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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

OH GOD YOUR REQS R OPEN, i would rlly like to request something, could you write an one shot of price with a little daugther reader? just like, him coming home and spending some time with his little girl, she tells him about her school, he tells her some funny stories that happened while he was at work, he cooks her favorite meal, just a big fluff, i love this man more than anything and i just need some paternal love LMAO, feel totally free to deny! do everything in your time and remember to take good care of urself!

Memories of Youth

Pairing: Father!John Price x F!Daughter!Reader

Synopsis: It was hard being away from his little girl, but warm mornings spent in each other's company were blessings - even if they were far and few in between. It didn't matter the form.

Word Count: 4.5k (short and sweet)

Warnings: Angst (just a little cuz I can't help myself), a lotta fluff, banter, just good platonic/paternal relationship in general, etc.

A/N: Didn't specify if the reader was adopted or blood-related, so that's really up to you! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

He got the call at the halfway point of crossing the English Channel, Northern France behind him and Southern England just on the horizon line as the sun began to spread its orange glow over the waves. Sitting high above the water in a slick black Heli, John Price’s hand snaps to his side pocket, fingers deftly peeling back the layers as the overwhelming sound of helicopter blades shakes the hull.

The rest of Task Force 141 watch with varying interest, only Gaz taking notice of the sudden frown that mars his Captain’s face; the furrowed brow, and the spark of concern in his eyes. A call was unusual. The Sargeant tries not to intrude, but can’t help the way his body lightly shifts so he can have a better view.

John doesn't bother to look at the contact when he takes the device out, rapidly pressing the answer button and slotting the phone at his ear, tilting his head so his opposite rests at the junction of his shoulder. It only stops a fraction of the noise, even so, it would have to do for now. But with how his ears were already straining to find a sound over the line, he may not need to force out the jarring racket after all.

Inside his chest, John’s heart is racing – confusion laces his mind. This was abnormal.

I told her only to call if it was an emergency. What could she have gotten herself into now? I said to stay out of trouble…

“Where are you?!” The Brit has to shout down the line, his familiar deep accent loud and guttural.

His mind flies through every possibility. An intruder had broken into the house, you had broken your arm falling down the stairs again, or a fire had broken out in the kitchen. Fuck…he was too far away to help if anything bad had happened. John’s jaw clenches, eyes looking out over the water as the bucket hat on his head flops in the wind. It was only a product of his job that made him think like that; years of intuition and thinking on the fly leading to his mind making up the worst scenarios.

Especially when you called on a secure line when he told you it was only appropriate for life-and-death situations. Especially when it was his little girl.

I told ‘er about the Pistol in my office, yeah? The Captain asks himself with a steel-like resolve. And gave her Laswell’s number?

John’s fingers tighten over the phone when he hears your breath over the line, a shuffling of clothes, and a deep exhale.

“Sunshine!” He tries again, sitting up straighter as his pulse gets faster. Why isn’t she answering me? “Where are you right–”

“We don’t have anything for breakfast.” Your voice is heavy with sleep; fatigue drowning the syllables and holding them under the very waves that rage under John only separated by thin sheets of metal.

The Brit stops. His body freezes, and as the tense minutes go by his panic falls away and leaves a thick stain of annoyance resting behind his eyelids. Of course. John brings two fingers to his nose bridge, digging into the skin until tiny crescent moons are left behind; he has to take a deep breath before answering, but his tone leaves nothing to the imagination.

“...Breakfast…?”

“Yeah, Old Man, you need me to spell it for you? B-R-E-A-K-F-A–”

“Enough!” John barks stiffly and has to hold back his anger as you laugh from the other side. Ever the jokester – did you not realize how serious this was? How fast your father’s heart was racing with adrenaline?

Fuck, he had just about been ready to radio the cockpit and force the pilots to fly faster.

Across the way, Ghost locks eyes with the man, and with a tilt of his head and a loud call he asks, “That the Mutt?”

The Captain’s eyes slip back into a firm blank slate.

“Affirm.” John tilts the phone away from his mouth, ignoring your sarcastic comments to catch his sanity for a moment and respond to his Lieutenant.

Simon blinks as Johnny perks up at his side, looking in from the view in favor of the Captain with newfound interest. A bright smile forms over his scruffy cheeks

“She all good?” The skeletal man asks, and Gaz smirks lazily tapping his fingers over his knee, immediately noticing your shenanigans and the way the Cap was so worked up.

But anyone would be when they had a daughter thousands of miles away.

John simply nods once with an exasperated expression to Ghost. MacTavish snorts out a laugh, knowing the context of the situation without having to think hard.

“Is that Uncle Simon?” You ask, and with a scratch at his beard, your father hums in confirmation, letting the sound of your voice put him more at ease. She’s just fine. “Tell him I want him to come over and play Mario Cart with Gaz, Johnny, and me again! He wiped the floor with ‘em last time!”

There’s a clinking of pots and pans as you move throughout the house.

“Sweetheart,” Your father grumbles, sighing through the call. His voice takes on the authoritative tone that works for both soldiers and teenagers – but it rarely works on you, despite that fact. Took after your dad too much, is what John would say. Never listened until it was absolutely necessary. “What did I tell you about callin’ this phone when I’m away from the house?”

He hears your scoff and raises a warning eyebrow, though you can’t see it. You know your dad enough to know he’s doing it despite being separated. It was pretty common.

“Not to, unless it’s an emergency…But I’d say food is a big enough reason, y’know? Unless you want me to eat the leftover cake for breakfast – which I haven’t thrown out as a possibility yet, honestly.”

“You’re not eatin’ bloody cake for breakfast. You’ll get sick.” Gaz snickers, turning his face away to hide the amusement at the comment.

It hadn’t been a surprise that the Captain’s daughter was such a familiar creature – they saw traits reflected every time the two were together. Everyone had expected her to take after her old man in nearly everything, and when she had they had bumped fists and prayed for the brown-bearded man. But it was funny nonetheless, considering they got along better than most fathers and daughters; practically reading each other's minds when everyone was playing poker. Johnny was still pretty ticked off about that – he’s a good deal deep into the sweets debt he owes you because Price helps you win. But where they really shined was with the shared deadpan attitudes, bottom-of-the-barrel sarcasm, and knowing how to command a room without even trying. Safe to assume that the rest of the team would do anything for you.

“Will not.” You grumble in retaliation, and John’s lips threaten to tilt into a grumpy smile when he hears you put the cake plate back into the counter.

Letting the tension fall from his shoulders, the brown-haired man takes a glance outside, watching the waves go bright orange as they lap and writhe like great sea serpents.

“How long have you been up, eh? The sun’s barely risen. Thought Sunday was when you always slept in?”

There’s a pause in what John believed were fingers digging through a cupboard, and he narrows his eyes in confusion as the silence grows long. He frowns when you speak again, words so quiet he has to place a hand over his other ear to hear properly. Having half a mind to go and tell the pilots to hurry up and go faster so he can just talk to his little girl in person, he refrains, knowing that’s not how this works. But something was wrong – it had been laced in your previous words, as tiny and unnoticeable as it may have been. Only a father would notice it.

“You said you were gonna be home last night. I stayed up.” It takes a moment of halted breathing before John’s eyes widen, blues full of realization.

Oh.

…Damn it. He lets out the tense breath of air from his lips, shifting in his seat as the gear around his body weighs him down. His gun digs into his chest.

He hadn't seen you for over a week – leaving you in the care of a close and trusted neighbor, Mrs. Lilly, just as he always had when he needed to leave for work on short notice. But seeing as you were older now, it became apparent that, with your learned independence, staying at the house by yourself was alright as long as you checked in with the neighbor every morning and night. You had been waiting for him to come home. All alone. In the dark.

Fucken’ hell, John thinks in a deep layer of guilt as wrinkles overtake his forehead, I did tell her I’d be back yesterday. I forgot to call and tell ‘er. Shit! He didn’t want to imagine the stress that had been put on your shoulders. God, what’ve I done?

Not checking in was something he had never missed before – he always told you when he was about to come back. What had gone wrong this time? How had something that important just slipped his mind? Sure the Op had been tedious, but he was trained to handle it. It was no excuse.

“Sweetheart,” John starts and then pauses the soft and gentle endearment, knowing that an apology didn’t fit into what you were looking for. You didn’t want an ‘I’m sorry’ right now, you wanted your father. Flattening his lips into a line, he continues, wishing he was with you more than ever so he can press a kiss to your forehead. “...I should be back before 1200. How about when I get back I’ll cook you up somethin’ myself, yeah? Or we can go to that Cafe you like down on Newman Street and I’ll get you whatever you want.”

“...When do you have to go back?” You don’t answer his question, and yours makes his heart hurt.

John clears his throat.

“None of that, now. We’ll talk more when I get back, Darling, alright?” You don’t respond, but he hears you sigh and quietly scoff under your breath. “Alright?” He tries again, head tilting forward and eyebrows rising as if you could see him. Maybe you could.

“Fine. But you better make me pancakes. I don’t care if it’ll be noon.”

“Pancakes it is.” The Captain looks up in time to see Johnny mouthing words to him, and with a blank face and stiff lip, your father mutters with a grunt, “Johnny says ‘hello.’”

Your shocked snort makes him feel better, but a layer of guilt still stays. You were awake all night waiting for him, and he never showed up. Did you sleep on the couch? Damnit, he hoped you didn’t…but in his rattling chest knew you had. He found you like that every time he came back from a long stay away. Huddled under blankets, no pillow under your head. Sometimes you steal one of his shirts and hold it like a stuffed bear to your chest, shoving your face into it.

How could I forget to fucken’ call her?

Your voice takes him out of his growing self-resentment.

“Tell him to watch his back – I’m getting better at Rainbow Road. Soon enough I’ll be able to beat him in a 1V1!” John can’t help the slow chuckle that bounces in his throat, mind, for the moment, at ease as long as you continue to speak to him.

“I’ll be sure to pass it along. But, eh,” The Brit makes sure he speaks slowly, letting you hear every syllable of his next words. “Promise me you’ll stay at the house until I get there. No goin’ out with friends, yeah? You know how I worry.” John ignores the teasing look from Gaz and peeks out again to see how close they were to the mainland with narrowed lids. “‘Specially when I’m not there.”

Getting back to the Base wasn’t the problem, it was the damn reports coming in that would wring his neck before he could get out the door. But he’d push it off for however long he could; call in favors from Laswell to get him more time with his little girl so he can fix his mistake. As a dad, the only thing that counted was seeing his daughter after a seemingly unending Op that he didn’t want to relive. The hardest part wasn’t the blood or the guts – it was being away from you. Nothing would ever change that, even if he was the one on the ground gritting his teeth at the bite of a bullet.

“Scout’s honor, Old Man.” The happiness in your voice makes him smile to himself.

“Stop calling me that, Muppet.” John grumbles affectionately, rolling his eyes, “I’ll give you a call when back I’m in town, Sunshine. Make sure the door’s locked–”

“--Locked, the windows too, plus, if someone knocks on the door I need to look through the peephole and if I don’t recognize them don’t open it…Am I missing anything?”

“Mind yourself, now you’re just being cheeky, you are.” John teases, scoffing, but proud that you remembered his rules. It made all of this just a bit more manageable.

“Who do you think I got it from?” You laugh, but it tapers off sullenly, “Just…get home safe, okay, Dad?”

John’s beard pulls back into a soft close-lipped grin, eyes crinkling as his heart warms. He so desperately wanted to ruffle your hair.

“Of course, Hun. But, eh, take a nap. It’s still early, and I know you’ve got schoolwork to do later. You sound like you’re about to keel over where you stand.” You scoff before agreeing with a muttered grumble, most likely already stumbling to the living room couch, and then the line goes silent and is replaced once more by the whirring of the helicopter blades.

The man peels back the phone and pockets it, hand unconsciously brushing his breast pouch where a picture of the two of you always sits. It was a baby picture, with your little form held in his grip delicately; looking down at you with soft eyes and an easy smile on his lips that always formed when he was with you. From under a soft blanket, your tiny hand reaches out to try and brush his stubbily cheek.

It never failed to bring him ease when he realized the photo was there. A reminder that if everything else in his life went horribly wrong, you would still be looking up at him with those eyes of yours. At the very least, he had managed to do one thing right.

“She’ll be fine. She’s a good kid.” Gaz calls at him, and John spares him a glance out of the side of his eye with a raised brow.

“I know she is. I’m the one who raised her.”

—

You remember eating a piece of toast before you made your way over to the couch, throwing your phone to the coffee table haphazardly before tossing yourself onto the cushions. Still in your pajamas, you can’t find it in you to go and grab the homework in your backpack this early. The sun had only just risen, and the bags under your eyes reminded you how late you stayed up last night.

