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glittergummicandypeach · 4 years

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Fake Hafez: How a supreme Persian poet of love was erased | Religion | Al Jazeera

This is the time of the year where every day I get a handful of requests to track down the original, authentic versions of some famed Muslim poet, usually Hafez or Rumi. The requests start off the same way: "I am getting married next month, and my fiance and I wanted to celebrate our Muslim background, and we have always loved this poem by Hafez. Could you send us the original?" Or, "My daughter is graduating this month, and I know she loves this quote from Hafez. Can you send me the original so I can recite it to her at the ceremony we are holding for her?"

It is heartbreaking to have to write back time after time and say the words that bring disappointment: The poems that they have come to love so much and that are ubiquitous on the internet are forgeries. Fake. Made up. No relationship to the original poetry of the beloved and popular Hafez of Shiraz.

How did this come to be? How can it be that about 99.9 percent of the quotes and poems attributed to one the most popular and influential of all the Persian poets and Muslim sages ever, one who is seen as a member of the pantheon of "universal" spirituality on the internet are ... fake? It turns out that it is a fascinating story of Western exotification and appropriation of Muslim spirituality.

Let us take a look at some of these quotes attributed to Hafez:

Even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, 'you owe me.' Look what happens with a love like that! It lights up the whole sky.

You like that one from Hafez? Too bad. Fake Hafez.

Your heart and my heart Are very very old friends.

Like that one from Hafez too? Also Fake Hafez.

Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living in better conditions.

Beautiful. Again, not Hafez.

And the next one you were going to ask about? Also fake. So where do all these fake Hafez quotes come from?

An American poet, named Daniel Ladinsky, has been publishing books under the name of the famed Persian poet Hafez for more than 20 years. These books have become bestsellers. You are likely to find them on the shelves of your local bookstore under the "Sufism" section, alongside books of Rumi, Khalil Gibran, Idries Shah, etc.

It hurts me to say this, because I know so many people love these "Hafez" translations. They are beautiful poetry in English, and do contain some profound wisdom. Yet if you love a tradition, you have to speak the truth: Ladinsky's translations have no earthly connection to what the historical Hafez of Shiraz, the 14th-century Persian sage, ever said.

He is making it up. Ladinsky himself admitted that they are not "translations", or "accurate", and in fact denied having any knowledge of Persian in his 1996 best-selling book, I Heard God Laughing. Ladinsky has another bestseller, The Subject Tonight Is Love.

Persians take poetry seriously. For many, it is their singular contribution to world civilisation: What the Greeks are to philosophy, Persians are to poetry. And in the great pantheon of Persian poetry where Hafez, Rumi, Saadi, 'Attar, Nezami, and Ferdowsi might be the immortals, there is perhaps none whose mastery of the Persian language is as refined as that of Hafez.

In the introduction to a recent book on Hafez, I said that Rumi (whose poetic output is in the tens of thousands) comes at you like you an ocean, pulling you in until you surrender to his mystical wave and are washed back to the ocean. Hafez, on the other hand, is like a luminous diamond, with each facet being a perfect cut. You cannot add or take away a word from his sonnets. So, pray tell, how is someone who admits that they do not know the language going to be translating the language?

Ladinsky is not translating from the Persian original of Hafez. And unlike some "versioners" (Coleman Barks is by far the most gifted here) who translate Rumi by taking the Victorian literal translations and rendering them into American free verse, Ladinsky's relationship with the text of Hafez's poetry is nonexistent. Ladinsky claims that Hafez appeared to him in a dream and handed him the English "translations" he is publishing:

"About six months into this work I had an astounding dream in which I saw Hafiz as an Infinite Fountaining Sun (I saw him as God), who sang hundreds of lines of his poetry to me in English, asking me to give that message to 'my artists and seekers'."

It is not my place to argue with people and their dreams, but I am fairly certain that this is not how translation works. A great scholar of Persian and Urdu literature, Christopher Shackle, describes Ladinsky's output as "not so much a paraphrase as a parody of the wondrously wrought style of the greatest master of Persian art-poetry." Another critic, Murat Nemet-Nejat, described Ladinsky's poems as what they are: original poems of Ladinsky masquerading as a "translation."

I want to give credit where credit is due: I do like Ladinsky's poetry. And they do contain mystical insights. Some of the statements that Ladinsky attributes to Hafez are, in fact, mystical truths that we hear from many different mystics. And he is indeed a gifted poet. See this line, for example:

I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.

That is good stuff. Powerful. And many mystics, including the 20th-century Sufi master Pir Vilayat, would cast his powerful glance at his students, stating that he would long for them to be able to see themselves and their own worth as he sees them. So yes, Ladinsky's poetry is mystical. And it is great poetry. So good that it is listed on Good Reads as the wisdom of "Hafez of Shiraz." The problem is, Hafez of Shiraz said nothing like that. Daniel Ladinsky of St Louis did.

The poems are indeed beautiful. They are just not ... Hafez. They are ... Hafez-ish? Hafez-esque? So many of us wish that Ladinsky had just published his work under his own name, rather than appropriating Hafez's.

Ladinsky's "translations" have been passed on by Oprah, the BBC, and others. Government officials have used them on occasions where they have wanted to include Persian speakers and Iranians. It is now part of the spiritual wisdom of the East shared in Western circles. Which is great for Ladinsky, but we are missing the chance to hear from the actual, real Hafez. And that is a shame.

So, who was the real Hafez (1315-1390)?

He was a Muslim, Persian-speaking sage whose collection of love poetry rivals only Mawlana Rumi in terms of its popularity and influence. Hafez's given name was Muhammad, and he was called Shams al-Din (The Sun of Religion). Hafez was his honorific because he had memorised the whole of the Quran. His poetry collection, the Divan, was referred to as Lesan al-Ghayb (the Tongue of the Unseen Realms).

A great scholar of Islam, the late Shahab Ahmed, referred to Hafez's Divan as: "the most widely-copied, widely-circulated, widely-read, widely-memorized, widely-recited, widely-invoked, and widely-proverbialized book of poetry in Islamic history." Even accounting for a slight debate, that gives some indication of his immense following. Hafez's poetry is considered the very epitome of Persian in the Ghazal tradition.

Hafez's worldview is inseparable from the world of Medieval Islam, the genre of Persian love poetry, and more. And yet he is deliciously impossible to pin down. He is a mystic, though he pokes fun at ostentatious mystics. His own name is "he who has committed the Quran to heart", yet he loathes religious hypocrisy. He shows his own piety while his poetry is filled with references to intoxication and wine that may be literal or may be symbolic.

The most sublime part of Hafez's poetry is its ambiguity. It is like a Rorschach psychological test in poetry. The mystics see it as a sign of their own yearning, and so do the wine-drinkers, and the anti-religious types. It is perhaps a futile exercise to impose one definitive meaning on Hafez. It would rob him of what makes him ... Hafez.

The tomb of Hafez in Shiraz, a magnificent city in Iran, is a popular pilgrimage site and the honeymoon destination of choice for many Iranian newlyweds. His poetry, alongside that of Rumi and Saadi, are main staples of vocalists in Iran to this day, including beautiful covers by leading maestros like Shahram Nazeri and Mohammadreza Shajarian.

Like many other Persian poets and mystics, the influence of Hafez extended far beyond contemporary Iran and can be felt wherever Persianate culture was a presence, including India and Pakistan, Central Asia, Afghanistan, and the Ottoman realms. Persian was the literary language par excellence from Bengal to Bosnia for almost a millennium, a reality that sadly has been buried under more recent nationalistic and linguistic barrages.

Part of what is going on here is what we also see, to a lesser extent, with Rumi: the voice and genius of the Persian speaking, Muslim, mystical, sensual sage of Shiraz are usurped and erased, and taken over by a white American with no connection to Hafez's Islam or Persian tradition. This is erasure and spiritual colonialism. Which is a shame, because Hafez's poetry deserves to be read worldwide alongside Shakespeare and Toni Morrison, Tagore and Whitman, Pablo Neruda and the real Rumi, Tao Te Ching and the Gita, Mahmoud Darwish, and the like.

In a 2013 interview, Ladinsky said of his poems published under the name of Hafez: "Is it Hafez or Danny? I don't know. Does it really matter?" I think it matters a great deal. There are larger issues of language, community, and power involved here.

It is not simply a matter of a translation dispute, nor of alternate models of translations. This is a matter of power, privilege and erasure. There is limited shelf space in any bookstore. Will we see the real Rumi, the real Hafez, or something appropriating their name? How did publishers publish books under the name of Hafez without having someone, anyone, with a modicum of familiarity check these purported translations against the original to see if there is a relationship? Was there anyone in the room when these decisions were made who was connected in a meaningful way to the communities who have lived through Hafez for centuries?

Hafez's poetry has not been sitting idly on a shelf gathering dust. It has been, and continues to be, the lifeline of the poetic and religious imagination of tens of millions of human beings. Hafez has something to say, and to sing, to the whole world, but bypassing these tens of millions who have kept Hafez in their heart as Hafez kept the Quran in his heart is tantamount to erasure and appropriation.

We live in an age where the president of the United States ran on an Islamophobic campaign of "Islam hates us" and establishing a cruel Muslim ban immediately upon taking office. As Edward Said and other theorists have reminded us, the world of culture is inseparable from the world of politics. So there is something sinister about keeping Muslims out of our borders while stealing their crown jewels and appropriating them not by translating them but simply as decor for poetry that bears no relationship to the original. Without equating the two, the dynamic here is reminiscent of white America's endless fascination with Black culture and music while continuing to perpetuate systems and institutions that leave Black folk unable to breathe.

There is one last element: It is indeed an act of violence to take the Islam out of Rumi and Hafez, as Ladinsky has done. It is another thing to take Rumi and Hafez out of Islam. That is a separate matter, and a mandate for Muslims to reimagine a faith that is steeped in the world of poetry, nuance, mercy, love, spirit, and beauty. Far from merely being content to criticise those who appropriate Muslim sages and erase Muslims' own presence in their legacy, it is also up to us to reimagine Islam where figures like Rumi and Hafez are central voices. This has been part of what many of feel called to, and are pursuing through initiatives like Illuminated Courses.

Oh, and one last thing: It is Haaaaafez, not Hafeeeeez. Please.

The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera's editorial stance.

This content was originally published here.

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foulbearobservation · 3 years

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so I've had this sitting in my done pile for a while, finally got it to a place where I think I'm happy with it, so here it is! new fic! finally a multichap,, who knew I was capable of such a thing? Hope you're ready for three chapters of gay pining, thievery from the rich and famous, and Winter being just so so done.

Summary: Winter Schnee is the best of the best, an Interpol agent who specializes in art theft and forgeries. Robyn Hill and the Happy Huntresses, the scourge of every art collector with more money than sense, are the targets of her investigation.

Just one small teensy-weensy problem. Robyn Hill won't stop flirting with her and it's seriously fucking distracting.

Featuring: Winter Schnee being just so fucking tired. Robyn Hill thinking that committing interesting crimes is the same thing as flirting (and ACTUALLY flirting, ofc). May in her black nail polish era. Weiss being the perfect little mob princess.

#Winter Schnee #Robyn Hill #Schneewood Forest #Snowbyrd #Weiss is here too she's just not the main character yet #she'll get there #devil on one shoulder

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starkerforlife6969 · 5 years

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Con Artist Tony x Art Forger Peter

Summary: Tony’s only got one more heist. He does this, he can be retired on an island in the Mediterranean in a month. All he needs is a world-class art forger. (White Collar inspired)

Word count: 10k, complete.

Read here, or on ao3.

The final heist.

That’s what it’s called.

That mystical thing, that last risk, the only thing left to do before you retire. It hangs, almost out of reach, just beyond the cusp of the horizon. It waves your happy ending in front of your face, luring you across stormy seas on a water-logged boat, beckoning you towards bliss while leading you to destruction.

Lesser men have failed, but Tony Stark is not a lesser man.

He’s going to pull off that final heist. He’s going to retire at the ripe old age of twenty-four. He’s going to buy an island, maybe two, and spend the rest of his days basking under the sun, reading Descartes and enjoying fine wine. Mostly Chateau Latour, but he’s partial to Grand cru from time to time.

This’ll be it. He’ll disappear. The FBI will give up after realising he’s not committing any more crimes, like they always do when a case goes stale. There’s no joy in capturing old bread, after all. A plucky young junior in a few years time may look into him, but they won’t be able to find him.

Besides, he doesn’t mind stepping out of the spotlight. He’s been basking in it for a decade now, after all. When he was fifteen years old and on their radar, he considers it quite the conversation starter.

With the right audience, of course.

(That’s key, you know. Knowing your audience. The only way to con someone is to read them first).

From three card monty on the LA boardwalks to diamond heists, Tony Stark has done it all.

Allegedly, of course.

Never been caught. Well, once, partially, if you count Rogers rolling over on him to the police, which Tony does not count.

He was twenty-one years old, and they’d had to try him with attempted burglarly, since they had no proof he actually had the Wittelsbach Diamond, nor any proof that he’d actually even been in the country at the time of the theft.

He’d been found innocent, acting as his own lawyer.

What can he say? He’s charming.

It comes with the territory. Conman is a word too small for everything he is. Fluent in fifteen languages, a connoisseur of wine, an expert appraiser, a diamond forger, an investment banker for a while (numbers are easy, which is why he’s banned from a lot of casinos) an art thief, a fixer, a trickster and, if he does say so himself: incredibly handsome.

It’s the lean muscle and the dark hair and the dark eyes.

Makes him irresistible to some, charming to others, and respectable to the ones left.

There’s something honest in his smile, his mother always use to say.

A conman smiles for a living so, Tony supposes, it all worked out.

A smile and a wink, a little sophistication, a little flirting, a little money in all the right hands, and he’d walked out the door of the courtroom, grinned at the FBI agent and basked in the sunshine.

Sure, it had felt like a win. But for $22 million dollars worth of diamond, he only got to keep around half. That’s what happens when someone you trust betrays you. Rogers telling the feds that the diamond he’d put in its place was a forgery had tipped them off to the crime, and now the damn thing is too hot to move.

It’s safe, somewhere. He has a lot of secret locations. He has a lot of different names.

He’ll sell it one day, farther down the line. Just for fun, maybe.

But for now, the final heist.

* “You know, it’s not as stupid as I thought it would be.” Natasha says thoughtfully, perusing over his plans with an impressed look on her face. Tony grins at her across the table, but as she’s always been, she’s impervious to charm of his smile. “But I can’t help you with this.”

He pours her some more wine. (Everyone’s more amiable with wine). Nat’s an old friend, they’ve known each other since they were eighteen and new to New York. She was in illegal acquisitions then, but she’s found her speciality. She’s the best damn fence Tony’s ever met. “I’ll give you fifteen percent.” He offers, placing hand over his heart. “Very generous, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

She half-smiles at that, and sips the wine. Her hair’s red now. He likes it this way. She’s been white-blonde for a long time. He knows Interpol’s on her back, but he doesn’t offer his help. Nat can handle herself. Now, if the Russian’s were after her, it would be a different story… “Tony,” she says softly, setting down his papers. The candle-light flickers warmly over her face, casting shadows across her cheekbones. “Even if I want to be your fence on this-“ (that means she does. She doesn’t just think the plan is not stupid, she thinks it’s good. Good enough to work) “-you’d need a world-class art forger.”

He nods, half-shrugging. “I assumed you’d have the contacts.”

She frowns thoughtfully, and takes another sip of wine. Dinner is steak and braised potatoes in an private little restaurant uptown. The nightlife of New York bustles and honks in the streets below, and Tony had preened on the way up. He likes exclusive, and he loves showing off, so his Tom Ford suit has been accessorised with only the finest cufflinks and satin tie.

He’s wearing more than what the people who work here earn in a year.

Nat doesn’t have his penchant for the spotlight. Her dress is beautiful, but cheap. Only cheap, however, to the trained eye (and to be a conman, you must have a trained eye) but she classes it up. A beautiful body always will.

“Maybe we should keep the plan the same,” she muses, “but swap the painting for a diamond. That way you could do the forgery yourself.”

He carefully doesn’t wince. “Diamonds are a little hot for me right now,” he confesses, “had a little…mix-up. Got a little close for comfort. The Feds are watching me and diamonds, so the painting is the way to go.”

She meets his eyes and looks a little smug. “A little close for comfort?” She repeats, “you’re not telling me the great Tony Stark almost got-“

“A jury of my peers found me innocent.” He corrects, taking a large bite of steak.

She laughs at that. “What I would have paid to be in that courtroom.”

He taps the paper to refocus her. “An art forger, you know anyone? I won’t go higher than twenty percent.”

Natasha tips her head consideringly. “There is…someone.” She says carefully. “He’s the best.”

Say it. Tony thinks. There’s one name she has to say. It’s the reason she’s here after all. Wanda is a good fence too, but she isn’t rumoured to have known-

“The Spider.”

Yes. Tony tries not to smile too hard, he hides it into his wine glass. “You know him?” He acts surprised, “I thought no one knew him.”

“Know is a grandiose term for a muffled voice on a phone.” She corrects, but Tony isn’t disappointed. It’s a lead.

“He’s the best.” Tony breathes; excited. He’s familiar with The Spider’s work- and the police are not. And that’s how you know someone’s the best.

Excluding Tony of course, the police know about his stuff- because Tony lets them. He likes to sign his own forged bonds, or leave a Queen of Hearts at crime scenes, but that’s because he’s a performer.

The Spider is the best damn art forger in the world. His forgeries are almost impossible to detect- they’ve been circling around the black market for about two years. He’s new to the game, but not lacking in talent. The only people who even know the paintings he makes are forgeries are a handful of sellers and Tony.

