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monsoonblooms12 · 3 years

Note

What Ethan & Pooja AU is this? #OpenHeartAU

Selcouth (Ethan x f!MC)

Summary: Set in Book 2, Pooja gets the recognition she deserves for solving Naveen Banerji's case.

Selcouth: Unfamiliar, rare, strange and yet, marvelous🤎

A/N: Thank you so much @beastlyinstrument for the visual prompt❤ I had fun thinking up and writing this piece.

A/N 2: The flashback portions are indented

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey X f!MC (Pooja Sharma)

Word Count: around 3.2K (I am sorry!)

Rating: General

Category: A bit angst, A bit fluff

Warnings: 1 Curse Word (again 😆)

Prompts: Late Submission for @choicesmonthlychallenge July challenge day 4: celebration

There was stark silence surrounding him as he scribbled out points from the morning meeting of the Diagnostics Team along with some of his own observations from the patient charts. The days have been nothing out of the blue since his return from the Cholera-ridden district of Amazons.

The steam from the warm coffee filled the entire office with its sweet aroma. With winters in their full force, there was a mystic chill all around the city and the warmth the coffee gave was extremely welcomed.

It took him 30 minutes to the tee to complete his morning paperwork. And as he arranged the white sheets in a clean stack, a slow groan escapes him. He had been so engrossed in work, that he had completely missed the fact that he had emptied his coffee cup.

Ethan looks up from his desk to the windows giving an enchanting view of the brumal grounds. Snowflakes, basking in the distant sun's glory, shining like iridescent jewels, fell slowly, silently to meet their origin.

It's too serene of a day to waste indoors.

The thought caught him somewhat by surprise, even if it was his encephalon producing it.

He had spent long years of his life away from focusing on diminutive happenings like the weather or the warmth of his favourite Vienna on a frosty day.

To appreciate the beauty of falling of the snowflakes today, was a slightly unusual change. He couldn't help but wonder as to what would have caused it.

He didn't need to wait long for an answer. Like a response to his unuttered query, the notification bell of his phone brought him out of his reverie and displayed her name with the joy of a student who had solved a difficult problem with ease on the first try. It was nothing out of the ordinary, just an email of her completed reports.

And yet, he was unable to control the breakout of butterflies in his stomach.

The feeling was orphic, and yet irenic.

As his heels tapped on the white floors, supposedly conducting an intriguing conversation with them, a faint intermix of voices reached him and stopped him in his tracks.

"You're wearing all black." It wasn't a question, but a fact that Alexandra's voice enunciated.

"Are you surprised?" A concordant voice questioned. Even if he didn't acknowledge it, it was one of his favourite euphonies.

"No. Impressed."

"I lost a bet to Bryce, and this is what I get in return." There is a pause. "It's a nice change though."

He can feel the smile that emerges out on her face at the end and feels his lips curl up, like a magnetic connection. He was caught off guard as he stood there thinking of the sweet nothings and sweet everythings of his reminiscences with her.

"Good Morning Dr Ramsey!"

It took him all his power to straighten himself, and to put on the stoic façade before responding,

"Good Morning Dr Walton."

Alexandra didn't initiate a conversation, just like he had expected. Bidding goodbye to her companion, she strode off her way.

Now, it was just him and her, standing in the middle of nowhere, eyes locked in intense focus, tied together with a string they find themselves unable to break.

She looked striking like she always did.

In every hue, every ensemble, at every hour, she knew how to induce that unnamed feeling in his heart.

All she had to do was to look at him the way she did, and his idiotic heart would skip a beat, and an ambrosial emotion would follow.

And what does one do when emotions go out of control?

Self Preservation.

Giving her a brisk nod, he dropped his gaze, hurrying away past her, not having the courage to look at the hurt caused.

Idiotic.

That's the only word he could use to describe his actions.

He could think of a trillion excuses, travel through a hundred bends on the roads of justification, but nothing would be enough to balance out the pain he was giving her. Not even his playlist of curses that he played in his mind every day to remind himself what he truly was.

An asshole.

As soon as his steps took him to the outdoors, the crisp cold winds blew through his hair, and he cherished the moment.

The apricity hugged him, and the scene that met his eyes, the world draped with a veil of phosphorescing snow, generated a euphoria he was unfamiliar with. As a minuscule flakelet fell on his outstretched hand, he realized that no one needs to spend a billion dollars to get happiness.

It is hidden amidst mundane things, and the only thing one has to do is to keep foraging for it.

Happiness can be made, it can be found. But can it be bought?

Never.

------------------

It was unusually calm at Derry's in the morning hours.

Not that he was complaining, of course.

In comfortable, long sips, he lets the caffeine overtake the tiredness and the heartache coursing through his body. The glare of the screen and ping of his cellular broke the aura of comfort that had spread out through the coffee shop. He wants to shut it off and throw it in a corner away from his sight, but decides against it.

It's a text from Naveen.

Skipping is not an option for today night!

A groan escapes him, the annoyance of another meet and greet taking away all the calm. He tried to convince him, but all efforts went futile. He plays the discussion all over again to find any loophole he can to escape the torture.

Flashback:

It's after hours and the wing of the hospital where Naveen's office was situated bore a silence. The amicable old man sat in his chair, leaning back as the younger one stood, with his back at him. It was obvious they had been arguing, but it seemed more like amusement for the old mentor and annoyance for the young protégé.

"There is no need-"

"Ethan, you have been repeating the same words for fifteen minutes now." Naveen chuckles.

"I very well know that there is no need for anything, dear friend. I just want a little bit of happiness and merriment in the hard times."

"I am not stopping you from doing that, Naveen, you know that. But what is the need of the celebration being about me?"

"Because you are a reason I am alive today." The man gives a melancholy smile, vision blurred as the near-death experience of the past year come sailing in front of him.

"This celebration is about you and Dr Sharma. Without the two of you, I would not have been here."

Ethan's features are clouded by the pain of losing his mentor, who has been like a father to him, and inspiration. His frown softens, annoyance long lost, as he comes as takes a seat and places his hand on his.

"Fine. I will do this. But only for you, okay?"

Naveen's lips curl up in a grateful, happy smile as if wordlessly conveying his thanks. As Ethan stands up and proceeds to leave, he cannot stop himself from laying out his observation,

"For her too."

And Ethan knew. He knew exactly whom this was about. And as much as he wanted to deny the assumption, he couldn't help but accept the truth in it. Of course, he was doing it for Naveen. But he was doing it for her too. She deserved it so much more than him. If she hadn't been there, the seat occupied by his mentor today would have been...

Flashback ends

As his eyes skim through the crisp pages of the medical journal absent-mindedly, he thinks of her again. The permanent occupant of his daydreams, who would still manage to come back, no matter how many resets he carried out.

He thinks of her attire from the hour before, hair in a neat long braid, dressed in a meticulously embroidered Indian attire. And then of the celebration at dusk, where she will finally receive the recognition she deserves.

All the doubts regarding her promotion to the Diagnostics Team would be washed away.

He remembers what she had told him a few days after he had heard those nasty rumours,

"I have proved myself and I know what's true. I don't need to show anyone else the testament of my abilities. As long as I am fair and just, their words can do no harm to me."

His admiration for her had increased phenomenally when she spoke those words to him.

His pride, his faith had not been misplaced when he picked her for the difficult voyage named Edenbrook.

He has never felt so proud of any other intern as much as he does of her.

His heart sings to him, his choice was correct. He doesn't let it elaborate itself, because one wrong move from his side would be more than enough to ruin this unpolished gem before she even gets a chance to shine.

Yes, he did tell her that some things are worth any risk, she is worth any risk, back in Miami. The reminiscences of the day still played on the screen of his mind in sepia, they lulled him to sleep.

But the risk to harm her fragile career before it even blossoms?

It wasn't just a risk, it was like a crime for him.

One which he refused to commit.

---------------------

As dusk falls and winter blues colour the land of snow in multichromatic hues, hiding any bit of orange from the setting sun, Pooja Sharma hums along with her favourite songs as she dresses up for the special evening.

No matter how much she wants to curl up in the folds of the soft Cashmere, she has to be in attendance. It's a strict order from her grand mentor and impossible for her to go past.

It's all black day, she reminds herself when picking the outfit. And she doesn't forget to leave a thank you note for Lekh as she finds the perfect one.

And now, as she stands, trying to complete the arduous job of creating a perfect eyeliner wing, a certain someone's reminiscences trouble her pained heart.

No matter how much she scolds it for its stupidity, trying to explain the futility of the hope of getting together, it never heeds, just continues to trouble her with the baritone of his that enchants her mind, the cologne that overpowers all her senses.

As she looks at the reflection in the speculum, she cannot help but imagine his reaction.

Will she even get a reaction?

Maybe just a nod, or a look.

No words.

She has convinced herself with it. It took some time, some stops, some pulls of an invisible harness, but she has convinced herself.

She's stopped hoping, soothing herself with whatever they shared, memories that felt like they belong to a bygone era, and a promise of treasuring them, just in case he ever decided to come back.

---------------------

In the vespertine hours, the diamond dust made the sun devoid city look like a fairytale. Any other time, he would have just worried about the sharp chill, probably cursing the snow.

Being so observant of the places he is a regular visitor at, it was a new experience for him.

Strange, even.

It's something that will take some time to get used to.

The interiors are warm. Minimally decorated, as he had requested. Not wanting to create a fuss, he bee-lines to the corner of the room, where the only occupant was emptiness. He decided to cherish the moments of solace before the bother of the vivacious crowd began, wanting to start a colloquy.

On instinct, he looks around, not being able to comprehend the reason why his heart leaps to his throat. And then a pang of disappointment overlaps that sudden nervousness.

The absence of one person, the feeling so profound.

It's magical.

Dangerous, but still, magical.

A mute scold follows. No matter how hard he tries, strives towards that unannounced aim of reset, his stupid heart and its childishness always ruin his plans.

The call of his name makes him turn around.

Naveen stands, jolly smile fixed in place, eyes sparkling with joy and...

Gratitude.

They chat, topics ranging from Diagnostic team cases to complaints of coffee. His orbs casually drift towards the entryway, in hope of seeing his dearest.

And as the astrologers say, the stars align, the universe comes into play, and the shimmer of black in the lambent atmosphere makes his heart skip a beat. He feels a smile emerging and hastily hides it with a scowl.

If he had to, he would have sworn that he looked like a clown.

Her ambers gaze around in a lucid, tender manner, in strike contrast to his a while ago.

There is a lack of haste, of worry, of unease.

Her very presence fills the air with tranquility and without his consent, his soul basks in it. After what felt like an eternity, their gazes meet.

Melt into each other like the wax of two candles.

Become inseparable.

She smiles, it's faint.

It seems more of a formality than a wish. The momentary cheer is replaced by a somber, melancholic expression. Her orbs drift away, gaze turns away as if to hide whatever was to come from him.

And he knows.

He's the reason.

Silence is suffocating, but right now, the chaos is even more constricting to him.

Everyone chatters, mingles, smiles.

Everyone except her.

She stands too still, flashing a half-hearted smile and half-hearted gaze here and there, as she is surrounded by the rest of her friends, preventing him from getting a better look.

As conflict rises in his interior, a to go or not to debate, the gulps of scotch become more frequent, the frown gets tighter and guilt gets heavier. Before he can drown down into the never-ending cascade of crippling self-hatred, there is a call of his name.

Naveen.

---------------------

Claps and whoots surround her, along with a cheer. She becomes the recipient of numerous bear hugs, and compliments as Naveen elaborates on her contribution to his recovery. It feels like a reel of situations played from her sweven. It took a pinch for her to realize that it wasn't.

A mic tap follows, it's Ethan's turn to speak. She freezes upon hearing her name getting repeated again. There is an uncanny depth to it, she notices. An indication that it conceals so much more than is visible. Not just pride, not just intoxicating happiness.

Gratitude, raw and pure gratitude.

And something else (or maybe not?)

Her focus all over the place, she missed a lot of the address. What stayed carved in golden words was a single sentence, unremarkably remarkable.

"It's not me, it's her. I lost all hope, but she was the one who fought till the very end, never giving up, even if she had thousands of storms to navigate through."

"There can be only one recipient of the applause today, and it's Dr Sharma."

Two contrasting emotions put her in a dilemma. Whether to let the water drops she held strongly to herself or to let the heartfelt joy induce the grin that would shine brighter than the stars the twinkle along with the forlorn moon?

Unable to decide, she let the cracks in her stoic mask deepen, let the faint upturn of lips become visible to the world. Every applaud fell short, in a haze, as the mere words spoken mere moments before played in a loop like a soft harmony.

The 360-degree turn of the evening gave her the most unexpected and the most precious memories.

The change of the blithe chilly eve to heartwarming dusk.

Rare, mysterious and yet, magnificent.

Selcouth.

---------------------

Ethan Ramsey, for the past decade of his extremely brilliant career, has never displayed even a minuscule amount of emotions. Never. The mask of stoicism fixed so perfectly, that no power could ever induce a crack in it.

No one could.

Until one day, an intern waltzed into his life like an unforeseen plot twist and induced changes no one ever could.

The mask has cracked, even if to a small degree, letting the minuscule details of a transformation out. Sometimes it could be as evident as a smile, or a genuine compliment to an intern. In other instances, it would be just the absence of the forehead frown (which had become a permanent resident at a point).

And now, the beloved plot twist of his novel stood before him, her eyes expertly decorated with kohl. She was quieter than usual, engaging in casual conversation, but prevented going into depths of it.

Their gazes never meet, only slide past each other.

He missed looking into the amber of hers, trying to figure out her thoughts like someone engaged with a very complex puzzle that ends up in a phenomenal picture.

He missed listening to her sweet whispers, mumbles which made him smile more than he had for the past decade.

He missed her.

The universe is always planning a conspiracy to make destiny true. And it's definitely an action of its, that his hand extends towards her, wordlessly.

She gazes at it, gazes at him, thinks for a while.

And finally, slips her hand, bejeweled with that bracelet she wore in Miami. He still remembers it placed on his heart, which beat at an erratic rhythm.

Which beats at an erratic rhythm now.

Looking at the Bostonian sky, only drapes of translucent mist could be seen all around. No twinkles, even the moonbeams were struggling to reach them. The silence is comfortable, only interrupted by the sips of steaming hot coffee.

Her eyes are fixed above, in a search for the hidden celestial elements. His focus stayed on the snowflakes resting on his jacket.

He leans back, places a hand down.

There is a lack of warmth.

Soon enough, another hand joins him.

The cold is gone.

And so is his search of moonbeams.

Her touch felt like light, his own moonbeam. So soft, so warm, so dear. Something he could keep etched on his skin forever.

She was his moon.

And for her, those summery blue orbs held depths of the ocean, the faint, soft wrinkles that languid years leave behind as a mark of their passing like map lines of some unknown lands.

He was her world.

In every universe, through trials and tribulations, through pain and smiles, they were destined to find their way to each other. No one powerful enough to keep them apart.

Not even they themselves.

It was a cosmic state of comfort they found themselves in. His hand in hers, their fingers interwoven, the reflex etched in his mind with an everlasting ink.

He has never believed in soulmates, but as he as leans back, eyes closed, hair fluttering along with the icy-cold breeze, having her by his side, he couldn't bring himself to believe this was anything less than destiny.

That even after so many trials of forgetting her, he would always come back to her, searching for the serenity he only finds in her presence.

The feeling is rare, confusing, maybe terrifying.

But right now, he basks in the warmth that it provides, all worries and all woes are hidden in a wooden box, discarded away from his sight. And unbeknownst to even him, he waits for the day he can kiss her the way he wants to, no ties, no binds holding them away.

Yes, he waits for the day.

PS: If you are reading this, I am very grateful for you. Thank you for reading and I hope you have a great day🤎

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bluewatsons · 4 years

Conversation

David Marchese, James Ellroy on his life in crime, his imaginary dog and the need to provoke, New York Times (August 19, 2019)

James Ellroy: I’ve had precious few moments, where I’ve said to myself: ‘Ellroy, you are the king. You’re the greatest crime writer that ever lived.’ The reflex kicks in . . .You’ve got more work to do.”

David Marchese: Almost all your books are set in the past,1 and I know that you’re intentionally disconnected from modern culture. Are you missing out on something important by not living more deeply in the times in which you live?

James Ellroy: I have a quotation here. [Ellroy removes a note from his shirt pocket.] This is the great pianist Glenn Gould on the great composer Richard Strauss. “The great thing about the music of Richard Strauss is that ... it presents to us an example of the man who makes richer his own time for not being of it, who speaks for all generations by being of none. It is an ultimate argument of individuality, an argument that a man can create his own synthesis of time without being bound by the conformities that time imposes.” That says it all.

David Marchese: O.K., I know you like to do shtick in public. Is that shtick2 about concealing anything?

James Ellroy: A lot of it is being the pit bull staked by chain to a spike in the front yard. I’ve been writing a book for a couple of years, and then they slip the chain off and I can run wild. But I realize part of it is a cover-up. My early life was horrible privation living with the unhousebroken dog and my dad3 telling me, “I [expletive] Rita Hayworth.” I passed that off as [expletive], and then 10 years after my dad died I saw a Hayworth biography in a bookstore and looked his name up in the index. It didn’t say he’d eh eh eh but it did say that he was her business manager between about 1948 and ’52.

David Marchese: Could any of your self-mythologizing stand to be deflated?

James Ellroy: The more I look at my own life, the more I realize that traumatic influences have played a part in it. I’m talking about my mother’s murder.4

David Marchese: Hasn’t your mother’s murder always been central?

James Ellroy: Yeah, it formed my mental curriculum. But there’s a particular aspect of my youth that has become distorted by repetition—like going to jail.5 It was not the big house. It was the jail of six-man cells and two stupid white guys, two stupid black guys and two stupid Mexican guys lying about their daring criminal exploits and their movie-star girlfriends. “Oh yeah? With Marilyn Monroe?” “Yeah, sure.” And also my breaking into houses6 and sniffing girls’ undergarments and stealing five-dollar bills. Technically it’s burglary, but it was craven. It was circumspect. It was very easy to do back then. People didn’t have answering machines. You rung up the phone, and if they didn’t answer they weren’t home. I did that 15, 16, 17 times over the course of two and a half years and got away with it.

David Marchese: You stopped around the time of the Manson family murders, right?

James Ellroy: Yes. That’s when people started having the security signs, “Patrolled by Bel Air Patrol.” So I quit doing it. I never stayed in the houses very long. Fifteen, 20 minutes. Maybe a half an hour. All together that was probably 10 hours of my life. But on a great many occasions I spent 12, 13 hours a day reading in public libraries. I wasn’t presenting information disingenuously, but looking back as an older, wiser person, I go, “I mostly just read a bunch of books.”