But your father had never shown up.

Frantic was too light a word to describe the feeling you had when your eyelids had peeled back to the empty living room and the TV still playing. It had been second nature to snatch your phone and call the secure line – half of you had said it was better to call Laswell, just in case, but your adolescent brain had wanted nothing more than to hear your father’s voice.

He would make it better. But you needed to hear his voice.

Dad, you remembered pleading to yourself as the sound of the dial tone echoed in your ear, please answer the phone. Please. Answer the fucking phone.

Your heart was pounding; hands shaking. He never just didn’t show up when he said he was going to. Never. Your dad was punctual – always on time no matter what – and he had ingrained the same sentiment in you as well.

When his deep voice finally bounced in your eardrums you nearly started to cry, missing the first hurried and concern-filled inquiry of where you were. Hearing his voice put you at ease, and after a week of missing your father’s strong presence and his warm hugs, it was hard not to take a shaky inhale when he seemed so close.

You just wanted him home; you wanted him to make you pancakes and help you with your schoolwork. You wanted him to read a book to you on this couch like you were a toddler again while his old record player was on in the background.

It was childish, getting so worked up about it, but your dad meant the world to you. Not having him here felt wrong.

Sighing, you rub at your eyes and revel in the darkness before letting out a strained yawn, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and pulling it over your body. It didn’t take long before your eyes were flickering shut, a calm quiet settling over the house as cars passed by outside in the street. You pull the blanket closer and breathe, inhaling pine needles and ash.

You don’t know how long you were there, twitching in your sleep before the scent woke you up – it makes your nose scrunch, eyelids blinking away fuzz. There was a pillow under your head, the blanket wrapped tight around your neck to keep out the London chill, and a clanking of pans in the kitchen. Scraping spatula over cast iron, you knew, the sizzling of batter.

The haze of that in-between state, sleep and consciousness fighting in the back of your skull and under your hairline, stays even as you try to force it away. It was like a wave – it constantly pulled you under when you thought you were getting to the surface. Your eyes would blink open and closed; comforted back into sleep by the deep humming, the waver of an old record player. Feet over hardwood and the smell of fresh pancakes.

Dad’s home.

A delirious smile slides over your sleep-hot face. That was why you were so content. This was what home sounded and smelled like.

Dad’s home. You repeat it once more, nuzzling farther into your father's travel pillow he brings to and from Base. Pine needles. Ash. Cigar smoke.

Dad’s home! Your eyes snap open wildly, your body shooting up from the cushions as the blanket falls to the floor. Angling your head to the separated kitchen, you swipe the drool from your mouth with a heavy hand and listen.

Your dreams had tricked you before, but no. Not this time.

He was humming along to some old tune under his breath that mirrored the record player behind the couch; the antique turned low so it wouldn’t wake you. Blinking in shock, your mouth morphs into a rich smile instantaneously.

Throwing yourself off the couch, your feet slam to the floor, rushing and almost tripping over the blanket on the floor as your body slants forward. Giggling, you push on, righting yourself with no second thought other than welcoming your dad home the same as you always did. Zipping around the corner, a shadow is already turning your way, a plate of pancakes ready to be put on the table and devoured.

“Dad!” You yell loudly and launch yourself at him, hearing his chest let out a grunt and his hands splay around you so he won’t drop breakfast food all over the floor.

A velvety chuckle is wrung from his body, and his free digits go to rest heavily on your head as you shove yourself into his hold. Gripping his shirt tight between your fingers, you try not to cry when that scent that had been fading from the house comes back tenfold. Your eyes burn, but you only let one tear out when your dad’s finger begins stroking your hair just like he did when you were little.

You had been so worried.

“There’s my girl,” His voice whispers out, “I’m here, Sunshine. Easy now.”

“I thought you died,” You can’t help the helpless gasp that rips from you. Your father’s hand freezes; body going rigid around your smaller, desperately grasping frame. The atmosphere of the room flips. Digging into the fabric of his shirt the full flood of tears finally comes forward. “W-when I woke up and you weren’t here I… I thought you were never coming back home, and that I would have to go and live with the neighbors and I’d have to bury you in the cemetery. I don’t-don’t wanna have to put you in the ground.” You’re rambling, but you can’t stop the words. “I don’t want you to leave me alone, Dad. Please don’t leave me alone.”

At some point, the plate of pancakes had been tossed to the counter without care for if the porcelain cracked from the force, and both of your father's arms hand scooped you into his hold effortlessly. Your breath was hiccuping violently, tears making his shirt wet and sticking to his skin.

But John didn’t care.

He wrapped his arms around you and curled his body in, taking you into a hold so warm and tight you couldn’t leave it even if you tried.

What’ve I done? The man feels his lips tense, blinking down at your shaking body with guilt as you sob. Oh, my Little Girl, I’m so sorry. What’ve I done to you?

Had he never noticed the toll that this job was taking on you? John asked himself this in disgust as he pressed his lips to the crown of your head, whispering words into your hair under his shaky breath. He hated when you cried because of him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Love, alright? Look at me.” You don’t move your bruising grip, face still held away from sight as you gasp down frantic breaths. John’s voice gets firmer, “Sweetheart, I need you to look at me, yeah?”

Your tight fingers stutter, and your head barely shifts to the side, one red eye peeking up as he looks down at you with all the love he can muster without looking incredibly broken. He never wanted to see you cry again but knew that would be an impossible feat to accomplish – but he’d do his damndest to try.

“There she is.” John’s hand goes to your cheek, brushing away the saltwater with a calloused thumb as you sniffle. “Just keep those eyes on me, Little One.”

“...M’ not little anymore.” You grumble out, your cheeks heating even as your pulse slows as you focus on your dad's eyes. So soft the edges were nearly liquid; water that held your attention as they lapped across your form.

“To me, you’ll always be little. Can’t change that I’m afraid.” The man grunts out, tilting his head down at you and letting his eyes travel from concern to comfort. But that doesn’t change the present.

“I’m so sorry, Love,” Your father mutters, eyes flickering away from yours in guilt so rarely shown to others. He always prided himself on being strong, you knew, bearing the brunt of the weight. Apologies weren’t often verbally said until it truly mattered. “I should have called you. That’s all on me, that is. Bloody stupid to forget about, knowin’ how you wait up for me.”

Your lips thin to mimic your dad's, brows pulling close. But in your chest, your heart couldn’t be larger. You didn’t hold it against him, but you wished he could be here more often; not put himself in dangerous situations. Knowing as little as you did about your dad's actual job, you still knew it wasn’t entirely safe.

Maybe the two of you protected each other from the things unseen.

Your chest aches.

“...You’re funny lookin’ when you have to apologize. Like a kicked bear.” Pulling back your lips, a tiny smile lighting your face, and you look up at your dad with a sniffle in your nose.

His visage snaps to yours, eyebrows going high on his head in surprise, and hooded blue eyes widening. It takes a moment, but a smirk pushes back his beard when he sees the tears have stopped falling.

“Yeah?” John asks you, a grumble reverberating in his chest, “Now, y’know, that is just bloody rude, Sunshine. Thought I raised you better…And after I made you pancakes.”

Laughing, you pull back, stomach rumbling and nose twitching at the prospect of the nearly forgotten food. Slithering past your father, you snatch the plate and fork before rushing into the living room. Jumping on the couch you begin to cut into the carbs, piling pieces into your mouth and smiling at the taste. No one else could make them as your dad could.

The Brit comes not seconds later, a cup of tea held in his hand before he sits down next to you with a groan, stretching out and laying his socked feet on the coffee table next to your tossed phone from hours earlier. You giggle, suddenly leaning to his large frame and hearing him grunt in retaliation.

“Tell me a funny story,” You demand, listening to him sip his drink in the mid-morning glow that spreads outside the house and leaks in through the opened curtains. Birds sing outside, heard from the street.

Your dad hums, his beard tickling your scalp as he leans into you in turn, making you chuckle before he nuzzles against you kissing your head; leading to a larger exclamation of glee before you elbow his gut.

He laughs and answers with a smile in his voice.

“Hm, did I tell you ‘bout the time Gaz fell out of the Heli?”

You laugh, eating the rest of the pancake remnants; feeling incredibly happy and warm. There were many memories you loved of your dad and his recounting of stories fit many of them. He always kept out the gory bits – promising himself that he would never lead you down that path no matter what – and always opted for the many downright hilarious situations the rest of the 141 always seemed to get into.

“Yes, but tell me again. It’s funny, especially when you describe his face afterward! Like he–”

“Like he had shit his pants and didn’t want to tell me,” John chuckles, eyes squinted, looking down at you as you snuggle into his side. He wraps an arm over your shoulders, taking your empty plate with one hand and putting it on the side table before pulling you close and making sure his tea won’t spill. He feels your tiny, bird-like, heartbeat on his ribcage and knows that nothing could ever take you away from him. You would always be his little girl. “Yeah, Love, I remember that one. Now, let me start from the beginning…”

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saintsenara · 24 days

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One thing that confuses me about the Dursleys is how they're supposed to be a parody of the British middle class, but isn't Vernon like director/chief of a company? Like, he owns a business and it doesn't seem to be a failing one so wouldn't they be more accurately described as upper class? Maybe it's just me who's dumb but it's something that really confuses me lol

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

the dursleys would never be thought of as upper-class, because that implies a certain aristocratic or gentry connection which they evidently don't have.

the most they could be is upper-middle-class - which is one of those fun british class-brackets which has a very specific "look" in the wider cultural imagination, and which defines itself as something vastly different from being middle-middle-class or lower-middle-class in terms of its vibe.

which is to say, this intra-class division isn't really financial [although that is a factor - just not the only one] so much as it's based in performance. how one changes social class [which is possible, these class divisions aren't immutable] isn't by becoming rich, it's by learning how to perform. mundungus fletcher, for example, could be a billionaire, but the way he presents himself to the world would still read as working-class. the teenage voldemort has nothing in his bank account, but he behaves in a way which is indistinguishable from his posh pureblood friends.

the dursleys' class performance - the way they dress and speak, the way they behave, their attitude towards their possessions [such as vernon's pride in his car], the places they want to go on holiday - indicates a bang-in-the-middle vibe, simultaneously aspirational to someone like petunia [who grew up below it] and hilariously unimpressive to someone like james potter [who grew up above it].

the best illustration of this is to compare them to the grangers, who are clearly upper-middle-class. the financial difference is negligible - vernon, as a company director, could feasibly be on a salary which was in the same ballpark [or which potentially even exceeded] what a dentist who only or mainly took private clients [which is the case for many dentists in the uk] could expect to earn - but their performance of class is totally different.

the grangers go skiing and spend their summers in the south of france; the dursleys' ideal holiday destination is majorca - which, while this is very unfair to a lovely bit of spain and the lovely people who live there, is used by jkr because it has that sort of middle-tier association in the british cultural imagination [posher than going to the costa del sol, rougher than staying in a converted farmhouse in cantabria]. the grangers name their daughter "hermione" - which, whether they get it from greek or from shakespeare, is a statement of their class performance - while the dursleys name their son "dudley" - which is the same.

and - of course - the grangers are dentists, which means they went to university. vernon makes drills - but is not an actual builder; which, while a blue collar job which would be understood as working-class, is also understood as something authentic - and clearly did not.

the interesting thing about the dursleys' class-status, though, is that vernon seems to have gone down from a childhood which was upper-middle-class. not in the same way as the grangers - apparently city-based, europhile, undoubtedly voted for tony blair in 1997 - are upper-middle-class, but in a way specifically associated with posh people who live in the country - whose poshness is considered to be more parochial and more politically conservative.

marge dursley - with her tweed and her bulldogs and her brusque manners - is a perfect stereotypical example of this. so too is smeltings, the fee-paying boarding school which both vernon and dudley attend - it wouldn't be unusual within the dursleys' class-bracket for dudley to be privately educated, but it is unusual for this to be at a school with the vibe that smeltings [whose uniform, for example, is so obviously based on that of schools like eton and harrow] has.

it's really interesting to think about why vernon might have ended up shuffling down to the middle of the middle, especially because there are plenty of careers for a man from that country-posh bracket which would retain his class-status without requiring a university education - above all, going into the army. that he doesn't do this - that he becomes a managing director, a job which has financial but not cultural cachet as an upper-middle-class signifier [if you care about these things - which i do not] - has a certain degree of deliberate choice behind it.

and this provides a fascinating comparison with petunia - who was clearly raised working-class and has ascended into the middle through performance, and who then becomes desperate to retain her status by continuing to perform "correctly". vernon also lives behind a mask, which also depends on the correct performance of a class-bracket which he wasn't born into, even if his class journey is one of descent.

vernon and petunia's fear of magic relates to this - they're both terrified that the neighbours will learn, if they discover the existence of magic, that they're not as bang-in-the-middle normal as they claim to be.

and this is fundamentally because magic is something eccentric and strange. and eccentricity [especially in dress and manners - the thing that vernon hates about wizards] is read as either a sign that someone is very posh or a sign that they are very much not.

but not as something in between.

