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southslates · 5 years ago

Note

Sorry I accidentally posted this as a note instead! I absolutely love your work! How about Zutara + “Betty” from folklore!

“I'm only seventeen I don't know anything”

Katara stands in front of him. And then she blinks; and then she keeps staring. Zuko's features look utterly, completely, unreservedly terrified. He looks like he is about to fall apart, right then, as she takes him in.

He has tracked her and Aang across the entire world, and she does not know what he is doing here, but she feels, for some reason, guilty. Her heart beats against her chest wildly.

She should go tell the others about this. She lifts her foot up, and the prince looks like she has just started stomping on all of his hopes and dreams. She knows that gaze, marred as it is, all too well.

So she steps forward, feet pounding the pavement until she is truly right in front of him. Her voice wavers.

"I'd like some tea, please."

ii.

The girl keeps coming back to the teahouse. He wants her to leave. She is just a reminder of his past and she holds so much power over him. He doesn't like that. He wants her to leave.

On her fifth day she reaches a hand out and grabs his arm. She has been wearing this strange facade, acting absolutely nonchalant, and his fingers flex as his mind readies him for a fight. But her grasp is light and she lets go when he turns around.

"You owe me an explanation," she says.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he shudders out.

"I know." Her cool eyes are blue but they bear fiery holes into him. She gestures towards the kitchen, where Iroh is watching this strange conversation. "I still want to know."

iii.

He shudders when he's near her, and she finds that strange. But some part of her feels at peace when she flops up onto the kitchen table. He had moved away when she had come close to him -

She wonders, briefly, who has ever touched him; the ugly skin across his face looks like a hand mark.

"You're not trying to capture us."

It's a statement, and he doesn't respond. Iroh exits the door and slams it shut behind him until it is the two of them, just them, facing each other amongst roaring teapots.

"No."

"Why?"

"This - this is fine."

"That's not what I - why did you want to capture us, in the first place?"

His left eye is slanted and his lips curl down. She doesn't think she has ever seen him smile. "It doesn't matter. I'm fine now. You should leave."

"I don't want to."

"Look, waterbender -"

"My name is Katara," she lilts, so curious; he glares further.

"Look, Katara. Let me go. I don't want to cause any trouble."

She slides off the table and heads to the backdoor, pausing to give him one last long look. It seems searching. "It's my turn, Prince Zuko."

iv.

"Moonpeach bun today," she requests, and he doesn't say anything to that, just stands there with his brow tilted quizzically. She looks up a moment later. "What? I'm hungry."

She has never bought food here, before; something is changing, but the metal clamp over his heart almost releases itself.

"Okay," he says.

"Okay," she replies.

One day she comes in and he is not here. She knows his schedule, the patterns; she walks up to the desk and asks the old man there what has happened. He seems to note her interest with a quirk of his lips.

"Lee is sick," he tells her. "He isn't here today."

She has seen this boy in both poles, has frozen him intimately. It's strange to think that the warrior who kept fighting with his eyes bruised and body aching would succumb to the ills of the flesh. "Where is he?"

"Should I trust you, Master Katara?"

"You know -"

"I know a lot of things. And I care for my nephew," he frowns, but she feels validated. "Come back."

vi.

"How did you manage to get an infection here?" a voice sounds from above him, and he winces in pain at its high note. That does not sound like Uncle.

"W--what?"

His right eye blearily opens and he wants to jump away when he's faced with that deep, startling blue. Katara does not seem angry over him. Now that he is alert his nerves are tingling, and he looks down to see her hands on his bare chest. Color rises to his cheek, but she seems unaffected.

"You seem to enjoy hurting yourself," she says almost teasingly, but she does not even know half the truth. Zuko is not good at taking care of himself, and he had left this wound to fester. He does not always mind being Lee, but sometimes he feels that this life will never be enough.

Now, he is slightly lucid. "Why are you here?"

Her hands glow, clinically, on his chest. "I'm healing you."

"Why?"

Her features, gorgeous in the night's light, dim. "That doesn't matter."

vii.

He is different, now. He is calmer at a surface level, but she sees a fire that lives within; his blood feels like it is boiling.

She's curious about what lies further; she knows she should not be.

viii.

"That girl knows we're firebenders," he whispers, and Uncle turns.

"Of course Master Katara knows the truth. What is the problem?"

"I wasn't talking about her -" But she's here, still, and she walks right up to him at the counter. It has been different, after the day she showed up to his apartment. It has been something tentative, something like friendship.

"Hi," she says breathlessly, and he can't help himself.

"Hi."

They stare at each other before Iroh's sharp whistle draws them out of this; a brown head turns and leaves the shop in the distance.

ix.

There is some sort of festival in the streets, and she avoids dancing performers to wander into an almost empty shop. Pao is not there, so she steps into the kitchen freely; neither men inside are surprised to see her there.

"What's going on?" she asks. Zuko reaches next to him and places a steaming cup of tea in her hands. He is not wearing his apron right now; he looks different. He looks less broad and more defined, and she likes looking at him. She does.

"The Celebration of the Lotus Sky," Iroh says cheerfully. "A nice parade, no? You should be out there, Master Katara." Something lies unspoken; where is the Avatar? Aang would love this, but he is busy with Toph. She frowns thinking about it and almost drops the cup. Zuko places his hand right in front of her, and she smiles at him.

A strange sort of hope is blooming in her chest. "It sounds fun."

Zuko looks like he is struggling with something for a moment. Iroh takes that time to leave. But then he looks at her, golden eyes looking strangely innocent, and speaks. "Yeah, it does."

Something comes together under that sky; lanterns float by them, and she gets him to actually speak once they find a vendor selling Fire Nation cuisine.

She pays for him, and he does not know how to feel about that. He is distracted as they walk through the streets, as she seems young and jubilant. Here, she is just Katara. Not a master, not calculated; she is just here. She is not playing games with him.

It feels nice, because everyone plays games with him.

She pulls him to a fountain after they've exhausted the path, and his cheeks are hurting with laughter for the first time since . . . since his mother had died. She had tried to make him dance and accepted his shake of a head; she had laughed over noodles with him, had made funny faces in mirrors until his smile moved. She had tried, and that makes all the difference.

The sconces are unlit, and she looks at them wistfully. He wishes he could light them, but he cannot risk that, and that leaves him disappointed in himself.

And then Katara leans herself up against his shoulder, and he feels like he could burn down this entire city with the fire that rages within him.

He does not know if there is something here. He almost wishes that there was.

xi.

Nothing good ever lasts. She feels like she had something fragile, like she is about to break it here, sitting on the floor of the Crystal Catacombs.

"That's something we have in common," he says, and she cannot resist walking over to him. She places her hand on his scar, and he does not look scared when her thumb skims his lip. He does not look resigned. He looks peaceful.

Then something breaks and she turns away, and he sees the Avatar, and his heart stops beating.

xii.

She sees him look at her, at his sister. Isn't the choice obvious? She is right here. They have created something here, carved it out in the tea house. She is right here. But Aang is also right here, and she does not know how to verbalize her feelings like that.

That is her mistake. He asks her a question with his eyes, and she freezes.

xiii.

He wants her to tell him that this will not be worth it. He wants her to lay her head on his shoulder and stop him from doing this. Because he remembers the fish in the pond, and he thinks about good and evil, and he does not know.

He needs her to have faith in him.

She hesitates, and she looks at the Avatar, and all he can feel is rage.

xiv.

"I trusted you," she screams.

xv.

"Not enough," he doesn't say.

“The worst thing that I ever did Was what I did to you” - Taylor Swift, Betty

(Indulgence & an S2 AU that got away from me. I’m not a hundred percent sure what you were looking for, but I hope this works aha. Thanks for requesting @colourtheworldwithrainbows & I’m so glad you like my writing & I hope you enjoyed this :) Even though I definitely bungled the prompt aha.

If anyone has a Zutara request/prompt you’d like to see written, leave it in my ask box and I’ll write it!)

#zutara #zutara fic #crystal catacombs #ba sing se #zutara fanfiction #dee writes #zuko x katara #dee drabbles #lol this is longer #zutara reqs #taylor swift #betty #colourtheworldwithrainbows #thank you for asking :)

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pressedinthepages · 5 years ago

Text

Precarious

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Jaskier/Reader

Rating: E

Masterlist

a/n: Reader Request [Your Jaskier stories 🙌🏻 they're so good!! Can I pls make a request for some insecure Jaskier?? Maybe reader travels with them and his kinda with Jask already, but after seeing Geralt shout at him, (after the dragon), she leaves with him cos she's worried. She didn't hear what Geralt said, so during the trip to the nearest inn, she's just trying to talk to him but by the time they get a room he's a mess. Asking whether he ruins everything he touches and just brings shit onto people like Geralt said 😭 and reader shows him how loved he is.....theeen some nice loving smut as a cherry on top pls 😂🤞 You really capture his dramatics and deep heart ❤️ he's a sensitive soul really! ❤️] <3 ooof its been a moment since ive written some angst...but here it is!

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: language, smut, hurt/comfort, angst, sad bard times

Jaskier is in dire need after the events of the dragon hunt.

The breeze is cool on your face as you gaze over the mountains, so caught up in the majestic scenery that you nearly miss when Jaskier walks by. He looks lost, dazed as his nails dig into the worn leather of his lute case. His steps drag heavily across the ground as he approaches the head of the trail. Jaskier turns at the last second, his eyes searching the clearing until they land on you, shining with unshed tears.

You rush to his side, not even bothering to look behind you. You set your hand on his shoulder and look up at him, trying desperately to reach him in that emotionless void. “Jaskier?”

He says nothing, which is worrying in and of itself. Jaskier’s hair flops in his eyes as he nods resolutely, beginning the steps that will take him down the mountain. You glance behind you, seeing only the remaining few members of the expedition mulling about the clearing with no sign of Geralt or Yennefer. With a deep breath in, you turn on your heel to follow in Jaskier’s wake.

The whole trip down is completed in near silence, a suffocating vigil that is only rarely interspersed with the idea to rest for the evening. You can see Jaskier still trying to stop and take in the beauty around him, but it never lasts long. Soon enough, he wilts like a flower falling from a vase and turns back to the trail.

You try to help, but it’s clear that Jaskier isn’t quite ready to discuss what has been eating away at his mind. He bites his tongue and curls in on himself, even shying away from you when you sit around the fire at night. One night though, probably the last before you make it back down to Caingorn, you hesitantly reach out and take his hand, bringing his eyes up to you.

“Jaskier, is it something that I did?”

Jaskier swallows thickly, shaking his head. “No, my love. You’ve done so much more for me than I deserve.”

His voice trails off at the end and he looks back down, closing himself off. You scoot closer and take Jaskier in your arms, letting him lay heavily against you. You press your lips to the top of his head and fight to hold back your own tears, needing so desperately to hear that sweet humming that so often accompanies your love. The two of you fall asleep like this, staving off emotions too big to handle alone.

Rain pours from the sky the entire next day, leaving you both soaked and cold to the core as you stumble into town. Thankfully there is an inn nearby, and the two of you move frantically towards it. Your boots splash through the mud as you approach and you make sure to kick off as much as you can before pushing open the door.

You approach the innkeeper, who offers a reduced rate for the room in exchange for a night of entertainment from Jaskier. You turn her down though, sliding the higher amount of coin across the table, along with enough for a warm bath. She hands you a key, as well as an armful of cloth so that you may dry off.

You return to Jaskier’s side and offer a small smile, pulling him carefully up the stairs to the bedroom. The two of you systematically remove your packs and cloaks, draping the sopping fabric over a chair next to the fire so it has a chance to dry. You grab Jaskier by the hand once more, the two of you kicking off your boots before you pull him back out of the room and towards the bathing room at the end of the hall.

The air is already thick with warmth, settling on your skin and deep in your lungs. You see the tub sitting strong in the middle of the room, water high to the edge and threatening to spill out. “Let’s get you warm, Jaskier.”

He nods, still biting his tongue as he fiddles with the clasps at his wrists. You reach out and undo the buttons yourself, pressing a soft kiss to the exposed inside of his wrist. His doublet is cool under your fingers as you slide it open, your lips moving up to the tender skin over his collarbone peeks from underneath his chemise. The doublet gets carefully folded and set aside before your hands return, pushing up the hem of Jaskier’s chemise and stroking the warm skin that you find there.

Jaskier draws in a deep breath as you trace lazy patterns over his stomach and around his back, his own hands finding your waist. You push the shirt up over his head and set it aside as well, and Jaskier rests his forehead on yours with a sigh. His trousers are next, the buttons quickly undone before they hit the floor, followed soon after by his smallclothes.

Jaskier’s hands, still chilled from the rain that pounds over the roof, toy with the hem of your tunic before you push them away. His eyes find yours, full of worry and sadness. “Not now, love. Let me help you, please,” you whisper, pressing your hand to his neck and feeling the fluttering of his pulse beneath your fingers.

He does not argue before stepping back, turning to climb into the bath. Warm water spills over the edge as he sinks deep, plunging his head underneath so his teeth chatter with the quite sudden temperature change. You find the oils and soaps set on a small stool near the bath. You move them so that you can sit on the stool behind Jaskier, the little glass bottles resting on the floor next to you.

You find one that smells of rosemary and citrus, a bright scent in great contrast to the bard before you. Your fingers find his scalp, running in soft circles that press into his temples. In the stifling absence, you begin to hum. Jaskier turns his head at the sound, listening as your voice meanders through melodies. When his hair is sufficiently clean, you smooth your hands down the line of his neck and over his shoulders, trying to squeeze warmth back into the tense muscles.

Jaskier relaxes bit by bit as you scoot around to face him, washing down his arm and intertwining his fingers with yours. You dance over his knuckles and a couple of little scars that decorate the back of his hand, picked up from decades on the Path. Jaskier suddenly ducks back under the water, rinsing away the final evidence of the road and the rain.

He gasps as he comes back up, still holding tight to your hand. You brace yourself, knowing now is the time to ask, to draw him out. “Jaskier,” you murmur, “please, my love. What happened?”

Jaskier’s chest breaks with a sob and you squeeze his hand even tighter. “I-it’s my fault, really,” he whispers, “I pushed too hard, and I ruined it…”

“Ruined what, Jaskier?”

He looks away, his lip wobbling with every breath. “Geralt. H-he was trying to tell me to leave him be, but I didn’t listen, I never listen. And, then he bade me my leave.”

You shake your head, waiting for him to continue. “He said that-that if life could give him one blessing, one bloody thing, it would be to take me off of his hands.”

Your eyes widen and the grip you have on Jaskier’s hand turns sharp. Tears run freely down Jaskier’s cheeks, his eyes rimmed red and his heart worn raw. “I figured that leaving would be the kindest thing I could do, at least for him.”

“Jaskier,” you breathe, surging forward without care for the state of your clothes. “Oh, my love. I am so sorry, you don’t deserve that. You have spent half of your life dedicated to him, trying to make his life better. And this is what you get in return?”

You wrap your arms around his neck as he sobs into your shoulder, holding him close as he works through it. Water soaks through at your stomach and thighs where they press against the tub, but you couldn’t care less.

“I promise you, Jaskier,” you run your fingers slowly through his still-damp hair, “you are a treasure. And if Geralt can’t see that, well. He doesn’t deserve your kindness.”

Jaskier sniffles against your neck, “But he’s my friend. He was my friend, and I just kept pushing-”

“He lashed out, love,” you murmur, “it’s no excuse, but there were just too many feelings and he got overwhelmed. He probably already regrets it.”

Jaskier nods, still holding fast to your waist. You can feel his fingers rubbing the soft fabric of your shirt back and forth. You sit like this for a long while, the bathwater turning cold as the moon begins to climb into the sky.

Jaskier starts to fidget though, his hands unable to stay still and his nose brushing up the length of your neck. You pull away, catching the glint that has finally returned to those glorious blue eyes.

“It would be a shame for all of this bath to go to waste, my dear.” Jaskier’s voice is still thin, but with his usual vigor quickly returning. “Why don’t you join me?”

He winks and purses his lips, begging for a kiss. You chuckle, relieved to see him returning to himself. You lean down and press your lips together chastely, letting him grumble a bit when you move back. “You are incorrigible, darling,” you laugh, “and you are sorely mistaken if you think that I’m about to get into that filthy, freezing water.”

Jaskier pouts, turning his eyes all big and sad, but now because you won’t climb into the bath. You smile, getting up to grab one of the big cloths. “Here, love. Let’s get you dry, and then we can go back to the room.”

Jaskier huffs good-naturedly as he stands, the water cascading off of him in fast rivulets. He is half-hard as he walks over to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you start to rub the dry cloth over his skin. “Thank you, my dear. For everything.”

“Always, Jaskier. Always.”

The two of you walk hand in hand back down the hallway, Jaskier holding his clothes beneath his free arm. He chucks them aside as soon as you close the bedroom door behind you, sweeping you into his grasp. His lips find your neck and he starts to nibble and lick at the tender skin.

“Oh,” you breathe as he finally, finally, starts to hum again. It’s teasing, a saucy song that only ever gets sung while half-drunk in a run-down tavern in the middle of nowhere. The sheet falls to the ground as Jaskier pulls your tunic over your head, casting it to the side. He kisses down to your breasts as he pulls your belt open, pushing your trousers down frantically and squeezing your behind as you step out of them.

“Go lay on the bed, love,” he whispers, his eyes dark and lusty. You do as he says, leaning back against the soft pillows. Jaskier moves to the edge of the bed slowly before climbing atop you. The hairs on his chest tickle the sensitive skin of your breasts as he presses down to kiss you deeply. His tongue snakes into your mouth and you feel his length push hard into your hip.

"Please, Jaskier," you moan, threading your fingers into his hair. His forehead rests against yours as he glances down, taking himself in hand and lining up with your cunt. He presses in slowly, pulling a low groan from both of your chests. Your walls clench around him as he buries himself deep in your core. Beads of sweat start to dot his temples and your nails dig little crescents into his arms.

“Ah, fuck,” Jaskier groans, finding your lips once more as he starts to shallowly thrust his hips. Your core burns with the sensation, stealing your breath with each snap of his hips. Heat crawls up your stomach and settles high in your chest as you hook your ankles around Jaskier’s hips.

“Jaskier, I love you so much,” you whisper, and Jaskier whimpers into where he worries a love bite into your neck. “I would move the sun and the stars if you were to only ask. And I know that you would do the same for me.”

Jaskier’s pace falters as he readjusts, pushing up onto his elbows to look at you properly. His mouth hangs agape as he slowly rolls his hips, hitting deep in your core. You wrap a hand to hold the nape of his neck, pulling him down to you. You meet his hips at every thrust, reveling in the feeling of Jaskier pressed so impossibly close against you.

Your climax washes over you like a steady tide, a breath held in before a much-needed exhale. Jaskier follows in the same heartbeat, his cock spending deep inside of you as he gasps your name.

The two of you stay like this for a while, only adjusting when you start to clench from oversensitivity. Jaskier rolls over and pulls you with him, both of you laying on your sides facing each other. He slides his elbow beneath your head and you wind your arm around his waist, touching each other in as many places as possible.

“I meant it, Jask,” you murmur as sleep tugs at the strands of your mind, “I love you more than anything else. I need you to know that.”

Jaskier yawns with a smile, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. “I know, my dear. And I love you so exorbitantly much that it almost hurts. But it is the sweetest pain one could ever have the great pleasure of feeling. And I would gladly feel it to the end of my days, at your side.”

“And there is nowhere that I would rather you be.”

#jaskier x reader #Smut #angst #hurt/comfort #sad bard times

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argumentl · 5 years ago

Text

The Freedom of Expression Ep 10 - Stir caused as Don Nomura uploads a photo of his father, Nomura Katsuya's corpse.

