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qqueenofhades · 3 years

Note

Are you still taking prompts? We are thirsty and were hoping for “bite me” in a fivan vampire au. Pretty please? What’s that you say? That’s not on the list you shared? Um, oops? I said we are thirsty! 🤤

Ahaha, okay, I think this is going to do it for the prompts for now. I want to get back to working on PEL, and I have (mostly) given the people what they want. But before you hasten to my inbox to request more of this (which I know the Very Hungry Lot of you will do, and I love you so much for it): do know that this is indeed related to a larger project and this is just the first bit of it.

What is that project? Shh. I am not telling you just yet. It's a secret.

Belgrade, Kingdom of Serbia

June 1896

The summer evening is warm and purple, lit atmospherically by both the older gaslamps and the newfangled electric lights (there is a Serb in New York, a man by the name of Tesla, whose great scientific inventions and experiments with alternating current may soon illuminate the entire world), and the well-dressed crowd flows toward the café in a tide of rustling satin, silk, and velvet, ladies in evening dress and men in top hats and monocles. The establishment is the Golden Cross, in Terazije, a bustling neighborhood just south of Stari Grad, and the attraction is an exhibition of the marvelous moving pictures of the Lumière brothers – the first such show in the Balkans, and indeed outside of Paris, after they were first premiered in great triumph six months ago. Or at least, so it is for most of the attendees tonight. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky has a different task.

He stands apart from the milling throngs, well dressed in a high-collared coat and silken cravat, dark hair parted ruler-straight and face freshly shaven, a old golden watch tucked in his breast pocket and his shoes polished to a perfect sheen. While the people hurry past almost close enough to jostle him, they have a peculiar difficulty in registering that he is there. They sense something, yes – a cold breath on the back of the neck, a prey animal’s inborn reflex to warily search the shadows – but it never quite clicks. They continue on their way without being troubled in their own sense of reality, or ever realizing who – what – is standing there with them. It is just one of the odd, disjointed experiences that Fedyor has had to come to terms with, in the twenty-two years since he became a vampire.

By habit, he checks the horizon. These summer days are late and long, and Fedyor is still young enough that he can’t tolerate more than a few minutes of sunlight. It has taken years to be able to go out by day at all, half-thinking he had dreamed the waking world, become wholly one with the shadows and the night. When he emerged in the last gasps of afternoon, when he felt the golden warmth on his face for the first time in almost two decades, he wept. It still causes him vestigial pain, but not as much. Not so much that it cannot be borne.

He pulls the slip of paper out of his pocket and checks the name again. Then he puts it back and slips smoothly into the crowd. At the threshold, he feels that faint, telltale twinge, the knowledge of entering another creature’s territory without being explicitly bidden to do so. The Golden Cross belongs to the vampire king of Belgrade, who is rumored to be five hundred years old and a veteran of the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 (which, so far as Fedyor can tell, the Serbs have never gotten over losing to the Turks) and Fedyor is not interested in pissing him off. But therefore it is, by Conclave law, a place where all vampires in the city can freely congregate, so long as they haven’t committed some terrible crime. It also means that Fedyor may find the man he is looking for in here, and not have to cross into enemy turf.

A rich reek of wine and brandy, of hand-cranked ice cream in cut-glass bowls, of ladies’ perfume and men’s cologne, of sweat and starch and thrumming hot blood, rises into Fedyor’s nose as he inhales, as his senses have been honed a hundred times more acutely than what he was previously used to. He searches the crowded room, on high alert for another supernatural. Nothing, at least not thus far. But it is a delicate and fiddly bit of bloodsucker diplomacy for which he is here tonight, having to do with the rumor that a local group of creatures have formed a shadowy secret society called Црна рука, the Black Hand, with the aim of expressly interfering in human politics. This, of course, is strictly against the rules, and they need to be reminded of that fact. Fedyor would very much prefer not to fight an anarchist rebel vampire in the middle of a café crowded with oblivious humans, but the thought crosses his mind that this is an excellent soft target. The eyes of the entire city, the Balkans, the international art community, are fixed on this place tonight. If something went wrong – if the Golden Cross and all the souls within it were blown to smithereens –

Fedyor orders a drink at the bar – he has been promised that one day he will again also be able to eat human food if he craves the taste, but it will not nourish him – and sits down near the back, keeping a sharp eye out. Andre Carr, the Frenchman who has traveled from Lyon as the Lumière brothers’ representative, is setting up the unwieldy projector and barking at his assistants to be careful with the fragile, bulky spools of film, his mustache bristling in agitation. Fedyor gauges the mood of the crowd, the din of their heartbeats, their eager interest, their whispered gossip. Still no other supernaturals that he can sense, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not here. The vampire king and his underlings will have plenty of ways to conceal themselves from a relative child like Fedyor. As will the Black Hand.

He leans back in his chair and samples the whisky. Not bad, he thinks, though it’s been a long time since he drank human libations. It’s nice to be out among regular people, but he always has to keep strict watch on the part of himself that yearns to feed, that wants them to run, to fear, to fall. Fedyor has been a vampire long enough to control the hunger, to drink mostly from animals and space out his feeds on humans, to ask them for their consent or pay them for their trouble, but it’s still a struggle. He understands the urge that drives vampires to sequester themselves, to only live among their own kind, to keep drones and other willing human servants to feed from, so that you are not put to the trouble of chasing down a stranger and politely asking to bite them in the neck every fortnight or so, don’t get mixed up as to whether the mortals are your dinner company or just your dinner. It is a deuced bloody bother of a business. Fedyor always feels like an idiot whenever he tries.

Carr and his minions sort out their difficulties, and eventually the lights go down, provoking another eager murmur. Fedyor is not immune to the lure of whatever they are about to see, and he could have done much worse for a new home. He arrived here six years ago from his hometown in Russia, once his lack of aging became too difficult to conceal from his friends and family. Belle epoque Belgrade is a cosmopolitan, cultured world of stately opera houses and marble palaces, grand balls and gaslights, synagogues and streetcars, mosques and museums, bohemians and bordellos and broad balconies, telegraph wires and trolley cars and twisting lanes, churches and coffee shops in the Viennese style, with white-aproned waiters and colored mosaics and demitasse cups of Italian espresso. It is an ancient city, placed in a lethally strategic location at the confluence of two rivers, fought over in almost a hundred wars and razed almost forty times (and doubtless there are still more unmakings yet to come). Fedyor has found a place among the vampire community here, enough that he is trusted to deal with the Black Hand, despite his immortal youth. As to how that will go, well…

He watches the film with half an eye, impressed by the moving pictures just like his human counterparts, and then he feels it. The coldness on the back of his neck, the chirp of a sixth sense, the unshakeable awareness that he is being observed by a fellow bloodsucker. Though that term is considered somewhat dated and passé these days, mildly offensive. Vampires are eager as humans to participate in the scientific and industrial revolution, to concoct more enlightened regulations for themselves, to create an academic literature for their origins. There is talk among the sophisticated supernatural set of organizing an Academy for Preternatural Science, to hire vampire scholars, to establish a university. It’s a nice thought, if somewhat too ambitious (or so Fedyor thinks) for a race of beings that has only just decided that solving every problem with blood feuds to the death might not be the best idea. He wonders if one of those unreconstructed barbarians is behind him now.

Slowly, smoothly, so as to demonstrate that he is perfectly aware of being hunted, Fedyor turns around, and catches sight of the newcomer across the way. He is handsome – but then again, most vampires are, as it’s one of the benefits of the transformation. This one, however, is possessed of a roguish, rough-hewn attractiveness that seems genuine, still close to the face he wore as a mortal man, and not the eerie, glossy, imperturbable beauty that Fedyor sometimes finds so off-putting about his compatriots. This vampire is also wearing good clothes, and his overcoat is dark red, embroidered with curling black patterns. He looks at Fedyor, their eyes meet, and he nods once, half an inch. Game on.