#asks answered #asenora meta #surprise! it's the class system!

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fraugwinska · 17 days

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I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE YOUR WRITING!!!

May I pretty please request Alastor’s wifey as like a Cheshire Cat?

Perhaps in her living life she led people to their deaths, as it’s sometimes interpreted as a guide. Then later on teamed up with Al and led victims to him?

I just like the idea of an unsettling smiley couple. That and Mad Hatter by Melanie Martinez has been on loop in my brain LOL

Anonymous, you beautiful bastard. You waited so patiently, but I do think it's worth it... I couldn't stop writing this!!! I had so much fun, I cannot tell you. And I will revisit this pair soon, because I can't get over how AMAZING they are! <3 Edit 14-05-24: This will be a mini-series! :D Let's see how many parts we get out of this one!

TW: Graphic depitions of violence and murder, mention of war, gore Minors DNI - Mature content - Adults only!

"Mon amour, can we go out tonight?"

You pulled the last strand of hair from the curling iron, scanning your work for any messy imperfection. Alastor, engrossed in a book, looked up at you, matching your sinister smile with his curious one.

"Oh? Bored already, darling? We went to Mimzy's only yesterday."

"Not that, silly." You walked over to him, setting the hot curling iron on a cool section of his dresser. You sat down, straddling him. Your hands folded behind his back, leaning in.

"I was just thinking that our last game has been a while, hasn't it?"

His eyes widened a bit, smile curling a bit higher. He set the book down on the side table and wrapped his arms around you, long, sharp fingers pressing into your waist with excited anticipation. You tilted your head, looking up at him.

"Well, we have been awfully busy lately with the hotel. I suppose it's high time we should find something to reward us for all our hard work, my darling!"

You nodded, giggling, and rubbed your nose against your husband's. The two of you always got excited when your interests lined up and plans of your games became more elaborate. It was how you met, after all.

Not even two months after your fall, you were well established in the capitol of the pride ring. Quickly adapting to your feline form and with wit and a good heap of charisma you landed a job at the overlord Zestial's newspaper agency, working your way up quickly to editor. Hell wasn't a scary place for you, at all. The world you came from had been the real hell.

When the germans invaded France, you knew your little village in the Somme valley would be the first they would take, and then Paris would be next. Your brothers and father were already dead. You had heard of the horrors the german soldiers were bringing upon the women and children of the countries they captured, which made the will of protecting your sister and mother even stronger. But you had always been a fighter, and you possessed the most unusual but useful weapons a woman could possess: beauty, cleverness and ruthlessness.

They had been such easy victims - young soldiers, craving a good pussy after being away from home for so long - you seduced them with laughable ease and your signature smile and lured them into the woods, where you'd kill them, your smile never falling as your knife would hit the lifeless body again and again. Sometimes, you'd get so many killings in one night you had to burn the clothes you wore because the blood would've stained them through. They would all be thrown in the Somme, where they'd be swallowed by the waters, never to be seen again. You didn't even care what the punishment would be once the war was over. All you cared about was to avenge the lost and protect the remaining members of your family and if killing the enemy was the way, you'd do it gladly and with as much pleasure as you could. You had disposed of about 40 bodies in the river before they caught you, red handed, the knife still in your victims crotch. They had been too cowardly to shoot you then and there. Instead, they had dragged you back to the town, tied your hands behind your back and forced you to kneel in front of the town square, your mother and sister watching you along the horrified villagers, and you watched them, as they were made to witness them put a bullet straight through your heart.

"On se voit en enfer, putains de salauds."

And then, you woke up. In Hell, naked, confused, hungry, angry. But not scared. Never scared. You were still you. And your smile never faded.

A lot of people were too weirded out by the constant smile on your face, that's when you first heard of Alastor. The radio demon, rising star of hell's overlords. Everyone feared him, and his smile. You didn't, and that's what made him approach you when you saw him at a party you had been invited to by one of Zestial's acquaintances, Rosie.

He was drawn to your smile, just as much as you were drawn to his. When he spoke, your ears twitched in excitement, as if listening to the greatest song in the world. He was unbelievably interesting, charming up to a point where you couldn't help but feel drawn to him, and his voice - Oh, doux comme un ange et vif comme le diable. You didn't want to, didn't expect it at all, but your heart did a jump the moment his hand touched yours when he asked you to dance.

"Your smile never falters, darling. I can't help but wonder why?"

You giggled, a gloved hand covering your mouth as he turned you, crimson glowing eyes never leaving yours.

"I don't know, really. My papan used to tell me that it was the only thing I had going for me, and it's what made silly soliders so easy to kill."

You could feel the air around him tense and shift, his grin widening at your words as he turned you in again.

"Ah, a lady after my own heart. I can appreciate a woman who knows how to have fun."

You didn't say anything to his comment, just smiled, and he pulled you closer.

"Why don't we have a little fun of our own? I have the right mind for a little game, if you're up to it, darling?"

It took the both of you only a few more minutes to decide to leave the party. It was the night of your first game. Your first kill. And your first kiss. You loved to retell the story of how you two met to everyone who'd ask. You didn't mind, not even when they were uncomfortable. They weren't used to the idea of two people like you, the serial killers, finding love with each other that none of you sought out. It was a genuine love that was born in a way that could only happen in hell, and yet, you felt that it was the truest and best love you had ever felt. It was the first time in forever you could remember your cheeks actually hurt from smiling.

Alastor stood up, lifting you from his lap with an ease that was effortless to him, and twirled you around.

"Well, then, why don't we go paint the town red?"

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck as he lowered you, placing a kiss on your nose.

"Red looks beautiful on both of us."

Dressed in your favourite dress, you and Alastor made your way into the city. You always had to keep from giggling when you saw the face of the other residents as they realized you weren't going out for a casual stroll, but for a game night. Especially the pricesses girlfriend made you want to burst out in laughter, her face scrunched into a mask of disdain and disgust. The two of you were always a sight, though. Alastor, looking as handsome as ever, the red suit and black dress shirt underneath complimenting his dark complexion and making his red eyes glow even brighter. And yourself, always a sight for sore eyes, in a black lace dress that accentuated your figure perfectly. People always stared at you when the two of you were out, and that was only part of the fun.

Alastor's hand held yours, his long, sharp nails scratching your skin, the both of you excited for the prospects of the night.

"Why don't you set the challenge today, mon chou?", you asked, looking up at him with a curious gaze, "I'd love to see what you come up with."

Alastor chuckled, pulling you closer to his side.

"Mh... let me think."

His hand was placed on his chin, his eyes closing as he hummed a tune, deep in thought.

"How about this? I'll give you a five minute head-start. You win if you bring them to kill themselves, before I catch them. If I catch them before they're dead, it's my win. That sound fair?"

You grinned, the thought of the game already getting you excited. You weren't nearly as strong as Alastor was, but so much more agile than him and with a few tricks up your sleeve - you had a feeling that this would be your night.

"More than fair, amour. As for my reward: If you lose, I get to decide what music we are listening to until our next game."

"Well, well, greedy now, aren't we, my little minx?"

His grin widened as he chuckled, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer, his lips brushing against yours.

"You know what my request is if you lose. It's a deal, then. And the stakes are high, I hope you know."

You smiled, your eyes closing as you brushed your lips against his, and purred.

"The higher the better."

***

Oh, how you loved the sound of panicked breathing. This cretin really had no stamina, only one minute in and he was panting, crawling in the alley you chased the scruffy doberman sinner after slashing his feet in the shattered glass and debris. You made yourself visible again in front of him, hidden in the shadows as just a grinning, magenta scheme.

"Aw, poor boy. What's the matter, baby?", you cooed, licking your claws as if nothing had happened. "You seem a little frightened. Don't you want to touch me anymore?"

The man didn't speak, just gasped, crawling backwards. You took a step forward, crouching down, your sharp, pearly teeth glistening in the neon light of the dim street lamp.

"No need to be scared, sweetheart, I'm a nice kitty. Come here, let me touch you."

You stretched out a claw, reaching for him as your limb elongated with bone-chilling cracks. He backed away, trying to get up. You giggled, the sound high pitched and eerie. You made yourself invisible again, shifting behind him and suppressing a giggle as he shuddered, looking frantically around him to search for your frame. Two minutes down.

"I thought you like pussy, baby?", you purred, making your voice come from his left ear. He screamed, and ran, his feet leaving blood stains on the concrete, limping, holding the wound on his leg. You laughed and let the lamps blow out one by one as he passed them, showering him with broken glass and hot metal wires. He didn't know it, but you were guiding him, right into a dead end. You heard the sounds of Alastor's microphone feedback somewhere further down the road, and grinned. You had three more minutes to play, and you knew you'd win.

You appeared before this pathetic excuse of a man, who had reached the dead end and was looking frantically around for a way out. Three minutes down, time to wrap it up.

"You're breaking my heart, sweetie. Don't you like to play with me anymore?"

"Fuck, I... p-please, don't... don't hurt m-me, I'm sorry... just let... let me go." The man was shaking, pressing his back against the wall. You licked your teeth, and took another step towards him, your hands on his shoulders, leaning in.

"Oh, I'm not gonna hurt you, baby. I'm just a drunken, helpless little kitty, remember?"

He whimpered, and you smiled, a sick, sinister smile that made him shiver even more. He slid down the wall that was blocking his way as you bent down, caressing his cheek. One minute to go.

"No, I'm not gonna kill you today. You'll do it yourself."

You reached inside your purse, taking out a small, golden pocket knife. His eyes widened as he watched you place the object next to his shaking form and you let yourself fade out of existence, except for your ever-lasting grin.

"See, if you're a good boy, you'll die fast and painless. If not..."

The man looked up at what remained of you, breathing heavily. His eyes were wide with fear, but his pupils dilated as he scanned the place, and a glimmer of hope rose inside him.

"Well, you'll find out what else in about fifteen seconds."

His trembling hand wrapped around the handle of the knife, his eyes still fixed on the spot where your figure had been. You leaned in again, whispering into his ear, the air of your breath hot on his skin.

“Tik, tok, little pup...”

With a desperate roar, the doberman whipped the knife forward, ready to stab where he supposed you were. And he would've been right. If not for...

"Too slow, darling."

The man's eyes widened, his breath stuck in his throat as his hand was stopped, the blade millimeters away from your flesh. The cold, bony grip of Alastor's claw around his wrist tightened, and the knife was slowly being pulled out of his shaking hand as you made yourself visible. He chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest and the surrounding buildings, and stepped forward, looming over the trembling mess of a man.

"Well, well, well. Look at this sloppy attempt. What's the matter, boy? Cat got your tongue?"

Alastor's claw dug deeper into his flesh, a pool of blood forming under the hand Alastor still had in his iron grip. His other hand reached out, grabbing the man's throat and lifting him up the wall. You joined his side, watching the horrified expression on the sinners face with a tilted head as you nestled into him, a slight pout on your lips.

"Aww, you're no fun, amour. I was so close to winning, too. What a shame."

Alastor's arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer as he chuckled, squeezing the sinners neck a bit tighter. The man was gasping for air, his face turning red and his eyes starting to roll back into his skull. "Rules are rules, darling. I believe we said five minutes. That means the game is mine."

You sighed, your head leaning against Alastor's shoulder.

"C'est dommage, I was longing to listen to a little Presley again."

"Maybe next time, my love."

He leaned over to steal a kiss from your lips and you closed your eyes, not seeing but hearing the scream and the sound of ripping skin and muscles, the gurgling splatter of blood and the buzzing of your husbands static.

Oh, comme j'aime cet homme...

Alastor dropped the shredded remains of the sinner and it slumped into the pile of meat that used to be his head. He licked his lips, his eyes glowing in the darkness, a grin plastered on his face as he took off his stained jacket and put it over your shoulders.

"I believe I have a debt to collect, darling, and I'd rather do it in the privacy of our bedroom than here, don't you agree?"

He reached his hand out, and you smiled, taking it.

"Alors dépêche-toi et ne sois pas gentil, mon cerf"

Translations: On se voit en enfer, putains de salauds - See you in hell, you fucking bastards Oh, doux comme un ange et vif comme le diable - Oh, sweet as an angel and quick as the devil Oh, comme j'aime cet homme - Oh, how I love this man Alors dépêche-toi et ne sois pas gentil, mon cerf - So hurry up and don't be gentle, my deer

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fraugwinskawrites #quickfic #alastor x cheshire cat #i adore this pair #who wants a part 2 - 3 - 4 - ...#ME #I WANT

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quietblueriver · 10 months

Note

Another prompt!

