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writingwithcolor · 3 years

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Arab Character Joining Corrupt Superheroes, Police Parallels

Anonymous asked:

I’m writing a story with a Arabian diaspora main character. The story is about corrupt superheroes, and how they affect an oppressed superpowered minority. The main character is one of these superheroes, naively joining them in his teens believing he’s going to help people. Doesn’t help that his parents are having money trouble. Eventually he ends up fighting a superpowered crook, and gets a bystander killed.

1)I know portraying an Arabian character committing violence is a pretty touchy subject, even if accidental. Is there any way I can write this that makes it clear to the reader that the action itself is messed up without the unfortunate implication that Arabs are violent?

2)A large part of the story is the MC’s parents reaction. They are loving parents, however after this incident happens, they are confused and ashamed. While they still love him, they temporarily cut ties with him. Eventually they reconcile and start to be a family again. In my research (they are diaspora Saudi Arabians), Family is very important and tight-nit. Shame towards the family is to be avoided at all costs. However I’ve also read that disowning a family member rarely ever happens. Is there a way to write this kind of narrative with respect to this aspect of Arabian culture?

Let us begin with some terminology.

- If a person is from Saudi Arabia, they are Saudi Arabian, or more commonly, Saudi. This is their nationality.

- They may or may not be Arab. Arab is an ethnicity. Not all Saudis are Arab. Not all Arabs are Saudi.

- Arabic is a language. Lots of people across the world who are neither Saudi nor Arab speak Arabic.

- Arabian on its own is a word used to refer to a specific breed of horses.

If you are referring to humans, you want to either say "Saudi Arabian" (both words) or “Saudi” to indicate nationality, or "Arab" to indicate ethnicity. If you’re looking to describe your character’s culture, you probably want to call it Saudi culture. (While grammatically correct, talking about “Arab culture” doesn’t make much sense because Arabs are an incredibly diverse ethnic group and there is no such thing as a single monolithic Arab culture).

Now for the first question. In my mind, the issue is less about the character committing violence, and more about the premise of the story and how it mirrors real-life oppressive structures. You have an organized group of superheroes who think they are doing good by fighting “crooks” but in reality are enacting systemic oppression upon a marginalized group. This immediately brings to mind police violence, racial profiling, and the way that policing in North America is used as a tool of white supremacy while glorified in propaganda as a force for good. Essentially, you are telling a story about a character who joins an oppressive policing force, enacts violence upon a marginalized group as a result, and (I’m assuming) eventually realizes that they are not, in fact, the good guys. This is very close to being a “bigoted character learns not to be bigoted” story. I recommend re-examining your premise in light of the real-life parallels and asking yourself whether this is the story you want to tell.

The issue is compounded by the fact that your character is an Arab teen, who in real life is more likely to be the one facing racial profiling from the police. Taking this character and making him the oppressor in your story makes the already flawed premise even more problematic, especially if the characters in the oppressed group are white.

As for your second question, it seems believable to me that a teen’s parents might reject him if they learned that he committed a crime. However, when the family in question is Arab, you are suddenly feeding into harmful tropes about oppressive and violent Arab parents. You are asking if there is a way to write this respectfully. I believe that there is, but it requires a great deal of care, nuance, and cultural awareness. While it is possible to write a Saudi Arab character grappling with the consequences of violence and familial estrangement in a compelling way, the way your ask is phrased leads me to believe you are not equipped to do it justice.

- Mod Niki

Think about why Arab people committing violence is a touchy subject, and then think about the general propaganda narrative that came about from the act that made things so touchy.

It’s going to sound one hell of a lot like what you have here.

Military and police use buckets and buckets of propaganda to continue hooking in young, impressionable teens to commit state-sanctioned colonialism and oppression. That propaganda looks suspiciously like “we have health insurance, we will pay for your education, you just have to do what we tell you even if that means hurting or killing others, but it’s okay because you get to be the hero in the situation.”

Now, propaganda is a very powerful tool. I was taught, in my media classes, that controlling the message means shaping reality. The media is built as a propaganda machine, and when you start to see who owns what media properties you start to see some really disturbing patterns (Rubert Murdoch owns a lot of right-wing sources across America, the UK, and Australia, and he’s too rich to investigate his culpability in spinning terrible narratives found in right-wing publications. He owns the big names).

As Niki said, this situation mirrors police violence and police-sanctioned terrorism. And the very, very unfortunate implications of making the target of police violence be in that wheel. But I want you to look at the media situation that has made the plot happen.

Because even if you swapped out ethnicities, you’d still have a reckoning to do with the American culture that their primary social safety nets involve killing people.

I am not kidding.

Some of the most well-funded unions in the country are police unions. These people have pensions. They have health insurance. It’s damn near impossible to fire them. They get overtime very well mandated, and it’s a known thing among defence lawyers that arrests happen right before a cop’s shift will end so they get the overtime of filing the paperwork. They absolutely go into poor neighbourhoods and recruit based off people needing an escape, and them having the money to provide it.

A similar sentiment is true for the military, except they push for college education a bit more and don’t really have overtime, but they do have deployment bonuses. So the way to get extra pay for yourself is to go out and do colonialism outside the borders. The military doesn’t necessarily like it when the economy is doing well, and don’t like the idea of college being affordable, because they rely so heavily on poverty and fear of college debt to recruit.

The story you’re telling here goes so far beyond an individual’s actions and instead taps into America’s single biggest cultural investment: that oppressing others makes you a hero.

The Pentagon funds most military media out there as a propaganda tool, including most superhero movies and a large number of video games. This is in their budget. They will also go so far as to literally commission the games to exist. Part of getting that funding is you cannot critique America’s military, basically at all (the only exception I’ve seen is Ms Marvel, but that’s set in the 90s). This turns any sort of military-using media into a potential propaganda tool.

And the thing is? Even if you fall for that propaganda and were part of the military or the police, you still have to reckon with the fact you put whatever your own desires were above a huge track record of those groups being terrible. You still have to reckon with the fact you didn’t realize they were wrong, and were complicit in a lot of crimes.

This goes very far beyond “the action is terrible” and goes into “the system is rotten to its core, and you chose not to believe it, or to believe you could change what was built with blood.”

“Good” police officers get fired. If you try to question anything, if you try to say this action is wrong, you will absolutely get destroyed. Military’s much the same. You need some degree of buy-in to the concept of white supremacy to sign up for the military or the police, because you need to see their actions as not deal breakers instead of actions that violate multiple international laws.

In short: you need to see the people being oppressed as deserving of being oppressed to some degree in order to participate with police and the military.

Marginalized people can hold this belief, it happens. But that is a very sticky situation that outsiders shouldn’t touch.

It’s possible but difficult for you to write a white person having this sort of arc, but it would be extremely challenging to have it not come across as a white guilt story. To not have a socially aware audience roll their eyes at how long it took. You’d definitely not be writing a story with a diverse audience in mind, because you’d mostly appeal to those who saw the propaganda as just fine and not that bad.

This isn’t even getting into the oft-cited adage that boys who bully others become cops, while girls who bully become nurses. And the more police atrocities become mainstream news, the less and less people can convince themselves that becoming a police officer is a good thing.

Which brings me to the point of: how well-documented is this oppression? Is this character walking around in an oppressive situation like, say, pre-social-media where there was no direct access to the oppressed groups and you could close your eyes and look away even if it made national news? Or is this in a media connected world where these oppressed populations have a voice in the narrative?

The former has an angle of the character slowly realizing the horror and it’s slightly more forgivable for their early ignorance. But in any sort of world where there’s access to the people getting hurt? Things get more and more “ignorance is indistinguishable from maliciousness.” And keep in mind, these stories are read in the real world, where police brutality and war crimes go viral, and a lack of knowledge is getting harder and harder to defend as a position.

Media plays a huge role in shaping our perception of what’s happening. Cameras on a situation makes different activism tactics work, as we can see with how activism changed in the 60s and 70s as tv reached the masses. Social media has made it possible for you to look up firsthand accounts of discrimination within seconds.