Fedyor does his best to sit still until the lights come up, and the crowd claps rapturously and disperses to fetch more drinks and gush about the performance. Then he gets up and drifts toward a velvet curtain, slipping unobtrusively behind it. Back here, it is dark, dusty, and smells of candlewax and grease paint, the remnants of another performance, a conjurer’s closet. He steadies himself, turns around, and –

“Good evening,” the voice says, cold and curt. “I believe you were waiting to speak to me.”

“Yes.” Fedyor does his best to smile and appear charming and in command of the situation. “My name is Fedyor Kaminsky, and I am a representative of the Conclave. They have sent me here tonight in hopes of locating Ivan Sakharov, of the Black Hand. Is that you?”

The other vampire regards him flatly. His eyes are brown, as is his hair, which is cropped military-short and kept as sharp as his face. When he folds his arms, his muscles bulge, even through the sleeves of the well-tailored coat. “And if I was?”

“Then,” Fedyor says, “I am authorized by that same Conclave to deliver a warning to you and your associates that your current activities fall outside the bounds of the common supernatural law, and if you persist in pursuing them, there will be consequences.”

The other – well, he hasn’t denied it, so this must indeed be Ivan Sakharov – looks back at him with an utterly unimpressed expression. “Oh, so the Conclave found a new stooge to do their bidding? You’re a bit younger and fresher than the usual corpses those desiccated old tightwads usually send out after us, I’ll give you that. How long have you been in Belgrade?”

“How long have you?” Fedyor is almost sure he recognizes Ivan’s accent; they’re speaking Serbo-Croatian, but in both cases with a familiar cadence. “You’re Russian, aren’t you?”

That catches the other vampire by surprise. He hisses, baring a pair of white and very sharp fangs, and his eyes go briefly black. “You think so?”

“Yes,” Fedyor says. “But older than me, I think. Possibly quite a bit, though by how much, I can’t be sure. If we were to – ” he switches languages smoothly, in midsentence – “continue this conversation in Russian, would that be more to your liking?”

Ivan Sakharov eyes him icily. He must know that if he speaks their native tongue, he risks giving away his age by the style of his grammar, or perhaps his place of birth, and that is dangerous information for an unknown quantity to hold over you. There is a whiff of the emperor’s court around him, or perhaps the empress – does he hail from Catherine the Great’s day, Fedyor wonders, or earlier? There’s a long, crackling pause. Then Ivan says in brittle, too-correct English, “Or perhaps we should converse like this?”

Fedyor inclines his head, accepting that he has – for now – been outmaneuvered. They still haven’t taken their eyes off each other, standing close together in the dim velvet-draped shadows, near enough that if they were human, they would feel the other’s heat. There’s nothing but the faint wintry chill of unliving flesh, though a certain hunger rises unbidden in Fedyor’s stomach nonetheless. Then he says, “This does not have to be difficult. Cease your lawlessness and tell your friends to do the same.”

Ivan takes another step, close enough that their noses almost brush. “The Conclave has no power over me, Fedyor Kaminsky.”

“Do you want to test that?” Fedyor breathes, struggling to keep his focus at the other vampire’s threatening-but-thrilling nearness, the way his blood is singing under his skin in an entirely different way than he expected or frankly, that he wants. Just because Ivan Sakharov is annoyingly attractive (and also Russian) does not mean that he is not a dangerous, war-mongering, secret-cabal-plotting megalomaniac, and Fedyor does not need that sort of nonsense in his life. “If you did, I would, of course, be authorized to place you under arrest.”

Ivan looks at him goadingly. “I would like to see you try.”

Oh, so he is indeed one of those immortals (read: the kind who really need to experience mortality just to be kicked very hard in the balls). Fedyor struggles to contain his irritation. If he shows that this handsome bastard has gotten to him, this will only get worse. “If you promise to desist,” he says, “the Conclave will drop this matter and consider it closed. You and the rest of the Black Hand will not be subject to further investigation. That, or – ”

“How do I know that you are even from the Conclave? That you are who you say?”

“Why would I lie about it?”

Ivan shrugs. “I want proof.”

Fedyor grits his fangs. “What do you expect? A badge?”

“No. But I will accept your blood.”

That catches Fedyor off guard. Not that it should, necessarily. Since vampires can sense the thoughts and feelings of the creature that they’re feeding on, it’s a quick and time-tested way to prove that there is no funny business going on (or at least, no business that is funny beyond the usual). The obvious difficulty, however, is that it requires a possibly unfriendly rival to bite your neck or at the very least, your wrist, and one can understand why there would be a natural hesitation to yield one’s neck (Fedyor happens to be rather fond of his) to the clutches of the likes of Ivan Sakharov. But if he says no, he looks like he is weak or that he has something to hide, that he doesn’t trust Ivan or regard him as an equal, and the already-febrile situation with the Black Hand will only get worse. As bluffs go, Fedyor could call this one. But it would be very risky, and if it blows up in his face…

“Very well,” Fedyor says, chillingly correct. He pulls aside the collar of his evening coat and tilts his head, exposing the side of his throat. “Test me all you like.”

Ivan looks at him with something that makes that thing in Fedyor’s stomach rise up again, hot as an ember left burning in a brazier even when all the other lights go out. He hasn’t been warmed like this, not even by the sun, ever since he was turned in 1874 by a vampire named Dmitri Karamazov. He does his utmost to force it down. If Ivan bites him and senses that –

There’s a final pause, soft as tissue paper, fine as crystal. Then Ivan steps forward, looking almost impressed, as if he expected Fedyor to find some reason to back out. He flexes his jaw, bringing out those two impressively white and sharp fangs again, and reaches out, gripping Fedyor’s waist with his big hands and drawing him somewhat closer than is strictly necessary. Then he whispers, “As you wish, Conclave whore,” and bites.

He’s not entirely gentle about it, not that vampires usually are and not that Fedyor wasn’t expecting it. But all at once, as Ivan sucks at him, his mouth pressed hungrily to Fedyor’s neck, wet and raw and savage, Fedyor goes weak in the knees. He’s been fed on before, tested before, and this is different from any of those. He utters a mewling noise of need that he is shocked and deeply outraged to hear from himself, pressing still closer, knocking Ivan a few steps backward into the wall. His hands come up, seeking purchase on the other’s broad shoulders, a smoky curl of desire rising through him like rich incense. “Mmm,” he mutters. “Mmmgh. Yes. Like that. Yes.”

Ivan doesn’t answer for obvious reasons, since his mouth is otherwise occupied, but Fedyor can feel the little frisson of pleasure that travels through him at those words. That takes him aback. Not that he should rush to generalize, since most vampires are fairly flexible in their intimate preferences (you don’t live that long without wanting to sample everything that is on offer, carnally speaking) but for some reason, he just assumed that this tough, frightening, hard-as-nails secret anarchist supernatural idiot wouldn’t be inclined to gentlemen. Not that Fedyor is necessarily objecting. This feels far better than it has any right to do, considering that it started out as a naked challenge to his veracity. Agh, fuck, he should not think about naked. That makes the arousal burn even more hungrily, as he arches his back and presses himself wantonly against Ivan and knows that he’s hard as a rock and that this utter menace can definitely feel it. Ivan is in no hurry to pull away. He drinks for a few more seconds, past when there can be any reasonable doubt that Fedyor is telling the truth, and then slowly, deliberately breaks contact, fangs still half in Fedyor’s throat, as he withdraws with luxurious leisure. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and growls, “Ah.”

