#to be fair. i used t fall into the latter category

[rraakkee]

this shit is why I don't fw shipping culture. you got the manic freaks who dogpile people w different opinions n you got people like that crying abt how they're seeing it everywhere n making it everyone's problem. bunch of fuckin children stg

[homoose]

Love Has a Learning Curve: Part IV (x OC)

Summary: Maggie visits Spencer at the university and finds that her old insecurities aren’t as dead as she thought.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x OC

Category: hurt/comfort, fluff

Warnings/Includes: implied smut, jealousy, insecurity, self-deprecation, vague mentions of previous emotional/mental abuse (Owen), mentions of cheating (Owen)

Word count: 3.2k

a/n: Owen’s really a piece of shit, huh?

Series Masterlist

———

“Could I come see you teach?”

Spencer looked up from his desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It might be kind of boring. It’s a 100 level Intro to Profiling course.”

She peered over the side of the couch, closing her book. “Well, I don’t know anything about profiling, so an intro course would be right up my alley, don’t you think? And if you’re teaching it, I can guarantee it won’t be boring.”

He scrunched his nose in the way he sometimes did and clicked the cap on his pen once, twice, three times. “If you, um— if you really want to.”

She considered him for a moment before pushing herself up off the couch, coming around it to cross to his desk, perching herself on the corner. “You’ve seen me teach a bunch of times,” she said, knocking their knees together. “It’s only fair.”

He set his pen down and leaned back in his office chair, avoiding her eyes. She pulled her leg back, regretting her decision to ask. “It was just an idea. I don’t have to if you don’t want.”

As she moved to stand, he stopped her with a hand on her knee. “It’s not that. I don’t not want you to,” he clarified. He turned his chair to face her fully, peering up at her with a flush on his cheeks. “I just— I don’t know. You’re such a natural. I’m… awkward. Sometimes they just— stare at me.” 

Maggie scoffed. “I’m sure you’re not awkward.” She twirled one of the curls falling into his face around her finger, releasing it into a soft ringlet. “But seriously, if you don’t want me to come, it’s fine.”

He rolled his chair closer and ran his hands up the tops of her thighs. “I do want you to. Really.” 

He sat up straighter, craning his neck up towards her, and she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. She leaned down to meet his lips, and his hands wandered up to grasp at her hips. She laughed as he pulled her off the desk and practically into his lap, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She let him take it a little further, his hands traveling under her shirt and up over her back. 

When she pulled back to catch her breath, his dazed expression had her heart pounding. Any insecurity that managed to weasel its way into her psyche evaporated every time he looked at her. She ran a soft finger over the bridge of his nose. “Can you take a break?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, standing up and dragging her toward the bedroom with only a little too much enthusiasm. 

… 

“Okay, can I help you with anything?” Maggie asked, setting her bag down on the lecture podium. 

“Actually, yeah. Could you, um— write these topic notes,” he pulled out his notebook and flipped it open, “on that half of the board?”

“You got it, professor.” She accepted the notebook, turning to the board and uncapping the dry erase marker.

They worked quietly together, scrawling his notes across the white board, shoulders brushing comfortably together every so often. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him finish his side, capping the marker and stepping back to watch her. 

“This is much faster with two people. I should hire you.”

“You couldn’t afford my hourly rate,” she teased, leaning down a bit to copy the last bullet point. 

“Is there a boyfriend discount?” he asked, a soft fingertip tracing down her spine. 

She laughed as she capped the marker and set it in the tray, turning to face him and tilting her head in consideration. “Maybe we could work something out.”

He brought his hands to her hips, dug his fingers in, and pulled her closer. “Yeah?” He brushed his lips over hers and stepped forward, nearly pressing her back against the board. 

“Mmhmm,” she agreed, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth. She used her hands on his tummy to push him back a little. “But I charge double if you smudge it.”

“Fair.” He smiled and kissed her again, this time bringing his hands up to cradle her face. 

“As much as I’d love to kiss you forever,” she mumbled against his lips, “your students are going to be here any minute.”

He groaned and leaned his forehead against hers, and she laughed at his petulance. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom, and then I’ll sit up in the back. You won’t even know I’m here.”

He pulled back with a sigh. “You being here is all I’m going to think about.”

She kissed his nose and stepped around him to grab her bag. “I’ll try my best not to distract you.” She made her way off the lecture platform and up the aisle, turning back to ask, “Oh, office hours are right after class?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, leaning against the lecture podium. “1:00 to 2:00. The quad is beautiful this time of year, and there’s a coffee shop if you wanted to hang out there.”

… 

After her bathroom break, she re-entered the lecture hall as quietly as possible, slipping into the last row of seats and setting her bag down on the desk in front of her. The room was more than two thirds full, with students crammed into the first few rows and then sparsely sprinkled throughout the back half of the room. But she only had eyes for him.

She’d seen him, kissed him less than ten minutes ago, and yet here she was— blushing like a schoolgirl and resisting the urge to pull at her collar.

Even from the back row, she could see the way his suit coat stretched across his broad shoulders, the way the button at the bottom of his cardigan didn’t quite reach, the way his pants pulled taut across his thighs. She’d seen him pick the outfit out of his closet this morning, watched him put it on, even helped him with the knot of the tie. She shouldn’t realistically be this rattled by the sight of him.

But something about the way he set his shoulders back a little, the way his arm moved underneath the fabric as he scrawled an additional note across the board, the way he turned and put his hands in his pockets and waited quietly for the class to settle— felt different.

“We’ve got a lot to cover today. Let’s get started.”

She didn’t pull her collar, but she did remove her jacket— she was suddenly so, so hot, practically sweating— and draped it across the back of the chair. He caught her eye, gave her a small smile, and then launched into a lecture about the foundations of building victimology.

Just as she suspected, he was an absolute natural. Unbelievably knowledgeable of course, but also incredibly enthusiastic and positively captivating. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. 

And neither, it seemed, could the class. She scolded herself for the train of thought— of course they’re looking at him, he’s their professor. But he was right when he’d said that they... stare at him. The class was mostly young women, although the ogling seemed to cross gender lines. 

She couldn’t blame them. He answered questions with ease and gave witty responses to the devil’s advocate types. His enthusiasm was endearing and charming as hell. And, of course, he looked damn good doing it. 

With just over ten minutes left of class, she gathered her jacket and bag, standing quietly and moving into the aisle. She caught his eye as she headed for the door, slightly reassured when she saw a flash of concern in his eyes. She smiled and made a sipping gesture, and he nodded minutely and continued with his lecture. 

…

Fifteen minutes later, she was on her way back down the hallway toward his office, a coffee in each hand. When she turned the corner at 12:57, she was stunned to see that a line was already forming. 

“You gotta be kidding me,” she muttered, approaching the crowd of undergraduates. 

One particularly perky coed stood directly in front of his door, and Maggie cleared her throat. When the girl turned, she held up the coffees and gestured to the door. “I’m so sorry. I— I’m just gonna drop this off. I’ll just be one minute.”

The girl took a small step back, barely allowing Maggie to squeeze through the door left slightly ajar. It creaked slightly as she stepped through it, and Spencer’s head lifted from where he was hunched over his desk. 

“Hey!” He stood and shuffled around the side of the desk.

“Hi.” She forced a smile. “Sorry, I won’t keep you, I just— thought you might like a pick-me-up,” she said, holding out the cup to him. 

He sighed with relief. “You’re a mind reader.” He accepted the coffee cup with a grateful smile. She moved to leave, and he lightly snagged her wrist. “Hey.” He slowly pulled her back toward the desk, his eyes darting down to her mouth. 

She hummed, and he leaned forward to kiss her, moved his hand up to cup her cheek in his warm palm. He sighed into her mouth and gently tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth before pressing a quick peck to it. “Thank you.” He pressed a final kiss to her mouth with chapstick-soft lips. “I’ll see you in an hour?”

“Mhm,” she smiled again, a little more genuinely. “See you then, professor.”

She slipped back through the door, avoiding the curious eyes of the crowd. The hallway felt tight and constricting, and she was grateful for the way the fresh air hit her as she pushed through the door back out into the quad. 

She found an empty seat on a bench and set her coffee and bag down, shuffling through the latter to find her book. She flipped open to her bookmark, sure that she could finish at least two chapters during his office hour. As she attempted to read, however, her mind could not stop turning over the image of Spencer being admired by fifty young, attractive coeds. 

She read the same sentence five times before closing her book with a huff. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing, focusing on a deep inhalation and a long exhale. She carefully packed her book back into her bag, opting instead to sip her coffee and watch the bustle of the quad. 

It wasn’t that she was jealous, exactly. Jealousy wasn’t the right word. She trusted Spencer wholeheartedly. He was honest and kind, and he made it abundantly clear how much he was attracted to her.

She sighed shakily and closed her eyes against the unexpected tears that she could feel brimming just below the surface. It wasn’t jealousy. It was simply the insecurity that had always been there. Well, not always, she supposed, but long enough. Ten years. Owen had been out of her life for nearly half that time, but the mental scars he’d left her with would probably never fully heal. 

She was twenty one years old when they first started dating, and twenty six by the time he ended it. Five years of her life spent with a man who had conditioned her to believe that she had nothing to offer. Her work was insignificant. Her family was low-class. Her friends were irritating. Her laugh was obnoxious. She was immature and loud and annoying and daft. She should be grateful that he was interested in her despite these flaws. 

As if he hadn’t made all of that clear enough, he’d ended their relationship by cheating on her— not once, not twice, but consistently for nearly a year. And it seemed that almost everyone had known about it… except for her. That had been the most humiliating part; he’d had this woman in their bed, and she’d been completely unaware. She had cooked for him, attended his work events, slept beside him, subjected herself to his wrath, and never even considered that he could be with someone else.  

It took years for her to recover and rebuild. Years before she was ready to date again. It required her to construct a foundation of independence and self-love that she’d never had. And nearly five years later, she finally felt beautiful and strong and worthy. 

So why was her mind suddenly replaying every horrid thing Owen had ever said to her? Spencer was nothing like Owen. Spencer was kind, loving, and supportive. He was brilliant, talented, and accomplished. 

She pressed her lips together and swiped a hand under her eye, catching the lone tear that had managed to escape. That was exactly the problem. Spencer was all those wonderful things, and suddenly she couldn’t understand why he wanted her.

She pulled out her phone to check the time, huffing out a breath as she realized she’d spent nearly an hour dredging up old wounds. She closed her eyes and repeated her daily affirmation. I am powerful, and I am capable. I respect and honor my mind and my body. I am worthy, and I am enough. I love myself fully, just as I am. 

Now she just needed to believe it. 

She gathered her things, finishing up the last sips of her coffee before scoping out a garbage can. She tossed her empty cup in the bin on her way back to the building. As she opened the door, the blast of air conditioning cooled her sweaty skin. She stopped by the bathroom to splash her face with cool water, taking only a moment to look at herself under the harsh fluorescent lights. 

She made her way down the hallway, turning the corner to see that there were still three students in line outside Spencer’s office. She checked the time to see that it was technically five minutes past office hours. She dropped quietly into one of the two chairs across the hallway from his door. 

The other chair was occupied by a student, quite clearly waiting for Spencer, judging by the heavy sigh that accompanied his glance up at the office door. Maggie almost laughed at the way he aggressively checked his watch, tapping his foot rapidly on the floor. 

“Is it— um. Is it always like this?” She gestured to Spencer’s door. 

The tapping stopped, and the kid turned to her with another sigh. “Every. Goddamn. Time.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, I get it. I do. But, man. I’m just trying to ask about the structure of the final. This is the third week in a row that I’ve been here and I still haven’t seen him.” He checked his watch again and then ran a hand over his face. “And now I gotta get to my next class. I’m gonna have to leave early next week to camp out,” he joked.

He stood and gathered his things, and Maggie did laugh a little then. “Good luck.”

He waved and headed off down the hallway, and Maggie turned back to see a girl leaving out through Spencer’s half-open door, looking positively dreamy. She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes as the next girl stepped through the door. 

She waited another twenty minutes for the final two students to finish their visits. When the last student made her way out the door and down the hall, Maggie stood and smoothed down the skirt of her dress. She crossed the hallway and peered into his office, knocking on the door frame.

Spencer raised his head with a panicked look, his face softening into relief when he saw it was her. “Hey. Close the door,” he begged.

Maggie stepped into his office and closed the door quietly behind her. She finally took a look around the space— fairly small but tastefully decorated. The wall across from her was one enormous bookcase, filled to capacity, of course. Light filtered in from a single window, and his mahogany desk sat on the far wall, accompanied by a wing back leather office chair. Behind his desk was a low shelf lined with a globe, some other trinkets, and a plethora of picture frames. 

“Sorry that took so long.” He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know why my office hours are always so busy.”

She hummed, crossing to the gigantic bookshelf. “No?”

“No,” he confirmed exasperatedly. “No one else has that many students at their office hours. I asked.”

She laughed a little. “You asked?”

“Well, yeah.” He drew his brows together. “I don’t know if my syllabus is confusing, or if I’m— not clear enough in my lectures, maybe?” He dragged both hands through his hair and leaned back in his chair. “But there are always so many questions, and I mean— there are no stupid questions, but…” He sighed. “Sometimes the questions are stupid.”

She did laugh at that, full and loud. “Well, if my professors looked like Dr. Spencer Reid, I imagine I’d come up with a litany of questions, too. Stupid or otherwise.”

He was quiet, and she ran her finger along the book she was studying rather intently. She felt him moving toward her more than heard it, felt his eyes on her. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, instead pretending to peruse the titles in front of her, books full of theories that she’d never be able to understand. 

“Are you— are you jealous?” he asked incredulously. 

“No,” she defended, a little too quickly and voice a little too high.

“It’s okay if you are. Jealousy is— it’s a very normal human emotion.” He cleared his throat. “It’s, um— it’s kind of hot, actually.”

She rolled her eyes, but his confession made her feel a little bit better. He put a hand on her waist to turn her to face him, and she could feel her cheeks burning— hoped he couldn’t see it. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes, instead staring at a spot on the wall behind his head.

“But you know you have no reason to be, right?” He cupped a gentle hand under her chin, finally brought her eyes to his. “Why would I be interested in girls when I already have a woman?”

When she didn’t say anything, he continued, “A woman who brings me coffee, and buys gifts for my fish, and helps me make PowerPoints, and goes to fancy dinners at Le Chateau LaMontagne.” 

Her lips twitched into the start of a smile, and he brought his hands down to lace their fingers together. “Who forgives me when I mess up, and lets me cry on her shoulder at 3:00am, and makes me a solution kit, and helps me be a better person.” 

She sniffed but tried to lighten the mood. “She sounds pretty great.”

“She is great. She’s remarkable.” He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I love you.”

And there was that look again. Spencer looked at her like she’d hung the moon and the stars and every single celestial body in the galaxy. Like the answer to every question was contained within her atoms. It was almost enough to have her believing it, too. Maybe someday she would.

She squeezed his hand. “I love you, too.” For now, that was enough.

———

Permanent tags: @spacedikut @andiebeaword @averyhotchner @pinkdiamond1016 @shadyladyperfection @coffeeandendlesswords @justanothetfangirl @no-honey-no @ajeff855 @sapphic-prentiss @rexorangecouny @rainsong01  @blameitonthenight21 @moviequeen51 @90spumkin @reniescarlett @ncsls0515 @sturmmhond @takeyourleap-of-faith @calm-and-doctor @reidtheprettyboy @atabigail @ayo-cowbelly @muffin-cup @ssa-natalya-reid @wheelsup @reidingmelodies @this-is-gublerween  @s1utformgg  @reidemandweep @sonnydoesrandomshit @rigatonireid @luwheezey @joalsglasses @je-suis-prest-rachel @dr-omalley @spencie-adams @honestimanormalfan @blurryreid  @elldell1204 @babyhoneystvles @dayho3

Permanent (sfw) tags: @mrs-dr-reid @eevee0722 @goldentournesol @froggybagels (you asked to be on the perm tag list forever ago and I forgot!!!!!!)

Broken tags:  @radtwinkie @archer561

Series tags (x OC): @kyomito​ @linnyalou

[jenanigans1207]

Touching Hearts [TodoDeku]

I'm still trying to figure out how to write the two of them. But I really enjoyed writing this so I hope it turned out well! I'm about to start an hour and a half drive home so this isn't edited but might be later! I also might rewrite this from Todoroki's POV later, too, as a character study!

Summary: And this time, when Todoroki reaches out to touch Midoriya, to brush his fingers against Midoriya’s cheek with his second hand, Midoriya reaches back. He’s not paralyzed, he’s not burning down into ash, he’s just content. Completely and wholly content. 

-- or;

The five times Todoroki touches Midoriya and the one time Midoriya touches Todoroki.

1.

The sun is high in the cloudless sky, beating down on Midoriya’s back as he runs. He used to run around the city, bobbing and weaving through the people out and about on the sidewalk, but after the League of Villains attacked UA, they were prohibited from leaving campus unsupervised. It was fine, in the grand scheme of things. It just meant that Midoriya had to make multiple laps around campus to equal the same distance which, really, was no burden at all.

Except on days like today. Because today, every time Midoriya lapped near the dorms, he was treated with the sight of Todoroki out on the front lawn, a simple t shirt with his dark jeans. Todoroki was training, too, working on more precision control of both his flames and his ice. He’d grown a lot and developed his quirk a lot and it definitely showed. It seemed like he had made progress every time Midoriya passed by and honestly, Midoriya wouldn’t put that past him. He was incredibly talented and highly skilled. If anyone could progress in literal minutes, it was Todoroki.

Midoriya tried his best to convince himself that this was the reason he stared every time he went by. He tried to tell himself it was because he was interested in Todoroki’s quirk, interested in his progression.

Which, to be fair, wasn’t strictly a lie. He was interested in Todoroki’s quirk and he loved watching his progression. It made a bud of pride bloom deep in his chest, petals fanning out and filling all the gaps. But he was also interested in Todoroki.

With the dorms coming into view again, Midoriya forced his eyes forward and steeled his will against what he knew would be waiting for him. He couldn’t keep staring. Todoroki hadn’t noticed— yet— and Midoriya wanted to keep it that way. He’d been doing a relatively good job of keeping his feelings under wraps, but this was like torture. It was like he was being tested and he was pretty certain that up until this point, he’d been failing miserably.

So, he took steady, even breaths. He focused on the feeling of One for All deep in his gut, on the way it threaded through his entire body. That was the real purpose of his running, anyways— to work on maintaining a steady and even percentage of One for All while in action. He stared steadfastly at the sidewalk in front of him as he rounded the corner and came upon the dorms again. Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t look to his right. Don’t look to his right. Don’t look—

A flash of flames drew his attention and Midoriya couldn’t stop himself from turning, looking at Todoroki as he stood in the law, left arm completely aflame. His hair billowed in the slight wind being created by his heat and there was a pleased smile on his face. If Midoriya had been harboring any hope that he’d make it by this lap without staring, it all went out the window right then and there. Because Todoroki was beautiful.

He was standing there in casual clothes, the sun bathing him in saturated rays of light that nearly made him glow like an angel, soft smile on his face. It simply wouldn’t be fair to ask Midoriya not to stare. It wouldn’t be fair to ask anyone not to stare. And so, Midoriya did. He couldn’t take his eyes off Todoroki as he continued to run, committing the sight of him to memory. He wanted to be able to replay this exact moment in his head over and over again. It wasn’t often that Midoriya got to see Todoroki smile so openly like that, especially when he was on his own, And it still wasn’t often that Midoriya got to see him use his flames.

These thoughts were swirling around in Midoriya’s head as he continued to stare. He took a few more steps before Todoroki looked up, his eyes snagging on Midoriya immediately. Their gazes locked and Todoroki’s smile didn’t falter in the slightest. In fact, he held his burning arm up a little higher to show Midoriya, the look of pride melting into every aspect of his face.

Midoriya opened his mouth to say something, to proclaim his own pride at Todoroki. He was just forming the words on the tip of his tongue and then, suddenly, he was tumbling, heading for the ground at an alarming rate.

The ground was hard and unforgiving and Midoriya could feel the wind being knocked right out of him. He slid a few feet before finally stopping, arms splayed out in front of him, cheek flat on the ground and legs in a weird tangle behind him. It took a long moment for him to pull himself back together, blinking against the bright light of the sun and trying to remember how to move his body.

A shadow appeared over him moments later. “Are you alright?”

It didn’t take more than a moment for Midoriya’s mind to come crashing back down as he registered Todoroki crouching down next to him, eyebrows knitted together in worry. “Yeah!” Midoriya rushed to say, trying to figure out his legs and push himself into a sitting position. “I’m totally fine! Just clumsy, that’s all!”

Finally his body cooperated and he was able to shove his legs underneath him, pushing himself into a half crouch so he was even with Todoroki. Todoroki didn’t back away, simply stayed in his spot and watched. And then, when Midoriya was crouching and steady, he reached a hand out to gently cup Midoriya’s chin and every single thought in Midoriya’s head left in one quick rush. He found himself utterly frozen as Todorki moved his face gently, tilting it to the side so he could inspect the cheek Midoriya had fallen onto.

“You’re cut,” He said simply, reaching his other hand out to gently press along Midoriya’s cheek.

Honestly, Midoriya couldn’t feel the cut at all. He couldn’t feel any pain from falling. The only things he could feel were the warmth that was Todoroki’s body so close to his and the absolute electricity where they were touching. Midoriya watched out of the corners of his wide eyes as Todorki leaned even closer, inspecting the cut. His fingers trailed gently down Midoriya’s cheek, along his jawline and then finally settled on his shoulder. Midoriya wasn’t sure when, but at some point he’d definitely forgotten how to breathe.

“It’s really fine!” He finally managed to squeak out when Todoroki let go of his chin. “I’ll just head inside and wash it and I’m sure it’ll be good as new.”

Todoroki seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding his head. He stood up, reaching down and snagging Midoriya’s hand, hauling him to his feet, too. Midoriya felt like his entire arm was on fire, the feeling seeping deep into his bones, settling in the depth of his gut.

“Be more careful next time,” Todoroki said, but there was no real bite to it, just a small undertone of concern.

“Right!” Midoriya agreed immediately, missing the warmth of Todoroki the moment their hands disconnected. “Thank you!”

With a smile, Midoriya headed past Todoroki and into the dorms to wash up, using every ounce of his energy to not jump out of his own skin.

--x--x--x--x

2.

Midoriya’s breathing is labored as he lands on the ground in a crouch. His legs are shaking underneath him and he knows that his body is starting to reach its limit. Starting to reach it, not at it. In the time since he inherited One for All, he’d gotten really good at reading his body and understanding how he was feeling. He was now an expert at what it meant when his legs groaned as he pushed back into standing. He could tell the difference between close, but not quite at his limit, exactly at his limit, and definitely too far past it. He’d spent a lot of time in the latter category and considered himself somewhat of an expert on that.

Currently, though, he was in the ‘close, but not quite’ category.

The rest of the class was slowly filing out of the gym, their lessons done for the day. Of course, that left the remainder of the afternoon up to them to fill how they wanted and Midoriya wanted to fill it doing exactly what he had been doing. He couldn’t push his limit further if he didn’t reach it.

“You coming, Midoriya?” Iida asked from the doorway, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead. He walked a little stiffly when he’d used his quirk too much and he was standing just as stiffly now.

