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audreydoeskaren · 4 years ago

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Abridged history of early 20th century Chinese womenswear (part 4.2: 1930s-hair, makeup & accessories)

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Previous posts in the series:

Part 1: 1890s

Part 2: 1900s & 1910s

Part 3.1: 1920s-silhouette

Part 3.2: 1920s-design details

Part 3.3: 1920s-accessories, hair & makeup

Part 4.1: 1930s-silhouette & design

A super late Happy Chinese New Year to all fellow humans who celebrate it!! I’m going to discuss hair, makeup and accessories of the 1930s today in no particular order.

Undergarments

At one point between 1932 and 1934 women in China decided to ditch the breast binders worn since the 1890s and wear brassieres instead. This allowed the natural shape of women’s breasts to show and the contrast between the bust and waist lent the dresses of the mid 30s a soft hourglass shape. The brassieres of the 1930s didn’t have stiffening, boning or foam and relied only on their structure for support, so the shape of the breasts looked very soft and rounded.

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30s Du Barry lingerie sewing pattern for brassieres and drawers. This may not be very representative because brassieres made by different companies looked different, but they usually looked like modern bras with vertical darts and no wires or foam cups.

I must again redirect you to this article on breast binding in China, if you can’t read Chinese Google Translate works just fine. There’s one thing that I’d like to comment on though; the author named breast binding as the sole reason for the small bust measures of women at the time and argued that it caused health problems and hindered the growth of the chest. I think this is true to some extent, but other reasons for the generally small stature of women in this period (and indeed the centuries before) included malnourishment, bad healthcare and lack of exercise. Women weren’t educated about healthy diets and the importance of physical exercise before the 30s, not to mention the non-existent healthcare they received, so they were much shorter and skinnier, and suffered from more illnesses than the average modern woman. Before industrialization, food production was also often insufficient so a lot of women were malnourished.

As popular as brassieres were, some Chinese women chose to go braless. However, I have usually seen braless women in advertisements/pinup posters, so I suspect this would not be very socially acceptable on a daily basis.

Source: lai yiching0926 on Pinterest. I get so many primary sources from this person y’all may as well check out their board on Chinese calendar painting it’s bomb. I also have a Pinterest board where I collect primary sources if anyone is interested, my Pinterest username is also audreydoeskaren.

However, being braless doesn’t mean wearing nothing underneath a cheongsam. Camisoles were worn on the upper body and drawers (which were becoming proto-panties) on the lower body; alternatively a slip could be worn. 30s drawers are really pretty in my opinion, they were high waisted and had an a-line shape, decorated with lace.

To my knowledge, Chinese women in this period did not yet wear girdles, corsets or any other kind of shapewear to take in the waist, at least I have never seen their edges peeking out from underneath the cheongsam. I guess this was also unnecessary as the cheongsam was a light one piece dress and didn’t require any support at the waist.

From my observation, stockings were kind of optional in this period. In the early 20s and before, Chinese women wore short stockings tied up by garters at knee level, but as the skirt hem rose to knee length in the late 20s they probably stopped doing that as the garters would show when they inevitably flash their knees. I assume longer, nude stockings would be worn, held up by a garterbelt or something, but a lot of images of this era showed women with no visible stockings. Teenagers and younger women could wear low knit socks like Western children, but these were not acceptable on grown up women unless they were doing sports. Tights were not yet a thing either.

On top of these undergarments, some women chose to wear ankle length petticoats or pants underneath the cheongsam. This was especially the case around 1934 when the side slits were mid thigh or higher and constantly showing your drawers was likely not the most respectable thing. These petticoats and pants were most commonly white and had decorative trim. Petticoats could have slits down both sides like the outer cheongsam or a flared hem. Pants were straight cut and wide legged. Later in the decade the slits became lower so petticoats and pants weren’t that necessary anymore but many women still chose to wear them, which is fine by me because I think it’s a cute look. Likewise there were many examples of women around 1934 wearing high slit cheongsam without petticoats or pants, especially if they were dancing, so this was likely a matter of personal preference (Western dances like tango, waltz, foxtrot, charleston and swing were introduced to China and popularized in the 20s and 30s. The Paramount dance hall in my native city of Shanghai is a monument to that).

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Mid 30s photograph, high slit cheongsam with pants.

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Later 30s fabric ad, low slit cheongsam with flared petticoat.

Outerwear

A noteworthy development in the mid 30s was that wearing actual, full blown Western fashion became popularized, but only as outerwear, sportswear or eveningwear; Western day dresses were not often seen on Chinese women. In regards to Western outerwear, a variety of them could be worn over cheongsam. In addition to the fur trim wrap coats popular in the late 20s, women wore capes, vests, suits, coats, knit cardigans and others. It was completely ok to mix and match Western accessories and jackets with cheongsam.

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Short cape.

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Early 30s women’s suit. I know I use this image a lot, it’s just really useful and beautiful :)

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Early 30s fur trim wrap coat.

Source: Sayuu G on Pinterest, link

Long coat with lapels.

Source: Yuan Li on Pinterest, link

Cardigan and jacket. This kind of short sleeved, straight front, collarless jacket on the left was very popular in the mid 30s.

Another cute mid 30s accessory I’m very fond of is the gauntlet glove i.e. gloves that have a very wide trunk opening. I think they have an equestrian flair and look very badass.

Source: Yuan Li on Pinterest, link

1935 cover of The Young Companion. (Why are the useful images always so small? Woe is me)

Earrings were really common in the 30s, you could see them in almost all of the reference photos in this post.

Hairstyles

Since around 1930 the history of Chinese and Western women’s hairstyles had almost completely synchronized so if you know about vintage Western hairstyles you’re welcome to skip this part.

In the beginning of the 30s the most common hairstyle was a short bob with optional fingerwaves (called waterwaves in this period? I’m not great with terminology). Some bobs in the late 20s/early 30s could be so short that they look like buzz cuts. The defining feature of the fingerwave was the shimmery wave-like pattern in the hair created by pinching and combing the hair while it’s wet with setting products. Just a side note, the way fingerwaves are done in most Chinese period dramas nowadays, uh, leaves much to be desired. That’s because a lot of hairstylists just attach a wavy extension (which you can easily purchase from Taobao...) to the actresses’ forehead and call it a day, but that doesn’t really replicate the structure of the fingerwave and makes it look like the 铜钱头 in Kun Opera instead.

Source: Helen Xu on Pinterest.

Early 30s very short bob.

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Early 30s fingerwave

Another very common hairstyle in the 30s was this mid length bob (either side part or middle part) with a lot of volume at the bottom. I am so puzzled as to how this is achieved, maybe with teasing or curling only at the bottom? That sounds odd.

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Mid 30s fabric ad.

This ad is forcing me to go on a tangent about fabric dyes. This label, Indanthren, sold fabrics dyed from a range of blue or blue-ish colored synthetic dyes made by the German company BASF (which was merged into IG Farben at this time). Because of the introduction of synthetic dyes to China, almost all colors under the sun could be produced or imported so there weren’t really any specific color limitations to the clothing of this period.

Back to hair. Contrary to popular opinion, fingerwaves were not in fashion throughout the 30s, let alone the entire republican era. As the 30s progressed, the fashionable hair length became longer, making it more difficult for fingerwaves to be performed; they were replaced by roller sets and pin curls which are more suitable for longer hair. In the mid 30s, brush out curls with a side part were extremely popular. At this point bangs kind of became a Chinese cultural heritage and a lot of women would wear brush out curls with bangs. There are literally a million patterns for setting brush out curls and every woman probably had her own tricks, so everybody’s hair looked a tad different but the overall idea was the same as Western brush out curls: women would set the hair in the night and sleep with the rollers/pin curls to let them dry, then in the morning they would brush them out until the desirable wavy shape is achieved. Many women also used curling irons to achieve the same hairstyles with heat, which was faster and didn’t require waiting overnight. With that said, the fingerwave didn’t just disappear either, it was often used in conjunction with brush out curls to sculpt specific hairstyles. I’m not a professional vintage hairstylist so I can’t always clock if a hairstyle is done with fingerwaving, brush out curls or both. From my own experience with brush out curls, they are usually more voluminous and have more fizzy ends and the waves don’t line up so perfectly like with fingerwaves because the process is more uncontrollable (or maybe I’m just clumsy).

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Typical mid 30s curls.

The fashionable hair length grew longer toward the end of the decade, with the finished curls reaching either the shoulder or the nape of the neck. Hairstyles became kind of rectangular in silhouette and flat at the crown. They were often pulled back at the sides to create a more rectangular shape for the face.

Source: lai yiching0926 on Pinterest.

Late 30s hairstyles.

Shoes

Again, full westernization here. 30s shoes had higher and thinner heels than 20s shoes, although they were still thicker and lower than modern stilettos. The heels were usually curved Louis heels. 30s shoes often had a single strap across the foot and a wrapped design at the toe. Spectator shoes and Oxfords that covered the whole foot were also worn. Likewise, strapless pumps were fashionable too, sometimes with an open toe design, especially toward the end of the decade.

Source: genibee on Flickr, link

1935 Sears catalogue. Maybe not very representative since shoes made by different companies looked different, just showing what was possible.

Interestingly, I have never seen an image of a 30s Chinese woman wearing boots or booties outside of an equestrian context. I guess boots either weren’t feminine enough or were too inconvenient under the long cheongsam.

Sportswear

A very interesting development in the 30s was the popularization of sportswear as a result of women doing sports. Wealthy or aristocratic Chinese women have been riding and hunting in an attempt to emulate European lifestyle since decades, but these sports remained elite and untouchable for common women; in the 30s however, more accessible sports like swimming, volleyball and tennis became in vogue. The popularity of swimming was in large part due to the influence of female swimming champion 杨秀琼 Yang Xiuqiong (her name is spelled differently in Cantonese because she was from Hong Kong), who was seen as a national hero for winning a ton of medals in international swimming competitions and breaking records. China began trying to participate in Olympic games around this period and there were also many other women athletes competing in different sports, so sportswear became a necessity.

The design of swimwear in this period followed closely the design of Western bathing suits, usually a tight, short, one piece bodysuit.

Source here

1933 cover of The Young Companion featuring Yang in a swimsuit. There was a stigma around female swimmers at this time though, mostly because of the revealing clothing they had to wear to allow freedom of movement. Many press reports called Yang a “mermaid” because of her physical beauty, trying to reduce her to a sex icon instead of the glorious athlete she actually was. All of the whack rumors about her being a concubine of some rich dude was also really disgusting and distracting from her achievements.

I’ve also seen multiple times this two piece design with shorts and a modernized 肚兜 dudou (a Qing Dynasty undergarment with a function akin to that of a corset cover).

Source: EMKAY on Pinterest

30s pinup girl in two piece swimsuit.

For land sports, women usually wore a short sleeved open collar shirt with shorts, short knit socks and flat pumps.

Source: Jason Tse on Pinterest

1933 cover of The Young Companion featuring a tennis player.

Makeup

The makeup look of the early 30s was almost identical to the late 20s look, with the thin, elongated eyebrows, large oval shaped blush and delicate red/mauve lips. This continued all the way until around 1938-39.

Toward the end of the decade, the eyebrows started to return to a normal thickness and became kind of arched instead of flat. Eyeshadows became lighter or non-existent. Women used cake mascara to darken their eyelashes, which were separated and evenly spread out. The location of the blush moved slightly downward. Red lipstick was still the most popular but the lips were plumper than in the early 30s. Overall very subtle and small changes to makeup. There were a bunch of Western and Japanese makeup companies trading in China at this point, I couldn’t name any specific ones beside Nivea which was quite popular for affordable skincare products like cream and sunscreen. I assume that actresses and pinup girls would also use Max Factor, but I’m not sure how widely used his products were among the general population. The Hong Kong brand 广生行 Kwong Sang Hong (whose Shanghai branch was called 双妹 “Twin Sisters” and whose advertisements we have seen too many times in this series) was also really popular.

I know I promised to talk about makeup more in this post but unfortunately there really isn’t much to talk about :( So see you next time when I dig into the 1940s!

#1930s #art deco #vintage hair #vintage accessories #vintage shoes #vintage lingerie #chinese history #chinese fashion #historic fashion #vintage #vintage makeup #vintage sportswear #cheongsam #qipao #abridged history of early 20th century chinese womenswear

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shortiedreams · 3 years ago

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Nobles in the night

Requested by @jwxei

Pairing: Bakugo x (fem) Reader

Synopsis: You’re a princess set out to kill the king of your nation. Will you succeed?

Word count: 1,821

CW: Attempted murder

A/N: Played ‘Phantom of the Opera’ soundtracks whilst writing this. Dying right now ✌️

“The hour of the ball has transpired.” a hushed voice came from behind the entrance.

With the help of his usual dynamic tone, Bakugo immediately recognises the familiar voice of his fidus Achates, Kirishima Eijiro.

“Very well.” he sighs, and Kirishima could almost hear a frown through his raspy voice.

None of this was going the way Bakugo wanted it to, yet he couldn’t back out anymore; it was simply too late.

“I’ll be taking my leave then, your majesty.” Kirishima reports.

“Please do.”

Bakugo examines his profile in the gilded mirror. He glowers at his own reflection, how outlandish he looked in his formal attire. Even short of the mantle cloak he was supposed to wear tonight, everything about what he’s dressed himself was far too extravagant for his liking.

He poses again with several new angles as if his judgements will change in one swift movement, but of course, it still feels improper.

He drops his eyes in defeat, succumbing to the unadorned fact that he was going to have to get used to the policies of being king.

He has no idea why everyone worshipped the throne. All he ever wanted was to live a secluded life with his family and friends.

In actuality, that was what he had before the Mediterranean War a year prior to the present, wiping out the entirety of his family, ergo his newfound entitlement: the king. Kirishima was the only part of his childhood that remained, the only part of his childhood he still had physical contact with. It wasn’t surprising to say that he was very attached to the man, granting him the chancellor’s position.

Which is why with Kirishima and his family’s former support, it was impossible for him to deny the tradition of the annual ball no matter how much he opposes it. He hates the notion of prattling aristocrats shattering his peace and quietness. Even more so of his invitation to you, the Princess of Agathinos, under the monarchy’s recommendation. This would be the first time a guest with royal blood would visit the palace ever since his family’s death.

As always, Bakugo initially wanted to decline, but Kirishima advised him that he should accept it since it was ‘time’ for him to start courting. He thought Kirishima was being a nuisance, then again he also didn’t want to be looked down on by the aristocrats. He already knows there are rumours of him, calling him all sorts of names like ‘boorish to women’ or ‘ a critter of another nation’.

Bakugo was a smart man, so it didn’t take him much to realise that if he really terminated these accustomed traditions, the public would cause unnecessary commotions. Therefore, for the sake of his future peace and his reputation, the ball is set to commence tonight.

Bakugo snaps out of his sombre daze as he reaches the doors to his chamberlains. He fixes himself, coughs a little, before the doors open and he’s now striding out into the hallway.

Two handmaids are waiting outside his chambers on cue, guiding him to the ballroom. Bakugo glances around the normally dimmed hall, spotting the marshals line-up in armour and the walls decorated with large candles and Renaissance artifacts. He could hear the distant melodies of the orchestra, currently playing some melodramatic composition. Amidst the lively energy of the hall, Bakugo thought that these attributes only made the area more inhumane.

Bakugo soon enters the top of the stairway, where he adjusts himself as he sits on his throne. He doesn’t even get a few seconds to himself and the guests are already flooding into the ballroom, producing a discord between the music and the chatters.

“Just great.” he grumbles to himself, resting his chin atop a fisted hand.

“For the stead of my parents and the kingdom.” you remind yourself.

You too were sitting in front of your vanity mirror, questioning yourself of your affairs.

You stare into the mirror long and hard. The dress you were currently wearing is the embodiment of an icy blue oasis. The crystal embroidery embellished on the outermost tulle of the skirt was your definition of a wintery wonderland. The rest of your body was touched up with matching accessories too: diamond earrings, silk gloves and silver hair ornaments. Everything about your outfit shone under the moonlight, but you didn’t, you merely blended in with the dark. Especially with the expression you were holding, no one was going to see you as a ‘princess’.

The reason for your morose mien was your parents, who weren’t attending the ball alongside you as they were busied with engagements arranged overseas.

The only thing they left behind for you was the invitation card, and a letter explicitly telling you to the murder the king.

At the time you read the letter, you were shocked at how your parents could possibly craft up an assassination plot with such detail. You weren’t oblivious to your parents being megalomaniacs; it was why they were away most of the time, focus directed towards any other royalty overseas rather than their own daughter back at home.

Another reason why they never really bothered with you was because you were a daughter. Although you were an only child, you understood that society’s misogynistic ways definitely influenced their lack of attention towards you.

It's not like you and your family had a bad relationship but you weren’t exactly close either, therefore you didn’t have enough memories to form any opinions on them. Well that is up until now, when the confidential letter telling you the kill the king ceaselessly echoes through your mind.

Brazen of you, but you wanted to get some of your family’s attention for once. In a sense, you inherited their selfishness.

You temporarily shake off your thoughts, and with the minimal amount of dignity left in you, tread along to where your chauffeur was, waiting to escort you to the plaza - the location of the castle.

Inside the privacy of your cart, the thoughts of how the assassination will go runs through your mind as you fiddle nervously on the holster underneath your dress.

You just hope you’ll manage to come out in one piece.

The moment you make your ‘grand’ entrance at the ball, strangers are already gushing at you as a peculiar redhead announces your status.

You realise that this was probably your first official appearance in public as your parents never let you out, contradicting their own actions.

You waste no time to ask around for the location of the lavatories. Luckily, the same redhead fills you in on the information you need, and you manage to make a quick escape to the toilets.

You shut the doors behind you, puffing in pure relief. You were never good with crowds since you haven’t even been outside after all, so the comfort of this cloistered space warms you a little.

Anyway, you’re here to collect yourself before you even dare to think about killing anyone.

It takes you a while to calm your breathing as the plan continues to play through your mind for what feels like an eternity. Killing really is all that disturbing.

When you finally muster up enough courage, you step out of the lavatory with undeveloped confidence. Flushing, you look down at your feet as you attempt to make your way back into the ballroom, not even noticing the man standing straight ahead. You stumble into him ungraciously, earning you a merited knock on the head.

“Ouch.” you wince in pain.

Your eyes drift up to meet with a prepossessing blonde who gazes down at you with an amused guise. He was dressed in haute couture, a form-fitting navy suit pinned with the golden emblem of the Bakugo’s: a griffin.

Without a second glance, you instantly note that he’s the king.

“Careful, Princess of Agathinos.” he alerts, his voice suiting as the most soothing cord of notes you’ve heard pour out of a mouth in a while.

How did he recognise you?

“You dropped something, princess.” Stupefied, you watch in awe as he bends down to pick up your possession.

Moments later, you finally knock yourself out to check what’s fallen off your outfit. In vain, you find all your accessories precisely in their designated locations.

Wait.

“A dagger?” he taunts, raising a brow in your way, “Mind explaining why you need this in a clearly guarded place?”

“My King, I-”

“Don’t have anything to defend yourself with?” Your eyes widen at his accurate observation.

Unnerved, you flee from his light grasp and begin pacing in the opposite direction witlessly.

“Running away from me in my premises. How fatuous.” he chuckles to himself, inspecting the dagger that played in his hands.

You dash tirelessly past the postern and into what appears to be a garden. You don’t give a second thought as you bolt through a vineyard, the chiffon fabric tufting together under the remiss handling of your silk gloves.

Reaching the mouth of an inviting forest, you feel a pair of arms repelling you from going any further. Your eyes widen once more, not being able to tell if you were gratified or terrified, or a genuine mixture of both.

“I wouldn’t go there if I were you.” the flattery music blows into your ear.

Absent from warnings, two strong arms spin your waist around to engage you with a handsome physique under the moonlight. You shudder at the enchanting sight of the king.

If he’s run all the way here for you unaccompanied, it is only alright for you to assume that he doesn’t care about the incident back there.

He seems to be more interested in you, like you are with him.

“Please don’t run, princess. I’m not the beast that everyone deems me to be.”

You show no apparent reaction to his comment, still fazed.

“Don’t be afraid.” he adds, sounding ever so sincere.

“Oh, I won’t.” you promise. It was the only thing you could say after being completely infatuated by him.

“If you’re saying that on account of me releasing you, then you’re wrong, princess.”

“I mean it, your majesty.” you clarify challengingly.

He hums, palpably entertained, “Will you allow me to try something?”

Was the king seriously asking you for permission even after he knew you were a threat?

Oh lord.

“S-sure.” you stutter, making a downright fool out of yourself.

“Well then, forgive me for my bold deed.”

Before you could even say anything, you feel the sensation of his soft lips pressing against yours, juxtaposing to his unyielding image beneath the moonlight. It sent butterflies fluttering down your back impetuously.