“Yes, ah,” Fedyor says, trying not to stammer, as pulses of hot and cold rush through him from head to toe. “Are you satisfied?”

Ivan gives him a wicked smile, drops of Fedyor’s blood still glistening heart-scarlet on his lips. “Maybe.”

God almighty, kill me now. Difficult, of course, when one is – strictly speaking – already deceased. (And now deceased in a different way, which makes it two kinds of dead at once, which makes Fedyor a prodigy.) He wants to ask if Ivan will perform the customary service of licking the bite wounds closed, but he’s also afraid that he may physically incinerate if Ivan does so, and since fire is rather famously one of the only things that can harm vampires, it is better not to take the risk. Instead, Fedyor pulls out his handkerchief and dabs at his throat, with as much casualness as he can muster. “Well,” he says. “You’ve had my word, Ivan Sakharov. Will you give me yours that you will bring your illegal organization to an end and return to the rule of Conclave law?”

Ivan looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the too-tight fit of Fedyor’s pinstriped trousers. Then he leans in, so close that Fedyor truly does think they’re about to kiss and momentarily blacks out, and whispers against the shell of his ear, “Absolutely not.”

And with that, and no more than a rush of air, he is gone.

#ivan x fedyor #heartrender husbands #fivan #fivan ff #anonymous #ask #my god i'm so predictable #(we are all predictable)#but also yes

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aerlths · 4 years

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fourth rank. tseng

request: would like to request a tseng imagine where he finds out his S/o is pregnant probably back to the accounts of what they did in the office/home in your last fic and Elena being jealous of S/o tries to upset her as much as possible but tseng making sure what belongs to him but he happy to have a child with his s/o. Also can we get supportive uncles rufus, rude & Reno please.

previous imagine referenced (you don’t need to read that one, they’re independent works)

[reminder that requests are open for headcanons, imagines or fake text messages, all characters and pairings.]

word count: 3704

You hid the pearl white object between your palms, staring straight ahead at the dark cherry wood of the cubicle’s door. Shinra’s bathroom wasn’t quite the place where you’d idealized such a moment, but as you’d moved in with Tseng a month back, it was the only viable option. Your knee began moving on its own accord, up and down in a rhythm that resembled your rapid heartbeat.

The passing of those unbearably slow couple of minutes was announced with a light beep – a new model designed for discreetness while reassuring it had done its job. You took a second longer, just one, and turned the test in your hand to see ‘8 weeks pregnant’ written in bold letters.

“Fuck,” it left your parted lips before the magnitude of this new reality had even begun settling in.

You instinctively reached for your stomach, fingertips circling in a soft caress, as if to reassure this new life that you knew they were there, that mom was here. Fuck, mom. You were going to be a mom. And Tseng would be a dad - the two of you would be building a family? The thought of your fiancé coddling a small bundle immediately brought you to tears, and you had to bury your face in your hands to muffle the sounds of joy that escaped your throat.

Leaving that small stall you’d been sitting on for most of your lunch break proved to be a much more difficult task than it had been coming in. Your reflection clearly denounced that something had happened, and you could only pray that no one was to come in while you blew your nose and fixed your makeup.

When you finally walked out, you were met with a long-haired man leaning against the wall by the bathroom. You practically jumped at the sight of him, like a cat caught nipping at the fish. By the preoccupied look he threw you, it didn’t slip by unnoticed.

“Are you alright, love?” He asked in a cautiously low tone, and you couldn’t help the way your heart dropped in his presence. The little object buried within your suit jacket surely explained the overwhelming adoration you’d been feeling for him lately – you could tell daddy would be the favorite.

You considered him, leaving his comfort zone to approach you at work, and offered him a smile. “I am, shouldn’t I be?”

“You were in there for a while,” he gestured towards the ladies’ room behind you, “I was worried something might have happened.”

God, it would take immense willpower not to immediately blurt everything at him. You made an attempt at striking up a pose. “I was doing my makeup! You know I like to look good when we do field work.”

Tseng scrunched his nose and eyed you, searching. You felt yourself heat under his gaze, never quite getting used to the intensity of those eyes. “I don’t believe you. We’ll talk later.”

He’d caught you but didn’t seem the slightest upset. Instead, you were blessed with a brief kiss to your temple, the sweetness of it melting at your core. He guided you through the small of your back along the corridor, only inching away from you when you arrived at the office’s entrance.

The thought that graced your mind when he left for his desk in the adjacent room made you flush from head to toe, and you had to quickly turn away from him to avoid any questions. Eight weeks, the test had said. Six weeks dated back to a particular night in this very office, or perhaps its follow-up only a mere hours later. Six weeks in which he subtly eased your presence into his work life, where he slowly released his stoic façade to meet you in a healthier in-between.

You hadn’t had much time to think of just how you would reveal the news to him, but you instantly knew that you wanted to make him feel. For a brief moment the idea of requesting his friend’s help to surprise him crossed your mind, but you scratched that – you want him to be the first one to tell, and, figures, walls have ears and Elena does too. The last thing you wanted was her finding out this early, and your raging hormones would most likely have you clawing at her face or blowing up that annoying little smirk.

Breathing deeply to avoid feeding the thought, you searched for your two companions for the day’s mission – Reno and Rude. Tseng was to stay behind signing off some paperwork, and you would be exceptionally supervised by none other than the vice-president himself, Rufus Shinra.

No one knew exactly why he was involving himself in this case. Despite its importance, it was an extremely rare occasion to have him take even a smidge of interest in your activities. Some had speculated that he was planning to raise the position of one more Turk, but you doubted it – most likely, he had a personal connection to the group of men you were investigating.

And so, as cheerful as you had never been in the years you’ve served the company, the four of you arrived at the scene. Reno was tapping his nightstick against his shoulder, as if doing so enlightened him in some way, and you could see Rufus side-eyeing him, not maliciously, but with curiosity. He was about to go further ahead when you halted him with a raise of your arm.

“Wait,” you warned, and touched the yellow materia tucked within your wristband. When you felt no response from the sense command, you lowered down your arm. “Now it’s clear.”

Rude chuckled behind you, and you heard a chirp bark of something along the lines of ‘that’s tsengs girl’ from the fiery redhead already marching ahead. You proceeded with caution through the dark tunnel, fully aware that there was something very important that needed protection. Your fight style, though, was almost exclusively based on your powerful materia usage, as you had a particular endurance and skill for handling magic attacks than most. This meant that you could engage in a battle from a safe distance, and that you could just as easily cast a barrier upon yourself.

He probably won’t allow me to do missions like this once he finds out, though, were the words that found themselves into your head. Nevermind that, you continued on the second highest ranking turk’s heel, fingertips lingering around the green orb at your hip, just in case.

“Fuck!” You heard, and that was the catalyst to lead you all into a chase.

Reno, having mastered his impressive speed materia, was already way ahead, and in what turned out to be a very unsatisfying short-lived action moment, caught up to the runaway. He hit him right across the chest, harshly, and in the blink of an eye Rude had him secured, arms behind his back.

You remained in place, wary of the easiness with which you’d found this man. You’d been looking for an old Turk, a runway that had resurfaced with the threat of spilling all the dirty little secrets he’d learned while on the job, and the three of you – three of the very best – had been sent to take him down. Would someone who was fully aware of the risks and yet still provoked Shinra be this weak?