“No, you guys go on ahead!” Midoriya called, pushing his hair off his forehead and wiping at his own sweat. “I’m going to stay and keep practicing for a bit longer. I’ll be back by dinner!”

With a wave, Uraraka and Iida departed, too, following the rest of the class. It was just Midoirya in the gym now. At least, that’s what Midoriya had thought.

“I’ll stay, too.” Midoriya nearly jumped as Todoroki approached his side, coming from the far side of the gym. He stopped next to Midoriya, breathing a little heavily himself.

Midoriya turned to look at him, willing his throat not to go dry. He needed to get his words out. “Are you sure? You don’t have to, I’ll be alright.”

Todoroki looked at him for a moment then, his eyes scanning Midoriya. It made Midoriya feel exposed, almost. Scrutinized. He was just about to ask what was on Todoroki’s mind when he said, “Spar with me.”

“What?”

“Spar with me,” Todoroki repeated asi if it were obvious. “It’ll help us both improve our quirks. I’ll put up walls of ice for you to break, shoot fire you have to avoid.”

Midoriya couldn’t deny that it was a good idea— a perfect way for both of them to strengthen their quirks. He also couldn’t deny that he loved the idea of spending time with Todoroki, just the two of them, out of sight of the rest of the class. Not that anything would happen— certainly not. But Midoriya’s heart jumped into his throat just at the thought.

“Okay,” He said after a moment and by god if his heart didn’t stop when Todoroki shot him an answering smile.

“Great,” Todoroki took a step back, turning to survey their surroundings.

Usually at the end of gym, their surroundings were destroyed. As Midoriya understood it, Cementoss stopped by each night to repair everything back to it’s original form, giving them all the chance to destroy it all over again. Rubble littered the ground and some of the pathways through the rock was blocked with larger chunks and boulders. It was already almost an obstacle course in this state.

“I’ll set up some walls of ice in different areas,” Todoroki began to explain, his face focused as he thought. Midoriya stayed quiet, listening to him explain his plan and watching the wheels turn in his head, When they’d first started at UA, Todoroki had been closed off and hard to read. But he’d really opened up as time went on and Midoriya found that he didn’t really struggle at all to decipher Todoroki’s expressions, to guess where his mind was going to go. It felt like an intimate sort of knowledge, though, and Midoriya had to swallow against the feelings clawing their way up his throat. “You have to destroy all of them, but I’m not going to make it easy for you. Fair?”

Todoroki turned to look expectantly at him then and Midoriya was so captured in being this close to him that he almost forgot he was supposed to reply. “R-Right! Sounds awesome!”

“Okay, close your eyes.” Todoroki said and Midoriya felt his heart stop in his chest. He couldn't stutter out a single word, couldn’t ask the question that he was wondering but it must’ve been written all over his face because Todoroki elaborated without being prompted. “You can’t see where I’m putting up the ice! That’s part of the challenge— you have to find them.”

Midoriya did as he was told, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. He used the few moments to try and slow his heartbeat, to steady his legs underneath him. If he were going to pull out One for All, he needed to be focused. His body was close enough to his limit that he had to monitor himself carefully. He couldn’t get distracted and become reckless— that was a sure fire way to end up injured.  So, as Todoroki worked, Midoriya pulled forth One for All, spreading it out throughout his body at 20%.

His muscles screamed, already tired from what he’d put them through, but he knew he could do more. He waited until Todoroki gave him the okay and then opened his eyes, noting the first wall of ice that was only a few feet away. Todoroki had raised himself up on a platform of ice, too, giving him a better view of the entire gym and making it so he’d be able to attack Midoriya from anywhere.

There was a zing down Midoriya’s spine as he looked up at Todoroki, his fire licking at his fingertips, making his eyes dance in the light. They lock eyes and Midoriya can see the friendly challenge in his gaze. It makes his blood fizzle in his veins and just like a shot, he’s off.

He doesn’t go for the wall of ice right in front of him because that’s too easy of a target. No doubt Todoroki would be able to get him from there if he started off like that. Instead he takes off, dodging fireballs as he makes his way between two of the tallest rocks in the room. It offers him cover from the fireballs but limited view of the gym as a whole. The best way for him to locate the blocks of ice is to get high ground, but he knows he can’t do that. With Todoroki up on his own pillar of ice, Midoriya would just be a sitting duck.

He continues down the aisle between the two rocks until he comes out the other side. He can see two of the ice blocks immediately and he takes off towards one. The fireballs resume almost instantaneously and Midoriya has to use the rocks to help him bound around and dodge. Switching his trajectory midair was something Midoriya had always had a relatively strong grasp on, but it was such an integral part of his fighting style that he was happy to continue practicing it.

A fireball nearly singed off the tips of his hair as he made it to the first block, smashing through it in an instant with his shoot style. He kept going, feet barely hitting the ground before he was jumping again, heading towards the neck block. Midoriya didn’t have to look to know that Todoroki had moved— the fireballs were coming from different angles than before. Midoriya’s feet hit one of the pillars of rock in the middle of the room and he pushed off, suddenly coming face to face with a wall of fire.

Thinking quick, Midoriya kicked midair, the wind from his attack blowing a hole in the flames that he was able to sail straight through, his foot connecting with the second block of ice and shattering it instantly. Still, the wall of fire had done what Todoroki had no doubt been aiming for— it’d thrown him off balance. Midoriya stumbled as his feet hit the ground, running a few uneven steps in an attempt to get his feet back under him properly. It took hardly even a second but it was enough time to switch Todoroki to the offensive.

Suddenly, Midoriya wasn’t even looking for the next block of ice— he was just focused on avoiding attacks. He dodged and weaved, using some of the rubble when he could to throw Todoroki off or force him to pull back, sending his attack in a completely different direction.

They continued like this for some amount of time— Midoriya honestly had no idea how long. Somewhere in the middle, he’d glanced up at Todoroki and saw him grinning as he called forth his flames and the realization had hit Midoriya right then and there— they were having fun. This wasn’t a battle, this wasn’t a real fight. This was two friends training together and they were both enjoying themselves. As much as Midoriya loved the hero course, loved his classes and his classmates, he couldn’t name the last time he’d found their practicing fun.

For the longest time, it had almost been a chore. It was something he had to do, a constant pressure weighing him down and making him question his worth. It was always something he had to think about, constantly in his own head. But this, with Todoroki? He wasn’t even paying that much attention to maintaining an even balance of One for All— though a quick mental check told him that he was actually doing an exceptional job of it. Instead of focusing on any of the normal things Midoriya found himself thinking about, he found it all replaced with a rush of adrenaline through his veins and a seed of happiness planting roots into his heart.

Finally Midoriya found the last block of ice and nearly collapsed on the other side of it once he’d broken through. Todoroki came down from his ice pillar right after, his own feet hitting the ground and nearly giving out on him. Even with the few feet of distance between them, Midoriya could hear his breathing.

“That was—” Todoroki started to say.

Midoriya looked up at him, bright eyes and a wide smile, unable to contain the feelings in his heart. “Fun!” He finished for Todoroki, feeling like he was bursting at the seams with happiness. “That was so much fun.”

Todoroki took a few shaky steps until he was next to Midoriya, dropping down to sit with him on the ground. They both leaned their backs against the chunk of ice behind them, Todoroki drawing his knees up and propping his forearms over them.

“Yeah,” Todoroki agreed after a moment, the smile audible in his voice. “That really was a lot of fun.”

Silence fell around the two of them then, only broken by their ragged breathing, but it wasn’t uncomfortable in the least. If anything, it was the most comfortable Midoriya had felt in a long time. It was the first time in, maybe, ever that he’d been able to use his quirk and not worry about everyone scrutinizing him, watching and judging his every move. He didn’t feel self conscious, didn’t feel worried. He felt, for once, like he was just Midoriya.

He turned to express some semblance of this to Todoroki, though he wasn’t really sure how he’d word the idea. In the end, it didn’t matter. The moment he turned to Todoroki, only to find out that Todoroki was already looking at him, happiness in his eyes and the corners of his lips still tilted up a little, the words shriveled and died on his tongue.

As if that weren’t enough, Todoroki reached a hand up almost absently, threading it through the hair along the side of Midoriya’s head. If Midoriya didn’t know better, he would think that Todoroki was using his fire quirk because he suddenly felt like he was being burned to the ground, only to rise up from the ashes and live this moment again and again and again. Todoroki’s hand was gentle and swift as it moved through Midoriya’s hair before he pulled it back and held it out open between the two of them.

“You had ice in your hair,” He explained, glancing down to his hand.

Midoriya followed his gaze to find exactly what he’d said— little shards of ice sitting delicately in the palm of his hand. It made sense— Midoriya had crashed through nearly ten walls of ice. He probably had a lot of ice crystals littering his hero costume and tangled in his hair. Still, he couldn’t help but be a little disappointed.

“Oh,” He said after a moment, “Thanks.”

Todoroki shrugged, his gaze straying back up to Midoriya. “It was my fault they were there,” He said, but there was a look on his face that made Midoriya feel like he wanted to say more. “The least I could do was remove them,”

The silence settled for only a moment again before Todoroki finally stood up, extending a hand down to Midoriay. It reminded him instantly of the other day when Todoroki had hauled him to his feet after his epic face plant. At least today he hadn’t made a total fool of himself. He reached up and grasped the offered hand, allowing himself to be pulled up. His legs took a moment to solidify underneath him and he leaned into Todoroki’s hand in the meantime, noting the way that Todoroki didn’t even try to pull away until he was certain that Midoriya was steady,

Slowly they made their way towards the entrance of the gym, walking close enough that they bumped shoulders occasionally. By the time they exited the building, the sun was setting below the horizon, painting the sky in a beautiful array of yellows and oranges and giving the world a soft, hazy glow.

“We should do that again sometime,” Midoriya said, glancing to his left as they walked. Todoroki had his head tipped back, looking up at the sky above them. His hair fell away from his face and Midoriya was struck once again with the only word he could think of to even come close to accurately describe Todoroki: beautiful.

“Yeah,” Todoroki tipped his head to the side so he could look back at Midoriya and he looked at peace. The sky glowed behind him and Midoiya wanted nothing more than to be close to Todoroki in whatever way he could be. He knew with absolute certainty in that moment— though he’d had other moments of similar clarity— that he would do almost anything for the boy standing next to him. He’d give Todoroki the entire world if he had to because that was the least that he deserved. “I’d really like it if we did.”

They bumped shoulders again and this time it was no accident. Midoriya smiled, leaning back into Todoroki and they finished the rest of their walk to the dorms like that, connected from shoulder to elbow. 

--x--x--x--x

3.

The weekend has finally come and everyone is ready for a break. Aizawa has been running them ragged all week— extra assignments, extra time in the gym, just extra everything. Even Midoriya, who was notoriously good at studying, was having a hard time keeping up with it all. Finally, though, Friday had come and Aizawa had granted them a weekend with little assignments to spend their time on.

So, the class had decided that the first thing they were going to do to celebrate their freedom was have a movie night. Midoriya was completely down with the idea. In fact, he was really looking forward to it. His classmates had become like a second family to him— or really even extensions of his first family since all he really had was his mom. He liked spending time with them, liked laughing, joking and teasing each other. It was one of the things that made his experience at UA as amazing as it was. So he was more than happy to pile some pizza on his plate and head into the common area, plopping down on one of the couches.

They had rearranged all of the furniture so two couches and two chairs each faced the tv. From there, they’d all gone to their rooms and dragged down whatever blankets and pillows they could spare, laying them out on the ground in front of the couches for the majority of the class to lay on. Everyone was slowly settling in, Todoroki on Midoriya’s right, Iida on his left. Kirishima, Bakugo and Kaminari took the other couch, leaving Yao-momo and Uraraka to take the chairs. The rest of them were piling in on the pillows and blankets, shifting until they were comfortable.

“We’re not watching The Shining!” Bakugo was yelling from his spot on the couch, swiping for the disk Kirishima was holding in his hands.

Kirishima laughed, dodging his hand easily and leaning forward to pass it over to Jirou. “Come on, Bakugo, it was popular vote!”

Bakugo slumped back into his seat, grumbling something about how the rest of 1A had terrible movie taste and snagging a piece of pizza off of Kirishima’s plate.

“Did you vote for this?” Todoroki asked, setting his own piece of pizza down and reaching for his drink from the table to his right.

“No,” Midoriya answers, turning to smile up at him. Todoroki is warm and solid next to him, a comforting presence. “I didn’t vote at all, I don’t care what we watch.”

There was a small smile on Todoroki’s lips as he raised his glass up, murmuring, “That’s just like you.”

Midoriya was about to ask what he meant when the lights turned off suddenly, Sero shushing everyone. Jirou waited only a moment before hitting the play button and suddenly the movie came to life on the screen before them. Midoriya had seen The Shining before— Bakugo had made him watch it when they were younger in an attempt to scare him. It had worked, mostly, but it didn’t bother Midoriya any longer. He was able to comfortably relax into the couch, eating his pizza and occasionally nudging Todoroki in request of his drink. Todoroki understood every time, diligently handing his cup over and then waiting patiently for him to finish drinking so he could return it to its spot.

Whispers spread around the room and pillows were thrown— mostly by Bakugo telling everyone to shut up— and the evening dissolved into night. They watched a second movie, Jirou putting it into the dvd player before anyone had a chance to protest. Midoriya had no idea what was coming next, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t laughed this much in awhile and it felt good.

“Popcorn, anyone?” Kirishima called as the previews rolled before the second movie. He still had to dodge a pillow thrown by Bakugo.

“Yes, please!” Was the resounding response and Kirishima ducked out of the room, crossing in front of the TV briefly on his way back into the kitchen.

“Well?” Midoriya asked, turning to smile up at Todoroki. “Did you like it?”

“How do you know I’ve never seen it before?” Todoroki countered, but there was a glint in his eye that made Midoriya feel warm all the way to his core.

“We talked about it once,” Midoriya answers easily, hoping it doesn’t seem strange that he paid that close attention to the things Todoroki has told him. In truth, he tucks away everything Todoroki tells him, creating an archive of facts about him. Midoriya enjoys learning more about him and will happily and willingly listen to any story Todoroki ever wants to tell him. “I told you the story about Kacchan and how he tried to scare me with it and you mentioned that you’d never seen it.”

For a moment, Todoroki’s eyes were wide, surprised. And then he ducked his head, turning his face away. It didn’t do anything to hide the blush Midoriya could see blooming across his cheeks now that their eyes were adjusted to the dark. “Yeah,” Todoroki replied after a moment, his voice a little tight. “I did enjoy it.”

“Will you two shut up?” Bakugo leaned forward from his couch, lobbing a pillow across the short distance and pegging Midoriya in the side of the head. Midoriya caught the pillow as it fell, shooting a sheepish look over at Bakugo. If Bakugo had noticed them, surely the others had, too. Midoriay hoped he wasn’t being too obvious.

“Who keeps giving him pillows?” Todoroki mumbled and Midoriya couldn’t stop the laugh that burst forth at the comment. He felt warm all the way down to the tips of his toes. As his laugh died down, he realized— not for the first time lately— how much he simply enjoyed Todoroki’s company and how happy he was whenever they were together.

Midoriya pulled the pillow close to his chest, wrapping his arms around it and settling into the couch a little deeper. And if settling into the couch meant that ne leaned a little bit closer to Todoroki, well, there was no harm in that, right? It took a moment for Bakugo to begrudgingly settle back into his seat, but the weight on Midoriya’s shoulders didn’t lessen much once Bakugo had returned to ignoring him. Midoriya could feel Todoroki’s gaze on him, so he kept his own eyes focused on the TV as the title screen of the new movie finally flashed across. He was worried, briefly, that Todoroki would pull away. He shifted and Midoriya thought that it was happening, readying himself to pull away abruptly if he didn’t need to.

In the end, he didn’t need to. Todoroki was only shifting so he’d be able to lift his left arm up, draping it along the back of the couch. Once he’d gotten it situated along the cushions, he stopped moving and Midoriya tried to return his attention back to the movie. He couldn’t, of course. Not with Todoroki’s arm right there. Not with the fact that he felt like he was under it, almost wrapped up in it, so close.

And then, when Todoroki did shift his arm off the back of the couch and onto Midoriya’s shoulders directly, it took everything in Midoriya not to combust on the spot. He was certain his face was completely red and the rest of the room could probably hear his heart beating over the audio of the movie. He felt like his heart was running a marathon in his chest, but he loved it. He loved the weight of Todoroki’s arm, loved the way it drew him a little bit closer to Todoroki’s side. He loved every single thing about this moment and wouldn’t change a single aspect.

Not even when Kirishima finally came back, spotting the two of them from across the room. He shot Midoriya a grin and a wink as he doled out the popcorn, laughing a little as Midoriya somehow, impossibly, turned an even darker shade of red.

--x--x--x--x

4.

Somehow, and Midoriya honestly couldn’t remember how, he’d been challenged by Iida to a race. Someone somewhere along the line had raised the question of who would be faster and Iida was confident in his ability. Honestly, as it stood, Midoriya assumed Iida would win, too. But when he eventually gained control over 100% of One for All, he thought he’d at least have a chance. Still, he’d accepted the challenge and the whole class had taken to the front lawn of the school during their lunch break.

Bets were being made and people were dividing up into two groups depending on who they thought would win and Midoriya was surprised to see both Todoroki and Bakugo on his side. Kaminari was explaining the course they had selected and Jirou was waiting at the makeshift finish line, one earphone jack into the ground, ready to call the winner if it were close.

“Go easy on me,” Midoriya teased as Kaminari stepped off to the side finally.

“Hah!” Iida whacked him on the shoulder fondly, “Not a chance.”

Midoriya shook his head, equally fond, and took a few steps away to put some space between them. He swung his arms a few times at his sides to loosen up before calling forth One for All and channeling it down into his legs and feet. The familiar lines snaked their way around Midoriya’s body and a whisper went through the rest of the class at the sight. Iida was watching him, eyes intent but Midoriya just shot him a smile.

“Take your marks!” Kaminari yelled and Midoriya could immediately hear the familiar sound of the engines on Iida’s calves warming up. He dropped low, placing his hands on the ground in front of him and Iida followed suit a moment later. “On your mark, get set, GO!”

Like a shot, they were both off, darting across the line, to the sidewalk and curving around towards the finish line. They followed the path in front of them, arms pumping at their sides. For the majority of the time, they were neck in neck, right by each other’s sides. It wasn’t until Jirou and the finish line came into sight that Midoriya managed to pull slightly ahead. He crossed the finish line less than a second before Iida, but it was enough to claim him the victory.

Jirou yelled to the others about his win and his half of the crowd erupted into cheers, clapping each other on the shoulders and collecting on their bets. Midoriya doubled over, propping his hands on his knees and dropping his head low in an attempt to get his breath back.

“Great race,” Iida congratulated, and he sounded out of breath, too.

Midoriya smiled up at him, happy to see that Iida didn’t look the least bit put out by his loss. If anything, he looked more determined than ever. “Yeah,” Midoriya panted in agreement, “It really was.”

Finally, Midoriya stood back up, his breath still a little short, and fell into step next to Iida as they headed back to the rest of their class. “You really are something,” Iida said fondly. “I never get sick of seeing what you can do with your quirk.”

“Thanks,” Midoriya nudged him, “You were amazing, too. Probably just luck that I won.”

Waving off his comment with a slight roll of the eyes, Iida pressed away from Midoriya and headed back to join up with Uraraka. Todoroki came to meet Midoriya where he was, congratulating him on his win.

“You looked really cool,” Todoroki said, eyes studying Midoriya. His eyes seemed to snag at Midoriya’s neck and he reached up, almost without thinking as he continued to talk. “It was really close, but I knew you’d be able to pull it out.”

While he talked, Todoroki grabbed onto Midoriya’s tie, pulling it a little tighter and straightening it, before smoothing it down the Midoriya’s chest. His touch burned through Midoriya’s shirt but Midoriya found that he wasn’t paralyzed by it like he had been in the past. He almost wanted to say he was getting used to it— his heart giddy at the thought— but the way the butterflies were floating through every vein in his body suggested otherwise. He felt like he was trembling to his very core, but it was a nice sensation. Exhilarating.

It was a fair assumption that Midoriya’s entire outfit had gotten a little wonky when he’d raced Iida. As if reading his thoughts and answering the unspoken question, Todoroki finished settling the tie and tugged on Midoriya’s shirt a little, straightening out the collar, fingers brushing the skin of his neck as he did so. Even when he moves on, shifts his hands down to smoothing out the wrinkles in Midoirya’s shirt, he can feel where Todoroki’s fingers brushed. Every single spot he touched is completely alive, almost like his fingers are still there. Midoriya knows they aren’t, but he’s certain that the feeling of Todoroki’s touch is going to linger well into the rest of the day.

Midoriya swallows around a dry throat, hoping, desperately, that his voice comes out steadier than his heartbeat. “Thanks.”

“Come on,” Is the only response Todoroki gives. As if he doesn’t realize that he has successfully distracted Midoriya for the rest of the day. As if he doesn’t know that Midoriya is going to go back in the classroom, sit in his seat and stare blankly at his notebook, reliving this moment. Like he doesn’t realize that Midoriya is still going to be relishing the gentle touch of his concerned fingers well into the evening. “We’re about to be late for class.”

--x--x--x--x

5.

“How did you know I was out here?”

Midoriya closes the door gently behind him and crosses the roof, standing over Todoroki who is seated on a blanket at the edge, knees pulled up to his chest, arms crossed over top. “I heard you walk by my room.”

The whole truth is that Midoriya has heard him walk by his room every night for months now. He’d followed him, once, just to see where he was going. He’d contemplated joining him a number of times but always chickened out.

“I see,” Todoroki says, and he turns his gaze back towards the front of building. He’s in an oversized shirt that hangs lose on his frame and makes him look small, somehow. Like someone who needs to be protected. Midoriya knows that he doesn’t need that, not at all, he’s more than capable of taking care of himself. Still, Midoriya would like to protect him anyways.

“I can go,” Midoriya hooks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the door he’d just come out of. “If you want.”

Instead of answering, Todoroki scoots to his left, making room for Midoriya to join him on the blanket. Taking his cue, Midoriya discards his shoes and steps carefully on, sinking down and crossing his legs, hands wrapping around his ankles to make him feel a little steadier, The blanket isn’t big and their legs and arms are both brushing, but Midoriya doesn’t mind. In fact, it’s the comfort he’s gotten with being in contact with Todoroki that spurred him to finally follow him up and onto the rooftop tonight.

They don’t talk, not at first. Instead they sit silently, staring up at the stars. There aren’t too many of them visible because UA has plenty of lights all over campus as part of their security measures and those drown out a lot of the sky. But there are a few stubborn ones, twinkling away despite that, winking down at them from above. The summer air is warm, kissing their cheeks and settling comfortably on their shoulders.

They don’t talk and Midoriya is fine like that. He thinks he could live in this peaceful moment for the rest of his life. He could sit here, pressed against Todoroki’s side and enjoying the beautiful view laid out before them for all of eternity and that would be good enough for him.

Still, he knows that Todoroki must come up here for a reason. “Something on your mind?”

At first, Midoriya thinks Todoroki isn’t going to respond. He has the right not to. There’s no reason he should feel compelled to let Midoriya into the depths of his heart, to share his personal feelings with him like that. But Todoroki does respond after a moment and it occurs to Midoriya that he was just trying to figure out how to say it. “The world,”

“The world?” Midoriya echoes, looking over at him surprised. “That’s a pretty big thing.”

