#but there's this russian woman in class who has an opinion about everything and needs to correct everyone about everything russian | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

onmykneesforhotdilfs · 3 years

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Oooh i'm gonna with #3 please! And Valtor as a bartender.

He truly loathed his job.

The disgusting smell of cheap drinks spilled on the bar mixed with the stench of sweat and cheap perfume, from grinding bodies on the dancefloor and humping barely-legals in the corner, made him nauseous. The music was loud to the point his heartbeat developed arrhythmia whenever a bass boosted song played through the obnoxious sound system. To make matters worse, one of the speakers was set directly above the bar and Valtor was sick of buying earplugs every week, because if he didn’t use any protection, he’s pretty sure he would go deaf before he hit 40 and he once again cursed himself for forgetting them at home.

A particularly high note came on, and the crowd cheered while Valtor cringed as he felt the microscopic hairs in his ears, sensitive to high notes, shrivel up and die. He rolled his eyes as he spotted a tall blonde dragging taller brunette towards the restroom. Apparently, couples basically dry humping each other on the dancefloor and sucking their faces off in the corners wasn’t enough, so universe also decided to throw in a couple about to commit an indecent act in a public bathroom?

He was just about to call one of the bouncers when it hit him – he doesn’t care. Oh well. What can you do?

A woman, wearing something Valtor could only describe as lingerie, came to the bar and ordered a fruity cocktail and for the umpteenth time, he wondered how his life turned into this? How did he go from graduating on a prestigious college, having a stable job and a fiancée, to wiping down spit from the counter top on a Saturday night.

He used to be a successful attorney, his yearly salary reaching up to five-zero figure, a stable relationships, loving girlfriend and more, and yet, all of that collapsed under the enormous weight couple of words held.

His hands worked on autopilot, mixing the necessary drinks while his thoughts were miles away.

Now, whatever’s left of his past life lives in a small condo across the town and Valtor chuckled at the irony of life giving him lemons while he chopped one to mix it into the cocktail. He squeezed the juice out of the poor fruit, with probably more force than was necessary, getting some of it on his shirt in the process.

“What are you chuckling about?” The woman was leaning over the counter, her chest basically spilling out of her dress as she played with the ends of her dark hair.

Valtor raised an eyebrow as he bent down to retrieve one of the decorative umbrellas. “Nothing that would be of interest to you.” He saw her flinch in surprise at the rather sharp tone he unintentionally used. “Miss.” He added as an afterthought, hoping it would make him look less abrasive. Unhappy customers don’t tip well after all.

“Oh. Well maybe it does interest me. You’ll never know unless you try.” The woman smiled flirtatiously while her fingers continued twirling the strands of her hair. “I’m Mitzi, by the way.” She offered her hand to him.

Valtor only quirked an unamused eyebrow. “I don’t remember asking for your name.” The smile was quick to disappear from her face and she snatched her hand back like it’s been burned.

He closed his eyes as his tongue, once again, proved to be faster than his brain. It’s what got him into trouble a lot of times and this one might’ve just taken a cake because if the girl went to complain to his boss, he’d be in a world of shit. “I was trying to be nice, but it seems to me you’re too much of an asshole to appreciate it.” Mitzi gritted out with obvious false confidence because a fierce blush was very much present on her face. This obviously didn’t happen to her a lot.

First time for everything, Valtor thought.

“What I would really appreciate, Mitzi,” Don’t do it, “is if you could stop your 36C's, that you stuffed into a 34B bra, from spilling all over my counter.” You absolute moron! “I have to wipe it.”

Now you’ve done it.

Mitzi turned even reader, and Valtor wondered if he should start dialing an ambulance just in case, but she only snatched the drink he placed in front of her and threw a 5$ bill in his face. “Jerk!” And just like that, she was gone.

“Have a nice evening!” Drop dead.

He rolled his eyes and took a glass that needed wiping just to occupy his hands for a minute because he felt like a coiled string, just about to snap and burn everything in its path.

“I have to say,” girl’s voice reached him, “you just fixed my evening.” Valtor lowered the glass to the solid surface and turned to face the owner.

His brain short circuited.

Though her body was mostly obstructed by the counter, he could see that the navy blue slip dress she wore draped beautifully across her slender figure. She was also incredibly short that even standing up straight, in what Valtor assumed were ridiculously high heels, she was at least head and a half shorten than him. But the most obvious, and striking thing about her, was her red hair. Valtor never even thought that hair could be as vibrant as hers.

In his almost 35 years of life, Valtor has never seen someone as interesting as the girl standing in front of him.

When he finally shook himself out of his stupor, and when it became painfully obvious he was making her uncomfortable with his gawking (really, there was no other word for it), he smiled and spoke. “Well, I’m pleased to hear that because it will undoubtedly ruin my life.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about her reporting you.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Her ego is too big for her to accept she just got rejected.”

“You know her?”

There was something nostalgic in her smile. “I used to know her… or maybe I just thought I know her.”

Valtor observed the unusual girl in front of him. In his several years as a bartender and even before, he developed quite a knack for reading people. She seemed, to him at least, like one of those lost souls that recently had their world turned upside down but tried despite to appear normal. You and me both. “Would you like something to drink?”

Her head snapped up and her electric blue eyes met his. “Oh! Yes, um,” she fidgeted slightly, her hands wringing together and picking at her nails, “anything with vodka.”

He nodded and turned his back on her to find a bottle of the best vodka the club had to offer. He didn’t know why he suddenly paid so much attention to what he’s mixing into drinks but something pulled him towards this girl like gravity and he was too weak to resist it. “Straight?” He asked without turning around.

“Ummm, that’s a bit personal don’t you think? I mean, I just met you.” Valtor stopped what he was doing and turned his head so she could see the confused frown on his face. “I don’t even know your name. As far as I know you could be a serial killer.”

It downed on Valtor what she was talking about and he chuckled at her adorable rant. “I meant the Vodka.”

Her lips shaped into a silent “O" and he saw how her neck and face turned red from embarrassed. She moaned and buried her face into her hands. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He picked the bottle and turned back around so he was facing her. He extended his unoccupied hand across the counter top. “I’m Valtor.”

She shook his hand, her hand incredibly small in his huge one, blush still present on her cheeks. “Bloom. And yes, straight vodka is fine.”

“I’ve only seen Russians drink vodka by itself.”

“I’m quarter Russian. My mom’s dad is from Russia.” Valtor nodded along as he fixed her a drink.

“Impressive.”

“it’s really not. It only made me the laughing stock of the entire class.” She took the glass filled with clear liquid, their fingers brushing together on accident, and Valtor felt a spark rushing up his nerve endings. “But, I can drink most people under the table so I guess I should be grateful.”

Humor was obviously one of the things she used to deflect the pain and trauma bullying inevitably caused. “Your hair is very… unusual. Natural?”

She nodded. “Yup. This is one of the things I inherited from grandpa.”

“Sorry if that made you uncomfortable, it wasn’t my intention.”

“No no, don’t worry.” Her lips wrapped around the edge of the glass as she took a sip and closed her eyes to savor the feeling of burning liquid sliding down her throat. “It’s actually one of the nicest things someone has said to me about my hair.”

Valtor looked at her with a small smirk on his face. “That bad, huh?”

“You don’t want to know.” Bloom tilted the glass and took a large swing of the drink, only a small amount remaining at the bottom. “What about you?”

Valtor shrugged. “What about me?”

“You have an unusual hair too.”

Indeed. His long strawberry blond hair was tied in a ponytail, but unlike herself, he loved his hair and didn’t particularly give a damn what anybody else thought about it. “I don’t really care about somebody else’s opinion and neither should you.”

“I’ve stopped that long time ago.” Valtor nodded towards her almost empty glass and she slid it towards him for a refill. “But you know, scars remain.”

He nodded. “That I do know.” Valtor saw another guy coming up to the bar so he excused himself. As soon as he moved away from her, the unpleasant sensations that accompany prolonged presence in a loud room came rushing back like a rogue train and Valtor felt the onsets of a headache forming. He served the guy and returned to Bloom who was now nursing her drink instead of knocking it back like the first time.

“So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

She quirked one eyebrow. “A girl like me?”

“Not to be rude, but this doesn’t seem like your cup of tea.”

She laughed. “It’s my friend’s birthday. She dragged me here against my will while promising she’ll stay with me the entire time. It took me turning around for her to vanish without a trace with her boyfriend.”

“That friend of yours,” he started, “wouldn’t happen to be a tall blonde dragging a brunette with her?”

“That’s her.”

Valtor made a face. “I don’t think you’ll be seeing a lot of her tonight.” His eyes slid to the direction of the restroom.

Bloom followed his gaze and she groaned when she saw where her friend went to. “Not this again.”

“Again? This happens a lot?”

“Unfortunately, it happens more than I would like to.” She rubbed her forehead.

“Right,” he drawled, “because who doesn’t like seeing their friends going at it.” Sarcasm was dripping from his words.

“How long have they been in there?” She asked while looking at her wrist watch.

“Fifteen minutes or so.”

“Damn animals. I’m never coming to the club with her again.”

An amused chuckle escaped him. “That’s not the first time you’ve said that, am I right?”

She smiled and took a sip of vodka. “Nope.”

Just as he opened his mouth to ask her another question, her blonde friend wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Valtor’s eyebrow did a backflip. How she managed to avoid detection while leaving the bathroom was beyond him.

“Damn Bloom, I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re already seducing hot bartenders!”

“Stella! First of all, I am not seducing anybody,” Maybe not intentionally, “secondly, it’s been almost twenty minutes and thirdly, what happened to your promise of not ditching me? And the moment I turn around, you’re already gone?”

Stella, if Valtor heeard correctly, giggled. “Oh live a little Bloom. Besides, it’s not like you were in a bad company.” Her eyes ran over Valtor’s form. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of that.” She ogled Valtor like a piece of chocolate cake.

“I’m standing right here.”

“Okay, that’s enough for today! We’re going home.” Bloom grabbed her purse and was about to pull out her wallet when Valtor raised his arm to stop her.

“It’s on the house.”

“But Blooooom,” There was really no words to describe the sound that exited blonde’s mouth, “we just got here.”

“The fact that you're talking about having a threesome with a stranger says enough about your state.”

“I’m pretty sure Brandon wouldn’t mind.”

“Okay, time out. Let’s go.” She turned towards Valtor, a small card between her fingers. She leaned over the counter while one of her arms stayed behind, supporting her friend. “Thank you.” She slipped the card into his hand. “Call me if you wanna talk sometimes.” And with that, she spun on her heel and dragged Stella towards the exit.

Valtor stood in shock, not knowing how to react for a few minutes, staring at the business card in his hands.

Bloom Peters MD.

He shook his head, hand safely pocketing the precious cargo before he picked up the glass she’s been drinking from and turning around to wash it. The sound of retching caused him to turn around in time to see some wasted man empty the content of his stomach on an obnoxious red carpet. The stench of vomit mixed with other delightful aromas and Valtor was once again reminded how much he hated his job.

#winx club #baltor x bloom #bloom x baltor #bloom x valtor #sparxshipping #valtor x bloom #bloom #valtor #winx #sparxshipping questions #sparxshipping requests #sparxshipping prompts #sparxshipping au

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darkdevasofdestruction · 3 years

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The Idiot ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky

In which the reader is the last Russian princess from our contemporary times and Fyodor is there to watch, observe, analyse and write a novel while being the reader’s sort of guardian/mentor, all while reader finds herself in an impossible, almost-Anna Karenina-like situation that drives her to desperate decisions.

And yes, I’m very much basing this story Dostoevsky’s “The Idiot” novel, Tolstyi’s “Anna Karenina” and Katyusha, both the Russian song, and the “Resurrection” novel from Tolstoy that has Katyusha as an unfortunate, yet important character.

Also, a little nod to our dear Ana Lesko for her song “Anicyka Maya”, which will serve as a cute little nickname for our dear reader, although the song is Romanian, and it’s about a seductive woman.

Other nicknames will include: Kiska ( kitten ), Zaika ( bunny ), Kroshka ( little one ), Krasotka ( gorgeous ).

I’m not Russian, I don’t know about Russia’s culture, history and language as much as I know about my own, obviously, but as ex-commie & ex-USSR, we still have a shit ton of similarities. Nevertheless, I will try not to get into too many details that will compromise authenticity.

Luxury, glamour, wealth, gold, jewellery, diamonds, class, facades, masks, masquerades, social gatherings, lies, marriages, politics, horses, deals, gambling... These represent some of the few words people from everywhere around would describe the royal family.

Why do some still exist, anyway? Shouldn’t they have just completely disappeared at the same time with the Romanov family? ...Stupid cartoon movies and their resurrection of Anastasia...

Nobody truly cares about these rich rats who worked naught for their wealth, and would never understand the struggle and poverty of the normal citizens of Russia...They just live in their abnormally huge palace, having more servants than the population of Moscow and eat at one meal more than normal people do in one week altogether.

How utterly ridiculous.

Their lives are all perfect, they marry themselves to keep that ridiculous purity and their infinite wealth in the family...How atrocious! What about charity? Kindness? Altruism? Helping out the common folk?

All these thoughts, and you’d think a very bitter and vindictive, very poor and malicious person came up with, and yet, the reality was rather distorted.

From the top stair of the palace, in a dark room, sitting on the windowpane, a gorgeous young woman cast her dull eyes over the snowy city and the people hurrying down the roads, hoping to go home before it got too late and cold.

Maybe they were poor and hateful, and rightfully so, she’d say, but perhaps they can also be deemed happier, if they can take into account their freedom...As much as the government provides them, at least - Yet even so, even the poorest person held more freedom than this caged bird, forever trapped and shackled by fate from the second she was born...As if she had any choice, that is.

Perhaps she deserves this treatment, this hatred, this...Manipulation from her own family, who only see her as a political and financial pawn, planning her marriage from the second she first cried into this world... Like a martyr, she will accept all torture and live on, never knowing what ‘living’ truly means, only imagining it by reading all day and all night long, or when she plays the piano one of the many songs she learnt.

As the grandfather clock rang to 7 times to announce dinner time, Y/N dressed in a simple, yet elegant dress, put on a pair of classy black stiletto shoes, and went down to the luxurious dining room, sitting in her usual seat, only for a brunet stranger dressed in white to grace the sight with his unexpected presence.

She didn’t dare speak to him, yet her eyes couldn’t leave his form, no matter how her meek demeanour made her hung her head to avoid showing anything other than her demure expression.

Thankfully, her parents arrived, along with the waiters that served the food, so it saved some of the awkwardness of the unknown.

“Y/N, darling, this man here is Fyodor Dostoevsky. He is here as a writer, wanting to learn more about us and about people in general. As a compromise, he agreed to be your personal guard...Considering the other one was a sacrilege to our dear daughter...What a lecherous man, making advances on you...But, anyway, let us toast to the success of this young man’s writing career!” the mother raised her champagne, and the four of them clinked glasses. “I thank you for the unique opportunity to learn and understand society and people better. May you live a long and prosperous life.” this new stranger held a charming smile on his face, trying to impress and buy everyone’s trust. “Do you have yet any idea about the theme of your novel? Or, perhaps an idea for a title?” the father asked, making the brunet shake his head softly. “No, not yet, unfortunately. I prefer to study hard, and only then, when I am educated enough, to allow the flow of creation to take over me.” this Fyodor nodded in acknowledgement, while the girl kept completely silent for the duration of the dinner, waiting for everything to be over so she could escape back to the little faux haven she created and called ‘safe’. “Y/N, show Mr. Fyodor to your room, he will be sleeping there for now on. The butlers already brought a spare bed there, so it’s alright.” the mother waved her hand dismissively, and the girl could only bow quickly and go back to her room, making sure to point out what each of the rooms represent, before reluctantly inviting him to her bedroom. “Please, make yourself at home, Mr. Dostoevsky. I hope it will be comfortable and to your liking. Should you need anything, please do not hesitate to tell me so we can make your stay as great as possible.” she spoke to him in a soft, meek voice, not daring to make eye contact in any way. “Call me Fyodor, no need for formalities. We are going to room together, might as well become friendly. What don’t you tell me about yourself? Your hobbies, your interests, your dreams, your aspirations.” the brunet paced around the room, observing all of her personal objects, which, turned out, except for jewellery, books, a small, pink Gloxinia, and a pickup with 1920s British vinyls, there was nothing to represent her...Which was, in its own way, an intriguing peculiarity. “I...Like reading, flowers, music...And I wish I could get a dog and learn how to play the violin too. There aren’t many interesting things about me...I’m not special or anything out of the ordinary. I am not allowed to put myself out there in any way, so this is the little I could do to express who I am.” so tried to be as vague as possible, fidgeting on her feet uncomfortably, knowing that the punishment for embarrassing the family would be grave, should it be known. “Hmmm...I see, I see...Ah, you’re a Tolstoy reader, I see. Anna Karenina...Very interesting, yet tragic, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, picking up a book that was supposed to be hidden. “N-No! Don’t take that out of there...Nobody can know I have it. I was strictly forbidden from reading it...Please don’t tell anyone I have this book.” the princess snatched the book from his hands, hiding it further back in the bookshelf. “Ohh~? Why would you not be allowed to read a Russian book? You’d think the Russian princess would be urged to read Russian literature.” he stepped in front of her, picking her chin and raising her head slightly to allow him to look deep into her fawn-like eyes. “Because of the ending...And the controversial decisions Anna made, some of them even contradictory to her own beliefs, and yet, she made her own decisions, at some point in her life. When your fate is decided from before you are born, having opinions is the worst enemy of a puppeteer...Wouldn’t you agree?” she muttered, walking away from him, taking her nightgown and walking towards her bathroom.

This made the man think more about how dysfunctional this supposed perfect royal family actually was. The illusion of a flawless individual, living together, forming a flawless family, a flawless life, in a flawless palace.

Perhaps facades aren’t as obvious to see through, or understand, for while the parents are completely bland...This girl...So much potential locked away in a timid chest of massive oak wood, embellished with overly expensive jewellery, clearly unwanted. She could be a genius, shining in her happiness, glowing like her dazzling smile, and yet, there she is, eclipsed by chaff, when she could be burning brighter than the morning Sun.

Those parents of hers think he wants to be here and get dazzled by the infinite stream of diamonds that keep flowing around the whole place - And yet, perhaps they are the ones living in mental poverty, considering they believe financial wealth and fame is the sole reason for being alive - To uphold a certain kind of status that they worked naught for, but received hereditary, from one lazy deadbeat to yet another generation of useless people for this society.

They truly are like the plague, incredibly rare nowadays, but completely fatal once you fall grasp to their dark claws that drag you to hell to succumb to their completely fictional utopian world that they create only amongst themselves, as if whatever lives beyond these golden walls is putrid and deserves to rot to pieces.

As his mind wandered farther and farther away down the country, snowy roads he created with his own imagination of thoughts, he heard the bathroom door softly open, and the angelic creature garbed in a thin - Possibly silk, snow white nightgown - Stepped back into their now shared room, and just as before, her demeanour resembled that of a small, frightened fawn, or a bunny.

When you have to deal with such a pure being that could completely shatter, it’s difficult not to impulsively break down all walls around and snatch her away - It’s close to impossible not to attempt to test all existing boundaries and see the limits where she would break...Or, almost, at least.

However, abstinence makes for a great suspense and greed...You want more...And more...And the more you wait, the harder it is to resist, but the satisfaction you get when the frail creature trusts you enough to eat from your own palm, and you finally claim it as yours...

It’s Heavenly.

“Sweet Dreams, Fyodor.” she spoke softly, putting on a Tchaikovsky vinyl and picking up a book, getting in bed and reading it, the only light still open being a dim lantern on her nightstand. “How would you like to show me around the city tomorrow?” the brunet asked so casually that it shocked the girl enough to drop her book on her lap. “O-Oh...U-Uhmm...I’m not exactly to go out of this place unless it’s for Christmas shopping...I’m sorry I can’t properly do as you wish...” she quickly took her book back, hiding her face to hide her embarrassment and disappointment. “Well, then, what a gorgeous coincidence, isn’t it? In barely two months, Christmas shall come, and then, you can properly show me around, correct?” the man mused, the ghost of a smirk playing on his face. “..You’re right! My, you’ll get to see the beautiful fairy light and Christmas decorations all around the city! I can’t believe it, you truly chose the perfect time to come here. Oh, and, the ballet, the opera and the national orchestra are going to perform...I believe The Nutcracker is going to play this year...And Traviata. It should be beautiful, don’t you agree?” Y/N asked with a soft smile on her face, sparks gleaming in her eyes, and for the first time since he’s met her, it felt like she was finally alive. “Yes, yes, I would have to agree. And if you are there with me, the experience will be even better.” he hummed, teasing the poor girl who had no idea what else to say to such bold affirmations. “O-Oh...W-Well...Th-Thank you...I-I think...Your presence there will also make the going out more interesting...And nice.” she offered a comeback that pleased the man well enough. “Good night to you as well, Printsessa.”

What a lovely young woman, he thought, as he closed his eyes and let his mind fly at different aspects of life and of humanity, trying to decipher each and every person he met that day and wondering if his assumptions were correct, as they always are.

Morning came by faster than expected as a shy ray of of Sun creeped inside the room through the window, but Fyodor was already awake, writing at the desk rather rapidly - Most likely, he had some inspiration hitting him, so he proceeded to pour out his conflicting thoughts on the paper, all while stealing a peek from time to time at the girl sleeping peacefully, almost as if she was a Disney Princess.

The way the soft light caressed her face had him take the stray streak of h/c hair and pull it back so it won’t tickle her awake, while also being allowed to watch her peacefully inhale and exhale, a small smile on her face...Perhaps she was having a beautiful dream? Was that why she told him to have sweet dreams? Were her dreams her only lovely escape from this horrible reality she was forced to live in?

There were so many mysteries yet to be unveiled, but all in due time, as Fyodor noticed the gentle flutter of her lashes, and with a grace only reserved to a Swan Princess, she raised and stretched with a sweet hum, and the brunet man watched as his eyes felt absolutely blessed seeing such a beauty...

If people complained that Disney Princesses weren’t relatable, since they have messy hair when they wake up, just like Anna, they clearly haven’t seen how perfect Y/N looks, even as she blinks her sleepiness away.