And that’s only because Strange- Tony’s NY Mafia connection- had confided in him that he suspected perhaps, that his Van Gogh wasn’t real. Stephen’s suspicions are enough to warrant truth, so Tony had looked himself.

He’d been impressed.

And a little aroused.

Of course, the owners- if they ever do suspect- or the seller, if they ever do guess- won’t report it. Why would they? It ruins their own credibility, their own intelligence, knowing they were duped.

Art can be a pretentious field, and no one likes looking a fool.

“Can you put me into contact with him?” Tony asks eagerly, and Natasha nods slowly.  

“It’ll be hard. I’ll try, though, Tony. For you. For our final heist. This is it. Then we’re out of the game.”

“Exactly.” Tony agrees, “you take your money, I’ll take mine. Any ideas on where you’ll go?”

“Australia, maybe,” Natasha muses, “or a cabin in New Zealand by a lake.”

“To your new life,” Tony grins, holding up his wine glass.

As all people do when they’re tipsy, she falls victim to his smile.

* If Natasha were a smarter person, she’d have used Tony’s plan herself. Got into contact with the Spider, commissioned the forgery, swapped the painting, collected a huge percentage all for herself and cut Tony out completely.

The problem with Natasha is sentiment. It’s a common problem. Just because they’ve known each other for so long, she has a soft spot for Tony.

It’s a soft spot Wanda doesn’t have for him, which is another reason Tony isn’t using her.

Nat needs about two weeks to shake through the web of her contacts, but Tony isn’t in a rush.

The Final heist should never be rushed.

Besides, he has a few things to do. He goes to the New York Museum of Art, and donates $15 dollars to their support programme.

It’s nice to give back, every now and then.

The Degas is exactly where the floor plans said it would be, hanging neatly in the seventh room. The overhead light makes the Dancers in Blue even more beautiful than Tony remembers. 1895, 500 million dollars.

That’ll do, he thinks, looking up at the painting with a grin, that’ll do nicely.

He thinks sometimes, about retiring with someone.

He’s met a lot of people in his life. People he could read and see through. Beautiful, talented people.

Clint was good, an assassin, which Tony finds a little unsavoury, but the two of them had gotten on pretty well.

Harley the pickpocket, Pepper the weapons dealer, Maria the scam artist.

But in the end, all the flames had fizzled out. Friendships faded, relationships drifting away.

He’ll retire alone on an island, but he’ll be okay. He’s Tony Stark, (or at least, he’s Tony Stark today. Sometimes he’s Howard Potts, other times he’s Don Jarvis, or a thousand and one other aliases that he can keep perfect track of). He’ll have an island, and he’ll find a friend there. A native, beautiful and-

Someone who will most likely never know the real him.

But that’s fine.

He’s fine.

He spends the two weeks planning how he’ll get in, how he’ll disable the alarms, how he’ll transport the painting without it being recognised or damaged. He comes up with fifteen different escape routes and failsafes for just in case scenarios, and he practises hot wiring a few cars for a speedy getaway just in case the alarms are set off.

Knowledge of electrics and engineering go a very long way in the world of conning.

He thinks about what Natasha said, about how much easier this might all be if he could replicate his chosen object himself.

But he can forge bank notes, currency, one time a search warrant, diamonds and a hundred other things, but a painting.

It’s just always escaped him. Making fake bottles of wine- sculpting with glass, he can do that. Using heavy machinery to make fine diamonds and crystal, or laser printers for the holographic seals on money- he can do that.

But painting? That art escapes him.

He’s overheard police detectives calling him the Master of All Trades, and he supposes in some respects it’s true. It’s unheard of to be able to con as well as him, but also appraise diamonds, read lips, swan dive off of forty-story high buildings-

But painting is a different sort of art.

Softer and more beautiful, and so delicate a process that Tony’s never quite been able to get the hang of it.

Don’t get him wrong, he can paint. Enough to get by- enough to do a lazy enough imitation if he had to- he’d get a degree in it (according to his resumé, he actually has four degrees, two phDs and a couple of Masters courses he threw on there) but not enough raw talent to eyeball a forgery anywhere near getting past detection.

Besides, he’s curious about The Spider.

He’s always been curious; thirsting for knowledge, knowing things he shouldn’t know (boy the things he knows) and he’s not gonna pass up the chance.

So, when Nat gets back to him in two weeks with a place and a date, Tony salutes her and memorises it, before tearing it up and tossing it into a bin.

“Don’t get too excited,” she warns, not making eye contact as she sits across the busy mall from him on an opposing bench. She’s holding the burner phone to her cheek, and he has his own in his hand, listening intently. “You’re meeting his hacker.”

“Hacker?” Tony repeats with surprise, “I thought he was a painter-“

“The Spider’s security is air-tight, Tony. You’ll meet with his hacker, and they’ll look into you completely. They’ll know everything. And then The Spider decides if he wants to meet you.”

Tony half scoffs, “no one could know everything-“

“They’ll know enough.” She promises. “If this is part of a bigger con, Tony, I’d watch your back. Deal honestly with him.”

“I’m planning on it,” he mutters, a little offended by the notion that he takes everyone for a ride. “I am capable of being honest.”

“Then you should be fine.”

“How should I dress? What’s the hacker like?”

“How should I know?”

“I need something, Nat, come on! Are they geek-chic, or more ‘I live in my parent’s basement’ and-“

She hangs up, and amidst a crowd of people, she disappears.

Tony goes for geek-chic, just because he doesn’t want to pass up the chance to wear his new navy blue blazer.

* The girl standing in Central Park on Tuesday the 17th reminds him of the Statue of Liberty. She holds herself beautifully, slightly intimidating, and despite the fact he’s taller than her, she towers over him with a dignity he wasn’t expecting.

He was right about Geek Chic though, sort of.

The girl has dark skin and bright eyes, and she’s wearing Nikes and denim shorts and a long-sleeved crop-top that says Lakers on it.

She looks like a millennial, and the clearly jail-broken iphone in her hand and the silver memory-stick necklace hanging down her front, is a clear sign that says hacker.

He’s a little grateful for it. On first glance, he might have thought she was a regular teenager.

Might. He can read people. And her smile is more of a smirk, and it’s very knowledgable. He saunters up anyway, and flashes her his best smile.

She has perfectly shaped eyebrows, and she takes his hand firmly. “I’m Shuri,” she greets, and she waits a beat. He doesn’t speak, waiting for more, and she laughs. “And that’s your cue to give me whichever name you’d like to use. You have many. Or should I just pick my favourite? Mr Potts?”

“Tony is fine.” He bites out, reluctantly impressed, she must have an FBI-level hacking system. She turns on her trainer-clad heel and heads towards an ice-cream truck parked just beside the park.

He has no choice but to follow and wait in the sunshine as she pays for a 99c with two flakes, and munches on them happily. She’s in no rush, and she’s remarkably unstressed, and Tony tries to learn everything he can about her.

She’s not too spoilt for cash, that much is evident. She’s got good tech on her hands, and she’s been eating well- her skin and her hair have a healthy sort of glow- and her breath had smelt of the expensive coffee you can only get from the cafe down on fifth.

Plus, the shoes and shirt are brand names and very new.

And if she’s this age, then The Spider must be young too. (People don’t like contacts too much younger than they are). That just makes Tony even more curious.

“How old are you?” He asks, when she reaches the cone and still hasn’t spoken.

She grins at him, enjoying her power. “Why does that matter?”

“Because I’m being interviewed by a child.”

She flips the bird at him and it’s so out of the blue that he can’t help but laugh. “A child? You’re only twenty-five. I’m twenty. Five years makes you better than me?”

Fair point. “Well, how does this work? You know about me, now what?”

“I just wanted to see you,” she says mysteriously, devouring the cone in three bites. She smacks her lips together happily. “Get the vibe, you know? Put a remote tracker into your bloodstream.”

Tony jerks his hand to his face and examines his wrist.

Her firm hand shape has left a little syringe-mark.

“It’s only nanotech.” She remarks, unperturbed, as Tony tries his best not to pout and rub his arm. “It’ll stay in your blood for about a week. I’ll be monitoring where you go.”

“This is a lot of security.” Tony murmurs, feeling excited again. It’s not often he’s allowed to operate on this high a level with people so clearly able. “The Spider must not want anything to happen. Why’s he so paranoid?”

“You can ask him yourself.” Shuri nods, and Tony grins widely. “I’m gonna text you a link to an app. Download it onto your phone. When you’ve got the piece, write P on the app. I’ll respond with an address. You’ll have five seconds to memorise it before it deletes. Go there, meet the Spider, give him the painting, and in three days, send a friend with a clean record to come back and collect.”

The words roll off her tongue quickly, fluently, but not rehearsed, More like she’s said this before, quite a few times to other conmen.

Tony tries to wrap his head around all the information. One, she already has his number, which is…well, fine. Two, that apparently the Spider can reproduce a Degas in three days, Three, Tony has to leave the painting alone with him for three days, and four, the issue of payment.

“I want security on the piece.” He says, and Shuri half-shrugs.

“He’s not going to steal it.”

“I’m sure you can understand why I don’t take your word for it.”

She casts her steely gaze over him. “We have 100% customer satisfaction.”

“Security.”

“Trust me, after you meet him, you won’t worry about security. But, if you must, you can put a tracker on the piece, or you can have a person of your choice standing by the piece for the whole three days. If this person interferers in the Spider’s process in anyway, we reserve the right to seek compensation. And when I say seek, we mean take.”

He wants to ask if she’s ever studied law, because she could make a brilliant lawyer. And they need a few more lawyers on their side. Instead, he nods. He has a few favours he could call in, but he doesn’t want to trust anyone. He’ll stand by the painting himself. “And payment?”

“We trust that you’ll pay.” She hums lightly, wiping her hands on her thighs. “I know everything about you, Tony, it won’t be hard to make your life difficult if you decide to con us.”

He’s escaped the mafia, the FBI, MI5, Interpol and some of the most dangerous criminals and highest ranking investigators in the world, but this twenty year old in Nike trainers makes him feel like he probably couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes.

If this is the new face of crime, Tony’s a little glad he’s about to retire.

Tony tries not to expect or predict things from people he doesn’t know.

He makes educated guesses, informed and calculated risks sometimes, when he has to, but of all the things and of all the places he would have guessed the Spider lived, this is not where.

He stands at the foot of The Ansonia building on the Upper West Side of New York, and hovers there slightly in awe. 74th street is embedded with quaint shops and luxury department stores, antique cars and designer bred-dogs and even the trash cans look like they’re made of crystal.

The Spider lives here- in this building, in this luxury building, on the top floor- the 18th floor, and Tony just shakes his head and doesn’t know what to expect.

The doorman is wearing a green coat with gold buttons and nods at him with an old face that does not look surprised. “Good evening, Sir,” he says politely into the night air, as he opens the door for Tony to get in.

Tony smiles as charmingly as he can. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

“Very mild, Sir.”

“Exactly.” Tony nods, pressing the button on the elevator and slipping right in.

Everything in this building is finished with gold trim and bronze accents. He admires his own reflection on the ride up- the tuxedo makes him look very dapper indeed, complete with bow tie, he looks well-groomed and exceptionally attractive.

He’s robbed a state of the art museum tonight, and no one would ever know.

You never suspect the guy in a tuxedo, the one who’s having slightly too good a time, a little tipsy as he staggers over to his car.

Of course, Tony wasn’t drunk. And it wasn’t his car. But it was a very nice car, and it had done the job, and now here he is, with the painting, on the way up to meet The Spider.

He hasn’t been this excited in a while.

The robbery had gone off without a hitch, and now he has a week before the museum re-opens. But The Spider only needs three days, so Tony should be able to get back in, put the forgery in place, and leave the country with his happy ending.

Bliss is in sight, and the seas look calm.

He holds the canvas bag tightly, even as he fixes his collar. It’s a fairly big canvas, and it can be difficult to distract from it, but the porter had barely looked at him, and he’d made sure to smile and wink at people on the street.

A little bit of flattery and a handsome jawline can make people a little fuzzy on the details.

He steps off the elevator onto marble tiles, and he has to resist the urge to wolf-whistle.

He’d wolf-whistled a lot, back when he was eighteen and fresh to the city. He’d been trained out of it quickly, but there’s some of that boy still left inside him. Mischievous and looking for a good time.

He reaches the heavy oak door with gold lettering 2001 above it and knocks, taking a deep breath, and preparing himself for absolutely anything.

He gets the wind punched right out of him when the door swings open.

Framed by the doorway, and the soft gold light from inside the apartment spilling out all around him, is quite easily the most beautiful boy Tony has ever seen in his entire life.

And he lives in New York. He’s been here during fashion week- Tony has seen his fair share of gorgeous people-

“It’s been a while,” the boy beams- Jesus- his eyes are like honey- like the sunlight as it spills onto warm brown roots in the middle of an enchanted forest- “I’ve missed you,”

Tony has to be lurched into gear, when he notices another resident entering their apartment across the hall. He nods, finding his throat clogged, and lets out a strangled: “I’ve missed you too.”

The boy smiles, and gestures him in.

Tony can’t look away. He can’t pull his eyes away enough to scan the apartment like he knows he should. He can’t look anywhere but the boy. He’s got fluffy chestnut curls toppling into his forehead, each lock absolutely perfect, and he’s wearing silk black sleep shorts that hug his thighs just- just brilliantly, and an over-sized lavender sweater that hangs over one shoulder.

He’s got freckles and dimples and a twinkle in his eye and-

“Can I offer you anything?” The boy asks, and Tony shakes his head and tries to get himself together. “Tea? Shuri told me you enjoyed wine, I think I have a few bottles, but you should probably browse them yourself,” he giggles, and it’s a beautiful sound Tony wants to wrap himself up in. “They’re mostly gifts, but I’m sure there are a few good bottles.” He stage whispers: “I don’t know anything about wine.”

Tony’s in love.

That snaps him out of it. The thought wrenches him right out of his daydream and sends him careening back into reality. “Tea would be much appreciated,” he manages, (wine does not clear your head) and follows the boy into the kitchen.

This is the Spider. He’s- he’s- well, he looks about Shuri’s age, like Tony thought, but…nothing else.

He’s absolutely sublime. And the apartment- it’s huge, a huge penthouse surely over 5000 square feet. It has a balcony that looks out over New York, it’s decorated with accents of rose gold and pastels, and it’s luxury if Tony’s ever seen it. There are designer throw cushions and rare fur rugs and from what he spies of the living room- a bookcase absolutely teeming with first editions.

In the kitchen, the wine rack is nothing to sniff at. A good, niche collection. Though there aren’t many bottles, each one is worth at least $10,000. And they were gifts. Tony wonders who the hell this boy has as friends. He must be forging paintings at a hell of a rate, to be twenty years old and already here.

“I’m Peter, by the way, Tony.” the boy says warmly, and Tony takes a seat at the kitchen counter, watching as Peter moves a teapot onto the stove. Warm is a good word for him. He seems very warm. He looks comforting and homey and his eyes are inviting and his hair looks impossibly soft to the touch. “I didn’t realise you’d get the painting tonight, so my apologies for…” he gestures to the way he’s dressed, and smiles bashfully. “I was taking a nap.”

“Please don’t apologise,” Tony whispers, eyes dragging without his consent over Peter’s delicate frame. “You look beautiful.” So beautiful and he’s only just woken up. Tony thinks he might faint if he saw the boy when he was making an effort.

Peter’s skin, cream as a canvas, starts to blossom pink.

“That’s very- thank you,” he blushes, busying himself with two mugs. “You look- very handsome too, I like the tux-“ he breaks out into more blushing when Tony winks and hurriedly looks away.

Tony looks around again (though he does take a moment to appreciate that gorgeous, gorgeous ass fuck, two perfect handfuls) to glean as much as he can. He still has the painting in it’s canvas bag sitting by his feet, but he sees a shopping list on the fridge with cosy looking fridge magnets, and-

His eye is drawn back to Peter, at the bare skin of his shoulder, where he can see stained pink; a tattoo, of a rose, he thinks.

Goddamn, this is unreal.

“I didn’t expect you to have…” he shakes his head, smiling when Peter sets the tea down in front fo him and joins him. “This apartment is just very…”

Peter ducks his head bashfully. “Art restoration does pay almost obscenely well when you work privately. Plus, I come from old money, so don’t be impressed,” he insists softly, and Tony can’t look away from those eyes.

He can’t help but laugh, though. “Art restoration?” He lets out, “that’s what you call your line of work?”

Peter looks confused. “I’m an art restorer,” he says, and Tony can tell that every inch of the boy is telling the truth.

“You’re an art restorer- and you can afford this place,” Tony gapes, “then why are you even-“

“Oh,” Peter laughs, taking a sip of his tea. It smells of honey and lemon. “I just do that for fun, really. I think art should be shared, so I don’t mind making copies. It’s fun, it’s really good training.”

“And the money…”

“I give that all the charity.” Peter cocks his head a little, “Shuri was supposed to tell you all of this. Didn’t she explain?”

Tony shakes his head in amazement. “I think she’s a lot more protective of you than you think, Peter. So, you’re telling me you copy the paintings for fun?”

Peter stands from the table and rolls his eyes. “Not just fun. Also training. More importantly though, art should be worshipped. I want everyone to have a Van Gogh to hang in their dining room, to see every day! I want people to talk about paintings again, it shouldn’t have to be something you go and see once on a school trip, it should be a part of your everyday life,” he beckons for Tony to follow. “I’ll show you my gallery, bring your painting, you’ll see.”

Tony does, gulping his tea down in one go. It burns his throat on the way down, and it just reminds him that no, he’s not dreaming.