“All my life,” Todoroki answers and there’s a certain heaviness to his voice. Or maybe it’s a wariness, a general wearing down. “I grew up thinking the world was one way. Hard, cold, distant, cruel, expectant. And then,” Todoroki turns, too, meeting Midoriya’s eyes, “I met you. And you showed me that the world isn’t any of those things. And I guess I’m just still trying to piece it all together.”

For nearly a year now, Midoriya had been crushing on Todoroki. So he was familiar with the butterflies, the dry throat, the trembling fingertips. But this wasn’t that. The emotion choking him up, tightening his throat and making it hard to breathe wasn’t just a simple crush. It was an overwhelming fondness for Todoroki. It was pride at the way he’d grown, at the person he was becoming. It was gratitude that Todoroki had let him get this close, had trusted him like this. Midoriya took a shaky breath in, trying to maintain any semblance of composure but he knew it wasn’t going to work.

“Todo—”

“Call me, Shoto, please.” Todoroki cut in and Midoriya was nearly certain that he was going to cry on the spot.

“Shoto,” Midoriya obliged, loving the way it tasted on his tongue. As soon as he’d said it, he wanted to say it again. “You have changed my world in so many ways, too. You’re strong, loyal, kind. I hope to be like you someday.”

There’s an open vulnerability in Todoroki’s eyes and Midoriya thinks that this is it, this is the moment he’s going to lose the battle with himself and kiss Todoroki. The faint dusting of pink on his cheeks, the way the lights from campus make his eyes glow— all of it is too much for Midoirya. Todoroki leans in slightly and Midoriya has the fleeting thought that Todoroki might beat him too it— which is okay, honestly, as long as they’re kissing— and then he drops his head down, settling it onto Midoriya’s shoulder.

It takes Midoriya a moment to recover from his shock and another moment to blink himself back to reality but when he does, he realizes that this is nice, too. Todoroki has shifted his whole body so that he’s leaning into Midoriya, threading one arm through Midoriya’s and nestling his head so that the longer strands of his hair brush just under Midoriya’s jaw line. It’s comfortable and intimate and somehow just as vulnerable as their conversation had been.

Midoriya settles his head on top of Todoroki’s, leaning back into him.

“You’re far better than I could ever be,” Todoroki whispers into the space in front of them, so quiet that the wind could whisk the words away if it wanted to, Midoriya still heard them.

“You are absolutely perfect, Shoto,” Midiroya turns his head and murmurs the words into Todoroki’s hair.

They stay that way for a long moment, Midoriya’s face buried in Todoroki’s hair and Todoroki tracing light patterns against Midoriya’s thigh with his hand. They can faintly hear the sounds of the city in front of them, but they’re faint— like a low hum, lulling them both towards sleep.

“Izuku,” Todoroki says after a moment, pausing to make sure he hasn’t crossed a line. Midoriya hums in response, pressing a little closer. “Thank you.”

There isn’t really anything Midoriya can say back to that, isn’t any way for him to properly articulate what he’s feeling. Instead he simply drops a kiss onto the top of Todoroki’s head, feeling the way his arm tightens in response and nestles back in, content to stay out all night if that’s what Todoroki wants. No punishment Aizawa gave could ever make Midoriya give up this moment.

--x--x--x--x

+1

From the night of their stargazing on, Midoriya’s crush becomes nearly unbearable. He can’t even look at Todoroki without feeling the press of his body, the softness of his hair, the quiet intimacy of his voice. He can’t do anything without wanting to relive that moment, over and over again,

It gets so bad that Midoriya does the only thing he can possibly think of doing— he goes to Kirishima for advice. Kirishima who has been making playfully suggestive faces at him ever since movie night. Kirishima who constantly catches Midoriya’s eye and then subtly nods towards Todoroki. Because Kirishima already knows and he would be more than happy to help, that much Midoriya is sure of.

So Midoriya lays it all out there. He tells him about all of the moments the two fo them have had, all of the brushes of Todoroki’s fingertips that he can still feel burned into his skin. He doesn’t tell Kirishima what Todoroki said on the rooftop, but he tells him everything else. By the time he’s done, Kirishima is grinning from ear to ear.

“Dude, he definitely likes you back!” Kirishima reaches out to grab Midoriya by the shoulders in earnest, his excitement palpable.

“You can’t possibly know that,” Midoriya replies. True, it sometimes does seem like Todoroki feels the same, but Midoriya doesn’t want to assume. And he certainly doesn’t want to do something that would mess up their friendship. It’s one of his most treasured things and he absolutely refuses to do anything that could alter or destroy what they have.

“Midoriya, come on,” Kirishima pleads, giving Midoriya a gentle shake. “He fell asleep on your shoulder! Like, I love you man and you’re a great friend but I’m not about to sleep on you. And I don’t think anyone else in our class is either.”

“It was the middle of the night and—”

“Stop making excuses and just accept what’s right in front of you,” Kirishima urges, his smile dulling down to something more moderate but still full of joy. “I get it, it’s scary to take that step forward. But trust me, he’s going to be down for it,”

Midoriya considers this for a long moment. He’s not convinced, but he’s at least partially convinced and for now that’s enough. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Just tell him,” Kirishima lets go of his shoulders, gesturing with his hands as he talks. “Just lay it all out there on the line. Tell him how you feel. And then, probably, you know, kiss and live happily ever after.”

“Kirishima!” Midoriya cries, his face instantly heating up. He ducks his head, hoping to hide his red cheeks as Kirishima laughs and claps him on the shoulder again with a few more reassuring words. When he finally lifts his gaze again, Kirisihima is looking at him with so much faith and encouragement in his expression that Midoriya knows he can do this, Even if he doesn’t know it, he can feel it in his bones. “Okay, I’m going to do it. Do you know where he is?”

“Where who is?” Todoroki approaches the two of them, eyebrows drawing together when he notices Kirishima’s expression and the way Kirishima looks ready to burst out of his own skin in excitement.

“Bye!” Kirishima cries, all but shoving Midoriya at Todoroki and slinking around the corner.

“Who were you looking for?” Todoroki asks, quizzical gaze still on the corner that Kirishima had just ducked around, clearly trying to piece things together in his mind.

In the past few months, being with and talking to Todoroki had gotten easier. But suddenly, with the knowledge that he was about to confess his feelings weighing on him, Midoriya felt like he’d forgotten every word he’d ever learned in his life. He stared wide-eyed at Todoroki for a long moment, opening his mouth to try and push words out and then getting absolutely nowhere. The seconds seemed to tick on for ages, each one somehow dragging on longer than the last and Midoriya found himself trapped. He needed to do something, that much was certain,

“Izuku?” Todoroki finally turned his attention back to Midoriya, clearly still puzzled by the entire situation. Midoriya’s stone-stiff posture and impossible silence surely aren’t helping.

A moment passes, and then another. Midoriya feels the same panic rise over him that he feels when he’s down in a fight. Move, he commands himself, move! For once, his body listens. Before he can really even think about it, he reaches out and slips a hand around the back of Todoroki’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss before either of them have a chance to do or say anything to stop it.

And then— and then he’s kissing Todoroki. Right there in the common area of the dorms. He’s kissing Todoroki and literally anyone could come around the corner or walk down the stais and see. But none of that matters when suddenly Todoroki is kissing him back, leaning in and gripping Midoriya’s shoulder with his hand. Absolutely nothing on Earth matters other than the feeling of Todoroki. A villain could attack campus right at this moment and Midoriya would die happy because he was kissing Todoroki.

Finally, a whoop that sounds suspiciously like Kirishima draws them out of the moment and they break apart all at once. The fear and panic are back instantly and Midoriya finds that suddenly his words want to work. “I’m so sorry, Shoto. I— “ Todoroki looks back at him while he talks, his lips parted in a wondrous smile and suddenly Midoriya knows that it’s going to be okay. He takes a deep breath, tries again. “I was looking for you,” He finally answers the question Todoroki had asked what feels like ages ago. “Because I wanted to tell you that I—” well, what’s the point in hesitating now? It’s not like he didn’t get the point, “I really like you. Like, a lot. And I just— I wanted you to know.”

“Is that what you were talking to Kirishima about?” Todoroki asks after a moment, his hand still firm on Midoriya’s shoulder, keeping them close.

Midoriya realizes that he hasn’t let go of the back of Todoroki’s neck, either. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure what to do because I was afraid of ruining everything.”

“Ruining everything?” Todoroki echoes, clearly surprised. “Midoriya, I couldn’t be happier about this!”

“I told you!” That same suspicious voice yells from around the corner. But, when Midoriya turns to glare, there’s nobody there. Still a quiet snickering tells him that Kirishima is listening to the entire conversation. It doesn’t bother him.

“Really?” He asks instead, turning to look back at Todoroki. “You don’t have to just say that.”

“I’m not in the habit of saying things just for the sake of it,” Todoroki murmurs, leaning down towards Midoriya again. Midoriya can’t stop himself from glancing down at his lips. “I’m thrilled because I really like you, too, Izuku. I thought I’d made that clear.”

“You did,” Midoriya breathes, feeling his lips brush Todoroki’s as he speaks. “I was just—”

But the rest of this thought and all of his worries are cut off by Todoroki’s lips on his again. And this time, when Todoroki reaches out to touch Midoriya, to brush his fingers against Midoriya’s cheek with his second hand, Midoriya reaches back. He’s not paralyzed, he’s not burning down into ash, he’s just content. Completely and wholly content.

[milk-luvr-dot-com]

“A New Assistant” - The Thick Of It - Chapter 3

Summary: Nicola juggles a grieving redhead and a moronic, neurotic press advisor. Ivy and Malcolm have a falling out.

Word Count (this chapter): 5108

Rating: Mature (For adult situations, language)

Warnings: No Ao3 Warnings, Explicit Language, homophobic language, fatphobic language, sexist language, ablest language, implied/referenced past abuse

Categories: F/M, Gen

Tags: Falling in love, crushes, comedy, slow burn, explicit language, original  female characters, AU - canon divergence, mutual pining, friendship, friends to lovers, angst, implied/referenced past abuse, additional tags to be added

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Full chapter and Ao3 link under the cut.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510592/chapters/59509222

Ivy and Malcolm walked down the halls of the hotel, briskly, and popping along the way to say hello to mindless news people and other members of the cabinet, who were all nervously preparing and memorizing speeches. Ivy wasn't sure why Malcolm had invited her. She was gonna be like a bump on a log the whole weekend, since she was still too new to fully deal with the press on her own. Maybe Malcolm saw it as a training opportunity. Maybe he just wanted to not deal with a bunch of bullshit this weekend. Maybe he just wanted to spend time with her.

The latter was what was actually true. Malcolm just wanted to spend time alone with Ivy. I mean, it wasn't weird to invite your assistant with you to the party conference, right? It wasn't weird to get a room with two twin beds. Right?

Well, actually. Touch of a problem with that. As sitcom as it is, when they opened the door to the room, there was only one bed. A queen size bed. It's as if the fucking people who booked the hotel were trying to tell them something. It was actually pretty likely, rather, because they both had recently pissed off one of the desk jockeys in the department. It wouldn't have been hard to make a quick last-minute change.

"You're actually fucking kidding me, right?" Malcolm said, massaging the bridge of his nose as they entered.

"I'll sleep on the couch."

"What? No. No, I'll just call and ask for a room change. Hang on." He set his small suitcase down and made his way over to the side of the bed with the phone. He sunk in immediately. The bed creaked dreadfully. He cringed.

She sat about 3/4 of the way down the bed on the opposite side of him.

"Hello, sorry, is it possible we could get a room change? You see it's just that-... Jesus Christ, you're kidding. FUCK!" He slammed the phone down, rubbing his face. She whipped her head around. "Hm?"

"They're completely booked. No other rooms."

"Looks like I'm sleeping on the couch, then." She shrugged, looking back and staring at the painting hanging on the wall above the dresser. It had blues coinciding with a dash of yellow, a close-up of a field of forget-me-not flowers. "Pretty painting."

Malcolm was lost in thought, staring at the neutral carpet grain that hadn't been changed since the 70s. "Huh?"

"That painting. It's pretty. I don't know the name of those flowers. And trust me, I've seen a lot of flowers, I used to work in the funeral industry."

He turned, shifting further down the bed. "They look familiar." Ivy looked over at him, confused. "My mother used to garden. I'd help her occasionally."

She smiled, in a snarky manner. "Malcolm Tucker's a poof."

"Shut up. Right," he clapped, rising. "We've got to get a wiggle on, we've got reporters to jack off."

She stood up as well, following him. "A wiggle on?"

"You know what I mean. Come on, come on, come on."

  They met up with some press people, among other friendly faces. It was still fairly early. T minus 2 hours until Nicola inevitably embarrasses herself.

"I mean, these are the worst pictures I've seen, really, they are. I don't know who was taking them." He pointed to one of his mates' ID badge photos. The bloke picked it up, looking at it briefly. "They've got Roy fucking Orbison doing that."

"I've heard he wasn't even blind." Ivy added, elbowing him. She was purposefully trying to embarrass him, as a joke. 

"Malcolm?" The woman who's badge read Angela Heaney inquired.

"Yeah?"

"Have you seen Rob Holt's blog today?"

"Oh, yeah, of course, I read Rob Holt's blog. I read all the blogs. 'Cause basically I'm an underemployed fat fucking loser. Got nothing better to do with my time than sit in my bedroom like a fat space-hopper in a tracksuit, reading inconsequential, unspellchecked shit, fabricated by other fat, farting, fucking losers."

Ivy pressed her lips together, going wide eyed briefly to show her annoyance, albeit agreement. Angela began to explain, "Well, he's saying that the big health numbers in the PM's speech, they're from a false sample. Apparently, they're lifted from Andrew Dover's blog, not ONS."

Malcolm shot a look at Ivy, who immediately pretended to take a call, and walk off. "I wouldn't take any notice of it. There's nothing in that at all." He said.

"Nothing?"

"Nope, nothing. Catch you laters, alright?" He walked away, joining Ivy, who looked at him as soon as she said, "Whoever fucking leaked it is going to be leaking drool for the next six months after I've beat them into a shell of a human with a golf club. Fix it, or you'll hear worse from Malcolm. Right. Bye."

"Jesus. You're really hurling the colorful insults now."

She brushed past him, and began walking to their next destination. He followed. "Well, I learned from the best."

“Okay. So,” He clapped, “I need to phone the PM and tell him.”

“Uh, we could go up to the halls. No one’s up there.”

“Yes, right,” he pointed at her, “good. Get away from all these leeching journalists.” 

They took the lift up a couple levels. Ivy didn’t expect him to stay near the lifts. No, Malcolm liked pacing. She wasn’t sure if it was a nervous habit of his (because she wasn’t sure if Malcolm was ever nervous,) or if walking around just made him feel important. Either scenario was realistic.

They lurked around the halls. Ivy was pretty sure their room was nearby. Maybe she’d pressed the same button as before by muscle memory. She could hear background chatter from various rooms of important people cheersing and toasting for important causes. But it was mostly drowned out by Malcolm’s stern voice. Being honest with herself, Malcolm was more important than anyone in those rooms.

She expected to get ambushed at least once by some eavesdropping journalist, like Nicola did. Oh, who was she kidding, Malcolm wouldn’t let that happen. He’s got a stick far too up his arse for that. He was like a light sleeping soldier in a warzone with that sort of thing.

What they did get ambushed by, instead was the crack-addicted Timothee Chalamet (Or Olly, if you prefer,) and a ginger woman.

“Oh, hey, Malcolm, Ivy. How’s it hanging?”

“Like the Gardens of Babylon. Do you know where Lord Clarkham’s room is? I’m gonna go and try and stick his balls in his fucking trouser press.”

Ivy looked Olly up and down, then smirked sarcastically, “I see you’ve pulled.” She winked.

“Uh- look this is Julie Price. She is the people’s champion that Nicola is announcing in her speech.”

“Julie Price?” They both stopped in their tracks and turned, shaking hands gently with her.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Ivy cocked her head sympathetically. “It was a massive tragedy, bless you. Are you being looked after? Olly treating you well?”

“Oh- oh not bad, yeah.”

“You stick with Olly. He’s a good guy. I know he looks a bit like an anorexic Leo Sayer, there, but… Hey, could I have a picture taken with you?” He pulled out his phone, handing it to Ivy. “I’ve got a little collection of memories, you know. Mandela and stuff. Ivy, could you do the honors?”

“Mhm! Of course.” She stepped back. “Smile!” She said.

Julie flirtatiously hit Malcolm, calling him a stunner or something along those lines. Ivy took it as an opportunity to mischievously scowl at Olly. “You really are impressive. Hey, do you know who else is impressed by you? The PM.” He mentioned, grinning.

“He has a nice part in his speech where he’d be honored to introduce you and have you on. If, you’re up to that, that is.” She clasped her hands in front of her.

“B-But that might clash, a bit. Uh, you know because Nicola’s having her on.” Olly said, looking pathetic.

Julie excused herself to the restrooms. Olly clenched his fists, desperately trying to convince Malcolm otherwise. “Y-You can’t do that!”

“You gonna stamp your foot and slam the door to your bedroom next, little Timmy?” Ivy mocked.

“Boo-hoo, Olly. Can do, have done.”

“You want us to think of a whole entire new speech in 2 hours? 2 hours?”

“We don’t want you to do anything, but if you’d like to keep your reputation and probably your jobs, you will.”

“But that’s not fair!” He made a concerned face.

“Suck it up, fuckface. If she goes on with Nicola, she’ll be watched by 15 house-bound mouthbreathers. And the swelling ranks of the unemployed, who hate us, by the way. If she goes on with Tom, it’ll make 10:00 o’ clock news.”

“It’s for the greater good.”

“Yes, the greater good, thank you, Ivy.”

“Julie, hello. Feeling better?” Ivy smiled gently, yet falsely. “So, what’ll it be, Julie? Would you like to stick with Olly here, or do you want to run with Tom, or sorry-” She laughed, as if to seem sweet. “The PM, for your speech?”

“Uh.. I’m going with the big boys.”

“Great! Good, yes, the big boys.” Malcolm said.

“Oh, sorry Olly. It was lovely meeting you.”

“Right this way, we’ll introduce you to the PM.” They walked off, leaving Olly a pathetic begging loser. They walked down the hall, standing either side of Julie like bodyguards for organized crime. Malcolm began making light conversation.

“Are you in the hotel?”

“Oh yes.”

“Oh, lovely.”

“Well,” she chuckled, “I wouldn’t call it lovely.”

They laughed along. “Oh, John!” Ivy called the bearded bloke from earlier over, who looked like he was in a rush. But he was always that way, she guessed.

“This is John, the press organizer.”

“Yes, we’ve met before.”

“Oh, have you, lovely! Are you a texter?” At some point, Julie began fiddling with her phone, and appeared to be texting someone. Malcolm shot a look to Ivy, then glanced briefly at John. She nodded.

“I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Excuse us for just a tick.” Ivy pinched the sleeve of John’s suit jacket, dragging him down the hall a bit. “Look, okay. I need you to just casually mention to Alan Dunn and…  I guess Lindsay Anorexi at The Mail, that the PM has commandeered Julie Price for his speech. Okay?”

She turned, but was cut off. “B-But that’s not strictly true, is it?”

“Yeah, and strictly come dancing isn’t strictly dancing, there’s also a bit at the beginning where an old man dribbles. So what?” She got in his face. She was going for intimidation, but it was clear John was uncomfortably turned on. So she guessed she’d settle for dominatrix.

“I-I don’t know what that means, but-”

 Just then, Glenn came hobbling down the hall like a washed-old Bradley Walsh look-alike in a Sainsbury’s cracker aisle. Ivy didn’t notice, but Malcolm sure did.

Glenn brushed past Ivy. “Oh, Glenn, I can see you’re a tad peeved.” He got in Malcolm’s face.

“I’m not having it, you’ve gone too far!”

“Get a grip, Glenn. I didn’t fucking cum in your fucking mouth.”

John began laughing, which caused Glenn to turn attention to both Ivy and him. “Are you in on this?”

“Nope, just following orders. Like a nazi guard.” He did the anti-semetic salute. “You’re not Jewish, are you?”

“...No?”

“Oh, good.”

“Ivy, can you take her?” She nodded. “Julie, if you could just step in there for a moment and have a chat with some lovely people. Have some tea and biscuits. We’ve got to deal with a um… internal issue. You do understand, don’t you? Good, go on.” She didn’t wait for a response, she just shoved her gently into the room.

“You,” Malcolm pointed at John, “fucking Henry the 8th’s lobotomized cousin, piss off and back to your sad job.”

John, did not in fact, piss off. The dank cream colored hallway slowly grew more lively with increasingly angry chatter paired nicely with erupting laughter from important people in important rooms. Like a fucking wine and cheese pairing. Malcolm and Glenn were bickering about Julie, which had an intermission with one of Malcolm’s famous quips, “Oh, shit, wow here’s the beige fucking power ranger now!”

Glenn continued, pushing harder each time. “We’re taking her back!”

Olly, John, and  Ivy began trying to diffuse the situation. She swore to herself this was the last time they were going to agree on anything. 

“Can we get a bit more sane about this?”

“Malcolm, calm down, please. Glenn, just fuck off and help glummy mummy write her new speech. Let it go!”

“Let’s not argue here!”

Glenn continued insisting, getting redder and redder with rage. Malcolm grew more and more annoyed. Ivy’s eyes widened, knowing this was going to get ugly quickly (well, actually, the ugliness had already peaked when both Olly and Glenn showed up at the same time.)

Then suddenly, it fucking happened. Ivy shut her eyes, cringing. John covered his mouth. Glenn went down, landing over Olly.

“Malcolm!” Ivy half-shouted, putting herself between Glenn and him in case it continued, her hands on his chest. He seemed to be over it, shaking out his fist in pain. 

“You hit me!” He whimpered out, kneeling on the floor.

“No! I did not hit you! You hurt yourself!” Malcolm lied, artfully. She lowered her arms, knowing the worst was over for now. “Respectfully, what the fuck sir!” She hurriedly whispered.

Glenn whined that he thought his nose was broken. “Noses can’t break, it's a myth.”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

Ivy went to go help, “lean forward, c’mon, mate. I used to be a barmaid, don’t worry, this isn’t the first suckerpunch to the nose I’ve dealt with. Does anyone have a towel? Good, good, yeah. Here you go.” She let him dab the wounded area. She sucked through her teeth, “It doesn’t look good.”

Malcolm told Olly to get him back to this room. Julie was dealt with by John, not very well, but still fine enough. “No one saw that?” He asked Ivy, who was the only other person who remained, and thankfully it was just her. Anyone else would likely have received another of the same if they happened to cross Malcolm. “No, no one. Fuck, Malcolm!”

He hurried off in the direction of their room. He opened the door, letting her in before slamming it back again. “Jesus fucking tapdancing Christ, Malcolm, you broke a man’s nose!”

“Oh, he’s fine.”

“It is so not fucking fine!” She stood there, shocked, choking on words coming out of her mouth. He sat down in the chair that faced the door, looking at her stoically. “Do you know what fucking makes this worse? Hm? This didn’t fucking help anything. Glenn and Olly and Nicola are all still going to be seething with rage at us for taking their fucking star player!”

“So what?”