On the edge of consciousness

Quick thing #5.

In which Bea suffers a minor injury and Ava has some trouble dealing. All fluff. Very silly. Thanks for the prompt! :)

Ava’s exhausted by the time the van rolls back into Cat’s Cradle. She and Dora had taken six of the newly-official sisters to follow up on reports of some strange behavior in a town in rural France. Ava was hoping they’d find a whole lot of nothing and more than a little wine. What they actually found was eight wraiths and one fun new demon who had hurled himself through one of the cracks that had started appearing after Ava left, apparently a side effect of Adriel yanking Reya into this world, even though she only stayed for like 5 minutes.

It was quite an initiation for the newbies, who did really well all things considered. The whole deal is to make sure they can do this kind of shit without her, because Ava wants to be able to step away from demon-slaying every once in a while to travel the world with her curious, hot, polyglot girlfriend. She’s a teacher now, or whatever, so she didn’t just let loose with the halo when she got annoyed. Instead, she stood there and called out instructions and warnings and made sure none of the babies got maimed or worse and that they didn’t maim or worse any of the possessed. Quite a few halo interventions in the end, but they’re learning.

And the wraiths would have been enough, but of course there was the demon, a real asshole who at one point started sprouting and flinging weird spikes from his back. Ava did a lot of shield throwing and yelling and worked very hard not to intervene unless absolutely necessary. They got him down, in the end, and she finished the job. She’s physically fine but she’s mentally done—she needs sleep and Beatrice. Beatrice, mostly.

They haven’t spoken in three days, which isn’t unusual, unfortunately, but she always hates it. Occasional texts are sometimes the best they can do and she’d sent a few while Dora was driving but hadn’t heard back. Again, not unusual. Bea hates her phone even if she loves Ava (and she does, which she makes clear all the time to everyone and which Ava feels incredibly smug about, thanks) and she’s busy right now with training newbies.

Ava is looking forward to hunting her down in the yard, engaging in only a moderate amount of PDA because “I need them to be able to look me in the eye, Ava, please," and then sleeping for at least 12 hours.

Ava’s hauling her duffel from the back, the rest of the team shuffling inside, when she notices Cam, waiting nearby and fidgeting with her hands, her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Cam?”

Camila…flinches? at Ava’s voice and Ava doesn’t like that one bit. She swings the duffel over her shoulder and walks toward her, frowning.

“Hi, Ava. Welcome home.”

Her voice isn’t peak happy Cam but she’s not upset. Still. “What’s wrong?”

Camila sighs, meets Ava’s eyes. “Okay, most importantly, everyone is fine.” Ava’s heart rate spikes immediately, the halo humming to life. “There was a bit of an accident.”

Ava stares expectantly at her, heart pounding and halo charged, and Camila winces.

“Beatrice was involved.” Seeing Ava’s face, she says again, loudly, “She’s fine! She will be fine! She is in the infirmary and everything is…”

Ava’s off before Camila can finish, dropping her duffel and phasing through the first of the walls between her and the infirmary doors. She has the layout of Cat’s Cradle memorized at this point, after eight months of living here and training here and wandering the hallways when she has nightmares and manages to sneak out without waking Bea, so she has a pretty good idea of where she’s going—straight back and to the right.

She’s barely bothering to let her body fully constitute again, catches two sisters in one of the hallways by surprise and hears a “Holy Father!” before she bleeds through a storage room and turns right down another hall to find herself, finally, at the infirmary doors.

She sees Beatrice propped up in the second bed, privacy curtains mostly open, holding a well-worn copy of The Oresteia, because of course she is, a bandage where an IV line would be on the back of her hand. Her other arm is in a sling, a wrap peeking out from the neckline of the loose gray sweater she’s wearing. She’s awake. She’s sitting up. She has a book. Ava is so relieved she nearly cries.

Beatrice startles obviously when Ava phases through the last door between them, and Ava knows she must be incredibly tired or incredibly stoned or both, maybe, to react that obviously. When she turns her head to face Ava fully, Ava’s jaw clenches tight and she starts forward immediately. The left side of Bea’s face is battered, covered in scrapes and rubbed raw in spots.

Bea seems unbothered, smiling dopily and letting the book fall closed and into her lap so that she can wave excitedly, moving her whole upper body in concert with her hand. She stops the motion quickly, flinching and staring down at her torso like it had broken a promise, brow furrowed in disappointment.

Yeah, so. Stoned it is.

Bea brings her attention back to Ava and the frown disappears as she reaches out, her motion still uncoordinated but less violent. Her palm is up, fingers wiggling expectantly. It’s adorable, but Ava can’t really enjoy it right now.

“Ava! I missed you!”

Ava smiles at her, grabs the wiggling fingers gently between her own and sits on the edge of the bed, leaning over for a chaste kiss. Beatrice, uninhibited and unashamed, hums into it and sighs when they break apart, eyes fluttering and body swaying in a full Disney Princess-esque swoon. The instinct to coo at her like the precious baby duck she is fights with the ongoing panic in her chest and results in what she’s sure is a super fucking weird expression but Bea doesn’t notice or care; she’s all big brown eyes and open adoration.

“Hi, baby. I missed you, too.” She smooths a hand over Beatrice’s hair, newly shorn on the sides (a development that nearly broke Ava in the very best way), the length on top messier than Bea ever lets it be when she’s conscious and outside of their bed. Bea leans into her. “What happened here?”

She frowns, her forehead wrinkling, and Ava smooths the patch of unmarred skin with the tips of her fingers as Bea says guiltily, “Sorry I didn’t call. I didn’t want to make you worried. Just a little accident this morning.”

Ava will deal with that later. She’s not trying to get into it with sweet, stoned Beatrice about when to call. (Always, is the answer, Bea. Always fucking call. There is literally nothing more important.)

Before she can ask about what happened again, though, a flustered Camila hustles through the doors. She hovers uncertainly and then offers, weakly, “She’s okay?” The inflection lets Ava know Camila is aware of what a stupid fucking thing that is to say, but she glares at her anyway, and Camila blanches.

Ava turns back to her girlfriend and asks, resting her hand over Bea’s good one, the IV bandage tacky on her palm, “What kind of accident, gorgeous?”

Beatrice blushes, flips her hand so that she can play with Ava’s fingers, and says, incredibly nonchalantly, “We were practicing an extraction and I got hit by a car.”

Ava’s whole body tenses. The halo hums lowly.

“You got hit by a car.”

Beatrice hums, distracted by Ava’s hand, and then frowns, maybe realizing exactly how fucking awful that sounds. She looks up and adds, as though it will help, “Only a little!”

Camila sighs loudly but keeps her mouth shut.

“You got hit by a car a little.”

Ava works very hard not to lose her shit. She doesn’t want to upset Bea, and the real target for her anger, whoever hit her girlfriend with a car, isn’t in the room right now. She breathes deeply. The halo pulses the littlest bit under her skin in sympathy, still humming quietly enough that only Ava can hear it.

Beatrice offers, as if it might help, “A tap, really.”

“A tap? Beatrice.”

“No big deal. See?” She frees her good hand and uses it to wave up and down her body, flinches when the motion requires her to bend slightly and she’s definitely not making the point she wants to make. Ava catches her hand and holds it still.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re fine.”

The halo hums louder and Ava feels energy start to build under her skin, hot and itchy.

“She should recover quickly. She’s been hurt a lot worse.”

Ava snaps her head back to look at Camila, both eyebrows up and mouth open a little disbelievingly. Because yes, Bea is going to be fine, but this nonchalance? About getting hit by a car? Nope. Nope. Nope. How is Ava supposed to leave, like, ever if this is how her girlfriend and her best friend approach what looks like one step down from vehicular manslaughter? Fine. Jesus Christ.

“Gee, thanks, Cam. Have you been taking bedside manner lessons from Lilith?”

Camila blushes but Ava’s attention is quickly drawn back to Beatrice, who is nodding in agreement with Camila, or trying to. The drugs aren’t doing her any favors on that front, so the movement gets away from her, less decisive and more drowsy and drunken. The effect is something between a puppy trying to keep itself awake and Mother Superion on the rare occasions she stays for game night (or, once and memorably, karaoke) and indulges in one glass of wine too many. Like both a puppy and Superion, Bea begins to sway, eyes closing, and Ava puts a steadying hand on her uninjured shoulder. She gets a grateful smile when Beatrice settles back into the pillow.

As if sensing that she’s about to start again with her questions—which, despite what the two idiots in the room with her apparently think, are absolutely reasonable and pretty fucking chill relative to the information she has—Beatrice says, voice a slightly slurred and incredibly exaggerated mimic of the one she uses when training recruits or doing serious OCS things, “It could’ve been much worse. She wasn’t even going that fast.”

Camila groans and the halo thrums and Ava adjusts on the bed, gentle but unable to stay still any longer.

“It could’ve…” Ava splutters. “She wasn’t…she wasn’t even going that fast?”

Ava hates the word shrill. It’s misogynist as fuck and used to invalidate women’s feelings and police their tone. Bullshit. But she won’t deny that the pitch of her voice is rising higher and higher with each piece of information. She reaches for a metaphor Bea would appreciate. She’s a tea kettle about to go full whistle. She’s a tea kettle about to explode.

She takes a deep breath, counts, exhales. Does it again. Okay. Okay. It’s not helpful for her to blow up. She’s been too hard on Camila. She needs to know what happened and what Bea needs. That’s what matters.

Bea’s clearly working to keep her eyes open. New strategy. She takes the deepest breath yet, presses a very soft kiss to Beatrice’s uninjured knuckles, Bea humming and closing her eyes fully.

“Sleep, baby. I’m just going to talk to Cam. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” Sleepy brown eyes blink open at her and she’s nearly pouting and Ava’s got a whole lot of feelings right now, but love pushes to the top easy, easy, easy when she looks at Bea.

“Promise.”

Her voice is calm even if it is still much higher than normal as she looks to Cam and asks, “What happened?”

Camila steps closer, hesitant, and Ava consciously works to relax her shoulders. She says, standing and reaching to pull Camila into a hug, “Sorry I was a bitch. I’m,” she glances at Beatrice, whose eyes are closed again, “I had to take care of all of the baby nuns and I’m a little exhausted and it’s Bea and I just…”

Cam hugs her tighter and wipes a tear from Ava’s cheek. She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. She’s fucking tired.

“I understand. It’s okay.”

Beatrice makes a soft noise, and Cam smiles at her fondly. “They gave her more medicine just before you got back. I’m honestly surprised she’s still awake.”

“Mmm.” Ava steps back a little and shakes it out, folds her shoulders back.

“It really was an accident. Beatrice was helping a novice in a drill with a moving extraction, and the driver was a little overeager, and, well, Beatrice got knocked back with some force. She dislocated her shoulder and has some nasty road rash, but, as you can see, they’ve given her medication, and she should recover relatively quickly.” Camila bites her lip for a moment. “I promise she’s okay, Ava. I would’ve called you immediately if anything serious had happened. I’ll always call, even if Beatrice won’t.”

She uncoils a bit more. She knows it’s true. There’s no way that Cam wouldn’t call her or send Lilith to come get her, if things got really bad.

A tiny, sleepy noise escapes Beatrice, and Ava blows out a breath, smiles at Camila. Beatrice is fine. Beatrice will be fine.

She eyes the sling and wonders how long she’ll need to wear it. Bea’s going to hate being on the bench. The newbies are going to hate it, too.

Underneath the totally reasonable anger, she feels almost bad for whoever it was who hit Bea. She’s pretty beloved, even if she won’t admit it, and it’s no secret that Ava can be a little, uh, overprotective. The kid’s probably having a rough time.

“I know we’re avoiding another Yasmine situation, but clearly there’s some work left to do on teaching the novices left to drive.”

Camila frowns and begins to respond, but they’re interrupted by the familiar hiss of Lilith’s arrival, the black wings folding behind her a ridiculous contrast with the bulging M&S bag in her hand, the top of a green Colin the Caterpillar box peeking out of the top. Ava bites back a smile. What a fucking softie.

She lets go of the glamour that she wears in public, her skin mottling with scales as she removes her sunglasses. She reels back slightly when she catches sight of Ava but recovers quickly, thrusting the bag out in front of her without a word. Ava takes it, catches sight of candy and biscuits and a tin of fancy tea.

“Thanks, Lil. She’ll be excited about these.”

Her eyes turn to her shoes, black boots identical to Bea’s favorites, says gruffly, “How’s she doing?”

“She’ll be fine.”

