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techtired · 3 months ago

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A True Relationship Is Two Imperfect People Refusi - Tymoff

A True Relationship Is Two Imperfect People Refusi - Tymoff sometimes shows perfect romance, in which every difficulty is addressed easily and happily ever after is assured. When we discuss a real relationship, we are entering the deep sea of human connection. Fundamentally, a genuine partnership is not about two ideal individuals meeting. Instead, it is about two flawed people who decide to face their shortcomings together. The magic resides in the flaws and the will to keep on despite challenges. In this blog, we will discuss the quote A True Relationship Is Two Imperfect People Refusi - Tymoff. What Is A Real Relationship? Having a perfect match isn't necessary for a genuine connection. On the contrary, it's about two flawed people who decide to face their problems and shortcomings side by side. Embracing our human frailties and choosing to persevere are the critical ingredients for a genuinely magical partnership. Is Being Imperfect a Bad Thing? Having imperfections, messing up, and falling short of expectations are all signs of being imperfect. Being human involves this inherent quality. When two people in a relationship accept and love one another despite their flaws and problems, it's a healthy partnership. Embracing Imperfections Of A True Relationship Is Two Imperfect People Refusi - Tymoff Everybody has a unique set of shortcomings and faults. In a sincere relationship, couples realize that perfection is unreachable. Instead of looking for the perfect mate, they concentrate on embracing their flaws. A partnership based on mutual respect and knowledge starts with this acceptance. It's about valuing your partner's particular eccentricities and deviations, being free from criticism, and showing the same kindness to yourself. When both spouses accept their flaws, they create a safe environment in which real intimacy can bloom and vulnerability is embraced. Also read - Self-Control Is Strength. Calmness Is Mastery. You – Tymoff The Fallacy Of The Ideal Relationship Media Effect and Social Expectations Social media, TV shows, and movies all frequently present relationships as ideal—free of friction or issues. This irrational perspective can cause us to feel let down and have excessively high expectations. Genuine relationships are neither perfect nor without fluctuations. The Perils of Pursuing Perfection Aiming for a flawless relationship could make one unhappy and frustrated. It strains both parties greatly to live up to unachievable expectations. Realizing that flaws are natural in relationships helps to establish a more genuine and fulfilling connection. Development Through Difficulties Any relationship will naturally have challenges. According to A True Relationship Is Two Imperfect People Refusi - Tymoff quotation, real partners see these challenges as chances for development instead of insurmountable barriers. Every difficulty or dispute we go through together deepens our relationship. Couples that negotiate difficult circumstances grow resilient and learn more about one another. Overcoming obstacles together deepens the bond and promotes togetherness and accomplishment. Dedication Over Simplicity A True Relationship Is Two Imperfect People Refusi - Tymoff's quotation reminds us of the need for commitment in a relationship at a time when convenience sometimes rules persistence. Real love is about sticking to someone despite their imperfections rather than about looking for a perfect match. This dedication implies constant improvement of the connection, even under trying circumstances. It entails deliberately deciding to be beside each other and ride out the ups and downs of life. This relentless commitment turns a relationship from a passing love into a lifetime marriage. The Function of Communication Any decent relationship depends on open and honest communication. In arguments, couples have to communicate their emotions and pay attention to one another. Good communication enables couples to discover common ground and grasp each other's points of view. It guarantees that both spouses feel heard and appreciated and helps to avoid misinterpretation. By encouraging an open communication culture, couples can build their bond and help them gently negotiate problems. Also read - It Is Not Wisdom But Authority That Makes A Law. T – Tymoff Resolving Conflict Maintaining a good relationship depends on learning constructive dispute resolution. True partners confront problems rather than avoid or aggravate disagreements from a problem-solving perspective. Their emphasis is on fixing the problem without criticizing one another's character. This strategy not only fixes the current issue but also, over time, develops respect and trust. By means of conflict, couples can become more solid and cohesive. The Authority of Restitution Everyone makes mistakes; clinging to grudges can sour ties. Maintaining a solid link depends on forgiveness in a significant part. It entails releasing past hurts and concentrating on the present and future. Couples who forgive one another's mistakes can go forward free from bitterness. This grace helps the relationship to heal and flourish and supports the dedication to each other. Creating a Content Life Together A True Relationship Is Two Imperfect People Refusi - Tymoff is not about only romantic gestures. This covers dreams, helping each other toward goals, and building everyday experiences. It's about supporting one another through the highs and lows and basking in the road forward. A happy relationship is one in which both parties value, support, and treasure. The Fun of Common Experiences The glue-binding partnerships together is a shared experience. Whether on the trip, in pursuit of interests, or just for quality time, these events build lifelong memories and strengthen the bond between spouses. Essential for a successful and fulfilling relationship, shared activities offer chances for pleasure, humor, and closeness. The Importance of Trust Any excellent connection starts with trust. It entails being with each other truthful, honest, and consistent. Though it takes effort to develop, trust can be readily undermined. True partners are constant in their behavior and uphold their promises, therefore preserving confidence. Trust-based relationships are strong and can weather adversity. Here are some top quotes by Tymoff that reflect on relationships, personal growth, and life: - "A true relationship is two imperfect people refusing to give up on each other." - "The beauty of life lies in its imperfections." - "Growth begins at the end of your comfort zone." - "Strength is not about perfection, but perseverance." - "Happiness is found when you stop comparing yourself to others." - "Love yourself enough to set boundaries." - "Every day is a new opportunity to be better than yesterday." - "Life is a journey, not a destination; cherish every step." - "True happiness comes from within, not from external validation." - "Embrace the struggles; they make you stronger and wiser." Conclusion We have looked at the great truth—that a genuine partnership is based on the acceptance of imperfection, the accepting of one's defects, and the will to negotiate life's difficulties together—over this conversation. True love has proved itself to be more about the refusal to give up on each other among these flaws than about their absence. Couples who embrace each other's shortcomings, learn the art of compromise and see mistakes as chances for development will create a strong bond marked by resilience, understanding, and great mutual respect. When we consider the dynamics of authentic relationships, it is evident that the road of love and dedication is about laying a basis of trust, empathy, and unwavering support that lets love blossom in its most natural form rather than merely weathering storms together. This research emphasizes the need to continuously develop and comprehend, as well as the need to accept flaws in creating a solid relationship. Two flawed people can definitely produce a relationship that is both long-lasting and very satisfying by staying dedicated to the road of love. FAQs What does "relationship" refer to? In the context of two or more people, a relationship is their interaction or link. This can show itself as a personal link, like that between family members or love partners, or as a professional dynamic, like the relationships among colleagues. In the framework of life, what would describe a relationship? In life, a relationship is any sort of link between two people that could be either favourable or harmful. This covers many kinds of ties, including those to family, friends, or acquaintances. How, then, do connections come to be? Relationships could start in closeness, physical attraction, perceived benefits, similarities or differences, or personal disclosure. Usually, deepening via the sharing of personal information and fostering mutual trust, they can come to an end from separation or another kind of breakup. Read the full article

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zeffiroh · 4 years ago

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Wikipedia just turned 20!!!

[ID: Origami W, a gift for wikipedia END ID]

[ID: Origami models of arabic numerals two and zero, symbolizing wiki’s 20th birthday END ID]

send thanks and love to wikipedians.>>>

have a looksie at the birthday celebrations(twas on 15th), and confetti are still around.>>>

[ID: gif of puzzle globe(wiki logo) bursting, metaphorically the burst of knowledge and joy wiki gives, a gif from the creative commons bday stash of wikipedia END ID]

“Wikipedia started as an ambitious idea

…to create a free encyclopedia, written by volunteers, for everyone in the world. It seemed impossible.

Over 20 years, Wikipedia has become the largest collection of open knowledge in history. How did it happen? People, like you.

Made and sustained by humans.

Meet the movement.”

[ID: Graph,WIkipedia: citability vs helpfulness of articles on academic timescale .helpfulness increases from elementary academia to graduate academia as wikipedia articles are stuffed with knowledge from archives and enthusiasts, but elitist academic institutions have created a situation wherein the citability of these articles drops down from elementary levels to graduate studies. END ID]

graph is taken from this aptly named article, “time to stop wikipedia shaming”

It is as if the main theme of wikipedia “ is edited by everyone” is taken as a flaw. the fascist and elitist gate-keeping control is not more evident anywhere but when wikipedia is shamed. Articles are locked, users banned and multiple people editing it makes it much more reliable than papers and books written by bigoted academics and reviewed by bribed editors (case in point- Sigmund Froyd’s theory of female sexuality, cough cough)

It is “the best thing ever,” because “anyone in the world can write anything they want about any subject—so you know you are getting the best possible information.” - Michael Scott - The Office

This dialogue was used to identify Michael as an idiot, but it has the opposite effect, as this is truly the most beautiful missions of all time.

The thing about wikipedia is it is a macrogasmic entity of knowledge. Edits materialize at a rate of 1.8 per second. But perhaps more remarkable than Wikipedia's success is how little its reputation has changed. It was criticized as it rose, and it still is a matter of superiority complex in academic gate-keepers to state that Wikipedia is a blog and encyclopedias are more trustworthy etc etc, that wikipedia is not a source, and similar shaming tactics, when actually wikipedia is, in fact a tertiary SOURCE and, a more frequently updated encyclopedia.

Wiki is the only not-for-profit site in the top 10 most used sites , and one of only a handful in the top 100. It does not plaster itself with advertising(it could, but it doesn't, just to make it a comfortable and easily comprehensable resource), intrude on privacy, or provide a breeding ground for neo-Nazi trolling, and still broadcasts user-generated content. Unlike the other top social platforms , it makes its product de-personified, collaborative, and for the general good. More than an encyclopedia, Wikipedia has become a community, a library, a constitution, an experiment, a political manifesto—the closest thing there is to an online public square. It is one of the few remaining places that retains the faintly utopian glow of the early World Wide Web. A free encyclopedia encompassing the whole of human knowledge, written almost entirely by unpaid volunteers: Can you believe that was the one that worked?

Wikipedia is not perfect. The problems that it does have—and there are plenty of them—are discussed in great detail on Wikipedia itself, often in dedicated forums for self-critique with titles like “Why Wikipedia is not so great.” One contributor observes that “many of the articles are of poor quality.” Another worries that “consensus on Wikipedia may be a problematic form of knowledge production.” A third notes that “someone can just come and edit this very page and put in ‘pens are for cats only.’” Like the rest of the tech world, the site suffers from a gender imbalance; by recent estimates, 90 percent of its volunteer editors are men. Women and nonbinary contributors report frequent harassment from their fellow Wikipedians—trolling, doxing, hacking, death threats. The site's parent organization has repeatedly owned up to the situation and taken halting steps to redress it; several years ago, it allocated hundreds of thousands of dollars to a “community health initiative.” But in a way, the means to fix Wikipedia's shortcomings, in terms of both culture and coverage, are already in place: Witness the rise of feminist edit-athons.

The site's innovations have always been cultural as well as computational. It was created using existing technology. This remains the single most underestimated and misunderstood aspect of the project: its emotional architecture. Wikipedia is built on the personal interests and idiosyncrasies of its contributors; in fact, without getting gooey, you could even say it is built on LOVE. Editors' passions can drive the site deep into inconsequential territory—exhaustive detailing of dozens of different kinds of embroidery software, lists dedicated to bespectacled baseball players, a brief but moving biographical sketch of Khanzir, the only pig in Afghanistan. No knowledge is truly useless, but at its best, Wikipedia weds this ranging interest to the kind of pertinence where Larry David's “Pretty, pretty good!” is given as an example of rhetorical epizeuxis. It is one of the reminders, that the internet is a wonderful space.

In 2000, around a year before Jimmy Wales and Larry Sanger cofounded Wikipedia, the pair started a site called Nupedia, planning to source articles from noted scholars and put them through seven rounds of editorial oversight. But the site never got off the ground; after a year, there were fewer than two dozen entries. (Wales, who wrote one of them himself, told The New Yorker “it felt like homework.”) When Sanger got wind of a collaborative software tool called a wiki—from the Hawaiian wikiwiki, or “quickly”—he and Wales decided to set one up as a means of generating raw material for Nupedia. They assumed nothing good would come of it, but within a year Wikipedia had 20,000 articles. By the time Nupedia's servers went down a year later, the original site had become a husk, and the seed it carried had grown beyond any expectation.

Many similar sites have languished. They came up against a simple and apparently insoluble problem, the same one that Nupedia encountered and Wikipedia surmounted: Most "experts" do not want to contribute to a free online encyclopedia.

This barrier to entry exists even in places where there are many "experts" and large volumes of material to draw from. Napoleon Bonaparte, for instance, is the subject of tens of thousands of books. There are probably more dedicated historians of the Corsican general than of almost any other historical figure, but so far these scholars, even the retired or especially enthusiastic ones, have been disinclined to share their bounty. Citizendium's entry on Napoleon, around 5,000 words long and unedited for the past six years, is missing events as major as the decisive Battle of Borodino, which claimed 70,000 casualties, and the succession of Napoleon II. By contrast, Wikipedia's article on Napoleon sits at around 18,000 words long and runs to more than 350 sources.

The Wikipedia replacement products revealed another problem with the top-down model: With so few contributors, coverage was spotty and gaps were hard to fill. Scholarpedia's entry on neuroscience makes no mention of serotonin or the frontal lobes. At Citizendium, Sanger refused to recognize women's studies as a top-level category, describing the discipline as too “politically correct.” (Today, he says “it wasn't about women's studies in particular” but about “too much overlap with existing groups.”) A wiki with a more horizontal hierarchy, on the other hand, can self-correct. No matter how politically touchy or intellectually abstruse the topic, the crowd develops consensus. On the English-language Wikipedia, particularly controversial entries, like those on George W. Bush or Jesus Christ, have edit counts in the thousands.

Wikipedia, in other words, isn't raised up wholesale, like a barn; it's assembled grain by grain, like a termite mound. The smallness of the grains, and of the workers carrying them, makes the project's scale seem impossible. But it is exactly this incrementalism that puts immensity within reach.

The stars of Wikipedia are not giants in their fields but so-called WikiGnomes—editors who sweep up typos, arrange articles in neatly categorized piles, and scrub away vandalism. This work is often thankless, but it does not seem to be joyless. It is a common starting point for Wikipedians, and many are content to stay there. According to a 2016 paper in the journal Management Science, the median edit length on Wikipedia is just 37 characters, an effort that might take a few seconds.

From there, though, many volunteers are drawn deeper into the site's culture. They discuss their edits on Talk pages; they display their interests and abilities on User pages; some vie to reach the top of the edit-count leaderboard. An elect few become administrators; while around a quarter of a million people edit Wikipedia daily, only around 1,100 accounts have admin privileges. The site is deep and complex enough—by one count, its policy directives and suggestions run to more than 150,000 words—that its most committed adherents must become almost like lawyers, appealing to precedent and arguing their case. As with the law, there are different schools of interpretation; the two largest of these are deletionists and inclusionists. Deletionists favor quality over quantity, and notability over utility. Inclusionists are the opposite.

Most dedicated editors, whether deletionist or inclusionist, are that category of person who sits somewhere between expert and amateur: the enthusiast. Think of a railfan or a trainspotter. (Wikipedians disagree on which is the better term.) Their knowledge of trains is quite different from an engineer's or a railway historian's; you can't major in trainspotting or become credentialed as a railfan. But these people are a legitimate kind of expert nonetheless. Previously, their folk knowledge was reposited in online forums, radio shows, and specialist magazines. Wikipedia harnessed it for the first time. The entry on the famous locomotive the Flying Scotsman is 4,000 words long and includes eye-wateringly detailed information on its renumbering, series of owners, smoke deflectors, and restoration, from contributors who seem to have the most intimate, hard-won knowledge of the train's working. (“It was deemed that the A4 boiler had deteriorated into a worse state than the spare due to the higher operating pressures the locomotive had experienced following the up-rating of the locomotive to 250 psi.”)

Pedantry this powerful is itself a kind of engine, and it is fueled by an enthusiasm that verges on love. Many early critiques of computer-assisted reference works feared a vital human quality would be stripped out in favor of bland fact-speak. That 1974 article in The Atlantic presaged this concern well: “Accuracy, of course, can better be won by a committee armed with computers than by a single intelligence. But while accuracy binds the trust between reader and contributor, eccentricity and elegance and surprise are the singular qualities that make learning an inviting transaction. And they are not qualities we associate with committees.” Yet Wikipedia has eccentricity, elegance, and surprise in abundance, especially in those moments when enthusiasm becomes excess and detail is rendered so finely (and pointlessly) that it becomes beautiful.

In the article on the sexual revolution, there was a line, since deleted, that read, “For those who were not there to experience it, it may be difficult to imagine how risk-free sex was during the 1960s and 1970s.” This anonymous autobiography in miniature is an intriguing piece of editorializing, but it's also a little legacy of the sexual revolution all by itself, a rueful reflection on a moment of freedom that didn't last. (The editor who added “Citation needed” is part of that story as well.) In the article on the anticommunist intellectual Frank Knopfelmacher, we learn that “his protracted, usually freewheeling, invariably slanderous late-night telephone monologues (visited alike upon associates and, more often, antagonists) retained a mythic status for decades among Australian intellectuals.” The Hong Kong novelist Lillian Lee, we are told, seeks “freedom and happiness, not fame.”

Pedants have a reputation for humorlessness, but for Wikipedians a sense of humor is at the core of the good-faith collaboration that defines the project. There is probably no need for an exhaustive history of a giant straw goat erected in a Swedish town each Christmas, but the article on the Gävle Goat chronicles its annual fate fastidiously. It is prone to vandalism by fire, and the article centers around an exacting timeline that lists the date of destruction, the method of destruction, and the new security measures put in place every year since 1966. (In 2005, it was “burnt by unknown vandals reportedly dressed as Santa and the gingerbread man, by shooting a flaming arrow at the goat.”)

Why do Wikipedians perform these millions of hours of labor, some expended on a giant straw goat, without pay? Because they don't experience them as labor. “It's a misconception people work for free,” Wales told the site Hacker Noon in 2018. “They have fun for free.” A 2011 survey of more than 5,000 Wikipedia contributors listed “It's fun” as one of the primary reasons they edited the site.

This is why the meta side of Wikipedia—the Talk pages, the essay commentaries, the policies—is suffused with nerdy jokes. We're so used to equating seriousness with importance that this jars at first: It's hard to square the encapsulation of all human knowledge with a policy called “Don't be a dick” (since revised to “Don't be a jerk”). But expressing the directive that way carries a purpose. It's the same purpose that drives Wikipedians to collect and celebrate the site's “Lamest edit wars,” which include long-running skirmishes on Freddie Mercury's ancestry, the provenance of Caesar salad, the proper pronunciation of J. K. Rowling's surname (“Perhaps it rhymes with ‘Trolling’?”), the wording of certain captions (“Is the cat depicted really smiling?”), and the threshold of notoriety required to appear on a list of fictional badgers.

Few architects of a world encyclopedia would think to include a forum for jokes, and in the unlikely event that they did, no one could anticipate that it would be important. But on Wikipedia the jokes are very important. They defuse tensions. They foster joyful cooperation. They encourage humility. They promote further reading and further editing. They also represent a surprise return to the earliest days of Enlightenment reference works. Samuel Johnson's dictionary, compiled in 1755, gives one definition of “dull” as “not exhilarating; not delightful: as, to make dictionaries is dull work.” Perhaps the most important encyclopedia of the late modern period, the Encyclopédie, is barbed with satirical and anticlerical quips: The entry on “Cannibals” cross-references with “Communion.”

Wikipedia ought to serve as a model for many forms of social endeavor online, but its lessons do not translate readily into the commercial sphere. It is a noncommercial enterprise, with no investors or shareholders to appease, no financial imperative to grow or die, and no standing to maintain in the arms race to amass data and attain AI supremacy at all costs. At Jimmy Wales' wedding, one of the maids of honor toasted him as the sole internet mogul who wasn't a billionaire. And that's what's awesome about it. It realizes that in as a society, we don't have to work to sustain ourselves, that's something we built the society for, we work to collect what we like, and that's our earning from the labour. Wikipedians work for curiosity and satisfaction and collect knowledge and joy.

The site has helped its fellow tech behemoths, though, especially with the march of AI. Wikipedia's liberal content licenses and vast information hoard have allowed developers to train neural networks much more quickly, cheaply, and widely than proprietary data sets ever could have. When you ask Apple's Siri or Amazon's Alexa a question, Wikipedia helps provide the answer. When you Google a famous person or place, Wikipedia often informs the “knowledge panel” that appears alongside your search results.

These tools were made possible by a project called Wikidata, the next ambitious step toward realizing the age-old dream of creating a “World Brain.” It began with a Croatian computer scientist and Wikipedia editor named Denny Vrandečić. He was enthralled with the online encyclopedia's content but felt frustrated that users could not ask it questions that required drawing on knowledge from multiple entries across the site. Vrandečić wanted Wikipedia to be able to answer a query like “What are the 20 largest cities in the world that have a female mayor? The knowledge is obviously in Wikipedia, but it's hidden. To get it out would be huge work.” .

