#i feel like... its one thing to make a typical two men in rivalry over the same lady trope

[ghostxrose]

Of Monsters and Men | Bakugo Katsuki x OC

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven |

Summary ~ The war between humanity and aliens began in 2013 when the first Kaiju hauled itself out of the depths of the ocean. It rampaged through three cities, destroying everything in its path and killing thousands before it was finally taken down. As more Kaiju emerged from the sea, nations put aside rivalries and hatred in order to ban together and find a solution to save the human race.

Azusa had never imagined that this would be the world that she would grow up in. Mankind using giant robots to take down massive alien monsters sounds like the stuff of movies not the reality that she’s forced to live. She had also never imagined signing herself up to battle the monsters from the sea, but somebody needed to avenge her brother’s death and her father sure as hell wasn’t doing it.

Tags/Warnings ~ Fem!OC, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual fluff, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, potentially triggering content, universe-typical violence, Enji Todoroki (yes, that is a warning, he's trash), character death, suicidal ideation, (more tags to be added as story develops <3)

Note ~ Heyy, Lovelies! This fic is my twist on MHA characters in the Pacific Rim universe. I am absolutely obsessed with Pacific Rim, it's probably my most favorite movie! So this fic is my mash up of two of my fave things. It is xOC instead of xReader, but I hope that you enjoy it all the same. I'm one of those readers who will imagine myself as the main chacter no matter what, so this can be read as reader-insert. Anyway, enough with my rambling, enjoy the story My Lovelies! <3

“Get going, Azusa!” He says with urgency as he ushers her out of the kitchen.

“I’m not fucking going anywhere without you, Toya! I have a bad feeling about this one! Please listen to me, don’t go with Dad!” She pleads over the sounds of their younger siblings crying.

“Dammit Azusa, I have to! Dad doesn’t have another co-pilot! We’ll be fine, just go!” He borderline shouts at her as he makes his way to the door.

“Don’t go! Please, don’t go!” She cries, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the door.

“Fucking let me go! This is a job, Azusa, and I’ve been called to go do it! Go help Mom with Natsuo, Fuyumi, and Shoto!” He yells, ripping his arm out of her grasp and rushing out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

“Dammit, Toya-”

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Jolting upright in her bed, chest heaving and tears wetting her face, Azusa slams the button on her alarm. Letting out a groan, she wipes at her face and tries to even out her breathing. It takes a few minutes, as it always does, but she finally manages to recover and drags herself out of bed.

“Thanks, subconscious.” She mumbles bitterly as she makes her way to the bathroom. She goes through the motions of her everyday routine; getting dressed, putting her hair up, brushing her teeth, staring at the old family vacation photo on her dresser for too long.. Numbly, she finishes lacing up her boots, then stands up ready to answer the door for the knock she knows is coming.

The predicted knock does happen and she opens the door to greet her sister, “Morning, Fuyumi.” She says as she steps out of her room, closing the door behind her and locking it.

“Good morning, Azusa! You ready for today?” Fuyumi asks her as the two make their way to the elevator.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” She says with a slight shrug as they step into the elevator.

After pressing the button for the Mess Hall, Fuyumi joins her sister in leaning against the back wall of the elevator. She bumps her shoulder against Azusa’s with a small playful smile on her face.

“It’s a big day for you, kinda thought you’d be more hyped.” She comments, her features taking on a bit of concern.

“It’s just another day, Yumi. Just another day of being one of his soldiers that he couldn’t give less of a damn about.” Azusa replies in an emotionless tone to cover up the anger burning beneath her skin.

Fuyumi lets out a heavy sigh as the elevator doors open, “He does care, Zusa… And I know that it won’t be the same without Toya there to cheer you on.. but it’s been three years. There was nothing more you could have done that day to stop him. He’s gone, you’re here, and you worked your ass off to get to this point. You deserve to feel excited about today.” She says tiredly as they walk up to the food line.

“Yeah..” Azusa responds quietly, letting the conversation fizzle out. They fill up their trays with no further conversation being made, then head for a table with open seating.

Unfortunately for both of them the only table with open seating just so happens to be next to the table that Katsuki Bakugo and his group are sitting at. Azusa rolls her eyes at the comments and praises she hears being thrown the blonde’s way as she sits down. It’s been two years since her group entered the Ranger Program and Bakugo’s arrogant personality hasn’t dimmed a bit. Not even being behind the scenes during humanity’s war against aliens has done anything to lessen his pompous attitude.

“Who do you think you’ll be Drift-compatible with, Bakugo?” Azusa hears Mina’s perky voice ask.

“I don’t think any of you extras could handle being in my head and I sure as hell don’t wanna be in any of your idiotic brains. I’m just gonna ask the Marshal to let me pilot by my damn self.” Bakugo replies with a tone full of annoyance, earning himself a few gasps of shock and a bit of laughter.

“Oh c’mon man, you know single piloting is impossible even with the tech we have now! Plus, I think we’d be Drift-compatible! We work well together and we’re both super manly!” She hears Kirishima exclaim and she lets out a small huff of laughter at the pose she knows he’s doing even without looking at him.

“I don’t need a damn co-pilot and if I am forced to have one, it better not be any of you idiots!” Bakugo bites out and Azusa rolls her eyes once again as she digs into her breakfast.

“What a jerk, Dad’s gonna be pissed if Bakugo actually puts in that request,” Fuyumi comments quietly before taking a sip of her juice.

Azusa silently nods her head in absentminded agreement as she takes another bite. Suddenly, everyone around her quiets down, their heads bowing in respect and words becoming low whispers.

“Good morning, Rangers.” Marshal Todoroki greets, his booming voice echoing throughout the Mess Hall and demanding attention.

“As many of you know, today is the day that groups A through D will be testing to find their Drift-compatibility partners, or rather, their co-pilots. All other groups will be excused from their training to witness the event, but do not mistake this as a free day. Learn something from what you witness. As for groups A through D, tests will begin at 0800. Be prepared and be on time.” He continues, his stern tone making everyone give an intimidated nod of understanding.

“Ranger Azusa Todoroki,” Marshal Todoroki calls out, causing everyone’s eyes to turn toward the girl. Azusa clenches her jaw and her eyes meet the cold blue ones of her father.

“Come to my office once you have finished breakfast. Thank you, everyone, you may carry on.” He finishes with a slight bow of his head before he and his second-in-command, Marshal Shota Aizawa, turn to leave. Noise ensues once again with the disappearance of the Marshal’s presence. Meaningless chatter and the clattering of dishware fill the room, but one voice, in particular, catches Azusa’s attention as very much intended by the voice’s owner.

“Aww, the princess get in trouble, again?” Bakugo’s taunting comment grates at Azusa’s eardrums and her grip on her chopsticks tightens.

Other than the whitening of her knuckles, she gives no reaction toward the blonde, her eyes cast down toward her food tray despite wanting to glare at Bakugo. She numbly finishes her breakfast, tells Fuyumi that she’ll see her later, then stands to clear her place. She can feel eyes on her as she takes her tray to the trash bin, but she maintains her facade of emotionless neutrality as she walks out of the Mess Hall.

“The fuck does the old man want now?” She mumbles out angrily under her breath as she steps into the elevator.

Jamming her finger against the button for the floor that the Marshal’s office is on, she lets out a long breath. Stepping back to the middle of the elevator, Azusa crosses her arms over her chest and closes her eyes. A minute or two passes and the elevator groans as it comes to a stop. She prepares herself, mentally and physically, to step out of the elevator when the doors begin to open but pauses when she comes face to face with Marshal Todoroki.

“Marshal?” She questions, bowing her head slightly, confusion flashing over her features before she settles back into her neutral state.

“We will be going down to the Shatterdome instead.” Marshal Todoroki says, his voice taking on a much different tone than earlier.

He stares at Azusa with an expectant look as he waits for her to move back so that he can step into the elevator. Azusa shakes the confusion from her mind and dutifully steps back to let the large man through the doorway. Tense silence fills the cramped-feeling space as she presses the button for the Shatterdome. The elevator groans once again as it begins descending.

“Why are we going to the Shatterdome, Sir?” Azusa asks, tone neutral and emotionless and the Marshal lets out a tired sigh.

“Azusa, please, it’s just the two of us you can call me da-”

“I stopped calling you that a long time ago, Enji. Why would I start again now? Just tell me why you wanted me to meet with you instead of letting me go get ready for my Drift-compatibility tests.” Azusa bites out, cutting off her father’s words.

Marshal Todoroki’s jaw clenches and his fists clench before the tension deflates from his body and a look of defeat fills his features, “I want to show you something.” He replies vaguely and Azusa sends him an incredulous look.

“You want to show me something?? This is ridiculous! I need to be getting ready, not dealing with your feeble attempts at earning my forgiveness ba-” Azusa’s anger gets the better of her until she cuts herself off, clamping her mouth shut as the elevator doors open.

Marshal Todoroki stays silent as they step out of the elevator, only opening his mouth to greet others. They move through the hustle and bustle of the Shatterdome, walking past Jaeger after Jaeger and all of the people working on said Jaegers. They finally stop at the far end of Bay 12, both of them turning their bodies toward the Jaeger standing tall against the wall. Azusa’s neck cranes as she looks up at the gigantic robot, a tidal wave of emotions flooding her as she takes it in.

“Bravo Inferno,” Azusa whispers out, tears building up on her lash lines and the Marshal quietly nods from beside her. “The day Toya died.. I thought she was too destroyed to salvage, I mean, you barely came back in one piece.. H-how is she here?” She asks, her voice thick with emotion and tears slipping down her face.

“It took the repair techs a long time, but they were able to put her back together. In fact, she’s better than she was before.. on the inside, that is. I made sure the outside was redone to look the same as when she first came out of production.” Marshal Todoroki says quietly, his hands clasped behind his back professionally but his face full of emotions.

Azusa stares up at her brother’s old Jaeger with a mixture of awe and sadness. The blue flame-colored paint reflects the lights of the Shatterdome, giving it a pearlescent shine. Bravo Inferno’s emblem, a flaming phoenix, is stamped proudly on the left side of its chest along with the numbers from the year it was made. From head to toe, the Jaeger looks just like it had the day Azusa watched it leave the base being piloted by her brother for the last time.

“What was the point of this?” Azusa asks, coming back to her senses and remembering that she is standing with the man responsible for her brother’s death. “You piloting again or something?”

Still looking up at Bravo Inferno, the Marshal shakes his head, “No, my piloting days are long since over with. I’m passing Bravo Inferno on to you, Azusa. It’s.. it’s what Toya would have wanted had he thought the war would still be going on.” He says looking at Azusa with the ghost of a smile on his saddened face.

It takes a moment for Azusa to work past the lump in her throat, to straighten her back even though she wants to fall to her knees and sob. A strained “thank you” makes its way out of her mouth as she blinks away the tears in her eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~

Azusa cracks her knuckles before crossing her arms and waiting for the tests to begin. She and the other Rangers who will be testing today are gathered around the training mats, most idly chatting as they wait for Marshal Todoroki and Marshal Aizawa. She does a quick glance around and sees some of the other Rangers stretching, so she follows suit.

“Hey, Azusa!” Someone calls out excitedly right as Azusa hears footsteps approaching her. Turning her head, she catches sight of Tetsutetsu and Kendo making their way toward her. She sends them a small smile and waves, Tetsutetsu’s bright smile making her want to put on sunglasses.

“Hey guys,” she says when the two get up to her, narrowly dodging Tetsutetsu when he tries to engulf her in a hug.

“You nervous?” Kendo asks when the three of them fall back into warm-up stretches.

“Nope. I just hope that I get a good co-pilot.” Azusa answers simply as she leans further into a leg lunge.

“How are you not nervous?? Literally, everyone will be watching; Rangers, Rangers-in-training, Marshal Aizawa, Marshal Todoroki.. You’re seriously not nervous about your dad watching the tests??” Tetsutetsu rambles out before he is whacked upside the head by Kendo.

“Dude, shut up!” Kendo reprimands and Azusa huffs out a laugh.

“No, I’m not nervous. I don’t care who’s watching.” Azusa says with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Attention, Rangers!” Marshal Aizawa’s stern voice calls out and everyone stands at attention.

“At ease,” Marshal Todoroki calls out next as he steps up next to Marshal Aizawa. Everyone relaxes but keeps their full attention on the two men at the front of the room.

“We’ll go over a brief explanation of how the tests will work, then we’ll get started.” Marshal Aizawa starts as the bleachers along the walls of the room begin filling with the other groups of Rangers-in-training that aren’t testing.

“The tests will work like this; one-on-one melee combat with bo staffs. You all have been broken up into smaller groups based on your results from previous Drift simulations and screenings. These one-on-ones will help better identify who exactly you work well with. Remember Rangers, these are dialogues, not fights. The goal is to find a co-pilot that keeps up with your moves and keeps the scores even. Should one of you outright win a match then we’ll know that person is not a match for you. The cementing stage of this test will occur at a later date when you and your co-pilot are assigned a Jaeger and go through your first real Drift together.” Marshal Aizawa explains in his normal serious yet tired tone.

“Rangers Bakugo, Kirishima, Tetsutetsu, Todoroki, Kendo, and Hado, grab your bo staffs then step onto the mat. Each of you will have one match with each other then Marshal Todoroki and I will review your scores later. Your co-pilots will be announced tomorrow if we get through everyone’s tests today. Marshal Todoroki, if you would choose the starting pairings, please,” Marshal Aizawa says and Marshal Todoroki scans over the six Rangers lined up in front of him.

“Kendo with Bakugo, Tetsutetsu with Hado, and Kirishima with Todoroki.” Marshal Todoroki says, tone firm as always and his gaze already full of judgment.

“Rangers spread out across the mat with your respective opponent and assume position. You will begin when I say so.” Marshal Aizawa commands and the Rangers listen accordingly.

Once they’ve reached a space far enough away from the other pairs, Azusa faces Kirishima with her bo staff positioned diagonally in front of her. She takes in a deep breath, steadying the few nerves that have crept into her system, and bends her knees slightly ready to move to either defend or attack. Kirishima does the same, winking at her when their eyes meet with a playful smirk on his face.

“Rangers begin,” Marshal Aizawa commands, and the pairs begin their matches.

The match between Bakugo and Kendo ends quickly with the score being; Bakugou 4 and Kendo 1. That’s not to say that Kendo didn’t try her best to keep up with Bakugou, it’s just that the blonde was relentless. Despite them all being told that the matches were supposed to flow like dialogues and not fights, it’s just like Katsuki Bakugo to do his own thing. Tetsutetsu and Hado’s match ended a bit better with their scores being; Hado 4 and Tetsutetsu 2. In both of their typical fashions, they shook hands at the end of the match, both of them wearing confident smiles.

Kirishima and Azusa started out neck and neck, but that changed quickly when Azusa got the upper hand. Their match ended with the scores being; Azusa 4 and Kirishima 2. Azusa helped Kirishima up after her final time taking him down and wished him good luck on his next match. Kirishima, being the ever-bright ray of sunshine that he is, smiled warmly at her and thanked her for a good match.

The next three rounds of matches seemed to fly by while simultaneously feeling dragged out. Azusa had won by 1 point against both Hado and Kendo, which made her feel pretty good about ending up being co-pilots with either of them. She, unfortunately, lost by 2 points against Tetsutetsu and she was a little disappointed by the fact that one of her two best friends wasn’t a very good match for her to be co-pilots with. At the end of their, match Tetsutetsu gave her an encouraging smile and told her that he would have been honored to be co-pilots with her.

“Time for the final matches for the first six Rangers. The pairings will be as follows; Hado with Kendo, Tetsutetsu with Kirishima, and Bakugo with Todoroki. Get ready, Rangers.” Marshal Aizawa calls out, and Azusa’s entire being fills with dread.

“Prepared to lose, Princess?” Bakugo goads arrogantly as the two get into position and Azusa’s blood boils a bit.

Marshal Aizawa tells them to begin and Bakugo doesn’t hesitate to make the first move. Azusa blocks his bo staff a couple of times but ultimately Bakugo lands a hit to her shoulder.

“1-0.” Bakugo comments with a cocky smirk.

Not wasting another moment, Azusa swings her bo staff knocking the blonde’s bo staff away and rushing him. With quick movements, she brings her bo staff up, then swings it down, stopping it only inches from his face.

“1-1.” She says quietly, challenging him with her eyes while her face remains neutral.

They go back and forth for what feels like hours, both of them having stopped keeping track of the score after they hit 2-2. Both of them panting and sweating, their match continues on and on until a booming voice pierces the bubble they seem to be in.

“That’s enough! Bakugo, Todoroki, your match is over. Put your bo staffs away and get on the sidelines.” Marshal Todoroki sternly tells the two and Bakugo releases Azusa from the hold he had her in.

The blonde stands and walks off to put his bo staff away, not bothering to offer Azusa help. The two don’t even look at each other once they’re both situated on the sidelines of the training mat, standing as far away from each other as possible. Kendo and Tetsutetsu both send Azusa twin looks of surprise mixed with heavy confusion, but she chooses to ignore them in favor of watching the next group of matches.

Note ~ I know that there may not be much to go off of but let me know what you think so far! Should I post chapter/part 2 sooner than planned? Idk, I'm just loving how the story is turning out and wanted to share it with yall! I love and appreciate you, Lovelies! <3

Ps, @tr-mha-fan I'm doing my best to work on your (second) request, I promise that I didn't ignore your ask, Lovely! <3

Taglist ~ @tomiokasecretlover

[maariarogers]

How They Steal Seojun’s Scenes and Ruin A Tiny Essence of Seojun and Suho’s Character(s) in the K-Drama: A Study

Hi everybody!

First and foremost, I’m not online a lot, and whenever I do lately, I mostly try to spend it by fixating on a certain fandom — which, this time, happened to be the latest K-Drama “True Beauty”. I’ve written about two other study / analysis / meta which you could find here:

Thoughts On True Beauty and Why I’m On Team Suho

Why Webtoon!Suho is Superior and K-Drama!Suho Needs To Catch Up 👏

I’ve recently noticed during my scrolling that there has been a lot of tension between Team Seojun and Team Suho, which... broke my heart a little bit, because for the last eight episodes, I wasn’t really aware of it. I just thought everybody was having as much fun as I was just watching the K-Drama, but you know, we still have our favourites and we still have times when we disagree with the direction of the show, but by the end of the day, it was still something fun to watch, to distress with, and to share with like-minded fans.

Regardless, this is a warning that I don’t write with any intention to specifically target any characters or storyline, whether it be webtoon or the K-Drama. I do equally adore all of the cast, the production; the characters in the webtoon — and I will forever be thankful that I was fortunate enough to stumble upon the story as I did.

To add some context: I am a film student graduate, and I’ve always been interested in objectively dissecting characters, especially from a franchise, or things that came from a raw materials like True Beauty is. For your reference, I am currently at Chapter 128 of the webtoon series, although I am aware of spoilers beyond the chapters. As for the drama, I am at Episode 10 while I’m writing this. (Started at episode 9, continuing after episode 10.)

This is purely an in-depth analysis, if you’re into those sort of things, mainly discussing the major differences between webtoon representation of characters Lee Suho and Han Seojun in particular, and their mirrored selves in the K-Drama. Under the category, I will be touching on:

What the K-Drama changed the characters specifically

How They Stole Seojun Webtoon’s Scene and Character

Why Some of It Worked, Some of It Will Never

How They Highkey Ruined Seojun and Suho’s Dynamics

Why They Didn’t Need to Change the Characters At All, really

Another warning, just so any readers are aware, I am primarily a Suho x Jugeyong fan, but I’ve never really minded Seojun’s relationship with Jugyeong, either in Webtoon and K-Drama. Again, this mostly has a lot to do with how excellent the execution for Seojun was in the webtoon particularly — but I believe we’ll be getting into that.

Also, this is mostly to address the differences of webtoon vs. k-drama (and why some scene worked, why some scene didn’t work), and while I’ll be touching on the issues underlying the characters a bit, for a more thorough analysis or thoughts on the mental health represented by the characters, I would recommend reading:

By Tumblr User imjukyung (speaking about post-episode 10, specifically for Suho)

True Beauty: True Trauma and Unsettling Regression by tumblr user life-rewritten

Last Warning: This is about 5,000+ words. I... yeah. I have nothing to say except it’s written.

1. What Changed Specifically

I think the massive change an audience could probably observe — or if you can’t observe, you would find yourself being annoyed by it at certain point — would be in Suho. Yes, we’re starting with him.

I’ve been noticing a lot that people do heatedly comment that Suho’s “boring” — which, to an extent, I agree. (I mentioned this too in the first meta.) He is a massive play on the “cold and distant” trope, which, in my head, I’d like to call, a massive Edward Cullen case. That trope is often repetitive, most of the time it’s horribly executed, and it’s just, yeah, I’m not a big fan of them.

But again, I’ve mentioned this before, it works for Suho. I think this was what he was meant to be. As reference, in the webtoon even, Sua was never impressed with Suho, and she did repetitively say that the only “good thing that was going for him” was his good looks, and that he’s “boring” (in fact, I believe this is a fact since high school towards their adulthood). So yes, I think he was written like that on purpose.

On top of that, in the webtoon, compare to the K-Drama, Suho really does — nothing.

I’ll circle back to this specific characteristic because it relates to Seojun again, but I do wanted to point out that it is actually a prominent thing that’s to do with Suho. All he does in the webtoon, really, is study. Some of the things we learn later while we read would be that: he reads horror comic books as a sense of escapism, and he’s a good cook.

That’s it.

We would learn later, of course, that it is more than that. This personality is intentional and, most importantly, purposeful. What we’ve perceived as “boring” was used right against Suho — especially in the Prince of Princes arc, where the influencer called Suho out for “never trying his best” when the other contestants, Seojun and Aiden if we’re being specific, truly had something to lose while they were doing the show.

So, it wasn’t just, something the webtoon author decided Suho to be and held him no responsibility over, no — she crafted Suho like that from the beginning, she made us get used to it, and then, slowly, we see cracks of Suho’s “perfect” image and how that backfired. And Suho? He paid for it.

More than the simple cold and distant trope, his continuously monotone exterior actually did raise important questions in the long-run: For someone so smart with such a solid background, why does he seemed the most lost out of the Seojun-Jugeyong-Suho trio?

In my second meta, I wrote this:

It felt like the writers were desperate to fill the gaps for Suho possibly being “dull” [while playing] this typical cool and distant character — when, in reality, Suho’s existence as is was quite enough. He didn’t need to steal Seojun’s fighting ability, and he especially didn’t need to rob Seyeon’s musical passion too, to be interesting and have depths of his own [...]

Which I feel unfortunate about when it comes to K-Drama!Suho, and I still stand by it now. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the K-Drama, because it could really hold up as its own separate storyline and timeline, but if we start to critically compare, we do see that, in reality, Suho could carry his “boring” character well and the K-Drama probably just didn’t know how to do this well, or thought the reception would be bad, so they added all of these unnecessarily profile traits to have him stand out.