“I see you slept well, Printsessa. Good morning.” she heard him speak, and she noticed it wasn’t as en garde and...It almost seemed...Pleased to see her. “Fyodor...You woke up before me. You should have woke me up. Please wake me up next time, I wouldn’t want you to feel lonely or upset. This place is like a piranha tank...Thread carefully, otherwise, you’re like a little animal who fell in.” she quickly got up, rushing through her daily routine so she could be by his side, not only because her parents assigned her to that, but also because this Dostoevsky man is the only little thing that could rip her out of her completely dull routine and show her a little bit of insight into what could be something out of her imagination entirely. “Aww, the little songbird wishes to spend time with me, how adorable. Very well, Printsessa, what is it that you want to do today? My job here is to observe and write, after all.” he asked, crossing one leg over the other, resting his chin on his fist, watching her with intense interest. “Oh, well, I have to practice the piano today, but other than that, I have nothing in my schedule.” she explained, guiding him to the music room that very much resembled a whole orchestra surrounding a place - Not too small, yet not too big either - Meant for ballroom dancing. “I bet the national orchestra isn’t as fancy as this place is.” he mused, walking up to the cello and tracing his fingertips across the chords. “...Do you know how to play it?” she asked, walking up to him, having the curiosity of a baby fawn exploring the world. “Would you like to hear?” he asked, sitting on the chair and expertly hugging the cello, he grabbed the bow and teased the girl with a mischievous look in his gleaming purple eyes. “Oh, yes, please, if it’s not too much to ask! It would be absolutely splendid.” Y/N clasped her hands together, grinning widely as she stepped a few feet away to give him enough space so he could start playing. “It would be my pleasure, Printsessa.” and with the nod of his head, he started playing the famous Sugar plum fairy song, making the girl gasp in surprise at how gorgeous it sounded.

She crouched to reach the perfect eye view of the bow gliding along the chords, her mouth slightly agape and she gazed with absolute wonder, not even realising when the song was over, for she was much too mesmerised.

“Well, Printsessa, how did you like it?” he rested his arms on the curves of the cello, leaning forwards for a better look at her. “That was better than even our national cello player! It was absolutely stunning, woaw...Just...You left me speechless! You’re...You’re...You are...Perfectly splendid!” she clapped for him rapidly and incredibly enthusiastic, making him chuckle in amusement at her cuteness. “Why, thank you, Printsessa. How about you entertain me now, little Anicyka Maya?” he carefully put the Cello in its place, stepping in front of her and caressing her porcelain skin, quenching his thirst for discovery by seeing her rosy cheeks. “Well...I can’t say I’m anywhere as great as you are...But, sure. I hope you will like it.” she looked down, fidgeting with her fingers as she hurried timidly to the piano, and taking a deep breath, cracking her fingers, she liter her fingers skillfully dance over the keys, as her voice followed every word of the song called “Katyusha”. However, she wasn’t expecting him to applaud and whistle to her, congratulating her for being such a beautiful nightingale. “You clearly underestimate your hard work and talent. Perhaps we should play together one day. I’m sure it would put a smile on your parents’ faces.” Fyodor bowed to kiss Y/N’s hand, only to hear the door opening. “Yes, Mr. Fyodor, we would quite like to hear the two of you dueting together. Since Y/N will have to perform both dance and a song at the piano, as a Christmas tradition, it will show how much she’s improved...If at all. I have to tell you the truth, Mr. Fyodor, over the past few years, she has been exceptionally disappointing...Well, perhaps you coming here will prove to give her a jolt in the right direction.” Y/N’s mother came out of nowhere in the music room, almost as if she was stalking the pair, and Fyodor could see how the Princess’ behaviour changed 180 degrees, and from the excitable and lively young girl, she went back to hide in her guarded shell, trying to protect herself from the numerous blows everyone throws her way.

And just as he expected, once they started playing, despite throwing in one or two intentional mistakes, while she had none of her own, the mother reprimanded her daughter, while praising him. He thought, at first, this was going to be some kind of tough love encouragement and determination she was trying to give the girl, but truly, it was nothing more than unrealistic dreams of an already flawless performance.

This family was nowhere close to being the perfect, or the most loving one, that was without a doubt. But being so horrible to your own daughter, humiliating her in front of a complete stranger, making her tremble softly while trying her best to keep herself from bursting into sobbing fits, was a whole different kind of cruel and unnecessary malice.

For some reason, Fyodor felt a certain kind of warmth in his chest...But not the same kind of warmth he feels when he is around Y/N, but something...Similar to fury. To rage. He was sure he never felt such a personal sort of offense, despite not being him that was belittled.

A terrifying sort of justice bubbled inside him, and he smirked, thinking about just one sole thing.

Crime and Punishment.

Fyodor hoped dearly that it would be only the maternal figure that was the problem, yet it seemed to be much worse, and the toxicity levels that kept vibing all over the place seemed to be equivalent to that of Chernobyl at the time of the explosion.

All throughout the week, he noticed the dirty looks all the staff was giving the Princess, possibly because she was being a shy and quiet pushover...But it went completely beyond his understanding how these servants would even dare be so rude to her, considering she is always so sweet to them, always forgives their mistakes and shares her whole allowance with them in equal parts...

But they complain it’s not enough. They complain others get more, or less, but clearly, they don’t care about that, they just want more and more money...They are greedy jackals who don’t care about the life or soul of a poor little lady who just wants to be happy...

But perhaps happiness isn’t meant for royalty.

A week until Christmas, and Fyodor was ready with the quick draft, and he left it on the desk for Y/N to read, and he couldn’t help but admire and drink in each and every emotion she would express on her lovely face with every word she read, every action, every chapter that stirred more and more conflicting feelings and thoughts battling together - Conflicts that she was trying so hard to hide, no doubt feeling his burning, hawk-like stare on her, analysing her as if she was a new specimen under a microscope.

She was great at hiding what she truly felt, yet her eyes betrayed her inner self, the sparkling of nostalgia and sadness crawling out, shrieking at the top of her lungs to be discovered and taken out of this well of darkness she was drowning in - She wanted to be saved, she was at her breaking point, and clearly, she was afraid.

Afraid of life. Afraid of people. Afraid of her family. Afraid of this society. Afraid her own self. Afraid of her actions.

And most of all.

She was afraid of spiritual, mental and emotional imprisonment.

As Christmas approached with rapid footsteps, Fyodor could notice how Y/N stiffer, more silent, flinching more, keeping herself in check, alone, barely speaking to anyone...Clearly, she was being stressed out and afraid of the consequences of screwing up anything.

Perhaps, the problem here was the fatalist and completely out of her control destiny she was thrown in, and she knew from the very beginning that, no matter how flawless her performance was, she would still be reprimanded and punished, so she resigned herself to this kind of treatment...The same as every year.

“It’s so beautiful outside...And it’s snowing...! So soft and cold...It’s almost numbing you entirely, but the beauty of Christmas still melts down even the most frozen of hearts.” she spoke with such sadness dripping from her tongue, that Fyodor felt the need to take his fur hat and put it on her head before taking a hold of both of her hands, rubbing them together and kissing her knuckles. “It’s not the day or the decorations that are supposed to move a person, but the kindness and altruism of people. From what I’ve seen in the past weeks, the only consistency in this place is the beauty of your heart and the cruelty of everyone else that keep eclipsing you. You deserve better than this, kroshka.” the man spoke simply, waiting to see the way she’d react. “...I didn’t choose this life, nor did it choose me, yet here I am, trying to keep my head above the water in a whirlpool. I have all my life planned and written ahead of me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. From the very beginning, since before I was even born, they knew they will sell me out to some old, rich man, just so they could benefit, but they cared naught about my well-being, as long as I could keep him entertained in any way possible. The least I can do is try to enjoy the little things...Even if they are nothing more than just that...Little things.” she admits to him, taking away her hands and holding them to her chest, too afraid to trust her own heart. “You let the servants make a mockery out of your kindness. You let your family humiliate you in front of everyone. You let common folk bash you, even if you tip them greatly...Tell me, krasotka, have you read the draft to my book yet?” they continued to stroll down the cobbled streets, looking up at the snowflakes gently dancing in the light of the lamposts, as Fyodor carried most of her shopping bags that held Christmas gifts for everyone but herself. “Yes...I did...But I did not finish it. I was much too afraid to read the ending of it.” she nodded to him, biting her lip nervously. “Afraid? Why ever would you be afraid of reading some words made of ink on a piece of paper?” the man frowned in confusion and interest, hearing such a peculiarity of an answer. “Because...Because I know that Prince Myshkin actually represents me...And how life treats me...So I’m afraid the ending will hint to Anna Karenina’s ending...And I don’t want that. I don’t...That’s why I’m afraid...I’m scared that...I’m scared that I won’t be able to endure this madness anymore, and sooner, rather than later, I will shatter into an unrecognisable version of myself that not even I will decipher...And I will do scary things that I would otherwise be afraid of even thinking about. You know I read the book, I wouldn’t put it past you to tease me like that.” she smiled ironically, shaking her head to stop herself from shuddering at such a dreadful thought. “Congratulations, Printsessa, you are surely insightful. However, I must advise you to read it, and keep in mind that you are not entirely wrong in your thinking. While the ending isn’t identical to Tolstoy’s novel, it isn’t on the complete opposite spectrum either. What you read is one of the possible outcomes of your life, should you choose to remain a passive onlooker and let everyone control you, like a little, pretty doll. Should you, however, choose to take fate into your own hands and finally make your first choice of your life...I can promise you, you are going to be much happier.” Fyodor kissed her forehead before leading her back to the palace so she could take the day off...For tomorrow, she must perform.

But the author wasn’t lying, Y/N realised as she spent the last hours past curfew to finish the book, and she realised that while Myshkin didn’t kill himself, he was still dead inside, and just like the catatonic state he was stuck into, she has been living a life of complete comatose herself. Fyodor was right all along - A life without choices is not a life, nor is it one without freedom and happiness - And maybe, for the first time in her life, she would make the most difficult decision the universe threw at her, and that was to choose between Duty and Happiness, something every royal member, especially women all over the world, who were seen as nothing more than political and decorative objects meant to create heirs and nothing more, had to pick, and dutifully chose to sacrifice themselves to keep the family and the nobility going.

But not anymore....

“You look beautiful today, my little zaika. This velvet colour of your dress, the way it highlights you stunning silhouette...And this jewellery...And your hair and make up...You are above and beyond the most beautiful person to ever grace this life. How are you going to enchant us today?” Fyodor pat down his white suit so he would look completely impeccable...Or, perfectly splendid, as Y/N would say. “Does it truly matter, in the end? Nobody but you will pay attention, and at the end of the day, I will only hear critiques. It’s the same every year, so there is no point in bothering to stand out, have any particularity or give a name. It just...Is. So...Let me get this over with so I can go to my room and pretend this day never happened...Again.” she muttered, hooking her arm to his, entering the big ballroom together.

A ton of people were there, not only family, but enough family ‘friends’, all of them incredibly rich, with a combined fortune great enough to buy the whole Russia somehow...And all eyes were on her. She didn’t mind. She was used to the nervousness and the either critical or lustful stares she received - But only during these kinds of events, and because she was a Princess, otherwise nobody would have cared about her existence or her feelings...

Nobody...Except for Fyodor.

Until the time of his arrival, nobody cared about her, nor did they bother trying to understand or talk to her, and yet, here he was, always by her side, and frankly, she fell in love with him. She, for the first time in her life, cared naught about everything surrounding her, and she thought solely about him and their time spent together. That is all that mattered to her.

So, with that in mind, and a warm heart, she performed the Waltz of Flowers flawlessly at the piano, along with a few other songs, adding some festive ones. Fyodor was absolutely captivated by the spells she put on people whenever she radiated with such pure gentleness, just like Christmas’ true angel.

Her fingers glided so gracefully over the keys, as she hummed along the music, not even bothering to look at the sheet, for she new everything by heart - But somehow, it all sounded even more magical than before, and nobody could tell why.

But Fyodor knew, and he smiled, figuring out her trick. And he was going to call her out for that when this whole charade was over. But for now, he allowed himself to enjoy bathing in her radiating warmth, for she was shining brighter than the Sun itself.

By the time she finished her little repertoire, she did a pretty courtesy and walked to the man in the white suit, taking a glass of red wine and sipping from it, that gentle smile never leaving her face.

They exchanged no words, but there was no need for that, as the look in their eyes spoke more than anything else, and they danced the night away, together, in graceful and intimate waltzes, or swaying together, keeping their hearts glued together, beating in sync and feeling each other’s heat.

She might not have wanted to end up like Karenina, but she wasn’t too far away from her situation, and she knew very well, should she leave with this man, she was going to break down every rule, and find an identity for herself, after all these years.

But happiness is emphemeral in the life of a Princess, and just before the Christmas Ball ended, her parents dragged her to the table of this old man, so they would share gifts. This old man, who so happened to be the man chosen to be her future husband, and had fewer hairs on his head and teeth in his mouth than her age.

Most of the gifts were pretty basic - Jewellery for women, cigars, fedoras, watches for men...But for her...She received some of he oddest gifts so far - And yet, she thought life couldn’t surprise her anymore.

Several little outfits, fit for babies, were neatly folded in all boxes, sans one - The sole box being a small, velvet box, which revealed a sapphire ring that expressed the definite bond of marriage that must be officiated very soon, through papers and a church ceremony.

Frozen was the clock, frozen was the time, and frozen was life itself, for the shock was great - Being put on the spot is scarier than the anticipation and fear of venturing into the unknown - Yet here she was, with her supposed fossil of a husband, with several babies promised to be born, and a very angry author, watching the disgusting exchange of pleasantries between the elder people.

He noticed Y/N doing a little courtesy, excusing herself with a nervous smile, and rushing out of the ballroom, the clicks of her elegant heels giving away her location at all time. Following her, he saw her on the edge of the rood, barefoot, her back to the empty space, as she hummed, looking up at the clouds pouring snow, and swaying to her tippy toes occasionally.

“You sure like the feeling of being alive, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be staying there after being faced with such a disgusting situation.” he pointed out, clasping his hands behind his back and carefully stepped towards her. “Life is full of surprises. But it is not called life, unless you have a say in the paths that you go down by. Today, I realised what I have to do in order to achieve true bliss and happiness...Something ethereal, although utopian in its quintessence. I have to make a choice. And right now, I’m making it.” she smiled, extending her arms to the side, resembling a Goddess, as a few stray tears streamed down her face - But they were tears of relief, not of fear, anxiety of depression. She was happy. “You said you didn’t want to choose the path of Karenina, nor of Myshkin, and yet, there you are, on the brink of death, as the way to show that you are no longer a caged bird. Is it truly worth it, in the end?” Fyodor asked, frowning at the delusional words she was spewing. “Death is but the beginning of a new adventure, and with me falling, I will find out what freedom is, unlike all the other Princesses before me. It is not death I’m choosing, nor will I regret it as soon as I step into this free fall hazard, like Karenina, and, as you can see, I chose to wake up from my catatonic state, unlike Myshkin. I know what awaits me as soon as I reach the ground...But do you?” Y/N hummed in amusement, watching the conflict painted all over his face - And it was for the first time that Fyodor showed such confusion and inner turmoil, that much was obvious to her. “Stop this, Y/N, I don’t understand your reasoning, but don’t kill yourse- “ but he couldn’t finish his sentence, for the girl uttered just a few words - Words that changed even the rotation of the Earth around the Sun - And as she pushed herself on the tips of her toes, she embraced the cold wind of Winter being her guide down to the ground, as she watched the snowflakes following her down.

And she smiled.

Because love won, and life won, and she knew she chose correct - These weren’t the times to choose everyone else over herself anymore, and nor is she a saint, a martyr, an angel, or some perfect Christian role model. She was just a woman thirsting for happiness and for the tangible sensation of life and of flying, and with this jump, she got completely wasted.

The secure embrace of a white angel made sure she lived for another day, but not quite, for her guardian angel jumped to save her, yet had no idea himself that he wasn’t the only special one, after all, and just as they were going to reach the ground, time seemed to stop, and they reached the ground gracefully and softly, like two linked feathers.

She lay down on the crystal blanket of snow, laughing mirthfully, almost with a childlike charm, as her long hair was sprawled all over her, and Fyodor’s arms were fiercely holding her, and he looked down at her, his eyes wide in understanding.

“I didn’t choose death. I chose life. I chose love...I chose you, and I chose me. I knew you had an ability too, and that you were confident in it, so I was sure that, should you choose to, you could jump from the roof of the palace to save me - Which you did. I never really have the opportunity to use my ability, but it’s rather useful in some situations, if I can say so myself. So, by the way you’d respond to my feelings and actions, I’d know whether I chose right or not...I think we both know the answer now, don’t we?” she grinned mischievously, extending a hand to his face to caress it gently. “That’s the most idiotic, most reckless thing anyone has ever one...And yet, you strategised everything, as if we were pieces in a game of chess. How did you get the courage to reach such a conclusion?” his voice was low, like a murmur, trying to understand her impossible, labyrinthine mind. “Life offered me a Christmas gift today, and that was serendipity, so, I used it. Everything else was a perfect strategy of a game of chess I played myself - The White King versus the Black King - And, was far as my luck and the universe brought about, I believe I won. But you must still answer back, otherwise, the magic will vanish.” Fyodor noticed a smirk growing on her face - One that somehow resembled his, and he almost felt conflicted seeing her mimicking him in his demeanour, in a way...But he also felt incredibly proud. “I cannot take you with me, Y/N. The part I walk is dangerous, it could even be fatal, and I would rather you not walk down a boulevard of broken dreams. You just now achieved happiness, don’t throw it out of the window. It a world full of crimes, I choose to be both the justiciar and the executioner of the unworthy. In a world of crime, I shall inflict punishment upon the evil-doers and paint this world red with the blood of the guilty.” he wanted her, he truly didn’t want to leave without her, nor did he want to leave her alone, here, with these hyenas, but could he really have it in his heart to endanger her so? “Fyodor, my darling, it matters naught for me whether I live or die, as long as the journey is by your side, and I’m not shackled anymore. I want to see, I want to hear, I want to touch, I want to taste, I want to smell, I want to learn. Everything. Without exception. There is a whole world out there, open, waiting to be explored and unveiled, and I shall be its explorer. As long as I have you by my side, I will surely be fearless. Being a hero, being a villain, or anything in between is of no concern for me...However, I cannot deny that I would be rather...Interested in seeing you deliver the sentence down to...Some specific people.” she giggled, winking at him, as she obviously hinted towards her kin and the unlimited amount of gossips she has heard about so many people, over the years.

With a wide smirk on his face, Fyodor Dostoevsky helped Princess Y/N on her feet and gave her a passionate, fire-like kiss, before picking her up bridal style and making their way to her room, so she would start packing and leave at the earliest convenience.

There may still be a bit of official work to do at the palace, and as his ability is called, there is no crime without punishment, he was going to make sure of that. Until then, there was one thing certain, and one alone, that was going to guide the both of them to a path of exciting uncertainty and thrill.

“I love you, my dear Y/N.”

#bsd fyodor #bsd anime #bsd #bsd x reader #bsd imagine #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs imagine #bungou stray dogs #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #fyodor dostoevsky imagine #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #fyodor dostoevsky #bungou stray dogs fyodor #bungou stray dogs fyodor x reader

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blkholeinfinity · 5 years

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My Good Omens Headcanon That No One Asked For

I’m not saying that anyone else’s headcanon are incorrect, or that anyone’s wrong for disagreeing with me! And honestly, just because these are my headcanon doesn’t mean I don’t accept other headcanon. Think of it as: if I was going to write Good Omens fanfic, these are the headcanon I’m going to roll with. If I’m enjoying fanworks or meta, anything goes, even/especially things that contradict my own headcanon.

And since the miniseries is burning stronger in my brainspace than the book atm, this is all relevant to the miniseries canon only.

Bonus Ineffable Bureaucracy headcanon at the end!

Ineffable Husbands Being Dumb About Their Feelings Headcanon

Crowley has been infatuated - not in love - with Aziraphale from the beginning. He didn’t realize his infatuation until Rome, and I can’t pinpoint when or where that infatuation turned into love since I believe it was a slow, gradual process. He definitely realized it before 1862, though, if not in 1862 the second Aziraphale said “fraternizing.”

For Aziraphale, he was fascinated with Crowley since the beginning. Maybe infatuated, too. He realized his infatuation a lot sooner, hence why he blatantly hit on Crowley in Rome (maybe realized it in Rome?), but then took a few giant steps back until sometime after 537 when he started making his way back to Crowley again, thus beginning his complicated feelings about his not-so-complicated feelings about Crowley. In other words, his brain was trying to convince himself that it was Not Personal, Purely Business, Just Friendship (But Not Officially), even if his heart was screaming at him otherwise. His infatuation grew into love over the centuries, but he didn’t realize it until, famously, 1941.

1967 was when they both realized that the other definitely felt the same way. Where Crowley was ready to take it to the next step at that moment, Aziraphale, well. WE ALL KNOW.

They finally stopped being dumb after the bus stop. They didn’t take things further than making out before they (Aziraphale) realized what Agnes’s prophecy meant, but they finally stopped being dumb about their feelings either on the way back from Tadfield or in Crowley’s flat.

Aziraphale was the one who had to stop being dumb first, and he absolutely was. He confessed first, he kissed Crowley first. They’d never make any progress otherwise.

General Aziraphale and Crowley Headcanon

I headcanon angels and demons having the power to speak whatever language they need to when on Earth, but Aziraphale and Crowley have been on Earth too long to remember this particular power in their arsenal. If they haven’t used it in the past, say, 100 years, they’ve forgotten the language completely.

Until they remember that they have this particular power. But don’t count on them coming to that realization on their own.

Anyway, Aziraphale and Crowley both canonically know English in the present day, obviously, but they’ve retained some German and French from their WWII shenanigans. Crowley knows some Russian although he isn’t particularly good at it because he played around quite a bit during the Cold War, and Aziraphale is surprisingly fluent in Japanese. Because sushi.

Aziraphale is a damn good swordsangel.

Crowley tries to get Aziraphale to watch TV and movies by tailoring his recommendations to what he knows Aziraphale would like and sitting down with him to watch it. Because Crowley knows Aziraphale so well, it’s actually a successful endeavor... until Aziraphale tries to watch something on his own that wasn’t a Crowley Recommendation and Regrets Everything.

