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theydontknowaboutusimagines · 4 years

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Behind The Family - Harry Styles Mini Series (Part 2)

Part 1

2020

You woke up to the sound of soft giggling in your bedroom. You turned around on your bed to see your husband tickling the twins as they leaned against his leg. You smiled as you watched the smile on their faces and their tiny hands trying to push Harry’s large hands away from their bellies.

“Whoops, looks like we woke Mummy up,” Harry said. “Sorry, love.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” you smiled. “I love waking up to the sound of baby giggles.”

He laughed kissing your forehead, “They woke up about an half hour ago. They’ve been fed and changed, so now it’s playtime.”

“Aren’t you super dad,” you smiled sitting up beside.

“Took you long enough to realize this,” he joked.

You rolled your eyes and took Finn into your arms when he reached out for you.

“Such a Mummy’s boy,” Harry laughed snuggling with Amelia.

“He takes after his Daddy,” you pointed out.

“That he does,” he smirked.

You laughed as you wrapped your arms around your baby boy and he placed his head against your chest. You smiled kissing the top of his head as you rubbed his back.

“Speaking of super dad, your first Father’s Day is coming up,” you smiled. “Is there anything special you want to do?”

“Other than spend time with my babies, no,” he smiled.

“Oh, so you’re okay with watching them while I go to the spa or something?” You joked.

“Hey now! That’s not what I meant,” he laughed. “I meant all of us. You’re my baby too.”

“Damn, there goes my plans,” you giggled.

“Ha-Ha, you’re so funny,” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Hey, you know I’m fucking hilarious!” You pointed out.

Harry gasped covering Amelia’s ears causing her to giggle, “Y/N! How dare you use such language around the children.”

“I slipped! Besides I get it from you,” you smirked. “I talked like a saint before I met you then it was down hill and bunch of F-bombs from there.”

“Oh, puhlease,” He shook his head “You wish. I seem to remember you not being very saint like at all especially when you came waltzing into my room wanting to me undress you.”

“Hey! I needed help,” you defended. “And you didn’t exactly turn me away.”

“Because you were hot,” he said in a duh tone.

“Am I not hot now?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Now as in general, or now as in literally right now with your bedhead and sleepy eyes?” He joked.

“You better watch it,” you pointed at him.

He laughed, “Baby, you know you’re still hot. In fact, I think you may actually be hotter now than back then.”

“God, you make it sound like it was forever ago,” you laughed. “We’re not old even though you do dress like a grandpa sometimes.”

“I do not!” He exclaimed.

“Eh...” you shrugged.

“Well then,” Harry said. “I guess I’ll go downstairs and make breakfast for myself and no one else.”

“Good thing I’m perfectly capable of making my own breakfast,” you smirked.

Harry looked back at you sticking his tongue out at you causing the babies to laugh and clap their hands. You and Harry both lost it when the babies tried to stick their tongues out as well.

“They’re so cute,” you smiled. “We make some cute babies, don’t we?”

“Yeah, we do,” he smiled tickling Amelia’s belly causing her to giggle.

A few days have passed and you were still trying to place something special for Harry’s first Father’s Day, especially since he did such an amazing and thoughtful job on your first Mother’s Day. You were on the computer searching for ideas while the babies were napping and Harry had gone to the gym. You didn’t want it to be too over the top, but you didn’t want it to be small either.

While searching on the internet wasn’t the most helpful, you decided to look at the folder of photos on your laptop instead. You smiled as you looked through all of the photos you’ve taken of Harry with the babies and during your pregnancy. That’s when you got the idea for a gift. You quickly gathered all of the photos you wanted to use in the collage and put them in an order.

The middle and largest photo was one of Harry holding the babies for the first time in the hospital. He was shirtless, holding the two bundle of joys in his arms, as he looked down at them. Tears had fallen down his cheeks and it was one of your favorite photos you’ve ever taken. Surrounding that photo, you had chosen some of your favorites of him with the babies and of you from your pregnancy. You used those as a border for the larger photo, leaving a space for a caption “Happy 1st Father’s Day! We love you - Finneas and Amelia Styles” and a spot to put their handprints in the shape of a heart.

Once you were happy with the outcome, you sent the photo to one of the poster/photo companies you work with when you need large scales of your photos printed. Just as you were finishing up, you heard the front door being opened. You quickly finalized your order and closed your laptop before turning around to greet your husband.

“Hey baby,” you smiled. “How was the gym?”

“Great,” he said. “I’m going to feeling in tomorrow though.”

He grabbed some water from the kitchen before walking over to you and giving you a kiss. “How’d everything go here?”

“The babies have been sleeping and I got some work done,” you said.

He nodded, “I’m going to go shower and then I’ll take over baby duty if you want to rest.”

“You’re the best,” you smiled.

He smiled kissing you again before heading up to the bedroom. When Harry was out of sight, you grabbed your phone and started texting Harry L about setting up some things for Harry’s other Father’s Day gift. It was always a pain trying to find something the man hasn’t already got for himself or something he wouldn’t just go out and buy himself. Luckily, Harry L had gotten word of some new things from various designers and instead of telling Harry about them first, he contacted you.

You had looked at the different pictures and chose a few pieces which you would be picking up in a few days. After taking care of that, you decided to look through the kitchen to make sure you had all the ingredients to make Harry’s favorite breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. You wrote down everything you didn’t have and made plans to go to the market tomorrow.

While you are doing that, Harry had made his way down from taking a shower and wrapped his arms around you.

“Whatcha doing?” He asked putting his head in your neck.

“Just making a grocery list,” you said. “I’ll probably be going tomorrow if that’s okay.”

“Should be,” he nodded. “I’ll be home most of the day.”

You smiled turning around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Babies still asleep?”

“They are,” he nodded. “I checked in on them before coming down.”

“Sooo hypothetically if we wanted to have some Mummy and Daddy time... we could?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Hypothetically, yes I believe we could,” he said.

“Good to know,” you said unwrapping your arms from him and going back to your list.

“Hey! Wait a minute,” he groaned. “What are you doing?”

“Finishing my list,” you said.

“So, we’re not going to be having any Mummy and Daddy time?” He pouted.

“It was hypothetical remember,” you said.

“That’s not fair,” he groaned.

You laughed shaking your head, “Oh don’t be pouting. It was a joke, now come on,” you said taking his hand and pulling him towards the bedroom.

It was finally the big day. Harry’s first Father’s Day since the twins were born. All of his gifts turned out perfect and were neatly wrapped and ready to be given. You made sure to wake up before him, so that you could sneak down to the kitchen with the babies to start making breakfast. You fed the babies and put them in their chairs with some toys while they watched you get to work on making breakfast.

You softly played music as you danced around the kitchen, the babies loving every second of it. They even started to join in by moving their heads and arms around as they sat there. Even though you were cooking a lot of food, it didn’t take very long to finish everything up. You brought everything to the table that you decorated and just when you moved the babies over to the table, Harry started making his way down.

“Happy Father’s Day!” You smiled quickly.

Harry smiled sleepily as he scratched his belly walking towards his little family, “Thank you,” he smiled kissing you first and kissing the top of the babies head. “This looks delicious. I smelled it all the way from our room.”

“I know it’s a little much for the two of us, but it makes great leftovers we can eat the rest of the week,” you smiled.

“I’ll need to make sure I spend some extra time at the gym or some more Mummy and Daddy time,” he winked.

“Behave,” you giggled hitting his shoulder. “Now, go ahead and sit down. I just need to get our drinks.”

Harry sat down and looked over at the babies. They were staring at him as they chewed on their tiny hands.

“Are you two hungry?” He laughed. “You’re still too young to have these, but I bet we’ve got some yummy baby food for you.”

“On it!” You smiled grabbing some baby oatmeal and mixing it up for them and bringing it over. You handed one bowl to Harry, while you two the other bowl.

Both of you started feeding the babies in-between bites of your own food.

“One of these days I feel like I’m going to put the wrong spoon of food in my mouth,” Harry laughed.

“Oh, I know,” you giggled. “Don’t jinx us, now.”

After breakfast was over, Harry took the babies into the living room while you finished cleaning up. Once you were done, you went to join Harry.

“Thank you, baby,” he smiled. “Breakfast was so good.”

“You’re welcome,” you smiled. “Now, do you want all of your gifts now or later. Or would you rather have them scattered out throughout the day?”

“Baby, you didn’t have to get me anything,” he groaned.

“Says the man who went a little overboard with my gifts,” you pointed out.

“That’s different,” he stated.

“How so?” You asked.

“Because I love giving more than receiving,” he said.

“Don’t I know it,” you winked.

“Behave!” He mocked.

You laughed, “Anyway, and that’s exactly why you deserve every little bit from today. Now, how do you want to do this?”

“We can scatter them out, I guess,” he said.

“Okay! I’ll go get the first one,” you smiled.

The first one was something small. You had gotten him a ring with the babies’ birthstone and their birthday engraved on the inside. It also had two tiny gems on the side with your and Harry’s birthstones.

“Oh, wow,” he whispered opening it up. “Y/N, this is beautiful. I love it.”

You smiled, “I knew you had been talking about getting a ring or something for the kids, so I decided to get one for you. It works as both a ring or if you wanted to wear it on your necklace chain too.”

“I love it, so much, thank you,” he smiled leaning over to kiss you, which was a bit difficult since the babies were cuddling into his chest.

“You’re welcome,” you smiled.

The rest of the day was spent with the babies and some more time for Mummy and Daddy. You also gave him the rest of the his gifts, which were mostly new shirts, shoes, and sunglasses. However, you made sure to wait on giving him the photo until after dinner. The babies had been put to bed and the two of you were enjoying his favorite dessert.

“Now, there’s one more present left,” you said getting up from the couch.

“Geez, Y/N,” he laughed. “You’ve already given me a shit ton already.”

“I know, I know, but this is my favorite one and I know it’s going to be yours too,” you smiled.

“Okay, now you’re killing me here,” he laughed. “What is it?”

You went into the other room, pulling out this massive wrapped picture frame you had hidden behind a bookshelf. When Harry saw you with it, his eyes widen at the size.

“Bloody hell, why’s it so big,” he laughed.

“That’s what she said,” you joked.

“Really, Y/N?” He laughed.

“Sorry! Sorry, the wine’s getting to be a bit,” you giggled. “But go ahead and open it.”

Harry put down his wine glass and quickly started tearing at the wrapping paper. He knew exactly what it was the second he torn the paper and saw the picture frame. Once all the paper was off, he took in every inch of the photo or should he say photos.

He bit his lip as tears threaten to spill over at the sight of his babies tiny hands in the shape of a heart. Harry didn’t say anything for what felt like forever. You knew it was mostly because he was probably overwhelmed, but you couldn’t help, but wonder if it he didn’t like it.

“So, what do you think?” You asked.

“I love it,” he said not looking up from it. “It’s amazing. I can’t believe... well I mean I can believe you’d do something like this, but seeing it... damn it.. this is without a doubt the best thing I’ve never received. Thank you so fucking much.”

You smiled wrapping your arms around him, “You’re welcome.”

“I love you,” he whispered putting his head ontop of yours as he wraps his arms around you as well.

“I love you, too,” you smiled. “Happy Father’s Day.”

Harry smiled leaning down to press his lips against yours. It may have only been his first Father’s Day ever in his life, but it was already his most favorite one yet.

#One Direction Imagines #Harry Styles Imagines #Harry Styles Fanfiction #Harry Styles Fics #Behind The Family

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jaskierswolf · 3 years

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You Set My Heart Ablaze (Pt. 23/25)

Warnings: Mentions of sexual harrassment in this chapter.

_________________

Tissaia sighed and straightened the cuffs of her shirt whilst she waited for the teachers and children to fill the school hall. It was finally the last week of term and she had news for the school. It was good news, or at least she thought so. She hoped the rest of the faculty would agree. Philippa Eilhart had emailed her this morning to confirm the results of the investigation into Stregobor and his supporters. It was now up to her to inform the rest of the school. She had hoped that Philippa would be the one to share the news but Tissaia had been left deliver it by herself, although perhaps that wasn’t a such a bad thing after all. Philippa could be quite controlling and Tissaia liked things to be done her own way. She was still bitter about the way Philippa had handled the allegations against Jaskier and Triss.

It had taken too much of Tissaia’s time to convince Philippa that a light slap on the wrist and stern words would be enough, especially with the news that Mr Marx and Mr Degerlund would be allowed to return to the school in the Autumn term. Philippa in particular had wanted Jaskier to be added to the list of suspended teachers. She’d been more lenient towards Triss but Tissaia had had compiled a folder of all the good Jaskier had done for the school and his fights for equality, especially for the LGBT community. Luckily that was a soft spot for Philippa and she’d been talked down.

She closed her eyes as the air filled with the hustle and bustle of assembly. It was always too loud until she started to speak but she never felt right to demand silence until it was time to begin. Eventually the last class filtered in, Jaskier’s class. The teacher gave her a sheepish smile and found his seat at the old school piano.

“Good morning!” She called loudly to gather everyone’s attention. The students drawled back her greeting slowly and then settled down, silence finally falling over the room. “Today is the last assembly of the school year, which I’m sure you are all pleased about.”

There was an excited murmur of agreement from both staff and students.

“Now I know you’re all excited about the holidays but I expect everyone to try their best for the last couple of days. I’m sure if you’re lucky your teachers will have some fun classes lined up, but there’s still no excuse to misbehave.” She reminded everyone sharply. “Before we get to the singing. I have a couple of announcements that I would like to say first.” She glanced at Jaskier who furrowed his brow but nodded.

“Firstly, I know there has been speculation regarding Mr Ban-Ard’s departure earlier in the school year.”

Another round of chatter from the school hall.

“I can confirm that Mr Ban-Ard will not be joining us again in September. I’m sure you will all wish him the best for the future but unfortunately, the headmaster will not be back to say his own goodbyes.”

Tissaia didn’t wish Stregobor the best for the future but it was better for the children to be shielded from the truth of the matter. Some of the older students would guess but the younger ones could live in ignorant bliss. She took a moment to survey the hall. The teachers seemed relieved by the news and the older year groups were chattering excitably as they swapped theories and ideas. Tissaia smiled at her students.

“I have been asked to take his place as permanent headmistress.” She laughed. “However, as honoured as I am to have been offered the role, I miss being able to take more time teaching my students. So I will be back to my usual role by September. I am sure you will give a very warm welcome to whoever replaces me.

Secondly, Mr Marx and Mr Degerlund, as I am sure you all know have also been absent since March, will be returning in September. I’d like to thank Mr Fidháil and Mr Ermion for their dedication and hard work these last few months. It’s been wonderful to have you on the staff.”

The two teachers smiled serenely and nodded back at her. She would be sad to see them go. Mousesack in particular had become a good friend to her in the short time they’d known each other. She hadn’t warmed up to Filavandral quite as much but she knew that Francesca would miss him, they’d been thick as thieves the entire time he’d been at the school.

“And now, Mr Pankratz, if you will?” She smiled at the year two teacher who’d been brushing dust off the keys at either end of the piano.

He grinned. “I thought you’d never ask, Ms de Vries.”

He placed fingers on keys and all the students scrambled to find the right page in the scruffy song books that were shared between two or three people.

Soon enough assembly drew to a close, Jaskier playing everyone out with a jazzy version of one the choral pieces they’d sang. The last assembly of the year was finished and hopefully the last one Tissaia would have to lead for a long time. Maybe when she was older she would revisit the idea of promotion but for now she was happy with her art class.

The keys of the piano thunked as the last student left the hall and Jaskier scurried over to her.

“Ms de Vries!” He called, pulling his music satchel over his shoulder, the sheets of paper stuffed haphazardly into their slots.

Tissaia crossed her hands in front of her and waited for the young teacher to catch up. “Mr Pankratz?”

He tugged at the strap of his satchel and tossed his fringe from his eyes. “Hi, yes. Umm. Quick question?”

Tissaia rolled her eyes. “Spit it out, Jaskier.”

He smiled nervously and shuffled awkwardly on the balls of his feet. “Yes, good. You see I never actually got an answer to my question a few weeks ago? And with summer coming up…”

He trailed off and chewed at his lower lip. Tissaia sighed. He seemed so much younger than her, when did she begin to feel so old?

“Triss said you’d moved on, Jaskier.” She frowned at the bundle of anxious energy in front of her.

Jaskier laughed brightly, too brightly. Tissaia narrowed her eyes at the younger teacher. He had been happier recently, in fact after a rather sullen March and April, he’d almost completely turned around at the beginning of May. She’s assumed Triss’s explanation of him moving on had been correct but now she wasn’t too sure. He was too invested in summer, in being able to resume his friendship with Geralt and his colleagues. It wasn’t just because he wanted to hang out with Triss and Eskel, or Yen and Istredd.

It was Geralt.

It had always been Geralt.

“Of course I’ve moved on!” Jaskier insisted, speaking so quickly it was a miracle that he wasn’t tripping up over his words.. “It was just a crush, and Melitele knows how fast I get through crushes.”

“Philippa would say that nothing changes during the summer.” Tissaia noted, watching the light fall from Jaskier’s eyes. “But I would suggest that there is no reason not to be friends with your friend’s friend.”

Jaskier beamed brighter than the sun. “Oh that is excellent news!”

“And…” She continued with a smirk. “If you were to get to know the aforementioned friend over summer and sparks were to fly, then that is hardly any concern of the school.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to say something but Tissaia cut him off.

“Hypothetically speaking of course.”

He nodded. “Oh, of course. Right. Yes. Hypothetical, and hypothetically speaking I would be forever grateful for your support, Tissaia.”

She laughed. “Now get a move on. Those year twos won’t teach themselves. Are they ready for the end of year concert tonight?”

Jaskier nodded and preened like a peacock. “Naturally, they do have the best musician as their form tutor.”

“Run along, Mr Pankratz.” Tissaia said firmly.

He nodded again and pulled his satchel back up his shoulder before hurrying out of the school hall.

She sighed and shook her head as she watched him go with a smile. He was a chaotic mess at times but she really rather fond of him. He did brighten up the whole school with his charm and his music and his infectious enthusiasm.

It seemed even her stone cold heart wasn’t entirely immune to the charms of Jaskier Pankratz.

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The end of term concert was probably one of Tissaia’s least favourite events of the year. The kids were enthusiastic of course but most of them sorely lacked any musical talent. Her poor ear drums suffered every year. The school’s main music teacher, Ms Metz, would be leading the entire school in a short set of songs and then each year group would perform their own act. Some of the year groups performed poetry readings, some short skits, and some preferred music. It mostly depended on the teachers in charge of the year group. The year twos for example had performed a short song with actions whilst Jaskier played guitar every year since he’d joined the school.

The children were all chattering loudly in the dining hall where they were gathered. The parents, those who wanted to join the festivities, were crammed into the school hall, waiting for the show to start. The rowdiness was giving her a headache, as it always did, but unfortunately this year she could not hide out in her classroom until it was time for her year group.

Yet another reason to not become the headmistress of Dol Blathanna School.

She clapped her hands. “Settle down!” She called over the noise.

The chattering continued. She sighed and cleared her throat.

“QUIET!” She yelled with as much dignity as she could manage.

The school hall fell silent, finally.

“Now, I know the older students have probably heard this a half a dozen times before, but please listen carefully.” She let her words settle over the hundreds of pairs of eager eyes watching her. “It may not feel like it now, but I promise you that the noise from this room does carry to the main hall so please try and keep it down whilst the other year groups are performing. You’ve all worked incredibly hard on your acts so I expect you to respect each other and be quiet when it is not your turn to perform. You did well in rehearsals and I know you can do even better tonight for your parents and guardians.”

There was an excitable murmur from her audience and she gave them what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

“Year ones, twos and threes, you will be going home after all three year groups have performed at the first short interval. Please do not leave the premises without your form tutors knowing. This is for your own safety. Year fours, I know this will be the first time your year group has stayed for the whole evening. It will seem long but please remember to stay quiet and respect the other acts.”

There was a slight groan from the year fours. It was always hardest on that year group. They were used to a much shorter evening and they were normally overtired by the end of the night.

“Listen to your teachers and be kind to each other, but, most importantly.” She smiled widely at the students. “Enjoy yourselves. This should be a fun evening and a chance to show off to your parents and guardians. Now on with the show!”

She turned away from the students and let the smile fall from her face with a tired sigh. To the gods she couldn’t wait until the school had a full-time head teacher again.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned round to see Triss beaming at her.

“You did well, Tissaia.” Triss said softly.

“Thank you, Triss.” Tissaia answered in a low whisper so the children wouldn’t hear. “I can’t say I’ll be sorry to let all of this go.”

Triss shrugged. “It suits you. I understand why you didn’t take the promotion but the role suits you.”

Tissaia sighed. “Maybe in a few years time I’ll reconsider. Philippa was disappointed when I didn’t take it.”

Triss laughed and Tissaia couldn’t help but smile. Triss had always had an infectious laugh. It wasn’t necessarily the most traditionally beautiful of laughs, she had a tendency to snort, but it was so joyful that it always made those around her smile and join in with the laughter.

“Thank you.” She repeated and gripped her friends arm. She wasn’t much of a hugger but she knew that Triss would understand.

“Anytime, Tissaia.”

Tissaia tugged at her sleeves and brushed down her skirt. It was show time.