Just as you’d suspected, there was only the warning of rustling behind one of the pillars before something was shot in your direction. Without a thought, you cast Barrier on the Vice-president, knowing you should first and foremost protect him. Before you could shield yourself, however, a man came flying towards you, delivering a blow right in the middle of your chest. One of your hands came to instinctively meet your stomach as you fell to the ground, while the other reached for the metal staff that was shrunk in your pocket. As you pulled the object out, it extended to its full, massive length, and shone a silver-ish light around your body.

Beside you, Rufus was surrounded by the same protection, his pistol in hand prepared to shoot at the figure hiding once again. He looked over to you, blue eyes lingering a moment too long on your middle area, and back ahead. Reno and Rude rushed over two your side, and they too exchanged a suspicious glance, but said nothing. You weren’t certain if it was the hormones or the maternal instincts kicking in, but by the intensity of your glare and the iron grip on your staff, anyone could tell you had entered murder-mode.

“I know it’s been a while since you’ve been a part of the team buddy, but you really shouldn’t underestimate us fresh faces like that.” Reno taunted, clicking his tongue in disapproval. He too seemed more than a little pissed at the dirty trick.

“I don’t feel like playing.” You looked between the men around you and exhaled loudly, raising your weapon in the direction of their target. “We’re not giving you time to prepare, you stupid fuck.”

Rude winced behind you, but quickly changed his expression into one of awe as you wordlessly blew up the pillar where he hid with a powerful Fire spell, blasting him back in the process. You stepped back, knowing full well you should leave them to the rest if you wanted to keep up to barriers. They, of course, wasted no time in engaging him in battle, ultimately resulting in knocking him out.

As they fought, Rufus inched closer to you, his voice low. “The fourth spot is yours.”

You blinked, confused. “Pardon, Mr. Vice-President?”

He gave you the smallest of smiles, the silver shimmer still strong around his form. “At first, I was simply curious to see to exactly whose wedding I had gotten invited to, but I now see that there must be a change in rank. I can comprehend why Tseng would place a ring on you.”

The harsh sound of Rude’s fist against the target’s cheek had been unsettling enough that you were momentarily distracted, but Rufus continued, unphased. “I’m moving you up. You have very impressive control, especially considering your…situation.”

His gesture towards your stomach had your face going very pale, eyes wide. “H-How did you…?”

But you looked down, and realized your palm was still placed protectively against the area. Ah. “Thank you, Mr. Vice President. But please don’t mention the baby to Tseng, I have just found out myself.”

A very loud echo of “Baby?!” had you jumping in surprise, the seemingly finished duo turning towards you with cat-like grins. Well, there goes telling your fiancé first.

“Dude, Tseng’s gonna be a dad? What the fuck.” Reno practically yelled, twisting the arm of the detained man in his excitement. “Does this mean I’m like, an uncle?”

The usually calm and extremely quiet Rude nearly mirrored his colleague’s excitement, and it warmed your heart to see him as such. His expression changed significantly into one of worry as he seemed to have reached a realization – you braced yourself. “(Y/N), you do realize Tseng will murder us once he realizes we let you get hit, right?”

Reno widened his eyes and let out another loose ‘fuck’. You shook your head at them, smiling. “I can take care of myself, and I’m only eight weeks in. That trash bag hit me in the chest, I’m fine.”

They didn’t relax at all, but you didn’t blame them. Even you were preoccupied with the possibility of him being upset.

Upset?

Holy shit, Elena was about to burn the entire Shinra’s Headquarters down. She’d been the previous fourth place, praised for her martial arts skills, and now not only had she dropped down from the golden quartet in lieu of you, but she would also have to swallow down the very big ‘you’ll have her crush’s child’ lump. She was going to lose her mind, you were completely certain – and, well, she did.

In the trip back the two men chose to ignore the death countdown above their heads to go back to the excitement of the news. Even Rufus himself seemed thoroughly amused, and you felt a bit like a celebrity with the amount of attention you were receiving from them. The commotion didn’t go unnoticed when you arrived back at the office, mission successful, and you had to practically implore the two Turks to act normal and go back to their jobs. They had, however, helped you come up with a sweet idea, and were currently ensuring that no one would disturb you as you went over to his office.

Seriously, if you didn’t tell him right then, it was bound to reach his ears before the end of the day. Reno didn’t quite understand the meaning of secrecy, and had rambled so loudly in the truck you took that you wouldn’t be surprised if all the lower ranking SOLDIERs – snow-balled information from the drivers in your trip – already knew. So there you were, a small package in your hands, and the softest smile you’d ever given him.

You closed the door behind you as you entered, granting you an immediate raise of his brows. “I gather it went well?”

“It did! The Vice President even gave me Elena’s place.” You mused, slowly walking up to him.

“He did?” He asked, and the pointed look you shot him had him backtracking. “Not that I don’t think you deserve it! He just doesn’t seem the type to make sudden changes like that.”

You leaned against his desk next to where he sat, trying desperately to hide the excitement. You faked a pout. “I’ll have you know he was impressed by my quick response and magic use!”

“I know love, you’re the most talented I know.” He assured you, and you felt your cheeks warming at his words. He closed the laptop he’d been typing on to fully turn to you, giving you his undivided attention. There was something in that little gesture, something that was still novelty in your relationship, that had you melting inside. “You came here for something, right? Is everything okay?”

Smiling again, albeit a bit shyly this time around, you placed the nicely wrapped package in front of him. “It’s a gift for you. I think you’ll need it.”

He looked at you with that warm, loving gaze he reserved for your most intimate moments. It had you dying to jump him and hold him tightly, but you didn’t want to ruin the surprise. He palmed the packaging, instantly being able to tell what it was, and smiled. “I always need book; you know me well.”

“This one is special though.” You commented, almost as if absentmindedly, and waited for him to tear apart the dark blue wrapping paper.

The cover for the parenting book “Cribsheet” was staring right at him. You didn’t fully comprehend what it was from the way his expression transitioned from confused to understand to blatant happiness that turned on the faucet and had the water works begin. Wordlessly, and with every inch of him practically yelling adoration, he pulled you into his lap and sank his head in your chest.

You arms wrapped around him, holding him close. “We’re going to be parents.”

He nodded against you, still refusing to look up. He whispered against your body. “I love you so, so much (Y/N).”

Your heart was filled to the brim with a type of joy, a blissful feeling you couldn’t explain or pinpoint. Only then you realized, you hadn’t once considered the chance that he might not want this child. You knew the man you loved, and you knew he didn’t do anything on accident – if he was occasionally ignoring contraceptives, you knew that it meant that he was ready. And you were ready too, to love and protect whatever precious thing that you’d give birth to.

After a little while, he pulled away to take in your image, the goofy grin on both your faces priceless. “How long?”

“Two months.” You said, to which his smile only grew. “There’s actually a chance that they were conceived right here, you know?”

Tseng visibly gulped and scratched the back of his head, pretending it had nothing to do with him. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your mouth.

***

The following day, it soon became evident that the entire floor was aware of your situation. On the pleasant side, it did feel good to have people gushing over you, praising you, and overall just being extra nice. You knew you wouldn’t tolerate it if you were to spend the next seven months being coddled as if you were made of glass, and you’d made it very clear to Tseng the previous night that you’d continue working for as long as it was safe for the child. However, this initial warmth from your coworkers was doing wonders to your ego and already excellent mood. That was, until Elena came into play.

You’d pondered before that if she were to bother you while you had something this important, precious baby growing inside of you, she’d finally get to see you at your worst. For two years – the time you’d officially dated Tseng, you tolerated her and her big mouth under nothing but respect for her as a coworker. She, on the other hand, had gotten bolder and bolder instead of realizing that he was playing catch with no one, as Tseng was completely off limits. You had yet to give her the taste of your metal that you’d been wanting to solely because of your man, who had to protect the order within the Turks.