In turn, Aziraphale definitely drags Crowley to every single West End production at least once a month. Crowley complains but he doesn’t actually mind. He really does enjoy most of the shows.

Crowley was all about that rock-and-roll life in the 1980s. Mostly for the aesthetic, though.

Crowley would absolutely be a cat person, if cats were demon people. But cats and demons don’t mix. This makes him a little sad, but at least he always has his rats?

Aziraphale and Crowley’s Sexuality Headcanon

I headcanon them both as demiromantic, sex-neutral asexuals.

And by demiromantic I mean that Aziraphale is Crowley-romantic and Crowley is Aziraphale-romantic.

They both have had sex prior to each other for a variety of reasons, but mostly either out of curiosity or because their jobs.

The first time they had sex with each other was primarily out of curiosity, since this is what a lot of humans do when they’re in love so might as well see if it’s any different with each other than with others. They found that they rather enjoy it better with each other than with anyone else they’ve ever slept with, but still didn’t quite understand what the big deal was, but they continue to do it every few years or so.

But they love to make out and cuddle.

General Angel and Demon Headcanons

Most angels and demons don’t really... get... gender. They present the way that they do for a few different reasons, the most popular ones being either aesthetics or apathy (aka- they were given the bodies they were given and never really gave another thought to them).

Any angel or demon who has spent a considerable amount of time on Earth are the exceptions to the rule. Obviously this includes Aziraphale and Crowley, and they’re probably the only two who are the closest to getting it - not that any of them are playing by humanity’s gender rules. They’re still either going for aesthetics or convenience.

In other words, just because Aziraphale and Crowley understand how gender works by human standards doesn’t mean they abide by it. It’s like that meme: Aziraphale’s gender is “nah” and Crowley’s gender is “yes.”

When in Heaven or Hell, the angels and demons speak a celestial language. The demons have bastardize it since falling, but it’s still the same basic language, and none of it is a human language.

Bunny Demon/Eric/Disposable Demon has a sort of hero worship crush (not an actual crush) on Crowley. Sorry, you can pry this one from my cold, dead fingers.

In the Final-Final Battle, Aziraphale and Crowley won’t be the only angel/demon to go against Heaven and Hell for the sake of humanity. There are 10 million angels and 10 million demons, at least a handful of them are going to join them, but it’ll be a long, slow process.

Yes, Bunny Demon/Eric/Disposable Demon will still be the first one to join their side.

God Headcanons

God isn’t just a woman, but a genderfluid woman.

She’s utterly fond of Aziraphale, which is why she never punished him for giving away the flaming sword.

And yes, she definitely knows that he did that. She wasn’t angry, just Disappointed.

She’s the reason Aziraphale and Crowley were handed Agnes’s final prophecy. Come on, that piece of paper flew to Aziraphale’s hand just a little too purposefully.

Also she’ll never let Aziraphale fall because, again, she’s really fond of him. You can pry that one from my cold, dead fingers, too.

Not!Armageddon was absolutely planned the way that it was so she could get her ultimate revenge on Satan - by having his own son disavow him.

God’s plan is Ineffable mostly because she keeps changing her mind.

And also she’s the trolliest troll who ever trolled.

Anathema, Newt, and The Them Headcanons

Anathema stays in Tadfield and becomes a surrogate big sister to the Them, but especially to Adam.

Newt also stays in Tadfield and has a more diverse relationship with the Them: Adam is indifferent, he and Wensleydale and Brian wind up getting along swimmingly, and Pepper straight up dislikes him.

Mrs. Young adores Anathema and Newt. Mr. Young, on the other hand, disapproves of them, but sees them as generally harmless enough to allow Adam to hang out with them. Not that Adam would stop even if Mr. Young tried to forbid it.

Pepper takes up swordfighting once she starts junior high/high school by taking classes at a local HEMA guild.

Dog lives forever.

The Four Horsepeople of the Apocalypse Headcanons

(Un)fortunately, War, Famine, and Pollution aren’t perma-dead. They come back and pick their lives up right where they left off.

These four are a Found Family.

I also ship them all together. OT4, ya’ll.

Pestilence is definitely THE anti-vax mom and is delighted that they might be coming out of retirement soon.

Not that Pollution intends to retire just because Pestilence is back.

But there’s always room for one more, is the Horsepeople’s opinion.

So now they are the Five Horsepeople of the Apocalypse. Fight them, God.

(God doesn’t care, this is all the humans’ doing anyway.)

And yes, the Them gets a fifth person to their crew to counter Pestilence. Probably someone aspiring to be a doctor. This is an accident, of course. Sort of. Adam can’t explain it, but his Antichrist senses were tingling...

Ineffable Bureaucracy Headcanons

Gabriel and Beelzebub were absolutely a Thing before Beelzebub fell, and their dynamic is more like an exhausted-but-still-angry-but-still-in-love divorced couple.

They start reuniting after Not!Armageddon, but it takes a few years for them to get there.

Gabriel is a sex-repulsed asexual (I do not sully my body...), where Beelzebub is a sex-neutral asexual.

And they’re both demiromantic. By which I mean Gabriel is Beelzebub-romantic and Beelzebub is Gabriel-romantic. But they hate it. They didn’t use to hate it, but then Beelzebub fell and things got messy and complicated and things were said that cannot be unsaid.

Gabriel uses ‘he’ pronouns (which I think is canon anyway?) where Beelzebub doesn’t care what pronouns you use for them. (Personally, I love ‘ze/they/her’ for Beelzebub, but I don’t think zey care.)

Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s brains broke when they discovered that Gabriel and Beelzebub are a couple now and they still haven’t fully recovered.

#good omens #good omens headcanon #ineffable husbands #ineffable bureaucracy #the them #anathema #four horsepeople of the apocalypse

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generalkenobi22 · 4 years

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Fic: as iron sharpens iron - Chapter 2 (Burn Notice) - 9k+ words

SUMMARY: Somewhere along the way, at one point or another, Madeline tells them, “You need to stick together.”

And that, more or less, is what they do.

Nearly a year and a half later, here’s chapter two! I’m blaming a lethal combination of a global pandemic and grad school.

Here’s Part One. Also: both chapters can be found on AO3.

——————

He knows it's coming. Has known since the very beginning.

(You left, Michael. You had a choice to make, and you made it.)

He knows all the reasons they can't be together—has them memorized, front and back, reverse alphabetical order, ascending and descending order of importance. Hell, he could even recite them in English, Russian, and Farsi if asked. He used to mentally run them on a loop all the time, but that's—it's not enough anymore. Because the truth of the matter is that he has wavered on the subject with an alarming amount of frequency over the last year with her here in Miami, further demonstrating—in his mind—that his judgment has become too clouded to be objective anymore.

(I'll always care about you, Michael. I'll still help you with your thing, and you'll still help me with mine, but we can't be together.)

It doesn't change the fact that, no matter how prepared he is, no matter how many times he's been briefed on all the terrible consequences they could incur as a direct result of their...liaison, it's difficult to hear her say it out loud.

It doesn't truly become painful until the sound of her words echoes off the empty walls of the loft, and without so much as a glance back, she walks out the door.

—

"Fi, what do you think of these?"

She turns and takes in the floral print blouse and matching hoop earrings (with little, plastic flamingoes on them) Madeline is holding up. They're hideous.

"They're, uh—" She goes back to scanning the department store for visible security threats. There's a particularly suspicious character seated over by the food court in the adjoining mall. "—they're really something."

She tracks the food court guy until a woman and small child approach him, and the three head off toward the New York & Company at the south end of the mall. Satisfied, she glances back, then does a double-take at the deeply unamused look on Madeline's face.

"What?"

"Fiona," she says dryly, stashing the blouse and earrings onto the circular rack beside them, "I'm not an idiot. I know you're only here because Michael asked you to babysit me."

Fi looks down at her nails and swallows. "Well, I think his exact phrasing was 'protect her'..."

"You say 'tomato,' I say 'condescending eldest son.'"

Fi peruses through the clearance rack, nose wrinkling at all the tacky prints. "Michael's helping Sam protect a client—some ex-convict turned dedicated family man—from some bad men in Little Havana. He just—" She shrugs. "—wanted to keep you safe. He cares about you."

Madeline snorts at that. "Yeah? Well, he's got a funny way of showing it."

Fi somehow manages to keep her thoughts on that particular subject to herself. She comes across the tackiest shirt of all. "What about this one?"

It's a t-shirt with Hot Mama emblazoned across the front. Even by both of their style standards, it's awful.

Madeline doesn't even bat an eye. "Only," she says, pulling a shirt of her own off the rack, "if you agree to get this one."

More subtle, but no less awful, hers reads Trouble. They exchange matching grins as they swap shirts.

"You know, Fiona, honey," Madeline begins uncertainly, avoiding Fi's gaze as she holds up her shirt to make sure it's the right size, "Michael's been mum about this whole break up, but I'm sure it...well, I'm sure it hasn't been easy—"

"We were never together," she automatically corrects, ignoring the way her heart twists painfully at the denial.

Madeline's expression turns suspicious, but she keeps her opinions to herself. "Of course. I just mean, if you can't come to poker games, or come visit as frequently because seeing him is too difficult, I...I understand."

It's such a thoughtful sentiment, and one that fills her with an alarming amount of anguish, that Fi feels the need to correct her immediately. Just the idea that Madeline thinks she doesn't want to be her friend anymore because of her son's emotional incompetence is...is...

"Absolutely not." Her voice squeaks out an octave or two higher than normal, but she plays it off like she doesn't even notice. "That's a preposterous idea, Madeline, and I'll hear none of it. Now, go try that on."

The small smile that Madeline flashes her on the way to the changing room is both grateful and doting in equal measure.

—

Even in Afghanistan, the early morning brings some kind of reprieve from the heat, but Miami is its own kind of animal. Sure, it's marginally less humid, but as Michael's sneakers pound against the dirt running trail and his lungs (heavy and unmistakably saturated with the moisture in the air) swell in his chest, he forgets what an absolute hell hole this place is—an insult, probably, to Hell since it can't possibly be this humid there.

(Home sweet home.)

"Mikey—h-hold up!"

Sam's voice barely registers with him as he presses forward, ignoring each coinciding jolt that shoots up his legs and makes his teeth rattle. He deliberately tunes out the internal voice that reminds him thirteen miles was a hell of a lot easier back in his Army Ranger days, at the age of 23, than it is at the age of 41. Still...Langley never had this view—sun cresting over the ocean, streaks of muted pink and orange stretched across the early morning sky.

(Langley also didn't have frozen bank accounts and deleted job histories, that same internal voice reminds him, which...fair).

They bypass a park bench, which Michael figures is as good a spot as any to take a break, just as he gets a side cramp. Apparently, his own body has a truly wicked sense of humor. He presses his palm to just below his rib cage as he watches Sam collapse onto the other end of the bench, legs sprawled.

"Aw, c'mon, Sam," Michael says to him in between labored breaths. He attempts a smile but winces when he gets another sticker. "Don't tell me you've gone soft in retirement. I thought SEALs were supposed to have better stamina than this."

Sam's own breathing is erratic as his chest rises and falls unevenly. He wipes an arm across his forehead. "Uh, for the record: If we were in water right now, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

"Why?" Michael looks up from the ground, hands planted on his knees. "Because you would have drowned?"

Sam's responding look says everything a rude, single-fingered gesture could. "Oh-ho! That's real funny, Mike." He lets his head rest on the back of the bench a moment, eyes jammed shut, trying to regain a steady pace of breathing again. "I'll let it slide, though, 'cause I know you're all messed up about this break up with Fiona—"

"We were never together."

"That's just the denial, brother. Veronica says it's the second stage of the grieving process, and—"

Michael lets his head fall, chin to chest, and holds out his hand. "If I buy breakfast, can we please drop this?"

Sam takes his proffered hand and uses the leverage to spring from the bench. "Throw in lunch, and I'll forget I ever met the broad."

Despite himself, Michael grins at that. When they finally make it back to the Charger—drenched and completely exhausted—Sam beats his personal best time by about a second and a half, which he claims—in addition to both meals—is worth at least two drinks of his choosing.

"It's certainly worth at least a drink and a half," Michael ultimately decides, and Sam's responding laughter is contagious.

—

The instructor is too...peppy for this early in the day. At least, that's what Maddie thinks.

All she says, however, cigarette hanging limply from the corner of her mouth is: "I hate her."

Sam rolls his eyes, careful not to lose his grip on the pool noodle she's balancing on as she does half-assed flutter kicks. The other ladies in the aquaerobics class keep covertly (and some not so covertly) shooting them dirty looks. He manages to keep them at bay with a few disarming smiles. Apparently, Sammy's still got charm to spare.

Of course, it probably helps that he's easily the youngest one in attendance, but when your best buddy asks you to keep an eye on his Ma, what can you do?

All he says to her, however, is, "Now, now, Maddie. My shrink from back in the service would say you're projecting."

"Projecting?"

"Mm-hmm. It means you're not really mad at the instructor, you're just upset because—"

"I know what it means, Sam. I'm not an idiot."

"—Fiona and Mike broke up."

"Fiona said they were never together."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, Mike said the same thing."

"Oh, please," she spits out with enough force that her cigarette drops from her mouth into the pool. "They were 'never together' in the same way you date 'age-appropriate women'."

"Hey, now," he bristles, sounding almost hurt.

Maddie doesn't apologize, but her tone doesn't carry the same kind of bite when she adds: "I suppose that's why Michael put you in charge of surveillance this morning? So the two of them don't have to spend more time together?"

He relinquishes the pool noodle to her when the instructor holds her own noodle above her head. Maddie mirrors the movement. "Or, maybe I just like scoping out all the eligible broads in Miami-Dade County who are raking in those sweet social security checks."

She barks a singular, "Ha!" over her shoulders, which of course earns them a few more disgusted looks.

Up front, the instructor begins doing some kind of modified jumping jacks. Her teeth gleam as she smiles widely and says, "Okay, ladies! Let's move with porpoise and try to have some dol-fun with this one!"

The two of them exchange looks. "I hate her," Sam finally decides, frowning.

Maddie turns back around, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. "Now who's projecting?"

—

She could flag down someone at the Cuban café down the block, but—ugh, no. Horrible idea. Untrained civilians would be more trouble than help. The cops? Not unless she wants Michael and Sam to get pinched—and as tempting as the latter may be...There!

Fi makes a hasty approach to the EMT station just down the block. This was supposed to be a two-man job (of which she had no part, thank-you-very-much) until her pedicure was interrupted by a call from Michael, who practically begged her for reinforcements. So even before her gels have a chance to set, she finds herself in Hialeah trying to find a suitable enough commotion to allow Michael and Sam the chance to escape from...well, whatever it is they've got themselves involved with.

He owes me big time, she thinks sourly before hiking her dress up just the tiniest bit and fanning air into her eyes to make them water before she makes her entrance.

"E-Excuse me? Somebody! Can-Can anybody help me?" she cries, really turning up the dramatics—truly, if anyone should be teaching an acting master class, it should be her.

There are a couple of ambulances and a group of EMTs playing cards. Or, at least they were playing cards before they all turn to look at the hysterical woman standing in their station.

One of the men—a genuine look of sincerity and concern on his face—approaches her. "What seems to be the trouble, ma'am?"

"It's my father," she tells him, voice cracking. "He's feeble, and—and the dementia? It's only getting worse. He was supposed to meet me at the jai alai court on seventh, but he never showed." She brings her hand to her mouth as if suddenly overcome with emotion rather than trying not to break at the thought of Sam being described this way. "I think—I think it might be gang-related?!"

The man places a comforting hand on her shoulder, which normally would be a bit forward, but Fi's having trouble getting upset over the whole ordeal—especially when that hand belongs to someone with such a cute face.

A very cute face.

"Don't worry, ma'am," he reassures her earnestly—it's only further endearing, "we'll send someone out to make sure he returns home safely."

He gestures behind him to two of the men playing cards, who immediately stand to attention. With his back turned, Fi quickly shoots out a text to let Michael know the cavalry's on its way. The sound of the ambulance's siren as it turns out of the garage startles her, and just as she slips her mobile back in her hip bag, the man redirects his attention back to her.

"Oh, thank you!" she gushes, making a show of dabbing at her eyes. "Thank you, Mr....?"

"Uh, Campbell. Just—Campbell."

"Thank you, Campbell. I'm—" She hesitates, only slightly, with every intention of offering up a fake name (Millicent, maybe?). But it's like she said: he's very cute. "—I'm Fiona."

Eventually, he asks for her number, blushing and backtracking at her raised eyebrows as he explains they want to make sure they have a point of contact in case Bryce and Jeff (the two guys in the ambulance) find her father.

They never do, obviously. But Fi does receive a text from an unknown number later that night inviting her to stop by the garage any time tomorrow.

...for an update on her father, of course.

(He doesn't actually ask her out until the following week, and by that point, she updates the contact listing in her phone from Cute EMT to Just Campbell).

—

Their question doesn't make sense. Especially because they're at Carlito's, and their brunch order hasn't even arrived yet.

"I like Campbell," Michael says, his smile not really all there. "He's...great."

Sam and Barry exchange glances, as if they somehow know something he doesn't. Michael hates it. He flags down the waitress for another mimosa—maybe two?

The whole thing's an ambush, all things considered.

—

"You said what?" Fi practically shrieks.

A few women on the yoga mats in front of them turn around to glare at the interruption. She offers up a hasty apology.

Sam, who is finally dressed appropriately in a baggy t-shirt and athletic shorts, looks duly chastised. Whether from her outburst or the fact that he can't seem to maintain his balance for boat pose, she's uncertain. "I told her that I've traveled all over the world, seen a lot of women, and that..." He hesitates when he catches her glaring. "...that she's one in a million?"

Fi lets out an exasperated yelp. "How did you possibly make it through SEAL training when you are clearly suffering from such advanced levels of brain damage?" she hisses, careful to keep her volume in check.

Sam falls back against his yoga mat gracelessly as they mimic the instructor's transition into corpse pose. "Hey!"

An older woman on the other side of Sam looks at him, disappointed. "Veronica has every right to be upset," she says. "You tell her she's something special and then can't even honor her with a response when she proposes?"

Sam tries to catch his breath, arms splayed at his side. He glares at her. "Uh, no offense, but you're not exactly a relationship expert here. You've only been with Anthony, what? Two weeks?"

"No, Donna's right," Fi assures him, closing her eyes to hopefully re-establish some form of equilibrium.

Another girl, Natalie—with bangs and a University of Miami t-shirt—chimes in from behind them. "Sam, my guy. It's completely understandable that you would have some reservations, or whatever, given everything that went down with Amanda. But you can't just, like, project all of your emotional baggage onto Veronica. It's not fair to her."

Sam looks between the three of them as they transition into bound angle pose. His hips creak painfully in the process. "Okay, let's assume that some—"

"—all—" Fi corrects.

"—Fine, let's assume all of that is true. What do you guys think I should do?"

"Have you called her since?" Donna wants to know.

Sam looks uncomfortable—and not just because his body hasn't moved like this since before the Soviet Union dissolved. "Well, no, not exactly, but—"

"Sam!"

This time, Fi doesn't bother watching her volume. She stands abruptly, slinging her yoga mat over her shoulder, and grabs Sam by his ear. His protests combined with her antics are enough to disturb the whole class. The instructor scowls at them both.

"Don't worry, we're leaving," she calls out, dragging a sniveling Sam behind her. He barely protests when she informs him they're driving over to Veronica's, so he can explain to her in person why he's an emotionally stunted idiot man child (her words).

—

"Now, you can hit me all you want," Sam growls at him, breathing wild and uneven, "but I'm gonna stand here 'til you get your head back in the game."

All Michael can see is red (although, some of that may be courtesy of Sam, who apparently still packs a hell of a right hook) as his options for saving the sick boy, Jack, vanish right in front of him. To him, it's just tactical reevaluation: Rachel is no longer an option, so the next logical step is Carla, who has the cash they need. But to Sam, it's apparently a breach of conscience.

It's been so long since Michael took his conscience into consideration—seared and mangled beyond repair, as it is. But Sam, apparently, views it not only as something worth saving but as something capable of being saved.

So he retreats, equal parts livid and grateful toward the guy blocking his front door.

A good friend supports you, both tactically and personally, he thinks, but an even better friend knows when to draw the line.

—

"You're lucky I like you so much," Fi says through a barely concealed yawn as they walk into Milam's. "Otherwise, you would never find me up this early on a Sunday."

Campbell smiles and pulls her into his side. "Good thing I'm so convincing then."

She has every intention of keeping up her pouting act and drawing the whole thing out a little while longer, but when she looks up at him and sees how...happy he looks, she finds it difficult to stay annoyed at him. Especially because she finally has the chance to wear the romper she snagged from the outlet mall two weeks ago for a fraction of its original cost.

(Michael would have complained about heading out to Dolphin Mall on a weekend, but Campbell was more than game. He even offered to drive—)

She cuts off that thought and instead focuses on how warm his fingers feel through the thin material of her romper. "And charming," she adds without really meaning to, but as soon as she sees his smile widen, she's glad she does. "However, I believe there were promises made regarding a homemade breakfast of some kind?"

She wiggles out of his grasp to pull a hastily made grocery list out of her pocket (half-off and pockets? Be still, her heart!). She hesitates a moment when she sees two of the cashiers looking intently in their direction (it's always the same girls who stare at her every time she's in here). They go back to busying themselves with the registers as soon as they see her looking their way.

"An egg white omelet with spinach?" Campbell suggests, then after a moment of doubt, he adds, "Right?"

It's adorable—as is everything he does. She nods in reassurance, and his shoulders sink in relief.

"Now," she says, redirecting the conversation to the task at hand, "produce is on the other side of the store, but the eggs are lumped in with poultry here, so if we hit up this side first, then make a straight shot through to—"

Campbell releases her and instead clasps one of her hands in his. "We have nowhere else to be today. Why don't we go up and down the aisles and pick up anything else we might need?"

She hesitates. Tactically, his plan is an absolute disaster—why would you divert from the objective for non-essential food items? But, a small voice reminds her, not everyone is as tactically minded as him.

Campbell frowns as her smile presumably falters, but she shakes her head like an Etch-A-Sketch and hooks her arm in his. She makes a big show of sighing and rolling her eyes as she relents. "Fine, but you owe me a yogurt now."

