#it's vaguely american but her pronunciation is so interesting

[theguiltinessisyours]

okay so I've started the silt verses and can anyone tell me what méabh de brún's accent is? It drives me crazy

[bmpmp3]

for the past couple years ive been slowly. slowly learning beginners japanese and its very fun and im enjoying it a lot but also it has made me painfully aware in ways i wasnt before of how much my specific vaguely ontario accent makes me make out sloppy style with my vowels. i am going at those vowel's tonsils. i am doing things to diphthongs you wouldnt even believe.

[burlowbeanie]

Ok. My prev reblog got me thinking more about Anastasia and samael and they are just so fascinating. A few thoughts below:

Character names are important in the locked tomb series — that’s been well established from the end of gtn, when Muir literally holds our hand and points that out to us. They indicate themes, plot points, relationships. Significantly, we don’t get another naming explanation in ntn and there’s nothing but pronunciations for Anastasia and Samael for htn, leaving us to fill in the blanks. I think that the gtn appendix about names was more than just a fun add-on; it was Muir telling us how to piece the plot together. I’m going to build from some theories I r seen circulating/respond to them with a close reading of the names.

Now, on to the og ninth pair. (I know samael might not have been ninth because it wasn’t definitively founded until his death, but you know what I mean.)

Anastasia: first thing that comes to mind is the Russian princess. I’ve seen theories that Anastasia is the bones in the corner of Alecto’s tomb, which I find convincing. I’ve heard theories that she’s done something like Pal and might be coming back.

Anastasia, missing Russian princess, subject to countless theories and myths and animated movies about her possible return. Only to have her bones finally discovered in a basement. (It’s not confirmed which ones were hers out of her and her sisters’ remains, but all of them are accounted for.)

I don’t know if Anastasia is coming back. But frankly, I doubt it. She is gone. Anyone claiming to be her in Alecto is more likely to be an imposter.

Now, Samael. The first thing that stands out about is name is that it’s one of those -ael angel names. Not surprising, given the impact of Christianity/Catholicism both implicit in the text and, after Nona, now known to explicitly be something influencing the thoughts and actions and persons of many of Jod’s crew (especially Cristabel and Jod himself tbh).

Now, initially that was all I knew. I may have been raised Christian and been, unfortunately, a theology geek, but I do not have a encyclopedic knowledge of all angels ever. Knowing stuff about angels other than, like, Michael and Gabriel always seemed vaguely heretical probably due to boring American Protestantism conditioning, idk. But, I am expecting some deep theological cut with the name so I go to look it up. And boy oh boy was I not disappointed.

So Samael is an archangel who mostly shows up in Jewish texts and lore, not Christian/Catholic stuff. He’s 1) an ambiguous figure, sometimes a fallen angel and sometimes not; 2) often called the angel of death; 3) sometimes associated with Rome/Christianity as the embodiment of sin/danger/god’s wrath against Israel; and 4) in most depictions responsible for Eve taking the fruit, having ridden the serpent “like a camel” and convinced her to do so (because he doesn’t like humanity? To spite heaven? To give them knowledge? Idk how many of those are actual traditions of interpretation.) I unfortunately do not know enough about Judaism to unpack that in full, and I hope that I am not completely misinterpreting something, but it’s fascinating that the “angel of death” is linked to the same place where the “death of god” is laid to rest. Then, there’s the link with Rome/Christianity and how much the necromantic empire reflects those things. The thing that is making me so excited though is his association with the temptation of Eve, the Serpent, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

Now. That’s interesting. There’s a character named Angel, or something that translates to that. And she has a dog named noodle. And another fascinating element of tlt it’s use of memes. Several others have pointed out the baffling and one-off connection between snakes (some even suggested the the biblical serpent just from that) and Noodle, with the literal quote “Noodle. Danger” from the Angel, and how it seems to reference the meme-form way of referring to snakes as “danger noodles.” We also know that the Angel is passing down something, possibly the implant, that is an important message. (Angels are, of course, messengers of god).

I think that what they are passing down is Samael, in some form. The Blood of Eden himself. The angel of death. The messenger. The serpent’s companion, the maybe-fallen. And I think that he is going to return in Alecto, as we encounter the death of god.

I always wondered why Anastasia wanted Jod there when she attempted lyctorhood, if that was the truth, how she could have discovered a potentially successful mode of true lyctorhood and not have suspicions about him. I think that “doing the ritual more slowly” wasn’t all she did. I think she potentially found a way to transfer Samael’s consciousness, let him piggyback like Gideon or Pyrrah in htn. I think she got him safe, or at least partially so, when Jod killed him. She wanted to trick Jod into thinking he’s gone or something maybe? I have no idea how the Blood of Eden would have gotten involved, but based on their goddamn name invoking Eden they are definitely linked to him.

If any of the original lyctors or cavaliers are revealed to still exist in Alecto the ninth, it will not be Anastasia, the red herring, the dead bones in a basement finally discovered and proven dead after so much speculation. It will be Samael, the angel of death, the temptation within Eden, the companion to the danger noodle serpent.

[fraks]

LEVERAGE REDEMPTION 1x14 THE GREAT TRAIN JOB

- eliot talking about food. 🥰 you can tell he loves cooking so much.

- CHRISTINE BOYLAN WROTE THIS ONE!

- sjfbskdjkskdjd HARRY. jfc he has done some really, REALLY bad stuff. i love that he at least gained some knowledge from his past actions that they can use now.

- "oh you don't have a redemption lis— whaaaaat." fjakfnskfnkshfk I LOVE THIS MAN. i already posted about the list, but i gotta freak out again. "tom hagen for the memphis mob"? a+ godfather reference, breanna. and lmao "come on, man!" 😂 "twenty frivolous lawsuits in one week - a state record" gjajfjskfjekd. everything about this scene is perfect. and honestly they HAVE to use some of this in s2.

- "i actually like my list. i mean, everything on my list that i did wrong i did extremely right." SOPHIE. a) MISS SOPHIE DEVEREAUX, QUEEN OF THE UNIVERSE. b) FLIRTING WITH HARRY AGAIN, I SEE. CARRY ON.

- OMG PARKER 😂 parachuting into the courtyard of the theatre. i love her. and she's so excited about robbing the frame safe!!

- bachelorettes lmao.

- sophie in a trench coat is just. 🥵 (i like to imagine sophie at some point pulls a jane christie and shows up somewhere, preferably at harry's, wearing nothing BUT a trench coat. 😏)

- "i have thirty characters in this bag, anyone i need to be." Q U E E N.

- "my other car." harry DUDE. "you a serial killer?" i am SCREAMING. eliot + harry have some of my favourite dynamics on this show.

- that shot of sophie turning into her character jfc. beth riesgraf is an AMAZING director.

- ugh awful wig time. but blood red lipstick. 🥵

- umm. pretty sure someone involved in white nationalism wouldn't have an asian-american woman as his chief engineer. and if he did, he wouldn't have brought her on this particular trip, what with all the white nationalists around.

- gina's german is... interesting, but her german ACCENT is amazing. and i say that as both a german and a linguist. (i always thought she did a great job on her german accent, even back in the original days. still the same now. but yeah i don't think i've ever heard a single english native speaker speak actual german believably. which is weird because it's not THAT hard, linguistically speaking. like, gina should've had a harder time with italian pronunciation than with german, and as far as i can tell with my admittedly very limited skills (though i did grow up around italians), her italian pronunciation in the fake car job is PERFECT.)

- harry is SUCH a nerd. "i ordered some things online, ended up on some pretty strange mailing lists." fhsjfjskfhsk

- "you're not a serial killer. you're a doomsday prepper." - "i'm more of a... everyday prepper." I LOVE HIM YOUR HONOUR.

- lmao "sophie, swipe left, yikes." BREANNA MY DARLING

- ugh the mark is throwing himself at sophie without ANY shame or discretion though. i bet she misses harry. he's just such a gentleman 😭 HE ALWAYS HOLDS THE DOOR FOR EVERYONE.

- more eliot and harry heart-to-heart! 😍 "did you ever think i'd last this long?" - "not at first. but let me ask you a question. how far d'you want to go? see, a lot of people, they just change a little. they take a look at their past and realise it's too much to overcome. but you, you've stared your past in the face, and you kept on digging. i guess what i'm saying is... you could be a part of this team—long-term." oh my god. okay. this is at the very heart of harry wilson's character, and i'm pretty sure it's foreshadowing for the finale. (i THINK i have a vague idea where they're going with the finale, which means they're probably going in a completely different direction.) but the question IS how far is harry willing to go? will making up for his past actions, as much as that's even possible given that people have suffered and even died because of things harry helped make happen, be enough for harry? it wasn't for eliot. lbr eliot has most definitely saved more people now that he killed, no question. but while harry might never have pulled the trigger himself, so to speak, he probably has more blood on his hands than eliot does, albeit indirectly—his actions have most likely harmed far more people than eliot's did. and eliot "will never be clean of that", and neither will harry. and we already know that helping people can become a bit of an addiction, too. our team got bored doing regular crime when they broke up after the original first season. i know we've had other moments of foreshadowing that are supposed to tell us harry might at some point leave, go back to being a lawyer, just without the "evil" part. but CAN he, really? is he going to be able to leave all this behind? i think eliot's been asking himself that same question—will harry eventually leave, or will he stick around?

- lmao parker finding the safe empty. "blasphemy!"

- (as a future train engineer—fingers crossed—and a train enthusiast, this episode is just. HEARTEYES)

- "it's a confidence game. how bloody dare he?" i feel like i'm just quoting the episode at this point without adding anything of note, but: fjajfbskfhjsjfk SOPHIE. SOOOOPHIEEE. "the nerve!" ok breanna has definitely been taking lessons from sophie. and she's a d o r a b l e.

- TWO AWKWARD NERD LESBIANS? I AM 10000000% HERE FOR IT.

- fhsjfbsjfhdj everyone being afraid of the mounties except harry. "just cops on horses." THIS SHOW IS RIDICULOUS. :') "this is why we don't work in canada." OKAY IMMA NEED DETAILS. IMMEDIATELY.

- "egregious misuse of a mountie's hat. and handcuffs!" oh sophie. 😏 pretty sure harry wants more details on this, too. just sayin'.

- "wait, i stole the stanley cup!" fniahfsijfjeh "yeah and when's the last time you saw it?" - "i just. i forgot where i stored it." - "well aren't you glad i found it then?" i am SCREAMING. stealing from regular people is wrong now, parker knows that. stealing from family? WELL. god this exchange is everything. and after the wig, this is the second reference to the blue line job. :') i love references to the original show.

- eliot 'bout to kick some nazi butt. :')

- awww harry came back to help eliot. and fhajfjskdfj he's sneaking around so he can hit the nazi. "my buddy hits you with a shovel, it's polite to stay down." ELIOT PLS. 😂 and ghsjfhsjfb HARRY MY LOVE. "i just hit a guy with a car! i just hit a guy with a shovel!" I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. lmao lmao lmao "i think i AM gonna hurl." oh my god. 😂

- YASSSSSS. we should all get the chance to literally kick a nazi off a train lbr.

- god i love watching sophie DESTROY people. 🔥🔥🔥

- dgahfhsicheihf HARRY WILSON IS THE BIGGEST DORK I HAVE EVER SEEN. THE WAY HE SCREAMS IN THE FLASHBACK I CAN'T. (also, there is NO way this drama queen is straight. sorry, breanna, but you're wrong.)

- the ending is beautiful. breanna got the girl! and our fam is eating together again, those endings are always my favourite. (although to be honest, we've gotten so much h/s content that i'm now disappointed whenever they DON'T sit next to each other.)

- "you know, i've had to dig up evidence before, but i've never actually had to dig up evidence before." HARRY. 😂 and the way sophie rolls her eyes and shakes her head? makes me think harry tried that joke on her while they were driving to the farm, and she didn't find it funny the first time. 😂

- "technically we did not hold up the train, or rob anything, so i would like to say we can put it back on the bucket list and, you know, do it another time." oh PLEASE do, parker. please.

- fhajfhskfjj SOPHIE STOLE THE SAFE FOR PARKER OMG. MY THIEF FAMILYYY. "we didn't rob the safe, we robbed the safe!!!" fjksfbsifjjejfksk

- this episode? CLASSIC leverage.

[45paperplates]

More about Olivia Rodrigo: On her Voice

It’s been almost a month since Olivia Rodrigo’s album came out and since my obsession shows no sign of fading soon I might as well put it to good use. From the beginning I’ve been captivated by her uncanny ability to express emotion through her voice but now I’m starting to realize how fully strange her voice actually is, that emotional dexterity requires originality which is necessarily weird. The strangeness is subtle because it is centralized, and so the songs can have an uncanny core with a very familiar pop ballad shell.  

In the final chorus of “traitor” she holds the last syllable of that word through three ascending notes, starting with the “er” sound of the word’s typical American pronunciation and through the next two beats progressively opening the sound to an eventual hard “ah,” effectively leaving the word behind altogether and never fully pronouncing it. She often seems to insist, against conventional wisdom, on incorporating speech sounds into her singing, talking when she should be singing, and here, screaming when she should be enunciating.

I must assume that this is because of an intuitive need for specificity in expression, a particularly tricky and treacherously precise specificity here. This song is about her dissatisfaction with what is truly a very normal occurrence, an ex-partner moving on to another relationship faster than would be expected: a common human behavior and always ripe to be explained away by whomever might find comfort in doing so. The perpetrator never feels they have done wrong and so she risks attacking her listeners themselves if she missteps. It’s as if her despairing, elemental sense of unfairness is being squeezed through the tiniest of openings, between petulance on one side and self-doubt on the other. The word “traitor” itself isn’t specific enough to get through this hole, and therefore must be refined further. The same goes for her pronunciation of “paranoid” earlier in the song.

