#I read a paragraph and could see it and therefore laughed. we are not doing this on a Wednesday morning however

[spiribia]

“baru cormorant author cites a homestuck fanfiction as having inspired their writing style” OK. (unknown tally somewhere in the universe ticks up by 1)

[f0xgl0v3]

Old books And Ye olde Camp Jupiter

NOTE!! The actual stuff about PJO is about 5 paragraphs in; so if you want to slip my bad rambling about two very old epics, I have it headed)

I’ve been reading the Iliad (just finished it, still try to spell it with two L’s 😎) and I’m working on the first books of the Odyssey (with Telemachus doing his thing) and I’ll say; first it was an actual joy, a riot, a rollercoaster, to read the Iliad. There has been very few books where I’ve laughed as much in character dialogue interactions (that sounds so funky but I genuinely did giggle about it) and it was just so silly goofy and fun, and I have it annotated so I can start talking about certain things

And I’ve just started the Odyssey; which it certainly does feel like a sequel (that sounds mean, but it feels the same way that reading daughter of the moon goddess and then heart of the sun warrior; amazing books by the way, go pick them up)

And it’s really fun to consume some version of the original stories and Epics and comparing it to media created with it (I say that like I’ll talk about more than just PJO and the literary choices Rick made on how to interpret and use the gods and stuff. I still am getting around to reading TSOA but it scares me man)

But, I really don’t know what I’m trying to get at

Just that the books are fun and it is generally super fun and interesting to read and even though the first few books of the Odyssey are feeling a bit like a Jason or Piper chapter; I’m pushing through to read Odysseus and his journey; and so I can eventually get to the Aeneid and annoy my friends even more with fun things about Rome and giggle in my classes;

Where the Pjo starts)

Along with that! I’d want to talk more about pre-modern CHB and CJ; seeing as my history class is going through the slog that is colonial history currently and I need someway to stimulate my brain other than writing facts about Mainz Gladius while people are talking about the Salem Witch Trials (my class is feral and gross and they have a big lack of nuance and maturity to think and process the events without being absolute idiots- that sounds mean but they’re annoying and I need to vent)

But I’d like to say there are things we know basically about sides that Greeks and Romans sided on; and because I apparently allergic to discussing Greek demigods at the moment, I’m listing Rome :3

We know that in PJO Roman demigods and the Roman side tends to want to side with rising empires almost inherently; or just rising… things. *cough, cough, the Confederacy, cough, cough*. But aside from that; we can base the ideas that,

1) we can probably confirm that there was a drop in Greco-Roman demigod participation in wars out of the Americas after it (the pantheon and the majority of the demigod groups) moved; though we can probably confirm until after North America became a Economic powerhouse that if following Riordanverse canon; that the Gods moved to New York (if we want to push it, they probably were in Massachusetts in the late 1600s the earliest in America; though I’d say they hadn’t moved until America started like doing good in like what post WII? I think-?)

*A note that is for my Re-imagining, I am seriously considering not moving Pantheons from their native lands; since that leaves a kind of bad taste in my mouth and it makes the Gods and Olympus almost… too accessible for demigods; in the most likely case I’ll pull the Greek Pantheon back onto Olympus in Greece (and I will probably make a point that American demigods can and usually when they need to get to Olympus on their own, can access Olympus through the Olympic mountain range in Washington; I am in Washington, and therefore biased, along with that being the OLYMPIC mountain ranges, I mean, it’s RIGHT THERE guys; how could I not capitalize.) and I might possible move CJ over to being in Italy (though I like the Idea of having CJ just being right there in the Bay Area; before reading tLO and just hearing about them, I thought they were located in Italy, and this all depends on what I do once I start storyboarding Re-imagined) anyway, back on topic,

2) that I’d assume for the most part, as we see that New Rome likes setting Camps up 1) in the west, and 2) near rivers (and we can probably infer it would be somewhat closer to the Equator, or a warmer area). That I think the most likely place that in the Colonial Americas, Romans settled could be,

(This is all using names from Colonial times of Colonies)

A) in British Honduras (Belize); along the Belize river. As we know that Romans supported the British during the revolutionary war, it follows my criteria of being in a warmer climate, and near a river; though it isn’t exactly west, though in proportion to where the early Greek settlers would be, it certainly works, but it puts them far from the revolutionary and just USA so probably not; it’s the middle choice.

B) in New Spain (specifically the portion of California); along the Sacramento River. As Spain was a rising empire at some moment, it is along a river, warm climate, and certainly west. The fact that the Romans would have to be in American territory to still fight in the civil war; so this would be one of my more outlandish concepts.

C) in North Carolina (or just Carolina depending on the time) along the Cape Fear river. This puts them along a river, warm climate, not west but it would be in the direct opposite (as I’d put Greek demigods hiding out amongst the northern colonies or the middle colonies even) and it puts them both in a heavily loyalist (or a colony that supported being part of the British empire) colony; where it would be fitting for them to fight on the side of the Brits, AND a colony that would be in the Confederacy; meaning that they would be in prime position for both wars; I am quite proud of this, and if I needed to put a direct town as example for an area for Romans; I’d say Fayetteville, I’d put the legions settlement across from Fayetteville- in that strip of land between the main Cape Fear river and the river breaking off called south river I think. I am very proud of this one

But yeah! This post originally was going to be about the Iliad and the Odyssey; but I got side-tracked so there are some of my Colonial New Rome ideas, uh, I hope people see the sort of effort I put in for figuring out geological locations for ideas of Camp Jupiter; I might make a post of just a timeline for where Camp has been located through the years- it’s a fun little thought experiment, id also say pre- really big colonialism of the Americas, that the Romans temporarily were first with Spain (I didn’t chose Portugal despite the fact that during that time they had the whole seafaring empire thing, but the Greeks would totally be supporting them) then the Romans go with the British Empire, briefly go down to the confederacy, then stick with America.

[sparkling-pink-lemonade]

Ok, gotta give my steak in the whole recent drama regarding AO3 and irl politics. Voicing my thoughts on a post made by the republican organization "Children and Screens".

(discussions of proship/profic vs anti ideology, censorship, media "brainwashing" children, what "fiction does not affect reality on a 1:1 scale" means to me, social analysis/commentary, long post)

There is no "TLDR", so if you struggle with large paragraphs, I highly suggest using a screen reader.

So first things first, if you are unaware of the recent drama about the republican politician, Audrey, running to join the OTW board, and what that means, I'd suggest looking it up for details. Other people said it better than I could. But the idea is that she could potentially make AO3 go down the same rabbit hole as FF.net. And she is the lead of "Children and Screens", an organization that self proclaims advocacy for the safety of children regarding media consumption.

While I don't use the toxic cesspool that is Twitter, I've been made aware of a post CaS has made, featured below. (Alt text for image available)

After reading the snippet, I had to fucking LAUGH at the irony before groaning at the hypocrisy. And by that, I don't mean the hypocrisy of CaS. More so the implications regarding the rampancy of antis and purity culture in social media within these past few years.

Proship is the belief that all fiction has a right to exist and be shared, so long as proper warnings are given. Anything portrayed within a fictional setting has no direct impact on reality, and thus does not portray what is considered okay in real life. Because of that, harassing others for the media they create is never okay. If you don't like something, block it and move on.

Antis believe that fiction they find morally reprehensible is a direct portrayal of the author's beliefs, and is very dangerous to share in any capacity as it may traumatize others, or lead to the normalization of dangerous behavior in real life. Therefor it's not only okay, but encouraged to seek out and harass creators of problematic fiction in hopes to either get them to see the error of their ways, or delete their creations and leave the platform entirely, thus making the internet a "safer" place.

Both are centered on the idea of "does fiction affect reality?"

And as a proshipper, I'm of the stance that fiction does not affect reality on a 1:1 scale. What does that mean?

Well, let's say that the antis are right, and fiction has a major impact on reality. Upon the knowledge that this quote CaS provides up, provides a HUGE sense of irony. Why? Because the post is literally describing the behavior of anti culture. From a very young age (because we all know that most kids have seen a pg 13 movie before they turned 13, especially with how huge the superhero genre is), these people have been brainwashed by media to engage in violent behaviors in the name of morality.

If most of the violence portrayed in pg 13 media is perpetuated by the heroes, and excused away with "it's okay when the heroes do it, because they are morally superior, so their actions are justified." Then because the violence isn't excessively gory and bloody, kids don't have to contemplate whether or not the heroes used excessive force or have gone too far to subdue the villain.

So when antis grow up on these violent pieces of fiction, it has normalized the idea that it is okay for them to attack those "nasty proshippers" because the media they made is morally bad. So by using extreme harassment, violent threats, and other excessive means to bully someone, they are protecting the greater good, while being free from seeing the gruesome consequences of their actions on the other side of the screen.

It's so fucking ironic, because this sense of justice they have is such self centered moral superiority. If you ask an anti what media is considered okay, and what is problematic, while you will get inconsistent answers, for the most part there will be a similar theme. Anything sexual or romantic in nature that could be considered unhealthy or dangerous if acted upon in real life, is harmful and evil. But any acts of violence or aggression that could be considered unhealthy or dangerous if acted upon in real life, well clearly everyone knows that stuff isn't okay IRL, people are nuanced enough to enjoy these themes in fiction without condoning the real world equivalent.

If these people are right about problematic behavior in media influencing young audience members, while claiming that media doesn't encourage violence in its audience members since it doesn't "glorify it", it only proves that they are ignorant to how media has irreversibly "brainwashed" them like they so claim is possible.

But if we acknowledge that fiction doesn't affect reality on a 1:1 scale, then what? If it isn't all the "gross" media that makes and exposes deviants and sexual offenders, if it isn't all the "violent" media that makes people into self righteous harassers, then what is it?

It's the other people in our life. Our role models, our friends. And the chain that forms from it. You're a kid, and you never heard what Call of Duty was. What you do know is that your dear parents you love have greatly expressed that gun violence is bad. Even holding one is horrible because you are now in possession of a weapon that can take a human life, and one accident is all it takes for you to be a murderer. You should never even think about wanting to hold a gun because that is the first step to something going horribly wrong. Your friend at school hasn't had any sort of lecture like that before, they know guns are dangerous obviously, so as long as they aren't actively using a real gun against other people, no harm is being done. So when their favorite youtuber starts showing gameplay of Call of Duty, they end up loving the game, and are excited to tell you about it the next day. When they tell you all about it, you think of what your parents have said, and you are horrified your friend could do something as horrible as like a game that has guns in it. You cut them off, and tell your other friends. Your other friends really admire and respect you, and with no previous thought on the matter, they take your side. They spread it to their friends and siblings, and so on and so forth. Until many who weren't even aware or had any major opinions of their own are now against the idea of first person shooters existing.

Of course the example I used is extreme. No one but pearl clutching parents and their five year olds who repeat what they say are gonna be preaching that first person shooters are turning kids into murderers.

But when it comes to fiction, the more controversial the subject is, the more shock value it has, the more likely that scenario above is. And it's even worse now that the internet is more and more accessible to the entire world, including children who don't have any positive role models in their life. They are consuming large amounts of media, and most of their exposure is from online friends and influencers who spread that media, and how their role models interact with that media. Therefor it's not fiction itself that affects reality, it's how people choose to interact with it.

And reality check... you know who is exposing all this "disgusting" problematic stuff to kids? Is it the people who make it and share it in a positive manner with proper warnings and disclaimers so no one can accidentally see it? Or is it the people who saw the content anyways, and became so disgusted that they feel the need to spread it around so that everyone they know is aware of how awful this person and the fiction they create is?

Fiction only affects reality if people make a big enough deal out of it. With the opinions of a few people being mutilated, morphed, and added upon as it spreads in a grotesque game of internet telephone.

[unabashegirl]

Different (2) SNIPPET

DISCLAIMER: the following is a short paragraph of the second chapter of Different. Only available on PATREON.

Harry frowned, reading over the same assignment for what felt like the hundredth time in the last thirty minutes. This had been happening a lot lately. She had been taking over his mind. He felt incompetent since that night. He hadn’t been able to study or finish any assignment without thinking of her.

“Harry!” Mitch barged into the quiet library. Some laughed at him, whilst others shushed him.

“Quiet, please! Mr. Styles, please remove yourself and your friend, if you can’t keep your friend in order” Harry frowned and began gathering his books and notes. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. Therefore, he kept his head down as he exited the room, while Mitch followed closely behind.

“What do you want?!” Harry condemned as he made his way toward his dorm in search of some quietness.

“She is playing. Today” Mitch almost yelled, wearing a big smile. “She is one of the captains of the soccer team” Harry held his breath as he listened to the news. He felt his hands getting damp and moist. The mere thought of her being so close to her made him nervous.

“So?” He brushed it off, trying his best to act like he didn’t care or had been thinking about her the last couple of days. “What do you want me to do?”

“We have to go to the game and see her, fucktard” He insisted as they left the building. “Come on! I saw the way you looked at her! I know you like her”.

“She has a boyfriend!” Harry snapped back.

“Who?” Mitch stopped him, “That Brian guy?” Mitch laughed heavily, throwing his head back, only irritating Harry even more... THE REST CAN BE FOUND ON MY PATREON.

[yuseonghqs]

🌊 GREETINGS FROM YUSEONG BAY !

JUST LANDED: AHN, KIHA. / / FROM: SOUTH KOREA. / / AGE: 27.

–––– ( FOLLOW ? ) / / ( READ MORE ? ) / / ( MAILBOX ? )

hey, grandpa,

how are things there in the farm? are the tangerines growing well this season too? is kihwan hyung helping properly? we all know he means well but it isn't just because he makes grandma laugh a lot that you should let him get away with his pranks, let kijun hyung scold him properly if you can't do it; and talking about which, how is kijun hyung? is he still having trouble trying to flirt with mrs. kim's granddaughter? i always try to ask him but he refuses to tell me about it. i don't know if it's because he knows i'll tease him about wanting nephews and/or nieces or if it's because he's embarrassed about making no progress because of how he always looks like he's in a bad mood and because he knows i'll nag him about it.

do you think if i write a song for him to serenade her he'll do it? genuine question, hehe.

i know you're curious about the reason why i'm sending you this letter when we've talked on the phone just a couple of days ago or how i could just make another call or ask kijun hyung or kihwan hyung to help set up a video call but i might've done something that makes me a little embarrassed to see you or hear your voice. your favorite grandson might've done something disappointing. shocking, right? i know that you're probably reading this and shaking your head because how could your baby kiki do something to disappoint you, huh?

( kiha heaves a sigh, staring at the paper for a long pause while fidgeting with the pen in his hand. he ponders if he should start a whole new letter, too tempted to cross out all of that last sentence — or even the whole paragraph — and also because now he feels stuck, unsure how to continue writing the rest of it; perhaps because it finally got to the whole reason why he was contacting his grandfather this way or simply because he's still struggling to organize his own thoughts and feelings. kiha feels a ghost pain on the knuckles of his right hand. )

grandpa, have you ever felt like you made a mistake but only realized it too late? or that you told a lie that started so small that it felt like it was the truth and then it just kept growing and growing until it became too big but by then everything else was already ruined so now you have no choice but to cling to it for dear life? because if you admit that it was a lie— that it was a mistake then it feels like all the things that you did, everything you sacrificed was in vain? was it? were all the parts of myself that i threw away for the sake of my dream in vain? were the tears that i swallowed down, all the pain and burden that i endured on my own were worth nothing in the end? was music even

( kiha lets out another sigh, one as shaky as his hands suddenly are while he thinks about his career— about fourteen years old kiha going to seoul to chase his big dreams, how he failed once but then tried again; how he thought this time it'd work— how he was determined that this group would work; how he turned twi5t into his whole world because he was the leader and therefore their failure was on his shoulders as the leader; he thinks about how he watched everything fall apart, crumble into pieces that could never be put together, not when they were barely holding it together anyway. then he remembers all the times that he bowed his head and was the target of scoldings for mistakes that weren't his own; then he remembers a taunting smile and even more malicious words spoken just because they knew that they'd trigger him into breaking their nose. )

i'm sure you already heard about the news by now and the rumors that followed right after, but i also know that you'll respect my time and wait for me to bring it up first, that you and grandma and kijun hyung and kihwan hyung will always want to know my side of the story before anything else and i'm very grateful for it, i really am.

