#he is still a deeply unpleasant person with a mountain of trauma

[lecinea]

My goodness there is a lot of bullshit in the Jiang Cheng tag again.

[dangermousie]

Hello !

I was wondering whether you could rate and tell us of your top 5 favourite webnovels/cnovels of all time ?! (Sorry if this has already been answered lol😅)

Thank you, stay safe and have a nice day🖤

Awww, thank you and that is such a lovely ask!!!

From n1 to n5, here they are (they happen to be all danmei.)

1. The Husky and His White Cat Shizun (2ha) - my n1 forever and ever.

Taxian Jun, the horrific cultivation emperor of the world who razed cities and destroyed sects, is surrounded on his mountain. The righteous sects are terrified to confront him but tired of living, Taxian Jun consumes poison and dies by suicide at the age of 32. And opens his eyes as 16 year old Mo Ran, Mo Ran long before he became Taxian Jun, Mo Ran who is excited at a chance to save the one person he loved and lost. Oh, and to deal with his loathed shizun, the unapproachable and strict Chu Wanning, his past life’s biggest enemy.

I have no idea if it’s objectively the best on this list but it hits every trope I love, its bleak worldview (the world will change only incrementally but that’s enough, average person will not appreciate the sacrifice but it’s still worthwhile, and love is worth everything) mirrors mine, and the sheer complexity of the plot and cascade of plot twists each of which is insane and yet completely logical, is amazing (this is a rare novel where it’s even more fun to reread than read for the first time because you keep seeing all the hints and trail crumbs laid out that you did not see the first time.)

And the characters!!! I mean, this novel has multiple universes/timelines, a side trip to the Underworld AND the demon realm, a plot more twisted than a store’s worth of pretzels and yet the thing that hits me the most are the characters. Mo Ran is my favorite web novel character of all time and I love Chu Wanning so. All the secondary characters are wonderfully written (and some of them made me bawl) and they are all complex. My opinion of all of them changed many times over; the novel doesn’t make it easy to love some of them but then you do and it’s so worthwhile! That slow change is one of the delights of the novel - I started out disliking the unpleasant, superior Chu Wanning and cruel, callow Mo Ran and then I loved them so so hard and cried for them so so hard and was in awe of their heroism and sacrifice and selflessness and capacity to love.

Oh, and the fact that this novel does something almost impossible - it has its protagonist start out as so clearly irredeemable and then slowly and painfully and thoroughly redeems him (without ever letting the reader forget what it is he needs redemption for.)

Also, for a novel that made me cry so hard I felt ill, this book is just so damn funny with the most sarcastic sense of humor imaginable (the serious angst doesn’t even kick in until 90+ chapters!)

Anyway I should stop or I will write a dissertation. But this is the one web novel that I would put in my top 5 not just web novels but any novels in any shape or form. The plentiful trigger warnings are there for a reason so stay away if they are an issue, but if not, if anyone hasn’t read it yet, what are you doing with your life?!

2. Stains of Filth (Yuwu) - another novel by the author of 2ha. Clearly she just pushes all my buttons every time. This one is much shorter and has a plot that is twisty but less twisty than 2ha. Still, all that means is that intensity and the pain are more concentrated.

Aristocratic Mo Xi and former slave Gu Mang were both legendary generals of the empire and lovers. But Gu Mang betrayed the country and switched to the enemy. Now he is back as a peace offering by that country and Mo Xi has to deal with the fact that his feelings are as strong as ever.

This novel!!! So much pain and intensity!!! So many amazing plot twists and supporting characters. The same bleak world view, the same unjust society, the same protagonists doing right things despite the cost. Mo Xi’s intensity and inability to let go (he’s imprinted on Gu Mang and that’s it) is romantic, bone-shakingly intense, and tragic all at once. And oh Gu Mang! So many times I just wanted to reach into the book physically to protect him. The novel deals with unjust societies, memory versus personality, what it’s like to be good in a bad universe etc. And it both made me sob and giggle, repeatedly, and sold me on literally death-defying (but not honor-defying!) love.

Oh, and special shout out to the fact that like 2ha, you may start out hating some characters and end up a rabid fangirl (cough Murong Lian!)

3. Qiang Jin Jiu - a dense political tome that takes a while to get going but then it’s a runaway train.

In a fictional dynasty, Shen Zechuan, the only remaining son of a disgraced aristocratic family and Xiao Chiye, the younger son of a family of generals guarding the border join forces (and then something else) to get power and pull down the dysfunctional system.

This is so elegant and smart (a rare web novel I’d recommend to anyone who just loves solid period fiction) and you probably need a notebook to keep track of the politics and military strategy. These characters are very very smart not just because the author says so.

As to the characters, there is a large cast and I love many of them, but for me the novel is made by Shen Zechuan and Xiao Chiye. SZC is gorgeous and delicate and icy and can kill you before you have time to blink. Saddled with the sins of the family he had no pleasant interaction with, he claws his way out of hell (seeing the sinkhole he was trapped in, literally as well) to take down those who wronged him but also to amass power so all the tragedy and corruption won’t happen again and the whole rotten system comes crashing down. XCY is a military genius who is trapped as a hostage in the capital because the court doesn’t trust his family. He longs to return to the plains of home and to take his rightful place. The two men start out as bitter enemies, then reluctant and sniping allies, then as friends and eventually as one of the most gorgeous, tender, swoony OTPs.

Anyway this is one is a bona fide masterpiece, equal parts smart and emotionally intense.

4. Wu Chang Jie - are you an emotional vampire? I am and this novel is a banquet.

In a highly fantastical setting, we meet our protagonists - the sunny Xie Bian and the intense and surly Fan Wushe. Xie Bian is a human who assists his master in conveying souls to the underworld and making sure no mishaps happen. Bian is concentrated sunshine in human form and to meet him is to love him. When the novel opens, his drunk master brings back another human to be his shidi and assist with duties - said human is uncommunicative, intense and surly Wushe. Bian is excited to have a shidi but little does he know that a story dealing with the horrors of past lifetime is about to start.

Anyway, why WCJ? So many reasons. It has such a dark bleak worldview - this world is a horrifying system where powerful cannibalize each other’s cores for an impossible chance to ascend, where gods have sealed off their realm and all that’s left is neverending human misery and hell (the only way you’d see a deity is if they’d been sent down to suffer over and over and over), where even reincarnation doesn’t fix things and bad acts are often unpunished. And the novel then asks - is it worth being a good person in such a world? More, is it worth being a good person in such a world when nothing good has ever happened to you and you have been repeatedly betrayed due to your goodness? And the answer, on Bian’s part, is an uncompromising yes.

Ah yes, the other reason to love this novel - the protagonists and their fucked up fucked up relationship. Bian (who was Prince Ziheng in the past life) is so genuinely good. But he is that rare thing - good but not saintly, noble but not cloying. So much of the novel is his getting taken apart over and over and barely able to put himself back together every time but his soul is still as amazing as ever.

And then there is Wushe (who was Prince Zixiao in past life, Ziheng’s not-bio-related brother.) Wushe is not a good person. He is a monster. And he loves Bian/Ziheng more than his life and his soul and the entire world but he’s also the one who hurt him more than anyone else ever could and did it over and over. His love survived a literal century of torture in the worst kind of hell and refused the usual memory loss of new life. But it also humiliated and broke Ziheng down to his constituent parts.

One of the things that is so fascinating to me about this novel is the question of what can be forgiven/what should be forgiven/what kind of expiation is enough/can you ever love someone who you loved so much and then he hurt you so badly and is now repentant? And it never sweeps trauma under the rug or hand waves it away but deals with it head on.

If you want healthy relationships, you should stay far away from this novel but if intense insane ones with a feral barely human one capable of destroying the world leashed by love and guilt to the sane deeply good one is your bag, come right in.

There is also the world building and the fact that yes, the big fall out between Ziheng x Zixiao is based on not knowing all the facts but it’s not ���why can’t you talk?! This is dumb!” But is totally in keeping with both events and their characters. It’s reasonable for Ziheng to do what he does and for Zixiao to misunderstand and decide Ziheng is now his biggest enemy (but still one he’s fixated on) and for Ziheng to never be able to clarify.