“So fucking what? You’re actually kidding me. You’re so fucking caught up in the moment, so fucking primal like a tiger looking for it’s next meal. You don’t even fucking think of the future.” Ivy’s voice began breaking, on the verge of tears. “Do you know what all that career hopping taught me? It taught me I was fucking wrong. I was fucking wrong so many, many times. I was so fucking wrong to waste money on schools that got me no more happiness, I was so wrong to waste my remaining teenage years bunging around the cinemas with my friends instead of being at my bedridden mother’s side. And right now, I’m thinking I’m wrong in getting involved with you.”

He slapped the arms of the chair, getting up so fast. “THEN FUCKING LEAVE, IVY! I NEVER ASKED FOR YOU! I NEVER ASKED TO BE AROUND YOU 8 HOURS OF MY FUCKING DAY!” He stood over her. She backed off quickly into the skinny entryway of the room, touching the wall almost. Her eyes widened, out of fear. Making eye contact with him, she let tears begin dripping down her face. She covered her mouth, muffling whimpers of things like “please don’t hit me.”

Malcolm bit his lip, backing up, and pressing his back against the other wise of the entryway. He could have sworn his eyes felt wet with salty droplets, which refused to fall. “I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“What?”

“I’m so fucking sorry, Ivy.”

She stayed quiet for another minute, wiping away her tears, and sniffling. Strangely, she began chuckling. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, you stupid old man.”

He furrowed his brow, confused. "I'm gonna go apologize to Glenn for you."

"You don't have to." He covered his mouth, looking down, ashamed.

"I know." She said as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a one-sided hug that didn't last more than a few seconds. He blushed, looking down at her, frozen. "Right, I'll be back later."

  "Jesus, Ivy!" Nicola shouted when she entered the room almost silently.

She didn't react. "You alright, Glenn?"

"I don't want to speak to you Ivy, sorry. Nor Malcolm."

"I think you should leave."

Ivy ignored her, turning to the bathroom door. "I've come to apologize, Glenn. On behalf of myself and Malcolm."

"Oh, what, 'cause Malcolm couldn't do it himself? Had to get his winged monkey to go out here and do it? Fly my pretties, fly!" Olly tacked on to the conversation, helping nothing.

She shot a look at Olly, before turning around and putting her hand on the door frame. "I'm really sorry, mate. Sorry he did that in the heat of the moment, you know? And I'm sorry I didn't stop it, it was really quite stupid and shortsighted of me. We're under a lot of pressure, right now, you know. It's a fucking war zone. We're soldiers, you gotta expect there's just a bit of friendly fire."

"Yeah."

"Good. Good. I would uh, hug you but I don't want to get any blood on my blouse. Shake on it?" She stuck out her hand, and he took it. The half-dried red liquid between their hands squelched disgustingly. She cringed.

Malcolm entered the hotel room, "How's the patient?"

"I'm fine, Malcolm. Just sore." He called out from the bathroom. Ivy ran her hand under water and dried it off with one of the fancy paper towels. "I've already apologized, sir."

Malcolm nodded, clapping and turning to Nicola and Olly. "Alright, so you've lost Julie. You've got a cavity the size of a prisoner's arsehole in your speech. Got a back-up plan?"

"We'll figure it out, thank you."

"Why don't we help you, hm? I mean, it is the least we could do." Ivy piped up.

"Yes, yes, yes, roll some tits up the flagpole and see if anyone gets wood."

"Christ. Okay, well, all we've got is Mannion's second holiday."

Ivy sat down on the couch behind Nicola's chair. Malcolm joined her. The couch was tiny, as was everything else in the room, so they were pretty close quarters. They didn't mind, but Malcolm didn't stay for long. Again, he liked to pace, and pace he did, like a caged tiger. Glenn joined the group, sitting in the remaining single seat. "He works really hard at planning his holidays." Glenn said.

"Fucking A+ quality sarcasm there that you're lobbing at 'em. Boom."

"I feel like I'm in a therapy group being run by my own rapist."

Everyone's cell phones chimed, all in sync. "Oh, shit." One of them said. "It's got out!" Another added. Olly sarcastically said, "No, I thought it was room service cold-calling."

"Who the fuck leaked it? No one saw it, right?" Ivy looked at Malcolm. He was preoccupied checking around the internet. "Fuck! It's on Rob Holt's blog! Okay, we need to get your people's champion out of this hotel, before some tabloid minge-flannel starts soft-soaping her."

"So we've got her back again?" Nicola asked.

"Jesus, don't be so sensitive about this!" Malcolm yelled.

"My fucking responsibility! Fuck the speech!" Nicola yelled also, slamming the door to the bathroom.

"Women! Women, huh? Slamming the fucking door. Where did this idea come from? Wilma! Fuck off." He spat.

She called out to him, "I'm making a phone call."

"Make a phone call, phone a fucking friend." He collapsed next to Ivy again into the couch.

"Women," Ivy mocked in a nasty tone. "Okay, Fred Flintstone."

"Shut up." He smiled, looking at her softly. She giggled.

"God, get a room you two." Olly said, without looking up, continuing to type.

"We have a room, sod off and write your mummy's speech." She squinted at him, crossly

"Ivy, we should go back and get ready for the stupid banquet thing." He touched her shoulder, which caught her off guard. Normally she instigated physical contact. "Right you are, yeah."

  They joined some reporters to have wine and break bread in fancy dress. Malcolm dawned a bow tie, which Ivy made mental note of to make fun of later. Glenn had joined them, feeling a bit better, and no longer bleeding.

"Have a bit more, Glenn, go on." Malcolm poured him a bit more. "Watch your step, though, don't go tripping up again."

"Absolutely." They laughed along.

Angela, same reporter as earlier, piped up. "D-Day. What is it, Malcolm? I thought you were one of the boxers, not the emcee."

"No, I've just got to rear my ugly head, as you would have it, at a few receptions this evening. Including the Rod Hughes do for Tom. Believe me, I'd rather slip into something more comfortable. Like a coma." Again, they laughed along.

The same woman continued, "Malcolm, you've started beating up your own guys. That has to be a bad sign."

"Oh, he didn't hit Glenn," Ivy swiped with her hand, smiling, defending him. "No, I didn't. Why would I do that? And there's no proof that I did."

"Yeah, whatever you say, Malcolm," she chuckled.

"Watch," He threw a fake punch "he doesn't flinch."

"Malcolm wouldn't hurt a fly, and trust me, I'd know, because I've had to roll up Sunday's paper and whap a few in his office for him." Ivy said, grinning.

"We're pals, I mean," He went to go stand next to him, "Look at the size of this guy, I wouldn't hit him. Look, he's a fucking man-mountain!"

"Are you calling me fat?" Glenn jokingly attacked back.

"Heh, that's the banter."

They continued for a few more moments. The conversation was slowing, like a dying fireplace on Christmas eve. Malcolm gave Ivy a look, which said "we've got to get going," and they excused themselves. Once they rounded the corner into the halls once again, they saw John, the fucking idiot, from earlier. They stopped, and Malcolm shoved him into a room. Ivy was a bit concerned, considering that she didn't know who's room that was. She figured she might follow them, eavesdropping on their conversation. Maybe she'd pick up a few classic Tucker scare tactics.

She heard something about tweezers from the twat, something about bullocks, and then finally, she heard Malcolm answer his phone, announcing that Julie was the leak. Something about Twitter.

Malcolm opened the door quickly after that, which startled Ivy half to death. "Were you listening in?"

"Of course I was, I wasn't just going to sit outside the door waiting for you like some primary schooler waiting for her mummy, all arms crossed and lunch box in hand."

He raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly, "...So, anyway, Julie's the leaker."

"I know."

"Well how'd you know, I only found out a minute ago?!" They left the room, almost running into a maid on their way out. He looked at her. "Oh, listening in, right. Sorry, I forgot."

"You're as daft as a goat sometimes, you know, Malcolm?" She teased.

"Shush."

Malcolm and Ivy went to Glenn's room, where the 3 fuckheads of DoSAC were increasingly panicking, trying to finish Nicola's speech while she memorized it.

"Squeeze my cock and call me Nancy," Malcolm announced, pushing open the door to the room and inviting himself inside. "Were you born in a barn, Glenn? Keep the door and your arse cheeks tightly fucking closed, right?"

"That's a fucking tiny kettle. Did they use your dick as a ruler, because boy, it sure fucking looks like it." Ivy said.

"Where's glummy mummy?"

"She's having a pee." Glenn delivered.

Ivy suck out her hands, "Oh, Julie!" Julie was seated on the edge of the bed, twiddling her thumbs. "How are you?" She clasped them in front of herself.

She shrugged, "Could be worse."

Nicola came out of the bathroom, jumping at Malcolm's presence. "Fucking hell, Malcolm."

"Julie, darling, could we have a wee word with you?" He said.

"...Why, is something wrong?"

Malcolm squatted down next to her, awkwardly. "Do you know a man called Rob Holt?"

"I've never heard of him, why, what's all this about?"

"Well it's just that he's one of your uh, followers, on... Twitter?" Malcolm looked at Ivy. She nodded, echoing, "Twitter."

"And we think that some of your uh...?"

"Tweets."

"The tweets that you've been doing have actually been reported, out there."

"Well." She exhaled, "What're you accusing us of?"

"We're not accusing you of anything." Nicola said.

"You all look like you're accusing us of something! You fucking sound like you're accusing us of something!"

"No, no, no, no-"

"I've seen Spooks! You have treated me like a bag of shit all day!" Julie began, standing up. "I mean, I'm a very, very patient person, but I've had it up to here with yous lot! I should've known not to trust yous lot, when you fucked over them Metric Martyrs. All I was trying to do was right by my Jason, right? And if he was here now, he'd be fucking appalled by the way yous lot are carrying on. He always said you were a useless bunch of wankers."

Olly came in, holding a bag of crisps which crinkled obnoxiously. Although nothing could be more obnoxious than whatever was about to come out of his mouth. "Oh, Julie! Oh you're back! Excellent. Every epic needs a hero. Put tiny kettle on, lad, I'm gasping."

Malcolm was staring darkly at him, arms crossed. The awkward air was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. "Uh, everything okay? What's-What's going on?"

"Uh- Malcolm, could you just come to the toilet with me, for a moment." She pushed him into the toilet. Ivy turned to look at it, making a confused face. She leaned towards the door once it shut, to try and hear some form on conversation. She only managed to pick up the gist of the plan.

Malcolm covertly told Glenn something. Ivy was too tired and too over it to figure out what. Julie left by herself in a ferocious hurry. As soon as the door slammed closed.

"Good riddance." Ivy mumbled.

"Do we have anything we can use against her?" Malcolm demanded.

Nicola rubbed her temple, crossing her arm over her chest. "Metric Martyr stuff. That's all I can think of."

"Fruit by the pound?" Ivy lifted herself off the wooden hutch, joining them near the bed. "That's it?"

"Fruit by the fucking pound. Fuck. Okay, well, we say we're dropping her for extremist views. How about that?"

The group shrugged, mutually agreeing that it was good enough for them. "Just don't go into detail, otherwise they'll crawl up your arse like a dirty little Syrian dwarf hamster all over again."

Ivy snickered at her own joke which was in her head. "How do you like them apples? By the pound?"

Olly and Nicola sighed heavily, one of them remarked, "Jesus."

  After quite a night of wine drinking, toasting, celebrating, or otherwise partying, Malcolm and Ivy said their goodbye's and goodnight's to friends and coworkers. They both looked like Hell. Well, it could be worse, but still Hell. Malcolm's bow tie was crooked and half undone (it was actually surprising to Ivy that he both knew how to tie one and had a real one, not just a pre-tied one). He had spilled droplets of dried cherry colored wine on his white button-up, which he had failed to notice in time, so it was likely that they'd leave irreparable stains. Ivy's makeup was smeared, a faint streak of eyeliner spread across her temple from a forgetful moment where she wiped the corner of her eye. Her dress was wrinkled, her hair messy. They were both half wine drunk. The clock read 12 am.

Despite looking like an embarrassing mess, Malcolm thought she was so incredibly gorgeous. He caught himself staring through the cracked door and into the mirror while she was washing her face and brushing out her curls. Good thing her eyes didn't catch his or he'd never hear the end of it. "Who's sleeping on the couch?" She asked, kneeling down beside her bag to pull out her pajamas.

"Huh?" He said, setting his tie in his overnight bag and removing his jacket.

"I said, who's sleeping on the couch?" She went back to the bathroom, this time closing the door so she could change.

He pulled his shirt out of his trousers and began unbuttoning it. Malcolm didn't listen to a word she said. All he knew is that she asked a question. So, he responded, "Sure."

"Were you even listening?" She laughed.

"No."

"Whatever. Are you decent?" Ivy had finished getting dressed. So had Malcolm, apparently, since he answered with a "Yes."

She stepped out of the bathroom, crouching down once again to put her clothes away. Malcolm felt his heart skip a beat. Oh God, he thought, she's even more stunning now. She was wearing a plain black spaghetti strap tank top and soft pajama shorts. She wasn't even trying to be attractive, she just plain was. Ivy had her arms crossed over her chest, staring at his face stoically.

"Right, I don't really feel like hunkering down on the couch tonight. So I'll sleep under the covers, you sleep on top."

"What?"

She sat on the side of the bed that had the flower painting. "Do you need hearing aids? We're both adults, get over it." She said, sliding into bed and rolling over. "Just don't snore."

"Fine." He pulled the spare blanket off of the top of the armchair, fluffing it out over the bed and laying under it. "Goodnight, Ivy."

"'Night, Malcolm."

[chimcharstar]

Questions 1, 2, skip a few, 99 100! ANSWER THEM ALL!!!!!!

LETS DO THIS

99 gay-ish asks

how tall are you?5 SOMETHING

what is your body type?SLENDERMAN

what is your favorite part about your body?THE T

is your current hair color your natural hair color?YES

are you more outgoing or more shy?SHY

are you more femme or butch?ITS COMPLICATED, BUT, BUTCH

are you tol or smol?APPARENTLY IM TWINK. NOT SURE WHERE THAT IS ON THIS SCALE

wine mom or vodka aunt?NO

weird habit?I EAT BREAKFAST FOOD AT ANY HOUR

favorite meme?VIBE CHECK, IM SMUG ABOUT MY URL

do you sing in the shower?NO BUT I USED TO. JUST SHY ABOUT ROOMMATES. I DO IN MY CAR

ever used a bow and arrow?NO, BUT MY BROTHER DESIGNED AND BUILT ONE, GOT IN TROUBLE FOR MAKING A WEAPON

are/were you a theatre kid?IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE WHERE IM ALLOWED TO HAVE AN EGO, YES

have you ever seen a broadway musical?NO

do you think musicals are cheesy?NO I THINK THEYRE JUST A MEDIUM OF ART

have you ever been a part of a protest or a march?NO WEIRDLY

favorite Cards Against Humanity Card?IDK THEM

last movie you watched?PROBABLY MEGEAMIND

behind the camera or in front of it?BEHIND. BUT BOTH IS GOOD

favorite tv show?AVATAR THE LAST AIRBENDER

meaning behind your urlTHE ACTUAL REASON IS IT REMINDS ME I CAN TRUST MY INTUITION

reason you joined tumblrA CRUSH WROTE IN MY YEARBOOK I SHOULD GET IT. DONT WRITE THAT IN PEOPLES YEARBOOKS

who’s your closest tumblr friend?THE PERSON ASKING ME 99 QUESTIONS

what’s something most people love that you hate?TACOS AT WORK. THEYRE POPULAR OF COURSE. I MAY NOT KNOW MY TACOS, BUT PLAIN RAW CABBAGE ON THEM MAKES ME DOUBT

have you ever taken narcotics?NO

have you had sex?NO

have you ever gotten caught sneaking out or doing anything bad?I DONT GET CAUGHT!!!! IM SO SNEAKY… AND TRAUMATIZED. I ONLY GOT CAUGHT WHEN PEOPLE WERE LIKE, HUNTING ME. NOT FAIR. ALSO HOW DO YOU “GET CAUGHT” FOR DOING NORMAL THINGS LIKE READING AND HAVING CLOTHES

worst/funniest lie you’ve ever told?PROBABLY THE REASSURING CHRISTIAN VALUES THINGS I TOLD MY PARENTS TO GET MY BIRTH CERTIFICATE. IT WAS THE FUNNIEST BECAUSE FOR SOMEONE INCONVENIENTLY TRUTHFUL, THAT WAS SOME PRETTY HARDCORE LYING IN A RIDICULOUS SITUATION, AND THE WORST BECAUSE WHAT A HORRIBLE THING TO HAVE TO DO. IT WAS HORRIBLE BECAUSE I WAS SO CONVINCING BECAUSE I MIXED IT WITH THE TRUTH I COULD SINCERELY EXPRESS

describe your passion without mentioning it.HEY GUYS IM WRITING CHAPTER 1 AGAIN I THINK I FIGURED IT OUT THIS TIME

describe your best friend.WARM STRONG RESILIENT UNCONDITIONALLY LOVING KINDLY HONEST CREATIVE TALENTED BRAVE HARDWORKING BEAUTIFUL ORIGINAL NURTURING SELF CONFIDENT

give us one thing about you that no one knows.NO ONE KNOWS THE GRITTY DETAILS OF SOME SAD MOMENTS IN MY PAST. DID YOU KNOW I HATE THE SMELL OF HOSPITAL FOOD FROM WHEN I VISITED A FAMILY MEMBER IN A PSYCH WARD

how do you feel right now?GOOD, I SHOULD PROBABLY GO TO BED THOUGH

what is your biggest fear?BREAKING SELF HARM STREAK

what’s a song that always makes you happy when you hear it?SING A SONG EARTH WIND AND FIRE

what is the best decision you’ve made in your life so far?LEAVING MY PARENTS. ITS TAKEN ME AGES TO UNLEARN SO MUCH SELF-DEFEATING STUFF

have you ever tried your hardest and then been disappointed in the end?MOSTLY EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE BUT IM CHILL

something you fantasize about.ACTUALLY DANCING TO MUSIC I LIKE. I NEVER LEARNED HOW TO DANCE BUT I WANT TO SFM

last time you cried and whyTHAT PREACHER GUY IN LUCIFER. IT SUCKED BUT IM SO BLOWN AWAY BY LUCIFERS ANGRY YELLING AT THE SKY. WHAT A GIANT MOOD

what was the last thing that made you laugh?MY SISTER ASKING ME WHAT DILF MEANT

do you really, truly miss someone right now?NO. IF I MISS SOMEONE, ITS A SIGN THEY WERE A BAG OF DICKS TO ME AND MESSED UP MY INNER CLARITY

who do you feel most comfortable talking to about anything?YOU

the last time you felt broken?WHEN MY TWO FRIENDS AT THE TIME GANGED UP ON ME AND ABANDONED ME AT A NOT PRETTY TIME IN MY LIFE. I COULDNT EAT WHICH AND I STILL STRUGGLE WITH EATING, I NEVER USED TO

are you starting to realize anything?THAT IF I RELY ON MY LIFE EXPERIENCE, ILL EXPECT TO FAIL AND SABOTAGE MYSELF, AND INSTEAD I NEED TO TAKE RISKS AND PUT FAITH IN MY FUTURE.

are you more dominant or more submissive?THERES EVIDENCE FOR BOTH, BUT I THINK THE LATTER IS JUST FROM ABUSE AND GIRL RULES

i’ll only date you if _____. (fill in the blank)WASH YOUR HANDS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

do you prefer to date people the same age as you, younger, or older?AROUND MY AGE THERE IS SOME UNDERSTANDING

describe the person you’re in love with/have a crush on in great detail.IM NOT IN LOVE I DONT EVEN HAVE A CRUSH. I MAY HAVE A SQUISH

do you have any kinks?MAYBE SO

first thing you notice in a person?HOW THEY HANDLE STRESS AND PROBLEMS, IF THEY BLAME/GET ANGRY, OR IF THEY ARE COMPASSIONATE AND PATIENT. LOOKING FOR RED FLAGS

how can someone win your heart?FOOD. CHEESECAKE WAS A POWER MOVE. BONDING… OVER FOOD. I HAVE HAPPY MEMORIES ATTACHED TO BEVERAGES.

been rejected by a crush?YES

have you ever had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back?YES

would you have sex with the last person you text messaged?NO

is trust a big issue for you?YES

did you hang out with the person you like recently?NO

is confidence cute?YES, SELF LOVE LOOKS GOOD ON PEOPLE

what would you say if the person you love/like kissed another girl/boy?GOOD FOR THEM. I DONT LIKE ANYONE RIGHT NOW

would you be able to date someone who doesn’t make you laugh?NO. GIGGLING LIKE A LUNATIC IS AN IMPORTANT PART OF MY LIFE AND YOU NEED TO KEEP UP

does the person you have feelings for right now know you do?IF THEYRE FEELINGS, PROBABLY, BECAUSE IM TRANSPARENT

ever embarrass yourself in front of a crush?IVE HAD MY EMBARRASSMENT GLANDS REMOVED FOR MY FTM TRANSITION

do you want to get marriedYEAH WHEN IM FIFTY THEN ILL GET A BUNCH OF DOGS AND CATS AND CHICKENS

worst thing you’ve ever done?APPARENTLY IVE BORROWED BOOKS AND NEVER RETURNED THEM

three things that turn you on.IM GOING THRU PUBERTY 2, TEENAGE BOY EDITION, IT DOESNT TAKE MUCH

who do you hate?I DONT LIKE SUCH SIMPLE CATEGORIES, BUT I START TO FEEL HATRED WITH REPEATED CRUELTY/WHEN SOMEONE REFUSES TO HEAR ME

favorite term of endearment?MY FRIEND

who was your celebrity/fictional gay awakening?I DIDNT REALLY HAVE TVS/POP CULTURE GROWING UP LIKE MOST PEOPLE, PROBABLY FOUND IT IN CREATIVE WRITING

intimidating girls or kind girls?KIND

what do you look for in a possible partner?EQUALITY

do you tend to like more masculine, feminine, or androgynous girls?YES

are you good at flirting?PERHAPS. WHEN IM NOT THINKING ABOUT IT

who was the first person you came out to?I DONT ACTUALLY REMEMBER. A HIGH SCHOOL FRIEND. IT WAS A STRESSFUL COMPLICATED TIME, MY WORLD WAS UPSIDE DOWN, IT WAS GRADUAL

do you have any friends who are wlw?PROBABLY

is your crush wlw?IDK

last person to make you reconsider your sexuality?A DOUCHE CANOE UNFORTUNATELY

write a short love poem to your crush/self?DEAR PERSON,THANK YOU FOR THE CHEESECAKEIT WAS SO GOODBUT ONLY BECAUSE IT WAS FROM YOU

do you fall in love easily?NO. I WISH I DID. I COULD USE THE HIGH TO GET STUFF DONE

is there something that happened in your past that you hate talking about?I HATE TALKING ABOUT THINGS THAT MAKE ME FEEL HUMILIATED AND ASHAMED, SO I JUST DONT. I ALSO HATE TALKING ABOUT SELF HARM BECAUSE I NEVER KNOW HOW. AM I GOING TO TRIGGER PEOPLE? AND IT IS SHROUDED IN SHAME AND FEAR.

are you good at hiding your feelings?YES, WHEN I CONSCIOUSLY MAKE AN EFFORT TO

are you a forgiving person?NO. I USED TO BE ALL ABOUT FORGIVENESS, AND GREW UP FORGIVING ABUSIVE CYCLES, IT WAS SO UNHEALTHY. NOW I FEEL LIKE A CROW HOLDING GRUDGES FOR CENTURIES, AND I DONT WANT TO BE BITTER EITHER – I OFTEN FEEL BAD FOR NOT FORGIVING, EVEN IF ITS JUST FORGIVENESS FOR MY OWN SAKE. BUT ITS A NEW DEVELOPMENT THAT IM ALLOWING MYSELF TO FEEL ANGRY, BE TRUTHFUL ABOUT BEING WRONGED, WANT JUSTICE FOR MYSELF. AND MAYBE SOME THINGS SHOULDNT BE FORGIVEN.

what is your “type?”I DONT KNOW. I RECENTLY STARTED GROWING SOME SELF WORTH, AND I DONT THINK THE PEOPLE IVE SOUGHT OUT TO RELIVE MY PAIN COUNTS

fall asleep in her arms or rub her back until she falls asleep in yours?LAST ONE

tall girls or short girls?BOTH IS GOOD

hugs or kisses?HUGS

twirl her around or get twirled?I WANNA TWIRL PEOPLE

tummy kisses or thigh kisses?BOTH

hairline kisses or neck kisses?NECK

play with her hair or stroke her tummy?PLAYING WITH HAIR

making out or soft kisses?MAKING OUT

hugs around the neck or hugs around the waist?WAIST

how confident are you in your sexuality?I THINK PEOPLE WOULD ASSUME IM NOT. IM SHY, AND MY NERDY CHRISTIAN VIBE ISNT GOING ANYWHERE. IM ALSO JUST BEGINNING TO LIVE AS MYSELF AND IM RELEARNING EVERYTHING. BUT WHEN IT COMES TO REALLY KNOWING MYSELF IM CONFIDENT

when you like someone do you blush or get butterflies in your stomach?NO. I WILL START CRANKING OUT ART AND FOCUS LESS THAN USUAL

have you ever liked a friend as more than a friend? did you tell them?YES

how old were you when you realized you were into girls?20ISH BUT THE SIGNS WERE THERE LONG BEFORE

most embarrassing thing you’ve done in front of a cute girl?I GOT MY EMBARRASSMENT GLANDS REMOVED REMEMBER

do you have a favorite lesbian ship? is it canon?I DONT KNOW MANY BUT IM HAPPY FOR THE CANON MARCELINE AND BUBBLEGUM

what is the most aggravating thing someone has said to you about your sexuality?MY SISTER PROJECTING ABOUT HER LIFE. WE HAVE CONSERVATIVE MISOGYNIST PARENTS BUT WE ARE VERY DIFFERENT PEOPLE AND IT DID NOT AFFECT US IN THE SAME WAY

when was the last time a girl made your heart flutter?I FEEL LIKE IM FORGETTING SOMETHING NICE A STRANGER SAID ONCE

what is love to you?NOT SOMETHING YOU DISPENSE AT YOUR CONVENIENCE. ITS A WAY OF LIVING – IF YOU LOVE YOURSELF, YOU LOVE OTHER PEOPLE, AND YOU LOVE THE WORLD AROUND YOU AND TAKE CARE OF IT. ITS NEITHER FAWNING NOR CONTROL – ITS ACCEPTANCE

ask me anything.YOU DIDNT ASK ME ANYTHING SO IM JUST GOING TO TELL YOU SOMETHING. IVE BEEN EATING POPCORN CHICKEN WITH HONEY

[keithos]

A Game of Thrones...