Slowly pulling away for air, a silence hovers above the both of you, utterly enraptured by each other.

“Bewitching.” he comments as he leans in for another kiss. This time you lid your eyes, prepared to devote yourself to your king, Bakugo Katsuki.

#bakugou x you #mha bakugo katsuki #bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #bakugou x y/n #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha fluff #bakugo fluff #fluff ahoy #fluff

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amphtaminedreams · 4 years ago

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Sitting Front Row at...(On a Budget Obvs): Lookbook no.15

Hey to anyone reading!

And welcome to my fave lookbook I’ve done in a longggg ass time! Yes, that’s partially because it involved making collages and doing the low effort work of scouring Vogue Runway for “research purposes”, but I promise, that statement wasn’t made out of COMPLETE laziness-I am super happy with it too. It’s been a good use of pre-part-lockdown-lift time in the interim between that brief period of Christmas celebrations and eateries finally fucking opening again because let’s be honest, I always knew I was gonna get distracted by oat milk vanilla lattes and veggie all day breakfasts once I could actually sit down with them at my fave local cafe. You could say I was very much operating on a self-imposed deadline.

The “what I would wear to sit front row at...[insert designer here]” TikTok/Instagram reel trend was something I wanted to get on board with ever since I first saw one and whilst the option of doing my own live action take-I really cannot bear the thought of having to edit footage of myself awkwardly attempting to sit nonchalantly in front of a camera for hours on end-was off the cards considering my complete lack of screen presence, I decided a Tumblr text post would work just as well, and if not even better in a way. Given the absence of the time limitations you face when you’re making a reel or a TikTok I thought it’d be cool to present the looks as part of a mini moodboard for each designer which adds a bit of context to each look even if you aren’t familiar with their past collections and establishes the general vibe of the brand I’m attempting to replicate. Not to sound snotty or as if I am the font of all knowledge on anything high fashion related but even with my amateur knowledge I noticed that as the video trend took off and was adopted by big name influencers, it became less about the average person putting their own personal spin on the aesthetic of the labels we can’t ordinarily afford and more about them building outfits that only vaguely resemble the general public perception of the brand around the real corresponding (and often gifted and thus inaccessible to someone who doesn’t makes thousands for a sponsored post) pieces they own SO I thought I’d take the trend back to its roots and get a bit resourceful. All that being said, in no particular order, here are the outfits I would wear to sit front row at Gucci, Vera Wang, Miu-Miu, Marc Jacobs, Dolce & Gabbana, Brock Collection, Alexander McQueen, Etro, Burberry aaaand Saint Laurent based on their past collections and guess what? They didn’t cost a shit tonne of money :-)

-disclaimer: will include an asterisk before any new purchases if from a high street store though to be honest, I don’t think there are any, we shall see! I do include where I got old purchases from in case anyone wants to search anything on Depop/Ebay-

1. Saint Laurent (formerly Yves Saint Laurent)

-blazer from identityparty on Depop, pleather trousers from Zara, jewellery from Dolls Kill-

I know technically abbreviating Saint Laurent to YSL doesn’t really make much sense anymore given the brand’s name change in 2012, but I’ll always think of it as that in the same way I’ll always associate it with the slightly dishevelled yet simultaneously glitzy rock n’ roll aesthetic. The thing is, whilst YSL hasn’t done anything wildly out of the box for a long time, it’s rare they put a look on the runway that I wouldn’t wear; they never end up being a fashion week standout but the Parisienne take on grunge we’ve seen Anthony Vaccarello establish as his go-to will always have a place in my heart.

2. Alexander McQueen

-embroidered leather jacket from Ebay (originally Topshop), harness from Amazon, dress from ASOS, boots from Koi Vegan Footwear-

Alexander McQueen is a brand that is pretty much universally liked, from the historically extravagant and groundbreaking shows the man himself put together to Sarah Burton’s more toned down but still beautiful collections. Obviously I didn’t attempt to do justice to the former, so I tried my hand at putting together a look inspired by Sarah’s blend of delicate femininity and nomadic edge, and it went...okay? Like it’s definitely not my favourite of all the looks because it does give off slightly cheap copycat vibes buuut outside of the context of this lookbook it’s cute.

3. Brock Collection

-boater hat from Ebay, midi skirt from morganogle on Depop, corset top from ownmode_, heels from amybeckett1, bag from Primark-

Brock isn’t as well known a brand as most of the others in this list but I adore everything Laura Vassar Brock does and I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to try and channel the vision of one of the OG pioneers of the cottagecore vibe through my own wardrobe. I mean fr, this woman’s work as a steady provider of meadow photoshoot worthy dresses and corsets and skirts is v slept on and I will not stand for it. I will sit in front of a camera and then write a paragraph in my blog post begging anybody who reads to give LVB (an abbreviation I acknowledge is unlikely to catch on because Lisa Vanderpump anybody?) some form of acknowledgement for her services to period romance novel inspired moodboards everywhere.

4. Marc Jacobs

-coat from House of Sunny, white shirt from Retro World Camden, co-ord from Sugar Thrillz, bag from Poppy Lissiman-

If there’s one thing Marc Jacobs always does, it’s COMMITS. TO. HIS. THEME. I just KNOW he has a secret Pinterest with separate boards for every fashion era of the 20th century and he is putting those boards to good use providing us with collections that are as immersive as they are eclectic year in year out.

5. Miu Miu

-beret from H&M, hair clips from H&M, jewellery from Primark, coat from mollyyemmaa on Depop, shirt from YesStyle, sweater vest from YesStyle, skirt from Depop, diamanté belt from Brandy Melville, shoes from Koi Vegan Footwear-

We all like to talk about Bratz dolls and Monster High dolls and Barbies as fashion inspo but can we all focus on Cabbage Patch dolls for two secs so as to acknowledge the fact that a Miu Miu collection is basically all their fits grown up? And made boujie as fuck? If I want my fix of Wes Anderson meets Scream Queens (what a combo) inspired outfits, if I want prissy and girlish but also glam, if I want to look like a bratty rich girl whose one redeeming quality is her eye for vintage clothes, I know where to look and that is the Miu Miu section of Vogue Runway.

6. Vera Wang

-blazer as in no.1, velvet bralet from catdegaris on Depop, harness from Amazon, skirt from Ebay, knee high socks from Ebay, lace up boots from Ebay-

Vera Wang’s RTW aesthetic, a blend of the ethereal, ultra-feminine bridal designs she’s known for and British style punk rock influences, is something I feel has only become firmly established in recent years but it is everything I ever wanted and more. I always find myself trying to balance the part of me that loves everything girly and delicate and pretty and the part of me that would love to be in a biker gang and Vera’s collections are always an inspirational reminder of just how well it can be done.

7. Burberry

-coat from charity shop, suit from emmafisher3 on Depop, top from simranindia, shirt underneath from Zara, jewellery from ASOS-

Now I’m not gonna lie, I’m not the biggest fan of Burberry but there have been a few looks over the past few years I’ve really liked and as someone who owns numerous trench coats, high necks and way too much plaid, I thought it’d be an easy one to replicate. Plus, if you can count on Riccardo Tisci for nothing else you at least can rely on him giving you some layering inspo which is very much needed in a country where it literally just snowed in April and where my plans for today have just been cancelled because the iPhone weather app did a Karen Smith and didn’t predict rain for today right up until it started raining so thanks for that one British meteorologists. Your incompetence strikes again.

8. Etro

-corset from Urban Outfitters, vinyl trench coat from Topshop, boots from Ebay, black slip dress from kaoanaoleinik on Depop, fur trim afghan coat from louisemarcella-

Like with Brock Collection, Etro isn’t a hugely well known brand, but it is always one of my favourites-to add a spanner into the works of any attempts to cultivate a firm sense of personal style, I live for the ornate Bohemian look that Etro does so well just as much as I love both grungy and girly pieces, and so I really wanted to include a brand whose collections go down that route. It was a toss-up between this and Zimmerman, the flirtier, free spirit counterpart to the dark romance of Veronica Etro’s designs; her vision really shines through the most when it comes to the brand’s winter collections, imo, and given that I live in a country where winter or some weather state resembling it does seem to take up 70% of the year, I did decide on channelling her work rather than that of the equally talented Nicky and Simone Zimmermann this time round.

9. Dolce & Gabbana

-flower crown from ASOS, tiara from Amazon, earrings from YesStyle, dress from alicealderdice1 on Depop, opera gloves from Ebay, boots from Koi Vegan Footwear-

D&G is a brand I felt really conflicted about doing-I don’t include their current collections in my fashion week reviews based on the actions of designers Stefano Gabbana and Domenico Dolce over the last few years because I don’t want to mitigate the collective effort of fashion critics to push them towards irrelevancy. Though people like to claim the brand has turned a corner since Lucio Di Rosa was brought on board as the manager of celebrity and VIP relations last year (they are as prolific a force on red carpet fashion as ever), we haven’t seen any real meaningful apologies or reparations made by Dolce and Gabbana themselves which once again leaves us in the all too familiar quandary of whether or not we can separate the art from the artist especially when it is far too much of a simplification to only credit the two men for their work given there’s a whole design team behind them. There are a LOT of shitty people working in fashion, the whole industry is a bit of a cesspit if we’re honest, but I don’t think that should stop us from at least being able to appreciate old collections if we make sure we aren’t engaging in any kind of promotion of current works whilst doing so. D&G are a brand of high highs and low lows, with looks that range from hideously ugly to showstoppingly beautiful in a single show-when the looks are good, they are GOOD-and their presence in the fashion world is most definitely felt whether we want it to be or not. It would just be shit to refuse to recognise the existence of some real iconic runway moments, the practical work that went into the ornate detail and opulence that helped cement D&Gs place in sartorial history, the styling that’s made goddesses and fairytale queens out of modern day women as they’ve glided down catwalks, the far more extravagant and, let’s be real, sexier version of our world D&G shows have transported us to in the past. Will I talk about D&G ever again? No, and if you Google the scandals their brand has faced over the past few years, there are more than enough reasons why, but just this once I did want to pay homage to some of the collections, the snippets of which I saw on my Tumblr dashboard back when I was about 13, that first got me into fashion.

10. Gucci

-fur coat from Topshop, clips from Zaful, glasses from Ebay, dress from gracewright246 on Depop, shirt from Boohoo, blazer from charity shop-

Now last but, if you ever read any of my fashion week reviews (the likelihood of someone actually having read one of them and reading this is incredibly, incredibly slim lol, I wouldn’t read me either) you’ll know, definitely not least, is Gucci because Alessandro Michele comes through every!! single!! time!!

The man is truly the king of quirky throwback maximalism and it hurts my heart that a lot of people seem to think of it only as a brand associated with ostentatious displays of wealth. Year after year since Michele was made creative director he has released purposeful, fully-fleshed out collections which unravel themselves to us on the runway like time capsules containing the belongings of the rich and whimsical and yes that can sometimes result in outfits which are *ahem* a bit mismatched but it doesn’t matter because through fashion he manages to take us to a vivid version of the past where people could dress as freely and lavishly as they wanted to, into the wardrobe of a person unaffected by the side-eyeing of others. You get the impression he doesn’t design so much as plays around with some kind of enchanted dress up box and takes inspiration from there and to give that impression is only a credit to his talent-to make outfits so kooky and extravagant look like they were meant to be takes a boldness and genuine love for clothes that I do tend to feel a lot of the big name designers have lost in the pursuit of profit and the necessary placating of the dying customer base that keeps that coming in. Of course I'm not for a second saying Gucci does not care about profit, but at the very least, they have on board a creative director who genuinely has fun with what they’re putting out there and wants to make a statement too and that really shows; you can rest on your laurels and sell tweed boucle jackets to rich old white women for eternity but nobody’s going to mention your brand name and the word groundbreaking in the same sentence ever again unless they’re talking about what it was a century ago, you know (mentioning no names...unless...did I hear someone say Chanel)? That feels like such a shady way to end, lol, but I’m sure said brand will survive-to be fair, they’ve been included in every other What I’d Wear to Sit Front Row At video I’ve seen so although I’m always slagging them off for doing the saaaaame thinggggg year after year, for that same reason their aesthetic is instantly recognisable and so will always be a source of imitation. There are obviously pros and cons to being a brand which constantly reinvents itself but I think it’s totally possible to do that whilst maintaining an overall mission, and Alessandro Michele’s work at Gucci demonstrates that with ease.

Anyway, if you got to here, thanks for reading! I know I’m super behind on this whole TikTok trend and I know a Tumblr post instead of a video is a bit of a cop out but all the real, physically awkward ones out there know that watching yourself back is excruciating lmao, so I hope this does the trick. After this, I’m gonna get back to the reviewing S/S21 collections post though knowing me I’ll probs take a few days to get back into that because I feel like since I left full-time education (RIP me going back in a few months) writing continuously like this for any longer than about 15 mins fries what brain cells I have left. Again, thank you for reading and if you are, sending many good vibes your way! Stay safe!

Lauren x

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gretchensinister · 3 years ago

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@alienfuckeronmain tagged me in this and I almost missed it because tumblr didn’t notify me! What a website! Anyway I love these things here we go

rules: tag nine people you want to get to know better/catch up with!

favourite colour: Purple! All kinds of purple! I think it is a peculiarly queer, and peculiarly excessive color. It is never the most correct color for any ocassion

currently reading: Cycle of the Werewolf by Stephen King-It’s Stephen Kingy *shrugs*; Beauty by Robin McKinley, this is my favorite Beauty and the Beast novel; The King of Crows by Libba Bray, this is the fourth and last book in a series called The Diviners, I highly recommend it; Black Sun by Rebecca Roanhorse, fantasy setting is based on pre-Columbian Americas, also highly recommended and I hope it has a sequel; Octavia’s Brood, a collection of science fiction stories by activists and while I get the project um…21st century activist-essay language often clunks severely when it shows up in dialogue.

last song: Actually don’t know what I last listened to but I’ve had “I’m Looking For A Miracle” by Albert and Gage stuck in my head quite loudly for a while

last movie: Sour Grapes, which is a documentary about wine fraud, objectively the best crime. The movie was not as much on the side of the fraudster as I wanted it to be. I think more people should commit wine fraud. Look. The point of wine is to taste good and get you drunk. If someone thinks they need to spend $20,000 or more on a bottle of wine to do that, they deserve to have their money stolen.

last series: Finished? She-Ra and the Princesses of Power. Series with an episode I watched most recently? Penny Dreadful. OMG this show sucks but I’m watching it with friends. There are elements that I would be into but the show is doing them all in the worst/dumbest way. HOW

sweet, spicy or savory: I’ll go with savory though I really find questions like this very difficult. There are different moods and occasions for all flavors!

craving: The opening of the US-Canada bordeeeeeer. I guess I could also go for some fresh-baked bread, which has the advantage of being something I can actually do something about.

tea or coffee: Coffee, though it absolutely does keep me awake and exacerbates my anxiety. The market doesn’t understand my need for decaf cold brew.

currently working on: Well I had a pair of wide legged pants that inexplicably ripped in the dryer, so I’m turning those into a skirt. Also I think that the trend for this summer should be metallics, so I’m going to make another skirt with alternating layers of silver lame and royal purple chiffon. The goal is to be shiny enough to take down planes in flight on sunny days. (I have no idea what actual fashion trends are. It’s simply metallic time.) I’m also knitting opera-length gloves with kind of an intense cable pattern on the arm, can’t even think about how long that’s going to take. Writing-wise, I’m editing another novel to self-publish (almost done but then I meet formatting, my old enemy), lightly editing another story to finally go on ao3, getting bogged down in what was meant to be merely an enthusiastic exercise in problematic smut but now the second half turned into musing about how to deal with isolation and the different levels of being screwed over that are part of contemporary capitalism, and procrastinating on that project with what SO FAR is the start of a familiar and comfortable blacksand short. Phantom of the Opera fic and my space opera are not forgotten but they are not as active as all these other things. Also I’m homebrewing mead but all I need to do for that is let it sit.

I tag @tejoxys, @marypsue, @queerpyracy, @purplebloodedmajesty, @incurablenecromantic, @ducktoothcollection, @cenobitesquid, @airagorncharda, @rachie-neyiea if you want! And everyone else please be aware that my selection process for tags is somewhat haphazard!

#rambling #meme

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shatteredxglass · 3 years ago

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Just some romantic headcanons for Elias that I can’t stop thinking about don’t mind me:

Elias is actually a hopeless romantic at heart, no matter how much he tries to deny it. While he claims to only enjoy reading about history and science, he does have a secret collection of romantic literature. His personal favorites being period piece enemies to lovers stories (for example stories like Emma or Pride and Prejudice). He also usually includes a soft romantic element to his Operas, no matter how dark the ending he has planned may be. The only exception being “The War of the Wolf and the Fox.��

Elias despite his family background actually doesn’t care much in the terms of someone else’s wealth, social standing, criminal background, etc. Once he’s in love, he’s in love and who the person is cannot change that. He was never expected to marry in his family anyway due to being trans, thus he never developed the same bias his siblings have.

Elias’ love language is definitely physical affection, once he’s gotten used to expressing it with his partner. His family life was extremely rigid and unaffectionate, thus Elias is not used to expressing it or receiving it. At first it would feel almost too intimate to him. He’d prefer gift giving at first, or simply sharing in his partner’s company. But once he actually realizes how starved for touch and affection he is, he’ll end up being very touchy. This is something that can start even during the platonic stages of his relationship with his partner. Where Elias will absentmindedly use more romantic displays of affection than one would expect from a friend.

Given his family’s noble background, of course Elias grew up with strict focus on manner, etiquette, and how to behave in polite society. This left him with several hard to break habits, such as his pension for wearing gloves. One of the other things is that he rarely refers to other’s by their first name, and expects others to call him by his last name. Even incredibly close friends (you know if he had any-). Elias considers the use of first names to be very intimate. Thus he is not prone to using them unless under special circumstance, or if it just so happens to be his partner. One of the best ways to actually fluster Elias is to just hold him, and whisper his first name.

The first time Elias realizes he is truly, romantically in love with someone he is immediately going to be overwhelmed. Because it is an emotion he’s never truly felt before, and he’d have no idea what to do with it. He always prides himself on being able to logically act in any given circumstance. But love is an emotion that drives people illogically. Worse so it was almost completely neglected within his family. Thus Elias might never be the first to approach someone simply because he doesn’t know how to. However, if his potential love interest approaches him and confesses first, they’ll be in for a little bit of an unfortunate surprise. Where the stress and unexpected shock of the confession (as Elias is quite terrible at reading into other people’s emotions) will end up having a nosebleed out of stress and shock. He also will likely get a similar nosebleed in the chance that he is the one confessing first.

#{{and he shall fall in a kingdom of stained glass;; about}}

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dontasktheradiodemon · 4 years ago

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Quasi-Confession

Alastor visits @hiss-and-vinegar Sir Pentious in the boiler room and then shit hits the fans.

Listen. Some of y’all are following for the relationship drama, right? For the soap opera action? That good good telenovela shit? This is the thread you want to read. This is the thread you’ve been waiting for. It’s got what you want. It’s got what you crave. It’s got this:

Sir Pentious moves back, out of the way suddenly, staring at Alastor like he's a different person. Was this even possible? He.... "ARE YOU IN LOVE WITH ME, ALASSSTOR???"

Brace yourselves for an emotional roller coaster.

Sir Pentious

Local snake is waiting in the boiler room, which is still pretty difficult to navigate. Watch your head, you might bump it on a pipe or cable. Or some slab of metal. Sir Pentious has an easy time moving around in here, CLEARLY you are just clumsy. He's flicking about on his phone, sending another message to Alastor to let him know where he can be found.

He sends his usual tophat :3 emoji along with it.

Alastor

It’s mere seconds before Alastor replies with a “🎶 ✔️✔️✔️” and only a few more seconds after that before he’s arrived, knocking on the door before letting himself in with a cheery “Hello~!”

He COULD have just teleported straight into the room rather than in front of the door. But he remembers how that went for his double. He’s not risking it.

Sir Pentious

Ah! There's that familiar radio voice. Penny's head swivels towards the source and he leans back against a workbench, flicking his tongue as he waves to the deerman.

"GREETINGSSSS, ALASSSTOR! GIVE ME YOUR HAND! OH, AND, I WANT TO SSSSEEE THE MUG, AS WELL."

Alastor

"Of course!" He offers over the travel mug with stacked layers of unhappy sinners depicting the rings of hell printed around it. "All of Hell, just for you, as well deserved. And mercifully free of any sad excuses for watered-down tea."

Although he was briefly tempted to fill it with hot water and claim it was one-second tea.

