. “I bet you’d love to get on your knees and crawl towards me,” she whispered right on my ear, “until you could bury your face in my pussy. And you’d do it in front of the entire office, anytime I asked you to. Wouldn’t you?”

It was clear that I had a choice to make. I could either cling to my pride and lose the opportunity she was granting me, or I could fall head first into whatever the hell it was that she was offering me.

One thing I was certain: I’d do anything to have her. So I nodded.

The smirk that appeared on her lips had me shuddering, especially when she reached out to fix my tie and patted my cheek. “Well, puppy… You can have it all,” she reassured me. “All you have to do… is beg.”

I stopped leaning forward at the last word that came out of her lips, breath caught on my throat at the realization of what it was exactly that she expected of me. “I promise you…” She concluded, looking up at me from under her eyelashes, the perfect picture of manicured coyness. “I will make your wildest dreams come true. It’s up to you.”

---

next chapter

#my series #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale reader #ransom drysdale reader insert #ransom drysdale reader inserts #ransom drysdale fanfiction #ransom drysdale series #ransom drysdale imagine

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theartofimagining13 · 3 years

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“Heirs: “And Justice for All.” (Final Chapter)

Summary: Jeremy is the owner of an important company in London, which will be inherited by his oldest son, Tom. Sebastian, his jealous youngest heir, craves power and desires to take what’s Tom’s. To achieve his goal, he’s plotted horrendous things alongside his lover who’s got interests, issues, and secrets of her own. Mysteries begin to unravel when Jeffrey, an old colleague and friend of Jeremy’s, and Bill arrive in town.

Originally based on: [Imagine 1] [Imagine 2]

Written by: A.Wölf.

CAST:

Jeremy Irons

Tom Hiddleston

Sebastian Stan

Chris Evans

Jeffrey Dean Morgan

Bill Skarsgård

Jared Leto

Chapter teaser: [ Twitter feed ]

Masterpost: [ Previous Chapters, posters, gifs, etc ]

Author’s notes: Welcome to the LAST chapter of HEIRS. (I can’t believe I’m actually saying this!) I just want to thank every single reader of this story. Those who began this journey with me in 2017 and those who just joined us. Thanks for your engagement, the theories, the feedback, the love and hate for some of these crazy characters I made up, and for your patience. Trust me when I say that I infinitely enjoyed writing this and coming up with every teaser, poster, gif and whatnot to share with each one of you, and I couldn’t be happier about finishing it at last because we all (and the story itself) deserved it.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you♥

Enjoy.

~A.Wölf.

The judge’s lips seemed to be moving in slow motion but Sebastian could not hear a word.

He looked at the ground as his mind took off and left only his numb body on earth. Jeremy’s hands were shaking on his lap and he instinctively tried to hold onto the back of the bench in front of him as he learned the fate his youngest would face; it weakened him. Sitting next to him, Tom felt a hole in his chest but reached out and placed one hand on Jeremy’s back and used the other to hold his right arm, as if trying to prevent his father from falling to pieces.

Sebastian had ignored his lawyer’s advice and kept on denying any involvement in the crime throughout his trial, but newfound evidence contradicted and doomed him; he was inevitably found guilty and sentenced to prison. The woman pounded the gavel and the noise echoed loudly in the courtroom.

Reporters were pushing one another when Jeremy and Tom exited the building.

They were suddenly in the eye of yet another storm of questions and camera flashes as the media tried to get a word out of the father or the brother of the defendant. They had been there since the first trial hearing and it was Jeremy’s personal hell; throughout the whole legal procedure, endless gossip and rumors had spread all over the world. Some of them even claiming that Tom and Jeremy were probably involved in the murder of The Clock’s editor in chief too even though they had testified and denied it, but people loved a family crime story.

Endless days of headline after headline had come and gone. The trial. The sentence. The Irons family and their fall from grace. Hashtags were trending on social media platforms; #MurderFamily #JusticeForChris

They were equally feared and mocked. Everything Jeremy had ever dreaded was now part of his life and it was caused by his very own blood. Days and weeks went by, and all they could do was quietly disappear until the storm blew over and strangers found someone new to hate.

Sebastian was escorted by an officer to the large visiting room.

But once he stood in front of the partition glass and saw his brother on the other side, he froze. He hesitated and stayed put several seconds until he grudgingly took his seat and picked up the phone to his right. Tom slowly mimicked him but looked at the floor, anywhere but directly at the orange jumpsuit his brother was wearing.

“Hello, brother.” Sebastian sang without emotion.

Tom blinked several times and inhaled and exhaled through parted lips, hoping for this to be quick and painless.

“Hello, Sebastian.” He gave slight nod and did everything in his power to avoid his little brother’s gaze. “I… I came here to say goodbye.”

Sebastian furrowed his eyebrows and waited for Tom to elaborate.

“I’m moving.” He announced. “To Paris.”

“What?” Sebastian inquired with annoyance. “What do you mean you’re moving?”

“This city has become unbearable.” Tom explained with resentment.

“B-but…” Sebastian cocked his head. “W-what about… what about me? What about… the company?”

Tom let out a tired chuckle while shaking his head.

“Why am I not surprised?” He muttered under his breath but he finally looked up and into his brother’s soul. Sebastian subconsciously sat back in his chair as he noticed the anger and disappointment in his blue eyes. “That is all you ever cared about, didn’t you?” Tom accused.

Sebastian clenched his jaw and took his turn to avoid eye contact. It took him a long time to be able to speak.

“I… wanted things. Yes.” He confessed. “But I didn’t do this all by myself, William.”

Tom frowned. Sebastian rarely called him by his middle name.

“Really?” Tom cocked his head.

The condescendence in his tone irritated Sebastian a little bit.

“My lawyer advised against it because… I have no proof but you need to know the truth. You and dad need to know the truth.”

Sebastian could see the disinterest in Tom’s semblance when he didn’t say a word and just waited for him to elaborate. It made Sebastian twice as nervous as he prepared to finally come clean.

“Tom…” He carried on. “Your ex-wife… she is not who you think she is. We-” He hesitated. “We met in Romania when I was working on the Orphanage project. Sh-she’s been… doing all these things with me from the start. Your marriage was a lie. She was never in love with you. She got into bed with our father to damage your relationship. She helped me get rid of Chris but then she fucked me over and-” Sebastian stopped talking when Tom chuckled with disbelief.

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Tom inquired amused. “You know what you sound like, Sebastian?” He turned serious. “You sound like a child. You’re suddenly 6 years old again trying to blame someone else for the mess you made.”

“Tom, listen to me!” Sebastian pleaded. “She destroyed this family an-”

“No, Sebastian.” Tom cut him off with a glare. “You destroyed this family.”

Sebastian’s face fell and his heartbeat faltered. Tom had never been so cold. It even frightened him how much he resembled their father all of a sudden. And out of all people, it was his brother who no longer believed a word he said and it truly caused a crack in his heart of stone, but he could only try harder.

“Come on, Tom. Think about it.” Sebastian begged. “I was convicted for murder based on a security tape of me walking into the fucking Clock’s offices?”

“You were convicted for your own confession.” Tom corrected. “That tape just confirmed your motive. Sebastian, the last time I spoke to you, you looked me in the eye and you lied to me. You said-”

“I was tricked into saying those things, Tom!” Sebastian exclaimed in a louder tone. “For fuck’s sake! You saw me. You saw me with your wife in our father’s office. She clearly recorded the whole thing and sent it to the fucking authorities. Just like that fucking tape.”

“Enough with the lies, Sebastian.” Tom warned.

“I am not fucking lying!” He jumped out of his chair making it screech against the floor as it was pushed backwards. He gripped the telephone tighter.

“Sit down, inmate.” The guard standing near the door ordered but Sebastian ignored him.

“What reason could she possibly have to cause so much damage? Or to murder Chris?” Tom inquired. “For crying out loud.”

Sebastian shoulders fell as he realized that he had no answer to that.

“What do I fucking know? She fucking framed me! She put me in jail when she’s just as guilty if not more. So if I’m going down, I’m taking her w-”

“That’s enough with the bloody lies, Sebastian. ENOUGH!” Tom yelled when his sentence overlapped his brother’s, and mimicked him by standing up as well.

Sebastian flinched with widened eyes. Tom leaned in closer to the partition glass.

“You killed our cousin, Sebastian. How could you!?” His voice broke. “You broke our father into a million pieces, you betrayed me, you betrayed us both by sending those photographs and God knows what else to The Clock, and you tore this goddamn family apart, for what? For something I didn’t even ask for? For something I was born into?” He paused as his eyes welled up with tears but he scowled at his brother. “The worst part, Sebastian, is that if you wanted my bloody seat in that company so much, you could’ve just fucking asked for it.” Tom snarled then lowered his voice again. “But you chose to hurt me instead… in every possible way you could think of.”

Sebastian swallowed hard as his eyes began to well up too.

“Look what it cost you…” Tom murmured. “Your integrity. Your freedom, Sebastian…” He sighed with deep sadness as a tear escaped his left eye which he quickly wiped away.

The youngest was doing everything in his power not to cry and the exertion had him shaking.

“Where the fuck is she, Tom?” He insisted in a lower tone. “Have you even tried speaking to her?”

Tom shut his eyes and shook his head with frustration.

“And you don’t even have the decency to try to apologize for the unspeakable things you’ve done.”

“Tom…”

“I must go now.”

“Listen to me.” Sebastian pleaded.

“I can’t even look at you anymore.” Tom confessed.

“Tom, please don’t do this.”

“Goodbye, Sebastian.”

Tom ignored his pleas and hung up the phone. Sebastian snapped. He let go of it and banged his right hand the partition glass.

“No. No. No, Tom. You can’t leave me in here! TOM!”

Tom glanced at him over his shoulder and noticed the guard standing behind him about to take him back to his cell. But Sebastian resisted and kept on desperately screaming at the top of his lungs. Tears of pain and horror rolled down Tom’s cheeks while he witnessed the lack of sanity and full transformation of his little brother as he was restrained and taken away; from promising young man and heir to caged animal.

Jeremy was holding a bouquet of fresh white roses.

He was standing in front of his late wife’s tombstone with a broken heart, in a dark trench coat, and filled with nostalgia and melancholia. He put the roses down.

“I had a feeling you would be here.” Tom confessed as he joined him.

Jeremy stood up straight but continued to stare at the grave.

“I would never forgive myself if I missed her birthday…” He sighed.

Tom stared at his mother’s grave too as the best memories of her flashed in his mind. He smiled. He missed her.

“I never imagined that one day I would actually feel relieved by her untimely death.” Jeremy confessed which earned him a certain look from Tom. “Your brother’s-” He trailed off abruptly and took a deep breath while shaking his head. “It would’ve killed her.”

Tom looked at the ground, hurt by the mental image of Vera witnessing what her youngest son had turned into if she was still alive.

“I visited him a couple days ago.” Tom said. “To say goodbye.”

“Right.” Jeremy nodded. “You’re leaving tonight.”

“Are you ever going to visit him?” Tom inquired.

“I can’t bring myself to it yet.” Jeremy confessed. “Frankly… I don’t know if I ever will.”

Jeremy turned around and put his hands inside his pockets as he moved slowly towards the cemetery’s exit where his chauffeur awaited. He would do anything in his power to avoid envisioning his son behind bars.

Tom followed him.

“He’s…” Tom hesitated and changed the question instead. “Have you heard from… her?”

“No.” Jeremy said feeling quite uncomfortable.

“So, she just… disappeared?”

“Can you blame her?”

“Sebastian certainly does, says she was involved in everything.”

Jeremy chuckled and shook his head.

“The lengths your brother will go to… they just never cease to amaze me. It’s absurd!”

“I don’t know. There’s something that still doesn’t make sen-”

Tom’s sentence was cut short when Jeremy stopped walking and faced him all of a sudden.

“William, stop that.” He ordered. “What your brother did was beyond horrid. Of course he’s looking for a patsy now. Just let him deal with the consequences of his own actions for once. It’s about time you stopped trying to excuse the damage he’s done.”

“It’s not about that. It’s just th-”

“Son...” Jeremy placed his hands on his son’s shoulders, interrupting him again but staring into his blue eyes. “We both fell for each one of your brother’s lies. But I also did things I am not proud of, and for that… I apologize.”

Tom frowned and stared at his father.

“Thank you.” Tom said a little doubtful.

Jeremy let go of him.

“And when I said it should’ve been you taking my place in the company, I meant it. Have you considered…?” He trailed off.

“Part of me has.” Tom confessed. “But when I think about Sebastian and all the things he did to get there, I just… I can’t imagine sitting in that office. At least not now.”

Jeremy gave an understanding nod and kept walking.

“Go to Paris. Take some time off and think about it but… you know it was and always will be yours.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well, I haven’t set foot in the company since this whole mess began.” He admitted. “The lawyer’s been dealing with it all but I’ll have to face the bloody board sooner or later.”

“So, no retirement after all?”

“It seems that way.”

“For now.” Tom teased with a warm smile.

Jeremy imitated him with hope as the two of them reached his car and his chauffeur opened the door for him. He took one last glance at Tom.

“William, before you leave…” Jeremy began. “Would you like to join me for dinner at home?”

Tom realized that he wouldn’t see his father again in a while, and for the first time in a long time, it seemed that they were finally and truly patching things up. The unfortunate events had put things into perspective for both of them and the ugly past was starting to fade. At the end of the day, Jeremy and Tom had only been pawns in Sebastian’s game, and without him or Tom’s ex-wife around, they only had one another.

Tom gave a nod, accepting his father’s invitation, and got into his car to follow.

“What the hell?” Tom murmured behind the wheel as he entered the driveway.

His father’s house was completely cordoned off. Tom could see Jeremy banging his car door shut and throwing half a lit up cigarette on the ground as he strutted in an angry fashion towards a man in a beige suit who was holding a file folder. They started arguing when Tom got out his vehicle but he was distracted when he saw Carol standing nearby, in tears.

Tom rushed to her side.

“What is going on?”

“Oh, Thomas!” She sobbed. “They’re not letting us in. They… they say your father’s been evicted.”

Tom’s lips parted with a furrowed brow.

“Ev-?”

“Evicted!? I beg your pardon!?” Jeremy exclaimed angrily as Tom joined him.

“What the hell is going on here?” Tom demanded.

The stranger man stared at him with a bored expression.

“Like I’ve already told Mr.Irons here, this is private property and you are hereby required to vacate immediately.

“Of course it’s private property. This is my bloody house!” Jeremy snarled.

“Not anymore.” The man said indifferently. “Failure to vacate will result in serious legal proceedings.”

“On what grounds?” Tom asked.

“This is clearly a huge misunderstanding.” Jeremy said while grudgingly pulling his cell phone out of his patch pocket. “I am calling my lawyer.”

“By all means, Mr.Irons.” The man said uninterested and handed him an envelope. “Here. I was instructed to give you this.”

“I’m sure there’s been a mistake but,” Tom began, “if that was the case, legally speaking, there should’ve been a written notice delivered days before.”

“There was.” The man clarified and glared at Jeremy. “An ownership transfer, to be precise.”

