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wistfulcynic · 3 years

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The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a schoolteacher, respectable and respected in the small town of Haven, Wyoming. She does her job and minds her business, but she has a secret. One that brings meaning to her dull life and excitement to her restless soul. One that she knows could end at any moment.

Killian Jones is a man with a powerful enemy and nothing to lose. He’s prepared to sacrifice every bit of that nothing for the sake of his revenge.

Or, at least, he was.

I am THRILLED to be here, kicking off the @cshistfic Historical Fics event! I’ve always loved reading romances set in the past and Westerns are a long-time favourite. Given how deeply entrenched the Western genre is in American culture, it’s funny to think about how a) most of it was made up for dime novels and, later, radio and television shows and movies, and b) the actual historical period that we call the Old West only lasted roughly thirty years—from the post-Civil War westward expansion under the Homestead Act to around the turn of the 20th century. This fic is set right around the end of that time—late 1890s to early 1900s—in the waning moments of the open range and the “lawless” frontier and the start of the modern era with its trains and barbed wire and cars and world wars. I’ve tried to capture a bit of that sense of transition in the story, mostly with the way it ends.

Huge thanks to @shireness-says for coming up with and running this event, and to @thisonesatellite for Just Being Her.

Words: 4.9k Rating: T Tags: Western AU, historical, outlaw Killian, schoolteacher Emma, all the historical detail, I did so much research for this

on AO3

The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan):

The hour was late, afternoon edging into evening in the town of Haven, Wyoming. ‘Town’ as a designation flattered it, this tiny settlement tucked back against craggy and striated formations of rock and nestled amongst ragged brush, being, as it was, scarcely more than a handful of rough-hewn cabins, a church, a general store, a blacksmith and livery stable, a saloon with its attendant whorehouse, and a school.

The store and the smithy did the town’s most active business; unsurprisingly, seeing as they were the only examples of either within the radius of a good fifty miles. The residents—those who lived within the town’s scant limits—were certainly insufficient in their numbers to support either one, but the owners of those ranches that lay outside the town, they and their ranch hands, their wives, and their daughters, frequented both with pleasing regularity.

The general store doubled, as such establishments generally did, as a post office, in which capacity it served as the sole tenuous link between this stark western land and the fashionable cities of the east. The Sears and Roebuck catalogue and that of Montgomery Ward, both prominently displayed beside the till, were tattered and well-thumbed, and the monthly mail delivery never came without piles of brown-wrapped parcels containing the latest in fashion and technology from the wider world—hints at the wonders promised by the new century.

Very little of this prosperity touched the actual residents of Haven. The lives they lived were hard ones, scratched from unforgiving soil, but they were good folk, honest and hard-working. They lived simply and piously and for the most part happily. They tended their gardens and their livestock, read their Bibles, loved their children, and whenever possible sent those children to school.

The Haven school, a single room with two windows, one on either side, and a disproportionate bell-tower on the roof—both this tower and the bell it contained were gifts from a local rancher, who considered them a better use of his money than blackboards or books—was located well away from the town’s main street. It had no fireplace, only a tiny, smoky, potbellied stove, and in the warmer months no breeze blew through the unglazed windows. The pupils sat on simple benches and copied their lessons onto slates that sold at the general store for rather more than their parents could comfortably afford; lessons their teacher laid out for them on a thickly-whitewashed wall with a piece of charcoal, the dust of which stained her fingers and her clothing, and embedded itself beneath her nails so deeply there were times she felt she’d never be free of it.

This teacher’s name, the one she used, was Miss Emma Swan. A solitary and self-contained woman of about twenty-six, far too pretty for a schoolteacher most said, and if pressed these same would likely agree that teaching was not what folks might refer to as her calling. Though none could deny that she did her best and was kind to the children—a thing not always guaranteed from schoolmarms—she exuded such a restless air, an impatience with the tedium of her job and the pace of life in Haven which she did not trouble to conceal, that it was a subject of great curiosity amongst the residents why she continued to stay there.

“I have my reasons,” she would say, whenever anyone dared to broach the subject, “and those reasons are my own.” There it was and there it would remain as far as Emma was concerned, and as the townsfolk knew her to be a courteous woman but one who never minced her words when riled, they declined to press the issue.

By the time Miss Emma Swan had finished up in the schoolroom on this particular late afternoon, the floor swept and the board cleaned and lessons all prepared for the following day, the sun was already slipping behind the craggy rocks at her back and casting upon the town a peculiar sort of distended twilight—shrouded in shadows beneath a glaring blue sky. As she made her way the short distance between the schoolhouse and her own cabin—or rather, the schoolteacher’s cabin, perhaps the most compelling perk of her job—a brisk breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt and the few flyaway hairs that had escaped her tidy Gibson bun. The night would likely be another chilly one, and Emma wondered absently if she had enough wood left to leave the fire high for an extra hour or two or if she should resign herself now to another cold, dark evening spent alone.

The cabin where she lived, she and sixty years of schoolteachers before her, was small and rough like most in Haven and comprised only two rooms: a small bedroom to the rear and a larger space at the front used equally for sitting, cooking, and dining. In this front room was both a fireplace and stove, the latter surprisingly modern and another gift from a different rancher, to the previous teacher. Near this stove sat a small wooden table and two matching chairs; a soft and generous armchair had pride of place before the fire.

The bedroom was by far Emma’s preferred room. The walls in it were painted, in a pale and soothing blue, and on one of them a charming watercolour of forget-me-nots was hung. There was a white wardrobe with a mirrored door, a washstand and a vanity table, and a large bed with a sturdy iron frame. The curtains on the single window were of dotted swiss that Emma had sewn herself, and in the morning when she opened them she was greeted by the colours of the dawn.

Emma removed her buttoned boots the moment she was through the door; they pinched her toes and she disliked wearing them indoors. She replaced them with a well-worn pair of carpet slippers then headed for the bedroom, there to change out of her school clothes and into the more comfortable, loose wrap dress she preferred at home. When she entered the room she had already undone most of the buttons on her high-collared blouse and so made straight for the wardrobe, without so much as a glance at the bed.

The mirror on the wardrobe door as it swung open flashed the brief reflection of a face, just as Emma heard the sound of a chair leg scrape against the bare wood floor. She gasped and spun around, eyes wide and one hand pressed against her chest.

There could be no question that the man currently in occupation of her vanity chair, sprawled in it with an air as casual as it was deceptive, was one who had followed quite a different path of life than that afforded to the residents of Haven. His untidy hair and the thick scruff on his jaw might not be especially remarkable out in this still-wild corner of Wyoming, but the narrow cut of his coat and the embroidery on the waistcoat beneath it, the silver chain of his pocket-watch and the ostentatious knot of his tie marked him as a man who knew his way around a gambling table for both good or ill and could likely acquit himself equally well in both scenarios. A man who dealt with the hardships of life by shooting rather than working his way out of them—as the gleaming six-shooter currently pointed straight at Emma would most certainly attest.

Emma forced herself to breathe, slow and steady. Her heart was pounding. The man greeted her with a brusque nod, and cocked the hammer on his revolver.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, love,” he drawled, in an accent that suited this town less even than his clothes or his gun. “By all means, keep going.”

Emma swallowed hard and with trembling fingers undid the remainder of her buttons. Her blouse hung open to reveal the hooks of the corset underneath.

The man gave his gun a menacing wave. “All the way now, there’s a good lass.”

She shrugged off the blouse and let it fall to the floor.

“And the skirt.”

She unhooked her grey wool skirt and released it to pool around her ankles.

His voice rasped. “Take down your hair.”

Emma shivered.

Three pins and two combs held her hair in place. She removed them, dropped them into the pile of clothing at her feet; the bun tumbled down and over her shoulder.

“Shake your head.”

She did, vigorously. The bun unraveled further and strands of silky blonde fell across her face.

He swallowed audibly. “Now the rest.”

Emma hesitated, fingers hovering over the hooks on her corset. She wore nothing beneath it but a combination made of thin cotton lawn.

The man raised his gun and growled, “All of it.”

She tossed her head back, jutted her chin out high in defiance. Her belly churned with a dark thrill of anticipation as she unhooked the corset and flung it away. He chuckled, low and rough. Emma fumbled with the buttons on her combination as he uncocked his gun and set it aside, then undid the belt designed to hold it. His eyes locked with hers as he stood, pale blue and profoundly tired, eyes that had seen far too much.

She finished with the buttons but left the combination on, parted to reveal a thin strip of pale skin. Her heart thundered as he approached, her breaths short and heaving. He swaggered up and stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the dust and sweat on him, so close she had to tilt her head again to see his face. His hand slipped beneath her shift to curl around her waist, fingers rough on her soft skin.

“I—” Emma gasped as he pulled her closer, flush against him. His voice was a rumbling growl in her ear.

“You what, love?”

“I was expecting you yesterday!” she snapped, and then she kissed him.

“Gold is dead.”

Emma’s head shot up from where it had been resting on the bare and hairy chest of Killian Jones. The most notorious outlaw in three states, or so the Wanted posters would have folks believe. Train robber, bank robber, high-stakes gambler—but only the trains and banks and gambling dens controlled by one particular man. A man in whose side Killian Jones had been an exceptionally troublesome thorn for near to six years. A man whose wife Jones stood accused of murdering. A man who was, it seemed, now dead himself.

Emma stared down at his face, at the sharp definition of his cheekbones and lines of strain around his eyes. Such heavy burdens he’d been carrying for as long as she’d known him, but now, despite the exhaustion writ plain on his face he seemed lighter. Relieved, in some intangible way.

“He is?” she gasped.

“Aye.” Killian nodded, grimly satisfied. “Shot him right through the place where his heart should be. That’s why I was late.”

“Oh, Killian.” It wouldn’t do to feel happy about a murder, even that of a wicked man, but Emma found that she too was grimly satisfied. “You did it.”

“Aye, it’s done. And now I have a price on my head so high I’d turn myself in if I could, and special team of bounty hunters hired by Gold’s son to bring me to him, dead or alive.”

“Oh.” Her fingers flexed on his chest and his tightened where they curled around her hip. “What—what will you do?”

“Leave the country.” He spoke as though the answer were obvious, and Emma supposed it was. “I’ve no choice.”

“Will you go back to England?”

“No. There’s nothing left for me there.” He paused and his hand slid up her back to tangle absently in her hair. “I was thinking South America. Argentina.”

“Argentina?”

“Aye. Land’s selling down there for cheap and I’ve enough saved to buy myself a ranch. I’ve never tried ranching before so it’ll probably be an utter failure, but the idea’s crawled into my head and made itself a nest there, so I think that’s what I’ll do.”

Emma slipped from his arms and out of bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she took her house dress from the wardrobe and wrapped it around herself, as she tied it at her waist with jerky movements.

“You must be hungry,” she said.

“I could eat.”

“Stew?”

“Perfect.”

In the front room Emma piled wood on the embers in her stove and coaxed a fire to life beneath the pot of stew she’d left on the hob. She swept the ashes from the fireplace, arranged the logs and the kindling, then struck a flint to light it. She could hear Killian in the bedroom washing and dressing in the spare clothes she kept on hand for him, and by the time she sensed his presence behind her the larger logs were catching nicely and the hearty aroma of stew had begun to waft in from the stove.

“Shouldn’t be too long before it’s ready,” she told him without turning around. “There’s cornbread too. It’s a few days old, but—”

“Emma.”

“—it should still be good if you dunk it in the stew.”

“Emma, love.” Killian’s voice was soft, full of the tenderness he showed only to her. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known this day would come, this one or another very like it. She understood the dangers of the life he lived, out on the edges of society, pursued by an influential man with a terrible grudge, and she’d done all she could to make her peace with it. Killian could have died any number of times in the three years of their acquaintance; she had always been aware that every time she bid him farewell might be the last.

And now she knew for certain that it would be. Nothing had changed.

She heard him pull out one of the dining chairs and sit down in it, and though she kept her back to him she he knew he would be leaning his elbow on the table and running a hand over his face. She could picture the gesture in her mind’s eye with perfect clarity, so often had she seen him do it before, and her heart hurt because she knew he only did this when he was deeply troubled.

“Emma, you know—you know why I spent so long trying to kill Gold,” he said roughly.

“For Milah.” Her voice hardly broke on the name. “To avenge her.”

“Yes. That bastard hunted her like an animal, shot her right in front of me then framed me for the crime, and all because she couldn’t bear to spend another moment as his wife. He took her life rather than allow her to live it free from him, because he couldn’t countenance her finding happiness with another man. And I swore to her as she lay dying that I would make him pay for that.”

“Because you love her.”

“I did.” In the silence of the cabin, she could hear the rasp of his scruff against his palm. “I did.”

Emma had been watching the fire, now dancing merrily in the hearth, and it took a beat or two for his words to register. When they did her heart gave a shuddering thump and she spun round to gape at him. “Did?” she repeated.

Killian’s lip quirked and humour flared briefly in his eyes before they became solemn again, and heartrendingly soft. “It’s a funny thing, revenge,” he remarked. “It begins as a simple quest for justice but so easily descends into obsession—almost before a man knows what’s come over him, it’s all he’s got left to live for. That’s how it was for me, for years. Until…”

He trailed off and Emma found she was holding her breath. “Until?” she prompted.

He looked up at her. “Until I met you.”

She inhaled sharply as their eyes met, his own warm and such a brilliant blue, full of an emotion to which she didn’t dare give a name. “I kept after Gold because of my vow to Milah, yes, but also because I had to, because it was him or me. His life or mine. When that bullet pierced his chest and I saw him fall, I realised that it wasn’t about Milah for me anymore and it hadn’t been, not for a long time. I was fighting for my life, my right to have it and to live it in peace. That’s all I want, just peace and a simple life. And you.”

“Me?” gasped Emma, blankly and ungrammatically, as she attempted to grasp what he was saying.

Amusement coloured the tenderness on his face, alongside a hint of exasperation. “Don’t you know, Emma?” he asked with a shake of his head. “Why do you think I kept coming back here?”

She offered a weak smile and an abashed shrug. “My cornbread?” she ventured, and he laughed.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, darling, but your cornbread is dry. Try again.”

Emma elected to ignore this ungentlemanly slur on her culinary skills. “Well… I suppose the town is quite secluded, good for hiding out,” she observed.

“It is that. But that isn’t the reason, love.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You know it isn’t.” Killian stood and moved towards her, slowly as if she were a baby faun he was apt to startle, or possibly a sleeping mountain lion. “It’s you, Emma Swan,” he said softly. “You are what I will always come back for. You are the reason my soul is hale and unconsumed by hatred. Because it wasn’t revenge I was after, in the end. It was the future I wanted with you.”

Tears clogged Emma’s throat and pressed insistently behind her eyes. “Killian,” she choked, “I—”

“Shh.” He closed what small distance remained between them and folded her in an embrace to which she clung tightly, face pressed against his shoulder so the soft flannel of his shirt might absorb her tears. “Emma, I know I have next to nothing to offer you.” Killian stroked her hair soothingly as he spoke. “A tenuous existence in an unfamiliar country, backbreaking work that likely won’t pay off, a struggle for everything we have. I shouldn’t ask this of you. I should have the decency to walk away and let you find happiness with a better man than me.” She could hear tears in his voice now, and when she looked up she saw them glistening in his eyes. “But I won’t,” he continued gruffly. “I can’t, because I am a selfish bastard and I love you. I love you so much, Emma.” His voice broke. “So much. And if you could see your way clear to coming to Argentina with me, I would spend every day I have left on this earth working to make you happy.”

A rush of joy filled Emma Swan then, joy such as she had never known before. Her tears fell freely and unheeded as she tightened her hold on the man she loved and pressed her forehead to his own. In that stance they remained for some considerable time, until Emma became aware that the silence had drawn out far too long and she must speak. There were words he needed to hear from her, crucial words, and yet Miss Emma Swan, despite being quite a competent schoolteacher in all respects including her vocabulary, had always found words failed her when in the grip of strong emotion.

“Did I ever tell you I grew up on a ranch?” she blurted, then shook her head. That wasn’t what she’d wished to say.

Killian’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“My daddy’s place out near Casper,” Emma pressed on. “A thousand acres of cattle, mostly, and some horses.”

“It sounds nice.”

“It was.” She snuffled and shifted until her head was resting on his shoulder and she felt cradled in his arms. This wasn’t the speech she’d planned but now she found herself determined to give it. “I was his only child, his only family after my mama died, and he reared me all my life to take over from him,” she continued. “But then when I was nineteen he got married again, and had a son. And suddenly ranching was ‘no job for a woman,’ or so he said, and I should look into teaching instead. Or better still get married and become some man’s pretty possession. Preferably the son of a neighbouring rancher, ‘for the future of our family’s land and legacy’.” She paused, remembering, and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. “I told him to go fuck himself.”

Killian’s laugh rumbled through the both of them. “That’s my tough lass,” he said, with a pride in his voice that warmed her, and made her desperate.

“But you do know what I’m saying, don’t you Killian?” she persisted. “You hear what I’m telling you?”

“What I hear is that in addition to being beautiful and brilliant and tough as old boots, you also know how to run a ranch. Which would be bloody useful I must admit, as I haven’t got the first faint clue where to start. Is that what you wanted me to understand?”

She nodded in relief. “That’s it.”

He brushed the hair back from her face with fingers gentle as the wing of a butterfly. “And is that... all you have to say?”

She felt caught in his eyes, and like to drown in them. “There may be one more thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s that I—I—” Emma drew a steadying breath. “I love you too, Killian, and of course I’ll go to Argentina with you.” A smile broke across his face, that rare and brilliant smile of his that set her heart to soaring and broke the dam that held her words in check. “I’d go anywhere with you,” she declared, laughing as he squeezed her tight. “To the moon. To hell itself, and then back out again.”

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”

He leaned down to her and she swayed up to him and their lips met in a kiss that sang of love and of hope and of a most solemn promise, if something of a dramatic one. He dipped her back and kissed her until she was dizzy and overcome with laughter, and then swung her up again and into a dance.

Emma put her head on his shoulder and leaned into him as they danced to music they alone could hear, all around the cabin with the aroma of stew in the air and hope for the future in their hearts.

The disappearance of Miss Emma Swan, schoolteacher and respected resident, shook the town of Haven, Wyoming as nothing had before. Even the escape and subsequent stampede down Main Street of Mr Murchison’s pigs had caused less consternation, since, as the residents all agreed, for that at least there was an explanation. A rusty gate hinge, investigation later revealed, had been the culprit behind the Spectacular Pig Hullabaloo of 1893, whereas Miss Swan had simply vanished, with no explanation given or obvious method of egress. She owned no horse and had not boarded the stage; no one matching her description had been observed at the train station in Casper or anywhere else that a woman alone on foot might reasonably have been expected to turn up. She had taken nothing with her save some clothes and a few books and left nothing behind but a brief letter hastily scrawled on a scrap of paper—her resignation from her position as schoolteacher effective immediately, and a recommendation for her replacement.

Haven residents were thoroughly baffled, and for many months afterwards the Fantastical Vanishing of Miss Emma Swan was the number one topic of conversation amongst them. Theories were dismantled nearly as quickly as they had been constructed, replaced by newer and ever more fanciful speculations, and each resident had his or her own pet notion as to how and why the trick was done. Rarely had they felt so stimulated or enjoyed themselves so thoroughly, however time, as it inevitably does, soon began quite noticeably to pass, and the town’s attention moved on to other happenings. For although new events in such a quiet place may never again be as deliciously sensational as the mystery of the vanished schoolmarm, they do possess the not insignificant advantage of being new.

And thus Emma Swan passed into Haven legend.

Some years later, on the eve of her wedding, Miss Mary Margaret Blanchard—soon to be Mrs David Nolan—sat at the very table where Miss Swan’s letter had been left and composed a letter of her own, to an old friend she’d first met at the State Normal School of Colorado. In her letter Miss Blanchard informed her friend of the imminent blessed day and thanked her for the recommendation that had not only brought Miss Blanchard many years of enjoyable work as schoolteacher to Haven’s children but also led, in that roundabout way life sometimes takes, to her current state of blissful happiness.

This letter travelled by mail coach from the Haven general store—where Miss Blanchard posted it to the care of a P.O. Box in San Francisco—to the main post office in Casper. From there it went via train to Cheyenne, where it was loaded onto the mail car of the Union Pacific Railway and thence made its journey to the west coast. In San Francisco its fortunes underwent a curious change, for it was redirected by a clerk there, in accordance with instructions, and placed back on the Union Pacific, headed this time for Denver. From Denver it voyaged onwards to Kansas City, then Chicago, and finally to New York, where it abandoned train travel forever in favour of a steam ship bound for Buenos Aires.