She plays around a lot at the low end of her voice, often touching the unsingable, and if not quite doing so affecting a strained raspiness and phlegmy chest tone that I can only describe as something like a groan of mourning (the descending “said it first to meee” on “happier”), an utterly inappropriate, almost perverse inclusion in a teenage heartbreak ballad, enough to upset the dignity of less empathetic and more socially-experienced listeners.  

She begins “deja vu” with another kind of breathy low voice that slides around over the vocal cords and at times ceases to vibrate them entirely, a sort of wide-open piecemeal mixture of air and depth I personally associate with (in a much more pronounced form of course) Louis Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World,” another perverse reference juxtaposed sound-collage style against the eye-wideningly unprompted falsetto that follows it, an acrobatically angelic sort of performance that would be sweet in a more expected setting but is here I think almost sickeningly pitiful in its objectively unjustified strain. Taken altogether this jump-cut from repose to borderline cringe must be diabolically calculated to exist at all, expressing the long-ruminated-upon pain of a supervillain, the kind of supervillain that people are always identifying with. The pregnant “huh?” just before the drums kick in isn’t really a question at all, although it is written into the song that way, because it is so overwhelmingly automatic, trance-like, involuntary. Olivia sings this whole first verse and chorus as if she has no other choice but to be wrong, as if she knows there is something fundamentally false about her accusation, as if she really doesn’t want to know at all the answer to the song’s question, but she is broadly compelled by her nature to ask against her will, by fate, by the self. It’s cosmic tragedy, not necessarily lyrically, but definitely vocally.

In case I sound like a nutjob I can provide proof of her interest in performing on just such a cosmic stage. “Rebel Without a Clue,” apparently written and performed when she was fifteen years old, apes a certain kind of singer-songwriter yearning so well that it took me a while to realize its lyrics are so vague as to border on meaninglessness. That is not bad at fifteen of course, but I think it is also proof of a voice-before-words tendency in her songcraft that will only benefit from further simplicity of lyrics and complexity of expression as she matures.

The song centers around “will I ever shake hands with time?” a line too louded and conceptually labyrinthine to carry the weight here that it could, but appropriate completely to the elevated intensity of the performance. She begins the song around a single held high note that she bends every which way, rather stubbornly refusing to turn it into a substantial melody, as if that would be crass. When she says “drink up my friend, my potion of emotion” or “I’m a rebel without a clue,” I don’t really know what these have to do with shaking hands with time necessarily, but they are related purely by the sustained tone in which they are sung.  

If anything though, the song’s vagaries can only suggest together an existential subject, about the pain of participation and the struggle for an alternative:

Let’s sit, watch the trains all derail They want me to learn Well they can sit and watch me fail

Here is an almost joyous refusal to accept the parameters of one’s existence, and the palpable pain of the song comes from the reality that this voyeuristic pleasure at the expense of the world cannot be maintained statically but has to be achieved by an act of renunciation that is sometimes impossible or cruel. She feels, in other words, guilt. Pleasure and rage come from the temporary success and inevitable failure of any attempt to avoid fate, and sadness swallowing both comes from the regret of having attempted to do so in the first place. “I don’t really know who I am / And now you want me to change.” She sounds guilty for having even asked the simple question, “sitting in my room, what’s it all about?” as though questioning one's surroundings weren't one of the most basic human behaviors.

It is the mixture of this search for pure identity and regret for its failure in all of her best vocal performances--focused so far mostly but by no means necessarily around an attempt to find identity in another person--that makes her sing in the subtle but erratic way that she does, because to regret the past and yet simultaneously repeat it in real time is both fundamentally absurd and extremely normal. Just as I described her initially, the stranger she sounds, the more she sounds like herself. Thusly she can make this obtuse metaphysical quest sound as it should, like the most obvious and deeply relatable thing to hear in the world; like an image of basic, unstoppable, irrational desire; like pop music.

[amydancepants-peralta]

Okay hi! Don’t mind me just jumping back onto my AU wagon with a Bodyguard!Jake fic inspired by The West Wing that absolutely nobody asked for but I couldn’t help but write ... 😎🚨 anyway it’s called let down your guard and you can find it on under the cut or on ao3! 

let down your guard 

chapter one: there’s so much that you just don’t see 

There are a collection of nuclei in the temporal lobe of the brain known as the amygdala, that are best known for their role in sparking the fight or flight reaction in most people when met with emotions like fear.  Amy had read about it once, in a medical journal that she’d found at Rosa’s house (it’s presence on her coffee table, to this day, remains unexplained).  According to the article; once the amygdala sparks, your brain’s ability to retain memory increases, and in hindsight can make a patch of time feel as though it has stretched on forever.

As she stands in the world’s slowest elevator at Medstar Washington Hospital this evening, with her heart smashing against her ribcage and her toes tapping against the faded linoleum floor; Amy is certain that her amygdala has kicked into overdrive.  

Panicking, her frantic mind keeps bouncing around between the urges to run like hell and stay until the bitter end, and it definitely isn’t like Amy because she’s never run away from a fight, but maybe there’s a part of her that already knows that what could happen next has the potential to change everything. 

Her eyes remain glued to the squares inset along the top of the car, their white laminate long since turned a faded yellow; the number eleven scratched out almost to the point of non-existence.  She counts, a slow progression in her head that tries it’s very best at blocking out the thoughts racing around - the thoughts that keep telling her that she might have just lost the greatest thing to happen to her before it could ever really happen - and she can’t bear to look at her watch right now, but she’s positive that three minutes pass before the dim light behind the number four decides to amble it’s way towards five.  

“Shots were fired in a store on 14th Street,” was the message she’d received, a mere half an hour ago (also, approximately the time she’d gotten on this damn elevator).  Boyle’s pale face, and a choked out number.  “Room 9554.”  The rest is muddled - she knows she started running; remembers hearing Terry call out to her departing figure, and she’s pretty sure her purse is somewhere back at the theatre lobby - but there was a force stronger than anything she can label that was pulling her to the hospital, and in that moment Amy had absolutely no intention of stopping.  

The squares for six and seven remains mute yet eight comes to life, and the knots in her stomach begin to clench even tighter.  There’s a mantra that’s been playing in the back of her mind - from the very moment she’d stepped into the lobby and saw Charles make a beeline in her direction - and it takes over any other rational thought as finally level nine lights up, and the doors to her metallic prison slide open.  Please let him be okay.  Please let him be okay.

I don’t know what I’ll do, if Jake is not okay.

The sterility of the ward burns her nostrils and the clack of her heels sound vaguely like the rattling snare drums at the last inauguration, interrupting the otherwise calm environment of the floor as the numbered plaques beside each room begin to blur.  She dodges past nurses, doctors, and patients alike; and she can tell that they recognise her face (which means there’s a very good chance that this will be in the paper tomorrow), but it doesn’t matter that they know her, it doesn’t matter if the press find out about this - nothing else matters if he is not okay - and then finally, FINALLY, the numbers 9544 are before her.  

Her fingers feel limp, but somehow she manages to grip the doorknob and turn - pushing her weight against the wood as though somehow it is the reason she hasn’t been able to get here earlier - and then suddenly the only sound Amy hears is the frenzied heaving of her own breath.

The room is empty, save for a bed in the middle - stripped clean and returned to it’s regular scrutiny from the harsh fluorescent buzzing above.  A clipboard cleared of any history hangs lax from its base, and on the very edge of the mattress sits a leather jacket; the same jacket that had once hung on the back of her apartment door … and the same jacket that Amy’s fingers had gripped the edge of a mere three hours before.  

She feels her stomach drop to her feet, glued to position as her mind moves into overdrive, eyes trained solely on the scene before her as the realisation hits.  

Jake was not okay.  And nothing was ever going to be the same again.    

*

Five months earlier … 

“On to other news.  We can confirm that there has been a surge in counterfeit notes across the nation, with several states reporting projections of significant economic loss.”

Amy pauses as the small crowd in front of her transform into a cacophony of sound, pen-clenched fingers and miniature recorders thrusting towards the ceiling in desperate attempts to get her attention and break their version of the story.  Blinking, she gives them her best I’m not done yet look, and after a few beats the reporters in front of her fall silent.

“President Holt has already been in discussion with the Secret Service, and are confident that the lead they are running on will come to fruition.”

From the back, Matthews from The Sun raises his hand, and Amy gives a quick nod.  “You said there were several states reporting loss.  Do we have an estimation?”

“Presently, the calculations are upwards of 3 million dollars, which - ” she emphasises, as the sea of hands raise once again, “is why there are teams working around the clock to stop the fraudulent currency from getting into circulation.  In the meantime, The White House has released an image of the forged notes,” nodding to her left, Amy waits for the screen beside her to light up, “and the differences are clearly distinguishable.”

The room falls quiet as the reporters all turn their attention to the image, and Amy watches as they all slowly turn back to her with varying expressions of confusion.  Suppressing a sigh, she uses the remote in her hand to zoom in on the imitation of the offical seal, the same one that is on every U.S. dollar bill, and undoubtedly in the pocket or purse of every single person here.  Not a day goes by that she doesn’t wish that Latin would finally wake up from its long nap (or it’s conquiescamus, as it were).  “Pluribus.  There are two Rs.”  She waits a beat, and continues in a dry tone.  “There should only be one.”

To her right, Ginns from The Examiner clears his throat; glancing up at Amy to ensure he has her attention before flipping open his notebook.  The Chicago-born columnist was unashamed in his opinion - as were his loyal followers - and his coverage of Holt’s campaign had leant towards unfavourable.  With a tight smile, Amy swallows the urge to scream at whatever was about to come next.  “Yeah, so - with regards to the Secret Service.  After his inauguration, President Holt elected a new head of the Presidential Detail, a .. ” pausing, Ginns refers to his notes, creasing his brow.   “Rosa Dye-az.”  

Pushing her tongue against the back of her teeth, Amy wills herself not to interrupt and correct Ginns’ pronunciation, waiting for some kind of sign of potential redemption.  Instead, he leans forward and continues.  

“Apart from what has already been published, her history and previous credentials appear to be incredibly difficult to correlate.  Given her obvious reluctance to divulge anything to the American public, and the fact that this role has never been held by a female prior to today, what reassurance can we the people have that Miss Dye-az was the best choice?”

Feeling her back teeth begin to grind together, Amy takes a measured breath before fixing Ginns with a steely gaze.  Questions such as these have been a common denominator since Holt was sworn in over a month ago, particularly due to choosing Olivia Crawford as his VP; and while expected, the overwhelmingly misogynistic responses were beginning to wear thin.

“I can assure you, Mr Ginns, that President Holt’s vetting process for all roles was incredibly thorough - and Ms Dee-az,”  she pauses, raising a singular brow, “remained incredibly co-operative throughout.  We cannot bow to the curiosities of the general public on every request for detail, or we’d never stop.  After all, the public continues to let you write for one of D.C’s most prolific news journals without knowing the details of your Christmas Card list, and somehow the world continues to spin.”

Ginns’ responding eye roll is poorly concealed, and Amy’s fingernails begin to dig into the edge of her podium.  “Furthermore, I would suggest that despite Ms Diaz having a uterus, the bar set by her predecessors will continue to ascend.  One could even argue that the lack of … other certain parts of the human anatomy will only assist in keeping a clear head in the most intense of situations.”

The reporter shifts uncomfortably in his seat, blessedly silent in his rebuttal, and Amy directs the end of her statement towards the rest of the crowd.  “President Holt and his administration are aware that a small percentage of the public lack confidence in the roles he has filled.  Criticism is necessary, and welcome.  But unmerited accusations regarding a person’s ability based entirely on their sex is where he draws the line.”  Slamming the file in front of her closed, Amy takes a step back before leaning closer to the microphone, delivering her final line.  “That concludes the presidential briefing for today.  Thank you.”

Terry hovers by the doorway as Amy exits, his leather yoked suspenders proudly displaying the commemorative pin gifted to him upon being sworn in as the president’s Chief of Staff, and he cocks his head towards her as they move swiftly down the corridor towards Amy’s office.  “Interesting briefing you held there, Santiago.”

“You mis-pronounced psychotic, Ter-bear,” interjects Gina as she passes them both, head already bowed down to her cellphone before either can respond.  

Already feeling defensive, Amy shakes her head quickly, raising one hand to gesture at the room she’d just departed.  “We’ve been fielding commentary like that since the early days of the campaign, Terry.  At some point, we just need to point out the baselessness of their remarks, and remind them that there simply isn’t a place for it in modern society.”

Raising his hands in surrender, Terry shrugs.  “Don’t get me wrong.  Terry hates closed minded attitudes.  As do the rest of the cabinet.  I just find it fascinating to watch how close our new Press Secretary came to literally biting a reporter’s head off.”

“Ugh.  I’m fairly certain it would just pop like a balloon.  Full of hot air and not much else.”

Nodding, Terry points in the direction of Amy’s office.  “You might be onto something there.  Heads up, though - I saw Diaz making a beeline to your office just as you were wrapping things up.”  He pauses, shoving his hands into his pockets while giving her the side-eye.  “Terry wishes you luck.”

Smiling at an intern as they hand her an updated schedule, Amy casts a quick glance down the hallway and grimaces.  “Well, at least she hasn’t gone straight to grinding her axe.” 

“I didn’t see both hands, but let’s assume you’re right.”

Throwing Terry an exasperated glance, Amy bids him farewell before moving towards her office, deliberately taking on a confident stride as she squares her shoulders in preparation for confrontation.  

With her jet black curly hair and the zero fucks aura surrounding her, most members of the team had learned on their own that Special Agent Rosa Diaz was not somebody to be trifled with.  Not meeting until the last couple of months of Holt’s campaign, Amy had spent the first few weeks largely being ignored by Diaz - until one afternoon, when a particularly vocal protester tried to pull Amy in for a debate, only to be met by Rosa’s steely glare and the unspoken promise of worse to come.  She’d muttered, on their way back to the car, that they needed to have each other backs; and over time their working relationship had grown into a something closer to friendship.  