Jeremy’s face fell and he went pale as he realized that among all the chaos his son had brought on, his head had been all over the place and he had forgotten something very, very important. Jeremy stared at the envelope in his hands and opened it in a rush. He was staring at an invitation that froze his spine.

“Oh, good God.” He breathed out.

Jeremy thought he was having a nightmare when the chauffeur pulled over at Irons Enterprises and the place was crowded.

A black tie event was taking place inside the building. An event he had not allowed nor even been informed of until ten minutes prior to their arrival. It pretty much resembled the party they had hosted weeks earlier, with a red carpet and lots of reporters all over the place. Jeremy and Tom got off the vehicle and pushed through the crowds to learn who was behind this.

They rushed up the stairs and into to the ballroom.

As soon as they entered, both father and son froze in place once the crowd erupted into applause and they witnessed what was taking place right before them. A member of the board stood on the podium and spoke about reformation and new beginnings. Hope even, after everything that had happened in the last months and the scrutiny surrounding the company.

Jimmy located father and son, and approached them with a martini in one hand and a file folder tucked under his left arm.

“Mr.Irons! Just in time for the main event.” He said with an excited tone. “I believe this is yours.” He said handing him the folder. “Now, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tom brusquely snatched the folder away, opened it and began to read in a rush and between the lines until his lips parted and his chest felt hollow. His widened blue eyes found his father.

“What have you done?” Tom breathed out.

Jeremy’s mind was miles away, back in his lawyer’s office.

“30 days. Transfer your ownership to someone you trust for 30 days. Once the deadline is met, it’s all yours again with one signature. Worst case scenario, you forget your appointment and your company will be floating in the air but no one will know, now will they?”

But someone did know. Someone who was sitting next to him that day.

“And I doubt you’d forget something as delicate, Jeremy.”

He had forgotten. How couldn’t he when his youngest son had been arrested and then trialed for murder? There was no space in his troubled mind for anything else. And someone had taken advantage of it. Someone he thought he could trust. But the pain and shock were almost unbearable when the board director introduced the new leader of the company along with his offspring.

The crowd erupted into applause once more and both Jeremy and Tom watched with widened eyes as Jeffrey took the stage followed by Bill and their former lover.

Jeremy was violently hit by several memories at the same time, all of them overlapping in his head; Jeffrey showing up at Chris’ funeral after years of not speaking to him.

“So how are the children?”

“Good. One of them’s right here. The other one’s working, I hope.” Jeffrey joked.

His lover’s endless questions while they were lying in bed one morning.

“Who… who was that man you were talking to at Chris’ funeral?”

“Jeffrey is… a very old friend of mine. We used to work together.”

“Where?”

“He’s… he is actually a co-founder of Irons Enterprises. Was.”

“What do you mean ‘was’? That’s not something that can be undone, now, is it?”

“In this world… yes, it can. I did. The company wasn’t always called Irons Enterprises. It was actually called J&J in the very beginning. He was voted out of the company.”

“But… didn’t you get a say in it? I’m sure you could’ve done something to st-”

“I voted too. Against him.”

“He was your best friend, Jeremy. How could you do that?”

“He took his ideas elsewhere. He moved away and started his own business. He did good. It took him a while but he made his money… bought a big house, raised two children on his own. He always wanted to be a father. He turned to surrogacy. Twice.”

“Jeremy, don’t you feel at least a little bit guilty?”

“Why should I? He’s doing great. I’m doing great. Worked out for everyone in the end.”

“He had to start all over again. Your little dispute certainly put things on hold for him. Even parenthood. Because of you.”

“Why are you defending him? You don’t even know him.”

Jeremy’s world came crashing down as he finally realized what he had done. How blind he had been. How played. While he had love on his mind, she had vengeance on hers. Cold, and thoroughly calculated by her father.

His mind flew again to a different destination.

“We’re staying. The children and I, I mean. For an indefinite time”, Jeffrey announced.

It travelled again.

“What are friends for?” Jeffrey had said once with a smirk.

And one last time, to a crucial moment he had been groomed for.

“I’m not going to lie, Jeffrey. This is… madness.”

“Would you like these vultures to chew you up and spit you out instead? They’re merciless. I would know. You can trust this guy. If he says you have to transfer your business it’s because he truly sees no other road to salvation at this point.”

Jeremy’s heartbeat stuttered. He had walked right into the insidious trap. He couldn’t breathe when he remembered how he had kissed his lover’s left palm in the billiard room that day after his meeting with the lawyer.

“I’m in your hands.” He had said but, at the time, he would’ve never imagined that she already knew that and had known for months.

Jeremy’s road to perdition had been meticulously paved by Jeffrey, every single step of the way.

Thoughts were racing through Tom’s mind as well. All of a sudden, Sebastian’s voice took over and Tom was back in that prison visiting room.

“Your ex-wife is not who you think she is. We met in Romania. She’s been… doing all these things with me from the start. Your marriage was a lie. She got into bed with our father to damage your relationship. She helped me get rid of Chris but then she fucked me over.”

But a specific memory was triggered when he noticed the elegant purple silk dress his former wife was wearing.

“Did you know that purple used to be considered the color of royalty?”

Tom stared at her, listening intently and waiting for her to continue as she tied the purple silk tie into a perfect Windsor knot.

“The dye was so rare and its cost utterly outrageous, affordable only to royalty and the wealthy”.

Tom hummed, mesmerized by her.

“You should wear it more often then, my Queen”.

She smiled.

“When the time is right, my King”.

Her words echoed in Tom’s mind as he returned to the present and the million-piece puzzle came together. His eyes welled up with tears out of sheer shock as he brought his knuckles up to his lips. Sebastian hadn’t lied, but he had done it so much in the past that he had turned into the Boy Who Cried Wolf in the eyes of his brother and father.

Jeffrey, Bill and his sister were looking at Jeremy and Tom straight in the eye as evil smirks appeared on their faces. They raised their champagne flutes, sending shivers down their spines as they toasted to sweet revenge. But it was no sin to them; they were simply getting back what had been taken away from them.

Before Jeremy and Tom, stood the true heirs.

“She really fucked you in the ass, didn’t she?”

Jared laughed as he stared at Sebastian’s shocked and enraged expression on the other side of the partition glass in the prison visiting room. He had finally learned the whole truth about the woman he thought loved him and he loved to think he could control. Putting his trust in her had sealed his family’s unfortunate fate for she was looking for nothing but revenge.

“It’s funny because… I thought you guys liked to keep it in the family but I didn’t know shit now, did I?” He scoffed as he cradled the phone between his shoulder and head to rifle through the papers in the black folder in front of him. “Turns out Jeffrey discovered that his daughter and sonny were pulling some Flowers in the Attic shit and he sent Bill away to a Swiss rehab facility.”

Jared banged a photograph of Jeffrey’s son against the partition glass for Sebastian to see. He finally realized why he had looked familiar to him in the past once the memory of him visiting Tom in Switzerland under false pretense hit him.

“But if you ask me, that’s kinda on Jeffrey, don’t you think?” Jared began again as he put the photograph back in the folder and sat back comfortably in his chair, “With the whole surrogacy issue, there was no mommy in the picture, and daddy was always working. Who was going to teach those fucking kids anything about love? They only had one another. But anyway… Tell me,” He cleared his throat. “How does it feel to be behind bars for something you didn’t do? Or… half do? Were you even an accomplice or just a big moron?”

“She’s a fucking snake and I had shit lawyer.” Sebastian spat.

“Oh, Sebby, Sebby...” Jared sang while shaking his head with condescendence. “I gotta admit I was surprised when you had the guts to call asking me for help… but at least I get to enjoy the downfall of the Irons Empire from up-close.”

Sebastian made a face.

“My father isn’t just going to sit back and let Jeffrey get away with this. And neither will Tom.”

“I’m not so sure, Sebastian. Clearly, the lawyer’s been on Jeffrey’s side this whole time, and if he put you in prison, he must’ve certainly had Jeremy sign something that got him stuck in a dead end. But hey… at least the fucking dumbass got to keep the beach house.”

“So, Jeffrey plotted all of this with his daughter and used our family problems against us while he has a much bigger problem at home himself?” Sebastian scoffed. “What makes that hypocritical asshole think we won’t use that against him?”

“Oh, jee, I don’t know.” Jared scratched his chin feigning confusion. “Maybe because A, he’s behind pretty much all of your family problems. B, you’re in prison. And C, no one will believe a word that comes out of your mouth ever again?”

“I need to get out of here.” Sebastian said ignoring Jared but then he looked him in the eye again. “I need to get the fuck out of here and you’re going to help me.”

Jared froze and stared at Sebastian with disbelief before he started laughing.

“Sebastian, you’re lucky I even took your collect call and agreed to investigate these sickos but I am done.”

“Oh, because you’re all about dignity now?” Sebastian mocked. “We both know you love money, so stop playing dumb and just name your fucking price.”

“I’m not gonna get you out, Sebastian, why the fuck would I do that? Are you even aware of the amount of effort it would take? Just the thought of it is making me bald as we speak. Besides, no one wants you out. Don’t you get it? Not your father. Not even Tom, which was pretty clear after what he did.”

Sebastian was glaring at Jared but frowned at his last sentence.

“What are you talking about?” He asked with annoyance.

“The video.”

But once Jared saw the confused look on Sebastian’s face he scoffed and cocked his head.

“Oh. Oh, Sebastian…” He shook his head with pity but undertones of amusement. “You really don’t know?” He paused. “How can you be a complete prick and so fucking dumb at the same time? I’m talking about The Clock’s security footage.”

“Yeah, she fucking sent that to the authorities. What’s your fucking point!?” Sebastian asked exasperated.

“Oh, this is… I wish I had a camera with me.” Jared readjusted in his seat, eager to elaborate. “Sebastian, she had nothing to do with that. It was your brother Tom.” He paused and spoke slower. “Tom gave that video to the authorities.”

Sebastian went pale and felt a hole in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re making this shit up. He was here a couple days ago… Tom would never lie to me.”

“Well, it’s not uncommon at all for siblings to pick up habits from one another.” Jared said with a grin. “Tommy boy must’ve definitely learned a thing or two from his criminal of a baby brother.”

Sebastian tightened his jaw and Jared could see how his breathing pattern had changed from irritation which encouraged him to keep going.

“But I was surprised too, I mean… Tom! Your own brother put the last nail in your coffin, because if he hadn’t done that, maybe you would’ve had the chance of getting away with murder, pun intended. But knowing how Jeremy loves to solve all his problems with money, they both must’ve been beyond sick of your shit to choose law over power, because your father obviously gave Thomas his consent to hand that video over.”

Sebastian’s soul left his body. His hurt ego caused him to avoid Jared’s blue eyes and look at the ground instead while he added salt to the wound.

“You’re in here… because of them.”

“Shut up.”

“While she’s still out there because of daddy. Oh, how the tables have turned!”

“Shut the fuck up.” Sebastian hissed through clenched teeth.

“Sorry, kiddo. It is what it is.” Jared carried on with a shrug. “And I can’t believe I’m about to say this but… I’m gonna have to side with old Jeremy on this one. You’re not getting out. You’re gonna stay in this shithole and you’re gonna pay for what you did. Maybe, if you’re a good boy, you’ll be up for parole consideration one day. Who knows?” He said as he gathered his papers. “Just hang in there.”

Sebastian’s blood was boiling as he kept replaying in his head each time he had been manipulated by his lover and how it had led to this moment in his life. He was in denial. He would not accept this, especially not her success, as the ending of this chapter in his life. Jared was about to hang up the phone and leave but stopped at the sound of Sebastian’s low and serious tone of voice.

“Jared…” He began as he met his eyes. “I’ll do anything.” He insisted. “I swear... on my mother’s grave... just... Name your price.”

Jared stared into Sebastian’s soul while deep in thought and drummed his right index and middle fingers on the surface. For the first time since they had met, Jared could actually see honesty in the eyes of Jeremy’s youngest son, and desperation; it was almost palpable. Invaded by curiosity, he leaned closer to the partition glass and gripped the telephone tighter.

“Tell me something, Sebastian. What exactly would you do… if I got you out?”

Sebastian’s blue eyes darkened while a smirk spread slowly across his face.

TAGS: @justmasblack @agentmstark @myclock @lovejn29 @eponine-xx @lipstickfireandblood @saltwateranddiamonds-blog @sweetangelfan @spiritanimalsarcasm @cltex84 @justtobeheree @itsonlyskye @lenawiinchester @lotrificationer @jeremy-hilary-boob @zivathenonoriginal @wildberry1 @booksareforlife12 @expectodonuts @ronijdubb @that-beautiful-remedy @lune-endormie @sugarshai-blog @bloode-money @bingewatchingmylifegoby @rxlvy @iamthesubpargatsby @stephbaratheon @cupofdelightfultea @ayumimochida @adeptkillsyasse @vquezada84 @crumbssss @ilovekingt @giannastoico @zainab295 @arianalilyblack @nerds-united-inc @whostheblondegirl @rosie-and-charlie @girlwiththerubyslippers @mrsthomassharpe @justtobeheree @redefining-happiness @1800assbutt @allhaillokiofasgard @yezzyzzz @spacesweetiesxo @thatbandchick39 @the-real-kellymonster @wellthatwasdumb @renna-ko @charlie1987me @dominatrixangelic @angelicshinigami @bish-its-me @manardeb @magical-spit @fuckitsharam @crazy-little-thing-called-buck @egyptian-black-cat @eggsyjesy @life-good-things @nandadb

#Heirs #Jeremy Irons #Tom Hiddleston #Sebastian Stan #Chris Evans #Jeffrey Dean Morgan #Bill Skarsgard #Jared Leto #Fiction #Fanfic #Fic #Fanfiction

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sarahreesbrennan · 3 years

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You wrote on twitter that you were too young to be published and did fool things you later regretted. I'm curious about those regrets - is there anything you'd be willing to elaborate on?

I do want to clarify I meant I personally was probably too young, and I wasn't a babe in arms when I was published--I was 24, which is an adult! S.E. Hinton was 18 when her first book was published and she arguably invented young adult fiction. Jennifer Lynn Barnes was a teenager when her first book was published and she's always been a genius rock star. Some people are married and having kids and doing great at their jobs at 24, but some people are in college, or learning the ropes of their jobs and full-time work life in general and messing up because it still feels unfamiliar. Most of us, me included, will be making messes until we die, though we can hope for better messes.

My regrets aren't super secret--I would've conducted myself differently online and offline. One thing I've said before: I wouldn't link up my real name and my fanfic identity the way I did back when. That means having your juvenilia out there and judged, and yourself judged in a very particular way! It is hard to sit in the doctor's office and ask him for written proof you have cancer, because the internet will accuse you of faking it. (Yes that did happen. That poor man's face was like, 'Girl, why do you not live your life right.') As I've said, I have an assistant-with-antis who filters my social media and email so I don't have to come upon hostile stuff, and I do wonder if there are ways to inspire less hostility.

