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74yungririe · 1 year

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Underfell Chasriel

It’s never peaceful in the underground.

Not for long anyways. It’s what Chara cherishes during their days of solitude away from the royal family and monsters that go about. Which isn’t much.

A noisy bunch they all are. Too noisy, too violent.

Staring down from the cityview makes them feel like they're on top of the world. Funny, considering they aren’t royalty nor wanted. Being human has its ups and downs here. A lot of downs, actually.

Can’t have everything go your way, they suppose.

Still, the empty hall being nothing but monochrome has its moments. For one — the view of the underground never fails to distract them from their thoughts. Beyond the ugly cruelty and twisted dispositions lie the beauty hidden in the swamp-infested horrors. The tall buildings and smaller homes for all creatures expand farther than what Chara can see.

Chara’s sure nobody above would believe this amazing view would exist in a desolate place.

There’s nothing else to see besides the cityscape, otherwise.

But it’s not so bad.

Sitting on the cold ground, legs crossed, Chara breathes the peaceful silence. Rather lonely, but it’s not like they’ve had their peace to themselves all the time. Their predicament is an anomaly amongst most things in the world. It’s a treat, nonetheless.

They can always take the elevator and head down to the CORE. It’s not like they’ve done much. Sightseeing around Hotland wouldn’t be so bad either considering the few rogues around have stopped trying to kill them.

Would they risk it right now though? Chara’s lips purse together. Maybe not.

If anything, they’d suspect a monster (usually a Froggit or an annoying Migosp) to pop up and bother them again. That’s what usually happens when they let their guard down. At least it wasn’t like a year or two ago. The amount of times they’ve been a target to kill was a huge pain—

“There you are.”

Their ears perk at the familiar monotone. They look over their shoulder, a smile crawling up their face.

“Greetings, Asriel.”

Said monster scoffs back in return. Arms crossed over the familiar red-and-black stripe sweater as he leans against the wall. Red eyes glaring down at the nonchalant human child.

“Howdy,” he answers back sarcastically.

The brunette doesn’t mind his snarky behavior. Arrogance and irritation sketch over his expression the moment their gazes met. Yet, he pushes himself off the wall and struts their way before plopping down next to them. His black pants crease when he scoots a bit closer.

“Quit sneaking off without saying anything, idiot.” He says immediately.

Chara quirks a brow. Lopsided grin slapped across their face. “I did, though. I said I’d come here.”

His eye twitches.

“No, you didn’t!” Of course, they didn’t.

Chara doesn’t admit despite being caught, merely chuckling the lie away, as they pull their legs close.

“Yes, I did.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“Just a little bit.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“You told me that already.” Asriel groans at their bickering, to their amusement, stretching his legs out. “Training didn’t go well? Your insults have gone staler than usual.”

The goat kid bares his teeth at the jab. “As if. I did way better than my last training! Heh, the trainer couldn’t last against my blows this time.”

His lips curl into a devilish smirk. Arrogance huffs from his snout as his eyes gleam at the memory. Their attention falls to the golden locket around his neck that bounces along his motion.

Chara can imagine it already. Like the first time Asriel ’allowed them permission’ to watch his little sparring session. How magic proficient he was for a child that matches the peak of his rude attitude.

(…Though they were nearly harmed in the one-on-one training session from just being in the same room alone, Toriel forbade them from being around the room. He was strangely reluctant about it, but listened.)

Humming, “then what’s gotten you so prickly?”

Asriel’s brows furrow. And for a moment, they were prepared for the stream of complaints, about ’not being prickly’ and other interjections as his smirk drops.

Yet, he doesn’t.

Just the uncharacteristic silence accompanies his frown and his blank face. Those fluffy ears hide it from them.

“You’re really weird, y’know.”

That’s… not a first.

Chara tugs the front of their shirt, red with a black stripe like his sweater, a little. The gold chain grazes their arm below their shirt’s white collar. “And? You say that all the ti—”

“You came here again.” Asriel cuts them off. Eyes glued ahead.

The shift in topic is also strange. And he calls them weird. Confusion flashes in their eyes. “Because it’s boring staying at home.”

“Staying here isn’t any different either. It’s the same boring shit you see every other day,” Asriel rebuts, “what’s so interesting about this place anyways…”

“You act like you won’t be doing that once you become king.” The human snickers. They only received a growl in response before glancing back at the city. Reflecting on their own words, it releases the playfulness at the thought.

“Just answer the question.” He scowls, exasperated. Impatience hints through his fingers drumming on his lap.

In the back of their mind, they think about pulling his leg around the topic again. Risk the temper tantrum he’d likely cause for the sake of humoring themselves a little bit. Instead, their eyes trail back to Asriel before returning to the gray scenery. Building lights glowing from afar.

“...No reason.”

“...huh?”

“I had no reason. It’s pretty. That’s all.” They throw their head back as they continue, locking gazes when they notice him staring. “You also said you’d be quick so I thought I’d wait.” Since you’d whine about it, they think of adding but decide against it.

Asriel isn’t convinced. “That can’t be the only reason you came here again...” Yet, their statement pleases him nonetheless from the way his brows relax.

Chara prompts their chin on their palm, elbow supported by their knee. “About the underground being pretty or waiting for you?”

“Obviously the first one!”

Again, they snicker. It’s so fun poking at him.

They’re quick to cover up their little amusement once he glares at them for the umpteenth time. “Well, I don’t know what you wanna hear, but I’m not lying about what I said.”

Their ‘adoptive sibling’ huffs, leaning back with his hands flat on the ground. The doubtful look he spares them doesn’t last for long before he’s back to observing the boring scenery he complained so crudely about. Furry fingers tugging on his long sleeves.

“Do all humans think the same way as you? Just being mindless like that…” Ah, he ends up complaining anyways.

“Then…” They hum thoughtfully. “Why’d you come looking for me?”

Something flashes in their eyes when they notice the jolt in his body. Tensing up from a simple question searching for a simple answer. His fur stands stiff along with the rest of his form and Chara’s drinking in poor attempts of acting casual. News flash: it’s a sight for sore eyes for all his pompous attitude caused.

Asriel makes a face. A stutter in his words unfitting of the rude prince before looking away, narrowed eyes and cheeks hidden by his ears. “Mom nagged me to find you since she couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Chara simply stares at him, unimpressed. Toriel isn’t around at this time of day. Usually out for errands and snail hunting if they recall. Stupid.

(Huh, his ears turn a light red too…)

“Dad’s not gonna be happy if he hears you’re slacking off.”

They counter back. An obvious bluff, as far as the eye could tell. The king still isn’t fond of them. Never has, never been. The few instances he has don’t compete to the care Toriel at least spares for the human. But right now, it’s all in good fun when they pretend to push themselves off the ground and tattle to their adoptive ‘father’ to add emphasis to their teasing lie.

Asriel deadpans. “As if he’d believe you, idiot. It’s not like you could tell him.”

They expected as much. “Yeah, yeah, I was only kidding.” Though the subtle peace has been ruined by his unnecessary poking, the idea of returning home and rolling in their bed sounds nice…

“Wait—!”

The sudden grip around their bare arm startles them out of the thought. Soft, warm, nearly ticklish if not for the strong hold keeping them seated on the ground.

Chara darts their surprise to the same whining goat from moments earlier. His face was just as flustered.

“Just…” Eyes remaining on his death grip around their arm. Teeth gritting together followed by a sigh. “...nevermind.”

They tilt their head. Brown locks fall accordingly, brushing along the ends of their face before plopping down again. “What? Something wrong?”

His vice grip relaxes and his hand falls back to his side. “I said it’s nothing.” His expression doesn’t match his words. “We’re here anyways, so we can just stay for a while.”

“But you said Mom—”

“—and I say we’re staying.” Asriel stresses, voice nearly echoing in the empty area. He gives a quick side-eye look and frowns. “I already came all the way here so it’d be a waste to go back now.”

Chara blinks at his squirming. Hand instinctively flies over the memorial gift around their neck. Craning their head closer, he’s quick to look elsewhere. Anywhere but them.

Soft red coating his furry cheeks, unable to hold eye contact, his usual threats lighter than usual…

…Ah, they recognize that look. When he grumbles yet stays when he doesn’t have to. How pride prevents himself from speaking up despite the evident hints he gives away.

He misses them.

Chara’s grin mellows into a softer smile. They clasp their locket tighter, holding it close to their heart — their soul — while leaning back. Shoulders brushing with the young prince’s. He nearly jumps in place from gentle touch alone. Hehe, that doofus.

Behind the coldness and his rough attitude — even as he refrains from telling them it had nothing to do with their mother — Asriel’s fun to mess with.

“Whatever you say, dork.”

x—x—x—x

inspired by @yellow-h's cute doodle of them!!

#i just wanted to write them www #i hadnt touched this fandom in AGES wow #also just made this acc for undertale story dumps haha hi there #well i dont think anyone's gonna read these anyways so i may as well drop em #my small take of underfell and these kids' interaction rlly #asriel #chara #chariel #chasriel #undertale #underfell #chara x asriel #undertale fic

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moonflower1605 · 1 year

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Chapter - 6

(Percy's POV)

The next few days were torture, just like Tantalus wanted.

First there was Tyson moving to the Poseidon cabin, giggling to himself every fifteen seconds & saying, “Percy is my brother?” like he’d just won the lottery.

“Aw, Tyson,” I’d say. “It’s not that simple.”

But there was no explaining it to him. He was in heaven. And me...as much as I liked the big guy, I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. Ashamed. There, I said it.

My father, the all-powerful Poseidon, had gotten moony-eyed for some nature spirit, & Tyson had been the result. I mean, I’d read the myths about Cyclopes. I even remember that they were often Poseidon’s children. But I’d never really processed that this made them my...family. Until I had Tyson living with me in the next bunk.

And then there were the comments from the other campers. Suddenly, I wasn’t Percy Jackson, the cool guy who’d retrieved Zeus’s lightning bolt last summer. Now I was Percy Jackson, the poor schmuck with the ugly monster for a brother.

“He’s not my real brother!” I protested when Tyson wasn’t around. “He’s more like a half-brother on the monster side of the family. Like...a half-brother twice removed, or something.” Nobody bought it.

I admit-I was angry at my dad. I felt like being his son was now a joke. Nora tried to make me feel better. She suggested we team up along with Annabeth for the chariot race to take our minds off our problems. Don’t get me wrong-we hated Tantalus & we were worried sick about camp-but we didn’t know what to do about it. Until we could come up with some brilliant plan to save Thalia’s tree, we figured we might as well go along with the races.

One morning Nora, Annabeth & I were sitting by the canoe lake sketching chariot designs when some jokers from Aphrodite’s cabin walked by & asked me if I needed to borrow some eyeliner for my eye... “Oh sorry, eyes.”

Nora shot back at them, "Hey, why don't you go & take care of your hairdos or something! Oh, my bad you guys use wigs instead right?"

They glared at her in return but didn't dare to say anything back to her.

Annabeth grumbled, “Just ignore them, Percy. It isn’t your fault you have a monster for a brother.”

“He’s not my brother!” I snapped. “And he’s not a monster, either!”

Annabeth raised her eyebrows. “Hey, don’t get mad at me! Technically, he's a monster.”

“Well Nora gave him permission to enter the camp.” I shot back.

"Hey! Don't drag me into this!" Nora said.

“Shut up Nora! Because it was the only way to save your life! I mean...I’m sorry, Percy, I didn’t expect Poseidon to claim him. Cyclopes are the most deceitful, treacherous-“ Annabeth said.

“He is not! What have you got against Cyclopes, anyway?

"Why are you telling me to shut up?!" Nora asked. She clearly felt hurt.

Annabeth’s ears turned pink. I got the feeling there was something she wasn’t telling me-something bad.

“Just forget it,” she said. “Now, the axle for this chariot-“

“You’re treating him like he’s this horrible thing,” I said. “He saved my life.”

"Guys, stop it!" Nora said clearly frustrated.

Annabeth threw down her pencil & stood.

“You know what Nora? Since you care so much about them & not me, then maybe you should design a chariot with them.”

“Maybe I should.” Nora snapped.

“Fine!” Annabeth shouted & stormed off.

After Annabeth left Nora said in a quiet hurt tone.

"You know, Perce? This was the first time she's ever yelled at me..." A tear slipped down her cheek. I wiped it off quickly & said.

"I'm sorry, Nora...its my fault...I was the one who started it &..."

She cut off my apology by wrapping her arms around my neck in a hug. We stayed like that for a few minutes then Nora said.

"We should probably give her some time to cool off...for now.." she sighs then smiles a bit & says "let's focus on the chariot, okay?"

The next couple of days, I tried to keep my mind off my problems.

Nora gave me my first riding lesson on a pegasus. She was technically the perfect person to do that since her dad was the lord of the sky & all. She explained that there was only one immortal winged horse named Pegasus, who still wandered free somewhere in the skies, but over the eons he’d sired a lot of children, none quite so fast or heroic, but all named after the first & greatest.

Being the son of the sea god, I never liked going into the air. My dad had a rivalry with Zeus, so I tried to stay out of the lord of the sky’s domain as much as possible. But riding a winged horse felt different. It didn’t make me as nervous as being in an airplane. Maybe that's because my dad had created horses out of sea foam, so the pegasi were sort of..neutral territory. I could understand their thoughts. I wasn’t surprised when my pegasus went galloping over the treetops or chased a flock of seagulls into a cloud.

Tyson seemed fascinated by Nora. Every time she was near him he would try to touch her hair or would look at her eyes which were like beautiful sapphires. He kept telling her that she was pretty which made her giggle & me slightly envious that I didn't have the same confidence level as Tyson did...

When he saw us ride the pegasus he wanted to ride the “chicken ponies,” too, but the pegasi got skittish when he approached. I told them telepathically that Tyson wouldn’t hurt them, but they didn’t believe me. That made Tyson cry.

The only other person at camp other than Nora who had no problem with Tyson was Beckendorf from the Hephaestus cabin. The blacksmith god had always worked with Cyclopes in his forges, so Beckendorf took Tyson down to the armory to teach him metal working. He said he’d have Tyson crafting magic items like a master in no time.

After lunch, I worked out in the arena with Nora & Apollo’s cabin. Swordplay had always been my strength. People said I was better at it than any camper in the last hundred years, except maybe Luke. People always compared me to Luke. And now that he was gone they'd compare me to Nora, honestly I didn't mind when they did..

I thrashed the Apollo guys easily. But Nora gave me a tough fight. I should’ve been testing myself against the Ares & Athena cabins, since they had the best sword fighters, but I didn’t get along with Clarisse & her siblings, & after the argument with Annabeth, I just didn’t want to see her.

Nora took me to archery class, even though I was terrible, & it wasn’t the same without Chiron teaching. She was one of the best archers at camp (even better than the Apollo kids were..) & they'd just end up staring at her in awe while she shot bullseyes.

In arts & crafts, I started a marble bust of Poseidon, but it began looking like Sylvester Stallone, so I ditched it. I scaled the climbing wall in full lava & earthquake mode. And in the evening, I did border patrol. Even though Tantalus had insisted we forget trying to protect the camp, some of the campers had quietly kept it up, working out a schedule during our free times.

I sat at the top of Half-Blood Hill & watched the dryads come & go, singing to the dying pine tree. Satyrs brought their reed pipes & played nature magic songs, & for a while the pine needles seemed to get full. The flowers on the hill smelled a little sweeter & the grass looked greener. But soon as the music stopped, the sickness crept back into the air.

The whole hill seemed to be infected, dying from the poison that had sunk into the tree’s roots. The longer I sat there, the angrier I got. Luke had done this. I remembered his sly smile, the dragon-claw scar across his face. He’d pretended to be my friend, & the whole time he’d been Kronos’s number-one servant.

I opened the palm of my hand. The scar Luke had given me last summer was fading, but I could still see it-a white asterisk-shaped wound where his pit scorpion had stung me.

I thought about what Luke told me before he’d tried to kill me: Good-bye, Percy. There is a new Golden Age coming. You won’t be part of it.

A voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

"Hey...why are you here all by yourself?"

My heart beat sped up at the sight of Nora. She had showered. Her hair was still damp & she smelled like lavender. She was wearing a pair of jeans & a camp halfblood t-shirt.

"Percy?"

I realised that I'd been staring at her & looked away with a blush on my face..I always wondered how she managed to look so pretty in even the most simple clothes..

"Yeah...hey. Sorry, I just..uh...zoned out..."

"It's okay..." she said with a smile. "Did you happen to see Grover? In your dreams.." I was a little taken aback but I said.

"I did...he was in this-"

"Bridal boutique shop.." She finished.

"Exactly...he was being chased.."

"He's in trouble, Perce...I feel like it's got something to do with the fact that...that Thalia's tree was poisoned."

I knew Nora was right...she always had been..

"We've got to save him..but how?" I asked. We just looked at each & had a silent agreement.

Ooh, a big fight between Nora n Annabeth...do you think they'll make up..?😯

Stick around to find out!😁

Link to the prev chapter is here.

Comment, like & share.

Take care my lovely readers.❤

Alice signing off.

XOXO.

#percy jackson #x reader #percy jackson x reader

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lailnii · 3 years

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when you first meet ft naruto characters

warning; blind reader, sai being sai

word count; 981

🎶

sai

↦ morning drew on apace. the air became more sharp and piercing, as its first dull hue: the death of night, rather than the birth of day: glimmered faintly in the sky. the objects which had looked dim and terrible in the darkness, grew more and more defined, and gradually resolved into their familiar shapes. sai was typically wide awake when these shapes and colors washed over the horizon— but apparently naruto wasn’t as appreciative of the worlds morning sketches.

↦ “gah, i hate mornings—“ naruto complained as he shuffled next to sai. the sun burned his cerulean eyes and forced him to squint. that wasn’t to mention his unbrushed hair and wrinkled clothes

↦ sai, personally didn’t understand how someone could harbor dislike for a certain time of the day. it had no effect over an individual, and so the morning hours should logically be met with indifference. perhaps it was because he was lazy— or a complete moron. sai still couldn’t tell which one it was. maybe it was both.

↦ sai had expected to see a realistic portrait of Konoha’s streets, or a decorative animal, but instead he was left bewildered. it was a clash of color, none matching at all, and seemingly unstructured as well.

↦ “how ugly—“ sai said without a shred of restraint or regret. naruto may have scolded him if he were there, but he had kept walking without even noticing that sai had stopped to insult the artist.

↦ the painters hand halted, and the brush was rested on the small table beside them. they spoke, and there voice seemed to reflect all the melodic serenity of a singing bird. “you think so?”

↦ “yes, i do.” sai confirmed, taking another glance at the canvas. “those shades do not match. i can’t even tell what you are trying to paint.”

↦ “well, i never really had much of a grasp on the concept of color.” you said with a surprising amount of calm in your tone. as sai drew back away from the painting, he saw you begin to turn. he willed himself to smile, as he always did, but it was fake and empty gesture. apparently this effort of trying to look ‘normal’ was wasted on you, because when your face came into view he saw the milky, unfocused shade of your eyes.

↦ “a blind painter? no wonder it looked so horrid.” sai commented, not cruelly, only honestly. his voice was light and inviting but it contradicted his harsh words. “what exactly were you trying to paint.”

↦ “i’m not sure.” you answered. you grinned, he noticed that it was more genuine than he could ever manage. “maybe the sky, maybe the people, maybe my soul. everything and anything.”

↦ “what is the point if you do not know what you are making?”

↦ “i’m a firm believer that every portrait that is painted with feelings— is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter or muse.” you explained patiently. “it may not look like the sky, for all i know it might look like nothing at all, but it has been made with the passionate intention of capturing something unseen and unknown and dwelling solely inside my mind. that is all that matters.”

↦ sai’s brow furrowed in clear confusion. he didn’t understand what you were trying to say. the aesthetic accuracy of a painting was all there was— there was no deeper meaning or good attempts. there was only the beauty of success and the hideousness of inexperienced.

↦ “you don’t agree?” you asked knowingly, and thought you were blind, you could almost sense his confusion.

↦ “no. i do not.”

