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ptergwen · 3 years

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smoke and mirrors

⇢ richkid!tom x richkid!reader ⇠

w/c: 4.1k

warnings: swearing, drinking, light angst, and implied smut

summary: because of your mother’s insistence on a pristine family image and tom’s messy one, you deny your true feelings for him

a/n: ok ok ok the pics of tom in monaco really made me think and i had to get everything out of my system so here we are! thank you and enjoy x

your living room is engulfed by a hushed chatter that comes from far too many guests. half the people, you hardly know. it’s overcrowded, superficial, and the last place you want to be. it’s one of your mother’s get-togethers, as she likes to call them. these things are always far from the casual affairs they sound like.

weeks go into planning, caterers and decorators making themselves at home in yours. the family’s image is everything to your mom, so being a good hostess is her top priority. ironically, she’s more concerned with throwing her gatherings than raising you. so much for family, huh?

the only reason you agreed to make an appearance tonight is that tom might do the same. he’s a really good friend, someone you’ve been able to count on through all the mess that is your lives. you met in high school, when he moved from london to the states. his dad was offered a job promotion he couldn’t pass up. plus, tom and his brothers would be receiving a stellar private education here in america.

it was a win for everyone, especially you. the freckle faced boy who got lost on his way to english class became your closest confidant. tom’s company is such a sweet escape. he’s not interested in opera or the stock market like most people you meet are. he sneaks you out to go on walks at dawn and does shots with you until you can’t stand straight.

as you two continue to grow together, revelations about yourselves have come to light. what you want beyond your inheritances, who you want beyond friendship. you figured out the second part on a faithful night recently. tom showed up to your place with a bottle of tequila. after you drank it down through lots of lime chasers and giggles, he kissed you. you didn’t kiss back.

your heart said to go for it, but your mind pulled you back in. you were so shocked and overcome with new feelings, you froze up. that, and you’d infuriate your mother. although she cares about tom a great deal, she loathes his public figure. he’s always getting papped in places and with people he shouldn’t be. the two of you together would just destroy her.

you still want to please your mom at the end of the day, no matter how deep under your skin she gets.

tom immediately apologized and tried play it off as him being drunk. you grew up with him, became part of each other’s families, which means you know him well enough to know he was lying. he meant every second his lips were on yours.

what you need to do now is something you’ve meant to for a while. the only problem is that you’re stuck at your mother’s party, and tom hasn’t shown up yet.

“y/n, darling,” your mom calls for your attention. she’s dragged you into a conversation with some bloggers, but you haven’t spoken a word. “why don’t you tell us about your trip to spain last summer?” she plasters on her award winning grin and squeezes your shoulder. it’s time to play along.

“oh, it was beautiful,” you halfheartedly reply, more to the bloggers than her. they nod in clear interest. one jots down notes. “we went for a few weeks and visited a bunch of different cities. i’d love to go back sometime.” the typical press formatted answer earns your mom’s approval. you’re off the hook. your eyes start to wander around the room, hoping to set on tom.

“we?” the woman taking notes asks. must everyone pry? “my friend and i,” you shortly reply. you’re standing up on your tiptoes to see over the crowd. you’d think six inch heels would do the trick. “i’m actually looking for him right now, so if you’ll excuse me,” you offer a polite smile and silently pray they won’t ask who. unfortunately, your wishes don’t come true.

the other blogger, a short and stubborn man, speaks up. “just a friend you say? come on, tell us. who’s the lucky fella?” he inquires. your mother raises a firm eyebrow, signaling for you not to.

tom has a reputation for his reckless behavior. it’s your mom’s worst nightmare when the media associates your names under most circumstances. you’re representing her, so she does whatever she can to control how you’re seen. you’re constantly in the papers, being a young socialite and all. it sucks.

“he’d like to stay out of the tabloids, sorry,” you cover for tom, on your mom’s behalf. “i should really go. it was nice meeting you.” the bloggers don’t bother to hide their disappointment as you shake their hands. your mother rubs your back in approval. “thank you for doing that. we’ll talk later,” she speaks lowly. “bye, mom!” you practically make a run for it.

weaving through the sea of people, you end up by the main entrance. it’s hard not to get lost even though it’s your house. the place is packed with girls just a couple years older than you, wearing pearls around their necks. men’s strong colognes flow through the air. you’re in a form fitting red slip dress and louboutins yourself.

smoke and mirrors is what they call it. you show the pretty parts to distract from your ugly ones.

harrison suddenly comes waltzing in with a lady on either of his arms. you’d expect nothing less. he’s tom’s best friend besides you, considering the failed kiss attempt didn’t change that. their parents worked at the london branch of the same company. they each came to the states and met you. you happily introduced them to your world, helping to make it theirs as well.

“haz!” you meet him at the front door. he’s smirking while he leads the women inside. “fancy seeing you here, isn’t it?” he jokes. “very funny. i died laughing,” you deadpan, curiously eyeing harrison’s plus two. they merely giggle. “listen, have you seen tom anywhere? if he’s coming.” you’re fighting back a frown. “why wouldn’t he be?” harrison questions in a more serious tone this time.

“long story. you have guests to entertain, so i won’t get into it now,” you decide and manage a small smile instead. he perks up. “right. i’ll let you know if i see him?” nodding, you give him a wave goodbye. “enjoy yourself.” “you too, love. cheers!” the girls lean into him, harrison wiggling his eyebrows at you. he’s ridiculous.

hours pass by without word of tom. it isn’t like him to miss an event, especially if you’re in attendance. you despise these exhausting nights, and he’s supposed to be your rock during them. he should have his arm draped around your shoulders, whispering silly remarks to you while you hide out somewhere. you miss him more than you thought possible.

you’re just about to give up when you spot nikki ushering her husband inside. behind them follows tom, clad in a grey checkered suit with his locks perfectly tousled. he’s here. you waited the whole night, and he finally came.

tom kisses his mom on the cheek before strutting over to the drink table, not without a few reporters hassling him. they’re probably looking for another holland scandal to break. he declines their requests for comments on this and opinions on that, instead pulling up a chair next to harrison. the two exchange hugs and fix themselves glasses of champagne, you watching their encounter.

harrison fills tom in on the drama he’s missed tonight while they sip their drinks. tom keeps forcing smiles that don’t reach his eyes. he’s fiddling with his fingers, leg bouncing up and down steadily. those are the telltale signs he needs saving. however awkward it may be, you’re going to have to break your silence. it was bound to happen eventually.

“mate, i’m telling you. she fit her entire first right up her-“ “boys,” you cut into harrison’s story, greeting him and tom. his face tints deep pink upon your arrival. “don’t let me stop you. finish your charming anecdote,” you encourage him and subtly glance over at tom. he’s biting back a grin as he sets his elbows on the table.

“not with a lady present. let’s just… pretend you didn’t hear that,” harrison chuckles nervously and hops to his feet. “i’m gonna leave you two to chat.” humming, you move to take his chair. tom sucks in a breath. “what happened to the girls you brought?” you wonder. “they left. said they got bored,” harrison admits, tom stifling laughter. he elbows his friend for that.

“oh, fuck off. i’ll see you later,” he mopes, flicking your arm for good measure. tom salutes him and grabs his nearly empty champagne. “so long, bruv.”

it’s just you and tom now, seated side by side, silently so. he has no intentions of speaking first. he’s too embarrassed, and you don’t blame him. this is on you. you clear your throat before starting the conversation.

“can i top you off?” you tap the bottom of his glass with a tiny smile. tom shakes his head. “i’m alright, thanks.” he finishes the last sip and sets it down, turning to face you. your smile has vanished. “wasn’t sure you were gonna make it. i’m glad you did,” you change the subject. as if he’s considering the sincerity behind your words, tom furrows his eyebrows.

“mum wanted us to. she dragged me and dad straight off the golf course,” he explains and clasps his hands in his lap. his fingers interlock with each other. you fight off the urge to replace them with yours. “we would’ve been here sooner, but the paps are camped outside.” the hint of a smile forms on his lips, at last. “guess it’s not often you get the town’s finest under one roof.”

“you think i’m one of the town’s finest?” you tease, resting your chin in your palm. something flashes behind tom’s eyes. he looks right into yours, scooting closer. “absolutely. you’re the most eligible bachelorette in this whole building.” you allow a toothy grin to spread across your face. “tommy, stop it. you’re too nice to me.”

the nickname is music to his ears. tom looks you up and down, licking his lips simultaneously. “no, seriously. you look gorgeous,” he muses, you pushing at his chest. he exhales a breathy laugh, and you giggle yourself. “red’s definitely your color.” “reverse card. you wear it way better than i do,” you insist. your fingers tug at the collar of his suit. “too bad you didn’t match me.”

you’re relieved you two can talk like you usually do, light flirting and good vibes. it might not be so hard to put the kiss behind you. well, you can’t go on pretending it didn’t happen. you have to at least discuss the fiasco. tom should know why you didn’t reciprocate, then you can take it from there. whether he still has feelings for you, assuming he ever did, will depend on how that turns out.

“not to ruin the fun, but we still have to talk,” you murmur, tom’s body stiffening across from yours. he’s not sure he’s ready to discuss that. “can it wait? we’re at a party,” tom reminds you, running a hand through his styled locks. “yeah, my mother’s. don’t tell me you’re having a good time,” you playfully chastise him. he simply shrugs. “hardly. you’re the best part.”

you ignore the butterflies roaming about your body.

“you won’t mind a quick convo, then. it is with me,” you attempt to persuade him and place a hand on his knee. tom coughs a bit too loudly, the contact surprising him. “you know what? i think i’ll take you up on that drink first,” he decides with a mustered up smile. “coming right up.” you pat his leg before taking his glass. he chews on his lower lip while you poor the bubbling liquid. that was certainly… odd.

you slide tom his champagne back with an exaggerated wink. tom scoffs at this. “mm, thanks. care to join me?” he brings the alcohol to his lips, eyes never leaving yours. your mother specifically said no drinking tonight, since the press would be here. screw your mother, though. “please. could you hand me a glass?” you eagerly grab the champagne bottle. tom searches for an empty cup next to him.

you two are unspoken drinking buddies at this point.

“here you are, darling,” tom drawls, holding out the glass for you. every time he calls you that, you completely melt. “thanks, tommy,” you purr in response. you’re finally pouring your own drink when someone taps you on the shoulder, and hard. you look behind you to find your mother standing with her hands on her hips, less than thrilled. speak of the devil.

“hello, mother. can i help you?” you make sure to ask rudely. she responds with a smile that’s obviously fake. if tom weren’t here, you’d be getting scolded. “yes, my darling. those bloggers from earlier were hoping you’d finish your interview.” your mom shakes your shoulder in a motherly way. you squint up at her. “didn’t they leave hours ago-“ “they’re back,” she sharply informs you.

she’s lying, and you have a hunch as to why.

frowning, you hold tom’s hand in both of yours. “sorry, this won’t take long. why don’t you go find tuwaine?” you suggest instead. “he’s around here somewhere.” tom gives you an understanding nod and laces your fingers together, even if it’s only for a moment. “must be chatting up some producers or whatnot. i’ll see if i can help.” he’s such an incredible friend to everyone. he deserves the same from you.

“thomas, so lovely to see you,” your mom interrupts. tom stands up, kissing both her cheeks out of courtesy. “you, too. what a wonderful party. thank you for having us.” despite what the rest of the world believes, his manners are impeccable. “of course. give nikki my best, will you?” your mom puts her hands on his shoulders. he grins at her. “definitely. take care, mrs. y/l/n.” “always a pleasure,” she states, nudging you to come along with her.

you shoot tom one last apologetic look as your mother pulls you along and towards the crowd.

tom is no idiot. he’s well aware how she really feels about him.

when a swarm of guests is surrounding you, your mom lets go. you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest. “why would you do that? i haven’t seen tom in days.” she sighs without a care. “isn’t it time you branch out? expand your social circle?” her manicured fingers ruffle your hair. you push away her touch. “i’m social enough. we were in the middle of something really important.”

you begin to walk away, but your mother takes your arm. “whatever you’re about to do, it’s a mistake. he’ll make a fool of you,” she practically spits. yanking your arm from her grasp, you laugh bitterly. “of me, or of the family name? look around, mom.” you gesture to the spot beside her where your dad should be. “as far as i’m concerned, i have no family except tom. i’m gonna go check on him.”

you’re gone before your mom can stop you. she simply stands there, utterly mortified by what you said.

you run around the house to find tom, stumbling in your heels and not giving a fuck. you’d truly meant the part about him being your family. all the holland’s, honestly. they’re the most genuine and caring souls, and you don’t want to lose the one you’re closest to because of your mother’s delusions.

tom is in a circle with harrison and tuwaine, the three of them chuckling amongst themselves. you’d hate to bug him, but this can’t wait anymore.

“uh, tom?” you mumble his name, appearing behind him. he steps away with another quiet laugh. “hey, y/n/n. that was quick, hm?” your face gives away your distress. his whole demeanor shifting, tom reaches for your hands. “what is it, love? is something the matter?” “just… come with me,” you croak out.

you manage to smile at harrison and tuwaine, dropping one of tom’s hands so you can lead him upstairs. they each return the smile and share curious looks.

following behind you, tom keeps your hand tight in his own. he’d thought you were going to grill him about the kiss that barely happened. it seems like this is a much more pressing matter. his outburst of emotions can be discussed another time. now, it’s time to deal with yours.

you drag tom into the first room on the second floor, which is your dad’s study. he’s away on business this weekend, so he luckily couldn’t make the party. tom sits down in the office chair. you sit up on the desk, in front of him. your lip quivers the second his worried features come into view.

“y/n/n, what’s going on? why are we in here?” tom wonders, his tone soft. your heart clenches. “i- i wanted us to have some privacy when i told you this,” you sniffle out and blink back the tears forming. you’re sort of shaken from the conversation with your mother, and mostly because you have no idea how tom will react to your confession.

his hands come to stay on your thighs, right below your dress. they feel warm against your bare skin.

“tell me what? i’m listening, yeah?” tom gazes up at you with so much love. “lay it all out for me.” god, he’s fucking amazing. if only you knew where to start. “do you, um…” you trail off, letting your tears subside and words settle. “do you remember when your family made your big debut in town?”

a grin replaces tom’s frown, painting his beautiful face. “how could i forget? you made it quite memorable.” he traces circles on your thigh and elicits a giggle from you. “i spilled a whole thing of soda on your white fucking button down,” you recount with a lighthearted sigh. “right before your dad was supposed to introduce you to everyone, too.”

tom presses his tongue into his cheek to hold back another grin. “took ages to get it out. dad went mad when i didn’t show.” he cocks his head to the side, you leaning back on your hands. “you held me hostage in the laundry room so you could do that bloody stain stick.” your mouth drops open in mock offense. “i had to clean up my mess! i wasn’t gonna let the world meet you covered in pepsi.”

that was one of your earliest memories together. the holland’s threw a party and invited everyone who was willing to attend. they had been hoping to properly introduce themselves to the town, and this was their way of doing so. although yours and tom’s friendship was fairly new, you spent all night together because you had experience with such events.

tom’s dad was making a speech to thank the guests for coming. you and him listened from the snack table, until his name was called. he rushed to go up there while you were pouring yourself a drink. he’d bumped into you, and the bottle ended up all over him. you snuck tom right off to his laundry room.

you’d felt terrible as he stood there shirtless and blushing, you aggressively swiping his button down with a stain stick.

“why do you bring that up?” tom questions and continues circling your skin. you purse your lips. “i dunno. it was the last party i actually enjoyed,” you admit, putting your hand over his that rests on your thigh. “like to reminisce when i’m suffering through one of my mother’s.” his eyes shift to where your hands are laced. “i see,” he affirms. “so, is that… all you wanted to talk about?” “not even close,” you laugh out.

a burst of courage coursing through your body, you say it. “when you kissed me the other night-“ “i won’t do it again,” tom cuts in, trying to avoid the rejection he thinks you’ll give him. “it was a mistake, and i’m so sorry. our friendship is more important than my feelings.” you seem excited to hear that, though it’s not for the reason tom expects. “you do have feelings for me?”

he’d forgotten about his i was drunk excuse.

“um, yeah. i do,” he admits, cheeks rosy and lip caught in his teeth. “but, i’ll learn to put them aside, if that’s what’s best.” “no, no. it isn’t,” you dismiss him and put your free hand on his chest. “i love you, tom. that’s what i was really trying to tell you.” your words bring an instant grin to his face. he chuckles in disbelief, standing from the chair.

“fuck, thank god. that’s all i’ve ever wanted to hear.” he’s between your legs now, his hands moving up to your hips. you’re beaming at him as your arms snake around his neck. a burning question comes to tom’s mind. “hang on. why didn’t you kiss me back, then?” he almost whispers, thumb brushing over your hipbone. “this is gonna sound weird, but… my mom,” you reluctantly let out.

“you’re gonna have to elaborate,” tom prompts you and raises an eyebrow. you can’t hold back your eye roll. “she’s never been a fan of the person you are in the media.” his lips form a line. “i gathered.” your fingers tangle in his curls at the nape of his neck reassuringly. “i was subconsciously scared i would be letting her down in some way, if we were together.”

tom allows your hands to work their way up to his scalp. he exhales contentedly as you play with his ever so soft hair. “i understand, she’s intimidating. what’s changed that brilliant mind of yours about coming clean?” your nose scrunches up when he pokes one of your temples. “oh, yeah. i yelled at her earlier ‘cuz she stole me away from you.” his face lights up. “sexy.” “shut up,” you groan. “someone had to tell her off.”

“good thing it got to be you,” tom agrees with a squeeze at your hip. “‘m proud of you, y/n/n. it’s not easy, standing up to mummy dearest.” you tug on his hair. “like you’d know. nikki is a saint.” “that’s what she’ll have you believe,” he says under his breath, you gasping. his lips turn up in a smirk. “on that note… i love you, too.”