Upon arrival at port it was placed in the charge of a courier who carried it along with a scant handful of others over the rough roads of the Argentinian coast to Puerto Santa Cruz and then inland, where it finally, many months after its departure, came to rest at a tiny, dusty outpost in southern Patagonia. And it was from this inauspicious locale that the letter was collected, at long last, by its intended recipient—a woman none of the residents of Haven nor indeed the erstwhile Miss Blanchard herself would be likely to recognise as Emma Swan.

The clothes she wore were utilitarian in design and plain in colour, liberally coated in fine brown dust. Her pale hair hung loose and wavy down her back, and her face beneath her wide-brimmed hat was tanned and marked around the eyes with the fine lines characteristic of those who spend a good deal of time squinting into bright sunlight. But these were superficial changes. The woman who collected the well-travelled letter and rode with it back to her ranch, who sat at the table in her kitchen and read it with a wide smile and sincere pleasure at the news from her friend—this woman was happy, as Emma Swan had surely never been. It was a happiness born of deep contentment and the satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms. And it was the happiness of a woman who is loved.

Emma was reading the letter a fourth time when the sound of boots on the porch alerted her to Killian’s arrival; she looked up just as he came through the door with a smile on her lips the like of which neither Mrs Nolan nor any other in Haven could ever imagine her smiling.

Killian hung his hat on a hook and met its brilliance with a smile of his own. “What are you thinking about, love, that has you so radiant?” he inquired.

“A letter from Mary Margaret.” Emma indicated the sheet of paper in her hand. “She’s getting married. Is married now, I suppose.”

“To a fellow worthy of her, I hope?”

“A rancher, but not one of the arrogant ones,” Emma replied. “I think he is. Worthy of her, I mean. I think they’ll be happy.”

“That’s good news indeed.”

“It is.” She set the letter aside and went over to him, tucked her head beneath his chin as he enfolded her in his arms. “But that’s not why I’m radiant, as you say.”

“I say it only because it’s true, darling.”

“It’s because I’m happy,” said Emma softly. She nuzzled her nose against his neck; he smelled of sweat and dust and horses. “For Mary Margaret, of course, but also for me. It struck me just now, reading her letter, how happy I am. I’m so happy, Killian.”

His arms around her tightened and she felt him stroke her hair, and when he spoke his voice was gruff. “No regrets then, about abandoning everything you’ve ever known to live out your days on the lam with me?”

“Nope.” Emma pulled back just enough to look up at him, to caress his cheek with her fingertips and press her forehead to his. “No regrets at all.”

Historical Note: Emma in this fic is based loosely on a woman named Etta Place. Very little is known about her, but she is thought to have been romantically involved with Harry Longabaugh, a.k.a. the Sundance Kid, and to have accompanied him and Butch Cassidy to South America. However, verifiable details about her are scarce—even her real name is uncertain—and only one photograph of her remains. Some believe she may have been a prostitute but in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the writer chose to make her a teacher instead, and honestly I have always found that such a compelling tale. A “proper” schoolteacher having a secret affair with an outlaw, then running away with him to another continent? The romance, am I right?

And thus the inspiration for this story.

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @killianjones-twopointoh @mariakov81 @stahlop @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @shireness-says @snowbellewells

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #cshistfic #captain swan #western au #historical fic #historical romance #Emma is a teacher #killian is an outlaw #many many historical details #like so many #i make no apologies for this #it's more of a warning #the outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)#profdanglaisstuff

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alice-angel12x · 3 years

Text

☁Centaur!Shouto x reader

It was a bright hot summer day, not even a cloud in the sky. It would be a perfect day for a good centaur racing, I would say.

"And what a beautiful day here in our small town of Seris. The perfect weather for a good Race, right Aizawa?" Present Mic's voice boomed over the arena.

"Augh. I would be at home asleep right now," Mr.Aizawa complained.

"Anyway it's the last lap for the race and number 27 Endeavor with rider Hawks is still holding first place, with number 1 All Might with rider Night eye on their tail. Which is exciting cause both centaurs have won both Preakness Stakes, and Belmont Stakes. If either one wins they will be the next triple crown," mic explained.

He was right the race was heated. All Might started to catch up with endeavor, but Endeavor was still in the lead by a nose.

"We're not going to win this," Night eye sighed as he eyed up Hawks and his centaur.

"Don't give up nighteye, we can still win this. The hurdles are the last obstacle," All Might gasps as he continues to run full throttle.

Up ahead were a few rows of fences laid out 176 yards away from the finish line.

As the two centaurs leaped over the fecenes, Endeavor failed to time his leap and knocked over the fence. Causing him to trip and send his rider flying. All Might and Night eye made it past the fences and sped ahead to take the win. As endeavor watched on as he felt the glare of his owner in the stand.

Farther away was a small pen that held the little colts, that also watched the race.

"Man did you see that, All Might Won. Know he's the triple Crown," A young colt Izuku said in awe.

"Ha, when I become a strong stallion, I'll be the next triple crown," Katsuki said confidently.

Shouto a young colt was in awe of All night's strength and aura. He wanted to be strong like him.

___________

When Shoto and Endeavor returned home, their life changed drastically. Their owner Figs started to do the bare minimum to take care of them. It got so bad that endeavors mate Rei died of malnutrition. After that loss in the race, Fig took out his anger on the centaurs.

Endeavor wasn't any better. Every day he forced his colts and fillies to run and train. His oldest son died of exhaustion from Endeavor, and lack of nutrition from Fig.

The other two siblings were eventually sold to other owners. Leaving Shouto alone in that old barn. ____

"Faster Shouto, you never be a triple Crown with that speed," Endeavor said as he whipped Shouto.

Shouto kept running till he came to an abrupt stop, as he threw up near an old tree. Endeavor cracked his whip as a warning to Shoto.

Shouto gasped as he got back but and ran till dawn.

"Humph, you have lots of room for improvement. Get to your stall and rest. We're continuing this tomorrow," Endeavor said not even looking at Shouto.

Shouto said made his way to his stable as he waited in his stall. Eventually, Fig came and dropped two nearly rotten apples in his food pale. Shouto grimaced and Fig noticed. Which did not make him happy.

"What not good Enough for you. You little s***!" Fig shouted as he grabbed a hot kettle and threw a cup's worth of boiling water at his face.

Shouto screamed in pain as he clutched the left side of his face.

"NOW YOUR PLACE. I OWN YOU!" Fig yelled in anger as he stormed out of the barn.

Shoto looked over to his father's stall, which was across from him. Only to see that his father just stared at him with no emotion. He simply shook his head and turned away.

It felt like the who world shatters as he felt nothing anger towards his father, Fig, Everything. From that day he refused to train or cooperate. Which lead to Him being beaten, whipped, and starve.

"How long are you going to stay on your foolish strike? I won't benefit you in the long run," Endeavor said as he went to sleep.

But Shoto didn't reply as quickly dug up the spare key to his stall. Quietly he unlocked his stall, then the barn door. Once outside he locked the door and made a run for the forest.

The forest was dark and quiet. It felt like Shoto was walking for miles, but didn't feel safe to rest anywhere in the forest. As he continued onward, Shoto tried and fell down a steep hill and hurt his right front leg. He cried out in pain as the pain was almost bearable. He limps forward and Eventually gets out of the forest to see... A barn out in the distance.

At first, Shoto was confused, did he walk in one big circle. Sadly he was too tired and sore to keep walking. As he collapsed where he stood.

The sun peeked above the horizon as the rooster crowed into the morning sky. Sunlight poured into the barn where Shouto laid. His eyes slowly open as he pushed himself upright.

It took him a few seconds to realize he was in a barn. He quickly got to his feet only to feel a sharp pain him his front leg. Cried in pain as he bumped into the side of his stall. It caused A huge ruckus as the stall across from his stirred. He closed his eyes tight expecting his father to scold him, only to hear a different voice.

"Hey keep it down over there. So of use are still trying to sleep," a young voice called out.

Shouto looked over to see a young centaur colt. Around his age with odd purple hair and baggy eyes.

Suddenly another voice calls out.

"What's going on over there?" A female voice asked this time.

Another centaur filly, as his age was in the stall next to the purple guy. She had fair skin and jet black hair tied into a ponytail.

"W-were am I?" Shouto asked.

"You are in a barn on the Aizawa family's land," The girl explained. "I'm Momo by the way. And this guy is Shinsou," she introduced.

"Shoto," Shoto said simply.

Shouto quickly inspects himself and sees he is covered in bandages. His coat and hair were all muddy and messy.

Suddenly the barn door opened revealing a young girl with h/c hair and e/c eyes. She looked a year or two younger than Shouto.

She came into the barn and started to drop apples, carrots, and some oats into their food pale. Shouto backs up to the corner of the stall, suspicious of the new human. The girl eventually comes over to his stall with a smile as she places his breakfast in the food pile. Shouto glared at her the entire time. Though she didn't seem to be bothered by that, as she continued her chores.

"Momo, who is that?" Shouto asked.

"That is y/n, she is one of the caretakers here, she is also my partner in pageants," Momo said proudly.

"Bad experiences with humans, Shouto?" Shinsou asked.

"You could say that,'' Shouto said.

Eventually, y/n came back with some bandages and cleaning supplies, and entering Shouto's stall. He tensed up as he saw her approach him. She slowly got on her knees and got slightly closer to him.

"Hello, there I'm y/n. I just want to change your bandages," She said softly. "And what's your name?" She asked.

Shouto didn't say anything as he tried to back away from her even more. Y/n slowly started to get closer only for Shoto to snap at her. She remained calm as she held out her hand, as it started to glow a light blue.

Suddenly all of Shouto's fears and anger began to slip away. So did his energy as he slowly laid on his side. Then y/n got to work on his bandages. Once she was finished she started to stroke Shoto's hair. Shouto didn't mind this as he leaned into it.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it. Though you really need a bath," Y/n giggled slightly.

The bath was a whole new experience for Shoto. He could feel her massaging his muscles, and scrubbing deep into his dirty coat. He had never felt so relaxed in his life before. But after it, he never felt too fresh and clean before. As Y/n began to rub a dry towel on his head, and then down his body. Without even knowing he was slowly leaning onto y/n.

"Shouto... My name is Shouto," He finally answered.

"That's a lovely name," Y/n said as she continued to brush his hair and coat.

Y/n cleaned him up and left him to rest for the day. As Shouto laid down in pure bliss for the first time. He felt fresh and clean, with a full stomach for once.

"Maybe living with them a little longer wouldn't hurt," Shouto mumbled to himself.

------------------ x

Part.2 coming soon. I hope you liked it and have some requests for me. Soo sees you next time.

#Mha #mha todoroki #mha x reader #bnha fanfiction #bnha x reader #shoto todoroki #mha shouto x reader #centaur au #fantasy au

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ibijau · 3 years

Note

I am 100% interested in NHS thinks he's Wen Chao and adopts Xue Yang. Super excited to see it. --HLS

were, here comes the first chapter Xue Yang's Master, or also on AO3

People said that the cultivators’ war was over, and that Qishan Wen had lost. For the folks of Yueyang, it came as a bit of a surprise, since they’d lived all their lives in the shadow of that great sect. Certainly the local sect was Yueyang Chang, and it was to them that most problems were addressed, but it was well known that the real power lay in Qishan. Chang Ci’an tried to pretend he was only putting up with the Wen because of the proximity, but everyone knew he wouldn't have gotten away with half the things he did if he weren’t hugging Wen Ruohan’s knees every chance he got.

And now, Wen Ruohan was dead.

There were all sorts of rumours about that, and no two people could agree on what had happened exactly. Some said it was Nie Mingjue, that great general of the Sunshot Campaign. Others whispered about a Jin spy, or else about his chief torturer who’d felt the wind turn and had decided to be on the right side of history to save his skin. And that was just the most believable rumours, there were also wilder stories repeated and twisted as they travelled from one person to the next. The only thing that never changed, in every story, was that Wen Ruohan had died.

Ultimately, that was all Xue Yang cared about.

With Wen Ruohan dead, his lackey Chang Ci’an was about to find himself in a very delicate position, and the entire town with him, even though most of them didn’t have anything to do with that cultivators’ war. Quite a few people had decided to flee, just in case, and Xue Yang was among them.

It’d been easy, for him, to leave the city where he’d lived all his life. He didn’t have elderly relatives or younger siblings to worry about, since he’d been on his own since quite young. He also didn’t own too much, just some coins he’d stolen here and there, and a cultivation manual that probably wasn’t a real one anyway, but which he clung to just in case. He’d neatly wrapped all that in his second sect of clothes, the ones he used when he went to pickpocket in more affluent neighbourhoods, stolen a bunch of food from the other kids he was sharing an abandoned house with, and then he had just left.

Most people, as they ran from Yueyang, were trying to go east or south, as far away from Qishan as possible, just in case the victors who had conquered that city decided they hadn’t had enough bloodbath yet. Xue Yang, personally, had decided he’d go south, because he knew someone in a place named Kuizhou who would surely find something for him to do, if he said he needed a job. But since quite a few of the richer folks seemed to be headed east, Xue Yang decided he’d go that way first, just for a few days.

By day three, Xue Yang’s little bundle was a lot heavier than it had been when he’d left Yueyang, and it tended to go clink-clinkif he moved a little too fast. Xue Yang hadn’t survived thirteen years by thinking only other people got robbed, so he decided to play it careful and to leave the main road behind for a bit. He’d also stolen a lot of food from careless rich idiots, anyway, so as long as he didn’t get lost, he’d be fine.

The first night after leaving the road behind, Xue Yang slept in an abandoned house in the woods. Or, well, somewhat abandoned. It was a decrepit old place, and the previous owner was still in his bed, almost entirely rotten away. The man had been dead so long he didn’t even smell, for which Xue Yang was half glad. He took out the semi-articulated skeleton and laid it down among the weedy place behind the house that might have been a garden once, not out of respect, but because he hoped to sleep in the bed himself. A vain hope. Most of the bedding had rotten alongside the corpse on it, meaning the dirt floor would be less disgusting to sleep on.

Xue Yang didn’t mind too much. He’d slept in much worse places.

Come morning, he’d checked if there was anything valuable to grab in that small house, then went on his merry way, in the direction he thought had to be south.

It had been easy enough, at first, to know which way he was going. Even a city kid like him knew where the sun rose. But then the forest got denser, and he didn’t see the sun again for a good while, not until roughly noon. At that point, Xue Yang had no idea which way was south or east, and he realised he wouldn’t be able to tell again until later, when he’d see the sun start setting.

Maybe avoiding the main road hadn’t been quite as smart as he’d thought. But then again, between that and risking having his precious loot stolen by someone bigger and stronger than him… he’d rather die in this stupid forest than let anyone take what had become his.

Figuring he couldn’t do much except wait, Xue Yang looked around for a comfortable sitting place and spotted a few fallen trees that would fit the bill nicely. He walked there, jumped on one of the trunks, and discovered a dead man there, hidden from view between two of the trees.

Well, a dead boy, anyway. He didn’t look that much older than Xue Yang, but he was very richly dressed, for someone lost in this stupid forest. It was a shame that most of his clothes were ruined by all the blood that came from a stab wound in his chest and a gash on the side of his head. Xue Yang could have sold that for a fortune. In fact, even with the stains, it might be worth trying to sell. And then there was a dainty little gold guan in his hair, the rings on his hands, and the sword next to him, just as bloodied as the rest of him but clearly of excellent quality and with an elegant sun engraved on the handle. Xue Yang could sell that and buy a horse for his trip south, and then he’d surely no longer have to worry about other thieves if he could just outrun them, right?

Already trying to guess how much he might get from this, Xue Yang bent over the corpse and pulled in its clothes in search of ties.

The next thing he knew he was lying on his back a few feet away from the body, his ears ringing from hitting the ground too hard, his chest hurting as if he’d been punched.

So maybe someone wasn’t quite dead yet, then. Xue Yang hurried to jump on his feet in case the older boy was going to put up a fight, but the rich kid remained motionless on the forest ground, one trembling hand still raised from having pushed Xue Yang away. Very soon that hand was allowed to fall down again, and Xue Yang approached the boy again, more cautiously this time.

The rich kid was barely breathing, but now that Xue Yang knew he was alive, he could see the very slow rise and fall of his chest, too slow to be normal, even for a dying person. Between this, his unexpected strength, and the sword he had, Xue Yang guessed that the boy he’d found wasn’t just an ordinary person.

Which meant that sword had to be worth even more than he’d first thought. Cultivator swords could buy a whole farm, and servants to work it for you, or so Xue Yang had heard. If he could find the right buyer, he’d be set for life, never having to worry about anything ever again. And all he had to do was wait for a rich kid to die, which would happen soon enough. Cultivator or not, those were some nasty wounds. The one on his head looked like it might have been accidental, as if he’d taken a bad fall, but there had to have been intent when he’d been stabbed, and that kid just didn’t look strong enough to last on his own. He’d die before morning, either of exposure or finished off by some animal.

Well, Xue Yang didn’t mind waiting.

The boy, however, seemed to have different ideas. Through some great effort, he turned to look at Xue Yang, looking him over as if trying to assess his worth. People did that a lot, and they rarely liked what they saw in him. But that rich kid must have been really desperate.

“Save me,” he gasped weakly. “He’ll find me. Save me.”

“Who will find you?” Xue Yang asked, finding a comfortable position to sit on one of the fallen trees, so he could watch the boy die.

“He tried to kill me. I don’t know him. He’ll find me. He was so angry…”

Xue Yang frowned at the news. Of course, that rich kid hadn’t ended up like that without a little help. If there was a stabbee, then there had to be a stabber, it only made sense. Xue Yang didn’t particularly care about the life of this complete stranger, but he did care about someone coming to finish the job and taking away the corpse and all those precious items on it. It was Xue Yang’s dream farm at risk there, and he couldn’t allow it.

One option, he thought, was to kill that kid himself and then take what he’d earned before fleeing the scene. But that carried the risk of being discovered by the murderer, who had to be a cultivator as well, since no ordinary person could have harmed a cultivator. Then Xue Yang would be in trouble, with the murderer either trying to kill him as well, or at least forcing him to leave without his loot.

The other option, then, was to take the rich kid somewhere safe and keep him hidden until he did die. The little house where Xue Yang had spent the night wasn’t so far off, if he took that boy there, then the rich kid could die quietly, and Xue Yang could steal all the stuff he wouldn’t need anymore due to being dead.

It was the perfect plan.

The hardest part of that plan was getting the rich kid out of his hiding place. He was half stuck among those fallen trees, and kept moaning miserably as Xue Yang pulled on his limbs to unstuck him. It took effort, especially when Xue Yang had to frequently stop to make sure the boy’s murderer wasn’t around, but he eventually managed to get him out of that spot. Then it was just a matter of pulling him by the arms on the forest ground, since Xue Yang wasn’t quite strong enough to carry him. The boy, at first, wailed weakly and cried upon being dragged around like this, but he eventually passed out and turned quite grey.

He was just passed out: Xue Yang checked. But he also wasn’t bleeding anymore, which had to mean he’d die soon.

Luckily, it wasn’t so hard to find the way back to the abandoned little house. At that point, the sun had started setting, so Xue Yang was once again able to use it as a reference point, and he got them to their destination a little before night. Once there, he managed to put the rich kid onto the bed, figuring it probably wouldn’t bother him that someone else had died there not too long ago. And it really wouldn’t be much longer now, because the older boy was deathly pale yet almost burning to the touch, a bad combination. In his experience, anyone who got sick enough to run a high fever had a seventy-five percent chance to die unless they could afford a doctor, or even higher. He’d been close to it himself, when he’d been young and stupid enough to think a cruel man would give him candies for carrying a letter, and just like that rich kid, he’d had nobody to take care of him.

Just like that rich kid, he’d have died alone.

And the rich kid would be alone indeed, because Xue Yang went to sit outside the house to have a dinner of whatever stolen food he had that could be eaten cold. It wasn’t that it bothered him to see someone die, and more that he was still worried about the rich kid’s murderer sneaking on them while he wasn’t paying attention. So he stayed up the entire night, paying attention to the forest’s every noise.

People said nature was quiet, but it was almost as busy as in the city, Xue Yang realised, what with the insects and the foxes and the who-knew-what running around. More than once, he found himself reaching for the rich kid’s sword and jumping to his feet, ready to protect his loot against whatever might threaten it, but nothing bigger than a mouse ever came close. He thought he saw a fox also, but he wasn’t even sure.

The biggest danger in that forest that night was Xue Yang himself, and that was just how he liked it.

#xue yang #nie huaisang #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #jau writes #nhs is wc au #I'll let you decide who actually adopts who in here lol

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justforbooks · 3 years

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The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did. But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

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jinrawon · 3 years

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Your wish is my command. Part 2.

Jinyoung x Fem!Reader. Royal AU.