Anyway, once again this is trigger warning central so please heed those, but if they are no issue, this one is wonderful.

5. OK, this is hard and switches between Sha Po Lang, Heaven Official’s Blessing and The Golden Stage depending on my mood. So what the hell, I am gonna write about all of them.

Sha Po Lang - so smart and so much clever world building. There is enough politicking to satisfy a Qiang Jin Jiu fan, it’s steampunk, and our two protagonists - Gu Yun, the empire’s most powerful general, who’s loyal to the empire despite being badly wronged by it, and Chang Geng, a cursed prince with barbarian blood and horrifying childhood - are wonderful separately and together. This is a huge slow burn but it’s totally worth it! They fall in love with each other’s hearts and brains and ability as much as anything. (Yes, this is the one with the yifu thing. Gu Yun is made Chang Geng’s foster father when he rescues him and brings him back to the capital as a way to keep CG safe in imperial strife. They are 12 and 19 at the time so clearly it’s never a parental relationship.)

Heaven Official’s Blessing (TCGF) - I love it’s sprawling narrative and cast, I love its inventive setting and picaresque story. It’s hilarious and can make me cry. But the novel’s place on this list is due to Xie Lian who is part Kenshin part drama WWX part pure goodness wrapped in heartbreak and trauma wrapped in sunshine.

The Golden Stage - two smart and principled (yes, they both have principles different though they may be) men navigate their arranged marriage, their past friendship and their past break up, become a super couple (one of the healthiest danmei couples I’ve ever read and proves healthy doesn’t have to be boring), save the country and bring down the emperor or two and just generally this is my rainy day book.

I guess I didn’t write as much for the three n5 candidates as I did for 1-4 but my brain is beginning to curdle so...

[takerfoxx]

In response to JK Rowling and Joss Whedon, my (former) idols

I really didn’t want to have to do this.

So in addition to…=gestures vaguely=…all of that, the last few months have been kind of sucky when it comes to learning some really unpleasant things about artists that I looked up to, admired, and was in fact inspired by. I’ve already spoken about the Speaking Out movement revealing a lot of ugly behavior from various wrestlers, some of which I was big fans of, and then later we got Chris Jericho being a full-on MAGA. Yeah, that all sucked. But those were just performers whose work I enjoyed watching. The one that really hurt were writers who I deeply admired, whose stories I love, and who I was heavily influenced by.

The first, of course, was finding out that JK Rowling, the author of perhaps the single biggest YA fantasy series of all time Harry Potter, is a TERF. This really sucked for a number of reasons. Firstly, I really like Harry Potter! I mean, I��m not a super fan or anything. I came into it when things were kind of dying down, like the whole book series had already been released and there were only a few movies left, but I still really enjoyed it, have all the books and movies and a fair amount of merchandise swag, including a nifty wand I got at Universal Studios. Shit, I got two replicas of the Sword of Griffyindor, thanks to them screwing up my order in my favor and sending me a duplicate! They’re on my wall right across from me as I type this!

But in addition to writing a book series I really liked, JK Rowling was supposed to be one the good guys. She’s been vocally progressive, often openly comes down on British right-wing nonsense, has supported various persecuted minorities, and is on record as being one of the few self-made billionaires to actually stop being a billionaire for a time because she donated so much money to charity. And while we mock it now, her revealing Dumbledore as gay was a huge deal at the time. Plus, she cultivated this reputation as Auntie Jo, that cool, supportive aunt we all wanted.

But for a while her stock has been dropping. Her preference for confirming “representation” via tweets instead of explicitly putting it in the text of her stories has raised the question of queer-baiting, especially with a whole-ass movie with a young Dumbledore and Grindelwald to make their relationship explicit but failing to do so. The whole Nagini thing from the latest Fantastic Beasts movie was pretty gross. And re-examination of various problematic elements from the original novels has rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. Now, none of these really looked to be intentionally malicious, of course. Just about everyone’s early work will have problematic elements; that’s just how people work. And the later stuff smacked more of ignorance than anything. But after all this time, it’s like, c’mon. You should know better by now.

But the biggie came when her transphobic views finally came to light. Now, this one had been brewing for a while, due to some questionable likes and statements on her twitter. But then she decided to just go public and published what essentially amounts to a TERF manifesto, one with a very “love the sinner, hate the sin” condescending attitude and had a real persecution complex air to it.

Now, I’m not going to go into detail about what the manifesto was about, what the circumstances surrounding it were, or how wrong it was. It’s already been raked over the coals, dissected, answered, and debunked in detail by people far more qualified than me, so odds are, you’re already well aware of its contents and the subsequent rebuttals. But the gist of it comes down to her basically believing that transwomen are actually cis men claiming to be trans so as to infiltrate and invade female-only spaces.

Yeah.

Okay, that’s gross, but…why? Why is someone so noted for being progressive and wanting to foster an inclusive environment making this the hill of exclusion that she wants to die on?

Well, that’s where things get tricky. She mentions that prior to Harry Potter, her first marriage was highly physically and sexually abusive, and when she escaped from that, she had no place to go, leading her to be homeless for a time.

Oh.

Well, that makes sense. Someone goes through a highly traumatic experience with a member of the opposite sex, has no support structure when she escapes it, is left to fend for herself, only to suddenly get rocketed into fame, fortune, and influence, which in turn leads to a Never Again mentality. She was hurt, no one was there to help her, and now she’s afraid of men invading women-only spaces to victimize others like she was victimized. So…literally transphobic. Literally a Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminist.

Guys, this is so fucked up. Like, how do you even approach something like this? She’s a victim in every sense of the word, so of course she’s going to have physiological damage and a warped view of things. I mean, if I found out that a close friend of mine went through the same thing and had the same prejudices, I would be nothing but sympathetic! I mean, I’d still do what I can to convince her to overcome those prejudices, but I’d still show sympathy and support for what she went through.

Abuse warps people. There’s a reason why so many abusers are abuse survivors themselves. It makes you terrified of being hurt again and often causes people to adopt toxic behaviors, beliefs, and reactions to protect themselves. I’ve already talked about it at length while discussing She-Ra and its own handling of the cycle of abuse, which included franks discussions of Catra’s horrible behavior, why she was the way she was, while never losing sympathy for her and rooting for her to overcome it. So if JK Rowling is an abuse survivor, is it really right to come down on her for having warped views because of that abuse?

But that’s the problem. See, she isn’t your troubled friend that you’re trying to help. She isn’t your cousin Leslie who’s a really sweet person but unfortunately adopted some bad ideals due to trauma suffered. She JK freakin’ ROWLING, one of the most famous, wealthy, and influential women in the world. She has a platform of millions, if not billions, which means her voice lends credibility to her bigoted beliefs. Alt-righters and other TERFs have already swooped upon this for giving validation to their awful beliefs, which puts trans people even more at risk. And as horrible as Rowling’s experiences might have been, the trans community is often the victim of far worse, and they don’t have a mountain of money and an army of defenders to protect them like she does. I’ve said it time and time again: just because you’re a victim, that doesn’t give you the right to victimize others! And bringing things back to Catra, as much as I loved her redemption in the final season, she was still a TERRIBLE PERSON for a huge chunk of the show, one that needed to be stood up to and stopped.

So yeah. That’s the messiness that is JK Rowling.

Now, let’s talk about the one that really hurts. Let’s talk about Joss Whedon.

I’ve made no secret of what a huge Whedon fan I am. Unlike Rowling, I was a HUUUUUGE superfan. Seeing Serenity for the first time in theaters was akin to a religious awakening to me as a storyteller, making it one of my top three movies of all time. Firefly is my favorite show ever. And I adored Buffy, Angel, and Dollhouse as well. I love Cabin in the Woods and The Avengers. The very first fanfic I ever wrote was a Firefly fanfic that disappeared along with my old laptop. I know his style isn’t for everyone, but I cannot understate how much of a personal inspiration he is to me as a writer.