Peter’s apartment is huge and beautiful, and when they walk through to his workshop, Tony’s breath is taken away.

There are easels everywhere, all with paintings at different forms of life. Finished ones are on the wall, and there are pots of paintbrushes everywhere, chalk and charcoal and an entire wall with an intricate shelf system of paints. There have to be over a thousand bottles.

Peter motions to a fresh easel, and Tony hurries over, unzipping the bag and setting the Degas on the stand.

Peter makes a sound that’s pure sex. “It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out a finger like he wants to touch before quickly pulling back. “Blue Dancers. You see these pastels? It looks like a traditional sketch, like a character study as she moves- every figure is her, you know? At different stages, just…” he shakes his head helplessly, “it’s beautiful.”

Tony can only see Peter. The painting pales in comparison. “Yeah,” he agrees hoarsely, “it really is.”

He can’t believe this is happening. Of all the things, of all the ways he’s expected his night to go, this isn’t how he talks to people. Not people in his line of work. They speak in code, they vaguely threaten and intimidate, but they don’t share their passion of art, or donate all the money to charity, or have a heart so pure that all they want to do is to make sure everyone has art in their life.

“You know what I do, right?” He croaks, and Peter pulls his eyes away from the painting reluctantly, to nod.

“Shuri told me, Tony, don’t worry. I have no interest in turning you in. I thought what you did with the diamond was really very clever. Shuri tells me that it’s almost impossible to make a synthetic pink of that size.”

“I had to use a radiation machine,” he murmurs, puffing out his chest a little, and Peter grins.

“See? That’s a kind of art there. Same with the forged bank notes, it’s all just art and finesse.”

Tony looks at the other paintings. He can see a few other forgeries in the making- can see one or two that are probably being restored for legitimate, private owners.

“I have to admit,” Tony whispers, wandering around the studio, “this is a perfect set up. A legitimate job, a legitimate salary- having Shuri check everyone out- not using the money for yourself- you’ve got it figured out.”

“I’m quite the criminal,” Peter teases, rolling his eyes.

“I’m serious,” Tony insists, “the crimes that are the hardest to solve are the ones that don’t have a motive. No FBI agent would ever think your motive was sharing art.” He’s a little jealous, if he’s honest. But then again, he’s never had a legitimate job. Or at least one he acquired legitimately.

“Why do you commit your crimes?” The bambi-eyed boy asks, as he studies the painting. He pulls a mobile light from overhead and shines it at the canvas at different angles.

Tony sits on one of the stools, watching him, and lets out a breath. “I don’t know.” He begins, raking his fingers through his hair, “To prove I can. Money. This is my final heist.”

“The perfect score,” Peter nods, “I get it. I hope I don’t let you down.”

Tony looks at the calibre of the other paintings that surrounds him and shakes his head. “I doubt that’s possible.”

Peter blushes again, the light making his lashes look even longer as they cast shadows against his cheek. “The problem with Degas is that he was losing his eye-sight towards this period, so he only painted during certain hours- that’ll affect the way the paint sits. And of course, prussian blue didn’t exist as a shade, so I’ll have to make my own. I have an oven at the studio at work I can use to crack the paint- make it consistent with the period,” he stops to explain, and even though Tony already knows, he doesn’t want Peter to stop talking. “Paint starts to crack as it ages, and this is over a century old, we’ll need to induce it. If I use pure pigment and follow the light schedule, I…” he shakes his head, looking awed, “it’s amazing to copy from the original like this. I don’t always have the chance, a lot of the time, I have to work from a photo, but that loses texture so…” he gives Tony a grateful look and Tony thinks he’d do anything to keep that gaze on him just like that. “I should be able to get you one that fooled even Degas himself.”

“You are a saint,” Tony whispers, and he knows now, what Shuri meant. He doesn’t think the painting could be safer with anyone else.

And unless Peter’s the best liar he’s ever seen before, he trusts him. There’s an earnest transparency, a warmth, that Tony’s never seen. Not on someone so talented. So wealthy.

After another cup of tea, and watching Peter outline a few drafts, Tony finds himself talking. Once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. (Tip for conmen, get them to talk about themselves. Deflect. Always deflect) But Peter’s sweet and non-judgemental and Tony feels something inside him unfurl as he confesses over darjeeling that he’s worried about being lonely on an island in the Mediterranean.

Peter’s fingers get stained with pencil, and he rubs his chin and accidentally leaves marks all over his face that Tony wants to kiss. Peter never looks shocked or frowns at any of Tony’s stories- at how the friends he’s made have drifted, at the crimes he’s committed- Peter just nods and sketches and then, after a long while, when it’s nearing three am, and Tony’s eyelids are starting to droop, Peter gets up and puts his pencils away.

“You know why you’re lonely, don’t you, Tony?” Peter asks, washing his hands.

“Why’s that, sweetheart?” Tony drawls, fingers curled around the mug. It says follow your dreams in swirly pink script on a cloud on the side.

“Because you’ve been putting on a front for so long, you’re all front. You can’t just be charm and charisma, you need some substance. A little bit of human. Messy and wrong, sometimes, but human.” Peter looks thoughtful, and he comes to stand before Tony, and takes the mug from his hands gently. This close, Tony can smell the floral scent of Peter’s laundry detergent. Peter looks up at him through his lovely eyelashes and says barely above a whisper: “I think I’d find your human side kinda lovely.”

Tony wants to lean down and kiss, and he does move, just a little, before Peter’s lets out a little surprised hitch and Tony thinks no.

Because he can read people, and he can read situations. And he knows a kiss now will just ruin things for the long run.

And Tony wants a long run.

So he clears his throat, and Peter pulls away with dazed-eyes, “I’ll um- leave you to it.” Tony murmurs, and Peter nods- curls bouncing.

New York is never silent, not even in the dead of night, but as Tony hot wires a different car and thinks of Peter, he doesn’t hear a thing.

He does smile though, a lot. Not to win anyone over, but just because he’s happy.

He goes back the next day with flowers.

It’s the most expensive bouquet he could find, but that’s not why he picked it. It’s because it’s filled with pink roses, like the one on Peter’s shoulder, and wildflowers and lavender just like his sweater. Because there are dandelions and foxgloves spilling over the white paper and even when Tony sniffs it, it doesn’t smell as good as Peter.

The doorman nods at him when he opens the door. “Good choice, Sir.” He says quietly, and Tony grins and pats him on the back.

When Peter opens the door, he looks surprised- then delighted- and Tony holds out the bouquet for him.

“As a thank you,” he explains, and watches as Peter buries his face in the flowers and inhales.

“It’s lovely,” Peter beams, gesturing him in.

It’s clear Peter’s been painting. He’s a vision of beauty again, in floral shorts that cut off tantalisingly high on his thigh, and an over-sized dress shirt. It’s undone at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves and completely covered in paint. Everything he owns is such quality- 100% cotton and silk and no doubt expensive. There are hues of blue all across his forearms.

“I was working on your piece, go through and have a look! I’ll just go put these in a vase.”

Tony nods, even though there’s a little smudge of yellow paint on Peter’s cheek and all he wants to do is brush his thumb across it.

He goes through to the studio, and there on the easel, is his canvas.

Or rather, Peter’s copy. The canvas is 3/4s of the way filled, and he shakes his head in amazement as he comes closer and looks between Peter’s and the original. The boy’s a genius. The three ballerinas are exactly the same- and Peter’s palette is laid on the table- a dozen shades of periwinkle, and paintbrushes galore all handpicked and to the ready.

Sunlight is streaming in through the window and Tony inhales the sharp smell of paint and knows he’ll always associate the two things with Peter.

“It’s rare to find dandelions in a bouquet,” Peter beams, coming in with a gorgeous vase and the flowers bursting within it. He sets it on a table in the sunshine, and turns his warm gaze on Tony. “You really didn’t have to buy me anything, but it’s so sweet you did.”

“Let me take you out to dinner,” Tony blurts, because he’s all torn up inside. He wants to reform for Peter, but he also wants to rob the highest security bank in the world to impress him. He wants to spend time picking him dandelions, but also wants to put a necklace worth more than this apartment around his dainty neck.

Peter blushes and his eyes slide away. “Tony,” he begins apologetically, and Tony’s heart sinks, “you seem…too good to be true, and Shuri told me that’s how you always seem. You lie for a living, and- I’m not sure what you want from me. If I’m part of a con. I don’t know you, Tony. I’m not sure anyone does.”

“You can trust me,” Tony insists, a touch desperately, “i would never hurt you.”

Peter gives him sad half-smile, “Tony, it’s your job to be convincing.”

Peter’s right, of course. Lying is second nature, but Tony hasn’t lied with him. Not once. He’s been more open than he’s been with anyone, but Peter doesn’t know that. They feel like opposites here, in this moment, Peter in his white, paint-stained cotton shirt, honesty in every earnest word and gentle touch, and Tony in his black t-shirt and dark tailored pants, his front bolted into place, his mask on his face even as he tries to remove it.

“Please don’t look so sad,” Peter whimpers, coming over and kissing Tony’s cheek. “I’m not saying no, I’m saying not now.”

If not now, when? Tony thinks, but he nods. “Tell me about yourself, Peter.” He says, as Peter settles back in front of the canvas. “I did all the talking last night.”

“Yes, but you have a very nice voice.” Peter teases, “you could do audiobooks.”

“An honest profession indeed,” Tony chuckles.

Peter was raised in France, in Toulouse, and is self-trained in art. His parents died when he was young, but he loves his Aunt more than anything. He’s bought her a villa in Paris where she makes her own wine (that explains the eclectic mix in Peter’s wine rack). He’d moved to New York four years ago, when he was sixteen, and life has treated him kindly. “I think it’s more luck than anything else,” Peter confesses, using his fan brush to shape the tutus in a burgundy-blue. “Things just fell into place.”

“Yeah they do that,” Tony grins, “especially around people who are hard-working, talented and kind.”

Peter laughs, shaking his head. “It’s not all great. This building doesn’t allow cats, so…”

“A complete travesty.”

“Exactly. I knew you’d understand.”

They have brunch out on the deck. Peter, as it turns out, can’t cook to save his life, but Tony’s been a chef in a few Michelin star restaurants over his life, so he whips them up a Spanish omelette and they drink it with coffee while looking out over New York.

“How’d you even get into this business?” He asks, staring at the enigma that is Peter Parker.

“Accidentally, really.” He admits. “I was so silly. I was painting a Hoefnagels for class, it’s a lovely 1598 piece- and I was doing some finishing touches in the park before it was due, and a guy offered me money for it.” Peter shakes his head in amazement, like he still can’t believe someone was willing to pay for his work.

Tony wants to wrap him up and shower him with praise.

“And I was so flattered, that i jut gave it to him. Little did I know, of course, that he was planning on selling it on as the original. It was a spider painting, and then I was just known as The Spider. It got so out of hand, people started approaching me out of the blue with a terrible amount of money, and I couldn’t refuse it, because Shuri runs this amazing charity to help fund educational services in countries without the proper school-structure, so I started giving it to her. Of course, she asked where I was getting it and then she insisted I be more protected, and she’s always been good with computers so-“

“Amazing,” Tony breathes, staring at Peter as the New York skyline frames him. “Wherever you go, Peter Parker, amazement follows.”

“Well,” Peter teases, “I’m certainly not as suave as you. Put me in a three piece suit, and I become a stammering mess, that’s for sure. I like it much better here, with my books and my paints and Netflix. Have you ever seen the Good Witch?”

Tony shakes his head, and listens to Peter talk about it. It sounds ludicrously wholesome, just like him.

It’s weird, a creeping sort of feeling, knowing that here over omelettes and black coffee, on an old New York terrace on a bright and sunny morning, with this boy here, feels like more of a happy ending than any island in the Mediterranean could ever feel.

The final heist, the last con, the only crime left- it pales in comparison to Peter’s warm eyes and the way he talks with his hands and looks at Tony like there’s something there.

Something to be loved.

* Tony’s admiring himself in a mirror of a department store when Agent Peggy Carter taps him on the shoulder. He turns, winks at her, and shows off the shirt. “What do you think?” He asks smoothly, “too garish? I’m trying to impress a sweet young thing.”

She doesn’t smile, but her lips do twitch a little. “Stark.” She warns, before pulling a notepad out of her grey blazer. She pulls off the pantsuit very well. “Where were you last night?”

“Why?” He winks, “did you miss me? You know you can always call.” He gestures to one of the attendants and pats his shirt affectionately. “I’ll take it. I want to wear it out of the store.”

“Not a problem!” The attendant chirps, flitting away, and Tony turns to Peggy with a smile.

“I was at a restaurant. Dining alone, I’m afraid. But I’m sure the restaurant staff will vouch for me,” he shrugs, flashing her a winning smile, “I’m pretty hard to forget. It’s this gorgeous face. A curse and a blessing.”

Peggy rolls her eyes. “You were there the whole night? What restaurant?”

“Oh, I can’t remember. One down near that lovely bakery on fourth.” (When you’re telling the truth, make it sounds like a lie.) He was at a restaurant last night- he was alone, and there are people who will vouch for him. The Restaurant was the Dorsia, and he’d gone for some time to think- and show off his newest suit- but she doesn’t need to know that it definitely wasn’t him. Feds like investigating and moving on by their own accord. Besides, Tony doesn’t know what the crime was yet. If it was something tasty, it might do well for a few other street criminals to think he’s the one that’s done it.

It’s very good for business.

Or- it was. It doesn’t need to be anymore. Since there’s only one more heist. One more crime.

“I’ll check it out.” She promises, though it sounds like a threat, flipping her notebook closed and tucking it away. “And while I do that- I don’t suppose you’ve come across the Wittelsbach Diamond in your travels?”

He gives her a blank look.

She snorts. “C’mon, Stark, cut the crap. It’s a diamond about yea-big,” she holds open her hand, “-vibrant pink. You were accused of stealing it just a few-“

“I think you’ll find that I was innocent, Peggy darling,”

She shakes her head. “I know you took it. Just like the Handberg Manuscripts.”

“Hm,” Tony nods, “that’s fine. I have a hard time admitting when I’m wrong too. We have that in common.”

She sighs. “Stay on the straight and narrow, Stark. At least for a while.”

He gives her a two-fingered salute and a wave. “Will do, Peggy-sue.”

Her laugh feels like success.

(Is it because he pulled one over on her? Or because he likes making people happy? Does he care too much? More than he thought?)

* Peter’s forgery is the best Tony’s ever seen. Which, of course, is exactly why he wanted him.

It passes the microscopic analysis, the craquelure is perfection. The frame and the wood light show up brilliantly, the infra-red shows the underlying grid and the IR spectroscopic analysis shows the pigments as pure, and coming from the right time. The cracks are consistent with the time period- the fading towards the bottom consistent with Degas’ decreasing eyesight, and Tony can only pull away, setting down his microscopic lens, and whistle in amazement.

“Jesus, Peter,” he breathes, “this is…” he doesn’t have the words. “It’s the best damn forgery I’ve ever seen. An imitation from the gods.”

Peter’s eyes are smiling, but he bristles a little. “Not an imitation, Tony, a pastiche. To copy is to flatter. That’s all I want to do to these paintings.”

He nods, feeling giddy with triumph. “You are a treasure, Peter Parker. The seedy underworld does not deserve you.”

The boy laughs at that. He’s come from work today, and it’s the first time Tony’s seen him in non-casual. The button up shirt is dark purple- silk- and is tucked neatly into tight black jeans. Designer. Tony wants to ravish him.

But it’s over. Their business is complete.

He reaches for his canvas bag and Peter’s painting, before a lily-white hand clutches his wrist.

“Tony,” Peter says, eyes wide, “if mine and the original are so indistinguishable- even to experts and scientists- then why not just sell the forgery? Return the original, and sell mine. That way- if by some miracle critics manage to catch the forgery- it’s less of a crime than stealing a Degas.”

The two paintings are identical. Practically identical.

But science is always improving, Peter’s right. New equipment is always being made and methods always being tested.

But with replacing the painting- it’ll avoid a genuine test for years. And Tony will have successfully stolen and sold a genuine Degas. And who knows how long it would be before anyone even caught Peter’s forgery?

He shakes his head. “I’m sticking with my plan.”

Peter releases him, and nods. “I was only suggesting. Either way, art is being appreciated so…” he smiles with his dimples, “whatever makes you happy.”

Happy is the bliss beyond the horizon, after he makes the switch and Nat sells the painting.

Happy is-

“Come with me,” he pleads, swallowing hard, “to wherever I go. I know- you met me three days ago- but- I’ll buy us an island, Peter, you could paint and read and we could…”

“Retire at twenty,” Peter muses around a teary laugh, “oh Tony. That’s not what I want. I want a wedding, and friends, and to skirt the line of the law, but mostly be on it’s good side. Not running from something forever. I like my job, I like New York, I don’t have anything to run away from.”

“No, no,” Tony frowns, shaking his head insistently, “I’m not running away from anything, this is just my final heist.”

“You’re running away from something, Tony,” Peter murmurs, going onto his tiptoes to kiss the corner fo Tony’s mouth. He smells of dandelions. “One day maybe you’ll stop. If you do, I’ll be here. Probably still trying to convince the building to let me have a cat.”

Tony leaves the Ansonia, but leaves an important part of himself behind.

* He’s sitting in his storage unit at the edge of the city, drinking a stolen bottle of wine, surrounded by all his treasure.

He feels like a very lonely dragon. Eons old.

He’s surrounded by paintings, and goblets and treasures from museums. Diamonds and bonds and counterfeit money and deeds. Stolen u-boat treasure and Nazi-claimed portraits, and historical artefacts that he had to do some pretty shady things to get.

