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louiseleblancdiggory · 3 years

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Dorothea

I can’t believe I’m back! It’s been a little rough these past couple of months but I’m happy to be writing again and hopefully will bring it back to my daily routine! Taylor released a new album so of course I had to write something! I hope you guys enjoy, it’s just a little silly thing.

“We are a failure.”

“We have five Grammys.”

“We are a failure with five Grammys.”

Gavriel snorted at the same time Lorcan threw a piece of paper at Fenrys’s head. Rowan simply sighed, resting his head against the table and letting out a deep groan.

“Why can’t we release the album with twelve songs?” He raised his head, looking at his bandmates. “Every single song we tried to write this past week was absolute shit. I don’t want to shove some lame ass song on our album because my aunt feels like we should have thirteen songs like the last two albums.”

“Yeah, sure.” Fenrys snorted. “Why don’t you go tell Maeve that?”

Vaughan chuckled, putting the drumsticks down and walking to the table where Fenrys, Rowan, and Connall were sitting. Lorcan and Gavriel both sat on the ground nearby, ripping out bad half-finished lyrics from some notebooks.

“We need a vocalist, that’s why he won’t do it.” Vaughan singsonged, sitting by Connall’s side. “We have been trying to write the songs together, why don’t we try something each one of us wrote separately?”

There was a beat of silence. For the five years the band had been together, every single song had been written by all the members. Sometimes two or three of them would do most of the work, but out of their thirty eight songs, there wasn’t one that didn’t have a contribution from all the members. Yeah, they would write their own songs, but it was never really serious or even meant to be used in an album.

And because they weren’t serious or meant to be used in an album, they were either absolute shit or fucking personal.

Rowan held in another groan.

Lorcan shrugged, getting up and sitting by Rowan’s side. Gavriel did the same, sitting on the table head opposite to where Fenrys was.

“Ok, who’s gonna go first?” Gavriel clapped his hands. “Fenrys.”

“Why me?” He squeaked.

“Why not you?” Connall butted in.

“Yeah, why not you?” Vaughan backed his boyfriend.

“Rowan, this is a mutiny against me.” Fenrys turned his head to Rowan, pouting like a child.

Both Rowan and Lorcan smiled sarcastically, and the latter said, “you are not the one in charge. If it was a mutiny, it would be against Rowan.”

“Who asked for the vulture to speak?” Fenrys asked, eyes narrowing at Lorcan.

“Just show us a goddamn song, Fen.” Rowan sighed, rubbing his temples. A few years ago, he had insisted for Gavriel to be the leader of the band. The older man had refused profusely, and Rowan only found out why when he started being the leader.

He was surrounded by adults who had the money and influence of gods but acted like children.

It was like being a mother but without the Mother’s day gifts. No advantages, really.

As instructed, Fenrys presented three songs for the group. And then Vaughan did. And then Connall, Gavriel, and Lorcan.

“I don’t know how to say this politely…” Connall started.

“They are absolute shit.” Lorcan finished.

“Shit is a compliment.” Rowan nodded, letting out a straggled laugh. He scratched the stubble on his cheeks, a small sense of panic rising inside of him. It wasn’t that Rowan was shy— he had let go of his shyness a long time ago—, but that didn’t mean he liked to go around advertising his personal ideas to the world. Some lyrics drafts should remain just that— drafts. Not everything was meant to be heard by everyone. Gathering some of his courage along with the knowledge that an acceptable song was an absolute necessity, he sighed. “I might have something.”

“What is it?” Gavriel said calmly at the same time Lorcan grunted. “You have something and you let us go through the torture of listening to Fenrys’s ideas?”

“You hurt my feelings like that, man.”

Rowan ignored both Lorcan and Fenrys, turning to Gavriel. “It’s about a girl.”

The room was dead silent.

Rowan knew he wasn’t really the dating type, much less the type to write songs about love, but the absolute silence was a little offensive.

“Ok…” Vaughan said, a scary smile on his face. “That came out of nowhere.”

“You can love someone?” Connall asked.

“You can feel emotions?” Fenrys deadpanned after his twin finished his sentence.

Lorcan snorted and Rowan saw Gavriel biting the inside of his cheeks. Absolute regret washed over his body immediately, but it was too late to back down.

Rowan tried to play it cool, keeping any emotions out of his face. He shrugged, opening a notebook and tapping a pen against it. “Not anyone I’ve seen in years. I don’t even remember her real name.”

The Cadre exchanged looks.

“When I was a kid my parents used to send me to this summer camp. From ages six to thirteen there was this girl who also went every single summer. She was a year younger, but we were friends. Barely talked during the rest of the year, maybe exchanged a letter or two.” He continued, eyes skimming through the lyrics in front of him. “Childhood crush and all. I know her name started with an A… Maybe an E? The counselors used to call her Dorothy, and I thought it was Dorothea. Called her that for two months until she corrected me. The nickname stuck between us, so yeah, Dorothea is all I have. I was thirteen when I stopped going, so she was twelve. Probably doesn’t even remember me.”

“Oh, that’s cute… Tragic young love and all.” Fenrys was smiling like an idiot, and Rowan rolled his eyes. He had never talked to anyone about Dorothea, not even his parents, not even when he was a kid. Life at home was shit during the whole year, but the summers? They were for late nights, swimming in the lake, running in the forest. They were sunny, and easy, and the few good memories he had from childhood. And she was in all of those memories— the girl and that fucking dog. Dorothea was the purest thing about his childhood, and he never wanted to have her memory stained by telling about her to his parents or school friends.

“Let me see this.” Vaughan said, taking Rowan’s notebook before Rowan could react. His friend’s pitch black eyes skimmed rapidly through the page, mouth opening slowly. “Holy shit.”

“It’s shit?” Lorcan asked.

“No, I mean holy shit as in this is amazing.” Vaughan looked up, brows raised. He passed the notebook to Gavriel, making both Lorcan and Connall move closer to read it too. “You had this song for two years now according to the date on the edge of the page. Why didn’t you share?”

Rowan cleared his throat, regret just growing more and more. “We write every song together.”

“If every song you write is like this, then we should probably let you take care of this task from now on.” Lorcan said, taking the notebook and throwing it to Fenrys.

Fenrys’s was probably Rowan’s best friend. They knew each other for the longest, and even though Rowan would never admit it out loud, Fenrys was the closest thing he had to a family and his approval was important.

Fen raised his head from the notebook, dark eyes shinning as a huge smile broke his face in half. “We’re recording this. Today.”

Connall and Vaughan laughed, and Lorcan clapped Rowan’s back. “Good job, birdie.”

Rowan didn’t know exactly what he was feeling, but somewhere between absolute fright and excitement could probably describe it.

—————

“Rowan Whitethorn!” A female voice rang through the room, and every member of the Cadre winced.

“Your aunt is gonna kill you.” Connall said, face washed with fear.

Maeve Whitethorn was the scariest woman to ever walk this earth, and so Rowan didn’t think Connall was completely wrong about that.

And yet, when Maeve entered the room she was…

“What the fuck.” Fenrys blurted out.

Smiling?

“She smiles.” Fenrys loudly whispered to Lorcan, receiving a punch to his arm.

“You, my nephew, are a fucking genius.”

“Yeah, ok, what the fuck.” Vaughan asked from the drums.

“What did I do?” Rowan asked cautiously, afraid that his aunt had actually gone insane.

“Dorothea, that’s what you did!”

“People liked the song then?” Gavriel asked from the couch. “It was a filler song, but good to know that’s not forgotten.”

“Oh, you’re not understanding.” Maeve laughed. All the boys’ jaws went slack. “People are eating that song up. And I mean trending everywhere, top in every single chart… Everyone loves Dorothea.”

“But how?” Lorcan frowned. “We didn’t advertise it.”

“Because people love a real life story of love.”

With that comment, Rowan’s body went taunt.

What the fuck.

No one in the band had told anyone what the song was about, nor that it was a real thing. For all the world knew, it was just another song that the band wrote together. And that’s how it should have stayed. Rowan hated being the center of attentions, and hated even more when his personal life was the topic at matter.

Dorothea had been his secret for so long, and he really thought that the song would be a secretive way to tell the story to the world.

If people knew it was real, if people knew anything about it, it was obviously not as secretive as he thought it was gonna be.

Shit, Dorothea wasn’t even her real fucking name. There’s no way anyone could know that.

Unless…

“Wait, she heard the song?” Rowan blurted out, a mix of emotions making his stomach drop. That also wasn’t on his plans.

Fenrys’s eyes widened. “Dorothea came forward?”

“Holy shit.” Vaughan let out a nervous laugh. Connall put a hand over his mouth, and both Lorcan and Gavriel looked at Rowan.

The boys knew how Rowan wanted this song to go. Knew he didn’t want the real story to go around like this. Because when stories went around like this, people would start making theories, and harassing the girl, and just shoving themselves in situations that did not concern them. Rowan loved his fans, loved the world he was in, but he was also the first to admit how brutal it could be. It would only take one slip up, one fact about this girl that the media didn’t like, for the whole world to attack her.

Rowan tried to protect her from his fucked up life during childhood just to throw her to the sharks later on.

And yet, another part of his panic had nothing to do with the media and the fans. It had to do with her. What if she hated the song? What of she didn’t want that story to be told? What if she wished for a calm life where her presence would never be noticed by the media? Rowan couldn’t stop thinking about her reaction, if she had remembered him the first time she listened to it or if it took a while.

He felt like his own body was trying to suffocate itself.

Fuck, he was gonna vomit. Or maybe pass out. Shit maybe even pass out on a pool of his vomit.

Ok, that was disgusting.

“It wasn’t the girl who came forward, it was her roommate. Posted a video online and then boom! Global success.” Maeve said, not even noticing her nephew’s growing panic. “Wait, I’ll show you the video!”

Fenrys grabbed Rowan’s shoulder, sitting by his side on the couch as Maeve plugged her phone to the projector. Lorcan sat between Rowan and Gavriel on the couch, and Connall and Vaughan sat on the ground. All of them looked expectantly at the screen, waiting for the bomb to drop.

He was gonna see her again.

After sixteen years.

Shit, it was getting hot inside that fucking room.

The screen popped up, and a beautiful woman with green eyes and long dark brown hair showed up.

“That’s not her.” Rowan blurted out. She could have dyed her hair, facial expression changed over the years but… That wasn’t the girl he met during the summer. No, he would recognize her eyes anywhere, and they sure as hell weren’t green like his.

Maeve rolled her eyes. “I told you it was her roommate who came forward. Now watch.”

The video started playing, and the strong and excited voice of the smiling woman on the screen started sounding through the speakers. “Ok, so I was driving home the other day, listening to the new album of the Cadre when the song Dorothea came up, right? And I thought that it was a little strange for the Cadre to put a rerecording of a song on the album since they had never done it before.”

The girl started to walk around her apartment, excitement lacing every single word.

“But then I found out that Dorothea is not a rerecording. But that doesn’t make sense, because I was a hundred percent sure I already knew this story. I don’t know any Dorothea, and I sure as hell don’t know Rowan Whitethorn, so it made no sense that I already knew the story being told in the song.” The girl let out a laugh, entering a room inside her apartment. “For days I would listen to that fucking song and keep asking myself why I feel like I know it. It’s not from a book, a movie…”

She started pulling out a box from under the bed, smile widening.

“And so yesterday my roommate asked me to grab an old box of VHS under her bed when I saw this box.” She filmed a huge box in front of her, the lid barely containing all the photos inside. “And that’s when I remembered where I know Dorothea from.”

The girl laughed again, opening the lid and running her hand through the pictures. “I knew the story because she had told me years ago. Dorothea wasn’t her fucking name, it was her nickname.”

As if in slow motion, the brunette took out an old picture from inside the box. Rowan felt all the air leaving his lungs as he stared at it. The picture was a little blurry, but there was no mistaking it. It was eight year old him in swim trunks, his arm over the shoulder of a shorter seven year old blond girl. Her biking was pink and full of frills, her wet blond hair sticking to her shoulders. She was holding a small black puppy, the dog obviously trying to wiggle himself out of the picture. The both stood before the lake, smiling brightly, a bunch of teeth missing. The girl in the video turned the picture, and right there, written in a fading blue pen was what made the song so famous.

Dorothea and Roro and Toto. Summer of 2000.

The girl in the video turned the camera back to her, smile not leaving her lips. “She told me that the nickname was Dorothea because the counselors used to call her Dorothy. As in the Wizard of Oz. The dog’s name was Toto, and so she was Dorothy. But then, he understood it wrong and just called her Dorothea. And…”

“What are you doing in my room?” A sweet, soft, and low voice interrupted whatever the brunette was going to say. She let out a yelp, letting the phone fall.

And the screen went black.

The room was silent for a few minutes after the video was over.

“Well shit.” Fenrys broke the silence. “What are the chances of her being as beautiful as her roommate?”

Lorcan reached behind Rowan to hit Fenrys on the back of his head.

“We should put a gag in his mouth.” Gavriel sighed.

“Oh, kinky.” Fenrys smiled seductively and winked at Gavriel. If it weren’t for the absolute shock raging inside of him, Rowan would have laughed.

“Is there a video of her?” Rowan quietly asked his aunt.

She looked at him for a second too long before nodding. “Just a second, there might be one. She isn’t really one for the cameras, but I do think she showed up in a Halloween video.”

She wasn’t one for the cameras.

Shit, shit, shit.

She wasn’t one for the cameras and Rowan had made her existence global knowledge.

Maeve took a few seconds to try to find the video, smiling again once she found it.

“This is still fucking weird. Your aunt can smile.” Fenrys said, and Rowan was glad for the words. Everything was happening too fast and too slow at the same time, and Fenrys’s stupid comments were a good way of centering himself. Looking at his friend, Rowan realized that Fenrys knew exactly what he was doing. “I thought she had lost the ability when she was, like, five or something.”

“That would imply that Maeve was ever a child.” Vaughan whispered from the ground.

Connall snorted, and Lorcan tried to contain a smirk.

“Here it is!” Maeve announced.

As if the screen was a magnet, all the eyes in the room snapped back to it. They all watched the screen expectantly, and Rowan thought Fenrys was even bouncing on his seat.

A petite woman appeared, clad in a black dress that matched her pitch black hair and eyes. If Rowan wasn’t so distracted, maybe he would have noticed Lorcan’s low, and yet sharp, intake of breath.

The pale girl was in the middle of two taller guys, one with inky black hair with a crown on top of it, sapphire eyes contrasting with the blood red of his cloak, and the other one with golden blond hair under a pirate hat. The three of them stared at a tall woman dressed in what Rowan supposed was a reaper costume. The white blond hair and golden eyes made her perfect for the part.

“He’s a cunt.” The reaper girl said, picking her nails with a scythe Rowan wasn’t absolutely sure was fake. The girl behind the camera— the brunette that recorded the video that exposed the real meaning of the song, Rowan supposed— chuckled as the two other guys exchanged a humorous look.

The petite woman smiled, obviously in agreement with her friend. “He is, but that’s ok. Did Tam end our three year relationship, six hours before Halloween, through the phone? Yes. Were we planning on a couple’s costume and I was left like an idiot wearing an Evie O’Connell costume with no Rick? Yes. But that’s ok because I have…”

“Me.” That same low and soft voice filled the room again, and as if she was always the center of attentions, all heads in the video snapped to her. Even though she wasn’t on camera yet, Rowan could hear the smile in her voice.

The blond guy rolled his eyes. “You have a thing for dramatic entrances, Aelin.”

Aelin.

Her name was Aelin.

“Reason why I live, actually. But come on. Don’t I deserve a dramatic entrance when I look like this? I look rather fucking dashing as Rick O’Connell, don’t I?”

“She does.” The guy with inky black hair nodded towards the blond guy.

“Don’t encourage her.” The other grunted, shaking his head but obviously smiling. “If my cousin’s head grows a little bit more she won’t be able to pass through the door.”

And then, as if time itself had stopped that second, the camera turned to Aelin and all oxygen left the room.

“Fucking shit.” Connall breathed, and Rowan saw Fenrys’s jaw going slack from the corner of his eye.

In his defense, so did Rowan’s.

The woman— Aelin— was exactly what she had just called herself. Fucking dashing.

Golden strawberry hair pulled back into one of those high, terribly made buns, slightly tan skin, and bright blue eyes, Aelin was every inch dashing she claimed to be. The costume was exactly what Brendan Fraser had wore the majority of the movie, and hell if it didn’t fit her perfectly. Aelin had grown to be the most beautiful woman Rowan had ever seen, and he felt his heart doing laps inside his chest just like when he was younger.

Well, fuck.

“If she was Rick O’Connell in the movies I would have probably paid more attention.” Fenrys muttered, dodging another hit from Lorcan. “What?! Look at her. The girl looks like the offspring of an angel and a supermodel.”

Aelin grinned, straight white teeth biting her lower lip. “Thank you, Dorian. And, I don’t need encouragement, Aedion. I am quite capable of being narcissistic on my own.”

The girl with blond white hair chuckled. “You were supposed to be a reaper with me.”

Aelin fake pouted. “Elide, my dearest cousin,” Aelin said pointedly, eyes narrowing at Aedion. Elide, the petite girl dressed as Evie, bit her cheeks to keep a smile in. “Needed me. Put a crown on top of your pretty head and do a couple’s costume with your boyfriend, Manon.”

Dorian sighed. “I tried convincing her.”

Manon simply crossed her arms. “I don’t do couple’s costume.”

Aelin shrugged nonchalantly. “Pity.”

And then, much to Rowan’s absolute panic and fascination, Aelin turned directly to the camera. She was obviously going to talk to the girl recording, but Rowan could barely hear the words as her full face came into view. Aelin was beautiful, but Aelin staring straight at you? Breathtaking.

“Don’t you think it’s a pity, Lys?” Aelin asked innocently, but a smirk graced her lips.

The smile in Lys’s voice was obvious. “Oh, yes. A pity.”

Aelin smiled, turning to Elide with a raised brow. Her cousin gave a less vicious version of Aelin’s smile. “Such a pity.”

It was obviously some inside joke, because Manon grunted, rolling her eyes. “Are we going or not?”

Aelin rich laugh drowned the room before the video ended.

“Well.” Vaughan said after a few beats of silence.

“Well.” Gavriel agreed.

“Well.” Another voice came from the door, and Rowan had to keep a displeased grunt in as Erawan walked into the room. The man was smiling sarcastically, eyeing the frozen image on the screen hungrily. Aelin had thrown her head back, mouth half open as she laughed. “Would you be pissed if I asked her hand in marriage, Rowan? Quite a beautiful girl, your Dorothea.”

Rowan would have gotten up and punched Erawan if Fenrys hadn’t literally sat on his lap before he could do anything. His friend turned to Erawan with a smile on his lips. “Unfortunately, Ewew, I believe the lady in question must prefer to stick to humans. She doesn’t really look like the I-do-demons type.”

Despite the obvious tension in the room, Connall took out his phone and took a picture of Fenrys sitting on Rowan’s lap. Lorcan had his arm behind both Gavriel and Rowan, and Vaughan was sitting in between Rowan and Lorcan’s leg. “You guys look like a strange ass family. This is gonna be this year’s Christmas card. I’ll photoshop myself in.”

Lorcan snorted, shaking his head before looking at Erawan. “Let’s leave the girl out of this, alright? If any of us wanted to use her for advertisement, we would have contacted her ourselves.”

“I’m your PR.” Erawan smiled. He was, a fact that the whole Cadre regretted. All pf them waited excitedly for the day Erawan’s contract expired.

Maeve was hard and cold, Erawan was a straight up asshole. Not even his aunt could put up with him for long.

“A very unfortunate fact you never let us forget, Earwax.” Fenrys said, nodding diplomatically. “Very, very unfortunate.”

“I don’t want her involved in any of this shit.” Rowan finally said something, voice low and threatening. Just the thought of throwing his childhood friends to the wolves that surrounded his life made his stomach turn. “You are my PR, so do your job. Create a distraction, release some rerecording, book us some interviews… I don’t care, but I want the focus away from her. I don’t want her involved in anything, Erawan. I mean it.”

The room was silent, tension threatening to suffocate anyone who breathed deep enough.

To Rowan’s surprise, and some gratefulness, Maeve took a step forward. She unplugged her phone from the projector, and Aelin’s image disappeared. “I believe it’s better if we keep the girl out of this. She’s very low profile, private accounts on both Twitter and Instagram. Dragging her into spotlight might not be a good option, specially since we don’t know how she behaves, what it would do to the image of the band. We have a love story, let the fans speculate, do some theories. Everything will die down in a month and she’ll be able to continue with her life.”

For all her harshness, all her coldness, Maeve wasn’t a bad aunt. She started taking care of Rowan when he was fifteen, and although they never had a close relationship, Maeve knew how to help him whenever he really needed it. It was the reason why he asked her to be the band manager, despite her obvious dislike of the human race. She was smart, cunning, and, at that moment, was using both qualities to keep Aelin out of what would become a huge mess.

“If we bring her in, there is nothing to terrorize. Her personality will be real, not something fans can stipulate and mold to their liking. She’s young and private, throwing her to the media would be a carnage. Leave Aelin out of this.” Gavriel tried to resonate with Erawan, voice low and calm as always.

Erawan sat on a table, a fake hurt expression overtaking his features as he sighed. “If only you had told me that before.”

The pit inside Rowan’s stomach grew.

“Before what.” Vaughan grunted.

“Before I contacted the girl.” Erawan smiled, as Rowan felt all the oxygen leave the room. He stared straight into Rowan’s eyes, a cruel smile overtaking his lips. “Would you like to see your childhood friend again, Whitethorn?”

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xkid86 · 4 years

Note

Can u write 5&25 with obi wan, Please?

You are officially my new favorite person, ur amazing, ilysm. Also this ask just brought back my crush on Obi tenfold.

5 should be out soon, promise, but here’s 25!

25. “Don’t. Move.”