“would’ve been embarrassing if you didn’t say it back,” you acknowledge with a cheesy smile. tom dips his head down to rest his forehead against yours. “yeah, yeah. save the attitude for your mum.” your legs easily wrap around his waist, tom’s breath hot as it hits your face. “let’s give that kiss another go,” you mewl. he doesn’t hesitate to reply. “with pleasure.”

tom’s lips land on yours, you kissing back right away. he smiles into it as your lips gently move together. “about fucking time,” he grumbles, your hands situating in his chocolate curls once again. he’s savoring every second you touch him, kiss him, love him. the taste of your mouth is one he’s craved for longer than you could imagine.

it doesn’t take long for things to heat up, you messing with tom’s hair and tom rubbing your hips. you lay back on the desk as his tongue enters your mouth. holding you by your waist, tom hovers over you. his tongue tangles with yours in a deep kiss. between that and his fingers beginning to massage your thigh, you’re done for. you’re ready to take this a step further by the time he’s kissing down your neck.

“tommy?” you grab onto his shoulders, your head back. his lips detach from your skin with a grin. “yeah, love? ‘s everything okay?” he coos, pressing a final kiss to your collarbone. “more than.” you tilt his chin up to peck his lips. “you wouldn’t happen to have a condom, would you? just thinking ahead.” he laughs breathlessly, reaching into his suit pocket.

“conveniently enough, i do. not sure your dad would like me fucking you on his desk, though.” tom sets his hand on your leg that’s still hooked around his waist. “my room’s always available. carry me?” you make grabby hands and bat your lashes. he hoists you up by your waist, not lifting you just yet. “that would break the news of us, no? your mum’s gonna go apeshit.” he keeps his arms around you, chuckling.

“let her. besides, i know a couple of bloggers that would love to announce our status update.” you peck tom’s lips, grinning as you do. you’re suddenly in the air and being picked up by tom. the surprise of it makes you squeal, clutching onto his broad shoulders instinctively. he gives you the look of adoration that’s reserved for you only.

“we’ll go pop a few bottles with everyone, then we’re celebrating on our own.”

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 10 - ao3 -

Lan Qiren was only made aware that Wen Ruohan had fixed things when he realized that two weeks had gone by without anyone saying anything about him personally and had, out of a sense of morbid curiosity, asked one of his teachers about it.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” his teacher asked, nose deep in one of the musical scores they’d put together for the array project, hunting for the flaws. “The sworn brother business was just part of one of his schemes to gain additional power amongst the Great Sects.”

Having been involved in it, Lan Qiren wasn’t so sure about that. “What do you mean, honored teacher?”

“He’s been finding ways to form new ties with all the Great Sects, not just ours,” his teacher explained. “It’s all come out; some very clever people figured it out. There’s a new trade agreement with the Jiang sect that both sides were keeping hushed up, something going on with the head of the Nie sect that the Nie sect disciples are being especially close-mouthed about, and, of course, his new connection with the Jin sect…it’s really not that surprising that he decided to find a way into our Lan sect by trickery.”

His teacher said it casually, as if of course Lan Qiren's sworn brotherhood had been formed by a slightly underhanded maneuver rather than torture or rape or anything like that, and while of course that was in fact true, Lan Qiren was stunned by the fact that what passed for common knowledge in the cultivation world had been flipped on its head in such a short time.

Truly, Wen Ruohan’s cunning was boundless. It was a little frightening.

“Say,” his teacher added. “As his sworn brother, you’ll be attending the wedding, won’t you? You should bring back some stories!”

Lan Qiren stared blankly. “…what wedding?”

It turned out that Wen Ruohan’s new connection with the Jin sect was through a marriage. The bride wasn't surnamed Jin, that would be too much for most people to tolerate without some sort of excuse; she was instead from a powerful subsidiary sect that swore allegiance to the Wen sect, in keeping with Wen Ruohan’s preference for his own people above anyone else, but her mother was a branch cousin of the Jin sect and everyone said that it was obviously meant as a way to bind the sects together. They said Wen Ruohan had spoken openly of his desire for sons – as usual, no one mentioned the names of those of his descendants already in his sect’s memorial hall – and that there were high hopes associated with the union on both sides. The Jin sect was said to be already parading around the marriage as their newest political victory, trying to use the connection to their best advantage.

“How long has this been planned, do you think?” Lan Qiren asked Lan Yueheng, mostly out of lack of other people to ask; unsurprisingly, Lan Yueheng shrugged.

“It’s an engagement,” he said disinterestedly. “My cousin says the negotiations for an engagement can be as long or as short as everyone wants it. But surely no one would make a lifetime decision like that lightly? Not to mention an alliance between sects, however implicit. It must have been planned a long time ago.”

Lan Qiren wasn’t so sure. There was always the ambiguous situation between Wen Ruohan and Lao Nie to consider, and given the way Lao Nie had spoken during his visit, it sounded as if he had encouraged Wen Ruohan to come up with some clever way out of the situation, rather than suggesting that one already existed.

Moreover, he wasn’t sure that Wen Ruohan considered a marriage to be a lifetime decision. Hadn’t he been married before, had sons before? It was only that they had all died…

“Lan-er-gongzi!” A runner came up to him, saluting. “The Sect Leader asks that you report to the hanshi at once.”

“That’s probably your invitation,” Lan Yueheng said, sounding mildly disapproving – undoubtedly he thought weddings were a waste of time compared with doing experiments. Taking inspiration from his work with Lan Qiren in merging math and music, he’d recently expanded his interests from mathematics to alchemy, and Lan Qiren grimly foresaw many exploding furnaces in the Lan sect’s immediate future. At least they had some out-of-the-way places for him to work, or else there'd also be a lot of punishments for violating the rules about too much noise in Lan Yueheng's personal future. “It’ll probably make you miss the first week of this season’s classes, too…well, try not to be too bored.”

Sadly, Lan Qiren did not think being bored would be an option.

Sure enough, when he arrived at the hanshi where his father and brother were waiting alongside several sect elders, the subject of discussion was the invitation he had received to attend the wedding.

“As Sect Leader Wen’s sworn brother, naturally you must attend,” his brother told him. “We will also be sending a delegation from the Lan sect to attend on our behalf officially, but your position is different. You must be careful not to offend anyone.”

Lan Qiren saluted. “I will do my best.”

“Sect Leader Wen will not be kind if you lose face for him, especially at his wedding, even if it is inadvertent - or even if what you do is perfectly correct by our standards,” one of the other elders, one of the older teachers, the well-respected if sleepy one, said. He sounded concerned on Lan Qiren's behalf, which Lan Qiren appreciated. “You must especially take care not to offend his new bride. Even where the marriage is made for the purpose of power and there is no expectation of love, a man does not like to have disturbances in his back courtyard.”

“Especially if the stories are true and Sect Leader Wen hopes for sons,” the teacher in swordsmanship responded, his voice a little acidic. He was still unhappy with Lan Qiren over what had happened during their visit to the Nightless City; Lan Qiren did his best to avoid him whenever possible. “I doubt Sect Leader Wen will persist in trying to raise one of our children once he has one of his own.”

That explained the sour expressions on the faces of his brother and some of the elders, Lan Qiren thought. They had hoped to use him to manipulate Wen Ruohan, though the exact method of how they would have done so escaped him no matter how he analyzed the words he had overheard that night in the hanshi, and Wen Ruohan had neatly evaded their snare with a countermove of his own – as with weiqi, so with politics, he assumed. A disappointment, as always.

“A brotherhood is for life,” Lan Qiren’s father said, voice distant as always, neutral as always. “There are ten months at minimum before any son is born, and all the years after; even if Sect Leader Wen forgets about his obligations, that does not mean that we must. There will be other opportunities.”

“Provided Qiren does not provide grounds for Sect Leader Wen to abjure the relationship,” his brother interjected.

“I will try my best not to do so,” Lan Qiren said again, stiff as always, though he suspected his brother was simply stating a fact rather than casting doubt on him. “When should I prepare myself to depart?”

“The delegation leaves tomorrow morning,” his brother said. “You will need to give a personal gift to your sworn brother in addition to the sect’s gift. I have selected several options; come with me to pick the one you prefer.”

Lan Qiren saluted the elders and wordlessly followed his brother to the treasury. He liked none of the gifts his brother had selected, thinking that they all seemed a bit too gaudy even for a recipient whose tastes tended toward the luxurious – a bit more Lanling Jin than Qishan Wen, and not at all something he would select for himself – but eventually he chose a heavy golden crown that seemed to be not too far from the ones that he’d seen Wen Ruohan wear in the past.

“Not the dagger?” his brother asked, his voice thick with irony that Lan Qiren did not understand, nodding towards another of the options, a golden-hilt blade so purely polished that one could see their reflection in it.

“Sect Leader Wen has a rich collection which we cannot hope to match,” Lan Qiren said, thinking of those peerless treasure swords rusting away as wall decorations in Wen Ruohan’s bedroom. “Moreover, it’s a wedding, which represents two parts joining together into a single whole, while a gift of a knife implies severing. It is therefore inappropriate for such an occasion.”

“Brothers who have shared blood cannot be separated. It is a suitable gift from a sworn brother.”

Lan Qiren looked down at the options, feeling a little helpless. “If you would like me to change my selection…”

“The guan is fine,” his brother said, and shook his head, seeming almost a little pitying. “You are very good to be concerned with your sworn brother’s feelings, no matter how your relationship came about. Too much goodness can be seen as weakness, you know.”

I thought I wasn’t supposed to be making trouble? Lan Qiren thought to himself. Still, since his brother did not seem inclined to elaborate, he handed the gift to one of the servants to be put into an appropriate box.

In actuality, he had already selected a personal gift of his own, shortly after he had first heard about the impending wedding – it had seemed reasonable that he would need to send a gift, even if he didn't expect to actually be invited, and it had not occurred to him that he would be allowed to utilize the sect treasury for such a thing. He’d gone to Caiyi Town and purchased a small set of drinking bowls, applying the glaze himself as the artisan spun the pots; they had gone into the kiln immediately thereafter, and he was expecting the delivery today – in fact, it was probably already waiting in his room.

He would pack the set up with his personal items and give it to Wen Ruohan anyway, he decided. After all, he’d opted to do the design in Wen sect red rather than Lan sect blue, rendering it useless for his own purposes, and it would be worse to simply throw it away or to let it sit and gather dust. Being frugal is a virtue, after all.

Of course, if he were truly being frugal, he would have told his brother that he did not need an additional gift and left the guan alone, but he didn’t want to reject his brother’s kindness, either, rare as it was. Better to just eat the loss of the funds and have Wen Ruohan think him a spendthrift…

“Sect Leader Wen will undoubtedly have you stay in the Sun Palace during your visit,” his brother said abruptly, and Lan Qiren looked at him: his brother wasn’t looking at him, but into the distance, and his fingers twitched at his side in an uncharacteristic display of nervousness. “As his sworn brother, it would be inappropriate for him to put you in the guest quarters, or to fail to allow you free mobility through the Nightless City.”

“That seems likely,” Lan Qiren agreed hesitantly, not sure why his brother was mentioning it.

“He is fortunate that you are not naturally observant,” his brother said. “Otherwise one might fear that you would use the opportunity to learn more about how the Wen sect works – its treasures, its secrets. Its plans for the future.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Lan Qiren said quickly. “Have courtesy and integrity, after all. Even if I were to discover something incidentally, naturally I would be honor-bound not to share it without informing Sect Leader Wen that I had done so.”

His brother sighed, his fingers abruptly unclenching. “Of course you would. How could anyone doubt it…I don’t suppose you’ve ever given any thought to Do not forget the grace of your forefathers?”

“Of course I have. That’s one of the fundamental rules,” Lan Qiren said, now absolutely bewildered. “That we should live up to the expectations of our ancestors, both in our good conduct and discipline, and in supporting our sect so that our descendants may honor them equally.”

His brother shook his head. “Sometimes I really don’t understand you. You were tricked into an oath like a virgin maiden into a sweet-talker’s bed, weren't you?” he said. Lan Qiren really didn’t understand how his brother’s mind worked that he kept changing subjects like this. “I just wonder that you aren’t more resentful of the one that did it, the way anyone else would be. The way you act, you’d think Sect Leader Wen had done you a favor; you’re so considerate of him.”

Lan Qiren thought his brother might be being sarcastic, but he wasn’t very good at determining such things. “Even if the manner in which we became sworn brothers was unorthodox, the oaths have still been sworn,” he said, a little haltingly. “I cannot control his actions, only my own. Just because he might not be a good brother doesn’t mean I can’t be – isn’t that right?”

His brother glared at him. “If you have something to say, Qiren, you can say it directly.”

Lan Qiren was at an utter loss. “I – was?”

“Your teachers say that you’re brilliant,” his brother said, voice suddenly very cold. “I often wonder whether they’re not growing too old for their work.”

“I don’t –”

“Never mind. You’re dismissed.”

Lan Qiren saluted and returned to his quarters, puzzling over the conversation as he packed away his things for the trip. Was his brother trying to warn him against anyone encouraging him to act as a spy? Or was he trying to convince him to act as a spy himself? But if it was the latter, why wouldn’t he just say so? If it were truly necessary for some reason, for the good of the sect…

Was he supposed to volunteer?

But that would be truly breaking the oath of brotherhood – of which he still didn’t know the contents…

Lan Qiren supposed that, at least, was one thing he would be able to fix: very soon, he would be seeing his sworn brother again for the first time since they’d sworn their oaths.

Maybe he’d find a way to ask.

#mdzs #lan qiren #qingheng-jun #my fic #my fics #spilled pearls

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comfortwriting · 3 years

Text

I Prefer You - F.W

Fred Weasley x Fem reader

Masterlist , Request Rules , Writing Prompts

About: The reader is best friends with the Weasley twins, whilst studying with them, Cedric Diggory shows up and confesses his love for her. Little does the reader know, Fred is also in love with her. She finds herself having to deal with Fred and Cedric competing for her love and in the end she has to choose one.

Warnings: love triangle, major fluff!

“I wish he’d stop staring at you” Fred huffed, staring at the popular Hufflepuff student who couldn’t take his eyes off you.

George looked over his shoulder, making eye contact with Cedric, turning back around and tapping the book you were reading.

“He’s been at it since you bloody walked in.” George spoke up, trying his best to not notify the whole library.

You smirked and stopped focusing on your DADA homework, looking up you caught Cedric’s glance, his pearly white teeth twinkling as he smiled, his grey eyes radiating love towards you. You smiled back and waved at him, looking back down at your work and chuckling.

Fred didn’t like the way you looked at Cedric, in fact he hated it, he hated that Cedric had to be staring at you and not his handful of fangirls that constantly flocked around him everywhere he went.

“Oh do give over” Fred huffed again, looking at you “you can’t be seriously entertaining that air head.”

You looked up from your work again and looked at Fred, his facial expression hardened and you could tell that he was in no mood to joke around, you opened your mouth to ask what his problem was but Cedric had already walked over to you, practicing his lines.

“Y/N, may I have a word?” Cedric asked politely, his soft voice almost putting you in a trance.

“Whatever you’ve got to say just spit it out, Ced.” Fred interrupted, fidgeting in his chair.

George smirked “Yeah, Ced. What's the big deal?”

Cedric pursed his lips trying not to laugh, he knew the twins were doing this on purpose but he wouldn't allow them to get in the way of what he wanted, even if they had more influence over you than he did.

Cedric looked at Fred and George and nodded “Alright then” he cleared his throat and looked back at you “Y/N, I was wondering if you would like to accompany me to Hogsmeade this weekend on a date.”

The four of you went silent for a moment, Fred’s heart rate elevated and he felt like jumping out of his chair and battering Cedric for making a move on his girl - but then Fred realised that he had never told you how he felt, he always assumed the two of you would have a moment but it never happened and it certainly wouldn't now thanks to Cedric.

George stared at his brother, preparing himself to hold him back if he tried to go for Cedric, and you - you were sat in your chair feeling flattered that someone had asked such a thing, that someone saw something in you for the first time. After all, you were hoping Fred would gain feelings for you like you did for him, but in your mind, Fred wasn’t interested in being anything more than best friends.

You blushed and nodded “I would love to” you smiled back at Cedric, cracking Fred’s heart.

Cedric chuckled and licked his lips, nodding his head, looking incredibly proud with himself “I’ll see you Saturday” he replied, walking away.

“And in class!” you reminded him, shaking your head and closing your book.

Five days, you had five days until your big date with Cedric and funnily enough, Fred was more nervous than you were.

“Are you actually going with him?” Fred asked, stabbing his slice of chicken breast with his fork.

You could tell Fred was irritated, annoyed, but you couldn’t understand why. You thought after all the other people you had brought up he would finally approve of the student who went ahead and made a move on you.

You looked at Fred and swallowed a mouthful of pumpkin juice, you placed your Goblet back down on the table. “I said yes didn’t I? Why are you so bothered about it, Fred?”

George nudged Fred and whispered in his ear “just tell her, Freddie.”

You looked at Fred and started to slice your own chicken breast into strips “tell me what?” you shoved a strip into your mouth and started to chew.

Fred sighed and gave in, looking at George before focusing on you. “I fancy you alright, I’ve been after you since third year and as soon as that plonker shows up you’re all giggly.”

You inhaled a few dry strings of skin from the chicken breast, causing you to choke, you grabbed your goblet and downed some more juice, washing down the bits that got stuck in your throat.

“why didn’t you tell me sooner?” you hissed at Fred “I fancy you too!”

You didn’t mean to let that last part slip but it was already too late.

Fred’s face turned into a massive grin, he put down his knife and fork “do you really?”

You nodded your head and continued to eat your breakfast.