( "even if i don't deserve it." kiha comments under his breath, but keeps that part out of the letter. )i promise i'll explain everything and apologize properly, but would you let me be selfish one more time? i was thinking that this might be a good time to spend some time in yuseong bay again, help you and grandma and my brothers too, maybe get kihwan hyung to behave and kijun hyung to get a date with mrs. kim's granddaughter; but i also honestly hope that i'll help myself there too, that i'll turn back into the grandson that always brought you nothing but pride and joy. ps: i'll bring a friend with me as well. i won't even ask if it's ok because you probably know who it is anyway and are already telling grandma to prepare the guest room and that extra fruits basket, aren't you? if i didn't know any better, i'd say that he was your grandson not me.

hope to see you soon.

from your second favorite grandson,

ahn kiha.   

[plantdad-dante]

Book #105 - An Abundance Of Katherines by John Green

(first time read; a post sort of in defense of yelling)

HUMANS AREN'T MATH, FOR FUCKS SAKE, YOU CHILD, YOU BAFFOON, YOU STUPID KNOW-IT-ALL

I hated reading this book. I was yelling at it pretty much every page, mostly at Colin, second-most at the narrator. It was absolutely atrocious and there are a million things wrong with it that I would love to list and take apart if y'all have a few spare hours to - okay, yeah, no, that's cool, I get that.

Anyway, I didn't have a bad time? The fact that I have a thousand points to complain about doesn't mean that I didn't enjoy myself. For one, this is the first John Green romance that I actually believed to be a genuine romance. Sometimes. For a select few paragraphs. And I enjoyed yelling at it. The stuff that bothered me was fun to yell at. I hated reading it, but that didn't make the experience a miserable one.

I had a blast complaining, is my point.

The rest of this post, therefore, is composed of my tiniest niggle, my smallest nit-pick, because I did find it hilarious and have an overwhelming need to share.

So early on Lindsey and Colin are having this conversation and they both speak German for like a sentence or two. And it could just be a typo, but since a later German phrase also didn't get capitalized, I want to count this as a translation mistake. So. In German, there is a formal you: Sie. See how it's capitalized? Well, if you don't do that (so: sie), then you get either the German she (3rd person singular, female), or the German plural they (incidentally, German doesn't have singular they and I will die mad about it). The formal you is grammatically considered a plural form and thus gets used exactly like 3rd person plural - so literally the only difference between those two is capitalization. Now, three guesses as to what this book fails to do.

Anyway, that's why the translation footnotes are good, because I was hella confused as to what Lindsey was on about when she said "My mom thinks that they are good for me.", until I read the footnote and started cackling.

Also, this gets very nitpicky, since both of these characters have presumably only learned German in school, but like....  The thought of two awkward teenagers siezing each other has me rolling on the floor laughing. There has never been anything more hilarious. Comedy is over, we can stop now, pack it up. Adieu.

[bloodykora]

Shark Week

TW: Reader is female I apologize, all of my other writings are gender neutral. I modeled the villain after the weird fish man in What Lies Below.

MBAV Masterlist

Summary: Reader is on their period, Rory's acting weird and then an evil fish man appears.

Day 1:

“You smell amazing today.” Rory says over my shoulder, I jump a bit.

“Jesus Rory. You would think I’d know by now not to turn my back when I’m at my locker.” I joke, stacking my books into my arm and closing my locker.

“You could never see ninja Rory coming.” He says, going into a “ninja” pose. I laugh a bit as we start walking.

“I mean with your uh, “special abilities” I probably wouldn’t see you.”

“I wouldn’t need them to get you, just my usual sneaky self would.” I shake my head in amusement at his words, my brain goes over what Rory said before.

“I smell amazing?” I question looking over at him, he nods quickly.

“Mhmm. Like a delicious steak dinner.” He explains while licking his lips.

“All I did was change my perfume, and it's a fruity scent. I’m not sure why I would smell like that to you.” Rory’s grin grows looking at my confusion then gets distracted and runs off down the hall.

Day 2:

We were all sitting for lunch, Erica and Sarah sharing a bag of chips. Ethan gnawing on some carrots, Benny devouring his sandwich and Rory munching on crackers. I was finishing my granola bar, Benny on a rant about how his science teacher had to be a lizard person.

“Benny, the reason you failed is because you wrote only 2 paragraphs and then tried to use a spell to do your homework.” Ethan responds, shooting down Benny’s theory.

“Still though, she has been acting weird. On another note, y/n can I please get your biology notes?” Benny pleads to me, I shake my head quickly.

“No! I worked hard on my labs, you have to do them yourself.” I say, Benny hangs his head back sighing.

“I’m in agony!” He cries, throwing his arms up.

“Oh, please you will survive.” Sarah says, wiping her hands off. The conversation goes on until the end of lunch, Sarah and Erica leaving earlier with Ethan trailing behind them. I was picking up with Benny, Rory on a tangent about a zombie game he just bought.

“Honestly, the chainsaw is a cool weapon but has such terrible stats. You might as well just give up the dream and use the boring machete.” Benny nodded along with him, then I felt it come up. A high pitched sneeze coming out of my body.

“Bless me.” I whisper out, wiping my nose a bit.

“I never knew your voice could go that high.” Benny chuckles out.

“Yeah, I normally try to hold them in.” I comment, putting my containers back into my bag.

“Rory.” Benny says, looking over at the blond boy. No response, just eyes staring blankly down at the table.

“Roryy.” Benny tries again, walking up to him. Poking Rory in the arm, his head snaps up.

“You okay buddy?” I ask, walking closer to him. His eyes go between me and Benny.

“I’m good, I have to go!” He rushes out, grabbing his bag and sprinting away.

Day 3:

We were both in english, finishing up the book that had been assigned for a report. The class was divided into pairs for ‘intellectual conversation’ about the book. I was with Rory, the teacher aware anyone else would complain if they were paired with him. Rory’s usual banter was non-existent therefore my headphones were on while I was finishing up reading. I could see Rory out of the corner of my eye, readjusting his seating position every minute or so. He’s been on the same page for over 5 minutes, I take out one of my earbuds.

“You good?” I whisper to him, he glances over and then nods. Clearly not mentally in this existence.

“Are you sure? We can talk about the book or whatever, I’m ahead in the book so you’re not putting me behind.” I explain, trying to pull something out.

“I’m okay.” His voice is soft and light.

“I just can’t focus.” He adds at the end.

“Is there anything I could do to help?” I ask, he simply shakes his head. I let out a quiet sigh before putting my earbud back in. We didn’t talk for the rest of class.

Day 4:

I hadn’t seen Rory all day. Well that’s an overstatement, I saw him in english but he sat somewhere different. He hadn’t spoken a single word to me. I was standing with E and B, them talking about their latest monster finding. Apparently, a new neighbour seemed to be an alien fish thing. I was half in the conversation and half out, looking out for Rory’s head.

“Earth to y/n.” Benny says, I look back to the pair.

“Sorry, I’m a bit distracted,” I reply, looking down at my shoes.

“Well, we need to be prepared. Gill man needs to be stopped and you said you were gonna be bait. You need to make sure you know the plan.” Ethan says to me, I nod.

“I’m listening, you’ve repeated it like 6 times. I’m worried about Rory, has he seemed a little bit off to you?” I ask them, both shaking their heads.

“Nope, normal Rory behaviour. Why?” Benny asks.

“He keeps avoiding me, like I did something. Except I don’t know what I did so I don’t know how to fix it.” I explain, Ethan shrugs his shoulders.

“You never know what he’s thinking.” E states, trying to make me feel better. Right as he finishes I see the familiar boy turn the corner. Rory looks up making eye contact with me. I smile and wave to him, he turns around and walks away. My hand drops, eyes looking down in sadness.

“Okay for Rory that was weird.” Ethan whispers to Benny.

“He will come back around, he always does.” Benny reassures, placing his hand on my shoulder. I nod and turn my attention fully to the plan.

“It doesn’t matter where you run guppy, I’ll find you. I can smell you!” Gill, as we named him yells. The weird alien part of Gill has the sense of smell close to a vampire. It’s why I couldn’t seem to escape him. I turn down an alleyway, hoping to confuse him in the maze of back ways. I turned corner after corner, not paying attention to where I was going, just desperate to get away. I turn another corner, peering back behind to check. By the time I look forward it’s too late, I realize I’m at a dead end. Big garbage tub and a back door were the only things down here, no turns or exits. I hear footsteps now echoing near me. I walk up to the wall beside the huge garbage can and slide down. Bringing my knees up to my chest, now on the ground. Accepting this is where I get caught. The footsteps near, the echo slowly going away as he got closer. He comes into view, I see him begin to walk past the alleyway and then stop. Turning to face down, his eyes meeting mine. My heart dropping, knowing this was the end of the cat and mouse game.

Day 5:

I did listen to the plan. I did exactly as everything was supposed to go and yet here I was. Trying to find a hiding spot from the fish man. I tried to take a shortcut through the woods yet he was still on my metaphorical tail.

“Look who I found, a little guppy all by herself.” He teases, as he starts stalking towards me. I feel tears well up in my eyes, hands clasping my arms tightly. I hear his voice mocking me as he approached. The distance closing to about 2 metres, I could see the details in his face. The difference between mine and his pupils, similar to a cat’s. I shut my eyes waiting for the impending grab.

“Don’t touch her.” A voice says in front of me. I crack my eyes open to see Rory standing over me.

“I found her first.” Gill states, eyes widening at the thought of his prey being taken.

“You think a little baby like you can take me out? I’ll tear you up and take her as my prize.” Fish man says, chest puffing up. Rory lets out a growl, then hiss at the man. He pushes Gill back, turning to me. Kneeling down to my level.

“I got you, no need to be scared. You should close your eyes though.” Tears streaming down my face as I close my eyes once again. Then I hear fighting, huge thud sounds, like someone hitting a wall.

“Why don’t you leave before you get hurt?”

“Why don’t you bite me?” Rory snides, I had never heard this tone from him before.

“You can smell her can’t you? That intoxicating scent-”

“Shut it!” Another thud happens then a huge rip sound comes through the air. I could hear someone gasping for air, then silence as footsteps approached me. I gasp, praying it was Rory's and not his. I feel a hand on my knee and then another one on my face wiping my tears.

“It’s okay, I told you I got it.” His voice soft and delicate, I grabbed his hand.

“How did you find me?” My voice barely coming out.

“B and E told me you ran down into the forest, I followed your scent from there.” He replies sheepishly.

“Do I really smell that bad?” I joke, feeling slightly embarrassed Rory shakes his head quickly in disagreement.

“No! It’s just… well the blood.” The realization hit me, this whole week I had been on my period.

“Normally I can ignore it but this time, it was uh too much.” Rory explains to me, I feel my cheeks flush along with more tears well up.

“I thought I did something that upset you.” Rory’s eyes widen at my words, he pulls me into a hug

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes, his grip tight on me.

“We should get you home. “ He says, breaking away from me.

“I don’t want to be alone, I’m scared.”

“You can come over, we can play games and snack all night if you want!” I giggle while wiping my face, Rory gently helps me up onto my feet.

“Come on, jump on my back.” He says while turning around.

“What if I hurt you?”

“I’ve lifted cars before, ninja Rory is stronger than he looks.”

[ickle-ronniekins]

embrasse moi

request: from nonnie! “please can you do a super competitive fred and reader story and idk do with that what u will I trust your judgement”

pairing: fred x french!slytherin!reader

word count: 1.7k

A/N: i am ~feelin~ this request rn. i know quidditch wasn’t a thing during the triwizard tournament when faux moody was teaching just humor me. didn’t realize how much i need a french speaking fred until i wrote this 😩 also i definitely do not speak french and i've used google translate so i apologize in advance if any phrases are wrong LOL. i'll put the what the translations are supposed to be underneath the paragraphs they appear in and @ the bottom with an asterisk *

warning(s): a curse word (oops sry); ~steam~

tag list: @mintlibri @seppys-return-to-madness @how-do-life-does @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @semmelsemi @laneygthememequeen @snakesonaplane-7 @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @dreamer821 @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @obsessedwithrandomthings @thoseofgreatambition @harrysweasleys @sleep-i-ness @shadowsinger11 @shadychaoticcollection @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @hood-and-horan @letsfightsomeorcs @theweasleysredhair @purpleskiesstorm @hxfflxpxffs @wand3ringr0s3 @finecole @angelinathebook @highly-acidic @purplefragile @90shermione @zreads @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hollands-weasley @andromedaa-tonks @bbystrawberry0421 @princessof-theuniverse @cappsikle @mytreec @imseeinggred @idont-knowrn @flyingserpxnt @auroraboringalis57 @godricsswords @jejegu @annasofiaearlobe @starlightweasley @alwaysasadaesthetic @thisismysketchbook | message me to be added, loves!

“Slytherin wins!”

Fred watched as you threw your beater’s bat into the air while you did backflips on your broomstick in front of all of your teammates. He huffed dramatically; he normally didn’t fancy losing a match to Slytherin, but you showing off was just rubbing salt into the wound.

“Don’t think on it, mate,” George told his twin. He looked absolutely bloody exhausted. Ever since Slytherin had replaced their beaters who had graduated the year before, their team was unstoppable. You sort of stunned the entire school when you arrived at tryouts and crushed it, making the students question why in the bloody hell you hadn’t ever tried out for Quidditch in the first place.

As the Gryffindor team walked sluggishly back toward the changing rooms, the vile Slytherin team captain did not hold back from overly-complimenting his team, therefore firing shots in the Gryffindors’ direction.

“Never seen a more brilliant beater before,”

Fred rolled his eyes noticeably. As your teammates patted you on the back, Fred just scoffed loudly, hoping to grab your attention. When he saw that he had, he turned to George and Harry and said, “She wasn’t that brilliant.” George just shut his eyes and shook his head, sick of Fred’s constant complaining.

“Aw -- vous vous sentez mal, Fred? Ne sois pas si mauvais perdant.”

          ↳ “Are you feeling bad, Fred? Don’t be such a sore loser.”

You earned yourself another eye roll for that one.

“Speak bloody English, would you woman?” he said angrily.

You pursed your lips dramatically in his direction. If he hadn’t been so pissed off, he would’ve noticed how his heart rate had seemed to increase at the fluttering of your eyelashes as you winked at him. Except he’d always been too focused trying to one-up you to notice such things. “Better luck next time, Weasley.”

It wasn’t just Quidditch. It was everything. Charms, incantations, exploding snap games, hexes -- even things Fred absolutely loathed doing, like stupid readings in Divination. It had all started back in your first year, when you were able to kick off the ground first in your flying lesson; you were a Muggleborn and had no idea how to fly. This annoyed Fred to no end, because he’d been flying since he could walk! And ever since, you two fell into this intense competitive streak, not giving into one another. George sure was over it though. Had been for a long time.

He gently tugged on Fred’s robes to lead him back toward the Gryffindor changing rooms, but it was a lost cause. Fred was already ripping off his uniforms due to pure anguish. George sucked in a deep breath before leaving his brother on the pitch. “Bloody hell, here we go again.”

-- -

The next day, Fred was struggling to get through classes due to his lack of sleep from the night prior, and it didn’t help when he was partnered up with you in Defense Against the Dark Arts in Moody’s attempt to separate him and George. Begrudgingly, his feet carried him over toward your desk where you stood, arms crossed and smirk bright. George on the other hand looked particularly jovial to be very far away from the two of you.

