#but also the parts of your class / upbringing that never leave you even if you don't realise they're still there

[the-casbah-way]

i know i'm in the middle of writing a jamie backstory but i went back home to sighthill in glasgow a few days ago and it filled me with such nostalgia and warmth and grief that i NEED to write a malcolm backstory too

[fayes-fics]

To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace. 

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own. 

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly. 

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.” 

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident. 

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it. 

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours. 

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air.  “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room. 

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.” 

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast. 

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks. 

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…” 

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.” 

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand. 

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.” 

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly. 

Benedict has no response to that. 

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.  

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence. 

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.” 

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly. 

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in. 

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing. 

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid. 

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly. 

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?”  The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all. 

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on. 

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such. 

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him;  his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat. 

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive. 

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…” 

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.” 

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance. 

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary. 

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!” 

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not. 

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that. 

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor. 

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event. 

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.” 

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face. 

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.  

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton. 

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside. 

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.” 

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner. 

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply. 

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man. 

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking. 

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless. 

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!”  He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly. 

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does. 

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge. 

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it. 

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips. 

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”  

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?” 

Even he can read between those lines. 

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks. 

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked. 

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice. 

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest. 

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless. 

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.” 

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more. 

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud. 

 The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation. 

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart.  “And I do. I truly do.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[ideas-on-paper]

A hypothetical look at the childhoods of Carlo and Romeo

Despite Carlo and Romeo being two of the most central characters of Lies of P, what we know about their backstory is next to marginal. We know that the two of them went to school together and were best friends (perhaps even more than that), but their time in Monad Charity House is only presented in snippets and fragmented memories, and despite being highly significant, their characters remain elusive - like shadows cast over the entirety of the story, always present, never tangible.

Thus, many have filled the gaps left in their characterization with their own imagination. As for myself, I was curious what their early lives might have been like, before they met at Monad Charity House - and since it was the closest thing to the game's setting I could find, I did some research on Victorian children and their upbringing.

What I found out, however, left me absolutely shocked and made me keenly aware of just how awful Carlo and Romeo's childhood must have been, going by historic standards. As pretty much everything during the Victorian Era, a child's upbringing was very dependent on social class - however, no matter if you grew up in a rich or poor family, each came with its own kind of suffering, and regarding the question of "What were Carlo and Romeo's lives like before Monad Charity House?", the brief answer would be: "Probably not great."

As for the long answer... I should mention this is my own interpretation of Carlo and Romeo's backgrounds, and none of this is officially confirmed. However, given what we know about the two's origins, I consider it quite plausible, and what we can conclude from it might not only give us better insight into their personalities, but also some of the real-life background behind the original fairy tale of Pinocchio.

Just as a fair warning, though: This is about to get a little depressing.

[Spoilers for Lies of P!]

[CW: mentions of very questionable parenting methods, depression, suicidal ideation, poverty, parent death, child labor, abuse and exploitation of children]

Carlo

For this analysis, I'm going to assume that Carlo was born into a fairly well-off household. (The description of Carlo's portrait calls him "an aristocratic boy", and since Geppetto is the mastermind behind Krat's puppet technology, I assume he'd have his fair share of the profits.)

By the standard of their time, upper-class children were quite spoiled: Unlike their working-class peers, they never had to worry about who was going to provide food for them, and the horrors of child labor were never of any concern to them. You would think that being born into a rich family doesn't leave you a single thing to wish for - you'd have nice toys, fine clothes... and well, everything, except for parental affection.

For the most part of the day, upper-class children wouldn't even see their parents - they were only summoned to appear before them at a set hour of the day, and during these occasions, they had to address their fathers as "sir". Essentially, meeting your parents was more like an audience with a stranger, a rare privilege strictly regulated by formality. Children were expected to act prim and proper, only allowed to speak when spoken to, and thus unable to express their true feelings, thoughts, or opinions. Any show of affection was extremely rare - Winston Churchill (1874 - 1945) once remarked that he could "count the times he had been hugged by his mother" as a child.

The parents were more or less completely absent from their children's lives, and when there actually was interaction between them, the children were expected to unconditionally obey their parents. Osbert Sitwell (1892 - 1969) once commented: "Parents were aware that the child would be a nuisance and a whole bevy of servants, in addition to the complex guardianship of nursery and school rooms was necessary not so much to aid the infant as to screen him from his father or mother, except on some occasions as he could be used by them as adjuncts, toys or decorations." (Can you imagine? Geppetto taking Carlo to some big social event to show off his "perfect little son", and Carlo just standing there and silently enduring the ordeal, looking at his father all the while and wondering "Did he ever realize I'm not one of his puppets?")

So, by the standard of the time period Lies of P is set in, Geppetto neglecting his son isn't even anything terribly unusual - in fact, that's perfectly normal Victorian upper-class parent behavior.

Since they didn't take care of their children themselves, upper-class parents would hire a nanny to raise them. Nannies would be instructed what kind of behavior and morals the parents wanted instilled into their child, and they would be responsible for their education as well as teaching them manners, propriety, how to dress and so on. As such, the nanny effectively acted as a substitute for the parents - and given that maid puppets exist and Geppetto probably wouldn't let any strangers near Carlo, Carlo's nanny was most likely a puppet as well.

The daily life of upper-class children was based on strict routine - some like to say it operated with "clockwork regularity". Breakfast would be served at 8 o'clock in the morning, dinner at 12 o'clock, and tea at 6 o'clock.* Children would very seldom leave their room, except to take short walks in the park with their nanny. Education would mostly be given at home by a tutor, which included basic lessons like reading, writing, and arithmetic, but also "socially appropriate skills" like dancing and playing the piano. (Since we see a puppet giving piano lessons to a child in the intro, chances are Carlo's tutors were also puppets.)

*Eating times varied throughout the Victorian Era; a "dinner" might also be a meal eaten during midday.

The rest of the time, children would have nothing to do but to play with their toys (except on Sundays, which was forbidden). Rich families had the luxury of being able to afford the most elaborate of toys, such as automated dolls, clockwork trains, and jack-in-the-boxes, which were extremely popular among children. In fact, since clockmakers were also the ones to build toys, I could imagine Geppetto actually made the toys for Carlo himself. (However, I feel like this only would have made Carlo loathe them; in his eyes, it would've been proof that "father pays more attention to the toys he makes for me than actually looking at me".)

In short, the life of Victorian upper-class children was lonely, depressing, and stuffy to the point of suffocating. Given these circumstances, I would actually be surprised if this didn't leave mental scars on Carlo. It has been documented that a lack of parental affection causes psychological issues lasting all the way into adulthood, such as low self-esteem, trust issues, anxiety, difficulty with social relationships, and lack of emotional control. Also, considering Carlo was probably surrounded by puppet servants all day, he wouldn't even have had a single human being to interact with most of the time - something which most likely had a detrimental effect on his psyche.

Given this dreary existence, it would make absolute sense for Carlo to look nothing short of depressed in every depiction we see of him. The feeling of emptiness when being pressed into the corset of others' expectations is actually something I'm well acquainted with - it feels like walking beside yourself, like your body moving while actually feeling dead inside. A bit like a puppet on strings, if you will. With his life being a monotonous routine controlled by someone else, it wouldn't be surprising if Carlo had difficulty still seeing a purpose in it. (There have been some theories going around that Carlo committed suicide; at the very least, I think it's highly likely he had suicidal ideations during his youth.)

Perhaps this is where Pinocchio - the character from the fairy tale - might have become something like an identification figure for Carlo. Pinocchio was a puppet, but instead of doing what his creator intended - what his father expected - he did whatever he wanted. I'm sure Geppetto gave him the book as a measure to educate him, but it ended up having the opposite effect. In fact, it might have been what first taught him the concept of freedom: Geppetto's puppets only ever did what he told them to, executing the exact actions he had programmed them with, over and over again - but Pinocchio showed Carlo that it didn't have to be this way. (I've seen a lot of interpretations of Carlo disliking puppets, and while I can see where this is coming from, I don't think this is because Carlo disliked puppets in general. Rather, I think he saw them as "extended arms" of his father and a symbol of his need to control everything around him; otherwise, it would be a little strange for Carlo to be attached to the story of Pinocchio so much.)

However, I think beneath all the pent-up frustration and hatred, there was also the wish for his father to love and appreciate him. At the end of the book, Pinocchio returns to his father after all the hardships he had to go through, and the two reconcile and live happily ever after. Since Pinocchio's father goes looking for him when he disappears, perhaps Carlo believed that if he rebelled against him and put himself in danger, Geppetto would realize that he actually cared for him.

So, if Carlo was very prone to temper tantrums and acting defiantly towards his father, it might have been on one hand to show that he didn't want to be part of Geppetto's perfect stage play anymore, and on the other because he was vying for his attention. Due to his upbringing, however, Carlo wasn't really able to communicate his feelings in a proper way. (I like to imagine Carlo as a very emotional person, but having difficulty to actually express his feelings.)

Geppetto, however, wouldn't have the sensitivity to understand this - he most likely would've tried to rectify his son's "mischievous behavior" by disciplining, as was typical for the time period (in general, it was believed that you had to "beat the evil out of children" for them to become a good person). Of course, that wouldn't have made things better - in fact, I wonder if part of the reason Geppetto sent Carlo to Monad Charity House was that he was just at a loss what to do with the boy. Since all of his educational measures were fruitless, perhaps he thought that sending him to the boarding school would finally put Carlo on the right track - although the result of that probably was also quite different from what Geppetto expected.

Romeo

Meanwhile, poor Victorian children had to live in a completely different, brutal reality - for them, day-to-day life was a literal struggle to stay alive.

We know that Romeo was an orphan, and according to Eugénie, that's not much of a rarity in Krat. Indeed, street children existed in abundance during Victorian times: It wasn't uncommon for working-class children to lose one or both parents - due to unsanitary conditions in Victorian slums, many people died of disease, and given the hazardous working conditions in factories and coal mines, accidents were commonplace. However, the term of a Victorian orphan was actually a little broader than that, also extending to children who ran away from home due to hailing from alcoholic and neglectful families. Often, mothers who were single or had a child out of wedlock would also simply abandon their children. Whatever the reason for their situation, these children were forced to fend for themselves at a very young age.

In the Trinity Sanctum in Krat Central Station, there's a note mentioning a "pickpocket who was overconfident in a gamble" and "had his heart stolen and died". Since Romeo made "a deal with the devil" (the "devil" presumably being Geppetto who turned him into a puppet), people have interpreted this as referring to Romeo. Turing to crime to support themselves was not a rarity among poor Victorian children - in fact, half of the defendants tried at the Central Criminal Court of England and Wales between 1830 and 1860 were aged 20 or younger. There were even organized gangs of child thieves who were trained in pickpocketing by a "captain", similar to those from Charles Dickens' novel Oliver Twist. (However, the items that were stolen most often were actually not purses or pocket watches, but handkerchiefs; silk handkerchiefs had a pretty high resale value, and the thieves would take them from pockets, rip out the initials, and resell them for a good price.)

We can't be sure whether Romeo teamed up with a few other kids or not, but personally, I'd wager he did - it would be much safer to operate in a group in case one of them gets in trouble, and overall, Romeo's personality seems a bit too caring for a lone wolf. (As the King of Puppets, he was not only determined to save as many humans as possible, but also possessed the unconditional trust and loyalty of the other puppets. To me, this means he most likely cared about them, and they cared about him in return - if it was just programming, the puppets probably wouldn't be lamenting his loss after he dies. Compare this to Geppetto, who has to use force and coercion for others to obey him.)

Also, since the notes in the Trinity Sanctums always seem to have a connection to the place where they're located (factory worker -> factory; cleric -> cathedral; "greatest singer"/Adelina -> opera house), that would mean the train station was most likely Romeo's base of operations.* (Train stations tend to be very popular among thieves, since it's easier to pick pockets in the confusion of people boarding or getting off trains.) This would imply that Romeo didn't grow up in Monad Charity House since he was an infant, but arrived there at a later point during his childhood.

*EDIT: I just had a thought that the note in the Trinity Sanctum could also mean the train station is the place where Romeo died. (All the other notes are connected to murder or some other violent action, and since we can assume they were written by Arlecchino, he was probably more interested in that.) Since Geppetto has his secret workshop wagon in Krat Central Station, maybe the place where he built P is the same where he built Romeo.

Since there were so many orphaned children, the few orphanages that existed couldn't receive all of them. Instead, workhouses were established as institutions for all kinds of destitute people - including orphans - who were unable to support themselves and were given lodging and food in exchange for labor. However, many children actually preferred living on the streets, rather turning to crime than going to the workhouse. At a first glance, this may seem a bit unreasonable - surely, not having to run around in worn-down rags and steal your food just to survive would at least be an improvement?

Well... Turns out, not really. The conditions in Victorian workhouses were notoriously awful - they were overcrowded, unsanitary, and cruel places to live. Daily routine was strictly regimented, consisting of 9–10 hours of repetitive and physically demanding labor and very little free time. What little food there was was of poor quality, privacy was basically nonexistent, and the dozens of inmates sleeping together in dormitories often had to share their beds - children usually had to sleep up to four in a bed. The consequences for refusal of work or any kind of rule violation were beatings, deprivation of food, being locked up in solitary confinement in a dark cell, and other draconian punishments.

If this doesn't sound like a very hospitable atmosphere, that's because that was the exact intention behind it. Workhouses weren't meant to support poor people - they were supposed to scare them into finding work and make a living for themselves. Victorians viewed poverty as a self-imposed misery, and if you were a pauper, that was because you were lazy, retarded, or made bad choices in life. That's why beggars, vagrants, orphans, criminals, and mentally ill people were all indiscriminately housed in workhouses, because from the Victorian point of view, they all belonged to the same category of people: A stain that had to be removed from the public eye, either by forcing them to support themselves or by making use of their work force once they had donned the workhouse uniform. They were a nuisance to society, and their treatment in the workhouse was sure to make them feel that.

One of the worst fates for workhouse children, however, was to be hired out as pauper apprentices: Usually from 10-13 years of age, but sometimes as young as eight or seven, workhouses would send pauper children to factories in the countryside for an "apprenticeship". This "apprenticeship" involved factory owners buying children from orphanages and workhouses and making them sign a contract that lasted until they were 21 years of age, dictating that the apprentices had to be provided with food and accommodation, and in exchange, the factory owner was free to make use of their working power.

So in summary, workhouse orphans were essentially sold into slavery. This was all that much easier to do with children who had no parents and no other means to support themselves, and thus were free to be exploited by their employers. Some of the recollections from these former pauper apprentices are just utterly horrific - and in this case, I think it's appropriate to let the victims speak for themselves.