Camila smiles at her and Ava lifts a shoulder, moves to unload the bag on the table next to Bea’s bed. Beatrice, apparently still awake enough to notice Ava’s presence, reaches a hand out and rests it on Ava’s thigh, whispers something that Ava is almost totally sure is nonsense. She doesn’t try to decipher, kisses her cheek before before going back to her mission, rifling though the considerable stash Lilith brought and beginning to pull things out.

“You’re being much calmer about this than I anticipated.”

Ava snorts and looks up at Lilith, whose eyes are focused on the injured side of Beatrice’s face.

“Yeah, no. I lost my shit for a bit there. Cam took the brunt of it.” She turns her eyes to Camila. “Sorry again.”

There’s not enough room on the table for everything—Lilith really wasn’t fucking around—so Ava prioritizes Bea’s favorites.

“Like, I’m obviously not delighted and I’m definitely going to have a talk with Bea about when to call me, say, for example, when she gets hit by a car, but she’ll be okay.” She tucks what won’t fit on the table into the little drawer below and brushes some of Bea’s hair back. “Also, stoned Beatrice is super cute.”

Lilith’s shadow falls across Bea’s body, and Ava turns to see the sharp line of her jaw clenched, her eyes scanning Bea’s body and lingering on her shoulder.

“It really was an accident.”

It’s said absently, her voice soft as she leans even further forward to tuck a corner of Bea’s blanket a little tighter around her. Ava’s stomach swoops with fondness, and she reaches her own hand out to squeeze at Lilith’s bicep, black scales and warm skin a strange contrast on her palm.

“Yeah, Cam told me. It’s fine. I mean, someone’s getting a talk from me, because what the fuck, but…”

Ava halts at a hum from the bed. Beatrice is clearly just on the edge of consciousness, eyes straining open before fluttering closed again, words barely coherent. Barely coherent, but coherent enough.

“Don’t be mad, love. Lilith is usually a very good driver.”

#warrior nun #avatrice #sister beatrice #ava silva #warrior nun fic #sister camila #wn prompt fic

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jewellery-box · 8 months

Text

Day dress worn by Elizabeth Marsden

Powerhouse Collection

This day gown is one of a number of costumes in the Museum's collection that were worn by members of the Marsden family. It is likely that the dress was worn by Elizabeth Marsden, the wife of Reverend Samuel Marsden who was a prominent figure in colonial New South Wales. On 1 January 1793 Marsden accepted the appointment as assistant to the chaplain of New South Wales, and was ordained deacon on 17 March at Bristol and priest in May of the same year. Marsden married Elizabeth Fristan on 21 April 1793 and the newly married couple, expecting their first child, left London on 1 July 1793 on the ship 'William'. They arrived in Port Jackson in March 1794 with their daughter Ann, who was born during the eight month journey. As the chaplain to New South Wales, Marsden endeavoured, with some success, to improve the standard of morals and manners. Samuel soon became a leading figure in colonial life, combining, sometimes controversially, his job as the colony's clergyman with that of magistrate, missionary, wealthy landowner and farmer.

Life in the new colony proved extremely isolating. In 1796 Elizabeth Marsden wrote: 'We seem in our present situation to be almost totally cut off from all connexion with the world especially the virtuous part of it. Old England is no more than like a pleasing dream' (Marsden 1796). However, right from the beginning, the colonists of the remote penal settlement that became Sydney wanted to maintain a fashionable appearance. For Sydney's elite, fashionable dress confirmed their status in the colony, clearly defining not just wealth but also their moral superiority. It was to Britain and France that they looked for news of the latest fashions and hand coloured fashion plates inserted in monthly periodicals provided them with details of the latest silhouettes, hairstyles and accessories. More immediate news was obtained by examining the dress of women of the latest shipboard arrivals from England. The colonial elite, including the family of Samuel Marsden, eagerly awaited the irregular shipments of goods from Europe, India and China. At first the lack of local stores, dressmakers, tailors and supplies meant they frequently relied on friends and family 'at home' to purchase and ship the latest styles. In 1799 Elizabeth Marsden wrote to Mary Stokes, a friend in England: 'We are surprised to see the alteration in the fashion. The Bonnet with white satin ribbons is much admired. Dear Madam your goodness induces me to take the liberty to say a little white ribbon would be acceptable' (Marsden 1799). By the 1820s commerce was thriving and a wide range of dressmaking and tailoring skills were locally available, however many still preferred the prestige of a European import.

It is likely that this dress was worn by Elizabeth Marsden in about 1835 when she was nearly 60. Elizabeth died the same year and the dress may have been kept by her children or husband as a momento. The dress shows some of the stylistic irregularities often encountered in colonial dress. The front-opening bodice of the dress is unusual for this time, which may suggest that it was remade from an earlier gown. Another possibility is that the front opening made it easier for Elizabeth to dress, as she had suffered a stroke in 1811 whilst giving birth to her daughter Martha on 6th May 1811, leaving one arm paralysed. The other alternative is that the dress belonged to Ann and was a nursing dress which opened at the front to allow for breastfeeding.

Distinctive of the fashion during the 1830s are the bishop sleeves with flat mancherons off the shoulders, together with the pleated skirt. The dress is well made and finished which, along with the quality of the fabric, indicates the use of a professional dressmaker. However Ann Marsden was known to have been a skilled seamstress and may have made the dress. As with other costumes worn by the Marsden family, this dress appears restrained in style but of good quality fabric and finish, reflecting the Marsden family's social position and comfortable economic circumstances.

The Marsden costume collection was transferred from the Royal Australian Historical Society to the Museum in 1981. This well-provenanced collection includes some of the earliest surviving examples of colonial dress worn and made in Australia, and gives insight into the life of the Marsden family.

Michelle Brown, 2007

#victorian #victorian era #victorian fashion #19th century #fashion history #historical fashion

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felidrae · 5 months

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With the recent released episode I went back & binge watched the previous episodes. There are many things I could talk about that I want to see more of (example if Penny introduced her daughter to the rest of the crew- I feel Steve would be utterly devoted to her since he’s a clown & has a soft spot for kids as seen from that one customer interaction)

BUT I’m bias and have a fascination in examining possibly veiled relationships & going into the speculative deeper details/interpretations. So I’ll start w/ that.

The topic: Cesare & Doctor (Allen)

Cesare & Doctor seem to have a deeper relationship than how Cesare has one w/ the rest of the employees.

Firstly, from what we’ve seen Cesare seems to only see his employees as just that- employees. He has no inclination to form a bond since we haven’t seen him hang out w/ them outside of work nor use their real names (unlike Steve) but instead uses their costume titles; this is so he doesn’t get attached. Cesare is a man on the job & once the job is done he will finally rest- no need to get attached when he’s dead already.

While Cesare is full of energy, theatrics & is just all over the place in general he doesn’t really seem to take nonsense from his employees nor engage in peer discussions; when he DOES interact it’s limited & mainly snapping:

- Frances asking him to try the bad food & he immediately shuts it down by saying he doesn’t eat food. While I understand where he’s coming from as a zombie there’s no real reason to not at least try it- Not eating something thats no longer needed doesn’t mean he can’t humor her.

- Conrad asking him how old he is. He could’ve lied but instead tells him to never ask him that; then again this could’ve been a “asking someone how old they are is rude” type of thing

- Conrad asking if he’s been to a FTC before & he says “no, I’m a virgin around here” then immediately goes straight back to business “I’m sure my reputation proceeds me however”

- Conrad asking to take lens off is immediately shut down cause Zombie man needs to stay hidden

(Notably, the only time Cesare snaps at Doctor is when he tries to negotiate w/ Cesare over the costumes.)

As stated his interactions with them are mainly orders or stopping them from revealing “ brand secrets” / asking questions. Even they (Conrad & Frances) have no internal familiarity w/ him since they call him “Boss”. It’s all strictly business.

The only people we have seen him fully interact w/ that isn’t a quick remake is Steve & Doctor; Steve makes sense- he’s a long term target who’s foiled his attempted captures time & time again. They got history/beef. Doctor however is just a regular human who’s employed by him- there shouldn’t be any history between the two that would establish the amount of interaction that aren’t simply orders (then again the interactions they do have is also related to business.) as well as treat Doctor more fairly from the rest YET Casare uses a nickname for him which is something we haven’t seen him do w/ the others, dramatically worries about Doctor when he’s down, is more abrasive towards him and counts on him w/ tasks such as gathering information whilst being impressed by him; Doctor is his right hand man.

Doctor in turn does something the rest don’t do- he calls Cesare by his name. This is significant. Why script it to where Frances/Conrad only call him “Boss” but Doctor frequently uses his actual name; this is a personal/friendly undertone. Cesare seems to have no issues with this either which if you go based on Cesare’s character & view on his employees would seem unusual. The only time we see him calling Cesare “Boss” is when he’s shocked/unsure about him.

Overall Cesare displays traits that would suggest he’s slightly more fond towards Doctor (I believe he enjoyed his time with the other employees- he’s just a blockhead & wants no strings attached) & Doctor in return reciprocates. Heck, Doctor is listed as a “Morality Pet” trope though it’s downplayed in the series- so far.

Secondly, the question is why is this specific relationship different from the rest? Well, another thing that’s good to note is the parallel between the two Foodtrucks:

- both have extravagant themes to hide the identities of the employers

-both have three employees that are human

-both sell bad burgers

- both are employers who came out of the ground & aren’t human

From what we’ve seen from the latest episode Steve was in the Earth’s core unconscious until he woke up & dug himself out; causing Tim to be the first to find him. Tim is also arguably Steve’s right hand man since he wears a chef’s hat & in “Down” he is the only one from Bigtop that exclaims a sentence of shock when everything is revealed.

Now this is where the speculation(or delulu) comes into play: both Tim/Doctor are right hand men & both exclaimed in shock at the revelation; so what if like Tim, Doctor was the first to find Cesare? We don’t know exactly how the recruitment happened but Cesare is aware they are all theatre majors (interestingly he specifically mentions puppets when saying this- marionettes are puppets) so either he went out of his way to a theatre group & found them OR Doctor was his first employee who brought his friends along since the pay is nice whilst they get to perform.

If Doctor was the first to find Cesare he took enough interest to make the proposal. This could be for many reasons however given the context of the story it would make more sense if Doctor reminded him of when Cesare was alive- Cesare is a performer & it would make sense he would reminisce about it causing it to make decisions for him.

Personally I would find it fitting if like Cesare, Doctor enjoys puppets- his voice would be perfect for it. (But that is a headcannon & not speculation.)

In conclusion, the relationship between the two is noticeable different from the rest for a Zombie who was using them as a means to an end & learning more on the why would be desirable to see as well as flashbacks about how Zomburger & the relationship dynamics began; seeing how they’re all (Bigtop & Zomburger) handling the revelation that their bosses weren’t human is definitely something we will be seeing.

That’s mainly it- it’s a bit of a rant but I’d like to hear your thoughts/headcannons

Bonus photo:

#bigtop burger #bigtop burger cesare #bigtop burger doctor #bigtop burger conrad #bigtop burger frances #bigtop burger steve #bigtop burger spoilers #bigtop burger tim #bigtop burger theory #bigtop burger billie #bigtop burger penny

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harlowtales · 11 months

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Reader x Jack have tension as she tells him on short notice she’s going to intern in Paris. Jack makes a big decision in a big way.

STORY WITHIN A STORY: Gender reveal party

****light smut, drama, romance**** 18+ ZONE

“So you came back why” you said flatly.

“No attitude this time.” Jack said “Can I come in?” Assuming you would say yes he moved past you into your apartment.

“Ummm sure come on in” You said half-heartedly

“Ok what you saw was just her leaving my house because I told her to leave.” He explained

“Yeah we’ve been over this and I don’t care.” You said digging your heels in.

“Dammit!” Jack said pounding his fist on your kitchen table

“Do you need to leave again Jackman because I really like that table. You gave it to me.” You said moving closer to him.

As you went closer Jack pulled you close. He was sitting down and buried his face in your stomach. You ran your fingers through his freshly washed curls. You knew you would forgive him of anything, but you didn’t have to like it.

“Baby I…” he started

“Shhhh. Please. I’m ok.” You said assuring him “I have something to tell you anyway.

Jack thought you were taking the situation unusually well. He tensed up and looked up at you with his big blue eyes and long lashes.

“I’m going to France.” You said

“Ok, so when will you be back?” Jack asked cautiously. Lots of people go to France. What was the big deal?

“For a year. I leave in a few weeks, you’ll be doing movie promo so that really boils it down to maybe a week. I’m so sorry. I came over to tell you and saw that bitch at your house and then thought I would never tell you and just disappear, but I could never live with myself.” You hurriedly explained

Jack stood up and started walking around the room. He was playing with the hairs under his lip and pacing which meant he was deep in thought. He did not say a word for a good few minutes.