↦ “i suppose you’re a painter too then?” you smiled, reaching your hand out until they found his. when your fingertips brushed against his palm, sai tensed as if he were uncertain what this touch could mean. then, he felt your hands move and memorize the feeling of every long, slender finger. “those are definitely a painters hands. perhaps you could draw something for me.”

↦ sai pulled his hand away. “you won’t see it, so there’s the point.”

↦ you shook your head, turning back to the canvas and plucking your brush back up from the small table. “it’s funny how my own blindness seems to limit people’s imagination. it never bothered me, nor did it stop me from doing what i love, but other people— it always stopped them.”

↦ sai fell silent. he still didn’t fully grasp your words. the world was a picture of black and white to him, and there was no room for greys, or half-formed ideas, or deeply knit concepts.

↦ “i was nice meeting you. i hope to see you again— no pun intended.” you chuckled, then started stroking a bright purple mess on top of a bright red skyline. “i think your friend’s looking for you.”

↦ just as you said that naruto had came dashing from the crowd with a look of pure annoyance on his face. sai was dragged away from your disgusting painting and crystal voice, but for the rest of the day he lingered on your words. he hoped to one day dissect them and understand the content of them, but this world was still so strange to him— and its people were an unreadable phenomenon; like white paint on an untouched canvas.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

previous; sasueke u.

next; shikamaru n.

#sai #sai yamanaka #sai x reader #sai yamanaka x reader #sai imagines #sai headcanons #sai scenarios #shikamaru #shikamaru nara #naruto shippuden

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multifandomwriter18 · 3 years

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“If only I could hear your voice” Chatnoir x reader PART 1

A/n: this was requested by DianaTales on wattpad I hope you like it, just to let you know this one shot I believe will be at least two parts. Also I thought this song was suitable for this one!

Also possible triggering warning. This imagine contains strong language, bullying etc.

••••

I never was born like this..

I don't remember much about when I was little..

Don't remember what happiness was..what peace was..how it felt to talk or sing..

How it felt to hear my voice..for people to hear my voice.

Things use to be perfect..my goal was to sing..to sing my heart out and become a singer.

I mean isn't that every girls dream? To become someone people look up to?

To be noticeable?

The doctor's voice rings in my head again.

"(Y/n) sweetie, I'm sorry but your voice box was damaged in the accident..I'm afraid you won't be able to talk..or sing.."

"(Y/n), honey you'll be late for school!" My mother called from down stairs. I let out a small sigh and I gave myself one last look in the mirror before heading down stairs.

I greet my parents with a smile and they gave me a kiss and a hug. I ate breakfast and I walk to school.

I kept my (eye colour) eyes glued to the ground while I listen to music. As I walked I tried to sing again.

I know I can't speak but I've been trying a lot to try to..I just want..I want to sing..

I let out a sigh which sounds like I was being strangled in a way. I hate not being able to speak.

I higher the volume on the music as I walk.

Once I get to school I scan the area for that girl Chloe and her 'friend' Sabrina. With them not in sight I head straight to the school doors.

Without looking up I bump into someone. When I look up I see Adrien. "Oh jeez I'm sorry (y/n) I didn't see you there..you ok?" I nodded and he helped me up.

"Oh Adrien!!!" I froze as I see Chloe and Sabrina running over. Adrien gasped as he is suddenly embraced by the mean blonde girl.

"I missed you so much!" I take a step back and turn to run to only be tripped by Sabrina.

"Well, well, well, look what we have here. The little mute girl is back." Sneered Chloe as she flipped her hair over her shoulder.

My eyes narrowed as I met her cold blue eyes burn in my (E/c) ones. I brushed a lock of my (h/l) (h/c) hair and glared at her.

What does she want now?!

As I stood up Sabrina pulled out a sheet of paper that slipped from my binder. My eyes widened as I tried to grab it from her.

As I opened my mouth try and speak only a squeal escaped my lips.

Chloe laughed. "Aw the mute is trying to speak again, you really a pathetic."

Tears weld in my eyes as my (s/c) became flushed with anger.

Sabrina giggled as she handed Chloe my sheet of paper I was trying to get back. "Chloe, give it back now." Adrien stated angrily.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't worry Adrien, I want to see what Mute made..oh my!"

It was a drawing I made of Chat Noir and I..in the drawing I was in his arms and he was holding me tightly as were in the sky.

It was based on the dream I had last night..when I have a dream I like to draw my favourite scenes so I could cherish it forever.

She laughed even more when she found some son lyrics on the back of it representing about Chat.

Chloe began to read.

" 'I don't want to say about you, the way you move, the way you talk, the way you walk, the way your always in my mind~your eyes shine so bright, it's like I'm seeing a whole new light yeah..' What kind of crap is this?" I froze and the look on Adrien's face made me heart shatter.

"Oh my god! You have a crush on Chat! What a loser!" She shouted loud enough for people to hear. Another squeak escaped my lips as I yank the paper out of her hands and ran the other way as tears escape my eyes.

I ran to the girls washroom and sobbed my heart out.

Stupid Chloe..

*Time Skip*

After crying for a while and controlling myself I stepped out of the washroom and cleaned up my hair.

My (e/c) eyes were red and blood shot. Around my whole eyes they were puffy and red. My skin colour was no longer had its natural (s/c) glow. It was now pale.

I splashed cold water on my face and tied my (h/c) in a pony tail.

I step out and walk to class. Miss. Bustier looked at me. "Ms. (L/n) your late to class." I bowed my head and walked up the back of the class.

"She was too busy dreaming about Chat Noir." Teased Chloe making some students laugh.

My heart clenched as I sat down. "Isn't that right Mute? Oh wait you can't answer that cause you can't talk!" Chloe added on with another laugh.

"Chloe, that's enough!" Our teacher stated calmly and I looked down at my shaking hands.

"I mean what chances do you have with Chat?"

"Leave her alone Chloe!" Snapped Marionette making my heart flutter a little.

Marionette and I use to be good friends when we were little. We still are..just..I prefer to keep my distance.

I let my (h/c) bangs cover my eyes as I tried to not focus on Chloe. "Hello? Loser I'm talking to you? Are you deaf too?"

"Chloe leave her alone!"

"She's so pathetic, at least now I don't get to hear her ugly voice, she has no talent what she ever, glad she had that accident."

I froze, my whole body just shut down on me. Without anymore thought I grabbed my things and ran.

A sob breaks out of my chest even before I could make it out the door. I stood back up trying to ignore Chloe's taunts.

"Maybe you should leave, like forever. There is no point if you even being here. No one wants a mute. Your just too pathetic for this world."

I ran, not caring that the teacher was calling after me. I don't care anymore..

I just want the pain to stop..

Strands of my (h/c) hair stuck to my sweaty (s/c) forehead as I ran down the hall and out on the streets.

I even ran all the way home, I didn't care about school, I'd rather stay home..that's the only place I can feel safe..

Where no one can hurt me..

I sobbed as I run to my room and collapse on the floor pulling my knees to my chest.

I tried to scream but only a squeak came out of my mouth. I kicked and three things across my room. I grabbed my music book and threw it hard against the wall making all my papers go flying.

Chloe's right..I am useless..

There's no point for me..

I cried even harder as I grabbed my sketch book and tossed it in my little garbage bin.

I sank to knees again and sobbed.

I hate her..

I hate them..

I hate the world..

I hate myself..

Hate..

The doctors voice rings in my head again.

"I'm sorry but she won't be able to talk again..she will be mute..I'm sorry.."

That what I always will be..

Forever and always..

Mute..

•••

Two updates in one day. I’ll probably post part 2 later on today. And I’ll try to post some more transformer one shots as well.

I’m also well aware that I got a few asks as well. I’ll try to work on them later if I can. I’m currently working on my other books too.

I’m also going back to work next week so I won’t be active that much again but I’ll try my best.

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willowbird · 3 years

Note

For the prompt thing: Andrew/Neil, trope: sickness/injury, location: violently orange yacht. Have fun! Thanks =)

Ooh definitely!

Since no AU was specified I made it kinda intentionally ambiguous.

Also, so you know, I 100% sat down to write this as a cutesy seasick/comfort w/teasing sorta fic. Then, idk, i got a lil bloodthirsty. Just a little bit, though.

Warning for mentions of blood.

---

"Are you really going to hide down here for the whole time?" Kevin's voice was both tired and annoyed, and just for that Andrew didn't even bother to acknowledge his presence, let alone his words.

Instead, he pointedly turned the page in his book as if there was no one about to bother him at all. They had been out on the water for a whole six hours. Andrew had watched the shoreline get smaller and smaller as they pulled away and when it was just a fine sketch of a line along the horizon he'd gone investigating. Which was how he'd found this hidden little nook in the storage hull or whatever the big room of supplies was in the belly of the boat.

The monstrosity was technically a yacht. Which, by definition, is a pleasure liner - a boat intended for entertainment. This "yacht" was big enough to not only carry but fully house and supply a contingent of college athletes. It was suspiciously fortified and had enough supplies stockpiled away that Andrew was beginning to wonder if he hadn't been kidnapped because it seemed just a little bit excessive for a "weekend away".

Personally, he didn't think his problems were going to go away or even be at all eased by an attempted escape via ugly boat. But he wasn't the only one with those problems. He wasn't the only one hurting. And after almost a year... well, he would grudgingly tag along, but he didn't have to participate.

The damn thing was also the most grotesque shade of claw-your-eyes-out dayglow orange that Andrew had ever seen. Which honestly was one of the reasons he'd already gone inside, as of by hiding in the deepest, darkest corner of the vessel he'd save himself a migraine.

"And Andrew? The Lady Fox has luxury suites for each of us. You can't even hide in your room? You choose to come... here?" Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw Kevin give his choice of hideaways a disparaging look.

Without taking his eyes from the page, Andrew lifted one hand and offered Kevin his one-fingered opinion.

The next thing he heard was Kevin's annoyed scoff, followed by his retreating footsteps. Satisfied, Andrew snuggled down a little bit deeper into the conveniently-placed hammock he'd found already strung up when he initially explored the place. The book he was reading had a bit of a slow start, but at least three of the side-characters were interesting enough to carry him through until the plot picked up.

Except, he only got two more pages along when he heard a sudden and quite ominous thump that was accompanied by a muffled groan. The book in his hand was instantly replaced with one of the knives he kept tucked in the armbands he was never without. Some people might call Andrew paranoid for bringing weapons onto a boat where he was surrounded only by close friends and family, with a literal ocean between them and harm. Those people would probably be dead right now, gutted in their sleep by a murderous stowaway. Or maybe that thump was one of his family, being murdered by the murderous stowaway.

Maybe it was Kevin.

That thought put a spike of fear in his heart, but right in its wake came a surge of deep rage.

No. He would not allow it. He had already lost... Enough had happened. He refused to let Kevin be hurt as well.

Andrew got out of the hammock as soundlessly and gracefully as possible, searching the shadows of the only half-lit cavernous space as he inched toward the source of the sound. He kept the blade poised to attack with one hand and pulled out his cell phone with the other. Two thumb-swipes later the had the flashlight enabled.

It wasn't Kevin. Nope. Definitely not Kevin.

Not-Kevin was crumpled in a heap in front of a stack of supply crates that it looked like he'd rolled off of, thus causing the thump Andrew had heard. The groan of pain, however, was clearly not from the fall. Or, well, not just from the fall.

"Who are you?" Andrew demanded, shining the light right on the person's face. They looked like a guy, probably. Short-ish hair and made up of more angles than curves - though it was really hard to tell more than that because the blood-soaked clothes were a little bit distracting.

The injured man(?) on the floor let out a choked, broken sound that Andrew belatedly realized was a laugh. It was so rasped and mangled, he'd almost thought the stowaway was about to launch into their death-throes. Judging by the bloodstains and way the person shook and swayed precariously while trying to push up to their hands and knees, that actually might not have been that far off a guess.

Then the stowaway, the person, the man, said, "Nothing."

Andrew froze. "What did you say?"

"You asked who I was," the man said, and Andrew was sure it was a man now. Moreover, the rough edges around his voice may have been tight with pain and possibly disuse, but even without Andrew's near-perfect memory he would have knows the sharp slashes of that voice anywhere.

The man looked up and in the white glow of Andrew's phone light there was no mistaking how immeasurably blue his eyes were. Like the sky painted from an artist's favorite memory. Like the hint of eternity in a crystal sphere.

Neil smiled. His face was dotted with dried blood and marked with new scars, but the expression still somehow turned the whole world on its head to make it a softer, warmer, safer place.

Andrew wasn't sure what hit the ground first, his phone, his knife, or his knees as he skidded to the floor beside Neil, reaching for him. "Neil... Neil. Fuck. The blood. It's yours? FUCK!" He was babbling, but his own voice was distant to his ears as he touched Neil for the first time in almost a year, as he gathered him close and searched for the source of all that blood.

Shaky hands reached for him and Andrew didn't even think about batting them away. He leaned into their touch even as he turned his face toward the stairs and raised his voice to a shout: "KEVIN! AARON! SOMEONE! NOW!"

"H-hey now, Andrew. Andrew, shh, it's okay. I'm okay, it's okay. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant to be away this long."

"Shut up with your fucking 'sorry's Neil, I don't want your fucking 'sorry' - I want you here and alive and not dying in my goddamn arms I am NOT doing this with you, do you hear me junkie?"

Andrew felt like his entire system was in overdrive, his mind moving too fast and his nerve ending firing off in matching cylinders. They looked for Neil for months. And when they finally got a breakthrough via that fucking miserable twat Jean Moreau, it was only to find out that Neil was likely dead.

Those hands cupped his face, and even though they trembled against his cheeks he still touched Andrew like he was holding something incredibly precious. Something that needed care and protection lest it drop or be crushed.

"I promise, Drew. I did not drag myself halfway back around the world just to die in your arms."

"Do not even attempt to give me that, Neil. That is exactly the kind of dramatic shit you would do."

"Nah," Neil protested with a rough laugh. "Definitely more Aaron's thing. He's such a petty bitch."

"Fuck you," Andrew spat out, but a bubble of what might have bene a laugh caught in his chest. There were running footsteps coming their way, thundering down the steps and into the room.

"Andrew?! Andrew what-- oh my God. Oh my God. AARON GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!" Kevin was still shouting as he came to land beside the two of them, and Andrew almost pulled another knife and stabbed him in the fucking eye as he reached for Neil.

In fact, he didn't even realize he had drawn a knife until Kevin jerked back so suddenly he fell on his ass.

"Jesus! Andrew it's just me. He is covered in blood he needs a hospital!"

"It's mostly not mine," Neil chimed in as Andrew struggled to rein in the half-crazed beast that had taken over the arm not holding Neil. The monster inside him was in fits, and its growl was rumbling in Andrew's throat - kept in check only by the slow stroking of Neil's fingers down his jaw.

"Mostly not yours," Kevin echoed, and even through the haze of Andrew's protective rage, he could hear how dumbfounded the other man was.

"Mhm. And I stitched myself up already."

"Stitched yourself up," said Kevin. Then he looked toward the stairs and bellowed: "AARON!"

Neil sighed and the exasperation in that sound was so fucking familiar that it knocked the beast far enough off its temper for Andrew to take control again. He took a slow breath, then another. When Neil looked up at him again, Andrew asked, "Why? How?"

Neil grimaced. The expression must have been painful, Andrew realized as he watched him - because now that he was really looking he could tell that those new scars on his face were less 'scars' and more 'barely healed torture wounds'.

All Neil said was, "It's a long story."

As Aaron finally came half-falling down the steps on wobbly sea-legs, Andrew decided he would leave it be - for now.

The important thing was that Neil was here, Neil was alive, and nothing - fucking nothing - was going to take him away again.

#asks #AFTG prompts #aftg fanfic #aftg ficlet #andreil #reunion fic #mentions of blood #andrew minyard #neil josten #i have no idea what happened dont ask me lol #ask neil - hes the troublemaker #protective andrew minyard #hurt neil josten

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growingstronglikeahighgardenrose · 3 years

Text

Anti-blackness in 19th century England, why Queen Charlotte wasn’t black, and why it doesn’t matter in Bridgerton

I’d like to start by saying Bridgerton is a very amusing piece of absolute fiction. From the dresses to the music to the fanfic tropes it uses and the books it’s based on. It doesn’t even start to pretend it’s realistic. And being a piece of modern historical fantasy made by a woman born in this age, it is alright for the showrunners to give it a modern vibe. If you want, you can trace the lineage of every duke of Hastings there has ever been and know exactly who they were and what they looked like. Everyone knows there was never a black duke of Hastings, meaning there is no harm nor a deliberate attempt at “changing history” by the showrunners. They’re not pretending they’re portraying real events and real people of 1813. Therefore I accept that in this “alternative reality regency” it is fine for people of all ranks, including Queen Charlotte, to be black. I loved Golda Rosheuvel’s portrayal, I loved her looks, her acting and I tolerate her half-ishly accurate outdated wardrobe (for those interested in fashion history: look up “regency era court gowns”, old styles were worn but Charlotte would wear normal dresses day-to-day). I’m thrilled to watch her in the second season as well.

However, I will screech if I see people claiming Charlotte was black in real life. There were black people in Europe during all periods of history. They could be very influential and wealthy, and yes, they could even be nobility in some rare cases. There is a growing field of research tracing the steps of black people in Europe throughout time, revealing the often overlooked presence of black people. However, Queen Charlotte isn’t one of them. And I say this because claiming her to be black, would mean the British Monarchy, way ahead of its time, was accepting of black people. it would also mean the British people, who were more than a bit racist, generally accepted a (partially) black woman. Rather than Charlotte being black leading to her being described as black, I believe the confusion about her being black stems from people back in the day using racially ambiguous terms to make clear Charlotte looked ugly (because in a racist colonial world the best way to insult someone is by saying they look like a slave).

Being a historian, I do believe I have to give evidence for my claim. I’ll be using her ancestry, written descriptions and paintings. However, buckle up because you’ll be getting a lot of side information on other POC in art and literature. So if you’re interested in learning a bit about the relationship between the concepts of race and beauty in the 18th and 19th century, here we go. (note: if I use any offensive terms without direct citing someone, do let me know I will change them as soon as possible)

1. When did these rumours start

During the Regency Era, when the world was still a very colonial one, Queen Charlotte was described by some as having a big nose, full lips and an ambiguous complexion. However, her race was never debated, until academic discussions picked up around the 1940s.

2. Queen Charlotte’s family tree.

The Portuguese royal family definitely has Moorish blood in it. No one can contest that. Muslims and Europeans lived together on the Iberian Peninsula for 800 years. The question is whether that means that royals with a Portuguese ancestor can be called “people of colour”, and how far down the line people can still claim to be people of colour. Almost all royal households of Europe married into the Portuguese royal family at some point, yet of few royals it is said that because of that heritage, they are people of colour. That argument is only made for Queen Charlotte (imo that probably has a lot to do with the fact that the world is dominated by the Anglosaxon countries and that because of their worldwide tentacles and their language being the most universally spoken, the British Royal Family receives the most interest from everyone all over the world. Other royal families don’t get as much attention).

Note that I used the word people of colour, that is because the root of Charlotte’s supposed African heritage is not necessarily black. Let’s take a look at her family tree.

According to historian Mario de Valdes y Cocom — who dug into the queen’s lineage for a 1996 Frontline documentary on PBS — Queen Charlotte could trace her lineage back to black members of the Portuguese royal family. Charlotte was related to Margarita de Castro y Sousa, a 15th-century Portuguese noblewoman nine (!) generations removed.

Margarita de Castro e Souza herself descended from King Alfonso III of Portugal and his concubine, Madragana, a Moor that Alfonso III took as his lover after conquering the town of Faro in southern Portugal.

This would make Queen Charlotte a whopping 15 generations removed from her closest black ancestor — if Madragana was even black, which historians don’t know. That’s a lot of generations back. de Valdes y Cocom argues that, due to centuries-long inbreeding, he could trace six lines between Queen Charlotte and Sousa, which would mean Madragana’s genes were a bit more influential, but still 15 generations ago. That’s her grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-grandmother.