Rating: E

Word Count: 2.4k b/c I have no self control

Warnings: Fluff, injury, Mace is a bit OOC probably, dialogue heavy

A/N: Fun fact Obi-Wan had a R4-P17 during the Clone Wars. All planet/sector/character names are made up.

~~~

“We believe there to be a Seperatist outpost on Sainti Tue, a planet close to our current campaign on Trogosath in the Scallerri sector. This may pose a threat to our efforts,” Mace Windu said calmly, walking around the circular halo-projector showing the position of the planets. “We need you to find it and see to it that it is taken care of.”

“Who else is assigned to this mission, if I may ask?” You look to the tan-clad Master to your left.

“Well, since Skywalker and his troops are currently assigned on a mission in the Outer Rim, it will be just your and Obi-Wan’s forces on this assignment,” Master Windu says, turning to face the two of you. “I trust this will be sufficient.”

“Yes, Master,” you both bow, leaving the briefing.

“So, another mission?” You ask Obi-Wan, walking alongside him toward the hanger.

“Yes, this time hopefully without the usual recklessness I have to go through,” he chuckled. “It’s been quite some time since we’ve been on mission together, hasn’t it?”

“It has. It’s been rather quiet without you and your padawan causing trouble on our missions.” You both bow your head to Luminara and Ki-Adi Mundi as they pass you in the halls of the Jedi Temple.

“Anakin’s matured quite a bit since the last time we had a mission together. He’s actually taken on a padawan,” Obi-Wan says.

“Really? I’m surprised I haven’t heard about it. I suppose he’s still just as headstrong, though?” You smile, recalling the many times Anakin nearly sacrificed himself and the mission for some thing or another.

“Indeed. He’s doing quite well with Ahsoka so far,” he says, “She’s turning out rather well.” The two of you are separated briefly by a small group of younglings running between you both, scattered “Sorry Masters” floating back to you.

“I imagine she’s just as determined and headstrong as her master, huh?” Having reached your destination, you turn to him.

“She has. I’m honestly surprised you haven’t requested a padawan yet, you’re a wonderful teacher,” he says, smiling softly at you. And honestly, between the compliment and his heart-stopping smile, you find yourself blushing.

“It’s not that I haven’t asked, I just think the Council doesn’t quite trust me with a youngling quite yet. I only completed my Trials a little more than three cycles ago,” you confess, looking down.

“Hmm, I think you have more than enough experience to take on a padawan, between your training and having to deal with my padawan,” he says. “And it’s honestly not like you can do any worse than Anakin.”

“I guess so… Well, I figure I should go gather up my troops. Meet you back here in ten?”

“Of course.”

The 212th legion and the (number)th legion land in the dense jungle of Sainti Tue. The air was hot and sticky, and it hits you in the face as you hopped off the carrier ship. Looking up at the gigantic shrubs and odd grasses, you recognize the purple onuyer’s distinct shape, its large, bulbous leaves creating cover for your troops, if there are any Separatists here. Climbing up a nearby rock, you see a circular compound not too far in the distance. Pressing the comlink on your wrist, you comm through to your captain and Obi-Wan. “I think I’ve found our heading.”

The ruins in front of you seemed deserted, at least from the outside. “Captain Ry, get Ink to open these blast doors please, on the double.”

The (color)-marked clone motions to your tech expert, who quickly gets the doors open. No one is in the main entrance, so you quietly move your troops into the hall. Pulling out your lightsaber, the (color) light cast shadows on the inlaid walls. Multiple passageways lay out in front of you, twisting and turning into darkness. You motion for the troops to split up and search the area, dividing themselves amongst the tunnels. Obi-Wan takes for the tunnel directly across from the entrance, and you follow up behind him. Taking a sharp turn, the two of you find yourself upon an earther stairwell. You start up, tensed and on edge, waiting for any battle droids to creep their way out of the stone inlay. The stone under your feet suddenly turns to metal, and both of you jump at the sudden “clang!” that rings out. “Ah yes, two skilled Jedi, started by the sound of a metal staircase,” Obi-Wan mutters, continuing up the flight of stairs. The stairs soon level out, opening up into a long, slightly-better-lit room. Simultaneously sheathing your weapons, you walk into the room, footsteps echoing slightly around you. The two of you slowly make your way through the room, steps becoming a bit less stealthy. It’s been half an hour- probably more- just getting through that long tunnel, and no droids have popped out? Talk about a bust mission.

Slowly moving forward, Obi-Wan held his arm out, blocking you from going any further. “Don’t. Move.”

You stop, leaning into his outstretched arm ever so slightly, and listen, hearing the shuffle of battle droids in the dark balconies about you.

“Did we just walk into a Seperatist trap?” You exhale.

“I do believe we just walked into a Seperatist trap,” he says, reaching towards his lightsaber. Your own (color) blade hummed alongside his. “A surprisingly well-laid Seperatist trap.”

“Indeed.”

Blaster shots fire out, and deflecting some, you start running towards a nearby control panel. “Arfour, get those doors open!” You call to the red astromech droid, continuing to deflect blaster fire left and right, reflecting some shots back into their rightful owners. Arfour trills, apparently unable to get the doors open.

“It’s times like this that I miss Artoo,” Obi-Wan points out. “Even if his master is a bit troublesome.”

You huff out a laugh at that. “Very tru– ah!” A deadly beam of light managed to make its way past your saber and hit you in the leg. “Shit shit shit–.” You slump down on the ground slightly, your now-injured leg unable to support your weight. Hastily turning off your lightsaber, you notice a few straggling droids. “Obi, o-on your left,” you say weakly, trying not to let the pain get the best of you. I’ve had worse I’ve had worse this is nothing this is a scratch–

Obi-Wan quickly takes notice of your predicament. “Oh to hell with it!” Pushing Arfour away from the control panel, he quickly crushes the few remaining battle droids by way of the Force and works on cutting a hole through the blast doors. An opening is made in what seems like record time; Arfour gliding through while Obi-Wan picks you up. He holds you bridal-style, gently placing you down on the other side before climbing through himself. Picking you up again, his comlink suddenly beeps on his arm. Sighing, he awkwardly shuffles you about, before ending in a position where he was basically cradling you in his arms just to reach the comlink. “Great timing Cody,” he says, exasperation evident in his tone.

“Sorry General. Just letting you know, we cleared the surrounding areas. We found no signs of Seperatist leaders on the outpost, just a whole lotta clankers,” the Commander’s voice came through on the comlink. “If there were, we believe they’ve already fled the planet.”

“Kriffing– all right. We’ll meet you at the rendezvous point in time for extraction. In the meantime, can you make sure there’s a bacta kit or medic available? And put all my comms in through (y/n)’s for now,” Obi-Wan says, not waiting for a response before shuffling you back to a more comfortable position. “So sorry dear, Cody should really learn when a good time to call is–”

“Yeah, teach your Commander to use the Force,” you say, pain making you slightly out-of-it. “That’ll make sure he doesn’t comm you when he has no clue what’s going on.”

“Very funny,” he says, sidestepping bits of battle droids and sparking control panels. Good to see the clones cleared through, very few of your own men were shot down. Seeing a small platoon of your clones on the ground level just below the balcony you were on, he decides to make his way down. He is, however, unable to find a stairway or lift. Making use of a Force jump, he lands a bit harder than he would have cared to, jostling your leg and making you cry out in pain. “Shit– sorry darling, it’s going to be okay,” he says. You nestle into his chest as he stands and clears his throat–

The platoon finds it’s blaster sights pointed at the pair of you, before– “General!” Captain Ry says, quickly coming to your side. “What’s the matter sir?”

“Blaster shot to the leg,” Obi-Wan interjects. “Do you have a bacta kit on hand?”

“No sir, we’re just onto the rendezvous point now, and fresh outta supplies,” he says, motioning for his men to start moving. “I can take them if you need me to,” Ry nods his head towards where you lay (quite comfortably) in Obi-Wan’s arms.

“I’ve got it, you worry about your men,” he says, turning his attention back to you. You were dozing off in his arms until he calls your name. “It would be in your best interest to stay awake, my dear.” Hiding my blushing face may be my best interest right now, you think. Regardless of your personal state, you find enough strength to wrap your arms around Obi’s neck for support. “Bit of a bust mission, huh?” You mumble. “No Seperatist leaders, just a whole lot of scrap metal.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Very scarce for a mission you decide to get injured on.”

“It’s not like it was my choice,” you slur out, nuzzling your head back into Obi-Wan’s warm chest. “Man, it’s like the Trials all over again these days.”

“If you don’t end up with the rank of Master soon, I’m going to be very disappointed in the Council,” Obi chuckles

“A-aren’t you on the Council? Kind of rude to put yourself down like that,” you say, dozing off once again.

“You’re very right,” he says, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“Cody! Where that damn medic!” The din of carrier ships “We have to get—to the cruiser—medical attention—”

Clips of sounds and voices fade in and out- the most predominant being Obi-Wan. By the time you come to, the bright white lights of the med bay were giving you a damn headache.

“Maker, why is it so bright in hereeee,” you whine out, throwing the crook of your elbow over your eyes in an attempt to block the light harassing your eyelids.

“Glad to see you back in the land of the living,” a deep voice says from your left.

“Obi-Wan,” you sigh out, glad to see a familiar face sitting next to you. “How long was I out?” He looked so tired, as if he’d been here for—

“Only a few days.” He held your right hand, gently intertwining your fingers with his. He presses a kiss to the back of your hand before placing it on his forehead, leaning over your bedside. “To be quite honest, I thought I could have lost you,” sadness laces his voice.

Not “we,” not “the Council.” Your heart twisted at the sound of him so sad. “But you didn’t,” you offer.

“And gods am I glad for that,” he smiles, standing and gently pressing his lips to your cheek- just a bit too close to your own.

Pulling your other hand out from the covers, you tangle it in his hair and pull his lips to your own— Jedi Code be damned. You could have died, and for what? A bust mission. No sir; carpe diem.

“If you’re going to kiss me, kiss me properly goddamn it,” you smile up at him.

“Ever the lively one, you are,” he smirks. “I’ll be back, I need to inform the Admiral and the Council you’re well.”

~~~

“Thank you, Masters,” you smile at the Grand Council, then look to the young Togruta child by your side.

“Hmm, a good teacher, you will be. A briefing of your next mission, Master Windu will give,” Yoda says from his chair, looking to his left.

Master Windu nods, “Your briefing will be in the communications center in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” you smile and the child beams up at you, like the Moon reflecting the Sun’s light.

Being the end of the meeting, the various Council members stand and mingle, discussing whatever it is that needs discussed. Well, except for one. “Run along, young one,” you say with a hand on their shoulder, “I’ll catch up.” You wink, their blue cheeks going a shade darker at the attention. They run off, darting between the Council members and down towards the communications center. You walk over to where Obi-Wan sat sprawled out in his seat, gazing at you affectionately. The room was mostly cleared out by now, and as you placed yourself to stand just in between his legs, you held out your hands. He took them in his own, admiring you as you smile down on him. “I’m a Master,” you say, pride and exhilaration in your eyes and voice.

“I know. I was the one who suggested to the Council granting you the rank,” he smirks, pulling himself up. “Kandra Rae Haal, hmm?” You smile at the name of the 14 year old Togruta now in your care. “I daresay she is almost as headstrong as Anakin.”

“Oh no,” you say in feigned terror. “I’ve put up with him this long, I think I’ll be fine.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says with his usual smug look. From where his hands are intertwined with yours, he pulls you into a hug. He squeezes you tight, his arms wrapped around your waist and yours around his neck, where one hand comes up to play with his hair. Since he almost lost you- which he’s convinced happened, regardless of it only being a shot to the leg- your relationship bloomed, under covers of course, neither of you quite ready to leave the Order in such a dire time.

“Either way, thank you,” you say, holding him tight and all but burying your face in his neck.

“While I do enjoy holding you while not in a life-or-death situation, I daresay it would be bad for you to show up late to your first briefing as a Jedi Master,” he says, pulling away from you slightly.

“Oh shi-” You didn’t realize how long you spent with him. With a quick peck on the cheek, you rush out into the halls of the Jedi Temple. Obi-Wan smiles as he leisurely makes his way out of the Council’s tower. “Already doing better than Anakin,” he remarks to himself.

#star wars #request #ask #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan imagine #imagine

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honeyjaez · 4 years

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Maze of Miroh- Chapter 19: The Battle for The Under Pt 2

I have a somewhat long announcement guys so bear with me here.

Ahhh hey guys. I got a lot of reasonings as to why this chapter is so late. First, I started Uni again, and its been an adjustment. Two, some internal issues at work caused me to break down in a complete depression spiral. For about 3 whole weeks I cried at work at least once a day haha. Finally, and this was more recent, but the rumors regarding Woojin. I started this story of May 2019, before Woojin left, and afterwards I vowed I would continue to write him in my story despite no longer being in the group. But this issue it totally different in its entirety. Regardless if they are true or not (and we don't know that they are or not) the way he has handled the whole thing did not sit right with me. This topic hits close home for me as it is and I contemplated removing Woojin from my story all together to avoid making you guys feel uncomfortable as well as myself because it is such a serious trigger. As more rumors came out about his treatment towards the others members and what not I suddenly got a sick feeling in my stomach about him in general. When news first broke out I just wanted to go on in the story, never writing his name again and just totally drooping his character. I thought about telling everyone to not think of these characters as stray kids members and keep him in. But as I've had time to calm down and come to my own decision about the matter, I've decided that I will write him in this story for only this chapter and possibly next. I will be removing him from this story in a plot driven way and I would like you all to respect my decision on this matter. If it comes out later on that he is innocent of all his has been accused, then hey, *shrugs*. But I would rather that than me continue to write such a compassionate and kind character for someone who has lost their way in this regards. I just personally do not feel comfortable at this moment writing him in. Which really sucks because he was such an important part of this arc lol. Anyways, If I have offended you all by my way of removing Woojin from this story I am truly sorry. Again I thought about just totally pretending his character never existed in the first place. But as a writer, it didn't sit right with me.

With that, I have to tweak the story a bit, but I hope you enjoy this little update. Next update is nearly done (Actually this chapter was originally like 3 times longer, but I decided to cut it up.) Have a good night!

The Under:

To say Jisung was in a bad mood was a complete understatement.

All they were supposed to do was get down here, get the information they needed from Dowoon and get the fuck out.

There weren't supposed to be any psychotic speed demons, nor an emo Legolas wannabe with a stick up his ass. And there CERTAINLY wasn’t supposed to be any Virus.

Jisung furrowed his brow as their group ran towards the outer city limits. He looked behind him to see Minho straggling a few feet to the side, the older boy's eyes focused on the road in front of them. Jisung clicked the roof of his mouth with his tongue in annoyance before he turned back around to look at the buildings in front of them.

If only the others knew what they were going through. Jisung almost laughed imagining the raging meltdown both Changbin and Seungmin would have had in reaction to their current situation. They both are used to Chan’s more risky judgments, being in the group for as long as they had. Oh, if they could see us now….

He let out a long-winded sigh of defeat. They should have left when they had the chance.

But alas, he was being the selfish one here, and his other members had to be heroes incarnate, risking their lives for a group of people who they barely knew…Woojin hyung aside. And in return, it would be up to Jisung to protect them all since they were all so infuriatingly reckless.

Nope definitely not annoyed....

Jisung’s ears perked as he heard a voice call out to them as they moved closer to the edge of the city. His eyes adjusted forward to see Wooyoung looking back at them, mouth moving as he voiced a command to them. Right away, the team came to an halt as they reached the first signs of buildings, and Wooyoung turned to look back at them, his eyes dark and hard with determination.

“Since some of you don’t know how our city is set up, we will split up in groups.” he explained “Mingi will go with Minho to the eastern section of the city, while Jisung and I will head to the north… Jongho, you'll be in the west.”

Wooyoung’s voice faded from Jisung’s mind as he felt his blood run icy cold at Wooyoung’s words. Now his annoyance was being overwritten by fear. This was exactly what he was afraid of… they were splitting up.

“Hyung,” Wooyoung seemingly continued, looking towards Woojin “since you know the city, can you head to the center? Our 3 teams will have to work fast, ushering the people back here towards the southern part of the city where the bunker is.”

Jisung shook himself back to the present and looked to see that while his eyes were hard with determination, he didn’t miss the way Wooyoung’s hands trembled at his sides. He regarded the older boy with a wave of understanding and sympathy.

No matter how you look at it, we are working in a helpless situation… At Least he has the good sense to be scared…

But that begs the question. What about him? Was he scared? He was annoyed, that was for sure. But it didn’t take a genius to know his annoyance was just a mask, trying to hide his own fear. No matter what, the odds did not look favorable. 5 of them trying to evacuate an entire city on their own? Working with a timer that they didn’t even know what it’s set at?

No thanks, I want a refund.

Woojin must have sensed Jisung’s negativity, for he set his eyes on the younger, giving out a small, knowing cough to gain his attention. He looked up and locked eyes with Woojin, seeing the elder boy give him a half smile, like he was trying to reassure him.

“It won’t be easy,” he said out loud, tearing his gaze from Jisung’s and towards the party. “It will take all of our best efforts, but remember what Hongjoong said. No one has permission to die here and I am seconding that.”

The younger boys all stared at the older boy, their gaze turning hard with determination. Only Jisung looked apprehensive as he stared at his two teammates, and he found himself looking particularly in the direction of their green-horned Minho, who was still very much a novice in this world.

Jisung thought back to just a few hours ago in their shared room and Minho’s words caused Jisung’s brain to short circuit.

“Jisung, no matter what obstacle, what problem and what path leads in front of you, I believe with every fiber of my being that you will come out on top.”

God I really hope he is right….

If he was going to save the city and keep Minho alive he was going to need all the luck in the world.

Minho’s words replayed in his mind as he caught sight of Mingi making his way over to the brown haired boy. It was then that Minho himself seemed to feel Jisung’s gaze, and looked back, staring evenly. Jisung noticed with a twitch in his face, Minho’s soft eyes showing the slightest of fear to him. But before Jisung could do anything, Minho quickly covered it up with a misplaced resolve.

The younger grit his teeth in annoyance, knowing that look all too well. He saw it enough in his brother when they were kids and enough times in Chan and the others to last him a lifetime.

I swear to god he wants me to hate him...

Nothing made Jisung madder than a beautiful idiot with a death wish....

And Minho was all three.

There were a few exchanges between Wooyoung and the others, but all too quickly it was over and Jisung felt an arm ripping him from the circle, and thus tearing him from Minho’s gaze.

“Come on” Wooyoung muttered quickly “We have the furthest distance needed to travel. There is no time to waste.”

Just like that, Jisung was pulled from his fellow members, his stomach churning at the thought of being separated from them in a situation like theirs. If he isn’t there to stop them from being complete idiots, then who was?

Yep. Definitely annoyed.

“Fuck...” he cursed under his breath as he turned his back around, leaving the group behind as the both picked up speed. Jisung closed his eyes, sending a silent prayer to whatever god lived above to listen to his plea.

“Keep the idiots with a deathwish safe….please…”

Minho

Minho watched as Wooyoung dragged Jisung away, an uneasy feeling in his stomach starting to make its way upwards. He hated being separated just as much as Jisung probably felt. But he couldn’t argue with Wooyoung’s logic, nor could he back down from the task at hand.

He was going to save as many people as possible and show The Order that their time of winning was over.

Minho jumped slightly as he felt a hand on his shoulder, turning to see Woojin give him a comforting smile. “Jisung will be alright Minho,” he said, as if he knew his thoughts. “If anyone can take care of themselves, it’s Jisung.”

“Yah.” Minho agreed with a quick nod of his head.”You’re right.”

“Minho!” Mingi called “You ready? We need to get going!”

Minho turned to the taller boy who was standing next to Jongho and nodded “Ready”

Woojin took a step forward, brushing his shoulder with Minho’s as a form of comfort. “Take care of him Mingi, he is our important member and friend...lord knows what Felix would do to me if I lost him on this mission.”

Mingi snorted playfully “I don’t know who that is, but as long as he can keep up we will be fine.” He then turned towards Jongho, placing two hands on his shoulders “Be safe little one.”

Minho almost laughed as he watched Jongho look up at the taller boy with a mildly annoyed face, “You know I can kick your ass right?” he asked the taller boy.

Mingi was unfazed as he waved a hand in the air. “Details Details” he said with a smile, motioning for Minho to follow him. If Jongho had heard his comment, the youngest made no notion of it, and turned back around, heading in his own direction.

As they ran further and further from the others he couldn’t help but shake a deep feeling of dread. Minho turned his gaze backwards to look at Woojin’s fleeting figure and he felt his heart tightening in his chest. Something didn’t didn’t feel right.

“Tch!” Minho growled to himself mentally “No. I won’t psych myself out this time!”

This was it. This was another chance to do good, and prove to himself that he CAN do what is needed to be done. No more hiding. No more cowardice. Minho had to make a difference here or his promise to Jeongwoo would be meaningless.

The two of them went on for a few minutes in complete silence, but eventually Minho could feel Mingi’s gaze on him and he turned his head slightly to glance back.

“What?” was all he asked.

“How new?” he asked.

Minho's eyes widened in confusion, turning to get a better look at the bigger boy “Excuse me?”

Mingi chuckled, his gaze turning back to the road in front of them “I mean how new are you to this harsh world of fighting?”

Minho felt his cheeks warm in embarrassment at the question, and he quickly looked at the ground in front of him, sheepish. “Is it that obvious?” he mewed quietly.

Mingi laughed louder this time, throwing two hands in the air in kindness “Not really.” he chuckled “I mean just the fact that you beat San shows you have skills.” He said encouragingly. “I just ask because your members treat you like you're fragile… something you only really do when you are new to this world.”

Minho nodded, trying to calm down from his mild dose of embarrassment. “You can say that again….” he mused.

Mingi smiled at him and gave him a toothy grin “Well the others might not say it, but just the fact that you are against The Order makes you a friend to me!”

Minho’s eyes widened and he nearly smiled at the boy’s pure words. “I thought The Under were neutral when it came to The Order…” He said with a puzzled look. ”You neither give them support but neither do you fight against them… isn’t that right?”

But the younger boy shrugged rather casually, “That is the standard” he explained “But it doesn’t necessarily mean we all agree with it. Hongjoong hyung...” Mingi trailed off, like he was contemplating saying his next words.

“Truthfully….” the taller boy continued more slowly “If it were up to Hongjoong Hyung… We would have liked nothing more than to go the surface, to make The Under more than just a lawless city, that in which is suffocating in the mud and dirt down here.” Mingi turned and gazed at Minho, with the first sense of intensity he caught all day “He wants a better future for the children born down here, something we didn’t get.”

Minho looked at him, pondering his words for a few seconds, and trying to understand the underlying problem. Suddenly Chan’s words flashed through his mind.

“ If we even wanted a chance at overthrowing The Order, then we needed allies. Strong allies at that... “

Minho looked towards Mingi, face pure and honest “If given the chance... Would you fight back? And I mean seriously fight back...”

Mingi gazed back at him, noticing the serious expression on his face, nodding once. “Aye.”

Minho felt a wave of weight being lifted from him and he gave Mingi an earnest smile “Then maybe one day we will.”

It fell into a comfortable silence after that, but Minho couldn’t help but smile now as they ran. This was his first real interaction with another member besides San, and it left him hopeful that they could work together in the future. If they were all like Mingi and Hongjoong that is…

But before he could romance the idea any further, Minho’s smile dropped as he began to hear yelling in the far distance. Screams began to fill his ears and Minho realized with a thump to his heart that they were finally reaching an area with people. As they rounded the corner his eyes widened wide with alarm at the sight of crowds of people rushing forwards, carrying their young ones and belongings as they pushed towards the center. There was no order to it. It was chaotic and messy.

Exactly what Zico wanted.

Minho looked to Mingi who was also looking at the sight with a grim expression on his face. No matter how you looked at it, just two of them controlling this crowd was nearly impossible. It wasn’t going to be easy whatsoever.

But they had to start somewhere.

Mingi rushed forward then, aiming towards a herd of people, easily outpacing them and stopping at the front of them with his arms stretched wide as a blockade. There were a few shocked gasps but also a few who recognized the young boy almost immediately.

“Mingi-ssi!?” Minho heard a voice from the mass call “What are you doing?! Why are you stopping us?!”

Mingi looked at the crowd, his face dead serious. “Despite what Zico said, protocol calls for all evacuations to take place in the southern bunker!” he tried to yell over the chaos “I’m going to have to ask you to turn the other way!”

Hushed murmurs ripped through the crowd and Minho perked his ears forward to listen.

“That's true…” a female voice said.

“But why would Zico send us to the center if it wasn’t the safest…”

“No matter what it looks like we have orders…”

“Well I trust our leader!”

Please, Please… Minho pleaded.

But Minho’s plea was crushed as the crowd began to push Mingi backwards, choosing to continue on their path. He watched as Mingi was quickly shoved to the side by the masses and he ran forward, pulling him back up as the crown sprinted forward and away from them.

“Mingi-ssi!” he called, helping the boy off from the ground. “Are you okay?”

“Tch!” he spat. “They are choosing to believe Zico over me!”

“Well” Minho reasoned “They don’t know about Zico so of course they still trust him…”

Mingi punched the ground in front of them, his anger rising “Dammit!” he cured “If only Hongjoong hyung was here...”

“Mingi-ssi?” a voice called.

Minho turned to see a taller, older man with worn out blond hair looking at him from across the rushing street. He quickly made his way over to them, holding out a hand to Mingi.

Mingi looked up, taking the older boy's hand, a tired smile on his face. “Inpyo hyung!” he cried “Thank god you are here!”

The one named Inpyo nodded, his face grim “Once the alarm sounded my boys and I set out to help with the evacuations but we are having a bit of difficulties” he admitted. He then turned towards Minho, eyes narrowing in mild interest “Who is this?”

Mingi waved a hand in the air, “This is Minho. He and his group are helping us. Minho-” he turned, waving a hand at the taller man “This is Inpyo. He and his team are one of the best of our police force down here.”

“- Was ” Inpyo corrected, holding out his hand to Minho in greeting “We all retired a few years back when we couldn’t stand by Zico any longer.”

Minho nodded in greeting, taking his hand for a quick shake “I don’t blame you..”

Inpyo smiled at that and took his hand away. “Mingi,” he asked, turning back towards the younger “Why would Zico have the city evacuate to the center of the city?”