He plants a kiss on her head. "Blueberry, right?"

She spends the rest of the day pointedly ignoring the voice that won't stop reminding her he's not Michael.

—

Crouched behind their registers, Olivia turns to Maricruz. "Oh, my God—that's the supermodel wife slash girlfriend!"

"The one with the yogurt guy?"

She nods. "Yeah, but that's definitely not him."

Covertly, the two peer over their registers to get a better look. Not long after, Supermodel Wife Slash Girlfriend looks in their direction, and they quickly disappear again.

"Uh, excuse me, but who the heck is generically handsome white dude?" Maricruz demands, sounding almost offended.

Olivia's shoulders sink. "Do you think she's cheating on him? Poor yogurt guy."

"I mean, it could be her brother?"

"Yeah, right. He had his arm wrapped around her waist. That's, like, Boyfriend 101."

Maricruz puts her foot down. Metaphorically. "No. No way. I—"

"Excuse me." An elderly woman peers over Maricruz's conveyor belt, her mouth pressed into a hard line. "Could I please get some assistance?"

The two girls pop up from their crouched positions and brush themselves off. Maricruz offers the woman a conciliatory smile. "So sorry, ma'am. I'm happy to help you out."

After Maricruz rings up her order—a tube of Sensodyne and a bag of Werther's Originals—the elderly woman walks off in a huff. They both wave after her, wide smiles plastered on with professional ease, until Maricruz turns back to Olivia.

"No, look. I have a cousin who runs a kind of sketch auto body shop in Little Haiti, and he says yogurt guy was in just last week buying a new windshield, and supermodel wife slash girlfriend was with him."

Olivia looks somewhat impressed. "You looped your cousin into this?"

"...Yes. I'm not proud of it," Maricruz laments. "According to Diego, yogurt guy is in there a lot, always showing up with his car busted up. One time, Diego swears he saw bullet holes on the side, hand to God."

Olivia takes this in with some difficulty. "But he...he owns so many polo shirts! I just—what does that guy do?"

Maricruz crosses her fingers, nodding in Supermodel Wife Slash Girlfriend's direction. "Hopefully, not her. My money is still on super hot sister."

—

"Now, did Shawn deliver, or did he deliver?"

Michael turns just in time to see the giddy smile stretch across Sam's face as he makes his return to their seats, his arms delicately balancing chili cheese fries and plastic cups of beer. Before Sam can reclaim his seat between them, Fi makes a grab for the fries, while Michael takes one of the proffered beers. When Sam settles in, he tries to snag one of Fi's fries, but she slaps his hand away.

"Fifty-yard line, third row back," Michael recalls, unable to help the grin from spreading on his own face. "I've gotta admit—these seats are real nice, Sam."

Of the three of them, he's the only one in an orange polo shirt. The other two are decked out, head to toe, in Dolphins' colors—including jerseys (Sam, of course, in an old Marino one) and in Fi's case, an orange bandana. She even has eye black under each eye.

"Nice?" Sam demands with a hearty laugh. "Mikey, these seats are more than nice. They're phenomenal. I can practically see the whites of Ricky Williams' eyes!"

Fi sighs dramatically. "Get back to me when we're talking about real football," she says, popping a fry into her mouth.

"Real football?" Sam gestures toward the whole field. "This is as real and American as apple pie, lady."

She rolls her eyes. "Michael, can you please inform Sam that I am not an American?"

"Mikey, can you please inform Fiona that I didn't serve in the Navy for over a decade to listen to the good name of American football be besmirched?"

"Kids, kids," Michael says dryly. "Let's try not to kill each other before half time even begins."

Arms crossed, Sam and Fi glare at each other. "Fine," they spit out simultaneously.

Michael smiles from behind his sunglasses as an announcement filters in through the speaker system that they're clearing the field to honor a group of local World War II veterans. Sam springs up from his chair just as a steady stream of other people migrate toward the restrooms and concession stands.

"Those beers shot right through me," he informs them just as Fi makes a point of dramatically shuddering. "I'm gonna try to beat the lines."

As soon as he leaves, Michael is acutely aware that he and Fi are alone together for the first time since...well, a while. Without Sam as a buffer between them, she seems much closer than before. Which is...inconvenient because she said they can't be together, and she's still—well, the whole thing is still—a lot.

And...maybe she called Campbell before the start of the game, and Michael realized he hadn't been able to make her smile or laugh like that in a long time.

"I never got a chance to thank you, Michael."

He looks up at the sound of Fi's voice, but when he turns to her, she has her feet propped up on the seat below her, gaze straight ahead. He copies her stance, settles into the cheap plastic seat. "Thank me for what?"

"For taking this job and putting Felix away for good. He was a monster. Corey and Tanya deserved more than living their lives in constant fear."

Michael has a brief flash to his father, but he reflexively pushes that back. Instead, he watches as a group of elderly veterans make their way onto the field. "Well, you said you felt strongly about it."

"I did," she says, then quickly corrects, "I do. Tanya is just a kid, and when I—"

Abruptly, she cuts herself off, and it takes everything in him to keep his gaze straightforward. Fi could never stomach his pity, and he has a feeling now would be no different. There's something there, but he won't press her. Instead, he tries a different tactic. "You did good work, Fi. They were lucky to have someone who lets her emotions run the show on their side."

He feels eyes on him, and instinctually, when he turns to look at her, she's looking right back, an appreciative smile on her face. He looks away just as she makes the decision to climb over and into the seat next to him. She plucks a fry from Sam's abandoned pile and settles in before saying, "Sam will simply lose it when I tell him I submitted his name as one of these elderly veterans."

It's enough for both of them to share matching grins and clink plastic cups as the concept of colleagues who are just friends seems more attenable.

(In the spirit of colleagues who are just friends, he may need to tell Sam to stop calling Campbell "Soup" behind his back.)

—

Even from his spot behind the police line, Michael can feel the stifling heat blazing from the explosion site. He's not actually breathing in any of the smoke or the smell of charred plastic, but he may as well be, the way his chest constricts, the way bile comes up and burns his throat on its way back down.

He spends the next few hours scouring what seems like every freeway, every back road, and every alley that make up Miami-Dade County looking for her. He mentally compiles every safehouse, every evacuation measure, every weapons stockpile she has littered throughout the city. All the while he tries calling her ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") again ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") and again ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") and again ("This is Fi. Leave a message."). It's only when the rain turns into a torrential downpour, reducing his visibility to practically nonexistent, that he's forced to make the retreat back to the loft. The click that accompanies the closed door carries with it a finality that Michael refuses to—can't—accept.

But then her voice somehow filtrates through his waning adrenaline and utter exhaustion ("You have got to get a landline in here."), and suddenly, he can't focus on anything other than remembering how to breathe.

There's no Campbell, there's no job, there's no sleazy, retired ex-SEAL making not-so-subtle comments, or a well-meaning-but-intrusive mother demanding to know how he ever let a girl like her go—

There's just them.

And suddenly his chest constricts, and he's drowning for another reason entirely when she sinks into his embrace—warm, and solid, and alive.

—

Sam keeps asking, keeps pressing, keeps...being Sam about the whole thing, but she is quite adamant on the subject.

She doesn't want to talk about it.

"Are you sure?" he tries again, breathing heavy. They're outside the loft, where the Charger usually is, sparring (Michael's off with—other Sam). She can't recall who had the idea first, but she's dismayed it took this long to figure out that hitting Sam is...well, it's phenomenally cathartic.

"Because it seems like—" He ducks, narrowly avoiding being kicked in the head. When he comes back up again, he fixes her with an indignant glare. "—it kind of seems like you might wanna talk about it."

"There's nothin' to talk about." Fi's next punch lands squarely on the beat-up couch cushion he's using as a strike shield. If her native accent slips through the haze of her own outrage, then so be it.

"Nothing at all?" This time her foot connects with the cushion, but he holds his ground. For an octogenarian (she assumes, anyway), he's still surprisingly spry. "You're telling me," he continues, as she blocks his counter, "that you have absolutely nothing to say about the fact that Mike—our Mike—was once engaged?"

Fi lets out an enraged shriek before she lands a roundhouse kick that makes Sam lose his footing and stagger backward. While he recovers, Fi paces—hands on her hips, breathing erratic, head and chest pounding in tandem.

"Of course, I do!" she cries, coming to an abrupt halt. "Do you know what he said to me? What he told me that first night we were in Miami?" When Sam shakes his head, she tells him: "He said—" She swallows past the lump in her throat with some difficulty. "—He said I was the 'closest he ever got.' And then this—this Sam woman just shows up, out of the blue, and she's just like him—"

Sam stands fully and looks at her with not quite empathy—he's not nearly evolved enough to pull that one off if she's being honest (and she almost always is)—but with pity. It's positively grotesque.

"Fi..." he trails off, his expression totally lost.

She can't tell if it's said out of genuine concern, or out of embarrassment by her outrageous emotional display, and he's just too much of a gentleman to address it forthright—but either way, she decides, she has spent far too much time wallowing to be of much use to anyone. (The fact that she just compared Sam to a gentleman is merely further evidence of her fraught emotional state, as far as she's concerned).

"Sam, I'm fine." She wipes her hair out of her eyes and brings her fists back up to fighting stance. "Like I said," she reminds him, "I don't want to talk about it."

Sam takes a moment to determine if she really is fine, but she doesn't budge. Satisfied, he clears his throat and holds the couch cushion back up. "Fine by me, sister. But this time," he advises her with an annoyingly smug smirk, "try leaning your whole body into it. Your last kick was pretty weak."

Later, after Fi leaves and Sam drives over to the clinic in Coconut Grove to tell his medical buddy about the whole ordeal, Sam's buddy takes one look at his x-rays and tells him he has three cracked ribs.

—

I left her because you don't marry someone when you love somebody else.

Madeline can't see Fiona's expression from her place in Michael's bed (pretending to be asleep limits her line of sight), but she can't help the small smile that blooms on her own face at her son's admission.

She hasn't known Fi long, but she has come to think of her as...family. Like the daughter she never had (the one she miscarried all those years ago). Sometimes she thinks about it—about what would happen if her fool son would start prioritizing the people he cared about over his job and what that would look like. How he would finally decide whether Fiona was officially his girlfriend or not, and how she would finally have the big family get-togethers during the holidays with all of them (her sons, and Fiona and Sam) like she always wanted, and maybe—eventually, somewhere down the line—how she might even get grandchildren out of the deal. She snuggles down into Michael's god-awful mattress, hopeful.

Her son certainly picked the right girl, but so help her, if he thinks Fiona—coming from an Irish Catholic family like that—would ever be caught dead proposing instead of him, then he clearly inherited all of his common sense from Frank, who was—at his best—a complete idiot.

#burn notice #burnnoticeedit #my writing #my fic #burn notice fic #michael westen #fiona glenanne #sam axe #madeline westen #fiona x michael

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itsblosseybitch · 4 years

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Griffin Dunne by Lynn Geller (INTERVIEW Magazine, May 1985)

At 29, Griffin Dunne has seen the movie business from many different perspectives. Born in New York City to Ellen Griffin Dunne and television producer-turned-writer Dominick Dunne, Griffin grew up in Los Angeles and is the nephew of Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne. Eleven years ago, he returned to Manhattan to pursue an acting career and, after roles in Off-Broadway plays, television, and “An American Werewolf in London,” teamed up with Amy Robinson and Mark Metcalf [misprinted with an e at the end] to produce the film “Chilly Scenes of Winter,” in which he had a small part. He and Amy went on to produce “Baby, It’s You” and, most recently, Martin Scorsese’s “After Hours,” starring producer Griffin Dunne in the male lead. As if this weren’t enough responsibility, the past year has also included acting roles in the films “Johnny Dangerously” and this spring’s “Almost You.”

Looking remarkably fit for such a busy man, Griffin strode into the Lion’s Head in Manhattan only fifteen minutes late and carrying a briefcase full of future projects.

LYNN GELLER: You come from a literary family--your aunt, uncle and father are writers--were there any actors before your generation?

Griffin Dunne: Well, my mother was an actress until she had children, meaning me. I was the first. She was raised on a ranch in Nogales, Arizona, and my grandfather sent her to school in the East. My father was an actor then and he met her at a play. Actually, she hated being an actress.

LG: I didn’t know your father had been an actor.

GD: He wanted to be an actor before he became a producer. He was a stage manager and actor, studying with Stanford Meisner, who ran the Neighborhood Playhouse. Meisner told him he would never be a leading man because he was too short. When I say short, I mean my height, five-seven, five-eight. He left the profession because he wanted to be a leading man, not a character midget, or whatever he thought he would be. This was in the pre-Dustin Hoffman days. He became a stage manager for live TV, everything from Howdy Doody to Playhouse 90 in the ‘50s. When I was two, he got a job in L.A. and that’s where I was brought up.

LG: Is that home?

GD: Well, yeah, home is where the mother is, but I’ve lived in New York for eleven years.

LG: Why did you move here--you went to school in the East?

GD: I went to boarding school in the East [more specifically, Fay School in Boston, Massachusetts, based on a New York Times article from the -late ‘90s and the Alumni page] , a pre-prep school that was very repressive. Coats and ties, whippings--if you ever saw the Lindsay Anderson movie If... you know what I’m talking about. You stay through eighth grade and then hopefully you graduate and go somewhere like Exeter and Andover.

LG: Did you?

GD: My response was to get the hell away from the East Coast and go to a liberal arts school in Colorado called Fountain Valley.

LG: I know about that school. That was supposed to be a very wild place.

GD: Well, I was hoping it would be. It was wild in my wildest imagination. You could grow you hair as long as you wanted and you were allowed to smoke cigarettes. You could pretty much get away with anything, but I did manage to get myself kicked out.

LG: What did you do?

GD: I smoked dope and a teacher saw me through a window. The next night I was going to appear in Othello, and I never got to do the play.

LG: So you were acting at an early age. Was that because of your parents?

GD: No. I was planning to be a writer. But a guy who taught acting talked me into auditioning for Zoo Story, the Edward Albee play. I got the part and that was the end of that.

LG: How old were you when you got kicked out?

GD: I was 17 and almost finished. They wouldn’t let me graduate, which was really depressing. It was more depressing that I didn’t get to play Iago. They felt that my performance would be tainted by the fact that I had been kicked out and I might be unduly rewarded by applause.

LG: What did you think you might do after that?

GD: Be an actor. I finally got some work. I was in a movie called The Other Side of the Mountain.

LG: Then you came to New York?

GD: No, then I got a job on a television series called Medical Story. I had about ten lines. I played a doctor, stuffing an IV in Linda Purl’s veins [misprinted as Linda Pearl] and answering Meredith Baxter Birney when she came in and said, “What’s the diagnosis, David?” I’d memorized the diagnosis, which was complicated medical jargon.

LG: What did you use for inner motivation?

GD: My major motivation was to say the words correctly. I figured if I did it like a real scientist, I’d pull off a real character coup. Then right as we were about to roll, the medical adviser on the show came over and said that the diagnosis wasn’t accurate, we had to change the description. They changed the lines and every time we’d go for a take, I couldn’t remember the lines and I’d clam up. The director would go, “Cut. What’s your problem? What is your problem?” I said I needed five minutes, so he said, “Okay, five minutes, the kid’s got five minutes.” I went into a little room and I was so nervous about ruining my career that when I went to light a cigarette, I set my lip on fire. So when I went back to give the diagnosis I hadn’t memorized in the first place, I lisped. The director was furious. He said, “Cut. What’s the accent? Are you doing an accent on me?” Finally, the actress, Linda Purl, took out one of my pens in my top pocket and without me knowing it, she wrote out the diagnosis on her arm, where I was to insert the IV. So when they said, “Roll ‘em,” I had no idea at first what my line would be and then I looked down at her arm and there it was. It was very sweet of her.

[Based on the available information I have, the Medical Story episode that Griffin Dunne was on was titled “Up Against The World” or “Us Against The World” depending on what you check. The episode is said to have aired December 4th, 1975. All I could find on the show was a promo on YouTube.]

LG: You must have fallen in love.

GD: I did, but we never got to say goodbye. So I got the lines out, but what I realized from that experience was...nothing. Absolutely nothing, but to have a cigarette in your mouth when you go to light one. Shortly after that I moved to New York and signed up at the Neighborhood Playhouse.

LG: Because your father had gone there?

GD: I didn’t know he’d gone there until I was already in there and he told me the Stanford Meisner/leading man story.

LG: While you were studying acting, did you work as a waiter?

GD: Yes. At Beefsteak Charlie’s for a limited engagement. At Joe Allen once for two weeks. I lied and said I was experienced and I clearly wasn’t. That was enough to get me the job at Beefsteak’s. I hung in the longest there--they liked my work.

LG: Then you would go on auditions? Is that what you do when you’re a waiter/actor?

GD: When you’re a waiter/actor with no agent, you read Backstage and go out for plays that you never see in ads for openings. They never appear as productions. I went to an audition for an original play once, written and directed by a woman with a long Russian name. She thought I was perfect for the part. It was the first time a director said, “You are going to be great, you’re it.” She told all the other actors to go and took me out for coffee. I couldn’t believe my luck--I’d just arrived in New York. She took me out, we talked intensely, and at some point I realized she was stark raving mad. She had this long scarf that dragged behind her picking up dirt and pizza crust. I looked closely at her and realized she was a bag lady. I realized that anyone can hold an open casting call, a trick I haven’t really employed yet as a way to meet new and exciting people.

LG: How much does it cost to take an ad out? As much as a bag lady collects in a day?

GD: No, these people weren’t quite bag. They have apartments and enough money to be able to decide, is it Safeway tonight or an ad in Backstage? At some point, they just cross that line.

LG: How did you get involved in producing?

GD: Well, Amy Robinson, Mark Metcalf and I were unemployed actors hanging out together. We were working on the play Cowboy Mouth, which we were going to do for ourselves and hopefully get a production. That never happened, but the three of us had a lot of energy together. Eventually that translated into our trying to get a movie off the ground. Amy loved the book Chilly Scenes of Winter by Ann Beattie, and we agreed. That became our first project. We were all frustrated at being out-of-work actors. At the time I was working at Radio City Music Hall selling popcorn. I carried around a big set of keys as the manager of the popcorn concession. I wasn’t getting a lot of feedback on my work.

LG: Had you ever thought of producing before?

GD: I never had dreams of producing, but I was with Amy and Mark and what we wanted to do was much closer to what I wanted to do than what I was doing. It felt as good as acting.

LG: How did you end up doing Baby It’s You?

GD: I was in Poland acting in a TV movie called The Wall. Amy was talking about the idea for the film before I left. It was loosely based on her life, about a middle-class girl who gets involved with one of her classmates, a guy from the other side of the tracks. While I was away, she got John Sayles involved. We discussed it over the phone from Poland, the conversations closely monitored by the hotel staff. God knows what they made of it. But I didn’t have too much to do with development.

LG: You mean in terms of the story?

GD: More in terms of getting the development deal at the studio. Amy and I have a very good relationship. We both rely on each other’s opinions and support. We were both line producers on the film. Our job was to keep things rolling and to make sure that John Sayles had everything he needed.

LG: Are you good at that?

GD: Yes, to my surprise. I never considered myself much of an organizer, but it turns out I’m good with money and at getting along with people, making sure that everyone has what they need and keeping those needs within the budget.

LG: Let’s talk about some of the films you’ve been acting in recently. Have you seen Almost You yet?

GD: Yes. I liked it. The characters were incredibly human and sympathetic. And screwed up. Not homicidal--but normal, confused human beings. My character in particular was a very confused fellow.

LG: That was a movie where someone approached you with a script. What made you decide to take it on?

GD: Well, Adam Brooks, the director, had a script he’d been telling me about when he was a script supervisor on Baby It’s You. One day, when I was living in a beach house with Brooke Adams, he came up with the producer, Mark Lipson, and the script. We had a great day at the beach. Brooke cooked this great meal. After they left, we read the script and thought it was really charming, funny. Brooke and I wanted to work together and this seemed perfect. We said yes, thinking, this sweet little picture is never going to get made anyway, but, of course, we’ll do it if it does. Ha ha ha. All we did was say yes, and Mark and Adam took the ball and ran with it. The next thing I knew, we had a start date.

LG: What was the time lapse between those two events?

GD: Six months. It was shot in February. Very quick--I was pleasantly surprised.

LG: But at this point you’re no longer living in that beach house?

GD: Six months is also a very. very long time. A lot can happen in that time. Brooke and I aren’t living together anymore, nor were we when we did Almost You.

LG: Wasn’t that hard?

GD: It was interesting. We get along very well. We’re good friends, and we were very professional. I think we both dreaded the idea of letting the crew think there was something more to this than there was.

LG: Do you think people see you as wearing two hats now, actor and producer?

GD: It’s hard to tell. I don’t really know. I have noticed that scripts that are submitted to Doubleplay Productions that have a character that is anywhere from 20 to 35, they say, “This would be a good part for you.” I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a lure.

LG: Well, aren’t you looking for movies to produce that you can act in?

GD: Whatever movies Amy and I decide to do, it’s totally collaborative. I can see doing a movie that I would rather produce than act in, but it would have to be very special, like Chilly Scenes of Winter or Baby, It’s You. But doing After Hours revitalized my interest in acting, it really inspired me. So my dream is to be able to continue producing movies with Amy that I can act in.

#griffin dunne #interview magazine #interviews #old magazines #vintage magazines #archives #may 1985

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urdbell18 · 5 years

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A Seed Hidden in the Heart Chapter 17: The One Where the Fight Begins

AN: So a few things that I would like to point out:

1) I don't know how the courts or the law works. It's great that some of you guys know how it does but I'm using this for plot only, the whole thing is completely fictional.

2) Towards the end we learn more about Mary and I try to portray it the best way possible but if any of you guys are upset in any way shape or form I'm sorry. I'm not good with the heavy stuff, I'm more fluff but I'm trying.

Thanks and enjoy!

PS: THIS is chapter 17. I didn’t know that I accidentally labeled chapter 16 as chapter 17. Sorry!