So, let’s pretend it is true and her ancestor was black, let me be very rude. An ancestor that appears once in a person's genealogy, fifteen generations removed, represents a 215-th fraction of its descendant's ancestry. Queen Charlotte’s black ancestry would be less than 1%. In fact it'd be 0.007% (rounded up) of Charlotte's ancestry, and that's IF Madragana could be proved to be Moorish. And if Moorish was only used to describe a black person. However, the use of “blackamoor” “moorish” and “mozaraab” are not an alternative word for black. Indeed, there is no definitive skin colour attached to these descriptors.

It is generally accepted that Spanish Moors were the Muslim Amazigh (formerly known as Berber) inhabitants of the Maghreb, a stretch of land in north-Africa including parts of the Sahara, but not Egypt. During the Middle Ages, they occupied the Iberian Peninsula and other parts of southern Europe, before being finally driven out in the 15th century. The greatest period of unity was probably during the period of the kingdom of Numidia. Over the centuries, the word came to acquire a plethora of other meanings, some of them derogatory. Importantly, it cannot be ascribed a single ethnicity. Moors are not always black, this is false. They remaining people in Africa can be anywhere from Arab, to black people. But I’m not delving into north-african migration patterns and population changes. In Europe, the moors could thus be Arab, black and often mixed ethnicity, the natural result of coexisting and intermarrying with white Europeans for centuries.

http://acaciatreebooks.com/blog/royalty-race-and-the-curious-case-of-queen-charlotte/

3. Gender, Race and beauty standards

The world of the 19th century was riddled with Anti-blackness. Part of this continued from the medieval belief that white was good, and dark was bad (see white knight, fair lady, black knight, dark magic notions that still persist today). It also does not help that during the Regency Era, Greek and Roman antiquity were very trendy. Although the old roman empire was a culturally and ethnically diverse society, regency people focussed on fashion, hairstyles and looks from the classical art period of Greece. People aspired to look like the statues: elegant, slim and dainty and wanted “noble” features (straight slim nose, even face, cheekbones, etc). That’s why in the regency era people were complimented for having “alabaster skin” or a “Grecian profile” and so on. These medieval notions of fairness and the grecian beauty ideal, were juxtaposed against the medieval notions of darkness combined with deeply colonial conceptions of womanhood and race. In a world in which white people controlled other ethnicities, race soon became a weapon, a tool to be used against someone. Just like… gender. And yes, you’ll soon see how these two go hand in hand.

Throughout the nineteenth century the domestic world and the public sphere became more and more separate, with women being given less space to move and work. All women had to be dainty housewives: refined, sensitive and docile, clever but not too well read. Of course, this was an unattainable standard for most women. Only women in the top layer of society were able to lounge around and do nothing all day. Many had to work. Many things of what women were supposed to be: pale, soft hands, were direct signs that they didn’t have to do manual labour (out in the sun, using their hands). Women who could not fit in that small domestic sphere were increasingly (especially later on in the Victorian era) seen as unfeminine and unworthy of husbands. Coarse, manly, unfeminine, unrefined they were often called. Welcome to 19th century “masculinity so fragile”. Just imagining a woman working or reading made men felt threatened. They hated the idea women weren’t just lounging around waiting to please them and provide for them. https://www.bl.uk/romantics-and-victorians/articles/gender-roles-in-the-19th-century# https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/pit-brow-lasses-women-miners-victorian-britain-pants

Now look at this sketch of a female mine worker, one of many. Although the argument can be made she’s dark from the dirt, I want to point out that she’s also portrayed as scantily clad, wearing more manly clothes, being broader, wide of face and her hair appearing… quite curly.She’s the opposite of the beauty ideals, the opposite of what society wants a woman to be... and she’s suspiciously black-coded.

Pervasive and passive stereotypes of black people have come into existence since colonialism. Cruel caricatures of black people were omnipresent. Going as far as to ascribe them animal-like features with big mouths, big ears, sloping foreheads and so on. https://www.jstor.org/stable/2712263?seq=4#metadata_info_tab_contents

I could write a million essays on how race and sex have been weaponized in the past. When the “exploration travels” first started, and even much later in art, faraway lands were portrayed as sultry lazy or untamed women, waiting to be conquered and domesticated. Transforming countries into women was done to make them “controllable”. Portraying them as lazy and wild was a way Europeans to give themselves license to colonize them. Just like women at home, these foreign lands needed the guiding hand of cultured civilized men showing them how to do things and ruling them. So either men could control women which was perceived as good, or they couldn’t in which case the woman was looked down upon and hated. I don’t have an exact reference for this one, but it was a very interesting topic in my class on “Global History” at University. But for now this one carries a good part of the load.

https://www.ferris.edu/jimcrow/jezebel/

It is then no surprise the female black body became a site of seduction there for the white male’s taking. They literally became their property as slaves, just like a man’s wife was considered his property. White men sexualized black people, particularly black women, a stereotype that perpetuates to this day and age. See the link above for that as well. Black women became temptresses.

White women, of course, didn’t like that. They wanted their men to be theirs. So these 19th century Karens started hating them as well. These wild temptresses were out to catch their men with their “foreign looks”. Meanwhile white men hated the idea of white women being seduced by black men. And this, combined with the resentment for working class women, gave way to a kind of language people used to describe each other. All stereotypes (medieval+ working class women looks+ black looks) were stacked atop each other: dark, tempting, coarse, black, plump, uncivilized, wild, broad-faced, thick of lip… Hair didn’t much come into play in the 18th century since most people of high society wore wigs (which in paintings can look like type 4 hair but cannot be used as an indicator of race) but afterwards “tight coils” was also added to the list of features that weren’t deemed desirable. This physical robustness not only lies in the idea that people who work are “hardened” but by describing them with strong robust adjectives, upper class white people once again fuel the idea that these people were physiologically designed for hard work, like slave labour or mine work instead of life as a wife. See also present day notions common even in doctors how black people and black women don’t feel pain as much. A devastating prejudice that leads to black death, black mothers dying, black people’s health complaints not being taken seriously and so on.

4. Black, racially ambiguous and “foreign” coding in physical descriptions

So we all know the memes of “Historians say they were friends” and so on. It’s a fun meme, but this carefulness in naming things stems from the fact that A) sources are made by people and people are subjective as fuck B) it is deemed a big faux pas for a historian to look at history through a 21st century lens. The rabbit hole that is historical epistemology boils down to the claim that a thing cannot exist before there is a word for it. You need to be careful that you don’t apply a term to an event, person or society wherein that term didn’t exist, or the meaning of the term was different. We shouldn’t draw conclusions about the past with present day notions. When a person anno 2020 is described as dark, we know they’re probably south-east Asian or black. However, we may not believe that a person being described as dark in the 17th century means this person is black. I shall explain.

Back in a time when black equalled inferior, people found no better way than to ascribe black attributes to people they disliked. It is hard to find out whether these people were actually darkskinned, since portraits were commissioned and painted to the desires of the clients (they could ask to be painted with white skin). We have no photographs of the time period to verify whether people did really look the way people described. With few people able to move around the country by carriage, as this was expensive, most people relied on letters, books and papers to give them accounts of events and people, so if one person claimed a person looked like X, others oftentimes had no choice but to believe the account, as they lived too far away to verify. Thus I shall focus on the world of literature, where there were no real people we can compare descriptions to, to prove that the good guys were portrayed as fair, and bad guys were portrayed as… racially ambiguous without them having to be black, or any other ethnicity.

Fairytales: Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. There’s literally no argument to be made at all. But just take a look at fairytales from the Brothers Grimm. Nine times out of ten, the evil stepsisters and stepmothers are described as dark and ungainly while the heroine is fair. If there are transformations, the evil people get transformed into gross animals like toads, while the heroine is transformed into a fawn, a bird or a swan. I’m being unnuanced here, there are definitely heroines with dark hair (see snow white, but she’s still snow white of skin) and the reasons for ugly-animal-transformations has to do with the character traits that have been ascribed to those animals. These stories circuled orally since the middle ages, and most trace their roots back to even before that time. Though the world was not yet a colonnial one, it is a sign that darker looks were already linked to bad people. These notions of darkness have been absorbed into the notions about black people during colonialism. People already lived with concepts of fairness for good people and darkness for bad people in their heads, it became easy to continue these concepts when faced with black people.

Jane Eyre: Jane is described as green eyed (a very rare colour, most prevalent in white people), fairy-like, skinny and pale. Although Brönte tells us she is ugly (she indeed doesn’t confirm to beauty ideals at the time) she appeals to Mr. Rochester and fits more into the stereotype of beauty than her romantic rival: Berta Mason Rochester. Bertha’s laugh is “hysterical” and “demonic”, she is dangerous and injures her own brother. “What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at first sight, tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face.”

Dear reader, Mr. Rochester is described as being tempted into a marriage, to a wild foreign animal-like madwoman with dark grizzled hair and red eyes. Although there is no description of her skin colour (Bertha could very well be any ethnicity) there are clear parallels in the way she is described and the way POC were described. In the context of the 1840s readers would instantly attach this picture to their preconceptions about others with a similar look. Jane doesn’t even need to describe Bertha’s personality, the readers have already decided what she’s like because they understand that the author means dark looks= bad personality. Dark looks= foreign looks. Additionally: Blanche Ingram, Jane’s other rival was described as a fine beauty with a stereotypically beautiful body but had an olive complexion, dark hair and dark eyes. These were desirable traits in England at the time, but the darker beauty of Blanche comes with a bad personality and in the end, she too is rejected in favour of our pale heroine Jane.

Wuthering Heights: Heathcliff has long confused readers. It is most probable, in my opinion, given the context of the time, that Heathcliff was of roma origin as roma were strongly disliked in England at the time, and he fits best in the stereotypes associated with them. It’s also much more probable that an English gentleman would take in an orphaned European child than a black child, especially given he raised him as a son (british people weren’t that kind, they wouldn’t raise a black child as their son). However, the author, still clearly relies on a certain set of dark characteristics to describe him. “I had a peep at a dirty, ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed, its face looked older than Catherine's; yet when it was set on its feet, it only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand.” “He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes.” “You are younger [than Edgar], and yet, I'll be bound, you are taller and twice as broad across the shoulders; you could knock him down in a twinkling; don't you feel that you could?” “Do you mark those two lines between your eyes; and those thick brows, that, instead of rising arched, sink in the middle; and that couple of black fiends, so deeply buried, who never open their windows boldly, but lurk glinting under them, like devil's spies?” “he had by that time lost the benefit of his early education: continual hard work, begun soon and concluded late, had extinguished any curiosity he once possessed in pursuit of knowledge, and any love for books or learning. His childhood's sense of superiority, instilled into him by the favours of old Mr. Earnshaw, was faded away … Then personal appearance sympathised with mental deterioration: he acquired a slouching gait and ignoble look; his naturally reserved disposition was exaggerated into an almost idiotic excess of unsociable moroseness;” “His countenance was much older in expression and decision of feature than Mr. Linton's; it looked intelligent, and retained no marks of former degradation. A half-civilised ferocity lurked yet in the depressed brows and eyes full of black fire, but it was subdued; and his manner was even dignified: quite divested of roughness, though stern for grace.” “He is a dark-skinned gypsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman”

Once again: black eyes, heavy brows, black hair. He is rough, can stand a lot of heavy burdens, seemingly indifferent to pain. He has something devilish and uncivilized about him, and is oftentimes believed dumb. Admittedly, this portrayal is more nuanced, he has a knack for studying and he does look like a gentleman. But the author is clear that it is only superficial and he is still mad within. It thus becomes very clear, already only from literature, that if you want someone to look bad, you make them look manly, workmanlike and ascribe to them black features.

For more examples of racial ambiguity, casual racism and explicit racism in English 19th century books: https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/victorian-literature-and-culture/article/casual-racism-in-victorian-literature/1B4B3B0538F8B7C6B58E6D839DCFEC92.

This technique was adapted by EVERYONE. Wanted to make your enemy look bad? Then write a very uncharming picture of them attributing them with stereotypical black features. The most common remarks were: broad noses, big lips, frizzy hair, swarthy and/or dark complexians, coarse looking and unrefined. If you wanted to be really rude you could start comparing people to animals and call them wild and unhinged because “madness” was and is a very common insult. Had an issue with your wife in the 19th century? Lock her up for “hysteria” and “madness”. Got a political opponent in the 2016 presidential elections? Call her mad and hysterical. Got an opponent in the 2020 presidential elections? Challenge his mental capacities. Psychological issues and disorders have often been used to make people look bad and invalidate them. Basically everyone who isn’t reacting in a neurotypical and stereotypical male way (i.e. show no emotions and so on) was classified as “unreasonable”, thus taking away their voice. So many interesting articles and books on this.So we have an intersection between race, womanhood and mental health that are used to control and reject women.

https://warwick.ac.uk/fac/arts/history/chm/outreach/trade_in_lunacy/research/womenandmadness/

https://www.jstor.org/stable/4286909?seq=1#metadata_info_tab_contents

https://www.routledgehistoricalresources.com/feminism/sets/women-madness-and-spiritualism

https://www.amazon.com/Madness-Women-Myth-Experience-Psychology/dp/0415339286

TLDR: In literature bad characters were often described with physical attributes that were seen as ungainly. They were codified with animal-like, manly and mad. They also had black and dark attributes to signal to the reader that they were not the heroes of the story. Bonus: they often met a deathly or bad end. Writers did it, but so did real people when they wanted to accuse a rival (Karl Marx being one such asshole for example, http://hiaw.org/defcon6/works/1862/letters/62_07_30a.html ). This is why we can not always trust written accounts of contemporaries before the age of photography when a person is described with racially ambiguous looks.

5. Descriptions of Queen Charlotte:

Just like Beethoven, Queen Charlotte’s main claim to blackness boils down to one ancestor at least two centuries before her birth, combined with contemporary descriptions of a certain hair type, wide nose and bad complexion. Descriptions of Charlotte during her lifetime describe a plain and small woman, with a wide and long nose, and lips that were not the rosebud ideal. As the court became accustomed to her, however, more people started complimenting her brown hair, pretty eyes and good teeth. Much of the imagery that has fuelled claims of Charlotte’s possible African ancestry is from the first few years of her time in England. Royal brides have been ripped to pieces by tabloids, and the public also performs a horrible hazing-like ritual(see: Kate Middleton was mocked for being a party girl, lazy and from working class background. Meghan Markle was described as an opportunist husband-snatcher. Diana was a “chubby child”. The ladies also got plenty of critiques on their looks). Once the bride gets through years of being bullied, critiqued for every little part of her being, she then suddenly comes out on the other end after a few years, becoming a darling and an attribute to the royal family. Could it be that royal brides are always, especially in a gossip heavy environment like a court, under deep scrutiny? This foreign princess hobbled off a boat, seasick, unknown by the English… And she didn’t speak a word of the language! Why would the English love her? I am not saying the accounts lie but I am saying beware of the person making the comments. Are they close to the monarch and his wife? Do they like Queen Charlotte? When where these comments made and why? And why did they choose precisely these words that had by now become commonplace to use as descriptors for unpleasant people? If we know people used racially ambiguous terms to describe people they disliked, it isn’t such a stretch to imagine they might insult a new queen with such terms.

Let’s look at what was actually said about her.

Horace Walpole: “The date of my promise is now arrived, and I fulfill it — fulfill it with great satisfaction, for the Queen is come. In half an hour, one heard of nothing but proclamations of her beauty: everybody was content, everybody pleased.”

Baron Christian Friedrich Stockmar, the royal physician to her grandaughter: “small and crooked, with a true Mulatto face.”

Sir Walter Scott: “ill-colored.”

Colonel Disbrowe (her chamberlain): “I do think that the bloom of her ugliness is going off.”

Queen Charlotte herself in a diary: “The English people did not like me much, because I was not pretty; but the King was fond of driving a phaeton in those days, and once he overturned me in a turnip-field, and that fall broke my nose. I think I was not quite so ugly after dat [sic].”

What we can conclude from these remarks that Charlotte was not very pretty, she even admits to that herself. But what are her actual physical attributes? She has light brown hair (I didn’t include a description of this, but it was generally reported), she had pale eyes (as can be seen in all paintings), was small, and had good teeth.

Above I gave two accounts that reported on her skin tone. Ill-colored could be anything like bad skin, rosacea or perhaps tanned (which also wasn’t deemed becoming for ladies). There was only one person, Baron Christian himself, calling her face what he did. As mentioned above, there can be multiple reasons why anyone would ascribe her those features, she did not have to be a “mulatto” to be described as one.

Most importantly, in a society with slavery, in which black people were looked down upon, I’d say the absence of more people calling her things like: dark, swarthy, black, mixed, brown and any and all things associated with black looks, is more telling than a few accounts mildly referring to her colour.

If Charlotte were truly the first black queen, the first black person in such a powerful position, and one of the few black people in England (less than 30 000 at the time), would there not be more talk? More descriptions of her look? She was seen every day by many people. People would be shocked, enraged, surprised, fascinated and so on. In an era when many people kept diaries in which they wrote down all they witnessed, many people would have given descriptions of her black/brown skin colour. In an era with cartoons and press… Her being noticeably black would have been a very big thing and we would have seen journalists and cartoonists draw her as dark. Cartoonists and diary writers mostly write or draw their honest thoughts. They weren’t censured.

6. Paintings of Queen Charlotte:

Queen Charlotte’s most striking likenesses, or so it is believed, were painted by Allan Ramsay, a prominent artist and staunch abolitionist. In 1761, Allan Ramsay (1713-1784) was appointed Principal Painter in Ordinary to the King (1761-84). As well as being Principal Painter, his portraits have been singled out by many as depicting Queen Charlotte with distinctly African features. It’s believed this was his way of displaying his abolitionist tendencies. He was an abolitionist, that much is true, and he was also friends with the legal guardian of the very famous black Dido. However why would the royal couple approve blatant African features, knowing those would not be well liked in an English queen? They would not have allowed these images. Clearly, they saw in these images only a likeness to Charlotte, and yes, that could mean she had fuller lips and a wider nose. Anyone can have those features. Personally, I find that a slightly larger nose and larger lips in some paintings are not sufficient proof to call her black. But let’s run over some of the paintings.

Most paintings portray her as a typical light-skinned royal with nothing bad about her complexion.

In these pictures she does not look black in the slightest, indeed I’d say her eyes and eyebrows look very light even, nor do her nose and lips, so often critiqued, look big, as was claimed.

Here we can see her nose looks a bit wider, and her lips a bit bigger. But is that really a convincing argument? Although certain features are more common to a certain race, they are not monopolized by one. Black people can have light hair and light eyes. It is unlikely, but it is possible. It’s just as possible for white women to have bigger lips, a wider nose, a rounder face and even… though rarely, there are white people who have no black relative they know of, white 4a hair. I’ve met a few of them. What I also want to note is that Queen Charlotte’s natural hair could have been crimped and combed until it stood upright and was stiff with powder, as was the fashion back then. It would give her hair a more frizzy look. In the picture underneath it, you can see her hair in fashionable artificially made curls that wouldn’t work on natural type 3 or 4 hair.

However as I said before, I’m not fond of using paintings as proof since they were made-by-demand. Painters would starve if they painted their patrons unflatteringly. There are black people, indeed, even black nobles, ex-slaves, diplomatic ambassadors who had themselves painted with a dark skin colour since the Middle Ages. You can even see the distinction between people of darker-skinned sub-Saharans and North African descent in these pictures. And painters certainly knew how to paint black people for centuries (see: "The Image of the Black in Western Art" by Harvard University Press and “Revealing the African presence in Renaissance Europe”). One such example a noble who did have black heritage was Alessandro de Medici who was nicknamed “the Moor”. Moors referred to black Islamic people. His mother was Simonetta da Collevecchio, a servant of African descent. In this case the argument that many Italians are dark of complexion and have dark hair cannot be used to explain his appearance. If other Italians thought he looked like them, they wouldn’t have paid such attention to his looks because they would have deemed it normal. I’m using 3 paintings of him by 3 different artists. The first picture really is ambiguous, it is only by combining all three that we can say that yes, his looks do fit the bill. If we only had the first picture, would we really be confident to claim him? This goes to show that you can’t say someone has a certain ethnicity based on one painting.