(A friend that occasionally intimidates you with their intensity, but a friend all the same.)

With her trademark leather jacket covering her like a second skin Rosa is easy to point out in the busy walkway, but it’s the two men standing with her that captures Amy’s attention as she draws near.  One was tall with a distinctive profile; the other slightly shorter, and sporting a hairstyle that looked like it could survive a hurricane.  Although the taller one wore shades, Amy could tell that both of them were casing their environment, taking in their surroundings with a stern exterior that gave away exactly who they were.  

These men were Secret Service, and for some reason they were standing outside her office door.

Her curiosity overshadowing the possibility that she may need to eat a slice of humble pie, Amy thrusts the hand still holding the schedule towards the two men as she passes Rosa, giving them her best Suspicious Face.

“Who are those guys?”

“Good morning to you too, Santiago.”  Rosa’s dark eyes follow Amy’s path around to her desk, tilting her chin upwards after a beat.  “My uterus thanks you for it’s shout-out this morning.”

“Ugh, okay.”  Returning her planner to it’s designated top-left-corner position, Amy feels her shoulders drop as she throws an apologetic look at the woman in front of her.  “I know that wasn’t my best work.  But the guy was being a jerk, and I was 100% done with the conversation.”

“No, really.  It’s fine.”  Rosa’s voice takes on no other inflection to demonstrate her approval, but Amy learned a long time ago not to read into her monotone.  “My uterus is a bad-ass.  Definitely tries to punch me from the inside out at least once a month.”  She smirks, a sight familiar to only a select few, and raises one eyebrow.  “Somehow, I still manage to keep the President and all his flunkies alive.  It really is shocking.”

Without invitation, the mystery men have followed Amy into her office, hovering along the outskirts of the room while she checks her messages, listening with half an ear as Rosa continues to go into alarming detail on how she’d personally like to deal with reporters like Ginns.  It’s as the taller of the two reaches out to investigate an award propped up on her well-stocked shelf that Amy finally looks up, dropping the slips of paper to the desk and throwing Rosa an exasperated look.  “Seriously, who are these guys?  And why are they in my office?”

 “Oh, right.  About that.  Amy, this is Special Agent Peralta,” Rosa pauses, thrusting her thumb towards the taller guard in shades, “and this guy is Special Agent Boyle.”  Clearing her throat, she fixes Amy with her typical Rosa’s Way Or The Highway look.  “They’re going to be your new security detail.”

A grinning Agent Peralta throws a tiny wave in Amy’s direction, and she lets out a petulant huff, planting her hands on the empty section of her desk.  “Rosa, we’ve talked about this.  I’m a visible target.  I go out there every other day and announce policies and updates and god knows what else.  It’s inevitable that I end up with a few snarky emails every now and then.  People need a face to complain to, and this guy’s obviously chosen me.”

“Sorry,” Rosa replies, in a tone that suggests that she’s not sorry at all.  “President’s orders.”

Damn it.  With her next refutation dying in her throat, Amy folds her arms over her chest, studying her friend’s expression carefully.  There was a good chance that Rosa was just saying it was presidential orders, knowing that Amy would be unable to resist any directive that came from her superior.  But there was equally enough chance that the request had come from higher up, and refusal of the service would most definitely land her in hot water.  

In other words, Rosa had Amy exactly where she wanted her, and there was not a darn thing she could do about it.  

“Just seems like a lot for a bunch of stupid emails,”  Amy mutters, dropping down into her seat, defeated.  With a furrowed brow, Agent Boyle looks over at Rosa; but before Amy can question it, Rosa perches herself along the edge of the couch.  

“So, Peralta and Boyle will work on opposite shifts and shadow you on your day to day operations.  Additional detail has already been arranged for your home address, and all correspondence will now be cleared through us.”

“I’m also going to need the contact information for any recent or previous relationships you may have had, ma’am,” pipes up Peralta from Amy’s left, breaking out into another grin when she looks over at him.  “Gotta weed this creep out, and you’d be surprised how often they end up being much closer to home than expected."

Blinking, Amy turns back to Rosa, the extent of her security detail only now sinking in.  “A constant shadow and surveillance on my apartment?  Seriously, Rosa … this is all coming from Holt?  Can’t I just change my email address or something?”

A silence falls quickly over her office, and Amy makes special effort this time to take note of the not-so-secret looks the two agents gave each other.  A louder protest is bubbling up through her chest when Rosa stands, her sharply manicured fingers holding a document folder Amy hadn’t noticed until now, and walks towards her.  

The heavy thud of Rosa’s booted footsteps come to a stop at the side of Amy’s desk and she places the file in front of her, leaning in slightly as the folder’s contents become clear.

Photographs.  Stacks of photographs, all of Amy, and all from various parts of her very busy week.  Her heart begins to climb its way up to the base of her throat as the images begin to blur, one shot after the other of an unaware woman as she lunches with friends, visits the gym, drives to her brother’s house and - oh god - even gets changed at home near what she’d always considered to be a relatively protective curtain.  

Leaning in, Rosa’s voice drops to a whisper.  “The boys haven’t seen those last ones, but they know they exist.”  She straightens, returning to her regular volume.  “All of these were on a USB that was delivered to us from an unconfirmed address, and arrived early this morning.  Peralta and Boyle have been pulled in to oversee the operation, and I will monitor from afar.  The detail starts from now, and ends once this Mr Anonymous is behind bars.  Is everyone clear?”

Numb, Amy nods without really understanding, the cotton of her tailored blazer feeling inadequate underneath her fingernails as she pulls the two sides closer together.  She feels foolish for disregarding the warning signs for so long, confused as to how out of all people, she is the one who’s become a target; terrified because if these photographs are anything to go by, she is being hunted … for god only knows what.    

A knot begins to churn in her stomach, and there’s a very good chance that she’s about to be sick.    

“Excuse me, Ms Diaz?”  Ramirez, Terry’s secretary, pops his head around the doorframe, startling Amy out of her spiralling thoughts.  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed in the oval office.”

“Alright, I’ve gotta go, the Powers That Be have spoken.”  Rosa mumbles, scooping up the photographs on Amy’s desk and holding onto the file with her vice-like grip.  Noticing the look on Amy’s face, she stops short of her exit from the room, tipping her head towards the two men as they hover by the bookshelf.  “Listen.  I’ve put two of my best men on this case.  Peralta especially, I’ve known since our days at the academy.  They’re not going to rest until we’ve caught the bad guy, and neither will I.  Got it?”

Amy gives her friend a tentative smile, taking her message to heart.  If there was anybody that could shut this mess down, it was Rosa ‘I could kick your ass with my pinky finger’ Diaz.  

With one final glance towards her two agents, Rosa swivels on her heel, leaving Amy’s office in silence.  The sound of one of Amy’s favourite tchotchkes hits the floor, dropping out of Peralta’s fidgeting fingers, and he cringes.  “Yikes.  Sorry about that, it just looked like one that I -”

Jumping out from behind her desk, Amy snatches the item out of the agent’s hands, running the edge of her thumb along it’s familiar curves before carefully returning it to it’s original position.  “Please don’t break my belongings, Peralta.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If I may, Ms Santiago … what Special Agent Diaz told you was correct.  Peralta and I are here to keep you out of harm’s way, and it’s only going to be a matter of time before we catch him in the act.”  Standing to her right, Amy finds herself surprised at the gentleness of Boyle’s tone, and she eyes him curiously before nodding.  

Leaning his weight against one of the lower bookshelves, Peralta slides his sunglasses off, face turning slightly more somber, and Amy blinks in surprise.  “You have our word.”  His eyes were surprisingly warm, a kind of chocolatey brown that seemed to draw Amy in, and her arms fall away from their defensively crossed position across her chest.  

“Alright.  Thank you.  This is just … a lot.”  Her stomach twists again, and even though this time it feels less like she’s about to be sick, Amy really doesn’t want to take any chances.  “If I leave this office, you two are going to follow me, aren’t you?”

“Just around the perimeters of the hallway, Ms Santiago.  And only Peralta - I’m going to stick around and see if I can trace where these emails are coming from.”  

“Consider me your shadow, ma’am.”  Jake grins, and Amy feels an odd mixture of irritation and anticipation run through her.  “And, look.  I can already tell what you’re thinking.”  Pushing his weight off of the bookshelves, he gestures vaguely with his hands.  “You’re thinking this is going to be all longing glances and secret earpiece conversations … me carrying you in my arms as I race you away from the danger, you running out of planes at tarmacs to give me one last kiss goodbye … you know, all the standard bodyguard stuff.”

Rolling her eyes towards the ceiling, Amy feels a knot of tension leave her shoulders, but she’s not quite ready to laugh yet.  “Yes.  You’re right.  That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Knew it, nailed it.  Well I’m sorry to disappoint you ma’am, but this stuff is nothing like the movies.  It shouldn’t really be any more than a few weeks, just need to catch this weirdo out and let the law take care of the rest.”  He pauses, glancing over at Agent Boyle before continuing.  “Which … will be made all the more faster with your co-operation.  Including the details of people who may have had closer access to you than others.”

Sighing, Amy presses the tip of her index finger against the middle of her brow, a nervous tick that has long since become habit.  This guy really needed to stop calling her ma’am.  “Fine.  Teddy Wells was my last boyfriend, but we broke up several months ago.  I highly doubt that he’s the one you’re looking for.”

“We really need to look into all avenues, Ms. Santiago,”  Agent Boyle interjects, and for the first time Amy notices how the beige colour of his tie is almost a perfect match to his skin tone.  

“Fine.”  Leaning down, she scribbles Teddy’s phone number onto a new post-it, thrusting it in Agent Peralta’s direction.  “See for yourself.  Better yet, invite him out for a drink.  He’s got some real interesting stories, especially about beer.  One could almost say, he’s got ‘the cheers for the beers’, you know?”

(She knows that she’s setting Peralta up for a trap, all too familiar with endless nights listening to Tedford ‘Thrills for the Pils’ Wells.  But there was much too much bravado seeping out of every pore of this guy, and he deserved to suffer - if only just a little.)

“Huh, a beer guy.   Noice.”

Amy stifles her grin, tucking her pen back into the pocket of her blazer as she heads towards the doorway, ignoring the echo of Peralta’s footsteps behind hers.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen … I have a hundred or so meetings to attend.”

“Just one last thing, ma’am.”  Agent Peralta interjects, and Amy turns in time to watch him drop one shoulder in an obvious attempt at Dramatic Effect.  

The edge of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the ridiculous sunglasses that have inexplicably returned to his face despite the sunlight pouring in through the surrounding windows (she thinks, perhaps, entirely for the purpose of his next move) slide down his prominent nose.  “No matter what happens, you’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”

The urge to roll her eyes again is almost unbearable, but she is a professional if nothing else, and so Amy puts on her best smile and nods at the suited man in front of her.  

“Won’t be a problem.”

[sleepmusicland-1]

Gone chapter 3

Masterlist Gone

Ella POV:

I learned that I had a rare talent, I was paranormally gifted and had the ability to heal, but the most absurd was that I was supposed to be an alleged angel. An earth angel, a creature that had not existed for hundreds of years. Therefore, the ancestors, this witch circle had given the necessary magic to find such a creature, so that the supernatural world would not be destroyed, any threats whose name no one knew, was the reason why I was here.

An average woman who happened to speak several languages and was now supposed to be an exceptionally powerful being? That sounded like a fairy tale to my ears.

"Now you know why you're here", Isabella concluded and waved her left hand to follow her from these catacombs, which I did. I also didn't really have a choice, even though I wasn't the being she thought I was, I couldn't really say no.

She was, after all, a witch who had magic and I knew that the chief witches were very powerful in a circle.

"This is understandably a lot of information, but I will answer all your questions", Isabella promised me, although I actually only had one question, would I ever be able to go back to my own world?

But before I could even start trying to formulate the question, Isabella informed me that there was no way back for me. Her words stuck in the air, in the middle of the exit to the cemetery, in the light, I stopped and looked at her silently.

My life as I knew it was over, I would never see my family again, not my pets, I would not witness a single birthday. Everything I had had in my life, the people I had known, were all gone. Unattainable and the only thing the witch could think of a few steps in front of me in the sunlight was sorry?

But before I could reciprocate, my feelings that were racing through my innermost being, could create words and could put into words what I was holding from the witch in front of my nose, my senses were flooded with emotions, thoughts and coldness.

Fuzzy figures were on the cobblestones that lay on the ground and served as a path, between the mausoleum and tombs of Layafette Cemetery.

They were deceased souls, I could hear them speaking in various languages, pleading, crying and all seemed to have one thing in common, they were trapped here in the cemetery forever. Did the witches draw their magic from it? Not only from their ancestors but also the deceased souls?

Before I could think more about it, a new presence pushed into focus. It was a strong presence and my neck hair lined up, whether this new presence was good or evil, I could not say, but one thing I knew for sure, my intuition, my gut feeling was nothing compared to what I felt now, what my senses were telling me now. Isabella seemed to be right, I seemed to have a gift that I had just never known anything about.

I turned to the entrance, the entrance that led back to the catacombs where I had woken up, or was I still dreaming?

The entrance was different from what I had seen so far, most catacombs, mausoleums and tombs I had seen in movies and series, but never stones carved bones, skulls and signs that were embedded exactly in the middle of the arch. What did these signs mean? Was that the reason why I could only now hear the spirits, because the signs suppressed it? Where was I? And, above all, why?