K: This is Dir en grey's Kaoru, starting another episode of The Freedom of Expression. Joe san, Tasai san, welcome.

J, T: Thank you *1

K: Can we have the topic for this episode, Joe.

J: Yes, 'Don Nomura uploads a photo of his father, Nomura Katsuya's corpse to Twitter. Twitter is on fire with calls to delete it.'

Well, the former baseball manager Nomura Katsuya died on the 11th of February, and the photo of his corpse...Well, we say its his son, but they are not related by blood right? Its Nomura's wife, Sachiko's son (*from a previous relationship*). Well, anyway, they are family right? He took a photo of the corpse (*at the funeral*) and uploaded it to social media. Many voices have been raised saying it looks scary or creepy, so 'please delete it'. Well, how should we think about this? It was a theme which caught my interest.

T: In Japan, we don't generally do that, do we?

J: We don't. Even with the death of close relatives, we don't tend to take photos, do we?

T: Right, we don't take commemorative photos with everyone gathered.

J: No, we don't. I think we tend to give the deceased more of a solemn send off. But I have lived in America for a little while, I mean, not all American's are like this but, you could say for Christianity, they have quite individualistic funerals. Also, when they say goodbye, they sometimes kiss the corpse and so on. Thats normal, and some people even take photos, but the circumstances might change if someone were to upload a photo to social media for all to see. Kaoru, how do you feel about this?

K: Well, lots of people can see it, so maybe its ok to bothered about it...but i don't really mind. I mean, its his relative, it might be different if it was a stranger...but he's not just some wierdo. Well..I have a feeling its....????*2

T: I've covered Noumra san while I was a sports journalist, and when I was shown this recent photo, in my heart I thought..hmm, his face looks nice, he looks at peace.

J: I see. Well, opinion is very divided on this, but another thought I had about this one photo is...For a while I was chief editor for the magazine Days Japan. Its a photo journalism magazine, and it quite often included war photos. And in that case, well, for war in the middle east etc, the bodies of people who had died were visible in them, so there was a lot of debate about whether or not we should run them. At that time, one line that we took was that, for example, we would not run photos of people who had died in natural disaters, but in relation to war, we thought we must think about why it happened, and that the bodies might hold a message in relation to that. Obviously, we avoided very grotesque photos, but we did run numerous photos of bodies for this reason. Another thing I also conversely thought is, well at this point I don't know if movies do this, but there is a documentary movie called, 'Utanohajimari', I went to see it recently and was quite surprised. At the beginning of the movie, there is a birth scene, and there was a message warning viewers about the scene, that it wouldn't be censored. It was written that you will be watching it uncensored. So I thought, oh ok, but at the same time, in relation to birth and death, the two biggest events in a persons life, the start and the end...in this country we can't quite express ourselves freely. Its essentially a culture of trying to hide these things...I vaguely thought about this. We can get whatever information we need to live our lives from all sorts of places, and if we don't have that we are seen as falling behind. But, as humans we need to think about why we are here, why we die, where did we come from, where are we going...well, its getting a bit philosophical, but we are living in a comparatively blinkered fashion in this respect. If you upload a photo like this to social media in a country where this type of thing is always concealed, you don't know if they is gonna be a kind of allergic reaction to it. In music and the arts and stuff, there are themes of death, and other things that we should be thinking about, but I think community in this country is missing these expressions....I mean, this photo is not intended as a work of art, is it, Nomura san's body? Ive kinda thought about that.

K: I thought so too, you don't see it often do you? There was that...???*3

J: Ah, yes yes

K: There was a lot in that. Compared to that, this is..

J: Well, its true, in this country birth and death aren't exactly 'taboo', but we deal with it....Well, we are not a particularly religious country, so maybe that has something to do with it.

Kami: As for me..

J: Oh, he's here.

Kami: I saw that photo, the photo of him wearing his uniform, and I was moved.

J: Oh he was moved.

Kami: Mmm, I though 'Ah, its Nomura san', and like, 'Oh, The Swallows (*baseball team) .

J: I see. Instead of Rakuten, right?

Kami: No instead of the Hawkes where he got a triple crown. Like, he was greater when he became a manager. Like with Yakult. He kind of raised those teams.

K: He was worldly.

T: If he'd been wearing Hanshin or Rakuten uniforms it would be a bit....right?

K: Yeah. He'd say, 'No, not those!'.

J: I really think so.

K: I think Nomu san had great power with Hanshin and Rakuten. Later Hoshino san also had a lot of success, but yeah, think Nomu san had great power.

J: He made them, right? The base for a winning team.

K: But of course, the Swallows...

J: Yeah, whatever you say, Nomu san was there, and raised Furuta. At that time, we didn't know how far the word 'ID baseball' would go.

T: Thats right.

J: I think its amazing how that penetrated the world.

Kami: Its amazing how he got a triple crown as a catcher. But he didn't really boast about that during his active years. People are thinking of the Swallows when they see him in uniform now right? Thats what i imagine anyway. He wasn't like 'Look at me!', he was more like one of the team. I feel it deeply, I feel the art.

J: Certainly I think it has that kind of message. By the way, do you become a god after dying? How does it work? Are you born a god? I've always wanted to know this.

Kami: Gods? Gods are there from the start.

J: Oh from the start? You are born a god?

Kami: No, we're not born, we just are.

J: Oh its like that?

T: Thats complex

J: I see, thats deep.

K: They already are, right?

J: Yeah

Kami: Gods don't have a beginning or an end.

K: Wow

J: Is that so?

K: I want to try saying that.

J: Right. ..He hasn't even proved once that he's real though.

K: But it means you must be around for billions of years.

Kami: Its not billions of years, iｍ ever-lasting.

K: Oh, again.

J: Out it comes. He came out with that.

Kami: You guys just can't understand it.

K: No, we can't, not at all.

J: He always says it in a really cool voice too.

T: If i said that to my wife, she would laugh at me so much.

J: 'Im ever lasting too'.

*K laughs*

J: She'll usually say 'whats wrong with you?!'

This is really terrible. So, Kami, you don't die, you are not born?

Kami: Yeh, im timeless.

K: But you have an hourly wage, right?

*J laughs*

J: He has no concept of time but he works for an hourly wage!

Kami: Yes, thats right.

J: He's so stupid.

T: An incredible god.

J: I mean it. A god who needs money, like he needs to eat.

K: Its realistic right?

J: Yes, realistic.

K: He drops in just like that, doesn't he.

J: Im thankful for him...Well i have some sympathy for him, he's ever lasting, but he still has to eat, and earn a living. I don't know if im thankful or not thankful.

Kami: Thats why people call me a cheater.

T: He worries a lot about getting called a cheater.

K: We hear it a lot though.

T: Right, its hitting him where it hurts.

J: He says it everytime, I think if effects him a lot. But like Kami says..wearing a Yakult uniform...right?

K: Yeah

J: And his face looked really peaceful. I think perhaps, living in this country, we are a bit too indifferent towards birth and death.

K: There were probably quite a few young people who have never seen this kinda of thing before, so they won't be used to it if they are seeing it for the first time.

T: Its quite a complicated feeling coming into close contact with death or a dead body like that. When my relatives, or my grandma etc have died...I can't put that feeling into words, when you see them..what is that feeling. Do you have that experience, Joe?

J: Well, yes within my family, or friends. You can't put it into words...

T: Its a kind of lonliness, but not quite..and also a bit frightening. Its very difficult to express...the feeling when a person dies.

K: In those times, its like there is an atmosphere of trying not to say anything wierd. Like, there are certain set greetings like 'Im sorry for your loss'. There's this kind of pattern. I think that creates this kind of atmosphere.

J: Yeah, maybe.....I know a lot of people in bands, and when that type of person dies, thier funerals are quite individualistic..its kind of a relief to see. There are different ways to pay respects or connect with a death, and I think we ought to consider that more. I don't think its right to make death into a taboo.

T: Recently, Uchida Yuya san had a very 'rock' send off, didn't he?

J: Yes, he did! ...so I had these thoughts and picked up on this news.

K: Well, lets finish up here. Everyone please subscribe.

T, Kami: Please.

J: Thank you very much

*1 Im wondering what's the best way to translate 'よろしくお願いします/yoroshiku onegaishimasu'..

*2, 3 These bits frustrate me, as I can hear what he's saying, but i can't seem to figure out what he means. I feel like im missing something really obvious.

#dir en grey #the freedom of expression #tfoe #薫 #kaoru

19 notes · View notes

theplanetm4rz · 5 years ago

Text

Holographic Sand is a Kickass Band Name

pairing: peter maximoff/OC(graciella decuerpo) (high school AU/not canon)

summary: peter learns that a fuckton can change in the course of a week

warnings: none? bad language and peter is simp but thats it

notes **please read**: Heyyyyy how are you doing? good? that’s great. so ik this fic is a peter/oc fic, but honesty i only use her name a few times and a few defining features but like. thats it. so you can totally just imagine urself in her position. also this fic is 5,550 words exactly. that’s the most ive ever written and I am SUPER fucking proud. I think i might become one of those blogs where i write super huge monster fics that im proud of instead of just writing to fill requests.if u dont want that then just lmk and i will not do that. i dont know. maybe. also this fic is peter centric because uh it is. anyways enjoy <3

taglist: @creator-appreciator, @simonsbluee

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Monday

Peter sat across the room, his arms crossed neatly on top of his knees as he rested his chin on his forearm. He wasn’t paying attention to the lesson being taught in front of him, in fact, he wasn’t paying attention to anything at all. No, Peter was lost in his head again. Peter’s mind was a chaotic minefield of music and cheesy one-liners and random facts that he seems to just know. But this time, he wasn’t envisioning himself beating up a police officer or playing with Pink Floyd. This time, he was picturing a perfect world where nothing ever happened yet nothing was ever boring. Peter had built a utopia in his mind-- a kingdom created to his exact preferences. A blissful tower of joy and happiness and energy and satisfaction. A paradise where he stood on top of the world with Graciella DeCuerpo, the pretty girl from algebra class, standing right next to him.

Now, Peter was well aware that the pretty girl from algebra class had no idea who Peter was. The pair had never exchanged more than a few words, but somewhere within those few words, Peter managed to decide that she was his soulmate. He’d created an image of her in his head that would make God weep tears of envy, the perfect personality for the perfect person. Peter willfully ignored the fact that he was setting himself up for heartbreak as he imagined how nice it would feel to have her fingers intertwined with his.

All of Peter’s friends thought he was ridiculous, ‘you can’t love someone you don’t know,’ they’d say. Peter would only scoff and shake away their words. He absolutely can love someone he doesn’t know, it’s getting the other person to reciprocate those feelings that’s nearly impossible. However, that doesn’t stop him from fantasizing at night. That doesn’t stop him from imagining the various ways he’d confess his love to the pretty girl who doesn’t love him. Or maybe she does. Peter doesn’t know, he could never know; unless, of course, he worked up the courage to talk to her.

Scott constantly teased Peter about his one-sided infatuation, but Peter paid no mind to him. He was 100% content with his perpetual pining for someone who probably didn’t know his name. He was totally okay with the unending ache in his chest that would appear any time she walked by or met his gaze. Peter was alright with his ceaseless yearning and the eternal feeling of disappointment that overtook him every time he snapped out of one of his fantasies. He was a-okay with all of that.

So, there he was, spacing out during biology class as Professor Hargreeves struggles to teach the silver teen about photosynthesis. The Professor looked at Peter with desperate eyes, soon deciding that having his usually energetic student be quiet and still was the silver lining of the situation-- no pun intended. Professor Hargreeves droned on as Peter glanced at the clock, counting down the minutes until 7th period. Counting the seconds until he got to see the pretty girl in algebra class once again.

Tuesday

6th period was always the worst part of Peter’s day-- the dreaded english class. There were many contributing factors to Peter’s hatred for this class; the professor was a bore, the material itself was uninteresting, and Peter could never seem to sit still or retain any of the words he read in english class. Worst of all, english class seemed to go on forever, leaving Peter to impatiently wait for the bell to ring and release him to 7th period. At the end of the period every day, he was practically vibrating in his seat.

“Can anyone tell me what Juliet’s suicide is supposed to symbolize?” the Professor asked expectantly. Peter couldn’t care less about the symbolism of some chick’s suicide-- he’d much rather be studying the features of his algebra class infatuation.

She sat next to him yesterday. There were at least 5 other open seats and she sat next to him. Yes, Peter read too much into it and yes, Peter spent the entire class period trying to make himself seem naturally cool, but he didn’t care. Peter would act like the most desperate, pathetic, lovestruck loser in the world if it meant that she would like him. They didn’t talk, they didn’t exchange a single word, nevertheless, Peter was in a state of euphoria for the entire class period.

Sometimes Peter feels like a stalker. He watches her whenever he can-- he doesn’t follow her around or anything, but if she’s around, he’ll stare at her. He has her features memorized, the curve of her nose, the dark brown irises surrounding her pupils, the way that she always seems to have chipped black nail polish on. He sees the small things. He sees the way she bites her nails when he gets bored and he sees the way her leg never seems to stop bouncing. She hums the basslines to songs as opposed to the melody.

English class came to an abrupt end as the bell cut off the Professor’s teachings as well as Peter’s distant daydreaming. Peter was out of his seat within seconds, his notes and books quickly being swept up in his arms as he walked out of the room. The hallways are crowded and chaotic and busy, each individual student attempting to get to their locker then to their class on time. Peter watches as kids swing their lockers open, fatigue and weariness apparent on their faces as they disappear into their classrooms. Peter reaches his locker hastily, the few small posters of classic rocks bands adorning the inside of his locker door. A playful giddiness overcame his body as he made his way to algebra class, a small smile left on his face.

Graciella shows up across the hallway, her bright red hair catching his eye in a sea of brown and blonde and blue. His stomach flutters as they get closer and closer to each other, finally meeting outside of the classroom. Her eyes rise to meet Peter’s, and instead of pulling away, Peter keeps looking. She smiles at him before disappearing inside the classroom, and Peter felt his knees get weak. With a deep breath and a triumphant smile, he walked into the classroom.

Wednesday

Lunchtime; possibly one of the most enjoyable parts of Peter’s school day. Peter is free to kick back and stuff his face full of whatever junk the school board deems nutritious enough for highschoolers. Usually, he ate lunch under the bleachers with his friends, but in some sick twist of fate most of them were absent. So, Peter was left to eat alone in his usual spot.

The quiet was comfortable, refreshing. The gentle summer breeze would blow every few minutes and Peter would listen to the rustle of the leaves. There’s a certain tranquility to being alone; Peter can lay back and relax and just… think. No stress, no panicking, no--

“Hey, uh, Peter, right?” Peter’s eyes snap up so fast he’s afraid they would detach from his head and fall out. His breath faltered and his hands began to shake a bit-- why was he so freaked out? She was just a girl; sure, she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, and yeah, he was madly in love with her, but that’s besides the point.

“Uh-- uh, yeah, P-Peter. That’s, uh, that’s me,” He chuckled awkwardly, desperately trying to stay cool. Peter was an awkward person, but he’d rather die than fuck up his chances with Grace.

“You dropped this on your way out of class yesterday, I, uhm, didn’t get to return it to you until now,” She holds out a small key chain with three small keys hanging off of it-- Peter’s house keys, along with the key to his mother’s car. He quickly takes the key chain from the red-haired girl in front of him.

“Holy shit, uh, thanks! I couldn’t get into my house yesterday so I guess you saved me from another broken window,” Peter held up his hand and showcased the scattered pattern of small cuts on his palm. Grace laughed lightly before gently running her fingers over the cuts on Peter’s palm.

“Oh fuck, dude, these look pretty bad. Maybe keep a spare key hidden under your welcome mat or something,” Peter doesn’t fully process Grace’s words; he’s too preoccupied with trying not to collapse at the feeling of her fingertips on his palm.

“Hey, you okay? You look… pale,” Grace pressed the back of her hand on Peter’s forehead in an attempt to check for illness, but that just made Peter’s skin erupt in goosebumps.

“I, um, I’m fine. I’m just st-stressed about the algebra t-test on Friday, I th-think,” To be fair, Peter was stressed about the algebra test. Peter may or may not have spent the entire class staring at Grace instead of, you know, learning the material.

“Oh! Well, if you want, I can help you study. I’m also kinda worried about it, and I study better with other people,” Peter silently thanked god for what was happening to him.

“That would be fuckin’ fantastic,” Grace smiled a smile that made Peter shiver.

“Cool! Uh, I’ll give you my phone number and we’ll meet up tomorrow. One day isn’t much time to study, but it’s better than nothing.” She pulls a pen out of her backpack and rips a small piece of paper out of one of her notebooks. Peter watches as she scribbles down her phone number and hands the paper to him.

“Thanks. For everything, the keys, the studying-- everything.” Grace smiled.

“It’s no problem, Peter, really. I’ll call you later,” And just like that, she walked away. Peter was left alone under the bleachers, a wide smile plastered on his face as he read the piece of paper in his hands over and over and over again.

Thursday

30 minutes. 30 minutes until Grace Reaper DeCuerpo, the prettiest, nicest, funniest girl Peter had ever met would show up on his doorstep. She would be inside his house for god knows how long. She would sit next to Peter-- either on the coffee table in the basement or on the floor of his bedroom. Needless to say, Peter was freaking the fuck out.

The plan was simple: Grace shows up, they study, they get comfortable, and she goes home. Yet, in those four simple steps, so much could go wrong. Wanda could interrupt, his mother could lose her temper, Lorena could start crying-- worst of all, Peter could embarrass himself and drive her away.

Peter was in the middle of reorganizing his record collection for a third time when he heard a knock at the door. His blood went cold and an electric excitement ran through his veins. Peter checked his hair in the mirror one last time before running to the door. He stood silently, staring at the chrome handle hesitantly. This was his one chance. His only chance to make his perfect kingdom real-- Peter really, really, really didn't want to fuck it up. With a deep breath, he slowly opened the door.

"Hey, Peter!" Her voice was smooth and melodic and it made Peter's heart light up. He’s about to respond with something smooth and witty when a squeaky voice chirps behind him.

“Hi!! Are you the pretty girl Peter talks about?” Peter can physically feel his face turn bright red as he turns to see his six-year-old sister, Lorena, standing behind him. She’s wearing a purple princess dress that has a syrup stain on the sleeve. Grace laughs before stepping through the doorway.

“Lorena!” Peter groans in annoyance, a pleading look on his face. The young girl just giggles before scurrying away, her dress flowing behind her.

“‘The pretty girl Peter talks about’, huh?” Grace grins at Peter cheekily. Peter runs his hand through his hair before motioning to the staircase.

“God, Lorna is quite the kid. Well, uh, we can work in my room,” He sighs. “And Grace? Uh, m-maybe don’t let Lorena change your opinion of me,” She just smirks before walking past Peter.

“Too late,” She called before disappearing down the stairs. Peter could hear the faintest trace of a smile in her voice. His heart skipped a beat as he quickly followed after her.

She was wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt and holding a backpack with various pins on it-- her left ear was pierced in three places and her right in five. The earrings she was wearing were black, or maybe grey; her bright red hair blocked Peter’s view of them. She was wearing rings, some odd words engraved in the metal. Peter couldn’t read them from where he was standing. She was wearing a skirt with fishnets, her hand buried in the pockets that seem to have been sewn in herself. She has callouses on both her hands, but Peter knew that already. Her appearance would put Aphrodite to shame-- suddenly, Peter was much less confident in himself than he was before. He ran his hand through his hair again before reaching the basement.

He held his breath as Grace looked around his room, her gaze lingering on the plethora of stolen signs and band posters covering the walls. She placed her backpack on the floor and walked over to Peter’s record collection, her fingers carefully flitting through the different albums. She seemed… impressed. It was then that Peter realized it had been silent for much too long.