__________________

Tissaia’s ears were ringing from all the singing. The year threes had just finished their performance and now it was time for the younger groups to meet up with their adults and go home. This would allow more space for some of the parents from the older year groups to filter into the hall as the younger ones left. It probably wasn’t the most efficient way of running their end of year concert but it was tradition. She had considered changing it this year, taking the whole day off classes, instead of just the afternoon. Typically they had a whole school rehearsal in the afternoon but could have been swapped to the morning and the concert could have taken place in the afternoon instead of after school.

It was too late now.

And she wasn’t one to mess with school tradition.

The younger children were now squealing excitably as they tried to find their adults. She caught Filavandrel’s eyes from across the room. He looked as exhausted as she felt. She often wondered why the man had become a primary school teacher. He didn’t particularly seem to enjoy the company of younger children, much like Yennefer, but he had been a life saver this term whilst Mr Marx was away so she didn’t like to question it too much.

She glanced around to where Jaskier was flailing his arms about and chattering excitably with his class. She shook her head fondly. He was almost the opposite of Filavandrel. The young teacher was too much like his children at times. She drifted closer so she could listen in to his conversation with his class. She was impressed by the confidence with which he now signed for Dara. At the beginning of the term he could barely sign and talk at the same time, he had a habit of sticking his tongue out whilst he concentrated and his words often trailed off as he focused on his hands.

Now he signed almost without thinking. She’d caught him doing it in the staffroom a couple of times before he realised and had to sit on his hands.

“Honestly, I know I say this every year, but I think you guys are my best class yet!” He grinned, his eyes were almost twinkling with excitement. Jaskier was probably on an adrenaline high just like his kids. “I am so proud of every single one of you. You were brilliant out there! Yes Marilka, even you. Stop looking so grumpy. I promised no one even noticed you trip… except me of course.”

Tissaia smirked as he fumbled over his mistake.

“You know what. I’m going to bring you all cake tomorrow! Just don’t tell your parents.” He winked and the whole class giggled. “Now, I remember there were no nuts for you Kayleigh, Iskra you can’t have gluten right?”

One of the dark haired girls nodded with a wide smile.

“Any other allergies? No? Well I’ll check with Ms Merigold just to make sure.” He licked his lips and tossed his fringe from his eyes. “Now! Who can see their adults?”

The kids all yelled loudly. Jaskier winced and covered his ears. “Inside voices!” He laughed with a wide wave of his arms.

Tissaia noticed Geralt and Yennefer approach before Jaskier did and she shuffled slightly closer, not wanting to miss this particular interaction.

“DAD!” Ciri screamed.

“Ah, Geralt!” Jaskier blushed, but Tissaia supposed that could have been blamed on the heat of the room.

“Mr Pankratz.” Geralt smirked as he wrapped his arms around Ciri’s shoulders. The young girl had launched herself at her father like an arrow leaving a bowstring.

“Buttercup.” Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him but Tissaia could see the smile her young friend was hiding.

“Mum!” Ciri extracted herself from her father’s arms and clung to Yennefer instead.

“Hello, Princess.” Yennefer cooed. “Did Geralt do this?” She pulled at the intricate braid that fell down Ciri’s back.

“Yup!” Ciri grinned. “We practiced with Roach at the weekend but Dad said I couldn’t have flowers tonight.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier chided with an affectionate smile. “No flowers? Shame on you.”

Geralt glowered at Ciri’s teacher but Tissaia smirked at the matching blushes the pair of them now shared.

“Maybe next time.” Geralt grumbled.

“Mr Pankratz?” Another parent interrupted the discussion so Geralt and Yennefer guided Ciri towards the exit.

Tissaia didn’t miss the way Jaskier’s eyes lingered on Geralt even whilst talking to Mistle’s mother, and Geralt looked back at Jaskier more than once. Tissaia saw Yennefer roll her eyes and say something in Geralt’s ear before pulling away from Ciri and gracefully gliding across the room towards Istredd.

Tissaia tilted her head as she watched her two oldest friends talk. They were standing closer than she would have expected, more than once Istredd’s finger brushed against Yennefer’s wrists.

She scoffed. Yennefer had kept that quiet. She would have to ask her about it when they next all went to dinner or the pub. She’d heard from Jaskier’s outburst in her office that the pair were seeing each other again but that was three weeks ago and Tissaia had, perhaps wrongfully, assumed they would have split up by now. Yennefer had an unfortunate habit of pushing those who cared for her away. When things got too serious she would lash out to protect her own heart, and especially given her long history with Istredd, Tissaia was surprised to see that things appeared to be working out alright.

After about ten minutes or so most of the younger children had either left or joined their parents to watch older siblings so it was time to start again.

She sighed as she stepped back up onto the stage.

Would this evening ever end?

_____

#the witcher #geraskier #tissaia de vries #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #Yennefer of Vengerberg #modern au #yennefer/istredd #wolfie's witcher writing

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eldritchsurveys · 4 years

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642.

1. Do you ever doubt the existence of others than you? >> I’ve definitely had moments where I wondered about it, but I can’t really take solipsism all that seriously. 2. On a scale of 1-5, how afraid of the dark are you? >> Assuming 1 is “not at all”, then 1. I wasn’t even afraid of it as a child. The dark was where my stories came to life. 3. The person you would never want to meet? >> *shrug* 4. What is your favorite word? >> I can’t think of one right now. 5. If you were a type of tree, what would you be? >> I’m not sure. Something like a sequoia, maybe.

6. When you looked in the mirror this morning what was the first thing you thought? >> I don’t look in the mirror in the morning, usually. Nothing I do in the morning requires a mirror. I can go for days without bothering to take more than a cursory glance in a mirror. 7. What shirt are you wearing? >> A black one with a Warcraft logo on it. 8. What do you label yourself as? >> It depends on what aspect of my identity I’m being asked to define... and to whom. 9. Bright room or dark room? >> Oh, a dark room, if I had to choose between these two. But a dim room is the most preferable -- a little soft ambient light eases the eyestrain that I would get from looking at a screen in the dark. 10. What were you doing at midnight last night? >> Reading, most likely. 11. Favorite age you’ve been so far? >> --- 12. Who told you they loved you last? >> Sparrow. 13. Your worst enemy? >> --- 14. What is your current desktop picture? >> At the moment, it’s concept artwork from the video game Tyranny. My background changes every ten minutes or so. 15. Do you like someone? >> There are people I like, sure. 16. The last song you listened to? >> According to Last.fm, Don’t You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds. 17. You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up? >> I mean, what for? That seems like a pointlessly silly thing to do.

18. Who would you really like to just punch in the face? >> --- 19. If anyone could be your slave for a day, who would it be and what would they have to do? >> I have no desire to keep slaves. I sometimes think it’d be nice to have a service boy, though. Just, you know, since we’re on the subject. 20. What is your best physical attribute? (showing said attribute is optional) >> --- 21. If you were the opposite sex for one day, what would you look like and what would you do? >> --- 22. Do you have a secret talent? If yes, what is it? >> No. 23. What is one unique thing you’re afraid of? >> Nothing. 24. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your disposal. >> Er... 25. You just found $100! How are you going to spend it? >> I’d just hang onto it until I needed it for something. 26. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere in the world, but you have to leave immediately. Where are you going to go? >> You lost me at “you have to leave immediately”. I’m in my jammies in bed, dude, I’m not going anywhere. 27. An angel appears out of Heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the alcoholic beverage of your choice. “Be brand-specific” it says. Man! What are you gonna say about that? Even if you don’t drink booze there’s something you can figure out… so what’s it gonna be? >> Oh, Pernod or Lucid Absinthe, without question. 28. You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place? >> Okay, I’m a pretty cool dude and all but I do not have the ability to singlehandedly run a society. That is not at all a smart move. Can I just build a summer home on the island or something, like, damn. 29. What is your favorite expletive? >> What isn’t my favourite expletive. 30. Your house is on fire, holy shit! You have just enough time to run in there and grab ONE inanimate object. Don’t worry, your loved ones and pets have already made it out safely. So what’s the one thing you’re going to save from that blazing inferno? >> Yawn. 31. You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be? >> From what I’ve learnt about memory and the way brains are wired, this is probably impossible anyway (or, at least, possible but it will fuck your brain up). But even if it were possible without horrible repercussions, I don’t want it. 32. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But check out this cool shit… you can move to anywhere else in the world! >> Oh no, I’ve been found out-- 33. The Celestial Gates Of Beyond have opened, much to your surprise because you didn’t think such a thing existed. Death appears. As it turns out, Death is actually a pretty cool entity, and happens to be in a fantastic mood. Death offers to return the friend/family-member/person/etc. of your choice to the living world. Who will you bring back? >> I’d really rather not. Death would understand. 34. What was your last dream about? >> Well, by now I don’t remember. 36. Have you ever been admitted to the hospital? >> Little over a dozen times. 37. Have you ever built a snowman? >> No. I never quite got the hang of it. 38. What is the color of your socks? >> I’m not wearing socks. 39. What type of music do you like? >> The audible kind. 40. Do you prefer sunrises or sunsets? >> There’s something about sunrises that I love just a little more than sunsets. I’m not sure what it is yet. But it’s definitely something. 41. What is your favorite milkshake flavor? >> On those rare occasions I feel like drinking a milkshake, I stick to vanilla. Or cookies and cream. 42. What football team do you support? >> — 43. Do you have any scars? >> I have a skillion scars. 44. What do you want to be when you graduate? >> — 45. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? >> Mehhhh. 46. Are you reliable? >> I have the capacity to be. 47. If you could ask your future self one question, what would it be? >> I don’t want to do this. It’s another hypothetical situation that fucks with my perception of time and the universe. 48. Do you hold grudges? >> Not often. 49. If you could breed two animals together to defy the laws of nature, what new animal would you create? >> Ooh, I’d like to know what would happen if you crossbred a capybara and an elephant. I’m so serious. 50. What is the most unusual conversation you’ve ever had? >> I’m not too sure. I used to live in New York – conversations that’d be considered unusual elsewhere are often considered usual ones there. But a lot of the conversations I’ve had with Claire Elliott Fields would probably take all the cakes. I’ve never met anyone else like her in my life. 51. Are you a good liar? >> I have the capacity to be. 52. How long could you go without talking? >> I could go days and days without speaking a single word to anyone except inworlders. I did used to have a lot more nonverbal days due to stress and overload, but nowadays it’s not as likely. I do still prefer to have long stretches of comfortably not speaking, though. Speaking can be very taxing. 53. What has been you worst haircut/style? >> I don’t know. 54. Have you ever baked your own cake? >> No. 55. Can you do any accents other than your own? >> Probably not as accurately as one would like. 56. What do you like on your toast? >> Butter and cinnamon, or butter and jelly. Or butter and peanut butter. Listen, butter has to be involved somewhere, that’s the only rule. 57. What is the last thing you drew a picture of? >> Something in my “things to practice drawing” folder. Probably a face. 58. What would be you dream car? >> --- 59. Do you sing in the shower? Or do anything unusual in the shower? Explain. >> I sing in there sometimes. I don’t think anything I do in the shower is unusual, aside from the fact that I prefer it to be dark/dim and I don’t want to be able to see any surfaces. Also, the shower (the bathroom in general) in this apartment makes me feel claustrophobic, and I guess leaving the door open and freaking out when the shower curtain touches me is unusual... 60. Do you believe in aliens? >> I think aliens are a reasonable possibility. Especially when you let go of the idea that they have to be humanoid. 61. Do you often read your horoscope? >> No. 62. What is your favorite letter of the alphabet? >> V. 63. Which is cooler: dinosaurs or dragons? >> I like dragons. 64. What do you think about babies? >> Most of the time I think they’re amusing, gross, loud, endearing, entertaining, and exhausting. You know. Kind of like their adult counterparts--

#surveys #survey #random survey

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rasoir-national · 4 years

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How to lose to a duck

The celebrations are over and you’re still stuck with family members ? Looking for a way to avoid them ? I’ve got just the thing for you ! Ever wondered if someone could write a 5000 words essay on a technical legal case and make it interesting ? Well... I don’t... know if I did that (and you ask yourself weird question, hypothetical reader I made up for this intro), but you can judge by yourself.

So here’s the story of a case I’ve been thinking about for over a year now. It’s about Justice, mental illness, and duck poop. It’s called : How to lose to a duck.

Enjoy.

Let’s talk about the spectacle of Justice. Even way back in the days of arrest letters, when the real decisions were happening behind closed doors, Justice has always had an element of publicity to it. People flocked to public executions like one goes to the movies ; the events had their own popcorn vendors, who sold souvenirs and belongings of questionable origin of the deceased to be. This federative aspect of these executions is, in many ways, what most people at the time considered to be Justice : society rallying as a whole to punish the failing individual.

Nowadays, the publicity of Justice is written as a statement of intent in the founding texts of most countries : for Justice to be just, Justice has to be public. Justice is rendered in the name of the people, therefore it is up to the people to show up at any trial they want to witness the justice that is served in their name. And if you’ve never gone to a courtroom on an idle day to contemplate the supreme grandeur of justice in action, let me tell you, you are missing out. Whether or not you consider the spectacle to be in good taste, it is indeed a spectacle, with its decorum, its assigned roles and its pathos. Just ask the busload of retirees who storm the petty crimes courtroom every Wednesday instead of watching Lifetime.

Here in France, there is however one type of justice that usually remains quite out of sight : the administrative courts. The French judiciary is separated in two main branches : the civil courts, which concerns disputes between individuals – including disputes between an individual and society, which is to say penal justice – and the administrative court, which rules on disputes between individuals and the state. Simply put for my American readers, challenging a state regulations, which in the US happens before the same courts as civil disputes, is in France the exclusive jurisdiction of administrative courts. However, regulation has to be understood in the broadest of terms. France’s Supreme Court has direct jurisdiction over any challenging of national decrees, meaning administrative courts only have jurisdiction over… everything else. You were denied a tax deduction. The city lets cars park in front of your garage entrance. Your visa application to vacation in Paris was rejected. You teach at a public school and you were moved to a different town. Any time any administration in the country tells you “no” or takes any decision that prejudices you in any way, you are entitled to challenge this decision before an administrative court. And unlike civil courts, cases aren’t dispatched between judges based on their perceived importance ; in the same hearing, judges can hear a dispute concerning a public contract worth millions of euros, and then immediately after a disgruntled couple who wants their rural town to clean up the dung due to herd traffic in their street.

Now there are several reasons why this type of justice doesn’t attract the attention of the masses : as previously mentioned, the flashiest cases happen only in Paris in front of the Supreme Court. It is also an extremely technical type of dispute, from tax law to urban planning law. But perhaps most importantly, the procedure is essentially written. All arguments must be communicated in writing before the hearing, or risk being declared moot. The presence of the parties at the hearing isn’t required, and when attorneys are present, they usually only stand up for a second to confirm they maintain their written arguments.

Now parties without representation, that’s another story. In most cases, you aren’t required to have an attorney before administrative court. That’s part of the appeal : no matter your means, you can challenge the state at no cost. But of course, usually the cost of that is losing your case. Representing yourself is generally a bad idea, but in administrative law, where arguments have to fit in certain pre-established categories and where there are dozens of procedural rules to follow to present your case, it’s more often than not a fatal idea. I can’t tell you how many individuals without attorneys I’ve seen stroll in hearings expecting to be able to present their case, only to look abruptly disarmed when the judge only ask them one question before reserving judgement.

What these individuals don’t know, and what is the dirty secret of administrative justice, is that when they enter the hearing courtroom, their ruling is usually already written. It would take an extraordinary event for this ruling to be modified in any way by what is said during the hearing. I know that because for six months, I was one of the interns writing them.

Being an intern is rarely glamorous, but if you’re like me, getting to write “In the name of the French people” in front of your work is probably the height of achievement. I’ve worked on millions-worth litigation cases in-between petty neighbouring disputes. Through their writings, I’ve gotten to know some truly angry people, confused people, miserable people. I’ve worked for a month on calculating damages for a man who had gone through an experimental knee surgery that had gone wrong. I’ve tried for days to find the nicest possible way to reject a case from parents of a mentally disabled child who had been kicked out of an institution due to violence problems. And then, for two months, I’ve worked on the Duckman.

Given that at this point, I’ve probably read more from him than anyone else on Earth, it is surprising how little I truly know about this man. I’ll call him the Duckman because that’s how I came to refer to him while relating the case, but also because his actual name is already so strange and peculiar that I couldn’t possibly find a pseudonym that would do it justice here. I know he was of retirement age, although he wasn’t retired. I know he was white, of either Dutch or German origin, and had a nobility title. I know he was also the proud owner of a beautiful 19th century castle situated in a little village in Southern France, which happened to fall within the jurisdiction of the administrative court I was interning at. I know that in 2013, the village delivered a building permit regarding a portion of land bellow the castle to a young farmer who projected to build a duck force-feeding plant there. But as far as the Duckman goes, this is where my knowledge stops and speculation begins.

Getting to know people through their writings is an uncanny experience. On the one hand, it is clear that you don’t really know anything about the people whose case you’re reading. But on the other hand, there is something there about them that you get to understand faster than anyone who actually knows them. The complexity of the legal procedure and the confusion it provokes strips people bare in some way. It can be something as small as an exclamation point, or as huge as the case file my internship supervisor gave to me on a November morning.

The folder was bursting with pages. In and of itself, not necessarily a bad sign. Some cases do take up a lot of space, whether you want it or not, especially when it concerns land in any way. No, the bad sign was on the folder cover itself, in the guidance notes : “DIFFICULT PERSONALITY” entered in all caps by a court clerk, the only people who actually come in contact with claimants during the investigation phase.

Another bad sign revealed itself to me when I checked the case history : at some point, either the claimant had fired his lawyer or his lawyer had fired him. Now, a lot of people would be entitled to fire their lawyer. Just like with any profession, the vast majority of them are mediocre. But finding a lawyer is in itself such a stressful and confusing process, and it’s so difficult to know whether or not you made the right choice, that a person firing their lawyer has become a classic red flag for judges. In accordance with the sunk cost fallacy principle, people tend to stay committed to their mistakes.

On top of everything else, the case touched upon both urban planning law and environmental law, two of the most specialized and technical types of litigation out there. But at this point, my supervisor had already decided she trusted me with pretty much anything, and I’d already decided any case could be worked the same as long as you did things rigorously and step by step. Law is before anything else a type of reasoning ; once you understand it, all that’s left is research.

What was the case about ? It was a compensation claim, meaning the tail end of the dispute process. This was usually the part that came after the illegality had occurred, after the person had suffered harm, and things were now headed toward the state’s cash register. To avoid being influenced early on, I didn’t check past claims concerning the case and directly read the demand. The case itself seemed fairly standard, and potentially well-founded : a duck force-feeding factory, complete with an open duck excrement pit had been built 300 meters (about a thousand feet) away from a beautiful 19th century castle, spoiling the view and more importantly ensuring the entire castle park smelled of duck poop all year round. According to the claimant, the building permit had been delivered illegally, therefore compensation was to be paid to the castle owner and the plant to be demolished. That’s when I fired up my computer and looked up past disputes concerning this situation, and when I got my first inkling that something was very wrong.

The dispute dated back over five years, and had been kept alive through a dozen of individual claims. The castle owner had fought the implantation of the plant at every possible step. When the permit was first delivered, he had it suspended. Another modified permit was issued, which was also suspended. Then the administrative court ruled that second permit lawful, so construction was able to begin. However, the castle owner contested that ruling in front of the Appellate Court, which also ruled the permit lawful. He then contested that ruling in front of the Supreme Court, which elected not to hear the case. In the meantime, another claim had been introduced, this time to force the city to file a report of observation due to the fact that the plant owner hadn’t respected the prescriptions of the building permit – which the castle owner was still challenging. Finally, two claims were introduced, which were the ones on my desk : compensation claims from both the city which had issued the permit, and the county prefect who was surveying this type of factory. The claim concerning the respect of the building permit was actually still under investigation by another chamber of my administrative court, and both this chamber and mine were looking to purge these disputes simultaneously.

From this load of information, I deducted two things : first, this was someone with the means and the time to fixate on such an issue, and second, this was someone who was indeed utterly fixated on this issue. Now as someone who has lived next to horrible neighbours before, I had my sympathies for this man, and I was more than ready to believe that having a dung fosse next to your property couldn’t have been fun. But the law doesn’t work that way. The state’s purse is more tightly shut than the North-South Korea border, and even if you are suffering from an established nuisance, you have to jump through a considerable number of hoops to ever see some compensation.

As someone who was working solely on that part of the dispute, my position was an uneasy one. I could technically say that all those courts that had ruled time and time again that the permit was lawful were wrong and that the Duckman was entitled to compensation, but then I would have been disagreeing with the Supreme Court itself. That’s not really something judges do in administrative law, where court hierarchy is strictly enforced. Luckily, the state is never out of ideas when it comes to avoiding recognizing they screwed up. So what I could do was establish the state had acted perfectly legally, but the consequences suffered by the Duckman still merited compensation. So I set out to do just that.

This proved harder than anticipated. For one thing, the lawyer, for the time he’d been there, was indeed of the mediocre type, and only gave me the bare minimum to work with. For someone whose client clearly had the resources to fully back up their case, there was surprisingly little for a file so huge : every map, every report, seemed to always miss just the piece of information I needed to tie it all up together, leaving me to try and superpose multiple maps found online to measure the necessary distances. When you start off in law, they never tell you it’s going to involve math.