David Marchese: Are there any parallels between your state of mind when you were sneaking into people’s homes and your state of mind when inhabiting the life of a fictional character?

James Ellroy: Trespassing was about curiosity and yearning. It was for the girls at Hancock Park.7 Those girls live in me—Kathy, Julie, Peggy. I grew up a poor kid within a few blocks of this ritzy, WASP-y enclave. What I did required a certain concentration and was thrilling even though it was immoral. I was trying to sate my emotional hunger. For decades now, the only thing that has done that for me has been creating large-scale fictions set in the past.

David Marchese: Why do you pine for the past?

James Ellroy: There’s this old Stephen King quote. Someone asks Mr. King, “Why do you choose to write about such gruesome subjects?” He said, “Why do you assume that I have a choice?” Fate tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hey, Ellroy. I got a job for you.”

David Marchese: My armchair-psychologist reading would be that you want to be back in the era in which your mother was still alive. And I have a hunch that your feelings about social probity and your conservatism are a reaction to the chaos of your adolescence.

James Ellroy: There’s a big element of truth to the latter. My feelings about probity are also about shame for my old disordered state and the crimes, albeit small, that I committed. As for my mother, Jean Hilliker, I’ve always marked historical events by whether she was alive for them. I’m always thinking about stuff like that.

David Marchese: In old interviews, you’ve described yourself as the kind of guy who spends his evenings brooding about the women in his life. Is that still the case?

James Ellroy: I brood like a dog. As far as my second ex-wife and once-again girlfriend, Helen Knode,8 and I go, monogamy was never the problem. It was cohabitation. So this is Helen’s idea—We have two pads. We’re in downtown Denver. I got a two-bedroom loft, and Helen has an identical one down the hall from me. I’ve got everything turned out exactly the way that I want it. Lots of pictures of bull terriers, pictures of my own book covers, the bust of Beethoven. I’ll sit at my desk and I’ll put my feet up and I’ll brood.

David Marchese: About what?

James Ellroy: About the new book, about this particular book tour. Mine is a big career, and people sometimes deny the solvency of the new books because they had a signature reading experience with a book way back. “The Black Dahlia,”9 that’ll be the only book for them. Or they conflate the movie “L.A. Confidential” with the novel “L.A. Confidential.”10

David Marchese: Are you only brooding on work?

James Ellroy: I’m very happy with Helen. I’m not brooding on Shirley Knight in “The Rain People,” which was a movie from 1969. Or Lois Nettleton on a couple episodes of “The Fugitive.”11

David Marchese: “The Fugitive” was such a weird show. There was always this implied sexual tension between Richard Kimble and whoever the lead actress was in a given episode, but nothing would ever happen.

James Ellroy: This is very, very interesting. “The Fugitive” exerted a deep pull on me. A romantic and sexual pull. Wherever Richard Kimble would go, the grooviest woman in the town — which somehow always looked like the San Fernando Valley — would gas onto him and they’d have their moment of truth and they may kiss a couple of times. But it was all unconsummated because he had to run from Lieutenant Gerard. The actresses on that show did a number on me. June Harding, Shirley Knight, Brenda Vaccaro, Diana van der Vlis, Suzanne Pleshette, Sandy Dennis. That’s the only time I’ve ever been obsessed with a TV show.

David Marchese: Aside from TV shows, what other products of the past do you miss?

James Ellroy: There was a stretch of Wilshire Boulevard in L.A. that had stores that sold wide arrays of perfectly fitting Shetland wool crew-neck sweaters, perfect saddle shoes, perfect tweed jackets and shawl-collar cashmere sweaters. You can’t find that stuff anymore. Nobody wants to dress that corny. You know, I also used to go [expletive] crazy buying women clothes. In ’07, I was on the loose in L.A. during the time of my divorce and I had a wingding with a woman. In the couple of months this wingding went on, I bought her $20,000 worth of clothes.

David Marchese: And then it ended?

James Ellroy: Yeah. She kept the clothes, which is O.K. Hey, I try.

David Marchese: I feel like maybe you romanticize women in a weird way. Where does that tendency come from?

James Ellroy: One day she was there, Jean Hilliker, and then one day she wasn’t. She died horribly. She’s been through a thousand metamorphoses with me. I finally realized that in the two memoirs I wrote that are very much about her that I didn’t get to the heart of her. It was because my gift is fiction. I’m not a journalist or a memoirist. Hence, Joan Conville12.

David Marchese: Trying to get to the heart of a person who died when you were 10 is like trying to catch smoke.

James Ellroy: Yeah, you can’t. I’ve overdramatized my mother. I’ve underdramatized her. Helen has told me a trillion times, “Leave your mother alone. Let her rest in peace.” I’ve honored her in fiction. I tried to get to the core of her in a dramatized fashion. I co-opted the exterior facts of her life. I don’t know if there’ll be a moment of peace with that.

David Marchese: When you say that your mother has been through a thousand metamorphoses, does that extend to your feelings about real-life as well as fictional women?

James Ellroy: I’m a sucker for a tall redhead. That’s for damn sure. I think that I’ve never gotten over sex.

David Marchese: What’s that mean?

James Ellroy: Just the whole thing. O.K., here’s a joke I first heard in the early ’60s. It’s a howler—“I want to find the guy who invented sex and ask him what he’s working on now.” Sex is a head scratcher. It remains prevalent. I was sitting with Andrew Wylie, my agent, in Columbus Circle a couple of days ago so he could smoke a cigar on his way back to the office. We were sitting there, talking a little, looking around a little, and I said, “There sure are a lot of healthy-looking young women in New York City today.” He said, “I don’t have to tell you, do I?”

David Marchese: In the past when journalists have asked you about your conservative politics, you sometimes give confrontational answers. Were those authentic reflections of your thinking or an expression of your urge to needle? I’m thinking about stuff you said about Obama.

James Ellroy: I don’t even remember what I said about Obama.

David Marchese: The word “hate” came up.

James Ellroy: I voted for him! But what did I say? That I hate him or something like that?13 I think it was a British journalist who I said that to. We were sitting in a hamburger joint in L.A., and he was pissing me off. He was hassling me about Obama, and I was like, what do you want me to say?

David Marchese: It does seem as if you’re often asked to justify your politics in ways that wouldn’t be expected of liberals. Why is your conservatism treated as something requiring explanation?

James Ellroy: Being conservative is considered by many people as a codified expression of—You’re not nice, you’re unenlightened, you’re not one of the gang, you’re not one of the humanists. It should be evident in “Perfidia”14 and “This Storm” that I despise totalitarianism. I write characters who are the good guys and who also occasionally drop the racial slur, the anti-homosexual remark, but with these characters racial animus is never a defining characteristic. It’s a casual attribute. I like the idea of race as anecdote. I live by anecdote. I live to the exclusion of epigram. Those who think that all people who would express racial animus do that because of a deep-seated hatred boiling within them don’t understand that at a certain time and place it was the common linguistic coin of the realm.

David Marchese: I understand that people have a tendency to define conservatism in narrow political ways, but what does it mean to you?

James Ellroy: I have always described myself as a Tory. Underneath my profane exterior, I’m very concerned with decorum, with probity, with morality, and I have a painfully developed conscience. I despise unconscionable acts, whoever is perpetrating them. Helen says that what I am more than anything else is a Protestant. That’s what it is.

David Marchese: Can you tell me what you meant when you said you live by anecdote and to the exclusion of epigram? Am I wrong in thinking that anecdotes and epigrams aren’t terribly dissimilar?

James Ellroy: We were talking about race. In my books, I deploy racial anecdote, unmediated by any kind of preaching, any kind of philosophy. For example, two months before the first Watts riot, I had adventures in South Central Los Angeles, repossessing cars, going around with an unscrupulous fellow, looking for street hookers. I had heard a rumor that if you want to get a girl, you go to Cooper Do-nuts on Western Avenue and Adams Boulevard. You talk to one of the counter guys there and he’ll always know somebody who will drive you around. Well, I did this. I was 17. 1965. The girls had themselves a couple of white tricks, that’s for damn sure. We had all kinds of adventures, driving around to one pad after another and shooting the [expletive] with all these black folk. It was a rollicking good time. So, I live in anecdotes like that. I see something, it makes human sense to me, and I’m on it like a pit bull.

David Marchese: Do you feel any internal friction between your conservatism and, for example, your obvious relish in the content of the anecdote you just described?

James Ellroy: There’s the old F. Scott Fitzgerald line.

David Marchese: About how the test of first-rate intelligence is someone who can hold two opposing ideas in his mind?

James Ellroy: Absolutely. It’s an old saw, and that’s me. Mine is a Christian ideal that expresses of the presence of God and the presence of sin. It’s that kind of duality. It’s banal in my case, and in my expression, in my every way of life. But you can only do the do-right so much before you’re going to have some reaction against it.

David Marchese: Critics have called your books nihilistic. But to my mind it’d be more accurate to argue that the characters in your books care too much. Does that make sense?

James Ellroy: You’re absolutely right, and nihilism is a maddening criticism to hear. Optimism is best expressed in “This Storm” by the two words “people change.” They do. Elmer Jackson enters “This Storm” as a good-natured, horny rube who has the common good sense to hate the Klan, because of their high jinks in his North Carolina hometown. He’s chastened by the events of the book, and he changes. The character of Hideo Ashida changes. Dudley Smith changes. William H. Parker changes. If people as hard-core and as driven by the animus of the times as these folks can change, that’s optimistic.

David Marchese: Reading “This Storm,” which is so much about American Naziism and racial paranoia, it’s hard not to think of the resonances between the time in which the book is set, 1942, and today. Were you thinking about those resonances as you were writing?

James Ellroy: People have asked, “Isn’t this novel with all the whacked-out right-wingers and left-wingers and anti-Semites and nativists and race hucksters really about America today?” I said, “Nah. It’s about America in 1942.” Nothing stands in for anything else. If I wanted to write a novel about America today I would damn well do it. I don’t think much about what’s happening today.

David Marchese: Do you read anything contemporary? Or is it mostly old crime stories?

James Ellroy: I’ve read Daniel Silva15 because a colleague at Knopf said, “You might like this guy.” And that’s that. I’ve read through a lot of anthologies of Library of America; American noir of the ’30s, ’40s, and ’50s and American noir written by women, the two volumes edited by Sarah Weinman. I’ve been going at that like a pit bull.

David Marchese: Speaking of dogs, tell me about your current bull terrier.16

James Ellroy: Helen and I have an imaginary bull terrier named Ingrid. We have a great deal of fun anthropomorphizing bull terriers. Ingrid is a reddish-brown and white bull terrier and also a psychopathic cop who’s immortal. Her first enforcement gig was with the pharoahs when they were whipping the Israelis into slavery. Ingrid’s also very badly alcoholic.

David Marchese: That’s too bad.

James Ellroy: Yeah, but she’s immortal. Wherever Helen and I live, Ingrid joins the Police Department and goes on the robbery squad. Ingrid does what a great many people would like to do. She phone-books suspects and shoots ’em in the back. The anthropomorphizing is all in good humor. There’s no explicitness. Ingrid’s idea of a man is the sodden, overweight, alcoholic police officers she’s seen in cop movies. Her favorite film noir actor is pudgy and corrupt Edmond O’Brien.17 We never get into the mechanics of a human man and a dog doing it or anything like that because Helen and I are very wholesome at our cores. I love dogs insanely. Though I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been bitten.

#greats #james ellroy #literature #crime fiction #enigmas #tragedy #interviews #eccentrics

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whimsyprinx · 4 years

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We can interact!! Tell me about your ocs!!!!

!!!! Yay! So my most developed ocs are cinnamon and hazel, cinnamon is a fairy witch, aka a witch who is a fairy godparent (she’s at least studying to be one right now at pureheart university (name is subject to change maybe)) and hazel use to be a pumpkin! Their story is a short one that I hope to turn into a webcomic some day, it’ll be about their relationship and them falling in love! Cinnamon is a trans woman and hazel is nonbinary and uses any pronouns

My next most developed oc is cashmere who so my current dnd character, she’s nonbinary also, she is a rogue with a tragic past because itsa me, tldr because I’m still working on getting her story right she had a shitty super rich family and heart complications until one day a stranger appeared and offered to help her and solve her problem, the stranger used their magic and created a new heart for cashmere. Cashmere decided to run away from her home that night and for a while things were okay but soon her heart started getting weaker and she realized the magic was dying and had no clue what to do, she found out that taking potions helped slow the process but she is now looking for the mysterious stranger in hopes of them helping her once again (spoilers in my head I’m imagining he solution is letting people into her heart and actually loving others because she’s never done that in her life). She’s kind of vain and stuck up and still has a “I’m better than you” personality from her past as being a rich bitch.

Then there’s my magical girl oc serenity, I’m still working on her story and figuring stuff out but she fights nightmare monsters which deep out of peoples dreams and into the normal world, there’s a realm with two kingdoms, a dream kingdom and a nightmare kingdom, as far as she and her companions know the nightmare kingdom is overthrowing the dream kingdom and put the queen or princess or whoever in a deep nightmare filled slumber and probs his her away somewhere!

Then there aerial who is the main character of my harpy little mermaid retelling/reimagines story, I’m trying to challenge myself to write the story and have concepts/official designs done for the characters by the end of the year and even start the webcomic for the story by the end of this year but it’s going Slowly. It’s nblw, she falls in love with a nonbinary human who she saves from a sky diving accident (the human is a thembo basically and brought their cat with them and was pressured into sky diving and their cat jumps out the plane and they without thinking jump after their cat and catch them but woopsie they didn’t grab a parachute because there wasn’t time and then pass out and get saved by aerial) their name is skylar for now.

There’s midnight who is the main character of the recipe webcomic I wanna make one day, it’s a webcomic that’s like telling people recipes but formatted as if it’s a cooking show if that makes sense? It’s her cooking show called midnight snack, is also like to start that by the end of this year if I don’t start aerials story!

There’s predicta, my she ra oc who I’m working on developing! They’re agender and use they/them pronouns only, they’re fine with being called a princess but prefer prinx or princette, idk much about them honestly like I know they have fortune telling based powers and use tarot cards to tell the future as well as crystal balls, I also imagine that they have a deck or tarot cards which they use to create spells or attacks based on the card they pull, they probs also have a garnet situation where they see possible futures instead of one certain future outcome.

I have a team rocket oc named Mina who I should honestly develope more because she’s cute, she falls in love with like a pokemon trainer/gym leader I think and she’s actually not super evil, she’s just as dumb as team rocket though!

I wanna make a kipo oc as well as an epithet erased oc someday!

Also not really about an oc but I wanna make a dating sim that takes place in cinnamon and hazels world and takes place in the fairy godparents university! Also fun fact midnights story and probs aerials story takes place in the same world as cinnamon and hazels story, as do a few other short stories I want to make into a comic one day! If it’s not obvious yet I super love fantasy whimsical stuff and magical girls agskdbkd. I know there’s more ocs I’m forgetting but memory bad. I also have ocs that exist but don’t have much of a story yet because sadly my writing isn’t that great

#rambles #asks #mavy1 #thanks for the ask!#long post #okay to reblog #ahsjvskdv #i love rambling about my stories and ocs abskbdkd

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theveryworstthing · 5 years

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members of one of the most famous lunk bands, The Dead Canaries. Needoll Crystalmole, Carvah and Karvah Wolfsilt, and Batty. info about them and the fate of other bands under the cut!

Members:

First, the most infamous member. Needoll Crystalmole is a lunk fashion designer who until recently served as the primary ballgown architect for Mander Drop dignitaries Dirtraven and Boulderboar. She's flashy, she's fabulous, you want to be her but also kind of want to fight her, she's Needoll Crystalmole and she is The Best At Sew.

Born in the last generation raised in the royal prison camp, Needoll's given Rolist name was Joshurock which is just the worst. She took on the moniker Needoll when she started secretly apprenticing to become a seamstress and just kinda kept using it as her real name forever.

She's regarded as one of the best seamstresses to come out of Mander Drop and boasts (loudly, often, and with great relish) that she can make anything to fit anybody better than anyone. Years of challenging this claim seems to have proven her right, much to her detractors' salty salty displeasure.

No one knows much about her war time past outside of stints constructing disguises for Woodland spies and being a singer/whatever instrument needs to be played kind of decently member in the band The Dead Canaries, but post war she became notorious for accepting jobs from rich Luxterran humans. In her eyes they were just going to hire someone shittier to bite her style anyway if she refused, and after all she'd been through she felt they owed her the walking around money. This all made her very wealthy, which paired with her brash and flamboyant nature, kept her constantly in the spotlight (perfect. that's just where she wanted to be).

If there's one thing she's bad at it's relationships. All that travel and partying left her the very absent mother of at least three children, one of which was Cashmere's seed-mother. This was news to Cashmere, who thought her grandseed was just some random jerk who ran out on her grandsoil. But it wasn't a random jerk. It was a famous jerk. And the only reason she found out is that Needoll needed someone to take her place as ballgown architect and she didn't trust anyone but her own blood.

Needless to say the reunion was heartwarming.

Needoll is currently out of commission after a stroke and a couple of heart attacks took her down. She is still alive, perhaps with the help of dark magics, but she's not working.

Carvah Wolfsilt (formerly Brentchip Wolfsilt). One of the most prolific creators of things that work surprisingly well as instruments, Carvah got her name from her excellent and speedy sculpting abilities. during the war many bands came to her after using their instruments as improvisational weaponry begging for quick replacements or repairs before a big show and she always delivered. When she wasn't doing that she was helping built and repair Woodland weaponry.

She also founded and played with her own band, The Dead Canaries. She liked making instruments more than playing shows but it was good field testing for her inventions so she stuck with it. She eventually quit however because her little sister was in the band and if she would have stayed any longer they would have either killed each other or ruined everything. So in true big sis manner, it seemed better to hand the toy over than to let it get destroyed in a tantrum.

Post war she joined a goblin friend's art studio where they experimented with getting certain sounds out of the weirdest things they could think of or the weirdest sounds out of the most mundane things they could think of. They were successful too, and even though her friend is gone, she's still doing shows with their studio. Her favorite objects that they made together was the harp that sounded like angry seagulls fighting over a corn chip and the sad guitar sandwich.

Her beard Does That because it's too heavy to properly spike and she only wears yellow eye shadow and red-orange lipstick. Most of her favorite pieces of clothing have bats on them.

Karvah Wolfsilt (formerly Rockchunk Wolfsilt) is the shorter gal and is Carvah's little sister. She's cool to most people but she's a nightmare mode little sis. She purposefully took her sister's chosen name, switched out one letter, and claimed it for herself. People started getting so confused that Carvah told everyone to just call her Cee Cee after a while. Karvah does this with everything. If her sister has something cool or unique she'll copy it, change it a little, and basically take it over or throw a tantrum until Carvah gives it up. She sees no problem with this, believing that she's taking her sister's okay base ideas with clearly terrible execution and making them flawless with her vision. Carvah obviously doesn't agree.