This is a factor you are absolutely going to have to consider, when you want to look at how nice your hero is seen by marginalized or otherwise socially-aware people. If there is a way to find out how bad this superhero organization is before you sign a contract with them? Then that doesn’t look particularly good on the “hero”. You’d really have to establish them as super idealistic, super sheltered, super desperate, and/or just swallow the knowledge that they really don’t see anything that happens “over there to those people” as that bad.

All of the above is more than possible. And they’d still be seen as complicit no matter what justification you gave, because they are.

Does this mean all corrupt organization stories are off limits? No. The reason these stories have such deep cultural resonance right now is because of the propaganda I outlined above.

But you as the author are going to have to examine your own engagement with the propaganda narrative and do your own private reckoning so your own sense of guilt and compliance doesn’t bleed through the narrative too strongly, so you can tell a good story instead of an overt message story that’s you working out your own feelings.

By all means, write a story where police and the military are taken down, where propaganda is weaponized and the media is controlled (because that’s sure as hell the modern world).

But know that stories where the hero discovers the corruption already have a ticking clock because we, in the real world, are slowly being faced with a mountain of apathy instead of ignorance. The knowledge of oppression is out there so much that marginalized people are tired of the ignorance defence.

As the saying goes, “privilege is the ability to ignore the oppression of others.”

Propaganda, centralized media, and strategic cultural investment made it possible for police and the military to have a chokehold on their public perception. But that’s changing. The chokehold is starting to fade, people are starting to question their beliefs.

The past year has shown that knowledge isn’t the issue; it’s white supremacy. People don’t want to believe that any of this is that bad. People want to believe that oppression is justified, that if people just followed the law they’d be fine. They don’t want to question themselves. And marginalized people are tired of these narratives where, suddenly, people snap out of it. Because there was so much evidence to show it was bad, but it was only when you do one of the worst crimes imaginable that you realize this is bad? It’s only when it becomes personal that things are worth looking at critically?

No. And you need to examine where you are in processing your own complicity before writing a story where you’ve swapped around the ethnicities to try and distance yourself from the problem, where in the end you made the target the oppressor.

~Mod Lesya

#police brutality #oppression #arab #saudi arabia #military #superhero #superheroes #asks #violence #propaganda

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jackoshadows · 4 years

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One of the reasons for why I love Jon Snow in the books is because I find him to be the character who adheres closest to values I find admirable. IMO, Character traits like being broad-minded, intelligent and loyal tend to be more attractive in a character rather than than say good looks or good manners. Jon is selfless and honorable - to a certain extent. He can be pragmatic and bend the rules if necessary.

Jon Snow stands out as the only leader/main character in the series whose central narrative theme is about unifying people against a common threat. This is underscored by GRRM sending him off to the wall at the start of the books and Jeor Mormont telling Jon Snow:

When dead men coming hunting in the night, do you think it matters who sits on the Iron Throne - Jon Snow, AGoT

With this in mind, we see Jon continually grow as a character from book one to book five gradually killing the boy to let the man be born.

When we first see him at the wall, he’s a bit of a privileged brat and offended by the other recruits. But after Donal Nye sets him straight, he uses his education and knowledge to help the other kids in the NW. Jon grew up otherizing the Wildlings and saw them as people to be kept on the other side of the wall. He then spends a lot of time with them and comes to see them as human beings same as him and the rest of Westeros. He wants his childhood desire of being Lord of Winterfell, but understands that he swore an oath to the NW and his job is to defend the realm.

There are two quotes that embody Jon Snow best in the books:

‘You know nothing, Jon Snow’ – First used by Ygritte to educate Jon Snow on his ignorance about Wildlings and then later used by Lord Commander Jon Snow to remind himself that he still has a lot to learn even as a leader of men. A take on Socrates ‘I know that I know nothing’ – a humble acknowledgment that even the best leaders are not experts but human beings who can mistakes.

‘We look up at the same stars and see such different things’ - Jon is able to understand that two people can see the same thing and have such different opinions and that their opinions are colored by their upbringing and situation. As someone who has to unite people against a common threat, this is an important understanding that Jon has earned – this could be why he is a damn good negotiator in the books, earning praise from even Stannis.

Jon is able to acknowledge these important little lessons because he is at heart a fundamentally good person. We see this in how he treats characters who are disadvantaged and mistreated by Westeros society. These are not big moments but small character relationships that highlight how Jon Snow often stands out in thinking differently to a majority of Westeros.

Jon Snow as a child comforting Arya when she comes crying to him about being a possible bastard because of her looks. Imagine how much this would have hurt? But he loves Arya enough to put aside his own hurt feelings to reassure her.

Once he gets to know Tyrion personally and differentiates him from the rest of the Lannisters, Jon is quickly able to see past appearances and Westerosi prejudices and considers Tyrion a friend:

He ran back to the common hall , where he found Tyrion Lannister just finishing his meal. He grabbed the little man under the arms, hoisted him up in the air, and spun him around in a circle. “Bran is going to live!” he whooped. - Jon, AGoT

Asks Tyrion to comfort and help Bran in whatever way possible. This is in contrast to Robb’s immediate dislike and distrust of Tyrion. Jon judges a person based on their actions.

“Thank you, my lord of Lannister.” He pulled off his glove and offered his bare hand. “Friend.”

Tyrion found himself oddly touched. “Most of my kin are bastards,” he said with a wry smile, “but you’re the first I’ve had to friend.” - Tyrion, AGoT

Realizes how Sam Tarly is ill equipped to fight, figures out what Sam is best suited to do, talks to Maester Aemon about it and arranges for Sam to work for the Maester instead.

Appoints Satin Flowers, a former male prostitute from OldTown as his steward despite opposition from his bigoted department heads. And he does this, because once again, he judges based on a person’s actions and skills, rather than on the labels society places on them

“My Lord, the boy’s a whore...a...dare I say... a painted catamite from the brothels of Old Town”

“What he was in Oldtown is none of our concern. He’s quick to learn and very clever. The other recruits started out despising him, but he won them over and made friends of them all. He’s fearless in a fight and can even read and write after a fashion. He should be capable of fetching me my meals and saddling my horse, don’t you think?”

“Most like,” said Bowen Marsh, stony-faced, “but the men do not like it. Traditionally the lord commander’s squires are lads of good birth being groomed for command. Does my lord believe the men of the Night’s Watch would ever follow a whore into battle?”

Jon’s temper flashed. “They have followed worse. The Old Bear left a few cautionary notes about certain of the men, for his successor. We have a cook at the Shadow Tower who was fond of raping septas. He burned a seven-pointed star into his flesh for every one he claimed. His left arm is stars from wrist to elbow, and stars mark his calves as well. At Eastwatch we have a man who set his father’s house afire and barred the door. His entire family burned to death, all nine. Whatever Satin may have done in Oldtown, he is our brother now, and he will be my squire.”

Jon appoints Leathers of the Freefolk as his Master-at-arms once again, against objections from the likes of Cellador and Bowen

Bowen: Is it true that you mean to replace Emmett with this savage Leathers as our master-at-arms? That is an office most oft reserved for knights, or rangers at the least.

Jon: Leathers is savage. I can attest to that. I've tried him in the practice yard. He's as dangerous with a stone axe as most knights are with castle-forged steel. I grant you, he is not as patient as I'd like, and some of the boys are terrified of him ... but that's not all for the bad. One day they'll find themselves in a real fight, and a certain familiarity with terror will serve them well

The Freefolk women: Jon sees them as capable and equal in all ways to the men. He sends Val off all alone to find Tormund. He garrisons Long Barrow fully with Spearwives, entrusting them to defend that castle and the wall.

And we find that Jon is hungry for knowledge, and in his spare time he learns the Old Tongue from Leathers so that he can communicate with the giant Wun-Wun. He is always reading the books Maester Aemon left him, conducting science experiments on wights and even thinks of building a green house on the Gift to grow food. Once again, Jon acknowledges the importance of learning that he picked up from characters like Aemon, Sam and Tyrion.