“Brilliant, cancel your date with Cedric and we’ll go instead.” Fred looked over at the Hufflepuff table and laughed at Cedric gently buttering his toast.

You shook your head and grinned back at Fred, your plate almost empty. “No” you replied “if you want me you’ve got to prove it.”

From Monday onwards Fred and Cedric went head to head with one another, constantly trying to one up each other and increasing how much love they were showering over you. Cedric didn’t give up all because Fred entered the picture and Fred didn’t give up as Saturday got closer.

Four Days

Walking over to you bed your jaw dropped, bouquet's of flowers littered your quilt covers and rested against your pillows, you were surrounded by sunflowers and yellow roses, all of which were from Cedric - the yellow notes representing his house.

As much as you loved the sentiment, flowers weren't really your thing - sure they were gorgeous and they brought you light when you looked at them but it didn’t make you double over in laughter like Fred did and everything he did for you. Instead of flowers and detailed love letters, Fred didn’t gift you anything except his biggest and most comfy jumper that his mother knitted, he also gave you his time and effort.

You walked into the great hall wearing Fred’s jumper, his ego boosting and Cedric’s crumbling.

“You look stunning in my clothes” Fred smirked, taking a bite out of his toast.

You blushed and sat next to him “I want more than just your jumper.”

Three Days

As much as Cedric wanted to, he didn’t have as much time as Fred - well he did - but he spent that time studying, going to extra classes and entertaining his fanbase. The only time you got with Cedric was in Herbology, he tried getting to know you better, asking you about your interests but he couldn’t make you laugh, he didn’t understand your humour.

“I don’t understand” Cedric replied “is that supposed to be funny?”

You sighed and shook your head “it doesn’t matter, don’t sweat it Ced.”

Two Days

You and Fred bunked a few classes and went off to Hogsmeade, going crazy in Honey Dukes and even cuddling up together and sharing a Butterbeer to keep yourselves warm. The two of you stayed up all night, winding up Mr Filch and Mrs Norris, you even went into Snape’s personal stores and stole the ingredients to make a Poly Juice potion, transforming yourselves into Draco and Pansy to get them into more trouble.

“On second thoughts, I don’t think you’re that pretty.” Fred grimaced at you.

You stared at him and walked over to him, pulling out one of his platinum blonde hairs “could say the same thing about you” you joked, both of you waiting for the potion to wear off.

One Day

“You looking forward to tomorrow then?” Fred smirked, seeing you groan in pain.

You shook your head “it’s going to be unbearable, he’s can’t make me laugh, he’s too soft, can’t take joke. I feel like he gets scared and takes things a bit too literally.”

Fred grinned and licked his lips “well I make you laugh all the time, wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve wet yourself because of me.”

Rolling your eyes you looked over at the Hufflepuff table again, Cedric talking with his fanbase.

“He’s got more than enough options, the majority of them girls are better suited for him than me.”

You turned your focus back to your food and took a bite out of your sandwich.

“Aright then, if you’ve got it all figured out go and tell him.” Fred encouraged you, his ego shinning through, George just wanting the two of you to shut up and be together already.

You knew Fred was testing you again and you didn’t want to back down, after Cedric’s offer, you and Fred were finally heading where you always wanted, you felt yourself itching for him, hungry for him, you wanted him - the more you wanted him, the less you wanted Cedric, the less the popular Hufflepuff lad stood out to you.

“Okay then, watch me.”

Standing up, you left your table and walked over to Cedric, his fangirls instantly looking appalled to be in your presence. You tapped him on the shoulder, Cedric turned around and smiled searching your face.

“Y/N” his face fell when he noticed you were still wearing Fred’s jumper.

“Ced - Cedric, I’m sorry but I’ve changed my mind about tomorrow.”

The infatuated girls around him started to smile, suddenly enjoying you being around. Cedric looked upset but then again you couldn’t read into him like you could Fred, you realised that you barely knew Cedric at all - he was sending love letters and flowers to a girl he didn’t know at all.

“She’s taking her bloody time isn’t she?” George spoke up watching you.

“Shut up” Fred shushed him “wait for it”

You smiled slightly and looked at Cho for a moment who was sitting with her friends “you should ask Cho, I know she sees something in you.”

“She’s done it” Fred smirked “she’s actually done it.”

Saturday

“I still can’t believe you nearly ended up with that toss-pot.” Fred laughed, grabbing some black pepper imps.

You grabbed some Chocolate Frogs “it’s a good job that I prefer you” holding his free hand the two of you shared a moment.

The overcrowded sweet shop suddenly felt empty, as if it were only you and Fred inside. Getting on your tiptoes and leaned in and Fred accepted, the two of you sharing the first kiss of many.

Pulling away from the kiss, Fred grinned and licked his lips, bringing his hand up to your face and stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I feel like such an idiot for not telling you sooner” Fred shook his head “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything either”

“I was sort of just waiting for it to happen, I suppose we’ve got Cedric to thank for that.”

Taglist: @reeophidian , @amourtentiaa

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagine #cedric x reader #cedric diggory #cedric diggory fanfic #cedric fanfiction #fluff #imagines #oneshots #fanfic #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #Harry Potter fanfic

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hopeymchope · 2 years

Note

Different anon. I disagree with the previous anon; fandom culture hasn't actually changed at all. It's always represented people with agendas and causes, going back to the Star Trek 1960s where fandom culture began. But the "social situation" has changed. From the 60s to the 90s, bullies were straight white male jocks, so punishing them was useful to the cause. But then victims "went off-script" and started criticizing female bullies, gay bullies, etc. So victims Have Outlived Their Usefulness.

Note: Part of an ongoing saga last seen in this exciting post!

That's an interesting perspective, but I think our RL counters it. The power of the crowd that openly, proudly loves and celebrates bullies is widely reflected in the rise of populist/facist figures to power between 2014 and today. It's mass support of bullying writ large. And those bullies that the masses embraced are, to date, all males who are part of the majority race in their given country. Donald Trump in America, Prayut Chan-o-cha in Thailand, Nicolás Maduro in Venezuela, Giuseppe Conte in Italy, Recep Tayyip Erdoğa in Turkey, and so on. They're not all white, of course. But they're all part of their country's racial majority, allowing them to run on a platform that's openly against minorities and immigrants. Then they toss in public encouragement of violence against anyone who opposes them, they act like women and the other races are inferior to them, they protect any hate-based "racial purity" movements that are rising in their nation, and they ignore any actual facts that disagree with them - even going so far as to be willing to stage a coup to remain in power. Is there anything more "bullying" than attempting to crush and belittle the marginalized, the minority, and the downtrodden?

So if the increasingly broad anime fandom is going to ignore bullies and instead celebrate them, I guess anime fandom is aligning with the political climate of the world over the past seven years. And I further suppose that makes some kind of sense; those hateful people, too, have "agendas and causes," as you say. So anime fandom is simply taking up the causes and agendas of populism and facism.

However, you'd certainly think they'd want to stand up against this kind of thing. After all, hasn't fandom historically been against bullying committed by those in power? Because anime fans are so often bullied themselves? It's certainly gotten more mainstream, though. As such, perhaps they don't really care anymore. Bullying is only a problem if you can't exert it yourself, eh?

...or maybe I can't see the forest for the trees here, and fandom only is only accepting those bullies who are also minorities. That would fit your implication, Anon, that fandom culture doesn't want to acknowledge or even frown upon a minority who is a bully or abuser. Maybe they accept Kokichi for being gay-coded. And they accept the abusive protagonist from that heretofore unnamed manga/anime I've been griping about it because she is female. After all, a female bully isn't a bully at all, right? She's a "girlboss" or somesuch. (...I used to think that was meant to be a joke when people said it about majorly problematic women, but I'm starting to not feel so sure.)

HOWEVER.... ! Bakugo is very much a fan favorite. He's a bigger name than either of the previous two I mentioned. And it's not like he isn't a generic alpha male. It's not like he has any obvious gay coding in his writing. It's not like he has any reason to be so broadly embraced. He's just a complete asshole. And he's always been in power. He was never any kind of minority.

So no. Fandom is just embracing ALL the bullies, and arguably even more than the global facist/populist movement is. Maybe not to the same depth — anime fans aren't yet falling in love with characters who are obviously racist — but certainly they've embraced a larger scope. When Marine Le Pen ran for President in France in 2017, not even her closed-minded hate speech could ultimately secure her victory. Many pundits have theorized that such bullying behavior of minorities doesn't hold the same appeal to the racist/sexist base if it's coming from a woman. But take heart, Marine Le Pen; if you narrowed your focus to wanting violence done against those you disagree with and were a little less blatant about the racism, I suspect you'd make for one extremely popular anime character.

#anime #fandom #politics?#anti-bullying #anti-kokichi ouma #anti-bakugo #asks #anon

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wolfstar-in-color · 3 years

Text

June Creator Spotlight: BigBlackDog

Hello, colorful cuties, and welcome to our first creator spotlight!!

Each month, we will highlight a different creator in our lovely fandom who features diverse characterizations. We will invite you to get to know them better through questions and answers, Fandom Discourse(tm), and a featured prompt created by our guest!!!

For our first spotlight, we are more than pleased to highlight the incredible work of bigblackdog!!! See a little snippet of this wonderful interview below, along with bigblackdog’s prompt! Look below the cut for our complete interview. Don’t forget to share and interact with this post, and if you have anyone you’d like to recommend for a spotlight, shoot us an ask! You can find our first guest’s Tumblr here.

“I've experienced ups and downs in the wolfstar fandom. It often feels like the wolfstar fandom is willing to engage in discussion about every political issue but race. And the few people who are trying to talk about race consistently encounter this silence.”

bigblackdog’s prompt: I want to see more latino characters who are not impoverished or criminalized. Give me a joyful latino/e remus!

Hello, I'm bigblackdog! I'm almost 30, and I've been active in fandom on various platforms for about seven years now. I'm latina/e and live in the u.s. with a small white dog.

Q: How did you start creating in the fandom? What did you wish to bring into the fandom?

A: Like a lot of fans I started with self insert fic as a middle schooler. Sometimes the practice of self-insert gets ragged on in fandom, as if you're not doing real character work, but I think it's really cool. And if you're an under represented identity in the traditional western canon of literature, self insert is a radical practice. Making space for yourself in a story that refuses or ignores your identities is a radical act. And that's what i want to bring to fandom-- disruption and self care.

Q: What things about s/r as characters or in their relationship inspire you to create around them?

A: Wolfstar was the first queer ship I was introduced to. I wasn't someone who arrived in fandom with my own robust queer reading skills, I needed other queers to hold my hand and introduce me to queer ships and how to find them and build them. My interest in r/s was simply a clinging to queerness I wasn't finding in other places. I really think it could have been any characters, as long as they were queer.

Q: What things would you like to highlight about the Wolfstar fandom and your experience in it?

A: I've experienced ups and downs in the wolfstar fandom. It often feels like the wolfstar fandom is willing to engage in discussion about every political issue but race. And the few people who are trying to talk about race consistently encounter this silence. It's hard not to feel bitter. But i've also met some amazing people and overall feel that fans really are trying their best to be welcoming and inclusive.

Q: What type of content do you wish you saw more in the fandom?

A: I want to see more discourse that aims at amplifying underrepresented voices like wolfstar-in-color. I want to see more fans of color joyfully and irreverently writing themselves into the magical world!

Q: What is your favourite wolfstar fancontent (fic/fanart/gifset/etc) and how does it inspire you?

A: I love dontthinkonithermione's rp. Not only does she do an amazing nerdy know it all Hermione, she envisions Black characters in every corner of the hp world. Have you seen her Hogwarts p.e. professor rps? i love the space she creates for herself, and the joy she does it with.

Q: Which of your own identities inform your creative processes? How has that process been for you?

A: I started out in fandom really trying to feel out the nooks and crannies of being queer. As i've spent more time in fandom and become more confident in my queerness I've started looking closer at some of my other identities-- Latina, mixed, adhd-- and how i can squeeze them into the hp world. For a long time it was hard, especially with being Latine and mixed, to envision how that identity could belong in a 90s British boarding school in the Scottish wilderness. I also really struggled with the feeling that i would get "diversity" wrong. I’ve also struggled with feeling like I have to write diversity because i'm an underrepresented voice. Brown people are often pressured to do the work of educating white people about racism and in fandom spaces that often means pressure to write the reality of racism instead of the fantasy that white writers get to play with. And sometimes i just want to write a pwp without worrying about the revolution, you know? But i really love fandom for its refusal to play by the rules of capitalism and canon, eventually i started to feel like putting more of myself into my writing was another rule i could break.

Q: What advice do you have for other content creators with diverse backgrounds in the fandom? What would you say to people that might feel they don’t have the “right” history/experience/characteristics to participate in the creation of content related to Wolfstar?

First, there's a lot of content on tumblr that aims to silence your voice, learn how to recognize the difference between cancel culture and encouragement. Sometimes content that seems well meaning still presents writing diversity as a list of black and white rules (and virtue signaling) instead of encouragement for underrepresented voices to share their own messy experience. Set those rules gently aside. Second, fandom is built on the idea that the author isn't the only person who gets to play. we all get to play. It doesn't always feel like we were invited, but the great thing about fandom is there is no barrier to entry, no prior experience or publishing hoops to jump through. This is our playground too. If canon is dead then why can't our stories be brown and queer and neurodivergent? Third, find your people. i've found that having just one other person to talk about race with has made the whole space feel more welcoming.

Q: How could we build a more diverse fandom?

A: We have to stop prioritizing white and cis male voices. We recognize that policing irl is a problem inextricable from whiteness and maleness, but we don't see that fandom policing online is also a problem deeply embedded in whiteness and maleness. White and cis male people frequently use their discomfort with difficult topics to change the subject from a critical discussion to one that prioritizes their white and/or male feelings. The same thing happens online when personal discomfort is used to cancel or undermine content that's challenging to a white or male voice. White and cis male voices are used to having their needs met above others. And we still cater to that in fandom spaces when we privilege 'fetishization' discourse over racial discourse. When we lift up bipoc and women/trans/nb voices and the issues they're concerned with we'll make fandom a more welcoming place for underrepresented voices.

Q: What’s your favourite thing to modify in Sirius’s or Remus’s characterizations to bring new perspectives to them?

A: It really depends on the story i'm writing and what issue i'm trying to figure out. Sometimes i need Sirius to be Adhd to come to terms with my brain, sometimes i need two brown boys to fall in love and be happy against all odds.

Q: What does diversity mean to you? What does that encompass in fannish spaces?

A: This is a hard question! I tend to think of diversity as those voices that are disenfranchised or pushed to the margins. And fannish spaces have all the same hierarchies and blind spots as other spaces. In fannish spaces there's the idea that you can curate your experience to some extent, but for marginalized voices, at least in my experience, no matter how much you curate the marginalization is still there.

Q: What are your ideas about the notions of culture and ethnicity? How do you relate to those notions?

A: There was a time in my life where relating to my ethnicity was largely a process of recognizing larger systems of oppression and how they worked against my various identities. And for a while it was a really helpful way to frame my experiences. Now I feel a little less attached to ethnicity as like, a monolithic concept threaded through my whole life and more attached to the small things that I enjoy about my ethnicity and culture-- making a really good pot of beans, for example.

Q: Leave us with a quote or work of art that always inspires you.

A: "Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare." Audre Lorde

#creator spotlight #bigblackdog #bigblackdogfic #wolfstar #fandom #diversity

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phoenixyfriend · 3 years

Note

I’ve been trying to figure out the best obi wan ship. They all have one slightly problematic thing this way or that. I’ve landed on the idea of obi wan and an equal is pretty top tier. But then I saw a picture of Coran from voltron. Coran and Obiwan might be a disaster but also both are dad shaped, both are bad ass, both are ginger, both have an accent. I think it could work. But another part of me is like Coran is just obi and jarjar mashed together. At the very least they hooked up.

Hey I just had restaurant ramen and Starbucks and actually feel like a human being so let's do something unnecessary but funny. I'm taking this as a challenge, anon.

Also IMO Coran has more in common with C3P0 than with JarJar

So obviously, both of these happen in Big Space, but the difference appears to be density. We see about the same complexity of culture and species interactions, but Voltron covers more galaxies. It's vaguely implied that Earth, at least, is the only planet with sapient life in the Milky Way.

I think the way I want to play this out, culturally, is that the Voltron area of the universe covers a much wider, but much more sparsely populated area, while the SW-verse is just the one very densely populated (in part because apparently humans just went Literally Everywhere) galaxy, where they didn't necessarily bother with developing the tech to go to other galaxies (except Rishi, which only sort of counts) because they haven't really even charted out their own yet. It was never contacted by the Voltron side of things because [checks notecards full of excuses] it's really far away from Altea and all that, and the Force shielded the galaxy from Galra interests because Reasons.

All this to say that the two franchises didn't interact until after the Voltron plotline was already over. We'll say it went mostly canon, except Allura survived because uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh fuck that.

We'll say that this is mid-TCW, you know, before Obi-Wan is a bundle of repressed traumas and bad coping mechanisms that's lost almost everyone he's ever loved to the dark side through death or corruption. He's still (mostly) okay! Anakin's not dark (or at least, not as dark as he could be; Obi-Wan doesn't know about the Tuskens), and Ahsoka's still in good standing and most people are alive and--and okay the army is a massive ethical violation he hates with his very soul and he misses Qui-Gon and Anakin's keeping secrets and pulling away from him every day but He's Fine, Guys.

He's Fine.

In comes a ship from not Wild Space, but beyond that. Intergalactic visitors, from the direction of the deeply concerning Force bullshit they felt a few years ago. Translation tech is decent enough on both sides that they get to talking pretty quickly. The explorer is actually a member of the Blade of Marmora, who gets the absolute most basic info (approximately this many inhabited planets, approximately this many trillions of sapients in the recorded galaxy, basic structure of the government for the past however many years, most recent conflict, etc.)