To add, even when all he really does is study and read comic books, Jugyeong still likes him. To Jugyeong, Suho doesn’t really need to be more than what he is - their shared interest and their strong loyalty in ensuring they’re each other’s safe haven when it comes to emotional struggles were already enough for her; and for Suho, Jugyeong’s company as is had been sufficient to make him happy, or have a better outlook in life.

2. How They Stole Seojun Webtoon’s Scene and Character

This is quite a sensitive topic for Seojun’s fans, so I will try addressing this very, very carefully. If you have anymore to add and discuss, feel free — I’d love to know what else I’ve missed or might have overlooked.

In this specific section, I think I’d like to focus on three (3) major Seojun scene that was stolen. The band-aid, the wallet, and the spicy food. Of course, I’ll be touching on things they’ve stolen beyond those scenes because they did incorporate a lot of what Seojun should be experiencing to Suho, or other characters, and why this wasn’t okay — or it couldn’t be held up. But let’s start with the scene first and we’ll slowly walk to what other aspects of Seojun the writers think we wouldn’t notice being stolen.

The Band Aid Scene

In the webtoon (spoilers to those who haven’t read) in Chapter 34, Suho got into an accident in an attempt to save Jugyeong. This led her to be injured on the knees, which, after Seojun was called in, he helped treated. 

In the K-Drama, Suho was the one who treated Jugyeong’s knees – but this happened very early in the series and it was specifically triggered because Jugyeong tripped on her way to run Suho’s errands.

Personally, for me, I didn’t really mind this scene was “stolen”. Now, okay, before anybody comes at me, allow me to explain why: I didn’t think it mattered? Which probably didn’t help my case in fending a lot of you off lol but — I just didn’t think it mattered because in either scenes, it was still an in-character thing for them to do. Each boy would still assist Jugyeong and treated her knees even if they’ve switched places.

What I really meant was though, the scene didn’t really take any of Seojun’s important and/or core personality away from him — which you’ll find what I mean more as we delve on soon — it was just an act which anybody would’ve done for Jugyeong in that moment.

Especially in the webtoon, the bigger focus was more towards Suho who just got into an accident. There wasn’t really any fundamental value or any obvious motivation towards the scene unless you counted Seojun finding out that Heegyeong was Jugyeong’s sister - which, even then, it was brushed over quickly because, of course, we focus heavily on Suho’s state towards the end, and we’re stirring into what really happened between the three S (Seojun-Suho-Seyeon).

In the K-Drama, it was set up in such a way with a clear motivation: Suho apologising for pushing Jugyeong to such a limit and therefore elevating their statuses in comradeship, and for Seojun to notice and took an important interest in Jugyeong after seeing Suho and her together, triggering his consecutive contacts with her afterwards.

Each of them could really hold up as their own separate acts, and both boys are still heavily in-character.

The Wallet

In Chapter 32, Jugyeong (bare-faced) met with her bullies and they had a quick confrontation in WcDonalds. We realise the bullies didn’t really think they were responsible for how they acted, and didn’t apologise. This left Jugyeong devastated, so she left the restaurant premises and went home without realising she dropped her wallet. At the restaurant, Seojun’s friends picked it up — but Seojun was the one who identified the wallet’s owner, and came back just as Jugyeong, now fully in make-up, came to get it. Despite probably having eaten, Seojun invited Jugyeong to eat, noticing she’s in a bad mood.

In the K-Drama, Episode 6 if I’m not mistaken, Jugyeong stumbled upon her former bullies bare-faced. She managed to run out of the restaurant premises before shortly realising that she dropped her wallet. When she turned, she saw Suho was with her bullies, grasping the wallet from them. She ran away, he chased after, and they had their mini confrontation and Suho shielded Jugyeong from being recognised by their schoolmates.

Again, like the first, I didn’t really hold up any grudge over the scenes? Mostly because the difference in context between them?

Allow me to explain: in the webtoon, it was clearly placed that way to show the slow elevation of friendship between Jugyeong and Seojun; that scene also progressed to Jugyeong meeting Seojun’s group of friends later, which triggers to more scenes of them in the future i.e. Jugyeong trying out clothes at the request of Seojun’s friend’s girlfriend and Seojun obviously falling hard during the whole process.

(I also think like these are the first few instances where we’re established a place Seojun and Jugyeong bonded over most besides school, i.e. the shopping street background, because them shopping together in that group, or just the two of them, are relatively mentioned or brought up again and again.)

But that can’t realistically work for K-Drama.

In the webtoon, we’re allowed for a slow-paced friendship between Jugyeong and Seojun to form, which was important, because it was meant to bring us to the tipping point wherein Seojun transformed from being that best male friend (and why he stayed being the male best friend), to her boyfriend. The why, of course, is important — but we’ll get to that soon.

In the K-Drama, we’re not allowed the amount of pace. And, more than that, all of Seojun’s friends in the webtoon, who are high school dropouts or older (and therefore were not attending school) I believe, are replaced by the massive group Seojun has in their shared high school. So, the opportunity as is wasn’t really there, and it was later restricted by the time frame of a sixteen-episodes.

I’ll be touching on the fact that they do make up for this with various scenes, various new opportunities, but you can still see how Seojun falls a little short still to compare with his webtoon counterpart.

Speaking of the context further, technically I don’t think Suho “stole” the scene. The act, yes, I’ll admit to that, but not the scene, nor the core of what bonded Jugyeong and Seojun together — Suho didn’t have an external group of friends which he brought Jugyeong to meet, and he certainly didn’t share the street-shopping backgrounds and have a comforting meeting place with Jugyeong there.

I would’ve been more upset if Seojun confronted the bullies himself and returned the wallet to Jugyeong in the webtoon, only for Suho to obviously rob this scene from him in the K-Drama, when it was obviously Seojun’s highlighted moment. But as is, it happened differently.

Suho’s acts could held up as his own, especially since, different than the webtoon, he already saw bare-faced Jugyeong and knew the owner of the wallet [as he’s watched the scene unfold], while Seojun happened to find the wallet and Jugyeong thankfully had her ID, the one with make-up on her face, which led to Seojun keeping it and giving it back to her when they bump into each other later.

They weren’t really any confrontations about insecurities, past mistakes or the truth to be had; for Seojun and Jugyeong, that scene was only a “beginning” (the first of many events to come, the trigger point on how the rest starts), while for Suho, it was a “conclusion” (scenes triggered by other events first, ending with a specific decision).

The Spicy Food

Now, this is where I get a bit iffy? I wasn’t happy with it, simply put. I understand they amended it in episode 9, but — it still happened. And hoo-boy, they weren’t sneaky about it at all.

In the webtoon, Episode 33, Seojun invited Jugyeong to eat tteokbokki with him. Jugyeong wasn’t really feeling up to eat, but she accepted because she likes spicy food. Later, while having the meal together, Seojun is obviously having a hard time eating the spicy food, which Jugyeong internally questioned about.

In the K-Drama, Heegyeong and Mr. Han went on a date, and then we later find out that Mr. Han couldn’t withstand spicy food. He didn’t want to return the meal though, thinking that he would’ve burdened the staff.

Again, one can obviously just argue that, it happened in different context too, just like it did in the Wallet Scene. Or, better yet, that it’s fine, since they did include this in episode 9 in the end. But — the reason I had a problem with this choice of writing was because, unlike the other two examples, not beiong able to handle spicy food is a major, if not a constant, Seojun’s characteristics and behaviour.

That’s a Seojun thing, rather than a simple action, and taking that from him, or basing it off of him, feels a little... lazy.

Mr Han in the webtoon, while he didn’t play a major part and Heegyeong eventually lost interest in him, was a messy eater. They could’ve gone with that route easily. That he’s a messy eater, and Heegyeong finds herself liking it anyway — that is, if, like how I’ve been viewing the direction of the show, they really do want them to be together.

That’s already been apart of Mr. Han’s already-established behaviour, why take it from Seojun?

Which led us to the few bits of how Seojun is stolen beyond simple scenes.

Seojun’s Character

Now, “stolen” is such a big word. It’s right, to an extent, but it’s still such a big word. More than that, I’d say it’s “chipped”? As in, the true essence of what made Seojun so remarkable and strong as a second male lead in the webtoon is taken apart to have it lend to other characters or, equally worse, downplayed in the drama.

I’ve always had such a problem and it’s a MAJOR problem when Seojun, in the K-Drama, told Suho, “You don’t deserve to be happy.”

Straight-up, honest to god? That isn’t Seojun at all.

Yes, he’s upset. And yes, he’s irritated by what he perceived as Suho not coming to his expectation when it came to their shared loss regarding Seyeon and/or what he thought Suho failed to do. These are all true. Seojun is angry, and he’s consistently angry at Suho until they reach their resolution together — but he would never wish that on Suho.

What drove his anger was disappointment, was a sense of hopelessness, was the loss, but it never came from hatred. Seojun felt a lot towards Suho, but hate to the point of wishing someone’s unhappiness was never one of them.

Just having that spoken by Seojun contradicted a lot to how he behaves in the webtoon — which was honestly this upstanding, responsible and caring guy. And he is!

And while I adore Suho and he has a special place in my heart, I do see a stark difference to how Seojun operates if we compare to Suho: Seojun’s always been straightforward with his actions, countlessly working hard once he sets his mind to something (either that by choice, or otherwise i.e. helping his mom pay the bills, and then pursuing a career in being an idol) — he’s a go-getter.

Suho isn’t, not so directly at least. He’s quiet, and he keeps things to himself, and he doesn’t like a show. Which was why a lot of him “helping out” Jugyeong — mostly driving off weird men or confronting them — happened behind the scenes and without anybody’s knowledge. He doesn’t even really wanna acknowledge it after.

Seojun’s direction in life is clear, too. He wants to work right after school, and he does. He wants to treat Jugyeong properly as her romantic partner, and he does. He wants to be an idol and succeed, and he works hard on it.

Suho, on the other hand, not so much. A lot of the major things that did happen to Suho, it happened externally. Something else was pushing him to do an action. Him flying out to Japan due to his father, him returning to Korea etc. Again, this is a lot to do with his mental health as well, which is a separate post altogether, but I just wanted to point this out as comparison.

Rambling over — yes, if you’re not an avid webtoon reader, just know that, that specific line from Seojun? He would never. That was already so out-of-character of him because, as I’ve said and I will say it again, whatever anger Seojun harboured for Suho, it never came from such ugly or raw hatred. He didn’t understand Suho’s motivation after and/or during Seyeon’s death, and I do believe he could lash out from that - but he never held any extreme grudges.

To add, in the webtoon, that line was actually spoken by Suho when he admitted to his therapist that he think he doesn’t deserves to be happy.

This is also a big thing in my opinion, because it shows how differently Seojun and Suho coped — either with Seyeon, or whatever that comes after. Seojun has always been more prone to anger while Suho, either that added by his fluctuating mental health or otherwise, is prone to sadness.

Now, these are two extremely big negative emotions to be associated with our ever-favourite boys, but it’s true. It’s consistent throughout their characters all-through the story (in the webtoon, at least). And it does play a role, because, again, it showcases the difference of characters between Seojun and Suho, and how they react to situations differently. Seojun with his quick-temper, and Suho, easily feeling hopeless.

So, why is it important to know this?

Because a lot of Seojun’s anger, a lot of that deep-rooted aggression — that was transferred to Suho in the K-Drama. And no cap? It shouldn’t have.

3. Why It Worked, Why It Will Never

Let’s go back to the broader subject briefly.

At this point of the K-Drama, which is ten episodes in, I felt a little moot comparing scenes specifically to what had happened in the webtoon. It’s always nice, of course, to critically analyse any form of entertainment so we could always better our watching experiences or give the proper feedbacks to the creative industry, and while I like delving in deep too, I also have to remind myself a lot to not .... take it too seriously, essentially.

Because at this point, obviously the K-Drama has adapted many of the plot points from the webtoon, and re-arranged it to fit into what they deemed to be necessary to work in that timeline. And that’s okay!

For example, while Seojun’s scene was borrowed to other characters, we do get the opportunity to see Seojun being presented slightly differently. We have that new arc regarding his mother, and we see a whole loveable cast of group Seojun has acquired during his time schooling, and Seojun gets a ton more interactive chances with Jugyeong to make up for what they couldn’t do — that is, the slow progress of them becoming truly close friends till they’re in their young adult years — and every scene of them could still hold up as a magnifying and incredible moment as its own.

For example, that scene when Seojun took care of a sick Jugyeong in the bus, and he said (although I’m recalling only from memory), “I don’t like it when people get sick.” Which I think was super sweet and super impactful at the same time. This didn’t happen in the webtoon, but in the K-Drama, among the first scenes they’ve introduced Seojun in was when he was in the hospital visiting his mother; we also learn later that he actually time off from school to do help his parent.

So obviously Seojun’s cautious on anything that’s to do with somebody contracting an illness etc — and not only it showed in that one dialogue, it’s made more brilliant when Seojun, who can’t really afford any expensive jewellery, made Jugyeong a flower-braid bracelet. I think that was such a nice contrast, a nice touch and ugh!!!!!

That really punched me straight into my Seojun x Jugyeong heart.

We also see a different way of them interpreting and putting Sujin brilliantly into the story. I really want to go deeper into this, but I don’t believe I have sufficient enough thoughts beyond the fact that I much prefer the way the K-Drama built up Sujin to compare with how the webtoon placed Sujin. She has more motivation, she has more leverage, and last but not least, she has much more flexibility to become a serious second female lead and rival.

I do have a problem with how they decided to go with Suho, because again, I think all of the extra personality traits are not necessary. Suho doesn’t need to be a good fighter like Seojun had been established to be, and he doesn’t need to be musically passionate, like Seyeon was, because his own personality and character should’ve been enough. He could carry that personality well; he doesn’t need to be “more”.

Which brought us to this: Seojun’s aggressiveness taken by Suho.

To make this short - it just doesn’t work. It didn’t... really feel out of character, per se, but I'm not the biggest fan of it. I felt like, personally, the writers sort of missed the point of what truly made Suho Suho — which was this guy who was more prone to melancholy-based emotion than anything else — and, in return, (again, I’ll be using the word) they “chipped” away at Seojun because of it.

So, what should’ve been Seojun’s distinctive reaction carried specifically by his character, it was shared by Suho.

Suho isn’t unpredictable, he isn’t quick-tempered, and he isn’t fast on his feet. These are all Seojun’s major personality traits. He’s opinionated, yes, and he isn’t afraid to set his boundaries — but mostly, only his own. One of the more primary example I could give from the K-Drama that I think sorta worked at first glance, but didn’t really when you think twice about it, in regards to this, was Suho chasing after Seojun and Jugyeong after a gang of people were running towards them. (This is after the karaoke scene.)

Honestly, rather than just wasting his energy, it’d be more appropriate if Suho calls the cop.

Suho’s incredibly logical, and furiously straightforward. He doesn’t precisely need to be running around for — what? What was he achieving anyways in the K-Drama by running after the gang? See how it sorta doesn’t make sense? So, yes, if it doesn’t make sense - Suho wouldn’t. 

Again, this circles back to how the different way the boys coped or react, as I mentioned earlier, and it’s important to be distinctive with these because both boys are two separate individuals with two different ways of seeing the world and taking them in, and, cheesy as I may, representation matters.

And when it isn’t represented properly, and I’ll be repeating this over and over: Seojun’s character seems like it’s “chipped away”. Not stolen, no, because it’s still there but — what should’ve been an emotion his specific character should harbour, it feels ... lacklustre, almost. Like a joke: what makes Seojun’s anger so “special” compared to the obvious internalised rage Suho seems to have [in the K-Drama]?

4. How Is Seojun and Suho Dynamic Ruined?

Simply put: observe the way the writers put Seojun and Suho when it comes to Jugyeong.

In the K-Drama, it’s constant rivalry between the boys — driven, of course, by Suho’s possibly deteriorating mental health and the insecurity that came with. But it was also easily flamed by Seojun making jabs and/or crossing the boundaries by being there when he shouldn’t have been.

Now, I’m not into the whole Team Seojun vs. Team Suho thing because the real tea is, that just isn’t Seojun and Suho.

And when the K-Drama writers failed to incorporate how exactly Seojun and Suho had been when both boys clearly shared an affection towards the same person, Jugyeong, I feel like — out of everything, that’s when they lost the biggest essence of what made these two men who they are. 

Because Seojun and Suho? They were mad respectful towards each other.

I think one of the most memorable and important scene, and I carry this in my heart, was when Jugyeong was supposed to go out on that date with Suho, and they promised each other — but then Suho’s father got into an accident, and Jugyeong wasn’t reachable because she broke her phone.

You know who showed up to that date to inform Jugyeong? It was Seojun.

And it was Seojun again who came to pick Jugyeong up and got into the taxi to the airport to see Suho off. Seojun was the one who gave Jugyeong and Suho some time to say goodbye between themselves, tapping Jugyeong on the back when he walks away. That’s how far Seojun really cared for the girl he loves: he was willing to let her love the person she likes.

He was supportive, without being discriminating.

And it was the same again when it’s reversed. During the whole time Seojun and Jugyeong were dating, Suho never once showcased that he was dissatisfied or he wasn’t happy with the development. In fact, again and again, he was supportive. He put in good words for Seojun, he encouraged Jugyeong to always work it out between her and Seojun.

Of course, there are hiccups here and there — but that was the true essence, I believe, of the Seojun-and-Suho dynamic.

Even despite the misunderstanding, even through the romantic interest coming in between them, there will always have this big respect to not go behind one another and put the other down, I think. They would confront, and have their clashing moments face-to-face (but never too aggressively because Suho’s weak and often pulls back lol), but very rarely does it go further than that.

Even when they’re driven with anger, jealousy, or disappointment — you could tell that the bond they’ve shared from their middle school and with Seyeon were always somehow stronger.

And yes, you could argue that maybe, in this point of the K-Drama, they aren’t reconciled yet, which is why they acted the way they did. But I feel like? That didn’t matter? Because, in episode 10, we could clearly see Seojun having the capability of being supportive and putting his good faith in Suho, despite not being on good terms with the guy (e.g. when he advised, “Suho would never do that to you.”) even though that’s quickly tarnished when Seojun, in the same breath, quickly suggest for a break-up.

I don’t really have any defence for Suho because I already felt like him expressing constant aggression towards Seojun is already wrong, misplaced, or poorly written — so whatever action that came after always came a bit off for me. For example, rather than putting the blame for his own jealousy towards Seojun or Jugyeong (i.e. episode eight in its entirety), Suho is the kind of person to blame himself. He would feel that he lacked something, that it was him that wasn’t enough, that it must be him that’s done something to push Jugyeong, or anybody, away.

(Again, echoing his admittance: “I don’t think I deserve to be happy.” or, if we’re going with the K-Drama route, from Seojun’s accusation.)

5. Why They Didn’t Need To Change At All

The worst part of knowing or realising these small details is that, the story could still work. It could still move the characters forward, and have the relatively same outcome i.e. Suho lashing out by the end, threatened by his own insecurity that Jugyeong might prefer Seojun after all etc — but instead, we have these amazing characters that came off at 90% in the drama adaptation, but the 10% that really mattered to their characters weren’t mixed in well enough.

So, the question comes: how exactly should they be acting?

First, Suho’s often more calm — the calmest, in fact, between the Suho-Jugyeong-Seojun trio. This still doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any pent-up guilt, or sadness, or even aggression, but it rarely ever comes out violently. Even if it does, in any shape or form, mostly the emotions are fired back towards himself i.e. experiencing massive self-loathing, self-doubt, which, of course, may in return affect his interpersonal relationships.

Episode 10 played this out nicely, in fact: because we do have a scene where Suho’s being incredibly understanding and respectful in the beginning, but then little things and mistimed events built up (without proper explanations from the other party, to add) and he essentially imploded on himself i.e. lashing out, spiralling, having a mental breakdown, and by the end of it, (trigger warning ahead) committing suicide and/or self-harming himself by walking freely and stopping in the middle of traffic.

Secondly, Seojun could’ve still held so much anger at Suho for what happened with Seyeon and had fallen for Jugyeong all the while, but he could still stay in-character by never explicitly trying to constantly put Suho down. It just goes against a character so substantial for putting his all towards the people he loves, or have loved. And Seojun have loved Suho as a best friend - so for him to act the way he did, to say that line ( “You don’t deserve to be happy” ) especially, that makes me sad.

6. Conclusion

True Beauty, on the surface, will always be a light-hearted romance comedy that honestly has very interesting and well thought-of characters that... don’t necessarily stand out, I don’t think, among other high school K-Drama, but it does represent young adults or teens who seemed to “look like they’re doing well” but a lot of us really aren’t. We’re just figuring things out as we go along, and that’s what Suho, Seojun and Jugyeong seemed to be doing with us: they’re figuring things out as they go along, too.

In the end, there really isn’t much of a point expressing these thoughts except that it gives me simple pleasures, and if it can attract a few people who loves True Beauty too, I would simply die of appreciation. I hope a lot of the K-Drama audience can have a slight knowledge that, yes, Seojun is absolutely super kind, way kinder than he’s been portrayed on screen, and yes, Suho isn’t normally that possessive - protective, yes - he never stalks or particularly demands anything out of Jugyeong though.

Okay, before this got too long again, I thank you for reading!

Feel Free To Ask Me Anything

[arahul-abyssia]

Looks like it's September again (already, somehow), so that means that it's Nintember again, which means I'll be writing again! Same dealio as last time, one story per five prompts, up to six writings total. (And I'll be putting most of each under a cut, because mobile users can't skip posts)

And for my first entry for @starprincesshlc and @jklantern 's wonderful little event, I shall once again be attempting to twist some modicum of continuity, characterization, and canon-compliance out of a world that clearly cares scarcely for all three.

The Great Act

~~ Art, Green, Dizzy, Fire, Strength ~~

It was the loud buzzing of his phone’s alarm clock that dragged him from his slumber. He awoke to find himself sprawled across the couch, which was in no way long enough for his lanky body and spindly legs. As he blearily reached out and slapped at the coffee table, hoping to find the rude device by pure luck, he also blearily reached out and slapped at his memories, trying to figure out what series of events had led him there. For a moment, they floated just out of reach, and then suddenly flooded back to him all at once.

Oh. Right. It’s all over.

Another sporting event had come and gone, and as usual, in spite of all the effort he put into training and practice, he had ultimately lost to the same people he always did. No matter the sport, no matter the plan, no matter the time, they always won. And why shouldn’t they? The heroes always win in the end, always securing victory against the villains.

And he was one of them: the purple-clad counterpart, mirror, and supposed rival to one of the land’s most revered figures. Meant to oppose, and meant to lose.

He was Waluigi.

The name still sounded absurd to him. He had no idea how two men whose names were ‘Mario’ and ‘Wario’ and who naturally served as near-perfect foils of each other, had managed to meet and form such a publicizable rivalry without any deliberate effort, but such was the case. However, the notion that the brother of one had his own doppelganger in the brother of the other (or cousin, they never did manage to keep that story straight), with the same dichotomies of name, body, and personality? That was simply and utterly ridiculous, far beyond even the realm of ‘too good to be true’. And yet, if anyone had caught on, they hadn’t made it known to him.