And like Rowling, Joss was supposed to be one of the good guys! Buffy was monumental in pushing the needle when it came to female empowerment. Will and Tara were groundbreaking as a gay couple. He’s been outspoken for years about his feminist views and beliefs and was seen as one of the most prominent and influential feminist voices in Hollywood!

And then things started to go bad.

One day he was on top of the world, the mastermind behind the first two Avenger movies. And the next, it seemed like he was in freefall. It’s hard to really pinpoint exactly when the change took place. Some would say him being brought in as a last-minute substitute for Zack Snyder to take over on Justice League after Snyder had to leave due to family tragedy, and the subsequent awful critical reception to that film tarnishing his image, even if those were very unique circumstances that couldn’t really be blamed on him. Others might point to Age of Ultron’s less than stellar reception, as well as criticism of some questionable jokes and certain creative decisions regarding the character of Black Widow, which then led to a more critical examination of how Whedon continues to write female characters, as while his work might have been revolutionary in the 90’s, his failure to evolve with the times had meant that many of his portrayals are now woefully outdated and problematic, with his vision for a Batgirl movie getting hit with a lot of backlash as a result.

Again, I’m not going to go into too much detail, as this is all public knowledge and can be easily looked up, but overall it seemed that Whedon entered into a period where he was getting criticized more than he was celebrated, and his image of a guaranteed hit maker was now in doubt.

But all of this wasn’t the big problem. All creators go through rises and slumps, and everyone hits points where they get hit with a barrage of criticism; that’s just part of being a public creative figure, especially a progressive one. And had nothing happened after, it would have probably faded, got forgotten, and Whedon would have moved onto the next project with no fuss.

But as it turned out, it wasn’t just a minor slump in his career. Instead, it was the priming of the pump.

In 2016, Whedon divorced his wife of sixteen years, Kai Cole, and in an open letter, Kai Cole accused him of being a serial cheater, who would have affairs with a great many women, from co-workers, to actresses, to friends, to even his fans. And in addition to raising questions of him possibly abusing his position as showrunner to elicit sex from those working on his projects, there also is the ugly question of how could someone who speaks so highly of women then go and backstab the person who was supposed to be the most important woman in his life, as well as lying to her and denying her the autonomy of deciding whether or not she even wanted to continue to have a relationship with him?

Furthermore, Whedon himself has not explicitly denied these accusations, and comments made by him seem only to confirm them.

Now if you’ll recall, I reacted publicly to this news, and despite my admiration of Whedon’s work, I came down on Kai Cole’s side, and stated that while things like marriage issues and infidelity were no one’s business but that of the couple’s, it did raise a lot of uncomfortable questions about how Whedon treated the women in his life and he really needed to get his shit in order.

But hey, a messy private life and a guy falling into temptation isn’t that big of a deal, right? Plenty of creators also go through multiple marriages and have problems staying faithful and still continue making great art. We’re all human, it’s a stressful job, and this shit just happens, right? Sure, it’s gross and a shitty thing to do, but ain’t no business of ours, right?

In late 2020, actor Ray Fisher, who played the role of Cyborg in Justice League, openly accused Joss Whedon of fostering a hostile work environment, claiming that the director’s behavior was abusive and unprofessional, and that Whedon in turn was protected by DC executives.

DC and Warner Bros. came down against Fisher, claiming they had done an internal investigation that turned up no evidence of wrongdoing (yeah, sure they did), and soon Fisher was out as Cyborg, apparently for rocking the boat.

But then Charisma Carpenter, noted for her important role as Cordelia Chase in both Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel, then spoke up, claiming to be inspired by Fisher in doing so. She described Whedon did indeed foster a hostile work environment on his projects, that his often acted in a toxic manner, from asking incredibly invasive and inappropriate questions regarding her pregnancy to insulting her on set. She said that she made excuses for him for years, but after undergoing a lot of therapy and reading what Ray Fisher had to say, she felt compelled to speak out.

And this just open the floodgates. Other actors and actresses also came forward, some with stories of their own, others to offer support. Even Buffy herself, Sarah Michelle Gellar, confirmed Carpenter’s stories and said that she no longer wanted to be associated with Whedon. Michelle Trachtenberg, who played the character of Dawn, stated that she also experienced toxic treatment from Whedon despite her being a minor at the time, and says that the set had a rule that Whedon wasn’t allowed to be alone with her again, which really raises some sickening questions of what happened the first time. Even male stars have spoken out, from words of support and apologies for not speaking up earlier from Anthony Stewart Head and David Boreanaz, to an earlier interview with James Marsters, in which he described being terrified of Whedon, mainly due to an instance when Whedon was frustrated with the popularity of Marsters’s character of Spike messing with his plans and physically and verbally taking it out on the actor. There have been many corroborating stories of Whedon being casually cruel on set, on seemingly taking delight in making his fellow show writers cry, and even the man himself admitting to enjoying fostering a hostile work environment during his director commentary of the Avengers. We’ve joked about Whedon’s supposed sadism for years, but that was in regards to how he treated the characters in his stories, not the people helping him make them!

So yeah. That’s the problem with Joss Whedon.

So, do I think that Joss Whedon is somehow some kind of sociopath who lied about his feminist principles and deliberately put on a progressive façade specifically to get into a position of power so he could torment people? No, of course not. I think he was sincere about his beliefs, and I do think he didn’t realize the wrongness of his behavior. But that’s kind of the problem. See, it’s one thing to have kind of a trollishness to your nature, a sort of sadistic side. No one can help that. But when someone with that quality gets put into a position of power in which they are protected by both the higher-ups and their legions of fans, they are allowed to mistreat and continue to mistreat people. And by never suffering any consequences, that sort of toxic behavior becomes internalized, becomes a habit, becomes their moda operandi. And when you’re constantly getting praised as a creative genius and a wonderful feminist voice, any self-criticism just gets wiped away, and you think yourself above reproach, leading to what Joss Whedon became and went on being.

And you know what scares me the most about this particular issue? It’s not that I am a fan of his stories. It’s that I can so easily see myself turning out the same way.

Look, I’ll be upfront about it: I’m kind of a sadist myself. You’ve seen it in my stories, you’ve seen me gloating after a particularly dark plot twist makes my readers freak out. That sort of stuff is fun to me. There’s a reason why I have a much easier time in the dark and violent scenes, because I’m channeling something ugly within me. We all have a dark side, and this is mine.

But UNLIKE Whedon, that doesn’t carry over to how I treat people in real life (unless Monopoly or Mario Party are involved, then it’s fair game). Maybe it’s because I wasn’t given the sort of power and praise he did so early, and I was always taught to be considerate of other people’s feelings, but if I ever find out that I hurt another person or went too fair, I feel TERRIBLE, and it just throws me off all day until I apologize. Even if I don’t notice right away that what I said or did wasn’t cool (autistic, remember?), when it’s pointed out to me and I have some time to think on it, yeah, the guilt is on and I make a point to apologize to whoever I’ve hurt. I’ve even made a point to apologize to members of my family for inconsiderate stuff I said years ago as a little punk kid because it wouldn’t stop bugging me.

So maybe Whedon got too big, too fast. Maybe putting people on these sorts of pedestals, especially progressive ones, is ultimately a bad thing.

So where does this leave us? How are we to treat JK Rowling and Joss Whedon, one who developed a lot of transphobia due to abuse suffered while the other became a toxic individual due to unchecked control and a lack of consequences? Can we still enjoy their stories despite them now being colored by their creators’ falls from grace? Can we separate the art from the artist, or do we have to do a clean split?

Honestly, I feel that has to come down to the individual. I can’t remove the influence Rowling and Whedon have had on me as a storyteller, and I still highly respect both of their talents despite taking major issue with their problems as people. And I’m not going go throw away all of my Harry Potter or Firefly stuff. Because that’s my stuff. It has value to me, it doesn’t represent the issues with their creators, and a lot of it was gifts from people who are dear to me. Though I do think it’ll be a long time before I return to either of their work, as I just don’t have the stomach for it now.

