#which is fine. but it’s still not comparable to the cockney accent

[jellicle-chants]

I think I just realized the reason why I prefer most British/“UK-based” versions of “Mungojerrie & Rumpleteazer” is because none of the US versions really commit to the bit and give them an accent like UK ones do

[oumaheroes]

hii its bougie <3 if you're still taking hc requests, i was wondering if you'd have thoughts on something that's been on my mind for a while. i was interested in the nuance to english culture due to regional differences. eg.,dinner being called "tea" in the north of england, rugby being more popular in the south, the difference in how scones with jam and cream are enjoyed in Devon and Cornwall?? or how certain english accents are perceived as... "less attractive" i guess (the black country accents are unpopular apparently?) -- you'd probably know more about these particularities than me ;u;

i was wondering how these cultural differences might map onto hws England's character, and how they might influence his attitudes and behaviours. because there's such a clearly defined stereotype of the english that i think shape people's expectations of what the english are like, i usually think that Arthur usually consciously acts according to what counts as positive interpretations of himself. however, i love nuanced and somewhat subversive interpretations of his character, and am very curious if you might have any ideas on how these kind of internal regional differences might shape him.

--------------------

Bougieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee <3

I’m not gonna lie this sent me down a RABBIT HOLE of thoughts, so hang on tight cos we're gonna get messy.

Accents:

Let’s start with my personal favourite, so excuse me whilst I geek out for a second. I’ve gone into this area already in this headcanon, but I personally see England being a very proud little dragon regarding English accents, those both native and non-native to the British Isles. Focusing just on accents within England for this post, the way Arthur himself sees them, (regarding class and general preference), comes a lot down to how I see him feeling about language and the unification of England in general.

England is a tiny country. It’s really teeny, compared to some, and yet holds an incredible number of regional accents and dialects (from digging about the internet for a good source, I keep finding numbers ranging from 37 to 43). There are a number of reasons for this, but the one that I love the most is that accents are influenced by the previous/ influential other languages spoken in a given area. Accents on the East of England are more influenced by Viking invaders, both phonologically and via the dialectal words used, and accents/ dialects in the West are more influenced by Welsh, for example.

Accents and dialects tell the history of a place, all who ever came there and influenced it to some degree. The map of English accents is a patchwork quilt of old cultures and people now lost to time, but their ways of speaking have been preserved in the modern tongue. The old English kingdoms might now be mere counties- Kent, Essex, Sussex, East Anglia, etc- they may not have their own influence or language these days as they used to, but their old ways have been imprinted on their people of today whether they know it or not and they carry pieces of the past in their words and how they speak them. Older speakers of the Northern English dialects liek the Yorkshire dialect still use ‘thou/thee’ where this has fallen out in other areas, the Midlands and parts of the South-East still keep the ‘-n’ ending for possessive pronouns (‘yourn’ instead of ‘yours’, ‘ourn’ instead of ‘ours’), and there’s even some linguistic research into how Brittonic, the ancestor of Modern Welsh, influenced English structure and phonology (for references, see notes at the end).

Back to England the person (to contain myself slightly), his regional accents are a story of himself, his history being kept alive in all of its variety every day. He doesn’t hold a classist view of a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ accent because he knows why they’re all there- what languages and people influenced them and how these events affected him- the older generations now lost and forgotten being kept alive in the smallest of phonemes.

Every dialect, every accent, and every language tells the story of a people, from the smallest phonological marker right up to a language as a whole and England takes comfort and pride in his dialects and accents’ longevity and variety. He is as much of the North as he is the South, as much of the East as the West and a patchwork man born of patchwork cultures it makes no sense for him to favour one particular accent over another.

That being said, he is aware that there is a common cultural stance on accents as well as an opinion regarding ‘ugly’ ones, ‘common’ ones, and ‘classy’ ones, but he himself doesn’t partake in these ideas. I like to think that a nation takes on the speech of the people and the area they’re in, matching the person they speak to or the area they visit to relate to their people. So, for me a Chav Arthur exists as much as a Brummie one does, or a Scouser, or a Geordie, or a Cockney. They’re all English, and thus they’re all a part of him.

Class

I have to include this one, if only to touch on it lightly regarding accents and dialects. Class does influence which words you speak, arguably just as much as which accent (this is known as a sociolect). Although I said that England adopts the accent of whatever area he’s in, or whomever he’s talking to if they’re English, the class people are will also affect which words he choses to use.

Here’s a short example from here:

'It is pudding for the upper class. Dessert is sometimes used by upper middles, but afters and sweets very clearly put you below stairs.'

Have some more!

Upper class: Spectacles, Lavatory or loo, Die, Napkin, Sofa

Middle class: Glasses, Toilet , Pass on, Serviette, Settee or couch

(Working class is a mix but harder to find sources for).

This is where England treads a fine line. It could be that he again adopts more of a class lexicon regarding who he is speaking to, matching his people word for word. However, England is not unaware of the affects of class, regardless of how he himself feels, and also although class snobbery and divide frustrate him, he cannot deny using this understanding to benefit himself, which also conforms to how his own people behave. (I myself have, many times, diluted and filtered my speech to be seen as ‘better’).

Want to be seen as more reliable and powerful? Want to be taken more seriously? RP and Estuary English (a lot more so these days), hold undeniable sway and England is not above adopting a manner of speaking to come across ‘better’ or more polite, or a more ‘common’ accent to fit in with the working classes. I think of England as leaning more towards a working-class mindset- he’s very hands on, very up for and used to manual labour and this particular English class has always made up the bulk of his population. It makes no sense for a nation, who represents all of their people, to have a snide view or a preference for a particular group and England as a person I see is someone who does not enjoy the foppery and false airs of aristocracy.

That being said, England is an intelligent man. He knows how to work a room and use a crowd to his advantage, knows what must be done and what he needs to do to achieve a goal and if this entails courting the upper classes for a time then he will do so. He’s adepts at switching himself like a chameleon, blending his behaviours, accent, and dialect to match who he’s talking to to achieve a goal or to fit in with someone’s perception of him, or to gain influence or prestige. He also doesn’t hate his upper classes- they are of him too, and the middle and working class have their own prejudices and ideas against the others. But he doesn’t adopt a stereotypical distain of lower classes because to him, it really doesn’t make much sense.

Abroad, this need to cultivate a particular perception defiantly comes under greater pressure. RP and Estuary English are more well know, more heard and taught, and more recognisably ‘British’, and so these are what he uses when speaking English to other nations or foreigners, either wanting to uphold an image of himself (more so in the Victorian/ Edwardian period than nowadays) or just for the ease of being understood.

Regional Differences

Okay, this one is a lot more fun. Does England put in his milk first or last when making tea? Does he put jam first, or clotted cream when having a scone? Does he have chips with gravy, or curry sauce? Does he have dinner at 6, or 9? To marmite, or not to marmite.

Ah, that is the question, and England does not know the answer. Does he do what he does because that’s what he likes, or because that’s what his people do? He didn’t grow up with these habits, after all, they’re all relatively recent in his lifetime, and so these habits are defiantly things he cultures for a particular audience.

I’m not really sure if the above preferences are class based, (well, milk first when making tea is argued to be, but I can't find any sources I'd consider entirely credible. I put the ones I did find in the notes below, in case any one's interested), so it’s hard to get a sense of which one to use. Overall, it doesn’t matter which you do and neither is right or wrong, but the English feel strongly about them, one way or another, and often Arthur the man isn’t sure at all which one he himself actually thinks is better.

Food in another sense though is something he can be surer of. A Cornish pastie not from Cornwall is not worth eating, nor is a Bakewell tart outside of Bakewell. England can be very particular about this sort of thing and enjoys maintaining and supporting the ‘original’ flavour or recipe of a thing where he can, considering this to be the ‘best’. Sally Lunn Buns from Bath, Gypsy tarts from Kent, Eccles Cakes from Eccles.

England wants to preserve his food and culture and has what could be considered a snobbish view on the ‘best’ way of creating or eating his national foods. Some things he is more lenient with: he will eat cheddar cheese, whether or not it is from Cheddar, same from Cumberland sausages not from Cumbria. But he certainly has a preference and he is not afraid to voice this when asked for his opinion.

Okay, we're done

Phew! This had me digging out my old linguistic student brain. To anyone who has made it this far down, gosh golly miss molly thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the ride, and especially @prickyy who was kind enough to want to hear my opinions about all of this <3

----------------------------------------

Notes:

Brittonic influence on English:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brittonicisms_in_English

https://scholar.google.co.uk/scholar_url?url=http://journals.mountaintopuniversity.edu.ng/English%2520Language/Celtic%2520Influences%2520in%2520English%2520A%2520Re-evaluation.pdf&hl=en&sa=X&ei=2ohDYdq3BoWImwHn6oWQAg&scisig=AAGBfm29zTF0FBCpd1KqDiAbjM-0X7nfoA&oi=scholarr (PDF)

https://scholar.google.co.uk/scholar_url?url=http://www.oppi.uef.fi/wanda/unicont/abstracts/14ICEHL_MF.pdf&hl=en&sa=X&ei=2ohDYdq3BoWImwHn6oWQAg&scisig=AAGBfm3UvOXbJEb0b51J73eBnTJvgGaQOA&oi=scholarr (PDF)

Sociolects and class distinction within language in English:

https://languageawarenessbyrosalie.weebly.com/social-dialects.html

https://www.grin.com/document/313937

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/U_and_non-U_English

Milk in tea first and the potential class reason:

https://www.theteaclub.com/blog/milk-in-tea/

https://qmhistoryoftea.wordpress.com/2017/05/11/milk-in-first-a-miffy-question/

[pluto-art]

Syncytium - Chapter 1

Title: Syncytium Words: 3,311 Rating: T Summary: Teacher AU. Takes place in a fictional universe in which Professor Ronald Pinkus and Dr. Brian T. Globetrotter (played by Pinky and Brain, respectively) are college professors at an esteemed school for mice that focuses on science and the arts. Mainly told from Brain's point of view; sometimes from Pinky's. He's too egotistical for his own good. Pinky is too happy-go-lucky for his own good. The two clash. High jinks ensue. Dr. Globetrotter gets more than he bargained for. Way more than he bargained for...

Fan fiction link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13712482/1/Syncytium

This was 100% inspired by the drawings I did of Brain and Pinky as professors. It’s planned to be a multi-chapter story, and I already have the major points of the entire story outlined. Here be chapter one. Enjoy.

Syncytium - n. a single cell or cytoplasmic mass containing several nuclei, formed by fusion of cells or by division of nuclei.

\/\/\/\/\/\/

January 17, 1994 - 4:35 AM

Darkness.

All around them was dark, it's impenetrable cloak cut only by the crimson beat of the emergency lights.

No one could see them. No one could hear them. No one even knew they were there. But if they could see them, by way of those steady emergency flashes, they'd make out an aging mouse struggling to carry his blue-eyed comrade to safety, light reflecting off his broken glasses. And if they could hear them, all they'd pick up, aside from a distant alarm, would be a heavy, breathless panting.

Brian paused in his efforts to set down the taller, much lankier mouse on the concrete below, an arm coming 'round to support his friend's head. Heavy lids threatened to close their curtains on a pair of periwinkle eyes, their owner barely managing to stay awake.

"Pinky... Pinky, wake up!"

Nothing.

"Pinky!"

He tapped his cheek sharply.

Slowly, surely, the other mouse awakened.

"Brain...?"

"Yes, Pinky. I'm here. I'm here."

"Brain...," Pinky whispered, a paw coming up to grasp his arm tightly before his head fell back into Brain's palm.

"It's all right," cooed Brian. "It's all right, Pinky. I've got you. Shhh. Shhh. I've got you. Shhhhhh shhh shhh shhh..."

\/\/\/\/\/\/

September 10th, 1993 - 7:30 AM

Darkness.

"Sh sh sh! Quiet! Everyone calm down! Quiet!"

A pencil sharpened. A ruler placed just so on a dated, mahogany table. Half-moon violet glasses were pushed square up against a pair of pink, deadpan eyes by a delicate, nail-bitten finger.

"Good evening, class," droned Dr. Brian T. Globetrotter. "Today we shall be delving into the fascinating subject of cellular mitosis..."

Sunlight, warm and bright and quite the opposite of the teacher it poured the morning's blessing onto, shone through the dark, wooden blinds of the university classroom, the better to illuminate the scene. Rows and rows of mahogany benches, arranged in a stadium format, and each with a polished table set in front of it, could barely be seen thanks to the sheer number of students adorning every bit of space available. It wasn't cramped, per say, but it was filled. Not a seat was left, and not for reason of enthusiasm. The countenance of those in attendance told all: no one was here because they wanted to be, but because they needed to be. Required classes were always the least interesting, and the occasional passed note or whispered joke barely managed to keep the atmosphere animated, provided one was even able to communicate such messages without getting caught. It was common knowledge that this particular professor had no room for flippancy. Detentions were a standard affair. Not being spoken to or called upon was considered a kindness.

Said teacher continued his sunrise spiel, seemingly oblivious to the complete lack of interest permeating the room as he droned on and on about the fascinating life of the cell.

Fascinating, indeed. If he at all harbored any excitement about the subject his profile certainly failed to project it, his demure expression reflected on the faces of practically every student in the room. Only one outlier remained: a golden-furred girl mouse, glasses a little askew, cheek resting against her paw as she sighed dreamily. An equally amber-tinted mouse beside her rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"The intricacies of such a seemingly primitive topic are much more complex and absorbing than might first be assumed, and although I don't expect any of you to give a Heterocephalus Glaber's crotch about an ounce of it, we are henceforth going to engage in the undoubtedly invaluable study regardless."

Somewhere in the back, a student scribbled "Heterocephalus Glaber's crotch" on a page of his journal labeled "The Globular List of Insults", sniggering to his freckled companion.

"Please turn your attention to page seventy-five of your textbooks. We will begin with the genesis of the process, in which a single cell divides into..."

But whatever that cell was going to divide into had to be put on hold, for at that moment the classroom door flung open to reveal a completely new fascination entirely.

"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Judson!" blurted out the newcomer, one foot in the door and the other still sticking outside the classroom, a loaded box of paraphernalia nestled precariously in his arms. "I'll never forget this! I promise to pay you back with a whoooooole bouquet of flowers! Nya-ha-ha-ha!"

In he tumbled, paraphernalia and all, right onto Brian T. Globetrotter's desk, knocking an ink pen, two calculators, and his name sign off the table in the process.

"Whoops! Eheh. Sorry! I'll get that for you!" offered the mouse, hastening to clean up his mess, albeit rather haphazardly.

"Wha-... What are you doing here?! I am in the middle of a very important session!" growled Globetrotter.

"Oh, yes, and I'm sure it's a very lovely session, too! But... if you don't mind my asking...," and he got right up to the other's ear and whispered: "Isn't this, ummm, my room?"

"Wha-? Puh... It most certainly is not! This is my classroom and you're intruding!" Globetrotter spluttered, poking a finger into the newcomer's chest for greater emphasis.

Three rows up, a student typed furiously on his phone: New teacher about to get ROASTED by Mr. B.

"Well, how do you figure that one?" the other mouse questioned.

"Maybe you should read the fine print?!"