John Birley, who lost his father when he was two, lived in the Bethnal Green Workhouse for a time after his mother died of illness when he was around six. He was sent to Litton Mill as a pauper apprentice, and he had this to say about his experiences in an interview with The Ashton Chronicle in 1849 (source):

The same year my mother died, I being between six and seven years of age, there came a man looking for a number of parish apprentices. We were all ordered to come into the board room, about forty of us. There were, I dare say, about twenty gentlemen seated at a table, with pens and paper before them. Our names were called out one by one. We were all standing before them in a row. My name was called and I stepped out in the middle of the room. They said, "Well John, you are a fine lad, would you like to go into the country?" I said "Yes sir". We had often talked over amongst ourselves how we should like to be taken into the country, Mr. Nicholls the old master, used to tell us what fine sport we should have amongst the hills, what time we should have for play and pleasure. He said we should have plenty of roast beef and get plenty of money, and come back gentlemen to see our friends. The committee picked out about twenty of us, all boys. In a day or two after this, two coaches came up to the workhouse door. We were got ready. They gave us a shilling piece to take our attention, and we set off. I can remember a crowd of women standing by the coaches, at the workhouse door, crying "shame on them, to send poor little children away from home in that fashion." Some of them were weeping. I heard one say, "I would run away if I was them." They drove us to the Paddington Canal, where there was a boat provided to take us. We got to Buxton at four o'clock on Saturday afternoon. A covered cart was waiting for us there. We all got in, and drove off to the apprentice house at Litton Mill, about six miles from Buxton. The cart stopped, and we marched up to the house, where we saw the master, who came to examine us and gave orders where we were put. [...] Our regular time was from five in the morning till nine or ten at night; and on Saturday, till eleven, and often twelve o'clock at night, and then we were sent to clean the machinery on the Sunday. No time was allowed for breakfast and no sitting for dinner and no time for tea. We went to the mill at five o'clock and worked till about eight or nine when they brought us our breakfast, [...] We then worked till nine or ten at night when the water-wheel stopped. We stopped working, and went to the apprentice house, about three hundred yards from the mill. It was a large stone house, surrounded by a wall, two to three yards high, with one door, which was kept locked. It was capable of lodging about one hundred and fifty apprentices. Supper was the same as breakfast - onion porridge and dry oatcake. We all ate in the same room and all went up a common staircase to our bed-chamber; all the boys slept in one chamber, all the girls in another. We slept three in one bed. [...] Mr. Needham, the master, had five sons: Frank, Charles, Samuel, Robert and John. The sons and a man named Swann, the overlooker, used to go up and down the mill with hazzle sticks. Frank once beat me till he frightened himself. He thought he had killed me. He had struck me on the temples and knocked me dateless. He once knocked me down and threatened me with a stick. To save my head I raised my arm, which he then hit with all his might. My elbow was broken. I bear the marks, and suffer pain from it to this day, and always shall as long as I live. I was determined to let the gentleman of the Bethnal Green parish know the treatment we had, and I wrote a letter with John Oats and put it into the Tydeswell Post Office. It was broken open and given to old Needham. He beat us with a knob-stick till we could scarcely crawl. Sometime after this three gentlemen came down from London. But before we were examined we were washed and cleaned up and ordered to tell them we liked working at the mill and were well treated. Needham and his sons were in the room at the time. They asked us questions about our treatment, which we answered as we had been told, not daring to do any other, knowing what would happen if we told them the truth."

In case there were any surviving family members, the children were sometimes deported without their knowledge. In 1849, Sarah Carpenter related the story of her lost brother who was taken away from Bristol Workhouse to The Ashton Chronicle (source):

When I was eight years old my father died and our family had to go to the Bristol Workhouse. My brother was sent from Bristol workhouse in the same way as many other children were - cart-loads at a time. My mother did not know where he was for two years. He was taken off in the dead of night without her knowledge, and the parish officers would never tell her where he was. It was the mother of Joseph Russell who first found out where the children were, and told my mother. We set off together, my mother and I, we walked the whole way from Bristol to Cressbrook Mill in Derbyshire. We were many days on the road. Mrs. Newton fondled over my mother when we arrived. [...] My brother told me that Mrs. Newton's fondling was all a blind; but I was so young and foolish, and so glad to see him again; that I did not heed what he said, and could not be persuaded to leave him. They would not let me stay unless I would take the shilling binding money. I took the shilling and I was very proud of it. They took me into the counting house and showed me a piece of paper with a red sealed horse on which they told me to touch, and then to make a cross, which I did. This meant I had to stay at Cressbrook Mill till I was twenty one.

So, if the situation in the Lies of P universe in any way resembles that during the real-life 19th century, and if these street children are in any way smart, I think it's very understandable they'd want to stay the hell away from the workhouse or any similar institution. Of course, it would be easy to attribute this to laziness, but honestly, I'd say they just wanted to avoid the abuse. (You could pose the question whether there are even any lowly paid jobs for children to do in the LoP universe, since a lot of those were probably taken over by puppets. However, if you ask me, that might only lead to employers trying to underbid the price that puppet laborers would cost, which would lead to serious wage cuts for any human workers - we know there was a violent protest of the factory labor union, which might have happened for a reason like this. Also, I reckon the puppet industry itself would create new branches of "dirty work", like recycling parts from scrapped puppets, disposing of puppet junk, etc.)

In fact, these harrowing stories happen to have quite a few parallels to the original fairy tale of Pinocchio. Did you notice? The children are taken away in coaches and carts, in a way that conceals their presence (e.g. in a covered cart or in the dead of the night), which is very reminiscent of the Coachman picking up boys at night (in the book, the coach is described as having wrapped wheels, so it doesn't make noise and can't be discovered). At first, the children are told they can make a fortune by working in the textile mills and will have plenty of time for leisure - in A memoir of Robert Blincoe from 1828, it's even mentioned they tried to lure children into working in a cotton mill by telling them that "they would be transformed into ladies and gentlemen" when they arrived there, that "they would be fed on roast beef and plum pudding, be allowed to ride their masters' horses, and have silver watches, and plenty of cash in their pockets". This sounds quite similar to the Coachman promising the boys unlimited play time and freedom if they come with him to the Land of Toys. However, as both the pauper apprentice children and the boys from Pinocchio had to realize, all of this was a fraud to exploit them for what is essentially slave labor.

This also suggests that with his depiction of the Land of Toys, Carlo Collodi was doing more than just telling a horror story to scare kids into behaving. He was commenting on a real-life problem - and this, exactly this, is what Collodi wanted to warn his young readers about. In that sense, the boys turning into donkeys might also be a metaphor for what their employers saw them as: livestock, to be used and abused as they pleased.

Because the living conditions of workhouse children were so appalling, there was clamor for change, specifically among the reformist middle class. It was argued that orphans and destitute children should be housed in an institution meant exclusively for them, rather than together with criminals, cripples, and lunatics. The movement really began to pick up speed in mid-19th century, and many orphanages were founded by private benefactors and philanthropists. One of the most influential was Thomas John Barnardo, the founder of the charity Barnardos, who built homes for waifs, strays, and all kinds of children in need to provide them with a place to live, food, and education.

In general, there was an effort to make education accessible to even the lowest classes. Sunday Schools and Ragged Schools were established, which allowed poor children to take classes without having to pay a fee, giving them more opportunities in later life. However, the parents of working-class children were often against them going to school, since it meant that they couldn't work to earn additional income for the family. This is why attending school was made mandatory for all children between 5 and 10 in 1870, with the leaving age being raised to 11 in 1893. (This is also what Carlo Collodi meant by saying "for the love of God, get yourself some education" - because if you didn't, you would be stuck in a circle of bone-breaking labor forever.)

The Monad Charity House fits quite well into this historical frame: We do know that the Rose Estate was originally a charity organization for poor children, but was turned into a boarding school after Lady Isabelle and the Monad family started sponsoring money. Since charities for poor children are a phenomenon of the mid- to late-19th century, it's possible the situation was a lot worse before in the Lies of P universe as well. Romeo might not have gone there willingly (perhaps he was caught during one of his thefts), and truth be told, Victorian schools weren't the most rosy of affairs (if you'd like to know the details, feel free to check out this page). However, given what could've been his fate, Romeo probably considered himself lucky to be alive and not exploited by someone else for donkey work. (Still, one thing that should be kept in mind is that the Alchemists' patronage of the Rose Estate probably isn't based on purely altruistic motives: Since all of the children are trained as Stalkers, Alchemists, or Workshop Technicians, all of them ultimately become part of Krat's economic apparatus.)

It seems almost miraculous that two boys coming from such different worlds would develop such a strong bond. However, despite this, they had one experience in common: pain. Although the way in which they suffered might have differed, they both knew what it's like to be abandoned. Romeo had to grow up in a society that didn't care whether he lived or died, and since all Carlo ever received from his father was scrutiny or cold ignorance, he probably felt the same about him. Living in a cruel world where the odds were stacked against them, it's easy to see why these kindred souls sought comfort in each other.

In any case, if the untold backstory of these characters was crafted with this in mind, my sincerest compliments go to the people of Neowiz/Round8 for not only taking such a nuanced approach to child education in a historical context, but also for doing so with respect to the original story by Carlo Collodi. It may be really subtle at times, but you can't deny how much effort the devs put into the themes - themes that are so universal to human psychology that they continue to be relevant today, and undoubtedly made the story resonate with a lot of people.

[king-bumis-armpit]

What would your headcanons be for Modern AU Mai?

I could talk about Mai for hours! I have so many thoughts about what she would be like in the modern day. I’m working on a modern au fic right now, so consider this a little teaser for that ^^ This was my first time writing head canons, so I hope this is what you were looking for. 

First things first, music. I think it would be a big part of modern Mai’s life:

Her parents definitely made her learn some instrument as a kid, and she didn’t hate it as much as her other forced hobbies

As a teen and adult, she listens to metal, classical music, and top 40 hits indiscriminately. People always freak out when she recognizes Taylor Swift songs because they assume she’s too alternative for that.

But the truth is that she drowns herself in music and always has airpods in, so she listens to a wide variety. Because of her airpods, sometimes her parents think she can’t hear them, but she definitely can. She will play into this by waiting to respond to questions until her mom asks them a few times.

She also writes songs, but she has never shown anyone. Not even Zuko or Ty Lee. Her songs are the place where she feels completely safe to be emotionally vulnerable, so I don’t think she’ll show Zuko until they’re married. Alternately, I like the idea that he finds her notebook at some point after they live together.

There’s a song called “Think of You” by Rose Betts and I swear Mai wrote it about Zuko after one of their breakups. You have to listen to it! It will give you such Maiko feels!! OMG

Career

I think that Mai did very well in high school. Her parents’ invested in the best education of course, but I also think Azula would play a big part in her success. Azula is very motivated to be the valedictorian of her graduating class, so she makes Mai and Ty Lee study with her for hours. (Mai would have done just fine without Azula, but I think she would have cared less about school without the extra encouragement.)

In college, Mai has enough AP credits from high school to easily double major in Political Science and Philosophy. 

She becomes a professor of Political Theory at a small local school and all of her students love her. The job is a bit social for her comfort zone, but she loves studying game theory and political power structures. And working with students reminds her of her time studying with her friends. She accepts no nonsense in the classroom, but her quick wit and dry humor earn her a good rapport with her students.

On the weekends and in the summers Mai also works part time as a tattoo artist. This earns her extra coolness points with her students as well.

Zuko

Our emo cuties are still very in love

I envision them being childhood friends. Ozai is a big politician and Mai’s dad is one of his top campaign donors. So Mai and Zuko and Azula end up at all the same press events and become friends. 

They start dating in her sophomore year (his junior year) of high school and everyone thinks they’re not gonna last, but I say they do ❤️

When they’re teens, they fight because they don't know how else to communicate. They never learned properly for obvious reasons. But they also really value each other since they relied on each other during the hardest parts of their upbringing 

Sometimes they do take breaks in the early years of their relationship, but they rarely if ever see other people. Zuko uses the time to focus on himself and his mental health, and Mai uses the time to focus on her career.

They get better at communication with time and they don’t take each other for granted. Zuko proposes to Mai after her senior year of university (his first year of law school), but they opt for a long engagement and wait until Mai is done with grad school to tie the knot officially. 

When Izumi is born, Zuko and Mai are both fortunate enough to be able to take parental leave from their jobs for six months. They are determined to give her all of the love and support that they lacked. Despite her apprehensions about being a mother, Mai enjoys taking some time away from her busy lifestyle and building her family. (Nonetheless, she’s happy to return to work and have intellectually stimulating conversations again.)

Other Family 

Mai’s parents are SUPER wealthy, but she hates feeling dependent on them. I bet she’d get a crappy customer service job as soon as she's legally old enough to work so that she can have some money of her own saved away

Her parents set very high expectations for her in childhood, which she cares about less and less every year.

When Tom-Tom is little, she tries to counteract her parents’ messaging. They’re a bit softer on him since he’s the youngest, but Mai never resents him for it. She goes to all of his school events and little league games, even when their parents are busy. The two are quite close, even into adulthood.

[techtalksfics]

Cliché (Wrecker x Reader)

Summary: You were working at the market when the worst moment of your life happened. Luckily, Wrecker was on hand to help and he helps in more ways than one.

Authors Note: this is based on the wonderful prompt I received for Wrecker. This is pre Order 66. The first part is just a build up - please bear with it. I hope it's not totally awful.

Warnings: some mentions of violence, a single swear word, maybe some PTSD in nightmare form.

Word Count: 3.8K

You worked at one of the lower city market stalls on Coruscant. Selling trinkets and jewellery; some of the beskar necklaces with jewels of effervescent light had even been designed, forged and moulded by you and you were incredibly proud of your profession. It helped that these pieces were often very popular at the market. Popular enough to ensure you could comfortably get by in the world. In the lower depths of Courscant, you even attracted some of the higher classes. The market added a depth of colour and artistry otherwise missing in the grim lower streets of the city.

In recent weeks, there had been an increase in clone activity in the area. Not that you minded. The rumours suggested that some unknown threat was expected. So it was probably good that they were around. The clones were always friendly enough with the sellers in the market. They were easy to talk to, hand interesting tales to tell. Your mother always said that the measure of a person is in their actions and not their upbringing. So you certainly never judged a clone who lived in service to the Republic. The clones were polite and professional, and you'd finally adjusted to the eerie similarities they all shared.

Need to know, you often reminded yourself when the clones were sheepish about the reason for their presence.

As the day wore on, you found yourself perched on a stool fiddling with the clasp of your latest design. A representative from Bespin was eager to purchase it when it was ready. You'd also sold a couple of the expensive pieces you'd made today. The buyer of both was an upper class regular and because she liked your designs, she was always kind to you. She didn't treat you like you were beneath her and you liked her kindness. As you fiddled away, you finally managed to the clasp fixed onto the necklace when it happened.

The explosion.

This explosion was loud enough, big enough and close enough to leave you entirely incapacitated; your ears were ringing and somehow, you'd fallen to the floor in the sudden, unexpected commotion. Your knees stung as the skin was ripped from your apparently abrasive fall to the ground. The concrete floor beneath you was an unforgiving surface to crash into. A loud thumping in your head now accompanied the ringing in your ears and it caused you to scream out in pain. Everything seemed to hurt.

Knowing you were better than being the damsel in distress, you steadied your breathing. You managed to crouch yourself into a seated position, you finally opened your eyes and looked above your table.

It was complete, unmitigated carnage. People were running, screaming, yelling for their friends and loved ones. People were injured and limping away from the scene. Other were simply not moving at all, and you knew what that meant. Some began searching for their loved ones in the rubble of the building behind the market. Others tried to drag injured survivors away from the explosion site. As you watched a man drag a lady away, you noticed the unmoving bodies of two clone troopers. Both of whom you recognised.

