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bellysoupset · 8 months

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yo dude i know you just worked your ass off on that vince fic (i can tell bro bc holy shit, like i genuinely think thats my new favorite all time fic i'll go back to for years to come), but rn im just so 🤩🤩 rn with the idea of the football boys playing a game, like maybe a little for-fun game of football, maybe they go to a recreational basketball/baseball field to play a little game that isnt football in their freetime, and someone gets hurt or sumn? damn idk what it is with me and suggesting seeing these boys hurt but GODDDD ITS SO 🤩🤩🤩🤩 (also probably vince wouldnt be the hurt one, as he just got absolutely smushed. he may not even be in said setting bc he's still having to not do anything due to the last fic, if everything is in chronological order)(IH MY GOD WHAT IF VINCE WAS STAYING WITH JONAH AND LEO AND LEO WAS OUT PLAYING THE GAME WITH THEM AND COMES HOME HURT AND THE TWO ARE LIKE "damn not you too")(if you decide to go thru with this ask, please dont feel rushed bc i dont want you to get burnt out yk? take your time 💪💪💪)

"Finally, I see the sun," Vince groaned, causing Leo to roll his eyes.

"It's been literally ten days, you drama queen," he said, removing his baseball cap and pushing his hair back, away from his sweaty forehead, then planting the cap back down, this time facing back.

"Ten days of captivity," Vince said, dramatically rubbing his good hand over his face, "is good to be out of jail."

"I'd like to think my food is a little better than jail's," Leo scoffed, turning around and walking backwards towards the field, "are you sure you wanna stay and watch? Doesn't sound very fun to me."

"I was going stir crazy in that apartment," Vince winced as the limping pulled on his wounded side. He was definitely dosed up on painkillers, but there was still a dull throbbing on his side that the drugs couldn't chase, made worse by all the hopping around, "even sitting and watching you guys play is better fun than watching another episode Rachel's bad romantic decisions."

Leo grinned, turning around so he could run ahead and join the remaining guys on the field and Vince took his time limping towards the bleachers. His shirt was covered in sweat by the time he sat down.

He didn't know all the players. Leo, yes, Spencer and Mikey from the team too. The other people he didn't know, it seemed they were an weird rag tag team of people's various acquaintances. By the way Leo waved to some of them, he guessed they were colleagues from the law firm.

It didn't matter, Vince was just overjoyed to be out of the fancy apartment and smelling freshly cut grass, with the sun shining down on him. He had not been made to sit around, there was too much energy running through him during all hours of the day and the worst part of this whole accident had been no longer being able to hit the gym or the field or, hell, he'd even take Wendy's hot yoga classes at this point.

"Hey!" Luke's voice startled Vince and he turned on the hot stone bleachers in order to see him. Luke jogged closer, "good to see you out of bed."

"You have no idea," Vin nodded, studying his best friend, "you good? Bella said the bug was brutal."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Luke had a huge smile on, much like Vince he hated lying about, although he looked a little paler than normal and his voice was scratchy, "wish us luck."

"Make them cry, captain" Vince teased, raising both thumbs up, his left one cradled in his chest since his arm was still resting on the sling.

Lucas tipped his baseball cap in a cowboy-esque way, "you got it, man."

They were playing baseball and Vince didn't much care for it. It was much too american for him, aside from football he had always been more fond of soccer, something he had in common with Jonah. In fact, Jon had proved to be a bit of a soccer addict, Vince had found in the past week living with him and Leo. He knew all the leagues, yelled at the TV and got sullen when his team lost. It was quite amusing to Vin that, for once, he wasn't the one with the blood pressure skyrocketing through the roof.

He leaned back lazily, barely paying attention to the game, enjoying the warmth. Now that he was sitting down for a bit, the ribs' aching had quieted down.

For the next two hours he watched his friends sprint across the field, shouting at each other, ignoring the yelling from the opposite team. Vince blamed it on the drugs and the sun scorching down, but he was feeling sleepy in no time. He cursed at it, it was such a bummer that everyone else was right and he needed to rest, when all he did was rest now.

"Time!" he heard Lucas say, voice booming. He had that characteristic about him, where he could speak loudly and be heard by everyone without looking like he was screaming.

The group dispersed and Luke jogged back to where Vince was sitting, Leo close behind him.

"Are we winning, son?" Vince teased, causing Lucas to chuckle and shove his knee.

"Didn't make 'em cry, yet, but we're winning," he said, competitiveness rolling off of him. He glanced past his shoulder and frowned, "why are you pouting?"

Vince looked away from Luke, to Leo, and raised his eyebrows. As Lucas said, the blonde had a big frown on and he was squinting at the grass. He angrily rubbed at his forehead, "I don't... I don't feel so good."

"Shit, LU-" Vince shouted, using his good hand to shove Lucas' arm, who leaped forward just in time to catch Leo as his knees gave up.

"What the fuck?!" Luke squealed, his voice breaking. He grabbed Leo by the armpits, manhandling him to sit on the edge of the bleacher's step, "Leo? Leo, c'mon, open your eyes-"

"Not fainting," Leo slurred, pushing Lucas' frantic hands away from his face, "nauseous."

Vince grimaced as he scooted closer, having to prop all his body weight on his right arm in order to lower himself to the step under his, where Leo was sitting. He grabbed Leo's shoulder and then moved his hand up to his neck and cheeks. Despite the fact his cheeks were blazing red and his hair still damp with sweat, his cheeks were dry and his skin felt cold, "oh kid," Vince sighed, "I think you got heatstroke."

Lucas, still looking nervous, cupped Leo's face too, hunching on himself to look him in the face, "aww, why didn't you say anything?" he asked.

Vince watched as Leo's throat bobbed dangerously and he glanced at Luke, "I think you better move..."

He barely had time to say this and Leo was folding in half, vomit jetting out of his mouth and covering the grass under them. Lucas jumped out of the way just in time, but not quick enough to avoid getting the tip of his sneakers covered in orange sick.

"Shit, Leo..." Vince sighed, holding on the back of his friend's muscle shirt, "okay, get it up, you'll feel better in a bit... Luke, can you drive us back...?" Vince voice trailed off as he realized that Lucas had a hand holding Leo's shoulder, but the other one was firmly pressed to his mouth, eyes shut, face pale, "uh... Luke?"

"Sorry-" he said in a muffle manner, then let go of Leo and staggered away from them, bracing against his knees and retching.

Leo groaned, almost falling off since Luke had let go of his arm and Vince squeezed his shirt a little tighter, "don't worry about him, he's fine..." he said, while Leo coughed up another round of brown liquid, "you're fine, right?!" Vince said a little louder and Luke raised a hand, thumb up, while still gagging mercilessly.

Leo spat, then leaned back and almost fell, his head meeting Vince's wounded shoulder and causing him to bite down a scream. He breathed through the pain, as the poor man groaned and leaned his head against his bicep.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I just-"

"It's okay, you can't help it," Vince said, voice strained, "we're going home, just- Here," he winced, reaching back to where he had been sitting and grabbing a water bottle, "take some sips."

"Won't stay down-" Leo groaned, taking the lukewarm bottle and then looking up as Lucas' heaved again, this time managing to bring up a pathetic amount of puke, "is he okay?"

"He's fine," Vince said, rolling his eyes, "drink your water."

Ahead of them Lucas straightened up, belching deeply into his fist and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, walking back to them, "sorry..."

"Since when you get sympathy sick?" Vince asked, while Leo took the smallest sip of water, gagging around the bottle's finish.

"I guess I'm not feeling a hundred percent still," Lucas' cheeks turned pink and he rubbed at his chest, "I'm better now, don't worry."

"Not worried," Vince lied, while Leo let out a moan again, hugging his stomach.

"This is awful, I feel really dizzy..."

"You just need to lie down in a cool place, get some electrolytes in you," Vin rubbed his nape, then glanced at Lucas, "can you drive?"

"Yeah, of course," the brunette nodded, although Vince wasn't feeling very reassured by how milky white Lucas looked. Sadly, there was no other option.

"C'mere," Lucas said, carefully side stepping the puddle on the ground and looping an arm around Leo's waist, "lean on me."

"I'm sorry I made you sick..."

"That was on me," Luke waved him off and Vince gestured for them to go ahead, since getting himself out of the bleachers was a struggle on its own.

By the time he reached them, Leo was sitting inside Luke's car, with the a/c blasting, while Luke was leaning outside of it, an arm wrapped around his stomach.

"I'm fine," Luke said preemptively, "I should've listened to Bell," he let out a sick burp, spat on the gravel and kicked the little rocks to cover up the mess, "really, stop looking at me like that."

"I'm just worried," Vince shrugged, or tried to, only to hiss as it pulled on his shoulder and ribs, "I can call Wendy if you can't drive. She's got the day off..."

'I can drive," Luke shook his head, "I just overdid it with all the running around and the mess..." he gagged fruitlessly against his hand, "I'm good."

"Clearly," Vince agreed sarcastically, then limped to the backseat.

Leo was slumped on the passenger seat, head leaning back, taking some deep, measured breaths.

"Hey, kid," Vin reached in and squeezed his arm, "just hang in there, this is going to pass soon."

Leo nodded, but he still looked dangerously pale, lips pressed in one thin line.

The drive was uneventful, Vince glancing nervously from Leo to Lucas and wondering how their evening had downgraded so quickly. Just as they got close, Leo suddenly hiccupped, slapping a hand over his mouth as a burp slipped out and with the other one he pushed Lucas' thigh "pull over-" his voice was muffled, punctuated by another belch at the end and Luke cringed, turning on the sign and pulling to the side of the road.

At least it was an uneventful Saturday, so the street was almost empty. Leo pushed the door, but didn't even have time to get out. He stuck his head out and coughed up another stream, letting out a whimper.

"Aw, kiddo..." Vince sighed, shoving himself in the space between the driver's seat and passenger one, so he could grab the back of Leo's pants and keep him sitting down. Lucas was no help, despite the guilty expression he had on, he had pressed his forehead to the steering wheel and was gulping nervously.

"It hurts..." Leo groaned, coughing and panting, "my head hurts so much."

"I know, I'm sorry," Vince said unhelpfully, rubbing his back, "get it up, Leo..."

He heard another pitiful whine and then more hurling, followed by a sigh, "I think... I think I'm done."

Or empty, Vince thought, keeping his hand on Leo's back. He glanced at Lucas and cringed. His friend's face was firmly in the gray territory, jaw clenched.

"Take a deep breath, I bet the carsickness isn't helping your situation," Vince said, squeezing Leo's bicep and fighting the anxiety inside of him. He hated not being able to help. He should be the one driving.

"I'm good," Leo slammed the door shut, "I just wanna get home."

"Just a couple minutes," Luke mumbled, his voice all thick and weird, "sorry, I-"

"It's okay, Luke," Leo said tiredly, "Jon gets sympathy sick too, I get it..." he rubbed at his forehead, "just drive, please?"

Once they finally arrived, without another incident, Vince almost groaned as he realized now there was twice as much walking around to be done. He sucked it up, carefully stepping out of the car and offering his good arm for Leo.

"Lean on me, kid," then to Lucas, who was just stepping out of the car, "no. You're not coming in, you're going straight home. Shooo."

"How do you intent on looking after him...?" Luke frowned, despite the pained lines on his face, "Vin, I can-"

"I'm fine," Leo groaned and while Vince could feel his grip was a little too tight for someone who was fine, he knew Lucas wasn't going to be any help, "go home, Luke. I'll text you later."

"...Promise?" Lucas glanced between the two of them, torn between wanting to help and feeling too sick.

"Yeah, we're fine," Vince nodded, ignoring the throbbing on his side, "go home. C'mon, Leo..."

The blonde waved one last goodbye to Luke, then slumped against Vince. Vin could tell he was trying to be mindful not to rest his full body weight on him, but he was doing a poor job of it. He bit down a groan, wrapping his good arm around Leo's waist and resting his back against the inside of the elevator.

"Shitty day," he groaned, causing the blonde to let out a tired chuckle.

"That seems to be a pattern lately," he mumbled, face pressed to Vince's bicep, "it's not as bad as it was out there."

"Good, you just need to rest a bit," Vin reassured him, breathing deeply through his mouth as pain spread all the way up his shoulder. They all but stumbled inside the house and Leo headed straight for the couch, while Vince braced against the desk near the front door and took deep, measured breaths.

"Vin? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he lied, wiping the sweat from his upper lip, "probably just due my meds... Sit down and turn up the A/C, I'm gonna get you some water."

He didn't dare walking all the way to the bathroom to grab a washcloth. Instead Vince filled up Leo's gym bottle with cold water and then wet a dishcloth, deciding he'd rather face Jon's judgment than to walk all that distance. He limped back to the couch and met Leo's worried gaze, "I'm fine," Vince said, handing him the bottle and sitting down too, "here, lie down."

"You don't look very fine," Leo grumbled, but he was too lethargic to do anything about it. He took a gulp of the cold water and let out a relieved sigh when he rested his head on Vin's lap and the cold dishcloth met his forehead, "this feels much better."

"Uhm," Vince smiled, moving on the couch so he could put his feet up the coffee table. His sprained left foot was killing him, "c'mere, kid."

Easy like that, all the times he had done this to his own sisters came rushing back and he found himself playing with Leo's hair, combing the blonde strands and scratching at the scalp, "you're due a haircut," Vince mumbled, eyes slipping closed as he felt Leo relax against him.

"Jon says longer is hotter," he said quietly, "I've always wanted this, you know?"

"...What?" Vince frowned, opening his eyes and glancing down. Leo seemed almost asleep, the stress taking it's toll on him, "Leo?"

"Family," Leo sighed, cuddling closer and moving the wet cloth to cover his eyes, "it's almost weird to have it."

"Oh..." Vince's heart dropped and he squeezed the blonde's shoulder, fighting a smile, "well... Get used to it, Leo. This is your life now."

#mywriting #sickfic #heatstroke #emeto #sympathy sickness #leo wagner #lucas atwood #the fic in which Vin is like okay this is my brother now period - like legally i'm adopting him

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hannah-the-small · 1 year

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what kind of ruler is ebony? kind? firm but fair? a tyrant?

"Fair and terrifying. Should you follow the kingdom's laws then the Kingdom of Mystery and Change is a welcome one, everyone has a role to play and we have a council that you can raise concerns to. They are a trusted circle of my Queen's hand selected peers, chosen for their effectiveness rather than their connections. They handle the more day to day queries that our people may need help with, with my assistance. Should it be a more major concern then my Queen will be involved. I often brief her on what has occurred so if something was handled in a way she does not approve then it can be corrected."

"However... cross her or break the rules and Lady Ebony can be... brutal. No one dares to as my queen revels in chaotic or sadistic punishments for the worst offenders. She trusts my judgement and I am very rarely out of sync with her. My ability of foresight helps."

#TirritustheAdviser

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axvoter · 1 year

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Blatantly Partisan Party Review XIV (NSW 2023): Group P (Danny Lim)

Prior review: NSW 2019

What I said before: “This is the guy who, for years, has shown up around Sydney wearing politically themed sandwich boards. Famously, his billboard calling Tony Abbott a cunt was found to not be offensive under Australian law.”

What I think this year: Lim has become the face of opposition to police brutality after images of him being thrown to the ground in the Queen Victoria Building went viral. Despite how he was treated, and the enduring physical consequences for an elderly man, he has maintained a positive attitude towards the police.

The thing is, although Lim is something of a folk hero on Sydney’s streets, what does he stand for? The second article that I linked above includes a quote that he is campaigning “more about social justice” than anything else and he “care[s] about the future”. Pretty vague. Another article specifies that he supports free dental care, legalising marijuana, and affordable housing. The broad tenor of his activism over the years has been anti-racism.

Lim strikes me as a harmless option but there isn’t much of substance here and you can't draw many firm conclusions about what his legislative approach or priorities would be. In any case, he won’t get close to a seat in parliament because he has stood in a group of just two candidates, and you need 15 to receive a square above the line. Nobody reliant on below-the-line votes can win a seat.

Recommendation: Give Group P (Danny Lim) a middling to decent preference.

Website: None that I found.

#auspol #NSWvotes #NSWvotes2023 #NSW #Election 2023 #NSW election #Danny Lim #independent politics #anti-racism #middling preference #decent preference

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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

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Anonymous asked: I have always appreciated your thoughtful views on the defence of the British monarchy, and as a university historian it’s reassuring to see someone using history to make invalubale insights to a controversial institution. I wonder what are your own thoughts on the passing of Prince Philip and what his legacy might be? Was he a gaffe prone racist and a liability to the Queen?

I know you kindly got in touch and identified yourself when you felt I was ignoring your question. I’m glad we cleared that up via DM. The truth is as I said and I’m saying here is that I had to let some time pass before I felt I could reasonably answer this question. Simply because - as you know as someone who teaches history at university - distance is good to make a sober appraisal rather than knee jerk in the moment judgements.

Contrary to what some might think I’m not really a fan girl when it comes to the royal family. I don’t religiously follow their every movement or utterance especially as I live in Paris and therefore I don’t really care about tabloid tittle tattle. I only get to hear of anything to do with the royal family when I speak to my parents or my great aunts and uncles for whom the subject is closer to their heart because of the services my family has rendered over past generations to the monarchy and the older (and dying) tight knit social circles they travel in.

Like Walter Bagehot, I’m more interested in the monarchy as an institution and its constitutional place within the historical, social, and political fabric of Britain and its continued delicate stabilising importance to that effect. It was Walter Bagehot, the great constitutional scholar and editor the Economist magazine, who said, “The mystic reverence, the religious allegiance, which are essential to a true monarchy, are imaginative sentiments that no legislature can manufacture in any people.” In his view, a politically-inactive monarchy served the best interests of the United Kingdom; by abstaining from direct rule, the monarch levitated above the political fray with dignity, and remained a respected personage to whom all subjects could look to as a guiding light.

Even as a staunch monarchist I freely confess that there has always been this odd nature of the relationship between hereditary monarchy and a society increasingly ambivalent about the institution. To paraphrase Bagehot again, there has been too much ‘daylight’ shone onto the ‘magic’ of the monarchy because we are obsessed with personalities as celebrities.

Having said that I did feel saddened by the passing of Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh. After the Queen, he was my favourite royal. Anne, Princess Royal, would come next because she is very much like her father in temperament, humour, and character, so unlike her other brothers.

I have met the late Prince Philip when I was serving in the army in a few regimental meet-and-greet situations - which as you may know is pretty normal given that members of the royal family serve as honorary colonel-in-chiefs (patrons in effect) of all the British army regiments and corps.I also saw him at one or two social events such the annual charitable Royal Caledonian Ball (he’s an expert scottish reeler) and the Guards Polo Club where my older brothers played.

I’ll will freely confess that he was the one royal I could come close to identify with because his personal biography resonated with me a great deal.

Let’s be honest, the core Windsor family members, born to privilege, are conditioned and raised to be dull. Perhaps that’s a a tad harsh. I would prefer the term ‘anonymously self-effacing’, just another way of saying ‘for God’s sake don’t draw attention to yourself by saying or doing anything even mildly scandalous or political lest it invites public opprobrium and scrutiny’. The Queen magnificently succeeds in this but the others from Charles down just haven’t (with the exception of Princess Anne).

However, many people forget this obvious fact that it’s the incoming husbands and wives who marry into the Windsor family who are relied upon to bring colour and even liven things up a little. And long before Kate Middleton, Meghan Markle (very briefly), or Lady Diana Spencer, were the stars of ‘The Firm’- a phrase first coined by King George VI, Queen Elizabeth II's father who ruled from 1936 to 1952, who was thought to have wryly said, "British royals are 'not a family, we're a firm,” - it was Prince Philip who really livened things up and made the greater impact on the monarchy than any of them in the long term.

Prince Philip’s passing belied the truth of a far more complex individual: a destitute and penniless refugee Greek-Danish prince with a heart breaking backstory that could have been penned by any 19th Century novelist, and also eagle eyed reformer who tried to drag the royal family into the 20th century. At the core of the man - lost scion of a lost European royal dynasty, a courageous war veteran, and Queen’s consort - were values in which he attempted to transform and yet maintain much older inherited traditions and attitudes. Due to his great longevity, Philip’s life came to span a period of social change that is almost unprecedented, and almost no one in history viewed such a transformation from the front row.

Prince Philip would seem to represent in an acute form the best of the values of that era, which in many ways jar with today’s. He had fought with great courage in the war as a dashing young naval officer; he was regularly rude to foreigners, which was obviously a bonus to all Brits. He liked to ride and sail and shoot things. He was unsentimental almost to a comic degree, which felt reassuring at a time when a new-found emotional incontinence made many feel uncomfortable. Outrageous to some but endearing to others, he was the sort of man you’d want to go for a pint with, perhaps the ultimate compliment that an Englishman can pay to another Englishman. This has its own delicious irony as he wasn’t really an Englishman.

There are 4 takeways I would suggest in my appraisal of Prince Philip that stand out for me. So let me go through each one.

1. Prince Philip’s Internationalism

It may seem odd for me to say that Prince Philip wasn’t English but he wasn’t an Englishman in any real sense. He was a wretch of the world - stateless, homeless, and penniless. That the Prince of Nowhere became the British Monarchy’s figurehead was more than fitting for a great age of migration and transition in which the Royal Family survived and even flourished. That he was able to transform himself into the quintessential Englishman is testimony not just to his personal determination but also to the powerful cultural pull of Britishness.

He was born on a kitchen table in Corfu in June 1921. A year later in 1922, Philip, as the the great-great-grandson of Queen Victoria and nephew of Constantine I of Greece, was forced to flee with his family after the abdication of Constantine. He grew up outside Paris speaking French; ethnically he was mostly German although he considered himself Danish, his family originating from the Schleswig border region. He was in effect, despite his demeanour of Royal Navy officer briskness, a citizen of nowhere in an age of movement. From a very young age he was a stateless person, nationally homeless. Indeed, Philip was an outsider in a way that even Meghan Markle could never be; at his wedding in 1947, his three surviving sisters and two brothers-in-law were not permitted to attend because they were literally Britain’s enemies, having fought for the Germans. A third brother-in-law had even been in the SS, working directly for Himmler, but had been killed in the conflict.

Even his religion was slightly exotic. He was Greek Orthodox until he converted to Anglicanism on marrying Elizabeth - what with his wife due to become supreme head of the Church and everything - but his ties with eastern Christianity remained. His great-aunts Princess Elisabeth of Hesse and by Rhine and Tsarina Alexandra are both martyrs of the Russian Orthodox Church, having been murdered by the Bolsheviks; Philip’s mother went on to become an Orthodox nun and a “Righteous Among the Nations” for saving a Jewish family during the Nazi occupation of Greece, spending much of her time in squalid poverty.

His parents were part of the largely German extended aristocracy who ruled almost all of Europe before it all came crashing down in 1918. When he died, aged 99, it marked a near-century in which all the great ideological struggles had been and gone; he had been born before the Soviet Union but outlived the Cold War, the War on Terror and - almost - Covid-19.