And with the starkest finality he could muster, he picked up his name sign and slammed it down in front of the other mouse, turning it so that the name BRIAN T. GLOBETROTTER on the front flashed out proud as anything. The new teacher didn't seem at all perturbed by such harsh behavior. Indeed, he put his face right up to the sign, tipped down his own pair of half-moon glasses, and carefully read each word, muttering them to himself softly.

"Oh! Well, that's different then, isn't it?" he declared, straightening up to smile brightly at his fellow colleague. "But, umm, you might want to change the name there, don't you think? I mean, it says "globe trotter", but I don't see you trotting around any globes. No. Not at all. More like globe sitter. Ha-ha-ha!"

Globetrotter stared at the newcomer, mouth agape. It was all he could do at the moment, taken aback by the sheer audacity of this... figure and the pure chaos he had caused. Half the room was already in hysterics, for his buck-toothed make and slight slur, coupled with a lightly pronounced Cockney accent, made his proclamation of "sitter" sound like a different word entirely.

Everything about this mouse was... off. Compared to Globetrotter he was exceptionally tall and lanky, all the more exacerbated by the fact that Brian was quite a short mouse to begin with; he had to crane his neck to look up at him. His laugh was prominent, and his eyes were an astonishing robin's egg blue. Never in his lifetime had Globetrotter ever seen a mouse with eyes that color; he hazarded to guess they were contacts. He wore a lab coat, but only out of necessity, it seemed, for it clashed with the rest of his outfit: a pink polo-style shirt with some band's logo slapped on the front, striped corduroy pants that sported every color of the rainbow, and what looked to be black and white bowling shoes. It was as if a Goofy cartoon had vomited all over him. The heavy cardboard box he'd unceremoniously deposited on Globetrotter's table seemed to carry all assortment of bits and bobs - a globe, several petri dishes, a bag of chips, a baseball cap, some notepads and pens, a small keyboard, a roll of Gouda, some tape, a framed photograph, a book on Regis Philbin, two VHS tapes of The Honeymooners, and not one... but three Bunsen Burners, as if he had packed them in a feeble attempt to complete the look of someone who was supposedly intelligent. Every eye in the room had turned towards him as he entered, and every eye had stayed on him since. Golden-haired girl had actually dropped her pencil, grabbed her brother by the shirt sleeve, and clutched at her heart, a light whisper of, "Oh my gosh, he's hot...," fluttering past her lips. Her brother facepalmed. To complete the effect, he carried under his arm a pad hosting a number of rather childish stickers, which Globetrotter grabbed from him.

"Shut up!" he snapped at his students, who were still chuckling. They all quieted down at once. "Dr. Ronald Pinkus, Professor of Trozology," Globetrotter read aloud, disgust painting every syllable. "What in the bloody hell is 'Trozology'?"

"Oh, well, it's very simple, really. It's-," Ronald began, but at that moment, a wee mouse popped in, her eyes nearly covered by a pudgy blue tam o' shanter.

"Excuse me? Mr. Pinkus?" she squeaked, thick Scottish accent nearly muffled by the gray scarf swathed about her.

"Please, call me Pinky!" Ronald squeaked back.

The girl smiled and giggled.

"Pinky. Mrs. Judson told me to tell you that you're actually in two ten, not three nineteen."

"Hm? Ohhhhhh!" the one named Pinky exclaimed, peeking at the front of Globetrotter's classroom door. A giant number '319' was painted on its front. "That does explain things, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Now, would you kindly disencumber my desk and plant your quixotic accoutrements elsewhere?" Globetrotter fronted, already pushing Pinky's possessions towards him, and would have thrust it clear off the desk had it not been for Pinky's quick reflexes. He grabbed his loaded box, that ridiculous grin still plastered on his face.

"Thank you, Mr. Brain! And thank you, Ms... errrr...?"

"Flaversham. Olivia Flaversham," piped the girl, beaming from head to toe.

"Thank you, Olivia!"

And he waved at her, as best he could anyway, nearly losing the box as Olivia waved back and skipped off. Shifting his grip so as to take better hold of his possessions, Pinky turned to Globetrotter, panting a little.

"Oh, I'm so sorry for barging in on your class, Mr. Brain. It won't happen again!"

"It's Brian. And see to it that you don't," retorted Globetrotter, flicking stray dust off his precious desk. "You may leave at your earliest convenience, which I hope will be immediately."

"Right-o, Brain!" Pinky saluted, and with that... he trotted off, slipping a little under the weight of the box, and doing his best to close the door behind him with his long, pink tail.

For five whole seconds Globetrotter stared at the closed door, as if attempting to retrieve what little bearings he had left. Despite the poisonous nature of their teacher, many of the students couldn't help but exchange excited mutters, babbling in haste about what had just transpired. Already, Globetrotter, with his exceptional hearing, could catch such questions as, "Did you see how many burners he had?", "Do you think he's single?", and, worst of all, "Is his class full?".

In a rare move, no one was punished for such comments. If anything, for the rest of the class, Globetrotter aimed to be a bit more... amiable than usual, which only fueled the chatter. The session was a long one - three hours, to be exact - and it was with great relief that the bell rang, for if there was anything more "exciting" than cellular mitosis, it was gossip.

"Homework is due on the twenty-first. I want a count of three-thousand words at least and no exceptions!" Globetrotter rattled as the entire class practically flew out of the room in a flurry.

Many paired up with friends; some hitched up their bags and backpacks, running in haste to their next class. Three of the girls, two mice and a shrew, banded together, all a-flutter.

"Oh. My gosh. Did you see that guy? Ugh. My heart is still beating a mile a minute," one of them crooned. It was the golden-furred gal, whiskers shining as she licked her fingers and smoothed them out one-by-one.

"Gosh, Maisy, you're so superficial. One minute it's Globetrotter. Now it's this Pinky guy," mused a mouse to her left, a pair of goggles resting atop her blonde hair. "You need to pick a side."

"I am! I'm picking the cuter of the two," Maisy stated, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

"He looked like Pee-wee Herman walked into Dexter's Lab or something..."

"Dexter's Lab is more fun," voiced Tillie the shrew, who adjusted the tightness of the little cloth draped over her head. "What did Globetrotter mean by giving us only five pages of homework? Usually it's at least ten..."

"I have a theory for that," said the goggle-adorned mouse, biting her fingernails.

"Would you stop doing that?" Maisy bit, slapping at the other mouse's wrist playfully. "It's so gross."

"What? They get gnarly. You know I don't wear gloves when I work."

"You should."

Goggle-mouse sighed.

"Anyway, you wanna hear my theory?"

"I do," piped the shrew.

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead," droned Maisy, not at all enthused.

"Okay. So... my theory is that he's jealous. He doesn't want this Pinky guy to suddenly snatch up all his students, so he's trying to be extra nice to us to get us to stay."

Maisy snorted at this.

"As if we could leave. It's a required class."

"Yeah, but we could always drop it and take it next semester at a different time with a different teacher."

"But why would anybody go through the trouble of that?" said Tillie. "We'd all rather get it over with sooner than later."

"Exactly," "Goggles" said as they turned a corner, heading for the cafeteria. "Anyway, I'll see you guys later."

"Where are you going?" Maisy asked.

"It's Wednesday. I have Engineering on Wednesdays. Duh. Bye, guys!"

And off she went.

"Bye, Gadget!" Maisy waved, then said, under her breath, "She's so weird."

"Yeah, but we love her," Tillie said.

"Yeah, I know," smiled Maisy, as they walked into the cafeteria together.

Running past them went little tammie-headed girl. She practically flew past the throng of students milling in and trudging down the hallways, deftly weaving in and out of them like a snake in the grass. It was a wonder she didn't bump into anyone even once.

Down the maze of hallways she flew, finally stopping at a dividing lane to peer down a path at a familiar figure.

"Mr. Pinky!" she called out, desperately trying to catch her breath as she sprinted up to him.

Pinky smiled down at her, one paw resting on a handle on a door labeled 'Professor Ronald Pinkus, PhD Trozology, 210", his other arm still balancing the heavy box.

"I forgot to give you this!" Olivia panted, stretching out a sweaty hand to proffer him a little white note.

He took it, not without some difficulty, and tucked it into his box.

"Thank you, Olivia! Here..."

And he extracted from the box the bag of chips and handed it to her. She took it, puzzled.

"Tuppence for your trouble," he said, winking at her.

"Thank you, Sir! Good-bye!" Olivia waved, practically glowing as she ran back down the hallway, ripping open the bag and popping a chip in her mouth in the process.

Grinning sweetly, Dr. Ronald Pinkus opened the door and stepped inside.

It was dark, and it took a moment for him to find the light. When he finally flipped a switch, it revealed to him his new abode. It wasn't the most spacious area. In fact, as compared to Dr. Brain's (or... was it Brian's?) classroom this one was visibly a tad more... cramped. Only twenty seats lay stacked in a corner, their blue paint a little chipped and their legs a mite bent. They looked more like middle-school chairs than the nicer seats found throughout most of the school. The light was dim - perhaps a little too much so. He'd need to fix that. There was a fairly solid-looking desk, at least, as well as a small waste bin, some pencils, a large chalkboard behind the desk, and one of those roll-around televisions in another corner. By all accounts, this room was trash as compared to the rest of the university, but where anyone else would have turned their nose up at it... Pinky beamed.

Setting his box down upon the desk, he hung his lab attire up on a nearby coat hanger and inhaled, breathing in the smell of old glue, old chalk, and a very slight tinge of old bubblegum. The glue smell tickled his nose and he giggled. He rather liked that scent. It reminded him of something. Something sweet...

Quietly, he relieved the poor box of its contents, placing everything in the best places he figured they should go, and set the empty box down in a corner.

"There you go, old box. Sorry for all the trouble!" he apologized. The box said nothing.

He turned back to his desk, smiling at a job well done. The three Bunsen Burners stood proudly on one corner of the desk, looking very professional indeed. The notepads and pens looked quite nice on the desk, along with the roll of tape, and there was even a little shelf under the roll-away tv that he was able to put his Honeymooners tapes on! It was perfect. Well, almost.

From his lab coat, he pulled out a handkerchief, which he carried with him to an empty bathroom across the hall. Wetting it and wringing it out, he stepped back into his classroom, shut the door behind him, and carefully, gently, wiped down the picture frame, a smile kissing his lips as he did so. Four little figures beamed up at him: two older mice, himself as a child, and, curiously, a spool of thread, which he was hugging in the photo. Having cleaned the little glass and frame, Pinky brought it up to his face... and kissed it... before setting it back down on his desk, right there in front, where he could always look at it.

There was only one thing left to attend to: the note that Olivia had given him. He picked it up from the desk, unfolded it, and read:

Mr. Pinky,

My sincere apologies for directing you to the wrong classroom. I hope that old bat didn't give you too much trouble. Please, alert me if you need anything.

- Mrs. Judson

Pinky grinned, chuckling a little as he set the note back down on the table and stepped out from behind the desk.

He sighed happily and looked around the room, gaze glistening.

"I made it, Mum. I made it."

[slothgiirl]

shadowplay ch 4

You finally go grocery shopping after work on friday, grabbing plenty of bread and fruit and mostly yogurt that doubles as both breakfast and a snack and some beans while your at it. Nothing like homemade beans.

This part of adulthood was awful, not just working but actually having to come home and do things. You better understood why your mum and dad got annoyed when they got home and you still hadn't done the dishes.

You think of texting Alex this but think better of it. You weren't quite friends. So you send a text to Sam instead.

Her succinct reply is grow up babes.

You'd last seen her an hour ago during work and she'd gone to get drinks with Matt and Vy but you'd been an adult and gone to get groceries.

And then you get home and eat toast with jam and one of the apples you got. Hardly an actual meal.

Your phone buzzes. Alex <3 flashing on the lock screen. want 2 gt drinks. Which is so unAlex you immediately call him.  

"Who are you and what have you done to Alex," you joke and hope he picks up on it. Maybe he was right about calling being better after all. Not that you'd ever tell him that. He'd be unbearably smug.

"Love," he answers with a laugh, "just Zack here thinking he was being funneh. But the offer still stands if your up for it? I know works been busy." It was nice of him to give me an easy out. But staying in on a Friday night was terribly depressing.

"Where?"

You take the tube over to a more fashionable area of east london, over in Hackney. The bars themed like a seventies magazine interpretation of a living room, playing early Bowie.

Alex greets you with a kiss on your mouth, soft and lingering just enough that you feel off kilter, unable to hide the stiffness in your shoulders. Here where everyone can see.

And then your taking a seat and shaking Zack's hand. Alex ordering you a cranberry vodka. The same drink you'd been buying since you realized beer was gross. "Working on some stuff here in London," he shrugs.

"Still quite offended you didn't ask to stay at mine," Alex pouts, clearly on his way to drunk, hand resting on your tigh. You can't not be hyperaware of his touch, electric against your skin.

"I did think of you," Zack protests, "but Allison, my old roommate asked first and I said yes. Besides man you like dropped off the face of the earth. Holed up."

"I like to decompress," he states, sipping at his beer. "And this one here has me flying back."

You snort, "well you offer," you lie because you refuse to be a fake bitch. If this is all fake, then your going to be the fake version of yourself you teenage self would've been proud of. "And I'm not going to say no Al!"

Alex smiles boyishly charming, and really does anyone buy his cool guy act when he's so obviously a sweetheart. You can imagine him going out of his way to help an old lady carry her bags upstairs.

"Ahh," Zack laughs, "and he said he didn't want to bhover you," he finishes in a terrible cockney accent. Americans. "This is exactly why Miles and Matt didn't invite you on our little getaway we have coming up."

Suddenly alert, Alex goes, "what! What trip!"

Zack giggles. "Just a little boys trip. Breanna was going to go but she said it'd be too much testosterone for her to stomach alone."

"And I wasn't invited?"

"Guess you were too busy," Zack says smugly. Before turning to you, "Forgive me for texting you under false pretenses but it's Alex. Gotta get things out of him somehow."

"Really," you wonder out loud, "I've never had any trouble with that. He just rambles a bunch."

"Oi," Alex protests, looking faux betrayed at you, like a puppy when you refuse to give them more treats, "you going with them?"]

Zack nods. "I'm guessing you know about the bands?"

"I do," you reply, finishing your drink and feeling the drunk giddyness bubble up in you, Alex's hand on your tigh warm as he rubs circles into your skin. It had been brilliant of you to change into a mini skirt that had survived many a trips to the club. "Which one are you in?"

"The last shadow puppets though it's really Alex's and Miles' baby." You make a note to listen to some songs.

You turn to Alex, catching him staring at you with the dreaminess of the blissfully drunk, face flushed, "Have a favorite child?"

He shakes his head, "that's comparing apples to oranges darling."

"Least you could do," you tease him, exciting laughter out of him.

"You guys should both come though," Zack offers, "bet Breanna would come then and that would make Helders happy as fuck!"

"When's the trip," you ask, curious though by then this will be over. Maybe you and Alex can be amicable fake exes. You'd never managed to stay friends with any past lovers. But that was because a) you lived in different places and drifted apart and b) they were assholes though that was only really your last boyfriend.

"In two months. We've rented a cabin in Northern California. There's a lake. It looks sick."

You look at Alex and hope he's not too drunk to say something plausible, smiling in amusement as he taps in tune with the beat to the music playing. You would recognize Donna Summer anywhere.

"I don't know mate," Alex shrugs, looking over at you, his eyes meeting yours, trying to gauge your response, "probably can't get work off with this late of a notice?"