But to be clear regarding that example, I think fandom is awesome in many ways, and it's valuable to say you wrote fanfiction, just don't get too specific. One of my most cherished facts about a (fancy, brilliant, very bestselling) writer friend is that she wrote Sonic the Hedgehog fanfiction once. Many of my writer friends used to or still do write it! (Fanfic in general... I'm not outing a bunch of writers as avid Sonic fans...) And being open about my identity did mean I had some beautiful supportive readers from the jump, who were sweet to me and made friends with each other (Marmalade fish shoutout). I love that people connect over fiction, and that they connected over mine. My advice to others is to do it like Oscar winner Chloe Zhao, and be like 'yes I write it, yes the call is coming from inside the building, yes creative engaged people engage creatively in many ways, no you'll never know my online name!' And that's mostly how it's done these days--there are masses of fanfiction writers in TV, in movies, working as editors and agents in publishing, and who are writers, because people who are passionate about creativity are passionate about creativity in many ways. A decade ago and nobody was sure how it was going to go: I do think it went well generally, if uneasily for test balloons like me.

Overall, as regards regrets, if you're alive, you're making mistakes, and if you're growing, you're learning from them. Often the more you care, the more mistakes you make. There are some things only life experience can teach you, and I've seen people who came into writing with experience from being, for instance, lawyers which they were able to use in many ways, and there were times I wished I'd acquired experience or lost naivety in a job that wasn't my dream job. Sometimes I really didn't know what was going on, and later I was like 'Ohhh! Oh Lord.' I would say a few things I wish I'd known: How to draw boundaries like circles of salt that others couldn't cross. The personal and the professional are going to blur, but it's still important to try and differentiate them. How to pick your battles: recognise the unwinnable, find the most likely strategy for victory with the winnable ones. Know that people won't like you just because you're making life more convenient for them, so don't do it for that reason. OMG abide by contracts and make sure the contracts cover every eventuality. Learn the art of standing your ground calmly. (One day, I'll get it.)

But getting published at any age is complicated: I have one friend who was sure she was going to die after she got her publishing contract because it was her dream accomplished, and what was left? I have more life experience in my 30s, but I also had most of those years totally slain by cancer: my writing went off a cliff long before I was diagnosed, and then I couldn't write, and since then I've been scrambling. If I'd been published first at 30 I might have handled myself in style, but there definitely wouldn't have been two trilogies before the long pause. One very lovely, very talented lady who was first published in the same year I was died shortly after. You don't know what's coming: Margaret Mitchell was hit by a speeding drunk driver and we'll never know if rumours she planned to write a sequel to Gone with the Wind are true. The people whose first books were out in 2020 had a tough time, and I would've freaked out if I'd been in their position and am glad I didn't have a non-tie-in novel out--it was very strange to have two tie-ins out that year as it was! People were reading books in 2020, but it was harder for new books to get on their radar.

I didn't write the tweet to alarm anyone, or say there was a magical time it was best to be published at. Lots of amazing writers aren't published, are published feeling they're too young, are published feeling they're too old. I think my tweet was really to say, there's no precise right time, and no way to execute your dreams exactly right. I do look back on stuff and think, oh lord, me at 30 might have handled THAT better. I hope that I'll look back at me now from 50 and go, I'd crush the stuff that crushed her!

Are there things I would change, sure. But I probably would make different mistakes if it had all happened differently for me. Humans constantly torment ourselves imagining the magic way we could've got everything right, a task exactly nobody has accomplished. I've never lived a perfect life or written a perfect book, and I don't know anyone else who has. I'm really glad I was published, and really proud of all my books. If you've never done something you've regretted, how much have you done? Keep going.

#stumbling through publication #writing #fanfiction

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flowerfan2 · 3 years

Text

This fic would not let me go to sleep until I wrote it. A follow up to today’s Ted Lasso episode, 2x11.

More Than A Comment. Read on A03.

About an hour so after Trent gets back the “no comment” text from Ted his phone rings.

“Off the record?” Ted spits out.

“Yes,” Trent replies, the sick knot in his stomach tightening at the sound of Ted’s voice.

“You can’t tell me this.”

“Tell you what?” Trent lowers himself to a chair in the kitchen, one elbow leaning on the table, the other clutched around his phone.

“That it was - him - you can’t tell me who your source was. You aren’t allowed to tell me that. I might not know much about journalism, but don’t folks go to jail and such for revealing their sources?”

Trent wishes the practice were that formal, at least then he’d know what type of sentence he is facing. “No, Ted. Journos go to jail to protect their sources, when they are being pressured to reveal them.”

“Still - how could you tell me this?” Ted’s voice is strained, and Trent can imagine the look on his face. It’s bad enough that he had to write an article revealing Ted’s secret, now he’s lost his respect as well for his lack of ethics.

“I had to.”

“But won’t it ruin your reputation if it gets out that you revealed your source after promising that he would remain anonymous?”

Trent sighs. “I suppose. Or it will just enhance it, you never can tell.” He never should have let his editor promise Nate anonymity. He should have pushed back harder.

“You don’t really mean that - this is gonna get you in trouble.”

It’s not as straightforward as Ted seems to think. Trent strongly doubts Nate will sue him for breach of contract, not when keeping Nate’s betrayal in the public eye will hurt Nate as much or more than everyone else involved. And if he does, well, Trent knows some good lawyers. What it will do is cause any source he’s promised anonymity to in the past to dry up, and make it harder to cultivate new ones. But no matter what happens, there will still be people like Nate out there, willing to take a chance and betray their friends to Trent in hopes of bettering their own position in life.

“I just don’t understand why you told me,” Ted goes on, working himself up further. “And what am I supposed to do with this juicy piece of gossip, huh? What do I do now? Confront Nate? Then he’ll tell the world you told me, and off we go, more misery for everyone.”

“I’m sorry, Ted,” Trent says, because he is, and he isn’t sure what else he can say at this point. “I admit that when I imagined how angry you would be about my message to you, I hadn’t thought that you’d be quite so focused on the effect it would have on <i>my</i> reputation.”

“Oh. Fair point.” There’s a pause, and a sigh, and Trent imagines that Ted has just flopped onto his couch. It certainly seems like he’s settling down. “I read the article.”

Trent’s stomach clenches, brought back to reality again. “You did?”

“Mmm.”

“What did you, um, think?”

Ted takes his time answering, leaving Trent hanging precariously. “It’s very well written.”

“Yes.” If Trent was going to stab Ted Lasso in the back, at least no one could say he dangled any participles in the process.

“So humble.” Ted clears his throat. “But, um, it really wasn’t so bad. What you said.”

“Having a panic attack isn’t a personal failing, Ted,” Trent says.

“Feels like it sometimes,” Ted says bitterly.

“I know.”

“But what you wrote about anxiety and depression being more common that people realize among athletes and celebrities and such, that, um, that was good.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“And the part about recognizing the signs, and how to get help. I was right glad to read that. People need to hear it.”

“Thank you.”

“Not that I’m gonna say thanks for writing the article or anything,” Ted says quickly. “Paints me in a pretty bad light. For not telling, I mean.” There’s a pause. “For lying. I don’t much like the feeling of being judged for that. Not that I’m saying you’re judging me. But people who read your article will.”

“They shouldn’t,” Trent responds. “You shouldn’t be judged for keeping that information private. You had every right not to advertise your mental health issues.”

Trent hears Ted suck in a breath, and he hopes he hasn’t used the wrong phrase. Or, rather, he knows it’s not the wrong phrase, but it is a sensitive one. Understandably so, given the way the world views mental health issues.

“And you had every right to reveal my <i>mental health issues</i> to the world?” Ted sounds like he’s trying not to cry, and it makes Trent feel like doing the same.

“It’s my job,” Trent says sadly. “If I didn’t write it, someone else would have. Probably not with the same treatment. And besides that, the wellbeing of Richmond’s head coach is arguably matter of public interest.”

“So why the blazes did you tell me it was Nate?” Ted asks, returning to his initial question, like a dog with a bone. Usually that’s a trait that Trent admires, but it’s not as much fun when it’s aimed at him.

Trent bites his lip and considers deflecting, but he finds he doesn’t want to. Not anymore. “Because your wellbeing is of interest to me. Personally.”

Ted lets out a huff. “First you say you respect me, then you say you care about me? While simultaneously revealing my Achilles’ heel? Who are you, a Trojan prince?”

“It’s bewildering, I know,” Trent says. He can hardly parse the logic himself, and he’s the one responsible. “And I’m no prince.”

“Some might disagree.”

Trent can’t tell for sure, but he thinks he hears a note of fondness in Ted’s voice. He will never stop being surprised by this man. It’s one of the things that’s drawn him to Ted from the beginning. Conversations with Ted Lasso are never dull.

“What are you doing right now?” Ted asks. “Besides talking to me, I mean.”

“Sitting alone in my flat, feeling awful.” Truest thing he’s said all day.

“Why don’t you come over for a drink?”

Trent feels his heart skip a beat, but doesn’t trust it. Surely he must have misheard. “Why should I do that? Do you have your footballers waiting outside your place, ready to do me in?”

Ted snorts into the phone. “No. But I’m sitting alone in my apartment feeling awful too. And if you came over, well, that would fix at least one of those problems.”

“Not both?” Trent asks, his traitorous heart letting the words fall out.

“Don’t want to count my chickens too soon. Come on over and let’s find out.”

#Ted Lasso #Trent Crimm #2x11 #Episode 2x11 #Ted Lasso fic

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lavenderbau · 4 years

Text

you drew stars around my scars

Photographer Elle Greenaway teams up with journalist Jennifer Jareau to expose corruption, what happens when that’s not the only thing exposed?

tw: mentions of rape, suicide, gunshot wounds/guns

words: 2.3k

ao3 link here

story is bellow the cut!

Elle sighed. She had heard rumors about the infamous Jennifer Jareau. How she was a stuck up bitch. Elle had worked with snobby journalists before, but she’s heard that she is next level. Elle just had to make it work with her for one article. That was it. Then she would never have to see her again. This was her chance for that big break she had been searching for. Although Elle was taking a big risk with this. Fisher King & Co. was one of the biggest law firms in the country. And with this Jen- Jayje girl, they were going to expose them for corruption and bribery. It was an ambitious task, but one that fascinated Elle. If it took working with this girl to get her big break and finally leave the BAU Times and open her own photography business.

Elle was startled from her thoughts when the door opened. “Miss Greenaway you can come in,” said editor in chief Aaron Hotchner. Or as Elle called him in her head a major pain in her ass. “As you know you will be working with one of our finest. She is very talented and not someone you want to mess with. I think you two will work well together. Don’t prove me wrong Miss Greenaway,” Hotchner continued.

“I wouldn’t dream of it sir. Also, it’s Elle not Mrs. Greenaway.” Hotch let out one of his rare small smiles before a knock sounded on the door.

Listen, Elle knew she liked girls. That wasn’t new, she went through the whole questioning of her sexaulity thing before. However, this wasn’t a girl. This was a woman in every sense of the word. The way her bright blonde hair framed those beautiful blue eyes. When Elle imagined what an angel looked like, it was her. The warmth and hope she seemed to radiate from her bones made Elle want to smile. Although she could see pain in those eyes she already loved so much. She was good at concealing it, but Elle recognized it. She had spent many hours in the mirror trying to erase that pain from her own eyes. With time little blondie would stop expecting to be able to hide it. That’s what happened to her. Elle thought to herself there is no way this perky blonde chick is the bitch she had heard about. If it was, Elle was certainly in for a fun time.

“Hi, you must be Elle. I'm Jayje. I'll be the journalist for this project,” JJ said while extending Elle her hand in a pleasant tone.

“Nice to meet you JJ. So I was wanting to sit down with you and talk about what type of photos you want and what you want them to represent. I’m down to get started as soon as you are.”

Hotch cleared his throat, “Okay ladies it looks like you guys are on the right track, let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

Both Elle and JJ nodded and left his office.

“We can use my office to discuss this project. There is one thing you should know. This is the project I have been building my career up towards, and if you’re gonna screw this up or not handle it you can leave now. We are going after one of the biggest law firms in the country, we are going to have a target on our backs for the rest of our lives. You may just be the photographer but everyone involved in this will be experiencing backlash. Can you handle that?” JJ asked in a hard tone. Elle was impressed. She didn’t think blondie had it in her to be the major bitch she heard about. It seemed like she was wrong, which Elle rarely is.

“I can handle it,” Elle responded in a cold voice. She wanted to prove to her that she could give back as well as she was given.

Jayje burst into a smile. “Great, I was hoping you would. I want the best of the best on this. And I heard that you were the best,” JJ said with a wink.

Elle smirked. She was being surprised at every turn by this girl. Elle decided to test the waters, “You know what they say, only the beautiful can capture it in photos.”

Jayje let out a gorgeous laugh, “Well I’ve never heard of that saying before, but people should start saying it if you’re any indication.”

Elle smiled. This was going to be fun.

Maybe Elle spoke too soon. She was three weeks into this project and Jayje was on a mean streak. They were having trouble finding evidence on the firm, as it was so big nobody wanted to speak out against them. Elle was getting frustrated. When they were interviewing a witness yesterday that had changed their mind on coming forward Jayje yelled at her and said that she was a disgrace. Elle agreed that the firm was off, but finding enough evidence was damn near impossible. As much as Elle hated to say it, maybe it was time to throw in the towel.

“JJ as much as I hate to admit it, I just don’t think we have enough here to bring them down.”

JJ immediately turned to glare at the other woman. “I thought you said you could handle it? I told you this wasn’t going to be easy. You think I know we don’t have enough evidence? I have been building this article since I stepped into the BAU Times. I will do whatever it takes to finish it. If you want to go and take photos that anybody with an eye could, the door is right there. However if you want to stay on what could be the biggest breakthrough of the year I suggest you sit your ass down right now and get that attitude of yours in check.

“You have no right to scold me like I’m a fucking teenager. Why are you so invested in this? You are destroying yourself and everyone else that you meet for this, is it worth it? Tell me will it be worth it?” Elle was flamming. However through her anger, she had to admit this was the sexiest Jayje has ever looked. Still that did not soothe Elle’s temper.

“You don’t understand! You have no idea what I have sacrificed for this! I busted my ass every minute of my life for this! I won’t have some little no work ethic bitch tell me to stop!” Jayje and Elle were all up in each other's faces.

“Well then make me understand!” Elle screamed back.

Honestly if you asked Elle what happened next, she wouldn’t be able to answer you. She was so shocked by what had happened that she could barely process it. The second the words left her mouth Jayje grabbed her face and pulled her lips to her. Elle pulled away at first, before kissing her back. Elle couldn’t help but notice this was one of the best kisses she’s had. Suddenly, JJ pulled away looking like a kicked puppy. Without notice she started running out of the office before Elle could stop her. With a sigh and a hand to her lips that still tasted like her strawberry lipstick, Elle packed up her things and left the office.

The next day she thought it would be full of awkwardness and ignoring each other. Hell, Elle wouldn’t be surprised if Jayje finally decided to give up on this story. What she didn’t expect was for Jayje to have a board full of evidence and pacing in her office.