Drawing on an idea from the early internet called “the semantic web,” Vrandečić set out to structure and enrich Wikipedia's data set so that it could, in effect, begin to synthesize its own knowledge. If there were some way to tag women and mayors and cities by population size, then a correctly coded query could return the 20 largest cities with a female mayor automatically. Vrandečić had edited Wikipedia in Croatian, English, and German, so he recognized the limitations of using plain English semantic tagging. Instead, he chose numerical codes. Any reference to the book Treasure Island might be tagged with the code Q185118, for example, or the color brown with Q47071.

Vrandečić assumed this coding and tagging would have to be carried out by bots. But of the 80 million items that have been added to Wikidata so far, around half have been entered by human volunteers, a level of crowdsourcing that has surprised even Wikidata's creators. Editing Wikidata and editing Wikipedia, it turns out, are different enough that they don't cannibalize the same contributors. Wikipedia attracts people interested in writing prose, and Wikidata compels dot-connectors, puzzle-solvers, and completionists. (Its product manager, Lydia Pintscher, still comes home from a movie and manually copies the cast list from IMDb into Wikidata with the appropriate tags.) ANd wikipedia is amazing because it isn't bothered by the possoibility that AI does sort of take over, or that there is canabalistic editing, its an evolving landscape, with its freedom to exist.

As platforms like Google and Alexa work to provide instant answers to random questions, Wikidata will be one of the key architectures that link the world's information together. The system still results in errors sometimes—that's why Siri briefly thought Bulgaria's national anthem was “Despacito”—but its prospective scale is already more ambitious than Wikipedia's. There are subprojects aiming to itemize every sitting politician on earth, every painting in every public collection worldwide, and every gene in the human genome into searchable, adaptable, and machine-readable form.

The jokes will still be there. Consider Wikidata's numerical tag for the author Douglas Adams, Q42. In Adams' book The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, a group of hyperintelligent beings build a vast, powerful computer called Deep Thought, which they ask for the “Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.” What comes out is the number 42. That wink of self-awareness—at the folly and joy of building something as preposterous and powerful as a world brain— is why, with Wikipedia, you know you are getting the best possible information.

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princesssarisa · 2 years ago

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Character ask: Margaret "Marmee" March (Little Women)

Tagged by anonymous.

Favorite thing about them: She's basically the ideal mother, who combines the best traits of all her daughters – Meg and Beth's warmth, tenderness, and compassion, Jo's strength and determination, and Amy's honesty and dignity. She's highly principled and selfless, and she teaches her daughters to be the same, yet she wants them to be happy too, and she gives them nurturing, unconditional love all the while. She's frank with her daughters about their mistakes, but in a gentle, empathetic way, and she's equally frank about her own flaws: e.g. when she confesses to Jo that she struggles to control her anger too, and when she admits to Meg that as a new mother she also exhausted herself and neglected her husband for her babies. She's competent and brave, yet she doesn't hide her emotional vulnerabilities either (e.g. her grief at the news of her husband's near-fatal illness, and through Beth's final illness and death). And by the standards of her day, she's very progressive: she doesn't believe in corporal punishment, she accepts Jo's tomboyishness, she homeschools Beth and Amy, and she doesn't care if her girls marry rich men or not, as long as they marry good men. (Of course in some other ways she's still a 19th century parent: see below.) Unless you think she's "too perfect," as some critics do, there's hardly anything to dislike about her.

Least favorite thing about them: Well, by modern standards, some of the values she teaches her daughters are slightly conservative and not exactly feminist. For example, her speech in "Meg Goes to Vanity Fair," where she openly says that she wants her daughters to be "beautiful" as well as "accomplished and good" (an ideal modern mother would firmly assure them that looks don't matter) and that "the best and sweetest thing that can happen to a woman" is to be loved by a good man (though at least she amends it with "Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives"). Or later, when she urges Meg to be careful not to make John angry and to always be the first to apologize when they're both at fault (though generously, I'd like to think if she had a son, she would advise him to treat his wife the same way). Or the fact that instead of managing her anger but still expressing it in a healthy way, she suppresses it altogether. Of course she's just being a woman of her time and place, and her intentions are always the best, but that doesn't stop me from sometimes disagreeing with her.

Three things I have in common with them:

*I try to be nurturing.

*I have a temper that I try my best to control.

*I care very much about helping the poor.

Three things I don't have in common with them:

*I'm not married.

*I'm not a mother.

*I don't think a good marriage is necessarily the ultimate happiness for a woman; it only can be for some.

Favorite line:

"I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so.”

Money is a needful and precious thing,—and, when well used, a noble thing,—but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace."

"Oh, children, children, help me to bear it!" (I love this emotional honesty when her husband falls ill – so many other mothers would put on a brave face, which would neither be healthy for themselves nor for their children in the long run.)

“Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this!”

brOTP: Her daughters.

OTP: Mr. March.

nOTP: Her daughters or their husbands.

Random headcanon: Like her real-life model Abba Alcott, besides her four daughters, she gave birth to a boy who only lived a few days. This loss partly explains why she and her husband allow Jo to be such a tomboy, and why she embraces Laurie as an honorary son.

Unpopular opinion: Her marriage really is a happy one. Unlike what so many feminist critics seem to assume, the anger she struggles with isn't at her husband, or at her "oppressive" life as a housewife. Abba and Bronson Alcott's marriage might have been more complex, but the March parents are truly ideal partners for each other.

Song I associate with them:

From the 2005 musical:

"Here Alone," her song of longing for her husband when he's gone off to war.

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"Days of Plenty," her song after Beth's death. (I have slightly mixed feelings about this song, though – some of the lyrics seem to advocate using sheer force of will to push through grief, which I don't think is healthy and which I don't think is how she deals with Beth's death in the book either.)

youtube

Favorite pictures of them:

This classic illustration by Frank T. Merrill:

This illustration of the same scene by Jessie Wilcox Smith:

Mary Astor in the 1949 film:

Susan Sarandon in the 1994 film:

Maureen McGovern in the 2005 musical, with Sutton Foster as Jo:

Emily Watson in the 2017 miniseries:

Laura Dern in the 2019 film:

@littlewomenchannel

#character ask #little women #marmee march #ask game #fictional characters #louisa may alcott #tw: illness #tw: death #fictional character ask

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onecanonlife · 3 years ago

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Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that's all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There's nothing deeper at work here. There's nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 5,039)

(second part) (third part) (fourth part)

--------------------

Part One

He first notices it because he chances a glance in the mirror. Not something he does often, these days, because he dislikes looking at his appearance for longer than necessary. The mirror only tends to show him his flaws and imperfections: the bags under his eyes that he can never quite hide, the way his cheekbones jut out in too-telling prominence, the way his uniform never seems to fit right lately, and not just because he almost never finds the time or energy to give it a proper wash.

So, he doesn’t look in the mirror beyond a cursory glance in the mornings as he’s dragging himself out of bed, just long enough to be sure that his veneer of professionalism is holding, because frankly, he has nothing if he doesn’t have that. No one’s called him on his slowly slipping standards just yet, and he intends to keep it that way. He is president, after all; he must lead by example, and if the nation is to be a success then he must be as well. Or at least, his citizens must believe that he is.

But this morning, his gaze lingers just ever-so-slightly longer than he normally allows. And then, his vision catches on—something. He thinks he must be mistaken, and he hasn’t the time to figure it out, really, but he can’t help but lean in closer, searching his own reflection. What he sees makes dread beat out a two-timed rhythm in his chest.

There is white in his hair.

Not much. Just a few strands. But it’s strange enough to catch his attention. There has never been white in his hair before. He can’t imagine what caused it. He’s not that old. But nevertheless, the white is present, and it’s not so obvious that someone would catch it on a first glance, probably, but it stands out enough against the dark brown of the rest of his hair that it’s not inconceivable that someone might spot it. Spot it, and then ask questions. Questions that he would not want to answer, if only because it would be ridiculous for someone to be grilling him about his hair of all things.

He doesn’t want to deal with it. That’s the only reason why he’s bothered, surely.

He’s going to be late to a meeting if he dallies for too much longer. So his gaze flicks about his room—which is fairly bare, fairly utilitarian; decorating’s been the last thing on his mind in recent weeks, and it would be a waste of time that he could be devoting to bettering his nation—and lands on a sword leaning against the wall. One that he’s barely touched recently, and that he hardly knows how to use, and certainly not well at that, but if he’s looking for a quick solution, it will serve. So he crosses the room, snatches it up, and returns to the mirror.

With one hand, he picks out the white strands. With the other, he uses the sword to slice them off. Crude, and he’s certain he gets a few brown strands as well, but it’s effective, and that’s what’s important.

It only takes a few minutes more after that to prepare himself. He emerges from his room confident, his head held high, a president ready to take on the challenges of the day. Never mind that he barely slept last night. Never mind that he’s stopped eating regularly, grabbing a bite only when his schedule allows him. Never mind that he’s been feeling jumpy of late, more anxious, that he’s taken to tracking the whereabouts of everyone around him at all times, if only to know that they’re safe. Never mind any of that. He is the president, and sacrifices must be made.

He is, after all, only as good as the country he builds.

---

The incident slips his mind in the following weeks. It’s simply not important when there are so many other things to accomplish; infrastructure and food and an economy and all the other intricacies that go into running a nation, that lead to endless stacks of paperwork for him and hopefully, prosperity for his people. All the other intricacies that, as it turns out, he has no idea how to handle, but he’s trying.

Because it’s all worth it, if it’s for them.

But one night, he’s tugging off his hat, shucking off his coat, tears already pricking at his eyes for no other reason than the feeling of being terribly, desperately overwhelmed, and he happens to glance at that hated mirror. Rather than alighting on any of the other aspects of his physicality that annoy him—most recently, it’s the fact that he always feels that he’s not standing straight enough, and that other people are judging him for his lack of professionalism—he focuses on his hair.

There’s white in it. Again.

And more of it, this time. Not too much, still, but definitely more. Enough that someone else might actually notice. He’s not sure how he didn’t, up to this point. He strides over to the glass, already tugging at his hair hard enough to hurt, and sure enough, there they are. Strands of snow white hair. Like he’s bleached them, except—he takes one and rubs it between his fingers—without the brittle quality that often-bleached hair tends to take on.

He doesn’t understand why this is happening. He can’t feel anything about it other than annoyance, because this is just one more thing to deal with, one more thing to add to the pile. And it’s made worse because it’s practically a vanity project; sure, he doesn’t want people bothering him about it, but logically, he knows that hair shouldn’t be such a big deal to him. It’s only that professionalism is important, and he already feels like he’s not doing enough in that area. Not enough to garner the respect that a good president should command, at any rate. So he needs to keep this under control.

Somehow, the thought of doing anything about it tonight is too much. Exhaustion pulls at him like anchors tied to his legs, even though he knows his sleep will be broken and fitful, as it usually is of late. He breathes in and out, slowly and deliberately, hoping to attain some measure of calm, but it doesn’t work, only makes him more aware of the tears readying themselves to fall.

It’s a disgusting display of weakness, truly. He only allows himself this because there is no one else here to see it, no one else to realize just how weak a man their president truly is. He can break down in private, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the rest of his duties. There was even a time when crying into his pillow made him feel better, if only a little, made him feel as if he was getting rid of all the emotions and incessant whispers of failure that always build up in him over the course of a day. But those times are long gone. And yet, the tears still flow.

Here, alone, in the privacy of his chambers, he can never manage to stop them. He lacks willpower.

Weakness. It’s pathetic. He knows it is.

But if he has to be weak here in order to successfully pretend at strength for everyone else, then he will put up with the self-loathing that he can’t seem to shake, and he’ll let himself cry. It’s not as if anyone will ever know about it. No one will be able to judge—except for himself, that is, but dealing with his own judgments is nothing new. In a way, it’s what keeps him going, his self-criticisms. They keep him sharp, doing what needs doing; he can always trust himself to tell himself the truth, after all, even if he can trust no one else.

He casts one more glance at his hair, disgust flooding him. He’ll trim it out in the morning, same as before. For the moment, he crosses his bare floor to his bed, slumping into it. Almost immediately, his eyes begin stinging with more intensity, and the first of the tears roll down his cheeks. He turns his face, burying it in his pillow as emotions well up in him, too many at once, washing over him and drowning him, because it’s all so much and this is the only way he can deal with them, because he has to be strong. Has to have himself together.

It truly is pathetic, how much trouble he’s having with handling this. He should be able to do better, and yet, here he is. He can’t help but wonder what they would all think if they knew. Surely, they would consider him unfit to lead them, and the trouble is, they might even be right. But that would destroy him, he thinks, if they were to believe him unworthy of their trust, of their love.

And sometimes, he wonders what Phil would say if he could see him now. But he always shies away from that. And besides, Phil doesn’t need to know. He’ll keep sending letters that emphasize the good, and Phil will be happy, and Phil will be proud of him, and—he needs to stop thinking about this.

Morning comes too soon, but he forces himself out of bed, as per usual. Cuts the white hairs until there’s no sign they were there at all, and hopes that will be the end of it.

---

The problem is, that’s not the end of it. The white hairs keep appearing, and at an increasing frequency as time goes on. It starts to be that he can’t go more than a day or two without checking for them, lest they become noticeable to literally everyone else around him.

The most troublesome thing about it, though, is that he simply doesn’t have the time to deal with it. He doesn’t have time to painstakingly comb through his hair every morning, not when there’s so many more important things he could be doing, so many tasks to accomplish, ideas to form and sign off on, an entire goddamn nation to keep afloat. He doesn’t have the time, and it’s wearing on him already, so he needs a different solution.

He considers hair dye. He could get his hands on some fairly easily, and likely surreptitiously. No one would have to know. But the trouble with hair dye would lie in finding the right color; if no one has noticed the white hairs cropping up until now, they certainly would notice if he came into the office with his hair an entirely different shade of brown. And that would make it obvious that he’s hiding something; no one dyes their hair a different shade of its original color unless they’re trying to cover something up.

Possibly, through trial and error, he could make a dye that matches his hair color exactly, or at least, close enough that the difference is imperceptible. But there’s the time issue again. He can’t waste his efforts on experimenting with hair dye when he’s meant to be trying to better the lives of his citizens, to build up a prosperous, glorious country. What kind of president would that make him? He’s already well aware that he’s not a very good one; he doesn’t need to make matters worse.

So, hair dye is impractical. He’ll revisit the idea if he truly gets desperate. But the situation as it is is untenable. He’s been having difficulty getting out of bed at all in the morning, recently, a combination of exhaustion and a strange, pervasive apathy serving to keep him under his covers long past when he should have been preparing for the day ahead, even though staying in bed longer doesn’t seem to help him catch up on sleep at all. Why he finds himself wanting to lie there, doing absolutely nothing other than staring at the ceiling for hours on end, he has no idea. He doesn’t let himself, of course, or at least, not for more than an hour or two just after dawn, but the fact remains that the temptation is there, and growing stronger every day. He can’t be spending ages on his hair every morning. It’s not feasible.

But that leaves only one real solution. And that’s to leave the white hairs as they are, and simply try to hide them. The more he considers it, the more he believes it’s the only real avenue worth pursuing. He could probably manage; his hat is a part of his uniform anyway. He rarely takes it off outside of his bedroom. So, all it will take is an extra moment of styling to make sure that all of the white has been pushed up under it. And perhaps checking a few times during the day to be sure that nothing has come loose, but that should take seconds at most. He can spare a few seconds, probably.

At the very least, it will take less time than what he’s been doing. That’s the goal here, really.

He hates that this is something that he’s having to put any amount of thought into at all. But he’s reached a decision, and the next morning, he gives it a shot. Arranges his hair so that more of it lies hidden under his hat than usual, and sets out for the day.

No one comments on it. Not this day, nor the next day, nor the next. He supposes he could consider that a success.

It does mean, of course, that the amount of white in his hair only increases as time goes by, until his hair is streaked with it. But if he’s careful, if he continues to be cautious with it, no one will know about it but him, and he can dislike it in the privacy of his own quarters. Just as he dislikes everything else.

---

On the rare occasions that he has any time to himself before retiring for the night, an instance that becomes more and more seldom as the days and weeks pass on, he often finds his feet carrying him to Niki’s. There is a safety here that is difficult to find anywhere else, even in his own quarters. Perhaps especially in his own quarters, because there is nothing warm, nothing personal about his room. Here, though, there is the scent of baking bread and cookies, a heat that gets trapped under his skin and chases the chill away, and there is, of course, Niki herself.

He finds it hard to lend too much trust to anyone these days, but Niki is an exception to that.

So, here he comes, and here he stays, when he has an hour or two to spare. He comes here, and they talk, about little things, unimportant things, about how her days have been or the latest prank that Fundy has performed—and it’s nice to hear about Fundy. He barely sees his boy, busy as he is, and it’s good to hear that he’s doing well, that he’s still the upbeat, rambunctious lad he knows and loves.

They talk about these things, and they talk about other things, and sometimes, they talk about nothing at all. Sometimes, talking is asking too much, and Niki always seems to see it, and she kneads dough and lets him sit in front of her and watch. He likes watching. The motions are repetitive, soothing. If he had the time, he might ask if he could join in; he thinks he might enjoy it, even if he’s never had a deft hand in the kitchen. But he never has the time, of course, so he just watches, for whatever time he can spare.

Today is one of those days. It’s nearing nightfall, but for once, he’s cleared his desk of a majority of his paperwork, so here he is, slumped against Niki’s counter, letting his cheek rest on the cold stone as she pats down the space in front of her with flour, rolls out her dough with a rolling pin. Cookies, then, rather than bread. He likes watching this, too, likes watching as she spreads out the dough again and again, cutting out more shapes until all the dough is gone, used up, in the oven and baking.

He likes being here in general. He could be doing other things—he told Fundy he’d take him fishing soon, for instance, but soon keeps on being put off, and he feels terrible about it, but the job has to come first. His country has to come first. Or, there’s a new redstone gimmick that Tubbo worked out that he wanted to show him, but that can probably wait for a bit. Or, Tommy wanted to watch a movie with him, he thinks, but he never has time during the day, and by the time night comes, he’s far too exhausted, so he comes here, instead. Comes to see Niki, where, somehow, the weight of all the expectations placed on him seems to lighten, if only for a little while.

He always ends up being horribly unprofessional here, in this bakery. Always ends up messing up his uniform, taking off his coat, getting a smudge of something on his face, not sitting straight enough, not keeping his shoulders set, slumping in general, a whole list of faults. But it’s harder to care when it’s Niki in front of him. Because she’s always glad to see him, and she’s one of the few people from whom he can believe that the sentiment is the truth.

But that is always, and this is now: Niki’s making cookies, the last batch of the day, and he’s watching, head resting against the table. He almost feels like he could fall asleep like this, which would be a miracle in of itself. He wouldn’t let himself, of course; a bit of unprofessionalism is one thing, but falling asleep where anyone could see him, where anyone could get to him, that is quite another.

He wonders if he should tell her any of the things he’s been thinking about. About his own ineffectiveness, about how all his work seems to amount to very little actually being done. About how he’s sure everyone is losing faith in him, and he can’t even blame them, because he’s losing faith in himself. About how in the end, he has no idea what he’s doing, and he was a fool to think that he did. About power and its nature, and who has it and who doesn’t, and about how his words might not amount to very much at all, actually.

Probably not. He’s not sure she would understand. And he shouldn’t burden her with his troubled mind.

So he just watches, and lets himself drift a little.

“Rough day today?” Niki asks, working her rolling pin, smoothing out all the clumps.

“No worse than usual,” he says. “It’s just tiring.”

Niki hums. He likes when she does that. From someone else, it might sound dismissive, but when she does it, it means the opposite, means she’s considering all of your words, giving them due thought.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been tired a lot, lately,” she says. She sets the rolling pin to the side, picking up a cookie cutter. It’s leaf-shaped. For autumn, he assumes. Outside, the trees are beginning to change colors, though the shift to reds and oranges and yellows won’t really get going for a few more weeks. It’s that hazy, indistinct time of year when it’s not still summer and not yet fall, too hot for one and too cool for the other.

Not that he’s been paying that much attention. It’s been a while since he was outside for any significant length of time. Or rather, for a reason other than approving construction or checking on borders or something of the like. For a reason not presidentially important.

“It’s a tiring job,” he says. “Who would’ve thought? I’m alright, though. It’s well within the bounds of what I can handle.”

“Have you been getting enough sleep?” she asks. She presses the cutter into the dough. Lifts it. Pushes the shape out of the cutter and onto her baking sheet. Repeats.

He laughs, quietly. “I don’t need you to mother hen me, Niki,” he says, and without looking up, she reaches across the counter and swats him on the arm.

“I am not mother henning,” she says. “I’m being your friend. Your eyebags could hold second, smaller eyebags in them.”

“What, you don’t think I’m gorgeous?” he asks wryly, and she snorts.

“I’m sure someone out there would,” she says. “Tiredness has to be considered hot somewhere.”

“Mm. I think I’m hot. Very sexy.”