That wasn't true at all. And you had so many saved up vacation days apart from the mandatory ones. But it was nice that Alex had already found an excuse. "I'll have to see," you add, making sure to look adoringly at Alex, not a hard thing to do, it was much harder to keep a straight face, to keep from laughing when you felt so light and bubbly after a few drinks, his leg bumping into yours as he taps the beat playing, like you were heartbroken over the idea of not being able to go with him and his friends.

"Just let me or the boys know," Zack tells you both. "Breanna would probably love too come if she wasn't the only girl." Then orders a round and you all proceed to get comfortably drunk.

Zack telling you all about his touring misadventures and a memorable skinny dipping adventure where the band had forgotten where they'd hidden their clothes. Alex chiming in about his and Matt's adventure to procure weed "or something with a bit more of a kick," in the early days and spending one hundred dollars on bunk acid.

"Fooking wankers," he mutters.

"In college someone got some prerolled joints and a bunch of us were all psyched to go smoke it after school," you tell the boys, blushing at the memory of your dumb antics, "all nerdy kids who did not know how to roll a joint and we forgot to get a lighter."

"No fooking way love," Alex laughs in delight. "I would've rolled you the best joint."

You wrinkle your nose, "I prefer edibles if I'm being honest. Or shrooms. Did you see how microdosing blew up all of a sudden?"

Zack slaps the table, "and among moms of all people!"

"Mums be getting lit!"

You offer to go order the next round, two more beers and a cranberry vodka. Asking politely if there wasn't a strokes song that would fit into the theme.

The man behind the bar hands you the drinks and waves you off with, "drag queen works."

The song starts as you get back to the table, placing the drinks down.

"The strokes," Alex drunkenly proclaims, "what kind of witchcraft 'ave you done love?" He pulls you close against him before kissing you madly, tasting of beer and tobacco against your mouth, not a hit of pretending about it, as you stiffen in his arms in surprise before melting against his touch not even a second layer.

To your surprise, instead of feeling relief when he pulls away, singing along with Zack who also knows the words, it's a sharp yearning, the sudden prick of a needle in your finger. It's stupid. You're being stupid.

Alex would've never given you a second glance if it hadn't been for Arielle. And why would he when he went around dating girls like Arielle, models who were sweet on top of being insanely beautiful.  

And now you just want to go home.

Instead you laugh it off, "I just asked nicely Al. Works wonders."

Zack snorts, "their new stuff is so underrated."

"It is," Alex cries out.

"Oh my god you are drunk!"

"And happy! I'm so happy you came love! I wasn't sure you would."

"Only for you Alex." Which is true in more ways than one. You doubt you would have agreed to all this with just anyone. No. Alex was special. Enough charisma to charm the whole world.

He leans into kiss you again, with the same hunger as before and reluctantly you pull away, still unsure about that thrum of want running through your veins and what to do about it. Now was not the time to figure that out. "Time to go home," you suggest and hope Zack goes his own way. As funny as he's been, you need a cold shower and to remind Al he's not actually dating you.

Alex nods eagerly, sliding cash on the table and waving a hastily goodbye to Zack.

He flags a cab down for you both and gives the driver your address, his arms still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close to him. It's too much. He's just drunk. And you don't want to do anything stupid with him. Not with the lie. You'd much rather be good friends at the end of all this.

"Al," you protest, slipping out of his hold as he goes in to press another kiss to your lips, "no."

He looks like a kicked puppy, wide eyes and pouty lips, but doesn't make another move, gaze focused on you with an embarrassing amount of earnestness.

"You can't-," you start, "you can't have things both ways. And we agreed. There's lines."

With obvious reluctance he nods, "sorry love," he slurs, slumping in his seat, looking out the window of the cab.

"It's okay," you tell him, because who hasn't been drunk and made bad decisions, settling down next to him again. The heat of his body doing wonders to take the edge off.

It's just Alex.

You both come up into your flat.

"You sure it's alright," Alex slurs, wavering in the doorway looking as unsure as you feel, "I'll be fine at home."

"I'll sleep a lot better knowing your fine," you tell him, "come on rockstar," and drag him in. He's drunk. And you care about him too much to just let him go off on his own.

You both collapse into your bed, fourteen minutes past three in the morning. "I haven't been out so late in ages," you tell him. "My ex, Tom, he always said it was because I'm not fun." It had made you feel like shit but having just gotten your job, you had worked hectic hours and as the newbie you hadn't been in a position to ask for whatever schedule suited you best. And after a long day at work, going out was not something you wanted when you were home.

"You're loads of fun love," Alex whispers back, taking your hand in his, rubbing circles into the back of your hand with his thumb, "I always have a hell of a time when I'm with you. That's what matters. Not snorting a few rails of coke though that can be fun too."

"I've only ever done shrooms and that was in Amsterdam. In the tulip fields."

"Rockstar love. I've got you beat."

You roll your eyes, "what happened to not wanting to sound like a bloody twat?"

Alex laughs, sending heat down your spine. It makes you glad for the obscurity the dark lends, making you a mere outline when you feel like a burning star.

It doesn't take long for you to fall asleep once you lapse into comfortable silence.

Alex is gone by the time you wake up. A glass of water on your bedside table thoughtfully left by him.

[wooleeza]

Code: Realize High School AU. Victor Frankenstein is a transfer student from Switzerland, and Headmaster Saint Germain pairs him up with the school's star shooter, Abraham Van Helsing, who needs to gain credits for social service in order to qualify for a scholarship to university. They begin an awkward friendship, but it is not long before Van realises that his feelings go beyond platonic for his new friend who has brought light into his life. How will the oblivious Victor react?

Please note that this is a slash pairing of Van with Fran (i.e. M/M) and will have mature content at the end of this tale, so please only read if it is your cup of tea. No copyright infringements are intended and I make no money from this. I'm merely playing in the lovely sandbox these otome game characters have inspired. Please request permission if you would like to translate or repost this story on other platforms. Feedback is much appreciated! Thank you for your support!

Cover design by hikari011 ❤️ Thank you for the lovely art and ideas which made this story possible.

Code Realize AU - Chiaroscuro - Chapter 1: At Your Acquaintance 

Chapter Summary: Van meets Victor

It had begun to drizzle, and Abraham Van Helsing, aged 17, glanced up at the sky in irritation. Rainy weather meant inconveniences to his clay shooting practice later, and besides the added burden of cleaning and drying out his beloved handcrafted wooden shotgun, the humidity would make his glasses fog up. If the rain came down hard and fast, it would be hard to watch for hits and misses. More to protect his gear from the rain rather than himself, he unfolded the portable umbrella that he was carrying.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a tall and slender boy carrying a stack of books in his arms. He was hunched over the books, seemingly more concerned about protecting them instead of himself from the elements. His jacket, which looked at once both too large and too short on him, had been pulled forwards to shield his precious cargo.

Rolling his eyes, Van Helsing stepped forward and held out his deployed umbrella. “Here,” he said brusquely, and the other boy jumped probably a foot into the air before looking at him with a startled expression.

Large green eyes rimmed by long eyelashes stared at him past oversized, rimless, rain-speckled glasses, then shifted their gaze to the fabric case that he was carrying on his back. The boy shook his head frantically, sending his copper-brown hair into a fluffy, dishevelled cloud. “It’s a short walk back,” he said, his voice musical, soft and lilting. “Thank you!” Then he was off at a fast trot, slowing down shortly after as if to catch his breath, before disappearing around the corner.

“Hmmm.” Van Helsing stood there awkwardly with his proffered umbrella still extended outwards. The boy had an unusual accent and he wondered where he was from. Shrugging, he righted the umbrella back over himself, then continued on his way.

***

The rain escalated, and just as Van Helsing had predicted, the downpour made it hard to see his hits and misses, and his shotgun was now wet from the rain. He would have to wipe it down as much as he could and dry it out for at least a day, then polish the surface so that it would gleam again. It had been a gift from his late father to him, and he would keep it as well-maintained as he could.

“Nice shooting today, Abraham,” said Jimmy Aleister, the coach of the shooting club. “If you keep up this standard, you’ll be representing the district in no time.”

“Hmmm,” came the non-committal reply, and Aleister sighed. Abraham Van Helsing was his star performer in both pistol and shotgun, but his personality had always been rather prickly. The boy was antisocial to a fault, which reminded him…

“I want to put your name in for a regional competition,” he began carefully, “so I contacted your headmaster. He agreed with me that there is great potential for you, and that this could gain you a free ride to and through university, but there is one area you need to work on first.” He paused, wondering how to phrase the next part, but eventually settled for the direct approach, for it was the best way to deal with Abraham. “He said you need to fulfil the social service aspect first, so he told me to tell you to approach him after your lessons tomorrow.”

“Hmmm,” grunted his star gunner again, and Aleister fought the urge to throttle the stubbornness out of this brooding teenager. “Do consider it, Abraham. A free education stands before you if you do well there. It isn’t something that just anyone can get. You’ll lessen the burden on your family out there on the East End, and you know they gave up so much just so you could study in Central London instead.”

The blond boy was quiet as he began cleaning the drops of water off his shotgun. Finally, his reply came, soft and curt, but betraying the slight Cockney accent he was always embarrassed about nonetheless. “I’ll think about it.”

***

The next day, Van Helsing stood outside the door of his headmaster’s office after he was done with lessons for the day, and upon knocking, was bidden to enter. He was surprised to see the copper-haired boy from the previous day already seated inside. The latter’s jade-green eyes also widened upon his entry.

“Ah, Abraham! You arrived at just the right time. Are you here to talk to me about the social service fulfilment?” Headmaster Saint-Germain said pleasantly. The headmaster was a well-spoken individual, more compelling than strict, and he was not an easy man to handle, so nobody dared to cross him when they could help it. Van Helsing generally tried to fly beneath his radar, but his reputation as the school’s star shooter preceded him, so encounters were inevitable. He nodded wordlessly – the Headmaster knew his more reticent ways.

Saint-Germain gestured to the empty seat beside the copper-haired boy, and Van Helsing took it. “This is Victor Frankenstein,” he said, indicating the former. “He is a transfer student from Switzerland, and he will be with us at least until the end of this year. Victor, this is Abraham Van Helsing. He’s one of our stars on our shooting team.”

Now that the pleasantries were out of the way, Saint-Germain could finally get down to his real objective for summoning the two of them.

“Abraham, your coach Jimmy contacted me about the possibility of signing you up for the regionals. It will be a great step forward for you, and a scholarship is all but guaranteed if you do well. Even qualifying for it alone can boost your shooting standing, but if you want that scholarship, there is a criterion which you have failed to meet so far where social service is concerned,” he said. “You must have at least 40 hours of social service rendered each year, and according to my records, you seem to have sorely neglected this aspect in favour of your training. You only have 3 hours of that so far, and there are only two months left to the regionals.”

He flicked his intense blue gaze over to Frankenstein, who was fiddling nervously with his hands in the other chair and darting anxious glances at the blond youth beside him. “And that’s where Victor comes in. Our young friend here joined us just this Monday, and he needs help in catching up with our curriculum. He’s got the knowledge, mind you, but he’s facing some issues because all of our subjects are not in his native language. In particular, he’s having difficulties with the English assignment he’s received from Mr Lupin.” The blue eyes turned back to Van Helsing. “It will be a win-win situation if you can tutor him, Abraham. I’ll count the hours towards your social service requirement, and Victor here will receive the support he’ll need to integrate into our system. What do you think?”

Van Helsing sat there, absorbing the barrage of information that had been launched at him. He hadn’t been keen on social service to begin with, because it involved interacting with people and that was the least of his strengths – he didn’t like either of his last experiences at the elderly home or the orphanage because the residents had mocked his Cockney accent, and so he had just given up. He had no idea what Frankenstein would be like, but the boy had been nothing but pleasant so far and given that it was just one person, he could always distance himself from him after the stint was over if it turned out that they did not get along. He could tolerate his presence for a while at least. “I’m fine if he is,” he answered.

Saint-Germain smiled and turned back to Frankenstein. “And you?” he asked benevolently, receiving a tentative nod in return. He clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “Well, it’s settled then. Why don’t the two of you head on out to compare your schedules? I’m sure Victor will be available most afternoons since he has yet to join any of our clubs or activities. I’m certain that you can both work something out.”

“Thank you, Mr. Saint-Germain,” said Victor as he rose from his seat and bowed. As for Van Helsing, he was more than glad to be out of the headmaster’s office, so he gave a terse bow before beating a hasty retreat. The headmaster watched them go with a benign smile curving his lips. Abraham Van Helsing, talented as he was, had been too much of a loner ever since he entered his school, and most of his peers were terrified of his taciturn ways. A non-judgmental stranger as sweet-natured as Victor Frankenstein might just be the first real friend that he would finally make.

Continue reading the other chapters on: Wattpad - https://my.w.tt/dozBfLjTZ4  Archive of Our Own - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23127223/chapters/55339897

[believingbrook]

taakitz hanahaki, 1

“Idiots, the lot of them,” Taako snorts. Even though he and Kravitz are seated next to each other in front of a booth, both nursing margaritas (at Merle’s behest, and for his kind offer to pay for them), his legs are kicked up over Kravitz’s lap as he surveys the scene. A hearty slap from Magnus’s friend Carey rouses him, if only for just long enough to whine about how proud he is and how his little boy is all grown up now before passing out on his wife’s shoulder.

“They’re proud.” Kravitz takes a sip of his drink, a small smile creeping over his face as he pointedly does not look at Taako. “So are you, I think.”

Taako splutters. “I am not! I’m not — no, fuck that, I don’t give a shit about the kiddo.”

“That’s why you give him free lessons, then.”

Taako gives a haughty sniff, leaning back against the cushioned seat. “Money ain’t even a thing. Our old man’s fuckin’ rich or something, and ever since he so generously stole us off the streets we haven’t worried about — about, uh, funds and all that.”

“Yet you ask me to haggle down the price every single time we go shopping.”

“No, that’s different,” Taako says, kicking his legs higher on Kravitz’s lap. “That’s ‘cause the bullshit we find is all, uh, that’s fuckin’ marked up like hell and that’s just — it’s an injustice, you know? A slight against our Lady Liberty with her, fuckin’, torch and everything. You shouldn’t have to kick out a hundred dollars for a pair of boots, right? Unless they’ve touched, I dunno, the gross and smelly feet of Billy Armstrong or something.”

“But if money isn’t a concern for you, you could haggle it down yourself. What are the repercussions of another fifty dollars? It’s a good learning experience!”

“‘Cause I don’t wanna ask the old geezer for fifty extra bucks,” Taako sniffs, then brandishes his drink at Kravitz. “‘Sides, when am I ever gonna go shopping not with you? Lup and Barry go to the, fuckin’, Gap to get their clothes, and Magnus and Jules wouldn’t know a department store if it hit ‘em over their head and let’s be honest here, where is Merle gonna find his floral shirts in the middle of a Macy’s? He isn’t, that’s where.”

“You’re taking advantage of my silver tongue,” Kravitz grins.

“I — okay, yes.” Taako takes a long swig of his drink. “Maybe a little.”

“Maybe next time I should let you go on your own,” Kravitz teases. “See how you like trying to stack up against a Nordstrom’s representative in their ugly uniforms.”

“Absolutely not, I refuse to be seen in public shopping at Nordstroms without someone in at least a suit. Besides, their employees need to shape up and work somewhere else, because bright orange? Really? I wanna know what chump thought a bright orange uniform was a good idea and punch them in the face. Directly in the nose.”