But I will be avoiding any projects they have in the future. I don’t want to put money in their pockets that might go on to support their toxic beliefs or behavior. And as for royalties for their past work that would also support the cast and crew of the Harry Potter films or those who worked on Whedon’s shows who do not deserve to lose money because we don’t want any of that money going to the creators? Er, that question is a little above my paygrade. I don’t know. You’ll have to all decide for yourselves. As for me, I still have a lot of thinking to do.

Regardless though, if I or anyone else is still able to enjoy their work, then it’s important to not divorce what these people said or did from the art they created, even if it makes enjoying that art less fun. It’s important to be critical about what we enjoy, to acknowledge the bad aspects along with the good, and open up discussion of those elements, because that’s what mature adults are supposed to do. 

And as for JK Rowling and Joss Whedon, whose stories I love, whose talent I admire, and whose past good work I’ll happily acknowledge, I do hope they both experience some sort of realization and enter into a period of self-examination that leads to them getting help for their issues, for Rowling to get help in coming to terms with her trauma and realizing that she’s wrong about the trans community and a full apology, and for Whedon to also come to terms with his toxic behavior and how he treats people, for him to make no excuse for what he did and sincerely apologize to those he hurt and work on bettering himself, as well as them both examining some of the more problematic tropes still present in their works. Because despite everything, I do feel that they can still be a creative force of good, and it would be a shame if they let themselves self-destruct.

But if not, then if it comes down to choosing between Rowling and the protecting the trans community, if it comes down between choosing between letting Whedon continue to make shows and protecting actors and writers from his abusive behavior, then I know who I’m siding with, and it ain’t the two individuals this whole essay is about. No story, no matter how good, no matter how creative, is worth letting sacrificing vulnerable people in order for it to be made.

[fizzypunks]

Bad Timing

fandom: My Hero Academia/ Boku No Hero Academia word count: 5k rating: T (cannon description of violence) summary: Shouta has to handle the aftermath of the Nomu attack, and Hizashi has very bad (or good) timing

ship: earsermic

AO3

note: best viewed on Archive bc it keeps the formatting like itallics!

___

The day was finally at its end – the sun set in slats across the teachers lounge, and it was 3:55, when most people were leaving or gathering their lives up in a rush to get home. They’d all already left, urgently trying to beat traffic and make their way to whatever Friday plans they had in store.

 Aizawa didn’t have Friday plans – instead of unceremoniously rushing to get home for the weekend, or go drinking to relieve stress, he was instead sitting on the couch. He didn’t have lessons or binders around him, having freed one hand to take out his phone and flip through his lessons that Hizashi kindly spent the time uploading for him.

 The screen was bright and blaring and bled color into color into color – it was hard to look at for too long, but it was the only compromise he could make with his body when it came to improvised lesson plans. He’d type it up, with his one hand, a letter at a time, while his body healed enough for him to do better.

  This is what it is, no use complaining. Just get it done.

 The ache in his eyes he could deal with – he’d be disappointed in himself if he wasn’t used to it at his age, and he’d made peace with the eye strain and pain and dryness and anything else that was unpleasant about his quirk. His body, however, was a new story. It ached in a way he never experienced in his life, deep to the bone and then, maybe, even deeper – not a movement existed that didn’t somehow remind him of his body, his mortality, and it’s still a wonder he even survived.

 He stopped asking questions like  how  a long time ago, though, and he didn’t dare start now. All it did was drive him into crazy circles of  what ifs , dead ending in worse case scenarios that were a half inch away from coming to be…

 This new burn, this new hurt – it conjured with it the same image – or maybe it was muscle memory – of painful blood splatter in his eyesight. With it came a reel of other horrifics images and feelings and sensations that might have been if… 

  It doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant...

 When he told his class that it didn’t matter that he was teaching, he meant it. It wasn’t what he wanted, but since when did he ever get what he wanted? It’s hero work, and educational duties don’t take a break just because he  broke  ; they never permitted a break because he  wanted  and  wished.  

 He broke. Plain, simple – no explanation necessary. That’s a world he’s unfortunate enough to live in, so he grits his teeth and bears it.

It’s all Shouta can do. Bear it, heal as best he can, move on – think about it less and less until it’s just another frame on the wall of memories that like to bug him at night, those few rare ones that let him rest and dream.

  Bear it. It didn’t kill you, so bear it.

 Still, in the middle of the day, after teaching and improvising and making himself stand upright like he didn’t want to bury himself in sheets, it was a  weird  sensation. Living through something that almost took his life in the most violent, frightening way possible, all for his kids. He didn’t think this time around, with the mending and the processing and the eventual moving on, would feel so…

 Off? Like a buzz on his skin, like time was shifted just a second ahead and he was playing catch up. He didn’t know the right words, couldn’t even explain to himself the things that he was feeling. He finally settled calling it  weird.  Whatever that meant.

 He’d dealt with trauma before, too – but this breed of unease was new, even to him and his seasoned career.

 The room was silent, but it felt louder than ever, and his screen had timed out when he realized he’d been staring dryly into it without doing anything.

 He refreshed the screen with his thumb, lights bright and vivid again like a train at the end of a tunnel.

 He’s stopped regretting his choices, he’s stopped wallowing because after two or three close calls with death, it gets a bit old – but god does he want to wallow  now . Now that his body was broken and every movement felt like shattered glass in a windshield, disturbed with every movement but, at least, mercilessly, held together by…

  What?

 Sheer force of will – he was certain that’s what it was. It wasn’t desire or hope, it wasn’t any positive or cheerful motto – he had time for those later, for now…

 He groaned, the weight of his eyes and body finally coaxing a response from him that wasn’t dead. Responses that were complete opposites from that which he always told his peers when they stopped him in the halls or at the end of lectures.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “It doesn’t matter, now if you wouldn’t mind, I have a class to teach.”

 It’s placating, it’s time-buying – other heroes know the drill, so they don’t argue with him too much – they just insist, and hope, that he listens enough to at least  rest . He always wanted to sleep, right? He had that stupid sleep disorder that always begs for him to rest his head for just a moment, so why not indulge it now?

 He blinked against it – he really did need to sleep, but the screen in his shaking fingers showed that he had plans to finalize, and a fresh round of essay to grade that  needed  to be graded by the next day.

  So  much was behind as is – the last essay, the last score for ethics lecture to be dealt out, a new plan for the upcoming week that adjusts for his kids and the stress they just underwent – no, hero work doesn’t forgive very much, and Aizawa would never tell them that he was giving them a break, but he was going to do exactly that and take off a few quizzes to lighten the load…

 Shouta leaned back against the sofa, and it wasn’t too soft and without structure, that it actually  did  do some good for him. He tilted his head back, too, and felt brief relief in the way his head didn’t feel like lobbing off like a hammer to the side of a statue’s temple.

 He sighed, and leaned into it, the slightest bit of relief he was able to find.

 The one think he was grateful for was that today was better than the beginning of the week. He had a long way to go, but thankfully some of the bandages could be taken off yesterday and today was his first day of being able to fully see – his face was freed, his shoulders lightened and only wrapped with a few white wraps – but it was still a struggle with his arms, his hands – the most damaged parts of his body that were trudging along…

  This is unbearable .

 But he will bear it. 

 But, right now, he will not bear it well. Like he broke under the hand of the Nomu, he was breaking again now and nothing was capable of stopping that.

 He took in a deep breath, and held it just because it felt good to feel so full. He held it and waited.

  This is going to be interesting.

 His breath was waning, it’s time slowly slipping by, expiring.

  This is going to hurt.

 His lungs were wrapped around empty air.

  Bad .

 He still didn’t let go, even when it ached. He didn’t know if he wanted to, but the red-blackness of his eyelids and the sting in him was a comfortable pain he knew he could release, if he wanted.

 Then, finally, he did want, and he let go, shoulders slumping with a harsh exhale.

 He opened his eyes to a slit, and saw the sun spots on the ceiling had grown longer. Golden, mingling, patient – he’d stared at them so many times before, grown bored of them between grading and impatience, but now they were a comfort.