“You would think so.” She’s got enough cookies on the sheet for a batch, now. The next step is to put the sheet on a pan and put the pan in the oven, and that’s exactly what she does. It pleases him that he has the steps memorized. “I’m serious, though, if you have too much work to do, give some to your cabinet. I’m sure Tommy or Tubbo would love to help out more. Or Fundy.”

“Fundy’s too young.” It’s a bit of a longstanding argument between them. He tries not to let it get to him.

“And the other two aren’t?” She returns from the oven, an eyebrow raised, and then goes for another baking sheet. She’s still got dough left to roll out. One more batch will do it, he thinks. “You—oh, wait a moment.”

He watches bemusedly as she leaves the counter again and crosses to her sink, washing off her hands and then dampening a dishtowel. He’s not sure what she’s doing; it doesn’t make sense to wash up when she still has another batch to make. Her hands will just get dirty again. But now she’s walking back over, towel extended toward him and—now she’s rubbing it on his head. He blinks as a corner of the towel flops over his eye.

“Sorry, I got a lot of flour in your hair,” she says. “I’ll get it, hang on.”

And then, her motions slow, and then stop.

“It’s not coming out,” she says slowly. “Wilbur, did you dye your hair?”

The question doesn’t make any sense at all, at first. Because no, of course he hasn’t dyed his hair. Part of the whole problem is that he doesn’t have time to dye his hair. Not properly. Not in a way that no one would notice.

And then his brain realizes that that’s not what she’s asking about at all. Realizes that he’s been lying with his cheek resting against the counter for the past half hour, face parallel with the surface it’s resting on. Realizes that his hat has long passed the point of being merely askew and is now barely touching his head at all. Realizes that his hair is splayed out for anyone to look at.

He shoots upright, grabbing his hat and slamming it down on his head. Too late, of course; the damage has been done. Niki jerks back at the suddenness of his motion. Her damp towel drips a bit.

“No,” he says instinctively, and then curses himself, because—because hair dye would work as an excuse, wouldn’t it? A reason for why it’s like that? It might get her to not push further, and he’s not even sure why it’s so important to him that she doesn’t, because it’s Niki of all people, and Niki won’t use this against him later. Probably. Hopefully. Most likely. Maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want her to worry, because he knows that she will, even though it’s not a big deal at all and her efforts would be better expended on other problems, other people.

Fuck, wait, it’s been too long since he said something. Can he still change his answer without arousing suspicion?

“Yes,” he says, and internally cringes. It was definitely too late for that, because Niki’s just staring at him now, eyes wide. “Um, yeah, I thought it’d be fun. And then it went a bit wonky, so I’ve been covering it up. It doesn’t look very nice, does it?”

Is this what he’s been reduced to? Lying to one of his closest friends?

Gods, he’s pathetic.

“It looks fine,” Niki says, in that soft tone of voice she uses when she either doesn’t know what’s going on or doesn’t know how to proceed without scaring someone off. Like she’s talking to a frightened animal. “Wil, are you—are you really alright?”

“Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her mouth works for a second.

“Wilbur,” she says, just that, and something in his chest turns hot, wrenches all around, squeezes, and for a brief, panicked second, he thinks he’s having a heart attack. But no, he can feel his heart pounding. A bit faster than it should be, if anything, but strong. His vision blurs, too, but he blinks hard, and everything comes back into focus. Which might be a mistake, because if anything, Niki looks even more distressed.

“Wil, please, you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” she says, and he laughs, shaking his head and standing. His stool scrapes against the floor, loud and grating to his ears.

“There’s nothing wrong, Niki,” he says. “You don’t need to worry so much. Though I have realized, I do have a bit more work to do tonight, so I should probably get back to it.” He smiles at her, though she doesn’t smile back. “But it was very good to talk to you. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Wilbur—”

He’s already leaving. His chest feels tight again. Tight and hot. For absolutely no reason at all, because even if Niki did ask him more questions, it’s just hair, for crying out loud. It’s hardly the end of the world.

But he needed out of there. He doesn’t quite understand why.

His parting words were not a lie. He does have a bit more work to do. There is always a bit more work to do. The work never ends. He can’t actually remember the last time he didn’t have work to do. Before getting independence, surely. Back when he still felt entirely sure that he could do this, that he could build a country, that peace through words was a sustainable option, that he could look at the mess of things that need to be done to form an effective nation and actually accomplish them.

He tries not to think about that.

But instead of to his office, his feet carry him back to his room. To his blank walls and floor, his few pieces of furniture, his few sets of the same uniform. He really does need to get around to washing them. His gaze falls on his sword, next, still leaning against the wall, and then his guitar, propped up in the corner. There’s a layer of dust collecting on it. He should clean it off. That’s not good for the wood or the strings, and he’s sure it’s terribly out of tune. How long has it been since the last time he played?

There’s no time for music, nowadays. Not when other things need to take priority. He’s got a country to run; he can’t be wasting his time. He can’t afford to.

But rather than do anything productive, he winds up in front of the mirror. He takes off his hat, though it’s almost unnecessary; his hair sticks out from under it every which way, after how he shoved it on so carelessly. He hopes no one was watching him as he returned here.

There is a broad white streak in his hair. Right in the front, right where people tend to look. He tugs at it, and his scalp stings. He’s not sure what else he was expecting.

He definitely can’t cut it out now. It’s far past that point; people will definitely notice if he goes about with a whole chunk of hair missing. And they’ll also still notice if he dyes it, so that problem remains.

He just needs to be more careful, that’s all. The thing with Niki was a foible. An error on his part, a lapse in judgment. He’ll take more care from now on to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

He lets out a shaky breath, and then, he blinks and finds himself kneeling on the floor, still in front of the mirror. He looks at himself, and then immediately looks away, because he can’t stand what he sees. It’s not just the white streak, though that’s awful enough on his own; it’s all the inadequacies stacked together, all the imperfections that he can’t help but pick out, all the screaming signs that seem to point directly toward his own incompetency.

It’s a wonder no one else has seen it yet.

Tears burn his eyes, and he can’t seem to blink them away. They go rolling down his cheeks, and he watches their progress in his reflection as best he can. His breathing hitches, and a small gasp escapes him, and he can’t have that, can’t make too much noise, so he stuffs a fist in his mouth.

He’s fine. The fit will pass, and he’ll be fine. He’ll spend the next three or four hours in bed staring at the ceiling, wishing he could fall asleep, and then, at last, he will, and he’ll wake up in the morning feeling more tired than ever, and he’ll drag himself out of bed because he has to, because he’s got responsibilities that he can’t shirk, even if he can’t fulfill any of them well enough. And he’ll be fine, because he can’t afford to not be, because he’s got a country on his shoulders and that means he needs to keep standing.

He’ll be fine. He is fine.

He is.

He still can’t bring himself to look in the mirror. The next morning, he covers it with a sheet, and tells himself that it’s not a defeat.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #nihachu #niki nihachu #alivebur #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #cw depression #cw self-hatred #in general his mental state isn't great #but anyway! here's part one of that president wilbur fic i mentioned a few days ago!#there will be a part two so stay tuned #just in case anybody got to the end and was like... where's the rest of it #it'll be posted once i manage to get it finished!!

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immaturityofthomasastruc · 4 years ago

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Master Fu: Master of Failure (200 Follower Special)

Mentors are some of the most important characters in all of pop culture, as they help the protagonist advance in his journey while helping them improve in skill and personal growth. Because of their vital role, mentors tend to be among some of the most memorable characters in their respective franchises.

Mentors can be a variety of people, from wise sages, to former soldiers, to just regular people with a strong moral compass. What matters is the impact they have on the hero, and the role they play in the story.

Master Fu does a poor job at accomplishing both of those qualifications.

Like, well, basically every bad thing in Miraculous Ladybug, the ideas behind Master Fu were interesting in concept. The problem was the execution, or rather, what little we got with Master Fu. Yet he still manages to be memorable (no pun intended) for all the wrong ways. But before we get into Master Fu, let's get into a problem with Miraculous Ladybug in general that plagues several characters and plotlines.

Order of the... What Exactly?

Despite being “the last known member of the Order of the Guardians”, Master Fu hasn't really explained much about the Order he's from. All we really know is that he was trained to guard the Miraculous and distribute them to worthy people. And the Order does this... why exactly?

This is a huge problem with Miraculous Ladybug, the underdeveloped lore behind a major part of the story. Despite being connected to the Miraculous, you know, the magical artifacts the show is named after, we still don't really know much about why they were formed in the first place, and what their connection to the Miraculous is.

Oh wait, the origin of the Miraculous actually is explained... in an issue of the tie-in comic.

Someone seriously thought it was a good idea to explain that Kwamis are connected to abstract concepts like creation and destruction, and how the Miraculous were created, both very important things to learn, AND THEY DID IT IN A GODDAMN TIE-IN COMIC THAT ONLY LASTED THREE ISSUES!

I shouldn't be expected to read supplementary material to understand the backstory of a show. You don't need to watch Star Wars: The Clone Wars to understand the tragedy of Order 66, so why would you expect your audience to read a comic book to understand the origin of the magical objects that give your main characters superpowers?

Even the explanation we got isn't that detailed. Okay, fine some guy created the Miraculous to give the Kwamis tangibility (which actually explains how they can phase through solid objects), but... how and why? How was this sage able to see Tikki, how was he able to create the Miraculous, and why did he do it?

This extends to the Order of the Guardians as well. How and why were they formed? What exactly do they even do besides guard Miraculous? Why do they even guard the Miraculous in the first place? We even learn more about their methods, and trust me, I'll get to that later.

In Xiaolin Showdown, the pilot episode of all things explains why Shen Gong Wu are so important, and why the Xiaolin Dragons dedicate their lives to protecting them, because they maintain the balance between good and evil, and if they fall into the hands of evil, the world could fall into 10,000 years of darkness. Yeah, the first episode actually does a good job at explaining the backstory of the show, who would have thought? And it's from a show that has a better representation of Chinese culture when this is what the main character looks like.

Overall, the Order of the Guardians is an underdeveloped concept that does very little to help out Master Fu as a character. If the backstory of a character is so vague, how can we even understand the character's motivations in the first place? And by God, are Master Fu's motivations confusing.

Master of Not Doing Anything

Before I started working on this, I saw a video review of Miraculous Ladybug by someone who had never seen the show before, and only did so because one of his friends said they would start watching One Punch Man if he did. Even though he only mentioned Master Fu a few times, he described him as “a dude with a jewelry box full of superhero bling”, and felt like that was all those unfamiliar with the show needed to know. As someone who is familiar with the show? Yeah, that's basically all Master Fu is.

Despite being classified as a mentor, Master Fu doesn't really do a lot of mentoring. Sure, he occasionally talks to Marinette, but whenever things get rough, all he really does is hand out a Miraculous for Marinette to give to someone else temporarily.

And I've said it multiple times, but the Rent-A-Miraculous system is a horrible idea. Not only does it require Ladybug to basically leave Cat Noir to fend for himself while she rushes over to Master Fu, she has to think of an ideal candidate for the Miraculous she takes, find said candidate, rush back to where the Akuma is, hope Cat Noir wasn't incapacitated by the Akuma, and then haul ass to Master Fu's place to return the Miraculous as soon as the fight's over.

The idea of introducing new heroes is interesting, but because we see them so rarely, they don't really feel that important. I get that the title is “Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir”, but I just wish the show would do more with the temporary heroes, like see how it affects their lives. Unfortunately, I can't, thanks to “Miracle Queen”, as usual. I'll get to that episode again later on.

Even when Master Fu takes out the Miraculous, he doesn't really help Marinette think of which one to choose. He just says something like “Take a Miraculous, but be sure to return it to me when you're done.” It doesn't matter, because Marinette apparently knows how all fifteen Miraculous in the box work. Hey, wouldn't it have been nice to see Master Fu actually teach Marinette how every Miraculous works? Maybe have him suggest which Miraculous to take based on the Akuma's powers? I'm just saying, maybe you can take time away from Ladybug and Cat Noir fighting a giant baby to actually give more focus on other characters.

Before that, he was just planning to do nothing and hope Ladybug and Cat Noir could reclaim Hawkmoth's Miraculous for him. According to Tikki in “The Collector”, Marinette isn't even supposed to see the Guardian, and only met Master Fu because she found the Grimoire. So despite being “Guardians of the Miraculous”, he doesn't even help out the random people he decided to give Miraculous to? It's a miracle Ladybug and Cat Noir survived an entire season without any real guidance from Master Fu.

The third season tries to do something by having Master Fu train Marinette to become a guardian, but all of the training is entirely offscreen, and by “Feast”, he just says that her training is complete, and then makes her a guardian against her will in “Miracle Queen”.

Then there are moments unrelated to the Miraculous where he fails to actually be a mentor. Everyone knows about how stupid it was that the writers wanted the audience to sympathize with Adrien for threatening to quit being Cat Noir while Paris is flooded, but this also could have been a moment where Master Fu helped him talk about his feelings, or maybe dispense some wisdom about how hard it is to understand if someone actually trusts him or not. You know, act as a mentor to Adrien?

But instead, they brush over this potentially interesting character moment, because that would actually imply that Adrien has flaws. Because we all know Astruc loves to show the audience that Adrien Agreste is basically the second coming of Jesus Christ, right? And even though the episode making a big deal about Adrien not knowing Master Fu, they really don't have any meaningful conversations outside of that episode, except maybe “Party Crasher”. Though the episode does have Master Fu taking action when Ladybug is incapacitated by the Akuma by giving a Miraculous... to someone he barely knows swimming in Adrien's bathtub. Even he regrets his choice a few minutes later.

And then there's the fact that despite it being his job to guard the Miraculous, he does literally nothing to figure out where the Butterfly and Peacock Miraculous are. Sure, he briefly talked with Marinette about Gabriel possibly being Hawkmoth in “The Collector”, but she did most of the investigating in that episode.

Hell, “Sandboy” establishes there's a way to contact Nooroo, the Kwami of the Butterfly Miraculous, on his birthday, but Master Fu turned it down, so they did it behind his back! For the love of God, this is a chance to figure out who Hawkmoth is and bring the conflict with him to an end, and you're passing it up?! In “Heart Hunter”, Master Fu says that Hawkmoth “talks a lot, but hasn't achieved much so far”, but you could easily apply that to Master Fu himself.

Outside of giving Miraculous to Marinette to borrow, what has Master Fu actually accomplished in the story? Maybe his backstory will shed more light on him as a character, and won't just make him look even worse.

The Bungled Backstory

One of the most frustrating things about Master Fu's backstory is that it actually has some pretty good buildup.

In “The Collector” we learn that Master Fu made a mistake that led to the destruction of the temple the Guardians operated out of, and the Butterfly and Peacock Miraculous were lost in the process. This does a good job at setting up the mystery of what Master Fu did to destroy the temple in the first place. It continues in “Sandboy”, where Master Fu's worst nightmare is him heing haunted by the ghosts of the guardians he accidentally killed, and then we see in “Backwarder” that Master Fu had confidants to help him keep the Miraculous safe from what are assumed to be the Nazis. Because I guess guardians get to share their secrets, but not Ladybug and Cat Noir?

And then we learned the full backstory in “Feast”. Much like how “Oblivio” and “Cat Blanc” killed any chances of me ever showing any sympathy to Alya and Gabriel respectively, I lost all respect for Master Fu after watching this episode.

We learn that Fu was chosen to be a guardian at a very young age, and had no other choice but to start his training. One day, he was assigned to watch over A Miracle Box as a test for twenty-four hours without any food, water, or sleep. He decided to use the Peacock Miraculous to create a Sentimonster to get him some food, but his anger corrupted the Sentimonster that made it go on a rampage to eat the Miraculous in the temple... and somehow set the temple on fire judging from this shot.

In my main blog, I had originally made a post calling out Master Fu for what he did, but since then, I've mostly softened up. This is just a fan theory you are free do disagree with, but I like to think that Fu was supposed to use a Miraculous during the test. Maybe he was supposed to use the Mouse Miraculous to get some food while one of the clones sat and watched the box, or use the Horse Miraculous to sneak to the kitchen.

My problem comes from how his backstory affects his actions, and makes him look like a complete hypocrite.

Even though he hated the fact that he was basically drafted to become a guardian when he was only a child, he saw no problem handing out Miraculous to children who weren't that much older than he was when he burned down the temple. I don't even think he should even qualify as a master. His title shouldn't be “Master Fu”, but something more along the lines of “Acting Master Fu” on account of the other guardians burning to death.

Say what you will about Zordon for recruiting teenagers with attitude to become the Power Rangers, but what makes him more likable than Master Fu was that he actually cared about them. He routinely gave them advice, never really lost his patience with them, and understood they had lives outside of their jobs as Rangers. Hell, he was even willing to let them retire to peruse major opportunities in their lives, like Jason, Zack, Trini, and Kimberly, because he knows what it's like to be trapped in a situation that prevents him from living a normal life.

In fact, if Fu really hated being forced to become a guardian, why did he have no problem doing the same thing to Marinette? If anything, Fu should hate the Order of the Guardians, but it's never really explained what really motivated him to continue their practices.

Usually, a backstory related to a supporting character is meant to be followed up by the main characters doing something so history doesn't repeat itself. Anakin Skywalker was driven to the Dark Side because he was afraid of losing someone close to him, with the Jedi Order giving him no support due to their rules against personal attachments. This ideology is subverted in the original trilogy when it's Luke Skywalker's compassion for his father that motivated Anakin to rebel against the Emperor and fulfill his destiny as the chosen one.

But instead of learning from past events, or maybe realizing the Order of the Guardians was never as noble as we were led to assume it was, Master Fu just upholds their tradition of enlisting child soldiers to protect these world-ending artifacts while barely doing anything to help them out. And nobody ever acknowledges there might be anything wrong with the Order.

The Cowardly (and Hypocritical) Turtle

Despite being established to be 186 years old (which still hasn't been explained), and the destruction of the temple happening when he was a child, Master Fu hasn't really done anything with his position.

Despite having all the time in the world, as well as a Miraculous that lets him teleport anywhere, he still hasn't found the missing two Miraculous that Gabriel managed to find at least 129 years after he lost them, give or take.

There's also the fact that, at least, according to the flashback in “Backwarder”, Master Fu may or may not have chosen to sit down and let several historical atrocities and conflicts happen because he didn't want to risk losing the Miraculous. You know, minor things like the Taiping Rebellion, the Crimean War, World War I and II, the Rape of Nanking, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Tienanmen Square Massacre and God knows what else. What did Master Fu even do while he ran around the world to keep the Miraculous safe anyway?

These both factor into the biggest problem with Master Fu as a character: He's a coward.

Whenever he's confronted with a tough situation, Master Fu's first instinct is to run away and hide. As soon as the Sentimonster that destroyed the temple returns, he takes back Marinette and Adrien's Miraculous and runs away. As soon as Hawkmoth finds out about his existence, he packs up his stuff and runs away. When he's captured by Hawkmoth and Mayura, he gives up his position as Guardian and forces Marinette to take on the role, so he can run away safely.

And once again, despite hating the Order for forcing him to train to become a Guardian, Master Fu has no problem with forcing Marinette, someone who was only a few years older than he was when he was drafted, to become the next Guardian of the Miraculous, all while conveniently losing his memory in the process, which implies that Marinette will lose her memory when she retires as Guardian. I once made a submission to Terrible Miraculous Ladybug AU's joking that he only made up the whole amnesia thing just to dump the responsibility of being Guardian on Marinette, but with his appearance in the Season 4 teaser, I'm genuinely worried that may be true.

And yet, despite every incompetent thing he's done, the show keeps trying to portray Master Fu as this wise old soul, because like with so many characters, the writers think if they keep saying things that aren't true, the audience will just give up and accept these ideas as fact. “Master Fu is a wise mentor”. “Alya is a good journalist”. “Ladybug and Cat Noir are equal”. “Chloe is irredeemable”. “Gabriel is a sympathetic villain”. “Lila is a good liar”. “Thomas Astruc responds to criticism like an adult”.

And I'm not against the idea of a flawed mentor either. I already talked about how complex Dr. K is as a character, and how her connection to Venjix makes her an interesting mentor. What I want is for the narrative to acknowledge that Master Fu is way out of his league. I want someone, anyone, to actually call him out for how poorly he's handled things. I don't want to be told he's a great mentor when the evidence clearly shows otherwise.

But it seems like we may never get that in the show, even though it looks like he's going to return in Season 4.

Let's just hope Master Su-Han is a better mentor, and actually appears in more than a single episode before being escorted off so Marinette can't have any confidants as Guardian. Who am I kidding? That's basically what's going to happen.

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mindmeltonabun-blog · 3 years ago

Text

Doom At Your Service: Analysis & Theories for EPs 7-8

Welcome back to another edition of analyses and theories time with me! I’m going to try and keep this post as short and as simple as possible. In case I don’t, I apologize in advance! Also, sorry if this post is filled with grammar mistakes and confusing syntax...I'm writing/editing this late at night and my ADHD meds have lost their effectiveness.

Anyways Eps 7-8 was pretty awesome and I’m glad that a bunch of my previous theories had come true! For those who wonder how I come up with some of these theories, I just look at everything whether it be big or small. I also try to look for connections and patterns. At the same time, I try to understand the motivations of characters and what is the big picture the writer is trying to paint. Once you're able to do all of that then you can predict where the story is going. This is how for the most part I was able to predict the events and endings of shows like TOTNT and TKEM. Anyhow, let’s get down to analyzing and theorizing! Turn on those thinking caps!