“You know, you could wear the suit. I think you’d look good in one.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, really!”

Taako glares at him. “Perish the thought, bone boy, the day you catch Taako in something as boring as a suit is the day Lup’s finally snapped and burned my Maxi collection, which is to say the day both of us just beef it.”

“Oh, so you think my fashion taste is boring?” Kravitz gripes, faux-wounded, hand over his heart and everything. “Gosh, how could I ever recover from such a grievous insult?”

“Gosh,” Taako snorts. “I can’t believe you say shit like — like gosh and goodness.”

Kravitz shrugs, dropping the wounded front in favor of a grin. “It’s better than my accents, at least.”

Taako chokes on his drink, waving his hand in the air. “Do not even speak of those,” he says, laughing. “Those were awful, you were, what, twelve? Thinkin’ you could do an Australian accent!”

“Hey, my accents weren’t too bad! My Cockney was pretty good.”

“Your Cockney was the absolute worst of the lot,” Taako groans, as Kravitz knew he would. “We were in — fuckin’, middle school, and you were walkin’ around in a tiny tailored suit like pip pip cheerio in the most abominable accent. You’re — you know, you’re real lucky I decided to hang out with you, Kravitz. Got you back on the straight and narrow.”

Kravitz hums. “I think you butchered that first part, my man,” he says, dipping back into his fake accent.

Taako cuffs his ear. “One, that was an awful joke and you should be ashamed. Two, I refuse to be seen with you in public doing accents, I refuse. You do that again and I’m leaving, Taako is out.”

“Oh, are you really?” Kravitz drawls. “Now I think it’d be rather rude for you to just dip on me like that, dearest. Who do you expect to cover your drink?”

“Dearest,” Taako mimics, rolling his eyes behind his glass. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet here you are,” Kravitz says, “ten years later.”

“It’s for the bargains. I wouldn’t get those discounts if I didn’t drag you with me.”

“I’m being used for my financial prowess,” Kravitz says mournfully. “You wound me, Taako Taaco. And here I was, thinking we were friends.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Taako slumps down farther in his seat, heels kicking against Kravitz’s thighs. “I thought we were too, and then you got on stage for, fuckin’ — who were you, Grant-someone-or-other, way back in middle school, and you did that awful accent, who was that?”

“Graintaire,” Kravitz supplies. He’d done an awful French accent. So bad that Taako threatened to Sharpie a mustache on his face and Lup had actually done it. “Les Miserables, Taako. We’ve only seen that movie about a hundred times.”

“It’s just jabber-jabber-revolution-thrust-die,” Taako says. “And that one guy spitting up petals, like, come on. The last time we watched I counted the number — the number of times they, uh, compared his little rose petals to the color of blood, and you know what I got?”

Thirty-seven, Kravitz thinks, right before Taako reports the same number. “Which is to say just, too many.”

“It was a sad scene, Taako.”

“Oh, sure, if you’re a hopeless romantic,” Taako snorts.

“You cried the first time we watched it.”

“I was fourteen!”

“And bawling like a child half your age,” Kravitz grins.

Taako takes a sip. “That was back when I thought something like he had could ever happen to me.”

Though Kravitz is used to his seemingly-random bursts of crippling honesty, this one still takes him off-guard. He knows better than to dig deeper, he knows better than to appear pitying, or react at all, really; but he can’t help himself from asking, “You don’t think you’ll find love eventually?”

“Yeah, perish the thought, I know,” Taako says, averting his gaze. He elbows Kravitz in the shoulder. “‘Specially for you, you, like — bleed romance novels and whatever. Trashy dime-a-dozen novels, I can’t believe you.”

“They were a dime back in the nineteenth century, Taako, they’re hardly so cheap now.”

“Which just means they’re an actual — an actual investment, which also means you should be ashamed. But um, Lup — she found Barry, and Mags has Jules, and once Merle wrapped up the whole thing with Dav’s dandelions they, uh...they put a ring on that and everything, and I figure there’s only so much love in the universe, y’know?” Taako takes a steady sip of his drink. His hands don’t even shake. Kravitz envies him, for a moment; that his hands don’t tremble, and don’t give him away.

Kravitz folds his own carefully beneath the table. “And even if that means ol’ Taako doesn’t get his slice of the apple pie, or cherry, or whatever flavor that pie is, then that’s fine by me. There are people who, uh, deserve it more, so.” Another sip. “I’m glad the universe is investing, fuckin’, flour and yeast and apple preserves or whatever in them.”

“I think you deserve it,” Kravitz says. He wants to reach for Taako’s hand, wants to fold those slim, cooking-calloused fingers in his own. He does not. “I don’t think there’s a finite amount of love, Taako. I think everyone loves and is loved in turn, and the lucky ones — well, for the lucky ones, it goes both ways.”

Taako watches him for a long, long time. Panic mounts in his throat — did he give himself away? Did he say too much? He’s at the point of spilling red wine all over his pants and that would be inconvenient, he just pressed these slacks yesterday, until Taako looks away. “Figures,” he snorts derisively. “You want a happy ending for everyone.”

“To the birthday boy!” Julia roars, so loudly that the whole bar turns and looks at her.

“It’s not my birthday, ma’am,” Angus says politely from his seat between her and her husband. At some point, when Kravitz wasn’t watching, he’d wedged himself between his adoptive parents. “I’m graduating tomorrow.”

“To the graduating birthday boy!”Julia says, equally as enthusiastic, and Angus rolls his eyes at the same time Kravitz does, because she knows it’s not Angus’s birthday but, at the point before weepy-drunkenness, this is her sense of humor. To both of their chagrin.

“To Angus,” Kravitz grins.

“To my magic boy,” Taako says, the picture of disgruntled complacency, and clicks his glass to Kravitz’s.

“So I am your magic boy!” a voice pipes from beneath their table. Or at least, Kravitz thinks it’s beneath their table until he looks over and catches two eyes peeping up at them. “You’re a dirty liar, sir!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You certainly did!”

“Nothing you can prove in court, bubbeleh,” Taako says, and ruffles Angus’s hair. “You trip on the stage and I’m disowning you.”

“You’re not my legal guardian, sir. There’s nothing for you to disown.”

Taako places a hand on his chest. “As your uncle I am deeply wounded.”

“You’re full of horseshit, sir. Hello, Mr. Kravitz.”

“Hello, Angus,” Kravitz says. “Enjoying the celebration?”

“Very much so! Except I know it’s not a celebration because this is a bar and bars are for people over 21 years old, which I am not. Also I found the receipt for my cake in the trash can because Magnus forgot to take it out so I know there’s a real party for little boys tomorrow. Probably at your house.” Angus hops up on the seat next to him and peers at his drink. “Merle’s paying for those, isn’t he?”

“You’re an awful little boy, Agnes.”

“I learned from the best, sir.”

“Do at least act surprised,” Kravitz asks. “Magnus and Julia are very excited. They tell us you’ve never had a surprise birthday party before.”

“I think here is where I should say that that’s only because I’m too smart for people to pull surprises on me, but we both know that’s not true.” Kravitz’s heart twinges sympathetically — Angus’s grandfather could kindly be called distant, and the orphanage was understaffed at the best of times. “Anyway, I’m really looking forward to it! I think Julia is getting me a recording device that I can wear in my ear for whenever I need to be a sneaky little boy, and I’m pretty sure Magnus is getting me a duck.”

“Who knows, bubbeleh, this could be the year he gets you something else.”

“Oh no, it’s fine, I love them. I’ll add it to my collection. He gave my last one a little spyglass to look like me.” Angus pats Kravitz’s shoulder and hops down from the bench. “I’ll see you both tomorrow, I think. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Kravitz!”

“What about me?” Taako calls after Angus’s retreating back, then slumps back on the bench, looking distinctly miffed. Kravitz doesn’t bother muffling his chuckles in his sleeve.

“You’ve been thoroughly outwitted by a twelve year old boy.”

“You mean we have,” Taako snarks. “Joint planning effort, my dude.”

“You just sniped at Magnus and Jules until they let you cater.”

“I will not have my magic boy eating third-rate catering for his graduation party,” Taako sniffs. “That’s a disgrace to the Taako name.”

“They’re professionals, Taako. You’re not out of culinary school yet.”

“Yet I could cook any one of their asses under the table.”

Kravitz laughs, then clears his throat as it begins to itch. “I’m still waiting to see you cook off with Gordon Ramsay, you know.”

“Oh?” Taako cocks an eyebrow at him. “Who would your money be on, then?”

“If I didn’t care about winning? You.”

Taako yelps indignantly at him, sending him into further fits of laughter that break into coughs. The coughs don’t stop, and don’t stop, and his throat begins to prickle, tracing a line of embers up his throat.

He stumbles out from the table, waving off Taako’s worried inquiries, and hurries to the bathroom, one hand stuffed over his mouth. Gods, these fits always pick the least convenient times — thankfully he’s not often with Taako for one of these, but when he is, he always has to think on his feet to explain why he’s taking off in such a hurry. He’d never appreciated improv classes more than that moment in junior year when he’d sprinted out of a chemistry test to retch petals into his palm.

He locks himself in a stall and doubles over, stomach cramping. His frame shakes with coughs, as he struggles to tear a path through the bristling flowers rooted in his windpipe.

A lull, a thin opening and he slumps against the wall of the stall, spent. He tries to swallow and convulses, retching.

“Kravitz?”

Kravitz tries to warn him away and and regrets it immediately, on his knees as petals spill from his mouth, tickling along the top of his mouth and cutting at his lips. He clamps both hands over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound of his own choking and failing. He’s shaking already, and distantly fear grips him; it’s never been this bad before, he can count the petals in the dozens when in the beginning there was only one, a single fluttering petal he could catch in his hand before anyone saw, but this —

Footsteps approach his stall. “Krav, you okay?”

Panic lurches sharp in his stomach. “Fine — ” he gasps, fighting for air. “‘m fine — pneumonia — ”

“Again?” Taako asks, a touch of sympathy in his voice. Ten years ago Kravitz wouldn’t have recognized it but he does now, the sympathetic pain in his voice. He’d thought Taako unfeeling, back in junior high. “Jeez, Krav, your immune system’s really fucking you over, it’s been, what, three years now?”

“Just about,” he says, words catching painfully in his throat.

“Need anything?”

“Water,” he rasps, because he will, soon.

“Okay. Be right back.”

The door opens, and shuts, and Kravitz inhales carefully. When the petals stay stagnant, no tickling itch in his windpipe, he sits back against the stall, eyes fluttering closed. He needs to gather this up, all the petals, in the pocket he sewed just for this, but first he just — he needs a moment. His head is spinning and his heartbeat is pounding in his ears, but he narrows his focus to the slow drag of breath in his throat — in and out, in and out, a tempo of his own making, unravelled by his own heart.

He scrubs his mouth with the back of one shaking hand, sighs when it comes away streaked thinly with blood. He’s too drained for proper swearing.

Kravitz gathers the petals as best he can, careful not to miss any — doubtless the bar wouldn’t appreciate stumbling upon an explosion of petals — and tucks them in the inside pocket of his jacket just as the bathroom door opens again.

“Still in here?”

“Yeah,” Kravitz says and, patting his pocket to ensure the petals are securely out of sight, steps from the stall.

“You look like hell,” Taako says, and hands him a cup of water. “Shouldn’t you be, I dunno, takin’ meds for that or something?”

“Already am.” Kravitz knocks it all back in one go, eyes slipping shut at the relief in his throat. “Thanks.”

Taako takes the cup back, looking not quite at Kravitz’s eyes but down, at his lips. Kravitz has dreamed about this, granted, but under much different circumstances. “You’re shaking,” he says.

“Vomiting blood isn’t easy, you know,” Kravitz grins wryly. He tries to take a step forward and sways, head spinning. He braces himself on the sink. “Sorry, just give me a second — ”

“Here.” Taako slips an arm beneath his shoulder and tugs Kravitz close to him. “And don’t apologize for that, you idiot.”

The two of them slide back into their seats, their margaritas untouched where they were sitting. Kravitz sinks back into the cushions gratefully, letting his head fall back against the seat.

For a few moments there’s blissful silence. When Kravitz opens his eyes again he sees Taako watching him, a near-invisible note of concern in his gaze.

“Taako, I’m fine.”

Taako snorts, and the tension between them snaps. “Like hell you are.” He slides Kravitz’s drink closer to him. “You wanna go home?”

“No,” Kravitz says truthfully. “I can manage at least another hour, I think.”

Taako studies him for a beat, then shakes his head. “Lightweight. You always did knock out early.”

“Did not!”

“You absolutely did too, my man, do not give me that horseshit. You went to bed every night at eleven in freshman year.”

Kravitz pouts. “I was a freshman.”

“Yeah, but you were still you,” Taako says, and prods his chest. “Nerd.”

Maybe in a different world he’d take Taako’s hand, kiss the back of it. It’d make Taako laugh and splutter and turn him red all the way up to the tips of his ears.

Instead, here, in this world, Kravitz lets Taako’s finger fall from his chest — right above his heartbeat — without a word. And instead of a hundred other things, a would you like to get dinner with me tomorrow? or what time will you be home? or simply, I love you, Kravitz smiles and says, “Guilty as charged.”

They pass the next hour easily. It’s so easy to talk to Taako, and always has been, for Kravitz. The right questions and sympathy are rewarded with startlingly honest answers. Small things, like how his aunt’s roast turkey takes five hours to prepare and he’d made it for Lup, the day before her wedding, and complained to Kravitz the whole time because there was nothing for him to but sit and turn the roast; but big things too, like how neither Taako nor Lup can sleep in the dark, how they always curl back-to-back while napping, like how his gap teeth shine when he smiles and despite appearances he would do anything for the small family he’s crafted right in the heart of the city.

A few minutes before one he calls an Uber, and Taako walks him out into the brisk autumn evening. Taako’s face is the last he sees as he pulls away from the bar.

[richie-txzier]

Shut The Fuck Up, Eileen

Request:  Do you need a prompt?))) Soulmate AU: you can hear the thoughts of your soulmate! Fluff Reddie?

Requester: Anon

Pairing(s): Eddie Kaspbrak x Richie Tozier, Stan Uris x Bill Denbrough

Word count: 2060

Warning: None

Author: Admin Tozier

Note: I added to the AU slightly so that when you kiss your soulmate you stop hearing their thoughts

“Alright, who THE FUCK HAS COME ON EILEEN STUCK IN THEIR HEAD AT 3 FUCKING AM?”

Bill loves his friends. He really does. He believes each one of the six people in his friendship group brought something - a new perspective into their otherwise monotonous, sickeningly-suburban lives. Mike brings the logical aspect, while Ben balances this with emotional opinions; Stan brings cynicism, while Bill brings optimism; Beverly brings calm, while Eddie… Yeah, Eddie brings unadulterated rage that, if they all weren’t so used to it, would make have them all shaking their boots, because, despite his short stature and smooth young complexion, this boy had a dirty mouth and a glare to match.

Piled on the small pic-nic bench during their lunch break, the six Losers watched as Eddie paced in front of them, eyes blazing and hands flailing wildly as he emphasised his points with crude gestures towards the sky as if his soulmate would be able to see them somehow. He twisted towards them with a disbelieving and manic expression, “All I wanted to do was take a fucking piss and this goddamn bastard just had to be thinking, admittedly, a great song, but definitely not one appropriate for the time of night! But the worst thing was they weren’t even the right lyrics! THEY WEREN’T EVEN THE RIGHT LYRICS, GUYS!”