Fun Facts about Karvah: She actually is an amazing singer, she's short even for a dwarf, and she always has lipstick in her beard. During the war she was a war bard because she was honestly lost on what else to do and Batty was doing it so *shrug*. She's still the lead singer of The Dead Canaries today and she hasn't seen her sister in years.

Batty (formerly a name that no one remembers because she’s had her nickname since she was a kid and she hated her original name anyway) was the albino gal next to Karvah, and served as her bestie/sometimes girlfriend (it was complicated). She was the drummer for The Dead Canaries and specialized in...creative drumming. It seems you can get a surprising range of sound out of certain stalactites. She was also great at figuring out how to get any instrument or person to maximum loudness in any acoustic setting, which was surprising considering that she was a very quiet woman when she wasn't banging on something.

Fun Facts about Batty: her name was chosen for her after she was caught idly hanging in her harness and drumming on the side of a mine shaft with her feet (she was also yelled at for that because holy crap). she really overdid it with the false eyelashes but she didn't care because being albino meant her vision was crappy anyway and she got around fine. Also she was seemingly unkillable during her time as a chaos loving war bard but died in a freak napping accident literally days before the war ended.

Other Bands: These are the bands that didn’t break up after a week in fights over ‘creative differences’ and survived to perform in the post-war world. There were so many more than this. Almost everyone was in at least two bands at any given time and a lot of bands split up and reformed under different names so they’re a little tough to track. Some of these band names have been passed down to worthy successors or used for other things instead of being retired because dwarves love a well named thing and hate to waste good names. Some of the fights that happen over free spots in the more famous bands can get brutal so the bands that don’t encourage their new members to battle royale with stage equipment (which is few, music battles are fun) scout for new members in secret.

Still Playing With At Least 1 Original Member: The Dead Canaries- One of the most famous lunk bands. Most members are still alive but only one remains in the band. (mine) Shaft- Banned from several venues for ‘doing that on stage’ but a fan favorite. What is ‘that?’ no one really wants to say in public. You’ll know it when you see it. Earth Perms- Chill grandmas who mostly play festivals around their home cave system. Princess Echos- They fucking hate each other but they’re still going mostly out of spite. The Rich Veins- Chill grandmas who put out albums every once in a blue moon but live that hermit life and don’t tour. Everyone is always pleasantly surprised that they’re still alive. Dirty Diamond And The Pickax Pearls- Dirty has been in prison for years for killing that wizard but the rest of the band still tours. 6 Miles Under- All members alive and active despite their wild history. Rumors that the front woman is a necromancer have been denied by the group.

All Original Members Dead But The Successors Are Still Goin’: Gold lush- Still good. Frack Lung- Still good. Freshly Baked Mud Pies- Actually better than before but you’re not supposed to say it. Those Damn Mole Rats- Still good and only getting weirder with time like their founders intended. Rock Salt- Absolute garbo and extremely unrepentant about it. They’re like legacy garbage, terrible musicians/songwriters only. Charmingly bad. Cut Shaving And The Iron Deposits- Still good but way darker sound. The Jewel Tones- Still good but they make kid’s music now. Fools Gold- Also legacy garbage but not charmingly bad. People love to hate them. Dyna-mite And The Cave Ins- Still good even though their…energetic stage shows get them banned from a lot of places. Rue Be- Still good Light At The End Of The Bar Tab- Still good but the new members kind of bumbled into their positions and it’s more of a comedy lunk band now. Facet- Still good and still making people Feel Things Too Much. Optical Inclusions- Still good and still churning out those surreal dream-scape show experiences. Stalag Might- Still good and still VERY angry. Tunnel Vision- Still good

Retired: Regicide Brides- Executed for attempted regicide. Name is retired until another band rises who sounds half as good and is half as badass. Blood and Bat Guano- All died with a terrible secret. Band manager retired the name for unknown reasons. Gilded Willy And The Deep Dark Holes Are Going To Kill The King- Gilded willy and most of the Deep Dark Holes died trying to kill the king and the last Hole is now a dignitary because she succeeded. The Badger Babes- MIA. Name retired out of respect. Fistfight Afterglow- MIA. Name retired out of respect.

#fashion dwarves #small guide #dwarf #dwarves #lunk

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synkiller82 · 5 years

Text

Collapse Into Me Chapter 5 - Dazzle

“Did you see the latest akuma attack?” Alya rambled as she sat up from Marinette’s chaise lounge. “Ladybug was AMAZING! Chat Noir was great too, but the way she used her lucky charm this time—”

Marinette tuned out her friend’s rambling as she continued to sketch in her notepad. She loved Alya like a sister, but she wasn’t in the mood to listen to a play-by-play of her latest victory of Hawkmoth. Alya had asked her to design her Winter Formal dress, and Marinette knew she needed to get started now if she had any hope of making three or four outfits before the dance.

“What are you working on over there?” Alya sighed and shook her head as she realized her friend wasn’t listening. She lay on her stomach and peeked over Marinette’s shoulder to see four outfits, two male and two female, completed on the page. Marinette was finishing the suit of a boy who bore a striking resemblance to Adrien. “So, what kind of suit are you thinking of, hmm?”

“Well,” Marinette answered without looking up. “Since this is for the Winter Formal, I would use a warmer fabric. I would love to use Cashmere, but it’s REALLY expensive. I’m sure I can get a blend that will look just as good.” She picked up her alcohol markers and began to color the completed sketches. “I’m thinking a light grey, fitted two-button suit that shimmers in the right light, paired with a white dress shirt and midnight blue vest and tie. That way our ensembles would complement instead of matching.”

“So, he’s asked you to go?” Alya asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not yet.” Marinette answered without looking up, focusing on the complementing dress. “If he doesn’t the colors could always be changed. He would look just as great in a black suit with a white or green shirt and silver accessories.” She sighed, sat up, and put down her marker. “Who am I kidding? He’s not going to ask me to go with him.”

“You never know, Marinette.” Alya slid to the floor next to her friend to rub her back. “You two have become a lot closer over the past month or so. Maybe he will ask you.”

Marinette shrugged, but didn’t reply. While she was hoping that Adrien would ask her to the dance, she was having to remind herself that they were nothing more than close friends and he had plenty of more suitable options for a date, such as Chloe or Kagami.

“What’s going on in there, girl?” Alya asked, pulling Marinette from her thoughts. “I know that look. Tell me what you are thinking.”

Marinette flopped onto her back, arms and legs spread out. “I just don’t know why I keep doing this to myself, Alya. I don’t think I’ll ever make it out of the friend-zone, but my heart won’t stop wanting more.”

“I thought you said you were over your crush.” Alya interjected.

“I am.” Marinette assured as she continued to stare at the ceiling. “I’m not going to stalk him anymore or memorize every little thing about him. I understand now just how crazy and creepy I was acting over the past two years.” She propped up on her elbows to look at her friend. “However, I still have feelings for him. I want to make sure he smiles every day, because his dazzling, genuine smile makes the world a brighter place. I want to be the person who makes him laugh, to hold him when he cries, and to lift him up when he is low. I want to enjoy all the little moments of life with him.”

“Why haven’t you told him all of that?” Alya prompted, curious to know the answer herself.

Marinette groaned and fell back to the floor. “I am pretty sure his father wouldn’t approve of a simple baker’s daughter. While my parents’ business is successful, we are not among the wealthy and elite. We both know Adrien will marry someone of his own social circle if his father has anything to say.” She sighed heavily. “With all of that, it’s better that I just keep my feelings to myself. I don’t need to add to his already stressful life. I’m really happy with what we have.”

Alya shook her head. She was sure that Adrien had feelings for Marinette, even if he wasn’t aware of them yet. “Well, I think that anything is possible, girl. You just need to keep your head up and continue to show him who the real Marinette is. I’m sure he’ll fall for you eventually.”

Marinette sat up and smiled at her friend. “Thanks, Alya.”

“However, this does lead to something else,” Alya stated. “What about Luka?”

Marinette’s face fell. “Alya!” she groaned out. “What about him?”

“We all know your compass has been going crazy for him too.” Alya stated matter-of-factly. “Not to mention the things he has said to you. When you told me about his declaration at the TV station before he performed a few years ago, I thought I was going to melt into a puddle. He likes you girl and you have left him hanging.”

“I have not!” Marinette countered as she crossed her arms and pouted. “I talked to him a little while after that and told him that I couldn’t return his feelings, but that they were appreciated.”

“And what did he say to that?” Alya mirrored her friends pose, upset that this was the first time she had heard about this.

“He said that he didn’t care. That the song he heard was still mine and would continue to be.” Marinette shrugged. “I still don’t know what to do with that, so I let it die and we have become friends as well.”

“Oh, Marinette.” Alya sighed as she placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You are going to have to do something soon or this could blow up in your face.”

“What else should I do, Alya? I told Luka I couldn’t return his feelings. It’s not my fault if he won’t.”

“Please be honest with yourself. You still have feelings for him as well, but you won’t let them in because of the Adrien-shaped spot in your heart.”

Marinette opened her mouth to respond, but closed it again and nodded. She couldn’t argue when her friend was right.

“Exactly. Luka is a very perceptive person. I’m sure he knows you still hold a candle for him and, if I were him, I would be acting on it before it gets snuffed out by someone else.”

Alya’s words rocked Marinette to the core. It had never occurred to her that Luka would act on anything. He was always so gentle and passive. Would he really be bold enough to proclaim his feelings again, still knowing there was a chance at rejection?

Marinette shook her head. These were thoughts and problems for her and Tikki to work through. For now, she just wanted to hang out with her best friend and enjoy their time together. However, Hawkmoth had other plans. Marinette and Alya gasped as the house shook and a loud roar was heard.

“No WAY!” Alya squealed as she leapt up and grabbed her stuff. “Sorry, girl, gotta go! The Ladyblog needs me!”

Marinette shook her head and watched as her friend took off toward the latest akuma. Once she was sure she was alone, she transformed and headed off to fulfill her duties as Ladybug.

#miraculous ladybug #adrienette #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #fluff

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mentallyinwalmart · 5 years

Text

‘Dear Thomas’

A follow up to my last fic, ‘Dear Liza’

in this one, you get those same events from the point of view of Daci and Thomas~

My Dearest Brother,

I know you only left a week ago, but I already miss you loads. I’m bummed you didn’t get to meet my flatmates, they are positively lovely, but I guess that’s what I get for moving in a week early just so you could help me :) One of my flatmates, I believe is related to your summer employer. Her name is Eliza Wadsworth and she is just wonderful. She says she has a cousin who goes to your school. Isn’t that funny? What a small world. I doubt you’ll see much of her, there are so many students at the school, I just thought it was a funny coincidence.

If I timed this right, this letter should be arriving the day of, or the day after your orientation. So, how was it? Tell me the three most interesting deductions you made.

As for my orientation, I spotted two people who clearly did not get along in high school shooting each other glares across the group, a professor who actively checked out his female students with his wife on his arm!!! And a girl who appeared to be pregnant, but hiding it. That was most interesting, because at first I thought she just had some sort of lower back pain, and that’s why she stood the way she did, but after a little bit, when she refused the champagne we were offered and kept shooting nervous glances at her parents, it all fell into place.

Love, your favorite sister,

Daciana Cresswell

Ps- have you seen Ileana? I miss her terribly and wonder how she’s holding up.

Dear Daci,

I have met both of Dr Wadsworth nieces before. I remember Liza as bubbly and kind, I’m surprised you in all your emo brooding like her so much. As for Audrey Rose (the other niece), I saw her today at orientation. Before you get some idea in your head about me remembering her for any superficial reason, I only recognized her because I saw her standing between Dr Wadsworth and the man I can only assume to have been her father.

I was preoccupied with your challenge while I was descending the stairs and ended up slipping and making quite a fool of myself. I couldn’t bring myself to go and greet Dr Wadsworth after that, so I stuck to the back of the group.

I have to say, Daci, you May have me bested with that girls secret pregnancy. My three best observations were that Dr Wadsworth lingered awfully close to miss Wadsworth, and doted on her more than her father. It was subtle, but I dare say he thinks of her as a daughter as well. I also noticed a girl I (correctly) assumed, to be Audrey Rose’s roommate recognize her at the very beginning of the orientation, and spend the first hour working up the nerve to go over and speak to her. And finally, dear sister, I noted that miss Wadsworth’s roommate was awfully preoccupied with her phone, glancing at it every five minutes, flushing slightly and quickly responding to messages she was receiving. I only assume she was talking to someone whose opinion she valued grately.

Did I mention, dear Daci, that Audrey Rose’s new roommate is none other than our old friend Ileana?

I don’t know whether I hope it was you she was texting or not.

Love always,

Your favorite brother

—

Dear Thomas,

I don’t even know where to start with you, you absolute scrub.

Of course it was me texting Ileana. Don’t even pretend you didn’t know. You’ve known her three odd years, I’m pretty sure you’ve mastered reading her. Can you blame me, Thomas? We broke up because we wanted to have the opportunity to grow at Uni and not be tied to one another, but it’s unbearable. You know more than anyone how wonderful she is.

As for Miss Wadsworth, you seem quite taken, at least with her appearance. I don’t think any amount of second-hand embarrassment would phase the stoic Dr Wadsworth (unless you’ve lied to me about him in his entirety), which leads me to deduce that you were mortified to go and speak to him after embarrassing yourself so profusely in front of his niece.

Don’t be an absolute fool about this Thomas, you can be a perfect gentlemen when you want to be, and I have no doubt you could easily charm Miss Wadsworth into bed (since I know for a fact you are not a relationship man).

Now, onto my favorite topic, us being reunited. Liza and I have decided to make a trip down from Paris to London so I might see you and she can see Audrey. So please, for the sake of our friendship, if you do sleep with Audrey, at least call her after? I’d be terribly inconvenienced if my favorite flatmate were to hate me by association.

Love you, and see you after midterms.

Daciana

Ps- you calling me emo and brooding is like the kettle calling the pot black.

—

Dear Daci,

How dare you reduce me to nothing more than a womanizer. You know for a fact I have never hooked up with someone and not called them. In fact, usually it’s others not calling me back. I am constantly being used for my body.

Besides, Miss Wadsworth, it would seem, can't stand me. So, I believe I’m far from charming her.

Ileana and I got coffee this afternoon, and she filled me in on the information you have been so selfishly withholding. She told me about the day you have planned when you “come to visit me” in a few weeks. Be honest, Daci, is missing me just an excuse for you to make the trip to see Illy on fathers dime?

I promise I won’t be mad, in fact, it’s actually a brilliant plan.

Miss Wadsworth is in my principle study group, and she is quite astute. I would say nearly as observant as you (though not half as gifted as I am, of course). However, in my prowess I seem to be only irritating her more. It is odd, really, to have someone not simply grateful to have me solve all the problems for them. She is just as hungry for answers, it would seem, as I am.

She is also in my Forensics class, but as yet to notice me. We’re well into the second week, and I worry I made her uncomfortable because today (against my better judgement) I took up the seat next to her.

Though she didn’t seem particularly happy, she didn’t seem too upset either.

I suppose I have to continue to sit next to her now, for it may be even more awkward for me to suddenly decide I no longer wished to be her seatmate.

See you in a few weeks, Daci.

-Thomas

—

My dearest brother/favorite human,

I can’t believe it took you this long to realize the only reason I would want to visit is to see Ileana. It is positively ridiculous to want to visit my baby brother and meet the woman who seems to have captured his attention.

Who knew all it would take is her not swooning at your every move.

Audrey Rose’s cousin Liza has yet caught on that you and I are siblings, and has been showing me the letters she exchanged with her. I almost feel bad, because i am seeing this relationship blossom from both sides and just want to get my hands dirty and give you a push.

Good luck with your endeavors, dear brother. See you soon.

Daci

—

Daci—

What do you mean “watching this relationship blossom from both sides”?

Does miss Audrey Rose have feelings for little old me? That would be awfully embarrassing for her, since she seems intent on despising me no matter how charming I am.

No matter how many times I make her laugh with a whispered joke or doodle in lecture, she seems intent on remaining stoic towards me in our study group.

This afternoon in said study group, she mentioned how drained she was from the day and how she didn’t have a break until after our night class. I have noticed that most days, she drinks a large cup of earl grey from the campus cafe, so I think I will bring her one to class.

Hopefully it will brighten her day to get a little attention from someone she so admires.

Speaking of people who admire us, how is Ileana? I trust you’re still speaking frequently since you haven’t yet cancelled your trip down to see "me”. As much as I joke, I hope you are being careful. I don’t want you to get here and find out the two of you are on different wavelengths about where this relationship is headed.

I love you sister, keep your heart safe.

-Thomas

—

My dear, lovesick Tommy,

I cannot believe you are so taken with Audrey Rose. I simply cannot!

I won’t waste words trying to tell you how to proceed, I know you won’t listen.

As for illy and I, to my knowledge we are both in the same place. Unless you know something I do not, it will be a joyous time when we are reunited in two weeks.

Audrey has discovered a pub she will apparently be dragging us to with some strange American musical phenomenon called “surfer punk”. It sounds positively ghastly, but then again, so did Paris when I first heard about it, and now I love it here.

Can’t wait to see the look on Liza’s face when she puts everything together, and the four of us get to go out together. That promises to be funny.

I love you, and miss you more than words,

Your very emo sister.

Ps- A certain someone happened to mention a certain cup of tea in her last letter. Perhaps you e finally found your in.

Love you double,

Daci <3

—

Dear Sister,

We were assigned a massive midterm assignment in forensics, and for some reason, I thought Audrey might ask me to work with her.

To my chagrin, she did not.

However, because you said that tea was my in, I showed up unannounced to her door with a massive cup, and all of my notes, and much to my pleasant surprise she did not kick me out.

The past few nights have been spent going over theories, and watching American sketch comedy during breaks. Audrey Rose is very partial to SNL, and told me I was missing a huuuuge opportunity to start every letter to you with “dear sister”. (I was skeptical, but look it up. The sketch is funny).

I can’t believe that even after I told her of my sister abroad I wrote to, she hasn’t come close to putting it together.

I am starting to enjoy her company far too much for my normal aloofness. If this gets back to Romania, it’ll positively ruin my brand. Her room always smells faintly like cashmere and flowers, I don’t know where it’s coming from, it is the strangest thing.

I am starting to worry slightly about what she might think when the other shoe drops. But I don’t know what to do. How do I tell her how connected our lives seem to be, without coming off as an ass for keeping it to myself for so long.