With Mr. Webster in her corner Zelda turned all of her attention to her graduating seniors. Around Christmas break she contacted an old professor of hers that was still in the area and he set it up so that her senior classes, her French 3, Russian, Italian, and Chinese, could take a college exam that her students could use towards credits earned at whatever school they choose to go to. Because the test was so intense Zelda decided to use it as their final. A majority of the test would be online but the oral report had to be done in person, Zelda graded them on the rubric that the professor sent her. She recorded and sent those to the professor for a second opinion just to cover all of her bases. Convincing Mr. Hawthorne was harder than necessary. He denied her request twice until he got a letter from her professor that allowing the students to take the test didn’t cost anything. After that Mr. Hawthorne jumped at the chance for her students to take the test. He cleared out the computer lab for an entire day so that her students could take the test. Much to the carnage of Shirley.

Apparently, Hawthorne bumped Shirley out of the computer lab so that Zelda’s students could take the exams. It wasn’t just Shirley, Mr. Thomas was also bumped and they were only bumped because they were covering for another teacher. Unlike Mr. Thomas Shirley made a big stink about it. She raised a fuss with Mr. Hawthorne but he refused to change his mind. That was probably why when Zelda brought down her sixth period Chinese class that Shirley was already there having students set up on computers with a smirk that clearly showed she knew what she was doing. Zelda didn’t even try to deal with Shirley personally, she called Hawthorne so he could deal with her. Shirley’s students, who could read the room, sat in the library so that Zelda could have her students start on their exams. As she closed the door so that her students had complete silence she saw Shirley glaring at her. She just smiled and turned her attention back to her students, they lost enough time as it is.

The day the seniors graduated meant a day off for Zelda. It was a day that she would lie in bed for a bit with Mary before enjoying breakfast with her family and then relaxing the day away with her daughter and Mary. That is how she would spend the day if she didn’t have to attend court.

Thanks to Mr. Webster he prevented Faustus for scheduling a hearing on a day that she couldn’t attend. Though she hated having to lose the day off she was grateful that she could give the issue her complete focus. She deliberately didn’t tell anyone, especially Mary, where she was really going when she left the house right after breakfast. She told her lie and kissed Vida and Mary goodbye. Mary looked at her with narrow eyes but didn’t say anything, she let her go with a soft ‘bye’. Mr. Webster was waiting for her when she arrived at the courthouse and she followed him to whatever courtroom her case was being heard. Faustus and his attorney were already there. When she entered Faustus’ gaze followed her all the way to the free table just left of the gate. Zelda ignored him, she kept her head high and face forward to the empty judge’s bench.

“All rise for the honorable Judge Methuselah.” A bailiffs voice boomed in the virtually empty courtroom but they all shuffled to their feet. An elderly man in judges robes came in with a file tucked under his arm. When he sat down everyone but Mr. Webster and Faustus’ attorney took their seats.

“Mr. Morningstar.” Faustus attorney nodded in acknowledgement. He was a clean shaven young looking man with brown curly hair that was just long enough to not be called unruly. “Your client is suing Ms. Spellman for the custody of her daughter.”

“That is correct your honor.”

“Why does your client feel the need to now obtain custody over the child?”

“Mr. Blackwood has become increasingly concerned over the welfare of his daughter.”

“What concerns?”

“The child’s living situation and the company that Ms. Spellman keeps.”

“What do you have to say about this Mr. Webster?” Mr. Webster straighten his jacket, fastening a button that had come undone.

“Complete fabrication. Ms. Spellman has every right to remain in the house with her family. And the ‘company’ that Mr. Morningstar is referring to is irrelevant to the matter at hand. What we should be focusing on is, is Ms. Spellman an incompetent parent and that answer is no.”

“It should be the courts concern when the ‘company’ that Ms. Spellman keeps is another woman.”

“Mr. Morningstar last I checked this was the twentieth century not the 1800’s. Dating another woman isn’t a crime and seeing as Ms. Spellman and your client are no longer in a relationship, if you can call what they had a relationship, she is in every right to be seeing someone else, male or female.”

“The woman in question is mentally unstable. I have documented proof that Mary Wardwell has had a long history of mental illness and had even be hospitalized.”

“That is a complete violation of Ms. Wardwell’s privacy and the court shouldn’t even entertain this possibly illegally obtained information!”

“Enough!” Judge Methuselah banged his gavel for good measure. The courtroom went silent minus the last dull echoes of the gavel. “It appears to me that this matter requires more looking into. I’m ordering a social worker visit Ms. Spellman’s house hold in two weeks. After they file their report we will continue. Until then we are adjourned.” Judge Methuselah banged his gavel one last time before standing from his seat and leaving. Zelda remained in her seat her brain trying to work out what just happened. Was it a good or bad thing that a social worker was visiting her home? And all those things about Mary… were they true or made up by Faustus’ attorney? Faustus and his attorney walked by her table, Faustus glared at her but she didn’t acknowledge it.

__________________

According to Mr. Webster a social worker visiting her house was no big deal. She was a competent parent with nothing to hide. The social worker would see that and would report in her favor, Plus, he would get a copy of the report so Morningstar couldn’t twist the facts. There was, however, one fact he had to look into. Mary. Zelda wanted to talk to Mary first, Mr. Webster agreed that was best and to call or email him when Mary was ready to speak to him,

Mary and Vida were in the living room, sitting on the couch while Vida read a book to Mary. Vida was stuck on a word and Mary helped her out when Zelda approached them. She sat on the arm of the couch and wrapped on arm around Mary’s shoulder.

“You’re back.”

“Mommy!” Vida tossed her book to the side and scrambled onto Mary’s lap to get close to Zelda. Mary winced a little but didn’t seem to mind.

“Vida.” Vida looked at Mary from where her head rested on Zelda’s legs. “I need to talk to you mom for a minute.” Vida huffed but nodded. She left saying she was going to work on the puzzle in the parlor. Mary scooted over to create space for Zelda. Zelda slid off the arm to the free space, draping her legs over Mary’s lap. “So how’d it go?”

“I knew you didn’t believe me.”

“Of course I didn’t. Is it over?”

“No. Faustus’ attorney managed to convince the judge enough to have a social worker visit us. Mr. Webster said it wasn’t nothing to be concerned about. However…” Zelda bit her lip. She was almost hesitant to ask Mary.

“However… what?”

“Faustus’ attorney said something… about you.”

“What that I’m immoral for corrupting you into my world of debauchery?”

“Not exactly. He implied that you were mentally unstable.” Mary’s eyes grew dark but the light that flickered there meant that she was thinking about something.

“This attorney… his name wouldn’t be Lucifer Morningstar would it?”

“It would.” Mary nodded and took a deep breath. They fell silent for a while, Zelda not wanting to push Mary.

“One thing that we have in common is crappy mothers. My mother was apart of this church community, I think they were Mormons I can’t be sure after all this time, and would drag me to church with her all of the time. I hated it, always did, and when she realized that I wasn’t like her, devoted to the church and wanted to learn more, things that she called ‘sinful’ and ‘immoral’ she washed her hands of me. From there I had to fend for myself but she didn’t kick me out, she wanted to allude that she was still a loving mother even though we rarely spoke to each other. When I turned sixteen she pushed for me to find one of the male members to ‘court’ so that we could marry. I was having none of it, even though the boy that was interested in me was nice. I liked Adam but I couldn’t marry him, it wouldn’t be fair to him if I did. I knew for a while that something was off about me but I didn’t know what. Much like you I ran away after I graduated high school but I just ran away to the college that I didn’t tell anyone that I applied to. That’s where I met Lucifer. I still felt off but I was attracted to him enough to start a relationship.

At first everything was fine but when the next year started he became possessive. It started with changing my courses without my consent and moving my stuff into his apartment. He limited where I could and couldn’t go, not that I listened. I still attended debates and parties that interested me. At one of those debates we discussed human sexuality and that’s where I learned what was off about me. To this day I don’t know if I would call myself bisexual or lesbiean but I don’t deny my attractions which to me is more important than the label. I stupidly thought that I could share this piece of me with him. When I told him that there was a possibility that I like women he locked me in a bedroom and when I natural screamed and fought to be let out he called authorities and somehow convinced them that I had a mental disease that was left unchecked and I was a potential danger to myself and others. That gave me a one way ticket to a mental hospital. It took them a whole week of me refusing medication that I didn’t need and talking to doctor after doctor that I didn’t belong there. At that point I was done with him, he betrayed me in a way that I couldn’t ignore. I called the school and said I wanted a transfer and they helped me move to another college. I left straight there not that it did any good. He found me but I refused to be intimidated by him even as he took the same classes as I did. I left after I graduated and didn’t apply for any jobs until I arrived here in Greendale. That was the last time I saw him and I hoped to never see him again.” Zelda nodded and at some point she took Mary’s hand. She was in awe that even though they were so different they shared an almost identical past.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for? You didn’t ask for him to be a bastard.”

“I know that. I’m sorry for not asking. I realized that there is so much about you that I don’t know and I hate that this crappy situation is making you reveal this part of you when your not ready.”

“To be honest I wasn’t going to tell you. If I did have a mental illness I would have told you but since it was forced onto me I didn’t think it worthy of sharing. If there is anything that you want to know about me all you have to do is ask.” Zelda smiled and nodded. Using her free hand she cupped Mary’s cheek and brought her closer to her.

“I love you.” Zelda’s breath felt hot against Mary’s lips before she claimed them. The kiss was short and soft, Mary was smirking afterwords. “When you are ready, you need to tell Mr. Webster this.”

“I understand. Do you know when the social worker is going to come?”

“No. I’ll have to tell Hilda about it so she can keep an eye out.”

“Good. I want to be there when they came and I want to be there with you at your next court appointment.”

“Are you sure? This isn’t your problem to deal with.”

“Yes it is. Moving into this house means I’m apart of this family and Vida is family. I understand that you want to appear independent and no one here is going to deny that but there is a difference between being independent and being alone and I can tell you one thing Zelda Spellman you are not alone.” Zelda opened her mouth but closed it. She didn’t have a counterpoint to challenge what Mary said.

“You’re right. I guess since I’m so used to things that I forget.” Mary just smirked and kissed Zelda. Before it could go any further Vida came in to say she was hungry for lunch. Her hands were over her eyes, she said it was to block her from seeing something yucky. Mary gave Zelda a playful smirk before scooping Vida up and blowing raspberries all over her tiny body. When Vida cried uncle Zelda took her from Mary and they went into the kitchen for lunch.

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indie-struggle · 4 years

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Emotion

I read a script the other day and it was flat. It hit all those famous plot points you hear about, but it was dull. It had nothing of interest, and I wondered why. The more I thought about it the more I realized that it was void of any authentic feeling, and it only had plot. I unconsciously rejected it based on that - being that I am an emotional animal that has experienced a broad range of emotions - and not just sunshine and farts.

This lead me to a thought: no wonder why I keep returning to those films I love.

One of which is Ordinary People. Since I first watched it some years ago, looking back, I'm unsure of how I came about that... maybe it was Alvin Sargent (the screenwriter), who I admire a lot. Anyhow, I keep coming back to it. I watch it maybe 10-20 times a year along with all this other stuff you wouldn't like. I've read the script, though, who knows what draft it was or what level of production it was in, but it still held the core of the story and its moral.

It really is a fantastic film - and made in 1980 to boot - which puts it in this strange place where I'm not sure how it was made. At that time, the action-adventure blockbuster came storming in with Jaws and Star Wars, and a lot of films flew under the radar due to that. But this wasn't ignored and, ironically, probably couldn't be made today. Who knows, maybe it's because Robert Redford's sexy ass could do whatever he wanted then...

The performances, though in certain areas are lacking (mostly from z-list bit actors), don't keep the story from being solid. There isn't one hole in it. Its - and sorry for spoiling 40 years later - structure isn’t melodramatic. The plot isn't pulling the characters along like movies you're used to, the characters are pulling the plot - extremely important difference. You never know where you're going except for the moment, and yet as we go further down the rabbit hole we become more gripped with this family and don't even realize it. Film wise, this is difficult to make on any level. This is also besides the point I wanted to talk about, which is much greater than just structure and planning, or production values and cinematography... I really need to stop drifting.

(the infamous exploding car)

I want to talk about relatability (is that a word?) of emotion. Because I think that's why I keep coming back to it. First off, this type of film is something you're more inclined to see from outside of the US post '70s. It's a piece of Americana but, almost, almost a slice of life film. Something the French, Italian and Russians specialize in: the inner lives of people and how it effects life around them, ultimately resulting in natural conditions, or an ending that has no place else to go, because that's life. Its only alternative is to have a glimpse of hope. Ordinary People ends with that alternative, because this is fucking America.

(I've written about slice-of-life before: https://indie-struggle.tumblr.com/post/172373896232/so-whats-the-slice-of-life-genre-anyway - but since tumblr blocks this blog from being found outside of tumblr, you probably never saw it.)

This family is nothing like what my family was: they're well off, they're complete, they have things I couldn't fathom or even dream of in terms of benefits in life. This isn't a poor family with gritty living conditions making due and living pay-check to pay-check, which I would immediately identify. So, try to understand the bias here. This family is the polar opposite of all that. So, why in the hell can I relate with it so much? The answer, in the end, is the same damn reason I relate with Sean Nelson's character in Fresh.

Emotion.

The interactions that the family go through are relatable and realistic enough that they transcend any sort of status symbol, race or class. They're universal to those who've had the same emotions, even if it's just coping. You have a father who is simple and confused, but he’s caring and present. You have a son with PTSD, unwelcome in his own skin, his old haunts, at school, at home, and with authority. And then, you have the mother: a torn, stand-offish, determined battle axe, who at every turn is trying to unhear or trying to change the subject to keep herself in balance - the egoshell™. She, strangely enough, is the most unstable of the three. Not only to the characters, but to the audience. I have to be honest, I didn't get this until about my 5th viewing. I was so busy hating her, I didn't realize that she in fact is the one torn inside the most. She doesn't know what to do, and of course loses it all by trying to keep it all. Ultimately, the story is about a father though, trying to hold this family together, as shown through the son.

(moments before the great Uzi on the bus scene)

Now, the biggest complaint I've ever heard about this story is about the psychologist. I understand that. The reason is due to a perception of over compensation. At that time, and even today, it's seen as being detestable to see a shrink, or something to be looked down upon by some people - mostly cowards. So, the film paints it in a bright light, not a savior but a brighter light than most can accept. I, myself, who have been to many psychologists (you can tell), can say that the light isn't that bright. It's more of a case of: "Look, psychology is a story in itself, and we don't have 6 years to spend on the son getting help for this story. So, let's round out the edges." And that in turn creates quicker results and this idea of painting the shrink as a saint. But, his character is true to psychology - take my word for it - that's how they are. Granted, they're not all nice, but when you get a good one, they really hit the mark on what that’s like. And the film isn't about him anyhow, he's just the handle along the steps the son is climbing - something I felt Good Will Hunting borrowed heavily from.

So we have a traumatized, coping family. The reason they're traumatized really isn't important. Though it's shown with brevity, you soon start to realize that this family is being pulled apart by strings that were on a bad foundation beforehand (which, in my opinion, is the reason the story merely shows glimpses of the tragedy throughout - which was a good decision). It has zero sentimentality. There's no guy playing a harmonica in the corner while an old man runs off about the troubles of life. There's no music cue as two buddies realize their futility while sitting on a dock, boozing.

Everything is shown, it's right there, naked, bald, shivering, and with no place to go.

Every character's behavior is perfect for the story. They're realistic, they're believable. All their choices and actions are accurate to how people react to trauma. No two people act the same in reality, and how they do in the film is something you should focus on. Their behavior and actions are what reveals their emotions. The believability of the emotions they're having and the actions they take are what transfers the emotions to me. If you think in terms of action-reaction, it's accurate. And that’s a good thing to note. No doubt an external conflict has created a personal conflict story here, but it didn't need the external conflict to work. It didn’t need to be shown. Why? Because this cloud every character is in is the aftermath of it. It’s a rippling wave through each of them, and that’s what’s interesting, not the tragic event itself.

I'm rambling now... fuck. But what I want you to take away from this, besides that it will make you cry unless you have no goddamn soul, is that you don't need a hook. You don't need explosions. You don't need a good planet vs. bad aliens all the time, or a talking fucking animal... you don't need any of that, it isn't what matters. All you need is emotion out of something interesting and you've got something.

No matter the class, the race, or any social or political beliefs you hold close to your chest, emotion matters the most. And it has to be from some place genuine. It's what editors cut for. Emotions triumph, and this film is a good example of the proper writing and execution of them. Behavior and action are always a side effect of an emotion, whether they're holding on too tight, don't know what it even is, or know what it is and are trying hard not to lose it. Realistic emotions are paramount. They are what's relatable. In stories, it's what you have to tap into, it's what holds you, even more so than spectacle.

(killers photograph their victims prior to dragging them into the murder basement)

Now, if you've never lived and done things to experience a broad range of emotions, how are you going to hold someone's interest who has? You're not, and your story is going to be flat. It doesn't matter if you hit every plot device out there. Unless you're Chris Nolan and can get away with just plot and sentimentality, your script will drown. As Tom DiCillo once said: "If it ain't got heart, it ain't worth shit." I don't know if he coined that, I just remember him saying it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I heard my grandfather say that once thirty years ago, but you get the point. I hope.

If I had the chance to talk to that writer, I’d tell him to go live. Go get rejected by a woman, try to survive on nothing, get beat up, go get dirty and come back. Do something to get life experience. And if you can’t for some reason, at least read about those who have and try to fully understand it. And for the love of John-Boy, be interesting and make me feel something beside a bit of thrill or fright. It's tired. There are many more powerful colors of emotion out there besides pink and gamboge... so find ‘em.

#emotion #screenwriting

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ladyherenya · 5 years

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Books read in September

I fell down a couple of rabbit holes -- that’s my metaphor of choice for when I ignore my TBR list and get distracted reading other things, usually in a search for comfort reading.

Also, I clicked the wrong thing in the Kindle app at 1am and now I have a free trial of Kindle Unlimited so I decided I might as well make use of it.

Favourite cover: A Conspiracy in Belgravia.

Reread: Obsidio by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff, Penric’s Mission and Mira’s Last Dance by Lois McMaster Bujold and Exit Strategy by Martha Wells.

Still reading: The Princess Who Flew with Dragons by Stephanie Burgis.

Next up: Pumpkinheads by Rainbow Rowell and Faith Erin Hicks.

(Longer reviews and ratings are on LibraryThing. And also Dreamwidth.)

The Bride Test by Helen Hoang: Khai hasn’t found a girlfriend, so his mother arranges for a young woman from Vietnam to come to California for the summer, to see if she and Khai will suit each other. This is romance, a genre which doesn’t always share my narrative priorities -- some things are resolved too neatly, and I’d have liked more of Esme’s relationship with her daughter and of her adult education classes -- but I enjoyed reading this, so I’m not complaining. I liked how Hoang portrays Khai’s autism. He has a greater capacity for love than he realises, he just needs support to understand his feelings.

Secrets of a Sun King by Emma Carroll (narrated by Victoria Fox): I read this because I love the narrator and really liked Carroll’s Letters From the Lighthouse. This book is set post-WWI, and involves friendship, family secrets and the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Lil’s grandfather is in hospital and she becomes convinced that his recovery depends upon her solving the mystery surrounding the package sent to him by a famous and now-deceased Egyptologist. I predicted the twists, but I can see how this would strongly appeal to children who want a blend of history, adventure and mystery with a hint of fantasy. (Where was this when I was twelve?)

The Spirit Ring by Lois McMaster Bujold: Fantasy set in Renaissance Italy. Fiametta, daughter of a master mage and goldsmith, witnesses a violent coup. She flees -- and meets Thur, a guardsmen’s younger brother coming to Montefolgia for an apprenticeship. This was published in 1992, after Bujold had published several Vorkosigan books and won a few Hugos, so I wasn’t expecting it to feel so, well, rough by comparison. That said, bits of it still shine! The plot makes every detail count, the final confrontation is memorable and I liked the characters. And it’s interesting to consider this as a precursor to Bujold’s World of the Five Gods.

A Royal Pain by Meg Mulry: This turned up when I was searching Overdrive for something else (Goodness knows why, none of my search words are its title or description). It sounded like it might be entertaining, maybe a bit like The Princess Diaries. It isn’t, at least not enough for me. Two-thirds through I decided to abandon it -- and then a bit later I decided I might as well skim read to the end and see how everything turned out. I don’t feel qualified to say anything insightful, I just wandered in here by mistake...

The Enchanted April (1922) by Elizabeth von Armin (narrated by Nadia May): Four women respond to a newspaper advertisement and rent a house in Italy for the month of April. This is delightfully funny and observant, with idyllic descriptions of spring in Italy. I liked the friendships which develop between four very different women, and the way they are challenged -- or inspired -- to reconsider their opinions about others. The ending is, unsurprisingly, very tidy and conventional. (Not many options for happy endings a 1920s novelist could easily give to unhappily married women.) Reading nothing but sunshine and fairytale endings would become unsatisfying, no matter how wonderful the prose, but sometimes it’s just want one wants.

The “Lady Sherlock” series by Sherry Thomas:

A Conspiracy in Belgravia: Disgraced Charlotte Holmes has found a home with the widowed Mrs Watson and an income under the persona of “Sherlock Holmes”. Her latest case sounds simple but is complicated by connections to the wife of Charlotte’s closest friend and Charlotte’s half-brother. Meanwhile, Charlotte has a marriage proposal to consider, ciphers to crack, and a murder victim to identify. I like the way certain qualities of Doyle’s characters are assigned to different characters -- so Charlotte’s sister Livia is writing stories about Sherlock, and Mrs Watson’s niece has medical training. I enjoyed reading this and immediately embarked on the next book.

The Hollow of Fear: I could not put this book down -- the stakes are so high and personal! But in the end I didn’t find this a wholly satisfying mystery because much of the tension is the result of Charlotte concealing a lot about her suspicions and plans. It’s fun watching Charlotte in disguise, and I don’t mind some misdirection, nor Charlotte keeping thoughts to herself. That fits with her character. But the extent of it felt contrived. Disappointment aside, I liked the journey, thought one of the twists was handled with particular deftness, and I am eager to read the sequel.