BoM person is like "cool, okay so you guys are really well set-up so I'm just gonna head back and kick this up a few rungs of the coalition ladder because this is way above my paygrade, I'll make sure you get some diplomats who can maybe help out with the whole galactic civil war situation as neutral parties."

The Voltron Coalition does send a diplomat! They, uh, also send Coran, who isn't technically a diplomat, but he's high-level.

The thing is, okay, that Coran is mostly just... passably competent at things. He's a jack of all trades, master of none type. He knows a lot of things, actually, but his practical knowledge in high pressure situations tends to be up in the air. He knows how to fix the Castle Ship and various technologies, but all of that info is ten thousand years out of date. He was a competent fighter at one point but these days his back gives out. He's very knowledgeable regarding intergalactic politics but, again, that information is ten thousand years out of date. He's also a little prone to social gaffs in dicey situations (e.g. the inciting incident in the Voltron Show episode where he misses the single day with clear skies), but puts in so much goddamn effort to make things happen.

In this manner, he's like a warped mirror of what Obi-Wan is and could be.

THAT SAID

Coran is actually really good with teenagers, and specifically with training them.

And Obi-Wan... isn't.

Obi-Wan's snarky and snippy and sassy, and he's decent enough at teaching and he's great at being a jokey friend and all, but he's not necessarily very good at emotions. And unfortunately for Obi-Wan, the teenagers he spends the most time with are Really Full Of Emotions. He tries, bless him, but he's just... he doesn't respond well to emotional conversations at the best of times.

His son-figure saying "You're like a father to me" leads to a response of... radio silence. Guys. That's not the mark of a man who knows how to talk about his feelings with the people he cares about.

In swans Coran with the various other diplomatic envoys of the visiting extragalactic community. The entire situation is really leading to a lull in the war because nobody wants to risk pissing off this clearly well-funded, well-powered third party. As a result, many of the High Generals can interact with the envoys, even if they spend quite a bit of time eyeing the Separatist representatives on the other side of the room, because clearly Everyone Needs A Seat At This Table.

It's a very tense situation.

Obviously, Coran is exactly the weird uncle that goes around telling plausibly-exaggerated stories about Weblums and Yalmors and Balmeras. I'm going to say at least one former Paladin is there, maybe Hunk. Hunk's fun, and also very willing to help Coran make friends and seem Amicable instead of Distant by correcting some of the exaggerations. There's a nice, calm atmosphere in a bubble around Coran and his nonsense, and it's a weird situation but arguably just... you know. It's good. He's good at making people feel safe around him.

Cue the hissed argument between Skywalker and Kenobi. The actual cause of said argument isn't important, just the fact that, in a dark corner where they're less likely to cause a PR issue, Anakin and Obi-Wan are having it out. Anakin's maybe twenty, still a lanky ragebaby, all that fun stuff. Obi-Wan is a the endpoint of every too-young brotherdad. He's thirty-six but feels like he's sixty-three. He's tired, but trying so damn hard to still connect with Anakin and just--just--

Obi-Wan gives himself a few minutes to calm down before following Anakin. He doesn't even remember what they were arguing about, really, but he has to mend the bridge before it frays even more than it already has. If Anakin goes to Palpatine for advice again, he's going to... do something. Obi-Wan isn't sure what, but he just has to fix this.

What he finds is... well, Anakin did end up going to vent to a man of an earlier generation who acts like a slightly eccentric older relative, but it's not Palpatine for once.

The goofy, slightly abrasive but mostly charming, brightly-colored representative of the Voltron Coalition is standing in the little balcony that Anakin's made it to, listening as Obi-Wan's recently-knighted padawan vents. The man nods and makes noises at the appropriate times, and then asks questions that are... maybe a little too accurate.

"You said that you view him as a father, that he raised you after you left your mother."

"Well, yeah, but he doesn't think I'm ready, or--"

"No parent ever does."

"...my mom thought I was ready to become a Jedi."

"I can't speak for your mother," the representative says, "but the princess of my people, Allura... I half-raised that girl from the beginning, and after the destruction of Altea, we were all the other had left. I watched her lead battles and bring life to planets, trying to rebuild a universe out of the ashes of what we'd left behind... I saw the evidence with my own eyes, and I still, every time, I worried for her."

"Why?"

"I worried that she'd be hurt, that she wasn't ready, that she'd make a decision she regretted. Often, she did, and I had to help her back up, and while she's always come back, stronger than before... she is the closest thing I have ever had to a daughter, and I will always worry for her. Every parent does. Do you think, perhaps, that your own Jedi Master, that you consider a father, may worry because he looks at you like a son? That it's not that he doesn't trust you, but that he doesn't trust the world around you?"

Obi-Wan feels his heart in his throat.

The conversation continues in that vein. While Obi-Wan can't say he likes the fact that this stranger is putting words in his mouth, if only as hypotheticals, he can't deny that there's a part of him that relaxes as Anakin does, as every frustrated fresh-knight question gets a measured elderly-steward response that's angled to consider the interpretation that favors Anakin and Obi-Wan in equal measure. Every word encourages Anakin to talk things out and lay boundaries and express his frustrations to Obi-Wan in the plainest words possible.

There's a story in there, more than one. The representative tends to go off on tangents, ones that Anakin sometimes finds interesting and sometimes just resigns himself to. Mostly, though, it goes well, and Obi-Wan... well, he's always been 'a nosy little bastard,' according to quite a few people.

(In his defense, the terms they'd used about Quinlan's 'investigative personality' had been quite a bit stronger.)

He eavesdrops to the end, and Anakin doesn't notice at all. Obi-Wan's not sure if he should try to address Anakin's lack of awareness of the world around him. He's not technically Anakin's master anymore. The comment may be taken as a criticism of his worth and capability, rather than a sincere desire to see his padawan not die.

He approaches the representative instead. He intends to introduce himself. Instead, the first words that tumble out of his mouth are:

"How do you do it?"

The man--older than he looks from a distance, more wrinkles than the bright hair would suggest, but not quite elderly yet--turns and lifts a brow. "Hm?"

"I'm sorry, I'm--" Obi-Wan grimaces. "I'm Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. The young man you were just talking to is my former padawan, er, my former apprentice. I've been finding it harder and harder to speak with him over the past few years, and it seems that every interaction we have leads to an argument. How do you... manage that? I can't get him to listen to me at all."

"Ah, teenagers," the man sighs.

"He's twenty."

The representative pauses, and turns to him. "Are you the one he says raised him? The father?"

"Well... yes, I suppose that's one way to phrase it," Obi-Wan says, eyes darting to the side. He doesn't know how to explain the whole attachment situation to someone who barely knows what a Jedi is. He has even less of an idea of how to explain his own broken ability to speak of emotion, the parts of his mind that Bant clucks over and attributes to his own complicated relationship with Qui-Gon. "I had custody as his primary guardian from ages nine to nineteen and was the primary individual for handling his schooling, health, and general upbringing."

"That sounds to me like a very convoluted way of saying you were his father in all but name."

Obi-Wan grimaces. "I'm not exactly old enough to be his father, and I wasn't exactly the person he was supposed to learn from; I was the... back-up option."

"It seems he cares for you very much."

"He didn't have much of a choice," Obi-Wan says, with the kind of helpless smile and awkward shrug he's long gotten used to sharing with people when they ask. "And I assure you he'd have been happier with the man that was meant to teach him."

"I'd say that the 'would have' in this situation is much less important than what is," the representative says. Obi-Wan probably should have paid more attention to his name. "I wasn't in a position to define my relation to Allura or her father in the way that truly suited our situation, by... oh, tradition, social norms, public relations, take your pick. I was a very well-regarded official, of course, but I wasn't royalty, not even nobility, and I certainly wasn't wasn't legally or publicly part of the family. But for all the limitations there, I was still able to find ways to tell her and her family what they meant to me, and they in return. Your apprentice cares for you very much, and I'm sure you care back, but I'd hazard quite the guess that you've no idea how to tell him that."

"I... I shouldn't," Obi-Wan says. "I'm fond of him, of course, but I've no wish to smother him, and to simply say it would be undignified. I imagine he'd laugh in my face."

The representative raises one eyebrow and takes a sip of his drink.

"Master Kenobi," he says carefully. "Might I suggest you go find your young man, tell him you love him, and perhaps give him a hug?"

Obi-Wan's face flares red. It's been years since anyone short of Yoda has spoken to him like that.

"I'm not a child," he sniffs, trying to angle enough away that the blush isn't as noticeable. He's damnably prone to such things. "You're not that much older than me."

The man laughs, and Obi-Wan lifts his glass to his lips in a futile attempt to hid the embarrassment a little more. "Oh, not counting the stasis, I've well reached the age of six hundred and twenty-four, my boy!"

Obi-Wan chokes on his drink.

The man laughs a little more, but thumps him on the back until he's breathing normally again.

"Yes, most of the humans I've told have had quite the reaction!" the representative assures him. "But yes, even with the times adjusted to what any given local year is, I am significantly longer-lived than most species."

"No kidding," Obi-Wan manages. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and looks over at the representative. He takes in the wrinkles and bright eyes, and says, "Well, I must say you look very well for a near-human of such an age. I can only name one person in that category that has managed better, and I haven't seen her since I was a child."

"I shall take that as the compliment it's intended to be," the representative says, twisting the edge of his mustache and beaming.

The man is... well, goofy, really, and quite a bit older than Obi-Wan had thought, but he's quite the charmer. Obi-Wan faintly compares him to a few different people in the back of his mind, but nothing quite fits. For all that the man is quite the jokester and--going by some things he'd seen from the corner of his eye in the main party--a master of physical comedy, the representative is actually more competent than he looks, and for all his visible age, not bad to look at. He is also, seemingly, an expert in dealing with teenagers and young adults, something Obi-Wan himself is... decidedly not.

He really should go speak with Anakin.

And there's a war to fight.

He doesn't really have much time, even with the recent lull.

He's in no place to be looking at the clean-shaven jaw and wondering what it would feel like under his lips, or to let himself consider whether this man would be the kind to have an hours-long discussion as to the narrative forms common in other galaxies, and whether they have anything paralleled to those in Obi-Wan's own, or if this man would show the same enthusiasm over teas that he'd shown over the hors d'oeuvres inside.

He should... really go find Anakin.

"I suppose it's time to find my padawan," he says, more to fill the air than anything. "Er... thank you, both for speaking with him, and for speaking with me."

"Not a problem at all, Master Kenobi!" the representative says, and Obi-Wan realizes that there's one last thing he may have... forgotten.

"This is terribly embarrassing, but I don't believe I caught your name?" Obi-Wan says.

"Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe, at your service!" the man says, with a sweeping bow. "As you can imagine, most simply call me Coran."

"Then I insist you call me Obi-Wan," he says, and before he can stop himself, "Might I bother you with an invitation to a shared tea time? You seem a knowledgeable fellow, and I'd appreciate the chance to... eh, pick your brain, shall we say."

It's not the smoothest come on he's ever put out there, or the most easily interpreted, but... well. Perhaps it's for the best. He's rather often found his tastes going in irresponsible directions, and it'll be much easier to brush this off without diplomatic incident if there's room for Coran to politely ignore the less platonic options.

Obi-Wan hopes he doesn't.

It's very selfish of him, but a dalliance with an older gentleman... well. He does, perhaps, make such irresponsible decisions, even now.

"I do believe I'd enjoy such a thing!" Coran enthuses, grabbing Obi-Wan's hand and shaking it in large, effusive movements.

Oh, this is a terrible idea, Obi-Wan thinks, even as he exchanges comm numbers and says goodbye.

Still.

He likes the idea of having at least a little fun, sedate or less so, while they have some time to themselves.

#Obi Wan Kenobi #Coran Smythe #Coran #coran hieronymus wimbleton smythe #anakin skywalker #Star Wars #Voltron #crossovers #Phoenix Posts #Phoenix Answers Asks #parenting

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twdmusicboxmystery · 3 years

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11x01: Details + TTD

Okay, let’s start with TTD.

There wasn’t a ton of smoking guns in TTD this past week. (Hopefully next week when Emily is on, it will be better. :D)

We got a good shot of the music box still sitting on the shelf behind Angela. That’s always encouraging.

The first thing that caught my eye in the actual episode is that they showed the blood running over Norman’s rabbit tattoo during the “in memoriam.” And it didn’t correlate to anything else in the memoriam. It wasn’t like they were showing a particular death or walker kill and it happened to be in the same shot. They just randomly threw it in in the middle. As though really emphasizing it. Definitely caught my eye.

Angela talked about the “whispers into screams” graffiti. She said the Whisperers did do that before leaving Alexandria, and it’s also the name of one of the comic book issues. Interesting. Something I might want to look into more, but even if they’re gone, it seems something about the Whisperers is still relevant. Not only because we still see this graffiti in the intro, but in the trailer, it looks like Maggie will wear a skin mask at some point.

What I can tell you is that the “masks” theme is still very prevalent. So it may be largely thematic, but I’m interested to see where they’ll go with it.

At one point, Paola said Maggie was “off the rails.” You don’t really see that in episode 11x01, other than what Negan said about her planning to kill him. But you’ll see it a lot more in 11x02, so I’ll talk more about it next week.

Finally, they said that the wall of the lost Eugene’s group sees in the CW compound was full of pictures of the crew, which is fun. David Boyd, one of their directors, is on it. I like David Boyd a lot. He directed 10x21, and during the TTD for that episode, he was giving lots of confirmations and hints. So, not only is he very much in on the plan for the show (Beth; the CRM; etc) but he’s willing to tell us stuff from time to time. So, I like him. :D

There are also some people on the board that look a lot like Beth/Emily. One gal with blond hair and striking similarities to Emily is in a graduation cap. There have been some people trying to figure out if it’s actually her. I kind of doubt it. I think that would be too obvious. But I do think people with similar looks to her were purposely placed on the board to remind us of her.

Think of it this way. We have one sibling searching for another (Yumiko’s brother) and the sibling (Yumiko) presumably thought he was dead before this moment. Meanwhile, there’s a blond, very Beth-ish girl on the board directly beside that. Hmmm.

Details:

Okay, just a few things I didn’t talk about in my analysis on Monday.

First is the money theme. We’ve actually noticed a lot of money symbols in the episodes late. @wdway has especially been focusing on and interpreting them. Of course the paper money symbol goes back to Still, when they gathered up stacks of cash and then used them to set the moonshine shack on fire. So, we can definitely tie paper money symbols to a Bethyl storyline.

I’m not going to go into great detail about the money. I’ll just say that it is tied to the Revolution Theme. Why? Because paper money generally has pictures of leaders (ie. Presidents or the founding fathers if it’s U.S. money) on it. It also often has pictures of political buildings, such as capitol buildings.

Not only have we seen such buildings in TWD (think 9x01) but in this episode (11x02, actually) we’ll see the part from the sneak peek where Daryl looks at the murals on the walls. One of the things he sees is a capitol building of some kind in flames.

@wdway also noticed that one of Maggie’s people (Duncan, I think) has an All-Seeing-Eye tattoo on his arm. That’s on the back of the American $1 bill. So, we’re seeing this theme a lot lately.

In this episode, we saw a bin full of paper money at the CW that all had black Xs on them. (X = Chevron = Beth). And then there was that interesting sequence about Princess and her $2 bill.

I’ll also tell you that in 11x02, we see a heavy money theme around Daryl, and it ties in a big way to Beth symbolism, but more on that next week.

Thanks for asking this, because I completely forgot to talk about it on Monday.

Yes, the things Carol gives back to him are his two knives. So, when Carol, being the last one down in the building, runs to get the last of the food, Daryl shoots walkers to cover her. But at some point, he either runs out of arrows or just can’t reload fast enough, so instead he throws two knives to take out 2 walkers that are close to her.

When she finally makes it back up to where the rest of the group is, she hands him back both of the knives. I know the shot is dark, so you have to look closely, but you can see that there are two of them.

And yes, I think this is SUPER significant. First, it’s the kind of thing they didn’t HAVE to show. Who’s gonna notice how many knives Daryl may have or if he gets them back, anyway? And it’s something we could always assume happened off screen. But no. They went out of their way to show us this.

What does it mean?

Well, given that Carol originally gave him Beth’s knife, I think of them definitely represents Beth and her bringing Beth back to him. We’ve seen a ton of evidence to suggest that Carol will be heavily involved in Beth’s return.

What about the second knife? I’m sure most people would assume Leah. Because he gave her Leah’s knife, maybe it just makes sense, right?

Meh. Maybe, but that actually wouldn’t be my guess. Only because we haven’t seen tons of evidence of Carol being involved with the Leah storyline moving forward.

And I could be wrong about that. It’s not set in stone in my mind. Just because we haven’t seen evidence of it doesn’t mean it won’t be the case.

But my guess would be Connie. And no, for the record, I don’t mean to imply that Daryl feels about Connie as he did about Beth. But he definitely cares about Connie and he lost her in a very similar way to Beth. And in that case, Carol was directly at fault. So, I like to think the two knives represent Carol bringing Connie and Beth back to him.

In fact, especially if Connie is first (which I think she will be) her return will be a precursor to Beth’s. We’ll see first one and then the other. Just my guess, though.

Okay, I think that’s all I have for today. I’ll do my rabbit theory either tomorrow or Friday. Stay tuned!

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theoris #team delusional #team defiance #beth is almost here #bethyl

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septembercfawkes · 4 years

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8 Archetypes of The Hero's Journey

🦸‍♂️ 👩‍🏫 🐉 😇 🐍 👥 👫 🦊

Today we are covering the eight character archetypes of The Hero's Journey.

Archetypes are recurring patterns and figures in storytelling (well, to put in simplified terms). Often a story won't feel "complete" without the proper archetypes.