“Jack?” You asked trying to make him stop moving around.

“I’m in love with you.” He said looking directly at you now with pain in his eyes as they started to look glassy.

You gasped in shock. You knew it was more than a casual relationship, but you didn’t expect this. When your job said there was an opportunity to go to France you jumped at it. Now you stood speechless as it looked like he was about to cry.

You walked over to him and enveloped him in a warm embrace. Had you known his feelings you would have said no to the opportunity. You started to cry. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” You said as you tried to contain your sadness to be able to speak.

“I don’t typically tell girls that because of my life.” He said tired and winded. It was taking more of a toll on him than he imagined. “I gotta go. I’m sorry, maybe I’ll call you later. I need air.” He said heading for the door.

All you could do was let him go. “For what it’s worth, had I known I would’ve said no.” You said. Your words trailing behind him as he walked away.

“Then I would be very disappointed in you.” He said stopping and turning to face you and taking your hand. “You’re too fucking amazing. I would want nothing less than for you to go.” He said “Can I come hold you in Paris?”

You started uncontrollably bawling with your face in your hands. “Hold me now…Please Jack.” You said, now a crumbling mess.

“I gotta go bubby.” He said kissing you on the top of your head. He got into his Jeep and drove off. You watched him round the corner and fade away.

PART 2

“Bonjour Mademoiselle.” The man at the desk said as you entered your apartment lobby

“Bonjour Claude” you said yawning. You hadn’t really seen much of France. Work hours were quite long and then you were too tired to take in much.

Your apartment had a beautiful view where you could see the Eiffel Tower far in the distance but seeing it all lit up even far away kept you hopeful that one day he would come visit.

You spoke to Jack on FaceTime almost every day at first. After a few months it died down to about a couple times a month. You knew he was still struggling with the fact that you left. You had a great dinner planned. Just a baguette, some creamy pasta with white wine. The French knew how to eat and you had put on a few lbs! Jack commented on one FaceTime that you looked good and “healthy” as he put it.

You put on his music and began to cook. Soon a lovely aroma was filling your small kitchen, the doors to the balcony were flung open and “Little Secret” filled the Paris air. You chuckled to yourself remembering something silly he used to do. Then the joy of the memory turned to tears trickling down your cheeks without you noticing. You snapped out of it and opened your laptop to watch some Netflix while you ate. No matter what you did he kept invading your thoughts.

Suddenly you heard a familiar voice from down below call out to you. You froze. “No way…it couldn’t be. He hasn’t called in weeks. You slowly peeked over the balcony railing to see Jack climbing up the fire escape ladder with a rose in his teeth. A crowd had gathered around to watch this display of affection to screams and cheers. The French loved romance that’s for sure!

When he got to your floor he took the rose from his teeth and handed it to you. He flashed a big smile and pulled you in kissing you passionately. Loud cheers erupted from down below. Jack loved the attention. You held onto him but hadn’t said a word yet. You were happy, embarrassed, and crying all at the same time. “You ain’t happy to see me bubby?” He said kicking off his favourite 550’s and relaxing on your couch. “Nice crib” he said approvingly looking around.

You were still staring at him in disbelief. You still had the rose in your hand standing in one spot not moving.

“You look thick and real good.” He said with a smile in his low sexy drawl.

“You…um look really good too.” You said screaming inside. His hair was longer, he was wearing glasses, a navy Moncler polo shirt, and jeans. Fucking jeans. He looked good enough to jump on but you kept your cool.

“Why you just standing there?” He asked with a grin. He knew the effect he had on you especially surprising you like this. “Come to daddy.” He said patting the spot next to him on the couch.

You of course obeyed. You couldn’t help it and he knew it. “So…. You just be climbing up fire escapes in your free time after weeks of not calling?” You questioned furrowing your brow.

Jack thought it was so cute when you were annoyed which made you more irritated. He placed a hand on your thigh and looked you deep in your eyes. The intense eye contact made you drop your eyes. He lifted up you chin and saw how much you had started to cry and were shaking. “Put the rose down and let’s talk.” He said warmly.

“Where have you been?” You fired angrily

“Kentucky.” He replied “Dad got sick so I went off the grid for a while. I’m sorry.”

“Jack I’m so sorry. I feel so stupid and selfish.” You apologized

“Well with my track record how were you supposed to know?” He reasoned “Probably thought I moved on, but I don’t think that’s possible for me.” He said stroking your hair lovingly. The sun started to go down. He got up and walked over to the balcony, stepping out into the twinkling night. You followed and held him around his waist resting your head on his back. “You don’t understand, I’m always in control” he said gazing into the distance at the Tower. “I was miserable after you left. Couldn’t even focus in the studio. I called less and less because I was in too much pain.”

You just held onto him harder not ever wanting to let go. “Can we just stay like this?” You said wistfully

“My thoughts exactly.” He said breaking the embrace and turning you around

Just then there was a knock at your door. Jack smiled and said “Answer the door baby”

A man dressed as a restaurant server holding a bottle of wine and looking at a delivery sheet said in broken English “ummm Jack…ummm Harlow?”

“He’s not here.” You said protectively. What the hell was going on? Ain’t no way some weird shit was going down on Jack on your watch.

“Baby its ok.” Jack laughed coming to the door. “Her bark is worse than her bite. He joked as he kissed you. “Come on in.” He said waving the man in.

You were completely confused as you saw a few men dressed as servers come into your apartment. One with a wine bottle, one started setting a table with a candle, roses, and place settings for 2. He held a chair out for you and motioned over for you to sit. Jack sat as well with a huge grin on his face as he saw how completely surprised you were.

“What’s all this?” You said gleefully with your hands on your mouth in awe

“Just a lil sumn I thought would cheer you up.” He said winking.

You both enjoyed a full course French meal in front of your open balcony doors. As the server played a violin. Jack had thought of everything. The lights of Paris like fireflies outside. You and Jack giggled and laughed so hard for hours. You drank more than half the bottle of wine yourself as Jack got refills of water from the waiter. “Not even one glass with me?” You said pouting and giggling

Jack amazed at your beauty in the candlelight and seeing you so happy knew it was time. He drew a deep breath reached into his pocket pulling out a small box. He put it on the table and nudged it towards you. You stopped breathing, looking at the box and then back at him. You didn’t say a word, but swallowed hard and started to sweat.

“Now I know you’re very independent baby.” He said “So I’m not here to pressure you”

“Oh my god yes!” You blurted

“Yes!!? But how do know what’s in the box? Could be a wad of chewed gum.” He laughed opening it and getting on one knee. You giggled uncontrollably and started to cry.

“Y/n…. Will you make me the happiest man in Kentucky and marry me?” Jack asked his blue eyes shining in the candlelight

“Yes! Oh my god yes yes yes!!” You exclaimed holding out your hand for him to place the ring on it.

The ring easily slipped onto your finger. Of course Jack knew your exact size. “I had it custom made in Paris.” He said

“Jack it’s gorgeous!” You said breathlessly as you admired how blinding and delicately beautiful it shone.

“Well it has competition with my beautiful wife.” He said sweetly.

You stood up to hold him and you both swayed to the violin as the Paris air cane in and sounds of the street floated up to your balcony. You locked in to a deep kiss. His full cherry lips caressing yours and your tongues intertwining.

“Now about those 8 daughters…” Jack said smiling

STORY 2: GENDER REVEAL

“Thank you just put the balloons over there” Maggie fussed. You were so grateful to have her there. Her mom and your mom were looking after everything, after all, you were about ready to burst. You knew what it was but you and Jack had kept the baby’s gender a secret the entire time. Not even Urban knew.

“Bruh’s like Fort Knox.” Urban said while dipping a chip at the elaborate snack table. “I don’t even know.” He told another guest who assumed being Jack’s best friend that he knew if it was a boy or a girl.

Jack entered the backyard of his parent’s house with flats of beer and water. “Where do you want these mom.” He said wiping his brow. It was summer in Kentucky and a very hot day. Jack had a white tank top on with sweat shorts, and 990’s of course.

Amazed at how hot your husband to be was and how horny you were seeing as you were pregnant you sat there eating a popsicle staring at him. Across the yard he made eye contact with you and you put the whole popsicle in your mouth to mess with him. “Over there hunny.” Maggie said snapping him out of his trance staring back at you. “Hunny get out of those sweaty clothes and get ready. Everyone will be here soon.” Maggie ordered. He put down the flats of drinks and headed inside to freshen up as his mom said.

After awhile nobody was looking and you snuck inside the house and up the stairs. You tipi toed to your husband’s childhood bedroom and slowly cracked open the door. You heard him happily rapping an Andre 3000 verse as he dried off from his quick shower. You caught him at the perfect time. “Jesus baby!” Jack said jumping “Fucking little creeper.” He smiled “Da fuk you up to sneaking around my parent’s house?”

“Well, I saw how hot and sweaty you were and I thought I would come help you peel off those clothes but I see your doing fine so I’ll just dip” You went to head out knowing he would stop you.

“No you don’t.” He said pulling you back “Come here you little horn dog.” He said smiling as he pulled you in for a kiss. As he held you and kissed you his towel fell off his waist to the floor. You reached down and took his manhood in your hands gently starting to stroke it.

Jack moaned “Everyone is outside.”

“I’ll be quick.” You said sitting on the bed now facing his erect “on brick”situation as Jack would say. You pumped it a few times and spit on it before taking all of him into your warm mouth that was waiting to receive him.

Jack bent his head back letting out a deep moan. He looked down at you his damp curls hanging and ocean eyes focused on you taking his cock in and out of your mouth. You clenched his ass and paused with the whole shaft deep in your throat. Jack winced in painful pleasure “uughhh!” He let out. Pumping it some more as you took his sack of “kids” into your mouth he came in a huge climax and got you in the face. You squealed and laughed.

Jack stood there naked as he came down off the high. His lean abdomen rising and falling and his hands on his hips as he tried to regain his composure to face his family and act like he hadn’t just got an amazing blow job in his childhood bedroom. “You missed a spot baby.” He said between breaths “I think a bit got in your hair” he said making an attempt with his towel to clean you up.

“Thanks Jackman.” You laughed. Then you stood and kissed him. “Now get dressed because they are kicking they want to be known!”

“Thank you baby.” He said kissing you. “I love my little freak!” He said slapping you on the ass.

You left the room in a giggle and rejoined the party. Eventually Jack followed in a button up plaid shirt and cargo pants for the occasion. Everyone was eating drinking and dancing in the sun. Jack’s little cousins were running around squealing and popping balloons as Drama spun Jack’s hits. “Sup bruh’” Jack greeted Drama.

Drama smiled and caught Jack’s direction to cut the music. It was time. Everyone gathered around the balloon arch and the happy couple to find out if it was a boy or a girl. Jack looked around at all the people he loved. His parents, Clay, his grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, Urban, all the Homies, Lake, Cannon, Drama and his kids, KY Engineering, Neemo and his kids, Gee and his kids, Druski and his girlfriend, Sunni, Twiggy, Copeland, and other KY friends, and everyone from your side. His eyes started to water as he put a hand on your stomach and spoke.

“Miss, I know you thought your daughter shouldn’t get mixed up with a rapper, but I hope I proved you wrong.” Jack said smiling looking over at your mom. She lovingly smiled back in approval. “Mom, I know you never thought I would settle down.” Jack said now turning to his mom “but I got my act together in a big way and I have you to thank you for keeping me on track. Plus dad would kill me if I got this beautiful girl pregnant and didn’t do right by her.” Jack shot a look over at his dad who nodded in agreement. “So right after I asked y/n to marry me we found out we were pregnant. I blame Paris!” Jack laughed sentimentally. “But I gotta say finding out I was going to be a dad was the best day of my life. So without further ado, me and the future Mrs. Harlow are about to reveal the gender of our little thing cooking in the oven.” He said.

Jack’s mom brought over a couple of white balloons filled with confetti in the colour of the baby’s sex. Jack looked at you and you looked at him. “Ready Bubs?” He asked you with a pin waiting to pop them. You nodded. “1….2…..3” he yelled. A pink number 3 with pink confetti burst into the air as they popped the balloons as Drama played “What’s Poppin”.

At first everyone was still and quiet. Your mother squealed and broke the silence. “3 BABIES???” She said jumping up and down running over to hug you and Jack. Everyone erupted in cheers and surprise. “3 girls?” You and Jack nodded and took the onslaught of hugs and pats on the back.

“Holy fuck bro!” Urban said in shock “I’m a fucking uncle of 3 like instantly.”

Jack had his arm around Urban. “My boys can fucking swim in a big way bro.” Jack said with fake humility.

“I thought your belly was super big but I didn’t want to make you feel bad” Maggie said lovingly rubbing your tummy. “Well I’ll be busy!” She said with joy.