“Listen Elle I’m about to tell you two things that very few people know about me. The first is that I like girls. If you couldn’t tell by me kissing you last night,” she said with a little nervous laugh that never failed to melt Elle’s heart. “And I like kissing you. I like you Elle. The past three weeks have been stressful but I’m glad it was you by my side. I like you a lot and I want to go out with you, but before I ask you I need to tell you the reason this article is so important to me. My older sister was raped. The guy who did it was rich and he got a lawyer from Fisher King & Co. to not charge him. There was a shit ton of evidence and there was no way he got off. I overheard a phone call with his lawyer offering the judge money. He was found not guilty, and I found my dead sister in a bathtub the next day. She had killed herself. She knew she wouldn’t be able to face the people in our town and him everyday. So she didn’t. And I promised myself I would not give them the satisfaction of doing what they did to my sister to anyone else.” JJ now had tears on her face. Elle’s heart broke for her. Suddenly she knew the reason for the pain those beautiful blue eyes tried to hold.

“I have an idea,” Elle said in a low voice. “First we’re going to go on a date tonight, second we’re going to take Fisher King & Co. down to the depths of hell.”

It had been another two weeks since Elle said that. Her and Jayje were going great. They were both constantly enourmed with each other. When they weren’t making out they would be touching each other in some way. Most people would not think they had only been dating for two weeks. They did all the things a normal established couple did. Slow dancing in the kitchen together, check. Going to the movies, check. Helping the other take down a company, check. Okay so maybe not all of the things a normal couple did. But still. It was Elle and JJ. Elle lived for small little forehead kisses Jayje was obsessed with giving her. Jayje cherished the moments in the morning when Elle pulled her body closer to hers.

Elle and Jayje had been up all night. Not for the reasons they wished, but tomorrow was when their article was being published. Elle’s photos perfectly captured everything Jayje had wanted them to say. And Jayje’s writing, goddamn that girl could write. If Elle didn’t already love the blonde, she’s pretty sure she could just through her writing. Jayje had sent Elle home telling her to get some rest. However, she did not know that Randall Garner would be there waiting for her. Elle was shocked to see the CEO of Fisher King and Co. in her girlfriend’s living room. She tried not to let the surprise show on her face, but Elle couldn’t pull her mask up fast enough.

“Well if it isn’t Miss Greenaway. You know I am shocked to see you here, this late at night too. It looks like Miss Jareau has some explaining to do, doesn't she? You know I was going to make sure that article never sees the light of day and I think I know just the trick.” Suddenly he pulled out his gun and fired it at Elle before she could respond. The last thing she heard before she passed out was sobbing, and it sounded a lot like Jayje’s.

When Elle wakes up the first thing she notices is the pain in her chest. The second is the sweaty hand holding hers. She opened her eyes slowly. She couldn’t tell if the drugs she was on were what made Jayje look like an angel or if she was actually in heaven.

Jayje looks up with red rimmed eyes and the look of relief she gives Elle, makes her heart melt. “You once asked me if this article was worth it. And I was so sure it was. Falling in love with you solidified that, but it wasn’t worth it. Seeing you get hurt because of me,” Jayje took a shaky breath and had tears spilling out of her eyes, “that will never, ever be worth it. I am so sorry I did this to you.”

“Did what? Give me a woman I love? Give me the happiness I have been searching for my entire life? Because that is all you gave me. You gave me everything I wished I deserved. What is love without a few scars?”

“You’re hurt because of a mess I made, one that you knew I would. This isn’t just a few scars Elle, you almost died. I thought you were going to die. I thought I’d never give you the chance to say I love you.”

“I love you too. And this is not on you okay? This is on the man that pulled the trigger on me. Do not blame yourself for trying to help people.” Jayje let out a shaky nod, still overcome with emotions. “So how did the article do?”

This made Jayje let out a small smile. Elle could still tell she was riddled with guilt, as she was tracing stars on Elle’s hand and she recognized it as her nervous tell. “Amazing. People are writing stories about our story.” Jayje pulls out her phone and shows Elle. “Here, look at this.”

It was an article about them. It talked about how they took on Fisher King & Co. and how they fell in love.

“I wanted someone to know our story in case it was the end,” Jayje whispers. “You’ve been in a coma for the past week. The doctors weren’t sure if you were going to wake up. A reporter heard that we were together and you got shot and asked if I wouldn’t mind being interviewed. I didn’t know if you were gonna wake up so I said yes.”

“Trust me it could never be over. Jayje I love you too.” She pulled her hand to her lips, pressing a small kiss to it. And somehow even that smallest kiss sent sparks up and down them both. Huh, this is what love is, Elle thought. It wasn’t half bad.

#jelle #jennifer jareau #elle greenaway #nellies writing :/#please boost #i actually love this #grace i hope u like this

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jensengirl83 · 4 years

Text

Regret and Redemption Chapter 7

Dean x reader

Mechanic!AU

Word Count-2264

Warnings-Angst, language, heartbreak

Summary- Reader has left Dean and is trying to move on with her life. Can Dean prove himself and convince her to come back home?

A/N- Thank you to my beta @emoryhemsworth and all my girls and guy for the encouragement to keep going with this series. I love you all!

Amazing series cover and text dividers courtesy of @talesmaniac89

To say Dean had a bad week was an understatement. Sam had told him that Stacy had filed a lawsuit against him and his business, he still missed his wife, and now he needed to sign his divorce papers. He had been putting off signing them since Sam had been there earlier that week. Signing them meant his marriage was over, that Y/N would no longer be his wife, and he would be alone for good. Alone. That was one of his biggest fears.

Dean always had the tough guy exterior but was actually a very complex man. He never liked to show his emotions, but they were there, and when Dean felt something, he felt it deeply. His Dad had been a hardass man, and Dean had always felt that was how he needed to be. He learned early on to just push down his feelings and be a man, or what people thought a man should be. It wasn’t just his emotions that Dean kept hidden, he also hid what an intelligent man he was. He never felt the need to broadcast it to everyone. He knew what he could do and that was enough.

He also had his fears that he kept to himself. That was one of the reasons he was in the mess he was in now. Dean had never thought highly of himself despite the cocky front he put on. He always thought that he was never good enough. He wasn’t a good enough son, brother, husband, etc. His insecurities fueled his need for the booze and women, seeking gratification any way he could find it. If he could have only curbed his self-loathing and been what Y/N needed and deserved, she would still be there, a fact that made him hate himself more and more every day.

Dean sat on his couch, whiskey in hand, as was his usual routine now. His eyes were drawn to the unsigned papers laying on the coffee table where they had been since he received them. He glared down at them as he clenched his jaw in anger and frustration, thinking on what he should do when his phone broke his train of thought. The face on the screen had made his mind up for him.

“I signed the damn papers Y/N! Your lawyer will have them in the morning!” Dean yelled and hung up the phone. He knew that was the reason why she had called in the first place.

Dean stood and threw his whiskey glass against the wall as he looked around for a pen. If a divorce was what she wanted, then that was what she was going to fucking get. Dean was at the end of his rope and just wanted everything to be over so he could mourn for what he lost in peace. He grabbed the papers from the coffee table and slammed them against the wall, signing his name furiously before throwing them and the pen to the couch. Dean grabbed his jacket and keys before storming out the door. He needed to let his frustration and anger out on someone, and he knew exactly where to go.

Y/N stared at her phone like it had burned her. She called to ask about the papers, but was his reaction really necessary? Her eyes had begun to glisten with unshed tears, her heart aching at the news he had signed the papers. Of course, she wanted him to sign them and get the divorce over with, but it was still painful to think that it was all over now. Her relationship with the man she had loved for so long was now going to be just a memory. Y/N began to pour herself a drink when her phone started to ring. She rushed over to answer and saw it was her editor.

“Hello Steven,” Y/N answered as she went back to pouring her drink.

“Hi Y/N. Are you free for lunch one day this week so we can discuss where you are in your latest novel?” he asked.

“Uh, sure. What day would be good for you?” she asked as she bit down on her bottom lip. She hoped to get a little more time to get caught up with her writing.

“How about tomorrow? I’m in town and could meet you at Harvelle’s,” Steven said, and Y/N could hear something in his voice.

“That’s fine. I can meet you there at one o’clock. Will that be ok?” Y/N asked.

“That’s fine! See you tomorrow Y/N,” he said, hanging up the phone.

Y/N hung her head and groaned. She was so far behind on her writing since all of this happened and she wasn’t looking forward to being bitched at. Everyone at her publishing company knew what had happened thanks to Dean’s stunt at her launch party, but she had been letting it get to her and interfere with her career. She wasn’t on a time limit to finish, but she knew they wouldn’t be happy to know that she had fallen behind.

Y/N made her way back into the kitchen and filled her glass with brandy. She had never been much of a drinker, but she had always appreciated a good strong liquor, especially these last few months. She never imagined this would be her life. If someone had told her two years ago that she and Dean would be in the middle of a divorce, she would’ve laughed at them. She wasn’t laughing now; nothing about her life funny at all. When they got married, she thought she would be a mother by now. Funny how life has a way of flushing your hopes and dreams down the toilet. Y/N threw back her drink, finishing it in one gulp, and decided to go to bed and end this shitty day.

Dean pulled up to the curb and slammed the door to the Impala. He never would’ve done this, but he was too pissed to think about it. He felt the grass give under the weight of his boots as he made his way to his destination. He didn’t come here often, but today he had things to say to the man that helped to make him the way he was. John’s tombstone came into sight and Dean’s legs felt like they were going to buckle beneath him, the weight of the emotion and unsaid words between him and his dead father bearing down on him. Dean collapsed to his knees in front of the stone marker. The words he had always wanted to say began to spill out of him like the tears that were spilling down his cheeks.

“How dare you! How could you do this to me Dad?!” Dean yelled at the tombstone in front of him.

“You always told me to act like a man. No one wants to hear a cry baby. Well, guess what I’ve learned Dad? MEN CAN SHOW EMOTIONS TOO!” he screamed as he furiously wiped the tears from his face.

“I’ve lost the only person who will ever truly love me for who I am because I let you get in my fucking head! I was always your little soldier huh? Always did what dad said, followed orders without question. Look at where that got me!” Dean couldn’t hold anything back as he continued to yell at his dead father.

“Why Dad? Why was I never good enough for you? Mom would love to know some of the things you said to me when I was young, raising me to be a man’s man. Well, that worked out great for you! Your reputation as John Winchester, the great mechanic, husband, and father is still intact while my life and marriage are falling apart!” Dean hung his head and sobbed but continued to speak.

“I can’t blame you for everything, now can I? You didn’t make me fuck those women. I did that on my own, but I can blame you for my low self-esteem and self-worth, and I do! It’s obvious now the only thing I did right that you thought was a good idea was to watch out for Sammy and ask Y/N to marry me,” Dean said as he looked back up to the name engraved on the granite in front of him.

“You’ll never know how much I wish that I would have been the son you wanted, Dad. Maybe you could’ve just been proud of me instead of screwing me up for life! I’ll always love you Dad, but you were a horrible fucking father!” Dean growled as he stood to walk away.

“I will never forgive you for how you made me feel about myself, but I guess I’m partially to blame for that. See you on the other side,” Dean said as he turned his back and walked away.

Dean had been so caught up in his emotions that he hadn’t noticed that someone had walked up during his screaming. Mary had been coming to place new flowers on her husband’s grave when she heard the yelling. Dean’s words had her speechless and she had hidden behind a tree to listen to the rest of what he had to say. She had never known that Dean felt that way about himself and it broke her heart. As she watched her oldest son get in his car and drive away, she knew what she needed to do.

Dean made it back home and took off his jacket when something fell out onto the floor. He looked down to see a piece of paper with something taped to it. He bent down to pick it up and his heart stopped when he realized what it was. Y/N had a charm made for him when they got married to add to the necklace that Sam had given him when they were younger. The charm had gotten lost and he never thought he would see it again. He pulled the perfect replica of the Impala from the paper and opened the letter.

Dean,

I’m not sure when you will see this, but I wanted to surprise you. I know you thought that you would never see this again, but I had it remade for you. I hope you love it! You deserve the world, but I hope this will be enough to show you how much you mean to me! Now that you had the clasp on the necklace fixed, you shouldn’t have to worry about losing it again. I know you love Baby almost as much as you love me, so I wanted her to be close to your heart again where she belongs. I love you, Dean Winchester! Forever and always yours my love.

Y/N

Dean held the charm in his hand as the note ripped his heart to shreds. Y/N always dated every note she had written to him, and this one had been dated almost seven months ago. He was so wrapped up in himself and feeding his need for reassurance that he hadn’t even checked his pockets. That was something she always did, left sweet notes in his jacket pockets. If Dean felt like shit about everything before, now it was tenfold. She had replaced something that meant the world to him and he had never even noticed. Dean unclasped his necklace and slid the small silver car where she had once been. Dean made his way to the kitchen and poured himself a big glass of whiskey. He had no intention of even pretending that he was ok.

Y/N woke up the next morning to pour herself her first cup of coffee when her phone vibrated on the counter, getting her attention. She turned to see that she had a text from her uncle. She opened her phone to read it and felt her heart begin to ache with the words on the screen.

Uncle Johnnie: Dean’s brother sent the divorce papers over this morning. They are signed and we have a court date two weeks from now to have it finalized. I pulled some strings and had it pushed up so you can get this over with. I love you, honey.

Y/N felt the tears trying to form in her eyes. This was it, everything was going to be over in two weeks. It was a bittersweet moment. She was happy that everything would be done so she could move on, but she was sad to see the end of the marriage she thought would last forever. Y/N let herself shed the tears that had welled up in her eyes. She closed her eyes and let the emotions overtake her. She would always grieve for the man and the marriage she had, but now she had to move on and live her own life. Her phone buzzed with another text, and she looked to see what her uncle was saying now. She was shocked to see that it wasn’t her uncle that had texted her this time.

Mary: Y/N, I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, and I understand, but Dean is not doing so well, and I hoped we could talk about what exactly happened. He has me very worried and I can’t get him to tell me much of anything. I will always think of you as my daughter, Y/N. I truly hope you will message me back and let me say what I need to tell you.

@flamencodiva @sorenmarie87 @foxyjwls007 @waywardbeanie @emoryhemsworth @voltage-my2dlove @hardcoresupernatural @msmarvelouswinchester @lyarr24 @deanmonandnegansbitch @akshi8278 @midsummereve1993 @sutton2001 @emory91 @halesandy @miss-nerd95 @ellewritesfix05 @bxbyizzy @winchest09 @adoptdontshoppets @defenderrosetyler @hobby27 @whatareyousearchingfordean @talesmaniac89 @deanwanddamons @atc74 @superfanficnatural @smol-and-grumpy @supernatural-love14 @vicmc624 @squirrelnotsam @tatted-trina6 @xhannahbananax03 @coffeebooksandfandom @nihilismworld @winchester-wifey @mrsfox79 @malfoysqueen14 @moron225 @deans-baby-momma @lovelyrocker @fablesrose @queenofchaos7 @maralisa124 @deangirl93 @aimee-ginge @anathewierdo @donnaintx

#dean x reader #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester series #dean au #mechanic au #supernatural family #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfiction #spn famdom #spn family #reader insert #Regret and Redemption

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fandom-imagines-stories · 4 years

Text

Saving Face

Tom Branson x Reader

Words: 2580

Part One of Two

Summary: Married for nearly a year, the reader and her husband return to her home and family for a dinner at her sister’s invitation. Tom faces judgment and becomes a point of ridicule. Everything halts when the reader falls deathly ill.