You frowned as you noticed your dear friend Jido’s stall was engulfed in the red and blue flames.

What the fuck kind of explosive causes red and blue flames, you asked yourself, alarmed by the site. Jido’s beautiful wooden etches were crisping to ashes in the flames. He worked so hard on his work and now it was all gone. You felt devastated for him but simultaneously and selfishly worried for your own work.

Suddenly, Jido appeared beside you, crouched on one knee. He placed his hand on your shoulder as he tried to refocus your attention away from the carnage.

"Jido," you whimpered, "your work is -"

"Not as important as us getting away from. Like right now." His soft, deep and lilted accent rumbled around the air, momentarily blocking out the screams. It blocked them out long enough for your shaken brain to kick into gear. You stood quickly, stumbling slightly as you did so. 

Then came the second explosion. An explosion of gas and smoke. Your eyes began to burn.

“It’s some kind of smoke bomb,” Jido yelled, lifting his blue shirt to cover his mouth, “close your eyes, cover your mouth and get under your stall. I’ll go and get help.” In that moment, you were so happy that you knew such a brave soul.

And with that, he was gone. You closed your eyes and covered your mouth as instructed, hiding yourself away. You tried desperately to not focus on the screams. The fear in your heart was heightened and you could feel the panic numbing your body as you sat there alone. The smell of burning wood and flesh invaded your nose.

Suddenly, there was a new sound to focus on. Clones. At least, you thought it was clones. They certainly didn’t sound like the regular clones. The accents were varied and unique which was unanticipated for a clone. There was a gruffness to the voice of the one you assumed was their commander.

“Wrecker, Tech,” he called out, “find any remaining survivors and get them away from here. Get them to safety.”

“There’s a woman under that table.” It was Jido’s voice, he was panting as he spoke to them. The smoke clearly affecting him more than he would admit. God bless that man, you thought. “Please,” he begged, “help her.”

Within seconds, an incredibly large and incredibly muscular man was down on his knee in front of you. A startling softness was in his good eye as he looked at your terrified form. You wondered what had happened to that right eye. You realised that you must have looked to be an utter mess in that moment. Your knees were clutched to your chest as you trembled in fear. You hadn’t even realised you were trembling. As you looked at him, you recognised similarities to the clones you had encountered but he was certainly unique.

You had some many questions.

“It’s okay,” he spoke with a strange sort of soft, comforting loudness, “you’ll be okay. Just take my hand.” He reached his large hand under the table and without a second thought, you placed your small delicate hand in his. As he closed his fingers around your hand, you realised your hand was entirely engulfed by his. He pulled you out of your hiding spot quickly.

He pulled you out from under the table and immediately lifted you, so you were over his shoulder; it happened in one smooth movement, and he had lifted you as if you were lighter than air. If you weren’t so scared, you probably would have found the action incredibly arousing.

He was whispering soft, comforting things to you as he rushed you away from the incident. He sped past people, dodging clumsily as you remained limp over his shoulder. His armour was digging into his side.

As you turned down an alley towards the edges of the safe zone, he gently placed you one the ground. He placed his hands on your shoulders and asked if you were okay. You gave him a soft nod, wiping the left-over tears from your eyes.

"Thanks for the lift," you joked lightly as you continued wiping at your eyes. His responsive laughter echoed through the alley. "Anytime," he retorted. His gaze drifted over your form and you panicked that you must look like a mess.

"I normally don't look quite so dishevelled," you mumbled, pulling your top down. His eyes snapped up.

"You look -" A third explosion went off as he began to speak. He loudly groaned and complained, "awww, I'm missing all the action." You took one of his hands in yours and you couldn't help but giggle. . His head, which had looked towards the explosion, suddenly whipped around to look at your hand on his. You softly whispered, “go, I’ll be okay.”

"You sure?"

"Yes, you should go. Save the city. I like a good hero." He smiled and blushed. After giving your hand a gentle squeeze and made his way out of the alley. You watched him, with a flutter in your stomach, until he was no longer visible.

Suddenly, you realised you didn’t even know his name. Know which squadron he belonged to. You knew nothing of this gentle giant that had helped you. When the fourth explosion happened, you realised you were still far too close to the carnage and dashed off towards the safety of your home.

I hope the big guy is okay, you thought as you unlocked your door with a trembling hand.

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

Jido came to check on you a couple of hours after the commotion. He had stayed behind to help find people and assist with the triage. He also filled you in on the exploits of Clone Force 99.

Well, you thought, at least I know which squad he belongs to now.

"The big guy Wrecker, smashed the heads of two drones together. It was pretty funny." You giggled at the mental image of Wrecker doing that. You imagined the force he used would hHe looked at your face with a frown, "that bruise looks pretty nasty."

And now we know his name, you thought, Jido's extroverted nature has its uses.

"It's fine," you assured, wanting the topic of your injuries to be dropped. As Jido went to respond, you were saved by the sound of the door chime.

You looked back at Jido with a confused frown crossing over your features. He was the only one who ever called by your home and well, he was already here. Then you noticed it, the guilty, sheepish grin on Jido's face.

"Okay so Wrecker may have asked about you," he raised both his hands in defense, palms flat towards you, "and it may have ended in me giving him your address. He said he had something to give you and well," he stood, slinking behind the sofa as you threw a pillow at him, "you know I love to help love blossom."

The door chimed for a second time. You have Jido a look of don't you bloody dare.

But he did dare. He quickly flounced across your apartment and opened the door. "Hello again," he announced as he opened the door.

You noticed Wrecker stood high, taller than the door frame. He bent slightly and looked in to see you sat on the sofa. He offered a toothy smile when you gave him a gentle wave.

You were definitely going to either murder or marry Jido.

Jido's head was flickering between the toothy grin on Wrecker's face and the sweet smile and rosey cheeks you were portraying. When nobody said anything for several moments, Jido clasped his hands together with a slap, and announced he'd better be going.

"In you come, Wrecker." Jido held up his hand toward the apartment and Wrecker sheepishly did as he was told. When he stood tall in your hallway, you felt your face heat and you were sure you were as crimson as the dress you wore. He looked incredibly hot in his armour. "Well, I'm going to go do something... that's not here, have a good night you two."

And with that, he left.

"Uh, hi." Wrecker scratched at the back of his neck as he spoke.

"Hello again." You offered with a welcoming smile. You stood and looked him over properly. He was still covered in his armour but his helmet was absent. He looked incredibly handsome in his armour. Then you noticed something dangling from his hand. It looked familiar but you weren't close enough to him to know for certain what it was. So, as you walked around the sofa, you asked, "what's that in your hand."

He stuttered a bit as your approached but he held out his hand and opened it for you to see, "I, uh, I found this by your stall. I thought it might be yours. You looked at the beskar necklace with a ruby bail. It was the one you'd be fiddling with when the explosion happened.

"Oh my god," you blurted as you gently pulled the necklace from his hand. He watched you as you examined the necklace for damage, yet it was in perfect condition. You felt a tear slip down your cheek as you looked up at him with a toothy grin. "I can't believe it. It's perfect. How did you -"

"It was lying on the floor when some droids were over there. I, uh, thought you'd want it." You couldn't help the next thing you did. You reached up on your tip of your toes and threw your arms around his neck. His armour was solid against you and you realised you wished you could feel the warmth of his body against yours. You also realised he wasn't hugging you back.

Wrecker was surprised, shocked and thrilled all at once. He hadn't expected this kind of response. Then he realised, he wasn't hugging you back. He quickly threw his arms around you and gave your body a gentle squeeze.

You mumbled a gentle thank you into his neck as you nestled your face into his exposed neck.

As you released him from your embrace, you noticed the pink twinge to his face. "It's nothing," his voice rumbled and you could tell he was nervous. As you bounced on your heels slightly, you thought of a solution to your problem.

"Do you want a drink?" You asked as you drifted towards your kitchen. He remained stationary at the door, simply watching you move. As he watched you flow around, in your long crimson dress, he realised you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He couldn't believe you'd hugged him. You had hugged him. As you stood at the counter looking at him, watching him stare at you with a gentle smile on his face.

"Oh," he mumbled, "I - uh - yes, please."

And so, you set to work, grabbing glasses from the cabinet.

"The options are rather limited, I'm afraid," you said, "I have some pretty strong Mudhorn eggnog left over from a party Jido threw. Would that be okay?" He simply nodded but remained completely stationary near the doorway. "You can come in you know," you laughed mirthly, "please, take off your armour, make yourself comfortable. That sofa is pretty cosy." His cheeks became redder but he complied with your suggestion.

He moved over to the sofa cautiously and began removing his armour piece by piece. When he was dressed down into his back, he sat on your sofa and leaned back into it with a content sigh. You had been right. This sofa was very cosy.

You approached him with the drink and as you handed him the drink and sat with your legs crossed on the sofa facing him with a soft smile. You took a sip of your drink. "You were a hero today."

"It was nothing, we do it all the time."

"Even so, you saved my life. You saved my work," you looked at the necklace which was still in your hand.

"Well, I thought it was pretty. I didn't want to leave it there." He looked into your eyes and you felt the dusting of pink hitting your cheeks.

God, he is so handsome, you thought.

"Besides," he said, "I love to blow things up." He threw out a booming laugh that filled the entire room and you simply giggled along with him.

"Well," you replied, "that's an interesting hobby, at least. Much more interesting than my jewellery." You took another long sip of your drink.

"Are ya kidding?" His voice was louder now, the drink giving him the confidence he'd been missing. "I could never do what you do. It's amazing." You blushed deeper at his words. Your cheeks were so hot that you were convinced they were matching the colour of your dress. As he finished off his drink, he threw his arm along the back of the sofa so that it was close to you.

Suddenly, but softly, his index finger brushed against the bare skin of your arm. It tickled. It gave you goosebumps. It was wonderful and your jaw slacked as a result. "Yer so pretty."

"I'm a mess," you blurted out and he frowned. You fumbled over the fabric of your dress as you spoke. Concerned about how awful you must have looked.

"No," he retorted, voice soft, "yer perfect. Yer so pretty that when I saw you in this dress, the air left my lungs. I couldn't breathe because you were so pretty."

Pretty, pretty, pretty. That was the only word floating around his mind.

"Thank you," you whispered tenderly. Feeling confident, you looked into his brown eye and his damaged eye and said, "you're pretty handsome too." He grinned at that.

His hand reached up and brushed over the growing bruise on your cheek. He frowned as he realised how terrified you must have been. How hurt you had been by the blasts.

"Like I said," you said as you leant into touch, "I'm a mess."

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

After several more drinks, you found yourself sitting extremely close to him and his arm was around you, still gently playing with the skin on your arm. There was a comfortable silence in the room.

You took a chance and rested your head on his shoulder and you were surprised when he rested his head on top of yours. "Tell me a story," you whispered. He began telling you about the time they rested Echo from Skako. He was worried that this wasn't the kind of story you wanted to hear but when you didn't stop him, he simply continued on with the narrative.

Your eyes fluttered close as a result of the soft rumbling of his chest against your side and the deep baritone of his voice.

You eventually fell asleep as you remained snuggled into him.

When he realised you were fully asleep, he stopped with the story and smiled. He placed a gentle kiss to your scalp and began to slowly untangle himself from you.

He lifted you up.

But not like the last time he had carelessly slung you over your shoulder. This time, he slid his hand under your knees and around your back and lifted you carefully. You woke just enough to place your hands around your neck as he carried you to the bedroom. He had spotted the bed earlier and his cheeks had blushed at the thoughts that entered his mind.

He hadn't anticipated that he would be carrying your sleeping form to the bed. His thoughts certainly hadn't been of that but he was still happy to do it.

When he placed you down, he smiled down at you as your head snuggled into the pillow. It was time to leave.

But you grabbed his hand as he turned to go and you whispered a soft, "stay."

He couldn't resist. So he made his way around your bed and sat down. The bed groaned from the sheer weight of this magnificent man. His hand rubbed over his face and he turned to look at you, concerned you wouldn't remember asking him to stay.

He made his way, as quietly as he could, across the bed and lay on his back next to you, close enough that his side could feel the warmth of your body.

You instantaneously turned to cuddle into him. Your hand slid slowly across his stomach and he lifted his to hold onto yours with a content smile. Your head was rested on your shoulder and you sighed gently.

Whilst he thought you were still asleep, he whispered, "thank you for asking me to stay."

"You are too sweet," you mumbled back, "I couldn't just let you walk away."

And with that, he simply sighed happily and closed his eyes, drifting off slowly.

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

You were sitting there, fiddling with the clasp of your necklace. The beskar chain with the ruby bail. The sun was high in the sky, speckled light fell over the market. Jido was chatting with Aristac at her stall. You smiled. And then it happened, the explosion. You fell to the floor, your head was pounding and your body was in an agonising pain.

When your mind finally drifted to the second explosion, you woke with a loud yell. Your body was drenched in sweat, your breathing was erratic, your chest was heaving.

Wrecker was already awake, sat upright and was staring at you with deep concern. You felt a squeeze on your hands and you looked down to see his large hands covering yours.

"Are you okay?" He asked gently and you shook your head.

"I was there again," you mumbled, chest still heaving, "I - I can't breathe." As you slung your legs over the bed so you could sit and place your head close to your knees, you tried your best to slow your breathing.

Wrecker was in front of you in an instant. He placed his hands on your knees.

"Yer okay." He whispered as he rubbed your thigh gently, the fabric of your dress had been pushed up so his hands were heating your warm thighs. "It's okay, I wouldn't let anything happen to you. Just breathe."

You couldn't control it. You couldn't control your breath. You couldn't stop the tears. You were lost in the sounds of explosions.

"Hey," he said calmly, "look at me." You raised your eyes and focused on the deep brown hue of his good eye. "It's over now. Yer okay. Yer wonderful, sweet and kind." He rubbed softly at your legs again.

As you focused on the features of his face, you found yourself calming slowly. He continued whispering sweet words of comfort to you and you tried your to calm your breath. Your saviour from the explosion was right here in front of you. You were okay.

You were okay.

Eventually, you lay yourself back down and stared at the ceiling. You felt the bed beside you dip down and then an arm was wrapped around your waist. When you noticed his staring, you asked him what he was staring at.

"When I look at you, I see a bigger and brighter world." He whispered gently. When you giggled, you simply looked at you confused.

"That was so cliché." You giggled again and his laughter echoed around your bedroom.

"Yeah," he groaned, "it really was." You couldn't help yourself in that moment. You leaned up and kissed the frown that had formed on his lips. He jolted from his thoughts and simply pressed his lips back on yours. The feeling of contentment fell over you both. His hand reached into your hair and his fingers gently slid through it as he pressed his lips to yours with a bit more pressure. He thought about the things he wanted to do with you, for you.

As you pulled away, you looked at the dopey, happy smile on his face and you reached up to cup his face, "such a handsome face." His smiled grew even wider.