“Left or right?” He holds out both hands anyway, Sir Pentious can take whichever one he wants. (Also check out that bling on his left wrist. He’s got that watch Sir Pentious stole for him.) “You know I’m always eager to lend a hand, but I didn’t think it was going to be so literal!”

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious reaches over to take the mug, purrrrring as he looks it over. It is absolutely just a travel mug, but it was an offering! He is going to put it on his workbench.

Oh, and he does notice that watch! A large toothy grin spreads upon his face, and he takes hold of Alastor's left hand. That's more common for rings, isn't it?

The ring from Valera is clearly visible on his own hand. It shines in the warmth of the boiler room's lights.

Sir Pentious adjusts those multiple lensed glasses of his to get more accurate measurements, careful yet at the same time, rough. He squeezed at finger joints and pinched skin... He could be taking measurements for all kinds of things at this rate.

"GOOD TO SSEE YOU'RE GETTING USE OUT OF THE WATCH, ALASSSTOR! HAS IT HELPED YOU?"

Alastor

He got a horrible rasping cobra purr! He'd steal every tacky gimmicky mug from every cheesy souvenir shop in Pentagram City if he thought they'd earn him more purrs. (He didn't *buy* the mug, obviously.)

“Yes indeed!” He’s enjoyed admiring it. And listening to it tick. Sometimes he even checks the time with it, although he’s generally got a razor sharp internal clock. A big help. “And quite a handsome accessory it’s made, too! But then I knew I could trust your sense of style.”

He tries not to get overly lost in the sensation of his hand being manipulated. Those were such PRECISE measurements... By this point he has no idea what in the world Sir Pentious needs these measurements for, but considering the quantity he’s taking... After a moment of hesitation, Alastor asks, “How precise do these measurements need to be? Would taking my glove off help?”

Sir Pentious

The question stirs him, and Pentious tilts his head in thought. "WELL, NO... I CAN BUILD ANYTHING *UPON* YOUR GLOVE." There's that grin again, "I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU WITHOUT THEM! IT WOULD BE *INVASIVE*, WOULD IT NOT?"

Alastor

What in the world is he building? Alastor’s current best guess is a weapon. Some kind of mechanical robot glove. Something that needs fairly precise but not skintight dimensions. “It would only be invasive if you *demanded.* I’m freely volunteering it! But, no, I wouldn’t take my gloves off around just anyone.”

Sir Pentious

Tongue flick. Once. Twice. Sir Pentious takes the other hand, checking for any inconsistencies.

"UNLESS YOUR HANDS ARE GROTESQUE IN SSSSOME WAY, I NEED NOT SSSEE THEM! MY CURIOUSSSITY ISS NOT PIQUED!"

Is it weird to offer that? He's going to think on it idly later.

Alastor

“They’re shockingly normal,” he reassures him. “So if your measurements don’t need to be that precise, there’s no need for it!”

He’s not quite sure if he’s disappointed or relieved. Relieved, probably. He said it wouldn’t be invasive, but in truth he would feel more than a little exposed with his ungloved hand in someone’s grip.

Sir Pentious

He finally seems to finish up, and Penny scribbles down all the measurements he'd taken, with a barely legible scrawl. This was not the writing he used for letters, this was definitely his engineering scrawl.

"THERE WE ARE!! ALL FINISHED!!" Prr prr prr prr, "WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO NOW?"

Alastor

He’s studying Sir Pentious’s handwriting off and on as he scribbles, until he stops writing and Alastor focuses directly on his face as he speaks.

Oh—happy sounds. Alastor automatically echoes them in pulses of static. “Well—a fine question! What’s there to do down here?” He glances around the boiler room... then settles his gaze on Sir Pentious’s throat. “How about you give me that bow tie you promised me weeks ago, hm?”

Sir Pentious

Oh the eyes on his neck get a squint out of him, but the words that follow are more reassuring.

"OH, THAT OLD THING? I'D NEARLY FORGOTTEN."

Luckily he kept a bunch of random things in his jacket, and he began to fish around for it, "YOU SURE ARE GOOD AT REMINDING ME ABOUT THINGSSSS THAT HAPPENED WEEKSSSS AGO, ALASSSTOR."

Alastor

He opens his mouth to snark back—something about *having a working memory*—before he realizes Sir Pentious is referring to Alastor’s referring to Broadway. His mouth shuts with a click of his teeth like a dial turning off. “Hm.”

Sir Pentious

He's right, Sir Pentious' working memory is generally tied to the immediacy and things that pissed him off. The serpent continues digging around before he retrieves his old bowtie, holding up the accessory and looking at the yellow pendent in the center. He holds it up as if he were dangling a piece of meat, "HERE YOU ARE, OLD CHAP. THISSS ISS WHAT YOU ARE SSSEEKING, ISS IT NOT?"

Alastor

He feels a little bit like a dog being prompted to beg for a morsel. “If that’s what you’re offering!” He holds out his hand, palm up, for Sir Pentious to drop the bow tie in. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that if he tries to grab it, Sir Pentious is going to jerk it back.

Sir Pentious

*He would be right because Penny is that bitch.* But instead he drops it down into Alastor's waiting hand, "I HAVEN'T WORN IT SINCE I REMOVED IT WHEN I PUT ON YOURS. BUT I HAVE KEPT IT WITH ME, SSO! SSTILL WARM. NYA HA!" That's a weird thing to say. He won't think on it anymore.

Alastor

Alastor won’t think on it either. Which is to say, he will think on it A WHOLE LOT, RIGHT NOW, just not on the implications of the fact that Sir Pentious felt the need to point it out.

He tugs off his current bow tie with a flourish and slides the new one in place. “I’ll have to start wearing a little yellow so it doesn’t look out of place.” As he ties the bow tie, he casts a critical gaze down at his red-on-red-with-red-trim outfit, looking for something he can switch out or somewhere he can accessorize.

Sir Pentious

He's wearing a lot of yellow and black himself, so the red bowtie does have a bit of an out of place look, but to Sir Pentious, it was the prize that mattered. He had something of Alastor's, and those who were in the know would be able to recognize that much. A symbol, a victory, perhaps. Spoils and all that.

"A LITTLE YELLOW WOULD SUIT NICELY! MIGHT I SUGGEST A BLACK COAT WITH YELLOW PINTRIPES? NOT THAT YOU COULD SSSTEAL MY LOOK IF YOU TRIED! YOU'D NEED MORE EYESSS FOR THAT."

Alastor

He’s not quite so bold to ask if Sir Pentious has any old coats he’s willing to hand off—although the thought crosses his mind. “Ha! And look like one of your minions? Not if you don’t plan on hiring me full time.” He finishes with the bow and drops his hands, tipping up his chin to show it off. “Am I straight?”

Sir Pentious

A SHARP laugh, and Sir Pentious gestures to Alastor fondly. "NOT AT *ALL.* BUT YES, YOU LOOK FINE!! VERY STRIKING."

Alastor

He blinks a moment as he tries to work out why he’s being laughed at; then huffs. All right, fair enough. “Good to hear!” He stows away his recently-removed bow tie in the collection he’s been carrying around in his pocket.

Sir Pentious

What a shit eating grin from Pentious, who leans in suddenly VERY close to Alastor, much larger than the twig of a man.

"YOU MAKE IT SSOUND LIKE YOU'D ENJOY WORKING FOR ME! BEING BOSSED BY BETTERSSS? NYA HAHA, I MEAN THAT *AFFECTIONATELY*, OF COURSE. YOU'RE NO SSSTRATEGIST."

Alastor

He doesn’t lean back an inch. He just tips his head back, smiling up at Sir Pentious. “I don’t have betters.” And for a moment, his smile is very menacing. There are ways of teasing he’s fine with. That’s not one of them.

But the moment passes. It was, after all, intended affectionately. “However, I also don’t have ambitions! Not any more glamorous than entertaining myself. And I won’t lie, I’ve never found better entertainment than assisting with someone else’s grand ambitions. The drama! The pathos! It’s why I’m here, after all!” He gestures vaguely above them, indicating the hotel.

Sir Pentious

While others might realize their teasing fell flat, Sir Pentious remained in that competitive space, looking over The Radio Demon's wide, dangerous grin. He was no stranger to danger, not at all. Though Alastor did not consider him a rival, Sir Pentious couldn't help the sheer thrill he felt from the possibility of the two at one another's throats. Part of being in Hell, you know.

He follows Alastor's vague gesturing and makes a face, "YES, WELL, EVERYBODY KNOWS YOU DON'T ACTUALLY *CARE* ABOUT THE BETTERMENT OF *SSS*SINNERS. YOU ARE ALWAYS IN IT FOR YOUR OWN ENTERTAINMENT. BUT IF YOU WORK FOR ME, A MAN OF YOUR POWER, I WOULD PREFER IT IF YOU *DID* CARE ABOUT WHAT I AM TRYING TO DO!" Though he doesn't get too uppity about it, preferring instead to adjust his bowtie, "YOU'VE PUT IN A LOT OF EFFORT TO HELP ME WITH MY AIRSHIP, SO, I SHOULD HOPE IT ISSSSN'T A LONG CONFUSING GAME."

Alastor

A game? At that, Alastor draws back a little. He still thinks—? Well, of course, still. Of course still. It’s only been a few months. He’s going to be proving himself for years. He’s going to be proving himself for DECADES. “Oh, I get most of my entertainment from schadenfreude, that much is true—but with the hotel, I’m hoping to get my schadenfreude by watching it crash and burn. Around YOU, I get my schadenfreude from all the people you’ll be crushing on the way up.” A dark smile—almost a conspiratorial one, as if they’re discussing secret plans rather than goals that Sir Pentious regularly announces at top volume. “There’s very little interesting about man challenging the devil and losing—it’s what everyone expects, isn’t it? It’s the inevitable, the status quo. I can watch an overlord fail at that any day of the week. But man OVERTHROWING the devil—a mere mortal, rising up from the mud, becoming something greater than one of the very celestial powers that govern the universe—now THAT, that IS a show worth seeing! I want to see hubris rewarded!”

His eyes are glowing brighter as he leans closer to Sir Pentious. “And all of us who are so strong because of our postmortem superpowers, we dealmakers and bargainers—I don’t think any of us stand a chance. We’re just borrowing a measure of the power of infernal demons and fallen angels. A moon can’t outshine the sun whose light it’s reflecting. The only one who can do it must be a master of the one completely human power of creation: invention. It’s you or nobody. And ‘nobody’ is a terribly boring story.”

Sir Pentious

Their faces are practically together, these weird old men. His hood floops outward, and he stares at Alastor with all of his glowing red eyes. Menacing man. Sir Pentious cannot hold back the shrill cackle of glee that escapes his throat. "OF COURSE, YOU ARE CORRECT, ALASSSTOR! I BROUGHT INNOVATION TO THIS INFERNAL CESSPOOL-- EVERYTHING THAT I HAVE, THAT I AM, I BUILT IT MYSSSSELF, I WORKED FOR IT!!! THEY WILL ALL REGRET LAUGHING AT ME ONCE MY FACE IS *EVERYWHERE.*"

He loved to be praised, so much. Look at him preening again, it gave color to his patterns and his ego hungered for more. Power coursed through his veins at the mere thought of being better than everyone else. His blood would taste sweet with ambition.

Alastor

“If one knows where to look, in one way or another your influence is visible in every building down here. You’ve already shaped Hell! Anyone who doesn’t recognize that is an idiot!” And that kind of technological prowess MATTERS to Alastor, whatever the TV/satellite/computer/Internet bozos think to the contrary. He lived a life on the technological cutting edge. “Once your face is everywhere, if you command it, they won’t be AROUND to regret it anymore.”

And oh, he can’t wait to see it.

In the meantime, seeing Sir Pentious with his ego freshly fluffed is nearly as good a sight. For a moment Alastor swears Sir Pentious looks more *vivid.* Alastor has to force himself to lean back before he does something stupid.

Sir Pentious

He's polishing his talons on his suit, then admiring them as if they were freshly painted. Sir Pentious *purrs*, looking over to Alastor without turning his head, and all of his eyes follow suit.

"MM. YOU KNOW JUSSST WHAT TO SSSAY. I'VE MISSED HAVING YOU AROUND, MY FRIEND."

Alastor

“I’ve missed *being* around.” There’s an edge of desperation to his tone before he reels it back in. Professional charismatic radio host voice. “Everyone else down here is so boring. You can’t imagine!”

Sir Pentious

"HA!" He wiggles his talons as he begins to slither around, over and under various pipes and cables, maneuvering his lengthy body with ease and fluidity. "OH, I ASSURE YOU, I CAN! I HAVE BEEN HERE MUCH LONGER THAN YOU, ALASSSTOR. THERE WAS A TIME I USED TO BE EAGER TO ENCOUNTER NEW ARRIVALS, TO SSSEE HOW THE WORLD HAD CHANGED AS TIME WENT ON, BUT THEY BECAME SSO MUCH MORE **BORING**. TRUE CLASS AND SSTYLE HASS BEEN LOSST TO THE LIVING WORLD, YOU UNDERSTAND."

Alastor

"True enough! Everything's so... *cheap* these days." He watches Sir Pentious slither around. "Somebody's got to show these sinners some proper class and style. And if you want something done right..."

Sir Pentious

Glowing eyes in shadows, anywhere that's not lit up by the extra lights Sir Pentious has added. It's a stark contrast from light to shadow, and he beams, coming up behind Alastor, though carefully. He doesn't touch him, "YOU NEED ONLY LOOK TO SSSIR PENTIOUS! HA!!"

Alastor

He glances back over his shoulder without turning, beaming back just as brightly. "And truer words were never said."

Sir Pentious

Just two guys being dudes.

"ALASSSTOR, IT REALLY IS INTERESTING THAT YOU DON'T WANT *MORE.* YOU REALLY COULD HAVE IT ALL... OH, BUT THEN WE REALLY WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO CHAT LIKE THIS, EH? WHAT A SHAME! CAN'T HAVE THAT."

Alastor

“Can’t have that!” He turns to lean back against a table so he can see Sir Pentious directly again. “I COULD, but I don’t WANT it all. I’m an entertainer, not a... a mad scientist warrior king. YOU could have a stupendous career as a circus contortionist, but I doubt you’d be any more content with that than I would be stuck on a throne making tedious decisions about infernal infrastructure and Hellish cabinet posts. I don’t want subjects—I want an audience.”

His smile twitches toward a grimace. He mutters, “I wouldn’t mind more of *that*—but I certainly wouldn’t get it as a conqueror.”

Sir Pentious

"WELL, I COULD GET YOU AN AUDIENCE! ONCE I'VE TAKEN THIS EMPIRE FOR MYSELF, THERE SHALL NOT BE ANY EMPTY SEATS TO WORRY ABOUT!" He beams, spreading out his arms, "AND THEN! OH, WELL, WE'D HAVE TO CHANGE THINGS UP EVERY FEW YEARS, SO IT DOESN'T BECOME BORING."

Alastor

"Would you?" Alastor brightens again. "I mean, I know you COULD do that, no doubt there—but would you really?"

Sir Pentious

Look at him smiling. He's smiling so much at Alastor. "WHY, OF COURSE! IF WE ARE WORKING *TOGETHER*, THEN I HAVE NO ISSUE WITH THAT. IT WILL BE *FUN* WATCHING WHATEVER YOU DO TO THEM!"

He flicks his talons this way and that, slithering through the pipe maze again. *Enrichment.*

Alastor

His eyes glitter at the thought of it. A captive audience, provided by no less a personage than the ruler of Hell. True, he’d rather his audience listen to him out of adoration rather than fear—he’s an entertainer, after all!—but they can work out the details later. He was adored before. All he needs is to be listened to again, to be given a chance to prove himself, and he’ll be adored again. He’s sure of it.

“I’m counting that as a promise!” Oh, he’s excited just as the THOUGHT of it. He taps a foot on the floor as some bouncy Harlem stride plays in the background under his words. “If you’re irritated now at me for remembering things you did weeks ago, you’re going to hate me when I remind you about this promise in a few years! Ha!”

Sir Pentious

A cackle from the rafters as Sir Pentious slithers around up there.. He finally hangs upside down in front of Alastor with that large familiar grin.

"OH, I AM CERTAIN I WON'T HEAR THE END OF IT! BUT I CANNOT IGNORE THAT YOU HAVE *HELPED* ME. I DISLIKE BEING INDEBTED TO ANYONE, BUT I CANNOT PRETEND OTHERWISE!"

He tips his hat, which is miraculously staying on his head.

"I DO NOT SHAKE HANDS WITH YOU, BUT I COULD PUT IT IN WRITING."

Alastor

“Oh, that’s entirely unnecessary!” Pause. “But I’d love it if you did!” He scoops up the nearest blank-looking piece of paper and a pen, steps sideways into an unexpectedly large shadow, and somehow emerges from it next to Sir Pentious, standing upside-down on the ceiling next to him. “So it’s to be a formal agreement, then, is it!”

He looks all dramatic standing there upside-down for a grand total of three seconds, before his clothing remembers gravity and the tail of his coat fwoofs down to dangle around his head.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious watches him standing upside down, and he smirks, waving a dismissive hand. "A *PROPER* CONTRACT, ALASSSTOR. I AM A BUSINESSMAN! NO BLANK PAPERSSS HERE. I DIDN'T RUN MY FACTORIESSSS ON BLANK PAPERSSS."

Alastor

“Well, you need a blank paper in order to write the contract on it, don’t you?” He offers over the paper and pen, go on.

Sir Pentious

"I CAN'T WRITE THAT *HERE*, AL! WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR??" He huffs, "I WON'T FORGET, AND IF I DO, YOU WILL REMIND ME!"

Alastor

"Not if you're going to get on my case about reminding you." He drops the pen and paper. The paper flutters slowly down to the ground. "It was a nice sentiment, all the same."

Sir Pentious

Oh look at Alastor getting huffy. Sir Pentious frowns, slithering down to retrieve the paper and pen, "DON'T THROW A *FIT*, I AM NOT GETTING ON YOUR *CASE.* I SAID WHAT I MEANT! YOU WILL REMIND ME, I AM COUNTING ON YOU."

Alastor

Only very lightly huffy; and more for the drama of it than anything else. Still, the idea of being *counted on* makes him perk up. Doesn't that sound all official.

He melts back into the shadows to reappear again next to Sir Pentious. "Then I guess I'll just have to pester you about it sometime!"

Sir Pentious

"YESSS, THAT ISS THE POINT. I HAVE A LOT OF THINGSS TO KEEP TRACK OF. ONCE I AM PROPERLY IN MY AIRSHIP, AND IT ISS OFF THE GROUND, I WILL SET UP THE CONTRACT AND TYPE IT UP ALL NICE. SCRIBBLING IT DOWN ON SSOME BLANK PAPER HARDLY BEFITSSS A HELLISH GENTLEMAN SSUCH AS MYSELF." He gestures to Alastor's suit, "YOU MIGHT ENJOY A PATCHWORK SSTYLE, BUT I DO NOT! NONE OF THAT 'MAKE DO' ATTITUDE, SSSIR."

Alastor

"I happen to like handwritten legal documents! It makes them feel important. Like the Declaration of Independence." He pauses and thinks that over. "That doesn't carry much weight with you, does it? All right, typewritten it is! But I expect to see a draft before you ask me to sign. I have to make sure the terms are equitable, after all."

Sir Pentious

He leans all close to Alastor again.

"OH? EQUITABLE HOW SSSSO? WORRIED I'LL SSSIGN YOU INTO FORCED LABOR, ALASSSTOR?"

Alastor

"Worried you'll let me off too easy," he says dryly. "What if you do something like say you're going to do this big favor for me on the basis of our current friendship and my prior services rendered? What about future services? What if I never do anything else for you ever again, but this contract still holds you to helping me out? No no no, I won't stand for it! You're offering me an enormous favor, my friend, and I intend to earn it properly!"

Sir Pentious

... Oh. Usually people were expecting Sir Pentious to be the one to pull the rug out from others--this was something he... Somehow didn't see coming at all! Alastor wanted to make sure that he was held to the right standards. Don't mind Sir Pentious, he's just going to be having Feelings over here, looking away. Friend...

"YES, WELL. GOOD! THEN. IT WOULD BE A BIG MISSSSTAKE TO TRY TO MAKE ME LOOK THE FOOL, ALASSSTOR!"

Alastor

"I wouldn't dream of it!" He hesitates; then decides, well, all right, as long as he's saying friendly things already—and knowing Sir Pentious keeps asking for directness—

"Truth be told," he says, casually examining his claws like he's only half paying attention to what he says, "if I ever offered to shake with you on something—and I know you've already said you'll never shake with me, that's fine, but IF I did—that's what would be on the line. No souls. Just an unbreakable guarantee that I can't—betray you." He leaves off the *again* and adds a shrug, like it's no big deal. "I don't think you'll ever want to shake even under those conditions. But, all the same, I thought I'd let you know! Since you keep bringing it up like you think I'm just waiting for some clever opportunity to trick you out of your soul!"