So because of that deficit of information, I did what I usually avoided doing, that is look up what had been given in other cases related to this situation. And this is where, fittingly enough, I fell not so much into the rabbit hole as into the duck poop hole.

From the moment he had parted from his lawyer, the Duckman had handled every communication with the courts himself. I started uncovering dozens upon dozens of additional letters that contained what could not really be described as an argumentation, although it clearly believed itself to be so, and was only one step removed from the proverbial doomsdayer street corner rambling. What started as a strange, but not necessarily unique showcase of anger against the injustice with which he was faced, devolved month after month into an unhinged charge against the system as a whole, from unironically uncovering “conspiracies” to accusing the Supreme Court of being in on it. As I mentioned, it wasn’t rare for people representing themselves to adopt this sort of tone. But the language was different : usually, behind the rightful anger was a desperately obvious crushing feeling of powerlessness and incomprehension before a genuinely complex system that seemed deaf to their human pain. But it wasn’t the case with the Duckman. The Duckman didn’t doubt – he knew. He wasn’t desperate – he was outraged. He’d go on these pages-long displays of attempts at making legal arguments so deeply misguided that correcting them would involve teaching multiple college courses. This was someone who didn’t doubt for a second his ability to understand the law better than the administration, his lawyer, or the multiple judges that had already weighed on his case. Most people, when the justice system doesn’t come to their aid, might go through different stages of grief, but they invariably end up on a befuddled shrug at the unfair complexity of the system, and move on, as much as possible. Not the Duckman. The Duckman, in the end, pursued this case not so much to right his personal wrong, but to expose to everyone the full corruption of the system. Midway through the collection of letters, any reference to what he was going through, to the case itself, progressively disappeared to make room for phrases such as these : “I wish the [redacted]th chamber Strength, Courage and Honour as we continue to unravel this excellent case study of the corruption of the system”. It was that expression that first struck me : “excellent case study”. I was the intern. I was the one going through case studies. And even I, when I had started working at the tribunal, had been plagued by prolonged episodes of panic at the thought that behind each of my files were real people whose life might be on the line. And here was this man, who seemed as detached from his own case, kept alive with his own time and money, as if it had jumped out of a textbook. Which is not to say the whole wasn’t important to him ; clearly, the problem was that it was way too important. But it was important in the wrong way ; in the way that would never give him an answer with which he would be satisfied. Each and every time a figure of authority disagreed with him, he’d run to the next brandishing the answer of each previous one as evidence of their incompetence or corruption, usually both. From the mayor, he’d gone to the county inspection board, then the prefect, then the courts, then the superior courts, and all the way to the top. And each time, giving dates, referring to people by name. There was no way he wasn’t going to suffer consequences for this behaviour, I told myself.

He already had.

In an older case, I found out that some of the health inspectors he had complained against in one of his multiple ventures had lodged a complaint against him. He had been charged with defamation and insult, and condemned in criminal court. He had appealed the decision, and during the Appellate Court session, behaved so poorly, screaming against a supposed “SLAPP suit” that the judges ordered for him to be removed from the courtroom. In all my years going to court sessions, I have only seen that happen once. Needless to say, the condemnations were confirmed.

The reason I found out all that was not through court communication – the Duckman told me himself, in minute details, in one of his endless letters that were always numbered, and always came in several parts, from three to five or six. All of this, all of this hardship, to him, was apparently nothing less than additional proof of the scope of the conspiracy of which he was the victim. There was almost glee in those letters ; exultation at the idea of being able to present such sound evidence of the state of corruption of our nation.

My mother is a psychiatrist, and I grew up bathed in psychoanalytical lingo. My armchair diagnosis didn’t take long : paranoid personality disorder expressed via a persecution complex. A carrot would have come to the same conclusion, and it would have had exactly the same value. But what this man might be suffering from was not my problem. My problem was what I was going to do with this case.

It was easy to worry about other things : long cases like those always came after the hundreds of cases that demanded a quick response. Deportation challenges, requests for emergency shelter – the dreaded winter months were there – all of which had to be dealt with quickly and efficiently, and all of which felt it mattered considerably more in the grand scheme of things that some poop smell in a castle park. Still, I came back to this case as often as possible, refining my reasoning, backing up my legal points, trying to make sure this case was the last time any court would hear of this case. The solution I ended up with, for legal reasons that aren’t necessary to expose here, was to reject the request. I was satisfied with my choices, and I ran my work by multiple senior judges to make sure there was nothing to legally object to. But I was also relieved from a human perspective. This man was hurting himself and others through years of proceedings : money, time, social circles – he had been expelled from every association in town – criminal record even, were only some of the things this obsession had cost him so far. The last thing he needed was any kind of kindle to his fire. Don’t get me wrong : if the law had dictated for me to rule in his favour, I would have ; but I am fairly certain that the worst thing anyone could do for this man at this point was to tell him he was right.

And then the court told him he was right.

As you might not remember since this story is already way too long, there was a second case related to this situation in the works in another chamber of the tribunal, concerning the city’s refusal to issue an infraction report to the farm’s owner for violation of the building permit. The judicial assistant handling the case, if she hadn’t gone as deep in the case as I had, had done her job faultlessly, and had ended up finding out one instance of permit violation among the multiple alleged ones. It was a tiny victory, almost a pyrrhic one, yet it had the potential of sending the whole case spiralling again. Thankfully, it didn’t directly influence my own solution. I pushed my supervisor for our case to be heard as soon as possible, before more claims could be launched.

We weren’t fast enough. The week after the judgement in the other case was rendered, I received another delightful letter from the Duckman. I expected gloating, Watergate-level paper-waving. But of course it wasn’t. No, it was another rant against every instance in which the other court had disagreed with him. That small, small victory, the only one he’d had since starting the case over five years before, and it didn’t make him happy. Not even a tiny bit. Had thunder descended from the sky to individually strike down each and every duck on the farm, I’m not sure he would have managed to get any enjoyment from it at this point. If this case was an addiction, we had reached the stage where it didn’t matter whether the fix brought him joy or not, it only mattered that it was there.

The court date approached. Slowly, first once every month, then once every week, a new letter arrived. In the last two weeks before the hearing, I started receiving one every day. By the eve of the hearing, he’d reached part fourteen of his exposé, and he promised we’d hear more at the hearing. Before that, the chamber had held a reunion to decide the best way to handle this particular man in court – unlike criminal courts, we didn’t have police officers. The only time they showed up at the courthouse was to make sure migrants couldn’t make a break for it in that tiny courtroom whose door and windows were locked if the judge ruled against them, a baby under their arm and a six-years old playing with a toy truck on the carpet. Three armed border officer for each migrant, that was the rule. But that’s a topic for another time. Eventually, we decided to hear the duck case last, so most of the public would have already left the room, and there was less of an opportunity to turn his intervention into a spectacle, all while giving him the possibility to make his case, which he deserved just as much as anyone else.

I showed up to the courtroom early and sat in the back, as interns usually did to watch hearing on cases they’d worked on while disturbing the room as little as possible. The room was even more deserted than usual. As I said, administrative justice isn’t popular entertainment. Aside from the lawyers, recognizable to their gown, there was only one person in the room who was the right age : an old man sitting all by himself in one corner of the room. This had to be him, surprisingly quiet and hunched on himself, reading and rereading his notes. As I said, getting to know someone through their writing is a peculiar experience. Whatever mental image I had formed of him, this wasn’t it.

The court clerk called the case before the end of the hearing, which surprised me. I saw that old man walk up to the stand. As he griped his papers, I noticed the trembling of his hands : early signs Parkinson’s disease, most likely. He started talking, in a meek, slow voice, and that’s when I realized : he wasn’t the Duckman. He had been sent to represent the county. The Duckman hadn’t come.

The court followed my reasoning and rejected the claim, as planned. This wasn’t exactly the last time I heard of the Duckman : the day after the judgement was rendered, he wrote to the administrative equivalent of the prosecutor asking for a written copy of his oral conclusions. The latter refused, as was his policy when people didn’t show up in court, and his right, as these conclusions were legally his intellectual property. And so the court clerk arrived at my desk with another one of these letters, adding us to the list of corrupted agents of the system he had vowed to expose. I have no doubt that at this very moment, somewhere in the Administrative Appellate court, there is another intern slaving over a file so incredibly thick you’d never guess it’s about duck poop. Onto the next authority, the next one given the chance to redress the injustice. As its chances of succeeding get slimmer with every rejection, I wonder at which point this decent, fairly standard case turned into something no judge could possibly look at in a favourable light.

This is a story about a man I’ve never met, and never will. But at the same time, it’s not a story about him : because every time I think of him, which is more often than I’d like – that Christmas, my mother gifted me a toy duck dressed as a barrister – I think of those dozens of other cases on which I spent not even a tenth of the amount of time and energy I spent on the Duckman’s, because there was no time, and because there was no effort to be made when the lawyer themself had barely had the time to put together a passable claim. I think about this mother of three who had come to France to escape a family vendetta, and was arguing that her younger son needed specialized therapy after his father was murdered in front of him. I think of this father of two infants who had come to receive treatment for his early stage Parkinson’s disease caused by a rough beating he had received in his country of origin, and needed to be on suicide watch due to his depression, but was about to be kicked out with his family of the emergency shelter, because his state wasn’t “serious enough” to warrant sleeping inside. I think of this chamber president, whose ties to the far-right were well-known, grinning, explaining to me never to trust anything I was reading from people claiming to be sick, when I had to come to her for advice on the case of a man who’d been left entirely paralyzed except for the eyelids after an emergency room mistake. All those claims I’d been instructed to doubt, to challenge, to evacuate. There’s no time, and the ball must keep rolling. But that one case ? The one case that keeps drudging from courtroom to courtroom, generating dozens of expert reports, building plans, and land infiltration testing ? The one whose judgement will undoubtedly be appealed again, all the way up to the Supreme Court ? The one whose plaintiff clearly doesn’t care whether or not justice is rightly served, no matter his claims, because this is all clearly just a mean to foster something much more private and sad ? This one I had to spend months on, because someone had the resources to make it into a difficult and important case.

Whether or not you feel sympathy for the Duckman is up to you. I still do, or at the very least I feel compassion, as I do for every human being who is hurting and could hurt less if they received the appropriate help. If the justice system is part of the generalized victimization of mentally ill people, and it clearly is, it doesn’t mean it operates the same at every level ; for some people, the aggression is direct, constant, unforgiveable : it ignores and distrusts, it rejects and abandons. For others, it simply gives them the tools to victimize themselves. There is something in law, in its spectacle, in its byzantinism that appeals to the more broken parts in us, the same way people came to watch executions. Some kind of truth, inflexibly delivered, whether it’s through the voice of a judge or the roaring of an angry audience. Whatever you believe about the judicial system, I doubt anything I’ve written here will change your mind. For it to retain its power, we need Justice to remain mysterious to us, just as much as Justice needs that veil of inaccessibility and incomprehension to keep at bay the pain, the humanity, the illness. It has to be blind and closed to it all, to remain what it is, a monolith of right and wrong, the object of so many fantasies and yet so many certainties.

Judges aren’t therapists, and they aren’t meant to be ; just like every other part of society, they are absolutely ill-equipped to deal with the irrationality and the often self-destructive nature of mental illness. Once, after receiving a particularly aggressive letter from the Duckman, I went up to the judges’ chamber to ask them if there was anything we could do to stop this man from keeping up with this defamatory tone that was undoubtedly headed toward another criminal suit against him. Judges and clerks simply laughed at my concern, and it was understandable : how many times before had they had a similar experience with another plaintiff ? The truth is the justice system is as desensitized to insane behaviour as we are to people claiming this system itself is insane. The wall that separates the two is one through which anything can look irrational on the other side, no matter which side you’re on. In making Justice a spectacle, a science, we have made it a new language, which no one speaks but its actors. It didn’t have to be like this. Justice doesn’t have to be something you have to suffer through : it was made for the people, by them, and it is as much on people to know their rights and their judicial system as it is on this judicial system to remain an accessible part of society instead of its Sphinxian judge. Justice should not be afraid to be human, for us not to be afraid of it. Then, maybe, there will be fewer people who come to break against that great wall separating two worlds that can’t seem to both make sense at the same time. And maybe people like the Duckman, people who are both privileged and victimized by such a system, won’t turn to Justice as much as a way to hurt themselves. And maybe we, on the other side, will have more time on our hands to try and ease someone’s pain rather than fostering it. Imagine that.

#law stuff #well this took forever to write #maybe now i can finally put this case behind me #exorcism writing

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malecsecretsanta · 5 years

Text

Merry Christmas, @prayformalec!

Read on AO3

*****

Before The Day Is Done

It’s like everything is happening in slow motion and Nathan is helpless to do anything but turn around and see the worst sight he could imagine. A whimper escapes his lips as he sees the escaped killer pull its bloodied knife from James’s chest--

Alec curses as someone knocks on his door. He’s right in the middle of the climactic scene of his latest book-- the last in his bestselling trilogy-- but he switches tabs on autopilot, calling for whoever was outside to enter.

Isabelle walks into his office with a manila folder stuffed with paper. He sighs internally and knows that it’ll be awhile before he gets back to his Golden Labyrinth universe.

“Good evening, hermano,” Isabelle says. “I just wanted to run by some prototypes that I’ve been working on the past few weeks. I know that our new budget goes through next month and I wanted to update you on where I’ve allocated most of my January funds.”

Alec accepts the folder that Izzy hands over and goes to the pair of chairs in front of the fire. They spend an hour discussing weapons and projections and all the while, half of Alec’s mind is on his book.

Isabelle must notice that he’s preoccupied because she slaps his shoulder as the fire dies down. “What’s up with you?”

“What do you mean,” Alec asks, shifting a little in his seat.

“I know that look. What’s going on with your book?”

Sighing, Alec runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “You mean besides you interrupting me just when I reached the most important scene in it?”

Isabelle just looks at him expressionless and he sighs again. “I know that I’m going to need some specialized information on chemistry and healing medicine for the next chapter and I’m not having any luck on the internet.”

“Why don’t you just email your pen pal,” she asks with a raised brow.

Shoving himself out of his chair, Alec rolls his eyes as he heads to his desk, sitting down and waking up his computer. He’d clicked over to his email tab and can’t help the smile that comes over his face as he sees the latest unread message.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Has he beat you to it?”

Alec spares a second to glare at Isabelle before focusing back on the computer screen.

Good evening Alexander,

Thank you for sending that book on Shadowhunter rituals. While not quite as elucidating as I was hoping, it did make for an interesting-- if dry-- read. I hope that everything is going well on your end and that you have exciting plans lined up for the weekend.

Best,

Magnus Bane

High Warlock of Brooklyn

“Oh, since when does he call you Alexander?”

Alec startles as Izzy’s voice sounds right in his ear and his head whips up to see her reading over his shoulder with a maniacal gleam in her eye.

“We abandoned formality a couple of years ago. You know that,” he says dryly.

Sighing, Isabelle wanders over to the door. “If only the Clave knew that it’s golden boy has been keeping up a correspondence with the dastardly High Warlock of Brooklyn for over half a decade.”

“It started as purely professional,” Alec protests.

Laying a hand on the door knob, Isabelle looks back at Alec, laughing. “Yeah, and you still have that thread of professionalism in place. But you two also talk about much more than that. How in the world haven’t you ran into him yet,” Izzy wonders.

Alec shrugs. “Magnus is always so busy and my schedule is always so hectic that it’s just best to talk through email or fire message. I don’t know how I’ve always missed him when he comes by to update the wards, though.”

Isabelle doesn’t say anything for a minute, taking her time to study Alec. “Who knows,” she finally says. “Maybe one day-- before you’re so much dust in the City of Bones-- you’ll finally meet.”

She leaves without another word and Alec sits in his chair, staring at the space she’d just left, brooding.

He can’t deny that he’s thought about meeting Magnus a lot in the past several months. Every time he thinks to suggest to meet up, though, something holds him back. A part of him thinks that whatever this is between them would be ruined if he finally had a face to put to the name. There’s something private about his relationship with Magnus. Throughout the years-- since Alec had taken over as Head of the Institute when he turned eighteen-- things had morphed into something more personal.

The two of them have talked everything from travel to the idiocy of the Clave-- though Alec has had to put his diplomatic skills to the test to get his point across while still maintaining surface level piety to his superiors.

After all, his email uses Clave servers.

As Alec turns back to his word document, though, he has to admit that Isabelle’s idea has some merit. Alec has regularly asked Magnus about his background in potions and chemistry, using them in his books.

With a sigh, Alec switches back to the email tab and clicks reply.

Magnus,

I’m sorry the book couldn’t be more helpful and I’ll look for the return courier. You know my usual weekend plans-- my work as Head of the Institute never ends.

I did have a question, though, and it requires your science expertise. Hypothetically, if someone was stabbed through the chest, what potions would you create and what are their ingredients?

Thanks,

Alec

Head of the New York Institute

Alec hits send before he can think about it too much. He goes back to the latest chapter of Dance Through the Storm. He’s just getting to the part where Nathan is carrying James into the ER when he gets a notification of a new email.

Opening his email, he’s expecting the latest update from the New Orleans Institute on how they’re dealing with their attempts to establish peace treaties with their downworlder populations.

However, it looks like Magnus was particularly quick to respond to his email.

Alexander,

You know what they say about all work and no play, don’t you? While I know that shadowhunters are tragically lacking in any sense of fun, I do wish that you’d take care of yourself a bit better. I’d hate for the best damn leader that Institute’s ever seen to collapse under the weight of all that expectation.

Speaking about your question-- why don’t you come over later this week and I can walk you through the process? I’m restocking my inventory tomorrow and plan on making a few potions in preparation. What you’ve asked about is included.

Let me know either way.

Best,

Magnus Bane

High Warlock of Brooklyn

Alec reads the email twice through before letting out a breath. He feels anticipation thrumming through him at the invitation and it doesn’t vanish no matter how hard he tries to shove it down.

He’s looking forward to meeting Magnus in person. While there’s still some anxiety lurking underneath it all, it feels almost inevitable.

Truth be told, he’s always felt drawn to the High Warlock. Magnus had been the only downworlder to acknowledge the change in leadership first. He’d been surprising magnanimous in wishing Alec a successful tenure and providing his contact information if he ran into any problems.

Alec had fire messaged him within the week when he’d had to deal with a rogue warlock poisoning mundanes-- and that had just been the tip of the iceberg. When he’d first been promoted, it had been a dizzying year. Alec had felt like his head was constantly underwater with just enough time to draw a quick breath before he was inundated with something else.

The learning curve had been steep and he’d been fighting against everyone, it had seemed at the time: his parents with their biting criticism and suggestions, his peers who had an issue taking orders from someone-- a Lightwood-- years younger than them, and a Clave who were stuck in the past.

It didn’t help that Alec had yet to meet his soulmate. Shadowhunters were known to have some of the shortest timers out of all the species-- they lived fast and died young and their generations were notoriously short.

Alec hadn’t looked at his timer since he’d taken over from Maryse and Robert. It wasn’t a big deal that Alec was gay-- the timers made it clear that all manner of orientations were perfectly fine.

No, it was a dual-edged decision. Alec had been working so hard for so long that he didn’t have time for a distraction. He didn’t need to add falling in love-- finding the one person destined by Raziel for him-- when he was up to his goddamn eyeballs in mission reports and Clave mandates.

He could admit that it was a personal decision, too. Alec knew privately that he was a hopeless romantic. There was a part of him that yearned to meet his other half. Still, there was another part that feared that it was all a grand joke. Sometimes, he couldn’t help but scoff at the thought.

One person in the entire universe meant for him, Alec Lightwood. It seemed too good to be true.

No, it’s been over five years since Alec looked at the timer. At any rate, he figures that he would just know when he met him.

Timers counted down to when soulmates first laid eyes on each other. Alec has privately ruminated that it would feel like the earth had ground to a halt, that the world would fall away when he first met his soulmate.

But that was a problem for another day.

Alec sends a quick reply to Magnus, proposing a Friday morning appointment, and shuts down his computer. Looking at his watch, he grimaces as he sees that it’s already half past nine.

He stands up from his desk, stretching out his back, and grabs his coat.

The corner pizza shop closes in half an hour and Alec takes out his cell, pressing speed dial as he turns the lights out in his office.

Alec knocks on the door to the red bricked building, looking down at his phone to confirm that the address is correct.

“Good morning. Alexander, I presume?”

Alec looks up from the phone as the voice filters out from the intercom. Moving closer, he replies, “Magnus?”

“Welcome, darling.” Alec hears the latch of a door before Magnus continues, “Come right on up. My apartment is on the top floor, Penthouse One.”

The connection goes dead a second later and Alec slowly opens the front door to the building. It looks remarkably nondescript for being the home of one of the most powerful warlocks in the world but Alec smiles a little as he supposes that’s probably the point.

The lobby of the building is well done in muted tones with unpredictable splashes of color. Making his way to the elevator, Alec looks down as his phone vibrates with a text.

Knock em dead! Remember, Magnus is just as scared of you as you are of him.

Alec rolls his eyes at Izzy’s text. He wasn’t nervous to meet Magnus. Really, it was absurd that they had gone so long without officially meeting in the first place. It was just different and Alec wasn’t sure how to approach things-- should he treat Magnus as a leader first or as his unexpected friend and confidante that he’d grown into.