Right now, with that lopsided smirked and the malicious twist of her hair, you were about to say a big fuck you to all of that.

It started in the early morning, when you were in the line to get coffee, when you heard a snicker and the words, “That’s why she’s been looking so fat,” out of Elena’s mouth. The baby inside of you not only was obsessed with daddy, but also apparently with blood, because you very nearly spilt the hot liquid in her flat chest.

Breathe, remember? You told yourself to find that perfect picturesque place inside your head, travel far down there, and leave the blond alone or she would, and emphasis on the complete certainty, get some serious bruises on herself.

The baby, think about the baby.

And so you ignored her. And you ignored her when she complained about her rank swap, when she commented on your appearance at least three other times, when she wondered aloud whether Tseng was cheating on you or not, and soon the “think about the baby, calm down” turned into “think about the baby, they want you to destroy her”.

At about the seventh time you heard another off-hand comment from her, you understood why she was acting so bold. Somewhere on that dysfunctional brain of hers, she concluded that you would sit quietly and take it because you had a child to protect. She’d apparently forgotten that you could most likely beat her up with an eight month’s belly, much easier with only two months.

Reno and Rude had been off on a mission of their own, nowhere near to hold you off, and Tseng was working from within his personal office. There was no one around with competence to pull you off from her if you did decide to give in to bloodthirst. Good.

It was at the eight comment, that was met by even her friends with disgust, that you flew from your chair to stand in front of her.

“What the fuck did you say?” You snarled, dared her to repeat. You’d heard her pretty clearly, much more than you ever wanted to hear.

Your profession wasn’t particularly dignified, and you all did a lot of bad things – but fuck if you aren’t going to bash her head in for the words that escaped her mouth.

She stared at you, clearly taken aback. “It’s a joke…calm down.”

“Say it,” you taunted, reaching for a blue orb that dangled in the belt by your waist, fully ready to go all out, “repeat how you just “joked” about me losing this child. Say it.”

Elena gulped visibly, and you were right to assume that she was under the impression you magically became a defenseless centerpiece. “Lighten up, I was obviously jo-“

She didn’t finish, because you’d already taken your staff out, fully intending to rip her a new one. Before you could even Poison her, though, a firm hand came to rest on your shoulder. You knew without turning around who it belonged to.

You attempted to explain. “Tseng, she just--“

“I know, I heard you.” His tone was cold, borderline terrifying, but you knew you weren’t the target of his rage. If there was a hole in the ground, Elena would’ve hopped in without looking back.

“Tseng, I can expla--” She tried.

“You’re suspended.” He stated firmly, a gloved hand pointing accusingly at her. “I’m taking up this matter with Vice President himself. I’ve had it up to here with your antics. Your big mouth has caused us enough troubles as it is, but you can’t even keep it to yourself in your workplace. Workplace harmony is also extremely important for a job like ours where we only have each other to rely on, and the only conflicts we’ve had in ages we’re solely provoked by you. You’re suspended.”

You were left staring in a mixture of shock and absolute delight at your future husband, relieved beyond measure that he’d finally put her in her place. You were, however, disappointed that you didn’t get your chance to finally get revenge.

Later on, when the two of you lay in bed, his hand lazily tracing soothing circles against your back and chin tucked atop your head, he reinforced just how amazing you were, and that no Elena would change the fact that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. (Ah, and perhaps you discovered that this man had an…inclining to seeing you fight. Figures.)

#ffvii #final fantasy 7 #tseng imagines #tseng fanfiction #ffvii tseng #ff7 tseng #wowwwww i wrote a lot for this one #i loved writing this #the parts after the *** were added because of the request #since the request specifically asked for that #though it didnt go much w the flow

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the-master-cylinder · 4 years

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SUMMARY In 1893 London, popular writer Herbert George Wells displays a time machine to his skeptical dinner guests. After he explains how it works (including a “non-return key” that keeps the machine at the traveler’s destination and a “vaporizing equalizer” that keeps the traveler and machine on equal terms), police constables arrive at the house searching for Jack the Ripper. A bag with blood-stained gloves belonging to one of Herbert’s friends, a surgeon named John Leslie Stevenson, leads them to conclude that Stevenson might be the infamous killer. Wells races to his laboratory, but the time machine is gone.

Stevenson has escaped to the future, but because he does not have the “non-return” key, the machine automatically returns to 1893. Herbert uses it to pursue Stevenson to November 5, 1979, where the machine has ended up on display at a museum in San Francisco. He is deeply shocked by the future, having expected it to be an enlightened socialist utopia, only to find chaos in the form of airplanes, automobiles and a worldwide history of war, crime and bloodshed.

Reasoning that Stevenson would need to exchange his British money, Herbert asks about him at various banks. At the Chartered Bank of London, he meets liberated employee Amy Robbins, who says she had directed Stevenson to the Hyatt Regency hotel.

Confronted by his one-time friend Herbert, Stevenson confesses that he finds modern society to be pleasingly violent, stating: “Ninety years ago, I was a freak. Now… I’m an amateur.” Herbert demands he return to 1893 to face justice, but Stevenson instead attempts to wrestle the time machine’s key from him. Their struggle is interrupted by a maid and Stevenson flees, getting hit by a car during the frantic chase. Herbert follows him to the San Francisco General Hospital emergency room and mistakenly gets the impression that Stevenson has died from his injuries. Herbert meets up with Amy Robbins again and she initiates a romance. Stevenson returns to the bank to exchange more money. Suspecting that it was Amy who had led Herbert to him, he finds out where she lives. Herbert, hoping to convince her of the truth, takes a highly skeptical Amy three days into the future. Once there, she is aghast to see a newspaper headline revealing her own murder as the Ripper’s fifth victim.

Herbert persuades her that they must go back – it is their duty to attempt to prevent the fourth victim’s murder, then prevent Amy’s. However, they are delayed upon their return to the present and can do no more than phone the police. Stevenson kills again, and Herbert is arrested because of his knowledge of the killing. Amy is left alone, totally defenseless, and at the mercy of the “San Francisco Ripper”.

While Herbert unsuccessfully tries to convince the police of Amy’s peril, she attempts to hide from Stevenson. When the police finally do investigate her apartment, they find the dismembered body of a woman. Now aware of Herbert’s innocence, the police release a now-heartbroken Wells. However, he is contacted by Stevenson, who has actually killed Amy’s coworker (revealed to be the dead body in Amy’s apartment) and taken Amy hostage in order to extort the time machine key from Wells.

Stevenson flees with the key – and Amy as insurance – to attempt a permanent escape in the time machine. Using Amy’s car, Herbert follows them back to the museum. While Herbert bargains for Amy’s life, she is able to escape. As Stevenson starts up the time machine, Herbert removes the “vaporizing equalizer” from it, causing Stevenson to vanish while the machine does not. As Herbert had explained earlier, this causes the machine to remain in place while its passenger is sent traveling endlessly through time with no way to stop; in effect, he is destroyed.

Herbert proclaims that the time has come to return to his own time, in order to destroy a machine that he now knows is too dangerous for primitive mankind. Amy pleads with him to take her along. As they depart to the past, she jokes that she is changing her name to Susan B. Anthony. The film ends with the caption: “H.G. Wells married Amy Catherine Robbins, who died in 1927. As a writer, he anticipated Socialism, global war, space travel, and Women’s Liberation. He died in 1946.”