“Professor?”

Moody growled. “Not now, Weasley. Time to practice nonverbal hexes with your partner. No complaints.”

Fred huffed a bit and turned toward you. You cocked your head to the side, “What’s the matter? Scared you won’t be able to out hex me?” You narrowed your eyes at him and deepened your grin.

Fred scoffed. “I can out hex you in my sleep.”

You rolled your eyes and muttered under your breath, “Pauvre, gentil garçon. Tellement naïf.”

          ↳ “Poor, sweet boy. So naive.”

He didn’t even bloody care what you’d said, he was just so ready for this lesson to be over. He positioned himself a few feet away from you and stood in a rather dramatic, annoyed stance, waiting for you to just do your worst, already.

Your eyes seemed to darken with concentration. Fred was hoping that the slight smirk he painted on his face would be enough to distract you, but he was unfortunately proven wrong. Suddenly his knees were reversed and he began to falter on his own two feet. You and a few others surrounding you both, including his own twin, fell into laughter.

“Walk much, Weasley?”

His eyes turned to slits as he reversed the hex back, ignoring the crimson colour flooding his cheeks and the laughs still bouncing around the room. You still wiggled your eyebrows at him as he took his own position, pointing his wand toward you. He really needed to bloody concentrate, but the sing-song sound of your voice as you rattled off phrases in your native tongue sent him spiraling. He focused his thoughts solely on the one word: Titillando. He might’ve been distracted, but still managed to hex you.

Your laughter grew due to the tickling that took you over. You fell to your knees and giggled like a little school girl, grabbing at your arms and legs and back as the tickling sensation only heightened. Fred waltzed over to you, confidence exuding him, and lifted his eyebrows at you. He grinned evilly. “Got you.”

Somehow he found himself centimeters from you. He slowly lifted his wand and reversed the hex, and you were now completely out of breath, staring up at him with beady eyes. He took your hand in a tight grip and pulled you to your feet. He could feel your breath on his neck. “Sanglant brillant,” you managed to say in a breathless whisper.

          ↳ “Bloody brilliant.”

He certainly didn’t need you to translate that one. He wiggled his eyebrows at you and breathed, “Glad you think so.”

Shit. You didn’t realize you’d said it aloud, and you hadn’t managed to realize how close he was to you. You pushed on his chest and walked out of his way, fixing your tie and cardigan before sighing deeply to rid yourself of your flustered feelings. You cleared your throat and said, “Again.”

Cheekiness overtook his expression. “Looking for me to out jinx you again, are we?”

“Just do it, Fred.”

“Why can’t you just finally admit that I’m better than you? Put this whole thing to rest --?”

You cut him off. “Tu n'es pas! You stupid boy --” you wandered toward the entrance of the classroom; you needed some air, he was driving you up a wall. You stepped into the empty corridor. “Don’t let this foolishness go to your head. I’ve always been better, I always will be better.”

          ↳ “You are not!”

Fred laughed. “You’re out of your mind, what on earth --”

“It’s obvious!” you cried, throwing your arms up into the air. You inched forward toward him, and you were able to see the veins in his neck protruding just a bit; you were clearly getting to him. The tips of his ears were bright underneath that red hair of his. “Just admit it to me, Weasley. You can’t handle a girl being better at you -- better at hexes, better at lessons, better at Quidditch. Better at everything.” You stood on the tips of your toes in an attempt copy his stance. “And it’s driving you bloody mad, isn’t it?”

Fred sucked in a very deep breath and clenched his jaw tightly to suppress his anger.

Still, you prodded. “Isn’t it?”

Fred just wanted you to shut up already. So in a moment of fury, he growled and immediately pushed you against the wall and pressed his lips to yours in an attempt to silence you. He felt your shock against him as he parted your lips with his tongue, willing himself to not be distracted by the faint taste of your cherry lip balm. When he was sure you’d be silent, he slowly pulled away from you and let the shock roam through him too.

There was fire in your eyes. You blinked slowly a few times and eyed him up and down, as if trying to make sense of your own thoughts. Fred was sure you were about to deck him for being a right git until you lifted your hand and yanked on his tie and whispered, “Encore. Embrasse moi encore.”

          ↳ “Again. Kiss me again.”

He didn’t need a translator for that, either. He watched you lick your lips before he pressed himself into you again. You both met one another’s hunger with an intensity you couldn’t quite understand, but Fred reckoned this was probably the underlying reason for all of the competition between you two. How could he have possibly missed it all these years?

The idea of heading back inside the classroom for the lesson completely slipped from his mind when you grabbed two fistfuls of his hair in your hands and pressed your chest hard into his. By the muffled sigh you emitted against his mouth, he was sure he was driving you mad, and he was hellbent on getting you to be the first one to break with a moan.

But a low, unamused grunt ripped you apart from one another -- Fred was shocked that something had managed to break the ferocity between you both. You bit down on your bottom lip as you both turned to be face to face with a very disturbed and annoyed looking Mad-Eye, and George cracking up right behind him. You quickly swatted Fred’s hand away from your exposed hipbones, but he was pretty sure Moody had noticed anyway.

“Back inside,” your professor growled simply to both of you. In a lower voice, Mad-Eye continued, “I’ve got to be barking mad -- I did not sign up for this..” George winked at his brother and mouthed something that slightly resembled a Knew it, I bloody knew it, before making his way back into the classroom.

Fred turned back toward you and glanced down at your red and swollen lips. “Ready for me to out hex you again?” he asked with a glint of cheekiness in his voice.

“In your dreams, Fred,” you replied, narrowing your eyes and swatting him across the chest in your usual irritated tone. He was about to drag you back into the classroom but you yanked on his tie once more. The sultriness in your voice that dripped from your mouth made him not want to focus on the lesson at all; he’d rather think about many, many other things instead. “First -- embrasse moi, you prat.”

          ↳ “Kiss me,”

“Mmm,” he replied hungrily, licking his own lips in anticipation of getting you alone later. But he could get you riled once more, right? In more ways than one? He absolutely adored the completely startled and impressed look in your eye when he replied to you in French, “Bien sûr mon amour.”

          ↳ “Of course, my love.”

* vous vous sentez mal, Fred? Ne sois pas si mauvais perdant. - Are you feeling bad, Fred? Don’t be such a sore loser.

* Pauvre, gentil garçon. Tellement naïf - Poor, sweet boy. So naive.

* Sanglant brillant. - Bloody brilliant.

* Tu n'es pas! - You are not!

* Encore. Embrasse moi encore. - Again. Kiss me again.

* Bien sûr mon amour. - Of course, my love.

[wiltingofthewhitelily]

{Hetalia Platonic Ships Week 2021} Day 5: Partners in Crime - Latvia & Moldova

A/N: Submission #5 for @hetaliaplatonicshipsweek!

Sooo I was originally gonna do Sealand and Latvia for this one (or just a submission with these two in general), but then I thought this scenario would be funnier for a reason I'll talk about in the next paragraph sooo yeah. Plus, I like to think that Latvia and Moldova probably grew pretty close to each other during the Soviet Union days, seeing as they were the two "little ones" I suppose. (Although, in general, I do feel like Latvia would've hung around Estonia and Lithuania more, seeing how his age and maturity level are much closer to theirs than to Moldova's. But anyway.) I don't know...I just wanna see more content with these two cuties just being friends with each other ok??

For this one, two of my hcs are joining forces to create one (hopefully) pretty humorous little fic. These hcs are: one, Latvia is a pretty big prankster; and two, Moldova is a goody-two-shoes and is lowkey a tattletale (though not in a malicious way at all; he's just trying to be good). I do honestly really like the end result of this one, though I think I got a little carried away with this story and may have made some of the characters a little ooc in the process, sorry 'bout that lol.

Ok, enough with this long ass author's note and onto the fic-

»»————-　➴　————-««

Latvia raced to the back of a chair, crouching down low and hiding behind it while also trying to hide his intense giggles. He watched as Ukraine went up to the pot in which she'd been cooking some soup—the same soup where Latvia had dumped a spoonful of spicy sauce in beforehand.

The woman did just as the Latvian had wanted her to—she picked up a spoon and dipped it into the pot to do a small taste test. The curly-haired boy bit his lip as he watched. Soon enough, she set the spoon down hurriedly, let out a noise that was halfway between a yelp and a surprised whistle, and shortly after began to cough lightly.

Latvia had to place his face between his knees to silence his laughter, his small body beginning to shake. Any sort of enjoyment he could get in this hell house, he would one hundred percent strive to get—and pulling small pranks like this on all the residents inside of it was just what he needed to accomplish that.

Soon, Latvia heard tiny footsteps and then a voice: "What's wrong, Sestra?" Moldova.

Ukraine let out another whistle and answered, "I don't know, the soup was really spicy for some reason." Latvia almost let out another snort at this, but caught himself just in time.

The teen heard a few more words of soft chatter and then footsteps coming up close behind him. Then, a pause. Latvia could already tell it was Moldova and got a bit nervous. The little boy tended to be, for lack of a better word, a bit of a tattletale—he was afraid the child would somehow find out what he'd done and go rat on him.

Sure enough, Latvia heard Moldova pull the table curtain back and crouch down to Latvia's level. "What are you doing down here?" he immediately asked curiously, sitting down on his knees as well.

Latvia turned to him and put a finger over his lips, trying to tell him to quiet down a little. "I'm hiding."

"Why are you hiding?"

Latvia bit his lip. "I...did something."

"Did what?"

He internally grumbled. The kid wouldn't let up now, would he? Latvia thought it might be a little okay to tell Moldova—he was, admittedly, kind of eager to show off what he'd done, to somebody. Even if it wasn't that big of a prank (especially compared to some of the other masterpieces he'd done in the past), he still thought it was funny. Plus, he could probably easily stop Moldova from tattling—all he figured he'd have to do was give him candy or something. "Okay—I put some spicy sauce in the soup Ukraine was cooking. As a prank." He bit his lip to keep from letting out a big laugh.

Moldova was much less amused—in fact, he looked more confused than anything. "Why?" he asked, brows furrowed.

Latvia didn't really know what to say; he just shrugged. "...Because it's funny."

"But that's bad," the boy pointed out, his tone turning a bit stern.

The teen sighed. "Yeah, I know...but it's funny."

Moldova gave Latvia one more quizzical look before slowly standing back up. "Ses—"

Latvia caught him, pulling him back down and covering his hand over his mouth. "Moldova!" he whisper-scolded through gritted teeth. "No."

Moldova looked over at Latvia, eyes wide. Finally, the teen released his hand from his mouth. "Latvia," he asked, "why did you do that? I only wanted to tell Sestra."

"No!" he responded. "It's a prank—you can't just tell her."

Moldova cocked his head to the side. "A prank?"

"Yeah—it's supposed to be funny."

"Funny?" the little boy asked. "I like funny things. Pranks aren't supposed to be bad though, are they?"

Latvia looked up. "Well, kind of. I'm technically not allowed to pull them—but I do anyway." Despite himself, he giggled a little at this.

Moldova blinked. "Why?"

Latvia placed his palm up to his cheek—this kid really asked a lot of questions, didn't he? "Because it's funny."

"Well, I wanna have fun too." Moldova sat for a few moments, looking down, as if thinking. Then, he pursed his lips and motioned for Latvia to come closer, to which the teen did. "...I kind of wanna try a prank, just a little one," he whispered into his ear. "Not one that's too bad, though."

Latvia contemplated this a bit. It would be fun to have a small partner-in-crime to his mischief—especially one as young as Moldova, whom he could hopefully mold and shape to be his sort of sidekick. He grew a little smirk. "Okay."

Moldova gasped in delight and clapped his hands. "Yay! What should we do first, Latvia?"

Latvia rubbed his chin, before getting a good idea. "I've got it." He grabbed the Moldovan's small sticky hand. "C'mon, let's go."

»»————-　➴　————-««

"Okay, so you have to be very quiet before he comes—got it?"

"Mhm!" Moldova replied obediently, grinning from ear to ear at the older boy.

The two had placed one of Moldova's stuffed bears—the one that said I love you! when the stomach was pressed—on a seat at the dining room table, where Estonia was about to sit, as he was in the kitchen getting a cup of coffee and a newspaper. The hope was that he would be surprised by it and jump out of his seat. Nothing very exciting, Latvia knew that—it was mainly because Moldova had been very picky about what kind of pranks he wanted to pull, as most of the ones Latvia suggested were deemed 'too bad.'

The two boys watched from behind the door in the small office across from the dining room in anticipation. Soon enough, Estonia walked in and was about to sit in the chair he always sat in, the one containing the bear. He flopped his newspaper and prepared to sit down. Once his butt hit the bear, it activated that sickeningly-sweet high-pitched voice: I love you!

Startled, Estonia immediately sprang from his seat, gasping; he spilled his coffee all over the floor and his newspaper tumbled to the ground.

Latvia and Moldova began to cackle at this hilarious sight (still trying to keep their voices down, which was difficult); Latvia held out his hand for a high-five, which Moldova gladly accepted.

Estonia must've heard this, as amidst wallowing in the mess he'd just made, he crept over toward the door of the office, poking his head into it and seeing the two boys. He cocked an eyebrow. "...What are you two doing in here?"

Latvia was about to make up some petty excuse before Moldova spoke first: "Haha! Haha!" he exclaimed, still giggling. "You got pranked!"

Estonia was still a little confused until he realized: they must've set that bear down purposefully on the chair (he already figured Moldova had done it, though he'd thought the little boy had just accidentally left it there after playing with it). He then put his hands on his hips and grew a bit of an angry look on his face—they'd made him spill coffee on the floor and ruined his newspaper, for crying out loud! "Well," the Estonian began, "hate to say this, but you two are gonna be the ones to clean up the coffee."

Latvia had been laughing right along with Moldova, though when he heard Estonia say that he immediately grew a cross look as well. "Aw, no fair!" he argued. "You're the one who spilled the coffee! You clean it up!"

To his surprise, little Moldova backed him up. "Yeah, you clean it up, Estonia!"

Latvia looked down at the small boy and he couldn't help but crack a smile despite himself, thinking it was quite cute how he was mimicking him.

Estonia gave the two an annoyed glare. Latvia backtalking him wasn't really that out of the ordinary, but Moldova? The kid who literally asked every morning if he could take out the trash? Okay, now that was ridiculous. He groaned and, now out of options, he turned around and shouted, "Ukraine!" If there was anyone who would back him up and make the two clean up the mess, it was her.

Latvia clicked his tongue and immediately jumped up to run after Estonia, already complaining. Moldova hurried up and followed him, parroting him again.

Soon enough, the trio had all stormed over to Ukraine, who was sitting in the living room reading a book. She set the book down and got up as she began to hear their complaints, throwing her hands up in the air. "Goodness, what is going on here?" she asked.

Estonia shifted his glasses and began to speak, now gaining his composure and standing up straight (Fake, Latvia thought to himself as he saw this): "Latvia and Moldova tried to pull a prank on me," he began. "They sat one of Moldova's bears down on the chair—you know, the one that Russia bought for him that says I love you when you press on its stomach?—yeah, they sat that one down in the chair and I sat in it; it scared me and I jumped and ended up spilling coffee everywhere." He cleared his throat and concluded, "So they made me spill the coffee, therefore they should clean it up. But they won't."

"Oh, please. We didn't make you spill the coffee," Latvia protested loudly. "That's ridiculous."

Estonia began to argue back with Latvia, before Ukraine stomped her foot lightly and demanded, "Quiet!"

The two teenagers obeyed. Ukraine stood with her hands on her hips then, her face angry as she turned to Estonia. "Latvia and Moldova pulled a prank on you and made you spill a cup of coffee," she repeated crossly. "Yeah, I really believe they did that."

"But the—" Estonia began to say before Ukraine interrupted again.