But keep in mind that archetypes don't have to manifest exactly like this in your manuscript--it's not necessarily a character-for-character thing. In fact, these often work more as functions, especially today. You can mix and match and combine them in your cast of characters. Or sometimes the functions may be like masks that different characters wear at different times.

Hero

Obviously this is the protagonist, but we'll go a little deeper into the Hero archetype, than that, of course. Vogler, who has a whole book on The Hero's Journey specifically for writers, says, "The word hero is Greek, from a root that means 'to protect and to serve.' A Hero is someone who is willing to sacrifice his own needs on behalf of others. . . . At the root the idea of Hero is connected with self-sacrifice."

The Hero is the main person the audience will identify with. He or she provides a context for them to view the rest of the story. In order for this archetype to be effective the Hero needs to be both universal and original--universal enough that the audience can relate to him, but original enough to feel distinct, like a real person.

Another important function is that the Hero shows growth, and usually, he or she grows the most out of all the characters. She is typically the person who takes the most action, or at least, the most significant actions in the story. Through The Hero's Journey, she will face death, real or figurative.

Mentor

This archetype is almost as familiar as the Hero. The Mentor is often seen as a wise old man or woman, but it doesn't have to be. Traditionally, the Mentor is a positive figure who trains the Hero. Both Dramatica and The Hero's Journey touch on the idea that this archetype is similar to God or the conscience or a higher self, in the sense that it encourages the Hero to do what is right. This figure often functions like a parent.

In addition to teaching, the Mentor often gives gifts, maybe a magic pendant that lights up the darkest places, for example. Sometimes these gifts need to be earned by the Hero--he may need to prove he is worthy of them--and almost always they are required to finish the story. The Mentor may drop information that will be important later. She may also provide motivation when the Hero has difficulty moving forward.

Threshold Guardian

Just as the Hero will likely need to prove herself to the Mentor, she will likely also need to prove herself to a Threshold Guardian. As she faces obstacles on her adventure, she may need to get past a guard, rival, or unfriendly creature--not necessarily the antagonist, but someone in the way of the goal. Vogler writes, "At each gateway to a new world there are powerful guardians at the threshold, placed to keep the unworthy from entering."

The Threshold Guardian's purpose is to test the Hero before she can continue. Not all Guardians are defeated--some may be bypassed or turned into an ally. In life, the Threshold Guardian represents the resistance we face when we make up our minds to go a certain direction. This resistance may not be ill-intended--it can come from a best friend who doesn't want us to move away, for example. The friend's resistance tests our resolve--are we willing to still move even when begged not to?

Herald

The Hero starts out in his Ordinary World, until the Call to Adventure arrives. Often that Call to Adventure comes from a Herald.

The Herald announces "the need for a change." Like the Mentor, the Herald will work as a motivator for the Hero. Maybe the Hero knows a change is coming, but it's not validated until the Herald appears.

Other than Act I, a Herald can surface at almost any point in the story, announcing and encouraging the need for change.

Shapeshifter

By nature, this archetype is shifting and unstable. The Hero will meet the Shapeshifter, get one impression, only to discover they are truly something else later. Or their very nature may change several times throughout the Journey. "

Shapeshifters change appearance or mood, and are difficult for the Hero and the audience to pin down." Typically, traditionally, the Shapeshifter is the opposite gender of the Hero, perhaps a love interest. The Hero's Journey borrows heavily from the studies of Carl Jung, and this pattern connects to his concept of the "animus" or "anima"--an archetype representing the male elements in the female unconscious or vice versa. Of course, the Shapeshifter can also work well as the same gender, such as in a buddy comedy or adventure story.

In the narrative, the Shapeshifter functions by bringing in doubt into the Adventure. Because we can't pin down the Shapeshifter, we will feel unsure and ask questions.

Shadow

The Shadow is the antagonistic force. It "represents the energy of the dark side, the unexpressed, unrealized, or rejected aspects of something." It can be the main antagonist but also other villains, enemies, or inner demons of the self.

The Shadow challenges the Hero as a worthy opponent. If the story includes a main villain, that Shadow may illustrate characteristics the Hero rejects within himself, so in a sense it mirrors the Hero while also being the direct opposite of the Hero. Often the best Shadows are humanized in some way.

Shadows are not always negatively rooted.They can also be things unobtained, such as unexplored potential, forgotten dreams, or unexpressed love.

It's the stuff we try to push away into the unconscious. And sometimes that stuff is personified into a character.

Ally

Many heroes need a buddy or a sidekick to help them on their journey. This can be a best friend, a pet, a training partner, a servant, a classmate, or a variety of other things. Having an Ally gives the Hero a comrade to interact with--to bring out human feelings, thematic discussions, and possible problem-solving methods. An Ally will help illuminate aspects of the Hero that the other archetypes cannot.

Allies may ask questions the audience needs to hear but that the Hero would not ask, such as Watson when paired with Sherlock Holmes.

In mythology, it's not uncommon for the Hero to have a spiritual protector, like a guardian angel or the ghost of an ancestor.

The Ally "might represent the unexpressed or un-used parts of the personality that must be brought into action to do their jobs."

Trickster

This archetype exemplifies mischief and the desire to change. The Trickster is typically the comic relief. In the human experience, the Trickster humbles those with big egos and brings others down to earth. They may highlight follies and hypocrisies. "Above all, they bring about healthy change and transformation, often by drawing attention to the imbalance or absurdity of a stagnant psychological situation." They are rebels of social or political conventions--or at least, their actions bring such things into question.

A great Trickster can help balance out long, tense moments in a story. In order to feel suspense most powerfully, you need to contrast it with relief and laughter.

Remember, often today we don't use characters that fit archetypes exactly, but rather these are different character functions to bring into the story. Feel free to mix them up or bring something new to your character.

Why does this matter? Well, there is a reason these figures appear and reappear throughout human history. They represent different parts of the human experience: encouragement to do right, feelings of doubt, resistance, motivation, imbalance, repressed or unrealized desires. . . .

To learn more about this or other archetypes, check out and compare The Hero's Journey's list to Dramatica's list.

#Writing tips #writing tips and tricks #writeblr #fanfic #writing help #writing advice #writing reference #archetypes

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please-return-to-villanelle · 4 years

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This Is Not A Game, It’s My Life

S3E6 recap

The bitter pill of reality has been a hard one to swallow for Eve, Villanelle, Konstantin, and Carolyn over the course of this series. What this episode highlights well is that this spy-life and entanglement with the Twelve is no longer a game for anyone one, but rather a reality they are all living in whether they like it or not.

One of the ways this episode roots the characters in this newfound reality is through select color choices of the title cards and the character’s attire.

Light blue is associated with understanding and tranquility while darker blues represents knowledge, power, and seriousness. This title card is indicating that this episode will revolve around realization for the main characters while each of them uncover new information that allows them to come to terms with their realities.

Eve’s reality

The title cards in season 3 have transitioned from establishing where characters are located and are now giving insight into the psyche of the main characters.

Piss Off Forever

Forever flashes to signify that Eve is coming to terms with finally accepting the reality of her failed marriage with Niko.

It's interesting that this title card is yellow. The color yellow can symbolize optimism or cowardice. Maybe the yellow words are ironically representing the optimism with which they once viewed their relationship; but that is not the reality they find themselves in now.

This whole situation happened because neither Eve nor Niko were brave enough to express what they wanted and end their toxic relationship once and for all. The act of ending their marriage has played out like a game between the two of them. Both of them waiting for the other to make the final move to end it.

We learn that Niko is usually asleep every time Eve comes to visit. Is he avoiding her or actually unconscious? I’m thinking the former as Niko’s injuries wouldn’t equate to an unconscious state (see my other post for a medical break down if interested). Niko deliberately avoiding Eve would play homage to how the two of them are not being direct with each other. Neither of them has the courage to cut ties with each other. While it’s clear that Niko is over having Eve in his life, he doesn’t directly verbalize this to Eve until he is lying in this hospital bed after almost being murdered himself. It’s worth noting that Niko is still wearing his wedding ring in this scene, again showing that neither of them has fully let go of the other up until this point.

I told him, don’t marry her. She will make your life a great big ball ache.

This statement from Niko’s family member indicates that there was inequality in this relationship from the very start that was noticeable to people observing Niko and Eve’s relationship.

I’d also like to point out Eve’s outfit in this scene. She is wearing earth tones as she often does, which are muted and flat colors. This could signify Eve hiding her true nature, as she often does when she ties her hair back, and existing in the moment rather than living in it. I think it’s significant to this scene with Niko because she is taking this interaction and mulling it over internally while Niko makes his move to end the game.

This can’t be about the bus.

Still got it... this is the phrase used by someone playing a game, but Eve knows that this is a game Villanelle isn’t playing with her. They made that clear with the kiss.

Someone else is playing a game with Eve.

Sometimes you just need to let it win.

But Eve, ever the control freak and someone that needs to be right all the time, would not easily let someone else, let alone her own emotions as Bear alludes to, beat her at a game.

She teaches wee kinds to do roly-polies.

Eve puts two and two together that Dasha trains others to imitate and therefore was imitating Villanelle to mess with her.

Game on, Dasha.

Before confronting Dasha directly, Eve visits Carolyn to collect intel on her opponent. She is wearing the same outfit as before but with a purple scarf

Purple combines the calm stability of blue and the fierce energy of red.

Through her wardrobe, we see Eve slowly transitioning from plain MI5 Eve that was married to Niko to the Eve that is more in tune with her own desires and feelings. She does what she wants and answers to no one.

But if it’s the Twelve Eve, does it really matter who?

I could say the same about Kenny.

This scene shows that the Twelve murdering and harming loves ones is personal to both Eve and Carolyn. Eve is homeless and jobless (does the Bitter Pill even pay her?) while Carolyn is working off the clock to find out what happened to Kenny.

Up for a game?

The title card depicts the location Barcelona in red letters. Red is the color of fire and blood, passion and strength, desire and love. With a such a passionate color choice, we would expect to see a more state of mind title card rather than a simple location. I think this is because Eve is calm and collected when she comes to see Dasha rather than overtly emotional. She is wearing a purple turtleneck to show us this.

Purple combines the calm stability of blue and the fierce energy of red.

She has found a balance and is wearing her hair is down. The real Eve Polastri has arrived and is here to end this game with Dasha.

You think you are winning. You will never win at this game. You can’t beat us, you understand?

I think this is the crux of what is happening in the overall plot with the Twelve. We have 4 people who became inveigled with this organization and are all trying to escape their ties to it. But they are all slowly realizing that dealing with the Twelve and working for the Twelve is not a game.

I know you’re working for the Twelve. I know you’re working with her.

I just love how Eve and Villanelle don’t use each other’s name when taking to other people and everyone just understands they are referring to one another. It’s as if everyone on the planet is aware of their sapphic relationship. I just love it.

She will never be loyal to you.

Eve does not view her relationship with Villanelle as a game and knows there is some thread of understanding between them. It’s the only thing she can rely on anymore and I think we will see more of that in the final 2 episodes.

In the final moment of Eve’s storyline in this episode, she plays her last move and in her purple turtleneck with her hair down she finally lets go of Niko.

End of game.

Villanelle’s Reality

Villanelle is a visual contradiction of projecting power with her wardrobe (dark blue suit and gold shoes) contrasted with her unhinged emotional state in which she is powerless to her raging emotions.

Helene’s phone conversation sets the stage for the game Villanelle is trapped in.

This exposition gives Villanelle insight into how Helene and Dasha are managing her.

At first Helene is speaking directly to her daughter. She tells her daughter what she wants to hear to placate and calm her down. Afterwards, she has a conversation with grandma who has full knowledge of her daughter’s complaints and Helene’s tone and verbiage shifts to reveal her true intentions.

She’s doing all this to get our attention.

Villanelle acts out because she seeks attention.

Put some cream on it. That’ll calm her a bit.

Give Villanelle things to make her feel better temporarily: money, houses, the illusion of freedom and control.

Its official. To Villanelle the Keeper.

Villanelle smiles and downs the entire glass of champagne in triumph. She is temporarily basking in her freedom until... she receives the post card and the illusion of power is shattered.

This is the same stuff I was doing before. This is bullshit

You bargained for what you wanted, and we are giving it to you. You’ll get all the material perks you were expecting. What more do you want?

It becomes apparent that the Keeper position Villanelle was granted was nothing more than another tool her handlers were using manipulate her with.

This made me think of Villanelle’s Roman centurion and emperor metaphor. A centurion, or foot soldier, is someone who takes orders and carries them out similarly to how assassins are told who to kill by their handlers. While the title of emperor holds power and gives the perception of being in charge, this is not always true in reality. Sometimes a political title can be nothing more than a symbol of power for the figure head of the state while the minor politicians give the orders behind the scenes. This is Villanelle the Keeper’s reality.

Villanelle is over the Twelve and seeks the only family she has left: Konstantin.

They kill you the second they realize it.

I want this.

He reveals his plan to exit the Twelve for good likely with the 6 million euros he has stolen and his daughter Irina in tow. But exiting the Twelve is no simple task.

Do you know what this means? It means you have to leave everything: the clothes, apartment, and her.

I know.

This dialogue parallels with the end of season 2 when Konstantin encouraged Villanelle to run away after killing Aaron Peele. She wasn’t ready to let go of Eve then because keeping Eve was still part of her ultimate end game. But now the game is over, and she just wants to be free and at this point in time is prepared to give up everything including Eve to get the one thing she wants: her freedom.

This is bullshit.

At the end of the episode we see Villanelle completely botch a kill and get injured in the process. Killing and watching the life drain from people’s eyes used to be something that made Villanelle feel powerful and gave her a sense of ultimate control. This is no longer the case as Villanelle comes to terms with her complete lack of autonomy and her inability to escape her emotions.

I’m done with this shit. I’m done with it, I’m leaving.

Carolyn’s Reality

Carolyn finally gets Kenny’s phone records that were being withheld by her boss Paul (confirmed plant for the Twelve). She is over this game the Twelve is playing with her as well and she decides to go straight to the source of the several in going and outgoing calls Kenny received before his demise: Konstantin.

Carolyn is also done with the game Geraldine is playing with her. She confronts her directly about the secrets held between them with regards to her involvement with Konstantin. I suspect we will get more answers to whatever is going on here in the next episode. Regardless, Carolyn is over it.

The drought can be endured but rot is an instant killer.

Konstantin’s Reality

Carolyn’s “I’m over these games” energy leads he straight to Konstantin who, judging by the title card, wishes he was free in Cuba. The color pink could symbolize love and romance. In this context, I think it is alluding the romantic history between Carolyn and Konstantin and his love for his daughter Irina.

Are you in a rush?

No, impatient.

During their car ride, he reveals that he might be Kenny’s father and while that is interesting information it is likely not a conversation that requires several phones calls to clear up. Indicating once again that Konstantin is being deceitful with everyone around him as a way to survive this game.

Interestingly, the aria Carolyn was listing to when taking to Mo about Kenny is playing in the background during the car ride. The song, Dido’s Lament, is about an apocalyptic romance between Aeneas and Dido in which one of the lovers leaves out of duty and the other is left to die (foreshadowing?). I’m wondering if this song is signifying that this is the last time Carolyn and Konstantin see each other. Much like Aeneas and Dido, these lovers leave a lot unresolved between them as they part ways.

Later on, Paul, Konstantin’s boss this season, orders Konstantin to track down the person that ordered the hit on Kruger’s wife, which we all know is Konstantin.

Game over for Konstantin.

He immediately packs his bags and goes to collect Irina. But his desire to be free does not outweigh his love for Irina as he stays behind to watch over her in the next episode after she kills her mom’s new boyfriend. Really interesting that he made sure Villanelle was ready to leave Eve behind, the woman that has her heart, but Konstantin was not willing to leave behind his daughter, the girl that has his. Perhaps Konstantin can’t imagine a reality without his daughter or maybe he has more loose ends to tie up before heading to Cuba.

#killing eve #killing eve analysis #end of game #Eve Polastri #villanelle #Carolyn Martins #konstantin vasiliev #villaneve #dasha #killing eve season 3

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hushedhands · 4 years

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Challenge 74

Thanks for voting @winter-131! One easy thing you can do to encourage your friends to vote is just post that you voted on social media. It reminds people to vote, shows them that it can be fun, and makes them want to be one of the cool kids like you ❤️🤍💙 I hope you enjoy this Maxerica fight!

America knew that she was Illéa’s darling. The nation, rocked by tragedy in the wake of the rebel massacre that stole their King and Queen from them, took almost feverish delight in the freshly-crowned King Maxon’s brand new marriage to a humble girl from Carolina. The tabloids made it look like a dream from the outside, but inside the Palace all America saw were threats. Advisers sneered at her naive policy ideas, etiquette lessons with Silvia took on a desperate tenor as it suddenly became America’s responsibility to gracefully represent Illéa to the world, and there were always more rebels lurking somewhere in the shadows.

Now that Maxon wasn’t dating dozens of other women at the same time that he was courting her, America’s relationship with her new husband was better than ever. Still, they didn’t see much of each other. Now on nights when he didn’t take her on dates, it wasn’t because he was making out with Kriss Ambers, it was because he was still at work. America loved him with her whole heart, which made it all the more frustrating that she still didn’t know him very well.

One of their first major galas as a husband and wife took place in the gardens, because the Great Room was still being repaired from the rebel attack. The celebration was full of politicians who wanted to talk to Maxon and look at America, but even though America was only expected to stay quiet and pretty, she used the evening as an opportunity to practice the skills Silvia had been teaching her.

America moved on her own from cluster to cluster of important people, welcoming them to the Palace and thanking them for all of their “hard work in this difficult time”. She was both bored by how easy her job was and convinced she was doing it completely wrong all at the same time.