See you in six days,

Thomas

Ps- Illy has been insufferably excited for the weekend. There’s a little heart around Friday on her calendar.

Maybe we can have one big sleepover in her and Audrey Rose’s room!

your deviant brother,

Thomas

—

Thomas,

I am neck deep in work, and tragically do not have time to do the whole letter writing thing this week.

However, if there is a development with you and Audrey, I INSIST you text me immediately.

I know it is not as ridiculously posh as letter writing, but it’ll keep me in the know.

Love always,

Your ‘dear sister’

Ps- tell Audrey I loved that sketch, and that she is going to be my new best friend if she is as wonderful as you’ve made her out to be (which I am sure she is)

—

Tuesday at 7pm, Tommy‍‍‍‍👯‍♂️🧛🏻‍♀️ sent:

“Headed to Audrey’s. I’m starting to worry we’ll never crack this assignment”

Tuesday at 8pm, I sent:

“Aaaaa Sorry this response took so long, that’s so annoying, I want allllll your time this weekend (sorry ar)”

Tuesday at 10pm, I sent:

“How is it going?”

Tuesday at 11:28pm, Tommy👯‍♂️🧛🏻‍♂️ sent:

“can I call you?”

Tuesday at 11:31pm, I sent:

“What is going on Thomas, you never ring me?”

Tuesday at 11:31pm, Tommy‍👯‍♂️🧛🏻‍♂️sent:

“Is Liza in the room with you?”

Tuesday at 11:32pm I wrote:

“No, she is out on a date, why?”

Tuesday at 11:32pm, Tommy‍👯‍♂️🧛🏻‍♂️ rang me:

I lifted the phone to my ear,

“What is going on Tommy? You never ring me.”

“Swear you’re alone?”

“Yes, Christ Thomas I’m by myself.”

“Cat’s out of the bag.”

I paused for a long moment,

“Audrey knows?”

“Yes. Ileana walked in on her and I and then--”

But I cut him off before he can finish,

“Walked in on you two doing what, exactly?”

I could feel my voice rising as I asked, a grin spreading across my face as he stumbled over his words.

“Well we were working on our project, and then suddenly, she has this, stroke of brilliance and I just,”

He pauses and it takes everything I have not to scream a little bit.

“I kissed her, Daci, I was so, excited about the breakthrough that I reacted on impulse. I mean, I would’ve kissed anyone in that moment,”

He stumbles over a feeble explanation and I drum my fingers against the phone. Get to the good part.

“Well, I pulled away, but before I could explain myself, she was all over me. So we’re kissing, and it was like sparks were bursting in my chest when suddenly, Ileana is at the door. So naturally we get off of each other and greet Ileana. Of course, Illy greets me like she normally does, and the ever astute Audrey Rose catches on. I didn’t know what else to do so I left Ileana to explain things.”

There is a long pause, and I can hear him clearing his throat. I don’t know what to say, and the line hangs in silence. If I were in Audrey’s shoes, I can’t figure out whether or not I would be angry.

“Thomas I don’t think she’ll be too angry. It may have been better had you not left so abruptly but--” But now it is his turn to cut me off.

“Someone’s at the door, love you, call you later.”

He hangs up before I have the chance to say anything else.

Wednesday at 12:45am, I sent:

“Hello? Did you die in the last hour?”

Wednesday at 1:13am, I sent:

“Thomasssssss”

Wednesday at 2:07am, I sent:

“I’m going to bed. I will assume you are knocking boots, rather than the more grim possibility that you finally pissed off the wrong person and have been murdered. Love you, call me tomorrow.”

Wednesday at 3:06am, Tommy‍ 👯‍♂️🧛🏻‍♂️sent:

“AR came up to my room. Thought she would be angry but turns out she just wanted to finish up our project (and another taste of my lips). We have a date tomorrow night, and if all goes well, she will (hopefully) be with me when I pick up you and Liza from the train station.”

Wednesday at 8:45am, I sent:

“I can’t wait to meet her in person, and to get the full rundown on your date. Hope you slept well :)”

~~~

Hope you guys enjoyed!! I have at least one more fic planned for this mini series (spoiler alert, its Thomas and AR’s date)

Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list for my fics :)

#sjtr #stalking jack the ripper #cressworth #cressworth college au #thomas cresswell #audrey rose #audrey rose wadsworth #audrey rose cresswell #sjtr spoilers #Hunting Prince Dracula #escaping from houdini #sjtr fanfiction

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thatlittlered · 6 years

Text

Break Past Fear | Remus Lupin

Warning: Talks about depression, Teacher/Student Relationship, nothing explicit

A/N: This is part two of a smaller imagine ‘Bring The Warmth In My Heart’ so make sure to check it out! There will be a part three because I’m hooked on this and I have a few more ideas.

PART ONE

"I'm alright."

You had said it again and again, like your very own prayer, hoping that chanting it time after time might make you believe it.

But he knew just as well as you did that it was far from the truth.

"I know you're not. But no one said you have to be."

Afternoon teas had become a regular thing between the two of you. Soft-spoken words over sweet, honeyed tea and plenty of biscuits - sometimes accompanied by the pleasant hum of Remus' muggle records.

Whatever the case, there always seemed to be those moments falling perfectly into place - perhaps a touch here and there but he never let it linger too long for Merlin knows where it would take you from there.

Your hands touched at times when reaching for the sugar or the ivory napkins that matched your tea set so perfectly, but he'd always pull away as if the contact scorched his skin.

It did in a way.

Touching you always burned with bittersweet pleasure and left him aching for more - as much as he would never admit it. Voices rang inside his head telling him to stop, save what's left of his sanity before he's in too deep into this abyss.

But never has a heart submitted to mere logic and his case was no exception.

He'd always come back to you, a chocolate in hand and a bashful smile gracing his scarred face. He'd come.

“Why so sorrowful? You’re young, you’re clever and you’ve got a whole future ahead of you. If anything, you should be the one celebrating life.”

“That’s the problem. I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to celebrate. I don’t know why I’m like this, I just can’t-“ new tears flooded your eyes and you blinked furiously to keep them from dropping.

“It’s alright, I understand. You don’t have to try and explain.”

“Do you really?”

Remus smiled at your innocent question and flattened the hair on your head with his palm.

“Of course I do. It’s a tough life; in and out of this school. But you should try and focus on the nice things – the ones that make me happy.”

“I don’t know what makes me happy anymore.”

“That’s fine too. We’ll just have to take it step by step. All you have to do is name one thing. One little thing that makes you happy, huh? I’m sure you can do that.”

Your eyes slid shut at his words and you nodded slowly, resting your weight back on the wall as you so desperately searched your mind for pretty much anything. Anything that brought joy to your veins and made your heart flutter with pleasure.

“Take your time, dear.”

His words were muffled when you were so lost in your thoughts, but still loud enough for you to hear them and you couldn’t deny the amount of solace they brought to your soul.

Releasing a deep breath, you turned back to him with eyes wide open and the smallest of smiles on your tear-stained face.

“A sunny day; not too hot nor too cold. Just warm enough to give me that bubbly feeling at the pit of my stomach.”

He nodded in understanding, smiling at the tone of longing in your voice and the child-like wonder that gleamed inside your eyes.

“What else?”

Another breath and your eyes closed again at their own accord.

“The beach. I’ve never been there but it sounds so beautiful.”

He laughed then –a breathy laugh- and you smiled at the wonderful sound that you had managed to cause.

“All it takes to make you happy is some sand and salt water?”

You hummed and shrugged your shoulders, “I’m not sure why but I just like the idea.”

In your mind, the beach was freedom.

All you wanted to do and were always forbidden.

Places you wanted to go but never reached.

People you wished to love but never got to.

The beach was a representation of everything you craved and he realized that.

“And do those things no longer make you happy?”

“I'm not sure what does anymore. Everything I do seems idle, pointless. I want to be outside and taste the sun but my feet can't take me there. My heart aches for my friends but I can no longer face them. I want to touch the grass but my fingers feel so nimble, I think it would just slip."

It became some sort of ritual – all of it. He’d find you hidden in your beloved astrology tower and join you with a smile and a fluttering heart or you’d visit him there instead; the latest cookies you made served in a sparkling silver tray that would be empty by the end of the day.

Every time he’d ask you the same thing; each time receiving a different answer and smiling to hear you open your heart to me like it was nothing.

‘What makes you happy?’

This one day you asked him the very same thing, snapping him out of his daze and making his hand drop from the beautiful teacup it was so slowly tracing.

“What about you?”

“What makes me happy?” he watched as you nodded and smiled while you brought the cup to your lips and took a slurp only to quickly set it back down when you felt the hot liquid burning your tongue and making you whimper in pain.

Remus laughed at the way your nose wrinkled – a habit of yours when you were annoyed or frustrated that he had quickly pinpointed along with a million other quirks he held so dear to his heart.

Still, he answered you.

“I like the smell of rain, I think. Especially so when I’m safe inside and close to a fire. That’s the proper way to spend a rainy day if you ask me.”

You smiled in acknowledgement and pulled your cardigan over the shoulders, sinking in to the cashmere fibers and letting them swallow you whole.

“I like rain too. It smells rather nice and it always leaves the gardens looking revived in a way, don’t you think?”

A frown formed on his dark brows but he couldn’t keep the smile tugging at his lips. Excitement in your voice was a rarity nowadays and he cherished it.

Some days were good. Remus would catch a glimpse of you in the gardens and simply follow you around from the shadows.

He could always tell when your thoughts were nice for they shone out of your face like sunbeams and framed your head like the halo that you so deserved.

Sunlight suited you, he had decided. The way it bleached your hair and kissed your lovely skin. You belonged there - along with all other flowers - and happiness bloomed in his chest with your every smile.

On your good days, he almost forgot what your tear-streaked face looked like and what sadness your eyes had held the night before.

When you attended his class, ocean coloured eyes followed your every move, watching you like a hawk and marvelling at the immaculate beauty that joy brought to your face.

He told himself he was just checking - making sure you're doing well.

And you were. Or at least you seemed so.

Still, you went to him. On your good days when spring unleashed itself inside your heart and your poisonous thoughts disappeared, you still went to him.

Your steps were lighter then and so was your voice - he could see it radiate from head to toe. On your good days, he didn't ask the usual question.

He thought it was best not to press on the matter and instead you'd talk about anything and everything else. Music you liked and poetry favourites.

Remus couldn't care less what the subject was as long as he heard the gentle humming of your voice as you spoke. You could very well be cursing him and he wouldn't tell, for he always lost himself in your every word.

Other times you just resigned in silence, but he was fine with that too.

The fire crinkled in the background and warmed the room impossibly on this tepid spring day, yet Remus always found it comforting to be drowning in warmth rather than the freezing atmosphere that his shed of a home would provide.

You both resigned in peaceful silence that evening - simply enjoying the taste of the peppermint tea and the softness of each other's breathing.

He studied your movements for a while. Your one hand was clutching the teacup close to your lips while the other seemed to trace random patterns on the hardcover book he'd just presented you with.

'The Old Man And The Sea'.

Never heard of it, for sure, but your faith was blind when it came to the professor's tastes. You'd read the entire Holy Bible should he suggest so.

The soft whistle of his kettle was enough to break that silence and soon he was appearing with a new batch of tea. Curiosity plagued your mind as to why he didn't simply use his magic for such mundane things but you thought it better not to ask.

Instead, you accepted his silent offer with a smile and allowed him to pour you more tea - barely missing the way your hands brushed as he did so.

A rosy pink dusted Remus' scarred cheeks but you blamed it on the beverage instead, or perhaps his choice of sweater that was definitely too warm for this time of the year.

The professor sat uncomfortably, shifting and twisting in his chair like a frustrated child, but you were too lost in your thoughts to take notice.

Your head leaned back on the wine coloured leather of his armchair and he took this opportunity to stare. Take in the image of your hair that gathered behind your head like a makeshift pillow and the daze in your eyes as they stayed glued to the plain chandelier.

What they were searching for exactly, he could not tell. Perhaps you were admiring the dim light or perhaps your gaze simply fell there while your mind wandered into unknown lands like it did so often.

Whatever it was you were thinking, he was sure it was brilliant for such a beautiful mind could ever think of brilliant things - no matter how peculiar.

"Have you ever been to the muggle world, professor?"

There it is.

"More times than I can count. May I ask why?"

You hummed and fixed your position to look at him.

"Is it nice there?"

"I... Well, it depends on what place we're talking about. The muggle world is incredibly vast."

"What about the places you've been in?"

Remus smiled and placed his cup back on the small table between the two of you.

"I can't say I've seen the most beautiful of places, but there are some that are very intriguing, yes."

You hummed again - this time mindlessly and it confused him so greatly not to be able to read your expression.

"And the people?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are they nice? My father always says that muggles are hostile and unpredictable but Mother doesn't quite agree with him. She thinks it's wrong to label people as if they're all the same."

He smiled again, feeling the warmth spread in his heart at the sweetness of your being and the love that laced your voice when you mentioned your parents.

"Your mother is right. Not all muggles are hostile, just like not every wizard is innocent and righteous. We're all humans after all and humans have one great flaw; fear.”

"How is fear a flaw? It's supposed to be there to protect us. If it weren't for our fears, we'd do dangerous things and put our lives at risk all the time."

"You're right, fear is important. But not when you allow it to guide your life. Humans, muggle or not, have always been suppressed by fear and led to inexplicable behaviours. Hate, discrimination, prejudice - they're all results of our fear if you really think about it. We seek safety for us and our loved ones so badly that we start to believe that everything else is nothing but a danger to be eliminated."

Remus stopped there, closing his mouth as if to keep the rest inside for Merlin knows where this would take him should he speak another word. These were delicate matters for sure and even if he trusted your kind intentions, he still greatly feared to give away his problem.

Not to his poor, innocent student. Not to you.

He only watched as you shifted position again, this time resting your head on your hands as you leaned towards him in what he could only translate as pure interest in all he was saying.

"What about you, professor? Are you not afraid?"

"Of course I am. Everyone is, dear. It can be something material or a mere possibility but whatever the case, there's always something to be afraid of and it differs from person to person. Here; just name one thing that comes to mind when I say the word 'fear'. What do you fear the most?"

Silence fell with the last of his words and he simply looked at you waiting. Your face contorted in a grimace as if you were in deep thought and he admired the way your brain seemed to lose contact with the rest of your body when you thought and acted all on its own.

And then you found it. What you feared most because it seemed your head was always attacking your heart and all you could do was wish for it to be over.

"My mind."

Then there were the bad days. The bad days when your heart broke more with each step and you could barely leave your bed despite your friends' desperate efforts to motivate you otherwise.

On your bad days, he knew.

Every thought was a battle and every breath was a war that he wished to fight by your side, but he did not know how.

He watched you take deep breaths before you spoke because tears had pooled in your eyes and you had lost all control of your body like a mere marionette in the hands of your poisonous mind.

He had felt pain before, thousands of times, whether it be physical pain ragging through his weary body after a full moon, or emotional one through all the heartbreak he had suffered through the years.

But never this kind of pain.

He'd never felt the pain of a withering soul and for that, he was thankful, yet at the same time angry given that someone like you had to feel it instead.

Those were the days when he came to you first. He'd hunt you down the entire school if he had to, but he'd always come.

He'd find you hidden in an empty classroom and join you with a bowed head as if he curtsied to the greatness that was you.

His nimble hands would take hold of the book resting open in your lap - most times one he'd given you himself - and throw it on the hardwood floor instead before taking his place next to your trembling body.

On those days, he wasn't your professor anymore. He was another wounded soul trying to pull you from your misery and back into the colourful world where you belonged - his world.

He let his touches linger more and his body rest closer because he hoped that maybe all you needed was to sit in silence while you listened to the muffled chatter from outside and the sound of his soft breathing.

He hoped that maybe you could lay on the floor and quell your thoughts while sitting in the quiet, or maybe, just maybe, he could hold you.

Perhaps that'd take some of your pain away and work like a salve over your soul when his words could never be of consolation.

He truly hoped that it would, yet he couldn't find it in his heart to show that bravery. And thus his hands only ever reached your arms and he could barely gather the courage to do so much as to tuck your hair back and wipe your eyes that he had come to cherish like jewels.

That was until you were the one to break past that fear and your delicate arms that shook with such fervour came to wrap around his middle like he was your lifeline, which he was.

That night he was a victim of fear himself but you had broken right past it, right past the things that were holding him back.

You had broken right past it and nestled yourself in his arms with your face buried in that lovely cashmere sweater and his lips on your head.

tags: @thepoet1975 @littlemisstrancy @lupinsbaby

Requests: by anon Could you please write professor Lupin x reader where the reader is depressed and his student at Hogwarts and he helps her with her depression and then they fall in love with each other?

@isidoraxbello WHAT I NEED MORE OMG WHY ARE U LIKE THIS

by anon Where's the second part of remus and yn teacher student imagine?

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wcrstarter · 3 years

Text

meta headcanons: Sonja and Materialism

Sonja was raised in a time where to show one’s wealth, it was custom for husbands and fathers adorned their wives and daughters in fine jewels, furs, silks, and fabrics. Given that vampires possess eternity to collect and hoard wealth if they should choose, means among vampires this practice was brought to a new level.The daughter of a vampire Elder who ruled as a sort of King over all the kingdoms, considered a high ranking Warlord over the Maygar Empire to which many local barons and lower ranked lords paid tithe to each month--Sonja had much of what was considered to be the finest in the lands to show just how wealthy and powerful her father was. As his sole child, she was heavily doted upon and wanted for nothing.

However she has never cared for the pomp and circumstance of the court and ‘higher’ society, her concern over the quality of an object lies solely in how strong and durable it might be. Will she have to replace it before the next season comes, or will it be easy to maintain it’s upkeep to have it remain in her possession for years to come? A a result, she tends to ignore fine silks and satins (their dyes fade overtime, especially after the 19th century) in favour of having linens, wools, leathers, and furs to clothe herself with.

Up until the modern era and the dawn of the twenty first century, she continued to wear obsidian plate armour in battle. Afterwards, she favoured thick woolen and leather armour, before turning to kevlar and similar textile fabrics to allow her to be protected in combat but be unburdened by the heavy weight of the black plate and silver chainmail she once wore. In modern times it’s easy enough to find a few fine silk dresses in her wardrobe for special occasions; with the rest being leather jackets, fine woolen sweaters, coats, and cardians, and soft stonewashed linen clothing of varying weights for the bulk of her wardrobe.

She has no place for gold in her personal belongings, due to how fast the metal fades and how soft and delicate it is--easily dented and scratched by daily wear. Nor does she have much gemstone jewelry in her jewlery box, she does not care if the gems are of the actual stone or merely paste--if they were gifted to her by someone she cared about then she will keep them with her wherever she goes, and upon the rare occasion when the need for it is called she will adorn herself with it.

Her most prized pieces of jewelry is the brass pendant (that truthfully is one of two keys) with a piece of polished malachite in its centre, something given to her by her father under the belief it belonged to her mother Illona; the other is a simple brass ring she keeps on a length of oiled leather, a ring forged by her beloved lucian to mark their union to one another. The brass necklace can be found around Sonja’s neck, whereas the brass ring can be found coiled and tied onto her wrist as a bracelet (often hidden beneath long sleeves to avoid attention towards it due to her private nature).

Sonja’s residence is never anything grand, usually she finds a spacious apartment that possesses a nice windowed view so she might freely look out at the moon and the stars without having to climb up onto the roof. Sometimes this means she resides in the penthouse suite that has roof access, other-times its the apartment with the largest balcony so she can go out to lean against the railing and stargaze.

The one constant in every single one of the places Sonja calls home for any large stretch of time, is that the bathroom always has a large soaker tub she can relax inside. Her one true vice is having a long hot bath, modern plumbing is a marvel to her for this used to be a rarer treat--a true display of wealth to be able to have the bath basin filled to the brim with steaming hot water to lounge comfortably in. She collects perfumed bath oils, dried flowers, and scented bath salts from across the globe in her travels and enjoys them at least once a week.

In addition, even though the modern convenience of electricity makes it so that she is not entirely dependant upon candle light to see; her home is usually outfitted with various sconces, lanterns, candelabras, and candle holders to provide the option to go by candle light if she chooses. Though to human eyes the candle light might seem far more dim to them as it does to her, given Sonja is capable of seeing perfectly in the dark.

Her choice of furniture might strike guests as rather spartan and minimalist, though the few pieces she have are usually of excellent quality and handmade from centuries past from master craftsmen that caught her eye--allowing her to forgo having to replace anything as the decades fly on by. But it does present a unique problem should she need to get something repaired, as finding a craftsman to do so means she runs the risk of a museum curator contacting her in the hopes of getting her to surrender the piece for their collection. Everything has a place and a purpose, but its not uncommon to find odd little trinkets scattered across her home.

Little gifts or items that were either gifted to her, or remind her of a loved one in her life or from her past. If you were to crack open the massive oaken chest that sits in the corner of the living room; you would find stacks upon stacks of well loved leather bound books, letters from friends and lovers alike, portraits and photographs and scrapbooks of memories of loved ones from Sonja’s life, including her original set of armour from her Deathdealer days and the silver sword Lucian forged for her. Anything gifted to her or that sparks a deep enough memory of someone she loves, is usually gifted and found a place within her home to keep with her and her journeys throughout eternity.

Despite the scarcity of furniture and the trinkets decorating the tables and shelves, Sonja’s home has a welcoming atmosphere and often is bathed with the soft light of candle flame and strongly scented of incense burning somewhere nearby. Fine cashmere blankets or soft fur pelts are thrown over the chairs and the sofa, making it more comfortable to sink into and relax in her space. Rugs will cover most of the flooring, but shoes are never permitted beyond the threshold of the door.

There is the occasional piece of macabre decor she will collect around October, to lightly poke at the fact the average person expect’s a vampire liar to be something terrifying to behold, even if her space is a sanctuary away from the world and the drama of the covens she has to deal with. Sonja’s home is where she retreats to get away from the world, somewhere she can freely be herself and not have to act human when she is not. The same rules apply to any guests of hers, there is never a need to hold up a front in her home or worry for someone watching through the windows. Even if they were to try to, she has had the windows tinted to block out UV rays and thick curtains she can draw shut to keep out peeping toms.

She might keep almost every gift she is given (some become lost to time or damaged in her travels and force her to let go of them), but its not often for her to gift something to anyone. The gifts she herself will give are few in number, but always with careful thought and consideration towards that friend or loved one’s needs and desires. Sonja has an abundance of time on her hands, and will use it to observe and collect the occasional gift to surprise others with. Some are done by complete impulse when out, she sees something that she knows they will like and she simply purchases it. When you’ve had as many centuries as she has, the price of an object is hardly an obstacle from the money you’ve had sitting in various banks or safes over the years.

A material possession is a rare gift, usually only being handed over during a holiday (either one of her own that she has always celebrated such as the harvest festival days or solstices, or that of the other party’s belief system), but gifts such as experiences or a favoured food or drink will be freely given whenever she has the chance to do so. It’s not uncommon to open Sonja’s fridge or pantry doors to find the favoured food, snacks, or drinks of those she holds dear to her heart even if she is incapable of consuming any of it herself.

#--&;I'm not a hero or a martyr;think I'm the villain of the story(headcanons)#rpcdev #she doesn't really participate in materialism outside of spoiling her loved ones #having artists you enjoy/craftsmen you like be mortal is a pain in her ass because if they die and she hasn't found a suitable replacement #she will be grouchy as hell about having to get something else made by someone else that she might not trust the same #but its a big part of why she keeps such few custom pieces and looks after them extremely well #museums would kill to get her to surrender half her furniture as they're probably half as old as her #modern furniture would absolutely enrage her #she'd always be concerned about breaking it and probably would just offer to get you something more sturdy made up #she absolutely has a mini library full of books shes collected over the years some are first editions others are secondhand ones shes found #in thriftshops #brand names mean absolutely nothing to her unless its one she knows a friend/lover/loved one likes #if you ask her for something specific she will get it for you. sometimes she might judge it a little but she will get it for you #long post for ts

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thoseofgreatambition · 6 years

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for the birds: bonus

@hermione-who : We was just talking about Taylor the other day lol😂 Can you do Ready for it with George Weasley x Reader?? I wanna see how that would play out😂

“I see how this is going to go”

“Touch me and you’ll never be alone.”

“No one has to know.”

nonnie: Are you still taking those song fic requests? If so can I request George x Reader and Delicate? :-)?

“My reputation’s never been worse”

“You can make me a drink.”

CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2

genre: romance

wordcount: 2.3 K

pairing: george x reader

warnings: none

a/n: i got these two prompts and immediately thought of ‘for the birds’. sadly, i wouldn’t have been able to make them work in the next chapter, so i decided to make a bonus chapter!

You were a sight for sore eyes, standing in George’s living room, a cashmere cloak draped over your shoulders, your hair swept into curls that seemed almost too perfect, and your lips painted red. It was as if you’d stepped out of a painting, just to steal his breath away.

Fred however, seemed quite immune. He gave you a bright smile and pressed a kiss to your cheek while you did the same to him-- the red on your lips staying well put. “Wotcher, Y/N! It’s good to see you again. What brings you to town?”

“Well-- I just graduate Ilvermorny, and I wanted to come to England for a while and visit my boys!” you beamed at George who seemed to be gaping at you. “What’s wrong Georgie?”

He flushed red, “Don’t call me that.”

“Then get over here and greet me properly, before I start calling you that permanently.” you held your arms open to greet him and grinned wide as he finally walked over and embraced you. “It’s good to see you. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