Mingi shook his head “I can’t explain right now, but it is all wrong hyung, the center of the city is the focal point of what's to come, and we need to get everyone to get away from there. But no one is willing to listen to me...”

Inpyo placed a hand on his chin, deep in thought.

“Asking them to believe in someone else over their trusted leader is a bit much for most people....” Inpyo mused.

“I understand that” Mingi agreed “But we have to convince them somehow…”

They were all quiet as chaos erupted around them, trying to think of a plan. Suddenly a thought came to Minho’s mind and he looked up at them with wide eyes.

“Inpyo-ssi?” Minho asked “When you say you were one of the best, how much did the people of The Under trust you? Did you have their respect?”

The question caught the older man off guard for a second but quietly nodded “Ah.”

Mingi scoffed “Didn they respect him? They practically worshiped the ground they all walked on…”

“Then why not have Inpyo and his team tell everyone where to evacuate?”

“As much as they trust me Minho,” Inpyo started “I’m still asking them to go against Zico’s orders...most won’t be willin-”

Minho held a finger up in the air to interrupt “But what if we don’t tell them to go against his orders?”

Mingi tilted his head in confusion “Okay, now I’m lost”

But Inpyo seemed to understand what Minho was getting at and nodded once “We tell them something different. Something they would believe came from Zico himself...”

Minho smiled, a small bode of confidence sparking in him “Instead of telling them the evacuation site has changed, we tell them that the center bunker is too full and overflow needs to evacuate to the southern bunker.”

Mingi’s eyes widened in realization while Inpyo nodded “It might work, especially if it comes from our mouths.”

“Hyung” Mingi suddenly turned and looked at the elder boy “Where’s Jiahn and the others? Can you get in contact with him? Have them help?”

Inpyo nodded, pulling out a small phone “I scattered them all to various districts. But I can call them and update the plan. Jiahn should be in the center of the city right now...”

Minho looked at the elder boy, chewing his bottom lip in worry. “If I can ask Inpyo-ssi. One of my hyungs should be arriving in the center region any second now to help with the evacuation. Maybe your friend could meet up with him.”

Inpyo smiled softly and nodded, “Better as teams than opposing forces. Who is your friend?”

“It’s Woojin hyung” Mingi answered. Inpyo’s face widened in mild surprise and he looked at Mingi with curiosity in his eyes “Woojin? Woojin is in the same group as Minho. Wooyoung is in the North with another of their teammates and Jongho is in the Western quadrant.”

Inpyo eyed him with a mildly disappointed look “And Hongjoong? Where are the rest of your teammates Mingi?”

The taller boy shook his head “Not enough time hyung. Just know they are all doing their part in this. Please hyung….We could really use your help…”

Inpyo nodded looking at the two of them. “I’ll get in contact with my team. Don’t fret Mingi-ya. The Under won't die here is I have anything to say about it.”

They stayed quiet as Inpyo opened his small phone and quickly dialed a few numbers. There was a few more heartbeats of quiet as he put the device to his ear, but soon enough they heard a click and a muffled voice on the other line.

“Jiahn hyung-yes yes I'm okay. Listen, plans changed” he started “We were right. Something is fishy with the center evacuation. We need to evacuate them to the sou-oh?” he stopped midstence as the voice spoke to him and Minho watched as he nodded in response “I get it. You met Woojin already and he told you. Okay. Well tell the people that the center is full and Zico has ordered the overflow to the south. Can you pass the information to Isaac and Yeontae’s groups? Great Thank you. Tell them when their sections are done and they have done a sweep to report to the southern bunker.”

And like that, without even saying goodbye the elder boy quickly shut the phone and turned back to look at them.

“For trusting sake, Mingi keep Minho with you as you work your ways inwards. We have a lot of ground to cover and not a lot of time.”

Both boys nodded and stood up from the ground, pounding their feet on the ground as they began to run into the crowd. A familiar sense of dread suddenly filled Minho to his core and he swallowed hard, his heart beat racing.

Why did he feel like something terrible was about to happen?

#kpop au #stray kids #stray kids au #lee know #minho #han #jisung #minsung au #bang chan #chan #changbin #seungmin #hyunjin #jeongin #i.n #felix #maze of miroh

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arcadianambivalence · 4 years

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World on Fire, Episode 5: Us-Versus-Them

Late May 1940—Early June 1940

Harry’s BEF unit has dwindled down to four exhausted men straggling through the fog. Belgium has fallen to the German invasion. Refugees and soldiers line the roads all the way to the horizon as hundreds, if not thousands, walk to the coast. Stuka screamers swoop down over them in a practice called strafing.

Harry’s unit picks up a lost French girl and her dog and later finds a group of shell-shocked soldiers and two Senegalese soldiers separated from their unit in Ypres. (Yes! Something that includes the colonial forces!) Stan is suspicious that some of the men could be faking their symptoms to hide that they’re German spies or British deserters, but Harry refuses to leave the men behind as the group makes a long and perilous journey to the coast.

Along the way, they stop at a field hospital in hopes that the shell-shocked soldiers could be treated, but the head doctor says the hospital is full to capacity and cannot take everyone. The doctor in question? None other than Webster O’Conner! The interactions between the Parisian characters and the soldiers are brief, but it’s always a delight when characters from different storylines converge.

So, exhausted and still covered in blood from the attack on the road, the soldiers set out again with only a vague order of retreat and a possibly false map on a propaganda flyer to guide them. The German line is pushing in, and anyone left behind will be taken prisoner...from the French soldiers guarding the perimeter to the wounded in the field hospital.

Uwe receives the first letter from the Institute. He yells at his workers for displaying Nazi flags (because they could get “caught in the machines”) and draws the attention of an employee who is a proud member of the Nazi party. He tells Claudia (still at the lake house with Hilde) of the news, and the two resolve to be strong for their daughter, no matter what happens or how they disagree.

Later, the Nazi employee reveals that she knows about Hilde and her hiding place. Enraged, Uwe reacts like I’m sure many parents would want to if their child is threatened. He follows the employee into the factory and strikes her face with an iron. Between the blow of the iron, her fall onto a table, and her final descent to the concrete floor, the employee dies of head trauma.

Now with an even more urgent problem, Uwe turns to Nancy for help, and it turns out Nancy has had some experience with carrying a corpse in the past. Like the backstory of Harry’s father, Nancy’s history is still kept under wraps. Did she report on the Spanish Civil War? Something in America? Maybe the next two episodes will involve an explanation.

Douglas and Robina continue to meet and see Jan. Robina starts to look at Douglas with something more than pleasantness as he bonds with Jan.

(Again, I ask, if their kids are broken up for good, can they get together?)

But this enemies-to-friends-to-they’d-never-admit-to-wanting-to-be-lovers relationship still has its hurdles, particularly how they don’t see eye-to-eye about the war. Then there’s Robina’s lingering prejudices.

ROBINA: I can’t make out if [Jan’s] dourness is a racial characteristic or his personal disposition.

DOUGLAS: I’m not sure the Poles are a race.

ROBINA: Well, they aren’t like us, are they?

(Oh, there’s an us now?)

Across the Channel, Lois is now visibly pregnant and is treated differently for it, something underscored by her conversation with her manager, who suggests that she stand still while performing.

LOIS: Are you saying I wobble, Ted?

A pilot tries to make conversation with her and Connie (suspicion is drawn to his “Canadian” accent) but is rebuffed. Lois makes a wonderful stink face.

Gotta wonder if Stan’s fear of spies is foreshadowing for that guy being a spy.

She later speaks with a pilot, Vernon Hunter, who is immediately drawn to her. He would be part of the RAF’s support of the evacuation, but his “kite” (plane) was damaged and needs repair. The two have tea and meet a few times over the next days.

VERNON: I meet a lot of men who think they’re strong, Lois, but I know strength when I see it. And you have it in abundance.

Polite and observant? A pilot and a gentleman? It’s like Vernon walked out of an old movie—complete with tilted cap and proper accent.

Before he leads his men out and her ENSA troop moves on to their next show, Vernon asks Lois if he can write to her. She gives him her address on an envelope originally from Harry, but she keeps the old letter. She’s starting to let go of Harry, but not entirely. Not yet.

(Let him go, Lois! You’re always so sad when you’re in a scene with him. Be with someone who makes you smile and reminds you that you’re already strong!)

He looks at her like she hung the moon. It’s great. (Possible spy is by the piano).

Tom is one of the sailors delivering soldiers across the English channel.

TOM: How come our ship is called HMS Keith? Keith isn’t the name you give to a fighting ship. All the other ships are called Atlantic, Calcutta, Dreadnought. And we get Keith.

His bitter monologue about the un-inspiring name of the HMS Keith is ironic for a couple of reasons:

1. Because apparently his experiences on the Exeter weren’t enough for him

2. Because the HMS Keith would be sunk on June 1st, so in a bleak sense of luck, Tom could switch ships then.

3. Because once again, Tom is taking part in a historic event and doesn’t treat it as such.

4. Because characters eventually do get on lifeboats for a ship that captures Tom’s imagination, the Calcutta.

After months and months of walking, Grzegorz finally reaches the coast.* But Tom, having no knowledge whatsoever of Grzegorz’s background or the long and horrible journey he has had, refuses him room on the lifeboat because he skipped the queue and German planes are likely to return any minute. The confrontation only escalates from there. Tom points his gun at Grzegorz, who desperately challenges him with “I am not afraid of death.” A soldier pushes Grzegorz into the water with a dismissive, “Go fight for your own country!”

This is one of several scenes that highlight how people can sometimes draw behind national, ethnic, and racial divisions in times of stress, and how others can choose to cross these boundaries. Along with reminding the viewers of the less heroic sides of Dunkirk (there is more than one account of someone trying to get to a boat shot by a person in that boat), it also brings out the differences between Tom, Grzegorz, and Harry.

In a later scene, a soldier starts a fight with Harry’s unit over the Senegalese soldiers because they are part of the French colonial forces (and thus, to him, France’s responsibility to evacuate). Instead of leaving Demba and Ibrahim on the beach, Harry fires his gun into the air and commands that the Senegalese men remain with the group.

But beneath all their dramatic declarations is the fact that all three of them want to live. So when German planes fly over the beach and begin to strafe and bomb the men in the lifeboats and on the beach, everyone runs for cover. Higher up on the beach, Grzegorz is able to duck behind a crate. Tom is without shelter and collapses. It is unclear if he is still living.

Across the English Channel, Douglas senses something is terribly wrong. Already anxious over news of the evacuation (which would have become public knowledge on May 31st, as far as I’ve read), he rushes to Robina’s to see if, as the mother of an officer, she knows more about Harry’s survival, and possibly Tom’s. Concerned with Douglas’s emotional state, Robina refuses him entry in the house.

One thing that caught my attention when I rewatched this episode was how, up until this point, Douglas has generally made certain to call his children “my Tom” and “my Lois” and Robina’s son “your Tom.” In his anxiety, he refers to his son as “our Tom.”

Alone at home, Douglas continues to spiral into a panic attack, trembling, crying, and even having flashbacks of the sounds of distant fire. Lois and Connie eventually find him and try to calm him down, but Douglas refuses to rest without knowing what happened to Tom.

The undercurrent of identity runs throughout the show, from Robina’s referral of Jan as part of a Polish “race” to the sense of class in the Bennett family to Albert’s sense of isolation. You could extend the us-versus-them to the compartmentalization Kasia uses to cope with the murders of soldiers or the way Nancy navigates life as an antifascist reporter representing a neutral America in Nazi Berlin. World on Fire encourages the viewer to examine the contradictions and grey areas.

On one hand, you have Harry.

Harry starts to do more overtly heroic things this episode. He commands the inclusion of the shell shocked soldiers and stranded Senegalese soldiers. He makes sure Stan’s gut wound is checked. More than once, he uses his body as a shield from German planes and attacks.

What if Geoff is a spy? What if staying behind with the shell shocked soldiers seals their doom? But what if he isn’t a spy, and what if the soldiers are all taken to safety? No longer frozen in panic and concern for his men, Harry is spurred to action because of his concern for his men.

And yet, this show does not pass Harry’s choices off as simply heroic and worthy of praise or conversely fall into the ‘goodness-is-stupid’ narrative. It makes certain to show that Harry’s compassion is both an asset and a potential danger to everyone around him.

As Vernon Hunter says, “About the only thing left to believe in. Kindness.”

As Geoff says, “You are kind.”

On the other hand, you have Kasia, who is also driven by compassion, but whose options for resisting and fighting Germans and Nazism are very different. The routine she has with Thomasz of luring soldiers into the ruins in Warsaw and killing them inside.

Kasia tells Thomasz that she cannot remember the faces of the men they’ve killed, and that is how it must be. It’s killing them inside to do this, but they cannot think of another way of avenging the Poles killed in the invasion and in the massacres since then. To make things worse, we as the viewers know the danger ahead. There will be no evacuation or backup for Poland anymore, and certainly no miracles for Kasia and Thomasz.

*For Grzegorz to reach France, he would have had to walk through Germany, the Netherlands, and Belgium. While it is possible that the British forces he met in the previous episode gave him a lift at some point between Konrad’s death and his last appearance in the episode, it still doesn’t answer how Grzegorz was able to cross through Germany. Even if between episodes three and four, Konrad and Grzegorz managed to get on a boat that would take them out of Poland, around Denmark, and finally to the French or Belgian coast, you’d think we’d get some scene of this. It’s even more unlikely when you consider that in the same time, Eddie has made his way from Paris to Dunkirk on foot with likely regular stops for employment. But that’s really the only big stretch of imagination this show has asked of us, so I’ll just have to let it go.

Notes

The newspaper shown in the first scene between Douglas and Robina is dated Tuesday, May 28th. If we’re to use the night scenes, Lois and Connie’s change of clothes, and Tom’s mention of the HMS Keith as a reference, then this episode takes place over four to five days, ending around the date the HMS Keith sank, June 1st.

Eddie playing his trumpet while waiting along the outskirts of Dunkirk is one of my favorite images of this episode:

Resources and Further Reading

https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/what-you-need-to-know-about-the-dunkirk-evacuations

https://www.naval-history.net/xGM-Chrono-10DD-14B-HMS_Keith.htm

http://dunkirk1940.org/index.php?&p=1_187

Photographs

https://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205194325

https://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205194324

#world on fire #world on fire pbs #world on fire bbc #long post

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hbhtrainees · 4 years

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NEW DECADE [EP_1]

Summary: The 2020 HBH Trainees ring in the New Year together, Kyungchul is asked to be the leader of HBHT20. Series: NEW DECADE [HBHT20] Genre: Comedy Pairing: None Word Count: 1.1k Warnings: Recreational use of marijuana.

Kyungchul felt absolutely ridiculous right now.

There he was, sat on a sofa in the corner of HBH’s New Years Eve party surrounded by his fellow labelmates and seniors. He tried to keep up with conversation, but about halfway through a lengthy rant by M.H, the leader of Vice, the edibles had kicked in.

Kyungchul had consumed a gummy edible right before he entered the company party with Rushi, Haeun, Longwei, Sanghoon, and Jiah. Rushi and Longwei had made it clear that they didn’t think they could get through another company party without a little something extra in their system, so they bought a ton of edibles last weekend and offered them to people with similar stances on HBH parties.

Kyungchul thought it would be harmless. Just take a small gummy and relax a little through out the party. Before he knew it, he’d be back in his dorm, having the best sleep of his life.

However, whatever Rushi and Longwei picked up must have been a higher milligram dosage than he was used to, because Kyungchul was having a very very hard time concentrating on the thread of conversation between Vice’s M.H, Triptych’s Nia and Eli, and Promise’s Jimin. They had all sought him out at the start of the party and pulled him aside to talk. Unfortunately, Kyungchul wasn’t really sober enough to contribute.

“And honestly, being a leader was scary at first.” Eli retells, focusing his attention on Kyungchul. “But I really relied on my members. They got me through.” “I was the leader of HBHNG. It’s a great honor to be a predebut leader.” Nia said with a comforting smile. The rest of his seniors looked at him with proud expressions, like he had just told them that he got into an Ivy League. Kyungchul blinked a few times.

“Wait... what?” Kyungchul asked, his own words sounding muddled. “Never mind, you’ll see.” Jimin shook her head, a knowing smile still on her lips. The looks he was getting from his seniors were starting to freak him out a little. Kyungchul managed a small smile back and stood up. “Uh cool. Hey, I’ll see you guys later. I’m gonna go find my friends.” He said hastily, bowing to them individually before setting off.

It was hard walking through the dimly lit event hall stoned, but he managed to locate the one person he wanted to chew out.

Rushi was grinding in between Longwei and Haeun on the dance floor, totally unashamed. When the Chinese trainee spotted Kyungchul, she motioned him over with a bright smile on her face. “Feeling good yet?” She asked over the sound of the music. Kyungchul nodded his head at first, but then he shook it side to side. “How many milligrams was that edible?” He asked. “Uh... I don’t know,” Rushi looked over her shoulder at Longwei, exchanging a confused look with him. “Maybe like, fifteen milligrams?” “Fif-” Kyungchul covered his face with one hand, unsure whether to laugh or cry. His body seemed to agree with laughing, and soon he was gasping for air, laughing his ass off like it was the funniest thing he’s ever heard. The other three started laughing too.

During their laughing fit, Haeun grabbed Kyungchul by his shirt, pulling him towards her. Now the four of them were dancing practically on top of one another, laughing and having fun. Kyungchul felt whatever confusion and discomfort he experienced earlier melt away. He was having such a good time with him and his friends. He didn’t want the feeling to stop.

A few songs later, the music suddenly cut and the sound of feedback filled the room. The four trainees separated, their hands over their ears. Hak Bonghwa tapped the mic again.

“Hello! Welcome to the tenth annual HBH New Years Eve party!” Hak Bonghwa said. Everyone around them clapped, so the stoned trainees clapped along too.

“It’s amazing how only a decade ago, our company was made up of only seven male trainees and five staff members. Now, at the end of the decade, we are boasting three of the most successful groups in the industry, and have the most well-known trainee project in the country!” Hak Bonghwa stated confidently. The room around them exploded in cheers. Not too far off, Kyungchul saw Jiah, Sanghoon, Kitae and Kijung chanting and bumping their fists “HBHT20! HBHT20!”

“Yes, yes. This past month, the trainees who have made the cut for HBHT20 have been announced. Fans around the world are anticipating the arrival of our company’s future! However, we still have to elect a leader for the new era of HBH. The one who will lead the future of this company to greater heights. And I think we all have someone in mind that will do this job flawlessly.” Hak Bonghwa stated.

Something in Kyungchul’s stoned brain clicked together. He recalled the conversation he had with his seniors earlier that night. They kept talking about leadership...

“Oh fuck.” Kyungchul said under his breath.

“Lee Kyungchul,” Hak Bonghwa called out, a smile on his face. “Please come over here.”

Rushi shoved Kyungchul forward, silent roars of laughter shaking her body. Of course she thought this was funny, but Kyungchul was downright terrified. How was he going to face his boss and the whole company being as fucked up as he was right now?

Somehow, Kyungchul made it to the front of the room, taking his spot next to Hak Bonghwa.

“Lee Kyungchul, ever since you started training at this company in 2016, you have shown nothing but dedication and excellence.” Hak Bonghwa complimented. “In the practice room, you are a friend, a teacher, and also a fierce competitor. You have participated in Produce X 101 to prove to the world that you are a force to be reckoned with. You have brought honor to this company, and myself and the staff members of HBH all agree that you will be the future face of this company.” Hak Bonghwa paused for the applause to pass over. Kyungchul hoped he didn’t look as near to passing out as he felt. If he did, Bonghwa didn’t acknowledge it.

“If you so do accept, it would be an honor to have you lead the next installment of HBH Trainees.” Hak Bonghwa posed. The whole crowd in front of them seemed to be holding his breath. “Uh...” Kyungchul took the mic from the founder’s hands clumsily, looking out into the sea of familiar faces. His brain was about ten minutes behind everyone else’s. He paused to try to form the right words. He swallowed hard before speaking into the microphone. “Let’s get it.”

“Lets get it!” The trainees in the crowd echoed back with glee. The rest of the audience clapped and hollered a few straggled ‘let’s get it’s. Hak Bonghwa clapped with pride, a happy smile on his face.

Kyungchul bowed to the crowd, wondering what the fuck just happened.

#kocsociety #kumokocnet #kpop oc #ockpop #kpop trainee au #kpop trainee oc #oc kpop trainee #kyungchul.txt #longwei.txt #rushi.txt #haeun.txt #sanghoon.txt #jiah.txt #kitae.txt #kijung.txt

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minaminokyoko · 5 years

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Maleficent: Mistress of Evil--A Spoilertastic Review

Disney: *shuffling through records* Hey, Hollywood.

Hollywood: *drunkenly burps, throws empty beer can behind the couch* Yup?

Disney: What’s that really well written, well acted, beautifully shot, feminist movie we made with Angelina Jolie that one time?

Hollywood: Oh, the broad with the wings and the horns? Maleficent.

Disney: Yeah, yeah, her. Do something else with her.

Hollywood: Wait, you don’t want to give it to her? *points to Talent, who is sitting at the table typing* Or her? *points to Effort, who is in the kitchen baking souffle* I mean, they’re the ones who made the first one.

Disney: Nah, you got this. Go for it.

Hollywood: Alright. *farts and a script falls out of his ass* Here you go.

Disney: Thanks, fam.

*END SCENE*

In case you can’t tell, I’m extremely disappointed in Maleficent: Mistress of Evil.

Overall Grade: C-

As always, spoilers below.

Pros:

-Probably the only reason a few straggling fans are showing up to Maleficent II is finding out that the legendary Michelle Pfeiffer was cast as the evil queen. She is just as smug and cold and awful as she seemed in the trailer, so kudos. They don’t share enough screen time, but Mal vs. Ingrith at that dinner table was some of the shadiest, pettiest shit I’ve ever seen. Ingrith is That Bitch. You really wanted her to have a harsher fate considering the monstrous shit that she does in this movie.

-Though they are seriously few and far between, I did like the tiny domestic moments we got from Diaval and Maleficent. I’m sad to say that the hype was once again wrong. They were teasing that perhaps Diaval and Mal would get a little more of a romantic spin, but either it was cut for time or they changed their minds. Diaval and Mal are apart the entire movie. It’s the worst. However, the bits we do get of them in the beginning, like him giving her the bad news and her trying out her smile in front of him and her telling him he missed her was nothing short of adorable. I especially loved it when they were served bird and Mal gives him that mean little side-eye. It feels very comfortable and domestic, and less like they’re mistress and servant and a little bit more like the mother and father pair that they actually are. I’m just sad there is so few scenes of them together.

-Expanding Mal’s backstory has very mixed results, but the bits we do see and understand aren’t half bad. The phoenix thing is way under-explained, but it is a neat concept that the dark fae came from a single source. It was also a believable story that they were hunted to near extinction, especially during this era of time when white people were at their most fucking ridiculous killing every new people they found on every fucking continent they found them on. It made sense they hid from them and wanted revenge, since we pretty much see that the humans for the most part are utter shitheads anyway. I also loved the diversity of the dark fae, coming from all continents and all peoples. Nothing drives me crazier than the idea that all fantasy creatures should look like pale white folks. This was very nice to see.

-At least Diaval didn’t die. I was afraid of that since bad sequels often kill someone you like just to “raise the stakes.”

-Tying the cursed spindle into the sequel isn’t half-bad an idea. It’s kind of neat that it’s how Aurora ends up discovering the truth.

Cons:

-Fucking everything else in this movie, basically, is a negative point. Goddammit. Why did they squander all this fucking talent?