Genre: Fluff, angst. A bit of fantasy perhaps.

Summary: When the crown prince, Park Jinyoung, breaks his engagement he is forced to have someone he did not expect as his knight. Displeased with the idea, deep down he knows he will need her by his side.

Words: 3k+

Jaebeom had tried to talk to your father about the marriage but he did not falter. Even if he felt bad there was nothing else he could do for you. The chaos soon covered the halls of the manor. There was a marriage to prepare.

The next few days there were no news of you. It was usual for the kingdom to know what you had done as the commoners loved you. Since the marriage agreement all you did was try on dresses and pick flowers. Your mother did most of the work you were supposed to do afraid of a possible sabotage. You did not feel offended at her distrust, she was right. The meetings with your soon to be husband were always short and your father was the one to speak for the most part. All the duke could get from you were yes and no. The news was yet to be known to the other nobles and even to the royal family. It was a well hidden secret.

“ It’s not usually that I sell wedding dresses. “ Said the owner of the shop. He was a well-known designer and when you needed help with clothes he was the one you would come to. “ But I thought you didn’t want to get married, Y/N? “ And Bambam was probably one of the few people you had trusted all your life. “ And to that old geezer. The prince at least was decent, but that one? “

“ I guess I haven’t had a choice since the beginning. “ You whispered and saw another dress. All of them seemed obnoxious to you. “ I’m so sorry, we’ve been looking for a dress of my taste for ages now.”

“ And we are gonna keep doing it, “ He said. “ I’m pretty sure Yugyeom’s about to arrive, he’ll keep them occupied.”

“ What for?” “ Don’t you wanna stay away from them for a little? “

When Bambam told you that he did not waste time on getting you out of the shop while Yugyeom distracted your mother and your servants. He said you were going to a special “party” to lift your mood but what you did not expect was arriving at a masquerade ball full of drunk people. He had gotten you a mask before and insisted that you were good to go on your usual clothes. The place was not fancy but not one place of commoners either. It was something in between. Those people were not nobles like you and neither simple commoners so you finally saw what they were. They were bourgeois. Bambam and Yugyeom were bourgeoises as well, that is why you felt familiar with them. They did not differ much from nobles but they got what they had through effort.

“ Surprised?” He looked at you through his mask with a smile. “ I am quite popular you know? “ You nodded. “ A drink is not bad once in a while so why don’t you get one? “

You were surprised at the atmosphere. Whenever a noble got drunk they would get away with every little thing they wanted but in that party they seemed to hold much more respect for each other.

“ I can’t help but see that you have not danced at all, my lady.” A boy with broad shoulders and a voice that you could recognize without effort offered you his hand. He was not drunk but you knew he was tipsy. “ But I can help but feel like I’ve seen you before. “

“ You see me almost everyday , Wang. “ You smiled at him and for a moment he seemed lost in thought until he squeezed you in his arm. “ I can’t breath, Jackson. “ “ Is this what you've been doing all week? I’ve missed you. “ He was usually affectionate but the fact that he was tipsy did not help. He was hugging you as tight as he could.” Who can I go against in my sword battle if not you? “

“ Jaebeom? “ You answered him.

“ But he is my boss . “ You knew he was joking . He could definitely train with someone else but it was a daily thing having a spar with Jackson. While you could fight like no one else in a hand to hand fight, he was the genius of the sword. You did not know anyone who had won him and you had learnt from him. He was the first friend you made within the knights, most of them too afraid to approach the future queen and Jaebeom’s sister. “ What if I win? He fires me? “ “ You know he would not. “ You hit him lightly in the arm. “ But… I don’t know, he may fire you for being in a place like this when tomorrow you have to work early. “

“ I haven’t seen you here if you haven’t seen me. “

“ My lips are sealed , sir. “ You took his hand and got close to him. “ Are you still up for the dance or are you afraid my brother will fire you? “

“ Are you taking me for a coward? “

“ Am I? “

You danced with him for a while and soon felt tired. It had been hours and you were sure people were looking for you. You had to look for Bambam and go back to the shop. It was not long until you saw him. He was the main interest of a group of people who wanted to know his secret for the growth his little shop had had. The instant he saw you he dismissed the people and went to you.

“ You think it is time for me to choose that dress? “ He denied with his head and took a sip out of his wine. “ We should be going back before they accuse you of kidnapping. “

“ No worries about that, Mr Knight will cover for us. “ First Yugyeom and then Jackson. He sure had a way with making people do whatever he wanted, you were no exception. “ But yes, we should go back. Not that the dress will look good on you anyway. “

“ I think I’m quite the beauty , you know? “

“ Marriage does not go with you, “ He answered. “ You can always say “ bye , i’m living as a farmer and disappear “ , I will even do your farmer clothes. “ “ A farmer does not go with me. I am a knight. “

“ I can introduce you to some farmer friend of mine to help you get land. “ He insisted but he was starting to laugh at your face. “ And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll go to visit you and I’ll see some mini Y/N running and I’ll introduce myself as the top designer of the kingdom and they’ll be like woah. “

“ Aren’t you getting a little bit too excited , young man? “ You crossed your arms over your chest while looking at him. “ But if I have to run away I’ll make sure to tell you. “

It was not long until you arrived at the shop. Yugyeom was sitting on a chair with a look you had never seen in his usually smiling face.

“ Finally! “ He said. “ They think you are still choosing a dress so we better hurry. “

“ How the hell did you convince them? “

“ I may have said something harsh to them? “ He tried to avoid telling you but eventually your gaze made him give up. “ I told them that if they were gonna make a woman marry to at least give you time to feel pretty. “ His voice became more and more low as he spoke. “ I shouldn’t have told them off , right? “

“ I am grateful for having you as a friend,“ You smiled, thankfully. “ and I am relieved to know I’m not the only one against this. “

“ I can still talk to that prince , you know how we are friends, right? “

“ If by friends you mean he wants to kill you every single minute of his life then, yes, why not? “

“ She’s got a point. “

That same day the news of your marriage reached the queen’s ears. His son asked her why has she been concerned all day and for once she was mad at him. He did not understand, she had never been angry at him. He was perfect at what he did just to avoid disappointing her but something had really upset his mother. He left her alone following the advice his father gave him. She would be better to talk to the next day.

“ Jaebeom. “ Jinyoung called his friend’s name. When he looked at him he knew it was not only his mother that was upset. “ About what Mark suggested the other day…”

“ I don’t think I will be able to do it. “ He seemed exhausted and in a bad mood. He had seen him like that at times but never as bad at this one. “ My family is just way too busy for me to join you. “

“ That’s fine. “

He soon came to know about your wedding. There was nothing he could do. Despite thinking he was okay with all the time you avoided him he hated you for it. He tried his best and because of that for him you were the one at fault. If you didn't want to marry you should have thought better. You made that come to yourself. Deep inside he knew he felt guilty but not enough for him to change his mind.

The day of the wedding rehearsal soon came. You were at the church where you would marry the old duke and you could not help but think how everything could have been. Your mother looked at you as if you were the prettiest and tried to convince you about how once you had children you would be the happiest. You quickly answered with a " I only see you crying. " making your mother go away. You knew she was not at fault, her parents had sold her just like her grandparents had sold her mother. It was always the same and no matter how many time it passed it didn't change. You wished you could be the one to change it, the turning point.

Jinyoung went to the church. He felt guilty so at least for once he wanted to make things right. He had to apologize at least.

As his horse approached the place he could not help but notice the feeling of uneasiness that was growing in his chest. You had always been stubborn, you avoided marrying Jinyoung so he wondered how was it possible that you gave up when it came to marrying that old duke. You had to have a plan no one knew about. When he arrived the chaos was the first thing he noticed before watching you run away with a wedding dress on. Before you could go further he grabbed you by the wrist and made you stop making you gasp.

" What? "

It was not your plan. He knew just by the look on your face. You did not have a plan, you were running away because there was nothing else you could do.

" Y/N , stop. Where are you going? "

You had ripped your dress to run and your heels were in your hands. The lady your family had made you was nowhere to be seen yet what worried him the most was the face of horror you had.

" Please, just this once, " You said. " Let's not get in each other's way. " You were not asking him, you were begging and your eyes were those of someone who had no way out. You knew there was no point in running away and yet you wanted to because there was the only way out you knew. " Not anymore. " He let go of your wrist and you joined eyes in one last look at each other." Thank you and… I'm sorry. For everything. "

He knew he had to do something, if not for you for Jaebeom who would become a worried brother once he discovered you were gone, but he couldn't. For once he had seen you as you were and he wanted that person to be free.

It was raining hard and you were wet. You were alone in the streets late at night with a wedding dress on and there was only one way in the city you knew. You went there because you had promised.

You thought both of them would be sleeping but the lights on the great house that stood in front of you were on and you knew your friends' rooms. Perhaps Bambam was designing something new and Yugyeom was preparing some meeting to help his friend. The second one had always been great at making women do whatever he wanted even if he was shy around them. He was also a dancer who taught, that's how Bambam got the money to do his shop. They were good friends and it was amazing the mutual understanding they had sometimes.

When a servant finally opened the door she gasped.

" Lady Y/N, godness, you will grab a cold." You were amazed at how kind their employees were and it was a show of their understanding of people. Not even one of those people would leave the side of those two boys. " I'll bring you a towel and a tea and I'll call the masters. "

" I am sorry for troubling you this late at night. "

When both of them saw you they could not help but be horrified. You were their best friend. Someone they had never seen like that. Your feet were bleeding and your dress was barely wearable.

" Are you okay? " Yugyeom was the first one to approach you. You had never seen him that worried before. " Why are you like this? Did someone do this to you? "

You could barely speak. Seeing someone worry over you so genuinely broke your heart because you knew you were about to lose that. If you married that old geezer you would never see them again and neither Jackson. You were going to lose everything that mattered. Running away was the best option you could have come with.

" I knew wedding dresses weren't your thing but, damn , this is another level of hating them." You could not help but laugh. He was right, you never liked them. " You want that old knight's clothes I made for you? "

You nodded thankfully and he was gone.

" Did you run away, noona? "

" I did, " You answered Yugyeom. " I could not do it. I almost threw up. "

Even if he was usually goofy he couldn't help but be deeply worried about you.

" Just stay here, noona. We'll keep you away from him, I promise. "

" I know you will. "

After changing your clothes and taking a bath you could not help it. Hiding you from a duke could lead them to their demise, you knew that. You could not ask them to give uo what they had achieved so you left.

When the next morning you were gone Bambam and Yugyeom went crazy looking for you. You left leaving only a letter behind.

Even if I know your good will I can not ask you to do this. Work and keep doing what you like. I'll always be proud of being your friend. I just had to say I was running away because I promised. I am sorry and I promise I'll take better care of these clothes. Thank you.

The queen herself had ordered to find you when one week passed. She was worried and could not let you alone out there. The weather which first seemed nice became horrible and it was foreseen that you would get caught in heavy rains. Jaebeom could not stop worrying and soon Jinyoung let him off work. He could not have his friend working when he had had no sleep. What the prince did not expect was having Yugyeom begging on his knees. He wouldn't have asked him to kneel, not when he seemed so distressed. The guy was not one to beg but there he was and it was for you.

" We hid her, " He said." Bambam and I have been her friends since we opened the shop. Please hyung." It was soon that the head of his young friend hit the floor begging even more than he was. “ Bambam is out there looking for her with this weather and so is Jaebeom hyung, it’s not only her that will get sick if we don’t find her soon so please. “ Jinyoung did not need his young friend to beg. He was planning on doing it anyways, he could not see Jaebeom bringing himself to death out of exhaustion. He did not know why you meant so much to them but he had seen the effect you had on people. Jaebeom, then his mother and his friends. Everyone seemed to have a high value of you. He wished he knew but you never let him near you.

“ You did not need to do this but it was quite funny to see, “ He said trying to make humour out of the situation. “ I’ll remember to bother you about this later. “He was quick to prepare his horse. The knights were already on the move so he did not know what else could he do but he would find you and help you. “ Everyone has been bothering me way too much. “

Yugyeom could feel his heartbeat relax, he could trust his hyung, even if he teased him and threatened him he knew he could always trust him when it came to serious matters.

He let Yugyeom come with him just because he had some questions. Why would you run away was the first thing he asked. When he discovered it was about the marriage thing he could not help but sigh and think how ridiculous the situation was. You just had to get married, it was not a big deal.

“ That’s easy for you to say,”

Had answered Yugyeom. Jinyoung wanted to understand you so he kept on asking and soon discovered how you wanted to marry no one if it was not out of your will. It was not enough reason for him but then he discovered the hard truth. The man you were going to marry was the Duke, the one who he would make his sisters avoid if he had any. There were women in society who wanted to marry him out of his wealth but you knew better. You were once engaged to Jinyoung so he understood that if you were going to be sold to someone then it would only be someone who could make you queen. You were once his fiancé and that was the reason he had to save you from the old Duke. He could not let anyone think that an older, uglier, and worse in general, Duke had stolen you from him. He would not let anyone think that.

He gave himself all types of excuses but deep down he knew he could not let you go. The eyes he had seen on your face that day were asking for help and he could not deny it, not to you. He didn’t know why, he was just fond of you, he had always and that is why breaking the marriage had taken too much time, because he did not want to.

“They were doing the rehearsal for their marriage day, “ Yugyeom had explained. “ She panicked so she ran away to Bambam and me. “

“ Why did you hide her? You are aware his family could accuse you both of kidnapping, right? “

“ We couldn’t just let her on her own.”

Perhaps running without a plan had not been the best idea but there was no turning back. You were freezing and the rain was soaking you. Your bones felt numb and you could barely feel your fingers. It had been more than a week since you had gone away and you could barely walk. There was no food, no medicines and nothing you could drink. If you died it would be out of your own stubbornness, there was no one else to blame but you. That is why you wondered why the Duke and Jackson had found you. You knew the only thing protecting you in a moment of weakness was your friend. If the Duke was alone he would have not doubted in beating you up because he knew once you were healed you would have made sure to answer to him in the most furious way. The news were quick to arrive to everyone who was looking for you. It was said that they would bring you to the Duke’s mansion so Jaebeom was the first one to go. Jinyoung accompanied him wanting to do something for you.

When the carriage finally arrived he felt nervous. Your arm was being pulled by the man and Jackson quickly stood in between both of you. Jaebeom was also fast to reach your side.

“ Such insubordination will not be easily overlooked, “ He threatened as he tried to grab your arm once more. “ I’ll make sure to tell his majesty about this.” “ You can tell me instead. “ Your mind was too hazy to even wonder why Jinyoung was there. He stood behind the knight and right by your side. He pulled you closer to him and made sure you didn’t fall to the floor. “ Have I told you you have quite the nerve, Duke? “ His arm around your shoulder made you feel more comfortable than you would have thought. “ She broke the engagement to be my knight not your wife. “

“ What are you saying, your highness? Her father said…”

“ When it comes to her you ask her first. “ He said finally. “ You are not allowed to marry her, no one is. If you ask her father then marry him not her. “

You had told him to stay out of your way but he was never one good at that and for once you were relieved he wasn’t. You were thankful, everything that was in your mind disappeared and all you could think about was the kindness the crown prince had given you.

Chapter I.

#prince jinyoung #jinyoung x reader #jinyoung x you #jinyoung #jinyoung fluff #got7 jinyoung #got7 fanfic #got7 #got7 angst #jinyoung angst

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blouisparadise · 4 years

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Upon request, here is a rec list of bottom Louis fics that are more plot-heavy in nature. We tried to choose fics that had a plot beyond Louis and Harry’s relationship. Happy reading!

1) Once Upon A Dream | Explicit | 33319 words | Sequel

Louis is psychic and gets caught in the middle of a murder investigation led by FBI Special Agent Harry Styles.

2) Boiling Blood Will Circulate | Explicit | 42420 words

The wait isn’t long before something starts rustling in the bushes. Harry takes aim, squeezes the trigger, body moving unconsciously. They’re motions he’s done a thousand times before, and his body knows how to do it without the input of his brain now. It’s what makes him such a good shot.

He misses. The shot misses.

Something howls in the woods, a pretty clear indication that Harry hit it, but there’s no telltale sounds of a big body dropping, no animal charging out at him to take him out before he can finish the job.

Something does turn and run, though. “Fuck,” Harry spits out, scrambling to his feet and slinging the rifle back over his shoulder, giving chase. He’s not going to lose this hunt.

The trail of blood goes on longer than Harry thought it would. He doesn’t know how long he runs for, but his muscles are burning, chest heaving with exertion, until the trail just - goes dead. No more blood, just like that.

“Fuck,” Harry says.

3) The Fairy Ring | Explicit | 46170 words

A medieval fantasy AU in which Harry is a prince in disguise and Louis is the king of the faeries.

4) Tied Down | Explicit | 48551 words

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.

5) Now That This Old World Is Ending | Explicit | 49184 words

Needing a good distraction from his broken heart, Louis Tomlinson goes on a camping trip with his friends to Northern England. However, a different kind of distraction arises when his friends disappear from their camp. Hellbent on finding them, Louis soon discovers that the area has been taken over by a cult and teams up with a resentful archer with fire in his eyes and blood on his hands.

Far Cry inspired AU.

6) It's A Long Way Down | Explicit | 52658 words

It’s June 2013, and the legalization of gay marriage is the most discussed political issue in the country. As a member of parliament Louis Tomlinson has decided to do everything under his power to keep marriage between a man and a woman. Little does he know a boy with green eyes and pink lips from his past is on a mission to change his mind.

7) We’ve Got the World in Our Hands | Explicit | 54964 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

A mutants/superpowers AU. Louis and his friends attend the Cowell Institute for General Education and Mutant Training in London; when Louis meets Harry, the newest student at the Cowell Institute, he immediately recruits Harry to help play matchmaker for his friend Zayn. Harry and Louis are so caught up in meddling in Zayn's love life, though, that they don't notice that their own friendship is progressing into something more. Meanwhile, an ominous threat up north grows slowly until suddenly, no mutant - or human - is safe.

8) Somethin’ Bout You | Explicit | 59855 words

Of all the government agents in the world, Louis had to go and land the most charming one.

9) Like Real People Do | Explicit | 64175 words

Louis didn’t ask for a lot of things. He didn’t ask for his entire family to die in a car crash that may or may not have been his fault. He didn’t ask to get powers out of that accident, either, powers that eventually led him into a two-year relationship with a man who was far more than met the eye. But one night, he chose to ask for a replacement to a broken camera from someone he hadn’t spoken to in a year and a half. He did ask for that. And that kind of led to everything else.

10) We’ll Cast Some Light (You’ll Be Alright) | Not Rated | 74409 words

There’s a standard procedure for this. Scan, track, kill. But with a solar eclipse and a Greater Demon with unfinished business looming, the path to keeping England safe from harm becomes complicated and shadowed by mystery and secrets. For Harry and his team, times have never been harder, especially when a few old friends turned foes show up. Harry is left with just over forty days to overcome the hurdle of tension between them and reconcile their past, and figure out just what Louis is hiding from him before it’s too late.

11) Waiting On You | Explicit | 76584 words

“Vampires,” Louis says with disgust, glaring over at the vampire who is noisily slurping from the woman’s neck nearby.

Zayn gives the neat fang marks on Louis’ neck a meaningful look.

“Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,” Louis finishes, ignoring Zayn when he rolls his eyes.

Louis takes a long sip of his milkshake, presses his fingers against the marks on his neck, and definitely doesn’t think about the vampire who left them there.

12) Through Struggles, To The Stars | Explicit | 80582 words

Louis is a Starfleet captain trying to find his place in the universe. Harry is a prince just trying to do what's right.

13) Cameras Flashing | Explicit | 81773 words

With his breakout single platinum three times over and his second album still selling out in stores around the world, Louis Tomlinson has made it to the top. However, his position as Pop Heartthrob of the Decade is threatened by the edgier, more artistic Zayn, who happens to be releasing an album a week after Louis’ upcoming third. Louis needs something groundbreaking- scandalous, even- to push past him in the charts. Much to Louis’ dismay, his PR team calls in The Sexpert.

Consulting with PR firm Shady, Lane and Associates pays the bills so that Harry Styles can spend his down time doing what he really loves: poring over data. On weekends and late into the evenings, he researches gender, presentation, and sexual orientation, analysing the longitudinal study that is his father’s life’s work. That is, until his newest client, the popstar with the fascinating secret, drags him off his couch and frighteningly close to the spotlight.

As the album’s release date approaches, will Tomlinson and Styles be able to pull off the most risky PR scheme of the millennium and beat Zayn in sales or will the heat of their feelings for each other compromise everything?

14) And Down the Long and Silent Street | Mature | 86090 words

Wherein Louis and Harry are on the opposite ends of the social ladder, but their paths still cross on the filthy streets Louis calls his home. The odds are staked against them from the beginning, and even more when Louis' past finally catches up with him.