The Huntress by Kate Quinn (narrated by Saskia Maarlveld): A long, complex, powerful three-stranded story about war and its aftermath. In Boston in 1946, Jordan, a teenager passionate about photography, is suspicious of her new stepmother. In Germany in 1950, war correspondent Ian now hunts war criminals. And in Siberia before the war, Nina becomes a pilot. From the beginning, this was interesting, with tense scenes. But I wasn’t strongly invested, and I was unsure of the narrative’s structure. As the story continued, I discovered that it is richer and more nuanced because of its structure -- and that I was becoming very attached to these characters. Surprisingly so.

The “Dear Professor” series by Penny Reid

Kissing Galileo: The description made me curious, so I looked at the sample chapters... and, unexpectedly, was convinced I should read this book. Because it’s smart and funny! And I liked how the characters deal with an awkward and potentially very problematic situation. (Emily works as a lingerie model, and when her professor visits the store, he doesn’t recognise her.) I really enjoyed the progression of their relationship -- how obviously they like each other’s company and care about each other, how they have an intellectual connection that goes hand-in-hand physical attraction, how they learn to understand each other better.

Kissing Tolstoy: The first book is about Emily’s friend Anna, who signs up for a Russian literature class, unaware that the professor is someone she accidentally had an almost-date with. This is a shorter than Kissing Galileo, nearly novella-length, and because I read them back-to-back, suffered somewhat in comparison -- it’s less complex, and features a professor who doesn’t deal quite so well with being attracted to one of his students. I wasn’t so convinced their relationship was a good idea. But there’s some entertaining awkwardness and people being opinionated about Russian literature. I liked Anna’s nerdy interests and her friendship with Emily.

Marriage of Inconvenience by Penny Reid: I was curious what else Reid has written and sometimes I like fake relationships stories. This book makes a convoluted set-up feel plausible. I liked how Kat and Dan’s relationship developed, I liked the ratio of romance to plot, and I liked how involved and supportive all their friends were. But my enjoyment ebbed as I read, which is probably a reflection on what I want from this sort of story rather than on this book’s merits. I don’t find the corporate city setting very interesting or appealing.

Dr. Strange Beard by Penny Reid: I enjoy stories where characters are passionate about their interests. In this, one of the characters is a vet but his job had no real presence in the story. What a waste.

A Desperate Fortune by Susanna Kearsley: Sara accepts a job decoding a ciphered diary from 1732. The diary is written by Mary, a half-Scottish woman raised in France, who agrees to disguise an Englishman by pretending to be his sister. I like how these two stories sit together. There’s a gentleness to Sara’s, as she discovers things she likes, including the sensory delights of winter in France and people who accept her. In contrast, Mary’s is full of danger, deception and the discomfort of travel. But there’s also subtle, common threads running throughout: life-changing choices and trusting people. I liked so many things in this book.

Echo in Onyx by Sharon Shinn: Brianna becomes the maid for the governor’s daughter, who has three “echoes”. When one of Marguerite's echoes is killed defending Marguerite, Brianna disguises herself as the echo so that they can conceal the incident. The concept of echoes is unusual and Shinn has clearly given careful thought to how they would affect society and daily life for those who have them, as well as reasons for their existence. I wasn’t surprised by the final twists, because I know how Shinn usually deals with injustice, but parts were still quite tense. And I liked Brianna’s attitude -- so sunny and resourceful and loyal.

A House of Rage and Sorrow by Sangu Mandanna: I really liked A Spark of White Fire so I was surprised by my reaction to this sequel. Halfway through, I was pushing myself to stay focused and just wanted to cross it off the list. So I left it there. I don’t know if there was something in the pacing or the first book’s ending which stopped me from caring -- or if I just wasn’t in the mood to read about rage and sorrow and things going to hell in a handbasket. I might try again one day. I did like the first one.

#Herenya reviews books #Lois McMaster Bujold #Sherry Thomas #Sharon Shinn #Susanna Kearsley #Helen Hoang #Kate Quinn #Emma Carroll #Penny Reid #Sangu Mandanna #Elizabeth von Armin

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necropsittacus · 5 years

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answer all the ones you have an interesting answer for, i guess?

i had FAR too much fun with this and it’s horrifically long so. Apologies For That. also thank you friend

2: What’s your dream pet? (Real or not)i really want some finches, when i'm actually in a place to care for an animal? maybe a pigeon3: Do you have a favorite clothing style?in real life i actually Wear button downs and black jeans most of the time for convenience. *ideally* it would be something more like "unholy union of like three different goth aesthetics, and sith fashion, and also Pirate. and spikes/chains/glowy lights." it's probably good for everyone else's eyes that i'm too cheap to redo my entire wardrobe in line with my ideal aesthetic sensibilities. i also have a set color scheme; at most one bright color, which is generally red, blue, or purple, and everything else should be black or grey. 8: What is your Greek personality type? [Sanguine, Phlegmatic, Choleric, or Melancholic]melancholic with choleric leanings.9: Are you ticklish?nope! im pretty sure i trained myself out of it 12: Do you prefer tea, coffee, or cocoa?tea. i like the taste of coffee if it's very heavily creamed and sugared but it does terrible things to my body so i don't drink it. too much chocolate also makes me sick14: Would you rather be a vampire, elf, or merperson?VAMPIRE. practically already am. 16: How tall are you?5'7"-5'8". measurements have varied. 17: If you had to change your name, what would you change it to?starscreamthis one is Already a name change? i've been through a few names and honestly i'm pretty happy with "ren." i thought about changing to something people could actually spell right on the first try, but nothing Felt right? 20: Do you like space or the ocean more?ocean! but both are pretty neat21: Are you religious?yes, but it's not remotely clear what i actually believe, just that it's Something 23: Would you rather be nocturnal or diurnal [opposite of nocturnal]?i'm already practically nocturnal tbh and it's fun 30: Favorite movie?i really appreciate the star wars prequels32: How many pets have you own in your lifetime?nine; six fish and three budgies, not all at the same time37: What is your eye color?green38: Introvert or extrovert?i think the whole dichotomy is a bit overhyped and doesn't exactly apply to me. my situation is more that i act like extroverts are "supposed" to with close friends but people i don't already know and like very much are deeply exhausting to be around and i'd rather not40: Hugs or kisses?depends. hand/forehead/cheek/etc kisses are intensely blessed and important to me, but i don't particularly enjoy making out or whatnot, and hugs are Very nice. 42: Who is someone you love deeply?tumblr user @autisticsansa44: Do you like tattoos and piercings?yeah!45: Do you smoke or have you eiver done so?yeah, occasionally. obligatory disclaimer that it's a terrible habit and you shouldn't start. it's more a "i'm extremely anxious and need to do SOMETHING" thing than a regular habit, though. 57: Have any mental disorders? [Only ask this if you know the user doesn’t mind!]several. it's just not 100% clear which ones. the most recent Professional Opinion was OCD and CPTSD with probably related anxiety and depression. also autism but i don't think that's quite the same thing58: What does your URL mean?it's a pun on "neurodivergent" that i stole from someone else's post about liches61: What makes you unfollow a blog?if your opinions start pissing me off too much or you post things i consider morally objectionable or dangerous to me. also if we have a sufficiently bad personal fight. i don't really care if a mutual or someone i've been following for a long time stops having common interests with me or anything like that, at that point i'm invested in You as a Person and will stick around for that64: Favorite animal(s):all birds. also cetaceans69: What is your star sign?i'm a fake scorpio. i have been telling people i'm a scorpio and tagging zodiac posts accordingly for literal years, out of a combination of the stereotype applying to me much better than the one for my Actual Birthday and residual influence from homestuck. 76: Do you like birds?i LOVE birds.86: Can you run a mile within ten minutes?i can't run a mile at ALL i'll have an asthma atatck88: Can you touch your toes and keep your legs straight completely?no and trying hurts90: If you were an animal, which one would you be?goth cockatoo94: Would you rather be able to fly or read minds?both of those sound fantastic. i want to say fly, though, both because bird thing!!!!, my latest batch of Attachment/Projection Characters has me thinking about the idea a lot, and mind reading seems like it would likely become a burden on me. i struggle enough with other people's feelings about me as it is96: Winter or summer?winter. summer is consistently a miserable time for me101: Favorite type of shoesaesthetically, high heeled black lace up boots. irl i mostly wear combat boots, though103: Are you a vegetarian or vegan? If so, why?vegetarian. i don't really Know why; it was how i was raised, i have no actual desire to eat meat, and i'm reasonably certain trying to start now would interact disastrously with a lot of my preexisting food issues. also, some of you are incapable of not responding to asshole vegans by acting like eating meat is a moral imperative and it's ok to bully people who don't. so even if i did want to, i wouldn't out of sheer spite106: Do you like bugs?depends on the kind. bees/wasps, dragonflies, and butterfly/moth type things are all fine. i'm deathly afraid of crickets107: Do you like spiders?yeah! i think they're cute109: Can you draw:not very well, but i keep doing it anyway114: Do you prefer cloudy or sunny days?cloudy. bright light tends to hurt me115: Someone you’d like to kiss or cuddle right now:i'm in an odd place right now where i'm either not sure if the people i'm closest to (and/or most want to Become close with) would be comfortable with anything of the sort, or know for a fact that they wouldn't be, so i'm going to refrain from naming anyone, but certain friends129: What would you want written on your tombstone?"túrin turambar dagnir glaurunga." for old times' sake/the sentimental value. i doubt christopher tolkien would give anyone permission for that, though131: What is something you love but also hate about yourself?arrogance, ambition, drive to succeed out of sheer Spite. it's a very good aesthetic, but i don't imagine it's very pleasant to actually *interact* with someone with a complex about being #1 132: Do you smile with your teeth showing for pictures?nope. i exclusively either smirk or keep my face as blank as possible; i don't think smiling like that looks good on me. 133: Computer or TV?computer. i don't actually know how to operate a television139: What nicknames do you have/have had?a lot. tends to come with changing your name 500 times. atm i don't really have any, to my slight disappointment140: Did you have any pretend or imaginary friends?i had imaginary enemies as a kid143: Do you prefer giving or receiving gifts/help?depends? it's hard for me to help people, especially to guess what kind of thing actually Is helpful to them, and i absolutely LOVE being given things, but also if i know someone well enough that we're giving each other things i would feel absolutely terrible not reciprocating, and doing it makes me happy. 145: How many languages do you speak fluently?only english, unfortunately. i have like a six year olds level of russian, which i want to improve, and i think i Could get there with japanese eventually if i start taking classes again147: Are you androgynous?honestly i can't really tell? not deliberately so, particularly, but i think i have a very Traditionally Feminine kind of pretty face and the way that combines with mostly masculine presentation and facial hair is pretty androgynous148: Favorite physical thing about yourself:this isn't a Specific Thing per se, but i do think HRT has been taking my appearance in a very "g1 seeker" direction and i am DELIGHTED151: If you could go back into time and live in one era, which would you choose?hm. viking stuff is a Big Aesthetic, but also i think i deserve to be a sickly victorian gentleman and die of tuberculosis154: Do you like to kiss others’ foreheads or hands for platonic reasons?YES. this is one of my favorite forms of affection irl. also hand kissing is The Most Valid kind of kissing. 155: Do you like to play with others’ hair?yes!!!157: Something that makes you nervous/anxious:talking to people when i'm not 100% sure where i stand with them or how much they like me. especially if i'm requesting anything.168: Do you like to wear makeup?i used to. i probably still would if i could do it without being read as a woman, but as it is the discomfort of being misgendered outweighs the joy of Having Sparkly Colors on My Face

#long post #ask memes #circus to air missile #VERY long post im sorry i. got a bit carried away #smoking ment

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northernrainforest · 5 years

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Windows

If you’ve ever stayed in a European youth hostel, you can picture the kind of room I’m in right now. It’s windowless and Spartan: twin beds, lumpy pillows, an ancient phone on a beat up nightstand between the beds. It’s cold in here because the air is cranked up too high, but there’s no thermostat. There’s also no clock. Time doesn’t matter here, and time also matters a great deal. The main difference between this room and a room at a cheap pensione in Florence is that when you step outside you’re not greeted by the picturesque banks of the Arno. This room is one of the two “sleeping rooms” in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Providence Pavilion for Women and Children in Everett, Washington, and I’m here because my baby is across the hall, hooked up to machines.

I was 35 weeks and 5 days pregnant when I woke up at 1:18 am.

“My water just broke,” I said to Flo, and my heart sank. They had told me several days prior that I should “chill out” and “take it easy,” when I visited labor and delivery to talk about the symptoms I was having, which felt suspiciously like pre-term labor. I did do things differently: I stopped going to the gym. I started doing dishes while sitting on a bar stool (for what it’s worth, we should all be doing this. It’s comfortable.) But at the same time, a small voice inside me was egging me on: reminding me to finish little tasks, to tidy up loose ends. By Saturday, I was walking through Safeway with Ladybug slower than I’ve ever walked anywhere. I almost could have predicted I’d go into labor that night. But I was at the grocery store, because we needed milk. (It’s currently turning into yogurt in the fridge. Turns out, we’d never drink the milk after all.)

Regardless, there I was at 1:18 am, trying to be clearheaded about what to do next. I packed a few things (real talk: mostly snacks) and tried calling a couple of friends before realizing that Ladybug would be joining us at the hospital. Unsurprisingly, she was thrilled. She had already packed a bag in case she needed to stay at a friend’s house. But staying at the hospital? Even better. (The next morning she did head to a friend’s for the day, and stayed there that night as well. I’m all for including the family in life events, but I don’t need to be managing a five-year-old between earth-shattering contractions.)

Earlier that week I had gotten a pregnancy update email (baby was the length of a head of Romaine lettuce at that point, I think) which highlighted the need to map out the best route to the hospital. Flo and I giggled about this, thinking back on our interminable drives to and from UCLA Medical Center as we waited for Ladybug to arrive. To get to PeaceHealth Ketchikan, by contrast, the directions were straighforward: turn left out of driveway. Turn right on Carlanna Lake Road. Turn left into the ER. It took us a minute and a half to get there from our house, where we parked steps from the entrance of the ER by a sign that said “Reserved for Patients.”

I will not bore you with my birth story. Was it Chekhov who said, “Every happy family…?” Forget it, I just googled the phrase and will spare you my version (it’s Tolstoy, by the way. Also Russian, so arguably I was close.) “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” This is true for childbirth too. Every birth story is unique and gnarly and often funny, and the ones that go haywire are unhappy in their own ways. But if you’ve heard one birth story you kind of get the idea: the built-in spoiler alert is that it ends with the birth of a baby. As wild as the story may be, the ending is almost universally the same. All I will say is that Flo and I were holding our son at 5:43 pm, sixteen hours after we packed up our little bag and our little girl and left for the hospital. I am in love with the name we chose for him, but for the purposes of this blog he will be known as Bronson. (Long story. Ask Flo.)

Anyway, in our case it wasn’t labor and delivery that made for the interesting story. A few hours after birth, after the little man had crawled his way up my chest like his sister had done and rooted around for some dinner, the nurses noticed he was struggling to breathe. So began several days of cannulas in his nose to send air more easily to the lungs, and then an IV drip to regulate his blood sugar, and then a 24-hour moratorium on breastfeeding so he wouldn’t aspirate, and then and then and then. In the same way that they say one intervention in labor can lead to a snowball effect, it felt as though Bronson was encountering more and more obstacles day by day. But he seemed well enough by Thursday morning that we were talking about being discharged the next day. Then he stopped breathing. He was in my arms in the tiny nursery—he’d been in my arms most of the night—and he suddenly seemed sleepy. The night shift nurse stared hard at the monitor, adjusting the leads that connected him to it. Within moments, our quiet night together turned loud, bright, busy. A team of nurses, doctors, anesthesiologists, respiratory specialists—they all got to work, drawing blood, inserting a new IV, pumping air back into his lungs. It was quickly decided we would need to be medevaced to to a bigger facility with a proper NICU, which meant Flo raced home to pack me a bag. Ladybug and I cried softly in each other’s arms.

Bronson and I were loaded onto an ambulance, which drove onto the airport ferry, which then headed around the backside of the airport to a police escort and a waiting Lear jet. Bronson’s tiny body was dwarfed by the enormity of his incubator. The kind man who worked for LifeMed and sat next to me on the plane briefed me on flying in a Lear jet: basically, it goes very fast, and might make you sick, and you’ll get there in no time.

The whole time we were in the air, I honestly felt like I was dying. I was semi-reclined (perhaps in a nod to my recently revoked status as a patient.) I couldn’t breathe well, and it felt as though the top of the plane was pressing down on my chest. I stared out the window at the clouds and drifted off, out of exhaustion and terror. I couldn’t see my baby, but partway through the flight, the EMT who was sitting next to him asked for my phone. She took a picture of my beautiful boy, his eyes open and bright. He seemed to be doing better than I was.

We landed in an airfield in Everett and a firefighter walked me to the bathroom in a huge hanger. The whole thing felt so absurd that I wanted to make a joke, but for once in my life I really couldn’t think of anything to say. So I said thank you. En route to the hospital, the ambulance driver pointed through the window at the largest building in the world (so he said); a huge sign on the front of it said Boeing. I felt like I did the first time I stepped off the subway in Tokyo—that everything was big, foreign, pulsing with life in a language I didn’t understand. Bronson had another apnea episode when we arrived at the hospital but I wasn’t there to see it. I had been shunted upstairs to Admitting, where a woman who looked exactly like Iris Apfel spent ten minutes misunderstanding our primary insurance. (I think it’s in the middle of Mr. and Mrs. Smith that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt get into an elevator and hear The Girl From Ipanema; after a few seconds of calm and muzak, they get to the next floor and step out, guns blazing. This is what it felt like in Admitting.) Soon, though, I was back downstairs, staring into Bronson’s room as a soft spoken doctor stood next to me and plied me for information about what had happened. I turned to him.

“To be clear,” I said, asking the thing I realized I’d been wondering all day. “This isn’t a question of, ‘My baby may not make it.’ Right…?”

“No,” he said firmly. “He will be fine.”

Still. After my baby settled down for the night, his room buzzing with machines, his body a tangle of wires, I wandered across the hall to the sleeping room and made a few sobbing phone calls. I was decidedly not okay, because I was pretty sure my baby wasn’t either.

That was ten days ago. It’s been two weeks since I glanced around my living room to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, turned off the lights and drove away. Two weeks since I wandered the halls of PeaceHealth Ketchikan, looking through the windows at the wintry darkness between mind bending contractions. Two weeks since they said, “Pushpushpushpushpushpush,” and I did and I did and I did and then I held a small red-faced boy in my arms and cried. Two weeks of living in hospitals, he and I — and things seem easier. I chatted with a couple of nurses just now, using words I didn’t know two weeks ago, talking diagnoses and comparing the opinions and temperaments of attending neonatologists. Bronson can breathe on his own, though we’re still figuring out the root cause of his problem, which (it’s becoming clear) may extend beyond his prematurity and into something congenital or structural. Stay tuned; when I know, you’ll know. He’s eating, and sleeping, and pooping, and generally doing all the things babies do.

The other day, Flo smiled a little when he saw the blankets in the sleeping room. (He and Ladybug and my mom are staying at a Hampton Inn a few blocks away, which feels like the premise of a bad sitcom.) “We used to have these blankets in our house,” he said. This baby, our baby, who lives in a crisp clean room in a state of the art hospital — his grandfather raised five children as a single dad cleaning hospitals like this one. Our little guy has his middle name. There’s been so much talk in the last few years about privilege, but I’ve come to realize from this experience that privilege extends beyond race, class, gender, and so much else that we’ve addressed in the conversation. Privilege extends to access. Privilege extends to the ability to be relieved of pain and suffering. (That is, at least as far as medically possible.) Privilege means a shared language, and the ability to speak up for ourselves. Privilege gives us a window to look through: we can choose to see all the beauty others seem to have that we have been denied, or we could recognize the beauty we ourselves have been given that others may not have access to. All we have to do is open the window, and breathe. It’s the breathing, of course, that is the hard part. But we’re working on it.

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the-canary · 6 years

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All The Stars Aligned - S.R

Summary: A person really isn’t what you make of them in your head. They are something much greater than that. (College AU!Reader/Steve Rogers)

Masterlist

A/N: I saw @eufeme‘s little prompt thing and i came up with this short thing. as always recently, mood music is brought to you by st. vincent with all my stars aligned. please also note that i am writing under the assumption that the main character goes through some major changes through the college years.

Please enjoy and feedback is always welcomed.

You first remember meeting, well more like seeing, Steve Rogers during freshman orientation. He was a skinny thing that wore clothes two sizes too big for him, and hung near the end of the group, which you were also doing but for different reasons. The guide was talking and showing you everything that you would be using for the next four years, though you weren’t paying much attention obviously more entranced by the clouds up above. It isn’t until the group starts going up a hill that you hear a deep heaving, though nobody seems to be paying attention. You stop and and head back to where he is, as he is taking in deep gulps of air, while holding onto his knees with his head in between them.

“Hey, maybe you should sit down,” you try to give some assistance, as blue eyes turn up to look at you, “Wouldn’t want anything to happen before school starts.”

He nods, as you point him to a bench at the beginning of the gentle slope before it turns into the hill that nearly killed the poor boy’s lungs, though you don’t say anything besides that. You know from personal experience that some people didn’t like to be babied and you try your hardest to respect that as he took his inhaler out of his pocket. You wait for him to calm down, as you fiddle with your phone for a bit.

“Thanks,” is all he manages to say, as you look through your bag and hand him a bottle of water, “Ya didn’t have to.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing do,” you shrug as blue eyes widen for a moment, though you aren’t paying attention at the moment as you are midway through another raid in your mobile game. Steve takes a big gulp of water and can’t help the large grin on his face.

“Where are ya from?” he manages to ask after a while, as your eyes flicker to see he has completely turned to look at you, “I’m commuting from Brooklyn.”

“Living on campus. Jersey girl, born and raised.”

Steve lets out a nervous laugh, Bucky would surely have his head for this -- if he ever heard of it.

You swear that you don’t mean to be that person in the English Department, the one student that all the professors talk about due to their differing opinions on what is being taught. It’s just that you have a different viewpoint when it comes to certain literature, and it always had to be with Dr. Phillips. During freshman year, it had been on the meaning behind the blue topaz in your creative writing final. Last semester, it had been over the concept of “loneliness” in Carson McCullers's book, now you couldn’t help but groan as he declares that Daisy is a fool for not loving Jay Gatsby.