Lost in thought and routine, he realized he had reached and opened his wardrobe, where numerous sets of that purple hat, shirt, and overalls were staring him in the face. In a sickening sense, they were the centerpiece of a great work of art, the fabrication that was his entire public existence, the character that he and Wario had constructed so that he might further be the ‘evil counterpart’ to everyone’s favorite red-clothed fire-throwing hero. Mario was stout and a bit fat, Wario was stouter and fatter; Luigi was tall and a bit thin, so Waluigi was taller and thinner. Mario had an M as his emblem, Wario had an inverted M; Luigi had an L, so Waluigi had an inverted L. To any casual outside observer, it was perfect.

But unlike Mario and Wario, whose rivalry had been formed in their youth, Waluigi had never even met Luigi until Wario had made him his sporting partner. The most he had known of the legendary Mario Brothers was just that: they were legends, for the countless adventures and quests they went on. In truth, despite how much he played it up during each and every game, he bore no true grudge against the man he was supposed to hate; Wario had, for a time, convinced him that Luigi’s presence in the public eye was somehow detracting from his own, but he had long since realized that that wasn’t the case; in fact, it often seemed like Luigi himself was being snubbed by the public, with the vast majority of the glory placed upon Mario, no matter how much Luigi contributed.

And yet, despite his existence being little more than a convenient story, despite the stress that constantly acting like a jerk brought, and despite always losing at the games no matter what, none of it brought him any sadness: for all its ups and downs, he felt himself to be rather good at keeping up the act, and the sports were, at the end of the day, still fun.

So why do I still feel so… bad?

Routine and thought had once more brought Waluigi elsewhere, and he found himself once more on his couch, now dressed in his usual outfit, with some sort of drink in his hands, probably coffee or tea; he didn’t care to determine which at that moment. His eyes casually wandered around the room as he brought the mug to his lips.

Then, just as the liquid touched his tongue--apparently he had managed to make tea out of coffee beans--the answer came to him. All across the room’s walls and shelves was sporting equipment of every sort--tennis racquets, shin-guards, helmets, golf clubs, old kart wheels, giant dice blocks, a probably excessive number of deflated balls--and absolutely no other sort of decoration. He leaned forward to place the mug on the table, and in doing so noticed his gloved hands and violet sleeves. Who wore the outfit of a character that they supposedly were not, every single day? Apparently, him.

He didn’t do anything else. He had let the character that was Waluigi consume his life to the point that had no idea who he was outside of it. He had nothing that he did when sports weren’t involved. Wario didn’t dedicate all his time to his rivalry; he owned an entire video game company--an unstable and poorly-run one, certainly, but it was nevertheless another use of his time. Mario and Luigi had their own grand adventures, of course, which is also what Peach, the Yoshis, Bowser, and his horde of minions were all typically involved in.

They all had lives outside of the games, and what did he do during the interim times? He either tried to practice, on his own, in the few suitable locations that he could find when the world was arranged for adventure, in a vain attempt to not lose as bad when the next game came around, or he wallowed in his home, doing absolutely nothing of any import.

But what could he do? Waluigi was never anything beyond a fabricated counterpart to both Wario and Luigi, but he could not remember, even slightly, what or who he was before he embraced that role. That nearly all of his memories prior to his first meeting with his partner were lost to him, was, he shuddered to admit, rather unsettling. Not even his old name--if he even had had one, he could not recall anymore--would reveal itself to him, and it was not as though he could simply find out through some external means: he was never the best at record-keeping, and to really sell their act, he had had his name legally changed to “Waluigi” and all references to his previous identity erased.

He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind of thoughts. There was little sense in worrying and fretting over who he was in that moment--the chance of any sort of useful epiphany emerging from it was even slimmer than he was.

Ugh… better just try to distract myself…

The first suitable option to catch his eye was the TV remote lying on the table. He quickly grabbed it and flicked on the set, and was immediately assaulted by the cheery enunciation of the Lakitu news anchors on the aptly-named Lakitu News Channel. He recalled that that was the channel he had left the set on last night, after he had gotten quite fed up with the incessant and inane blathering about the events of that day’s final matches, and it took only about five seconds to figure out that they were still on that topic. Scowling, he began flipping through the various channels available, hoping to find something interesting enough to block out the melancholic thoughts that were biting at his mind, like a hundred tiny Muncher and Nipper Plants.

After a painfully long series of more newsrooms--all talking about the exact same thing, of course--and unappealing shows--Half of these are for children and other half would just make me feel even worse!--he stumbled across some sort of advice segment hosted by a Birdo (was it the Birdo? He couldn’t tell). With absolutely no better options, he resigned himself to sit back and listen halfheartedly to whatever trite tips she tried to provide; maybe they’d be amusing enough to at least give him a small chuckle.

“I hope you all enjoyed our lovely guest! Now, before we move on to the submissions from all you wonderful viewers, I’d like to reiterate some old, but tried and true, advice, which I hold very close to my heart.”

Oh, here we go…

“Something which you probably hear very often is to always be yourself, or to always be true to yourself…”

Feh, I can think of several people who definitely shouldn’t do that…

“But it may be that you don’t like who ‘yourself’ is, or perhaps you don’t know what self you even have to be true to…”

Hah! As if… uh…

“And to that end, I’d like to say that there is always room for change. There’s always a way to make something new of yourself, to alter the parts of you that you want to, to become a different, better person. ‘Yourself’ can be whoever you want it to be; never are you locked along one unending bleak path. Try new things! Experiment! Don’t let yourself be trapped in an endless cycle.

“Believe me when I say I have personal experience with this: I’ve done so many different things over a rather short period of time, trying to find what I wanted to do with myself, who I wanted to be. Even now, I’m still not entirely sure if this is my supposed ‘calling’…! But I never got anywhere by doing nothing: it was on me to break out of my shell and search for myself, and now it’s on you to do the same.

“You don’t have to begin drastically, with a flying leap of faith--I think we’ve all walked over enough cliffs by now to know that!--but, if this is the sort of mindset you find yourself in, why not try taking some small steps today? It could be as simple as wearing a new outfit, or talking to someone new, or partaking in a new pastime.”

Birdo continued to elaborate on her point, but Waluigi--or, whoever he was beneath that--had stopped listening. He wanted to make some snark about what she said; he wanted to rationalize how what she described couldn’t ever apply to him; but, he found that he couldn’t. He had attempted to follow similar advice long in the past, and failed, but something about the way she phrased it, managed to affect him more deeply than he had thought possible. It was as though her words had dug beneath his shields and layers and pierced something somewhere in his core; pulled a lever, turned a handle, flipped a switch.

A strange sensation washed over him, one he could only describe as a blazing fire--nay, an inferno--igniting within him. He had felt the touch of flame countless times over the years, but not even the innumerable rage-fueled volleys he had endured, all combined into a single force, could compare to what now burned in his soul.

He leapt up from the sofa and ran to his bathroom. Staring at him from within the mirror was a character, a costume, a facade. It was not who he was. He grabbed a towel, dampened it, and proceeded to scrub away the pink paint on his nose; Wario and Waluigi’s noses were defined by that bright rosy color, but his was not. He then tore open a cabinet and grabbed his bottle of mustache product; normally, it was used to create the signature angular mustache of Waluigi, but today, it would shape the hairs into something softer and curlier. Whether that was what he would ultimately like did not matter: he was experimenting! He was changing himself!

Though the man that stared back at him from the glass now bore a much different visage, it was still framed by the purple cap and shirt, yellow emblem, and dark indigo overalls. He tore them off, then opened his wardrobe once more and threw all the copies of that same outfit to the ground. Hidden behind them were old clothes that he hadn’t worn for many, many years. He grabbed the first garments he saw--a casual dress shirt and gaudy neon-yellow shorts. Did those go well together? It didn’t matter. Without hesitating, he put them on.

He quickly glanced in the mirror again: the ensemble was nearly complete, but just missing one last touch. He thought on it for a moment, then stricken with brilliance, hurried to his modest backyard, where the roses he performed with in the games grew. He plucked one from its bush and affixed it to his hair, then ran back to the mirror to observe himself one more time.

His mismatched get-up would likely garner many stares from others, though he wouldn’t mind them at all; if he had anything in common with Waluigi, it was that they both loved being the center of attention. Even still, that’s not what mattered. A whole new day lay before him, a whole new day to be someone new, someone different; to move on from the cycle he had been stuck in, to take a whole new step forward.

He returned to the sitting room and turned off the television, then went to the front door. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle, threw it open, and marched into the daylight, the daylight which felt far fresher and warmer than it had in a long time, though even it held no candle to the flame that continued to blaze within him.

Ready or not, world; here I come!!

[thewritingstar]

Falling Back to You

Pairing: Blossick (Blossom x Brick, Reds)

Fandom: The Powerpuff Girls

Soft, sweet reds because I've been feeling angsty lately and needed a breather lol. Sorry to everyone who follows me for other fandoms, I promise Ill write more for FT (you can always leave asks lol)

Tag List: @over-under-through1 @shellielyzabeth (if you want to be on my tag list, you can find the post or dm me)

I hope you enjoy. This has been sitting in my drafts for a few months and decided to just finish it lol. 

---

“I’m surprised you don’t have your hat on.” A voice came from behind him. But not just any voice. The moment the first word left those lips, the hair on his neck stood up and sent a familiar chill down his back. It was a voice that he knew well, could distinguish in a crowd of a thousand voices, it was the equivalent of his favorite song or the taste of the sweetest thing to melt in your mouth.

“Blossom.” He said under his breath but her super hearing picked it up.

She thought she was prepared to see him, after all its been two years. That’s enough time to heal, right? But she prayed that he didn’t hear the small gasp that escaped her lips as he turned. That crisp dark red suit fit him like a glove and she spotted him from a mile away in that signature color. He looked good in red.

“Hi.” She managed to say smoothly as he took a step towards her. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked with a reluctant tone. It was only the most important night of his life. The one where he would be promoted to the head of the department, the one he busted his ass off from the ground up. Not to mention an award for a case he worked on last year. 

She shrugged and bit her lip. “My boss is here and I have to write a report for him.” Then added. “And I wasn’t going to miss the achievement you have been talking about for literal years.” She said shyly. “I promised after all.” 

And she did. Back when they had dated all those years ago. Blossom was by his side as he worked from being an assistant at the law firm to one of the most promising lawyers, and now the highest ranked lawyer, but she missed the last part. Unfortunately. 

He studied his ass off and she did too, both of them determined to outshine anyone in their paths, maybe that why they chose different companies. They had traded their childhood rivalry for a path of lust and love, a simple competition would not be throwing them down that path. In fact their jobs were the reason they weren’t together.

“You remembered.” He said under his breath. She heard it, of course. 

She tapped her foot and looked around before giving a puzzling look. “Wheres Jasmine?” It pained her to ask. 

Jasmine. Oh yes, his girlfriend who couldn’t be bothered to celebrate to most important time of his career. Or rather, ex girlfriend, As of last night where he found her with another man. 

“Not my girlfriend.” He simply stated as she nodded before taking a sip of her drink. 

It must have been good if she brought it to her lips. Blossom loved a good cocktail but if it was hard liquor, she required top shelf, something he admired. He was like that too and was the reason she only drank the highest quality. 

“What about Tyson?” 

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Not my boyfriend.” She said bitterly and he didn’t know why he was happy about it. “Cheated on me for a blonde.” Her glass was on the verge of cracking before she smoothed out her dress. “Typical.” 

He hummed in agreement. There was a feeling of anger running through him as he thought about any man hurting Blossom, sure he hurt her too but nothing like that. No their fight was different, it was a fight about whats best for both of them. 

They had just under an hour before the cermony started. He didn’t want to bother being inside socailzing with a bunch of random people and he had a feeling she didn’t either. The wide open hallway was becoming stuffy and he could see a trio of men walking their way and knew Blossom would become the talking point. 

Before Brick could turn them the other way, the men were already there. 

“Brick.” The tall one spat. 

“Landon.” Brick matched his tone. What a dumb name he thought. 

Landon turned and did not bother to hide the fact that he was checking out Blossom. Of course he was. Even in her simple black cocktail dress that screamed sophistication, she was a walking dream. 

“And you are?” He gave her a smirk that could charm anyone, expcet for Blossom of course. 

Brick was pracitcally smiling as Blossom shook his hand. He knew she wouldn’t take his bait. 

“Blossom Utonium. Head of corrupt affairs at Duchess Law.” She started with what Brick likes to call her “Miss Business voice”. 

Landon smirked. “Duchess Law? Someones a smart cookie.” He winked. 

The other men behind him agreed and Blossom held her tounge. She hated being patronized or looked down on. He should be thanking the lucky stars that he’s even in her presence.

Brick could tell she was annoyed and wrapped his arm around her waist before looking at Landon. “She makes more money than all three of you combine and actally can win a case so show some repect.” He spat and he turned them around towards the back doors that led to the garden space. 

The feeling of having his arm around her sent a spark through her body. At first it felt foreign but the memories came rolling in waves as they walked.

“I could handle myself.” She stated and he hid his laugh.

“I know, but you won’t because of your repuation. I for one don’t care about mine that much.”

“Or maybe its because you still care.” She teased as she sat on the stone bench with him. 

He was about to response but his phone began to ring. He wanted to ignore it but Blossom probably would say something about it. 

“Its Butch.” He said before trying to put it back into his pocket. 

“You should anwser it. I’m sure he’s wanting to wish his brother well.”

He huffed and anwsered on the final ring. 

“Hello?”

“Hey quick question. Do you think that I would win in a fight against Thanos?” 

Brick only shook his head.

“Butch.”

“Its serious cause Buttercup doesn’t think so but I could take him for sure.” 

Blossom was holding a hand to her mouth as the guy kept going on about the stupid question. 

“Oh shit dude, tonights your night!”

“Yes it is now Imma hang up now.”

“Brick be nice.”

“Wait a minute bro. Is that Miss Blossom with you?”

“Yes because shes the only one who bothered to care.”

“Hey you’re the one who said not to come. Anyways tell her I said hi and that you two should totally get back together because you kept going on and on about how you missed her and leaving her was the worst choice you made-” The line cut dead and the phone was shoved in his pocket. 

“Hes stupid.” He mumbled and Blossom drank the rest of her drink. 

“Hes not wrong.”

He turned towards her and gazed silently. She was just as he remembered. Gorgeous and graceful and even without a word spoken, she could command a room. He admired her greatly and she felt the same. 

“Brick, can we just skip all of it?” She asked softly. 

“I’ve kinda been looking forward to my award.”

“No, not this.” She gestured to the building. “But this.” She pointed between them. 

“Skip what?”

“Oh I don’t know, the drama of it all? Because if we don’t confess now we are going to waste so much time running after each other and I-I dont want to waste time.” She looked down at her shoes. A sad sigh leaving her lips. “I just miss you.” 

The confession surprised him. They were both forward people who never beat around the bush but when it came to their feelings between them, they had always been shy. Boomer and Bubbles were easy to confess and even Butch and Buttercup seemed to have it together but for them, it felt impossible sometimes.

No matter where he turned, she was there. They had always crossed paths like star-crossed lovers and it was as if the universe was constantly pulling them together and they had tried. They really did. 

Perhaps the timing wasn’t enough or their pride had stood in the way. they never meant to fall apart the way they did but when the other side of the bed was empty, those walls they held up became transparent and it only took a mere few seconds to see what they had lost. 

But he understood what she meant. They both knew that if anything were to happen between them tonight it would start a snowball effect that everyone was tired of seeing. Over and over they would fall in line and build each other up before something came between them and pulled them apart. 

He wanted to get past all the hurdles of playing cat and mouse until on of them caved and said their feelings. But her saying she missed him wasn’t her caving, she was just tired and so was he.

They had been young when they had fallen in love. The rules of life tossing them into a sea of doubt but now they were adults who knew the game and could easily avoid anything in their paths, except each other. 

His hand slid over hers. “I missed you too.”

She smiled softly before her hand rested on his cheek. “I’m really proud of you Brick, you’ve come along way.” 

“I’m just happy you got to see it.” He whispered before his lips touched hers with a fire they both had missed. 

A swirl of fire and ice that only they knew. No matter how much life decided to pull them apart or change the course, he would always find himself coming back to her. 

The kiss didn’t last as long as he would have liked but seeing the faint blush on her cheeks made it all worth it. 

“What are you doing later?” He asked as he helped her up from the bench. 

“I was going to get take out and sit in my hotel room watching movies.” 

Brick leaned over to fix the bow in her hair, taking the time to have her close. “I don’t suppose you would accept any company?” He winked before kissing the back of her hand and handing her the red purse.

“I think I can make an exception.” She winked and he had never thought she had looked more stunning. 

She took his hand, their palms resting naturally together, before walking back to the ceremony, where he would leave with not only his award but the woman he had loved for years and years. 

--

was the ending lazy? yes. do I care, only a little bit. Lol. I’ve had a really off day so I hope this is good.

Hope you enjoyed :) 

[mermaidsirennikita]

1/2 if you've already discussed this please feel free to ignore! but what are your thoughts on historic mary queen of scots and her whole rivalry with elizabeth? I should disclose that elizabeth is a huge favorite of mine, but I've been trying to expand my horizons by reading a biography about mary. Kinda hurts my brain though because, while mary definitely deserves sympathy, it frustrates me to see the nuances applied to mary's life that is rarely extended to elizabeth's...

2/2 in particular, the bio i'm reading just gives me weird vibes. maybe it's just me but i feel like this dude wants to go back in time and fuck mary and that it colors his whole opinion on the elizabeth/mary rivalry. i'm gonna try a woman's book on the whole affair next and hope for a little better but who knows. anyway, sorry for rambling! would love to hear your thoughts on it all, if you are up for it

For sure I’m up for it!

The thing is that there is an inherent bias towards Mary or Elizabeth when historians discuss this rivalry, no matter who is talking. It is impossible to be objective.  Even if you prefer one over the other just a little bit, I don’t think that anyone views them totally objectively.  You either have historians who love a tragedy and subscribe overly strongly to “the winners write history”, assuming that means that everything the winners say ever is a lie, therefore siding with Mary; or you have HARDCORE VIRGIN QUEEN WHOO WHOO GLORIAAAAAANAAAAAA Elizabeth fans. 

 With that being said, I think that the BROAD bias has been in Mary’s favor because fiction also loves a tragedy.  The favorability of fiction towards Elizabeth kinda depends on how fuckable she is at the time that the store focuses on.  If the story focuses on Elizabeth when she’s young and pretty and the underdog, branded a bastard and at the mercy of her TOTALLY UNFUCKABLE sister, then Elizabeth is the beauty sexy virgin (or issss sheeeee).  If the story focuses on the true climax of the Elizabeth v. Mary conflict (which began as soon as Elizabeth took the throne in the grander scheme, but obviously comes to a head, haha, when Mary is executed) then by then... my god... Elizabeth is NOT FUCKABLE.  She is middle-aged.  She’s been through it, perhaps even suffering, egad, blemishes, from smallpox.  Marriage is a purely political question now; there is no way that she’s going to be spirited away by Robert Dudley at this point.  And her rule is no longer in question as much.  I mean, of course it was, it really was for most of, maybe even theoretically all of, her rule.  But Elizabeth is no longer an underdog at that point.  She is fully installed as queen, England is solidly in its “Protestant but I guess we aren’t like, gonna kill AS MANY Catholics haha” phase and people accept that even though she’ll probably never produce an heir of her body, she’s what they’ve got and they’ll come up with someone to succeed her.

The thing that bugs about this is that Mary was never an underdog.  And so this re-branding has to do not with the actual circumstances these women were under, but rather with the fact that Elizabeth was not sexually available and was broadly powerful, openly powerful, in a way that Mary was and wasn’t.  The fact is that Mary had every advantage compared to Elizabeth.  She was crowned a queen in infancy; her mother was a very powerful, very intelligent woman who came from a equally powerful French family; she was betrothed to a dauphin who would become king, and raised within a court that was not only powerful, but actively home to women aside from her mother who would stand as examples of politically strong femininity--Catherine de’ Medici and Diane de Poitiers.  This is not to say that Mary necessarily would have been able to learn from them.  But it’s not as if she was in some backwater wherein royal women were shut out of the room where it happens, is what I’m saying.

Now, the death of Francois obviously threw the game off.  But Mary was still a Catholic queen, in an overwhelmingly Catholic Europe.  Her legitimacy was not in question.  She was a Scottish queen that did not know fuck all about Scotland, but she was still young enough for there to be an opportunity to learn, though this certainly was never meant to be her role.  She was meant to be the mother of France’s next king more than an iron lady for Scotland.  And really, Mary did not have to be THAT savvy, right?  She just had to be able to take advice and work with the right people.  Stay in Scotland, play in England, choose a strong consort for the purpose of alliances ORRRRR perhaps none at all.

Elizabeth, who is so often painted as the mighty woman who did not have the grace to be kind to her cousin... did not begin as a mighty woman.  She was never meant to be queen of England.  Her mother was murdered by her father when she was a toddler; she was rendered illegitimate; her mother’s family was not powerful, certainly after Anne Boleyn was executed.  Elizabeth had to regain her legitimacy and then wait for two (three, if you count Jane Grey) people to die, all the while living under political and religious terror.  Elizabeth was not raised to rule.  But she was canny as fuck, and she did work with the right people.  She made the call that there was no way to safely marry without giving up power or potentially causing further strife in an already wrecked England and she stood by that.

And when you look at their communication, Elizabeth did not have this evil eye set on Mary for life.  She actually gave Mary plenty of warnings when Mary was playing with the idea of potential husbands.  She did give her options--which of course, would have put Mary and Scotland more under Elizabeth’s power, for sure, but also likely would have left Mary safer.  I doubt that Elizabeth ever was like “awwww we’ll be besties”.  Mary seems to have been genuinely naive about their relationship at some point.  I don’t think Elizabeth could afford that naivety--nor was she capable of it, perhaps.  She’d been through so much by the time she became queen that I think that she was fully aware of Mary’s status as a rival, and most importantly, as a Catholic rival and therefore a much more legitimate rival in the eyes of many both religiously and politically.  She had to know, and certainly her advisers let her know, that Mary could become a severe problem later.

Elizabeth was always paranoid, and with good reason.  Did this paranoia inform the way she handled Mary?  I’m sure it did.  Was Mary reckless, and furthermore somewhat arrogant?  Yes.  Mary never should have married Darnley on a political level, and I believe that like most rulers she likely believed that she had a divine right to rule, and based on precedent alone, was extremely unlikely to ever be executed.  Sovereign rulers just weren’t, typically.  It was shocking enough when a consort like Anne Boleyn was executed, and she was not “born” to rule.  Elizabeth--well, I’m sure she did believe she was divinely chosen, as a religious queen.  But she also had the practical experience of having to claw to her throne to war with that.  She knew that she could be killed.