[gobbluthbutagirl]

last night my sister, who’s 21 with a 1-year-old son(whose father is a deadbeat pothead and contributes nothing financially to his upbringing), and who makes like $10 an hour working full-time in a daycare where she’s exposed to every disease under the sun, was like, “would you guys judge me if i quit the daycare and went back to working at wendy’s? wendy’s pays a little bit more and it’s way less stressful and if i could work part-time in the mornings only i could start taking college classes in the afternoons/evenings/nights.” and of course we’re all like No of course we wouldn’t judge you that sounds like a really great idea! Except for my fucking brother who was like, “why would you want to work at wendy’s when you could come work at dunkin with me?” and we were all like matthew we literally don’t even want YOU working at dunkin why in god’s name would she want to join you.

And keep in mind over the past few months dunkin literally demoted my brother from manager to assistant manager, reduced his pay, and brought over this insane woman from another dunkin to replace him. And she came to work high, did shots while on the clock, and was arrested back in 2014 along with several of her family members for keeping 15 children in a filthy trailer. And she hired this dude that everyone told her not to hire because he had bad vibes AS A SHIFT LEAD and literal weeks later(he didn’t even make it a month) he got fired for actually smoking meth on the job. and he also once got written up for leaving the sink running all night when he closed. And she also hired this 25-year-old white girl who never had a job before in her life who had a panic attack when they put her in the drive thru window one day and then like two days later suggested she should be in the drive thru window instead of her black coworker because “our tips will be higher if people see a white girl in the window” and then quit after less than a week of working there because “i’m not racist, and you guys are bullying me for my analytical mind.” And now that new manager has already quit and they’ve already brought in some old dude to be the NEW new manager and they’re paying him a dollar more than they used to pay my brother when he was the manager.

and my brother is like, “you wouldn’t even want me working there if i was the manager?” And i was like no because you already were the manager and you fucking sucked at it because you dedicated all your time to the job and totally neglected your actual life and you got in so much trouble for all the overtime you gave yourself that they literally demoted you. And then my dad was like, maybe you should go work at wendy’s with abby and he got SO offended. And yet he still didn’t seem to understand why she was offended when he suggested she work at dunkin with him. and meanwhile she’s still kind of outlining her reasons for wanting to leave the daycare, all very good and valid reasons, and my brother is over there acting like a fucking clown. Like making fun of my mom’s accent and trying to get her to say certain words so he can record it and all of this nonsense. and my sister is trying to have a serious conversation with everybody about her future and what she wants to do with her life for her own sake and the sake of her son, and she’s clearly thought about this a lot and is nervous to share it with us!!! like, now is not the fucking time! So i’m like, matthew i think you’re being kind of inappropriate right now. And one thing about me is if EYE have to be the one to tell you you’re being inappropriate, you are REALLY being fucking inappropriate. so he kind of shut up after that and didn’t say anything else. But he also didn’t say anything really in support of our sister and it’s like, what the hell???

Like, terminal case of dunkin brain rot over here. and just because you’ve worked at this one lame ass dead end job for a quarter of your life(he’s 24 and has been there since he was 18) doesn’t mean you can’t be happy for your little sister who is making the decision to take steps to improve her quality of life!! like what the hell man. i really don’t get it.

[she-daemon]

Office worker AU - Nero x Fem Reader - Chapter 1

By: User_1

-- business suit Nero got me thinkin ---

Synopsis: dmc office worker au ft Nero - fem reader is high up the corporate ladder, working hard on her career - but who knows who she'll find at the office?

This chapter is SFW, just fluff and backstory.

I'll continue this in chapter two, it will get NSFW eventually.

Warnings: Mild bullying, negative relationships w/ family, mild childhood trauma, bottled up feelings

Your family lived a modest and respectable lifestyle, despite owning one of the largest mega-corporations in the nation. Your father was the proud CEO of the company, so just like a family that owned bakery or auto-shop, you were next in line to inherit it from your father. At twenty years old, every business trick and tactic in the corporate playbook had been ingrained into your mind since you were a child.

You now worked there part-time between your university's business classes. The classes themselves were mostly useless and dull, boring you to death with things you knew in your sleep. You wanted to work full-time at the company as your father's secretary, but your parents wanted you to have a 'normal' upbringing and finish your classes first.

It was the same old drill, over and over. Wake up. Class. Do the work in a fraction of the time, leave early. Work. Meetings. Endless mountains of paperwork. It was so predictable it was frustrating. You clearly had the talent, so why couldn't your parents let you apply it?

This question plagued your thoughts, and you couldn't help but ask it any time there was a family dinner - which wasn't very often, at least, not anymore. Your father began to grow distant, always busier and busier. Your mother got more nervous and controlling, becoming a perfectionist. She also began to interrogate you about your classes, probing to see if you had met someone there yet. At some point you felt like that was the only reason your parents were keeping you in school. With each exasperated 'no' you gave, your mom would give you a pitied look before pulling out a list of suitors she had arranged for you to meet. You would reject them all, of course, citing the smallest excuses. The truth was, no one really made you feel that way. Romance novels and films just didn't give you the spark it did for your friends. Sure, you could feel physical attraction, but you had never really had any crushes. And its not like you were a robot either, no matter what your friends said. You were human, a normal girl with normal needs. Well, not always normal needs. They could get - unusual - to use your mother's wording, (although you'd never tell her about these feelings). And being single, it was tough to meet those needs, despite your attempts. That was the one issue with your nonexistent love life. You thought these feelings would come to pass as they did before, and you could continue your ambitious career. But of course they didn't. So, you settled for the next best thing: ignoring them. Keeping them hidden deep within you. As the frustrations from school, work, homelike, piled on you, things began to change little by little.

Now, you, the star student, prodigy of all things money, started slacking off, skipping classes, and pushing the boundaries little by little. You always got bored in school, but you never lashed out like this. Before, you had an image to keep. But as the feelings you bottled up festered, things like 'image' didn't matter anymore.

"Y/N? Y/N! Wake up young lady!" You slowly opened your bleary eyes only for them to meet with your professor's angry ones. "Tch." You could feel the professor's disdain, and it was scathing. Things like this started to happen more and more, and people around you changed. Or maybe it was you that changed. The friends you hung out with pulled away, and the other students barely even looked at you. You were always worried your family status would make you the odd one out, but the alienation only started now, after you changed. Now you were cold, and distant - like an ice princess. Princess. There was that one word that summed up your insecurities. When you'd walk around in the halls, you started to hear things like: "she thinks she's so much better than the rest of us, that spoiled little princess" or "she can't even talk to us anymore, we're too poor for her". It hurt to hear this, remembering all the times your parents tried to be like a stereotypical family, despite being so rich. All the times they hushed you and told you to be 'normal'. It stung. You knew it was your fault, acting out like this. But you couldn't help the pain.

~*~ *~ *~ *~ *~

Skipping your afternoon class, you swiftly walked into the office. At school, you were a college delinquent, but at work you were a shrewd, high class woman. Not a fan of business casual, you wore a formal top paired with a black skirt, and your legs alluringly dressed in black stockings and heels. Walking into your department, you felt the many stares and side glances. You thought maybe this was it, maybe you could get some attention, and even get lucky. If you did, maybe your mom would stop bothering you with suitors.

Here, you were like a fish in water. This place was ruled by logic, with intricate plans and regulations laid out. Much better than in college. Maybe people could even understand you here - at least that's what you were hoping. But life isn't like that, is it? It would just be too damn easy.

That's because here, people knew you were the CEO's daughter, and that made them afraid of you. They kept conversation brief, or avoided you entirely - like some kind of forbidden fruit, an untouchable maiden. The princess thing all over. There was no escape from it, not anywhere - and you hated that.

Why can't you be like the rest of them? Accepted? You thought. You shook your head and tried to put it out of your mind. Now wasn't the time to wallow in self-pity. You had a job to do, and really, work was the only way you knew how to save yourself from these thoughts.

Checking the time on your watch, it was only 3 pm, somehow. You could swear you'd been here forever. Remembering your meeting, you gathered your things and joined your father in the conference room. It was brightly lit, with large windows providing a luxurious view of the city. As nice as the view was, you were more eager to land a new deal and secure rights to an affiliate company's project. But your eagerness quickly waned after you finished your presentation. This meeting was going on for hours now, and you were resisting the urge to sleep. And it didn't help that they turned off the lights, closing the window blinds to show the projector screen better. The screen had lots of cryptic graphs and statistics about things that didn't really matter. The darkness, plus the deep, monotone voices, made it take way too hard to focus, even for you. So you started to look around the room. Seems like you're the only woman there. Shame. Everyone else seemed to be a middle aged man like your father, until your eyes landed on one of them. This man was far, far younger than the others, a boy - your age even.

Now this was interesting. Taking another glance at him, he was handsome, with an attentive look on his face. He was dressed in a nice business suit, and his hair, which was spiked and boyish, didn't quite match it. His hair was a curiously silver color, almost white, and stood out in the mix of the either dark haired or bald heads. His pale skin reflected the light of the projector almost like the moonlight.

Taking in his image, you wondered why you didn't notice him earlier. Sure, he was sitting slightly out of your view, but even so, you've been in this meeting for almost three hours! Searching for a name tag, you saw one clipped to his breast pocket. With large letters, it said "NERO". Unfortunately, you couldn't make out the smaller text as he was too far away - damn these overly large conference rooms!

He looked a little familiar though, but you didn't know why. Watching him just a little longer, you got worried that someone might catch you staring and you looked back at the projector screen. But it was still the same boring stuff - and that's when it hit you. This company, Sparda-Tech, was owned by the one and only Vergil. The public face of the company was Dante, his more charismatic brother, but everyone knew the one really running it was Vergil, the CEO. They both had the same unmistakable pale complexion and silver hair as Nero - but longer. Were they related? Maybe he was in the same situation as you. Maybe he could understand your problems. You glanced at him again, only to see him looking back at you, and your eyes met. This unlocked an electric feeling inside you, and blood rushed to your cheeks. His eyes were piercing, a cold blue, with what looked like a green accent to them. You wanted to sit closer to him, but suddenly he looked away. Wondering what happened, you felt your father's hand on your shoulder and he nodded his head in the direction of the screen, and where you saw the proposal you had written displayed. The presenter read it out loud, and then the next few minutes went in a flash. The presenter took his leave, people clapped, hands were shaken, and a deal made.

Finally, that painfully long meeting was over, and in all your exhaustion you felt a little disappointment as you wondered if you'll see Nero again. Or get to talk to him at least. But hope was not lost, as everyone got up from their seats and started shaking hands, discussing after thoughts and feedback. You received compliments from the businessmen on your presentation, and accepting their comments gracefully, you looked over to Nero, meeting eyes again. He came up to you and introduced himself, smiling politely and offering his hand to shake. "Hi. Nero of Sparda-Tech." You took his hand and looked him in the eye, as hard as it was, since seeing him so close made you a little shy. "Nice to meet you. I'm Y/N, My da- -the CEO's secretary." You prayed he didn't hear you stutter, and that you could keep your connection to the CEO secret. But your hopes went unanswered, and he replied: "Oh. So you're the daughter of __ corporation's CEO?" He said it like the idea wasn't very surprising, keeping the same, casual manner. Still, you were quick to respond and explain yourself: "I- I'm a hard worker though, so I hope you don't think I take my connection for granted." Your usual serious demeanor broke and revealed your worry. Nero picked up on this, and without missing a beat he said: "I noticed. That was a nice presentation you had today. Too bad that meeting got so boring afterward - I almost fell asleep." Relieved he took your status with a stride, you giggled, and Nero revealed a smile, glad you had a sense of humor. Somehow the meaningless post-meeting banter was a lot more special with Nero than with other coworkers. Sighing, a silence falls, and realizing you were both staring at each other, you exchanged business cards.

"Well, it was nice meeting you." You reached to shake Nero's hand once more. "I could say the same to you, young lady." As Nero said that, he jokingly took on a dramatic tone, grinning. Your hand stayed on his for just a moment longer. But eventually, even though you didn't want to, you pulled your hand away.

You dreamily watched as he rejoins his team, only to notice your father waiting for you. Worried he could've seen your little interaction with Nero, the butterflies you had dissipated as you felt your stomach drop. You walked up beside him, and tried to distract him with the other tasks at work.

"Next we will be meeting with … and after that you'll drive down to ___ to have lunch with ____ and ____". For once, you were grateful he was so busy. After you finished briefing him, you felt a wave of exhaustion. Spent, you walked back to your office and told your coworkers you're clocking out. One of the female coworkers, Kyrie, gave you a kind smile and waved goodbye. Despite your connection to the CEO, she didn't treat you differently. And even though you didn't get a lot of chances to talk to her, you felt a special connection to her. You made a mental note to invite her out sometime, maybe for a girl's night. Honestly, you didn't do those really. But you also didn't get crushes. Maybe its time to change things up.

A week passed since the meeting, and all you had on your mind was Nero, and contacting him. You had his work number from his business card, but you couldn't just ask someone out over the work phone. That's when you had an idea. Since you're constantly scheduling meetings as a secretary, no one would bat an eye if you met with Nero under the pretext of a formal meeting. After all, he was the lead project manager for the Sparda-Tech group. He might as well be doing a progress report - in other people's eyes at least.

So you picked up the phone, and called the number on the card.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ END ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be continued in chapter 2!!

Hey guys!! I'm finally back, hope you guys enjoyed this fluff, its gonna get spicy soon!!

[fountainpenguin]

If you were given the opportunity to reboot FOP from the ground up, what would you change, shake up, or put your own spin on?

I'll have to give this a short answer, I no joke spent over 2 hours replying to this, then added a Read More and Tumblr told me that my post was too out of this world and it broke the editor. It kicked me out in a split second without any opportunity to save. Sorry to everyone who has to scroll past my stuff in the future, but I'm not living through this again. Read Mores have no place on my blog.

I'm furious because 1) I tried to copy-paste out of this editor like I always do and save in an external place, but the new editor is busted and only copies one paragraph when you do CTRL-A so I gave up, and 2) literally the last sentence I wrote before typing that was "Before my hiatus, Read Mores broke stuff, but I'm willing to give this another try." It's not even the same error it used to be. I can't. I can't.

At least we're friends and I think you know a lot of my thoughts anyway. Sorry it took so long to write an answer to this message, but I've already let it sit for so long that I HAVE to get it out of my inbox now or I'll never go back to it after losing everything :/ I can't believe that just happened. How ironic that one of the main reasons I went on hiatus was because stuff kept breaking and then it's worse when I return. Bleh.

So... Here's the short version of things I can remember talking about:

Update world lore, especially regarding Anti-Fairies. Anti-Fairies debuted in Season 2 and didn't reappear until Season 5; Anti-Fairy World itself made its first appearance in Season 6 because the Anti-Fairies were only seen in jail before that. Anti-Fairy World is kind of barren and stereotypical, and the general vibe of Anti-Fairies is that they are all evil because their magic revolves around bad luck. I'd prefer some gray area. I also feel like the characterizations for Anti-Cosmo and Anti-Wanda were rushed and we should say it.

Logically I know that Anti-Wanda can be said to parallel Wanda's high-class mafia upbringing, but I doubt that was planned since Wanda's family only showed up in Season 5. In another universe, we could have had a classy evil queen. I love the grubby gal, but there are so many cool aesthetics she could have had instead. The Anti-Cosmo and Anti-Wanda vibe doesn't bring anything to the table that Cosmo and Wanda didn't already have unless you take creative liberties.