What the Rock Balancing Structure Represents

Rock balancing is a form of art that involves a person placing a combination of rocks in an arrangement. To achieve balance of the rocks, one must be very patient and compassionate. In its completion, the structure represents that while things may appear impossible, they are actually possible. So what seems impossible, but can actually be possible? Hmmm probably Myul Mang learning what it means to be human and ending up becoming human. Notice that both the rock art is next to the plant and the story of Pinocchio? It's saying saying that the impossible can be possible. It's possible for Myul Mang to be able to learn what it means to be a human so that the impossible can happen...he can "grow" up to becoming a real human.

The whole rock balancing structure could also signify that in order to grow, one must overcome one's deepest fears. I don't know about you all, but stacking rocks is a scary thing especially since at any moment the whole thing could fall over. Anyways, if you remembered, Myul Mang had been searching everywhere for Dong Kyung and feeling like one of his worst fears (Dong Kyung not existing) had came true. It's only when he goes to Dora's hospital room and sees both the Pinocchio book and rock structure that he got Dora's lesson. And that's why afterwards you didn't see Myul Mang going on another search for Dong Kyung somewhere else.

A brief digression. I’ve seen multiple people theorizing that the plant and the butterfly represent Dong Kyung and Myul Mang respectively. To them I say, did you just completely miss the part where Dora says the plant is Myul Mang? Myul Mang is both the butterfly and the plant. For those who still don’t see that, let me break it down.

First, what do butterflies symbolize? They symbolize metamorphosis, death, and rebirth. Myul Mang is not a literal butterfly, but he will eventually be one in a metaphorical sense. If anything, Myul Mang right now is like a caterpillar on the verge of entering the cocoon stage that is followed by a reemergence as a butterfly aka human. You can also look at it this way, Pinocchio is a butterfly too. Why? Well, look at what happens to Pinocchio. He is reborn as a real boy after having gone through metamorphosis (puppet -> real boy).

Now let’s examine the plant symbolism. What do plants represent in DAYS? They represent humans. What is Dora growing? A human Myul Mang..DUH!! Sorry, but I didn’t think it was that hard of a concept to grasp especially since Dora has already explicitly said what she is growing in that one scene. For Myul Mang to grow up to become a "good" human, he needs to learn to think about others, forgive himself, be compassionate (not only towards himself, but others as well), love others, etc. Other things Myul Mang would probably need to learn is how to love his fate or amor fati (loving your fate means loving it all, not just the good parts, but the bad parts too; loving it so much so that you would never want to change anything about it and would gladly relive your life the way it was over and over again for all of eternity).

I don’t think the "plant" will fully "blossom" until Myul Mang sacrifices himself to save Dong Kyung for the sole reason that he loves her (in contrast to sacrificing himself for his own personal gain). Therefore, that's probably the final lesson -- how to be completely selfless.

Dora just wants her son to grow up to be a "good" plant (human) so she doesn't have to end up pulling him out aka end him before he even becomes human! Okay???

Sorry if what I've just said was confusing. What I meant to say is that Myul Mang's personal growth is reflective in the plant's growth. The more he learns of what it means to be a "good" human, the more the plant will grow until it blossoms into a beautiful flower (a real human).

If we want to connect the idea of personal growth to the story of Pinocchio, we see that Pinocchio's growth occurs only after he experiences pain (physical and emotional) and love. From these experiences, he learns what it means to be a "good" boy and is rewarded by the Fairy transforming him into a real boy.

One Wish or Wishes?

In my previous post, I had briefly touched upon how I think Dong Kyung is going to wish for brain cancer to be cured. Though I still think this, I nevertheless want to explore some of the other possibilities of what her wish could be.

Potential Wishes:

1) Myul Mang to Become Human

2) More Wishes

3) Contract to be Voided

4) No One Remembering Her After She Dies

For #1, Dong Kyung wishes Myul Mang to become human, but then she still dies from her untreated brain cancer…so nope. For #2 and #3, are these wishes even allowed? I would like to point out some flaws of the writer. Maybe it’s not so much a flaw, but an annoyance I have with the writer of DAYS. What one can or cannot wish for is not explicitly stated. Due to this, it is somewhat difficult for me to accurately predict what Dong Kyung will wish for. It’s like trying to detect a substance without being given its upper and lower limits or range of detection (sorry for the science related analogy) ! For #4, I guess this one could be probable, but there is just too much evidence pointing to Myul Mang's death. After exploring each of the possibilities, I'm still left thinking that Dong Kyung's one wish will be to cure her cancer.

Anyways, even if Dong Kyung wishes for her brain cancer to be cured, it’s not really a happy ending since Myul Mang still dies. Is there any other way for Dong Kyung to make another wish so that she can save Myul Mang? I think there is and it comes in the form of the “gift” that Dora gave Dong Kyung. In my previous post, I had theorized that the marble may have a larger purpose than just being a symbol of how the fate of the world is Dong Kyung hands. I believe now that the marble’s larger purpose is that it is a type of wish fulfilling stone. Why? Because we know fantasy dramas typically make references to mythology. In this case, the writer of DAYS is probably referencing Hindu mythology.

In Hindu mythology there are 3 main gods:

1) Brahma: The Creator

2) Vishnu: The Preserver

3) Shiva: The Destroyer (Sounds like Myul Mang right? Also, the love story between Shiva and Parvati is somewhat similar to that of Myul Mang and Dong Kyung’s love story.)

Dora is the equivalent to the god Vishnu in Hindu mythology. Vishnu is often depicted wearing a “Cintamani”, a type of wish fulling stone analogous to the Philosopher’s Stone (hint hint…transforms something from one form into another…immortal -> human) in Western mythology. Given this, the marble/Cintamani in Dong Kyung's possession could be the key to Myul Mang’s rebirth.

Some might ask, “Well why can’t Dora just use it to wish for her son to be reborn as a human?”. Well, remember that both Dora and Myul Mang are slaves to the wishes of humans. They themselves cannot fulfil their own wishes or desires. Meaning, even though Dora and Myul Mang can wish for something to happen, they cannot carry it out unless humans wish it too. Also, as I mentioned previously, deities in kdramas never just give humans gift because they’re being nice. Rather, they give gifts to humans so that humans can help them accomplish their overall goals/wishes.

So putting it all together, do you see where I’m going with this? Dora has the same wish as Dong Kyung which is for Myul Mang to live, but Dora is unable to execute her goals/wishes unless Dong Kyung wishes it too. Dora knows that Dong Kyung will probably use her one wish to cure her brain cancer. At the same time, this leaves her son, Myul Mang, to die. Therefore, Dora gives Dong Kyung the wish fulfilling marble with the intention that Dong Kyung will use it to wish for her son, Myul Mang, to be reborn as a human. With Dora/Dong Kyung’s wish, Myul Mang will be free from his cursed life as an immortal and be reborn to be able to live happily with Dong Kyung.

Side note, the rebirth of Myul Mang into a human can either be dependent on Myul Mang's personal growth or it can be dependent on this wish fulfilling stone or both! I'm leaning more towards his personal growth as being the catalyst for his rebirth, but who knows! It very well could be that the marble has a role to play in his rebirth.

Is Dong Kyung Going To Be An Immortal?

No…no…and NO!!

Some might ask why don’t I think this? Well, for a bunch of reasons. I’ll admit I used to think that it would be very romantic for a human to become immortal so that they can be with their immortal lover forever. However, the more I thought about it, I came to the realization the notion of forever is not romantic nor beautiful. At its core, the concept of eternity is quite terrifying and ugly. And if you haven’t realized already, the writer of DAYS has been making multiple arguments against immortality. For anything to have meaning, it must have an end. In this sense, the end is beautiful.

To get my point across, I want you to try and think about some things. What keeps life meaningful? Experiences? People? Well, imagine doing something you love for a year. Now imagine doing it for trillions or zillions of years. Experiences no matter how good they are at first will eventually become tedious if you do it for long enough. For example, eating your favorite dish may be good for a while, but not for zillions of years. At one point or another, you ultimately lose your desire to want to eat it or eat entirely for that matter.

Now surely getting to know people and loving them can keep your life meaningful right? Well, how many times do you think you could handle knowing and loving people who eventually disappear? Eventually, you grow tired of crying and mourning over dead loved ones that you become numb. Now imagine being Dong Kyung. She would have to witness her family, their family, and so forth dying over and over again for all of eternity. Doesn’t that seem tortuous? Sure, one could argue that at least she has Myul Mang with her, but do you really think her love for him could sustain her forever? The relationship between Myul Mang and his mother, Dora, is a prime example of how a loving relationship could turn sour over a great deal of time. The gift of immorality Dora bestowed on Myul Mang became a curse instead of a blessing. So why would Myul Mang want to give Dong Kyung something that was basically a curse for him? As for Dora, she probably wouldn’t want to give Dong Kyung the same gift after seeing what it did to her son.

If you continue to think that Dong Kyung will become an immortal being, did you really smell what the writer of DAYS was cooking or did you just smell what you were cooking?

The Bad Case of the Riddles

From what I have been reading on multiple platforms now, it would seem that a lot of people are rather confused about a lot of things. It’s understandable! Throughout the show, the writer has presented some complex philosophical concepts that may be difficult for some viewers to grasp. To further add to the confusion, the characters at times do speak in what appears to be riddles. This I believe may be one of the major flaws of the writer. She has to consider that her audience are probably people who have never read any philosophical works before. Most viewers aren’t here to decipher cryptic messages or see how they’re connected to some major philosophical concepts such as eternal recurrence, existentialism, nihilism, amor fati, etc. Most are here to shut off their tired brain and enjoy some good fantasy romance! I know I’m totally one of those people!

Needless to say, I did find myself in a debate of whether I should discuss some philosophical concepts referenced in the show as to help you all gain a better sense of understanding. However, I concluded that it would take too much of my time to do so. Additionally, despite my best efforts to use the simplest of words, I found that whatever I had already written may have still been confusing to the everyday reader. Anyways, if there are any particular scenes or dialogue you all want to me go over, please feel free to use the ask button and I’ll do my best to try and answer them!

Whats Going to Happen Next?

Probably more filler type stuff aka more bs. It's common in kdramas for characters to go back and forth on their initial decision of whatever. Dong Kyung is going to break up with Myul Mang because she loves him and doesn't want him to die. And before the breakup, she's going to give him some good memories to remember her by. Following this, she's going to try and love herself so that she's the one that ends up dying and her wish is going to be for everyone to forget her? Okay......Zzzzzzz!! Idk... Dora is probably going to intervene somehow to get Dong Kyung and Myul Mang back together again.

Other Random Thoughts

What I think would be interesting to learn about is the connection between Dong Kyung's parents death and Dora past self's death. It wasn't just all a coincidence that they both died on the same day. Who knows... maybe Dong Kyung was meant to be in the car that day with her parents, but Dora's past self sacrificed herself to change Dong Kyung's fate.

Also, I still don't think Dong Kyung is going to die, I mean you got her brother praying to the deities that she lives!

Okay, I'm done. I wrote this in Microsoft Word and it was 5 pages long. My brain is dead. There's probably something I should've gone over or elaborated more about, but oh well. Thanks for reading this disjointed post!

#doom at your service #doomatyourservice #myulmang #myul mang #tak dong kyung #takdongkyung #park bo young #parkboyoung #seo in guk #seoinguk #pinocchio #DAYS #theories #my brain is melting

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hermannsthumb · 4 years ago

Note

As per our convo, Newt getting set up with Hermann via Hermann’s father’s binder full of pre-approved suitors for his son...

(from @k-sci-janitor 👀) easily one of our funniest concepts yet. I was going to end on newt coming over for dinner scenario but I like the ominous open ending. I'm not actually sure when kaiju attacks fall in the PR timeline so excuse my handwaveyness, LOL

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermann’s relationship with his father is what one would call strenuous at best, but—Hermann must admit, to the man’s credit, and in spite of his many flaws—he took the news of Hermann’s sexual orientation as unflinchingly as if Hermann had told him the day’s weather. It was a bit annoying, in fact. Hermann had agonized over the proper way to breach the subject for months, certain it spoke to some sort of personal ruin (whether ostracization from the Gottliebs or being forbade following through on any attraction he may feel whilst still living under the family roof, he wasn't sure), before finally simply announcing it one day at the breakfast table on a whim.

It had been a long-standing tradition that Hermann’s parents compile a binder—effectively of dossiers—on all the most eligible bachelors (for their daughter) and bachelorettes (for their sons) to aid in the choice of the latest Gottlieb mate. It was easiest this way, or so Hermann and his siblings were told. Parental approval was already secured. The histories of each were already secured, which bypassed any nasty shocks that might emerge in the courtship stage. Most of them were children of his father's colleagues or bright minds in their own rights: surgeons, and dentists, and mathematicians. Poets were strictly forbidden.

The occasion of Hermann’s breakfast table announcement had also been the day Hermann’s father presented him with his very first binder of prospective mates—a few days after his eighteenth birthday, and shortly before he was to go off to begin work on his PhD. His father had slid him a hand-written binder of names, no more than a dozen, and all with accompanying photographs. “All are accomplished young women,” he assured Hermann. “We can arrange any meetings of your choice over your winter holidays.”

Hermann glared down at the row of frozen smiles. He stabbed his fork into his cooked tomato wedge. “I don’t want to marry any of these women,” he said, and turned his glare on his father. He still had a rebellious streak in him at that point, something nurtured by a charismatic young man he used to trail after in boarding school, who pierced Hermann’s ear with a sewing needle in the boys’ toilets and listened to songs about setting things on fire. In late this streak had manifested itself in Hermann in nicking packets of cigarettes from his father’s study, one of which was in his pocket now. The weight of it made Hermann feel bolder. “I don’t want to marry any woman,” he continued. “I like men.”

The binder was drawn away in silence, and Hermann was free to eat his toast and tomatoes. The next morning a binder of young men was in its place.

(In a way the acceptance infuriated Hermann. It meant he could not blame his father’s obvious dislike for him on an unfounded, homophobic prejudice; rather, it was a result of Hermann’s own personal failings.)

The binder was placed at Hermann’s breakfast plate every day until he left for his studies. It was placed at his plate when he returned from them five years later. Not even the emergence of the kaiju from the bottom of the ocean shortly after Hermann turned twenty-four dampened his father’s hopes, nor turning all their scientific efforts towards the new jaeger program: some names were removed from the binder (the reasoning Hermann shudders to think at), more still were added, though Hermann is expected only to consider it once a week now on account of his busy schedule. This was one of such days.

“Your brother is very happy with his wife,” Hermann’s father reminds him. “She was one of my first suggestions for him, in fact.”

Hermann is not fond of his sister-in-law. Too rude—too cold. Though perhaps that makes her perfect for Hermann’s brother. “Haven’t we got bigger things to worry about these days than whether or not I’m going to marry?” Hermann says. He adds milk to his tea. “I’m sure they’re all, er, marvelous selections, only—”

“Your sister, too, with her husband,” father says.

Hermann sighs. He hasn’t got much of the rebellious streak he used to in him anymore—too stressed. Not fancying a fight before they’ve even begun today’s coding work, he picks up the binder and begins flipping through it. Sons of engineers working on the jaeger program with them, prominent young chemists, many of whom Hermann has been presented with since he was eighteen. Plenty of them are even handsome. Half of Hermann wonders if he should just pick the least-unappealing one of the bunch and be done with it already. He turns the page over and freezes. “Oh,” he says. “This one is—new.”

“Hm?” father says.

Hermann holds up the binder, tapping at a new entry. “Newton Geiszler.”

“Dr. Geiszler,” father says, nodding. “A child prodigy from Berlin—he’s made tremendous strides in kaiju science in such little time. And,” he adds, “three PhDs. Two of them before he even turned twenty.” The unspoken implication was that Dr. Geiszler far surpassed Hermann in intelligence and Hermann should feel ashamed for not skipping as many grades as Dr. Geiszler.

Hermann feels he ought to resent Dr. Geiszler for it, but he's finding it difficult to summon up any animosity towards him. It's likely because Hermann finds Dr. Geiszler to be strikingly handsome in his photograph: cheeks which haven’t quite lost their baby fat (giving him the appearance of being a scruffy hamster), large, thick glasses, tousled hair, an easy grin. Three PhDs, and German at that. And a child prodigy? “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned him to me before,” Hermann says. He seems precisely the sort father would. Geiszler’s photograph is black-and-white and a bit grainy, but Hermann swears he could make out the lightest bit of freckles across his cheeks.

“I’d not heard of him until he published an article last week on kaiju biology,” father says. “Besides—he’s moved to America.”

Geiszler has three piercings up the side of his left ear. “I am going to write to him,” Hermann declares.

Father nods, and picks up his newspaper, clearly already disinterested. They speak no more of it that day.

It is not hard to find Dr. Geiszler online (his name is not the most common, and his field of study certainly isn’t), nor is it hard to match his photograph to his faculty page on MIT’s website. From there, Hermann retrieves Dr. Geiszler’s email address. He takes the evening to read over Geiszler’s publications spanning back to 2003 before he gathers up the courage to type out an actual email.

Dear Dr. Geiszler,

You do not know me, but I have recently been made acquaintance with your work and find it—Hermann pauses—scintillating. My father and I are—Hermann backspaces this—I am currently working on the development of the jaeger program…

There’s a response waiting for him the next morning. It’s as enthusiastic as it is brief. Dr. Gottlieb- That’s so awesome!! Believe it or not I’ve been following your work too. I have a million questions for you about the jaegers. If it’s classified info I promise I won’t tell. -Newt

It makes Hermann smile like nothing ever has before.

Hermann’s correspondence with Dr. Geiszler does not transgress beyond the professional until the following January. By that time, Hermann and his father have successfully completed the coding for their first jaeger prototype, and Hermann has been offered his fair share of tenured university positions to pick from as he likes. He finds himself oddly disappointed that none of them are in America with Dr. Geiezler. This, which leads to the realization that he’s grown rather fond of Dr. Geiszler, is perhaps what drives Hermann to uncharacteristic sentimental extremes on January 19th: he orders Dr. Geiszler a birthday present. The first email Dr. Geiszler sends him after that addresses him as Hermann. The first email Hermann sends Dr. Geiszler after that addresses him as Newton. Things move rapidly after that.

“Are you still writing to that young biologist?” Hermann’s father asks him in March. Hermann has spent the last two months devouring every bit of information Newton has seen fit to divulge about his personal life: his dexterity with no less than three different instruments, his favorite loud monster movies, how he’d love to get a kaiju tattooed on him one day. Hermann suspects he might be falling in love with Newton. In hardly five months! These are war times, Hermann supposes, so it would make sense. People are meant to do such extreme things.

“I am,” Hermann says.

“I’ve asked around about him,” Hermann’s father says. His expression is stern—unimpressed. “About his character. I’m not sure it’s wise to continue your correspondence.”

The reasons are this. Dr. Geiszler’s methods are unorthodox. Dr. Geiszler is loud and uncouth, and has little respect for his intellectual superiors. Dr. Geiszler was thrown out of a convention once for storming up on stage and stealing a microphone from an engineer to shout about the destruction coral reefs. Dr. Geiszler was in a distasteful band for several years. Dr. Geiszler was once arrested for egging a politician’s house. Dr. Geiszler has gone on record as describing the kaiju as “kinda cool”. Almost none of this is news to Hermann; in fact, that which is only causes Hermann’s affection for Newton to grow. “I will consider your advice,” Hermann says, knowing he won’t. Besides, it's not as if his father really has Hermann's interests at heart—Hermann knows he merely wishes to preempt any scandal Newton Geiszler could possibly bring upon the Gottlieb name.

In April Newton goes on television and declares that he’s sure the kaiju are extraterrestrial in origin, on account of their great size and his brief examination of a sample from the second kaiju to make landfall. He’s laughed off by his older peers before he can get another word out. The email he writes to Hermann afterwards is furious, capslock-heavy, and expresses that Hermann is the only one who takes him seriously in the whole world. It leaves Hermann certain that he is in love with Newton.

“Dr. Geiszler was interviewed on some American television program,” Hermann’s father says a few days later.

“I know,” Hermann says, proudly. Newton was on television. “I watched it.”

“He made some extraordinary claims,” Hermann’s father says.

But Hermann is thinking only of the outfit Newton wore (skinny jeans and an oversized leather jacket, so out of place compared to the suited other scientists sitting around him), the shade of his eyes (hazel), his short stature (hardly taller than Hermann), and the cadence of his voice (high, but not unappealing). He’d been so confident, and carried himself with a self-assurance that was foreign to Hermann. It was marvelously attractive. “I’m sure they're correct,” Hermann says. "Every single one. Newton is a terribly brilliant scientist." All bold claims are met with derision at first, are they not?