"They act like they didn't do it," she said. "Especially Moldova. Look at him! How could you blame a little kid for such a thing?"

The group turned their eyes toward the said boy, who had his arms folded, eyes widened, and lips pouted, looking as innocent as ever (even though he'd been a more-than-willing accomplice, of course).

"But!—" Estonia said, before sighing, deciding it was pointless. Then, Ukraine went to the laundry room, picked up a mop and a bucket, walked back, and handed it toward Estonia. The bespectacled blond sighed again, taking it and going into the dining room to clean his mess. All the while Latvia was standing behind them, his hands tightly clamped over his mouth to avoid rolling on the floor in laughter. Moldova stayed just as he was, analyzing this interaction curiously and carefully.

Ukraine stood in the doorway between the living room and the dining room, watching Estonia. In the living room, Moldova watched Latvia closely. "Are you about to laugh?" he asked, tilting his head a little to the side as he looked up at the teen.

Latvia took his hands away for a brief moment, biting his lip, before nodding vigorously.

Moldova paused for a few moments, still staring at Latvia, before asking, "Is it as funny as when you put that spicy sauce in Sestra's soup?"

Moldova had said that loudly, loudly enough for Ukraine herself to hear; the woman turned around slowly, giving Latvia the same look she'd just given Estonia a few minutes prior.

Latvia stared ahead in absolute shock, feelings of dread mixed with anger simmering through him. Oh. My. God. Moldova truly hadn't learned anything, had he?

»»————-　➴　————-««

Soon enough, Latvia was in the dining room alongside Estonia, helping him clean the mess on the floor—it had gotten practically everywhere, apparently (how much coffee did Estonia seriously drink?) and it was very sticky. So, in short, it was not too fun to clean up. There was also the newspaper to worry about, which had its papers scattered all across the floor too.

And where was Moldova at that moment? Sitting at the dining room table, munching on a batch of cookies Ukraine had baked for him and drinking cold milk. A long milk mustache got caught on his top lip more than once, with every time Ukraine quickly dashing over to clean it up with a napkin.

Fun for him, Latvia thought sarcastically as he swept his mop through another stain. Whatever happened to partners in crime? He guessed telling the truth and mint chocolate cookies tasted more appetizing.

[gwyns]

You know what made me realise how hypocritical and dumb the cult truly are? Them shutting down arguments about our hopes of Elain leaving the nc not because we just want to see Elucien but because we want to see Elain HEAL and go out to the world and go on adventures with the band of exiles. And they say Cassian going on for a whole paragraph about how nc black drains the life out of Elain and how Sarah is basically trying to tell us through multiple characters that Elain doesn’t fit in the nc “doesn’t mean anything” when they made a bunch of PowerPoints on shitty sleeping beauty theories based on a pink dress Elain wore and claim Elriel is endgame because she wore a cobolt dress the same color of Azriel’s siphons when they first met. Like I can’t tell if that last one was supposed to be a joke or if they’re actually serious (if they are I don’t know whether to feel sorry for them or laugh at their desperation)

oh but dear anon don't you know it's misogynistic to want a female character to have the space to grow and find her place in the world? no no no! she must at all times be tied to a man somehow otherwise you're taking away her right to choose!!! 😠😤

i love elucien, i ship them not bc they're mates (tho i do like the mate trope so i don't get everyone's "need" for a rejection or whatever) but bc i see the potential they could have together. we saw glimpses of who they truly are in acotar but ever since then they've kinda been beaten down and pushed to the side bc their emotions and suffering aren't as obvious as other characters. people assume they're fine simply bc they don't say otherwise.

acotar elain and lucien are compatible af. both are social beings, elain was literally raised to be the wife of a powerful man so therefore she's good at hosting parties and the like. lucien is an emissary, meaning he has to be good with people for his job to work. he knows how to persuade them and get them to do as he wishes, much like elain.

they're both optimistic and try to see the best in the world, both are the favored child of the parent they're closest to, both have kind hearts but are absolutely snarky assholes underneath it. yes elain too, don't fight me on this. we all know she has a secret side none of her family has seen yet.

as for the lines about elain not fitting in from cassian and nesta's povs.... while i could somewhat understand their reasoning that cassian doesn't know her (even tho he's probably the most aware character in this series. there's countless displays of him being able to read people and giving them exactly what they need), nesta grew up with her. nesta was her closest companion before they were made. nesta would know if her sister doesn't quite fit, even if their relationship is strained.

another point, they say these characters don't know elain but act like feyre does? you really think feyre of all people knows what's best for elain? or that she knows azriel that well after 2 months?? i have to laugh.

sarah isn't some amateur writer, she's published 15 books now, she knows what she's doing when she chooses which words to use. it's not just a "oh teehee this is random and has absolutely no meaning :)" it's her, likely, trying to tell us things about her characters without actually telling us. it's truly not that hard. maybe elain will find her place within the night court but as it stands right now, she's a fish out of water.

ohhh i just know it hurt when sjm shut down their sleeping beauty theories lmao 😭 i will give them this: elain is kind of in a slumber at the moment. she's not truly living, just existing. but elain, someone who up until this point has been characterized as a human flower doesn't need shadows or darkness or death to open up. she needs sunshine. something i almost never see people bring up is how in acowar elain's mind is literally described as a slumbering garden, waiting for light to help it grow. elain is a flower, she needs the light of her mate.

about elain wearing cobalt...... they do realize that vassa wore a cobalt jacket in acosf right? is she his endgame now?? as much as pre-acosf me wanted that, i can accept that that's not the route she's taking lol. not to mention that gwyn wears blue, too. it's not that deep.

[lokismusings]

Russell T Davies on straight actors and gay characters.

I decided to put this here because I post a lot of Hilson stuff. As an actor, this article hit a nerve. However, as a defender of free speech, Davies is allowed to have his opinion without me thinking of him as insensitive. Just like I am allowed to have my own opinion and argument, and ask questions without being labeled “homophobic, intolerant” etc. (that would just make me laugh because have you SEEN my blog? Anyway, I’ve seen a few other websites covering this article. I am also very skeptical of everything I read, including the sources, and I try not to blindly believe everything. That being said, I felt like posting this to get other opinions and ask honest question to help my understanding. If this has already been covered on Tumblr, please feel free to send me the conversations! Some background on me: I graduated with a BA in Theatre and have worked both on and off the stage since I was twelve years old. I have directed plays and an audio play. Given my experience and dedication to my craft, I think my opinion is worth something.

Also, for the sake of this argument, I am leaving trans-actors out because that’s a whole different post. Here is the article:

https://news.sky.com/story/russell-t-davies-straight-actors-should-not-play-gay-characters-12185652

Okay, so first things first, let’s talk about this: “Speaking to the Radio Times, Davies compared a straight actor playing a gay character to black face.” Something that irks me is when one person tries to speak for a whole community and doesn’t reference people from said community who might disagree: whether it’s the LGBTQ+ community, a religious community, medical community, etc. The list goes on. Here, Davies is speaking on behalf of, or speaking for, both the LGBTQ+ community and the black community, is he not? I am genuinely asking because I would like to be more educated on this kind of speech. 

Then Davies says, "I'm not being woke about this... but I feel strongly that if I cast someone in a story, I am casting them to act as a lover, or an enemy, or someone on drugs or a criminal or a saint... they are NOT there to 'act gay' because 'acting gay' is a bunch of codes for a performance.” Does that not discredit his whole statement? If any actor does a caricature version of anything and doesn’t take it seriously or really works to get into the role and the mindset of a character, they’re not a good actor. At least, they’re not an actor that I’d want to hire. Second, by the logic that a straight person shouldn’t play a gay character, should someone without a criminal record not be able to play a criminal character? Before you go off and say “it’s about identity and sexuality, and playing a criminal is about the choice to break the law” or other arguments, I hear you. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the experience. How can an actor who has never committed a crime play a criminal character authentically? They do their research: reading, interviewing, etc. I’m not saying that an actor with a few minor marks on his record shouldn’t be considered for the same role. I’m saying that in an audition setting, if both of these actors were auditing for the role and the non-criminal-record actor just happened to do a better job and fit what the director and/or writer wanted, is that a mark against the criminal-record-actor? Maybe personally because we don’t know what the director is thinking. But chances are, it’s not a mark against the other actor. The other one just happened to have a better audition. Or, a major factor when considering casting, said actor was easy to work with--I’ve seen a lot of talented actors lose a lot of roles because of their inability to take criticism or notes. 

Plus, the whole “Breaking Bad” series?? I highly doubt the main actors were meth-making drug-lords. Or, a better example, “The Wire?” In that show, we see the constant battle and deals between drug-lords and cops. 

Another point I’d like to make:  “...is a bunch of codes for a performance.” That’s exactly right. The audience doesn’t want to know an actor is “performing.” We know that going in, with what is called “suspension of disbelief.” We know the whole show is a performance, but we also expect the actors to be truthful (unless it’s a comedy/farce, but again, that’s a different argument). 

Was it bad that, before 2020, some main characters in TV shows were portrayed as straight but the writers ended up “queer-baiting?” I am referring, of course, to House, M.D. (If you follow this blog, you’ll understand.) But I am also referring to the BBC Sherlock Holmes series. Yes, both pairs of characters (House and Wilson; Holmes and Watson) are assumed to be straight. However, some episodes allude that there could also be something more there. Even the actors have said in various interviews that they aren’t sure if it’s a true romance that the characters are afraid to face, or just a strong bond between best friends that blurs the line between platonic and romantic. I’m paraphrasing, but you get the picture. Therefore, should these characters have only been played by straight actors who are questioning their sexuality or feelings for a best friend? Would it have been disrespectful to gay people if these characters ended up becoming romantically involved? (If we ask the Hilson and Johnlock community, I’m guessing that’s a resounding “NO WAY! IT WOULD BE A DREAM COME TRUE!” xD <3) 

“It's about authenticity, the taste of 2020.” *Cinema Sins sigh*

"You wouldn't cast someone able-bodied and put them in a wheelchair...” Again I say, directors and casting directors need to ALWAYS search for someone who is in a wheelchair, or deaf, or HOH, etc. before looking for an able-bodied actor to play a character with that disability (I’m iffy on the whole term “disability because of its negative connotations, but I’m using that word in order to keep this post as long as possible). But I give you the example of Rainman with Dustin Hoffman. Or A Beautiful Mind with Russell Crowe. Or the play and movie Proof, where the father had a mental illness?  Anthony Hopkins was diagnosed late in life with Asperger’s Syndrome, but the father in Proof was written to allude more to schizophrenia. And yet, Anthony Hopkins did a tremendous job in that role. Or Even Forrest Gump with Tom Hanks. Many people today love Tom Hanks and laud him as a “woke” celebrity. But if he were to portray the role of Forrest Gump today, how many people would try to “cancel” him or at least have very strong words for the director not casting an actor with autism, due to the character’s autistic tendencies? A whole lot of people on the internet and Twitter, I’ll bet. As someone who struggles with anxiety and panic disorder, would I be upset if someone without that mental illness got cast in a role of a character struggling with that? Sure I would. But if they did an authentic job and approached the role respectfully, it would be hard to stay irritated. Besides, there are always more roles created practically everyday. 

To continue on with Davies’ quote: “...you wouldn't black someone up.” Yikes. I’m sure he didn’t mean this in a cast-off kind of way, but that’s how it comes across. I can see now why he said he wasn’t “being woke about this,” because a more “woke” way of putting that would be...what, exactly? “You wouldn’t cast a non-black person in a black role.” That sounds better and less harsh. Or even “a white person in a minority role.” Which should be common sense, and I agree with both statements. 

And then “Authenticity is leading us to joyous places." Oh! Look at that! There’s that word that I’ve been using and emphasizing throughout this whole post! Authenticity is one major brick in the foundation of good, credible acting. 

“High-profile examples of straight performers playing LGBTQ+ characters include Rami Malek's Oscar-winning portrayal of Freddie Mercury in Bohemian Rhapsody, and Taron Egerton's Golden Globe-winning turn as Sir Elton John in Rocketman.”

I haven’t seen Rocketman, but I saw Bohemian Rhapsody and it was great! Why am I high-lighting this movie? Because it’s the perfect example of a straight actor playing a gay character and playing it authentically, while also looking a lot like the real person they’re portraying. If a look-a-like had been cast who also happened to be gay, but couldn’t act to save their life or couldn’t bring as much as Rami brought to the role, wouldn’t that kind of put a damper on the film? And yet, Rami Maleck both looked the part and brought an authenticity to the role that many Queen fans loved and appreciated. Even the remaining Queen band members said that he did an incredible job and Freddy would be proud. I wonder if Freddy would care that Rami wasn’t gay? I doubt it, but no one can know for certain. 

Then there’s the whole term “gay face.” I personally don’t think this is the right term to use because it could possibly diminish the whole meaning and importance of “black face.” Even if Corden appeared to be mocking gay people (I never watched The Prom so I have no idea what his performance was like), calling it “gay face” takes away from and inadvertently belittles the whole dark history of “black face.” Black face’s whole history comes out of an even darker history of racist times filled with hatred and ignorance. I’m not saying that gay people haven’t had their own experiences with hate and intolerance, but isn’t kind of “un-woke” and “insensitive” to compare the hundreds of years of blatant, public racism against an entire race of people to the intolerance of homosexuals? (Again, I’m asking this genuinely because I want to learn and get other people’s opinions. I’m not trying to speak for any community, and I recognize that my personal opinion on this matter is just that: my opinion. And I could be better informed.)

Along the lines of the above paragraph, is it wrong to say or think that casting a non-minority actor in a minority role is a lot different from casting a straight actor in a gay role? Sexuality comes in all shapes, sizes, and colors; that is to say, every race has people with different sexualities. But I think it would be pretty cringe if a Caucasian actress was cast in a role meant for an Asian or African-American woman. 

Director Joe Mantello told Sky News the casting was not intentional, but rather a "very fortunate series of events".

He continued: "That being said, I think having an out gay cast really did inform the work and it took on a particular kind of tone because of that, which is not to say that's the only way to approach this material. But for this particular group, it did something that I think is very, very special. There's a chemistry that they have."

And this man summed up my entire argument! He also put into simpler terms what I have been trying to express about the beauty of theatre: there will always be special casts, especially when there’s a great chemistry from a shared experience. A "very fortunate series of events,” indeed. “The casting was not intentional...” leads me to believe that the director didn’t set out to have an all out-gay-cast, but rather, each actor brought great performances to their auditions and were considered by the director to be perfect for the roles. These actors also just happened to be gay.

If you’re still here after all of that, let me take a moment to sincerely thank you for reading the whole thing! I know it’s a lot, but I’m very passionate about acting and giving each and every actor a fair chance. Let me know what you think, and please be respectful!

[barnesandco]

Icy Haloes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: brief mention of pneumonia and death in the first paragraph, excessive use of commas.

A/N: I’ve been suffering the worst writer’s block, but I think I’m starting to shake it off with this work, so finger’s crossed we get an update on one of my WIPs soon! Big thanks to @nacho-bucky and @captain-kelli for the extremely helpful advice that allowed me to produce a half-decent piece of writing after who-knows-how-long. It’s also hotter than Hell right now, and it was soothing to escape into a NYC winter while writing this, if you’re wondering where the inspiration came from.

Bucky hates the cold. He detests the way it bites into his bones, abhors the reminders of the graves he used to help dig every time another person in the neighborhood died of pneumonia, loathes remembering how the rattle in Steve’s lungs made him worry that his would be the next. But you, unlike Steve and possibly Sam and Nat, don’t know that. The new cook hired when a spike in missions made it increasingly more difficult for the Avengers to prepare their own meals, you have been here for all of three weeks when you appear in the living room requesting assistance with grocery shopping. 