This person was comfortable in his own skin but there were probably just as much, if not many more nobles and wealthy families with mixed blood that had themselves painted white when they were not. Who would disagree? Who would even know? Nine chances out of ten barely anyone who wasn’t from the direct neighbourhood didn’t know what they looked like, and never would. Once the POC died, all that would remain would be a very white looking painting, and no one would know the bloodline had become mixed.

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/oct/29/tudor-english-black-not-slave-in-sight-miranda-kaufmann-history

What is, then, a reliable source? An answer, for famous people, is cartoons. Just like we now attach more credibility to a paparazzi picture of Khloe Kardashian than to one of her heavily photoshopped pictures on Instagram, you can trust cartoonists to not try and make people look good. Note: cartoons are always over-exaggerations. Any physical attribute will be enlarged beyond belief for comedic purposes. King George and his wife were often pictured in cartoons. If there was anything very noticeably foreign about Charlotte’s looks, they would portray it. However, what we find is that these cartoons never portray Charlotte as darker than the other people. She wasn’t shown as being black.

Conclusion:

Queen Charlotte cannot be called black on the basis of her portraits, cartoons or bloodline. If ever there was a trace of black blood in her veins, it was so light it had become undetectable and could not have influenced her appearance. Just ask yourself this question: would you call yourself a certain ethnicity, or claim certain roots, based on one ancestor 200 years in your past? If no, then you also shouldn’t say that Charlotte had black roots or was mixed.

The case of Queen Charlotte does, however, reveal the deeply racist British society of the Georgian Era, which deemed all black physical features ugly, and deliberately used all physical traits associated to the black race as an insult. Keep this in mind, as well as rampant anti-Semitism and hatred for Roma people, every time you read a novel from the time period, or read a tasteless description of a real person from the era. People were cruelly treated based on their heritage, and even if their heritage was purely white, they could be ascribed certain racial features, just because people were racist pricks.

While that’s the unfortunate reality of the time period, I do believe we are allowed to enjoy an alternate reality as an escape, where just for once, race isn’t an issue. So continue on, Bridgerton!

Meanwhile, I’ll be here keeping my fingers crossed for the stories of real black people living in Europe, or black kings and queens in Africa, to be told in a movie or series. The entire world has always existed, it makes no sense for all period movies to keep being focussed on white people in England, Rome and the US.

#bridgerton #Queen Charlotte #Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz #british monarchy #racism in history

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forthehpfanboys · 4 years

Text

Two Years

Pair: Fred Weasley x Reader; he/him.

Summary: You got back to Diagon Alley after the war and desperately wanna talk to him and explain why you were basically non-existent during the war. But is Fred ready to talk to you?

Warnings: Swearing.

Notes: Reader is Draco's Cousin! Hope you enjoy!

~DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE~

Complicated couldn’t even begin to describe your relationship with the Weasley’s.

For to start, you were related to the Malfoys which automatically meant it was rocky. You were Draco’s cousin. Your family didn’t believe in the same ideology as Lucius and Narcissa, leading to family feuds being normal during literally any time of the year. Your family didn’t exactly want the attention of the Malfoys or the Dark Lord once the war reared its ugly head, so your family fled to America, dragging you with them. They wanted to get as far from the war as possible.

And two, well, you were Fred’s partner before the war broke out. Since your family was absolutely dedicated to being hidden, you lost communication with him when your family decided to just get up and go. You didn’t even have time to tell him goodbye or really anyone and it hurt. You knew you hurt him too and no matter how you begged, your parents wouldn’t let you see him, let alone send him a letter. Owls couldn’t travel across whole seas and you were basically in lock down, even if you were a grown adult.

You stayed up most nights because of nightmares. You’d wake up in a cold sweat more times than you could count on both hands. After these tear jerking visions from hell, you’d usually climb from your bedroom window to the room, gazing out at the moon like a love struck teenager, hoping maybe even praying Fred was gazing at the moon at the same time you were.. Most nights he actually was.

During the war, Fred had come into a.. Complication. He ended up fracturing his leg, resulting in a cane and physical therapy. George took up fixing and running the shop with Ron while he was borderline trapped between surviving at the Burrow and physical therapy.

Fred spent most of his free time sketching out ideas of products to tire his mind long enough to ignore the stupid nightmares and gazing out the window, hoping you’d apperate across the field and come comfort him, but you never came. Everyone in the Burrow avoided mentioning your name around Fred, anyway.

When the time came, Fred went straight back to work with his twin, spewing out ideas about different treats, potions, trinkets, anything and everything he came up with while bed ridden and they both got to work quickly.

It was nice, relaxing, normal again. Everything was normal to Fred but a piece of him was missing. You were across the world and you held a piece of his heart and he hated you never gave it back.

No matter how badly he missed you or longed for you to hold his hand, he wasn’t ready to face you when you entered their shop. He literally wasn’t ready to face you. He turned around when the bell went off, ready to say the shop wasn’t open yet but dropped the box he was holding. He ignored the sound of shattering glass and immediately booked it back into the room, where he nearly knocked over his brother.

“What’s wrong?” George asked, swiftly setting the box he was holding down on the shelf. “Are you going into another attack? Do you need to go upsta-” He was silenced when Fred's hand covered his mouth.

“Hello?” A soft voice called out, causing George's eyebrows to furrow before his eyes grew wide. Fred moved his hand, using it to slowly shut the storage room door, making sure to turn the handle so it shut silently. The separation allowed the twins to whisper to each other in peace.

“Isn't that-”

“Yeah.”

“Then why-”

“Because I’m not ready.”

“..You’re not ready? Blimey, Fred, it’s been 2 years since he left.” George ran a hand down his face, the other landing on his hip sassily. “What do you mean you're not ready? You always talked about how you missed him but now you aren't ready?”

“You wouldn’t understand-”

“Don’t even give me that, Freddie. Talk to me.” George smiled, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder. “I know you're older by like, 1/4 a second, but you don’t have to be a rock. Come on, don’t bottle it up.”

Fred let out a sigh, his eyes casting downward before he let out the smallest of chuckles. His hand came to rub the back of his neck.

“Fine.”

George almost squealed with joy when his brother decided to open up to him. He wanted to clap his hands and jump around like a child, but opted for not compromising their position.

Fred went on to tell George about how you left, how you didn’t even leave a note, how he didn’t know how to ask if you two were still together and if you loved him anymore. George has already known all of this, causing his face to melt into an unamused expression.

“.. You realize you're being ridiculous, right?”

“Gee, thanks George. I will most definitely come back to you when I have emotional turmoil.”

“No, no, mate, listen.” George wrapped his arm around his older brother's shoulder, gently guiding him away from the wall. “Listen, ok? You’re such a top notch guy, not as handsome as me,” George smiled wider when his brother snorted, “but you’re trying! So why not at least talk to the bloke, yeah? You guys were snogging before he left, so why not try to snog after?”

“I just told you why I can’t.”

“Who are you and what did you do with Fredrick Weasley?” George put the back of his hand across his forehead, being the dramatic shit he is.

“Don’t call me that, you prat-”

“I thought I knew you! Confidence was your middle name! Frederick Confident Gideon Weasley!” The youngest twin only became cockier when the older one groaned and covered his face. “Oh, Frederick, where did you go?” He wrapped his free arm tighter around his brother and dragged him out the door, ignoring his protests and grabby hands reaching to hold onto the door frame.

“George, wait!” Fred’s hushed whisper floated in the air, completely ignored by the other red-head.

“Fredrick! Where did you go, Freddie?!” He called out, knowing damn well you were still in the shop. Neither of the twins heard the shops bell ring a second tie, indication your departure.

“George?” Your voice echoed in the closed shop, leading George to dramatically turn to his brother and smirk at him. “Is that you?”

“Why yes, my dear friend! How are you?” George let go of his twin, allowing him to scurry off to the side and hide behind one of their many filled shelves. You walked up to him just after Fred hid, much to his delight and George’s dismay. George’s smile faltered ever so slightly when he took in your appearance.

Your hair was a nest fit for Scabbers, the bags under your eyes would need to be checked with baggage at any muggle airport and your clothes. Not that there was anything wrong with a hoodie and sweatpants, but it was summer for fucks sake. He could see the sweat across his brow and wondered if he should turn the AC on.

“I’m as well as I can be, I guess..” You fiddled with a stray strand hanging from your hoodie. George noted the fraying hand made thumb holes and his eyebrow raised in confusion. “I um-” You ran a hand through your hair, “I wanted to talk to Fred, do you know where he is?” While your eyes were darting across the top level of the shop, George’s eyes flashed to his brother.

The shop owner shot his brother a glare when he shook his head back and forth fast enough to make anyone dizzy.

“Um, no.. I haven't.” George grumbled out, his hands going to his pockets. He looked down at the floor deciding it would be better than the disappointed expression on your face. “Um, do you want me to give him a message for something?”

“No, yeah, if that’s ok?” You went back to fiddling with the stray thread. You didn’t notice Fred peaking at you through the products lined on the shelves. “Just um- Could you tell him I’m sorry for me? I’m sure he’ll know what I mean..”

“Yeah, sure thing, (Y/n/n). Anything for you.” George ran a hand through his hair after you turned on your heel and mumbled a thank you before exiting the shop. “You owe me.” The red-head turned to his identical and sighed when he saw the longing expression. “Merlin’s left tit, you’re fucked, mate.”

“I should’ve-” Fred hit his forehead against the wood of one of the shelves, a yell of frustration leaving his throat.

“Say it.” “..You were right. I should’ve talked to him.”

“Damn right I was. Now, go get your bloke before he cries in the street or worse, goes to Malfoy for romantic help.” George faked a shudder at the idea. George watched his brother turn, slamming his back into the shelf and slide to the floor. “Ok, Fred, seriously, this is getting kind of sad.”

“I can’t go talk to him, George!” Fred was pulling at his own ginger locks, his knees coming up to his chest. “I- No, I can’t.”

“Do you want me to do it?” George’s voice was soft. He plopped himself on the dusty floor right next to his brother. “I can talk to him as you? See what all of this is about?”

“I don’t know, Georgie..” Fred’s voice was softer than his twins. He looked at his brother with a hopeless expression and glossy eyes. George figured from this it would be best to tackle the problem tomorrow so he just pulled his brother into his side and held him for a good while.

The next day was easier for Fred. The store was bustling, as it was Monday, morning and all the happy customers provided a great distraction. He took over the register while George focused more on the floor work: answering customer questions, restocking shelves. It was a lot for two twins to handle, but they managed, especially when Ginny or Ron offered their free days to come down and help.

Fred had just finished closing the drawer, handing a youngster his change back when the bell above the shop's door caught his attention. He shifted on his feet when Draco was practically dragging you into the shop wearing the same clothes as yesterday. The red-head was starting to wonder if you were ok.

“(Y/n)!” George yanked you into a hug before you could even blink, causing you to erupt into a fit of giggles that left Fred absolutely yearning to have you by his side again.

“Hey Geo!” You briefly hugged him back before pulling away, causing his attention to shift to your cousin.

“Malfoy.” George looked the blonde up and down. He’d throw hands if he had too, even in his own shop.

“Hey, be nice. He’s on our side now.” You punched the tall suited man lightly in the arm before shoving your hands in your pockets.

“It’s unfortunate but true. Most birds did appreciate my bad boy ages.” Draco ran a hand dramatically through his hair while George snorted. “But that isn’t why we’re here. Is your brother around?”

“He’s at the til, why?”

“I’m just here to make sure (Y/n) actually talks to him like he promised too.” Draco put a hand on your back and gently pushed you forward. “But how is business, Weasley?”

While George went on to talk about statistics and boring old shit, you slowly walked over to the red-head who was trying to distract himself by restocking some of the knickknacks in the class case beneath the counter. You cleared your throat, clearly scaring him. He let out a squeak and hit his head on the underside of the glass case.

“I-I’m sorry, Freddie! Are you ok?” you asked, your hands awkwardly fidgeting in front of you as the male stood up and rubbed the back of his head. You bit your lip, resisting the urge to grab his shoulders and check his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” He had his eyes squinted so tight he could see stars flashing behind his lids. He couldn’t look at you yet. You’d looked like a kicked puppy yesterday when you left and it pained him so much.

“Did, um.. Did you get my message from Geo?” You were fiddling with the string again. Fred opened his eyes slowly, nodding to you while he played with the product in his hand.

“I.. Look, I don’t wanna beat around the bush, but I-”

“I already know.” Fred spoke up quickly, louder than intended. “I know, it’s fine.”

“S.. So it’s fine then?” You looked around, a tiny bit confused. Fred wasn’t one for jumping to conclusions, but it seemed his legs weren’t tired yet.

“Yeah.”

“So, I just wanna be sure we’re on the same page, you know my family dragged me to America?”

“Uh-”

“And basically put me under house arrest so I couldn’t see you or message you or leave or really live? And I haven’t forgotten you and my feelings for you haven’t changed and Godric, Fred, I miss you so much.” Tears pricked your tired eyes as you glanced at him. You cleared your throat over the awkward silence you felt was your fault. Fred was replaying your words like a record stuttering on a player and the bloke was still confused.

“.. Come again?” The red-head blinked stupidly, subconsciously leaning over the counter. Maybe he wasn’t hearing you right over the noise of the shop. You couldn’t help but release a borderline silent chuckle that bubbled into your throat.

“I still love you, Freddie bear.” You twiddled with your fingers, your eyes glancing down to his lips before looking back into his sparkling eyes.

“You do?” The co-owner was trying to keep his joy nestled deep down in his chest.

You nodded your head.

“Oh thank fuck.”

“Wha- Ah! FRED-”

The male had all but jumped over the glass counter, dramatically picking you up by your waist and slamming his lips to yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist, while your hands gripped to his shoulders like your life depended on it. You immediately fell under the spell of his kiss and didn’t even hear your cousin and your boyfriend's twin brother whooping/gagging.

Fred soon set you down, his usual cocky grin spread across his face until his knee buckled. The strain of his dumb ass jumping over the counter and picking you off your feet like you were a feather was finally catching up with him.

“Ah, ow, ow.” Fred groaned out, bending over to hold his right knee. You put a hand on his shoulder, worry etched across his face. “Ah, so um.. I should probably explain-”

“We both have a lot to explain, Freddie. Two years is a lot of time to be apart.”

#fred weasley x male reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley #hp imagine #hp x male reader #male reader #george weasley #draco malfoy #x male reader #Ronny Writes #fic #hp male fic #hp fic

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absoluteindulgence · 4 years

Text

Vacay Away

A/N: OKAY SO LET ME START BY SAYING, THIS FIC IS 2 1/2 MONTHS LATE. I originally wanted to post this for Black History Month. But I'm black all year so better late than never! Also, I apologize to all those waiting for me to upload, I've been consumed by Sims 4 and even made Mirio in-game lmao. If you have not finished MHA Season 4, there's a mild spoiler. Lastly, this is smut, so read at your own horniness risk.

Pairings: Mirio Togata X Black/POC!Reader

Warnings: Smut, Cursing

Word Count: 5.1K

As new graduates, the world was bright and shiny, like an apple ripe enough to bite. You decided after all the hell you and Mirio went through this year; it would be enough to graduate and offer Mirio a well-deserved rest. Too many nights went on with sweat induced nightmares with tears flooding from his despairing blue eyes; Reliving the horrors of fighting Chisaki, losing his quirk and his mentor who always showed him promise until his last breath.

Although you were at another agency during the ordeal, you always kept in contact with Tamaki and Nejire. At first, Tamaki didn't want to share any information, because he knew how it would tear you apart, but after he saw where your loyalty stood, he had to. You spent the rest of your days taking care of Mirio. By his side as soon as you knew his whereabouts. Staying in the hospital overnight, even going home to get a spare change of clothes, just to come back. You watched as he vented what it felt like for him. Not a single bone in your body blamed Eri; she was a child after all.

You still trained with him and even accompanied him on his internship. You knew he was capable of hand-to-hand, but what mattered was the villains with quirks that were life-threatening. Eventually, you laughed with each hospital visit and became well acquainted with the staff. After graduating with just above average grades, the two of you felt a sigh of relief: no more pity parties and sad looks. You two had to get away from it all.

And so, the voyage outside of Tokyo began. Originally you were going to celebrate by staying over at one another's home, but that wasn't fun enough for you; you wanted to feel free. Not just for yourself, for Mirio. He deserved to feel like himself even though he said he wouldn't cry over spilled milk anymore. You wanted to be by his side.

And so the bustle outside the city proved to be challenging. It took more buses than trains to leave. And even then had to take the abstract route to get outside of the town and into the country. Your breathing was more steady with the air being exceedingly more lucid, camping out to watch the stars shine, even being cheesy, mentioning the shapes found in the midnight sky. And the impromptu sexy times would be something you two take to your graves.

When you finally got close to the hot spring you were planning to surprise Mirio with, you admitted into the closest hotel. Luckily, the staff knew who you two were and gave you a week free, along with benefits like the perks of free food and massages. Unsure if that was related to filling a quota for the month or if they loved LeMillion as much as management said they did.

You two were starting to look like people who lived in the forest, eating off the land. So, of course, you were going to take advantage of the salon there as well. But you knew better than to go in expecting them to know what to do with your hair. You had your hair products tucked away neatly in your oversized backpack and had even taught Mirio how to handle your naps. He liked playing with your hair because he found it therapeutic and saw it as another way to bond with you.

Mirio's face of content made you beam with hope into his recovery. You were pushing yourself to get him out of his rut. You weren't sure if he knew how much you still worried about what happened. But you wanted to make up for the time that you weren't able to be by his side during the life-changing experience, apart from blaming yourself, because he told you what had been plaguing him.

As his partner, you did your best to assert the situation and go based on logic instead of emotion. But the look on his face, knowing that he let Eri out of his sight, spoke louder than any words. Having obtained Eri, and getting to spend time with her to build morale, was challenging at first as she was hesitant when looking at you. At first, she thought you were dirty due to Chisaki's influence.

After realizing that's just how your skin looks, she apologized profusely — not wanting to hurt your feelings and be accepted by you. You worked your way into taking care of her, although not great with kids. And since she was a particular but essential case, you wanted to make your imprint on her memory. She began to ask you questions about yourself and Mirio. At times asking the dreaded ones related to sex since she was around Deku and his friend Bakugou. You kept calm but wanted to dropkick the self-proclaimed hero with murder in his name. Aizawa made sure to scold him and tell him not to slip up on the foul language around Eri again.

As you entered your hotel room, you dropped off all the luggage you brought — yearning for the chance to feel warm running water. Mirio's breath lightly fanned over you as he rubbed your shoulders for you. He insisted on carrying your belongings before the trip, but you ran ahead of him with all your things. Even though your bags were more substantial than his one.

"See Sunshine; I told you to let me carry them. And now you're rolling your shoulders to relieve the tension." It was clear that he was smiling, with every grip on your muscles.

Your moans were soft, reassuring he hit your tense areas, "And yet I didn't complain at all like you thought I would."

"Because I was watching you." His light chuckles tickled the back of your neck, "And you're too stubborn sometimes."

You giggled under his touch, eyeing your heap of bags near the king-sized bed, slowly undressing. Slipping out of your boyfriend's gentle hold, you placed your dirty clothes in a laundry bag you brought. You needed to take a shower soon; you were getting antsy and anticipating fresh water from a showerhead instead of a stream. The life of hiking in the wild could only be so good for so long. Especially with your hair not getting enough moisture in the fresh air.

Fully nude, you turn to look at Mirio with a playful smile, "Oh, you think so?"

You were pulling your hair out of its messy afro bun while Mirio ogled your hair defying gravity as it did, it left a pleasant grin on his face. You gave him a quick peck on the lips before you searched through the bags. Looking for your tried-and-true skin and hair care products that were placed throughout your belongings. Speeding into the bathroom, you turned on the cold, metal dial to hot water. Awaiting the warm water, you tried your best to detangle your hair, barely succeeding.