The elevator opens up on the top floor. Just as Alec approaches the apartment, the door swings open to reveal a smiling Magnus.

Alec does a double take and his step falters as his mind short circuits.

Magnus looks good. There are blond streaks in his hair and his shirt is red with a swirling pattern of gold shot through. He looks dressed for a day at home and Alec appreciates the look very much.

“Alexander, thank you for coming,” Magnus says warmly, gesturing him inside.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Alec says distractedly as he steps over the threshold and takes in the loft. It looks how Alec imagined it-- it’s a mishmash of antiquities with more modern pieces. It’s bold yet comfortable and Alec immediately feels at ease in the space.

Alec hears the door close behind him and then Magnus steps up to his side, leveling him with a look.

“I was starting to think I’d never meet the infamous Head of the Institute-- and more’s the pity, too, since he was practically in my backyard.”

Pulling his attention from his surroundings, Alec sends him an amused glance. “First of all, I had no idea I was considered infamous. Secondly, you could have met me years ago. You only had to ask,” he says dryly.

Magnus waves that away, heading towards his drink cart. “Your reputation precedes you, you have to know that. You’re the first shadowhunter-- let alone Head of the Institute-- to petition for more extensive downworlder rights in millenia. By all accounts you’re devilishly handsome yet stubbornly off the market.”

Pouring a generous amount of something into a martini glass, Magnus looks up at Alec with a grin. “Plus, how was I to meet with you when you’re always so damned busy? You’re always shut away in your office when I visit or out of the Institute altogether on business. You’re a hard man to keep track of, darling, and if I didn’t have our correspondence I don’t know what I’d think.”

Alec laughs as Magnus walks toward him, two glasses in hand. “My job is pretty boring, you know. You’re making it sound far too interesting.”

Magnus hands Alec his glass and takes a moment to snap his fingers over the clear liquid. Blue flames erupt and Alec can’t hide his surprised smile.

He can’t help but ask, “You know it’s not even noon, right?”

Magnus just sends him a deadpan look. “It’s happy hour somewhere, I’m sure.”

Alec huffs out a laugh but finds that he can’t argue with that logic.

Magnus sits down on the couch and Alec follows. He debates on taking a chair, but ultimately chooses the other end of the couch, too.

He’s just opening his mouth with a retort when his gaze snags on the book laying on the coffee table in front of them.

Noticing what’s caught his attention, Magnus reaches over and picks the book up, handing it over to Alec.

“Have you read anything by Gideon Penhallow before?”

Alec doesn’t look up, concentrating all of his focus onto the book now in his hands.

“I think I’ve heard of him,” he murmurs and can’t stop the faint grin.

“He’s my favorite author,” Magnus exclaims and Alec’s head whips up to see his eyes positively dancing with excitement.

“You’ve read more than one of his books?”

Magnus stands from the couch, moving over the the bookshelves close to the foyer. With his back still turned to Alec, he says, “I’ve read everything he’s ever published at least three times. His books have it all-- romance, intricate plots, and characters that I can really see myself in-- while still being easily digestible.”

He must find what he’s looking for because he slides a book out and turns back to Alec, holding it up in front of him. “The book you have is his latest-- Heavy is the Head. It’s his second in his Golden Labyrinth trilogy and I actually preordered it,” Magnus admits sheepishly. “I’m dying to know how things work out between the two protagonists. They’re in a bit of a tricky situation right now.”

Alec studies the cover of his latest book and can’t help the feeling of relief that washes over him. It was good to know that Magnus read his books-- let alone enjoyed them. He looks up at Magnus when another book is held out to him.

“This is his first book, Missing on the Inside. It’s a standalone novel but I think it’s a good starting place.”

Magnus abruptly stops, though as his expression grows self-deprecating. “If you’re even interested, that is. I didn’t mean to ambush you with book club, Alexander, forgive me. It’s just that I don’t know anyone else who reads Penhallow so it’s rare that I get to discuss my favorite author.”

Alec waves that away, grinning. “With what limited free time I have, I do like to spend with a good book. Are you letting me borrow this?”

Settling down on the couch again, Magnus rests one arm along the back. “Of course, darling. I think that we’ve been friends long enough that I can trust you with a book-- it’s not like I don’t know where to find you.”

Alec smiles but doesn’t say anything, mind whirling. While he can admit to himself that he’s in a bit of a pickle, he can’t resist the chance to hear more about what Magnus thinks of his books. If he has to reread his first novel, it’s a small price to pay.

The conversation moves on and the two of them relax with their drinks-- which Alec only takes a few reluctant sips of-- before moving on to the reason for Alec’s visit.

Tilting his head toward a hallway, Magnus asks, “Would you mind if we move things into my apothecary? It will be easier to describe what I’m talking about if I can have the tools and ingredients in front of us.”

Alec agrees and when he walks into Magnus’s study, his eyes widen in appreciation. It’s as elegant as he’d expect with shelves and shelves of ingredients meticulously organized. In the center is a large desk and as Magnus goes to stand over it, Alec sees a dozen or so ingredients lined up neatly.

“So, you wanted to know what potions or poultices I would make if someone was stabbed in the chest?” At Alec’s nod, he continues, “Was the heart nicked?”

Alec mulls the question over, eventually offering, “For sake of argument, let’s say it was.”

Magnus proceeds to walk him through the steps for a homemade poultice-- he decides to forego a potion that uses any of the more exotic ingredients that the shadow world would know-- and Alec pays close attention.

Without his quite knowing how, he spends the rest of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon in Magnus’s loft. It’s surprising but gratifying that things aren’t weird between them when it turns face to face.

Alec’s worry that they needed that impersonal divide was for naught.

Looking down at his watch, Alec curses as he sees that it’s way past lunch. Magnus looks over from where he was putting the last of his supplies away. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“I have a meeting with a Clave envoy in twenty minutes.”

Finishing up, Magnus turns and walks over to Alec, landing a considering gaze on him. “Even if you activated a rune, it would take half an hour to get back to the Institute from here.”

Alec grimaces. “I know.”

“I could,” Magnus starts. “Open a portal for you?”

Alec’s brows shoot up at the offering. “Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out--”

“Don’t worry about that. What’s a minor portal among friends,” Magnus asks.

Alec smiles, ducking his head a little. “Then, thank you. I’d really appreciate a portal to the Institute.”

“Say no more.”

The two of them walk back into the living room, where Alec retrieves his coat and the book at Magnus’s insistence.

“I’ll be looking forward to hearing what you think about Penhallow next time we see each other.”

Alec stares at him dumbly for a minute, adjusting the collar of his coat. “I didn’t know you wanted to see me again.”

Magnus laughs, taking a step closer to straighten out the collar. “It may have taken me six years to meet the Head of the New York Institute, but I don’t think we need to wait another six, do you?”

Looking away in the vain hope that Magnus won’t see the flush crawling up his cheeks, Alec says softly, “No, I don’t think we do.”

Magnus smiles at him and Alec’s struck by the authenticity of it. Alec is well familiar with professional smiles that never reach the eyes. Magnus, however, looks pleased at Alec’s response and he can’t stop the mildly fervent wish that Magnus is happy to see Alec-- and looking forward to seeing him again.

Alec already knows that he wants to see Magnus again.

Motioning to create the portal, Magnus makes it look effortless as one opens in the middle of the living room.

With a last smile of thanks, Alec starts to step through when Magnus’s voice calls him back.

“Alexander.”

Looking back, Alec arches a brow as he sees Magnus studying him, giving him a thorough onceover.

Magnus’s lips quirk. “You’ve surprised me,” he says, reluctantly amused.

“Good surprises I hope,” Alec says, just a little confused.

“Very good,” Magnus confirms. “I didn’t think it was possible for a shadowhunter to be so tolerable. I thought that our correspondence was a fluke because we didn’t have to see each other. Turns out, I was wrong. There’s just something about you,” Magnus muses and trails off, seemingly lost in thought.

Clearing his throat, Alec replies, “You surprised me too, you know.” Magnus’s expressions turns to one of pique as Alec continues, “Every shadowhunter has heard about the Magnus Bane. Turns out your reputation precedes you, too. I’m glad your company was just as enjoyable as your letters.”

Something flickers in Magnus’s eyes as he smiles. “Until next time, then, darling.”

Alec nods in agreement before turning and walking through the portal, back to the Institute and its million tasks waiting for him.

He feels Magnus’s eyes on his back until the portal disappears into nothing.

“Shit,” Magnus breathes, staring at his arm in stunned horror.

Looking back up to the mirror, his gaze roves over his face, the rest of him, looking for a hint, anything to explain why his countdown timer has reached zero.

Magnus hasn’t looked at his soulmate mark in years. The last time he’d unglamoured it from its prominent position on his forearm had been in the early twentieth century. He’d seen the millions of hours and minutes and seconds and hastily replaced the glamor, disgusted and melancholic along with a dozen other emotions besides.

He hadn’t the wherewithal or inclination to do the math-- all he’d known was that his soulmate, whomever they were, was too far away.

It appears that his time has run out, though.

Laughing a little at the dreadful pun, Magnus can’t stop staring down at the stark script on his arm that means he’s officially met his soulmate.

That’s the damned thing about the timers-- they just count down to the first time soulmates speak to each other. Most people obsess over their timers, counting down to the final day and hour and minute, primed to meet the person who’s perfect for them.

Unfortunately for Magnus, He didn’t even know what decade he’d meet his match, let alone the millisecond.

For fuck’s sake, he thinks. I’ve been to twelve countries the past month alone.

A hint desperately, he tries to think if any of the people he’d met with had filled him with any sort of joy or sense of knowing.

He comes up infuriatingly blank.

Standing abruptly, Magnus throws his robe on before going directly to his drink cart by the balcony. He pours a few fingers of his best scotch and downs the glass, barely tasting the liquor.

He can’t help but think that he should just know-- he should have felt something when he’d met his goddamn soulmate.

He’s a High Warlock, one of the most renowned warlocks in the world. He goes everywhere for business both personal and diplomatic and he regularly meets with dozens of people, a good chunk of them heretofore strangers.

It could be anyone, he thinks, just a touch hysterically, and takes another swallow of scotch.

He doesn’t have time to pour another glass before he hears his phone ringing from where he’d left it in the bedroom.

Summoning it to him, he can’t help the instinctive smile that curves his mouth when he sees the caller.

“Alexander,” he greets warmly. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Hey, Magnus,” Alec says and Magnus does not feel goddamn butterflies at just the sound of his voice, tone relaxed. “I had a meeting cancel unexpectedly and realized that I still had that book you lent me? Missing on the Inside? I thought that if you were free, I could come over and return it.”

Smiling, Magnus settles in his chair by the fireplace, watching the way the light strikes hints of gold in his scotch. He makes up his mind in an instant.

“That sounds lovely, darling. Though, what do you say we get dinner instead? It is early evening, after all, and I don’t know about you but I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast-- and that was hours ago.”

“It’s been a pretty hectic day for me,” Alec admits. “I could go for dinner. Did you have something in mind?

Narrowing his eyes in thought, Magnus offers, “I know this great Ethiopian place a few blocks from me. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great. I can be there in about an hour?”

“I wait with bated breath,” Magnus teases and hangs up to the sound of Alec laughing.

With a quick glance to his grandfather clock, Magnus sees that it’s just before six. Looking down at himself, he grimaces.

He’d just taken off his makeup and changed into his nightwear.

Sighing, Magnus stands up and throws back the rest of his glass, setting it down on the end table with a dull thud.

He decides with alacrity not to worry about his timer. He’s waited centuries-- what’s a little more time, he thinks a little bitterly.

Besides, he has far bigger concerns at the moment-- like what to wear to dinner tonight.

As his thoughts turn to Alexander, Magnus feels something bubbling.

Something that feels a lot like anticipation.

Magnus walks into the bookstore in Lower Manhattan and immediately feels his shoulders relax.

It’s been one hell of a day, but Magnus has had this event on his calendar for ages. While he frequents bookstores-- visiting one whenever he has time on his travels-- it’s rare that Magnus has enjoyed an author enough to attend an event.

As soon as he’d read the Times and seen that Gideon Penhallow was set to host a book signing and reading of his latest book, Against the Wall. It was the conclusion to his latest trilogy and Magnus had gone so far as to cancel his clients the day the book came out, needing to know what had happened to Nathan and James as soon as possible.

It had been everything he was hoping and if the teaser for his next book, Can You See Me, was any indication, Magnus knows that the next series is going to be even better.

No one knew what Penhallow looked like, though. As far as Magnus knew, Gideon Penhallow could be a pen name for all the information that had been released about one of hottest current authors in the publishing world. Magnus had RSVP’d for the event as soon as he’d read the advertisement.

The program this evening is limited to only a hundred guests and Magnus is excited to hear the author himself read an excerpt from his latest release.

He snags one of the last seats-- a client emergency had ran perilously over-- and as he slips into the chair, Magnus sees that Penhallow had yet to appear. Glancing down at his watch, the event is slated to start in five minutes and Magnus goes through his email, answering a text from Catarina while he waits.

Looking up at the hush of the crowd, Magnus freezes, not believing his eyes.

He studies Alec from his messy dark hair to his runeless neck, to the hand tailored suit.

Alec, who for his own part looks equal parts thrilled and nervous as he sits down on the stool in from of the microphone.

“Good evening,” he says into the mic and Magnus’s eyes dart around the bookstore, waiting to see that this is just a joke-- even a parallel universe.

The crowd murmurs back a hello and Alec’s expression evens out and he fiddles with the microphone. “Thank you all for coming tonight to my very first author event.” Laughing with a tinge of self-deprecation, Alec nods at the crowd. “I’ve been overwhelmed with support for Against the Wall- and really, this trilogy in general. I’m looking forward to answering some questions and meeting you all tonight.”

Clearing his throat, Alec reads an excerpt from his book that leads in to an action scene. Magnus relaxes against his seat, crossing his legs as he listens to Alec read aloud. The surprise is quickly wearing off and Magnus starts piecing together the fact that Alexander Lightwood, Head of the New York shadowhunters, was a damned bestselling author.

He winces a little when he replays their first meeting and instead of vague interest, Magnus can now see the coyness in Alec’s answer-- I think I’ve heard of him.

Magnus narrows his eyes at Alec from where he’s sitting, unobserved.

Oh, that sneaky bastard, he thinks, impressed.

Shaking his head, Magnus comes back to attention when Alec starts reading the section when Nathan works on a salve just in case things go wrong at the scheduled meet-up the next chapter.

His eyes widen when he hears the instructions he gave Alec months ago.

When he really thinks about it, Magnus wants to slap both of them. Penhallow, for fuck’s sake, was an old, traditional shadowhunter name.

Alec stops speaking and Magnus claps with the rest of the crowd when he closes the book with a small smile. A question and answer session follows and Magnus listens with interest and not a little amusement as Alec dodges questions about why he’s so secretive and spoilers for his upcoming series.

Soon enough, it’s time for the book signing portion of the event and Magnus waits in his seat, wanting to be the last in line.

It takes a while and Magnus is a little surprised as he watches Alec take his time with every single guest. He looks happy and engaged and Magnus can’t stop his own smile from forming as he sees Alec in-- one of-- his element.

When there’s just a few people in line, Magnus stands and makes his way to the end of the queue. When his turn comes, he slides his book to Alec.

“What happened to your rune,” he asks, amused when Alec’s head snaps up.

“Magnus,” Alec says, voice strangled.

Magnus just raises a brow, waiting for an answer.

“I glamoured them,” Alec finally admits. “It wouldn’t do to advertise them, now would it?”

The two of them stare at each other for a long minute before Alec finally asks, “What are the chances,” in a dazed tone.

“I’d say pretty good, Alexander, considering I consistently rave about my favorite author who just so happens to be a recluse.”

Looking down, Alec takes Magnus’s book and opens the front cover. “And what did you think,” he asks, looking at Magnus through his lashes.

Humming thoughtfully, Magnus watches as Alec starts writing something.

“You’re a wonderful orator, darling, and a master at deflection. You know that everyone thinks you’re some sort of clandestine government agent don’t you?”

Alec just shrugs. “It fits with the kind of stories I write and if it keeps them from finding out what I really am, than they can think whatever they want.”

Magnus just shakes his head as Alec fans the ink to dry and shuts the book. “I can’t believe you acted like you didn’t know who Gideon Penhallow was when we first met. That could have been irredeemably embarrassing.”

“What did you want me to do,” Alec asks dryly. “‘Oh, hey Magnus actually I not only know mundane culture but I’ve been on the New York Times bestsellers list for 43 weeks running?’ You would have looked at me like I’d sprouted horns.”

“Still,” Magnus says. “I can’t believe I’ve known my favorite author for months and didn’t even know it. Think of all the inside information I could have tried to pry from you,” Magnus says in dawning realization.

Alec just laughs and holds out the book for Magnus to take.

They both gasp, eyes widening, as their fingers brush and send a jolt of electricity through them both.

“It’s you,” Alec blurts out, tone accusatory.

Mind still reeling with what’s just happened, Magnus absently asks, “What do you mean, darling?”

“You’re my soulmate.”

At Alec’s words, said on a disbelieving breath, something in Magnus stills, slotting carefully into place.

Of course, he thinks dizzily. It had to be Alexander.

He shakes his head a little to clear it and when he focuses on Alec, it’s like he’s looking at him in a brand new light.

“You’re my soulmate,” Magnus echoes and watches as Alec’s eyes light up.

Alec stands before rounding the table. He reaches for Magnus only to stop in his tracks.

“You--” he breaks off, tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously. “You’re happy about this right? Or at least not horrified.”

At Alec’s whispered question, Magnus jolts into action, reaching out himself to lay a hand on Alec’s shoulder. They both brace for another jolt but this time it’s a current of warmth that runs through Magnus. In an instant he feels like he knows Alec, like he’s found that missing puzzle piece that he long thought he’d lost.

He looks at Alec and it’s a sense of familiarity, like his soul recognizes Alexander on the molecular level.

Giddily, he wonders if that isn’t far from the truth.

“Of course I’m happy about this, Alexander. How couldn’t I be? We’ve known each other for years and I have to say that I like you quite a lot.”

Alec starts smiling, wrapping a hand around Magnus’s waist to pull him even closer.

“Quite a lot, huh,” he murmurs and lays a hesitant hand on Magnus’s cheek.

Magnus can’t help himself. He turns his head imperceptibly and kisses Alec’s palm, grinning when he sees that Alec’s eyes are glued to him.

It’s like a moment suspended in time and Magnus can’t believe his good fortune. It’s true that he’s felt connected to Alec since that very first letter all those years ago. Talking to him-- a shadowhunter, a Lightwood-- was easy. It felt natural. Magnus was more comfortable with Alec than he was with some of his oldest friends and at last he had a reason for that.

Alec was his soulmate.

Magnus’s breath catches as Alec gets a look in his eye that’s indescribable but intentional all the same. When Alec kisses him, Magnus closes his eyes and leans into the sensation.

It’s the best kiss he’s ever had-- which is saying quite a lot-- and something in him rejoices that it’s just the first of many.

Alec swims to consciousness when he feels someone slide his glasses off his nose, when he hears the tiny click as they’re set on his desk. He’s still too tired to open his eyes-- he’s on deadline to his editor not to mention Jace has gotten into at least fifteen cups of hot water this week.

He’s just about to fall back under when he hears a sharp inhale. Blearily, he opens his eyes and sees Magnus, face illuminated by his laptop screen, staring at his open word document.

Alec knows he must’ve fallen asleep at the dedication and he smiles a little as he watches Magnus’s reaction.

“It’s true, you know,” he says, voice still a little rough from his impromptu nap.

Magnus’s gaze switches to him and Alec can’t stop the smile that he just knows is fond as hell from creeping over his face.

“I love you, Alexander,” Magnus says, voice hushed.

“I love you too, soulmate,” Alec says, teasing lilt in his tone.

Laughing quietly, Magnus brushes Alec’s hair out of his face, letting his hand rest against his neck.

“What do you say we go to bed, darling?”

“Yeah, okay babe.”

Alec lets Magnus lead him to their bedroom where he falls onto his side of the bed inelegantly.

Magnus just shakes his head fondly as he watches his husband fall asleep within seconds, his snores a soothing noise in the quiet of their room.

Magnus climbs into bed behind Alec, throwing an arm over his side and shifting closer.

He falls asleep soon enough, bemused with a quiet sort of wonder.

It’s been years and Alec still has the power to bring him to his knees with a few words said in his earnest, sincere voice.

To the love of my life,

I’m thankful everyday that you took a chance and bestowed your standard kindness to a young leader who was in way over his head.

This book is for you. My soulmate, my husband, my partner. I hope that you find a hint of our story in these pages and know that you are my infinite muse, my inspiration to be a better man every day.

Eternally yours,

Alexander

#prayformalec #malecsanta18 #*fics18 #*gifts18

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demes-tumbled-sims · 5 years

Text

The Avyan Immortal Dynasty, Chapter 7: All This Feelings Junk

Index

<- Previous

So, the wedding had another little story, right? The sun is setting slowly over the party. Miko wants to socialize, I’m taking care of the bar. It’s been a perfect wedding. And up walks Gino, a little slower than usual.

“I got my notice today,” he said with a little sigh. “Time to get the ol’ affairs in order.” Now, I could ask the reasonable question, which is whether he was just going to take that lying down. But I’d wreck my whole gig.

“That’s rough. Anything I can do with that?”