My good-good friend Franka posted the image above on Facebook today, challenging fellow social media denizens to come up with suggestions.  Thanks to Janine C-F, Stefan S and Rhonda M for their help tuning these responses, and the bonus profiles included.

Jon Snow went to St. Anthony's College. He came from an influential enough family, but really didn’t know enough to get into one of the top schools.  After O’Levels, he opted to go on a Northern European tour to try to find himself rather than continue his education.  Even after that time of introspection and rebirth, he still, admittedly, ent know much.

Cersei Lannister is pure St. Joseph’s Convent, Port of Spain. She probably got in on the 20% allocation though due to her father’s influence, and is suffering from an inferiority complex because her parents didn't send her to Maple Leaf where the guy she dreamed in primary school of marrying ended up.

Sansa Stark went to Bishop Anstey High School.  She wanted to go to a Convent, but was sent to Bishops, remained resentful for the full seven years, but became a full-on Hilarian in spite of herself.  As is typical of her fellow alumna, she is bright, powerful in her own right, considers “male wisdom” an oxymoron, and marriage is a conversation that’s fairly technical.  As a Hilarian in my life once told me, “Bishops women generally fall into one of three categories: to be married, were married, or with somebody else’s married.” Don’t slay the messenger.  Sansa fits the bill.

Arya Stark, quite naturally, followed her sister to Bishop Anstey, where her mother and her aunties also all went to school.  Actually, Lysa Arryn probably went to Bishop’s Centenary, which would explain her neuroses around her older sister Catelyn Stark nee Tully and her niece Sansa.

Tyrion Lannister is a QRC old boy.  "I drink and I know things," especially the latter part hold true to their spirit.  He runs sh*t behind the scenes, and could easily be the King himself, his influence on the world around him wholly underestimated.  But his ambitions don't run that way.  He just wants live.  Contrary to what might be believed, Tyrion doesn’t suffer from Short Man Syndrome, because all QRC men are 6′2″ or taller in their hearts.

Big brother Jaime Lannister went to Fatima College.  He was the kind of youth whose rich dad facilitated his showing up at school with great hair and the newest trendy sneakers before the ads for them ran twice.  He’s most likely to end up running one of his father's companies at age 17 or taking political office largely off his good looks and considerable arrogance.

Daenerys Targaryen was an expat child who ended up at the International School, but really wanted to run with public school kids.  She was probably popular with the Burger Boys crowd, until people saw her in her uniform for the first time and wondered what she was doing liming downtown.  Her best friend Missandei, a St. Joseph’s Convent St. Joseph grad, continues to roll with her through thick and thin, struggling to keep single mother and senior executive Dany level while quietly managing her own personal dramas with her boyfriend, TT Super League team player-coach and former St. Augustine Senior Comprehensive football captain, Greyworm.

Brienne of Tarth went to San Juan Senior Comprehensive where she survived a co-ed existence, before moving on to A'Levels at Bishop Anstey.  She excelled in the humanities and captained the senior football team, bringing back to back Girls Intercol titles to the Hilarians and won personal awards for being the league’s best fullback.  She was granted a prefect’s badge in Upper Six, where the younger Stark sister became one of her form charges.  She is legendary for beating a ruffian nicknamed “Dog” in the middle of town one Friday evening for disrespecting the Stark girls.

Theon Greyjoy went to St. Mary’s College. He felt himself the cat’s meow and was quite popular with St. Francois Girls, until a Belmont Intermediate youth named Ramsey Bolton thoroughly emasculated him in a Junior Achievement trade fair and made a lie of all Theon’s tales of bravado. He eventually came into himself again in adulthood after a couple years in a sales job that puts hair on his chest and gave him renewed confidence.

BONUS: Nobody knows where Ellaria Sand went to school before she moved in with her children’s father Oberyn Martell, Presentation College Chaguanas grad and foreign-used car dealer, in his inherited Lange Park home.  She doesn’t tell anybody and nobody asks, because she’s fly and distracting.  That probably means that it’s North Eastern College or Iere High School.  She may have had to leave school because she was pregnant with her first before writing CXC.  She and Oberyn look like they were the type to have been breaking school to... yunno.  Oberyn has four kids other than their own four daughters, the Sand Snakes.  But Ellaria doesn’t care, so long as he knows where home is and keeps up his duties there.  Their four girls though were split between Chaguanas North and Chaguanas South Secondary, and spent their days at school chooking fire to start brawls between students of the neighbouring campuses.

Nobody knows where Varys went to school either.  He was probably already an adult before the first Government Exhibition examination was held.  He holds firm to the belief that the English should have never left Trinidad, and will tell anybody willing to hear, albeit very quietly.

[theliterateape]

From the Archives: Unpacking Branson: A Thanksgiving Improbability

By Don Hall

For Thanksgiving in 2012, I was single and Mom decided that I should come out to my step-sister's place in Branson, Missouri for a good old-fashioned country Thanksgiving. The carrot was family. The stick was Missouri.

In the late 1960s it was pretty much a tiny city in the Ozarks known for roadside stands peddling wares that proliferated the hillbilly stereotype. And, sure enough, there are still today roadside stands that exist only to continue to make fun of that stereotype. It's an odd thing to walk into a business in the middle of the Ozarks that sells you the stereotype it tries to escape from. Like buying a taxi cab medallion from an East Indian store or an “I’m a Wetback” T-shirt in a store that sells Mexican merchandise.

It is said you cannot judge a book by its cover.

This is true most of the time, but there are some things you can judge immediately by its cover and pretty much know what your getting.

An Ann Coulter book. Sean Hannity. A FOX News broadcast. Great America. Applebee's.

I assumed that Branson, Missouri would fall into this latter category. I was right and wrong. And the complexities made it a real trip to remember.

Branson is where the Beverly Hillbillies came from before moving to California.

A winding series of roads littered with signs and theaters and restaurants. Lots of bumper stickers that declare “I’d Rather Be Dead Than SOCIALIST” and random tributes to past GOP glory. In the three days we trucked around the city, I counted perhaps one hundred people of color the entire time — I didn't start the trip by calculating this but after a bit, it was hard to escape. Thousands of old white people with canes and wheelchairs abounded but that doesn't really look that much different than Navy Pier or the audience at Chicago Shakes — old white people like to be tourists and Branson is, after all, a haven of tourism.

My step-sister, Hannah, tells me that the crack business booms among the residents of Branson and there is evidence around if you’re looking for it. The place is slightly schizophrenic in its place as a home to rednecks and hillbillies while trying desperately to distance itself from that by appealing to the tourist trade. There are places that stink of what one expects in Ozarks — a biker bar called the Hawg Trough that even my pro-GOP brother-in-law avoids and a Smoke Shop that doesn't sell cigarettes and has a pit bull guarding the door. But there are surprises that popped up during my three-day Thanksgiving vacation that defied my pre-judged expectations.

The surprises came in weird ways. When I arrived, we ate at a place called the Rowdy Beaver — a place with T-shirts that trumpeted “I Like Bald Beaver” and “That's A Mighty Nice Beaver” and had washboard walls. The thing that surprised was that the food was out of this world. It was delicious and well prepared and not at all what I expected. “Our chef prepares everything from fresh ingredients,” trumpeted our waitress who seemed completely fine with her job at a place filled with such juvenile innuendo.

The Hollywood Wax Museum was fun but the wax figures left me a bit wanting — a frequent refrain of our visit was my niece saying “Who's that?” and me doing my best to figure it out. I tried to convince my family to go to Silver Dollar City so I could find and steal a urinal cake but it was $60 per person and even I couldn't argue that $300 was reasonable for me to complete a toilet cookie tale. We had tickets to a magic show billed as the World's Largest (by the way, every attraction in Branson is billed as “Show of the Year,” “The Most Amazing in the World,” and “Mindblowing”) but the show was cancelled due to illness. Turns out Kirby VanBurch’s greatest trick is to take your money and disappear.

Our replacement show for the afternoon was going to be either Jim Stafford (I desperately wanted to see this) or SIX (the nieces had heard it was awesome). Stafford only did an 8 p.m. show, so SIX at the Mickey Gilley Theater it was.

SIX is six middle-aged brothers who debuted on the Donnie and Marie Show and have fashioned themselves as sort of an older version of an a cappella boy band. As soon as they started with a cheeseball version of Don’t Stop Believin’, Hannah and I turned to each other with a look of pained resignation. These guys had pretty good voices and the arrangements were fine but the self-consciously hip pose and cornball attempts at cool banter was unbearable. I learned that wanting to see an awful Branson show and actually sitting through one are two different things. I also learned that I will never, as a middle-aged white guy, ever use the words “homie” or “peeps” ever again. To be fair, the second act was better — a selection of Christmas songs and a tribute to their dead mother. Apparently this tiny woman had ten children, all boys, and I suspect she isn't dead but just got the fuck out of there before having to bear an eleventh kid. But the damage of the first act left me scarred and a little terrified of that evening’s show — Legends at the Dick Clark American Bandstand Theater.

Legends is a show that debuted in Vegas and moved to Branson. It is a rotating cast of celebrity impersonators ranging from Barry White, Marilynn Monroe and Tim McGraw to the staples of Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson. Our bill was George Strait, Whitney Houston, the Blues Brothers, Liberace and Elvis. As we entered and sat down, once again surrounded by octogenarians, I steeled myself. This was going to be fucking awful.

And it wasn’t.

Really. In fact, it was a blast. The Whitney Houston knocked it out of the park, Liberace was funny but completely inappropriate in a callback to the dark days of The Gay Closet and the Elvis impersonator was so fucking good, if we had been sitting in the nose bleeds it would’ve been like actually seeing Elvis live. My mom, a huge Elvis fan from when he was alive, commented that he was the best Elvis impersonator she had ever seen. Hell, even my teenaged nieces enjoyed the show.

But we saved the best, most Branson-y show for Saturday. Yakov Smirnoff. Holy shit. I couldn’t wait. I was absolutely certain it would embody everything I expected Branson to be — cheesy, cloying, the very portrait of a has-been celebrity stretching out his 15 minutes of fame as paper thin as he could in the heart of the Vegas of the Ozarks. We were greeted by a giant Yakov head making awful jokes about... the size of his head! Inside, it turned out that Yakov was a painter and had his paintings for sale!

The beginning of the show was the longest version of the national anthem I’ve ever heard (who know there were, like, nine verses?) and then I was hit with another fucking surprise. On the video screens came an old Paul Harvey “The Rest of the Story” about a painter known as Jacob who painted and commissioned a painting in tribute to the fallen at Ground Zero in NYC following the Attacks of 9/11.  Painted on the side of a building overlooking the rubble, it was the backdrop to the first anniversary of the attacks. The painter was an anonymous Yakov Smirnoff. He paid for the commission out of his own pocket.

Some of his show was what I expected: a revisitation of his “What a Country!” schtick from the ’80s—a sketch of him as the president answering questions from the audience, and he actually quoted the Lee Greenwood God Bless the U.S.A. as a closer. But other parts were not at all what I anticipated. Turns out that Yakov went out and got a Master's Degree in psychology and decided that his show could also serve as a relationship counseling session as well. Sort of like Defending the Caveman meets a less arrogant Dr. Phill with the takeaway being that we begin relationships laughing and giving each other little gifts and that, if we simply return to giving each other gifts and finding laughter in our relationships, we’ll be happier, healthier people.

Was it a great show? Not really. The dancers were cheesy and only there to fill time, the jokes were funny in a “Yeah, I remember that one” sort of way, the political stuff was tame (although at one point, Yakov asked the audience who was happy with the results of the latest election — a smattering of applause that included my mother and I enthusiastically cheering — and who was ticked off by it — a thundering, slightly ugly ovation — with the Russian comic commenting “Yeah, that's about even...”) and the recurring pro-America stuff was hard to hear after a while. But the thing is... I liked him.

I mean, I really liked the guy. He was so overwhelmingly sincere and genuine. Christ, I wanted to hug him. And, while his show is corny and inoffensive and gentle and perfect for the Branson tourist crowd, this is a guy who lives in Branson, Missouri suggesting that people spend time laughing and loving one another instead of being shitbags.

Prejudice is a funny thing. Judging books by their covers is what we do as people. I imagine it’s a hard drive instinct. But, as I am often heard saying, while we are all unique and precious snowflakes and each of us is completely distinct, we are all made of fucking snow. We all are simply people trying our best to get along in the world. Yes, that means that our baser, uglier instincts come to play like ordinary people rioting in a Walmart on Black Friday to get a discount on a portable DVD player. It also means that our better, more generous nature comes into play, and sometimes it's nice to be reminded that even in Red State Hell, Yakov Smirnoff is telling thousands of people every week to just be fucking nicer to each other.

On Thanksgiving, the point is to be with friends or family and celebrate those things in our lives we are (or should be) thankful for. Sure, the holiday is laden with cultural markers that include the genocide of the Native Americans and our national quest to bequeath every American with diabetes but the point is gratitude. Gratitude can come from a lot of places and I’m thankful to remember the lessons I learned in Branson. 

[newshirtonlines-blog]

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Unisex I’m very high on Agholor, I see a lot of Brown in him, and the gap between Cann/Tomlinson to Marpet/Matias/Jackson isn’t that big for me Donald Trump And Melania Trump POTUS FLOTUS USA shirt . About the trade, I think its fair for both and last year the Browns had Gordon, now they don’t have a clear cut WR1 on the roster anymore. I’m not sure that the Jets would go with Mariota if Cooper is there at #6 and you also have the threat of other teams trading to get him. He may not be there, but in that scenario, Mariota would still be available. I think Manziel should get an actual chance, but most people disagree. I’m assuming the Jets either take Mariota or a WR at 6 (though I think Mariota). If the Browns were to trade up to 9 for considerably less than what they need to move to 5. They have an extremely high chance of landing one of Mariota, White or Cooper. Fisher is my main want for an OG/OT type of player and obviously Byron Jones getting coached up in the Seahawks system would be amazing. My other point was that I am in favor of giving Manziel another year and believe that they shouldn’t draft Mariota if he falls to them. The only WRs the Jets would consider at #6 is White and Cooper, so trading to #9 would be a big risk if they wanted Cooper and I also believe that the Browns shouldn’t go with Mariota. Only things I disagree with are the Eagles trade with the Cowboys and often rivals don’t trade with each other. Also, that the Eagles take Cedric Ogbuehi over AJ Cann when they need an OG. I went with Ogbuehi because he could play inside. He should’ve gone way higher if it wasn’t for his ACL injury and Jason Peters is 33yrs old. Its time to think about a replacement for him or Johnson in the RT position if the latter moves to LT later. I really like this draft, although I’m not sure Strong and Fisher are there where the Seahawks select them though, I’d be ecstatic with this draft. You Can See More Product: https://luxuryt-shirt.com/product-category/trending/ Read the full article

[luxuryt-shirt]

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I made a mistake in the Patriots pick Donald Trump And Melania Trump POTUS FLOTUS USA shirt . I thought that they used the 3-4 instead of the 4-3, so I had to change a few picks and trades, but nothing major and I like the draft for the Chiefs, though I’d rather have us get Cann or Tomlinson in the 2nd. My bigger concern is that the Browns gave both their first rounders for Cooper. That just seems like bad logic for them, considering they got 2 first rounders last year for a better receiver. Donald Trump And Melania Trump POTUS FLOTUS USA shirt, hoodie, sweater, longsleeve and ladies t-shirt

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Unisex I’m very high on Agholor, I see a lot of Brown in him, and the gap between Cann/Tomlinson to Marpet/Matias/Jackson isn’t that big for me Donald Trump And Melania Trump POTUS FLOTUS USA shirt . About the trade, I think its fair for both and last year the Browns had Gordon, now they don’t have a clear cut WR1 on the roster anymore. I’m not sure that the Jets would go with Mariota if Cooper is there at #6 and you also have the threat of other teams trading to get him. He may not be there, but in that scenario, Mariota would still be available. I think Manziel should get an actual chance, but most people disagree. I’m assuming the Jets either take Mariota or a WR at 6 (though I think Mariota). If the Browns were to trade up to 9 for considerably less than what they need to move to 5. They have an extremely high chance of landing one of Mariota, White or Cooper. Fisher is my main want for an OG/OT type of player and obviously Byron Jones getting coached up in the Seahawks system would be amazing. My other point was that I am in favor of giving Manziel another year and believe that they shouldn’t draft Mariota if he falls to them. The only WRs the Jets would consider at #6 is White and Cooper, so trading to #9 would be a big risk if they wanted Cooper and I also believe that the Browns shouldn’t go with Mariota. Only things I disagree with are the Eagles trade with the Cowboys and often rivals don’t trade with each other. Also, that the Eagles take Cedric Ogbuehi over AJ Cann when they need an OG. I went with Ogbuehi because he could play inside. He should’ve gone way higher if it wasn’t for his ACL injury and Jason Peters is 33yrs old. Its time to think about a replacement for him or Johnson in the RT position if the latter moves to LT later. I really like this draft, although I’m not sure Strong and Fisher are there where the Seahawks select them though, I’d be ecstatic with this draft. You Can See More Product: https://luxuryt-shirt.com/product-category/trending/ Read the full article

[writingwhimseys]

Green Velvet (a Miraculous fanfic) - Chapter 3/?

Read it here: FanFiction.Net | AO3

Summary: Investigator Dupain-Cheng (dubbed Ladybug by the public) is used to strange cases coming her way and her latest one is no different, involving murder, intrigue, and an actor with peridot eyes that she can't seem to shake. Then, the case grows and things get personal. Rated T, Adrienette/LadyNoir, slow burn, film noir 1950's AU, ongoing.

Length of Chapters (avg): Medium

Rating: T/PG-13

Status: Ongoing

——————————

Marinette returns to her office after meeting with Alya, feeling more confident than before. Alya is like that- she leaves you feeling ready to take on the world or the complete opposite (though the latter is usually the case with the frauds she exposes). Yes, the potential involvement of this Hawkmoth guy does scratch at the back of Marinette's consciousness, but, for the moment, she's more focused on figuring out what leads to look into next than worrying.

Glancing to her case board, Marinette decides to return to the scene of the crime- the theater. Donning her coat, she heads downtown and finds herself at the theater at the peak of the evening ticket rush, the box office lineup trailing down the sidewalk. When she speaks to the doorman, he retreats inside without another word and promptly returns with the pale-faced employee who had asked her to the theater on the morning of the murder discovery. Almost more nervous than before, the employee leads her into the lobby, the crowd parting to let them through.

"I'd like to look around a bit more, if that’s alright." Marinette asks, once pleasantries have been exchanged. The employee- the assistant theater manager, in fact, according to his badge- nods feverishly.

"Of course, of course. The manager said you could have your run of the place, if you came back. Um, but- uh..." He says, faltering. "Our show starts in 45 minutes, so, uh, if you could be careful while doing your work- we don't want the staff or actors to get wind of any investigation details. If word spreads, it wouldn't be good for publicity. Theater folk aren't much for being, uh...discreet with things." He finishes sheepishly. Marinette smiles thinly.

“Being careful is part of my job.” She says reassurigly. The assistant manager glances at Marinette’s distinctive trenchcoat and, looking as if he is going to speak, changes his mind and simply nods at her. With a final smile, Marinette turns away and makes her way through the lobby to the doors leading backstage.

Behind the deep red stage curtains, the air buzzes with activity and people flit up and down the stage impatiently. Not wanting to disturb the actors as they prepare for showtime, Marinette follows the back wall through the off-stage area, taking note of what she passes. The ropes for the backdrops and racks of supplies for prop and set repair line the side of the wall by stage right. Down a far corridor and around the corner, Marinette finds the dressing rooms. She strolls past their worn wood doors, pausing in front of the last one- Catherine Gregory’s old room. When Gregory's face, cold with death and yet glamourous, flashes through Marinette’s mind, she turns away. Before she can take a step forward, however, a voice pipes up behind her.

"Investigator Dupain-Cheng?" The voice asks quizzically. Marinette looks around and sees Adrien Vermonte standing a few feet away. He is dressed in costume- a dark brocaded suit with a high collar- and looks as though he paused on his way somewhere, the door beside Gregory's swung open. Marinette remembers the actor's interview- he said his room was right beside Cathy's. Marinette frowns at the situation. How unusually unlucky. Then she remembers that she's with a potential source of information and trades her frown for a neutral expression.