 Familiar monotony and boredom. It seems that being bored was not always a bad thing, after all.

 Early in his career, this might have killed his spirit. His spirit, however, was put back together so many times, and damaged so cruelly and spitefully, that he at least felt some sort of partial happiness knowing it wasn’t possible to batter his spirit any more. It was impossible.

 It’s reached its limit years ago, what’s a new bruise on top of the rest?

 A sound like shuffling, quiet but distinct, came from behind him – clothes rustling, a distinct stiff sound, all quietly entering from behind; and it was intentional movement, Shouta knew.

 His instincts never dulled, even under mountains of bandages. “Hizashi. What are you still doing here?”

 His laugh – the one he would never admit to loving so deeply– was soft behind him, closer this time. “Gee, how’d ya know it was  me ?”

 Shouta wished he could shrug, and instead returned his eyes back to their resting state and closed them lightly. “ Gee  , how’d you learn to be quiet? Or, at least,  try  to be.”

 Soft brushing, padding of feet, the ridiculous squeak of leather – Hizashi walked around the couch and when Shouta felt the dip in the seat beside him, a little too close to him, he chuckled. “It’s hard to be, man – you know I’m stuck with my costume! On the clock, I’m Present Mic!”

 “I was talking about your mouth, but sure – that too.”

 Another laugh came, and it was just as warm and full and bright. Shouta guarded his expression at the sound, because it was too pleasant and he hurt too much to not indulge the pleasant things whenever they  did come. 

 But Mic isn’t Hizashi, and he’s more quiet now, between the two of them. Like he was in hours after sparring through out their friendships and careers, like lazy drawls in the morning when they passed each other, one waking up and one going to bed after a patrol. Quiet and in tune, in a way so few really understood.

 That was the part of Hizashi that no one really gets to see – the way he knew silence and patience that would put his hero and radio personality at odds if the public really got to see it. He was calm and reserved and knew which silences and calms to lean into, which ones to sit with, which ones were the  important  ones...

 He knew it right now, which was why he wasn’t on the limits of his own energy, like a battery fed into itself – a never ending feed that could go forever, Shouta thought time and time again. And his comfort in his quirk made it all too easy to emote and exaggerate and be  too  much for Shouta at times.

 Fragile times, like when his mind was barely glued to the body that was just as fractured and splintering around the edges as his spirit.

 “My, you think so lowly of me, Shouta.”

 “Just being logical. You’re louder more often than not, after all,” he said, and they both knew it was a joking lie. It’s the closest Shouta gets to a joke, anyways.

 The silence returned, and Shouta felt the burning questions in the warm body beside him – too close and yet, not really close enough – within arms length, but not within arms...

 But Hizashi is never one for mincing words or running from questions. “How you doing, Shou?”

 Shouta grunted. “Fine.”

 “No, no, no, no – I’ve heard you say that all week and, well, it’s crazy to think you’d be okay! I want to know  how you’re doing. ”

 “Hizashi, do me a favor. Be polite and just take the answer.”

 “No,” and the response was so fast, and sounded so bratty, Shouta was tempted to open his eyes and tilt his head to the right – to see if he was as close as he thought he was, if his hair was falling, if he’d taken off his orange tints and was looking at him with those stupid pup eyes.

 He didn’t, though.

 “What do you want me to say?” He finally said, quietly – maybe Hizashi wouldn’t hear him if he spoke quietly enough. “Obviously, I’m not fine.”

 “I know that, and –”

 “And it doesn’t matter. So, with that in mind,” and he did open his eyes this time – they stung fresh again, and he blinked, and he turned his head just slightly enough to change his eyes' direction. They stayed fixed in the ceiling, on the honey the sun was spilling, and he said, “I’m fine.”

 “Come on, Shou... “

 “It’s just…”

 Hizashi sighed. “Could you… at least  try  to take time off or stop studies or  something ? I can’t stand – “ and here he goes, he was too emotional –

  So annoying.

 His voice always shook when he was sad, when he was pretending like he wasn’t going to cry.

  So sweet.

 “ – I can’t stand  this. ”

  You and me both.

 It never really did any good to cut off Hizashi, and Shouta hates doing it any way. So he didn’t even attempt it. He knew he needed to say what he was saying, to be heard and unburden himself of the fears living in him. He didn’t really have the chance before, and it wasn’t fair to take it from him now. Shouta didn’t have the energy to deny him any of that, anyway, so his eyes shifted to the crease in the ceiling, the border between it and the wall, and just listened.

 “Shouta, you were almost killed – it’s… it’s so bad, this time – I’ve patched you up so many times and there wasn’t anything I could have ever done about  this , and I want you to stop trying to ignore it. You don’t have to be a hero all the time.”

 Shouta couldn’t help the scoff, and it stopped Hizashi for just a moment.  “Of course I do.”

 He was so bitter, he could taste it like the lingering flavor of cold coffee.

 “You literally don’t –”

 “Hizashi… I don’t have the energy for this.”

 “That’s my  point , Shouta! You can’t –”

 “Can’t do my job? Give me a better argument next time, Hizashi.”

 For whatever reason, that was enough to shut him up. Shouta didn’t want to, but his headache was too strong and his friend’s concern was too soft and he was just a broken vase – hairline cracks that got too big too fast and now shattered at the foundation – unable to hold onto any of it let any of it fill him, so why even try to touch it?

 Hizashi does a lot of things loudly, even when he tries not to – it’s a side effect of being the Voice Hero, a natural course of events that would, rationally, lead him to be a vocal and expressive person. He’s sniffling and trying to stop it, trying to reel himself in, and Shouta sighs again, because the Voice Hero shouldn’t be trying to reel himself in at all.

 This isn’t what he wanted.

 He truthfully didn’t want to be in this position at all, but he’d remembered that he never wanted to spend his time  wishing  , so he didn’t wish – he couldn’t  fix  that, or the way Hizashi was hurting for him. But, he could fix…

 Whatever this was.

 “Hizashi.”

 The sniffling stopped for a second, enough for it to be masked in a, “... what, Shouta?”

 “Thank you.”

 “Hmmph.”

  Pouting?

 “Don’t  do that.”

 “Hmmph!”

 Pure annoyance drove him to open his eyes, and tilt his head, and level his eyes against his best friend because pouting was so fucking stupid. His eyes widened, though, when he finally met Hizashi’s gaze for the first time that day.

 The first thing was that he wasn’t fully in his costume. His speakers were missing, and his hair was fallen to his shoulders in gell-stiff half-mast, finally succumbing to gravity in a way Shouta was certain was due to a hair brush and messily tucked into a hair tie. His tinted glasses were gone, leaving nothing between their eyes as they locked.

  He’d hung up his hero costume for the day, and maybe it made sense that he wasn’t talking like Present Mic any more – not as loud, not as joking, just intentions and and heart.

 He was half way between the two – between persona and  him,  and he looked so soft…

 But his eyes, his eyes that stare so deeply and knew Shouta so intimately over the years their lives had been intertwined – they were wet and silently overflowing, and Shouta was certain the embarrassment of crying was what was so freely tinting his cheeks. It was a brush of pink over pale, high cheekbones, under crescent eyes that leaked streaks down to his jaw, his chin.

 He, however, still had the mind to pout – not that Shouta had anything to say, not with the sudden, brand new pain of his heart aching at seeing his friend like this.

 Shouta’s eyes softened, his annoyance gone like dye down a river.

 Hizashi, however, wasn’t a coward, and held his gaze because he wanted Shouta to know what he was doing to him. 

 And all in the glowing sunlight…

  Stop...

 “Hizashi…”

 “Don’t you dare! Don’t try to stop me or tell me I’m wrong or that I’m crying too much or  whatever .”

 “I wouldn’t dare,” he said, because he had the mind to say something and that was the brilliant thing he thought of. His shame was hot and fast and his eyes shifted to the side, just off from Hizashi in the best possible way he could manage to face the other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

 “Well, congrats, because I feel bad.”

 Shouta knitted his brow in anger. “You’re an idiot.”