The world that Philip was born into was a far more violent and dangerous place than ours. In the year he was born, Irish rebels were still fighting Black and Tans; over the course of 12 months the Spanish and Japanese prime ministers were assassinated, there was a coup in Portugal and race riots in the United States. Germany was rocked by violence from the far-Left and far-Right, while in Italy a brutal new political movement, the Fascists, secured 30 seats in parliament, led by a trashy journalist called Benito Mussolini.

The worst violence, however, took place in Greece and Turkey. Following the defeat of the Ottoman Empire, what remained of Turkey was marked for permanent enfeeblement by the Allies. But much to everyone’s surprise the country’s force were roused by the brilliant officer Mustafa Kemal, who led the Turks to victory. Constantinople was lost to Christendom for good and thousands of years of Hellenic culture was put to the flames in Smyrna.

The Greek royal family, north German imports shipped in during the 19th century, bore much of the popular anger for this disaster. King Constantine fled to Italy, and his brother Andrew was arrested and only escaped execution through the intervention of his relative Britain’s George V. Andrew’s wife Alice, their four daughters and infant son Philip fled to France, completely impoverished but with the one possession that ensures that aristocrats are never truly poor: connections.

Philip had a traumatic childhood. He was forged by the turmoil of his first decade and then moulded by his schooling. His early years were spent wandering, as his place of birth ejected him, his family disintegrated and he moved from country to country, none of them ever his own. When he was just a year old, he and his family were scooped up by a British destroyer from his home on the Greek island of Corfu after his father had been condemned to death. They were deposited in Italy. One of Philip's first international journeys was spent crawling around on the floor of the train from an Italian port city, "the grubby child on the desolate train pulling out of the Brindisi night," as his older sister Sophia later described it.

In Paris, he lived in a house borrowed from a relative; but it was not destined to become a home. In just one year, while he was at boarding school in Britain, the mental health of his mother, Princess Alice, deteriorated and she went into an asylum; his father, Prince Andrew, went off to Monte Carlo to live with his mistress. "I don't think anybody thinks I had a father," he once said. Andrew would die during the war. Philip went to Monte Carlo to pick up his father's possessions after the Germans had been driven from France; there was almost nothing left, just a couple of clothes brushes and some cuff-links.

Philip’s four sisters were all much older, and were soon all married to German aristocrats (the youngest would soon die in an aeroplane crash, along with her husband and children). His sisters became ever more embroiled in the German regime. In Scotland going to Gordonstoun boarding school, Philip went the opposite direction, becoming ever more British. Following the death of his sister Cecilie in a plane crash in 1937, the gulf widened. As the clouds of conflict gathered, the family simply disintegrated. With a flash of the flinty stoicism that many would later interpret, with no little justification, as self-reliance to the point of dispassion, the prince explained: “It’s simply what happened. The family broke up… I just had to get on with it. You do. One does.”

In the space of 10 years he had gone from a prince of Greece to a wandering, homeless, and virtually penniless boy with no-one to care for him. He got through it by making a joke of everything, and by being practical.

By the time he went to Gordonstoun, a private boarding school on the north coast of Scotland, Philip was tough, independent and able to fend for himself; he'd had to be. Gordonstoun would channel those traits into the school's distinct philosophy of community service, teamwork, responsibility and respect for the individual. And it sparked one of the great passions of Philip's life - his love of the sea. It was Gordonstoun that nurtured that love through the maturation of his character.

Philip adored the school as much as his son Charles would despise it. Not just because the stress it put on physical as well as mental excellence - he was a great sportsman. But because of its ethos, laid down by its founder Kurt Hahn, a Jewish exile from Nazi Germany.

Hahn first met Philip as a boy in Nazi Germany. Through a connection via one of his sister’s husbands, Philip, the poor, lonely boy was first sent off to a new school - in Nazi Germany. Which was as fun as can be imagined. Schloss Salem had been co-founded by stern educator called Kurt Hahn, a tough, discipline-obsessed conservative nationalist who saw civilisation in inexorable decline. But by this stage Hahn, persecuted for being Jewish in Nazi Germany, had fled to Britain, and Philip did not spend long at the school either, where pressure from the authorities was already making things difficult for the teachers. Philip laughed at the Nazis at first, because their salute was the same gesture the boys at his previous school had to make when they wanted to go to the toilet, but within a year he was back in England, a refugee once again.

Philip happily attended Hahn’s new school, Gordonstoun, which the strict disciplinarian had set up in the Scottish Highlands. Inspired by Ancient Sparta, the boys (and then later girls) had to run around barefoot and endure cold showers, even in winter, the whole aim of which was to drive away the inevitable civilisational decay Hahn saw all around him. To 21st century ears it sounds like hell on earth, yet Philip enjoyed it, illustrating just what a totally alien world he came from.

That ethos became a significant, perhaps the significant, part of the way that Philip believed life should be lived. It shines through the speeches he gave later in his life. "The essence of freedom," he would say in Ghana in 1958, "is discipline and self-control." The comforts of the post-war era, he told the British Schools Exploring Society a year earlier, may be important "but it is much more important that the human spirit should not be stifled by easy living". And two years before that, he spoke to the boys of Ipswich School of the moral as well as material imperatives of life, with the "importance of the individual" as the "guiding principle of our society".

It was at Gordonstoun one of the great contradictions of Philip's fascinating life was born. The importance of the individual was what in Kurt Hahn's eyes differentiated Britain and liberal democracies from the kind of totalitarian dictatorship that he had fled. Philip put that centrality of the individual, and individual agency - the ability we have as humans to make our own moral and ethical decisions - at the heart of his philosophy.

At Dartmouth Naval College in 1939, the two great passions of his life would collide. He had learned to sail at Gordonstoun; he would learn to lead at Dartmouth. And his driving desire to achieve, and to win, would shine through. Despite entering the college far later than most other cadets, he would graduate top of his class in 1940. In further training at Portsmouth, he gained the top grade in four out of five sections of the exam. He became one of the youngest first lieutenants in the Royal Navy.

The navy ran deep in his family. His maternal grandfather had been the First Sea Lord, the commander of the Royal Navy; his uncle, "Dickie" Mountbatten, had command of a destroyer while Philip was in training. In war, he showed not only bravery but guile. It was his natural milieu. "Prince Philip", wrote Gordonstoun headmaster Kurt Hahn admiringly, "will make his mark in any profession where he will have to prove himself in a trial of strength".

2. Prince Philip and the modernisation of the monarchy

In his own words, the process of defining what it meant to be a royal consort was one of “trial and error.” Speaking with BBC One’s Fiona Bruce in 2011, Philip explained, “There was no precedent. If I asked somebody, 'What do you expect me to do?' they all looked blank. They had no bloody idea, nobody had much idea.” So he forged for himself a role as a moderniser of the monarchy.

He could not have had much idea back in 1939. Back then in Dartmouth in 1939, as war became ever more certain, the navy was his destiny. He had fallen in love with the sea itself. "It is an extraordinary master or mistress," he would say later, "it has such extraordinary moods." But a rival to the sea would come.

When King George VI toured Dartmouth Naval College, accompanied by Philip's uncle, he brought with him his daughter, Princess Elizabeth. Philip was asked to look after her. He showed off to her, vaulting the nets of the tennis court in the grounds of the college. He was confident, outgoing, strikingly handsome, of royal blood if without a throne. She was beautiful, a little sheltered, a little serious, and very smitten by Philip.

Did he know then that this was a collision of two great passions? That he could not have the sea and the beautiful young woman? For a time after their wedding in 1948, he did have both. As young newlyweds in Malta, he had what he so prized - command of a ship - and they had two idyllic years together. But the illness and then early death of King George VI brought it all to an end.

He knew what it meant, the moment he was told. Up in a lodge in Kenya, touring Africa, with Princess Elizabeth in place of the King, Philip was told first of the monarch's death in February 1952. He looked, said his equerry Mike Parker, "as if a ton of bricks had fallen on him". For some time he sat, slumped in a chair, a newspaper covering his head and chest. His princess had become the Queen. His world had changed irrevocably.

While the late Princess Diana was later to famously claim that there were “three people” in her marriage - herself, Prince Charles and Camilla - there were at least 55 million in Philip and Elizabeth’s. As Elizabeth dedicated her life to her people at Westminster Abbey at the Coronation on June 2, 1953, it sparked something of an existential crisis in Philip. Many people even after his death have never really understood this pivotal moment in Philip’s life. All his dreams of being a naval officer and a life at sea as well as being the primary provider and partner in his marriage were now sacrificed on the altar of duty and love.

With his career was now over, and he was now destined to become the spare part. Philip, very reasonably, asked that his future children and indeed his family be known by his name, Mountbatten. In effect he was asking to change the royal family’s name from the House of Windsor to the House of Mountbatten. But when Prime Minister Winston Churchill got wind of it as well as the more politically agile courtiers behind the Queen, a prolonged battle of wits ensued, and it was one Philip ultimately lost. It was only in 1957 that he accepted the title of “Prince.”

Even though he had almost lost everything dear to him and his role now undefined, he didn’t throw himself a pity party. He just got on with it. Philip tried to forge his own distinct role as second fiddle to the woman who had come to represent Great Britain. He designated himself the First Officer of the Good Ship Windsor. He set about dusting off some of the cobwebs off the throne and letting some daylight unto the workings of the monarchy by advocating reasonable amount of modernisation of the monarchy.

He had ideas about modernising the royal family that might be called “improving optics” today. But in his heart of hearts he didn’t want the monarchy to become a stuffy museum piece. He envisaged a less stuffy and more popular monarchy, relevant to the lives of ordinary people. Progress was always going to be incremental as he had sturdy opposition from the old guard who wanted to keep everything as it was, but nevertheless his stubborn energy resulted in significant changes.

When a commission chaired by Prince Philip proposed broadcasting the 1953 investiture ceremony that formally named Elizabeth II as queen on live television, Prime Minister Winston Churchill reacted with outright horror, declaring, “It would be unfitting that the whole ceremony should be presented as if it were a theatrical performance.” Though the queen had initially voiced similar concerns, she eventually came around to the idea, allowing the broadcast of all but one segment of the coronation. Ultimately, according to the BBC, more than 20 million people tuned in to the televised ceremony - a credit to the foresight of Philip.

Elizabeth’s coronation marked a watershed moment for a monarchy that has, historically, been very hands off, old-fashioned and slightly invisible. Over the following years, the royals continued to embrace television as a way of connecting with the British people: In 1957, the queen delivered her annual Christmas address during a live broadcast. Again, this was Philip’s doing when he cajoled the Queen to televise her message live. He even helped her in how to use the teleprompter to get over her nerves and be herself on screen.

Four years later, in 1961, Philip became the first family member to sit for a television interview. It is hard for us to imagine now but back then it was huge. For many it was a significant step in modernising the monarchy.

Though not everything went to plan. Toward the end of the decade, the Windsors even invited cameras into their home. A 1969 BBC fly-on-the-wall documentary, instigated by Philip to show life behind the scenes, turned into an unmitigated disaster: “The Windsors” revealed the royals to be a fairly normal, if very rich, British upper-class family who liked barbecues, ice cream, watching television and bickering. The mystery of royalty took a hit below the waterline from their own torpedo, a self-inflicted wound from which they took a long time to recover. Shown once, the documentary was never aired again. But it had an irreversible effect, and not just by revealing the royals to be ordinary. By allowing the cameras in, Philip opened the lid to the prying eyes of the paparazzi who could legitimately argue that since the Royals themselves had sanctioned exposure, anything went. From then on, minor members of the House of Windsor were picked off by the press, like helpless tethered animals on a hunting safari.

Prince Philip also took steps to reorganise and renovate the royal estates in Sandringham and Balmoral such as intercoms, modern dish washers, generally sought to make the royal household and the monarchy less stuffy, not to have so much formality everywhere.

Philip helped modernised the monarchy in other ways to acknowledge that the monarchy could be responsive to changes in society. It was Prince Philip - much to the chagrin of the haughty Princess Margaret and other stuffy old courtiers - who persuaded the Queen to host informal lunches and garden parties designed to engage a broader swath of the British public. Conversely, Prince Philip heartily encouraged the Queen (she was all for it apparently but was still finding her feet as a new monarch) to end the traditional practice of presenting debutantes from aristocratic backgrounds at court in 1952. For Philip and others it felt antiquated and out of touch with society. I know in speaking to my grandmother and others in her generation the decision was received with disbelief at how this foreign penniless upstart could come and stomp on the dreams of mothers left to clutch their pearls at the prospect there would be no shop window for their daughter to attract a suitable gentleman for marriage. One of my great aunts was over the moon happy that she never would have to go through what she saw as a very silly ceremony because she preferred her muddy wellies to high heels.

A former senior member of the royal household, who spent several years working as one of Prince Philip’s aides, and an old family friend, once told us around a family dinner table that the Duke of Edinburgh was undoubtedly given a sense of permanence by his marriage into the Royal Family that was missing from earlier years. But the royal aide would hastily add that Prince Philip, of course, would never see it that way.

Prince Philip’s attitude was to never brood on things or seek excuses. And he did indeed get on with the job in his own way - there should be no doubt that when it came to building and strengthening the Royal Family it was a partnership of equals with the Queen. Indeed contrary to Netflix’s hugely popular series ‘The Crown’ and its depiction of the royal marriage with Philip’s resentment at playing second fiddle, the prince recognised that his “first duty was to serve the Queen in the best way I could,” as he told ITV in 2011. Though this role was somewhat ill-suited to his dynamic, driven, and outspoken temperament, Philip performed it with utter devotion.

3. Prince Philip’s legacy

One could argue rightly that modernising the monarchy was his lasting legacy achievement. But he also tried to modernise a spent and exhausted Britain as it emerged from a ruinous war. When peace came, and with it eventual economic recovery, Philip would throw himself into the construction of a better Britain, urging the country to adopt scientific methods, embracing the ideas of industrial design, planning, education and training. A decade before Harold Wilson talked of the "white heat of the technological revolution", Philip was urging modernity on the nation in speeches and interviews. He was on top of his reading of the latest scientific breakthroughs and well read in break out innovations.

This interest in modernisation was only matched by his love for nature. As the country and the world became richer and consumed ever more, Philip warned of the impact on the environment, well before it was even vaguely fashionable. As president of the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) in the UK for more than 20 years from 1961, he was one of the first high-profile advocates of the cause of conservation and biological diversity at a time when it was considered the preserve of an eccentric few.

For a generation of school children in Britain and the Commonwealth though, his most lasting legacy and achievement will be the Duke of Edinburgh Awards (DofE). He set up the Duke of Edinburgh award, a scheme aimed at getting young people out into nature in search of adventure or be of service to their communities. It was a scheme that could match the legacy of Baden Powell’s scouts movement.

When Prince Philip first outlined his idea of a scheme to harness the values of his education at Gordonstoun by bringing character-building outdoor pursuits to the many rather than the fee-paying few, he received short shrift from the government of the day. The then minister of education, Sir David Eccles responded to the Duke’s proposal by saying: “I hear you’re trying to invent something like the Hitler Youth.” Undeterred he pushed on until it came to fruition.

I’m so glad that he did. I remember how proud I was for getting my DofE Awards while I was at boarding school. With the support of great mentors I managed to achieve my goals: collecting second-hand English books for a literacy programme for orphaned street children in Delhi, India with a close Indian school friend and her family; and completing a 350 mile hike following St. Olav’s Pilgrimmage Trail from Selånger, on the east coast of Sweden, and ending at Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim, on the west coast of Norway.

It continues to be an enduring legacy. Since its launch in 1956, the Duke of Edinburgh awards have been bestowed upon some 2.5 million youngsters in Britain and some eight million worldwide. For a man who once referred to himself as a “Greek princeling of no consequence”, his pioneering tutelage of these two organisations (alongside some 778 other organisations of which he was either president or a patron) would be sufficient legacy for most.

4. Prince Philip’s character

It may surprise some but what I liked most about Prince Philip was the very thing that helped him achieve so much and leave a lasting legacy: his character.

It is unhelpful to the caricature of Prince Philip as an unwavering but pugnacious consort whose chief talent was a dizzying facility in off-colour one-liners that he was widely read and probably the cleverest member of his family.

His private library at Windsor consists of 11,000 tomes, among them 200 volumes of poetry. He was a fan of Jung, TS Eliot, Shakespeare and the cookery writer Elizabeth David. As well as a lifelong fascination with science, technology and sport, he spoke fairly fluent French, painted and wrote a well received book on birds. It’s maddening to think how many underestimated his genuine intellect and how cultured he was behind the crusty exterior.

He didn’t have an entourage to fawn around him. He was the first to own a computer at Buckingham Palace. He answered his own phone and wrote and responded to his own correspondence. By force of character he fought the old guard courtiers at every turn to modernise the monarchy against their stubborn resistance.

Prince Philip was never given to self-analysis or reflection on the past. Various television interviewers tried without success to coerce him in to commenting on his legacy.But once when his guard was down he asked on the occasion of his 90th birthday what he was more proud of, he replied with characteristic bluntness: “I couldn’t care less. Who cares what I think about it, I mean it’s ridiculous.”

All of which neatly raises the profound aversion to fuss and the proclivity for tetchiness often expressed in withering put-downs that, for better or worse, will be the reflex memory for many of the Duke of Edinburgh. If character is a two edged sword so what of his gaffes?

There is no doubt his cult status partly owed to his so-called legendary gaffes, of which there are enough to fill a book (indeed there is a book). But he was no racist. None of the Commonwealth people or foreign heads of state ever said this about him. Only leftist republicans with too much Twitter time on their hands screamed such a ridiculous accusation. They’re just overly sensitive snowflakes and being devoid of any humour they’re easily triggered.

There was the time that Philip accepted a gift from a local in Kenya, telling her she was a kind woman, and then adding: “You are a woman, aren’t you?” Or the occasion he remarked “You managed not to get eaten, then?” to a student trekking in Papua New Guinea. Then there was his World Wildlife Fund speech in 1986, when he said: “If it has got four legs and it is not a chair, if it has got two wings and it flies but is not an aeroplane, and if it swims and it is not a submarine, the Cantonese will eat it.” Well, he wasn’t wrong.

Philip quickly developed a reputation for what he once defined, to the General Dental Council, as “dentopedology – the science of opening your mouth and putting your foot in it”. Clearly he could laugh at himself as he often did as an ice breaker to put others at ease.

His remarking to the president of Nigeria, who was wearing national dress, “You look like you’re ready for bed”, or advising British students in China not to stay too long or they would end up with “slitty eyes”, is probably best written off as ill-judged humour. Telling a photographer to “just take the fucking picture” or declaring “this thing open, whatever it is”, were expressions of exasperation or weariness with which anyone might sympathise.

Above all, he was also capable of genuine if earthy wit, saying of his horse-loving daughter Princess Anne: “If it doesn’t fart or eat hay she isn’t interested.” Many people might have thought it but few dared say it. If Prince Philip’s famous gaffes provoked as much amusement as anger, it was precisely because they seem to give voice to the bewilderment and pent-up frustrations with which many people viewed the ever-changing modern world.

A former royal protection officer recounts how while on night duty guarding a visiting Queen and consort, he engaged in conversation with colleagues on a passing patrol. It was 2am and the officer had understood the royal couple to be staying elsewhere in the building until a window above his head was abruptly slammed open and an irate Prince Philip stuck his head out of the window to shout: “Would you fuck off!” Without another word, he then shut the window.

The Duke at least recognised from an early age that he was possessed of an abruptness that could all too easily cross the line from the refreshingly salty to crass effrontery.

One of his most perceptive biographers, Philip Eade, recounted how at the age of 21 the prince wrote a letter to a relation whose son had recently been killed in combat. He wrote: “I know you will never think much of me. I am rude and unmannerly and I say things out of turn which I realise afterwards must have hurt someone. Then I am filled with remorse and I try to put matters right.”

In the case of the royal protection officer, the Duke turned up in the room used by the police officers when off duty and said: “Terribly sorry about last night, wasn’t quite feeling myself.”

Aides have also ventured to explain away some of their employer’s more outlandish remarks - from asking Cayman islanders “You are descended from pirates aren’t you?” to enquiring of a female fashion writer if she was wearing mink knickers - as the price of his instinctive desire to prick the pomposity of his presence with a quip to put others at ease.

Indeed many people forget that his ‘gaffes’ were more typical of the clubbish humour of the British officer class – which of course would be less appreciated, sometimes even offensive, to other ears. It’s why he could relate so well to veterans who enjoyed his bonhomie company immensely.

But behind the irascibility, some have argued there also lay a darker nature, unpleasantly distilled in his flinty attitude to his eldest son. One anecdote tells of how, in the aftermath of the murder of the Duke’s uncle and surrogate father, Lord Mountbatten, Philip lectured his son, who was also extremely fond of his “honorary grandfather”, that he was not to succumb to self-pity. Charles left the room in tears and when his father was asked why he had spoken to his son with so little compassion, the Duke replied: “Because if there’s any crying to be done I want it to happen within this house, in front of his family, not in public. He must be toughened up, right now.”

But here I would say that Prince Philip’s intentions were almost always sincere and in no way cruel. He has always tried to protect his family - even from their own worst selves or from those outside the family ‘firm’ who may not have their best interest at heart.

In 1937, a 16-year-old Prince Philip had walked behind his elder sister Cecile’s coffin after she was killed in a plane crash while heavily pregnant. The remains of newly-born infant found in the wreckage suggested the aircraft had perished as the pilot sought to make an emergency landing in fog as the mother entered childbirth. It was an excruciating taste of tragedy which would one day manifest itself in a very princely form of kindness that was deep down that defined Philip’s character.

When about 60 years later Prime Minister Tony Blair’s spin doctors in Downing Street tried to strong arm the Queen and the royal household over the the arrangements for the late Prince Diana’s funeral, it was Philip who stepped in front to protect his family. The Prime Minister and his media savvy spin doctors wanted the two young princes, William and Harry, to walk behind the coffin.

The infamous exchange was on the phone during a conference call between London and Balmoral, and the emotional Philip was reportedly backed by the Queen. The call was witnessed by Anji Hunter, who worked for Mr Blair. She said how surprised she was to hear Prince Philip’s emotion. ‘It’s about the boys,” he cried, “They’ve lost their mother”. Hunter thought to herself, “My God, there’s a bit of suffering going on up there”.’

Sky TV political commentator Adam Boulton (Anji Hunter’s husband) would write in his book Tony’s Ten Years: ‘The Queen relished the moment when Philip bellowed over the speakerphone from Balmoral, “Fuck off. We are talking about two boys who have just lost their mother”. Boulton goes on to say that Philip: ‘…was trying to remind everyone that human feelings were involved. No 10 were trying to help the Royals present things in the best way, but may have seemed insensitive.’

In the end the politicians almost didn’t get their way. Prince Philip stepped in to counsel his grandson, Prince William, after he had expressed a reluctance to follow his mother’s coffin after her death in Paris. Philip told the grieving child: “If you don’t walk, I think you’ll regret it later. If I walk, will you walk with me?”

It’s no wonder he was sought as a counsellor by other senior royals and especially close to his grandchildren, for whom he was a firm favourite. His relationship with Harry was said to have become strained, however, following the younger Prince’s decision to reject his royal inheritance for a life away from the public eye in America with his new American wife, Meghan Markle. For Prince Philip I am quite sure it went against all the elder Prince had lived his life by - self-sacrifice for the greater cause of royalty.

