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a-froger-epic · 4 years ago

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Get out your glitter leotards and pour some champagne in your cat mugs! 🥂 🍾 It’s time to celebrate Freddie! 🎉😸

🎊 Freddie Mercury Weekend 2021 🎊

❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜

ABOUT THE EVENT

This weekend is a content creation event in honour of the man himself, the legend we all love, Freddie Mercury! Once more, everyone who is inspired by Freddie is invited to share their creativity with the fandom. You can write, draw, edit, record, even cross-stitch 😉 content for absolutely anything related to Freddie, any ship, any genre, any way you like. This is an indiscriminately inclusive, positive event. Everyone is welcome, there is no wrong way to be a fan of Freddie! (Except convincing yourself you're dating his ghost maybe. That's pretty wrong. And weird. Don't do that.)

WHEN? On the 21st, 22nd and 23rd of May.

HOW? On the above dates (or after!), post your contributions to the AO3 collection or alternatively on Tumblr, tagged ‘#fmw2021’ or/and ‘#freddie mercury weekend 2021’. If you post on Tumblr, please also tag @a-froger-epic to make sure you get a reblog from me!

❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜

THE PROMPTS

You can be as free with the prompts as you like. They are here to inspire, there is no wrong way to write them! Change them around, mix them up, make them fem!Freddie, A/B/O, add your favourite ship. Anything goes! 😊

21st of May - 500-1000 word challenge!

We’re kicking off the event with ficlets and drabbles. First time writer just testing the waters? No need for an epic, just write a scene! No time to write but you want to participate? Surely you’ll find time for 500 words! 😉 Interpret these mini-prompts however you like (every one is a separate prompt, but you can combine them!):

Make-Up 💄 | Pain/Pleasure 👀

Strip 👕 | Ring 💍

Forbidden 🤫 | Delilah 🐈

Piano 🎹 | Dormitory 🛏

Outrageous 🎉 | Contentment 😌

Come Together 🎇 | Ballet 🩰

Piece of Art 🎨 | Leather 🧥

Cockring 🐔 | Kimono 👘

Petals 🌸 | Leotard 🕺🏻

Mustache 🧔 | Last Time 😔

22nd of May - Is This The Real Life?

A list of real event/canon timeline prompts from Freddie’s life. How real you want to keep them, however, is entirely up to you!

Down in flames

Freddie is 16 years old when he leaves boarding school. Does it have something to do with the school gardener, Sanjay? Did he flunk his exams or did he not even sit them? Is one thing connected to the other? Does he really find a boyfriend when he goes to stay with his aunt in Mumbai (then Bombay)? Either way, there’s the small matter of his parents finding out about all of it... (Sources: x x )

When Freddie met Kenny

Freddie is a guest on Kenny Everett's radio show in spring 1974. Freddie is living with Mary, Kenny is married. Two gay men, deep in the closet. To no one's surprise, they hit it off immediately. (Source: x )

But when did he?

At some point during his relationship with Mary, prior to his relationship with David, Freddie had already begun sleeping with men. But how and when did that first happen? Cottaging in London? On tour somewhere in the world? Your guess is as good as ours…

Flying High

Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll. Like all rock bands of their time, Queen doesn’t escape the copious amounts of cocaine in the entertainment industry for long. Somewhere on tour in America, perhaps, Freddie is first introduced to it. Where? How?

Hide your tears

Jim said that he tried to be strong for Freddie and only cried in private, so as not to burden Freddie with his feelings. But this time, he is found.

One-liners:

In 1969, Freddie doesn’t know how to cook an egg and neither does Roger (Source: x )

In 1977, Freddie meets Joe while on tour in Boston and starts dating him behind David's back

In 1990, Brian and Freddie work on 'The Show Must Go On' (Source: x )

In a year of your choice, Jim reminisces about his fondest moment(s) with Freddie

In 1976, Freddie and Mary end their relationship

In 1984, Winnie gives Freddie a wedding ring (middle of the post: x )

In the late 60s, Freddie agrees to model for an Ealing Art School fashion show, but panics and flees the runway (Source: x )

In 1974, Freddie is strip-searched upon arrival in Australia (Source: x )

In 1982, Freddie and Roger go shopping in Amsterdam (Source: x )

In 1978, Freddie swings from a chandelier - naked (Source: x )

23rd of May - Is It Just Fantasy?

A list of AU prompts to spark your imagination. Take them and run with them or change them up, just have fun!

Make your dreams come true

Freddie hasn't been very fortunate in his life, until he finds a very special oil lamp, and rubs it just the right way.

Beautiful stranger

Freddie meets an alluring stranger at a masquerade ball, who has more secrets than he can hide behind a mask. But Freddie has some of his own.

Thicker than water

Freddie agrees to a dreadful fate in order to save his little sister from the very same. Fortunately, he has friends who are more than willing to help him, but can they? Or are they, too, in danger?