Sir Pentious

There's a sound in his ears, like *ringing.* Sir Pentious could swear he could feel his heart pounding in his ears but only briefly. What was *that* sensation? Generally, he felt aches in his chest like that with Valera when she said something *particularly* caring...but this was Alastor. This was probably just another example of a good friend, and what good friends do. Good friends don't betray one another! Yes, of course.

But he couldn't let it go that easily, his brow creased as he looked the deerman all over. "*WHY?*" It was extremely likely that this Alastor had betrayed the Pentious of his own Hell before. Penny was certain every Al was guilty of that at this point... But why try SO hard? Why be so afraid of angering him? Could guilt alone be such a driving force? It felt like there was a very obvious piece of a puzzle missing to him.

"WHY ARE YOU... WHY DO YOU CARE *SO* MUCH?"

Alastor

"Because you're thirty-three percent of my circle of friends—and the only one of them I viciously, violently backstabbed!" He laughs shortly, and his stomach twists and churns as they delve back into that topic that he always feels lurking just under everything they say.

"I don't know how bad things went in your universe, but here—I... it's no exaggeration to say you might well have been ruling Pentagram City by now—maybe more—if not for me. And if we're going to be friends again, we—I know you still don't trust me fully. You can't. You shouldn't! *I* know I'm not going to betray you again, but am I just supposed to say 'take my word for it'?

"On the other hand, a bargain that means I can't betray you is *cheap* for me—in fact, it's *absolutely free*—because all I'm doing is promising not to do something I wasn't going to do anyway! But for you, why—it would give you a little reassurance without your needing to trust me a lick more! And if it costs me nothing but gives you that much... Speaking as a professional dealmaker, that's a bargain if I've ever heard one."

Sir Pentious

Well, that settled that, didn't it! For friendship. Alastor said it himself! And he made quite a big deal (pardon the pun) of it too. He always talked so much, you'd hardly want for a conversation with him around.

.... Except. That feeling gave Sir Pentious some *concern*. It was still lingering, not as strongly but it was there. He's thinking over something the talkative deerman had said...

".... NOT *ME.* I WAS BETRAYED, YES, AN ALASTOR BETRAYED A SIR PENTIOUS, INDEED.... BUT IT WASN'T *ME*." That was something that had always stuck around, lingered in the pit of his own long intestines. The serpent wrung his hands together, unconscious of his own idle fidgeting.

"IF THE ONLY REASON WE ARE FRIENDSSSS ISSS BECAUSE OF *RESIDUAL* GUILT, ISSNT THAT BOUND TO FAIL, TOO?"

Alastor

He shrugs and nods, granted, yes; they’ve both been content to treat each other as substitutes, even though each knows the other is different. Haven’t they?

But he doesn’t get a chance to address that before a question demands his full attention. “*No!*” The question horrifies him enough that he takes a step closer to Sir Pentious, hands half raised, like he’s bracing to try to stop him from swinging around a knife. “No no no, I—w—if I was motivated by avoiding guilt, then I’d be avoiding *you!* I’ve felt more guilt in the last two months than I have in the last twenty years! No. We’re friends because I *want* your friendship.”

He lets out a rattled laugh. “And you can see how well I’m proving that! I try to reassure you, it makes you worry about something else, now I have to re-reassure you.” He gestures between the two of them. “*This* is why I’m trying so hard. Because I can’t quite get it right yet.” He holds up a finger. “*Yet.*”

Sir Pentious

He's startled by the other's sudden movement, and his hood opens up. Alastor's insistence, that earnest way of speaking. It made that feeling even *stronger.*

He almost expected Alastor to grab his hand, but that didn't happen. Sir Pentious rubbed at his arm.... He's feeling guilty, too. For being so paranoid, skeptical. *Afraid.* It was a lot to think about.

"YET..." He looks away. "... I. AM SORRY, THAT I AM. LIKE THIS."

Alastor

Alastor blinks, then leans back against a work table again. Taking in the apology, turning it over in his mind. It feels like needles lining the inside of his ribs, stabbing when he tries to inhale. “For—for what, a little healthy suspicion? I didn’t get you and you didn’t get got by me, but—your suspicion is more than justified. I don’t hold it against you.” The corner of his mouth twitches weakly. “I’m amazed you’re giving me a chance at all.”

Sir Pentious

A little healthy suspicion? Sir Pentious makes a face, digging his talons into his arm further, scratching now.

"IT *ISN'T* HEALTHY, THOUGH. IS IT." This was a.... Decidedly more vulnerable topic, but this was the boiler room. No one came down here anymore, not since Penny set up shop.

"I AM NOT HEALTHY, NOT IN THE LEAST."

Alastor

Alastor tenses as he sees Sir Pentious’s talons tighten on his arm. He wants to reach out. Instead he just grips the edge of the table with both hands, claws digging into the bottom of it.

“If I were the one in your sh...” No shoes. “... If I were standing where you are? I would never so much as *speak* to a Radio Demon again. No matter what dimension he’s from or what promises he makes. So... I know you've said your mind is unhealthy, but *that suspicion*, I don’t think *that's* unhealthy.” He leans a little closer, not quite getting off the table. “If *you* think it is, I won’t know how unless you tell me.”

(He’s dimly aware that the radio distortion modulating his voice has been ebbing and flowing like waves on a beach—but like the tide going out, steadily declining. He can’t remember the last time he spoke so plainly for more than a sentence or two.)

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious doesn't lean back this time, but he's scrunching up more. His skull is *abuzz* with activity, and what feels like pressure on his brain.

".... YOU WOULDN'T, AND YET, WHEN I BECOME SSSO SSSKEPTICAL, I CAN... *FEEL* LIKE I'VE FAILED. IT TURNSSS ME AGAINSSSST THE ONES I." Love. "THE ONES THAT ARE IMPORTANT TO ME. AND I." Lose them.

He can't even finish his sentence, dragging his talons down his arm, a grounding technique that was more self punishing than helpful.

Alastor

Alastor automatically guesses what the first word left unsaid is. His heart leaps into his throat. He swallows it back down; the word isn’t meant for him.

He can’t watch that clawing anymore. “Maybe I can’t help—I think I’d make a poor alienist—and I can’t speak for everyone else important to you” (he feels daring just including himself on that list) “but, for what it’s worth... I’m hard to break and harder to scare off.” He’s gonna. Just. Carefully reach out, and put a hand on Sir Pentious’s wrist. Hi, can he take that? He’ll even let Sir Pentious claw up his arm instead if he wants. It’s fine if not, he’ll just wait and see.

Sir Pentious

The second his wrist is taken, Sir Pentious' eyes widen *considerably.* There's that rush in his chest, a dull *aching.* The puzzle piece was just out of reach, he could *feel* it.

He doesn't even fight it, even as his mind screams at him, *you failure, you absolute failure, look at you! Might as well offer your neck for the chopping block, you miserable failure.* He *winces*, though it isn't at Alastor. Stressed out tongue flicks, he's having a hard time maintaining eye contact.

".... YOU. PROMISE. YOU HAVE TO *PROMISE* ME THAT YOU WILL NOT... LEAVE." With every second that passes, it is like an eternity of ache in his chest. Similar to when Valera held his hands, rubbed them and spoke to him so softly. Grounding him.

Alastor

Alastor flinches when Sir Pentious winces, but Sir Pentious isn't pulling back, so Alastor isn't either.

"I promise." His voice is so blatantly, embarrassingly human. "I promise that I won't leave." He'd seal it in magic if Sir Pentious would let him. Instead, he just squeezes a little more firmly. "I'm your friend and your ally. I promise."

Sir Pentious

*But why?*

Why did Valera have so much patience? Why did Alastor not hate him? By all rights, he should infuriate them, but instead, they always reached out to him...!

... His eyes snap open wider than ever, and he feels like the last puzzle piece slips into place.

"ALASSSTOR. ARE YOU...?" OH, boy. He wants to be wrong, right now, more than ever, he wants to be wrong. If he *isn't* wrong, then... All of those moments, all of those playful snuggles and schemes.... Well they weren't just friendly, were they?

He's looking very pale, suddenly, a grit teeth sort of look. He's realized it. The reason why he stuck around was the same as a Valera's.

*Love.*

Alastor

Something went wrong. He can see it. "What?" What did he do? What did he say? Was it—?

Is his hand too close to Sir Pentious's? He jerks his hand back. "Sorry! I'm sorry, that was—It's a unilateral promise, not a bargain, I wasn't trying to shake on it."

In his heart he knows that's not the problem. But he can't see what the problem is—unless it's the worst.

He hopes it's not the worst.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious moves back, out of the way suddenly, staring at Alastor like he's a different person.

Was this even *possible?* He.... "ARE YOU IN *LOVE* WITH ME, ALASSSTOR???" Even if the deer said no, Pentious wasn't sure he'd believe him this time. Everything they did together, the way Alastor had warmed up to him, sooner than most others ever would consider...!

He liked him *like that.* And Sir Pentious, lonely Sir Pentious, had never questioned it.

Alastor

His stomach lurches. What did he say wrong? What pushed it over the line? He tries to deny it but all that squeezes out of his throat is static. After months spent trying to reassure Sir Pentious that he DOES value him, that he IS his friend, that he would NEVER betray him again... denying the accusation now would be too much a rejection of everything he's tried to prove.

He sinks down on a bench. He didn't say anything wrong. He said what Sir Pentious needed to hear him say. This was unavoidable.

He tries to give the same response he did to Valera—*no, I'm not; just with someone who looks the same*—but words catch in his throat as he suddenly realizes they're not true anymore. He knows this Sir Pentious too well to still see him the same as his own; but that's done nothing to break his fever. *Damn it.* He twists his hands together and stares down at them, defeated.

Just a few minutes ago, they were...

But Sir Pentious is never going to touch his hands like that again.

Sir Pentious

Of all the things Sir Pentious had expected to come out of this meeting, he couldn't have predicted that Alastor, the Radio Demon, was in love with him. This explained *everything...* Eager for friendship? Wanting so desperately to be around him, to not anger him, to spend as much time as possible?

Love was the *only* answer that made sense. Friendship was difficult enough with the serpent, but love! Oh, this was so much to process. He could only stare down at the deerman. For once, for *once* in his entire unlife, he'd never seen the other so *silent.* Unable to speak, unable to say a thing. Static choking up from his throat, and Sir Pentious found his hands at his own, remembering how it felt to be unable to speak. What to even feel? What could he feel?

Shouldn't he be laughing right now? Feeling so *powerful* for being the object of *Alastor's* affections? This should be making him feel unstoppable, but instead it felt like daggers plunged into his back, dragging down. Every breath wrung with *pain.* Sir Pentious' teeth grit, and he glared, flexing his talons out toward Alastor.

"I LET YOU *TOUCH* ME, I THOUGHT WE WERE *FRIENDSSS*, BUT YOU WERE JUSSSST USING ME, WEREN'T YOU!?" There it was--that hatred for himself bubbling up, paranoia clawing its way out of his throat, "YOU SSSSAY YOU WANTED TO BE MY FRIEND, BUT YOU WERE TRYING TO-- YOU JUSSSssT WANTED--" Wanted what? Alastor hadn't *lied,* he just hadn't been forthcoming. But here, Sir Pentious felt wave after wave of feelings that he couldn't describe. Why did he feel so *betrayed?* "FROM WHENCE DID IT **BEGIN???** HAVE YOU ALWAYSSS BEEN LUSssssTING AFTER ME!? I AM *ENGAGED*, ALASSSTOR!"

He was starting to be so cruel, and he could taste his own venom on his tongue now. Why did it matter this much?

Alastor

He can already see how this is going to end: with Sir Pentious throwing Alastor out of his afterlife completely; with Alastor alone again; with Alastor having merely been taunted for two months with the hope of getting back the best friend he's ever had, before being rewarded for his audacity in daring to think he'd found a cross-dimensional loophole around his rightful punishment for his betrayal.

He can save them both time by apologizing for inconveniencing Sir Pentious, walking out the door, and never coming back.

"I'm sorry." Start there. But he can't let go. (Isn't that the whole problem?) And he can't be the one to turn his back on Sir Pentious. If Sir Pentious throws him out, so be it—but this time, at least, it's going to be for the truth, not for what Alastor leaves Sir Pentious to assume. "For—for what little it's worth—lust never factored into it. And I never—I do—we *are* friends. I've never thought otherwise. I'm not trying to come between you and your fiancée. I've always—I've tried to let you take the lead, to... to decide when and how to touch—*because* we're friends, I—it was your right to set the limits."

Sir Pentious

*For what little it’s worth … we are friends.*

These few words were enough to send stabs of agony through his chest, and Sir Pentious wasn’t much for subtlety. His eyes widened again, and he clutched at where his black heart ought to be. He shouldn’t be feeling enraged, betrayed at all! He shouldn’t be! *Penley, you idiot, what are you doing? So obsessed with yourself, you’re making this all about you, too. Looking for reasons to be alone again, aren’t you?*

But it DID hurt. It *did* hurt. There was something here, something that hurt beyond all measure–if Alastor truly wanted to be his friend, if Alastor, of all damned sinners in this inferno of suffering, truly loved him… wasn’t that a lie? It wasn’t him that he loved, it was… a different man. The same man, but different.

Rage wet his eyes, and he brought up a sleeve to wipe at them–*no*, do not *cry* in front of ~~*your enemies*~~ *anyone else* you damned old fool. Least of all The Radio Demon! Do you want to get laughed at???

*He wouldn’t laugh at me. He is my friend.*

*HE IS NOT* YOUR *FRIEND. YOU ARE A* SUBSTITUTE.

With that wicked quickness the King Cobra is known for, Sir Pentious closes the gap between them, his hood flared out as he bares those yellow fangs of his, “DON’T **FUCK** WITH ME, YOU BASTARD! HOW COULD I SET LIMITS WHEN I THOUGHT ALL IT WAS WAS SSOMETHING WITHOUT SSSUCH FEELINGSSS INVOLVED!? THOUGHT YOU COULD GET A LAUGH OUT OF ME, THE LONELY INVENTOR!!! I WAS JUSSST A SSSSSUBSSSTITUTE FOR YOUR SSSSERPENT. IF YOU HADN’T **FUCKED THINGSSS UP** BACK THEN, THEN WE’D NEVER HAVE BECOME FRIENDSS!!!!”

Oh, he was going for the jugular now. All of that pain was coming out now! And though he’d wiped his eyes, the tears brimming were unmistakable. Lonely Sir Pentious was crying.

Alastor

Alastor leans back when Sir Pentious looms over him, gripping the edge of the bench as he fights down the automatic instinct to defend himself.

*If you hadn't fucked things up*—He flinches like he was slapped. Sir Pentious is right. He's right, and Alastor knows it, and they're the same words he's told himself for the past fifty-four years; but they hurt so much more in that voice. They hurt so much more seeing the fury and pain and tears in Sir Pentious's eyes. The last time he saw Sir Pentious like that, it was among the ruins of his flagship, begging Alastor to explain why he'd just destroyed everything they'd worked for.

And yet, Sir Pentious is *wrong.* "You—think I've been laughing at you?!" He lets out a high, nervous, hysterical laugh—NO that is the EXACT WRONG PANIC REACTION for this situation—he claps a hand over his mouth with the sound of a radio dial firmly clicking off and just shakes his head *no* until he's sure he can control his voice.

"Maybe we wouldn't have met—and maybe you started out as a substitute for mine, but—you aren't now! I know you, not well enough, but well enough to see that the things I value in him *do* exist in you, and where you differ, I value you on your own merits! And if mine slithered in right this second, said all was forgiven, invited me onto his airship, and promised everything I've ever wanted—it would hurt to leave! I'd *miss* the picnics, sitting around watching ASMR videos, sparring with you, figuring out how to cook for you—even how you *breathe.*" He's digging himself the deepest grave Hell's ever seen. At least let Sir Pentious hate him for the right reasons.

Sir Pentious

That was most assuredly the worst possible panic reaction, and it would have ruined whatever it was Alastor was trying to do here–had he not continued. Sir Pentious stared, watching him explain himself, watching him dig a hole so deep he might as well have ended up in Heaven after all.

Perhaps that hole would have made Penny hate him more, but instead… he felt his chest ache further, and he grabbed at his hood, *pulling* it *harshly* to compensate for the pain, to try to keep himself grounded. Alastor was listing off things about him, things that he and Al had done together. Things that were somehow special between the two of them.

Picnics and silly little videos and making ridiculous jokes about things nobody else would care about nor have reference for. Alastor had been the closest in years for someone that Sir Pentious could have related to—he wanted so badly for that companionship, that *understanding* with another demon in Hell who *really understood him.* And now, more than ever, he really had it.

Valera would often list things that Penny did, talked about how much she loved him. The way he is always making some kind of sound, his mannerisms for talking, the way he cares so deeply for her… Every time she’d do so, he could feel his chest swell with such love and passion. It was always too much for him to handle in those moments… words always failed him, he could think of naught to say except “Thank you”, which scraped the bare minimum of how he felt about her.

And Alastor… he had begun to do it, too. It was obvious now, to Sir Pentious, that Alastor had since stopped talking about things that likely *any* Genius Inventor Supervillain had done, and rather had began to talk *specifically* about him. It made him feel seen in ways only Valera had made him feel before.

They *loved* him, and he *hated* himself.

One hundred and fifty years of self loathing

was having a difficult time combatting all of this **love.**

Sir Pentious leaned back, and attempted to speak–he pointed a finger at Alastor, fangs bared as he prepared to let loose into another barrage of insults, of *cutting* words… only to find himself *unable* to speak.

He tried again, and again, to no avail with each attempt. Here he was, forcibly speechless, as panic began to steal him away. His eyes widened further, and he began to scratch at his throat, *furiously ashamed* with this total failure he was showing himself to be. *How pitiful, Sir Pentious. And you wonder why █████ left you. You can never be counted on when you’re needed most.*

Alastor

It's a barbed wire-wrapped sword through his heart when Sir Pentious's expression of fury melts into panic and he starts clawing at his own throat.

"No, oh no." He automatically reaches up, grabs Sir Pentious's hands, and pulls them down. His hands feel like they're holding red hot irons.

"*I'm sorry.* I shouldn't touch you. But I'm not letting you hurt yourself on my account." It's the first time this whole conversation he's felt like he sounds like himself, albeit an unusually serious version of himself. "If you need someone to claw up, let it be me."

Acid blood, Sir Pentious had called it; brain-storms, they were called in Alastor's time—temporary bouts of madness brought on by distress too great for a rational human mind to endure. And Alastor is the one who pushed Sir Pentious into this one. His mind races as he tries to figure out how to fix his damage. (Stupid question. He doesn't fix it. He knows that. Didn't he himself tell Sir Pentious he's better at knocking things down than setting them back up? Didn't Sir Pentious call him a wrecking ball?)

Sir Pentious

They might as *well* have been red hot irons–Sir Pentious’ eyes were glowing brightly, wide as they were. At this proximity, Alastor would be able to feel the tremor running under that grip–He tried so hard to mask it, but he was trembling from the intensity of his emotions.

Still, that *smile.* It wasn’t quite as strong as he knew Alastor was capable of, but the fact he could see it at all cut him to ribbons on the inside. Sir Pentious, in his haze of self loathing and fear of being a joke, took that smile as confirmation despite Alastor only saying the opposite. How many times must he say it before you *believe* him, Penny?

So close now, and he could easily pull away–but instead, he sought to cause pain. This was his way of coping, and he always managed to hurt the ones he cared about. Why should now be any different? He had bitten Valera when he was like a feral beast, and here he would tear Alastor apart in just the way he wanted. After all, he *offered.*

His hood flaring out and a monstrous *hiss* escaping his throat, Sir Pentious lunged his head forward, burying his fangs into the base of Alastor’s neck, right where it met the shoulder. He easily penetrated the flesh, sinking in to the gums as his eyes carried *madness.* Not only had he bitten him, but it was the same place he’d bitten him before, two months ago.

Alastor

He gasps in with an awful feedback noise, pain shooting across his neck and over his shoulder. On some level, he isn't surprised. On some level, he realizes, he was hoping for this.

He doesn't know if Sir Pentious intends it as his forgiveness, his penance, or his punishment.

And between the pain and the uncertainty and the knowledge that even though it's agony he's still not worthy of it—he finally breaks. He bursts into noisy, crackling sobs, his voice hardly audible under the distortion, shaking so hard he might not be able to sit up if Sir Pentious himself wasn't inadvertently holding him up by the shoulder.