“Y’know I can, uh, p-play some music if you want me to. You can just pick a record and, uh, I’ll... play it,” Peter winced at his words, cursing himself for being so awkward in front of the girl he’d been pining after since the beginning of the year. He felt like everything had spiraled out of control, and he watched idly as it happened. Then, Grace shot him a smile and pulled out a record.

“You have a good taste in music, Silver,” No one had ever called Peter ‘silver’ before. He liked it a bit more than he should. “Although, that’s not really a surprise. I had a feeling you were cool.”

“You think I’m cool?” Peter asked, shocked. He wasn’t sure he heard her correctly.

“Oh, totally. I see you in the hallways sometimes and you always seem so… carefree. Genuine. I don’t know, I guess it’s just… you, ya know? You’re naturally cool.” Every syllable that rolled off her tongue shot euphoria through Peter’s veins. Grace DeCuerpo, the girl Peter Maximoff had dreamed of for almost a full year, was telling him that she thought he was cool. Naturally cool.

“I know a lot of people who would disagree with you on that one,” Peter joked. There was truth behind his humor, but of course, he didn’t want to get into his insecurities now. “They think I’m a total loser, which isn’t totally wrong I guess.”

“Well those people are stupid,” She stated matter-of-factly with a smile. “Speaking of stupid, we should probably get to work.” Peter nodded before sitting beside her on the floor.

For three hours they poured over their algebra books. They quizzed each other and checked each other’s work; Peter’s proficiency in simplifying radicals aiding them both. Every now and then their hands would brush against each other, or the conversation would stray away from school and into their personal lives. Peter learned that Grace had two brothers, one of which passed away when she was younger. Peter talked about Lorena and Wanda and his miraculous abilities in the same way that she talked about her hometown and her own abilities. The conversation was smooth and natural-- Peter didn’t feel like he was being too annoying or too chatty and there was seldom an awkward pause. The pair were content in their time together, not a single moment went by where one wished the other would leave.

Eventually, Grace had to go home. Peter wished that she could stay forever, but of course, that would be considered kidnapping. He walked her to the door, although Peter didn’t feel like he was walking. He felt like he was floating.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Silver,” Grace said softly as she turned to face Peter. She looked him in the eye and he could feel his stomach flutter.

“Yeah, I guess so,” She opened the door, but before she left, she froze. She turned to look at Peter once again.

“Peter?” she said. “You’re not a loser.”

Friday

Peter could tell the second he walked through the front door of his high school that something had changed. The energy that radiated in the halls shifted from a dull buzz of boredom to a rush of anticipation. The students in the hallway looked the same as always; tired and anxious and wishing for the day to go by quickly. However, Peter wasn’t wishing for the end of the day, and he certainly wasn’t tired. He was determined and energized and absolutely terrified, because that morning Peter Maximoff made the most important decision a seventeen-year-old could. He decided that he was going to ask Grace out on a date.

Peter made the choice to keep this from his friends-- it’s not that he didn’t trust them, it’s just that Peter knew he would be teased for his infatuation. It’s happened before and it will happen again. He walked down the hallways with a brave face on, his eyes forward and his heart racing. Truthfully, the silver teenager was terrified of… well, everything. The looming image of a harsh rejection forced itself into his mind; the idea that she would laugh in his face made his heart break a tiny bit, even though it wasn’t real. Peter simply shook those images away and walked on.

The day flew by much faster than Peter was comfortable with, and for the first time ever, he was dreading algebra class. He was terrified that he would walk through the door and have everything be exactly the same-- he feared that Grace would go back to not knowing who he was, just like before. Peter was alright with never being her boyfriend, but he didn’t want to be a stranger. He didn’t think he could take being a stranger anymore.

So, there he stood, staring at the door to his algebra classroom from across the hall. He felt confident and prepared himself for the task at hand. In four long strides, he entered the classroom. Grace was sitting next to an empty desk, her eyes stuck on the small notebook full of doodles on her desk. Peter watched as her eyes raised to meet his, a wide smile forming on her face as she motioned him over.

“Hey, silver! I saved a seat for ya,” she called, and Peter felt his knees get weak. He then decided that he would wait until after class to ask her out.

“You did?”

“Of course,” She grinned. “I like you, dude, you’re my friend,” Peter’s heart fluttered as he sat down beside her. Grace shot an odd look his way before reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. “Hey, you look stressed. Don’t sweat it, silver, you’ll do fine. We studied for, like, 3 hours yesterday. You’re gonna ace it,”

To be frank, Peter had forgotten all about the test. The real reason he looked so stressed was because he happened to be sitting next to the love of his life, and the love of his life happened to be touching his arm.

“O-oh! Uh, yeah, thanks. I was just nervous because of… the test,” The bell rang and class began, the professor strictly laying down the rules that were to be followed while the test was in session. Peter could feel the lingering touch of her hand on his skin. It made his head feel fuzzy.

Peter soon came to learn that sitting next to Grace during a test was a huge mistake. He couldn’t focus on anything other than her-- it didn’t help that she kept shooting him glances from where she sat. The numbers and letters on the paper in front of him seemed to rearrange before his eyes, instead spelling out various taunts. He feels a little pathetic for how easily Grace can unravel him, but hey, he’s a teenager.

The silver-haired boy’s eyes were struggling to decipher the words on his page when a small folded square landed on his desk. It came from Grace’s direction, and a small smirk had formed on her lips as she solved equations. Hesitantly, he unfolded the paper and read the neatly written message.

Hey silver :)

Peter smiled softly. He quickly pulled a pad of post-it notes out of his backpack and scribbled down a quick reply.

I have no idea what I’m doing. I think Professor Stedman decided to write our tests in hieroglyphics this time.

He flicked the note onto her desk and quickly turned his face downward. Class would be over soon, and Peter knew he couldn’t turn in a blank test. He uses his enhanced speed to do his assessment in seconds. Sure, he was almost certain he’d barely reach a passing grade, but hey, he had bigger matters to focus on. By the time he finished, another note landed on his desk.

That bad, huh? Looks like we better study longer next time.

Peter’s heart swelled a bit. He really thought the study sessions were a one-time thing. He’s overjoyed to know he’ll get to see Grace semi-regularly, even if he never manages to ask her out.

I think I’d rather hang out with you without the looming threat of schoolwork.

That’s the closest Peter could get to asking her out. He put deep thought into every word, he examined the phrasing and checked the spelling of every word. His english teacher would be proud.

That can be arranged ;)

Peter had no idea that four words could make him feel so much. He had no idea that 17 letters could make him want to scream in the middle of a silent testing period. His hand was shaking and his careful planning was abandoned as he scribbled back a reply.

Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?

Patiently, he waited. He waited for Grace to finish writing her response and he waited for her to toss the note back over. He didn’t wait for more than a few minutes, but it felt like hours. He was panicking, and he was sure she could tell. She was probably joking, right? She was probably writing an awkward clarification-- she was probably explaining that she would actually rather die than be around him for non-academic reasons. He braced himself as the yellow post-it landed on the center of his desk.

My aunt owns a drive-in a few miles from here and she gave me keys to the projector room and the gate. She managed to snag a copy of The Exorcist-- I thought you’d like to join me during my midnight escapade tomorrow night.

Peter’s heart stopped. For a moment, he thought his eyes were fooling him. Maybe this was all some sick joke. Maybe he was being set up. Maybe he’ll get in her car tomorrow and she’ll drive him into the woods and murder him. To be completely honest, Peter wouldn’t mind if she murdered him. Peter wrote his reply.

Really? You want me there? I might be a drag. You could probably find at least 20 other people who would probably be more interesting than me.

Grace frowned at his response, and suddenly Peter decided he never wanted to see her frown again. She wrote confidently, her words solid and sure.

You? A drag? Impossible. I don’t want to be alone, and I don’t want to be with anyone other than you, Maximoff.

This note was his undoing. He couldn’t help himself, he read it over and over and over again-- he almost forgot to respond. He wanted to hold onto it forever, he wanted it to be framed and hung on his wall. Hell, he wanted it tattooed on his arm. Peter had never been so happy while taking a test, that’s for sure. He wasn’t sure exactly what to say; he went from heartfelt responses to witty retorts. Finally, he decided to be totally and completely honest.

I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Saturday

There was seldom a time in his life where Peter Maximoff felt wholly content. Even in the most peaceful moments, there was always something bothering him, there was always something to pull him back to reality. However, sitting in the back of Grace’s dad’s convertible with the seats down and the roof pulled back, his head resting on her shoulder as they watched a cheesy horror movie, Peter was as close to nirvana as he’d ever been.

Life had always been so hard for Peter. He’s always had to fight for his seat at the table, to claw his way into a state of mind that wasn’t a hellhole. It seemed as if the world was plotted against him; he was ostracized from society and taught that he, along with his closest family and friends, were monsters. He never met his father and his mother spent so long fighting her own battles that she forgot to love her kids. Peter had to steal to stay fed, and he had to do his best to raise his little sisters to be good people. But right there, right then? That wasn’t hard. Peter didn’t have to be anyone or do anything-- he just had to exist next to someone who wanted him. That was the easiest thing Peter had ever done.

Peter wasn’t exactly sure how he got there. Of course, he knew that they had driven to the drive-in, but he wasn’t sure how he was the person next to Grace. They had spoken for one day, maybe two, and somehow he landed himself in the most perfect spot in the entire universe. Less than a week ago, she didn’t even know his name. Or, maybe she did. Maybe she was just like Peter-- maybe she had spent the past year pining for him, and finally she worked up the nerve to just talk to him. Maybe. Peter isn’t complaining either way.

“Can I ask you a kind of cheesy question?” Peter is startled by the sound of his own voice. Grace sits up and glances at him.

“Shoot,”

“Do you-- well, uh, don’t read too much into this, but, do you believe in love at first sight?” God, he sounded awkward.

“Nope,” She said bluntly. Peter wasn’t expecting that answer, but he wasn’t exactly disappointed by it. “I mean, it’s kind of a stupid idea, ya know? Like, isn’t there a million poems and sonnets and books written about how love is this weird complicated monster of a feeling? I don’t think you can really love someone just by looking at them. You can love the idea of a person, sure, or maybe the look of a person, but you can’t love that person. Because a person is so much more than ‘first sight’,” she sighs. “I don’t know, maybe I’m being a killjoy. It just seems dumb to me-- dumb and, I don’t know, exclusive,”

Peter stops to think for a moment. He steps out of his lovesick chaotic hellbrain and looks at his feelings from an outside perspective. He thinks back to the kingdom he created in his brain-- a kingdom built on a foundation of sand. Or, less than sand. Holographic sand, because the sand he built his kingdom on wasn’t real. He made a mental note that ‘Holographic Sand’ is a kickass band name, then resumed his impromptu soul-searching. She was right-- he could see that now. Scott was right, too. You really can’t love someone you don’t know, because if you don’t know them, you fill in the gaps. You fill in the gaps with what you think fits, and then the other person stops being them and starts being parts of you. Peter suddenly felt weird.

“I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” Grace interjects after a while. Peter hadn’t realized he’d been silent for so long.

“You didn’t say anything wrong. On the contrary, you, uh, you made things a little bit more… right, in my brain. You somehow managed to take a little chunk of chaos and tame it, which is scarily impressive,” he joked. “Remind me to ask you your opinion on the meaning of life and the root of true happiness,” They’re joined in a chorus of laughter and Peter realizes that his little brain kingdom didn’t hold a candle to the red convertible he was sitting in. She slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Y’know, I might not know the meaning of life, but I am pretty close to true happiness right now,” She says, softer than before. “Maybe the root of true happiness is you, Maximoff,” She chuckles. Peter smiles. He doesn’t want the ruin the moment-- god, he is desperately trying to keep himself from fucking it up, but he feels obligated to tell her about his year of pining.

“Hey, uh, can I tell you something kinda pathetic?” He cringes at the way his voice trembled on the last word.

“Go ahead, Peter,” She used his name this time. Peter thinks she knows he’s about to say something mildly serious.

“I’ve liked you since, like, the beginning of the year. You seemed so… cool. So nice. I saw you in the hallways and my stomach would get all twisted up and my head would hurt a little bit. It was like I was allergic to you, but I enjoyed it. That sounds weird. I’m sorry,” He stopped for a moment, attempting to take the buzzing mass of words in his brain and string them into a sentence. “I was too afraid to talk to you, so I, uh, asked around. I got other people’s opinions of you and then built a little version of you in my brain. I realize now that, uhm, the little brain version of you is like, way way worse than actual you,”

When you talked to me the first time, you threw me off. I wasn’t really nervous about the test-- I mean, yeah I was nervous but that’s not why I looked so pale. I just wasn’t expecting for you to talk to me, like, willingly. So I lied because I was embarrassed. And I lied again in class yesterday. Because I was embarrassed,” He stopped talking. Peter felt like he was digging himself into a hole-- he felt like he killed the sweet sugary mood.

“Why are you telling me this?” Grace asked. She didn’t sound angry. She sounded a little confused, and she sounded like she was trying to help Peter decipher his brain.

“I don’t know, I guess I just feel bad. I feel bad for, uh, for not being honest I guess. I feel bad for being a coward,” Yep, definitely killed the mood.

“Peter, you shouldn’t feel bad for being afraid, you know,” She assures. “I would’ve done the exact same thing in your position. Hell, I did do the exact same thing in your position,” That caught Peter’s attention.

“What?”

“You didn’t drop your keys in algebra. You dropped them somewhere in bio and my friend found them. She was gonna take them to the office, but I wanted an excuse to talk to you, so I said I’d return them,” Peter couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was being pranked, he had to be. “Being awkward and weird is like a requirement in high school. Don’t sweat it, Maximoff, really. We’re all the same in that way, I think,”

Peter felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was feeling too much at that moment, he was letting the bad drown out the good. He didn’t want to remember the day in a sad light.

“I like you. A lot. Even if you are awkward and weird,” He smiles softly. Slowly, ever so slowly, he intertwined his fingers with those of the girl beside him. It was a simple display of affection, but it made Peter feel like he was floating.

“I like you too, dork,” Peter smiled widely before placing his head back on Grace’s shoulder. Peter wasn’t paying attention to the movie, in fact, he wasn’t paying attention to anything at all. No, Peter was lost in his head again-- but this time, he wasn’t standing on a false kingdom with a false version of the girl he liked. No, this time, he was thinking about the very real girl beside him. He was thinking about the perfect world they had created in the small car they were in; a perfect world where he felt so much emotion and so, so safe. They had built a utopia in the back seat- a blissful tower of awkwardness and comfort and clumsy confessions. A paradise where he sat in the back seat of a Ford Galaxie with Graciella DeCuerpo, the pretty girl from algebra class, sitting right next to him.

#Evan Peters #peter maximoff #peter maximoff x oc #peter maximoff x reader #sorta a little bit #graciella reaper decuerpo #xmen #xmen fanfiction #xmen imagine #high school AU

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nobeliumoxygenoxygenmisc · 6 years ago

Text

Kagaminette || A certain taste

For fictober event @fictober-event

Prompt number: 9 “There is a certain taste to it.” Fandom: Miraculous ladybug Rating: General Warnings/Tags/Ships: None, Kagami x Marinette

Kagami tries out baking for the first time and it turns out… well, Marinette will tell her (or try to). (>1k words)

This was fun, Kagami thought with a smile, closing the oven door in satisfaction before turning to Marinette, who was smiling fondly at her. "Now we wait?"

"Yep!" Marinette said cheerfully. But then she blinked, a giggle escaping her throat as Kagami wondered what exactly it was that had prompted such a reaction. "But first, let's maybe clean ourselves up. And the kitchen," She added, gesturing to themselves and to the Dupain-cheng's kitchen that did look like a storm had gone through it. Kagami had never seen such a mess before, and she grimaced, wondering just how they'd get through it, when Marinette continued, "Though, it's not as bad as I expected."

She turned to her, surprised. "Really?"

Marinette nodded, already gathering some of the used equipment. "You should have seen when I baked with Alya. It looked terrible in here!" She laughed. "And she said she totally had it. You've never baked before, right Kagami?" Kagami nodded. "See? This is really good for your first try!"

On instinct, Kagami fought the smile before remembering to let it be. Her stomach warmed all of a sudden, the compliment making her surprisingly happy, considering how many compliments she received on the daily. But then again, those were for things she already knew she was good at (things she had to be good at); fencing, grades, archery... baking, on the other hand, was something she was completely new at.

The kitchen was cleaned up and the aprons taken off, the two going back into the living room where they continued playing the video game Marinette had said was Ultimate Mecha Strike Three.

Now that was something Kagami was not the most proficient at. Marinette seemed to win every round, except for one where Kagami had instantly known she'd gone easy on and had called her out for. Not that Kagami cared too much about the losing; it was fun, regardless. Especially without the need to be the best.

This whole day was fun, she thought again.

The timer went off, startling Marinette almost off her seat, Kagami concerned before she paused the game, laughing nervously. "Oops, guess I was too caught up, huh?"

"You were concentrating. That's a good thing," Kagami said, earning another laugh.

They went back into the kitchen, her heart beating as Marinette eagerly took out their trays and laid it on the counter. She was unusually excited for this; it wasn't as if her cupcakes were going to be the best things ever (in truth, she doubted how good they'd taste because they just did not seem the same as Marinette's), but... she was excited and she really, really hoped they did taste, at the very least, decent.

"Here." Marinette gave her a pink icing bag, her smile nothing but encouraging. "You can follow my lead, or you can make any sort of design you want, it's completely up to you!"

She nodded, watching Marinette for a moment then deciding that she would go her own path. Taking the bag, she steadied herself before carefully putting the icing on. She waited again, wondering about what exactly she was allowed to use before Marinette's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Feel free to use anything on the counter Kagami," She said. "If there's something else you want, we probably have it so just ask and I can try and find it!"

Kagami flushed, reaching out to get some oreo bits; had she been so transparent that Marinette could read her so easily? She must have been.

She ignored the thoughts, focusing. It didn't matter. Marinette was kind, and nice, and cute, and non-judgemental. She could let her guard down around her, she told herself.

It was a few minutes more before she was done, stretching a bit after having leaned down for so long, realising as she did so that Marinette was looking at her cupcakes with wide eyes. She glanced between her and the pink and red black-spotted cupcakes; had she done something wrong? She wasn’t normally this self-conscious, she knew, but baking was Marinette’s expertise and definitely not something she was even remotely well-practiced in.

"Are they..." Marinette began, hesitantly. "Are they Ladybug themed?"

Kagami smiled, the smile coming on naturally at the mention of the superhero. "Yes. I look up to her, so I decided to decorate them based on her."

Marinette seemed to beam, grinning. "That's really awesome, Kagami. I'm sure she'd love them."

"That would be nice, if she tried them." It would, but she pushed her hopes down, foolish as they were. As if she'd get an opportunity to give Ladybug some. And furthermore, "I must improve before even thinking of giving her one." Something flickered in Marinette's eyes, but she couldn't quite decipher it, even as Marinette asked to try one. She blinked, slightly confused. "Of course. It was only with your kindness that I could make them, after all. I would say they are also yours."

Marinette waved her hand. "Pfft, but you made these all on your own! They're still yours." She took a bite, her eyes widening as something even more unreadable flashed across her face.

Kagami waited. And waited, as Marinette chewed and swallowed, and suddenly her stomach sank, realisation dawning. "There's something wrong with it, isn't there?"