It felt like she’d been at it for hours, moving around the gardens like a bland, bejeweled ghost repeating herself over and over as if her unfinished business in life had been thanking people for coming to her party. In reality, maybe 45 minutes had passed, and she only had to make it a little longer until dinner would be served and she could take a break. Then, out of the corner of her eye, America spotted a familiar face and made a beeline toward her.

“Georgia, I can’t believe you and August decided to come.” America smiled.

Georgia offered America a perfunctory little curtsy and then looked across the garden for her husband, standing and talking to a few interested-looking military-types. “And I can’t believe all the times we risked out lives for the chance to be able to live openly in society, and this is what we get.”

America laughed, “Not worth it at all.”

“Not even close.”

“Hey, maybe we should start a new underground rebellion.” America offered.

“People who hate parties?” Georgia smiled wryly.

“We just run away, hide somewhere pretty, and periodically release manifestos about how boring this is.” America giggled as she gestured to the scene around them.

“I’m in.” Georgia immediately agreed. “Except, uh-oh, that’s interesting…”

“What?”

Georgia stepped closer to America and tilted her chin up to point at something happening over America’s shoulder. “Emiliana Chrystie found Maxon.”

“Who… the actress?” America blinked, turning to look back at her husband slowly so that the people around them wouldn’t notice the new direction of her attention.

“She married her way into one of the most influential families in Illéan politics, a complete caste climber…”

America cast a sidewise glance at Georgia, “Is that supposed to be bad? What do you call me, then?”

“I call you the wife of the man Emiliana is flirting with right now.” Georgia replied casually.

America didn’t see it at first. Maxon wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary, really. He was smiling, laughing at something Emiliana had said. She was playfully running a finger along the shoulder of his jacket, but just to show him something. They were probably talking about fashion. It was a little familiar, sure, but Maxon was just being friendly. And were they standing a little close together? Maybe. But standing around isn’t exactly a scandalous activity.

Then America saw it. Maxon placed a hand on Emiliana’s upper arm, leant in, and whispered something that made Emiliana blush and giggle. Not only did America feel embarrassed that her husband would flirt like that with another woman in front of so many people, but she felt stupid for not seeing it right away. She felt taken advantage of, because she’d made all of those excuses in her mind for Maxon about why his behavior was probably perfectly appropriate.

America was used to seeing him treat women that way because that’s how she’d seen him treat everyone in his Selection. Meaningless, shameless flirting from morning until night. Had the Selection groomed her to accept this kind of behavior from Maxon unquestioningly? Was that one of its darker, more sinister functions? She wouldn’t even have noticed what was happening if Georgia hadn’t pointed it out to her.

“Look America, I know that Maxon will be the first king in Illéan history not to take a mistress—“

“What? They all took mistresses?”

“All of them.” Georgia nodded grimly.

“Not Clarkson—“

“All of them.” she repeated emphatically. “I know Maxon’s different, but this is a party full of the old guard: important figures from Clarkson’s reign. They might not know Maxon’s different yet, which means the women are probably already jockeying for their position in a secret, second Selection to become the King’s lover.”

The look on America’s face must have been obviously pained, because Georgia was quick to reiterate, “Obviously Maxon would never do anything like that to you—“

But America wasn’t so sure. They’d never talked about anything like this before. She knew he loved her, but how could she stop him from taking on a mistress if that’s what he really wanted? He was the King and she was just his pretty little wife. She excused herself early from the party, claiming she had a terrible headache, and she let her maids pamper her when she returned to her bedroom.

America curled up in bed in her fluffiest robe and hugged a pillow to her chest, thinking hard about the last occupant of this bedroom, Amberly. The whole room had been remade after the royal wedding, but these were still the walls that had once contained her. Had she known that Clarkson had a mistress? Had Maxon known? Was this something very normal for the royals, like seven-course dinners and having a vault full of crowns? Had Silvia simply forgotten to put this in her etiquette lessons? Had she just not gotten around to teaching America about it yet?

By the time Maxon made it to his bedroom next door, America had been alone for long enough that she’d moved from sadness to righteous indignation. She wasn’t here to be an ornament on Maxon’s arm, like a pair of cufflinks with a cute backstory behind them. She got dressed, put on her running shoes, and went next door to confront her spouse.

Maxon’d had just a little too much to drink that night, enough to make him giddy and make the hard edges on the world around him blur softly so that everything felt safe. Now he was in a pair of silky pajamas that felt especially inviting after the long day he’d had. He was tired in a pleasant way after a productive day with lots to show for his efforts. When America wasn’t waiting for him in his bed, he’d assumed it was because she’d wanted to sleep off her headache without being awoken by him when he returned upstairs. When she opened the door to his bedroom fully dressed and not at all sickly, it took him a sluggish moment to realize what was happening.

“My love? Are you alright?” Maxon asked.

“No.” America crossed her arms defensively. “We need to talk.”

“Oh dear.” Maxon sensed that she was unhappy, but his first thought was that someone at the party had said something rude to her. “I had thought, in light of the recent massacre, that the guests would comport themselves with appropriate sensitivity. What happened?”

America didn’t understand what he was talking about. She scrunched her eyebrows in confusion and replied, “You spent the whole night flirting with that actress.”

Maxon was taken aback. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. “Wha… the whole night? America, I most certainly did no such thing. I spent the evening currying favor with important dignitaries.”

“Emiliana Chrystie is an important dignitary now? So what does it take to win her favor?”

“America!” he was scandalized at the vulgar implication her tone carried. “This is entirely unbecoming behavior from you—“

“From me?! Maxon, you were flirting with another man’s wife right in front of me!”

“I was not!”

America cast him an incredulous look, which only made him more angry at the accusation, “America, I am not permitted to ignore the women at my parties. Yes, I spoke to Mrs. Chrystie, but I made absolutely no inappropriate advances toward her. How could you think I would do that to you?”

“Seriously? That’s all you ever did to me when we were dating!”

He frowned, “That’s entirely different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, America! You weren’t the only one I was dating at the time. Now you’re my wife, in case you haven’t noticed, and our circumstances have changed.”

She didn’t appreciate his sass. “How would you feel if I started flirting with the men at our parties? What if I leaned in and whispered scandalous secrets in their ears, touching their arms, laughing while making eye contact? Should I try it?”

Maxon grew sullen, an acrid tone in his voice, “Didn’t you already do that with Aspen?”

America knew that was still a sore spot with him, even though he and Aspen had been good friends ever since the massacre. Still, the idea that Maxon deserved to flirt to his heart’s content because America had snuck off with Aspen a few times during his Selection was the height of arrogant hypocrisy, and America needed to nip it in the bud right now. “You chose between 35 women, I chose between 2 men, and you’re the one who gets to have affairs now?!”

“Affairs?! America, this is absolutely insane. I have to be allowed to talk to women without being accused of having an affair.”

“Maxon, you weren’t talking to her the way you talk to men. You embarrassed me, it was completely obvious that you found her attractive—“

“So now I’m allowed to talk to women as long as they look sufficiently plain?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, you’re twisting my words on purpose.” America accused.

“I have to twist your words to make any sense out of them.”

“Maxon!”

“I’m sorry that you feel embarrassed, America, but I didn’t do anything wrong.” he said in a tone that told her that the conversation was over.

America narrowed her eyes at Maxon and made the last move available to her, “I’m going to spend the weekend with my mother.”

“Good idea.” Maxon said, though it was the last thing he really wanted. He hated being alone in this enormous Palace. “Maybe she can make you see reason.”

America couldn’t stand that tone in his voice, the one he used to deliberately communicate that he didn’t care what she did as long as she stopped annoying him. She turned around, left his room, and closed the door behind her.

***

America awoke the following morning in her bedroom at her mother’s new estate. Though Maxon had gifted the place to Magda, and America had never truly lived here, Magda kept a bedroom specially for each of her children at her house, even Kota. Downstairs, America could just make out the sound of baby Astra loudly “talking” to her mom and grandma, the cutest delighted baby sounds in the world.

America only knew one thing for certain, she would not let Maxon have a mistress while he was married to her. She refused to be humiliated like that. She didn’t really know what options she had, because divorcing the King was illegal and Gregory Illéa had probably made the punishment something stupid like execution. But she could probably run away, either live here with her mother or take up residence in one of the monarchy’s many properties scattered all throughout Illéa. Or maybe she could flee to Italy and spend the rest of her days as a refugee with Princess Nicoletta. That didn’t sound horrible. There were amazing concert halls and museums containing the most gorgeous art in history in Italy. It was enough of a backup plan that America felt good enough to crawl out of bed and stumble downstairs for some breakfast.

When Astra spotted her from her place on Magda’s hip, she reached out her chubby baby hands and said, “Ayayayayayah!”

“That’s pretty close to America.” James smirked. He wore one of Magda’s flowery aprons, spatula in hand, standing near the stove where he was monitoring the progress of a fluffy, golden pancake.

“Our baby can talk!” Kenna cheered, smooching Astra on the cheek. “She’s a genius!”

“Ayayayayayayah…” Astra replied, now focused on the flowers in the vase in the middle of the table.

“Well, she’s working on it.” James allowed.

“Do you want to visit Aunt America?” Magda asked Astra, but really she was offering America a turn to snuggle with the wiggly toddler. America held out her arms gratefully and accepted her cute little offering.

“Ames, let’s go let her crawl around outside before breakfast.” Kenna encouraged. “She’ll be less squirmy while she eats if we do.”

America was happy to oblige. It was a gorgeous, misty summer morning out there. Gerad was already playing hard all the way across the enormous yard, but he paused to wave to America and Kenna when he saw them step out.

America lowered Astra to the soft grass and the baby took off.

“The groundskeepers do a good job of keeping ants and biting bugs away, so all I really do is follow behind and make sure she doesn’t try to eat any sticks or something.” Kenna rolled her eyes at her sweet, stick-eating baby.

Baby Astra was already off on her own adventure, wobbly, unsteadily creeping and crawling through the short, plush green grass.

“So… you showed up unannounced in the middle of the night…” Kenna said, trying to keep her tone casual.

“Mhmm.”

“Is it rebels?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if it was?”

“Yes.”

“Okay…” Kenna didn’t press for more information. They just quietly strolled lazily behind Astra, watching her explore the world. America didn’t know how to tell her big sister that Maxon, who was beloved by their whole family, was also a shameless flirt who didn’t care that his actions hurt America. It was embarrassing, really. Why wasn’t she able to hold her brand new husband’s attention? It would only get harder the more he got used to having her around, right?

“No, baby—“ Kenna hurried forward and took a small rock from Astra’s hand, where it had been halfway to her mouth.

Astra made a noise of upset at being robbed like this.

“Dangerous.” Kenna told her daughter sternly, “No eating.”

Astra disagreed, clearly. She loudly vocalized her dissent until she caught sight of Gerad kicking around his soccer ball. Rock entirely forgotten, she changed course and started off on the long journey to the far side of the yard to play with her young uncle.

Kenna sighed, “It’s a miracle the human race survived this long.”

“Only because of moms like you.” America smiled at her big sister.

Kenna smiled back, proud of herself for joining a long, ancient heritage of women pulling rocks from babies mouths. Emboldened by her lineage, she encouraged America, “You can tell me anything, you know.”

“I know.”

“I’ll never ever judge you, I’m always on your side.”

America frowned, frustrated, “I just—“ she shook her head, wishing this didn’t feel like such a big deal. “I don’t know, it’s probably stupid! But also—“

Kenna shook her head, “If it’s got you this riled up, it might be a lot of things but it’s not stupid.”

America started from the beginning, telling Kenna all about how Maxon had flirted with that actress at the party, how Georgia had warned her that Kings always took lovers, how there was probably a shadow Selection happening right now, full of gorgeous women vying to become the King’s favorite. How Maxon completely brushed her off the night before. Said her concerns were crazy. Refused to apologize or promise to change his ways. And how she needed a backup plan in case he took on a mistress, because America refused to share him in that way ever again.

America was surprised that Kenna giggled when America was done.

“That doesn’t sound like you’re on my side, Kenna.” America accused.

Kenna put her hands up as if in surrender, “I just can’t imagine sweet, awkward Maxon taking on a lover.” she said the last word with all the scandal it deserved.

“Well, he’s not just sweet, awkward Maxon anymore. He’s the King now. Things are different.” America frowned.

“Ames, did you tell him that this is what you’re scared of? Does he know that his behavior gave you bad flashbacks to his Selection?”

“Yes! Well, no, not the first part. But he knows how it made me feel, he just doesn’t see any problem with flirting like crazy all the time.” America was exaggerating. It had only been one woman at one party, but it was the start of something that could spiral out of control really quickly.

Kenna thought it over for a moment and then said, “Huh. I wonder…”

“What?” America peeked over at her big sister curiously.

“I just wonder if maybe Maxon doesn’t know how to be around women… I mean, you told me that he hardly knew any girls before his Selection. That means by far, most of his interactions with women took place while he was dating them. Maybe he really doesn’t see anything wrong with being flirty, because that’s the only way he knows how to be around women.”

America scowled. So now, thanks to Maxon’s sheltered upbringing, she’d have to share him with a harem of women? Would there be a race to see who could provide him with a male heir fastest? What if America only had girls like Anne Boleyn? She’d read about her in the Palace library, and her story did not end well! Would Maxon execute her so he could marry one of his mistresses?

“Ames?” Kenna brought America back to the present. “Don’t spin this up into something that’s bigger than it is.”

“I’m not.” America lied.

“Maybe Maxon doesn’t even know about the whole… royal mistress thing.”

“How could he not know?”

“Well maybe he doesn’t think you know? You guys are changing a lot about the monarchy, maybe this was just something he wanted to quietly let go of…”

America sighed and tilted her head back. She already knew she was going to have to go back to the Palace after breakfast and talk this over with her husband, even though all she wanted was to hide here with her family and snuggle baby Astra all weekend. She loved Kenna, but sometimes talking over her problems with her big sister was too helpful.

***

America found Maxon looking glum on their bench in the gardens. It was a warm Saturday, and since summer was the slow season for the government, Maxon had the day off.

“Ames?” he was surprised she was back, and she didn’t miss how he seemed to perk up just from the sight of her.

America jumped straight to the chase, still totally prepared to turn around and head back to her mother’s house if this didn’t go well. “Did you know that kings are expected to have affairs?”

Maxon blinked, surprised, “I beg your pardon?”

“Georgia told me. Illéan kings are supposed to take mistresses after they marry.”

Maxon shook his head mutinously, “Northern rebels don’t know everything, Ames.”

“So it’s not true?” America challenged him.

Maxon paused a little too long.

“So it is true, and you know it.” America sank onto the bench next to him. “It’s pretty messed up that you made me feel crazy last night since you knew full well that all of those people expect you to take a mistress soon.”

Maxon looked stunned. Finally he confessed, “I didn’t… what I mean to say is, I had no idea it was some sort of rule. I knew… I knew my father…”

America turned to him, jaw dropped, realizing what he was saying. He’d caught his father having an affair, but he hadn’t realized that was expected for Illéan kings.

“Oh, Max.” America placed her hand over his and squeezed. “I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

“Ames, I would never do that to you.”

America smiled, but she wasn’t entirely convinced, “Not even with a gorgeous young actress? I’m still eighteen, but what about when I’m old and wrinkly?”

He smiled wanly and pressed two featherlight kisses to the outside corners of her eyes, “I should be so lucky as to share a life with you that’s long and happy enough to lead to wrinkles…”

America’s stomach swooped at his honeyed words, but then she realized that that’s exactly how Emiliana had felt the night before.

“Maxon, you need to treat women the same way you treat men.”

“I’m sorry?”

“If a woman is a good friend of yours and you want to touch them, whisper to them, tell secret, risqué jokes with them—“

“I wasn’t—“

“Let me finish.” America insisted, and he fell silent. “I’m telling you that’s fine. But stop for just a second before you do it and make sure you’d do the same thing with a man. I think, maybe, you just don’t know how to socialize with women you’re not dating. You’ve never really had to do it before.”

Maxon let her words sink in, this time doing his best not to dismiss them out of hand. After all, the only woman outside of his family that he’d had much of a friendship with before his Selection was Daphne, and she’d walked away from him heartbroken because she’d thought he was in love with her. “America, you may be right.” he realized, appalled. “What do I do?”

America smiled at his lost little confused look, a startled princeling in a king’s crown. “Just like I said, try to treat them the exact same as men. It’ll take a lot of thought at first, but I’ll bet you’ll get used to it fast. Especially if you start adding women to your roster of advisers.”

Maxon looked down at his shoes, then squeezed her hand gently, “I’m so sorry I hurt you, Ames. I should have listened. I didn’t put it all together… the fact that those guests expect me to take a mistress, and the fact that I don’t behave the same way around women as men…”

“I know you won’t be perfect overnight, and I’m glad you haven’t secretly been planning to move your mistresses into the second floor—“

“God, no!”

“I didn’t know.” America blushed. “I just… after everything I’ve learned since your Selection started, I… I didn’t think you’d do it, but I just didn’t know…”

Maxon nodded grimly. He could understand how such a thing might just be believable to her. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Then trust me when I say that I will never, ever have an affair. You are my wife, and I am perfectly content with my choice. I’ll do my best to make that clear to everyone else, too.”

America smiled, truly feeling the sun on her shoulders for the first time all day.

#the laws of inheritance #challenge #DemocracyHands

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years

Text

The better to taste you with, sweetheart

(Hayffie trick-or-treat 🧡 🔥 NSFW. Sexual content. Thanks @chocolateshipcookieblog for the prompt. This fic is a bit all over the place, but so is Halloween, so I just went with what came up. District 12 started feeling a little like Stars Hollow, so I kind of embraced that too. Now I can’t look at a lollipop without picturing it in Effie’s mouth, and I’m not complaining 🍭. Writing this was fun and touching.)