Assuming the water warmed up enough, you step into the shower and let the water run through your hair and down your body. An exhale leaves your body as you peaceably scrub your skin of scum. You inhale the smell of your favorite soap, and your mind clears with a serene smile. After lathering and rinsing yourself off, you gently detangle your hair, working the shampoo through it.

The door to the ugly white bathroom swings open slowly, enters your buff boyfriend. Undressing to get in with you, he yawns as he wraps his arms around you. You hastily scoff and turn to him, his sleepy smile says it all. Mirio pulls you closer as he kisses your neck.

"You took too long to get out, Sunshine."

"Because I'm at war, right now."

"Is that right? Well, you could have asked for my help."

Mirio lightly patted your curly locks, patting them down and occasionally scratching your scalp. The feel of his fingertips was enough to make you doze and lose balance. Catching you with his free hand and pulling you closer to his defined chest. With a little giggle, you smile and gaze into his eyes, looking at the water dripping off his hair.

"You know, I just finished cleansing my body, and now I'm getting back to square one."

Humming a tune, "Is that so?" he replied lazily with his chin resting atop your head, "I'm sorry, Sunflower."

You turn your body around to cross your arms over his broad, muscle-bound shoulders, sketching out the scars littering his body, some light scratches others with a firm texture. Your eyes lingered all over him as you slowly caressed the back of his head, placing kisses all along his collarbone and neck. Stopping at his jawline, Mirio cups your ass with his strong hands.

He leans down to reach your ear, "If you start, I'll finish."

You raise up your head innocently to look at him, eyes armored with honesty and lust. Pushing your luck, you lather him in soap and rubbing his chest in circular motions, moving lower to his abs. Pretending to graze his cock, then lather his shoulders down to the wrists and giving eye contact through the whole ordeal. Your lips curve into a sweet smile that causes him to groan.

The motions are simple yet affect him like the ripples from a waterfall. You lightly graze his collarbone with kisses as his muscles tense, placing your hands low to his sides, tracing his adonis belt. A light sigh leaves his thin lips, instantaneously, he picks you up, pushing your tiny frame against the cold wall. The chilliness gives you goosebumps all over, erecting your nipples — Mirio's grip firm around you and his breath heavy on your wet shoulder.

"See, you're pushing it, Princess." His chuckle fanning over your ear.

A tiny snicker escaped as he pressed his lips close to yours, smothering you in kisses, eliminating any free space between you two. His cock stood at attention, the tip tickling your flower. His soft, thin lips left no part of your neck and collarbone untouched. Your nectar seeped onto his thumper as you whimpered with impatience.

"Fill me up, baby."

"Be patient, my Sunflower," He hooked his arms under your thighs, positioned himself to kneel under you while gently sliding you down where your inner thighs touched his cheeks.

Facing your pretty essence, he bulldozes his tongue into your bud. The instant tremor to your clit as your legs quiver as his tongue swivels and explores every part of you. The jolts in your legs leave your voice hoarse as moans break out from your lips. His obligation to pleasure you is selfish and greedy as if his way of controlling you is to give you what you want. Your body rolls as his grasp around your plump thighs tighten, keeping you in place.

Your soft whimpers leave him to groan against your tingling golden arches, "You taste so good, baby." He gives a quick love bite to your shaking thighs, still balancing you against the cold wall as you thrust into him enthusiastically.

His body tenses under yours as he pulls your body close from your ass. He takes hold of your soft cheeks and does a solid lick to your clit, making you quiver. So deliberate with his actions as he purposefully teased you close into edging. You start to whine uncontrollably and grab hold onto his hair to push him closer to you. Resulting in a chuckle that reverberates through your bud, your cry is sensual as you let go of him and hold onto your breasts, playing with your nipples.

"Fuck, you look so hot." Mirio looks at you from between your legs, his blue eyes peering into your glowing, erotic ones. "I'll give you what you want Sunflower, but do me a favor: Don't hold back. I don't care who hears, let them know who you belong to."

You stare back at him flustered, the fault of hot water, or the excitement your powerful boyfriend brings to your flesh cavern. Your nod is subtle, but he catches it quickly, sparking him to make you lose your mind as Mirio dives back in. Without haste, his tongue thrashes around, promising with each taste of you he'll leave you screaming out his name.

The morning after, your body felt tight near your thighs, wishing you washed your hair instead of getting thrown off. Looking a mess, but filled with leftover pleasure. Your voice was loud since you lived to the expectations Mirio requested. Clearing your throat did nothing for you, either. You tried sitting up in the king-size bed but was wrapped in a firm bear hug and a kiss to your fuzzy mane.

"Where are you going, Princess?" His morning voice groaned into your ear.

"Nowhere now with your thick arms around me."

"Because there's no reason to stay up, right? This is where the trip ends, and I'm happy with this."

Mirio snuggles closer to you, your heart flutters, and your smile stretches wide and goofy-like. You're happy that he's in a state of happiness, you can feel the radiation more than usual. "Well, actually, this isn't where the trip ends; I have one more surprise for you."

His messy blond, bed head shuffles behind you; he rotates your waists to stare at you, "What are you talking about, Sunshine?" He tries to rest his shoulder on the pillow while the other hand lays tenderly.

"Get dressed, and I'll show you exactly what I mean."

There was an exception in getting ready; you took your time fixing your hair into a comfortable style deciding whether to leave it in or out, Mirio being a sweetheart asked you to keep it simple to avoid what may come of the day. After leaving the room, you made your way to the massage rooms. The masseuse present was fair and gentle. Making small talk with you, one of them mentioned a noise complaint from an older man. He was complaining about his hotel neighbors yelling about mangoes and cereal in the middle of the night.

"I believe it was the third floor he resided in," The masseuse cooly responded while working the muscles in your calves.

A shock shoots through your body as the dots connect, you try to hide your face further into the cushion. Mirio laughed out loud, "I guess he was hungry but had to wait till the morning, you know?"

"I guess so."

The rest of the massage went well, laughing here and there. It was the most relaxed you had been in a while. You remembered to check in on Mirio since he wasn't used to massages and was prone to outbursts of laughter since he's so ticklish. After the massage, he pulled you into a bear hug and smothered you in kisses, declaring, "I wish it were you that touched me like that."

With more trekking, you reached your final destination. Mirio blissfully bounced about, continuously looking at you and back at the environment. "Hot springs? Oh, babe!"

He was so excited; he couldn't form any other words other than how much he loved you. He pulled you close, littering your face with kisses and tight hugs. Couldn't even break his grasp or stop him from being excited, Mirio treasured the way he would love loud, concretely when targeted to you. His smile was just as infectious as your boyfriend made a scene in front of the entrance. Older couples passed by with sweet looks, whispering to themselves, 'the enchantment of young love.'

Management provided a private unisex bath usually reserved for a group of four or less that pass by. Mirio separated from you with a quick peck to the cheek and sprinted into the changing room for something more comfortable for the water. Women mainly littered the hot spring except that not a lot of people occupied the space today. Leaving the worry of interruptions or disturbances to diminish. You were the first to leave the changing room, wrapped in your bathrobe given to you by staff, and you brought your favorite towel for whenever you would go to the beach or spa.

You walked into the unisex area, finding the way into the pool of warmth. As you found your spot, you took off the towel revealing your nude body. Sinking slowly into the hot water, the sensation of heat traveled throughout your being. You took your time getting used to the pool of warmth, making gracious moves to familiarize yourself with the temperature and size of the domain. Momentarily wrapped into a warm blanket of water before you could be covered in the embrace of your sunny beau.

As you looked around, the space was stunning; a subtle but luxurious set up outdoors littered with banzai and bamboo trees all around the wooden barriers. The stones around the water resembled ashy grey marbled crystals, exquisitely scattered. Swishing in the water, you laid onto a pile of smoother rocks. The rocks were gracious to your back as you rested against them. As you reached comfort, the blond-haired man entered the serene environment. His beam caught your attention as he admired you from outside the water. Your smile allured him as your fingers motioned for him to come closer. Not wasting any time, Mirio recklessly dived into the steamy water.

Face colored in horror as he sloshed his way to you, still smiling. Mirio used his body to cloak yours as he grabbed your ass, sneaking a kiss to your cheek. "Who knew you could make the water look so good, Sunflower."

"Since we took that long shower last night, you don't remember?"

"Perhaps, but every shower you take is noteworthy."

You giggled softly in his embrace as he chuckled in response. Hearing his laugh was too divine, while the smile on his face is sickly sweet. He pulled you by your waist, eliminating the space in between you and his muscular figure. He feels warmer than the pool of water you are standing in. You look up to allow him to peck your lips, his index finger traces your jawline, thumb tickling your neck with subtlety. The touch is simple but intensifies the pleasure forming between your legs. He pays attention to your face, knowing it's hard for you to hide your need for him.

"Are you that anxious to be touched?" His question was hiding a seductive undertone. He peers into your eyes while holding your waist with his other hand, pulling you into his thighs, not shying away from how you're making him feel. His hardon grazes against you, "Can't say you're alone in that, my love."

He trails his hands down your body, kneading his fingers into your inner thighs, rubbing any tension he knows the masseuse didn't work out. The motions are gentle but firm as he hums a little tune. It's corrective in further easing your mind. Mirio came closer to your ear with his hums, placing sensual kisses on the sensitive spots of your neck. Freeing one hand, he takes your breast in his grasp, lightly pressing into it. The grip is just how you like it as he pulls his lips away from your neck and hunches over to meet your nipple with his tongue. The first flick leads to a sharp breath of air. He sucks in your supple flesh circulating your sensitive nerves.

Drowning in the feeling of him touching you, it's reminiscent of the first time you became intimate, and your body is over the moon. His other hand cups your free breast as he smothers them in the kisses they deserved when he wasn't able to see you and had to heal. Mirio's sensuality builds within as he's already beading precum from his love throbber. The eagerness to touch you as he feels your heart beating out your chest eggs him further, challenging himself to grab both with one hand as he rubs your inner thigh in circular motions.

Too anxious to neglect or half-ass any part of your body, he brushes against your dripping essence, still rubbing circular motions into your thighs, pulling his right hand back close to your face, "I know I'm keeping you in suspense, Sunshine. But I can't control how much you're affecting me right now."

Staring into his eyes, you saw a light that was once dimmed, almost dying to a burning lustful glaze. Nearly intimidating as his hands roamed all of you since he could no longer pay attention to just specific parts of your body, he made a swift move to lift you. No longer on your feet, your legs rest at his sides as he pulls you close. Your legs wrap tightly around him as he places kisses between your nipples, breasts, and neck. Airy moans leave your lips that only he could hear, purposefully grazing his ear with your sweet sounds. Heightening his sense and forming goosebumps on the traps of his neck and ongoing down his arms. A deep grunt escapes from Mirio's thin lips as he balances himself with you.

You rub the back of his neck, a trigger that always sets him off. He breathes in through his nose controlling his urges. Whether the reason is the way you would tip-toe to do it, the feel of your hands caressing him or the glow within your eyes that makes him grip you carefully. No way would he drop you, but you could feel his urge to melt. While preparing you for what's been on his mind since entering the luxury hot spring, he prods you with his cock. Pressing into your bud to tease, almost tickling. Still breathing down the side of his neck, you whimper, "Mir, please..."

"Nice try my sunshine, I'm just feeling how ready you are for me, I'll give you exactly what you want."

Deliberately and poise is the impact Mirio places into the junction of your thighs. Your arms wrapped around his shoulder blades, daring to bite at his shoulder to make contact quicker. His thrust made the perfect adjustment to your sopping core. You are gasping harshly into a sensual moan, as he licks the side of your neck behind your ear. The sensation makes you shiver close to him.

"Damn, Sunshine, you're sucking me in. I feel so connected to you."

"I agree, baby. Now, are you gonna move?"

A low chuckle escapes as he grins, "You're so greedy."

His thrusts are scarce as he relishes your inner muscles squeezing onto him tightly, refusing to let him go. Without warning, Mirio thrusts deeply within you. You grip onto him tightly as he licks the sensitive spots on your neck. The thrusts match how quick his hips roll into you, stretching your flower out with ease. The muscle memory of him coming into play as the sensuality leads to chill all throughout your body and hardening your nipples.

Mirio's passionate grunts reverberate through your ears, sending the shock waves straight to your silk igloo. The divinity in hearing them makes your moans louder and higher in pitch. He holds onto your frame like he'll lose you all while hitting your cervix, insanely intoxicating. Your legs tremble as you feel your body ready to give out.

"I hope you're not trying to cum just yet, my Sunflower." Pushing his cock further into you with each bounce, fucking you speechless. "I haven't even fucked you into every nook and cranny here."

His voice in your ear made your pussy turn into a waterfall. The sloshing rampage in your pink pearl wouldn't stop as Mirio kept a pace matching each broken moan coming from you. Your thighs were a clear indication when the coil within you read itself to be snapped. There was no letting up and stopping yourself from crying out his name or how hard the pounding jogged your brain.

With his rod expanding within you by another inch, you knew he was close. Readjusting his hands to grip your thighs, not before a playful smack to your ass. You wasted no time hooking one of your arms behind his neck before he pounded your flower. Too delicious to feel anything but pleasure, reaching your peak, you take soft nibbles into his shoulder in hopes for the coil to pop and overrun you into oblivion. Your body shivers within his hold as your cup begins to overflow. You grasp desperately to Mirio as he maneuvers your body to bounce on top of him, continuously smacking your ass.

You jolt from each smack as you tighten around Mirio's love rod, making less than unintelligible noises. His smirk is hidden from you, but you know it's there as his voice reaches a level of cockiness, "I feel how close you are, Princess."

No time to respond with a smartass remark, you're too enveloped in the sensations given. Short of breath, eyes closed tight as your chest tightens, the pressure rises until it's too much to bear, alluding to the build-up of your cream canal. The coil pulled so tightly finally snaps, as your body unravels within your buff boyfriend's arms. The orgasm hits and sticks, achieving the takeover of your nerves and sinking your body low into Mirio as he finishes inside of you, spreading both your cheeks to gain control.

His growl fluttered your pussy as he filled you with his seed, his hands imprinting your pert ass as the force of his thrusts stopped his touch from being gentle at the moment. You wince from the impact of his tense fingers against your supple skin, knowing a bruise will linger soon. You let out a deep gasp as you stare at your boyfriend. He regains composure quickly while holding you, making a noble face, with a goofy smile as he stares back. You shy from him as his face is too angelic compared to what you just finished doing.

"Hey babe, could you let me down?"

"Of course, Beautiful."

He rests your feet back into the warm, soothing water. You cup his face gently, pushing him into the corner where your towels and bathrobes laid. Your legs wobble as you push him back onto your robes, eager to drop to your knees. The water rushes through your thighs, tickling you, sensationalizing your clit in the process. There's no other way to stop it than to stand, and yet as you're steady in crouch form, your mouth envelops onto Mirio's love rod. A sharp gasp escapes and a fist clenches as he restrains himself from pushing your head down.

His gasps are loud with each soul-suck you perform, even yelling out your name at times. Surely some neighbors are above and below, but there are not enough hands in the world to cover your lover's mouth. He stares intently at you as his throbber expands with each slurp you provide. You return his gaze, his face is overly flushed as he calls out to you, fiercely.

"Fuck, you look amazing, babe. Your eyes are so beautiful." The passion he feels within achieving all the pressure you put and knowingly feel like he's curling his toes underwater. He's so close you can feel his balls twitch, even his growl is becoming more prominent. You push to get him to finish in your mouth, and yet he advances beforehand, raising your mouth off his cock and turning your body around to lift you and rest your tush onto his wide thighs.

"Not so fast my Sunflower, I'm not ready to blast off." Mirio easily controls your body, keeping your frame close to his throbber near your slit, dripping with essence, causing him to slip in with ease. You gasp in unison as your rosebud tightened around him, "Damn, there you go sucking me in."

"At this rate, I have to make you scream and shout to the whole world." Wasting no time, Mirio planted your face down, ass up into your robes while still inside you leaving little time to react.

Without warning, he propelled deep into your dripping flower. The impact indeed rough was enticing as he bent over close to your ear, breath huffing as he kissed your neck. Jittery to your sweet spot being acknowledged, he stands to smack your ass listening to the echo through the resort. It's enough to rattle you into oblivion. His hips roll fiercely into you as if the spanking was the sound to begin a race: Whether it was against himself or you was the mystery.

On the verge of tears, you felt your body surge with mighty ripples of water controlled by earthquakes. A well-acquainted feeling, and yet it was estranged. You murmured how close you were, and Mirio's grunts shook you to your core, tightening around him. He groaned rather harshly as he smacked your ass again, loading you up with all of him. The coil within you once again burned, binding brashly.

"Babe, I can't hold back," Your legs tense as each of your moans shudders out your full lips, "You feel so fucking good."

The master of positions, he places you onto the flat surface of the hot tub. His intent to drive you mad working as his hands lay firmly at your sides, to rub into your thick, soft ass. He holds you from behind, drilling his love rod into you deep. Your pussy clenches to him with unfailing devotion, as your final moans end your build-up. You stretch your hands out to grab Mirio's wrist as he deeply grunts for the last time as he finishes inside of you again. His cock twitches with ferocity as he clenches your hips. His breaths graze the back of the neck roughly, you stand slowly to gather feeling back in your legs.

Your body tries to adjust to the position as you stretch as high into the sky as possible. But your thighs hysterically give out, and you stumble into the embrace of Mirio. He's holding you from behind with a tired, yet satisfied smile. It's enough to release a light chuckle as sweat drips from his now messy hair. You lean back onto his chest with a huge exhale.

"Did I go overboard, Sunshine?" He crossed his arms around your waist.

"Not at all, you went above and beyond. I can stand now, but when we get back to the room, I think I might pass out."

A hearty laugh erupted from your blonde beau, loud enough to echo, and you could have sworn you saw a tear from his cobalt eyes. The vibration of his laughter traveled to his chest, feeling like the ground under your feet would crumble, jumping your heart rate.

"I'm sorry for laughing, Princess, but I just think you're so funny."

"What did I say that made you laugh?"

"The fact that you thought you would be sleeping when we're back at the room."

#mirio x reader #togata mirio x reader #mirio imagines #bnha Mirio #mha x reader #smut #mha smut #bnha smut #absoluteindulgence stories

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darkestfable · 3 years

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Safe Haven

Oribos

Raetos groaned as he found his way back to the waking world. He knew he was alive by how much his body ached. His head, most of all, felt like someone was hammering multiple nails in place. Only one luminous eye opened, the other still swollen shut under bandages wrapped around his head. His abdomen was also strapped tightly. He could feel the pressure of the wrappings limiting his movement, as to not aggravate what he assumed was broken ribs. The wound on his arm had been well cleaned and bandaged. Someone had been talking very good care of him.

He smiled, not having to wonder who, feeling the body curled up against his own. Tilting his head down, he caught a glimpse of the top of Fable’s head… there was no mistaking those lovely indigo locks.

“How long have I been out?” He asked.

For just a moment, Fable grumbled and curled more tightly against Raetos. If this was a dream, he didn’t want to wake up. The hellscape that had been The Maw was no longer ringing in his ears, and his lover was by his side again. This had to be a dream. It was never this good.

Or was it?

The blood hunter finally peeled open his eyes, sitting up after a moment to look over the large lightforged next to him. His heart fluttered at the sight of his lover’s smile, and he reached over to lay a gentle hand onto his bandaged chest. This had been no small feat, what Raetos and the others had pulled off.

“Days, love. Take as long as you need, yeah? I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Fable’s expression softened as he curled his fingers against the bandages on Raetos. Yep, still there. Still real.

The Draenei’s smile only grew wider as he reached up with his good hand to cup the side of his lover’s face. Raetos didn’t understand much of anything about death and spirits. But Fable looked well. Looked healthy. Better than he had in the Maw, for certain.

“Careful what you say, Babe. I might ask to stay here forever,” he said, flashing his signature grin, “...wherever here is.”

It suddenly dawned on him that they couldn’t be on Azeroth. They still had to find the soul dagger to get Fable his body back… and they obviously weren’t in the Maw anymore. Last thing he remembered was a very pissed off Avehi.

“Uh… where are we?”