This is the key to Philip’s character and in understanding the man. The ingrained habits of a lifetime of duty and service in one form or another were never far away.

In conclusion then....

After more time passes I am sure historians will make a richer reassessment of Prince Philip’s life and legacy. Because Prince Philip was an extraordinary man who lived an extraordinary life; a life intimately connected with the sweeping changes of our turbulent 20th Century, a life of fascinating contrast and contradiction, of service and some degree of solitude. A complex, clever, eternally restless man that not even the suffocating protocols of royalty and tradition could bind him.

Although he fully accepted the limitations of public royal service, he did not see this as any reason for passive self-abnegation, but actively, if ironically, identified with his potentially undignified role. It is this bold and humorous embrace of fated restriction which many now find irksome: one is no longer supposed to mix public performance with private self-expression in quite this manner.

Yet such a mix is authentically Socratic: the proof that the doing of one’s duty can also be the way of self-fulfilment. The Duke’s sacrifice of career to romance and ceremonial office is all the more impressive for his not hiding some annoyance. The combination of his restless temperament and his deeply felt devotion to duty found fruitful expression; for instance, in the work of Saint George’s House Windsor - a centre and retreat that he created with Revd. Robin Woods - in exploring religious faith, philosophy, and contemporary issues.

Above all he developed a way to be male that was both traditional and modern. He served one woman with chivalric devotion as his main task in life while fulfilling his public engagements in a bold and active spirit. He eventually embraced the opportunity to read and contemplate more. And yet, he remained loyal to the imperatives of his mentor Kurt Hahn in seeking to combine imagination with action and religious devotion with practical involvement.

Prince Philip took more pride in the roles he had accidentally inherited than in the personal gifts which he was never able fully to develop. He put companionship before self-realisation and acceptance of a sacred symbolic destiny before the mere influencing of events. In all these respects he implicitly rebuked our prevailing meritocracy which over-values officially accredited attainment, and our prevailing narcissism which valorises the assertion of discrete identities.

Prince Philip was Britain’s longest-serving consort. He was steadfast, duty driven, and a necessary adjunct to the continuity and stability of the Queen and the monarchy. Of all the institutions that have lost the faith of the British public in this period - the Church, Parliament, the media, the police - the Monarchy itself has surprisingly done better than most at surviving, curiously well-adapted to a period of societal change and moral anarchy. The House of Hanover and later Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (changed to Windsor), since their arrival in this country in 1714, have been noted above all for their ability to adapt. And just as they survived the Victorian age by transforming themselves into the bourgeoise, domestic ideal, so they have survived the new Elizabethan era (Harry-Meghan saga is just a passing blip like the Edward-Wallis Simpson saga of the 1930s).

There was once a time when the Royal’s German blood was a punchline for crude and xenophobic satirists. Now it is the royals who are deeply British while the country itself is increasingly cosmopolitan and globalised. British society has seen a greater demographic change than the preceding four or five thousand years combined, the second Elizabethan age has been characterised more than anything by a transformational movement of people. Prince Philip, the Greek-born, Danish-German persecuted and destitute wanderer who came to become one of the Greatest Britons of the past century, perhaps epitomised that era better than anyone else. And he got through it by making a joke of everything, and by being practical.

I hope I don’t exaggerate when I say that in our troubled times over identity, and our place and purpose in the world, we need to heed his selfless example more than ever.

As Heraclitus wisely said, Ήθος ανθρώπω δαίμων (Character is destiny.)

RIP Prince Philip. You were my prince. God damn you, I miss you already.

Thanks for your question.

#question #ask #prince philip #duke of edinburgh #queen elizabeth II #the queen of spades #monarchy #britain #british #royalty #politics #history #culture #europe #crown #icon #great briton #society

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alienheartattack · 3 years

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More Rivamika zodiac/tarot fun!

My first zodiac/tarot post is here!

One of the tarot books in my collection has a little chart that pairs up astrological signs with the court cards (page/princess, prince, queen, and king of each suit), so I figured I'd look up what the corresponding court cards for Capricorn and Aquarius are.

Guys, it's wild.

Capricorn (Levi) corresponds to the Queen of Pentacles - "A dark woman with black eyes, intelligent and thoughtful, lavish with her wealth." (From A Complete Guide to the Tarot by Eden Gray.)

Aquarius (Mikasa) corresponds to the King of Swords - "A dark man with military or civilian authority." (Same source. The full entry for the King of Swords specifies that he is a mature man!)

Excerpts from A Complete Guide to the Tarot and my thoughts below:

The Queen of Pentacles (associated with Capricorn, Levi's sign)

Here is the Queen of Fertility seated on the throne with goat head arms, ripe fruit, and a Cupid at the back. She is surrounded by green fields, and the rabbit of fertility sits at her side nearby. A bower of red roses above her signifies desire. She sits quietly contemplating the pentacle she holds in her lap.

Choose this card to represent a woman with black hair and eyes.

Divinatory meaning: This is a woman who is the Earth Mother, generous with her gifts. She is rich but charitable, a truly noble soul. A creator on the physical plane.

Other meetings are opulence; security. Trust of those around one. At times melancholy or moody. Good use of practical talents.

Reversed: mistrust, suspicion. Duties neglected. Dependence on others. Changeable. Fearful of failure.

The corresponding card to Levi's sign is a woman with dark hair and eyes who inspires feelings of trust and security, who is a maternal figure with symbolism relating to the earth, who is sad at times (perhaps even gloomy), and who may have issues with dependence on others. (I'm pretty sure there's official art out there with bunny Mikasa, maybe relating to the chibi cartoons or SNK Junior High, but I can't find it.) I also see this as an idealized version of Mikasa, who has been able to achieve her dream of a loving family of her own.

One of my other books describes the Queen of Pentacles as someone who is gracious, wise, quiet, kind, unassuming, practical, nurturing, and generous. She has a big heart and is liberal with her time, emotions, and resources.

Although we didn't get to see too much of Mikasa's friendships outside EMA in the manga, it's clear that she is beloved by her comrades and that she has formed deep friendships with them. Although Mikasa frequently hides her emotions and is forced to act swiftly and brutally, she is also very sensitive and loving and wishes for a quiet domestic life.

The books might as well have said, "The corresponding card for Levi's sign is the Mikasa Ackerman card."

The King of Swords (associated with Aquarius, Mikasa's sign)

A stern-looking king is seated on the throne of judgment. Behind him as a pillar (or tapestry) with a butterfly design, signifying the soul. (Swords are the symbol of the soul.) Behind him also we have the storm clouds and cypress trees that have appeared in each of the court cards of the swords. He represents law and order, the power of life and death.

Choose this card for a mature man with dark hair and eyes.

Divinatory meaning: this is a man who may be a lawyer, a judge, a general, or a governor. He gives wise counsel, is firm in enmity as well as in friendship. A man of many ideas, thoughts, and designs.

This card may also mean power, strength, authority, or military intelligence. A lawsuit is in the offing.

Reversed: distrustful, suspicious. Also harsh and malicious. Plotting, barbarity, power for disruption, are revealed.

A lawyer, judge, general, or governor, you say? Maybe... a Captain?

I mean, if this isn't Levi, who is? Stern-looking, symbolic trees, a dark-haired mature man who possesses authority, power, strength, and military intelligence? He can also be harsh to people, and his actions earlier in Clash of the Titans and Uprising arcs (torturing someone, being involved with the coup) certainly qualify as barbarity and plotting.

One of my other books says "The King possesses integrity, stature, and the power to make and keep justice." Brutal. 💀💀💀

#rivamika #levimika #tarot posts

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thestraggletag · 3 years

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The Game, a Rumbelle Chess AU

Summary: Inspired by The Queen’s Gambit. When Arran Gold first lost a chess game against Belle French, he thought that nothing would feel better than wining against her. But the more he lost, the less he minded, and more eager he was for their next game.

AN: Look, it’s a bad summary but a good fic, I promise. Also both games described in the fic are real games that can be played. Here, for example, is their last game.

Rating: Explicit.

He couldn’t recall exactly when the tradition had begun. Long ago, when he had only owned about half the town and had yet to adopt his more refined image. A tenant, a once-wealthy businessman who had once had “old money” and had wasted it away in reckless business ventures, had challenged him to a game of chess in lieu of the rent. He had likely thought that Mr Gold, a lowborn Scotsman with a thick brogue and brusque manners, was unlikely to even know the rules of chess. He had trounced the fool in less than twenty minutes, and only because he had toyed with him first.

Chess, after all, was something he knew well. His aunties had taught him as a child, but it hadn’t been till university that he had gotten to love the game, after finding out there was a veritable underground circuit of contests and tournaments that could pay his way through law school. He had developed an irreverent yet aggressive style, completely unpolished but completely brutal. In spite of his quickly-gained reputation he had never lacked opponents. There were always posh idiots who were sure their sophisticated gameplay could beat his street smarts. They were never correct. He had developed a nickname, over the years, given to him in honour of his savage style of play and his ruthless approach to the game: Beast. He considered quite a compliment.

He had thought about going pro, entering formal tournaments and acquiring a ranking, but the life of a chess player, and even that of a grandmaster, wasn’t particularly profitable compared to practicing law or going into business and he aimed to accumulate wealth and power as much of it and as fast as possible. He had kept up with his secret hobby, though, sometimes catching televised tournaments or reading about them later, enjoying the process of dissecting a game, sometimes thinking of how he would have won against a particular opponent. But it had never occurred to him to play against anyone in Storybrooke till the challenge came. It had attracted lots of attention at the time and people had turned up at the library that Sunday to watch them play.

Though he won, other people sought to challenge him, to the point where he had decided to establish an event of sorts. A chess day, once a year, in which anyone could challenge him. If they won he would forgive their rent for an entire year. There was no penalty for losing, at least none outright, but the shame of defeat meant most people challenged him only once. Besides it kept everyone from complaining during rent day for the rest of the year. And, he had to admit, he enjoyed it. Enjoyed playing cat and mouse with people, exerting power over them, watching as people’s confidence shrunk down and melted away.

He always looked forward to chess day, though that year perhaps less so. Storybrooke had acquired a new librarian around eight months before and, in spite of all of his efforts, she did not think ill of him. Belle French was, apparently, immune to the gossip of the town about him and his own brusque manner and dark humour. She even seemed to enjoy the later, which made him uneasy and… nervous. A strange, unsettling form of nervous.

It didn’t help that she was insultingly kind, surprisingly sarcastic and delightfully witty. The sort of person that could spar with words and make it look effortless. And smart enough to know that though he pretended to hate it, he loved it. She was also, regrettably, gorgeous. Smaller than him, with reddish brown hair and electric-blue eyes. An accent that wrapped around his name like a lover and an actual sense of fashion, which was almost unheard of in Storybrooke and the only thing most people seemed to hold against her, the town matrons disapproving of her short skirts and high heels. There was also a disarming quirkiness about her, a sense that she was somewhat otherworldly, like she belonged half to the mortal plain and half to the realm of stories and fantasies. He had seen her more than once walk around town lost in a book, dreamy-eyed and clearly miles away from the little town. He was always fascinated by how dreamlike she looked, how otherworldly.

Though he had tried to make her hate him for the first few months of their acquaintance, he had grown used to failing, and admitted to himself that it felt nice to have someone who would smile genuinely at the sight of him, who would treat him with kindness, who would be eager for his company and did not consider talking to him to be a chore. So he wasn’t looking forward to Miss French being exposed to angry tenants who called him names when he beat them, and wasn't really looking forward to her seeing him dash people’s hopes ruthlessly.

It couldn’t be helped, though. And perhaps it was for the best, to have her see what everyone else saw. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. So he washed and shaved carefully that day and had a hearty breakfast- chess day tended to take up all of his morning and most of the afternoon, and he did not like having to take a break to eat, knowing that his stamina added to the image of him as some larger-than-life monster. He dressed with care, picking his favourite purple striped shirt and matching paisley tie. He added his sleeve garters and square cufflinks, though he was not expecting those to be visible at any point during the day. It still felt nice, empowering, to be impeccably dressed.

By the time he reached the library there was already a crowd there, as well as the customary barren table, awaiting his chess set. He always played with the same set, an ebony and boxwood one from House of Staunton. It had the classical Staunton look and the hand carved pieces had a nice heft to them. He had bought it years ago, one of his first purchases after beginning to make serious money, costing him well over a thousand pounds back in the day. Not by any means among the more costly of chess sets, but the price spoke of its fine quality.

He set the board down and opened the box with his pieces, arranging the whites on the side of the board furthest from him and setting the blacks on his side, careful to properly align the knights and position the pawns at the centre of their squares. He took out his clock next, which he had cleaned and serviced the day before, and sat down on his customary, throne-like bergère, the one that usually was the focal point of the Ancient History’s reading nook. In contrast the chair opposite him was one of the plain, serviceable ones that populated the study room at the library. He hoped, for his own amusement, that whoever had set up the place had picked the wobbly one.

It wasn’t long after he settled that a crowd formed around him, but it took almost half an hour for the first challenger to present themselves. It was, surprisingly enough, Dr Whale. The good doctor was one of the few people in town that made a nice, tidy six-figure income, mostly from his private practice. Whale, whoever, did like to live above his means, and it seemed it had finally caught up with him. Though he did not rent a house from him, he did rent his private office from him. It was large and well-located, and likely to detract quite a bit from his overall profit.

The doctor looked cocky, in spite of Mr Gold’s infamous reputation around town as a chess player. And he didn’t even have to speculate as to why. Victor Whale was the prototypical Ivy-league alumnus, likely played chess for Dartmouth, his undergraduate alma mater, or Brown, where he had acquired his MD. He may perhaps once been ranked, if his smug grin was any indication. He took pains to hide his own savage smile, not willing to give his prey any hint of the carnage to come.

He drew it out, both for the audience and for the sheer pleasure of watching all of the doctor’s confidence and arrogance melt away, leaving an increasingly obfuscated and delightfully sweaty mess behind. And once he knew that he had pushed him as far as he could go he had gone in for the jugular, watching in delight as his opponent toppled his king. The crow murmured, unhappy. When he dragged a game out sometimes people got the idea that he might be struggling, that his challenger might actually have a chance. He enjoyed dashing that hope every single time.

As he rearranged the pieces back to their starting positions he caught a glimpse of a tweed flare skirt swishing about a familiar set of tight-clad legs. Miss French, as always, was impeccably dressed, the black sheer floral blouse a bit daring, perhaps, but carefully hidden by the demure cardigan she had over it. Her hair was in a French braid, the end tied together with a lovely silk ribbon in the same muted plum colour as her cardigan. He wondered at her clothes, which he recognised as high quality, likely expensive as hell. It cemented his idea that she came from money, and likely worked out of a genuine passion for books rather than necessity. Just as he studied her earrings-lovely gold studs in the shape of blooming roses, she turned her head, catching his eyes. He saw interest and curiosity, but no fear or disgust. Perhaps Whale was too unlikeable a victim to elicit sympathy from her.

Frederick Knight was next, playing not for a reprieve from his own rent- his teacher’s salary might not be impressive, but his wife pulled some major money working from home for a law firm in Boston- but for the pet shelter he volunteered out. Briefly he wondered how it all worked, how he could volunteer at the shelter run by his wife’s ex-husband, who had cheated on her with one of Knight’s own colleagues, causing the divorce that would eventually leave her free and available for them to meet and fall in love. Gold thought it was all rather unseemly.

The lad was smart, he would give him that. All that strategizing for baseball clearly carried on to chess, to a certain extent. Mr Knight clearly saw at least a few moves ahead, even if he did not have the skill to plan and anticipate more than that. In the end, because he was a decent enough bloke, Gold put him out of his misery quickly. It felt bad to drag it out unnecessarily. The man was gracious about defeat as well, something that was rare, offering his hand for a quick, firm shake, before leaving the board, no doubt to sink into the welcoming arms of Ms Midas. Though married, she had chosen to keep her last name, after the hassle it had been to change it back after the divorce. And yet there was no doubt that she loved her new husband more than she tolerated her ex, which even the strictest traditionalist in Storybrooke had to acknowledge.

More people challenged him, as was the norm. Out of all of them only Mr Prentice put much of a fight. Gold could tell he was a man of some talent, and an old hand at the game, but too by-the-book to beat him. He implemented moves and strategies well, but did not have a creative bone in his body. A pity, really. He was the only one after Mr Knight to be mature in defeat, sadly. By the time four o’clock rolled around three people had upended the board after they had lost and at least one had made a move as if to punch him in the face.

He reset the board with little expectation of playing again. It was late, the crowd was thinning, and people’s enthusiasm had died down considerably. He excused himself to go to the restroom, enjoying the brief walk after hours of sitting down. When he went back to the board, however, he froze up. Sitting on the challenger’s chair was the librarian herself, carefully unbinding her hair as she half-listened to something Miss Lucas was telling her.

He hadn’t foreseen this, the notion that the librarian might wish to challenge him. He had become resigned to having her smiles dimmed when they were directed at him, but nothing more. Certainly not this.

“Miss French, I didn’t know you played.”

His voice was, by some miracle, even. The librarian smiled, shaking her hair out and wrapping the now unused ribbon around her fingers.

“I used to, some time ago. Still do, sometimes. In my head.”

She said that last part quietly, only for his ears.

“Well, what are the stakes going to be? Rent forgiven from the library for a year?”

“Oh, not, that would be too much. And I’m not sure that would be good for the library. That much money would surely go to what the mayor considers more… lucrative pursuits. But I thought, perhaps, that you could lower the rent of the library by a certain percentage, enough to cover for my apartment. I could use the extra money to refurbish the children’s section, and replace some stock. I could do without another brawl about who gets the last copy of The Polar Express come Christmastime.”

He smiled in spite of the cold spreading across his chest, constricting his lungs. He would be quick, he decided, better to have it over as soon as possible, so that afterwards perhaps Miss Lucas could coax Miss French into a consolatory drink or a slice of apple pie, her favourite. It wouldn’t be too bad, he convinced himself, and it would endear her to the other townspeople, that she braved the beast in pursuit of better reading experiences for their children.

He started her watch, a bit surprised when she moved right away, dragging a pretty white pawn to e4. He counted with his opposing pawn, and in his next move he captured his first piece, another pawn she had likely moved unsuspectingly into the line of his attacking one. She took out her knight then, and later a bishop, but he played more conservatively, using mainly his pawns, waiting for the moment where he could unfurl some of his more devastating attacks. He was startled by her castling her king. It gave him a firm idea that she was no amateur, and he adjusted to this new insight accordingly. He advanced his pawns further, seeing little overall sense and reason to her movements. She had her queen out, as well as a bishop, but had taken her knight back in and her pawns were scattered about, presenting little challenge.

And then she moved her bishop, lightning fast, and suddenly he was in check and the game did not look as it had a second before. He studied the board more carefully, instincts telling him there was danger in there. What once had looked devoid of logic now seemed elegant and strangely coordinated.

Like a dance, he thought. And somehow familiar.

He moved his king, and noticed people suddenly paying attention. She took her bishop away, looking amused, and he pressed on with his queen’s pawn, losing his first piece one move later. Feeling his hackles rising he took one of his bishops out, losing another pawn a second later after she took one of her knights out again. He disposed of it in the next move, thinking he had finally seen her make a mistake, but her rook advanced, threatening his king and bishop. He moved the former, thinking he was sure to lose the other piece, but surprisingly she moved her queen instead. Far from putting him at ease it was that move that made him aware that he was in front of a person that could likely beat him. And, almost against his will, the thought rose the competitive beast in him.

He went savage, increasing the aggressiveness of his moves to an obscene degree. A chance look at Miss French, however, let him know that she found it amusing. She leaned over the board with interest, head tilted to a side and the fingers of her non-dominant hand tangled in her hair ribbon. Her eyes, barely visible from beneath her thick lashes from the way her face was tilted towards the board, sparkled, letting him know she was enjoying herself. Thoroughly.

He, on the other hand, felt strangely angry. Defensive. Exhilarated. He watched her as she made her bishops dance across the board, forcing him into another check and into a few defensive moves with his rooks, before her queen made her presence known once again, sliding across the board with both elegance and devastation. He took off his jacket, feeling too hot, and looked at the board again.

It was all so familiar. The style of play, he had seen it before. Like a dance, spontaneous yet choreographed, forcing him to respond in a certain way, backing him into a corner. He took one of her bishops and then a rook, when it came sliding into his side of the board, but it only made him feel more anxious, more like a creature trapped. Soon he was without his rooks and both his queen and his one remaining knight were in peril. But as he focused on them he missed the slow advance of a white pawn along the side of the board, flanked by the white queen and the remaining white rook. He sent his own queen out, trying to regain some semblance of control, but there wasn’t much the piece could do. In the end it was the queen, aided by the unassuming pawn, that forced his king into a checkmate.

“I believe the game is over, Mr Gold.”

The librarian’s accent softened the blow of those words. She looked up at him, happiness and excitement written across her face, as if she had gone through some marvelous experience. But it wasn’t the smile of a winner, but rather the smile of a conspirator.

“I believe the game was over ten moves ago, Miss French.”

He could admit that now, even as people cheered around him, rubbing salt on the newly-opened wound. He watched as Miss Lucas briefly enveloped the librarian in a side-hug before turning her attention to other people celebrating. Miss French, however, didn’t seem to want to join. She simply stared at the board and then at him as if this was their own private thing, their shared, secret joy.

It felt too intimate, and it made him even more angry, that she seemed to think that he had somehow enjoyed getting his arse thoroughly kicked by her. Brusquely he stood up, putting his jacket and coat on quickly before a well-placed snarl opened a way out from the mass of people gathered around the chessboard. He would go home and lick his wounds and figure out a way to repair the damage to his reputation after he reached the bottom of his half-drunk bottle of Balvenie Tun 1509.

It wasn’t until he was well and truly hungover that he realised, with a shock, that he had left his chess set behind. He left a message in Dove’s phone to have him call him back on Monday, so that he could instruct him to retrieve it for him. No need to go into the library for a few days. Or weeks. Might as well not step foot in it for the rest of the year, really. And no need to ever again think about the game, ever.

But after a couple of Tylenol and a lot of water, he found himself rethinking that last decision. There was something nagging at him about that game, and it would not let go of him. He knew he had seen that style of play before, but he could not recall where. He pulled up his collection of saved games, recreated from tournaments and world cups, and began analysing each of them, trying to find the same dreamlike, flowing style of play, like dancing. It wasn’t in the latest World Cup, or the one before, or in any of the recent tournaments. Not in the London Classic, or the Sinquefield Cup, or the Tata Steel. Not in any of the major American or European tournaments, so he branched out, looking at the Asian championships, the ACF Grand Prix and-

Something about the ACF gave him pause, so he went back through the tournaments he had saved, year after year. It wasn’t until he hit the 2006 Grand Prix that he saw it, a match where the blacks moved like in a ballet. He saw the name of the player, I. Avon, and did not recognise it at first. Then he searched for the recorded video of the match and realised why: I. Avon was Isabelle Avon, and she was usually known in internet circles by her nickname, Beauty. And the 2006 ACF Grand Prix had been her last major tournament. She had disappeared shortly after, and had caused a bit of a stir, specially amongst Australian chess enthusiasts, who thought she had the makings of a Grandmaster and even a top five world player.