"Mr. Vermonte." Marinette says politely. Adrien smiles, relaxing against the door frame.

"Its just Adrien." He says, curiousity gleaming in his eyes. "How is the investigation going?" Marinette feels the urge to give him a witty remark- he's just asking for it- but she knows better.

"As well as a murder investigation can go." She replies with a straight face, settling for something in the middle. Adrien looks intrigued.

"Find out anything interesting?" He asks. Marinette cocks an eyebrow.

“I can't share the details of the investigation.” She says. Adrien’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Nothing at all?” He asks, his tone slightly questioning. Marinette shakes her head.

“No.” She replies. After a moment, Adrien sighs and shrugs.

“Fair enough.” He says pleasantly, waiting a beat before speaking again. “Are you looking for more clues?”

“I'm afraid I can't share that with you, either.” Marinette says solemnly. Adrien doesn’t appear to be phased by this, as he crosses his arms and watches her.

“The back door was broken over the last couple days. Someone discovered it yesterday. Could've been the killer.” Adrien says nonchalauntly. He motions to a door down the corridor, shrouded in shadows. “They haven’t fixed it yet.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Marinette replies. For all she knows, it could be a fake lead- people who point out clues are either very enthusastic or trying to hide something, and Marinette doesn’t know which category Adrien falls into. She should still check it out nonetheless. Adrien smiles again.

“No problem.” He says, before motioning down the corridor. “I’m due on-stage anytime now, so I’d better go. My offer still stands if you need an ear on the inside.” He adds, his green eyes lingering before he turns and walks down the hallway. Marinette frowns again but says nothing as Adrian turns the corner and disappears. Silently, she turns away and continues her search.

The rest of the dressing room corridor is spotless; nothing appears to be out of place or unusual. However, when Marinette reaches the back door that Adrian had mentioned, it is immediately obvious that someone had indeed forced it. The lock panel has been bent back uniformly and beyond repair, a feat not easily accomplished and clearly done by someone who knew what they were doing. Alya’s words of caution ring again in the back of Marinette’s mind, but Marinette lets them float away. She has a job to do.

The rest of the search is fruitless; Marinette finishes checking the area backstage but finds nothing that seems suspicious. The one interesting thing she does discover is the actor sign-in sheet pasted on the wall by the entrance. The whole cast on the list signed in and out at regular times on the night before the murder with the exception of Gregory and one actress, whose sign-out time was an hour later than everyone else. Noting the name of the actress, Marinette heads back to the main lobby. Re-entering the main foyer of the theater as the show is about to begin, she hunts down the assistant manager, who looks no more composed than before.

“Was the back door broken into recently?” Marinette asks him. The man goes pale.

“Yes, yes, we, uh- reported it to the police. We don’t know when it happened exactly, but it wasn't broken before the murder happened." He stammers out.

"Nothing was reported stolen?" Marinette asks. The assistant manager shakes his head vigorously.

"Any other strange discoveries around here?" Marinette continues. The assistant manager ponders the question for a moment before shaking his head again. Though Marinette has no other questions planned, an image of the sign-out sheet suddenly pops into her head.

"One last question; do you keep a visitor log for people entering the theater or delivering things backstage?" She asks offhandely. At this, the assistant manager leads her to the box office and hands her a clipboard with a log clipped to it. As Marinette scans the list, she doesn't see much of note at first- it's mostly postal deliverymen and cleaners on the log, and no one signed in at unusual times or times close to the murder. Then, Marinette spots it- one sign-out from the night before the murder listed as “Agreste costume delivery”. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but Marinette can’t place it.

“Do you know who this delivery was for?” Marinette asks the assistant manager, pointing to the sign-out on the log. The assistant manager gulps.

“Agreste Fashions sometimes makes costumes- or, ah, made costumes for Ms. Gregory. She was the only actor who ordered costumes specially for her.” As the man says this, Marinette knows she’s found a solid lead.

Thanking the assistant manager and leaving the theater, Marinette mulls over what she now theater was broken into by a professional and may or may not be related to the murder. Nothing was reported stolen or discovered amiss, which points to the break-in being indeed related to the murder. Not only this, but it seems likely that Gregory did have a visitor the night before her death. There's still other leads to check out- the one actress who clocked out late, for example- which leaves a lot of options as to who could have murdered the starlet. As Marinette walks down the sidewalk, she hums with satisfaction. Her intuition tells her she's on the right track.

Something is still missing, however. While the leads as to the murderer and such are numerous, the motivation isn't. Nothing Marinette has discovered has given her any indication as to why someone would want Gregory dead. Those who immediately jumped out at the start have alibis and no one else seems to have had a good enough reason for murder. Marinette ponders over this as she unlocks her car and gets in. There must be more to this case than meets the eye, and it worries her that she doesn't know what it could be. With this on her mind, she starts the car and drives off.

[broadwaybydesign]

I Got Rhythm: Costuming “An American In Paris,” Part I

Hello, dear readers, and welcome back to Broadway by Design! After taking a look at some unorthodox costumes in my Tanz der Vampire/Le Bal des Vampires, I’m shifting gears back towards traditional Broadway, this time with a still-Parisian twist. By request from an Anon (and with encouragement from my dear friend @annbradleys ), I’m moving up my review of Bob Crowley’s couture-inspired designs from An American in Paris, and I can’t wait to get started!

For those not familiar with this production, it takes its lead from the 1951 movie of the same name. Stunningly for an Oscar-winning production in this era, the costumes for the movie were not Edith Head, but were a team effort by Orry-Kelly, Walter Plunkett, and Irene Sharaff. For the stage production, Bob Crowley definitely took some inspiration from the original movie, but moved in a new direction that was inspired by the high fashion (couture) of post-war France, which means his costumes are elegant, simple, and visually appealing. Let’s dive in, this time with images courtesy of Vanity Fair, which spent quite a bit of time promoting the production:

I’m starting with a group shot for a reason: it gives us an idea of where the costumes start before we begin to look at some of the more unique designs that were given to individual actors and ensemble members. The production is set in post-war Paris, so it makes sense that (especially on the female members of the cast) the costumes are somewhat demure. The style on the women’s dresses are similar, but with an air of refinement in each of them. I like how, despite similar fabrics and patterns, the cut on the green and red-orange dresses on the righthand side are quite different, with the latter sporting a doubled look and the one on the right looking a bit more timeless and classical. The dress in the center and on the left both share that timelessness, but in shades of color that are simply ravishing. I’m not as much of an expert on male costuming, but the mens’ suits are visually appealing and fit the era (late 1940s) extremely well. It’s difficult to get a suit wrong but believe it or not, I have seen it done.

The same Vanity Fair coverage gave us insight into Bob Crowley’s design processes for well, especially for the more elaborate costumes. Below, I’ve included a couple of his design sketches so I can comment a little on that process before proceeding to look at some of the more visually appealing dresses that appear in this production:

(Caption: Galeries Lafayette - Customers/Ladies who lunch)

(Caption: Milo Davenport | Ritz | Chaldet AAIP Ballet, with side notation indicating there is a fur wrap)

Color sketches are how a costume designer first lays out his or her vision for the wardrobe department. A designer, while intimately involved in every aspect of producing a costume, is not a single force and works with an extensive team in the costume shop of the theatre. This includes any number of tailors and seamstresses who will do the actual work of assembling the outfits to the people who add jewel or beadwork, all to the designer’s exacting specifications. But these sketches, often done in pencil and watercolor for intensity of color, are where it all begins. Notice how not every detail is outlined at this early stage; even if these are what the public envisions when they think of designer sketches, they aren’t the finished product. This, however, is how the work gets started and it can take an enormous amount of back-and-forth consultation between the costume designer, the costume shop, the set designer (can’t have color clashes or competition for the audience’s attention!), and even the actor or actress who will wear the finished product. The idea is to give a rough expectation of the finished product while allowing the flexibility to make changes for later. It’s the same process used by fashion designers making regular clothing or runway dresses, but with a different set of people consulted at each step.

Bob Crowley’s designs, as the sketches show, reflect a classic look, something a bit more sophisticated than many of the dresses I have reviewed recently. That’s intentional given the time setting of An American in Paris; as I noted in my reviews of War Paint, the post-war era is where couture really started to come into its own. The designs reflect that while making sense in the context of the musical. There’s a tremendous use of color in the sketches, and that later gets transformed into some beautiful costume designs for the Milo character in particular. With thanks to BroadwayBox, I want to look at a few outfits Milo wears in particular:

I started with this outfit for Milo (as played ably by Jill Paice) because, lo and behold, it matches one of Bob Crowley’s design sketches above! What was once simply pencil and watercolor has now become a far more complex and complete costume from head to toe. We can see that he kept the same red for the dress as in the sketch, as well as the bow-like adornment that lies on the character’s waist. The coat has changed dramatically (remember what I said about sketches changing often?) and is now a black-and-red checked pattern rather than white-and-red, which I think makes it seem much more dramatic. The fabrics are rich and hang well, and there is simple accenting in the form of black suede gloves (according to Ms Paice herself), wide-brimmed hat that accentuates her blonde hair, and a relatively simple gold chain. It’s a visually impressive piece, and I love the way it just looks classical!

Second, we have this green, silky number that goes down to Ms Paice’s ankle. For the most part, it’s a simple dress with a traditional off-the-shoulder look that would have fit in at any swanky 1940s cocktail party (and indeed this costume makes an appearance in a scene set in the Ritz Hotel in Paris), especially on the figure of a wealthy woman like Milo. The lines are very classic and the fabric just looks so rich; having worked mostly in college productions, I can only dream of working with something this fine. But there is an additional element that I absolutely love about this one: the extra flare of silk on the left portion of the bust (viewer’s left, wearer’s right). It takes this dress from simply something that could appear in a Macy’s or Neiman Marcus window and elevates it to couture, a custom fashion made specifically for the wearer.

And one more thing about this dress: it flows, oh does it flow:

It floats outward and immediately comes back into place without looking wrinkled or shabby, and that is the sign of some truly quality work in any production, let alone one by Bob Crowley.

Next, we have an amazing skirtsuit that really shouts out for some analysis. A black A-line skirt is complemented and popped by the leopard-print blouse that imbues the character with two things: a sense of power and a sense of fun. During my review of Christine Ebersole’s wardrobe, I talked about the idea of power suits, and this definitely falls into that category. The cut of the dress (an A-Line) coupled with the color make clear that this is a serious person with serious business and ideas, while the blouse makes it clear that lurking underneath (literally!) there is a fun and vivacious character to be found. With very simple jewelry, the simple nature of the dress is allowed to carry the day, with the blouse itself acting as the accessory. Very clever mixture of techniques that I like!

This gown made its appearance in the Broadway debut of An American in Paris, appearing in the Bal des Beaux-Arts scene where everyone (or almost everyone) is enjoying a masquerade ball. For those who are fans of Phantom of the Opera, the concept of a masquerade ball is not alien; everyone wears their fanciest, most memorable couture and everyone carries or wears a simple mask that is adorned with beads, jewels, and/or feathers in order to conceal their identity.

Milo’s masquerade gown harkens back to the red-and-black checked coat at least in color scheme, and that’s something that I like--but the similarities end there. The skirt is ruffled with layers of what seems to be chiffon, while the black covering is a much smoother, more satiny fabric. Jill Paice said it was her favorite gown of the Broadway production because of the way it allowed her to move and breathe; because the dress is puffed out and because the black is fit to her figure, there’s no need for a corset or other structure underneath. That’s why it looks a little bit smoother in some regards on her upper body.

This dress appears at the beginning of Act II and is another entry in the couture-inspired designs. There’s some classic French and Hollywood glamor on display here, from the bodice that has an almost sensual black lace to the way the dress hangs elegantly without flowing too much; it’s definitely the kind of dress you expect to be seen in, rather than, say, go dancing intensely. While it’s not apparent in this shot, you can just see the hints of a large bow fixed at the back of the dress, a mark of custom design that once again reinforces that we are dealing with a character of means. The accessories are once again relatively simple; Milo Davenport is a character whose wealth and elegance speak for themselves. She doesn’t need fancy jewelry, though the necklace adorning her neck is a beautiful gold number that matches the tones of the dress well.

The last outfit of Milo’s I’ll cover is this number from the finale of Act II. Here, I must confess, I am not as avid a fan of Bob Crowley’s design as I am for some of the other pieces. I like the way the large floral adornment acts as a bridge between the patterned skirt and the un-patterned top of the dress, but the pattern itself strikes me as dated--even in the context of a 1940s-set musical. To be clear, I don’t object to floral patterns in general; indeed, I think Paloma Young did a beautiful job with them in Bandstand. But this one falls a little flat to me. Compared to the other costumes prepared for the character of Milo, this one just feels a bit more low-market. I freely admit that this may be a matter of personal taste, and I won’t criticize the work that went into it, but it just feels like it would have been better with either a different, more subtle pattern, or even as a black dress with some kind of accessories. One positive I will give it, however, is that it does hang well on Ms Paice and the fur stole/wrap really does do it justice.

And here’s the biggest reason I’m not as huge a fan: this dress started out as the dress on the far right of the Milo sketches that I posted earlier. There, it had a subtle pink skirt with the rose adornment. It was sleek and classical without being overly dramatic, and it avoided the somewhat dull pattern work that the final number had. But remember what I said: sketches are just the starting point. Clearly, someone (perhaps Mr Crowley himself!) decided that the final number needed to have Milo in a patterned skirt. It was a judgment call, and while I didn’t love it, I am sure there are many fans of the musical who did.

Overall, I really am in love with the classic, clean, couture look of the musical’s costuming, especially the majority of the dresses prepared for the Milo character. Bob Crowley is a master of the costuming arts and created some truly elegant and beautiful designs, even if I didn’t always agree with his choices. What makes them work is not only that they fit the era of the musical, but that they fit the personality of the character and the actress portraying her as well. On the whole, I can’t really find much to do but celebrate the way this turned out.

Next, I’ll take a look at some of the other costumes in this utterly lavish production, including those of the leading lady in An American in Paris. Bob Crowley put so much work into this musical that it’s only fair to give his costumes the full attention that they deserve.

Stay tuned!

[mangokiwitropicalswirl]

Holding Back

A Post-Pusher one-shot, rated R.

This is my Happy Birthday present for @thethirstisoutthere ,and dedicated to the awesome ladies of the X File​s Rewatch chat -- you guys are the gems of this fandom, and the only thing that keeps me coming back to this madness. Hugs!

The first nightmare is the one she knew she’d have.

Everything slows as she watches the silver cylinder rotate, the slug slipping into the chamber, Mulder’s crooked finger straining against the trigger, trying to resist the force of Modell’s control. Her mouth forming itself into a scream as the motes of gunpowder exhale from the barrel. In the dream, her eyes slam shut an instant before she looks toward Mulder’s lifeless body slumped in the chair, a bright bloom of his blood spattered against the blue hospital wall. She doesn’t see it, but she does.

In the dark in her bed, her eyes jolt open and the scream she began in the dream startles her awake. All she hears is her own voice wailing “MULDER NO!” and the gallop of her heart as she untwists her hands from the sweat-soaked sheets and fumbles for the light. Throwing the sheets back, she steadies her breathing as she swings her legs over the side of the bed, her hands gripping the side of the mattress. It still feels like everything is moving in slow motion, as if the ground has tilted like a ship and she’ll slide off any minute, tumbling into the nothingness.

Scully stands up and walks dazed to the kitchen, pulling a small glass down from the cupboard and filling it with cool water. She counts the swallows as she feels it snaking down her throat.

She wants to call him. It’s 3 a.m. but she knows he’s awake. They had left the hospital silently, their hands still intertwined, oblivious to the presumptuous stares of the officers who’d watched them go, her long coat swishing as she navigated them both to the rental car. Mulder was dazed and pensive as she opened the passenger door for him and he slowly angled himself in.

Settling herself in to drive home, Scully opened her mouth to say… something. But her throat was chalky, and nothing sounded right as she mulled thoughts over in her head. “Mulder, I forgive you,” only made it sound like he had something to be sorry for. “Mulder, it’s not your fault,” would make him feel powerless, and God knows he’d felt enough of that for a lifetime.

And there were other thoughts, the kind she never gave words to, the kind she hoped her small hands had communicated more than once this exhausting day. The curve of her hands into the crook of his as he’d handed her his gun, staring up at her as he knelt on the ground before her, a macabre facsimile of a proposal. Proposing what? “Hey Scully, I propose we don’t both die today, ‘k? Here’s my promise ring - a cool Sig Sauer. With this gun, I thee wed.”

Her hand in his at Modell’s bedside had been her yes. “Do you, Dana, take this troubled, gaunt-eyed man to be yours, lawfully?”  “I do,” her hands had said as she gripped his fingers and told him they shouldn’t let Modell take up another minute of their time. Theirs.

Maybe Mulder had felt what she’d meant, maybe not. But either way, neither of them said a single word on the long drive home. She had dropped him at his apartment, and he’d raised his head to meet her gaze, one long leg already out the door of the car. He had paused, mouth half open, as his eyes searched her face. “Thanks for the ride,” he croaked out as his eyes dropped. He quickly slid out of the car and didn’t look back. Scully had reached out a worried hand for him as he went, meaning to press a reassuring caress along his arm, but all she’d caught was the hem of his coat before he pulled away.

She drove home through a blur of tears.

Now in the yellow haze of the sink light, she unearths her cell phone from beneath a tangle of keys, report copies and a folded slip of paper that Agent Brophy had passed to her as they'd set up the hospital surveillance van. She'd tucked it into her pocket with a slight raise of her eyebrow. Unfolding it now, it’s seven scrawled digits. His phone number.

She sighs and sets the number aside, flipping open her phone. She’s still staring at the dark screen, her finger poised over the speed dial when the sharp ring startles her.

“Hey,” she answers knowingly.

There’s quiet on the other end. She hears him swallow and take a long breath.

“I would have done it, Scully.”

His voice is hollow.

“No, you couldn’t -- “

“I would have done it.” He cuts her off. She takes a deep breath and waits for him to elaborate. Would have shot her? Would have shot himself? The latter was obvious. She gulps.

“Scully.” Mulder pauses. “I think you should transfer to another unit.”

“What?!” She stands upright against the counter, indignation suddenly overriding her sympathy. “What are you talking about?”

“I think you should put in for a transfer,” he repeats without comment.

“I most certainly will not be putting in for a transfer, Mulder!” She exclaims. “What has gotten into you?”

She hears him sigh, deep and long. She can see him slumped in his white t-shirt against the shiny dark leather of his couch, hovering in the light of the fish-tank between his own brilliance and madness. All she hears in his voice now is resignation, and something else he’s unwilling to explain.

“Scully,” his voice is a whisper, “I would have done it. I would have shot you. I would not have…”. She hears what sounds like a swallowed sob. “I would not have been able to forgive myself.”

Her indignation vanishes as quickly as it had risen. “Mulder,” she is soothing now. “You have to let this go. This kind of thing happens. To us. All the time.”

“Not this kind of thing.” He counters. “Not the kind of thing where I’m forced to point a gun at you. Not the kind of thing where I could lose you like that.” He goes quiet, letting the weight of it settle on both of them.

After a long minute of silence, she whispers back, “Mulder, I’m not transferring.” She thinks she hears a nod and a sniffle. “Besides, you’re not the only one with something to lose, you know?”

“What does that mean?” Mulder asks.

“To me, it seems I almost lost you today too,” she flushes with residual panic, remembering the lack of hesitation he’d shown in pointing the gun at his own head, the crisp click of the hammer against gunmetal echoing as a reminder of his own self-loathing. She wants to ask him if he thinks so little of himself, if he cares so little for her that he wouldn’t even give a thought to leaving her behind. That’s not fair, she chides herself, he couldn’t have thought of much of anything the way Modell had possessed his mind. But he’d thought long enough to give her the chance to disrupt him, to pull the alarm that freed them both from the taut game Modell had ensnared them in. For her, for her life, he had put up a fight.

On the other end of the line, Mulder is still quiet. “Scully, I --”. He stops himself short before trying again. “I hope you know --.” He goes quiet. Scully thinks she can hear the gurgle of his fish tank in the background, there’s not even a breath between them.

“I know.” She whispers back, even more quietly than before. “You should get some sleep,” she reminds him at normal volume after the moment passes.

“Don’t I wish,” he sighs. “Goodnight Scully.”

“Goodnight Mulder.”

The second dream falls into the category of things she hasn’t yet put words to. There is no sound between them other than the huff of his breath on the back of her neck as his bare, lean body cradles around behind hers. She is naked in his arms, her head turned back toward his as he nuzzles her cheek. In a vision of them together that her conscious mind would never dare entertain, their legs are entangled, his broad arm travels up and down the expanse of her torso and tenderly cups her breasts.

In the terrain of her dream, a forbidden ache settles between her thighs and she tips her head further towards his and captures his mouth. As his tongue explores hers, his hand slips down in between her legs and she shivers. He groans in response to the wetness he finds there, and he spreads her thighs gently as he settles his erection in the groove of her ass. Scully whimpers -- she thinks the sounds of her arousal might be crossing the plain of the dream into the space of her daytime room -- and opens her mouth for a deeper kiss. Mulder pushes into her, a slow, pulsing thrust until there is no space and nothing between them.  

She tries to turn and see him at the moment of penetration, but he is burying his head in her shoulder, quiveringly tense with his holding back. He grips her more tightly and kisses her neck as they begin to move together. The slow burning at her core spirals and quickens and Scully wakes up panting, tingling with a brief embarrassment at the intensity of her response.

It’s not until later she realizes, even in her own dream, he can’t face her.

[florrickandassociates]

TGF Thoughts: 1x06-- Social Media and Its Discontents

Thoughts under the cut... 

The Kings wrote this one, which always means it’s either a big episode or it contains a topic they’re passionate about. This episode falls into the latter category.

And Jim McKay directed. He’s directed many TGW episodes (and has directed at least one episode every season), and also lots of episodes of shows ranging in style from Rectify to The Americans.

The episode kicks off with a white dude in front of a solid green screen ranting about coding and how men are inherently superior to women. He is very mad about a change in Google’s algorithm that implies that women can invent things. Like, he’s seething. Over the idea that women could invent things. His resentment—and his complete lack of logical reasoning—would be almost comical if this weren’t based on a very real online harassment problem.

We cut away from the green screen to Neil Gross slapping a sheet of paper down on the RBK conference table and explaining that’s just one offensive post made on his social platforms.

The device used to illustrate the content of the posts is reminiscent of how the writers have brought cases to life in the past. Whenever a case requires a lot of talking, the writers like to bring in these illustrations to make the plot clearer and more captivating (see 3x07 and 6x18). In this case, they may also be trying to put faces to posts that would most likely (but not necessarily) be made anonymously.

Neil presents the RBK team with 4,758 “problematic” posts. What, is he only looking at the past hour?

Neil continues to comment on how cool it is that there are black lawyers… while only addressing Diane.

He brings a gift for the RBK team (no sign of it being RBKL yet…). It’s a Chummy T-Shirt with “Team Reddick, Boseman & Kolsted” written on it. I bought the Chummy shirt the CBS store offered and it’s super soft and comfortable. If CBS made this shirt—without the typo, of course—available, I would buy it too. Hear that, CBS? I am telling you I will spend more money on your product!