"I'm sorry!" He clings desperately to Sir Pentious, he can't stop himself. He's talking fast, words spilling out, trying to get it all out before Sir Pentious stops listening to him for good. "*I'm sorry.* I know you hate how I feel, I hate it too. I'd shut it off if I could! It's why I ruined everything and *ran*, because I'm a *coward* and I was *afraid* of what love would make me—I was afraid of being *this.* I'm sorry you have to put up with it too!"

One hand curls clawlike into Sir Pentious's lapels to pull him closer and his fangs deeper. This is going to be the last time. He has to make it hurt. "I wish it—I *wish* it could have been something good for you. I'd fantasized about confessing someday—when you needed proof of my loyalty, I could have made some—some grand gesture—"here, here's your proof, here's how you know I'll never betray you!" Even if you don't reciprocate, I'd hoped you could—could draw strength from it! Here's one more person who esteems you so highly! Here's one more more person who would give you Heaven and Hell! Here's one more person who would do anything to see you happy and triumphant! But I can't even do that much for you, I—I'm so *sorry*—"

He can't get any more out. His last few words break up like a signal in a tunnel, and all he's left with is wordless sobbing and shaking.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious had a chance now, to spill his venom into Alastor. He had a chance to watch him *writhe* in physical agony to match the swirling intensity that the serpent felt inside. But it was clear, from the way the deerman broke so suddenly in his jaws, that Penny realized there was no need.

Alastor was *shattered* in a way that Penny had never, ever seen him. Never heard him. This man, who carried himself with such superiority and class, now a broken, sobbing ruin of a demon clung to the hellish gentleman’s body. He wasn’t goading him, he wasn’t boasting. He wasn’t destroying everything he’d built only to run off or laugh in his face.

He was just… miserable. And it was misery that Sir Pentious could not enjoy… it reminded him of his own wretched wailing when Valera had been there to hold him, too. Suddenly, Alastor stopped being The Radio Demon to Sir Pentious, and had become something else.

*Al. My best friend. You’re not so bad, you old bastard.*

But he wasn’t in the right mind to forgive him, just yet. Forgiveness… what a laughable thing for a *demon* to consider. He pulled his teeth from Alastor’s neck, staring him hard in the face as tears of his own ran down his cheeks. That horrid smile of Alastor’s, twisted with intense sadness…

“Ssstop *sssmiling*, you imbecile.”

He brings his hands up, grabbing at Alastor’s face with both of them, and *forcing* the corners of that mad grin down, to the best of his ability, even if his talons pinched that face. Once he was done with that, he’d return the hug, tightly, his tail slowly wrapping up the other as the most grounding thing he could think of. Emotional intimacy was not his strong suit, but Valera had taught him some things, too.

“… JUSSST… BREATHE… AT THE SAME TIME AS ME. FOLLOW *MY* LEAD.”

Alastor

He can't meet Sir Pentious's gaze; he squeezes his eyes shut automatically. And immediately opens them again when Sir Pentious touches his face. He's distantly surprised to be told he *is* still smiling. He can't feel it at all. The crumbling remains of his smile collapse effortlessly under Sir Pentious's hands and he bites his lower lip, the corners of his mouth twitching like he doesn't know what to do with them when they aren't twisted up.

Why is he being *held*? He doesn't deserve this. But he leans into it, eyes shutting again, face pressed to Sir Pentious's shoulder, arms wrapped tight around his back. He can feel Sir Pentious's chest rising and falling with each breath—it's the most reassuring feeling, the most reassuring sound in the world. He can breathe. He can do that.

His shuddering reduces, his sobs slowly stop. He isn't sure if he's still crying or if it's just the old tears clinging to his face. But he's breathing. And he's—god, how did this happen?—he's exactly where he's wanted to be for the last fifty-four years.

He croaks, "If you're planning to exterminate me, please make it now." Cue the world's tinniest laugh track.

Sir Pentious

Satan himself, it actually worked. He managed to… calm Alastor down. He’d done exactly what Valera had done for him before, and… well, he sold himself short, now didn’t he? He’d calmed down Valera before, too. Maybe he didn’t destroy everything he touched. Maybe… he was good at maintaining his relationships, after all. Why, these two thought he was good enough to willingly be around, so… maybe he could give himself a chance, too.

The love aspect that was added on… Pentious still wasn’t sure what to do with that. Could he handle knowing that Alastor loved him? That every action between the two of them had this tension? Or would it only have tension if he allowed it to? Sir Pentious bumped his forehead to Alastor’s, a little rougher than usual to at least show he was irritated…

“YOU ARE OFF THE AIR. GIVE YOURSSSELF A BREAK.”

He adjusts the deerman’s monocle, and straightens up his suit, before he reaches into his own suit jacket and pulls out a handkerchief. Penny moves to undo the neck portion of Alastor’s suit, so that he could place the handkerchief inside and on his shoulder–but he stops himself, instead just handing him the cloth.

“…I AM ANGRY WITH YOU. I AM FRUSSSTRATED AND I DO NOT KNOW WHEN I WILL FEEL ABLE TO BE COMFORTABLE WITH YOU AGAIN. BUT I WILL WANT THISSSS HANDKERCHIEF BACK, DO YOU UNDERSSSTAND? SSSSO. DO NOT RUN AWAY FROM ME, ALASSSTOR. I WILL NEVER TALK TO YOU AGAIN IF YOU EVEN *THINK* ABOUT RUNNING AWAY FROM ME.”

His own voice was hoarse, despite how loud it was, and he was clearly tired from crying and shouting. Sir Pentious looked thoroughly tired, as if he had been drinking and yet he’d had not a drop. Emotionally drained, and all out of spoons.

Alastor

Alastor is more than capable of tidying himself up, and under any other circumstances he *would,* irritably pushing off whoever dared try to fuss over him—but it's such a shock that *Sir Pentious* is doing it, and it's so *nice*, he just stands there in stunned silence, letting him.

He numbly takes the handkerchief, and for a moment stares blankly at it before figuring out what it's for. He quickly undoes his bow tie—his fingers twitch when he remembers whose it is—and then hastily undoes his collar and slides the handkerchief under.

"I can send it back this evening after I launder it." His voice is filtered through a radio again—Sir Pentious is wrong, he's *always* on air—with the crackles and pops like an old phonogram record complimenting the hoarseness of his own voice. He looks down to avoid meeting Sir Pentious's gaze, realizes that doesn't solve the problem, and glances to the side. "If you're trying to use the handkerchief to say that you see this ending some way other than never wanting to speak to me again... then be more direct."

A few members of the invisible studio audience weakly chuckle. Alastor waves them off with his free hand, muttering, "Shut *up,* not the time," then winces as the gesture makes his shoulder sting.

Sir Pentious

Ah, he was called out. It gets a frustrated look out of him, but… you know. That’s exactly the kind of thing he’d have said to Alastor, before. Sir Pentious folds his arms, flinching a little as the pain from having scratched at himself reminds him that it is still present.

“… I DON’T WANT YOU TO RUN AWAY FROM ME, BECAUSE I WANT TO SSSEE YOU AGAIN, ON MY TERMSSS. BUT IF I SSEE YOU TOO SSOON… I MIGHT HATE YOU FOREVER.”

A deep inhale, and slow exhale. Sir Pentious slowly unravels his tail from around the other demon, though it remains behind him in case he cannot stand on his own, “… I REQUIRE TIME TO PROCESS THISS, ALASSSTOR. PERHAPSS YOU ARE RIGHT, THAT I SHOULD NEVER WANT ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU EVER AGAIN. BY ALL ACCOUNTSS, I OUGHT TO AGREE WITH THAT AND NEVER SSSPEAK TO YOU AGAIN!”

His tail lashes with some irritability, and now it’s his turn to avoid any kind of eye contact. “… But. I sstill want to. I do not want you to leave. I have… *fun* when you are around. The kind of fun that I never had before… Because. I do not have friends. There are very few people who would want to be around me.” Blast it he was rambling on again. He covers his face with a hand, grimacing as all he can taste on his tongue is Alastor’s blood. It made him dizzy with misery. “I will be on Okkylk. When I am ready to take back the handkerchief, I will pick it up in *person.*”

Alastor

He listens to the half-threats as stoically as he can with his smile missing—he feels naked and raw and exposed—and he fears that with his face twitching after every sentence, it's not nearly as stoic as he'd like to think.

His heart nearly leaps into his throat when Sir Pentious says he wants Alastor to stay—then plummets back down. It's not because it's Alastor's friendship, specifically, that he values; it's because he needs anyone's friendship, and Alastor's the one offering it. Piss-poor and putrid though it is. He already knew that, didn't he? Hadn't he said to Valera that Sir Pentious doesn't like Alastor—he just likes that Alastor likes him? He wishes he could bring anything more to the table than this desperate last resort friendship—but he shot any chances of that in the head decades ago.

He nods wearily. "You know where to find me. You won't hear a peep out of me until you come calling, barring emergencies—overheard assassination plots or the like."

Sir Pentious

How they hated themselves. If he'd known that Alastor had come to that conclusion, well... maybe he'd have said something else. But as it stood, right now, Sir Pentious was beyond exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to wrap himself up in his fiancee, to breathe her in and feel some form of comfort after all of *this*...

It wasn't fair to think of it that way, he knew that Alastor was suffering, but what could he do? His cup was empty, and he could not pour from it. His eyes looked back up to see that pitiful expression, and... he gestured with his index talon--a smiley face. "... YOU CAN SSMILE AGAIN, ALASSTOR. YOU'RE NOT DRESSED WITHOUT IT." Ha...ha. Ha. He immediately looks like he regrets the sentence before he turns, and begins to slither back through the piping.

How he hated himself, but they loved him.

Alastor

He attempts a smile. He fails. He isn't surprised. He almost responds "*No, I can't,*" but Sir Pentious is dealing with enough of Alastor's personal problems. He doesn't need another.

He watches Sir Pentious go; pulls the bow tie out from around his collar, drops it on the workbench beside the travel mug; and then melts into the shadows.

#hissandvinegar #chat log

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eliana-dreams · 4 years ago

Note

Hey 👋 your trailer got me thinking. If they re-did newsies (for the screen, not stage), how would you like to see it portrayed? I feel like the two versions we have are very Disney-fied and I’m curious to know your thoughts. Also, thanks for the follow ❤️ Have a nice day!

Hi love! Imagining the different ways they could do this is one of my favorite pastimes. I like the movie format, but now I’m thinking a television series would be kind of cool. That way you can flush out all the details and historical elements, working in other subplots of the time.

While I’d love to see Newsies get made as a period drama, with all the grittiness of the time, I do like the comedic bits of the original. A Newsies’ era show with a modern twist would be interesting.

But since we’re exploring, here are some ideas:

Okay, a fever-dream gilded age piece scored in psychedelic rock opera, in the spirit of 60s counterculture and revolution. Newsboy strike demonstrations amidst the backdrop of “For What It’s Worth” or “Volunteers of America.” Bohemian hangouts at Medda’s theater (maybe some opium) to “White Rabbit.” Spreading the word of the strike to “Long, Cool Woman in a Black Dress.” Beatnik protest publishing of the Newsies Banner at Denton’s to “Fortunate Son.” Kloppman has an eccentric anthropology professor look. Shaggy hair, fringe vests, loose jewelry, glowing lights, typewriters, rawhide sofas, street art, The Jacobs’ women and Medda getting involved in women’s suffrage and garment worker strikes, Pulitzer and his newspaper men getting stoned at exec meetings.

A stunning period film in the way of a Les Mis musical and Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette with morose synthpop. Gritty protest scenes that demonstrate police brutality and corruption, fight sequences reminiscent of a barricade battle, flashy Renaissance-painting imagery against Billy Idol, Depeche Mode, and some Fleetwood Mac. Luminous lighting at Medda’s, Sarah’s smudged mascara, Spot’s various tattoos, loud dance halls, riding those giant bicycles, crazy Edwardian hair (moussed fluffy pompadours and bird’s nest Gibson girls).

A strange belle époque movie that’s half-animated, half-fantasy in an unconventional but unsettling style that has an important lesson but makes you think. Rollerblading/skateboarding to deliver papers, lots of suede, flower crowns, fireworks, reading banned books in Central Park, dancing barefoot in the rain on newspaper row, burning incense. All scored by whimsical yet tear-jerking instrumental pieces. Musical talents by Abba or Air and/or Enya.

A musical with a bombardment of Wes Anderson-style art-nouveau effects and an entire soundtrack by James Blake or Labrinth. Color-coordination to provoke psychological/emotional subtext, glitter, modern choreography (bring Kenny Ortega back for that), beautiful hazy imagery, oozing colors, sunsets over the city skyline silhouetting dances, alien feel, raves at Irving Hall, avant-garde. Think 1996 Romeo and Juliet, but gilded-age New York. Solo numbers for the Delancey brothers, each of the Jacobs’ siblings, a good villain ballad (Pulitzer, Weasel, or Snyder), maybe even Spot.

A Tarantinio-esque, iconoclastic turn-of-the-century television show that has a ton of stimulating special effects and tattoos/piercings and is scored in 90s grunge ‘f the system’ songs. Period accurate wardrobe but Jack Kelly wears Doc Martens, David has communist patches on his newspaper satchel, hemp necklaces, chain smoking, blasting gramophone records in the lodging house, Pulitzer and Hearst are yuppie-esque, middle fingers, crushed velvet. Nine Inch Nails accompany Brooklyn newsies, The Smashing Pumpkins punctuate Jack’s desire to get away, Collective Soul for romance, and some L7 for riots.

A strictly period-accurate drama draped in a colorful wardrobe/set scheme with a neo-classical, ragtime, and folksy soundtrack. Historical slang/dialect (like Gangs of New York), newsies with a variety of strong accents (reflective of the immigrant influx of the time), silk gloves, extravagant chandeliers, dry martinis, name-dropping (Vanderbilt, Carnegie, Astor, Nellie Bly, Ida B. Wells, Helen Keller, etc.), unrequited love, seedy dives, a hellscape of a Refuge, and blood spilling in City Hall Park. Soundtrack includes Scott Joplin, vaudeville rhymes, burlesque ditties, operatic pieces, eclectic folk ballads.

An over-the-top, large-scale Progressive-Era mini-series directed by Taika Waititi with a quirky-cool pop score told memoir-style through Jack Kelly’s writing. Contemporary music. Exaggerated facial expressions/gestures, wild party scenes, comedic with melancholic moments, modern dialogue and slang, pop-cultural references played with winks and nods to camera, vibrant colors, city never sleeps. Spot Conlon has distinct background music that precedes him before he steps on scene, Medda wears outlandish ensembles to match her shows (cirque-de-soleil style), Pulitzer comes off a bit more sympathetic than Hearst. It ends with Jack Kelly finishing his writing, sitting on a train, staring out the window into the vast desert of New Mexico, another suitcase on the seat opposite him, though it’s left ambiguous as to who it belongs to.

#newsies #newsies 1992 #newsies movie #1992sies

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complicatedandstained · 4 years ago

Text

Every Rose

A Grass is Greener AU fic, for / inspired by @snowflake-of-destruction and @shaky-mayhemm because their soap opera AU is everything

Warnings for strong language, melodrama, rich people, cheating, minor alcoholism, minor smut, some abusive behaviors, and completely made-up gardening facts.

Axel crouches low to the ground, a bead of sweat dripping down his nose, and gently takes a thorny stem between his thumb and forefinger. He exhales, nostrils flaring, the taste of salt hitting the top of his lip, and carefully shifts one of the vines of climbing roses, more tightly interweaving it with the closest bar of the black iron trellis. The patterned trellis arch casts intricate shadows across his sun-freckled arms, and he thinks back to the better part of an afternoon last week he had spent with those shadows playing across his body, positioning both it and the trellis to Roxas’ liking.

He’d stood just about right here then, glancing up at Roxas. Adorable, clever, sassy Roxas, with delicately rendered and neatly labelled sketches of the garden in hand and a pencil between his lips, had been perched in the mouth of a nearby, low-lying window, offering the occasional “A little to the left,” “What if we trimmed down the shrubbery, just there?”, and Axel’s personal favorite, “God, could you be any sexier?”

This last comment brings to mind a more recent encounter. Roxas’ tongue trying to knot with his, tasting like salt—like the Margarita he’d been sipping was a little on the strong side. He can still feel Roxas’ soft, glossy, dark gold hair between his fingers. Roxas’ hands hot and certain, pawing at denim and then his belt buckle. Roxas below him, kneeling in the grass beside an Andromeda bush blooming with sweet-smelling white bell flowers. Roxas murmuring “God, could you be any sexier?” yet again with something like actual reverence before he’d unzipped Axel’s jeans, tugged away plaid boxers, and licked—

“You’re still here, are you?”

Axel’s entire body tenses and he closes his fist in reflex, clenching the rose vine. A thorn bites through the worn palm of the gardening glove he’d been meaning to replace and gouges the center of his hand.

The slow, regal drawl coming from somewhere just behind Axel continues, “I was certain you’d be finished by now. You haven’t been slacking off, have you?”

“Fuck,” Axel gasps as the pain kicks in and then he bites his lip, tilting his head to gaze up at Roxas’ husband, standing just a few yards away on the front walk. It appears Isa had been watching him for God knew how long, while Axel fantasized about his lonely, jaded, sexy, blond, trophy husband complimenting his yard work and making him moan.

Fortunately, this is not the first time Axel has had to work out such excuses on a dime, and he reaches for the most tried and true one, “No, sir. Just trying to make the gardens every inch as lovely as your home and its owners.”

“Hm…” Isa fidgets with a key ring, and pockets it, the lights of his black Corvette blinking once behind him, as if, Axel feels, in belated warning.

Isa crosses the last few yards toward him. He’s wearing the kind of suit that Axel’s sister Kairi would know the name of, tailored to make him look like he was born to wear it. He walks with the self-important purpose and dismissive confidence only a lawyer can, his brow raising only slightly, as Axel hisses a strangled “Ah, fuck” again, tugging the thorn out, and clutching his hand to his chest.

Axel takes a breath to calm himself, and this time not from the sharp pain, which is proving to be a welcome distraction. It’s the entirely new-to-Axel sensation of paranoia that he wants to send packing—paranoia that’s drawing the acidic taste of bile to the back of his throat.

At least Roxas isn’t out here with him. He’s long gone for the evening at this point, off to “Girl’s Night” with a few neighbors.

But Isa’s asking him why he’s here so late. Isa suspects something—somebody—held up his progress. If Isa finds him out, Axel could lose this ludicrously lucrative job and his entire business and his reputation and his chance to further seduce Roxas.

Okay. So, maybe seducing Roxas shouldn’t be on this particular mental list, but it could be his only shot at getting the sweet but dangerous, hot, blond tease out of his every waking thought.

And, all this aside, Isa, who’s got the body of a cross-fit model and the resting bitch face of a Doberman, might literally murder Axel for touching his bored, stay-at-home boy toy.

Axel scrambles to think of a more specific excuse for why last-minute touch-ups on the trellis and minor maintenance to the hedge would take him this long, but he’s spared from voicing them, as Isa speaks again.

“I’ve heard talking to plants helps them grow...”

Isa comes to a halt closer than Axel was expecting him to. Axel could easily reach out and run a hand down his toned thigh and calf. In other circumstances, the silken gloss of the man’s trousers accentuating toned muscle might make him want to...

“...But I’m not certain that kind of language is what the botanary community had in mind.”

Axel takes a long moment to process this response to his pained swearing, staring up into Isa’s soft blue-green eyes and the light crinkle of the nose just between them. Isa’s thin lips don’t seem as taut as they usually do, curving up just the slightest bit in the corner. Over all, Isa looks almost… Fond?

He had spoken completely deadpan, but rather than the admonishment Axel had expected—almost hoped for—it had sounded more like… A joke?

Had Isa, his latest lover’s jealous, serious, apathetic, workaholic husband, just made a joke? A joke to amuse Axel, his lowly gardener, the one he may or may not have just subtly accused of screwing his husband, or at the very least, wasting his money and time?

Axel’s going to have to reevaluate Isa’s opinion of him. He’d assumed it was low-grade-dirt poor. But the way Isa’s staring down at him right now… Well, Axel knew the guy was gay, obviously, but with his sights set on Roxas, it hadn’t occurred to him that his other employer might have been taking a look.

Axel figures there’s only one way to know for sure. He slips on a practiced, easy smirk. “Didn’t hear you walk up, that’s all.” He slowly reaches back and rubs the nape of his neck with the palm that’s not bleeding, giving his arm a nice slow stretch and watching Isa’s eyes follow with... Admiration? Axel’s smirk broadens. “You ‘bout gave me a fucking heart attack.”

Axel doesn’t usually swear around his classier employers—Xigbar being the main exception—but the slight quirk of Isa’s lip earlier makes Axel think the man might find it charming. And even if Axel has no idea what the hell he’s doing right at this moment, he figures charming can’t hurt.