I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind.. and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.” Tyrion tapped the leather cover of the book. “That’s why I read so much, Jon Snow.” - Tyrion, AGoT

There’s a reason for why Jon’s so good at what he does. Look at the people from whom he learns – Ned Stark, Tyrion Lannister, Jeor Mormont, Donal Noye, Qhorin Half-hand, Maester Aemon, Samwell Tarly, Mance Raydar, Stannis Baratheon etc. Every one of these men gives him a tidbit of information that he ends up using in the books.

Jon is very astute and has a deep understanding of the way the North and people in general work:

"The free folk despise kneelers," he had warned Stannis. "Let them keep their pride, and they will love you better." Soon or late, however, Tormund Giantsbane would assault the Wall again, and when that hour came Jon wondered whose side Stannis's new-made subjects would choose. You can give them land and mercy, but the free folk choose their own kings. - Jon, ADwD

Early on he advises Stannis to go with the Umbers instead of the Karstarks. Later we see his advice hold true as the Karstarks betray Stannis while Mors Crowfood allies with him. He also advises Stannis to approach Manderly – a decision that once again works out right. He explains to Stannis in clear detail how to approach the mountain clans for help

“And they will fight for me, you believe?”

“If you ask them.”

“Why should I beg for what is owed me?”

“Ask, I said, not beg.” Jon pulled back his hand. “It is no good sending messages. Your Grace will need to go to them yourself. Eat their bread and salt, drink their ale, listen to their pipers, praise the beauty of their daughters and the courage of their sons, and you’ll have their swords. The clans have not seen a king since Torrhen Stark bent his knee. Your coming does them honor. Command them to fight for you, and they will look at one another and say, ‘Who is this man? He is no king of mine.’ ”

In a way, it makes sense that Jon tries to see the humanity of people, tries to teach them, weeds out talent and designates based on merit and skillset – he works with the lowest of the lowest. He’s the military head of a group of outlaws, murderers, rapists, bigots, smallfolk with no education or access to education. He has to be able to see beyond labels to get this ragtag bunch ready to face an apocalyptic threat.

Contrast this Jon Snow to Jaime Lannister in AFfC who hangs some outlaws in the Riverlands and then proudly calls himself ‘Goldenhand the Just’ for meting out ‘justice’, failing to even acknowledge that those hungry outlaws were created by his war – a war that started because of his incestuous adultery.

To conclude, Jon Snow ending an 8000 year old feud between the north and the freefolk, bringing them over to this side of the wall, including them in the realms of men, making real alliances between old Northern houses and the freefolk epitomizes what Jon Snow stands for as a character in the books.

There’s a reason for why GRRM describes Jon Snow thus:

Jon Snow is the truest character--I like his sense of realism and the way he copes with his bastardy.

#Jon Snow #ASoIaF #A Song of Ice and Fire

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emospritelet · 5 years

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Honourable Members

This is partly the fault of @thestraggletag for this post and the subsequent dream I had. It’s also the fault of Bobby for posting pics of his new project. I know I said I wouldn’t post it until it was done but I am weak. Should be a three-parter. Part two is almost done. See AO3 re the fictional political parties and Government departments. Sorry about the title: I am a child :)

AO3 link

If there was one thing Robert Sutherland hated more than any other, it was giving interviews to right-wing lifestyle journalists. He’d had to suffer through many an indignity in his working life, but relatively little of that life had been under public scrutiny. He had had what was diplomatically described as an inauspicious start in life, but had developed an interest in politics after becoming a union representative at the factory where he had started work at sixteen. Coming to Westminster as a backbench MP had opened his eyes to the reality of trying to represent the people he served in a place rife with deep divisions and party infighting.

One of the hardest lessons he had learned was that honesty and integrity did not automatically lead to political success. A less surprising, if more irritating realisation, was that once you made it to the House of Commons, and especially to the front benches, it was open season on your private life as far as certain sections of the press were concerned. He thought that it was probably fortunate that he had gotten divorced five years earlier, before becoming leader of his party, but it didn’t stop the speculation about potential love interests. Since leading his party through a successful election campaign, ousting the British Unionists from power in a crushing victory and entering 10 Downing Street, the interest from the press had only grown, and with it the amount of salacious gossip that he tried hard to ignore.

He supposed it was hardly surprising; he had been single since the divorce and happily so, but a vacuum always tempted people to fill it with their own rumours. His Principal Private Secretary, Carrie de Ville, had assured him that giving interviews to publications such as Green Space would improve his polling amongst right-wing middle class women, but he was beginning to wonder if the current discomfort he felt was worth it.

The current subject of his disdain, Ms Tamara Finlay-Warburton, was perched on a chair in the White State Drawing Room, a porcelain cup of tea steaming in its saucer on the table beside her. The red-haired woman had been servile to the point of revulsion, but there was a predatory gleam in her blue eyes that told him she was in no way to be trusted. 10 Downing Street’s resident cat, Arthur, had taken one look at her and scurried off, and he considered that a black mark against her character before she had even opened her mouth.

“So,” purred Ms Finlay-Warburton, tapping her pencil on her notebook. “Still unmarried, after all these years. It must get lonely, having no one to share your success with.”

“Can’t say I’ve thought about it,” he said. “A little too busy with matters of state.”

“So there’s no special someone?” she pressed. “No dirty little secrets? We’re all aware of how indispensable your secretary is.”

“Yes, Carrie is my right hand woman,” he said honestly.

“So there’s no sexual tension there?”

He blinked at that.

“Uh - no,” he said. “Our relationship is very professional.”

“But so many relationships start in the workplace, don’t they?”

“That may be true,” he said, feeling his irritation grow. “But she’s already married.”

“Well, it’s not as though that’s a barrier to anyone these days,” she said airily. “You can imagine the opportunities for gossip, I’m sure.”

“Did you do any research before this interview?” he asked waspishly. “She’s married to a woman!”

“Oh.”

She looked momentarily stumped, and shuddered delicately, as though Carrie’s private life was somehow distasteful. It made him dislike her all the more.

“Well, I did a piece on her last year,” she said. “I must have forgotten that, but then I was concentrating on her time at university. Quite the wild thing in her youth.”

“I couldn’t care less what she got up to,” he said, reaching for his tea, and counting down the seconds until the allotted fifteen minutes was up. “She’s extremely competent.”

“So, no sparks flying from that direction,” she said vaguely, scribbling in her notebook. “Of course, the other rumour is that you’re having an affair with the intern. Comments?”

Sutherland almost spat out his tea.

“Alice?”

She sat forward, pale eyes gleaming.

“Why so surprised?” she purred. “Pretty young girl, blonde curls, all that energy and innocence of youth. A little odd, by all accounts, so she probably needs taking under your wing and protecting. Plus, I hear she’s always pulling your tie straight and dusting your shoulders. Rather familiar for a mere minion, wouldn’t you say?”

“I can assure you she’d think the idea of the two of us sleeping together both hilarious and revolting,” he said tersely. “And don’t ever call her a minion in my presence again.”

“Ooh, looks like I touched a nerve,” she said, with a smirk. “No need to hide your office romance from me, Prime Minister.”

“I’m not,” he snapped.

“And why should my readers believe that?”

“Because I’m a massive lesbian!” announced Alice cheerfully, breezing into the room with a leather folder in her hands and her blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Going from what you write in that magazine of yours, I’m probably at least partly responsible for the decline of society, but I have to say I’m having a lot of fun with it.”

Ms Finlay-Warburton looked as though she’d bitten something sour, and sat back as Alice leaned over to place the folder in Sutherland’s hand. Alice grinned and leaned closer, making her shrink almost into the cushions of the chair.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Alice pleasantly. “You’re so not my type. I did put my nasty gay hands all over the biscuits though, so I hope you didn’t eat any.”

Sutherland bit the inside of his cheeks to hide a smile, and she winked at him.

“Carrie said to tell you that the car will be here in a moment, sir,” she said.

“Thank you, Alice.” He stood, tugging his cuffs straight. “Ms Finlay-Warburton, you must excuse me. Prime Minister’s Questions, you know. Ms de Ville will show you out.”