  Don’t make me feel worse.

 “What th–”

  You always make me feel worse.

 “If you’re spending all your tears on me, then yeah. You are.”

  Because you’re so good.

 Hizashi was crying and clearly upset – anyone could see that – and yet he still decided to furrow his eyebrows and look confused and stupefied all at once. “ Wind it back a few seconds for me, Shou.”

 Shouta raised an eyebrow.

 “Say that again,” he prompted, shifting to face Shouta even more completely. He leaned forward on his knees, on his elbows as he wiped away the tears.

 “I said you’re an idiot.”

 “You’re my best friend.”

  Friend .

 “And?”

 “Not even  you  believe yourself, do you? I’ve seen you cry for me, too.”

 Shouta turned his eyes down. That’s  different  . That’s more than he can ever really explain, and what’s even more, it’s more than he wants to explain. Those words turn into sentences that turn into feelings that  can’t  be taken back, and he’ll never make the mistake of falling down that slope. So he looked away, anything to feel less guilty and like shit, and shook his head.

 Maybe some honesty wouldn’t hurt. “What would you have me do, then? I don’t have options.”

 Hizashi saw him dodge the question, the scenario he’d painted – he scooted closer and Shouta felt too alive with envy, wishing there were no barriers, be them white casts and mental blocks, that kept him from bridging the last of that tiny gap. 

 “I’d have you sleep. I’d have you stay home. I’d have you trust that the faculty, your peers, your  friends , could handle you being out for a bit.”

  The logic is there…

 Still… “No, I need to stay here. My students are back, and I owe them –”

 “It would be a week. You’d have your casts off in a  week –”

 “Who told you that? If Recovery Girl –”

 “It’s common knowledge, Shou, I just  guessed  . But that’s not the point – the point is that I’m  right .”

 Where does this conversation end? He doesn’t want to say it, he doesn’t want to open himself up again, and he doesn’t want Hizashi to be crying like this. Crying, because of him.

 He sighs again. “It’s…”

 He clears his throat again. “It’s easier this way. For me.”

 Hizashi had already been close, but now he was right beside him, the knee he was folded over now just against his leg. Personal space had never really been a thing for him, and now proved to be no different. His big watery eyes stayed trained on his calculated, intentionally flat ones.

 He’s also always been good at picking apart his words to find the realities beneath them. “Distractions, right?”

 Shouta didn’t want to admit to it, but he nodded anyway, eyes falling until they settled on Hizashi’s clavicle. His exposed, open clavicle, and he yearns even more to be able to be closer than this. Take comfort in closeness that was 16 years in the making, but never really actualized. Never, really, fully  realized , either...

 “Yeah… distractions.”

 “Say, if I wanted to come over and make dinner and show you baby animal photos, would you let me?”

 Shouta blinked, and Hizashi smiled – he looked too pretty, glowing from his tears, and Shouta hates thinking that.

 “Don–”

 “They’re baby  foxes .”

 Shouta looked down, and grew pink – it’s pathetic how easily he could be bought, and he wasn’t ever really going to say no to time with his best friend. Even now, he’s always finding himself saying  yes  to the colorful, often too-loud man.

 Hizashi seemed to realize that he’d won, the way his eyebrows stopped dipping, stopped taking such a sad shape. “At least let me do this, Shou – if you’re gonna bring your mummy self into school and yell at kids and threaten expulsion, then let me make stir fry and udon for you.”

 Shouta smiled, small, hesitant, but not quite of his own intention; finally breaking – in a different way than he’s used to. “Fine. Just to be clear, it’s only because I want food.”

 “ Suuure , that’s the reason.”

 And before he could say anything back, Hizashi did that thing that makes his heart weak – the thing he always does when he’s leaning in like this, and it’s too emotional for his own comfort zone, and things are charged with a restless, aching energy. He reached out his left hand and rested it over Shouta’s open one. His phone was already falling from his bruised fingers, so he pushed it down to his lap and held onto the half of his hand that was exposed.

 He wants to ask why he does it sometimes, but doesn’t think that now is the time to ask it. Time, place, his broken body, everything was wrong – so he just let himself enjoy the affection, while he can bask in it with legitimate cause.

 Then Hizashi had to ruin it. He grinned, a little too proud. “Nervous?”

 Shouta tensed, and his body yelled at the pressure in his arms, in his torso. “Excuse me?”

 Hizashi laughed a bit, and he was a little flush – from the crying. “You’re a  biiiiiit pink. Like, blushing. Like, actually, you’re very –”

 “Shut up.”

 “You act like any teensy-tiny bit of affection is like poison, Shou – it’s  okay  if you–”

 “I take it back, actually, you can’t come over.”

 “Awwww, come on, I just –”

 “I mean it, I’ll order from the corner market.”

 “Now that you told me how you’ve been feeding yourself, I’m  definitely  coming over. God, I swear, you should know how to take care of yourself by now, it’s like you hate trying to –”

 “Hizashi –”

 He stood, really fast, smiling dumb and bright as he stood infront of Shouta. “Now come on! Up! Let’s go to your apartment!”

 He offered a hand, but Shouta shook his head. “I can get up fine –”

 Hizashi leaned forward, and it was an awkward placement, the way he was balanced, but he took the phone from his lap and tucked it into his pocket before his hand rested just on the side of Shouta’s shoulder. He urged with his eyes as much as with the slight tug at his waist. “Come on!”

 Shouta looked down and nodded, a feeling of warmth overcoming him yet again. He heard moreso than saw Hizashi smile, felt him beaming at him at letting him help him up, and then the hand on his shoulder shifted, to the spot of his ribs just above the bandaging.

 “Can I pull here?”

 “Yeah…”

 And he did and it really fucking hurt, little splinters under his skin all over again. He pulled air sharply between his teeth, and let Hizashi hook his elbow around him to stop the recoil.

 “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

 “It’s –” Deep breath, relax eyes –  bear it . “It’s fine.”

 It’s not fine, but it’s bearable, so he releases some of the tension he know is sewn into his arms. He opens his eyes, and Hizashi is so close it’s almost startling. His arm still was around him, under his arm, like a brace. Warm, pleasant pressure, pleasant heat...

 “I’m fine,” he breathes again, because for once, Hizashi doesn’t have anything to say. He just stares.

 “Hey… um…”

 “Hizashi…?”

 When Hizashi spoke it was quiet, in a way that betrayed his confident words. “Shou… this is not good timing, but…”

 This time it was Shouta’s turn for his voice to stop working, and he didn’t have anything to say – all too aware of the soft sound of breathing between them, the way his eyes were overwhelming like never before. 

 He had nothing to counter him or force him back or make him leave. He just waited, eyes at half mast because that was the only way he could handle Hizashi looking at him like  that . Like he always did, with care and adoration, and it just made him sick.

 “I almost lost you, and I don’t want to regret not kissing you any more… for years, Shouta,  years .”

 Shouta deserved a medal for surviving the whiplash of their conversation, from the joking to the serious to the trivial to the  important…  he couldn’t move much, but he wasn’t sure if that was his body or his anxious nerves speaking, so he just looked down at his lips.

 “Tell me it’s okay,” Hizashi said, close but far enough for comfort. Far enough for  respect  , for hurting and aching Shouta to say yes or no and only then either bridge the gap or depart. His hand was delicate on his side and his finger tips were light, brushing,  too much. “Tell me if you want…”

 The timing was so awful – Shouta just wanted to move, to take him in right there, to stop him from talking and pull him into himself so harshly and violently that they might become one. Close was never close enough…

 “I…”

 Hizashi’s free hand came up to his cheek, holding him there gently. His thumb brushed under his scar, over the hot skin that he was certain was an embarrassing shade of pink…

  Don’t fuck with me.

 “Tell me, Shou…”

 He was wiping away a tear, and Shou crumbled at the touch. “Y– yes.”

 A sharp breath, then again, louder, stronger, “ Yes. Yes, Hizashi–”

 Hizashi wasted no time, and pressed himself closer, and Shouta wasn’t surprised to taste salt on his lips because he’d spent too much time crying, too. 