“Apologies,” Isa drawls without any sincerity behind it, examining the open knuckles of his black leather gloves. The gesture might have come off as bored, but the slight lift of Isa’s lip proves enough to tug up Axel’s own.

“I was just…” Isa’s gaze strays only briefly to the saplings, hedges, and artfully arranged flower beds Axel had slaved over, before landing on Axel himself, raking the muscles of his back through his taut white tank, “admiring the view.”

The fuck am I doing? Axel asks himself as he plucks a soft pink rose from the vine he’s working with and offers it up with his signature blinding white smile, giving Isa a better view of the ribbed tank top stretching across his wiry but muscular chest. “You like what you see so far?”

Isa’s smirk turns patronizing as he accepts the rose, but his green eyes catch onto Axel’s with surprising steadiness, confidence. “I wouldn’t mind a closer look.”

Axel supposes, technically, they could still be talking about the garden, but he’s starting to doubt it. He tells himself a little harmless flirtation with Isa won’t hurt anything. It’s just necessary job security. He’s not trying to hurt Roxas. Roxas doesn’t even have to know. Also, it doesn’t hurt that Isa happens to be turning him on right now with his slow, articulate lawyer voice, his gorgeous, fancy-ass suit, and his incredibly uncharacteristic, mild flirtations.

So, Axel sits back on his good palm, stretches out his legs in front of him and purrs, “Think that could be arranged.”

Isa nods, as if they’ve just shaken hands over a business merger, says, “Very good,” and then checks his antique looking gold and brown leather wristwatch. “It is getting late. You’d best pack up your things.”

“Uh…” Axel, sits up straighter. Maybe they were just talking about gardening after all. “Alright.” Being ginger with his injured left hand, Axel stands and tucks sheers, twine, spray, and the other tools he’s most recently been using back into the bag he’d used to transport them from his pick-up, occasionally glancing back to Isa, who’s alternating between watching Axel and examining the most recent yard work. Gear collected, Axel shoulders the strap of his bag.

“You didn’t stay late waiting around for me, I hope?” Isa asks as Axel steps up. His overly casual inquiry makes the hairs on the back of Axel’s neck stand up. Is Isa still wondering what took Axel twice as long as necessary, or is he hoping Axel wanted to see him?

Once again, Axel opens his mouth to bullshit a response, and Isa starts talking again before he can, shrugging his shoulder, “Hm. No matter. I expect you know you’ve done an exceptional job, Mr. Emberson. And I’m glad I caught you.”

Axel quirks a brow. “Are you?”

Isa scowls mildly, flutters his hand to indicate Axel follow him back toward the towering expanse of his mansion, and then sets off at a brisk pace. “Roxas told me he forgot to pay you earlier.”

“Oh.” That had not been at all where Axel thought Isa was going with that.

Isa spares Axel a backward glance, frowning now, voice softening into something that almost resembles sympathetic, “I do apologize. I can’t imagine what he was so distracted with that he couldn’t manage to do the one thing I…”

Axel’s initial irritation at Isa putting down his husband with an ease that feels like habit gives way to a deeper heat in his chest. Maybe Isa’s tone is sympathetic, and Axel’s heart rate is just picking up because once again Isa is dancing so precariously close to the truth that it feels calculated.

Isa’s thoughtful gaze feels like ice pressed to Axel’s face and he thinks it would suck to stand in court with him, because those eyes alone make him feel guilty as sin.

“Well,” Isa corrects, smirk knowing, if brief, as he taps his chin, “perhaps I can imagine…”

Fuck. He knows.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Axel offers, forcing his brows to furrow lightly.

Isa snorts. “Of course.” He pauses in front of the front door, a broad, darkly elegant wood with an opaque glass window inset with crisscrossing silver. Isa taps at the security keypad and produces his key. “Well, regardless. If you’ll follow me inside, I’ll write you a check for all your, ah, hard work.” Isa’s lips stretch into an actual, full, tight-lipped smile, as he holds the door open for Axel and gestures for him to enter with a sweep of his hand like some sexy Victorian gentleman.

Axel thinks vaguely of that John Mullaney bit. You ain’t getting me to no secondary location.

He thinks vaguely about Roxas straddling his lap on a garden bench, pressing featherlight kisses up his neck like a lovesick teenager, while Axel rubbed his back and whispered “You’re so beautiful” over and over again.

Axel hesitates in the door frame, lips fumbling for an excuse, eyes catching sight of his clunky black work boots. “Probably shouldn’t, boss.” He smiles, lifts a mud encrusted boot, and crosses his arms. “I’ve been known to wreak havoc on the upholstery.”

Isa’s brows rise suggestively, and his thin smile only widens. “Don’t worry about the dirt, darling. I have people for that.”

“I, uh…”

Isa frowns when Axel fails to step inside immediately, and sets his hand firmly on the gardener’s tanned bicep. The thorns of the rose tucked under his thumb snag gently at his skin. “Axel.”

Heat rips through Axel’s veins from the point of contact. Isa has the kind of voice you don’t say no to.

Axel sets his hand over Isa’s and follows him inside.

* *

Isa has the study of a Sherlock Holmes villain. Neatly organized bookshelves studded with the occasional curio fill two walls from floor to ceiling. Above his desk hang twin abstract paintings reminiscent of evening thunderstorms, all blotted hues of blacks, blues, and violets, lit with streaks of flashing gold. An astrological globe printed with constellations sits in one corner and a potted fern in another.

Isa makes his way over to a wide, disgustingly well-organized mahogany desk. The only sign that the space is not sheerly for show that Axel can see is a collection of coffee mugs abandoned beside a powered down MacBook and a single framed photo of a beaming Roxas hugging at a Siberian Husky Axel’s never seen a hair of in real life.

Axel wishes he hadn’t noticed the photo and steps closer to the large fern to his left, crouching to run his thumb along its discolored fronds.

“Can’t help yourself, can you?” Isa asks.

Axel glances up with a start, but Isa is no longer looking at him. He’s pulled a leather checkbook from a desk drawer and begun thumbing through it.

“This little guy could use a bit more sunlight,” Axel glances to the distant window across the room, its blinds pulled down and curtains drawn. “Indirect, don’t need to burn it to a crisp or anything, but… should liven him up a little.”

Isa chuckles, a brief, dry thing, as he picks up a pen and starts to write Axel’s check. “I’ll take that under advisement, Mr. Emberson. Thank you.”

Axel notices Isa’s set the rose Axel gave him in a half-full water glass beside the coffee mugs, and smiles to himself—in spite of himself.

He shuts his eyes, rubbing his thumb between them. What the fuck am I doing?

“Here you are, darling.”

Axel opens his eyes and drops his hand to see Isa holding the check out.

Darling rings in Axel’s ears as he crosses the room to accept it with a slightly bowed head and a gracious, “Thank you, sir.”

Roxas had asked Axel not to call him ‘sir’ within two sentences. Most clients offer him their names on Day 2. Isa seems to have no intention of ever doing so.

“Don’t spend it all in one place.”

Axel’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but he thinks he’s starting to catch a slight slant to Isa’s words that say he’s teasing. He glances up to see the slight smirk again.

Axel chances another flirtatious smile of his own. “No promises, boss.” He takes the check between two fingers, waves it slightly, teasingly, before turning and straightening it, just to double check Isa spelled ‘Emberson’ right. Axel halts abruptly and rereads the numbers a couple times.

“Something wrong?” Isa asks, stepping up behind him, hand on his shoulder as he peers at the check as well.

“This isn’t the amount we agreed on.”

“No.”

Axel glances up to Isa, who slides his hand down his shoulder to his bicep and then pulls him toward the black leather futon adjacent to his desk.

“Take a seat, Axel. There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

Seeing no other alternative, heart rate picking up again, Axel reluctantly sinks down into the expensive smelling cushions. Isa crosses to the double doors of the study and snaps them both shut.

“It’s about my husband.”

Axel’s boots press harder into polished floorboards, ready to spring up. His cock throbs at the memory of Roxas’ smooth hard abdomen hot under his hands, the beachy smell of Roxas’ hair under his lips and the taste of him like salt and coconut and burning tequila. Roxas’ eyes, wide and blue, alternatively coy and teasing and desperately wanting... Sex with Roxas had been like being pulled gently and firmly underwater and drowning in him.

Isa knows.

Axel crosses one leg over his knee. “What about him?”

“It has come to my attention that you have had the misfortune of witnessing a few,” Isa hums, swishes his hand dismissively, “spats between Roxas and I. No marriage is perfect. Some words were said…” Isa tilts his head in implication, frowning, nose crinkling again around his scar.

“Some dishes were broken…” Axel counters, not wisely, but if Isa’s accusing him of something, it doesn’t hurt to accuse back. He’s heard multiple arguments, both hushed and roared, at this point, but what has most stuck with him is the telltale glint of shards of plate and million pieces of a splintered wine glass scattered across the front hallway.

All Roxas had said in explanation that day was: “Watch your step. I didn’t.”

Isa freezes, fist clenching and unclenching and then nods, something Axel wants to call hurt in his eyes. It’s strange to hear a perspective outside of Roxas’ reluctant ones: He’s bored with me. He’s done with me. He doesn’t give a shit what I…

“Yes. Well… We all do things we regret. I assure you, we did not mean anything by them. Some relationships are more passionate than others. It’s our way. At the end of the day, Roxas and I are deeply committed to each other. We rely on each other. The pair of us haven’t always kept to the status quo and there are those who would like nothing more to see us torn down, and we must keep a united front. As far as our family and friends are concerned, we are madly, deeply in love and we cannot afford to put that perception in jeopardy.”

Isa paces forward, closing in, and Axel once again pictures him in court, addressing the jury, telling them what to think and how to think it with a natural authority that offers no space for doubt or disobedience. An openly gay, big shot lawyer with blue fucking hair and a sexy husband with an attitude and a day-drinking problem. Axel realizes not for the first time that Isa has to be better than everyone else, stronger, more cut-throat, more perfect than anyone else just to exist. And it seems like he damn near is.

“As you are all too aware, rumors in this neighborhood spread rampantly as weeds.” Isa’s eyes catch Axel’s. “I need you to prove as adept at killing them at their source as you have with my lawn’s dandelion population. Naturally, I am willing to compensate you for your discretion, and to recommend you to some of my colleagues who may be interested in a wide variety of your services.”

Axel doesn’t miss the half-dozen implications weaved within these words, but he’s also not entirely sure he wants to correct them.

“I trust this arrangement is amenable to you.” Isa’s standing above him, at this point, his knees pressed to Axel’s, his arms crossed, discerning.

Axel has a feeling sex with Isa would be like being slammed back to shore by a cruel wave and then receiving CPR, having his chest—his whole body—pounded back to life. For a moment, with Isa tense and poised like he might pounce on him, striking green eyes staring into him, through him, Axel wants to find out.

“Yeah.”

Axel’s mind floods with relief that apparently none of this actually has to do with his fling with Roxas. He might actually get away with Roxas and whatever the fuck this conversation is.

“Yes, of course, sir. Your business is your business.” Axel waves a hand as if to wave off his own knowledge of the subject and moves to get up. “Say no more.”

A heavy gloved hand lands on his shoulder, stilling him.

“I’m afraid it’s not quite so simple as that.” Isa smiles sadly. “You’ve no doubt noticed that Roxas has taken an interest in you.” Isa’s thumb skims along Axel’s skin, below the strap of his tank top.

Axel finds himself nodding as his throat threatens to close itself off entirely. “Yeah, yeah.” He coughs. “He has shown quite an interest in my work. His designs for the gardens are really quite impressive. We’ve been fine tuning some of the details together to make his masterpiece a reality.”

Isa gives a world-weary sigh. “Yes, he thinks so, at any rate. Thank you for humoring him.” Isa’s gloved fingers knead into Axel’s shoulder in a kind of smooth leather massage, tone turning teasing again, “I hope he hasn’t been too much in the way.”

Axel frowns. Isa speaks as though Roxas is a lovesick puppy nipping at Axel’s heels as he works, instead of the entire reason their garden is going to be the hottest garden in Radiant Garden this season.

“Really, I’m not. His designs are stunning, insightful, and intricate,” Axel remembers a conversation they had had earlier, momentarily pushing aside the rising suspicion of what this conversation is actually about, “If he were interested in taking on clients, I know plenty of folks who’d be interested in seeing ‘em.”

Isa rolls his eyes but then meets Axel’s again with a momentary, indulgent smile. “You’re too generous. Roxas doesn’t need the work, I assure you.” Isa’s hand drops down Axel’s shoulder to his bicep, squeezes. “My husband wants for nothing.”

Isa releases Axel’s arm and Axel’s free hand rises to touch him on the arm in return.

Yeah, Axel’s brain bites back skeptically, except something to do with himself every fricking day.

“Everybody needs their hobbies…” Axel suggests more mildly.

Isa scowls. “He has more hobbies than he knows what to do with: painting, ceramics, equestrian training, amateur bartending…” He paces in an impatient circle, ticking off on his fingers, and then turning on his toe to face Axel yet again, “expensive hobbies that he abandons within a matter of months. This is only the latest. I fear he’d only grow bored and leave your clients wanting.”

Axel may not have known Roxas long but he can tell that his passion for design is more than just a passing fancy, and from what he can tell, the guy had some schooling in the subject as well. Axel forces himself to smile softly, “Well, if he wants. He knows where to find me…”

“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you,” Isa lifts his hand again, pats Axel on the cheek so briefly he thinks he might have imagined it. “I wasn’t referring to his interest in your work…I’m afraid you’ve quite charmed him.” He glances to the ceiling for a moment, grin wry. “At least his tastes remain impeccable as ever...”

Axel decides to play dumb again, since it’s gotten him this far. He spreads his palms open, lifts them in the smallest of shrugs. “I don’t follow…”

But Isa blatantly scoffs, glancing down his front, tight tank top, tight jeans. “Please. Neither of us are stupid. You’re an attractive, well built, welcoming man, Axel, and Roxas is…” Isa halts, reaching out to grasp Axel’s wrist, and lift it up, “Are you bleeding, Mr. Emberson?”

Axel lets him tug at his arm, ignoring the jolting prick as the fabric of the glove shifts against the clotted cut in his palm. “Oh, not so much any more…”

“Unbelievable.” Isa abruptly drops his wrist and gives him a hard glare that makes Axel suspect the rest of the conversation had been going remarkably well in comparison. “Jesus Christ, Axel. Don’t move.” With this Isa sweeps out of the room.

Axel stays put, his back sinking into the swanky futon, deliberating over what Isa does or does not know, and does or does not want from him.

In a few minutes, the door opens, and Isa pushes through, a bowl cradled in one arm and white dish towels draped over the other. He’s hovering over Axel again in moments, their knees pressed together, Isa’s palm reaching out. “Give me your hand.”

“It’s nothing. Really.” Axel winces and retracts it, clenching it to his chest. It’s just a thorn prick. He’d had a hundred of them. It’s strange to see Isa so concerned over it.

“Your glove is filthy. You’ll get an infection and it’ll be on my head. Give me your hand, you senseless, pretty fool…”

Axel gingerly removes the glove, hissing as the dried blood pulls off and the tear in his palm starts to bleed again.

Isa reaches out his hand once more, and Axel hesitantly places his inside it, blood dribbling down the side.

“I’m terrified I’ll drip on that fancy suit of yours,” Axel admits as Isa dabs his wound with warm water and heat seeps up his arm, pain chased with soothing. “Maybe you oughta take it off.”

Isa bites off a smile that makes Axel groan when he realizes what he’s just said.

“Do you often find yourself overly concerned with the welfare of other men’s suits?”

“More than I’d like,” Axel mumbles, though Isa doesn’t immediately reply, rinsing dirt and blood from the towel and then cleaning the rest of Axel’s hand, wrist, fingers, before slowly patting them dry.

“You have the hands of someone who’s worked hard to get where he is.” Isa muses, wrapping bandages in an X across his palm to keep a strip of gauze set in place. “Roxas’ hands are soft as snow. He’s pampered, spoiled. He hasn’t known a day’s hard work in his life…”

Whose fault is that? Axel wants to reply, but Isa doesn’t notice Axel’s expression momentarily darken. Isa’s being sweet to him, but the way he treats Roxas...

“He needs attention, romance... He needs everything to be about him.”

Axel thinks again of the way Roxas had beamed and smothered him with kisses while Axel whispered to him how beautiful he was.

Axel decides he doesn’t necessarily like Isa, despite his attempts to be pleasant, but with Isa standing between his legs, working a fresh towel up Axel’s neck and across his cheek, muscular arm brushing Axel’s chest, Axel can’t deny that his body wants Isa’s hands all over him, or that he does, in fact, want to see how Isa looks without the suit.

Isa continues gently wiping Axel’s face of sweat and dirt and then sets the bowl aside.

“Better?” Axel whispers.

Isa gently cups Axel’s cheek, apparently not oblivious to the heat building in Axel’s chest or the way his pupils have blown out, eclipsing green with something darker.

“What Roxas doesn’t understand,” Isa says slowly, “is that after a hard day’s work, sometimes all I need is a quick, rough, hard, dirty, meaningless fuck. You understand, I think.”

Axel grins. “I think so.” Axel reaches with his good hand to grip Isa’s hip and pull him down onto the futon. He’s aiming to get Isa in his lap, but Isa’s stronger than he expected, and pulls Axel’s back to his chest instead, not hesitating to begin tracing kisses up his neck and toward his ear.

“How rough are we talking?” Axel purrs, reaching back to rub Isa’s thigh.

Isa’s teeth tug at Axel’s ear. “I can show you where to bite Roxas to make him come completely undone.”

Axel breath catches. He tries to twist his head around but Isa’s hand is secure on the back of his neck. “What?”

“It’s only a matter of time before he tries to seduce you,” Isa says and Axel can hear the slant of a smile again. “If he hasn’t already. You ought to be prepared.”

“Isa,” Axel sucks in a quick breath, “we’re just friends. I wouldn’t dream of—”

Isa sweeps the strands of Axel’s bun away from his neck and bites the nape, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure straight down his spine. “Hush, Axel.” Isa’s hands drift down Axel’s chest and lower, fitting their bodies more snugly together, and cleanses Axel’s skin with his tongue.

“God, Isa…” Axel grins and moans, as Isa continues his attentions, rough and direct. All thoughts clear his brain aside from the after image of the last object his eyes landed on before he shut them—across the room, on the desk, a pink rose, a silver glass, black thorns. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs, hoarsely. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop...”

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nerdyfangirl67 · 4 years ago

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Leading Woman - Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction

Pairing: Meg Giry x Erik/Phantom

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, big scary Phantom (but honestly when isn’t he like this)

Word count: 1790

Requested: @ofserien

A/N: This is my first character x character one-shot in a while so I hope y’all enjoy it. Also I know the GIF is of Phantom and Christine, but lets imagine its Meg for this one! Hope you enjoy this darling! <3 As always, requests are open and comments are very welcome!

Meg being willing to do whatever the Phantom suggests, even though his attention is on Christine. Finally, Meg has had enough and decided to meet the Phantom on his turf. Although he is upset at the disrespect and blatant neglect of his privacy, he is impressed by her lack of fear towards him and her gumption. Meg makes a case for herself, and the Phantom finally sees Meg for who she is, a leading woman.

She had had enough. It had been all I want Christine to sing my new composition and I demand Christine be the lead in the next production and Get rid of the background dancers. They draw attention away from Christine.

She never argued or disagreed because the demands were coming from the Phantom of the Opera, after all. She never questioned his decisions because she thought the world of him.

Everyone else saw him as this frightening being that would strike down anyone who opposed him. They saw him as an ugly creature that loomed like a shadow over the Opera house. Everyone except her.

She saw him as a mysterious man, who despite his rough nature and scars, physical and emotional, only wanted to love and be loved in return. And that’s what saddened her. The fact that he chose to give Christine his love when she was clearly in love with another.

She could tell the minute she saw recognition, followed by something much deeper and more intense, flash across Christine’s face upon seeing the Vicomte de Chagny that Christine loved this man. And every time she saw the two after that, she knew this to be true.

And yet, Christine still followed the Phantom to his lair, obeyed his rules to a T, and called him her ‘Angel of Music.’ And Meg has seen enough to know that Christine continued to allow the Phantom to come up through the tunnels to the mirror in her dressing room and sing to her, although she knew that even if Christine hadn’t wanted him to, he still would because that’s who he was. Christine’s ‘angel of Music’.

But she finally decided that she was done letting her friend have both the attention of the Vicomte de Chagny and the devotion of the man she loved. So for the first time since she had started dancing at the Opera Populaire, she decided she was going to step into the light, no longer as a backup, but as a leading lady.