Maps. Maps would have been great.

Designs. Cosmo, Crocker, and Dad really don't need the same shirt. Wanda's outfit is pretty bland too, and it's honestly a shame that Anti-Cosmo got a unique outfit but Anti-Wanda's is just a recolor of Wanda's. See also, classy queen.

Also I've never liked Timmy's Channel Chasers adult design; I just don't think it's in character. I feel like his body type would be much closer to his parents, and the existing one is just too extreme for my preferences. Doesn't say "Timmy the average kid" to me.

"Fairly Odd Baby" - As much as I enjoy the idea of Fairies placing a ban on babies because they're destructive and Fairy World likes to push away its problems, I'd have introduced Poof as part of an announcement that Cosmo and Wanda had been expecting a baby for 100 to 1000 years. Their lifespans are so long, it wouldn't be out of the question. A reveal episode could have been fun.

I also don't think I would have chosen to leave Poof a baby who can't speak for that long; I think he has a fun personality (Sasses Foop, deliberately puts Foop in harm's way, but also he's super chill and nice and likes sports) and I would have liked to see more episodes where he talks. I don't love how he was shipped to boarding school as soon as he was able to talk and dialogue was needed.

Vicky takes Mark back onscreen. She canonically decided she wanted to start dating him again, after she found out he was an alien and she broke up with him. She made the choice to take back her alien boyfriend and she loves him and we should talk about it. I'm obsessed with them and will forever treasure the deleted "Foul Balled" scene of them holding hands at the senior home while Mark is in his squid form. I support Vicky becoming the shapeshifting queen of a violent planet and being extremely in love with her squid husband.

Chloe / A.J. friendship. A.J. ended world hunger in Season 2 and he built a time machine a few seasons later, I feel like those two would have really hit it off.

More episodes of Timmy playing soccer. I will not re-elaborate.

More of side characters I love, like Molly and Kevin. I love them. I love Kevin falling farther and farther behind his uncle when they walk together, I love Timmy introducing himself to Molly's fairy by shaking her hand... They might be side characters but I feel like they add a lot more to the world and character dynamics in their few scenes than many of the characters do.

Sharing fairies. Timmy sharing fairies with Chloe (or Kevin) as part of a temporary program (like she was just here for one school year before her parents moved again). I think one of the issues people have with Chloe is that it feels like she's here for the rest of Timmy's fairy-related life, and I think a few months of hanging out with her would have been plenty and then there would have been a reason for her to leave the canon afterwards.

Make Chloe Dinkleberg's niece. My favorite headcanon. Also a perfect explanation for why Chloe's family would move to Timmy's street. Also a hilarious parallel of Timmy seething with frustration at his "perfect" neighbor despite spending the entire series making fun of his dad for doing the same thing.

More Timmy/Chloe "step-sibling" interactions. I support Timmy "I will sit with you while you have an hour-long panic attack" Turner in "The Booby Trap" but I cannot emphasize enough that I equally support Timmy "Will take a call from Chloe, listen to her explain that she vaporized a juice box, then hang up and go to bed" Turner. They are step-siblings...

Timmy, Chloe, and Kevin. I support Timmy - Chloe - Kevin trio interactions in general. They're a comedic trio and I want them to support each other.

Gary and Betty. Unironically, we need to talk more about Gary and Betty canonically being aware of the magical world. Or at least they adjusted really fast to being teleported from California to Florida and back again. Also we should talk about that time Gary rang Sanderson on his cell phone, which gets funnier the longer you think about it. Also I love them and we should talk about the deleted "Totally Spaced Out" scene where they tried to flee to Mexico together.

Ending the series with a proper send-off. I'm not a fan of Timmy keeping his magical memories after losing Cosmo and Wanda. Being the protagonist doesn't make him immune. I feel like there are so many ways this could have been done in a sentimental way that people would have loved... I'm sad we didn't get a proper send-off.

On the list of things we don't need to change - Imaginary Gary, Norm, Mark, Molly, Jorgen, the Pixies, Flappy Bob, Foop, and Ed Leadly. They are flawless, 10 of 10. We also do not need to change Chloe casually swearing, but meanwhile Timmy will call you out for saying "Moron" on the radio, and we definitely don't need to change "This isn't a fancy French restaurant- this is a black hole!"

I love the Pixies. If they didn't exist, I would have come along and prepped some worldbuilding about characters who maintain magical paperwork. I love my snarky monotone wasp boys.

Also I just want to shout-out Chloe and Kevin and their personalities being hilarious. I think there are several Chloe-centric episodes that have flawed storytelling, but I do genuinely enjoy the character you're left with after brushing off some of her exaggerated perfectionism.

Kevin has some of the best dialogue in the entire series, and those two just seem to write themselves when you pit them together. I like the mental image of Chloe venting to Timmy about how unfair it is that Crocker shows him favoritism and then it slowly dawns on her that she also has a history of getting a lot of favoritism.

Thanks for the ask! I'm sad I lost the full responses, but I think I've learned my lesson and will draft in an external doc first. Please learn from my mistakes, I will not take back my venting >:(

Even if I lost it, it's nice to take some time and think about some answers to these things. I'm also pretty satisfied that I was able to make this post long enough to feel like a good answer. Yay.

[haley-owens]

[cis woman and she/her] Welcome to Aurora Bay, [HALEY OWENS]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [NATHALIE KELLEY]. You must be the [FORTY] year old [POLICE OFFICER]. Word is you’re [THOUGHTFUL] but can also be a bit [DEFENSIVE] and your favorite song is [GOOD GRACES BY SABRINA CARPENTER]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [SEABROOK QUARTER]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

BASIC INFO

full name:  Haley Owens

pronouns & gender: she/her, cis woman

birthday & birthplace:  August 25th (40 years old)

location: Seabrook Quarter

sexuality: Bisexual

relationship status: Divorced

occupation: Police Officer

face claim: Nathalie Kelley

BIO

Since Haley's brown eyes opened and she was held against her mother's chest, it seemed as though she had been given the ideal life. She was raised in a loving and humorous household with children playing on the backs of black labs and a father who would frequently lift his young daughter up on his shoulders when the crowds were too high for her to see. The town's commercial construction worker, Benedict Owens, had his hands full with three older brothers who filled the house with most of the males. With the two oldest brothers the product of a teenage pregnancy and an unplanned second kid shortly after, the family began young. Haley and her close third brother arrived in the couple's thirties. Even so, Benedict and Kathleen Owens made every effort to give their kids the greatest upbringing imaginable, even though their separate professions were subpar—more dirty jobs than white collar ones, in a way. For the kids in the Owens household, that was irrelevant. The fact that their parents were somewhat of heroes will never alter.

So far, so good, and for the most part, her life has remained that way. What brought her back to reality was a Saturday night at her senior prom when she was loading up with friends in a car that was too tiny for the number of people crammed into the back seat. She didn't want to leave, even though many of the people around her had some sort of fantasy about leaving this town, so she kept joyriding about it until they were building up bonfires on the beach and stealing a few beers from their parents' stash. Despite her talent and large brain, she was not interested in attending universities like Yale or Stanford. She wanted to stick around someplace familiar, where she knew the ins and outs of the city streets and her Pops was just around the block if she might have needed him. She wanted to stay home, and she wanted to do what what she believed was right, becoming a police officer.

After years at police academy, Haley managed to graduate within the top of her class and succeed in becoming what she always wanted. Although her years of dedicating her life to becoming a police officer, that didn't stop her from what she assumed would be her happily ever after. But sometimes things didn't end the way she wished they would. After her divorce with her husband, Haley focused all on her career where she currently resides in Aurora Bay.

[w0rldsgreatest]

GENERAL OC INFO

A simple place holder until i add the bios to the card

FUMIKO SHUZENJI.

She's recovery girl's granddaughter and the daughter of renowned Civvie doctor and business entrepreneur. Got into the hero course due to recommendation and is in class 1-A. She's pretty simple girl despite her proper upbringing and tends to be more on the quiet/reserved side to those who don't know here, however she's plenty open and affectionate with her friends. QUIRK : TRANSFER. Emiter quirk. Allows the user to transfer some of their own energy/life force to heal others at an exelrated rate. Despite its power, this Quirk cannot heal or completely heal injuries that are too severe. In addition, Heal cannot regrow lost body parts. On the other hand, they can also use their energy to give themselves a boots, either in speed or in strength. Leaves the user weakened and dizzy depending on the severity of the energy used, and can even lead to fainting spells. Vitamins and a healthy diet and life-style are this quirk user’s best friend.

KIMIKO UMEDA.

Basically the Bakugo of 1-B. Hot-headed and filled with enough pride to rival the sun, kimiko is a generally ominous person, towering over her classmates with a resting bitch face so powerful you'd think she's trying to kill you. Most of the time she's actually just doing damage control for her more wild classmates. Not only is she better then you, she acts better then you too. QUIRK : SEA URCHIN. Mutation quirk. Gives the user the ability to make her spikes longer and sharper and can even break them off. After her quirk awakening she's able to summon them from any expanse of her skin, and they can secrete and paralyzing agent. Often gives the user chronic headaches

AIMI HIGASHI.

She's a really excitable girl who's always ready to defend and support her friends. she's got a really thick skull (Literally) which means she has a really affective headbutt, and the only reason she's in the general course is because she got so thrown off by giant robots that she didn't fight any, but gets transferred over to class 2-B in her second year after proving herself in the sports festival and getting some attention. Friendship is a threat and a promise with this one. QUIRK : RAM. Mutation quirk. Gives the users the abilities and characteristics of a sheep/ram.

HIINA SAOTOME.

The #1 wallflower of all time, not that they mind. Hiina is a quite individual, and prefers time to themselves then surrounded by some of their more .. rowdier classmates. Not that they dont like having friends! Hiina is just an anxious mess and kinda ... sucks at it. The only time they truly shine and come out of their shell is when their designing and making costumes and support pieces, even if their terrible at the more mechanical side of things. In the support course. QUIRK : SLEEP DOLL. Mutation and emiter quirk: gives the user a plush body, making them practically immune to injury as long as they can get sewed back together. When experiencing strong emotions, emits a soft lavender scent that can relax those in the immediate vicinity, and even put them to sleep if those emotions are negative. Due to this, hiina tries to keep their emotions in check, however this can often lead to unexpected outbursts if prompted.

HALEY MCCLAINE.

The coolest upperclassman you'll ever get. Haley is a third year who transferred over to U.A from America in her Second year and decided that this school was the shit TM. You need help with your homework? Wanna here some cool stories from overseas despite the fact she hasn't been there since she was 15? She's got you! She's like the cool older sister you've never had. But one thing's for sure, is that she doesn't like being told what to do outside of teachers, which can come off as either really cool or really dismissive sometimes. Loves her friends. QUIRK ; SUNBEAM. Emitter quirk. Allows the user to absorb the energy of the sun and expelled it as offensive beams of light, or as small orb of light. Useless at night, but the user is able to store up the energy, however this can lead to severe overheating and fainting

TAKASHIMA YASUSHI.

The oldest of these suckers. A recent graduate from U.A, Takashima dove straight into his hero career, and is well known as the sidekick to the Pro-Hero Snipe, as their quirks work well together. Is an extremely quiet individual and only talks to his mentor, and appears very aloof and standoffish, however he mostly keeps quiet due to being slightly on the shy side. Works part time as a teacher's aid to help support his family. ACHILES. ??? quirk. Is able to pinpoint with laser focus a person's physical weakness. Gives the User Dry eye, since if they focus hard enough, they can project a visual crosshair onto someone's weak points so that others can see it.

[xtrablak674]

Pariah at the Wedding

[I wrote the following email back in '15 the last time I spoke to or saw either of my siblings, nearly a full decade. I re-read this letter today and with the exception of a comma or two, I had abso-smurfly no edits to make to this message, it was well thought out, fairly-toned and articulated.

Curiously I haven't felt any significant loss of these two relationships, one that was openly hostile and the other mildly indifferent. I had heard that the sibling I was writing to in this email had separated from his spouse, and have to say was a bit peeved, that now that he was separated from the person who separated us, that he made no attempt to reach out, offer apologies or reconciliation.

Notwithstanding not only my queerness has created this schism but the fact that after our mom died we lived in very different households, and had very unique upbringings from there on. I think on both of their parts there is unresolved resentment towards me for the fact that for all intensive purposes I am more successful than either of them, largely in part due to my different opportunities, formal education and not having children. Albeit I had no hand in what happened to them I somehow am burdened with the responsibility of their lower-class lifestyles and disappointments.

A friend of mines said to me, they act like you don't even exist, and nothing could be more truer, which is why this estrangement may follow me to death as will my general ambivalence.]

I had never wanted to mention it, partly to leave the past in the past, but also because I am so proud of the man you have become, but what was a lovely beginning for you, was a painful ending for me. I'm talking about your wedding and the various events that played out at the bequest of your mother-in-law. 

I'm not sure if you know how it feels to be made a pariah at your own brothers wedding, but recollecting the events that led up to your wedding day still evoke very painful memories for me. Albeit I forgave you and Kelli both because of your age and inexperience, it is hard to forgive the betrayal I felt when my younger brother didn't stand up for me. The disappointment still lingers.

Regardless I attempted to take an unfortunate situation and behave as respectfully as possible even though I was hurting at the loss of our newly rekindled relationship, I wanted to model for you how to behave graciously under pressure, and I pray I succeeded. I attempted and encouraged you to also take the high road, in inviting Cousin Margaret to the wedding, I hope you didn't regret that choice. I reinforced your fiancée's love for you and the power of your bond and still per your mother-in-law's careful orchestration I saw you and your children only and a handful of time over the next decade. A blooming friendship between brothers was snuffed out, and still today it's a loss that ails me to my core. 

You may recall the events differently, and I would hope I wouldn't need to get more specific than I already have, this experience was the singular beginning of my bad feelings about weddings, which inform my anxiety about our brothers upcoming nuptials. I was never the enemy but made to feel like a villain when all I wanted to do was to celebrate the happiness and love my younger brother had found in such a beautiful, fascinating and intelligent woman.

I may be your older brother but I am also human. My feelings can get hurt especially when I feel I tried so hard to rekindle our friendship. Please know I still hold you in the highest regard, but Monte's lack of respect shown towards me, has me feeling very conflicted about attending his wedding, of course I will always be the bigger man swallow my pride and meet my familial obligations, I just wish sometimes my own brothers could be there for me the way I try to be there for them, no matter how difficult the situation.