Marinette coughed. "Wha-wha-whaaat? No! Of course not! They're great! I've--I've never quite tasted anything like it! There's a certain taste to it--they're super dummy--yummy! Yummy! Delicious, I mean--"

Kagami held up a hand, conflicting feelings of disappointment but also strange fondness warring in her heart (she didn’t want to admit it, but she knew she had been expecting a brisk scolding, even though by all rights a failed cupcake should not have warranted such a reaction). "It's fine, Marinette. I understood I wouldn't be as good as I hoped in my first try." She raised her hand again as Marinette opened her mouth. "You don't have to spare my feelings. I'll know as soon as I try them, anyways."

She deflated, bashful. "...You're right. Sorry, Kagami."

Kagami shook her head. "Don’t apologise. I'm thankful you tried, but please remember you don't have to do that with me." She took a cupcake herself, and bit into it, thoughtful as she chewed.

Yes, there was something off about it. Maybe she hadn't put enough sugar? That must have been it. But she had followed all the instructions as best she could, though, how could she have... she pushed those thoughts away. No, it was alright to get things wrong. There were second chances, she reminded herself, looking at Marinette as she offered her an encouraging smile.

At least, in Marinette's home there was.

Then she noticed something else. "Are your cupcakes based on the superheroes as well?"

Marinette brightened, nodding vigorously. "Yep! I tried to keep it as close to their designs as possible... can you recognise them?"

Of course she did, looking at the black and gold one that was clearly Chat Noir; the green Carapace one with the pattern of a turtle shell; an orange and white one for Rena Rouge; yellow and black, the icing positioned like a stinger for Queen Bee; and even a few more she vaguely recognised, perhaps for the newer heroes that she had heard rumours about but hadn't seen yet (besides herself, obviously).

And then her eyes widened at the one she had previously assumed was Ladybug's. But no, Ladybug had no yellow on her costume whatsoever, and this one had four pieces of candy corn on the sides just like... Ryuko. Her.

"Is there something wrong?" Marinette asked, her voice soft and nervous. Kagami blinked out of her thoughts.

"No," She said finally, looking into Marinette's eyes and, if she could look at herself, she might have been quite possibly beaming. "They look amazing."

Marinette smiled, the happiness on her face setting off something even warmer in Kagami's heart. "I'm glad."

fourth one for fictober i think? ive written more than i thought i would (and way more kagaminette too 😂). thank u for reading and hoped u enjoyed!!

#fictober19 #miraculous ladybug #kagaminette #marigami #kagami tsurugi #marinette dupain cheng #kaganette #kagami x marinette #marinette x kagami #kagami tsurugi x marinette dupain cheng #marinette dupain cheng x kagami tsurugi #my writing #writing #my work

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butterflies-dragons · 6 years ago

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Hi! 😊 Do you think these two quotes are connected in a way? "She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire.” “But in place of arms she had the wings of a bat or a dragon, her legs were the legs of an eagle, and behind she wore scorpion's curled and venomous tail”.. One is saying Sansa wraps herself with a blood and fire cloak, while the other one is saying in her place of arms there is a bat or a dragon with wings. What do you think about the two?

Hello Anon!!!

My answer ended up being a very long Jon x Sansa meta.

I’m going to start citing the quotes you are referring to:

When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire. The sky outside was darker by then, with only a few pale green ghosts dancing against the stars. A chill wind was blowing, banging the shutters. Sansa was cold. She shook out the torn cloak and huddled beneath it on the floor, shivering.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VII

In the center of the Plaza of Pride stood a red brick fountain whose waters smelled of brimstone, and in the center of the fountain a monstrous harpy made of hammered bronze. Twenty feet tall she reared. She had a woman’s face, with gilded hair, ivory eyes, and pointed ivory teeth. Water gushed yellow from her heavy breasts. But in place of arms she had the wings of a bat or a dragon, her legs were the legs of an eagle, and behind she wore a scorpion’s curled and venomous tail.

—A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

Are these quotes connected in a way? The answer is yes. Both quotes contain Targaryen references: Blood and fire and wings of a dragon immediately make me think of the sigil and motto of House Targaryen.

The blood and fire imagery is present in Sansa’s chapters three times. The blood and fire are always referred as a stain that soils a white/off-white fabric.

The most “famous” white fabric in Sansa’s story is the Hound’s Kingsguard cloak, and I believe this is a distraction factor, because the connection between Sansa and the white cloaks of the Kingsguards is -by far- larger than that.

The importance of the white cloaks of the Kingsguards in Sansa’s story resides in the deconstruction of the idea that “white” and “beauty” equal goodness and its purpose is Sansa’s disillusionment of knights in her arc.

Besides, on a deeper level, the presence of the blood and fire imagery in Sansa’s chapters as a stain that soils a white/off-white fabric serves as hint of Jon Snow’s true parentage. It is there to tell us about a broken betrothal and the hidden union of a Stark maiden with a Targaryen prince that produced an heir; and probably to foreshadow another union of the same parties in the future.

The bat/dragon wings imagery present in Dany’s chapters is also linked to Sansa in one of Arya’s chapters.

This is subtler, but combined with other hints hidden in the Books, it tells us about the future union of a Stark maiden with a Targaryen prince.

I’m going to develop all these ideas under the cut.

A WHITE KINGSGUARD CLOAK STAINED BY BLOOD AND FIRE

About the first quote, let me start by saying that Sansa Stark has a very interesting imagery of white/off-white fabrics stained with blood and fire.

A few readers have already pointed out about this very interesting and particular topic. I talked about it with @lostlittlesatellites a few times last year and she has already written about it here: [x] [x]. I’m going to expand on it and give you my approach on the subject.

Sansa’s Ivory silk dress stained with blood orange juice and ashes

“Liar,” Arya said. Her hand clenched the blood orange so hard that red juice oozed between her fingers.

“Go ahead, call me all the names you want,” Sansa said airily. “You won’t dare when I’m married to Joffrey. You’ll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace.” She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap.

“You have juice on your face, Your Grace,” Arya said.

It was running down her nose and stinging her eyes. Sansa wiped it away with a napkin. When she saw what the fruit in her lap had done to her beautiful ivory silk dress, she shrieked again. “You’re horrible,” she screamed at her sister. “They should have killed you instead of Lady!”

(…)

“Arya started it,” Sansa said quickly, anxious to have the first word. “She called me a liar and threw an orange at me and spoiled my dress, the ivory silk, the one Queen Cersei gave me when I was betrothed to Prince Joffrey. She hates that I’m going to marry the prince. She tries to spoil everything, Father, she can’t stand for anything to be beautiful or nice or splendid.”

(…)

“Sansa stalked away with her head up. She was to be a queen, and queens did not cry. At least not where people could see. When she reached her bedchamber, she barred the door and took off her dress. The blood orange had left a blotchy red stain on the silk. “I hate her!” she screamed. She balled up the dress and flung it into the cold hearth, on top of the ashes of last night’s fire. When she saw that the stain had bled through onto her underskirt, she began to sob despite herself. She ripped off the rest of her clothes wildly, threw herself into bed, and cried herself back to sleep.”

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

When the king’s herald moved forward, Sansa realized the moment was almost at hand. She smoothed down the cloth of her skirt nervously. She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she’d had them dye it black and you couldn’t see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa V

Take note that the ivory silk dress was a “betrothal gift” from Cersei, that Sansa later had to “dye it black” so the “blood and fire stain” couldn’t be seen at all.

Oh George! Your wording here is just genius!

Sansa’s bedclothes stained with her moonblood and fire

When she woke, the pale light of morning was slanting through her window, yet she felt as sick and achy as if she had not slept at all. There was something sticky on her thighs. When she threw back the blanket and saw the blood, all she could think was that her dream had somehow come true. She remembered the knives inside her, twisting and ripping. She squirmed away in horror, kicking at the sheets and falling to the floor, breathing raggedly, naked, bloodied, and afraid.

But as she crouched there, on her hands and knees, understanding came. “No, please,” Sansa whimpered, “please, no.” She didn’t want this happening to her, not now, not here, not now, not now, not now, not now.

Madness took hold of her. Pulling herself up by the bedpost, she went to the basin and washed between her legs, scrubbing away all the stickiness. By the time she was done, the water was pink with blood. When her maidservants saw it they would know. Then she remembered the bedclothes. She rushed back to the bed and stared in horror at the dark red stain and the tale it told. All she could think was that she had to get rid of it, or else they’d see. She couldn’t let them see, or they’d marry her to Joffrey and make her lay with him.

Snatching up her knife, Sansa hacked at the sheet, cutting out the stain. If they ask me about the hole, what will I say? Tears ran down her face. She pulled the torn sheet from the bed, and the stained blanket as well. I’ll have to burn them. She balled up the evidence, stuffed it in the fireplace, drenched it in oil from her bedside lamp, and lit it afire. Then she realized that the blood had soaked through the sheet into the featherbed, so she bundled that up as well, but it was big and cumbersome, hard to move. Sansa could get only half of it into the fire. She was on her knees, struggling to shove the mattress into the flames as thick grey smoke eddied around her and filled the room, when the door burst open and she heard her maid gasp.

In the end it took three of them to pull her away. And it was all for nothing. The bedclothes were burnt, but by the time they carried her off her thighs were bloody again. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to see.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

Even if the color of the bedclothes was not stated as white/off-white, it’s very probable that they were of white or an off-white color, like ivory. So, again, we find this very interesting imagery in Sansa’s chapters: white/off-white fabrics stained with blood and fire.

And this passage of a bed stained with blood that must be hidden makes me think about Ned’s dream of Lyanna’s death:

He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard X

So I think there is another pattern here: betrothal, marriage and giving birth.

As I said before, the ivory silk dress was a “betrothal gift” from Cersei; and, as Sansa stated, the bedclothes stained with her moonblood was a proof of her having reached her womanhood and thus able to do her duty and marry Joffrey and bear his children.

Moreover, after Sansa’s first moonblood, she had this conversation with Cersei:

“I don’t blame you. Between Tyrion and Lord Stannis, everything I eat tastes of ash. And now you’re setting fires as well. What did you hope to accomplish?”

Sansa lowered her head. “The blood frightened me.”

“The blood is the seal of your womanhood. Lady Catelyn might have prepared you. You’ve had your first flowering, no more.”

Sansa had never felt less flowery. “My lady mother told me, but I … I thought it would be different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. Less … less messy, and more magical.”

Queen Cersei laughed. “Wait until you birth a child, Sansa. A woman’s life is nine parts mess to one part magic, you’ll learn that soon enough … and the parts that look like magic often turn out to be messiest of all.” She took a sip of milk. “So now you are a woman. Do you have the least idea of what that means?”

“It means that I am now fit to be wedded and bedded,” said Sansa, “and to bear children for the king.”

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

As you can see, GRRM has plagued Sansa’s chapters with Jon Snow’s true parentage hints.

An ivory silk dress, a “betrothal gift” from Cersei, that Sansa later had to “dye it black”, so the “blood and fire stain” couldn’t be seen at all, sounds pretty much like Lyanna Stark’s betrothal to Robert Baratheon being “stained” by Rhaegar Targaryen. And then, of course, of Jon Snow hidden in the Wall as a Black Brother/Black Knight of the Night’s Watch.

Again, Sansa’s bedclothes stained with her flowering blood and then with fire to hide the stain, sounds pretty much like Lyanna Stark’s bed of blood after she gave birth Jon Snow, the baby that had to be hidden so his Targaryen identity couldn’t be seem at all.

A white wool cloak stained by blood and fire

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VII

Out of the three passages with this imagery of white/off-white fabrics stained with blood and fire, this one, the one you asked for, has the more evident references of Jon Snow’s true parentage as the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.

Here we have Sansa huddled beneath a white kingsguard cloak stained by blood of the death during the Battle of the Blackwater and wildfire.

I think most of the readers get distracted from the Jon Snow’s true parentage hints here, because they romanticize this scene and believe it foreshadows some romantic future events for her involving the Hound, based in the fact that Sansa had covered herself with “the Hounds cloak” twice. But the relationship between Sansa and the white cloaks is -by far- larger than that; it has more to do with the ideals of knighthood and chivalry, than with the men wearing them.

White Cloaks

Thanks to the recently published Fire & Blood Volume I, now we know that Queen Visenya Targaryen created the Kingsguard brotherhood and modeled their vows on those of the Night’s Watch:

Many kings had champions to defend them. Aegon was the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; therefore, he should have seven champions, Queen Visenya decided. Thus did the Kingsguard come into being; a brotherhood of seven knights, the finest in the realm, cloaked and armored all in purest white, with no purpose but to defend the king, giving up their own lives for his if need be. Visenya modeled their vows on those of the Night’s Watch; like the black-cloaked crows of the Wall, the White Swords served for life, surrendering all their lands, titles, and worldly goods to live a life of chastity and obedience, with no reward but honor.

—Fire & Blood - Volume I

Here we have the origins of the famous white cloaks as a symbol of goodness, beauty and greatness, the seven knights of the Kingsguard were cloaked and armored all in purest white the text says, and this is something that Sansa Stark repeats in her first chapter in AGOT:

One knight wore an intricate suit of white enameled scales, brilliant as a field of new-fallen snow, with silver chasings and clasps that glittered in the sun. When he removed his helm, Sansa saw that he was an old man with hair as pale as his armor, yet he seemed strong and graceful for all that. From his shoulders hung the pure white cloak of the Kingsguard.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

But what does GRRM say about this concept?

I am particularly irritated by fantasy where you can always tell the bad guys because they are ugly and wear black. That’s why I deliberately pulled a twist on that with my Night’s Watch. Sure they are criminal scum but they are also heroes and they wear black and I wanted to play with the convention a little. As for the knights, sure, I think it’s an interesting question too. It not only affects fantasy but our history, too. We’ve always had a class of “protectors.” The church divided us into knights and those the knights were suppose to protect, with the church praying for both. The worker, the prayer and the fighter. Of course, the way it often worked out is the people the peasants often needed the most protection from were their own protectors. I think there is a powerful story in that. The ideals of knighthood embody some of the finest ideals the human race has ever come up with. The reality was somewhat less than that, and often horribly so. Of course, that is true in the Seven Kingdoms as well.

—A Conversation With George R.R. Martin - November 2000

Indeed, GRRM has twisted this idea of white/beauty/goodness vs black/ugliness/evil, by making the Kingsguard knights with their white cloaks capable of beating innocent little girls for the amusement of a King like Joffrey, the same way Aerys’ Kingsguards never moved a finger to protect Rhaella of the King’s abuse, Ser Barristan Selmy included. And when Jaime Lannister, a Kingsguard, saved King’s Landing from death by wildfire and killed Aerys, he became the greatest oathbreaker.

At the same time the Night’s Watch with their black cloaks have been defending the realm from the White Walkers for thousands of years at the Wall, and counts among its members a guy like Samwell Tarly, who, according to GRRM himself, is kind and smart and decent and devoted.

So Sansa Stark, the character with the greatest and profoundest admiration and faith in knighthood and chivalry is the instrument that GRRM uses to deconstruct the concept of white & beauty equal goodness. So far, every man wearing a white cloak has failed Sansa, they beat her, they disrobed her, they humiliated her, they sexualized her and they even attempted to rape her.

But Sansa, being the person that she is, still grasps the latest vestige of chivalry that is left: the white fabric. All the men wearing the white cloaks had failed her, they have soiled their cloaks, but the white fabric alone, even soiled, has shielded her.

Sansa Stark and the White Cloaks

In the Books, there are three times where Sansa used a white kingsguard cloak as a shield. Let’s revisit those three times chronologically:

“Ser Barristan looked up sharply. “A hall to die in, and men to bury me. I thank you, my lords…but I spit upon your pity.” He reached up and undid the clasps that held his cloak in place, and the heavy white garment slithered from his shoulders to fall in a heap on the floor. His helmet dropped with a clang. “I am a knight,” he told them. He opened the silver fastenings of his breastplate and let that fall as well. “I shall die a knight.”

(…)

Your Grace,” Littlefinger reminded the king. “If we might resume, the seven are now six. We find ourselves in need of a new sword for your Kingsguard.”Joffrey smiled. “Tell them, Mother.”

“The king and council have determined that no man in the Seven Kingdoms is more fit to guard and protect His Grace than his sworn shield, Sandor Clegane”.

(…)

“When the king’s herald moved forward, Sansa realized the moment was almost at hand. She smoothed down the cloth of her skirt nervously. She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she’d had them dye it black and you couldn’t see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain.”

(…)

“The Lady Sansa, of House Stark,” the herald cried.

She stopped under the throne, at the spot where Ser Barristan’s white cloak lay puddled on the floor beside his helm and breastplate. “Do you have some business for king and council, Sansa?” the queen asked from the council table.

“I do.” She knelt on the cloak, so as not to spoil her gown, and looked up at her prince on his fearsome black throne. “As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was the Hand of the King.” She had practiced the words a hundred times.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa V

Sansa knelt on the white kingsguard cloak Ser Barristan Selmy left on the floor so as not to spoil her gown, that was precisely her ivory silk dress that she dyed black.

After Ser Barristan was expelled from the Kingsguard, the Hound replaced him and maybe he even took the same white cloak for himself.

The second time Sansa used a Kingsguard cloak as a shield was when, ironically, a Kingsguard beat and stripped her in front of Joffrey’s court:

“I’d shoot you too, but if I do Mother says they’d kill my uncle Jaime. Instead you’ll just be punished and we’ll send word to your brother about what will happen to you if he doesn’t yield. Dog, hit her.”

“Let me beat her!” Ser Dontos shoved forward, tin armor clattering. He was armed with a “morningstar” whose head was a melon. My Florian. She could have kissed him, blotchy skin and broken veins and all. He trotted his broomstick around her, shouting “Traitor, traitor” and whacking her over the head with the melon. Sansa covered herself with her hands, staggering every time the fruit pounded her, her hair sticky by the second blow. People were laughing. The melon flew to pieces.

Laugh, Joffrey, she prayed as the juice ran down her face and the front of her blue silk gown. Laugh and be satisfied.

Joffrey did not so much as snigger. “Boros. Meryn.”

Ser Meryn Trant seized Dontos by the arm and flung him brusquely away. The red-faced fool went sprawling, broomstick, melon, and all. Ser Boros seized Sansa.“Leave her face,” Joffrey commanded. “I like her pretty.”

Boros slammed a fist into Sansa’s belly, driving the air out of her. When she doubled over, the knight grabbed her hair and drew his sword, and for one hideous instant she was certain he meant to open her throat. As he laid the flat of the blade across her thighs, she thought her legs might break from the force of the blow. Sansa screamed. Tears welled in her eyes. It will be over soon. She soon lost count of the blows.

“Enough,” she heard the Hound rasp.

“No it isn’t,” the king replied. “Boros, make her naked.”

Boros shoved a meaty hand down the front of Sansa’s bodice and gave a hard yank. The silk came tearing away, baring her to the waist. Sansa covered her breasts with her hands. She could hear sniggers, far off and cruel. “Beat her bloody,” Joffrey said, “we’ll see how her brother fancies—”

“What is the meaning of this?”

The Imp’s voice cracked like a whip, and suddenly Sansa was free. She stumbled to her knees, arms crossed over her chest, her breath ragged. “Is this your notion of chivalry, Ser Boros?” Tyrion Lannister demanded angrily. His pet sellsword stood with him, and one of his wildlings, the one with the burned eye. “What sort of knight beats helpless maids?”

“The sort who serves his king, Imp.” Ser Boros raised his sword, and Ser Meryn stepped up beside him, his blade scraping clear of its scabbard.

“Careful with those,” warned the dwarf’s sellsword. “You don’t want to get blood all over those pretty white cloaks.”

“Someone give the girl something to cover herself with,” the Imp said. Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet had ever felt so fine.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa III

There are a lot of things to say about this passage. The first thing is how the knights wearing the white cloaks failed Sansa and how the “no knights” were the ones who tried to help her as much as they each could.