Despite her wanting to act on this desire immediately, she had to wait until Christine was out of her dressing chambers and know that she wasn’t somewhere in the tunnels with the Phantom. Because if Meg was going to confront the Phantom and tell him how she felt, she didn’t want to do it with an audience or in the shadow of Christine.

She loiters around the door to Christine’s dressing room, pretending she was practicing moves for the next production. After what felt like an eternity, Christine finally padded out of her dressing chamber. Meg waits for a moment longer before slipping into the ornate room. She took a moment to scan the room, her eyes falling on the single rose resting on a small table towards the center of the room. She glides forward, a finger brushing over the black satin bow tied to the stem. A glance to her left reveals a large vase placed in the far corner of the room, filled with roses ordained with the same black bow, in various stages of decay, as if they were placed there as an after-thought.

Meg realizes that these had to be the ‘gifts’ Christine had told her about, the ones that appeared as if by magic in her chambers after each performance. She knew that the roses couldn’t be from Raoul because Christine would have made sure that all the girls knew she had received something from her love.

No, Meg knew these had to be from the Phantom. A surge of white-hot rage flew over her at the thought. Before she knew what she was doing, she had the satin ribbon tied in her hair and, after breaking the stem off, the rose tucked into the top of her corset. On a whim, she moves towards the vase and gently grabs the oldest rose out.

She steps to the front of the large mirror, with the rose held delicately in her hand, taking a moment to collect herself before she pushes against the cold, heavy glass, sliding it open. After moving through the narrow gap, she pulls the mirror back in place.

A soft gasp escapes past her lips as she takes in the expansiveness of the damp tunnel, lit only by a torch on the wall every hundred feet. A shiver passes down her spine as she moves through the dark tunnel, her nerves building.

The soft music trickling down through the tunnels acts as a gentle siren, calling her through the twists and turns, to the Phantom. As she got closer, the music got louder, washing over her like a wave. After twenty paces, in which she thought the music couldn’t get any louder, the tunnel opened up to a large, cavernous room. Candelabras of various sizes bring a soft aurora of light into the room, causing a feeling of warmth to spread within Meg. Seated at the massive organ was the Phantom himself, his black cape spanning out behind him like a pool of thick, black satin. She let out a breath, fascinated by the music being created just as much as the man before her.

“I know you are there, hiding in the shadows, my muse.” Her heart stops, realizing not only that he knew she was there but also, that he thought she was Christine.

She steps out of the shadows at the same time as the Phantom turns around. She watches his look of happiness transform into one of confusion and frustration.

“Ah, little Meg Giry. I knew you’d come traipsing through my tunnels sooner or later.” His tone was condescending and his steps unhurried and confident as he made his way towards her.

She didn’t appreciate his tone and instead of cowering in wait for him to reach her, she strode forwards, abandoning the shadows that had been concealing her features.

“If you knew I would come, you must know why I’m here. After all, you are the Phantom of the Opera.” She comments, holding her head high, when he stops only two steps away from her.

He didn’t reply as his eyes slowly rakeover her body, stopping not once, but twice at the rose in her hand and the bud tucked into her corset. She can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he storms forward, catching a glimpse of the ribbon in her hair. His hands are clenched tightly at his sides and as he comes close enough to her that she can feel his breath on her face, she can see the fire blazing in his dark eyes, a sharp contrast to the soft white mask covering half his face.

Suddenly his hand is reaching up and roughly pulling the ribbon out of her hair and yanking the delicate rose out of her fingers. She lets out a small yelp of surprise as the thorns prick her fingers. She refuses to take a step back, despite the rising fear caused by his actions.

She watches him a moment before she speaks.

“I will not tolerate being in Christine’s shadow any longer. I am skilled enough to have a lead position.” She pauses, moving slowly to place a gentle hand on his unmasked cheek. Her touch is feather light, not wanting him to feel fear with her fingers being so close to his mask. He remains still, as she traces a line from his forehead to his chin.

“You deserve to be loved by someone who loves you back.” She whispers as she withdraws her hand from his face, turning her attention to his eyes. His dark eyes are no longer burning with fury as he looks at her.

“Continue.” His tone was less derogatory now and more interested than it had been.

She does as he orders, “She once called you her Angel of Music and she was right. You are a master composer. What she does not see is beyond that. You are a man of mystery and intrigue. You strike fear into the heart of others, but beneath that callous exterior is a man. A man who deserves to be loved and treasured.” At this point she is a breath away from him and her voice is barely more than a whisper as his mere presence this close to her is enchanting.

“What are you suggesting little Giry?” His voice, no more than a rough whisper, actually sends a shiver down her spine, causing the Phantom to quirk his lips into a small smile, which is gone as soon as it comes.

“I am suggesting that you stop pushing me aside. I can be just as good as Christine if you stopped demanding that she be the star of the show.” She pauses, only briefly, to place a soft hand on his clothed chest. “I am suggesting you teach me as my angel of music. And I am telling you to let me love you. Because I can, quite easily.”

She finishes, her attention now on the soft material of the Phantom’s shirt between her fingers. Silence follows for a long time and she removes her hand from his shirt, ready to step away from him and return to the upper level of the Opera Populaire. A gentle, gloved hand brushes her chin, lifting it up so she is now looking into his eyes.

“Ah little Giry, I’ve been waiting for you to speak your mind. Do you think I never saw the way you pushed yourself to be better than Christine? Or the way you made sure to follow my commands exactly, even when no one else did?” His eyes searched hers, and to her dismay, she could feel tears welling up in her eyes.

She had thought that her actions, her commitment, had gone unseen and knowing that it had not was overwhelming.

A gloved finger came and gently brushed the tears that had fallen over her lashes, away. “Do you think I never noticed how devoted to me you were? Because little Giry, I did notice and you managed to warm my long dead heart by being so devoted.”

With that, he grasps one of her hands within his much larger one, pulling her along with him to the organ. He slowly guides her to sit on the bench in front of the instrument and, after he seated himself next to her, he turns slightly to look at her.

“We shall begin with the traditional music scale. I want to see the range you can sing in, little Giry.” His words leave her breathless as she realizes that her dream was finally coming true. The Phantom finally saw her for who she was and was helping her become more.

#phantom #phantom of the opera #phantom of the opera imagine #phantom x meg #phantom x meg giry #erik destler #erik x meg #phantom fandom #phantom fanfiction #poto #poto fanfiction #poto fanfic #poto meg x erik

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unfortunate-arrow · 4 years ago

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Olympian Aesthetics

[Thanks for the tag @that-ravenpuff-witch and @mizutoyama! I’ll tag anyone who wants to try.]

Huck Fitzgerald - HPHM

[I also decided to do Tadhg and he’s under the cut.]

Tadhg Lynch - HPHL

#this was cool #greek mythology (and mythology in general) is quite interesting #hphm #hogwarts mystery #huck fitzgerald #hphl #hogwarts legacy #tadhg lynch #olypmian aesthetics #decided to huck instead of one of the quads or ruth #because huck is less fleshed out #and tadhg because i love that disaster

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politicalmamaduck · 5 years ago

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Reylo Fic Recs: Modern AU

The Other Promise by @kuresoto

Rey knows she's not normal. Why else would she be subjected to four foster families before she aged out of the system and took life into her own hands? It could have (definitely does) something to do with the fact that she can see how long people have to live.It doesn't bother her (much) anymore, and with her being--well, her--she's resigned herself to working in a morgue for the rest of her life where the only people who keep her company besides her boss, are the dead. No friends, no family. No one.But everything starts to unravel when a new neighbor moves in next door. The walls she's built come crumbling down for the uniquely handsome man who always wears a three-piece suit, complete with a pair of leather gloves, regardless of how hot it is.The chance encounter turns into frequent run-ins, with the single most important factor that had ruined any relationship she ever tried having in the past being absent. He has no life timer.

Where No Thing Gleams by @maq-moon

An online DNA test sends Rey on a whirlwind journey across Europe. When she hits a roadblock in her travels, the enigmatic Kylo Ren offers to solve all of her problems. The catch? She must simply go on one date with him.Or so she thought.

The Skeptic and the Medium by @shelikespretties

Rey Niima fought for a logical, no-nonsense life as a scientist and skeptic of all things that go bump in the night. Kylo Ren is a famous medium for whom bumps in the night show off. So of course they have to make a Netflix special together.

Dear Mr. President by @shmisolo

Dr. Dameron shifts and slides a manilla folder across the desk to her. “Under ordinary circumstances, I’d let you keep the folder. I hope you’ll understand why I can’t do that this time around.” She opens it and stares.She stares and stares and stares.Dr. Dameron has to be kidding. There have to be hidden cameras here, this has to be some elaborate prank. That’s why it’s him here and not Dr. Wexley—that was his name. Dr. Wexley. But instead of getting to her feet and tossing her hair and saying he was cruel for playing with her heart like this, all she does is ask, blankly, “So...Ben Solo is my soulmate? Our new president is my…” She swallows.And Dr. Dameron nods.

Carry In My Core (That Voice I Adore) by @shmisolo

Starring in her first opera would be stressful as is, but Rey, always one to outdo herself, just had to go and make things even more complicated with Kylo Ren. It’s hard enough looking him in the eye, much less pretending to be in love with him. She can make it through this. She has made it through worse. She can make it through this.

the star to every wandering bark by @abstractragedy

There is something else as well, an instinctual drive that’s making him go, almost calling Ben to Takodana; much like an idea for a novel, a terribly persistent and gnawing thought at the back of his mind that will not go away until he does something about it.A change of scenery is always good for one’s mind. By alternating one’s perspective the reality might change as well.--When Ben Solo travels to Takodana in the name of his second novel, meeting an impossibly intriguing woman named Rey wasn't exactly what he envisioned. But the universe has a funny way of working things out.

Yichud by @shmisolo

Mazal Tov - The expression comes from the Mishnaic Hebrew mazzāl, meaning "constellation" or "destiny". Borrowed from Yiddish מזל־טובֿ (mazl tov), from Hebrew מַזָּל (mazál, “star, constellation; fate, luck”), from Akkadian (manzaltu [UD.DA]) + Hebrew טוֹב (tov, “good”); literally “good stars, good luck.”

crossfade (cursed and blessed) by @shmisolo

The Talmud states that on Purim one is to drink to the point of not knowing the difference between “cursed is Haman” and “blessed is Mordechai.” In other words, you’re supposed to get so blitzed you can’t tell your friends from your enemies. Rey and Ben might be taking this a little too literally at Leia’s annual Purim Party.

Convergence by @kuresoto

Other, also known as ‘soulmate’ for people who wanted to believe. Not everyone had an Other, and the only way to find your Other was by saying their name. When that happened, memories of their life, where they grew up and the steps that led them to you, would be condensed into a single flashback that passed in a blink of an eye. The fact that someone had said Rey’s name and didn’t bother approaching her hurt, especially since she had a good idea why. Her parents tossed her aside when she was barely five, so she shouldn’t be surprised that her soulmate had done the same.

Siman tov u’mazal tov by @shmisolo

“I didn’t get to have a big wedding,” his mother had told him when they’d finally spoken about it. “I was pregnant and it was a lot and your dad and I just got married. It’s my time. I’m having a big wedding.” She sounded nervous, almost defensive, as though a woman who is nearly sixty doesn’t have a right to want a big wedding. She wasn’t no young blushing bride. She has a thirty-year-old son for god’s sake.But his mom was going to have a big wedding.And Ben had taken a deep breath before saying what he’s sure Leia was even more nervous about hearing.“I’m not sure I’m coming.”

How Our Song Goes by @lariren-shadow

Rey is a struggling student who would love to have at least some money to save rather then just paying her debts. Kylo Ren would love to get his trust fund, the only problem is there's a clause in it that states if he wants it now he has to get married.Rey is willing to be Kylo's bride to her own cut. The only problem is that they'll have to make their relationship look real to everyone else.

Puppies by @lariren-shadow

On a crisp autumn day Rey and Ben meet in the park while walking their dogs. Things don't exactly go smoothly.

burn sky until you see lines by @solikerez

He writes a letter for every time he feels like the world is shattering around him, and it is still not enough.

306.73 or: How to Woo a Librarian by @reylotrashcompactor

She was back again. Ben called her The Scavenger in his head because she liked to pick collections dry. (Though he knew from her library card that her name was Rey. Pretty.) There wasn’t a pattern to her hauls, only that she’d take almost an entire shelf with her in that ratty little messenger bag and leave him to pick up her mess. But, Ben didn’t suppose he was fooling anyone but himself: he had it bad for the Scavenger and she was back. He’d talk to her tonight. He would.

What you don't know by @thewayofthetrashcompactor

Rey wants to see the local haunted house and drags her reluctant boyfriend and friends along with her. It's not quite what she expects.

Between Sky and Sea by @moonshotsandarchimedeslevers

When Rey finally set out to find her parents in the innumerable islands of the Jakku Archipelago, the last thing she expected was a mysterious stranger to drop out of the sky with his story of hidden treasures and secret wonders.

Blades Crossed by @the-reylo-void

Notorious figure skater Kylo Ren has had a rough few years; once a decorated competitor, now it's hard to say what he's losing faster, sponsors or partners. With Nationals just six months out and no qualified partner on the horizon, Kylo finds himself begrudgingly skating with college hockey phenom Rey Kenobi, a scrappy forward coming off injured reserve who doesn't know a lutz from an axel. It's only for six months, but family drama, a twisted coach, and a budding closeness to his new partner ensure that this will be the most eventful competition season of Kylo's career.

it's you and me (i know it's our destiny) by @shmisolo

It’s just a kid’s game, he thinks when jealousy pangs in his heart. But it’s more than just a kid’s game.It’s Pokémon. It’s the only good thing in his life.

happy cockus day by trasharama

She prefers the nip of New Hampshire winters, heavy winds blowing in her hair, being bundled up in three layers with pens whose ink freeze fast and thaw slow. She loves warm buildings, and Christmas breaks, and slurping down huge bowls of ramen in the evenings, but being on the ground, a clipboard in her hand, boots on a voter’s doorstep? That’s where she knows she belongs.So there are a lot of things going against Rey Johnson’s introduction to Ben Solo, his moody personality probably the least of her worries, since he’s the reason she’s not outside, making some sort of tangible effort to get his mother elected as president.

A More Perfect Union by fangirl_outlet

Rey, new to DC, tags along to a stuffy networking event with her friend -- they're both poor and, hell, there's free booze. Ben, a recruiter for the lobbyist firm he works for, finds the intern with the soft voice and angry eyes a fun challenge -- especially when he finds out she works for his estranged mother Senator Leia Organa.

Spending Valentine's Day Solo by @jyn-z-solo

She places his scent—woodsy and warm, like sandalwood and ginger—before she recognizes the large, gloved hand outreached to steady her or the sleeves of his black wool coat. “Rey,” he blurts out—is the pink on his cheeks from the chill outside, or is he blushing? “Ben! Hi!” She’s trying desperately to sound nonchalant, but at the rate her eyebrows continue to rise, they may end up past her hairline. “Wha… What are you doing here?” he asks, running a hand through his hair.

Unshakeable by @shmisolo

Rey is performing in another fucking musical and Ben goes to see it.

My own modern AU fics:

what is past is prologue: Reylo in Washington, DC

A collection of my Tumblr-based Reylo fics set in Washington, DC. Prompts and prompter will be in chapter titles.

My other fic rec lists:

#reylo #rffa writers #fic recs #modern au #fan fiction #my writing

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shinsousbedroom · 4 years ago

Text

Plus Ultra! Go Beyond the Screen!

celebrity AU drabble series, 3K~, quirkless actor Midoriya Izuku gets interviewed

[Read on AO3.]

GO BEYOND!

A conversation with Japan’s rising star Midoriya Izuku on standing up on set and off as the next symbol for peace. A GQ Japan exclusive.

By Taneo Tokuda | Correspondent

[Image of Midoriya Izuku, leaning next to a window, his body arched off the wall. His head is tilted up and over towards the camera, the left side of his body illuminated from the light coming in, the right side fading into the shadows. He’s wearing a sheepish grin, tugging at the tie around his neck with a single hooked finger, jacket sliding off his shoulders. He’s wearing Best Jeanist’s exclusive non-denim line, and the monocolor layering of velvets in the lighting make his green hair, red shoes, and tie pop in rich color even more.]

I’d been warned that Midoriya Izuku has no regard for outdated formality. He’s far from callous or jaded — sweet and optimistic are two words often used to describe him — but propriety is something he has never been concerned with.

I’d been warned, but I didn’t understand.

Any journalist who’s worked the entertainment beat for a while knows there’s a cadence every interview follows. The details may change, but there are conventional practices that help an interview go smoothly for both the interviewer and subject, to make the most of a complicated relationship between celebrities and the media.

This interview starts behind the scenes, as most do, with the e-mail I send out to Midoriya’s manager, laying out a request to speak with his charge. The enthusiastic response comes just an hour later and references details from a number of stories I’d written across the entire span of my career.

It isn’t his manager’s response. It’s Midoriya’s.

That was my second warning to assume nothing, but I still stumble into Midoriya’s apartment expecting a clean, contemporary, moderately-sized apartment. It’s rare to host interviews in celebrity homes, and when it happens, it’s meant to be a statement — power, wealth, pride, affected sincerity.

Instead, Midoriya opens the door halfway and apologizes because he moved in recently and there’s still a stack of boxes blocking him from opening it any further. The door handle nearly catches between the buttons of my shirt as I squeeze through the crack. Once inside, I trip over his trademark red shoes and nearly take him down in the process.

He catches me in his arms and says with a wry grin, “Don’t worry, I am here!”

That, of course, is a classic reference to his latest role: All Might. All for One will be a Netflix reboot of the old '80s superhero film franchise that turned Toshinori Yagi into a household name. In a casting coup that stunned fans and industry insiders alike, Midoriya fell into the role shortly after making headlines for saving a life during a villain attack on the set of long-running soap opera The Quirked and the Quirkless. The villain had been looking for Toshinori, and in his absence, grabbed a crewmember hostage. Midoriya attacked the villain despite having no quirk.

Soon after, Toshinori reversed his longstanding refusal to produce an All Might reboot and gave the studio a green light — with a stipulation. Just as the franchise had brought him up from obscurity, so must the franchise fill its ranks with youths aiming to catch their big breaks. Enter: Midoriya Izuku.

Midoriya sets me back down gently — yes, he picked me up when I fell, even though I’m a full half meter taller than him — and I’m more inclined to see his suitability as Toshinori’s successor.

Physically, he still looks nothing like his mentor. Where Toshinori is buff, Midoriya is lean, tall to his short, loud to his soft. Toshinori held his strength in the brash, nigh-cocky attitude that got him into as much trouble as himself as it did in the show as All Might. Midoriya carries strength like woven spider silk; it’s graceful and dangerous, but all too easy to overlook for those unused to subtlety. But he carries the same bright aura of unwavering love and determination.

More to the point, I also felt his arms and abs in the fall, and he may not look like he has the muscles of All Might, but they are definitely there.

“You can take a seat anywhere in the living room if you’d like,” Midoriya says, ushering me down the hall with a light hand on my back. “Breakfast will be ready in just a few minutes, but I haven’t put together the kitchen table yet, so living room it is.”

“Breakfast? Did we decide on a working breakfast?” I replied.

“I couldn’t invite a guest into my home without offering snacks! Since this interview coincides with breakfast, I made breakfast.” He pushes me towards the sofa and wags a finger at me when I try to follow him to the kitchen anyway. “No guests allowed to hover or help in the kitchen. It’s too small!”

The rest of the apartment is half unpacked, and haphazardly at that. Boxes are open, dumped out into piles on the floor where they will likely be permanently placed. I perch on the arm of a ratty sofa by the only portion of the room that’s been set up. It’s a veritable shrine to pro heros, fictional and real alike. Two of the five shelves are devoted solely to All Might merchandise.

Midoriya appears behind me, as if by quirk. “Ah, do you collect hero memorabilia? I’ve been a big fan of All Might since I was little, and then I started following hero society in general when I got into middle school, so I’ve built up a lot over the years especially rare items like if you look at the back corner there’s a particularly cool figure of All Might from the emerald era which if you remember was received so poorly that most of the merch was shelved in one location and subsequently destroyed during a villain attack…” He goes on without end or pause, taking me through the history of each item on the third shelf. At minute six, he abruptly tenses mid-sentence. I can almost feel the heat from his red face as he starts stammering apologies for wasting my time and gingerly puts his collection away again.

“You've got a lot of stuff I haven’t seen. It’s interesting.” It makes me uncomfortable how much he clearly doesn’t believe me. “It’ll be good content, that you have such a long history being an All Might fan.” He shrugs my words aside, and gestures behind me to a giant spread he’d laid out on the coffee table before seeing my interest in his collection.