“Do you disagree, Miss?” the old professor questions, as some of the students turn to look at you. Even Steve, who is sitting in the back doodling, since he is taking this course as more of a general education requisite more than anything else and while he did all the work nothing really interested him -- until you started talking.

“Well, yeah. I think they were more in love with the concept of the other than the actual person,” you start up, as some of your classmates can’t help but nod, “I mean, Gatsby didn’t know what Daisy wanted, but he wanted to live the type of life she had. He was in love with the lifestyle, and Daisy for all her fooling around never left that lifestyle when asked if she wanted to be with him --- she was never willing to leave for love. They were just using each other, no?”

There is a low murmuring of agreement between the people you know are English majors, as a new round of discussion starts around your ideas for the rest of class. The redhead next you whispers something, which causes you to laugh and from Steve’s vantage point, he can’t help but start drawing your profile.

And maybe, Steve is falling in love with the concept of you as well.

However, thankfully, life isn’t an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel and Steve starts to see less and less of you as his prerequisites are completed and he completely focuses on his art degree. Steve never mourns you though, he doubts that you even remember him from the handful of occasions that you had interacted with each other, but he knows that you are there somewhere on campus drinking overpriced coffee and still fighting with the professors -- and he’s okay with that. He grows out of his small body (literally), moves closer to the university when Bucky transfers, and even tries dating an English medical student though it doesn’t work out. Life goes on until it hits you again.

In the first semester of junior year, Steve is going through an Egyptian art phase thanks to his tutelage underneath Dr. Erskine, an eccentric doctor that in his latter age traveled and painted. Due to this, a nameless woman that always ordered at the same diner as him catches his attention, well more like her back --uncovered due to the unbearable New York heat-- wouldn’t leave him alone, as he often found himself sketching it out when he was bored. He wanted to know the history around it, maybe he wanted to know more about her as well. However, even now standing at 6’ feet, he still feels like skinny Steve from two years.

After a month of watching her, Bucky does him the sore favor of pushing him into the poor woman waiting for her order, as they sit on the front countertop. Her eyes are covered with large sunglasses, as she gives him an annoyed grimace, at least from what he can see.

“H-Hey! Is that the Eye of Horus on your back ?” Steve tries to nervously lead the conversation after giving a brief apology, and she entertains him for the moment.

“Yeah? ” she manages to answer, unsure of where this is all going and Steve swears that Bucky is laughing behind him.

“ Ah cool, but what do you need its protection from ?” he keeps questioning, as she moves away slightly. One hand on the back of her neck in embarrassment and the other on her bag of greasy fast food.

“ Everything, especially my social anxiety ,” she tries to laugh at her own expense, but it comes out strained, as Steve can now hear Bucky curse softly in the back. Both of them now feeling bad for bothering her.

“ Oh shit, I’m sorry, ” is all he can manage to say, as she starts backing away.

“ Hahaha, ‘kay, cool, no problemo ,” she turns away, trying to save face, and heads out the exit as Steve heaves out a weary sigh, feeling sorry that he had scared her away.

“Sorry, Stevie,” Bucky manages to say after putting his burger away, knowing that he might have ruined his best friend’s chances in one blow.

“It’s okay, punk,” Steve says as he tries to best to smile.

However, some thing up above is kind to Steve Rogers as he starts to see the Eye of Horus girl everywhere: in the hallway, during school events, and now sitting in the coffee shop on a laptop sitting across Natasha Romanoff -- a redhead that double majored in Russian lit and art who Steve had interacted with a couple of times during those “Red Room” art classes that he would like to forget. However, aside from all that is really stuck in his head at the moment is going to apologize to her, though for a brief moment her laughing at something Natasha says makes him think of something else, of someone else and he hopes Sam’s psychoanalyzing has gotten to him again. Well, here he goes.

“Hey, Natasha,” he manages to say without a crack in his voice, as both women look at him, “I was wondering if you had the notes for Dr. Fury’s Cubism class.”

“Oh...yeah,” the redhead says with some suspicion in her voice, as Steve takes a sip of his over sweetened coffee, while she rummages through her bookbag. Eye of Horus girl looks up from her laptop once before going back to typing, “Here ya go, Steve. But, I don’t know--”

“ Steve Rogers ?” the woman suddenly squeaks out, which has both art students looking at the blushing mess she is turning into.

“Yeah, why?” he manages to finally ask, as all of the familiarity from two years ago rushes forward. Those twinkling eyes are cautious and the once familiar uptick of a smile is set to a serious frown.

“Oh shit,” she mutters quietly, as Natasha starts laughing before calming down and saying her name softly, as if trying to stop her from getting nervous all over again.

He knows that name, and his original concept of you is shattered.

Steve learns quickly that the confident facade he had seen before hid a more cautious woman that tended to shy away from the limelight unless something really bothered you. You had gotten your tattoo back in sophomore year after a tough semester through one of Natasha’s friends, Clint, but it was her original design. You liked wearing charms for protection and played with the rings on your fingers whenever you can. Your smiles are rare, unless you’re with Natasha, but there’s the most beautiful things he’s seen — he swears it to Bucky over and over again the first time he makes you smile on his own.

“A green light?” you ask looking at Steve’s finished picture for his next art show. You’re standing next to him as he smiles at the green mist that it the majority of the his painting, as you simply stare at it with your arms crossed over your chest and a frown, trying to figure what book its from -- since that was the theme of said gallery show.

“Just like Gatsby,” he laughs, as you finally put two and two together and groan.

“Are you trying to romanticize that awful novel?”

“More like warn them,” he shrugs as you start laughing. The sounds catches him off-guard, though he can’t help but grin at the smile blooming on your face.

Over time, Steve falls in love with the person that he has come to known that you really are, though he still doesn’t forget the teenager with the kind heart that helped him almost four years ago. Blue eyes look at you from outside of the coffee shop window on a wintery December day shortly after the last finals for junior year have been completed. You play with the ring on your right index finger before turning the page of the book you have been reading. He smiles, as he opens the door and gets ready to pour his heart out and show off the latest thing he has been working on.

A concept drawing on someone you love.

And while, he isn’t in love with the idea of just “you” anymore, Steve knows that that he’s madly in love you as a person and all that you are, and he wants to keeps seeing you grow and change as long as you’ll let him.

#steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fic #steve rogers college au #series: short stories #fabiola trying to write

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goldenkamuyhunting · 5 years

Note

Have you read the newest chapter? do you think Sofia knows about what Kiro did or is it about something else?

[I hope it’s okay if I also post here all the discussions about chap 181 which arose from my past post about it]

Yes!!! ^_________^

Scanlations are coming out really fast out of late I admite the dedication of the scanlating group and I wholeheartedly thanks them! (in my country the official publication is still at the 12 volume although there are rumours vol 13 should be released soon… but well, we’re still very far behind the official publication… ;_;)

As I wrote in my ramblings and crazy theory time about chap 181 I’ve not the slightest idea.

It would have been stupid if Kiro had told her the truth, as he knew Sofia had a weak side for Wilk and he already faced a woman in love with him (*chough* Inkarmat *chough*) but of course he might have thought Sofia’s revolutionary feelings would be stronger in her than her feelings for a man whom she didn’t see for more than 10 years, who got married and fathered a daughter with another woman and who fundamentally betrayed their cause.

So yes, it’s possible he did but I prefer to think he would be more cautious.

We know after all he’s completely capable to lie for his own revolutionary purposes and keep the truth for himself as we saw him doing this from… basically when he showed up till now.

It’s also possible that even if he didn’t tell Sofia, she had figured out as maybe he told her enough and she knew Kiro and what he could do… but again while possible I can’t really tell if this is the case.

And, of course, Tsurumi might have tattled out Kiro to her as well. I mean, he tattled him out to the Russian guards. what would have stopped him from tattling him out to Sofia as well as he knew about her existance and could easily predict Kiro was going to meet her?

But, of course, this would come out as weird and suspicious. If he wants to be believed he can’t write to Sofia as Tsurumi. A Japanese officer writing her wouldn’t gain her trust. He could try as Hasegawa, which would tie in well with how we were just told about his story and how Sofia felt guilty for his wife and child’s death.

Still I’ll say it would come as a bit suspicious.

Ultimately though, I don’t want Tsurumi’s involvement or Sofia’s reaction to be that one because she knows the truth because it would be like seeing Inkarmat all over.

Sofia looks a bit different as she first hit then accuses but, if the keypoint is for her to do what Inkarmat would have done, I think this ends up like damaging her character.

Sofia comes from a place that’s different from Inkarmat.

She’s a revolutionary, she has men under her, she has loyalty to her cause, she needs the Ainu gold and Wilk went in Hokkaido to get it for them.

Inkarmat had nothing to lose by blowing up at Kiro except her life but she was so enraged she likely didn’t think much at it (and she probably also has self worth issues). Sofia has her men and her cause to provide at.

Wilk is dead and it’s painful but her men are still alive and need that gold.

Also Sofia wasn’t a child like Inkarmat when she fell for Wilk and therefore her emotional tie to Wilk is different.

So well, I’ve no idea if Sofia knows or will know but I think she can’t allow herself to act like Inkarmat and tattle everything out to Asirpa.

If she knows, I like to think she’ll swallow her accusation down and content herself with the slap she had just given him.

If she doesn’t, then that sentence will end up meaning something different from Inkarmat.

Of course having Sofia too act like Inkarmat and, possibly, having her met the same end, would remark how wrong Kiro’s actions were.

If a random person unaware of circumstances says something it’s just his opinion and you can easily dismiss it… if more people, among which people you trust and who knows your circumstances, say something, then well it’s the moment you should start listening to them.

Kiro’s actions toward Wilk were wrong. Personally I doubt Kiro had the chance to hear Wilk out on why he did what he did and he might have misunderstood his actions or work with wrong informations on them.

In short Kiro might have accused him of betrayal and murder when Wilk didn’t betray them at all.

It’s also true that Sofia is a good boss and, in a way, she was also Wilk and Kiro’s boss and she might feel so enraged her men started killing each other she won’t just shut up. Or maybe she thinks she wants to come out as honest to Asirpa.

She might be a boss with high moral grounds, who will think the gold isn’t worth lying to a little girl. She surely seemed to have a motherly feeling for her… and in the past she clearly had a weakness for children.

But well… it’s really early to guess all this.

We only saw glimpses of Sofia so it’s a bit too early to guess how she’ll move. Still that would be the worst time for a revelation (they’re in the middle of a jailbreak after all) so I’d like to think if a revelation will come it’ll be when they’re in a better place.

So overall everything is just a huge question mark.

However, narratively speaking, the recurring usage of a broken sentence might be a red herring. Fundamentally we expect it to have the meaning of the previous time in which it was used… but this can be exactly why it’s being used now. To lull us in that belief to surprise us when it’ll turn out it’s about something else. After all, it’s meaningful it’s placed just at the end of the chapter, so we can’t know what’s meant to come afterward. If there will be no differences with Inkarmat… the surprise will just go wasted.

So well, I tend to think that Sofia is trying to say something different from Inkarmat.

Overall I’m also more prone to believe Kiro wouldn’t write to Sofia about his involvement in Wilk’s death just to play safe.

I think if he wants to talk with her about it, he would prefer to do it in person.

Sofia’s ability to guess things up depends on how much she knows. If he told her Abashiri in details he come out extremely suspicious, if he just told her Wilk died while they were trying to take him out of the prison… well, it can happen.

People just died during this jailbreak as well.

Sofia might think it was just a matter of bad luck and blame Kiro merely for poorly protecting Wilk.

So… well, I know you were hoping for a more clear answer but at this point everything is possible and all the bets are open.

In reply to this post @daewonhoffsaid: “I have a hunch that Sugimoto will probably reveal to Asirpa that Ogata killed her dad. (when they’ll meet up).”

That’s definitely Sugimoto’s plan, though I honestly hope Asirpa will find out by herself before he’ll manage to tell her.

Not only it was rather easy to guess (Shiraishi is clearly thinking so and, although he likes Kiro and owns him his life, he also told her how suspicious he was and how likely it is he lied to them) so if she doesn’t figure things out she’ll come out as naive as best or stupid at worst and that’s not the Asirpa we know and love, but I don’t really like for her to have to rely on Sugimoto for this sort of things.

Sugimoto rushed after her, feeling very much as a knight in a shining armour trying to save a damsel in distress, but I’d like for Asirpa to prove she’s no damsel in distress and can very well handle things on her own.

It would also help Sugimoto, as he feels he’s utterly to blame as if he was completely responsible for whatever happens to Asirpa and Asirpa were to have no agenda of her own.

I’m not saying he doesn’t have to help Asirpa, I’m sure his help would be a good thing, just that Asirpa doesn’t have to utterly rely on him and be completely helpless otherwise.

Asirpa remarked more than once how she’s in this because she decided so and, when presented with the chance to escape from Kiro and Ogata, SHE decided to stay.

It’s not she claimed Shiraishi was paranoid, this is the way Asirpa has decided. Invalidating it by having her needing to be spoonfed info she could figure out by heself like Shiraishi did and having her need to be saved by Sugimoto would be a disservice to Asirpa.

I like to think Sugimoto will reach her to discover whatever he was so desperate to do (telling her Ogata and Kiro are dangerous, that her father probably didn’t kill the Ainu and bringing her home) has been already taken care of her because she’s his partner and equal, not a burden that depends on him for information and protection.

But well, that’s just me.

In reply to this post @preservedturd said: “I also want to see Sofia and Koito interact. Two nobles of their respective countries with considerably different lifestyles. (I hit the reply button too soon) Bonus points if those two ever talk smack to each other in French.”

Yes, I think it would be wonderful to see them interact and affect each other perspective. Sofia is the sort of great leader Koito’s father hoped Koito would become so I think it would be a great experience for him… and, in a way, I think it would help Sofia as well.

I think she needs to reconnect with the members of the upper class which are not evil per-se but just ignorant of how they’re privileged and that’s why they’re doing nothing.

A good leader should have a collective vision of the situation, not know just one side and just violence will not lead her far. She needs also politic to collect results as she just doesn’t have the means to reach her goals with just the men under her.

LOL, in a way I’d love for Koito to become Sofia’s… ‘heir’ of some sort.

But maybe it’s just me.

#Ask #In reply #Sofia #Asirpa #Sugimoto Saichi #Kiroranke #Inkarmat #Preservedturd #Other people's posts #Daewonhoff

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np-c · 6 years

Text

Fanon as canon

(sry for bad writing, that’s gonna be some gramatic wrong shit but i NEED to say this -aahhh this is hard, sorry)

That’s not a message to antis (fuck them) but massage to pro-shippers. In our fandom we have some weird shit that we all agreed is canon? Its all because bakudeku started as enemies..? rivals? definetly not friends? Because Bakugo told Deku to go to kill himself.

That was a first episode; we didn’t know a shit except we need to protect Izuku at all costs bc he’s so adorable and just need protection. But then there is started some weird west shit where people completly ignoring what’s going on on the screen cuz no one noticed Izuku’s reaction on these words.

Well, you see, I came in fandom after wonderful villain!deku au’s and now i think its the dumbest thing fandom ever made so i was low-key shipping bakudeku. And one of the reasons why i started to watch this show was ‘cuz I wanted to see how really abusive this ship is. I wanted a proof. For my favorite kind fo AU and for my probably OTP.

...

But then I finally saw that scene, goddamn I laughed so fucking hard OMG. Pls rewatch it, PLEASE REWATCH IT WITH YOUR OPENED EYES.

Was it just me or Izuku’s first reaction was a desire to say “well fuck you too”???

Was he upset? Obviously, his notebook was thrown into window. But what else? He was angry. He wasn’t scared before Katsuki glared at him. He wasn’t crying (his usual reaction at everything). After that, he just said that Katchan was stupid to say that.

That was the moment when villain!deku died to me. But so did a big part of bakudeku fandom cuz they are so good people who can’t do anything wrong so when they do, they need to apologise и этот момент во всех фанфиках написан как по методичке And so need Bakugo BECAUSE HE BULLIED MIDORIYA FOR TEN YEARS or something like that apparently (funny thing but i figured that russian just doesn’t have an equal translation; well we have a lot of childish nouns and a lot of verbs so we can translate ‘he was bullied’ but we can’t translate ‘that guy is bully’ without it sounded stupid and childish THE FUNNIER THING: the closiest that i heard used is ‘provoker’ :D i just found that very hillarious dontmindme)

Well, the question is: was Midoriya really get bullied? I saw enough animes to think it was not the case. Or it was nothing really serious and just words. And look me in the eyes and tell me that this guy gave fuck about what people told him. Especially in middle school. He was one with his dreams against the world, even against his own mother (and i need to write another post why i hate Inko Midoriya and probably why I’ll never be accepted in your world of saints). He was quirkless and people laughed at his dreams. His mother didn’t believe in him. But Katsuki? He just wanted get rid of him.

Big bad Katsuki, right? Because you never ever in your lives met people who you thought was weird, who made you feel weird. That could be your friends sometimes or your friend’s friend or just that one classmate - you have never been in such a situation, right? I’m not saying his actions are fine - nah, he was an asshole kid, but i can understand why. Actually, if you read manga, it was said literally: Katsuki doesn’t see a problem in a bit of violence. He was raised that way, he’s angry kid, with not so family-friendly quirk (probably). But he knows when to step back, he follows rules, he’s a good student and he wouldn’t let his ‘friends’ smoke nearby bc he doesn’t want to get into trouble. His dreams (plans) are too big, he works so hard for them to happen. He might be an asshole but he’s responsible asshole за то и любим

So, some stupid kid who thinks he’s better then Katsuki (btw go rewatch their first fight but without this ‘we need to protect Deku’ bullshit in your mind and listen to their dialog - it’s a gold of comedy misunderstandings honestly) that kid thinks that he’s, being a loser (he WAS loser, smart ofc but still yeah it’s not good call him that but ffs), quirkless, can achive something for what Katsuki worked so hard. Most of you would’ve hate this kid too, don’t lie to yourselves.

But would he risk his dreams to hurt him?

Yeah, there’re moments from times when they were what? four? that frame where ‘he became bad after he got his quirk’? i honestly think it was a plothole but just imho :D Asshole violent little brat but i really would’ve love to know the whole story bc wtf. It’s probably my problem after being here too long so i automatically looking for bad things and it’s not like kids never fight. I don’t believe it was something drastically and IT IS the most drastic thing that i found in their history.

And after all... intresting point: Deku still thinks that Katsuki is amazing (even when he’s an asshole) and don’t you fucking dare call him a masochist ‘cuz he’s not. He would fight him.

He wanted to fight him when Katchan said that stupid thing (that you all so love to overthink). He fought him when they were little. He fought him in villain vs heroes lesson without that much of a second thought. Yeah, he’s nervous around him at first bc Katsuki is loud and literally explosive and yeah, from that all you can think he’s scared of him, but is he? Izuku is nervous kid in general. He always was just a nobody for his classmates and it’s not like he was naturally talanted at anything (quite opposite) and his only parental figure is Inko (she’s wonderful woman, okay? but not the greatest mother and also nervous wreck). It was his first days in UA, Class 1-A was just introduced, we didn’t know anybody, and it’s some new test already - ofc he would be nervious.

So, anyway, if Katsuki didn’t abuse him physically, he obviously did that emotionally bc... we need a scape goat and we already hate Bakugo and he told Izuku to kill himself so that’s enough. Or bc he’s the only guy from Izuku’s chilhood who’s name we know, so we can blame him - he’s important to story, right? probably bc every story need an almost-villain so we can hate him altogether. Or maybe bc it was not Bakugo, but a whole atmosphere: his classmates, teachers, his ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry’ mother. First of all, probably genes.

Second of all, ask yourself a question: can one stupid Izuku’s words Bakugo Katsuki break Midoriya Izuku? To the point where we call that’s a trauma, where Katsuki’s usual harsh vocabulary becomes a crime, where we write suicidal fanfics and they don’t sound stupid?

Except they does because Izuku isn’t suicidal, not even fucking close. He doesn’t have a trauma. He is just a nervous kid and - actually - he isn’t fucking weak (strong in spirit or smth like that). Funny thing: when i first watch their exam right before summer camp arc, when they started talking that great speak about impassable wall, I actually thought that can be said about Izuku :D He’s not easy to break and he easily ignores people’s opinions when he needs. He’s self-destractive, not suicidal. Different things, guys. I’m pretty sure even if he did thought about that ‘way out’, he never made this an option. Yeah, you actually can seriosly consider this as your ‘way out’ and then think that nope, not for you.

So, after all this FUCKING TEXT WALL OMYGOD, let’s get back to the point that I didn’t even stated in first place.

Why Katsuki need to apologise?

I’m sure at some point Katsuki hated Deku (bc Deku looked down at him whatever it was or wasn’t thruth - for Katsuki it was) and at some point Deku couldn’t leave him alone. He called him names (name ‘Deku’ was made before Deku happened to be quirkless, some people forget about that), but so did everyone and don’t make Katsuki the most evil one - unlike most, he had reasons and he’s an angry kid and Izuku was a bad guy in Katsuki’s story who wanted to destroy him while hiding behind his innocence smile - what a fucking story with a plot-twist it could’ve been, if it was Katsuki’s POV-

Katsuki didn’t ruin Izuku’s life, not even close. You can say, he ruined his childhood, but I would risk to say that was mutual (Greetings, Inferiority Complex!). Really, can I start to say that Izuku need to apologise to Katsuki bc he didn’t even try to understant his friend?

So, Bakugo is a bully bc we never saw an angry teenager and bc Izuku is innocent and it’s just them two in the world and Izuku is the only one who was hurt no, really, no jokes here, I think Katsuki is a lot more emotionally damaged then Izuku ever was and because we have a really dumb headcanons that we forgot were just our thought ебаное слово, вечно забываю как пишется and interpretations.

So we agreed that Katsuki beat Izuku bc he was quirkless and helpless (seems like EXACTLY THE REASON WHY HE WOULD DO THIS R I G H T) and called him names (definitely not bc he felt threatened by someone who’s supposed to be just a nobody).

...

Okay, that sounds bad so I rephrase it:

Why Katsuki should apologise to someone who he saw as a threat when he for so much reasons shouldn’t?

Not so simple anymore, hah?