 “I’m – not going to change –” Shouta said between breath and kiss, shaking from the anger of just wanting to  hold Hizashi and being un able to. “I’m – still a hero – I’m still –”

 – Kiss –

 “ –  still going to work, and – get hurt – and –”

 Hizashi retreated, lips hovering for just a moment. “I know, I know –”

 Shouta’s breath is heavy, laden with desires and 15 year old feelings and guilt, and doesn’t know where this is supposed to go. He’ll hurt Hizashi like this, he just knows he will – is it wise to let him do this, knowing what, inevitably, is going to happen. He huffs out his nose, trying to find a way to be delicate.

 He’s  never  known how to be delicate, and he just wishes that right now, he could somehow discover the secrets to not breaking his friend’s hearts. “I’m – is this a good idea?”

 “Of course –”

 “No, I mean it – is it  rational , when I’m just – just –”

 Hizashi’s hands are at work again, one holding him up, one wiping away tears from a scar. 

 “I’ll hurt you – I’ll hurt you and it’s inevitable and I can’t –”

 “ Shouta ,” and his voice was loud, and commanding, and energized – his quirk at its lowest state. 

 It worked though – Shouta had no idea how worked up he’d become, how his weaknesses were seeping through like never before; he was broken in so many ways right now and they were all on display, so humiliatingly on display, that he couldn’t even keep himself calm.

 Hizashi kissed him again, slower this time because he, shockingly, knew how to slow down. How to be rational when others weren’t. 

 His lips moved to the side of his mouth, then to his cheek, to his ear – “How long, Shouta?”

 “What – do you mean?”

 “It’s been fifteen years for me… fifteen years. I was in school looking at you. I was at graduation, looking at you. I shared our first apartment, and was looking at you. I’ve been teaching – and I’ve been looking at you…”

  How romantic…

 “How long has it been?” He said.

 It was too good to be true. It was too sad to be true. They’d put this off for so long, and it took a violent, bloody incident to bring Hizashi to him like this. He’d had his chances too, but he’d always shied away from them because it wasn’t fair.

 He’d die a hero one day, and Hizashi didn’t deserve  that .

 Shouta leaned into the feeling of Hizashi’s lips against his cheek, his ear, and told him what he’d never spoken out loud before. “I… fifteen years. Fifteen years, Hizashi…”

 “ God,”  and he’s crying now. 

 Shouta doesn’t want to admit to the few stray tears decorating his eyelashes like spiders on webs, so he doesn’t – he just leans into the soft, awkward embrace from his best friend, and lets him cry because they’ve both been idiots.

 The sunlight was long against the walls, and the halls of U.A were quiet, and Shouta, for all the breaking he’s done, has finally found a way to put some of the pieces back together.

[shioritsumi]

Interesting points about the 2000 How The Grinch Stole Christmas movie:

-Cindy’s last name is Lou Who, meaning her dad is Lou Lou Who

-Mayor Augustus Maywho quotes the Book of Who, like a book of bylaws, BUT it mentions the Grinch in it repeatedly. Except the Grinch is...the same age as Augustus? Which means at some point, SOMEONE of political power in Whoville decided to be THAT BITCH and add Grinch’s name to their BOOK OF LAWS as something that needs to be rejected and avoided. 

- no seriously though, why are the Whos such dicks to Grinch?

-Grinch climbed Mount Crumpit at the tender age of 8 and NO ONE went after him. Even Martha, who genuinely liked him. (then again, she was also 8 and still reeling from the entire situation)

-Augustus Maywho, the MAYOR, is happy and willing to blame everything on a CHILD. 

-Who actually STARTED the rumor about the Grinch as a mean nasty monster that lives on the mountain and eats children? Obviously Grinch hates company and has a whole system started up, but he virtually never goes into town. So, most likely, this goes back to the mayor again????

-The Grinch is like 40-50 something. He was adopted by two lesbian grandmas as a baby, but they’re STILL alive during the main story and STOKED to see him in town participating in Christmas again. Whos are apparently very long-lived.

-Lou, while trying to explain the Grinch to Cindy, says he’s not a Who, he’s a What. May have been a joke, BUT we don’t know where he was originally meant to go in his basket before the wind knocked him off-course. COULD there be Whats on the next hill over, who are green and fuzzy and emotional?

-Grinch is so smart??? At age 8, he took random bits and bobs and welded and hot glued together a Christmas angel that was absolutely gorgeous. He made his sled himself. He’s made like everything in his cave himself. He’s a technical GENIUS. 

-Grinch is SO STRONG. At age 8, he lifts a fully decorated Christmas tree over his head and throws it 30 feet. THEN he climbs the mountain by himself. As an adult, he pulls the sled himself a ways and THEN LIFTS THE FULLY LOADED SLEIGH OVER HIS HEAD. 

-”Did I have a crush on the Grinch?” [Flashback of her flirting with Grinch a lot] “I never asked you that.”  “oh. w-....well I didn’t.”

- Grinch apparently has nails? Claws? He uses his finger and manages to key the brand new sled Augustus is trying to gift Martha.

-Augustus is still jealous of the Grinch, clearly, bc he uses the event Cindy organized to try and welcome to emotionally blackmail the two most influential people in his life by reminding Grinch of the childhood trauma AUGUSTUS created originally, and by trying to emotionally blackmail BOTH by proposing to Martha in front of Grinch. She’s overwhelmed and unsure of what to say as he keeps giving her gift after gift to force her hand into saying yes. (Grinch’s patience reaches the breaking point first tho.)

-Whos start with human noses and ‘grow into’ them? Augustus loudly declares that Cindy hasn’t grown into her nose yet. Is their nose becoming more animal like just a part of Who puberty? Whoberty?

- The Grinch GETS THE GIRL. But it may have to do with the fact that, while Grinch has been unpleasant, the mayor’s actions have been driven by jealousy and assholishness for the past like 40 years. Maybe the Grinch has been a deeply unpleasant person the whole time, but to be fair...the Mayor created a society in Whoville designed specifically to reject and abuse everything the Grinch was. And Martha’s apparently still into him after 40 years anyways. But claiming you have a crush on the garbage man who lives on a mountain and is society’s boogeyman isn’t exactly something you can say out loud. 

[thestraggletag]

Sleeping Arrangements, a Rumbelle Fic

Rating: PG

Summary: Royce Gold finds himself suffering from sleep-deprivation following the departure of his son to college. Finding that his fear of abandonment is keeping him from a restful night of sleep he seeks out a fellow insomniac to share a bed with. Nothing romantic or complicated, merely a mutually-beneficial arrangement.

Strictly platonic, or so he tells himself. Over and over.

Based on this prompt because none of you meanies wrote it for me.

After Zelena Greene he'd given up on the whole idea, or so he'd thought. Insomnia might be deeply unpleasant, but it didn't come close to crazy redheads with abandonment issues and elbows like arrowheads. He had considered briefly going back to Hopper's office and making a weekly appointment, like the good doctor had suggested. Though timid he was competent enough... he'd certainly hit the nail on the head when it came to diagnosing the origin of his sleeplessness. Even though he prided himself on being observant it had completely escaped him that his restless nights had started roughly around the time Neal had gone off to college. And he certainly hadn't realised that he'd never lived alone. He'd gone from his papa's unloving arms to the warm home of his ants and from there to a dingy one-bedroom flat with Milah and later a spacious, sprawling Queen Anne, which he'd shared with his son when Milah up and left them. Left them like his father had, or his mother before him. Left him like Cora did afterwards, after a brief affair that did everything to advance her own agenda and little to make him feel wanted and loved.

So it was natural, Hopper said, to feel Neal's absence as his son abandoning him, even though on a rational, conscious level he knew it not to be true. And though at first Royce had refuted the idea- how dare Hopper blame his son- after a while he recalled suffering from insomnia as a child, right after his father had dumped him on his aunts's modest house in the middle of the night, while he'd still been asleep. The notion that it would happen again, that he'd close his eyes and be left alone again, terrified him. He'd been convinced that if he slept his aunts would be gone when he woke up so he didn't. Eventually they'd realised and to reassure him they took turns sleeping with him on his bed till he'd left the fear of abandonment behind. Or so he'd thought.