Joffrey ordered the Hound to hit Sansa, but Dontos, the Fool, intervened directly and hit her with his melon morningstar. The melon juice stained Sansa’s hair and blue silk dress, which I think is a direct reference to the blood orange juice and ivory silk dress passage.

We don’t know if the Hound would have hit her. Many readers would argue that he wouldn’t, but in the end he just said “enough” but only after Sansa lost count of Boros Blunt blows. Dontos lacked the strength, height and fighting skills of the Hound, but did a bit more than him. Sansa recognizes Dontos attempt to protect her by calling him “My Florian” and thinking she would have kissed his not so handsome face for it.

Then comes Tyrion that actually stopped the beating and orders for someone to give Sansa something to cover herself with. It was at Tyrion’s order that the Hound tossed his Kingsguard cloak at Sansa, so she could cover her nakedness.

Then we have this exchange:

“What sort of knight beats helpless maids?”

“The sort who serves his king, Imp.” Ser Boros raised his sword, and Ser Meryn stepped up beside him, his blade scraping clear of its scabbard.

“Careful with those,” warned the dwarf’s sellsword. “You don’t want to get blood all over those pretty white cloaks.”

Here we can appreciate how the Kingsguard knights that blindly follow their King’s orders without questioning are soiling their white cloaks with the tears and blood of the innocents. And George wrote a mirror scene with Jon Snow and Samwell Tarly to show us what a True Knight must have done:

“Let us hope you are not as inept as you look,” Ser Alliser said. “Haider, see what Ser Piggy can do.”

Jon Snow winced. Haider had been born in a quarry and apprenticed as a stonemason. He was sixteen, tall and muscular, and his blows were as hard as any Jon had ever felt. “This will be uglier than a whore’s ass,” Pyp muttered, and it was.

The fight lasted less than a minute before the fat boy was on the ground, his whole body shaking as blood leaked through his shattered helm and between his pudgy fingers. “I yield,” he shrilled. “No more, I yield, don’t hit me.” Rast and some of the other boys were laughing.

Even then, Ser Alliser would not call an end. “On your feet, Ser Piggy,” he called. “Pick up your sword.” When the boy continued to cling to the ground, Thorne gestured to Haider. “Hit him with the flat of your blade until he finds his feet.”

Haider delivered a tentative smack to his foe’s upraised cheeks. “You can hit harder than that,” Thorne taunted. Haider took hold of his longsword with both hands and brought it down so hard the blow split leather, even on the flat. The new boy screeched in pain.

Jon Snow took a step forward, Pyp laid a mailed hand on his arm. “Jon, no,” the small boy whispered with an anxious glance at Ser Alliser Thome.

“On your feet,” Thorne repeated. The fat boy struggled to rise, slipped, and fell heavily again. “Ser Piggy is starting to grasp the notion,” Ser Alliser observed. “Again.”

Haider lifted the sword for another blow. “Gut us off a ham!” Rast urged, laughing.

Jon shook off Pyp’s hand. “Haider, enough.”

Haider looked to Ser Alliser.

“The Bastard speaks and the peasants tremble,” the master-at-arms said in that sharp, cold voice of his.” “I remind you that I am the master-at-arms here, Lord Snow.”

“Look at him, Haider,” Jon urged, ignoring Thorne as best he could. “There’s no honor in beating a fallen foe. He yielded.” He knelt beside the fat boy.

Haider lowered his sword. “He yielded,” he echoed.

Ser Alliser’s onyx eyes were fixed on Jon Snow. “It would seem our Bastard is in love,” he said as Jon helped the fat boy to his feet. “Show me your steel, Lord Snow.”

Jon drew his longsword. He dared defy Ser Alliser only to a point, and he feared he was well beyond it now.

Thorne smiled. “The Bastard wishes to defend his lady love, so we shall make an exercise of it. Rat, Pimple, help our Stone Head here.” Rast and Albett moved to join Haider. “Three of you ought to be sufficient to make Lady Piggy squeal. All you need do is get past the Bastard.”

“Stay behind me,” Jon said to the fat boy. Ser Alliser had often sent two foes against him, but never three. He knew he would likely go to sleep bruised and bloody tonight. He braced himself for the assault.

Suddenly Pyp was beside him. “Three to two will make for better sport,” the small boy said cheerfully. He dropped his visor and slid out his sword. Before Jon could even think to protest, Grenn had stepped up to make a third.

(…)

He could think here, and he found himself thinking of Samwell Tarly… and, oddly, of Tyrion Lannister. He wondered what Tyrion would have made of the fat boy. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it, the dwarf had told him, grinning. The world was full of cravens who pretended to be heroes; it took a queer sort of courage to admit to cowardice as Samwell Tarly had.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IV

Jon Snow took a step forward, protested and finally defied Ser Allister Thorne orders and fought to protect Samwell Tarly, inspiring Pyp and Green to do the same. Jon Snow, and Pyp and Grenn, did what any of the Kingsguard must have done at the prospect to beat a helpless 12 years old girl in front of the court.

It’s fascinating how similar both these scenes are; Sansa’s first beating at Joffrey’s court and Samwell first training at Castle Black. GRRM has used a mirror situation: defying an unjust order involving a helpless victim or blindly obeying it; and he also used the same keywords like: “the flat of the blade” and “enough”. But what make these linked scenes even more fascinating is how similar the characters that play the helpless victim role are: Sansa Stark and Samwell Tarly, and the use of romantic connotations to describe Jon Snow actions regarding Sam.

I have discussed this subject with @lady-in-a-song and @lostlittlesatellites before, how similar Sansa Stark and Samwell Tarly are. They have a lot of common interests and they sure would be the best of friends:

Whatever pride his lord father might have felt at Samwell’s birth vanished as the boy grew up plump, soft, and awkward. Sam loved to listen to music and make his own songs, to wear soft velvets, to play in the castle kitchen beside the cooks, drinking in the rich smells as he snitched lemon cakes and blueberry tarts. His passions were books and kittens and dancing, clumsy as he was.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IV

Sam remembered the last time he’d sung the song with his mother, to lull baby Dickon to sleep. His father had heard their voices and come barging in, angry. “I will have no more of that,” Lord Randyll told his wife harshly. “You ruined one boy with those soft septon’s songs, do you mean to do the same to this babe?” Then he looked at Sam and said, “Go sing to your sisters, if you must sing. I don’t want you near my son.”

—A Storm of Swords - Samwell III

And yes, during a few passages in the Books you can read how Samwell prays to the Mother: “Mother have mercy, Mother have mercy, Mother have mercy.”

Also, Allister Thorne calling Sam “Ser Piggy” and “Lady Piggy” reminds me of this meta [x] by @fedonciadale.

So, after reading how similar Sansa and Samwell are, the use of romantic connotations to describe Jon’s actions defending Sam makes me think of the possibility of a future romance between Jon and Sansa:

“It would seem our Bastard is in love,”

“The Bastard wishes to defend his lady love,”

“Three of you ought to be sufficient to make Lady Piggy squeal. All you need do is get past the Bastard.”

Lady Sansa Stark would have enjoyed a story like this one, of a valiant Bastard defending his lady love from her abusers. She would also appreciate Jon’s actions defending Samwell and praise his honor and courage; maybe she would call him a True Night or compare him with a hero from the songs, like she did with Dontos, calling him “My Florian”.

But Samwell Tarly is not the only male-Sansa that Jon Snow met at the Wall, we also have the boy called Satin:

The boy claimed to be eighteen, older than Jon, but he was green as summer grass for all that. Satin, they called him, even in the wool and mail and boiled leather of the Night’s Watch; the name he’d gotten in the brothel where he’d been born and raised. He was pretty as a girl with his dark eyes, soft skin, and raven’s ringlets.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VII

“Night gathers, and now my watch begins,” they said, as thousands had said before them. Satin’s voice was sweet as song, Horse’s hoarse and halting, Arron’s a nervous squeak. “It shall not end until my death.”

(…)

He could smell Horse’s unwashed breeches, the sweet scent Satin combed into his beard, the rank sharp smell of fear, the giant’s overpowering musk. He could hear the beating of his own heart. ”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon VII

Satin was all grace, dancing with three serving girls in turn but never presuming to approach a highborn lady. Jon judged that wise. He did not like the way some of the queen’s knights were looking at the steward, particularly Ser Patrek of King’s Mountain. That one wants to shed a bit of blood, he thought. He is looking for some provocation.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon X

For a man who doesn’t like the “lady like type” in a woman, Jon Snow has a very strong will to protect Samwell and Satin, two boys considered soft and weak with a lot of feminine inclinations whose descriptions match Sansa’s bit by bit. It’s pretty clear that Jon cares and appreciates both boys, and enjoys their companionship. After all, Sam became his best friend and Satin his steward.

I wonder how Jon would have felt listening Samwell Tarly telling him he likes to dance and sing and eat lemon cakes and wear pretty clothes; or how he would have felt while watching Satin dance gracefully or hearing his sweet voice singing. But this is a subject for another time. Let’s go back to the white cloaks.

The third time Sansa used a white kingsguard cloak as a shield was during the Battle of the Blackwater.

We all know the context. It’s a very disturbing scene, a rape attempt at blade point, a sexual assault to a 12 year-old girl in her own bed. In the text you can read how she was feeling: “frightened” “scared” “terrified” “feared”.

The Hound stopped his actions only after Sansa sang the Mother’s Hymn, a prayer for mercy. But before he left her room he ripped the white cloak he was wearing and left it on the floor. Moments later Sansa crawled out of bed and found the white cloak. A chill wind was blowing, Sansa felt cold. She shook out the torn cloak and huddled beneath it on the floor, shivering.

Every time I read this scene I only can think of a sexual assault victim feeling herself scared, vulnerable, naked, defiled and cold. Sansa felt so cold that when she huddled beneath the white cloak she was shivering. If you make a search for the word “shivering” in Sansa’s chapters, you would only find extremely frightening or sorrowful situations for her. This event deeply traumatized her and that’s why she recalls the event a lot of times in her mind and dreams.

Sansa used the white cloak to protect herself from the cold, and I’m sure the shivers she had, had more to do with the assault she had just suffered than with the chill wind.

So once again, the white fabric alone was her shield, not the man that wore it and left it soiled on the floor.

I have covered the first role that the white kingsguard cloak plays in Sansa’s chapters: being the last vestige of knighthood and chivalry that Sansa grasps at, so she doesn’t lose faith in the concept of true knights. She keeps that hope and faith hidden deep down inside her, the same way she kept the soiled white cloak hidden in a cedar chest beneath her summer silks. Despite her disillusionment of the knights (the men) she still has hope and faith in the ideals of knighthood, symbolized by the white fabric alone.

Jon Snow and the White Cloaks

A subtler role that the white Kingsguard cloak plays in Sansa’s chapters is being part of a very interesting imagery of white/off-white fabrics stained with blood and fire, that I believe is a hint of Jon Snow’s true parentage. Summing up, we have this so far:

An ivory silk dress, “betrothal gift” from Cersei, that Sansa later had to “dye it black” so the “blood and fire stain” couldn’t be seen at all, that reminds us of Lyanna Stark’s betrothal to Robert Baratheon being “stained” by Rhaegar Targaryen. And then, of course, of Jon Snow hidden at the Wall as a Black Brother/Black Knight of the Night’s Watch.

Sansa’s bedclothes stained with her flowering blood and then with fire to hide the stain, that remind us of Lyanna Stark’s bed of blood after she gave birth Jon Snow, the baby that had to be hidden so his Targaryen identity couldn’t be seen at all.

A shivering Sansa, huddled beneath a white Kingsguard cloak stained with death people blood and wildfire. The blood and wildfire are clearly Targaryen references. But what does Jon Snow have to do with a white kingsguard cloak?

Well, many readers have pointed out the answer already, like @occupyvenus [x]. The cloaks of the Kingsguard knights are often described as white as snow:

Yet the huge man at the head of the column, flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard, seemed almost a stranger to Ned …

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

The seven knights of the Kingsguard took the field, all but Jaime Lannister in scaled armor the color of milk, their cloaks as white as fresh-fallen snow.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

Afterward, Ser Oswell Whent helped Jaime to his feet, and the White Bull himself, Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower, fastened the snowy cloak of the Kingsguard about his shoulders.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard XV

Cersei’s gown was snowy linen, white as the cloaks of the Kingsguard.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa V

And the more evident association between the white cloaks and Jon Snow is said by Jaime Lannister, a Kingsguard himself, in one of Catelyn’s chapters:

“I’ve never lain with any woman but Cersei. In my own way, I have been truer than your Ned ever was. Poor old dead Ned. So who has shit for honor now, I ask you? What was the name of that bastard he fathered?”

Catelyn took a step backward. “Brienne.”

“No, that wasn’t it.” Jaime Lannister upended the flagon. A trickle ran down onto his face, bright as blood. “Snow, that was the one. Such a white name … like the pretty cloaks they give us in the Kingsguard when we swear our pretty oaths.”

—A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VII

So, Sansa huddled beneath a white Kingsguard cloak stained with blood and fire, reminds us of Jon, covered beneath the northern bastard surname Snow, to hide his true parentage as a Targaryen, represented by the stain of blood and wildfire on the white Kinsguard cloak. And this also reminds me of this exchange:

“Kings are a rare sight in the north.”

Robert snorted. “More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned!”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

The blood of the dead in the Battle of the Blackwater reminds us of the blood of the dead after Rhaegar’s actions and the wildfire reminds us of the Aerys’ attempt to destroy King’s Landing with wildfire during Robert’s Rebellion, which was a direct consequence of Rhaegar’s actions.

Finally, as I said before: i) the stained ivory silk dress represents a betrothal; ii) the stained bedclothes represent giving birth; so following this pattern, the stained white Kingsguard cloak must represent a marriage. I’m going to talk about this linked with the second quote of your question.

THE WINGS OF A BAT OR A DRAGON

Finding Targaryen references in Dany’s chapters is not a surprise, but finding them in Sansa’s chapters is always very interesting. And even more interesting is the fact that you can find this same imagery of bat/dragon wins directly linked with Sansa in one of Arya’s chapters.

I wrote about this before in my post Sansa Stark: A Wolf with Dragon Wings. I speculated that the bad/dragon wings imagery foreshadows Sansa wearing a Targaryen Cloak in the future. Let’s see:

A Targaryen Cloak

In the Books Sansa is in the Vale under the guise of Alayne Stone, eating lemony lemony lemon cakes and trying to charm, entice and bewitch Harry the Arse the Heir, her fourth betrothed:

Harrold Hardyng, often called Harry the Heir and sometimes the Young Falcon, is a gallant, handsome squire, and a ward of Lady Anya Waynwood. He is the heir presumptive of Lord Robert Arryn and would ascend to rule the Vale as “Harrold Arryn” should Lord Robert die without issue. [x]

The Arryn sigil is a sky-blue falcon soaring against a white moon on a sky-blue field. [x]

Shortly before Sansa found out about her fourth betrothal, while observing a blue falcon, she wished she had wings, but not precisely falcon wings; she just wanted to fly from her tower/cage and be free:

A falcon soared above the frozen waterfall, blue wings spread wide against the morning sky. Would that I had wings as well.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I

Unbeknownst to Sansa, she is imagined by the smallfolk as a ‘winged wolf’ who freed herself from her captors and flew away:

“What wife?”

“I forgot, you’ve been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head.”

That’s stupid, Arya thought. Sansa only knows songs, not spells, and she’d never marry the Imp.

—A Storm of Swords - Arya XIII

Big leather wings remind me of dragons instead of bats, and I think that was GRRM’s intention, to subtly refer to dragon wings:

“Tell me how my child died.”

“He never lived, my princess. The women say …”

(…)

“They say the child was …”

(…)

“Monstrous,” Mirri Maz Duur finished for him. The knight was a powerful man, yet Dany understood in that moment that the maegi was stronger, and crueler, and infinitely more dangerous. “Twisted. I drew him forth myself. He was scaled like a lizard, blind, with the stub of a tail and small leather wings like the wings of a bat. When I touched him, the flesh sloughed off the bone, and inside he was full of graveworms and the stink of corruption. He had been dead for years.

—A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IX

—A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

Viserion launched himself from the ceiling, pale leather wings unfolding, spreading wide. The broken chain dangling from his neck swung wildly. His flame lit the pit, pale gold shot through with red and orange, and the stale air exploded in a cloud of hot ash and sulfur as the white wings beat and beat again.

—A Dance with Dragons - The Dragontamer

As you can see, dragon wings are usually described similar to bat wings or leather wings; so, the fascinating image of Sansa as a wolf with big leather wings makes me think of Sansa wearing a Targaryen Cloak in the future.

Again, the possibility of the marriage of a Stark maiden with a Targaryen prince is directly linked with Sansa in the Books.

I think this imagery of Sansa wearing a Targaryen cloak complements the imagery of white/off-white fabrics stained with blood and fire.

As @jennyoldstone has stated regarding the white kingsguard stained by blood and fire [x]: “The white cloak could also represent a Stark maiden’s cloak”. “A Stark maiden’s cloak stained by fire and blood is quite a heavy foreshadowing for a Stark woman + Targaryen man union, if you ask me… and the cloak itself could also represent Jon - a child born of such union”.

Indeed, the white cloak could also represent a Stark maiden’s cloak. Let’s take a look at Sansa’s maiden cloak when she married Tyrion Lannister:

Cersei Lannister ignored the question. “The cloak,” she commanded, and the women brought it out: a long cloak of white velvet heavy with pearls. A fierce direwolf was embroidered upon it in silver thread. Sansa looked at it with sudden dread. “Your father’s colors,” said Cersei, as they fastened it about her neck with a slender silver chain.

A maiden’s cloak. Sansa’s hand went to her throat. She would have torn the thing away if she had dared.

Afterward, she could not remember leaving the room or descending the steps or crossing the yard. It seemed to take all her attention just to put one foot down in front of the other. Ser Meryn and Ser Osmund walked beside her, in cloaks as pale as her own, lacking only the pearls and the direwolf that had been her father’s. Joffrey himself was waiting for her on the steps of the castle sept. The king was resplendent in crimson and gold, his crown on his head. “I’m your father today,” he announced.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

Sansa Stark’s maiden cloak is described as pale as the cloaks of the Kingsguards escorting her. So, Sansa covered by a white kingsguard cloak stained with blood and fire is probably foreshadowing Sansa wearing her maiden cloak during her wedding with a Targaryen prince.

And this is also connected to Sansa being betrothed to the Dragon’s heir, that was foreshadowed in Sansa’s first chapter in ACOK:

The morning of King Joffrey’s name day dawned bright and windy, with the long tail of the great comet visible through the high scuttling clouds. Sansa was watching it from her tower window when Ser Arys Oakheart arrived to escort her down to the tourney grounds. “What do you think it means?” she asked him.

“Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey’s Comet.”

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure. “I’ve heard servants calling it the Dragon’s Tail.”

“King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the castle built by his son,” Ser Arys said. “He is the dragon’s heir—and crimson is the color of House Lannister, another sign. This comet is sent to herald Joffrey’s ascent to the throne, I have no doubt. It means that he will triumph over his enemies.

“Is it true? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Her mother was one of Joffrey’s enemies now, her brother Robb another. Her father had died by the king’s command. Must Robb and her lady mother die next? The comet was red, but Joffrey was Baratheon as much as Lannister, and their sigil was a black stag on a golden field. Shouldn’t the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?

— A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

Joffrey is Jon’s foil here, the bastard disguised as prince/king in the place of the true prince/king disguised as bastard.

Jon is the dragon’s heir and Sansa will be his betrothed and wife.