And yet, somehow, she had ended up as a librarian in a small town in the middle of nowhere, Maine, living under a different name, for some fucking reason.

He wouldn’t let it go once he knew, trying to piece the puzzle together. He had never seen pictures of Beauty, there were no headshots to be had, likely because she had been an up-and-coming player at the time and a minor for most of her active years. He had seen videos of her playing, but her hair tended to obscure her face in most of them. She had not won her nickname on account of her looks- though how painfully fitting it was, considering how attractive she was- but because of her playing. People praised her for her beautiful moves, how she built this gorgeous ballet of a strategy that was as effective as it was enchanting.

She had been described, in the few articles that talked about her personality, as quirky. Odd. A calm player, given to the occasional smile and never able to lift her eyes off the board, a dreamy look on her face. Quite unsettling, some people had said.

She had dropped off the face of the chess world at age twenty, in 2006, and no one had heard from her again. Some people claimed to have played against her in an online tournament, but there was never a way to know for sure. He was sure now that at least some of these people were likely right. He delved more into whatever he could find about Isabelle Avon, but there wasn’t much. Though she had been at the time considered a chess prodigy she had been sheltered from press scrutiny likely by her parents, and had not given many interviews nor posed for many photographs. The few that circulated on the internet were of her as a very young teen, likely fifteen, when she had made her debut. He recognised her electric-blue eyes immediately, but the librarian’s fine bone structure was hidden behind layers of baby fat still not ready to peel off and her hair was a few shades lighter than it was now. Her mother was always with her in the pictures, as good-looking as elegant as her daughter had grown up to be, but her father was only in one of the pictures, a rather portly man that was rendered striking rather than dumpy by his height, which was considerable.

He found nothing to explain her retirement from chess, at least nothing official. He did find, however, a funeral notice in The Australian for a Colette Avon, neé French, dated December 2006. He felt sure that he had stumbled across the reason for Beauty’s fall from the chess circuit, and the origin of her new name. Why she had felt the need to create a completely new identity was, however, still unexplained.

And it bothered him, he found out soon enough. The more games of hers he saw the more he could appreciate her artistry, her craftsmanship. He could not conceive anyone having such talent, such passion for the game, and quitting, even over a personal tragedy like the loss of a beloved parent. He remembered how she had looked when she had played him, alive and excited, her pleasure obvious, and it cemented the idea that there was something he was missing. And he didn’t much care for it.

That’s how he found himself in the library weeks after his defeat, confronting the librarian. She was wearing a pretty burgundy shirtdress, prim and proper if not a wee bit short, and her hair tumbled down her back in a mess of curls, which was to be expected, since the library hours had ended twenty minutes ago. She wasn’t surprised to see him, nor did she appear hostile or otherwise on edge. Quite the contrary.

“Mr Gold, I’ve been expecting you.” She smiled up at him, and it felt a bit different from her previous smiles. Those had been lovely but this one felt more… personal. Intimate, somehow. Like they shared a secret. He supposed, in a way, they did. “You left your lovely chess set here. I’ve been holding onto it for you, keeping it safe. It’s in my office, do you want me to go get it for you?”

“Why did you change your name?”

He didn’t mean to blurt it out. He meant to build up to it. But there was something about her that utterly unsettled him, made him anxious in a way that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. Her smile turned somewhat cautious and sad, and he hated himself for provoking that reaction out of her.

“That’s a rather personal question.”

“You owe me.” He tried to stop himself, but he found he somehow couldn’t. “You played against me under false pretences. You owe me at least an explanation as to why.”

Miss French raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed at his emotional outburst or the questionable logic of his assessment. A moment later, however, she tilted her head to a side, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes, as if considering something.

“It’s a rather big secret. Would you play me for it?”

That sounded very much like a deal, and it made him feel more comfortable with the situation, more in control. Deals were his specialty, after all.

“And what would you wish for if you win, Miss French?”

She smiled, the picture of innocence.

“A secret for a secret sounds fair. Let’s say… your name.”

Nobody knew his first name. He appeared in all legal documents as “A. Gold”, which caused all manner of speculation around town. His name would be a high price, indeed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t tell others, just as I trust you would not tell others what I told you if I lost. I just want it for myself.”

Her words sent a frisson of something down his spine, leaving him tingling and on edge.

“That sounds acceptable. Do fetch my set, if you please, and I’ll get the board.”

They had the board set and ready in no time, flipping a coin to decide who would be whites. Miss French, having won, started the game, and from the beginning he read her moves differently from before, knowing they were those of a chess prodigy. He moved aggressively, trying to create too much chaos to allow her to build her beautiful moves, but soon began to second-guess himself, struggling between being too bold and playing it safe. He lasted longer, forcing her to pause and consider her next move once or twice, which she had not done during their first game. He took in those few seconds of uncertain contemplation with eager interest, watching as she bit her lip and furrowed her brow, the apple of her cheeks red with an enticing blush.

In the end, however, her rooks trapped his king too soon, forcing him to topple the piece. She smiled at him, offering her hand for him to shake. He did so, marveling at how delicate it was. And cold. The whole building was cold, he realised. Apparently the mayor demanded the heat be turned off the library the moment it closed, to save on the heating bill.

“We can do this again sometime, if you still wish to know, Mr Gold.”

He nodded, leaning on his cane in order to rise from the chair, making no move to gather his chess pieces.

“I’ll take you up on that, Miss French. And the name’s Arran.”

He returned a week later, with a tin of oolong tea to keep the cold of the library at bay. Though the librarian seemed to have been expecting him, with the board and chess set already laid out at the customary table, she did not seem to be in the mood to play right away, inviting him instead to her office so she could prepare and pour them both a cup of tea in the adjoining kitchenette. Though she did not seem to want to speak of whatever had happened to her in 2006 she did not seem reluctant to talk about her chess career in general. She told him about learning the game at six from her mother, and playing in the park against adults as a ten-year-old, shortly before entering her first tournament, for children. She would soon outgrow those, reluctantly.

“Children are more creative players, I find, and I missed that in professional adult tournaments. It’s what I like about your playing.”

He told her in turn about his own chess experience, so vastly different from hers. It was a part of his life he had not shared with anyone before, and it felt nice to do so, especially with someone who could understand chess like he did, could see the beauty and the sense of it.

By the time their tea was finished over an hour had passed, and it was getting almost too late for a game. This one lasted a bit longer, and felt more… playful. Though he lost, he enjoyed himself more than he should have. He could make more sense of her playing style now, and it made him respond in kind, to soften his moves a tad, make them less savage and more complimentary to hers. It was the first time in years he altered his playing style, but it gave him more of a fighting chance and it seemed to amuse and thrill her to no end. In the end when he lost she asked about his aunts, and he told her about how in love they were, even though the times were different and they could not express that love in the open like people could now. As he talked he realised how much he missed them and how nice it felt to share a bit of their memory with someone else.

Though he left the library defeated, it was difficult to conjure any negative feelings about the evening.

At some point, he realised he had stopped playing to win. Well, not necessarily. He still played with the intention of seeing her king toppled and extracting the secret of her retirement from her, but it was about more than that now. Perhaps it was their now customary tea break right before the game, which lasted up to an hour and now included cookies and several cups per person. It was a strangely-relaxing ritual and led them to talking about things that he would usually not discuss with anyone else, things that felt too personal. She shared in kind, with the exception of talking about her father, which he understood tacitly was a no-go subject. To be fair so was his, and she took pains to never ask him anything about him.

Playing her, he had to admit, had become exhilarating. Once the sour taste of defeat had been taken out of the equation- it didn’t feel like losing anymore, or at least not the way losing usually felt to him, cloying and humiliating- all that was left was the thrill of the game, the excitement of thinking on one’s feet and seeing long strategies come to fruition on the board. He caught her chewing on her bottom lip more and more as he learned to thwart her moves and bring a sort of organised chaos to the board that she found difficult to navigate around.

He got so used to losing, and so comfortable in it, in the notion that losing only meant he got to return to the library, have tea and spend a few pleasant hours with someone who was interesting and treated him with kindness, that he did not consider the fact that he might win at some point. And when it happened, one evening he saw it, checkmate in two moves with his remaining knight and one of his rooks, plain to see. He had been working at leaving her king adrift, too exposed and with her queen distracted enough to not be able to stop the attack. She saw it too, he realised, and there was a bittersweet smile when she toppled her king. The sound the small piece made was deafening in the sudden silence of the library and he stared at the board for the longest time, as if he had been struck dumb by his win. In reality he was trying to process how disappointed he suddenly felt, how utterly unhappy he was about having won. It made no sense.

“As you perhaps know my mother died in 2006.”

“Miss French, please, you don’t have to-”

“Belle, please. I’d like to believe we’ve transcended such formalities. Especially considering what I’m about to do.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch between them. Though she seemed determined to tell her tale, whatever it may entail, she did not seem to know where to start, or even where to look. He thought about getting up and downright refusing to listen to her, anything to take away the sudden air of vulnerability about her, but stopped himself. She was a grown woman who would not appreciate him trying to decide things for her.

“You must know my mother died in 2006. It was very sudden, a stroke, and was very hard to accept. We were very close, especially because my chess career kept me from socialising much with my peers. I was sad for a long time after her passing, kept recreating some of our favourite matches on the chessboard she had given me for my twelfth birthday. I didn’t want to eat, or go out much, and I guess… My dad grew worried. We had always struggled to communicate, never had much in common. He didn’t get chess or me, so he didn’t know how to reach me, or talk to me, or even understand what I was going through.”

She paused, picking up a white pawn and staring intently at it. He itched to reach out to her, though he was not very good at comforting people.

“He thought I needed professional help. And he was right, I did need to speak to someone. But he thought it best to-” Another pause, where Belle looked like she was trying to find the words to explain, or excuse, what came next. “He had me hospitalised.” He did not need to ask what kind of hospital she was referring to. “It was a nice place, on spacious, green grass and under the supervision of an order of nuns. I’ve read that other places can be more… unpleasant, and less safe. Still, I don’t remember much of it. I was drugged most of the time, they were pretty liberal when it came to medication, and I hated it. Took me a while to figure out how to behave in a way that was considered normal, how to grieve within the bounds of acceptable behaviour.”

He was surprised by the white-hot rage that took over him. He tightened his grip around the handle of his cane, eager to hurt someone with it. Belle’s father seemed like a prime candidate, or any of the doctors involved in her care, who could not see that what they had in front of them was a woman trying to grieve in her own way. He ached to do harm, to hurt, in a way that unsettled him, that spoke about primitive instincts he had spent years mastering, or at least trying to. He tried to calm himself, focusing instead intently on her, watching her walk the pawn across the board and exchange it for the white queen after it reached the other side.

“Once I was out I changed my name and applied for university in the US. My chess career and my mother’s care of my finances gave me financial freedom, so I went to school, then did my masters at Columbia, and took on as librarian here when the position opened. And I never participated in a tournament again. At first it was because being active in professional chess circles left me exposed, made it so my father would likely know where I was, but later on I discovered I just did not have the temperament for big tournaments anymore. Crowds of strange people looking at me make me nervous, and playing chess in public makes me feel… unsafe, I suppose.”

Her fingers closed over the white queen, as if testing the strength of the piece.

“I still love it, though. Used to play at Bryant Park when I was a college student, though never in tournaments. And I still play online, sometimes for money, because it’s safe. But it’s been nice, playing face to face against someone again. I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

She put the white queen back with the rest of the pieces inside its box, closing the lid securely before offering the set to him. Instead of taking it he stood up, taking a few steps backward to make sure she knew he had no intention of taking his chess set home.

“I thank you for your candor. I will keep what you have told me in confidence, of course. Same time this Saturday?”

She looked up at him, confused for a second before a wide smile spread across her face.

“It’s a date.”

Though he had made the journey to the library dozens of times in the past couple of months it felt different that day. Instead of the customary tea he brought he clutched a tote bag with an unopened bottle of Highland Park 18 and two crystal tumblers. It was a particularly cold afternoon, which he told himself called for something more bracing than a strong cup of tea.

Belle did not seem against the whisky, though she did warn him that she had no affinity for it and would not know good scotch from bad.

“You’re calling it scotch, so that’s a good start.”

She seemed more intrigued about the tumblers, running the pad of her thumb across the designs on the glass.

“Thistles.”

“I’m nothing if not a walking stereotype.”

She laughed, telling him to pour while she set the board. By the time they sat down to play it was dark out, and Belle had turned off the zooming fluorescent tubes, leaving instead the soft, warm light fixtures in the reading room on. It was a cosy, relaxed setting, and yet the air felt strangely electrified, like something was going to happen, something big. His nerves felt raw, exposed, but the feeling wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

“So, what should we play for tonight?”

He startled, the tumbler halfway to his lips. She was right, there were no preconceived stakes anymore. Before he had wanted to know something about her, something valuable, so they established an arrangement whereby whoever won could ask a question of the other. That arrangement no longer applied. A sudden flare of panic travelled down his spine. What if he couldn’t think of anything? What if they both discovered that, without stakes, there was no sense in playing again at all? What if-

“I have an idea. It’s… a bit unorthodox. Always wanted to try it, but never got the chance to.”

The librarian looked intently at her glass of whisky, running a finger across the edge, but there was a sort of mischievous air about her. Playful.

Flirtatious, almost.

“Do tell.”

“Well, I’ve read about strip chess. Obviously I never actually played strip chess before because for most of my years playing chess in front of people I was a minor. But I always thought it sounded… fun.”

She chanced a look at him from beneath her eyelashes, biting her lower lip the tiniest bit. He must have looked rather stupid to her, sitting ranmrod straight and wide-eyed, with the look of a rabbit that has just spotted a wolf nearby. A man a few years shy of fifty looking stupidly terrified of a woman more than ten years his junior.

“What would be the rules?”

“A piece of clothing for every captured piece. Something small for pawns is allowed, but bigger pieces merit more important sacrifices. Things in pairs are to be removed in pairs. Jewellery and such are considered pieces of clothing. We play until either someone wins, or someone is completely naked.”

He took a gulp of scotch, hiding a grimace as the liquid burned a path down his throat. He took a quick stock of the librarian, taking in her few pieces of jewellery- earrings, a ring, and a simple necklace-, and her clothing. A skirt, no belt, a shirt tucked into it, a cardigan, stockings and a pair of booties. He imagined all of it on the floor at his feet and his blood simmered.

“That sounds… acceptable. You got the coin?”

He was glad he sounded unbothered by the new arrangement they had just entered into, nonchalant. He lost the coin toss, so it was Belle who opened, moving the queen’s pawn two places. He moved more conservatively, a pawn to c6, and a couple of moves later she took her first pawn, leaving the piece to be taken by another pawn of his.

“My earrings for your cufflinks?”

It was a fair exchange, so they paused to relieve themselves of their pieces of jewellery. Belle’s next move gave him a chance to capture another pawn and he discovered that he had to physically restrain himself from making the move, reminding himself that he was supposed to be playing for win. It added something extra to the game, the tension between what the best move was according to whatever strategy he was struggling to make, and what could get him more pieces. It made the game tense, as they both considered their moves and braced themselves for the possible occurrence of another piece taken.

When it finally happened, a white pawn taking the place of a black one, he surrendered both his shoes, but not before using one of his knights to take the place of the newly-moved white pawn. Belle bent down to unlace her booties, removing them and placing them to the side with care, letting him know that she did have a thing for shoes, as he had always suspected.

Nothing else happened for the longest time, the game unfolding without much action. They both moved their bishops and castled their king, pretending for a while that there wasn’t a likelihood that one of them would end up naked before the night was out. He kept the scotch nearby, refilling the drinks every now and then to give himself something to do other than think about all the exposed white pieces. Finally, when he thought he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t do it, he took a white pawn with his knight.

“Wondered when you were going to do that.”

He watched her as she shimmied out of her cardigan, letting him see more of the blouse she was wearing. It was slightly sheer, letting him know she was wearing a black bra. He wondered if he would get to see it.

“It’s a pity about your knight, though.”

She moved one of her own knights to take his, making it the first major piece to be taken. She held it in her hand for a while, studying it.

“I’ll accept your jacket and tie, if you have no objections.”

He reached automatically towards his neck, tugging on the silken knot around his throat. He must have drunk more than he realised, because his fingers felt clumsy, uncoordinated. After a few ineffectual tugs and some choice expletives muttered under his breath Belle rose from her chair, gently pushing his hands away and untying the tie herself. She tugged on it until it was off and tossed it on the back of his chair. She then wordlessly prompted him to remove his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair as well.

“That’s a lovely colour on you.”

She ghosted her fingers across the silk of his shirt. It was one of his favourites, a deep navy blue silk jacquard with a contrasting pattern of leaves. He had worn it because he had noticed she tended to favour blue, which had felt stupid at the time. Now it felt inspired. Emboldened by the touch and the compliment he dragged his bishop across the board, knocking her knight off its place.

“I’ll take your necklace and stockings, if you please.”

His voice was rough, with little of the cultured diction he usually employed, but between the alcohol and the simmering sexual tension there was little he could do to change that. She took her necklace off without much protest, making sure to fasten it close before she looked at him right in the eye, smiling innocently and extending a leg till her silk-stockinged foot found his knee.

“Help me?”

It was embarrassing how fast he dragged a hand across her leg, pausing only to notice the quality of the material, and reached beneath her skirt, till his fingers came across the scratchy lace of the top of the stocking. With slow, steady precision he peeled the stocking off her leg, letting the tips of his fingers slide across the soft underside of her thigh and calf, trying to memorise how soft and warm her skin felt, so he could replay it over and over again each night. He repeated the process with the other stocking, delighting in the goosebumps the dim light of the room revealed in Belle’s skin. After it was done he folded the stockings neatly and presented them to her.

She moved her bishop next in a direct challenge to his castled king, meaning he had no other choice but to take it. He did it with shaky hands, trying not to look as eager as he felt.

“Shirt or skirt, I suppose. May I choose?”

Her voice was soft, playful, undeniably coquettish. He nodded, following her movements as she stood up, unzipped her skirt and let it fall open around her legs. Her shirt was long enough to cover anything but the barest hint of her underwear, something black and lacy and the slightest bit sheer that had him reaching for his glass. A second later she sat down, dragging her queen to take his bishop.

“Quid pro quo?”

With all the grace he could muster he stood up, refusing to show even a hint of apprehension or shyness as he undid his belt and pushed his trousers down, carefully stepping out of them before sitting down and reaching for the scotch bottle, filling up their glasses again. He took a long, fortifying sip and moved his knight to take her remaining one.

“That lovely blouse is gonna have to go, dearie.”

Belle smiled, looking bold and strangely pleased, and made sure to look at him square in the eye as she plucked every little button free of its hole. It was an invitation to watch, and he accepted it greedily, leaning forward and holding tightly onto his cane to keep himself from doing something stupid like try and touch every new bit of soft, pale skin that was slowly revealed to him. When she reached the last button she shimmied out of the shirt and carelessly tossed it at him. He caught it one handed and tried to not notice how the fabric retained the warmth from her body and the scent of her skin.

“Don’t get too comfortable, we’re about to get even.”

She moved her queen to take his knight and leaned back on her seat, one hand cradling her tumbler of scotch and an expectant look on her face. He reached up and unfastened the buttons of his shirt with practiced nonchalance, trying to keep the shaking in his hands from being too obvious. When that was done he paused for a second, trying to gather up his courage, before shrugging out of the shirt. With a gallant little gesture he handed it to her.

The next few rounds were intense, but no pieces taken. Arran was having a hard time concentrating on the board and not on the way Belle’s fingers caressed the silk of his shirt, tracing the pattern of leaves absentmindedly. It was a safer bet than focusing on her balconette bra, a delicate, impractical little thing made almost entirely out of leavers lace, with dark flowers woven into the pattern to keep him from seeing the rose pink of her nipples. He wondered if she had worn the set with their game in mind, if she had selected it just so he could see it.

At some point he took his queen out, and she did the same with one of her rooks, both of them seemingly in agreement that the status quo was not to be borne. It wasn’t until her rook put pressure on his king, forcing him to set his queen in the middle, that he began to feel cornered. When her bishop got too close he had no other option but to take out her rook. Though from a strategic point of view that was a desperate last-ditch effort, he could not help but feel strangely ecstatic over it.

“Oh, dear.”

Belle moved her hands towards her back, seeming to struggle with the fastenings of her bra.

“I think one of the hooks is snagged on the lace. Will you help me?”

He narrowly avoided biting his tongue. He managed a croaked, barely-intelligible “aye” before she stood up and turned around. He tried not to look down, but it was almost impossible, taking into account the panties she was wearing were made almost entirely of sheer black lace- leavers as well, clearly she was wearing a matching set-. With hands that felt clumsier than usual he felt around the clasp of the bra, delicately pulling the offending hook from the lace before unclasping the bra altogether. Slowly he lowered the straps from her shoulders, noticing the red indents they left behind on her skin. Then she was turning around, bra safely in her hands and her glorious breasts bared. He hoped that she wasn’t expecting him not to look, because it felt impossible to avert his eyes. As he had imagined- and he had not realised how often until then- her nipples were the perfect shade of dusty pink, framed perfectly by pale skin a shade lighter than the rest of her.

“I know I’ve lost on the board, but right now I feel like a winner. Like the luckiest bastard on Earth.”

His accent was shot to hell, thick and incomprehensible, as if he had never left the dodgy part of Glasgow. But it did not seem to be a problem for Belle, who kissed his cheek, tugged on his hair a bit, called him a “sweet boy”, and thanked him for the compliment.

“Let’s finish this, Arran.”

Her Australian lilt turned his name, which he always thought rather charmless and rough, into a soft caress. He sat down, something considerably uncomfortable to do all of a sudden, taking into account his painful state of arousal, and struggled to focus in the game. He was done for, he knew it, but he owed it to her to try. To lose with as much dignity as possible. Or so he thought, till her queen took his in one simple move.

“I’m afraid your underwear must go.”

The silk boxers were doing a pisspoor job of hiding his raging erection in any case, but it still felt uncomfortable to peel them off and be naked in front of another human being for the first time in years. Well, nude, technically, since he still had his navy socks on.

“Let’s finish this, then.”

He took his rook out, forcing her queen to retreat and then getting his other rook to cover for his king. For the next few moves they danced around each other on the board, with Belle trying to close her trap and Arran fighting tooth and nail to remain standing. His moves weren’t elegant at all, more like the savage swipes of a cornered beast, but they were effective. He managed to snag a rook, which gave him the pleasure of sitting down and staring intently as Belle shimmied out of her useless little panties. She flashed her watch at him to remind her she was not completely naked as per the rules of the game and continued to press him. She had only her queen and a few pawns, but the board was laid out in her favour all the same. Still he gave her a run for her money, and it took her twelve more moves to checkmate his king. Feeling irrationally expectant he toppled the piece, watching it roll around the board for a few seconds before coming to a stop.