-Having Mal, Diaval, and Aurora separated the entire time is the first huge mistake. I was hoping from the trailer that Mal getting hurt and finding her own kind was something that happens in the second act. Nope. First act. Fucking hell. All the reasons why Maleficent was a great movie was the dynamic between these characters and the development of their relationships. It was so easy to love them. They were a family. They had struggles and they all put in effort and they won the day. And then this movie happened. Mal and Diaval first and foremost were done dirty, especially since behind the scenes they had been teasing that maybe the hints of romance between them might finally get a brief spotlight, but no. Didn’t happen. Either it was cut for time or they changed their minds. Then Aurora just blindly believing that Mal cursed the king despite knowing her mother for fucking five plus years, not counting how Mal raised her from afar, just massively pisses me off. Aurora has shown no signs of wanting to just be a normal girl. She loves her mother faithfully and it feels very OOC for her to just instantly assume the worst, especially since she should know things about magic by now and would have heard that Mal has to verbally curse someone, not just with a gesture of magic.

-Almost every part of this story has our leads being passive as hell. I hate passive stories and I hate passive characters. Remember, a good story is one in which your protagonists affect the plot and the outcome and each other. This movie is borderline boring. It’s so much of people looking out the window at the sky and fretting and being moody. All of our characters just sit around for two goddamn hours barely doing a thing until the war at the end, as if the movie is just waiting for itself to end. It’s such a fucking shame considering how many creative, engrossing scenes are in the first film. The first film perfectly paced the character development with the three main leads alongside the action. I loved seeing Diaval’s different forms. The action was fantastic and the story was deeply personal. Everything built towards the end goal of showing the full scope of who Mal is as both the hero and the villain. Here, it’s just miscommunication. That’s it. It’s so stupidly basic and it doesn’t do anything but open the door for her backstory. It’s such a lazy method to introduce them. There were much better ways to go about it and I’m sad that none of our beloved three barely does anything over the course of the movie.

-The tone is all over the fucking place. I actually would not recommend this movie for kids. It’s much too harsh for the little ones when we reach the war in the third act. It’s unnecessarily cruel to a bunch of characters. It even has the nerve to outright KILL one of the three fairy godmothers with little to no reverence for what a big fucking deal that should be. It’s a nasty, unpleasant feeling when she dies and when the other moorfolk and the dark fae die as well. And yet some of these scenes have slapped together “wah-wah-wah” moments, like the evil queen simply being turned into a goat. Ha-ha. Yeah. There are dozens of soldiers and innocent townsfolk and fairies dead. But she’s a just a goat. Sure. That’s not a whiplash of a fucking tone at all. What the hell is the matter with this movie? How dare you actually kill a fairy godmother. And it was one of a few stupid sacrifices while we’re at it. I mean, Magical Negro Fae went full Piccolo standing in front of Mal when all he had to do was yank her out of the way. Same for the big tree fae who died. Not to mention the fact that the giant tree fae just had to walk over to that fucking pipe organ and snap that stupid redhead’s neck, easy peasy, in three seconds. Problem solved. Fuck this movie for showing such flagrant deaths for innocent characters.

Oh, excuse me, one second.

*grabs Hollywood by the ear, shoves him into a chair, and breaks his nose*

Hollywood: OW! WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!

Me: IF YOU PUT ONE MORE GODDAMN FUCKING MAGICAL NEGRO INTO ANOTHER MOTHERFUCKING MOVIE IN 2019 OR BEYOND, I’MMA FUCKING KILL YOU.

-Magical Negro Fae makes me want to kill something. I’m tired, y’all. I’m tired of writers in Hollywood continually making wise black characters teach white people life lessons and then promptly die to advance their story. Go to hell. All of you who keep writing this wretched cliché go straight to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Take your ass to hell and rot in the lake of fire. Stop. Fucking. Doing. This. To. Black. Characters. You. Fucking. Assholes.

-It feels like there is a movie between the first Maleficent and this one that we missed. Seriously, the characters spout backstory that sounds interesting and important, but it’s off-screen, and we’re constantly fighting to understand something that the characters clearly do. Show, don’t tell. Show me Aurora and Philip being in love. Show me Aurora’s longing for Philip and Mal to get along. Show me Mal wondering about her heritage and feeling like an outcast. Show me the dark fae’s backstory. Show me Lickspittle being forced into betraying his own kind. I cannot connect with these characters if you do not give me a reason to do it like you did in the first film.

-Is it just me or did Hollywood deadass steal a whole bunch of this from the Gargoyles animated series? I’m just saying. Go back and watch that and then watch this and tell me it’s not similar.

-Nitpick: God, Disney, I am so tired of you filming all your live action movies on one sound stage with zero practical effects and zero sets. Yes, we can tell the fucking difference when you film everything indoors and there’s no sets. Can we go back to actually giving a shit about how movies look?

-Nitpick: There’s plotholes everywhere. I already mentioned how the tree fae could have ended that church massacre in a total of 3 seconds, if that. Where have the dark fae been? Why did they just act that one time with those mercs stealing the moorfolk? What was Lickspittle actually doing to the trapped fairies? We never see him experiment on them or anything. How did Magical Negro Fae see Mal fall in total darkness? Was he just hovering around the area? Why? They seem very far away from their stronghold, so how did he see her and why have they never attempted contact with her before even though they apparently know the moors very well? I could go on like this for some time.

-Angelina Jolie is given very little material to work with and it’s depressing considering how emotionally attached I became to Mal in the first movie. Her struggle was so sympathetic and her reaction to Stefan’s cowardice and cruelty was arguably justified. Here, she’s not having some kind of revelation about herself. It’s cookie cutter right and wrong. It’s very little struggle. She’s not barely doing anything for long periods of time and it’s honestly boring and disappointing as hell considering what a force of nature she is in personality and in abilities. They took all the zest and spice out of her. She’s a hollow, empty version of herself here and it’s probably the most insulting thing of all.

-Nitpick: The title is a big fat lie. Mal does not turn evil or become evil. She swats some fools around at the end, but that’s all. I hate misleading titles.

Overall, the word to describe this movie is unnecessary. It’s not bad, but it is nowhere near good at all. It reduces all its characters into passive roles in a dull story that tries to make up for it by heavily loading the ending with very distasteful, cruel war scenes that are frankly too harsh for children. It’s not asking any deep, sympathetic questions from its audience. It’s just spinning its wheels, mostly. If you’re curious, sure, go ahead and rent it. I would warn you from paying full theater price since it adds almost nothing to something that was frankly perfect the way it was already. I went in with low expectations and while the movie didn’t go below them, it was still a letdown. Mostly because I wanted some Maleval scenes to wake up the tiny, dormant fandom, and I highly doubt this is going to do that.

Sigh. You deserved better, Mal. At least we’ll always have the first movie.

Kyo out.

#maleficent #maleficent: mistress of evil #maleficent II #mistress of evil #angelina jolie #michelle pfeiffer #movie review #film review #review #spoilers #spoiler alert

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agameofme · 5 years

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Living in Grievance, Living in Gratitude

The other day I was walking down Shattuck in Berkeley. Ahead of me, two people were strolling very slowly and talking to each other. One of them caught sight of me behind him out of the corner of his eye, stopped walking and started rapidly repeating a rhythmic three-syllable phrase that at first I didn’t even understand. Then my brain made sense of it: “Come on, sir! Come on, sir! Come on, sir!” he said. “I see you straggling.” He had stopped to insist that I pass, and my soul curled up a little tighter inside me as I did. Finally turning to face me fully, he offered up an awkward correction. “Or ma’am, whatever.”

When I’m misgendered, which I am all the time, I retreat from the world, even as I am out in it. My spirit tightens into a little ball and hides somewhere deep in the core of me, leaving my body a kind of ghost ship, navigating physical space but not really inhabiting it. You could say that I take this approach to every aspect of life. My birthday was earlier this month. I turned 43. But I don’t like to call attention to my birthday. In my darkest, most self-pitying moments, the voice in my head says things like, “Another lonely, empty year. Toss it on the pile with all the others.” It was definitely a year in which I felt the lack of what Bresson called “the bonds that beings and things are waiting for in order to live.” There were few new memories made, no close connections, no seeing and being seen, no knowing and being known, no intimacy, no touch, no affection, no warmth, no love. Will 43 be the year that my life starts? Only time will tell. Maybe the key at this point is to find a kind of meaning that isn’t rooted in close connection with others. But what would that even look like? For me, right now, love is all that matters.

So: I’m extremely guarded against the world largely because I don’t feel seen by it. But the one thing I need more than anything else in order to feel like my life has meaning is close connections with others. I hope you can see my dilemma.

When the pain is at its worst, it sometimes seems to me that there is a choice I have to make between anguish and anger. The anger is much easier. It’s more seductive. It feels more powerful. The anguish leaves me open, aching, yearning, wanting, needing. It hurts like hell sometimes. But in the anguish, there is still the possibility for connection, for salvation. The anger cuts me off. It puts me at odds with the world, with other people. The anguish is better, infinitely better, I assure you. On the final page of Donna Tartt’s novel The Goldfinch, there is this:

Maybe even if we’re not always so glad to be here, it’s our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, while keeping eyes and hearts open.

And the thing is that at times, in fleeting moments here and there, I am still so fucking grateful to be alive, even though I’m most definitely not always “so glad to be here,” because though I truly do seek to be free of the loneliness and alienation and anguish in my life, I can sometimes see a strange kind of beauty even in my own spectacular failure of a life.

I found The Goldfinch frustrating for the ways in which it was entirely about whiteness and wealth and privilege but didn’t seem to know in the least that it was entirely about these things, a novel that had the privilege of passing off its experiences and insights and truths as universal when in truth so few of us get to live lives unfettered enough that we can reach for such truths the way Theo Decker does, flying from posh hotel to posh hotel, never really acknowledging that the people behind the counters of those hotels have inner worlds as worthy and wondrous as his own, that they, too, live lives worthy of Pulitzer Prize-winning novels. And yet, I adored it in the end. In the novel’s final moments, as Theo reflects on everything he’s been through and the now that all of that has brought him to, I finally understood where the word “breathtaking” comes from when critics use it as a superlative to describe the impact of a work of art. Sitting outside the little neighborhood coffee stand that is part of my daily routine, I felt my breathing shift, so awestruck and exhilarated was I by the truths Tartt was holding up to the light.

In the closing pages of the book, Theo says,

...I’m hoping there’s some larger truth about suffering here, or at least my understanding of it--although I’ve come to realize that the only truths that matter to me are the ones I don’t, and can’t, understand. What’s mysterious, ambiguous, inexplicable. What doesn’t fit into a story, what doesn’t have a story. Glint of brightness on a barely-there chain. Patch of sunlight on a yellow wall. The loneliness that separates every living creature from every other living creature. Sorrow inseparable from joy.

Yes. Yes. Those are the truths that matter to me, too. After finishing the book, my brain and spirit buzzing from its ending, I walked into a Target, and my phone shuffled up the song “Pobody’s Nerfect” by Wolf Parade. As with so much of Wolf Parade’s music, there’s a point in the song when the sound just gets so vast, it encompasses cities and mountains and forests and starry night skies and also the most intimate truths, the look in the eyes of a trusted friend, the lowering of defenses between people, the past, the future, a freedom from crushing expectations, all of it, all of it at once, and I felt my soul, normally so very small within my body, so guarded, so tense, so vigilant, sweep out to fill the Target and the town and the universe and I thought, that’s it, that’s where it is, that’s why I’m here, the mysterious, ambiguous, inexplicable truth that is microscopic and cosmic all at once and that I will never be able to hold in my hands but will never, ever stop grasping for.

Here’s the thing: My life is so fucking small, just me, here, alone, in this little studio apartment, the solitude stretching like a gray gelatinous blob from day to day to day to week to week to week to week to year to year to year to year to year, and yes, I’ve built a fortress around my heart because I feel besieged in the world, and yes, there’s only very few who can breach it, people who bring my guard down, who make me feel safe and seen and free from expectations that I can never hope to meet. Isn’t it strange how living with the fear of failure, the fear of being deemed too much of a fuckup and cast aside as a hopeless case, has done nothing to motivate me to change, has succeeded only in turning me inward with shame, yet the absence of that fear is what I know could motivate me to change? I’ve lived with the fear my whole life. It doesn’t make me a better person. But love? Yes. Love could do that.

On very rare occasions people try to claw their way into my life but they’re all wrong to me. They’re people who have me raising the drawbridge, flooding the battlements with archers. Then someone strolls by for whom the drawbridge lowers itself, someone who carries the password to bypass all the magical fortifications our enchanters can devise, and they don’t even wish to enter. So it goes, for what’s true for me is as true for them. Again, from the final pages of The Goldfinch: “We can’t choose what we want and don’t want and that’s the hard lonely truth.”

But if at some point the drawbridge lowers and someone enters and we come to some sort of understanding, both of us clear that though there are limits to how well we can know ourselves, much less each other, we’re willing to live together in the full wondrous ambiguity of that, appreciating the beautiful inexplicability of it all together, I will be so grateful, and so glad I lived long enough for that to finally happen in my life. And if it never does, and if I live out the remainder of my years as lonely as the last many years have been, well, it won’t remotely be the life I want for myself, but even that, I suppose, will be inexplicably beautiful in its own way.

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stomach-rental · 5 years

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BIRDS + BUGS AU HISTORY OUTLINE THAT GOT TOO LONG, I GUESS

@fairlyqualityanon

Why of COURSE I will tell you about nap times!

So, first of all, some background. The birds and bugs au, or the mutualism au, takes place in a time where humans have died out. They ended up killing off too much of the earth, not giving it enough time to grow back and ripping it of it's resources. The other sentient species of this planet were Tyto, a bird/human hybrid species with a Fun big dino form, and an incredibly small bug/human hybrid species that were simply knowns as bugs. The tyto and the bugs were starving, and as they struggled to deal with the complete tip in food supply, they knew something had to be done. Both birds and bugs banded together, fighting back the humans, destroying their resources and leaving only a few straggling remainders that died out on the island, protecting their land from anymore colonists from the outside world that were still left from the destruction they wrought.

So, the humans are gone, leaving an unbalanced ecosystem, the tyto, and the bugs. At first, they kept up their peace treaty, providing for one another as needed, stepping in to protect those who needed it...but food ran shorter and shorter. Bugs found a solution-- there were strange, floating islands, high above where most tyto could fly, which carried glowing rocks. When touched, the bugs were able to use powers to produce and guide plants, the earth, the water. It was a temporary solution for them, and they rejoiced at this find, distributing the rocks to bugs across the land and helping them learn the powers of deep, strange magic.

The tyto, however, did not have such a find. The tyto grew greedy, desperate, unable to grow food like the bugs had learned to do. Some prayed to gods, others tried to make up for it by learning, but it wasn't enough. They began to do the same thing that the humans had, and when that wasn't enough, they turned to taking from the bugs. The bugs had claimed they found a land where there was plentiful food, where they could produce their own resources-- where was this so called land? Why had only the bugs found it? Where was it for THEM? Some tytos began to take matters into their own claws, convincing the other tytos in the tribes that the bugs were stealing from THEIR land and THEIR food, and that they were nothing but pests that refused to stop mooching off of them! The bugs were no happier. They were convinced that the tyto were using them only for their gain, and prosperity would only come if they went out on their own where they could control the situation. Small bands of tyto broke off, and they would hunt down packs of bugs that were trying to migrate to the new lands. At first, it was only to steal supplies. But somehow, originally by accident, the tyto began to realize that the bugs satisfied a much, much deeper pleasure within them when they ate the bugs themselves instead of just the supplies they carried.

ALRIGHT I’m gonna post the rest under a read more because this is getting long lmao

THAT could not happen! Nope! That was really really bad! So the bugs retreated, vowing that they would NEVER trust the tyto again until they learned the error of their ways. They took everyone possible to the islands, too high for the tyto to reach or find with the fog surrounding the land. There they built societies within the rocks, finding new ways to use magic and binding themselves together into groups. However, they had to return to the surface of the land so that they would be able to get the nutrients needed to grow their food in the skies, creating tension and fear as they tried to grapple with avoiding the "monsters" that were the tyto still roaming beneath.

The tyto, for a time, were still merciless. They grew so feral with hunger that, through generations, the ability to speak our form a coherent language was long forgotten. They consumed everything in their path, desperately hungry for something that only bugs could satisfy, and trying to quench the large metabolisms they needed to survive. Many tyto died of starvation, and the few that were left decided that things needed to change. They formed groups, separating to the far ends of the islands, and learned to have patience. Their deep feral desires for food had to be ignored, through meditation and through fasting, so that they would learn to be satisfied with the little that they had. These practices slowly allowed the land to recover, animals returning as their populations were replenished and left alone, giving the birds the chance to eat only what was necessary. For a time, they had now learned to quench the burning embers within them, to silence them and leave it to rest.

When bugs and tyto met, it rarely went well. Bugs were the one thing to reignite that fire, and so bugs had to quickly learn to avoid the tribes of tyto, or be eaten. For the tyto, the bugs were no more than pests, potential creatures without thought or feeling that wanted to take what little food they had. For the bugs, the tyto were fearsome, greedy monsters of the land and waters below without thought or feeling, who only wanted to quell their desires through consumption.

500 years passed of this. Birds and Bugs no longer knew one another for who they were, only as predator and as prey, and the dangers of the other group were easily made known. It was stagnant, afraid, even with the tyto population slowly making a comeback.

Tyto, over time, had lost their ability to properly communicate, through the long periods of silent meditation that had been taught to help them survive. It was thought that this ability must be long gone, never to be found again except through gestures and vague displays. Instead, they discovered a far more curious magic-- an ability to share thoughts, touching one another's souls. It was hidden deep within them, and through practice, each tyto learned that they could finally share their thoughts and ideas as their own, starting a Wave of new experimental lines of belief. Including ONE belief system that has slowly taken over, where Bugs could be considered the Ultimate Source of food and power, with the ability to grant some sort of hidden prosperity when consumed.

The bugs, on the other hand, were oblivious to this. they had seperated into groups. the beetles, dragonflies, and similar species formed a clan called Kehpers that specialized in healing magic and growing food sources. the bees, wasps, and ants became known as the hiveborn, working in groups to keep things organized and build the structures around to keep the islands intact. and then the Lepidopa, later on known as the Outsiders, were made up of the moths and caterpillars who made their way to the surface to gather much needed supplies and bring word of the lands below. the bugs were ruled by the stability of the hiveborn, who ruled with an iron fist in an attempt to control the problems that had once plagued them, keeping true to their promise to never trust those below at any means or cost necessary.

The bugs and the birds lived very different lives, separate but interconnected by dependencies that they didn’t even understand. one lived on the land of the great expanse, the colder regions of the islands above that were safe from harm but desperately needed the resources below, and the other lived in the land of Belous, the large island below that yearned for a new kind of energy it did not possess. Each thought that they had exactly what they needed in their world, that they had LEARNED the way of their lives and that they needed not to understand anything beyond that.

But they were wrong.

There were other ways to get the life energy, the magic, the wholeness that both craved so much. This is where our story begins, where the lines of one species meets another after generations of separation, and how understanding and trust begin to mend the bonds of both the land itself and the species that relied on it.

THAT is the background to naptimes. uhhh. this post is super long, so, I May type a different post about naptimes themselves and like the actual vore part behind all of this, as well as the characters and story that begins to develop! but! this AU is actually built with two of my close friends, both of which have a huge part in the making and lore. we all BIG LOVE this stuff we’ve made through borrowed ideas and thoughts, but, I Do Not Know if we plan to actually make content content for this yet so I’m not sure what I Should be allowed to post and what I should not be allowed to post. just...know that it is a TRIP.

#birds and bugs au #mutualism au #I should add references to this later tbh #I am So Sorry this got long and I didn't even get to the actual story OR the nap times asjdhaskjdh #I just Had To Talk about it #I will post about the actual nap times tomorrow if I do not have homework #but Feel Free to ask questions until then #long post

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deepdisireslonging · 5 years

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Family Found Part 26: Missing

Survivor Series creeps closer, but Y/N is trying her best to keep the peace until the night of the PPV. Several parties are focused on making her job miserable and unexpected.

Warnings/Promises: wrestling violence

Word Count: 4060

Note: It’s a fun week! Super short match descriptions because there’s a lot of them and a lot more to get through. Requests and tag lists open as always. Feedback super appreciated when given. Enjoy!

Part 1: Welcome to the Team

Part 25: Trick or Treat (Evolution)

Monday Night Raw – November 5, 2018

You didn’t retaliate on Smackdown for their attempted invasion of Raw. Instead, a week later you were watching the recap of last Tuesday’s show in your office. Carmella and Asuka were to be part of the women’s team, and then Rusev on the men’s. You were just finishing watching Andrade Cien Almas beat the Miz for a team spot when Baron Corbin walked it.

“What, you didn’t watch it live last week?” he mocked. “Startin’ out as a model GM, Y/N.”

With a chuckle, you turned off the video. “I did actually. Then wanted to rewatch it while I set up the matches for tonight. By the end of Raw, both teams will have all their members and then we can start work finding the captain among them.” You sighed as Baron smugly shifted the Intercontinental title on his shoulder. “Did you want something, Baron?”

“Yeah. I know I’ve got a spot against the US Champ, Shinsuke Nakamura at Survivor Series, but I want to be that fightin’ champion everybody kept harping on. Do I have your permission to host an open challenge, oh great general manager of Raw?” He gave you a mock bow.

“Permission granted. Is right now alright with his majesty?”

He growled but nodded. “Now is great. Thanks.”

Baron Corbin leaving your office was turning into your favorite thing.

***

The open challenge was answered faster than Baron could offer it. He smirked at the stage as Seth Rollins answered the call and rushed down to the ring. They were locked in a close assault before the bell rang.

Seth was the first to lose ground. He found himself backed into a corner where Baron could attack his ribs several times before the ref’s five-count. Once they were separated, he was able to gain enough of a momentum and upper hand to have Baron scrambling to stay away from him in the ring. And out of it, though never for long as the champ played ‘keep-away’ with his own body.

It was a mistake to toss Baron towards the floor so close to a ring post. He swung back in and started punching at Seth from behind, taking back his own upper hand. He was the first to try for a series of pins, each one jumping closer to a three-count than the last. He was about to spin Seth in a Deep Six when the ref was pulled out of the ring. For several seconds, Baron waited for him to start the count before he noticed he was missing.

On the floor, Elias was debating with the ref about some trivial rule. The ref continuously tried to send him away and get back into the ring, but Elias was persistent. He was persistent long enough for Seth to catch his breath and wobble to his feet. When he noticed, he let the ref go with a thank you and stepped away from the ring.

Baron turned just in time to take a kick to the stomach, and then the canvas raced towards his face as a boot caught the back of his neck in a curb stomp. He was too addled and curled up to hear or see the count, and kicked out a second too late.

Once again, Seth was the Intercontinental Champion, and he was conflicted about the fact that Elias had helped him win. He escaped the ring before Baron could retaliate, and left for the locker room to think it over.

***

Backstage, Charly Caruso caught up with Elias. “Can you tell us why you helped Seth Rollins win the title match?”

He stopped. And smiled. “I’ve beaten Seth before. And I can do it again. I know what my strengths are, and I know when to give up on ever wanting a fair match with Baron.”

“You don’t think it’s a little… hypocritical to cost Baron the match and the title this way?”

Elias scrunched his brow. “Why, yes.” He waved away the obvious statement and continued with more truths. “I’ll have my title back soon. Because for all of Seth’s talk, he’s not willing to risk absolutely everything for the gold. He’s done too much of that already.”

***

The two following matches were for the next positions on Team Raw. The first was Ember Moon versus Mickie James. Ember was still running on her high from Evolution and was using it well except for one thing. Mickie was still running hot from her loss at Evolution.

They fought hard, but quick. Neither wanted a long, drawn-out fight for something each woman assumed was her right. Mickie for her time in the WWE, and Ember for winning the royal last week. The ref had to do his best to stay out of their way as they rushed around the ring, cornering each other and springing off the ropes. You would have been pleased to have either woman on the team. When it came down to the end, the high of an Evolution win outweighed the loss, and Ember claimed her spot with a Total Eclipse.

The second was between Mojo Rawley and Bobby Roode. They too wanted a quick match. Mojo had been fingertips away from several title opportunities and hoped that helping the men’s team win at Survivor Series would give him another one. Bobby, on the other hand, wanted the team spot for its own prestige. He’d been part of the team last year for Smackdown and wanted a double set.