He strode out of the room, wanting to sigh with relief, and made it to the waiting car without incident. It idled outside Number 10, the engine purring as they waited for Carrie to emerge with his briefcase. She appeared in less than a minute, sharply-tailored charcoal grey trouser suit and white silk shirt beneath a gleaming bob of blonde hair. She slid onto the back seat beside him, setting the briefcase between them, and the door thumped shut before the car pulled away. Sutherland slipped the leather folder into the case, and Carrie looked at him with some amusement.

“I hear the interview went well,” she said wryly. “She seemed not to want to shake my hand, so I can only assume she’s remembered I’m a raging homosexual.”

“I don’t understand why you delight in inviting bigots to interview me.”

“Oh, it’s fun,” she said airily. “They’re always the easiest to offend. Besides, it’s a section of society in which you need to improve your polling. You’re falling down with the ‘traditional family values’ mob.”

“I don’t need the support of intolerant arseholes,” he said sourly.

“Now now,” she chided. “That’s not the attitude to take. Their votes are as good as anyone’s. And not all of them are like Ms Fanny-Wobblebum, I assure you.”

“Bloody gossip-monger!” he grumbled, running a hand through short, greying hair. “She could have asked about the new policy on free childcare or the money for women’s support services, but instead it’s a bunch of bloody shite about work-based romance! Are they expecting me to be shagging half my staff?”

“Probably.”

“Well, they’re in for a disappointment.”

“Oh, they’ll just make something up, you know how it goes.”

“They’re welcome to.” He sat back with a sigh. “Any idea what’s coming up in PMQs?”

“Other than the usual?” she asked. “Nothing I’ve heard. We’re as prepared as we can be.”

“Good.”

The Commons was in excellent voice, the benches filled with MPs, almost all of whom were awake and contributing to the noise. Sutherland tuned it out, tapping his fingers on the papers in front of him, the crisp white cuffs of his shirt just visible above the sleeves of his black suit. He knew the contents of his papers by heart, but having them there was useful nonetheless, allowing him to collect his thoughts when necessary. Prime Minister’s Questions was in full swing, and having delivered a ringing endorsement of the government’s economic record in response to a question from his own side, he was waiting for the resulting shouts of derision and braying cheers to die down before the first of the questions from the Opposition back benches.

“Miss Belle French!” bellowed the Speaker.

Sutherland’s brow crinkled for a moment. French, French. Ah, of course. New Liberals. Just won the by-election in Avonleigh. Carrie says she’s one to watch.

“Thank you, Mr Speaker.”

He glanced around, trying to see where the voice was coming from. There. God, she’s tiny! A young woman was standing in the top right of the rows of benches. Small and pale, with deep red lips and chestnut hair tied neatly back, she was dressed in a very respectable dark blue dress and jacket. She was perhaps five feet four, although his guess could be off by an inch or two, depending on how high her heels were. She was also incredibly pretty, but he did his best to ignore that fact.

“Mr Speaker,” she began, “last week in my constituency of Avonleigh, I received some truly shocking news regarding Government contractor Wolsingham plc and its negligent attitude to its waste treatment facility. It appears that waste material from the production plant bordering my constituency has been leaking out and is in danger of polluting the water supplies used by local farmers.”

A familiar noise rose in the House, a booming chorus of denials from the Government benches, and roars of support from the Opposition. Sutherland wanted to sigh. Questions about Wolsingham plc were inevitable, he supposed; nothing stayed secret for long in politics, but he had hoped to avoid the issue for a little longer.

“Rumours have also spread,” she went on, “that the company itself is failing and that its assets are being sold off piecemeal while it destroys the land around it!”

The noise had increased to a roar, the odd bleating noise from some of the older politicians, order papers being waved.

“Having - having made some enquiries—” Miss French was having to shout to be heard over the din. “—I was shocked to discover that not only was Wolsingham plc fully aware of the pollution, but had done - had - had done—”

The clamour from the House had reached a level loud enough to drown her out, and she bit her lip, clearly frustrated.

“Order!” shouted the Speaker, calming the noise somewhat. “The Honourable lady must be allowed to put her question! Which I have every hope she will do very shortly, rather than treat us to a lengthy speech! Miss French!”

“Thank you, Mr Speaker.”

She was still looking frustrated, and Sutherland sensed that she would abandon the speech, ask her question and be done. Good.

“My constituents are concerned that special interest groups may be influencing Government policy regarding Wolsingham plc,” she said. “Particularly in respect of their continued breach of environmental legislation, and the company’s future financial viability. What assurances can the Prime Minister give me to take back to my constituents that their concerns are being addressed?”

Sutherland nodded as he stood up at the despatch box, catching her eye. She was staring at him with a strange mixture of caution and hope.

“Let me be amongst the first to welcome the Honourable lady to the House,” he said. “I trust that she will serve her constituents well, and the country as a whole. This Government is - aware - of the reports of which she speaks, and I can assure her that they are being looked into. A statement will be made in due course.”

He sat down to indicate that he was finished, shuffling the papers in his hands. Miss French was bouncing on her toes, mouth opening and closing and looking outraged, but the Speaker called another name, and she was forced to sit down, her face like thunder. Sutherland tried to put her out of his mind as he listened to a question from his own side. A pity she had chosen to raise the bloody subject today, but there it was. No doubt the press would now start digging around, and the whole shit show would be wide open for all to see before they could get everything sewn up. New MPs. Always so bloody idealistic.

Once PMQs was over, he gathered his papers, slipping them into his briefcase before stepping away from the despatch box. There was to be a debate on renewable energy, but he left the Environment Secretary to make the Government’s arguments. Carrie was waiting for him in the lobby, foot tapping impatiently on the stone tiles. She flicked her hair out of her eyes and arched a brow at him as he left the chamber.

“Well, that was reasonably successful,” she said, taking the briefcase from him and shoving it at one of her assistants as they began walking. “I thought we might go through the preparations for the President’s visit after your four o’clock.”

“Yes, fine,” he said. “I believe her wife is coming too?”

“So my counterpart across the pond tells me.”

“Good. We’ll host them at Chequers, but I’ll leave any decisions on menus and entertainment in your hands.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Prime Minister!”

He wanted to sigh as a clear voice cut across the lobby. Miss French. Of course. He kept walking, shoes ringing on the gleaming tiles.

“Prime Minister, if I might have a word?”

She trotted up beside him, but he didn’t slow his stride. Carrie looked at her somewhat askance, but said nothing.

“What is it, Miss French?” he asked dismissively.

“My question about Wolsingham plc,” she said, her voice impatient. “You completely shut me down!”

“No, I gave you an answer,” he said. “Just not the one you wanted.”

“I told my constituents I would raise the matter with you personally!”

“And so you have,” he said, and turned away from her to Carrie, who was watching him with an amused glint in her eyes. “Carrie, can we fit Mr Llewellyn in before six, do you think?”

“I could find ten minutes in your diary, sir, no more. And even that would be a squeeze.”

“Do that, then,” he said. “If you can get one of your staff to prepare a one-page briefing paper beforehand? I’d rather not go in cold.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you.”

They walked on, and Miss French trotted to keep up.

“Prime Minister, might I schedule some time with you to discuss my concerns?” she asked, and he glanced across at her.

“Put your question in writing to Ms de Ville, Miss French, if you’re unhappy with the answer I gave,” he said impatiently.

“It wasn’t an answer!” she retorted. “It - it was a fudge! You didn’t tell me anything!”

“As I said, put any further requests to my secretary in writing,” he said.

“A letter?” she scoffed. “Should I sign it with a quill pen? This isn’t the nineteenth century!”

“There are still protocols to follow, as you’re well aware,” he said. “I’ve already said we will be making a statement in due course, and I have nothing further to add at this time.”

He walked on, the entrance looming in front of him, spring sunshine spreading across the tiles. He could hear the rapid click of Miss French’s shoes as she sought to keep up with his stride, and rolled his eyes as they stepped out into the warm spring sunlight. The press pack waited some way beyond, cameras clicking and flashing, reporters waiting with mikes outstretched, and Miss French was still at his heels like an insistent terrier.