There’s a clatter on the roof, but Tony doesn’t flinch, he just sips at the wine and watches as Natasha makes her way in.

She gasps at all the treasure. She looks around, eyes wide, practically vibrating with excitement as much as she tries to hide it. “You have the Handburg manuscripts?” She whispers, reaching out to touch a scroll, “I thought that was a rumour…”

He shrugs, hoping the tears on his cheeks have dried. “Yeah, i got them a few years back.”

“How..?”

“Carrier pigeons.”

“Jesus, Tony, you’re…you’re the best. There’s gotta be millions of dollars worth of stuff here.” She stops when her eyes land on the two Degas. “Wow. The Spider is…wow.” She looks at both of them, squinting hard, “which one is…?”

“The one on the left is real,” he lies, just to see if she can catch it.

“Wow.” She murmurs, “it’s-“ she turns to him sharply, as if she’s taking in him and not the treasure for the first time since she got here. “Oh god.” She whispers, and he lifts the glass to her in a mock toast. “You’re going to turn yourself in.”

He knows, but hearing her say it is pretty awful.

“Tony, why?”

“There are two endings for someone who’s running, Nat, do you know what they are?”

She says nothing.

“Either they get caught, or they keep running. Running forever.” He downs the rest of the wine. It’s disgusting. “But I can give myself a third option. Turn myself in.”

“They won’t catch you,” she pleads, “they’d never be able to catch you, Tony.”

“You’ve been a good friend to me, Nat,” he murmurs, mind made up. He gestures to the two paintings. “Pick whichever one you want. it’s yours. Free of charge.”

Her jaw drops, but she’s smarter than to try and change his mind when it’s so in her favour.

Like he thought, she picks the “real” one. She tucks Peter’s copy into her bag and heads for the door- pausing only once to look at him.

“You were the best.” She says; pityingly. “But I’ll have your back, Tony.”

In the morning, he takes the Degas into the FBI headquarters, and confesses to stealing it.

* Tony Stark, the FBI’s newest criminal consultant. Exchanging prison time for expert help on White Collar crimes.

Peggy’s the one who makes it all happen. She’s also his handler. She’s the one who puts the un-tamperable tracking anklet on his leg, and looks at him like she’s proud. “Working for the FBI is gonna change you,” she says; pleased, and Tony laughs and fixes his suit. “Remember, this thing’ll go off if you step outside your two mile radius.”

“Fine by me,” Tony assures, because there’s only one place he cares about going.

* It’s weird to think about the fact that retirement is a 9 to 5 job working for the FBI.

But it’s bliss if Tony ever dreamed of it.

Breakfast and lazy morning sex with Peter on the balcony, giving their neighbours a bit of a show, then into work with Peggy to catch jewel thieves and forgers (his criminal alliases come in very, very handy). He comes home to see Peter painting, and he sweeps him off his feet and makes him dinner.

He and Peter work on some of the cases after hours, and if Tony ever comes across a forged painting and Peter blushes-

He always assures Peggy that it’s an original.

And he still gets to dress up. Whenever he goes undercover, or whenever an art gallery opens. He feels much more dapper, with Peter at his side. Everyone comments on what a beautiful couple they are, and Peter goes all pink, but Tony just smirks and slides an arm around his waist and agrees.

He buys Peter a bouquet every week, and Peter reacts just the same every time.

Shuri helps Tony whenever a case needs a tech-whiz, and whenever Peggy asks how he managed to get it done, Tony just wiggles his fingers and says: “I’m a man with many talents.”

He still has his storage unit of treasure, moved of course, because Natasha can’t be fully trusted-

And sometimes Peggy looks at him, like she’s still not totally convinced he won’t disappear off the face of the earth, but then other times- more often lately, she looks at him like he’s her friend.

He likes that look more.

Over cheap take out on a stake out, she asks him point blank: “Do you have the Handberg manuscripts? I could never figure than one out.”

“Hypothetically,” he grins, because he’s still the kid from LA with a pack of cards, “if I did have it, I might have used carrier pigeons.”

She exhales and smiles wryly. “I’ll never be able prove you have them, will I? Or the Wittelsbach Diamond, or the dozens of other things I’m sure you’ve stolen.”

“The only thing I’ve ever stolen,” he recites, “is a Degas, which I promptly returned after being consumed with guilt. A judge can only be forgiving in a situation like that.”

“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes and steals a spring roll, “we still caught you.”

“Actually, I turned myself in.” He says, the beginning line of a familiar argument.

* On a sunny afternoon in June, at an art museum that he and Peter have broken into in the dead of night (though New York is never really dead) Tony gets down on one knee.

Peter starts crying, and Tony just kisses his fingers and slides the ring onto it.

And that’s when Peter sees the diamond.

It’s pink and-

“Tony no,” Peter gasps, staring at it, “you haven’t. You haven’t cut off a piece of the Wittelsba-“

“I finally found something to do with it,” he grins, kissing his fiancé on the nose.

Peter shakes his head, still crying tears of joy, but looking aghast all the same. “But that- damaging it lowers the price, Tony! That was worth millions and-“

“And now,” he rubs his thumb over the ring on Peter’s finger, “it’s absolutely priceless.”

Peter has sex with him right then and there, rides him under a Van Gogh and an Afremov.

Shuri has to go in and delete the footage, and Tony treats her to dinner to say thank you.

* The storage unit of treasure- treasure too hot to sell, that Tony stole to prove he could steal, hoarding in the promise that one day he’d use it all for his happy ending-

He has his happy ending, and the treasure has a purpose now.

He gives it away.

He gives Peter’s Aunt May a bottle of wine for Christmas. She’ll never know how much it’s really worth, but she’ll enjoy it, and that’s what matters. He and Peter donate a few pieces to museums and charity shops.

He sends Clint a diamond necklace, Harley a chest full of antique gold coins, Pepper an original set of Mongolian daggers and Maria some newly minted holographic strips for the Canadian hundred dollar bill.

He also leaves the Handberg Manuscripts on Peggy’s desk one morning, and she stares at them, and starts to cry.

“That’s weird,” Tony comments, offering her some tissue, “maybe whoever took them decided that you should finally get to close the case.”

“You’re an idiot, Tony,” she hiccups, hugging him tight.

He doesn’t miss any of it.

The treasure that matters most, after all, is the one he comes home to every night. Speckled with paint and cat hair (Tony is an excellent persuasive speaker) and always ready with a kiss.

“Want to know the best thing I ever stole?” Tony asks, over waffles in bed as they watch The Good Witch on Netflix.

“Ooh, what’s that?” Peter says excitedly, chocolate all around his mouth.

“Your heart,” Tony grins, reaching over to kiss his husband on the lips.

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

Text

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 78 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 78 of 83

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

written 2007

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story? Read from the beginning. PART 1 is here

///////////////////////

Kurin smiled, “Did you give helmswoman Darkistry the idea to ride the eye of the Coriolis storm north?”

“No, Little Fish, that was her own idea, and an excellent one. At that time they did have to hide but I could not allow them escape over the Dragon Sea to another fleet. I still regard the Naral fleet as my fleet and it had done a terrible injustice. If the fleet was not given the opportunity to undo the injustice, a new Captain of Captains could arise. War and ruin could follow. It has before.”

“When and where did you have your talk with Barad and Tanlin?” Kurin asked Mecat.

“In the eye of the storm, as the Grandalor rode it north.”

“Besides barring them from flight,” Kurin wanted to know, “what else happened during that talk?”

“I found out why the Lady Tanlin was so highly regarded by such a rough-cut crew. That led me to give her a Dragon’s Gift.”

“What was the nature of the Gift, if you will tell us?” asked Kurin with high interest.

“Singularity of self, acceptance of loss, internal peace, an end to nightmares. She deserved no less,” said Blind Mecat quietly. “She made many hard choices. The Wide Wings, Skye and Thunderhead, got included in the Gift by accident. That may have far reaching ecological consequences. I urgently wish to find out.”

“I think that you will have that chance, Mecat,” said Kurin.

Turning to face the Court, Kurin paced as she talked. “The incident with the Fauline is now closed and all the charge of piracy dealt with. We have the word of Dragons who were direct witnesses. By the Tenth Great Law the facts as described by Captain Barad are incontestable.

“The matter of the poison plot has been exposed, not as the action of a whole ship, nor even of a large cadre, as it indeed did appear. It was the work of a very limited circle. It is probable that at least one murder, Master Selked’s apprentice, Merk, was committed solely to reduce the size of the circle even further. Captain Barad, having changed his mind about the plot, tried energetically to prevent harm to me or any other.

“Mister Morgu and Silor Elon, who are being held prisoner aboard the Grandalor for Council trial, were the sole attackers. On them alone lie the charges of murder, attempted murder and mutiny.

“As to the matter of unlawful flight, it was the Council itself that broke the Second Great Law. The Grandalor had both a duty, now discharged, to seek proper justice and the necessity to preserve the lives of the innocent against the blatant injustice involved.

“Neither Barad nor Tanlin can be held accountable for the piratical attack by the Longin on the Grandalor. I personally ordered the counter attack in defense of both the lives of the crew in my care and the ship itself, my sole property. Effort and care were exercised to minimize the damage to the Longin while still putting her out of action.”

That revelation caused consternation among the Court and spectators. A shocked Sula demanded, “You ordered the attack on your own ship?”

“The ship that I grew up on, yes,” said Kurin softly. “And it was the hardest thing that I’ve ever done. I had to, Sula. These lives were in my hands.” From her pile of notes, Kurin pulled out the book entitled ‘Grandalor Adoption Register.’ She handed it over, with the simple explanation, “I’ve confirmed the whole lot, personally. There’s not one person on board, except for the two prisoners, who did not adopt in. They did it after they knew what kind of trouble they were in. Captain Barad had saved many of them and they were determined not to let him down in his need. Barad and Captain Tanlin have that loyalty from their entire crew. Few Captains do.”

“I petition the Court to dismiss all current criminal charges and actions against the Grandalor, her crew, officers and Captains. They acted as reasonable people. Their assessment of the situation was proved accurate on all counts but one.

“They had no need to flee from the Honored Huld and the Soaring Bird. He was seeking to enforce their rights and would have fought Sula herself if necessary to do so.”

This bombshell caused consternation among the audience. The Great Sea Dragons were regarding each other and nodding their agreement. It made sense of confusing reports from Iren’s Orcas. Sula turned to Huld and said, “You said that we must pursue. That’s part of the reason that I did.”

Huld thought for only moment before saying, “Indeed, necessary it was. Injustice obvious was. Rights protected and enforced was need. Found them not. Error found you for yourself and correction made without help. Way of adult, not child.”

Sula turned to Kurin and asked, “How did you know?”

“I long ago asked him what Honored meant,” Kurin replied. “If what he told me were true, and I believed him, then he could not act in any other way.”

Sarfin concentrated on the petition that accompanied the revelation. He consulted Sula for a few minutes of whispered conference. Both gestured and remonstrated, at the last asking, “Captain Farrol, do you have anything further to add to your case?”

“An hour ago, you could not have changed my mind about Barad or any from his ship. Guilty, I would have said. Since then, I have heard Dragons testify in Court. I have heard things that make sense out of things that I have accepted without question. We, the Court, still have much business to address. The Grandalor case though, I concede. They are innocent of these charges.”

Sarfin stood and raised his hands for silence and got it. “The decision of the Court in this matter is final and may not be appealed. The Grandalor and her entire crew as represented in this document,” he held up the ‘Grandalor Adoption Registry’, and her Captain at the time of the charges, are innocent.

“I am not done. Captain Barad shows many qualities that are, now that we understand them, admirable. He has saved lives that would have been lost. He is right. We did not look into many matters as well as we ought to have.

“Unfortunately, that does not excuse the civil matter of the counterfeit scrip and many other infractions of conduct. His Master’s Certificate is revoked. In five Gatherings, he may petition the Council for reinstatement. During the penalty, he may not hold any position of command.

“Captain Tanlin, subject to approval by the full Council at the next Gathering, is instated as Captain of the Grandalor.

“This trial is now over.” He sat.

Kurin stood and held up her hands for recognition.

Captain Urson sarcastically said, “What, isn’t it enough that you got that load of scupper trash off?”

“No,” said Kurin with deceptive mildness, “it isn’t.”

Turning to Captain Sarfin she stated, “There are Council charges that must be brought against the Fauline. As the owner of the Grandalor and her advocate before the Naral fleet, I am the proper person to bring these charges for the ship.

“The Fauline dodged share tax. She knowingly brought false capital charges against another ship. You have the Word of Dragons on those. She has willfully lied to the Council. She could not have got to the Arrakan fleet and then to her Spring waters in the time that she had.

Kurin smiled slightly and added, “In addition, she has not yet filed the quitclaim on the Grandalor’s hull secured loan, as an integral part of her deception of the Council. Until all the parchments are signed, the Grandalor, remains out of the Naral fleet and cannot legally collect what is due to her. Thus, her loan reverts to the fleet and the Grandalor will cheerfully leave it with the fleet as partial payment of her fines. That makes the entire 12,306 Skins, 209 blocks of arrears due for immediate payment.

“If they produce the quitclaim, the date will prove it to be false, because their Log will show them to be in Arrakan fleet waters at the time. The loan will have to be paid up to current. If the date is any other than what the Court has heard from the Great Sea Dragons, the entire document is void due to forgery and the loan must still be paid.

“However it falls out, Skua, by Naral fleet Law, must lose his Master’s Certificate for life because he willfully allowed his ship to become bankrupt. Also by Law, the bankrupt vessel must be Scattered.”

Captain Urson slammed both hands down on the table and launched herself to her feet in a rage. “You little Ord! How can you do that to somebody like Captain Skua! What did he ever do to you?”

Kurin looked at her as if she were a particularly noisome bit of offal. “To me personally, nothing. To my fleet, he’s a liar, cheat and tax dodger. To my friends, the Grandalor and her crew, he’s a scoundrel who doesn’t pay his debits, a rapist and an attempted murderer. I try to take care of those that I like.”

Captain Urson was about to sit again when it hit her. “What do you mean, rapist?” she asked uneasily.

Kurin once again spoke with that deceptive mildness that Captain Urson was now beginning to dread, “Captain Sarfin, I have a few parchments here that may be of interest. These are fleet certified copies of unaltered Grinna Log entries. They detail a trial held some Gatherings back. You will find my copy of the same entries, for comparison, marked and highlighted for witness’ names and certain other information.”

She handed over another set of parchments with the explanation, “These are fleet certified, unaltered crew duty rosters for the time periods noted in the trial record, along with the whole Wohan before and after. Please note that every crewman or woman in that whole time who is absented from duty for more than a few minutes is noted.

“A simple comparison of the witness list and the duty roster proves that this trial was never held at all.

“The charge was seduction in violation of the Marriage Laws, a potentially capital offense, if no ship will take in the one found guilty.

“Captain Macom, now deceased, First Officer Skua Calin Grinna, Second Officer of the First Night Watch, Kotance Warn Grinna, Harpooner Miklot Moen Grinna, now dead from a Strong Skin attack, and one other conspired to the rape, attempted murder and denial of Great Law rights to one Darkistry Colm Grinna, now Darkistry Colm Grandalor.”

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS NEXT==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

#SEA DRAGON’S GIFT #Part 78 of 83 #World of Sea #Written by De Writer

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missytearex · 5 years

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Happy fanworks appreciation day! Now, I know WIPs aren’t exactly everybody’s cup of tea, BUT I actually love them. I love the excitement of waking up to a new chapter that’s been posted and feeling like I’m a part of something while it’s happening. So, if any of you feel the same way, or if you see something amazing and you just can’t help yourself, go check them out and give them a chance!

Please note that this is by no means a comprehensive list. I’m only including works that I have come across and am either currently reading or want to read at some point.

✏️ Kiss Me Deadly by @13ways-of-looking, @twopoppies

larry | not rated — 5/20

The world’s most ingenious art thief has committed a series of heists, replacing world-famous masterpieces with forgeries. Harry Styles, an FBI agent straight out of training, happens to have a fine art degree and a bum knee. When Harry is sent to Miami with his FBI mentor to break the case, he meets a real estate agent who deals in more than condominiums, and comes face to face with a gorgeous surfer, the human equivalent of an unridable superbreak— the devilishly clever, incomparably hot Louis Tomlinson.

✏️ Need by @dimpled-halo

larry | 7k so far | explicit — 2/?

After another world tour, Harry can’t wait to get home to Louis and finally begin their wedding preparations. Louis’ got his hands full, on the verge of signing a new artist and having to deal with someone he thought he’d erased from his past. With all the stress trying to get the best of Louis, he’s in need of a little help.

Help only Harry can provide.

✏️ Out of Paradise by @whimsicule

larry | 21k so far | mature — 1/3

scotland yard inspector styles travels to berlin in the winter of 1924, chasing defector liam payne and a suspected network of communist radicals. faced with open hostility from his german counterparts, it is far too easy to fall into the city’s nefarious nightlife and give in to a part of himself he’d vowed to lock away forever.

✏️ Almost In Your Arms by @goldbootsandvans

larry | 24k so far | explicit — 3/?

It’s 1953, and Louis Tomlinson is a household name after winning two Academy Awards in his career. Now he’s about to star in his first period piece: Hadrian, the story of the gay Roman Emperor. He has one rule, though, and that is to never get involved with another actor. That rule gets hard to follow when he starts to fall for his love interest in the film, and even harder when they’re put into a publicity relationship.

✏️ Your Life Worth Walking on a Bright Morning by @helloamhere

larry | 24k so far | explicit — 5/?

For all its complexity, Louis sometimes reminded himself, life could always be simplified into a series of forks in the road. Even overwhelmingly big things were survivable when you broke them down to their choice. One path or the other, left or right.