He could see Fred snickering over your shoulder, and gave his brother the most convincing scowl that he could. Fred knew what George was desperately trying to hide--

George’s crush on you from when you were children had just bodyslammed him and had come back all at once.

Fred gave George a wink and clapped you on the back. “Well, why don’t you have George show you around our shop? You can stay here for the night if you’d like. I’ve got to scamper off and grab some ingrediants.”

You pouted a bit at Fred, “You can’t wait?”

“Unfortunately I can’t my dear. I’ve got to grab these before they close. I’ll be back later though!” he gave you a wink and tried not to cackle at George’s flustered look, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do?”

With a brow twitched upwards you gave Fred a smirk as you released George, “Aren’t you the one who got drunk off tequila last year and made out with what-- four of your classmates in one night?”

“Five.” Fred thought for a moment, “Yeah-- Five. So just don’t do anything worse than that.” with your snort of laughter Fred apparated away, and you turned all of your attention to George.

He still had the strange look on your face-- one that you didn’t really understand. You reached up to the clasp of your cloak around your neck and deftly undid it. Your cloak fell off, and you draped it over your fore arm before hanging it on their coat rack. “So what’s gotten into you? You keep staring at me.”

“You’re just--” what was a way to say this that didn’t betray the fact that he had a crush on you? “You look a lot different than I remember.”

That made you chuckle a bit, “Do I? I reckon it’s the hair-- I started growing it out.”

Desperate for an excuse he nodded, “Yeah. Must be the hair. Can I get you anything? It’s not much here but--”

“Your apartment is lovely. Don’t downplay it. I saw the outside of your shop too-- it’s amazing.”

He grinned a bit at that, the praise seeming especially nice coming from you. “Thank you. Now what can I get you.”

You flashed him a smile as you smoothed out your shirt, “You can make me a drink.”

George was walking you through the shop, you sticking right by his side-- elbows brushing as you inspected every nook and cranny of all that you were shown. “George this is fucking amazing.”

He laughed-- the disparity between how you looked and the foul language from your lips was too great to not be amusing. “You ought to watch your language young lady. There’ll be talk about you if you don’t.” as soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. Like everyone else he’d read what’d been circulating about you in the newspapers-- it had all been less than pleasant. “Y/N--”

“No-- No it’s alright George.” you gave him a half hearted smile, “It was a joke. I know you were joking.”

There was silence, as the darkness of the joke shop seemed to loom over you both, “Do you want to talk about?”

“Ah, the fact that my reputation’s never been worse or that I’m not allowed to break up with people?”

George’s voice was thankfully quiet, “Both.”

You sucked in a breath, and George reckoned the real reason you’d come to England wasn’t to visit them. It was to get away.

It was stupid really. You’d been dating a boy a few years older than you for the past few months, a rather famous Quadpot player. When you’d broken it off after graduating things had all gone to hell.

It’d made him look bad at first, which wasn’t what you liked. He was a decent guy in your opinion, there just hadn’t been anything in him that made you want to settle down.

“How much do you know?”

George seemed to be considering his options, “I know it’s not all true.”

“How much, George.”

“What I read said that you broke up with him for another man-- that Graves guy from your year?”

“Jackson.”

“Yeah. They said you broke up with him for Jackson, and that you were pregnant. Which obviously isn’t true--”

Your lips pursed. The pregnant one was new to you.

“I broke up with Taylor because I wasn’t falling in love. Not for Jack. But they saw me out with him after we broke up and it just...” you shook your head, “I just wanted to spend time with my friend, you know? But that’s how it always is.” You grinned at George, an obviously false thing as you tried to crack a joke, “You ought to keep away Georgie. Touch me and you’ll never be alone. The press’ll eat you alive.”

There was an ugly part of him, a jealous part of him that was glad you were single and back in England even if it was for a little bit, but the distress on your face quelled it immediately. “Y/N.”

You shrugged, and turned your attention back to the shelf. “It’s alright. It’s how it’s always been. Jack and I were talking. He’s pretty used to it too-- what with his family and all. So I guess it was good it was him. Not a lot of people can handle that.”

“You don’t deserve this.”

“No one does. But in the world of problems, it’s not that big. People have it a lot worse than me.” You forced yourself to smile at him, “Now how about that drink we were talking about earlier?”

You were quite comfortable on George’s couch, legs tucked underneath you as you sipped on your whiskey. He’d listened quite patiently to your entire story, from beginning to end and if you were to be perfectly honest you were sick of talking about yourself. “Enough about me-- anyone special in your life?”

Very quickly, he shook his head. “Nope. It’s been a while since I’ve dated, actually.”

With that your brows knit together in confusion, “Are you serious?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“It’s very surprising-- have you seen yourself? You’re one hell of a catch, Weasley. Smart, funny and handsome. I figured you’d have at least one or two people wrapped around your finger.”

“You think I’m some sort of player now?” He looked almost amused at what you were saying. Though you got the sense that you probably shouldn’t push that joke too far.

You shook your head, “Not a player. Just a very eligible bachelor. That sound better.”

The blush was back on his cheeks, “I see how this is going to go. You trying to get a discount in the shop?”

“Yes George. You’ve caught me. I’m trying to seduce you for a discount.”

He was silent for a moment, staring at you-- considering his words. “So I’ve got a question.”

“Hit me.”

“I don’t-- I don’t want to be rude.”

You shrugged, “George I’ve got people calling me a two-timer. Whatever you’re about to ask will not be that bad. “Hit me.”

“It looks like-- just from what I’ve heard-- that you only date famous people.”

There was a moment as you thought back-- your list was fairly short, just three paramours since you’d started dating, but you reckoned there was some truth in that. Everyone was rather well known.

“I guess you could say that.”

“Why?”

“They’re who I get introduced to by my family” when he stared at you blankly you chuckled a little, “My aunt knows lots of people. She wants to set me up.”

“Like an arranged marriage?”

You shook your head, “Not really-- there’s no contract. But she’s got people in mind, and I’ve gotten on well with most of them. Doesn’t hurt to give them a chance at least.”

The way George was staring at you, you reckoned that he didn’t understand. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“It’s how it is George. I love her-- the least I can do is give ‘em a shot.”

“You don’t owe her anything though.”

You let out a sigh, and wondered how in the world you could voice how he was wrong. Your Aunt had introduced you to the Head of Healing at the biggest wizarding hospital in North America. With your interview next month, you reckoned that you owed her quite a bit. That wasn’t to mention everything else she’d done.

Your father was a pureblood as well-- but from a much less prestigious family than your mother’s and your Aunt had always made sure that you and your siblings had enough for clothes and school supplies.

Call it duty or call it guilt-- you felt like you owed her quite a bit.

“It’s hard to explain, George. Just trust me on this.” the smile was completely wiped off of your face as you let out a sigh, “Why are you asking, anyways?”

“Just curious.” it kind of felt like his entire shot with you was blown out of the water-- but that really wasn’t important right now. He watched you down the rest of your whiskey and gave you a small smile. “Do you want to stay here for the night? Mum’ll bombard you with questions the second you get to the Burrow, you know.”

You tossed your head back and groaned, George had a point. As much as you loved your godmother, she was one for the dramatics whenever stories started to circulate. “Yes please.”

You missed this. You missed being able to have something innocent in your life. Something pure and untouched.

That was George.

That was the Weasleys.

That was England.

When you came here, it meant you could do what you wanted and no one would take photos and wonder what else was going on behind the scenes. It meant that you could curl up on the couch in your childhood friends’ arms, and finally let yourself relax.

George was pure.

You reckoned if you tried to say that he wouldn’t understand, and you reckoned that you couldn’t go too much into detail without your old crush on him rearing its ugly head, but it was true.

He was uncorrupted. He did not know politics. He did not have to think thrice about what meanings his words could have if they got out to the wrong people.

To you, he was an angel. And you knew it was selfish and terrible, but you were so happy to have him hold you like this that you almost didn’t care about the possible rumors that could spread about it.

His hand ran through your hair, mucking up your curls and you couldn’t make yourself give a fuck. He could ruin everything about you and you’d be smiling the entire time.

“Are you tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to go to bed? I can sleep in Fred’s room and you can take mine.” he chuckled a bit as you shook your head and simply nuzzled into his shoulder, eyes already closed as you were drifting off. “We can stay here then.”

You simply hummed in response and George let out a sigh, arms wrapping around you. After a few minutes it seemed like you’d finally fallen asleep-- a fact further proved by you not snapping awake when Fred apparated back to the flat.

He smirked at the sight of you two, “Have a good night?”

George scowled, and spoke in a hushed whisper, “Talk quieter. And it’s not how it looks.”

“So you two cuddling is totally platonic?”

“Mate she just broke up with someone and got put through the wringer-- ‘m not about to take advantage of that.”

Fred shook his head, “I’m not saying you do that. I’m saying you two just finally start dating and do what you’ve been ramping up to for years.” He watched as George simply shook his head and let out a sigh, “You worried about the tabloids? No one has to know.”

“If we date I want to be public. I’m not going to just hide away.”

You stirred a bit and George very quickly went back to stroking your hair, hopeful that you hadn’t woken up.

Fred’s brow furrowed as he stared at the picture of you two. George looked rather troubled, as if all of this was incredibly worrisome, and you looked peaceful and sound.

All joking aside, it was a tad troubling the pull you had on his brother without knowing.

He shook his head before saying goodnight to George.

It wasn’t right to think like that. You were a good person-- you wouldn’t hurt George. He was just being a worry wart.

It’d end up being fine.

What was the worst that could happen, right?

TAG LIST: @vanityasvoriaclover @whyarentyoulaughingj @fainting-fancy @rexster10 @oh-the-snowinthemoonlight @hermione-who @geeksareunique @phantomhive-shadow @wildfire-whizbangs @slytherinsouldetective @siriuslyimmoony

#george weasley #george weasley imagine #george weasley oneshot #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley x reader #my writing #my imagine #requested #fic: for the birds

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petrichorate · 6 years

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Little Fires Everywhere: Thoughts

Little Fires Everywhere (Celeste Ng)

I feel like Little Fires Everywhere is like a trap of sorts—it draws you in quickly, under the pretense of some light entertainment, and then hits you hard with moments of intense poignancy and frustration. I wanted to read more books by Asian American authors this year because I wanted to come to terms with my identity as a Chinese American. I needed to understand how I had been approaching that part of myself, and also to hear the stories of other people who had gone through the same thing—especially if those experiences were sometimes shameful, terrifying, or filled with guilt, as mine have often been. It wasn’t until college that I started being proud of my heritage; there are still moments when I unfortunately feel ashamed of that part of myself, or somehow feel lesser than those around me. But I’ve also started to appreciate the unique beauty of being Asian American—the amazing resilience and reflection I’ve received by being part of a culture that is complex, and contradictory, and somehow immensely messed up and exquisite at the same time.

Little Fires Everywhere managed to pack so much about Asian American-ness, motherhood, and self identity into a seamless narrative. I remember messaging a friend at the beginning of the novel that “it was entertaining, but seems like just a light read. I kind of expected it to push more on Asian American issues.” But the more I read, the more I realized that there were lessons interwoven throughout the story that could only have been learned through intense, real experiences. I love how Ng describes the “sureness” possessed in children from wealthy and established families—a feeling I always got from my childhood friends who lived in houses with kitchen islands in nice neighborhoods, but that I never felt I held inside myself. I love how Ed Lim, the lawyer, reflects on the difficulty of finding books and dolls that his daughter can relate to—it’s something I noticed in all my picture books about kids with curly golden hair, and it’s something I am actively working on because I don’t want my future daughter or son growing up without characters who look like them.

Here are some parts I thought were particularly memorable:

On stealing from people who don’t notice: “She had cried all the way to Lafayette, where they would stay for the next eight months, and even the prancing china palomino she had stolen from the girl’s collection gave her no comfort, for though she waited nervously, there was never any complaint about the loss, and what could be less satisfying than stealing from someone so endowed that they never even noticed what you’d taken?”

On the “sureness” or efficacy felt in people from established families: “Even the younger Richardsons had it, this sureness in themselves. Sunday mornings Pearl and Moody would be sitting in the kitchen when Trip drifted in from a run, lounging against the island to pour a glass of juice, tall and tan and lean in gym shorts, utterly at ease, his sudden grin throwing her into disarray. Lexie perched at the counter, inelegant in sweatpants and a tee, hair clipped in an untidy bun, picking sesame seeds off a bagel. They did not care if Pearl saw them this way. They were so artlessly beautiful, even right out of bed. Where did this ease come from? How could they be so at home, so sure of themselves, even in pajamas? When Lexie ordered from a menu, she never said, ‘Could I have...?’ She said, ‘I’ll have...’ confidently, as if she had only to say it to make it so. It unsettled Pearl and it fascinated her.”

On covering up naïveté with “bookish wisdom”: “She could see the similarities between these two lonely children, even more clearly than they could: the same sensitive personalities lurking inside both of them, the same bookish wisdom layered over a deep naïveté.”

On the ability of wealth to draw you away from the problems you want to solve: “Of course she understood why this was happening: they were fighting to right injustices. But part of her shuddered at the scenes on the television screen. Grainy scenes, but no less terrifying: grocery stores ablaze, smoke billowing from their rooftops, walls gnawed to studs by flame. The jagged edges of smashed windows like fangs in the night. Soldiers marching with rifles past drugstores and Laundromats. Jeeps blocking intersections under dead traffic lights. Did you have to burn down the old to make way for the new? The carpet at her feet was soft. The sofa beneath her was patterned with roses. Outside, a mourning dove cooed from the bird feeder and a Cadillac glided to a dignified stop at the corner. She wondered which was the real world. The following spring, when antiwar protests broke out, she did not get in her car and drive to join them. She wrote impassioned letters to the editor; she signed petitions to end the draft. She stitched a peace sign onto her knapsack. She wove flowers into her hair.”

On parents and touch: “Parents, she thought, learned to survive touching their children less and less. As a baby Pearl had clung to her; she’d worn Pearl in a sling because whenever she’d set her down, Pearl would cry. There’d scarcely been a moment in the day when they had not been pressed together. As she got older, Pearl would still cling to her mother’s leg, then her waist, then her hand, as if there were something in her mother she needed to absorb through the skin. Even when she had her own bed, she would often crawl into Mia’s in the middle of the night and burrow under the old patchwork quilt, and in the morning they would wake up tangled, Mia’s arm pinned beneath Pearl’s head, or Pearl’s legs thrown across Mia’s belly. Now, as a teenager, Pearl’s caresses had become rare—a peck on the cheek, a one-armed, half-hearted hug—and all the more precious because of that. It was the way of things, Mia thought to herself, but how hard it was. The occasional embrace, a head leaned for just a moment on your shoulder, when what you really wanted more than anything was to press them to you and hold them so tight you fused together and could never be taken apart. It was like training yourself to live on the smell of an apple alone, when what you really wanted was to devour it, to sink your teeth into it and consume it, seeds, core, and all.”

On regrets: “‘Most of the time, everyone deserves more than one chance. We all do things we regret now and then. You just have to carry them with you.’”

On the lack of good Asian representation in toys for kids: “But there was no doll with black hair, let alone a face that looked anything like Monique’s. Ed Lim had gone to four different toy stores searching for a Chinese doll; he would have bought it for his daughter, whatever the price, but no such thing existed. He’d gone so far as to write to Mattel, asking them if there was a Chinese Barbie doll, and they’d replied that yes, they offered ‘Oriental Barbie’ and sent him a pamphlet. He had looked at that pamphlet for a long time, at the Barbie’s strange mishmash of a costume, all red and gold satin and like nothing he’d ever seen on a Chinese or Japanese or Korean woman, at her waist-length black hair and slanted eyes. I am from Hong Kong, the pamphlet ran. It is in the Orient, or Far East. Throughout the Orient, people shop at outdoor marketplaces where goods such as fish, vegetables, silk, and spices are openly displayed. The year before, he and his wife and Monique had gone on a trip to Hong Kong, which struck him, mostly, as a pincushion of gleaming skyscrapers. In a giant, glassed-in shopping mall, he’d bought a dove-gray cashmere sweater that he wore under his suit jacket on chilly days. Come visit the Orient. I know you will find it exotic and interesting. In the end, he’d thrown the pamphlet away. He’d heard, from friends with younger children, that the expensive doll line now had one Asian doll for sale—and a few black ones, too—but he’d never seen it. Monique was seventeen now, and had long outgrown dolls.”

On the frustration of people finally recognizing problems that you have always known about through real experience and not research studies: “‘What about other books, Mrs. McCullough? Any other books with Chinese characters?’ Mrs. McCullough bit her lip. ‘I haven’t really looked for them,’ she admitted. ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’ ‘I can save you some time,’ said Ed Lim. ‘There really aren’t very many. So May Ling has no dollars that look like her, and no books with pictures of people that look like her.’ Ed Lim paced a few more steps. Nearly two decades later, others would raise this question, would talk about books as mirrors and windows, and Ed Lim, tired by then, would find himself as frustrated as he was grateful. We’ve always known, he would think; what took you so long?”

On what Asians are “allowed” to be in society: “Men like him, the article would suggest, weren’t supposed to lose their cool—though it was never specified whether ‘like him’ meant lawyers or something else entirely. But the truth was—as Mr. Richardson recognized—that an angry Asian man didn’t fit the public’s expectations, and was therefore unnerving. Asian men could be socially inept and incompetent and ridiculous, like a Long Duk Dong, or at best unthreatening and slightly buffoonish, like a Jackie Chan. They were not allowed to be angry and articulate and powerful. And possibly right, Mr. Richardson thought uneasily.”

#reading list #books #celeste ng #little fires everywhere

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luvambrylayn · 7 years

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Broken Hearts (1)

Characters: AJ Styles and OFC

Warnings: NSFW, Sexual Content, Angst, Fantasy Smut

Short Summary: Taking place in late January 2016, the OFC, who is recovering from a bad break up, has worked in NXT for two years when she is brought up to the Main Roster. However, she shows a disliking towards AJ Styles, who is going through a divorce, who has made his debut in WWE.

Word Count: 3,294

Other Great Blogs to Check Out: @llowkeys, @wwe-smutfics, @wrasslesmut, @laochbaineann, @thatonegirloncealways, @wwesmutdonedirtcheap, @crowleysqueenofhell, and @thephenomenonalkingofthebrogues

Okay, I’m trying something new, with this story potentially having a second part to it. Let me know what you guys think.

Monday Night After Royal Rumble 2016

Mia Stone's POV

I stand in front of a mirror in my own personal locker room. It is supposed to be a surprise that I am debuting. I had to be here an hour before everyone else in order to get settled. This included getting new attire, and being talked to about what was happening on the show.

Now, I was studying myself in the mirror. I wore an indigo brassiere with royal purple streamers with a gray sports bra underneath. I also had black lettering with a gold outline that said "STONE" across my breasts. I was kind of glad for this. It drew attention away from my cleavage.

While I was was confident and satisfied with my looks, this did not mean I was willing to put my boobs on display to the entire world every Monday and Thursday. I usually wore long black tights, but I guess not anymore now that I was on the main roster.

My new pants were shorts that were black with gold trim. Along the hip was "STONE" in Royal Purple. I guess I was satisfied with my look. I had been in need of a new look. After all that had happened over the past few weeks, I guess I was in need of a new life.

Despite this, I still felt the need for a security blanket. I look through my things and find my gray cashmere robe. This is perfect. I throw it over myself. It still showcased my attire but hid a significant amount of skin.

A few hours later, and Raw has started. After The Authority's celebration, Renee appears on screen and welcomes AJ Styles. I roll my eyes at the pop this man gets. AJ just makes his debut at the Royal Rumble and now everyone acts as if he deserves a damn title shot.

The more I thought about the whole damn thing, the more it upset me. I have been part of this company for two years. I felt anger boiling through my blood. I was tired of people just coming in and taking what's not there's.

It just proved what I had always thought. All I am to everyone is an expendable, useless piece of shit. I feel tears forming in my eyes. Ever since my boyfriend had cheated on me, I have been contemplating who I am. I felt lost. I have felt broken.

I must have started walking without noticing because now I am out of my Locker Room and watching AJ and Chris Jericho talk to each other up close. Ever since everything happened, sometimes I end up so lost in thought I almost black out from real life. It kind of worried me, but I merely shake my head to clear it and watch as the interview ends.

AJ walks my way. I walk his way as well and shoulder him. This guy needed to know his place. He looks at me in shock. "I'm sorry Ma'am, I didn't mean to hurt you or nothing." He apologizes while also looking around in embarrassment. I chuckle menacingly.

"It's fine. But you know what really upsets me? The fact that you just think you can walk in here and strut as if you own the place don't you?" I sneer. His eyes widen in shock for a second. As if he felt sorry for me. I didn't need him feeling sorry for me.

"Well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you." He apologizes. I roll my eyes and walk around him. This guy obviously doesn't care who he hurts. He just walks in and debuts before I do on the main roster. Already gets a name drop from The Authority. It pissed me off.

"Just maybe think about the fact that some of us have been here for two years and are just now getting thrown a bone." I spit. He nods his head and smiles at me in disbelief. In my head I can tell I've succeeded in lifting the veil and getting rid of the Southern Hospitality facade.

"Well, you know, I've probably been wrestling since before you were in Grade School Darling. So maybe think about that." He points out. I laugh. I narrow my eyes. Looks like the little Cowboy was finally growing a spine.

"Oh, so you're admitting that you're a has-been?" I mock. He smiles. Up close, you could see the age on his face. He didn't look old, just a little worn out. Then again, this business tends to wear people out every now and then.

"Just as long as you're admitting that you're a newbie." He retorts. I narrow my eyes at him and swing at his face. He blocks my strike with a forearm. I look into his blue eyes in shock. I look around and see that we drew a crowd. I look back at him, mischief beamed through his eyes. He was amused. He thought this whole encounter was a joke.

I drop my arm as he gives me a cocky smile followed by a wink. I scoff and walk away. I didn't need to deal with this guy. When I get to my locker room, I turn a monitor on and see that AJ's match is on. I was still unbelievably upset about how he basically made me look stupid in front of everyone.

He thought that I was just a little girl he could ridicule like that. He thought that I could be turned into some kind of joke. He would pay for this, if nothing else. AJ Styles would see what it's like when you cross me.

I have let people walk all over me for far too long. This little bird was about to spread her wings.

AJ's POV

I am walking through the hallways backstage after my match. I look around and see faces that I've seen before, yet I feel all alone. I knew that this was a risk when I signed, but now that it is real, it just feels empty.

What was really stuck in my head, however, was what that woman said to me earlier. Don't get me wrong, she was a bit excessive when it came to her complaints, but I did see some merit in her argument.