It was power at full throttle down to the last seconds. Mojo had Bobby in his sights and smiled as his opponent straggled around. But it was a ruse. Bobby twisted at the last second and used a deep angle of leverage to keep Mojo’s shoulders against the canvas. He tried to show some sportsmanship by offering to help Mojo to his feet. Mojo refused in favor of rolling out of the ring and walking away on his own two feet.

***

Dr. M and Braun took their position by the backstage screen to watch the next match. It was the second and final triple-threat to determine who they would face next week for the tag team titles. At another screen, Drake Maverick and the Authors of Pain, last week’s winners, also watched the Ascension, then Titus World Wide, and finally the Revival make their way to the ring.

It was a different dichotomy of teams. All three teams had strong power tactics that worked best with quick tag exchanges. This backfired when everybody was doing the same thing as it was difficult to tire one another out. Titus thought he noticed first. He sent Apollo to trip up Konnor but missed seeing both members of the Revival entering the ring.

They quickly took control of the ring. Titus’s plan helped them by making sure Viktor had no one to tag, and also kept Apollo on the wrong side of the ring. They each pinned a man, even if only Dash Wilder was legal. Scott Dawson rushed the ref to lift their arms in victory, then rushed his partner out of the ring before the other two angry teams could recover.

***

When the show came back from commercial, Elias was awaiting his opponent for the Raw elimination team spot having given the crowd a quick private concert. Going by the surge in the arena’s Wi-Fi usage, it was going to be a viral hit. He cocked his head with a confused smile as Curt Hawkins’s music hit.

“I know what all of you are thinking,” he stated. “Curt Hawkins hasn’t won a match in forever, why should we trust him to be on the team? I’m glad you asked. I’ll tell you why. I’m going to be on the Raw Survivor Series team because the streak ends tonight when I pin Elias. And luckily for you, he was so nervous about our match that he cut his concert short. You’re welcome.”

Elias growled. If he had his way, this was going to be a short match.

Unfortunately for Curt, he did. That last little jab had irritated Elias enough that he did every debilitating move he knew. Before long, Curt was gasping for breath and crawling back into the ropes for a reprieve. He tumbled out an apology, but Elias ignored him and pulled him back into the ring. A halo powerbomb later, Elias had the team spot and Curt had another tally for his lost matches.

Jinder entered immediately afterward, flanked by Sunil and Samir Singh. He congratulated Elias on his way out of the ring. The Singhs helped Curt roll out of the other side of the ring so that it would be clear for Jinder’s entrance. Elias watched, bemused, then started to leave as Chad Gable’s music it. He eagerly went through his opening moves but was sent crashing forward.

Behind him, Baron stood to his full height and stared Elias down. They gave each other a wide birth, then went their opposite ways, which included Baron to the ring to take Chad’s place in the match.

Despite already having a match earlier in the night, Baron had Jinder on the offensive for most of the match. If he wasn’t going to be a manager, and wasn’t going to Survivor Series as a champion, then he was going to do everything he could to get into the PPV. Beating Jinder was his best chance. But Jinder had the Singhs, and they wanted to back up the man they thought deserved the spot more. For every advance he made, the brothers were there at the ropes to distract him. But it was always in view of the ref. They weren’t going to hit him. That would give Baron the spot. Their distractions almost cost Baron the match several times as Jinder used them to his advantage.

Still, despite the exhaustion and the handicap, Baron won. He smirked as he left the arena having successfully stolen his position at Survivor Series.

***

“Come in,” you said to the knocking at your door. You instantly regretted it. “What do you want, Dolph?”

He strutted into the room. “I have a proposition for you. I’ve already run it by Finn Balor, and he was agreed. I want a match with him tonight. It’s not a title match, but if I win, I get to be in the match against AJ Styles at Survivor Series.” He smiled brightly and shrugged with the self-brilliance of his plan.

You were not convinced. “What do you gain by being in that match? You can’t win both titles because the heavy-weight title belongs to Smackdown. Being in the match is going to change that-“

“I know, I know-“

“And it would be uneven. Paige and Shane would want to find someone from their roster to make it even.”

“That’s fine. Hey,” he nudged at you, “maybe Sheamus will take up that challenge.”

It took considerable effort not to react. “Do you have a point to being in this match, or is it just your usual ego?”

He held his hands up in defense and took a step back. “Here’s the thing, if I win tonight and help Finn at Survivor Series, he’s agreed to give me a title opportunity. A pre-selected open challenge. Call him, if you don’t believe me.”

You squinted at him. “Why would he need help with Styles? I have full confidence that Finn could beat him as he is.”

“You might have that confidence, but does Finn? He is going as a human after all.” He waited on bated breath.

Despite your better judgment, you agreed to the match and hoped it wasn’t a great con. “Fine. But I still don’t think you need to get involved. I’ll let Finn know about this match. You… do whatever it is you do before a match.”

***

Before the main event, there were still two matches to find out the last two women members of the Raw team. Up first was Alicia Fox versus Alexa Bliss. They started by smiling at each other good-naturedly. It was an opportunity like any other. No need to lose their heads.

Then the bell rang.

Alicia had been the captain last year, but Alexa wanted that spot this year. They expressed that vehemently by tossing each other around the ring. Out of the ring. Back into the ring. Rinse and repeat. A Twisted Bliss sealed the deal. She twisted the knife by asking if she could borrow Alicia’s captain’s gear once she had that too. Alicia screamed her out of the ring.

Nia Jax was up next against the returned Tamina. They’d had a moment at Evolution and wanted to continue it here. The ref was wise to stay out their way. Neither was used to being tossed around like a rag doll, but they enjoyed doing the same to the other woman.

Again and again, they took turns throwing the other to the canvas, desperately trying for a pin. When even that didn’t work, they took to the ropes, used one level, then two, to give them a height advantage and an extra boost from gravity. It was one such drop from Nia that caught Tamina in the chest. She was too busy fighting to breathe to kick out. Nia had the last spot on the women’s team.

All of Raw’s elimination tag teams were set.

***

True to your assumptions, Finn had no plans on actually letting Dolph into his match with Styles. He didn’t let up, didn’t let Dolph have enough room to breathe, much less fight back. To him, this was just another practice round for Survivor Series, but convincing Dolph to accept the match had been surprisingly easy once he had a good enough prize. A prize he was never going to give.

Dolph’s ego took as many hits as his body did. The coup de gras probably hurt his pride more than his chest, though his chest hurt too. He rolled to the end of the ring, trying to catch Finn’s boots before he left. He was unsuccessful and had to watch Finn’s smug face as he walked up the ramp.

“I am enough just as I am,” Finn called back. “Man or demon, this,” he held the Universal title up, “is mine. And it’s gonna be for a long time. You should do best to remember t’at.”

Dolph could do nothing but glower at him.

***

Backstage, there was pandemonium. Dean followed the commotion to several refs and trainers helping Braun out from under a pile of steel supports and chairs. The fallen monster was ignoring everybody’s questions but looked him dead in the eye.

“They got her. Shane McMahon and a bunch of Smackdown. They took Y/N.”

Dean ran his hands through his hair, fighting to take deep breaths. Everybody stilled and looked at him. He swallowed hard. “Stick to the plan. We know where she’ll be.”

***

Smackdown Live – November 6, 2018

Considering you didn’t really want to be there, you were happy to receive a warm applause. Paige and Shane walked you down to the ring for your official ‘welcome to Smackdown Live.’

“Thanks for that,” you asked once they were done. “And thanks for the shirt, though I would have preferred something a bit more…” you looked down at the blue t-shirt, “something red. But, no harm, no foul. I do have to ask, though. What exactly is the plan? Do I hang out with you guys until Survivor Series, or…?”

Shane patted your shoulder. “Don’t worry about the plan. All you have to do tonight is watch the show.”

“I do that anyway. But usually from home.”

“Well, this week you’ll be watching it here. Not here,” he rushed to add, motioning at the ring, “not in the arena. We don’t want you interfering in anything.”

You pseudo-gasped. “I would never.”

Paige sniggered and jumped in before Shane could say anything more. “Baby Girl, You’re also going to be watching the show with me. Maybe grab some coffee, have a little discussion about our shows. Manager to manager.”

This was going to be fun. “Okay then. I look forward to watching the show with such a guide. When do we start?”

She directed you to the ropes. “Right now if you’ll come this way.” Shane sat on the rope so you both could leave.

***

Her office was probably more comfortable than yours ever had been. A leather couch, her own coffee machine, and a large flat screen to watch the show on. Which you did. Together you watched as Jeff Hardy and Kofi Kingston fought for a spot on the Smackdown elimination team. Kofi won, but by then your discussion had digressed more into the wrestlers themselves than their matches.

“Right? Like, seriously, how can anyone have that much luggage?”

You huffed in agreement and fell back into the couch. “Can I ask how you guys have built up your tag teams so well? They seem very established and everybody looks super strong. How did you-“

“Easy, miss-former-journalist.” Paige laughed. “Can’t give away all our secrets.”

There was a knock at the door. Tye Dillinger entered, wearing his usual expression when R-Truth was a little confused about matches. The said man was right behind him. “Paige, Miss Y/N, I want to face Breezango at Survivor Series with my buddy… Tye Dillinger.” He slapped a hand onto Tye’s shoulder, who didn’t even flinch.

The two of you shared a look. You shrugged. “Why not?” You bit back a giggle as Tye’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “But I do have to tell you, Officer Fandango hasn’t been cleared to fight yet. Do you think you could fight Officer Breeze alone, but with Mr. Dillinger in your corner. I’m sure we could convince Fandango to be in Breeze’s.”

He nodded and held out his hand for you to shake. “That will be sufficient. Thank you. Tye?” He turned to face his friend. “Time to find Carmella, and to begin training.”

The two of you giggled as they left. Paige nodded. “That’s going to be a great match. Kinda wish I’d thought of it first.”

You tapped your bottom lip. “If I give you the credit, can you set up a match tonight for a coed tag team. I’ll set up a match with my group… assuming I’m there to do it. Something Like what we’ve been doing with the Mixed Match Challenge, but at Survivor Series.”

Again, Paige nodded. “I can arrange that right now.” She stood to leave and you moved to follow. “Oh, no. You can stay here. I’ll just be a minute, but in the meantime…” she poked her head out the door and waved somebody over, “you are not going to be left unattended. Sheamus.” The Irishman towered into view. “Don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll send someone to swap with you before your match.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, looking at you. As Paige left, he joined you on the couch to watch the next match.

***

Jey Uso was just finishing pinning Aiden English, but Sheamus was getting antsy. “Where are they?” He checked his phone again.

You laughed. “Roll a crate in front of the door if you have to but don’t be late for your match on my account.”

“I can’t-“

“We’re here!” Xavier Woods ran in. He bent over, panting. “We… whew, we made it. You’re good… to go to your match. E is… was right behind me.” He gave Sheamus a thumbs up as the man left for his match.

With a sigh, you started to drag Xavier to the door. “Come on. This fridge is out of water, and I’m not going to let you pass out.”

“But Paige said-“

“We’ll pass E in the hallway and then there’ll be two of you. Come on.”

He let himself be led along.

***

Sheamus made it to Gorilla in time for his entrance. He and Cesaro met Sanity in the ring or one last fight to see who would be taking the tag titles to Survivor Series. As champions, The Bar had to advantage that if either of them was hit by the third Sanity teammate, they would win through disqualification. They were trying their best to rile up Alexander Wolfe when they should have been more focused on Killian Dain tagging in from Eric Young.

The Swiss Cyborg turned a second to late and was taken to the mat. Wolfe played his part by keeping Sheamus on the floor and far away from preventing the count. Young was grabbing the belts while the bell was still ringing, ensuring they could make a quick escape as the new champions.

***

Paige flattened her palms against one another and placed them over her lips. Beside her, Shane took a deep breath. “Let’s try this again. Where is Y/N?”

The members of the New Day frantically looked between themselves. E shrugged. “She’s not missing, exactly. She’s probably in the building…”

“Probably?” Shane burst. He caught himself and turned to face anywhere but the trio.

Paige took over, calm for the most part. “You know who else might ‘probably’ be in the building by now? All of Raw’s roster! We have to find her.”

Xavier nodded. “Yep. Agreed. Getting right on that.” They left hurriedly, leaving their managers to silently panic.

***

You weren’t lost. You knew exactly where you were.

In the ring. Wearing a bright red shirt and holding a large flag with Raw’s logo on it. And you had a mic.

“How’s your guy’s night been so far?” You couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I have to say, it’s been pretty boring on my end. It was almost like being a human token in some version of capture the flag. But once they had me, Paige and Shane didn’t know what to do with me. If their plan was to throw Raw into chaos, I didn’t hear any news reports about anything burning down. Which is exactly why I didn’t leave Seth Rollins in charge.”

Paige and Shane came running out to the ring. He was too out of breath, so Paige had to talk. “You keep talking like you’ve escaped already. Maybe the plan is to strand you here.”

“I’m not too bothered,” you said twirling the flag.

“And why…” Shane puffed, recovering, “why is that? You’ve got nowhere to run, and no one to help you.”

“Oh really?” You bit your lip to hide a giggle. “Then how did I get the flag?” Your grin bubbled over as Braun’s music sounded. The managers backed down the ramp as he came on stage. Eventually, they joined you in the ring, while he stayed on the floor. You patted Shane’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’s only my exit strategy. Did you really think I wouldn’t have a contingency plan for this?”

He sputtered. “No. How-”

“Did you really think a few guys were going to be enough to take out Braun? Sweeties, he let them win that little tiff.”

Paige sputtered too.

“And you guys didn’t check to see if I had my phone with me? Amateurs. Really, I’d call it stupid, but it was stupid of you guys to have the idea in the first place.” You mouthed ‘now, now’ when Paige pointed at Shane. “I’m the person you know the least about. I have no wrestling history, and I’m only been in the company for not even six months.”

“But you’re a journalist.” Shane shook his head.

He wasn’t wrong; not entirely. “I was, yeah. A journalist who had delusions of grandeur and traveling the dangerous world. And, as it turns out… I’m very good at chess.”

You distanced yourself from them and walked to the side where Braun was. Gently, you arranged the flag in the ropes as if claiming the ring.

“If you’re smart,” you continued, “you’ll take my advice and wait until Survivor Series before doing anything else. And I might, might, not retaliate more than this conversation we just had.”

Braun helped you off the apron and waved with you towards the managers. Then, as your music played, you left Smackdown Live.

Part 27: Powerhouses

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Forever Tags: @blondekel77 @hallemichelles @laochbaineann @lavitabella87 @ramblingsofabourbondrinker @savmontreal @southsidebucky @tinyelfperson @zuni21798

WWE/Series Tags: @a-home-for-stray-stories @amballins-priestess @top-1-percent @mother-forker @neversatisfiedgirl @racheo91 @roman-reigns-princess @secretagentfangirl @thetherianthropydaily @wwe-smutfics @scuzmunkie @likeisaidwhatever @cait-kae @ramsaypants @sony-undead18 @brianaraydean @st4yingstrong @dopeybubbles @crystallizeme @jessica91073 @denise8691 @stalelight @kenyadakblalock @1dluver13xx @lauren-novak @lunatic-desert-child @littledeadrottinghood

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gdiwes · 6 years

Text

Food Soul OC Bio: Pocky

Since this got really long, I’m posting it separately from Pocky herself. I’ll do this with all the other Food Souls I make as well ^^

Prologue: Mommy

I was… summoned not too long ago.

To be honest, I never inherently knew that Food Souls were meant to be fighters. The woman who summoned me was very kind and never let me wander too far out of her line of sight when there was danger in the area. She refused to put me in danger ever. She told me that Food Souls were meant to fight, but that she didn’t summon me to do that. She summoned me not to protect her, but to give her someone to protect.

She had always wanted a child, she’d said. But for reasons she wouldn’t tell me she couldn’t have one. So she summoned me.

“I’m glad I was given such a cute daughter,” she would say, and pat my head. “Is it alright with you though? If I treat you like my own child?”

I’d never known what a mother was, but I didn’t dislike it. So I nodded and let her know it was okay.

From then on, she treated me like I was her daughter. She dressed me and got me my own room, we would eat dinner together and go shopping together. It was wonderful really. I love my new home, and my new mother.

Chapter 1: When Summer’s Over

Soon after I was summoned, my mother got a job as a waitress in a restaurant. Every day she would go to work, do a shift, and then come home. We would often eat dinner together either before or after her shift, and she would try to spend time with me on her days off unless she was tired.

Though I loved mommy and valued how hard she was working for me, I struggled to stay entertained in the long hours she was gone. It was hard to go out when so many people would look at me strangely… A Food Soul that didn’t fight, and acted as a ‘human daughter…’ Ah, it hurt that they would think of mommy so strangely. She loved me and I loved her. Why was that strange?

One day, mommy came home quite late. I was still up, playing music from the phone she had given me to stay in contact. Jello was the artist, a popular idol who was also a Food Soul. If Jello was so well received, why wasn’t I? Was it because she was talented? Cute? Popular? I didn’t get it.

“Pokkin, what’s wrong?” Mommy asked me. “Can’t sleep?”

“I’m okay,” I told her from where I was curled up on the couch.

“Pokkin… Is it because you have nothing to do during the day?”

Ah. She saw right through me.

“I’m sorry sweetie… I should have thought about this… I’ve been so focused working I didn’t stop to think about giving you something better to do during the day if you weren’t going out and exploring.” Mommy sat next to me and pulled me into a tight hug. “Is there something you want to do?”

We sat silently for a moment. But after I had some time to think, I remembered the school building I’d passed on one of my walks around. I took Mommy’s hand in mine.

“Can I go to school?”

Chapter 2: First Day

Mommy instantly enrolled me. The next session wouldn’t start for another month, but that gave me time to catch up as much as I could. I was born into the world knowing how to speak and walk, but I found out that I had to learn how to read and write on my own. Math and science were completely foreign concepts to me. I was reading through things I’d never even heard of.

Mommy helped tutor me as much as she could. I picked up reading and writing easily enough, but everything else made me struggle. So she made sure that I would be able to get tutoring after school with one of the teachers. As the first day rolled around, I became very excited. Mommy even walked to school with me on the first day.

I quickly realized that even here I wasn’t accepted much. I looked older than many of the children in the same grade as me, and though I studied hard and volunteered in class I still stumbled behind them. None of the kids approached me to talk to me or try to help. They just kept their distance and whispered.

Although my teacher was nice enough, I still knew that it was because I was a Food Soul that they were apprehensive. Food Souls were born to fight, but I wasn’t fighting. I didn’t even look like a fighter. I didn’t know how to feel.

Most days I would spend breaks listening to Jello on my phone. I envied her, really, but somehow her music gave me courage. She was so talented and successful, even as a Food Soul that didn’t fight… She made me think that I could be strong too.

With that thought, I studied even harder. For Jello. For Mommy. But mostly for myself.

Chapter 3: Passing the Test

A couple months passed peacefully. I still struggled to catch up to my peers, but my teacher had started noticing the strides I was making. Mommy would help me study whenever she had the chance, and would check over my homework. Though, she was spending more and more time at home, which worried me. When I asked, she just pat my head and told me not to worry about it.

One day at school, we were in the middle of a test when a the speakers started blaring our principal’s voice.

“Teachers, students, remain calm. A Fallen Angel has been sighted in the area. At the moment it isn’t advancing quickly but it is advised that you prepare for evacuation.”

A whisper ran over the room. A Fallen Angel… I felt so many eyes on me, boring into me. Ah, right… I was a Food Soul… Born to fight Fallen Angels… And yet… I was just as scared as my classmates. As if sensing my discomfort, my teacher began urging my class to get ready for an evacuation.

As we were starting to exit the classroom, the worst happened. We were by the door, but the other side of the classroom suddenly collapsed under a massive tentacle. My classmates screamed. Some were frozen in shock. Though I was shaking, some part of me urged me not to stand still. I started pushing at my classmates, yelling at them to exit the room before the rest of it collapsed.

As we got outside, many of the other classes had evacuated as well. We didn’t have time to wait for new orders. My classroom’s side of the building was suddenly bashed in, spraying dust and bricks this way and that. I was surrounded by screaming but I managed to remain calm. I couldn’t raise my voice over the ruckus but I could at least urge my classmates away from the Fallen Angel standing before us…

It’s mouth was bigger than I was tall. It’s body was only spiked tendrils. If it swept out once it would have killed all of us.

I was shaking. Terrified. I wanted to just run and hide and be held by Mommy. But I knew I couldn’t just let the Fallen Angel get to my peers. I watched it sweep one tendril out at a small group of students that had straggled behind. Without even thinking, I dove for them, shoving them out of the way. As rubble rained down on us, I raised my hand to stop it. Without even thinking I must have tapped into my powers, as a grate made from my namesake appeared in front of us, deflecting the rubble.

We had no time to think about it. They were on their feet running towards the teachers and I could only follow with my small shield to protect them. The Fallen Angel roared and swung again, freezing me in place. As I watched it’s next attack approaching me, I couldn’t even close my eyes and pretend like it was some nightmare—!

The hit never came. A Food Soul covered in golden armor dove in front of me and blocked the hit with their body. They slashed through the arm, and quickly dispatched the Fallen Angel. We were saved… I fell to my knees and began to cry.

Epilogue: Pocky

“Pocky! Are you ready to study!”

My classmates called to me from one of the tables. Soon after the incident at school, I had been withdrawn from the system. However, Mommy had opened a new cafe that doubled as a study spot for many of my former classmates. Though I no longer went to school with them, they would still come by to study with me and keep me updated on what they were learning.

“Just one more customer, then I’ll be over!” I told them, bringing our table drinks and snacks.

“Hurry! You know that it’s unacceptable to be late to class!”

We laughed together before I quickly ran off to serve another table. The golden Food Soul that had saved me was sitting there with a man much shorter than her. I startled upon seeing her.

“You’re the Food Soul!! From back then…”

“You must be one of the students Creme Brulee saved—Ah, no,” the man said, “You’re the Food Soul who helped her protect the other students?”

“I didn't really help…”

“Nonsense! She told me that you shielded a group of students that was attacked before she could get there.”

As he spoke rather loudly, some of my classmates overheard. They came over and surrounded me. One looped her arm around my shoulder.

“Yeah! Pocky saved us!”

“When we thought we were gonna be crushed, she put up this big shield in front of us!”

“If it wasn’t for Pocky, we wouldn’t be here right now. We owe her so much.”

I could feel my face getting hotter as the praised me. I could barely get a word in to tell them I didn’t do anything, when I felt a hand pat my head. I looked up to see Mommy smiling down at me.

“Now now, don’t tease Pokkin too much. My daughter’s a strong girl, but she’s too modest for her own good!”

Despite myself, I laughed with everyone at the table.

#Chapter 3 was so wordy lol #but I couldn't help it haha it was an ACTION PACKED chapter #food fantasy #fan made food soul #food fantasy fan soul #food fantasy OC #ff pocky #mayocado #cadowrites #the Creme Brulee teaser tho #didn't know if I should make it her or Spring Roll lol #but Creme Brulee fit better haha #I'm working on her Chibi so I'll post the rest of Pocky's information when I finish that ^^

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somekindofseizure · 6 years

Text

When the Ink Dries Part VII

Explicit//Thank you to the @icedteainthebag, without whose critique and insight this piece would not exist, and the lovely, generous @gazeatscully for eagle eye beta’ing//WARNINGS: There are many sensitive topics in this story, too many to name. Message me or ask a friend if you want to know about a particular trigger.//Thank you to all my readers for being patient and to the new ones, welcome. (But head on back to read the rest first.)

**************

Chapter 17

Stella’s numberless clock kept its wire-rimmed watch like a grade school teacher as Mulder waited alone at the breakfast counter, hands folded like a child trying to prove his virtue. He’d lived a life of perpetual self-imposed broken-heartedness; now here was the silver lining. When bad stuff really happened, stuff outside the control of his paranoia, his imagination and his self-loathing, he could withstand it, was built for it, had been stockpiling resources for years. Or at least, this is what he hoped as he clasped his fingers together a little tighter and thought of Stella’s expression as she walked out the door - swollen and slightly wet, like a bath bubble waiting to burst.