“That was exciting. Though I’m afraid we forgot to agree on what the winner got. Quite an oversight on our part.”

He watched her as she reclined on her chair and stared at the board, a rosy tinge on her skin that he realised travelled past her neck and to the tops of her breasts. She looked at ease, comfortable in her own skin, and surprisingly he noticed that he did not much care about his own nudity either. In the low, almost romantic light of the library his skin acquired a golden colour that he thought rather becoming. He was tanned for a man who spent most of his time indoors, a direct consequence of his propensity to laze about in the sun whenever possible in the privacy of his backyard or his cabin. And in such a light his wrinkles were less obvious, his scars less visible. He felt anxious, yes, tense, but it was not an unpleasant sort of tension.

“What is it you want, Miss French?”

He affected the persona of the devious dealmaker, noticing the spark of heat in the librarian’s eyes when he called her by her last name. She made a show of thinking about it, though he had the distinct feeling she had thought about something ages ago.

“How about a kiss?”

He took her left hand, kissing the back of it.

“Like this?”

When she shook her head he reached further, kidding the underside of her elbow.

“Higher, Arran.”

He tugged her closer, trying to disregard the rapid beating of his heart, and softly kissed her shoulder. Her skin was soft and smelt faintly of something citrusy, something that somehow managed to tug both at his heart and his groin.

“Higher, please.”

She took his head in her hands, tilting it upwards till their lips met. It was a soft, tentative press of the lips at first, unhurried and unassuming, but it grew firmer and more insistent. When he pressed her she opened her mouth to him readily, letting him curl his tongue around hers with a moan of approval. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders at some point, fingers sinking into his hair to pull him closer till he was flush against her, skin against skin. His hands roamed her back, tracing the ridges of her spine, pleased at the way it made her shiver.

Reluctantly he let go of her lips, pressing his mouth against her sharp jawline, down her long neck until he was tracing her collarbone with his tongue and dipping down further into the swell of her breasts. He felt her fingers dig into his scalp, pressing him closer, tugging on his hair to guide him towards a puckered nipple. He accepted the unspoken invitation gladly, closing his lips around her flesh and sucking with embarrassing enthusiasm. His hands roamed the rest of her, one caressing her back while the other pressed against a soft, round thigh, aching to move just a few inches and cup her sex.

When she stepped backwards, out of his arms and the reach of his mouth, he felt a flare of panic that she was having second thoughts, or he had done something wrong. It was on the tip of his tongue to apologise- for fucking whatever, he didn’t care- when she tugged on his arm, urging him a little ways across the room to a reading nook next to the folklore session. There was a faded divan in there, usually full of pillows and throw blankets meant for readers to take to their seats if they were uncomfortable or chilly. It was old and likely uncomfortable, the type of couch that looked like it had lost most, if not all, of its padding and most of its support capabilities a long time ago. At the moment, however, it looked to Arran like the most luxurious of beds. He let her push him onto it, glad when the springs beneath him groaned but held steady. A second later she was on top of him and all thoughts of structural stability fled from his mind as he kissed him thoroughly, asserting a dominance he was more than happy to submit to.

He had to struggle to concentrate between the kissing and the groping to understand her when she asked about protection, muttering that she was clean and on the pill but she had condoms just in case, from the sex-ed talks Miss Blanchard gave every now and then. Briefly he contemplated the notion of using one of those condoms, thinking of Miss Blanchard’s absolutely scandalised look if she ever found out, but the idea of being bare inside Belle was too good to pass. He told her he was clean in as clear a voice as he could muster that he was clean too- he recalled his last annual check-up, which he drove to Boston for, since he would rather die than let Dr Whale anywhere near any part of him- before she was straddling him, grabbing his stiff, aching cock with one hand and guiding it to her entrance. He could barely register the sudden wet heat on the tip of him before his entire member was engulfed in it. He sunk his blunt nails on Belle’s back, trying to call forth every last shred of self-control he possessed not to come then and there. Thankfully Belle didn’t move, looking overwhelmed and in need of a moment to adjust.

“You’re big.”

“Fuck, sweetheart, you can’t tell me something like that if you want me to last.”

It was taking everything he had not to come like a fucking schoolboy. Later, much later, he might me in the right frame of mind to replay her involuntary compliment. Over and over. He tried to recall the names of all the subs of the Celtics, in fucking alphabetical order, till he somehow felt more in control. Slowly, lovingly, he captured her lips with his own for a long, lazy kiss, feeling as her own tension melted away, leaving only a simmering sort of excitement. Tentatively she began to rock, trying to find a comfortable angle and motion in the restrictive confined of the divan. He tried to help her as much as possible, holding onto her hips and trying to thrust up as much as he could, given his precarious perch on the furniture and his lame ankle. Slowly but steadily they found something that worked, a rhythm that had him hitting a sport deep inside her that he could tell was, blessedly, the right one, given how Belle sunk her nails on his shoulders and tried to muffle her cries against the side of his neck. He tried to talk, to tell her how gorgeous she was, how wet and warm and perfect she felt around him but it all came out as unintelligible grunts and low, feral moans.

When he felt himself near the edge he gritted his teeth and gathered all of his remaining willpower, dragging his right hand down her stomach to the small nest of curls that framed her dripping cunt, delving inside till he found a spot that made her gasp when he touched it.

“Come for me, sweet girl.” He didn’t know whether she could understand him over the thick mess of his accent, but he hoped at least the cadence would convene his meaning. She keened in response before he felt her flutter around his cock, the rest of her tensing with the force of her release. When he muffled her scream against the side of his neck he let go, his own orgasm almost uncomfortable at first, too much at once. He clutched her close, hoping against hope he would not send them both toppling to the floor, feeling like he was walking a fine line between pleasure and pain. Pleasure won out in the end, sizzling on his veins before slowly fading into a pleasant simmer. Tiredly he wrapped his arms around a barely-awake Belle, feeling the cooling sweat on her back and grunting in protest. He looked around, spotting a throw on the floor in his reach. He grabbed it quickly, managing to wrap it snug around both of them. Later, much later, when he could remember his name or how to walk, he would insist on them finding some better place to sleep, for her sake. At the moment, however, that seemed beyond him, a faraway concern to be dealt with at a later time. He was loath to give up his queen too soon into the game, in any case.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #The Game #thestraggletag fanfiction

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liunaticfringe · 3 years

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By Scott Moore April 25, 1999

At first blush, Lucy Liu seems to have little in common with the character she plays on "Ally McBeal."

Unlike the assertive Ling -- soft L, soft G -- she doesn't growl. Neither is she sarcastic, rude or abrupt.

Rather, it's with enthusiasm, courtesy and a bit of a giggle -- traits Ling Woo would never permit -- that Liu explains the hardships of portraying this very litigious woman each week on Fox's "Ally McBeal" (Monday at 9 on Fox).

"I can barely keep a straight face most of the time in the scenes," she said.

The insulting Ling Woo has little time for emotion -- or so viewers first thought. After the death of a young boy, the character kept up the persona by declaring: "We knew he was dying, Ally. This isn't the world's biggest shock. The boy had leukemia. Get over it."

The true shock came moments later, when Ling was seen crying outside the hospital parking lot -- and later still when she apparently arranged for a blimp to convey a comforting sign to Ally.

The turn of events "are just as surprising to me as to the audience," Liu said.

The actress has had quite a ride since being introduced in the second week of the season as the ill-tempered friend of icy attorney Nelle Porter, played by Portia de Rossi. A potential cash cow for the law firm and a romantic target for perpetually excited senior partner Richard Fish, Ling instantly drew the scorn of the rest of the firm and the attention of a large fan base, helping move the series into the Top 20 in the weekly ratings.

The turn of events, like each week's story line, has been a pleasant surprise to Liu, who was rejected last year while auditioning for the role of Nelle.

"They said they'd think about me in the future," Liu said. "But I was the only person of color there at all," of the half-dozen actresses applying for the part.

However, a few days later, she was cast for a role that writer-producer David E. Kelley created for her. Further, color doesn't seem to have any detriment on Kelley's offbeat comedy, where interracial relationships are commonplace.

If anything, Liu's Chinese heritage works to her advantage. Kelley has used her ability to speak Mandarin in a couple of story lines -- Ling inadvertently instructed waiters to cook John Cage's pet frog Stephan ("Tastes like chicken") and addressed a jury with nonsensical phrases that Liu's mother helped her construct. ("It doesn't matter what I say here," said the subtitles, "because none of you speak Chinese. But you can see from my sad face . . . I'm sympathetic.").

As a result, Ling Woo has evolved from an Asian stereotype -- that of Dragon Lady or sexual object -- to a multi-dimensional character. In addition to the show of emotion, Ling recently was revealed to have a law degree and joined the firm.

Still, Liu's character certainly has draconian elements. Her appearance on screen is often accompanied by glares or "The Wizard of Oz's" Wicked Witch of the West theme. And Ling's creative foreplay-but-no-play romance with Fish has gained Liu a growing fan base and several job offers.

"I knew she was well-rounded from the beginning," Liu said. "There's friction, and she's blunt and honest, but I always knew she was a sympathetic character."

Sympathetic? Ling yelled at a man in a wheelchair to watch where he was going. ("It's bad enough you people get all the parking places.") She declares that "men are horny toads." She has sued a radio shock jock for contributing to sexual harassment and a nurse of a plastic surgeon for having natural breasts.

Ling would interrupt here to ask, "Do you have a point?" Liu only laughs.

"I have to study her a great deal so she can shoot them out," Liu said of her character's audacity. "She doesn't hesitate when she talks or after she talks. If I know the lines, I can be more secure when I try to express her.

"She's a very clear-minded, blunt person. She's not disciplined, so I need to discipline myself, so she doesn't get lost or muddled."

Liu, born in New York City's Queens in the 1960s (she doesn't reveal her age), began acting while majoring in Asian languages and cultures at the University of Michigan. She played the lead in "Alice in Wonderland."

She had recurring roles on "ER," "High Incident" and "Coach," and guest spots on "NYPD Blue," "L.A. Law," "Michael Hayes" and "The X-Files." She also had a regular role as a brainy student in the short-lived Rhea Perlman comedy "Pearl."

And after playing a former girlfriend in "Jerry Maguire" and a hooker in "Bang," she made a mark this year with her portrayal of a brutal dominatrix in the Mel Gibson action-thriller "Payback." Liu also appears in "True Crime" with Clint Eastwood, "Molly" with Elizabeth Shue, and the "Austin Powers" sequel, "The Spy Who Shagged Me." And she was just cast in Ron Shelton's "Play It to the Bone."

"I've come to terms with things the last few years, so I can appreciate things as they're happening," she said.

Her favorite part of playing Ling, she said, are the romantic scenes with Fish (played by Greg Germann, a fellow accordion player).

"They're a real challenge for me, because my roles before didn't involve sexuality," said Liu. "I think, Oh, I can't do that. But, hey, I'm a woman, why not find some sensuality in that? When you discover yourself and allow yourself to be sexual, it's a really liberating feeling."

In fact, Liu says Fish is the character to whom she is most drawn: "I'm attracted to humor. Laughter is the most important thing in the world -- it takes 10 years off your age."

So, Liu is able to laugh off criticism from those who try to attach stereotypical labels to her character. "Chill out, take a pill or don't watch the show," she said.

The line could have been Ling's, except it was accompanied by a giggle.

CAPTION: Lucy Liu: "I can barely keep a straight face most of the time in the scenes."

CAPTION: LUCY LIU

#Lucy Liu #Ling Woo #1999 #WaPo #ally mcbeal #dragon lady

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cohenfitch · 1 year

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emma-what-son · 3 years

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Eat the Rich: Classism in the UK Entertainment Industry

Ohnotheydidnt Jan. 2020: To take you back a few years ago, right when HP was coming to an end, there was HP Blue-ray bonus documentary where Emma claimed to have come from a poor family. How she got pencils as gifts for her bday and how her dad didn’t afford to send her to the school she went to. This post is a great addition to posts I’ve made a few years ago about how Emma wasn’t actually poor growing up. You can find the posts here.

# TimesYa Grammar Kween Emmione Granger has come a long way since her # HeForShe days, taking the criticisms levelled towards her white feminism to heart and upping her activist game. Since that B.A. in English lit from Brown has gotta go somewhere, one only has to look as far as her Twitter and Instagram feeds (I appreciate that she at least uses her massive platform to lend exposure to women of colour, Ireland’s abortion rights, workplace harassment and from someone who has struggled brutally with gender dysphoria, trans visibility—no sarcasm there). Though once upon a time, Justin Bieber’s Disney Doll was under the impression that she could persuade her legion of fans she enjoyed an ordinary upbringing. Notably, in 2009/10 during a set interview for Deathly Hallows: Part 2 (included in the four-disk Blu-Ray bonus documentary When Harry Left Hogwarts) she presented herself in a vulnerable light, stating that when her parents divorced when she was five years old her financial situation was “tight” (transcribed in the gifs below because the doc is no longer on YouTube, boo!).

YUUUSSS KWEEEN! Hermione is an ONTD member like the rest of us! Or *dot dot dot* is she? While her words sound inspiring and classy at face value and being the cute bae that she is she doesn’t deny she was well-educated, what is missing from her version of the tale and her carefully manufactured image, however, is that both the good sis’ parents are lawyers. From around 1995/96 until 2003, she attended the co-educational pre-prep and prep day and boarding institution, Lynams nursery and the Dragon School in Oxford (Tom Hiddlebum and his one shirt was also a pupil). The fees [applied to 2019/20] eat up as much as £31,686 for boarders and £21,768 for day pupils each schoolyear (there are three academic terms in British schooling). Circa 1999-2000, Emma was also a pupil at the Stagecoach Theatre Arts School Oxford Headington, a franchise part-time theatre school (about ten minutes away from the Dragon). According to their website, “The cost per term for Early Stages is £168 and for Main Stages it is £336.” This is simply a luxury skint kids cannot receive without a grant or hardship fund and based on one version of events Emma has told us, it was while she was in attendance at Stagecoach when she was spotted (along with other potentials) by the Potter casting team for the role of Hermione. (I also discovered through related Google searches that some other minor actors from the Potter series, particularly Daniel Radcliffe’s “son” Albus Potter and “mother” Little Lily Potter went to the Dragon School and Stagecoach in Oxford, respectively. “Lily” was even taught by Emma’s former drama teacher and principal, Maya Sprigg—which tells me this woman’s hustle is not a coincidence.) From there, Emma attended Headington until the age of 18, an independent girls’ day and boarding school. The admission fees for Upper 3-5 and Sixth Form day pupils [applied to 2019/20] is £6,090 per term (£18,270 a year); full boarders pay up to £36,630 a year. Last year, the cost for day pupils was £5,884 per term (£17.5k/yr.). In 2016 before the UK referendum, fees for boarders were roughly £28k a year. As for her parents’ professions, her father Chris Watson is Head of the CMS Technology, Media and Communications Group (he has a M.A. from the New College, Oxford). We also know from a December 2010 British Vogue interview that he owns a vineyard in France where Emma spent the summers as a child. Her mother Jacqueline “Jackie” (nee Luesby) joined the Smith & Williamson financial services firm in 2007 as a senior manager for their tax team in London (she previously worked for Morgan Cole, a commercial law firm in Oxford and from circa 1990-95 the tax team Ernst & Young, an accounting firm in Paris, Emma’s birthplace). In a September 2015 British Vogue interview, Emma confirmed her parents worked full-time: “My parents couldn’t take the time off; they had careers and they weren’t together. They couldn’t swap in and out like Rubert Grint’s [sic] and Dan Radcliff’s [sic] parents.” Emphasis on careers, not occupations.

My basic bitch research skills are unable to track down the estimated salaries of her parents’ positions, but the Great British Class Survey classifies lawyers (including telecommunication lawyers and solicitors) as “elite” and the average household income is placed at £89,000 a year. Me thinks her parents weren’t blowing through £89k on pasta, toast and beans. Post-Potter, Emma pulled in $3 to $15 million for 2017’s Beauty and the Beast (obviously, this was a decade ago, but in 2010 she was making around $32 million). In 2018, she donated £1 million ($1.4 million) to Justice and Equality, an anti-sexual harassment fund (disappointing however, the superior Emma Thompson only donated £500, GIRL?!). Guess she figured she should finally throw away pennies of that Potter money from her offshore accounts (‘cause you can’t take it with it you)? In 2019, her estimated net worth is $80 million (about £60.9 million). Before Hermione blessed her with bad hair, Emma was already the slaying Speak & Spell singing Disney princess we deserved. Although, it seems she has since educated herself and changed her tune. In 2018, she introduced Reni Eddo-Lodge’s Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race for her Goodreads book club, writing: “When I heard myself being called a ‘white feminist’ I didn’t understand. […] It would have been more useful to spend the time asking myself questions like: What are the ways I have benefited from being white? In what ways do I support and uphold a system that is structurally racist? How do my race, class and gender affect my perspective?” No one needs to award her brownie points and even if I (along with most of ONTD) am not fond of her tightly controlled PR image, it’s one step towards acknowledging she’s part of a structural, systematic problem and it’s more than what most privileged celebs are willing to do when called out. On the other hand, homegirl needs to be educated on tax evasion. In the meantime, the Oatmeal Queen is living her best life with her Pop Rocks.

#parents

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coreastories · 4 years

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The Conversation

Companion to CoreaNews: The Protocol of Touch

Follows the story thread of CoreaNews: Meet the Lady Seo-gyeong

Precedes The Request (coming soon)

A conversation between a queen and a prime minister-- the glimmer of the start of a beautiful friendship, after they address something important.

Note: I wanted a convo that would pass the Bechdel test. So no discussing a man. Haha. And I wanted PM Koo fleshed out rather than being this creepy pushy woman she was shown to be when she wasn't killing it as PM 😁

Follows the CoreaNews/CoreaFiction world where Lee Lim was defeated and the result is PM Koo's bossbitch tendencies are still there, following canon (i.e., what happened still happened) but isn’t corrupted by Lee Lim’s evil. She’s still PM, not all orange is the new black.

Koo Seo-ryeong grew up in the shadow of men. Well no, that was wrong. She grew up outwitting and outplaying people with power. Most of them happened to be men.

Her father was a wealthy idiot barely considered an adult when he impregnated her mother. The family wanted Seo-ryeong raised among them, but Seo-ryeong’s father barely looked at her, let alone acknowledged her existence. Seo-ryeong’s mother displayed backbone in the most important time of her life and kept Seo-ryeong in her own house, never mind that it was above a fish shop.

When Seo-ryeong turned sixteen, she wrote to her father, and asked for support for university.

She got no response.

Next, she demanded her school expenses for Seoul National University with a veiled threat, and got what she wanted.

She learned a lesson on how to sway people in power that day.

When she was twenty, her uncle didn’t want his brother’s bastard daughter anywhere near him, but Seo-ryeong needed the powerful bullet in her CV, so she turned herself into a drudge in that law firm until she knew all the clients' putrid secrets and the firm couldn’t function without her, and then she left for the prestigious fellowship in Cambridge and never looked back.

When she came back home, she used her father, uncle and all the connections she could squeeze from the firm’s clients to get a position in her MP’s constituency office. “Fish shop girl” was bandied around but soon stopped.

She ruled that office-- and the weakling, incompetent MP. She ruled them all the same way she’d maneuvered her father and uncle like puppets.

She soon replaced that MP. His constituency office became hers. And every row she went past to get closer and closer to the dais in the Royal Audience Hall meant she crushed men left and right, crushed them, because these men belittled her for being a woman, for being a fish shop owner’s daughter, for being a bastard. The name Koo might hold position but still held no clout.

Until the king made one comment. A single, off-handed comment. “The MP Koo might turn out better than the rest of you.”

She was. She knew she was. She’d been demonstrating she was. But no one saw it until the king said it, in that non-partisan, impassive way, as if he hadn’t seen it either.

She seethed but she grabbed her chance to get into the fray of the petty wars of the parliamentary parties.

She got the backing of the Jinsun Party and they were too happy to use her to spite their opposition in the Gom Party. Jinsun was a bunch of old elitists and royalists who despised her fish shop background but one comment from the king was enough.

She won the election. They hadn't expected that. Hadn’t expected her to squirm from their grasp using the power they think they bestowed on her.

She stood face to face with the king and drew measure of this man, the first she might not be able to crush. Nor have any need to. She quite despised herself for forcing a flirtatious laugh in his presence, and then simultaneously respected and hated him for not responding.

Thus was the pattern of their acquaintance: she did all she could to push past his walls, but those walls remained unassailable while she became more and more… pathetically desperate.

In her third year as Prime Minister, she married a man not unlike her father, her uncle, that first MP, and the members of the Jinsun Party. She would need his money for re-election after all. He was just another rung in the ladder she climbed.

She continued to meet the king every week and he continued to be impassive, never letting down his guard around her, bantering, but never flirting. And always standing so tall, never sinking to the level of the power players around.

Sometimes she wondered if she tested him because she wanted him to so she could lump him with the men she knew.

She divorced her husband within the year. She revealed his corruption and sent him to jail to spite his family and his cronies in the party.

She had nothing but contempt for the man.

She was now in a position of power. So she was surrounded by other people in power, ones who either feared or despised her. She even began to look forward to her clashes with Lady Noh--which were real clashes rather than ego baiting.

She was beginning to tire of it. Ten years of her life fighting these men, crushing them. Repeat.

She wanted to keep doing what she was doing. She liked being able to steer the country in the direction she wanted. To do that, she needed power. The kind of power that didn’t come with this constant battle with dunces, and instead came with prestige and permanence.

Only an idiot wouldn’t try to pursue the king. She was in position. She knew her assets. She knew men.

Or so she thought. In her blind and frantic thirst for power, she forgot the kind of men she knew. Which was far from the kind of man the king was.

So she lost him. And here was the woman who now held the power she wanted. A woman with barely styled hair and a face barely touched with makeup.

Seo-ryeong didn’t know what to make of that face. She knew that face. Grew up with that face since she was sixteen. Learned to tolerate and then love that face since she was eighteen, when “Luna” legally became Koo Seo-gyeong, became her sister, the bright little urchin who only laughed when Seo-ryeong bullied her, not backing down and not retaliating.

Seo-gyeong was what Seo-ryeong wanted to be, but by the time Seo-gyeong pushed her way into her heart, Seo-ryeong’s heart had already been too occupied, too closed, too obsessed with her goal to spite her father, her uncle, all the men who never saw her as anything but a drudge.

And now Seo-gyeong’s face was the face of the queen.

Seo-ryeong had taken that in stride, didn’t show the least bit of shock when she first saw the queen at the wedding. This wasn’t her sister. This was a different person altogether.

And strangers were always interesting.

They both ignored the lowered buzz of hubbub around them. This was the NanoStem Institute, and you’d think they’d invite only people with brains, but even the best people lost their wit when confronted with royalty. Witness her own pathetic actions with the king. She wished she could forget it. When would she forget it?

Seo-ryeong rose from her chair when it was clear the queen was approaching her. What was she doing? She wasn't supposed to be at that table.

“Hello, Prime Minister.”

“Your Majesty.” She put on her practiced smile. “How are you, ma’am?”