“Probably not. I’ve been enjoying the liveliness! I’ve been enjoying the company… All the company, if you understand me. I’ve got a little boy, you know. Julian.”

“Congrats!” So, this glass for my sympathetic bartender shtick has gotten really, really clean in the time I spent waiting for him to say anything more. “What’s your drink, Gino? I’ll make you a double.”

“I don’t think you can make a double of a Sour Punch, but sure! I’ll give it a shot!” This gets a smile out of the old guy, at least.

“If someone told you that, they’re just afraid to try. If it’s double the liquor, it counts. Break out a taller glass.” I start mixing it up as he settles back down and says, into the silence:

“Have you ever really wondered about what it means to get your affairs in order?”

“I refuse.”

“Fair enough, little missus,” he shakes his head. “What I mean is… Let’s say you love someone. Like you’ve never loved anyone.”

“Like you love Mila,” because there’s no such thing as a real hypothetical anymore. Also, because I just got married, so, you know.

“She’s a wonderful lady! A hard worker! A sweet woman. And it’s...it’s real fun. Just being around her.” The promised drink arrives at his seat. “Maybe I’m just being sentimental, on account of your wedding. Sweet wedding… But there are things I’d like to say to a woman like that… But then I’d leave her a widow, just like that! That seem fair to you? Is it settling my affairs to go all in -- or to keep things settled?”

“I think you asked me because you know what you want -- and if you didn’t want to do it, you wouldn’t even need to be asking this question. If she won’t be happy, she’ll say no. If that’s fine with her, she’ll say yes. Go get her, tiger.”

I won’t ask why he was in PJs. I think he might have slept through the start of the party.

“Oh, yeah! No moving her in!” I shout after him.

“Mila! I’m glad you came!”

“It’s always a delight. And a fine sartorial choice you’ve made, dear.”

“Every party can be a pajama party if you want it to be! Besides, it’s a perk of being an old guy.”

“I’ll have to try it sometime.”

“ I want to ask you something. It’s important.” He takes a deep breath, holds it a while. “We both know we -- there’s just not enough room for us to ever live together.”

She nods, sadly.

“But all the same: you’re a beautiful, excitin’ part of my life. And I want everyone to know it. I want you to know it, now and forever, from the bottom of my heart.”

“So I’m asking you to marry me.”

“Oh!”

“Oh?” A little waver in his voice tells its own story. But then the ring is swept up onto her finger, dazzling.

“Don’t worry! Yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

“Arright! Off we go to the arch!”

“Right now?”

“Life is short! Up you go!”

“Gino!” She says it like a scolding, but then the lift throws her head back; her laughter throws her head back, her braid draped over his arms. “Hahahaha! You stallion! This can’t be good for your back.”

“...No,” he admitted, in a slightly strained voice. “Not really.”

“I can walk there just fine.”

“We’ll run, then,” he said, swinging her back down.

And so they end up running; when Mila runs by I can hear her making a noise somewhere between a pant and a laugh, outpaced by a man a whole life stage ahead of her.

“I -- I didn’t think of myself as the marrying kind. I’ve got to admit, I don’t know what to say.”

“Except that I love you. And I didn’t think my heart would be settled, not if you weren’t sure of that. I’ve seen the sea in a million moods, I’ve fought fish the size of me! But I feel like this, right here -- you, right here -- is the most thrilling, amazing thing I’m going to find, and my… Well. My biggest catch.”

“I think that’s just right. I’m honestly very surprised. I’ve thought of myself as, oh, splendidly lucky; lucky to have loved someone once, and with him having a wonderful family. If that was all the love allotted to me, I’d have been happy.” She guides his hand into hers. The dusk between them is bridged. There’s an outside world, sure, but it was miles away. “You’ve given me far, far more than my share. No matter how long it lasts, I’m so happy to share my love with you, to share a family with you.”

“As long as we both shall live,” Gino said, his voice breaking huskily over the sentiment, like water over river rocks. “...And as long as you care to remember.” “As long as you’ll have us,” she answers.

“I now pronounce us man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

And Gino Levin and Mila Munch marry alone in the dusk; I think they liked the privacy, a little moment -- a series of moments -- carved out just for the two of them, like the sudden elopement of young lovers.

When the night’s gone very still and dark, and the party’s dispersed, Gino goes out fishing again.

And maybe the fish sense something; maybe there’s something a little faster to the twitch of his fishing rod, a lightness to his step that doesn’t drive away the fish. How should I know?

But apparently, a newlywed can catch a lot of fish when he’s happy; he fills out his first aquarium’s worth of angelfish.

I can just tend my bar in the night, and I’ve got to laugh. I’m in such a sappy mood. All this feelings junk. It’s really alright.

Mila probably understands just how short time is running there. Sure, active might add a little extra. It might not. But this is probably why, the next day, they go out to celebrate, and spend a little time together. And I came, too.

Oh, and Zest is here with a pretty thing. He has embraced this philosophy of bad humor and fairly white-bread debauchery.

Me? Miko’s at work. So I’m just here for the pictures of experimental food!

Don’t know if I’ll keep the experimental food pictures as a museum thing. They’re not worth a whole lot. But hey! It’s an idea for now.

The actual happy couple gets their own table, away from this whole business. As they deserve, and can talk about this and that -- more sailing stories, Mila’s first three kids: little Julian, too. “Of course, I do intend to make his food. I think it’s an important touch, even when you’re just considering baby food.” “That boy’s going to be spoiled rotten! I need to come see him.” “...You do.”

Before we leave, Johnny tells me he picked up some Lilies and Snapdragons. How good!

Just after dinner, because when you’ve resigned yourself to the so-called “fact,” like you’re just going to take what’s given to you even when that’s losing, you know, existing, you’ve got to gamble on when the last time is, she invites Gino to the chateau.

Well... I can’t think there’s anything wrong with making every second count.

and I’m there, too, because I hate being left behind when people are out and about. Gets me behind on all the good gossip. Besides, my wife gets to come join when she’s done working. I’ve got seconds to make count, too.

And we can enjoy some time together. Just me, her…

“And the tickle monster!” “Ahahaha~ Ow, my sides! Ahahahah Hey, that’s not -- Miko!”

I’ll have to get payback!

And a powerful smooching, to close out the night peacefully.

Little did I know, the true horror that awaited me in the morning…

“Akira Kibo, what is that?” Whatever it is, it’s going in the blackmail folder. “Casual friday?” “Too casual. Put it back.”

I can get another turn closer -- yeah, that’s right, another mixology level. They certainly fly by… This is a solid 7: nothing to worry about but hitting the career branch for this level.

Later that day, Gino stops by our dear neighbor’s to see his son.

“Hey there, little man. Hey there… Look at you. How tiny! You’ve got to grow up big and strong, alright? And be good for your mom, OK? What else… Oh. Yeah.” He bounces the boy up once more, and holds him as tight as he can. “I love you. Remember that.”

Julian probably would never remember this moment. It’s all kind of unfair, isn’t it? Well, that’s why I’m getting out.

Miko’s giving stuff some thought. Because she heard about that, and she let out the biggest, goopiest “Awwwww” you’ve ever heard.

I know it looks like she’s mopping, but that is a zone right there, and she is in it. “Alright! Bathroom’s washed! Dishers are in the dishwasher! Teapot’s clean! I am doing my best thinking, I am living my best life! ...What do I want?”

She takes a deep breath, and she smiles a big, bright smile.

“Keeestraaal~ Are you ready?” “I think we’re ready. Soo… The marriage bed’s still pretty new. We might still need to… Try it out.” “And try for a bit more than that, teehee.”

That’s right. We think the days off are getting decent; the pay’s getting manageable.

“Yes!” We’re going to have a baby!

#sims 4 #The Sims 4 Gameplay #the sims 4 story #The Sims #Immortal Dynasty Challenge #The Avyan Immortal Dynasty #crosspost #I love Mila and Gino #I do that was just a happy surprise #I also love an upcoming boy

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rousseaubsc2b · 5 years

Text

Date Night In

Sherlock went on a date, and John and I stayed in.

John sat down at the desk with a bowl of rice and beans and I fixed myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. We'd talked earlier about frying some fish, but my blood sugar decided to drop as soon as I made it in and I needed to eat fast. I even had a snack late this afternoon... oh well.

"So," he mentioned as I sat down across from him. "Can you give me a little more insight on what's been going through your mind today?"

I took a bite and sighed. Think think think. "Well... basically what I told you before I left work. It's entirely too obvious that my body is on board with this." I had to laugh. John made a face in agreement, something of a well, yes, very much so. "And my heart... but then my brain goes, wait. You don't understand what you're getting into here."

"Okay."

He knows I don't make eye contact. It's a thing. He doesn't make me, and I tend to look all over when we talk. Right now his spoon is fascinating. "And... it's right."

"All right." A slow nod, he purses his lips. "Tell me more?" It's not so much of a question as it is him asking if I'm able to at the moment.

And John is an extremely patient listener. He gives me time to think and put my words together. He sees me look halfway across the room at something entirely irrelevant.

I am so lucky.

"My brain goes... Is this how you wanted this to be? If you do this, this way, this time in your life, are you going to regret it later? And I've done some reading, it's likely. But then on the way home, while I was driving, it kind of crept into the forefront of my mind."

He looked up. Did not speak a word.

"My body wants its hormones appeased. My heart wants you. My brain wants forever."

A single nod.

"I'm still thinking. I've got something to say, it just won't come together for me in a way you can understand."

"Take your time."

I heard the clock ticking behind me. "I do this thing in my head where I... walk myself through situations in order to better understand them, to figure out how to prepare for it, kind of a rehearsal. And I've... had a little experience in this realm, I suppose, and what happened was... I need all three of those things to do well. Especially the brain part."

I'd confused him at least a little, but he was trying to follow.

"My body is happy, yes. My heart is happy in a relationship. But when that person walks away... and I'm not saying that you are, I'm saying I don't know. It's an unknown right now. I can't help that. So, hypothetically, what if, you know. But with my ex boyfriend... that's what messed me up."

"You two were intimate?"

"We, um... we did some things. And I was upset that he got to do that with me and then leave me. It was... emotionally, it took me a while to process, and I can say that I've put it behind me now. I was sixteen at the time, and I was very attached to him. But I don't like the way that made me feel in the end, not at all. And that emotion I really don't have a word for."

"Okay." His bowl was nearly empty now, and I took the moment of silence to eat part of my sandwich. "So, can I ask, Emma -- are you a virgin?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I thought you might be."

"Is it... that... obvious?"

"Um... Well... maybe a bit. But I will say this, and hear me out. You're very mature about it, and I think that's significant for a couple of reasons."

"Okay."

"One, and you may know this already, but your mind... With autism, it's pretty common for someone to come across as younger than they actually are, and you do. Until you told me, I had no idea you were in your thirties, I would have guessed mid-twenties."

"I get told I look like I'm twenty four all the time."

"You look younger, and your mind -- for whatever reason, whether it's how your brain is wired or if it's an effect of the social aspect of autism -- is "younger" than those of other people your age. I don't know if you've come across that."

"I never really had much common mental ground with my peers in school, especially in my teens. I was just... not on their level. A lot of it was social, a lot of it was anxiety."

"Right. You're working with an entirely different operating system. They're all running Windows and you've got a Mac. And in terms of the incidence of autism, that's not too far off the mark. Anyway, what I was getting at -- I swear, I'll get there eventually -- "

I laughed. It made him smile.

"--One, your brain is younger than normal, and two, with that in mind, you are very emotionally mature about sex. And I find that extremely significant."

I must have given him my puzzled look.

"Because you've gone through all this in your head. You know how your emotions react in certain situations now, you know what you don't want to happen... and... you know what you want in a relationship. Actually, at this point, I don't think want is a strong enough word -- you know what you need, like you said, to do well. To feel safe."

I was thinking. It all felt a bit emotional to me, and I tried hard not to retreat from this. What he said was important and it was truthful, and it told me that he understood. Maybe he understood more than I did. In university once, a professor in one of our pedagogy classes handed us all our evaluation folders, and I opened mine to find a note someone had written about how I had been having mental health problems. We were supposed to be looking at the tests we'd taken, but I couldn't bear to even open mine. I felt exactly the same right now, sitting here across from my boyfriend -- afraid to open that folder, to hear what he'd figured out about me. Afraid to read someone's notes about why I'd made a failing grade.

In some corner of my brain, though, I knew I had no reason to be afraid. A very small corner that said, He's not like the others. He gets you. He's not leaving you.

But what if he does?

John must have noticed I'd zoned out or stopped listening or something, and he reached over to touch my hand. "Emma?"

I hadn't realised I was crying. "Oh God," I wiped my eyes under my glasses. "I'm sorry, I just... I had a... flashback to something."

"You okay?"

I nodded hastily. You don't need my emotional trivia, I promise.

"Tell me those three things you figured out again, walk me through that."

"My hormones, which are completely out of control."

He counted off on his fingers. One. "Biological needs."

"My heart. I love you."

Two. "I love you too. Emotional needs."

"My brain. It wants forever."

Three. "Commitment." I nodded. "You want me, forever."

"Yes."

The way John smiled... his eyes smiled too. They don't do that very often, but I've seen it a couple more times recently. This time, they really smiled.

"And I mean that," I said, and suddenly the verbal flood opened up. "I'm Catholic, we don't do divorce. Once you marry me -- that's it. You're stuck with me. For good. That's what I want. I want one person to love and do amazing things in bed with, forever. Because the thought of... that not being the case... I-I-I can't do that emotionally. That stuff... emotionally bonds you to someone. It's incredibly strong, and it feels like... like some kind of violation when it's broken. I can't do that, and I won't. It's too much."

Now he smiled like he knew something I didn't. John picked up his phone and searched for something. I watched him. Ate another bite of my sandwich.

"Remember what I said about no pressure," he said, looking up at me without moving his head. "Tell me one thing, though, just out of curiosity: at this point, right now, with everything we've talked about, do you consider yourself emotionally ready for a sexual relationship with someone?"

"Oh, hell no."

He chuckled under his breath, but he smiled too. "Okay." Still looking for something. "Now, put all of that to the side."

"All of it."

"Every bit. Now think about this."

He turned his phone over in both hands and showed me a picture of a ring. Two, actually. Wedding band, too. Simple but very elegant, silver, solitaire with an understated-but-not-plain band. Not gaudy. And a lab diamond, like I'd said I wanted. Diamonds may be other girls' best friends but they're also ungodly expensive and are usually mined under questionable ethical conditions; I'd decided many years ago that a diamond was just not something I wanted the responsibility of keeping up with and/or possibly losing. I couldn't find my car keys if they didn't have a tracker on them. Expensive jewelry did not seem like a wise life choice.

My heart decided to try to run a marathon. I do not take responsibility for the reactions of my face in that moment, it was completely autonomous from the rest of me. "Is that it?"

John bit his lower lip. "Maybe."

I took his phone and looked closer. "Oh, you've pegged me."

Without missing a beat, he murmured, "It'll be here Tuesday."

I must have screamed, because Mrs Hudson came upstairs in quite the hurry.

--Emma

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godaime-obito · 6 years

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my fill for madatobi week July 29th: Soulmark/Soulmate // Too hot!

@madatobiweek

available an ao3 by the link, and below under the cut

A quick rundown of the au; Soulmates are located by body temperature, far away=cold, relatively near=warm/a normal body temperature, close enough to see=hot/feverish. The longer you are actually interacting with them the hotter you feel, kissing your soulmate the first time returns your body temperature permanently to normal. Those with no soulmate are always a normal temperature

“Tobi,” Hashirama starts in, “have you thought about your soulmate?”

“No,” Tobirama replies tersely. “I don’t have one.” Hashirama was always cold when they were young, until Mito came to the Land of Fire. Now that he’s found his own soulmate and finally founded the village he’s always dreamed of, he suddenly has an abundance of time to worry about Tobirama’s hypothetical soulmate, the way he used to worry about Mito.

“You don’t know that!” Hashirama wails in return, “They’ve probably just lived nearby all along, and that’s why you’ve never been cold. Now that clans from the area have started to join the village you could meet them…”

“Not this again,” Tobirama tries to stop him, but he is apparently determined to repeat himself for the fifth day in a row.

“…If you ever interacted with people outside of work,” he finishes.

“Anija, I told you yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that,” he lectures, “that I am busy, because you just founded an entire village and someone has to actually do the paperwork that goes along with that.”

Tobirama heads towards his desk, not stomping because that would be undignified. He leaves Hashirama pouting in his office, along with the paperwork that needs signed. If he brings up soulmates for no good reason again he’ll make him fill out the forms himself instead of just bringing them to him to be signed. Maybe then he’d understand just how much paperwork there really was.

Unlike Hashirama who has his own office, Tobirama shares an open office space with several other important village figures. His desk is just across from Madara’s. He’s certain Hashirama is the culprit reasonable for that, likely thinking if he forced them to be near each other they would learn to get along. Unfortunately for him, that isn’t going to happen. He’s tried to get along with him, and on an intellectual and professional level he respects him, but they just don’t seem to be personally compatible. They get under one another’s skin. It only takes a few sentences to set Tobirama’s blood boiling when they try to talk.

He returns to work, eager to get through it all so he can return home prior to midnight for once. Tobirama’s in the middle of sorting through zoning paperwork when he senses Madara approach. He can already feel his temperature and blood pressure rise.

“Senju,” Madara spits out. It isn’t hard to tell that Tobirama makes his blood boil as well.

“What?” he replies, looking Madara in the eyes to glare him down properly.

He slams a folder on Tobirama’s desk in answer. Madara sputters a moment when he tries to reply, already flushed and agitated before the argument has really begun. Tobirama isn’t sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. At least Madara looks good flushed like that, although he’d rather not linger on that train of thought. He breaks eye contact, picking up the folder to look through it. He puts on his most condescending tone, which is rather disdainful indeed, and tries again, “Please, use your big boy words Uchiha. What is it you need?”

The folder is information about the new genin teams, an idea he thought of that is going into effect soon. It will be good for the village children, promote better relations between clans, and is in his opinion one of his best non-jutsu related ideas.

“Pray tell what exactly is it about genin teams that have you so cross, beyond of course, them being my idea?” Tobirama inquires curtly.

“Your brother,” Madara begins before losing whatever he was trying to say to more angry sputtering. Maybe what really makes Tobirama angry about speaking with this man is how attractive he manages to be even when being an idiot.

“What did Hashirama do, and what does it have to do with my genin?” he bites out. Technically only three of them will be his students, but on a spiritual level aren’t the all his? Besides, he’s starting to feel feverish, and he can’t tell if he’s steaming mad at Madara like usual or Hashirama this time, and he’s really not in the mood for this.

“I don’t want any of them!” he finally screeches out. “Tell your brother I’m not a babysitter,” he states, just on the edge of being another screech.

Madara’s finally found his rhythm it seems, much to Tobirama’s chagrin. He can go on yelling for what feels like an eternity when he’s like this, and it never fails to put both their temperatures through the roof with what Tobirama speculates can only be the power of pure rage.

Tobirama is barely conceptualizing what Madara is saying now, because he is simply too hot, but the man isn’t done. He opens his stupid, pretty, mouth again, and continues, “Just thinking about wasting time trying to keep three brats I don’t even know alive is raising my blood pressure, and-”

Madara is suddenly cut off by the press of Tobirama’s lips to his. He may regret this later, but at least the man isn’t talking anymore now. He’s still just as upset as he was a moment ago, but with the start of the kiss the fire in his veins suddenly goes out. He can feel his temperature dropping.

Suddenly, he remembers what he had just been talking about with Hashirama that day, and jerks himself backwards. No. Absolutely not. It’s a strange coincidence. But, it was very sudden, and normally it takes an hour or so to cool off after arguing with his desk neighbor.

Madara is looking at him with shocked confusion. “Did… did you feel… have you… we… the whole time?” he stutters out.

Clearly Madara felt it too. The Uchiha and Senju clans have always resided relatively near to each other, even before they both moved to the village. It is unlikely, but possible that Madara and Tobirama’s importance to their clans at home operations meant that they never went far enough from each other to get cold. As heir Madara likely wouldn’t go on any out of country missions, and Tobirama’s sensing ability was too useful for guarding the compound for him to go too far.

“Yes,” he replies. Smirking, he adds, “All this time I just thought I was being heated when you were near by my own rage at your existence.”

Madara makes a small choking nose, and rapidly regains his thunder. “I thought the same thing! Do you know how infuriating you are? You and your brother,” he rants, before abruptly cutting off. They stare at each other sharing an epiphany. Hashirama will be insufferable if he finds out.

“He can’t know,” Tobirama bites out.

“Never,” Madara swiftly agrees.

Tobirama grabs his hand. “Quick before he somehow senses it, let me hiraishin us out of the building,” he explains before the other can protest.

“Fine. Just hurry.”

It seems Tobirama will be bonding with his soulmate over the shared pastime of desperately avoiding Hashirama. He’s going to have to convince him to take that genin team now. Any soulmate of his really must participate in the program.

#my writing #fanfic #madatobiweek2018 #madatobi #madara #tobirama #hashirama #naruto

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traincat · 6 years

Note

I think I Kno the answer but I like the way you explain things so; would you ever write superfamily?