“Prime Minister, I really don’t think you understand how worrying this is for my constituents,” she said, a little breathlessly. “If we could just sit down to discuss the matter, I’m sure we could—”

Sutherland stopped abruptly, spinning on his toes to face her as he finally lost patience.

“Miss French, are you deaf or merely stupid?” he snapped. “For the last time, I have nothing to say to you regarding Wolsingham plc and this will remain the case until the Government delivers its official statement on the matter!”

She stared at him, strands of chestnut hair buffeted by the wind. Her eyes were wide and very blue, her cheeks smooth and pale. She had full lips, painted with a deep red lipstick that outlined them perfectly. They were slightly parted in shock at his outburst, but there was also fire in her eyes, something he recognised well from his own youth, when he had been filled with ideals, with the desire to do good. It made him feel old and irrelevant. An ancient political dragon, facing a young would-be slayer, Chosen One of the people. Oddly, it also made him want to stand his ground, to roar and belch out flames one last time to protect what he hoarded. Instead, he tried for a more measured, dismissive approach. The young firebrand was gone, after all, mellowed by the years into the elder statesman.

“Put your concerns in writing,” he said, more calmly. “Ms de Ville will bring them to my attention as she sees fit.”

Miss French worked her jaw a little.

“I thought at least you might hear me out,” she said. “I’m aware you were born and raised in a deprived community, you must know how dependent my people are on the land around them, and—”

“I got where I am by knowing how to pick my battles,” he interrupted. “Something you appear to have no concept of, but which you’ll learn in time, I have no doubt. If you want to be anything other than a voice in the wilderness, you need to learn how to bend in the wind, follow protocol, and understand that sometimes progress happens in ways you may not always like.”

“I came here to serve my constituents!” she protested, raising her hands and letting them fall. “To give a voice to those who can’t speak out for themselves, to - to help people! Not to become part of the problem!”

“Enjoy your time on the back benches, then,” he said, his tone dismissive. “Spend time in your constituency, and leave the politics to those of us who are in touch with reality. While you’re listening to tales of woe and patting shoulders and kissing babies, you’ll become increasingly irrelevant.”

She opened her mouth angrily, but he cut her off.

“You’re not part of some Borough Council anymore,” he said scathingly. “Time to grow up. See the big picture.”

“Don’t patronise me!”

“Don’t act like a child, then.”

She took a step towards him, eyes flashing with the light of challenge. It was giving him a tiny thrill, a tight ball of fire in his chest that was sending a pulsing trail of heat down to his groin. No one had dared to get in his face to this extent for years, instead shouting their insults from across the benches or making sly comments about his alleged incompetence to the press. To have someone go toe-to-toe with him outside the Houses of Parliament was almost exhilarating.

“So, one little push back from a woman, and the misogyny surfaces,” she said, in a flat tone. “Why am I not surprised?”

“My assessment of your behaviour is based on your inexperience and current attitude, not your gender.”

“And you want to teach me a lesson, is that it, sir?”

Oh, his mind did not need to go there! He yanked it back before his imagination could cause too much mischief.

“I have every confidence that your peers will do that, Miss French,” he said coldly. “Do us all an enormous favour and try not to get above yourself in the meantime.”

“If you think you can pat me on the head and shut me up, you’re mistaken!”

He smiled at that, knowing how it would irritate her, and was proven right as her glare intensified.

“Well, I must say this passion is admirable,” he drawled. “But ultimately pointless. Political naivety may play well in whatever backwater constituency you managed to claw your way into, but in Westminster it’ll get you eaten alive.”

“I have no intention of - of letting you eat me!” she snapped.

A faint blush had risen on her cheeks, and he felt an odd lurch in his belly as his active mind helpfully provided an alternative meaning for that phrase. She was glaring at him, eyes shooting blue sparks, chin raised as though she would bite him.

“Then take my advice,” he said. “Pick your battles. Fall in line. And wait your bloody turn.”

“So, they got to you, too?” she said bitterly. “I might have known. I knew there had to be some reason everyone’s lips are sealed. Wolsingham has his dirty little fingers in every political pie going, it seems to me.”

As fascinating as she was, Sutherland had had enough. He raised an admonitory finger, leaning in as his eyes bored into hers and she met him stare for stare.

“You’re new here, Miss French,” he growled, his accent thickening. “So I’m gonna let that one slide. You ever question my integrity again, and you and I are gonna have a problem, understood?”

She swallowed, sudden fear in her eyes. It was gone almost as quickly as it had come, her jaw tightening as she faced him down. Really, she was magnificent. There were flashes in the air around them, the click of cameras, and he wanted to groan as he remembered they were in the sights of the entirety of the Westminster press. At least they were out of reach of any microphones, he supposed. He leaned back, swallowing his anger, and nodded curtly.

“Good day, Miss French.”

He turned on his heel, Carrie side-eyeing him before following him to the car. Reporters clamoured, questions being fired at him, but he ignored them all, slipping onto the back seat and staring straight ahead as Carrie got in on the other side. The door closed with a heavy thump, and the sounds of the waiting press were cut off immediately. Thank God for armour plating.

“Well,” said Carrie, as the car pulled slowly away. “That was - bracing.”

She sounded highly amused, and he decided to change the subject before she could start teasing him.

“Who’s next?” he asked.

“Lunch first,” she said promptly. “Then I thought we might go through the Select Committee papers before tomorrow. And you have a four-thirty with the Chancellor.”

“Fine.”

Sutherland sat back as the car headed for Downing Street, trying to ignore his thumping heart. Miss French was a mouthy nuisance, to be sure, and he wanted to put her from his mind, but the encounter had made him feel more alive than he had in years.

The heavy tick of the clock on the wall showed that it was after ten, and Sutherland pinched the bridge of his nose to clear his eyes. A large tabby cat with white socks was settled comfortably on a pile of discarded papers to his left, purring contentedly. Arthur’s job was supposedly to catch mice, but he seemed to spend most of his time sleeping as far as Sutherland could tell. He didn’t mind that too much; he liked cats, and it was nice to have a little company in the evenings when he finally stopped working. He scratched Arthur’s ears, receiving a nuzzle in response, and set the final document aside just as Carrie entered. She had a glass of whisky in one hand, a pile of newspapers in the crook of her arm and a wide grin on her face.

“Well, at least you made the front page.”

She dropped the first editions of the next day’s papers on his desk, startling the cat into a standing position. He lashed his striped tail before settling down again, tucking his feet under as the top newspaper—a copy of The Sun—slithered off the pile into Sutherland’s hands. A picture took up almost the entire page, a close-up of he and Miss French practically nose to nose, glaring at one another with every ounce of the mutual disdain they could muster. The headline above, in thick red letters, shouted GET A ROOM!

Sutherland groaned under his breath as Carrie chortled, and despite himself he read the opening paragraphs of the drivel masquerading as an article. Sparks flew this afternoon outside the Houses of Parliament as Avonleigh’s stunning New Liberal MP Belle French went toe-to-toe with the PM! Petite brunette Belle (29) let Sutherland have it with both barrels! You could cut the sexual tension with a knife, and your Sun reporter wonders how they might break their deadlock outside of a bedroom! Policy difference or lovers’ tiff? See more on page 2! Pages 4 and 5: Belle French - bombshell or bitch?

He tossed the paper aside in disgust, and Carrie caught it, grinning at him.

“Now now,” she chided. “Don’t blame the press for the stories they cover.”

“It’s The Sun,” he growled. “One flash of a pretty woman’s legs and they collectively lose their tiny minds.”

“So, you think she’s pretty?”

“Please tell me she didn’t give an interview,” he sighed, ignoring her question.

“Not that I can see,” she said. “But the two of you made the front of every tabloid there is. Even pushed the latest horror story about a new Ice Age off page 1 of The Express.”

“Wonders will never cease,” he remarked.

“I expect she might use the sudden interest to publicise her concerns over Wolsingham, though.”