Newton’s theory is proven correct after the next kaiju attack, when experts other than him get their hands on kaiju samples and validate his claims. The general consensus after that is that the kaiju are not of this world. And Newton was the first to propose the theory! Hermann sends Newton an email full of congratulations, and Newton responds with a heart emoticon in his sign-off. Newton isn't just a brilliant scientist. “Newton is a genius,” Hermann tells his father, dreamily.

The binder reappears on Hermann’s work desk a few months later, Newton’s page torn conspicuously from it. Hermann tips the whole thing straight into his trash can. He has more important things to worry about—arranging a meeting with Newton, perhaps. Hermann ought to have him over for dinner.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous #the new post editor is weird but I like that I can make things pink

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prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years ago

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A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 16

<- Part 15 | Part 17 ->

Summary: A flirtatious moment in the hospital garden turns sour.

Warnings: Brief nsfw themes, injury-recovery angst, post-traumatic stress/flashbacks, graphic past injuries, KISSING, hurt/comfort. Love and fluff.

3,700 words

After being gutted left him with a limp, a cane, and an overbearing sense of weakness, Frederick Chilton began copying Hannibal Lecter. His patterned suits, his clean-shaven face. The mimicry wasn’t deliberate exactly, but he looked to a man who radiated calm dignity and strength, and tried to capture some of it for his own.

It didn’t work. Frederick Chilton was still Frederick Chilton.

But shaving the beard did make him look younger. The razor glided over his smooth cheek as he cut through the facial hair that had grown unruly in the hospital. A new man stared back at him. One not traumatized by Gideon’s knife.

Only a few months later, he was shot in the face, and let the stubble grow back to distract from the scar. To obscure the hollowing where maxillary bone was missing. Like a chameleon, Frederick was always changing—hairstyles, wardrobes, colognes—always imitating someone, drawing the eye away from a flaw, never comfortable with himself. Ever improving. Refining. Hiding.

Every day, the burn ward’s physical therapists had him using one exercise machine or another. A pedaling machine lowered over his bed so he could build muscle while lying on his back before he was able to walk. The next step was a tall, rolling frame that he strapped into like a fighter pilot hanging from a parachute harness, which allowed him to take a few weightless steps. His legs shook. His feet did not know how to align themselves on the ground anymore. He hissed curses when you cheered him on just for shuffling one foot forward along the smooth grey linoleum.

One damned foot.

As if he couldn’t walk before. As if one shaking, machine-assisted step was an accomplishment. He was an overgrown baby in a Jumperoo.

While he could not walk on his own yet, he could get into and out of a wheelchair without screaming bloody murder. This allowed him a new level of freedom, if not autonomy. He still required two nurses to lower him into the chair. Still needed help getting to the bathroom. But he could at least use the bathroom instead of a bedpan and catheter.

Healing came at a cost.

Until now, he had caught flashes of his reflection in polished surfaces. Warped teeth in a metal IV pole. The fuzzy silhouette of a mask in the black of his computer screen.

He stood with his hands on the bathroom sink, staring. The nurse at his left elbow tugged him, told him it was time to sit back down in the chair. He needed support to stand, a babysitter to ensure he didn’t fall, and she was tired of waiting.

The thing staring back at him did not move.

When he took the compression mask off for the one hour per day he was allowed to remove it for cleaning, he somehow expected to find his own face beneath it. Skin. What he saw was a stranger. Gnarled scars made an uneven backdrop for one dead blue eye and a skeletal grimace. His own bones were buried somewhere underneath like bedrock, but the flesh was rearranged and distorted.

If he had met this man a year ago, Dr. Chilton would have felt inward pride at his ability not to sicken at the sight. He would have shaken his hand with a smug, professional detachment that said, “I am accustomed to horrific things in my line of work—abnormal psychiatry. This does not shock me as it would a layperson.”

He was a creature to be pitied.

Then a familiar reflection appeared out of the blind spot of his left side. Your image wrapped its hand behind the broken stranger, and he felt it land on his lower back. Warm. Comforting as your face, which was knit with worry. You told the nurse you could handle it from here, and she retreated out to his room.

When she was gone, Frederick began to laugh, dark and cruel, eyes never leaving the matching set staring cruelly back.

“What is it?” you asked, tightening your grip on his arm as he began to tremble.

“Do you think I look younger without a beard?”

The laugh cracked in his throat. His shoulders heaved as he finally looked away. It was too embarrassing to watch a grown man cry.

***

The heat of July was not easy on a body that could no longer sweat and was covered head to toe in a compression suit, but Frederick Chilton was thrilled to be outside. As the automatic sliding doors opened, he breathed in deeply through the nose and exhaled the spinning summer fragrances with a blissful sigh.

You resisted the urge to tease him. Of the pair, you were the more outdoorsy by far, and the last time you dragged him camping, he’d managed to complain the entire two days. He was not, generally, one to appreciate sunshine and birdsong. But this was different.

It was his first time away from the lifeless hospital air—the same smells day after day—in four months.

Now a breeze hit his face—a breeze! He had forgotten what that felt like—and brought with it the smell of cut grass and flowers, and exhaust fumes from the nearby roadways. The scent of gasoline urged his stomach to wring itself empty, but it was faint and easy enough to shake off as sparrows chirped and flitted about the hospital’s “meditation garden.”

Gently curving paths snaked through the landscaping of lush greenery and small trees. Few flowers were planted, out of respect for patients with allergies, but a fountain at the center babbled soothingly. The walkways were wide and smoothly paved, so the grey wheels of the hospital-issue wheelchair rolled over them easily, performing their function despite being over-worked and worn down, not unlike the staff. The black rubber handle grips had a dull patina from hundreds of hands, yours being the latest to circle around them as you pushed.

It was nice to have a private courtyard to enjoy the fresh air without the eyes of the general public watching.

Frederick was able to wear clothes from home now, but they had to be loose-fitting and short-sleeved to not interfere with his treatment. In a navy polo shirt and athletic shorts, he felt horrifically under-dressed, and did not want to be seen that way. The fashion crime was almost as bad as the face he could not bear looking at.

An elderly patient and what appeared to be her adult daughter sat on one of the benches between two daylily patches, blooming garishly cheerful red and gold. The daughter looked up, and Chilton looked away.

“You are certain you checked the bedroom closet? Left-hand side, second drawer to the bottom?” he asked again, agitation rising.

He was looking for the more fashionable Chino shorts he rarely wore, preferring to overheat in long pants than expose his pale, door-knob knees to imagined ridicule. You told him the housekeeper must have misplaced them.

He clenched his fist as tightly as the pink, shiny-scarred claw could manage and went on a gruff, impotent rant about the help growing careless without him to keep them in check. (If anything, the “help” were desperate to keep you in check without him there to manage your habit of leaving everything out—your clothes on a chair, the cereal box on the counter.)

“I know, I know. Awful,” you nodded along to the music of his words, if not the lyrics. You wished he would change the subject, but he pressed on with his investigation of the Case of the Missing Shorts.

“Mrs. Pérez brought a load of laundry down from the bedroom last Wednesday,” he noted. Frederick had taken to watching the security feeds remotely from his laptop. “Has she been using the cheap dry cleaner on Cherry Street instead of the good one so she can skim the difference? I have explicitly instructed the staff not to use them—they have lost or ruined several articles over the years. Inform Mrs. Pérez that I will not stand for lazy—what?”

Your tense smile began emanating a tenser whine.

It was rather suspicious.

Frederick watched you for a moment, puzzled, and then resumed, “The new security guard shares my pant size. Perhaps—”

“I DID IT. I brought them to Good Will.”

“You what?!”

Clicking the wheelchair brake, you doubled over the back of it, laughing at your childish ruse and how seriously Frederick had taken it. God, the man could never let anything go! “Over a year ago! You never wore them!”

“Come here.” His clipped tone did not invite argument.

You walked around to the front of his chair, the repentant pout on your face strongly undermined by rounded cheeks that were barely holding back a chuckle.

He growled with affectionate anger—the kind where he wanted to grab behind your knees and pull you into his lap, telling you with a low purr exactly how much trouble you were in. Except at the moment, your weight crashing onto his skinny, bony lap would have bruised a femur and torn five stitches. And if he was not confident enough for a kiss, he was in no condition to promise punishments of that nature.

So he gave your rump a sharp smack and tried to make his mouth smirk in that playfully disdainful way that said, “I love you, but I am going to kill you. You know that, right?” Sometimes wanting to kill someone can be such a personal, intimate love language.

“Doctor Chilton!” you gasped, feigning shock. “Such a naughty patient. I have told you time and again, this is simply unprofessional.”

The old woman and daughter had moved on, leaving you alone in the garden.

He let out a soft huff of amusement, catching on to the new game you were playing. Back when he was the administrator of the BSHCI, you would often saunter into his office playing the oversexed patient to his sleazy therapist. Now the roles were reversed.

“You protest,” he said in a low, lecherous tone, “and yet you continue to lavish extra attention on me. Do not think I have not noticed.”

“I don’t know what you could mean,” you deflected coyly. “Please keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

He grabbed your hand and spun you to face him, skeletal fingers interlocking with yours. Even through the compression glove, you could feel how skinny they had become, knobby knuckles protruding.

“Doctor,” he corrected.

You swallowed. “Doctor.”

“Why deny it? You guard all my treatments for yourself like a prize when other nurses could do it. You crawl into my bed to warm me with your body heat—hardly standard practice. I think you like the attention,” he said, giving your ass another lurid slap.

“D-Doctor! I’m not supposed to—we’re not supposed to…”

“If you worked at my hospital, I would fire you for such fraternization. Yet you call me unprofessional.” His hand still rested on your ass.

“You would fire me, doctor? Why fire me when there is so much I could offer?”

“And what is it you would offer me?” he asked, voice thick with meaning. His fingers kneaded the fat of your ass gently. It would have been harder, more possessive, if his hands were at full strength.

Not long ago, getting an erection had been painful, though he’d had several corrective surgeries since then, and the grafting had time to heal. Perhaps the sunlight was sparking him back to life. He was in a flirtatious mood—more excited than you’d seen him in a long time, and you were not about to tell him to slow down.

“Anything you want, doctor.” You lowered yourself in front of his chair, kneeling between his legs and looking up at him expectantly.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

No one else was in the garden, and statues and shrubberies hid it from the road, but it was not entirely private. Anyone could walk in or see from a window of the tall buildings. You were just pretending. You weren’t going to slip his cock out right there and suck it for all the world to see. And yet… it had been so long. The thought of your moist lips closing over his lonely, aching hardness, your head bobbing in his lap…

“You… are fascinated with me, nurse,” he observed, licking his non-lips. His composure was holding, but barely. “You have seen many patients, but never one as badly burned, have you?”

“No.”

“Does it excite you?”

You took a moment before answering. Part of him resented you for still finding him attractive. At his lowest, he even blamed you for wanting these brutal injuries to happen. A bird sang a few metallic notes on a nearby branch before fluttering down to drink from the fountain. You stroked the top of his narrow thighs, careful not to push too far by going near his cock, but he showed no sign of hesitation today. The heat in his eyes as he watched you was not accusing, but hungry.

“Yes,” you panted. “You are striking. I’ve never met anyone so strong, so resilient.”

“Do you dream of kissing me? Your most striking patient?”

“Yes.”

The sun beat down hotter, but it was only your own internal temperature rising. The birds seemed to pause in their songs, and the leaves on the trees ceased to flutter.

You had waited so long—was he really asking?

His gloved hand reached down between his legs, and nailless pink fingertips stroked the side of your face thoughtfully a few times. Then he motioned you to get up off your knees, offering his hand as a symbolic gesture only. You put some of your weight on the padded rubber armrest as you stood.

“It will not be pleasant. For either party, I imagine,” he said, breaking character.

“It will be for me.” Your voice was soft.

“I do not know what to do like this. Mash my teeth against your face?”

You laughed a little. It was probably more nuanced than that, but that sounded basically accurate. “We’ll find out together.”

He looked off into the distance, toward the humming road weaving through the city. A warm breeze brought the smell of sea off the harbor: salty, humid, and stagnant with rotted fish and garbage. “The memory of your lips against mine is already fading,” he said. “That memory is all I have left of them. Whatever this will be, it will not feel the same.”

“I know.” You rested a hand on his shoulder. The dark blue polo was informal for his old life, but the woven cotton texture was rich compared to the thin hospital gowns you were used to him wearing. The last kiss you shared with Frederick was preserved behind a glass display case in your memory palace. A new kiss might break the hermetic seal. You could forget what it felt like to kiss him before. But it seemed worth the price to build new memories—a future just as full of love as the past.

He looked up at you like a broken ceramic being pieced back together with gold. His eyes shone with love, but his shoulders were slumped low.

“You may say I’m a slutty nurse for wanting to kiss my patient, but you’re to blame!” you said, playing the game again. “How could I resist your charm? I bet you seduce every nurse—I’m only your latest conquest!”

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth.

“No, my dear,” he purred, grabbing your arm and pulling you down to him until your face was inches from his. “Only you. I only want you.”

“Can I kiss you?”

He breathed in. He nodded.

You leaned the final inch down, and pressed your lips to his teeth.

The Red Dragon’s teeth sunk through flesh and tore deep. Coppery blood flooded his mouth, the taste so metallic and strong it drowned out almost everything else out—the pain, the unnatural tearing, little pops of veins, ligaments, and muscles stretching to their limits before giving up, his own screams. The truth of his face with all its illusions of grandeur was revealed before him: it was just meat. Nothing but raw, shredded meat.

“NO!” he screamed, and pushed you hard.

It was different than the peevish denials other times you’d tried to kiss. He pushed you away with so much force you staggered backward, and his wheelchair nearly tipped over. It reared on two wheels like a panicked horse and would have fallen except the worn brake gave way, and he shot backward several feet until the vacant bench stopped the chair’s momentum.

“No, no! Get away! No!” he begged no one, shaking and thrashing so violently he risked ripping his healing scars.

His back, legs, and arms were glued to the wheelchair, and he couldn’t escape. No—could have if he were desperate enough, strong enough. But he was terrified of ripping his skin off. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat and made it difficult to think straight. Dear god, he was afraid something happened to his back. Of being disfigured again.

He was afraid to die, but he dreaded even more the thought of surviving yet again to find another piece taken from him.

Not another. Not again.

If he cooperated, he had to be spared this time. He would cooperate. Do everything The Red Dragon said, and fate would be merciful. He had to go home. He had to go home. To see you again. It was not fair that he survived two attempts on his life only to die here. It was not fair! He was going to get married to the love of his life. Things were finally going right. The Dragon’s shadow fell over him. The acrid stench of his breath as he leaned down toward Frederick’s mouth—

“Frederick!”

You ran after him and tried to restrain him before he climbed out of the wheelchair and fell to the pavement, but it only made him struggle harder. Fuck. You weren’t sure if touching him again was a good idea, but you didn’t know what else to do. He was going to hurt himself.

“Shh, I’m here.”

Crouching next to him, you tried to keep him seated, murmuring soft, reassuring words. Eventually, he stopped thrashing to escape, his jerking limbs resigning themselves to passive trembling. His eyes were open, but they didn’t see you. They didn’t see anything but a dark room with a flickering projector.

You laid your head on his lap. “I’m right here. It’s OK. You’re safe, Frederick. You’re safe. Shh, shh...”

It took several minutes, but his breathing began to slow, and he began to calm down. His fingers found your hair and stroked it, mindlessly running over the contour of your scalp. Familiarity. Recognizing you, he grasped at your shirt to draw you closer, clutching you like a teddy bear to his chest. It was an awkward angle, but you shifted so your butt was partially supported by the bench he’d crashed into, and used the chair’s armrest to hold yourself in the bent position. Frankly, even if every muscle in your body cramped up, you weren’t going to leave him as long as he needed to hold onto you.

Finally, he whimpered your name and asked what happened.

“I… kissed you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

He sniffed and wiped his face, which he discovered was soaked with tears, and looked off into the trees. You sat back onto the bench, straightening your crooked spine, but keeping a firm hold on his hand, staying close as he returned to reality. He would be embarrassed. Add this to the growing list of Ways Frederick Chilton is Broken and Useless. But for now, the humiliation was dulled by the fact that he was not in that room again, with the projector flickering. You stayed that way for a while, sitting in the dappled shade of the garden and the warm breeze, the fountain burbling a constant, relaxing, tuneless song.

“The last man to bring his lips to mine bit them off.”

“I’m so sorry, Frederick. I shouldn’t have been so stupid...”

He squeezed your hand. Straightened up in his chair. “I heard the FBI has the video. Have you watched it?”

You shook your head, then quickly added, “No,” aloud, knowing his vision was poor and still focused on the tree branches swaying and morphing in the wind. Jack Crawford had offered, but you didn’t want to see it. You couldn’t bear to.

It had been hard enough hearing him describe how Francis Dolarhyde glued him naked to his grandmother’s wheelchair and made him watch macabre home movies of the families he had slaughtered. His voice was too calm, too distant from the memory as he dictated graphic details for the Journal of Psychology, desperate to tell his story, grab his fame before he died.

You should have known how your mouth coming at his would make him feel. You were so caught up in your romantic imaginings, you forgot how kiss-like that moment of horror must have been, just before the pain.

The nightmare his life had been for months already, and would continue to be. The scar tissue that wouldn’t fully mature for two years. Two years wearing a compression suit to help them heal. Years of follow-up procedures so that he can continue to move. To breathe. To hear. Longer until he could get a new face. His entire life altered forever.

It started with a kiss.

“We don’t have to kiss. I should never have pushed you to,” you apologized, wincing preemptively.

You expected him to be angry. To sarcastically tell you, “Now you decide we don’t have to? Now that it is too late? What fine timing.”

“I am not weak,” he bristled instead, but his agitation only spanned the length of a breath. He squeezed your hand softly, and pulled you halfway into his chair to wrap his arms around your waist and back. “I did not think that would happen either,” he spoke comfortingly into your hair. “Attempting it for the first time in a wheelchair was a mistake. I should have been more aware of that, but I grow tired of not being able to show my affection. You are not the only one impatient for my recovery, darling. I want to try again.”

“Now?” You pulled back, widening your eyes at him.

“No,” he said plainly. “I think not.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

@beccabarba / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @madamsnape921 / @astrangegirlsmind / @neely1177 / @onerestein / @dreamlover31 / @isvvc-pvscvl / @shroomiehomie / @storiesofsvu / @welcometothemxdhouse / @feedthemadness-sweetie / @law-nerd105 / @amelia-song-pond / @michael-rooker / @xecq / @madpanda75 / @alwaysachorusgirl / @bananas-pajamas / @leanor-min / @mad-girl-without-a-box / @katierpblogg / @worldofvixen / @sassyada / @barbingchilton

#Frederick Chilton x reader #my writing

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starsuh · 4 years ago

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do re mi | myg

featuring. min yoongi x reader | 3.2k

summary. while teaching you how to play piano, min yoongi realizes that his dumbass might have feelings for you after all.

genre. fluff | f2l | roommate!au | mutual pining

warnings. a quarter-life crisis and a soft make-out scene at the end

Amongst Min Yoongi's many talents, his sixth sense of knowing when something was bothering you was the one that most oft caught you off guard. Whether it was the intensity in which you slammed a door shut, or the way in which you didn't choose to annoy the fuck out him like you did every other day of the week; he would notice each time. It was only clockwork that he tentatively wrapped his arm around your shoulders when you had collapsed against the couch with perceptible chagrin.

"What's up?" he asked, a simple question that often entailed a more than complicated answer. Peering down at your tightened features, he awkwardly patted your shoulder as if to make known that silence would be just as valid of a reply.

You ran your hands through your face. "I don't know,” you said. If you did, you would've told him, just as you told him everything. Though the pair of you had began as merely two people who happened to be roommates because there were no other affordable options, spending months watching Netflix with another person tends to lead to friendship — even best-friendship, though neither of you had established such a title. It was the kind of friendship that needn't clarification, rather it was just another unequivocal fact amongst many.

After kicking off your shoes (Yoongi would scold you for that in a less emotionally-turbulent time), you pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them in a ball-like manner. "It's really fucking lame but I’m just realizing some things,” he nodded, prompting you to continue. "I'm scared of the future, I think. I mean, everyone is, but when our prof was talking about internships and shit earlier I kind of freaked out then decided that hiding in the bathroom was the best option.”

In his gaze was a reassurance so intent that you had to look away lest you become ensnared in it. He oft had that effect, increasingly so throughout the past few weeks. "What about it?"

Your eyes fluttered closed as you took a deep breath. “I think I know what I want to do, but then I see other people, people like you, who are so passionate about their place on Earth that to not do that thing would be a fate worse than death. Like, I love the path that I’m on but there’s always a voice that’s telling me I’m gonna fuck something up and regret everything.” You played with the loose threads of your top, pulling at the offending stitching. You laughed. “This is so stupid. I guess I’m just realizing that I might not be cut out for it.”

His sudden silence filled the room so heavily that you began to wonder if you shouldn’t have said anything at all. Gears turned behind the messy black mop atop his head that hung over his eyes; a face similar to the one he makes when contemplating a new track he had produced, seeking for each of its flaws and corresponding solutions.

It was so sudden when he reached down to grab your hand that you almost jumped. An inch away from falling onto his chest with the sudden upwards tug, you steeled yourself. "I'll show you something," he said to which you replied with a questioning stare. "It'll just be a sec, c'mon."