✏️ The Blood of Words by @mediawhorefics

larry | 33k so far | mature — 3/?

Louis Tomlinson hasn’t sworn off relationships per se. He just doesn’t think he’s quite ready for one yet, despite his therapist’s encouragements. He’s comfortable in his position as editor for Styles Publishing and he’s happy to focus on his career while he gives himself more time to heal.

Enter his CEO’s brother, a boxer with a heart of gold who is determined to carve himself a space in Louis’ life and, more importantly, his heart.

✏️ Tied Down by @ham-palpert

larry | 39k so far | explicit — 5/6

The most interesting case in Liam and Niall’s careers falls directly into their laps, courtesy of an epic fuck-up of one Harry Styles, partner to the almost-infamous drug dealer Louis Tomlinson. The investigation yields an unexpected yet satisfactory outcome for Liam and Niall. For Harry and Louis, however, things are far more complicated.

✏️ A Fantastic Wreck by @13ways-of-looking

larry | 40k so far | explicit — 3/8

Prince Louis William Tomlinson, heir to the Kingdom of Doncaster, has arrived in Rome to make an important announcement— his betrothal to Princess Eleanor of Anesidora, whom he barely knows. His grandfather, King William, lies gravely ill, and the country’s fate is in his hands.

What harm could it possibly be to leave the embassy for one day? Prince Louis has never fallen in love, mainly because he has a secret that cannot be disclosed. He’s never even had a proper kiss.

When he bumps into a journalist named Harry Styles, their mutual attraction is undeniable. But Harry, too, has a secret.

A WIP based on the movie “Roman Holiday,” starring Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck.

✏️ Harry Styles Cooks… by @magicalrocketships

larry | 46k so far | explicit — 14/?

In which Louis Tomlinson can’t cook, there’s a very special shower curtain, and Harry Styles used to be a baker.

Or: Louis owns all of Harry Styles’ cookbooks, and he never intends to cook a single thing out of any of them.

✏️ cut your teeth on my heart by @turnyourankle

larry | 48k so far | explicit — 4/6

Louis has worked as a security officer for years, but he’s handed his first opportunity to be team lead. The assignment is nothing like what he expected.

Harry has spent years trying to distance himself from the pressure of the Twist name and legacy. But it’s going to be hard to avoid when his mum hires him a bodyguard.

✏️ Starry, Starry Night by @goodmorningtoyouuniverse

larry | 54k so far | not rated — 16/20

AU where Harry’s getting a degree in fine arts but he’s always envied street artists their freedom and the thrill coming from illegal activity. One day, he notices a particular graffiti and decides to paint into it. Louis does graffiti. One day, somebody starts messing with his murals.

✏️ Best of me by niamcuddles

niam | 82k so far | explicit — 8/?

Though Niall’s life as a single father of a 6-year-old is stressful and completely exhausting, he still wouldn’t trade it in for the world. Between trying to juggle new jobs, a social life and spending enough time with his daughter, a love life is the very last thing on his mind. And yet somehow all of it seems to connect.

(Or where Niall’s daughter is a huge fan of Liam Payne, an international popstar, and Niall just wants her to be happy.)

✏️ An Illusion in Time by @sadaveniren

larry | 106k so far | explicit — 11/18

Louis wakes up in a bedroom that isn’t his own, next to a person he doesn’t know. It doesn’t take him long to find out he isn’t in the right year either; he’s five years in the future.

✏️ Than A Man Swear He Loves Me by @magicalrocketships

tomlinshaw | 129k so far | explicit — 8/?

The first time Louis had kissed Nick Grimshaw, Louis had been dressed as God, he’d never wanted anything so much in his life, and he’d never hated himself more for giving into it.

That part at least hadn’t changed.

Or: Nick and Louis like each other, but sometimes that’s not enough.

✏️ You Were Made To Be Mine by @chloehl10

larry | 532k so far | explicit — 81/?

Louis Tomlinson takes his 6 year old son Jacob to see Harry Styles in concert. Jacob has been a huge fan of Harry’s for as long as he can remember, so it’s a dream come true when Harry notices him in the pit. But Jacob isn’t all that Harry has his eye on…

Louis is a bit embarrassed when Harry picks on him from the stage, but when he’s invited backstage after the show, he wonders what Harry Styles could possibly want with a single dad and his kid from Manchester…

Remember to leave kudos + comments to show your appreciation!

More lists here.

#28th appreciation #wips #fic rec #my recs #my lists

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gotatext · 5 years

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hullo everyone, i’m nora, i’m 22, from the gmt timezone, and i love gillian flynn w all my withered heart. below the cut is info on my latest baby frida parrish. LIKE THIS and i’ll hit u up for plots xo

( kristine froseth, cis-female ) did you hear how FRIDA PARRISH is applying to columbia university as a CLASSICAL CIVILISATION major ?! the 20 year old is living in the WALLACH HALL. i heard that they got in because they are + MAGNETIC and + TENACIOUS, but honestly i think SHE can be -DOUBLE-CROSSING and -FANCIFUL. they’re a real SYRABITE. oh well, only time will tell if the SOPHOMORE will make it til the end. + a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, pouring over leather-bound volumes in a library, bloodstains on the insoles of pointe shoes.

BACKGROUND.

— born in vermont and lived there til she was about eleven, but then her family moved to new york for her dad’s job. her dad is kind of famous. a big shot art dealer. he actually got so well connected in the art world by creating forgeries of famous works when frida was still really young, but once he had enough money and contacts, he decided to follow a more legal and reputable path and now he just deals legit art rather than fakes. — her parents, mara dagney and richard parrish met doing a fine art cause at nyu. richard was raised in the uk, one of three cambridge-born brothers. mara grew up on a ranch in new mexico. they met in freshers week and were basically inseparable after that. — pretty soon after graduating, her parents realised there was very little money to be made taking art commissions in a little new england town, and plenty of competition, so they began forging famous works and selling them to collectors for thousands. — when frida was a born (her brother two years her senior, a nuclear family), her parents were still involved in forgery. the parrish kids were taught that people and places were temporary with suitcases permanently packed for the move. they were raised on the fluidity of identity and taught to be resourceful and wise rather than school-smart. phillip was never as resourceful as frida, but he was incredibly learned when it came to literacy and numeracy, and a bit of an art prodigy. — when frida (affectionately referred to as ‘fox’ by her family because of her auburn hair – it stuck) was nine and phillip (’pippin’, after the broadway musical lmao her mum is lame) was twelve, the family ran into some trouble, managed to bribe an officer to stay quiet, but had to move from burlingdon to new york, to start a new, legal life. — mara retrained as a grade school teacher. richard opened up his own arts collective space and coffee shop. within a few years, her father had a really large collection of rothko’s, pollock’s and johns’, and began to appear on a tv show where he would value and auction paintings. frida and phillip attended a public new york day school, where frida took up flute, lacrosse and ballet.

PERSONALITY.

— both her parents had Large Personalities, so frida’s never really been shy around adults, even as a kid she’d speak to them in a forthright, confident manner, and because she was always surrounded by adults, she’s always seemed a bit Wise Beyond Her Years. — very much a consolidation of every character in the secret history. has a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. obsessed with w.h. auden and the beat poets. — ”aestheticism is the only thing worth pursuing and even that is pointless” — is majoring in classical civilisation. can read ancient greek and latin. also speaks french. — studies hard and plays hard. she gets top marks but it’s because academia is literally her life, she loves the smell of libraries, the ancient smoke of learning, of feeling like old wine in a new bottle reincarnated from the bones of some old, dead witchy woman who invented a cure for cowpox or somethin. — isn’t a foward-planner, however. frida prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manner so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenaline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night. — pretentious motherfucker. LOVES poetry, especially the romantics, loves morbid ones too, edgar allen poe, sylvia plath, allen ginsberg, she just loves them all. can’t get enough. her favourite films are like…. wanky artfilm independent european cinema. especially french new wave. “what do you think of goddard’s work??” while snorting a line off someone’s sink at 5am on a school night, but you can bet she’ll make it to that 9am class. — very Intelligent and Beautiful and knows both of those facts. vocal feminist. soapbox sadie. Very Passionate about Issues. plays devil’s advocate. humanitarian, vegan. — judgemental but takes great care not to appear so. — just wants to be Loved By All. a party girl ; doesn’t rlly enjoy it, jst feels she Should enjoy it. — tries to be an Enigma. wants to be mysterious and unreadable because that’s what books have taught her makes women Desirable and Interesting and Cool. — obsessively devours mystery and thriller novels. she herself is a gillian flynn book waiting to happen. — act like the flower but be the serpent under it. is a user. manipulative. leads people on. will throw another student under the bus to demonstrate her own intelligence and integrity — heavily involved in the theatre society. loves attention. — has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive, runs track, played lacrosse at school, now is a cheerleader probably. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning. — her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk. — relates to ophelia from hamlet and sibyl vane in dorian gray. weirdly obsessed with women who commit suicide. loves jackson pollock paintings and abstract art. – likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramphone because “The Sound quality is Better” kfdsjj.

anyway, here you will find a pinterest board, and here u will find a stats page.

PLOTS.

here are some generic wanted plots but by all means message me so we can flesh them out more if any strike ur interest:

study buddies !! someone who is equally unprepared and so spends all night in the library with frida before a big deadline, maybe they even met in the library

if they’re from new england or vermont, then cousins . second cousins / extended family / family friends – probably spat volavons on your character once as children, omg childhood friends !

people who live on the same floor and only know each other from brief interactions in the lift or the canteen

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sporting or academic rivalries !

hockey / cheer friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!!

fellow academics who like meeting up to discuss latin and greek ! gimme a secret society bonding by their love of ancient learning

i reckon she’s in a lot of societies, definitely the film club, maybe works as a projectionist at the uni cinema if they have one so give me ppl affiliated with that, give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties

people who think she is throwing her academic potential away by caving to hedonistic impulse

people she has drunkenly made out with, hooked up with, or regularly sleeps with casually, maybe even a friend w benefits she is repressing feelings for, i love angst,

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life, she is a roman catholic after all

thats all for now folks jeez louise thanks for stickin with me

#columbiaintro #here we go Bois

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white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen · 6 years

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Ohana, Meet My Stitch

Summary: Neal isn’t exactly the kind of man your parents had in mind when they hoped you’d find someone. Luckily, your little siblings’ favorite movie is Lilo and Stitch, and they’re good at picking up on the life lessons in movies.

Word Count: 4,637

M/N = Mother’s Name

O/B/N = Older Brother’s Name

Y/S/N = Younger Sister’s Name

Y/B/N = Younger Brother’s Name

On your last break, you hadn’t gotten to come visit your family. It was a relief that you finally could. Moving to New York put you pretty far out of visiting range, and although you missed them, you knew that it was just a choice you’d made for your life and you were happy with that choice. Especially because it gave you your thief, you reflected, raising a hand impulsively to the necklace that rested almost constantly around your throat. A smile graced your already happy and relaxed features as you thought of who you were going to go see after your vacation was over.

“Y/N,” your little sister Y/S/N whined. You looked over at her, jerked out of your train of thought. “You weren’t listening! Me and Y/B/N wanna go get ice cream. Will you take us?”

You looked at their plates. Sure enough, both of them had eaten all of their broccoli without complaint just for the promise of confections. “Y/B/N and I,” you corrected first, then smiled. “And of course, as long as I can get ice cream, too.”

Your brother giggled at you. “You’re a grown-up, you don’t need to ask first!” He reminded you. He had the pudgy baby cheeks of a kindergartener and his hair was growing almost long enough to be shaggy. He’d go for a haircut soon.

“What were you thinking about, Y/N?” You looked over to your sister’s other side at your older brother. O/B/N had already graduated college and found a local job, but after a couple years in Miami, he had taken a job closer to home. Since he had moved out, you’d gotten along a lot better without as much to argue over. Now, however, you remembered the smirk he wore like you’d only just seen it yesterday – when he teased you mercilessly for finding out that you had asked your crush to homecoming.

“Nothing,” you answered quickly. “Just that Dad makes awesome roast.”

“Uh-huh,” O/B/N flatly said, raising his eyebrows. He glanced down at the necklace you had touched. It wasn’t much, but it was beautiful, and it was specially chosen for you by someone you loved, so in your eyes it was priceless. “What’s that?”

“It’s jewelry,” you retorted. Your mom groaned as the bantering started again. “Aren’t you supposed to know what jewelry is, Mr. Getting-Married-Next-Fall?”

“Ha-ha,” he shot back, grinning. “I know what rings are, not a neck decoration. Who’s it from?”

“No one,” you answered quickly – too quickly. Your little siblings, six and four respectively, looked between you and your older brother like they were watching a fascinating ping pong game. Your dad cleared his throat, and your mom narrowed her eyes.

Your family didn’t know about Neal. The relationship wasn’t new, but it wasn’t very old, either. Then again, you doubted they’d see it that way when they realized you’d been dating someone seriously for almost eight months. You kept meaning to tell them, but it kept falling by the wayside. You were busy as it was, and admittedly you weren’t sure you wanted one of your few visits to be spent arguing over whether or not Neal was good enough for their little girl.

“Y/N,” your mom asked with her very interrogative parent tone. You winced. You may be out of the house, but you still felt like a kid sometimes when she did that. “Did you meet someone?”

“…” O/B/N leaned back in his chair triumphantly. You knew you had to answer, and so you reluctantly caved. “… Okay, yes.”

While your little sister started a chant about you K-I-S-S-I-N-G, your father motioned for her to stop and be a little quieter. “Who is it?” He asked, actually looking a little excited. The one time he had come to New York had been to help you move into your apartment, and while there, he’d met Jones, a friend of yours who helped you move in. Jones was actually the one who introduced you to Neal. “Is it the sailor?”

You laughed. He’d liked Jones because they both had experience in the navy. “No, Dad, Clinton’s with his own girlfriend and has been since before you met him.” Looking around the table, you saw how everyone was in a good mood and decided that now that the issue was out, there wouldn’t be a better time. “His name’s Neal.” Thinking quickly over what you could say, you chose to omit certain information. If they realized how important he was to you before they learned his history, they’d probably be less likely to start something with you over your choice in partner. “He’s an artist-“

“Ah, the romantic type,” your older brother joked, being a playful jerk. “So what you’re saying is he’s unemployed.”

You kicked him under the table. “Be nice! He actually works for the FBI,” you said haughtily, proud of your boyfriend. “As a confidential informant. Which means that he works with an agent to help solve white-collar crimes, particularly as they relate to art, forgery, and counterfeiting.”

“And how is he?” Your mom asked, taking another look at the necklace that you treasured. “Are you happy with him?”

“Very,” you swore, smiling shyly. “Neal is the best. He’s my best friend and boyfriend rolled into one.” Which, in your opinion, was what relationships should be. If you can’t trust someone to be a good friend first, then how could you trust them to be a good significant other? “I really never have to worry about… that sort of thing.” You sent your little brother and sister a look – they didn’t really need to hear whether or not you were concerned with lying, cheating, or poor treatment, so instead you meaningfully told your parents and brother, “All I worry about where he’s concerned is if he’s safe at work.”

“If you like him, he must be a catch,” your dad mused thoughtfully. He took seconds of the roast and pointed his fork at you. “You should invite him to come visit with you next time. We’ll make sure everything’s good.” He winked at you teasingly and you knew he didn’t mean anything by it.

You shifted a little. You were absolutely certain that your relationship with Neal was serious, and you were confident that you’d be together for a long time… but Neal couldn’t come visit, because the FBI would never let him leave his two-mile radius just to meet his girlfriend’s family.

It took you the entire trip to and back from the ice cream shop to figure out what you were going to say. The little ones, with sticky fingers and ice cream around their mouths, ran out of the car excitedly to go play with the dog in the fenced yard. You looked into the rearview mirror and pretended your parents were in the car with you.

“Mom, Dad… it’s not that I don’t want you to meet him… but he can’t come see you. He can’t leave New York.” You sighed and aggravatedly shook your head. You were pausing too much, and that was too indirect. “Mom, Dad, my boyfriend’s an ex-con, so if you want to meet him, you have to come within his radius.”

For just a second, you admired that approach. Your expression and your voice had remained steady throughout your sentence. Then you realized that you had only said “ex-con” and “radius” without any context, and even your laid-back father was going to be at risk of a heart attack.

You groaned and smacked your head on the steering wheel.

“Um… Mom, Dad.” Your voice felt like it was sticking in your throat, but you pulled out a seat at the kitchen table while they played cards together.

“Yeah, princess?” Your dad gave you a smile and reached over to show you his cards. “Wait, first, tell me honestly. Do I have a chance?” He gave you a winning grin to try to persuade you to help him.

You shook your head. “I’m not doing that again,” you declared stubbornly, while your mom glared at him for trying to get your help. “Okay… I’m serious about Neal… but I think I need to tell you, he didn’t apply to the FBI. It… he works there because it’s part of a work-release program.”

Both of your parents put down their cards. The silence in the kitchen didn’t last too long, but it was deafening while it did. Your dad looked very intensely thoughtful and didn’t even remember to make sure his cards were facing down.

“A work-release? From what?”

“From prison, Dad,” you said tiredly. Your mom’s eyes widened and nostrils flared and you cringed – those were the first signs of anger or overreaction. “Please listen. I’m not dating a monster. I’m dating an artist who just… happened to insinuate that some of his works were created by someone else.”

“A forger,” your mother translated, her tongue sharp. She was usually a gentle person, but she could get protective sometimes when there was no need, and sometimes she still thought she needed to keep you safe from your own youth or inexperience.