“Well, that can’t be helped,” he sighed. “It’s all gonna come out soon, anyway. However things go. Did we hear anything from DII?”

“Talks still ongoing with potential administrators.”

He grunted. Lengthy talks about financial viability never boded well, in his experience.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, looking the paper over. “They’re not wrong. You could cut the sexual tension with a knife.”

“Fuck’s sake, Carrie…”

“I’m teasing.” She rolled up the paper and swatted him with it. “I’m sure your intentions are completely honourable.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, hers might not be…”

“Can we leave Miss French out of this?” he snapped. “Is there any actual news I need to hear?”

“Apparently William Hill’s have slashed the odds on you getting married during this Parliament to seven to one.”

“Carrie!”

“Alright, fine!” she sighed. “The Guardian didn’t mention the spat; however, they have picked up on the precarious position of Wolsingham plc and are starting to put feelers out. You have a nine o’clock tomorrow with the Minister. There’s a briefing in the folder at the bottom of that pile.”

“Thank you.”

“The Telegraph, Independent and Financial Times are focusing on the prospective deal with the US, unsurprisingly,” she said. “I thought we might release the President’s proposed itinerary tomorrow.”

“Yes, fine,” he said absently. “Are we expecting any protests?”

Carrie snorted, setting down the glass of whisky.

“Since that bigoted, racist disaster was ousted and thrown in jail, public perception of the White House has improved greatly.”

“Not wholly surprising,” he remarked, and she nodded.

“A few small groups have requested permission to march,” she said. “Mainly pacifists, anti-capitalists and anti-pharma, nothing to cause any real disruption.”

“Fine,” he said, pushing the pile of newspapers away and sitting back in his chair. “Go on, get home. I’m sure Ursula would like to see some of you this week.”

“I’m sure she’d like to see all of me,” she said, with a wink. “Are you sure? I can stay if you need my input on anything.”

“Go home,” he said firmly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Don’t stay up all night. And try not to let the gutter press give you nightmares, hmm?”

“Would you bugger off before I change my mind?”

She swept out, chuckling, and he sighed, reaching for the glass of whisky she had brought him and sitting back in his chair. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break. There were some papers he wanted to look through, but nothing that needed his immediate attention. He sipped at the whisky, enjoying the smooth burn on his tongue, the warmth of good alcohol and the taste of honey, peat and smoke.

The image of Belle French kept swimming to the front of his mind, blue eyes sparking with anger and passion, and he scowled to himself, shoving the memory away. So what if she had intrigued him? She had all but accused him of impropriety in respect of a Government contractor. The fact that her claim was bollocks was beside the point; she had no business throwing around accusations with the press pack just out of reach. He recalled that Carrie had caught some of her campaign on a visit to Avonleigh, and had been impressed with the dedication and passion she had seen, but if Miss French was to succeed, she would need to learn to bend a little. She wouldn’t last long in Westminster if she couldn’t rein in her clearly impulsive nature. Her fellow MPs would soon steer her right.

He shook his head, wondering why he was wasting time thinking about her future. It wasn’t as though they would be working together, and she was on the Opposition benches, if not in the official party of Opposition, so hardly likely to be looking to him as a potential mentor. Even if she was, the woman was clearly wet behind the ears and he didn’t have the patience to deal with that level of inexperience. Besides, it was unlikely they would cross paths unless he wished it; as a new back-bencher she had been lucky to get to ask a question at PMQs. There would be no reason for him to have to endure her impertinence again.

He drank the last of the whisky, putting down the glass with a clunk and making the rare decision to go to bed at a reasonable hour. Arthur seemed to sense that he was making a move, and stood up, stretching paws in front of him and curling his tail over. Sutherland petted him, pushing back his chair and heading for the door, the cat sauntering in his wake as he prayed for a decent night’s sleep, free of dreams of fiery young blue-eyed goddesses with perfect lips.

#fic: honourable members #sutherelle fic #my fic #rumbelle fic #anyelle #sutherelle

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pain-somnia · 6 years

Text

A Gift From The Universe [6/?]

Day’s Note: hello everyone. I usually hate to make these long notes at the top of a chapter but I have to get this off of my chest right before I start this update.

I don’t want anyone reading this story if they have a problem with ShiItaIzu. Exit now if you do. Don’t read my work.

I know there has to be some people that probably read my fics and just ignore them despite the fact that you would be missing out on a huge chunk of the story by doing so and that’s cool. But it’s rude—so rude—to leave a review telling me you find them creepy and that you’ll just skip them. The comment isn’t necessary if you’re trying to tell someone that you like their story. I even said in my notes that I don’t want to hear any negative and bigoted comments about them.

Actual criticism of my writing is expected. I’m not going to please everyone. But telling me that a relationship creeps you out isn’t going to make me stop writing about them. So just stop reading. I wish FF didn’t have that 4 character limit for the tags. This is a ShiItaIzu story just as much as it is a SasuSaku and InoSai story.

For everyone else: sorry to put this block of text on top of this update. Enjoy some more ShiItaIzu on the side of your SasuSaku.

Also this update is dedicated to @gyuppii, Irene, @stelduggery, and @xxxsasusakuxxx, for always indulging me when I go headcanon crazy

FF.NET

first chapter * previous chapter

Chapter Six: Back-Talk

Inuzuka Hana slid into the available seat next to Izumi. The other brunette tutted at her and tapped a finger on her wrist.

“Sorry. My idiot brother ate chocolate again and I had to wait for his medication to start working.” Hana had a way of sounding affectionate while still being annoyed with Kiba.

“When is that kid ever going to remember that he’s allergic to it?” Shisui’s voice came out sounding thick as he had just stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth. He had gone ahead and started cooking the meat while they waited for Hana to arrive.

“Hopefully before the next false alarm.” Itachi served the girls some of the more choice grilled meat slices before taking any pieces for himself.

“There was another false alarm?” Hana’s jaw dropped.

“We didn’t head home until the sun was already up,” Izumi let out a large yawn.

Hana patted her shoulder sympathetically. She had been friends with the Uchiha trio long enough to know about how the entire clan would stand vigil whenever their ancient former clan head seemed as though he were about to finally pass away.

The wizened old man was practically senile at this point but it was as if he refused to die.

“Obito-nii was freaking out because he thought Madara had finally croaked but the old man just turned over and asked him for his breakfast and then got up and walked around complaining about how useless his caretaker is.”

Shisui paused in his explanation to stuff more meat into his mouth.

“He called Sasuke Izuna again. I never get tired of that. The little guy just sighs now and peels his tangerines. Doesn’t even grumble about it not being his name anymore.”

“Speaking of Sasuke,” Hana rolled her eyes and let out a breathy laugh, “I heard he’s going to be named rookie of the year.”

“Let me guess,” Izumi examined her nails to try and hide the smug grin creeping onto her face, “Kiba has been complaining about our little guy?”

“Wow, how did you know?” Hana asked sarcastically. She let out a sigh and pouted. “I swear Kiba has ADHD. He could have been rookie of the year if he applied himself.”

Shisui snorted which earned him a glare from Hana. Itachi tried to frown at him but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. Izumi just gave Hana’s shoulder a comforting pat.

“Sasuke is a dork but I wouldn’t have expected anyone else to take that spot.” Shisui leaned back and patted his stomach. “I am stuffed.”

“You ate two thirds of the meat on your own,” Itachi noted. “And all of the pickled daikon.”

“Ita-kun had to fill up on rice because of you,” Izumi scolded Shisui.

“Well maybe you should just cook us up something later. I know Hazuki-san has been teaching you how to cook.”

“That would be nice,” Itachi agreed.

“Come on guys,” Izumi protested, “I’m still terrible at it.”

“I’m sure you’re not that bad. You do everything well.”

“And you probably look super cute in an apron too,” Shisui added with a wink. “Give Itachi a run for his money.”

“Will you three please stop flirting in front of the single mess over here,” Hana feigned a glum tone as she joked.