Barbara’s last name is misspelled on the shirt (it’s “Kolstad,” not “Kolsted’), and she notices immediately. When she points it out to Adrian, he just notes that Neil is bringing in $86 million a year. Wasn’t it $58 million last episode?

Neil needs a new Terms of Service agreement because two of his sites have become “like the Wild West of racism and sexism.” These sites are “Chummy Friends” which is Facebook-like (a way a real life Neil Gross would literally never describe his own site, but character Neil Gross has to because how else would we know what Chummy Friends is standing in for) and Scabbit, the Reddit clone from 5x09. (In 5x09, ChumHum definitely didn’t own Scabbit. Florrick/Agos represented ChumHum at the time, but they were the ones going up against Scabbit in court. I suppose they acquired it.)

Ah, one of the trolls is played by Ophelia’s boyfriend from Sweet/Vicious, which gives me a great opportunity to tell all of you to go watch Sweet/Vicious. Especially if the case this week made you feel angry and powerless. Go watch Sweet/Vicious.

Neil wants the posts gone on moral grounds… and because they’re hurting his business by scaring off advertisers.

“I notice only eyes for Diane,” Adrian comments to Barbara. This is true.

Neil sets a deadline: a new TOS by 5 pm. He then continues to talk about how cool it is that black lawyers exist and how it gives him hope, which he seems to see as a compliment but Lucca, Adrian, and Barbara all (correctly) read as patronizing.

As soon as Neil leaves, Diane suggests splitting into groups to tackle the problem. Barbara immediately overrules her and says they are going to sort the posts instead. (Why wouldn’t ChumHum have given them a digital copy of these posts? That would be much easier to sort.)

Adrian suggests making piles for racist posts, anti-Semitic posts, and threatening posts. He forgets misogynistic, which Diane immediately realizes (and which is a weird oversight I have trouble buying, given that Neil mentioned sexism twice in his introductory speech). Is this meant to be a comment on how Adrian thinks (I mean, you know how I feel about the way he talks to Barbara!)?

Barbara also asks what’s missing, so now I’m confused, because… duh? It wouldn’t just be a white woman who’s bringing up issues of misogyny, even if I bet Diane would list misogyny as an issue before she’d list racism.

Diane calls Maia onto the project through the glass wall. Maia is currently busy, not with work (…) but with a personal phone call to her father. “Dad, I’ve been working pretty hard lately, but, um, I’ll try,” she says. STOP THE PRESSES: MAIA’S BEEN WORKING HARD? Maia hasn’t been on a case that we’ve seen in three episodes, and she’s had a seemingly endless amount of time during the workday to investigate her own problems. Is this Maia’s idea of hard work? Hahahahahahahahhahahhahahahahahahahahahhahahahaha

(Seriously though, SHOW, NOT TELL.)

“But the problem is, I’m an associate. I don’t control my own fate,” Maia says. Ah, so in her first two lines, she’s managed to announce that she’s working hard (when, obviously, she is not) and then inadvertently take my favorite Alicia theme about controlling one’s fate. I want to want your character on the show, Maia, but I kinda just want to buy you a one-way ticket to Mandyville. (To be clear, I don’t care that Maia happens to mention controlling one’s fate; Alicia doesn’t own that issue. I don’t like these lines because they remind me 1) of the ongoing issue I have with the way Maia’s being written and 2) of how much better the Kings did when they explored the same things with Alicia. I know they’re capable of writing better material than this.)

Maia agrees to go see her dad that night. She gets off the phone to go—GASP—do work.

In the conference room, Lucca’s reading a post about the abortion debate. Julius calls it “political” and I’m just wondering: what’s the difference between threats and politics? If your politics are to deprive people of their rights, and you’re stating them in the most abusive language possible, and directing it at a specific individual, how is that not a threat/harassment?

Lucca asks to call a vote on whether this is “political” or “threatening” (also, why can’t it be both?). Julius plays rank and reminds Lucca that she’s an associate and he’s a partner. Ugh. He’s just mad he’ll lose to someone he outranks. I love that Lucca always shares her opinions even when she’s not asked and she’s outranked. Some (like Julius) may not like it, but I admire her confidence. And, I love that she doesn’t speak up to show off or to prove her ideas are the best: she does it because she truly believes that what she has to say is important. (Even better: it usually is important.)

Diane calls a vote on another post, this one about rape. Barbara immediately says it’s a threat. Adrian says it’s not—he’s just making a distinction between a threat and misogyny. Lucca disagrees, vocally. Adrian says the person has to say “I am going to rape you” in order for it to be a threat, because otherwise it’s protected speech. Um, but, as Neil Gross already said, this is ChumHum’s call, not a First Amendment issue. Your right to be a dick on Chummy Friends isn’t protected by the Bill of Rights.

Diane reminds Adrian of this, and Julius goes, “Yes, but the terms have to be fair.” Do they? Legally? Or just for optics?

Maia speaks up to argue against Julius. “And if I’m attacked 50 times a day?” Maia says. Julius says that those who are the most harmed shouldn’t be judging speech. Maia takes out her phone and reads one of the abusive texts she’s been sent.

“But that’s about your parents’ scandal, right?” Julius argues, as though that makes a difference.

“My guess is yes. But sometimes they’re so busy discussing my rape that they, uh, they don’t have time to state their reasoning,” Maia retorts. Then the discussion shifts away from this.

A missed opportunity, I think, to have Maia be able to do more than say, “hey, I got a threat, and it was bad like all these others are also bad!” Has she perhaps noticed a pattern? Spoken with others who face the same threats? Read up on the issue? Picked up on other problems the TOS needs to address? Anything? This is Maia’s only contribution to the case.

Don’t get me wrong (especially since I’m always ragging on poor Maia, who hasn’t done anything other than be poorly written). I think it’s smart to bring Maia into this conversation. She has dealt with this problem personally (on Chummy sites or off), and that insight is valuable. She doesn’t need to save the day or have all the answers (she’s just a first year associate!), and I know that once they’re out of the brainstorming phase there’s not as much Maia can to do get involved. But this harassment stuff is the only thread we’ve gotten about Maia’s personal life that isn’t conspiracy drama about her parents (or the two appearances by Amy in the early episodes, #BringAmyBack), and now there’s a case about it, and the writers are only going to do the bare minimum to tie the two threads together? Maia jumps at the opportunity to help with this project. But is there more? Does she volunteer to help see it through, does it make her want to work on something else as a distraction, is she totally neutral about it to the point where people are whispering that shouldn’t she care, something, anything!?

This case doesn’t need to be a lens to develop Maia. I usually hate cases like that—the ones that only exist to parallel the main characters’ life. But if the show’s going to tackle the topic, why not loop Maia in to a greater degree? Especially after three consecutive episodes where she’s not doing any work. Just give her work to do. Tie her into the cases of the week, and not just the ones that she can relate to. Again, this was never a problem on TGW. If anything, the problem there was that Alicia was on too many important cases. That happened because TGW wasn’t an ensemble show, so, especially at first, everything had to relate to Alicia. TGF is an ensemble show, so it should be really easy for it to find the balance between “Maia’s on every case and everyone needs this one associate on every project” and “Maia never works.”

I KNOW I AM A BROKEN RECORD BUT I’LL STOP WHEN THE WRITERS DO.

Lucca gets a call from Colin and ducks out to take it. He wants to have lunch and also to know what color panties she’s wearing. She says she’s color blind—I think as a joke?

Why does “lunch” always mean “sex” on this show?

Colin goes to talk to his boss about Kresteva’s nonsense. The boss is more interested in his salad than in justice. His boss explains what Kresteva’s trying to do—scare off other firms from taking on police brutality cases by making an example out of RBK, even if that means letting Henry Rindell out on bail. Ah, this is what I suspected but at least we know the strategy for sure now.

Now Colin is “oversight head of whatever, we’ll figure out the title later.” He has no veto power, though. This boss seems fun.

Diane wants to ban every use of the n-word, which Adrian argues against because that would end up banning every rap lyric on the planet from being quoted, as well as Huckleberry Finn. Yeah, Diane. I was with you on the “adding a pile for misogynistic posts” but Adrian’s right here.

Barbara slips up and uses the word “tweets” instead of “posts.” But it’s okay; we all know we’re talking about Twitter here and not Chummy Friends.

I wonder if the writers contemplated calling it “Chummy Chums” or using the word “Chum” in it.

With no segue (deleted scene?), Julius begins talking about how there’s a problem: 50% of misogynistic tweets are sent by women. Okay, and…? How is that a problem? If women are being misogynistic and abusive, why wouldn’t they also be banned?

Lucca and Marissa chime in to say that study (which, naturally, they’ve both read) is bogus, because of how it defines misogyny.

Even Marissa is arguing against Julius. I love it. Diane taps Marissa’s arm like, “not your fight, drop off the coffee and leave” and Marissa, instead of quietly exiting, calls more attention to herself and says, “Yeah, I’m going.” Julius is all, “Who is that?!”

“I’m bored. Teach me something,” Marissa announces to Jay, who is working. People on this show have such odd ideas about their professional responsibilities. Or maybe it’s just Marissa.

Jay tells her to fuck off, I think. Marissa insists: she wants to learn how to investigate!

She asks Jay if he’s ever seen a dead body in person because he’s looking at crime scene photos. He says yes, six. “I’ve seen twelve,” Marissa replies. Jay didn’t expect that. Marissa doesn’t explain this happened during her time in the IDF. It surprises me we didn’t get more exposition there.

Anyway, this conversation makes Jay more receptive to Marissa’s questions, so he tells her she needs to get an investigator license unless she assists a licensed investigator. Marissa takes this as an invitation to join him.

Then Jax walks in and interrupts them and Marissa has to call Maia out of a meeting, because there are labor laws specifically in place for Maia Rindell that protect her from having to work for more than 15 consecutive minutes.

Maia and Jax go into a conference room to talk. There are three windows in the room’s window-wall, and there’s a great shot where Maia and Jax stand behind the window on the left and the window on the right, leaving a lot of distance between them.

Conspiracy stuff happens. Jax warns Maia against talking to her dad because he’ll be wearing a wire.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” Maia says. Do you really though?

(The answer is no, because we follow Maia through the hallways of the office and back to her desk, where she picks up her personal cell phone and phones her father to cancel their plans.)

(Rose is doing a very good job as Maia. I love the way her face changes when Henry insists that they can’t talk over the phone; it has to be in person. She takes it as an indication that Henry really might be wearing a wire, and begins to question everything she thought she knew… again.)

(I like the idea of this plot and the idea of Maia but the writing, ugh.)

More bickering about the TOS happens. I’m going to stop recapping this stuff because I think it’s pretty clear where I stand on it, and once we get to Felix… I just don’t have the time to break down why every argument he makes is wrong.

Colin texts Lucca to meet her now, so she smiles and then proposes a solution to the TOS dilemma: an appeal process. Users will be suspended after a certain number of harassing posts, a panel will review, and they’ll have a chance to appeal. I have questions about the logistics of this, but I like the idea. So does the rest of the room, Julius included. Adrian’s thrilled to have solved the problem well before the deadline.

The policy goes into effect IMMEDIATELY and without any notification (well, we don’t know that there wasn’t a new TOS agreement everyone had to click, but this would’ve been news) and begins to piss off/delight trolls. Now they get to troll lawyers!

Maia goes to meet with Elsbeth. This I’ll excuse because it seems pressing and affects the firm, so it’s kind of working.

Elsbeth doesn’t have furniture in her dentist’s office office, so there are only folding beach chairs.

I think Elsbeth’s “Ada” was designed just to fuck with me, because last week it interrupted an Alicia update and this week it’s playing a song by an artist called “Good Girl” because Elsbeth said, “Good Girl.”

Elsbeth wants Maia to feed her dad false information. Maia’s hesitant, but comes around to the idea. Elsbeth tells her to record the conversation if she does feed him the info.

Lucca and Colin are in bed together, and Colin asks Lucca out for dinner the next night. She wants to know if he means dinner or dinner dinner. The former just means “fucking” and the latter means a date (then fucking). Lucca, we deciphered this code (well, as it applies to “lunch”) during the Willicia affair, but it’s good to get confirmation.

Colin wants the date, and Lucca turns him down.

Ugh, fuck this Felix guy.

But, he reveals something interesting: Diane donated $18,860 to Hillary (which is well over the contribution limit, isn’t it? Where’s he getting this number?), and Barbara donated $23,000. Barbara donated more than Diane did. I’m surprised, but I really shouldn’t be, since a large donation lines up with what we already know about Barbara.

I don’t get how this panel works. They’re going to spend this much time on each Twitter Egg? All the name partners at RBK, for several days, hearing out every troll in person? Why did they institute a new TOS without a trial period or testing it out at all (with mock panels and etc)? This appeal system, in its current form, seems like a waste of time and money. And also weird, because… do you have to go to the RBK offices to appeal? Is there a standard procedure for who’s on the panels? For what happens during deliberations? Do you have to give up anonymity to appeal (that would make sense, tbh)? Are they a matter of public record?

For a show that comes around to the conclusion that we shouldn’t engage with trolls, it sure spends a lot of time on Felix’s antics.  

Now Diane and RBK are being harassed online. There’s a never-ending stream of hate. And somehow, in all that, Diane realizes that each account is keeping their harassment to 12 posts. This confuses me. Are their terms of service so vague they don’t tell you what would get you banned (probably; they could just say “continuous harassment” or something like that instead of revealing the exact number or that there is a number of harassing posts you can send)?

So, Adrian wonders if there’s a leak and asks Jay to investigate. Knowing that the trolls will probably talk to a white girl, he asks Marissa to help.

Lucca’s out at drinks with the dude whose ass we saw in the pilot, Zack. He’s her personal trainer. She doesn’t care about him at all, because the only reason she’s out with him at all is so that Colin can run into him and get jealous. Colin doesn’t. Awww, Lucca, you’re starting to care!

Maia goes to meet with her dad, and I wonder if she called first (which… would be the logical thing to do if she’s worried he’s wearing a wire, since he’d need to anticipate the conversation in order to actually be wearing the wire, right?) (unless “wearing a wire” means “making an iPhone recording” in this case?) because there’s a party going on when she arrives home.

At the end of the night, Maia and Henry have a chance to talk. Unfortunately, it plays out exactly as Elsbeth suggested it might, and Maia has to feed her father the lie about RBK.

This Ada thing is a running gag now. Hmm.  

Marissa goes to investigate and finds one of the trolls in person. Marissa compliments him, and suddenly he’s let his guard down and tells her everything she needs to know—namely that Felix has their transcripts.

Adrian asks Jay to investigate Julius as the source of the leak. Neither Diane nor Barbara seem to agree with this decision, but they don’t disagree strongly enough to argue.

Ugh, Felix.

I am not the hugest fan of these definitions that pop up in the mean posts. Not sure they’re necessary, nor am I sure those terms are what would confuse a viewer who didn’t already know exactly what this episode was about. Actually, who is the intended audience of this? It seems a little too widely discussed to be these writers’ usual material.

As Lucca, Barbara, and Adrian discuss what to do, Elsbeth arrives, carrying three Vera Bradley bags and grinning. “Oh my God, when did this law firm become a circus?” Barbara wonders.

Felix warns Diane that Neil Gross may have gone to her firm for the TOS for a reason.

Elsbeth updates Barbara, Adrian, and Lucca about the story she planted with Henry.

Marissa enjoys pretending to be someone she’s not for the purposes of investigating. Anyway, turns out Marissa and Jay are investigating Felix’s boyfriend.

Annnnd it works, and turns out the leak isn’t Julius… it’s ChumHum’s offices. Diane realizes it’s a set-up.

Marissa is alerted to a new problem: instead of using the n-word, trolls are now writing “Neil Gross.” Oh, no. (So they DID ban specific words?? I DON’T UNDERSTAND)

Marissa brings this to Diane and explains that one of the trolls really likes her. Diane is confused by how Marissa would even know the troll, and Marissa says, “It’s nothing. They’re easily confused when women offer them attention.” This is her best line since she told Elfman, “God, handsome men are so weak.”  

Lucca walks into Colin’s office, angry, and tells him she hates games and to knock it off. He’s not doing anything bad… he’s just not acting jealous, and that makes Lucca mad.

Colin figures it out, and realizes that Lucca’s plan didn’t work. “Let’s go,” she says. I can’t wait until these two just decide to become a couple and stop with the games.

Ugh, I am not here for this Lucca-kisses-and-fondles-Colin-while-he-drives-down-a-dark-and-twisty-road thing. I know these writers well enough to know the car isn’t going to crash, and so it just feels weird and unnecessary until Colin finally pulls over. It also feels exactly like the Kings’ (okay, mostly Robert King’s) idea of edgy sex, and there was more than enough of that on TGW. More 3x01 Willicia type scenes and fewer scenes that remind me of season 4 Kalinda, please and thanks.

Colin lives in a giant house. Why does one person need all those rooms?

Julius notices that someone’s gone through his things and storms into Adrian’s office (or maybe it’s Barbara’s office? They’re both there). Julius, understandably, isn’t happy. He says he was the most loyal employee they had, but no more: he knows he was targeted for this, and that people think differently of him now. He quits the firm and calls Andrew Hart, the lawyer who gave him his card in 1x03.

Diane has to inform Neil Gross about how his name is being used. He’s not pleased, and now he just wants this whole TOS thing to go away as fast as possible. What a shock.

Ugh, Felix. Diane says they’ll reinstate him and he’s sad he can’t keep trolling. Boo hoo.

Diane monologues at him about how he’s a clown and how he destroys his points by being racist and misogynist and how he’s a bully. It’s satisfying, but doesn’t really solve any problems. Like, is the show saying here that harassment is hard to control so it’ll never be controlled, so just don’t feed the trolls?

Diane confronts Neil about the leak, and he responds—even though she’s right—by calling Adrian and Barbara in for another meeting, one without Diane. Barbara is pleased with this: for the first time in weeks, her power doesn’t seem like it’s slipping away from her.

Lucca isn’t wearing high heels!

Colin shows up to RBK and meets with Lucca. He warns her to stay clear of RBK’s finances. Why? Because of the story Elsbeth planted. It’s sweet that Colin warns Lucca. She thanks him, genuinely, but she’s distracted… Maia’s right there, and Lucca knows this means Maia’s world is about to be destroyed even more.

[thekisforkeats]

Where You Go, I Go (Let All the Broken Pieces Shine, Chapter Five)

Info: The Magnus Archives, D&D AU. JonMartin, more ships to be added. Rated T. Post-Canon. Jon is amab nb and uses they/them, Martin is a trans guy.

CWs: Apocalypse (mentioned), paranoia (mentioned), depression (mentioned), child abuse (mention of Martin's mother), slavery (mentioned), alternate realities.

Summary: Martin has some long, deep thoughts about roleplaying games and his new role as "the one who knows things."

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First Chapter Previous Chapter

The Raven Queen brings Jon and Martin to a room deep in the fortress, where they are to be outfitted with new clothing and gear for their journey. Martin broods as they go, trying to get some hold on what’s going on while he lets Jon lead him by the hand.

Jon’s been leading Martin by the hand for months now, if his reckoning of time is any indication. Longer, really--it was always Jon choosing the statements they’d record, who’d research which part of which statement. And that was when they were even including Martin; so much of the time they’d known each other, Jon had been keeping things from him, hiding things, leaving him out of the loop. That Jon had started to trust Martin and talk to him still felt like a major development in their relationship.

Martin’s getting tired of being led around by the hand. By Jon, by Peter, by… anyone, really. And it’s not even so much that he wants to do the leading as that he wants to feel like he’s contributing to the decision-making. Back in Scotland, there’d been a blessed few weeks where the decisions had been joint when it hadn’t just been entirely left to Martin: what to have for dinner? What to do for the evening? Do they make long-term plans to settle in the village, or make plans to head back to London? Something as simple as Jon letting him decide the menu for the week had felt… thrilling. Empowering.

And then the world had ended, and he’d gone back to following Jon around like a lost puppy.

No, that isn’t fair. Martin grimaces, glad Jon’s not looking at him. Jon’s certainly never looked at him like that, like someone they’re only putting up with and letting tag along out of pity. They’ve made it very clear that for a very long time, even when they were paranoid and thought Martin capable of murder, they’ve depended on Martin. That he’s been their rock, that seeing him has long been a balm that’s kept them clinging to hope even when they felt at their lowest. So far as Jon’s told him, in Jon’s mind they’re not leading Martin by the hand; to Jon, it’s more like Martin’s been carrying them on his shoulders.

It occurs to Martin that very shortly they will be in a world that Jon knows nothing about. Martin is the one with all the information now, not Jon. He’s glad Jon hasn’t yet asked how Martin knows so much about a roleplaying game; the truth is embarrassing, and he doesn’t want to admit it outright.

When Martin was a kid, roleplaying was an outlet that he clung to rather desperately. Most of his roleplaying was done online, through the various text-based mediums he found, but there was a bright spot in his early teens when he had actual friends who he joined for regular games of Dungeons and Dragons. Those teenage campaigns had been full of drama and hijinks and plenty of arguments between people who wanted to stick to the rules and people who cared more about the story. Martin was, naturally, in the latter category although he didn’t mind a bit of rules lawyering from time to time.

Roleplaying had also been a place for him to try out new roles. When he’d briefly taken on Dungeon Master duties he’d tried out pitching his voice lower with the male characters he played, the enemies and allies of the main characters. When he’d gone back to being “just” a player, he’d made the bold move of deciding to up and play a male character, a half-elf bard who had a penchant for reciting Martin’s own horrible poetry to pretty girls and boys alike.

That half-elf bard’s name had, of course, been Martin. It was no coincidence that when he’d come out as trans half a decade later he’d settled on “Martin” as the name he claimed for himself.

Sometimes he wondered if he’d have kept up with the hobby if his mother hadn’t gotten sick. If he’d been able to go to uni, would he have found a group on campus? Or even started one? It was one on a long list of “might-have-been” regrets that he’d nursed in quiet moments of resentment and frustration.

After his mother had died and he’d agreed to work for Peter, he’d suddenly found himself with extra income he didn’t quite know what to do with. In a fit of self-indulgence, he’d gone and bought every single book for the 5th Edition of Dungeons and Dragons, and kept on buying all the new ones right up until Peter had led him down into the tunnels beneath the Institute. He’d had no one to play with, but he’d sat in his flat on those solitary evenings and weekends and read each book cover-to-cover.

He’d daydreamed about what it might’ve been like, if he’d suggested running a game as a team bonding exercise. What would everyone have played? He’d have been Dungeon Master, of course, but he did love a bard, so there could have been a helpful bard the party would run into from time to time, dispensing plot tidbits alongside his tavern songs. Tim probably would have played a fighter, to be able to swing a sword at things, and Sasha a wizard so she’d have as many options as possible. Jon would be a spellcaster, but he wouldn’t want the religious aspect of a cleric and he’d refuse to play high charisma, so… druid, maybe?

And then Martin would shake his head and call himself a fool. He barely remembered the real Sasha, and even if he remembered Tim being combative and argumentative that didn’t mean he’d want to be a fighter. No, Tim would want to be something high charisma. A sorcerer, or a bard, or maybe a paladin. Sasha… he didn’t remember at all. Jon would refuse to play.

At least it had been a good exercise in feeling Lonely.