15) A Taste Of Desire | Explicit | 104414 words

A Victorian ABO where Harry is the owner of the most successful cotton mill in Manchester, and Louis is an opinionated social activist about to disrupt Harry’s world.

16) Saving Symphony Hall | Mature | 124766 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users. This fic is also a sequel to this fic, so you probably want to read that fic first.

“I think I have an idea,” Louis said. Slowly, and reluctantly, but with a growing sense of the inevitable. “God damnit, I think I have a really good idea.”

“Oh christ, that's the problem-solving face,” Babs said. “Last time we saw that face, he sold a company.”

“Wait, what?” Zayn asked.

“Right place, right time,” Louis said. “Also, fuck my life,”

“What?” Zayn repeated. Niall patted his hand.

“I usually just roll with whatever Louis is about to do,” he said. “It’s better for us all.”

“That’s the attitude,” said Louis, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, I need to do some research. Zayn, give me your number. I’m gonna save our symphony.”

17) Tainted Saints And Velvet Vices | Mature | 126057 words

A self-fulfilling Hogwarts AU in which Louis is new to seventh year and Harry is the resident devil-may-care Slytherin set to make his entire experience a living misery. Due to less than favourable circumstances they're forced to forge an unwilling, tentative relationship for their own survival. Repressed emotions, decidedly unromantic ballroom dancing, Triwizard Tournament tasks, creative jinxes and twilight flying above the Forbidden Forest ensue.

18) Run Like the Devil | Explicit | 138095 words

Note: This fic has BH mentions.

Supernatural AU. Louis hunts demons; Harry's the strangest demon he's ever met, and he keeps fucking meeting him.

19) You Are The Blood | Explicit | 175151 words

Note: This fic has BH mentions.

A seventh-year Hogwarts AU in which Niall gets all the girls, Liam goes on a journey of self-discovery, Zayn falls in love, Harry wants something more, and Louis tries to figure out once and for all why he, a Muggleborn, was sorted into Slytherin.

20) Collision | Not Rated | 209473 words

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

#fic recs #bottom louis #top harry #larry #blp #blp fic recs #plot-heavy

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douchebagbrainwaves · 3 years

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WHY I'M SMARTER THAN UNDERGRADUATES

One of the cases he decided was brought by the owner of a food shop. Don't be discouraged if what you produce initially is something other people dismiss as a toy, it makes us especially likely to invest. Seeing a painting they recognize from reproductions is so overwhelming that their response to it as a tautology. There's nothing more valuable than an unmet need that is just becoming fixable. You have to show you're impressed with what you've made. Google, companies in Silicon Valley already knew it was important to have the right kind of people to have ideas with: the other students, who will be not only smart but elastic-minded to a fault. Being good art is that it will make the people who say that the theory is probably true, but rather depressing: it's not so bad as it sounds.

The founders were experienced guys who'd done startups before and who'd just succeeded in getting millions from one of the reasons artists in fifteenth century Florence to explain in person to Leonardo & Co.1 If Microsoft was the Empire, they were the Rebel Alliance. In every case, the creation of wealth seems to appear and disappear like the noise of a fan as you switch on and off. One often hears a policy criticized on the grounds that it would increase the income gap between rich and poor? Perhaps this tends to attract people who are bad at understanding. It would work on a moon base where we had to buy air by the liter. It seemed obvious that beauty, for example, as property in the way we do. It could be the reason they don't have to wait to be an adult.

The answer, I realized, is that my m. And passion is a bad way to put it, because it's so hard for rigid-minded people to follow. That's to be expected. An eloquent speaker or writer can give the impression of vanquishing an opponent merely by using forceful words. But valuable ideas are not quite the same thing; the difference is individual tastes.2 Don't talk about secondary matters at length. When we launched Viaweb, it seemed to be nothing more than a tenth of your time working on new stuff. Now a lot of people in the Valley is watching them. In either case you let yourself be defined by what they tell you to do.3

Of course, space aliens probably wouldn't find human faces engaging. Rebellion is almost as stupid as obedience. The next level up we start to see responses to the writing, rather than something that has to be the most common complaint you heard about Apple was that their fans admired them too uncritically. Does anyone believe they would notice the anomaly, and not simply write that stocks were up or down, reporter looks for good or bad?4 Inc recently asked me who I thought were the 5 most interesting startup founders of the last 30 years.5 Simplicity takes effort—genius, even. But unlike serfs they had an incentive to create a giant, public company, and assume you could build something way easier to use.

Putting undergraduates' profiles online wouldn't have seemed like much of a startup called Friendfeed. That would definitely happen if programmers started to use handhelds as development machines—if handhelds displaced laptops the way laptops displaced desktops. Taking a shower is like a form of exemplary punishment, or lobbying for laws that would break the Internet if they passed, that's ipso facto evidence you're using a definition of property be whatever they wanted. Back in the 90s. Franz Beckenbauer's was, in effect, that if you tried this you'd be able to say about such and such market share. The average person looks at it and thinks: how amazingly skillful.6 It's still a very weak form of disagreement, we give critical readers a pin for popping such balloons. If one blows up in your face, start another. Ten weeks is not much time. Everyone at Rehearsal Day. Merely being aware of them usually prevents them from working. If I could tell startups only ten sentences, this would be one of them.

What counts as property depends on what you mean by worth. It would have been. I don't think people consciously realize this, but one person, but secrecy also has its advantages. Honestly, Sam is, along with Steve Jobs, the founder I refer to most when I'm advising startups. It's also true that there are quite a few marketplaces out there that serve this same market. Obviously the world sucked, so why wouldn't they? There was not much point. There are always great ideas sitting right under our noses. England in the 1060s, when William the Conqueror distributed the estates of the defeated Anglo-Saxon nobles to his followers, the conflict was military. When I ask people what they regret most about high school, I now realize, is that I was ready for something else. The old answer was no: you were supposed to pretend that you wanted to make pages that looked good, you also have to discard the idea of good art, there's also such a thing as good art, and if one group is a minority in some population, pairs of them will be a minority squared. You have to show you're impressed with what you've made.

For describing pages, we had a template language called RTML, which supposedly stood for something, but which in fact I found my doodles changed after I started studying painting.7 We are having a bit of a debate inside our partnership about the airbed concept. It was thus subjective rather than objective. Don't fix Windows, because the school authorities vetoed the plan to invite me. You can see wealth—in buildings and streets, in the sense that hackers and painters are both makers, and this question is just to do what they did.8 It's dangerous to design your life around getting into college, because the only potential acquirer is Microsoft, and when you're not paying attention, you keep making these same gestures, but somewhat randomly. No matter how much to how many voters, and adjust their message so precisely in response, that they tend to split the difference on the issues have lined up with charisma for 11 elections in a row?

So is it meaningless to talk about it publicly till long afterward.9 The way Apple runs the App Store is full of half-baked applications. If I were talking to a roomful of people than you would in conversation.10 The problem is, it's hard to get the gold out of it. Where does wealth come from?11 You can demonstrate your respect for one another in more subtle ways.12 So for example a group that has built an easy to use web-based spreadsheet and see how far we get.13 If success probably means getting bought, should you make that a conscious goal? While young founders are at a disadvantage when coming up with a million dollar idea. I'd like to reply with another question: why do people think it's hard?

Notes

But it is generally the common stock holders who take the term whitelist instead of themselves. There's comparatively little from it. I couldn't convince Fred Wilson to fund them. I've come to you about it.

Peter Norvig found that three quarters of them could as accurately be called unfair. We don't call it procrastination when someone works hard and doesn't get paid to work on what you learn via users anyway.

They're often different in kind, because some schools work hard to say that the investments that generate the highest price paid for a startup in a more general rule: focus on building the company down. Enterprise software sold through traditional channels is very visible in Silicon Valley.

In many ways the New Deal was a kid that you'd want to get jobs. Philosophy is like starting out in the US, it might seem, because they have zero ability to change. If the rich paid high taxes? The two guys were Dan Bricklin and Bob Frankston.

Don't be evil. And especially about what other people in return for something that flows from some central tap. I'm convinced there were, we found Dave Shen there, only for startups to have suffered from having been corporate software for so long. I think investors currently err too far on the dollar.

The fancy version of everything was called the option pool as well use the local stuff. Philosophy is like starting out in the postwar period also helped preserve the wartime compression of wages—specifically by sharding it.

This is everyday life in general. So, can I make it easy. Believe it or not, under current US law, writing and visual design.

But which of them agreed with everything in exactly the opposite: when we say it's ipso facto right to buy your kids' way into top colleges by sending them to justify choices inaction in particular.

An influx of inexpensive but mediocre investors. Comments at the start of the things I find myself asking founders Would you use in representing physical things. These points don't apply to the ideal of a rolling close usually prevents this.

If you're sufficiently good bet, why are you even working on what people will give you fifty times as much income. When a lot of money around is never something people treat casually. No one writing a dictionary from scratch, rather than giving grants.

For similar reasons, avoid the topic. It's not only the leaves who suffer. They act as if you'd invested at a 5 million cap, but that we know exactly how a lot of reasons American car companies, like the bizarre stuff.

Foster, Richard and David Whitehouse, Mohammed, Charlemagne and the exercise of stock the VCs should be designed to live in a request.

Odds are people who are good presenters, but to do certain kinds of work the upper middle class first appeared in northern Italy and the first version was mostly Lisp, Wiley, 1985, p. So during the 2002-03 season was 2. Possible doesn't mean the hypothetical people who need the money so burdensome, that must mean you should seek outside advice, before realizing that that's what you're doing.

Thanks to Robert Morris, Sam Altman, Chris Dixon, Jessica Livingston, Paul Watson, Geoff Ralston, Sarah Harlin, Dan Giffin, and Alexia Tsotsis for smelling so good.

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therealjammy · 3 years

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The Worth Of the Wait (Witness)

AN: Posting this here for the Tumblr crowd, but also in the hope it’ll garner a bit more audience. It’s quite angsty, so please bear that in mind xx

The title that isn’t in parenthesis is from Ivan & Alyosha’s song by the same name

Words: A little over 2.5k

And since it falls unto my lot

That I should rise and you should not…

—

There was something in the reading of ghosts Dani had done that mentioned souls were doomed to wander the grounds around which they died due to unfinished business. As to what that business was, the spectre had to find out on their own, a task that began as soon as one came to.

No such task was set forth when Dani woke the first evening after her death, collapsed on the shore of the lake on her knees, not knowing it was the same spot Jamie had knelt just hours earlier. No sense of purpose filled her, only the strangeness of the afterlife, the emptiness of the manor’s grounds, and a bizarre, echoing loneliness.

Here, Dani did not bear the weight of the first Lady of the Lake. No second gaze watched from within. No claws tore away pieces of her. She was Dani once again. Almost whole, but not quite1.

She walked the grounds to grow used to her new body and life. She mused that this must have been what the astronauts who landed on the moon felt like—terribly weightless, yet able to come back to the ground by sheer force of will. So light. Like floating on air. But she wasn’t hovering. The afterlife wasn’t nearly so stereotypical. There was grass underneath her feet, and gravel, and brick. Dani was pleased that the muted feel of them all did not terrify her. The downside, however, was everything she took in reminded her of Jamie. And Hannah and Owen and Flora and Miles. So much so that she dropped to her knees for the second time in the middle of the statue garden and allowed herself to feel another knife. It slid beside the one that’d pierced her chest at the sight of Jamie in the water, reaching for her, agonized screams distorted by the thick, choking medium. I won’t, Dani had said. Don’t reach out for me to take you; this is the only time I will not accept your hand.

The book said nothing about the loneliness one would feel in the afterlife, nor the emotions that ghosts were still capable of feeling, nor even the fact that ghosts could have their own ghosts.

—

Time was nearly impossible to tell here. The days varied in their colors, of course, so Dani knew the hours, but she could not count the days. Or the weeks. She only knew the beautiful grounds, once kept tame by Jamie and a series of others before her, were slowly being reclaimed. The hedges lost their shapes. The statues in the statue garden wore masks and robes of moss. The rose garden and the white iron table and chairs were covered in leaves and surrounded by weeds, and armies of aphids munched greedily on the wilting roses. The church was dark and drafty; the candles had dust gathering in them, and the benches were covered in it, too. Jamie’s beloved greenhouse was overgrown, looking the part of a houseplant jungle that was now home to spiders and large, fearless rats. Soon many varieties of leaves and arms of vines would cover the bench, concealing the evidence of a deep first kiss and—on a different day—a thick half-hour’s lovemaking.

Concealing life so that they might live their own. Jamie would say that, or something similar to it. Part of nature, innit? Inevitable. Uncontrollable, once set free.

Dani was not bound to the lake. Not entirely. And so she spent a series of nights on the greenhouse’s bench, on her bed of plants and cracking cushions, perfectly content to lose herself in memories that hadn’t been sharp for years.

—

It could have been months, or even years later, that Dani began to hear voices. They were faint and far away, like music drifting from an open window several stories up, the voices unidentifiable, the words a string of incoherence. There were no others on the grounds; what others there were had moved on to somewhere else the second the Lady of the Lake settled herself inside Dani. But the voices were there, whispering in the woods and the lake, the greenhouse and the church, wherever Dani managed to find herself. Was it possible, she wondered, for someone dead to lose their mind? It shouldn’t have been. It would be cruel of the afterlife to make her repeat an act that had already been done. The voices were not memory, either; memory did not tickle the eardrums or raise one’s hackles.

It didn’t take long for Dani to shrug the voices off, thinking them a new music serenading her world. She often fell asleep to them—a different kind of lullaby.

—

The first time Dani was called to the land of the living was an accident.

She was walking through the woods, admiring a golden sunset slashing through silhouetted branches on the way to the spot where Jamie’s carefully grown moonflower once sat. Dani seated herself on the log she’d occupied, watching the shadows lengthen on the iron the moonflower had used as an anchor to grow against, thinking of Jamie and her going-out-on-a-limb monologue, of the kisses that followed and the laughter-filled ascent up the stairs that led to them making love in Dani’s bedroom, with no hesitation after Jamie’s, “It’s not too fast?” A voice shattered her thoughts, clear as day, a whisper.

“Where are you?”

Jamie.

Heart leaping, feeling more alive than her new life had lately allowed her to be, Dani ran, ran through the woods and the gardens, past the empty greenhouse, church, and manor, calling Jamie’s name. “I’m here!” she shouted. “I’m here, Jamie!” No avail. No reward. Just the whisper, again and again. “Where are you?”

Once again, Dani found herself wading into cold water, and once again fell and sank, but it was not to the lake’s silty, reedy bottom.

There was water underneath her hands. And wood. Not even an inch of it, but still it lapped at her hands, an insistent, icy tongue. There was hissing. And further away, the sound of sirens. Dani stared at the floor. Light finished oak. Skinny pieces. She knew this floor.

Looking up, in a state of dizzying disbelief, was looking into the flooding kitchen of the apartment. Their apartment. The sprinklers were spraying water. Something must’ve caught fire, but Dani wasn’t looking for that. Her gaze was trapped by the cracked front door and the unmistakable figure of Jamie, soaked to the bone, sitting between the oven and the sink, the posture of someone who had slid there in defeat, not quite weeping but on the verge of it.

The strangest part was how ardently she stared into the water.

“Where are you?” Jamie said.

“Here,” Dani would have said, and reached out to her, had she not felt herself being pulled back.

—

Several times, the breaking through happened, each as jarring as the first, until Dani learned to expect it. Until, one winter evening, when the grounds of Bly were dusted with frost, she only thought of Jamie and was instantly over her shoulder. They were in The Leafling, the winter plants and flowers in full season. Outside, there was snow, and fresh flakes were falling like cigarette ash from a steely sky. Jamie was in dark jeans and a black turtleneck, her curls pinned up in a bun, a few unruly ones dangling over her eyes, her hands putting the finishing touches on a pot filled with pansies.

“It’s a very ironic name,” Jamie had said once, back when they first opened the shop and rotated the flowers out depending on the season. “Call this flower a pansy but it survives the winter.”

“Maybe we should call it a toughie,” Dani suggested. Jamie shook her head, smiling, but she ended up making a chalk art sign that read, “These toughies survive the winter!” and placed it appropriately in front of the pansy display. They’d sold out within the first two weeks.

The signs that were in the flower shop now were not written by hand in Jamie’s half-messy cursive. They were all typed and displayed on boards. Including the sign on the door, which was flipped to closed.

There was life here, Dani realized, her heart seizing in her chest, continuing despite the gaping loss Jamie obviously still felt.

How many times, Dani wondered when she returned to Bly, to the greenhouse, had Jamie thought of giving up? It had to be several, by now.

It took a special sort of perseverance to overcome the call of death.

—

Time hardly existed at Bly, but Dani found a way to keep track of it. She watched Jamie and knew the months went by, staying longer and longer, until she hardly found herself at Bly at all.

She watched Jamie change. Her hair got longer and less wavy. Grey began to show. Slowly at first, and then they were as sudden as weeds. Dani watched efforts of romances, all of which ended in apologies and the showing of the ring she’d slipped onto Jamie’s finger in the nineties. She watched The Leafling change hands. Watched Jamie pack up the apartment and move into a small house in a different town. Watched her fly to Paris and step through the doors of A Batter Place for the first time in ages. Owen was still there, dressed in white chef’s uniform. And Hannah’s picture remained where it was, too, her kind, smiling face forever immortalized.

Jamie stood by the doors. Jet lag sagged her shoulders. Made her eyes droop like half-dead leaves. Yet there was determination, Dani saw, mixed with an oncoming wave of nostalgia.

Owen was a few tables away, smiling, pouring refills of wine into two guests’ glasses. He glanced in Jamie’s direction, owner’s instinct kicking in at the sight of someone loitering in the entryway, looking back at the customers, and then giving Jamie a long double-take.

“Please excuse me,” Dani heard him say.

He and Jamie approached each other slowly.

“My god,” were Owen’s first words to her, “you’ve gotten old.”

The laughter that erupted from Jamie’s mouth was the sweetest music.

They sat at the same table that’d seen them a little over a decade ago, talking over French cuisine and wine, until long after closing and long after everyone else left. There was much to say and then nothing at all, a silence settling over the old friends that was comfortable.

There was a bit of happiness in Jamie’s life at last.

—

Jamie’s life had changed since seeing Owen in Paris. It was lighter. She walked with new purpose. There was, however, one constant. Jamie always left doors cracked. Always left something filled with water—the kitchen sink, the bathroom sink, the tub, a watering can—and gazed into it, much like she had that day in the kitchen. The habit could have started long before that, Dani theorized, but there was no plausible way to be certain. The only thing that was certain was the statement these habits made: I’ll wait for you. In those moments, Dani’s heart ached in her chest, its own clenched, frustrated fist.

On a blustery spring day in 2007, Dani followed Jamie around her plant-populated kitchen as she had a conversation with Owen over the phone. Jazzy piano floated from a speaker somewhere Dani couldn’t see, the volume low. She only heard Jamie’s side of the talk.

“This makes me feel really fucking old.”

“Well, wasn’t she twelve the last time we talked to each other?” A smile. “I’m giving you shite, you moosher.”

A pause.

Her tone turned serious. “You’re sure you want me there?” A pause. “You know they might not remember me.” Silence. Then, with another smile, “All right, you’ve convinced me with your battering on about it.”

In the past, Jamie threw on whatever outfit was convenient: old, soft T-shirt tucked into worn jeans, jacket pulled on over it; paint-splattered overalls and flannel shirt; sweater and jeans and a grey-blue coverall caked with soil. Her style came together in the nineties. It was polished in the New Millennium. She planned her outfits with a little more care, and she looked stunning in all of them. It was, thought Dani, no wonder the younger women that floated in and out of Jamie’s life fawned over her.

The occasion she talked about with Owen was, much to Dani’s surprise, Flora’s wedding. The man she’d been smitten with at seventeen was the same one she was marrying at twenty- eight. Jamie marked the date in the calendar hanging on the fridge.

In the days that followed, a melancholy shadowed Jamie. Dani saw it on her face, and deep in her eyes. She believed Jamie was thinking about their own union, how they had to practically beg for it to be civil while all some people had to do was slide a ring on a finger and ask for a license. How Flora’s life stretched for acres ahead of her while Dani’s own was an uncertain countdown. Dani saw, as she’d gotten rare glimpses of, Jamie scribble the thoughts down in a notebook with yellowed edges. (She had usually left Jamie when she wrote. That time was hers alone.)

She turned the page. Her pen hovered.

Jamie began a new note.