“Oribos. Think that’s what they call it, anyway. Kinda a hub for uh...all sorts ‘a people,” Fable glanced at the door, as if the answer would be there. Truthfully, he’d been more worried about Raetos than asking about the name of the establishment.

He leaned over Raetos carefully to kiss him. Tender, sweet, and like he’d been afraid he’d never see him again. Everything had culminated to this point, and truthfully Fable wasn’t sure what he was doing. Getting out of The Maw had been his first task, but the blood hunter wasn’t sure if he could retrieve the dagger by himself. Wasn’t sure he’d want to do it alone. Doubt weighed heavily on him, tied down by the guilt of what he’d done to get here in the first place.

“Hey, love… You got my body, yeah? I’m gonna have somethin’ t’ go back home t’ when this shit is figured out? ‘n th’ animals are taken care of?” his voice was quiet, almost unsure. Fable loved their little life that they’d built, and still worried that he’d ruined it all.

“Mhm,” the Draenei managed a nod, thumb stroking his lover’s cheek, “The tree elf dude you got to take care of the animals while we were away agreed to stay as long as needed. I think we owe him a really REALLY big tip. Obligation and Responsibility really seems to like him, though, so don’t have to worry about them. Did you know he lived in that big ass tree that the Horde burned down? That’s where he got all the scars. Poor guy… Anyway, I was able to find your body at the dig site after going through your maps and stuff. Brought it to the healer chick that was deployed to Darkshire with me. You’re in a coma-like state back on Azeroth, and she’s keeping you nourished and stable until we manage to destroy that dagger.”

He paused in his rambling for a moment, knowing the next part was a bit touchy.

“Hey… uh… on that subject. Bad memories, I know. But like… anything you can tell me about the lady that stabbed you… physical description or name… if she gave you one…”

Another pause before adding.

“Was she hot? She must be hot.”

“Well, yeah… I mean it ain’t like I got bad taste,” Fable smirked, then paused a moment. “Wait, tree… They’re called Kal’dorei.”

The news of his body being taken care of was something of a relief, though the blood hunter still didn’t like the situation at all. Cebina had royally screwed him, and now he had to go find that dagger too? This was just getting more and more complicated…

“She uh… I’d know her if I saw her, yeah? While you were restin’ tho, I asked ‘round ‘bout the dagger ‘n souls ‘n shit ‘n this creepy lookin’ dude called a Venthyr told me ‘bout this place called Revandreth. Said a lady was there ‘n might have a dagger kinda like it?” Fable scratched at his chin in thought.

“Sounds like our next destination,” Raetos nodded, a cheerful smile on his face, “I know it’s not the best of situations, but we get to explore this whole new place together, and I’m sure we can get supplies so that you can map it all out.”

Obviously it would have been much more ideal to have Fable whole for the adventure, but there was no harm in seeing the bright side of the situation.

“Soon as moving doesn’t hurt anymore…” he winced as he shifted, “So... what’s a Venty. Not another type of elf, is it?—Not that there’s anything wrong with elves! There’s just so many different kinds and I can barely keep up with the ones I know.”

“Venthyr, luv. They’re like uh...anima vampires? Ain’t too clear on ‘em yet but I was watchin’ ‘em wander through Oribos while you were restin’,” Fable pulled out a notebook he’d obviously obtained here in the Shadowlands. A keen eye would notice that its leather bindings were a bit unlike any leather on Azeroth.

The first few pages were sloppy, slightly disproportionate sketches of the various different types of people he’d seen wandering through, along with notes of things he’d either overheard or asked them flat out. The page with the Venthyr man had no notes, however. Clearly, the hunter hadn’t approached him.

“They got fangs ‘n glowin’ eyes kinda, most of ‘em are real skinny. Nice clothes though, ‘n some of ‘em wear thigh high boots. Thinkin’ maybe I should get a pair?” the elf chuckled, leaning to stretch his leg out as far as he could, toes pointed.

“Babe, you would look hella amazing in those boots,” the Lightforged agreed, “Are there any with heels? If so, you should avoid them, because then, your already sexy ass will just look too good for me to resist. Afraid you won’t get anything done in that case.”

His hand slipped down to give his partner’s behind a little squeeze, before he attempted to sit up. It was a more daunting task than anticipated with his injuries, but he managed.

“Fashion sense aside, are these Venthyr people safe? The one you drew has like… an evil look to him. Or are they all that withered looking and ugly? Also, what’s anima? And what are the lampshades with legs that you drew in there?”

A smirk spread on his lips at the squeeze, but his attentions to the affections were pulled away when Raetos was trying to sit up. Fable assisted, but his brow furrowed in worry. Had his lover been hurt worse than initially thought? Damn it all, now he was fretting like a mother hen. The lampshades comment pulled the hunter out of his head though, and he just blinked for a moment before tilting the book towards him.

“The lampshades with legs? Oh, those?” Fable pointed at one of the doodles of a Broker. “They call themselves Brokers. They help facilitate trade of goods and services. Information too, ‘m sure. Ain’t got a chance to really chat jus’ yet.”

The concern crept up onto the elf’s face again, and he leaned over to kiss Raetos’ cheek.

“You doin’ okay? If you gotta rest…”

Raetos shook his head.

“Nah, just sore is all. The headache is the worst part, probably. Dude, Avehi hits -hard-! Did you see how pissed she was? Ha! Good times!”

He smiled brightly to his lover, bringing his hand up to cup the side of his face again.

“Honestly, I’ve rested plenty. I just want to look at you,” he admitted, “I missed you so much, Bae… so don’t mind if all I want to do is cuddle and make out for a while.”

He paused, before adding with a wink.

“Wouldn’t hate a blow job either.”

The elf just smiled. That sappy, sweet, completely enraptured smile as he nuzzled into Raetos’ hand. It had felt like an eternity, fighting for his life. Being reunited had been on his mind the whole time, but even now Fable’s heart ached for the life they’d had before. Though, in the middle of his thoughts, a smirk broke through. That was the Raetos he knew.

“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t…” Fable turned his head to place a kiss in the palm of Raetos’ hand. “If it won’t hurt you, I’m gonna swallow you whole…”

“I mean… not like I can move much in these bandages,” he grinned, running his thumb along Fable’s bottom lip, “Doubt I’d be able to find a way to hurt myself.”

He paused as he thought about that a moment.

“—Okay, so I would -probably- find a way to hurt myself. But it would be hella worth it, though.”

Fable caught Raetos’ thumb between his lips, cerulean eyes closing as he pressed the barbell through his tongue against the calloused pad. A promise. As his lover spoke, the elf savored the taste of his flesh, finally opening his eyes to look up at him with a smirk. He released the thumb after a moment only to place a kiss into Raetos’ palm.

“Jus’ sit back ‘n enjoy then. You deserve t’ be worshipped,” he mumbled against the blue skin, continuing to kiss down from his hand to his wrist. Of course, he’d wait for permission.

It felt like lifetimes since he’d been away from Raetos, and only minutes that they’d been back together again. Fable felt that familiar skin hunger, but it had only gotten stronger after they were in safety, and he could touch and smell his lover again. The blood hunter had to remember to pace himself; Raetos was still recovering, and they were still in a strange place. But tomorrow could wait. Tonight belonged to them.

(Raetos is @raetos / @kidcatgemini )

#Fable #Raetos #Raeble #romance #world of warcraft #rp log #void elf #lightforged draenei #flirting

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cheryyori · 4 years

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Red Thread - P. SH AU

pairing(s): seonghwa/oc

genre: social media au, fluff, angst, strangers to lovers au, college au, fantasty elements, past life/ reincarnation au, fated lovers au, playboy!seonghwa, hwa is a bit of a dick at first, sumi is still a nervous baby like in the sk8terboy au, lots of pinning on hwa’s end later on bc i’m soft

summary: Park Seonghwa—business major, son of the CEO to Park Corp. and an overall cold-hearted playboy dickhead—has to help his father’s company by finding a new graphic designer, after firing the last one, for the company’s upcoming project he’s tasked to work on in order prepare him for the future (and maybe highkey work on his people skills). So when Yeosang mentions a particular graphic design student in mind, he wasn’t expecting his world to turn upside down by a red thread.

word count: 3.1K

MASTERLIST | MOODBOARD & PLAYLIST

06. it’s just stress << | >>

To say that there was a tense and awkward air lingering around in the cafe was an understatement. Some could feel the air become suffocating as two individuals sat in the corner of the cafe. Sumire was shaking in her seat, making sure to busy herself with her phone as she eyes staring at her.

Why, why, why, why?! She screamed internally as she wanted to repeatedly bang her head against the table. Why him?! She cried. Meanwhile, Seonghwa sat directly across from her, eyes staring at her in deep thought.

He was...confused, least to say. No once did he thought the cute girl that bumped into him yesterday would be the very same girl to help him with his dilemma. His eyes watched as she remained quiet, using her phone to distract herself and avoided any direct contact with him, her form closed off as she tried to make herself smaller by keeping to herself.

Somehow it tugged at his chest to see her like this, a frown on his face at the thought that he was the one that made her felt like this. Then again, as he had been told many times before, he was him.

Although it made him even more confused as he had these thoughts, why did he felt like this towards someone he just met only now, he asked himself. A sigh escaped from his lips as he decided to push those thoughts away.

“We should get started,” he suddenly spoke up, clearing his throat as he ignored the nervous flutters in his stomach.

“R-right!” She squeaked, her back sitting up straight, “Um...” she paused, a small frown on her lips. He glanced back up, seeing her twiddle with her finger nervously.

“Yes...?”

“Uh,” she paused once more sway side to side in her seat. Cute, he thinks again as a rosy hue was seen on her cheeks almost prompting him to reach out and pinch them before he realize the thought that crossed his mind and stomped them out.

“What?” He sighed out, although he winced as he saw her lips quivering.

“S-sorry, it’s just...I don’t know your name...” she muttered. Seonghwa sat up straight, wide eyes staring at her. Did she really not know who he was?

“...did Yeosang not tell you who I am?” He asked. For a second, he thought she was acting like this because of his many reputations around the campus.

“He only told me that you’re an acquaintance of his and that even though you can come off as...” she paused, trying to find the right words without repeating the exact words Yeosang used to describe him, “...that you can come off as aloof and intimidating, that there’s more to you than that...I’m just saying what he told me but nicer,” she confessed.

“...I see,” he mutters, “So he never once told you my name?” She shook her head in response, he carefully noticed that her nervous state was slowly diminishing as they continued to talk, her shoulders were still stiff but at least she wasn’t mumbling and stuttering like before.

“No, just...a lot of bad comments...” she shrugged. Seonghwa frowned, of course Yeosang would talk badly about him behind his back though he was amused by her honesty at least.

“Of course he would,” he clicked his tongue, “Well since he didn’t tell you...” he trails off, “It’s Seonghwa,” he said.

“Oh,” she uttered, “Seonghwa,” she repeated slowly, her voice was soft as the fluttering feeling in his stomach erupted in his chest, “That’s a nice name,” she said, a small smile on her lips. He felt breathless as she smiled, even if it was small. He opens his mouth to speak when he hears a faint voice near his ear.

“I like it a lot. It fits you very much.”

He snaps his head, glancing around for a second. Sumire tilts her head, as she watched him glanced around suddenly, “Are you alright?” She asked. Seonghwa glanced back at her, seeing her staring back at him with confused eyes.

“No, it’s just...did you say something just now?” He asked. She scrunched her brows together, only becoming more confused.

"No, why?" She asked. He paused, furrowing his brows together before shaking his head.

"I thought I...” he paused, shaking his head, “No, never mind that," he sighed, "We should start working on the design now," he says. Sumire was still confused, but nodded her head as he pulled out some designs. Her eyes sparkled with interest as he laid them across the table.

“Oh, these are...?” She stared at them, grasping out for the one in his hand, their fingers brushed against one another. A sharp intake escaped from his lips as he felt a shock, causing him to suddenly jerk his hand away from her. She stared at him with wide eyes, her hands retracted as they were placed firmly in her lap, “O-oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t reached out like that so suddenly,” she said.

“No, it wasn’t that,” he said, “it’s just...you didn’t feel that shock just now?” He asked, his eyes carefully watching as she tilted her head at him.

“Shock? What shock?” She asked, sound more confused than before. Seonghwa frowned, wonder if it was all in his head. Perhaps the sudden stress of this whole situation was slowly staring to get him, though something in the back of his head told him otherwise.

“Forget it,” he says, “Anyways, these were some designs my...last partner made before leaving,” he says delicately. When he hands her the design, he noticed the corners of her lips twitch and brows furrowed together. After a minutes, she placed them down and stared back at him.

“Um,” she shifted nervously. He knew she wanted to say something, but held back her tongue as if she was afraid to set him off. He sighed, leaning his chin under one hand.

“Something you want to say?” He asked, raising one brow at her. She fidgeted nervously in response.

“Can I be blunt?” She asked in a small voice.

“By all means,” he replied, curious on what her answer would be.

“Well...no offense to your last partner...but these are pretty ugly...” she states. He felt his lips twitch into a small smile at her sudden declaration, “I-er-well,” she stuttered feeling her cheeks redden, “The colors don’t correlate well with one another either,” she added.

He hums, watching as she continued to nitpick at the design before speaking up, “I guess it is pretty ugly,” He agreed, making her cheeks even more flushed, “At least I wasn’t the only one that thought it was too,” he said giving her a small smile.

Sumire felt her heart heavy and cheeks burning as she pressed her hands against them, “Y-yeah,” she said letting out a small laugh. He fought the urge to smile as she glanced away nervously. He thought it was cute how nervous she seemed, how she fumbled with her fingers and bit on her bottom lips.

“I suppose we should get started on this right?” He said as he started to explain the original idea for the designs to her. She nodded her head the whole time, taking out a small sketchbook as she started making small thumbnail sketches that fit the description given to her.

Once she was done, she would show him the sketches in hopes they fitted the original goal the company had in mind. And Seonghwa had to admit, they were much better than the original designer he worked with before that he had a bit of a struggle deciding which one was better before giving his input and opinions.

He watched as she concentrated on more sketches to improve on, her brows furrowed together as she tapped her fingers against the table to pause and think of more ideas. It was nice, relishing in the peaceful silence between the two, Sumire had been too focused that she didn’t noticed how he had been staring at her from behind his laptop.

A strand of hair fell out of place as she stared down at her sketches, without realizing his hand was already outstretched to place to lose strand back in its place when the door to the entrance slammed open.

“SUMIRE! I’M HERE! DON’T CRY ANYMORE!” A voice yelled, making the two jump in their seats. Sumire turned her head to see Rentaro by the front entrance, a bag in hand as a small furry tail poked out of it.

I’m going to kill him! She thought as she pressed her hands to her face. Seonghwa glanced over at the boy that came in and then toward her, noticing her expression. She sighs as Rentaro made his way over and pulled a chair next to her before plopping down in his seat.

“Uh...” He paused, glancing between her and Seonghwa, “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes.” Both Sumire and Seonghwa said at once.

“O-okay?” Rentaro paused as he shifted nervously in his seat, before leaning close to Sumire, “I brought Iroha by the way,” he said as he opened his bag to reveal the small kitten.

She merely sighed before noticing Seonghwa staring at them, more so Ren in particular. A frown was seen on his face as Ren shifted nervously under Seonghwa’s gaze.

“Someone you know?” He asked, raising a brow at her.

“Yes, unfortunately,” she replied, she grabbed Ren by the ear and pulled him close, “What are you doing here?!” She hissed.

“I was bringing Iroha, remember? You know! Cuddles, because I thought you were going to have a nervous breakdown and cry?!” He answered, pulling away as he rubbed his ears.

“Well you can go now, don’t you have to come back later tonight for your performance?” She said. He merely shrugged, brushing her off.

“It’s fine, as a musician, I already have everything prepared, I’ll just have Yusung bring everything here then,” he added. Seonghwa’s ears perked up at their conversation.

“A musician?” He hummed, “That doesn’t mean much,” he says. Sumire sucked the air between her teeth, watching as Ren stiffened and frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked, an annoyed look on his face as he stared at Seonghwa.

“Nothing, don’t mind me,” he said with a shrug as he went back to staring at some random documents, “Though, I’m curious on what your relationship is to one another,” he said eyes moving from Sumire then to Ren.

He thought it was childish of him to engage in bitter feelings he felt towards this boy, especially over feelings he didn’t understand why he felt like this all of a sudden.

“Oh, Rentaro is my roommate-”

“Uh, I’m her boyfriend!” He blurted out suddenly. Sumire almost choked on air and stared at him with wide eyes. Seonghwa felt his fingers twitch suddenly in response, fingers crumpling the edges of the documents in hand.

“My what?!” She hissed, slapping his thigh in response as he winced. Ren kept his lips shut, not wanting to tell her that he wanted to tease her, but also he wanted to see how Seonghwa would react.

“You’re her boy...friend?” Seonghwa narrowed his eyes at him, a slight prick in his chest made him feel uncomfortable as the boy moved closer to her, one arm wrapped around her tiny frame. Irritation was the first thing he felt.

“No!” “Yes!” The two glanced at one another, eyes wide at one another’s answers.

“Yes?” Sumire asked, narrowing her eyes at Ren.

“No?” He echoed back, giving her a wide eye expression, one filled with mock hurt. She brushed him off knowing that he was messing around and glanced back at Seonghwa, who had been watching the two carefully.

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Sumire insisted with a flustered face.

“I’m her boyfriend,” Ren started again, earning a harsh elbow to the side as Sumire turned towards him, giving the boy a nasty glare. He immediately shrunk back, “Kidding,” he said with a nervous smile, “I’m her roommate actually.”

Somehow, hearing that didn’t make Seonghwa feel better (though he wonders why he felt relieved when the boy admitted he wasn’t her boyfriend). The only thing he could do was sit back in his seat and let out a hum. A soft mew could be heard from Rentaro’s bag, gaining Sumire’s attention before Iroha poke her tiny head out.

“Oh, Iro,” Sumire crooned as she picked up the tiny kitten. She was thankful that Aurora was pet friendly and allowed pets inside as long as they behaved. Seonghwa watched as she coddled the kitten in her arms, a small pout on her lips as she kissed the top of the kitten’s head.

Cute, he thinks. Ren didn’t miss the way Seonghwa’s eyes softened as Sumire coddled with Iroha and had a thought.

Oh, Ren thinks before turning back to Seonghwa.

“So,” Ren started, “Are you two friends?” He asked, eyeing between the two curiously. Seonghwa snapped out of his stupor and cleared his throat as he looked back at his papers.

“No,” Seonghwa sat up straight, eyes back on his papers in an attempt to focus his attention off of the girl before him.

“Oh,” Ren’s eyes widened slightly, “Is this a date?” He asked in a low voice, “If it is, I’m so sorry-”

“No!” Seonghwa snapped, his cheeks suddenly flushed at his suggestion, “We’re just working on a project together,” he said, straightening himself. His eyes went over to Sumire, watching as she was too busy playing with the kitten.

“Huh,” Ren paused as he saw how the other had a stiff posture, his eyes going back to the papers in hand, attempting to make them less crumpled as they were before.

Seonghwa felt slightly uncomfortable as he felt Ren was staring at him before clearing his throat, “Maybe we should end it here for today.”

Sumire glanced up, “Oh? Are you sure?” She asked, tilting her head slightly. He felt a slightly jolt in his chest and cheeks suddenly burning as she stared at him with wide eyes. He cleared his throat once again.

“Yes,” he said, “I have other things to do later on, plus we have been here for some time,” he notes at the time. Sumire pulled her phone, noticing the many messages from the group chat and that a few hours had passed. She wonders how did that happen.

“Oh,” she says, “I-I guess I didn’t notice,” she mutters before gathering her things, moving anything important out of Iroha’s grasp as the kitten stood on her lap and attempted to climb on the table. A soft mew was heard as Iroha moved towards Seonghwa.

His eyes glanced down at the kitten, seeing how they were staring up at him. He suddenly felt nervous as the kitten stared up at him with wide eyes, as if begging him to pet her. Hesitantly, he reached out and petted the small feline.