“I’m good. May I join you?”

“Of course.”

They both pretended to care about their other companions for a few minutes. Seo-ryeong watched her. The queen had this annoying habit of tucking her chin in a small bow as if everyone at the table were her betters instead of the opposite.

It irritated her. It brought her back to her own days when everyone around her were her betters.

Watching as she did, she soon sensed the queen’s impatience and discomfort with people fawning over her. The signals were tiny, but Seo-ryeong recognized them.

Save her, unnie. You know you want to.

Cursing Seo-gyeong in her head, Seo-ryeong cleared her throat loudly. As the most senior person at the table, next only to the queen, the idiots quieted at her subtle stare and busied themselves with something else.

“Thank you,” the queen said softly. “That was becoming brutal. And this table is full of the worst.”

Seo-ryeong had a mad desire to laugh. The queen was right.

“Except you, of course.”

That addition made Seo-ryeong snort delicately behind her serviette.

“I’ve wanted to speak to you for awhile now,” the queen continued. “I never got the chance.”

“I’m always at your service, Your Majesty. I’m only a phone call away.” It was true. If the palace called, she’d come running. Well, flying. That was why she wanted to be in the palace herself. Her days of being summoned and being the gopher person were over and she was in the position to summon, too. If only no one else could summon her.

“Oh no, I can’t do that. You’re the Prime Minister. I really am a fan.”

“I’m honored to have such a young and beautiful fan.”

The queen had just spooned a bit of yakgwa into her mouth, and she paused for two seconds with the spoon still in her mouth. Then she turned to Seo-ryeong and smiled.

“Has it been better since you’re no longer with your party?” She lowered her voice further. “The king told me your party was the worst, too."

“Well, parliamentary parties are unavoidable. But yes, it’s been better.”

The queen seemed to be genuinely happy about that. “Tell me about yourself, please. Have you always wanted to be Prime Minister?”

No, I wanted to be queen and you know that. “Why do you ask, Your Majesty?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a cop. So I became one.”

A cop. Who was she? Why was she a cop like Seo-gyeong, and yet had no records like Seo-gyeong? And she was no longer a cop. She was a queen, for heaven’s sake.

Seo-ryeong found herself saying, “At first, I wanted to leave the country and serve in the International Criminal Court, but then I realized I might as well be Prime Minister here first and be someone by the time I joined the ICC. I didn’t want to be invisible again.”

The queen was nodding, her lips forming a silent ahh.

“Did you like being a cop? Were you treated well?” It was something she would have asked Seo-gyeong.

“Yes, yes. I suppose I was lucky. I even had a newbie to boss around before I left.”

There was something in her tone that prompted Seo-ryeong to ask, “Are you happy you left?”

“In some ways, yes. In all the ways that count.”

The serene confidence in that answer stunned Seo-ryeong. She had never felt that same serene confidence before.

“But you must know how it is.” “I do?”

“Yes. Running for re-election takes guts and sacrifice-- you could have gone to the ICC-- I’m sure they would have been happy to have you-- but you went after re-election instead because it matters for you in all the ways that count.”

Seo-ryeong sat there and felt like the queen had slapped her.

In all honesty she ran for re-election just to prove she could, and to prove she could win.

When would she stop needing to prove things?

Why was this woman, an eerie copy of her sister, assuming benevolence from her?

Her position required everything but benevolence. Her position required the grit and ruthlessness that would work to the country’s advantage but also ensure she remained in power.

And in one of those flashes of wisdom, Seo-ryeong realized it was the one thing she lacked. The one thing Seo-gyeong had and which she’d crushed in herself through the years of outplaying and outsmarting and crushing men. She’d had no benevolence left. Even her most altruistic campaigns and projects were rooted in currying the favor of the people of Corea.

The king had said something about benevolence to her, something about needing more than benevolence to make history, something about being the country's history.

Like she wasn’t? Her term would end but wasn’t she also contributing to the country’s history?

She remembered that night too well, too darkly, because she had seethed at his rejection, at his cavalier disregard of her, and it had only fanned the flames of her desire to crush him next.

Now he was out of reach, and her fury for him had turned to almost-dead embers. Now here was his queen so casually laying Koo Seo-ryeong bare. It hadn’t even been half an hour since she’d sat down.

It had taken one comment from the king to start her rise to power.

It had taken one comment from the queen now to shake her footing on that power.

“Do you like Lady Noh?”

Seo-Ryeong blinked, took a drink of water, and pretended as if she hadn’t just had the scare of her life. It was terrifying, wasn't it, to suddenly realize your motivations had been anything but, only a mad desire for...for spite and…

Calm down, unnie.

She composed herself. Perhaps Seo-gyeong and all her doubles--however many there turned out to be--were always meant to rub Seo-ryeong raw like this. And this time she couldn’t just get away like she'd left Seo-gyeong at home to stay at the university.

“I don’t know her well enough to like her, Your Majesty. She did school me when I first came to the palace.”

“Oh she did that to me, too. She’s always hiding talismans in my clothes.” The queen brought one out and showed it to her just at the edge of the table, out of sight of the others. “She says they’re talismans for success. I don’t need it that much, do I, not for the Institute’s opening?”

No, you don’t, do you? And if those were talismans for success, then I’m Princess Diana.

“Do you want it? You might need it more than I do.”

Seo-ryeong laughed outright. “No, ma’am. I don’t need that talisman.”

“Right. I suppose you don’t. You’re already successful.”

“That talisman is for the conception of children.”

The queen didn’t seem too surprised with that and only made an expressionless face. An expression Seo-ryeong knew only too well.

She’d always seen it in the king’s face.

“I suppose I could have endured worse than this.” The queen put the talisman back in her jacket pocket. Then she looked at the Prime Minister with a hard glint in her eye. “I saw you push her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“In the security footage. Around October. You wanted to get to the king’s study and Lady Noh blocked your way and you pushed her.”

Seo-ryeong could only blink at her. Why was the queen looking at security footage from months ago? Did she have nothing to do in the palace?

Then she almost clapped a hand to her mouth because she had said that aloud.

She clenched her hand on her skirt. If this woman wasn’t the queen, Seo-ryeong would have said worse.

The queen was amused. She knew it was a breach of protocol, and she knew Seo-ryeong was embarrassed about it. “I don’t know. I was just curious about those dates. Don’t do it again.”

Seo-ryeong blinked at her some more.

“I want to stay here. I want to work here. There are things you and I can do. I think you’ll do it so well and you can teach me so much. So I might need to invite you to the palace. And you can certainly invite yourself over. But don’t ever push Lady Noh again. If she says the king or I or both of us aren’t home, believe her.”

Seo-ryeong was stunned. If she were queen, she’d guard the palace against all women. She grasped at something she could parry. “Why wouldn’t you stay here? Where else would you go?”

The queen just smiled at her, a smile that reached those eyes, making them shine. People had said the queen had speaking eyes. Seo-ryeong had scoffed. But she was seeing those eyes now. “Exactly. Where else should I be?”

The emotion and conviction in that answer reached Seo-ryeong in some deep part of her heart that also twinged when she spent too much time with Seo-gyeong.

She should call Seo-gyeong.

The program started and she and the queen paid attention. There were speeches both dull and interesting, a slideshow presentation that was more like a well-cut film, and then the ribbon cutting. And then it was done and the pathetic members of the media stood milling around the dais pretending they weren’t waiting for the queen to stand and give them photos.

The queen turned to her. “Shall we?”

At this point, Seo-ryeong was curious enough to take on whatever this strange person threw in her court. She knew the inner workings of the palace enough to know she wouldn’t be curious for long. They’d tell her what she needed to know when she needed to know.

She stood with the queen and walked to the dais, letting the queen walk two steps ahead. She’d avoided appearances with the queen for this reason. But to her surprise, following precedence for this strange woman didn’t grate on her as she’d thought it would.

As they stood there and the woman did that annoying chin tuck again, she said, “Thank you for the compliment of the invitation to the palace, Your Majesty.”

They smiled at the cameras. Flash exploded in multiple bursts and she soon couldn’t see much.

But she felt small hands come around her.

“I think you’d do perfectly at the ICC. But don’t leave just yet. You’re awesome and you’re needed here.”

Seo-ryeong found her arm going around the smaller woman’s shoulders--protocol be damned-- and she smiled. Really smiled.

__________________________________________

A/N: You know I’ve always loved that Tae-eul saw Seo-ryeong for her awesomeness. I really loved that.

No melodrama jealousy, only that fun-cute jealousy for Gon’s phantom dates at that riverside picnic spot. Lol. But for a real flesh-and-bone woman Corea actually shipped with Gon, Tae-eul only saw her achievements.

And as for Koo Seo-ryeong, there’s something really sad about her being pretty high up in the land but still needing, wanting to be queen. I always saw it as more than greed. She saw it as the pinnacle of accomplishment, since no one seems to see what she already accomplished.

She had fans, sure. I think Corea also loved her enough to elect her. But to her peers, she was actually being called out that her party had placed her in power in a meeting that was about the country, not the party. FFS.

It’s like they don’t see her. Years and years of that probably made inroads into her pride and self-esteem.

And during that meeting after the neck kiss, I really hated how misogynistic the lot of them were. There was not a single rational person in that party-- this is after they’ve seen PM Koo during the Japan skirmish, too.

No acknowledgment. To them, the PM just became this one-dimensional social climber/fish shop daughter who wanted to be queen and was currently sulking because someone else was going to be queen. KES just used the whole lot of them to try to underline that we should hate PM Koo, too. Badly done.

Anyway, Lee Lim being out of the picture means PM Koo doesn’t get corrupted by Lee Lim. So I don’t see why she became a corrupt assemblywoman, and that was also with a sweet adopted sister like Seo-gyeong to keep her grounded too! It didn’t make sense. I thought having a sister meant PM Koo wouldn’t be so full of herself lol, since her mother wouldn’t be spoiling her? But then next we saw her she was in prison! Wat asdjhfalkdjfhlajh

So in my head, PM Koo stays in Corea, still being a bossbitch PM and chewing incompetent asses, and then she meets this new queen who has the face of her sister.

And this queen saw her push an old lady-- which is admittedly evil-- but ALSO saw her for what she was-- someone awesome, someone who could teach the queen, someone they needed.

She was.

#CoreaFiction #the king eternal monarch #the king: eternal monarch #jeong tae eul #koo seo ryeong #lee gon #TKEM #TKEM fan fic

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alarawriting · 4 years

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Writeober #4: Loud

The children were playing. It was toy hour, so they had out Legos, and dolls, and wooden trains, all that sort of thing. Quiet, by the standards of an orphanage. A couple of Eights were reading, an activity they preferred to playing with toys. Children’s babble filled the air, but not the shrieks they made when they played outside.

And then Jayden started screaming, almost painfully loudly. “I want my mommy! I want my mommy!”

Laurie ran to him and gathered him into her arms. “Oh, Jayden, I know,” she said, rocking him. “I know, honey, I know. But she’s not here.”

Jayden was a Four who had just been surrendered a few weeks ago. “Where is she? I want to see her! I want my mommy!” He thrashed in Laurie’s arms, but the limiter prevented him from exerting any more strength than a normal four-year-old child.

“Sweetie, I’m so sorry. But this is your home now, and any day now, a new mommy or daddy might come through that door and see you and say ‘What a beautiful, wonderful little boy! We want him for our own little boy!’ and take you to a new home with them, and they’ll be your mommy or daddy.”

“I don’t want a new mommy! I’ll kick the new mommy!” Jayden howled. “I want my mommy!”

“I know, sweetie,” Laurie said, sadly. It was all she could say. It was all she could say to any of them.

Several others started crying for their own mommies and daddies. Basil, who’d been in the back working on the finances, came out to help, and the other childcare workers moved around the playroom, soothing children. In her mind, Laurie damned to hell the men and women who’d abandoned these children. How could they do that? How could anyone do that to a child?

But humans weren’t designed to have children who never aged, who lived 40-50 years and grew more knowledgeable but never substantially more mature. Laurie loved the Calvin children desperately, and wanted to save all of them, and if she had been queen of the world she would have made their continued manufacture illegal and had everyone involved in creating and marketing them arrested. There shouldn’t be any more Calvin children coming into the world; it was far too terrible a place for them.

At that, it was better than it had been when Laurie was younger. In her freshman year at college, her roommate Kathy had recruited her in a panic to help her save her little brother, an Eight. Like most families who bought them, Kathy’s had gotten a Calvin child when they’d had no children of their own, but then Kathy’s dad had undergone an experimental fertility treatment, and for him, it had worked. Turned out down the road to cause prostate and testicular cancer, but he’d managed to get his wife pregnant with a healthy baby.

Kathy’s brother had fallen in love with the new baby, playing with her and cooing at her and taking care of her, even learning to change diapers and feed her a bottle. So her parents had kept him, for the help he gave them with her. By the time Kathy was old enough that they didn’t need him to watch her anymore, she’d been so attached to him they hadn’t been able to get rid of him. He’d been Kathy’s older brother that she looked up to, and then her peer that she played with, and then the little brother she protected.

In those days the Calvin Corporation had only leased Calvin Children; you couldn’t buy them. It was intended as a measure to protect the children from abuse, but it almost guaranteed that if parents had their own child, or grew tired of a child who never aged, or were tight on money and needed to cut costs, they would stop leasing, returning the Calvin child to the corporation… where their memories would be wiped, and they’d either be sent on to a new home, or destroyed if they couldn’t be leased. So Kathy’s parents had waited until she was out of the house, at college, and then returned her brother to the corporation. If her brother hadn’t been a model with an internal cell phone antenna, and been able to call Kathy for help, she’d have lost him forever.

As it was, Kathy and Laurie and Basil had had to drive five hundred miles and jump through flaming hoops to get little David back before the mindwipe. As college students without money, they didn’t have the funds to lease him; Kathy pretended to be her mom, got the contract re-activated, and then Basil jailbroke David, replacing his internal antenna with a new one that wouldn’t report his whereabouts to the Calvin Corporation, allowing them to effectively “steal” him. And even then, he’d had to dye his hair, alter his skin tone, and wear glasses he didn’t need and put a thick sole insert in one of his shoes to throw off his gait so recognition software couldn’t find him.

It hadn’t been until ten years later that Kathy, Laurie, Basil and their friends had won the court case that made it possible to purchase Calvin children outright, and with depreciation, and Kathy working at a law firm, and Basil’s IT job, they’d had the funds to buy him, so he’d be safe. He lived with Kathy and Kathy’s girlfriend Imani, and took care of his niece and nephew when Kathy and Imani were at work. They were currently three and five. David was an Eight. Eventually they’d catch up to him and go past him, again, but Kathy owned him outright and loved him tremendously. He was a happy Eight.

The world was full of Calvin children who were not happy.

Parents leased-to-own their children because that was the model Calvin Corporation was currently pushing, with the court order that required them to make full ownership not only available but affordable to their customers. And then, either they had a biological child – most men in the developed world weren’t fertile, but there were plenty of men from all around the world who still had sperm and were selling it, and many men would eventually give in and agree to let their wives buy some so she could have a bio-child at least – or they simply grew tired of a child that never aged. Calvin Children ranged in age from Threes to Tens, but whatever they were, they would be that forever… or at least until their internal battery ran down and their bodies wore out.

(Once, Laurie had gone to visit a brand new care home, for Calvin Children dying of old age. She had never been back. As heartbreaking as it was to deal with children who’d been abandoned by their parents, it was so, so much worse to see those children dealing with their own growing exhaustion and slow decline into death.)

And now, there was a new model of Calvin Child, who could grow older. Their brains were modular, and could be removed from their bodies and put into a new body a year older, every year, updating their firmware in the process to grow more mature – which was costly, but many people were willing to pay. Even if they needed to skip some years, they wanted a child who could grow to adulthood, to take over the family business or help work on a farm or go to college and make something of themselves. No one knew what would happen to the legal framework that allowed people to own Calvin Children once they were “adults”; the fact that Calvin children were chattel didn’t usually conflict with people’s understanding of what adults were allowed to do to their own children. You weren’t allowed to abuse a Calvin child any more than a “real” child, and in general parents of “real” children were allowed to do anything to them that wasn’t abusive.

The only thing you were allowed to do with a Calvin child that you couldn’t do with an organic child was abandon them. People who couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of their Calvin child anymore could return them to the corporation, who would still mind-wipe them and resell them, or, if the thought of their child forgetting everything about them didn’t sit well and they didn’t want to take the risk that the corporation would decide their child was too worn out to resell as used and destroy it, they surrendered them at homes like the one Laurie and Basil ran, where Calvin children would be cared for until an adoptive parent could be found.

Before the new models came out, it wasn’t hard to find adoptive parents. Laurie and Basil charged a pittance for an adoptee, not even enough to cover their costs, mostly because people took better care of things they’d paid for than things that were free. Plenty of people who wanted a Calvin child were happy to give a home to a used one for far less than they’d have paid for a new child, or a used one from Calvin Corp directly. But now that the new models were out… everyone who wanted a Calvin child wanted the kind who could grow up. Laurie had, in desperation, waived the fee, to get someone, anyone in the door to love these children, but no one who could pass the background check had done so in a month.

It burned that she felt like she was lying to Jayden, that maybe there wouldn’t be a new parent for him, that there almost certainly wouldn’t be one in a little while like she was saying. But Jayden was a Four. He wouldn’t understand or appreciate brutal honesty; he needed hope to keep him going. Laurie wasn’t going to lie to him and pretend the mother he remembered, the one he’d spent six years with since his original purchase, would ever come back. But she would try to make him happy, or at least content, to bide his time here until a parent came for him… even if one never did.

Jayden’s sobs wound down. Older children, Eights and Nines and Tens, programmed with an incredibly powerful drive to care for and protect younger children, had reached out to the little ones that Jayden’s outburst had set off, and soothed them, despite their own hearts breaking because their own parents had abandoned them, and they were old enough to know their own parents were never coming back.

“How come she left me here?” Jayden asked, no longer crying, but the streaks of tears still all over his face. They cried, they ate, they pooped, they slept; in all regards but one, Calvin children were virtually indistinguishable from organic children. But it was that one regard – the fact that they’d never grow up – that caused all the problems. “Was I bad?”

“Oh, no, Jayden. You’re a wonderful little boy. It was nothing you did, okay? Nothing you did or could ever do. Your mommy just ran out of money and she couldn’t take care of you anymore.” This was a lie. Jayden’s mother had just been sick of having a four-year-old child for six years. Laurie would never tell any of the children something like that, though.

“I miss her.”

“I know you do. And I know that even if you get a new mommy or daddy to love you and take care of you, you’ll never forget your first mommy, and you’ll always miss her. But there will be a new mommy or daddy someday, and they will love you even more than your first mommy did.” Laurie made prospective parents watch videos of children having meltdowns like Jayden just did, sobbing and begging for their parents to come back, and then impressed on them that this was a lifelong commitment. You were signing on to take care of a Calvin child until you died or they did. Parents who expressed horror or pity or empathic pain for the abandoned children were much more likely to go home with a new member of the family than parents who seemed to shrug it off. Laurie wanted these children to find new homes, but she wanted them to be forever homes, with parents who would never abandon them again.

Laurie stood up. “Now, I think it’s snacktime, kids. Who wants a snack?”

“Me! Me! I want a snack!” children who’d been crying five minutes earlier chorused.

“All right! Everyone take your seats!”

Children were resilient. Even Calvin children. If she couldn’t give them their own mothers, Laurie would be the best mother figure to them she could be. She’d adopt them herself, but there were so many children who needed help, and a mother with too many children was no different from a child care worker in the attention and love she could give each one. Better to be the mother figure of the orphanage and take care of all of them as best she could.

#writeober 2020 #alara's october 2020 prompt fics #tw: child abandonment

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megalony · 4 years

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Answer me

This is a murderer! Ben Hardy imagine requested by @armxni4 which I hope you will all like. I’m very happy to be writing for murderer! Ben again, this is a concept that I love.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogmeddows @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @rogahs-drowse @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls

Murderer! Ben masterlist

Enjoy.

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Turning her head to the left, (Y/n) pressed her burning forehead against the frosted, tinted glass window that felt like a block of ice was resting against her skin. Tears slowly fell from her reddened eyes, mirroring the slow trickles of water paving their way down through the frost on the other side of the glass like she was looking in a mirror.

When she felt his fingertips pressing into her skin and his firm, almost brutal touch on her arm (Y/n) coiled her arm to her chest. Closing her eyes, she pulled her knees up a little as she turned her body to face the door she was desperate to open as soon as the car rolled to a stop. Her shaking hand pressed to the leather handle of the door as she tried to stop the pointless tears from leaving her eyes. She had cried too many times over Ben and what he was capable of and what he did to her and she was tired of it now.

He hadn't even done anything that bad to her this time around, it was simply taking a toll on (Y/n) to have to keep feeling like this. To love yet fear Ben the way she did, it wasn't right but she couldn't bring herself to leave him because she loved him too much.

She could hear him sighing and it made her shudder. Whenever this happened, Ben seemed to expect everything to go back to normal and to act as if this wasn't a big deal or as if he wanted (Y/n) to forget about it. But she wasn't hardwired the same way that Ben was, she couldn't do this and then feel or act like it wasn't anything bad. She didn't have Ben's mindset that allowed him to go around causing havoc and hurting people without his conscience getting in the way to stop him or make him feel guilt.

"Sweetheart, please-"

"Stop it." (Y/n) whispered quietly as she leaned her head on her left hand, pressing her right arm to her chest as she glared out of the frosted window that was only allowing her a limited view of the street the car was turning into. At least they were close to home now. When the driver stopped the car (Y/n) would be inside as quick as she could manage and she wasn't letting Ben follow her.

"Don't be like this, you know how everything works and you know what you did." There was a certain level of calmness and a hint of sadness to Ben's usual monotone, stern voice that made (Y/n) want to scream. He was talking to her like she had broken the law or that she was an adolescent that had done something wrong in school and he was punishing her for that. But the punishments Ben gave out were far worse than anything anyone could imagine and he had no right to hurt (Y/n) like he did and think it was fine or that he could just get away with it.

But (Y/n) was over it.

She knew Ben gave out punishments like giving sweets to children and she dealt with it. She couldn't get involved when he hurt other people but when it came to her, she tried to make him stop. When he punished her, she ignored him or threatened to leave or just simply left and made him think she wasn't coming back. It always annoyed Ben when she gave him the silent treatment or turned away from him and it frustrated and worried him when she walked away so it was as if she was paying him back for what he had done.

But she always came back.

"Talk to me, sweetheart." There was a small pleading tone to his voice but (Y/n) could feel the anger radiating off of him when she didn't acknowledge him. She was stuck in her thoughts to the point she could barely hear him anyway. "(Y/n) don't ignore me."

His words were stern because he was so used to getting his own way with whatever he was doing. He demanded people listened and respected him but when someone didn't do as he asked, Ben didn't know what to do because it didn't normally happen. He especially felt conflicted when it was (Y/n) who didn't listen because he never liked hurting her. He felt pleasure in hurting others, but there was part of him that never wanted to lay a hand on her, but that was never enough to stop him.