"Miss de La Crux, I thought we had an agreement that the witches of New Orleans may hold small rituals and ceremonies, but there is nothing in the agreement that they may hold a ritual that requires a lot of strength", a well-known voice tore me out of my thoughts, I had a clue and this idea was confirmed by the dark-haired vampire in a branded suit. Almost 10 meters away from Isabelle and me stood Elijah Mikaelson, with his right hand in his trouser pocket, wide-legged he stood between two mausoleums and looked at Isabella and me. I didn't like his look, apart from the fact that I was now sure that I had landed in a TV series and unfortunately knew a little too much, Elijah was unsympathetic to me from the first moment.

His arrogant attitude and his face radiated that he felt superior to the people, where was the vampire who wanted to protect people? Just as he was more than gracious to Elena in Mystic Falls. This vampire was very different from what I remembered from the show.

"Mister Mikaelson, the agreement is that once a year we may perform a ritual in favor of our ancestors, that's what I did, that it requires more magic than a simple tracking attempt, should be clear to them," Isabella replied to him and was absolutely not impressed by him, something that seemed to irritate him.

"They are aware that they first need approval for a ritual as they have just vaguely described and we have to give them first," he replied to her and I realized that the reality here had nothing to do with the series. A lot had changed and perhaps it also explained why he seemed different, more arrogant, as if he had forgotten that it had once been important to him not to hurt people unnecessarily, as Klaus had once said. But this person in front of me wasn't the person I knew from the show and if I was honest, I didn't want to know that person at all. But at that time I had no idea in what way the paths would still cross and bring me too close to a vampire.

"One thing should be clear to them Mister Mikaelson, just because Marcel Gerad has ceded the say over the supernatural community to their family, does not mean that everyone will dance to their noses! " clarified Isabella and I wondered if Marcel had given up his position voluntarily, or rather involuntarily, the tensions that prevailed between Isabella and Elijah was more than just dislike. In front of my inner eye, scenes appeared of the two of them tearing their clothes off, I closed my eyes for a short moment and took a deep breath. When I opened my eyes again, I encountered the inquiring gaze of Elijah, had he noticed something in my heartbeat? I didn't know where the vision had come from, I was just relieved not to have seennwhen a shirt that was torn apart and exposed a male upper body.

"And they are?" he wanted to know from me, the tone with which he treated me irritated me immeasurably and I tilted my head to the left side as I looked at it, as if I only noticed him now. "No one of interest, since they didn't imagine either" I answered slightly annoyed and was just glad that my heartbeat was calm, my heart did not reveal in any way, was for awhirlwind of feelings just raging in me.

"Excuse my manners, I am Elijah Mikaelson", Elijah introduced himself and came closer, I stepped every step he took forward, backwards.

"Ella von Els" I answered him and concealed directly that I used the short form of my name, I did not like to hang oneveryone's nose, that I did not really like my full name. "Dutchwoman?" he hooked up, whereupon I looked at him suspiciously, no one I knew would link my last name to my nationality.

"Why is this important?" I hooked up and felt Isabella's gaze on me, she had already told me that Icould nevergetback to my oldlife, even if it was just receding into the background because I had to deal with a vampire questioning my nationality. "I like to know who's in New Orleans and who's in a cemetery with a witch, especially if that personis apparently not an Americancitizen," Elijah replied. "I can be an American citizen just because my last name sounds Dutch, do you directly conclude that I can't be an American?" I hooked up and didn't even try to banish the irritations from my voice.

"What exactly do they want Mister Mikaelson? May I no longer show anyone the cemetery? " Isabella interfered, whereupon he turned to the woman with which he was most likely having an affair. I didn't hear his answer anymore because my attention was drawn to a grave. It was a grave in thewall, with a very well-known name on it. Manuela Isabelle van Elsen was written on the inscription, the person whose name I also partly bore had died 3 years ago. She had just turned 25 years old.

I heard footsteps behind me, Isabella stepped to the grave and seemed composed, but also sad, had she known the person buried here?

Elijah POV:

Isabella hid something, I could see it to her, above all she had broken the contract together with her circle, but why? And who was the woman who had stood with her?

I had been able to hear from her pronunciation that she was not from NewOrleans, but why had Isabella been here with her, at thebonemausoleum. I had only learned of the existence of this particular mausoleum when Isabella and I were together months ago.

This particular mausoleum was used by the witches only for very special rituals or sayings and to find them there, with a woman unknown to me, whom I had never seen before and apparently had no bond with the witches. Her excuse is that the woman who had introduced herself as Ella von Els, although you couldn't really imagine it, since she clearly had no desire to give me any information.

She didn't seem to know who she had talked to so disrespectfully or she didn't care. The short conversation I had had with her had given me more questions than answers.

Why had Isabella brought her here? Especially to this mausoleum,which I knew was only used for very special and important rituals. Did the presence of the unknown woman, the shift in power?

That this encounter was the beginning of a mystery, I did not suspect at that time

[nayutai]

Gotta Go

⤳ Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

⤳ Prompt: “the reader is out singing karaoke in NYC at a Korean BBQ place or something and BTS is touring there, and they stop in to relax and have fun, and they hear the reader singing? And then I suppose it could go any way from there”

⤳ Happy One Year to the BTS Smut Club! I’m so, so thankful to be a part of this network. I’ve been able to meet so many amazing authors who have taught me so much and allowed me to improve my own writing through them. This is my contribution to the anniversary project and I hope it’s everything the requester wanted it to be 💞

⤳ Warnings: language, oral sex (f receiving), protected sex

“Janae your rich ass better be paying for this food. BTS has taken nearly a grand from my bank account and I’ll be damned if I spend $50 on some bulgogi and tea water.” You call out from the bathroom as you lean in close to the mirror to fill in your eyebrows. After waking up at three in the morning to catch your flight and then spending the afternoon exploring New York City with your three best friends, despite the occasional rain storm, you looked and felt like shit. All you want to do is curl up in bed and watch a movie but your friend Janae is craving korean bbq and is dragging the rest of you with her.

“Don’t worry, love. Mommy’s paying for this one.” Janae says as she walks up behind you waving around the black American Express card her mother had given her. Both of Janae’s parents came from old money and subsequently became big whigs in their respective professions. Janae was primarily raised by nannies while her parents threw money at her to fill the void left by their absence. She made sure they paid dearly for it and you can’t say you blame her.

***

Hoseok flops down on top of Jungkook with a whine while Taehyung and Jimin cackle from across the room. The three of them have been trying unsuccessfully to convince Jungkook to go get food with them but the youngest is being stubborn. Shocker.

“I’ll pay just come with us.” Hoseok whines, wrapping himself around Jungkook’s bulky frame. Jimin and Taehyung writhe around in laughter at the smile on Jungkook’s face that can only be described as victorious.

“Well since you offered...I found this korean bbq place nearby that’s supposed to be really good.”

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it, you maknae brat?”

“That’s not important so are we going or not?”

“Yeah, I’m starving. Let’s go”

Jimin and Jungkook are fighting over the last bite of kimchi, despite the fact that their waitress has just left to go get more, when the host that greeted them at the door rolls out a karaoke machine and announces that the floor is open. Anyone who scores 85% or higher gets a half off discount on their meal. The only catch is that the machine will be shuffling through a kpop top 50 playlist and the patron has to sing whatever song comes up.

The sound of a girl clambering forward for the microphone catches the table’s attention. Jimin and Jungkook even stop arguing to see what’s going on, allowing for Hoseok to swoop in and steal the kimchi they’d been arguing over. Taehyung licks his lips when his eyes wander down her figure. He’s not entirely sure how she managed to fit her ass into her shorts because they look painted on but he’s glad she did. The host presses shuffle and the rest of the girls at her table immediately start yelling when the first notes of Chungha’s Gotta Go begin to play.

Taehyung is mesmerized by the way she flawlessly moves as she puts on a show for her fellow patrons. He’s even more impressed with how good her korean pronunciation is. Cheers arise from the crowd during the dance break when she really goes all out.

“She’s really good.” Jungkook murmurs around a mouth full of rice.

It’s no surprise when she receives a near perfect score. She graciously bows to the host when he hands over her well-deserved coupon before bowing deeply to the crowd. Her friends smack her on the ass repeatedly in celebration of her performance when she returns to the table. Jimin and Hoseok whisper amongst each other before flagging down one of the waiters when he walks by their table on his way to the kitchen. Jungkook and Tae share looks of confusion but remain quiet. Whatever the other two members are conspiring about will be revealed eventually.

Taehyung nearly chokes on his drink when he watches the young man turn on his heel to walk back across the restaurant to the table Taehyung hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from. They seem to not believe whatever it is the waiter says to them but Taehyung’s eyes widen when they follow him anyway to the dark corner of the restaurant that they’ve been occupying for the better part of three hours.

***

“Holy shit he wasn’t lying.” You breathe out as your friends stand shell-shocked by the table. You all slowly lower yourselves into the extra chairs that are rushed over while Hoseok asks for your names.

It’s awkward at first but once everyone gets past that, conversation flows much more smoothly. Especially once it’s revealed that you all studied abroad in Seoul for a year and therefore speak basic Korean. Taehyung finds himself even more enamored by you the more he hears you speak. He thinks you’re absolutely adorable as you scrunch your nose up in concentration whenever you forget how to translate specific words into korean. He vaguely registers the fact that each of your friends has paired off with one of the other members.

Jimin orders a couple rounds of shots and things start to get a little more interesting. Taehyung takes careful notice of the way that the two of you seem to be moving closer together as the minutes go by. He’s afraid to read too much into it but dear god he’s hoping this means you want him the way he wants you. Your eyes seem to be drifting to his lips every few seconds and it’s making him fidgety with the urge to touch you. So much so that he drops the piece of meat he’d picked up. It lands right on his crotch. Before he can react, you snatch it up and pop it in your mouth with a wink and a flirtatious grin. Time to go.

Taehyung stands, pulling you with him, noticing then that Hoseok and Jungkook have already disappeared with two of your friends and Jimin is about to do the same with the one still at the table. He hadn’t even noticed their absence in the slightest. The air outside is crisp and serves to clear his lust-clouded mind a little bit.

“Nothing has to happen tonight. You know that right?”

“I’m well aware of that fact. I’m also well aware of the fact that I want to ride you into oblivion and I can’t do that if I don’t leave with you.” Taehyung’s jeans feel three sizes too small as his cock swells at your crude words. The hotel is on the next block but as he weaves through the crowd with your hand securely in his, that block feels like a mile.

***

Taehyung is almost frantic as he rushes to reveal what your clothes hide. Your giggling morphes into small moans and gasps when he buries his face between your legs without warning. His hands rhythmically squeeze your upper thighs as he holds your squirming hips in place. His tongue is sinfully talented and coupled with the darkness of his eyes staring into yours you’re a goner. Your thighs are trembling from the force of your orgasm when Taehyung finally releases you from his grasp.

Your hands fumble with his belt while his lips tangle with yours. For some godforsaken reason the man is still fully dressed. He even still has his sneakers on. His shirt joins your clothes somewhere on the floor, pants shoved halfway down his thighs. You hum in excitement at the lack of underwear. One less layer of clothing for you to contend with.

Taehyung reaches for the condoms he’d haphazardly thrown into the drawer of the bedside table. He hadn’t planned to bring anyone back to his room but it’s always better to be safe than sorry. You snatch the latex from him once he’s got it open, relishing in the deep grumble he lets out when you roll it on him. He presses your thighs to your chest and slides his rigid length through your wetness until he’s coated in your juices. A shiver of pleasure runs through you every time he bumps against your clit.

“Stop teasing me.” You demand through gritted teeth. He chuckles darkly. The low timbre of it has your inner muscles clenching around nothing.

“As you wish, love.” Taehyung draws his hips back, thrusting forward to roughly bury himself inside you. You would scream but it feels as though he’s forced all of the air out of your lungs.

Taehyung is similarly affected. His head tossed back as he savors the sensation of your walls hugging him so tightly. He’s sure that yours is the tightest, wettest pussy he’s ever had the pleasure to be inside of. Another groan escapes him when you start squirming around beneath him. You’re begging for more and more he’s about to give you what you’re asking for.

His pace starts off slow and steady like the gentle rocking of a recently vacated rocking chair but it builds. It builds until his hips are pistoning into yours at high speed. If the loud smacking sound his thighs make every time they collide with your skin doesn’t give away your activities, the banging of the headboard against the wall surely will. Taehyung bends his head down to latch his lips around one of your nipples. His movement changes the angle of his hips only slightly but it’s enough to have him roughly stabbing at a particularly sensitive spot inside you repeatedly.

You cry out his name as you’re thrown headfirst into a mighty orgasm. He thrusts a few more times before your spasming muscles make it too difficult for him to continue fucking into you. Instead, he lets you milk him dry, a hoarse shout escaping him as he fills the condom.

“Fuck that was good. I might need a wheelchair for your concert tomorrow though.” Taehyung huffs out a laugh while still trying to catch his breath.

“That can be arranged.”

[agoddamn]

You said before that you believe French to be an ill-fitting choice for Effie's personal skill, and I was wondering if there were any other European nationalities you believe Nohrian characters to be closer to in terms of inspiration.

Chevalier is the most direct reference to France, I think--Chevalier/Chevallier denoted knights (ie Chevalier d'Eon). This is supported by the border guards to Chevalier having French names (Charlotte/Benoit) and other French names existing in Nohr; it's my headcanon that Leon's mother was from Chevalier because the katakana of his name specifies the French pronunciation (LAY-on, not LEE-on). Draj is also a corruption or shortening of Dragée.

I think that Elise also has French origins, though Beethoven gives the name a popular association with Germany. Seigfried, Bolverk, and Brynhildr imply a Norse/Germanic influence as Nohr's "base" culture, though it's certainly not a 1:1 there. I believe Seigfried is the Germanic name while Bolverk is another Norse name for Odin, if I remember my trivia right. So, a mix from square one.