DEVELOPMENT Meyer first came to fame in 1974 for his best-selling Sherlock Holmes novel, The Seven-Per-Cent Solution. Two years later, he adapted his book for the Herbert Ross-directed film and earned an Oscar nomination for his screenplay. When the book was published, Meyer heard from a lot of people including Karl Alexander, whom he knew from his days at the University of Iowa. Alexander had started a book inspired by The Seven-Per-Cent Solution and wanted Meyer to read the 65 pages he had written revolving around Wells and Jack the Ripper time traveling.

Meyer loved the idea of H.G. Wells creating a real time machine and having Jack the Ripper and Wells using it. “That was back in the days when I had time to read other people’s stuff,” Meyer recalls. “I was fascinated by it. I had some thoughts. I gave him some notes about it. I thought I was putting it out of my mind and then realized as days and then weeks were going by, that it was an idea I really couldn’t let go.”

And he had one of this middle of the night brainstorms telling himself, “You’re an idiot! Why don’t you just option what he wrote?” Meyer gave Alexander the completed script and the novelist utilized the script to complete his novel Time After Time, which was published in April 1979. Meyer hooked up with producer Herb Jaffe. “When Universal had optioned The Seven-Per-Cent Solution book, they optioned it on condition that I write the screenplay,” Meyer says. “I just took the same idea and stepped it up one and said, ‘Yes, you can have the screenplay, but I have to direct the movie. Orion and Warner Bros. said yes more or less on the same day. They teamed up and split it, with Warner Bros. getting to distribute.”

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PRODUCTION Malcolm McDowell wasn’t Meyer’s first choice for Time After Time. He originally envisioning British actor Derek Jacobi — who was then enjoying acclaim for the British series I, Claudius — as the charming, bespectacled Wells. “I was looking for a non-muscle-bound, spandex-clad hero,” says Meyer, who made his feature directorial debut with Time After Time. “I was looking for somebody who was cerebrally endowed,” Meyer adds. “I wasn’t looking for a macho guy. I was willing to cast against type if I could. We now think of I, Claudius as a classic. But when I brought it up to Warner Bros., nobody had seen it. Nobody knew who he was.” It was one of his 3 a.m. brainstorms that led him to McDowell. “I remember sitting bolt upright [and thinking,] ‘Now, that’s a weird notion.'”

“When I raised the idea of him with Warner Bros., they said they knew who he was, but he always played the villain. I said, ‘Well, that’s what’s going to be so interesting. This is called acting. This time, he’ll play the hero.”’

Warner Bros. also was pushing for Mick Jagger to play Jack the Ripper. “I thought no one would lose themselves in the movie if Jagger were cast,” says Meyer. “We’d be watching Mick Jagger, not the Ripper.”

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McDowell was attracted to the material because he was looking for something different than the sex and violence in Caligula, in which he played the title character. While preparing to portray Wells, Malcolm McDowell obtained a copy of a 78 rpm recording of Wells speaking. McDowell was “absolutely horrified” to hear that Wells spoke in a high-pitched, squeaky voice with a pronounced Southeast London accent, which McDowell felt would have resulted in unintentional humor if he tried to mimic it for the film. McDowell abandoned any attempt to recreate Wells’s authentic speaking style and preferred a more dignified speaking style.

The cast all gave high marks to Meyer as a director. “I remember him saying — he did it in front of the whole crew — ‘Listen, you all know I haven’t directed a movie before,'” recalls David Warner. “‘So you know more about making movies than I do. I love movies. If there’s any suggestions or anything you see me doing that you think isn’t quite right, please tell me. Don’t be afraid to tell me.’ I really liked him for that. I really respected him. He didn’t pretend he knew everything, which is a very good quality, I think.”

H.G. Wells walks by a TV store. All you have to do is show television. It parodies itself All I had to do was light it and photograph it right.” H.G. Wells has stopped at a McDonalds to try to get some lunch. He watches the man ahead of him in line, a truck driver type, and listens as the man orders: Truck driver: “Gimme a Big Mac, an order of fries, and a small Coke to go, please.” Wells, imitating the trucker, orders next: “Gimme a Big Mac, an order of fries, an ” he finishes in his native clipped British: and tea, please.”

Time After Time really operates on five levels,” says Meyer. “It’s science fiction. It’s a thriller homicidal maniac being chased by a man of reason. It’s a romance Wells falls in love with a bank teller, and she’s the ultimate quarry of Jack the Ripper. It’s a comedy. And it’s an ironic social comment Wells decides he’s gone backward as much as he’s gone forward.

“The film’s jaundiced view is apolitical, H.G. finally says at the end, ‘Every age is the same. It’s only love that makes any of them bearable.”

“I hope I don’t sound pretentious or pompous when I say that our aims are somewhat more serious than the aims of most science fiction movies. More serious than what? Star Wars, for instance?

“No, no, Star Wars has a serious intent beyond its fireworks. It sought to recreate a mythology, of sorts. To me, Star Wars was King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table set in outer space. It worked, and it’s what makes that film so enchanting.

“Close Encounters also has a serious purpose, a very romantic idea that we are not alone.

“While I enjoyed Superman, I don’t think there was any real thematic purpose there. They flirted a little with the idea of Superman as Jesus Christ, but that was always there in the comic book.

“All three of those movies were finally and fundamentally supposed to reassure you. They all have positive, romantic themes Time After Time isn’t exactly a reaffirmation, but it does say that, well, that the Victorian era was as horrendous in its own way as this-” He gestures toward the editing screen where there’s a midtown San Francisco traffic jam. Meyer says to Donn Cambern, “Now I want this very noisy. We live in a noisy age.” – Nicholas Meyer

SPECIAL EFFECTS

Early Prototype Model

Finished Result

Richard Taylor, lately associated with Star Trek: The Motion Picture is in charge of those mysterious time-travel effects. This is the first time I’ve ever directed a movie, and believe me, I went for the easiest thing to do. I didn’t want to bite off a lot of miniatures, opticals, Special effects and so on.” The only effects portions of Time After Time are the passages through time, which Taylor has committed to film in self-contained scenes which were inserted bodily into Meyer’s live-action work. “If the film addresses itself to the science fiction community–if there is such a thing as a science-fiction community it will do so on a unique basis. The only film this bears even remote resemblance tots a film called Alphaville, which did influence me some. Time After Time does not present, fundamentally, a very optimistic look at today.

MUSIC SCORE Meyer got the legendary three-time Oscar winner (Ben-Hur, A Double Life, Spellbound) Miklos Rozsa to compose the lush, evocative score and dusted off the classic Max Steiner-penned “Fanfare” to play over the Warner Bros. logo.

“I thought to myself, ‘This movie should have a musical accompaniment that reflects the personality of the protagonist,'” recalls Meyer. “The protagonist is a 19th century person. So, I was thinking, obviously, not of a rock and roll score. When I started to think about composers who would fill the bill, I was also looking for someone who had a gift for the fantastic. I loved the Rozsa score for The Thief of Bagdad and thought, ‘Yeah, this might be a winning combination.'”

But his glorious score was almost scrapped. “By the time it came toward preview time and mixing the movie, we had heard that Warner Bros. didn’t like the film. They didn’t believe in the film. And one other thing we kept hearing was that they wanted Bill Conti (Rocky, The Right Stuff) to write another score for it.”

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Meyer told Jaffe that they should take an ad out in the Hollywood trade papers to announce how much they loved Rosza’s score. “Why don’t we write Mickey a letter telling him how great his score is and then publish the letter? Herb Jaffe’s comment was ‘You’re learning.’ We published the letter and then they really couldn’t take the score away.”

It was one of the last films scored by veteran composer Miklós Rózsa, who received the 1979 Saturn Award for Best Music.