The execution of Mary was a consolidation of power, but I’m not entirely sure, based off of Mary’s past behavior and tendency towards recklessness, that she wasn’t involved in the conspiracy of which she was accused.  It’s difficult to know, and it’s debated to this day with good reason.  Just as it’s debated whether or not she fully consented to the Bothwell marriage.  But we do have a precedent to go off of that leads me to believe that while she could have been a total victim, she wasn’t against making moves against Elizabeth.  No matter what, she made some exceptionally bad calls that Elizabeth just didn’t.

To me, historians have this issue with the fact that Elizabeth did wield hard power and did make active moves, whereas Mary relied more on her birthright and did follow a more conventional life path. You can really see this in the recent Mary Queen of Scots movie, which depicts Elizabeth as this ugly, repressed crone whereas Mary is sexually liberated and romantic.  Elizabeth is depicted as jealous of Mary’s maternity and beauty, when in reality--Elizabeth had plenty of men lining up to court her, was a practiced flirt, and held immense power that could very well have made up for that lack of a child thing.  It’s a very sexist viewpoint to absolve Mary of her mistakes because she’s romantic~, while holding Elizabeth accountable for every decision she made, many of which were made in the name of political consolidation and survival.

I don’t think Elizabeth wanted to kill Mary.  That was a woman of her line, a fellow sovereign queen, and yes, quite probably designated as queen by God in the viewpoint of that era.  Furthermore, Elizabeth didn’t want to set that precedent.  It wasn’t GREAT for her.  But she made that call for a reason.

(And though I find both women fascinating and tragic in different ways, I do admit my own bias towards Elizabeth.  Like, of course.)

[elmidol]

Error: Program Not Found - Two

Summary:  You are in charge of programming the droids that work most closely with both General Hux and Kylo Ren. Unbeknownst to you, each of these two men have it in their heads that your relationship extends beyond the workplace. This causes things to escalate quickly when your two apparently secret boyfriends compare notes on their respective partner who is far too similar for their liking.

Read on AO3

“If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito.” -Dalai Lama

Two: Chastisement

Once aboard the transport shuttle, you instructed TeeArr to plug in so that he could return to a fully charged state. Meanwhile you took the seat that was directly across from General Hux due to having the understanding that the pair of you would converse regarding what had occurred in the meeting. For starters, the man was debating whether or not a line of assassination droids wouldn’t benefit the First Order. It did have merit, you agreed, and would not be entirely different from some of the training droids that you had programmed in the past. The targeting programs were familiar to you, while anything else you would have ample time to research. On top of that, you would be provided an appropriate team should the First Order make the decision to follow through with the project. That brought him to the second thing: TeeArr’s behavior. Now that the droid was in a powered down state, General Hux did not have to concern himself with unwanted input during this discussion.

 “A free thinking droid can be as detrimental as a human with loose lips,” he said. His eyes narrowed a fraction, however you knew that he wasn’t glaring at you so much as replaying in his head some of the comments that had slipped from the protocol droid.

 You hummed your agreement with this assessment. Inwardly, you admitted that you were not completely on the same page as him. The droid’s ability to improvise did come in handy. The issue, in your opinion, rested with the time-delay for TeeArr to recognize situations wherein lies were necessary. You could not expect exact humanoid reasoning from the droid, but that did not mean improvements couldn’t be made. You would tinker with the programs later, and slowly find the happy medium that allowed General Hux to accept TeeArr’s occasional flaws.

 “I will work on things. There are several notations that I made in regards to TeeArr’s behavior both prior to and during the meeting with the senator. I apologize for some of its comments.”

 Droids were always a work in progress, and this was something that General Hux was aware of. Thus how you phrased your apology did not anger the man. Others may have pressed an issue with you having stated only some of its comments.

 The man nodded in acceptance then moved onto voicing his annoyance with the senator’s implications as to where the credits were going. You hummed out a noise in acknowledgment, although you were only half listening to him. Your feet were aching. You reached down to rub them. So engrossed were you in your pain that it took you a moment to catch what he had just said. You blinked, repeating it in your mind.

 “I will order lotion to for that. You did well today with your input.”

 You were rather surprised by the offer, as you considered the lotion to be more personal than business. As General Hux continued to speak, he began to use his datapad to order the lotion to be delivered. His words of praise meant as much as the gesture. He was not one to hand them out so lightly. That was not to say that he was one to berate you, or that he did not comment that your work was satisfactory. It was simply precisely that, he used that word: satisfactory. The very first time he had done so, you had offered an I’m sorry? This had left both of you stumbling over your words, one of the few times that you had ever witnessed the man thrown off his game, so to speak.

 As for the lotion, a small part of you wanted to object due to its cost and the nature of the item. In the end, you were not too proud that you would deny yourself such a luxury. Not to mention that you had worn the heels on his insistence. You bit back a small smile and felt your cheeks heating up. It had been a little since last you had been pampered. Work had kept you busy, to top off the fact that you had been more withdrawn since the incident that had resulted in you separating from ‘that woman’. Throwing yourself into work was what helped you to recover as you had. It kept your mind busy and your walls up.

 This was one thing that did make working with General Hux and Kylo Ren more enjoyable, that neither man pressed to know more about your personal life. Everything was strictly business.

 “Should we follow through with the TR8-0R line, modifications will need to be made to differentiate between them and your droid.” He could be meaning cosmetic, however you were thinking more along the lines of personality-wise. A combination of the two might be nice. Nothing too drastic, though, otherwise the senator that you had just left would have questions.

 The thoughts and the occasional comment from the ginger-haired General filled the remainder of the trip back to the Finalizer. As the shuttle landed, you could not help but notice that a rather familiar black-cloaked figure was hovering nearby. TeeArr remained in a powered down state, which was for the best since you doubted that General Hux would want to chance having to deal with both the droid and the Knight. It would be your droid that suffered if it came down to it. Not that droids could exactly feel pain, however they could nonetheless be damaged or destroyed.

 “The training droids have been less than satisfactory,” Kylo Ren said as he stepped nearer. His boots were loud on the floor, and this was intentional on his part. Always one to strike fear in others, he was quite the presence in any room. The rivalry between the two men was well known. Getting caught in the middle wouldn’t be fun. “They are already in pieces following a single training exercise with some of your officers.” You did not miss the ‘your officers’ portion, and neither did General Hux. The two men liked to claim that their orders took priority, however if mistakes were made they were just as quick to shove the offending individuals as being under the other’s command. Typical.

 You sighed after recalling that you had worked recently with a new batch of training droids that had hardly met your own expectations. Given that you had other, more important, projects to fulfill, you had been ordered to reassign the task to another programmer and technician. Clearly they had not had a chance to properly carry out those orders. Datapad in hand, you powered on the device to bring up the old reports and check whatever other modifications may have been made. Some programming could be done on this device and uploaded to the droids after you arrived at their physical location.

 After enduring accusations from the senator, General Hux was in no mood to argue with Kylo Ren. The redhead gestured towards you. “Return command of the droids over to our Programmer. If the issue is beyond her expertise, she is familiar with our technicians and suppliers.��

 You were already making a mental note to reassess the shields on the droids’s shells and what they were capable of projecting. If an officer could destroy them, the Knights of Ren would take less time to do even more damage. Caught up in your thoughts, you failed to immediately notice that the masked face had turned your way. Only when you felt something boring into you did you jerk back to the physical world. The mask tilted ever so slightly to the left in what could be curiosity or exasperation. Like droids, helmets did not emote very well. Still, like droids, you were better versed in their stoic language than others. This was how you deduced that Kylo Ren was wondering how the hell someone could zone out when in his presence, because he was not someone to be taken lightly and was a force to be reckoned with.

 In the corner of your eye, you caught sight of General Hux staring at you in a similar state of disbelief. “Ah, sorry,” you said with a forced smile. “I was thinking of some quick solutions on the fly.”

 “It would serve me better if you thought of them while walking.”

 Feeling a little deflated at the admonishing words, you said nothing in protest and simply gave a nod with a yessir prior to dismissing yourself from General Hux’s presence to attend to these duties. You opened a second program on your datapad, this one linked to TeeArr, whom you ordered to awaken and accompany you. He would be an extra set of hands. On top of that, you did enjoy his company. The droid’s metallic footfalls echoed down the ramp of the transport shuttle. They were an interesting contrast to the harder bootsteps that came from Kylo Ren, who had apparently decided to chaperone you.

 You reflected on the fact that the Knight had opted to be present during other tasks that he had assigned to you, although this had in the past been due to the fact that he had already planned to utilize whatever room you were in. There was more than one training facility that he could use in this case. You chewed on your lip when considering addressing him and obtaining a proper mood check. You had seen the aftermath of his poorer moods. It was generally best to leave him to his violent outburst while taking shelter then returning at a later time after he had left the vicinity.

 The risk you ran with speaking to him was that you could be the cause of his ire. To top it off, TeeArr was beating you to the punch. Let the droid lose a limb. You could repair that a lot more easily than reattaching one of your own.

 “Master Ren, you will be thrilled to note that your assessment of the senator was quite accurate. Although seeing that General Hux was able to obtain increased funding, Supreme Leader Snoke may find more favor with him for going. Your absence may in fact prove to be folly.”

 There was something inhuman about how quickly Kylo Ren was able to move. Knowing that TeeArr would have struck a nerve with his words, you had begun to turn to ask forgiveness on the part of your droid. Last you had seen him, the Knight’s lightsaber had been on his hip. Now it was in his hand, fully ignited, and severing TeeArr’s arm. You jumped back with a gasp. That you did not fumble with your datapad had to do with an assortment of occupational hazards experienced in the years since you had first started to work with droids. The droid stopped walking. Its head turned so that its eyes landed on the man that had damaged it.

 “As a protocol droid, it is my duty to ensure that you learn from behavior that can harm your career. Master Ren, I meant no insult to--”

 “I have no need to be scolded by a droid,” Kylo Ren said, his voice deeper than it had been when he had spoken to you. In unison with talking to TeeArr, he had raised the lightsaber so that its glowing tip was in direct line with one of the droid’s optics. “See to it that your droid remembers this.” The red blade disappeared with the press of a button, however the tension in the hallway remained. You nodded quickly as a means to prevent the man’s irritation from growing.

 Mentally cursing your beloved TeeArr, you considered that General Hux’s comments in regards to reducing the droid’s ability to think freely held more merit than you had previously given it credit for. TeeArr bent forward to pick up its limb. He had fallen, thank the Maker, silent. The droid carried his arm while the three of you resumed the journey to the training room in which the broken training droids were kept. As soon as the door slid open, you took stock of the scattered pieces of droids that laid before you. Some of them, like TeeArr, could be repaired quite easily in terms of cosmetics. Others were in far too many pieces to be considered anything more than scrap. Yet scrap, too, could be useful.

 “TeeArr, join the pile on the left. I will have maintenance come to assist. You will be dealt with first.” It was a pitiable sight that greeted you as you watched your droid obey. Poor TeeArr was setting the jagged edge of its severe arm in line with the portion that remained attached to its larger body. They did not meet up properly. Lightsaber damage had a tendency to do that. Melting and cutting. Such a lethal design, you understood why many beyond Force users also fancied them.

 You wondered if Kylo Ren would accept constructive criticism from someone made of flesh and blood. Someone that was your height. Someone that was, well, you. Watching TeeArr clank his arm against its stump again, you decided that you were rather attached to your own limbs and would forgo informing Kylo Ren that he was hindering your ability to work by damaging TeeArr.

 Maintenance would have had to be called in anyway given the state of the majority of the training droids. You were reminded why it was that you had been less than satisfied with them when they had arrived. Sometimes manufacturers were cheap, cut corners. Whatever supplier the First Order had gone with, you would suggest to General Hux that the First Order either cut ties or make known their disapproval of the subpar products. The scorch marks on the casings came from blasters and scythes. They were not the appropriate size to have come from a lightsaber, which would have scrapped the droids entirely. Kylo Ren worked regularly with training droids, and that gave you the impression that he would recognize this the moment he stepped into a room with the heaps. It allowed you to better understand why the man had approached General Hux. The issue at hand was not a simple fix the droids and move on.

 There was a chance that Kylo Ren had had an especially cumbersome mission prior to entering the room with the wrecked droids. His intentions could have been to blow off some steam without wrecking something of substance or cost. You doubted that he had been in a position to deal with someone such as the senator that General Hux had been forced to endure, however that did not mean the frustration was any less valid. Your superiors had rather poor luck, didn’t they? You found yourself feeling badly for them despite what Kylo had done to TeeArr, and so you spoke up to lighten the mood.

 “I was considering proposing that the First Order invest in some droids to assist with physical therapy for wounded stormtroopers and officers. Nothing that would push them beyond their limits or discourage proper healing. A combination of programming from a medical droid and training droid would better monitor the individual’s health and progress. There are exercises to be done, stretches that the droid could assist with. The body of the droid would benefit from a design such as TeeArr’s. I wouldn’t quite refer to it as a nurse. Finding the balance would be key.”

 “Lest the droid tell the officer that they are doing a good job while they bleed out on the floor.”

 “You have a rather grim perspective,” TeeArr commented, the droid clearly not having learned from its previous actions that it was risking damage. This assessment from the protocol droid did not earn it another beating. Instead a noise escaped the helmet that sounded like amusement. You felt yourself begin to smile a little. A sense of humor was not something all droids could appreciate, which sometimes left you feeling lonely when your interactions with organics was limited. Because of his mask and the way he covered his entire body, sometimes Kylo Ren gave off the impression that he was droid-like. A lack of emotions, no real empathy, just a shell of a person carrying out the program Snoke had installed in his drive. It was nice to have proof that this wasn’t exactly true.

[janeofcakes]

Keep Your Friends Close and Your Enemies Ten Feet from the Pack: Chapter 6

Sorry, y’all, but this is a short one. The next is a longer one though, so there’s that to look forward to. If I can get it edited any faster, maybe I’ll post it before next weekend to make up for the length of this one. 

I love you all and hope this brings you a quiet, all be it short, respite.

------

But someone was waiting in the shadows of the night. Someone was waiting. It just didn’t feel right. Danger on the track. Something told me there were strangers on my back and I was so right.                                                                           --Europe, Danger on the Track

Eight bouts later, four of which were John’s first away experiences, and he really does see the similarities between derby and hockey. The schedule is just as intense and punishing. Limbs need to be iced, soaked and stretched post-bout just like hockey. It makes for some truly long nights, especially when the team travels. There are nights when he has never been more happy to collapse into a hotel bed in his life. 

He finds himself wishing he could do just that after a long day at the stadium, but in his own bed, of course. It was just a normal day of practice and the like, no bouts, but it was still busier than usual and John did not make it out of the building until far later than he had planned. John feels drained and drowsy as he drives to Ford Hospital for his typical Wednesday and Sunday visits to Molly. He tries to go more often, being her doctor and all, but bouts and intensified practices make it difficult. Fortunately, Mike is always there to keep an eye on her. John has no idea what kind of case forces Mike to be at Ford all the time, but he is grateful for the help with Molly’s care.

She had woken the night following the bout, just as John had said. It was clear the poison had taken its toll because she was disoriented and unable to coordinate her muscles enough to move much. She had started to panic when she tried moving and could not, her heart rate skyrocketing. It would have been worse had Sherlock not been there. He held her hand to ground her and explained the situation carefully, leaving nothing out. He repeated it the subsequent three nights and again on the fourth when she could finally both comprehend and retain the information. On that night, Molly was coherent enough to ask questions and she tried to answer all of Sherlock’s. He told her their theories on how the poison was administered and when - right before she got on the track, during the jam, or just after the collision. It could have been nothing less than a puncture, but Molly did not recall feeling any such thing.

John and Sherlock had discussed it after Molly was resting again. The coach was convinced one of Moriarty’s skaters had done it under his orders. Even when John reminded him of all the people helping Molly off the track, each one having opportunity, Sherlock would not entertain any other possibility. It was all John could do to keep the man from going directly to the Demons’ stadium and accusing Moriarty face to face. John had heard a lot of stories about the rivalry, HardOn having told the majority and quite colorfully too, but John still did not know how it all started. It ran deep on both sides though, that much was obvious.

With all of these thoughts playing out in his mind, John pulls into the hospital lot and parks. He sits for a moment, considering it all carefully. Perhaps Molly would tell him more if he asked. She would certainly be a more accurate source than HardOn, but would asking her be an invasion of Sherlock’s privacy? He inhales deliberately and turns off the car, shaking his head as he does so, his decision already made. If he wants to know how the two men became so antagonistic toward one another, he should ask Sherlock himself.

Moments later, John is out of his car and walking into Ford Hospital. He boards the elevator and then emerges on the third floor. Soon he is smiling at the two floor nurses on night duty as he approaches the station.

“Hello, Madge,” he greets brightly. “Bianca. How’s our patient tonight?”

“Much better, John,” Bianca answers with a matching smile. “She’s done more today than any other.”

“Good! That’s good.”

“Awfully tired now though,” Madge continues, ”but she’s trying so hard to stay awake. She wants to see you.”

“Well, I’ll just go see if she’s still up, shall I?” he gives them a nod and goes to Molly’s room. Knocking on the door lightly, John leans in to listen for her to grant entrance and a man’s voice comes to his ears instead. He sounds angry. John shoves the door open in a rush of protective fury to see nothing but Molly sleeping soundly in her bed. He stands for a moment, brow furrowed in confusion. At the sound of a familiar and measured female voice, his eyes drift up and to the side to see a television set mounted from the ceiling, Angela Lansbury on its screen. John smiles and closes the door. He walks to Molly’s bedside, carefully pulls the remote from her fingers and presses the power button.

“Of course you’d be a fan of Murder, She Wrote,” he whispers, looking at Molly fondly. “I heard you’re doing much better today. I’ve never had a better patient, you know.”

He looks down at her hand again and gently takes it in his own, watching as one of her fingers twitches. He glances to the other and something held in her fingers catches his eye. 

“Hello, what’s this?”

John slides the folded piece of paper out from beneath her index and middle fingers. His name is written on it, so he unfolds and reads. He looks back at Molly with wide, startled eyes and a million questions race through his mind. As much as he wants to ask her every single one and now, he is not about to wake her. She needs to rest and recover.

Folding the note and putting it in his jacket pocket, John pats Molly’s hand and whispers good night. He bids the nurses farewell and hurries out to his car again. He turns right out of the lot, the opposite direction of his flat, but exactly the way to Sherlock’s. However, he has only gone a few blocks before thinking better of it. What the hell is he doing? It is ten o’clock at night after a long day. If Sherlock is not in bed already, he will be soon, certainly before John gets there. As important as Molly’s note is, it will keep until morning.

That decided, and coming to his senses, John turns into a gas station parking lot and turns the car around. In minutes, he has parked in the designated spot at his building and is riding in the lift. He usually takes the stairs, but suddenly feels all of the day’s events pressing down on him in full force. John trudges to his door and unlocks it, throwing off his coat as soon as he is inside. He goes to the kitchen, lifting the jumper over his head as he goes and tossing it on the counter. He scratches his chest through the white t-shirt he wears with one hand and opens the refrigerator door with the other. John takes out a carton of orange juice and reaches for a cupboard handle before stopping.

“Oh, fuck it,” he says to himself, opening the carton and taking a long drink straight from the spout. He looks at the brightly colored oranges on the side and sighs. Sometimes he truly believes it is the most refreshing beverage on the planet, second to none.

John sets the carton on the counter and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He picks up the remote and points it over the breakfast bar into the living room. The telly springs to life with the faces of the evening news. John does not pay much attention to the local anchors and heads down the hall to his bedroom where he kicks off his shoes and pulls down his trousers, leaving them bunched on the floor as he continues walking. 

Sauntering back to the kitchen in nothing but a tee and plaid boxer shorts, John stands by the bar and takes another swig of orange juice. Shannon Duffy, the meteorologist is detailing the coming of an unseasonable cold front and John watches, but his mind is elsewhere. He feels like he should call Sherlock, in spite of the hour. He does not know why, but John feels as though something depends on it. What, he doesn’t know because Molly is just fine and sleeping comfortably in her room.

Giving into the notion, John picks up his mobile only to have it violently knocked from his grasp. An arm wraps around his neck and the barrel of a gun thrusts into his kidneys painfully. He gasps and time stops as the arm presses hard into his throat. He feels a warm breath in the shell of his ear and then a voice, dark and low.

“I would’ve let you go all the way. Wouldn’t mind seeing what’s under that shirt one bit,” it threatens in a hoarse whisper. The gun moves down his spine, bruising as it goes, until it rests at the top of his buttocks. The tip of the barrel catches on the waistband of his boxers and pushes them down an inch, digging into the top of one cheek painfully. An inhalation pulls air over John’s ear and a humid breath blows back out. He flinches his head away a touch, but the voice is still in his ear. “But you’re late and I have a schedule to keep.”

John blinks his eyes wide and sucks in a sharp breath. He knows what is about to happen. He squeezes his eyes shut for a split second and braces his hands on the counter before him. John suddenly pushes himself back and into the man, throwing them both backward into the opposite counter. He feels a surprised puff of breath by his ear and a sharp pain in the side of his hip. John pulls free from the man and launches himself over the bar, just missing the stools and landing hard on the floor. He jumps up, in spite of the pain, and runs down the hall to his room, hearing a quiet chirp and feeling a whoosh of air at his cheek. He slams the door behind and locks it. Without stopping for a second, John runs for the window, throws it open and leaps out onto the fire escape. John doesn’t hear a shot, but the doorknob flies into the room and the door is kicked open. John puts a hand on either side of the ladder and slides down to the next landing. He steps quickly to the next ladder, knowing he only has the second or two it will take his attacker to cross the bedroom floor before more bullets come.

Without looking up, John slides down to the ground and ducks into the shadows of the alley in between his building and the next. He hears heavy footsteps on the fire escape that rumble down the ladders and land not far from him. He tucks farther into the darkness and holds his breath. He can see his attacker clearly now, head to toe in black with a mask over his face. Only his eyes and mouth are visible and he wears such a sneer as John has ever seen. 

John watches as the man searches the alley. He comes very close to John, who is in near panic and trying not to move or even breathe, when the man suddenly curses and turns away. He jogs down the alley in the opposite direction and is gone. John waits, not daring to make even the slightest noise. For the second time that night, a thousand questions run through his mind at breakneck speed. How will he know the man is really gone? Will he reappear if John comes out of hiding? Who is this guy and what does he want? Just what the hell is John going to do now? He can’t go back to his flat, even if the man is unlikely to pay him another visit. Or would he go back into the flat and wait for John to return? John suddenly gasps audibly and his blood runs cold. Pay him a visit. Suppose that man pays someone else a visit. A person he thinks John might go to for help.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” John whispers into the silent alley. He glances this way and that and pops out of the shadows, hurrying to the parking lot. He ducks down next to his car and pulls a spare key from where he had secured it after he bought it. An old trick his father taught him back in the day. John has never actually lost his keys, but his dad often did and needed a little extra insurance.