Sam and Nat got back from a mission just yesterday and are still nursing their wounds splayed across multiple bean bags, Tony has Steve tied to the sofa by the latter’s promise to watch Star Wars, and while Wanda and Vision are available, Bucky stands at attention when you enter before you have even completed your sentence. Steve snickers, and Bucky would cuff him if he wasn’t two couches over and preoccupied with stifling a rising blush. As it is, he sends a discreet glare his best friend’s way, and volunteers to brave New York’s snow-clad streets with you instead, only because he’s a gentleman and definitely not to see the resounding smile in thanks that sends his heart racing.

“Let me go grab a jacket first,” he says, passing by you where you stand wearing a hand-knitted scarf under your jacket and a worn hat on your head, none of it able to suppress the scent of gingerbread on your person. 

“I’ll wait by the car,” you call from behind him, and he grins to himself when he hears Tony say not the Audi! as the elevator doors close. 

Five minutes later, you’re both in the garage, trying to determine which car to take if Tony’s precious Audi is unavailable, and since you’re going to be driving, he sees no reason to suggest otherwise when you head for the Tesla. Although Bucky is slowly catching up with the times, between frequent trips to the local library, the ever-so-helpful internet under F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s guidance, and the miracle of history documentaries, driving a car is one thing he still has not learnt. 

However, you were born and raised in Arlington, Texas, a city with a negligible public transport system, and therefore know how to drive. How you’ll fare on frosty streets remains to be seen. Now, he realizes neither of you really thought this trip through much beyond the date and time of the event, but you’re an experienced driver, and he has faith that you’ll adapt just fine. Besides, it’s not like it’s your first time out. 

The silence in the car is calm, warm, the gentle hum of the radiator only audible to Bucky beneath the still quieter murmur of the electric engine, and you nod your head to an invisible tune as the car speeds down country roads, towards the cluster of skyscrapers in the distance, made cloudy by winter haze. 

He’s so focused on the city ahead that he nearly jumps out of his skin when you speak for the first time since you got in the car. “Is there anywhere you’d like to go besides the supermarket?” You ask, and he sees that you think you’ve bothered him, that you’ve dragged him out against his will, and he doesn’t want to let you believe that.

“I’m happy to go wherever you like,” is his answer, with a smile that he hopes is more placating than nervous, because who knows what it’s like to be the newest part of a well-oiled machine that you think doesn’t need you. While you aren’t with them in the field, you live with them and have, in this short time, endeared yourself to each Avenger in a unique way. Recalling watching Peter do his homework a couple of months back, he thinks of nuclei and electrons, and how you seem to be an example of the first particle. Not only because he is attracted to you, but also because of how you pull people into your circle. Bucky hopes he can be granted the same joy.

“Okay,” you say softly, as if only to yourself, but he catches it and nods reassuringly. “You know, when Sam came with me last week, he actually said that you’re a lot more fun while grocery shopping.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “I’m more fun to be with while shopping than at home, or I’m more fun to go shopping with than Sam?” He asks, turning in his seat.

“The second one.”

“Did he say why?”

A thoughtful hum, and you bite the inside of your cheek while formulating an appropriate answer. “Something about your old-fashioned sensibilities being offended by the prices nowadays--”

“I am not old-fashioned--”

“-- and he warned me to keep you away from the snack aisle because you, and I quote, lose it at the sight of all those Doritos flavors,” you finish with a teasing smile, directed at the road. With no response to that, he resigns himself to sink back into his seat while crossing his arms and grumbling his displeasure, only to perk up with the sound of your laugh, just as you swing into the parking lot of Trader Joe’s.

One successful grocery round later, and Bucky’s closing the lid on a trunk full of grocery bags, one of which consists only of Doritos. He’s going to open the door for you when you stop him and gesture to the cafe across the street with a sheepish look on your face.

“Hot chocolate?” ¨

“Sure,” he answers, and you lock the door. The place is almost empty, what with it being a couple of hours before lunch on a workday, and you order to hot chocolates to go, explaining that you’re just a few minutes away from Central Park and you wanted to go for a brief walk, if that was okay with him, of course.

The hot chocolates arrive, both with every imaginable topping on them, and Bucky hurries to pull out his wallet despite your protests. “Let’s go,” he says, handing you your cup and praying that he can balance his without spilling over, and holding the door for you as you exit. 

New York’s boisterous bustle is dulled by the quiet of winter, the pulsing life of the city hushed as snow starts falling, this November precipitation hopefully a good omen for a white Christmas. This part of town seems to fall silent, and he relishes the peace, the rustle of your jackets as shoulders brush when a rare stranger passes by. 

Soon, the city falls away to the expanse of what used to be green but is now just a domesticated snowy tundra -- Central Park. A lone runner sprints across a pathway a hundred yards away, and you sit down on a bench.

“I love New York,” you say with a smile, and Bucky can see the enchantment of this city falling over you as you close your eyes. Less than a month, most of it spent outside the city lines, and you’re falling for the place he knows as home, and it makes him fall in love with it all over again. To see a familiar place through fresh and wondrous eyes is like getting to read a favorite book for the first time -- a privelege few are afforded, but he is fortunate to be amongst them. The way your eyes flit across the sky following a flock of pigeons, the way you inhale the scent of hot chocolate like no place else in the world can produce, and then how your gaze falls to the untouched, sacred blanket of snow in front of you. The ensuing gasp is one he cannot decipher, and so he asks.

“What is it?”

“I just realized I’ve never made snow angels,” you answer, trembling with childish epiphany, and he looks at you like you’ve grown another head. It’s been almost a century since he made his last one, too, at the age of 12, before he had to resist in order to avoid bringing Steve down with him lest the skinny rascal die from the cold.

“Do you,” he begins hesitantly, “do you want to, right now?” The expression on your face is one of barely controlled want and bashfulness at the desire. 

“Yeah,” you say after a full minute’s consideration. That’s how Bucky finds himself, despite his issues with the cold, on the ground in a field of snow like a starfish against the ground and waving his arms and legs wildly. Your giggles float to him on a cloud of air, breathless, shaking, and he stops after a while to lay there next to you, the silver bond of a new friendship glowing in the gray daylight. 

He’s the first to rise, carefully so as to not disturb the pattern, and he pulls you up after, watches the smile split your face into the fullest crescent moon, warming his insides more than the hot chocolate did. The cold is starting to soak through his clothes, but the pins and needles prickling at his skin soon start to sear with that white heat that comes after touching snow, and he’s warm all over. When you turn to look at him with a thank you on the tip of your tongue, his cheeks pink and eyes icy blue, he smiles back. Thinks he could learn to love the cold, if it comes with companionship like this.

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

A Study in the Pains of Romance as a Genre

Ao3,   MasterPost

Wow I can’t believe I haven’t written an actual logince story yet???? who am I, even?? Anyway I love them and their dynamic is perfect. 

Relationships: Logince

Warnings: Self-doubt, insecurity, misunderstandings, flirting (so much flirting oh my god), Emotional Distress, some smooches 0x0. 

Word Count: 4,334

Light, repetitive music hummed from a set of over-sized speakers, which balanced precariously on an elegant end-table across the room. To Logan’s knowledge, the sub-genre of music was colloquially known as ‘lo-fi’. The melodies weren’t very engaging, but it served its purpose as background to the task at hand well enough. Said task would be work. In theory, that is. 

On the other end of the small table/large desk, Roman stared down into a leather journal, his face wrinkled with concentration. He gnawed at the edge of his pen thoughtlessly, drumming his hands against the paper and muttering to himself unintelligibly. His hair fell into his face occasionally, only to be brushed back with a small hum of annoyance. He was clearly immersed in his project, but he wasn’t yet at the point of frustration or burn-out. Such an ideal working state was seldom seen by any other side, but Logan could be as lucky. 

The two dichotomous traits had fairly recently found that ‘two heads were better than one’, in a manner of speaking. Logan’s ideas had so often contradicted the things that Roman had planned for, a difficult issue to solve if both of them were already halfway done with their respective projects, and therefore hesitant to redo any of their hard work. If they worked together from the very beginning of an idea, however, then it was that much easier to find compromises and balance each other out along the way. The two could keep each other on task, as well as stop each other from overworking. The arrangement was purely for efficiency’s sake, of course.

…It did also serve as something of a bonding experience, if Logan was honest.

Regardless, with all that in mind, Logan had every reason to be working. And yet, there he was. Not doing that. 

His and Roman's time together, for all it’s overwhelming pros, had resulted in one glaring con for Logan: what caught his focus had nothing to do with the documents open on his laptop, but rather how his friend tapped those immaculately manicured nails on the desk. The neatly arranged planners laid out before Logan served only as a backdrop to the sight of Roman’s smirk when he thought of something clever. Spreadsheets couldn’t hold a candle to the attention-grabbing power of that smile, repugnantly sappy as it sounded. 

The obvious explanation for this distraction was that Logan, as is the wont of characters in Fan-Fiction, had become infatuated with his artistic counterpart.

The scribbling of Roman's pen stopped briefly, his eyes narrowing at his writing. Logan glanced away from him hastily, realizing just how long he’d been staring, only to hear Roman laugh heartily at his own writing, good God. 

Logan glanced back at him- his face hopefully less flushed than it felt- and quirked a brow. Roman raised his head at the same time, flashing a bright smile. 

“Read this,” he slid his journal across the table to Logan, pride etched across his features. Logan just narrowly stopped the book from careening off the edge of the table, pulling it into his line of sight. His eyes scanned the page, briefly, but he couldn't quiet his overactive mind quite enough to really understand the words. He perceived a vague impression of the humorous interaction between two of Roman’s characters, though, which was explanation enough. 

The smile and nod he offered Roman in return- while mostly uncomprehending- was sincere, and it seemed to appease the creative entity. He slid the journal back across the table, much less forcefully than his friend had, and turned back to his work* (*staring blankly at his laptop screen). 

However, the longer he stared blankly, the more acutely aware he became of the silence in the room. He realized soon enough that this was because the sound of pen and paper had not yet returned from Roman’s side of the workspace.

Still hesitant to be caught staring (it honestly wouldn't have been the first time), Logan glanced up to see what the issue was. He almost startled at the way that Roman was staring right back at him with a fiery intensity, clearly lost in deep thought.

“Roman…?” 

He blinked, startled, though his face immediately broke into a wide grin. Before Logan could ask what exactly had him so exuberant, he slammed a hand down on their shared desk and stood from his chair. 

“Alright, it's break time!”

“You want to have a break? We started only an hour and twenty-seven minutes ago,” Logan tilted his screen closer to him discreetly, not wanting Roman to see that he'd really only done about fifteen minutes’ worth of actual work.

Roman scoffed, circling around their small table and leaning his full weight against Logan's back and shoulders. Despite his stature (very, very short), he was densely muscular, and therefore staggeringly heavy. 

“Yeah, I suppose, but I'm not feeling it right now!”

“That’s ridiculous, you've been remarkably focused all day despite your usual executive dysfunction; in fact, this is quite impressive for you and I’d be loath to disrupt you.”

Logan felt a small swell of pride when he saw, from the corner of his eye, that Roman’s face flushed at the compliment.

“Okay, fine, I’ll admit that I’m killing it today- but!” Roman pushed himself forward, shoving Logan into the desk and slightly to the left in the process, and shifted the logical trait’s laptop up and away from him, “You are clearly out of it, which is also a rarity,” he gestures to the barebones paragraphs displayed on the screen.

Logan felt a rush of embarrassment, but it was quickly overpowered by relief when he realized that his friend hadn't caught onto the reason for his slacking. He twisted in his seat, fighting to push Roman off of him.

“And stopping work altogether is supposed to remedy this how?”

“Shush,” Roman moved along with Logan’s efforts to push him away, taking it one step further by dragging them both into a standing position, “We’re taking a break because I said so, and I already had something planned for us today, so you aren’t getting out of this.” 

Logan tilted his head in bemusement, too caught off-guard by the latter remark to remove Roman’s arm from around him (definitely for that reason, and not because the contact made him dizzily contented). 

“You have something planned? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Well, it was a surprise, obviously,” Roman huffed, using his grip on Logan to steer him over to his canopy bed. At his insistence, Logan sat down, his confusion only growing. 

“You… have a surprise for me?”

Roman rolled his eyes, chuckling.

“Do you need a Q-tip? Yes, as I’ve said thrice now. It’s actually been in the works for a while now, but I think it’s ready for you.”

Rather than trying to form an actual response, Logan fell back on a tried-and-true tactic: Correcting Roman.

“The use of a Q-tip to clean one’s ear can actually be quite dangerous-”

The tactic worked, as Roman’s expression went from teasing fondness to impatience almost instantly. He made quite the show of rolling his eyes, moving his head along with his irises. 

“Yeah, yeah, everybody knows and has already stopped caring about that. Do you wanna see the surprise or not, Teach?” 

Well, Logan supposed he wasn’t going to get any work done, anyway. Not with the idea of Roman making something specifically for him clattering around in his mind. 

“I must admit that you’ve piqued my interest.” 

“Good,” Roman gave him a dazzling grin and, to Logan’s surprise, sat right down beside him on the mattress. Logan nearly questioned the behavior, deciding against it when Roman let his eyes fall closed. He was once more the picture of concentration, his fingers tapping out patterns and rhythms against his knees. After a long, awkward, perfectly silent two minutes and thirty-four seconds, there was an abrupt jolt. Logan struggled to maintain his balance, eventually failing when he felt the bed beneath him move so swiftly that he could no longer make out the room around him. 

A rush of vertigo overcame him, sending him toppling backwards with a yelp. However quickly they seemed to be moving, it felt as though they really weren’t travelling at all- as though they were completely unencumbered by friction. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the movement halted.

Logan sat up, hair ruffled and feeling distinctly embarrassed at such a reaction to something he really should have expected.

Roman had shifted the appearance of his room, of course. It was something he did constantly- Logan couldn’t count the number of times he’d found the side unconsciously manifesting surfaces just as he was about to place an item on empty space. But that all paled in comparison to this. The entire room had changed, not just a few pieces of furniture.

They weren’t in a room anymore, actually; they were in a garden. A garden that sprawled out in all directions, the ends (if any existed yet) obscured by the various fountains and trees within it. The sky above was a blanket of darkness, even though it was about midday in the real world. Logan could excuse the inaccuracy, aware that it was just for the atmosphere. That, and also because it allowed him view of the stars.

They were so, so bright. The sky was like a pool of ink filled up with glitter, each flake of which a different size. But the most impressive thing was just how… subdued it was. Roman had clearly avoided cramming the sky with bright colors and unrealistic formations, opting instead to paint a believable sky, one that really could exist if given the best possible circumstances. 

Logan stood up from his spot, awestruck. In the back of his mind, he registered that the bed had swayed with his movements upon his standing. But really, it wasn’t a bed at all anymore; it was a heavily cushioned swing, strung up between two short, thin trees. Forcing his eyes to turn from the stars and take in the rest of the picturesque scene, Logan saw similar trees dotted around the little garden; they varied in height, but each was stick-thin with elegant sprawls of branches. They looked almost like the antlers of a deer.

The most prominent pieces of flora, however, were the twisting bushes of flowers all along the sides of the cobblestone paths. They were so diverse, each so perfectly detailed and created. Some had circular, squat petals, growing in little clusters. Others rose singularly from long stems, their petals thin and delicate. There was only one commonality between them. 

Blue. Every shade or hue, from shimmering chrome to cloudy cyan; it. Was all. Blue. 

Come to think of it, everything was, even if it was subtle. The stone paths between the fountains and displays were pale slate, just edging away from gray; the wood of the trees were inky and dark, tinted a harsh indigo; the lanterns hung up on lamp poles lit the scene with turquoise flames. 

Logan’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he forgot entirely how he’d come to be here. All he saw was this- this gift. 

“It took forever, honestly,” Roman’s insincere complaint was whisper-quiet, and yet Logan still jumped at the voice. He clearly hadn’t noticed the trait walking up to him until he was right beside him. “I had to get it just right.”