***

A fire burned in a wood stove in the corner of the Hob where people gathered for the town hall meeting. The large brick building held the chill of early autumn. Effie shivered, regretting her decision to wear only a sweater rather than a coat. She huddled close to Peeta. Sae’s granddaughter held Effie’s hand in a childlike way, swinging her arm periodically. Effie didn’t mind the connection with the unusual woman who was her neighbor now. That evening she appreciated the warmth of her hand.

“I told ‘em they were buildin’ this place too big,” Greasy Sae said matter-of-factly, not caring if the mayor or anyone in particular heard her or not. “A body gets cold in here no matter the size of the crowd.”

“Sure beats the heat in summer,” a man behind them said.

Effie peered over her shoulder and recognized him as one of the spice traders. “Spice” was a term used loosely in 12 to refer to dried roots, stems, bulbs, barks, and herbs, including tabacco and cannabis.

“Summer gets real hot.” He glanced at Effie from her forehead to her shoulders, then his eyes shot back up without gazing further. It was a look she knew well now. In 12, no one in his right mind stared wantonly at Haymitch’s girl, at least not openly, even when they were drunk or stoned.

The town hall had drawn a decent size crowd. More folks started showing up at those meetings once the council stopped hosting them every month and switched to quarterly. The people of each district had representatives and a governor, but those positions dealt with broad political issues, leaving local issues to be facilitated by a mayor and a town council.

It was Effie’s first autumn since letting go of her apartment in the Capitol, and Peeta was a dear to be joining her that night since she hadn’t wanted to go alone. She figured the only way she’d stop feeling like an outsider in 12 was to walk the line awhile between being present and being nonintrusive. She had a lifetime of experience walking lines much finer and more perilous than that one, so the task suited her.

The Hob filled with the fragrance of coffee brewing. People in attendance sipped mugs of it and devoured the muffins Peeta brought, baked with fruit from pawpaw trees. Katniss had encountered a grove of them in the woods. The fruit dropped in late summer and early fall, and Katniss gathered up what she found after hunts.

The mayor called the meeting to order and proceeded with the usual agenda: reconstruction updates, old business, new business, and so on. Effie was fairly bored until some new business sparked her interest.

“Since last year’s revival of All Hallows’ Eve was well received,” the mayor said, “The council invites all to attend this year’s festivities which will be held on the last night of October. We’ll have a bonfire again at the meadow’s edge to honor the departed. In the first two hours after sunset, everyone is encouraged to participate in the ancient tradition of guising.”

“Guising?” Effie murmured the question to Peeta.

He whispered back, “Dressing up in costume — mostly creatures from old stories. And going door to door after dark for treats — sweet foods, coins for children, liquor for adults.”

Costumes, sweets, money, alcohol... that sounded to Effie like regular living in the old days of the Capitol. But this tradition, one night each year under the cover of darkness, was something unique. In the Capitol they’d only celebrated national holidays.

The mayor continued, “Spread the word... anyone planning to offer treats, please remember to light a lantern or a candle on your doorstep in order to avoid the — confusion — we had last year.”

“Confusion?” Effie quietly asked Peeta again.

“Pranks on people who were home but not answering their doors: knocking late into the night, tossing a few eggs at windows, minor mischief.”

Effie could guess who probably refused to answer his door. This year that was going to change if she had anything to say about it, which of course she did.

***

On the last evening in October, Haymitch slouched on the sofa in front of a fire with his feet propped up on the coffee table. The flames burned low, but he felt too lazy to add another log. He reached instead for his glass of whiskey.

He could already hear people gathering near the meadow. Bonfire, music, dancing... traditions to honor the dead. Folks were saying that a long time ago All Hallows’ Eve was celebrated as some “sacred” night when the “veil between worlds” is thin and the dead are close. Katniss had a few memories of her father telling *ghost* stories that his mother used to sing about. The old lady had been a strange one for sure. To Haymitch it all seemed like load of horse shit since “dead” meant decayed to bones, then nothing and gone forever.

“Traditions” for Haymitch had always meant the ones that happened under Snow’s control. Reaping Day had been the big “holiday.” Work paused and citizens dressed up. Those were government orders. Eventually people shamed their neighbors who didn’t stop working and didn’t wear nice clothes. They no longer needed government to do the punishing about not following traditions because people did it to each other. Families whose children didn’t get reaped celebrated quietly, behind closed doors, reserving special food for the occasion if they could afford to do so. *Holiday traditions* didn’t sit well with Haymitch.

“Manners!” Effie scolded as she approached from the kitchen and saw his bare feet on the coffee table.

“Loosen your corset. There’s a coaster right here.” He said it without looking at her.

Not wanting to start an argument just then, she bit her tongue as she moved toward the fireplace. “I’m not wearing a corset tonight.”

His peripheral vision caught a flash of red, and he turned to watch her. She wore a velvet cloak buttoned down the front. She pulled off a long satin glove before grabbing a log to throw on the fire.

His eyes passed over her from head to toe then back up again. “What’s this?” he asked, with a smile on his face.

She slipped her glove back on and confronted him with her hands on her hips. The hood of her cloak was pulled up, and her hair peeked from beneath, framing her face in blonde curls. Her makeup was light, apart from her lipstick which was as crimson as blood.

“My costume, for guising.”

His expression was a mix of intrigue, amusement, and irritation.

“I told you weeks ago that we’re going, and I mean it! Posy’s already on her way over here. I’m paying that girl a small fortune to hand out cookies and quarters and whiskey, so Hazelle doesn’t have to wash dried egg off YOUR window panes tomorrow like Peeta said she had to do last year.”

“Whiskey?! I didn’t agree to give out liquor to freeloaders.”

“Everyone is doing it. You’ll be receiving as much as you’re giving away.” Effie sat beside him on the couch, crossing her legs so the cloak parted near the fur-lined hem where she’d left a couple of buttons unfastened. Above knee-high boots, her thighs were covered in lace stockings.

“You’ll be wearing that?” His mouth watered for treats other than food and drink.

“All evening.”

He reached out to her thigh, but she smacked his hand before he could touch her.

“What the hell!” He sat up straight, aroused by the sting of the slap as much as by her appearance.

“You get to touch me when we’re out of the house, not before!”

“That’s extortion.”

“That’s PATIENCE... and holiday spirit!” She softened the blow by adding, “...I’ll be touching you too — if you want.”

Yeah, I want. “No corset? Hmmm. So what are you wearing under that cloak?”

“You’ll see tonight — after we visit everyone, and we’re home.”

“That’s more extortion!”

“That’s more patience.”

“And what am I supposed to wear?”

“It doesn’t matter, honey. With me dressed like this, they’re not going to be looking at you.”

***

Twilight was fading, and the last trace of blue drained from the sky. Effie had never seen more stars than she did when looking up from the clearings of 12. She slipped a flat round disk of hard candy from a wax paper sleeve and held it up by its wooden stick.

“Shine the lantern on it,” she directed, “I want to see the color.”

The lantern swung casually at Haymitch’s side. He didn’t lift it up. “Why’d you insist on us bringing this thing when we could each be using a flashlight? Or better yet, sitting at home where there’s electricity. Or lying in bed pretending we’re not home.”

“If we’re in bed, then people coming to the door are going to know we’re home. I wouldn’t be quiet, and you’d wind up smothering me with a pillow.”

“That sounds accurate.”

“Besides, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Too dark to find it.”

“What’s too dark — the night or you?”

“Both.”

She stopped walking, and he followed suit. With him it was always easier to catch flies with honey. She slid the basket of gathered treats over her wrist. It was growing heavy with pastries, fresh and dried fruits, nuts, and confections like taffy from the sweet shop in the Hob.

She reached above the zipper of his coat and stroked the hollow between his collarbones. “I like the darkness in you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere when I’m freezing my ass off.” Her fingertips were warm, red satin against his throat. The gloves stretched from her hands to her elbows. When she’d pulled them on earlier that evening, he wanted her to touch him right then.

“Let’s see...” She moved her hand away. When he was about to protest, she nestled her body against his and slipped her gloved fingers beneath his coat, into the back waistband of his pants. “Your ass is still here, and it’s not frozen.”

She teased his flesh without grasping, drawing him out with her, not home for sex. He felt the difference. If he wanted something now other than this “guising” nonsense, then he’d need to do some coaxing of his own.

He encircled her waist with one arm and murmured against her temple. “Why do you need a lantern when you can just taste the thing?”

With her hand in his pants, her mind started spinning things she wanted to taste. The heels of her boots brought her mouth up close to his. He smelled like the wool hat and sweater he’d dug out from the cedar chest, the ale they’d been given at the previous house, and bites of chocolate.

“What ‘thing’ would I be tasting?”

“That lollipop ...unless you have something else in mind.”

Even as she clenched the thin wooden dowel, she’d forgotten it. “A lick would be good...” She touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of his mouth. “...But maybe I’ll need to suck on it awhile.”

Reluctantly she slipped out from the warmth of him and pulled away, transferring the basket of treats back to her hand.

He lifted the lantern, otherwise it would have been too dark to watch her suck on that stick of candy, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to miss that.

She opened her mouth slowly and met the lollipop with her tongue, then lingered a moment before drawing the candy inside. She pursed her lips around the stick, and her cheeks sucked in. Her tongue moved side to side awhile, savoring the flavor. When she pulled the stick out, her lips were still puckered. The candy followed, glistening in the lantern light.

Her mouth turned up at the corners. “It’s okay to blink now,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “So how does it taste?”

“Find out for yourself.”

She held out the lollipop, but he didn’t take it. Instead he wrapped his hand, gloved in leather, around her satin-clad one. He tugged her toward him, and tasted her. She was sticky sweet, like white sugar sprinkled over warm berries.

The kiss sent the sweetness coursing through her. Her breath came out in a rush over his tongue. He felt it everywhere.

“Damn, Effie. Let’s go home. I wanna take off your cloak. I can hardly feel anything with these gloves on.”

He was tempting, but she steeled herself against temptation. “Not yet. We haven’t been to the mayor’s house or the bonfire.”

“The bonfire? Shit. You didn’t say anything about that.”

“It was implied.”

In the lantern light, she watched him scowl.

“Implied...” she leaned in again and murmured against his neck, “...Like the sex we’ll be having later. I didn’t say anything about doing that either, but you know we will.”

“Fine. ...While I’m waiting, feel free to keep sucking on that candy.”

Effie slid the basket over her wrist again, laced her fingers with his, and enticed him with the lollipop between her lips as they strolled on.

***

“Ah, what do you know! It’s Haymitch Abernathy, out on All Hallows’ Eve. Effie, you’ve accomplished a miracle.” The mayor poured them each a cupful of brandy.

“This is WONDERFUL, Taylor. It’s the council that’s accomplished a miracle.” Effie sipped the drink. The ability to make small talk with anyone was a long rehearsed part of her skill set.

“You are dazzling in red. Why don’t you wear that color more often?”

“I save it for special occasions.”

“Haymitch, who are you supposed to be? ...The woodcutter?”

“I’m pretending to be a nice guy.” He downed the brandy in a single gulp.

“Ah, a wolf in sheep’s clothing! Well, ‘nice guy’ looks much better on you than the *grumpy old man* costume you wore last year.”

“Very funny...”

Effie half-expected the words to be followed by a snide “sweetheart.”

The mayor dropped a brown paper package tied with blue ribbon into Effie’s basket of treats. “Fudge. From the sweet shop. After last year’s pumpkin explosion, I’ve sworn off baking.”

“When I visit Peeta or Sae’s kitchens, they make me sit on a stool and drink coffee.”

“That’s not a bad deal.”

“I agree.”

The mayor glanced around, then whispered, “Truth be told, I overcooked the pumpkin intentionally, figuring I’d be spared future requests for baked goods. But the explosion was a surprise.”

“My lips are sealed.” Effie finished her drink, and they handed the glasses back to the mayor.

“I’m heading to the bonfire. How about you two?”

“We were just about to—“ Effie started, but Haymitch interrupted with his hand on her back.

“—make another stop. Maybe we’ll see you later.”

***

“What other stop?” she asked when they were walking on the road again.

He slid his hand up her back and grasped the nape of her neck, caressing her through the velvet. “I didn’t get all *dressed up* tonight to spend time with the mayor. I wanna be with you.”

She wrapped her arm around him and hooked her thumb on his waistband. “I want to be with you too. It’s almost too bad there are people crawling all over town tonight.“

“Come here.” He lead her around the side of the Hob.

“I am NOT making out with you behind the dumpster!”

“Keep going. I know what you like and what you don’t.”

The back of the building was steeped in shadow. There were a couple of pallets stacked high with wood for the stoves. He lead her along the narrow passage between them to a spot sheltered under the eaves.

He took the basket from her hands and set it on the ground along with the flickering lantern. She smiled as she backed up against the brick wall. “Do you bring all the girls here?”

“Just you... Red.” He pulled off his gloves and dropped them beside the basket. “I’m done waiting to touch you.”

He held her hips and pulled her lightly against him. One hand shifted to the small of her back. The other brushed her bottom lip with his thumb. The crimson color lingered elsewhere now, on the rims of unwashed liquor glasses and a discarded lollipop stick. Her lips parted, naked and soft.

“I want this mouth on me.”

“Where, honey?” She was already inching down the zipper of his coat.

“You choose.”

She snuggled against his sweater. His body was warm and hard, and she immediately wanted more than what she felt was accessible in the shadow of the Hob.

Her hands touched him first before her mouth. Satin fingertips traced around his coat collar, pushing it low. She sucked the tendons on the side of his neck, up to his jaw and back. Then she bit down.

He flinched, groaning in a mix of pain and pleasure. He gripped her wrists, holding her against him rather than pushing her away. “Is that how you want to play this?”

“Uh huh,” she mumbled against his neck, kissing gently now. “I’m making some marks. Everybody in this town is treating me like I’m *yours*. If that’s how it’s going to be, they should know you’re mine too.”

“I haven’t been telling ‘em anything.”

“They know it just the same.” She plucked kisses like a rope around his throat, then bit him on the other side.

He let it all happen, anticipating the sensations, and flinching again. He nudged her against the wall, letting her feel what she was doing to his body. “You know, I can get you off right here,” he said.

The same force that spent a decade pulling her to 12 was tugging at her now. Everything inside her melted like that lollipop in a mouthful of hot brandy. The temptation was too much. “We have to be quick. Anyone might find us.”

“So what? If they see you fucking me, that’ll offer ‘em more clarity about us than you biting up my neck.”

“Haymitch, there are children!”

“So we’ll keep our clothes on and stay quiet... mostly. No kids are gonna be scarred — not even you, sweetheart.” He toyed with the top button of her cloak.

“How do YOU want to play this?” she asked.

“I wanna see you.” He unhooked the buttons, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, waiting to take in the sight of her all at once, whatever it might be.

After the last button was unfastened, she didn’t wait for him to open her cloak. She did it herself.

Damn... She’d been walking all over town wearing nothing under that thing except a white neglige and a thong. Both were made of some sheer fabric that hid little to nothing of her. The thin silk straps around her hips matched the ones over her shoulders.

“Effie...” He wanted her. Every bit of her. And he knew the thing that people had been thinking was true. She had him. Nothing was changing that, unless he drank himself to death, or she left him — whichever came first. Later, when more blood was flowing to his brain, he might be afraid of that awareness. But for now he was hers.

“Surprise.” She beamed. “You better come closer, or I’m going to be the one freezing my ass off.”

His arms went around her within the cloak, and he crushed her against him, taking in the sensations of her with his hands and mouth.

Her palms skimmed up his back under his shirt. “Closer...” she urged.

“You first.”

She’d spent a long portion of her life in gloves. Her fingers were nearly as dexterous within fabric as they were bare. She opened his pants and pulled his dick into her hands, working him between her palm and fingers. He thought about letting her make him come like that. But he wanted to be inside her.

His hands were warm when they slipped into her thong, bracketing her with fingers in her folds and spiraling just above. When he touched her, everything quickened. She stroked him with insistence and moved against his hands with rapid cadence.

Far too much noise was coming from her throat. “Where’s that pillow so I can smother you?” he teased.

“Just fuck me,” she pleaded, “Now before we’re arrested.”

He untangled his hands from her thong. She lifted one of her legs, and he hiked it up in the crook of his elbow, flattening his palm against the wall. The heels of her boots brought her up to a perfect height to fuck like this. She slid her thong to the side, and he dipped within her — plunging, stirring. She met his thrusts with her own.

He clutched her waist and pressed her against the bricks, commanding stillness. “Don’t move your hips.”

“What!” she huffed, “Fuck you, Haymitch! I’m so close.”

“PATIENCE,” he teased with her inflection in his voice, “Wait for it, and it’ll be better. You know I’m right.”

She knew.

He was close too. She was all satin and velvet inside and out. Her breasts brushed against his sweater. It was so much.

She was crying out, and “Shhh” was accomplishing nothing. He covered her mouth with his palm. His pinky pressed against her nostrils. She could breathe, but barely. They’d played this game before. Adrenaline surged through her body as she came undone. She clung to his neck as her thighs shook. Her whimpers passed through the closed slits between his fingers. Her eyes were wild in shadow, never leaving his.

“I know, honey. I’m right here... Oh, fuck. I know... Goddamn it... Effie...” He heard her name several times as he climaxed. He must have been the one saying it, since his hand was still covering her mouth.

When he let go of her, she sucked in the night air, still clutching his neck. She was high. So high like this.

“Are you okay?” He panted.

She caught her breath. “The mayor, Greasy Sae, the damn spice trader, they’re all right... I’m yours. I just am. It’s like breathing. Even when it’s hard to do, I’m still yours.” — It was the closest she would come to a declaration of love.

Her words moved through him like the music he heard in the distance. He was chuckling, not knowing exactly why. Release mostly. The lantern flickered near their feet. The hood of her cloak had slipped back, and her curls were stretching into wisps, fatigued like his body. She was so beautiful.