This is the sort of stone cold ‘no’ where it’s literally one of the only things I say I will not write on signup sheets. You’d have to pay me to write it. Substantially. If there’s one Marvel fandom-specific trope I hate above all others, it’s this one. I ‘flames on the side of my face’ gif loathe it. And because you played to my ego here, anonymous, I’ll explain why it bothers me so much. (Joking aside, I do genuinely appreciate that people want to hear my thoughts on things! Thank you! I’m sorry for how seethingly bitter I’m about to be, but anon, I suspect you knew what you’d be getting when you asked this!)

Frothing hatred, a discussion about the integrity of the character of Peter Parker, and The Importance of May Parker – all beneath your friendly neighborhood cut.

Superfamily in this instance refers to a specific fic trope in Marvel fandom where a pair of superheroes, traditionally Captain America and Iron Man (the superhusbands, hence the superfamily) although I’ve seen other pairings especially as of late, are written as the fathers of Peter “Spider-Man” Parker – usually adopted, sometimes biological, but ultimately legally.

In general I don’t really enjoy this kind of fic where two characters who aren’t related (by blood or otherwise) are re-envisioned as relatives. It’s not that I think it’s inherently a bad concept, but what I would hypothetically want out of it – an exploration of how these characters change as a result of being related in this version – is almost never what it actually is, which is that Characters A and B are the author’s OTP, and the author wants to give them a child, and Character C, who is off over there minding their own business probably with their own supporting cast, is right there.

(While trying to come up with comparative combinations on a tangent I ultimately dropped, I did think “Maria Hill and Natasha Romanoff are the parents of Daisy Johnson, costarring Nick Fury as the mysterious uncle” and apparently there are versions of this I would read. Make superspyfamily the next big thing.)

There’s a lot of other things I don’t like about the trope: the diminishing and infantilization of Peter Parker, a ~30yo man in the comics with his own complicated web of connections and relationships – including, if we wanted to go here, a surrogate father figure in Joe “Robbie” Robertson. The twisting of Peter’s personality in order to make his a Good Earnest Kid, his Grand Canyon-wide independent streak and his anti-authoritarian nature stripped away in favor of making him beholden to two characters who are, you know, not his parents. Two characters who aren’t even, striking a stint in the ice where Steve Rogers is concerned, that much older than him in 616. The fact that, over the years, Iron Man and Spider-Man have clashed several times, often aggressively on Peter’s side of things.

(This post isn’t meant to be a criticism of Tony Stark – even if I was interested in taking that angle when discussing this trope, which I’m not, I frankly haven’t read enough Iron Man comics to offer a valid criticism – but rather a statement that Peter Parker is an aggressive character by nature, and that sometimes two characters with the best of intentions can have damaging interactions with each other. That’s the beauty of having a canon with 80 million different characters – every possible dynamic exists. And that’s why there’s several canon instances of Peter attacking Tony in my Spider-Man refs folder. Listen, I like when he punches people, okay.) The invention of a totally fake dynamic that has become so widespread and latched on on a fanon level to the point where it was shoehorned into the latest Spider-Man movie adaptation to the detriment of Spider-Man’s actual supporting cast. The fact that when I read Spider-Man fic, I want to be reading about Spider-Man, not someone’s Peter Parker shaped OC. And maybe most importantly: the erasure of May Parker. Without May Parker, there is no Spider-Man, not as we know him.

I’ve spoken before about the importance and gravity of Ben Parker’s death and how without knowing the exact circumstances, I find it difficult to know what form Peter’s actions will take. (The differences in his crime fighting methodology 616 vs Marvel Noir, for instance.) But while Ben Parker’s death made Spider-Man, the vigilante, I think it’s May Parker who makes him a hero, every day.

And, my line on her to Peter is that he got his powers from the spider but he got his strength from May. Because that backbone is what made him who and what he is today. The choices that he makes now come of her having raised him a certain way. – J Michael Straczynski (x)

Look, I think there’s a simplicity to Superfamily that contributes to its overwhelming, infuriating, kudzu-like popularity: Spider-Man is one of the biggest superhero properties on the planet. He’s often, however incorrectly I would personally suggest this is, depicted as a kid. He is, as we all know, an orphan – he has no parents, and he lives with his aunt and uncle, and then – robber, bang, power, responsibility – only with his aunt. And I think sometimes when people hear “orphan” and “aunt” they kind of feel a distance – a disconnect. Or maybe it’s an age thing – the idea that May’s somehow too old to be his parent, so she’s discounted. Maybe it’s just because she’s not a superhero, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s entirely a coincidence that early Marvel is populated with non-traditional family models – the Fantastic Four, for example, are not a team but a family – when these stories were created by Jewish people living in a heavily Jewish area in the shadow of WWII. In the face of decimation, you come together however you can. Orphaned Peter Parker and his aunt, his father’s brother’s wife, alone together. But May Parker’s a lot more than just that.

In Amazing Spider-Man #33, Peter finds himself hopelessly trapped under rubble while Aunt May’s life hangs in the balance – if he cannot free himself, it’s not only his life but hers that’s forfeit, and through his love from her he finds the strength to literally move mountains. (Speaking of removing May from the picture in favor of Iron Man, I’ll never forgive Spider-Man: Homecoming for recreating this scene so that Peter derives his strength from him and not from, you know, the woman who raised him and who he loves more than his own life, in favor of the inherently more marketable Iron Man brand.)

A lot of times in Superfamily fic, they just kill May off. Okay, fine, whatever. I might hate it (I hate it a lot) but like, alright! Fine! If you gotta go here! May’s often been in delicate health, especially in older comics, and if an author needs to take her out of the picture, her literally being dead is basically the only in character reason she wouldn’t be there for Peter if he needs her. I might personally have a grudge against about it, but hey, as we’ve established, I have a grudge against the whole trope. Lately though, and I suspect because of the advent of Homecoming’s Hot Somewhat Younger May – I’d like to suggest that 616 May is not as old as one might think looking at her first appearances and that, as the sliding timescale moves along, we have to address the fact that people both live longer and look younger today than was expected in the 1960s –, I’ve been seeing a different trend. (Yes, I’ve been known to hateread, I’ll admit it. How else would I know how much I hate it! Also it keeps ending up in the JohnnyPeter tag and I make poor choices re: deriving enjoyment from my anger over fanfic of all things.) Lately, more and more, I’ve been seeing fics where Tony adopts Peter from May – as in, she signs the forms giving up her child, because obviously he loves him so much more. Fics where May is just the cover story so Peter Stark can escape media attention – so great, now she’s an employee. And at least one tweet about how great it would be to see a fic where Peter comes out to May and she throws him out in a homophobic fit but wait! The Avengers can rescue him! So now she’s demonized for the Drama. Gag me. (Not that I think it should matter at all for the sake of this argument, but we have May’s actual word in Amazing Spider-Man v2 #38 on what would happen if Peter came out as gay to her, and that it’s she’d love and support him no matter what.) And listen, like, part of me is like let it go! The majority of this content is written by younger fans just figuring out what they want to write, dipping their toes into the swampy waters that is Marvel canon! But the problem is, this perpetuates. It gets popular, and people form their opinions based on headcanons and not on canon and it becomes a vicious cycle, and suddenly Peter’s the Kid Avenger like, ACTUALLY, and May’s role in the story has been demoted to Roommate With a Car at best. Just there until better, cooler parental figures show up at the doorstep with adoption papers.

Because, listen, May Parker is Peter’s mother.

One thing I find fascinating about Peter Parker in 616 is how he relies on and draws strength from other people’s goodness, and none more so than May. It’s her well of inner strength and kindness that enable him to be kind of superhero that he is.

Without May Parker, Peter Parker would be a totally different character – and I don’t want a different character. I like this one. (For a canon story about how Peter would be different without May, check out Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man #8.)

Like I said above, the great thing about having 80 million characters is that those characters get to be different things, and as superheroes they get to protect different things. Iron Man is a futurist. The Fantastic Four are about discovery. The X-Men protect a world that hates and fears them. Spider-Man isn’t here to save the world. Spider-Man is here to protect ordinary people – people like May Parker.

In conclusion: fuck Superfamily as a widespread trend.

Anyway I had to see an actual article about the MCU refer to two characters as Spider-Man’s “Avenger dads” and another suggest that Dr. Strange and Spider-Man are the father-son combo we never knew we always needed (it’s not, and we don’t), so I guess I’m going to go live in a cave and throw rocks at innocent hikers who stumble upon my Spider-Man Opinions cave now.

#this is for you anon!#and not for stroking the fires of the my hatred!#not for that at all!#traincat talks comics #traincat talks homecoming #tangentially #peter parker #may parker #long post/

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hush-falls-the-evening · 7 years

Text

When I was young

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Edward Nygma (scriddler - established relationship)

Rating: G Words: 2196

Synopsis: Part 1 of 3 of Wish I knew you. Edward receives an unexpected invitation, and gets carried away with a plan. Jon doubts there’s anything good in it. Fortunately, Edward is very convincing.

misc info: slice of life, just a little hurt and comfort, domestic fluff, old men bickering and loving each others. There’s going to be a other parts but I really loved how this one stands by itself.

“Great news, Jonathan!”

The door was burst open as Edward waltzed into the room. Jon had been reading his latest test results, trying to pinpoint the best counterpart to a particularly unpleasant side effect his latest experiments seemed to produce on some patients. An empty vial rolled down his desk, and almost hit the ground, before being caught mid-flight by a very undisturbed Jon, who had not deigned to show an ounce of interest in his partner’s boastful entrance.

“It’s too warm and you’ve decided to switch back to your spandex?”

“Don’t be absurd.” He then paused, muttering. “The spandex is the right outfit for the right occasion. No no-” he moved toward the desk, which was pretty messy, by all means, about to sit on top of whatever was there.

Jon finally spared him a threatening glare, making Edward do a great show of closing the open books, and pile away the stray sheets into their unused binders, and one silly folder with a few spooky marks scribbled on it, and THEN sat on top of the now cleared spot. “-It so happens that I have received a particularly unexpected invitation in one of my private inboxes this morning. I though you might find some humor in it.”

The Riddler waved a printed piece of paper in front of him. Jon did not look at it, but stared up at the other man’s face, leaning back into his chair. His long fingers braided themselves meticulously under his chin.

“Is it relevant to my interests for you to disturb my work?”

“Of course it is: I am an interest of yours,” he added cockily, then winked. The stoical man remained unimpressed, but did not object. Edward then waved the message again, calling for his attention.

Reluctantly, the former-yet-still-informally-practicing psychiatrist took the sheet and pushed his reading glasses with as much skepticism as he could muster in a single gesture. Edward rolled his eyes, motioning at him to just get on with it.

‘The Greenwoods Institute is cordially inviting you to the 30th anniversary Reunion of the class of 19XX-’

Jon’s eyebrows furrowed gravely as he read the entire mail, than looked up at the expectant expression on his partner’s face, than back to go over the entire mail a second time.

“Did you stole someone’s identity and somehow managed to get invited to a graduates’ reunion?” he flipped the page to inspect the other side, which was blank. Silly Jon.

“Oh oh no, that would have been too simple. You and I both know my personal feelings regarding Academia.” He sneered slightly at the thought. “Nonetheless, I required some kind of reference to get where I needed to be when I first strolled into Gotham. So I made some arrangements prior to that.”

“So you technically graduated a school you’ve never been to?”

“I successfully graduated a school, with the highest recommendations. An establishment with a good reputation and a very flawed database. And security. And staff,” he huffed in contempt at the offending memory. “The fact that the old Director had to keep his lips tightly shut about the whereabouts of my admission, least he exposed himself to the very damaging nature of the shocking revelations encompassed in my excruciatingly detailed folder of personal data-” he paused in his elaborate tirade, offering a particularly proud smirk with a flourish. “-is only a bonus.”

Jonathan stared soberly at the genius seated on his desk, before a wry grin slowly crawled onto his thin lips. He looked at the mail for a third time, now with the intended irony Edward had boasted about when he first came into the room.

“Oh come now, Jonathan. I didn’t stroll here beckoning your ‘oh so precious attention’ just to get your silent snark!”

“It is pretty irritating to know a preschooler managed to download himself a high school certificate and terrorize the presiding authority.”

“Jealous, perhaps? Oh, and I wasn’t that young. or else that makes you a living artifact!”

“I’d like to point out that time has no bearings on fear.”

“Well I think you might want to check in on your lovely cracking joints first. Also, the 1600s called, and they want their shoes back in the shortest delay.”

The doctor actually chuckled darkly at his indignation. “You must had been the original inspiration for the old ‘someone could hack onto your computer’ ads.” He was clearly enjoying their banters here, which pleased Edward quite a bit.

“Well…” Edward tried to remain as factual about it as possible. “Of course, historically there has been much, MUCH more significant cases back in the days, and anyone could easily read about this really but-” he trailed off, looking away with an irrepressible smile.

“I presume you’ve done similarly with a hypothetical college degree of some kind?”

“Oh. No. Well-… That’s another story, which I am pretty sure I told you before,” He stated accusingly.

The wiry man observed him quietly. There was something warmer in his stare, Edward would look into it if he had the time to seize the moment, before it flickered away. He seemed… nostalgic, almost.

“So,” Jon drawled, deliberate spider he was. “Any hypothesis as to why they’ve invited you now and not at the reunions previous to this one?”

“I though of that, evidently. It is most likely the Director had enough conscience to go over the list and skip my name before sending the invitations. More so, his current records seem to indicate he’s been hospitalized a few times so, it is very possible he was not aware that someone would mishandle the guest list while he was away.”

“Possible,” Jonathan commented, his thumb and index were brushing his jaw reflectively.

“….. What are you thinking about?” Edward asked with cautious curiosity.

The older man exhaled calmly, and seemed to change the direction of his thoughts entirely. “You know in old folklore, it was particularly rude to not invite the resident spirits to join the town events. Nobody expects them to show up, but to-”

“Jon, I know you’re not just referring to Sleeping Beauty, but please tell me this is not just because we ended up watching the spinoff movie two weeks ago, since we could not agree to watch anything better.”

“………….. Nobody,” he repeated slowly, persistent. “Expects them to show up. But to leave them -out- of an event?” his hands went back to fold together over his middle. His eyes were staggering. “That is, a whole other level of insult, my darling,” he eerily cooed. Obviously pleased with the trail of thoughts he was entertaining.

Edward took note of his own fevered heartbeats, and inhale sharply. “So! Does that mean I can count on you to join me?”

That knocked out Jonathan’s spell in an instant. “What?”

Edward felt almost sorry. (but not really) The man looked almost owlish with his glasses. “Wait! What was I thinking. I should do this the proper way.”

The redhead hopped off the desk, and collected himself for greater effect, and-….. smiled.

It was a really sweet smile, yet Jonathan had not moved an inch, and instead stared at his partner blankly.

How could a grown, seasoned villain like Edward, proud, exuberant, self-confident, unbeatable in his domain, seeker of all mysteries, -including Jon-…… looked almost flustered, as his breath hung onto an embarrassed smile.

He managed to catch up some of his usual bravado and asked with great eloquence. “Jonathan Crane-”

“Edward-”

“-will you, do me the pleasure to accompany me to the belated prom I’ve never had?”

It showed he was very proud about this grand setting. That for sure. It wasn’t as if they’ve never went out together. They did. Rather often to Jonathan’s tastes, but they did.

But the older man remained frozen in a deadly stance for much longer than his occasional surprises would sometimes occasioned. And what seemed like an achingly sweet plan in Edward’s mind crumbled slightly at the lack of reaction from his second-favorite rogue.

“Jonathan?”

It took him, much longer than Edward’s nerves should had been able to wait for. But Jon breathed again, blood flowing back up the brilliant doctor’s face. Frowning considerably as a hollow, disbelieving laugh escaped him.

It really wasn’t a pretty laugh, either. And it irked Edward spectacularly.

“Jon, I was legitimately looking forward to asking you this,” he pointed impatiently.

“Don’t, ah. Don’t take this the wrong way, Edward. I just didn’t think I’d be asked to ‘prom’ a second time around. I’m not, particularly fond of my reminiscing memories of the prime event.”

“……… Oh.”

“Ever eloquent, as always.”

Edward had somehow moved and dragged a chair next to him. Jonathan watched warily as he looked at his partner, who was quietly assessing if it was alright for him to reach out. After a moment, Jon gave a tired nod, and focused on the familiar hand pressed on his forearm.

He seemed rather irritated- or embarrassed- at his momentary lapse. Almost treating the silence as a necessary evil: eager to move onto another topic and unsure how much of himself he was -or had- revealed in the last minutes .

For now, he looked at nothing in particular, and found some comfort in that.

“Will you at least let me plead my case?” Edward asked after a while, his thumb tracing the soft flesh of his forearm.

“The more adamant you are about something, the more incline I am to argue and disagree,” he warned, but not dismissing his idea just yet.

“I know, I know. As it is not… always uncalled-for. I know you don’t talk, nor want to talk about… your youth in general. And in light of this, I’ll make you a better offer.” His enticing grin was back once more, his voice smoothing in a conspiratorial way. “You come with me, as my roguish partner-” Jon turned a deadly glare, calling him out on his blatant sugar-coating. “- and we, as the true outstanding individuals we are, and were always meant to me, outshine anyone who ever had the ineptitude to think otherwise.”

Jon scrutinized him in great detail, hypothesizing on every possible flaws. “….. Are you ready to waste your time on this, solely because you accidentally clicked the wrong shipping options for your latest order, and you find yourself with too much time on your hands?”

“AH. Of course not! I don’t make the same mistake twice!”

Jon gave him a look, toward which Edward huffed in a dismissive way.

He was dead right, and he’d be damned if he showed Jon how it had sent a cold shiver of shame down the Riddler’s spine.

“You do know these people are mostly just middle-aged citizens with mundane jobs, ordinary preoccupations and fears? This would be no better than a placebo-experience to patch-up whichever trauma and missed opportunity we’ve been through.”

“And these citizens, several states and stones away, are painfully unaware of what dark spirits they have been denied to meet thus far~”

Jon would had argued further, but his lips snapped shut. The glare was now accusing, but subtly tinted with…. approval. Edward looked at him expectantly, delighted, victorious.

“Of course. I should had known you’d appeal to my interests.”

“What can I say? Sometimes your interests coincide with mine.”

“Sometimes.”

There it was again. That look. That oh so personal warmth Jon had so rarely allowed himself to show to the world, or even to Edward up until much later after their initial rivalry. ‘Initial’ Rivalry. It was still there, as both man were drawn to win the upper hand of a situation through wits and well-timed theatrics. Edward was simply… more implicitly showy about the extent of his power and knowledge.

That intelligent gaze, the one Edward had discovered and treasured after years of knowing the man, had never failed to fascinate him more than even he liked to admit.

He suppressed a much-too-honest grin, and lowered his eyes to where his hand was resting on top of Jon’s sinewy forearm.

The tips of Jonathan’s long fingers brushed softly through his hair, where silvery strands as begun to show amid the vibrant ginger. They stroke the outer-shell of his ear delicately.

“And what if this whole ridiculous affair was only a way for Batman or our fellow rogues to lure us out of Gotham for a few days?” he asked softly.

“… Possible,” he admitted just as softly. “It occurred to me as well. I’ve already prepared a few safety measures in cases of impromptu escapes in the past. Additional protections and a thorough scan of my network would be mandatory to get a better understanding of the current status quo as well. Not that I am not perfectly aware of everything already…” he trailed off.

Jonathan removed his glasses and laid them casually on the desk before him. His fingers combing deeper into Edward’s hair as he leaned toward him. The arm under Edward’s palm moved, their hands joining somewhere along the way.

“I’ll help you secure the details, then,” Jonathan finally offered. The sober words were only an excuse to retain some of his resilient reserve. They could have fooled Edward, if the context wasn’t speaking a much tender language.

Their eyes met, and Edward found no logical reason not to cross the distance between them.

#scriddler #Jonathan Crane #edward nygma #scarecrow #riddler #established relationship #unfortunate amount of fluff #old men being silly basically #Wish I knew you - fic

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sdevilheart · 7 years

Photo

CONTINUATION QUESTION FROM HERE

Keep in mind I’m no expert, but I like your enthusiasm to ask questions. :)

So with that being said, here’s what I roughly keep in mind when I’m drawing from picture references. (specifically animals, although the same steps can be done for people as well)

What species do I not have much experience with?

If you hypothetically spent a long time drawing cats and that’s what you’re most comfortable with then that’s not what you should typically go for. You could however start with similar species. Like bobcats, ocelots, lynx, and just work your way up. Then try to tackle other furred species. Furred species was what I was mostly comfortable with so I tried reptiles.

I’m still not satisfied with them... :/

What references do I want?

For this I’ll usually go to either google images, or to this site: LINE OF ACTION.

It’s free and a great place to practice gesture drawing or just do some nice life drawing. They’re stock photo range is really great too, I was suggested of this site in college. They use this in life drawing classes really often. And you can be very specific of the kind of photo’s you want. For animals you can literally pick just reptiles and even skeleton photo’s. It’s usually timed since it’s a tool mostly to help with boosting your speed at drawing. Rather difficult and intimidating if it’s your first time, you do get use to it though.

However if you just want to sit and scroll through the pics till you come across one you think is interesting, just hit pause on that specific pic and then you got all the time in the world to just focus on that one pic.

Personally though, I do like having my own reference folder.

Here’s JUST the animal section I have. I also have humans, buildings, and nature and a couple misc. MOST of these are from google, but I will also save an image for later if I come across it.