We sit. For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the clatter of silverware, the muffled bustle of Tokyo’s streets at midmorning a soothing counterpoint. I’m considering how to break the lingering tension I caused. But then —

“I’m a quirkless soap opera actor who seemingly got the biggest role of the decade for doing something completely unrelated to acting. I’m optimistic, not an idiot.” There’s a taut line to his shoulders again, at odds with the quiet, delicate way he drinks his miso soup.

His eyes trail back to the curio shelf of hero merchandise. A heaviness builds between us in the seconds it takes him to think. “I grew up in a neighborhood hostile to me and my mother. I mumble my thoughts out loud and have an obsession for heroes that edges past societally acceptable as an adult. I have no quirk, she had no husband, we had no money. Any insult you could say about us, I’ve heard it.”

He looks me dead in the eyes and leans forward. I can’t help but mirror him. “It would be disrespectful to everyone who supported me to get here if I let the back talk get to me. I worked hard for this role, and I earn it with every new day of effort I put into it. All Might is the symbol for peace, and I intend to embody that legacy. No one will be able to doubt me when I’m done.”

Anyone who’s familiar with Midoriya’s reputation knows not to be surprised by his humility, but it’s a revelation to see this drive, his earnest focus pinning down my full attention. The last bit of the puzzle that was his casting choice is answered in one overwhelming look. If All for One does it right, his magnetism is going to Detroit Smash every heart in Japan.

“The waffles!” He springs up and mutters his way back to the kitchen, cutting past the moment. “I forgot the waffles, Kirishima gave me a waffle maker the shape of All Might’s crest as a housewarming gift, they’re so cute and surprisingly detailed…” In just a few seconds he plops the plate down amid the overfull table and settles back into his seat with a smile. “So? Should we get started?”

Interview has been edited for length and clarity. For the full article, visit us online. Catch the first season of All for One on Netflix, streaming xx xxx.

[Image of Midoriya Izuku sitting outdoors on some sidewalk steps in workout gear, leaning back on one arm, the other hand raised to cover his face from the sun. He’s wearing bright green short shorts and a very loose tank top, the arm holes cut out so deep that the angle lets the photographer capture the sheen of oil and sweat across his ribs and back as light filters through the shirt. One sock is pulled up taut, the other scrunched down, same classic red shoes still on his feet. His legs and arms and hands are haphazardly wrapped in carefully grimed bandages, as is his makeup, smudges of dirt across his cheeks along with make up to bruise his lips a deep, pouty red. Boxing gloves hang over his shoulders, and a bandana mimicking the famed mouth guard from All Might’s most iconic outfit hangs around his neck.]

TT: Congratulations on your first starring role! How does the move from semi-recurring character to protagonist feel?

MI: It’s a huge challenge, one I’m incredibly excited for! My character in Quirkless wasn’t supposed to be mine. I’d already been involved with the show as a quirkless consultant but one day on set, they’d had a huge scheduling conflict, and Director Ryuko remembered I’d originally auditioned for the show for a character that was ultimately cut. She brought me in as a literal last minute replacement, and soon enough a three-episode run expanded into a semi-regular spot next season. At least with All for One I’ve had tons of time to prepare.

TT: Take us through what it was like getting the role of All Might.

MI: I think the media explained the villain attack that brought me to the studio’s attention plenty. What's more important is when after I recovered, Toshinori-san contacted me and connected me to his talent agency, and my new manager was the one that successfully nabbed me an audition for the new show. They had us go through a few standard readings and chemistry checks, and then I got the part.

TT: You auditioned?

MI: I did! That’s what makes the rumors of favoritism even more frustrating. I promise I didn’t get the role because I stopped a villain attack on set! Well, I hope I didn’t.

[File photograph of Toshinori Yagi and Midoriya Izuku post-hostage situation. The stage is in disarray, black goop covering the furniture and floor of a fake hospital waiting room in a thick layer of sticky slime. They stand off-center in the foreground, Midoriya rubbing a fist over his eye, exhausted, possibly crying, as Toshinori pulls him into his side for a hug. Both have shock blankets draped across their shoulders. Emergency respondents case and clean the scene in the background.]

TT: How does it feel to take up the mantle of one of the most iconic comic book characters of all time?

MI: I’d be lying if I didn’t say nerve-wracking, but I’m more excited than anything. I’ve dreamed about this since I was 5, when the doctors first told me I’d never have a quirk and never be a licensed hero. All that love was redirected toward All Might. Some people might say being too big a fanboy will make playing him hard, but I’ve been preparing for this my entire life, and that’s what I’m trying to hold on to instead of anxiety. Toshinori-san has also been a spectacular mentor to me through this whole process.

TT: It's been said that Toshinori-san implemented a rigorous vetting process to work in any position on the crew. Recommendations, mentorship networks — because everyone is new to film.

MI: That’s only true to a certain extent. I wouldn’t say most of us are complete newcomers; we’ve all been around the industry for a fair number of years making our careers off it one way or another. We definitely wouldn’t have gotten hired to such prominent roles without Toshinori’s interference, yes. Because of his stipulation, the studio wanted to minimize as much of the havoc inexperience might cause such a beloved, big budget reboot by offering us close, mandatory support networks featuring industry professionals who’ve been working in their field for decades.

So far, the idea has really worked out well. We get to implement fun new ideas we don’t realize are impossible yet, and the mentors temper our more […] impractical ideas with logic and experience. The cast also has gotten a lot of support from the old cast of the '80s run!

TT: You’re known for being an advocate for quirkless rights in the entertainment industry. Has that impacted the way you approach your career and what opportunities you take?

MI: It isn’t just the entertainment industry I’m interested in for my advocacy work. Society’s rabid obsession with quirks is a problem across all of Japan, for both the quirkless and those with quirks. But as an actor, I happen to have personal insight with the roadblocks that prevent quirkless individuals from succeeding in film. We make up a fourth of the Japanese population, but less than 1% of the Japanese Film Union, in the mere century from when quirks first showed up across the globe. There’s no other explanation for such a miserly diversity rate than discrimination.

Studios have gotten so used to using quirks to sift through application stacks, looking for who can offer the most with just a quirk name and description. Toshinori-san has easily admitted that the electricity he emits when engaging his strength quirk was one of the reasons he won the role of All Might over better known actor Todoroki Enji. It was one less special effect the studio would have to spend money and time on. Viewing accommodation as a costly complication is historically dangerous to all types of minorities across the globe. How am I supposed to compete when people think I can’t offer anything unique compared to the host of wild quirks out there?

TT: Wow, that’s quite the speech.

MI: I’ve practiced a few times.

TT: Really?

MI: Quirk discrimination was my thesis topic at UA.

TT: You went to UA? That didn't show up in my research.

MI: Oh, I […] was in their support program for a while.

TT: Why did you decide to pursue acting instead? They don’t have a fine arts program, do they?

MI: As much as I love support work, it’s a stressful field. [Laughs] I started looking for an outlet that had nothing to do with hero work when an old friend dragged me onto a set. I’d completely forgotten how much I loved acting, and it wasn’t long before I decided to pursue that over support work, for however long it would have me.

TT: Would you ever consider returning to support work?

MI: Yes, but it gets harder the longer you’ve been away. I still keep up my qualifications, and keep up with my old classmates. Some consulting here and there. But for now, I’m happy using my background to help me act a better All Might.

[Photograph of Midoriya Izuku sitting in an office chair, facing three-quarters towards the camera even as he lays half across a desk. The decor is rich: old, dark wooden furniture, ornate work across the frame of the chair and desk, half-filled bookshelves in the background. His cheek rests against his arm stretched along the edge of the deck; one leg is tucked under the seat and the other is extended out. His outfit is artfully ripped name brand jeans and a tight shirt, color blocked in All Might’s classic red, white, and blue. Tiny figurines of All Might in his various costumes across all his comic book and screen appearances dot across his body as if they’ve climbed across his body, and Midoriya is an Atlas holding the weight of these ideals across his shoulders and arms and legs, a Gulliver tied down and overwhelmed. But his expression is vibrant, determined. Not quite a smile, but nowhere near defeated.]

TT: Does it bother you, having your quirklessness constantly be the focus of your career and identity?

MI: Of course! I’m a lot more than the superpower I don’t have. I’m a pretty private person, but I want to do great things. I want to inspire people, to make everyone feel safe and like they belong. If that means I have to feel some discomfort, it’s more than worth it. I’m a big kid with a therapist, so I’m prepared to balance my needs with those of my career.

TT: I’m not helping, am I?

MI: Like I said, I’ve deliberately opened myself up to that focus when I’ve put myself out there as someone willing to talk about these important issues publicly. You’re not asking anything I wouldn’t expect of any good interviewer.

TT: Speaking of privacy, your co-worker Todoroki Shouto is infamous for his taciturn personality and complete seclusion from the public eye, even during personal interviews. What is it like working with him on set?

MI: I have a bone to pick with you journalists about that! Remember what I was saying about how quirk reputations hurt those with strong quirks as much as those without? Todoroki Shouto is a wonderful person, and I’m so glad we get to work together. But boy, that reputation of his does him a disservice. He’s more than just Endeavor’s son and a powerful quirk. […] He’s his own man with a lot to say — it’s just no one’s asked him the right questions, yet. Once you do, you’ll find he shines brighter than any of the characters he’s played. It’s frustrating to see a good man overlooked again and again in favor of easier topics like a flashy quirk and flashy father.

TT: One last question. Isn’t it a hassle to squeeze past those boxes each day to use the front door?

MI: I don’t use the front door.

TT: Then…?

MI: Wouldn’t you like to know? ■

#bnha #my hero academia #bnha fanfic #midoriya izuku #taneo tokuda #quirkless midoriya izuku #celebrity AU #BUT THERE ARE STILL QUIRKS GIVE ME MORE CONTENT ABOUT QUICKS FUNCTIONING IN NORMAL SOCIETY AND THOSE IMPLICATIONS #lolo's fic writing tag

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shernoel · 5 years ago

Note

May I request a romantic moment between Erik and Christine ?? uwu please and thank you

I’m not sure if you wanted art or writing, so I just chose whatever. Hopefully this counts as romantic enough! I do have a drawing in the works that will also cover this prompt, which will he posted soon. Also I’m on mobile so hopefully the cut works, if not I sincerely apologize!

[[MORE]]

Erik was not an anxious man. He liked to do things at his own pace, and do them well at that. His music took hold of his body and he worked frantically for days at a time, but he was not anxious over its flaws. He knew he could mold and polish it until it shone with beauty. He had all the time in the world for his Don Juan, for example. Quite literally.

But when it came to Christine, things were different. He was sure if the Daroga could see him now, hurriedly preparing Earl Grey tea and biscuits for a tiny blonde soprano, he would die of shock and amusement combined. A scowl crossed Erik’s devil’s mouth at the thought. Meddlesome booby. He had no right to even think of his life, let alone Christine! But it was of no matter, the Daroga was not here.

He smoothed his long hands over his clothing, trying to fix imaginary wrinkles and flaws. If he were to have this damned horror of a face, he must make up for it in all other aspects! His fingers found his mask, and he quickly ran them over it to calm his racing heart. The horror is hidden and safely tucked away where no soul would witness its terror. Erik’s yellow eyes flickered to the clock on the mantle—installed there at Christine’s insistence that “I cannot tell the time here without light, Erik, and I think I’m going mad!”, and he certainly didn’t want that, so he quickly created a beautifully crafted gold clock for her—and he saw that he still had roughly half an hour before she was to come. Unsure of what to do with all of this spare time, Erik decided to do a sweep through of the home—never her room, though, that was hers alone. Heaven knows how much he himself valued privacy. He would not invade hers. The cushions of every couch were fluffled, the fireplace lit comfortably, and the tables shone with cleanliness. When it was still ten minutes until her arrival, he was quite sure he would drive himself insane if his hands were not busy, and so he set himself to the task of fixing the books in the bookshelf until they were all straightened and dusted. Ten minutes became five, and five became none. Still Christine was not there. Anger and concern flared to life in Erik’s heart. Did she not want to visit anymore? Did she value him so little? Was she with that boy—

His thoughts were cut off by a ringing chime throughout the house. His doorbell! She was crossing over now!

Sweeping his scrutinizing gaze over the room one last time, he nodded once and strode to the door to open it for her—he truly wanted to show her he could be gentlemanly and kind, and gentlemen opened doors, did they not?

As he unlocked the door and stepped back to allow his beloved girl in, he was quite literally struck still by shock. Christine stood before him, white flakes stuck all over her hair, her face wet and flushed red over her pretty cheeks. Her eyelashes weren’t even spared from the snow, little droplets collecting on the delicate hairs.

He realized a little too late that one of his long, bony fingers were reaching out to that delicate eyelash, and quickly threw himself backwards.

“Come on in, Christine,” he choked out.

“I’m ever so sorry for being late! The snow outside made it hard for me to catch a brougham—it’s a blizzard out there!” The dear girl seemed blissfully unaware of his turmoil over her unkempt beauty as she chattered on, entering his domain.

“Is it now?” He humored her, inwardly berating himself. Use your wit, you dumb fool! Stop standing there like an idiot. Christine hummed in affirmation, taking her gloves off and huffing when they stuck to her hands.

“Truly! I don’t think I’ve seen a snowstorm like this since…” and here she trailed off, and Erik looked to her rosy face as it turned downcast. He scrambled for something to distract her from the difficult memories of her past.

“Tea! I have made us tea! And biscuits! You enjoy those, don’t you Christine?”

She looked up at him then, and her blue eyes seemed to return with a bit of light. Then the angel smiled at him, and his heart melted into a puddle at his feet.

“I’d love that, Erik. And I do. May I shed my coat? It is much warmer here than out there, thank goodness.”

Erik nodded once, and his mouth dried as she removed her thick cloak and hung it up, a bit of her hair falling loose from its pins and curling down her back. His dear girl was so polite. How he wished he could be the one to remove her coat for her—Tea, Erik.

He hurriedly turned and set to arranging the teacups and biscuits, and before long they were seated in their respective chairs as they drank the warm beverage. Christine was looking much more normal and dry now, and Erik took in all of her presence he could. She sipped delicately at her tea, and seemed to be avoiding his burning gaze—she had confessed in the past that his constant stare unnerved her, and though he tried to fix it, sometimes he was unaware he was even doing it—so he quickly turned his yellow gaze to the fireplace.

“Did you change the bookshelf?” She suddenly asked, a hint of humor in her tone. His dear girl was nothing if not observant. He stiffened a bit awkwardly.

“Yes...is it to your liking?”

Christine laughed, her voice sounding like tinkling bells as she responded,”not everything you do must be to my taste, dear Erik.”

While he normally would have protested that she hadn’t answered his question, the term of endearment floored him. If it wasn’t for the feeling of warmth the teacup gave his fingers, he would’ve sworn he had died and gone to heaven. Erik hadn’t realized he had gone still and silent like the corpse he was until Christine’s worried hand touched his shoulder gently and he jumped.

“Erik? I love the bookshelf—you always have the best taste in books. Even those boring architecture ones...please don’t be upset.”

“Why would I be upset, Christine?” He asked, still dazed that she had called him dear. If he were to perish now, he would die a happy man, her gentle touch on his shoulder causing his heart to spasm.

“I called your name a few times but you didn’t respond...I thought I did something wrong…”

Here he looked up and quickly saw her upset eyes avoiding his gaze, her lip being chewed as she always does when she is worried.

“Christine!” He exclaimed, and she jumped, and he cursed his sudden action. His hand caught hers in desperation.

“I apologize! Your Erik gets caught up in his own head, sometimes he forgets he is even here! Please do not blame yourself for his own shortcomings!”

Her gaze softened, and she briefly squeezed his hand.

“I’m glad I didn’t upset you, but…”

She continued her endearing habit of nibbling on her lip. He couldn’t tear his golden gaze away this time from her pink lips.

“What were you thinking so hard about?”

Erik’s brain fizzed out when he needed it most. He most certainly was not going to tell her he was thinking about her and her words and how much they truly affected him...

“Oh. Um. Thoughts...yes. Many of those, Christine. Finish your tea.”

He waved his hand towards her seat, and to his surprise as he watched her retreating form...was that disappointment in her eyes? Drat. He had upset her.

“It is nothing of importance, my Christine. Please don’t trouble yourself with Erik’s madness,” he pleaded, knowing the poor girl somehow still blames herself for his awkward detachment.

Christine turned her gaze to the fire and sipped her tea, a stray blonde curl falling onto her cheek. An awkward silence followed, only interrupted by the crackle of the hearth, and then;”you aren’t mad, Erik. Not completely, anyway. Madness can be...nice, sometimes. Different. Genius.”

His yellow eyes bore into her very soul as he tried to comprehend her words. Was this a roundabout compliment? A simple way to appease him? Or just his kind Christine? She turned her gaze to his, but then quickly looked away, seeming to flush and smile a bit under his stare.

“But onto different topics...this tea is lovely.”

He smiled his ugly smile under the mask.

“I am very happy you say so, Christine.”

“Very lovely. Where do you get your tea?”

At this he only let the twinkle in his eyes tell her. Her smile grew in understanding. His girl was clever, she would comprehend his hidden meanings. Things went missing in the Opera House all the time.

“Erik, you shouldn’t!” She scolded, but the smile told him she found his mischief fun.

“How else is a ghost supposed to get his tea? Now, my turn for a subject change. Would you like to sing? Of course if you’re too tired, I can play for you.” He stood quickly, placing his drained cup to the side. He seemed to have a renewed vigor at the sight of her smile, and knowing that he was the cause of it.

Christine set her cup down and stood up, and as she crossed the room to him he realized just how small she was compared to him. So soft, so delicate, his darling…

“Shall we go, Erik? I’d like to sing...well...if it isn’t too much to ask…”

Erik retorted perhaps a bit too quickly as he walked ahead of her;”Nothing you ask is too much, my dear.”

Christine stopped for a second, then smiled shyly up at him, continuing the walk to the music room.

“Could we sing a few Christmas songs? Duets, even?”

He stilled as he came to sit on the piano bench, but the pleading look in her eyes made him feel a warmth in his heart no drug could compare to.

“I suppose there wouldn’t be any harm in it…” he trailed off, and she gave a squeal of excitement.

“Oh thank you, Erik!” She exclaimed, and to his complete and utter surprise, she bent down and hugged him. Too frozen with shock to comprehend what was happening, his hands remained frozen just shy of her back, trembling a bit with want. She does not see you in that way, you fool, his inner voice reminded him. But why not enjoy the gifts she does give us? Another voice added. And so Erik slowly lowered his cold hands to the warmth of her back, and closed his eyes. The hug was over all too soon, and he straightened himself up on the bench as she shyly ducked back into her spot by the piano, her head almost as red as it was when she arrived.

“What shall we start with?” He asked, and then Christine replied and the music began.

Her voice was just as lovely and pure as he remembered, and all he could feel was the lovely sound emitting from her throat and the piano for hours. Soon he joined her, to her obvious delight, and they sang carols until Christine had to pause.

“I’m quite tired, Erik dear,” she started, and he once again allowed the happy feeling to wash over him at being referred to as dear,”and the weather is awful...may I stay here tonight?”

He stood from the bench, making his way over to her to lightly guide her back into the sitting room.

“Of course Christine! You are always welcome to stay in Erik’s home.”

But something else seemed to be on her mind, her face becoming even redder than before. He likened her to a tomato, or a fine red wine, but much prettier and more dear to him. He shook himself from his lovesick thoughts as she spoke again.

“Could you...read to me? Or just speak? I do so enjoy your voice.” She laughed a bit nervously.

“Perhaps it’s silly…”

“Of course I’ll read to you, my dear Christine.”

His long fingers gestured for her to sit, and to his surprise she chose the couch. That was fine, he would kneel before her and read. Just to be in her presence was a blessing.

After choosing a book from the shelf—fairytales, her favorite—he walked over and knelt before her sitting form. Christine leaned forward and caught his hand with her own, and his eyes were glued to her soft fingers intertwined in his own.

“Please, don’t do that Erik. Sit with me...please…”

How could he deny his angel?

And so that is how Erik found himself sitting next to —not too close of course, but next to!— his beloved on the couch in the sitting room while the fire burnt before them. He opened the book and began to speak in the most soothing tones his voice could produce—quite effective, he knew. His voice was powerful. Soon, Christine was drifting off, and she laid her head on his bony shoulder as she nuzzled in for warmth. Her blonde hair tickled his neck and he gasped for air. He must be dreaming!

But the house by the lake was indeed inhabited by two people that night, and though Erik was not an anxious man, he held Christine carefully and protectively, making sure she could never have an uncomfortable moment throughout her time in dreamland.

#my writing #in case this isn’t clear enough Christine does return his affections they just havent said it to each other yet #poto fanfiction #poto fanfic #poto #christine x erik #leroux christine #leroux phantom #leroux erik #phantom of the opera #erik/christine

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