Camilla is a name with Latin/Italian origins, which makes me wonder if her mother might be from Amusia. We see very little of it, but the water theatre strongly recalls Venice.

The Ice Tribe don't get any designs distinct to themselves. That said, the situation they're in (children taken hostage to control the tribe with the eventual goal of wiping them out and taking their land/resources) is pretty damn reminiscent of Native Americans. That plus the cold climate makes me think Inuit. I also saw this one gorgeous doujin once that I wish I could have bought that gave Flora a beautiful Ainu-inspired design (I actually would have said Ainu for the Ice Tribe if Kamui wasn't already a reference to the Ainu).

(I mean, kidnapping and genocide have been happening throughout history but hey, I'm American so that's my gut instinct.)

I think that a lot of cultures east of the chasm suffer from, well, being written by Japanese people who see themselves as the default (it's not like Western media doesn't often have the exact same problem, cough). We're told that there are several different countries/principalities/whatever aside from Hoshido in the east (Kouga, Fuuma, Izumo, Wind Tribe, Flame Tribe) but they almost all have very Japanese names (Tsukuyomi, Izana, etc). Still, for the sake of making things more interesting I imagine the Wind Tribe having a bit of Mongolian influence. Fuuma and Kouga are historical names of Japanese ninja clans, but the one person's name we have from Kouga is vaguely Indian so goddammit l'll cling to that.

According to the Making Of book, Hoshido takes a lot of inspiration from Nara Japan with a dash of Imperial China. Touma was conceived as "the place between East and West", basing its aesthetic off the path of the Silk Road; China (Xianmei, Loulan), India (Vedic architecture, burial mask of Buddha, Aqua and male Dreamui's clothing), and the Middle East.

Kamui and Kanna are Ainu words, which makes me a little surprised Touma doesn't have more Ainu influence? I dunno. I think the writing goal was for Kamui to sound "Japanese-Other" rather than "Western-Other"...if that makes any sense. Other but not too Other (although it's not like being native to Japan gave the Ainu any easier time...ah well, just a thought).

[flapperfromthefuture]

Huh. Greenland is in the news a lot lately, for reasons that would only seem normal in some horrifically overblown satire.

My dad sent me two articles yesterday that quoted residents of tiny Kulusuk, Greenland, a village on the eastern coast of the country.

  Most people in this world have never set foot in Greenland (including the orange sociopath who wants to buy it. With what, the money from the for-profit concentration camps?). But my dad and I have, somehow.

It feels like a dream. Those halcyon days of 2008. My dad and I took a graduation trip to Scandinavia in July. We’re big fans of universal healthcare and the Maelstrom ride at Epcot (RIP), so we figured we’d feel right at home.

We flew Icelandair to Reykjavik—a big comfy plane, I remember—and in the seat pocket was a brochure advertising day trips to different destinations, including Greenland. My dad and I had talked about how Greenland would be close enough to visit while we were in Iceland, but in a very vague and alien way, like how you know you’ll be closer to the sun when you visit Hawaii but you don’t really think about it until you have a sunburn the shade of a pink hibiscus flower, and even then, you’re not going to visit.

Greenland was like that. We knew it would be nearby, but didn’t have the first idea of how to get there, or any clue what we would find if we did.

But now, I held Greenland in my hands. And it was a picture of a smiling elderly woman in a kayak in the middle of beautiful blue water lit by the sun. Greenland looked warm, inviting, and reasonably priced.

Later, my dad would joke that the brochure should’ve had a little asterisk that said, “Sun not included.”

We booked the excursion after a few days of traveling around Iceland, during which the sun never set, I taught my dad the correct pronunciation of “Bjork,” and narrowly stopped him from buying a heavy wool sweater that a) he would never wear, b) would take up a good 80% of his suitcase and c) COST $800 IN AMERICAN MONEY.

I was very keen on steering Dad towards light, easily transportable souvenirs, like hats and figurines of elves, because I’m the one who had to carry his suitcase all over Scandinavia.

Because, you see, my dad had a hernia. He’d been cleared for the trip and was having surgery as soon as we got home, but he wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavy or walk for too long. Fortunately, Iceland is full of cute shops and cafés with plenty of places to sit down and relax and have some delicious skyr, so we were doing great.

My dad asked the woman at the front desk of our hotel what the weather would be like in Greenland. She said it would be same as Iceland, crisp but sunny and in the high 50s.

This was a lie.

Of course, if we had done any research at all (we didn’t have decent smartphones yet! So long ago!), we would’ve been able to better prepare ourselves, but instead we went to the one Thai restaurant in Iceland and imagined what Greenland would be like.

I assumed that where we’d be going would have a national park vibe—lots of picnic tables and slightly terrifying bathrooms but lovely vistas and well-marked places of interest. Definitely a vending machine or two, probably a little café with sandwiches and chips and maybe a fruit cup. I pictured a single stoplight that was always blinking.

Dad, on the other hand, pictured multiple stoplights, full service restaurants and gift shops. My dad loves a good gift shop.

We walked to the city airport from our hotel. I wore a hoodie, my purse and a wool hat that I’d purchased as a souvenir, while Dad had a windbreaker and not one, but two hats—one for fashion, one for function. We both wore jeans and regular sneakers that were best suited for walking on pavement that has no moisture on it whatsoever.

My dad had a hernia.

We packed a little bag of muffins from the hotel’s breakfast spread, just in case we needed a snack on the flight or the café in Greenland was running low.

Naturally, we ate all the muffins while waiting to board the flight. It was eight in the morning, and we weren’t getting back to Iceland until six or seven in the evening.

“It’ll be okay,” said Dad, brushing muffin crumbs off his windbreaker.

We were flying Iceland’s internal airline, Flugfelag, which will be my alias if I ever go into hiding. Our ride was a twin engine propellor with fifty-six seats. Not a lot of wiggle room. I had never flown in a propellor plane before, and mostly associated them with “Things that James Bond or Indiana Jones have jumped/been thrown out of.”

And the plane’s name? The Fokker 50. Thank you and good night.

We met our excursion guide, Captain Karl, who was Danish. We were the only Americans on our excursion—everyone else was Japanese or Chinese. The rest of the flight had been booked by a Russian tour group, and they looked ready to go, with massive parkas and winter boots.

Our flight attendant was too tall for our plane. She was at least six feet tall (and wearing heels!) with long blonde hair and giant blue eyes full of fear. Her shoulders hit every overhead bin whenever she wobbled down the aisle. She had to stoop down to give the safety announcement so she wouldn’t bang her head on the ceiling.

During the safety announcement, Dad nudged me and said, “In the event of a water landing, you have fifteen seconds to live.”

The flight was only ninety minutes, but the last thirty were turbulent with steep rollercoaster drops and ghostly footprints of glaciers that grew as we descended.

We glided over pitch black water and grayish green ice floes, and then landed . . . on something that felt less like a runway and more like driving through a puddle.

“Dad, there’s mud on the window,” I said, trying to understand what I was seeing. Mud doesn’t hit airplane windows, not unless the baggage handlers are having a mud fight.

“What?” said Dad, as mud and gravel splattered against our first view of Greenland from the ground.

“It’s a dirt runway.”

Dad said, “Oh, that’s different,” but told me later that he was thinking, “This is a more remote place than I thought.”

The runway was dirt because a cement runway would freeze and break apart. Oh, and because of the weather, flights only ran (to this airport at least, in 2008) between May and September.

We climbed down the plane’s stairs and were immediately hit with a blast of freezing air. It was sleeting, a mix of ice and rain that couldn’t make up its mind, but in the wind it was just substantial enough to pierce your skin.

And we had a hoodie and a windbreaker, respectively.

The Russians were all putting on their parkas.

“Uh-oh,” said Dad.

Kulusuk’s airport is one of Greenland’s minor airports, about the size of an elementary school library, but they had a gift shop that sold winter coats. What luck! Dad beckoned me to try one on.

“Nice and warm—and they look pretty sharp!”

“Dad, did you see the price tags on these?”

“No, but they can’t be that bad.”

“They’re 7,000 Danish krone.”

“I’m good with that!”

“Dad, these coats are one thousand dollars each.”

“. . . Never mind,” said Dad.

Freezing would be bad, but cheaper—and easier to explain to my mom.

Captain Karl gathered us around and said that it would be a forty-five minute walk to the village of Kulusuk. That . . . wasn’t going to work for us. We explained to Captain Karl that my dad had a hernia and rather than rightfully berate us for going to Greenland with a hernia that could rupture at any second, Captain Karl yelled something to a guy in Danish and the guy yelled something back.

“Hans will take you,” said Captain Karl. “He’s outside.”

“Does he work here?” asked Dad.

“No, he just . . . hangs around.”

We met Hans at his truck and he was more than happy to have company on the drive to the village. The dirt road took us past walls of snow and along cliff edges with no guardrails to spoil our view of the glaciers below. The truck had no seatbelts, so I basically did a full somersault in the back every time we took a hairpin curve.

This truck could have been built by a movie production designer who was really gunning for an Oscar. I could actually see the dirt suspended in the air and smell the rust that covered every exposed surface. A thousand cigarette butts were artfully strewn around, and the battery light blinked a dull red, like it had been ignored for a very long time and was in no rush to alert anyone.

Dad got the front seat, and he was eager to ask Hans about life in Greenland. Hans was Danish but his wife was a native Greenlander Inuit. He had lived there a long time, but couldn’t remember exactly how long.

The landscape ahead of us was grey, bleak, and unending. And it was July.

“How short do the days get in the winter?” asked Dad.

Hans said, “Oh, the days don’t get short at all! In January we get five and a half hours of daylight. That’s not short.”

He took a curve around a snowbank at least thirty feet high, and I did a cartwheel in the backseat.

Hans added, with aching sincerity, “If I had to live somewhere where it was dark all the time, I’d get really depressed.”

Upside down in the backseat, I thought, “Holy shit.”

Five and a half hours of daylight means eighteen and a half hours of darkness.

Past the snowbank, the clouds parted enough for us to see a glimpse of a graveyard, and crayon-colored huts in the distance.

This was Kulusuk, sixty miles south of the Arctic Circle.

Hans dropped us off at the supermarket, which was maybe a quarter the size of the average American drugstore. Still, they had everything you could possibly need—medicine, fishing gear, diapers, meat, rifles, clothes, even gumballs.

Most people in Greenland still hunt and fish to survive. There was some fruit on the shelves, but it was all long past fresh and very expensive.

We waited for Captain Karl and the rest of the group to arrive. The few people who trickled in and out of the store looked startled at the sight of strangers just standing around, poorly dressed, but then just went on with their shopping. We met another Danish tour guide who lived in the village, and the local police officer. My dad, a former cop himself, was eager to talk to him, but he only spoke the Inuit language. The Danish guide explained that he didn’t have a badge, or training, or really many duties—he got the job because he liked driving the police cart.

In 2008, Kulusuk had 310 people. Now it’s around 280.

Captain Karl collected us—he had a very reserved Danish manner but I’m pretty sure he was both relieved and shocked that we had survived the ride—and we joined the group down the road in a large red building that served as a community center. Just a short walk in the freezing rain and pounding wind was enough to soak us to the bone.

We watched a presentation led by an older Inuit woman in traditional clothing—she was Hans’ wife. Their very cute granddaughter demonstrated songs and dances while the woman told stories in Inuit—which Hans translated into Danish, so the guide for the Russian excursion could translate into Russian. Dad and I were out of luck, but the Russians seemed to enjoy it.

It was still a good show, though. The little girl posed for pictures with the tourists afterwards.

I wonder where she is now. What she thinks of all that is happening in her country. What she remembers about dancing for tour groups and posing for pictures.

Our next stop was a small grey hut—finally, a gift shop. The owner of the gift shop was a woman from Iceland who was married to a Danish hunting guide, so she spent half the year in Greenland and half the year in Iceland.

Dad told her, “You should spend half the year in Hawaii!”

We picked up some keychains and postcards, but then I saw a glimmer in my dad’s eye—he’d seen something expensive. It was a grey winter jacket with a Kulusuk patch on the sleeve. My dad can’t resist a good patch.

“I would look so cool,” he said. “First person on our block to have a Kulusuk coat, that’s for sure!”

“This costs $1,800 in American money,” I said.

“But look at the patch.”

“Where would you wear this? You barely go outside in the winter.”

“I’ll wear it going back and forth to the mailbox!”

“You can’t pay eighteen hundred dollars for something you’ll wear for thirty seconds a day,” I said. “Mom will murder you.”

Dad grudgingly admitted defeat.

Next on the itinerary was a kayak demonstration—but the winds were 40 miles per hour, and the seas were too rough, so the demonstration was canceled. It was raining even harder now, so we were directed to a small church. We sat in a pew at the back and watched the Russians, huddled in their parkas, whip out open-face sandwiches and tiny bottles of vodka.

“Talk about being prepared for cold weather!” said Dad.

Captain Karl briefed us on our return to the airport. Next to the supermarket, there was a dock, with a metal ladder about ten feet long, that we would climb down to a flotilla of small boats that would take us to the airport in groups of three or four.

I am kicking myself eleven years later for not taking a picture of this ladder, but my dad and I have breathlessly described it so many times I can still see it perfectly.

This metal chain ladder was not connected to anything other than the very top of the dock. It wasn’t the kind of ladder that painters use—with a fixed structure that supports the rungs—but the kind of ladder you’d see on a treehouse, with metal chain loops between the rungs. So as you’re climbing down, you’re holding onto a slim metal chain that is moving with you—and the 40 mph winds—as opposed to steadying you as you descend.

The sea was so rough that if you lingered for longer than a few seconds on this ladder, you were going to get slammed with a wave of freezing water. You know, on top of the freezing rain that was dunking you from the sky.