The soft purring Iroha let out made him relax as he smiled. As soon as Sumire was done gathering her things, she noticed Seonghwa petting Iroha, “Oh, she likes you,” she smiled as she petted Iroha’s back, not noticing how his finger stifled as they brushed against his.

“She’s...cute...” he said slowly, his eyes glancing back at her as he said that. She smiled before cooing at Iroha.

“She is, isn’t she,” she agreed, a sparkle was seen in her eyes as she continued to coo at the small kitten. Seonghwa smiled once again, his eyes lingering on Sumire before she picked up the kitten.

“Um,” he started, clearing his throat once again, “I’ll text you on when we can work on the project again,” he said. Sumire nodded and settled Iroha in her arms.

“Oh, alright then,” she said, for once she felt fully relaxed since upon entering the cafe. Maybe it was because Iroha was here in her arms, or maybe it might be that Seonghwa wasn’t as bad as she initially thought.

“I guess we’ll be taking our leave now,” Ren suddenly spoke up, reminding the two that they weren’t alone. Seonghwa frowned as Ren took her hand in his before leading her towards the entrance.

She glanced over her shoulder, a small smile on her lips as she waved back at him. Seonghwa felt his heart stutter as he hesitantly waved back, ignoring how there was a prang in his heart again as she left through the door.

As soon as she was gone, he sat back in his seat as his hands ran through his hair, “What the fuck just happened?” He asked himself as he felt his hands clammy and his cheeks hot. As he was deep in his thoughts, he heard a chair pull up.

“So?” Seonghwa glanced up to see Hongjoong staring at him with a grin.

“What?” He asked, narrowing his eyes at the cafe owner. Hongjoong only shrugged, that stupid grin still on his lips.

“Nothing, just wondering if you enjoyed it,” he said with a wink. Seonghwa only grunted in response, slowly feeling annoyed by the other.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said as he glanced over at his laptop.

“Oh, really?” Hongjoong said, “So you’re telling me you didn’t try to reach out and fix her hair before her friend came?”

Seonghwa slammed his fist against the table, his cheeks now red as he stared at Hongjoong, “Y-you saw that?!” He stuttered, making Hongjoong chuckle.

“You’re not as slick as you think you were,” he said, “I think you’re losing your touch against her,” he continued, “Hell even Jongho saw how hopeless you were being!”

Upon mentioning the youngest, the two turned towards Jongho who immediately looked away from his post behind the register, whistling as he did. Seonghwa huffed, running his hand through his hair again.

“Look, nothing happened, we were just working on the project and then her friend decided to show up,” he answered. There was no way he’ll tell Hongjoong the odd palpitation of his heart he felt whenever he saw her shift nervously in her seat.

“Uh huh, sure,” Hongjoong grinned, “Whatever you say lover boy!”

“Shut up!” He grumbled, his eyes glancing to the side as he noticed a red thread in the corner, one end slowly floating down toward the ground next to him. His eyes followed as the thread extended out and saw it lead towards the entrance and outwards.

What the...?

“Seonghwa?” His eyes snapped back to Hongjoong, who seemed to have been trying to grab his attention just now. Seonghwa glanced back to where he saw the thread, only to find it gone. “Hey, are you alright?” Hongjoong asked, noticing how spaced out he was acting.

“Uh...” Seonghwa paused, before shaking his head. It’s just stress, he tells himself once more. “Nothing, just...nothing.”

“You sure, you seemed off just now,” Hongjoong said, giving the older a slightly concerned look.

Seonghwa wasn’t sure what to say, his mind was already filled many thoughts of his own. “I’m fine, Hongjoong, thank you for your concern,” he told him.

It was all stress, he told himself, that had to be it.

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oneweekoneband · 3 years

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meet me behind the mall!!!!!!!!!

youtube

I don’t know why Taylor Swift thinks that teenagers drink wine, and I don’t know why she chose to record and release a wistful high-school-other-woman song which left me feeling naked as a frog and therefore furious. Some questions we ask only so as to be soothed by the familiar sound of our own voice, still there after all. The answers are not coming.

The Taylor Swift Teen Love Triangle Triad of “cardigan”, “august”, and “betty” is the part of folklore that makes me most bullish about where Taylor is going as an artist. A turn away from writing songs which are intentionally meant to appear confessional and toward, instead, songs which reveal the personal as refracted through fictitious circumstances and made-up characters is a better use of her big, weird brain, and allows that brain to be unleashed on a broader plain of experience. It’s incredibly embarrassing to be an adult woman with my own problems to manage and to have living in my head Taylor Swift’s demented YA fiction, but it’s an embarrassment that feels appropriate, like I could never really have escaped this fate. On “betty” she gets to play-act as a contrite teen boy who knows he’s done wrong, and while obviously the most charming thing about the song is Taylor saying “fuck” (and also her giving us a little of the ol’ razzle dazzle by way of some light twang), her experiment with imagining what it’s like to be a skateboarding kid who hates dances, trying on an imagined teen boy interiority as a costume, is effective too.

“cardigan” is more removed, less plaintive and shouty. This is a song from adult Betty’s perspective looking back on this period in her life and in her relationship with James, who the song seems to imply she is still with now. While—full offense—I believe marrying your high school girlfriend or boyfriend is a disorder which should have its own listing in the DSM, restoring order by putting the original couple back together so as to make the story one of true love triumphing over adversity, rather than a series of sketches of kids doing fuckup kid things just because it is not easy to be alive and to be alive alongside others and with gentleness, least of all when you are very new at it, is the only conclusion this saga could ever have reached with Ms. Swift at its helm, and I do appreciate the consistent, if baby-brained, internal logic. I’ve never known a teenage girl whose signature garment was a cardigan and, frankly, this Betty sounds like sort of a self-absorbed drip (I do love, love, how Taylor’s own voice comes through so clearly on the lightly threatening, smug lines, “I knew you’d miss me once the thrill expired / And you’d be standing in my front porch light” !!) so I’m not totally surprised she got cheated on, but that’s very uncharitable of me and probably comes from the same meaty polyp in my brain that is responsible for my still loving all the hilariously mean-spirited, woman-hating songs on Speak Now.

“august” is about the other girl. The “her” in James’ rather pathetic defense, “slept next to her, but I dreamt of you all summer long”. “august” tells a story that brings to my mind another story. It is a story I won’t belabor because it is neither exciting nor unique. It will not illuminate an unexplored human experience, as it is, in fact, incredibly boring, regular, an incident which would be at home in any normal Tuesday, ordinary as meeting at the mall. This is a million years ago and there is a boy whose basement I go to sometimes after swim practice. We have matching team sweatpants with our names embroidered above the pocket at the right hip and I like to switch pairs. I’m you and you’re me and when we have pushed and bent the tiredness out of our muscles together, making experimental declarations in hushed voices down there while the furnace groans, well, then I’m you and me and you’re you and me and we are we are we are.

One February day at twilight I bound out of the school building with wet hair and a fleece jacket, but his car is already gone. No worries. Standing at my locker the next afternoon like in a movie he will say, easy as anything, that he has a girlfriend, a family friend, two towns over, she goes to private school. You’ve probably met her, he says. And right then I remember that I have. Last year I did her zipper in the bathroom at a dance. We were fighting but we never really broke up, he says. For months you’ve been fighting? is all I say back. Fighting since October? As if that matters. Like that’s the point. My voice is pinched and ugly and I know I’ll hear that sound forever. Well, anyway... I feel bad. He doesn’t clarify for whom he feels bad. He’s got one sneaker toe working against the other one atop the tile floor that’s the murky green of sea glass. He looks at my St Brigid’s cross necklace, at the blue Masterlock hanging open like a broken jaw, at someone in a hoodie who punches his shoulder as they walk by. Nothing personal, he says, and there is a tiny smudge of cafeteria pizza at the corner of his mouth that I hadn’t noticed until that second and a day ago would’ve reached up and wiped away with the pad of my thumb, laughing. I get it, right? Oh, sure.

The worst of it was not skipping pre-calc to cry in the bathroom, since, I mean, I couldn’t actually do pre-calc and would never learn how, but was inspecting my soul in the dark when I couldn’t sleep that night and finding part of me had known this all along, had chosen to pretend, wanted the wanting so badly I’d knocked from my brain the truth of how it was going to end. This would not be the last false love from which I’d find myself unceremoniously discarded, and in time I’d learn to be the liar myself, too. It’s unseemly to pathologize bad decisions, to take on poor impulse control or self-destructive patterns as an identity, but I do think that just as some people are born serial monogamists, part of a twosome forever with very little mess in-between, some of us were built from the very first cell to live like a pool ball struck and banging teeth first into the wrong mouths and hearts. I can examine my romantic history and tap my finger against the obvious errors, the times I chose what I knew would hurt me, when I ascribed hope to situations where it did not belong, when I, like the narrator of “august”, regarded someone as not mine to lose but still put myself in the position to be harmed by the losing, yet I can’t produce alternative choices that feel realistic. If you are in love and it doesn’t work out, there is mourning, there is pain, but there is all the while a record which shows something happened, it was real. “august” stands somewhat apart in the Taylor Swift catalog as a song neither about the glory of true love or the heartbreak when it’s over, but about the small, paper cut heartbreaks that are inescapable during each day of an untrue love. “It was never mine”. When it turns out you were wrong the whole time, fooling yourself, then even remembering that you’d been happy in the lie is like being trapped in a fun house, body bent and broken in the mirror, a thing not built right for this world.

“august” is about the girl who James was with over the summer, the girl he leaves to return to Betty. Taylor said it’s the first of the three that she wrote, and I fear this has warmed me to her in some new and unsettling way. I fear this means she’s matured as a person and writer, capable now of a more expansive view of situations, to be generous. It’s like how you shouldn’t feed gremlins after midnight; there is no telling what new and more dangerous creature this woman might turn into if she’s suddenly been taught empathy. When Taylor-as-James in “betty” sings, “Would you trust me if I told you it was just a summer thing?” in his effort to woo Betty back I hate him a little, that thoughtless child undeserving of the kind of adoration in lines like, “your back beneath the sun / wishing I could write my name on it.” I try to extend grace to this fictional boy, but I think of the “Do you remember? in “august” and I feel a little sick from being so certain that no... No, he doesn’t. Not really.

“Back when we were still changing for the better / wanting was enough / for me it was enough”. I’d like to think there is no last chance to change for the better. I’d like to think wanting is enough so long as you want the right thing. I’d like to think that God made sure Taylor Swift became a singer instead of a young adult novelist because the absolute last thing this world needed was this freak joining the circus that is YA Twitter. Most of all, I like thinking that Judy Blume knows that her beautiful, searing, devastatingly romantic and also textually gay 1998 novel Summer Sisters is the only important book that has ever been published, and, further, that the world will show me the respect of understanding and accepting that “august”, when removed from the context of the Swiftian child romance trilogy, sounds as if it were specifically written in homage. Taylor, I know I’ve accused you of at least fifty crimes this week alone, but if you want to talk about Summer Sisters, please get in touch.

#taylor swift #folklore

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lineffability · 5 years

Text

// and the angel said unto them, do not be afraid // Luke 2:10

Aziraphale was in a good mood. Which was sort of his State Of Being, what with him being an angel and goodness incarnate and generally Holier Than Thou.

That was the way he liked to think of himself, anyways. He didn’t like to look past that thin, fragile layer into the burning depths out of which he had been forged. His goodness was the crust of the earth, the protective layer that made life possible on the surface.

What lay beneath was both life-giving and deeply destructive. Like God herself, in that way. Shaped in Her image.

Hellfire was not the most cataclysmic force around.

Like most angels, it was a part of him he kept under lock and had mostly forgotten (denied). Aziraphale had worked hard to shape himself into who he wanted himself to be. Who he had consciously chosen to be.

He was a being of love, at the end of it all.

And the things he loved and surrounded himself with were like the homemade, cross-stitched fabric of his soul: food and books and warm colours; softness and fondness and contentment; and Crowley.

(Woe betide the fool who might try and rip a hole into this fabric, to snatch a thread and force it to unravel--to reveal what lay neatly tucked away underneath.)

Currently, Aziraphale was in particularly high spirits, because he had struck a most pleasing book deal, and was on his way back to his shop with a pack of chocolates under his arm, and was also very much looking forward to Crowley returning tonight from his little trip over to Wales where he was wreaking some Moderate Inconvenience for old time’s sake.

He entered his shop with a smile on his face: a smile that died when he saw the tall, broad man clad in a perfectly-fitting grey suit standing right there in the centre of the room, waiting for him on the carpet that he knew hid a rather occult chalk sketch.

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale fixed his bowtie, smiling a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “This is a... surprise?”

Behind the angel, Aziraphale could see the answering machine blinking at him from under a pile of books--an ugly device, really, but Crowley had pestered him to get one set up so much he had to give in at some point, that wily old serpent--and his thoughts involuntarily wandered off to the demon. Not exactly an appropriate moment.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel smiled his business smile, play-punching Aziraphale on his shoulder as he came up to him. The angels had kept their distance ever since The Hellfire Incident; this was the first time Aziraphale had seen the Archangel since that day, a few months ago now. “Old boy! Just dropped by to update you on some stuff; keep in touch, right? Well, anyways, about the demon Crowley--”

Aziraphale straightened, lips parting slightly.

“--well, about him, you’ll have to manage without him for a bit, nothing serious. No harm done, right? Well, no permanent harm, anyways.” He laughed, as if he’d made a little joke. He had, only Aziraphale was not in on it yet.

“What?” Aziraphale’s voice sounded weak to his own ears.

“Oh, come on! You know we’re big on vengeance!” Gabriel beamed. “Of course, we honour our agreements, but a well-placed little discorporation has never hurt anyone, now, has it? Actually, scratch that, it hurts a little. Anyways, we acquired some fine murderers--aren’t humans just great? Murder by purchase, hilarious! They should be on their way to eliminate his earthly shell as we speak, just wanted to let you know.”

Aziraphale was barely listening anymore. The red light of the answering machine glowered at him from the depths of his consciousness like beastly eyes in the dark, its happy promise turned to bone-deep, spine-chilling dread.

Crowley, discorporated? His knees felt weak.

"Oh don’t look so upset, now. He’ll be back in no time, the paperwork only takes a few years down there. Anyways, I gotta run, duty calls, and--”

He stopped dead when he caught the look in Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale had never looked at him like that. Perhaps Aziraphale had never looked at anyone like that. Gone was the pudgy little man with eyes so blue they must’ve been taken right from the perfect sky of a picture book. He looked like rainclouds, like a cold desert, like a stormy sea about to come crashing down to drown the entire world. He looked like The Fury Of God, and Gabriel took a step backwards, involuntarily.

But just as suddenly as it had come on, the wave subsided (but oh, the dark sea remained). “It has not happened yet, you say?” His voice sounded strained.

“Oh, no,” Gabriel started, but Aziraphale, staring at the floor, merely snapped his fingers, and the Archangel disappeared as the carpet below him incinerated and the chalk beneath glowed white.

Another snap, and the answering machine started playing by itself.

“Aziraphale!” A chipper voice piped up, and the angel suddenly felt so scared he wanted to sink down onto the floor. “So, I was wondering, since I can’t quite recall--was Wales one of yours or ours? I mean,” and here he laughed, “I do know who’s responsible for Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch--still proud of that one. Anyways, come over to my place tonight at 7, I’ve brought you some bara brith and a bottle blanc de blancs.”

The rest of the tape ran empty. “Dammit, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, trying to convince himself that he was not about to cry. He rushed to the phone, and picked up the receiver. The right number started dialing by itself.

The clock showed 6.

“Angel? I know you miss me, but--”

“Crowley! Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale closed his eyes, the relief was so big.

“--really, gotta be patient only a little while longer.” Crowley’s voice was mischievous, a sentiment that currently went right over the angel’s head. “I still got some business to attend to in Hackney.”

“Wait, are you back in London?!”

“Oh yeah, just about to meet up with some shady people, y’know, my favourite kind, they wanted to strike some sorta deal and--oh, gotta go!”

“Crowley, wait!”

“Toodeloo!”

The line went dead, and Aziraphale, aggravated, threw the receiver down. It fell to the ground, so he picked it back up and put it on the holder, angrily. He felt like swearing.

He had to get to Crowley. Before they did.

Crowley was expecting nothing. If they really were trained assassins, and if they acted fast enough, there was a real chance his demon was in serious trouble.

It took half an hour to get from Soho to Hackney by cab or public transport. For a human.

Aziraphale had been out of shape for six thousand years, but right now he didn’t have time to acknowledge that fact. Reality would just have to deal with it. So he ran. He ran as if the devil was on his heels, even though it was in fact quite the opposite. After a few steps he was barely touching the ground anymore, while an Old power deep inside him reared its tired head. Nobody took notice of him, nor of the flash of white feathers that flickered in and out of existence around him as he moved, ever faster, dragging his body along for the ride.

Ten minutes later he stood in a dark alley, gasping for breath as he tried to put himself back together: literally; rearranging his atoms and reattaching the patches of Soul that had spilled over like water out of an overflowing cup, like cotton out of a crude and frayed doll.

He was close enough now, to feel him. Could sense the demonic aura.

(That was good, right? That meant he still had an aura.)

It didn’t take long to track him down.

Through a broken fence and along a wall full of horrendous graffiti and towards the entrance of an abandoned warehouse. It was a truly sinister place; no person in their right mind would meet up with strangers here. Except Crowley was no person (and quite possibly never in his right mind.)

(I don’t have a right mind, angel, Aziraphale could almost hear him say, I have a wrong mind. And I’m very much in it. Duh.)

The doors crumbled before him, evaporated into thin air that he could feel against his wings. He hadn’t bothered putting them away.

“Crowley?” he called.

And Crowley turned around, surprise on his face, and as if they had been waiting for this moment the two people he was now facing away from drew their guns.

Two shots echoed through the empty hall.

They never reached their target. Aziraphale lifted his hand, and for a moment everything stopped. The wave of his righteous fury came crashing down all over again, and this time there was no stopping it. When reality resumed, the bullets had found new targets.

With twin screams, the two henchpeople went down and writhed on the ground, their kneecaps shattered. When they looked up, they wished they hadn’t.

All they saw was bright white blinding fury, a vast nothingness so incomprehensible to the human mind that it burned their eyes and their souls, and inside that nothingness a million eyes staring right through them. There were whispers, in that place, echoes and ghosts and memories of worlds, and as the angel spread its wings they started screaming.

They stopped, abruptly, when the demon Crowley let them fall into merciful unconsciousness.

“Angel, that’s enough.”

The sound of Crowley’s voice reached him through a haze, and Aziraphale faltered. He turned towards the demon, and saw shock and worry on his face.

Crowley saw something else entirely: He saw Both. There was Aziraphale, tired and dishevelled and unbearably horrified and so very Human; and there was Aziraphale, blinding and manifold and unbearably Holy, and not human at all.

“Aziraphale,” he murmured, “it’s enough, now. It’s okay.”

And Aziraphale closed his eyes, and stood there as the light receded, and when he opened his eyes he was One again. And he looked terrified.

“Oh, Crowley,” he said, and his voice almost broke, it sounded so feeble. “You’re, you’re alright.”

Crowley, on the other hand--now that he had his angel back, he knew it, saw it--looked at him... almost a little smitten. He stepped closer, steadying the angel before he could ask. Though he tried to look Casual, he still scanned the angel’s face intently, until Aziraphale looked away.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he finally said, and after another moment: “Should I thank you?”

“Better not,” Aziraphale answered with a weak smile. “I could get into all sorts of trouble...”

Crowley smiled: faintly, softly. (Almost, very almost, he touched a hand to the angel’s cheek.)

“So, care to tell me what this is all about?” he asked instead, carefully circling around Aziraphale, his touch never quite leaving him.

Aziraphale pressed his lips into a fine line. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Silence settled around them, and both their gazes landed on the poor unconscious souls lying in a heap on the ground.

“Well uhhh, alright, then,” Crowley spoke up, “So... Let’s get you home? I still have that sparkling wine in my Bentley, y’know the one.”