“It’s wonderful, Roman. This is perfect,” Logan didn’t try to play it down. He wasn’t sure he could, stripped of his snark at the beauty before him. A beauty made for him.

“I’m glad that you like it,” there was something painfully honest behind Roman’s words.

“What…” Logan wasn’t sure what he was going to ask. What this all was for, that would’ve been a reasonable question. There were also some ‘Why’s that he could ask: why on earth had Roman made something so amazing for him?

Logan wasn’t a self-deprecating person. When he wasn’t always positive, he at least maintained healthy self-neutrality. He was well aware of the detriments that accompanied negative self-talk and idealization, so he was careful to avoid such at all costs. On good days, he could go as far as to say that he actively enjoyed who he was. Bad days, well, they weren’t nearly as bad as they could be. 

Therefore, it followed that Logan was being entirely objective when he said that he would not be a good enough romantic partner for Roman. 

There he stood, before this gorgeous, romantic setting that Creativity had made for him, and he could do nothing but worry. Not worry that his harbored affection was unrequited, but worry that perhaps it somehow was. It was unbelievable to him, and he feared it. He feared the look that Roman sent him as he inspected the flowers, the statues, the sky, all for him. 

“Roman, this is… I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh? I’ve managed to get you speechless? That’s quite an accomplishment,” his tone was far too intimate for the teasing words. Regardless, Logan forced a scoff.

“Don’t let it go to your head. All it is is that I’m trying to appreciate your attention to detail.”

“Sure.”

There was another lapse of silence, in which Logan found himself caught up in thought.

When he’d first had the unfortunate realization that he was in love with his friend, of course he’d wanted to resolve the issue as simply as possible. It was only sensical that he inform Roman right away, to see if the feelings were reciprocated. If they were, then the better it was for both of them; if not, it was the closure needed for him to move on. 

A plan like that was easier said than done.

Logan couldn’t just say it, not in the way he would’ve preferred. That wouldn’t at all be Roman’s style, and such a confession would likely garner nothing but exasperation. It would be much smarter to try and cater to the trait’s love of all things prosey, elaborate, and romantic, if he wanted any kind of favorable results. So Logan began to do what he did best: Gather information.

Roman liked grand gestures. Roman was weak for cheesy tropes and clichés. Roman swooned over long declarations of love. The list went on and on and on. Logan found himself letting Roman choose shows to watch in their downtime together, for the express purpose of writing down the details of all the romantic plotlines that he cooed at.

It was always something giant, spectacular, and teary. But still, foolishly, Logic held onto the hope that he could replicate something of the like. The hope that he could be copacetic in this area, so far out of his expertise. 

He’d lost it soon after, of course.

“These are my favorite, you know,” Roman muttered, jolting Logan from his introspection. The side was stood by a large bush of flowers, gazing fondly at them.

“Hm?” Logan stepped over to him, still a bit dazed. 

“Blue roses,” Roman held one of the flowers reverently in his hand, “You’d think it’d be red- and those are classics- but no. I’m quite fond of these.”

Logan nodded. It took all of his self-control to keep his eyes off of his friend. 

It was meant to be a family movie night, that evening when he’d given up on this. But somehow everyone had become preoccupied, except Roman. 

They’d laughed together, debating the merits of even having a movie night at that point. In the end, they decided to do it anyway, of course. Roman chose, and all seemed well in the beginning.

Logan quickly determined that the film would have a pretty central romantic subplot, and so he had discreetly summoned his notebook to jot down anything he thought Roman would be interested in. That went perfectly well, with him scribbling down a cutesy gesture in the film every few minutes. He and Roman talked through the whole thing- as usual- and all in all the night was par for the course.

But then came the movie’s climactic end. The lead professed his undying love for the love-interest by starlight, with a speech that Logan could swear dragged on for five minutes. Accompanying this, the character had hired musicians for the occasion, procured several gifts for the object of his affection, and if that weren’t nearly enough- there were fireworks.

Logan had scoffed, rolling his eyes at the absurdity. But Roman…

Roman had stars in his eyes.

Logan had looked at him inquisitively, a bitter taste filling his mouth when Roman looked right back with the widest eyes.

‘That, that’s what I want,’ that look seemed to say. Logan gripped his pen in his hand, his eyes trying to catch on all of the details in the scene before him, but he already knew the truth. 

He could never be that. However unrealistic Roman’s wants were, they were his own, and Logan could not possibly meet them.

He threw away his notebook after that. 

“Do you know why I like them?”

Logan startled, feeling Roman press up against his side. 

“Wh- what?”

“The roses,” he reiterated, twirling the stem between his fingers, “You know why I like them?”

“I can’t say that I do,” Logan mumbled, moving to step back. When he did, he felt his back hit one of the immense marble fountains, leaving him with nowhere to go. Roman followed his movements, effectively caging him. 

“They calm me. They remind me that everything can’t always be so harsh. That sometimes you need to think things through a little more,” he wasn’t looking at the rose at all as he spoke, instead focusing his attention on Logan in front of him, which he thought was probably significant, “But they’re still roses. They’re essentially the same. They’ve still got stems and thorns and spirally petals, even though all you notice at first is the difference in color. It’s apt, I think…”

Roman leaned over him. The creative trait braced his arm on the lip of the fixture, tilting his head back to stare at Logan. Every time one of them shifted, even slightly, they’d have a brush of contact.

“And they do go so well with the red ones, don’t you think?”

Logan knew exactly what Roman was doing and he didn’t understand it one bit. He’d agonized over countless pieces of Roman’s favorite romantic media, and he knew their scene was fit for any of those movies. All except for one aspect: the supposed love interest. 

Logan was in a button-down and jeans, not a navy suit or a flowing sundress. He spoke with stilted ‘dialogue’ and misunderstood all of Roman’s romantic symbolism, hardly able to give his own beautiful soliloquies in response. He could hardly be called the ‘muse’ for this gorgeous garden gift that Roman had given him! If anything, Logan was the best friend. It was a frustrating character type to play- the nerdy and underappreciated accomplice- but Logan had become accustomed to it. Settled into it. It was what Roman’s favorite genre showed him to be, and he’d fit it well.

When Roman inched closer still, Logan found the willpower to put a hand on the trait’s chest and halt him. 

“Lo?” Roman breathed by way of question. His adoring gaze had turned confused and cautious, with a tinge of worry shining through. 

Logan felt like he was burning from the inside out, even though he knew that, physically speaking, he was perfectly fine. He couldn’t stand the contradiction he’d become, but he could stand even less that sickeningly-sweet affection Roman was mistakenly giving him. It didn’t make sense for this to be happening, and Logan needed his sense back. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, “Why are you doing this?” it ended up much meeker than he’d wished to say it. 

Roman essentially leapt away from him, his hands flying up with palms faced out. After taking  several strides back, he laughed awkwardly, looking nothing short of ashamed.

“Well, I seem to have misread some things, I guess! I- um- forget it, it was stupid anyways.”

Logan felt a sharp pain between his ribs at that, standing up straighter.

“No, I didn’t mean to seem, well, upset, per se- it’s just- why me? What do you stand to gain from pursuing a romantic relationship with me?” He stepped falteringly forwards after Roman, “ I just don’t… understand,” it was a wonder Logan could keep his voice calm. 

Roman’s face scrunched in an obvious lack of comprehension. He crossed his arms below his chest, words coming out slow as though he was trying to make sense of them.

“You want to know why I have feelings for you? What- what I stand to gain?” A bewildered little chuckle broke up his words on the last clause, making Logan flush embarrassedly.

“Y-es, I am far from an ideal partner for you. I know you well enough to know that.”

“And what makes you so sure, hm?” Roman’s expression was bordering on amusement, frustratingly enough; Logan didn’t see what could possibly be humorous about the situation. Everything seemed strangely painful to him.  

“Oh, please. I’m hardly a- a Prince Charming, or whatever it is you’re after. I wouldn’t be able to provide you with grand, elaborate gestures of affection. I’m not supernaturally beautiful. Face it, I’m not up to your sky-high standards at all,” Logan knew his voice was edging on frantic the longer he talked, as he tried to put an end to whatever was happening. To his surprise, Roman responded by shaking his head wildly, darting forwards and taking Logan’s hands.

“How can someone so smart be so, so dense?” He exclaimed, “You are smart, Lo- I thought that you’d caught on by now, and were just waiting for me to make a move. I mean, I was being so obvious.”

Logan, despite the warmth welling in his chest and the confusion dizzying him, managed to raise an unimpressed eyebrow at Roman. The creative trait seemed to understand what he’d said a second later, laughing in embarrassment.

“Oh, right- sorry,” he muttered, “I thought it was obvious, I suppose, with how much I kept hinting at it.”

“What on earth are you talking about? Every time you spoke about romance, it was a hyper-dramaticized version of a fantasy relationship- rambling about your hypothetical partner’s ‘Athena-like wit and humor’, or ‘innumerable acts of kindness’ you claimed they’d give you daily.”

Roman gave him a long, fond, exasperated look. 

“I guess I must think very highly of you.”

“You- you were talking about me?” 

“Of course I was,” Roman’s expression turned solemn. He lifted a hand to cup Logan’s jaw. 

“I can’t believe you thought that I deserved something better.”

“I didn’t say that,” Logan snapped, stubbornly, “I said I knew you’d want better. I never mentioned that I thought your wants were actually realistic.”

“Well, that’s true; you are quite unreal, Logan.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Logan flushed darkly. He wanted nothing more than to establish at least a little distance between himself and Roman, but his traitorous and sentimental physicality refused to allow it. 

Roman took just a moment to find humor in his embarrassment, letting a deep silence follow it. He seemed expectant. Logan was still reeling. 

“...Well?” The artistic trait prompted after a while, shifting uncomfortably.

“‘Well’ what?”

Roman gestured to himself, an awkward motion considered how he had steadily plastered against Logan. 

“This was going to be, like, my grand declaration of love to you, but we seem to have gotten a little off-track.”

“Oh,” Logan smiled apologetically, “By all means, continue.”

“Well, I can’t now. The moment’s gone!”

“If it’s any consolation, you were off to a very good start.”

Roman grinned, cupping the side of Logan’s face properly.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good enough that you might consider being mine, mi estrella?”

“Uhm- possibly,” Logan found it increasingly hard not to shy away from the loving look directed at him, and even harder to keep his voice above a breathless stutter, “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Roman kissed him, chaste and beautiful. Logan had hardly registered the sweet taste of sugared coffee on his lips before it was gone, left with only Roman watching him lovingly. He couldn’t help but return the look, earning him another soft kiss. That was followed by another, and another, and then they were moving to his cheeks and nose and forehead as well, and by that point he was struggling to return the affection, utterly unaware of his surroundings.

Roman let go of Logan’s hand to cup the other side of his face, grinning at the giddy laughs that Logan was failing to suppress as the (entirely invited) assault on his face continued. The barrage concluded with a drawn-out kiss pressed to the tip of Logan’s nose, and Roman finally seemed satisfied with himself.

Logan was aware of how ridiculous he must have looked, face red and giggling quite uncontrollably, but Roman was still looking at him like he was the best thing he’d ever laid eyes upon. 

“This is what I want,” he purred, as if it even needed to be said. Logan rolled his eyes, burying his face in Roman’s hair if only to escape the overwhelming emotion the situation was instilling him with. 

He struggled to catch his breath, unsure if he wanted to keep laughing or possibly cry. He was desperately out of his depth, actually, so he was rather conflicted about most things. Everything he’d thought he’d known had been turned on its head. While Logan didn’t like being wrong, that didn’t really seem like the most pertinent issue. 

But there was at least one point that seemed to have a clear answer.

“Good,” Logan murmured, nearly silent, “I want this, as well.”

Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls 

[johannas-motivational-insults]

Ngl I have so much more respect for people who openly admit “this character is The Worst and I love them anyway” than people who bend over backwards to justify their fave’s actions. Like, just admit your motivations are shallow and be judged for it, instead of constructing revisionist canon to “prove” that your problematic fave is a saint. When people write paragraph after paragraph trying to justify Catra’s every move, it just makes them look desperate and pathetic. It really isn’t that deep.

I mean tbh I can’t tell if you’re trying to roast me or inviting me to laugh at people with you. Because I defs have a lot of meta about Catra’s mindset and why she behaves the way she does, but that’s not revisionist nor claiming she is a saint, and when people do that it bothers me because it erases so much of her complexity. Whichever camp you assigned me to, nonny, you’re ignoring the fact that you can acknowledge someone is a problematic fave and be aware of their flaws but also have a deep compassion for them. I’d dare say you’re not really a fan of the character if you don’t acknowledge their flaws but also understand why those flaws exist in the first place.

Catra’s no saint but it’s clear throughout the series that she has a kind heart and is constantly juggling selfish and unselfish motivations, often making choices based on a combination of such. If you read any of my earlier metas from before Catra really went downhill some could read as revisionist through a post-show lens, but unfortunately back then I just had too much hope that her goodness would come through a lot sooner than it did. But hey, it did eventually. If you really think Catra is the worst with no redeeming qualities then idk if we even watched the same show. She is literally one of the most empathetic and compassionate characters in the whole show, when she lets that side of herself come out or it squeaks out (generally resulting in her being punished and therefore hiding it again).

Also, whichever side you were implying I was on, it’s awfully reductive of you to act as if there is no middle ground between stanning a problematic fave because you happen to like them in all their wickedness and constructing crazy revisionist narratives to prop them up. Catra is an extremely complex character and very relatable to a lot of abuse survivors, and we like to discuss her motivations and inner life because we are excited to see someone who represents an aspect of ourselves we don’t usually get to see on screen. Understanding why she behaves the way she does is not the same as excusing it. If you think it is, idek what to say to you.

[goodluckchenle]

your love would be too much

pairing: haechan x gender neutral!reader genre: ANGST vibes: enemies to lovers, trainee!au, tw for body shaming , anxiety attack , yelling , swearing , NO HAPPY ENDING word count: 6k

author’s note: aaaaaaaaa this took so l o n g. i spent forever and a day writing it but i’m kinda proud of it! definitely didn’t proof read the last couple of paragraphs but it’s Fine

you and haechan should've been friends, or at least that’s what everyone else thought. you were the same age, you’d auditioned for sm at the same time, and you were widely regarded as two of the most talented 2000 line trainees. the two of you had a lot in common, but one thing stood out beyond the rest of your shared qualities: you’d both never hated anyone more in your entire life.

if opposites attract then you and haechan were practically the same person. all you did was get on each other’s nerves. you liked to think that you were a mature person, someone who chose to take the high road, but when it came to haechan all bets were off. the two of you were petty in every way imaginable; you took every chance to get under each other’s skin. you would go out of your way to make haechan’s day worse, and he did the same. your relationship wasn’t hard to understand; it was sneers in the hallway and cruel insults under your breath. it was looking him in the eye as you took his favorite sandwich in the cafeteria or him clicking his tongue just because it drove you insane. it was simple, it was immature, and it was petty. and you still did it anyway.

the funny thing was that no one could’ve told you how it started. everyone’d just kinda assumed something went down one day, but the truth was you didn’t really have a reason to hate haechan except that he hated you. if you thought at least a little bit about your relationship you could probably figure out that there was no fair reason for you two to hate each other, you just rubbed each other wrong and neither of you were humble enough to back down. but we don’t talk about that. the point is, lee donghyuck was your least favorite person in the world, and it was always going to be that way.

but no matter how much you hated him, the trainee grind went on. which meant that you could never truly avoid each other. today was your monthly performance evaluation and as fate would have it, you and haechan went one after another. you were first up. you’d prepared for this performance like it was your last, practicing the choreography for weeks and memorizing every run and adlib until you could sing them in your sleep. you had chosen this song even though it was a challenge and you were proud of how far you’d come to be able to pull it off. after you finished you bowed deeply to the trainers and bit back a smile when you saw the awe on your fellow trainee’s faces. but as you returned to your spot in line, you heard haechan scoff under his breath. you raised an eyebrow.