After all the guests started trickling out, it was just down to a few of Jack’s buddies having drinks and talking on the lawn chairs as the sun started to go down. Drake and other celebrities FaceTimed Jack to congratulate him.

“3 that’s a lot bro. No more bitches for you.” Copelan said choking in a cloud of smoke as he took a pull off a joint. Jack really hadn’t stepped out on Y/N since the engagement so the comment made Jack defensive.

“I got incredible head this afternoon in my childhood room where I used to dream about girls like Y/N liking me, and the only thing you were dipping into was your chips in some dip out here bro.” Jack said in satisfaction looking over at you helping your mom and Maggie clean up. “I’m the luckiest fucking man in Kentucky.”

@itsyagirljaz @killatravtramp @jackmans-poison @jackharloww @jackharlowunseen @jacksmoviestar-deactivated20230 @jacks-daycare @a-moment-captured @angelbae05

#hip hop #fanfic #writing #jack harlow #pregnant #romance #dramatic #paris france #jack harlow smut

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metalheadsforblacklivesmatter · 1 year

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Things about America that would give Europeans a heart attack.

Many Americans are expected to drive AN HOUR to work every day. Europeans don't even visit their mom regularly if she lives 30 minutes away.

We measure distance traveled in time. Because sometimes driving 15 miles can take as long as driving 45 miles. How long you'll be in a vehicle is most important.

Zoning laws. Many of us actually do like to walk. Our major cities were designed by automotive lobbyists to force us to buy cars.

Food deserts. There's some places in America with literally zero grocery stores within 5 miles of your home.

Hospital bills. 1 emergency room visit can cost tens of thousands of dollars. Not to mention the $15,000 of you need an ambulance.

Mental health. You can be forced into grippy sock jail against your will. Then stuck with a bill that costs tens of thousands of dollars when you get out.

Speaking of medical bills. Credit reports. Remember that medical bill that costs tens of thousands of dollars? That goes on your credit report if you can't pay it. Which makes it harder to rent, buy a house, buy a car, or get a credit card.

Retirement. You can't get social security until you're 62 and social security isn't enough to live on. You're supposed to be saving money to retire on, on top of that. And based on your family's health history and cost of living. It's not unusual to need $1-2 million to retire. And it's not unusual for people to have to work into their 80s.

College. A hundred thousand dollars in student loan debt isn't unheard of and many Americans are never able to pay it off in their lifetime because interest is like 5-8%. Also. That goes on your credit report.

Minimum wage. I don't necessarily believe that Europeans would be shocked that minimum wage doesn't cover the cost of living here. But there's people that live here that are suprised to find out our minimum wage is $7.20. I've gotten into arguments over this, several times. If Americans don't believe it, how can I expect a European to?

Lack of public transit. Only like, major cities have public transit, and only a few of them have reliable public transit.

Lack of labor unions and union busting. Many European countries like France will go on nation wide strikes if an oligarch sneezes wrong. Companies in America will shut down business in entire states if the unions are getting too strong. Honestly I'm kinda surprised that we don't strike more.

Lack of paid vacation time. In a lot of countries 6 weeks is like normal. My last job I got none. And people legitimately didn't believe me when I said I had to work on Christmas or not get paid (yeah, it was a desk job). Again. If Americans can't believe it. Why would I expect Europeans to? Also I feel like Europeans would just die from the burnout because it's not uncommon for Americans to literally work themselves to death.

No. For real. I have people mad at me because I couldn't go to a family friend's wedding because they didn't believe I didn't have labor day off.

-fae

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gwenllian-in-the-abbey · 4 months

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What is your interpretation of Viserys's character? It's amazing how grrm made the man who literally single handedly destroyed his family's legacy and started the bloodiest civil war in Westros a "joyful generous king who wants everyone to get along" it's like grrm wanted the fault of the dance to be on Alicent and Aegon not Vissy for some reason

Thanks anon! This is an excellent question.

So I actually don't think that GRRM meant for Alicent or Aegon to take the full blame for the Dance. If you read F&B and World of Ice and Fire, remembering that those books are not written in GRRM's authorial voice, but by in-world maesters who are compiling histories, you'll see that the authors of those books are not very complimentary about Viserys. However, they are diplomatic about it. He was a king who ruled for several decades, and he was not hated by the people at the time of his death. The scholarship of maesters like Gyldayn and Yandel is also pretty surface level. Still, Yandel all but blames Viserys for the Dance, saying that Viserys "had ruled for six-and-twenty years, reigning over the most prosperous era in the history of the Seven Kingdoms but seeding within it the disastrous decline of his house and the death of the last dragons." He might be called amiable and generous, but weighing against that, he's also called weak-willed, easily influenced, and anxious to please. Those are not really complimentary qualities when discussing kingship. The books stop short of calling Viserys a bad king on the level of Aegon IV or Aerys II, but they're not particularly complimentary towards him either.

And here's the thing. Ensuring a clean succession is one of a king's most important jobs. A smooth transition of power is essential for the stability of the realm, and a disputed succession was to be avoided at all costs. Throughout real life history, you will see examples of kings going out of their way to ensure that there is one clear heir who will inherit upon their death. It is the king's responsibility to ensure that the succession is clear, that the heir is prepared to rule, and that the heir has sufficient support to rule. There is a reason why, although the often repeated "the king's word is law" phrase might have some base truth to it, most kings followed established lines of succession and did not just choose their favorite child, or even the child they believed best suited to rule. Enduring the occasional less than ideal king was the price paid for a peaceful transition of power, and for ensuring that the method by which power was peacefully transferred from one monarch to the next, remained stable.

So in real life feudal monarchies, when succession crises happened, it was usually because of some unexpected event. The Anarchy that the Dance is based on happened because King Henry I lost his only son, William Adelin, in a shipwreck. The boy was already seventeen at the time, and when he died, Henry tried to have more sons with his second wife, but was unsuccessful. His only other legitimate child was a daughter, Matilda, who eventually became his heir following the rules of male preference primogeniture, although his nephews were in consideration at one point. Likewise, Edward the Black Prince, heir to Edward III, died before his father did. Unlike William Adelin, however, Edward the Black Prince had a son, Richard II, who became Edward III's heir. When Richard II became king he was still a child, and had to contend with very powerful adult uncles who became powerful as his regents, and their sons, who did not want to give up power when Richard II came of age. This situation eventually led to the War of the Roses. There are also succession crises in which a king who dies childless is also the last of his direct line, such as Henry III of France, the last Valois king. In this situation the next claimant might come through a female line or a more senior male line, but it's rarely clear cut. But these are generally unusual or unexpected situations rather than the result of a king's willful refusal to do his duty and ensure a clean succession.

Viserys had options for avoiding the Dance, the easiest and most obvious being simply making his eldest son his heir upon his birth. He had every indication that his insistence on keeping Rhaenyra as heir would lead to a succession crisis after his death, and yet he did nothing to avert it. He had no intention of codifying new succession laws to allow daughters to inherit over sons, instead he imagined succession as a free for all, king's choice, which is bound to lead to conflict and is a terrible idea in a kingdom ruled by dragonriders. Viserys inherited a prosperous and stable kingdom and arguably the most important job he had was to keep it stable, and yet he created a succession crisis out of nothing, for no good reason. Neither Rhaenyra nor Aegon turned out to be particularly good rulers in their short reigns, but only one of them could have taken the throne as uncontested heir, and that is Aegon. Had Aegon been named heir from the start, there would have been no one to contest him (Rhaenyra's claim lies solely on being her father's chosen heir, if she's isn't, she has no claim), and no war.

What would compel Viserys to completely trash his own succession? I think in the books, it is left up to interpretation. Was Viserys stupid, willfully ignorant, or a malicious narcissist? Certainly, although he was supposedly a people pleaser, no one in his family was very pleased by his decisions, and it's hard to imagine the Red Keep a happy household when Viserys deliberately drove a wedge between his children and created a situation that everyone knew would one day lead to war. I'm going to tag @aifsaath because she has some good Viserys thoughts regarding the possibility that Viserys wasn't just a bumbling idiot, but actively malicious.

#asks #viserys i targaryen #dance of the dragons #fire and blood #aegon ii targaryen

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elliottjpg · 3 months

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OCs de La Quête d'Ewilan

Ewilan's Quest OCs

Hey guys, guess who has two new children!!! (well, one and a half. Ewel has actually been hanging out in the back of my mind for a couple years.)

Luce: Shadowalker apprentice (kinda like a ninja but not really)

Ewelliottan: Analyst, a scholar studying the theory of magic (because she is crap at the practice)

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Luce, expliquant le concept de greffe à Ewel: Par exemple, Jorune Aénandra avait une greffe qui le rendait nyctalope. Ewelliottan, sans réfléchir: JE SAVAIS BIEN QUE C'ÉTAIT UNE SALOPE!!!!!! Luce: Luce, sortant un carnet et un crayon: Fascinant. Dis-m'en plus.

Ewelliottan: Sur une échelle de "Non mais allô quoi" à "Tu es triste? Arrête", comment tu te sens aujourd'hui? Luce: Quelque part entre "Coup d'boule, rien à faire" et "Il est lent, ce lait"; mais pour donner une réponse définitive je dirais "Mange tes morts". Et toi Ewel? Ewelliottan: Un bon "Macron, explosion." Salim: Je croyais comprendre le français, visiblement j'avais tort.

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(More character info in English under the cut!)

I'm aware that most people familiar with Ewilan's Quest speak French, but I am writing this in English for accessibility reasons. For folks who don't know the books: it is set in Gwendalavir, a country in a world parallel to Earth. Shadowalkers are an elusive guild of ninja-like people with a strong focus on freedom and communion with nature. Designers are people who have the gift of Drawing, which allows them to temporarily will things into existence.

This is set some ten to fifteen years after the events of the last book; Gwendalavir has tied economical and cultural relations with France thanks to Bruno Vignol. Most Alavirians are aware of the existence of the other world, and although unrealistic, for plot reason the existence of Gwendalavir is more or less common knowledge on Earth.

Luce Pezal

He's a Shadowalker apprentice, Salim's apprentice specifically (I wasn't gonna give him to a canon character at first, but I didn't feel like creating a whole-ass OC to be his master, so Salim now has to deal with him.) He is a very cheerful and friendly guy, with a rather nonchalant demeanour - he has elevated not giving a fuck to an art form.

He grew up in Al-Vor in a family of merchants, moved to the capital Al-Jeit to try and do something with his life, did a lot of small jobs trying to find something he liked, and ended up working as a stable boy in the stable that Salim frequents. Luce has always been fascinated by Earth, and latched onto Salim the second he heard he was from there. After some time Salim realized that Luce had the potential to make a good shadowalker, and offered to take him as an apprentice.

Their master/student relationship is a little unusual, as 1) they are both adults with only a 10 years difference, 2) they were already friends before Luce became a shadowalker, and 3) Luce's friendliness and nonchalance look like disrespect toward his master (they aren't). He knew close to nothing about shadowalkers before meeting Salim, so he is utterly unfazed about the fact that his master, great-master and great-great-master are all legends in the guild's eyes.

Luce highly dislikes fighting (although he fights very well); unfortunately for him, he is often targeted by thugs who think he'll be an easy mark because of his missing right hand (he was born without one). He'll avoid blades as much as possible, preferring to fight bare-handed or use cunning instead. He is great at sleight of hand and lockpicking.

He's around 20-23 years old, and he's gay.

Ewelliottan "Ewel" Ar'son

Ewelliottan was born on Earth to a French mother and an Alavirian father. Her parents own a convenience store. She went to Gwendalavir on a study program, and decided to stay there to study the gift of Drawing and become an analyst. She has a very small affinity for Drawing, but far from enough to be a proper analyst, so she compensates it with encyclopedic knowledge of Drawing theory. She is fascinated by all Drawing-adjacent unexplained phenomena, like hiatuses, the Eye of Otolep, the history of Al-Jeit and Al-Poll, variations of the gift, etc. If she could study Mathieu Gil'Sayan under a microscope she would.

She's seen as eccentric by her colleagues; she can spend weeks nose-deep in books in the depth of the Al-Jeit Academy's library, and talk anyone's ears off about Merwyn Ril'Avalon (in time she'll become the country's leading expert on him). Rather than doing analyses of Designers' gifts, she works as a researcher. She occasionally gives conferences or classes, and her students find her either riveting, or boring as hell, with no in-between.

She has some Faëls in her ancestry; the only consequences are slightly pointed ears and a tendency to tan very quickly. When she was little she wanted to become a shadowalker; she thought that her Faël blood would give her an advantage, but it turns out it very much doesn't, and she hates exercising.

She's a little older than Luce, by 3 or 5 years (I haven't decided yet). She's bisexual, and non-binary, in a "none gender with left girl" kind of way.