He stole a glance at the spot Scully said she’d put the pill bottle for the third or fourth time since she’d pointed it out. This small and otherwise insignificant object, one he hadn’t even known existed a half hour ago, had suddenly taken on immense significance. Stella Who Storms Out was intimidating and bold, swinging a coat around her shoulders and clicking down the hall to leave him and Scully flinching in their uncertainty on the bed. But this bottle he’d never even seen retroactively transformed the moment. She’d picked up that bottle on her way out and become Stella With the Scars Up and Down Her Thighs, Stella From the Bathtub Incident, Stella We Have to Wait Up For.

A possible reprieve: maybe Scully had made a mistake; maybe she thought she’d put it there but actually put it somewhere else? He considered searching the flat, but he knew it’d be futile. Scully always knew where she put a thing. Her side of the file cabinet was alphabetized. Her keys were in the dish, unless they were in her coat pocket, but she always knew which it was. Her socks came marching out of the laundry in well-drilled pairs.

Out the window, the drizzle breathed at the glass, a misty sort of rain they didn’t even bother to qualify as rain here, but it’d be enough to mess Scully’s hair out on the porch. He could hear her periodically jingling the set of keys she’d grabbed in the foyer, but he knew she wasn’t going anywhere. There was nowhere to go. They were on Stella’s turf here, foreign territory. Somehow, it had never come up before - the idea of visiting her in England. Perhaps it’d seemed impractical, perhaps they’d been selfish, perhaps Stella really just happened to be one step ahead of them all the time, always on her way to them before they could think to be on their way to her. Now it seemed entirely by design: the day would come when she wouldn’t want them to know where the fuck she was. She’d been aware all along that sharing her life with them meant giving them leads she might later regret.

He took an umbrella from the corner behind the door and popped it up over his head as he stepped outside and sat beside Scully on the stoop. Stella’s perfume wafted up under the dome of shadowy navy blue fabric and he wondered if she spritzed her things with the overtly feminine bottles he saw in the bathroom, or if it was an accident they smelled like this, a sin of proximity. Surely, Stella had changed perfumes over the years - even the current bottles she had came round and angular, jagged, prismatic, choked with ribbons round the neck, so many for one person - but somehow the scent of her had always seemed constant. Dark, floral, and vaguely spiced. In his mind, the umbrella today smelled exactly like the scarf he’d run through his fingers the week he first met her.

As he stepped outside, Scully bit a straggling piece of dry skin off her upper lip, body pitched forward over splayed knees, hair clumping and separating in ways he knew would drive her crazy if she had the luxury of being driven crazy by such things.

“She’s just blowing off steam somewhere,” he said. “I’m sure.” Tiny drops of water ticked the plastic protecting them from the most fragile precipitation available to planet Earth.

Scully nodded, her nose pink and wet around the nostrils. Cried-off mascara tire-marked her cheekbones.

“I know she’s a person who… she can be a little reckless. But she knows how to handle herself,” he further surmised.

She looked at him with heavily hooded eyes.

“Do we know how to handle ourselves?”

No. They’d been mishandling themselves, and each other, for years. Mulder had sometimes looked at other couples in their comfortable domestic routines, people he passed picking up grated cheese in the grocery store or arguing over who should drive home, with pity - they could not possibly love each other as much and as deeply as he and Scully did, no one could. But maybe with less love, he thought now, they’d have messed it up less.

“We know how she is,” Scully continued. “We know how she is about… about sex. And do you know what happened? The Spector guy?”

“I do.” He’d googled after seeing Stella’s bruises.

Scully’s voice started to waver so that he could hear the love wheezing in and out of her heart, escaping the narrow strangle of her throat. “How could we just... use her like that?”

Mulder tried to rewind by a few hours to the moment he’d watched Scully and Stella walk up the stairs, trailing weed and wine and something else he’d allowed himself to view as mysteriously, mystically feminine. He couldn’t remember how he’d thought sex would solve things, he couldn’t remember what he’d thought, if he’d been thinking at all, if the date-y tenor of the evening had reduced him to thinking about nothing more than sex. He liked to think of himself as having deeper motives, of being above such crassness but then again, he’d once been a guy who received twenty percent off postcards from nine hundred numbers at Christmas.

“I don’t know,” he said and stared at the side of her face. He could tell she was trying to swallow away a sob, squinting and straightening her eyes to focus through the blanket of nighttime wetness. This is what she looked like truly in pain. This is what she looked like when she hated herself for a hard-fought decision. This is what she looked like faithless and lonely and fearing for someone she could not single-handedly protect. This is what it would have looked like when he left.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. She shook her head no.

“It’s more my fault. I’ve made things such a mess. So dysfunctional.”

“Not for this.”

She looked at him as though this were not the time for any other subject - it wasn’t - but he’d been using that excuse, and excuses like it for too many years. And she’d let him.

“I’m sorry I left you with our son.”

Scully’s face turned to granite, her body still as stone, as though she’d been poured into a mold of the position she’d up til then been choosing of her own will. Had he really never simply apologized? Could that be?

“I should have stayed. Or I should have taken you both with me.”

“Well, you were scared that - that --”

“Yeah.” There was no point trying to let her finish it, explain it. He’d been scared to raise a child, that he’d ruin it. He’d been too much of a coward to even face up to that fear. The rest of it, the murderers and government conspiracies, the outside dangers, were maybe real and maybe not, but they’d certainly been convenient.

“I was scared too,” she said and he placed a finger over her lips, trying to protect her from getting to the next part, the part where she took the blame for giving William up for adoption. Her lips closed like a gate at his skin, and after a moment of considering resistance, pursed into the shape of a kiss. He tucked his hand into his pocket, as if to preserve that kiss for later, some time he could better appreciate it.

“Have I ever really apologized before?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I was too angry to hear it if you did.”

They both gazed down the walkway, their chins turning at a similar angle toward the small spattering of stars marking victory in the fray of fog and light pollution. He stretched an arm around her and she sank heavily into the crook of his armpit, the way she used to do when they’d take walks near their home, or even when they were just friends and he was teasing her about something. There was nothing to laugh about tonight.

“She’s okay,” he said with foolish authority, glad for once that he was an easy believer. He could not have lied to her right then. “She’s okay, I promise.”

He kissed her hair, rubbed his nose in the oily zigzagging patterns of her scalp, these sandy copper pathways he knew like a shortcut home. The London water didn’t strip it quite as clean and the rooty smell made him think of the scuzzy motels they’d slept at, the times she’d skipped showers just to spend twenty fewer minutes in a place she hated. Her hand inched like a spider across his shirt, and her head lolled as she weakly lay her body like a flag across his torso. They waited like this, hiding in plain sight as the sense of danger passed and he began to formulate a plan - they’d see if they could get a track on her cell. They’d call the hospitals, just in case. And probably Stella would walk back in the door in the middle of all of that, shake off her jacket with a stale Scotch-and-soda buzz, roll her eyes at them for making drama out of nothing.

Inside, the phone rang.

Her eyes feel glued to one another across the bridge of her nose. It’s a sticky and peeling feeling, that of a rotting synthetic compound holding her bones barely in place. Her eyelids are gauzy and weak, letting in light, colors of a crime scene at first and then white, a blinding, stunning, bad news kind of white. There are voices, abrasive and inquisitive and instructive and she remembers something factual, useful amongst so many useless observations - her phone is broken. It feels good to know at least this much without having to wait for someone to tell her.

Something else. They’re at work on her body, these people, and she doesn’t like it. She’s never been the kind of person people make a project out of. She’s been in ruins as long as she can remember. Paul Spector was the most recent to chisel the paint job, but others had been fucking with the foundation from the beginning. None has ever been able to do the kind of damage she can do herself.

There’s pressure, hands - or is that a machine - on her body, and she’s melting in the hot blast of satin-in-sunlight white and it’s her wedding day. Twenty-one years old, she walks the aisle like a plank while people stare in their best suits and frocks. She watches the carpet disappear beneath her feet as the drop approaches, feels everyone listening lustily for the splash. She doesn’t want to smile but tries to look regal, at least - they want her to be beautiful while she falls, this much has been made clear to her since the day she was born. And then she looks at Henry standing there, waiting for her with a smug smile and a tear in his eye and she well knows what a mistake looks like, but she’s seldom met a mistake she wasn’t willing to make.

A sound - deafening, fate-splitting, a chorus of screeching machines - and she’s in Bridget’s beat-up Corolla, catching a ride home from the swimming pool, her daddy’s old BMW dying its British automobile death back in the car park. She can’t bear to call a tow for it, not yet. Bridget is comely and kind, eyes that shine like patent leather, a stranger who pats her old Japanese workhorse on its sturdy chest, says I like driving something I know will never let me down. Stella says Well, where’s the joy in that. The way Bridget laughs resonates with her as strong the engine under her toes.

And then an American car and an American girl, and she’s thinking it’s the safest ride she’ll ever take. Straight and straight-laced and separated by a continent’s worth of water. But Scully persists like weather, warm and cool at once, gathering strength over the Atlantic year after year, waiting to be given a first name.

Stella, the doctors plead. Stay with us, they say with their hands pressing on her chest, something poking down her throat, something squeezing her hand, pinching her skin. Stay they say - it’s what everyone says when they’re trying to change her, make her worth the effort they’ve spent.

Stella.

Stella...

“Stella?”

Mulder swung faux-casually around the doorjamb. She was awake, looking out the window as the English sun crept up, feeble and sage in its seniority. The light fell sharply on the tops of her hands and across her face, threading shadows under bones and between tendons that made her look, for once, her age (and then some).

He’d already been to see her once, twelve hours ago, after the first phone call - the one from the hospital administrators. But Stella had been unconscious then. The nurses had simply been trying the land line, hoping Stella didn’t live alone, hoping to find a worried husband or teenage son or boyfriend.

Yesterday had been relatively easy. He’d had Scully to lead the way and Scully knew her way around a hospital cot. She’d gone in alone when they first arrived, and he’d watched her whisper into Stella’s ear like an adult talking to a tantruming toddler. He knew in desperate times, Scully became a magical thinker, a bargainer: if she promised enough goodies, Stella might come to her senses.

The doctors had assured them she was okay, and no one trusted doctors like Scully did, but the way she’d patted Stella’s chest, listened to her breath, taken her pulse, all in slightly manic succession, you wouldn’t have known it. They’d wanted to keep Stella for a psych eval once she was awake. He’d had to squeeze Scully’s hand to keep her from protesting in the name of Stella’s sleeping pride.

Alone with her now, he was nervous, unsure how much responsibility he should bear for all this, and if not responsibility, animosity. If he were Stella, he’d want someone to hate - and it was better him than herself or Scully. He wasn’t sure if this was a suicide attempt or something less acute, but he’d been there a few times himself and the only thing that had ever stopped him was the fear that he’d fail at that too. She looked at him, but only obliquely, turning quickly back to the window. Her hello seemed like it was meant for someone who wasn’t there.

His fingernails dug into the lint at the bottom of his pockets as he struggled not to show any discomfort. He waited, paced in a semi-circle in the moat of linoleum between Stella’s bed and the empty one. What was he doing here? What was he doing alone with her? He wished Scully were there. He wished he’d taken Stella’s advice already, gotten his plane ticket back, started trying to get his life together as he’d been instructed to do. He almost said as much out loud, but finally Stella tilted her head toward him ever-so-slightly, her bleary grey eyes blinking like they were trying to summon back the color. It was a universal expression, or at least one that Scully also happened to have in her repertoire, a look he wished he had learned to identify years ago. You can go, but I’d rather you stay.

He came around the other side of the bed, the one she seemed to prefer looking at, and sat down, pecked his mouth against his clamshelled hands. “You look like you could use a drink, kiddo.”

“I’d love one.” Her voice was like chalk on a sidewalk, dry and smooth and vanishing.

“Well, let’s see,” he said and tugged the IV bag. “This is all we’ve got on tap.” For a moment, it looked like she was going to laugh but then her face folded like a piece of tissue paper, and there was a polite pop of pained air from the back of her throat.

“Let’s go find something stronger,” he said. “Passed your psych evaluation, high-five.”

She shook her head irritatedly, looking more like herself as she did so.

“They have to discharge and give me my clothes back.” She grimaced. “God, I don’t know if I want to see my clothes.”

“You actually weren’t wearing them when they picked you up.”

“How did I get here?”

“You dialed an emergency before blacking out.”

“How responsible of me,” she seethed, then began to swear on the exhale. “Jesus Christ, did they know my fucking ribs were broken when they pumped my stomach?”

“Scully would be able to answer that better.”

She closed her eyes, for the first time showing the embarrassment, the humiliation he’d heard in her voice over the phone. Come alone, she’d begged. He’d been so delighted to hear her awake that he’d already waved Scully over. The conversation that had followed in Stella’s foyer had not been fun.

“She honored my request?” Stella asked.

“Yes,” he said, trying not to hesitate. He was pretty sure Stella could guess what kind of scene it had caused.

“Is she going back to America?”

“You want to make her cry, you do it. I’ve done it plenty myself.”

“I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“She’s seen it, she was here for hours. She’s seen worse. She’s seen me worse. Although… you might look worse because you’re paler and smaller, it comes off more pathetic.”

One half her mouth almost grinned - almost.

“So she’s going to be there when we get home?”

“Yes, tied to the chair where I left her.” It was just barely a joke. “She’ll still be very hurt and somewhat furious, but probably too happy to see you on your own two feet to tell you that.”

“Fuck,” Stella whispered, as though just remembering some new unfortunate detail in this series of very unfortunate events. “Did I wear heels?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve never seen you in anything else.”

She nodded again and several moments of silence passed. Her breath sounded like a faltering window fan and the corners of her eyes twitched as inhales turned to exhales.

“We were worried, you know,” he said.

Her deep-set doe eyes shifted downward.

“How long will it take for them to come?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Want me to go get you some sneakers or flip flops or something while we’re waiting?”

She wet her lips with two swipes of tongue that only made them redder and rawer. He’d grab her a Chapstick while he was at it.

“Yes,” she said, as though no one had ever offered to do something like that for her before.

It was half past midnight in the sleepiest big city in the world when Scully skipped down the wooden staircase like a woman late for an appointment. He waited, unmoving, one arm pillowing his head, pressed against the sofa arm. His feet were similarly dug into the other end, packing him in tightly so that his knees bent up in the middle like a warped two-by-four. Stella had clearly not bought this piece of furniture with the idea that she might ever want to have a man sleep on it, and come to think of it, why would she? Scully stood at his feet with her hands on her hips, her formal short-sleeved peach-colored pajamas setting off the pink in her cheeks - anger or an orgasm. Considering the circumstances, he assumed it was the former, although where Stella was concerned, one never knew.

“Can I watch TV here?” she asked. “I can’t sleep.”

“She snap at you again?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure,” he said. She looked at the flat-screen, sighed. “Whats’a matter?”

“She never set it up.”

“You want me to play man of the house?”

“I took my contacts out.”

He got up, patted the couch for her.

“It’s too small for me anyway,” he urged, masking his delight with grumpiness. Scully in her pressed pajamas watching movies with him. Stella safe and alive in her bed. Maybe his standards had been lowered by recent events, but it felt like a good night.

“She likes baths. I thought it would make her feel better.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to feel better yet,” he said, fiddling with some wires. He turned the set on and found a remote, clicked. BBC. Another BBC. Another. How many fucking BBCs did they have? “How many of these do they need?”

“It’s fine,” she said. She made room for him on the couch but he grabbed a throw pillow and blanket from the chair and set himself up on the floor beside her.

“Go ahead, get comfortable,” he said and she took the direction to heart immediately, snuggled down into the couch cushion, this thing that had just moments ago been cramping his style suddenly looking deep and soft and marshmallowy around her tiny frame. He lay down on the floor, his head just below hers, and pretended to watch the news along with her for a few minutes.

“Was it hard for you, the idea of me sleeping up there with her?”

He rolled over.

“Not so long as I know all she’s doing is yelling at you.”

She gave her sloe gin-fizzy smile, the one he’d always found particularly worth treasuring all the more for how quickly it vanished.

“Am I incapable of doing this? Caring for someone?” she asked and he wondered if he had ever loved her more. “Why am I always failing at it?”

“You’re not failing, Scully,” he said softly. “We’re failing you.”

Her forehead wrinkled like she might cry and she hung her hand down the side of the sofa. Behind him, crisp accents spoke of international atrocities with such poise it bordered on indifference. It occurred to him that almost everything that was ever done in America was a pale imitation of what was done here.

He hooked his fingers under her dangling ones and played them like piano keys.

“I don’t know that it’s so dysfunctional, you know. I mean, maybe the whole sad threesome idea.”

An embarrassed sniff, her eyes closing on the long blink...

“But you know. The whole thing. There’s a lot of love here. More than most people have. What’s dysfunctional about that?”

And then the tears streamed down her cheeks onto the expensive brushed cotton fabric of Stella’s dollhouse-sized, cheerleader-sized, jockey-sized sofa.

“Thank you, Mulder.”

He kissed her hand before she took it back to wipe her eyes, tuck it under her face, and pretend to watch the news again.

The next morning, he folded his blanket and quietly placed it on the chair, careful not to wake Scully as he climbed the stairs like a man going uninvited to the queen’s court. His back groaned from the beating it had taken in his sleep.

The bedroom door was closed, but he knew Stella didn’t sleep much. He rapped on it with one knuckle, summoning his confidence.

“Come in,” she said froggily. She was staring at the ceiling, looking like a captive in her own house.

“What are you doing?” he asked, taking the liberty of perching himself next to a potted plant on the windowsill. There were layers of grey and white and beige silk and cashmere draped over her desk chair and almost every edged surface of the bedroom. He would’ve expected her to be neater.

“Thinking.”

“I ordered you a new phone.”

“Thanks. I could have done it.”

“I know that. But I did it.”

“Would’ve given me something to do.”

“Stella.”

“What?” she snapped, at least looking at him now.

“I know you don’t like this, needing people, helplessness. I’m going to go back home, and it’ll be fifty percent less of that shit to deal with.”

She took a deep breath, a sigh, winced.

“I’m being an awful bitch, I know that.”

He sealed his lips and raised his eyebrows. Not the word he would’ve used, but yes, he’d been planning to get around to an accusation to that effect.

“It’s just… it’s embarrassing. I did this to myself.”

He waved his hand in protest.

“No need, really.”

She looked appreciative, rubbed her ribs with the heel of her hand either to self-soothe or to check they were still there, he wasn’t sure.

“What about Scully?” she asked.

“I’ll tell her I’m going when she wakes up.”

“No. I meant take her with you.”

He communicated this was out of the question with a simple look and she stared back up at the ceiling, recalcitrant in her icy brand of stoicism.

“Why don’t you just let her love you?” Stay he’d meant to say, but now he guessed the two words almost always meant the same thing.

She looked back at him, eyes blooming like violets. The pigment had restored itself to the couple of places on her face it normally existed and he recalled the day they’d talked on the hotel bed, the day she’d climbed into his lap and held his gaze, sunk her lips, pillow-soft and syrupy with liquor, into his.

“Because I don’t want to become you,” she answered matter-of-factly. He cocked his head to encourage her to explain. “You just let her love you and love you and love you. There’s no end to what she’ll give.”

His eyes burned.

“You don’t think I deserve her?” he asked.

“That’s not what I said. It was just an answer to your question.”

The tension hung in the room like a contagion and she broke it by naming the scene he imagined they’d both always think of when they had tension between them.

“That time I tried to fuck you?” she asked, seeming to read his mind. “Why didn’t you?”

“I felt like I was betraying her.”

“That’s the difference between us. You felt you owed her when you didn’t. I can’t feel I owe someone even when I do. She needs that.”

He nodded. Maybe. He wouldn’t presume to know what Scully needed, could never read her like that, no matter how well he knew her, not like she could read him. All relationships required some inequalities to make them work, and this seemed to be one of theirs.

“So you have to get your shit together,” Stella finished.

“I’ll try,” he said. “But you have to try too.”

One side of her mouth quirked upward, amused.

“And then may the best man win?”

“Something like that.”

He pushed himself up from the windowsill and made for the door, but Stella interrupted, unexpectedly opening her arms. Her ribs were too sore to contract her torso the little bit that was needed to sit forward, so Mulder had to peel her lower back forward in order to hug her. Her body felt as though she might break at the slightest infraction. But he knew nothing was further from the truth.

He pressed his forehead to Scully’s the next morning in front of the refrigerator as he handed her a glass of orange juice. He’d brushed his hair back, shaved again, put his duffel by the door. He wanted her to feel like he was going off to become someone better than whom she’d left, and he thought he was making a good show of it. He rested his hands on her shoulders, smiling a little as his fingers drifted halfway down her back. She loomed so large in his life, he tended to forget how small she was.

Just past the concrete arches that separated the rooms, Stella sat sipping tea in the armchair, her first foray down the steps since she’d been home. She’d said she wanted to see him off and he’d known this meant she’d be there to distract Scully in that hateful moment of silence and uncertainty that always follows a significant exit - the kind of exit you’re not sure will ever reverse course. The idea of Scully in need had given Stella back some of her kindness, her generosity. But now, as Scully put her hands on either side of his neck, two warm starfish sticking to the sandy stubble left by Stella’s cheap disposable razor, he wished she weren’t there. He felt both selfish and selfless for feeling this.

Scully kissed him gently, insignificantly, on the cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Mulder,” she said and though Stella knew everything wrong with him, and maybe more, he was embarrassed that she could hear. Scully’s lips trembled a little, chapped and parted, the upper lip unconsciously sneering the way it did when she didn’t try to tame it into a smile, frown, or pout.

“Stop being silly,” Stella said hoarsely without looking at them, barely the outline of a sentence and still with the authority of a general. “Kiss him goodbye.”

And Scully did kiss him - steadily, sturdily, tongueless and guileless on the strong upsweep of an inhale - he could only hope it wasn’t goodbye.

(click below to continue)

Chapter 18

#WTID #stella and scully #msr #stella and mulder #xfiles fic #the fall fic #myfic

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dfroza · 3 years

Text

John continues writing down his vision of the end

that ultimately leads to a new beginning of everything.

Today’s reading from the Scriptures in the New Testament is the 14th chapter in the book of Revelation:

[A Perfect Offering]

I saw—it took my breath away!—the Lamb standing on Mount Zion, 144,000 standing there with him, his Name and the Name of his Father inscribed on their foreheads. And I heard a voice out of Heaven, the sound like rapids, like the crash of thunder.

And then I heard music, harp music and the harpists singing a new song before the Throne and the Four Animals and the Elders. Only the 144,000 could learn to sing the song. They were bought from earth, lived without compromise, virgin-fresh before God. Wherever the Lamb went, they followed. They were bought from humankind, firstfruits of the harvest for God and the Lamb. Not a false word in their mouths. A perfect offering.

I saw another Angel soaring in Middle-Heaven. He had an Eternal Message to preach to all who were still on earth, every nation and tribe, every tongue and people. He preached in a loud voice, “Fear God and give him glory! His hour of judgment has come! Worship the Maker of Heaven and earth, salt sea and fresh water!”

A second Angel followed, calling out, “Ruined, ruined, Great Babylon ruined! She made all the nations drunk on the wine of her whoring!”

A third Angel followed, shouting, warning, “If anyone worships the Beast and its image and takes the mark on forehead or hand, that person will drink the wine of God’s wrath, prepared unmixed in his chalice of anger, and suffer torment from fire and brimstone in the presence of Holy Angels, in the presence of the Lamb. Smoke from their torment will rise age after age. No respite for those who worship the Beast and its image, who take the mark of its name.”

Meanwhile, the saints stand passionately patient, keeping God’s commands, staying faithful to Jesus.

I heard a voice out of Heaven, “Write this: Blessed are those who die in the Master from now on; how blessed to die that way!”

“Yes,” says the Spirit, “and blessed rest from their hard, hard work. None of what they’ve done is wasted; God blesses them for it all in the end.”

I looked up, I caught my breath!—a white cloud and one like the Son of Man sitting on it. He wore a gold crown and held a sharp sickle. Another Angel came out of the Temple, shouting to the Cloud-Enthroned, “Swing your sickle and reap. It’s harvest time. Earth’s harvest is ripe for reaping.” The Cloud-Enthroned gave a mighty sweep of his sickle, began harvesting earth in a stroke.