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RELEASE/CONCLUSION Despite the preview response and generally getting positive reviews — THR critic and columnist Robert Osborne wrote at the time that “such a scrambling of fact, fiction and imagination in itself deserves back-patting and, for the most part, the rendering is as delightful as the basic idea” — audiences didn’t storm the theaters. The film made only $13 million at the box office (about $45 million today).

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“If they were an under confident before the screening, they became overconfident after the screening,” says Meyer. “They suddenly decided to open the movie really, really wide. They didn’t have the stars that would support that, and they weren’t giving it time for word of mouth to build. It was a success, it just wasn’t a huge success.”

McDowell believes the box office suffered at the time because advertising played up the Jack the Ripper storyline and not the love story. Earlier that year the grisly Holmes and Watson mystery thriller Murder by Decree had a Ripper plotline. “Our movie came out on the tail end of that, and nobody went to see that,” he speculates.

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Time After Time (1979) Pressbook & Posters

CAST/CREW Directed by Nicholas Meyer Produced by Herb Jaffe Screenplay by Nicholas Meyer Story by Steve Hayes Based on Time After Time 1979 novel by Karl Alexander

Malcolm McDowell as Herbert George Wells David Warner as John Leslie Stevenson/Jack the Ripper Mary Steenburgen as Amy Robbins Charles Cioffi as Police Lt. Mitchell Kent Williams as assistant Patti D’Arbanville as Shirley Joseph Maher as Adams

CREDITS/REFERENCES/SOURCES/BIBLIOGRAPHY hollywoodreporter Starburst#060 Cinefantastique v08n01 Starlog#031

Time After Time (1979) Retrospective SUMMARY In 1893 London, popular writer Herbert George Wells displays a time machine to his skeptical dinner guests.

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ashesofus · 5 years

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Success is Doing What You Love

The cornerstone of success in life is healthiness: that's the substratum fortune; it's likewise the cornerstone of happiness. An individual can't amass a fortune very well when he is sick. He has no ambition; no motivator; no force. Naturally, there are those who have unsound health and can't help it: you can't expect that such individuals may amass wealth, but there are a good many in poor health who need not be so.

Most successful individuals have something in common. They enjoy what they do. You won't discover wealthy and successful individuals that detest what they do.

Have A Look

Each of us is unparalleled, having particular talents and gifts. It's something innately built-in in all of us, a compounding of energy patterns leading toward a natural kinship for particular issues in life, particular ways of being. Among the most crucial jobs in your life is to discover these talents and gifts inside yourself, which is an acknowledgement of what you've brought into your creation.

Let's presume that you're presented a hammer without having any cognition of how to use this tool. Remain with me now – this is a stark over-simplification of a highly crucial aspect of your truth. You're presented nails but you utilize the incorrect end of the hammer. You can't see any success with achieving your task of beating in the nails. You've the tool but not the cognition of its correct use.

Likewise, how may we manage our lives without understanding the many tools usable and their applications? You may even have an instant of enlightened clarity. We may all relate to at last understanding something that had been messing us up. Wouldn’t it be nice if somebody had shared the essential info in advance – before going through frustration and maybe surrender?

Realizing your own strengths and talents is utterly crucial for any further steps you take in life. Putting them down ought to make them more real to you if you’re not used to thinking of them. If you understand your distinctive strengths and gifts you ought to be able to write them down in a couple of sentences without having to think too much about the procedure.If you're not certain, or you truly have no clue, here are a couple hints that will help you describe them:

Remember your childhood:

What were the playthings you liked to play with?

What were you intrigued with?

What did you like most to play?

What gifts did you want to get for your birthday and Christmas?

What did you aspire to become in your future?

Ask your nearest acquaintances:

Tell your acquaintances that you wish to reassess your talents and you need a realistic opinion from them. Make certain to ask your acquaintances to be 100% truthful with you. Let them take a new look at you and ask them to blank out what you're doing professionally – keep it on a personal plane.

What do your acquaintances believe you're good at?

What do they believe your talents are?

What do they urge you ought to do with your life?

Ask yourself a couple of questions

Take a notebook and read through these enquiries. Make certain you open your mind and let these questions solidify in your imagination. Don't take these queries too earnestly, play with them and likewise put down what bobs up spontaneously – these are occasionally the most fundamental answers.

These questions are configured to bring your consciousness out of the normal mentality. The most dependable solutions are always discovered outside the normal domain of thinking. Remember, your mind is part of the collective awareness; consequently you've access to all info. Your mind is connected to the infinite source of all cosmos.

What would you do if you possessed enough income not to work ever again?

What were your ambitions when you were younger?

What do you believe is impossible for you to accomplish?

What would you do if you acquired 5 million dollars?

What would you do if this was the crack of doom?

What would you do if you could not bomb?

What are your specialties and talents?

Do you have a want but don't know how to satisfy it?

What do you like most about other people?

What would your ideal life-style look like?

What does success mean for you?

What makes you truly happy?

What does a perfect day look like for you?

What would you do if there were no limitations?

What would you be esteemed and recognized for?

Where do you view your life in 10 years?

If you were immortal, what would you accomplish with your life?

What needs to shift to make this a better Earth?

What are you proud of?

What would you like to achieve this year?

What would you do differently if you could begin once again?

Discovering your strengths and talents is like first constructing the basement for your home. It's your foundation. It's like the dirt from which a solid and beautiful tree may grow. It supplies you with your unique potential. It's the unique endowment that came with you when you were born. You are being asked here to nurture it till it's substantial enough to guide you in your life.

Don't blow your time chasing somebody else's ambition or goal or anything that isn't given to you that you can't claim 1st as your own. Utilize the gifts you came in with or the ones you acquired along the way. You might become really good at something but you'll never discover true, lasting happiness with it if you can’t own it totally.

Utilize whatever tools you feel comfy with. Attempt to discover a way to dig deeper into yourself. This is your life – and you’re worth it! If good health is the cornerstone of success and happiness in life, how crucial it is that we ought to study the laws of wellness! And yet how many individuals there are who pay no attention to this, but absolutely breach it, even against their own innate inclination.

We should know that the “ignorance” is never bliss. A youngster might poke its finger into the fire without knowing it will burn, and so suffers. Many individuals knowingly violate the laws of nature against their better impulses, for the sake of style. For example, there's one thing that no one would ever naturally love, and that's tobacco; yet how many individuals there are who purposely train an unnatural appetite, and get to love it.

They have got hold of a poison; or rather it takes a firm hold of them. A perilous feature is that this artificial appetite, like jealousy, “develops by what it feeds upon;” when you love that which is unnatural, a heavier appetite is produced for the injurious thing than the natural desire for what is harmless. There's an old proverb which states that “habit is second nature,” but an artificial habit is firmer than nature.

Youth regrets that they're not grown; they would like to go to bed children and wake up adults; and to accomplish this they copy the foul habits of their elders. Little Mike sees his father or uncles smoke a pipe, and they say, “If I could only do that, I would be a grownup too; uncle John has left and left his pipe of tobacco, let me try it.”

He acquires a match and lights it, and then puff away. “I'll learn to smoke; but it tastes bitter; he thinks” later he grows pale, but he persists, sticks to it and perseveres till finally he conquers his natural appetite and becomes the victim of acquired tastes.

His palate has become narcotized by the harmful smoke. This shows what expensive, useless and harmful habits men will get into. I speak from experience. I've smoked till I trembled, the blood rushed to my head, and I had a quivering of the heart which I thought was a heart condition.

When I consulted my doctor, he said “stop using tobacco.” I wasn't only injuring my health and spending a lot of money, but I was setting a bad example. I obeyed his advice. These comments apply with tenfold force to the utilization of intoxicating drinks. To make revenue, calls for a clear brain.