The ones for the reptiles though specifically was all from google. I just typed in reptiles.

Although I don’t actually arrange them like this, I just sort of go to town on drawing them on the page, and it ends up turning into a sort of nifty collage. But I would usually want a range of images of specific parts of the thing I’m drawing aswell. Such as claws, mouths, scales, babies, ect. So I would either find references specifically on close ups of body parts or I pick references with those body parts in plain sight. The frilly lizard image I decided to draw specifically because it’s mouth was opened.

How long should I spend on this image.

As long as you think is necessary. I do think I have a problem with spending too much time on one sketch when I should be already moving on. So one thing I do is to get the basic form of the creature and then find another and sketch out that one somewhere else on the page. That’s what I did for this one.

I kept these with a rather lack of detail though cause I kinda liked the look of them. But the idea is that once you get the basic form and perhaps shading down for your study session, you then go back and refine them individually. It helped me move on from staying glued to just one BIRB.

TRY THIS:

When you’re first starting, just draw as long as you want or get tired. Then try giving yourself a time frame. If you see yourself spending, let’s say, 3 hours on life drawing, try dropping that down by 2 hours. Then by 1. An hour I think is a great amount, and an hour a day alone will give you lots of practice. I usually range from an hour or two. When I first started drawing life stuff though I would spend maybe 4 hours or so one one page.

AND TAKING BREAKS IS PERFECTLY FINE!! In fact if you feel your getting frustrated or tired, put down your utensil, yes literally stop and put down the god damn pencil. Leave your sketch in front of you, lean back and just take a look at it. If you need to, get up and go relax a bit. I’ve been plenty frustrated drawing pics that just don’t turn out right, it’s ok, it’s part of the growing process. :)

With practice you will grow faster. fo sure.

Motivation?

That’s sort of something that is up to you. Forcing yourself does seem rather the wrong reason to draw, but if you have a procrastination problem or get unmotivated really easily, then forcing yourself is sometimes what you need to do. This was me, although I think I was mostly just BLAMING procrastination and lack of motivation, instead of admitting that I’m more scared how it would turn out. ‘That looks hard, I don’t even know where to start, it’s gonna look awful! I’ll just try later...’

They’re excuses. Plain and simple, and a hurdle that a person going through this needs to get over. It’s hard, I know. I KNOW! But instead of forcing yourself, it’s more like gathering courage. Be courageous. :)

Artist not answering your questions????

Well that’s a damn shame!! :/

If any other artist got some tips and tricks please do share!!! :)

MY PATREON

#Long post again :3 #JessSD #Advice #Sketching #Life Drawing #Jess tips and tricks #Jess Asks #anon

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m7-hacertanrikulu-blog · 7 years

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Change of paradigm: Breastfeeding is the Norm and anything else is Less. *

*After some valuable exchange of thoughts and suggestions from one of my experienced supervisors, Annelies Allain, I’ve come to the decision to revise my latest entry to make myself clearer on the importance of a need in change of paradigm that confirms Breastfeeding is the Norm and anything else is Less.

I keep getting asked why Penang (let me assure you it’s no vacation, just paradise) and where exactly I’m interning. I try to give an answer people can relate to but I usually end up getting funny looks telling me to let go of this “sophisticated/pretentious” attitude I’m often accused with and start talking human.

Well, I start mentioning the Code of Marketing of Breastmilk Substitutes, which has become my Bible (Koran if you think it’s more appropriate) and I elaborate on the ICDC’s role as a whistle-blowing, “Big Brother Is Watching You” kinda organisation that tells companies and manufacturers of baby foods to abide by the rules:

Sell your products - Don’t promote them!

Sometimes, I still get the vibe that my gibberish does not seem to convince people how marketing regulations match with my field of studies (Public Health Nutrition). This is the point where I have no option than mentioning breastfeeding and this also the point where I get the attention of most people as they can all relate to breastfeeding in some way.

Some still feel uncomfortable, imagining or seeing a mother breastfeeding her child - it’s ok if you feel so but please try to change.

However, there is a consensus across the world that breastfeeding is a good practice and the (biological) norm. When I say biological norm, I sincerely try to choose my next words very cautiously as I don’t want to be misunderstood or misinterpreted. It’s is important that we are all on the same page that the aim of the Code is not only to promote and to protect breastfeeding but it also aims to provide adequate information for the proper use of breastmilk substitutes. It ensures, moreover, that companies are hindered from influencing mothers’ decision to use infant formula and protect all infants - those that are breastfed and not breastfed- from misleading and unethical marketing.

Regarding ethical and unethical marketing, let’s see if you agree:

Would you consider the following examples as ethical?

The following example is a harmless brochure from Thailand.

The picture is actually nice, one would think it promotes breastfeedig

BUT when you open the folder, you see…

…how Nestlé physically separates the baby from the breast.

P.S.: This is an old example. Nestlé had to stop this practice after receiving complaints from ICDC!

How about the next example from Ethiopia?

A nurse in the neonatal section wears a uniform embroidered with (Model on the picture is Elsie-ICDC staff and colleague). The uniform does not only provide free advertising for Danone, it also is a medical endorsement of Danone’s products. Do you think mothers are influenced seeing a doctor endorsing Danone’s products? Do you think this creates a conflict of interest?

I’ll talk about conflicts of interest in my next blog episode and also elaborate on how I had the chance to teach health workers from all over the world on the Scope and how I used this opportunity to network at the same time). For now, I want you to try to understand what unethical marketing can cause.

Jan Bennink, the former Chairman of Dutch Numico (since acquired by French multinational Danone) surprised the Public Health World with his rather bold and FRANK statement saying

“Breastfeeding is the direct competitor of formula.”

Numico is a combination of three brand names - Nutricia, Milupa and Cow & Gate, now owned by Danone, the second biggest baby food manufacturer. This short and clear statement is a clear admission that the industry is competing with breastfeeding.

This is why there is a movement stressing the importance of a change of paradigm confirming Breastfeeding is the Norm and everything else is LESS:

Less nutritious

Less antibodies

Less sterile

Less bonding

Less expense

and NO living substances

To make it clearer, let’s talk about the example of buying a new car: Most families will buy a car that is good enough, a normal car that will take them form A to B. Very few will think of getting the best, most luxurious car.

Many women also think they don’t need to go for the very best. Many believe that formula is good enough. Hence, we should reassure them that breastfeeding is the norm, not a luxurious “best”. A change in paradigm.

It is important to acknowledge that women do not have any obligation to breastfeed. It is their own body and their own decision to breastfeed or not to breastfeed, provided on the basis of objective information.

Breastfeeding is not an easy practice, it requires, without any doubt, a lot of support on different levels including support from immediate family, health workers, community and most importantly the government by introducing policies such as paid maternity leave, baby friendly hospitals, national regulations etc.

It is no surprise that the industry keeps using the power of language to convince consumers about the similarity of formula to human breastmilk. A quick check on any baby food company will let you recognize that each one is just another wolf in sheep’s clothes, playing the good Samaritan to save babies. Every company will agree that breastfeeding is the best nutrition for babies and each of them will praise their efforts to invest in research to provide a good alternative…out of cow’s milk? Formula is made of cows’ milk. That’s good for calves but not for babies. Calling “Breastfeeding is Best” has offered companies to come up with the idea of providing “Something Good” or “Close to Best” in the first place. This is why we need a change of paradigm that confirms: Breastfeeding is the norm and everything else is less!

Hypothetically, if one says “Breastfeeding is best”, does this mean that “Bottle-feeding is less good? Would it help to increase exclusive breastfeeding rates?

Let us travel back in time and see how bottle-feeding has been criticized in the past:

In 1939, BC, (before the Code), Cicely Williams, presented her talk, “Milk and Murder” on bottle-baby deaths and condensed milk and said that “misguided propaganda on infant feeding should be punished as the most criminal form of sedition, and that those deaths should be regarded as murder.”

In 1968, Dr. Derrick Jelliffe coined the term “commerciogenic malnutrition” to describe the impact of industry marketing practices on infant health. (This term has caught my deep interest and makes me very passionate to look closer at it in future!)

In 1974, War on Want (waronwant.org), an anti-poverty charity based in London, published “The Baby Killer”, a report on infant malnutrition and promotion of artificial feeding in the Third World. Thereupon, a group of students in Switzerland (Third World Action Group) first translated “The Baby Killer” to “Nestlé Kills Babies” and published the translation.

As someone with a background in translation, I admit that this is rather a free, not quite accurate but definitely hell of a successful translation.

Nestlé, a Swiss company and biggest baby food manufacturer, was obviously not quite thrilled by being called a murderer and sued the group for libel.

Two years after hearings, the student group was found guilty of libel, but only for the title and while the students were given a small fine, Nestlé was warned by the judge to change its marketing practices.

Has Nestlé changed? Well, remember the Nestlé boycott? It was launched just shortly after the Nestlé hearings in 1977 by INFACT (Infant Formula Action Coalition) in the US and is until today the longest worldwide boycott in history. So, has Nestlé changed? Clearly not enough AND the boycott is still going on.

Research has shown that low (exclusive) breastfeeding rates are caused, among others, by poor government policies, lack of support for mothers AND by aggressive and relentless marketing of the formula milk industry.

Each year, the deaths of more than 800 000 children can be prevented through universal breastfeeding (Lancet, 2016).

Bottle-feeding puts infants and mothers at many risks that breastfeeding could prevent. Here is a list of some risks that are associated with bottle-feeding:

For infants and children:

Increased risk of asthma

Increased risk of allergy

Increased risk of acute respiratory disease

Increased risk of nutrient deficiencies

Increased risk of chronic diseases

Increased risk of diabetes

Increased risk of cardiovascular disease

Increased risk of obesity

Increased risk of side effects of environmental contaminants

Increased risk of mortality

For mothers:

Increased risk of breast cancer

Increased risk of overweight

Increased risk of ovarian cancer

Increased risk of osteoporosis

Increased risk of maternal diabetes

Increased risk of stress and anxiety

Source: Risks of Formula Feeding by Infact Canada, 2002 and also confirmed by Lancet Breastfeeding Series, 2016.

In conclusion, if we say “Breastfeeding is best” it means bottle-feeding is never as good. Therefore, a change of paradigm is needed that confirms and emphasises Breastfeeding is the Norm and everything else is LESS.

Have you ever heard of breast crawl - the instinct that babies are born with enabling them to move towards the mother’s nipple and attach to it, all by themselves? Check out the short video (it’s in Spanish but you will get the gist) and ENJOY.

Babies Do Know Best.

P.S.A BIG THANK YOU to those among you who read my last entry in the first place and then made the effort to send interesting materials to be verified as potential Code violations! Keep up the good work!!!

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caseyvalhalla · 7 years

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despite what you’ve been told (pt 5)

this took a really long time to get out but to make up for that it’s extra long and some nice things happen

Read Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Bonus

The dark wood slats of the ceiling overhead feel heavy and oppressive, so Victor blocks them out by holding his phone above his face, scrolling through his pictures from the banquet, his video clips, digging through his downloads folder for the images Chris forwarded to him. He knows Yuri has more but he refuses to admit as much let alone share any of them with Victor. He could pester Yuri about it again, but his phone’s reception at the onsen is poor and he’s mostly given up on trying to use anything but the complimentary wifi. It’s probably for the best; this way Yakov can’t call him and scold him.

Victor’s phone has been suspiciously void of text messages and missed calls, though. He’s not sure what to make of that, but has more pressing concerns on his mind, anyway. He thumbs out of his photo folder and pulls up YouTube.

All of his recommended videos these days are of Yuuri Katsuki. There’s just one in particular he wants to watch, though.

Makkachin whines and rolls over next to him and Victor absently scratches the old dog’s ear, watching Yuuri glide across the ice to nothing but the sound of his own skates, waiting for that one moment about halfway through the program where his eyes make contact with the camera, bittersweet and wistful, and the knot in Victor’s chest tightens.

“I don’t understand,” Victor murmurs to Makkachin, who just makes a sleepy huffing noise in response. “Did he change his mind?”

He drops the phone back to his side and there’s the wood ceiling again, blurry in the dark, framed in peripheral by the stacked boxes of all his most relevant worldly possessions--proof that he’s serious, that this isn’t just a whim, that he’s more than prepared to leave everything behind and settle down here to coach Yuuri. To be close to Yuuri. To dance with him again, hold him again, continue that aborted kiss, to watch him come back to life on the ice and blossom into greatness.

But Yuuri ran from him. Yuuri ran from Victor and Victor’s presence and Victor’s touch, shut Victor out of his room with a panicked No! and wouldn’t come out again. He thought maybe Yuuri was shy around his family, maybe he needed more privacy, so why not cuddle up like they were teenagers at a Junior division sleepover and talk about their secrets until dawn. (Or make out, they could do that, too, Victor isn’t picky.)

He thinks about Chris saying liquid courage and once again Victor considers that maybe that’s all it was. Maybe what happened at the banquet was just alcohol-induced revelry, maybe Yuuri is ashamed of himself and regrets it. Maybe Yuuri never really wanted him at all. Maybe there’s someone else in his life. Maybe Victor is just making a fool of himself.

The ceiling feels too heavy again so Victor rolls over, buries his nose in Makkachin’s fur, squeezes his eyes shut against the hot tears forming in the corners. “What do I do now?”

The answer is obvious, and it will come to him once he feels less crushed about Yuuri’s lukewarm reception. He’s Victor Nikiforov, five time Grand Prix gold medalist and world figure skating champion, and he’s not going to simply give up. He might be frivolous, impulsive, and self-possessed, he might have a bad habit of making promises and failing to follow through, but Yuuri is a promise he wants to keep, more than anything. Yuuri is an effort he wants to make, even if it means giving up his rose-colored daydreams about beaches and sunsets and pretty clichéd words because the reality of love is imperfect.

Just like Victor is imperfect. Just like anxious, petty, self-conscious Yuuri is imperfect. When the dance is over, when the magic fades, and you’re faced with a person who is so much more complicated than you could extrapolate from a three minute video or a gleeful drunken encounter, you realize that everything from that point onward is going to be a negotiation of flaws and feelings and circumstance.

That’s what a relationship is.

Of course, Victor being the person he is, it takes less than two weeks for one of the promises he failed to keep to catch up with him.

Yuri Plisetsky is a righteous ball of indignation, alternately brimming with poorly restrained fury or just as poorly disguised jealousy. He spits and sparks and all of the attempted arson fails to catch on Victor’s person, too used to repelling the flares of his junior’s personality. Yuuri picks up on how to deal with him quickly and without prompting, and even counter-stokes a tentative friendship, much to Yurio’s insistant dismay.

But Yuri Plisetsky isn’t dismayed at all, and Victor knows it. He’s hurt, somewhere underneath the animal print and obstinance, and the more comfortable he gets in Hasetsu the worse the hurt becomes, the more it manifests by combusting anytime Victor and Yuuri linger too long over each other.

Yuuri doesn’t run away anymore, but his eyes are still wide and spooked, like maybe he wants to, like it’s only that confidence that Victor knows is still alive and well somewhere deep inside him that keeps him still and steady while Victor’s thumb drags over his lower lip. He doesn’t smell like champagne and sweat now but that’s what Victor is thinking about, what he hopes Yuuri is thinking about, with nothing but Victor’s thumb and Victor’s hot words in between them, feeling the pulse of Yuuri’s breath over his lips.

He doesn’t run, but he doesn’t come closer, either. Victor tries to be patient while Yuuri gets quieter and Yurio gets angrier and none of them come any closer to understanding what love is, anyway.

Then one night in the middle of dinner, somewhere in between tolerating Yurio’s grumbling and staring disdainfully at his boring, healthy, nutrient-rich dinner, Yuuri Katsuki sits bolt upright and slaps his hand on the low wood table in front of him. “I get it now! I know what Eros is to me!”

Yurio makes a noise that’s almost impressed and Victor hums with the interest he’s kept at a low simmer, somewhere deep and aching in his chest, burning hot just behind his navel.

“It’s katsudon!”

Victor’s soul promptly departs his body.

After an extended pause he hears himself saying something in agreement but his head is full of pole dancing, partial nudity, Yuuri braced against his thigh, arms dragging him down nearly to kissing distance, eyes wet and shimmering.

If I win this dance-off you’ll coach me, right? Be my coach, Victor!

They’d been so close, that night, on the verge of tipping and tumbling down into the crevasse of poor judgment and mutual attraction together--all it would have taken was a tug on his tie and Victor would have followed wherever Yuuri led, his own personal god of love, whether that was back onto the dance floor or away to his bed and the hot embrace of his body for what remained of the evening.

How they’d gone from that precipice to Victor encouraging Yuuri to think about pork tenderloin and eggs over rice while he performed the sensual tale of their first meeting, Victor cannot fathom. He can only handle it for a few more days before he snaps.

The buzz of his phone dialing out sounds unusually loud in his ear, and he’s not sure what part of the beach he’s sitting on and has no earthly clue what time it is in Switzerland anyway, but the swirling contents of the half-full sake bottle in his hand assure him that such details are unimportant.

Chris appears to disagree. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Chris,” Victor says emphatically, because he doesn’t have time for pleasantries or to answer hypothetical questions. “He says that his Eros is katsudon.”

The phone is silent in his ear for a long moment. “Okay, I’m not going to ask you how much you’ve had to drink, but you’re gonna have to explain that one.”

“Yuuri,” Victor clarifies, or thinks he’s clarified, anyway, “says that his idea of sexual love is a pork cutlet bowl.”

There’s another extended pause. “Everyone has their kinks?”

“He doesn’t want me, Chris!” Victor gestures broadly with his bottle, contents sloshing dangerously. “I came all the way out here,” Victor made a sound that might have been a hiccup or a restrained sob and even he wasn’t sure which it was, “thinking that I had a chance with him, and—”

“To coach him?” Chris interrupted.

“Ye--yes, of course, I came here to coach him. I’m coaching him! I’m doing a good job, probably! But—”

“But you’d rather just bone him and save yourself the trouble?”

Victor stopped short, mouth moving around a few words that didn’t have sound. “What? No, that’s not what I meant. I like coaching him. More than I thought I would, even.”

“Okay, good.”

“I just.” Victor waves the bottle idly again and flops back onto the sand--it’s further down than he expects it to be but by some miracle he keeps the bottle from upending all over him. “I thought he’d be happier to see me. I thought he’d want us to be together.”

Chris makes a sleepy, thoughtful noise. “Have you tried getting naked?”

“Yes. Multiple times. It’s not working.”

“If he’s seen you naked more than once and doesn’t want to climb you like a tree I don’t know what to tell you, boss. Are you sure he’s gay?”

Victor makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a child throwing a tantrum.

There’s another silence, followed by a huge, lengthy yawn, and Chris sighs. “I guess you could always try backing it off and see if he comes to you. I mean, you are the great and sexy Victor Nikiforov, maybe he’s too starstruck to reciprocate.”

“It wasn’t a problem at the banquet!”

“He was drunk at the banquet. And you are drunk currently, and I would like to go back to sleep. So maybe give it a shot and call me back at a less ghastly hour and let me know how it goes.”

Victor arrives at the ice castle late the following morning, unkempt and unshowered, with a wicked (but not nearly his worst ever) hangover, just in time to see Yuuri and Yurio zip away from each other on the ice and proceed to act as though they hadn’t been getting along in his absence. Victor lets them do as they like and mostly stays near the sideboards, leaning back on the heels of his hands, sleepily hyperfocused on Yuuri’s skates.

Normally he’d be out in the rink gliding around with him, finding excuses to get closer, invade Yuuri’s space with his presence and voice and as many casual touches as he can justify, but he’s too unsteady to risk falling--or worse, colliding with one of his students--and even when Yuuri stops near him he doesn’t bother sidling up closer. He probably smells terrible, anyway.

And Chris might have been on to something after all, because after draining his water bottle and catching his breath, Yuuri’s eyes slide over him, brows drawn together, and suddenly Yuuri is the one slipping in closer, stopping right in the angle of Victor’s arm, free hand looping underneath to settle on his elbow. “Are you feeling okay? Maybe you should go back to the onsen and rest.”

Victor’s heart does a happy little jig in his chest at the same time that his train of thought derails and begins ricocheting around inside his skull with an ever increasing variation on wait what WHAT. His temples are throbbing and he can’t decide whether he cares or not, a watery but joyful smile cracking over his face. “Yuuri is worried about meeeeeee,” he croons aloud, absent of any kind of filter he might or might not have.

Yurio snaps, “Oh my god,” in Russian somewhere on the other side of the rink.

Yuuri’s eyes curve up when he laughs and it’s the cutest thing Victor has ever witnessed in his life. “Of course I am.”

“As your coach, I have to take such concerns seriously.” Victor is pretty sure that’s how coaching works. “We’ll have an extra long break for lunch and I’ll take a nap, okay?”

He does as he promises without much effort, collapsing in a small heap of humanity on one of the couches in the lobby. When he wakes up an hour later, Yuuri is stripping off the track jacket he usually jogs in and stretching out on a floor mat, and there’s a bottle of sports water, two ibuprofen, and a steaming container of beef udon next to Victor’s head.

It’s the first time Victor considers that maybe he’s misunderstood all along; that maybe he’s looking for evidence of Yuuri’s feelings in the wrong places. That maybe they’d simply been invisible to him until he created a void in which they could comfortably manifest.