You allowed him to drag you to his bedroom, though not without glaring at the back of his head and whining. "Your room smells like Cheetos and day-old boxers."

He rolled his eyes. "I cleaned it this morning, so shut up."

He pushed the door closed with his hip, never once letting go of your hand until he unceremoniously shoved you towards the left end of the keyboard bench. You wiped the accumulated hand sweat against the rough fabric of your jeans, both thankful yet forlorn that he had let go. His was a comfort rarely given and you craved his affection the way one did with a cat that ignored those around it.

He reached down to plug the extension into the socket. "Can I play you something?"

You blinked, unsure if the nervous tone laced in the question was figment or reality. “What?”

He gave you a blank stare though it didn’t distract you from the way his hands fidgeted in his lap. “I said, can I play you something? Something I wrote?”

Impatient, he didn’t give you a second glance or a moment to reply before his hands flew across the board, pulling melodies out of the nooks and crannies of its black and white keys. Through every note, he told you of emotion, of love, of heartbreak and melancholy. You don't think you had ever understood what music was until then. It was more than his expertise, though he was quite the expert; it was the way his eyes closed at certain shrills and the way his shoulders hunched at others, the way he slammed harder into the keys and at other parts softer. He played like a poet. A writer. And you refused to be someone who didn't appreciate it for what it was: a story told to you.

The slight smirk gracing his soft features told you that he found amusing the way your mouth gaped open in shock. You’d only ever heard the distant echoes of his sound from behind closed doors as you walked past.

Yoongi had never played for you before, was even shocked that he was able to now, knowing that your mere presence in close proximity provided quite the distraction.

When he stopped, the air almost rang in its silence, as if you had forgotten what the world sounded like without his music in it. The hush blanket laid across the room felt bare and vulnerable. You understood now more than ever why he locked himself within the confines of his space in all hours of the day. If you could live in his symphonies, you would.

"Wow.” Because what else could be said? "That was... Yoongi, you're amazing."

His smirk remained, though as more of a mask to hide softer feelings behind. "Must've been if you're complimenting me for once.”

"Because you already have a ginormous ego."

He began playing once more. This time, a slow and deceptively simple melody. The chords were arrows tightly strung that flew through the air in wisps of smoke. To you, its warmth was paralleled to the feeling of his own beside you, his arm occasionally brushing yours as he reached to play a few lower keys.

"I think you're taking it too seriously," he said. "The future, I mean."

Your brows furrowed. "I kind of have to, dude."

He rolled his eyes but kept playing, occasionally glancing at you as he did so. "What I mean is," he pressed softly against the keys in the left end of the piano, their tenor notes filling your ears. "You need to calm down. Like this," the already soft melody slowed. "You know what you want, don't you? Why are you hesitating?"

You stilled, the feeling of being both caught and scolded grounding you in time. Your eyes focused on his hands to avoid the feeling of his analyzing gaze on the side of your face. “There are things I want to accomplish but there’s also things I want to have,” you groaned in exasperation. “I don’t know if I should choose the former or the latter but they’re so entangled that I can’t even tell which is which anymore.”

"Some things are only difficult if you think they're difficult." He looked down at the keys. "Like playing the piano, everyone knows that learning it is hard but something like this-" he played three chords in succession. "-sounds simple, right?" He continued to play those same chords until they blended together in a single melodious breeze. "But when I was a kid, learning piano was the bane of my twelve year old existence. I hated it so much because my impatient ass wanted to be good without trying. So, in true dumbass fashion, I quit taking lessons after two weeks."

You tilted your head towards him. “How did you learn then?"

“Well, I realized I was being a huge pussy and went back." Shaking his head before the glaze of the memory could wash over, he nodded towards you. Grabbing your hand, he placed them over the keys. “Can I teach you a chord?”

Your heart spiked in one fell swoop. “What? And embarrass myself in front of the music god himself?"

He laughed and it lit up his eyes brighter than the screen of his laptop that he had forgotten to shut off, still on the League of Legends home screen. “I told you, it's only hard if you think it is."

Too flustered to argue, you could only watch as he directed your fingers towards the correct keys until three were stretched towards their respective positions. C Major. You wondered if he could hear the rapid pace of your heart through the vibrations on your skin from where his larger hand rested atop your own. You could only pray to any god who would listen that he didn’t.

Among the numerous feelings that bubbled beneath your chest, the sudden pinch of ice that struck your nerves as he lifted his palm away from yours was one that you were the most unsure of. Filing that thought away for later, you focused on the most important task at hand: avoiding looking like an idiot in front of Min Yoongi.

Before you could retreat, your hands pressed down.

A sudden burst of sound filled the silence that you hadn't realized had grown so deafening. Your eyes widened as if you hadn't expected the chord to occur despite Yoongi's administrations, like trying to guess a passcode and getting it correct in a miraculous feat of luck. The now fading sound was not like anything you were expecting, though you knew even monkeys could do what you had just done. It was an actual piece of the puzzle that was music rather than the CD case or paper bag that had come with it.

Likened to an excited pup, you looked towards him for praise or assurance that you had done it right only to catch his already grinning countenance at your widened eyes.

For the next half hour he taught you two other basic chords, never failing to correct you in such a patient manner that your heart rose and fell with each glance and soft appraisal.

"But sometimes," he grinned. "Sometimes you need to stop thinking."

Your brows furrowed, though you didn’t need more than a few seconds to understand his cryptic wording before you yelped, almost flying off your seat at the abrupt disruption of the peace.

He began smashing his hands against the piano, creating the worst orchestra your ears had ever had the pleasure to hear. Overcoming the shock, both of yours laughs bubbled out, drowned by the keyboard speakers. Without a second thought, you joined, key smashing against the lower end. Together, you created an ear-grating masterpiece of cacophonous noise and piercing melody, yet it was still one of the most beautiful things you’d ever heard.

Yoongi began cheering your name like the greatest hypeman in existence as you gave the most effortful performance of your life, hands pressing against the first keys you saw to the last. You didn't know what you were doing but it didn't matter, not when he was smiling with his gums on full display as you went with your gut for the first time in years. Yoongi, the boy whose hands crafted magic, whose words changed you, whose music moved you. Yoongi, who looked at you and saw past your forced pretensions and society-enforced perceptions.

You laughed until your lungs ached for air, having not even realized that your whole body leant against his as you tried to catch your breath.

"Oh my god, I think my ears are broken," you covered them, finally dragging your hands away from the keys.

His grin widened. “You're a quick learner."

“Is this the part where I say that it's because you're a good teacher?"

“Only if you're polite, which we know you aren't." He hadn't stopped smiling and you had never felt prouder of any accomplishment in your entire life. “Was I able to distract you?"

You laughed, bringing your hands back to your lap to fiddle with them. He's seen you wear the same ramen-stained hoodie three days in a row with hair just as ratty yet you had never more felt exposed. “I’d say yes but I think I’ve exceeded my Yoongi compliment limit for the day."

"And here I was thinking that that compliment limit was zero."

"Hey," you playfully knocked against his shoulder. "I always say your breakfast is good."

He knocked against you back, his eyes turnt to half-moons. "That's because you want to brainwash me into cooking for you everyday with half-assed compliments."

"Or maybe," you lightly leaned against his hoodie-covered shoulder. "It's because I like eating breakfast with you."

He paused, and a grin that could only be described as shy graced his features. He tapped against the keyboard but didn't press hard enough to allow a sound to be let out.

"I trust you," he said in the silence. "That you can follow your heart. Even if that sounds corny as fuck, I really believe it."

You smiled, something you've been doing more and more often with him around. "I'll try," you said, watching as he contemplated his next words with a bite of his bottom lip. Giving him time, you glanced back at the piano. "Is it really that simple?" You pressed on a key.

He finally looked up. "I think so," he played the key beside the one you had just pressed, the side of it touching yours. "Even if it doesn't sound right to other people, who's to say that random key smashing isn't music? When you think you're supposed to play a certain way, that's when you hesitate. Even when you fuck up a piece," he pressed another key. "Regretting it doesn't stop the echo."

He began to play another soft melody, leaving you just as entranced as you were the first time he did.

“I’m a hypocrite, though,” he closed his eyes, lightly scoffing. “Giving you advice that I can’t even take.”

Your voice came out in a whisper. “Why?”

“Because...” He took a deep breath, hands leaving the keyboard as he fully turned to you. “I like you," he said it like it were a fact you should've already known. “I... I like you. A lot. I can't remember when you stopped being my annoying roommate who'd hog the fridge space and became the annoying roommate who I couldn't stop writing songs about. Before I could even realize and stop myself, today’s me kept looking forward to tomorrow’s you. I’d be a hypocrite to tell you to stop hesitating about the things in your life while I spent every second of every day wondering whether I should tell you my feelings and ruin our friendship.”

For if there was anything Yoongi knew more than most was that love was fucking stupid. It caused people to be irrational, selfless, and weak-hearted, yet why did he want to forget the stupidity that came with it whenever you walked into the kitchen for breakfast, hair messy and shirt tousled?

Love was fucking stupid. But maybe he could be an idiot if it meant that you'd be stupid for him too.

“I know you don't feel the same way but I just needed to tell-" you kissed him before he could finish what was sure to be a sentence so ridiculous that even the most astute of linguists would be left baffled. He was Min Yoongi. The boy who spent all day locked in his room making music and playing games with his friends. The roommate who'd wake up early just to cook you breakfast. The friend who knew you better than you knew yourself. The man who you'd found yourself falling for with every gummy smile. Yoongi. It had always been Yoongi.

And he was kissing you back.

His lips were as warm as the hands that carefully wrapped around your hips, gently pulling you closer to him. He kissed the way he played, soft and thoughtful.

Pulling away, he whispered your name slowly, prolonging each letter as if to savor them. Never before had your name ever felt so wonderful a one. His forehead pressed against yours, eyes flickering between yours in disbelief. The hand around your waist tightened as if in fear that at any moment you might say that you hadn't meant to give him what had to be the best moment of his life -- that you had actually accidentally fallen on him and he had simply been mistaken.

"You're an idiot," you laughed. "I've liked you since the first time you've cooked me breakfast if the heart eyes I gave you each time weren't already a dead giveaway."

He shuffled in his seat. "You have low standards then," he said. "Or are in desperate search for a house-husband."

You smiled, your nose brushing against his. "Maybe, a bit of both."

He leaned away from you, eyes lit up in a euphoria that didn't hinder from his nervous cadence. "Actually, that song I played for you? Earlier?” You’d never seen him blush before. “I, maybe, composed it thinking of you.”

"A personal chef, jester, and composer? I think I'm winning."

His nose crinkled. "You know you can still back out, right?"

"You're acting as if I'd even want to."

"Stupid songs like that... I suck at love yet I still want to give you everything," he whispered, voice hoarse. "But my everything will still only amount to that."

"If that's your everything,” your hands interlocked with his. “Then your everything is more than enough."

"I like you," he murmured the confession between your lips as if it were clandestine, the urge to say it a million times more bubbling up from his chest. Though stronger than his urge to say it was his urge to hear you say it back.

Your lips met his completely. Perfectly. "I like you, too."

Pulling away once more you couldn't help but laugh at the reddened color of his cheeks and ears. Cutting away at the awkward and still unsure tension, he inched backwards with a startlingly loud clap of his hands. "Now that that's settled, can we go back to making out? This corny shit is so awkward."

"I can't believe I like you," you groaned but kissed him back anyway.

While there was nothing in your life that you could be sure of, you knew that the man whose smile could light up the entire city of Seoul would be there for you for every step, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

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squiggledrop · 4 years ago

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Your Other Half - Spencer x Reader

Masterlist

Summary: Spencer and Reader are in love, but what does that mean and can it withstand the complications of time.

Word Count: 1.3k

Pairings: Spencer Reid x Reader

Category: Fluff, Angst

Warnings: Allusions to Death (please let me know if there are more)

Note: I literally wrote this at 3 am last night, and I’m not really sure what it is, so, I’m sorry in advance.

Spencer wasn’t your other half, for that would imply you weren’t whole before him. And that simply wasn’t true. Could you have lived a full life had you never met him? Of course, you could have. Love isn’t about finding someone who can fill all the voids in your life. It isn’t about consuming yourself with one person to the extent that you are completely dependent on them. Each of you are your own respective person, with your respective thoughts and ideals. You do not complete each other, rather you complement the other. You are two completely different, intricate, confusing, difficult, messy people, but whole nonetheless.

You did not fall in love, for you knew that if you dove in headfirst, eventually, the ground would catch up, leaving you in pieces. Rather, you found yourself in love gradually, bit by bit over time. You welcomed love through every joke exchanged, over every cup of coffee shared, through every sleight of hand and stolen glance. You walked into love, choosing to hold hands along the way, each of you taking your respective steps, but having the other as a guide should you fall behind.

Spencer may not have been your other half, but he is your best friend. He is the person, in a crowd full of people, you can spot in an instant. He is the person you choose to tell all your stories and secrets to. He is the person you feel most comfortable sharing your problems with because you know he would do anything he could to help, even if that meant just quietly nodding as he let you rant. He was the person you knew would never judge you, and neither you him. He was not your other half, but he was the person you chose to wake up to every morning.

Sure, you could live without him. Your heart would still beat and your lungs would still expand with every tick of the clock. But, it would not do so without a sting in your chest and the longing thought of his smile ringing through your head. You could live without him, sure, but you chose not to. He may not have been your light in the darkness, but he did remind you to open the blinds. He may not be the reason you are alive, but he sure makes living a whole lot easier. You get up every morning, making the choice to love him fully and completely. To be completely transparent and vulnerable, for you know he would never break you. You could live without him, but that doesn’t stop you from trusting him with your life. He knew you in and out and accepted and loved every quirk and flaw because it made you undeniably you.

That’s not to say you are both blinded by love. You have enough respect and dignity to call the other out when they are falling astray. Love should not settle or accommodate. Love should support you and guide you. Love should challenge you and make you question everything you thought you knew. Love should make you want to be better and help you get there. But, no matter how hard it may try, love cannot make you better. That must come from within. You may be a whole person, but that does not mean you don’t have room to grow. Love is choosing to grow in tandem with another. Love is the catalyst used to facilitate your individual personal growth, no matter how many times you use it, it never fails to come back.

Some days will be harder than others. You may feel as if you are growing apart and that is okay. Love is a choice and may not last forever. You are two separate people, and love is a partnership. It takes work and commitment and communication. Yes, a plucked flower will still bloom if put in water, however, you take the fragility of its beauty for granted. You fail to see it’s beauty stems from its strength, that of which you so carelessly destroyed for a moment of lust. Had you left the flower in the garden, allowed its roots to expand, connecting itself with its surroundings, living and breathing, just as surely as the earth rotates each day, you would have seen its full potential. Had you left it to grow in the garden, you could have nurtured and protected it, always knowing it would be there for you to admire. Had you left it in the garden, it would not have withered away one day when you forgot to change the water, leaving it to rot in a murky crystal vase.

You and Spencer grew your love in a garden, it’s roots knowing no bounds, your love spreading throughout the ground. Your love was strong, able to withstand even the harshest of winds that tried to blow it down. Yes, some days were harder than others, but remember love is a choice. You and Spencer made that vow long ago, that no matter the challenge at hand, you would always choose to love the other, standing by their side, choosing to weather the storm together. You both knew you may not always make it out to the other side, but that is what love is. Love is choosing to always be there, no matter the risk involved. Better yet, love is choosing to be there in spite of the risk. Love is showing the world that you care so deeply and completely for the other that you value the partnership over your personal gains. Love is gladly taking a bullet for the other, which Spencer wholeheartedly did that night he shoved you out of the way.

Yes, you are your own person, and yes, Spencer is too. You know you can survive without him, but god you don’t want to. With every second that goes by, as impossible as it sounds, you feel another part of you wither away, him having taken it with him when he fell to the ground. You know you can survive without him, but what is surviving truly.

You don’t want to survive, not at the cost of living. Yes, surviving is breathing, being the one with a beating heart. But it is also wishing you were the one that wasn’t. Spencer made you feel alive. Yes, you were your own person, but without someone to live for, to share all your accomplishments and setbacks with, to hold when you’re scared and laugh with when happy, what is it worth really. What good is a flower, adorned with sturdy roots that have grown over time, stretching out across all walks of life, if the bitter wind of winter still comes to kill it regardless? Yes, you may have weathered countless storms together in the past, but none of that matters when the frigid, ubiquitous cold destroys everything in its path.

You may be your own person, with your own life, but when your love is no longer there, having been ripped out of your hands, please forgive me if it feels as though your heart has stopped beating too. Spencer may not have been your other half, but your heart beats for him. Yes with every tick of the clock your heart still thumps, but what do you do when the only thing in your life that was as constant as the day turning into the night was the man that used to fill the now-empty bed beside you. How do you continue to walk another day, when your hand, with no one to hold, now feels so cold. Yes, you are your own person, but what good is that when all you do is sit in the dark, too empty and hurt to bother opening the blinds. What good is that when every breath feels like your last. What good is that when the beautiful world you built together is now desolate and cold, and you are all alone, with no person to call home.

No, Spencer was not your other half. He was so much more than that.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #reid x reader #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #spencer x y/n #spencer x you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #dr reid #spencer reid insert

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flickeringart · 4 years ago

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The Fixed Squares

In astrology there are signs that are more or less compatible. The signs are in essence representative of archetypes of the unconscious and they live out their expressions through our lives. It’s common knowledge that certain people are more or less compatible, which depends on the personal planetary placements and how they interact with another person’s placements.

People are complex and can’t be reduced to a single sign (their Sun sign for example). However, if a person has a lot of planets in a particular sign, they might find that other people with a lot of planets in the squaring sign (90° apart on the zodiac wheel) presents conflicting and disturbing energy. The signs that naturally square each other have a tense relationship because they have the same modes of expression (cardinal/fixed/mutable) but are placed in a different element (fire/earth/water/air). The difference in element poses a significant dilemma, between masculine (fire/air) and feminine (earth/water), mythical and intellectual vs. mortal and emotional.

Let’s move on with the fixed signs (read about the cardinal squares here). As opposed to the cardinal signs, fixed signs don’t seek to assert and accomplish, they are what they are – dwelling in states of being. They are not seeking to become but rather to affirm a state or a stance. Cardinal signs are stubborn through consistent movement with a specific purpose; fixed signs are stubborn through attachment to a specific purpose. Take Aquarius for example, the fixed air sign. Since it belongs to the element of air, it is intellectual like Libra, the cardinal air sign. Libra seeks to achieve refinement through the use of the intellect while Aquarius remains loyal to its own refined thinking – or rather, to thinking itself. Aquarius thinks, and it is reality. Admittedly it sounds like there’s a grandiosity complex hiding behind this way of being, but its really not as bad as it sounds. Aquarius reflects the capacity to have a set frame of mind. It’s necessary for humans to have some kind of fixed mental structure to operate within, to seek refinement within, to explore within. Without some kind of intellectual convictions there would be great uncertainty to the point of us being unable to cope with existence. Aquarius is the sign of fixed concepts the mental patterning. It’s also the sign of genius insight, new thought, progression and innovation. In order for some things to progress in the real sense, there has to be a replacement of the rigid mental frameworks that represented the old paradigm. It’s obvious why Aquarius is a universal sign, seeing as it operates on such a broad level of existence – altering the very cornerstones of conceptual reality. In square to Aquarius there’s Taurus, the fixed earth sign. While Aquarius is masculine and non-physical, Taurus is feminine and physical. Fixed earth clashes violently with fixed air because one is based in the concrete realm, the other in the abstract realm. To Taurus, intangible ideas doesn’t make sense – they don’t serve to alter life as it has always been, getting up in the morning, working through one’s day, eating, sleeping and doing it all over again. Far reaching ideas involving the potential development for humanity and the collective doesn’t really concern this sign, it’s primordial and deals with the basic, daily routine of life. Physical comfort, stability and predictability weigh heavily for Taurus while Aquarius would only really be able to value the earth plane as a concept – not for its physical attributes. The sensory dimension that belongs to Taurus is only a phenomenon to Aquarius, which deals with everything intellectually from a higher plane. Taurus is intimately attuned with the body in terms of sensation while Aquarius perceives the body mentally. There’s no common ground to be had – the signs radically conflict in this way. Taurus can’t understand unmanifested reality while Aquarius can’t be confined to the physical nor accept the “ultimate” reality of the material realm according to Taurus. Sensual pleasure doesn’t mean anything to Aquarius; it can only appreciate the idea (ideal), not the flawed material version of it.