Turning her head to the right, (Y/n) sweeped her tired eyes over Ben's frame, noticing how his shoulders were tense. He had his hands clasped together on his lap and his teeth were crunching and rubbing together from how tightly he was pushing his jaw upwards.

She heard how his breathing changed when she turned back to look out of the window as if she was bored with Ben and it annoyed him to no end.

"If you'd of kept out of my work then I wouldn't have had to punish you! You know the fucking rules (Y/n), now can you stop ignoring me?" Ben rubbed at his temple as he slouched in his seat, his burning gaze setting on (Y/n)'s frame but she didn't bother looking at him. It was clear by her posture and her expression that she wasn't enjoying this, she was fed up of it all.

"Whatever." (Y/n) muttered just as the car rolled to a stop outside their shared house.

Uncrossing her legs, (Y/n) inched away from the door so she didn't fall out when she opened it with how close she was sitting on the edge of her seat. She managed to get one foot planted on the floor before she felt Ben leaning over to get to her, his hand suddenly latched around her wrist to stop her from getting out. But his grip wasn't nearly as harsh as it had been an hour ago and when (Y/n) pulled her hand back to her chest, Ben's hand let go of her wrist instantly.

The moment (Y/n) stood on the pavement outside her house, she felt like she was going to be sick.

Her head started to pound and spin around like a washing machine as an awful aching spread through her back and made her body tremble. She leaned her head down when she felt her stomach churning but the need to be sick soon disappeared when she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Come on." There was an unusual gentleness to Ben's tone as his touch was oddly light and loving rather than rough and firm. He held onto her arms, trying to support (Y/n) and keep her upright when she looked like she was going to collapse but he growled in anger when (Y/n) pushed him away.

(Y/n) felt unsteady on her feet but she didn't want Ben's help when he had done this to her. He had pushed her around like a ragdoll, he had forced his fist into her back and bruised her spine, he had knocked her to the ground even if it may not have been on purpose that time. He had hurt her and made her feel like she was crippled and about to pass out, he couldn't do that and then act caring and try to help her like this.

"You're not okay-"

"And whose fault is that? You can't be the problem and then try to be the solution Ben." (Y/n) pulled away from the blond who snarled at her words that were truthful. Ben was the problem, he had punished her because she interfered with his work at the club when all she had tried to do was to help someone who worked for him. Ben punished her for that because he told her time and time again he didn't want her involved with his work. If she wasn't involved then it was safer if the police came sniffing around and it allowed Ben to have complete control.

He couldn't punish her like that and then try and help her and make things better because he had caused the problem in the first place.

Pulling away from him, (Y/n) stumbled down the path to get to the front door, leaning her weight onto the grey wooden door as she got her key out of her pocket. Everything was burning and aching like she was broken in so many places and it was all Ben's fault.

The moment she got inside the house, she had to lean against the wall for support when she felt like her stomach was igniting with pain.

"(Y/n)- just sit down." Ben rested his hands on (Y/n)'s shoulders, trying to help her over to the stairs in front of them so she would sit down but she shook his touch away. He watched her body coil inwards when he slammed his hand into the wall out of frustration, why wouldn't she just listen to him and let him help? He knew he had hurt her but he surely hadn't made her sick, she was beginning to burn up and she was turning pale, Ben hadn't done that to her.

Reaching her hands out, (Y/n) clutched onto the bannister so she could lower herself down onto the third step. Feeling her frame beginning to shake as she leaned over so her head hovered over her knees, her arms still clinging to the bannister as if trying to ground herself to something.

"What have you done?" (Y/n) spat, lifting her head to look at Ben with narrowed but broken eyes that made his face fall. She turned her head away when he pressed his hand to her temple, her throat tightening like she was going to be sick but she knew she wasn't.

"You're burning up, let me take you to hospital-"

"You do and I'll t-tell them you hurt me." (Y/n) didn't want to go to the hospital but at the same time, she didn't feel good. She felt disorientated and her back and stomach were killing her. If Ben even tried to act like the caring partner and take her to the hospital she would tell them where her bruises had come from. She would let them call the police once they found out he had physically hurt her like he had.

"For fuck's sake (Y/n)! Right, Joe will take you, happy?" Ben waved his hand over to Joe who was standing in the doorway, unsure if he was needed anymore today which, clearly he was now.#

(Y/n)'s wary eyes locked with Ben's as he motioned to Joe with his hand because Ben didn't want to stay home with (Y/n) if she was ill or was going to get worse. She didn't look too good right now and Ben knew the kind of damage he could cause. He had tried not to hurt her in a way that would cause lasting damage or do anything other than bruise her but he could never be sure. And right now, something was clearly wrong with her.

"Okay."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What are you doing?" There was a concerned notch in Ben's voice but it was overtaken by a stern tone that implied he didn't want to wait very long for an answer. His eyes narrowed and started to burn into (Y/n)'s frame when she didn't stop what she was doing, she simply continued to pack her things into a duffel bag she had laid out on their shared bed.

Ben had been going out of his mind wondering where she was because she hadn't answered her phone yesterday and when he finally got through to Joe, the frightened guy told Ben that (Y/n) had left the hospital on her own. She had left and Ben didn't know if she was coming back or not because she had seemed so sure yesterday that she didn't want to be around him. He wondered if this time, he had pushed her just a little too far. Now it looks like he was right because she had only just come back and she was packing to go somewhere and she had no plans to leave before now.

When he still didn't receive an answer, Ben walked over to where (Y/n) was hunched over her duffel bag and grabbed her wrists in his hands to stop her when she plainly ignored him. He turned her so she was facing him, his eyes narrowing as he realised she was still ill because she was weak. She didn't fight to get out of his grip and he almost pulled her over with very little force when he turned her to face him. But she didn't lift her head up to look at him, she stared down at his feet because she was trying to annoy him.

"Answer me. Why are you packing up your stuff?"

"I'm leaving you, Ben. You're vile and I don't want anything to do with you anymore." (Y/n) spoke slowly but when she lifted her head to look at him, she looked broken. Her eyes were drained and cracked like glass and her face was rid of any emotions except for repulsion which made him want to scream with the way she was looking at him like that.

"No you're not." His lips curved up at one corner, resembling a lopsided smile as he laughed as if he didn't believe what she was telling him. Ben wasn't letting her go without a fight or an argument in the very least, especially when he couldn't see why she was leaving him.

The moment Ben let go of her wrists to run his hand through his hair, (Y/n) started putting more of her things into her bag until Ben lashed out and threw it onto the floor. Spilling the contents onto the carpet causing (Y/n)'s breath to shake as she felt like crying out of frustration. Her head snapped to look at him but he looked like he wanted to both laugh and cry at the same time.

"Why are you saying that? We both know I've done plenty worse to you and you've always stayed. So I punched you for getting involved where you shouldn't, why leave me now?" Ben spoke so crudely and angrily as he was almost shaking with anger.

He was right. He had done far worse than simply punch (Y/n) and even though those times had been very few, they had still happened and (Y/n) had still stayed with Ben. She had let him do so much worse to her but she had still stuck by him because she loved him. Ben couldn't fathom why she would simply leave now when all he had done was punch her and push her around a little. Considering what he was capable of, he had gone very easy on her this time and he hurt her on very, very few occasions.

When (Y/n) tried to move past Ben to get her bag he shook his head, pushing her back so she stayed where she was causing her to reach her hand out on the bed for support.

"(Y/n) answer me! Why the fuck are you trying to leave me now?!" Ben suddenly shouted, unable to control himself as he closed the distance between them and grabbed (Y/n)'s chin in his hand. His fingers were pushing into her jaw and cheek with bruising force as his hand pulled her chin upwards so she was looking at him as he demanded an answer.

"Because you made me miscarry." (Y/n) wanted her words to come out in a shout of pure hatred and anger, but they came out with a small whisper of pain and denial.

Her eyes burned into his own like they were having a staring match that Ben couldn't win. His eyes narrowed as his upper lip curled upwards causing his lips to part as he started to slowly shake his head. He let go of her chin which caused her head to jolt to the side but her eyes never left Ben's frame as he reeled in the news he couldn't agree with. (Y/n) wasn't pregnant. She never said anything, there had been nothing to indicate that she was pregnant and she never said anything when he punished her yesterday. Surely she would have screamed at him if she was to make sure he didn't hurt the baby... unless she didn't know.

"You weren't... I didn't..." Ben breathed through the words so quietly as he continued to shake his head, taking a few steps away from (Y/n) to keep some distance between them like he didn't trust himself around her anymore.

"I miscarried at the hospital because of your fucking punishment." (Y/n) allowed the tears to fall from her already reddened, sore eyes that were tired of shedding so much saltwater. She was glad Ben hadn't been the one to take her to the hospital because things would have gotten broken and she would have made the nurse call the police on him. (Y/n) would have told the police every little thing about Ben so they locked him away because of what he made her go through yesterday.

"I didn't mean... I didn't know you were pregnant!" Ben started to pull at his hair like he was trying to rip the roots from his head as his breathing started to pick up as if he was drowning and couldn't catch his breaths quick enough.

"Neither did I." (Y/n)'s shoulders started to shake as the tears fell faster from her eyes. She didn't know until the nurse told her yesterday that she was going through a miscarriage. (Y/n) would have wanted the baby, she didn't know if Ben would have but she certainly would. She would have left Ben if she needed to in order to make sure the baby would have been okay.

She didn't know about them until it was too late.

"I'm not staying with you Ben... not now you've done this." (Y/n) slowly shook her head before she walked past him and leaned down to grab her bag. She couldn't stay with Ben knowing that he was the reason she had lost her baby. She couldn't be with him now. He had put her through too much for (Y/n) to be able to carry on as if everything was fine when it wasn't.

A sob escaped (Y/n)'s lips when Ben wrapped his arms around her and pulled her away from the bag. He wasn't letting her leave, not know he knew what he had done to her. He punished her so she wouldn't act against him but if he'd of known he never would have laid a hand on her. That was Ben's child too and he would never want to harm his own child or (Y/n) if she was carrying his baby. That wasn't how Ben worked.

"You can't leave me. I-If I'd of known I never would have hurt you I swear." Ben held (Y/n) against his chest as she writhed to try and get out of his grip. He was being sincere but it was too little too late. He had already done the damage to her, he couldn't reverse what he had done and he couldn't make up for it either.

"You shouldn't have done it in the first place! You shouldn't hurt me even if I'm not p-pregnant." (Y/n) tipped her head down as she thrust her elbow into Ben's stomach to try and get him to release her. She planted her hands down on the bed when she managed to get him off of her but he simply grabbed her again and spun her around to face him.

"I didn't... I didn't even- I punched your back..."

(Y/n) had never seen Ben so conflicted about hurting her or anyone else like this before. He was always sure about what he had done to people and he was never guilty and he never felt sorry about his actions. It just hurt that it had taken her losing a child to get him to feel guilt and to rethink what he had done.

"You knocked me over." There was so much pain in (Y/n)'s eyes as she tipped her head to the side as realisation dawned on Ben. He had pushed her around and knocked her into the desk in his office which caused her to collapse onto the floor. But she hadn't screamed out in pain or held her stomach in agony or even implied he had hurt her when she fell. He didn't mean to knock her over, he meant to push her but not to force her to the ground and she had been fine right until they got in the car to come back home yesterday. That was when she seemed to become ill.

"I didn't mean to."

The moment Ben locked (Y/n) in his arms, she felt tears falling from his eyes and soaking into her skin when he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She became immobile, unsure what she was meant to do because Ben never felt emotions like this and he never cried, especially not because of something he had done. He killed people for a living and he showed no remorse... but this was his own child he had caused to die.

"Ben-"

"You're not leaving me... not now."

He wouldn't let her go, not now he knew what damage he had done. But if she stayed, what other damage would he do?

#ben hardy #ben x reader #ben hardy imagine #imagine #murderer! ben #borhap #joe mazzello

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boundlesshart · 4 years

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how royal succession works in Almyra + Other Things about almyra that’s been rattling in my head since that nintendo dream interview laid waste on my crops

hi, so after reading M’s @ladamedepique drabble about a concubine war kid getting kmarted, i realized that what i actually want to write is the Everything i’ve been thinking about since this nintendo dream interview came out back in march. so i did. it’s 2am and im hungry.

i realize that it’s been a while, so the summary of that interview’s impact on my claude headcanons is “my handcrafted claude backstory that i had to write myself bc intsys decided fuck claude is now irreversibly fucked by the introduction of a bunch of half-siblings he had to be rivals with.” if you ever catch yourself wondering why this is such a mess, well because that’s exactly what this is! this is all subject to change, it’s same kind of “haphazard and bizarrely long half-baked headcanon report” that my dlc thought train was. i’ve changed my mind at least 20 times during this process i will change it again

i’d like to thank zotero for holding all of my journal articles and pdfs on the ottomans and their succession system, and also magnificent century og and kosem, while not being totally historically accurate, for being a fun soap opera to give me some visuals to work with in my head. i now have a positive understanding of what claude’s shitty little beard could realistically look like, which is a gift that i never thought i would have.

Almyran Succession

All of the king’s children, regardless of if they were born in or out of wedlock, is considered a legitimate prince or princess. This is pretty much the only title that they can expect to have, as they and their mothers cannot inherit any lands, titles or wealth that would have been passed to them from their own families. Almyran property law aims to avoid partitioning property between multiple heirs for the sake of maintaining the family’s financial stability. The throne of Almyra works under the same principle, which had led to the introduction, legalization, and practice of open succession.

Open succession, despite its potential to be cruel, is viewed as a necessary step to ensure that the throne would only be held by strong leaders chosen by the people (”people” ending up being the higher-ranking officials that would benefit from a specific child’s ascension). If they proved to be lacking, they would simply be deposed of and replaced.

What determines who becomes the next ruler of Almyra is not whether a child is the oldest of all the children, but if they and their allies have the political acumen to not only claim kingship but keep it, fighting off their rival brothers and sisters.

All sons and unmarried daughters are eligible to rule Almyra. By law is not only the next ruler’s right but duty to remove other potential heirs to secure their right to rule and the stability of their reign. Generally upon a ruler’s ascension to the throne, their brothers will be killed and their sisters married off or killed if they threaten their siblings’ rule. Exceptions have been made in the past, but they are few and far in between and have led to succession crises down the road.

The previous ruler’s choice for an heir is usually accepted after their death, and ideal for minimizing the interregnum period. Even so, it doesn’t guarantee that the heir will be able to keep the throne.

Ok, but where do the kids come from?

Rulers of Almyra are allowed to have multiple spouses, but they usually only marry for political purposes.

The vast majority of children are mothered or fathered by concubines with no background of political power, which is preferred. Princes and princesses are allowed to have children once they leave the palace (to prove that they can have them), but if they have too many they may be considered a threat to the king and dealt with appropriately.

I think the one mother-one child rule would have been in place here, not necessarily as a law but as a rule enforced by other spouses and concubines, as well as the ruler’s mother or father.

Princes and princesses aren’t dropping like flies, and murdering them without having the law on your side is considered treason of the highest order. They’re still aware of their competition and fear being murdered when one of their siblings takes the thrones, so few end up becoming friends.

Children are ultimately their mother’s or father’s responsibility. They are expected to guide them through their education and follow them to their provincial post when they are old enough, setting them up for success and paving their path to the throne. King and Queen Dowagers have been incredibly influential in Almyran history and support their children by representing them politically and managing their spouses and concubines.

Ok, whatever, just tell me what’s relevant to Claude:

Ibrahim, Claude’s father, became the king of Almyra only after 5 year civil war between himself and his two remaining brothers. He got to the throne first and is still feared for the ruthless execution of even his youngest brothers and sisters.

In all, Ibrahim has had 2 wives and 12 concubines, and he has fathered 10 sons and 6 daughters. A few died to childhood illnesses but most made it to at least 13 years old. He’s a doting father and cares for their well-being, though only when he happens to see them. Though he was a constant presence in Claude’s life, his half-siblings usually only saw him during holidays.

No one in Almyra knows that Tiana is the daughter of Duke Riegan, for all they know she’s a Fódlaner that King Ibrahim brought back with him after a short border strife with the Leicester Alliance. Obviously she goes by another name in Almyra, and here is where I think I’m going to bring back the first name I had for her, Desdemona. Suck it, intsys. She wasn’t liked when she first came due to being from Fódlan, and was accused of witchcraft when Ibrahim married her and devoted himself to her at the expense of his other wives as concubines. As the herd of children and concubines thinned, Tiana’s strong personality and battle prowess garnered her respect among the top officials of the Almyran court and even her enemies.

In Fódlan Year 1175, rebels infiltrate the palace walls and kill over a dozen people, from palace servants to princes and princesses. In the moment it was believed to be part of a revolt that was ongoing in the capital at the time and carried out by rebels storming the palace walls and stealing and killing whatever came in their way. After an investigation, it was discovered that that was just a cover up for.... a noble Almyran house trying to make a power grab through either an older son or with their own heir? I’ve been working out the details on this for months and I still don’t have them ironed out don’t look at me. It ends with a couple of older half-sibs dying but more importantly Claude’s older and younger brother dying and Claude nearly dying himself, only to survive with the Crest of Riegan. I imagine that there have been instances before hinted at him having the Crest of Riegan, but it was this incident that confirmed it for Tiana.

These are the notable royal family members, or the ones I’ve spent at least one second thinking of:

King Ibrahim II of Almyra: Claude’s dad, born Fódlan year 1131 so 19 when he ascends the throne. He is feared but respected, brutal to his enemies, firm with his allies... but you’d be surprised by how easygoing he actually is with friends and family. He’s young at heart and energetic, even laughing at jokes made at his expense, but only in very close company. He loves writing poetry, especially to Tiana, and he frequently sends her love letters so that one can be read out to her every morning and evening when her mail is given to her. Relishes the thrill of battle. Nader introduced him to kumis back when they were boys and to this day Ibrahim regularly drinks a glass each night, claiming it makes him stronger.

There’s a tradition in the royal family that all princes and princesses must learn a trade in case that they fall into misfortune. Ibrahim enjoys goldsmithing when he is alone, a good distraction from his thoughts. Claude’s earring is part of a set given to his mother, crafted by his father as a gift.

Tiana von Riegan/Desdemona: Claude’s mom, born Fódlan year 1135. Claude calls her a warrior goddess and a demon queen that would laugh at his expense, I imagine that she’s in that “dead serious but good humored about it” boat like Claudedad, but less sappy about it. A tough but loving mother, she was very involved in her children’s upbringing and did her best to secure their place in the royal family. She doesn’t teach any of her kids the Fódlanguage because she was distancing herself from That, but Claude is able to convince her to help him learn (though she was reluctant about it and limited their lessons greatly, forcing him to teach himself mostly). She has firmly decided to never return to Fódlan, but a cup of Leicester Cortania is her guilty pleasure. These days Tiana spends her time at her husband’s side in Maragheh, keeping up with her training.

Two older half-brothers: So Claude’s endings have him as heir to the throne without a mention of rivals, but part of me feels like that’s too simple for Claude considering he just up and walked out of there 7 years ago so here we are, two rivals. They’re probably early to mid 30s at this point and have one or two small children of their own. I don’t know their names yet, but my initial ideas are a “nice” brother cool calculated pushing up glasses kind of dude that is actually a huge dick and a chad dudebro who’s just trying to distance himself from these bad vibes.

If I had to give them trades, nice brother likes to fish and sails for pleasure (he governs a coastal province) and chad brother carves wooden thumbrings.

Orhan: Claude’s older brother, born Fódlan Year 1160. He was conceived months before Tiana went to Almyra (born 5 months after she arrived), so his parentage has been in doubt from day 1. I imagine him as having low self-esteem since he was believed to be a full-blooded Fódlaner, discriminated against in a similar way or worse than what the rest of his siblings went through. Historians would later debate whether or not he was actually Ibrahim’s son.... but we’re not historians, and Orhan was definitely his son. Died in the FY1175 uprising at the age of 15.

No idea what he looked like, he just happened to not look like his parents. His favorite food was salted cod, but he was rarely able to get it. Orhan enjoyed playing the violin.

Claude/Khalid: You know him, you love him, born Fódlan Year 1162 under another name. He’s the only kid that ended up getting the Crest of Riegan, and after one too many accidents where that crest ended up proccing, he’s been accused of practicing witchcraft like his mother. I think this would be a better like, concrete thing for the Almyrans to fixate on rather than a general “you’re half-Fódlan rahhh” and I think it would definitely go with Claude talking about how he was constantly fighting and explaining himself to get out of trouble.

If I’m going with the “kids can only inherit from the ruler of Almyra”, then I’m gonna have to figure out how Claude fits into this. His first move is to probably bullshit a loophole about how actually the Dukedom of Riegan doesn’t exist anymore and I may have destroyed Failnaught after the final battle so technically I didn’t really inherit anything that would give me an edge in Almyran politics. :). Ibrahim is pissed at Claude for going to Fódlan in the first place and getting caught up in a war and he definitely did not sign off on Nader bringing Almyran troops into a war that they have no business being involved in. The first thing Ibrahim does when Claude returns to Maragheh is shout at him and ground him to his apartment in the palace. And then proceed to assign Claude to a governmental post so that he’s out of his sight.

As an aside, I imagine that when Ibrahim dies and Claude rises to the throne, he deliberately delays his coronation so that it coincides with the Almyran New Year. It;s that kind of inconvenient dick move that he would delight in making bc symbolism.

You know what he looks like, in terms of food he strays away from sugary sweet stuff and towards meat and cheese. I’d like to think that he gains a genuine interest in gardening (like, beyond just cultivating poisonous plants as a cover for “gardening”) during his time in Fódlan and brings back different seedlings and scions for grafting back to Almyra.

Mehmet and Rahimah: Twins, born Fódlan Year 1164. Ok so basically I kind of wanted a dead sibling that was around Cyril and Lysithea’s age for the Drama of it (bc I thought of Claude looking at Cyril and thinking of his brother and immediately went “That hurts. Let’s do it”). But I ALSO thought what if Claude had a little sister, and then I ALSO thought what if Claude has a new full-blooded sibling that got conceived during the five year war, like the shittiest surprise. I’ve combined all those ideas into the twins.

First of all, they have more function than personality. Mehmet only exists to die during the uprising, but I’m starting to like Rahimah bc like... she literally loses most of her brothers including her twin, and then Claude up and leaves her for Fódlan (a place she has little connection to, regardless of her mother). Her only remaining sibling is gone for years, misses seven birthdays, her wedding with an Almyran general, the birth of her first child and the announcement of her second... like, by the time Claude comes back to Almyra she hates his guts and you know what? She’s right! I imagine Rahimah angry, but also grasping for literally any kind of deep and long-lasting relationship at this point. She loves her kids fiercely, she loves her husband, and even though they have their struggles she's still very close to her mom. Fuck her no-show brother Khalid, and fuck Fódlan for taking him away from her.

No idea what Mehmet looks like, like I said he only exists to die. Rahimah is shorter than Claude at maybe 5′4, round-faced and carrying herself gracefully. She’s lactose intolerant but she bears the pain for the sake of eating ice cream, and her husband goes to great lengths to get the ice for her. Likes to sing and dance with her son Ömer.