A man has got to see that 2 and 2 make 4; he has to set all his plans with contemplation and caution, and closely examine all the details and the ins and outs of business. As no man may succeed in business unless he has a mind to enable him to set his plans, and reason to lead him in their execution, so, regardless how plentifully a man might be blessed with intelligence, if the mind is muddled, and his judgment distorted by intoxicating drinks, it's impossible for him to conduct business successfully.

How many great opportunities have passed, never to come back, while a man was sipping a “social glass,” with his acquaintance! How many dopey bargains have been made under the influence, which temporarily makes its victim believe he's rich? How many crucial chances have been postponed till tomorrow, and then eternally, as the wine has thrown the system into a state of lethargy, neutralizing the energies so crucial to success in business?

source http://www.forcesalign.com/success-is-doing-what-you-love/

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: Artworks from Two Museums Share a Space, But Not a Conversation

Installation view: 20/20: The Studio Museum in Harlem and Carnegie Museum of Art (all photos by Bryan Conley unless otherwise noted)

PITTSBURGH — On its face, the exhibition 20/20: The Studio Museum in Harlem and Carnegie Museum of Art, mounted in the latter museum’s galleries, is an astute idea: a group exhibition with works by 40 artists, half of which are selected from the collections of the Carnegie and the other half from the Studio Museum — all chosen to address the ideas and lived realities of identity and social inequality in the US. I was so down for this show when I heard about it, so much so that I could overlook the rather pedantic themes that organized it. These include: “A More Perfect Union,” containing works that discuss democracy in relation to identity; “Working Thought,” about the relation between the nation’s economy and the labor that underpins it; and “American Landscape,” which deals with perceptions of our constructed and inherited environments. Additionally, there are “Documenting Black Life,” “Shrine for the Spirit,” and “Forms of Resistance”— all somewhat useful themes except that in the words of Busta Rhymes, the work of the curators has already “put [their] hands where my eyes can see.” The work here is powerful and, by simply assembling it in a few interconnected rooms, I get a sense of what is at stake in the increasing social and economic inequity of our political reality.

Glenn Ligon, “Prisoner of Love #1 (Second Version)” (1992), oil and gesso on linen, Carnegie Museum of Art, Founders Patrons Day Acquisition Fund (image courtesy Regen Projects, Los Angeles, © Glenn Ligon)

On entering the first gallery, I encounter Glenn Ligon’s “Prisoner of Love #1 (Second Version)” (1992), a text painting in which the phrase “we are the ink that gives the white page a meaning” is repeated over and over and then begins to smudge and become muddy and illegible towards the bottom, as if in the repetition (because it is not heard the first time) the sentiment becomes part of the cultural noise that renders us all crying voices in a cacophonous wilderness — each of us keening with one another as our habitat shrinks and we are inched to oblivion. Zoe Strauss gets at the anger those of us feel who grew into adulthood under circumstances that impel us to see the social world as a mean, mercenary place consistently taking advantage of us, and that taught us to fight based not only on hatred of our place in this world, but hatred of ourselves as well. Her “If You Reading This, Philadelphia” shows how that hatred spills out and spreads everywhere.

But then there are more encouraging stories. For example, Barbara Chase-Riboud’s work, “The Cape (Le Manteau) or Cleopatra’s Cape” (1973), presents a large, metal mosaic robe, mounted on an armature with a fall of knotted rope spilling from its center down to the floor. The piece evokes an aristocratic dignity and self-regard. In dialogue with the exhibition’s themes, this sense of self is a premise upon which “a more perfect union,” may be formed; it is a way to see the body as a “shrine for the spirit,” and can mount “forms of resistance.” A sense of dignity is also wrapped up in Ben Jones’s work “Shrine for the Spirit” (1976), which takes that African diasporic body and makes it a ritualized set of components that are colorful, vibrant, and sacred. With his “Solon 6:12” (2000), Kori Newkirk takes color and makes it a sweeping curtain of beads that forms a lushly polychromatic landscape that is so deeply beautiful I wonder how he let it go from his studio.

Barbara Chase-Riboud, “The Cape (Le Manteau)” (1973), bronze, hemp rope, copper (Studio Museum in Harlem; gift of the Lannan Foundation, 1998, image courtesy of Michael Rosenfeld Gallery LLC, New York, NY, photo by Adam Reich)

Among my other favorite pieces is Lorna Simpson’s “Dividing Lines” (1989) that makes the black figure an enigmatic presence, which aphoristic language seeks to corral and define. Phrases surrounding photographic images of a black woman in a white dress, with her back to the viewer, include: “line one’s pocket; same ol’ line; out of line.” But Simpson’s women are implacable; they stay turned from the viewer, not seeking dialogue (especially not in the impoverished terms of hackneyed cliché) but self-direction. Additionally, Meleko Mokgosi’s “Walls of Casbah” (2010–2012) show the real power of critique by adding his handwritten marginalia to museum captions: his more intimate and comprehensive knowledge supersedes the erudition of the museum professional who is clearly shown to write from a blinkered perspective.

The show is laid out with a good selection of artworks; the lighting is muted but appropriate. Yet I left the show each time (I saw it twice in two days) feeling empty. I often had a similar feeling walking the Whitney Museum when it was in its former uptown location, seeing painting after painting placed to tell a story of the development of contemporary American art. Here, it feels like this is intended to be a story of the evolution of political consciousness, with work forced into the role of illustrative icon. The works don’t mesh and get messy; they don’t gather and exchange anecdotes; they don’t speak over each other creating a busy, enlightening conversation — they don’t. They dwell in their own demarcated plots of land and point beyond themselves. There is a sterility to this show that is underpinned by an uninspired curation.

Installation view: 20/20: The Studio Museum in Harlem and Carnegie Museum of Art with Kori Newkirk’s “Solon 6:12” (2000) visible to the left

Likely, most people reading this review are aware of the pernicious effects of the white cube, how it makes most things placed in it the beatified art object. There is a wall adjacent to the gallery advertising the exhibition. The best indication of what this exhibition might have otherwise been can be seen in the lead image of this review, which shows a wall adjacent to the gallery advertising the works in the show. They are displayed salon style, their meanings made more resonant by their close proximity — which feels like the true spirit of this show. Or it could have been, if that spirit had been nurtured and given room to grow.

Pope L “White People Are Angles on Fire” (2004) (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

But there is a juxtaposition in the exhibition that saves me from the disappointment I’m left with, where Pope L. has interjected one of his text pieces. Most of these pieces by Pope L. are displayed in the entranceways between galleries, and they felt too editorial for me, like comments in the comment section of an online article. But here he puts the text up against the glass partition between this show and the adjacent gallery full of (white) marble figurative statuaries from antiquity that now call to mind Sarah Bond’s trenchant critique of the idea that this work devoid of color is too often taken to represent Western civilization. It reads “white people are angles on fire.” Right below the sign, one can see that group of alabaster bodies, suggesting the classical ideal they represent. I can’t tell if this is due to the curation or the artist’s insistence, but either way, it’s insightful and pointed, and shows the potential for contemporary work to bring deeper awareness to its own physical context and thus exist in dialogue rather than a pretend solipsism.

I do think this exhibition is a great idea and needs to happen more often, but I wish it would be engined by a sense of what work can do when it is not rendered a lone voice, but sings with a partner, or joins a chorus.

20/20: The Studio Museum in Harlem and Carnegie Museum of Art continues at the Carnegie Museum of Art (4400 Forbes Avenue, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania) through December 31.

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