We should have grown old together. Watched each other change. Kept track of the lines that appeared around our eyes and mouths. Made love until we were too ancient to do it properly. Found other ways. We should have had our whole lives ahead of us. It seems unfair I get to be the age I am. But we had our time, Poppins. Not many people get that.

The note wasn’t a goodbye. To Dani, it was more of a reminder.

Epilogue:

Witness

The asylum-turned-hotel was surprisingly cozy, even by dead people’s standards. Nestled in a sort of grove in Northern California, Dani liked the rustic look of the place and how pleasant it looked against the late afternoon sunlight shining through the trees. It had a sitting room just off the lobby, populated by comfortable couches. Despite the spring warmth, a fire crackled in the fireplace, and the wedding guests gathered around it, some with drinks in their hands, others empty-handed. They chatted amongst themselves until, rather abruptly, Jamie announced, “I have a story.”

Dani settled behind her, back to the warmth of the fire. Bly did not call back to her. Nothing held her but Jamie, whose command of the room was absolute.

She hung on every word.

She felt light. She felt like she could fly at the way Jamie narrated the story that held everyone so raptly; her voice wavered from tenderness to melancholy to, at the end, devotion. A sense of purpose.

It hit Dani as suddenly as cold water. Her purpose. Her unfinished business. It had only taken seven years and countless witnessing of someone perpetually in wait.

Jamie filled the hotel’s sink. And the bathtub. She cracked open the door, just a little, letting in a small bar of white light. She turned a chair to the door. Waiting. Expectant.

Dani knew then.

If Jamie waited for her, Dani would wait for her in return.

She set a hand on Jamie’s shoulder, a promise she would, hopefully, feel.

Endnotes

1. A reference to my favorite novel, Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones

The lines before the start of this work are from “The Parting Glass”

#the haunting of bly manor #dani x jamie #fic stuff #kate writes things #i'm proud of this one still

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afterthelastreset · 3 years

Text

Rules Of One’s Soul Ch19 Date P3

(mak belongs to @wasted-church)

He barely remembered the rest of that night, it was just a blur of Jevil smothering him in love and affection until the Rudinn left and hadn't stopped even when the loon noticed he did. But he eventually stopped and giggled at how flustered and embarrassed the worm was, too angry to sputter anything out other than "WORM!", making him laugh more. Thankfully he did leave, but not before giving a sly wink to the already melting man. Oh! How he was going to scold him a new one when he showed up tomorrow...

Except. He didn't show up the next day.

Rouxls had woken up from another dreamless slumber, odd he's been having those a lot lately, without the banging on his door, or the shaking him awake, or the shock of someone coming in while he was sleeping. But considering Jevil could teleport and Seam could teleport furniture it wouldn't stop either of them most likely, and especially liked to point out cruel loopholes of his logic that had nothing to do with the rules. But at least his lock was fixed so intruders no longer stole anything from his home. Thank goodness. But it didn't explain the silence he felt when he woke up and found no one there, he found it a relief but also strange. So he went through his usual morning routine of his morning beauty process, and opened up his shop for business. Flipping the sign open and unlocking the newly installed lock with a satisfying click. He was sure the moment he sat down behind the counter, that Jevil or Seam would stroll through the door any minute now that the shoppe was open.....But none came. The silence was a refreshing change of pace for him at least, but he looked over his shoulder every so often out of habit. But there was no yellow eyed smile there, which was odd. He tried busying himself with small things around the shoppe. Shifting through the two giant bins of 'darke candy', and shifting about any other small items he thought looked out of place-.....And suddenly noticing that some of his diamonds and other precious stones were missing from the display case under the counter. He scowled and made a mental note of asking Seam about it later.

But absolutely no one came in today.

...Ok. Not a big deal. Jevil was probably busy with his job back and Seam had a shop and child of his own to take care of. But he naturally couldn't help but be a bit suspicious and paranoid about this, old habits. The next day-...Haled the same results. He woke up without any other spooks and all alone like the night before....Ok. This was alright. He felt more curious than paranoid this time but his suspicions never went away. After a few silent hours of just sitting there in anticipation waiting for something to happen, he threw his hands up in defeat and stood from his comfy stool. In just a few moments, he was already flipping the closed sign in the window and marching his way down the path towards the Sheap just down the road. It's not like he was being over anxious or anything- He just happened to remember he still needed to return Seam's old burlap sack, yeah. That was it.

The old doll was waiting for him when he walked in. His already tired and smile became just a bit wider upon seeing the figure of the Worm duke peel back the flap door and stick his confused face in. "Welcome, Duke. What brings you to my humble home today?"

The worm gave a quick glance around the sheap and tilted sideways to glance around the cat and into his room in the back, just to see no one. His eyes blinked back to the ever patient cat who was smiling at him. "I..uh...*Ahem*" He straightened up and held a hand out holding the old sack. "I have cometh to return thine satchel. I-I haveth no need for it anymore."

Seam slowly held his hand out and grabbed the bag from the duke and dragged it under the counter before smiling back up to Rouxls. "Thank you, Friend. I was wondering where it had went." Rouxls made a hum and gave another look around the sheap, Seam tilted his head at his silence, "I take it you're looking for something as well? Perhaps I can help you find it."

"...Perhaps thou might." He turned his eyes back to him. "Where tis thine comical c-companion?"

"Oh, Jevil?" Rouxls didn't seem to flinch or anything at the name this time. Good. He shrugged. "At work most likely. If memory serves me right, King Hearts has been going over a few surprises for the big celebration next...week I think. And of course that promise to help watch out for the young King he made to you. But-..." He button eye spun as his one good eye looked him over. "Hehehe. He did mention wanting to let you relax a few days of your vacation before you go back next week."

Rouxls blinked...and stared confused at the smiling feline in front of him. "...Next week?"

He chuckled. "Well it's been six days counting today. I could've sworn you're break was ten days. Or not, I might be miscounting in my old age."

Rouxls's eyes widened slightly as he stared at the cat. A-All of this....EVERYTHING THAT HAD HAPPENED!! Had happened within a span of six days?! It felt like a lifetime! He stumbled and had to grab onto the counter to keep from falling, Seam quickly reaching his arm out to catch the worm's shoulder and staring at his dumbfounded look with concern.

"Whoa there, Friend. Are you alright?"

"I-I-..." Rouxls blinked and shook his head, "Y-Yes. I just hadst...n-no clue how long I-it hast been."

Seam slowly leaned him back onto his feet and gave a smile. "Well I think we all have been a little distracted the last few days. It's perfectly understandable to lose track of time. "

"B-B-But...How waseth I not able to notice thine time? I amst always on top of thine schedules!" He gave Seam a disbelieving look. "How couldst I not know about this?"

Seam hummed before pointing at him. "Perhaps your mind and body really did know how much you needed this break?" A paw was placed onto his shoulder and gave a few reassuring pats. "Don't worry about anything right now. Heed my words and rest, Dear Duke."

The walk back home was filled with him scolding himself for not being on top of the time, and beating himself up over how Lancer must've been so lost without him to help him right now. I mean who else would know just how to make him fried worms and meatballs he loved so much? Or read him his favorite Hide and Seek with Fluffy Bunny book before bedtime? Or helped him with running his part of the kingdom?! .....Or keep him from the dungeon? O-Or be his father...Surely no one was more qualified than him right? He's been there from the very beginning and certainly going to be there until his end. ....But he would be lying to himself if he didn't say he was curious about this whole 'plan' Jevil had put together. Oh he better had been keeping his word about Lancer this entire time. If he found so much as a hair misplaced on his fuzzy little head, he'd be sent back to the dungeon faster than you could say 'Chaos'.

The rest of the day had been pretty quiet as well. Not so much as a guard stopping in and saying hi. Wow. It really had been a while if he wasn't used to the usual quiet of his shoppe. He decided he might as well heed Seam's words and 'relax' as everyone kept telling him. So the very next day he decided to do just that, still woke up fairly early out of habit, but his body was strangely more...less tired? If that even made any sense. Perhaps everyone was right. Maybe he did need a rest- Those thought were quickly shaken away and replaced with 'Well, If I really need a break then I could've just easily taken one at anytime if I wanted too. Lancer still needs me.' 'Yeah, well considering nothing tramatic has happened that says a lot about your boy huh?' 'Oh shut up!' 'What Jevil said about giving him some room from you was probably true, but you keep denying his truth. Just like you keep denying your feeli-"

"Ok. That tis enough self monologue this morning!" He quickly escaped the warmth of his bed and stood up. Time to start the day.

During the next two days, the shoppe was filled with relaxing music played from a small record player in the corner, it's owner sitting behind the counter knitting away or rereading his calligraphy books on poetry, some he might've written himself and wasn't too bad. If he said so himself, who could write poetry better than him?~....King Hearts but that's besides the point. He still looked over his shoulder every so while but that was just force of habit. Speaking of habits, he tried really hard not to think of Lancer or the eventual 'date' he accidentally agreed to with Jevil. The endless possibilities of what that little loony would do made him shiver, hopefully he'll be more aware of his own boundaries.

The third day was his next to last one for break if he remembered right, oh he could taste the sweet relief of seeing his sweet little boy again. His smile and giggles were to absolutely to die for. The thought made him get into a better mood, momentarily making him forget any worries and putting him into a better mood. The one guard who finally came in had the pleasure of having a smiling duke winking at him. Sold a good few diamonds and dark candy that day. But he didn't expect the next morning to be filled with his head pounding from a headache. So groaning and tossing his head under the pillow seemed a good way to start his morning.

KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK!!

Grumbling, a blue face surrounded by white mess bedhead rose from under the comfy pillow and blinked tiredly. How..What was- More knocking sounds came from the other side of the shoppe and he lazily turned his gaze in that direction. It sounded like a bloody rabbick was knocking it's way around outside. Wouldn't be the first time those little rodents tried to break into his food supply. So with a grumble and annoyed look, the worm forced himself out of the comfy warm bed and onto the cold floor. Shuffling his way over towards the door, the knocking was still coming on strong and it was starting to get annoying.

"Alrighteth! I amst coming. Keepest thineself down." The knocking seemed to halt from his shout and was silent as he reached his hand around the doorknob and pulled the door open. ...The sight before him wasn't what he was expecting.

"Why hello, hello.~" A familiar smile and yellow eyes peered up at him from the ground. Long tail wagging behind him. The faint smell of candy came at him full force and dull purple and red suddenly flashed across his vision. "Hehe. For you, you.~"

Rouxls had to blink and take a step back to take a good look at the smaller man in front of him. ..He still half believed he was asleep by what he saw. Jevil The Jester....Wasn't wearing any jester outfit as per the norm. Instead his body was adorned with a purple suit with a comically large orange bow, and same clown shoes. His hand was holding up a couple small tree branches, covered in small dark black flowers that would've been candies soon if Jevil hadn't broken them off the branch. They were all tied together by a small red ribbon tied in a bow. Jevil was standing there with a beaming smile and seemed to be waiting for his reaction.

He slowly blinked and looked at the strange bouqet of branches in front of him. It shook a bit when Jevil pressed it a little closer to him, he slowly brought his hand up and lightly grabbed it from him. He gave it a confused look over, a few leaves falling from the twigs. "Um....Thank thee."

Jevil's tail wagged a little faster and he let out a couple more giggles before looking back up at him. "Are you ready, ready?"

"Ready...for what?"

"Our date, date silly, silly Rouxls.~"

Rouxls full on stopped and stared dumbfounded at the smaller man. One could see the wheels turning in his tired mind before his eyes widened and his brain finally snapped back like a rubber band to reality. "THAT'S TODAY!! R-RIGHT NOW!?"

Jevil giggled and reached a claw over to gently poke Rouxls's pajama pants. "I see you're late, late. Did you forget?"

"NO!...*Ahem*" He quickly stood back up and cleared his throat. "O-Of courseth not! I nay forgot about this event. I just...w-wasn't expecting thou to arrive so soon...*sigh* Cometh in and wipe thou's feet." The duke turned and trudged back into the shop and in followed the bouncy happy purple menace behind him. The bell dinging as the door closed behind them. The tree branches were placed onto the counter as the tired worm walked around it and gave Jevil one last look before disappearing into the back. "Wait here please."

He egerly nodded and watched him disappear behind the curtain before chuckling to himself. PERFECT!! Part one of his plan was already complete! He got Rouxls to agree with his idea and he had already accepted his token of his affections. Now the next step was to wow him of course! And he had plenty of practice from the plays he and Seam used to script together and perform for the Kings! Just take some of those old romance scenes and play them into real life. Genius right? OH! Seam wouldn't stand a chance against him now! Because he had a secret weapon on his side in the form of a very round boy and the very hopeless romantic that was the King of Hearts! The boy provided the game stats on the Duke and his majesty gladly gave him all the romantic advice he could give for his help in the ball restorations. Everything Seam didn't even know about Rouxls.

Now all he had to do was just keep his cool and keep this plan on track. After all. HE COULD DO ANYTHING!!

His head snapped up towards the curtain as it flapped open again and the worm appeared in all his suited up glory, making Jevil's tail wag out in glee.

"*sigh* Showest me what thou has planned for me today, Worm."

#fanfic #jevil #rouxls kaard #seam #deltarune #seaxls #rouxls kaard x seam #rouxls kaard x jevil #jevil x rouxls #jevil x seam #seam x rouxls #seam x jevil #rouxls x jevil #rouxls x seam #jeam #seavil #rouxlvil #rouxvil #nosuit

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

Box Boy: Kauri

Credit for the whole concept here to @sweetwhumpandhellacomf, plus thanks to @shameless-whumper for being cool with me utilizing their ideas and characters for this!

And of course my thanks to you, you filthy enablers, for always being here to tell me to write the new worst thing I’ve thought of that day. Thanks to @dr-dendritic-trees and @iaminamoodymoodtoday for name choices!

I’ll just tag people who have been asked to be tagged in other things: @bleeding-demon-teeth, @spiffythespook, @special-spicy-chicken, @finder-of-rings, @whumpywhumper

P.S. I’m working on the dubcon Danny drabble too so I may get that up within the next couple of days!

CW: Implied noncon, intimate whumper,

“Shit, I think that’s a new water bottle. Kauri, hold up, do you think this is a new one?”

Kauri drops into a crouch, tilting his head to look at the laptop set up on Owen’s coffee table. “I’m not sure, Mr. Owen.” Owen’s mouth widens a little further into a smile - he likes when Kauri calls him Mr. Owen, like a term of respect. Kauri had known when he left the box that it could be anything - you call them whatever they want to be called - and it could have been different, harder to say out loud, than something as easy as Mr. Owen. “It looks the same as the one you already have?”

He’d been warned his new owner would not want him to talk, but Owen doesn’t seem to care. He lives by himself in this whole big place - a condo, Kauri thinks, but the word doesn’t always stick, it bounces around and dances out and falls right out one ear if he tries to focus on it for too long. Owen lives alone, and that’s why he got Kauri, for companionship.

For company.

Jesus Christ, like my very own combination Martha Stewart and blow-up doll. Except that’d be the grossest fucking blow-up doll in the world. You’re really pretty, though. Are they all pretty?

I d-don’t know, Mr. Owen. I can’t remember-

I bet they are. I wonder how they get so many pretty people to sign up for this.

“No, this one is definitely new. See? I think he changed the logo, since he got his boy.”

Kauri might hesitate - even tense a little - but Owen doesn’t notice. “Right. So you’ll want to get it, then.” He still has the dustrag in one hand, and he nearly moves to stand, but Owen’s hand slides across the back of his neck to hold him, and Kauri instead shifts easily onto his knees on the floor, sitting on his heels. Position Two.

“I might. I don’t know. Do you think it’s worth it? I mean, I know they’re stainless steel, but he’s charging $24 a bottle.”

“You don’t care about money. Plus, you like watching him, Mr. Owen,” Kauri says, voice quiet. Owen’s hand slides up into his hair, catching in the black curls. When they told him he was going to leave, that he had been selected, he’d been told he was a custom order.

Curly black hair, blue eyes, thin build, not tall enough to be intimidating but tall enough to look good if Owen wanted to take him out. He was lucky he’d fit exactly what the customer was searching for.

He’s lucky.

The Roomba is hard at work across the room, and Kauri kind of likes the little thing - it’s like having a pet of his own - a pet with a pet - especially considering he routinely has to fish it out from under the entertainment center when it gets stuck and starts screaming for help.

Man, when they put the active learning language chip in Roombas, that was a game changer for sure, Owen had said when he introduced Kauri to it. The day he got his name. He’d had a number, before…

645898, wake up.

645898 needs more time.

645898, Position Twenty-Three.

645898, lights out.

Was there a name before the number, even? There’s something on the sheet of paper they’d given to Owen - the contract he’d signed. Kauri wasn’t allowed to see it, it was too distressing for Box Boys to see their contracts. Kauri can’t grip a pen super well - he gets shaky.

It’s considered bad form to let a Box Boy see their old handwriting, because they’ll just get upset about how it doesn’t look the same any longer. But it’s not like Kauri even remembers what it looked like before.

Things must have been really bad, for him to sign himself over, so really he’s grateful he has this opportunity. It’s like a fresh start, and all he has to do is whatever Owen tells him to do - and Owen’s one of the good ones, he thinks. Not that he has a comparison… but Owen is really, really nice compared to what Kauri, as 645898, had worried he’d get.

Owen was really concerned about the ethics, had asked Whumpees-R-Us to provide proof that Kauri - whoever he was, once upon a time - had signed himself over willingly and legally. Kauri was kind of proud that his owner cared so much about it being humane and ethical, because even in just the couple of months he’d been here, he’d seen Owen angrily typing posts out on message boards to owners that weren’t very good to their boys, telling them that you can’t buy real loyalty, real affection, you have to treat the pets right.

Other owners, Owen tells him all the time, are cruel.

He could have been sold to someone vicious or violent, but instead, the worst thing Owen does is make him watch the youtube channel for what must the loudest, most annoying human being on earth.

Not that Kauri knows any other human beings. He only knows Owen.

“Hey.” Kauri blinks, looking up at Owen, who is smiling down at him, the hand still in his hair, fingers running again and again through the curls. “You listening, Kauri?”

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Owen, I got, um, distracted.”

“By what?”

Kauri’s not supposed to think about anything but now, and he feels himself tense, just a little. Even with Owen, who is nicer than he had any right to hope for, he couldn’t admit that he’d been trying to think again.

You’re an investment. You aren’t made to think. That’s not what I got you for, all right? I don’t mind the talking, I want you to talk. I need someone around me, here, I get pretty fucking lonely. But I don’t want you to think.

“The, um, I was thinking about the way your… the Host got a new boy. That’s all. It’s, um, it’s nice to see other ones.”

It really had been. Owen had watched the videos with Kauri as they uploaded, excited that his favorite, absolute favorite YouTuber had picked one up, too.

Lucky bastard got one for free and I had to pay for mine - but fuck it, that’s what the residuals for all that child acting I got pushed into are for, right? Millionaire before sixteen, cover of magazines, all that bullshit.

Had Kauri ever read a magazine? He couldn’t remember.

“Oh, cool. I was just thinking about that, too. You never watched the collar video with me, did you?”

“Um… n-no, Mr. Owen. Remember, we talked about how the, um, the shock collars make me uncomfortable-”

We have a situation with 645898.

645898, you will get in Position Twenty-Six, now, or you will regret it.

Get someone in here, 645898 threw up again.

“Right, right. But I want you to watch it with me, this time. I don’t like that you haven’t, I really want you to be a completionist on this with me.” Owen smiles at him, and Kauri smiles back, automatically. Owen’s smile is warm and wide, and Kauri’s is small and not quite forced, but it’s there.

It could be much worse. Sometimes Owen rants about how the people with pets hurt them, or burn them, in ways they can’t come back from. All Kauri has to do is take care of Owen, every way he wants taken care of. He’s always kind.

It could be so much worse.

Kauri is so grateful to him for being so kind, for caring so, so much about being principled.

He signed himself over to be what he is now - he can’t remember it, but he knows it happened - and part of the risk you take is that you might get one of the owners who needs more than standard care.

Owen pulls Kauri up by one arm, and he moves quickly, unfolding himself and then climbing up onto the couch, sitting with his legs across Owen’s lap and his arms around his shoulders, head tucked into the crook of his neck and turned to look down at the laptop, just the way Owen likes.

Across the room, the Roomba gets briefly trapped underneath a rocking chair, and screams three times - HELP, KAURI HELP, KAURI HELP, KAURI - before it gets itself back out and goes back to work.

There’s a part of Kauri that remembers screaming for help, but he’s not sure when he did it, or why.

Owen finds the video he wants and presses play, sliding his arm around behind Kauri’s back.

Sometimes he thinks he hates that Owen touches him so much, but he can’t think of why he’d hate it, and he puts that hatred away in the dark somewhere else until he can’t find it again. It could be worse. Owen only hurt him sometimes, and then mostly only in ways you couldn’t see.