Eddie collapsed on the seat between Beverly and Mike, breathing heavily and tugging his jumper sleeves over his hands to rub at his eyes. Beverly smiled softly and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to hug him into her side, plucked the lollipop out her mouth, and remarked, “At least it’s a good song this time.“ 

They all shuddered as they remembered the expression Eddie held after he had to go all day with Final Countdown pounding in his mind. It definitely made Bill grateful for the comparable calmer mood Eddie was in this time; but, with a tug in his heart, he realised it may be because of how exhausted Eddie was. He had his head rested on Beverly’s shoulder as if he couldn’t hold it up himself, dark bruises under his drooping eyes and just an overall slouched demeanour so unlike the usual pristine boy held.

He looked fucking shattered. 

Bill felt Stan reach over to steal a couple of Bill’s M&M’s, and, with his signature lip curl, snorted, "Maybe he thinks he’s a goddamn DJ." 

Mike shook his head, stroking Eddie’s hair softly and they all watched with a similar stinging feeling how he tilted into his touch with closed eyes, a yawn roaring from his mouth, "He’s an asshole, that’s who he is." 

"And it was so fucking LOUD as well. Like, Jesus, how can someone think loudly?” Eddie whined into Beverly’s shoulder, and she rubbed his back, freezing for a moment as she completely took in what he had said. 

“Wait it was loud?” She repeated. Eddie nodded. 

“Well, that’s great!” Ben erupted from across from her, smiling brightly through his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, “That means they’re close!" 

"They better not get too fucking close or I might just ‘accidently’ kill them,” Eddie grumbled as he picked his head up to start massaging his temples. Mike patted his head, “It’ll be all over soon, Eddie. You’ll find ‘em.”

Eddie dropped his face in his hands with a groan. 

Eddie really wanted to meet his soulmate. He really did. The prospect of meeting the person the universe had literally said is the most compatible and wonderful person for you was a glorious idea if it ever happened. But right now, he would gladly give up his soulmate if it meant them shutting up for five fucking seconds. He honestly didn’t know if this person ever stopped thinking; thoughts when he was brushing his teeth in the morning, thoughts all throughout the day when he’s trying to concentrate on work, thoughts while he’s eating dinner, thoughts when he brushes his teeth before bed, just thoughts all day, every day, non stop.

Eddie wondered if anyone had gone insane from too many soulmate thoughts. Maybe he would be the first.

That would be cool, I bet I’d get a reward as I was shipped off the loony bin-

What if rocks are actually soft but just tense up when we touch them? 

Oh fucking hell here we go

If I were in a video game I wonder what kind of stats I’d have? 

Fucking 0 intelligence, I can tell you that, Jesus Christ

I wish I cried macaroni because I would get free macaroni and that would make me so happy that I would cry from happiness and make more macaroni

...what the actual fuck?!

Eddie's pen went straight through his English work and he cursed under his breath, and then promptly smacked his forehead onto his desk with a groan. He was losing sleep over this; nights of where his brain wouldn't shut off became sleepless, causing him to curl up in a ball and try to push the loud thoughts of someone else from his mind. They were loud, which meant his soulmate was nearby, maybe they went to his school? That would be convenient. He knew the best places to hide a body around here- 

"Mr Kaspbrak?" A voice interrupted his vengeful plotting and he lifted his head to meet the stern look of his English teacher, "Are you alright." 

"Sorry, sir, I'm uh, don't feel too well. May I go to the bathroom?" 

The teacher glanced at the clock and sighed, "I suppose so. It's nearly the end of class so take your belongings with you." 

Eddie nodded before sweeping all of his things into his backpack and bustling out the classroom, ignoring the curious stares of his peers. He could feel the pounding in his head with every step he took and decided maybe going to the bathroom was the best solution after all - he didn't want to be stuck in the lunch rush anyway. He swung open the door, slipped into a stall and leaned his throbbing head against the cool cubicle door. 

With scrunched up eyebrows, he wished his soulmate luck if they were to ever meet. 

"Anyone seen Eddie?" Bill asked, slowing his steps to look at the backs of the apparent five of them his mouth drawn to a line. He bumped his lunch tray between Stan's shoulder blades and the curly haired boy shouted in protest, twisting to see his innocently smiling face with an unimpressed expression.

"He ran off in English. He said it was to the bathroom, but I think he was having soulmate problems again." He offered and sped up his steps in case Bill was to nudge him again. 

"I hope he's okay..." Ben said, looking back into the hoards of children crowding the corridor. 

The five of them appeared outside, the white blinding autumn sun piercing their vision causing Beverly to squint to see that their usual pic nice table had been taken by another group of friends. 

"Bastards." She reacted simply and scanned the rest of the courtyard to see if there were any free spaces. All were taken except for one near the edge which held a sole boy that, with a sudden brightness of her eyes, she instantly recognised. "Let's go sit with Richie!"  

"Who the hell is Richie?" Mike asked, being the first to follow her with his packed lunch swinging in his hand. She didn't answer as she reached the table, setting down her lunch tray.  

He looked up suddenly, the noise of the tray scaring him, and the momentum causing his large and frail looking glasses to bounce out of place on his nose. He fixed them, smiling widely as he recognised the redhead, showing slightly large front teeth out of plump lips. 

"Bevster! What a pleasure to see you this fine Wednesday afternoon!" He spoke with a fake cockney English accent, one that broke considerably due to the chip he was still chewing on. 

"Heya Richie, how's life?" She asked as the rest of them tentatively sat down around them. Ben and Mike slotted in next to Richie as Bill and Stan quickly sat next to Beverly, unsure of the new person. 

"Wondrous, now that the prettiest girl in school has blessed me with her presence," Richie remarked, flashing her a wink. Ben tensed up next to him. 

"Shut it, Rich." She laughed, before realising the rest of them were awkwardly looking at them, "Oh shit! Richie, these are my friends, Bill, Stan, Ben and Mike! Guys, this is Richie, we hang out when I smoke sometimes." 

There was a chorus of various greetings from the rest of them and Bill even leant over the table to shake his hand, which Richie laughed at. There was a bang as the doors to the building slammed closed and Bill looked behind her to see Eddie has emerged and looked confused. 

"EDDIE!" He shouted and the boy jumped to look over in his direction, before coming over. 

"Fuck me, Beverly, how many friends do you have? This is getting close to a gang bang-" 

Richie stopped as Eddie reached them and he took in the boy's face.

Mama mia, he's adorable

"Fucking hell!" Eddie said aloud, clutching his head and stumbling back, his face contorted in pain. Mike jumped up to skip around the table and hold his elbows as try to look at his face. 

"Eddie, Eddie! Are you alright?" Eddie looked up at his friend before leaning sideways to stare a the wide-eyed long dark-haired boy. 

"YOU!" Eddie shouted, ripped away from Mike's gentle hold to point at Richie intensely. 

"ME?!" Richie exclaimed back. 

You fucking asshole! 

Richie winced in pain, hand coming to hold his head as he stared back, realisation melting over his features until a brilliant beam shot through his face. He muttered a soft, "Holy shit." 

Ben's jaw was slacked while Beverly's mouth was curled into a warm grin as in unison they said, "No fucking way." 

Eddie's eyes were rock-hard as he glared at the taller boy with all his might, Richie's goofy smile slipping as Eddie clambered to stand on the table, towering over the now standing gangly boy, steaming practically bursting from his ears.

"He's going to murder him," Stan stated quietly as he sat to the side, casually playing with Bill’s fingers, the two of them watching the scene unfold. Bill clicked his tongue.

"Think positive!"

"I'm positive he's going to murder him."

Eddie stomped over the top of the table to land on the seat Richie was previously sat on, his short stature now meaning that they were now face to face, "YOU'RE THE FUCKER WHO CAN'T STOP FUCKING THINKING ALL HOURS OF THE GODDAMN DAY! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO TRY AND SLEEP WITH SOME FUCKER SHOUTING IN YOUR HEAD ABOUT CRYING FUCKING MACARONI! OR-OR-OR FUCKING BEACHES MADE OF FRENCH FRIES?! ARE YOU ALWAYS HUNGRY?-" 

Hands suddenly came to cup his cheeks and Eddie was suddenly being tugged forward, his mouth crashing into Richie's. He froze, eyes blown and looking at Richie's closed eyes behind thick frames as his soft mouth moved gently into his. 

And honestly, as much as Eddie ranted and raved about wanting to murder his soul-mate, this was the feeling that ultimately changed everything. Suddenly he realised why people do so much for those who they loved, why they'd sacrificed everything just for a taste of this kind of physical affection from someone that made a rush whoosh through them, electricity spark across his skin and his heart drop so far he felt it in his stomach. 

Eddie looked shell-shocked as Richie pulled away, his own eyes wide as he was sure he felt the same thing. Richie’s voice was breathless as he spoke, “I’m Richie, by the way.” 

“Eddie.” He replied, a smile twitching at his cheeks. Richie chuckled shortly and then stepped back, hands going into the pockets of his heavy denim jacket. 

“At least now you won’t hear my thoughts anymore.” Richie offered. Eddie blinked. 

“Oh um, yeah.” 

They stood awkwardly for a moment. 

“I think you stood in my fries.” 

“I think you should kiss me again.” 

Eddie smacked a hand over his mouth, surprised at the words that jumped from his throat. Richie just grinned. 

“You’re cute, Eds.” 

[dweemeister]

Mary Poppins Returns (2018)

Ever since Mary Poppins (1964) gave the Walt Disney Studios acclaim from audiences and within Hollywood, the House of Mouse had toyed with the idea of a sequel. The correct circumstances never aligned – partly due to author P.L. Travers’ defensiveness to her Mary Poppins books, partly due to the demands of then-Disney chairman Jeffrey Katzenberg when he approached Travers in the 1980s. Nevertheless, Travers allowed the company to produce a stage musical version of Mary Poppins  – with the request that no one (specifically the Sherman Brothers) from the original film version be involved –  in the 1990s. Travers did not live to see the stage musical’s successful 2004 debut, but this renewal of trust between Travers (and her estate) and Disney marked a change in the wind after the belatedly famous acrimony between Travers and Walt Disney behind the 1964 film. With the blessing from the Travers estate, Disney secured the rights two a Mary Poppins sequel in September 2015.

Directed by Rob Marshall, Mary Poppins Returns  – like many recent Disney live-action films – adheres too closely to the original’s storytelling formula and, specifically in this film’s case, functional musical structure set by its predecessor. The film is nevertheless a fantastic portrayal of Mary Poppins the character. It is blessed with craftsmanship and possesses a score that – although inferior to the original (an almost-impossible bar to clear) – is among the best for an original movie musical in years.

It is 1935 in London and the Great Depression is at its height. Twenty-five years after the events of Mary Poppins, a grown-up Michael Banks (Ben Whishaw) still lives at 17 Cherry Tree Lane. Now, he lives there with his children – Annabel (Pixie Davies), John (Nathanael Saleh), and Georgie (Joel Dawson) – and housekeeper Ellen (Julie Walters). Michael, who works as a teller at his father’s old stomping grounds, the Fidelity Fiduciary Bank, is recently widowed, and his sister Jane (Emily Mortimer) has moved back in to help him with the children. Compounding these troubles is the fact that Michael has taken out a loan from the bank, but cannot pay the money bank. The bank, now led day-to-day by William “Weatherall” Wilkins (Colin Firth), is threatening to repossess the house. On a stormy day in the park across the street, Michael’s children are playing with a kite when Mary Poppins (Emily Blunt) appears. Lamplighter Jack (Lin-Manuel Miranda) is there with the children, and introduces Annabel, John, and Georgie to Mary Poppins. Mary Poppins has arrived, in her own words, “to look after the Banks children.”

Also appearing in Mary Poppins Returns are Mary Poppins’ cousin Topsy (Meryl Streep), Admiral Boom (David Warner), and first mate Mr. Binnacle (Jim Norton). Angela Lansbury, Dick Van Dyke, and Karen Dotrice (who played Jane in the original film) all make cameo appearances. Lansbury, at ninety-three years of age when this film was released, is now the oldest credited actor to appear in a Walt Disney Studios movie (Van Dyke is two months younger).

Where the 1964 original eventually revealed itself to be a reminder on how to be a loving parent despite personal flaws and professional pressures, Mary Poppins Returns’ message of loss affects all. That message appears almost the moment we meet Michael Banks. The grown-up Michael Banks is living life paralyzed in grief; his sorrow – even in the least visible moments – is self-evident to the children. For both sets of Banks children (Jane and Michael; Annabel, John, and Georgie) Mary Poppins has arrived to partially fill in what has been lost, as well as allow each set of children to see what the others need. Jane and Michael Banks – tending to the financial matters at 17 Cherry Tree Lane – have been engulfed in finding the money to pay for the loan on the family house. The most disappointing change in Mary Poppins Returns compared to the original is that this film presents an obvious villainous figure in Colin Firth’s character. Firth, in a criminal abuse of his character’s power, destroys the evidence of proof that the Banks family can pay the loan quickly. As a result, Jane and Michael Banks learn little else other than to simply be tenacious and not let their unfortunate circumstances define who they are – worthy messages both, but deeply unsatisfying compared to what could have been without a villain. For Annabel, John, and Georgie, Mary Poppins’ arrival introduces an air of childhood excitement long missing from the household. But in the end, for this new generation of Banks children, they grow to see their father’s situation through his eyes. They learn to take care of him, and let him know that he is not alone in missing a loved one.

Here again is Disney’s adherence to the original, with variations. Mary Poppins Returns will also introduce certain things that retroactively canonize (“retcon”) aspects of the original, including whether Michael and Jane remember fully what happened the first time Mary Poppins arrived (or perhaps they believed they have imagined it). Most of the retconning adds little depth to either the original or this sequel. The introduction of a villain (previously described) and a frantic race-against-time sequence just before the climax are frustrating developments. The decision not to have an antagonist separated Mary Poppins from numerous Disney animated and live-action films; today, a film without any antagonist would feel radical in contemporary mainstream filmmaking. The temptation to include a rush to the climax also befell a similarly-themed movie like Christopher Robin (2018) – a clichéd addition which does nothing except to provide composer Marc Shaiman the opportunity to craft a dexterous, technically complicated cue for the score. More on Shaiman and the music soon.

The child performers and much of the supporting cast do fine in their roles (Meryl Streep’s character should have been taken out of the film entirely). Lin-Manuel Miranda even graces the audiences with a gloriously terrible British accent just like Dick Van Dyke did as Bert in Mary Poppins. The film obviously belongs to Emily Blunt, who decided not to rewatch Julie Andrews’ performance so that she could make this portrayal of the character her own. In Mary Poppins Returns, Blunt does exactly that – embodying her version of Mary with dryness, a more pronounced vanity (never to an infuriating extent), and charm. As a character, Mary Poppins is ultimately unknowable to all. That mystique is complemented here with Blunt’s (an alto to Andrews’ soprano; Andrews is unquestionably the better singer, but it is best to go into Mary Poppins Returns without burdening Andrews-esque expectations on Blunt) excellent performance.