Victor texts Chris two days later to inform him that it was 8AM in Switzerland when he called and that even he, in his off-season state of semi-retirement, was awake at 8AM on weekdays. Chris fails to see his point and asks how wooing his dream boy is going.

I think your idea is working, Victor tells him. Hold off on opening your own matchmaking service for further confirmation.

Buying the URL now, Chris replies.

He’s still trying to figure out how to negotiate that middle ground between his feelings and Yuuri’s when the Hot Springs on Ice event happens. There’s noise, people, cameras, interviews; Victor is in his element, glowing under the attention and eager to show off the results of his coaching. He surprises himself, even, expecting to be thrilled at the prospect of proving to the world (or at least a small part of Japan) what a great coach he could be, but when the time comes he can’t find it in himself to care. He wants everyone to see Yuuri--Yuuri’s beauty and poetry, the music he makes on the ice. Whenever a reporter starts asking him about his plans and his career he brushes them off and talks about Yuuri instead, ignoring their perturbed expressions and attempts to redirect him.

Yurio is scowling nearby, most of the time. His scowls grow progressively darker, and his performance falls somewhere in the tension between his agape, the righteous fury he’d arrived on, and sheer zenlike exhaustion. It also falls short of mastery and maturity but Victor is confident he’ll arrive there, eventually.

He finds his second protege tugging on his hair on the sidelines, halfway to huddling over his own knees, but Yuuri pops up to attention at the sound of his name, hands muffling an embarrassed yelp. Victor isn’t sure if he should be concerned or not, but Yuuri’s eyes, when he looks up, are determined, sparks forming deep in the brown depths.

“I’m going to become a super tasty katsudon,” Yuuri says, and Victor feels something catch in his throat, feels like he’s seeing the boy who sat in his lap and said I’ll be the best skater in the world for you for the first time in five months. “So please don’t take your eyes off me.”

And Yuuri hugs him, tightly, before Victor can so much as respond. His shoulders are trembling.

“Promise you will.” Yuuri’s voice is muffled in his scarf but Victor can hear how it cracks in the middle, can feel Yuuri’s fingers curling in his wool coat.

He thinks of the video, of bittersweet, lonely Yuuri skating like Victor’s program is the only thing keeping him on the ice. Clinging like it might slip through his fingers and disappear.

He’s been right, all along.

“Of course I will,” Victor hears himself saying, and his voice feels less real than Yuuri trembling in his arms--finally in his arms after all this time, just as Victor’s been longing for all this time, but he’s not sure, now, how to deal with this vulnerability. “I love katsudon.”

Was that the right thing to say? Victor isn’t sure, he doesn’t know what the catalyst was for Yuuri’s transformation, but on the ice, under the lights, suddenly he’s alive with sex appeal--it’s playful, innocent in a way that feels deliberate and possibly misleading, warm and shivering like an insistent, demanding kiss. Victor’s attention is caught from that first look, the whistle drawn from his lips, and Yuuri drags him in, makes Victor part of the music dancing around him, clinging to him.

Yuuri takes the program in both hands and makes it his own.

Victor imagines that this is why Yurio leaves before the award ceremony; that, or maybe he’s come to realize that he’ll never drag Victor’s attention away from Yuuri. He fields as many questions as he can from the media until it’s a little too obvious that Yuuri’s energy level is bottoming out and graciously waves off the press. The tiny locker room off the side of the rink feels blessedly quiet in comparison, and Yuuri’s shoulders sag in relief. Victor almost expects him to just lie down on the floor and fall asleep.

“Ahh, I could sleep for a week,” Yuuri sighs, echoing Victor’s thoughts, and drags a jacket over his shoulders. Victor can’t see his face. “So other than the triple axel and the salchow, that was okay, right?”

Victor mentally runs over the program, ticking off a list in his head as he goes. “Well…”

“This,” Yuuri interrupts suddenly, a little too loud, and then pauses, tugging at his track pants. “This means you’re going to stay, right?”

Victor blinks. “Of course.”

When Yuuri looks up there are stars bursting in his eyes, entire galaxies forming from shattered supernovas. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Victor lifts his hand, presses it against the small of Yuuri’s back. He’s starting to understand: Yuuri is full of doubts, about himself, about his abilities, about his career. About Victor. Of course those doubts had disappeared under sixteen flutes of champagne, as they would for anyone, and they’d disappeared just long enough for Yuuri’s temporary certainty to convince Victor.

And now Victor’s job as a coach--as himself so long as he’s in Yuuri’s life--will be to maintain the reality in which those doubts are baseless. He doesn’t understand this completely, yet, but he will.

“And since you won, I guess that means we can have katsudon for dinner, if you think you can stay awake.”

“I can!” Yuuri makes a fist, adorably determined, and pulls the phone out of his jacket pocket, presumably to call his mother and put in an advance order. “It’s getting kind of late, though. We’ll probably have to eat alone.”

“That’s fine,” Victor says, wistfully. “It’ll be a date, then.”

When Yuuri looks up at him, his expression is strangely neutral. There are still stars in his eyes but they’re quieter, shimmering. He drops the phone to his side and his free hand reaches up, settles hot against Victor’s cheek.

Yuuri Katsuki kisses him softly, eyes fluttering closed, chapped lips catching against his.

Victor is frozen in place, and he’s not sure what kind of expression he’s wearing but it must have been shocked, because Yuuri starts to back away. “S-sorry, should I not have…?” But Victor’s hand is still on his back and it wraps around him easily, draws him back in until he meets Victor’s eyes, understands that Victor was just surprised and his hand slides up from Victor’s cheek into his hair.

Yuuri’s mouth is warm and damp and Victor stops caring about anything else in the world instantly; there are fingers on his neck, in his hair, the warm arch of Yuuri’s body against his palms and a shiver of sound in Yuuri’s throat and the slow press and pull of lips, close, breaking apart, then closer, slower, longer. Deeper. Yuuri’s fingernails dragging through the short-cropped hairs on the back of his head. Yuuri’s tongue brushing against his.

Victor makes a helpless, involuntary noise and presses Yuuri against the nearest vertical surface--some lockers, probably, not that it matters and not that he has any thought in his head other than yes, god, finally, yes, except maybe he’s getting ahead of himself. He doesn’t know this, but Yuuri does, around the time Victor’s knee presses between his legs and suddenly Yuuri’s hands are pushing at his shoulders and he’s saying something urgent in Japanese.

Too fast! Too fast!

Victor blinks, feeling dizzy, feeling horribly deprived now that he’s several inches away from Yuuri and Yuuri’s mouth and thinking that it’s been around five months since they first met and nearly but not quite kissed and that rather than going too fast, at this point the pace of their relationship is practically glacial. Yuuri’s hands remain on his shoulders, though, so Victor takes a step back, and his knees give out. His descent to sit on the bench behind him is nowhere near graceful enough for an international figure skating champion.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says, hovering for a moment before sitting beside him. “I panicked a little. You’re kind of… overwhelming.”

“I’m overwhelming,” Victor blurts out, reflexively, one hand over his mouth. His knees are still trembling.

Yuuri shrugs, awkward but smiling softly, lips cherry red from kissing. “You’re Victor Nikiforov.”

“Ah. Right.” Victor drops his hand, voice dropping with it. “The superstar. The living legend.”

“No,” Yuuri says, stutters and backtracks, “I-I mean yes, but the person you are, Victor, is just,” Yuuri gestures up and down to Victor’s entire being, “a lot.”

“A lot,” Victor echoes, not sure how he feels about that or if he even fully understands it. “Too much?”

“Not really, just…” Yuuri trails off, eyes turned upward, shuffling through languages in his head to find whatever words he needs. “I wonder if there’s room for me.”

Victor lets out a breath, shoulders relaxing. This is it--the middle ground he’s trying to figure out, the space that Yuuri needs for himself and his own feelings, where he can exist and not be buried under Victor. The shimmer in Yuuri’s eyes is hopeful.

He reaches up, brushes his thumb over Yuuri’s cheekbone. “There is.”

#yuri on ice #victuuri #viktuuri #casey writes fanfiction #i'm trying to economize on these tags #i keep seeing posts and stuff about a victuuri week which idk if its this week? or was last week?#anyway the fact that i'm posting this now is coincidental #but maybe it means i'll get more notes #despite what you've been told

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ixvyupdates · 6 years

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Before I Come to Your Classroom, Let Me Show You Mine

Hi.

I’m going to spend the rest of the year traveling to classrooms all over the country and talking about the things we are doing super well, and some of the things we could be doing a whole lot better.

I’m sitting in my classroom writing this, late on a Friday afternoon, enjoying the short quiet after a long, loud week. I’m looking around my room, dimly lit and breathing slowly, like the set of a play between performances. If you’re a teacher, I bet I’d like to come visit you soon. Before I do, I thought I’d show you around my room and what I do with my students the first week of school.

I really love my room, and it seems like students do, too. I don’t have a class first hour, but there are always five to 10 kids in here before school hanging out. My desks are old and…desky. I don’t have a lot of room or money for flex seating, and I don’t have the eye or time for Pinterest-worthy bulletin boards. Still, my walls, like my room, are a whole lot better when given to the kids.

It Took a Year to Create a Classroom Library with Books Kids Want to Keep

I am absurdly proud of my classroom library. When I moved into my new classroom last fall, the library was suffering badly from being out-of-date and almost entirely full of White writers. In one year, I have done a whole bunch of stuff to bring the collection to where it is now. I’m not done, not by a long-shot, but my collection now includes many books by people of color and indigenous writers.

I’ve always believed in the power of diverse reading choices, but this year I’ve been especially aware of how important it is to my students. I have a ton of graphic novels and superhero comics, and have started to add books in some of the languages spoken by my students that are not English. My students from Tibet and Haiti have been so happy to see books by and about their people.

I had a student walk down from the high school this week, looking to borrow a copy of “The Hate U Give.” I started the year with 15 on my shelf and was already down to my last two. I don’t know her name, but she left with a book. I’m not all that worried about getting it back.

By far, the books are the most expensive part of my room, made more so by my not having any sort of book check-out system and encouraging students to take books that seem interesting to them. I’ve written some grants in the last year that have helped out, have sought donations through a constantly updated Amazon wishlist, and have made some money through writing that I’ve often used to buy every book I can that my students may enjoy.

Also, these pictures are from before school started. The library is now a well-used mess and it is perfect.

Now, let me show you how our first week together went down.

Day One: Four Agreements

I only really have four rules in my room, and I stole them from The Pacific Education Group’s protocol for Courageous Conversations. On the very first day of school, I introduce those four rules to the students and we talk about what they mean, and how they make my classroom a little different.

For example, one of the rules is “Stay Engaged.” I ask them who likes to draw in class, and a bunch of kids raise their hands. Then, I ask them how many students know that drawing helps them pay attention, and about half keep their hands up. So, I explain, if I made a rule like “No Drawing in Class,” I’d be hurting half of you and helping half of you. If the rule is, instead, “Stay Engaged,” then you can do whatever that means for you to be engaged.

For some, staying engaged means drawing, for some not. Some may stay engaged by responding verbally to me or their classmates, and some may need to stay quiet. I had a student a few years back who was most engaged in my class when she was able to do handstands against the wall on the side of the room. OK.

The other rules work pretty much the same way: “Speak Your Truth,” “Experience Discomfort” and “Expect/Accept Non-Closure.” We talk about how your truth rather than the truth is important because it opens up the conversation to multiple perspectives.

I explain that I want them to lean into discomfort, whether that means a challenging conversation or focusing on skills and subjects they struggle with, but I don’t ever want them to feel unsafe or unwelcome. I let them know we will often leave discussions half finished at the bell. And we will not, no matter how hard we work, fix everything in the world this year, but we can be happy at any ground we gain.

I don’t really talk that long. I hope I don’t. Mainly, we get the ideas out there, and then students make little signs to hang up around the four rules, or agreements. We talk about how it looks and feels for them to do those things. They go up the night of the first day and hang there the rest of the year for easy reference.

Day Two: One Word

On the second day of school, I walk students through an identity exercise. I do one myself in front of the room to model the kind of words and thinking they could be doing, but also let them know there’s not any real way to do it wrong.

I hand them this sheet, and they fill in five words that define them (mine this year were Anxiety, Dad, Writer, Teacher, Social Justice Warrior). We talk about what it’s like to define ourselves in such a narrow way, about all the parts of us that didn’t make the list, about how any time we try to reduce ourselves or someone else to a list like that, we are missing big things about that person.

Then—and this is where it gets difficult—we cross a word off. There is much yelling. It is glorious.

When I first did this exercise during a training a whole bunch of years ago in a district that doesn’t even exist anymore, teachers rebelled in every way possible from having to cross out pieces of themselves, even hypothetically, because it was too painful to do. We had a good discussion about how often we ask students to do exactly that, to erase some part of themselves, in the very non-hypothetical space of our classroom.

Still, it’s hard to cross those words off, and harder still as we continue, crossing off one word after another, each time taking small breaks to discuss our reasoning and process. In the end, we end with a single word, a word that we have decided is, at least on that day and in that moment, is the most essential piece of our own identity. This year, mine was “teacher,” which is a departure from many, many years, when “writer” has won the day.

Students then pick out some paper and markers and stuff and write down their one word. After school, I get a whole bunch of tape and a decent podcast, and tape them all up on the wall. It’s a beautiful thing, this physical representation of all these wonderful people, of the diversity in who they are and how they see themselves. The next morning, students from all hours came in early to read through the wall. They stood with their friends, pointing proudly at their sign. They said, “There I am, that’s me.”

Day Three: What I Bring

On the third day of school, students get this packet, and start work on a project that will show what they bring with them into the classroom every day. I’m clear that when I ask this, I’m not looking for them to talk about the pens and folders and stuff they bring with them, but instead key parts of their identity, their passions, their personal history, their interests and personality.

The students have a couple days to brainstorm and work on them, and then we take a few days to share. We put the desks in a big circle (which always makes me think of this), and each student gets a few minutes to show what they made, explain why they made it and answer questions from the class about themselves.

This year, I had a student who didn’t want to make art, so he made a computer program that would randomly produce an image. Another student showed us a digital model of one of his favorite kinds of math equations. Yet another took the opinion section of the newspaper and used it as a canvas to re-create a famous Banksy image.

I could go on, 147 more times, at all the cool things students brought in. They all, each one of them, hang in a circle around the top of my room. Some speak of their faith, or their favorite sport, or their family or where they’re from. It’s a great way to get to know students on their terms, and also a way to make sure that, in addition to their one word, students all have a piece of the classroom that is exactly their own.

Photos courtesy of Tom Rademacher.

Before I Come to Your Classroom, Let Me Show You Mine syndicated from https://sapsnkraguide.wordpress.com

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offscreen2017-blog · 7 years

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Pre Production: Everything You Need to Know About the Planning and Paperwork

The pre production phase of our project was where all the initial planning took place before the cameras started rolling. Jin and I found that the groundwork was extremely important in setting the overall vision of our film.

Locking Down on the Conceptual Idea (November 1 2016)

Jin’s initial pitch of her idea was to make a film which would delineate the big issue faced by teens and young adults in the 21st century of social media addiction. I had initially come up with a plan to make a mini series on comparative advertising however that fell through as nobody in my class wanted to do my idea so instead I decided to work with Jin. After much debate and planning, Jin and I decided to tweak her idea and instead of make a film on social media and Internet addiction we decided to do it on a broader topic of screen usage. Before locking down on exactly what our film would look like, Jin and I struggled to figure out what aspects of screen usage we would like to have in our film. Would we like to make it a story? Should we have statistics in our film? What sort of a flow would our series have? Finally, after much help from our teacher, we decided to split our three series into short yet effective sequences, that on a holistic level, depicted the issue of too much screen time.

Series 1: “What is the issue?”: This series addressed and brought to light the issue of too much screen usage amongst teens and young adults. This series consisted of interviews with friends aged between 18-25 years of age, and they responded to questions answering what their screen usage is which ultimately brought to light just how “addicted” they really are.

Series 2: “A specialists view point” The second series was on a specialist confirming the physical, emotional and social problems occur as a result of too much screen time. This gave our viewers a little insight into the actual damages done to ourselves when we are on the screen too much.

Series 3: “Digital detox/ alternatives” The third series captured the alternatives to screen time and then introduced the ‘#offscreen’ campaign. The #offscreen campaign invited our viewers to take a selfie of themselves while deliberately doing an activity (or any of the alternatives suggested in series 3) that does not involve a screen and post it to social media using the tag: ’#offscreen’

Style and Artistic Approach

While the conceptual idea came together, Jin and I started to discuss what sort of style our video would have. After much thought, we looked online to see what sort of examples we could follow. Here are a few links that are worth watching in order to get a better understanding of the sort of look we were going for. We every now and then referred to these exact videos in order to mimic their styles.

1. Muji to relax:

youtube

The Muji brand is a retail company that sells a wide variety of household goods. This video was the first video that Jin and I watched and we fell in love with the artistic and visual aspects of the advert. These were the main aspects from this video that we wanted to imitate in our own film:

· The slow motion effect (done in post production)

· Over exposed shots

· Strong depth of focus

· Extreme color correction

· Appropriate music

After analysing the video we realised that most of theses looks would only be achieved during the postproduction part of the project in Premiere.

2. Your phone is now a refugee’s phone:

youtube

This striking film has some wonderful visual effects that bring to life how a refugee would use his or her phone. These were the main highlights of the video that we were hoping to use in our film:

· The on screen mobile phone that was used as part of the narrative

· The noises of the cellphone (vibrations, camera noises, text message alerts, phone calls, pings etc.)

· The strong colour grading

Just like the Muji video, we came to the conclusion that achieving most of this would only be done in the editing stage.

3. Buzzfeed: 33 questions white people have for white people:

youtube

Ultimately, the general style implemented across all buzzfeed videos were what Jin and I decided to go for. This video has certain elements that we were extremely keen on reproducing in our film:

· The motion graphics

· Bold on screen text

· Different angles of the interviews

· Consistent text and colours

· Strong and emphasised sound effects (comedic effect)

Once we had a set idea of the sort of style we wanted, it was time to move onto crew casting.

(Outline made just after finally deciding out main ideas for series 1,2 and 3)

(A few idea for series 3)

(Various tasks we had to complete)

Gathering Our Crew and Cast Members (December 6 2016)

After doing lots of research, we found out that teens and young adults aged between 18-25 are the most effected by screens today. Jin and I have a few friends in London who fall in that age group and who were willing to be participants in our film for series 1. We had prepared a list of questions for them to answer regarding their screen usage and had planned to film their responses. Our questions were strategically framed so that by the end of series 1, our viewers would get a sense of just how big an issue excessive screen time is.

For series 2 we needed a specialist who was ideally a doctor or a psychologist to explain in his or her words what the down sides are off too much screen time. This was honestly the toughest part of our pre production work. We got in touch with NHS facilities around London, psychologists from our university, friends who were still in medical school as well as private doctors we knew personally. We got rejection after rejection and the main reason was because these specialists and the clinic or hospital they work in, could possibly have been liable if they provided any miss information. Jin and I understood where they were coming from, but it was just extremely frustrating :( ! Despite the rejections, the other participants who we needed for series 1 were on board with our request to film them. We were now ready to shoot series 1!

(Table created confirming which of our participants were available)

Production Folder: My Learnings From Assembling all the Paperwork (January 10 2017)

My second biggest contribution other than some filming and editing was creating all the paperwork for the production folder. As listed in the previous post, the documents for the production folder came in handy during our shoot days. Compiling a production folder taught me the importance of the formalities of filmmaking. While the actual film itself was a large part of the main submission, the preliminary work of filling out paper work was what made the filming a lot easier. Coordinating and pre organising shoot locations, dates, and various other aspects made the entire filming process a breeze. If we had any issues while filming, or had authorities ask us if we had permission to film, we had all the answers in the production folder.

In second year the production folder that I made was not as extensive and detailed at this one. I was able to build up the skills to produce, what my partner and I think, is a semi professional production folder that could be used at industry level. What was so different to the production folder from the year before was the in-depth research we had to do before filling out any paperwork. While the pre production section of our production folder was mainly the conceptual development, in order to complete the production paperwork for the production section of the folder, we had to do vast amounts of research. Before completing any call sheets or filling out risk assessments, we had to do a complete recce of all our shoot locations and ensure that we were not going to be liable or injure anybody while filming. Jin and I took a day out to travel to Southwark Park, Canada Water, Landale House, parts of Goldsmiths campus, London bridge, Waterloo and Canary Wharf to do a little bit of filming as well as see if these locations were suitable locations for some of our main shots. Doing a recce allowed us to not only determine if these were safe areas to shoot but also gave us an opportunity to understand if we required any permission to shoot in these areas.

We had to also fill out insurance documents and a budget before starting to film. In the year before, I had not learned how to write a budget or fill out insurance documents so for me this was a huge learning. The purpose of writing a budget was to help us understand where exactly money would be allocated were we given a budget. In the industry, most film production companies are allocated a budget in which they must work with. Our teacher suggested that we look at BECTU rate cards to see how much a lighting person or a sound person would cost for a day in the industry and make a hypothetical budget for our film. Jin and I had no idea how expensive each unit would cost for pre production, production and postproduction and by doing a budget we familiarised ourselves with what sort of a spending plan film producers and directors work by.

Scroll down to read about filming and on set experiences...

#preproduction #conceptualideas #style #crewmembers #productionfolder

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