“got something you’d like to say, donghyuck?” you said quietly, emphasising his name. the moment lee sooman had changed his name haechan let it go straight to his head and you refused to feed his ravenous ego. 

“not really,” haechan quipped back. “just that maybe you should try not to do something so...above you. watching you butcher that was painful and the fake smile didn’t help.” you scowled as his name was called and haechan stepped forward, bowing with a charming smile as he introduced himself to the coaches. right before he started his performance he looked you in the eye, and you swore you could feel rage bubbling up within you.

haechan was infuriatingly impressive. he’d picked a song that played to his strengths and his facial expressions were on point, two areas that were still stinging after his comments earlier. you kept a straight face as he performed, imagining all the things you’d say as soon as you walked out of this room. unsurprisingly the other trainees were enthralled with haechan’s performance but when he made his way back his eyes were only on you, one eyebrow cocked in a confident smirk. now it was your turn to scoff.

“you know, that was actually a smart choice,” you muttered so only he could hear. “play it safe and you won’t disappoint anyone. but maybe turn down the facial expressions a smidge? felt like i was watching a third-rate comedy sketch.” you relished the look on his face as he struggled to remain nonchalant. you shrugged and turned towards the trainee about to perform, leaving haechan to stew in the silence between you two. you were sure this wasn’t over, but did you really want it to be? you were almost looking forward to the fight you knew was coming.

the moment you left the room all eyes were on you and haechan. you wouldn’t say that the two of you made your hatred public, but you definitely didn’t try to keep it private. you were sure haechan felt the same way; you both felt fully justified in your distaste for the other and you kinda expected everyone else to take your side. to be honest haechan's friends thought the whole thing was kind of ridiculous and as for you, well you didn't have anyone close enough to care. you were a little annoyed by the audience you'd amassed but you would never let that stop you. however you needn’t worry; the moment you'd cleared the doorway haechan was already on you. "you always have something to say, don't you?" he said, glaring. you couldn't help but chuckle.  

"and you don't?" you shot back. "you literally started this conversation."

“i wouldn’t have, but i just couldn’t bear the thought of you actually thinking whatever you did back there was ‘art’.” more infuriating than his words was his tone, one that dripped with condescension and mockery. unfortunately, you were never one to back down.

“ah yes. because you’re clearly the expert here,” you spat, arms folded.

haechan looked you up and down in a way that made your skin crawl and your blood boil. “between the two of us? that’s not even a question.” you were starting to get pissed.

you scowled, saying, “you really think you’re the shit, don’t you?”

“no,” he admitted with a cocky grin, “i know i am.” it was taking everything within you not to strangle him at this point.

“you know what’s funny about you? no matter what you do, you always end up thinking you’re the best.”

“are you saying i’m not?”

            “you’re a lot of things, donghyuck, but you’re sure as hell not perfect.”

“what am i then?”

            maybe you weren’t thinking very clearly anymore.

“well the first word that comes to mind is stupid, but clueless and obnoxious work pretty well too. try-hard’s a little informal but it fits the bill, and- oh, duh! you’re replaceable.”

you’d never seen haechan look more serious than when that word came out of your mouth. the shift in mood was immediate. “excuse me?”

            you raised an eyebrow, a little shocked that he didn’t have more to say. “you heard me.”

haechan’s voice was calm, but something about it seemed deadly. the onlookers watched with bated breath as they anticipated haechan’s response. “no, please, elaborate. i want to hear more. how am i replaceable?”

there was a pit forming in your stomach but you didn’t stop. “there’s nothing special about you. you’re not unique, you’re not remarkable, you’re not even bad enough to leave an impression. you’re completely average. and therefore, you’re replaceable.”

haechan barked out a dry laugh, hollow and numb and absolutely terrifying. suddenly he walked forward, brushing past as he muttered, "that's rich, coming from you." his friends rushed after him, the youngest ones looking at you with wide eyes before darting after them. you shrugged, trying to bury the panic growing within you. how did you get here? if anyone had looked closely, they’d see that your hands wouldn't stop shaking.

you went about the rest of your day, pushing your latest episode with haechan to the corner of your mind. you went over the notes you got earlier, practiced for a few hours and headed back to your dorm early, something you rarely allowed yourself. you cleaned your room, ate a sparse dinner, and studied for your exams, but even though you were highly productive something still felt wrong. you did everything you knew to do, but you couldn’t shake the restless feeling in your stomach. did it have something to do with you and haechan today? absolutely. but what good was dwelling on it? then you’d have to address the complex and slightly concerning nature of your relationship. and we don’t want to do that.

it’s well past midnight and you’ve accepted that sleep is out of the question. you decide to start your day early, maybe get a jump on your next assessment. so that’s why you walk out of your dorm at quarter to three in the morning, fully dressed and prepared to dance like your life depended on it. you wander down the corridors of practice rooms, but just as you find an empty one (you clearly weren’t the only one who couldn’t sleep tonight,) you hear a familiar voice. is that,,,donghyuck? your rational brain would’ve said to mind your own business. unfortunately, your rational brain was probably the only part of you asleep right now.

you walked into haechan’s practice room, waiting for him to notice you. from what you could tell he’d been singing (which begs the question, why is he in the dance hall?) and taking notes. he was hunched over on the floor, legs crossed and scribbling away on a notebook page. you cleared your throat and he sat up, annoyed by the interruption and now you. “late night, hyuckie?” you ask, feigning concern.

“leave me alone,” haechan muttered, returning to his work.

you stepped further into the room. “you sure? you don’t look too good.” and as much as you were mocking him it was true. his hair was a mess and under the light his cheeks seemed hollow, his skin mottled.

“i said,” haechan asserted, a growl in his voice, “leave me alone.”

“jeez, touchy much?” you quipped. your tone was playful and there was a gleam in your eye, one that said to haechan that he was nothing more than a toy. he didn’t feel like playing.

haechan stood up and walked towards you, so that you were standing maybe 3 feet away from each other. his voice was quiet, and you finally realized that maybe this wasn’t a good idea. “do you not know when to stop, y/n? get out. now.”

you don’t know why you kept going. everything in your body was screaming at you to go, to leave, to shut your damn mouth for once in your life. maybe you were tired. maybe you wanted to see how far you could push him. maybe you’re an idiot. whatever it was, there was no excuse for what you said next. and once you said it, you couldn’t take it back.

“make me.”

and all hell broke loose.

“what the hell is wrong with you?!” haechan shouted, voice breaking. “what did i do to deserve this? is this some sort of game to you? you win, y/n! you broke me!” you stood there, frozen. you watched your worst enemy shatter in front of you, watched as tears fell down his face. one by one they came as you stood in shock, until they poured like rain. did you do this? choked-back sobs fell from haechan’s lips, chest heaving with the weight of them. was this really happening? “you broke me,” he whispered. you could’ve sworn you heard him shaking. “just leave me alone. please.” you stayed paralyzed only a few moments longer, then turned around and walked out the door, down the hallway and back to your bed. it was safe to say your early start was over.

if sleep wasn't out of the question before it certainly was now. all the thoughts you'd been avoiding flew to the forefront of your mind and you could practically see them swirling in front of your eyes. obviously haechan was upset, and it was because of you. but how? you didn't think you'd said anything out of the ordinary; the two of you were always coming at each other. your conversations ran on repeat in your mind as the discomfort you'd suppressed all day rose to the surface. haechan insulted you first, so you were good right? and yeah, maybe you’d been a little harsh, but he deserved it, or at least that’s what you tried to tell yourself. but something else was nagging at you too. why did you care? haechan was a nuisance; you hated his guts. he was always treating you trash. so why did his tears prompt those of your own? you didn’t care about haechan, not in the least. you couldn’t. you were enemies, and that was how it was supposed to be.

the next day was odd to say the least. you couldn’t help but look at haechan just a little bit differently, and you figured he knew, because he seemed like he was trying to compensate for your behavior with his own. if he was petty before, he was downright cruel now, but for some reason you didn’t have it in you to come at him. every time he scowled at you all you saw were the tears streaming down his face, the whispers that’d fallen past his lips and lodged themselves in your conscience. when haechan took your food you’d simply get something else, when he brushed past you with a little too much force you stepped to the side and kept going. you were sure people picked up on it, but as usual you took little notice. even haechan’s friends had noticed the difference and though you rarely spoke to them, you noticed their lingering glances whenever you encountered each other. you could’ve figured that they too were wondering what had changed between the two of you (something they’d tried to pull out of haechan before) but the chances of them figuring it out were slim to none. secrecy was yet another of you and haechan’s shared qualities.

but there’s only so long you can go without falling back into old habits. after all, donghyuck still is your greatest enemy. you’re walking down the hallway and you turn a corner to see none other but haechan and his crew heading your direction. their excited chatter grinds to a halt as haechan turns to sneer at you, expecting a quip or a snarky face in return. the only thing you give him is a look of poorly disguised pity, and that’s what does it. haechan’s scowl deepens as he grabs you wrist and pulls you back the way you came, around the corner and away from his friends. “what the- get off me!” you hiss, yanking your arm away from him. “what’s wrong with you???”

haechan completely ignores you. “you need to stop,” he snaps, and the fire in his eyes ignites your own.

“the hell d’you mean ‘stop’?” you snap back, angered and a little bit confused. was this because of that night? you were being nice to him. was it just because you felt guilty for making him have a breakdown? sure. but it was still something. he could be a little grateful at least.

“whatever this is,” haechan gestured between the two of you violently, “needs to go back to the way it was” he was far too close to you and you took a step back, a scowl settling over your features and matching with his. you don’t- you can’t- think about what he means by that. but you can be angry.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t know i was taking orders from you,” you spat. “but next time i’ll be sure to. God forbid i’m actually kind to someone for once.”

hyuck took a step towards you, and now you were even closer than before. “i don’t want your pity. i want you to stop. understand?” you hate how intimidated you feel right now.

you looked haechan in the eye with a face of pure contempt before stepping around him and walking down the hall, making brief eye contact with his posse and quickly making your way past them. unbeknownst to you, hyuck deflates as he leans against the wall, eyes closed and breathing out a sigh of relief, that is until you pass and his friends rush to his side.

“yah, what was that?” a pastel-haired boy said, eyes wide with an incredulous grin. all of a sudden haechan noticed the floor was real interesting.

“it was nothing,” he replied, trying to remain nonchalant. “i just had to say something.”

another one nodded, his eye smile betraying his mock seriousness. “you just had to tell y/n something?” the boy raised an eyebrow, his implication crystal clear. the two youngest friends looked at each other, surprised that jeno had said what they’d both been thinking.

haechan scoffed but still refused to make eye contact. “shut up. you know that’s not what i meant.”

the last one chimed in. “what do you mean then? that you don’t have any feelings for them? at all?” renjun looked doubtful, which only frustrated hyuck even more.

“no, i don’t,” he asserted, “do i look like i like them?”

from the way the rest of his friends looked at him, the answer was probably yes.

“all i’m saying,” jaemin insisted, “is that you can’t hate someone that much without caring about them, at least a little bit.” the others nodded in agreement.

haechan finally looked up, and jaemin took a step back, hands in the air. “i hate y/n. i wouldn’t go out with them if they were the last person on earth. they mean nothing to me. okay?” with that he began to walk to their intended destination, and the boys went to follow him. the others made eye-contact, a look that said they didn’t totally buy it but it wasn’t worth fighting now. they’ve got better things to do than play matchmaker.

so now things are back to how they used to be, and you’re okay with that. in fact, you’re glad about it. your last encounter with haechan renewed your distaste for him, and now more than ever you felt justified in your hatred. he had some nerve to come at you like that when you were trying to be nice to him. thinking about it made your face heat up and your fists clench and somewhere deep down maybe it hurt your heart a little more than you’d like to admit, but there’s no reason to address that. now you didn’t have to worry about that night anymore, or how it made you feel. all that mattered was making haechan feel worse.

monthly evaluations roll around once again and maybe you weren’t on your a-game. maybe you got settled a little. maybe you were spending more time in your head than the studio, and maybe it showed. you tried, you really did, but when you got in front of those coaches you knew it wasn’t gonna be a good day. the actual performance was foggy, but what came after was clear as day. the coaches ripped into you, critiquing your technique, style, even your appearance all in front of the other trainees.

“did you even practice at all?”

“i expected more from you,”

“is this the l/n y/n i’ve been hearing about, or should i be looking for someone else?”

“fixing your face is easy, but when everything needs work? do you think you’ll ever debut like this?”

“you’re a disappointment to this company,”

every word felt like a jab to your stomach, but if you had anything it was a high pain tolerance. you did your best to disguise your hurt, and most of the people in the room didn’t notice. you bowed and apologized after the cutting remarks ended, and walked back to your favorite spot on the wall. you blinked rapidly, refusing to tear up, or at least not in public. you knew how to regulate, deep breaths and muscle control, and everyone brushed it off as you relaxing from your performance. 

that is, everyone except haechan.

as much as he hated to admit it, haechan knew you. when you were happy he knew wrinkles on your nose, when you were angry he knew the flush on your cheeks. when you were triumphant he knew the look in your eyes and when you were hurt? he knew that one best of all. haechan wouldn’t call himself a sadist, but he’d be lying if he never got a sort of sick satisfaction every time he got under your skin. that’s what enemies are for, right? but this, this was different. at first he watched with a cocky grin, excited to have something to rib you about later, but when the comments kept coming it started being a lot less funny. when your face began to harden his face fell because he knew how much you were hurting. and even worse, he wanted to make it go away. every word hit him as they did you, and that’s when he realized.

holy shit. i caught feelings.

of course haechan’s performance went off without a hitch, which was somehow worse to him than doing as poorly as you did. he barely registered the comments he received and he had to pin his eyes to the wall in order to keep them from darting over to you. he pushed through the motions until his time in the spotlight was over, and when he returned to his spot in line he too was tense, struggling not to let his concern show. while you and haechan were both passionate people, one of you was far better at hiding it. it clearly wasn’t lee donghyuck. 

you were out the door almost immediately after you were dismissed, and haechan almost went after you. but before he even had the chance to move he remembered the last thing he said to you, the way he made it clear how much he hated you, and he froze. everything in him wanted to chase you down, ask if you were okay, say he was an idiot and he was sorry for every time he tried to make your life hell because he never knew how much you mattered until you meant everything to him. but he couldn’t. he told himself there were a million reasons but in reality there was only one: he was scared, terrified of upsetting whatever the two of you had. so he spent the rest of his day avoiding you. it wasn’t hugely noticeable but to him it was glaringly obvious. were you that ingrained in his life? or was it that you were just always on his mind? apparently jaemin was right. you can’t hate someone without loving them, at least a little bit.

haechan wasn’t usually an early riser, but for some reason (read: you), he couldn’t get a good night’s sleep. so at four a.m. he found himself wandering the halls of sm entertainment. he'd figured the building would be empty, and for the most part he was right; only one room was taken. his growing curiosity led him to the door, but the sight before him replaced it with dread. it was you. and you looked bad.

the irony wasn't lost on him as he opened the door, and the memory of his night in the studio only filled him with concern. he didn't want to break you the way you broke him, but at this point he couldn't even be sure if you already had. you were dancing, or at least trying to, running your monthly performance over and over again. you would stumble practically every other move and you looked absolutely exhausted. you'd stop for a moment, leaning against a wall with your eyes closed and chest heaving, then force yourself up and start all over again. it was a sickening cycle of abuse, and it didn’t look like you’d stop it if you could.

he didn’t mean to startle you. you were so out of it you didn’t even notice haechan until he was looking you in the eye. you tried to turn away from him but your balance betrayed you, landing you on the floor. a rough growl of frustration what all you could muster as you tried to get donghyuck away from you. it wasn’t clear whether he didn’t hear you, or chose not to listen.

haechan slowly suck to your level, crouched on his knees. “y/n, y/n are you alright? can you hear me?” he asked quietly.