Notes: This one is definitely hard to write, but you know me I love putting my favorite boys through hell. I love Sybil and Tom, but I really want to write some imagines for him, so in this case, Sybil is just the supportive sister. I hope you enjoy! I also decided to make him a journalist in this since that’s what he does when he goes back to Ireland. (P.S. This was getting insanely long, so I split it into two parts!)

You could tell he was nervous by the way he wrung his hands as you walked. The house had never been more intimidating than it was at this moment. You took one of your husband’s hands in yours and gave him a small reassuring smile.

“She said we would be welcome.” You reminded him, though you also feared that your sister had been too optimistic in her letter.

“Maybe she’s forgotten how it was when we left.” He argued, looking up at the grand estate that he had once been a servant to.

“They don’t hate us, Tom.” He gave you a look.

“They don’t hate you.” You sighed, pausing halfway up the path to the door. It had been almost a year now that you had been at Downton. Almost a year without seeing your family. But it had also been almost a year since you’d married the love of your life.

“I’m sure there will be other guests at dinner tonight, as well as tomorrow,” You started slowly. “And while my family has hopefully adjusted, others will not have.” You knew how some of the other women in society could be. They made Mary look like the goddess of hospitality. Surely, Sybil wouldn’t have invited them, but that didn’t mean that your grandmother wouldn’t.

“I have somewhat prepared myself for this.” He laughed humorously. Your fingers gently grazed his cheek as you made sure his hair was in place. The first face to greet you was at least a friendly one. Sybil burst out the door before you even had the chance to ring.

“It’s so good of you to come!” She exclaimed, wrapping you in a tight hug. This of course was much warmer than a traditional English greeting, but Sybil was anything but traditional. She turned to Tom, her smile welcoming and kind. “I know this must be strange for you, but it means so much to me that you’re here.” He gave her a small nod.

“We wouldn’t miss it, m’lady.” He tried to expel any expression of nervousness from his face, but his smile was still an uneasy one. At least he had an ally in Sybil. You took his arm and Sybil led you into the house. You thought you would feel some great sense of nostalgia. The feeling of being home again after so long. But stepping into the grand entrance only made you realize that anywhere would be home so long as you were by his side.

Servants scurried around you, some slowing down to gawk. Tom avoided their gaze. You hadn’t even thought how strange it would be for him to be served by the people that he once worked with. Mr. Carson was quick to shoo them all away, but their stares lingered in Tom’s thoughts.

“They are expecting you in the drawing room, Lady Y/N.” Mr. Carson kept his tone neutral, though you could sense his disapproval. He was one of the most offended by your match with Tom, not that he’d ever told you. You knew it was his love of the family that drove his opposition, but you found yourself still wishing for his approval. Sybil paused at the door.

“Are you ready?” Her concern was sincere which made Tom feel a little better.

“I suppose it’s too late to turn around and run.” He whispered in your ear, making you laugh.

“I’m afraid so.” With a nod of permission from you, Sybil instructed the footman to open the door. The room was lively with conversation until the moment you stepped inside. Your heart pounded, feeling every person’s eyes staring at you. You were right. It wasn’t just your family. Your grandmother must have invited the Winstons- a family of women your age she’d been trying to persuade you and Sybil to befriend for years. You’d both always found them haughty and arrogant. They definitely weren’t the first family you’d have chosen to introduce Tom to, but you refused to fear them.

Tom lingered in the doorway, regretting ever getting on that train. It wasn’t that he was afraid for his own pride, but for yours. To see you ashamed of him would surely be his undoing. You turned back to him with a look of more adoration than he felt he deserved. When you held out your hand, he didn’t hesitate to take it, fully stepping into the room.

Your mother was the first to approach you, taking your hands in hers with a smile.

“How was the journey, dear?” She asked. There was an awkwardness to her tone, but not a hostile one.

“It was lovely.” You left out the part about the train car being a bit crowded. Not riding first class was something you still had to get used to. There was a child who freely ran around the car and forgot to cover his mouth when he coughed. A small annoyance amongst a thousand other happy memories. Falling asleep on Tom’s shoulder or feeling his finger trace the lines on your palm while you stared out the window watching the world go by. You felt his hand tighten its grip on yours when your mother turned to him.

“I trust your occupation in Ireland has been going well?”

“The editor I’ve been writing for seems to think I have potential.” He knew it must sound so ridiculous to someone of her stature. You put a hand on his arm and gave him a smile brighter than the sun.

“Tom is being modest, mama.” You beamed. “Mr. Byrne tells me he doesn’t know what he’d do without him. He loves Tom’s ideals and thoughts for a new future.” You heard a giggle from across the room. Abigail Winston tried to conceal her smirk by bringing her fingers to her lips. She was by far the vilest of the girls and you expected she was thinking of plenty of ways to humiliate you and your husband.

You couldn’t help but notice the way your father avoided your gaze. While you didn’t elope, the blessing he gave Tom was a reluctant one. You had given him very little choice and you knew that it was only by your mother’s insistence that he allow you to marry. Thankfully, Matthew was quick to strike a conversation with Tom. Matthew seemed to be another friend Tom could rely upon. After all, before learning of his inheritance, Matthew was a simple lawyer.

Carson announced that dinner was ready and everyone filed into the dining room. Tom sat to your right and Mary took the seat to your left. Of every person there, perhaps you feared her the most. Your relationship was complicated, to say the least, and when you left to marry Tom, you knew that she disapproved. When you were a young girl, you idolized your eldest sister and losing her respect had hurt you greatly.

“I hope you’re ready to face the wolves.” She said, quietly enough that only you would hear. You glanced at her, allowing your nervousness to show.

“I just wish I could make him feel like he’s not below us.” He barely touched his food, taking only the smallest bites in fear of looking improper.

“That may be difficult considering he used to work for us.” You gave her a look.

“I don’t think we are above anyone who has worked or currently works for us, Mary.” She chuckled at your defensive tone.

“I know that’s what you believe, dear, but I’m afraid I’m not the one you have to convince.” She nodded her head towards Abigail and her sister Margaret, both gossiping and giggling like school children.

“Tell us, Sybil has it been a strange adjustment?” Margaret began. “You kept so busy as a nurse during the war and now things have settled down.”

“I do my part where I can.” She put on a gratuitous smile and you envied her ability to maintain so hospitable. “I don’t think I could ever go back to what it was like before the war. Too many things have changed.”

“Indeed.” Margaret agreed, her gaze sliding over to you. “So many things have changed.” You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, suddenly feeling very warm. You motioned over to Mr. Carson.

“Could you possibly move the candelabra?” You asked quietly. He gave you a strange look.

“Are you feeling alright, my lady?” He looked genuinely worried, which caught Tom’s attention.

“What’s wrong?” Your husband asked. You laughed as though they were both being silly.

“I’m afraid my dress is a little heavy for the weather and I’m getting a little warm, that’s all.” You assured them. Mr. Carson removed the burning candles, but you felt little relief. You felt sweat bead across your forehead, but dabbing it with a handkerchief would draw too much attention.

“Lady Y/N,” Abigail stared you down with a cold gaze, “Or is it Mrs. Branson now? I never asked which you preferred.” Her words were civilized, but her tone was accusatory and cruel. Your lips stretched into a tight smile.

“You may call me whatever you like.” She leaned over to her sister but made sure you could still hear.

“Perhaps she wishes to be called ‘Lassie’.” They shared a laugh before she continued. “I meant to ask you where you get your shoes?”

“My what?” It was such an odd question considering she had beyond the means to find suitable footwear.

“I couldn’t help but notice how your shoes are in perfect condition.” By the smug smile on her face, you knew what direction she was taking this. “I’m afraid mine wear out terribly quickly with all of the walking I do to get to and from town. Wouldn’t you agree, Margaret.” Her sister nodded with an amused glint in her eye.

“Abigail, I’m sure you’re boring the gentlemen with such talk.” Lord Winston scolded, but she had an agenda she fully intended to keep.

“Then again, I suppose not all of us have chauffeurs that are so eager to please.”

You pushed away from the table so suddenly that it made you dizzy. The plates rattled from the force of your motion and the entire room went deadly silent. The men in the room were too baffled by the unexpected motion that they seemed to forget to stand with you. Abigail’s face twisted with wicked triumph .

“Oh dear, I do hope I haven’t offended you.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to step out for some fresh air.” You muttered, rushing out of the room. Tom and Sybil were quick to follow while the rest of the party sat in shocked silence.

“I’m sorry if this seems rude, but I’m quite frankly surprised that she brought him here.” Margaret noted, snickering at her sister’s comment.

“Must you both be so wretched?” Mary blurted and joined her sister to chase you.

“My love, slow down. Please.” Tom urged you, but you were out the door without a second thought.

“We’re going home.” You fervently tried to brush the tears as they fell. Your blood felt as if it were boiling and even the brisk night air failed to cool you.

“Y/N wait!” Sybil pleaded, Mary catching up behind her. “We’ll ask them to leave. I didn’t wish them to be here anyway, but please don’t go like this.”

“I’ll gladly throw Abigail out myself.” Mary added. You were almost surprised to see her taking your side but you were too emotional to care.

“I can’t do this.” You stopped and turned to them, the tears on your cheeks glistening in the moonlight. Tom could feel his heart crack seeing you like this. You saw the hurt in his expression and knew he thought this was his fault. But he couldn’t be more wrong. “I cannot play this game anymore. I refuse to dance around my feelings for the sake of keeping face. I thought I’d escaped all of the fake smiles and forced politeness, but life with Tom has made me forget how horrible it all is.”

“Honestly, Y/N, what did you expect to happen?” Mary exasperated.

“Mary.” Sybil gasped.

“Things have changed, Y/N.” Mary stepped towards you. “You made a choice and you knew the consequences. You chose a life of love, but it is also an uneven path to follow. I’ve always respected your courage, don’t disappoint me now by running away.” You softened. She respected you? Tom placed a hand on your cheek, his eyes grounding you enough to stop your hysterics.

“My darling, if you want to go now, we’ll go.” He gave you a reassuring smile. “But I can face them if you can.” The heat spreading through your body was becoming unbearable and your head grew dizzier every second. Your breathing became short and labored.

“Tom, I-” Before you could finish, your legs gave out beneath you.

Tom rushed to catch you and Sybil leapt into action. With one arm holding you upright, his other hand gently patted your cheek, trying to rouse you.

“Y/N? Love, wake up.” He looked up at Sybil. “What’s happened?” Sybil touched her hand to your forehead and quickly drew away.

“She’s burning up, we have to get her inside.” He scooped you up in his arms and the two practically sprinted inside.

Mary was frozen for a moment as they ran past her back into the house. Y/N had looked rather ill at dinner, but surely she was just overwhelmed. Mary’s thoughts went to Lavinia and an icy fear ran through her.

“Somebody help!” Tom shouted upon getting inside. Servants gathered around with a chorus of gasps and Sybil began giving them orders.

“We should take her upstairs,” She instructed. “Thomas, fetch me a bowl of cold water and a cloth. Mr. Carson, try and fetch Dr. Clarkson.”

“Yes, my lady.” Mr. Carson’s eyes followed Tom and the worry in his expression was clear.

“What’s happening?” Matthew appeared from the dining room, the rest of the party soon filing out behind him.

“Y/N’s fainted.” Mary said solemnly, taking her fiance’s hand. “Sybil says she has a fever.” Everyone watched as Tom carried you up the stairs, Cora making her way to the front of the group.

“My girl.” She exclaimed, following Sybil and Tom. Abigail turned to her sister.

“And here I thought Irish women were supposed to have thick skins.” Mary would have lunged at them had Matthew not stood in her way.

“Just ignore them darling.” He sighed.

Upstairs was a flurry of movement from servants bringing Sybil supplies. They’d instructed Tom to the room you were meant to stay in and Sybil helped him remove the heavy dress from your frame. Male servants hesitated as they came in. Even catching a glimpse of you in your undergarments was a scandal. Tom seemed to notice their surprised stares and shifted so that he was shielding you from their view.

“Don’t just stand there.” Sybil exclaimed. “Help Thomas get the ice water and someone find out if Mr. Carson has contacted Dr. Clarkson.”

“Come on, love.” Tom brought your fingers up to his lips. “Open your eyes for me.” He couldn’t breathe. It was like the rest of the world was a complete blur. People bustled around as shapes around him. The only clear thing was you. The panicked tears came without warning. “Please, love. Please wake up.”

The first thing you heard was his voice.

#tom branson x reader #downton abbey imagines #downton #sybil crawley #Mary Crawley #tom branson #allen leech

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theculturedmarxist · 4 years

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By Gary Brecher.Republished from the Radio War Nerd subscriber newsletter. Subscribe to Radio War Nerd co-hosted with Mark Ames for podcasts, newsletters and more!. Posted with THE EXILED.

There’s a gigantic, well-organized, extremely violent fascist group with tens of thousands of active members in Germany right now.

And nobody notices.

You’d think all the fascist-hunters would have sniffed it out by now, but it goes right by them as if these guys were invisible.

Which is odd, because this group is not trying to hide, or pretending to be harmless. They’re not shy about it, and it’s not just talk. They have quite a record. They’ve been rampaging for decades, and if anything they’re stronger now than they used to be. They’re closely linked to CIA and Nazi groups; they’re very busy beating, burning, and murdering minorities of all kinds, and boast quite openly about hating literally everyone who’s not a member of their own ethnic group and sect, even suggesting that members go on “hunting expeditions” against minorities which they’d already almost wiped out back in the 20th century.

This group recently held massive, open rallies in the cities of Germany, and it’s only in the last few years that the government has even attempted to ban the public symbols and salutes of this massive fascist group.

There’s something grotesquely comic about this. We have a swarm of fascist-spotters who’ve spent the last few decades waiting for fascism to emerge in Germany when it was marching around, shouting at the top of its lungs, beating minorities, celebrating genocide, and supporting ethnic cleansing right in front of their damn faces.

I’m talking about the Gray Wolves. And I defy anyone to find a more successful, out-front, no-kidding, massive, effective, ruthless fascist organization anywhere in the world. They’re adapting quickly, and even have their own fierce Wiki defenders.

Here are a few highlights from their long, successful career:

In 1978, Gray Wolves started pogroms against Alevi Kurds in Maras (also known as Kahramanmaras) in South-Central Anatolia.

Location is important here. Maras is due north of Aleppo across the Syrian border, NW of Kobane, and above all just up the road from Gazantiep. Gazantiep is a key city for right-wing Turkish nationalists, a city dominated not just by people who are ethnically Turkish but who identify as rightwing Turks of the most intensely nationalist kind. This kind of population lives in a state of siege, glories in that feeling, and is almost always willing to lash out against the sea of minorities they imagine surrounding them. That’s why Gazantiep keeps making the news as a nice convenient safe house for IS and their Turkish allies, some of whom killed 57 Kurds at a wedding in 2016.