So it goes without saying that everything in this scenario was soaked—the ladder, our shoes, and our hands. I hadn’t been able to feel my fingers and toes for about six hours at this point. There was no way I would be able to grasp and hold onto the ladder safely, and gripping with my mud-soaked, treadless sneakers that were made for power-walking around an air-conditioned mall? Not going to happen.

  We watched the first group descend the ladder, clinging on for dear life. Once they managed to throw themselves into the boat, it took off, spraying them with freezing water all the way back to the airport.

“Did you see the fear in that Chinese lady’s eyes?” said my dad later. “I think she wanted us to notify her next of kin. I was just imagining what would happen if my hernia burst.”

Oh yeah. That hernia.

Dad and I quickly assessed the situation, as another group threw themselves over the dock and into the boat.

The best case scenario would be to fall in the water and freeze to death in fifteen seconds.  Worst case scenario would be falling off the ladder, hitting the boat and breaking a limb or your back and then hitting the water and freezing to death in fifteen seconds.

And the last thing you would hear would be the laughter of the glaciers, mocking you for thinking you could conquer Greenland, which even the Vikings abandoned because it was too cold.

But the worst worst case scenario, for us, would be if Dad’s hernia burst (causing him to fall off the ladder, hit the boat, fall into the water and freeze to death in fifteen seconds).

“If my hernia bursts, they can’t rush me to Kulusuk General Hospital,” said Dad.

Kulusuk’s medical services, at least at that time, were provided by a single resident nurse. There were no highways to other towns—people traveled into the interior by snowmobile.

As Dad said later, “Maybe I could’ve been transported to another town by a Russian tourist, drinking vodka and driving a snowmobile for the first time. My only hope was they would rush me to the gift shop.”

I said, “We aren’t going on this ladder.”

We approached Captain Karl, who was really very patient with us considering the number of unprepared demanding Americans he must deal with on the regular, and he sent us over to a Danish guy, who took us to a garage near the grocery store, where he asked an Inuit guy with a pickup truck to take us to the airport.

Once again, we got in a stranger’s truck with no seatbelts—but we would’ve happily ridden in the truck’s bed clinging to the bumper just to avoid that ladder.

However, there were only two seats. So yours truly, an adult, had to sit on my dad’s lap for the entire ride. But I didn’t want to risk sitting on the hernia, so I sat kind of halfway on his knee and then held myself up as best I could by gripping the doorframe, with my head squashed against the window, so I wouldn’t bump my dad’s hernia.

The route back to the airport was just as wild as before, with icy hairpin turns and ditch-sized potholes, all of which our driver took with one hand on the wheel, because the other hand was holding his cell phone. He was talking to someone in Inuit the entire ride—probably telling them, “You won’t believe the idiots I have with me. Yes, they’re Americans.”

That long stretch of road along a sheer drop-off into the ocean was really exciting, and I only hit my head careening around the turns maybe six or seven times. I only lost a few piano lessons, nothing I’ll miss.

We made it to the airport, but the weather was getting worse. We met up with the rest of our group, who only knew us as the weird Americans who kept disappearing, and Captain Karl, who was worried that our plane wouldn’t be able to take off. There was another tour running that day, where after their time in Kulusuk, people were taking Russian helicopters to another town with a hotel.

Dad and I watched people board this Soviet-era helicopter that was struggling to stay upright in the freezing wind, and gulped. The years and the elements had not been kind to these helicopters.

“They look like someone sent them through a reverse car wash,” said Dad.

Years later, while watching Chernobyl, my dad recognized the helicopters that were flying in the clean-up crews.

“That’s the helicopter we saw in Greenland!” he said. “Am I glad we didn’t have to fly in one of those!”

Thankfully, our plane was able to take off. Our statuesque flight attendant knelt down to welcome us back. Captain Karl gave us lovely “Certificates of Achievement” with our names on them. He spelled my name as Elisabeth, which made me love it even more—I have it framed in a place of honor, next to a painting my dad made of the picture at the very top of this post.

As we sat down and buckled our seatbelts, Dad pulled a plastic bag out from under his windbreaker.

“You’ve had the muffin bag the entire time?”

“I shoved it under my shirt,” he said. “For warmth.”

On one of the hottest days this summer, locals in the tiny village of Kulusuk, Greenland, heard what sounded like an explosion. It turned out to be a soccer field’s worth of ice breaking off a glacier more than five miles away. Greenland lost 12.5 billion tons of ice to melting on August 2, the largest single-day loss in recorded history. NASA oceanographer Josh Willis: “Greenland has impacts all around the planet. There is enough ice in Greenland to raise the sea levels by 7.5 meters, that’s about 25 feet, that would be devastating to coastlines all around the planet. We are all connected by the same ocean.” —CNN

The climate crisis is causing unprecedented levels of stress and anxiety to people in Greenland who are struggling to reconcile the traumatic impact of global heating with their traditional way of life.The first ever national survey examining the human impact of the climate emergency shows that more than 90% of islanders interviewed fully accept that the climate crisis is happening, with a further 76% claiming to have personally experienced global heating in their daily lives, from coping with dangerous sea ice journeys to having sled dogs euthanized for economic reasons tied to shorter winters. — The Guardian

As a result of these climactic troubles, many Greenlanders are experiencing solostalgia, a term coined to describe the psychic pain of climate change, a feeling of missing home even without leaving, as home, the Earth, is changing. Courtney Howard, the board president of the Canadian Association of Physicians for the Environment, told the Guardian that Arctic people are now showing symptoms of anxiety, “ecological grief,” and even post-traumatic stress related to the effects of climate change. “The impact of climate change on mental health is a looming public health crisis,” she said. —Quartz

We knew eleven years ago that the climate was changing and that Greenland was melting. It’s 800,000 square miles and 80% is covered by an ice sheet that all of Greenlandic society and every city in the world that’s on a coastline depend on for survival, and it’s melting. My dad and I knew that before we went there, and we didn’t even know enough to bring decent shoes.

Dad just texted me, “I keep wondering what Kulusuk looks like now. This is pretty scary—has to be a wake up call.”

My dad is an eternal optimist, which allows him to do things like travel across the world with a hernia, but we’re long past a wake up call.

Dad and I Go to Greenland Huh. Greenland is in the news a lot lately, for reasons that would only seem normal in some horrifically overblown satire.

[gaijinko]

LET’S DO A WEIRD HEADCANON THING.

REPOST DON’T REBLOG !

TAGGED BY: @deathbanchou​ TAGGING: if you wanna do it, go ahead!

1. WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE  /   high-quality perfume, scented soaps and creams -- the smell of these depend on what is in season. fruity? flowery? she is never behind the new products and trends to have the most lovely smell in school. she does not overdo it but a mere whiff can denote a faint scent of whatever new perfume came out. her favourite choices would be orange and peach, though. nothing too extreme, even when she adores being flashy. sometimes it’s fine to be subtle and it works wonders since everyone considers it to be just a natural part of her. 

if not wearing anything specific, she has a faint scent of hand cream.

lisa mentions vaguely how aromatherapy is good for constipation ( she isn’t constipated, though! ) so it denotes she actually focuses on its effects and benefits. so one can assume this is one of her resources. in a general basis she does not like strong smells like of cologne and overly strong perfumes, instead going for the most subtle scents. since she can be quite sensitive to those, she can gag and that is quite the unsightly show. 

2. HOW THEY SLEEP (SLEEPING POSITION, SCHEDULE, ETC) /  lisa does not have a decent sleep schedule at all. discipline and responsibility are expected from her so it’s a given she would run in the opposite end. she no longer does this but she used to arrive home at late hours of the night after returning from her activities. which came with the downside of sleeping almost nothing and having to be up for school in a few hours. she surprisingly did not skip class but arrived late at times. so in a sense, it showed she valued her 8hrs of sleep and understood the importance of sleeping properly. 

simply, she sometimes adjusted it to her own schedule which did not fit with her parents and teachers.

when it came to her sleeping comfort, it variated. she can sleep with her clothes on and not cover herself at all. others, she will actually wear pajamas and swim into her blankets. surrounded by pillows, plushies and her two cats. she has a regular bed though she owns a futon, which she refuses using. she considers them uncomfortable and ugly. she acquired her mattress after insisting how much she hated sleeping on the floor.

in position, she must be hugging something. a plushie, her pillow or even one of the cats. she will curl up to herself and hold onto anything within reach. it’s a little odd and nobody knows about this but it’s one of her little pleasures in life.

3. WHAT MUSIC THEY ENJOY  /   when it comes to lisa, it’s more about what she dislikes. she can admit disliking enka and pop music, so it shows she isn’t enjoying a lot of what is popular but will put with the latter for the sake of appearances.

she has no actual preference for music and she will agree on whatever is popular at the time. her knowledge is shallow at best but she does an effort to have an idea of whatever others are listening now. she will go to concerts, clubs, karaokes and sing along when others break into a song, etc. she simply has no real taste and formulated opinion on music. oh, that artist is so hot, isn’t he? or, have you heard of the scandal from X idol group?

she will enjoy cheesy love songs, regardless of the artist. but other than that? she cannot pinpoint her favourite artist, group or genre. she listens to what other people will approve of and does so successfully. in her personal time, though, she will listen to the soundtracks of her kung fu movies and obscure cantonese artists. 

4. HOW MUCH TIME THEY SPEND GETTING READY EVERY MORNING  /   she takes her sweet time. one hour to shower, one hour to get ready and eat breakfast. she is diligent in this process, since it depends on this how successful her day will be. which is why she would prefer arriving late to class than messing up her morning ritual. shower, drying hair, face mask and make up. she will do everything possible to show up refreshed, well-rested and ready for the day. nowadays she has more time to sleep and can follow this without going late to school, which has highly favoured her charming temper toward others. 

5. THEIR FAVORITE THING TO COLLECT  /  clothes! she loves fashion and while it can seem like one of her shallow interests, she does sincerely enjoy collecting pieces and bits of fashion lines. anything that her allowance can afford will go immediately into her closet, regardless of if she will use it or not since she loves having coordinated outfits for every season! her closet is a disaster but can dress out a whole classroom if she wanted to.

she is also not outside of having her very cherished haul of kung fu movies. still packaged and lovingly showcased on her shelf. as her cherished possessions, she won’t touch those and instead has one haul for watching and one for collection purpose alone. 

6. LEFT OR RIGHT HANDED / a hard one but i will go for right handed. fail attempt at ambidextrous. she leans on the fact that her hands are more for punching. she truly is a gallant lady...

7. RELIGION (IF ANY)  /  her parents were raised christian but converted to shinto-buddhism, so she was raised through those beliefs. they are very devoted as it is part of that wonderful japanese culture they love, so of course they must teach her daughter how important this is. in her rebellion, she has gone against every bit she was taught while growing up. she has no real religious affiliation to anything, but mostly as she has not really sat and thought about what she wants to believe in. she is a teenager, so prefers leaving that heavy stuff for those that actually care. 

8. FAVORITE TOURISTY THING TO DO WHEN TRAVELING  /   again, it all depends on what’s popular in the area she is visiting. though in this case, she can be picky for the sake of her sanity. tourist spots mean not only japanese tourists but also american tourists and she fervently avoids confronting english speakers. she will prefer restaurants and clubs, rather than monuments and museums. something more regular that will save her from seeing another americans, you know? she cannot avoid them forever but trying doesn’t hurt anyone.

9. FAVORITE KIND OF WEATHER  /   MILD WEATHER. spring has the perfect sort of weather. it reeks of romance with the cherry blossom trees and subtle breezes on morning, with that bright and comforting sun. of course, that is the ideal and you cannot have everything you ask for. but she really enjoys the calmness of a quiet spring breeze, be it at night or morning. 

10. A WEIRD / OBSCURE FEAR THEY HAVE  /  it is not obscure or weird, not in her opinion. lisa is afraid of everyone’s expectations toward her and not having an identity of her own. 

for example, she hates and wants to avoid american tourists through and through. she cannot speak english and is very self-conscious about it, since it’s an expectation of others to see the obviously american kid from stupidly american parents speak english. it should be a given and yet, she does not know a lick of it. maybe vague words at best. her grammar leaves plenty to desire and even more so her pronunciation. if anything, she struggles with the subject and is a very poor speaker as opposed to her great grades in japanese ( surprise ) and literature. the notion of how she should know and others firmly believe she must know is a constant struggle. everyone assumes without asking and of course, she does not deny it. 

and that is the cherry on the cake of her life problems. 

so here she is, the american kid being a complete mockery of her own stereotype but letting everyone think she is what they think. she can’t be japanese ( she doesn’t look like one but she was born here so she is japanese ) but she neither can be american ( despite her blood, roots and name ) so she stands in a strange middle ground as the daughter of naturalised parents. her identity is almost non-existent and everyone thinks of lisa whatever they want and whatever suits them best. in one side, her parents seek for her to be the perfect japanese daughter. in the other hand, she is the exotic and wild american in the eyes of her classmates. both are wrong so she fights plenty to find something of her own, something that can separate her entirely from whatever idealised image people have of who is lisa silverman. 

she has done everything in her might to break the expectations placed on her. from compensated dating, drugs to her current hobbies: kung-fu and cantonese. so that is a big step and little by little, she has managed to speak up about her struggles...

11. THE CARNIVAL / ARCADE GAME THEY ALWAYS WIN WITHOUT FAIL  /  as she is a big fan of dancing, one can picture her being a strong contender in DDR and games of a similar feature. she is surprisingly good at memorising steps and having great scores and she sincerely enjoys playing and boasting her success. though her friends are not that into it, she will gladly spare time of her day to play by herself.

[pekorosu]

On the topic of Chinese names in Banana Fish

Warning for manga spoilers and also a lengthy discussion.

This is something I’ve been wanting to explore due to its differences in the original Japanese and the English localisation. I will mostly be discussing the major recurring characters, starting with the Lees.