We also have the Tourney at Ashford Meadow theory that says Sansa Stark’s first betrothed would be a man of House Baratheon, as it actually was. Joffrey Baratheon was Sansa’s first betrothed. And Sansa’s fifth betrothed would be a Prince of House Targaryen. That Targaryen prince is Jon Snow.

For more references about Sansa and Jon betrothal, I highly recommend you to read my dear friend @lady-in-a-song metas: [Part 1] [Part 2].

Summarizing:

The stained ivory silk dress represents the broken betrothal between Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon, thanks to the intervention of Rhaegar Targaryen;

The stained bedclothes represent Lyanna Stark giving birth Jon Snow and dying after.

The stained white Kingsguard cloak represents Jon Snow covered by the northern surname Snow to hide his Targaryen identity and Sansa’s Stark maiden cloak and her future wedding with a Targaryen prince;

The wolf with big leather wings represents Sansa Stark wearing a Targaryen cloak after marrying a Targaryen prince.

The Targaryen prince that is going to marry Sansa Stark is Jon Snow.

Thanks for the Ask Anon, and I hope my answer satisfies you.

#Sansa Stark #Jon Snow #Sansa x Jon #Jon x Sansa #jonsa #my post

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deniigi · 6 years ago

Note

Hello! Just about to sit down and read your newest fic, so excited about it! I had a question for you (you very well may have answered this already, so sorry in advance!), but do you have advice for writing? Advice in terms of getting start, plotting out stories, helping get the creative juices flowing? I have all these ideas but seem to lack the drive to get things written out. I know the best advice is to just write, but I'm having a horrible time starting. What do you do in those moments?

Hello my dear!

Sorry for taking so long to get back to you. The lord has blessed me with a head cold and ruined all my plans of productivity for the day, so I can finally answer this ask! I’ll talk a little bit about both how to get started with a story and then some little things that help me motivate myself.

I have started a tag for writing advice here: http://deniigi.tumblr.com/tagged/writing-advice

This is going to be a long post, sorry mobile users.

I am going to preface all of this with the understanding that I am technically a professional writer in terms of like, a handful of ways, but I have absolutely zero training in creative writing, so take everything I say with a grain of salt!

So, I personally find that, on the whole, that psychological hurdle of getting started comes a lot from the anticipation of the kind of response a story will get (how many hits, how many comments, how many kudos) in addition to a bit of anxiety or fear over theloss of sustained interest in that story (by yourself and/or by your audience). I find that this can be alleviated by really, truly internalizing the understanding that you are allowed to write your work however you damn please, for whoever you damn please.

There will be work you write for others, and there will be work you write for yourself. Not all work needs to be published; sometimes, it is really nice to just write shit for yourself; it is a plus for humanity if you decide to share it with others, but you do not have to do that.

Furthermore, I would like to present you with this:

This is what my current folder for under fire looks like. And you might notice that there are almost always multiple drafts per chapter. Yes, I did in fact rewrite chapter four 5 fucking times, you bet your ass I did. And I’m not ashamed of it. I think the story is better for it. And that’s the important thing here: you do not need to produce a perfect draft the first time around. You will not produce that perfect draft. Accept this. Embrace this. Embrace it and your cat at the same time to really ingrain it as a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Liberate yourself from the pressure of needing to produce the perfect, most right draft and you may find starting the piece overall to be a much easier, more pleasant experience.

And along with this beautiful, uplifting spiritual advice, I also bring a practical thought: when it comes to getting started, a lot of times, people feel like they need to set the stage, yadda yadda yadda. Ha. No. Fuck that.

That’s a surefire way to bore the shit out of yourself. Start right in the middle of a scene that captivates you if that’s what you want to write. It’s a free platform. No one’s gonna arrest you if you stick Spiderman upside down in trash first thing. They might even applaud you actually, because you didn’t make them slog through some of that ‘It was the evening of the 25th and it was cold out in the streets” bullshit we all learned from Dickens.

Alright. Now let’s talk about actually getting started making words appear on paper.

So, from my knowledge there are generally two ways that folks write creatively. You have what I’m going to call the planners and then you what I’m going to call the monsters (I call them this entirely affectionately, I’m sure there’s a better word for these folks, but I don’t have it atm, all I have is a headcold). Planners are folks who sit down and work out their major plot points, who write outlines, and who create the scaffolding of their work before they set out on their magical journey. I think of these folks as architects.

And then you have the monsters and these are those fuckers who just sit down and write stream of consciously like the heathens all our high school teachers tried to teach us not to be.

I am both a planner and a monster. And a lot of that depends on the length of work I’m going for. I have never in my life planned a one-shot, for example. I just attack that as it is. I follow my heart, if you will. But when it comes to longer chaptered fics, I really do think that some outlining is super helpful.

You might find it useful for one-shots, though, I dunno. Maybe give it a try and see what happens?

The two main fics I’ve done proper outlines for are Inimitable and under fire and I actually find outlining to be immensely helpful in psyching me up to write the story (I go through and re-read my outlines when I start to lose interest or diverge too much from the plot outlined there in the actual writing. 9 times out of 10, re-reading gets me stupid excited to write all over again) and it also helps me keep momentum going throughout the plot.

Here’s a pic of some pages of under fire’s outline.

Physically writing the work is really important for me because it forces me to only put down key points/feelings/ideas I want to include, whereas typing gives me far too much room to get lost/distracted by extraneous detail. And since my handwriting is a teacher’s worst nightmare and I cross out shit and write huge with emotion, I’ll give you a little bit of what the middle page here says:

Miles-

there’s something thrumming

vibrating in his ears wherever he goes

-closes his eyes and somehow enters blackness- emptyness (Stranger Things style)

beat

“help.”

–BACK - everything is gone

closing his eyes doesn’t bring the space back

–it makes him panic. He doesn’t know why. His heart is pounding. He’s sweating He has a horrible feeling of doom.

beat

its gone.

he goes home anxiously. Pretends everything is normal.

his neck crawls

So basically it’s less of a formal outline and more of a collection of stream of consciousness feelings and screenplay directions which I’ll flesh out in the actual story.

Personally, I love writing these kinds of things because they get me pumped for the story I’m about to tell. I get to write out the key scenes and work through all the hard parts first, and then, while I’m writing, I work through the little fun details and banter and I have to write to figure out how we get from one scene to the next and I love the challenge of having to fit those pieces together. I very rarely stick strictly to my outline, (as anyone who is currently reading under fire can tell you right now), but I do try to stick to the main plot points in it and my writing is certainly better for it.

So yes. Outlining is very good, but it is even better when you do it to some kind of music. I listened to What’s Up Danger from the Into the Spiderverse soundtrack on repeat while I wrote this outline to kind of transfer some of the relentless pace conveyed in that song to the piece’s plot.

I highly recommend using music to set the mood of your piece while/before you write a piece of any length. It helps get you in the right headspace (excited or somber or angry) to write. You need emotion to write creatively. You can’t just make that happen sometimes; you need a little help.

A couple other things which might help:

1. Leave your house or the space you’re normally in. Go to a cafe and find a nice corner and have a think and a try in there. Sometimes moving to a different space helps you escape cyclical thinking patterns.

2. Write what you want to read. Don’t bother writing for other peoples’ interests; that’ll just bore the shit out of you all over again.

3. Find an atmospheric mood sound to listen to on Youtube or smth (I personally like Rain on a Car Windshield for slightly somber fics, but you might be into ocean storms or dripping caves or whatever).

4. Heat your feet. I don’t know why but I am entirely unproductive when my feet are cold. Maybe this one is me-specific, but whatevs. Heat the feets!

5. If you’re still having trouble just sitting down and pounding the story out, that’s okay! Maybe it’s not ready to be written yet. Maybe you’re not in the right headspace yet. Sometimes that’s just how it is. One story makes its way out in like, a hour, and the next one takes like, months to finally be written. We all work at different paces. We all write for different reasons.

It might help to figure out why you want to write a story before you write it. Like, if its for attention, it’s gonna be hard as hell. But if there’s an idea that you feel like is important or if there’s a mood you’re trying to work yourself into or out of, then that might be a little easier. For example, I wrote a piece called make it work which is about Fogs finding his motivation to be a lawyer and fight for justice when Kavanaugh was confirmed and I felt super helpless in the face of our present justice system. That story kind of wrote itself and it needed to be written, I feel, not just for me, but for others who were feeling just as helpless.

Writing is catharsis in that way. Maybe you just need to find out what you need to wring out of your soul.

Sorry that got very metaphysical. But I do want to stress that getting started and ending a story are the hardest parts of writing them, so you are definitely not alone if you feel like you’re ramming your head into a wall here.

I hope something here helps you, my dear!

#fic #writing advice #fanfiction #managingmischiefsince1988

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bts-love-sweat-tears · 7 years ago

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Julie’s Love Yourself Concert Diary

Concert Date: September 29, 2018

Written: September 30, 2018

Warnings: I curse more than I should?

Words: 3,330ish-added a few things at the last minute (phew!)

A/N:

[Update: Tumblr couldn’t upload all my photos that I spent awhile choosing and placing, so I’m going to have to pare it down. Sorry bbs! I opted to cut my personal & merch photos in favor of the boys]

So I have one thousand and one things I should be working on-for school, for work, for my eventual job hunt. But instead I am going to write about last night’s experience while it was still fresh in my mind. I was thinking of doing a song-by-song play-by-play, but you can look up the setlist on Wikipedia, so instead I am going to talk about the things that jumped out at me. WARNING: This is essentially one giant spoiler, so I will try to put a “Read More” cut, though it’s been being weird for me lately. So scroll carefully if you’re going to a later date and don’t want to know. All photos taken on my (now ancient) iPhone 6, so I tried to choose the best ones). Will edit as I see typos I made.

I’m a little nervous since I usually write fiction instead of sharing my personal experience. Anyway, full disclosure that this is just my perspective, and I’m (always) happy to discuss things (civilly) if you disagree with me. <3 Photos and opinions are mine.- please don’t re-post anywhere else.

The Background/ Pulling a Namjoon and Leaving my Ticket at Home

Even though I was going to the Saturday show, I flew into LaGuardia using frequent flyer miles on Friday morning. I was staying with a friend in Queens, so I went straight to her apartment. I’m a grad student as most of you probably know at this point, so I spent most of Friday working on a paper that was due. I had two friends I met at last year’s concert going to the Friday concert, and they went for merch promptly at 9, but I had just arrived and had a deadline to meet for school. Around 4:30PM, I decided that I was done for the day and opened Ticketmaster to print my ticket for the next day’s show. When I logged in, I saw the notice that the ticket had been mailed to me. I remembered having seen that when I bought the ticket in May, but in my defense I was jet-lagged and ill on that day. Furthermore, I moved to and from NYC in that time for a summer internship, and SO MUCH HAD HAPPENED. The tickets had been mailed while I was living here and I had never seen them, so somehow it slipped my mind. Obviously I lived too far away, but I didn’t know if I could express overnight them, but I think when I called Ticketmaster, the old ones were deactivated when the guy tried to send me the link.

Anyway, print at home was not an option, so I called Ticketmaster and in a panic explained my situation. They said it happened all the time and offered to send me a link. Luckily I kept the rep on the line, because it turned out that even they couldn’t email a link because of the anti-scalpers/fraud/whatever.

Then the rep said that I could show the credit card, but I had literally cut it up the week prior since the Vendor (e.g. the store that the card was through) had switched their card to a different bank (e.g. Visa to Mastercard), so I seemed shady af, even though I was telling the truth. He said as long as I had a login to a statement showing the transaction (I didn’t, since they had opted to close the account at an institutional level). So I called my mom frantically, and luckily she is the hyper-organized type who keeps paper copies of everything and sent them to me. Seriously, Mom for the win! I run to this print shop as it’s closing and print everything out. I had the Ticketmaster receipt & order #, and two photo ID’s confirming my address. The guy said it should be fine, but I was on the verge of a mental breakdown. This was my one birthday gift and something I had been looking forward to for months. Anyway, my friend and I went out to a local bar near the Halsey (yes, the singer took her name from the station) stop on the L line, and I was super anti-social because I was so upset. I also burst a blood vessel in my eye (it will heal, no worries) because of too much birthday partying the prior weekend, so I’m sure I was a (sour) sight to behold.

I slept poorly for obvious reasons, and left the apartment around 7AM, and arrived to Prudential center around 8:30ish. There were only a few people outside of will call, but the GA line was already wrapped around the building. I made small talk with people outside of the box office, and one woman told me she had gotten soundcheck both days. Seriously, what kind of karma do I need for that to happen to me? She and her friends had been camping out since Thursday, and they were SUPER organized: while she waited in line, one was at merch, and someone else was holding their GA site. I almost wondered if they were a fansite or something. ARMY are a truly organized bunch (except for me, clearly).

Anyway, after another half hour of pure anxiety, they opened up will call and I was panicking, but they were really helpful and gave me my ticket after I verified the order number, showed my id and confirmed some other personal data. I decided then and there that nothing else mattered and I was just happy to be there and be in.

Waiting in line/Logistics/Staff

I left the box office, and got into the GA line. It was probably around 9:15, and the line had already doubled-back on itself all the way around the building. The woman from earlier told me that her friend had got #1000 and was only 3 rows back, so I still had some hope. Basically, you line up to get your spot in line- though it’s kinda dumb that you have to line up twice, it makes security go faster and guarantees that there isn’t a huge surge/stronger people cutting in line later.

I wore what I thought were my most comfortable shoes, but after standing on concrete for hours, I don’t think it makes a difference. People were so friendly though- I never once felt awkward even though I was by myself. The same was true last year- the friends who had gone up for merch on Friday I met while in line at last years’ Wings concert. I chatted with people around me, drank the two bottles of water I had, and looked at my phone. Bring an umbrella for shade and sunscreen though-I didn’t and am rocking a nice farmers burn/tan today. It wasn’t humid though, and it wasn’t raining, so it could have been so much worse.

Even though there were tons of people, everyone was well-behaved. I didn’t see any altercations, though as the day went on the staff seemed a bit overwhelmed with crowd control. I didn’t see too many people selling unofficial merch like last year, though I did buy a few necklaces (Joon and Chim, ofc).

After 3.5 hours, I finally got my wristband. They told us to be back by 2pm to line up for real, as they were going to try to open the doors at 3 instead of 3:30 (didn’t end up happening).

Merch

I then ran to merch, but there wasn’t much left. The fans/pickets were selling out as I got in line, and people were basically yelling “NOOOOOOOO” everytime the staff put up a “SOLD OUT” sticker. I bought what I could that was left, including a bracelet, which I’m actually in love with, the eco-tote (super overpriced tbh, $50 for a canvas bag), but the shopper bags were gone and I needed something to carry the box and batteries V3 ARMY Bomb I bought. I had one from last year that I also forgot, but I think the new version was cool because they are synced up with the music so you can change colors and patterns along with everyone else. Overall, it’s EXPEN$$$$IVE, but if anyone’s worth it, it’s Bangtan.

Newark

I was getting super tired after this, so I kinda passed on the photo studio table, big poster, and UNICEF stuff. I tried to go to Starbucks, but even though it was the middle of the day, I didn’t feel that safe, even though it was like 11:45 in the middle of the day. I’m a 27 year old who’s lived in Latin America (which is generally stereotyped for violence), solo traveled around the world, and I’m from the Rust Belt (aka home of true urban decay), but that part of Newark sketched me the heck out. Probably it would have been fine, but I opted for caution, and went to a Dunkin Donuts and empanada place right around the corner. The timing was actually good since we had to get back pretty quickly to line back up.

The second line was where the staff struggled, telling people to back up and get in order, but it seemed like staff were doing different things. Plus, if they wanted people to back up, they should have created room at the back first, before telling the front to basically “back that ass up” on the people behind them.

GA vs. Seated

I can say this- if you are short, you probably want a seat. Or if you have any kind of knee, back, or joint problems- I stood for approximately 14 straight hours on concrete yesterday. I am just under 5”5” but I was probably one of the taller people in the crowd, so I had a pretty good view. Even though they asked people to not take videos or record, you WILL be looking through a sea of cell phones. I could see pretty well, but sometimes when they were on the main stage I had a hard time seeing around other people’s arms.

Last time I had P2 seated, and the view was wonderful. I went to the bathroom, charged my phone, and ate nachos (lol), so it was generally a more chill experience. I was still super close but up a little higher and could see absolutely everything. But last night I was SO close I could see Joon’s dimples irl, and got splashed by both Jungkook and J-Hope when they threw the water bottles. Probably 100 people think this, but I’m also pretty sure Yoongi (and maybeeee Jimin) saw me jumping and singing along like crazy since I was one of the taller people. At the very least, Yoongi keep looking in the general direction I was in. Ofc I looked gross af with my messed up eye and crazy hair, but what I loved about the concert is that I was 100% able to forget all the insecurities I carry around with me on a day to day basis and have an AMAZING time.

Of course the whole place is crazy high energy, but I feel like last night was INSANELY high. I’m not sure if it was the overall vibe or if that was the GA influencing my opinion. It just depends on what kind of experience you want to have. Also, if you are claustrophobic, you should probably pass on GA. The guards kept forcing people to back up, at one point even coming in with a flashlight, and people would surge forward whenever a member came close. But someone said the night before was chill, so maybe it’s just luck of the draw.

The Show

The show was absolutely amazing. They opened with IDOL, which got people hyped from the get-go. Their dancing was ON POINT as always. People were chanting during the intro videos and chatting as it filled in, so it was a great vibe once again- just super happy feeling. The audio visual part was AMAZING, though I’m no pro, and I loved all of the concert outfits, especially Jimin’s super sparkly sweater. Lots of jumping, and lots of screams. I didn’t have earplugs and was fine, but if you’re sensitive to loud sounds I definitely recommend them. ISTG I remembered hearing a mashup of FIRE, but maybe not? Wikipedia seems to think not. But they played a few older ones too, which made me so soft and nostalgic.

More on the members during the concert

Kim Namjoon

Ok, this is so so so biased, let me start with that. If you’ve followed me for any amount of time, you know how much I love this man. Seeing him smiling and happy was amazing. And they had a professional translator for this concert, so I felt like Joon was able to relax a little and enjoy himself instead of worrying about translating for everyone else. He is just as tall and proportional as everyone says he is. Everyone talks about how soft he is these days (and I love it), but he has undeniable charisma when he raps. Plus him in sunglasses, ddaeng. Seeing him so close was akin to something spiritual for me (I SAW THE DIMPLES WITH MY OWN EYES), as were people shouting along with him to “Love.” At the end, he commented how we were all sharing the same air, and hearing him think the way (I know at least some of ) us think was so heartwarming.

Also during some of the videos, there were some NOT AT ALL subtle Minjoon moments.

Kim Seokjin

The crowd last night ADORED Jin and gave him all the attention he deserves to have all the time. People were chanting his name SO LOUDLY during instrumental breaks in Epiphany. His voice was phenomenal, particularly the high notes. it’s clear how hard he’s worked to make it sound so effortless. I noticed that people weren’t moving as much during some of his notes and I can only think it’s because we were literally transfixed. It’s well established, but I don’t think this man has any bad angles. Even in the still pictures I took while dancing, he DOESN’T look awkward in any of them. #impossible.

Min Yoongi

Suga was clearly happy about something last night- he was SO cute and happy. Other ARMY on the train back to the city agreed with me. His rapping was fire (duh), but he was really smiley and took out his earpiece a number of times to hear us screaming. “Seesaw” starts with him laying on a couch and I can think of no better way to capture his true soul (lol). He was extra attentive to fans, and I feel like what Tae mentioned in Burn the Stage, he was trying to memorize ARMY’s faces and live in the moment. I felt bad because there were clearly parts where he wanted us to sing along, but we couldn’t necessarily keep up with his tongue technology :P But people definitely tried their best.