It’s important to emphasize that people who are ethnically Turkish are not a bloc. Some of the bravest people on earth, languishing in the Turkish state’s prisons or buried in unmarked graves, are proudly Turkish by ancestry.

And then there are the young men who join the Gray Wolves. Those men are murderous fascists, and it’s cowardice to pretend not to see that.

Violence by these men against minorities has never stopped, but it hit its peak — more like the highest peak in a mountain-range of a graph — in 1978, before the Anglosphere had any handle on sectarian violence in the Middle East.

The target of the Gray Wolves in Maras was a double minority: Alevi Kurds. Alevi Muslims are often considered heretics by Salafists and other Sunni fundamentalists. They were massacred with impunity in Ottoman pogroms. Erdogan’s AK Party, which very much wants to revive Ottoman practice and Ottoman borders, openly considers the Alevi heretics fair game for the Gray Wolves’s death squads.

Those who were killed in 1978 were not only Alevi, but Kurds — and the Turkish state, which embraced Wilsonian ethnic nationality with a vengeance, a terrible vengeance, hates Kurds simply for being Kurds. So the Kurdish Alevi of Maras were a natural target twice-over.

The campaign against them built up for weeks, as pogroms usually do, with the unpredictable pace partly a result of working with unstable, violent mobs but also part of a strategy to terrorize the victims, who never know when things will go from bad (very bad) to even-worse.

The details of the massacre are very typical, sickening but not unusual:

Witnesses to the massacre.

Seyho Demir: “The Maras Police Chief at the time was Abdülkadir Aksu, Minister of the Interior in the last AKP government. The massacre was organised by MIT (the Turkish secret service), the Nationalist Movement Party (MHP) and the Islamists together… As soon as I heard about the massacre, I went to Maras. In the morning I went to Maras State Hospital. There I met a nurse I knew…When she saw me, she was surprised: ‘Seyho, where have you come from? They are killing everyone here. They have taken at least ten lightly-wounded people from the hospital downstairs and killed them.’ This was done under the control of the head physician of the Maras State Hospital. Everyone knows that such a big massacre cannot be carried out without state involvement. In the Yörükselim neighbourhood they cut a pregnant woman open with a bayonet. They took out the eight-month foetus, shouting “Allah Allah” and hung it from an electricity pole with a hook. The pictures of that savagery were published in the newspapers that day. The lawyer Halil Güllüoglu followed the Maras massacre case. The files he had were never made public. He was killed for pursuing the case anyway. Let them make those files public, then the role of the state will become clear.”

Meryem Polat: “They started in the morning, burning all the houses, and continued into the afternoon. A child was burned in a boiler. They sacked everything. We were in the water in the cellar, above us were wooden boards. The boards were burning and falling on top of us. My house was reduced to ashes. We were eight people in the cellar; they did not see us and left.”(EZÖ/TK/AG)

All accounts agree that the massacre not only happened with state collusion but state encouragement. No one was punished. Many were, in fact, promoted, and hold high positions in Erdogan’s government today.

That’s the pattern here: the Gray Wolves as the street-fighting wing of the state. The parallel is closer to Indonesian Islamists in 1965 than the SA in 1930s Germany, but so many people have trouble taking any fascism clearly unless it can be soldered to 1930s Germany that I may as well make the analogy for, as they say in the academic biz, heuristic purposes.

The Gray Wolves ideology is very widespread and acceptable in many (not all) communities in Turkey. This leads to a lot of more or less lone-wolf killings (as it were), as when a soldier who was a member of the Gray Wolves killed a fellow soldier for being an Armenian a few years ago.

Older readers might remember the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II back in 1979.

The assassin was one Mehmet Ali Agca, a longtime member of the Gray Wolves.

He had a track record of killing leftists and other enemies on behalf of the “Idealists” (seriously, that’s what the Wolves call themselves):

“The weapon used in the Feb. 1, 1979, murder of a Turkish newspaper editor, Abdi Ipekci, for which Mr. Agca was convicted, was supplied by a member of the Idealist Clubs, according to the Turkish authorities. Other members helped Mr. Agca escape from prison. Still others prepared a false passport for him. And on the day of the killing, he went to the National Action Party offices.”

Note the familiar pattern: Ali Agca kills a leftist editor who’s annoying the Turkish state, gets caught, and manages to escape with a lot of help from Turkish intelligence.

They hardly bothered to hide their collusion in the escape. The Turkish state was killing a lot of leftists, a lot of intellectuals, a lot of minorities — the usual suspects for classic fascists like Ali Agca.

But as you older readers might recall, nobody in the media talked about Ali Agca as a Turkish fascist. He was, for Cold-War purposes, smeared as a Bulgarian agent.

The “Bulgarian connection” never made much sense, but it served the US/UK/Israel/Saudi intelligence agencies’ PR purposes. Remember, Turkey is NATO — very, very NATO.

NATO might survive the loss of many other small European states, but it could not survive losing Turkey. So the US/UK state will always side with the Turkish state and help them cover up fascist atrocities, blaming them on the Soviets until those useful patsies took their final dive.

Blaming Bulgaria rather than the obvious suspects, the Gray Wolves to which this thug Ali Agca had been murderously loyal all his life, was especially bizarre since there was an obvious sectarian motive: the Gray Wolves hate Christians, as they hate all other minorities, ethnic or religious, and make a point of staging provocations at all occasions when the remnants of what was once a huge Christian minority dare to show themselves in public.

Orthodox Christians are the Wolves’ preferred prey. They prefer not to do anything too bloody to high-profile Western targets like a pope, but when you squirt sectarian hate into weak minds and itchy trigger fingers for generations, some of the lads are going to pick the wrong victim.

Perhaps that’s what happened when Ali Agca went from NATO-approved murderer of leftists and Kurds, to shooting the Pope. We’ll never know, because it was quickly twisted into the ridiculous “Bulgaria did it” farce by the guys who enjoy a few cocktails with their opposite numbers from Ankara at all those NATO conferences.

And we’ll never know how much daily violence this massive fascist gang inflicts. Occasionally the Turkish state gets irritated enough to send a suicide bomber or two to kill Kurdish peace demonstrators, as it did in Ankara in 2015, killing 86 demonstrators and maiming a hundred more. But that state, our NATO ally, supports a whole madhouse of Arab and Turkmen jihadis as well as its own stable of disposable Gray Wolves assassins, so it may never be clear whether it was the Wolves, precisely, who pressed the detonators.

But it’s a statistical certainty that somewhere along the long line from greenlighting an attack like this and sending red-hot ball bearings splattering into the bodies of teenagers with peace banners, many of the men involved were members in good standing of the good ol’ Wolves.

Violence by the Gray Wolves is a constant in Turkey, usually unreported — especially now that Erdogan’s party has imprisoned thousands of journalists and intellectuals, and terrorized the rest into quietism or collusion. We may never know how many Kurds are murdered daily in the southeast of Anatolia, because no one who matters, in the Turkish state or its many powerful allies in the West (e.g. the Michael Flynn story) want you to know about it. It’s rare for those stories to make the news at all, but God knows you can’t forget them once you’ve read them.

In fact the Gray Wolves are going mainstream, and winning a lot of votes.

Fascism is mainstream in Turkey, getting more mainstream all the time — and has been since the violent dissolution of the Ottoman Empire. The Gray Wolves have quite a pedigree, a classic fascist genealogy.

Fascism is often strongest in the ruins of a defeated empire, and that was the situation in the former Ottoman Empire in the 1920s. The Empire had once ruled from Central Europe to Iraq, flowing and ebbing over the centuries (with a peak in the 16th century). At its peak, it was a fearsome conquering force.

There’s a great novel by the Albanian writer Ismail Kadare detailing the unstoppable waves of special forces that the Empire could unleash on strongpoints that held out against conquest.

The Ottomans took a long time to fall from that 16th c. peak. They were still around, partly because Britain and France always supported them against the bogeyman of the late Victorian Era, the Russian Threat.

Propped up by the two big powers of Europe, the Empire managed to survive a coup in 1908 by young officers who would go on to a career in defeat and genocide, because they guessed wrong on which side would win the oncoming Great War.

The Young Turks, as these officers were called, sided with the up-and-coming, efficient military of the neighboring empire: Germany. They guessed wrong, but not before they managed to exterminate the harmless Armenians who had recently been patronized as Turkey’s “model minority” for their docility. And this genocide went so well, so quietly, that Hitler, contemplating the genocide of the European Jews, allegedly demanded of any squeamish nay-sayers “Who remembers the Armenians?”

You get a lot of horrible echoes like that in this story. At any rate, no one cared to remember or notice the extermination of the Armenians, but the winners at Versailles were typically vengeful against the former Ottoman Empire — not by any means for wiping out the Armenians, but for being German allies, and losing.

Britain and France, now joined by the US, were as vengeful toward the former Empire as they had been lenient during its bloody final years. Ottoman rule over non-Turkish territory was erased. For a few years there was some doubt whether even Anatolia would remain a Turkish state.

Then, as most of you know, came Mustafa Kemal, soon to become Kemal Ataturk, a hero of Gallipoli (a Turkish/Ottoman victory that stood out proudly in the great defeat).

Ataturk was a typical elite young officer of the early 20th c. Those were very dangerous people, those young officers. Often impressive individuals, but completely ruthless and immensely fond of violence. That goes for all of them, right across the Continent — Hell, right across the world.

Ataturk formed a nucleus of former officers from the Great War. (Again, the international echoes are clear enough; suffice to say that these guys were the most dangerous, formidable demographic in a few generations, perhaps since the emergence of the Napoleonic elite.) They fought well, and then they went about making Turkey a monoethnic state, without mercy.

For a while, that state was professedly secular, but since it had already killed or driven out most religious minorities, the monoethnic state became, under the AK party, avowedly mono-sectarian as well.

The current chant of the Wolves many, many supporters is “My heart is Turkish and my soul is Muslim!” You must be both: ethnically Turkish and orthodox, Sunni Muslim as well. No mercy for anyone who fails either test, which means that a lot of Kurds, a lot of Alevis, a lot of secular Leftists, end up dead or in prison.

The evolution of the Gray Wolves is a classic fascist Genesis story, and the behavior of its hundreds of thousands (perhaps millions) of supporters is classic fascist violence. Why don’t more people notice that?

I hate to speculate, because the range of possible answers all boils down to cowardice, conformity, and the odd Euro-centrism one finds in the strangest places. They don’t get noticed because they’re not European, maybe? Fascism of the 1930s was European, and that’s the only kind amateurs notice? Odd, because Turkey is European enough to be the cornerstone of NATO.

This would not be the first time that the interests of what you could call the NATO Deep State aligned all too perfectly with the more gullible pockets of the Left. In fact, it’s very closely related to the phenomenon of not noticing, or trying very hard not to notice, the sectarian ultra-violence of the Syrian “rebels.” But this time, since Turkey is a NATO ally, it’s the violence of the state and its fascist proxies that is ignored. I struggle to come up with any other reason that the Gray Wolves get so little attention.

All I know is that we have a massive, ultra-violent, highly effective, classically fascist movement killing minorities every single day, and there’s an odd silence about it.

I would love to ask one of the innumerable online fascist hunters why they hunt stray curs and slink silently past the cold stare of the Gray Wolves. Perhaps it’s not so much any of the excuses I suggested above; perhaps some hunters just prefer smaller, easy prey to the real thing.

Gary Brecher is the nom de guerre-nerd of John Dolan. Buy his book The War Nerd Iliad. Hear him read his comic memoir Pleasant Hell in audiobook format.

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supernaturalwritingbunker · 4 years

Text

Published Before Editing-Dean Winchester-Chapter 1

Summary: (Proposal AU) Dean Winchester, aspiring author and assistant to one of the best Editor-in-Chiefs in the country, knew it wouldn’t be an easy job when he applied. But here he is, years later, tasked with one job from his boss that wasn’t listed anywhere in the initial job description. His morals, family relationships and his career are all out to be tested. Will he pass? Will he fail? What will the oldest Winchester son do?

Warnings: Language, AU, John and Mary are Alive. Mary’s Mom, Deanna, is Alive. No Hunting. Boss/Employee Relationship.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Emily Morgan (OC)

Words: 3,844

Tag List: @elskinner45 @you-a-southpaw-doll @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @jai-lynne-unknown @akshi8278

A/N: Here is our first series on this blog. If you like it, please leave some feedback so we know if we should continue it or not. I know there has been a lot of AU’s for Dean with this movie but we wanted to do our own. Change it up.

To Be Tagged: Comment, Message, Submit an Ask

Third Person POV

You know when you wake up in the morning you sometimes get a gut feeling of how the day would go? Well, this morning, no one had the feeling that today would be unlike any other. 37 year old Canadian-American , Emily Morgan is doing her normal routine of getting up at 5 AM and immediately exercising.

Today, she’s on her exercise bike in the middle of her New York apartment, reading a long manuscript she was given the other day. Flipping the pages of the manuscript, she reads through it, and pedals on the stationary bike, part of her imagining she’s on a leisurely bike ride through Paris.

***

On the complete opposite side of town, Dean Winchester, however, is curled in his blankets, not wanting to get out of the warm comfort he was in. He opens his eyes and looks around for a brief moment, glancing around.

Flipping over to lay on his stomach with his blanket out and on top of the covers, he closes his eyes once again before he can wake up fully. Relaxing against his mattress with his pillow bunched up under between his arm and his head, he lets out a soft noise of content.

His alarm isn’t blaring in his ear as it usually would at this hour in the morning so he tries to get some more sleep. Right away, his eyes snap back open when he realizes the sunlight is hitting him in the face.

He glances at the clock on his night stand to find the red numbers of 12:00 blinking at him. He grabs his watch to check the actual time.

“Shit!” He says, throwing his watch back onto the stand.

The time is 6:16 AM and he has to be at the office at 7 AM or his boss, Emily, will probably fire him, despite working as her assistant for years. He jumps up from his bed and runs to his closet, hoping he still has a suit clean.

***

Emily finished her exercises not too long ago and she just got out of a nice hot shower. She doesn’t have a care in the world. Being the Executive Editor-in-Chief for Singer Publishing, she shows up when she wants to. And that time is always 7 AM. Not a minute before. Not a minute after.

***

Dean rushes out of his apartment building in his suit, which he’s thankful that it’s 100% clean, and practically runs into on-coming traffic. Cars honking are heard behind him but he doesn’t pay any mind to the sounds. He has to get her, his boss, coffee for the morning, otherwise, she will not be a happy camper.

***

Emily is in her nicely stocked kitchen, eating a small bowl of oatmeal. She’s dressed in a nice, light blouse, and dark blazer, with a skirt to match. You can tell she had it dry cleaned and pressed. On the counter in front of her lies the manuscript she was reading while exercising earlier in the morning.

She takes the last bite of her breakfast before putting it in the sink, deciding to clean it when she gets home. That’s a problem for her afternoon self to worry about.

***

Dean runs into the Starbucks closest to the publishing building. Each and every single week, Monday through Friday, and a few weekends, he’s here getting coffee for Emily so much that the baristas know him by now. He gets the same exact thing and never misses a day...except today where he is a little late.

Groaning to himself, he dares to sneak a glance at his watch after finding a long line ahead of him.