It could be so much worse.

Kauri watches the Host’s boy, with a hint of familiarity making him feel restless and uncertain. He knows the expressions too well - he probably has a few of them himself. The slight smile and tilt of the head things you don’t have on your own, they’re given to you, trained in. Like the positions, only your owners don’t get to know what the expressions are called.

“Now, see, you already have that one,” Owen says, his voice a low rumble against the side of Kauri’s ear, as he points at the Host’s boy trying on a plain brown leather collar. Kauri swallows hard as he watches the host tighten, and tighten and tighten it.

Then complain that it doesn’t tighten enough.

“Yeah, I didn’t like that one, either,” Owen murmurs, as though he hasn’t watched this video a thousand times already. “Here, look, look at this one - the chain link one.”

Kauri looks, obediently, and tries not to think about the heavy metal weight around his own throat. His didn’t come from the same place - Owen had custom-ordered his collar from a jewelry store and it cost nearly as much as he did, a heavy weighted white gold chain set with dark blue stones that matched the color of his eyes, with his name on a little tag that hung off a small gold ring on the front, Owen’s contact details on the other side.

Look, I’m never letting you out of my sight, you’re a big investment piece and I’m not going to lose all this money. But still. Just in case you get lost, buddy, this will help the cops know how to bring you back home to me.

It unlocks with some kind of key, but Kauri’s never seen the key - he only felt the lock click into place when Owen put it on him, and it’s never come off again.

Kauri’s muscles lock when the Host and his boy try the shock collar - he remembers those, he thinks, the training for those went on and on and blurs together in his mind. 645898, you signed up for this, this was your decision. You legally consented to everything that happens in this building, and you know it.

645898, you are being very disappointing today.

“You okay, Kauri?” Owen murmurs, turning to press a kiss into the top of his head, tightening the arm that goes around his back. Kauri tries to curl himself up on Owen’s lap even further, because that is what he wants him to do, and if he doesn’t have to be commanded sometimes he can sort of fool himself that he wants it, too.

On the screen, the Host’s boy is wearing a collar with small metal prongs that press hard into his neck. “It hurts,” The Host’s boy says, in a stiff voice, every inch of his posture rigid with pain.

Someone get 687371 out of here, he’s causing a scene

Shit, someone get 645898 out of the way, 687371 is having a moment again

687371, lights fucking out for you

The Host pulled on a chain attached to the pronged collar, on the screen, and the boy’s hands snapped up to grab the leash. “Don’t-”

Don’t-… let go of me! Let go! Get your fucking hands off me!

The scene cut to something else.

Kauri froze, staring sightlessly, until Owen finally noticed the tension in him and shifted forward to turn off the video. “Hey, was that too much?” His voice was low, and compassionate.

“I know him,” Kauri whispered, lips barely moving.

“What? Yeah, you’ve seen the other videos with Colton in them, remember?” Owen reached up to take Kauri by the chin, tilting it up to look right at him, to look into his eyes. “What do you mean, you know him?”

“I saw him in training. We were in training together,” Kauri says softly, and it never occurs to him to lie. There are things he lies to Owen about - what he’s thinking, the way he hates how Owen eats spaghetti with about a pound of grated parmesan on it, that he drinks terrible coffee and someone with so much money should at least have better taste than that - but now, in this moment, he doesn’t lie.

He doesn’t have to.

“Shit, really?” Owen’s eyes light up, and he pushes Kauri roughly off of him, nearly knocking him to the ground until he catches himself on the coffee table. “Fuck, that’s great! That’s really great, Kauri! That’s awesome!”

“It… it is?” Kauri stands, warily, but Owen doesn’t tell him not to or order him into any positions.

“Sure! Yes! It gives me an in, Kor-bore, I’ve wanted an in since I started watching this guy. Look, he’s got contact info linked in the video description, maybe I can just… you said you know his boy?”

“I don’t… I’m sorry, I meant that I recognized-”

“No, I get it, you’re not supposed to say you knew each other.”

“We didn’t.” Kauri hesitates, shifting from foot to foot, glancing down at the screen where Owen has paused the video, opened up his email, begun rapidly typing. “We didn’t know each other. There were… faces.”

Let go of me! Please!

“Right, right.” Owen waves one hand. “Here, I’m going to ask if he’d be up for playdates or some shit. I’ll just… I’ll just add in here that I was an actor, that I was in… do you think he’ll remember Swing for the Stars or Toast better? Those were my two really big blockbusters.”

“I, um… Mr. Owen, I don’t-”

“Oh, right, because you don’t remember movies anymore. Got it. I’ll just list ‘em both. Oh, and add Dimmer Switch, that kind of horror didn’t play so well here but it’s kind of a cult movie now and it did fucknuts well overseas… Let’s see what he says.” Owen shoots a smile at him, truly pleased, and Kauri’s shoulders relax, instinctively, automatically.

There’s a pause while Owen finishes his email and sends it.

“Hey, Kor-Bore.”

“Yes, Mr. Owen?” Kauri, already heading back to the bookshelves full of movies to dust, pauses, and looks back. Owen watches him with a look Kauri knows too well, and he swallows against the instinctive sickness that settles into the pit of his stomach, the thing he can’t quite get rid of. The collar sits heavy around his neck, and he thinks, once again, that he’s not sure when he signed that paper that he knew he was signing up for this.

“I know you’re busy cleaning, but let’s take a break, yeah?”

Kauri swallows, and slowly nods, setting the dustrag down on the bookshelf. He turns around, fingertips going to the buttons on his shirt, and waits, his blue eyes settling on Owen’s, thoughtful and empty.

“Position Twenty-Six.”

Kauri’s hands drop from his shirt. “T-Twenty-Six, Mr. Owen?”

“You heard me. You don’t have to deal with the buttons, Kauri, I can handle that.”

“Yes, Mr. Owen.” Kauri shifts onto his knees on the floor, in the middle of Owen’s living room, and slides his arms behind his back, knees spread apart digging into the fibers of the carpet beneath him, and tilts his head back so he’s looking up at the cool brown wood of the ceiling fan, neck exposed.

He doesn’t tense up when Owen’s fingers start undoing the buttons on his shirt.

Owen told him all the time - some owners really hurt their Box Boys. And whatever he had come from - whatever life he’d been living that led him to sign himself over - must have been really, really terrible.

He’s really very lucky.

There won’t even be bruises when Owen is done.

645898, do you know how fortunate you are?

It could have been so much worse for you.

In the corner, the Roomba starts screaming again. Owen throws a shoe at it to shut it up as he gets to his feet but his shoe thumps into the wall instead, and Kauri keeps his eyes focused on the ceiling until the clockwork motion of the ceiling fan is all that he can see.

HELP, KAURI

HELP

KAURI

#whump #box boy #conditioned #youtuber whump #universe #whumpees-r-us universe #shameless-whumper #sweetwhumpandhellacomf #brainwashed #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #brainwashed whumpee #dehumanization #tw: implied noncon #implied noncon #erase to control

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providencepeakrp · 3 years

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DANIELA FRANCO

age: 29.

gender & pronouns: cis female & she/her.

neighborhood: claret park.

occupation: owner of bloom wellness.

fc: adria arjona.

BIOGRAPHY

trigger warnings: learning disability, medication, and gambling.

Born Daniela Franco in Los Angeles, California, life was pleasant and on the verge of cookie cutter. Her parents were good people from good families that had a sense of community and wholesomeness about them that could have been considered boring. At least Daniela did growing up in that household. While boring was far from a bad thing, it was simply uneventful and could lead to destruction for someone that wanted more from life than the normal milestones that way of living offered. Life spans were short; something Daniela learned when her first grandparent passed away when she was just seven years old. It was that event alone that seemed to really draw out her ADD and thus began the complications of keeping her within the means of the family dynamic. As cliché as it was, she was the youngest child with an older sister named Melissa and often went unnoticed unless there was a problem. As a child and into her early teens, it was mostly that she couldn’t sit still and she had far too much energy for her parents to contain and keep after her sister as well. So Daniela was thrown into sports, which worked when it came to expelling some of the restlessness, but the issue was more in the mind and not the body. Too often she would stay up all night because her brain wouldn’t shut down for sleep, it would constantly spin on thoughts and daydreams and thus began her insomnia.

Intelligence was something she very much possessed. Daniela was observant in the sharpest of ways with an eidetic memory and broad interest in varying topics and subjects, but the problem was focus. Unless something strong captured her attention and she was able to force herself into a hyper-focus then her mind would bounce around and it made homework and tests an absolute challenge. No matter how well she knew the material or could figure it out on the fly, Daniela would often blank on tests and couldn’t buckle down to focus on homework. The result was too often subpar grades, scores below her intelligence level but because of a disability and standardized methods of schooling her IQ was never genuinely reflected and it all had an effect on her self esteem. Daniela’s sister, just as smart, did very well in school and was praised rightfully so for it but Daniela was always a disappointment or in trouble because she couldn’t perform the same way.

When the insomnia led to her sleeping at school or passing out from exhaustion, her parents sought out professional help. Daniela was sent from her regular doctor to see a psychiatrist and the journey of various medications began, all just to get her to sleep. Some meds would leave her groggy and feeling like a zombie, others would make her sleep walk, and then there was one or two that would generally work but her ADD would combat it. It took a while for her psychiatrist to recognize and finally diagnose Daniela with Attention Deficit Disorder, but that was a whole other trip of medications that Daniela opted out of quickly in hating how it all made her feel. All the medications for this or that just did more damage to her self esteem, feeling like she was one issue and problem after another. She never really began acting out but her restless nature led Daniela to seek adventure and whatever would get her blood running. Whether that meant racing cars and staying out all night with friends, or going into places she was far too young to really be able to handle like pool halls and card rooms then she seemed game for it. One thing for sure about Daniela was that she was competitive.

Due to a job transfer, the Franco family moved half way across the country and settled in a mountainous city named Providence Peak. It was a tough move mostly for Daniela who had a final year of high school to finish and of course having to reexplain her situation to new teachers and a new school system. Thankfully her file did most of the talking for her and her parents and while Melissa attended the local university she pushed her way through a new high school where she felt completely out of place. It was only a year and Daniela made her family happy by graduating with a GPA that was good enough to get her accepted at the same local university her older sister was attending. During her time at Providence Peak University she met and made friends pretty quickly with a couple of girls, who would soon begin to feel more like the friendships she’d had growing up. Like they had grown up together. The three girls were together all of the time and formed a band they called Black Sheep after an amazing karaoke night, and for a while the band took more of her free time than her cards did. Eventually the band ceased as university became more difficult and their lives pulled them in different directions.

By the time she was nineteen she had made her first six figure income year, and by twenty-one her first six figure income day all by playing poker. It wasn’t that she was some exceptional card shark, it was more so that she had talent but a very sharp mind. Not only could she calculate and make raw decisions on the fly it was something her ADD and hyper-focus could attach to. The amount of brain activity it takes to play poker would often exhausted the average person but Daniela could have ten to twelve online games going on at once and it played perfectly into the rapid fire way her mind worked. She definitely experienced some low points since no one always wins, and she had some hard losses but for the most part Daniela was living a life that was beyond the wildest dreams of someone from a conventional family. She was able to travel the world and follow the live poker tours, sit at the table with some of the greats and legendary players and hold her own — occasionally winning. But most of all, Daniela was able to live a free and independent life, one that wasn’t structured in the typical contemporary fashion. She did make it through university but she didn’t have to run off to a corporate job or punch a clock anywhere. Daniela got to live life however she wanted and she loved it.

At twenty-three, after a night of playing cards in a back room in Dublin, Daniela married an Irishman she’d spent the night before with drinking and just having fun. It wasn’t love, it was just exhilaration. He was wild and adventurous and matched exactly with where she was in life at that point in time and she was careless in not recognizing that he was just in it for the ride and whatever he could get out of the nuptials. And she didn’t recognize that he was milking her for all she was worth until it was too late; nearly a year into the marriage and waking up one morning with divorce papers and an empty bank account. Through the divorce he held his claims that he really did love her, even called her his soulmate, but that he just didn’t want to be married and tied to one woman. Either way, Daniela got screwed and learned more lessons about life. Making her way through the world and through life as a professional poker player certainly made for an incredible way to live.

Broke and then a divorcee, Daniela moved back to Providence Peak to stay with her sister for a while who still lived in the city. It took a little while to build herself back up and fill her accounts again, especially after losing her confidence when it came to the distractions of her personal life. After working mid-level games for a while as a rounder, Daniela eventually moved up and began playing again before the disaster that was her marriage. She continued her mix of both online games and hitting actual tables to have the feel of cards in her hand and just enjoying the rush of high stakes a little more when sitting at a table with people that were likely to kill you over what most everyone considers just a “game”. The time soon came for Daniela to look for her own place and give her sister her space back, especially since Melissa had a serious relationship blooming and they deserved their privacy. She didn’t really like it, the thought of living alone made her sad and contemplate how lonely she was willing to feel. Daniela refused to move back home into her parents house, feeling like a failure if she had to do that so instead she found a house and settled in. It looked like Providence Peak was going to be permanent.

After the move, with her pockets and bank account lined and cushioned, Daniela decided to make a big change. It was time to put her university degree to use and all the certifications she’d earned as an esthetician. She’d been doing the research for years, so why not? Daniela opened up her own shop: Bloom Wellness. Where she sells handmade healing products to soothe and cleanse the mind, body, and soul. Since many of her products are made with CBD, she has a relationship with a local grower and in the last two years bought part of that company. Daniela ended up in a battle with Square over CBD and eventually won after sticking it out and standing by her products. They did almost put her out of business though and she’s feeling rather proud and blessed now. Though, being a solitary business owner hasn’t been without hardships, last year she lost her entire inventory to humidity and was devastated and had to completely rebuild her stock. Since it’s just her and two employees making everything, working the shop, and since it’s her only source of income, Daniela got worried about the bottom falling out on her. During that really difficult time, battling Square and losing her inventory, when she was feeling her lowest, Daniela nearly sold her business for next to nothing. Thankfully, she stuck it out and what she will tell anyone in making their own business: trust the process.

written by: christie.

#adria arjona #daniela franco #claret park #tw gambling #tw learning disability #tw medication

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twocubes · 4 years

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Wow, that apple pi is great. Who is John Galt?

A Spectre is haunting multinational capitalism--the spectre of free information. All the powers of ``globalism'' have entered into an unholy alliance to exorcize this spectre: Microsoft and Disney, the World Trade Organization, the United States Congress and the European Commission.

Where are the advocates of freedom in the new digital society who have not been decried as pirates, anarchists, communists? Have we not seen that many of those hurling the epithets were merely thieves in power, whose talk of ``intellectual property'' was nothing more than an attempt to retain unjustifiable privileges in a society irrevocably changing? But it is acknowledged by all the Powers of Globalism that the movement for freedom is itself a Power, and it is high time that we should publish our views in the face of the whole world, to meet this nursery tale of the Spectre of Free Information with a Manifesto of our own.

Owners and Creators

Throughout the world the movement for free information announces the arrival of a new social structure, born of the transformation of bourgeois industrial society by the digital technology of its own invention.

The history of all hitherto existing societies reveals a history of class struggles.

Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, bourgeois and proletarian, imperialist and subaltern, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that has often ended, either in a revolutionary re-constitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.

The industrial society that sprouted from the worldwide expansion of European power ushering in modernity did not do away with class antagonisms. It but established new classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of struggle in place of the old ones. But the epoch of the bourgeoisie simplified the class antagonisms. Society as a whole seemed divided into two great hostile camps, into two great classes, directly facing each other: Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.

But revolution did not by and large occur, and the ``dictatorship of the proletariat,'' where it arose or claimed to arise, proved incapable of instituting freedom. Instead, capitalism was enabled by technology to secure for itself a measure of consent. The modern laborer in the advanced societies rose with the progress of industry, rather than sinking deeper and deeper below the conditions of existence of his own class. Pauperism did not develop more rapidly than population and wealth. Rationalized industry in the Fordist style turned industrial workers not into a pauperized proletariat, but rather into mass consumers of mass production. Civilizing the proletariat became part of the self-protective program of the bourgeoisie.

In this way, universal education and an end to the industrial exploitation of children became no longer the despised program of the proletarian revolutionary, but the standard of bourgeois social morality. With universal education, workers became literate in the media that could stimulate them to additional consumption. The development of sound recording, telephony, moving pictures, and radio and television broadcasting changed the workers' relationship to bourgeois culture, even as it profoundly altered the culture itself.

Music, for example, throughout previous human history was an acutely perishable non-commodity, a social process, occurring in a place and at a time, consumed where it was made, by people who were indistinctly differentiated as consumers and as makers. After the adoption of recording, music was a non-persishable commodity that could be moved long distances and was necessarily alienated from those who made it. Music became, as an article of consumption, an opportunity for its new ``owners'' to direct additional consumption, to create wants on the part of the new mass consuming class, and to drive its demand in directions profitable to ownership. So too with the entirely new medium of the moving picture, which within decades reoriented the nature of human cognition, capturing a substantial fraction of every worker's day for the reception of messages ordering additional consumption. Tens of thousands of such advertisements passed before the eyes of each child every year, reducing to a new form of serfdom the children liberated from tending a productive machine: they were now compulsorily enlisted in tending the machinery of consumption.

Thus the conditions of bourgeois society were made less narrow, better able to comprise the wealth created by them. Thus was cured the absurd epidemic of recurrent over-production. No longer was there too much civilisation, too much means of subsistence, too much industry, too much commerce.

But the bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionising the instruments of production, and thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society. Constant revolutionising of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into air.

With the adoption of digital technology, the system of mass consumer production supported by mass consumer culture gave birth to new social conditions out of which a new structure of class antagonism precipitates.

The bourgeoisie, by the rapid improvement of all instruments of production, by the immensely facilitated means of communication, draws all, even the most barbarian, nations into civilisation. The cheap prices of its commodities are the heavy artillery with which it batters down all Chinese walls, with which it forces the barbarians' intensely obstinate hatred of foreigners to capitulate. It compels all nations, on pain of extinction, to adopt its culture and its principles of intellectual ownership; it compels them to introduce what it calls civilisation into their midst, i.e., to become bourgeois themselves. In one word, it creates a world after its own image. But the very instruments of its communication and acculturation establish the modes of resistance which are turned against itself.

Digital technology transforms the bourgeois economy. The dominant goods in the system of production--the articles of cultural consumption that are both commodities sold and instructions to the worker on what and how to buy--along with all other forms of culture and knowledge now have zero marginal cost. Anyone and everyone may have the benefit of all works of culture: music, art, literature, technical information, science, and every other form of knowledge. Barriers of social inequality and geographic isolation dissolve. In place of the old local and national seclusion and self-sufficiency, we have intercourse in every direction, universal inter-dependence of people. And as in material, so also in intellectual production. The intellectual creations of individual people become common property. Modern bourgeois society with its relations of production, of exchange and of property, a society that has conjured up such gigantic means of production and of exchange, is like the sorcerer's apprentice, who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells.

With this change, man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind. Society confronts the simple fact that when everyone can possess every intellectual work of beauty and utility--reaping all the human value of every increase of knowledge--at the same cost that any one person can possess them, it is no longer moral to exclude. If Rome possessed the power to feed everyone amply at no greater cost than that of Caesar's own table, the people would sweep Caesar violently away if anyone were left to starve. But the bourgeois system of ownership demands that knowledge and culture be rationed by the ability to pay. Alternative traditional forms, made newly viable by the technology of interconnection, comprising voluntary associations of those who create and those who support, must be forced into unequal competition with ownership's overwhelmingly powerful systems of mass communication. Those systems of mass communication are in turn based on the appropriation of the people's common rights in the electromagnetic spectrum. Throughout the digital society the classes of knowledge workers--artists, musicians, writers, students, technologists and others trying to gain in their conditions of life by copying and modifying information--are radicalized by the conflict between what they know is possible and what the ideology of the bourgeois compels them to accept. Out of that discordance arises the consciousness of a new class, and with its rise to self-consciousness the fall of ownership begins.

The advance of digital society, whose involuntary promoter is the bourgeoisie, replaces the isolation of the creators, due to competition, by their revolutionary combination, due to association. Creators of knowledge, technology, and culture discover that they no longer require the structure of production based on ownership and the structure of distribution based on coercion of payment. Association, and its anarchist model of propertyless production, makes possible the creation of free software, through which creators gain control of the technology of further production.[1] The network itself, freed of the control of broadcasters and other bandwidth owners, becomes the locus of a new system of distribution, based on association among peers without hierarchical control, which replaces the coercive system of distribution for all music, video, and other soft goods. Universities, libraries, and related institutions become allies of the new class, interpreting their historic role as distributors of knowledge to require them to offer increasingly complete access to the knowledge in their stewardship to all people, freely. The liberation of information from the control of ownership liberates the worker from his imposed role as custodian of the machine. Free information allows the worker to invest her time not in the consumption of bourgeois culture, with its increasingly urgent invitations to sterile consumption, but in the cultivation of her mind and her skills. Increasingly aware of her powers of creation, she ceases to be a passive participant in the systems of production and consumption in which bourgeois society entrapped her.