When John rises as high as he dares to look around for any sign of the man, he unlocks the door quickly and climbs in. Starting the car and backing out of his spot, he turns and heads to the very place he had talked himself out of going only moments before. The flat belonging to Sherlock Holmes.

----

Holy shit, Jane! Again! You all knew John would be a target after what happened with Billy, but Sherlock could get caught up in this too. Or worse, used as bait or leverage! Oh dear, oh dear, what awaits at Sherlock’s condo?? Only time and the next chapter will tell. Until then, my friends. Stay safe. Stay healthy.

@zentris @toooldforthissh-stuff @shana-movershaker @ melmey-fanfics @louise175dk @221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor @technicallywiseoncns @underestimatemethatwillbefun @jhamishw @weirdlittlegoofball @superwholockpotterincamelot @superwholocklmt @ladidragonuniverse @kittenmadnessandtea @srebrnafh @welcometomyharddrive @annecumberbatch @kingdomofbrokenhearts @philliphooper @whodwantmeasaflatmate @gloriascott93 @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow @echosilverwolf @spazzz32 @absentmindedstuff @swissmissing @shuukichan @maeliandmyself @wtgilsa @thetranslucentwallaby @red-pen-revolution @britishaccentfan @dischorde @plasticstrawsmuggler @youknowyougrow

[danganronpedits-archived]

anon requested: hi !! can i have a dangan kin matchup please? i tend to go through cycles of very low emotion and very high emotion, and i can be very passionate about my interests!! i try to make people happy or impressed with me, but i tend not to have a ton of close friends. im an intp, if it matters. i generally think more logically than emotionally, if more because emotions confuse me than anything. i tend to be loud and go on and on, and i can come off as childish or dumb, but im really not. thank you!!

posted in this format, since the anon accidentally... asked off of anon, haha. i assume that you don’t want your follow-up asks shown as well, but i can add them if you’d like? anyways! i hope that you like the matchup, anon, let’s get into it!

first off, i match you with...

tenko chabashira!

you fit with tenko a lot, as you might already know, haha! the two of you definitely go through phases of high emotion and energy, and tenko also has her moments where she’s more serious and less hyper- and plus, we don’t see her actual character for more than the  she’s definitely passionate about her interests, as she’s spent several years devoted to neo aikido, and getting closer to her in free time events is very much revolved around this. i wouldn’t be surprised if one of the biggest ways you both connect with other people is through those interests! tenko, though it might not seem obvious with her roughness towards boys, does i think try to make others happy and impress them. she doesn’t encourage unnecessary violence, and she is rather polite at times, and she’s... almost overbearingly, affectionate towards the girls. i think that you could associate yourself with that, anon, as i wouldn’t be surprised if there is a specific niche of people that you don’t try to filter yourself around. tenko, while it was naive, did have her own reasons for disliking men and you probably have your own reasons for disliking certain kinds of people. that’s just a guess though, don’t take it as gospel or anything!

i don’t think tenko has a lot of close friends either, actually- that’s just a quick thing, if i tried to explain it this post would get even longer haha... the only difference i really see between you two is that tenko’s more of an emotional thinker. however, i think that it’s more because she’s an impulsive person, rather than her knowing how her emotions are and working based off of them- i don’t think she can really sort out her emotions too well either. in a strange way, i think that she logically knows her own emotions? hopefully that makes sense- like, she logically knows what they are and how to work them out, but struggles to in the moment. plus, she can most certainly be loud, and can come off as very childish or as you say, dumb. i don’t think she is, though, it’s just hard for her to properly show it with her impulsiveness like i was saying earlier, as well as her general loud demeanour.

second off, i match you with...

monotaro!

pleeeease hear me out for a second. as much as i don’t like pairing people with the monos, i think that you still fit with monotaro a lot! first off, throughout the game, he goes through phases of being very energetic and bubbly to not having the motivation to talk- and although he forgets them several times which is a whole nother thing on its own, he can be very passionate about the things that he cares about. although since his character isn’t very expanded on, this is pretty much limited to his family and nothing else. monotaro does actually try to make others happy, i think, outside of monokuma- a lot of the time he doesn’t seem actively against the main cast at all. at least, that was how it seemed to me. hell, i’d argue that the only reason he’s not on the side of the protagonists is because of his devotion to his father, once again trying to impress him and make him happy. once he starts imprinting on miu and kiibo, though, he tries to avenge miu’s death and almost becomes an ally to the main cast.

i’d also say that he doesn’t have a lot of close friends, as is sort of seen in the game, haha. this is were something different comes in- i think that monotaro does think rather most of the time. while a lot of his actions are motivated by fear of his father, he is regarded as a somewhat-dumb-yet-reliable figure by his siblings. plus, i think the fact that he’s typically neutral to their bullying and doesn’t do it often compared to most of the kubs tends to mean that he’s not really driven by anger, at least, that he doesn’t hold much rivalry towards his siblings. he also does seem confused by, or at least not understanding of, many others characters’ emotions. he can also be very loud and talk over the other characters, and he definitely comes off as childish or dumb. i’d say that compared to the other kubs, he isn’t. however, i’d say that the only real difference he has from you is that he actually isn’t very intelligent, while you do have plenty brainpower behind that childish exterior.

and lastly, i match you with...

sonia nevermind!

we’re switching up the vibe a bit here! i think that your energy is a bit less restrained than sonia’s, as i do believe she can sway from low to high energy, however the range seems to be a little lower than yours. by that i mean... her low energy and high energy are closer together. i hope that makes sense! jumping to the back, sonia can come off as rather naive or airheaded, but as a princess, she did receive a very high education and knows more about the world than one may think. i think that sonia does think rather logically as well, as while she does have her own feelings, she tends to prioritize what’s best for the others around her instead of those. i do think that part of that naivety that people see in her is that she tries her best to be a ‘normal girl’, as this is what she wants to be the most, but can end up coming off as a bit standoffish due to her being rather foreign. along with her, in my eyes, not being the most emotionally sensitive in one-on-one conversation, the fact that she doesn’t really get slang or sayings since she’s in another country doesn’t help.

she definitely tries to make others happy or impressed with her as, well, she’s meant to be a ruler and tries her best to take on this role. a lot of her spearheading the rest of the group is likely due to this, as she wants to please and lead the people around her- in general, she also just cares a lot for all of her friends as well, and will be rather polite even to students she doesn’t like(such as nagito ingame). her status can definitely make her not have that many close friends, though she can typically be on good terms with many kinds of people. lastly, sonia is very passionate about her interests! the occult is something that she doesn’t hesitate to talk about, and though it’s seen as somewhat taboo considering she’s, you know, a monarch(and just in general, people can find it a little out of the ordinary), she very clearly loves it and isn’t afraid to do so.

-

you know the drill, it’s minor matchups time! you reminded me strongly of ibuki mioda, kotoko utsugi, and nagito komaeda, somewhat of toko fukawa and ishimaru kiyotaka, and a bit of angie yonaga!

i hope you like this, anon, please remember that you know best! if you’d like any information changed, or want me to add/remove anything from this post, please don’t be afraid to let me know! have a good day/night everyone :)

-mod tsu

[bakudomaster]

Hot In Cleveland

Greetings to literally no one! Hopefully that will change....

I’ve had this account for a while now and I’ve finally thought about what I want to use it for.

Starting today, this will be a literary analysis of some of the entertainment media I have consumed over the years. Why you ask? Hmmmm, that’ll be for a later post. I hope that you enjoy reading this!

WARNING: THESE POSTS WILL UNASHAMEDLY CONTAIN SPOILERS!

Today, we’ll begin with a sitcom that’s very close to my heart - Hot In Cleveland

[cue title music - ba ba ba baaaa... ba ba baaa... dwing dwing HEY!]

PREMISE

Hot in Cleveland first premiered in 2010 on TV Land as their first ever original production. Up until that point, the network was well known for airing reruns of previously ended shows, such as The Cosby Show and The Golden Girls. One of the producers of the show was Sean Hayes of Will & Grace fame.

The show revolves around three middle-aged women bound for Paris to forget their troubles of broken hearts and struggling careers when their plane makes a emergency landing in Cleveland, Ohio. Deciding to explore the city, they find it a more compassionate and welcoming than the glamorous, youth obsessed Los Angeles and decide to relocate there. When they rent a house, they find it comes with a decidedly snarky housekeeper.

CAST & CHARACTERS

Valerie Bertinelli as Melanie Moretti - a recently divorced one-time author, she has known very little beyond her roles as mother and wife. She tends to be very optimistic and romantic, often to the annoyance of her friends. Out of the younger trio, she takes the most to Cleveland and tries new things to broaden her horizons. She is the most compassionate out of the three, often being the glue that binds them together. Though she’s a very nice character to watch, she lacks true grit and comes off as a pushover at times. I don’t know much about Valerie’s work before the show, but she does do quite well, with her natural warmth and friendliness coming through.

Wendie Malick as Victoria Chase - an ambitious but ditzy soap opera actress, she has just had her show cancelled and falls into despair at not being in the public eye anymore. Self-centered and willing to do almost anything, Victoria is the least enthusiastic about moving to Cleveland due to the lack of botox and paparazzi among other things. Over time, she takes on various projects to try and revive her career, resulting in an Emmy & Oscar win. Wendie Malick is best known for her role on Just Shoot Me as well as her voice acting in various shows and movies, such as The Emperor’s New Groove and BoJack Horseman. She’s an absolute delight to watch here, completely immersing herself in the role and surrendering to Victoria’s insanity.

Jane Leeves as Rejoyla ‘Joy’ Scroggs - a beautician with a business that’s starting to fail, Joy’s real problem is being unlucky in love. From being abandoned by her teenage sweetheart when she fell pregnant by him, to being left at the altar on her wedding day, Joy’s endless parade of bad luck has left her cynical and just a tad yandere for any man who dares cross her (watch out boys...). She’s neutral to Cleveland, but secretly longs for romance and eventually settling down to start a family. Jane is best known for her work on Fraiser. She’s initially a bit frigid over the first two seasons but warms up to the role as she gains more prominence in the show over the later seasons.

Betty White as Elka Ostrovsky - an escapee from WWII Poland, she is a widow who lives in the house as a caretaker. Though she finds the LA trio’s obsession with glitz and glamour very strange, she quickly makes friends with them to varying degrees, often dispensing advice and acting as a voice of reason when the others get a bit too crazy or feel despondent. She is very proud of Cleveland, eventually becoming its mayor and is not averse to doing things outside of the law. Betty White has a career in television spanning over 80 years. She was initially only supposed to appear in the pilot episode but the audience response was quite positive so the producers upgraded her to series regular.

STRUCTURE, WRITING & DEVELOPMENT

The series plays out as a typical slice-of-life sitcom. The idea of older women living together and going through life isn’t new - think Golden Girls in the modern era and you pretty much have the gist of the show. However, is that such a bad thing? I think every TV era needs a show that focuses on the challenges one faces as the march of time proceeds; something that feels comfortable without pushing the boundaries too much and HiC was that for a generation who missed out on Betty White’s previous hit show. It wasn’t cerebral watching and it didn’t need to be.

In line with this, many of the plots are taken out from well known tropes that have developed over the years. Love triangles, a vapid rivalry in Hollywood, false pregnancies and lost loves returning all play part in the show’s six season run, edited and polished for character context. This is a big part of why the show felt so familiar to many viewers. Script structures followed one of three methods:

Characters A & B take part in subplot 1 whilst C & D take part in subplot 2 - this proves most effective for humor, balancing out the plot and giving each character something to work with

Characters A & B take part in subplot 1, C in subplot 2 and D in subplot 3 - this proves most effective for character development but can feel too scattered at times

Characters A, B, C & D take part in the main plot - this is most effective for plot lines, usually occurring at season premieres or finales

In terms of character development, the main trio of ladies find fulfillment in each other’s status. I’ll explain:

Melanie was an author but didn’t really have much experience in the working world, choosing instead to derive her satisfaction from being a mother and a wife. Now that her marriage is over and her kids are in college, she feels lost and doesn’t know what to do with herself. Over the course of the show, she has a series of meaningful relationships but develops the most in her career;becoming a column writer, a public relations assistant, a radio show host and a restaurant manager. This is what Victoria was trying to achieve at the beginning of the show.

Victoria is an out of work actress who has to resort to all sorts of tricks to get back into the public eye. Her approach is hit and miss, but she eventually goes on to win an Emmy and an Oscar, along with some work in critically acclaimed stage plays and a brief period as a news reporter. Despite this, she finds more satisfaction in her love life (despite being married EIGHT times!), eventually marrying her one true love at the end of the series. This is what Joy was trying to achieve at the start.

Joy is struggling as a beautician who looks for love in handsome men and one night stands, but never seems to catch a break. Her love life goes from bad to worse and her relationships fail due to a combination of her own issues with trust and the fact that the men she loves aren’t that great to begin with. She eventually puts her cynicism and stalking tendencies (I told you to watch out for her!) to good use, studying criminology and becoming a private detective. She also reconnects with her son that she gave up for adoption and gleefully accepts when she finds out that she’s a grandmother. Long story short, she’s looking for stability and finds it in the most unlikely man, becoming a wife and a mother at the end of the show. This is what Melanie was looking for at the start of the show.

Over the first three seasons, a heavy emphasis is placed on Elka due to the show trying to capitalize on Betty White’s resurgence in popularity at the time. This is in spite of the fact that Elka kind of feels like a lost puzzle piece. She doesn’t really fit in to the whole cohesiveness of the other three characters. This is changed in season 4, when the character of Mamie Sue (played by Georgia Engel, Betty’s costar from The Mary Tyler Moore Show) is promoted to a recurring character. It not only gives a nice chemistry to a previously ill fitting character, it creates a parallel with the LA trio: Mamie Sue is a combination of Victoria’s airheadedness and Melanie’s kindness to Joy’s cynicism found in Elka.

The show starts off quite shakily, despite its hype, but takes a turn for the better around the fourth season. The frivolous story lines from earlier episodes are eschewed for more long term plots with more emotional impact. Themes of loneliness, love at middle age and returning to correct past regrets are explored quite deeply. The show also loses some of the LA stereotypes as it goes on.

Some really big names are booked as guest stars, some notable ones being:

Susan Lucci as a parody of herself, being Victoria’s arch-nemesis

Joe Jonas as Will, Melanie’s son

Craig Ferguson as Simon, Joy’s first love and babydaddy

Jon Lovitz as Artie Firestone, an eccentric billionaire who takes an interest in Joy

Heather Locklear as Chloe, one of Melanie’s bosses at her PR job

The entire cast of The Mary Tyler Moore Show as G.L.O.B. (Gorgeous Ladies of Bowling)

Alan Dale as Sir Emmet Lawson, a renowned actor and Victoria’s sixth husband

Rick Springfield as a parody of himself

BULLSEYES & IMPROVEMENTS

What the show gets right:

Exploring the crossroads many women face at middle age, in terms of the main aspects of life: family, love & career

Great acting, especially in the later seasons

Wendie Malick - she deserved an Emmy nomination for her acting here

Jennifer Love Hewitt as Emmy, Victoria’s eldest daughter. Seriously, watch her episodes and tell me they aren’t funny

The general lack of pressure - you don’t need much attention to cycle in and out of the show, it’s easy watching

The consistency and plot development post season 3

What I think should be improved upon:

Melanie can be TOO nice, something that’s actually picked upon by other characters. Her cancer subplot was a nice opportunity to get some grit, but most of it was just by the way and not fully delved into

Victoria’s job as a news reporter was forgotten as soon as she landed a part in a Woody Allen movie. It would have been nice for her to be in that occupation a bit more or go back to it after her Oscar win and give her a chance to be on the other side of fame

Elka’s love life - every boyfriend seems to be a copy of the other and there are way too many of them

CULTURAL & PERSONAL IMPACT

This article from the A.V. Club goes into detail about the show and I have to say, I agree with it wholeheartedly agree. HiC was a reminder of what was before the more intellectual comedies came along. It shamelessly pandered to an older generation who wanted something familiar in an ever changing landscape. The fact that it didn’t take many risks in its approach was a risk in itself. It was clearly one that paid off, given the six season run. It wasn’t a darling of the critics, but it didn’t need to be. This was a show that could be watched to generate a few laughs without the need for in depth discussion with a coworker in the break room the next day.

A few years after the show’s cancellation, Valerie Bertinelli expressed her anger at TV Land for the decision, calling it sexist. I can’t really comment on that, given that I’m not too familiar with TV Land’s other work, but I will say that HiC did what it had to do. Six seasons in an age where you’re lucky to get more than three is amazing. The plot lines tied up quite nicely at the end and in the end, that’s all that everyone wanted.

Personally, I watched this show at two very difficult times in my life. The first was at college during my final year, when deadlines loomed and twisted my stomach in anxiety. The second was a few months ago when I had quit my job and needed something to distract me from the depression. On both occasions, this show has really made me laugh and fall in love with its simplicity. It’s undemanding and solid, just what I need to get through a trying period.

WHERE TO WATCH IT

Seasons 1 to 5 are available on Amazon Prime Video

Seasons 1 to 4 are available on Hunnyhaha’s channel on Youtube

If you’re in Southern Africa, the entire series are available on Showmax

[bonernas]

A Song of Bobs and Berts

Part 2/7

Word Count: 4,270

Disclaimer: This is a crackfic about the different Bobsonas, based on actor Robert Downey Jr. and his questionable fashion sense. It also includes some hints on other people and things related to the MCU. For more info about the Bobsonas and their respectful creators, please check the link below!

Warnings: rated T, no Bobs were harmed in the making of this fic, mentions of (use of) drugs, swearing, this is a mobster fic set in the noire genre so blood, weapons and violence might become a thing, skipped the typical homophobia and racism tho but a lot of people use roids and crystal

Summary:  When Bobster Di Seta, one of Twunky Town’s most feared mobsters, finds out that Boberto Laineux, brother of Bobster’s arch enemy, Robert “The Bobfather” Laineux, was elected the city’s new mayor, he needs to put an end to the reign of the french mafia. To infiltrate the Laineux family and increase the sales of his own drugs, he orders his handsome underling, Steeb, to seduce the only heir of the Bobfather: Bobling Laineux, the doe-eyed billionare playboy. But just when Steeb discovers that there’s more to the young mobster than good looks and sassy one-liners, their blooming romance is put to the test by a cold-blooded murder. Will the only unbribable cop of Twunky Town’s police force solve this case before the city falls into war? Or will the rivalry of the two mobster clans turn everything into ashes?

A Story based on the RDJ spectrum

Part One | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

Chapter Two - A Clash of Hunks

Unlike Steeb, I went home alone that night. Not even a whole bottle of fine scotch could wash away the bitterness of watching my fellow detectives goof around with Twunky Town’s mafia elite, joking like they were old friends from college. None of them even batting an eye on the vivid fluctuation of happy pills, most guests way too tipsy to even try and be discrete about it.

This remained the schedule for the next couple weeks. Robert Laineux baiting vice squad with fancy venues and parties, my colleagues shutting their eyes and ears for the sake of free booze and an occasional tête-á-tête, and me occupying the most secluded table for me and my bitter thoughts. Why I still showed up even if I had no intention to become one of the Bobfather’s footmen? Well, because the reward for openly declining the french mafia’s generosity is a tailored pair of concrete boots, and I’m more the slipper kind of guy.

One cold and damp morning in April I woke up even more hungover than usual, dragging myself to the PD to let this city drain some more of my mental stability. My colleagues were already at their desks, chatting gleefully. We would be off for another day of surveilling people that weren’t a real threat and doing anything but our actual work; maybe arrest some poor fella who tried to mess with the wrong mafioso, but that’d be it. Or so I thought.

When chief Prime entered with a stern face and two men in suits at his flank, I couldn’t help to feel somewhat hopeful.

 Steeb woke up to something soft tickling his cheek. He blinked sleepily and got confused for a second. Right, this wasn’t his tiny downtown apartment. He hadn’t slept in his own bed all week. In fact, he had spent all his nights in the largest bedroom of a neat little townhouse owned by the city’s most feared mobster, trying to seduce his son. On behest of his boss, the mobster’s fiercest rival. Well, way to start the day, Steeb.

Early April sun found its way through a small gap in a pair of heavy royal blue curtains and illuminated the pristine features of Bobling’s face resting on his chest. A sheepish smile snuck on Steeb’s lips as his fingers gently combed through his sweetheart’s tousled locks. The younger man sighed and cuddled deeper into Steeb’s side, his breath warm and soft on bare skin.

Steeb remembered their first night together, almost two months ago. From the ride home in Bobling’s crimson red Bentley to waking up tangled in silk sheets and feeling pleasantly sore, it was nothing but heated, sensual and passionate. And staged, so that Bobster Di Seta could outsmart the Bobfather.

But to be honest, Steeb thought while placing a soft kiss on his beau’s temple, he began to savor waking up with the young mobster next to him. On their first few rendezvous’ Bobling was ridiculously enchanting, flirting shamelessly with him, perfectly aware of his effect on the blonde. He only learned about his softer side on their sixth date, when Steeb took his sweetheart for a nightly stroll through the park and Bobling fawned over a kitten that crossed their way.

Watching the heir of the Laineux family kneeling on the pathway in slacks worth a small fortune, cooing and speaking softly with his new furry friend, it did something with Steeb. When they returned back to the townhouse that night, it was the first time that he forgot the purpose of his charade and just indulged in the touch of soft lips caressing his neck and the sensation of delicate fingers tracing his hip bone.

While Steeb was still fighting to admit how smitten he was already, Bobling woke up, gaze slowly focusing on the bare chest he was resting on. He stretched with a small yawn and placed a sloppy kiss on Steeb’s lips - or at least he tried.

“Mornin’”, he mumbled against the blonde’s cheek. He felt Steeb shift, harboring him in his big and strong arms. Definitely something Bobling could get used to.

“Morning, sleepyhead”, Steeb chuckled. He left a small trail of pecks on the mobster’s jawline and was just about to nuzzle his face into soft brown curls when a loud knock on the door made both of them jump. The person outside didn’t deem it necessary to wait for being asked in but just rushed inside with large, urgent steps.

“For God’s sake, Barney, didn’t your maman teach you any manners?”, Bobling yelped. Barney Bucket, head of his security guard, strode over to the windows as if he hadn’t heard his boss. He opened the curtains with a resolute tuck before he turned around and faced the two men, completely unimpressed by their bewildered state and lack of clothes.

“You have to get up, Sir. Your father needs you in his office as soon as possible. The chief of the TTPD called half an hour ago; I’m afraid it’s something serious.”

Bobling sighed and crawled out of the huge four poster, scurrying over to his walk-in closet. The moment he went past his guard, Barney turned and shot Steeb a disapproving look. The blonde already had a hard time untangling the sheets to cover at least some of his exposed skin, and the other man’s piercing glares didn’t make it any easier. He felt like an intruder. Well, technically, he was, or at least he was supposed to be one.

Bobling returned fully dressed and ruffled his hair a few times to get rid of his bed head. He rushed to the door, followed by Barney, but came to a halt abruptly to turn back to Steeb. 