The stunning production design from John Myhre (2002′s Chicago, 2005′s Memoirs of a Geisha) and Gordon Sim (Chicago, 2009′s Nine) replicates Depression-era London with exterior griminess, contrasting that with the visual wonder of Topsy’s residence and the noticeably stagebound set where the grand lamplighter number occurs. Sandy Powell’s costume design, likewise, is gorgeous. But the film’s technical mastery is centered around the hybrid hand-drawn animation and live-action scenes that last around twenty minutes. In pre-production, director Rob Marshall knew that he wanted his film – in honor of the original Mary Poppins and the Disney animators who worked on that film – to employ hand-drawn animation. Yet the priorities of the Walt Disney Studios between 1964 and 2018 are day and night. Disney executives wanted Marshall to have computerized animation, to which Marshall voiced his vehement opposition. Under the now-disgraced John Lasseter and current Disney Chairman/CEO Bob Iger, the Walt Disney Animation Studios quietly and gradually released almost all of its hand-drawn animators in the mid-2010s in favor of those specializing in CGI animation – the part of the Walt Disney Company that is the spiritual center of the modern corporate behemoth no longer has the resources to make anything other than the occasional short film. A good portion of the animators who came to work on Mary Poppins Returns were hired on a temporary basis with Walt Disney Animation Studios and Pixar. But Mary Poppins Returns is now the first theatrical Disney film employing animation that was mostly drawn by outside animation studios. Their combined work is spectacular, but this development signals what has happened, in-house, at Walt Disney Animation Studios.

With Richard M. Sherman serving as musical consultant, it is up to composer Marc Shaiman (1995′s The American President; 1999′s South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut) and lyricist Scott Wittman (the original Broadway production of Hairspray – along with Shaiman) to compose material aligned to the Sherman Brothers’ musical identity to the original while serving this sequel for what it is. Beginning with the oxymoronic (not in the movie’s context, but reality) “(Underneath the) Lovely London Sky”, Shaiman and Wittman establish Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Jack as the seemingly omnipresent, on-again/off-again narrator through whom we enter the story. Orchestral quotations of “The Life I Lead” from Mary Poppins signal that this film will make spare, but noticeable references to the Sherman Brothers’ score. “Can You Imagine That?” – during its first appearance and later references in the score – is the effervescent entry inviting the audience (and the younger set of Banks children) to enjoy themselves during this film. “The Royal Doulton Music Hall” and “A Cover is Not the Book” might not be for everyone, but the songs introduce a certain growl and Cockney attitude to Blunt’s performance previously thought unimaginable in the cinematic Mary Poppins character (yet has some precedent in Travers’ books). Miranda also raps in “A Cover is Not the Book” – the idea of rap in a Sherman Bros. or a Shaiman and Wittman score seems antithetical to their respective styles, but Miranda makes it work.

“Trip a Little Light Fantastic” – if the dudes and dudettes reading this review can forgive the anachronistic BMX stunting – makes me believe that Hollywood’s major studios should employ Miranda in more song-and-dance musicals if they are willing to invest in the genre. “Nowhere to Go But Up” closes the film, quotes more Sherman Brothers songs, and should be listened to in context. Streep’s “Turning Turtle” is a musical dud, despite the interesting Eastern European instrumentation. Mary Poppins Returns’ best song – musically and contextually – is “The Place Where Lost Things Go”. Many of the songs in Mary Poppins Returns are analogous to songs from Mary Poppins, and this lullaby sung by Blunt and later reprised is no exception. “The Place Where Lost Things Go” is this film’s “Feed the Birds” (Walt Disney’s song from any of the films he produced). This song has a perfect marriage of melody and lyrics, but ironically (in terms of my earlier request that viewers separate Julie Andrews’ original performance of Mary when watching Mary Poppins Returns) this is the most visible moment in the film where audiences may notice that Emily Blunt does not have the musical acumen to fully carry this moment. Blunt’s performance in “The Place Where Lost Things Go”, however, is good enough to underline the film’s poignancy. Shaiman’s integration of almost all of the musical numbers into the film’s incidental score is breathtaking in orchestration and construction. Used within and outside the film, Shaiman’s score is a career cinematic accomplishment.

The original Mary Poppins, Julie Andrews, was approached by Marshall to appear in a cameo. She declined, remarking that, “this is Emily’s show,” and that she did not wish to distract from Emily Blunt’s star turn. Coincidentally, a film including Julie Andrews opened against Mary Poppins Returns’ debut in North America. The film was Aquaman (2018), and Andrews voiced the Karathen – a legendary creature of the deep that assists the eponymous superhero.

Mary Poppins Returns does not refute or undermine the legacy of the 1964 original film – lightning in a bottle for Walt Disney Studios upon its release and still the greatest live-action Disney film ever made. The brilliant central performance from Blunt is not hampered by her limited vocal range, and she assisted by incredible technical masters working behind the camera. The storytelling blueprint of the original can be found across the film, however. Though I welcome the artistry Mary Poppins Returns brings, it is yet another example of the current incarnation of Walt Disney Studios cannibalizing its famed catalogue. The studio – which is now a soon-to-be-approved studio acquisition away from being the dominant force in Hollywood – is attempting to redefine cinematic consumption on its own terms. Mary Poppins Returns, for its musical mastery, is a part of those efforts.

My rating: 7/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

[imagineifmattyhealy-blog]

VI.

“Where is she?” Demanded a strong cockney accent.

Everyone looked up to see a dishevelled, yet, good looking man with eyes of burning fire, having just woken up and jumping straight out of bed noticeable in his presence. Eva’s dad, Scott. He looked around at the faces waiting to hear something on Eva’s state. George holding a plastic cup of, what he could only describe as, stale coffee, Caroline’s head resting on his shoulder. Katie, looking as though Scott’s presence had just awoken her from a short-lived slumber on Ross’ chest. Adam looking very jittery as he bit at his nails, Carly sat next to him, Matthew sat next to her, his posture bent forward, elbows resting on his knees, his mum – who had arrived not long ago – consoling his devastated state as he cried like a child in the comfort of his mother’s presence, Gabby on the other end of Denise feeling out of place. Everyone here had some form of a bond with Eva, she did not.

“Scott,” Denise said, sighing, standing up and going to give him a hug which he gratefully accepted. “We haven’t heard anything yet. From what we know she was rushed to surgery the minute she got here.”

“S-surgery? Why? What happened?” He asked in panic, then turned to look at Matthew. “Matthew, what’s going on?” However, Matthew hadn’t spoken much since he got back from phoning his mum, only informing the group that she was on her way, and since her arrival, he crashed into her arms like he used to do when he was a child and had fallen and scraped his knee. Then, that seemed like the end of the world but it was nothing compared to now.

“She got hit by a car.” George spoke up, his voice raspy from how dry his throat was, he hadn’t spoken much either.

“How? She was supposed to be at that ball.” Scott said in confusion. None of this was making sense.

“She never came. She had an interview.” Denise answered.

“What interview?” Scott was lost. If his daughter had an interview, surely he would have known about it.

“This is all my fault.” Matthew sobbed, rocking back and forth. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. It was only a small white lie to benefit Gabby and now it had turned into the girl that he loved in hospital.

“No, no, darling.” Denise shushed, holding out an arm to him as though to say that she was here and he hadn’t to worry. “We’re not sure what’s going on Scott, nobody will tell us anything, I tried but they said there was no news yet, we’re just going to have to wait. Here, sit down.” Denise motioned for him to take a seat next to Ross, and, he did so, but still looked about in total awe of the situation. His little girl.

-

Three hours. Three hours they had been here and not a single word on what was going on with Eva. Everyone was a bag of nerves, however, George much calmer now. Matthew fell in and out of sobbing fits and had been for a cig every twenty minutes. He hadn’t clicked on that George wasn’t speaking to him, or, how he glared at him, clenching his fists whenever he saw him cry again, not only his mother, but Katie, Ross and Gabby feeling sorry for him, as though he wasn’t the prime cause for all of this. Scott was even trying to ‘pep talk him’, completely unaware that the reason his daughter lay on an operating table was because of Matthew, because he couldn’t, for once in his life, be honest with her. She loved him, all she wanted him to do was show her that he loved her back.

Matthew looked to his left, looking for any sign of a doctor coming towards the small gathering awaiting news about Eva, but there was none. His eyes flickered around the room absentmindedly then, before landing on his best mate, George. Unbelievably, he was so preoccupied with Eva that he had completely forgotten about George’s presence. He’d forgotten about most presence bar his mum and Eva’s dad. George was looking back but, even in his state, Matthew could tell that George wasn’t too happy with him, which made him on edge, and caused him to look back down to his shaky hands.

“Kym.” Scott announced.

Probably the one name Matthew dreaded to here upon arrival. His guilt deepening knowing that her mother was now here. He knew how close they were, her mum knowing everything there was to possibly know about their relationship. He liked Kym. She went in and out of phases liking him back, depending on his and Eva’s current situation at that time. She had time for him though, even though she was constantly telling Eva to stay away from him. He was certain Eva wouldn’t need much convincing from her mum now, her choice to stay away from him would be voluntarily, looking now at the circumstances.

“I want to see her.” Kym demanded, barging past her ex-partner and towards the reception desk where a nurse was on the phone.

“Kym, there’s no news yet.” Scott informed, trying to pull her away from the desk, her eyes drilling through the nurse who was now aware of Kym’s presence.

“Sorry, can I help you?” The nurse asked, holding her hand to the speaker of the phone.

“No, it’s fine. Sorry-“ Scott tried. “My daughter. My daughter is in this hospital and I want to see her now.” Kym said matter-of-fact, emphasising her point by pointing her index finger against the surface of the desk.

“Kym, they’re going to come find us as soon as they know something.” He tried to sooth, he could see she was in a state of distress, and, regardless of how many years it had been since they had been apart, he knew that when Kym was distressed that was usually projected in anger, which wasn’t good for anyone.

“I want to know something now! I’m her mother! They might not tell them lot anything,” she snapped, gesturing to the small gathering all awaiting news on Eva’s condition, “but she’s my baby, and, so help me God, if you,” pointing an accusing finger to the nurse, her voice getting louder and louder, “don’t get me some information on my child I will see that you regret it.” Denise, along with Katie, were now trying their best to help Scott calm Kym down.

“Miss, if you don’t calm down, I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.” The nurse said, calmly.

“Oh is that right? Would you be calm if you found out your daughter was in a car accident? Would you?” The nurse whispered something to another nurse who then scurried off.

“But not only found out.” Kym hadn’t previously been looking at anyone but the nurse, but now, her attention was focused on Matthew, his glassy eyes staring back at Kym. “Heard it.” She announced, taking a few steps in his direction. “What did you do?”

“He didn’t do anything, Kym, he was at the charity ball.” Denise defended Matthew, obstructing Kym’s view of him as she moved to stand, protectively, in front of him.

“So why did I get a voicemail from her, in tears, claiming that she was done with him again?” Kym pushed at Denise’s body, desperately trying to get sight of Matthew.

His eyes were down again, tears dripping onto his suit trousers, Gabby comforting him once more, this time, him gladly accepting.

“I was just trying to make everything easier for everybody. I didn’t think that she would get hit by a car.” He sobbed.

“Matthew.” Gabby said, trying to, somewhat, shut him up.

“No.” He said, pulling himself from her grasp once more. “Why did you have to make me chose? It was just a stupid ball, you didn’t even have to speak to her, you just had to let her come.”

“I don’t recall it being Gabby who Eva got rats-arsed and was inconsolable over.” George piped up, for the first time, speaking to Matthew.

“You what?” Matty asked, squinting his eyes at George at the sheer audacity of him.

“It was you, mate. You can’t ever let her be happy. You just keep pushing at her until she breaks.”

“Oh, fuck you, George!” Matty exclaimed, standing up.

George stood up afterwards and moved towards Matthew as Matthew did so George, Ross and Adam quickly pulling the two of them apart.

“I fucking love her, you dick! You know I do!” Matthew cried, being held back by Ross.

“What?” Gabby asked, her voice desperately fighting the lump in her throat at her boyfriend’s recent confession.

“I used to think you did, in your own fucked up way, claiming her over anybody else. Ruining any chance of a relationship she was ever given. But, you didn’t love her. You were just insecure.” Matty attempted to go for George again. “Scared that she would find somebody better than you because you knew that she would.” George taunted, his volume heightening as Ross pushed Matty further back than where he initially wanted to be –hovering over George as blood streamed from his nose and grasping his winded stomach.

A commotion broke out between the small group, George and Matthew arguing back and forth, Caroline attempting to tell George to shut up, Ross and Adam still holding the two of them apart, Denise and Scott demanding to know what they were talking about and Kym also trying to make a point to Matthew about his mistreatment towards her daughter. In the midst of this, a doctor was being pointed towards them by the nurse at the reception after enquiring about Eva Crawford’s family and friends, a look of irritation crossing his features at the scene that was in front of him. He walked towards them, attempting to call on their attention, not loud enough when asking for who was with Eva.

“Excuse me! I’m looking for the company of Eva Crawford!” Carly was the first to here, trying her best to divert everyone’s attention to the doctor, with no luck, passing the job onto Adam, who, unusual for Adam, yelled amongst everyone to inform them of the doctor’s presence.

“Right, firstly, I’m going to need everyone to calm down. I refuse to tell anyone anything until there is a calm. Now, I understand how you all must be feeling but, please, have a little bit of consideration for the other people in this hospital who could possibly be losing a friend or family member.” He chastised, speaking to them all as though they were children – they were acting like it.

“Doctor, we’re sorry, we’re all just really worried.” Denise tried to reason.

The group huddled themselves around the Doctor who informed them that his name was Doctor Brian Templeton. A slim, tall man within his late forties, possibly early fifties, greyish cropped hair, and glasses perked on the bridge of his nose.

“How is she? Can we see her?” Scott asked, his arm cradling Kym’s shoulders, her eyes threatening to let tears shed.

“I’m afraid, at the moment Eva has been placed into an induced coma.” Brian regretfully revealed. Kym’ knees gave way at his words, Scott catching her before she fell to the ground. “She’s in a critical condition that all we can do is monitor closely for the time being.” His words were not helping anyone at all, yes, she may have been alive and breathing but everyone, even Gabby, were asking themselves for how long.

“Unfortunately, due to the car accident, Eva has suffered a traumatic brain injury which has led to swelling on her brain, hence the need for the induced coma.”

“But she’ll be okay, won’t she? That’s why you had to put her in the coma to help stop it.” Scott was trying his damn hardest to not let the cracking in his voice be known, but with great difficulty.

“For the time being, we can’t say how the coma will affect Eva’s current state, but we are holding out hope. It was a complicated and difficult surgery, but please, let me assure you, we believe we have done our very best. All we can do now is wait to see if Eva will respond to the surgery positively and, if or when, she comes around, we won’t know the full extent of her injuries until then.” Brian concluded.

This full situation felt like a nightmare that nobody could wake up from.

“Can we see her?” Kym asked, hopeful.

“Yes, but only a short number of people at a time. I’ll keep you all posted, but I do suggest that after everyone has seen her, that you all go home and get some rest, there’s no point waiting about for her to wake up today, the chances of that are second to none.” With a curt nod, he stalked off.

Out of instinct, Matthew moved forward, desperate to see Eva, just to see for his own eyes that she was still here with him.

“Don’t you dare.” Kym warned through gritted teeth, a hand pushing at his chest. Speechless, his eyes darted from Kym’s face to the corridor that could lead him to Eva.