The Lee family

Interestingly, the Lees have actual Chinese characters for their names in the original Japanese. They are:

李紅龍 (Localisation: Lee Hong-Lung)

李大龍 / 王龍 (Localisation: Lee Tai-Lung / Wang-Lung)

李華龍 (Localisation: Lee Hua-Lung)

李月龍 (Localisation: Lee Yut-Lung)

Thanks to this, they are also the only ones with confirmed Mandarin-pronounced names. For example, 月龍 (Pinyin: yuè lóng) is given the furigana ユエルン (yuerun) in Japanese. I'm guessing this is because the characters were actually looked up from a proper Chinese source. 

This initially made me inclined to think of the Lee family as hailing from further north of China, especially with the brief mention in volume 4 of them being descendants of the Qing Dynasty’s ruling family (Wouldn’t that make them Manchu people though? And that would open up a whole other can of worms...). 

However, it is also mentioned in volume 17 that Yut-Lung actually came from Hong Kong. So that makes the localisation’s decision to romanise 月龍 as “Yut-Lung” perfectly appropriate.

Localisation

What is it about “Yut-Lung” that makes it so suitable? It is very obviously Cantonese. The transliteration of 李 as “Lee” instead of “Li” could also be indicative of that. Setting Yut-Lung’s birthplace aside, it still wouldn't be farfetched to infer from how established the Lees are in the States plus the fact that Hong-Lung had once been based in HK, that they would be Cantonese speakers.

The eldest Lee son has also been addressed in 3 different ways. He is first introduced as 李大人 (Localisation: Lee Daai Yan), the latter half of which is probably a title of respect (I think "Daai Gor/Lou" would be a better fit though?). We later come to know him as 李大龍 (Lee Tai-Lung), and then 王龍 (Wang-Lung) which is said to be inherited from his predecessor.

Also, Yut-Lung’s attendant was renamed Suk-Leui, which sounds Cantonese (originally スウルー (sūrū)). From this, it’s clear that the localisation is making a deliberate move to depict them as Cantonese speakers.

There is a catch though. If we were to be more accurate, Wang-Lung should be Wong-Lung, Hua-Lung should be Wah-Lung, and Tai-Lung should be Daai-Lung. I have two theories here: 

The localisation is deliberately using Mandarin for the other Lees except Yut-Lung, hence affirming their earlier-mentioned family history. But this would bring up the question of: why is it not Da-Lung instead of Tai-Lung (as far as I know, the “tai/dai” pronunciation for Mandarin should be obsolete)? Are they perhaps just following the original Japanese furigana...?

You could argue that they sound similar enough for the romanisation differences to be considered minor. Especially in the case of Hong-Lung/Hung-Lung, the difference is negligible. 

Another funny thing is that in both versions, the characters are 100% speaking Mandarin whenever they speak “Chinese.” This can be inferred from both the furigana attached and the structure of the sentences itself. 

Note: I don’t know if it sounds natural or not because I don’t speak much Mandarin, just that the grammar and vocab definitely indicates Mandarin.

Example:

I mean, to be fair it’s unrealistic to expect the localisation to change it into written Cantonese, but because of this we now have another inconsistency in the loc. 

(For those who are interested, brief info on Mando/Canto differences: link 1, link 2. Note: “It would usually sound unnatural to speak Cantonese using Mandarin grammar." Also I would argue since this is a manga and therefore an informal medium (plus the charas are conversing not writing), thinking of the dialogue as being in standard written Chinese kinda makes no sense.) 

Summary:

The original Japanese is consistent in ensuring that any furigana attached to Chinese characters in names and Chinese dialogue correspond to Mandarin. However, this contradicts facts involving characters who come from or currently live in Cantonese-dominant areas (HK, Chinatowns of that era).

The English localisation made an effort to change some things into Cantonese to better suit the context, but did not extend it to the Chinese dialogue and is overall inconsistent.

Side note: ユーシス (Yousiss) is supposed to be Yut-Lung’s English/”American” name. The English localisation came up with “Yau-Si” which yup, doesn’t sound very English. My guess is that they overlooked it at first, because this tiny mention only shows up once in volume 11. It is omitted in the localisation.

Edit (7/2/2021): I’m now convinced that ユーシス (Yousiss) could actually be “Eustace.” Please see this post for details.

Shorter Wong (ショーター・ウォン), Nadia Wong (マーディア・ウォン), Lao Yen Tai (ラオ・イェン・タイ)

I don’t have much to say about “Shorter” beyond that it's a quirky English name, haha. But interestingly, in one of the Chinese dialogues, Yut-Lung calls him “肖達” (Pinyin: xiào dá) which... I’m just going to assume is a Mandarin transliteration of “Shorter.” 

“Nadia” was originally マーディア (mādia) or as the official guidebook has romanised it, Mardeer. Either way doesn’t affect much. More importantly, I think it’s safe to assume that Wong is a Cantonese romanisation. I think it would be apt if it also happened to be 黃 because yellow is the theme colour of the series... and is reminiscent of “banana (fish)” which is the reason for what befalls Shorter... :x

Lao (or Lau?) can be a Mandarin surname but it seems very uncommon. On the other hand, it could be a non-Mandarin romanisation of Liu (劉/刘). Not sure about “Yen/Yuen Tai.” Fun fact: if we took 劉 and stuck it into a kanji dictionary, we’d get the meaning “to kill” (that meaning is probably obsolete though).

Surprisingly, these names are fitting in very well with the idea that they are not supposed to be read as Mandarin. It would make perfect sense though, as Chinatowns were at that time dominated by Canto speakers, as opposed to the Mandarin of today. 

From this, I feel inclined to posit that “Sing” is either Canto or non-Mandarin as well, though there is no evidence of this intention in the original source material.

Sing Soo Ling (シン・スウ・リン)

This guy is a special case because we actually have the meaning(s) to his name, but no Chinese characters to go with it. So we would have to do a bit of sleuthing.

Since "Sing" is a localisation, it's not going to be the best place to start from. "シン (Shin)" alone is vague too. It could turn out to be Cheng, Shing, Xin, Sim… coupled with not knowing which dialect or system of romanisation to use, that creates way too many options!

However, I’m betting if the mangaka went to the lengths of researching definitions, she would have gone straight to Mandarin, or possibly Canto. So that’s where I’ve restricted my search to.

Which is it?

According to Sing in Garden of Light, his name carries the Japanese meanings of 魔神, 獅子 and 罪. The localisation translated them as “demon,” “lion” and “guilt” respectively.

You'd think that each of those would match up with all the characters in his name since it's unlikely for only 1 character to carry all 3 meanings. Unfortunately I've looked into various dictionaries with very little success. They just don’t match up at all!

Here's my speculation:

獅子

I thought 獅子 would be the easiest to start with since there can't possibly be that many characters for "lion". Which proved to be true! But that just meant I hit a dead end pretty quick. 

“Lion” in Chinese is also 獅子 but pronounced "shī zi" and "si zi" in Mando and Canto respectively. Not close at all to "shin/sing" plus they’re missing the final n/ng sound.

I was pretty stumped, but then it hit me that… hey! "Singa" is “lion” in Malay. And that led me to "Singapore" which then led me to 新加坡 / 星加坡 (Pinyin: xīn jiā pō / xīng jiā pō. The former is the official transliteration. Not sure about the latter but I think it is a Canto reading because: san gaa bo / sing gaa bo). Also: [Sin]gapore = [シン]ガポール!

"Xin/Xing" doesn't mean "lion" per se, but since it's a Mandarin transliteration of its native name, it could sort of, partly... indirectly... mean that...? I feel like I'm reaching a little here but damn, the mangaka is not making this easy.

Edit (18/8/2020): I've omitted a lot of my research in order to keep this post short and concise, but as time goes on I am more convinced that Yoshida took her meanings not from Chinese, but elsewhere. So I'm making a minor edit to include this as well:

- The word siṃhá from Sanskrit carries the meaning of “lion.” (x) 

- It seems to have descended into "sinh/sing" in languages such as Hindi (सिंह), Lao (ສິງ) and others. 

- In Thai, lion is “singto/sing” and there’s even a common given name called Sing(h). (x)

- The Sikh surname “Singh” is also said to have been derived from Sanskrit.

Combined with the fact that "singa" itself from "Singapore" has its roots in this Sanskrit word, this seems to be the strongest contender at the moment.

罪

It's possible that 罪 could be referring to not just "guilt" but "sin". After all, "sin" is close to how the average Japanese person would romanise シン (using Kunrei-Shiki romanisation). And guess what, it IS romanised as “Sin” in New York Sense and in the first edition of the official guidebook. I wouldn’t rule out the mangaka going through an English dictionary looking for the definition of “sin” because to her, it’s the same as シン. Honestly, I’m 99% sure that’s what she did.

魔神

I haven’t had any success with 魔神 which can also mean “devil/evil spirit.” The only thing that came to mind is that some kanji can be read as both “shin” or “jin” depending on the context, which then made me think of djinns? Which are evil spirits in a sense… This feels way too vague though.

Edit (18/8/2020): Still no luck here, but tumblr user sayaka19fan has suggested that "魔神" could refer to "死神/shinigami", the god of death.

But if that’s the case, why didn’t Yoshida just use “死神” from the get-go? sayaka19fan explained that it could have something to do with the taboo surrounding the word “shi (死)” or “death” in Japanese culture. Personally, I am not quite convinced because:

1) Yoshida had no problem depicting Ash talking at length about “death” in the leopard scene. I don’t see any reason why Sing would shy away from the topic/word either, unless maybe he’s extra aware of Akira’s presence, since she’s a child?

2) Also, "shinigami" is shi-ni-ga-mi (シニガミ), not shin-i-ga-mi (シンイガミ). By dropping the n (ン) sound, the entire word changes and shi (シ) alone is not Sing's name anymore.

If all 3 meanings had the same pattern of only drawing from shi (シ) then I might be more convinced, but as shown above, 2 out of 3 derive from words that can definitively be read as "sin/sing/シン". I'm inclined to think that 魔神 should follow as well, since there’s no reason for Yoshida to suddenly diverge from this rule. 

- - - - - - - -

"スウリン/Soo Ling" doesn't seem to factor into any of these at all, so I’m convinced that the mangaka meant for those meanings to originate only from “Sing.”

I feel hesitant going with 新 / 星 as his family name, since they look like extremely uncommon ones. For what it’s worth, the Taiwanese(?) Mandarin localisation has gone with 辛舒霖 (Pinyin: xīn shū lín) with 辛 being the most common form of the “Xin” surname. He also shows up in another one of Yoshida’s works, Yasha, but they went with 沈叔林 (Pinyin: shěn shū lín) there.

At this point I suppose there’s still no One True Answer. But for the sake of consistency, it’s probably best to stick with 辛舒霖 if people want to use his Chinese name.

Edit (13/10/2021): I have expanded more on Sing’s name HERE.

Final thoughts:

It’s perfectly possible that the mangaka did not think too deeply about most of these names. She once named a Chinese character キム・ヨン・タイ (kim yong tai) which thanks to the surname, ended up sounding Korean instead. Of course, you could argue that it’s another non-Mandarin variation (Hokkien?). The English localisation however, changed it to “Hong Zhe-Ming.” There’s also the fact that she has twice referred to Lao as “Lao Yen” in Japanese, which is a heinous but hilarious mash up of his surname and half of his first name. 

Yeah, this series is far from being 100% accurate in other areas as well but hey, sometimes it’s just fun to point this stuff out :p

Thanks if you’ve read this far, and feel free to let me know if I’ve made a mistake or missed anything!

Extra footnote just in case: Regarding the whole "do they speak Mando/Canto" thing, I am examining it purely from the manga's perspective. I think that circumstances in the anime are different and perhaps more complex due to the change in setting.

[evilelitest2]

Something that your piece on "Good Night, and Good Luck" reminded me of, and a fact you've brought up before in your series: why ARE Americans (and the West in general, really) so easily scared?

That is a very good question, and like all good questions, it doesn’t have a single answer.  I mean all people are easily scared, a lot of Muslim Fundamentalists are doing basically the same thing our political right is, but the west gets more scared over less so lets talk about the various factors.

Firstly, we aren’t very well educated about the world around us.  This is less true for Europeans but its still stands, we know very little about these situations and political realities, which makes things easier to get confused.  If somebody’s understanding of say, Islam, is just a vague nebulous threat that they imagined as a hoard of brown people with funny hats and suicide vests, its really easy to imagine the enemy as something inhuman and thus more threatening.  If you are actually knowledgeable about the subject you learn how our enemies are just as incompetent and stupid as we are

Secondly, a corporate culture, because fear is extremely profitable.  Now don’t get me wrong, I am not saying there is a cabal of men in business suits sitting around with cigars going ‘Mar har, we need to make the people afraid” its more just part of capitalism tendency to hyperize anything. Marketing fear is really really easy, because people who are afraid will buy things to try to make the fear go away.  Take gun companies for example, their product is something which kinda requires you to be afraid to get one, if you weren’t terrified of getting shot, then the only reason why you’d buy a guy is if you were a hunter or a sports shooter.  And while that is a serviceable market, if you have an aggressive marketing campaign to get people terrified, you can get people who otherwise would never buy guns to…buy guns, because do you know how scary things our outside right now (they say as crime rates are steadily reduced).  Or for people who have guns…why not get another gun, because you never know if like, 8 guys will break into your house and you will have to defend it with your 80 guns.  

This also applies to a lot of other markets, its just good business to have a scared audience, because they will buy you’re useless shit.  For example, if men are supposedly having their masculinity stolen from them by…something then suddenly testosterone supplements make sense.  