“Love, I’m sorry, my father’s not the kind of person you keep waiting. Feel at home and ask Barney if you need something. He’s gonna get you some breakfast and will drive you back home. I’m afraid this is going to take some time”, the young mobster said with a resentful look. Steeb flashed him a smile and nodded.

Barney didn’t seem all too pleased with his new task, but remained silent until his boss left and hurried down the hallway. With the sound of Bobling’s steps fading, he turned back to Steeb, casually leaning on the door frame and piercing the blonde one with menacing stares.

Steeb tried to not take it personally. He got up, holding the sheets awkwardly draped around his hips with one hand, and picked up his clothes with the other. Barney seemed to have no intention to leave; he just stood there and watched Steeb’s every move. Only when he finally found the other sock and headed over to the roomy walk-in the guard switched positions, now leaning in the closets door frame, forcing it to remain open. Steeb sighed, dropped his clothes on one of the chairs and turned back to him, one brow raised.

“Care to wait outside while I change?”

“Why? Got something to hide, golden boy?”, Barney snarled. Something in his tone told Steeb that they were not talking about inches.

“Actually, yes. I don’t know what your problem is, but last time I checked this wasn’t a cabaret. So mind your own business, please.”

“Oh don’t worry, I do.” Barney snickered, but his brows remained furrowed. “It is my business to keep Mr. Laineux and his family safe, to protect them. Especially from scum like Bobster Di Seta and his beefy little henchman here.”

Steeb gulped. Who was this guy and how did he know about his connection with the Di Seta family? He tried to keep his pokerface but the brunette must’ve seen him flicker for a moment. Barney left his spot at the frame and closed the distance in two slow, calculating steps.

“D’you have any idea how easy it’d be for me to just kick in your pearly whites and make it look like an accident? You’re not the first piece of trash I dragged out of this room. You’re by far not the first labagiu trying to get to Mr. Laineux through his son’s pants, and I’ve had enough of it. Put your clothes on and get the fuck out of here.” With this he turned to go back to the bedroom, but Steeb wasn’t having any of it. 

“Listen here, Freundchen, I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with your boss’ love life, but miss me with the bullshit. We’re both two grown men and so is the guy who, by the way, gave you an order. I don’t care for the people that were here before me and especially not for you and your paranoid conspiracies. I’m here for Bobling because I want to, not because I was ordered, and if he’d ask me to, I’d leave and never come back. But until then, I’ll come if he wants my company. And if you’re still so bitter about my presence here, go and tell him your cute little story, let’s see how funny he finds it.”

Barney didn’t move an inch, didn’t even blink. Steeb had dropped the sheet when he strode over to Bobling’s guard, stopping only inches in front of him, using the height difference to tower over the brunette menacingly. His nudity did his intimidating appearance no harm - in fact his bare muscles flexing made his speech even more threatening. Barney’s face remained stern and unmoved, and without a word he turned around and left the bedroom, closing the door a tat too harsh to pass as relaxed.

Steeb took a deep breath. That was close, way too close. He wondered if Barney actually believed him, or if he would tell Bobling about his suspicions anyway. However, he had to get dressed and back to report to his boss, so he skipped the shower and just slipped back into his clothes, giving his reflection in the gold-framed mirror a quick scan before heading out for a cab. Orders or not, he wouldn’t let Barney drive him anywhere. The guy would probably crash into a bridge pier just to get rid of him.

While the cab driver navigated through the lazy morning traffic, Steebs thoughts kept wandering back to what just happened. He straight up lied about his true intentions to the french mafia’s head bodyguard. Didn’t feel like a lie, though. There was no point in denying that he felt oddly close to the heir of Laineux family, and that Bobling was quite fond of him, too. They went from passionate, light-minded nights to morning kisses and cuddles so fast, and just thinking of holding the handsome beau in his arms, reveling in the sweet scent of his skin, made it hard for Steeb to focus on what he was about to do: Meeting Mr. Di Seta for further instructions on how to fool the man he obviously had fallen for.

 Robert Laineux’ office was decadent, to put it nicely. The dark, noble bookshelves looked like someone spent all day to polish them; a neat little fire burnt in a fireplace the size of my car, covered in ornaments. His desk made a king-sized bed look like a cot, and I’m convinced you’d need two people to lift one of the leather-covered armchairs scattered all over the room.

Chief Prime and I followed Mr. Laineux’ butler to the head of the room, where he already sat with who must be his son, Bobling. The latter remained in his seat, eyeing us suspiciously while Chief Prime shook the Bobfather’s hand.

“Bobtimus. I did as you said and asked Bobling to come as fast as he could. Now if you’d please tell us why we’re all gathered here? On the phone you sounded as if someone died.”

“Well, that’s because someone did”, Chief Prime answered with a grim expression as soon as the butler had left the office. He took a seat and gestured me to do the same.

“Robert, your brother Boberto has been found dead this morning in the mayor’s office. The coroner assumes it was a heart attack, but given his young age and fit condition I have my fair share of doubts. I had a forensics team secure evidence in his office and ordered the department to treat every aspect of this with the utmost confidentiality before I called you. With your approval, I’d like to run an autopsy and have Detective Bob Downey here investigate the case.”

The Bobfather and his son sat there motionless, faces blank. No one spoke for a solid minute. Chief Prime shifted in his seat, probably thinking he went to far with his precautions. When the Bobfather finally moved he just tilted his head, eyes resting on me, piercing me with an intensity that it felt as if he looked right through me. Now it was my turn to shift nervously.

“Detective Downey, you said? Well, Bobtimus. My brother’s dead and you come rushing in here telling me you believe it’s a bloody murder and that you started collecting evidence before even telling me. And now you want me to sign off the case to a cop that doesn’t even work in homicide and, on top of that, still refuses to work with me?”

Well, that’s one way to say I didn’t let your drug money make me docile.

“Robert, that’s exactly why I picked him. Not only is he one of my finest detectives, he’s also the only one you could possibly trust to actually find out the truth. The rest of the bunch is more interested in their own benefits, and that was fine until now”, the Chief proclaimed, “but something’s fishy about Boberto’s death and I wouldn’t want anyone on that case who took bribe before.”

“Everybody’s got their price”, muttered the young Laineux and we all turned our head in surprise. He looked me straight in the eye and proceeded: “What’s your price, Detective Downey? What could be in for you to help your enemy?”

“I wouldn’t call you my enemy.” Oh yes, indeed I would you little brat. “But frankly said, we’re not on good terms either. I joined the police because I believe in justice and want to do what’s right. And if Mayor Laineux died by someone’s hand, then I’ll find out who did it.”

“Fine”, Robert said after the two of them eyed me up and down once more. “Go and see what you can find out. If someone killed my brother, I want his head. And Bobtimus”, he snarled, glaring at Chief Prime, “I want to be the first one to know when there’s even the slightest bit of new info on this case, you got me?”

“Of course, Sir”, the Chief hurried to answer. The Bobfather didn’t respond and just dismissed us with a small nod.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Chief Prime walk that fast.

 “Goddammit!”, Bobster yelled for the third time this day. Steeb had an odd déjà-vu, standing on the patio and watching the alpacas slowly moving away from his furious boss. Mr. Di Seta paced up and down the railing, brows furrowed and deep in thought. Only minutes before Steeb had arrived at the mobster’s manor, a little bird had brought the news of Mayor Laineux’ death. At first the blonde deemed those great news for the Di Seta family, but Bobster’s reaction taught him otherwise. Now he just waited nervously for the mafioso to calm down and give him further instructions.

“Okay boy, here’s what we do: You keep that little game of yours up.” After what seemed an eternity, Bobster finally stopped and talked to Steeb. “If we retreat now, it’ll look suspicious. But we can’t make any more moves either. Not until we have more detail about Boberto’s death. Just keep it calm, fly below the radar until things get sorted out a bit more.”

“Alright, boss. But-”, Steeb hesitated, “may I ask why you’re so upset? Shouldn’t it be great that the mayor’s office isn’t occupied by the french anymore?”

Bobster huffed. “Steeb, there’s so much more to a dead brother and mayor than to a son sleeping with the enemy. My goal was to either estrange Robert from his son by finding out about your little affair in the worst case, or to manipulate the Laineux through your influence on the little dipshit in the best. I never wanted war. I just wanted my fair share of clients and income. Boberto as mayor wasn’t an ideal situation for us, that’s true, but a murder investigation is way worse.”

 And murder it was. The coroner called me the next day to let me know how the autopsy went. Chief Prime was correct: Boberto could’ve lived up to a hundred years, his organs were in great shape. But he found some herbs in the mayor’s stomach and ran a few tests. Turns out someone added a rare pufferfish poison to his favourite tea, making it look like Boberto’s heart just failed. Without the leftovers to be tested, nobody would’ve ever found out.

So we knew it was definitely murder, and we had the murder weapon. Two days later I was going through files of possible culprits when the phone on my desk rang. The head of forensics called to inform me about the fingerprints on the tea box. They belonged to no other than Baebert Ullen, Robert and Boberto Laineux’ stepbrother.

 “Oh Steeb, I’m so glad you had time”, Bobling exclaimed as he opened the door to let his sweetheart in. He rose to his tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss on the blonde’s lips before they went inside. Steeb followed him through the hallway into a light-flooded living room.

One of the broad velvet sofas was occupied by two men, one of them reading to the toddler in his lap. The other one looked up and immediately hopped to his feet when he spotted Steeb and Bobling. Equally amused and bewildered Steeb recognized the man’s pants as Lederhosn, something he hadn’t seen since he had been deployed in Germany. It oddly fit the aesthetic of dark rimmed glasses and a plaid button down in powder pink. Taking a second glimpse at the three men and the toddler, Steeb also noticed that big, dark eyes and curls the colour of coffee seemed to run in the family.

“Bobling, honey. Is that your boyfriend? My, he’s handsome. Isn’t he handsome, Bobbo?” The man referred to as Bobbo looked up from the book and gave Steeb a curt nod. Steeb had no time to repay the gesture though. The man in Lederhosn, without a doubt Bobling’s uncle Baebert, grabbed his face and pressed a kiss on each of Steebs cheeks.

“Pleasure to meet you, son. Bobling told us so much abou-”

“Uncle, stop. And he’s not my- just... just stop”, Bobling interfered. Baebert smiled knowingly and gave Steeb a quick hug before he clapped his hands.

“Whatever you say, darling! Anyway. Bobbo, can you fetch Bobbae’s jacket? We should leave those two lovebirds to themselves. And Robert said the attorney would be at his place around five, so we should get going anyway. But it was so nice to finally meet you, Steeb dear.”

Steeb got pulled in for another hug and round of kisses and before he could even think of an appropriate response, the three of them were already at the door. Bobling let them out before he sank down on the couch next to Steeb with a small sigh.

“Sorry”, he mumbled against Steeb’s shoulder, “uncle Baebert is a bit.. special. Loves to kiss each and everyone. Quite a hugger. Bit eccentric from time to time.”

“He seemed lovely”, Steeb chuckled as he pulled the brunette into his arms and lay down with him, his thumbs rubbing small circles into Bobling’s skin. The younger man hummed in approval.

“Thank you for coming over. The last few days were nothing but crazy, I didn’t even have the time to give you a call.” The mobster wrapped his arms around Steeb’s waist and nuzzled into the crook of his neck before he spoke again. “First they tell me that my uncle died, then they find out he was murdered, now they’re trying to arrest my other uncle for said murder. You just met Baebert. Does he seem like a murderer to you? Something’s off with this story. Father always had been on great terms with both of them. They think uncle murdered Boberto because he was only their stepbrother and therefore no heir to the Laineux family, but father said none of them was ever bitter about that. And Bobbo is a famous architect, he practically designed half of Oslo. There’s no need to go after Boberto’s money. D’you think uncle Baebert would kill someone? He’s got a kid and a husband. I think he has better things to do than murdering his own, let alone a mobster’s brother”, Bobling mumbled into the hem of Steeb’s shirt before letting out a small sigh. “I’m sorry, love. You sure got better things to do than to listen to me ramble.”

“No problem. Isn’t that what boyfriends are for?”, Steeb asked with a saucy grin. Bobling’s cheeks went as pink as his uncle’s shirt and he tried to hide at Steeb’s shoulder, but the blonde cupped his face with both hands and gently forced his sweetheart to look at him.

Bobling held his gaze for a few moments before his eyes fluttered shut. Slowly, almost shy, he leaned into Steeb’s touch, pressing a little kiss on the taller man’s wrist. Steeb’s thumb ghosted over his cheekbone, down his jaw and traced the outlines of his bottom lip. And when Bobling opened his eyes again, there was nothing left of the frivolous, flirty beau, just a tired and sad boy asking for comfort.

“Care to stay with me tonight?”

And when Steeb bent down to place a kiss on the spot his thumb just marked, there was nothing lustful, nothing passionate to it. No faked feelings, no ulterior motifs, just a lovestruck idiot longing for his dear one’s touch.

“I’ll stay as long as you want.”

 Will Baebert be arrested for murder, or his fashion sense? Did the author discover that there is a Bavarian Wikipedia while looking up the correct spelling of Lederhosn? Will Steeb and Bobling establish a healthy relationship or will their romance turn to dust? Will the author ever not get carried away by fluffy Dorito boy pining for his beau? Will the author ever get tired of using the word beau? Did the author accidentally create a new Transformers AU while writing? And why do Americans refuse to use the accents on french terms? Find out in the next chapter!

A/N: (labagiu is Romanian for wanker according to Google, Freundchen is basically friend in German, but is mostly used to address someone in an angry, disrespectful way, like you sometimes do with buddy or pal. I figured that both Steeb and Barney went to war and that they learned some phrases there that they now used to look cool and eloquent to the other. They both failed, obviously)

[cherryyharryy]

@cherryyharryy’s Upcoming writing for 2019

Trouvaille

- Pairing: Harry And FC (Yes she’ll have a name. Sorry)

- Summary: Two lost souls find each other, but rather than living happily ever after, they decide to peruse torment and complicate their boring lives. But they don’t mind, really.

- Snippet: His sobs and sporadic driving earned him pointed fingers as he sped through the small college community. A few he recognized from the party but others were new to his brain. They were all smiling though, dressed up to paint the night and kill their memory.

One wasn't smiling.

And she painted with different colors and they certainly weren't about resolutions and cheap liquor.

Woman

- Pairing: Harry And Y/N

- Summary: Y/n is a lot of things. And Harry’s not sure if he’ll figure any of them out. But one thing he knows for sure is that he’s never met anyone quite like her. And maybe he wishes he hadn’t.

- Snippet: “Harry," the girl started, the same way as every morning. "What's the dreamiest place you've ever been?"

Harry rolled over, pulling the duvet from his eyes to see her sitting in the vanity chair, lipstick in hand as she met his focus through the mirror.

"In your arms."

"Seriously, Harry."

"I am, my love."

Petal

- Pairing: Harry And y/n

- Summary: When Harry’s unlucky love life finally wears him down, he seeks help in unorthodox ways. Who would’ve thought that a trip to the florist would change things forever? And no, it’s not what you’re thinking.

- Snippet: With the sticky mug in one hand and his notebook in the other, he pried himself from his bed and shuffled to the door. A full-body yawn paralyzed his movements, and when his eyes slitted open both the notebook and mug crashed to the floor, papers flying about and shards of his high school art class’ final project shattered against the hardwood.

He leaped over the mess to the little table, careful not to run into it as he took in the soft pink flower in full-bloom.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "You're here."

Me, My Brother, and I

- Pairing: Harry And y/n

- Summary: When Harry makes a startling discovery one day at the park, everything changes forever. And then things get bad. Sibling rivalry at its finest.

- Snippet: Bree, who introduced herself after handing y/n her phone, was sandwiched between the two men. She snapped a few pictures, taking a second to marvel at the resemblance. Oliver was a bit slimmer, but the key features were the same; same Cupid bow lips, same fluffy unruly hair, same baby ears.

Their eyes shown under the dull, snowy air. The icy blue and forest green caught the focus of the picture, and when she looked up they had the same effect in reality.

"What are you guys doing across the pond?" Bree asked.

Harry nodded, smile growing on his face. "Visiting family.”

Ribs

- Pairing: I will be posting two versions of this—one as a Harry and Y/N story, and one as a Harry and FC.

- Summary: **This story came about from inspiration from the song ‘Ribs’ by Lorde.** Growing up is hard. It’s scary. And although Harry and Adeline know their not the first to tackle adulthood, it sure feels like it.

-Snippet: “Harry." I grabbed his hand and pulled him up beside me. "Don't worry about them, okay."

"S'true? Did some wild things growing up, now look at me. What've I done?"

"You don't have to steal your neighbors car or sneak into an R rated movie to be fun." I narrowed my eyes at him. "There's a line between fun and stupid. Those two are still in high school, and from the looks of it they might be there longer than planned."

"Still. M'so boring now."

"You're not boring, you're just more mature, you've-"

"This way," he interrupted, tugging me down a side road.

"What? Where are you going?"

"We're gonna have some fun."

~Untitled 50’s AU~

-Pairing: Again, I will be posting two versions: Harry and y/n & Harry and FC.

-Summary: Two people who clash in almost everything but fashion form an unexpected bond.

- Snippet: Harry bit into his chapped lip and pinched the loose paper in her hand. "This, I believe, you found laying in the street, did you not?"

The tips of her ears burned, but she cleared her throat and focused her sights on the woman in line before her. "There is not a name anywhere to be found on it. I hardly believe your tone is acceptable, and I expect an apology."

Harry's head jerked back as he re-fitted the notebook with its missing page back into his pocket. "Miss Rose I am never shy to excuse my behavior when necessary. But now is not one of those times."

"Typical."

"Pardon?"

She shook her head, clicking her tongue once as she spoke. "Men. You do no wrong, do you?"

Piano Man

-Pairing: Harry and Y/N

- Summary: Y/n’s in a new city hanging on to a job she really doesn’t want, living a life she really doesn’t need. She develops a comforting routine in the evenings, her only time of peace and fresh air...and the homeless man who’s spirit is as beautiful as music.

- Snippet: Her head whipped around, unable to find anyone staying still long enough to be producing any kind of steady music. Her eyes drifted to the park, where what was no longer a blue mass had a man hunched over the keys. His hair shielded his face and his head moved along to the sweet melody.

Y/n rose from the bench slowly, pulling her purse close to her side as she glided across the street. Her heels sunk into the ground slightly but her mind hardly noticed, too preoccupied with the lulling sounds pulling her in.

The man had his eyes closed as his fingers danced over the keys, inhaling the cold morning air in a deep breath once the song came to its finish.

“That was...beautiful,” y//n breathed out in a slow whisper. “Really. Gorgeous.”

** Other WIP That don’t have enough to spill **

- Outerspace inspired AU

- Harry befriends a troubled girl in the forest

- Harry And y/n make their first public appearance

- Victorian era Harry AU

[bloodybells1]

Leeches, Part 1

“Just the other day, I sat at a bus stop, over on, I don’t know, somewhere in the eighties on the east side. I sat back and the sun shined on my face, and I think I just sat there for going on half an hour. I let about five buses pass me by, I reckon. The drivers kept asking through the doors, but I just shook my head and waved them on.”

Joe laughed at himself, very much the wizened old timer, laughing at his time-honored follies, a cough feigning to latch on to the tail end of one of his chuckles. He sat on a folding chair and never crossed his legs during his speech. He looked back at us once in a while, a wide grin framing the face of a man who’d found God in his dotage.

Behind him stood three sturdy chairs on a low, small landing, the middle one much larger, obviously for a deacon, or some other minister. To his left was a banner affixed to the chapel’s wall, to his right the darkened interior of Rutgers Presbyterian Church’s main hall, only the closest pew mingling with our reflections on the glass, while the rest of the chamber disappeared into the unlit black, pews, apse, arches, all fading away like undulating cephalopods motioning into the bottomless expanse of the deep ocean.

We were thirty men of various ages and, in various angles, situated on recently unfolded chairs, our ears plastered to Joe’s syllables. A semicircle of a row flanked Joe on each side, while rows of five staggered farther away in front of him. We waited for him to finish his speech.

My friend Kenyon, a man given to reflexive smiles, body art and jangling silver jewelry, raised his hand on the tail end of the applause. Kenyon was, like myself but in a completely different way, the aesthetic anomaly in this male lineup of denim, half-zip fleece pullovers, and unbuttoned checks. As for me, I was undergoing an awkward transition from the bespoke slim-fitting hipster fare of my East Village salad days to the generic knits I ended up cottoning to, staid, American gear with a fashion forward edge, the kind of corporate mimicry of downtown New York style evident in late aughts Express storefronts, the cheap grey cardigan with thin, plastic buttons and a gaudy, shiny placket to name one example, the sort of trickled-down haute couture which American Apparel had turned into a belated, and thankfully short-lived, empire of disposable cotton.

Kenyon, on the other hand, was a world onto himself. He was irreducible, and managed to turn all of that corporatizing on its head. Steeped in glam rock, a downtown tradition dating back to Max’s Kansas City, he merged the ripped tank tops and the second skin of leather trousers with punk, post-90s hip hop, and even industrial. By the time Kenyon was done, he was fully dressed, even though he’d barely put anything on: five necklaces formed an extra shirt over that tank top, while seven sterling-coated rings formed makeshift cuffs past the “sleeves” of tattoos on his arms. Sometimes he wore a black grosgrain cap with a chrome plate sewed onto the front that read “BITCH”. No one dressed like Kenyon, and if the reader regards my valuation as improbable, I can but insist that no one pulled off his sartorial derring-do with even half of his aplomb.

In all honesty, I didn’t want to like Kenyon, and I chalk that up to sibling rivalry. Though he did pull it off, his style was nonetheless loud. At the time, I needed quiet. That’s why I was there listening to Joe with my conveyer belt cardigan. Of course I had no idea I was dragging my old style like a cadaver in search of some missing morgue. But I was trying to fit in, trying to make a break with the past. I needed those dudes with their conservative shtick, sitting cross-legged checking blackberries once in a while, probably texting loved ones about soccer practice and babysitter hours. Joe was the granddaddy and these guys were my dads.

Once Joe was done everybody else started chiming in. People talked one at a time, and each person picked the next person to talk. Kenyon’s arm was erect, and he was picked early. Joe was sheepish about feedback, more out of feeling gratified to have shared his story with us than with insecurity about revealing himself, so he darted his eyes from the floor to anyone who wasn’t talking. Kenyon, like all who were picked, was speaking to the room, even though he directly addressed Joe, who indulged the time it took to place a couple bucks into the donation hat making the rounds. Silver tinkled on silver as Kenyon lowered his arm.

He did his best: “Joe, that story about the bus stop, man, wow, that’s amazing. I wish that was me. I’m just not there yet. I’m always busy, running around chasing my fantasies, maybe a woman, projects, getting angry about my job. It’s like I’m addicted and I can’t find peace. So I envy you, and all that serenity you shared with us. Thank you.”