I mean, she started with WWE two years ago and hear I come and debut at the Royal Rumble. Her dream of being on Raw was delayed for two years while I did it in a day. Then again, I've given 18 years of my life to wrestling. I didn't have much time left.

She, on the other hand, still seemed to have a lot more time left. Though, I guess I shouldn't judge. She may have sacrificed a lot for this company. But hell, everyone in this building has had to make sacrifices. I lost my wife. I didn't lose her to deal with this woman's temper tantrums.

Noise from a television monitor tears me from my thoughts. I look to the monitor and see the woman make her entrance. Her music was fun yet seemed to command respect. I bet it would be nice to know this version of her.

The nameplate appears, "Mia Stone". I smile. Stone fit her to a tee. The crowd begins to cheer NXT. She rolls her eyes before putting the microphone up to her lips.

"Yes, cheer for your beloved NXT, because now that I've moved on, I'm sure that ship will sink very soon." She sneers. The crowd boos, some look on in shock. I'm guessing at one point she was a fan favorite.

One thing's for sure, she knew how to draw heat. She merely laughs in dismissal of their disapproval. "Look, I'm sorry. I know it sucks that that I've left NXT, but I needed to move on. Don't blame NXT because I grew too big for it." She fakes ignorance. I chuckle. She was a piece of work. I hear a woman clear her throat behind me.

"AJ?" I turn and see my new boss, Stephanie McMahon. Her arms are crossed and she has a concerned look on her face. My heart drops. I hoped I was not about to be reprimanded. "You are not in trouble." She assures me as if reading my mind. I nod.

"Okay, how can I help you?" I ask. She sighs, what she was about to say was either difficult, or uncomfortable. Either way, I was not looking forward to this conversation.

"We received some complaints from your co-workers about an argument you had with Mia." She begins. I take a deep breath. This mess. I nod, I suppose it was time to pay the piper.

"Yes. She disagreed with the fact that I debuted on the main roster before her. It was just a simple argument." I try my best to downsize the entire thing. For both Mia and me. Stephanie chuckles.

"That isn't what we heard. We were informed that their was some name calling exchanged between the both of you." Stephanie reminds me. I wasn't trying to lie about that, I had just simply forgotten.

"Oh yes. I'm sorry I forgot. Yes, there were some insults that we both said. Like I said, she didn't appreciate the fact that I debuted before she did. She felt that I'm getting special treatment." I explain. Stephanie nods.

"Well, we like for problems between our workers to be handled in the ring. However, since that is not something that can be allowed in your case. I have decided that instead, you two won't be leaving the building until you learn to get along." Stephanie decides. My eyes widen in shock.

"Okay, I'll be here." I assure her. Stephanie smiles and leaves. Mia would kill me. If she kept up her attitude, I would end up killing her. Either way one of ends up dead.

I go to the locker room, shower, and pack my stuff. I keep my head down and don't make an effort to talk to anyone as I go to catering. Both because I was not looking forward to tonight, but also because I did not see a friendly face in this room.

I was all by myself, no wife, no family, no friends, just enemies. Welcome to the WWE AJ.

Mia's POV

I've just gotten backstage after working my first promo on the main roster. I had never been a heel before in my entire career. It was so much fun. After my promo I had a squash match with Summer Rae. I was so happy that I won my Raw debut.

Though I had to admit, it sucked that I had my Raw debut against a jobber like Summer. Meanwhile Mr. Phenomenal got to go up against Y2J, one of the best in the business. I shake my head. Enough thinking about him Mia, just try to avoid him the rest of the night.

"Mia?" I turn and see Stephanie. I hope I wasn't in any trouble. I smile at her, a smile she returns weakly. I begin to frown. I guess I am in trouble.

"Hello Ms. McMahon, can I help you with anything?" I ask, attempting to sound nonchalant. Ms. McMahon sighs. I close my eyes and roll my eyes. Great!

"Well, it has come to my attention that you had an altercation with AJ Styles. I don't want to hear about who was right, who was wrong, I just want to nip this in the bud. I will not have you or AJ arguing. So I've arranged for you and AJ to discuss this matter together. I hope you guys become the best of friends soon because I would hate to get rid of one of you." She explains. I am utterly speechless.

I didn't want to talk with AJ, it wasn't fair. Stephanie leaves while I walk miserably to my locker room. Before I make it, I see Becky and sigh. "Beck, have you seen Styles?" I ask. She points to catering.

"Over there Mia." She says. I nod and hug her.

"Thanks." I say before walking to catering. AJ is sitting with his phone in hand. I sigh and walk over to him. He greets me with a half-assed smile.

"He-" He begins.

"Listen." I cut off. "I know we need to talk. But, I need to shower and stuff so just give me twenty minutes." I conclude. He nods and lets me go. I get to the locker room and walk into the shower area. It takes me a while to get the perfect temperature, but I do and after the water is running nicely I get in and allow everything to wash away.

The warm water feels so good on my body as I begin to relax and clean myself. The water also feels very good on my entrance. Before I know it, my fingers make their way down to my pink lips and begin to tickle the outer folds.

As I begin to open myself up, a bit of water that flows over my womanhood works it's way inside. I moan softly. I begin to go harder, faster. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular, just about how long it's been since I got some.

I begin to rub myself with one hand, while beginning to tug on my pink buds with the other. Suddenly, AJ begins to appear in my head. His eyes, so blue it was as if you were looking at the sky. That smile, that made you want to drop your panties as soon as he flashed it in your direction. His muscles, thick and powerful. The abs, toned and ripped. Finally, there was the happy trail that started from his chest and traveled down to that big bulge in his tights. The bulge that suggested he was talented in other places besides the ring.

He was a catch. Though I hated to admit it, AJ was a sexy man. And the fact that he showed me any kind of attention was amazing within itself.

He began to flash into my mind more. This time with him laying me down on a bed. Him kneeling over me with his undoubtedly large cock out. Him forcing it down my throat. Slapping me if I used teeth. Making me his bitch. Of course, he would only do that because I have asked him too. God what was wrong with me. He now began to eat me out. It felt as if his tongue was made specifically to pleasure a woman. His tongue had to be skilled from years of "experience".

Only after he had warmed me up would he even think about inserting himself inside. I am sure that was just the type of lover AJ was. As he begins to work himself inside me his lips are pressed up against my ear. Making sure that I am enjoying myself. Fuck. Even in my head he is a great guy. I bunch four of my fingers together in an attempt to mimic the girth of AJ's length.

Jesus I imagine him being the best fuck anyone could ask for. The pressure had been building up inside me for some time now. This is odd as I am usually unable to orgasm through just masturbation. I decided to slow down. That was until I thought about AJ and I having hate sex. Oh the heat of it. The two of us trying to one up the other in terms of pleasure. Of course it was a toss up of who would win.

Then again. AJ is much more giving. At this thought, I explode. "Oh fuck AJ give it to me!" I shout as my juices start mingling with the water flowing down my leg. I hop out and grab a towel. I begin to pat myself dry. I can't help but feel embarrassed. I work with number of hot sexy men, and the few orgasms I have had were rarely from thinking about my fellow coworkers before. And none as intense as that. I'm sure it's just because he was the last man I saw. I'm sure it's nothing.

AJ's POV

I watched Mia, feeling guilty. I had waited more than twenty minutes, but started to think that perhaps she had skipped out on me. I went to her locker room looking for her. That was where I found her, rubbing her beautiful pussy. I found himself rock hard in my jeans. I felt as though I should leave or announce my presence. Or offer to join. Ever since my wife left, I had been so lonely and had been unable to connect with anyone. However, I had felt something with Mia that reminded me of what I felt with my wife almost twenty years prior.

I felt challenged by my ex. That is exactly what I felt by Mia. Challenged. While Mia still needed a better attitude, her body was flawless. At least, to me it was. I watched as the clear water flowed from her brunette hair onto her shoulders. From her shoulders onto her breasts. Her breasts down her stomach. The water flowed over her womanhood. I wanted to take her right then and there.

Her stomach began to contract, as mine did when I was about to climax. She was getting ready to cum. Her juices started to flow down her leg. "Oh fuck AJ give it to me!" She cries out. My eyes widen as I realize that it was me she was masturbating about. Part of me had to wonder just what sexual scenarios she had conjured up. She began to get ready to exit the shower so I made my get away.

I was still hard as a rock. I needed to take care of this damn thing quick. I hurried to a bathroom and entered a stall. I undid my fly and pull out my cock. I began to stroke myself. I smiled at the thought of Mia masturbating. The fact that she had inserted four of her digits into herself. She didn't come close to matching how big I was. Part of me wanted to show her.

I would have to go to Church after this. I just felt as if I had violated her. I shook my head to clear it of these thoughts. Now, the only images filling my head were of her beautiful body bouncing up and down on my dick. Her screaming my name. I wanted to hear her scream my name again. Like she had when she came. God I needed my hands to explore every curve and every inch of her form. I needed her.

As it had been a while since I last had sex, cum began to shoot out of me like an unmanned fire house. A bead of sweat ran down my forehead as I closed my eyes and bit my lip to keep any sounds from escaping. I ripped off a piece of tissue paper and wiped the rest off of my hand and flushed it. I made sure my hands were clean before returning to catering.

There she was. Her brown hair sitting in a chair waiting for me. Only I should be sitting in that chair, with her bent over my leg. Me spanking her. My cock began to harden again. I ahook my head and took a seat. "So, you ready to talk?" I asked. She shrugged.

"Whatever let's get this over with." She said, her attitude was back. I can't help but smile. While she said she hated me, her body said otherwise. Maybe this could be the start of a great friendship.

#aj styles #aj styles smut #WWE #wwe smut #royal rumble 2016

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adriata-archive · 6 years

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You Can Hear it in the Silence (16/?)

Modern AU. “We’ve been best friends for years and we act like an old married couple but we’d never date each other…right?”

1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8 // 9 // 10 // 11 // 12 // 13 // 14 // 15 // ff.net

“Gold is engaged?” Emma exclaims indignantly, her look of disbelief an exact mirror of Mary Margaret’s. Both David and Killian have their faces screwed up in disgust, and Emma can’t blame them.

Not only is Gold creepy, but he’s old.

Regina purses her lips. “Would I lie about something like this, Ms. Swan?”

Oddly enough, Emma feels as though she’s being scolded by a teacher, and narrows her eyes at the (slightly) older woman.

“Who would marry,” Emma gestures with her hand wildly, “you know, that?”

Regina trades her annoyance for a bit of amusement at Emma’s hand motions. “It’s funny, actually. The woman he’s marrying, Belle French, happens to be a former classmate of mine.”

David raises his eyebrows. “You’re kidding.”

Emma can see him mentally doing the calculations, and resists the urge to gag when she realizes there has to be at least a twenty year age difference between Gold and his rather unfortunate fiance.

“What would possess anyone to legally bind themselves to a man such as Robert Gold?” Killian asks, dragging out the word man when it’s quite obvious that he would rather use a different word. He’s only just started his internship at Regina’s firm, and he’d prefer to stay on her good side. Well, her less bad side.

“It’s beyond my understanding, but you all seem to be missing the point. I know Belle. That gives me leverage,” Regina says slowly, her tone suspiciously akin to the kind one might use on a group of small children.

“And Gold genuinely cares for this woman?” Killian’s disbelief is apparent and Emma bumps her shoulder into his. Lately, she’ll do anything she can to distract him from dwelling on Robert Gold for too long.

She’s found that physical contact usually works best, and the thought never fails to make her cheeks heat up.

“It would appear so, hence the engagement,” Regina drawls. At least she’s not wearing a suit, for once, and is in the more casual dress of jeans and what Emma strongly suspects is a cashmere sweater. It’s a little early to break out fall clothes, but Emma doesn’t think Regina is the type to be caught in a blouse without a blazer.

“So what’s your plan?” Emma prompts, her impatience getting the best of her. Regina shoots another patronizing look her way, and while she appreciates the attorney’s help, she’s tempted to punch her in the face.

That probably wouldn’t look too great for Killian, though.

“I threaten Gold,” Regina says simply, as though she’s not offering to go head to head with Boston’s most dangerous billionaire. “I threaten to tell Belle everything I know about him, details that would make even her skin crawl - not that it’d take much, I’ve always thought her to be a lightweight - and he’ll have to take me seriously because I have a past with both of them.”

“What are you hoping to gain through threatening them?” Mary Margaret asks quietly. Emma knows that her friend’s sweet nature is making her find the entire situation distasteful, but sometimes you had to get your hands dirty.

They lost the first time because they were playing by the rules of the game, trying to instill morals into their dance with the crocodile. Now, they know better - with Robert Gold, there are no rules.

“At the very least, Gold goes underground for a while. His petty crimes stop, as well as his tendency to get rid of anyway who’s not a pawn in his little game. If we’re lucky, he leaves Boston and never comes back. That’s what I’ll aim for, anyway.”

Despite her reservations about Regina, Emma is impressed. If going after Gold himself hadn’t worked, maybe going after his beloved wife-to-be will.

“Do it,” Killian says, shocking them all out of the silence that had fallen when Regina finished speaking.

Emma can tell that Regina isn’t one to take commands lightly, if at all, but she watches as their strange new friend nods, a determined set to her jaw. Regina leaves Emma’s apartment without so much as a goodbye, but no one minds. None of them are about to stop a woman on a mission.

Killian’s eyes find Emma’s and he smiles. It’s small, but there’s hope in it, and a weight she didn’t know was there is lifted off of Emma’s chest.

“Rise and shine, Swan!” Killian’s voice booms throughout her tiny bedroom in her tiny apartment, echoed by the sound of her door swinging open and hitting the wall from the force of his enthusiasm. He’s been thrilled by the recent turn of events against Gold, and Emma loves that he is getting close to being happy again.

That doesn’t stop her from chucking a pillow at his head.

He dodges it with ease, having already anticipated what her response would be to being woken up so early on a Saturday morning, and plops down onto her bed next to her.

“Swan, have you forgotten our Saturday jogs in the park? I’m hurt that such a tradition would be expelled from your mind after a mere few weeks’ lapse.”

Emma covers her face with a pillow and responds, cursing about the existence of mornings and exercise and health and, most particularly, him in her room.

“Sorry, love, what was that?”

Emma turns her head slightly to glare at him. “I was hoping you’d forgotten, actually.”

“Oh, come on, darling, be a good sport. You’re the one who initiated this routine, after all. Up and at ‘em, then.”

Emma barely has time to register his words before she feels his arms slip under her, and stubbornly presses all of her weight into the mattress so that Killian cannot pick her up. She knows he can do it with ease, but she doesn’t make a habit of resisting, and catches him off guard. Killian lets out a gentle oof and finds himself having to prop himself up to avoid landing on top of his best friend.

Killian’s eyes are wide as he takes in their current situation, the two of them barely daring to breathe and thus risk closing the gap between them. Emma can’t help but stare, and Jesus, have his eyes always been that blue?

He makes the first move, rolling off of her and her bed, and, well, onto the floor, which Emma would usually tease him mercilessly about, but she’s in no mood for teasing at the moment. She scrambles to her feet and ushers him out of her room on the pretense of getting changed for their run, and leans against her bedroom door once he’s safely on the other side, trying to catch her breath.

So, so screwed.

Slowly but surely, Killian returns back to his normal self. Unfortunately for Emma, that means his constant flirting comes back, too. In the past, she had been able to brush it off as if it were nothing, and she’s not sure if it’s because she’s single for the first time in their entire friendship or if it’s because he’s single, but she finds herself flustered at the slightest smirk. She wants to talk about it, she does, but her options don’t look too great. The only people she feels comfortable discussing strange feelings with are the same ones that will insist this is something when she so desperately wants it to be nothing.

She’s not good at keeping people, especially boyfriends, and she can’t stand the thought of losing Killian.

Unfortunately, Emma can’t use her usual defense mechanism. No matter how much she wants to run, she knows that she can’t abandon Killian, especially not when he’s still healing. She’s certain that Milah has left a scar on his heart forever, but the sharp pain Killian initially felt has been reduced to a dull ache, and he’s strong. He’s quite arguably the strongest person she knows.

Even so, his flirtatious nature is going to be the death of her, because try as she might, all she wants to do is flirt back. Killian and his innocent teasing is not the problem; Emma is.

It’s wrong, she knows it’s wrong, to suddenly think she has feelings for her best friend, until she remembers all the times it had been just the two of them during lunch at school, since Neal had graduated only a year after Killian arrived. David had joined them, eventually, and Mary Margaret and their other friends, but for a while, it had only been Emma and Killian. Even when he had been her only friend, Emma can say with certainty that that was one of the best times of her life.

Emma groans and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. How had she gotten herself into such a mess?

Despite her insistence that she is above hanging out with a group of twenty-something year olds, Regina is integrated into their circle of friends. Her snarky, standoffish front is just that - a front. It’s not hard to tell that beneath the layers of sarcasm, she regards all of them with affection. (Even Mary Margaret, who Regina will claim she cannot stand.)

Regina starts to join them for Friday game night, and quickly proves that she can easily crush them all in Monopoly, Uno, Cards Against Humanity, and Scrabble. It’s the first time since Friday game night was instilled that there are proposals to switch up partnerships. No one acts like a sore loser, though, not when Regina’s adorable adopted son is around for distraction.

Killian is the latest victim to fall prey to little Henry’s charms, bouncing the toddler around as he gives him a tour of the apartment he shares with David. Emma watches as Henry’s chubby hands reach for Killian’s face, grabbing at anything he can, and smiles.

Regina keeps her voice low as she observes the two of them with her son, her eyebrow furrowed as she gestures for David and Mary Margaret to lean in. “How long have Jones and Ms. Swan been together?”

“Emma and Killian? They’re not together,” Mary Margaret says, laughing. Regina shoots her a look of disbelief and David tries to school his features into the same kind of shocked amusement on his girlfriend’s face.

Killian had told him to never tell anyone, long before he had met Mary Margaret. He wouldn’t betray his friend’s trust and admit that Killian had been in love with Emma the moment they bumped into each other in the hallway, not after going this many years keeping it a secret.

“Really? Well, they could have fooled me,” Regina comments, her eyes tracking baby Henry. She had adopted him two years ago, but she still can’t believe that she has a son, not after the doctors had told her it would be impossible for her to conceive naturally. He’s her miracle, and she’s just glad that there are other people in the world who love him, even if they’re a bunch of idiotic children pretending to be adults.

“He even keeps a picture of her in his office downtown,” Regina adds as an afterthought.

David winces. Seriously, Killian, why don’t you just shout it from the rooftop? At least try to be subtle.

Mary Margaret frowns and looks at David carefully. “David, do you know something about that?”

“No,” he says, all the while knowing his tone is a touch too defensive. “I mean, why is that worth mentioning? They’ve been best friends for years. I keep a picture of you at my desk.”

“And I keep one of you on mine,” Mary Margaret says slowly, “but we’re in a relationship.”

“Friendship is a kind of relationship.” Smooth, David, smooth.

“You know what, nevermind,” Regina cuts in. If she had known that bringing it up would cause the Charmings, as she has so affectionately dubbed the sickly sweet couple, to start to argue, she would have kept her mouth shut. The last thing she needs is to be in the middle of a lover’s quarrel. “I didn’t mean to make something out of nothing. Let’s drop it.”

Mary Margaret looks ready to protest, but there’s a hint of command ringing in Regina’s voice, and settles for glancing at Emma and Killian every few seconds.

Emma laughs as Henry reaches for her from his place on Killian’s shoulders, her smile quickly turning into fear as Killian tries to hand the toddler to her. She adamantly shakes her head no, because she’s never been good with babies and she’s sure as hell never had the chance to hold one, and what if he breaks? But then Killian is placing Henry in her arms and she’s bouncing him instinctively, with little hands tangled in her hair and a big smile on all three of their faces.

Despite her better judgment, Regina lets a comment slip out. “They almost look like a family.”

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret says thoughtfully. “They almost do.”

#cs ff #cs au #captain swan #ouat #ouat ff #my writing #you can hear it in the silence #*writing

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mrmichaelchadler · 6 years

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Thumbnails 6/13/18

Thumbnails is a roundup of brief excerpts to introduce you to articles from other websites that we found interesting and exciting. We provide links to the original sources for you to read in their entirety.—Chaz Ebert

"The Wizardry of Frank Oz: Why You Must See 'In & Of Itself'": My spoiler-free review published at Indie Outlook of Oz and Derek DelGaudio's extraordinary show running through August 19th at NYC's Daryl Roth Theatre.

“The rigorous specificity of DelGaudio’s illusions are not unlike the painstaking detail of Oz’s puppeteering, both of which are brought to life by the performer’s uncompromising honesty. It’s impossible to leave ‘In & Of Itself’ without forming your own thoughts about the illusory essence of identity. To me, Kermit’s ‘real self’ has no relation to the sanitized mascot favored by Disney and is more akin to George Bailey from ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’—a good soul prone to frustration who is ultimately saved by the community he built. Bailey is a lot like my father, a man who had plans for his future that were disrupted by the cruel turns of life. He has spent the years following his retirement as a full-time caregiver for my mother stricken with Multiple Sclerosis, and this identity has begun to engulf the others that have defined his life: social worker, friend, brother, frustrated actor, part-time rapper, Abe Lincoln enthusiast, even husband. Illness can also overtake one’s identity, though my mother has never allowed herself to be defined by her disease. Apart from reawakening our childlike sense of wonder, the great gift of ‘In & Of Itself’ is in how it affirms that each of us is—and deserves to be seen as—more than just one thing. Frank Oz is not just a Muppeteer. He is an actor, a director, a humanist, a father, a husband, a rebel, one of our finest entertainers and, in my opinion, an artist of the highest order. ‘In & Of Itself’ may close in two months, but it will forever remain in my heart.”

"Elon Musk and the Unnerving Influence of Twitter's Power Users": Essential commentary from Felix Salmon at Wired.

“How did Twitter become the world’s most anarchic social media platform? Well, one good way of finding inequality is to look at the difference between mean and median. In an equal set, they’re the same; in an unequal world, they can be wildly different. (Ask yourself, for instance, what would happen to the mean and median net worth of the individuals in your office if Bill Gates were to walk through the door.) On Twitter, while the median number of followers per account has always been just 1, the mean has been steadily rising. It was 208 in 2012; it was 707 in 2016; and it’s probably much higher today. Having a million Twitter followers used to be an astonishing achievement; now someone like Katy Perry can add 10 million followers in less than a year. Similarly, Elon Musk has added 5 million new followers in the past six months. (Five years ago, by contrast, his follower count stood at a comparatively normal 225,000.) This isn’t a case of a rising tide lifting all boats: Twitter, as a platform, is growing notoriously slowly, with total monthly users growing only by about 11 percent in the past 3 years. The really amazing thing about Katy Perry’s 110 million Twitter followers is not its absolute magnitude as much as the fact that the site’s entire monthly active user base is only about three times that size.”

"Rooting for Female Anger": Amber Tamblyn chats with BuzzFeed's Alanna Bennett about the #TimesUp movement.