The other sign squaring Aquarius is Scorpio. While Taurus could be described as physically attached, Scorpio could be described as emotionally attached, being a fixed water sign. Scorpio is probably the most complex sign of all, seeing as emotions in themselves are complex, but when fixated, they reach high levels of intensity. Aquarius has a certain global impersonal intimacy going that can be very comforting – especially to strangers and friends. Aquarian intimacy is the intimacy that all humans can share because it stems from being part of the same universal family. Scorpio on the other hand has little capacity to be impersonal because everything is felt on the deepest and most personal level. Emotions are not mere concepts to Scorpios; they are more real that flesh and blood, which is why Scorpio is the sign of extremes. Control over emotions is very important for this reason, their power literally has the capacity to make or break anything in life. There’s enormous passion and resilience to the fixed water sign that Aquarius would never be able to relate to other than as a concept. Aquarius can often offer understanding, but that’s not enough for Scorpios who wants to feel alive through involving others in the same intense experiences they go through. While Scorpio is like a magnetic vortex of emotional energy, Aquarius can expand their minds enough to intellectually sympathize with emotion, but they will not be able to approve of uncivilized behavior or get involved in anything deep and raw in such a consuming way. Aquarius has a futuristic mind that is concerned with ideas and ideals while Scorpio has a passionate and raw perception of reality, trailing back to basic survival and dominance hierarchies. Scorpio is concerned with the hidden underpinnings of reality, the struggle between life and death, the transformation of base metal into gold, the rise of the phoenix after the burning and destruction. It’s not an intellectual process but rather a process of coming up against life in the most brutal of ways in order to shed the layers and reveal something of purity. That which cannot be taken away will remain at the end of the day, and everything else should be allowed to fall away, however painful it might be. This couldn’t be further from the conceptual realm that Aquarius is concerned with. To Scorpio, the border between good and bad is blurred – what is sought is transcendence of polarity. The mental faculties, as opposed to the emotional, have a separating function. It isn’t possible to separate the old from the new any other way than through dividing reality into distinct categories. Aquarius cares about improvement and introducing change, which depends on identifying an ideal – Scorpio cares about transformation from within, sitting through the fire and feeling how the very base substance is altering itself at the core. Both signs are concerned with the very fabric of reality but in very different ways. Aquarius constitutes the mental blueprint that can be altered through detaching from the current order and visualizing something different. Scorpio on the other hand constitutes the subconscious emotional cornerstones and attachments that are intensely personal and painful to let go of. Simply put, Aquarius is civilized and clear, Scorpio is uncivilized and blurry, and they can’t really see eye to eye in any other way than that they’re both interested in decoding reality and existence – even if its for completely different reasons and through completely different methods.

To flip the tables completely, let’s take a look at the opposite signs of Aquarius, namely Leo. The fixed fire sign is complementary to Aquarius and has to do with maintaining the integrity of the self, not maintaining the integrity of thought. While Aquarius has a way of being sure of things on an intellectual level, Leo is sure of its own energy and spirit. There’s hardly a more charming and warm sign than Leo – it’s associated with creativity, intuition, leadership, generosity and talent. The Sun, which is the “planetary” ruler literally sustains life and is basically a source unto itself. While Aquarius is good at remaining in integrity relative to its own unique and liberal thinking, Leo is good at remaining in integrity relative to its own unique self-expression. Taurus, the sign squaring Leo isn’t so much concerned with creativity as it is with stability. The integrity of Taurus is that of the body, not of the spirit. As long as there’s physical permanence and stability Taurus is happy, while Leo would see material gain as a secondary benefit of talent and expression. As long as there’s physical proof of competence and value, there’s nothing to fuss about according to Taurus. There’s simplicity to the fixed earth sign that the other signs lack – it views life through the lens of assets and value and attempts to have control over these things. In a sense, it is much easier than having control emotionally, like Scorpio attempts, because emotions are intangible and obscure. Leo, like Taurus and Scorpio, is also concerned with control, especially when it comes to how to show up in the world. There’s enormous pride to the sign of Leo and it wants to be seen and admired unconditionally. Leo is essentially the king that demands to be worshiped no matter what he wears, says or does because he carries himself with such poise and self-respect. This is difficult to sympathize with for Taurus, who is too grounded and practical to see any purpose to parading excessive confidence. While Taurus is likely to measure happiness in material “standing” and acquirements, Leo is unconditionally honoring to the grandeur of the self by rising above such “petty” things. It’s love that is the most important and Leo thinks itself to be deserving of the greatest love of all. It might seem quite self-centered and presumptuous to Taurus, who puts little value in creative expression – although it loves pretty things as art, albeit not for the same reason as Leo. The joy of creating something is what Leo is all about, while Taurus is more for the grounded satisfaction of surrounding itself by precious goods. At the end of the day, these signs won’t understand each other’s perspectives. Taurus is mortal and Leo is mythical – the Taurean earthiness offends Leo in its attempt to bring legend to life.

Last but not least there’s the Leo-Scorpio square. Leo, being fixed fire, experiences life as a journey of enfoldment in the direction of glory and magnificence. Purpose, meaning and nobility sits at the core of this sign, innate positivity and joy radiates from its center. Scorpio, being fixed water, experiences life through levels of emotional intensity in the direction of transformation. There’s a double-sidedness to Scorpio that Leo lacks, it views life through severe polarity and ultimately knows that nothing is what it seems. Scorpio knows that it’s naïve to take anything at face value. That which appears to be true, is all too often only a well-crafted façade designed to ensure survival on some level. Scorpio’s reality is complex, love and fear are mixed together and one can’t have one without the other. Leo finds this way of seeing things to be offensive and appalling. In Leo’s world, there are such things as true goodness and unconditional love. There’s such a thing as higher purpose, brilliance and excellence that is not a coping mechanism or dominance tactic. Scorpio would deem this attitude fanciful and unrealistic, pointing out that when push comes to shove and life becomes threatening, there’s no room for higher truths or glamorous pursuits of honesty and character. There’s only fear and how far one is prepared to go to ensure survival – however primitive and unpleasant it might look from a detached point of view. When fear reaches its peak, there’s a point where one will take any comfort or relief available no matter how much it conflicts with one’s noble goals. When there’s severe all-consuming emotional pain and it can be soothed, all ideas of love goes out the window. Nothing matters but one’s own uncompromising “selfish” needs. Scorpio has familiarity with the darker dimension of life and can’t sympathize very much with the Leonine optimism. Leo essentially looks on the bright side of life while Scorpio looks on the dark. Scorpio thinks that everything stems from the need to survive while Leo thinks that life is about extending the love that lives within. Both signs share a distinct focus on the self, although Leo more accurately falls under the label “self-centered” while Scorpio would fall under the label “selfish”. Both are very stubborn and like to come off as strong and capable. Leo gives the impression of being good and fair in its attempts to establish leadership, while Scorpio likes to be seen as intimidating and sharp to establish dominance. These signs have a difficult time with each other as Leo isn’t in touch with the gut-wrenching fear of life and Scorpio can’t relate to the ultimate goodness and light that Leo has going for itself.

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alexlabhont · 4 years ago

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I didn’t mean to fall in love with you

Chapter eleven

Book: Queen B - Choices (Universe)

Pairing: Poppy Min-Sinclair x Trans!Male MC (Beck Hughes)

Genre: Canon re-write (Because I can)

Rating: Anyone can read it, really

Tags: @dopeyouth @theymakemegayer @save-me-the-last-dance @poppysmc (If anyone want to be tagged in or removed, just tell me)

This is me trying to write by and for the Trans community, specially FTM community, meaning, trans guys, but I actually took the liberty to use They/them pronouns for everyone out there who´s interested (Also, the name Beck was the most neutral one I could find, trying to use the cannon Bea Hughes)

If you have any comment, PLEASE BE RESPECTFULL and patient with me. This is also my first english fanfic and english is not my mother language, so… i’m sorry fo the grammar errors. I also installed recently Grammary, so… hope its worth it.

This chapter contains some sensitive topics about tragedies and sex insinuations, I really didn't want to write it down with details both out of respect. I mean, personally, I didn't want to explain what's "under" in a fanfic, but if you do have doubts or curiosity, ask away in chat, especially if you are starting hormones, there is a lot for you to know about down there because it definitely changes something. Also, this other topic might touch a nerve and I really didn't do it without respect to the victims, so I'm sorry if it feels like that.

Previously

----

Staten Island it’s the third-largest borough in New York, but it is the least populated. The northern part of the island is the most urbanized, with some areas of somewhat decayed housing blocks that didn’t attract attention at all. It was… ok? quiet? She wasn’t sure exactly what to say about that place, but what was another thing she wasn’t sure about? Well...

“Are you not going to tell me what are we doing?” Poppy asked once again, feeling irritated as they both walked through the breeze but warm streets. At first, she thought they were taking the bus but Beck asked something to a random guy and started walking for a really, really long time, what was all this about? Beck looked tense, kind of nervous, and that alone made her feel strange, unnerved. "Are you alright?" Poppy asked again, but this time she sounded worried.

"Yeah, I'm just…" They exhaled in an attempt to draw their nerves away from themself. "I'm pretty nervous. I've never done this before." Beck chuckled.

"Do what?" Poppy frowned, curiosity floating in her mind strongly, to be honest, she had never seen them so tense before, even though they were trying to look calm. Beck smirked and took her by the hand.

"Come on, I have to show you something."

"Is it too far?"

"Are you already tired?" Beck replied, mocking her with that sassy smile of theirs.

"Me? Absolutely no." She said, raising an eyebrow. "I could literally go for miles."

"I'll have to prove that myself." Beck winked and she couldn't help but laugh.

"You're a dimwit."

"Yeah" they shrugged. "I'm cute, though.”

“Barely.” She rolled her eyes, trying to suppress a smile but failing in the process so Beck laughed at it. Suddenly an unexpected drop felt swiftly in her nose, making her look up to the sky where a big, grey cloud was still above their heads. Soon, she felt raindrops in her hair, her clothes, her shoes!

“Oh, shoot. This is not good…” Beck said while they both walked faster, reaching out for cover in a shop awning.

“You think? These Jimmy choo are not even in the market yet!”

“Well, we don’t want them to be ruined, don’t we?."

"Of course not! What kind of dumb ques—"

Poppy didn't get to end the sentence, Beck took her by the wrist and started running full speed and nonstop. "Beck!" She screamed, the rain pouring down her body while that asshole laughed like a devilish kid. "Beck Hughes, let go of me this instant!!"

"We're almost there!" She heard them saying without turning to see her.

"Where are you taking me?!"

Beck slowed down little by little until they both stopped in front of a tiny, old, yellow house with barely two floors. Beck took the keys out of their pockets and opened the door, allowing Poppy to get inside the dark and quiet place.

“So… here we are.” Beck spoked turning on the lights.

The place that received them was the living room, but it was not an ordinary living room, it had neon lights currently exposing a purple color, a keyboard piano, a couple of guitars, and an old-fashioned mended couch with a lot of patches over black leather that actually looked really well together. The walls were exhibiting posters, framed cool landscape black and white photographs, and a Youtube silver plaque. She recognized the place right away.

“Wait… this is the place where you record your music.” She asked. Poppy watched Beck’s videos a lot recently at first the blonde was searching for information, then, to find a flaw to criticize with Chloe, but sooner rather than later Poppy found out… Beck was actually a really good musician, so sometimes when she was completely sure she was alone she’d listen to their songs while doing cardio or homework or whatever she was doing. “I was wondering where you found the location.”

“Yes… but also no. I mean, I do the videos here, but I have an audio booth upstairs. It’s actually a quiet neighborhood so it came in handy.” Beck took off their jacket, reaching out their hand to ask for Poppy’s. They both were wet, but not a lot, her shoes survived perfectly because they entered the house before a loud thunder sounded, followed by a deluge. “Damn, we do really dodge a bullet out there.”

“Yeah.” Poppy said, hugging herself. Without her coat, she felt a little cold. “Do you own this place?”

"No, this is my uncle’s." Beck whispered with reverence and a sad smile on their face. "My dad's little brother. He passed away."

"I— I'm sorry, Beck…" she managed to say, clueless about what exactly would someone do in this kind of situation.

"I didn't remember much about him, but my mom says he used to make these guitars out of plastic bottles as gifts for me to play them. She said I would go to the kitchen and play one for her to hear. She also said the sound was awful and she begged him to stop making them." Beck's smile was soft, turning on the heating, proud even though they were chuckling a little, spreading the same smile to Poppy. " 'I'm telling you, this little pal has talent.' he would say."

"Sounds to me like he made it to annoy your mom instead." Poppy said jokingly.

"Totally, he was a prankster." Beck replied, the emotions coming out from their eyes were difficult to tell. "And was one of the few dudes back at Farmsville that didn't want to settle down. The black sheep in every family… and the reason why my parents didn't want me to be here." Beck clutched their jaw, walking away from there to the kitchen. Poppy followed them in silence, feeling like it was something very private for Beck, seeing that vulnerable side of them again, but not hiding this time. "He was murdered years ago here in New York in a shooting. In Farmsville shootings don’t happen, so… They said it was dangerous going out of the farm to the big cities. That he brought this on himself... Took this out of the wrong way." The anger in Beck's voice was palpable in the air.

"Seriously? How can they be so selfish?" Poppy asked, how can someone be so fucking self-centered and dumbass to take a tragedy and blame it on one family member? She thought these things happened exclusively around that bunch of tight-ass people inside her parents’ social circle, but not inside a family farm.

"Back at home is different from here. Is a small town where everyone knows each other. They love routine and hard work and the good customs and shit… So when anyone goes against it… well— it's not funny."

Something clicked inside Poppy's mind.

"But then… How are you here?" Beck smiled but it didn't reach out to their sad eyes.

"Because I almost got killed."

Shock. Poppy couldn't help but feel agitated, her heart pounding loud against her chest and that same protective feeling that almost made her stab Bennett crawled its way towards her own core.

"What?" Poppy babbled, froze. Beck shrugged, with a weird grin as if they didn't know where to start, they caressed their neck, searching for the better way to put the puzzle together. They reach out for Poppy's hand, and she took it right away intertwining her fingers with Beck's.

"Coffee?" They asked. "It seems we will be stuck in here for a while.”

"It sounds nice." The words abandoned her mouth so fast that she even surprised herself, another red alarm ringed inside her mind, but now was not the time, so she ignored it again. Beck smiled and turned on a little coffee maker, bringing two mugs in silence. They both sat down on the surprisingly comfortable couch, Beck’s eyes were attentive at the black drink and the tension was still over their shoulders, she could see it so easily that Poppy wished for someone to take that weight out of Beck, so she took both cups and put them aside, sitting over Beck’s lap and intertwining her fingers with theirs, playing with them. Beck smiled a little and took a deep breath.

"I started to realize something was off inside of me when I was in high school. I mean, ‘till that day I was considered normal. I was the kind of child that played sports, climbed trees, and did hard work gladly. You know, average farm kid." Beck said, but even as they seemed to be calm, Poppy could feel the sweat in their palm, and a little shivering all over their body. "But I grow older and changes came, and puberty and—"

"Hey" Poppy stopped them from talking faster and faster. "You don't have to"

"I want to. " Beck interrupted, begging Poppy with their eyes. "I want you to know my past. I mean… if you want me to tell you, that is."

Poppy could have thought anything at that moment. She could have thought that she made it, that she had accomplished her very goal and knew she was about to have first-hand information to use against Farmsville, that she was spectacular for making it this far. She could have thought that now nobody would take her number one spot from her, or that she loved to have a new puppy to use in any way she wanted. But no.

All in what she could think about was Beck's heart opening up to her, trusting her for real this time. The connection intertwining both of them in a way that made her skin chill. Third alarm, but she muted it again.

"So? What are you waiting for? Go on." Poppy rolled her eyes, Beck had a goofy expression for a couple of seconds until Poppy smiled, squishing slightly their hands for reassurance. Beck's eyes glowed happily in which was the cutest gesture Poppy saw from someone that wasn't a dog in her entire life.

"I managed to handle myself a little for a while, but it definitely didn't last long. I was so afraid, I felt lost, and insecure. I didn’t know what was happening to me, why did I feel that way, trapped in my own skin... I stopped having friends because everyone could see how weird I was and nobody wanted to talk to me, except for this one girl: Bree Matthews."

Beck’s jaw tightened, their eyes wandering all over the place because of the nervousness.

“So, Bree and I started to hang out. Chill some time round. We were close, I mean, really, really close. She was the one who I told about my dysphoria first, and she was totally supportive. She helped me understand what I was going through, sometimes she would borrow her brother’s old clothes to give them to me and helped me pick my very first short haircut. Bree was my safe space in a town where I’d be mistreated just to use a bathroom. I kinda felt for her… so one night into the forest I kissed her. And~ it wasn’t a good idea.”

“What happened?”

“Well~ Daniel and his gang came into the picture and intimidated her, so she sold me as a pervert, a weirdo, among other… awful things. Can’t blame her, Daniel was a wrecked truck whenever he wanted so… yeah. My family found me eight hours after, all beat up from head to toes. I was unconscious and with an actually broken rib.” Beck tried to joke, but it was so bad at timing it actually made it worse for Poppy to hear. “I~ I almost die.” Beck sighed, as if with that they could put all that behind. “Anyway so she apologized to me through a phone call because she wanted to kiss me too but, you know, shit happens; I got better and now I’m in New York doing what I love so… Happy ending, right? It was funny, they didn’t let me use the bathroom but they all thought I was “male enough” to beat the crap out of me ever since.”

Poppy stopped playing with Beck’s hands, making them do the same. They told the end of the story so lightly as if they were talking about a T.V. show they just watched and not some really cruel harassment they went through for a long time. The strawberry blonde was a lot of things, bad things, but the things that beast did to Beck just because of their dysphoria? That was a whole new level that Poppy would never stoop into.

“How can you joke about things like that?”

“Well, I figured I had two ways to address the problem: Being insecure or making the most out of this. That’s why I do music. Yeah, my songs don’t talk about the transgender community directly, but I make sure everybody knows who am I. What I am. I write songs for people out there that feel just the same as I do. Not only transgender people, but the whole LGBTQ+ also needs representation! Folks having their back! And if I can reach at least one soul and show them that no matter how they were born, they can make it… Hell, I could die happily.”

The fire in their eyes, the passion radiating strongly from their body, from their words. It was impossible for Poppy to look away from Beck. Of course, Beck didn’t care about a spot in the T list, or and stupid award. Beck was more into their music, making their voice be heard. That was why they did claim to care less about competition, Beck was climbing their way to the top because of their conviction and resilience. It was curious how the more she learned about Beck, the more she felt drawn to them.

“You are so brave, do you know that?”

“And it only took me a delicate rib and trust issues.” Beck claimed proudly as if it was a bargain.

“Trust issues? Beck, you’re one of the most confident people l know!” They began to laugh, the blonde could feel their laughter below her because of the slight belly-shaking. “It’s irritating.”

“I am really amazing myself.” Poppy rolled her eyes at the flirty smirk Beck flashed towards her. “But I’m not insecure about myself… most of the time. I do have a hard time trusting in people. I mean, Daniel didn’t have a hold on me… Bree, on the other hand…” Beck shrugged. “But I do trust you, Poppy.”

Something inside the blonde felt off, those words accompanied by that good-natured smile made Poppy feel a bit guilty. Like, yeah, she was just trying to archive exactly that for her own benefit, it should feel like a win, right? But no.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, yet.” She said to herself. “For all we know, this is just some casual date.”

Maybe… give up? Maybe actually try and date Beck?

What could possibly go wrong?

“I trust you too, Beck.” She replied without a doubt. So she tossed her golden locks over one shoulder, leaning down to kiss Beck’s lips. She soon felt them kissing her back, sweetly, calmly at first but then it was obvious they both needed more than that. Poppy let go of Beck’s hands to place hers in their Beck, while they grabbed her by the waist. The heat soon took over her body, especially after they responded to it by biting Poppy’s bottom lip, making her moan. Poppy knew right away there was a change in Beck’s behavior, they were more confident, more secure, they actually felt ready and she had to say, that was a very welcome and pleasing development. But they were shaking still.

“What 's wrong? You don’t want to—?”

“No. No, it 's not it. It 's just…” Beck took a deep breath avoiding Poppy's gaze for a second before looking at her pleading while keeping hold on her. “I don’t want you to see me differently when you look at what I have beneath the clothes.” They confessed.

“I won’t. I promise.” She said, caressing the hair in the back of their nape. “This is just you, with all letters.” She smirked, trying to lighten the mood and she succeeded. Beck grinned from ear to ear, relieved, kissing her passionately, hungry and the Poppy did the same, tasting their tongue with hers. The caresses between the two became more intense and she couldn’t stand the fever growing anymore, so she took the edges of their favorite black t-shirt and pulled up, revealing Beck torso for the very first time.

She understood right away what Beck meant. Cutting through their chest there it was a thin, darker line, a scar that was slowly healing, but nevertheless it was there easy to pinpoint. It was strange, she had seen a lot of those mastectomy scars on google but Beck chest looked different somehow, strong, gym crafted, and the scar actually was interesting, sexy even.

“I don’t know what you were so scared of, Hughes. Hell, you’re hot as fuck, I hate you.”

Beck chukled, their confidence coming back.

“Yeah, well… There is not an ugly part on this body afterall.” They grinned.

“I’m going to erase that obnoxious smirk of yours.”

“You will?” Beck grabbed a hold on Poppy’s hair and pulled slightly but demanding backwards, exposing her neck to them to kiss and lick, causing a shaking sigh that turned the heat even higher for both. “Show me then.” They whispered over her skin, their breath brushing bristling her body.