Unlike their hardier, more “masculine” AA counterparts, Al-Anon meetings have no liquidation agenda. They’re not out to eradicate your issue. Nobody will say, as they do in AA, “Hey buddy, you’ve been fucking up, so it’s time to get your ass in gear and do some service for a change”. It’s more like “Sit back and relax, you’ve been working too hard” and “Don’t just do something, sit there.”

AA-ers criticize the warm embrace as too accommodating, but for my money’s worth, I always got more out of the Kumbaya fireside chat in Al-Anon meetings, than the fluorescently-lit, “bad cop” demeanor of your typical AA church basement. Booze was a problem, of course, but only during a relatively short span of debauching as an erstwhile rockstar. It was a symptom of “extreme lifestyling”, so, once I left the music industry and started frequenting libraries instead of dive bars, I had little difficulty moderating my intake. Thankfully, there were no winged bottles of Smirnoff in my dreams, and to this day, I say a prayer of gratitude with every crisp draught of New World red during mealtime.

What I lacked was not self-control, but self-esteem. Al-Anon, with its boundaries, its “healing centers”, its gingerbread cookies, its amateur yogis meditating, palms up, while people like Joe regaled you with yarns about how they lived “one day at a time”, boosted the lagging go-getter within and checked the autocratic superego’s overreach. Unlike our bulldog AA counterparts, choking and chafing on the leash, we were more like tiny, caged Papillons needing assertiveness training. Al-Anon’s ethos of boundary-setting was the gamechanger for the steamrolled contingent.

I needed a jolt in the arm to help me take charge of the new me. Once the keg dried on my club kid/rocker past, so did all of its faulty affirmations – “I’m a killer” – “I’m the man” – “I’m the life of the party”. What had seemed like incontrovertible evidence of greatness and longevity soured into empty pomp and arrogance, showing its age faster than a fine Brie sitting out too long. If you cut the tap, you see things for what they are, hollow, teenage rhetoric, a lacquered gloss of puerile angst disguising the real pain within, the miserable cartography drawn in Crayola. I had a hard time transitioning to “adulting”.

Al-Anon was the perfect solution for a spiritual drifter like myself, someone who’d managed to duck the hypnotic allure of substance, but was tethered to the overhead luggage of an overwrought past, a hypertrophied lore inflated by the helium-empty of media success and unrestrained carousing. The skill of setting boundaries, the primary focus of the work in that fellowship, was my first time making a conscious, adult demarcation of self. It was a kind of handwritten accounting, using a brand-spanking new calligraphy pen when in the past I only had a crayon.

Not only had I been bluffing my way through every opportunity and relationship all my life, but I’d shirked male bonding as well. The old man had left enough scar tissue to lead me to believe, wrongly, that nothing presented a greater threat to my safety than another swinging dick in the room. Al-Anon, being majority female in its constituency, attracted me for this very reason. But this uptown meeting offered me a new twist: the gentle lilt of Al-Anon sloganeering with the familiar heft of masculine energy. When I found that meeting, I discovered the verdant hidden pastures of otherwise craggy masculine caverns, undergoing the Robert Bly encounter with male, yet enlightened, initiation.

“I get so much wisdom from those guys,” I told Kenyon on the downtown 1, our trip back to the Village from the Upper West Side enlivened by the meeting. Post-meeting positive spin comes like hand delivered mail, the delay forgiven and forgotten at the instant the hand touches the parcel, a sudden flash of serum in the bloodstream, a mild chemo.

“They’re like old New York,” Kenyon replied. A silver bracelet ticked on one of his eight rings as he switched arms straphanging. He rearranged his fedora and there was a moment when, with the sterling on his fingers blinking in the light as it contrasted with the soft crushed velvet of the brim, he looked like Jared Leto (Twenty Seconds to Mars Leto, not the actor). Kenyon was impossibly handsome and, after two decades of casual sex in New York, had to have known it. On top of that, his mind was so sharp, dropping an op-ed’s worth of observation in a single response, you always forgot how attractive he was. I didn’t want to like him, for survival reasons, but I couldn’t help myself.

We both got off at Sheridan Square and parted at the newsstand on Christopher and Varick. The hugs were the best part of the night, warm, not bro-y. Cool jocks first clasp hands and keep them in between, the embrace more of a back pat, with the forearms warding off fears of errant torsos touching. Not so with Kenyon. It was a full upper body affair.

He went East and I West, to a dinner date with someone I met at school. But I couldn’t get his wall-to-wall smile out of my head.

All throughout the evening, through the dinner and the subway ride back to my Upper East Side apartment, even as my head hit the pillow and I let the day’s events drift through my head like a shuffling deck, I thought of Joe’s bus stop and wondered if it was one of the ones I used, any of the M79 ones, running from where I lived on East End Avenue to Lexington where the 6 train offers the nearest underground service. That crosstown corridor gives access to one of the most pacific locations in the city. The highlight was coming out of Agata & Valentina, hauling four thick polypropylene shopping bags spilling over with istara cheese, seasonal fruits, swordfish, prime cuts, homemade pasta, and imported Brazilian nuts, and, braving the murder on my delts, walking across the street to the east bound stop on 1st and 79th,hauling two leaden weights like overfull scales pressing down on a balance. Joe probably had his atman moment directly across the street, at the westbound stop, where the sun hits more directly for longer in the day.

As I turned my head on the pillow, I thought of tomorrow, Wednesday, of waking up, walking the dog, hitting the computer to play around with electronic music, and stretching the limbs. At acting school they were really emphasizing the importance of movement (“If I see one more stiff actor in my scene study class, I’m going to be angry” was one teacher’s version).

I was reminded how, in my early twenties, I was terrified of anyone looking at my body. I didn’t know anything about anatomy, but I could feel how broad and lanky were my shoulders. I was like a wide clothes hanger. Playing the bass guitar, though I hadn’t gone out of my way to pick it up, made perfect sense, the heaviest rock instrument to offer ballast against flaying limbs. Night after night the strap creased my left shoulder, pulling me closer to the floor, the weight pressing my boots on the ground, plantar ligaments stretching out the arches. Once it was removed, I was like a hot air balloon.

So was my acting, hence the need for movement exercises, which made interesting cases concerning anatomy. At Stella Adler, I had the good fortune of having Joanne Edelmann, an experienced dancer from the Alvin Ailey school, impress upon me the importance of the pelvis. Everything was about the pelvis, acting, moving, blocking, memorizing lines, it all had to come from the pelvis, apparently. We’d lay down supine, after one of us had swiffed the last class’s sweat, grime and dead skin cells off the creaky, wooden floor, and start gyrating our pelvises, all twenty-five of us. Having suspended my pause at the bursar’s office (at some point the acting conservatory, like therapy and Al-Anon, acquired healing potential in my mind), I jumped into all this with gusto. These movement exercises, so I thought, were my ticket to getting my feet on the ground, literally. So I worked them every day for an hour.

It was early spring in 2009 and I’d been living in the Upper East Side for close to a year, moving here to escape the East Village’s countercultural orthodoxy.

The East Village is great when you’re an upstart, when your friend owns a vintage boutique and sitting there for hours talking about nothing could feel like a quiet revolution. There was something conspiratorial about scrounging for change, wearing the same pair of trousers, and bumping into the same vagrant hipsters every night. Bar hopping became a kind of Where’s Waldo stretched over the span of a week, like each party was a pop-up shop taking over that bar or club. It would have been unthinkable to go on another night, after the pop-up shop had moved. Each one of us could feel like an unshowered Che looking at Fidel clipping a Cohiba across the fold-out table, an overhanging burning bulb backlighting the floating dust and cumulus clouds of tobacco smoke.

But by this time, I’d already “made it”. My cover was blown. Interpol’s success had fattened my wallet even as it’d thwarted my agitprop designs. Trips to the grocer could involve catcalls and held stares. Benjamin’s wisdom seemed apt: “Behind every fascist regime, lies a failed revolution”. In my case, the project of seeing how far flipping the bird could get me (very far, apparently) had yielded such pithy spiritual results it was time to call it a day and find a place to do my laundry where I wouldn’t have to sign autographs.

Growing up in Queens, I had no idea what the hell was the East Village. But I knew the Upper East Side, mostly through The Jeffersons (my mother did have a wealthy friend and, once, while we visited when I was eleven, I feigned adult sass by declaiming “This place is rich!” during the elevator trip up the Central Park adjoining high rise). The sight of rows of stacked iron-grated balconies on grey-brick facades, all set to each other like a long ship container yard disappearing into the horizon of 2nd Avenue, where every taxi cab, street light and butcher shop becomes a tiny dot twenty blocks north of 79th Street, was always set to a soulful “We finally have a piece of the pie”.

Later, after initiation with the caramelized crust of 80s pop-culture, the Upper East Side came to mean Woody Allen and Andy Warhol. The high rises, in my estimation, offered sanctuary to the city’s cultural superintendents, a haven in which to pen or paint their New York City-centric odes in peace and quiet. I thought of Leonard Bernstein laboring over scores, the doorman interrupting with a call about a dry cleaning delivery.

Here, as well, were stock brokers, attorneys, traders, and other sundry bourgeois interests, the better to authenticate the wealthy artist’s pains with commerce’s badge of (dis)honor. (“There. You are one of us. Now, to quote a 90s prophet, entertain us.”) Eyes Wide Shut, with its luxury apartments and endless chambers, its New York Jewish-y professional class embodied in Sydney Pollack’s Rolex, its de riguer charcoal Brooks Brothers three quarter overcoat worn by Tom Cruise in almost every frame, laid out the terms of this fantasy of old school New York wealth for me, if also tickling my artistry with a Kafka-esque slant. Perhaps, I could revivify the failed revolution, I thought, not against the fascist regime, but from within.

It was a straight shot up 1st Avenue from Houston Street to 79th and on a random late morning Tuesday you could drive through light after light in less than fifteen minutes. I’d always hated the West Village’s European style of urban planning, the streets and lanes that curve and follow every slope of the ground, (pre-Google Maps, this meant that sometimes you ended up, Blair Witch Project-style, back to where you started). I loved the East Village’s Soviet, numerical grid, so artificial you could easily imagine the planners taking their time to map everything out. What this did was help me focus on the shops, ateliers, and salons within the fifteen block radius, without the distraction of curves and cobblestone. And the Upper East Side, at least from an urban planning perspective, was the East Village without the personality, simply adding a z axis of verticality to the latter’s x and y. With three dimensions now at my disposal, I felt I could take my Bernstein myth into Olympus itself, away from the caustic rabble of DIY punk down below.

I made enough money to afford a $4000 rent in what is called a “splinter building”; apparently only three in the city exist, a building slim enough it can only have two apartments per floor, but giving each one a three sided-view of all Manhattan, in my case, from the 23rd floor. When I first walked into it the sun was setting, casting an amber glow onto the East River. Wall to wall windows proffered a vision of Manhattan only the wealthy know – “This is Your City” (daily exposure did end up diminishing the returns of the view).

For some reason, taxis were out of the question (never mind I was splurging on rent, dinners, tuition, and music equipment expenses). After five dizzy years of flights and car services, I was only too happy to take to the MTA, the buses still lacquered in the future-glossy palette of navy and white, which I recognized from my morning commutes to St. Francis Prep High in Floral Park from my Elmhurst home. Getting on the M79 right by the river, I basically had the bus to myself, my own crosstown Lear jet, a meager, yet delightful, taste of the jet-setting I’d left behind.

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The Handshake Is Dead – Long Live The Curtsy

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The handshake has a long and curious history as far as greetings go. Most historians place the first instance back in the 5th century BCE in Greece, where it was used to demonstrate that one was not carrying a weapon. When used in a commerce context in public markets, it was often combined with another new fad sweeping early civilization – waving (to demonstrate you weren’t holding a weapon in the other hand, either).

Handshakes were, in effect, a very early form of customer authentication.

From Greece, they traveled the world – first to Rome, where they were modified into something more akin to a mutual forearm grab to make sure the other person didn’t have a dagger up his or her sleeve. We’re going to guess Caesar forgot to make the greeting rounds on the Ides of March, and that history might have turned out a good deal differently if he had. From Rome, the practice moved on to the medieval knights. They adopted the practice of grabbing hands as a greeting and introduced the rigorous shaking part, as an attempt to knock loose any weapons another knight might be trying to sneak.

But despite a rather successful 2,500-year run, the handshake might be on its way out, another casualty of COVID-19. Speaking to journalist Kate Linebaugh on The Journal podcast earlier this week, Director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases Anthony Fauci noted that he believes it’s time to retire the handshake to the dustbin of history in the name of protecting human health.

“When you gradually come back, you don’t jump into it with both feet,” Dr. Fauci said. “You say, what are the things you could still do and still approach normal? One of them is absolute compulsive handwashing. The other is, you don’t ever shake anybody’s hands. In fact, I don’t think we should ever shake hands ever again, to be honest with you. Not only would it be good to prevent coronavirus disease; it probably would decrease instances of influenza dramatically in this country.”

No more handshakes? How will we know our business associates and new acquaintances aren’t carrying daggers or attempting to cheat in jousting competitions?

Okay, maybe we don’t technically need the handshake anymore – but assuming we’ll want some kind of standard greeting when this is over, we’ll likely have to replace it. And that might be a little trickier than you think. A quick survey of the world’s greeting traditions indicates that quite a few of them have the same defect as a handshake, and will probably go to the discard pile along with it.

As it turns out, the entire world of human greetings seems to have been designed to thwart Dr. Anthony Fauci.

The double-cheek kiss, popular in Europe and the Middle East, is clearly much worse than the handshake – as is the Slavic tradition of greeting people with kisses directly on the mouth. Pretty much all of the greetings that involve putting your mouth on someone else are probably off the table moving forward. Maori tribesmen in New Zealand greet each other by rubbing noses, while Kenyan men tap foreheads – again, no and no. Ugandan men bump shoulders, which is better insofar as one is not breathing directly into someone else’s face, but it’s still too much contact.

Los Angelenos are getting somewhat closer, with a tendency to skip the cheeks (or the lips) and go with the classic double air kisses. That, however, has the dual problems of pushing viruses into the air and looking absolutely ridiculous. The Tibetan tradition of sticking one’s tongue out in greeting is a slight improvement in terms of how silly one looks while doing it, but is still sub-ideal from a virus-spreading standpoint – and in a world where everyone is wearing masks over their faces while in public, it really doesn’t work, since no one can see your tongue.

In fact, when scouring the world’s classic greetings for possible replacements for the handshake, only two made the cut. The first is the most obvious: bowing. It’s easy to do from a socially acceptable four feet away, it has been popular for roughly 1,000 years longer than handshaking has – and it seems now may be the time it will finally end its millennia-long rivalry with the handshake, and just about everything else.

And honestly, bowing is fine from a public health standpoint, but it’s a bit boring. We would instead recommend adopting the curtsy as the new universal form of human greeting. Yes, we know that historically, curtsying is the female equivalent of bowing, and that it typically involves picking up the edges of one’s gown. We have two replies to that: First of all, people have been working from home for two months, and who knows what they are going to leave their house wearing.

Second, do you know what item of clothing was made to be curtsied in?  

The bathrobe.

And do you know what item of clothing your co-workers have all been wearing for the last three to five weeks, and might very well forget to take off when they leave the house in two months? 

Yup, the bathrobe.

We rest our case.

And if not the curtsy, on the off chance that we don’t redesign our societal sartorial preferences about daytime bathrobe wearing, then what?

Well, there is the standard military salute – though we suspect that might feel weird to people, and besides, soldiers probably should get to keep their unique thing. 

For a variation on that idea, we think the Vulcan “live long and prosper” salute has a lot of merit. But it might take some practice, as making a V with your fingers takes some motor coordination – and there is the small problem of billions of die-hard Star Wars fans who will likely refuse to see anything derived from Star Trek as a sign of goodwill. 

Fist bumps and high-fives are probably out for the same reason that handshakes are – but elementary school children nationwide have spent the last few months perfecting what is known as the “air-five” or the “air-bump,” where hands/fists are brought within inches of each other to simulate the slap/bump experience without actually touching. That, however, still requires being closer than six feet from someone, and in the worst-case scenario, it could end with misjudged distance and someone getting punched in the face.

For a really outside-the-box idea, PYMNTS believes the video below offers the best possible option for society to consider.  

Yes, that is the video for the Macarena.  

Hear us out. We think this is the greeting innovation that society didn’t know it needed. 

First, you can do every part of the Macarena from a respectable six feet away. Second, if everyone starts doing the dance in the presence of every new person they meet, we can promise no one will ever get within six feet of another stranger ever again. So not only does it respect social distancing, it re-enforces it. Third, we think it would be very difficult to hide a weapon on one’s person while doing all the steps of the Macarena. Fourth, we’re all going to be inside for a while, so we’ll have plenty of time to perfect our greeting dances. 

Admittedly, our staff – like yours – has been working from home for a while now, so perhaps our finger is less on the pulse of this subject than it could be. But our data tell us that consumers have been changing quite a lot in the last 22 days. They’ve rewritten their lives around a very new paradigm, and done so very fast. They’re cooking instead of ordering out, they’ve refocused much of their spending around necessities and they are worried. Worried about their jobs, worried about their economic future and worried about their health – so worried, in fact, that most say the only thing that will convince them it’s time to go back to normal is the development of a vaccine. A vaccine, experts estimate, that is more than a year away from going to market.

Which means instead of going back to normal, what seems more likely right now is that the world will be building a new normal. A new normal for shopping, for healthcare, for entertainment and for socializing. A new world where there might not be handshakes.

But that is not necessarily bad news – and many of the innovators PYMNTS has interviewed over the last several weeks think there is good reason to suspect that the new shopping, new healthcare, new entertainment and new socializing could well be better than the old versions.

And if the handshake is actually replaced by the Macarena?

We defy anyone to tell us that is not a dramatically improved world. 

——————————

PYMNTS LIVE FIRESIDE CHAT: WEDNESDAY, APRIL 22, 2020 | 12:00 PM (ET)

 FIs have traditionally approached resilience from a technology standpoint, but ‘Black Swan’ events like the COVID-19 pandemic expose what can go wrong when FIs don’t prepare for the unexpected. Vincent Caldeira, Chief Technologist, FSI, APAC for Red Hat joins PYMNTS CEO Karen Webster to explore how preparedness is impacting FIs’ ability to do business during COVID-19, and the lessons being learned.

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[mermaidsirennikita]

Historical Fiction and Feminism/Internalized Misogyny

(This post contains spoilers for The Conqueror’s Saga, The White Princess, The White Queen HBO’s Rome, and Spartacus--sometimes in very vague ways, but I thought I’d be thorough.)

Recently, I’ve discussed feminism and historical fiction in the context of television on my blog—largely in terms of how NOT to do it, as seen on The White Princess.  Marketing historical fiction (or fantasy that resembles historical fiction) as feminist is big in this day and age.  Even if the word “feminism” isn’t thrown around, you see people talking about “strong female characters” and, essentially, women “overcoming obstacles” presented by cultures of the past.  The thing is—does a woman acting like a feminist in a historical setting make the work itself feminist?  Does her lack of feminist views, or even anti-feminist perspective make her a bad character?  

What prompts me to think about these things is not actually a TV show in particular, but a few reviews of a book series that I immensely enjoy, Kiersten White’s The Conqueror’s Saga. The Conqueror’s Saga—which I highly recommend—is technically alt-history.  It considers historical events, altered simply by turning a male historical figure—Vlad Tepes/Dracula—into a woman, in the form of series protagonist Lada.  Lada is literally Vlad, but in the form of a (heterosexual) woman.  She has a couple of sexual/romantic relationships with men, but they don’t at all dominate the series the way they often do with YA, and are viewed from a historical perspective in which Lada, despite her hunger for power, is intensely aware of the natural advantage men have over her. She wishes to rule Wallachia, but is tempered by the fact that she is a woman.  This seems like a “feminist” premise, at least in the shallow manner in which feminism has been presented to the typical reader by pop culture.

Lada—a character who has manipulated people for personal and political gain, murdered, betrayed—is critiqued in some of the reviews that provoked me to write this for her anti-feminist views.  In the first book, she doesn’t trust women who are a part of an Ottoman harem, in part because they use sex as currency and are intensely sexual and feminine in a way that she is not.  While very aware of her own sexuality and femininity, Lada struggles with it and at times seems to hate it—in the second book, she seems to come to the conclusion that more than a man or a woman, she wants to be a soldier.  And the reason why she hates her feminine body is that it makes it difficult for to be a soldier in medieval Europe.  She also resents her mother, an abused woman, for not protecting her children, not defending herself.  This is victim-blaming, likely with a dose of Lada’s own trauma informing it.

More controversial, of course, is Lada’s apparent inner victim-blaming of a group of women raped and impregnated by (essentially) their overlords.  She wonders why they didn’t fight back, why they submitted, so on. As far as the narrative goes, I personally don’t feel like it validated Lada’s feelings.  In fact, when she first inwardly critiqued the Ottoman women, they turned out to be cunning political animals, and she eventually comes to acknowledge their strengths with regards to manipulation.  One of the women who was raped and impregnated becomes a supporting character and friend to Lada, and she comes to—in a sense—admire her own means of manipulation and politicking.  It’s soft power versus Lada’s desired hard power.  So—is a work of historical fiction anti-feminist because a female character expresses anti-feminist views?  

I’ll compare this to The White Princess, a show which was heavily marketed as “feminist”. Elizabeth Woodville is seen alluding to the idea that women were the true powers behind the throne in medieval England (a fact that is categorically untrue, even if some women did have influence over medieval politics).  Woodville, and her house, the Yorks, are promoted as the heroes against Margaret Beaufort.  Margaret is crafted as a foil to Woodville—she refers to her daughter-in-law’s primary function of providing a male heir for her husband.  She condemns her daughter-in-law’s sexuality.  She is Bad. Elizabeth Woodville is Good (and a witch, because witchcraft = feminism).  The series ends on Elizabeth of York becoming a puppet master for her husband, something that didn’t happen.

The fact is that while it’s nice to see a woman talking up girl power in historical fiction, it’s often anachronistic.  And in the case of The White Princess, the narrative ends up pitting women against each other—one side is for grrrl power in a very shallow way (ultimately in the service of propping up a male York heir, but whatever) and the other representing a lack of sexual freedom, “the man putting the woman down”.  And once Elizabeth Woodville is out of the picture, that whole rivalry is sort of confusing and goes every which way and it’s just… a bad show for many reasons, to be honest.  But its faux feminism is the icing on the cake.

There have absolutely been strong women who did hold both soft and hard power in times past.  But they were still affected by the patriarchal societies in which they lived.  Isabel of Castile fought for her right to the throne and gained it—but she still wasn’t satisfied to leave the throne to her firstborn daughter, and ensured the birth of a male heir for herself and her husband.  She raised her daughters not be rulers, but wives.  Hurrem Sultan held immense power as the wife of Suleiman the Magnificent, but she got there by arguably undermining other women, and playing a game set up by men.  Anne Boleyn became Henry VIII’s wife and is often portrayed as a woman who was “feminist” because of the power she (temporarily) held over her husband.  But she was chosen by him; she was chased by him; and she got her crown after he took it from another woman.