“Wait.” Aziraphale sighed, taking a few exhausted steps towards the two murderers acquired by Gabriel. “Do not be afraid,” he murmured as he took to healing their knees, “ When you wake up, you migth want to re-evaluate your choice of profession. And try not to believe what you saw.”

(Forgetting, he knew, was impossible. They would have to carry this burden for life. As did he.)

Crowley stood waiting, and then wordlessly walked by his side (his arm brushing against Aziraphale’s now and again, close enough to offer comfort with his presence, but keeping to himself.) He wasn’t quite sure what to make of this situation, wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he knew Aziraphale well enough to give him time.

He’d always needed time.

As they stepped outside, someone was waiting for them.

He was Gabriel--but not quite. A few inches smaller, a little lop-sided, with less of his perfect hair on his head. He looked like he’d been run through a pastry machine. And he looked pissed.

“You’ve really done it now, Aziraphale,” he snapped. “Discorporating an Archangel! Look at the fucking body they gave me!”

“You what?!” Crowley wheezed, incredulous and, not to his credit, looking absolutely delighted.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and straightened his shoulders, and suddenly looked like his old self. Like his softness was his armour.

“I thought, despite everything, that you were still one of us... but I must have been wrong.” Cold anger sat deep in Gabriel’s eyes, and behind that, hidden, something like disappointment.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, instinctively, ready to go No, no, of course I still am, but then he glanced sideways at Crowley. And that was that. He knew.

They were still His Side... but right now, though he would never say the words out loud despite it all, there was only one thought burning inside him and it was:

Fuck My Side.

“No, I don’t suppose I am.” He said it as if he was realizing it only as he spoke, and a part of him did. Another part had known it for a long, long time. He looked Gabriel right in the eyes, holding his furious gaze with his own.

Beside him, he saw (felt) Crowley’s head snap around, just impercetibly, a motion so small that Gabriel would never notice, but Aziraphale did. Behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes had gone wide.

So this was it. The moment he had been so very scared of for so very long, but now that it was happening he suddenly was not scared anymore at all. Determined, he took a step forward, positioning himself slightly closer and slightly in front of Crowley. He thought he saw the demon smile softly, for just a second, a little unsure twitch in his cheek.

“I would appreciate it if you never did that again,” Aziraphale said, and somehow it sounded both like a polite request and a Threat.

And Gabriel, The Trial still present in his mind--the image of Azirapahle standing in Hellfire and basking in it--thought he saw that same Aziraphale again now. The Archangel smiled, a short and humourless smile that was mere acknowledgement, and then he snapped his fingers and was gone.

Crowley waved after him, a little wiggle of his fingers that he very much enjoyed.

Aziraphale felt all his strength leave him, yet at the same time he’d never felt stronger in his life. He exhaled, trying to wrap his mind around all that had happened. He had truly chosen his allegiance once and for all, and he knew it was the only decision he ever could have made.

The power that had so forcefully reminded him of its existence, never quite forgotten, still tingled beneath his skin, but it was only a soft stream now, and Aziraphale gently led it back down. The fabric of Himself was still intact. With a little smile, and an even littler glance to the demon by his side, he clasped his hands contentedly in front of his stomach.

Aziraphale knew who he had to thank for that. Wily old serpent, always meddling in his affairs. He’d better never stop.

“He’s a real jerk, that one, isn’t he?”

Aziraphale gasped, looking scandalized, and completely missed the irony of that. Then he grinned, and laughed, and looked at the ground and then back up into Crowley’s face, a little unsure.

“I guess you might, on occasion, have a point,” he conceded.

He smiled broadly, warmly, one of his best smiles, and Crowley, a little stricken, reciprocated. Suddenly nervous, he took off his sunglasses and tried to clean them with the hem of his shirt, before giving up and slipping them into his pocket, as had been his (very secret) intention all along.

They locked eyes, in the twilight, and almost seemed like bashful teenagers, ready to come of age but feeling very shy about it.

“What’s this horrible feeling all around here?” the demon asked suddenly, looking around. “It’s making my stomach all upset.”

“That would be love, my dear.” Unadulterated.

“Oh.” Crowley said nothing more.

But his hand brushed against the back of Aziraphale’s, just lightly grazing it, and the angel, as if by serendipity, turned his hand to face his--not quite taking it, but letting their fingers touch, and not pulling away.

_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_;_

tagging the people in the OP who sounded like they would want to be tagged:

@idinink @aangelphale @ohblessit @armoredavengers @e3105eb @ineffable-bisexual @cake-cow @snake-in-the-bookshop @crowleysscaredplants @the-best-pilot-in-the-resistance @crowleys--angel @qfantasydragon @aduckwithears @jesuisfabulous @azirafuck @snakecrowleyy @foolish-principalitee @crowleyraejepsen @azfellandco @on-our-own-side @imlowercasemad

#good omens #ineffable husbands #a/c #aziraphale x crowley #my omens #my writing #inefficable #why do i hurt the ones i love #the one in which aziraphale has had Enough

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ace-trainer-risu · 3 years

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omg i would like to know the hated author...

OH thank you for asking I was. of course secretly deeply hoping someone would ask so I would have an excuse to go off.

The author [dramatic pause] is VE Schwab!

Now I will pause (again) to say that I just spent like two hours writing a six page long essay on exactly why I dislike her as an author (I don’t know anything about her as a person so no feelings there) but then when I reread it I started to feel worried that it might hurt someone’s feelings who really likes her as an author, so this is a slightly redacted version.

But basically there are three things I hold against her.

For context, I’ve only actually read one book by her, A Darker Shade of Magic. But it’s not just that I didn’t like it. It’s that it left me angry. I read it a year ago and I still get furious when I think about it. It is, in my opinion, a profoundly toxic and hateful book.

While at the same time also being a very boring and bland book.

So that’s point one) I just don’t get the hype. I read ADSM b/c I saw it recommended everywhere, but I really don’t get why? It’s not very well-written. Purely on a technical level her writing isn’t bad, but it’s not good either, its very...okay. The world building was really disappointing (it’s about four alternate worlds but they’re all almost. exactly the same. which was super disappointing. and also she seems to be under the illusion that london is like the most important place in the world?) The characters are bare minimum sketches, they basically feel like she came up with an initial concept and then never went any further. The characters aren’t particularly likeable or compelling, either, except for one character who...I felt like you weren’t actually supposed to like, lol. The pacing was actively bad. The plot doesn’t really start till around halfway through the book. I actually started ASDM twice and gave up on it the first time b/c it was boring. when I tried again the second time, I thought I had only read maybe the first quarter of it on the first try b/c I couldn’t remember anything happening, but it turned out I had actually read about half, its just that nothing happens in the first half.

to be fair, I have read reviews of a different book she wrote which specifically praised the writing, so maybe she just did a shitty job on this book and she writes better in her other work?

point two) if you only pay attention to the text of the story, it’s fine! again, its not particularly compelling but its fine. but if you pay any attention to the subtext, its...really misogynistic and queerphobic. its incredibly pervasive through the whole text.

for one thing, the female protagonist is introduced and is immediately like “Oh. I hate all other women.” (No one asked!) which is not necessarily bad in and of itself, except that...not only is her sexism never called out or contradicted, its actually actively supported by the text. there’s only one other important female character, and she’s Evil(TM), and also gets killed. the very few other female side characters are either someone’s mom or are portrayed as being extremely shallow and vapid and silly. they act exactly how the female protag despises women for acting. so...I don’t think its intentional but you’re left with this weird impression that the female protag is completely justified in her internalized misogyny b/c apparently all other women ARE bad. also, the female protag likes wearing boy’s clothes, which is great, but there’s this weird vibe that girls who don’t wear boy’s clothes are like, dumb and bad and sexist. I think the author is trying to critique repressive female clothing in the past (female character is from regency era england) but she does it really badly and instead accidentally(?) implies that girls who wear skirts are like. dumb sluts. a very weirdly sexist take. like it literally feels like this book hates women and specifically hates them for wearing “women’s” clothes. *also not the point but it’s really funny that of all the time periods to critique for restrictive clothes, she picked regency england. ah yes, the torturous constraints of...empire waisted dresses and minimal or no corsets. dastardly!

for another thing, the queer rep is just...so so bad. there’s one explicitly multisexual person (bi or pan isn’t specified but something along those lines) who gets tricked by a manipulative man older than himself heavily implied to be gay (bad) and gets horribly injured and almost dies (bad) basically just so the straight male protag can have angst (bad!).

the manipulative guy implied to be gay is in turn being magically controlled by...a different! manipulative older man (bad) and is strongly implied to be sexually abused by that man (bad) and the straight main character literally never tries to help him in any way (bad) and ultimately kills(ish) him (bad) but it’s revealed that he basically chose to die (bad) because it was like, the only way he could ever escape his suffering (very bad!!) and the main character then! uses! his dying body! in a spell! to save his own fucking life! and basically disposes of his still alive! body into hell like he’s garbage (so bad I’m literally still fuming of it over a year later)

and then there’s the guy who is manipulating that guy, who is an older man heavily implied to serially abuse and assault teenage boys and young men (bad!!). he also dies too which is fine and good in and of itself...*

except for the fact that of our three queer-adjacent characters, two die and one is horribly injured and almost dies. two are abused and one is an abuser. two are used as angst-fodder for straight characters and one is literally sacrificed, coldly and selfishly and without his consent, to save a straight character’s life. they’re all closely associated with injury and death and trauma and abuse and it’s suggested that death is the only escape.

subtextually speaking, this book hates queer men and punishes them for existing.

*note: I want to specifically say that “enjoying abusing teen boys” does not automatically make a person gay or queer. that’s not what being gay/queer means. HOWEVER, there is a long and ugly history of gay men being portrayed as predators who deliberately prey on and abuse younger men, and this character plays directly into that stereotype, and that is why I included him. not b/c he’s positive queer rep but exactly because he isn’t

thirdly) about a year ago there was a bit of buzz about ve schwab writing a book with a canon asexual character...except I looked into it and a) it’s not actually canon at all; the book only says he’s disinterested in sex, which is by NO MEANS the same and it’s shitty to conflate the two when there’s a vast spectrum of asexual experiences (to be clear, it would be one thing if the text said he was asexual AND disinterested in sex. to say he’s disinterested in sex and that equals asexuality is a whole other thing, and is wrong), and schwab then confirmed on her twitter that he’s meant to be asexual. That’s not the same its not the same and we all know its not the same. b) this character is in fact a villain, which is frustrating when asexuality is FREQUENTLY and harmfully associated with people being heartless and unfeeling and evil and like, literal serial killers; to be fair, as I understand it the majority (all?) of the characters in these books are villains, so that’s less bad, but to be fair again, apparently this specific character is also portrayed as being, like “a sociopath” which is ableist AND goes back to all the stuff I said above. and c) what really annoys me is that in her tweets at the time she was very smug about this and fully patted herself on the back. she did half-assed, unresearched “rep” which wasn’t even actually canon and then acted like she was doing ace ppl a favor. excuse me, I didn’t actually ask to be represented by you.

SO YEAH that’s not the...medium and short of it. the long and short is reserved for a Cursed(TM) google doc filled with my rage. but the tl;dr is that I think she’s an overhyped writer who wrote a profoundly misogynistic, homophobic book and trumps herself up over rep she didn’t actually do a good job of providing. and I would definitely never read another one of her books. The End!

#things you didn't care to know about veronica #negative #veronica reads things #I don't want to tag her name in this so it doesn't come up in searches since i'm being mean #should i censor her name? please let me know if i should censor her name and i will happily do so #the ask and the answer

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aboutcaseyaffleck · 3 years

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Actor Casey Affleck Reflects On The Past And 'The World To Come'

The last time I saw Casey Affleck was after an 8:30 a.m. Sundance Film Festival screening of “Manchester by the Sea,” which left my colleagues and I so emotionally drained we were pretty much useless for the rest of the day. Affleck finds this very funny. “Oh man, that’s awesome,” he laughs. “That was a tough screening. At Sundance I’m usually just going to sleep at 8 a.m.” We’re talking on the phone a few days after the festival’s virtual premiere of his latest movie, “The World to Come,” which made its Sundance debut last month under very different circumstances. “It’s so strange doing these things sitting in front of your computer,” he sighs.

Directed by Mona Fastvold, “The World to Come” is a powerful period piece about a forbidden love affair between pioneer women played by Katherine Waterston and Vanessa Kirby, set in upstate New York during the early months of 1856. Affleck produced the picture, in which he plays a supporting role as Waterston’s uncomprehending husband, and he did his best to soldier through a crowded Zoom Q&A after the Sundance screening, with results pleasant enough, but nonetheless missing that in-person festival magic. “I used to love going to film festivals and talking to journalists and seeing all the movies and talking to other filmmakers,” he laments. “Sitting here alone in a little office in my house is such a drag. But it was nice to know that the movie was getting seen, at least.”

While big brother Ben plays Batman in studio pictures, Casey has exhibited a restless independent streak ever since he was a student at Cambridge Rindge and Latin School. (Our ninth-grade classes competed against each other in the Mass. High School Drama Guild Competition. His won, perhaps unsurprisingly.) A longtime friend of the Brattle Theatre and former creative advisor for the Independent Film Festival Boston, the younger Affleck has always seemed more at home in indies. Not a lot of actors would follow an Oscar-winning role in “Manchester by the Sea” with a microbudget art film like “A Ghost Story.” But then his internalized, minimalist acting style is often at odds with the concerns of contemporary blockbusters. There’s a weird dissonance watching something like Disney’s hokey Chatham sea adventure “The Finest Hours,” with Affleck going full Montgomery Clift while surrounded by CGI silliness.

“The World to Come” is the most ambitious project yet from Affleck’s Sea Change Media, which partnered with Pamela Koffler and Christine Vachon’s legendary NYC indie institution Killer Films for the arduous production that began with a conversation between Affleck and novelist Ron Hansen nearly a decade ago. “When I did ‘The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford’ I got to know Ron Hansen, just because I loved the book so much. Ron has a very unique talent for writing 19th century language. He’s just from another era. I asked him if he had something he wanted to work on together, and I thought he would send me one of his things. Instead, he sent me this story by Jim Shepard. It was beautiful. I said, why don’t you and Jim write the script? And they took about six years, but it came together beautifully. Good things come to those who wait, I guess.”

The film eventually shot in Romania with a break built into the schedule to accommodate the changing seasons that are so crucial to the movie’s rugged, outdoor textures. “We were way out in Transylvania, out in the mountains,” Affleck explains. “We were just in some valley and they built a couple of farmhouses. I like being far away in a new place. It makes you feel outside of your life. And I love working in weather. There are so many aspects of moviemaking that are artificial, but when there’s extreme weather, it’s real. I did this Disney movie about a boat rescue, and it was, like, December in friggin’ Quincy and they were just soaking us with water every single take. There’s not a lot that you have to quote-unquote act. You’re just standing there, teeth-chattering, shivering, just being.” This reminds me of the scene in “Manchester” when he and Lucas Hedges have an argument walking in the blistering cold and can’t remember where they parked. “I forgot about that one,” he laughs.

I’d never say so on the phone, but I consider Affleck’s performance as Lee Chandler in “Manchester by the Sea” among the finest I’ve seen in my 22 years of reviewing films, worthy of discussion alongside Brando’s Terry Malloy in “On the Waterfront” in its aching, inchoate longing. Lee holds his grief somewhere very private and dear, as if to begin to forgive himself would be an act of betrayal. The movie nails a gruff, emotional constipation popular among men of a certain stripe, especially in New England. (My mother offered my favorite review of the film: “Why don’t they just talk to each other? Jesus, this is like watching you and your father.”) Words don’t come easily to most of Affleck’s movie characters, but he chafes at the description of them as inarticulate. “It’s funny, I find the characters in ‘Manchester’ to be sometimes very articulate,” he argues. “There’s misunderstandings, but they end up communicating what’s inside.”

“The World to Come” is rife with such mixed signals and miscommunications, about which co-star Katherine Waterston raved during the Zoom Q&A after the Sundance screening. “It was so much fun to play the scenes with Casey,” she said. “A lot of these scenes are written as dances, where somebody tries to reach out and engage and they’re misunderstood. Inarticulacy is a very interesting thing to see in film. The failed attempts. Failed communications. It’s actually fun to play those things. You don’t know what the other person’s going to throw at you. It keeps it really alive on set. Mona and I felt if we had the money we could have kept shooting this thing for months, because the scenes were so much fun to explore.”

Affleck agrees. “When Katherine’s character writes in her journal or she starts talking to Vanessa, they have this beautiful, expressive way of speaking to each other,” he enthuses, whereas his character “says what he’s gotta say in as few words as possible. He’s very brusque and curt, which I enjoyed. The way that he talks is the communication equivalent when he gives her a birthday gift of sardines and a tin of raisins.”

Indeed, her increasingly florid diary entries — originally intended as a ledger to keep track of the farm’s monthly expenses — become the heartbeat of the film, providing an emotional release otherwise suppressed by the rigid formality of the era and the ugly drudgery of day-to-day farm life. “The World to Come” is ultimately a movie about the need to share our stories, and how through telling them we make sense of ourselves. As producer Koffler explains in the press notes, “Part of the film’s vision is to dramatize a very basic human impulse: to create, to connect, to say ‘I was here, and I mattered.’”

This has become a recurring theme in Affleck’s recent work. In 2019, he wrote, directed and starred in “Light of My Life,” a little-seen but strikingly tense post-apocalyptic road movie about a father and daughter hiding out in the wilderness after a pandemic has wiped out most of the women in the world. The film begins with Affleck telling the little girl a bedtime story that runs almost 13 minutes and sneakily sets up the movie’s major themes. Then in last month’s well-acted but regrettably soggy “Our Friend,” he starred as real-life journalist Matthew Teague, whose soul-baring Esquire story about his wife’s struggle with cancer became a national phenomenon.

“Matt Teague wrote that article and then wanted it made into a movie as his way of processing everything that had happened,” the actor elaborates. “You transform pain into other things as you go through life. That was all him working through it. I like stories about storytellers and I like stories within stories. Obviously, I wrote and directed a movie that starts with a 12-minute bedtime story. I love that. I know that other people don’t love it as much as I do, so I have to be careful about it.”

That kind of love led to last summer’s “Stories From Tomorrow,” a project initiated during lockdown by Affleck and his schoolteacher mom Christine, encouraging children to send in poems and short stories to be read on social media by celebrities like Matt Damon and Jon Hamm, as well as his “The World to Come” co-stars Waterston and Kirby. “That was something I started out at the very beginning of the quarantine as a small project to encourage kids to write creatively, because I know it can be a great way of processing anxiety and working through feelings that you aren’t really talking about or aren’t aware that you’re having. It wasn’t something I thought would go on forever; once the kids are back in school that ought to be where they should be doing all that kind of work. But while they were sitting at home, I thought it would be a good way to get their attention off the awful news and into something more imaginative. And I also got a chance to read all these super-cool stories! Really creative stuff that kids sent from all around the world.”

Finally, as a Boston publication it would be dereliction of duty not to mention the hysterical Dunkin Donuts commercial parody from when Affleck hosted “Saturday Night Live” in 2016, so dead-on in its depiction of a local 'regulah customah' that on one of my critics’ poll ballots that year I tried to nominate the sketch for Best Documentary. Alas, the performer shoots down a pet theory I’ve been hanging onto ever since, that the dirtbag Boston guy in the Bruins hat is secretly a grown-up version of Affleck’s scene stealing, bug-swallowing Morgan from “Good Will Hunting.”

“I hadn’t thought about that, dude. That’s really funny. It never crossed my mind." He pauses before confiding, "I wasn’t that great on SNL… I just wasn’t all that funny on the skits, because it’s live and you’re reading the cue cards and it was my first time. But when we went to make that little pre-recorded short film of the Dunkin’ Donuts ad, I really felt like that was my wheelhouse there. I could’ve played that character in a movie. I could have gone to work and played him every single day, and I would have had a blast. That was really fun to do. I would love to do another one of those. That would be funny to see that character again.”

I bet that guy’s got some stories.

“The World To Come” is now in theaters and will be available via video on demand Tuesday, March 2.

[source]

#casey affleck #the world to come #quote #photo #movies

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