“A brain injury. Because of you,” She pushed his chest, much harsher than before, “because of you my daughter is in an induced coma with a brain injury.” She slapped his chest now, tears infinitely falling from her eyes.

“Kym, I’m sorry, I really am, I just need to see her.” He pleaded.

“You,” she emphasised, “aren’t getting anywhere near her. If she wakes up, you’ll never see her again, and I promise you, darlin’, I will make absolutely sure of that. You are poison-“

“Right!” Denise intervened. “Kym, I understand that you’re upset and you’re scared but so is Matthew and everyone else here. Nobody is to blame for this, certainly not Matthew.”

“Oh, but he is.” Kym nodded. “He is the sole reason she is lying in a critical condition, as the doctor put it, and if she doesn’t wake up and my little girl dies,” her voice cracking, “it will be his fault.” She whispered.

She looked around at everyone, most eyes avoiding her look, before walking off, the only thought going through her mind was holding her daughters hand and watching her chest moving up and down confirming that she was still with her. Scott followed, giving a sympathetic smile to Denise but avoiding Matthew. He didn’t know if what Kym, or George for that matter, was true but he would hate to find out that it were. His daughter clearly never spoke to him about Matthew the way that she did to her mother, therefore, there were clearly some things that he was missing out on. But, he didn’t want to know the truth right now, it wasn’t important right now, so, he followed Kym, to be with his daughter, whilst Matthew broke down another time, Kym confirming to him what he already knew –he was to blame.

---

here you go angels! 

would just like to say sorry for the, probably, innacurate medical terms, i’m quite shitty with them and tried to google them haha! anyways, hope you all enjoy and let me know how it was for you!

[daftyankee]

I wonder what the story is there.

There was an ad floating around Facebook a few months ago that joked about how different things would be if men pumped at work: a pumping lounge with snacks, breast pumps made by Apple, etc. It was of course trying to convince me to drop a grand on a breast pump, but every mother who has been attached to a pair of wheezing suction cups at work will recognize the truth in it.

I was thinking about that ad on my first day of work, as I sat pumping in the office bathroom, trying to avoid looking in the mirror, which was actually really difficult. I think what the ad gets wrong is that men simply would not do this shit. Men absolutely would not carry about a dozen different pieces to work each day, the forgetting of any of which dooms the whole exercise, drop everything every 3-4 hours, and retreat to a windowless room to pump, all without being able to clearly articulate why. Because…why? Of course there are lots of benefits of breast milk for babies, but we also (rightfully) accept that lots of mothers can’t breastfeed and that those babies are generally just fine. And then there’s the fact that much of my generation was never breast fed at all, and some of those formula babies are now incredibly smart, healthy adults who are sufficiently bonded to their mothers. It’s just hard to feel like formula is doom for your child when you are surrounded by counter-examples. The breast milk fixation is such a prime example of women oppressing themselves that I would just stop doing it if I was not such a sucker for oppressing myself at every opportunity.

If we haven’t spoken in awhile, there are a few things I should catch you up on: first, I had another baby. His name is Nico and he is adorable and amazing. 

Second, I got a new job. I’d been expecting to stay on maternity leave a little longer, but the job felt like a really good fit and my mom said she’d come help, and so I was back at work after 3.5 months. In the U.S., 3.5 months is a luxurious amount of maternity leave. In the UK, it’s a sign that you’re either worried about money or a monster who doesn’t love your children (or both?). Someone actually innocently said to me recently that when a mother comes back early from mat leave “you wonder what the story is there”. 

So here I am, back at work, probably inspiring others to wonder whether my story involves abject poverty, or ferocious, unlovable beasts of children, or a heart so cold. 

And a big part of me misses Nico. I mean, don’t get me wrong— by the end of maternity leave with two kids at home I was losing my grip on sanity. But now that I'm at work all day I doubt the decision and find myself taking out my phone to look at pictures of his little face. Keeping my supply up so that I can feed him at night is, for me, the thing that ultimately convinced me that trying to pump was worth it. Unlike the last time I came back from maternity leave-- when I was directed to a disabled bathroom -- I was pleasantly surprised to find that my new job has a designated room (the “Wellness Room”) that does not smell like poop at all. It seemed comparatively low-stress.

If you have tried to pump, you've probably been given lots of advice about the importance of having a regular schedule. However, on my first day, I did not account for a man with an intriguing Indian-cockney accent delivering the world’s most thorough IT induction. An hour went by, then two. The number one most important thing is do not eat or drink near your laptop, innit. I increasingly felt like a water balloon that was going to pop. I narrowed my eyes at him. I inhaled deeply. Then I was embarrassed when he seemed to pick up on my impatience because there were only three people in the induction and I was sort of acting like a jerk. The minute we finished I literally ran to the Wellness Room only to be scooped by another woman who got there just before me. She had nothing in her hands. What was she even doing in there?  

Feeling a deep sense of injustice, I took my pumping accoutrements to the bathroom, where I proceeded to balance my laptop on the sink. My two-hour induction had failed to specifically advise me against doing this.

That afternoon, I was more tactical and took a desk with good sight of the Wellness Room. Seeing that it was free, I decided to get myself a cup of tea to have while pumping. You can probably guess that while I was in the kitchen the room got taken again— this time by someone praying. Accepting my inferiority on the scale of virtue, I headed to the toilet again, this time with a cup of tea and probably a new reputation for bizarre habits ("That new woman is always taking her laptop and a cup of tea into the bathroom. What is she doing in there?"). 

I’ve worked a lot of the kinks out since that first day, although points of awkwardness remain. For one, my surprising discomfort with speaking the words “breast pump”. I’m so conditioned to think breast is an obscene word that I find myself using euphemisms like “using the wellness room” or simply saying “pump” without the other person knowing what I mean and then needing to backtrack and say “I mean my breast pump" to clarify. When I had to get on a call while pumping, I definitely feigned ignorance when the other parties were like, "What's that noise? Does anyone else hear that?".

But what is there to be ashamed of? Absolutely nothing! I deserve a medal for this! So, when the same woman was on her phone in the Wellness Room two days in a row at my pumping time, I summoned all of my self-righteousness and politely asked her to leave.

"Um, sorry. I need to..." Gestures toward breast pump in corner.

"Oh, yes, of course, no problem." Lingers in doorway without hanging up phone. "Is it ok if I stay?"

WHAT. LADY, I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? 

"Um... It's just that I sort of need to... take my shirt off?"

"Of course, never mind, I'll leave."

Thank you, you crazy person. Because when I said I wasn't ashamed of pumping, I didn't mean that I wasn't ashamed of my body. It's different.

Good thing Nico appreciates all of this. Oh wait, did I forget to mention that he seems to prefer formula to pumped breast milk? You’d think my milk would have tasted like a chocolate shake with the amount of candy bars I've been eating, but it's still no match for HIPP Organic.  But this is parenthood, right? You never know what will make a difference or be a hit or ruin your child. Working, not working, breast milk, screen time, vegetables, plastic bottles, tummy time, sensory stimulation, sugar, classical music, eye contact, multiple languages, skin to skin, parabins, baby massage, etc etc etc. Pump, pump, pump. If nothing else, it’s 15 minutes of alone time-- at least until that lady convinces me to let her stay.

[snowbellewells]

CS Role Reversal: “The Case of the Heart in Armor”

Here is my submission for the @csrolereversal​ event.  It is written from the inspiration of this brilliantly intriguing art by @courtorderedcake​. So make sure to send her all the love for her work!! :)

(Her imagery very strongly reminded me of both Sherlock Holmes and also a bit of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, and so I ran with it, with @courtorderedcake​‘s blessing of course.  Now, I LOVE Victorian literature, so this of course got out of hand and will now be more than one part. Oops? (How do I keep doing this to myself?!?)  I hope you all won’t mind, and I’ll try not to keep you waiting too long, but I’m not even going to try to guess how many parts anymore. I’m giving that up...  Anyway, I hope you enjoy this opening segment!) 

Summary: Killian “Holmes” Jones is rarely surprised or shocked anymore, but that all changes when he meets one very stubborn - and very beautiful - pickpocket, and trouble brews in the distance, hidden by the London fog... “The Case of the Heart in Armor”

by: @snowbellewells​

Part One

Almost instantaneously, Killian “Holmes” Jones knew something had happened. There was very little that escaped his notice - ever - and the fact that someone had just nicked the gold pocketwatch he always wore was immediately evident, despite their having one of the lightest touches he had experienced in his time walking the seedier London streets. An expectant hush lingered in the air, as if his very surroundings waited to see how he would proceed, and if he could pinpoint just who had divested him of his valuable.

At first glance, the dingey, fog-shrouded and mostly deserted street looked the same as it ever did. There were distant sounds of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves clopping along the cobblestones a street over, the echo of vendors crying their wares, and the distant puff of trains pulling in and out of the station at Marylebone, but in the street where Jones stood, not far from his favored pub, where he was to meet Graham Watson and his older brother, once Liam had left his cushy government office for the night, to share some dinner, things were comparatively calm and still.

That was, until a flash of golden brightness caught his eye, winking from the drab surroundings of brown and grey. The flower cart girl just behind and to his left had not caught his attention when he passed, had not seemed of any particular interest. Even now that the arresting color of her blonde tresses were peeking out of the rather flat, bedraggled hat atop them, she seemed to be busy at her own work, not noticing him at all. And yet, there was something almost too casual about her stance - a marked avoidance of his gaze, as if she were carefully watching him without wishing to seem so. Perhaps some movement had tipped him off unconsciously, but whatever the reason, Killian sensed she was his culprit. Or, if not, she had at least seen something she would rather not share.

Striding purposefully toward her cart of flowers for sale, Killian’s mouth formed a stern line as he prepared to confront the slip of a woman for her thievery. She was still concertedly paying him no mind, though he was certain that she tracked his path warily from the corner of her sparkling jade eyes.

Opening her mouth, she called out the flowers she had on offer along with their prices, pointedly turning away as he came to stand before her. Her voice rang out across the cobblestones clearly, if somewhat tangled by the thick Cockney accent that lay heavy on her tongue. Even if he normally cringed at the harsh sounds of the street vendors and ruffians of the area, he found himself somewhat charmed by the unabashed and almost proud bit of rough he sensed in this one.

Reaching out, he snatched the handful of carnations from her grip, and turned abruptly as if to leave, knowing it would get a rise from the intriguing guttersnipe.

“Oi! Get yer bloomin’ ‘ands off me merchandise if ya don’ mean ta pay!” she cried, her temper riled like a hellcat on the turn of a dime, much as Jones had expected it would be.

Swinging back to face her, which brought them practically nose-to-nose , as she had begun to charge after him, Killian waggled his brows insolently, making the challenge plain, even before he spoke. “Perhaps I might return them… in exchange for my watch, eh Lass?”

Jerking backwards, the impudent young woman eyed him warily for a second as if trying to gauge the true meaning of his words, to discern if he were just fishing for information, or if he really knew what she had done, and then she narrowed her pretty eyes at him, slamming a wall down over the openness he had glimpsed for a moment, allowing him to see past the scruffy interior to something more vulnearable, something (if he were even a bit more gullible) which might have seemed sweet. “Lookit Mister, don’t think that fine hat and pipe and your sharp suit gives you leave to muck about with foolish accusations. I ain’t about ta take none o’ your guff, an’ I don’ ‘ave your filthy watch, so just move on along why don’cha?”

Whether she realized she was doing it or not, the blonde had stepped right back into his space, nearly as soon as she had pulled away. The ridiculous chit actually had the pluck to act like an offended innocent, when Killian became all the more certain with each passing second that she had his pilfered watch hidden on her person even as they spoke. Her pointer finger jabbed into his chest next to the top button of his waistcoat for emphasis, and she wasn’t backing down an inch. She had fire, he would give her that; he was almost as impressed as he had initially been irked.

However, now that his challenge had been taken up, Jones felt his competitive nature roar to life within, and he intended to prove her wrong, to show her just whom she had trifled with and that he was not her average fool. He leaned forward as well, his lips nearly brushing the shell of her ear as he murmured, “Perhaps you’d allow me to search you and verify your statement?” Allowing his eyes to rove down from her face slowly before trailing back up again, his tongue poking into the inside of his cheek suggesting the sort of shameless liberties he would never actually take with a lady, no matter what her situation or social status. He might play at a bit of dashing roguishness, but he still considered himself a man of honor at his core.

Those green eyes flashed the same sort of warning color the sky out over the Thames took on when a storm was rolling in and the wise knew to run for cover; the sickening chartreuse of a deep, bruised wound and every bit as risky to provoke or fail to heed. Snatching back the finger that had been pressed against his breastbone, his beguiling nemesis raised her hand, clearly intending to strike him for his cheek - which, admittedly, he quite probably deserved - if he had not caught her wrist in a firm grasp that stalled the motion.

“Easy now, Love,” he murmured, enjoying her gumption too much to leave well enough alone. “Let’s not have you doing something we’ll both regret.”

“I am NOT your love!” she spat back, wriggling in his hold and looking livid enough to claw his eyes out if he let her free to do so. “And if you don’t unhand me…” she hissed, the threat clear now, even as a glimmer of fear also surfaced beneath the fire in her gaze. Killian had no doubt that she would follow through on whatever threat she was about to make, but that flicker and the slight quaver it allowed him to hear in her sharp voice told him she also didn’t know what might happen to her in the meantime, before she could make good on her words. And that hint of trepidation, that she didn’t know his true intentions and felt in herself in danger, quickly doused the fire he’d felt rising in his blood and his own fun in their back and forth.

Quickly, he retreated a step and released her arm, though his boxing reflexes were at the ready, knowing he might well be ducking a slap or punch in the very next moment.

To Killian’s surprise, however, the infuriating lass pulled herself up to her full height, smoothed her rather bedraggled skirts, and eyed him disdainfully as was possible under the circumstances. “Right wise choice you made there,” she snarked, huffing her annoyance as if she hadn’t been the one to start the whole debacle by picking his pocket in the first place. The very real worry he had sensed in her only seconds ago had vanished as if it were never there. “You’d be sorry had I gotten me brother on the case. He’s Chief Inspector, and he don’ take kindly to blighters like you harassing me.”

“Wait a minute now,” Killian interrupted, holding up a hand as he considered her rant, for the first time in their entire interaction feeling a bit out of the loop. “You don’t mean Chief Inspector Nolan? Of Scotland Yard?”

“The very same,” she snapped, arms crossed in front of herself. “What of it?”

Killian’s mind - rarely ever puzzled or caught by surprise, and so all the more intrigued by the seeming anomaly before him - struggled to catch up with and match this saucy baggage before him with the straight-laced knight-in-armor type he sometimes counseled in particularly complex criminal investigations. Inspector David Nolan was as by-the-book, simple and solid as they came, not by any means dense, but certainly not possessed with as cracklingly sharp wit or tongue as the angry sprite squared off before him. The Inspector had also never mentioned any family whatsoever beyond his sweet, fresh-faced wife and newborn son, but then again, it wasn’t as if they were ‘mates’ either. Jones couldn’t exactly see himself kicking back for a pint of rum with the man, even if they did tolerate each other in the name of justice from time to time. 

He was about to tell the feisty harridan before him that he didn’t bloody care who her brother was, he would be having his watch back, when she stunned him once more, her chin jutting up imperiously as she added, “What? Din’ think a street rat like me ‘ad friends in higher places, eh?”