“Yes,” you honestly replied. “Neal was a forger, and he always took care to never bring anyone harm. Even the agent who caught him will attest to that. Now he uses what he knows to help the FBI catch the people who do cause harm.”

They looked at each other, severe and stern. You could tell they didn’t really know what to do. After how you had spoken about your boyfriend and your reaffirmation that you fully intended to stay with him, they both knew they couldn’t just talk you out of it. Besides, it wasn’t like you were only going on a first date. You were committed to him.

“I know this is a lot to ask,” you said, voice soft and nonconfrontational. “But he means a lot to me, Mom.” You specifically targeted her when you talked. Your dad had always had a problem with the prison system and how it handled offenders, like teens who never should’ve had to do time when compared with murderers who walked on technicalities. He wouldn’t see Neal in such a harsh light. “And I’d really like for you to meet him and give him a chance. It just means that you’ll have to visit New York… as part of his deal, he has to stay in the city.”

Your mom looked down at the table. The irritation and discontent was radiating off of her and you felt it hitting your skin like itchy pinpricks. Nervousness made your stomach flutter. What if she said no? Were you really going to have to fight with your parents, just because you loved someone who had done something illegal? He forged. He didn’t murder.

“Okay. M/N, that’s a reasonable request, don’t you think?” Your dad swooped in to the rescue. He reached for his wife’s hand. “We can withhold judgment until we meet him. Besides, what’s the worse evil? A nonviolent artist or a dangerous criminal?” He made a hand gesture like he was weighing them on scales, and the side that represented Neal won out. “If our kid sees something good there, then there must be something we should look for, too.”

You smiled in relief and anxiously looked at your mom. Though still unhappy, she grudgingly tilted her head towards her husband and nodded. “We have to go to New York,” she decided, not thrilled.

“Oh no,” your dad sarcastically protested. “Not that. There’s nothing to do in New York. Please, don’t make us go.”

Back in New York, you realized you had another person you had to talk to about making a meeting happen. Your parents were already looking at airfare for the whole family, not wanting to waste any time.

Lazily, you drew random shapes into the back of Neal’s hand, leaning into his side while he held his arm around you for a few good cuddles. Both of you had had long days, and all you’d really wanted was to spend some quiet time together. Knowing he wasn’t feeling particularly great made you even more weary about the subject you had to bring up.

Gently, you kissed his cheek. “Hey, love.”

He smiled tiredly and leaned his head towards you. “Darling,” he responded in kind, pressing a kiss to your warm forehead with tenderness and care.

“You know I was visiting my family? I… I kind of told them about us.”

“Oh?” Although his posture didn’t change, you detected the curiosity and a little bit of guardedness that entered his voice. Neal shifted his arm after a second to rub your upper arm with his hand. “Does that mean I’m officially a fixture?” He teased.

You shut him up with a gentle swat to the thigh. “You’ve been a fixture and you know it.” To get more comfortable, you rested your cheek on his shoulder. “Actually, I… they want to meet you. And they know to come here to make that happen, and they’re determined to do exactly that.”

“Oh.” There was definitely wariness there. Neal moved his arm off of your shoulders. You sat up and bit your lip. He didn’t stand up, just moved so he could look at you without turning his neck as far, and he put his hands down in his lap. “Is that a good thing?”

“I think so!” You hurriedly said, reaching to put your hands on his knees before he withdrew. “Neal, I want you to meet my family. I think if you just act like yourself instead of like, you know, Nick Halden or whoever else, they’ll like you.” Nick could kind of be a jerk. You supposed that was a bit necessary for a corporate spy slash high-stakes gambler slash embezzler slash whatever else he was undercover. “I want Neal Caffrey in my life.” You lifted one of his hands and gave his knuckles a kiss. “And that’s who I want them to meet.

“But I also know that you don’t exactly like all that stuff.” Your shoulders sank just a little. You had heard a few hushed remarks from Mozzie – they didn’t give you much, but you realized that Neal used to want the fence and dog and kids type of future with Kate. Since then, he had gone for Sara and, for a brief period, it seemed like he reconsidered Alex, straying further and further from the domesticity of your family’s lifestyle before you caught his interest. “So if you’d rather not meet them, I’ll make up something. I’m sorry, I know I should have asked you first, but I was put on the spot and didn’t know what else to do.”

Neal had started smiling softly at you as soon as you said that you wanted him. You didn’t want him to act a part for your parents, you just wanted him to be himself, and you sadly knew that he wasn’t appreciated enough for who he really was. His smile was small, but it was meaningful and made you feel sure you had said the right thing. He leaned in, cupped your cheek, and gave you a long, slow kiss.

“I think,” the artist said when you pulled apart, “That I want to meet my girlfriend’s family if she wants me to.” He swept your hair behind your ear and smiled at you romantically. “It seems important to meet my love’s family.”

Neal was the epitome of confidence. Nothing shook him except a gun in his face, and while you knew your mom could be intimidating, she wasn’t that intimidating. So it was pretty endearing to you that he couldn’t seem to stop fixing his tie, cuffs, and hair on the taxi ride to the restaurant where you were meeting your family. Tonight, you were having dinner with your parents. Tomorrow, you were going to take them on a tour of your favorite places in Manhattan while Neal worked, and the day after, they would have to leave again before Y/B/N and Y/S/N missed school.

“Stop that,” you scolded gently, taking his hand and pulling his wrist to your lap. You straightened out his shirt sleeve, which had been fine until he started messing with it again. Next, you reached up and ran your fingers through his hair, fixing the fringe that he had knocked out of its customary coif. “You look perfect.” You kissed his cheek. “You’re a people person. This’ll be easy.”

He turned his hand over and took yours, looking at his hair in the reverse-facing camera on his phone. He slid it away quickly and moved his other hand over to take yours, too. “I can’t help it,” he worried, biting his lip. “I’m a people person when I know what to do.” He straightened quickly as something occurred to him. Then, quickly, he urged, “Before we get there, tell me what they like. What’s your mom do? Hobbies?”

“Neal!” You laughed out of sympathetic nerves. “Sweetheart, stop it.” You squeezed his hand. “Be you. You don’t need to pander. Come on, you’ve got this. Where’s all this doubt coming from?’

“I just…” A small blush arose in his face. Your thief looked away and out the other window for a moment before he gave you his full attention again. “Your family’s important to you,” he reasoned. You saw a flash of insecurity that made you feel bad. “If they don’t like me, then…”

“Then I’ll handle that, but I’m not worried. Neal, I love you, and what they think will not change how I feel.”

He smiled. He had to force it, but some of the relief was palpable. It made you sad that he had felt it was a real concern, and maybe he still did, but if it came to that, then you’d just have to prove what you were saying with your actions.

Dinner started out well enough. Neal held your hand as you walked to the table, and he pushed your chair in and sat down next to you, putting him between you and your little brother, who looked on Neal’s shining silver cufflinks with curiosity. He liked things that shone.

You hadn’t wanted him to put on an act, but you saw a little bit of a façade for the first several minutes. You didn’t let on to your family that anything was off, but Neal had some of that charisma in his smile that was just a tiny bit different from his real, casual charm. He kissed your mother’s hand (she wasn’t too thrilled) and did the same to your little sister, and while you were waiting for entrees, he held yours.

Almost right away, he found something to talk about with your father. Neal mentioned that he’d worked in a hedge fund for a short time (he left out the part where he was undercover as a corporate spy and was nearly murdered by the manager) and gave your father and brother the explanation of what he did at work and how it related to business, all while expertly avoiding any terms or phrases that would remind them of the sentence they knew he was serving.

It wasn’t the conversation as much as it was your interactions with him that your family cared about, though. Neal offered to let you try his drink and kissed your cheek, and he wasn’t shy about smiling at you or calling you sweet names, and he was open with mild and tasteful PDA. Your total comfort with him had to go a long way, too. Before you realized it, both of your little siblings had decided he was normal enough to lose interest and were playing with a few Lego toys, and your parents and O/B/N had relaxed to enjoy the meal. O/B/N was particularly impressed by Neal’s wit.

“Where did it go?” Y/S/N asked, her voice coming out a little high and squeaky with excitement. Neal was showing her a magic trick, and made one of the smaller Legos disappear up his sleeve.

“Where do you think it is?” He asked with a friendly smile.

Your sister looked at the other little one and they both decided to say completely different guesses at the same time, and neither of them were correct. You were kind of concerned that one of those guesses was the garbage disposal. Neal’s eyebrow shot up and your father made a hurried note on his phone to check the sink when they got home.

He made it reappear seemingly from behind her ear and both of them clapped excitedly. When he gave it back, they started trying to make it disappear on their own, but had no idea that sleeves were required to do so, and your clumsy sister dropped it.

“I’ll get it!” Y/B/N yelled, making your smiling mother remind him to speak quieter in a restaurant. He got out of his chair and down onto his knees, crawling under the table. Neal was about to answer a question from your mother when your brother interrupted. “Mr. Neal, you have something on your leg! Why is it flashing?”

The awkward silence made Neal clear his throat. You leaned to the side, looked under the table, and said, “Get back in your chair, kiddo.” While Y/B/N did as you told him, clutching the Lego, both of your parents and your older brother turned their eyes on Neal more warily.

He held up a hand with his fingers splayed, asking for a moment to explain. “It’s a part of my deal with the FBI,” he explained, courteous but weary. He let himself sound genuinely tired of the anklet, but not displeased or ungrateful with his situation. “All it does is alert my supervisors if I leave my bounds.”

“What deal?” Y/S/N asked, nibbling on the crackers that had come with her minestrone.

Unlike your older family members, your little brother seemed excited. “Why does the FBI make you wear it?”

At first, Neal was unsure what to say. How do you toe the line between honesty and censorship for a child? How much did your six-year-old sibling actually need to know?

Your mother filled in for him. You sent her a sharp look, but didn’t interrupt because you knew that would make it worse. Neal wasn’t very happy, but he knew that contradicting or interrupting would make her angry, and that was the opposite of the impression he wanted to give. His lips thinned as he tried not to seem too terse.

“Mr. Caffrey has done things he shouldn’t. The FBI keeps track of where he goes so that they can stop him if he starts to do it again.” She didn’t look at Neal.

Your sister’s face broke out into a grin and she clapped. “Like Stitch!” Everyone around the table looked at her, except for Y/B/N, who knew what she meant immediately and giggled.

“What?” You asked, puzzled.

“Stitch!” Y/S/N insisted. “Stitch did bad things and got into trouble, but he was still good, like Lilo!”

Neal chuckled quietly when you all realized what the kids were talking about. You smiled and looked down at the table. Your father laughed.

“Yeah,” you agreed, thinking that that was actually a good way to explain it to them. If that was how they understood it, then why not? “And the FBI is kind of like Dr. Jumba.” You looked across the table and locked eyes with your mother. Although you were speaking with phrases for the kids’ benefit, you aimed your message at her meaningfully. Neal was important to you, and he wasn’t going away. The sooner she understood that, and understood that Neal didn’t deserve to be iced out, the better. “They know that Neal isn’t bad. They just want to help him, and to help others.”

“Mooom,” Y/S/N begged, hugging her leg. “Can we go see the coasters now? Pleeeease?”

“Coney Island closes in an hour,” your big brother said, looking it up on his phone. “I’ll take you both tomorrow night, I promise.”

Y/S/N pouted and Y/B/N let himself slide into the rental car with a huge sigh. “We’re never gonna go,” he complained, making O/B/N, Neal, and yourself all laugh.

You saw that both of the little kids got into the minivan, but begged Neal to do another magic trick for them while they put their seatbelts on. Your mom pulled you aside while he entertained both of the kids.

“You’re really sure he was in prison?” She asked in a hushed voice, looking over at Neal’s back. You could hear him feigning shock that made the kids giggle and wonder where their Lego went. “He seems so nice and normal.”

“He is nice,” you told her pointedly, but didn’t comment on the ‘normal’ thing. “Mom, I told you. Neal’s special. He’s special to me. I’m definitely keeping him for as long as he’ll let me. I know you worry, but you don’t need to. I was careful when we started, and since then, he’s proven over and over that I can trust him. It’s not up to you to second guess that. You can either be supportive, or we can just not talk about this part of my life.”

She nodded, looking away from you and to her younger siblings. “Well… okay. You could do a lot worse,” she admitted. “I just hate the idea of you being hurt, by anyone.” You smiled. You didn’t need her permission, but it was nice to have her approval anyway. “As long as he keeps being as kind to you as he was while we’ve been there to watch.”

“Mom, I promise, he’s a total gentleman. Except for when he steals my coffee. But even then, he buys me more coffee, so it evens out.”

“I didn’t know that movie was even still popular,” Neal commented, his fingers threading through your hair while he put it in a braid for you. You sat in front of him on his bed while he parted your hair into sections.

Now that the night had gone so well, and ended on such a nice note at that, you had decided to stay overnight with him for celebratory cuddling. Neal was amused that Lilo and Stitch had been the solution to the tension your mother had felt.

“Just be glad it still is,” you advised, laughing a little.

He smiled and leaned in. You felt your hair tug a little as his hands changed position, and a minute later there were lips at the back of your neck. You felt him smile against your skin. “Your family likes me now,” he stated, pleased and borderline smug.

“Of course they do,” you replied as if it were obvious. “I chose you, and I have fantastic taste.”

He gave you another kiss on your neck before leaning back and resuming the process of making your braids. “It’s too bad you can’t meet my parents,” he wistfully complained. “It would be nice if we could both experience that. I haven’t felt so nervous under scrutiny since third grade.”

You snorted. “Really? What happened in third grade?”

“I had a gap in my teeth,” he mumbled. You giggled and he twisted the hair tie around your braid, smoothing it down and scooting closer to wrap his arm around you. “Shush. That’ll teach me to share with you.”

“Oh, baby, I bet you were adorable,” you promised, leaning back against him. “And anyway, I’ve already had to undergo your parent test when I met Peter and Elizabeth.”

“What?!” Neal indignantly moved back and stared at you. “They’re not my parents!”

You snickered. “For the purposes of this discussion, they kind of are.”

“Are so not!”

“Peter told me to have you home by midnight!”

“Peter’s not my dad!”

Requests are open!

#white collar lawmen and conmen #lawmen-and-conmen #white collar #white collar x reader #neal caffrey #neal caffrey x reader #reader insert #reader #oneshot #requested #ohana meet my stitch #family #bonding #meeting the parents #boyfriend #dating

261 notes · View notes

fictionerd · 6 years

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Good to see you, friends!

This is going to be a rough show to write about. Not because it isn’t enjoyable, at least not so far as I can tell. The difficulty is more likely to arise from the fact that I have no idea where my foothold is. I’m not sure how much detail I should put into a synopsis of events and where to crack jokes with this one. Contributing to this loss for words is the fact that even in re-watching episode one I’ve found myself so engrossed in the show itself that I allow myself to be wrapped up in proceedings and any potential commentary dies before it breaks clear of my subconscious.

I think, for this show, I’ll restrain myself from an in-depth synopsis of events and try to paint it broad strokes then comment on the high concept a bit. So without further ado - Holmes of Kyoto Episode One Synopsis:

Aoi is a young girl living in Kyoto who brings some antiques belonging to her late grandfather to be appraised by a well known antique shop. Her intent was to sell them in order to purchase a train ticket back to Saitama for personal reasons. She had no idea what they were worth, and learned that the shop couldn’t buy from people under twenty anyway. However, the titular Holmes of Kyoto offered to appraise the pieces anyway and gave her “An understanding ear and a little sympathy”.

He told her the story behind the creator of the artwork she brought in. This gave her a new perspective on her own problems, and then he offered to hire her as a part-timer at the shop as he claims she has a good eye. She naturally accepts this offer. This is all two weeks prior to the series proper beginning.which naturally means we don’t see a large portion of this until mid-way through the episode.

In the present some schmuck brings in a counterfeit tea bowl which he tries to pass off, and is thoroughly thrashed by our Sherlogue (That’s Sherlock Analogue). The bozo goes running for the hills and we get a look at the darker side of the Holmes of Kyoto. He has an evident distaste for forgery as

He also calls them a “blasphemy to people who love art”. I can see where he’s coming from. When it comes to antiques the value isn’t necessarily invested in the aesthetics or utility of the piece. The money comes from its legitimacy. By duplicating the outward appearance of such legitimacy you’re effectively stealing from anyone who buys that piece under the assumption that it is genuine. It’s time-delayed thievery.

It’s at this point that Aoi remarks that Holmes is a very upright person and he denies claiming to actually be fundamentally wicked in nature. This is difficult for Aoi to believe considering the events of her first visit to the shop. This claim, too, he laughs off, but then she asks why he claimed she had a good eye and he explains that a piece that had caught her eye when she first came in was, in fact, a genuine treasure worth sixty-million yen.

To round out the episode we meet Holmes’s grandfather who is the actual owner of the shop and have a cut-away to the counterfeiter stooge from earlier reporting back to his boss. It seems our Sherlogue has made some enemies this day.

Okay... So before I commit myself to watching episode two I just want to go ahead and get some thoughts recorded here. I might actually go ahead and split this into two posts, in fact. So here are my thoughts...

1) The Sherlock Holmes bit is very entertaining when it’s first done. Breaking down a logical analysis of the people the character encounters serves to lend credibility to the Sherlogue’s powers of deduction. The issue I believe many Sherlogue writers have is maintaining a consistency in the believability of the character’s deductions. Most Sherlogues are handwaved past their introductory scenes. Once you get a bit further into the story it’s imperative that the character’s logical leaps remain sound and rational otherwise you’ll lose the audience’s trust and without that implicit trust every further analysis the Sherlogue does smacks of writer’s knowledge. The trust can also be broken if the Sherlogue drops the ball on reading a person or situation that the audience believes they should have noticed. It’s a fine tightrope to walk and it’s my leading concern diving further into the series.