(There's a few other pics of her here!)

Luce and Ewel

Luce and Ewelliottan met on a solo mission as part of Luce's training. Salim had met Ewel through his wife Ewilan, who frequents the Academy in her Sentinel job. He found out that Ewel was going to Al-Far to give a conference, so he offered Luce's services as an escort for the trip, as the roads and the city aren't safe. Knowing Luce's fascination for Earth, and Ewel's origins, he thought they would get along well. What he hadn't expected was for them to come back with friendship bracelets, three hundred inside jokes, and probably a blood pact.

While Luce is not supposed to share shadowalker knowledge with anyone outside of the guild, he does tell Ewel a lot about his training, in exchange for knowledge about the other world. Ewel taught Luce Earth slang, and Salim is both confused and mortified because he hasn't set foot on Earth in like twenty years and doesn't understand anything they're saying.

#la quête d'ewilan #ewilan's quest #les mondes d'ewilan #le pacte des marchombres #pierre bottero #gwendalavir #my ocs #blorbo from my brain #ewelliottan ar'son #luce pezal

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thechargrey · 1 year

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Seen a few posts about how rude Jade is (and I say this as a person who doesn't love where the nate/jade arc seems to be going), but I want to gently nudge people to look at her from a different take.

She's a bit rude by US standards, yes. She doesn't immediately jump to help or get Nate anything he wants...and some people have read that as her being worse than rude. But this is actually not unusual for Europe in general.

Depending on where you are treatment of customers may be more or less different than the US. France is probably the furthest from US customer service, but it's rare for any businesses in Europe to treat the customer as though they are "always right."

And forcing an employee to continuously act kind and helpful is definitely not common practice. Most employees are helpful and polite, but only if you treat them with respect and dignity. No one can be sweet all the time (not even Ted) so it makes no sense to force an employee to do that, and might even be seen as cruel for a business to require their employee to wear a constant smile.

And thinking about it, it IS pretty messed up that US culture requires employees to wear smiles and be pleasant all the time. We all know it's a facade anyway. We just demand that employees do a song and dance for us so we feel better about our consumerist hellscape. Plus this system just gives customers a sense of entitlement to treat employees any way they want to.

*deep breath, moving on, stepping off my soapbox now I promise*

Basically, Jade isn't "bad" at customer service, she's just bored and probably a bit tired. She gets her job done, but she's also not gonna do a bunch of fanfare or wear big smiles while she does it. She's not going to interrupt Nate, but she's also not really interested in what he's saying. She just wants to do her job and go home. It's the exact same as most restaurant workers in the US, the ONLY difference is she's not required to have a big fake smile on her face while she does it.

Also woman not smiling = heinous villain, is maybe not the hot take you think it is?

#you're experiencing culture shock friends #not a war crime #it's actually really messed up we expect people to wear smiles while they're working all the time #ted lasso #ted lasso spoilers #jade #and believe me I'm seeing the other problems with poc in this narrative #i just don't think this particular criticism is valid #food for thought

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come-hell-or-high-water · 1 year

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The work that Harry and Arnie were doing for Charles had increased. Through him, they had procured weapons which they were instructed to use for extortion purposes. The job had become more dangerous, as a gang had formed to try to con Charles out of his wealth.

After a particularly intense evening, Harry and Arnie recovered down at an abandoned venue near the docks where their base was located. Harry had been unusually quiet all day and Arnie had never seen him like this before. He was always the ambitious and driven one, but today he seemed to have lost the spark. "I don't like the way this is escalating," Harry said. "My gut tells me that Charles will want to drag this conflict out further." "So?" Arnie said. "It's not like we have something to say about the matter." “I hate that we're just his simple foot soldiers", said Harry with a bitter tone in his voice. "It's getting dangerous and we'll be the ones paying the price. It's only a matter of time before he asks us to get rid of somebody.”

"You, if anyone, should really be careful," he continued. “You and Frances are not the best at keeping your relationship in the dark, it's been obvious to both me and Nina for a while now." “What do you mean?” Arnie said, his heart suddenly beating faster. "Don't be daft," said Harry. “If I were you I would tread lightly. Especially since we work so closely together with Charles. Who knows what he would do if he found out you're going behind his back?”

"I'll keep that in mind," said Arnie, taking a drag from his cigarette.

Harry's words worried him. If he had discovered their relationship so easily, what stopped Charles from doing the same? He was going to have to do something about this. The easiest solution would be to stop seeing Frances and Edwin altogether, but that was also what he dreaded the most.

#harry fernsby #arnie murdoch #1920s #fernsby legacy #ts4 legacy #ts4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 decades challenge #sims 4 historical #tw: weapons #tw: guns

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ivory--raven · 4 months

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nother femslash feb angelfish thingy for day 2, spring. Jeanne d'Arc discussed.

Spring is in the air. Dagon can smell it, its lightness chasing the harsh winter away. There is supposedly a devil girl in France, a girl possessed, powerful. No such thing was authorized by Hell, so either there are rogue demons who Dagon will drag down to be reprimanded or it’s the humans making things up. If it is, it’s Dagon’s job to see if it can be spun into benefiting Hell.

“Crowley could do it, he’s in the area,” she’d suggested, but Beelzebub hadn’t seen it that way.

“You’ll handle this. Crowley doesn’t have the authority over other demons you do.”

The appeal to her power got her, and so here she is. It’s chilly in Blois, and her hose don’t do much to keep her legs warm. Soldiers are gathered in the city, watching her from where they are gathered in groups. With the sumptuous fabrics she’s chosen to wear, she looks like a nobleman.

“Where is your leader?” she asks one such group.

They look at each other and mutter. “The Baron de Rais is over that way, there is his tent,” says one. She nods at them and sets off.

There is nothing unusual or demonic about the Baron de Rais. She gives him a false name, that of a mortal man, and he assumes she is a high-ranking ally.

“You must have come to see the Maid,” he says.

“I have,” she agrees. Will this be the possessed girl she was sent here for?

“I’m afraid I let you down,” says the Baron. “She has yet to arrive.”

“I can wait,” says Dagon. And wait she does.

It is a few days later that the Maid arrives. When she does, Dagon knows immediately this was a false alarm. There are no demons in her or with her, she is what she looks like: a girl in armour. A warrior.

Dagon has no sooner determined the girl isn’t any of her business and she’ll report back that it’s nothing when there is a blur of white and gold and she’s being pinned against a wall, a spear held above her head.

“Leave her alone,” snarls the archangel Michael. Michael. She is a vision in her armour, with her spear. She is somehow lovelier than the last time she saw her. She is beautiful. She is terrifying.

“She’s yours?”

Michael’s face is red with rage. Dagon is tempted to call it wrath. There’s a flash in her bright eyes, recognition, but it doesn’t stop her. “You don’t fool me. You have come here to stop her. I won’t let you!”

“Don’t even know who she is!” she gasps.

Michael pulls away slightly, scanning Dagon’s face. “You don’t know Jeanne?”

“Is that her name? The Maid?”

Michael softens. “Jeanne is a wonderful girl. She is a fighter. A leader.”

Like Michael herself, Dagon thinks, but what she says is “supposedly she’s possessed.”

Michael frowns. “She is not. She just had to prove that, a horrible invasive test!”

“I’ll just report her innocence, and that there are no demons here mucking about.”

“No demons here?” questions Michael.

Dagon shrugs. “Not at the moment.”

“Will there be?”

“I don’t plan to recommend it,” she says. “But it’s really not my department.”

Michael nods. It’s sweet, Dagon thinks, Michael looking out for this girl. Perhaps she’ll keep an ear out.

#femslashfeb2024 #angelfish #ineffable administrators

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twilightmalachite · 7 months

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Raison d’être - Epilogue 2

Author: Akira

Characters: Shu, Mika

Translator: Mika Enstars

"Mhm. It appears my grandfather started to play little games while he was studying in Paris."

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Season: Spring

Location: Apartment in France

Mika: Right. And when studyin’ abroad, Grandfather was apart from his family, the source of such oppression. He no longer had t’hide “that side” of him—

Shu: Mhm. It appears my grandfather started to play little games while he was studying in Paris.

In other words, he’d dress in women’s clothing, and become “MADEMOISELLE”

Mika: That’s what the dollmaker in Raison d’être, “Ore”, did.

But truth is, it was Grandfather who’d dress in women’s clothing and become a girl.

Shu: Yes. And one day, while Grandfather was enjoying his time, relieving stress in this way, he comes upon a mysterious house surrounded by roses within the forest.

In the story, it was made into a mansion within the city, for the sake of appearances and storytelling, but in reality it was just a small cabin in the woods.

Living there was an unusual woman who had been laboriously creating dolls as a hobby, away from the public eye.

Mika: Mhm, that dollmaker also really existed!

Shu: However, it appears she and Grandfather did not develop a romantic relationship, like in the story.

Because, at that time, Grandfather had become a woman—he had become “MADEMOISELLE”.

Mika: Right. That dollmaker lady and Grandfather—“MADEMOISELLE”, became close as “friends of the same sex”.

Mika: “I love you”.

But that “love” was nothing more than simple fondness towards another friend.

Shu: Incidentally, this dollmaker lady who was Grandfather’s close friend, is the landlady of the house I am currently boarding at.

Mika: Ah, right, ‘course she’d still be alive!

Shu: Mhm. She had made her dolls for herself, but Grandfather shamelessly put a price on them and bought them for a high sum—

And ever since, she lost all inspiration and ceased making dolls.

Mika: Grandfather told me ‘bout that in detail, while he was Raffaello-san. From the way he spoke of it, it sounds like he really regrets it…

Shu: He tarnished something important to his close friend, and he mourned that. It’s a shame and disgrace that lasts a lifetime.

Well, for the landlady herself, it was the trigger that got her to stop living an isolated life. Since got a typical job, got married, began a family, and continues to live a peaceful life—

If anything, according to her, she is grateful towards Grandfather.

But, perhaps those words were spoken out of consideration for me. The truth is, my grandfather was guilty in the respect that he closed off the future of an artist.

It appears my grandfather is very remorseful for what he’s done, and this building among others was financed and built by him. He even went out of the way to prepare an unused atelier—

Mika: Hehe, Grandfather’s still hung up on yer landlady’s work, huh?

Shu: He must have really adored it. Nevertheless, it appears that my landlady never created another work of art.

Her final work was of Grandfather dressed in women’s clothes from the time—that “MADEMOISELLE” doll.

My grandfather led a double life, studying and working as himself, while also performing as “MADEMOISELLE”, dressed in women’s clothes.

However, he didn’t want his family to know about that fact.

It was for that purpose that he had a doll made that looked exactly like himself, to function as an alibi.

One that would sit by the window of the house and be witnessed by himself.

So that the truth that he and that beautiful girl—“MADEMOISELLE”, were the same person, could avoid being found out.

Mika: Mhm. It’s a doll, so of course it wouldn’t age.

Shu: Yes. That’s the logic behind there being photographs and such from back then pasted within the diary, with “MADEMOISELLE” and my grandfather side by side.

My grandfather was “MADEMOISELLE”, but there was also a doll that looked just like him.

So it was possible for them to both be in a photograph at the same time.

All the mysteries are solved.

The reason my grandfather held this Funeral Contest farce can be deduced if you know the circumstances behind it.

At the time, Grandfather had no choice but to separate an important part of himself due to the times and his family circumstance—

I suppose he wanted to retrieve this nameless girl “MADEMOISELLE”, both himself and his imaginary close friend, back into his soul.

To achieve that, he used a diary with a hidden significance and the terminal Mr. Raffaello to guide us to the ‘truth”.

Mika: Even though he could’a just told us normally. Grandfather really is playful, huh?

Shu: He must have already gone mad then, mad. In the end, we’re just here to play along to this old man’s games.

No, rather, he knew if it were me, I would be able to arrive upon the “truth” and fulfill his wishes without becoming disillusioned upon its discovery—I suppose he trusted me with that.

Mika: Right. That’s why Grandfather chose Oshi-san’s—our proposal for the Funeral Contest, didn’t he?

Mika: In the end, while “Boku” and “Ore” never got together in the story…

Upon the stage, a moment becomes eternity. Those two will be in love with each other for eternity within the memories of those who watched—They shall continue t’exist with those same feelings.

A nameless girl, who was forgotten t’exist, can spend eternity in the heaven that is that stage. Together with her favorite “Boku”, Grandfather.

It ended the same as the reality, as a tragedy. But at the very least, we don’t have t’pretend those happy days never happened.

We won’t let that happen.

Understandin’ our feelings, Grandfather was satisfied too.

[ ☆ ]

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#raison d’être #raison d'etre #mika kagehira #shu itsuki #event #translation

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