Then another Angel came out of the Temple in Heaven. He also had a sharp sickle. Yet another Angel, the one in charge of tending the fire, came from the Altar. He thundered to the Angel who held the sharp sickle, “Swing your sharp sickle. Harvest earth’s vineyard. The grapes are bursting with ripeness.”

The Angel swung his sickle, harvested earth’s vintage, and heaved it into the winepress, the giant winepress of God’s wrath. The winepress was outside the City. As the vintage was trodden, blood poured from the winepress as high as a horse’s bridle, a river of blood for two hundred miles.

The Book of Revelation, Chapter 14 (The Message)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 25th chapter of 2nd Chronicles that documents the life & times of King Amaziah:

[King Amaziah]

Amaziah was twenty-five years old when he became king and reigned twenty-nine years in Jerusalem. His mother was Jehoaddin from Jerusalem. He lived well before God, doing the right thing for the most part. But he wasn’t wholeheartedly devoted to God. When he had the affairs of the kingdom well in hand, he executed the palace guard who had assassinated his father the king. But he didn’t kill the sons of the assassins—he was mindful of what God commanded in The Revelation of Moses, that parents shouldn’t be executed for their children’s sins, nor children for their parents’. We each pay personally for our sins.

Amaziah organized Judah and sorted out Judah and Benjamin by families and by military units. Men twenty years and older had to register—they ended up with 300,000 judged capable of military service. In addition he hired 100,000 soldiers from Israel in the north at a cost of about four and a half tons of silver.

A holy man showed up and said, “No, O King—don’t let those northern Israelite soldiers into your army; God is not on their side, nor with any of the Ephraimites. Instead, you go by yourself and be strong. God and God only has the power to help or hurt your cause.”

But Amaziah said to the holy man, “But what about all this money—these tons of silver I have already paid out to hire these men?”

“God’s help is worth far more to you than that,” said the holy man.

So Amaziah fired the soldiers he had hired from the north and sent them home. They were very angry at losing their jobs and went home seething.

But Amaziah was optimistic. He led his troops into the Valley of Salt and killed ten thousand men of Seir. They took another ten thousand as prisoners, led them to the top of the Rock, and pushed them off a cliff. They all died in the fall, smashed on the rocks.

But the troops Amaziah had dismissed from his army, angry over their lost opportunity for plunder, rampaged through the towns of Judah all the way from Samaria to Beth Horon, killing three thousand people and taking much plunder.

On his return from the destruction of the Edomites, Amaziah brought back the gods of the men of Seir and installed them as his own gods, worshiping them and burning incense to them. That ignited God’s anger; a fiery blast of God’s wrath put into words by a God-sent prophet: “What is this? Why on earth would you pray to inferior gods who couldn’t so much as help their own people from you—gods weaker than Amaziah?”

Amaziah interrupted him, “Did I ask for your opinion? Shut up or get thrown out!”

The prophet quit speaking, but not before he got in one last word: “I have it on good authority: God has made up his mind to throw you out because of what you’ve done, and because you wouldn’t listen to me.”

* * *

One day Amaziah sent envoys to Jehoash son of Jehoahaz, the son of Jehu, king of Israel, challenging him to a fight: “Come and meet with me, I dare you. Let’s have it out face-to-face!”

Jehoash king of Israel replied to Amaziah king of Judah, “One day a thistle in Lebanon sent word to a cedar in Lebanon, ‘Give your daughter to my son in marriage.’ But then a wild animal of Lebanon passed by and stepped on the thistle, crushing it. Just because you’ve defeated Edom in battle, you now think you’re a big shot. Go ahead and be proud, but stay home. Why press your luck? Why bring defeat on yourself and Judah?”

Amaziah wouldn’t take no for an answer—God had already decided to let Jehoash defeat him because he had defected to the gods of Edom. So Jehoash king of Israel came on ahead and confronted Amaziah king of Judah. They met at Beth Shemesh, a town of Judah. Judah was thoroughly beaten by Israel—all the soldiers straggled home in defeat.

Jehoash king of Israel captured Amaziah king of Judah, the son of Joash, the son of Ahaziah, at Beth Shemesh. But Jehoash didn’t stop at that; he went on to attack Jerusalem. He demolished the Wall of Jerusalem all the way from the Ephraim Gate to the Corner Gate—a stretch of about six hundred feet. He looted the gold, silver, and furnishings—anything he found that was worth taking—from both the palace and The Temple of God—and, for good measure, he took hostages. Then he returned to Samaria.

Amaziah son of Joash king of Judah continued as king fifteen years after the death of Jehoash son of Jehoahaz king of Israel. The rest of the life and times of Amaziah from start to finish is written in the Royal Annals of the Kings of Judah and Israel.

During those last days, after Amaziah had defected from God, they cooked up a plot against Amaziah in Jerusalem, and he had to flee to Lachish. But they tracked him down in Lachish and killed him there. They brought him back on horseback and buried him in Jerusalem with his ancestors in the City of David.

The Book of 2nd Chronicles, Chapter 25 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for monday, february 22 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons about the current Torah reading by Jews in the History of the Temple and the priests who serve:

Shavuah tov, friends. Last week’s Torah reading, parashat Terumah (תרומה), explained that God had asked for a “donation” (i.e., terumah) from the people for the sake of creating a portable, tent-like sanctuary called the Mishkan (משׁכּן), or “Tabernacle.” God then showed Moses the pattern (תּבנית) according to which the Mishkan and its furnishings were to be made. First the Ark of the Covenant (ארון בּרית־יהוה) and its golden cover (called the kapporet: כּפּרת) would occupy an inner chamber of the tent (אהל) called the Holy of Holies (קדשׁ הקדשׁים). Within an adjoining chamber of the tent called the Holy place (הקדשׁ), a sacred Table (שׁלחן) would hold twelve loaves of unleavened bread (לחם פּנים) and a seven-branched Menorah (מנורה) would illuminate the tent. God gave precise dimensions of the tent with the added instruction to separate the Holy of Holies by a hanging veil called the parochet (פּרכת). The entire tent was to have a wooden frame (מסגּרת) covered by colored fabric and the hide of rams and goats. Outside the tent an outer court (חצר) was defined that would include a copper sacrificial altar (מזבח נחושת) and water basin (כּיּור נחשׁת). The chatzer, or outer court, was to be enclosed by a fence made with fine linen on silver poles with hooks of silver and sockets of brass.

Our Torah reading for this week, parashat Tetzaveh (תצוה), continues the description of the Mishkan, though the focus shifts to those who will serve within it, namely the kohanim (כּהנים), or the priests of Israel. First Moses was instructed to tell the Israelites to bring pure olive oil (שׁמן זית זך) for the lamps of the Menorah, which the High Priest (הכּהן הגדול) was instructed to light every evening in the Holy Place. Next God commanded Moses to ordain Aaron and his sons as priests and described the sacred garments (בּגדי־קדשׁ) they would wear while they were serving in the Mishkan. [Hebrew for Christians]

2.21.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

February 22, 2021

Creation in Praise of God

“For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.” (Isaiah 55:12)

Every now and again, the biblical writers were so lifted up in spirit as they contemplated the glory of God and His great works of creation and redemption that they could sense the very creation itself singing out in happy praises. “The heavens declare the glory of God” (Psalm 19:1) is one of the most familiar of these divinely inspired figures of speech, but there are many others. “Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all the earth:...Let the sea roar, and the fulness thereof....Let the floods clap their hands: let the hills be joyful together before the LORD; for he cometh to judge the earth” (Psalm 98:4, 7-9).

Often these praises are in contemplation of God’s final return to complete and fulfill all His primeval purposes in creation, as in the above passage. This better time is also in view in our text, which looks forward to a time when “instead of the thorn shall come up the fir tree, and instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree: and it shall be to the LORD for a name, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off” (Isaiah 55:13). God has triumphed over evil!

And this all points ahead to the eventual removal of the great curse that now dominates creation because of man’s sin (Genesis 3:14-19). For the present, “the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now” (Romans 8:22). One day, however, the groaning creation “shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption” (Romans 8:21). Therefore, “let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad;... Let the field be joyful, and all that is therein: then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice” (Psalm 96:11-12). HMM

Today’s email message from The Passion Translation taken from the devotional ‘Whispers’

I Hear His Whisper . . .

I hold the plans for your life.

I have a life plan for you, a plan that was written into your life record before you were even born. A plan to bring you to my heart and into my fullness. I am the God who created you and formed you in your mother’s womb. My gaze was set upon you before your eyes were opened. My plan for you will succeed, and you will one day say, “Abba, you do all things well!”

My timing is perfect—I make all things beautiful in my time. The details of my plan unfold slowly, but my divine fingerprints rest upon them. I hold your life dear, so give it back to me and watch me work. Moments of mystery cannot hinder the hope that lives within you. When you don’t understand what I’m doing, turn your eyes upon me and know that I hold the plans of your life. Plans to flood you with endless delight and perfect praise. I love you, my child, and I will never allow you to be tested beyond the measure of my grace to keep you. Trust in my faithfulness. I will not disappoint you.

Whispers written by Brian Simmons and Gretchen Rodriguez

Ephesians 2:10

The Passion Translation

We have become his poetry, a re-created people that will fulfill the destiny he has given each of us, for we are joined to Jesus, the Anointed One. Even before we were born, God planned in advance our destiny and the good works we would do to fulfill it!

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fromthedeskoftheraven · 7 years

Text

Promises kept

Based on “Imagine being in love with Kili, and Kili in love with you in secret, but Thorin announces an arranged marriage between you and Fili, so Kili gets into a massive argument with Thorin, revealing to the whole company that the two of you love each other” from ImaginexHobbit.

Tagging @misswinchester221b by request :)

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

Erebor, like so many things embellished by long imagining, fails to live up to your hopes.

There is the relief, as your little band of latecomers straggles into the mountain, of finding the rest of the company alive and unharmed by the dragon’s wrath, the elation of standing in these fabled halls at last…and there is Bilbo’s dire warning by way of greeting, the greedy, sickly light in Thorin’s eyes as he broods over the treasure hoard, the unnatural reverence in his voice when he speaks of it.

The joy of your reunion prevails at the meager supper Bombur prepares, from which Thorin is conspicuously absent. You sit close beside Kili, clasping his hand under the table while you listen to the colorful exchange of stories of survival, marveling inwardly at the miracle that you all sit here together, spared. A more sober mood falls over the table when Oin and Bofur take it in turns to tell the harrowing account of Lake-town’s destruction.

Conversation wanes with the flames of the lanterns, and Balin, to whom everyone seems to look for guidance now, seems weary in soul more than body as he tactfully suggests finding a place to lay your heads.

“We’re all lodged in the royal halls, for now…they’ve taken less damage, being further in the mountain. Any unlocked door is free for the taking.”

Together, you find your way to the chambers that have been cleaned and made habitable, though they remain shrouded in musty darkness. Fili is the first to find a vacant room, peering into the open door by the light of the lantern he carries while Bofur and Oin disappear into the gloom of the long corridor.

“Well, I reckon this’ll do for me. Good night, you two,” he says tiredly, though his cheek dimples with a smirk as he adds, “try to get some sleep, hmm?”

Kili gives him a playful shove into the room, and as the door closes on Fili’s low chuckle, the two of you move on to the chamber one door down. The handle gives when Kili tries it. The circle of light from your own lantern shows a threadbare but ornately patterned carpet, the arm of a settee, and just emerging from the shadows, the foot of a large bed, its canopy supported by wooden posts with intricate carvings.

You hesitate on the threshold.

“I suppose we should take separate rooms,” you suggest, but Kili immediately shakes his head.

“No,” he says firmly, a glimmer of pride flaring in his eyes as he takes your hand in his. “I’ve had enough of hiding. I don’t care anymore who knows…I want all of Middle Earth to see you by my side.”

You smile in spite of yourself, in spite of the melancholy uncertainty that lurks in the dark. An answering grin steals over his face and you yield to the gentle tug of his hand, allowing him to lead you inside.

The room is cold and smells faintly of dust, but Kili cheers upon surveying the fireplace by the lantern’s light.

“There’s plenty of dry firewood. I’ll get it going and we’ll be snug in no time.”

While he kneels beside the hearth with a tinder box, you carefully feel your way to the bed, finding a few folded blankets beside the pillows at its head. You busy yourself with making up the bed as the orange glow of firelight creeps over the room, flames springing to life under Kili’s measured breaths. A richly carved oaken wardrobe against the wall yields a quilt, well-worn but clean and soft, and you spread it over the bed as a finishing touch, distracted from your whirling thoughts by Kili’s quiet voice.

“Amralime.”

He stands beside the fire, watching you with a wistful expression.

“Come here. Warm yourself.”

You go gladly to his arms, laying your head on his shoulder when he holds you close, his heartbeat a soothing thrum against your own and his sigh ruffling your hair.

“We made it,” you murmur.

“Indeed,” he smiles, his arms tightening around you. “Home at last.”

“What’s going to happen now? I mean, with Thorin being...well...” you trail off uneasily.

He cradles your face in his hands, tracing your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “Whatever comes, we’ll see it through together.”

“Always,” you vow.

“I love you.”

Kili claims the brief space between you to press his lips to yours. Slowly, you melt against him, tangle your fingers in his hair to deepen the kiss as the craving awakens within you for the solace of his body. You part breathlessly, resting your foreheads together.

“There’s a bed waiting for us,” you remind him.

He grins, his fingers already plucking the laces at the bodice of your dress. “So there is.”

His bare skin is burnished bronze by the firelight and the embrace of entwined limbs and caressing hands envelops you in his warmth and strength. You’ve been together like this a mere handful of times, secret moments stolen along the journey, and a shy newness remains, but you know he will be sweet and eager and as tender as he is playful. The dark curtain of his loose hair frames shining eyes and soft lips that seek yours again and again while the darkness is forgotten and fear banished, and the world narrows to this room, this bed, the loving sanctuary of Kili’s arms.

In the morning, after a lie-in and the decadent luxury of a hot bath, you find your way back to the dining room where you’d eaten dinner. Most of the company are already spooning up the thin porridge Bombur ladles out from an iron pot, and you take your bowls and join them at the long table.

Dwalin enters the room with the air of a man on a mission, Balin and Bilbo following just behind.

“Thorin wants everyone in the throne room, and he’s not keen on waiting,” he announces. There is unmistakable concern in his glance between you and Fili, seated across the table from one another. “You two in particular.”

A pang of unease stirs in your stomach as you exchange questioning looks with Fili.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Kili says quickly, but his bracing smile fails to reach his eyes, and Fili frowns as he abandons his breakfast to join you in following the rest of the group from the dining room.

The throne room is grand beyond your wildest imaginings. Massive stone warriors flank narrow walkways leading toward a throne that stands at the tip of a huge, glittering stalactite, surrounded on all sides by the cavernous depths of the mountain’s hollow core. You nearly forget to be nervous in your gaping at the chamber’s magnificence.

Thorin sits restlessly on the throne, rising when he catches sight of the little party lingering in the doorway. His hand, heavy with jewel-encrusted rings, rests on his chest in a gesture of gratitude.

“My friends. I bid you come near.” His deep voice reverberates in the stillness. “I would share good tidings with the most loyal of subjects.”

Everyone hesitates on the threshold for a moment more before Dwalin takes the lead, striding forward with the rest of you trailing in his wake.

As you approach, Thorin’s eyes light on you, and your skin prickles with the strange fervor in his voice when he calls your name and Fili’s, beckoning you both closer. With a last, surreptitious squeeze of Kili’s hand, you step forward as the company parts before you, going to greet Thorin with a low curtsy.

“Valiant maiden and faithful member of my company,” he says proudly, taking your hand to raise you up again before making a sweeping gesture toward Fili, “and the heir of my blood. The master of Erebor’s glorious future.”

With a triumphant smile, he takes Fili’s hand to join it with yours in his grasp.

“Soon, we will gather our kin to the mountain, restore it to a greatness that shall surpass even the days of Thror...and before the assembly of our people, you shall be wed, and the line of Durin continued.”

His words turn your blood to water in your veins, and your eyes dart instinctively to Kili’s stunned face where he stands as though frozen among the silent company.

“Uncle,” Fili begins cautiously, “we have no desire to marry.”

Thorin frowns, stepping back to wave his hand over you, as a shopkeeper displaying his wares.

“Is she not pleasing to the eye? Amiable in company?”

“It is no reflection on her,” Fili says, releasing your hand, “only that we do not have each other’s hearts, as a betrothed couple should.”

Thorin gives an impatient little shake of his head. “Such thoughts are a luxury for softer times...softer men.” There is a wild urgency in his eyes as he leans in, his face close to Fili’s, clasping his shoulder confidentially. “We have the throne to think of, you and I. You must have a wife on whom to get heirs for yourself, for me. We must see the line of Durin prosper!”

“Thorin, please,” you venture, hating the tremble of your voice and the instinct to shrink away when he rounds on you. “Please, do not force me to marry Fili.”

“Do you think yourself above my generosity?” He stares at you in contemptuous disbelief. “Do you hold the Queen’s crown a trinket to be refused according to your whims?”

“Thorin,” Fili interjects, but Thorin only flings up a warning hand to silence him.

“I offer you the chance to be the mother of kings, and you behave as though I plead the suit of an apprentice boy from the marketplace--”

“Enough!” Kili’s voice rings out, echoing on the stone walls and riveting every eye to him where he pushes his way forward between Balin and Dwalin, flushed and fairly vibrating with indignation. “Enough, Thorin. She cannot marry Fili. She will not.”

For a moment, Thorin looks almost amused by Kili’s defiance, like a grown wolf watching a pup play at attacking.

“Why do you seek to command your King in this matter, my sister-son?”

Kili’s throat works with a hard swallow. “Because she is married already...to me.”

Thorin’s benevolent expression vanishes.

You’re vaguely aware of the looks of shock and alarm passing between the others, and Fili subtly places a steadying hand on the small of your back as Thorin looks sharply between you and Kili.

“What foolishness is this?”

“We pledged ourselves secretly, while we were lodged in Beorn’s house,” Kili explains, his voice even.

“A child’s game,” Thorin scoffs. “You cannot make her your wife simply by naming her thus.”

“It was done according to the traditions of our fathers,” Kili insists, his anger rising in the face of Thorin’s dismissiveness. “We are properly wed, by the exchange of gifts and vows and the joining of bodies. You know as well as I do that anything more is mere formality. She belongs to me and I to her, and while I have breath, neither of us will marry another.”

Thorin stares at Kili as though seeing him for the first time in the heavy silence that has descended like a stormcloud on the room.

“Out of my sight, both of you,” he growls. “OUT!”

He bellows this last so suddenly that you jump, and Fili’s hand on your back propels you forward to meet Kili as he murmurs to his brother, “stay in your rooms until I come. I’ll try to talk sense to him.”

With a nod to Fili, Kili quickly shepherds you from the room, and you both resist the urge to run as you hurry through the long corridors toward the safety of your own chambers.

You’re trembling when you sink onto the threadbare sofa. Kili blindly gathers you into his arms, his hand moving in restless strokes over your hair.

“What are we going to do?” you whimper, fighting the panic that rises in your breast at this taste of Thorin's capricious wrath. “What are we going to do?”

Your distress seems to bring Kili to himself, stirring him to take your shoulders in his hands, to coax your eyes to meet his.

“Listen to me...listen,” he says, soothing. “Nothing is going to separate us. I promise you that.”

“But what if Thorin forces me to marry Fili? He’s the King.”

“It won’t happen. We’d leave Erebor first. And Fili would never go through with it anyway, you must know that.”

“I suppose you’re right,” you concede, letting out a heavy sigh as you rest your forehead against his. “Oh, Kili. How did we make such a mess of things?”

He has no answer, only a protective embrace and the press of his lips to your temple. When you shiver in his arms, he rouses himself to start another fire before returning to hold you, waiting, as the minutes pass like hours.

At last, a soft knock sounds at the door and with a reassuring nod Kili opens it to Fili, who drops into a chair beside the fireplace, stretching out his feet toward the hearth.

“I won’t lie, he’s furious. The word ‘banishment’ came up,” Fili admits, hastening to add, when Kili pales and grips your hand almost painfully, “mind you, I think we talked him out of it. Balin reminded him the throne would be still less secure with only one heir in line to it, and that seemed to sober him.”

“What will he do?” Kili asks, his voice strained.

“I don’t know. I don’t think he knows,” Fili answers, running his hand back and forth over his beard. “He’s been brewing this arranged marriage idea since the moment Smaug fell, and he’s not in a mood to see his plans thwarted. You'd do well to stay out of his way and try not to vex him...an extra shift here and there in the treasure room might help smooth your path.”

“Shift?” Kili frowns.

“The arkenstone,” Fili says darkly. “Thorin will have no peace until it’s found, so neither will the rest of us.”

“If we find it,” Kili asks, unable to keep hope from creeping into his voice, “will it cure this...sickness of his?”

“Who knows?” Fili sighs, suddenly looking older, more careworn, weary with the burden of knowledge that has been thrust upon him with Thorin’s affliction.

“Fili, I’m so sorry,” you offer. “We never dreamed to make trouble for you.”

He smiles wryly. “Well, at least you didn’t tell Thorin I was the witness to your vows.”

You learn to hate gold for the chill it carries, the hard edges that torment your knees and jab at your backside while you sift through seemingly endless piles of coins and trinkets. Jewels that would have stolen your breath a week ago lose their luster, worthless as glass in comparison to the one stone you seek.

The silence is broken by the growl that bursts from Kili as he flings a large, blue gem away in frustration, the sound of its clinking on the gold fading as it skips down the hillock of coins on which you sit.

“It’s impossible! Are we to spend the rest of our days scrabbling in this sodding treasure, waiting for the Elvenking’s armies to storm the gate?” Anger and helplessness war in his expression. “What kind of husband am I, to have brought you to this?”

“Kili, don’t think it,” you scold, sitting back on your heels. “Not even for a moment. None of this is your fault.” You give a quick glance around before lowering your voice. “Thorin is wrong. He’s wrong about everything. And perhaps, deep down, there’s still a part of him that knows it. We mustn’t give up hope.”

He nods begrudgingly, his shoulders slumping as anger drains from him, and you crawl over the sliding coins to kneel between his knees, cradling his cheeks with tender hands.

“In your Halls I will find a house,” you murmur, “in my heart you will find a home.”

A smile tugs at his lips, and the faint twinkle in his eye tells you that his thoughts have returned with yours to the peace of Beorn’s barn in the warm sunlight, the smell of straw and the buzzing of bees that served as a backdrop for the most solemn of promises.

His voice is stronger, more sure when he answers. “For as long as I live, my One.”

He steals a kiss, chaste and quick and wary of watchful eyes, and his countenance is brightened when he sits back and tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Now,” you say, addressing yourself once again at the treasures that surround you, “why don’t we push these coins aside and dig down a bit, to see if there’s anything hiding underneath.”

Kili will defy Thorin once more, this time to find himself received with pride and unspoken apology.

You watch in awe as your King -- clear-headed and keen-eyed and at last, at last, the leader he was always meant to be -- embraces his impassioned nephew, but your relief is short-lived as the realization sets in that Kili must join the battle that rages outside the mountain.

In the flurry of preparation that ensues, you feel him slipping through your fingers like water. Fear pulses in your veins while you watch him in these too-fleeting moments, committing the whiskey brown of his eyes and the purse of his lips when he smiles to memory.

The company avert their eyes when he takes you in his arms one last time, holding you tightly, letting you cling to him while you blink back your tears and summon the strength to let him go.

“You have made me the happiest man in the world.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” you whisper, and he smiles and kisses your forehead and your lips, and he is gone.

The mountain trembles around you with the great crash of the golden bell through the stone barricade and the entrance hall is flooded with sunlight, motes of granite dust sparkling in the air. You watch Kili to the last, catching a glimpse of dark hair and a raised sword before he disappears into the clash of armies in the valley.