Jung Hoseok

Idk what I can say here that’s new. J-Hope is one of the most charismatic members on the stage. And there’s something in the American air that turns him into Jay Hope. Seriously, he’s hard to move your eyes away from. “Just Dance” was the first solo track if I remember correctly and he did not disappoint. His glasses at the end were adorable, and one of the other members called him a “happy grandfather” or something like that. Seriously, if you’re still sleeping on Hobi, we can’t be friends.

Park Jimin

Jimin was ethereal as always, and the choreography for Serendipity was…..salacious, to say the least. Like if you thought the “Take Me Down” cover from last year’s Festa was too much, then idk what to tell you. Bring holy water or something. Despite the free water that fans were providing to others (ARMY are seriously the best) there was a different kind of thirst occurring, if you smell what I’m stepping in. Jimin is pure charisma, like J-Hope. Obviously their styles are totally different, but when they move, you stop whatever you’re doing and watch. Again, I didn’t even see many ARMY bombs moving during Serendipity- I think we were too entranced. I personally thought that he killed his vocals and did great, but he seemed a little tired or like he was working hard at it. Jimin was also the one (at least that I saw from my angle) that got the closest to the fans, crouching down and leaning over the teleprompters/fans/lights/ whatever the black boxes were at the edge of the stage.

Similar to Tae and Yoongi, I saw him looking at fans A LOT during the show. He was exactly how he seems in V Lives and cameras, and I’m fairly certain I would spontaneously combust if I ever ran into him irl (even if I didn’t know who he was)- he just radiates warmth and friendliness. Seriously, if I believed in magic, I feel like he would be able to influence people’s emotions.

Kim Taehyung

So many fic writers have this ultra primal (for lack of a better word?) for Tae, but all I see is a cute sweetheart. Obviously I’ve never seen someone create as much tension with their own arm as he does during Singularity, but when he’s not dancing, I just got a super innocent, cutesy vibe from him. His voice was so smooth last night. I mean, I knew, but now I KNOW. He actually was shooting hearts at one fan (how lucky they are), and pretended to fall down when they shot him back! They were further back in P2 as well so he really does work hard at paying attention to everyone. He actually called over another member (maybe Yoongi or Jimin? I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe, to see whatever he was seeing).

At the end he whipped a heart out of his beanie (how I pray to god someone got that moment on camera) a la Jin. He just seemed really comfortable in his own skin last night, and I was so grateful for it.

Jeon Jungkook

I had a hard time seeing most of his Euphoria performance as it was relatively early on and people were taking a shit ton of videos. He also stayed mostly on the main stage, rather than come out to the extension area near where I was. His abs are just as great in person, and the screams were (as is to be expected), absolutely deafening. They’ve talked about it in shows, but his voice is SO stable. Obviously they stopped at times and don’t use too much backing vocals, but it sounded EXACTLY how it does on the album. He threw something into the crowd (I think a banner) at the end, and it FLEW so far-back to P2 or further. They’re not kidding when they talk about how strong he is.

Final thoughts

At first, I was a little exhausted after my emotional trauma of the prior day, and from standing for so long but the minute it started I forgot everything else. I was salty when I couldn’t see that much bc of people recording (esp when they asked us not to), but I understand the specialness of the moment and wanting to have some tangible evidence that you were there. By the time the concert was over, I realized how special GA was, even if it’s more difficult logistically (since I went solo and didn’t have parents or friends to stand in). I still don’t know if it’s hit me that I was like 10 feet away from them, max. It reaffirmed how important they are to me. I didn’t write this to brag, but to hopefully share my perspective and let others live vicariously through my experience. If you want clarification or anything else, write to me!

#love yourself tour #newark day 2 #bts #bts army #concert diary #concert musings

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imagine-knb · 8 years ago

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If I Die Young [Kiyoshi Teppei]

Originally posted on my personal writing blog (along with other writing accounts that I have). I thought it’d be nice to bring it here as well. I hope you enjoy. -Neon

If I die young, bury me in satin Lay me down on a bed of roses Sink me in a river at dawn Send me away with the words of a love song

Uh oh, uh oh

Kiyoshi hadn’t been nervous on his flight to America. No, the only emotion he was feeling was the sting of sadness as he left his friends behind in his home country of Japan. He hadn’t even felt that nervous standing at the front desk of the hospital, his grandparents on either side of him as they checked in. Rather, he felt annoyed at the fact that he was struggling to understand the quick speech pattern of the nurse in charge—English was still pretty difficult for him to grasp. Now that he was standing in front of the room which he would reside in for the next few months however, Kiyoshi suddenly felt very nauseous. He had never been a fan of hospital visits. Not ever since he was forced to stay in one for therapy sessions the first time his leg was injured.

Kiyoshi watched as the nurse opened the door for him, gesturing for him to enter before her. Walking in, he was instantly met with a sight he hadn’t expected to see. A girl was sitting up on the bed adjacent to the one he presumed to be his, her eyes which were previously focused on the blaring television now centering in on him. She gave him a smile and a small wave of her hand before redirecting her eyes to the commercials that were playing.

“This is ____,” the nurse said kindly as she showed Kiyoshi to his bed. “She’ll be your roommate for as long as you’re here. Please do get along.”

After a lengthy speech about what Kiyoshi should expect over the next few months and a couple warnings about the sensitive buttons wired to his bed, the nurse left the room. It was tense for a few moments on Kiyoshi’s part, the only sound that filtered through the air being that of the television. Kiyoshi was only partially startled when the television screen was turned off, complete and utter silence filling the room for a few seconds.

“I’m ____, but the nurse already told you that,” the girl on the other hospital bed said, her hands idly fumbling with a remote control and she gave Kiyoshi a warm smile. “What’s yours?”

It took a moment for her words to sink in, the process of translating English to Japanese being rather slow in his mind. He had to think about his words carefully before saying them. “I am… Teppei Kiyoshi. It is very nice to meet you.” Kiyoshi mumbled a bit, nearly forgetting that in America people were typically introduced with their first name then last.

If possible, ____’s smile widened and her eyes seemed to glisten as she listened to the rather tall boy speak. “You have got a pretty funny accent. Where are you from?”

Kiyoshi was grateful that, this time, ____ avoided using contractions in her sentence and actually spoke a bit slower. It made it easier for him to understand. “Uh… Japan.”

“Wowie,” she whistled, her expression showing genuine amazement. It made Kiyoshi relax a bit and he found himself leaning back against the headboard of his bed, a small comforted smile gracing his lips. “So Teppei, what are you here for?”

Shocked by her forwardness, Kiyoshi had to remind himself that it was customary to call people by their first names in America. He stumbled a bit with his words, starting his sentence over a few times in order to convey to her his reason for being at the hospital. “My knee. I am going to be in surgery today.”

Saying it out loud, Kiyoshi suddenly felt that what was happening was truly inevitable. He felt a numbness overtake him as he thought about the surgery to come. So many things could go wrong. What if the anesthetics didn’t work? Or what if they worked too well and he never woke up? What if the surgery was a failure? What if he could never walk again? All these questions and more bombarded the basketball player’s mind and, slowly, his small smile turned into a grimace. His eyebrows furrowed together into a bushy line on his forehead and his gaze focused on his hands which were clenching onto his bed sheet. They would be coming for him any hour now and he wasn’t sure he was ready.

Noticing his sudden distress, ____ could only guess that he was nervous. “Don’t worry, you will be fine. The people here are very good at what they do,” she reassured him, her gentle voice catching his attention once more. “Trust me. I’ve been here long enough, so I can tell.”

Lord make me a rainbow, I’ll shine down on my mother She’ll know I’m safe with you when she stands under my colors, oh, And life ain’t always what you think it ought to be, no Ain’t even grey, but she buries her baby

The sharp knife of a short life, oh well I’ve had just enough time

A few days later and Kiyoshi’s surgery had been a complete success. Now he had nothing to do but lay in bed, waiting for the day where he would be healed enough to start walking again. Time seemed to crawl on slowly for the teenager, but talking with his roommate seemed to make things more bearable.

____ and Kiyoshi had gotten to know each other quite well over the past few days, telling each other about their pasts and about the important things they held dear to them. Kiyoshi couldn’t help but talk about his basketball experiences with the girl, recounting the many games he had played and won over the years. ____, in turn, would tell him about her passions and hobbies, often describing them in great detail to the point Kiyoshi could practically see her doing them. Sure, a lot of comments were lost in translation, but the gist of what each person was saying was enough to spark excitement into what was expected to be a boring hospital stay.

Every so often, for at least an hour or two, their long conversations would be interrupted by a visit from ____’s mother. The older woman would hobble in, a book in her hands—Kiyoshi guessed that it was some sort of book of faith—and she would sit next to her daughter, reading the scriptures that were written in there. The two females would pray with each other every time the older woman came to visit, taking their time in repeating the same phrases.

One day, after her mother had left the room while bidding the two teenagers goodbye, Kiyoshi asked ____ about her faith.

“I don’t really know if I believe in it,” ____ admitted, shrugging her shoulders carefully. Her left arm was attached to an IV, an unknown liquid dripping into her system and preparing her for her surgery to come. “But it makes my mom happy, so I participate.”

Kiyoshi nodded, understanding the feeling of wanting to make a family member happier through actions. “What do you pray for?”

____ gave him a smile, though he could tell that there was a certain sadness in her eyes. Her fingers started to fidget with the sheets on her bed as she answered him. “I’m not the healthiest person out there. I’ve had some pretty gnarly surgeries before,” she murmured, lifting the hospital gown up a bit to show him the long scar that ran down her side and back. “We pray because, well… it’s just in case.”

He understood the implications of her words clearly. The type of surgeries she had to undergo were dangerous; she could die. Deciding that he would let the conversation drop for now, Kiyoshi turned to look out the window as he allowed his brows to furrow. He was upset with himself for letting the conversation take such a sour turn. ____, however, wasn’t at all affected by their topic and continued to speak.

“I don’t want to die, but Mom says praying will make things less scary in case I do.” ____ turned to look out the window as well, her eyes softening at the sight of fluffy white clouds lazily drifting through the sky. “I’m not scared though.”

Kiyoshi turned his worried gaze over to the girl, his eyes questioning. He noticed how her eyes still seemed to sparkle despite their grim conversation. Had she not been so pale from being indoors all the time and had she not been constantly attached to a hospital bed, Kiyoshi would have thought of her as one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen.

“I’m not scared because I’m going to come back one day.”

“Come back?” Kiyoshi was confused. She couldn’t possibly mean that she would come back to life after a while. The image of a zombie movie he had watched a few years back flashed into his mind and he shuddered. “How?”

“Reincarnation.”

Kiyoshi sighed, his heart calming a bit at the relatively normal answer. He hadn’t really thought about reincarnation being an answer, so he was glad when she brought it up. It was a topic he was more comfortable with discussing. “What do you think you will become?”

“A rainbow,” she answered, thoroughly confusing Kiyoshi once again. When he looked at her in question once more, she gave him a warm smile before clarifying. “They make people happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

If I die young, bury me in satin Lay me down on a bed of roses Sink me in the river at dawn Send me away with the words of a love song

The sharp knife of a short life, oh well I’ve had just enough time

She was wringing her hands together, a nervous habit Kiyoshi had learned to recognize whenever her doctor came in to have a word with her. Eyes downcast towards the wrinkles in her bed, he could hear the slight wheeze of her breathing. The liquid that had been seeping into her body through an IV had made her weaker, more susceptible to illness, but it was supposed to help make the surgery easier on both her and the surgeons. It had been days since they had started her on the drip feed. It had also been days since the two of them had their conversation about reincarnation. Kiyoshi could remember her smile vividly as she talked about making others happy, but he was having trouble finding that smile now.

“What is wrong?” He asked, breaking through the unbearable silence in the room. He wanted to get up from his bed and reach out to comfort her, but he still wasn’t allowed to move on his own.

Startled by the sudden inquiry, ____ redirected her gaze towards Kiyoshi. She forced a smile onto her face, but the gesture didn’t reach her eyes. Kiyoshi could tell that she was still scared behind her brave façade. Fingers subconsciously continuing in their fidgeting motion, ____ inhaled shakily before answering.

“My surgery is today, Teppei,” she answered, trying her best to hide the nervous waver in her voice. “They finally found a donor and I’m getting some replacement parts.” Trying her best to lighten up the mood, she poked at her side which held the long scar marring her body. She traced the line with her finger, mimicking the motion of a scalpel slicing through skin. “I kind of feel like a robot or android getting some brand spanking new parts from the auto shop.”

In her desperate attempt to seem like her normally cheerful self, ____ had spoken a bit too quickly and Kiyoshi had trouble understanding the words that left her mouth. He had only caught a few of them, but it wasn’t enough for him to translate into a coherent sentence. He did, however, understand her body language as that of a person who was anxious to get something over with. Mustering up as much of a smile as he could manage, he made sure it reached his eyes as he spoke.

“Do not worry,” he started, patting his lap in a gesture that brought some attention to his healing knee. “Someone once told me that the people here are very good at what they do.”

A small gasp escaped ____’s lips as she recognized the words Kiyoshi had uttered. Small tears had started to form at the corners of her eyes as she looked over to the brunette male and she had to rub at her face with the heel of her hand to stop her waterworks, giving him the weakest smile she could manage. Her lips were quivering slightly, strong emotions overcoming her as she struggled to accept the fate that was dealt to her. She was scared.

But Kiyoshi’s smile and kindhearted words were giving her a glimmer of hope.

Deciding that it would be best to keep her mind off the thought of her surgery to come, Kiyoshi continued to hold a conversation with ____. They talked about whatever came to mind, often having to repeat themselves as their language barrier still got in the way of their communication quite often. Every so often a laugh would escape ____’s lips, causing Kiyoshi’s heart to flutter a bit as he was reminded of the sweet sound of ringing wind chimes. He wanted to hear her laugh more.

An hour later and the doctors and nurses had finally arrived—in Kiyoshi’s opinion they had arrived much to quickly—and they started shifting things around the room so they could wheel ____ away towards the operating room. Before she left the room, she looked at Kiyoshi, the smile he had placed on her face wavering slightly.

“Wish me luck?”

“You do not need it,” he said, flashing her a grin along with a thumbs up. “You will be coming back.”

And I’ll be wearing white, when I come into your kingdom I’m as green as the ring on my little cold finger, I’ve never known the lovin’ of a man But it sure felt nice when he was holdin’ my hand, There’s a boy here in town, says he’ll love me forever, Who would have thought forever could be severed by…

…the sharp knife of a short life, oh well? I’ve had just enough time

Taking yet another shaky step, Kiyoshi couldn’t help but grin in self-satisfaction as he merely brushed his fingertips against the wall of the hallway. He had started walking again a few days ago, taking it slow as his legs got used to carrying his weight once more. It had been a struggle at first and Kiyoshi would often find himself upset when he could only take a few steps before feeling tired, but now he had built up both his strength and stamina. He had finally accomplished his goal of walking down the hallway and back and he was feeling prouder than ever.

A nurse gripped onto the handle of a door, opening it for Kiyoshi as she helped him inside. Upon entering the room, Kiyoshi was met with the familiar sound of a heart monitor beeping away. He had to force his frown to leave upon casting his eyes towards the occupied bed, noticing that ____ was once again idly watching television. Walking slowly into the room, he made a short detour to her bedside, standing next to it and towering over her frail frame.

Noticing that Kiyoshi had shuffled his way to her bedside, ____ pressed a button on the remote control that sat loosely in her grip, effectively shutting off the television. She flashed him a weak smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling a bit.

“How far did you make it today?” She asked, watching as Kiyoshi fished around in the pocket of his sweats for a bit. When he finally pulled out the object he was searching for, he let it drop onto ____’s bed. To say she was utterly confused when a crumpled up tissue landed on her bed would be an understatement. “What’s this?”

“There is a tissue box at the end of the hall,” Kiyoshi stated, a small smile forming on his lips as he watched her put the pieces of the puzzle together. In his mind, he imagines that she’d probably do something cheesy like treasure the tissue for as long as she can and it makes a feeling of pride swell in his chest.

“Teppei, that’s great!” Despite her lack of breath and weak status, ____ had managed to sound ecstatic. She tried in vain to sit up, only to have one of Kiyoshi’s large hands gently push her back onto the bed so she could rest. “You’ll be back to playing basketball in no time.”

Kiyoshi nodded, deciding he would much rather stay by her side for a few more minutes than go over to his own bed. Asking the nurse for a bit of help, Kiyoshi struggled slightly to sit in the chair that was always near ____’s side. Once the two of them were comfortable, the nurse left the room, promising to return in a few minutes.

Kiyoshi took that time to study ____’s weakened state. Yes, her surgery had been a complete success and the doctors were able to replace all the parts that needed to be removed, but the IV drip that had been supposed to prepare her body for her new organs hadn’t done its job as expected. Upon the end of her surgery, it quickly became apparent that her body was rejecting the new parts, causing an internal warfare to ensue inside of her. The doctors were doing everything in their power to make ____ healthy again, but nothing seemed like enough. The biological struggle inside of her had caused ____ to become severely ill, her skin much paler than normal and her muscles barely able to keep up her own weight. Even breathing was a difficult task and more often than not, she was attached to a machine that would help her do that as well. Her eyes still held that sliver of hope however.

And so did Kiyoshi’s.

Shifting a bit in his seat, Kiyoshi moved to hold her smaller hand in his. Her skin felt cold to the touch, almost corpse like, and Kiyoshi wanted nothing more than to warm her up. A small, almost unnoticeable pressure on his hand alerted him out of his grim thoughts and his eyes instantly found ____’s. She was smiling.

“I’m going to be alright,” she assured slowly. “I promise.”

So put on your best, boys, and I’ll wear my pearls What I never did is done

A penny for my thoughts, oh, no, I’ll sell ‘em for a dollar They’re worth so much more after I’m a goner And maybe then you’ll hear the words I been singin’ Funny when you’re dead how people start listenin’

A few nights later and Kiyoshi was struggling to sleep comfortably. He was having a vivid dream, images of a healthy ____ standing before him in all her glory. Her skin, no longer a sickening pale color, seemed to glow and her eyes shined with a happiness he hadn’t seen in such a long while. She was laughing, the sound that he had grown to love reaching his ears, caressing his mind. Her hands were pulling him along, leading him to some unknown place. He was hesitant at first, not knowing if his legs could handle the fast pace at which she was going, but upon realizing that his muscles worked perfectly fine he ran alongside her.

“See? I told you everything is going to be fine.” She laughed once more, talking with him normally as they slowed their run to an eventual stop. She sounded distant despite being so close to him and Kiyoshi almost had to ask her to repeat herself. “You’re going to get better and everything will be just fine.”

“What about you?”

____ let go of his hand and Kiyoshi suddenly felt cold. Turning on her heel so she could face the tall male, she gave him the same grin she had shown him the first time they met. Somewhere in the distance, Kiyoshi could hear a familiar sound.

“Everything is going to be fine,” she echoed once more.

Her image started to seem blurry to Kiyoshi’s eyes and he found himself reaching out for her, only to come up empty as his hand simply phased through her. Calling ____’s name, Kiyoshi started to feel a slight panic as his heart started to beat in time with the sound in the background. He tried to pinpoint where the noise was coming from, his sleep hazed mind barely able to recognize why the sound seemed so familiar.

Kiyoshi woke up with a start, sitting upright in his bed instantly. A cold sweat was making its way down his neck and he shivered involuntarily. He rubbed at his eyes, his mind still foggy from his confusing dream. Normally this would be the time where he would selfishly wake ____ up, wanting to tell her about his dream before he could forget the next morning. She would complain about his rude behavior for waking her up so early in the morning, only to sit up as well and listen to his narration. However, this time his voice was caught in his throat. Something about tonight seemed different, almost as if he had seen that dream for a reason.