Poppy pushed them down on the couch, kissing them hardly. This was war now, and she would definitely win.

----

#my writing #poppy min sinclair #queen b choices #poppy x mc #choices stories you play #choices #choices poppy #bea hughes #mc x poppy #beck hughes #choices queen b mc #trans #ftm

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raendown · 4 years ago

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Todays follower milestone gift fic is for @sparklemagpie with the prompt word importune. Can you tell I had fun writing this one?

Pairing: ShikamaruTemariTayuya Word count: 1966 Rated: T+ Summary: For the two women in his life Shikamaru will do whatever it takes. As long as they're happy he's happy. When they're not...well, when they're not you get situations like this one.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Just The Right Cherry On Top

Shikamaru would have told anyone who asked that it didn’t start off as begging. No one was really asking, though, and the shreds of pride still buried in the back of his mind somewhere told him that was a problem. If no one was asking questions that usually meant they thought they already had the answers. But they didn’t. They really didn’t. When it came to his two girls Shikamaru was smugly aware that he was usually the only one with answers.

Well, answers to questions like ‘are you sure they’re not trying to kill each other’ or usually ‘how can you stand to live between that’. The questions about what might be going on in either woman’s mind were ones he didn’t even try to guess at. He knew when to back away from a problem he would never figure out.

Right now he didn’t so much have a problem as he did have a disaster. He knew very well that relationships took work, that his work would be doubled when he agreed to marry both of the most important women in his life, and since he had not a day went by when he didn’t consider that work so very worth it. For the most part their days were happy. Blissful, even. Shikamaru was as flawed as any other human being but among his flaws pride wasn’t usually the one that tripped him up. Disaster only really happened when pride snuck up on the other two parts of his soul.

Tayuya, as usual, was the first to start throwing insults. And of course Temari, when faced with a hot temper, flared her own with the kind of heat usually accomplished only with the most deadly katon. Standing on the other side of the kitchen with a frying pan in one hand and his face in the other, Shikamaru briefly wondered if there were any missions available that would take him far away until these two crazy goddesses sorted their own shit out.

There weren’t. He checked. Discreetly, of course.

After the first couple days of cold silence it became obvious that this was one of those fights they needed him to bring them back from, when pride and stubbornness and sheer petty spite held both of their lips shut, eyes refusing to meet, tempers refusing to back down. These were the kind of fights that reminded Shikamaru why the three of them really worked as a full unit, one single whole, any weakness in one covered by another. Knowing that never made it any less annoying trying to be the cover to their weakness. They might need him but in those moments they sure didn’t want to need him.

“What’ll it take this time?” Shikamaru could hear the exhaustion in his own voice but that’s just what happened when he hadn’t gotten more than three consecutive hours of sleep for the past week.

“Nothing,” Temari snapped. “Maybe this is just it!”

Drawing a hand down his face spoke louder than words how little he believed that. If he looked really close he could see the lines of aching tiredness in Temari’s expression that told him she didn’t believe it either.

“Right,” he murmured. “I’ll just go talk to her then.

And so he did, though it would be hard to express just how unsurprised he was to get a very similar reaction from Tayuya.

“Fuck that bitch and her high horse!”

“You could if one of you would say sorry,” Shikamaru couldn’t help pointing out.

“Oh no fucking way! Not with a ten foot god damned pole!”

“What if I said please?”

So that was how it started. Or got to the middle, really. Much to the contrary of what other people seemed to think, Shikamaru was not so whipped as to just fall on his knees and beg any time he encountered the slightest of resistance in their relationship. He had some self respect. In the face of these two boneheads, however, self respect was a concept he was more than willing to throw out the window in favor of a full night’s rest, something he would not be getting until their home saw peace again.

One instance of saying please did nothing. Twice did little more than that. Somewhere around the fifteen ‘please’ he switched tactics and added a cherry on top. Tayuya rather harshly reminded him that she hated cherries and described in very colorful detail where he could stick his polite words. Clearly another tactic was needed.

As a smart man Shikamaru very carefully ignored all of Naruto’s well meaning suggestions like sending his wives flowers pretending they were from each other. Maybe that would have worked on someone like Hinata who was determined to look at the world and see the best in everyone but Shikamaru had married two people determined to look at the world through a cold lens of cynicism. Gods but he loved it. Loved the both of them. He just didn’t love the fights. Naruto meant well but the one and only time any of them had seen Hinata truly mad had been the middle of a battle against the reanimated body of a dead man handing Naruto his own ass. It was great for the two of them to finally find happiness. When he thought of their calm and sweet relationship Shikamaru sometimes just couldn’t help but wonder how they didn’t get bored with no one around to throw a plate or two.

Since being nice about it didn’t do much his next step was to try being firm. This time he went to Tayuya first because if he could crack her then honestly he was pretty sure he could crack the whole world. His efforts in this round were about as successful as the first.

“Go ahead and try to tell me what to do one more time, Nara.” Right up in his face Tayuya was all fire, in her hair and in her eyes and in every move of the arm currently jamming in to his chest. “I’ve had just about enough of being ordered around for one lifetime, you hear me?” Oh he did. He did hear her. He also heard the undertone of heat and it wasn’t until an hour after he left their home in the daze of post orgasmic bliss that he realized he’d been had. Maybe Choji was right and he did think with his dick a little too much.

Going to see Temari hadn’t exactly had better results - although he’d known better from the start than to consider either one of them ‘better’ than the other in certain departments. After making it very clear how much she both enjoyed and scorned his attempts to law down some kind of law Temari rode him against the nearest walls and sent him off afterwards with a few choice words about how she really didn’t mind wearing only his marks on her skin from now on. Since he hadn’t been the one to bring that up Shikamaru saw through it right away. They missed each other, a blind man could see that. Getting them to admit it was the hard part.

So that was a bust on trying to put his foot down but if he were honest Shikamaru hadn’t expected any different. The next thing he tried was bribery. After the harsh years both of his wives had experienced it was entirely understandable that they should enjoy being waited on hand and foot. Usually the offer was an irresistible one to them; hence why he didn’t make it very often, a special treat for special occasions when he needed to remind them just how precious they really were. When not just one but both of them turned him down this time Shikamaru had to take a nice long walk through the woods and feed the deer for a while, wondering if maybe the magic offer had lost its touch at last. Or if maybe he was the one that had lost his touch. It took a good long while and three different deer taking curious nibbles of his ponytail before he shook himself and stood up with a little more steel in his spine.

Clearly this problem was running out of control and that meant bringing in the biggest weapon he had at his disposal. One didn’t spend a lifetime best friends with the Yamanaka heir without picking up some tricks.

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please please?”

“I said no, fuck off Shika.”

“Uhhh, please and please and please?”

Tayuya actually stopped walking to round on him with furrowed brows. “You get hit upside the head or something? This is- you’re acting like a damn child!”

“Maybe.” Shikamaru clasped his hands together and lifted his eyes to the clouds above them. “How many times I gotta say please? Cause I will. Give me a number, I’ll do it.”

“For real?”

“Please, please, please, please, plea-”

Ignoring the baffled looks of anyone passing them by was a lot easier than ignoring the sharp voice that spoke from the doorway, rough at the edges under the heavy weight of defeat and sadness.

“He might not look like it, but he’s really just a child in a man’s body.” Temari studiously did not look at her wife when Tayuya whipped around to stare at her, missing the ripple of yearning that went through all those well honed muscles. “You probably shouldn’t test it. He really will just keep going.”

“Sounds annoying as hell,” Tayuya ventured.

Neither of them seemed to notice when Shikamaru fell silent, still, waiting with baited breath.

“It’d probably be less painful if we just give in. He already did that to me for two hours this morning and I don’t know if I can listen to it for much longer without violence that I’m pretty sure I would regret.” The proud set of Temari’s jaw was that of a queen making concessions. The dark warmth of her eyes when they finally canted sideways was that of a wife who missed the touch of her beloved.

“Good fucking god, two hours? Yeah, hell no. I ain’t listening to that. Let’s just get this over with or something then.”

“For the best.”

Despite that agreement it still took about five solid minutes of staring wordlessly in to each others’ eyes before either of them made any more toward the other. In the end they moved at the same time, reaching out with the same hand, laughing in a fondly awkward way as their fingers entwined. The moment would have been utterly beautiful if Shikamaru hadn’t breathed in very deeply just to let it all back out in one great rush.

“Finally,” he muttered. Both of his wives frowned at him.

“Wait.” Temari narrowed her eyes as though only now realizing what she’d done. “How did you do that?” She didn’t seem to appreciate the sheer exasperation filling him up in place of all the soft pleading he’d been wearing for days now.

“You don’t just hang around with Ino for this long without learning how to annoy someone in to giving up.”

Before either of his wives could say anything Shikamaru was spinning on one heel and marching out the door, grumbling under his breath while he rummaged around his flack vest for a pack of smokes. Troublesome women and their troublesome tempers. At times he really did wonder why he put up with it. Two sets of footsteps rushing after him was a good reminder, though he thought he would be well within his rights to make them do a little begging after all the trouble he’d gone through just to bridge the gap between their overinflated prides. Worth it, absolutely worth it, but damn if they weren’t trouble sometimes.

#rae writes #follower milestone #shikatematayu #shikamaru #temari #tayuya

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littleeyesofpallas · 3 years ago

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I think in my hurry to get through the one core rant without getting distracted, I didn't actually outline the Hero's Journey's whole proposed psych model in the first place. I don't want to get too into each of the 17 steps, but the idea of the process it reflects is this:

A boy on the cusp of adulthood must leave the comfort of parental protection/provision, whether he wants to or not. He must seek out the "magic" of an older mentor who has seen and mastered the unknown, and through that mentor they learn an entry level skill that will allow them to navigate the world of adults; but this is not "mastery" and it is not "understanding" it is only the bare bones functionality of mimicry. Understanding comes later. This happens, often, while still in the comfort of the "home" realm, where the dangers of the unknown aren't in play yet. Then they leave for real and confront the shock of an unfamiliar world, of autonomy, and responsibility; for the first time in their life, if something goes wrong, no one is there to help them.

Campbell himself posits this next step can go a few different ways. His standard format suggests the Belly of the Whale, the descent into the darkness of not knowing happens at the threshold itself, comes first. That upon confronting the unfamiliar new reality of adulthood the immediate reaction is to be overwhelmed, and only after addressing that immense pressure and aimlessness does the boy get to proceed out into the world at large with the understanding that out here, he can actually die.

But the alternative to this is that the boy goes from the crossing of the threshold directly into the Road of Trials, putting at his his magic aide's skills to use, and learning new ones, until that momentum of that growth and learning plateaus, and then THAT is the moment in which the hero is consumed unto the Belly of the Whale, not when he first confronts a reality that is beyond him, but when he first realizes that it's beyond him; when the arrogance and ignorance of youth gives way to humility. Here he has been facing danger and challenge but only now does he confront the inevitability of death; he cannot keep conquering the unknown forever.

I prefer the Belly-second format, because unlike the Belly-first form's processing of the idea that he can die, this is the fact that he will die; and then what legacy does he leave behind? And this directly motivates his shifting attention toward...

The Goddess Reconciliation is my problematic fav of this whole thing... Campbell and Jung believed deeply in this old fashioned notion of Anima and Animus, that there was some nearly mystical bioessentiallist quality of explicitly segregated Male and Female psyche, and a lot of that doesn't scan great these days. BUT! Of note is that their fixation on this duality came largely out of the idea that the two, being innately separate and at odds, needed to be balanced for a healthy mind to exist. In the psychospiritual spiritual approach to myth this means the Goddess is in fact a man's inner feminine aspect that need to be appeased and made peace with. And that's actually pretty cool, weird inner-cosmological premise to that aside.

But in regards to the myth as guidance, this is also the step in the journey that I just call Respect Women. Because that's what's being taught. This is the moment that the young boy/young man, until recently high on his own power and accomplishments, and his ongoing conquest of the unknown is confronted by a woman of great power. She resides in a realm above him, and for the first time in his quest he cannot conquer his way through this. He MUST speak with, negotiate, and empathize with this woman and her needs in order to win her favor and approval, and sometimes very literally hand in marriage.

This power she holds over him is often pretty literally the ability to have children, tying back into the newfound need to secure legacy that I mentioned in Belly of the Whale. But it can also be inheritance of fortune, positions of power and rulership, etc... in the realms of mythological and fairytale narratives. But it also reflects the internal idea of the joining of Anima and Animus, in that this marriage in one way or another, material or not, must bring him peace of mind.

Then there's the Woman as Temptress phase, which is woefully underused. Granted it can come across as a bit sexist and cliche in many narratives, and it's easy to see how that doesn't feel "essential" to most Hero Journeys, but I think this is incredibly important. Again, I prefer the Belly-second model in which the hero's conquests naturally lead to arrogance (he's on a winning streak, and he is still just a kid doing all this for the first time; he's never known defeat, so how does he even know when to slow his roll?) and this is a repeat of that; he's learned to please one woman, why not use his tried and true method of learning new skills and putting them to use to please more women? And so his loyalty to his Goddess must be tested in order to teach him moving forward.

This is the trope about Prince Charming being a playboy because his only trait is seducing women, not being good to them --see: Utena's Touga, or Into The Wood's Prince brothers. This is where a man learns not to be a fuckboi.

And then the confrontation with The Father. The legendary big Vader moment. But it's not always a violent confrontation, and it's not always innately negative; at times it can even be a somber affair. A boy must learn to stop idolizing his father, and make peace with the truth that his father is just a man, full of flaws like any other. And by reconciling his father as infallible patriarch and the hero's own process of growth, a boy must learn that to succeed in life he must be more than his father is/was. And this tends to become a violent or literal physical conflict when the father in question is both still alive, and the very literal authority that must be overcome in the name of progress. The patriarch has established a system of order that he sees as preserving the safety and security of the world of the known, and he will protect that system even as it begins to fall apart. And as a man, not longer a boy, but a peer to his father the hero has to show the father that he is no longer the unquestioned arbiter and effectively take his place.

In this the boy becomes man, hero attains some kind of enlightenment, sees some deep truth to the world and now knows with some clarity what is best for the world. An arrogant assertion to be sure, but internal to the journey at hand it makes enough sense... Because with this understanding the Hero also discovers or distills the mysteries of this wild realm of the unknown into The Ultimate Boon: a tool or a symbol of the skills learned, that can be replicated or utilized even without the hero's personal level of understanding. And this thing must be delivered back to the mundane so that the next generation of children can use it to expand their realm of the known further into what had before been unknown; each subsequent generation of hero expanding the collective knowledge and understanding of the community as a whole.

And Hero must also often learn selflessness. This kind of comes into play more often when there isn't the innate establishment of a desire to foster a legacy that will out last him. In this case the Hero needs to be talked into going home, because the alternative is that he continues to dwell in this state of perfection. But if he lives out his life like this, he will die as just a singular man rather than the Hero of a people. This in turn motivate the Rescue in which someone has to break into his little bubble of personal accomplishment to bring him back. Yet again his ego must be tested, and he must be humbled.

And then he goes back home, he's a Master of Two Worlds, the known and unknown alike, and he delivers The Boon to the common people so their lives can be made better by it. He earns the Freedom to Live and melds back into a mundane civilian life, as a productive member of his society, as a father, and eventually as a new hero's Magical Aide and old wizened mentor.

Shit.. I let this get away from me and shifted my whole rhetoric halfway in... >:/ My point wasn't to outline the mythic structure but the psychological one. So let me try to just summarize briefly now:

A boy needs to leave the comfort of home. He has to learn many new skills, starting with being taught by a teacher. He has to learn his limitations, finality and fatality. To secure a legacy he seeks a wife; to get a wife he must respect women; to keep a wife he must not be a fukboi. He must be a better father than his was. He must learn to want to give back to his community, and then return with knowledge and/or resources to better said community. He assumes a mundane life, he has kids who will grow up as he did; he'll be their father to overcome, and their mentor to learn from in time.

↑This is the Hero's Journey that Campbell became so fixated on, and that George Lucas maybe kind of oversold and muddled with film savvy, but that the original Star Wars still managed to embody and launch into the public consciousness. This is the Hero's Journey I wish more people would talk about and engage with, rather than the color-by-numbers nonsense that it's been reduced to.

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xxxavo · 4 years ago

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Ideal partner: Sanji Edition

disclaimer: I headcannon sanji as a straight male so I’ve done this as such. My Luffy ideal partner edition however is aimed towards all genders if you want to check that out.

Personality:

Honestly, Sanji is a chameleon when it comes to woman and their personalities. As long as he finds you attractive he loves you no matter what to be honest, but if you were going to have a long-term relationship with Sanji that would last the rest of your lives it would be a different story!

Wants: When Sanji imagines his dream women, he pictures someone self-less, shy and dependable.

Because of Sanji’s traumatic experience as a child he values self-less ness over pretty much everything. Someone willing to sacrifice what they need for someone else’s sake makes him weak at his knees no matter how small the gesture is! To him, it makes a woman seem like an angelic, heavenly being.

As a man who flitters between being rather serious and stoic to a loud slobbering mess, he finds a shy lady to be adorable. Shyer women are quieter meaning they can spend comfortable silences together just enjoying each other’s company and it also means that when he dotes on them they’ll get all cute and flustered. Another bonus is that Sanji would feel special when they open up to him since it would feel like an accomplishment only he gets to achieve.

Having someone dependable means Sanji will have someone to look after and care for. He’s old fashioned, his dream relationship being man looks after and provides for women. The chef wants to be her knight in shining armour, protecting her from any and all problems that they may face.

Yucks: The thing Sanji would hate most in a lover would be someone impolite, crass and argumentative.

In a partner sanji isn’t a fan of the stereotypical brute male qualities. A lady who burps at the table, picks her nose and publicly sniffs her armpits would horrify the blond. He’s pretty high maintenance and wouldn’t even do any of that himself! So basically, he couldn’t be with a female version of Luffy.

A crass girl would mean someone unintelligent and rude. Sanji isn’t looking for someone to be a genius, or even as smart as Nami and Robin, but somebody completely void of any basic common sense would drive him to the brink of madness. As a chef in a kitchen, when he asks or orders something he expects it to be done. If he says the salt is in the top cupboard, don’t look in the bottom one! Some sort of common sense is a must.

This poor, soft boy would hate arguing with his beloved. All he wants to do is make them happy so having someone at his throat would really, genuinely upset him. Especially since Sanji, whilst not meaning to, would present many reasons for arguments to occur. Sometimes he’s to clingy, other times he’s to possessive, and all around way to flirty...

Needs: If a relationship with Sanji is going to last he needs someone whose secure, dominant and empathetic.

Sanji will never stop being a flirt. He might do it in a more respectful manner for his lover, but he will never stop. If a relationship with Sanji will last he needs a woman who is secure in herself. Probably borderline arrogant. She needs to know she’s everything to Sanji, be confident in herself and the fact she means more to him then any other women he talks to.

Despite maybe wanting someone who is dependable on him, Sanji needs a girl who is going to whip his ass into shape. He needs someone stern who will put their foot down when they think he’s gone to far and won’t have a problem with talking up about the insecurities they feel so they can be squashed in an instant.

After everything Sanji has been through he needs someone who can empathise with him. If he is having a down day, he needs someone who can sense it and just know that it’s their turn to look after him. It’s a rare occurrence since usually Sanji is fine as long as his lover is happy, but he’s still human flawed or not.

Appearance:

Sanji finds pretty much every woman he comes into contact with beautiful, but unfortunately Sanji is shallow and if he’s going to spend the rest of his life with a someone they have to meet certain requirements of his. There may be exceptions, but it’s unlikely.

Over all: Body wise, Sanji’s ideal girl is someone slim with an hour glass figure. He isn’t into women who are particularly muscular, much preferring the delicate, curvaceous appearance instead. Think classic Disney princess. Long hair is Sanji’s favourite, though he is also prone to fall head over heels for short curly bobs. For someone who likes the cliché man cares for woman, Sanji isn’t against a woman being taller then him. After all, long slender legs is a bonus!

Fashion: Dresses, skirts, blouses, bikinis, jeans, crop tops. As long as you dress to impress Sanji isn’t too bothered. He is very suave himself when it comes to his clothing, and whilst he would prefer a lady to dress, well, like a lady, it isn’t a very big deal to him.

Jaw dropper?: Sanji’s favourite qualities in a girl is beauty marks and long legs. He’ll also explode when he see’s a girl wearing an apron. It sounds ridiculous but his love for cooking exceeds pretty much anything! His favourite thing however is big blue eyes. To Sanji eyes are the windows to the soul. The main reason for this though is that Sanji is very inexperienced with women and whenever he has fantasies, he imagines staring into these big beautiful blue eyes before placing a soft kiss on soft, succulent lips. Pervert.

#one piece #one piece sanji #one piece imagines #one piece headcannons #one piece x reader #one piece sanji imagines #one piece sanji headcannons #one piece sanji x reader #one piece luffy headcannons #one piece nami #one piece robin #one piece monster trio #monster trio #sanji vinsmoke #one piece sanji vinsmoke #one piece vinsmoke #one piece sfw #sfw

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