He is pale when they carry him into the infirmary, paler than you’ve ever known anyone could be. His head lolls on the stretcher and blood seeps through his clothes, and the cry that erupts from your throat frightens even you as you rush forward to throw yourself at him, hold him in your arms even if he is already lost to you.

Bofur is there, sympathetic but firm, holding you back as you struggle against him to reach Kili, but a sharp word from Oin stills you.

“Stand back, lass, or I’ll have you confined to your chambers!” His expression softens with your efforts to smother your sobs, and he promises desperately, “I’ll do everything I can for him.”

Days pass, a week, and you refuse to leave him, even sleeping in a chair at his bedside despite the painful crick in your neck that comes of resting your head on your folded arms. Oin’s words pass over you in a fog...blood loss, stitches, fever...and still Kili sleeps on, and you beg all the gods for mercy.

One quiet night, when the lanterns burn low and the few healers move ghostlike among their charges, your ears prick to the sound of slow, shuffling steps on the stone floor and Thorin emerges from the darkness to look soberly on Kili’s ashen face.

“How does he fare?”

“No change.”

“I saw his father’s end,” he muses, his own face drawn with pain in body and spirit. “I swore I would not see his.”

“Hope is not lost while there is life yet in him,” you insist, and he nods, still watching Kili.

He moves gingerly to step closer to the bed, reaches to lay his hand on the top of Kili’s head. Tears glitter in his eyes in the lamplight.

“I would have given my own life in exchange to bring him back safe to you,” he says quietly.

You only nod, silenced by the lump in your throat, and impulsively clasp his free hand. He holds your hand in a tight, grateful grip, raising it to his lips before turning with a trembling exhale toward the door. A few steps, and he is swallowed once again by the night.

In desperation, you crawl carefully into the narrow bed to curl up beside Kili, your silent tears dampening the pillow as you lie staring at his profile and wondering if you will ever share his bed again. His dark lashes rest on his bruised cheek and his chest rises and falls with a short, shallow rhythm that comforts you with the knowledge that the spark of life still burns within him. Gently, you take his hand between yours, holding it like an injured bird, and the soft sound of his breathing gradually lulls you to sleep.

You sleep deeply, and it is morning when you sit up with a start at a jostling of the bed. Oin is smiling for the first time since you can remember, lifting Kili’s head to bring a cup to his lips. Kili drinks long and gratefully and rests his head on the pillow once more, turning to smile weakly at you.

“Kili,” you whisper in disbelief, reaching with a shaking hand to stroke his hair away from his face. “Oh, Kili. I thought I’d lost you.”

“Not that easily,” he rasps, and a sob of gratitude nearly chokes you, all your pent-up fear releasing itself in tears.

“His fever’s broken,” Oin says, giving your shoulder a sympathetic pat. “You’ve still got some healing to do, lad, but I believe you’re out of the woods now.”

Oin gives Kili another drink and a dose of a thick herbal tincture with an earthy scent before going on his way to tend to his other patients. You lie beside Kili again, resting your forehead against his temple, laying your hand on his chest to feel the beating of his heart beneath your palm, strong and steady, and he musters the strength to place his hand over yours, sighing wearily as he curls his fingers around it.

“Fili,” he frets, his speech beginning to slur as the sedative does its work, “Thorin?”

“Mending,” you assure him. “They’re well enough to be back in their own chambers, but you gave us a proper scare.”

“‘M sorry.”

“You’re forgiven...but you mustn’t do it ever again,” you answer, with a watery chuckle.

“Promise.”

He is quiet, his thumb drifting slowly back and forth over your knuckles, and just as you wonder if he’s fallen asleep, he speaks again.

“Amralime?”

“What is it, love?”

“You won’t leave? Want to see you when I wake up.”

You think ruefully of your agonized vigil, and for the first time since he returned to the mountain barely clinging to life, you allow yourself to look beyond this moment to the future from which the shadows are fading. Kili will be reunited with his family and serve his kingdom and kiss you in the firelight and play with your children, and you smile.

“Not for a moment, my darling. Sleep.”

#kili #kili x reader #the hobbit #imaginexhobbit #DurinsLive au #fanfiction

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orendrasingh · 5 years

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On this day 50 years ago, the Apollo astronauts who were being hailed as heroes didn't have all that much to do. They were a central part of a mission watched around the world, one which would define the century that followed, and which required intensive intelligence and ingenuity beyond our imagining – but at the moment they were engaged in housekeeping and sleeping.Now is the anniversary of perhaps the most unusual part of the Moon mission: that intermediate period after astronauts had completed the all-important liftoff, and as they waited, quietly drifting through space, on their way to the Moon.The launch happened on 16 July, 1969. The landing happened four days later, on 20 July.Between those days were a strange and eerie silence, filled with activities that would be humdrum were they not happening inside of the most ambitious activity ever launched by humankind.As the three astronauts – Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins – floated serenely through space, they began to think about what would happen at Earth. They were travelling at immense speed which meant that they had left the Earth quicker than many of those who had come along to watch would be able to get out of the parking lots they'd viewed it from."As we proceed outbound, this number will get smaller and smaller until the tug of the Moon's gravity exceeds that of the Earth's and then we will start speeding up again," Collins later said. "It's hard to believe that we are on our way to the Moon, at 1200 miles altitude now, less than three hours after liftoff, and I'll bet the launch-day crowd down at the Cape is still bumper to bumper, straggling back to the motels and bars."Soon after that, they would get to the main work they had to do during the journey, which began early. Collins was assisted by his two colleagues to separate the command module from the third stage of the Saturn rocket, and then spin it around and connect with the lunar module known as Eagle that would be used to descend to the service."This of course was a critical maneuver in the flight plan," Aldrin later said. "If the separation and docking did not work, we would return to Earth."There was also the possibility of an in-space collision and the subsequent decompression of our cabin, so we were still in our spacesuits as Mike separated us from the Saturn third stage. Critical as the maneuver is, I felt no apprehension about it, and if there was the slightest inkling of concern it disappeared quickly as the entire separation and docking proceeded perfectly to completion."The nose of Columbia was now connected to the top of the Eagle and heading for the Moon as we watched the Saturn third stage venting, a propulsive maneuver causing it to move slowly away from us."After that was completed, the really stressful work was over. The astronauts could get to sitting out the journey, waiting until they reached their distant target.By the next day, the astronauts were able to darken the windows with covers that served as curtains, and try and get some sleep as the command module slowly rotated them through space. They'd spend the following days doing chores and talking with Earth.During those intermediate days, there was considerably less activity on board the craft. Nasa's official timeline – which gives detailed information on absolutely everything the crew did – lists only a few activities over the course of the 17th and 18th, as the three astronauts floated through space.On 17 July, for instance, the crew simply conducted three TV transmissions and did one small burn of their engines to correct their course. The day after, there was another TV transmission and a quick journey into the lunar module and back so that it could be inspected ahead of the landing.But the day later, as they approached the Moon and, the atmosphere would change."Day four has a decidedly different feel to it," Collins later said. "Instead of nine hours' sleep, I get seven – and fitful ones at that."Despite our concentrated effort to conserve our energy on the way to the Moon, the pressure is overtaking us (or me at least), and I feel that all of us are aware that the honeymoon is over and we are about to lay our little pink bodies on the line."At this point, everything became much more real: for one, the astronauts could once again see the Moon properly for the first time in nearly a day. They were now in orbit around the Moon, and it was vividly clear."The Moon I have known all my life, that two-dimensional small yellow disk in the sky, has gone away somewhere, to be replaced by the most awesome sphere I have ever seen," said Collins later."To begin with it is huge, completely filling our window. Second, it is three-dimensional. The belly of it bulges out toward us in such a pronounced fashion that I almost feel I can reach out and touch it. To add to the dramatic effect, we can see the stars again. We are in the shadow of the Moon now, and the elusive stars have reappeared."At this point, the work to get ready to touch the lunar surface begins. The astronauts each carry out the checks that would try and ensure that the descent was as safe as possible, and that the lander that would carry them down was as secure as it could possibly be.Collins would spent yet more time on his own, waiting, as Aldrin and Armstrong jumped around the lunar surface. As they did, he waited, floating above the Moon – occasionally disappearing behind it and being plunged into the all-consuming quiet of the far side of the Moon – and waiting for his two colleagues to make their return, before heading back to Earth.

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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27 The anthem booms in my ears, and then I hear Caesar Flickerman greeting the audience. Does he know how crucial it is to get every word right from now on? He must. He will want to help us. The crowd breaks into applause as the prep teams are presented. I imagine Flavius, Venia, and Octavia bouncing around and taking ridiculous, bobbing bows. It's a safe bet they're clueless. Then Effie's introduced. How long she's waited for this moment. I hope she's able to enjoy it because as misguided as Effie can be, she has a very keen instinct about certain things and must at least suspect we're in trouble. Portia and Cinna receive huge cheers, of course, they've been brilliant, had a dazzling debut. I now understand Cinna's choice of dress for me for tonight. I'll need to look as girlish and innocent as possible. Haymitch's appearance brings a round of stomping that goes on at least five minutes. Well, he's accomplished a first. Keeping not only one but two tributes alive. What if he hadn't warned me in time? Would I have acted differently? Flaunted the moment with the berries in the Capitol's face? No, I don't think so. But I could easily have been a lot less convincing than I need to be now. Right now. Because I can feel the plate lifting me up to the stage. Blinding lights. The deafening roar rattles the metal under my feet. Then there's Peeta just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him. But his smile is the same whether in mud or in the Capitol and when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms. He staggers back, almost losing his balance, and that's when I realize the slim, metal contraption in his hand is some kind of cane. He rights himself and we just cling to each other while the audience goes insane. He's kissing me and all the time I'm thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger we're in? After about ten minutes of this, Caesar Flickerman taps on his shoulder to continue the show, and Peeta just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. The audience goes berserk. Whether he knows or not, Peeta is, as usual, playing the crowd exactly right. Finally, Haymitch interrupts us and gives us a good-natured shove toward the victor's chair. Usually, this is a single, ornate chair from which the winning tribute watches a film of the highlights of the Games, but since there are two of us, the Gamemakers have provided a plush red velvet couch. A small one, my mother would call it a love seat, I think. I sit so close to Peeta that I'm practically on his lap, but one look from Haymitch tells me it isn't enough. Kicking off my sandals, I tuck my feet to the side and lean my head against Peeta's shoulder. His arm goes around me automatically, and I feel like I'm back in the cave, curled up against him, trying to keep warm. His shirt is made of the same yellow material as my dress, but Portia's put him in long black pants. No sandals, either, but a pair of sturdy black boots he keeps solidly planted on the stage. I wish Cinna had given me a similar outfit, I feel so vulnerable in this flimsy dress. But I guess that was the point. Caesar Flickerman makes a few more jokes, and then it's time for the show. This will last exactly three hours and is required viewing for all of Panem. As the lights dim and the seal appears on the screen, I realize I'm unprepared for this. I do not want to watch my twenty-two fellow tributes die. I saw enough of them die the first time. My heart starts pounding and I have a strong impulse to run. How have the other victors faced this alone? During the highlights, they periodically show the winner's reaction up on a box in the corner of the screen. I think back to earlier years. some are triumphant, pumping their fists in the air, beating their chests. Most just seem stunned. All I know is that the only thing keeping me on this love seat is Peeta - his arm around my shoulder, his other hand claimed by both of mine. Of course, the previous victors didn't have the Capitol looking for a way to destroy them. Condensing several weeks into three hours is quite a feat, especially when you consider how many cameras were going at once. Whoever puts together the highlights has to choose what sort of story to tell. This year, for the first time, they tell a love story. I know Peeta and I won, but a disproportionate amount of time is spent on us, right from the beginning. I'm glad though, because it supports the whole crazy-in-love thing that's my defense for defying the Capitol, plus it means we won't have as much time to linger over the deaths. The first half hour or so focuses on the pre-arena events, the reaping, the chariot ride through the Capitol, our training scores, and our interviews. There's this sort of upbeat soundtrack playing under it that makes it twice as awful because, of course, almost everyone on-screen is dead. Once we're in the arena, there's detailed coverage of the bloodbath and then the filmmakers basically alternate between shots of tributes dying and shots of us. Mostly Peeta really, there's no question he's carrying this romance thing on his shoulders. Now I see what the audience saw, how he misled the Careers about me, stayed awake the entire night under the tracker jacker tree, fought Cato to let me escape and even while he lay in that mud bank, whispered my name in his sleep. I seem heartless in comparison - dodging fireballs, dropping nests, and blowing up supplies - until I go hunting for Rue. They play her death in full, the spearing, my failed rescue attempt, my arrow through the boy from District 1's throat, Rue drawing her last breath in my arms. And the song. I get to sing every note of the song. Something inside me shuts down and I'm too numb to feel anything. It's like watching complete strangers in another Hunger Games. But I do notice they omit the part where I covered her in flowers. Right. Because even that smacks of rebellion. Things pick up for me once they've announced two tributes from the same district can live and I shout out Peeta's name and then clap my hands over my mouth. If I've seemed indifferent to him earlier, I make up for it now, by finding him, nursing him back to health, going to the feast for the medicine, and being very free with my kisses. Objectively, I can see the mutts and Cato's death are as gruesome as ever, but again, I feel it happens to people I have never met. And then comes the moment with the berries. I can hear the audience hushing one another, not wanting to miss anything. A wave of gratitude to the filmmakers sweeps over me when they end not with the announcement of our victory, but with me pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Peeta's name as they try to revive him. In terms of survival, it's my best moment all night. The anthem's playing yet again and we rise as President Snow himself takes the stage followed by a little girl carrying a cushion that holds the crown. There's just one crown, though, and you can hear the crowd's confusion - whose head will he place it on? - until President Snow gives it a twist and it separates into two halves. He places the first around Peeta's brow with a smile. He's still smiling when he settles the second on my head, but his eyes, just inches from mine, are as unforgiving as a snake's. That's when I know that even though both of us would have eaten the berries, I am to blame for having the idea. I'm the instigator. I'm the one to be punished. Much bowing and cheering follows. My arm is about to fall off from waving when Caesar Flickerman finally bids the audience good night, reminding them to tune in tomorrow for the final interviews. As if they have a choice. Peeta and I are whisked to the president's mansion for the Victory Banquet, where we have very little time to eat as Capitol officials and particularly generous sponsors elbow one another out of the way as they try to get their picture with us. Face after beaming face flashes by, becoming increasingly intoxicated as the evening wears on. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of Haymitch, which is reassuring, or President Snow, which is terrifying, but I keep laughing and thanking people and smiling as my picture is taken. The one thing I never do is let go of Peeta's hand. The sun is just peeking over the horizon when we straggle back to the twelfth floor of the Training Center. I think now I'll finally get a word alone with Peeta, but Haymitch sends him off with Portia to get something fitted for the interview and personally escorts me to my door. "Why can't I talk to him?" I ask. "Plenty of time for talk when we get home," says Haymitch. "Go to bed, you're on air at two." Despite Haymitch's running interference, I'm determined to see Peeta privately. After I toss and turn for a few hours, I slip into the hall. My first thought is to check the roof, but it's empty. Even the city streets far below are deserted after the celebration last night. I go back to bed for a while and then decide to go directly to his room, but when I try to turn the knob, I find my own bedroom door has been locked from the outside. I suspect Haymitch initially, but then there's a more insidious fear that the Capitol may by monitoring and confining me. I've been unable to escape since the Hunger Games began, but this feels different, much more personal. This feels like I've been imprisoned for a crime and I'm awaiting sentencing. I quickly get back in bed and pretend to sleep until Effie Trinket comes to alert me to the start of another "big, big, big day!" I have about five minutes to eat a bowl of hot grain and stew before the prep team descends. All I have to say is, "The crowd loved you!" and it's unnecessary to speak for the next couple of hours. When Cinna comes in, he shoos them out and dresses me in a white, gauzy dress and pink shoes. Then he personally adjusts my makeup until I seem to radiate a soft, rosy glow. We make idle chitchat, but I'm afraid to ask him anything of real importance because after the incident with the door, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched constantly. The interview takes place right down the hall in the sitting room. A space has been cleared and the love seat has been moved in and surrounded by vases of red and pink roses. There are only a handful of cameras to record the event. No live audience at least. Caesar Flickerman gives me a warm hug when I. come in. "Congratulations, Katniss. How are you faring?" "Fine. Nervous about the interview," I say. "Don't be. We're going to have a fabulous time," he says, giving my cheek a reassuring pat. "I'm not good at talking about myself," I say. "Nothing you say will be wrong," he says. And I think, Oh, Caesar, if only that were true. But actually, President Snow may be arranging some sort of "accident" for me as we speak. Then Peeta's there looking handsome in red and white, pulling me off to the side. "I hardly get to see you. Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart." Haymitch is actually bent on keeping us alive, but there are too many ears listening, so I just say, "Yes, he's gotten very responsible lately." "Well, there's just this and we go home. Then he can't watch us all the time," says Peeta. I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there's no time to analyze why, because they're ready for us. We sit somewhat formally on the love seat, but Caesar says, "Oh, go ahead and curl up next to him if you want. It looked very sweet." So I tuck my feet up and Peeta pulls me in close to him. Someone counts backward and just like that, we're being broadcast live to the entire country. Caesar Flickerman is wonderful, teasing, joking, getting choked up when the occasion presents itself. He and Peeta already have the rapport they established that night of the first interview, that easy banter, so I just smile a lot and try to speak as little as possible. I mean, I have to talk some, but as soon as I can I redirect the conversation back to Peeta. Eventually though, Caesar begins to pose questions that insist on fuller answers. "Well, Peeta, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?" Caesar says. "From the moment I laid eyes on her," says Peeta. "But, Katniss, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love with him?" asks Caesar. "Oh, that's a hard one. " I give a faint, breathy laugh and look down at my hands. Help. "Well, I know when it hit me. The night when you shouted out his name from that tree," says Caesar. Thank you, Caesar! I think, and then go with his idea. "Yes, I guess that was it. I mean, until that point, I just tried not to think about what my feelings might be, honestly, because it was so confusing and it only made things worse if I actually cared about him. But then, in the tree, everything changed," I say. "Why do you think that was?" urges Caesar. "Maybe. because for the first time. there was a chance I could keep him," I say. Behind a cameraman, I see Haymitch give a sort of huff with relief and I know I've said the right thing. Caesar pulls out a handkerchief and has to take a moment because he's so moved. I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, "So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?" I turn in to him. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt." And when he kisses me, people in the room actually sigh. For Caesar, this is a natural place to segue into all the ways we did get hurt in the arena, from burns, to stings, to wounds. But it's not until we get around to the mutts that I forget I'm on camera. When Caesar asks Peeta how his "new leg" is working out. "New leg?" I say, and I can't help reaching out and pulling up the bottom of Peeta's pants. "Oh, no," I whisper, taking in the metal-and-plastic device that has replaced his flesh. "No one told you?" asks Caesar gently. I shake my head. "I haven't had the chance," says Peeta with a slight shrug. "It's my fault," I say. "Because I used that tourniquet." "Yes, it's your fault I'm alive," says Peeta. "He's right," says Caesar. "He'd have bled to death for sure without it." I guess this is true, but I can't help feeling upset about it to the extent that I'm afraid I might cry and then I remember everyone in the country is watching me so I just bury my face in Peeta's shirt. It takes them a couple of minutes to coax me back out because it's better in the shirt, where no one can see me, and when I do come out, Caesar backs off questioning me so I can recover. In fact, he pretty much leaves me alone until the berries come up. "Katniss, I know you've had a shock, but I've got to ask. The moment when you pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind. hm?" he says. I take a long pause before I answer, trying to collect my thoughts. This is the crucial moment where I either challenged the Capitol or went so crazy at the idea of losing Peeta that I can't be held responsible for my actions. It seems to call for a big, dramatic speech, but all I get out is one almost inaudible sentence. "I don't know, I just. couldn't bear the thought of. being without him." "Peeta? Anything to add?" asks Caesar. "No. I think that goes for both of us," he says. Caesar signs off and it's over. Everyone's laughing and crying and hugging, but I'm still not sure until I reach Haymitch. "Okay?" I whisper. "Perfect," he answers. I go back to my room to collect a few things and find there's nothing to take but the mockingjay pin Madge gave me. Someone returned it to my room after the Games. They drive us through the streets in a car with blackened windows, and the train's waiting for us. We barely have time to say good-bye to Cinna and Portia, although we'll see them in a few months, when we tour the districts for a round of victory ceremonies. It's the Capitol's way of reminding people that the Hunger Games never really go away. We'll be given a lot of useless plaques, and everyone will have to pretend they love us. The train begins moving and we're plunged into night until we clear the tunnel and I take my first free breath since the reaping. Effie is accompanying us back and Haymitch, too, of course. We eat an enormous dinner and settle into silence in front of the television to watch a replay of the interview. With the Capitol growing farther away every second, I begin to think of home. Of Prim and my mother. Of Gale. I excuse myself to change out of my dress and into a plain shirt and pants. As I slowly, thoroughly wash the makeup from my face and put my hair in its braid, I begin transforming back into myself. Katniss Everdeen. A girl who lives in the Seam. Hunts in the woods. Trades in the Hob. I stare in the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not. By the time I join the others, the pressure of Peeta's arm around my shoulders feels alien. When the train makes a brief stop for fuel, we're allowed to go outside for some fresh air. There's no longer any need to guard us. Peeta and I walk down along the track, hand in hand, and I can't find anything to say now that we're alone. He stops to gather a bunch of wildflowers for me. When he presents them, I work hard to look pleased. Because he can't know that the pink-and-white flowers are the tops of wild onions and only remind me of the hours I've spent gathering them with Gale. Gale. The idea of seeing Gale in a matter of hours makes my stomach churn. But why? I can't quite frame it in my mind. I only know that I feel like I've been lying to someone who trusts me. Or more accurately, to two people. I've been getting away with it up to this point because of the Games. But there will be no Games to hide behind back home. "What's wrong?" Peeta asks. "Nothing," I answer. We continue walking, past the end of the train, out where even I'm fairly sure there are no cameras hidden in the scrubby bushes along the track. Still no words come. Haymitch startles me when he lays a hand on my back. Even now, in the middle of nowhere, he keeps his voice down. "Great job, you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay." I watch him head back to the train, avoiding Peeta's eyes. "What's he mean?" Peeta asks me. "It's the Capitol. They didn't like our stunt with the berries," I blurt out. "What? What are you talking about?" he says. "It seemed too rebellious. So, Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn't make it worse," I say. "Coaching you? But not me," says Peeta. "He knew you were smart enough to get it right," I say. "I didn't know there was anything to get right," says Peeta. "So, what you're saying is, these last few days and then I guess. back in the arena. that was just some strategy you two worked out." "No. I mean, I couldn't even talk to him in the arena, could I?" I stammer. "But you knew what he wanted you to do, didn't you?" says Peeta. I bite my lip. "Katniss?" He drops my hand and I take a step, as if to catch my balance. "It was all for the Games," Peeta says. "How you acted." "Not all of it," I say, tightly holding onto my flowers. "Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what's going to be left when we get home?" he says. "I don't know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get," I say. He waits, for further explanation, but none's forthcoming. "Well, let me know when you work it out," he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable. I know my ears are healed because, even with the rumble of the engine, I can hear every step he takes back to the train. By the time I've climbed aboard, Peeta has disappiared into his room for the night. I don't see him the next morning, either. In fact, the next time he turns up, we're pulling into District 12. He gives me a nod, his face expressionless. I want to tell him that he's not being fair. That we were strangers. That I did what it took to stay alive, to keep us both alive in the arena. That I can't explain how things are with Gale because I don't know myself. That it's no good loving me because I'm never going to get married anyway and he'd just end up hating me later instead of sooner. That if I do have feelings for him, it doesn't matter because I'll never be able to afford the kind of love that leads to a family, to children. And how can he? How can he after what we've just been through? I also want to tell him how much I already miss him. But that wouldn't be fair on my part. So we just stand there silently, watching our grimy little station rise up around us. Through the window, I can see the platform's thick with cameras. Everyone will be eagerly watching our homecoming. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. "One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me. I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go. END

#HungerGames

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