“‘I was able to just sit and be a real sounding board for him,’ she said, adding that Tarantino ‘understood in that moment how severe the accusations were’ but that he ‘was also really blindsided by it, by the scope of it.’ Tamblyn’s goal was to listen — but also to guide. ‘I more or less told him what I would tell any man, which is to own the way in which you were complicit in this,’ she said. ‘Own your complacency. Say it.’ As she wrote on Twitter shortly after their dinner, Tamblyn viewed it as a ‘come to Jesus conversation.’ The crux of her stance was the importance of facing one’s sins; of speaking out publicly as a crucial step in how the industry moves forward in dealing with toxicity and rape culture. So Tamblyn connected Tarantino with Jodi Kantor, one of the New York Times journalists who reported out the Weinstein story. (Tarantino has confirmed this.) Tamblyn wanted Tarantino to face the woman who had spoken to Weinstein’s alleged victims while reporting the story. ‘I felt like that was a really important full circle that he needed to come to.’ As a result of her guidance, Tarantino issued a statement on Weinstein through Tamblyn’s social media. He also talked to Kantor for an interview in which he said, among other things, that when it came to Weinstein, he’d known ‘enough to do more than [he] did.’ ‘It was just sort of about helping him get there,’ Tamblyn said. ‘I feel like that would be the title of my memoir someday: Helping Them Get There.’ She paused, then added a subtitle: ‘The Story of Men.’”

"How an L.A. agency became a Hollywood go-to for connecting with multicultural audiences": According to Makeda Easter of The New York Times.

“In the past, Hollywood’s marketing efforts were mostly aimed at white audiences. But as the industry shifts to capitalize on an increasingly diverse nation, marketing tactics have also had to change. These efforts require more nuance and cultural sensitivity to successfully engage young people of color, women and LGBTQ communities. Cashmere’s ability to relate to diverse audiences comes from the demographic breakdown of its staff, which strongly skews young and multiethnic, said executive vice president Ryan Ford. Chung has also prioritized the importance of women, aligning with content and products that have women at the forefront. Half of Cashmere’s leadership roles are filled by women and several, including the vice president of client services and marketing and vice president of publicity, are staffed by women of color. ‘It’s what he built as a philosophy, we are who we market to,’ Ford said. The focus on millennials, defined as people born between 1981 and 1996, led the agency to take a social media-first mentality when designing marketing campaigns, allowing it to directly tap into millennial culture. From creating a buzz around Marvel’s game-changing black superhero movie, ‘Black Panther,’ to managing social media and public relations for ‘Grown-ish,’ the spinoff to the popular TV show ‘black-ish,’ Cashmere’s presence can be felt throughout the industry.”

"Old people can't open new tabs and it's fueling our descent into hell": A must-read article from The Outline's Kevin Munger.

“Video is the next frontier in disinformation propaganda, and the way that YouTube currently operates contributes to the problem. The Guardian published a small experiment demonstrating the polarizing capacity of YouTube: begin with a fresh browser history, search for a video about Trump or Clinton, and start watching the top recommended videos. You’ll quickly end up on the partisan fringe (and more often on the conservative fringe). Now imagine that instead of the dozens of videos purporting to prove that Obama is a Muslim but are actually just videos of old guys with webcams yelling at you, your grandparents found a realistic fake video of Obama saying that he couldn’t believe how easy it was to steal the Declaration of Independence and replace it with Sharia law. As Peele and Peretti's video shows, it may be a matter a months before this possibility becomes a reality. My personal fear is that we’ll see at least a few of these videos during the 2018 Congressional election; there are plenty of resources for debunking national-level fakes, but if a even small number doctored videos depicting candidates in key races fake-confessing to have orchestrated Pizzagate and/or be a Russian double-agent were spread via anonymous email campaigns 48 hours before Election Day, the balance of power in Washington could be manipulated before anyone knew what happened.”

Image of the Day

Amanda Mull of Racked makes a convincing case for why Dove's "body positivity" ad campaign "is a scam."

Video of the Day

youtube

A glorious tribute to the late master of animated cinema, Isao Takahata ("Grave of the Fireflies," "Only Yesterday"), created by Ebert Fellow Carlos Aguilar and Conor Holt of the One Week Only Podcast.

from All Content https://ift.tt/2y4Km0F

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365footballorg-blog · 6 years

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Football's Che Guevara? Behind the enigma of Guardiola

Pep Guardiola is the son of a bricklayer who has been described as the Che Guevara of football – but who exactly is the Manchester City manager?

As he comes towards the end of his second season in England the 47-year-old remains something of an enigma in the country in which he now lives.

I have been following his life and career for more than 20 years, talking during that period to him and the key people who have helped shape the person he has become.

Working on an update of my Guardiola biography Another Way Of Winning, I caught up with them to discover whether he remains the same – or whether England has changed him.

(Listen to Pep Guardiola – 5 live sport special at 19:00 BST on Wednesday)

Old-fashioned values and Italian loafers

Guardiola was born 70km from Barcelona in the sleepy town of Santpedor, which lies in the shadow of the rocky outline of Monserrat, a giant, iconic, serrated mountain so precious to Catalans.

He was the third of four children born to Valenti Guardiola, a bricklayer, and Dolors Sala and raised in a working-class home with solid family principles and a clear sense of dignity.

The writer and film director David Trueba, who knows him better than many, says of his friend: “Nobody has paid any attention to the fundamental fact that Guardiola is a bricklayer’s son.

“For Pep, his father is an example of integrity and hard work. The family he has grown up with in Santpedor has instilled old values in him, values from a time in which parents didn’t have money or property to hand down to their children.

“When it comes to analysing or judging Guardiola, you must bear in mind that underneath the elegant suit, the cashmere jumper and the tie, is the son of a bricklayer. Inside those expensive Italian shoes there is a heart in espadrilles.”

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And no understanding of Guardiola is complete without a grasp of La Masia, until 2011 the home and production line of the Barcelona Academy set up by Johan Cruyff. For about six years from 1984 it was the home of Guardiola.

“I had the best years of my life at La Masia – a time focused on the single, most non-negotiable dream that I have ever had: to play for Barca’s first team.”

Barcelona and Netherlands legend Cruyff became Guardiola’s great mentor, a man he would meet regularly before and after becoming a manager.

Once a year, generally when the season was over, they would enjoy a long lunch at the famous El Bulli restaurant on the Costa Brava. It was an excuse to chat, drink wine, eat well and have afternoon sea baths.

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Can you imagine? Cruyff and Guardiola, two of world football’s great innovators, enjoying the creative genius of El Bulli owner Ferran Adria, a great culinary inventor and gastronomic inspiration to so many of the world’s great chefs.

The principles are the same. It is not just about being the best at playing the game or cooking the best meal, but more about changing the way the game is played and how the food is served and perceived – while having fun in the process.

Innovation, genius and talent combined with total dedication and unstinting toil and effort comes in many forms, be they sporting or culinary.

In a way, where else would the likes of Cruyff and Guardiola celebrate the end of a campaign?

However, Cruyff is by no means the only influence. Another is Argentine Marcelo Bielsa, the man known affectionately as ‘El Loco’ – the madman.

The former Chile and Argentina boss – most recently the head coach of Lille at club level – is a man of huge influence but relatively few trophies.

“It is important for me to say this about Marcelo because it doesn’t matter how many titles he had in his career,” Guardiola has said.

“We are judged by that – how much success we have, how many titles we have won. But his titles are much less important than how he has influenced football and his football players. That is why, for me, he is the best coach in the world.”

Bielsa told Guardiola during an 11-hour chat at the Argentine’s villa that football is all about an idea, fighting for it, improving players, and never losing the passion.

“Occasionally when I’m asked to do a talk in La Masia, I use the following example,” Guardiola once said.

“Each night when you are going to sleep, ask yourselves if, right then, you’d get up, grab the ball and play for a bit. If ever the answer is ‘no’ then that is the day to start looking for something else to do.”

Guardiola – a life in football Born in Santpedor, Catalonia in 1971, he joined Barcelona at the age of 13. Barca boss Johan Cruyff saw him playing in a youth team game on the right of midfield and told the youth team coach to play him as a defensive midfielder – a position he made his own. Guardiola made his full Barca debut in 1990, remained at the club until 2001 and was part of the ‘dream team’ that won the European Cup in 1992. Guardiola went on to play for Brescia, Roma, Al-Ahli and Dorados before retiring in 2006. He also made 47 appearances for Spain, scoring five goals. Guardiola has managed Barcelona B, Barcelona, Bayern Munich and now Manchester City.

His body is there, but the mind is miles away

If life teaches us anything it is that those who are the very best at what they do are invariably the ones that work the hardest. Pep is no exception.

Eidur Gudjohnsen once told me the story of going to see Guardiola to ask what he wanted from him if he was to stand a chance of getting more playing time at Barcelona. “Your life,” said Pep.

Guardiola’s assistant at City and long-time friend Manuel Estiarte laughed as he told me on many occasions he will be talking to Pep in the knowledge he is simply not listening, immersed instead in analysis of one thing or another.

“His body is there but his mind is miles away,” his friend admits.

They spend lots of time together, along with City’s director of football Txiki Begiristain, and when they relax with a bit of wine, Guardiola is a great storyteller. He laughs at himself and the world of football, but it is not always possible to take him away from it.

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Guardiola is a sponge, keen to learn from anyone from England rugby union coach Eddie Jones to chess grandmaster Garry Kasparov. Perhaps on some level he is making up for his lack of structured education.

The principles he learned, ones he has evolved and improved over time, remain strictly non-negotiable. He might add to them by listening to others, but they are strict.

It goes like this.

What makes a team a unit, what makes this sport fun, is the ball.

Players became players to play with a ball, so let them have it as much as possible. And let’s build around the idea of having it all the time. But the ball burns you. Give it to a colleague as soon as you can. Play quick, play simple. And when you lose it – get it back as soon as you can, because it should hurt not to have it.

If you mix into this belief his obsessive desire to find solutions to problems (not exclusive to him as Cruyff, Bielsa, Mauricio Pochettino and Sir Alex Ferguson are made from the same mould), you find a coach that has developed a new way of winning; not the best way, just a different one.

Former Argentina manager and World Cup winner Cesar Luis Menotti, who earlier this year shared conversation and wine chosen by connoisseur Pep, admits Guardiola has changed football.

“Pep is the Che Guevara of football. I always said a revolutionary wins or dies in the fight and Pep’s idea remains unwavering,” said Menotti.

“He’s never going to change it: he wants to play well, he wants to own the space and he wants command of the ball. And he wants to handle the time, to stay ahead of the curve.”

His obsession with football can lead to feelings of guilt and remorse with those people closest to him, mostly his family.

I remember his dread when he missed out on a concert his daughter was playing in at school because he had forgotten about it and was watching DVDs of matches involving Barcelona’s next opponents, Getafe.

Having a sabbatical after Barcelona was a way to compensate for the time he had been away from them. But three months after saying goodbye to the Camp Nou he started conversations with Bayern.

In the early years of his coaching career he would prepare for any game in the same way, no matter the opponent. Three days before it, he spent hours watching videos of the rival, identifying weaknesses.

Then he would show clips to the players followed by a training session solely about the match.

It is here you will find Guardiola’s real magic. Once he has spotted a weakness in an opponent’s armour he can explain to his players how to exploit it.

Speaking about the 2011 Champions League final at Wembley – when Barca beat Manchester United 3-1 – Javier Mascherano told me: “While he was talking it wasn’t as if he was referring to a game that we were about to take part in, it was as if we were actually playing it right there.

“He was up and down, side to side in front of the board, gesticulating and if you shut your eyes you were out there in the middle of the action.

“Everything that he said would happen, happened as he said it would. During the match I was thinking, ‘I’ve seen this already, I’ve already heard all about it – because Pep has already told me about it’.”

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A man who needs to be liked?

Like most people, Guardiola is a man who would like to be popular. The difference is that unlike many he will not compromise his principles for popularity.

He cannot afford to do so if he wants to get to where he wants to get to – but perhaps it was not always like that. In the past he could not handle a bad look from a player, say Samuel Eto’o or Thierry Henry, but now he understands it is part and parcel of the job.

Ask him and he will tell you that one of his biggest challenges is to ensure that his players love him and believe in him.

He would like to be able to explain to a player why they have been left out – but knows they will never understand.

“I was a footballer, I know why they feel that way,” Pep admits. So part of the job now is to find a bench full of good people because it helps to make, he says “a team of champions”.

To do so, Guardiola reckons it is important to make his players realise the privileged life they lead as footballers.

“He showed us a video that was really emotional,” said Pablo Zabaleta, who played for him at City last season. “I nearly cried. Some of the players were crying.

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“There were some people from Barcelona who were working with immigrants, rescuing people from the streets. And he brought the physios and everyone in and said I want you all to see how lucky you are to be doing what you are doing. We have the best building, the best training ground, we stay at the best hotels.'”

He was very closely and emotionally linked to his players at Barca and said he had to leave because they were going to “hurt each other” as there were difficult decisions to make.

At Bayern the cultural clash helped maintain some distance with some of the German footballers (even though he got very close to Philipp Lahm and Kimmich) and at City he has become an older brother or father figure to a very young squad.

Last season he took his large family, wives and girlfriends included, to a popular Spanish restaurant in town.

When David Silva had a son born prematurely earlier this season the rule was clear. “David, you tell me when you have to go to Spain and we will adapt.”

With Joe Hart there was never anything personal, just the style of a goalkeeper who could not adapt to the new City plan.

Samir Nasri and Yaya Toure were in such poor shape physically when he arrived that he expected them to improve on that before being made part of the group. When you are asked to win, there is no space for passengers. Even if later on you decide to change your mind, as happened briefly with Yaya Toure.

A man with a truly Catalan soul

Pep is a product of Santpedor, a village that has kept a close link to Catalan culture, its history and identity.

He is therefore a proud Catalan, with fundamental core values and an inherent sense of justice instilled in him by his family and his environment from the very start. You can add to this an acute sense of the importance of symbology.

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When a 21-year-old Guardiola stood on the balcony of the Placa Sant Jaume in Barcelona at the home of the Catalan Parliament in 1992 and raised the European Cup with the words “Ciutadans de Catalunya, ja la tenim aqui” (Citizens of Catalonia, at last we have her here) he was paraphrasing former Catalan leader Josep Tarradellas.

Tarradellas had been exiled in France since 1939 but returned on 23 October 1977 – two years after Spanish dictator General Franco’s death – and from the same place that Guardiola would later lift the trophy he proclaimed: “Ciutadans de Catalunya, ja soc aqui!” (Catalan for “Citizens of Catalonia, I am here at last!”).

Guardiola has always felt comfortable being the spokesman of a team.

He is a firm believer in Catalonia’s right to independence from Spain but that is a long way from saying he is an extremist, or a politician in the making.

His much-discussed wearing of a yellow ribbon is not a call for independence but rather a protest against the imprisonment of democratically elected politicians by the Spanish government.

“Before a manager, I am a human being,” he said. “There are four guys in prison. There are other guys, who are outside of Catalonia; when they come back, they are going to be jailed, imprisoned for rebellion and sedition. It’s not about politicians, it’s about democracy.”

When he left Barcelona in 2012, a rumour abounded in the city. “He will come back as a president,” it was said.

He now says what was originally going to be a short coaching career could extend to his late fifties. And after that? If you write every chapter in advance, there is no mystery in the journey. So, he would tell you, who knows?

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The door that’s always open – how Pep has transformed City

To fully understand why and how he has transformed City we need to look at how he has changed things wherever he has been.

When he took over at Barcelona he explained his ideology and how he wanted to play. Shortly afterwards, goalkeeper Victor Valdes, came to see him. According to Valdes this is how the conversation went:

Valdes: “Can I talk to you boss?”

Guardiola: “My door is always open…”

Valdes: “I need to ask one thing; all that you are talking about is fine, but only if the centre-backs want the ball.”

Guardiola: “I will make sure they want the ball.”

That was it. End of conversation. By his own admission, when his new young coach arrived, Valdes had zero tactical knowledge. Four years later, by the time he left, he could have taken a Phd in the subject.

In its simplest form Pep, who inherited a City side that had finished with the same points as United, has changed the club by identifying what was missing, what was surplus to requirements, and making the necessary changes.

Then it was a matter of train. And train. And train.

And convince them all they could win more and enjoy more with his methods and ideas.

There is more of course. Mark Hughes and Mark Bowen were invited to Pep’s room after the 7-2 defeat of Stoke in October and they asked him about his time at City. How is it different the first season to the second? And how do you keep on motivating them to keep on winning week in week out?

“It’s easy when your two best players work harder and run further than anyone else in your team,” he said. He was referring to De Bruyne and David Silva. “What excuse does any other player have, if those two were doing that?”

Through his career he has transformed players who thought they had made it, who probably thought they had nothing new to learn.

Shortly after Pep’s appointment as head coach at Barcelona, Xavi had been considering his position at the club. Eager to find out where he stood, he went to see the new manager.

Xavi: “I won’t beat around the bush, Pep. I have one question for you; do you count on me?”

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Pep: “I don’t see this team without you in it. I just don’t see this working without you.”

With that, Pep had reignited Xavi’s spark. The whole conversation had lasted less than 20 seconds.

While at Bayern he converted Lahm, one of the best full-backs in the world, into a great midfielder. Pep later called him “one of the most fantastic players I ever trained in my life and one of the most intelligent”.

Lahm went on to captain Germany to victory in the 2014 World Cup, often playing in the centre of the park.

Now at City he has transformed De Bruyne, with whom he has long conversations about football and life. But mostly football.

De Bruyne is one of those players who gets everything with very little explanation. Clearly, he had been doing his homework and knew Guardiola was going to challenge him to come out of his comfort zone.

After the first few conversations, and once he had confirmed his quality in training, Guardiola devised the idea of giving him a more central role.

De Bruyne could almost be considered the first signing of Guardiola’s era because Begiristain knew such a player would fit perfectly in a Pep team. And Pep fully agreed.

Raheem Sterling has been transformed from being a figure of fun into practically a near-certain starter for his country. Defender Nicolas Otamendi was derided and ridiculed by many and has gone on to become one of the most effective defenders in the Premier League.

Most importantly, Ederson apart, the regular starting line-up is filled with players Pep has not bought but rather those there when he arrived at the club.

In fact most of the players that have significantly marked his tenure wherever he has coached (Sergio Busquets, Xavi, Messi, Lahm, Arjen Robben, De Bruyne, Silva, Otamendi, Sterling) were already at their clubs when he arrived there. That, ultimately, is his greatest achievement.

So the question is, has Pep adapted to the Premier League or has the squad adapted to him? Hughes asked Pep what he felt the main difference between the Premier League and the Bundesliga was, and he smiled.

“Not one team in England ever lays down and dies. No matter the score, they keep on trying right to the end,” he said.

But the game is, like everywhere else, 11 versus 11 and the dimension of the pitches are basically the same.

So he has learnt all about his players. He has found out who is good for his style and who is not. Then he has applied to them his principles, which do not change because, otherwise, “what is the point of doing something you don’t feel inside”.

So, more than the Catalan coach adapting to the Premier League, what we are watching is a squad that has adapted to him.

More relaxed and flexible – why Pep might stay at City

For Guardiola to enjoy his job he needs to find it to be a personal challenge, he needs a club that really wants him and people who trust in what he does and believes. It is all interlinked and it is all at City.

That is why I think he will renew his current contract, which is scheduled to expire at the end of next season. He thinks there is still much to be done – and won.

He is happy in a city he knows well, going to music concerts and regularly visiting restaurants with his coaching staff or family – his wife Cristina and his children Valentina, Marius and Maria, who live with him in the city centre.

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Indeed he is working, alongside Begiristain and Ferran Soriano, towards opening a new restaurant with well-known Catalan chef, Paco Perez.

He has found a good balance in the way he approaches things.

He used to be absolute in his view on certain issues, but has become more flexible.

He does not watch three matches of the next rival any more, which at the time he thought vital to avoid anything escaping him. Now he watches selected pictures in half-hour sessions. And so he gets to the games fresher.

He still hates it when the opposition have the ball, but depending on the players he has, he can mould the method of attacking when possession is regained.

In fact, since he left Barcelona, where he thought the team had to attack together and mostly in one particular way, he has learnt different ways of hurting rivals with the ball.

A cabinet full of silverware Guardiola enjoyed a glittering playing career with Barcelona that saw him win six La Liga titles and the Copa del Rey twice. He also won the European Cup and the European Cup Winners’ Cup As Barca boss Guardiola won 14 trophies in four seasons – La Liga (3), Copa del Rey (2), Spanish Super Cup (3), Champions League (2), Super Cup (2), Club World Cup (2) Won a further seven trophies in three seasons at Bayern before leaving for Man City in 2016. After a trophy-less first season in England, he won the EFL Cup this season and has now won the Premier League.

He recently told me he understood why Arsene Wenger talks about having sleepless nights, chewing over decisions and details. He has had them sometimes at City, especially in his first season. It perhaps explains some of his most controversial reactions.

In his first campaign some of the bluntness of his answers to journalists came from a frustration at the lack of consistency of referees, the insistence from the media and certain quarters that he should change and look for a Plan B, and the implication he had to adapt much more to a new environment.

But halfway through that initial year he and his coaching staff decided that what they cannot influence, they had better ignore, which helped calm things down.

His assistants at City are a tightly knit group who firmly believe in Guardiola’s work and are determined to protect him – a wall surrounds them and hardly anything comes out.

He prefers not to give individual interviews but chooses his moments to explain himself.

The Spaniard enjoys travelling to Argentina – “they sell very well what they do and think – and I buy it all!” He has given lectures to audiences of thousands there about his methodology.

He recently made an appearance on Directv Sport, the TV channel that has the rights to broadcast the World Cup in Argentina, promoting their coverage.

After club football he would love to manage a national side, and some in Argentina are already trying to convince him to do so. Brazil was mentioned as a possibility before 2014.

But that will be later. Right now this intriguing and complex man is determined to keep on teaching the philosophy he so fervently believes in – and winning trophies in the process.

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BBC Sport – Football

Football's Che Guevara? Behind the enigma of Guardiola was originally published on 365 Football

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