He’d told himself the whole thing was a self-indulgent waste of time, but now he wonders. He remembers Lolth claiming that she sent him to their world, and he reaches up a hand to feel at his vaguely pointed ears, and he wonders. Was he drawn to this because it was always real? Or has he somehow manifested it into being?

Well, regardless of how they got here, it’s certainly real enough now. And he’s grateful to his past self, for having bought and read all those books, because he feels like it’s going to be useful, where they’re going.

So he comes back to the fact that Jon is going to be out of their depth in this new world, and Jon’s not good at being out of their depth. It’s sort of endearing, sometimes, watching Jon fluster, but Martin doesn’t really want Jon to be flustering in the middle of, say, running into a pack of kobolds.

It’s going to fall to Martin, then, to tell Jon what’s going on. It’ll be the last few months reversed--instead of Jon leading him through a strange landscape filled with potential danger, Martin will be leading Jon through a strange landscape filled with potential danger.

At least there’ll be inns to stay at.

The Raven Queen bids them goodbye once they reach the room where they’re to be outfitted, leaving them with a pair of shadar-kai, elves with the same withered look Jon has. These two are going to help them with their gear and then lead them to whatever portal they’re taking to Toril.

Martin looks over the two tables that have been laid out with their gear. Fairly standard stuff--basic traveling gear, armor and weapons, the like. His own table has a couple sets of clothing, one looking more a costume than the other, various pieces of armor made of leather, a shortbow and quiver, a dagger, a backpack already filled with gear.

Martin ignores all of this, however, between two things catch his attention and hold it fast: a choice of several musical instruments, and a silver pin engraved with a symbol of moon and harp.

His breath hitches a little bit. A bard. He’s going to be a bard. And not just a bard--they’re giving him a Harper pin. There’s a lump in his throat and his eyes are watering. He’s not sure what to make of the well of emotions, except to note that they are, at least, happy emotions.

The Harpers are the reason Martin was always drawn to the Forgotten Realms above all other D&D settings. Those Who Harp are a secretive organization--people know they exist, but Harpers often don’t announce their allegiance. They are dedicated to promoting good, preserving art and music and history, maintaining a balance between civilization and nature. They’ve disbanded and reformed several times, but they are known far and wide as a shorthand for traveling do-gooders.

They are absolutely egalitarian about who they let into their ranks--so long as you are dedicated to the cause, it doesn't matter your background or race. Many Harpers are bards, though hardly all of them, but it’s common enough that many people assume any random bard was a Harper.

A teenaged Martin had dreamed of being such a hero--traveling the world, using music and poetry to bring joy to the hearts of others, vanquishing evil with stalwart companions. It was the sort of thing he’d held onto when he’d faced the horrors of the Magnus Institute, that tiny seed of hope that maybe, maybe, just trying hard enough to live up to those ideals would let them vanquish the things they were struggling with. It hadn’t worked, in the end, but it had gotten him through more than one terrible encounter.

And the Raven Queen intends him to be one of them. To be a Harper.

Martin catches Jon peering at him, and flashes them a grin. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get changed.”

Jon’s clothing is less ornate than Martin’s, and there’s no choices to be made. A backpack filled with gear, a spear and shield, leather armor. Martin thinks that Jon’s meant to be some sort of fighter until Jon asks one of the Raven Queen’s servants about a pouch set on the table and is told it’s for spell components.

Jon blinks at the other shadar-kai. “Spell…?” He shakes himself. “Well. I’ll figure that out.”

The other elf merely nods and goes about helping Jon get his gear on.

Martin frowns at this. Spell component pouch, so Jon’s a caster… but not a wizard or a sorcerer, with the leather armor. A cleric would have a holy symbol, a druid would have a druidic focus…

There’s only one option left, and Martin’s surprised it hasn’t already occurred to him. Jon is a warlock.

It makes sense, really. Jon had indeed made bargains with dark beings for power and knowledge, even if he hadn’t done it entirely consciously or willingly. And this, too, explains the sword--Jon must be a Hexblade. The Raven Queen is the patron of Hexblades, warlocks who used special swords and magic to enhance their prowess at fighting. It fits together so neatly that Martin’s mentally kicking himself for not seeing it before.

It bothers him a little, though. Martin’s a bard, with a shortbow, which means range and spellcasting. Jon might be fighting with a sword, but he’s not sturdy. They’re going to need someone who can take a hit, and he doubts the Raven Queen would send them out into the world without some idea that they’ll run into someone that can help with that.

After a few minutes of fretting, Martin decides to put it out of his mind. Thus far everything has gone along as if they’ve literally stepped into the 5th Edition D&D manual, so he’s just going to trust that they’ll find fellow adventurers along the way. The Harper pin should help with that, at least--Harpers are trusted by most people in Faerun, and anyone who doesn’t trust a Harper isn’t someone Martin really wants to associate with anyway.

Once they’re outfitted and grab their gear--Martin chooses the lute, the stereotypical bard instrument--they’re led out of the Raven Queen’s fortress and into the bleak landscape of the Shadowfell. It’s still entirely devoid of color, a place of craggy peaks and deep gorges. The Raven Queen’s shadar-kai know the way, however, and lead them confidently.

They finally reach a city with a river of lava flowing through its center, a place full of undead and necromancers and dismal slaves.

“It feels like London,” Jon murmurs.

“What’s that?” Martin asks, turning to frown at his boyfriend.

“This place. It feels like London. Or… not the real London, but the one we just left.” Jon waves a hand. “Miserable people, trapped in a miserable city. I don’t remember the Thames being made of lava, but…”

“It’s called Evernight,” Martin says. “It’s the reflection of a city in Toril called Neverwinter. The real river is enchanted to be warm all the time, so… thus the lava.”

“Ahh,” Jon says in a noncommittal sort of tone. “That explains it, I guess.”

They follow their guides in silence, and Martin looks around at the dark alleys, the moaning undead, the chained people, and sighs.

“It does feel like London, though,” he admits softly. “But I’m sure London isn’t like this anymore.” He glances at Jon, trying to figure out what’s going through the other man’s mind.

Jon just nods, dark eyes lost in thought.

There isn’t much more chance to speak, because they’re standing in front of a portal. One of their guides gestures. “Neverwinter is on the other side,” they say. “In the name of the Raven Queen, we wish you well on your quest.”

Jon eyes the portal, frowning. “I…” They shudder a bit, and then laugh. “I’m nervous,” they admit. “What if I can’t… complete this errand my Queen is sending me on? I know nothing of this world we’re going to, and I ended the one we came from, and…”

Martin reaches out to clasp Jon’s hand. “Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. I’ll be there with you, and I know this world. We’ll be fine.” A pause. “Where you go, I go, right?”

Jon looks over at him and smiles; a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. “That’s the deal,” he replies.

Martin grins widely and squeezes Jon’s hand. “Come on, love,” he says. “Let’s go have an adventure.”

And so, together, they step through the portal.

Next Chapter

[ladystylestores]

Meet Matthew M. Williams, Givenchy’s New Creative Director – WWD

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Matthew M. Williams, Givenchy’s new creative director, is probably the first designer to have completed his contract negotiations with LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton over Zoom — and to go topless during his official portrait session, revealing multiple tattoos for Paolo Roversi’s lens.

Williams ended up spending his coronavirus confinement in New York City and Montauk, teleconferencing with — and obviously impressing — Sidney Toledano, president and chief executive officer of LVMH Fashion Group.

“He’s a self-made man in fashion, learning the business at different stages,” Toledano enthused in an exclusive interview on Monday. “He’s got 100 days to prepare his [Givenchy] collection and he starts tomorrow. He’s really passionate about the project.”

The American-born designer behind the 1017 Alyx 9SM label and a key ringleader of the luxury streetwear scene, Williams, 34, becomes the French house’s seventh couturier. Today, he will be introduced to the workers in the atelier at Avenue George V — a storied ritual in French fashion — and he is expected to present his first designs for Givenchy in October.

Matthew Williams  Courtesy of Givenchy

In a statement shared first with WWD, Williams described the house’s new era as one “based on modernity and inclusivity.”

“In these unprecedented times for the world, I want to send a message of hope, together with my community and colleagues, and intend to contribute towards positive change,” he said, echoing a “voice note” he posted on Givenchy’s Instagram account Monday to unveil his arrival.

He expressed gratitude to Givenchy parent LVMH “for trusting me with the opportunity to fulfill my lifelong dream.”

“The maison’s unique position and timeless aura make it an undeniable icon and I am looking forward to working together with its ateliers and teams,” he added.

Williams assumes all creative responsibilities, including women’s and men’s collections, Givenchy noted.

The house will sit out the next couture week in Paris, scheduled for July 6 to 8, but maintain its couture activity, atelier, savoir-faire and teams, Toledano said. How Williams intends to approach high fashion has yet to be decided, he noted.

Williams led the list of candidates floated by WWD on April 13 when it was the first to report that Clare Waight Keller and Givenchy were ending their three-year collaboration.

His arrival thrusts Givenchy back into the realm of buzz, cool and cultural urgency that it last enjoyed under Riccardo Tisci, who deftly gave the aristocratic brand a subversive edge with his Rottweiler T-shirts, muscular tailoring and Goth-tinged gowns.

While perhaps best known for his roller-coaster buckle and collaborations with Nike, Moncler and Dior, Williams is seen as a driven, versatile fashion talent with a sharp vision, strong cultural and artistic connections, and formidable technical chops.

Toledano touted his expertise working with an array of materials, including leather and metal.

“He’s also concerned by sustainability and he’s concerned by communities, but with a fashion approach,” he said. “He’s pragmatic, but also very inspiring. He’s an entrepreneur.”

The Chicago-born talent, who worked with Kanye West and Lady Gaga earlier in his career, has in recent years been based out of Ferrara, Italy, a key hub for craftsmanship and headquarters for Alyx, founded in 2015. Williams is to relocate to Paris, while maintaining his independently owned brand, and his collaborations. Most recently, he unveiled one with Stüssy.

Williams arrives at Givenchy at a delicate juncture, the coronavirus pandemic having deflated a lengthy luxury boom and jeopardized fashion’s most sacred rituals, particularly the fashion show. While organizers of Paris Fashion Week are hoping to schedule physical shows this fall, several brands are proceeding with alternative formats in anticipation of travel restrictions and continued social-distancing requirements. The format for Williams’ Givenchy debut in October is not yet defined.

Beyond that, his challenge will be to quickly galvanize the house around yet another new aesthetic — and fast. Tenures at heritage brands have been getting shorter, and the current environment seems to favor luxury’s giant players including Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Dior and Gucci, whose scale affords multiple advantages.

While market sources peg Givenchy’s wholesale revenues at north of 1 billion euros, if one includes its fragrance and beauty business, the brand has lagged in leather goods, the linchpin category for Europe’s legacy brands.

“The beauty business is doing extremely well, showing the momentum of the brand,” Toledano told WWD on Monday. “With clear brand positioning, the right product development and the right communications, I see a big potential for the company.”

Renaud de Lesquen, who joined as president and ceo of Givenchy on April 1, also expressed confidence.

“I am convinced that, with his unapologetic approach to design and creativity and in great collaboration with the maison’s exceptional ateliers and teams, Matthew will help Givenchy reach its full potential,” he said.

A look from the <span class=”s1″>1017 Alyx 9SM</span> fall 2020 collection.  Giovanni Giannoni/WWD

De Lesquen, who previously spent four years at Dior Americas, is a suave but discreet executive, having served the same amount of time as president of Dior China. Prior to that, he spent 10 years at L’Oréal in Paris, as president and ceo of YSL Beauté, and before that as global president of Giorgio Armani Beauty.

Toledano said de Lesquen’s proven track record in wholesale relations, retail development and beauty marketing would be key assets in driving Givenchy’s business in the years ahead.

The brand counts 102 boutiques in the world, including 29 in China, and last year intensified its e-commerce push with the launch of online sales in the U.S., adding to existing sites in France, the U.K., Italy, Spain, Germany and the Netherlands.

Toledano has had his eye on Williams since the designer was shortlisted for the LVMH Prize for Young Fashion Designers in 2016.

“We have had the pleasure of watching him develop into the great talent he is today,” he said in a statement. “I believe his singular vision of modernity will be a great opportunity for Givenchy to write its new chapter with strength and success.”

During her time at Givenchy, Waight Keller largely plied a tasteful, aristocratic brand of fashion occasionally spiked with toughness or subversion — a touch of latex here, a giant wing-like backpack there. Her biggest claim to fame was dressing Meghan Markle for her marriage to Prince Harry in 2018, and she won more acclaim for her couture than her ready-to-wear displays.

Tisci was arguably the most successful of a string of designers who have led Givenchy following the 1995 retirement of the founder, bringing heat and stability over a 12-year tenure.

John Galliano was Hubert de Givenchy’s immediate successor and moved on quickly to Christian Dior. Lee Alexander McQueen tried his hand next with eclectic collections — space aliens one season, rockabilly the next. Julien Macdonald went back to a style rooted in French elegance and sophistication, but did not win much acclaim.

Toledano noted that Williams expressed interest and enthusiasm in the entire history of Givenchy, founded in 1952.

Williams arrives at the house with a resume steeped in proximity to cutting-edge culture.

Raised amid the vibrant skate culture in Pismo Beach, Calif., Williams is a self-taught designer. He started his career in fashion production, made a name for himself working as creative director for Lady Gaga and counts Kanye West and Kim Jones as his professional godfathers — the latter actually designed his and his wife Jenny’s wedding outfits. Williams designed a stylized CD buckle for Jones’ debut collection for Dior Men in 2018 that has become a brand signature.

Conceived as a brand tuned into cultural undercurrents such as Berlin’s techno scene, Alyx started in women’s wear and in June 2018 made its runway debut at Paris Fashion Week with a coed show. It has an industrial-tinged, utilitarian allure and is carried by such marquee retailers as Ssense, 10 Corso Como, Dover Street Market, Joyce, Galeries Lafayette, Browns, Nordstrom and Selfridges.

Before launching Alyx, Williams cofounded men’s streetwear brand Been Trill in collaboration with Heron Preston, Virgil Abloh, Justin Saunders and YWP. As for the moniker 1017 Alyx 9SM, it bears the name of Williams’ eldest daughter, while the numbers reference the designer’s birth date and an abbreviation of the brand’s first studio on Saint Mark’s Place in New York City.

Williams has also been a trailblazer in sustainable practices, employing recycled nylon and other eco-friendly materials and exploring ways to dye with less water and recycle scraps.

Matthew Williams  Courtesy of Givenchy

He’s also fanatical about modernizing craftsmanship, of which couture represents the pinnacle. In an interview with WWD last year, he said, “How can we use the technology that is available to us with the artisan approach and find a new way to create modern craftsmanship? And so that’s kind of what I am most interested in exploring…because you know that a lot of the traditional luxury has craftsmanship. If you think about Hermès or Chanel, you know, there’s a real language to the craftsmanship and…it’s like what can we do to modernize that? And also when you look to some of those luxury products, even if somebody doesn’t know fashion, they can tell that it’s been touched by hand, or it is very obvious the value in the product, so that’s something that I want to keep exploring.”

According to Givenchy, “Williams advocates authentic values of research, technical innovation and creative repurposing that align perfectly” with its philosophy of “elegant ease.”

“An intuitive understanding of tailoring, technology and integrity in fashion make the designer an ideal steward for carrying the Givenchy legacy forward with modernity and power,” it added.

Awaiting Williams’ debut, the design team has created a men’s collection for spring 2021 and a capsule women’s collection for December delivery. Both will will be sold in Givenchy’s showrooms later this month. The brand is not participating in the digital version of Paris Fashion Week for men’s scheduled for July 9 to 13.

More from WWD.com:

Givenchy Has a New Designer

Fashion Weeks Tilt Toward Coed, Buy-Now Formats

Will the Flood of Collections Yield to Slower Fashion?

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[lightlorn]

L, Y, H, E, A, R, T, K. I. for shizuka, aria, and kokoro.

late festivities. ll accepting.

L   :   LOVE.   who does your muse love?

Shizuka has a lot of love for their son, their sister, and the few fellow outsiders they allow into their inner circle. She would do anything for Akira and Rieko especially. They also adore their cat Aniki, known as Buta before their son started talking and decided on what the overgrown beast was to be called. Deep down, in some secretive part of themself, they do feel love for their former patron, though they do not know how to define it.

Aria has love for her community and people above all, but her big heart has so much room in it. She loves her true companions, loves the outsider, the downtrodden, those who she can champion. Beyond that, she has not exactly received steady romantic love – Tamlen, Sten, Anders, hers is a sorry little string of affections unrequited, never acted upon, or broken up by reasons beyond their control.

Kokoro is far more reserved by contrast. She loves her daughter, of course, more than anything. Blood means nothing when it comes to her relationship with Mads. Then we get to debates about verse – in her secondary verse, she has a complicated love for her father and his oldest students, stunted by her adolescent problems that made her put up walls. She loves your Xemnas, of course, without hesitation, though she demands a fair bit of him.

Y   :   YOURS.   does your muse get protective easily?

Shizuka is fiercely protective of what they consider hers. You can see this even in their introduction, how readily they went to bat for the owner of the club they worked. Now, they’re most readily compromised morally by the need to defend those they are close to, which is dangerous when you recognize the kind of people they keep company with.

Aria has always been the protective sort, defending her childhood friends from consequences or danger. This has endured throughout her life, to the point that even the sight of a clearly non-threatening Isolde saw Aria put herself between the hysterical woman and Alistair. When Anders fled Amaranthine, Aria did all in her power to stall or mislead the Templars that hunted him. She is the kind that protects others even if it puts her in some danger.

Kokoro has lost a lot in her time traveling worlds. She will defend first and ask questions later where her loved ones are concerned. Especially in romantic relationships, she tends to put herself in the line of fire to spare whoever has her heart. I think this is best seen in the Kokoro/Terra verse where, after all is said and done, she tries to take on his responsibilities to protect him from a brewing breakdown that is sure to be exacerbated by the task her father handed down to him as a parting shot. If she can keep even one person she loves from some pain, she will take it as her own without complaint.

H   :   HEART.   is your muse quick or slow to give their heart away?

All of them are demisexual, Shizuka to the point of questioning if they might be aromantic prior to getting a handle on their untrusting nature. Shizuka doesn’t trust others with their whole, so they keep their heart locked tight in their chest. Aria has had her heart broken one too many a time – by Tamlen, by unreturned affection, by Anders – to let it wander away from her again. And Kokoro is still carrying the weight of a childhood spent emotionally distant from others, and struggles with the idea of letting herself love another wholly.

E   :   EMBRACE.   does your muse like hugs? what are their hugs like?

Shizuka is not the touchy feely type. Their hugs are fine, but unless Akira needs some stim pressure or their kid sister is in town, they tend to try and get it over with as quickly as possible. That said, if you hug them first then their touch starved ass will tense and then melt with relief.

Aria likes hugs! Provided someone is allowed to touch her, she will give them the biggest, strongest bear hugs. What good is all her training as an archer if she cannot use her massive arm muscles to dispense the finest of embraces? It would be a sin to allow the gifts the gods granted her to atrophy!

Kokoro is not much of a hugger. She has the Blue Blood standard of just offering a clasped shoulder or a ruffle of hair. When someone needs real comfort or a hug, however, she tends to put maximum effort into it, to the point it can be hard to tell who is clinging to who.

A   :   AFFECTION.   how does your muse show affection?

Answered here!

R   :   ROMANCE.   is your muse a romantic or a cynic?

Shizuka is an absolute cynic. All they’ve ever seen of romantic love is settling, boredom, or an absolute shitshow. Sadly, past relationships have set them firmly in the camp that anything they get into will fall into the latter category, and they refuse to settle or live a classical life that they spent so long running from. They want someone to understand them, but even when they find that they spend all their time nitpicking and being sure that it’s only skin deep.

Aria is not much of a romantic in more of the classical sense, but in a relationship she proves to be quite the amorous partner. She wants the world to be better, for people to be better to each other, and that starts with her. This is the kind of person that love stories will be written about after they are gone, for all they do for the person who captures their heart.  Ask me about that Arianders thread I had just before the Chantrypalooza, our realistic Hero is a true blue romantic at heart.

Kokoro is... somewhere between the poles. She has no time for romance throughout canon events, too busy keeping to a goal she was forced to sideline for the last ten years due to lack of leads. That does not stop, in some verses, romance finding her. In our Xemnas/Kokoro verse especially, it hits both of them like a freight train. But even then, we see Kokoro prioritize Xemnas becoming better, gaining freedom, over possessing him as a lover, and she always pursues her own goals without sacrificing anything to him. She’s romantic when there is a good place and time for it. Otherwise, she knows her priorities.

T   :   TRUE LOVE.   does your muse believe in true love?

Shizuka mocks the very notion. Not even to be cruel or because they’re a cynic, but because they know what goes into maintaining a relationship. Love is a lot of work, and understanding, and it’s not always pretty. But it’s something you commit to, and something you face together. There’s no real falling to them -- you make a choice every day to continue with it, even when it doesn’t feel like a choice at all.

Aria likes the notion, probably commits to some idea of finding soulmates, but is not holding her breath on it being a reality. There’s so many people in the world, and you can only meet so many. Maybe some can find true love, but others will find a variety of love besides. So long as it’s healthy, so long as it leaves you better than it found you, then whatever love you choose is good, never mind if it’s ‘true love.’

Kokoro really wants it to be true in her heart of hearts, for something to just click and make it easy, but that dumbs down a very complex issue. Love is a lot more than just meeting someone and riding off into the sunset and having the best days of your life, she knows that even with her usual lack of romantic history. True love might not exist, but the right person does, and they’ll help make this world a little more stable for being in it, just as she might make their world a little better.

K   :   KISS.   is your muse a good kisser? why / why not?

Shizuka has decades of experience. They’ve got the practice on lockdown, and can gauge fairly well what any given partner wants out of the experience. It’s all part of their plays at intimacy, knowledge, or whatever else they can get out of a person. As for a genuine kiss, well, they’re still pretty skilled, but perhaps a bit hesitant.

Aria is an earnest kisser. Maybe not one for finesse or natural talent, but when they kiss someone they mean it, and they make it something special. Whether a first kiss or a thousandth, their object of their affection will never have to question where they stand with her so long as they’re eagerly trading kisses. It’s actually kind of sweet.

Kokoro has kissed one boy, in her teens, on a dare. Kokoro has no actual experience beyond this adolescent experience, and while the boy proved positively frazzled by the act, that might owe more to his partner’s beauty and standing than actual skill. She’s probably pretty bad at it until she gets some practice in, which might be endearing to some.

I    :   I LOVE YOU.   does your muse find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

Shizuka better be dying before they say it to anyone they are not directly related to. Rieko and Akira hear it constantly -- Akira especially -- but everyone else holding their breath to hear it is going to suffocate long before Shizuka even thinks of saying such a thing. They’re more likely to say it through ride or die actions than openly, verbally admit it. 

Aria used to be open about the sentiment, sharing it freely, but her losses have made her a bit more reserved. After Tamlen’s loss, I think it became a bit harder for her to form the words, and then depending on the verse, her history with Anders really blunted her tongue. In a time of great emotion or stakes, however, I think she could remember the shape of the words and offer them again.

Kokoro doesn’t have a lot of people to love, but those who got through her walls and into her heart will never have to doubt where they stand with her. Once she loves someone, she will say it, as many times as they need to hear it. This is what makes her a good mom friend to her companions and an even better romantic interest to those who want to devote themselves to her socially awkward ass.