Can sound dumb but ambivalent feelings is a thing. And that’s the only reason I can find to explain why Katsuki was the only one of the whole class who didn’t laughed when they’ve been told Deku’s trying get into UA. Because shitty nerd had a chance? Because shitty nerd thought that he stand the same ground as Bakugo and it wasn’t funny anymore? Because stop looking down at me?

Bakugo Katsuki is the best fucking character I’ve ever met. He’s so real. So complex.

And when you picture him as a bully or just a bad guy or abusive, you’re killing him as a character. I don’t like saying that 16y.o. are just kids, but he is AND he’s trying his best. He doesn’t understand all things and he has never met a proper rivals before and he’s definitely not a social person (and nope, you can’t change a character so deal with it and learn to see through this). And let him learn.

He may or may not look back one day and see what a little piece of shit he was, but I don’t think he would say something. He’s a man of action after all.

And I definitely think that would be unnecessary and would look forced bc Izuku doesn’t need this. Izuku isn’t a victim, and when you picture him as one, you’re killing him as a character.

(it should’ve been ended right after ‘OMG TEXT WALL’ but here we fucking are; does someone read this?

i really hope this shit is readable; if not, it’s not about my shitty english that much, but my writing, ehh)

You have headcanons - good. You figured them in a way to fill a gap in the story - great. But for the love of characters, don’t fucking pretend them to be a canon.

But really, is it just me or does first chapter look weird? It’s fctually just funny how so many people seems stuck in FIRST CHAPTER when we are close to second hundred. I’m not saying ‘heeeey character development’. I’m asking: is first chapter a really good reason to make assumptions?

#bakudeku #bnha #boku no hero academia #midoriya izuku #katsuki bakugou #my shitty inglish #SEVEN HOURS OF MY LIFE TO THIS SHIT wooooow #its not even readable is it #i'm d o n e #just my disorganised thoughts tho

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theculturedmarxist · 5 years

Link

By Eric London

25 February 2019

On February 22, the World Socialist Web Site published an article, “The Jussie Smollett controversy: Must all accusations be believed?” The commentary argued that the collapse of Smollett’s claim to have been attacked by racist thugs in Chicago exposed the right-wing character of the #MeToo campaign, which asserts that the accuser must always be believed, lack of corroborating evidence notwithstanding.

One reader, commenting on the article, wrote that the WSWS was hypocritical for calling Smollett a liar while defending his presumption of innocence in the criminal case against him.

“So Smollett is a liar but also has the right to the presumption of innocence?”, the commenter, Urfubar, wrote. “This can’t both be true. You can’t presume someone innocent of a felony you just declared guilty of a felony. Either Smollett is a liar who falsified a police report, or he’s innocent until proven guilty. Pick one.”

This comment provides the opportunity to further probe the anti-democratic rationale and reactionary implications of the #MeToo campaign.

As a preliminary matter, the WSWS opposes Smollett’s former supporters who are now rushing to condemn him just as blindly as they rushed to believe him three weeks ago. We oppose the criminal prosecution and the premature decision by Fox to write Smollett’s character out of the show “Empire” before his guilt has been proven. The efforts by the media to make an example of Smollett before he has been found guilty are hypocritical and serve to confuse, not clarify.

However, the facts that have emerged make clear that Smollett lied about the January 29 attack. He claimed that two white men he did not know hit him, poured bleach on him and put a noose around his neck.

Dozens of security cameras at or near the scene of the alleged crime failed to show any attack, and the two men seen leaving turned out to be brothers, who are friends of Smollett and of Nigerian descent. The brothers had bleach (which Smollett alleged was thrown on him) and magazines with missing pages (Smollett alleged he received a death threat with letters cut out of magazines) at their home.

Financial records also show that the brothers purchased the same piece of rope that was later found on Smollett’s neck, which the pair is shown on closed-circuit video buying at a store. Phone records show that days before the alleged attack, Smollett texted one of the brothers: “Might need your help on the low [i.e., in secret]. You around to meet up and talk face to face?”

The WSWS correctly characterized and condemned Smollett’s selfish, careerist behavior, which only feeds the growth of the extreme-right and casts doubt on future allegations of right-wing vigilante attacks.

But does this mean he forfeits the right to be presumed innocent? Does it mean he is necessarily guilty of a crime?

The answer to both questions is “no.” Smollett has the right to challenge the charges against him in court and the evidence presented. Moreover, even if the defense accepts the specific allegation—that Smollett filed a false report—a trial such as this, in the course of a vigorous defense, invariably raises issues as to the significance and context of these facts, which could lead to a verdict of not guilty.

For example, §5/26-1(5) of the Illinois criminal code penalizes anyone who “knowingly… transmits or causes to be transmitted a false report to any public safety agency without the reasonable grounds necessary to believe that transmitting the report is necessary for the safety and welfare of the public.”

Central to Smollett’s legal defense could be his state of mind. To be guilty of a crime, a defendant must have the requisite level of intent. In this case, he must “ know ” there is no “reasonable ground” to believe the report is “necessary for the safety and welfare of the public.”

This presents a complex question. Did Smollett perhaps convince himself in the present political climate that his race and sexual orientation justify his actions and make them “reasonable?” Did he think bringing attention to bigotry and right-wing attacks was “necessary” for the public welfare, even if this particular “attack” was invented?

Or, was Smollett blinded by ambition and acting under a passion and pressure that so clouded his judgment that he could not “intend,” with clear mind, to carry out a crime?

Could he argue in court that he was operating in conformity with the conventions of a sick and corrupt society that encourages professionals to use their racial and sexual identities in opportunistic ways? Could he say he was an avid reader of the New York Times, which tells him it is “reasonable” to assume accusations must be believed no matter what? Could he say that the #MeToo hysteria has made the reasonable unreasonable and the unreasonable reasonable, and that he can’t tell which way is up?

The prosecution will claim, as the proponents of #MeToo always argue, that the accused is a monster and that monsters always have evil intent.

But Smollett has the right to exercise all the rights that flow from the presumption of innocence. He is protected from the state by the Sixth Amendment, which grants him the right to present his case to a jury and cross-examine the Nigerian brothers to examine their motives. If the case goes to trial, Smollett’s attorneys will have the benefit of voir dire to keep prosecutors from loading the panel with prejudiced panelists.

The Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments mean the judge may bar jurors from reading the New York Times so their ability to objectively hear testimony does not become clouded by the media hate campaign. The judge will tell jurors to ignore evidence, even if it is relevant, if its probative value is substantially outweighed by a danger that it is unfair, prejudicial, confusing or misleading.

How critical these protections are and yet how dangerous it is that none of them are available to the targets of the #MeToo campaign, whose lives and careers are ruined in the court of public opinion! The #MeToo proponents explicitly call for believing all accusers, having adopted the slogan “I believe.” Asking for corroborating evidence is “victim blaming.” Asking accusers about their intentions is “victim shaming.” If the accused claims innocence, it is presented as further proof of guilt.

It is precisely in such cases, however, that presumption of innocence and due process are so critical. Even in cases where everything appears clear on the surface—or, especially in such cases—it is in the course of a trial that the underlying complexities emerge.

The campaign to reject these basic democratic conceptions has been deliberately whipped up by the most powerful and profitable media corporations, working in conjunction with Democratic Party strategists and the editors of newspapers like the filthy New York Times. To advance their own money-grubbing, right-wing agendas, these powerful forces are creating a hysterical mood by playing on the prejudices, emotions, insecurities and ambitions of the affluent upper-middle class like keys on a piano.

Passionate public moods demanding vengeance have long been the vehicle for the most dangerous assaults on democratic rights. Hundreds of African Americans were lynched based on allegations by lying white women. One such woman, 85-year-old Carolyn Bryant Donham, is alive and free today. The lie she told in August 1955 was “believed” and, as a result, 14-year-old Emmett Till was tortured and killed, his mangled body dumped in the river.

Progressive politics has always fought such right-wing popular sentiments, even where the accused is clearly guilty. In the famous 1924 death penalty case of Leopold and Loeb, defense attorney Clarence Darrow argued against hanging two young men who admitted to murdering a 14-year-old boy. The newspapers were demanding the boys be hanged and attacking due process as an obstacle to justice.

In a democratic society, Darrow said, the court must ignore the clamor in the press and the reactionary hidden agendas of those braying for blood. It meant, instead, “that you must appraise every influence that moves [the defendants], the civilization where they live, their living, their society, all society which enters into the making of a child.”

The same principle was captured by Theodore Dreiser in his masterpiece An American Tragedy. Clyde Griffiths’ defense attorney, Belknap, made an appeal to jurors inundated with hysterical calls to sentence young Clyde to death:

“And I venture to say that if by some magic of the spoken word I could at this moment strip from your eye the substance of all the cruel thoughts and emotions which have been attributed to him [Clyde] by a clamorous and mistaken and I might say (if I had not been warned not to do so) politically biased prosecution, you could no more see him in the light that you do than you could rise out of that box and fly through those windows.”

Irreconcilable opposition to such witch hunts in the face of popular pressure is the trademark of principled socialist politics. Leon Trotsky insisted that socialists are socialists only insofar as they maintain “complete and absolute independence of bourgeois public opinion.”

Writing in 1922, the co-leader of the Russian Revolution described bourgeois public opinion as “composed of two parts: first, of inherited views, actions, and prejudices which represent the fossilized experience of the past, a thick layer of irrational banality and useful stupidity; and second, of the intricate machinery and clever management necessary for the mobilization of patriotic feeling and moral indignation, of national enthusiasm, altruist sentiment, and other kinds of lies and deceptions.”

These words may as well have been written about the #MeToo movement, which genuine socialists rightfully oppose.

#jussie smollet #metoo #social justice #democracy #theodore dreiser #an american tragedy #progressive politics

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bloodfromtherock-blog · 6 years

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KAVANAUGH & THE CORONATED CREEPS

Daniel Hutchens October 10, 2018

"It would be naive to depend on the Supreme Court to defend the rights of poor people, women, people of color, dissenters of all kinds. Those rights only come alive when citizens organize, protest, demonstrate, strike, boycott, rebel, and violate the law in order to uphold justice." -Howard Zinn **********************************************

Kavanaugh repeatedly lied to the US Senate under oath during his job interview for Justice of the Supreme Court. These lies have been well-documented at this point, and aren’t even being contested; the essence of the reply from the Republican oligarchy is, “It doesn’t matter.”

And American women at this point have been demoted to second-class citizens by the Trump administration. This is clearly observable. Trump’s attacks on women are relentless; his push toward more restrictive policies on contraception and abortion, his rollback of gender equality pay laws, removal of paycheck transparency, forced arbitration clauses for sexual harassment, sexual assault or discrimination claims...for me, as the father of an 11 year old daughter, this is all a sinister slap in the face. But more to the point, Kavanaugh’s appointment to the Supreme Court now puts Trumpsters firmly in control of the move to strike down Roe v. Wade. Understand this clearly: female American citizens are considered nothing more than property by the Old Boys Club, and women’s voices regarding reproductive rights and their own bodies are considered irrelevant. In Trump’s eyes, women are cattle to be branded and used as deemed appropriate.

Kavanaugh is staunchly anti-abortion and has no intent of ruling objectively on this issue. When Sen. Susan Collins, R-Maine, shadily swung her support to Kavanaugh during the hearings, she apparently felt compelled to grandstand dishonestly for the cameras, maybe in deference to the power of the #MeToo movement, considering her stature as a female Senator. Her behavior reeks of a back room deal, after her previous assertions that if Kavanaugh lied he should be disqualified. She helped Republicans by putting a woman’s face on their warped campaign to shame and discredit survivors of sexual assault, thereby aiding Trump’s shitty backlash against #MeToo, and his brain dead catch phrase, “It’s a very scary time for young men in America.” #MeToo is so powerful that people like Susan Collins have to pretend to support it. She said that Kavanaugh would preserve Roe v Wade and legal abortion. Bullshit. “Operation Rescue,” a group working since the ‘80s to “make America abortion free,” and the rest of the extremist anti-woman crowd have all supported Kavanaugh’s nomination right down the line.

The looming abortion showdown is grim news for American women and those who care about them, alright. The notion that there’s some religious or ethical justification behind returning to back-alley amateurs and economically-selective access to these medical procedures is a sleazeball scam. And just for the record, the “religious right” who have supported Trump have completely forfeited all claim on morality, forevermore, end of discussion. Their previous hand-wringing over opposition candidates for sexual scandals, affairs etc.—then their ridiculous postures that “God chose Trump,” and they “weren’t electing a Sunday school teacher,” their transparent indifference to his cheating on all his wives with porn stars, scamming American citizens with rackets like Trump University etc., his history of racist business practices, his shady record of tax fraud and his whole laundry list of decidedly unChristian behavior, in the most basic sense of spirituality and genuine concern for others, which some of our parents actually schooled us about...yeah, those evangelical hucksters are exposed and discredited and can shut their mouths permanently about abortion and everything else. There are people with genuine soul convictions about these issues, but there are also plenty of imposters and their servility to a snake like Trump spotlights their insincerity. Ye shall know ‘em by their fruits, I’ve heard tell.

Of COURSE Trump wanted Kavanaugh on the Court. Kavanaugh has confirmed himself as a “get out of jail free card" should Trump ever be charged with any crime. Not to mention that Trump and Kavanaugh are plainly fellow members of a perverse fraternity we might as well call “The He-Man Woman Haters Club,” with apologies to the Little Rascals. They both have histories of a predatory mindset, insulting attitudes toward women in general (and no, hiring a few females or minorities does not erase acts of bigotry, and none of us fail to understand the concept of “making only a perfunctory or symbolic effort to do a particular thing, especially by recruiting a small number of people from underrepresented groups in order to give the appearance of sexual or racial equality”)…and Trump’s recent sideshow of mocking Dr. Ford was one of the most jaw-droppingly ugly little political performances this nation has witnessed in many years. (Excepting other Trump tantrums, of course.) Not so long ago, such a warped demonstration would have dropped like a stone any American politician from favor by both parties, immediately and with extreme prejudice. Not so in today’s world of Trumpian “alternative facts” and low-rent bullying.

Also revisit the whole Justice Kennedy/Deutsch Bank scandal, and put the pieces together. Plenty of in-depth and sobering articles are available on this subject, and the bottom line takeaway is that Russian money and influence indeed are swaying American policy and elections, and the whole thing is directly tied to the slow-moving Republican/Russian takeover of everything from our Supreme Court on down. By all means, don’t take my word for it, but by all means do your own research and do your own thinking. But these topics expand and branch out mighty far. Let’s snap focus back onto Kavanaugh.

******************************** “The politically convenient, scientifically baseless theory that sexual assault so traumatized Christine Blasey Ford she mixed up her attacker is now something like common wisdom for many Republicans… less than three weeks ago, when the mistaken-identity theory was first formulated, it was so widely ridiculed that a pundit who advanced it on Twitter subsequently apologized and offered to resign from his job.” -Avi Selk ********************************

Some of Kavanaugh’s defenders have criticized Dr. Ford for being “coached” and otherwise manipulated. I have no doubt she got some advice from lawyers, etc., nor that the timing and presentation of her complaints were orchestrated through Democratic channels. That’s the name of the game in Big Time American Politics, folks. But her testimony was believable and compelling, and she retained adult composure through her emotions (it’s tough to imagine the storm of criticism she would have received from Republicans if she had behaved anything like Kavanaugh.) But the implication that Kavanaugh wasn’t also coached (with a professional eye toward manipulating opinion) is high-grade bullshit, or else a stunning level of naivete. Kavanaugh’s TV appearance in which he portrayed himself as a meek little virgin til long after high school, etc., was harshly disapproved of by Team Trump, and they coached him up with specific instructions for the Senate hearing: their advice was that he needed to unleash his anger. And Kavanaugh ran with the “anger” bit and it got away from him; that much-reported nasty temperament of his glared through the cracks in his public facade, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Kavanaugh’s face...God have mercy. Now in addition to Trump, we have another bitter, hideous visage to haunt our collective dreams. Understand we’re not discussing aesthetics. I’m referring to that old notion that eyes are the windows to the soul, and that intuitive interpretation of facial displays gives us significant information about an individual’s attitude, sense of humor, empathy...or the lack of it. And we were burned by flashes of Kavanaugh’s inner demons during the hearing. Much like Trump, Kavanaugh’s features contorted into a repellent mask of childish temper, ill-mannered impatience and lurking malevolence. It was a freak show that could have taught Hollywood’s monster make-up artists a trick or two. To the extent that Kavanaugh was moved (instructed) to write a quasi-apologetic op-ed piece after the hearing. But we all know what we saw.

During that hearing he raged at those who had questioned his nomination and he hinted not-so-subtly at retribution. He was prodded by White House counsel Don McGahn, who sat directly behind Kavanaugh during the hearing. The whole performance was sickeningly indignant, unashamedly entitled and arrogant, and stunningly partisan in a way that would have disqualified any nominee from previous years—but again, not so in today’s atmosphere of Trumpian distortion and pettiness.

Plenty of us out here recognize Kavanaugh for who he is. We’ve all known “that guy” in our lives; the spoiled, sneering little punkass who talks differently about women as soon as they walk out the door, and who suffers delusions of superiority, and who no one wants to hear any more shit from down at the corner bar.

Kavanaugh’s appointment was questioned or condemned by vast numbers in this country, represented by such organizations as the American Bar Association, Yale Law School, over 2400 Law Professors nationwide, many former classmates and friends, and the National Council of Churches (which represents 100,000 churches and about 45 million churchgoers.) Not to mention the many womens’ groups, the #MeToo movement, etc. Such outright opposition to a nominee for the Supreme Court is extraordinary, and the fact that said opposition was mocked, belittled and outright ignored by the Republicans determined to ram this nomination through come hell or high water—“we’re going to plow right through it,” as Mitch McConnell claimed without shame—yeah, such utter disregard for mass portions of the population is ominous. (And by the way, Trump’s dumbassed claim that Kavanaugh was “proven innocent” indicates a farcical, childish lack of legal comprehension.)

And of course, the meager FBI “investigation” allowed was nothing but a front. The whole circus was rushed and hushed, with zero perceivable interest in knowing the real truth. If team Trump had any interest in uniting the country or in general fairness, they could have trotted out any of a dozen other nominees, all of whom would even have satisfied the wish list of the conservative right, without all the unnecessary baggage. But there are higher priorities for these particular elected officials than fairness or the genuine best interests of the nation.

To pretend Kavanaugh isn’t a partisan shill now planted in the land’s highest court is preposterous belief in “alternative facts” and simplistic hype. The only ones who are fooled by Trump’s blather at this point are those who want to be fooled. His outright nonsense and habitual lies are easily spotted from miles away, but the sad fact is that his supporters don’t give a fuck. They don’t care if he lies, or demeans women or minorities or stirs up international diplomatic firestorms with “shithole countries”-style verbal diarrhea. As Trump himself famously said, he could “shoot somebody and not lose voters.” It’s strangely, sadly true.

It’s also true of Trump’s new handpuppet, Kavanaugh. To whom the idea of “a personality that is even-handed, unbiased, impartial, and dedicated to a process, not a result” in no way applies. Certainly not at this point, after he ranted about “the revenge of the Clintons,” and openly attacked “the Left,” “Democrats” and (for Crissakes) “the media” during his whinefest in front of the US Senate…beyond the pale, folks. We live in a strange new land, in strange new times.

Post-American, by many accounts. The much-revered and much-hated icon of the Left, Michael Moore, predicted Trump’s election in a written article in 2016. The prediction was often reprinted and ballyhooed as campaign-banner fodder by the Far Right. But they missed the warning flash of Moore’s article, and the unnerving prediction: “And now you’re fucked…When the rightfully angry people of Ohio and Michigan and Pennsylvania and Wisconsin find out after a few months in office that President Trump wasn’t going to do a damn thing for them, it will be too late to do anything about it…Goodnight America. You’ve just elected the last president of the United States.”

Pretty dramatic words, but unfortunately the further we sink into the era of the Trump regime, the less incredible such sentiments sound. We’re witnessing an active dismantling and attempted discrediting of institutions ranging from public education to the Free Press. And the schemed attack on the Supreme Court, again, has proven successful for far-righters who don’t give a damn about being even-handed or protecting an independent judiciary.

Trump said that Dr. Ford seemed “a very credible witness”and “very compelling” on one day. Then a few days later he openly mocked her like he was a dimwitted schoolkid. He gushed about what a great man Kavanaugh is, then the next day said, “I don’t even know him!” It’s all topsy-turvy and bizarre, the truth is treated like a curious artifact from a long-dead age, and Trump’s supporters act like it’s all “normal.” But it’s not. And the glimmer of hope is that there are plenty of us out here who understand perfectly well that Emperor Trump ain’t wearing any clothes. We see very clearly what’s happening in this country, the legitimizing of white supremacy, misogyny, homophobia, and bigotry of every stripe. We see you. We see you and know you and so does the whole world, and so will the history books, baby.

“I know Brett Kavanaugh but I wouldn’t confirm him,” wrote Benjamin Wittes, who had previously published and even admired Kavanaugh. “I cannot condone the partisanship—which was raw, undisguised, naked, and conspiratorial—from someone who asks for public faith as a dispassionate and impartial judicial actor. His performance was wholly inconsistent with the conduct we should expect from a member of the judiciary.”

And the message to women in this country, again, is sadly obvious. “Shut the hell up. Because if you ever dare to speak up about this kind of thing again, we will openly ridicule you and no one in power will ever take you seriously.”

******************************************** “Kavanaugh, though, has a distinct honor: He will be the first justice nominated by someone who lost the popular vote to earn his seat on the bench with support from senators representing less than half of the country while having his nomination opposed by a majority of the country.” -Philip Bump *********************************************

CODA: Yeah. The country is divided in a way it hasn’t been since Vietnam. Extremists are multiplying, and they’re nurturing diseases that were seething under the surface for many years before Trump. And indeed, we’re witnessing a perverse resurgence of tolerance for fascism and white supremacism worldwide. But here in America, Trump is the ringmaster of the new Ugliness; his lowering the bar of public discourse, his smug approval of greed and cruelty, his nod-and-a-wink okey-dokes to racism, misogyny and all manner of bigotry—he has legitimized, pardoned and coronated the creeps, the rotten underbelly of our society, the very worst we have to offer.

Let’s vote some of these bastards out in November, folks.

#Kavanaugh #Trump #SupremeCourt #Resist #MeToo #DrChristineBlaseyFord

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