Hopper had been ecstatic after such a break through and, at first, so had Gold. Until the psychiatrist mentioned weekly appointments, a "long and arduous journey" and some nonsense about confronting his demons. Royce had no intention of opening the Pandora Box he'd carefully constructed inside his mind, not by a long shot. Reviving his childhood trauma appealed to him as much as taking a bath in acid. He'd attempted to have Hopper prescribe sleeping pills instead. Anything over the counter was a waste of time, as he'd found out the hard way, but surely hard drugs would do the trick. The good doctor, however, would not comply. Not even after a thin-veiled threat to raise his rent had made him cough up the necessary prescription.

With no other recourse he'd done some research on the Internet. After wading through a mountain of unhelpful-and in some instances incredibly unpleasant- information he'd found a forum for people suffering from insomnia because, like himself, they weren't used to sleeping alone. There he'd found a thread about an app called Bedbuds- he cringed at the rather unpleasant play on words- which worked as a dating app but instead of romantic partners it paired up sleeping partners, as in, people who wanted to literally sleep together. It seemed to be very popular with people with anxiety, people who'd moved far away from home, introverts and the like and to many people with insomnia, apparently, it worked like a charm. Reluctantly he set up a profile for himself, answering questions as innocuous as his height and weight and some others much more intrusive. In the end there had been very few people the app had found living near his area and, after much debate, he'd finally decided to take the plunge and match himself with "Greenie", a woman in her thirties living in a nearby town forty-five minutes away.

It had been an unmitigated disaster. Zelena Green was a nightmare. Chatty and brash, with a strident, nails-on-chalkboard laugh and no respect for personal space. She wore make-up to sleep, even though she made a show of pretending to wash it off in the bathroom every night, an array of dominatrix-style nighties in horrible shades of green and had elbows that could cut glass. She was all hard planes and painful angles, unpleasant to cuddle with or even lay next to- she drenched herself in perfume too, the kind that made his nose itch- and after a week he called it quits. Zelena didn't take it well, at all, and so he'd changed his phone number and had carefully threatened her to leave him alone. He'd sent Dove to do that. The man looked like the worst kind of thug, the sort that lugged dead bodies in the dead of the night without batting an eye. In reality he was depressingly soft-hearted and sensible, utterly incapable of hurting a fly. Thankfully no one would know by looking at him.

After that unpleasant experience he'd dismissed the idea altogether and had gone to a psychiatrist in Boston more than willing to prescribe him something for his problem. And though he slept, he didn't rest. He felt sluggish in the mornings, irritable and dazed. The medication gave left him nauseous most of the morning, reducing his breakfast to a simple cup of tea and some dry toast. He lasted a month like that before he flushed the pills down the drain. At Dove's behest he tried homeopathic medicine but, though a much more pleasant medicine, it had little to no effect.

It was when he found himself considering going back to Hopper's office and passive-aggressively taking his suggestion that he remembered Bedbuds. Though Zelena had been an unmitigated disaster Royce acknowledged that the idea itself appealed to him the most out of everything he'd tried. He'd hated most of what came with being married to Milah but it had been wonderful to cuddle up to her at night, to lose himself in the embrace of another. Besides there was little he wouldn't do to keep himself from sitting in front of the ever-jumpy Hopper and spilling his guts about his uncaring parents and his failed love-life.

There was a new profile in his area. Someone in Storybrooke in fact. A young woman in her early thirties, a bit shorter than him who preferred the opposite side of the bed, loved to read and watch period dramas and like soft, plush beds. A spinster in the making, it sounded, but it didn't much matter. Not willing to waste time or talk himself out of it he arranged for a public meeting at the local park, taking the precaution to ask Dove to linger nearby in case there was any need. Dove loved feeding the ducks anyway.

He'd expected a mousy brunette with a skirt past her knees and a demure cardigan. Belle French was indeed a brunette, though her hair was glossy and had a red tint to it when the light hit it at just the right angle, and when he met her she was indeed wearing a skirt and a cardigan. But the skirt, a lovely tweet flare number very expensive-looking, was just shy of indecent and the open tweed blazer she'd paired it up with was offset by a sheer floral blouse, making her look both prim and risque. And she was lovely, from an entirely objective point of view. Her body had pleasing, gentle curves, and her features were delicate, almost elfin. None of it mattered, though he imagined it was better that he not find his potential bed mate too scary to look at.

Remembering his past experience with Zelena he gave short, perfunctory answers to Miss French's questions and made it clear that all he was interested at the moment was a one-time trial run. Thankfully she seemed to consider it a great idea and so they made arrangements for Thursday night. He let Dove know, just in case, and made sure to have the linens changed and a fresh set of pyjamas ready. Miss French was refreshingly punctual and indulged in a bit of small talk and a glass of wine before suggesting they retire for the night. He gave her free use of a guest bathroom and was pleased to notice when she met him in his room that she had scrubbed her face free of make-up- though with a complexion like hers no woman would mind going bare-faced- and had donned an old college t-shirt- Columbia, he was dully impressed- and some comfortable shorts.

It was stiff at first, sharing a bed with her, a virtual stranger. Zelena had all but pounced on him the moment she delved under the sheets but Miss French kept to her side of the bed, looking at him in an open, welcoming way. As if she'd sensed his misgivings and his naturally prickly exterior and was waiting him out, allowing him to set the pace. He thought at first to simply stay on his side but he didn't particularly feel the reassurance he was supposed to be feeling. In the end he scooted closer to the middle and slowly, so slowly, he snaked an arm around her waist. Miss French- Belle- smiled and turned around, scooting back till her back was pressing against his front. And it was... wonderful. She was soft in all the right places, sweet-smelling and warm, so warm. His arm tightened around her, his legs seeking to tangle with hers, to bask in the abundance of human contact. She was lose and pliant in his arms, no hint of tension or revulsion, not an ounce of rejection to be felt. She wiggled slightly and when she was finally fitted perfectly in his arms made a low, humming sound of satisfaction that he echoed, moving his head to be able to bury his nose in her hair. Gradually he found himself matching his breathing to hers, feeling his entire body slowly relax as his mind cleared and his eyes closed of their own accord.

He woke up to the sound of Love of my Life coming from Belle's cellphone. Unwillingly he cracked his eyes open, taking stock of his limbs. Sometime during the night they'd shifted positions, with Belle moving to lie on her back, her body curved slightly towards Royce. His head was resting gently on her chest, one hand flung over her waist to keep her there. Both her arms were cradling him close, the perfect sort of morning cuddle to start the day. Belle was as good a pillow as she was a teddy bear and, since she made no motion to push him away, he allowed himself to linger a few minutes on top of her, enjoying the way she absent-minded combed the ends of his long hair.

With great reluctance he disentangled himself from her, his loose limbs barely cooperating as he made his way to the bathroom. His overworked body was demanding more sleep, nowhere near caught up, but he had a busy day ahead of him and so did Belle, he imagined. By the time he was fully dressed so was she, donning jogging pants and an old Ziggy Stardust t-shirt. A woman wearing yesterday's clothes and walking home early in the morning was bound to make people suspicious, but a woman on her way home from a morning run in the woods was perfectly respectable.

"This was lovely, Mr Gold. Best sleep I've had in months."

He envied her casual, easy attitude. Even though they'd spent a lovely night together in bed he found himself awkward and shy outside it.

"Yes, indeed. Have a good day, Miss French."

He smile dimmed a bit, her eyes loosing a bit of their lovely shine, but she said her good-byes politely and stepped out into the backyard, peaking from the fence door to make sure no one was about. He stayed inside the house, struggling to make himself talk, to take action.

"And perhaps we can do this again on Sunday?"

She turned around, her lips curling into a relieved, radiant smile.

"I'd like that very much. See you Sunday, Mr Gold."

She darted out, trotting in the direction of the forest trail before he could tell her to call him Royce.