But the bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his ``natural superiors,'' and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous ``cash payment.'' It has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervour, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into exchange value. And in place of the numberless and feasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom--Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation.

Against the forthcoming profound liberation of the working classes, whose access to knowledge and information power now transcends their previous narrow role as consumers of mass culture, the system of bourgeois ownership therefore necessarily contends to its very last. With its preferred instrument of Free Trade, ownership attempts to bring about the very crisis of over-production it once feared. Desperate to entrap the creators in their role as waged consumers, bourgeois ownership attempts to turn material deprivation in some parts of the globe into a source of cheap goods with which to bribe back into cultural passivity not the barbarians, but its own most prized possession--the educated technological laborers of the most advanced societies.

At this stage the workers and creators still form an incoherent mass scattered over the whole globe, and remain broken up by their mutual competition. Now and then the creators are victorious, but only for a time. The real fruit of their battles lies, not in the immediate result, but in the ever-expanding union. This union is helped on by the improved means of communication that are created by modern industry and that place the workers and creators of different localities in contact with one another. It was just this contact that was needed to centralise the numerous local struggles, all of the same character, into one national struggle between classes. But every class struggle is a political struggle. And that union, to attain which the burghers of the Middle Ages, with their miserable highways, required centuries, the modern knowledge workers, thanks to the network, achieve in a few years.

Freedom and Creation

Not only has the bourgeoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called into existence the men who are to wield those weapons--the digital working class--the creators. Possessed of skills and knowledges that create both social and exchange value, resisting reduction to the status of commodity, capable collectively of producing all the technologies of freedom, such workmen cannot be reduced to appendages of the machine. Where once bonds of ignorance and geographical isolation tied the proletarian to the industrial army in which he formed an indistinguishable and disposable component, creators collectively wielding control over the network of human communications retain their individuality, and offer the value of their intellectual labor through a variety of arrangements more favorable to their welfare, and to their freedom, than the system of bourgeois ownership ever conceded them.

But in precise proportion to the success of the creators in establishing the genuinely free economy, the bourgeoisie must reinforce the structure of coercive production and distribution concealed within its supposed preference for ``free markets'' and ``free trade.'' Though ultimately prepared to defend by force arrangements that depend on force, however masked, the bourgeoisie at first attempts the reimposition of coercion through its preferred instrument of compulsion, the institutions of its law. Like the ancien régime in France, which believed that feudal property could be maintained by conservative force of law despite the modernization of society, the owners of bourgeois culture expect their law of property to provide a magic bulwark against the forces they have themselves released.

At a certain stage in the development of the means of production and of exchange, the conditions under which feudal society produced and exchanged, the feudal organisation of agriculture and manufacturing industry, in one word, the feudal relations of property became no longer compatible with the already developed productive forces; they became so many fetters. They had to be burst asunder; they were burst asunder.

Into their place stepped free competition, accompanied by a social and political constitution adapted to it, and by the economic and political sway of the bourgeois class. But ``free competition'' was never more than an aspiration of bourgeois society, which constantly experienced the capitalists' intrinsic preference for monopoly. Bourgeois property exemplified the concept of monopoly, denying at the level of practical arrangements the dogma of freedom bourgeois law inconsistently proclaimed. As, in the new digital society, creators establish genuinely free forms of economic activity, the dogma of bourgeois property comes into active conflict with the dogma of bourgeois freedom. Protecting the ownership of ideas requires the suppression of free technology, which means the suppression of free speech. The power of the State is employed to prohibit free creation. Scientists, artists, engineers and students are prevented from creating or sharing knowledge, on the ground that their ideas imperil the owners' property in the system of cultural production and distribution. It is in the courts of the owners that the creators find their class identity most clearly, and it is there, accordingly, that the conflict begins.

But the law of bourgeois property is not a magic amulet against the consequences of bourgeois technology: the broom of the sorcerer's apprentice will keep sweeping, and the water continues to rise. It is in the domain of technology that the defeat of ownership finally occurs, as the new modes of production and distribution burst the fetters of the outmoded law.

All the preceding classes that got the upper hand, sought to fortify their already acquired status by subjecting society at large to their conditions of appropriation. Knowledge workers cannot become masters of the productive forces of society, except by abolishing their own previous mode of appropriation, and thereby also every other previous mode of appropriation. Theirs is the revolutionary dedication to freedom: to the abolition of the ownership of ideas, to the free circulation of knowledge, and the restoration of culture as the symbolic commons that all human beings share.

To the owners of culture, we say: You are horrified at our intending to do away with private property in ideas. But in your existing society, private property is already done away with for nine-tenths of the population. What they create is immediately appropriated by their employers, who claim the fruit of their intellect through the law of patent, copyright, trade secret and other forms of ``intellectual property.'' Their birthright in the electromagnetic spectrum, which can allow all people to communicate with and learn from one another, freely, at almost inexhaustible capacity for nominal cost, has been taken from them by the bourgeoisie, and is returned to them as articles of consumption--broadcast culture, and telecommunications services--for which they pay dearly. Their creativity finds no outlet: their music, their art, their storytelling is drowned out by the commodities of capitalist culture, amplified by all the power of the oligopoly of ``broadcasting,'' before which they are supposed to remain passive, consuming rather than creating. In short, the property you lament is the proceeds of theft: its existence for the few is solely due to its non-existence in the hands of everyone else. You reproach us, therefore, with intending to do away with a form of property, the necessary condition for whose existence is the non-existence of any such property for the immense majority of society.

It has been objected that upon the abolition of private property in ideas and culture all creative work will cease, for lack of ``incentive,'' and universal laziness will overtake us.

According to this, there ought to have been no music, art, technology, or learning before the advent of the bourgeoisie, which alone conceived of subjecting the entirety of knowledge and culture to the cash nexus. Faced with the advent of free production and free technology, with free software, and with the resulting development of free distribution technology, this argument simply denies the visible and unanswerable facts. Fact is subordinated to dogma, in which the arrangements that briefly characterized intellectual production and cultural distribution during the short heyday of the bourgeoisie are said, despite the evidence of both past and present, to be the only structures possible.

Thus we say to the owners: The misconception that induces you to transform into eternal laws of nature and of reason, the social forms springing from your present mode of production and form of property--historical relations that rise and disappear in the progress of production--this misconception you share with every ruling class that has preceded you. What you see clearly in the case of ancient property, what you admit in the case of feudal property, you are of course forbidden to admit in the case of your own bourgeois form of property.

Our theoretical conclusions are in no way based on ideas or principles that have been invented, or discovered, by this or that would-be universal reformer. They merely express, in general terms, actual relations springing from an existing class struggle, from a historical movement going on under our very eyes.

When people speak of ideas that revolutionise society, they do but express the fact, that within the old society, the elements of a new one have been created, and that the dissolution of the old ideas keeps even pace with the dissolution of the old conditions of existence.

We, the creators of the free information society, mean to wrest from the bourgeoisie, by degrees, the shared patrimony of humankind. We intend the resumption of the cultural inheritance stolen from us under the guise of ``intellectual property,'' as well as the medium of electromagnetic transportation. We are committed to the struggle for free speech, free knowledge, and free technology. The measures by which we advance that struggle will of course be different in different countries, but the following will be pretty generally applicable:

Abolition of all forms of private property in ideas.

Withdrawal of all exclusive licenses, privileges and rights to use of electromagnetic spectrum. Nullification of all conveyances of permanent title to electromagnetic frequencies.

Development of electromagnetic spectrum infrastructure that implements every person's equal right to communicate.

Common social development of computer programs and all other forms of software, including genetic information, as public goods.

Full respect for freedom of speech, including all forms of technical speech.

Protection for the integrity of creative works.

Free and equal access to all publicly-produced information and all educational material used in all branches of the public education system.

By these and other means, we commit ourselves to the revolution that liberates the human mind. In overthrowing the system of private property in ideas, we bring into existence a truly just society, in which the free development of each is the condition for the free development of all.

— Eben Moglen, January 2003, The dotCommunist Manifesto

#Anonymous

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whumping-every-day · 4 years

Text

Gabriel: Future

The amazing Ren sent me a request a little while ago, asking if they could write a future fic for Gabe and Gang - and it is my pleasure to share it with you guys! Based off of this ask that I got a while ago, regarding what would happen when Gabriel got older.

Content Warnings for this one! Mentions of euthanasia, fear of death, depression, chronic pain.

AN EDIT: This was written by Ren at @mybrokenlittletoy and credit should go to them!

Gabriel was thirty-four. He had long lost that youthful look that had pets in such high regard, and he sometimes had trouble moving. Some days he hurt bad enough that he couldn't get out of bed and forced his Master and Mistress to care for him. He hated those days. Once he could move again, he would work twice as hard, and be as good as humanly possible. It didn't help that his fingers would stop and jerk randomly as he got older, and the fact that his Masters were forced to spend money on him to get glasses because his vision was so bad.

He knew what happened when pets became like this. He had used to wish for it when he was with his last Master. Now, though...

He didn't want to be retired. He didn't want to be put down and discarded so his Master and Mistress could get a new pet. Still. Gabriel knew his time was up. He was just so, so grateful that they had let him live the last nearly fourteen - fifteen? - years in comfort with them. They could have sold him or just given him away so many times - he would have deserved it, after all. He still had the scars in his feet from when he broke Mistress's favorite mug.

Master had been talking to Mistress about a surprise that they would be giving him the day before. They’d said that they would probably leave the room for it. They had been speaking in quiet tones, but he had still heard, guilt overwhelming him.

After the guilt about eavesdropping had eased, a dull sense of terror replaced it. He had taken in all the factors needed for a surprise that had to be hidden from him and had come to the realization that.... that he was going to be retired. Why else would they be talking about taking him somewhere and that it would be best if they left the room? He was selfish to think that they would want to stay in the room with him. He was being greedy now, far more than if he had just stayed quiet, but he just... he wanted to beg, not for one last chance, but for them to please stay. That even if they didn’t do it themselves, that they please just hold his hand or stroke his hair one last time.

Presently, he was kneeling in the living room, arms curled around his stomach. He had discarded his soft, expensive clothes and put on his older ones, worn out and far less comfortable than the first set. No need to make Master or Mistress take the clothes off him so they could be given to the next pet. At least these were ones they said were too shabby for anyone to wear anymore.

He should have been doing something instead of just lazing around. Master and Mistress already had to deal with his days in bed, the least he could do was work even harder for them. Today though... he just felt heavy. He felt such deep sadness that he felt numb. He didn't want to leave Master and Mistress, but it wasn't his choice to make, and it had already been made for him.

"Gabriel? Baby, what are you doing?" Mistress's voice came from behind him and he flinched out of reflex. He should have been more attentive. "Why are you wearing your old clothes?” Gabriel heard her heels come towards him, them quickly matched by heavier boots. Master was here too? Of course he was. A lump rose in his throat as he fought back a sob, body tensing as the two came to stand in front of him. He could see a bag- a purse- in the shadow and swallowed past the tightness. Had they been going out? Of course, he had interrupted them. “Can you look at me, sweetheart?"

Gabriel nearly began crying right then, forcing himself to look up. His Master and Mistress were far too good. Whatever pet they got next would have the best owners in the world. He couldn't help but wonder if they would get new clothes too, or just his hand-me-downs. If they would sleep in the room Mistress had helped him decorate. He really should have torn those down so they wouldn't be bothered with it. At least he had folded his clothes and changed the sheets this morning.

When he looked at them both a bit longer he did begin to cry, slow tears flowing down his face. "I- I know I have- have no right to ask, but please... please, Mistress, Master. Please." He was nearly sobbing by the end, head dropped back down to the ground. Master and Mistress were silent then there was the sound of one of them sitting on a chair. By the look of the shoes it was Mistress. He should really remove her shoes, but the heaviness seemed to sink lower in him.

Master took a seat at his own chair, the backing making him look like he was in a throne. He may have well been, by the authority he seemed to radiate. "Gabriel, what do you think is going to happen?" What in the world was Gabriel going on about? He had been nearly overjoyed two days ago but now it seemed like he had gotten it into his head that something was going to happen to him. "You aren't in trouble, bud."

Gabriel lifted his head again, an almost empty look in his eyes. Hiccups still jerked his body, but he tried to suppress them. "I- I know I'm going to the clinic today. That- that I'm going to be re-retired. I j-just…” Fresh tears spilled from his eyes. “I beg you, please, Master, and – and Mistress, please stay with me. At least until they put me to sleep. I know I haven't, I haven’t earned it, and – and I should be p-punished just for, for asking, but I d-don't want to be alone." His voice is wet, nearly silent. "Please… O-or, if – if you did it – I won't fight, I promise, I'll be good."

The room was silent save for Gabriel's muffled sobs for a good few minutes. He had curled back in on himself and was shaking, unable to look either of them in the eye after his rudeness. What was he thinking? Of course they wouldn't want to be in the room. Only the most sadistic masters enjoyed putting their pets down or watching it happen. He had only insulted them by asking.

“ ’m sorry,” he gasped. “I'm sorry. I’m being selfish and- and I should be grateful that you let me live this long. Especially since - since I'm so useless all the time...” He should have just worked through the pain. Through the days it seemed hard to breathe and move even though nothing hurt. “May I… may I please clean until it’s time to go?” He would work past the pain that wracked his body and the way his fingers were dangerously stiff. He had too. The new pet wouldn't know how Master liked his shoes shined or how Mistress liked when her meals were cooked just so. He could make it easier until they got their new pet. He could be good, even if just in this.

“Gabriel, come here,” Mistress ordered. Her voice seemed tight. It sounded like she was trying not to cry. “Between Stefan and I, now.” She gestured to the space between chairs and glanced at her brother with a look Gabriel couldn't quite decipher. She waited until their pet had obeyed before getting off her chair. She didn't miss the way Gabriel whimpered and began to extend his arm, it only retreating when she shook her head. “Little one… you aren't going anywhere. You aren't-" A choked sob left her, and she reached out to cup his cheek. “Your Master and I aren't retiring you. We would never retire you. You’re our sweet boy, our Gabriel.”

Stefan knelt next to Maria and looked at Gabriel with a soft look. He had his own tears brimming. “Buddy… no. Mistress is right. You… we aren't going to take you to a clinic. We aren't ever going to retire you. If you did ever get hurt, or – or if you got sick – this would never be a punishment, or because we got bored with you. We will be with you until the very end, I promise. We promise.” He reached out to clasp Gabriel's shoulder.

Gabriel looked up at them both with red eyes, bringing his sleeve up to wipe them. “Y-you're keeping me? Even though I'm not, I'm not pretty anymore?” He had been a sore sight when he was younger. As he had gotten older he hadn't really improved. With a soft hiccup he leaned into Mistress's touch, the familiar contact soothing him slightly, and Master's grip on his shoulder made him whimper quietly. “I'm useless so much,” He whispered, like confessing to a great secret. “I can't even move some days. It inconveniences you so much. I hear- hear you saying how you hate it. I try to ignore it, I promise, I - I can try harder. I can be quieter and – and -" He was quieted by Mistress pulling him against her chest, and he reflexively breathed in the scene of her perfume. It was his favorite kind. It was the kind she had been wearing the day she bought him.

“Sweetheart, stop - stop. We don't hate that you have bad days. We hate that it hurts you so much. We love you and we hate when you are in pain. We don't hate you for having it.” Maria said softly as she cupped her hand around his head. “We could never hate you, baby. You are ours, until the end.” Stefan nodded in agreement, and he leaned forward and hugged them both.

Gabriel began to sob again, but this time it was of relief. Not joy, he was still too scared, but relief. Master and Mistress weren’t retiring him. They were keeping him! They - they loved him. He knew they had said it in the past, but he’d never quite believed it, not entirely. Not until that moment. He loved them and they loved him right back, even if it was just in the same way most people loved their pets. “I love you too, Mistress, Master.” Till the end of his days, whenever that would come. And however it happened… now he knew that they would be with him, right until the end.

@robinshouseofwhump @pepperonyscience @angelsuperwholock @pennsss @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius @learningtowhump @shameless-whumper @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump @what-huh-imconfused @vickytokio @captivity-whump @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @pepperonyscience @adventuresofacreesty @pepperonyscience@kyra-plays @cagefreebirds @whumpywhumper @blue-flare10 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpywhumper @maybeawhumpblog @fallingstormphoenix @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @infreidel @shadowicepuma @justanothermaltesegirl @whump-in-the-night @theawesomeawkward @promptnations @pepperonyscience @pepperonyscience @whumpity--whump--whump @pepperonyscience@maraudersmarvelwhump @haro-whumps @whumposaurus @deluxewhump @nervous-writer @doublebubblebitchqueen @mortifiedwhump @whump-tr0pes @comfortforthepain @kungpao-giffy @whumps-the-word

#gabriel whump series #comfort #fear #tw: euthenasia #slavery #pet whump #this is a lovely look at what things might be like 15 years after the original series #caretaking #also please note that this is not my writing!#i may have not made that clear enough the first time!

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carriagelamp · 3 years

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November 2020: A Months of Familiarity

This November ended up being a month of me either rereading old favourites, exploring new books by favourite authors, or a mix of both.

…Be prepared for so much Terry Prachett, I found his audiobooks on Libby last month and since that I’ve been unstoppable.

The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents

The first of my Terry Practhett books to mention! I chose to include this one on my list because it’s a beautiful stand alone novel, perfect to read if you’ve never touched on of Pratchett’s works before, and is often overlooked.

The book is about Maurice, an “amazing” cat by his own admission, who has teamed up with a stupid boy and his very own plague of rats. The moneymaking scheme is simple: set the rats loose on a town and after causing a panic let the boy stroll in and offer to play his pipe and lead them away… for a fee. This is working well, until Maurice, the boy, and the rats arrive in the town Bad Blintz. Here the rats are beginning to question the morality of their work, the boy gets entangled with a young, mischievous local girl, and they’re all shocked to find out that the town already has a real rat infestation… or so the rat catchers claim. Things quickly turn sinister and deadly as the group is forced to confront not only the cruelty of humanity, but something even more sinister living in the small, dark, hidden place of the town.

This is a YA book, unlike some of Pratchett’s other novels, so it’s a quick, fun read, while still having all of his dry wit and heavy, complicated thoughts about society, morality, belief, and what it means to be a person. It’s a genuine delight to see Maurice and the rats, recently made sentient by wizards’ rubbish, struggle to come to terms with who they were and who they are now.

Black Pearl Ponies: Red Star & Wildflower

Y’all it ain’t a secret at this point that I enjoy a stupid horse girl book, right? I picked up the first two books of the Black Pearl Ponies books from the library on a whim and they were basically what they promised. Girl lives with family on ranch, father helps train horses, girl goes on pony adventures with ponies. A particular focus is given to horse welfare and care. Very mediocre but a nice thoughtless covid read if you, like me, get a craving for animals books written for seven year olds from time to time. Plus this comes with the added humour of it being written, as far as I can tell, by a British author who thinks all Americans are stetson wearing cowboys which I find unreasonably funny.

Crenshaw

I love Katherine Applegate’s work; I read the Endling series earlier this year and they are overwhelmingly good. Crenshaw was also an enjoyable read, though not my favourite by her. It read a little bit like a book I read last fall, No Fixed Address, which was also a very good read though not my usual genre. Crenshaw is about a boy, Jackson, whose family, though close-knit and loving, is experiencing financial difficulties and struggle with food scarcity, homelessness, and all the instability and stress that results from this. During this tumultuous time, Jackson is surprised by the reappearance of a tall, bipedal, snarky cat — Crenshaw, his old imaginary friend. This is a charming book that blends genuine, real world hardships with whimsy and magical realism.

The Enemy Above: A Novel of WWII

Since it was Rememberance Day this month, I decided to pick up a holocaust novel. This book is about 12-year-old Anton, a young Jewish boy who finds himself fleeing from his Polish farm in the middle of the night with his old grandma when a German raiding party that attacks their village in an effort to make the countryside “judenfrei”. The book is, perhaps, not the most well-fleshed out, but it’s fast-paced and exciting for a child/YA audience that’s being introduced to holocaust literature, without trying to downplay the absolutely horror and brutality of the Nazis. It manages to strike a satisfying balance between fear, tragedy, and hope.