   Or most infamously, punditry.  I mean, if there is a giant conspiracy of Leftists controlling all the media and the only person you can trust is Rush Limbaugh, then you listen to him religiously…which makes the ads on his show much more valuable.  It just makes a lot of business sense 

Which leads too

 Thirdly Because our media’s level of success is based upon ratings rather than quality of reporting, our media priorities things that make people scared.  I mean, 9/11 was great for the news industry in terms of money, and you never get a wide spread selling headline saying ‘Everything is fine”  Apocalyptic pronunciations and constant fear just gets you better ratings, so they keep doing it 

Fourth, it is really good for politicians, particularly those who are trying to get people to vote against their own interests.  Let me give three examples on the right, center and left of this behavior.  

So to take a right wing belief, for poor Americans in rural red states, tax breaks for the wealthy don’t actually help them, in fact they hurt them because that leads to cutting of benefits.  So how do you get these people to vote against their own interest?  Simple, you get them fucking terrified of the liberals/communist/muslim/jews and they will vote against their own interests.  Or in the French Revolution, the Jacobines were able to seize power by playing on fears of a Royalist conspiracy.  Or to use a centrist example, Hillary Clinton’s primary campaign was basically telling people who didn’t like her policies to support her because only she could protect them from Trump…whoops.  

There is a reason why Republicans call the Estate Tax “The Death Tax” 

Fifth, our media loves conspiracies in fiction, and the wide spread which makes people more inclined to believe it.  People don’t understand how like…things work so they imagine conspiracies, and since most people get their understanding of reality through fiction, the prevalence of such narratives makes this stuff seem more reasonable.  I mean a lot of Alt Rightsits get their understanding of Terrorism through 24, their understanding of Crime through the Dark Knight Returns and/or Dirty Harry, and their understanding of history through Forest Gump 

Also people kinda like being scared, its exciting, which is why when the News covers a natural disaster they try to make it as dramatic as possible.  

Actually Fahrenheit 9/11 does a good job talking about this whole issue

[wellamarke]

top five things to change? Two hard ones: cabin pressure and humans :)

ooooooh thank you!! very hard because y’all know those are my two absolute favourite shows in the whole entire world and i frequently claim that they are pefect, but I will try!!

5 things I would change about Cabin Pressure:

1. Alphabet what now?! I would, obviously, extend it to at LEAST one more series! Its only flaw of note is that it ended :/ 

2. I know that the actors had very minimal rehearsal time and that when recording, they can’t always go over lines for a very tiny slip, and I also know I am overly pedantic, particularly for someone who isn’t particularly eloquent out loud….. but the only person of the main cast who never miss-emphasises a line is John. Cause, you know, he wrote it. Benedict straight up changes the company name to ‘MGN’ more than once in series 4, Carolyn and Douglas both lose the one-syllable game by choosing the two-syllable pronunciation of ‘beer’. And I was listening to Douz today and remembered this, which I cannot unhear now that I’ve noticed it: 

MARTIN: I am the senior pilot on board, Carolyn.
CAROLYN: Yes. But Douglas is the better pilot on board.

why does she inflect pilot and not better? That’s what she’s correcting him on, after all. I adore Stephanie Cole with EVERY FIBRE of my earthly being, and if this was a normal show that she had extensive rehearsal and reshoot time for, they would have got it right, I know. But since we’re picking faults, I’d change that line for sure! 

3. The change in Caitlin’s name, from Cayt-lin to Caht-lin, will always annoy me. I know that it has WOG explanation, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I would have them stick to saying ‘Caytlin’.

4. The timeline! Arthur’s 28 and a half in Boston, and “nearly thirty” in St Petersburg, but when asked, the Finnemore usually claims that the timeline is supposed to run sort of parallel to its broadcast. Somehow, July 2008 to August 2011 - more than 3 years - is condensed into 18 months, and as someone much cleverer than me has worked out, somewhere, this throws out other people’s ages too, and messes with things like the length of time Martin’s worked at MJN. So I’d change Douglas’s line in SP. Or maybe make Arthur 26 and a half in Boston! 
(But outside of this post, my theory is that Arthur understands the word “nearly” to mean “around the general area of”, so he doesn’t correct Douglas - 31 and a half is nearly 30, after all, it’s just after rather than before.) 

5. Although I loved Zurich and thought it was a beautiful end to a beautiful show, it’s forever devastating that Martin leaves. Give me that Air Liechtenstein AU any day of the week. 

Lol, most of these are so petty and tiny, and maybe someone who isn’t me could think of really smart, conceptual improvements to the show as a whole, but…. I…. just really love Cabin Pressure, okay. 

5 things I would change about Humans

(which got a bit long, sorry lol)

1. Obviously, I would put Fred in series 2. At first I wasn’t sure how I would put him in, but I think I would have had Athena trying to fix him/introduce V into his mainframe in the early episodes, despairing and going after the other prototypes when she couldn’t, and then maybe repairing his code with Karen’s help? This would kill two of my series 2 birds with one stone: because one, I really missed Karen interacting with any of the Elsters this year (she literally exchanged one look with Mia, that was it.) and two, I started joking that Athena and Milo’s scenes were actually a crossover into another show, because they interacted almost exclusively with each other (and V) for most of the series. I had an easy time getting to love Renie, Flash and even Hester, because they were so involved in the lives of characters I already loved. In the early episodes, the most connected I felt to Athena was when she went to talk to Hobb, of all people, hehe. So giving her Fred to fix would (a) fix Fred and (b) make Athena feel more part of the show’s core. 

2. Joe and Laura’s interactions with Sophie in the second season. Well, more particularly Joe, since Laura had other niskesque things on her mind. How does Joe not realise specifically that Sophie is mimicking synth behaviour very early on? Instead he talks vaguely about her ‘putting up walls’, when it’s painfully obvious what she’s actually doing. He tries, repeatedly, to talk her out of it in hushed, Serious Tones, rather than trying to engage her properly in childlike activities (although props for the foodfight scene, and maybe the lack of anything similar that went before it is what makes that so affecting). And the most!!! annoying thing!!!! is that in whichever episode it is that Renie comes over (4/5?), they let her answer the door and let Renie inside, like? is it just me? or should they have been at least listening out - just in general when a child answers the door but particularly when a child who’s supposed to be staying away from synths answers the door to -apparently- a synth! Who’s come to visit your son, no less? Like why didn’t they even check what was going on? This is made worse by the fact that when the Ominous Utility Synth of Doom arrives, they’re suddenly all about knowing who’s coming and going. Basically, Joe and Laura are only interested when it’s convenient, when it’s not interrupting their covert whispering about how worried they are about Sophie. Less whispering, more parenting, guys. 

3. I gotta get in one petty intonation point, okay - the way Lindsey Kiwanuka, bless her, says that Vera can do “ten times what the D-series can do” instead of “ten times what the D-series can do”. It just… sounds so wrong, so I would substitute that line for the proper inflection. I don’t know if you’ve noticed haha but I am a person who italicises for emphasis, like, a lot. I speak quite emphatically IRL and I like that to be reflected in anything I write. So I guess I’m quite tuned in to it, and whenever I hear some poor actor botch the inflection of a line, I think to myself “I bet the writer didn’t italicise that properly in the script!” (oops, there I go again). So, yep, that. But kudos for Humans for having very few examples to choose from. I actually can’t think of any others. 

4. Pretty much all the deployment of Odi in series 2, like… need I say anything more, that was just heartbreakingly inadequate. I loved parts of it very much, but it sort of feels like they wasted his character and kind of implicated Mattie (and all of the Hawkinses except Sophie, really) by having them neglect his needs. It’s just sad. Not the kind of tragedy his character provided in series 1, which was art. Just sad sadness. 

5. Above all else, though, I would change the length of each series!! It’s a common complaint that series 2 tried to stretch itself over too many storylines, but honestly I don’t know which one I’d go without, per se - really, I just wanted more of pretty much everything, except Joe, because no. Every plot is intriguing and valid and has amazing points, but they pretty much all suffer from underdevelopment and scarcity of scenes. I feel like the stuff with Hester was very well done, good pacing, excellent development, but she was pretty much the only character I found wholly satisfying as regards her narrative deployment. Everyone else left me wanting explanations, extensions, more of the quiet llittle character moments series 1 was full of. The Hawkinses, for example, seemed like more of a unit in series 1, when they were divided and tense, than they did this year - all spread into their little corners of the plot. Does Mattie even know Renie exists? Does Joe know Odi’s name? Imagine if we had, like, 12 episodes even - I’m not saying go 24 like some American shows, necessarily, though I’d obviously love that - you wouldn’t need to add much plotwise, just give us some breathing space. C’mon. Commission a slightly longer 3rd series, powers that be…… you know it makes sense. 

Thank yooooou this was fun! 

Send me a show and I’ll try and come up with 5 things I’d change 

[kiralamouse]

Okay, but... a LOT of these are just problems with unusual names? So many of these are things my white American sis has to deal with with an unusual Scandinavian name my parents happened to like. I asked her to help me... I’m bolding the ones that do not 100% happen to her ALL THE FREAKING TIME and selectively adding commentary in italics.

“oh wow that’s so unique / interesting / fascinating / exotic / pbbbbbtbtt!”

“what IS that?” when they want to know the source language (probably as a proxy to figuring out your ethnicity–bonus points if lots of ethnic groups get names from that language so that won’t even work)

“what does that mean / is there a reason you were given that name” expecting some deep & poignant Story about your great-great-aunt’s long-lost sister or a near-death experience or some shit when you know they would never ask the same question of a white person Mouse sis: I get more "what does that mean", probably not so much "is there a reason for it".

“I’ve never heard that name before” / “you don’t meet a lot of those!” as if you asked

white people saying your name in fits and starts ten or more times in quick succession without waiting for you to tell them if they’ve gotten it right or not and you just kind of stand there until they’re quite finished Mouse sis: Yes. This happens a lot. I start wondering if they've forgetten I'm there and might be able to help. And it's not just white people... :)

white people doing The Most when pronouncing your name and then acting super proud of themselves for over-exaggerating this one sound that doesn’t occur in English / their native European language when literally no one asked them to do all of that Mouse sis: I get the exaggerated [sound that is different from how most Americans expect based on spelling]. Does that count? It can sound like a blend of someone sounding REALLY proud that they got it right, and someone sounding SLIGHTLY condescending about the fact that it sounds the way it sounds at all.

“is there something else I can call you?”

“can I call you [European name that vaguely resembles your name I guess]?” Mouse sis: They don't ask... they just get it wrong and eventually stop trying to correct themselves. :)

“can I call you [first letter of your name]?”

conversely, giving people a European name or a Europeanised pronunciation but they INSIST on knowing your “real name” / “how your name is really pronounced” in order to prove that they’re Cultured, not caring that they’re disrespecting you by ignoring your decision of what you’d like to be called

teachers / professors reading off a few non-European names during roll call and then getting to a European name and expressing relief e.g. “oh finally, a name I can pronounce” Mouse sis: This one is backwards. I HAVE a European name, and they cannot pronounce it. The only difference is that when they read it, they think they can pronounce it, so often no one asks me to confirm how it's said and I have to find a way to sneak the correct way into conversation at some point.

having white people see their inability to pronounce your name as a threat to their status as an Enlightened White Person such that their frantic / performative apologies about the whole thing stem more from their anxiety over their self-image than from any kind of respect for you. and yes we can tell

bonus points if your name has no sounds that don’t occur in the European language you’re speaking and yet people consistently fail to pronounce a certain sound because they try to make it more complicated and foreign than it is

white people telling you about other pee of sees they’ve known with that name or similar names despite the fact that no one asked Mouse sis: I have no idea what this means, but yes, I'm always told when someone "knows another [name] - with THE SAME pronunciation!" I'm always glad for that... means they're more likely to get it right. :)

people being generally careless with the spelling of your name, including on official documents Mouse sis: YES YES YES. THIS ONE IS THE WOOOORST. The more official it is, the MORE LIKELY IT SEEMS that they will get it wrong. *bangs head on door*

white people getting annoyed when you correct their spelling or pronunciation of your name because they’ve stopped caring Mouse sis: Again... not just white people. There are plenty of people who just stop caring and spell it how they want. (First AND last name.) Or worse... a barista getting mad at me for spelling my name to her, because she "KNOWS how to spell it" (oh, excuse me!) and then she spells it [different name entirely with similar spelling]. *facepalm*

white people getting shame-faced when you correct their spelling or pronunciation of your name because they’re secretly stopped caring but the image they’re trying to project of themselves won’t allow them to admit to that Mouse sis: Again. Not. Just. White. People. And yes.

“I’ll call you whatever I want to”

having a name that is literally just European / comes from the native language of the white speaker and yet because they see that it belongs to a nonwhite person they complicate it and try to pronounce it with the accent of whatever fucking ethnicity they’ve attributed to you based on your appearance

Now, a lot of these are bolded, because PoC - and especially PoC who are coded “foreign” - really do have unique bad experiences. They have to deal with things my sis doesn’t. But a lot are things that are just because people don’t deal well with the unexpected, and don’t respect names. And it’s really distracting to me to see an argument about how the experience is racialized and then offering experiences where almost half of them... aren’t racialized. It’s the “unusual name” part, but “unusual name” isn’t even part of the title of the list. Maybe either expand the title or narrow the list? Are you talking about the racialized problems, or ALL the problems, including the racialized ones?

I’m a broken record at this point but people messing up your name and not caring is absolutely a racialised experience. no one expects people to know how to pronounce names they’ve never heard before the first time they see them, but it’s an issue when they don’t care about getting it right at all (when, in contrast, people are generally very apologetic when they screw up white people’s names and they generally correct the error). there’s a generalised disrespect and disregard for the names of nonwhite people, especially if those names are non-European (which occurs interpersonally but also shows itself in discussions of public and historical figures). ask any given person of colour (including ones with European or Europeanised names) and they could probably write you a dissertation about how their name is responded to and how those responses are clearly calling on racialised scripts. no one here is upset over nothing.