“of course i can hear you,” you slurred, “now leave me alone.”

“i can’t do that,” he replied, “you can’t even stand by yourself. you need to rest.”

you scoffed, but even that seemed weak. “why should i listen to you? you’re tricking me, hyuck. you want me to fail.”

it hurt because you were right. up until today, that was something haechan would have thought. he would have pounced at the chance to set you up for failure. how could he prove to you that he didn’t feel that way anymore? “please y/n. you’re not thinking straight-”

“stop!” you cried, voice trembling. “i-i need to keep working. i’m not good enough. not yet,” your breathing sped up, your body seized with each gasp. “they-they said i wasn’t good enough-i have to be good enough,”

haechan knew that feeling. he’d felt it a million times. the one that sat in the pit of your stomach, the one that chanted over and over again every harsh word said against you. after all,  you were the one who’d given it to him that night. he could have laughed at the irony if he wasn’t so close to tears. hyuck clutched your shoulders, voice shaking with urgency as he said “y/n, i need you to listen to me. you’re not okay. we need to leave. we can come back after you’ve slept,” (he had no such intentions.) “okay? just come with me for now. can you do that for me?” he attempted to pull you to your feet. key word: attempted.

you writhed your way out of his arms, landing violently and curling into yourself on impact. “no!” you shouted. you began rocking back and forth on the ground, muttering to yourself over and over again, “i have to be good enough, i have to be good enough, i have to be good enough,” your chest heaved with broken sobs, a sound almost as heart wrenching as the sight. if haechan’s heart was already broken, the damage was irreparable now. hyuck dropped to his knees in front of you, tears welling up in his own eyes and threatening to spill. you were beyond reason. panicking, he did the only thing he could think to do. he held you.

he pulled your shaking form towards him, flinching at the cold of your skin. rocking with you he clutched you tighter, as if by surrounding your body with his he could shield you from all the horrors in the world. he took deep breaths and tried to steady you, a slow process that only proved effective after several minutes. you felt him gather you into his arms, felt every one of his inhales and exhales, and though you weren’t in a place to speak- to think clearly, really- a thought pushed past the fog in your mind and out through your lips.

“i thought you wanted to go back to the way it was,” you whispered.

“i did,” he whispered back.

and neither of you knew what to say.

if you thought things changed after hyuck’s episode, you had no idea what was coming after yours. it started with conversations, cautious approaches on haechan’s part to get you to crack a smile. then it was surprises. he’d come up to you with food you liked or something that “just reminded him of you.” he started sitting with you during meals, ditching his usual friends for your company instead. he said hi in the hallway, he popped in when he knew you were practicing, he told jokes and played nice and did all the kinds of things that friends do. and as odd as that was, it wasn’t the oddest of it all. the weirdest thing was that you didn’t stop him.

you wanted to, God did you want to, but for some reason you just never told him. part of you appreciated it, craved it really, it wasn’t often you got this much attention. a smaller part of you wanted it more because it was donghyuck who gave it to you, because even when you fought with him you always had something. an even smaller part tried to hide what you really felt, and the smallest part said maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want hyuck to be your enemy anymore. but all of that was drowned out by the discomfort that consumed you every time he got close to you. it wasn’t the actions, though that did feel...odd, it was more like...it was more like you didn’t know what it meant. well, you did, but you weren’t ready for that yet. this isn’t how you two were. it was different. you didn’t like different.

and on top of that there was the attention. haechan figured it was bound to happen. the two of you clearly had a dynamic relationship and among trainees you both were some of the best; there’s no wonder word had gotten around. hyuck continued to deny his feelings for you but by now his friends had figured out at least part of the story, and they teased him almost constantly for it. no one asked you about it, the main reason being that they’re kinda sorta maybe definitely terrified of you, and that was probably the only reason you made it as long as you did. but still, you didn’t try to stop him. or at least you never planned to.

you were eating lunch one day, almost relaxed in the solace you so much cherished; in between classes and practices you hardly had time to think anymore. per usual you refused to think of one thing, (we all know what it is at this point) which would have been fine if that thing wasn't heading this way. you didn't look at haechan coming even though you knew he was; you were tired and glowingly stressed by his actions. plus, you figured, it wasn't like you could stop him. he made his way over and hopped on top of your table, grinning. hyuck ruffled your hair, chuckled and asked, "you miss me?" you ducked downwards, not really up to dealing with haechan's antics, and tried to continue to eat. he huffed (and pouted if you had to guess,) as he continued the conversation with himself, saying, "I guess not," he slipped off the table and sat next to you, still painfully cheerful, and continued to talk to himself, filling your once comfortable silence with somewhat unnerving chatter. you zoned out and apparently your discomfort became more and more obvious because it wasn't long before donghyuck asked you, "hey y/n, are you listening?"

you didn't know why you were getting so upset, and you didn't like it either. you weren't sure if you could do this anymore. you shook your head, trying to stay calm, and haechan leaned towards you, clearly concerned. "are you okay?"

"why are you doing this?" you asked him, your voice shaking just a little bit. you hadn't looked up yet, but your food also seemed last appetizing by the second.

"what do you mean?" he replied, oblivious.

"why are you doing this?" you repeat, gesturing between you two. "is this some kind of joke? or a dare?" internally you begged for his answer to be yes. at least then you wouldn't have to deal with what you knew it was.

hyuck's face scrunched up in confusion, before sinking into realization. "what? no! am i not allowed to care about you?"

you raised your head, finally making eye contact. frustration bubbled up inside you. why did he have to make this so difficult? "no, haechan, you're not."

"y/n, are you alright?" his voice was infuriatingly kind. it almost made you feel bad, well actually it did, but you were too upset for that to stop you.

"why does it matter?" your anger mounted with every word. “we’re not friends. we don’t get along, we never have.” you were getting tense. this was escalating. haechan was getting nervous.

“i know, and i’m sorry, but i’m trying to change that-” haechan’s voice was rising, even though he didn’t mean it to. you could hear- feel even- the sincerity in his voice.

your voice was rising too. you knew people would hear you. you could sense the whispers about to come. you couldn’t stop now. “why, haechan? so you can feel better about yourself? you think this can erase everything else?” you were angry, so angry, so desperate for  his pain. but this wasn’t like before. this wasn’t petty. this was terrifying. and maybe if you were scary enough, mean enough, strong enough, you could make it go away.

he tried to get a word out, but you wouldn’t let him. you were yelling now, saying, “this doesn’t work! whatever this is, whatever we wish this was, could never happen!”

he backed away, standing up as he tried to reply, “why can’t we? y/n, i lik-”

“we can’t do this!” you shouted, “look around, donghyuck! don’t you see where we are? who we are? we’re trainees, and even if we weren’t this wouldn’t work!”

“y/n, listen to me! you know how i feel about you!” haechan yelled, finally cutting you off and catching you off guard. his tone lowered, and you could see the emotion welling up inside him. “and i’d like to think that you care about me at least half as much as i care about you.”

you couldn’t say he was wrong.

“i get that it’s scary, i get that it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but i want this. i want you. isn’t it worth trying? even if it hurts?” there were tears in his eyes. there were tears in yours.

you were quiet now, barely above a whisper. “we can’t do this haechan. i can’t do this.”

and neither of you knew what to say.

so now you and haechan don’t talk. you don’t make eye contact in the hallways, you don’t stand next to each other during evaluations. you don’t take each other’s favorite food or click your tongues or make cruel jokes. you don’t even think about each other. or at least you try not to.

people don’t talk about you either. they used to; right after it happened everyone had something to say. they all had questions, comments, concerns, but they also had the decency not to ask while both of you had tears streaming down your face. you never explained what happened. haechan never did either, not even to his friends, the ones he eventually debuted with. 

secrecy was one of your many shared qualities.

but it's not like you died or anything. you went on with life, went on with the trainee grind until you left, switching companies to make your debut in a smaller company years after you’ve seen donghyuck’s face plastered on every tv screen.

and part of you wondered, what if you’d tried? what if you waited, what if you didn’t fight him that day and let things go until haechan either got over you or confessed to you himself? would you still be together? would it have worked? would it have hurt as much as that last fight? would you have gone back to the way it used to be? you tried not to ask those questions, after all you made the right choice. you got your dream. to get that and have haechan? that would be too much.

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 11 paragraph viii

Inside the parking garage, which vibrated depressingly with olive-green light, there were a number of empty spaces in the long-term area despite the Full sign. As we nosed into the space a man in a sports coat lounging against a white Range Rover threw his cigarette in a spit of orange cinders and walked toward the car. His receding hairline, his tinted aviators and his taut military torso gave him the wind-whipped look of an ex-pilot, a man who monitored delicate instruments at some test site in the Urals. “Victor,” he said, when we got out of the car, crushing my hand in his. Gyuri and Boris received a thump on the back. After terse preliminaries in Russian, a baby-faced curly-headed teenager climbed out of the driver’s seat and was greeted, by Boris, with a slap on the cheek and a jaunty seven note whistle: On the Good Ship Lollipop. “This is Shirley T,” he said to me, rumpling the corkscrew curls. “Shirley Temple. We all call him that—why? Can you guess?”—laughing as the kid, unable to help it, smiled in embarrassment, displaying deep dimples. “Do not be deceived by looks,” said Gyuri to me quietly. “Shirley looks like baby but he has as much onions as any of us here.” Politely, Shirley nodded at me—did he speak English? it didn’t seem so— and opened the back door of the Range Rover for us and the three of us climbed in—Boris, Gyuri, and me—while Victor Cherry sat up front and talked to us from the passenger seat. “This should be easy,” he said to me formally as we pulled out of the garage and back out onto the Overtoom. “Straightforward pawn.” Up close his face was broad and knowing, with a small prim mouth and a wry alertness that made me feel somewhat less agitated about the logic of the evening, or the lack of it: the car changes, the lack of direction and information, the nightmare foreignness. “We are doing Sascha a favor and because of that? He is going to behave nice to us.” Long low buildings. Disjointed lights. There was a sense that it wasn’t happening, that it was happening to someone who wasn’t me. “Because can Sascha walk in bank and get a loan on the painting?” Victor was saying, pedantically. “No. Can Sascha walk in a pawn shop and get a loan on the painting? No. Can Sascha due to circumstances of theft go to any of his usual connections from Horst and get a loan on the painting? No. Therefore Sascha is extremely glad of the appearance of mystery American—you—who I have hooked him up with.” “Sascha shoots heroin the way that you and I breathe,” said Gyuri to me quietly. “One stitch of money and he is out buying big load of drugs like clockwork.” Victor Cherry adjusted his glasses. “Exactly. He is not art lover and he is not particular. He is utilizing picture like high interest credit card or so he thinks. Investment for you—cash for him. You front him the money—you hold the painting as security—he buys schmeck, keeps half, steps on the rest and sells it, and returns with double your money in one month to pick up the painting. And if? In one month he does not return with double your money? The painting is yours. Like I said. Simple pawn.”

“Except not so simple—” Boris stretched, and yawned—“because when you vanish? and bank draft is bad? What can he do? If he runs to Horst and calls for help on this one he will have his neck broken for him.” “I am glad they have changed the meeting place so many times. It is a little bit ridiculous. But it helps because today is Friday,” said Victor, taking off his aviators and polishing them on his shirt. “I made them think you were backing out. Because they kept cancelling and changing the plan—you did not even arrive until today, but they do not know that—because they kept changing the plan I told them you were tired and nervous of sitting around Amsterdam with suitcase of green waiting to hear from them, you’d rebanked your moneys and were flying back to U.S. They did not like to hear that. So—” he nodded at the bag—“here it is the weekend, and banks are closed, and you are bringing what cash you have, and—well, they have been talking to me plenty, lots of time on the phone and I have met with them once already down in a bar in the Red Light, but they have agreed to bring the painting and make the exchange tonight without prior meeting of you, because I have told them your plane leaves tomorrow, and because they have fucked around on their end it is bank draft for the balance or nothing. Which —well, they did not like, but they accepted as proper explanation for bank draft. Makes things easier.” “Much easier,” said Boris. “I was not sure how bank draft was going to go over. Better if they think the bank draft is their own fault for dicking around.” “What’s the place?” “Lunchcafe.” He pronounced it as one word. “De Paarse Koe.” “That means ‘the Purple Cow’ in Dutch,” said Boris helpfully. “Hippie place. Close to the Red Light.” Long lonely street—shut-up hardware stores, stacks of brick by the side of the road, all of it important and hyper-significant somehow even though it was speeding by in the dark much too fast to see. “Food is so awful,” said Boris. “Sprouts and some hard old wheat toast. You would think hot girls go there but is just old gray-head women and fat.” “Why there?” “Because quiet street in the evening,” said Victor Cherry. “Lunchcafe is closed, after hours, but because semi-public nothing will get out of control, see?” Everywhere: strangeness. Without noticing it I’d left reality and crossed the border into some no-man’s-land where nothing made sense. Dreaminess, fragmentation. Rolled wire and piles of rubble with the plastic sheeting blown to the side. Boris was speaking to Victor in Russian; and when he realized I was looking at him, he turned to me. “We are only saying, Sascha is in Frankfurt tonight,” he said, “hosting party at a restaurant for some friend of his just got out of jail, and we are all of us confirmed on this from three different sources, Shirley too. He thinks he is being smart, staying out of town. If it gets back to Horst what has happened here tonight he wants to be able to throw up his hands and say, ‘Who, me? I had nothing to do with it.’ ” “You,” said Victor to me, “you are based in New York. I have said you are an art dealer, arrested for forgery, and now run an operation like Horst’s— much smaller scale in terms of paintings, much larger in terms of money.” “Horst—God bless him,” said Boris. “Horst would be the richest man in New York except he gives it all away, every cent. Always has. Supports many many persons besides himself.” “Bad for business.” “Yes. But he enjoys company.” “Junkie philanthropist, ha,” said Victor. He pronounced it philanthropist. “Good they die off time to time or who knows how many schmeckheads crammed in that dump with him. Anyway—less you say in there, the better. They will not be expecting polite conversation. This is all business. It will be fast. Give him the bank draft, Borya.” Boris said something sharp in Ukrainian. “No, he should produce it himself. It should be from his hand.” Both bank draft, and deposit slip, were printed with the words Farruco Frantisek, Citizen Bank Anguilla, which only increased the sense of dream trajectory, a

track speeding up too fast to slow down. “Farruco Frantisek? I’m him?” Under the circumstances it felt like a meaningful question—as if I might be somehow disembodied or at least had passed beyond a certain horizon where I was freed of basic facts like identity. “I did not choose the name. I had to take what I could get.” “I’m supposed to introduce myself as this?” There was something wrong with the paper, which was too flimsy, and the fact that the slips said Citizen Bank and not Citizen’s Bank made them look all wrong. “No, Cherry will introduce you.”

Farruco Frantisek. Silently I tried the name out, turned my tongue around it. Even though it was a hard name to remember, it was just strong and foreign enough to carry the lost-in-space hyperdensity of the black streets, tram tracks, more cobblestones and neon angels—back in the old city now, historic and unknowable, canals and bicycle racks and Christmas lights shaking on the dark water. “When were you going to tell him?” Victor Cherry was asking Boris. “He needs to know what his name is.” “Well now he knows.” Unknown streets, incomprehensible turns, anonymous distances. I’d stopped even trying to read the street signs or keep track of where we were. Of everything around me—of all I could see—the only point of reference was the moon, riding high above the clouds, which though bright and full seemed weirdly unstable somehow, void of gravity, not the pure anchoring moon of the desert but more like a party trick that might pop out at a conjurer’s wink or else float away into the darkness and out of sight.