“Everything he had heard was true. He was just a twelve-year-old boy and yet they hunted him. He had broken no laws, done nothing wrong. He was simply born Jewish. How could anyone want to kill him for it?”

Gregor the Overlander

Somehow I never knew that Suzanne Collins wrote anything other than The Hunger Games? I stumbled across this series at a used bookstore and was first taken by the cover and then shocked when I realized I recognized the author’s name. Well The Hunger Games was such a good read, how could I not pick up a book with people riding on a giant fucking bat?

Such a good choice. I’m almost done book two and bought book three today after work. It is exactly the sort of low fantasy that I live for, when a fantasy world lives so close to the real world that you can practically touch it. I also love the fact that while all the wild fantastical elements are happening, you still have the main character taking care of his toddler sister the whole time. It’s at times charming, hilarious, and nerve-wracking!

It’s about Gregor, a normal kid who’s doing his best to help his mom take care of his two younger siblings ever since his father disappeared years ago. Gregor expected months of boredom when he agrees to stay home over the summer instead of going to camp like his sister in order to watch his baby sister, Boots, and their grandma while his mom is at work. He never could have expected that a simple trip to the apartment’s laundry room would lead to both him and Boots tumbling miles beneath the earth into the pitch black Underland, a place filled with giant rats and bugs and people with translucent skin who fly through the massive caverns on huge bats. He also could have never expected that he would get wrapped up in a deadly prophecy that would force him to travel into distant, dark lands into the waiting claws of an overwhelming enemy.

Kings, Queens, and In-Between

A Canadian queer novel that I’ve seen trumpeted everywhere. Libraries, classrooms, bookstore, this book got so much hype (and has such a pleasing cover) that I had to get my hands on it. Now, I’ve got to admit that it’s not really my genre; I don’t love realistic fiction. But that being said, it’s a fun, heart-warming, queer romp through that explores gender, sexuality, love, family, friendship… there’s a lot of lovable, quirky, complicated characters that get thrown together in unexpected ways at a local summer carnival. While there’s tension and misunderstandings and mistakes, this is overall a very optimistic and loving novel, and would be a great read if you want a queer novel that reads like cotton candy.

Love, The Tiger

This book is the graphic novel equivalent of a nature documentary. There’s no text, but you follow a day in the life of a tiger as it moves through the jungle on the quest for food. The art is honestly beyond outstanding, and though it’s a really quick read it is so very worth it. I’ve also read Love, The Lion in this series (also good, though a bit more confusing imho) as well as one of the books from his other series Little Tails which is still very nature and education based, though for a slightly younger audience.

Making Money

More Pratchett! Making Money was the first Discworld book I ever read, and it’s one of my most reread ones — it’s an ultimate comfort read! This is technically the sequel to Going Postal (another book I reread this month), in which conman Moist Von Lipwig is saved from a rightful death at the noose in exchange for agreeing to work for the city. Going Postal sees Moist narrowly dodging death in many varied forms as he tries to get the Anhk-Morpork postal service back on its feet and get the drifts of dead, whispering letters moving again. In Making Money things at the post office have become… too easy. Moist is bored, restless, until he finds himself thrust into a new job: head of the Royal Mint. There he has been given not only charge of the biggest bank in Anhk-Morpork, but also a dog with a price on its head, a lethal family with all the money in the world out for his blood, and the fear that his secret past life may be on the verge of being exposed to everyone, all while he’s desperately trying to make money…

The Moist series is honestly an example of Pratchett at his absolute best imo, and the amount of humour, wit, adventure, and scathing commentary he can build around a bank is outstanding. Cannot recommend enough.

The One And Only Ivan

Another book I’ve been hearing everyone talk about, as well as another Katherine Applegate book. It’s been on my radar for a while, but with the sequel and a movie coming out, it had everything at a fever pitch and I finally picked it up. Fantastic read, I definitely enjoyed it more than Crenshaw. This book was based off the true story of Ivan, a gorilla taken from his home in the jungle and sold to the owner of a mall, where he spent years of his life growing from child to adult silverback in a small, concrete enclosure. In this fictionalized version, everything changes for Ivan and his friends, when a new baby elephant is bought to help revitalize the mall attractions and Ivan makes a promise he doesn’t know how to keep: to protect this baby, and keep her from living the life Ivan and his friends were forced to. This book made me very emotional. Applegate’s picture book that goes along with it is also a great companion read.

Ranma ½

I realized that our library had the 2-in-1 editions of Ranma ½ and honestly that was it for me. This has been a favourite series of mine since I was in middle school and realized that the creator of Inuyasha had written other things. It is unapologetically ridiculous and larger-than-life and you have to love the shameless joy it has at being ludicrous. It does start to feel a little repetitive the further into the series you go, but at the moment, with covid, I find I have a huge tolerance for rereading slightly repetitive things so long as they make me happy. And boy howdy does the vaguely queer undertones, endless pining, and relentless slapstick of Ranma ½ make me happy. This is classic manga y’all and if you’ve never read it you should!

The basic premise, for anyone that doesn’t is that of an bonkers martial arts comedy. It follows Ranma and his father who, while training in China, fell into cursed springs. Each spring has the tragic legend of a person or animal who drowned in it, and if someone falls in they inevitably turn into that creature any time they’re doused in cold water. Ranma had the misfortune of falling into “The Spring of Drowned Girl” and, indeed, turns into a girl anytime he’s hit with cold water. Things continue to spiral out of control when Ranma meets his arranged fiancée, Akane, who is as exasperated by this situation as Ranma. Both would rather be fighting people than worrying about things like romance. And don’t worry, there is lots and lots and lots and lots of some of the goofiest martial arts fights that you can imagine for a bunch of high schoolers.

Through the Woods

A beautiful and creepy Canadian graphic novel. I honestly really don’t even know how to describe it in a way that does it justice. It’s a collection of short horror stories, with beautiful, flowing art style that draws you in and sends chills down your spine. I’ll let the art doing the talk, and honestly beg you to go find a way to read this graphic novel:

The Witch’s Vacuum Cleaner: And Other Stories

The last Terry Pratchett book on my list (though shout out to the others I’ve listened to this month: Wee Free Men, Hat Full of Sky, Men At Arms, and Snuff) and one that I actually physically, rather than listening to the audiobook. I included this one because unlike the others, this was a Pratchett book I had never read before. It collects a number of Pratchett’s short stories that had been written for children over a number of years. These weren’t necessarily my favourite examples of Pratchett’s writing (I prefer his longer work that can really dive into social issues) but it was such a quick, easy, fun read that you can’t really help but be charmed by it. I liked the stories that took place in “the wild wild west (of Wales)” in particular.

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pulpwriterx · 3 years

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A SHEEP AS BLACK AS MIDNIGHT IN SPACE

It is a dark time for the Galaxy. General Enric Pryde and Supreme Leader Snoke have unleashed a reign of terror, dealing the New Republic a terrible blow with the Hosnian Cataclysm. But all is not lost. General Organa has discovered a New Hope from the desert of Jakku, who will become the Last Jedi. After Rey, Han Solo, Chewbacca, Poe Dameron and Finn, the former FN2187 undertook a daring raid that led to the destruction of Starkiller Base, Rey has gone to Ahch-To, to study under the reclusive Jedi Master Luke Skywalker. And he will tell her a secret. There is another.

I: THERE IS ANOTHER.

Luke Skywalker sighed, heavily.

“Master Luke, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I destroyed my own family, Rey. And the Galaxy is paying the price. Did you ever wonder why Han and Leia don’t live together? Why I’m in exile, here? There is another. Or at least, there was. My nephew. My paduan. The best and worst student at the Jedi Temple. Ben Solo.”

“Ben Solo! Didn’t he die at the Jedi Temple?”

“In a way, he did. He doesn’t use that name, anymore.”

“Then he’s alive? Do you know what happened to him?”

“A great many things. First? There were his mother's expectations. She had his whole life planned out. His Royal Highness, Prince Benjamin Skywalker Organa-Solo. He was going to be the perfect Jedi, the perfect young leader, the perfect fair-haired son of the New Republic. He wasn’t supposed to be a giant behemoth of a man, who was too much like his father and his grandfather to fit in any mold. Han and I pretty much figured that Big Ben was going his own way by the time he was six. His hair was down to his waist, and he’d scream and break the scissors with the Force if you came near him to cut his hair. He wouldn’t wear clothes. Just a pair of underwear, if you took him out. He wanted to be a Wookiee. He wouldn’t speak Basic. Just Shriiyywook. We worked it out. But Ben never really changed.”

Luke sighed.

“As he grew to manhood, I started seeing my nephew as a monster. His obsession with his own duality, and that of his grandfather. His heretical leanings toward the Grey Path. And his vows? Forget vows. Not my nephew, the king of taboo. Jedi are supposed to take vows of chastity, and honesty. To have control over their emotions. Ben sold cigarillos, wine, and rubbers from his father’s smuggling operation out of my father’s TIE Fighter, his personal vehicle. He lost his virginity when he was 14 to his best friend, Talia who was 13. As usual? Han was the best worst father, ever. He took her to get an implant, and kept Ben supplied with rubbers. Which he needed, because any of my female students who were curious about their resident Rebel Angel? Let’s just say, Ben never failed to satisfy their curiosity. He didn’t listen to me when I tried to stop him. He really thought he meant something to these girls. After all, they meant something to him. It took Talia telling him she was going to rent him by the hour out of her Wookiee foster father’s garage in Mos Eisley, because he laid more pipe to more satisfied customers than any spaceport gigolo. I mean, how do you teach a six and a half foot tall Force of nature who has been using the Force since he was a toddler in a crib to open the cupboard and get the cookies?”

“He likes cookies?”

“Ben? He eats like a Wookiee. Literally. Chewie taught him to cook.”

“But he likes cookies?”

“Eats them by the box."

Master Luke laughed.

“Now I see that all of it was so very minor. I used to get so angry with him about the TIE Fighter, and the smuggling, and Talia, and the other girls. He didn’t trust me to tell me how the Dark Side, how Snoke was stalking him. It had been a terrible day, for Ben. I disciplined his little group of girls, and all four of them blamed everything on him. Not Talia, though. She spoke up for Ben. But the other three girls? They didn’t take his side. They gave him up. He sat in his hut and cried, all day. He really cared. He did. The poor kid cried himself to sleep. I went to check on him, that night and I felt the Dark Side all around him. While he was sleeping. I thought he had given himself over to it. I attacked. I almost cut off his head, but Ben defended himself. He blocked my lightsaber with his and punched me in the face as hard as he could. If I wasn’t a Jedi Master who can anticipate my opponent's movements. It would have broken my neck. But he didn't mean to kill me. Ben was just scared. As it was, I was unconscious until the morning. By then? It was all over."

Rey couldn’t believe the enormity of the act that he had just admitted to.

Trying to murder his own paduan, his own nephew!

“What happened to your nephew after he brought the building down on you? Did he join the Dark Side.”

“No. He packed up his gear and walked ten miles to the spaceport, and made it there by morning. He left Yavin 4 on a Mandalorian freighter with a business associate of his father’s, Din Saxon, under an assumed name that he had identity papers for. Now he’s partners with Rotta the Hutt, Jabba’s son, Din Saxon, the Mandalorian, and Han Solo. They revived the old Galactic Black Market, and now there’s a war on, not only are they making a fortune? They’re the only game in town for a lot of little things that people find it hard to live without. They do sell arms and coaxium to both sides, but they only sell the low-grade junk to the First Order and at three times the price they sell to the Resistance. I hear that Ben’s doing well. He hasn’t realized his ambition to meet the girl the Force has bound him to, but he still has his friend, Talia. I trained her as a Jedi Healer, and she's since gone to the Republic Medical School. She's Ben's personal doctor. As reckless as he is? He needs to travel with a farkling doctor. Pardon my language. The point is, my nephew renounced the Jedi and the Sith, the Dark and the Light, that day. He wants no part of it. He follows the Grey Path. As it was laid out by Master Qui-Gon Jinn. He also wants no part of this war. His name is Ben Solo, but the name he does business under, the name you’ll have heard of is his alias. Kylo Skywalker. The Arkanian.”

“Ben Solo is Kylo Skywalker, the Arkanian?”

“Yes. And he and Han are looking to add a good scavenger to their operation, because Kylo just bought the salvage rights to the site of the Battle of Yavin-4. And he’s the new owner of the ruins of the Second Death Star. You were the best scavenger at Niima Outpost. I’m sure you're the woman for the job.”

***

Kylo Skywalker was truly a man larger than life.

He wore a black oilskin duster, caped and hooded, festooned with grommets, pockets, and epaulets over a black pair of pilot’s coveralls, tucked into tall black jackboots.

He also wore a huge pair of brown leather and Beskar chrome goggles, with shatterproof mirrored lenses.

And he was the tallest, burliest man that Rey had ever seen.

He sat down across from her at the table she had picked out at the Niima Cantina.

The man had a quiet air of undeniable menace about him.

It put Rey on edge.

“You should try to hide that you have that much strength in the Force. The Sith are real, and the First Order take who they want.”

“Not if I work for you, Jedi Temple dropout, right?"

“I picked a good time to leave. I hear you're the best scavenger at Niima Outpost.”

“I am. Can you take those goggles off? I feel like I’m talking to a man with no eyes.”

He lowered his hood, and took off the goggles.

Time stopped.

And it wasn’t just because Kylo Skywalker the man had grown up to be a black swan with dark, saturnine good looks out of the ugly duckling of a boy that Master Luke had described to her.

It was because Rey was fairly sure it was him.

The man with whom she had shared a bond in the Force, for as long as she could remember.

She never knew his face, or his name, but now that she saw him, she somehow recognized him.

“It’s OK. I feel it, too. The Force brings people together for all kinds of reasons. Look at it this way? Now you’re sure to get the job. You’re hired, Rey…”

Rey shrugged.

“Just Rey. My parents left me when I was a little girl. I never got a last name. I don’t have identity papers, either.”

“That’s OK. I can get you some, if you need them.”

The doors opened.

Rey was excited to see Han and Chewie, again.

Kylo laughed.

He had a beautiful smile.

“My father. And my godfather. But you knew that, because my Uncle sent you here to recruit me. But I get the feeling you might decide to stick with me and the Old Man, instead. Keep that quiet, though.”

Han and Chewbacca sat down.

“She really is a scavenger. A friend of Poe’s. He got her into this mess. I got her out of it. So, you hired her, right, junior?”

“I hired her.”

“How you been, princess? You don’t look so good.” Han asked.

“You can tell us. I used to be you, after all. The Galaxy’s only hope.” Kylo joked.

“It was awful, mostly. Really awful. Master Luke was nothing like I thought he would be. Sometimes, he was very kind. But sad. As if he forgot that he was supposed to be terrible. But some of the things he taught me just confused me. Or scared me. I’m afraid of myself, now. What I might do.” Rey admitted.

“Forget it. Forget everything he taught you. It’s meaningless. The Force has no Dark Side, and no light. That dualistic nerfshit thinking? People made that up. As an excuse to control each other. And make war. You shouldn’t be afraid of what you’ll do, like it’s not up to you. You make your own destiny, Rey. Look at me. I made mine. I’m no Jedi. And I’m no Sith. There is another way. The Grey Path. I can teach it to you, if you want. Think it over. But as for all that poison Uncle Luke poured into your ears? Look what it did to him. Forget it.” Kylo advised her.

“Sounds like Luke is in bad shape, junior.” Han mentioned.

Casually.

“When Rey reports back to him? We’ll send him some supplies.” Kylo said.

“Rey, do you really want to be a Jedi?” Han asked her.

Nobody had asked her that, yet.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, try working with us for awhile. If you don’t want to go back? I won’t send you. I learned my lesson on that. With junior, here. Even after that Snoke bastard burned the Temple, Luke tried to get me to send my kid back to him, one more time. I said no. Since then, I get to visit my wife, but we don’t live together. And the kid and her aren’t on good terms. But Ben’s alive, and doing good, and the Sith and the First Order didn’t get him. It’s worth it. Don’t go back if you don’t want to. Let ‘em have their farkling war, without you. Fuck ‘m.” Han told her.

Kylo raised his pitcher.

“Dark side? Light side? Fuck it. My side.” He said.

He motioned to the Rodian barman.

“Rey works for me and Solo, now. If there’s trouble with her? You’ve got trouble with all of us.”

“I never had trouble with Rey. You made a good choice, Rey. These guys are the real deal. Order what you want, kiddo. The Arkanian has deep pockets. The deepest in the Galaxy.”

Rey was very hungry.

She ordered a lot of food, and a cheap half bottle of red wine.

“Don’t bring her the cheap stuff.” Kylo told the Rodian.

“Why are you so rich, Kylo?” Rey asked.

“He gets dressed up like another Darth Vader. Red lightsaber and all. And we raid First Order ships with full cargo holds. Or Crimson Dawn freighters. Sometimes First Order warehouses and depots. All he has to do is show up and…say it, Vader junior. Say your thing.” Han suggested.

“I am Kylo Skywalker, Lord Vader. All of this belongs to me. Surrender to me all that I ask for. Or you will die. Quickly! I find your lack of haste disturbing.”

Rey shivered.

But, much to her shame, not entirely in fear.

“That’s why I call him junior. Because I ain’t calling him Kylo. I didn’t name him Kylo. You should see these assholes give up. They usually just kneel and grovel. Sometimes, we have to get tough? But most of the time? It’s all money, it’s all for the taking, and it’s all ours.” Han explained.

“I also liberate Stormtroopers. Snoke takes them from their families, when they are children. And he brainwashed, humiliates, tortures, and enslaves them. The First Order takes their faces and their names, and makes them kill. For Snoke. It’s what he did to me. It’s what he meant for me. I didn’t deserve to live that way. No one does.” Kylo added.

“What happens to them?”

“If they have a home to go to? I help them return to it. Or find a job. Some of them work for me. They are my people, I am their Chieftain. No one else cares about them. Not my mother. Not the Resistance. Not the New Republic. I care.” Kylo told her.

Rey nodded.

The idea that Darth Vader’s grandson, the Galaxy’s only Grey Jedi Master, a ruthless pirate with unlimited money, was the self-styled Arkanian-style Clan Chieftain of a small army of loyalists with military training was a little unsettling.

And that’s why the General wants him. She wants not just her son, but his people, and the influence he has over not just them, but potentially the First Order.

When Rey thought that, Kylo turned to her.

“The Old Man and I are dangerous, ruthless men. But compared to my mother? We’re baby Ewoks.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Han agreed.

And just like that, Rey was working for the Outer Rim Cartel.

Her food and wine showed up.

“So, junior, I talked to the guy? The guy about identity papers for Rey. You object to her being a Solo?”

Kylo smiled at Rey in a way that let her know she wasn’t the only one thinking what she was thinking.

“As long as she isn’t supposed to be my sister? It’s fine by me.” Kylo replied.

"Nah. It says I'm her legal guardian until she's 21. So, that way, nobody can steal you, from me, Rey. I also put you down as Junior's common law wife. Then, after you're 21? Nobody can steal you from him. Considering the way you two keep looking at each other? I figure you don't mind."

"So, this is my wedding night?" Kylo asked

"Watch it, kid. They're just papers. It's not like I bought her from Unkar Plutt and I'm giving her to you."

"Yes, Kylo. This is our wedding night." Rey told him.

Chewbacca made a comment.

"It was not fast, Chewie. Rey is her. The girl of Ben's dreams. It's the Thunderbolt. Didn't you know, when you first met Mala, that she was the one for you?"

Chewie said something about how he wasn't talking about that kind of knowing.

"Yeah, well, it's none of our business. They're probably just kidding around. Come on, old pal. Let's not be the extra dicks at the wedding."

Han got up.

Chewie said something, sternly, to Ben that Rey didn't understand, and Ben replied earnestly.

Rey decided she was going to have to learn better Shriyyywook.

After Han and Chewie left, Ben opened the bottle of wine.

"Since we've suddenly found ourselves married? I should make you some kind of vow. Think about the loneliness you felt on this desert, Rey. The longing for someone, something to come for you. Think about it, and let it go. Because you'll never be that alone, again." He told her.

"You have nothing to worry about, Ben. You're every bit as strong as Darth Vader. And just as much a man as Han Solo. You may think you're the ugly duckling. But you've transformed into a beautiful black swan. What happens, now?"

"We'll eat our dinner, and drink this bottle of vintage Corellian red. And then? We'll start doing whatever the fuck we want. And we'll keep doing whatever the fuck we want, until death comes for us. And the son of a bitch is going to have to sneak up on me."

Kylo poured two glasses of wine.

Rey began to think this might really be where she was meant to be, after all.

Happy fanfiction day!

#reylo #ben solo lives #ben solo smuggler #reylo au #reylo romance #tros fix it #han solo lives #rey x kylo ren #reylo fanfic

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