As she was Izumi’s best friend she was trusted with the status of their relationship. She would have had to have been blind not to notice. Hana always teased Izumi about how she smelled of both boys after any of them came back from a long mission. Izumi’s face would flush red and she would stammer as Hana barked out a laugh at her embarrassment.

“Awww!” Izumi wrapped her arms around Hana and brought her into a tight embrace. “You’ll always be my favorite.”

“Hey!” Shisui turned to Itachi for backup but was ignored by him in favor of drinking his tea.

The girls laughed at him and Izumi slid the bill across to him.

“You did eat the most.”

“Now that’s just mean Izumi.” Hana shook her head and pulled out her wallet. “I’ll pitch in too Shisui.”

“You know what, you’re my favorite too.”

“Hey!”

. .

Ino was digging through Sakura’s bag for a hair brush when she found a neat little carton of the best fruit in the world.

“Yum! My favorite,” Ino chirped pulling out the box of cherry tomatoes. “The perfect snack for break time.”

“Those aren’t for you Ino!” Sakura snatched the box out of her hands.

“If not for me than who?” Ino snatched the box back.

Ino watched as Sakura’s face practically glowed red. Flustered, Sakura averted her gaze and muttered something under her breath. Ino heard her but decided to tease her by pretending she hadn’t.

“Come again?”

“...ke-kun.”

“I’m sorry I still can’t hear a thing you’re saying.”

“Sasuke-kun, okay?” Sakura snatched the carton of tomatoes back. “He got rookie of the year and I wanted to give him something and he doesn’t like sweets.”

“What about my gift? I got top scores too!” Ino pouted and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“But did you get rookie of the year?”

“No,” Ino said glumly, still pouting. Sakura wanted to roll her eyes. Ino was taking this so seriously.

“Fine,” Sakura sighed. “I’ll make you some pudding later.”

“Yay!” Ino threw her arms around her neck. “Now come here so I can get those tangles out of your hair.”

Ino reached back into Sakura’s bag. As she grabbed the brush her hand brushed against a jar. Curious, Ino pulled it out of the bag as well.

“I also made a salve...for burns,” Sakura mumbled. “I use it for burns I get when I work in the shop. I thought I might, I don’t know, give him some?”

Ino stifled a groan. This was what always made her so frustrated with Sakura! She was doing so well with breaking out of her shell but then there were these little clouds of self-doubt and Sakura would draw back into herself.

“Give it to me then.”

“What?”

“Well, I technically helped make the salve. I knew where all of the ingredients you needed could be found.” Ino shrugged. “I could give it to Sasuke-kun. It’s not like he’s any less cute now that I’ve met Sai-kun.”

Sakura’s jade eyes went wide and her jaw dropped open. Her right eye was twitching and it was obvious that Sakura wanted to say something but she was holding back. It was a hilarious sight but laughing would ruin Ino’s little game.

“Don’t you think giving such a practical gift would show Sasuke-kun such a mature side of me?” Ino shook her head slightly to shake out her long ponytail in a flirtatious manner. “Like I’m sure he already knows how gorgeous I am but what a way to remind him of how smart and considerate I am, right?”

“Or pig-headed.”

It was Ino’s turn for her jaw to drop.

Sakura’s pale pink brows were drawn forward in a glare, her round cheeks puffed out and flushed red. It was the angriest look Sakura had ever sent at Ino.

“Pig-headed?”

“Stubbornly draping yourself all over him all of the time and squealing like a little pig despite his obvious discomfort,” Sakura huffed. She puffed her chest out, hands on her hips. “Really attractive Ino, really. Just so appealing.”

Ino scoffed, absolutely insulted. She wanted Sakura to be more honest but not that much.

“I at least do something.” Ino jabbed Sakura’s forehead with her pointer finger. “The brain behind this giant forehead is only good for books but not for real life apparently.”

Sakura sucked air in and puffed her cheeks out more, face turning an even darker shade of red. She snatched the jar out of Ino’s hand and stormed off mumbling under her breath something that sounded like “I’ll show that pig doing something.”

“Finally,” Ino exhaled feeling exhausted. Grabbing her bag she headed into the Academy building.

I can’t believe she called me a pig!

. .

Exhausted as he was, the graduation test was a breeze.

Sasuke packed up his hitai-ate into his pack and stifled a yawn. He was ready to head home and have a cat nap out on the engawa with Shiro and all of the cats.

Naruto had originally wanted to drag him along to celebrate graduation. Sasuke was almost willing to go along with the hyperactive kid. There was a part of him that was relieved that his friend had shaped up enough in the end to graduate, but there was another part of him that wanted to go home and rest.

And there was a bigger part of him that wanted to rush home and show off his new hitai-ate to his family.

He didn’t graduate early like his brother or Izumi. No one graduated early anymore but there was always hope to be the exception just to prove that he could be just as great as Itachi. But he was the top of his class and now officially the youngest shinobi in the Uchiha clan. A shinobi like his loved ones. He finally had the forehead protector that put him one step closer to his older brother’s level.

So he was a little proud of himself.

All he had to do know was get home without being stopped by anymore people trying to congratulate him.

Almost as soon as he thought he was in the clear and was heading down the road that lead to the far side of the village to the Uchiha district someone called out to him.

He would have ignored it and pretended he hadn’t heard of it weren’t for the fact that the voice sounded familiar. A good kind of familiar.

“Sasuke-kun!”

All day it seemed as if Sakura had something she wanted to say to him but couldn’t get the words out. It was such a contradiction to the usual chatter that flowed out of her.

Sasuke slowed to a complete stop to allow her to catch up. He was avoiding everyone but it didn’t seem right to ignore Sakura.

There was also a part of him that was kind of hoping maybe Sakura had come to congratulate him. There was something pleasurable about her acknowledgement that was different than the recognition from that of his family.

It was a kind of pleasure that made the back of his neck heat up and his stomach go light and airy when her eyes sparkled as she beamed up at him.

“Um…”

Sakura’s gaze was averted but there was a pretty bloom of pink flushed on her cheeks. A bashful tuck of her hair behind her ears brought his attention up to the hitai-ate tied on top of her head where her red ribbon was previously.

No more bunny ears…

Sasuke looked at her expectantly. There was no way she had traveled to the far end of the village just to stand in front of him.

“I, uh, got you something.”

Sakura swung her pack off of her shoulders. For the first time that day Sasuke noticed that it was misshapen, a different sort of bulk than it usually had when it was filled with her books and journals.

“Just to say congrats, you know? It’s really amazing that you got rookie of the year—not that I doubted you would get it! It wasn’t a surprise at all, really…”

Now she was rambling. Sakura did that often but usually it only took a look from him for her to realize she was straying from the point and she would get right on track. But she wasn’t looking at him, keeping her eyes trained on the ground.

“Here!”

Sakura thrust out her arms in front of her. In her hands was a carton of cherry tomatoes and a flat, circular jar.

“It’s an ointment for burns,” Sakura explained. “You favor your katon and well, your forearm protectors don’t really do anything for your cheeks so uh…”

Her voice trailed off and that’s when Sasuke realized he still hadn’t made a move to take the gifts she was offering.

“Thank you,” he said softly, finally taking the gifts.

That was the magic of Sakura.

Naruto was his first friend, fated to be his friend since the day Kushina made that wish, but Naruto didn’t really understand him. They were always at each other’s throats and arguing but that’s just how they were.

Barbaric as it was, they were friends that spoke with their fists.

And then there was Sakura who seemed to be able to get him even with how little he contributed to their conversations in comparison to how much she filled them.

“I hope you find it to be soothing.”

Sakura smiled so sweetly that all Sasuke could do was nod in response. He was the one receiving a gift and yet Sakura was the one that looked overjoyed. It was strange making someone that wasn’t his mother or his brother so happy by doing so little.

It was strange but he wanted to do it again. He swallowed and quickly thought of the first thing that came to mind considering where they were standing.

“We’re pretty close to that senbei shop I told you about. Do you want to—“

“Sasuke!”

Sasuke stiffened at the call of his name. There was no mistaking that voice.