It's great to see women supporting each other and loving one another in historical settings. We should see female friendships.  We should see mothers loving their daughters.  The White Princess, for all its claims of feminism, was all about pitting women against each other.  But there’s a difference between that narrative, I think, and one in which a woman experiences the effects of her own internalized misogyny, as Lada does in The Conqueror’s Saga.  She hates feminine things because she’s been raised to feel lesser because of her own femininity—this does not make her an anti-feminist character, in my perspective. Nor does it make her story anti-feminist.  It makes her a character with accurate viewpoints about her own sex, hammered into her mind by men.  When she realizes that feminine women are making things happen through their own means, that is a form of reconciliation that feels real to me.  It’s certainly “realer” than silly, anachronistic platitudes about women being badass queens.

Another good example of women being strong characters in historical figures while also dealing with internalized misogyny would be the female characters of Rome.  Two of the main female characters, Atia and Servilia, are set up as rivals.  They are rivals in relation to their roles as rich Roman matrons, and the fact that they are connected to rival men (Atia through her uncle and son, Servilia through her son) only intensifies their hatred for each other.  They call each other whores and bitches, they deride and hate other women.  But does this make them bad women, a part of a woman-hating narrative—or are they simply products of their environments, and accurately portrayed as such?  For that matter, does the fact that Servilia and Atia hate each other diminish the value of their relationship as one of the most prominent and important on the show?  I could question the same of two women on another show set in Ancient Rome, Lucretia and Ilithyia of Spartacus.  (I’m not saying that these characters are feminists at all, by the way--they are not.)  They hate—and sometimes love—each other.  They constantly fight one another.  But their relationship is rich and complex, and the fact that they treat each other badly, and for that matter other women badly, doesn’t mean that this relationship is invalid or a product of an anti-feminist narrative.

Now, I’m not saying that all of these works of fiction are strictly feminist.  Many of them feature male protagonists prominently, and the woman’s journey might not be “point” of the show the way it is on a show like Harlots. (In which almost every prominent character is a woman, the focus of the plot is a profession dominated by women, and women are often quite nasty and misogynistic to each other.)  But it’s important to see women of historical fiction have rich relationships with one another, negative and positive.  It’s important, to me, to see them express at least somewhat-accurate ideas about their own genders.  Otherwise, we get into the routine of some women having more “feminist” attitudes than others, and them being “better” and more “enlightened”.  A woman isn’t a bad person because she comes from a culture that doesn’t adhere to contemporary (popular) western feminism and doesn’t, herself, adhere to the principles of contemporary (popular) western feminism.  The idea of the good, feminist women being better than a woman who really (in regards to historical fiction) not have any concepts of 21st century feminism isn’t feminist at all.

If we forget or wash over the environments to which women had to adapt, the environments they dealt with on the daily, the environments that likely inspired self-hatred in many… We forget our own history.  It’s not fun to see a character like Lada, who I really love, look down on women.  It’s certainly not fun to see a character like Atia who is so entertaining be extremely misogynistic; she’s outright evil to many other women, including her own daughter.  But then, I want to see female characters who are allowed to be as rich, as good or as evil, as male characters.  Who don’t have to shy away from depravity to conform to male expectations of the feminine character.  Women have existed in a largely patriarchal world as good and evil people throughout history, and I want to see that.

[pratktcven]

bloom

bloom part one. heith. pg-13. in which keith is a florist and hunk is a tattoo artist. thanks to @faorism and @blackcatbone for the beta! also available on ao3

.

Keith is hiding behind one of the larger floral arrangements in the window when the bell above the door rattles. The sound startles him so much that he yelps and takes a sudden step back. Shiro—who walked into the shop carrying a tray of their morning coffee—freezes at the unexpected noise. They stare at one another, wide-eyed, before Keith straightens and attempts to look as inconspicuous as possible.

Shiro blinks.

“Good morning,” Keith says, aiming for nonchalant and missing by miles.

“Hey,” Shiro responds. “What are you—?”

“Just checking out the hydrangea arrangement,” Keith responds. The words come out of his mouth so quickly that the syllables slur together into an incomprehensible soup. Keith winces internally and thinks, So much for subtle, even as he repeats himself at a slower pace.

“Riiiiight,” Shiro drawls skeptically. His expression is doubtful but he accepts the obvious lie without further prodding. “Anyway, I have your latte and your cherry danish. Do you want me to put it in the back or are you going to eat it right away?”

“I was just about to strip the roses,” Keith answers.

Shiro nods and sets Keith’s breakfast on the large work table in the center of the room. Keith wants to walk over and devour the pastry—he hasn’t eaten since late afternoon yesterday, when he microwaved some leftovers in his tiny apartment kitchen—but he forces himself to actually check the arrangements in the window display. He doesn’t know why. His cover is already weak and he checked them last night before closing.

“Oh, and Keith?” Shiro says.

Keith uselessly adjusts a delicate sprig of tree fern and grunts, “Yeah?”

“If you’re going to spy on the guy across the street, you might want to find a new hiding spot.”

.

Several hours later, after the newly arrived roses have been stripped of all their thorns and some of their leaves, Lance swaggers into the shop. He is dressed in a deep blue button-down, pale gray slacks, and polished shoes. It is his typical attire when he has to deliver for special occasions.

“Hey, mullet man,” Lance greets as he pulls his wayfarer sunglasses off and perches them atop his head. “Shiro in the back?”

Keith barely spares Lance a glance, focused on transferring some wrapped boutonnieres into a small box. Each one is a unique blend of succulents, flower buds, and filler. It was Keith’s first time trying to wrangle such a combo into such a small arrangement, and despite his experience, he pricked himself more times than he is willing to admit.

“Careful there,” Lance comments airly. “Don’t want to ruin all your hard work.”

Without taking his eyes off the arrangements, Keith hisses, “I will murder you.”

Lance smirks. Shiro hired Lance about three years ago as a part-time delivery boy—as Keith preferred to stay at the store and Shiro could only carry so much with one arm—and in that time they have developed a small rivalry. At least, that’s what Shiro calls it. Keith calls it Lance being as annoying as possible.

“Hey, Lance,” Shiro calls as he exits the backroom. He is dressed similarly to Lance, though his shirt is white and his slacks are olive-brown. “Is the van ready?”

“Yep!” Lance pops the p and jerks a thumb at Keith. “Just waiting for Slow Poke McGee over here to finish.”

Keith refrains from rising to Lance’s taunt. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s to ignore Lance as much as possible. He also says nothing because Lance is right; Keith won’t admit it to Lance, but he should have spent less time daydreaming about the hot tattoo artist across the street and more time focusing on his work.

“We can start with the arrangements and the bouquets, then,” Shiro says, gesturing Lance over. There are ten table-toppers carefully placed in three carrying trays, one bridal and five bridesmaid bouquets in a repurposed dishwashing rack, two enormous arrangements in heavy vases for decoration, one flower crown, and a bag of pale green rose petals. Lance immediately picks up one of the heavier trays. By the time they have everything loaded, Keith is finished with the boutonnieres.

“We’ll be back in a couple hours,” Shiro tells Keith. “You’ll be okay?”

“I’m sure I can handle a few walk-ins,” Keith assures him. Keith is polite to customers, if not a little awkward. As long as no one tries to make a lot of small talk or asks too many stupid questions, he’s fine. “Besides, it’s Tuesday. We’re dead on Tuesdays.”

“Alright, alright.” Shiro smiles. “See you soon.”

Then, with a two-fingered salute from Lance, they’re out the door, and Keith is alone in the shop.

.

Keith works in silence for the next half hour, trimming stems and cutting filler. He and Shiro have another wedding to cater for at the end of the week, but there’s only so much he can do before his shipment of white anemone, grape hyacinth, and tallow berry arrives. So instead, he focuses on an enormous centerpiece for one of the shop’s regulars.

The bell tinkles as Keith contemplates throwing in some succulents he had left from the wedding party. He calls out a greeting absently.

“Hi,” a deep voice responds.

Keith’s mental visualization of the echeveria among the dusty miller and pale pink hydrangea is instantly interrupted by curiosity. Very few men visit Once and Flor-All, and those that do are usually either teenage boys buying their first corsage or awkward husbands looking for anniversary presents. When Keith looks up, however, he is met with neither.

When Keith looks up, it’s the tattoo artist from across the street.

“Hi,” Keith squeaks. Heat immediately washes over his entire face. He hopes he isn’t as red as the celosia bundled on the table, despite knowing from experience that he probably is. “I mean—uh—welcome? Hi. How can I—shit.”

His hand accidentally knocks over a plastic vase filled with the roses he stripped earlier. The roses stay intact but water gets all over his workspace. Keith curses again as he grabs the vase and sets it upright.

“You okay?” the guy asks, stepping closer to the square table that takes up the central space of the shop.

“Yeah,” Keith murmurs, keeping his eyes down as he snags a roll of paper towels and cleans up the worst of it. The prep table is almost always slightly damp when in use, and spilling a little water isn’t the end of the world. Keith is just flustered.

“Sorry,” the guy continues, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted—sorry.” There is a small cough. “Ugh, I’m really sorry. Do you want me to go?”

Keith dares a glance at the man he’s been spying on since the tattoo shop opened two months ago. He’s big and tall, with hair in thick waves down to his bare shoulders. Nearly every inch of his exposed skin—his throat and collarbones, his biceps, forearms, and wrists—is covered in geometric lines and angles of varying thickness. Keith had not been able to tell from a distance, but up close, the detail in his tattoo design is extraordinary.

“No,” Keith says slowly.

“Okay.” The other man smiles and reaches out with his free hand. His huge palm makes Keith’s look tiny in comparison. “I’m Hunk Tuaolo. I work across the street.”

Keith means to reply with his own name, but instead he responds with, "I know.” He realizes how creepy that sounds right after he says it and immediately tries to backtrack. “I mean—I didn’t know your name before but I know you because I’ve seen you go into the shop a couple times? Not because I’ve been spying on you or anything but—okay, I mean, I was curious when the new strip opened, but it wasn’t just you! I spied on all the shops and—god, that sounds so creepy, I swear I’m not a stalker, I just—I just really need to shut up, god.”

Stilling his tongue and closing his mouth takes a lot of willpower. Keith rarely rambles—he is more a man of action than a man of words—but he tends to word vomit when he’s nervous.

Great, Keith thinks sarcastically as he bites down on the inside of his cheek with his molars. Now the hot guy across the street thinks you’re a fucking weirdo. Way to go.

Hunk, however, does not give Keith an odd look. His wide smile remains as he says, “It’s not that creepy. You were just curious. Also, like, it wouldn’t have been cool if another flower shop invaded your turf.”

Some of Keith’s nerves settle at the understanding in Hunk’s tone. Keith knows he can be awkward. The only people he interacts with regularly are Shiro, Lance, and Allura, as well as the other members of his dojang. Shiro doesn’t count as practice for social interaction since he’s Keith’s cousin; Allura is more of a boss than a friend; and the other men at the dojang are ten to fifteen years Keith’s senior. The only person Keith communicates with that is actually his own age is Lance, and Lance likes to verbally despair of Keith every chance he gets.

“Anyways,” Hunk says after a small, stilted pause. “I actually came over to ask a huge favor of you.”

“Yeah?” Keith prompts.

“Well, I have this client who wants a floral sleeve done,” Hunk explains as he pulls a large, spiral-bound sketchbook out from under his arm, its corners dog-eared from use. “She has a couple of flowers that she wants incorporated—king protea and roses, actually—but otherwise gave me a lot of free rein. And I’ll be honest with you, I’m an angles and lines kinda guy. Flowers are a little outside of my comfort zone.”

Keith’s eyes dart back to the precise lines inked across Hunk’s skin. Briefly, he wonders if the design is Hunk’s own or if it is another artist’s vision.

“I mean, I could google bouquets, but I don’t like doing that,” continues Hunk. “It feels like I’m being disingenuous. Which is stupid, I know. Everyone gets tattoo ideas from the internet nowadays. But, like, it’s my job to make it authentic.”

“I understand,” Keith says. A lot of people come into the store with pictures on their phones, which is fine to start; it’s the people that insist on an exact replication that frustrate Keith. His job is to create, not copy. “So you need help constructing a bouquet?”

“Yes,” Hunk says emphatically.

“Okay,” Keith answers. “Well, I can tell you right now that I don’t have any king protea on hand. That’s a rarer flower that needs to be special ordered. I do, however, have a lot of other foliage that will work with it. Did your client say what kind of roses she wanted?”

“No.” Hunk shakes his head. “Just roses.”

Keith nods once before he walks over to the cooler against the back wall. After opening the door, he confidently grabs blue thistle and white wax flower, seeded and silver dollar eucalyptus, laurel-leafed cocculus, peonies, and pale cabbage roses. He only picks a stem or two of each, then brings them over to Shiro’s side of the prep table.

“There,” Keith says after he’s gently arranged them on the uncluttered space. “In a bouquet, the king protea is generally in the center or bottom right.” Then he continues, pointing to the respective plants as he talks, “The cabbage roses and peonies are also going to be centered or adjacent to the the king protea. The blue thistle and wax flowers are filler for any gaps, and the rest would be used to frame the flowers. Be careful with the seeded eucalyptus, though; it’s pretty drapey.”

“Wow,” Hunk says when Keith has finished his explanation. That one syllable makes Keith realize that he probably went overboard, something he knows he tends to do.

“Sorry,” Keith mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Those are just what I would use if I were making an arrangement. I can use something else if you don’t like it, or—”

“No!” interrupts Hunk. “No, Keith, no—this is super awesome, thank you. I’m really impressed. Like, I know you work here, but like, you didn’t even have to think about what I needed. Are—are all the arrangements in the shop yours?”

“Most of them.” Keith can feel his cheeks heat up for the third time in less than ten minutes and curses his fair skin. “Shiro—my cousin, he owns the shop—he isn’t great at it.”

That is an understatement. Shiro is okay at re-creating bouquets from photographs, which is what he did before he hired Keith, but he’s terrible at making something from scratch. Now Shiro only puts the simple stuff together, such as the ever popular dozen roses.

“That is really cool,” Hunk gushes as he steps closer to the prep table. “These textures are amazing.”

Keith has a hard time looking at the bright sincerity of Hunk’s smile, so when he mutters, “Thank you,” he says it to Hunk’s massive shoulder. Not that it helps. The muscle in Hunk’s arm tightens beneath his skin and Keith’s mouth instantly goes dry.

“Mind if I sit here?” Hunk asks. He gestures to the side of the table Keith carefully laid the flowers down upon. “To sketch them? I mean, I can just take some pictures if you don’t want me taking up your space. I know some people work better with privacy.”

“No,” Keith says as he tears his eyes away from Hunk’s enormous biceps. “I’m good.” He clears his throat as he becomes aware of how strained his voice sounds. “You can stay.”

“Dude, you’re a freaking lifesaver,” Hunk praises as his smile grows impossibly wider. “Seriously. I know it sounds weird, but it’s so much easier to get a feel for something in real life than from a picture. And all I know about flowers is that they’re pretty. So thanks, man. Thank you. You’re really saving my butt.”

Keith’s embarrassed blush deepens. It is not an attractive look for him—his blushes are stark and they fill in splotchy over his flat cheeks—but it feels as though that’s all he’s been capable of doing since Hunk walked through the door.

“Yeah, man,” Keith mutter, ducking his head in a futile attempt to hide the redness from Hunk’s eyes. At this point, the other man probably already thinks he has some sort of skin condition, or is part tomato. “No problem.”

.

part two

.

[vdoesbookrecs]

Welcome to the Shame Shelf #1

Blurb: Amber, Maali, Sky and Rose may be very different, but they all have one thing in common: they’re fed up with being told how to look, what to think and how to act. 

They’re not like everyone else

and they don’t want to be.

Becoming friends gives them the courage to be themselves. 

Some Stats: First published in 2016, ISBN: 978-1-4063-6582-5, 347 pages in the Walker Books paperback edition. Thirty-nine chapters, third-person limited narrator, written in past tense. Style is standard to colloquial, syntax is rather simple. Took me about five hours to get through, I’d say ten to fifteen for the average to slow reader. 

Synopsis: The story follows four girls, Amber, who lives with her two dads and is obsessed with vintage and Oscar Wilde, Maali, a painfully shy Indian girl who just wants to be able to talk to boys, Sky, who writes poetry and used to live on a house boat with her father, and Rose, who’s mother is a famous model and dating Sky’s father. All four girls feel like outcasts because they are different from the average girl. Amber decides to found a sort of secret society, the Moonlight Dreamers (inspired by an Oscar Wilde quote), and hands out ‘invitation cards’ to Maali and Sky. Rose tags along to the first Moonlight Dreamers meeting and is reluctantly accepted into the group. The girls vow to help each other achieve their dreams, which range through talking to boys to getting more followers on tumblr. Meanwhile, many problems in the girls’ personal lives come up: Sky and Rose despise each other and don’t want their parents to move in together, Rose struggles with alcoholism and her boyfriend, Amber with the strained relationship to her father Gerald, who is a self-obsessed artist, and Maali’s crush has a girlfriend. The situation escalates when Rose’s boyfriend posts a nude she sent him on her Instagram because she wouldn’t sleep with him and paparazzi begin chasing her and her mother around. Sky offers her refuge on her house boat and the girls finally reconcile their differences. Rose’s mother sees the error in her ways and she and Sky’s father decide to move apart again. Amber interviews Rose and posts the interview on tumblr, boosting her follower count dramatically. The book ends with the girls supporting Sky at her first poetry slam and visiting Oscar Wilde’s grave in Paris with Amber’s fathers, who she has also reconciled with. 

Personal Opinion: In an interview with The Guardian regarding Curham’s involvement in Zoe Sugg’s ‘Girl Online’ she states that she “love[s] writing books and [she] love[s] helping others write books. And [she] especially love[s] being involved in the creation of books that help others. Books that deal with real and serious issues such as cyber-bullying, homophobia and anxiety.” (x) to which I can only say ...really? The blurb sounds like it, but after reading this book I’m not so sure anymore. To clarify: The two major themes of this book are friendship and the relationship between a child and its parents. And I have an issue with this. Because they are not treated the way they should be. I’ll start with the parent issue: The book features two prominent examples of bad parenting bordering on emotional neglect, Rose’s mother and Amber’s father Gerald. And the thing is, emotional neglect is something that needs to be addressed, but in this book, I’d really rather the author didn’t because instead of showing a parent who unintentionally neglects a child and trying to show the reasons for that and how the issue is resolved, she uses harmful stereotypes about women and gay men as an ‘explanation’ and the issue is resolved when the characters become more ‘mainstream’. Rose’s mother is a model and shown as the stereotypical beauty-obsessed woman who’s only goal in life is to be prettier than the rest. Amber’s father is shown as the stereotypical flamboyant gay man. They are both characterised as self-obsessed because of this, leading to them neglecting their children. And this is extremely dangerous, especially in a novel aimed towards preteen to early teenage girls, because what you’re doing with something like that is saying that it’s only okay for people to be different if they still fit the mainstream mould. And, considering the target group, that implication that women are only worth being taken seriously if they don’t do typically girly stuff is downright fatal. What you’re doing with something like this is connecting explicitly negative stereotypes to femininity. You’re making thousands of little girls who like makeup or being pretty and thousands of boys who like pink and flower crowns feel like they aren’t worthy of respect, like they aren’t worthy of being seen as human beings. You’re distancing them from their peers, you’re allowing them to become easy targets for bullying, you’re isolating them from the group of ‘normal human beings’ and purposely pushing them towards ‘freak’. Same with the friendship thing. Instead of portraying a healthy relationship between four girls who all feel like outcasts for various different reasons, the author explicitly distances them from other girls, who are described as superficial and portrayed as monstrous caricatures of Instagram fashionistas. The one thing that ties this group of ‘friends’ together is not mutual (sisterly) love and respect, but an almost cult-like group philosophy based on a feeling of exclusiveness. The authors intention was obviously to assure girls that don’t identify with stereotypes attached to femininity that it’s ok to be ‘different’, but this is not the way to go about it. You’re not creating “books that help others”, to say it with Curham’s words, you’re telling a big part of your readers that they aren’t worthy of true friendship, and another big part of your readers that they are superior to other girls and shouldn’t take them seriously or associate with them. 

I’m a member of the Shame Shelf because...

...I use explicitly homophobic stereotypes in order to antagonise and ridicule a gay character instead of a realistic characterisation and actually focusing on the problem at hand, which is emotional neglect of a child by a parent.

...Instead of realistic character development leading to the four protagonists becoming friends, I distance them from the group of girls as a whole and heavily imply that, should a member of the group no longer fit the specific criteria for being ‘different’, they would no longer be allowed to be part of the group. 

...I explicitly shame girls and women for wanting to be pretty, wearing makeup, and following fashion trends.

...I characterise almost all women outside the group of outsiders as being shallow, disloyal and backstabbing. 

...I explicitly queer-code a character inside the group, showing her being repulsed by male attention, not seeing men as attractive, imply her falling in love with a woman, imply her to only be dating men because she wants to uphold an image, give her several opportunities to come out, and make all of this magically vanish when she resolves the issue with her boyfriend, implying that she only felt homoerotic attraction because they boy she was dating wasn’t the right one for her and/or a ‘real’ man. And yes, I know, she’s supposed to come out in the next book, but that still doesn’t excuse the aforementioned implication that the issue isn’t about her sexuality but her boyfriend. 

Books That Do It Better: Wild Chicks by Cornelia Funke (available in German and Polish, coming soon in English), a five-part series about a group of girls that decide to form a 'gang’, is, in my opinion, everything The Moonlight Dreamers could have been. Like Curham’s, Funke’s characters are all misfits in some way: Sprotte does badly in school, lives with her single mom and despises the new boyfriend. Wilma is an academic overachiever. Trude is bullied for being shy and fat. Melanie is hated by other girls for being pretty and liking boys and makeup. Frieda is a hippie. But instead of putting them in a group and distancing them even further from the ‘average girl’, giving them a sense of superiority over their female peers, and creating a feeling of exclusivity, they are just friends. They help each other, they stick together, they fight, they make up, they have a sometimes-playful-sometimes-not rivalry going on with the local gang of boys, they fall in love, they have their hearts broken. They’re just girls. Girls being friends. There are many parallels between the Wild Chicks and the Moonlight Dreamers, so many even, that one might think Curham has read the series. But while the Moonlight Dreamers seem to distance themselves from other girls further and further the more things happen in their lives, the Wild Chicks never claim to be better or even different in a fundamental way. There is never a need to set themselves apart from others, there is no secretiveness or group philosophy involved, no idol everyone is required to look up to. They became friends because Sprotte liked the idea of a tight-knit group of girl friends. They stayed friends because they genuinely like each other. Not because they convinced themselves that they are somehow better and different from anyone around them. 

T/W: attempted rape (graphic), invasion of privacy by the media (graphic), implied eating disorder, queerbating, homophobic stereotypes, implied parental neglect, sending nudes, posting nudes without consent