“Dean!” He hears from the front of the coffee shop. “Hey.”

His eyes snap up to see Jo, the barista that always takes his order. She’s holding up a small drink carrier with two coffees inside. He gently pushes past everyone in line and lays down a few dollars on the counter before taking the cups.

“Literally saved my life. Thank you.” He says, softly, before rushing toward the door. “Thank you!”

Jo smiles to herself and bites her lip, checking out the handsome man in the dark blue suit. Dean runs from the shop down the sidewalk, trying to make it to the building in time. The sign for Singer Publishing enters his eyesight and he runs into traffic again, causing car owners to lay on their horns.

He ignores them completely as he runs around another man to get in the front door. Trying to use all his speed but keep the coffees in his hand, he rushes down the hallway toward the elevator. One starts closing causing him to hit the door on the way in, almost slamming into other employees.

He lets out a deep breath before speaking.

“Everyone okay?”

“Yeah.” One answers, looking up at him.

“Me too.” He nods and takes another breath.

***

Emily, with her purse and cell phone, is walking down the street at her normal pace. Her phone starts ringing and she smiles slightly before answering it.

“Hello, Ash? How’s my favorite writer?” She pauses to listen to him as she glances around the street. “Of course you’ve been thinking about our talk because you know I’m right.” She says, crossing the road safely. “People in this country are busy, broke and hate to read. They need someone to say, ‘Hey! Don’t watch Dr. Sexy MD tonight. Read a book! Read Ash’s book!’ And that person is Oprah.”

***

Dean makes it to his floor with only about 5 minutes to spare. He puts Emily’s coffee in his right hand with his in the other to make sure he doesn’t spill it. The elevator doors open and he rushes to the right side of the hall.

“Cutting it close.” Amelia says, seeing him rush in while she’s on the phone.

Never stopping his steps, he speaks.

“One of those mornings.” He glances over his shoulder at her. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

Before he can stop, the mail carrier backs up into Dean’s tracks causing the assistant to slam into his back, crushing Emily’s extremely hot coffee against his own chest. ‘Ooohhhh….’ is heard around the office at the sight.

“Sweet...” Dean calls out, angrily. “Jesus!”

“Sorry.” The mail carrier mumbles as he pulls his cart away.

“Rub some dirt on it, brother.” Someone calls out to him.

He takes in a deep breath and rushes down the aisle. This day is already shaping up to be one helluva rough one. That’s for sure. And, as a Winchester, he knows rough days like the back of his hands.

***

Emily has made it to the building, still on the phone with Ash.

“Ash, the truth is all A-plus novelists do publicity.” She says, walking to the elevator and waits. “Roth, McCourt, Russo and..”

Ash cuts her off in the middle of her sentence.

“Ash! Can I tell you what else they have in common? A Pulitzer.” She cuts back in, still talking into her phone as she stares at the elevator doors.

***

Dean, having already taken off his suit jacket, searches for his friend among the sea of co-workers and cubicles. When he finally finds the person he’s looking for, he quickens his steps.

“I need the shirt off your back. Literally.” He looks down at Garth.

“You’re kidding, right?” He says, looking up at Dean, noticing the large coffee stain on his white button-up.

“Yankees, Boston, this Tuesday, two company seats for your shirt.” Dean proposes. “You have five seconds to decide. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”

Garth stares at him for a moment, not knowing if he is 100% serious.

***

Amelia’s laughing with a co-worker when she hears the familiar sounds of heels against the floor. Her head snaps up and her eyes widen.

“Shit.” She whispers before leaning down to her computer.

She opens up the chatroom that contains everyone in the office, besides Emily.

‘It’s Here.’ she sends, warning all her colleagues.

Emily walks further into the offices and everyone, one by one, looks up. As she walks by their desks, she hears a small bubble pop as their message comes up. She doesn’t think anything of it. The sound is normal for her office, even if she doesn’t know why. Or that she’s, literally, the elephant in the room.

She glances around and hears people talking on the phone or filling out paperwork. This, right here, is exactly what she wants to see early in the morning. People actually doing their damn jobs. She opens up her office door to see her assistant, Dean, standing on the other side of the room, holding her coffee cup.

“Hello, Boss.” He says, holding out the cup. “You have a conference call in 30 minutes.”

Without stopping her footsteps, she takes the cup and walks to her desk.

“Yes. About the marketing of the spring books. I know.” She sits down in her chair.

“Staff meeting at 9:00.” Dean continues as he walks closer to her desk.

Emily turns her chair around so she’s facing her desk. “Did you call...What’s his name? With...with the weird scar on his arm.”

“Cain.” He informs her.

“Yes, Cain.” She nods, putting her cup down on her desk.

“Yes. I did. I told him that if he doesn’t get his manuscript in on time you won’t give him a release date.” He nods, passing her some books that she needs. “Also your immigration lawyer called. He said it’s imperative…”

She cuts him off as she looks at her sticky notes. “Cancel the call, push the meeting to tomorrow, keep the lawyer on the sheets. Get a hold of PR, have them start drafting a press release. Ash is doing Oprah.”

“Wow.” Dean raises his eyebrows slightly. “Nicely done.”

“If I want your praise, I will ask for it.” She bites out, grabbing her coffee.

Dean ignores her comment and begins walking to the door. Emily turns in her seat toward her computer before glancing at her cup. She raises an eyebrow and turns back toward her desk.

“Who is...Who is Jo? And why does she want me to call her?” She asks, looking at her assistant.

Dean stops in his tracks and looks at her with slight shock written all over his face. She turns the cup so he can read the writing on the side.

“Well, that was originally my cup.” He states.

“And I’m drinking your coffee, why?” She asks, biting her lip slightly, trying to stop a smile.

“Because your coffee spilled.” He admits.

She nods as she looks at the cup and takes a drink. Taking a hesitant sip, she reads the side of the cup, realizing it’s her exact drink as well.

“So you drink caramel light soy lattes?” She raises an eyebrow.

“I do. It’s like Christmas in a cup.” He says.

“Is that a coincidence?” She leans back in her seat slightly.

“Incredibly, it is.” He says as the phone rings. He walks over to it as he continues to speak. “I wouldn’t drink the same coffee that you drink just in case yours spilled. That would be pathetic.”

He picks up the phone. “Morning, Miss Morgan’s office. Hey, Dick.”

Dean looks up at his boss to see her gesture to Dick’s office before turning in her seat toward her computer.

“Actually, we’re headed to your office right now.” Dean says before hanging up. “Why are we headed to Dick’s office?”

Emily just turns in her seat and kisses her teeth with a smirk. Dean does the same before rolling his eyes and walking out of her office. As soon as he exits her eyeline, he runs over to his desk and types in the group chat.

‘THE WITCH IS ON HER BROOM.’

The sound of bubble’s popping is heard throughout the office once again. People start rushing to act like they are working as Emily walks out of her office with her coffee cup.

Dean jogs over to her and begins walking her speed.

“Have you finished the manuscript I gave you?” He asks, softly.

“I read a few pages. I wasn’t that impressed.” She says, not caring.

“Can I say something?” He glances at her.

“No.” She states.

He starts talking anyway. “I’ve read thousands of manuscripts. This is the only one I’ve given you. There’s an incredible novel in there. The kind of novel you publish.”

She glances to her left to see Garth stop in the aisle near them with a large coffee stain on his shirt. Either Dean spilled his office on him or...he switched shirts, and Emily is going with the latter.

“Wrong. And I do think you order the same coffee as I do just in case you spill, which is, in fact, pathetic.” She says, looking forward again.

“Or impressive.” Dean tries.

“I’d be impressed if you didn’t spill it in the first place.” She stops walking as she gets to Dick’s office. “Remember, you’re a prop.”

“Won’t say a word.” Dean mumbles before walking to the office before her.

He opens the door and walks in, making sure to keep it open for her. Dick looks up from his laptop with a slight smirk as he watches Emily walk in. She nods toward him with a small smile as she tips her coffee cup to him.

“Our fearless leader and her liege. Please, do come in.” He says, looking back down at his computer.

Emily glances around the office before noticing something new in the office.

“Beautiful breakfront. Is it new?” She asks, knowing damn well it is.

She walks over and gently runs her hand against it.

“It is English Regency Eqyptian Revival, built in the 1800s…” Dick gloats. “...but, yes, it is new to my office.”

Emily leans against the breakfront and sighs.

“Witty.” She whispers. “Dick, I’m letting you go.”

Dean and Dick both turn their heads to look at her.

“Pardon?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I asked you over a dozen times to get Ash to do Oprah and you didn’t do it.” She looks up at him. “You’re fired.”

Dean turns toward the office door and closes it, not wanting anyone to hear what is going on.

“I have told you that is impossible!” Dick tries to say. “Ash hasn’t done an interview in 20 years!”

“That is interesting, because I just got off the phone with him and he is in.” She smirks slightly.

“Excuse me?” He says, shocked.

“You didn’t even call him, did you?” She questions.

“But…”

“I know, I know...Ash can be a little scary to deal with...For you.” She says, walking toward his desk. “Now, I will give you two months to find another job. And then we can tell everyone you resigned, okay?”

She doesn’t let him answer. Her question being one of the rhetorical style, and more of a demand disguised as a question. She takes a manuscript off his desk and hands it to Dean before walking out the door.

“What’s his twenty?” Emily whispers to Dean as they exit the office.

Dean glances over his shoulder, watching Dick pace for a moment before answering.

“He’s moving.” He continues walking as he speaks. “He has crazy eyes.”

“Don’t do it, Dick. Don’t do it.” She mumbles so only Dean can hear.

Dick runs out of his office and yells to her.

“You poisonous bitch!”

This causes Emily to stop in her tracks and sigh. Everyone in the office snaps their heads up toward the commotion.

“You can’t fire me!” Dick continues as Emily turns around and Dean leans against someone’s desk to watch. “You don’t think I see what you’re doing here? Sandbagging me on this Oprah thing so that you can look good to the board? Because you are threatened by me! And you are a monster!”

Emily shakes her head, not really caring about what he is saying about her. “Dick, stop…”

“Just because you have no semblance of life outside of this office, you think you can treat all of us like your own personal slaves.” He continues, loving the attention now. “You know what? I feel sorry for you. Because you know what you’re gonna have on your deathbed? Nothing and no one!”

Emily steps toward him and takes in a deep breath.

“Listen carefully, Dick. I didn’t fire you because I feel threatened. No. I fired you because you’re lazy, entitled, imcompetent and you spend more time cheating on your wife than you do in your office. And if you say another word, Dean here is gonna have you thrown out, okay?” She asks, causing Dean’s eyebrows to raise slightly. “Another word and you’re going out of here with an armed escort. Dean will film it with his camera phone and he’ll put it on that Internet site. What was it?”

She looks at him, wanting to actually know the site’s name.

“Youtube?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Exactly. Is that what you want?” She asks, but he doesn’t answer. “Didn’t think so. I have work to do.”

She turns around and starts walking down toward her office, Dean trailing closely behind her.

“Have security take his breakfront and put it in my conference room.” She looks straight ahead.

“Will do.” Dean nods.

“I need you this weekend to help review his files and his manuscript.” She states, not letting him say otherwise.

“This weekend?” He asks, stopping outside her office.

She stops in front of him and raises an eyebrow. “You have a problem with that?”

“No. I...just my grandmother’s 90th birthday so I was gonna go home and…” She rolls her eyes and walks into her office. “It’s fine. I’ll cancel it. You’re saving me from a weekend of misery, so it’s...Good talk, yeah…”

He sighs and walks to his desk. He sits down and immediately calls his mother. He informs her of the news that was just dropped on him and he sighs.

“I know, I know. Okay, tell Gammy I’m sorry. What…” His mother cuts him off. “Mom. What do you want me to tell you? She’s making me work the weekend. No, I’m not...No...I’ve worked too hard for this promotion to throw it all away.”

Emily walks out of her office toward his desk.

“I’m sure that Dad is pissed but we take all of our submissions around here seriously.” He continues talking to his mother. “We’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”

He hangs up the phone after quickly coming up with a lie. He looks up at her to see her staring down at him with her hand on her hip.

“Was that your family?” She asks.

“Yes.” He nods slightly.

“They tell you to quit?” She asks again.

“Every single day.” He says, grabbing the phone as it rings. “Miss Morgan’s office. Yeah. Okay. Alright.” He hangs up and looks up at her. “Singer and Harvelle want to see you upstairs immediately.”

She growls slightly and sighs.

“Okay. Come get me in ten minutes. We’ve got a lot to do.” She says, before walking toward the elevators.

Dean glares at her back before picking up the ringing phone once again.

Emily walks into the lobby of the offices upstairs and toward the big boss’ doors.

“Good morning, Miss Morgan.” The receptionist says happily, but she just ignores her.

She opens up the door and walks in with a smile on her face.

“Bobby, Ellen.”

“Congratulations on the Oprah thing.” Bobby nods toward her.

“Thank you, thank you.” She nods, standing beside the chairs in front of his desk. “This isn’t about my second raise, is it? Just kidding.”

“Emily, do you remember when we agreed you wouldn’t go to the Frankfurt Book Fair because you weren’t allowed out of the country while your visa application was being processed?” Bobby asks, laying down a paper in his hand.

“Yes. I do.” She nods.

“And...You went to Frankfurt.” He states.

“Yes. We were going to lose DeLillo to Hellhound. So...really didn’t have a choice, did I?” She giggles slightly.

“Seems the United States Government doesn’t care who published Don DeLillo.” Bobby leans forward on his desk.

“We just spoke to your immigration attorney.” Ellen speaks up for the first time.

“Great. So, we’re all good?” Emily smiles slightly. “Everything good?”

“Emily, your visa application has been denied.” Bobby says, reading the paper.

Emily’s eyes widen. “What?”

“And you are being deported.” Bobby continues.

“Deported?!”

“And there was also some paperwork you didn’t fill out in time.” He finishes.

“Come on. Come on!” Emily scoffs. “It’s not like I’m even an immigrant! I’m from Canada, for Christ’s sake. There’s gotta be...something we can do.”

“We can reapply, but unfortunately you have to leave the country for at least a year.” Ellen reveals to the woman.

“Okay...Okay well, that’s not ideal, but I can…” She thinks. “I can manage everything from Toronto.” She gestures to the computer.

“No.” Ellen shakes her head.

“With videoconferencing. Internet.” Emily continues anyway.

“Unfortunately, if you’re deported you can’t work for an American Company.” Ellen informs her.

“Untill this is resolved, I’m going to turn operations over to Dick Roman.” Bobby says.

“Dick Roman? The guy I just fired?” She asks, pointing over her shoulder.

“We need an Editor-in- Chief. He is the only person in the building who has enough experience.” Bobby states.

“You cannot be serious.” Emily sighs. “I beg of you.”

“Emily. We are desperate to have you stay. If there was any way, any way at all we could make this work, we’d be doing it…”

“There is no way...I am begging you.” Emily puts her hands together.

“No.” Bobby looks up as the door opens. “Excuse me, we’re in a meeting.”

Emily glances over her shoulder to see Dean poking his head in.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

“What?” Emily practically snaps.