2) The relationship between Kiyotaka and Aoi is going to be paramount to how well this series does. Personally I think a teacher/student relationship, at least for the majority of the show, would be for the best. The original Holmes notably only ever had one “love interest” as it were: Irene Adler. Even with that it’s a stretch to call her a “love interest” as she married some one else and strong emotions like love were anathema to Holmes. Personally I side with the many, many supplementary authors who have penned Holmes that he genuinely did love Irene in as much as he was capable of doing so. My point in all this is: If they’re writing this as a love story it’s going to take just as much balancing to pull off as writing their Sherlogue will require. That’s why the relationship between our main characters is my second cause for concern.

3) The art and animation are a little wonky. I only care about this because I know it’ll throw some people off. I can’t really help it, but I can lament it and that’s partially what this blog is for.

From a writing perspective the first episode of this show was excellent to me, and It gives me hope that the Author(s) can pull off the balancing act they’ve set before themselves. So as I go into the second episode of Holmes of Kyoto wish me luck.

Until next post keep talking fiction, friends! I’ll see you soon.

#Anime #kyoto teramachi sanjou no holmes #Holmes of Kyoto #Episode 1 #Fictionerd #Let's Talk Anime #LTA

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darklingichor · 3 years

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Ripley Underground by Patricia Highsmith

This book was interesting. Not as strong as the first, but I didn't expect it to be. The plot is fairly simple. Tom, now married to an heiress named Heloise, lives in France spending his days gardening and painting. For income he has helped a pair of gallery owners in England, cover up the suicide of a popular painter, Derwatt. The owners and Derwatt fellow painter Bernard are distraught after he killed himself in Greece. Bernard because of the loss of a friend and the talent wasted, the owners because they lost their best seller.

Tom, who had become friends with them, suggested that they simply say that Dorwat had become a recluses in some far flung place, have Bernard paint in his style and say that new paintings are periodically shipped to England.

They do just that, and start selling art supplies and painting classes under the late painter's name, along with the forged paintings all the while saying that the artist is living a quiet life in Mexico.

In gratitude the gallery owners give Tom a cut of the profits.

Tom also does some spy stuff, but that's not a huge part of this book.

An American collector has started to question whether or not his Derwatt painting and others, are forgeries. In a panic the gallery owners call Tom in to impersonate Derwatt, and get the collector to drop it which doesn't work. Meanwhile Bernard doesn't want to paint forgeries anymore and plans to come clean.

Oddly enough, Tom gets himself into trouble by being too nice, too concerned for the welfare of the Bernard. Even the murder he commits is to protect him.

He doesn't want Bernard to go to the police or tell the american collector anything, not because he doesn't want to lose the income, but because he doesn't want him to ruin the gallery and Bernard's own future.

Tom tries to convince him to just tell the owners he doesn't want to paint the forgeries anymore, they can say Derwatt decided to retire, or passed away suddenly, and that would be that. This also doesn't work.

What follows is a tangled web of lies and plots that nearly get Tom himself killed twice.

This stuff is really interesting, but it's the characters that really kept me reading.

Tom seems somehow more calculating yet more mellow. This might be because his persona is complete and stable. He has money, still getting the income from the Greenleafs, money coming in from the art scam, money from his union with Heloise. He can do what he likes, and people see him as he wants them to.

What is really interesting is his devotion to Bernard's wellbeing.

If Tom had been motivated by money, he would have killed Bernard, and set it up to look like the painter duped the gallery owners into believing that Derwatt was alive and the paintings they received were genuine. That would have kept the gallery owners from losing their good reputation, they probably could have continued the art supply line and classes in Derwatt's honor and the American collector would have been mollified, secure in the knowledge that his theory was correct, but no one alive on whom to place blame. And Tom's name need never enter the equation.

However, Tom seems protective of Bernard, even after the latter makes it very clear that he does not want Tom's protection. It's not hard to figure out why. Bernard makes his living being an imposter, Tom's whole current life is based off of being an imposter. He prefers Bernard's work to the originals because Tom feels that he was a better Dickie Greenleaf than Dickie himself and sees no reason why Bernard can't simply "kill" the Derwatt business and fill the space left vacant by the absence of another painter.

Tom sees himself on Bernard so he wants him to do well.

Another interesting character is Tom's wife Heloise.

They seem to be well matched, these two. She suspects that Tom killed Dickie, didn't bat an eye when Tom confessed to another murder, or to the art scam. Tom describes her has fairly amoral, and honestly she seems to somewhat enjoy the thrill of the coverup. Their dynamic makes me curious of how she's going to play into the next books.

Now the part that I just couldn't get past.

I don't understand art beyond knowing what looks good to me, but the thing that set the whole plot in motion seems like something that no one would take seriously.

It all came about because the collector noticed that his Derwatt and others had a shade of purple in it that the artist had "abandoned" years prior, and his theory was that an artist would never consciously or unconsciously return to a previous technique.

So... His theory is that if a painting has the "wrong" color it must be a fake... Because a painter could never just run out of a color, or you know, change their mind?

I don't know painting, but if paint is anything like yarn, sometimes shit changes and the changes suck. I literally discovered that a shade of purple yarn I'd been using was discontinued, right in the middle of a project. The closest thing I could find was just off enough to be annoying. You work with what you have.

And the whole idea that an artist would never go back after developing an new technique? Lord help anyone else this guy collects who is hit by a wave of nostalgia.

Artist: "It might be cool, to paint this in my old way, see how it comes out."

American Collector: "It's a fake!"

Artist: "No, I painted it."

Collector: "Nope, you're being forged, you just don't know it."

Artist: "Dude, I literally painted this, stared at it for hours, it's mine."

Collector: "Can't be, it looks like your early stuff and this shade of chartreuse is different. You can't go backwards on stuff and use different paint, not allowed!"

Artist: "Are you high?"

Anyway other than that, I really liked this book!

#book #books #ripley underground #patricia highsmith #new book 7 #Book blogging 2021 #new book

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kyuu-rereads-umineko · 6 years

Text

Ep6, Chapter 9 (Part 2) & 10

Love Trial time! (warning: this is not a very good post, honestly. Ep6 is proving to be a struggle to write posts about, even this late into it...)

Eva and George are... in front of the mansion, I think? Eva’s clearly not happy with George and Shannon getting engaged, unsurprisingly.

Oh wait, no, they’re in front of the guesthouse, actually. CLOSE ENOUGH

“...Did you sleep with her? She told you she was pregnant to force you into a marriage, didn’t she?!” fucking OUCH

George states that he’s “a strong believe that chastity is to be preserved before marriage.” That matches up with their date in Ep2, so...

Eva asks why they got engaged, and George replies, “I asked her. She accepted. What more could be needed?” Eva disagrees, of course.

“What about her parents? Relationships between the two families? Are you some stray alley cat, or are you Ushiromiya George?!” Even putting aside the dramatic irony of this statement, it’s... interesting. I’m guessing Eva’s just talking in terms of general issues, as opposed to issues with Shannon x George.

George states his desire to “build his own country and castle from scratch” like Hideyoshi did, and Eva angrily replies that it wasn’t easy, and he was “often saved by luck and coincidence”. George replies, “And he got through it because he had a wonderful life partner by his side... you. Sayo is the kind of person who’ll support me and make me be reborn as an even stronger man. You’ve praised me for becoming the adult that I am, but that could never have happened without her.” Tohya loves Yasu, writes love letter to her in form of his forgeries, etc.

Eva asks if he plans on “betraying the feelings” of a woman they met with at a marriage meeting. He replies that even though the two of them went out (due to their - or at least his - parents’ insistence), they “never even looked at each other.” Eva objects, and George replies, “You want me to marry her because it will benefit you. You aren’t pushing that engagement for the sake of anyone but yourself.” SHOTS FUCKING FIRED

Eva starts crying and screaming about how she and Hideyoshi have always been thinking about what’s “best for George.” “If I didn’t care for you, we wouldn’t be having this fight! [...] Don’t worry, we won’t do anything bad to Shannon-chan. After all, it’s thanks to her that you’ve grown so much... We won’t forget that. So leave the rest to us... George...”

George turns his back, seemingly torn on what to do, then says, “Alright. I think that’s enough. All my life, you’ve done a great job raising me, and I’m grateful for that. When I have children and become a parent... I’ll become a parent like you. I’ll be the kind of parent most worthy of respect in the entire world, one who can truly fight for his children’s sake.”

“I think it’s about time you learned... to let go of your son, Mother.”

“Let’s forget that you’re my parent and let our true intentions ring clear... The reason you want to choose the person I marry... is for financial reasons, public appearances, and... so that you can posture in that still-continuing quarrel between you and your siblings. You have no other reason.” I’d forgotten just how few fucks George gives in this scene, damn. He declares that she’s “a wall, a trial, standing in the way of the future he’s trying to grasp.” “Now I’ll overcome the final barrier... you!!”

EVATRICE TIMEEEEEEEE

I don’t really have a lot to say about this sequence, other than yay fantasy battles.

Having said that - After getting beaten around a bit (okay, a lot), George stands up, saying, “I cannot count the number of things I’ve learned from Sayo. She taught me... courage and chivalry, how to be ambitious and witty and humorous, and just a little stylish. It’s ironic... Almost all of the things you say are so wonderful about me... didn’t come from you at all.”

A bit more fantasy battle (now with martial arts!), and George kills Evatrice... then straightens his glasses and says, “I know you’re somewhere over there, Gaap.” lol

“I have something to ask of you.” Gaap responds kinda flippantly, and George’s response... well: “The threat in his voice held the solemn presence of a king who could control demons. That presence made Gaap gulp, and she licked her lips before bowing respectfully to his back.” I don’t remember the parallels between George and Kinzo being commented on much outside of Ep4, so this is pretty interesting, to say the least.

“I like hot guys, but I like monarchs even more.” lol gaap

At George’s request, she moves Eva’s body to the VIP room in the mansion, and leaves Evatrice’s staff behind. George steps on it to launch it into the air, and catches it in his hand, whereupon it disperses into gold butterflies. GETTING A LOT OF EP4 VIBES HERE

In the gameboard meta, George declares his “part” to be over, and Jessica is shocked that he decided to go after Eva for the love trial.

He replies, “It’s the person who loves you first in the world... and the last one you have to separate yourself from. ...That’s what it means to leave your home. This is the courage I need to show to take Sayo as my wife.”

Ah, right, the nature of the trial is mentioned here. “So that the love of the pair will stand true, offer up the life of one person by your own hands.”

The narrative compares it to Beato’s test in Ep4, which is... interesting! I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose it kinda is similar, just with “your own life” and “your lover’s life” automatically excluded (well, except in Battler’s case, but).

“For the versions of themselves to whom the game board was the only world, this was a tragic parricide... but to these ones who stood around the game board in this witch’s smoking room, it was nothing more than a movement of the pieces, representing George’s will to overcome his parents.” meta gonna meta

After a moment’s hesitation (during which Zepar and Furfur almost declare George and Shannon the winners), Jessica volunteers to go next. “Alright, I’ll do it... I’ll show you that I’m serious about Kanon-kun!!”

Meanwhile, during a break in the family conference, Kyrie’s wandered off to a hallway on the second floor of the mansion. “I need to regain my spirit and support my husband, even if I’m not allowed to speak. ...That’s the duty I’ve won.”

HI JESSICA

Ooh, that’s interesting. Jessica decided to basically wander around the mansion and kill the first person she runs into, and Furfur describes it as “Jessica’s roulette of fate.” battler u aren’t a very subtle writer are u

...Though she’s still not committed to actually going through with killing anyone, so she ends up asking Kyrie for advice. “Sounds nasty... Love that can only succeed by using the others as a footstool.”

“I think I see where you’re going with this... Something like this, right? ‘How far is a person allowed to take advantage of others to find happiness’?” Ooof. That’s... painfully accurate - not for Jessica, but for Yasu. The question she’s constantly asking herself, wracked with guilt over being torn between George, Shannon, and Battler...

...Though, granted, Yasu’s circumstances are a bit different to Jessica’s here, but.

And then the music cuts out, as Kyrie tells Jessica that, as painful as it might be to have to cut short George and Shannon’s relationship, not fighting for her own love will be even worse.

Ange cuts in, mentioning finding Kyrie’s notebook sometime after the incident. “It was... practically a book of curses... it cleared up several questions I had vaguely felt back when I was six.”

“When I was six, it seemed as though my parents were very close and had no problems. ...And though I thought it odd that Onii-chan lived separately even though he was in our family, I accepted it as the way things were.”

As was shown in Ep5, it’s explained that Kyrie was effectively Rudolf’s “business partner.” “Though she served as Dad’s right-hand person, she slyly got rid of the other women in the shadows... It was only a matter of time before Mom would succeed in her love.”

Kyrie explains to Jessica that Asumu showed up, and was “good at triggering Rudolf’s protective instinct.” “Bit by bit, Rudolf had started to need a woman who could stay quiet and soothe him... without making him think about anything complicated.”

“I am ruthless and intellectual. Rational and economical. ...In a plank of Carneades situation, I would push the other person off without hesitating. ...I thought that was the kind of partner suitable for him.” kyrie gonna kyrie

“Yes, I did get the position of his business partner... But before I knew it, Rudolf-san had grown a need for a mental partner, someone who could heal his heart. Though I foolishly claimed to be the intellectual one, I never noticed.”

And then both Kyrie and Asumu became pregnant, though Kyrie wasn’t even aware of it herself until after Rudolf and Asumu had already gotten married. “Once she got her hands on Rudolf-san, she didn’t let go.”

Kyrie reflects that she at least wanted Rudolf to acknowledge her child - which he was apparently willing to do, going as far as visiting her in the hospital even though Asumu was giving birth on the same day. She calls him an awful man, and... I can’t say I really disagree, to be honest!

Except... she supposedly ended up having a stillbirth instead, while Asumu gave birth to Battler. In hindsight, the answer’s literally right there, isn’t it? We get it stated in red in Ep4 that Asumu isn’t Battler’s blood mother, and both here and in Ep3 it’s stated that Kyrie and Asumu had the same delivery date. Coupled with how strongly Battler and Ange resemble each other... yeah.

“Kyrie had fallen from Rudolf’s partner to his second wife... and then, unable to even give birth to the bond of a child... she tumbled down... to merely being his mistress. I can’t imagine... how much she must’ve hated Asumu and that kid... Battler.” Ange mentions that she was (understandably) shocked to find out just how much Kyrie likely hated Battler.

Back on the board, Kyrie tells Jessica that she only regrets one thing. “It’s my arrogance I regret. ‘Rudolf-san is already mine, so I’m completely safe... I’ll never lose to that Asumu girl.’”

Kyrie warns Jessica against being naive about her love, and that the regrets she’ll have if she doesn’t take it seriously enough “will make her crawl through hell.” Jessica is, understandably, speechless upon hearing of how harsh the “true form of love” is.

“Right now... I would do anything to keep Rudolf-san by my side. [...] If he wished it, I might not even hesitate at murder.” KYRIE GONNA KYRIE

Aaaand Kyrie flat-out says that she would’ve killed Asumu herself, if she hadn’t died on her own. Battler, are you having fun writing your mother like this...?

Kyrie laughs a bit and apologizes, not meaning to scare Jessica like she had. BIT LATE FOR THAT I THINK

“I don’t know what your love has been like, Jessica-chan... but if you have a rival and neither is willing to back down, you can’t let yourself become complacent. If you do, you’ll end up like me.”

“...For the sake of love, a woman should be willing to kill at least once in her life.” KYRIE NO

“Love really is like playing with fire. Anyone can play easily and lightheartedly... but when you mess up and get burned, that scar stays with you your whole life.”

I just want to let that line stand on its own.

Kyrie turns to leave, wishing Jessica good luck... and narrowly avoids getting her face smashed in. She’s quite nonchalant about Jessica trying to kill her, but... y’know, Kyrie. Who’s surprised at this point?

“Come now. If you had come from the guesthouse to get a book from your room, you wouldn’t have come through this hallway in that direction.” kyrie holmes

More fantasy battles, now with math! I do find it interesting, though, that George and Jessica ask for help from Gaap and Ronove, respectively, given Ep4.

At any rate, Jessica kills Kyrie in Krauss’s study, gets angry at Zepar and Furfur, etc. etc... And starts crying as she asks Kanon if she did anything wrong. Jessica...

Elder joins in on complimenting her. “Very impressive, Jessica! That ‘closed room murder’ just now was wonderful enough to fascinate even a witch like myself.”

Zepar and Furfur dance around a bit again. “Come, speak up!! Who is next?! Who will take the next trial?!”

#kyuutext #umineko #umineko no naku koro ni chiru #dawn of the golden witch

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joo-heo-n · 7 years

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Crime Breeds the Creative Artist

Genre: Angst/Fluff

Member: Hyungwon

Word Count: 1,840

a/n: If I were to have included the next part, this would be 3k so I decided to leave it at almost 2k... Enjoy!!

Summary: “We shouldn’t forget that these are bad people who ruin lives, but of course you have a grudging admiration for them because they’re really, really good at what they do. The name ‘con artist’ really does capture it. They’re artists, and I have admiration for all artists.”

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

Another day, and here you were, watching as a brand new canvas was brought into the room, paint already taking form as an image across half of what used to be white, blank space. You scanned the painting and felt realization dawn on you, as if glass were to have shattered inside your head. “You’re painting it again?” you blurted, not really asking but more so stating to yourself. He smirked and winked at you, “Neither is the original” he claimed, showing you both paintings side by side as he stood next to you. You instantly furrowed your eyebrows together and turned to him, “Where’s the original?” you asked, to which he simply shrugged at, “Not in my possession” he said, making you scoff. “You’re just saying that so I’ll stop asking you about it” you stated, frustration seeping into your tone.