“Hey Little Uchiha!” Shisui ran up to the pair and ruffled Sasuke’s already disheveled feathery hair.

“Cut it out!” Sasuke grit his teeth and elbowed his older cousin. Shisui always had the worst timing. Or convenient timing as it seemed like it was his life mission to embarrass Sasuke whenever possible.

In retaliation for the elbow to his ribs, Shisui placed Sasuke in a headlock.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Sakura-san.”

Sasuke turned as much as he could to see his brother bowing in greeting to Sakura, having missed when she had introduced herself.

“So cute!” Shisui dropped his hold on Sasuke and proceeded to ruffle Sakura’s hair with both hands.

“Shisui!” Sasuke hissed. Normally so polite, Shisui was being overly familiar and rude.

“Hands off the prepubescent girl, Shisui,” Izumi scolded knocking his head with her knuckles.

Hypocrite, Sasuke griped inwardly. She has reacted the same when she first met Sakura.

“I’m pubescent,” he heard Sakura mutter under her breath.

“Izumi is going to make us an early dinner. Would you care to join us?” Itachi smiled pleasantly, holding up the shopping bags in his hands as if they further explained what he meant.

Sasuke choked on air at his brother’s invitation. How did he make everything seem so easy? The words came out so smoothly while they were trapped in his own throat.

“Izumi-nee knows how to cook?” Sakura clasped her hands together in front of her chest, beaming up at the older girl in admiration.

“We’re about to find out,” Shisui answered while giving Izumi a smirk.

“I wish I could but I have to go help my parents in their shop today. I keep running out of allowance.” Sakura rubbed the back of her neck, giving them a sheepish smile. “It was nice meeting you all though. Bye Sasuke-kun, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sakura turned and jogged down the road, her long hair trailing after her. Sasuke was watching her until she turned the corner until he felt the eerie sensation of being watched.

“What?” He glared at his brother’s lovers. They snickered into their hands, not taking him seriously.

Itachi emitted a sigh, causing Sasuke’s head to snap in his direction.

“That’s just too bad, Sasuke. I guess your invitation for senbei would have been turned down as well. Better luck next time.”

“What?”

Sasuke’s cheeks heated up. He didn’t think they were close enough to hear him!

“It’s none of your business!” He snapped at them before marching into the Uchiha district.

“What did I say?” Itachi blinked at his younger brother’s retreating back.

“Don’t worry about it Ita-kun.” Izumi rubbed his upper arm in a comforting manner. “It’s just puberty.”

Shisui cringed at Izumi’s words and held himself tightly.

“May the gods be with us.”

. .

Sakura was wiping down a table when Nara Shikamaru strolled in.

“They’re in the patio,” she answered his unasked question. Besides picking up satchels of his mother’s favorite jasmine tea, Shikamaru was also tasked with locating his father who was most likely hiding in the Haruno’s tea house, playing shogi with Haruno Kizashi.

“I’ll let him play another game. I don’t feel like heading home yet. You free for a round?”

“I can’t play today.” Sakura gestured to the apron she was wearing. “I’m working. Want a cup of tea?”

“Do I gotta pay for it?”

“Nah. I’m in a pretty good mood so it’s on me.”

Sakura went back into the kitchen and prepared some Shui Hsien tea. It was a favorite in the store amongst the villagers that preferred the tea from the far, far away land her mother’s family had immigrated from generations ago.

Brewing tea was Sakura’s favorite part of working for her parents. Playing with the fire to make the perfect cup of tea was down to almost a science. Just like how creating the environment for their different leaves was down to a science.

When she brewed teas she could imagine herself brewing antidotes and creating new medicine to assist those that needed her help.

Sakura thought about her hitai-ate sitting on her desk in her bedroom and inwardly squealed with excitement.

She was a genin now and that was the first real step to becoming a shinobi others could rely on. She was on her way to achieving her dream.

Day’s Note: here’s the latest update you guys. I’m sorry for putting that huge block of text at the top but I was so freaking irritated and it’s not like I can have a private discussion with guest reviewers and I really needed to say it to everyone just so y’all know my stance on comments for ShiItaIzu. It’s just so unnecessary to say that━just exit the fic and move on.

In other news I set up a ko-fi and the button can be found on the desktop version of my tumblr blog or as ChronicallyChill on ko-fi. Or you can go here! Most of my money is spent on medical bills and other bills I have to take care of. I am lucky to live under my parent’s roof as they “moved me back in with them” (I was paying rent but hadn’t moved out completely yet because of work) when my illness was no longer manageable on my own.

I actually can’t drink coffee so donating a coffee is hilarious to me but any spare cash goes towards food money. I am chronically ill and things like cooking, even just making a sandwich can be hard because I can’t stand for too long because I am constantly in pain or exhausted or I don’t have the time because I needed to sleep more or worse couldn’t even get up in the morning but had to force myself to get to work, so most days I go without breakfast (and dinner usually). So if I have $3-4 to spare I am able to grab something to eat in the morning.

To readers of The Planning Of A Matriarch: and update is coming up! Be on the lookout for it coming out around it’s one year anniversary.

For everything else I’ve started updates on them too but i’m trying to complete the requests that were sent to me on tumblr as well because they’ve been sitting incomplete in my docs.

Talk to you guys soon (really soon hopefully!)

#this is sooo long it's under read more for a reason #ss fanfiction #sasusaku #day!fics #AGFTU #a gift from the universe #long post #super long post

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thesearchforspirk · 6 years

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1 x 8: ‘Balance of Terror’ {Subtext Study}

Please read my manifesto here if you haven’t already- it better explains my beliefs as per the Kirk/Spock dynamic and what I aim to accomplish with this blog.

An admittedly shorter study as this episode is without any strong Kirk/Spock interaction to mull over. There are some interesting possible parallels here, but even in that respect I’m not sure I’ll say anything that the TOS Commentary hasn’t already said about this episode. For all these reasons this episode was a bit of a white elephant for me, so if you want to skip this write-up I’ll understand. Either way:

Our episode opens with a wedding on board ship and never has Kirk looked happier to perform his duties as Captain. The fact that this wedding goes smoothly is very important to him (because he cares that much about his crew and is that much of a romantic and I just love him ok) so when he gets a message from Spock that some Earth outposts are in trouble he privately, quietly acknowledges so that no one else will hear. Some shit is about to go down for sure.

(the fact that Scotty escorts the bride down the aisle thrills me to no end- it has nothing to do with this blog, I’m just a shameless Scotty fangirl)

Sure enough the shit does, indeed, hit the fan and two Earth outposts are attacked by some mysterious vessel. The wedding must be abandoned and postponed (someone really does NOT ship this) so everyone can assume emergency battle stations as the Enterprise runs to help. On the bridge Kirk tries to gain as much info as he can about the attackers, though there doesn’t seem to be any definite info. A certain navigator is keen to help though, offering up, “there can’t be much doubt who’s attacking, sir”.

He may be right about that, as it seems the earth outposts are in place to guard the neutral zone, an area agreed upon after a war with the Romulans a long time ago. It turns out said navigator had family members who died in that war so he’s got a bone to pick with the Romulans. Kirk tells him, however, that it was their war and not his so don’t make this a personal thing, bub...even if the attacker of the hour is Romulan, I guess.

Spock replies that a few of the earth outposts have been completely decimated, indicating that the Romulan power must be greater than they thought. Kirk and Spock exchange some concerned looks as the gravity of their situation becomes apparent.

Do you remember our cute wedding couple from earlier? We see them again, hard at work in what appears to be the engineering sector. The groom says, “Happy wedding day- almost.” and the bride jokes, “You won’t get off my hook this easily. I’m gonna marry you mister, battle or phaser weapons notwithstanding.” “Well, meanwhile, temporarily, at least, I’m still your superior officer- so get with it, Mister!” So, apparently cutie pie groom who has a striking resemblance to another certain cutie pie on the ship is his bride-to-be’s superior officer. She just so happens to be seated at a control panel acknowledging orders. I guess that’s pretty inconspicuous enough.

(yeah...nothing to see here)