#headcanon #to sleep

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newstfionline · 3 years

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Wednesday, October 28, 2020

Pair of studies confirm there is water on the moon (Washington Post) There is water on the moon’s surface, and ice may be widespread in its many shadows, according to a pair of studies published Monday in the journal Nature Astronomy. The research confirms long-standing theories about the existence of lunar water that could someday enable astronauts to live there for extended periods. One scientific team found the telltale sign of water molecules, perhaps bound up in glass, in a sunlit region. Another group estimated the widespread prevalence of tiny shadowed pockmarks on the lunar landscape, possible shelter for water ice over an area of 15,000 square miles. Moon water has been eyed as a potential resource by NASA, which created a program named Artemis in 2019 to send American astronauts back to the moon this decade. Launching water to space costs thousands of dollars per gallon.

Colleges Slash Budgets in the Pandemic, With ‘Nothing Off-Limits’ (NYT) Ohio Wesleyan University is eliminating 18 majors. The University of Florida’s trustees this month took the first steps toward letting the school furlough faculty. The University of California, Berkeley, has paused admissions to its Ph.D. programs in anthropology, sociology and art history. As it resurges across the country, the coronavirus is forcing universities large and small to make deep and possibly lasting cuts to close widening budget shortfalls. By one estimate, the pandemic has cost colleges at least $120 billion, with even Harvard University, despite its $41.9 billion endowment, reporting a $10 million deficit that has prompted belt tightening. Though many colleges imposed stopgap measures such as hiring freezes and early retirements to save money in the spring, the persistence of the economic downturn is taking a devastating financial toll, pushing many to lay off or furlough employees, delay graduate admissions and even cut or consolidate core programs like liberal arts departments. “We haven’t seen a budget crisis like this in a generation,” said Robert Kelchen, a Seton Hall University associate professor of higher education who has been tracking the administrative response to the pandemic. “There’s nothing off-limits at this point.”

Thousands Forced to Evacuate From California Fires (NYT) Two firefighters were gravely injured and tens of thousands of Californians were forced to flee their homes on Monday as two new fires ripped through Orange County. About 90,800 residents in Irvine were put under mandatory evacuation orders because of the Silverado Fire and the smaller Blue Ridge Fire, said Shane Sherwood, a division chief for the Orange County Fire Authority. High winds and low humidity fueled the fires’ rapid growth. About 4,000 firefighters were fighting 22 wildfires across the state on Monday, according to Cal Fire, the state’s fire agency. As evening approached, the Silverado Fire had burned about 7,200 acres and the Blue Ridge Fire 3,000 acres. Later Monday night, the Orange County Fire Authority said that the Blue Ridge Fire had grown to 6,600 acres

Why N.Y.C.’s Economic Recovery May Lag the Rest of the Country’s (NYT) New York, whose diversified economy had fueled unparalleled job growth in recent years, is now facing a bigger challenge in recovering from the pandemic than almost any other major city in the country. More than one million residents are out of work, and the unemployment rate is nearly double the national average. The city had tried to insulate itself from major downturns by shifting from tying its fortunes to the rise and fall of Wall Street. A thriving tech sector, a booming real estate industry and waves of international tourists had helped Broadway, hotels and restaurants prosper. But now, as the virus surges again in the region, tourists are still staying away and any hope that workers would refill the city’s office towers and support its businesses before the end of the year is fading. As a result, New York’s recovery is very likely to be slow and protracted, economists said. “This is an event that struck right at the heart of New York’s comparative advantages,” said Mark Zandi, chief economist for Moody’s Analytics, a Wall Street research firm. “Being globally oriented, being stacked up in skyscrapers and packed together in stadiums: The very thing that made New York New York was undermined by the pandemic, was upended by it.”

Asylum-Seekers Face Violent ICE Coercion (Foreign Policy) U.S. immigration officers have threatened, pepper-sprayed, beaten, and choked asylum-seekers from Cameroon to coerce them to sign their own deportation orders, the Guardian reports. A coalition of advocacy groups, including the Southern Poverty Law Center, filed a complaint earlier this month describing a “pattern of coercion” by ICE agents at a Mississippi detention center that it called “tantamount to torture.” According to multiple accounts in the complaint, immigration officials used the coercive tactics to compel detainees to sign documents that would waive their rights to further immigration hearings. At least one individual was hospitalized as a result. One man, identified by the initials C.A., described how officers broke his fingers as they sought to force his fingerprint onto a document. “Officers grabbed me, forced me on the ground, and pepper-sprayed my eyes. … I was crying, ‘I can’t breathe,’ because they were forcefully on top of me pressing their body weight on top of me. My eyes were so hot. They dragged me outside by both hands,” said the individual, who was prevented from speaking to his lawyer before signing the document. C.A. was placed on a deportation flight on Oct. 13 but was one of two Cameroonians pulled off the plane moments before takeoff, as an investigation had begun into the allegations of abuse. At least 100 asylum-seekers, including many from Cameroon and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, were deported on the same flight. For two consecutive years, the Norwegian Refugee Council has deemed Cameroon the world’s most neglected displacement crisis due to an insurgency in the north and a brutal government crackdown on two English-speaking separatist regions. Since 2016, the two conflicts have killed over 3,000 people and displaced more than 700,000.

Belgium’s former King meets estranged daughter for first time (Reuters) Belgium’s former King Albert has met his daughter Delphine for the first time, after she won a seven-year legal battle to prove that he is her father, earning recognition as a princess. The two met Albert’s wife, Queen Paola, last Sunday at their royal residence, the Belvedere castle, in the Brussels suburb of Laeken, the royal household said on Tuesday. “This Sunday October 25, a new chapter has opened, filled with emotions, calm, understanding and also hope,” the king, the queen and Delphine said in a statement. “Our meeting took place at the Belvedere Castle, a meeting during which each of us was able to express, calmly and with empathy, our feelings and our experiences.” “After the turmoil, the wounds and the suffering, comes the time for forgiveness, healing and reconciliation. This is the path, patient and at times difficult, that we have decided to take resolutely together.” Delphine Boel, 52, a Belgian artist, fought a seven-year legal battle to prove that the former king is her father. After a DNA test confirmed that, a court granted her the title of princess earlier this month. Albert, 86, who abdicated six years ago in favour of his son Philippe, had long contested Boel’s claim.

Germany cautions Thai king (Foreign Policy) Pro-democracy protesters in Thailand marched on the German Embassy in Bangkok to deliver a letter asking German authorities to investigate whether King Maha Vajiralongkorn “has conducted Thai politics using his royal prerogative from German soil or not.” German Foreign Minister Heiko Maas, speaking from Berlin, said the German government was “examining” the issue “and if there are things we feel to be unlawful, then that will have immediate consequences.”

Belarus Opposition Calls General Strike, as Protesters Gird for Long Fight (NYT) When Belarusians took to the streets in the hundreds of thousands in August, after Mr. Lukashenko claimed a re-election victory that was widely seen as fraudulent, many predicted that it was only a matter of days or weeks until the longtime authoritarian leader stepped down. Instead, Mr. Lukashenko and the large swath of the public that is arrayed against him have settled into a drawn-out test of wills, with their country’s future on the line. Protesters continue to turn out in the tens of thousands every Sunday, chanting “Go away!” and waving the white-red-white flag of the opposition. Mr. Lukashenko responds with waves of crackdowns by the police and, backed by Russia, appears determined to wait the protests out. “In such a tense situation, absolutely anything could turn out to be the trigger that topples the system,” said Artyom Shraibman, a Minsk-based nonresident scholar at the Carnegie Moscow Center. “It could end in the course of a week, or it might not die for a year. No revolution has ever gone according to plan.” The authorities’ use of violence to try to put down the protests appears to be escalating, further feeding the anger in Belarusian society. It was a bout of severe police violence early in the uprising that supercharged the protests.

World’s largest IPO shows power of mobile payments in China (Washington Post) Go to a store, hop in a taxi, or even stop by a street peddler’s cart in China, and you will see QR codes strung up on colorful laminated squares. These mobile payment codes are the default way money changes hands in China these days, and the reason Ant Group’s initial public offering is set to be the world’s largest. China’s Ant Group—the Alibaba spinoff behind the ubiquitous blue QR payment codes across the world’s second-largest economy—announced plans on Monday to raise more than $34 billion in a joint listing across Shanghai and Hong Kong. This would trounce last year’s listing of oil titan Saudi Aramco, the reigning IPO champion. Mobile payments have replaced cash and credit cards in China as the preferred payment method, thanks to easy-to-use apps made by Ant Group and its closest rival Tencent. Ant Group’s Alipay and Tencent’s WeChat Pay are similar in spirit to wildly popular U.S. stock trading app Robinhood, in that they are user-friendly enough that anyone with a smartphone and bank account can make complicated financial transactions with a click or swipe.

China sanctions U.S. weapons manufacturers (Foreign Policy) China will impose sanctions on three U.S.-based weapons manufacturers after the U.S. State Department approved the sale of $1.8 billion worth of weapons and equipment to Taiwan last Wednesday. Chinese Foreign Ministry spokesman Zhao Lijian said the sanctions were necessary “in order to uphold national interests.” It’s not yet clear what form the sanctions will take. More sanctions could soon be on the way, as the State Department approved a further $2.37 billion in weapons sales to Taiwan on Monday.

Vietnam evacuating low-lying areas as strong typhoon nears (AP) Vietnam scrambled Tuesday to evacuate more than a million people in its central lowlands as a strong typhoon approached while some regions are still dealing with the aftermath of recent killer floods, state media said. Typhoon Molave is forecast to slam into Vietnam’s south central coast with sustained winds of up to 135 kilometers (84 miles) per hour on Wednesday morning, according to the official Vietnam News Agency. The typhoon left at least 3 people dead and 13 missing and displaced more than 120,000 villagers in the Philippines before blowing toward Vietnam. Prime Minister Nguyen Xuan Phuc ordered provincial authorities late Monday to prepare to evacuate about 1.3 million people in regions lying on the typhoon’s path. Phuc expressed fears that Molave, the latest disturbance to threaten Vietnam this month, could be as deadly as Typhoon Damrey, which battered the country’s central region in 2017 and left more than a hundred people dead.

Vaccines, not spy planes: U.S. misfires in Southeast Asia For months, by Zoom calls and then by jet, Indonesian ministers and officials scoured the world for access to a vaccine for the coronavirus that Southeast Asia’s biggest country is struggling to control. This month, their campaign paid off. Three Chinese companies committed 250 million doses of vaccines to the archipelago of 270 million people. A letter of intent was signed with a UK-based company for another 100 million. Absent from these pledges: the United States. Not only was it not promising any vaccine, but months earlier the United States shocked Indonesian officials by asking to land and refuel its spy planes in the territory, four senior Indonesian officials told Reuters. This would reverse a decades-long policy of strategic neutrality in the country. Washington’s campaign to buttress its influence in the region—part of its escalating global rivalry with China—has been misfiring, say government officials and analysts.

Bomb at seminary in Pakistan kills 8 students, wounds 136 (AP) A powerful bomb blast ripped through an Islamic seminary on the outskirts of the northwest Pakistani city of Peshawar on Tuesday morning, killing at least eight students and wounding 136 others, police and a hospital spokesman said. The bombing happened as a prominent religious scholar during a special class was delivering a lecture about the teachings of Islam at the main hall of the Jamia Zubairia madrassa, said police officer Waqar Azim. The attack comes days after Pakistani intelligence alerted that militants could target public places and important buildings, including seminaries and mosques across Pakistan, including Peshawar.

Hopes for peace in Libya (Foreign Policy) The two main factions in Libya’s civil war agreed to a nationwide cease-fire at U.N.-backed talks in Geneva on Friday. Previous attempts to broker an end to the yearslong conflict have failed, but the new agreement has cautiously raised hopes that it will lay the groundwork for a peace deal. The cease-fire, signed by the Tripoli-based Government of National Accord and Gen. Khalifa Haftar’s Libyan National Army, calls for all front-line forces to return to their bases and all mercenaries and foreign troops to withdraw within three months. The Libyan conflict has drawn in a multitude of international players, including Russia, Turkey, Egypt, and the United Arab Emirates. Their actions in the coming months could make or break the cease-fire.

#headlines #news

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momentofmemory · 5 years

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fictober - day twenty

Prompt #20: “You could talk about it, you know.”

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe - Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Netflix Marvel (Daredevil)

Warnings: Religious Imagery

Characters: Peter Parker & Matt Murdock, Quentin Beck (mentioned)

Words: 2177

Author’s Note: set immediately post the spider-man: far from home mid credits scene (so, spoilers). this is a stand alone, but assumes peter & matt have met before and so could live in the same universe as my day 16 fill.

>>Heartbeats on Pier 81

Peter’s face is broadcasted over all of New York, and losing his secret must feel a lot like dying to his mind because Peter sees his life flash before his eyes. Unlike death—and he would know—it’s not the past that he sees, but all the futures he’d hoped for disappearing.

He doesn’t remember much of what happens next. MJ tells him to run, so he does; Happy texts him that May is safe, so she is; a man throws a rotten tomato at his face, so he swings higher. He keeps swinging, as fast and as high as he can, until he leaves Queens and its familiarity behind. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, and only then because when he drops onto Pier 81 he runs out of buildings to leap on.

Peter walks all the way to the end, anyway, then hops over the chain rope fence that separates the walking area from the edge. With nowhere further to go, Peter slumps down and lets his legs trail over the side, greyish water snapping at his feet.

The pier’s not in the shape it once was, thanks to the Blip. The wood creaks ominously under the force of the river’s tides, chains hang limply on the deck instead of around cargo or attached to moored boats, and warehouse-sized shipping containers sit in various stages of rust and disrepair. The important feature in Peter’s mind, however, is that there’s no one around.

He hasn’t had a chance to install Karen in his new suit yet, so it’s quiet as he checks his phone and discovers seventy-three missed calls, one of which is from the New York Times, and a notification informing him that #SpideyParker is trending on Twitter.

Peter looks out over the Hudson and drops his phone into his lap without unlocking it. After a moment, he pulls his mask off and breathes in the unique smell of algae, salt, and diesel oil that only a river running through New York can create.

The tide is high, so the river is flowing out to the north. In a couple of hours the tide will lower and start flowing south, and then a few hours after that, back to the north again. The Hudson’s weird like that: consistent only in that you know it will change.

Peter’s always identified with it in that respect.

He’s not sure how long he stares at the water, thinking about everything and nothing, but it’s still not quite dusk when a lithe shadow drops down behind him. His Peter Tingle doesn’t so much as fizzle, so he doesn’t bother turning around or reaching for his mask.

Not that the last part matters anymore.

It’s probably not healthy, but after Mysterio he’s started relying on sight less and less, so he knows who his visitor is from the sound alone.

“I didn’t know it was legal for Daredevil to be out in the daytime,” he says, the crinkle of leather in Matt’s costume instantly recognizable. “There goes the internet conspiracy that you’re actually a vampire.”

Daredevil hums noncommittally, then lowers himself to the ground beside Peter.

“Spider-Man’s in Hell’s Kitchen, so it seems like a lot of theories are being broken today.” He drops one leg over the edge, bending the other in front of him and resting his elbow against it. “Thought I’d join in on the fun.”

“If you’re looking for fun, you could definitely do better.”

“True, but I’m guessing you can’t.” Matt hesitates. “If you want, I thought you could… Talk. About it.”

Peter leans his head back against a wooden post and closes his eyes. “You know?”

“I’m blind, not deaf.”

It’s stupid, because he knows the news is everywhere by now, but hearing it from another super hero makes it feel so impossibly real.

Matt shifts beside him. “Even if I were both, though, Foggy contacted me the second the broadcast went live. He’s pretty determined we’re going to be your legal team.”

Peter huffs out a laugh, running his hands through his hair. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“His best friend’s a lawyer that spends his nights bloodying his fists on criminals’ faces. I think our firm crossed that line long before you came along.” Matt tilts his head, probably listening to something seven blocks away or something, then carefully takes off his own mask. “But legally speaking, no. None of us have any reason to oppose your case. If anything, you could argue I have a vested interest.”

“Oh.” Peter bites his lip. “Even after…”

He trails off, looking at Matt’s face. He’s seen it before, of course, during the many times he dragged Ned down to the firm to get help with civics homework, but there’s something different about seeing him fully suited up without mask.

It feels honest, somehow—like all of him is on display, but in a good way.

Peter’s own exposure doesn’t feel so good.

He doesn’t know if Matt can tell he’s been staring, but the other man clears his throat. “After what, Peter?”

There are so many things Peter could say about what he means by after. The all-consuming terror he feels for the safety of his family and friends, now that his identity is exposed. How he’d thought he finally had his life back together, only for it to be ripped away so completely and utterly he no longer knows whether he can even go home anymore. The way people looked at him with naked fear or unbridled anger, and how he’s so afraid he’ll never be their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man ever again. That he never asked for it, but he technically really does have access to a billion dollar surveillance network, and it’s probably super illegal and wildly unethical.

But it’s Daredevil he’s talking to, not May or Ned or Happy or even Tony, so he says the one thing that’s been eating away at him for days: the one thing only another vigilante could understand.

“I killed him.”

The words feel disgusting sliding out of his mouth, like his throat and lungs are coated in tar instead of air.

“I didn’t mean to,” he adds, suddenly desperate to let Matt know he didn’t, he didn’t, “but the drones were firing everywhere and I had to stop them, and I—I wasn’t paying attention to where the blasts were going as long as they weren’t hitting me.”

He chokes off, unable to continue. He’s terrified to look at Matt’s face now, afraid of the horror he’ll see.

But Matt just turns the Daredevil mask over in his hands, fingers running almost reverently across the seams. “I think it would be helpful if you started over from the beginning.”

It feels like sucking mud out of his chest at first, but slowly Peter reveals everything that had happened in Europe: Nick Fury showing up in his hotel room, the glasses and Stark’s legacy, the mind screw he’d gone through in Berlin. The train, the fight in London, the fake story Mysterio had created—the one he’d told to Peter, and then the one he’d told to Times Square. Quentin Beck’s body lying on the bridge, pupils constricted and lungs frozen and heart silent.

“…I can’t even bring myself be sad that he’s gone,” Peter finishes, staring into the lens of the mask in his hands so he doesn’t have to look at Matt. “I just feel guilty it had to be me.”

Daredevil doesn’t say anything at first, and Peter thinks he might drown in shame.

Finally, the other man clears his throat.

“As a lawyer,” Matt says, placing his mask on the pier between them, “I can say unquestionably that what you’re describing would be considered self-defense in a court of law. Any jury worth its salt would clear you of charges in under an hour.”

Peter swallows. “And as a fellow vigilante?”

Matt turns his head towards the river, tongue darting out briefly as if to taste it. “Did I ever tell you about the time I threw myself into the Hudson?”

Peter blinks at the apparent non sequitur. “You went in there willingly?”

Matt snorts. “Not exactly. It was early in my career, before I even had a suit. It was the first time I took on Fisk.”

Peter stills—Matt didn’t usually like talking about anything to do with the ex-mob boss.

“I was… angry. Stupid,” Matt says. “Fisk killed someone I cared about, but I wasn’t really interested in justice. I just wanted something to punch. So I tore through a bunch of his men until I found one that knew something; got directions to a pier where he might be at. Pier 81.”

Peter starts in surprise, and suddenly the abandoned shipping containers he’d passed seemed to have a lot more weight to them.

“It was a trap, of course.” Matt’s fingers ghost across his lower abdomen, so lightly Peter thinks he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“And that’s when you jumped in the river?”

“No.” A sigh, and Matt’s hand drifts back down to the wooden slats. “No, that’s when I killed Nobu.”

Peter—Peter doesn’t understand.

Everyone in the New York super hero circle knows that Daredevil doesn’t kill, and Spider-Man more than most. It’s the one thing Matt’s warned him about constantly; always telling him to be wary of his strength and his temper, of the immense importance of giving someone a second chance, and that no matter how evil a person may seem, there’s still a spark of hope in there that he has no right to stamp out.

It’s one of the reasons Peter looks up to Matt so much, despite his brutality, because it’s a mindset none of the other vigilantes or even Avengers share.

“No—no who?” he says, voice strangled.

“Nobu. Nobu Yoshioka.” Matt ran his teeth over his lower lip. “He was a member of Murakami’s faction of the Hand. He also had a kyoketsu-shoge that he was very good at using. …I should probably be dead because of it.”

Peter pales, thinking of all the scars he’d seen on Matt’s torso in the past. He doesn’t like where this is going. “…Why aren’t you?”

“It was a lot like what happened with you and Mysterio, actually.” Peter flinches and looks down at his hands, red in the light of the sunset. “We were fighting; well, at that point I was mostly just trying to survive. I deflected one of his blades without paying attention to where it would ricochet, and it shattered a lamp above him. The sparks caught his robes on fire.”

A shudder runs through Peter, equal parts sympathy and horror. “You couldn’t have known.”

“No, I couldn’t have,” Matt agrees. “I also found out later that he came back to life, making it a moot point.”

Peter’s stomach attempts to turn itself inside out at the thought of having to face Mysterio again, but Matt seems to notice his discomfort.

“Don’t worry. My priest says I can’t recommend that method as a standard way of finding absolution.”

Peter offers him a shaky laugh, and Matt continues.

“I didn’t murder Nobu by any legal definition that night,” he says, “but I went into the situation with a lot of hate, and with the intention of killing someone else. I think that made me more of a murderer than any physical action I could’ve taken.”

He turns towards Peter, his eyes staring vacantly just over Peter’s shoulder. “I don’t think that’s a sin you’re carrying.”

Peter bites his lip, wanting to believe him but unsure how. “But I didn’t try to save him.”

“Clinton Church has confession hours right about now if you’re seeking penance.” There’s a smirk in Matt’s voice, and Peter can’t help but roll his eyes at the man’s persistence. “But if not…”

Peter looks up expectantly.

“If not, then I would ask you this: why don’t you want to kill?”

“Because that’s not my call.” Peter doesn’t have to think about it. “And because I think there’s always the possibility of redemption, for anyone.”

“Anyone, huh?” Matt tilts his head, then smiles. “Your heartbeat is steady.”

Peter frowns, then his mouth widens into an oh.

Anyone means him, too.

Peter pulls his legs up and rests his head on his knees. “Is using your human lie detector skills to make a point really all that ethical?”

“Foggy’s not here to stop me, so yes.” Matt picks his mask up. “But I don’t need it to prove your heart’s in the right place.”

Peter stares at him, expression suddenly so fishlike he’d blend right in with the Hudson.

Then he rapidly yanks his own mask over his face to hide the blush creeping up his neck. He coughs and blinks as the eye lenses readjust to the fading light. “Is that uh, is that your advice as a lawyer or as a vigilante?”

Matt laughs and shakes his head, sliding his mask into place. He stands and offers Peter his hand.

“It’s as a friend.”

#fictober19 #peter parker fic #daredevil fic #mcu fanfic #ffh spoilers #peter parker #matt murdock #tw: religious themes #both matt and peter have really specific opinions on killing #so this was fun to explore #memsfic

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