Looking over towards his roommate’s bed, Kiyoshi’s eyes landed on her passive face. She looked cold, her skin almost seeming blue due to the dark shadows of the night. The background sound that had invaded his dream was still ringing in his ear and, if Kiyoshi hadn’t glanced at ____’s heart monitor, he would’ve thought he was just hearing things. However, he did glance at the heart monitor and the image that was portrayed nearly caused him to have a heart attack of his own.

One long, thin green line was displayed on the digital screen and a constant beep resonated through the room.

Kiyoshi didn’t know when he had stumbled off his bed, his legs nearly giving out under the sudden weight of his body. He could barely recognize the feel of ____’s soft skin on his hands when he reached out to touch her face. He could barely see her features, a wave of emotion suddenly clouding his vision. He didn’t even know when he had instinctively reached for what he deemed as the panic button she had on her bedside.

Doctors and nurses alike quickly filed into the room, some of them gently ushering Kiyoshi back to his own bed as others quickly got to work on the girl. His ears barely registered the commanding voices bouncing around in the room as the curtain between his bed and ____’s was drawn, effectively shutting him away from ever seeing her again.

The internal warfare that had been plaguing her for days was finally over. ____’s body had won.

But at a terrible price.

If I die young, bury me in satin Lay me down on a bed of roses Sink me in the river at dawn Send me away with the words of a love song

Uh oh (uh, oh) The ballad of a dove (uh, oh) Go with peace and love Gather up your tears, keep ‘em in your pocket Save 'em for a time when you’re really gonna need 'em, oh

After that night, the room was silent for a long time. Often, Kiyoshi wondered if he should switch on the television for some ambient noise. Even the thought of calling his friends back in Japan had crossed his mind a couple times. Anything to keep the silence out of the room. But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it, instead basking in the solitude that now consumed him. He hadn’t cried, thinking that ____ wouldn’t want him to do so.

It was the next day when an older woman hobbled into Kiyoshi’s hospital room, shuffling over to the now empty bed. She didn’t have a book in her hands this time, knowing full well that it was no use bringing something like that now. Slowly, she opened drawers and cabinets that were beside the empty bed, cleaning them out of all the belongings that had been collecting dust in there for months. When she opened the last drawer, she found a bunch of papers and useless trinkets along with a crumpled up tissue. She quickly shoved the items in that drawer into the rubbish bin, having no use for them.

A twinge of pain found its way into Kiyoshi’s heart as he watched the wadded up tissue fall into the rubbish bin. He hadn’t really expected ____ to keep it. Turning his eyes away from the woman in his room, he bites back the emotion that threatens to overcome him.

“Thank you.”

It’s the first time the older woman has spoken directly to Kiyoshi and he almost has to ask her to repeat herself. When he finally turns his gaze towards ____’s mother, she is sitting on what used to be her daughter’s bed, her tired eyes staring at the floor. Kiyoshi can see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, evidence of all the years she had spent worrying over her sickly daughter. It makes his stomach churn uncomfortably as he realizes that this woman can finally rest, though the price of that relaxation was far too great.

“You made her happy in what little time she had left,” ____’s mother said after a long while, finally turning her gaze to look Kiyoshi straight in the eyes. He could see the family resemblance and, for a moment, he wondered if ____ would’ve grown to look like her mother had she lived. “I’m very thankful that she had the opportunity to meet someone like you.”

Kiyoshi opened his mouth to respond, but immediately closed it. What was he supposed to say? That he was grateful as well? Or perhaps that he was glad to have met ____ despite their individual circumstances? Either option didn’t seem appropriate to the male teen and, despite his desperate need to convey his feelings, he bit back his words. He didn’t trust his voice not to waver.

Noticing his silence, the older woman continued. “If you’re still in the area when it happens, I’m sure she would like for you to come to the funeral.”

Standing from her position on the bed, ____’s mother gathered up the things she had collected from the drawers before slowly stepping towards the exit of the room. She paused momentarily, one of her hands holding the door open as she turned back in Kiyoshi’s direction. He noticed how her eyes seemed to look passed him, gazing out the window that stayed beside him.

“She’s in a better place now.”

Taking her leave, the older woman closed the door quietly, once again causing the room to be consumed in silence. Once he could no longer hear the click of her heels in the hallway outside, Kiyoshi turned his attention to the window beside him. His eyes widened at the sight.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but earlier that day rain had plagued the sky, causing a downpour of fat raindrops to bombard the people outside. Though, the awful weather had subsided for now and a beautiful arch now painted the sky. Kiyoshi counted the colors of the rainbow stretching across the view his window had to offer of the outside world, each pigment bringing back painful memories of a smile he wished to see just once more.

This time, Kiyoshi couldn’t stop the flow of tears from falling.

The sharp knife of a short life, oh well I’ve had just enough time

So put on your best, boys, and I’ll wear my pearls.

#kiysohi

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auskultu · 8 years ago

Text

Rolling Stones Starting to Melow

Keith Altham, New Musical Express, 16 September 1967

HE TIMES THEY have a-changed, as Bob Dylan predicted—and with them—the Rolling Stones. There was a time when one approached a Mick Jagger-Keith Richard interview with fear and trepidation, as they lashed the backs of the establishment. Today they are older, perhaps wiser and certainly kinder to the world around them.

Now, instead of the old “Fab gear whack,” routine and solicitous enquiries after Ken Dodd’s health, as I enter their recording studios I am met with smiles and an orange juice is pressed upon me by the ever courteous Jones, while Keith remarks that he has not seen me in a long time.

“Please help yourself to a drink at any time,” smiles Mick, indicating the cardboard carton stacked with juices and cokes.

Bill smiles a slightly sadder smile and only Charlie remains immortal, eyes wide open as he drums but seeing nothing and talking still of Coltrane and Gillespie. He knows what’s “Watts!”

Outside the studio are parked the Mercedes and the Rolls and the Aston Martin—the material results of five long, gone years hard work.

“Stu” is still there—their big hearted road manager, still leading with his chin (a formidable weapon) shirt ever agape revealing the hairy chest and blue jeans displaying something new in psychedelic white patterns.

Brian moves softly about the studio in painted shoes, red and black striped trousers and huge brown sheepskin waistcoat which makes him appear like some bizarre troglodyte.

Keith is clad in one of those unbelievable blue creations with many other colours that billow from his arms and fall in fringes almost to the floor. He sits tuning his guitar and appeals desperately to the ceiling “Someone give me an ‘E’!”

Jagger sits perched upon a high stool in the control room surveying the music makers with an indulgent air, his leg twisted about the lower struts of the seat and leaning forward so that his spine sticks out through the thin purple shirt. Marianne Faithfull sits cool and detached behind him reading a copy of A Treatise On White Magic from which she takes time out to talk a little with me.

Love Supremes “I love the Supremes new record, ‘Reflections’, and Traffic’s single,” she enthuses. “Mick is producing some tracks for a new album for me—you heard one track as you came in written by the Incredible String Band.”

I expressed an interest in the small book in her shopping bag written by poet-philosopher Omar Kayyam and she gave it to me.

The whole atmosphere in the studio was one of a friendly, unhurried meeting between five old friends who were not going to rush into anything that was not their best.

No discord There was hardly one discordant quote to ruffle the serenity except when I deigned to mention the Monkees and the Beatles in the same breath and Keith’s lip curled in the old familiar manner.

Mick explained a little of the new direction in which the Stones are moving along with many other top groups.

“It really began with the Beatles Revolver album,” said Mick. It was the beginning of an appeal to the intellect.

“Once you could tell how well a group was doing by the reaction to their sex appeal but the days of the hysteria are fading and for that reason there will never be a new Stones or a new Beatles. We are moving after ‘minds’ and so are most of the new groups.”

He played me one of their new compositions, ‘She Comes In Colours’ which is augmented by strings, for inclusion on the next album and a 15-minute backing track where guitars, piano, tambourine, tom-toms, baas and drums are thrown together to provide what Brian calls, “India with a touch of the Arabian Nights!” Brian was planning an excursion to Libya and indicated the glossy brochure he had bought on that country.

“Look at these fantastic Roman remains,” he enthused, “I’m going to find somewhere in the middle of the Sahara where there an no photographers.” As Brian left the control room sound engineer Glyn Johns extolled the Stones musicianship.

Picked it up “Brian’s incredible,” he said, “did you hear that harp on the last track—he played that—just picked it up in the studio.

“He came in last night and there was this little child’s plastic ukelele lying around. It’s almost impossible to get a tune out of those things but he did. He seems to be able to play anything he picks up—from saxophone to dulcimer!” A backing track was laid down and the Stones set about making music with Brian isolated in one portion of the studio playing tom-toms.

Jagger and Johns talked about “fixed and round sounds” and there was a brief hitch while some distortion was removed from Bill’s bass-guitar, namely Bill. He was apparently working too close to the bridge of his bass.

A Stones’ recording session nowadays begins about 7 pm and rolls on until the early hours of the morning. “Stu” sends out for supper about midnight and quantities of pork chops and chicken are consumed along with pie and ice-cream.

A great deal of their music is produced spontaneously in the studio as they improvise on a theme or idea that one or the other has created.

A strange assortment of people drift in and out of the studio including policemen who lamely excuse their presence by “I’ve never been in a recording studio before” or “your door was open!”

The Stones accept this in stone silence and anyone who is not as Jagger described it—“a terrific nuisance”��is allowed to stay.

At this session a well-known agent who they had not seen for nearly three years turned up in suit and tie—looking as comfortable as a penguin in the Gobi amongst the present company.

He explained rather embarrassedly that there was this girl with him who wanted to “just see you—y’know?”

Jagger collapsed, “You don’t see us for over three years and then you turn up with the same old reasons—using us to impress your girl.” But he smiled and the girl was brought in and the Stones treated her kindly.

Just what is going to turn up on this next Stones LP is still somewhat confusing but there are likely to be quite a few surprises.

Marianne, for example, revealed that Mick has a book on nursery rhymes—“the ‘I was going to St. Ives and met a man with seven wives’ variety” and he was considering working some of them into the album.

Brian Jones had a thing about some 1930’s discs owned by his father on which there was an organist called Harry Foorte. One particular title he mentioned was ‘Plum Blossom’.

In between-times Charlie talked to Mick of Mick’s meeting with Maharishi Yoga, and wanted to know what Mick asked him.

“Oh about the Church and religion,” said Mick vaguely. Charlie was sceptical about the little portrait that Maharishi carried of his guru (Maharishi teacher). “It’s only something to help him remember he is carrying the thoughts on from another,” said Mick.

There was a heated discussion in the control room between Glyn Johns, who abhors bullfights although he has never been to one, and Brian Jones interceded on my behalf for the defence.

“It is not a sport—that is an English misconception.” said Brian “it is a spectacle in the same way a Greek tragedy is a spectacle—it is life as it Is death and sad as it is happy.”

Glyn was not to be convinced that the spectacle of any animal in pain was a desirable one and Marianne finally made a profound remark about “Nature at the mercy of mankind” and we all forgot the subject.

Headgear Keith had acquired a cap during the evening’s recording with three badges resplendent on the peak.

“The badge with the two white strokes stands for equal rights,” he explained. “The photograph in the other badge is of the Russian astronaut who was burned to death on re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere.”

The last badge depicted a latter day Hollywood blonde in surrealistic backgrounds—“and that,” said Keith, “is lovely Rita!”

Charlie entered the control room to conduct a bewildering conversation about a session musician with “perfect pitch” whom Glyn knew.

Mick revealed that Glyn was shortly to be married. Glyn revealed that Mick had learnt all his production techniques at his knee.

About 2 a.m. I made to go while everyone was still being so nice. Just as I left through the door the idea of asking Keith to insult someone, just once for old times sake occurred, but I fear it would have been futile.

This is the year of “the Nice” and saving Omar Khayyam’s memory—“the Rolling Stones having rolled—roll on!”

#rolling stones #mick jagger #keith richards #Brian jones #Charlie watts #bill wyman #glyn johns #their satanic majesties request #marianne faithfull #1967 #1960s #sixties #60s

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motherlifesucher-archives · 8 years ago

Text

ATTENTION l Shawn Mendes Imagine

(a/n): hiii! this is kind of different from everything I’ve written before, so im sorry if it’s not very good, but I hope you enjoy it <3 x.

prompt: based on the song “Attention” by Charlie Puth.

i) you’ve been runnin’ ‘round throwin’ that dirt all on my name, 'cause you knew that i’d call you up.

“Shawn, I am going to ask you one last time if what this girl is saying is true.” Andrew said through gritted teeth.

“Just leave it, Andrew. No one is going to believe her.”

“Oh, really? Because TMZ is offering her three thousand dollars for a freaking interview!” Andrew said losing his calm. “Do you realize that you are not on a place where you can afford another mistake, Shawn for God’s sake!”

“What do you want me say? That I did have a relationship with her? Because I didn’t.” Shawn told Andrew, growing tired of the conversation.

“Then why is she working so hard on trashing your name?! You can’t lie to me, Shawn. If you want me to fix this…”

“I never asked you to fix this.” Shawn said and completely regretted after he noticed Andrew had lost all the patience he had left.

“Lose the attitude, you’re acting like a diva.”

“Sorry.” Shawn muttered.

“Now you’re going to tell me who this girl is and why is she doing this.”

Shawn sighed. “I used to sleep with her, okay? I was falling for her but she was just playing with me, so forgive me if I don’t wanna talk about her.”

“Did you give her a reason to do this?”

“Maybe I said some things that weren’t very nice, but she totally deserved them.” Shawn defended himself.

“Can you give her a call? I don’t think your fans are believing what she says, but media is having a field day and she’s feeding them.”

Shawn was silent for a moment before answering: “I’ll give it a try.”

Shawn was pacing around his hotel room with his phone in his hands.

He didn’t want to call her, he really didn’t. He knew this was what she was looking for; she wanted him to go back to her, and she knew that he was weak for her.

Maybe she was sitting by her bed with her phone on her hand, already waiting for it to ring. She was going to tell him that she was in town and ready to leave everything behind as long as he went to see her, and of course Shawn knew what that meant. It meant that he was going to allow himself to be at her mercy again.

He could still remember her hands running through his hair, whispering everything he wanted to hear with her angelic voice that drove him crazy. In those moments he forgot that she was going to kick him out right after, knowing that she was only using him for her own pleasure, she didn’t give a crap about him.

Suddenly, Shawn didn’t feel pain anymore, he only felt rage as he dialed her number, and his anger only seemed to be aggravated when he heard a giggle followed by her sweet voice.

“Hey Shawn, I was wondering when you were going to call…”

“I don’t care what you want, (y/n). Just cut it off, it’s over.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop talking crap about me. You should be thankful that I am a decent guy and won’t say all the things you’ve done to me so cut it, I mean it.”

ii) you just want attention, i knew from the start, you’re just making sure I’m never gettin’ over you.

She hadn’t said anything else since he called her.

Shawn was glad, he really was. He had gotten Andrew and his friends out of his shoulder who had been asking him non-stop about this girl.

But he missed her.

He missed having her between his arms, even if it was only for a moment before she left him laying the cold bed, the only things keeping him company being his memories.

He was mindlessly strumming his guitar when his phone buzzed.

He internally rolled his eyes, thinking it was an invitation from his friends to go grab a drink even if he had told them that he didn’t want to go out.

but it wasn’t technically an invitation.

It was a message from an unknown number with a picture and message attached to it.

His breath hitched on his throat as he opened the picture that showed him and the girl on his mind laying naked on a random motel bed, and the following was one other laying on the very same bed, alone.

‘thought I’d bring some memories back, since you’re probably alone and blocked my phone number (not cool, btw) xx’

She had him under her spell and he didn’t know if he wanted to be released.

iii) I know that dress is karma, perfume regret, you got me thinking ‘bout when you were mine, and now i’m all up on ya, what you expect?

Shawn was moving on.

He had decided he wasn’t going to let himself down because of a girl who wasn’t worth his time, so Geoff magically found a girl who was “perfect for him”. She wasn’t his type, at all. This girl seemed to agree with anything he said as she stared at him in adoration, while Shawn was internally rolling his eyes every time she let out a high-pitched giggle.

He had made a reservation for a nice hotel restaurant and booked an hotel room because you never know what can happen. They were reaching the doors of the fancy restaurant when he saw a figure walking right in front of him.

A figure he had tattooed on his mind.

She was wearing his favorite dress. The navy blue dress she knew that drove him crazy.

She bit her nude colored lips as she brushed her shoulder against his and Shawn had to control his breathing because his nostrils had filled with her distinctive perfume, Acqua di Gioa. He remembered giving it to her after he smelled it for the first time while he was taking off her clothes.

He couldn’t help his eyes who looked for her. He hated himself for the fire that was igniting in his body just at the sight of her, but his mind just wasn’t processing as he apologized to his date for the night who looked like she was about to cry or punch him right on his face.

(y/n) knew Shawn was walking right behind her, so she didn’t hesitate to reach the door of the hotel room and turn around, waiting for him.

He was fuming with rage; rage with her for being insufferable, and rage with himself, for getting all worked up with just the sight of her and for letting her have control of him with just the scent of her perfume.

“I was wondering how long it was going to take you to ditch your… date? I’m sorry, I don’t know how to call it.” she said ignoring the fact that he was angry.

“How dare you come here, to find me? Fuck, how are you so sure of yourself that you asked for the number of my room?!” Shawn told her, breathing heavily.

“Are you telling me that you didn’t wanna see me?” she asked him, placing her hands on his tense shoulders.

“You have to go away, please.” Shawn begged, closing his eyes at the familiar touch.

“Are you sure you want me to go away?”

that was all it took for Shawn to lose his mind and crash his lips with hers.

It wasn’t gentle or soft, he was trying to pour every feeling on his mind into that kiss. His hands were wandering every part of her back as his fingers fluttered by the feeling of the fabric of his favorite dress on her.

He threw her body onto the bed and for a moment he wanted to walk away and leave her there, so she could feel for a second what he felt every time, but he couldn’t.

He was intoxicated by her.

iv) baby, now that we’re right here standin’ face to face, you already know that you won.

Shawn was trying to control his breath while she traced patterns on his naked chest.

They were both covered in sweat after coming down from their highs, and the adrenaline he felt had vanished by now.

Shawn sighed before speaking: “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“You don��t get to answer me with another question, (y/n). Why can’t you be a decent human being and just leave me alone?” Shawn asked and sounded like he was in pain.

“Why do you keep coming back to me?”

“Oh God…” Shawn groaned. “This is what I’m talking about, you’re unbearable. You are selfish and you have been playing with me since we met. It took me long enough to realize it but I did, and now that I’m finally moving on you come back here knowing that I’ll follow you because you have some kind of power over me, and it’s killing me,” he let out a frustrated sigh. “I can’t walk away, why can’t you do it? I think I deserve at least that.”

“What if I don’t want to walk away either?” she asked biting her lip.

“You got what you wanted. Magazines asking for interviews, brands wanting you to promote them on Instagram or whatever. You got what you wanted from me, please, walk away.”

“You know that you’ll come back eventually, right?” she said but Shawn stayed silent, only staring at the ceiling.

She got up of the bed slowly, revealing her naked body. Slowly, she started looking for her underwear and smirked when she saw the navy blue dress laying on the floor.

She didn’t need to turn back to check if Shawn was staring at her, because she knew that his eyes were fixed on her from the moment he smelled her perfume and saw her put the dress back on until she closed the door, leaving him on the cold hotel room, with more memories flooding his mind.

She had his full attention, even when she wasn’t there.

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #Shawn Mendes Imagine #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes one shot

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