“Mary from Ms. Winfrey’s office called. She’s on the line.” Dean lies.

“I know.” She sighs and nods.

“She’s on hold. She needs to speak with you. I told her you were otherwise engaged.” Dean says. “She insisted...so.”

Emily opens her mouth to tell him to leave when one of the words he says plays through her mind.

‘Come here.’ She mouths causing Dean to raise an eyebrow. ‘Come here!’

He takes the few steps in before closing the door behind himself. He walks in before standing in the middle of the room, confused. She smirks to herself slightly before looking at Bobby and Ellen.

“Gentleman, Ma’am, I understand. I understand the predicament that we are in…” She starts before backing up to stand beside her assistant. “I think there’s something that you should know. We’re getting married.”

“Who is getting married?” Dean whispers as he looks at her then at Bobby.

“You and I.” She smiles up at him.

He stares at the big boss’ with slight shock, not knowing what to say. Dean Winchester...Is marrying his boss?!

#dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester love story #dean winchester imagines #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x oc #dean winchester x original character #dean winchester x original female character #Proposal AU #the proposal

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path-of-my-childhood · 5 years

Text

Lana Wilson Wants to Make Another T.Swift Documentary in 50 Years

By: Paige Skinner for Teen Vogue Date: February 11th 2020

Lana Wilson, the director of the film, tells us what it was like to capture the 30-year-old superstar throughout all aspects of her life.

What interesting scenes didn’t make it into the film? The main thing was really more time in the studio, more songwriting stuff. It was so hard to whittle that stuff down because I loved it so much, and I think it’s so rare that you get to see one of the greatest songwriters of all time actually having ideas and developing those ideas into songs from start to finish. I love watching it because I think you get to know Taylor so well through seeing that process how she channels her life into her songs. We could have had a whole hour with just songwriting stuff and ultimately had to chop it down. No one had ever filmed her in the studio before, which made it extra special.

How did you approach the Kim Kardashian and Kanye West drama? These were a couple of key moments in Taylor’s life, but I was less interested in Kanye West and making any evaluative judgements about it than I was on how it affected Taylor, as someone who cared about what people thought. For instance, when she went to the Video Music Awards in 2009, that night started out like a fairy-tale and then it ended with her standing alone on stage with an entire theater of people’s boos. And I remember when she told me about that aspect of the story, it was something that I hadn’t heard before. Hearing that helped me understand why that event had such a big impact on her. It’s not about Kanye. It’s about how if you’re a 19-year-old performing artist who loves applause, a room full of booing people can be a really devastating experience.

How did you go about shooting the big political scene? What was the atmosphere in the room like? Taylor and I had been talking a bunch about the political stuff and how she was thinking about doing that. And I had told her, "If something comes up, even if it’s really last minute and for whatever reason I’m not in the room, please try to film it with a cellphone or get someone on your team or anyone to pick up any camera that they have." So that scene was actually filmed by someone on her team who was there because I wasn’t there at that moment. They filmed it and I got the footage immediately afterward and I can tell you when I saw the footage, I immediately thought this is going to be the most powerful scene in the movie. I thought that not just because of the politics - although that’s a part of it - but I think because it’s a scene where this woman is really coming into her own. I think we all have those moments in our lives where we disagree with the people who love us the most in the world. And you say, ‘I hear you, your point makes sense, but I don’t totally agree and I’m going to have to do it my own way this time.’ I related to it really powerfully as this incredible coming-of-age moment. That’s how I saw it in that scene.

You didn’t interview anybody besides Taylor. Was that a conscious decision? Absolutely. We thought a lot about point-of-view in the editing room. We experimented with different edits and overall, I really wanted this film to feel like [an] exploration of Taylor’s inner life and ended up using her voice and personal experiences and that’s what got the audience closest to her.

What did you learn about Taylor’s space in pop culture? God, so many things. I think one is that there’s no songwriter like her on earth. Another, I love watching a female artist at the top of her game be able to have ideas and then they just materialize - like that scene in the film where she describes the music video idea and we cut to what the video ends up being. I love just watching her creativity in action on all fronts, which I think is really special. But then on a bigger level, I think just because Taylor is a celebrity doesn’t mean she doesn’t deal with so many of the same hurts and feelings that we all go through. We’re all going through the world trying to feel confident in ourselves, and I think watching what Taylor has gone through in the last few years can be really inspiring for anyone who feels like their problems are bigger than that. She went through some hard times and then she stood up and became the person she wanted to be, and so I think it’s really special for young people to be able to see they can do that for themselves even if it’s on a much smaller scale than her celebrity.

What was it like talking to her about the sexual assault? Was that something she wanted to talk about or was it something you had to dig out of her? I remember when I did the first interview with her, to make it as comfortable as possible, we did an audio-only interview, which is something I do with subjects sometimes because you can relax in a different way when you’re not being filmed. So when I did that interview, it was just her and me with a recorder in a room and the sexual assault trial was something she hadn’t talked that much about. But once we started talking, it felt like so much stuff came out - maybe because she hadn’t done an interview in three years, it was so much she wanted to say. What I thought was so powerful about how she described the sexual assault trial was it was this experience that fundamentally changed her as a person and that was an experience that gave her perspective because she went in with seven witnesses, a photo, the best lawyers that money could buy. We did a Q&A after the Sundance premiere, and she said, "I had all the privilege in the world," and she won the trial, but it was still a totally dehumanizing and humiliating experience. I think after going through that process, she thought, "You know, what if someone didn’t have all these advantages that I had?" The scene ends with her saying, "What if you get raped and it’s your word against his?" And I think that’s why that experience changed her. It opened her up to how much worse things could have been, which is hard to imagine because it was already such a horrible thing to go through.

Did Taylor get final say on the editing of the documentary? The process was really set when we first met. We had talked about documentary film-making in general and storytelling and basically I started filming almost immediately and I filmed and filmed and filmed and then I went off and made a rough cut completely on my own and basically, Taylor gave feedback on a few cuts. I had a huge amount of creative freedom and I shaped the whole story with this amazing team of editors that I worked with and a producer and I would say that Taylor’s feedback was really excellent. She’s a great storyteller, so she has good ideas. There was never a moment when she said, ‘No, I don’t want to go there.’ That never happened. The only things we stayed away from were anything that could compromise her security. That was important, of course, and then her relationship. It was really important to her understandably to keep her relationship private, but we also wanted a way to indicate the significance in her life in the film and I think we found a way to do that, where you get a sense or what a big and positive role her relationship plays in her life but without ever seeing her boyfriend’s face.

Would you ever make another Taylor documentary in 10, 15 years? Absolutely, I think that would be amazing. I think it would be even cooler to make a documentary of her like 50 years from now. I really would love to see Taylor at age 80 playing stadium shows. I would just love to know what songs she’s writing then. That would be awesome.

#Lana Wilson #interview #about taylor #taylor swift #teen vogue #Taylor Swift: Miss Americana

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memoirsofabasicbitch · 3 years

Text

The thing is, I’m not entirely sure I remember how to dream. How to write. How to imagine anything independently of a world created by someone else, in their mind.

I’ve grown so used to hanging my dreams on what other people have created for me that I don’t know if that person is still in there.

That weird little girl, who peeled acorns for squirrels, and walked in circles over and over and over again on the roots of the big oak tree. She had a big imagination. She told herself all sorts of stories.

Was it just because I couldn’t play the other games? Too slow - reflexes and running. Too weak - climbing, throwing, running, playing.

(Or was it because I wasn’t allowed to — couldn’t — play those games? I have a few dim memories of trying to play and being sent away. They’re dim though. I stopped asking.)

Or was it simply that I was filling time? Waiting until I could go back into a world I could navigate a little better than the playground?

Sometimes, though, I was waiting. Hoping, really.

More than a few times.

A lot.

I hoped, I thought, maybe - maybe if I walk in the right way, I’ll hear the trees laughing, like Anne told Diana about. Maybe they’ll talk to me. Maybe a faerie will come creeping out from a little crevice and wave, winking. Maybe a squirrel will come crawling down the wrinkled bark while I watch, and take the little heap of acorn meat I’d left for him. Maybe there’s a tiny scrap of magic somewhere in the world that I just haven’t found yet.

I haven’t had dreams for a long time. That’s what happens when your dreams have expiration dates. I’ve already missed most of mine.

Never really even came close.

I had a “schedule” that makes me want to cry to think of it. Meet someone in college or shortly after. Get married by 25, so we would have a few years together after college. Have our first child by 27, because mom always said I should start having babies by 30 if I really wanted to have more than one and space them out.

I’m 28. I’ve never had a real relationship with anyone, romantic or platonic. I’ve never had a best friend who would place me on the same importance as I would them.

I have borderline personality disorder. I have adhd. I am on the autism spectrum. I have depression and anxiety so severe they cripple me. More than one of these things may be false. The symptoms are nearly indistinguishable once you have more than 2. No one will give me a straight answer, and no two doctors can agree.

Added onto years of emotional and mental abuse - which is what it was, wasn’t it. Maybe because I’m autistic, maybe it really was that bad. Neglect, sure. Public humiliation, that happened too, I’m pretty sure. Being told flat out that I was stupid and fat and ugly and I was lucky to have any friends at all so maybe I should just shut up and sit down before I ended up with none.

I’m pretty sure that happened. I don’t really remember it though. I don’t really have any memories at all.

Supposedly that’s something that happens with “complex post traumatic stress disorder,” which generally crops up when a person is systematically ground down for a long time until there is nothing left but the stories they told themselves when they tried to explain to the fake audience in their head who they were. How they got that way.

I don’t know who I was, who I could have been if I hadn’t had the life I did. Maybe my memories are skewed.

My therapist didn’t seem to think so, but she also sometimes seemed to think I was full of shit. That’s probably me reading too much into things again. That’s what I do.

Was it really that bad? I remember a lot of screaming, and crying, and hiding, and wishing I was dead or that someone would just hit me already so I would have something to say, to tell people other than “they yell at me and make me cry and sometimes they grab my arms and shake me and sometimes they tell me they’ll throw me out onto the street to fend for myself and sometimes they tell me they love me so much they’re so sorry and then sometimes they cry”.

But how much of that was me? How much was that my perception of things? Am I really that crazy, or have I really been gaslit that much? Is it gaslighting if they didn’t even realize how much pain they caused you, which is why they say “it wasn’t that bad stop exaggerating”?

Did I imagine all of it?

If I did, if I didn’t, what was real? What had the weight I felt it carry? What should have been a minor blip in my life but instead metastasized into a catastrophe?

I don’t know. Maybe I never knew. Reality hasn’t ever been my friend.

Fantasy is so much better.

It’s painful now, though. To read some of these stories, these books I used to adore.

Stories about Mature Adult Women of 25! Whole! Years! Going on adventures and meeting their soulmates and having wonderful happy lives.

I’m spiraling. It’s late. I’m tired and a little high, wishing I was higher and maybe I wouldn’t be so bored.

Bilbo was middle aged, wasn’t he? When he went on his adventure? He had an adventure, and then he came home and had a long, rich, happy, lonely, bitter life. Hmm. Perhaps the one ring is not the best foundation for a guiding principle.

I went to law school because I’d come to the end of every plan I actually had. (You don’t really plan for a future when you’ve been suicidal since before puberty.) I figured I’d get to read and write at least reasonably interesting things, make good money, maybe even make a difference.

I’ve been a paralegal for the same law firm I worked for right out of college for two years now and I have never felt more like a shambling corpse.

When I graduated from college, I couldn’t get a job. Could I have tried harder? Sure. Is executive dysfunction a bitch? You bet.

So I worked for a family friend’s law firm. Personal injury and medical malpractice. She’s the mother of my older sister’s oldest best friend and has employed all of my mother’s three daughters.

She’s also a heinous bitch and a terrible boss. Her employees have a shelf life of about 2 years. I’ve hit my expiration date. Once you’ve audibly cried during a phone conference, you’re really near the bottom. Once she decides you suck at your job, there’s no coming back. Either you quit or you get fired. She prefers when people quit so she can blame them and not feel guilty. So she just increasingly treats people worse and worse until they quit in self defense.

I worked for her for a year. It was awful. I became an alcoholic and gained 25+ lbs.

I decided to go to law school.

I moved to New Orleans.

I made friends. I had an apartment all to myself. I had a life I actually enjoyed.

Then I graduated.

And I couldn’t get a job again.

(Of course, all of this is underpinned with my cyclical periods of intense illness, often accompanied by being hospitalized and missing long periods of school. In college and in law school, actually.)

(All the cocaine and drinking didn’t help either.)

(Ah, New Orleans. How I miss thee.)

So I ended up at the same firm again. Living with my parents. Again.

Then I passed the bar.

Now I’m doing the same work as my younger sister, for the same amount of money. (When she graduated from her masters program and was unemployed for 6 months, I convinced my boss to hire my younger sister again, and my sister to work for my boss again after a semi-disastrous summer job.)

(To be fair, while I’m technically a licensed attorney, she has a masters in education, so it’s not like there’s a massive education disparity here.)

(It doesn’t help that I’m barred in a different jurisdiction than the one my firm typically works in, so there aren’t any cases I can really work on as an attorney, and then on top of that my bosses don’t want to pay for malpractice insurance for me so I’m not allowed to practice as an attorney or put that I’m an attorney or call myself an attorney or even put in my letterhead that I’m licensed in the District of Columbia.)

Then there was a pandemic, and I decided I probably shouldn’t try to make a huge life change during a pandemic.

The pandemic is still fucking here. Nearly. Two. Years. Later.

So I guess I have to make a new plan.

Can I be a lawyer? I guess we’ll see.

I don’t really want to, though. I’m burned out and I wasn’t even practicing.

I want to move to a beach and write a novel and actually have a life I enjoy.

The problems with this plan are numerous. Not only is inertia an incredibly powerful enemy of mine, but I’ve lost all imagination.

I cannot imagine a future in which I am happy. Will I kill myself? Probably not, at least not for a long while. I’ve thought too long and hard about the long-lasting, far-reaching repercussions it would have. (Say what I will about my family, at least it’s always been clear that my death is NOT an acceptable outcome.)

I want to find my imagination again. I want to be able to imagine not only a future in which I am happy, but other futures, other worlds. I want to be able to dream, not only for me, not only for reality, but for unreality. I want to create worlds in my mind again, and allow them to take whatever shapes they wish.

I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if all those horrible teachers, all those “peer editors” in fucking elementary school were right, and my story ideas are hackneyed and overwrought.

Wouldn’t it be nice, though, if they were wrong. Wouldn’t it be nice, to start writing, and to find that my imagination didn’t go so very far.

It’s been hiding in the intertwined branches of a birch grove, slim and tall and ringing with laughter. In the space between stars. Down the path shaded with wisteria and jasmine and honeysuckle, where the scent and the heat and the humidity are so thick you can feel the heavy perfume coating your lungs. Tucked away, safe, waiting to peek out. Waiting to creep down the wrinkled bark of a huge old oak and wink at the little girl playing among its roots.

I hope it is there. I hope I can find it.

I’ll keep you posted.

This is my own personal void to yell into, after all.

#on writing #my life #a memoir lol

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