[Photo by Brown Estate]

[tea-with-eleni]

Wait, it's totally normal to know how to pan for gold, right? and to have found gold via panning? and to try to go on a preschool field trip to a farm but end up touring gold mines instead as part of an elementary school class (that you were adopted into, because you skipped single words as a very small child and went straight into full sentences and were thus mistaken for years older than your actual age)?

and most people can just... pick up fossils, right? and recognize worked stone arrowheads, even if the maker clearly didn't fancy their progress and cast the imperfect arrow or spearhead aside? and for that matter, to make arrowheads yourself?

also, everyone can identify semiprecious and precious stones, right? like. I'm not the only one who just kinda had a collection of a dozen or so low-grade emeralds as a kid?

and it's also completely normal to stumble into something that definitely wasn't a goblin market/fae faire and help a very old woman with her bobbin lace while you were with your family looking for a source of running water to process the pile of gravel and grit you found that absolutely definitely contained gold, right?

also, it's normal to go into a pagan shop as a nine year old child and have the witches trying to figure out what you are, right? that's a thing that happens to everyone?

and everyone can just tell what plants are edible, right? despite never being taught? I'm not the only one who was raised in a city and, by all rights, should be absolute shit at identifying edible plants but can nevertheless find and consume ludicrous quantities of wild raspberries, blueberries, and blackberries kind of by instinct, right?

starting to think maybe we had a slightly odd upbringing.

also maybe it wasn't so strange that the kid up the street and I concluded we were actually fae when we were in kindergarten. and like. not the twee, tinkerbell, watch us flitter fairies, either, the vibe was definitely more moorchild, changeling, do not make a deal, leave out the bread and milk, that kind of thing.

[ageue]

Jaipur (the pink city). 🌸🌸🌸

Jaipur is exactly how I imagined India to be. We were quite tired on arrival after our long haul day of travel from Shimla. We had a 5-hour train from Shimla to Kalka which is a UNESCO world heritage site train. I was in my element. We spent the many hours sitting on the step of the train hanging our legs off the side and stopping for extremely quick cups of chai at a few stops along the way. We sat next to three Americans - Sue, Narissa and Mary-Gordon who kept us busy chatting about their life travels. They were from Savannah, Georgia and (my favourite part of travelling) we talked about all aspects of life - their husbands, upbringing, travelling, music, work and many other beautiful things. They have an Airbnb back home too so we talked about maybe doing a house swap in future! When we arrived in Kalka at around 5pm, our driver picked us up and we had an hour drive to the airport at Chandigarh before flying out at 9pm. I could have slept standing up at that point - I don’t even remember taking off in the plane!

We spent the morning chilling out before exploring the pink city (the old city of Jaipur) which was full of small markets amongst rows and rows of very run-down pink buildings. We got kulfi ice-cream which has quickly become a favourite for me (homemade pistachio and honey ice-cream which comes wrapped in a little paper doily).

We spent the next day exploring and shopping and found our wonderful Tuk-Tuk driver Samil. He took us around for the whole day and we visited the Amber Fort and the Jaipur Step well. After that, we visited the elephant village and met Nena and Lakshmi. Lakshmi was a lot smaller than Nena and looked underweight as she had been rescued from the circus. It was sad to hear about the Indian elephant population. The elephant village was set up for the middle-class people of India who have looked after Indian elephants for many generations. Our guide had looked after Nena for 20 years and started looking after her when he was only 17 (his daughter will be the 4th generation in his family to look after elephants). They have 11 female elephants living in the village and each elephant consumes up to 250kg of food a day. Bananas are of course their favourite, but they also make large quantities of chapati for them each day too. Although the village has been given land by the government, the money needed for feeding the elephants is not provided and so the village relies heavily on tourism. Unfortunately during Covid-19, they had many elephants pass away with originally over 500 elephants in Jaipur. Now they have only 125. We went for a walk of the property with Nena and had lots of cuddles - it was pretty special.

Amidst exploring the city, we visited a spice market and were taken to a jewellery store which (we joke) was like an underground Indian Mafia service. Never in your life have you seen so much jewellery or stones….We had a couple pieces made for a really good price and a couple things engraved too. The food in Jaipur is out of this world. Jaipur is best know for its Tandoori food which is vegetables and meat cooked in a Tandoor (clay oven). Our first meal was paneer and chicken tikka (Jay gives me shit for the way I pronounce tikka with an Aussie accent). My favourite meal was at this beautiful restaurant (Peacock) and we shared a paneer butter masala with garlic naan….so so good!

I’m a bit sad to leave Jaipur - I would have loved another day but that’s okay! Onto the blue city!

[soulvomit]

I have lots of thoughts about how girls and boys in the US (and lots of places, I just didn’t want to overgeneralize) are brought up in totally different social, cognitive, and linguistic silos that we’re raised in from the earliest part of childhood. As soon as we can talk and our words are corrected by the people around us, based upon their perception of our gender, we’re being socialized into a gender silo.  Now, before I go on with this, I want to point out that for all kinds of reasons - unusual upbringing, gender identity/conformity, neurodivergence, being raised in a culture space without strong homosociality norms, etc - it’s possible for someone not to end up in a silo from early early childhood. So there being no one biologically essential experience of girlhood or boyhood, can absolutely co-exist with the existence of social and cognitive silos.  The thing with these silos is that, in my opinion, men and women have more of the same experiences and emotions in common than not. I am not saying - necessarily - that men and women are the same.  What they’re taught is completely different expected social norms around these things, and different ways of dealing with conflict within their groups and with their friendships. Now, if you are my age and you’ve read Deborah Tannen then this seems like a no-brainer. But I don’t think people really think about how far down this rabbit hole goes, or the probable Sapir-Whorf-adjacent implications of the whole thing.  Boys and girls are given completely different messages by children’s programming and by the world around them about how they’re supposed to interact, communicate, and even PERCEIVE THEIR WORLD, and what words they’re supposed to use to describe their emotions.  Depending upon how sealed off their silo is - they may grow up thinking that only *their* gender experiences specific emotions or life experiences. For example, some women thinking all men are inherently predators, because they’ve never known any men except the ones who preyed upon them. Some hetero-attracted cis men thinking ALL women can get any sex they want, and are never lonely, and that the rich, mean hot girls represent the attitudes of all women - because they’ve never known, in their entire life, unrelated girls or women outside of a very specific social context. Women with almost identical types of attitudes thinking that entitled incels are always male. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  It always looks like, from within your particular social silo, the opposite sex has actually different emotions and needs as opposed to being socialized to talk about those things differently. Like... it became really clear to me that “bunny boiler discourse” and “crazy ex girlfriend discourse” in the 80s and 90s was actually a conversation about female-on-male abuse and/or predation, filtered through an 80s average male-normative vocabulary instead of the therapy-influenced language that we’re taught as middle class women is “the right way to describe things” (particularly in a social environment where men are ALWAYS seen as victimizers and never victims). When you actually listened to what these guys were saying instead of getting pissed off at their choice of words, you actually absorbed that there was a legitimate experience being described here that cut across gender lines... guys just didn’t use the same words to talk about it, and were dealing with the social minefields of *their* particular silo in trying to articulate this rotten experience that was happening to them (that happens to all genders), and were just as socially slapped for using the wrong choice of words as women are.  And when middle class girls talked about the same experiences, they were often directed away from blunt, short/succinct “working class” or “male” language and reinforced to express their thoughts/feelings in terms of the ��polite” therapeutic or academic language that passes for Obligatory (White) Middle Class Female English in your particular era. Further, they were reinforced by practically all adults and all media that it was their job to police the speech of any boys in their presence. What’s frustrating is that a lot of upper class feminist approaches don’t really acknowledge that Compulsory Middle Class Female English is practically constructed so that women DON’T succinctly describe their experiences and feelings, yet this particular style of feminist discourse tends to present this form of communication as the *only* valid communication and actively problematizes other styles of communication.  A big problem with a lot of approaches to feminism is that they don’t question the existence of this metaphysical silo or even try to leave it. You’re stuck inside Plato’s Cave, thinking that’s the whole universe. You don’t try to dismantle it and in many cases the things you’re doing that you think are “feminist” actually just reinforce this cultural silo. And I think it may even go deeper than the most popular approaches to Deborah Tannen’s analyses because there’s a whole Sapir-Whorf Adjacent metaphysical worldview/cognitive component to being siloed, it’s not *just* what words you use... but how you’re taught to relate to the world based upon what words you use and how it may even affect your development.   And it’s also the fact that these silos act as social protection rackets that reinforce compulsory gender-conformist behavior. 

[potteresque-ire]

Can you talk more about the usage of the word "wife" to talk about men in the BL context? I've noticed it in BJYX (particularly with GG), in the (English translations) of MDZS, and then it came up in your recent posts about Danmei-101 (which were super helpful btw) with articles connecting the "little fresh meat" type to fans calling an actor "wife." My initial reaction as a westerner is like "this is very problematic," but I think I'm missing a lot of language/cultural context. Any thoughts?

Hello! First of all, for those who’re interested, here’s a link to the referred posts. Under the cut is arguably the 4th post of the series. As usual, I apologise for the length!

(Topics: seme and uke; more about “leftover women”; roster of feminisation terms; Daji, Bao Si & the origin of BJYX; roster of beautiful, ancient Chinese men; Chairman Mao (not part of the roster) ...)

[TW: feminisation of men]

In the traditional BL characterisation, the M/M (double male) lead pairing is essentially a cis-het relationship in disguise, in which one of the M leads is viewed as the “wife” by the creator and audience. This lead often possesses some of the features of the traditional, stereotypical female, but retaining his male appearance. 

In BL terms, the “wife” is the “uke”. “Seme” and “uke” are the respective roles taken by the two male leads, and designated by the creator of the material. Literally, “seme” (攻め) means the dominant, the attacking / aggressive partner in the relationship and “uke” (受け), the passive / recipient (of actions) partner who tends to follow the seme’s lead. The terms themselves do not have any sexual / gender context.  However, as male and female are viewed as aggressive and passive by their traditional social roles, and the attacker and recipient by their traditional sexual roles respectively, BL fandoms have long assigned uke, the passive, sexual “bottom”, as the “woman”, the “wife”. 

Danmei has kept this “semi” and uke” tradition from BL, taking the kanji of the Japanese terms for designation ~ 攻 (”attack” is therefore the “husband”, and 受 (”receive”), the “wife”. The designations are often specified in the introduction / summary of Danmei works as warning / enticement. For MDZS, for example, MXTX wrote:

高貴冷豔悶騷 攻 × 邪魅狂狷風騷 受

高貴冷豔悶騷 攻 = noble, coolly beautiful and boring seme (referring to LWJ)  邪魅狂狷風騷 受 = devilishly charming, wild, and flirty uke (referring to WWX) 

The traditional, stereotypical female traits given to the “uke”, the “wife” in Danmei and their associated fanworks range from their personality to behaviour to even biological functions. Those who have read the sex scenes in MDZS may be aware of their lack of mention of lube, while WWX was written as getting (very) wet from fluids from his colon (腸道) ~ implying that his colon, much like a vagina, was supplying the necessarily lubrication for sex. This is obviously biologically inaccurate; however, Danmei is exempt from having to be realistic by its original Tanbi definition. The genre’s primary audience is cishet females, and sex scenes such as this one aren’t aiming for realism. Rather, the primary goal of these sex scenes is to generate fantasy, and the purpose of the biologically female functions in one of the leads (WWX) is to ease the readers into imagining themselves as the one engaging in the sex.

Indeed, these practices of assigning as males and female the M/M sexual top and bottom, of emphasising of who is the top and who is the bottom, have been falling out of favour in Western slash fandoms ~ I joined fandom about 15 years ago, and top and bottom designations in slash pairings (and fights about them) were much more common than it is now.  The generally more open, more progressive environments in which Western fandomers are immersed in probably have something to do with it: they transfer their RL knowledge, their views on biology, on different social into their fandom works and discourses. 

I’d venture to say this: in the English-speaking fandoms, fandom values and mainstream values are converging. “Cancel culture” reflects an attempt to enforce RL values in the fictional worlds in fandom. Fandom culture is slowly, but surely, leaving its subculture status and becoming part of mainstream culture. 

I’d hesitate to call c-Danmei fandoms backward compared to Western slash for this reason. There’s little hope for Danmei to converge with China’s mainstream culture in the short term ~ the necessity of replacing Danmei with Dangai in visual media already reflects that. Danmei is and will likely remain subculture in the foreseeable future, and subcultures, at heart, are protests against the mainstream. Unless China and the West define “mainstream” very similarly (and they don’t), it is difficult to compare the “progressiveness”—and its dark side, the “problematic-ness”—of the protests, which are shaped by what they’re protesting against. The “shaper” in this scenario, the mainstream values and culture, are also far more forceful under China’s authoritarian government than they are in the free(-er) world. 

Danmei, therefore, necessarily takes on a different form in China than BL or slash outside China. As a creative pursuit, it serves to fulfil psychological needs that are reflective of its surrounding culture and sociopolitical environment. The genre’s “problematic” / out of place aspects in the eyes of Western fandoms are therefore, like all other aspects of the genre, tailor-made by its millions of fans to be comforting / cathartic for the unique culture and sociopolitical background it and they find themselves in. 

I briefly detoured to talk about the Chinese government’s campaign to pressure young, educated Chinese women into matrimony and motherhood in the post for this reason, as it is an example of how, despite Western fandoms’ progressiveness, they may be inadequate, distant for c-Danmei fans. Again, this article is a short and a ... morbidly-entertaining read on what has been said about China’s “leftover women” (剩女) — women who are unmarried and over 27-years-old). I talked about it, because “Women should enter marriage and parenthood in their late 20s” may no longer a mainstream value in many Western societies, but where it still is, it exerts a strong influence on how women view romance, and by extension, how they interact with romantic fiction, including Danmei.

In China, this influence is made even stronger by the fact that Chinese tradition  places a strong emphasis on education and holds a conservative attitude towards romance and sex. Dating while studying therefore remains discouraged in many Chinese families. University-educated Chinese women therefore have an extremely short time frame — between graduation (~23 years old) and their 27th birthday — to find “the right one” and get married, before they are labelled as “leftovers” and deemed undesirable. (Saving) face being an important aspect in Chinese culture introduces yet another layer of pressure: traditionally, women who don’t get married by the age agreed by social norms have been viewed as failures of upbringing, in that the unmarried women’s parents not having taught/trained their daughters well. Filial, unmarried women therefore try to get married “on time” just to avoid bringing shame to their family.

The outcome is this: despite the strong women characters we may see in Chinese visual media, many young Chinese women nowadays do not expect themselves to be able to marry for love. Below, I offer a “book jacket summary” of a popular internet novel in China, which shows how the associated despair also affects cis-het fictional romance. Book reviews praise this novel for being “boring”: the man and woman leads are both common working class people, the “you-and-I”’s; the mundaneness of them trying build their careers and their love life is lit by one shining light: he loves her and she loves him. 

Written in her POV, this summary reflects, perhaps, the disquiet felt by many contemporary Chinese women university graduates:

曾經以為，自己這輩子都等不到了—— 世界這麼大，我又走得這麼慢，要是遇不到良人要怎麼辦？早過了「全球三十幾億男人，中國七億男人，天涯何處無芳草」的猖狂歲月，越來越清楚，循規蹈矩的生活中，我們能熟悉進而深交的異性實在太有限了，有限到我都做好了「接受他人的牽線，找個適合的男人慢慢煨熟，再平淡無奇地進入婚姻」的準備，卻在生命意外的拐彎處迎來自己的另一半。

I once thought, my wait will never come to fruition for the rest of my life — the world is so big, I’m so slow in treading it, what if I’ll never meet the one? I’ve long passed the wild days of thinking “3 billion men exist on Earth, 0.7 of which are Chinese. There is plenty more fish in the sea.” I’m seeing, with increasing clarity, that in our disciplined lives, the number of opposite-sex we can get to know, and get to know well, is so limited. It’s so limited that I’m prepared to accept someone’s matchmaking, find a suitable man and slowly, slowly, warm up to him, and then, to enter marriage with without excitement, without wonder. But then, an accidental turn in my life welcomes in my other half.