“I’m pretty sure my neck is bleeding now, so apparently that makes me yours too.”

“Oh...” Oxytocin was working its magic, and she filled with empathy. She pushed the coat off his shoulders so she could see. Her teeth marks were there, but no blood was dripping. She slapped his chest. “You’ll live.”

They pulled apart far enough to put themselves back into a semblance of order: readjusting, covering, zipping, and buttoning up. Then he held her until she was warm enough to move out again into the night.

***

They returned to the road, rather than cutting through the meadow. Yeah, “dead” meant decayed to bones, then nothing and gone forever, but Haymitch still didn’t want to be walking across a mass grave, no matter how thick the grasses were growing, no matter that flowers would pop up in spring.

Effie felt the energy of the evening diffusing. Sparks from the bonfire floated away on the breeze with red maple leaves. Haymitch carried her basket in the crook of his elbow where her leg had been settled a short while before. In that same hand he held the lantern. Both of her arms wrapped around his free one, the way he held her sometimes in sleep.

That night, children who had never known the Games wore their blankets around their shoulders to be heroes or over their heads to be ghosts. They cuddled their blankets in their arms as they grew tired and snuggled against their parents, or whoever they had left to love them. Effie’s Nana had held her like that, once upon a time. Many years passed before she experienced again that quality of feeling.

She squeezed Haymitch’s arm tighter, and her eyes filled with tears. If someone had asked her all the reasons why, she couldn’t have told them. Some emotions are too layered to translate into words on cards. They’re unexplainable to an audience of even one.

She paused. “Let’s go home.”

“No bonfire?”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay. Ain’t nothing there that you and I don’t already have right here.” — It was the closest he would come to a declaration of love.

Whether they were taking the path of pins or the path of needles was irrelevant. The thing they had — the one that drew him out and filled her up —was always leading them the same place.

“Let’s stop first at the kids’ porch.” Effie added, “Peeta told me he was dressing up in Katniss’s hunting jacket, and he was going to try to wrangle her into wearing one of his aprons.”

“That I’d like to see... But don’t go getting any ideas.”

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that hat of yours, and there’s no way I’m letting you borrow this cloak.”

“The mayor did say I look dazzling in red,” he joked.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint the mayor. ...I’ll let you wear my lipstick.”

“Only if you kiss it onto me then kiss it right off again.”

Some *traditions* might not be so bad after all.

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southeastasianists · 4 years

Link

The remaining families are holdouts who refused a November 2014 offer from the authorities whereby they could keep 10 percent of their landholdings if they let OCIC take 40 percent and let Phnom Penh City Hall take the other half.

Such an offer is unfair to families who settled on the once-undesirable land as far back as shortly after the Khmer Rouge’s 1979 fall, said 62-year-old Chea Sophat, a community representative who had 4,000-square-meters seized in 2010.

Approximately 1,300 families had lived on the 387 hectares of land granted to OCIC in a 99-year concession in 2011, with the majority settling on their land in the decade of resettlements following the Cambodian civil war’s end in 1991.

Sophat said the land from holdouts refusing to give up their prime real estate to OCIC, which notably also developed Phnom Penh’s Koh Pich island after forcing out its local residents, fell alongside the Tonle Sap River and National Road 6A.

“The villagers do not agree to receive back 10 percent of the land offered by City Hall. That is an injustice,” Sophat said. “My land was 4,000 square meters, so if I accept 10 percent, it means I’d receive 400 square meters, which is very small.”

“If the law stipulates something like this, I cannot accept it,” he added, noting the residents had multiple government-issued documents proving their ownership of the land since the 1980s, when private holding of land started to be recognized.

“I will still demand my land back,” he said.

Sophat said a reasonable offer — for example, the families keeping 50 percent — might be accepted. But he said City Hall and OCIC had refused to negotiate.

In fact, City Hall and OCIC have bothered little with the protests from holdouts.

On May 27, Chroy Changva district authorities carried out what they termed “administrative measures” and completely bulldozed the fencing and longtime home of husband-and-wife Bos Chamroeun and Hol Savoeun, whose property lies alongside National Road 6 in the district’s Prek Lieb commune.

Unfortunately for the couple, their property fell within the limits of OCIC’s satellite city development zone. They said they had not accepted the offer to vacate the land that had been earmarked by the developers as part of a road extension.

Savoeun said she and her husband steadfastly refused to give up 90 percent of their land, terming it clearly “unfair compensation.” She said they had first bought a small parcel of land with the appropriate ownership documents in 1994 and then bought neighboring land to expand their holding to 2,300 square meters.

However, knowing the political connections of OCIC and Pung Khieu Se — a Canadian-Cambodian who was one of the first overseas Cambodians to return to the country in the 1980s and legitimize Prime Minister Hun Sen’s post-communist normalization of Cambodia — Savoeun said they had tried to make a deal.

She said they had given up 1,500 square meters of their land — or about 65 percent of their property — to OCIC in hopes of keeping the rest. But OCIC and City Hall were not placated, and continued to insist they keep only 10 percent.

When the couple still did not accept, the Chroy Changva district officials arrived to enact their “administrative measures” to allow for OCIC’s development.

“So I had been left only 800 square meters of land — and now that has gone through the forced eviction on the 27th of May, 2020,” Savoeun said. “The authorities came and demolished it without providing any compensation.”

“I could not accept what they have offered us: 10 percent of the land — that is unfair,” Savoeun said, explaining the home had been a sanctuary for her adult daughters aged 32 and 30 as well as her son, 21, and young daughter, 12.

“I did not know what to do next,” she recalled of watching her home bulldozed. “My tears dropped as I looked upon my land being taken from us so violently.”

It is a familiar tale for Phnom Penh families over the past few decades, with longtime property owners finding that their legal documents hold little value when a wealthy and well-connected developer forms an interest in their homes.

More than a decade after the debacle of the Boeng Kak lake forced evictions started in Phnom Penh, and even with intense international attention, little has improved, said Soeung Sen Karuna, spokesman for rights group Adhoc.

“As in these cases, we have often seen the authorities taking measures to force the evictions of the families,” Sen Karuna said. “It’s a violation of their human rights, because we see no negotiation or attempts at a suitable resolution.”

“They just carry out the measures to forcibly evict people from their homes.”

Sen Karuna noted that many developers did not even put on a show of trying to be fair to property owners whose land they wanted, while local authorities such as those in Chroy Changva seemed to just follow what companies told them.

“The authorities should be protecting the people’s interests ahead of the private companies, as the authorities are meant to serve the people,” he said. “But we rarely see the villagers receive any justice when they have disputes with powerful men, especially with business tycoons who have both influence and wealth.”

“With cases like this [OCIC’s project], there is no prior social impact assessment or environmental assessment. They just go ahead with their development.”

In many ways, things were in fact getting worse, with developers learning from the mistakes from past forced evictions and adopting sinister new tactics.

Vann Sophath, coordinator of the business and human rights project at the Cambodian Center for Human Rights, said it appeared developers were keen to avoid the protests and community campaigns of decades past by picking off the land plot-by-plot now, thereby avoiding the spectacle of mass forced evictions.

“The authorities and OCIC have started using tactics to evict and grab these people’s land family-by-family, rather than evicting all the remaining families at one time, which causes strong, serious and aggressive protests,” Sophath said.

“So the remaining families [in Chroy Changva] are concerned the same approach from the authorities and OCIC would be taken against them in the near future.”

OCIC project manager Touch Samnang declined to comment on why the developer would not negotiate fairer settlements with the 65 families in Chroy Changva, and referred questions about the evictions to municipal authorities.

“We have a committee to resolve land disputes, for which Phnom Penh City Hall and the district-level [authorities] are in charge. Please ask them,” Samnang said.

Both Chroy Changvar district governor Klaing Huot and deputy district governor Huy Sarun declined to comment. Prek Leap commune chief Preap Mony said only: “I am busy, I have no time to talk,” and hung up his phone on a reporter.

However, City Hall spokesman Met Measpheakdey defended the evictions.

He said it was unreasonable for the 65 holdout families to ask for more than 10 percent of their land. He said that other families had accepted the compensation in the years since 2011 and that offering more land now would be unfair to them.

“What we offered was a policy decided by the government,” Measpheakdey said. “If we now offer them more than 10 percent, is that justice for the other families who previously accepted the 10-percent policy provided by the government?”

He said that officials would further attempt to convince the holdouts to accept the 10-percent figure and hoped that further forced evictions could be avoided.

“We do not want to use any of these measures because we understand they have occupied and lived on the land for a long time, so we try to resolve it,” he said. “We encourage people to join with the government to develop our city.”

For most of the holdouts, though, cooperation is predicated on compromise.

Sophat, the former landowner who lost a 4,000-square-meter plot to OCIC in Chroy Changva, vowed not to give up and to assert his rights to his land.

“Now the authorities even accuse me of being from the opposition,” Sophat said.

“But I would like to announce I have only one oppositional stance — and that it is for my sake alone, because you have violated me,” he said. “This is a violation of our rights, as we have legal documents that assert our status as land owners.”

#cambodia #land rights #land dispute

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processproductionsophielindsay · 3 years

Text

LORNA SIMPSON

Lorna Simpson, The Water Bearer (1986)

https://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/02/arts/design/02lorn.html

Lorna Simpson, Guarded Conditions (1989)

https://www.artspace.com/magazine/art_101/book_report/representing-the-black-body-lorna-simpson-in-conversation-with-thelma-golden-54624

Lorna Simpson, Necklines (1989)

https://mcachicago.org/Collection/Items/1989/Lorna-Simpson-Necklines-1989

Lorna Simpson Wigs (1994)

https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/lorna-simpson-wigs-1994/

Childhood

Born in Brooklyn in 1960, Lorna Simpson was an only child to a Jamaican-Cuban father and an African American mother. Her parents were left-leaning intellectuals who immersed their daughter in group gatherings and cultural events from a young age. She attributed their influence as the sole reason she became an artist, writing, "From a young age, I was immersed in the arts. I had parents who loved living in New York and loved going to museums, and attending plays, dance performances, concerts... my artistic interests have everything to do with the fact that they took me everywhere ...."

Aspects of day-to-day life lit up Simpson's young imagination, from the jazz music of John Coltrane and Miles Davis, to magazine advertisements and overheard, hushed stories shared between adults; all of which would come to shape her future art. The artist took dance classes as a child and when she was around 11 years old, she took part in a theatrical performance at the Lincoln Center for which she donned a gold bodysuit and matching shoes. Though she remembered being incredibly self-conscious, it was a valuable learning experience, one that helped her realize she was better suited as an observer than a performer. This early coming-of-age experience was later documented in the artwork Momentum, (2010).

Simpson's creative training began as a teenager with a series of short art courses at the Art Institute of Chicago, where her grandmother lived. This was followed by attendance at New York's High School of Art and Design, which, she recalls "...introduced me to photography and graphic design."

Early Training and Work

After graduating from high school Simpson earned a place at New York's School of Visual Arts. She had initially hoped to train as a painter, but it soon became clear that her skills lay elsewhere, as she explained in an interview, "everybody (else) was so much better (at painting). I felt like, Oh God, I'm just slaving away at this." By contrast, she discovered a raw immediacy in photography, which "opened up a dialogue with the world."

When she was still a student Simpson took an internship with the Studio Museum in Harlem, which further expanded her way of thinking about the role of art in society. It was here that she first saw the work of Charles Abramson and Adrian Piper, as well as meeting the leading Conceptual artist David Hammons. Each of these artists explored their mixed racial heritage through art, encouraging Simpson to follow a similar path. Yet she is quick to point out how these artists were in a minority at the time, remembering, "When I was a student, the work of artists from varying cultural contexts was not as broad as it is now."

During her student years Simpson travelled throughout Europe and North Africa with her camera, making a series of photographs of street life inspired by the candid languages of Henri Cartier-Bresson and Roy DeCarava. But by graduation, Simpson felt she had already exhausted the documentary style. Taking a break from photography, she moved toward graphic design, producing for a travel company. Yet she remained connected to the underground art scene, mingling with likeminded spirits and fellow African Americans who felt the same rising frustrations as racism, poverty, and unemployment ran deep into the core of their communities.

At an event in New York Simpson met Carrie-Mae Weems, who was a fellow African American student at the University of California. Weems persuaded Simpson to make the move to California with her. "It was a rainy, icy New York evening," remembers Simpson, "and that sounded really good to me." After enrolling at the University of California's MFA program, Simpson found she was increasingly drawn towards a conceptual language, explaining how, "When I was in grad school, at University of California, San Diego, I focused more on performance and conceptually based art." Her earliest existing photographs of the time were made from models staged in a studio under which she put panels or excerpts of text lifted from newspapers or magazines, echoing the graphic approaches of Jenny Holzer and Martha Rosler. The words usually related to the inequalities surrounding the lives of Black Americans, particularly women. Including text immediately added a greater level of complexity to the images, while tying them to painfully difficult current events with a deftly subtle hand.

Mature Period

Simpson's tutors in California weren't convinced by her radical new slant on photography, but after moving back to New York in 1985, she found both a willing audience and a kinship with other artists who were gaining the confidence to speak out about wider cultural diversities and issues of marginalization. Simpson says, "If you are not Native American and your people haven't been here for centuries before the settlement of America, then those experiences have to be regarded as valuable, and we have to acknowledge each other."

Simpson had hit her stride by the late 1980s. Her distinctive, uncompromising ability to address racial inequalities through combinations of image and text had gained momentum and earned her a national following across the United States. She began using both her own photography and found, segregation-era images alongside passages of text that gave fair representation to her subjects. One of her most celebrated works was The Water Bearer, (1986), combining documentation of a young woman pouring water with the inscription: "She saw him disappear by the river. They asked her to tell what happened, only to discount her memory." Simpson deliberately challenged preconceived ideas about first appearances with the inclusion of texts like this one. The concept of personal memory is also one which has become a recurring theme in Simpson's practice, particularly in relation to so many who have struggled to be heard and understood. She observes, "... what one wants to voice in terms of memory doesn't always get acknowledged."

In the 1990s Simpson was one of the first African American women to be included in the Venice Biennale. It was a career-defining decade for Simpson as her status grew to new heights, including a solo exhibition at New York's Museum of Modern Art in 1990 and a series of international residencies and displays. She met and married the artist James Casebere not long after, and their daughter Zora was born in the same decade. In 1994 Simpson began working with her grandmother's old copies of 1950s magazines including Ebony and Jet, aimed at the African American community. Cutting apart these relics from another era allowed Simpson to revise and reinvent the prescribed ideals being pushed onto Black women of the time, as seen in the lithograph series Wigs (1994). The use of tableaus and repetition also became a defining feature of her work, alongside cropped body parts to emphasize the historical objectification of Black bodies.

Current Work

In more recent years Simpson has embraced a much wider pool of materials including film and performance. Her large-scale video installations such as Cloudscape (2004) and Momentum (2011) have taken on an ethereal quality, addressing themes around memory and representation with oblique yet haunting references to the past through music, staging, and lighting.

Between 2011 and 2017 Simpson reworked her Ebony and Jet collages of the 1990s by adding swirls of candy-hued, watercolour hair as a further form of liberation. She has also re-embraced painting through wild, inhospitable landscapes sometimes combined with figurative elements. The images hearken to the continual chilling racial divisions in American culture. As she explains, "American politics have, in my opinion, reverted back to a caste that none of us want to return to..."

Today, Simpson remains in her hometown of Brooklyn, New York, where in March 2020, she began a series of collages following the rise of the Covid-19 crisis. The works express a more intimate response to wider political concerns. She explains, "I'm just using my collages as a way of letting my subconscious do its thing - basically giving my imagination a quiet and peaceful space in which to flourish. Some of the pieces are really an expression of longing, like Walk with Me, (2020) which reflects that incredibly powerful desire to be with friends right now."

Despite her status as a towering figure of American art, Simpson still feels surprised by the level of her own success, particularly when she compares her work to those of her contemporaries. "I feel there are so many people - other artists who were around when I was in my twenties - who I really loved and appreciated, and who deserve the same attention and opportunity, like Howardena Pindell or Adrian Piper."

The Legacy of Lorna Simpson

Simpson's interrogation of race and gender issues with a minimal, sophisticated interplay between art and language has made her a much respected and influential figure within the realms of visual culture. American artist Glenn Ligon is a contemporary of Simpson's whose work similarly utilizes a visual relationship with text, which he calls 'intertextuality,' exploring how stencilled letters spelling out literary fragments, jokes or quotations relating to African-American culture can lead us to re-evaluate pre-conceived ideas from the past. Ligon was one of the founders of the term "Post-Blackness," formed with curator and writer Thelma Golden in the late 1990s, referring to a post-civil rights generation of African-American artists who wanted their art to not just be defined in terms of race alone. In the term Post-Black, they hoped to find "the liberating value in tossing off the immense burden of race-wide representation, the idea that everything they do must speak to or for or about the entire race."

The re-contextualization of historical inaccuracies in both Simpson and Ligon's practice is further echoed in the fearless, cut-out silhouettes of American artist Kara Walker, who walks headlong into some of the most challenging territory from American history. Arranging figures into theatrical narrative displays, she retells horrific stories from the colonial era with grossly exaggerated caricatures that force viewers into deeply uncomfortable territory.

In contrast, contemporary American artist Ellen Gallagher has tapped into the appropriation and repetition of Simpson's visual art, particularly her collages taken from African American magazine culture. Gallagher similarly lifts original source matter from vintage magazines including Ebony, Our World and Sepia, cutting apart and transforming found imagery with a range of unusual materials including plasticine and gold-leaf. Covering or masking areas of her figures' faces and hairstyles highlights the complexities of race in today's culture, which Gallagher deliberately teases out with materials relating to "mutability and shifting," emphasising the rich diversity of today's multicultural societies around the world.

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