“On the contrary, Love,” Killian countered, purposefully emphasizing the endearment he had simply used out of habit before but now meant to annoy her, as he tapped the brim of his hat in the semblance of a bow. “I think you must have some remarkable friends indeed, or someone would have taught you a lesson in manners by now.” Her mouth opened and closed, floundering for a sharp retort no doubt, but he wasn’t yet finished. “Like it or not, I know you have something of mine, and I will see it returned.”

Nearly growling in frustration, she whirled away from him, turning her back and quickly moving away with the rest of her wares.

Jones watched her go troubled, curious, and stirred all at once; a curious cocktail he hardly recognized it had been so long since last he felt it. Though he didn’t have time to stand there long before he hurried off to meet Graham and Liam, sure that he would now be the one late instead of his elder sibling.

He didn’t notice - yet one more uncharacteristic slip in his usual near-omniscient awareness - the strange rosy glow in the twilight darkness of the now deserted street where he and the flower cart thief had argued. From around the corner of a packed nearby alley, narrowed dark eyes had watched the entire encounter, tracking either Holmes or the girl with avaricious interest. The reddish light glowed brighter for an instant as the excitement of its possessor swelled, so bright that for a moment if anyone had still been present it could not have been missed. Then, the red beacon was shuttered, going out like an extinguished flame. Once more there was only a nondescript London street, and the unseen watcher off on their sinister mission, having seen what was needed, unbeknownst to those who were observed.

Tagging a few others who may enjoy: @kmomof4​ @jennjenn615​ @hollyethecurious​ @searchingwardrobes​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @laschatzi​ @drowned-dreamer​ @aloha-4-ever​ @thisonesatellite​ @teamhook​ @revanmeetra87​ @therooksshiningknight​ @snidgetsafan​ @shireness-says​

[empress-otome]

OCxCanon Week// Day 1: First Time

(Cinder’s backstory and base info are found here)

Cinder’s trial membership in Overwatch had been a success. She started as a wary vigilante, unsure of leaving her freelance work to join a greater cause. Now Rosangela was a proud, full-fledged member of the organization and one of the go-to agents for stealth missions. It was interesting for Hanzo to see her grow in such a short amount of time; like that warm, happy author had been trapped behind a cold hunter’s exterior all along. But now that she had decided to dedicate her life permanently to Overwatch, she had to move out of her old flat completely. She and Hanzo were already in King’s Row for an escort mission, so she asked him to help her move out while they were at it.

As she led him through the streets of London, Hanzo wondered which apartment could be hers. They all looked so nice with lovely views of the city; perfect for an artistic spirit such as herself. But then they began to go off the beaten path and down some sketchy alleys. At first he thought it was a short cut, but quickly realized it wasn’t. They had stopped in front of a rusty iron door at the end of an alley with nothing else around but the occasional stray cat.

“Hanzo, before we go in,” she turned back to him, “Let me preface this with…I didn’t do the most honorable things when I was a vigilante. And I…made some very…um, un-honorable friends as well.”

Hanzo gave her a suspicious look and went to draw his bow.

“No, no!” she quickly shook her head, “They’re good people! Just…ruffians? Vagabonds? They’re interesting people, but nevertheless, the people I used to live with.”

Hanzo nodded, but decided to keep his guard up regardless.

Rosangela carefully knocked on the old door, making a metallic echo reverb through the abandoned alley. For a few moments, there was no answer, until they heard someone come to the door. Whoever it was, he or she was probably waiting for them to go away because they weren’t answering the door.

“Joseph?” Rosangela called out.

 “Me. Rosangela,” she clarified.“Who’s askin’?” a man’s Cockney accent responded.

“Me. Rosangela,” she clarified.

There was a pause before the man spoke again, “Cinder?”

Hanzo heard the lock on the other side click and the door slowly creaked open. A young man peered out from behind the door. He had messy brown hair and looked to be in his late 20s. He smelled like marijuana. The man gave Rosangela a dubious look before his eyes widened and a big, toothy grin spread across his face.

“Cindaaaah!” he laughed, flinging the door open and wrapping her in a big hug.

Hanzo backed up a bit, wondering if this was perhaps a significant other.

“Yer back from Overwatch, eh?” Joseph smiled as he pulled away, “You look all cleaned up now! They give ya a nice primp and pedigree there?”

“Glad to see you haven’t changed,” Rosangela smirked, “Still lighting up on Sunday nights,”

“Best night of the week to do it!” he laughed, “Well come on in, a can join us!”

Joseph quickly ushered Rosangela in and Rosangela gestured for Hanzo to follow. He was slowly becoming increasingly worried of what he was walking into. The door led to a dingy basement, furnished with old sofas, a pool table, a bar with nothing but whisky in it, and a corner entirely filled with suspicious-looking crates. Down there was a group of men who all seemed to recognize Rosangela when she came in.

“Cindaaaah!” they all cheered.

“Hey guys,” she blushed at the warm reception.

They all looked totally stoned.

“Cindah’s back!” Joseph cried happily.

“Ok, ok,” she laughed, pulling away from her friend’s tight grip, “Not for very long, I just came by to pick up a few things. Turns out life in Overwatch suits me, and I’ll be moving into the base indefinitely.”

Her friends all let out a collective “aaw” of disappointment and slumped back into their seats.

“Is that why he’s here?” Joseph gave Hanzo a once over.

“Yes,” she nodded, “He’s here to help me move out. I didn’t want to trouble you guys, and it wouldn’t be very nice to ask you to help me move out of your home.”

“Nonsense!” Joseph slurred, “We woulda totally had yer back!”

Rosangela cringed slightly as be practically breathed pot into her face, “P-plus Hanzo is not high at the moment, and I trust he will not drop anything,”

“Eh, true true,” Joseph shrugged, “Look’s like he’s never done a hit in his life,”

“Of course not,” Hanzo finally spoke, his nose crinkling in disgust, “I would never do something so uncouth.”

“Oi, wot!?” Joseph snapped, suddenly dropping his welcoming nature.

Meanwhile his friends were all giggling and elbowing each other on the couches, hoping to see a fight.

“Ah, ah!” Rosangela jumped between the two, “W-we’re not here to fight, we’re just here to grab a few things and then we’ll be going.”

Joseph gave Hanzo a menacing glare for a few moments, which Hanzo gladly returned. Both of them were her friends, but neither of them seemed to like the other’s influence on Cinder.

“Fine,” Joseph spat and went back to his friends, “But next time ya come back, leave yer stuffy Overwatch friends at the door!”

Letting out a frustrated growl, Hanzo moved to fight back, but Rosangela stopped him. She shook her head, and started guiding him to a stairwell. It was dimly lit and had cracks and water stains covering the walls.

“So those are the type you used to associate with?” Hanzo asked with disdain.

Rosangela sighed as she continued her climb upwards, “Beggars can’t be choosers, Hanzo. I was supposed to be dead. I was lucky I had any friends at all.”

That made him feel a little bad for being rude to them…but not by much. They were degenerates, no doubt about it, but they were also Rosangela’s friends and he had just disrespected them right in front of her. The stairwell took them past a lot of doors, many which had no door knobs. It looked like the building used to be a thriving apartment complex, but now it just housed drug dealers. At the top was the door to Cinder’s old flat. Slowly, she took out a rusted key and put it into the lock. Rosangela hesitated a moment before turning the key and opening the door. At first, it was just darkness, until Rosangela turned the lights on.

“Hm. Electricity still works. I wasn’t expecting that,” she mused.

Even though there was electricity, it wasn’t the highest quality. The lights were dim and flickered occasionally in a very irritating manner, barely illuminating the messy room before him. There was an old, shaggy couch in the center of the room, the middle cushion with a large groove worn in it—probably where Cinder used to sit. In front of that was a coffee table littered with an unholy mix of Playboy, Playgirl, and Cat Fancy magazines. There was also a small stack of ashtrays on the coffee table, a few cigarettes rolls of marijuana left over in them.

In front of the coffee table was a small TV that probably didn’t have cable. On one end of the room was a portrait of an older looking gentleman. Hanzo recognized him as an English politician who was often the source of omnic hate in London. Darts were thrown all over the portrait. One in each eye, one in each ear, and the rest scattered all over; a few had even missed and were pinned to the wall next to it.

On the other end of the room was a huge map of King’s Row, almost covering the entire wall floor to ceiling. It had newspaper articles and files pinned all over it with little strings connecting all of them. The perfect planning area for a vigilante-assassin. Right next to the map was a gaping hole in the wall, revealing the wooden beams of the flat.

“I, uh, kicked that hole in the wall,” Rosangela awkwardly pointed to it when she noticed Hanzo’s staring, “I got mad one night.”

By the looks of things, she always was mad. She watched as Hanzo took in his surroundings, seemingly both a little disgusted and shell-shocked at the sight. One of the world’s greatest intellectual’s living in a squalor like this? He couldn’t imagine it. Rosangela, on the other hand, couldn’t help but feel a little ashamed now that he was seeing what she used to live like.

“You wait here,” she excused herself, “I’ll go get my things from my room.”

She hurried off, disappearing down the hall as her boots creaking on the old floorboards. Left to himself now, Hanzo tried to imagine her—Cinder Rose—living in the apartment. She’d be draped over the couch, taking hits of pot with a Playgirl magazine in her lap as she threw darts at the painting at the other end of the room. The TV would be playing the local news, and she’d be listening to it casually, listening for anything new to add to her map. It was strange to think that Rosangela use to be someone like that. She seemed so much different in Overwatch.

Eventually, Hanzo went down the hall, the floorboards squeaking under his feet. There was no lighting in the hallway, so he just followed the light leaking in from the door at the end. He carefully entered Rosangela’s room and found her zipping up her suitcase. She looked up, surprised to see him in there. Her room was strangely empty compared to the living room. All it had was a bed, a boarded up widow, and a desk that looked barely used. The only feature out of place was the stack of empty Valentine’s Day chocolate boxes shoved in the corner of the room.

Rosangela was silent when she saw his face. She knew he was still in disbelief that this was her life once.

“So…This was your home?” he asked cautiously, eyes glued to the floor.

“Not exactly a prestigious family clan,” she chuckled, “But it’s not like my whole life was like this. My childhood was fairly normal.”

“But…” his voice trailed off as he found himself speechless.

Rosangela grimaced. She should have known it would have been too hard for him.

“Everything you see here is exactly how I left it the day I left for Overwatch,” she admitted, “So this is a little taste: a day in the Life of Cinder Rose. Drink and smoke by day, hunt and prey by night. I’m sorry you had to see all this, Hanzo, I-I should have had you wait downstairs.”

“No,” he shook his head, “I’m glad I could see this.”

She gave him a curious look.

“It may be painful, but it was still part of your life,” he mumbled, “I wouldn’t want you to keep this from me.”

Cinder carefully approached him, but Hanzo kept his gaze to the floor.

She stopped in front of him, her auburn eyes trying to meet his desperately, “…Why not?”

At last he looked up at her, but quickly looked away again. It was embarrassing to say and he wasn’t at all used to these sorts of situations.

“I…” he muttered, then suddenly took a deep breath and regained his composure, “…I just wouldn’t want you to suffer in silence.”

But Rosangela just smile and crease her brow, shaking her head. She saw right through him. A red crept onto his face as Hanzo finally looked her in the eye.

“I don’t know why I said that, I…” he tried to explain, but slowly stopped as Rosangela took another step forward.

She had written enough kiss scenes to know where this was going. Now she knew Hanzo’s real feelings for her, they were all alone, and they were very close. All that was left was for him to man up and smooch her.

“Hanzo,” she whispered as her breath mingled with his, “It’s ok. You don’t have to say,”

So he didn’t. He placed his lips over hers and kissed her as hard as he could, his lips practically bruising hers. All that time he restrained and held back was gone now. Rosangela melted right into it, parting her lips and allowing him to deepen the kiss. She paced her hands on his shoulders and let out a small moan. His style of kissing was a little inexperienced and slow for her, but she knew that she held about 5 years of practice over him. So she was patient, and let him move her as slowly as he wanted. But the next move wasn’t one she expected from him. Gently, he moved her over to her old bed, and laid her down on it. Now laying there and feeling his lips on her neck, Rosangela thought that she might stay in her old flat a little longer than she thought.

[rocknutsvibe]

Artist To Watch: King Krule

Archy Marshall was a bit of a teenage prodigy in the U.K., bursting onto the scene in 2010 at the tender age of 16, performing as King Krule, a name taken from a Donkey Kong character. He was compared to a young Billy Bragg, as they both share a thick, Cockney-type accent, but young Marshall relied on a decidedly jazzy sensibility as opposed to Bragg’s folky idioms.

Two things immediately stand out about King Krule. One is his startling voice, a versatile baritone that doesn’t quite seem to fit with his endearingly dorky appearance, like he’s some kind of bizarro Rick Astley. Secondly, the guy can really write, listen for a few seconds to his lyrics and you’ll pull out some interesting beat-poet-inspired wordplay.

This is clearly a very creative artist prepared to stretch out and take some chances. In 2015 he released a much more electronic-based album which had a definite hip hop vibe, and for what it’s worth he caught the attention of Kanye West and Beyonce with it. But the piano and ever-present saxophone, as well as his singing, ensured that it wouldn’t be confused with actual hip hop.

So with his new album The Ooz released just this week, King Krule has upped the ante on his musical adventurousness. Listen to this track “Dum Surfer”, it’s hard to describe but I think it’s bloody amazing and unlike anything I’ve ever heard (but the video is pretty gross if you’re not into the zombie thing). It starts off like Punk Bossa Nova and gets weirder from there. There’s a point where it’s almost like listening to two songs at once, but it’s got a fabulous guitar solo and it settles into a pretty fine groove, all the while spinning a tale like a modern day film noir.

There’s some real originality happening here. This is definitely an artist to watch.

Dum Surfer

Dumb surfer is giving me his cash Won a bet for fifty and now I need a slash Man this band that’s playing, is playing fucking trash Skunk and onion gravy, as my brain’s potato mash He came across the back of a bureaucratic stash Shot the lot for credit and never got it back He’s mashed, I’m mashed, we’re mashed That cat got slashed in half like that As Venus completes orbit, I’m feeling slightly mashed The stir fry didn’t absorb it, I need another slash She spoke in English, it was low lit where we sat Remembering her face but that’s the end of that I’m a step from madness as I puke on pavement slabs Got a bit embarrassed, need to get back to the lab In the debts of traffic, I was feeling like we crashed With a girl from Slovak in a European cab From a set of habits, I can see momentums mashed If we were commuting, this train would fucking crash Now my brain’s diluting with blame and guilt and hash Getting lashed, getting lashed by all of the gods By all of the gods, by all of the gods

[Verse 2] As my brain’s diluting, I suffer from whiplash This girl’s now screaming, I think we’ve gone and crashed The driver’s speaking and the car is still intact It was only minor, well that’s the end of that Girl, that’s the end of that as I know Girl, some things you don’t know

Dumb surfer, don’t suffer Dumb surfer, don’t suffer Dumb surfer, don’t suffer Dumb surfer, don’t suffer Ay, some things won’t change for a while Keep me, keep me as the villain But my prayer, you don’t own

Photo credit: By Henry Laurisch (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://ift.tt/nyd3RQ)], via Wikimedia Commons

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