— Oath of Love (餘生，請多指教) (Yes, this is the novel Gg’d upcoming drama is based on.) 

Heteronormativity is, of course, very real in China. However, that hasn’t exempted Chinese women, even its large cis-het population, from having their freedom to pursue their true love taken away from them. Even for cis-het relationships, being able to marry for love has become a fantasy —a fantasy scorned by the state. Remember this quote from Article O3 in the original post? 

耽改故事大多远离现实，有些年轻受众却将其与生活混为一谈，产生不以结婚和繁衍为目的才是真爱之类的偏颇认知。

Most Dangai stories are far removed from reality; some young audience nonetheless mix them up with real life, develop biased understanding such as “only love that doesn’t treat matrimony and reproduction as destinations is true love”. 

I didn’t focus on it in the previous posts, in an effort to keep the discussion on topic. But why did the op-ed piece pick this as an example of fantasy-that-shouldn’t-be-mixed-up-with-real-life, in the middle of a discussion about perceived femininity of men that actually has little to do with matrimony and reproduction? 

Because the whole point behind the state’s “leftover women” campaign is precisely to get women to treat matrimony and reproduction as destinations, not beautiful sceneries that happen along the way. And they’re the state’s destination as more children = higher birth rate that leads to higher future productivity. The article is therefore calling out Danmei for challenging this “mainstream value”.

Therefore, while the statement True love doesn’t treat matrimony and reproduction as destinations may be trite for many of us while it may be a point few, if any, English-speaking fandoms may pay attention to, to the mainstream culture Danmei lives in, to the mainstream values dictated by the state, it is borderline subversive.

As much as Danmei may appear “tame” for its emphasis on beauty and romance, for it to have stood for so long, so firmly against China’s (very) forceful mainstream culture, the genre is also fundamentally rebellious.  Remember: Danmei has little hope of converging with China’s mainstream unless it “sells its soul” and removes its homoerotic elements. 

With rebelliousness, too, comes a bit of tongue-in-cheek.

And so, when c-Danmei fans, most of whom being cishet women who interact with the genre by its traditional BL definition, call one of the leads 老婆 (wife), it can and often take on a different flavour. As said before, it can be less about feminizing the lead than about identifying with the lead. The nickname 老婆 (wife) can be less about being disrespectful and more about humorously expressing an aspiration—the aspiration to have a husband who truly loves them, who they do want to get married and have babies with but out of freedom and not obligation.

Admittedly, I had been confused, and bothered by these “can-be”s myself. Just because there are alternate reasons for the feminisation to happen doesn’t mean the feminisation itself is excusable. But why the feminisation of M/M leads doesn’t sound as awful to me in Chinese as in English? How can calling a self-identified man 老婆 (wife) get away with not sounding being predominantly disrespectful to my ears, when I would’ve frowned at the same thing said in my vicinity in English?

I had an old hypothesis: when I was little, it was common to hear people calling acquaintances in Chinese by their unflattering traits:  “Deaf-Eared Chan” (Mr Chan, who’s deaf), “Fat Old Woman Lan” (Ah-Lan, who’s an overweight woman) etc—and the acquaintances were perfectly at ease with such identifications, even introducing themselves to strangers that way. Comparatively speaking then, 老婆 (wife) is harmless, even endearing. 

老婆, which literally means “old old-lady” (implying wife = the woman one gets old with), first became popularised as a colloquial, casual way of calling “wife” in Hong Kong and its Cantonese dialect, despite the term itself being about 1,500 years old. As older generations of Chinese were usually very shy about talking about their love lives, those who couldn’t help themselves and regularly spoke of their 老婆 tended to be those who loved their wives in my memory. 老婆, as a term, probably became endearing to me that way. 

Maybe this is why the feminisation of M/M leads didn’t sound so bad to me?

This hypothesis was inadequate, however. This custom of identifying people by their (unflattering) traits has been diminishing in Hong Kong and China, for similar reasons it has been considered inappropriate in the West.

Also, 老婆 (wife) is not the only term used for / associated with feminisation. I’ve tried to limit the discussion to Danmei, the fictional genre; now, I’ll jump to its associated RPS genre, and specifically, the YiZhan fandoms. The purpose of this jump: with real people involved, feminisation’s effect is potentially more harmful, more acute. Easier to feel. 

YiZhan fans predominantly entered the fandoms through The Untamed, and they’ve also transferred Danmei’s  “seme”/“uke” customs into YiZhan. There are, therefore, three c-YiZhan fandoms:

博君一肖 (BJYX): seme Dd, uke Gg 戰山為王 (ZSWW): seme Gg, uke Dd 連瑣反應 (LSFY): riba Gg and Dd. Riba = “reversible”, and unlike “seme” and “uke”, is a frequently-used term in the Japanese gay community. 

BJYX is by far the largest of the three, likely due to Gg having played WWX, the “uke” in MDZS / TU. I’ll therefore focus on this fandom, ie. Gg is the “uke”, the “wife”.

For Gg alone, I’ve seen him being also referred to by YiZhan fans as (and this is far from a complete list):

* 姐姐 (sister) * 嫂子 (wife of elder brother; Dd being the elder brother implied) * 妃妃 (based on the very first YiZhan CP name, 太妃糖 Toffee Candy, a portmanteau of sorts from Dd being the 太子 “prince” of his management company and Gg being the prince’s wife, 太子妃. 糖 = “candy”. 太妃 sounds like toffee in English and has been used as the latter’s Chinese translation.) * 美人 (beauty, as in 肖美人 “Beauty Xiao”) * Daji 妲己 (as in 肖妲己, “Daji Xiao”). 

The last one needs historical context, which will also become important for explaining the new hypothesis I have.

Daji was a consort who lived three thousand years ago, whose beauty was blamed for the fall of the Shang dynasty. Gg (and men sharing similar traits, who are exceptionally rare) has been compared to Daji 妲己 for his alternatively innocent, alternatively seductive beauty ~ the kind of beauty that, in Chinese historical texts and folk lores, lead to the fall of kingdoms when possessed by the king’s beloved woman. This kind of “I-get-to-ruin-her-virginity”, “she’s a slut in MY bedroom” beauty is, of course, a stereotypical fantasy for many (cis-het) men, which included the authors of these historical texts and folklores. However, it also contained some truth: the purity / innocence, the image of a virgin, was required for an ancient woman to be chosen as a consort; the seduction, meanwhile, helped her to become the top consort, and monopolise the attention of kings and emperors who often had hundreds of wives ~ wives who often put each other in danger to eliminate competition. 

Nowadays, women of tremendous beauty are still referred to by the Chinese idiom 傾國傾城, literally, ”falling countries, falling cities”. The beauty is also implied to be natural, expressed in a can’t-help-itself way, perhaps reflecting the fact that the ancient beauties on which this idiom has been used couldn’t possibly have plastic surgeries, and most of them didn’t meet a good end ~ that they had to pay a price for their beauty, and often, with their lowly status as women, as consorts, they didn’t get to choose whether they wanted to pay this price or not. This adjective is considered to be very flattering. Gg’s famous smile from the Thailand Fanmeet has been described, praised as 傾城一笑: “a smile that topples a city”.

I’m explaining Daji and 傾國傾城 because the Chinese idiom 博君一笑 “doing anything to get a smile from you”, from which the ship’s name BJYX 博君一肖  was derived (笑 and 肖 are both pronounced “xiao”), is connected to yet another of such dynasty-falling beauty, Bao Si 褒姒. Like Daji before her, Bao Si was blamed for the end of the Zhou Dynasty in 771 BC. 

The legend went like this: Bao Si was melancholic, and to get her to smile, her king lit warning beacons and got his nobles to rush in from the nearby vassal states with their armies to come and rescue him, despite not being in actual danger. The nobles, in their haste, looked so frantic and dishevelled that Bao Si found it funny and smiled. Longing to see more of the smile of his favourite woman, the king would fool his nobles again and again, until his nobles no longer heeded the warning beacons when an actual rebellion came. 

What the king did has been described as 博紅顏一笑, with 紅顏 (”red/flushed face”) meaning a beautiful woman, referring to Bao Si. Replace 紅顏 with the respectful “you”, 君, we get 博君一笑. If one searches the origin of the phrase 博 [fill_in_the_blank]一笑 online, Bao Si’s story shows up.

The “anything” in ”doing anything to get a smile from you” in 博君一笑, therefore, is not any favour, but something as momentous as giving away one’s own kingdom. c-turtles have remarked, to their amusement and admittedly mine, that “king”, in Chinese, is written as 王, which is Dd’s surname, and very occasionally, they jokingly compare him to the hopeless kings who’d give away everything for their love. Much like 傾國傾城 has become a flattering idiom despite the negative reputations of Daji and Bao Si for their “men-ruining ways”, 博君一笑 has become a flattering phrase, emphasising on the devotion and love rather than the ... stupidity behind the smile-inducing acts. 

(Bao Si’s story, BTW, was a lie made up by historians who also lived later but also thousands of years ago, to absolve the uselessness of the king. Warning beacons didn’t exist at her time.)  

Gg is arguably feminized even in his CP’s name. Gg’s feminisation is everywhere. 

And here comes my confession time ~ I’ve been amused by most of the feminisation terms above. 肖妲己 (”Daji Xiao”) captures my imagination, and I remain quite partial to the CP name BJYX. Somehow, there’s something ... somewhat forgivable when the feminisation is based on Gg’s beauty, especially in the context of the historical Danmei / Dangai setting of MDZS/TU ~ something that, while doesn’t cancel, dampens the “problematic-ness” of the gender mis-identification.

What, exactly, is this something?

Here’s my new hypothesis, and hopefully I’ll manage to explain it well ~

The hypothesis is this: the unisex beauty standard for historical Chinese men and women, which is also breathtakingly similar to the modern beauty standard for Chinese women, makes feminisation in the context of Danmei (especially historical Danmei) flattering, and easier to accept.

What defined beauty in historical Chinese men? If I am to create a classically beautiful Chinese man for my new historical Danmei, how would I describe him based on what I’ve read, my cultural knowledge?

Here’s a list:

* Skin fair and smooth as white jade * Thin, even frail; narrow/slanted shoulders; tall * Dark irises and bright, starry eyes * Not too dense, neat eyebrows that are shaped like swords ~ pointed slightly upwards from the center towards the sides of the face * Depending on the dynasty, nice makeup.

Imagine these traits. How “macho” are they? How much do they fit the ideal Chinese masculine beauty advertised by Chinese government, which looks like below?

Propaganda poster, 1969. The caption says “Defeat Imperialist US! Defeat Social Imperialism!” The book’s name is “Quotations from Mao Zedong”. (Source)

Where did that list of traits I’ve written com from? Fair like jade, frail ... why are they so far from the ... “macho”ness of the men in the poster? 

What has Chinese history said about its beautiful men? 

Wei Jie (衛玠 286-312 BCE), one of the four most beautiful ancient Chinese men (古代四大美男) recorded in Chinese history famously passed away when fans of his beauty gathered and formed a wall around him, blocking his way. History recorded Wei as being frail with chronic illness, and was only 27 years old when he died. Arguably the first historical account of “crazy fans killing their idol”, this incident left the idiom 看殺衛玠 ~ “Wei Jie being watched to death.” ~ a not very “macho” way to die at all.

潘安 (Pan An; 247-300 BCE), another one of the four most beautiful ancient Chinese men, also had hoards of fangirls, who threw fruits and flowers at him whenever he ventured outside. The Chinese idiom 擲果盈車 “thrown fruit filling a cart” was based on Pan and ... his fandom, and denotes such scenarios of men being so beautiful that women openly displayed their affections for them. 

Meanwhile, when Pan went out with his equally beautiful male friend, 夏侯湛 Xiahou Zhan, folks around them called them 連璧 ~ two connected pieces of perfect jade. Chinese Jade is white, smooth, faintly glowing in light, so delicate that it gives the impression of being somewhat transparent.

Aren’t Wei Jie and Pan An reminiscent of modern day Chinese idols, the “effeminate” “Little Fresh Meat”s (小鲜肉) so panned by Article O3? Their stories, BTW, also elucidated the historical reference in LWJ’s description of being jade-like in MDZS, and in WWX and LWJ being thrown pippas along the Gusu river bank. 

Danmei, therefore, didn’t create a trend of androgynous beauty in men as much as it has borrowed the ancient, traditional definition of masculine Chinese beauty ~ the beauty that was more feminine than masculine by modern standards.  

[Perhaps, CPs should be renamed 連璧 (”two connected pieces of perfect jade”) as a reminder of the aesthetics’ historical roots.]

Someone may exclaim now: But. But!! Yet another one of the four most beautiful ancient Chinese men, 高長恭 (Gao Changgong, 541-573 BCE), far better known by his title, 蘭陵王 (”the Prince of Lanling”), was a famous general. He had to be “macho”, right?

... As it turns out, not at all. Historical texts have described Gao as “貌柔心壮，音容兼美” (”soft in looks and strong at heart, beautiful face and voice”), “白美類婦人” (”fair and beautiful as a woman”), “貌若婦人” (”face like a woman”). Legends have it that The Prince of Lanling’s beauty was so soft, so lacking in authority that he had to wear a savage mask to get his soldiers to listen to his command (and win) on the battlefield (《樂府雜錄》: 以其顏貌無威，每入陣即著面具，後乃百戰百勝).

This should be emphasised: Gao’s explicitly feminine descriptions were recorded in historical texts as arguments *for* his beauty. Authors of these texts, therefore, didn’t view the feminisation as insult. In fact, they used the feminisation to drive the point home, to convince their readers that men like the Prince of Lanling were truly, absolutely good looking.

Being beautiful like a women was therefore high praise for men in, at least, significant periods in Chinese history ~ periods long and important enough for these records to survive until today. Beauty, and so it goes, had once been largely free of distinctions between the masculine and feminine.

One more example of an image of an ancient Chinese male beauty being similar to its female counterpart, because the history nerd in me finds this fun. 

何晏 (He Yan, ?-249 BCE) lived in the Wei Jin era (between 2nd to 4th century), during which makeup was really en vogue. Known for his beauty, he was also famous for his love of grooming himself. The emperor, convinced that He Yan’s very fair skin was from the powder he was wearing, gave He Yan some very hot foods to eat in the middle of the summer. He Yan began to sweat, had to wipe himself with his sleeves and in the process, revealed to the emperor that his fair beauty was 100% natural ~ his skin glowed even more with the cosmetics removed (《世說新語·容止第十四》: 何平叔美姿儀，面至白。魏明帝疑其傅粉，正夏月，與熱湯餅。既啖，大汗出，以朱衣自拭，色轉皎然). His kick-cosmetics’-ass fairness won him the nickname 傅粉何郎 (”powder-wearing Mr He”).