He simply chuckled and reached for one of your fly away hairs to place behind your ear. You froze at the action, foreign to you as his cold fingers made contact with your ear. Just as quickly, he went back to looking at the paintings, “This is the last copy I’m making” he said nonchalantly, “I figured you could keep me company while I finish it” he stated, glancing at you. Your eyes widened as you met his gaze, “You painted these?” you asked in awe. He chuckled sheepishly and nodded, “It’s a long process, pretty sure I won’t finish today but, I might not sleep if that’s what it takes” he said, turning back to the art before the two of you.

“Holy shit…” you nearly whispered, making him grin, “I appreciate the flattery” he stated, as you continued to gape at the paintings and how absurdly similar they looked. “You’re forging the original… you’re seriously forging the fucking original” you stated, a mixture of feelings all morphing inside you. You were awestruck, angry, in disbelief, stunned, and realizing your only companion in this place and situation, was the one committing a very sinful crime. As you glanced at him, you caught his mischievous expression looking right back at you. “And it’s working out pretty well, I’ll admit” he said, setting down a bag full of materials, then arranging a working space for him to paint, right under a bright lamp in the bedroom.

Before you were even able to reject participating in the witnessing of such forgery, he was taking your hand and bringing you to sit at the chair by his own. “Watch and learn” he said to you, and you couldn’t deny the part of you that was very curious to watch and learn such skillful crime. “This is an insult to the artist” you stated quietly, earning a low chuckle from his end, “Probably furious that someone can replicate his hard work, but no worries, mine will not be as heavily valued as his” he commented softly, already concentrating on beginning. “Should I be feeling guilty for watching you, or honored?” you asked, still staring at the copied details of the painting you had presented countless times to so many people. You glanced over at him and gasped lightly as you caught him staring directly at you, his stare like a barrier, showing you a cold somber front, and hiding many secrets behind it.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, nearly through a whisper, eyes locked with his, yet his stare wavered, making him look away and begin painting carefully, “I’ve come too far to turn back” he replied. You decided to take his answer and sit quietly for the next hour or so.

The night had already begun to visit the sky, making you yawn and finally move on to the bed. You still watched him paint from afar, his hand slow then sharply moving every now and then. It all seemed so meticulous you wondered how someone could paint the same thing so many times. No, you wondered, how long did someone have to stare and study a painting so they’d be able to replicate it effortlessly, not once, but twice. Then you remembered.

He hadn’t visited the museum just once.

Late into the night, the sound of shuffling startled you, making you sit up abruptly on the bed as you tried hard to squint, the light of the lamp finally being turned off. “What time is it?” you mumbled, “Three in the morning” you heard his deep voice pierce through the dark. You rubbed your eyes and patted the empty spot on the bed, “Just sleep here” you suggested, “It’s big enough for the two of us” you added, scooting to your edge of the bed and laying back down to fall back asleep. You felt his weight on the mattress and closed your eyes, letting sleep overcome you once more.

When you woke up, you turned in your spot and realized you had taken up the entire bed. He was nowhere to be seen and as you sat up, running your hands through your face while your eyes adjusted, you spotted the two paintings.

None of last night’s materials were anywhere to be seen but both forgeries rested against the wall across the room. He had finished.

You stared at the paintings for long minutes, disbelief slowly swarming inside you, filling you up like water in a vase. You had befriended a forger, and you had seen him forge a painting worth millions. Were you supposed to be sleeping in the same room as the copies of a painting you knew from every corner, every brush stroke, every hue of color, and be okay with it?

Before you knew it, you were crouched in front of both paintings, wide awake and with hands that itched to reach for one of the replicas. You wanted to tear it to shreds, dig your fingernails into the dry acrylic paint and scrape the canvas clean. Fake, it was a fake, and he was not a good person for stealing the original and replicating it. You didn’t know what the replicas were for but it didn’t matter, the fact that they had stolen the original and had you kidnapped for who knew how much longer, was already bad enough. There was no way they’d want replicas for good intentions.

Your fingers reached for the one on your right, and they grazed the texture of the paint, your breath short, almost nonexistent. Break the canvas and cut it up, a voice in your head whispered, and you swallowed hard. You reached for the top of the painting and gripped it tightly as you came to your feet. Taking a deep breath, you lifted it and searched the room for anything sharp, finding a glass vase on one of the night stands. You put the painting on the bed and took the vase in your hands, without much thought, you threw it across the room. The vase shattered immediately as it made contact with the wall, causing glass to fly in different directions, the sound echoing through the bedroom.

You gasped at the result but quickly made your way to the broken pieces and took the biggest one you could find, bringing it back to where the painting was and digging it into the canvas. It tore a hole and you felt your heart begin to slam against your sternum, not stopping you from dragging the glass through the center of the painting. You hadn’t become aware of your trembling until rushed footsteps were outside of your door and it was opening, the same blue pastel haired guy stood at the doorway with two other guys behind him. One of them made his way forward and you recognized him from the time you first found out your brunch buddy was part of the robbery, “Get away from that painting” he said, his voice menacing, making you realize he was one of the men arguing that day.

You did as you were told, still holding the piece of glass in your hand. The other men behind him exchanged looks and you could tell the one with the dyed hair was furious, but you were sure it wasn’t as much as the one giving orders. “Take her downstairs” he said, his voice low as he gritted his teeth while looking at the painting and then back at you. The other two approached you and you quickly tried fighting back, swinging at them with the piece of glass, but they took your arms quickly as you frantically struggled.

You groaned and panted as you tried escaping but before you could even try more, a hard hand came in contact with your cheek, the sound resonating inside your head as you gasped in pain. “Quit making it harder or it will be worse” the threat making you stop instantly as you grimaced, already being pushed out of the room and down the stairway.

You were brought into a living room where your brunch buddy and four other guys all sat or stood. As soon as he saw you, you looked away in shame of what you had done. The same guy who slapped you came from behind you and threw the painting before your feet as the other two guys let you go. You suddenly felt a tight grip on the back of your hair, making you cry out in pain as he tugged back then forward, making you fall to the floor and causing you to land on top of the painting. “She tore it because someone had the brilliant fucking idea of leaving her in the same room as the paintings!” he yelled, startling you as you stared at the painting under you, tears beginning to well up in your eyes.

“Both of them?” someone asked and you pressed your lips together tightly, feeling blood pool on the inside. “Luckily just this one, put her or the paintings in another goddamn room before she ruins everything” you heard the guy from behind you say. They stood you up forcibly, taking you back and making you whimper as you walked up the stairs and got thrown into the same room, but not before the other painting was removed.

You cried silently in the same corner of the room you had crawled to the first time you were there. Maybe you had gotten too comfortable, thinking you’d be fine until the day you’d be freed, but what if it was all false? What if you’d been lied to when you were told you’d be sent back safe and sound? Where was the original painting, and where was the original plan for taking you hostage? You heard them begin to argue downstairs, the same guy who was giving orders had his voice raised the loudest, and in the midst of the anger, you could hear shuffling and more shouts until it all grew silent for a second, “If she ruins this… you’re going down with her, Hyungwon” you heard, before everything went back to mumbles and muffled footsteps.

#monsta x #monsta x hyungwon #monsta x scenarios #monsta x imagines #monsta x fanfic #monsta x fluff #monsta x angst #monsta x au #kpop fanfiction #chae hyungwon #hyungwon scenarios #hyungwon imagine #hyungwon fluff #hyungwon fanfic #hyungwon angst #hyungwon au #monsta x wonho

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katiewattsart · 4 years

Text

03/12/19 : NOTHIN IS ORIGINAL (AND THAT’S OK)

RECAP

who watches the watchmen?

Ever tried, ever failed

Teddy boys and haul girls

Utopia and dystopia

Nothing is original and thats okay

AIMS FOR TODAY

to begin to think about the concept of originality

to begin to think about the concepts of the cope and how this might impact your practice

To begin to think about the terms pastiche and appropriation

THE OVERVIEW

1) INTRODUCE

2) THE OPENING ‘HOOK’

3) JUSTIFYING YOUR TOPIC

4) THEORY - WALTER BENJAMIN

5) CASE STUDY- ARTIST SHERRY LEVINE AND RICHARD RAUSCHENBERG

6) WE WILL FINISH WITH A HIGHLY ACCESSIBLE TED TALK BY AUSTIN KLEON ENTITLED

‘STEAL LIKE AN ARTIST’ TO PUT ALL OUR MINDS AT REST!

7) THE CONCLUSION WILL BE UP TO YOU!

The ‘HOOK’

PALIMPSEST

The earliest definition of palimpsest dates from he 17th century, a literal description of a physical object: ‘paper, parchment, or other writing material designed to be reusable after any writing on it has been erased.’

By the 19th century, the definition had tightened to refer to ‘a manuscript in which later writing has been superimposed on earlier (effaced) writing.’

During the 1800s, the word also evolved into a metaphor, as in ‘a think likened to such a writing surface, esp. in having been reused or altered while still retaining traces of its earlier form; a multi-layered record.’ (Jeffery a Kroessler. The City as Palimpsest. John Jay College of Criminal Justice.)

What is Originality?

How would you define originality?

Should we try and pursue originality?

Does originality exist?

If so, what does it look like?

The Artist as Conman

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‘Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.’ C.S.Lewis

So why does this matter?

Where am I going?

Why should you listen?

‘The Justification”

Angst. (Portrait of the Artist) (1971) Arnolf Rainer.

A Quotation

Appropriation, pastiche, quotation - these methods can now be seen to extend to visually every aspect of our culture, from the most calculated products of the fashion entertainment industries to the most committed critical activities of artists.’ (Crimp, Douglas. Appropriating Appropriation, in Hertz, Richard (ed) Theories of Contemporary Art, Prentice Hall Inc. USA, 1985.

Greyson Perry. Red Carpet.

But to be clear…or ‘to quantify’

Appropriation Art VS Forgery

FORGERY MEANING : the action of forging a copy of imitations of a document, signature, banknote, or work of art.

forger copy in close detail the makings on the back of the canvases, and made the frames appear to be decades old.

The art dealers also issued fake ‘certificates of authenticity’ for the forgeries. (New York Times) (on Ely Sakhai)

Historical Context

APPRENTICSHIP

the practice of copying existing artworks was seen as a necessary formation of an apprentice artist.

To copy old masters has traditionally been a key part of the artists training

HISTORICAL CONTEXT 2

The practice can be traced back to Cubist collage.

I.e. the construction of Picasso and Braque (1912)

PABLO PICASSO, NUDE IN AN ARMCHAIR, HORTA DE EBRO (PRESENT-DAY HORTA DE SANT JOAN), SUMMER 1909.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT 3

Surrealism

I.E. Salvador Dali Lobster Telephone

Jasper Johns

Robert Rauschenberg

Salvador Dalí Lobster Telephone 1936

HISTORICAL CONTEXT 4

Ready mades i.e. Marchel Duchamp

Fountain - men’s urinal signed, titles and presented on a pedestal

Marcel Duchamp. In Advance of the Brocken Arm. August 1964 (fourth version, after lost original of November 1915)

TO CONTEXTUALISE: TO DEFINE

APPROPRIATION WITHIN ART PRACTICES

The deliberate reproduction of (elements of) another artists work

Artists ‘copying’ artworks for their own artistic expression

It involves adopting intellectual property from elsewhere

It borrows images, styles, or forms from art history or popular culture

This ‘movement’ evolved in the 1960’s and peaked in the 80’s

APPROPRIATION : or making artworks using already existing artworks

a significant post modern theory

Response to what Barthes called the Death of the Author - that nothin is original

It can feel shameless

Pastiche/Collage/deliberate reworking of other people’s works

Key historical art practice

Artist using an existing form/image/sound in new ways

It is the ‘selection and manipulation of found materials’

The end result: strangely familiar yet altogether new

Jeff Coons

The readymade

Pastiche

Rephotograph

Recombination

Simulation

Parody

Scavenging

Replicating

Remixing

‘Stealing’

Bicycle Wheel. Marcel Duchamp. 1913

Them. Danny Treacy

Pastiche, Parody, and the Remake

Postmodernism has been characterized by a kind of fatigue with the new and the sense that everything has been done before.

Postmodernism asks: Can there ever be new ideas and images, things that have not been thought of or done before? Does it matter?

The world of images today consists of a huge variety of remakes, copies, parodies, replicas, reproductions, and remixes. In the arenas of art and architecture, as well as popular culture, the idea of an original image or form seems to have been thoroughly subverted.

One of the key terms used to describe this culture of imitation, remake, and parody is pastiche. Film theorist Richard Dyer has written that the primary way to understand pastiche is as an imitation that announces itself as such and that involves combining elements from other sources.

The term pastiche is derived from the Italian word pasticcio, which refers to a combination of elements that evokes, - according to Dyer, assemblage, collage, montage, capriccio (a style of composing that combines elements from different places), medley forms, and hip-hop forms of sampling, scratching, and riffing. Dyer thus points to the fact that pastiche has a long history in image making. Within the realm of imitation and quoting that constitutes pastiche, we can find different kinds of combinations and relationships to the original texts-from ironic quoting to parody to remakes to mashups.

Pastiche has a very particular relationship to history. As a strategy it can often involve pilfering from history and combining historical elements in ways that have little historical meaning but are rather a kind of play.

John Stezaker

John Stezaker. The Trial 1978

Jeff Wall. A Sudden Gust of Wind (After Hokusai) 1993

Sherry Levine

‘The world is filled to suffocating. Man has placed his token on every stone. Every word, every image, is leased and mortgaged. We know that a picture is but a space in which a variety of images, none of them original, blend and clash.’

‘WE CAN ONLY IMITATE A GESTURE THAT IS ALWAYS ANTERIOR, NEVER ORIGINAL.’ (Appropriation. Ed David Evans. 2009)

Artist Sherrie Levine made a series of works in the 1980s that are emblematic of this kind of postmodernism pilfering and borrowing that questions ownership and the original. Levine simply rephotographed famous images-in blatant violation of their copyright, the signifier of authorship and authenticity-and displayed them as her own. In After Edward Weston (#2), Levine rephotographed Weston's famous image of his son, Neil, enti- tled Torso of Neil {1925). Weston's image is situated in a long history of male nudes, which Levine's "theft" disrupts precisely because it is explicitly presented as copied, rather than concealing its status as a copy.

Robert Rauchenberg. The White Painting

ONE THEORETICAL POSITION

Walter…

1936 essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.

Our fine arts were developed, their types and uses were established, in times very different from the present, by men whose power of action upon things was insignificant in comparison with ours. But the amazing growth of our techniques, the adaptability and precision they have attained, the ideas and habits they are creating, make it a certainty that profound changes are impending in the ancient craft of the Beautiful. In all the arts there is a physical component which can no longer be considered or treated as it used to be, which cannot remain unaffected by our modern knowledge and power. For the last twenty years neither matter nor space nor time has been what it was from time immemorial. We must expect great innovations to transform the entire technique of the arts, thereby affecting artistic invention itself and perhaps even bringing about an amazing change in our very notion of art.[5]

‘the action of mechanical reproduction effectively dimities the concepts of originality’

‘the mass, mechanised reproducibility of art has reduced its authenticity’

‘mass production removes what he calls the aura - a sort of unique authority - from the work’

‘ Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be.’

‘The presence of the original is prerequisite to the. Concept of authenticity,’ and, thus, ‘the whole sphere of authenticity is outside of the technical…reproducibility.’

Walter Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art…’

The Death of the Author

Barthes extended this concept of ‘The Death of the Author’ to question the very possibility of originality and authenticity, he staged that any text (or image) rather than emitting a fixed meaning from a singular voice, was but a tissue of quotations that were themselves references to yet other texts, and so on.

PART THREE

MY OWN PRACTICE

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PART FOUR

CONCLUSION

Recapping

Evaluate/ deciding

Any more for later?

The finishing touches

What do you make?

Is there an original?

Or do you make copies?

Does your work have acratic qualities?

What do you look for in your discipline?

Form? Content? Expression? Representation?

What gives you work originality?

TASK

"Based on today's lecture, find examples of relevant work in your discipline and apply this to your reflection; consider how you would explore some of these themes in your own work"

References:

https://artlogic-res.cloudinary.com/w_1200,h_1200,c_limit,f_auto,fl_lossy,f_auto,fl_lossy/artlogicstorage/victoriamiro/images/view/31c340c550c02bc143c73bb75ed329fbj.jpg

http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02532/nude-woman-picasso_2532876b.jpg

https://www.tate.org.uk/art/images/work/T/T03/T03257_9.jpg

http://www.moma.org/wp/moma_learning/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/Duchamp.-In-advance-of-a-Broken-Arm-295x395.jpg

https://mitpress.mit.edu/sites/default/files/9780262550703.jpg

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http://www.dannytreacy.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/Them_1.jpg

http://uploads3.wikiart.org/images/marcel-duchamp/bicycle-wheel-1913.jpg

http://www.tate.org.uk/art/images/work/T/T12/T12342_10.jpg

https://s3.amazonaws.com/files.collageplatform.com.prod/image_cache/472x472_fit/5761760584184e24248b4568/a1672f549c38afb4ae0413fd8ef7be76.jpeg

http://imageobjecttext.files.wordpress.com/2012/07/wall-a-sudden-gust-of-wind-after-hokusai-1993.jpeg

https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/sfmomamedia/media/research-projects/downloads/WHIT_98.308.jpg

http://img1.imagesbn.com/p/9781453722480_p0_v1_s260x420.JPG

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