Not only would He Yan very likely be mistaken as a woman if this scene is transferred to a modern setting, but this scene can very well fit inside a Danmei story of the 21st century and is very, very likely to get axed by the Chinese censorship board for its visualisation. 

[Important observation from this anecdote: the emperor was totally into this trend too.]

The adjectives and phrases used above to describe these beautiful ancient Chinese men ~ 貌柔, 音容兼美, 白美, 美姿儀, 皎然 ~ have all become pretty much reserved for describing beauty in women nowadays. Beauty standards in ancient China were, as mentioned before, had gone through significantly long periods in which they were largely genderless. The character for beauty 美 (also in Danmei, 耽美) used to have little to no gender association. Free of gender associations as well were the names of many flowers. The characters for orchid (蘭) and lotus (蓮), for example, were commonly found in men’s names as late as the Republican era (early 20th century), but are now almost exclusively found in women’s names. Both orchid and lotus have historically been used to indicate 君子 (junzi, roughly, “gentlemen”), which have always been men. MDZS also has an example of a man named after a flower: Jin Ling’s courtesy name, given to him by WWX,  was 如蘭 (”like an orchid”). 

A related question may be this: why does ancient China associate beauty with fairness, with softness, with frailty? Likely, because Confucianist philosophy and customs put a heavy emphasis on scholarship ~ and scholars have mostly consisted of soft-spoken, not muscular, not working-under-the-sun type of men. More importantly, Confucianist scholars also occupied powerful government positions. Being, and looking like a Confucianist scholar was therefore associated with status. Indeed, it’s very difficult to look like jade when one was a farmer or a soldier, for example, who constantly had to toil under the sun, whose skin was constantly being dried and roughened by the elements. Having what are viewed as “macho” beauty traits as in the poster above ~ tanned skin, bulging muscles, bony structures (which also take away the jade’s smoothness) ~ were associated with hard labour, poverty and famine.

Along that line, 手無縛雞之力 (“hands without the strength to restrain a chicken”) has long been a phrase used to describe ancient scholars and students, and without scorn or derision. Love stories of old, which often centred around scholars were, accordingly, largely devoid of the plot lines of husbands physically protecting the wives, performing the equivalent of climbing up castle walls and fighting dragons etc. Instead, the faithful husbands wrote poems, combed their wife’s hair, traced their wife’s eyebrows with cosmetics (畫眉)...all activities that didn’t require much physical strength, and many of which are considered “feminine” nowadays.

Were there periods in Chinese history in which more ... sporty men and women were appreciated? Yes. the Tang dynasty, for example, and the Yuan and Qing dynasties. The Tang dynasty, as a very powerful, very open era in Chinese history, was known for its relations to the West (via the Silk Road). The Yuan and Qing dynasties, meanwhile, were established by Mongolians and Manchus respectively, who, as non-Han people, had not been under the influence of Confucian culture and grew up on horsebacks, rather than in schools.

The idea that beautiful Chinese men should have “macho” attributes was, therefore, largely a consequence of non-Han-Chinese influence, especially after early 20th century. That was when the characters for beauty (美), orchid (蘭), lotus (蓮) etc began their ... feminisation. The Chinese Communist Party (CCP), which started its reign of the country starting 1949, also has foreign roots, being a derivative of the Soviets, and its portrayal of ideal men has been based on the party’s ideology, painting them as members of the People’s Liberation Army (Chinese army) and its two major proletariat classes, farmers and industrial workers ~ all occupations that are “macho” in their aesthetics, but held at very poor esteem in ancient Chinese societies. All occupations that, to this day, may be hailed as noble by Chinese women, but not really deemed attractive by them.

Beauty, being an instinct, is perhaps much more resistant to propaganda.

If anything, the three terms Article O3 used to describe “effeminate” men ~ 奶油小生 “cream young men” (popularised in 1980s) , 花美男 “flowery beautiful men” (early 2000s), 小鲜肉 “little fresh meat” (coined in 2014 and still popular now) ~ only informs me how incredibly consistent the modern Chinese women’s view of ideal male beauty has been. It’s the same beauty the Chinese Communist Party has called feminine. It’s the same beauty found in Danmei. It’s the same beauty that, when witnessed in men in ancient China, was so revered that historians recorded it for their descendants to remember. It doesn’t mean there aren’t any women who appreciate the "macho” type ~ it’s just that, the appreciation for the non-macho type has never really gone out of fashion, never really changed. The only thing that is really changing is the name of the type, the name’s positive or negative connotations.

(Personally, I’m far more uncomfortable with the name “Little fresh meat” (小鲜肉) than 老婆 (wife). I find it much more insulting.)

Anyway, what I’d like to say is this: feminisation in Danmei ~ a genre that, by definition, is hyper-focused on aesthetics ~ may not be as "problematic” in Chinese as it is in English, because the Chinese tradition didn’t make that much of a differentiation between masculine and feminine beauty. Once again, this isn’t to say such mis-gendering isn’t disrespectful; it’s just that, perhaps, it is less disrespectful because Chinese still retains a cultural memory in which equating a beautiful man to a beautiful woman was the utmost flattery. 

I must put a disclaimer here: I cannot vouch for this being true for the general Chinese population. This is something that is buried deep enough inside me that it took a lot of thought for me to tease out, to articulate. More importantly, while I grow up in a Chinese-speaking environment, I’ve never lived inside China. My history knowledge, while isn’t shabby, hasn’t been filtered through the state education system.

I’d also like to point out as well, along this line of thought, that in *certain* (definitely not all) aspects, Chinese society isn’t as sexist as the West. While historically, China has periods of extreme sexism against women, with the final dynasties of Ming and Qing being examples, I must (reluctantly) acknowledge Chairman Mao for significantly lifting the status of women during his rule. Here’s a famous quote of his from 1955:

婦女能頂半邊天 Women can lift half the skies

The first marriage code, passed in 1950, outlawed forced marriages, polygamy, and ensured equal rights between husband and wife.  For the first time in centuries, women were encouraged to go outside of their homes and work. Men resisted at first, wanting to keep their wives at home; women who did work were judged poorly for their performance and given less than 50% of men’s wage, which further fuelled the men’s resistance. Mao said the above quote after a commune in Guizhou introduced the “same-work-same-wage” system to increase its productivity, and he asked for the same system to to be replicated across the country. (Source)

When Chairman Mao wanted something, it happened. Today, Chinese women’s contribution to the country’s GDP remains among the highest in the world.  They make up more than half of the country’s top-scoring students. They’re the dominant gender in universities, in the ranks of local employees of international corporations in the Shanghai and Beijing central business districts—among the most sought after jobs in the country. While the inequality between men and women in the workplace is no where near wiped out — stories about women having to sleep with higher-ups to climb the career ladder, or even get their PhDs are not unheard of, and the central rulership of the Chinese Communist Party has been famously short of women — the leap in women’s rights has been significant over the past century, perhaps because of how little rights there had been before ~ at the start of the 20th century, most Chinese women from relatively well-to-do families still practised foot-binding, in which their feet were literally crushed during childhood in the name of beauty, of status symbol. They couldn’t even walk properly.

Perhaps, the contemporary Chinese women’s economic contribution makes the sexism they encounter in their lives, from the lack of reproductive rights to the “leftover women” label, even harder to swallow. It makes their fantasies fly to even higher, more defiant heights. The popularity of Dangai right now is pretty much driven by women, as acknowledged by Article O3. Young women, especially, female fans who people have dismissed as “immature”, “crazy”, are responsible for the threat the Chinese government is feeling now by the genre.

This is no small feat. While the Chinese government complains about the “effeminate” men from Danmei / Dangai, its propaganda has been heavily reliant on stars who have risen to popularity to these genres. The film Dd is currently shooting, Chinese Peacekeeping Force (維和部隊), also stars Huang Jingyu (黄景瑜), and Zhang Zhehan (張哲瀚) ~ the three actors having shot to fame from The Untamed (Dangai), Addicted (Danmei), and Word of Honour (Dangai) respectively.  Zhang, in particular, played the “uke” role in Word of Honour and has also been called 老婆 (wife) by his fans. The quote in Article O3, “Ten years as a tough man known by none; one day as a beauty known by all” was also implicitly referring to him.

Perhaps, the government will eventually realise that millennia-old standards of beauty are difficult to bend, and by extension, what is considered appropriate gender expression of Chinese men and women. 

In the metas I’ve posted, therefore, I’ve hesitated in using terms such as homophobia, sexism, and ageism etc, opting instead to make long-winded explanations that essentially amount to these terms (thank you everyone who’s reading for your patience!). Because while the consequence is similar—certain fraction of the populations are subjected to systemic discrimination, abuse, given less rights, treated as inferior etc—these words, in English, also come with their own context, their own assumptions that may not apply to the situation. It reminds me of what Leo Tolstoy wrote in Anna Karenina,

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

Discrimination in each country, each culture is humiliating, unhappy in its own way. Both sexism and homophobia are rampant in China, but as their roots are different from those of the West, the ways they manifest are different, and so must the paths to their dissolution. I’ve also hesitated on calling out individual behaviours or confronting individuals for this reason. i-Danmei fandoms are where i-fans and c-fans meet, where English-speaking doesn’t guarantee a non-Chinese sociopolitical background (there may be students from China, for example; I’m also ... not entirely Western), and I find it difficult to articulate appropriate, convincing arguments without knowing individual backgrounds.

Frankly, I’m not sure if I’ve done the right thing. Because I do hope feminisation will soon fade into extinction, especially in i-Danmei fandoms that, if they continue to prosper on international platforms, may eventually split from c-Danmei fandoms along the cultural (not language) line due to the vast differences in environmental constraints. My hope is especially true when real people are involved, and c-fandoms, I’d like to note, are not unaware of the issues surrounding feminisation ~ it has already been explicitly forbidden in BJYX’s supertopic on Weibo. 

At the same time, I’ve spent so many words above to try to explain why beauty can *sometimes* lurk behind such feminisations. Please allow me to end this post with one example of feminisation that I deeply dislike—and I’ve seen it used by fans on Gg as well—is 綠茶 (”green tea”), from 綠茶婊 (”green tea whore”) that means women who look pure / innocent but are, deep down, promiscuous / lustful. In some ways, its meaning isn’t so different from Daji 妲己, the consort blamed for the fall of the Shang dynasty. However, to me at least, the flattery in the feminisation is gone, perhaps because of the character “whore” (婊), because the term originated in 2013 from a notorious sex party rather than from a legendary beauty so maligned that The Investiture of the Gods (封神演義), the seminal Chinese fiction written ~2,600 years after Daji’s death, re-imagined her as a malevolent fox spirit (狐狸精) that many still remembers her as today.

Ah, to be caught between two cultures. :)

[queer-and-dear-books]

Title: Everything I Never Told You

Author: Celeste Ng

Genre: Fiction | Mystery | Suspense | Thriller

Content Warnings: Character Death | Suicide Mention

Overall Rating: 8.4/10

Personal Opinion: A captivating novel that keeps you on the edge of your seat. Lydia Lee is a half-Chinese teenager who goes missing, leaving her family to confront the ugly truth behind this girl who was supposed to have a bright future. I can promise that Celeste Ng’s riveting writing style will not disappoint as you watch this ordinary family pick up the pieces left behind by the death of their prodigal daughter.

Do I Own This Book? Yes, I bought it for a class during my freshman year of college.

Spoilers Below for my Likes & Dislikes:

Likes:

- An introspective look into the lives of Asian characters with a focus on how stereotypes dictate a person’s life.

- Leads with a mystery, (How and/or why did Lydia die? Is it an accident? On purpose? A crime?) drawing in the reader and makes them want to read more.

- Jack is gay! Not only that but it’s obvious without having to be told. From that moment in the community pool when he was a kid, calling out “Polo” to Nath, I figured it out. This wasn’t as obvious to my classmates though, perhaps it was simply my Please-Be-Gaydar. But it was obvious to me that he had this crush anyway. And it was confirmed later on.

- Speaking of, the unreliable narrator is used so well with Nath. He sincerely believes it is Jack’s fault that Lydia died. In fact, Jack probably partially blamed himself considering it happened after his interaction with her. Neither of them know the full truth so the painful but exceptional miscommunication brings out this brilliant tension between them.

- James’s experience when it comes to racism and Marilyn’s experience with sexism both influence how they interpret the world around them to the point where they are unable to trust the other or understand their partner perfectly. Asian men are emasculated and in the 70s, it was looked down upon for a woman to work if she had a husband. Like the man couldn’t make enough. But for Marilyn, she saw her husband shutting her down for wanting to work or study as an act of sexism. Meanwhile, she wanted to do more than what her mother wanted. She had a dream to be a doctor (a career that was male-dominated) and whenever she expressed that this [her current life] wasn’t what she wanted, it made James feel inadequate as a man because he always thought it meant his race was what she didn’t want.

- Hannah is the most reliable narrator, being the observer of the household. She saw it all for what it was, at face value, but also the deeper parts due to her longing. It helps the reader obtain a more unbiased and clear-cut opinion of the chaotic happenings throughout the novel.

- It’s difficult to blame Nath for his reactions to Lydia while he was at the frat party because he was neglected for so long and because every single one of his achievements just didn’t matter to his parents. Not only that, but he had been actively mocked for his interests by his own father (out of self-loathing and internalized racism) and it makes him sympathetic as a character. Just as Marilyn and James are still sympathetic because their oppressive upbringings affect their parenting. Those being: putting immense, suffocating pressure on Lydia while neglecting Nath and Hannah. But toward the end of the novel, there is hope because both James and Marilyn realize they still have Hannah. They can do right by her even if they failed Lydia. The ending message being that it’s never to late to love and listen.

Dislikes: 

- Miscommunication being the source of all their problems has never been one of my favorite tropes and I always want the characters to know everything that a viewer would know. That’s very personal though so I understand that it isn’t an objectively bad trope, especially used as well as it is here.

- James, what the fuck. Grief and trauma obviously affected his parenting style, but it does not make me like him more. I mean, I can’t imagine how it would have felt to be Nathan. He is a sympathetic character but he is still my least favorite due to his mocking of his own son and his infidelity.

- In general, everyone has an endless laundry list for why we, as the reader, should feel an inkling of sympathy. But while they explain their actions, they do not excuse them. James is still a dad and Marilyn is still a mother, they should raise all their kids with love instead of favoring one while ignoring the others. It hurts as a child of neglect myself so again, this is a personal thing.

- This is a very minor gripe but why does Jack love Nath? It's strange because of how Nath has mistreated him even if they are all misunderstandings. But then again, emotions are very fickle. So maybe Jack looked at Nath, saw a face that was so different from the ones that he saw everyday and just kept observing him from afar from then on. Perhaps, after he tried to be nice at the pool, he had become so fixated on wanting to be with this lonely boy that his feelings evolved into that of romance.

- Speaking of, it’s so unclear, in that futuristic time Nath saw, if he ends up with Jack. There’s that moment where it mentions Nath wanting to trace the little bump on Jack’s nose (where he had punched him) and it’s written so tenderly, almost like an intimate moment for those two only. So maybe the feeling is mutual but Nath has been so blinded by what he believed, it was hard for him to see Jack as anything other than that kid that had “teased” him for being different.