Diamonds are a boy's best friend

Freddie is the prized jewel of the court, a skilled belly-dancer and entertainer, but he may also be plotting murder and getting away with it.

Almost Real

In a distant future, humans have all but done away with face to face interaction. Humanity largely lives online. Children grow up isolated and live with only their families well into young adulthood. Cybersex is the new normal, although some families take a puritanical approach for fear of addiction. One day, impossibly, a real life young man falls through the containment field in Freddie’s back garden.

One-liners:

This plane is going to crash (Freddie knew there was a reason he hated flying)

Shipwrecked on an island (Freddie could never bear to be alone, but luckily/unfortunately for him…)

Hunger Games AU (Freddie is so dead)

A terrible road accident (Everyone is so dead, or are they?)

Blind Date AU (Freddie's best friend is so dead for setting him up with this person… or are they…)

Bank robbery (but who are the robbers and who are the hostages?)

Magic AU ("Yer a wizard, Freddie!")

Film Noir AU (Secrets and cigarette holders)

Interior Design AU (Does the carpet match the drapes?)

The Bodyguard AU (“And I will always love yooouuuu…”)

❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜

RULES & FAQ

⛔ Strictly No Hate ⛔

This is the NUMBER ONE RULE of the event, to ensure that everybody feels safe. No rudeness, provocations or hate aimed at creators or other commenters will be permitted, not on AO3 nor Tumblr.

Follow these steps if you receive a comment or ask that distresses you:

Do not engage. (You can take a screenshot as proof.)

Delete it. No ifs, no buts. Just delete it. (Don’t hesitate to block anon hate on Tumblr.)

Alert me ( @a-froger-epic ) or @aboutnothingness, who is lending me a hand to make sure all needs are attended, all questions are answered and everything runs smoothly. We are here to actively support you. We’ve got your back, and we will gladly talk to you and help you feel better.

If you choose to ignore this rule, your work may be removed from the event. We would hate to resort to that.

But what if one of the works has upset me?

Can the thing that upset you be tagged, but it wasn’t? Then please inform @a-froger-epic or @aboutnothingness, and we will bring it to the creator’s attention. (Remember to use the appropriate tags, everybody!)

Was the thing that upset you already tagged? Or is it perhaps simply the characterisation you find disagreeable? Then we suggest you click on the ‘back’ button, take a deep breath and remind yourself it's just fanfic.

Who can participate?

Anyone who is inspired by Freddie Mercury in any way shape or form. This event is open to all.

Can I combine prompts from different days?

By all means! We look forward to your futuristic Freddie-gets-kicked-out-of-boarding-school Maycury Film Noir AU. With leotards. Go crazy.

I'm not sure where my creation fits in, what day do I post it?

The days, like the prompts, are only suggestions. We don't mind when you post it, as long as you post it! Even if it's two weeks late!

Help, I've never posted fic before!

Don't worry, we've got you! (And more importantly, we've got AO3 invites!) @aboutnothingness is more than happy to walk you through the process of setting up an account and is also offering her services as a beta.

I’m still too nervous to participate!

You can post anonymously to the collection. You can disable anon comments on your work. You can disable comments entirely and just collect the kudos. You can close anon asks on Tumblr temporarily. But most importantly, we are here for you and we want you here!

❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜

“I love the fact that I make people happy, in any form. Even if it’s just half an hour of their lives, in any way that I can make them feel lucky or make them feel good, or bring a smile to a sour face, that to me is worthwhile.”

- Freddie Mercury

#Freddie Mercury Weekend 2021 #FMW2021 #freddiemercuryweekend2021 #fandom event #Queen fandom #Freddie Mercury #it's here!#REBLOG REBLOG REBLO-

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cherryplasmids · 5 years ago

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☆ the lives you’ve left behind ☆

pairing: donny donowitz x reader

fandom: inglourious basterds—post-movie sequence

anon request: hi girl! i love your writing and i was wondering if you still write for donny donowitz? if you do i was wondering if you could do an angsty one? that's all i ask, you could take that and run with it however :)

notes: the reader has a kid — aldo is referred to the reader’s child as ‘uncle’ but that doesn’t mean they are actually related. also, aldo is married to a girl name jenny

— the child is a boy named Alex for filler purposes

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"That's your daddy," You whisper, pulling the tiny bundle of joy closer to your chest.

The infant, swaddled in a pale yellow blanket decorated with small brown bears, yawns but does not take notice of your words. Instead, Alex twists, stretches his arms out and settles back onto your chest. Without a care in the world, he just relaxes in the warmth that you've given him. An inkling of envy flashes through you—you would do anything to be that carefree again. But the war ruined everything, including your unbridled youthful attitude.

"Handsome, isn't he?" You question as if the little one will respond. You'd be more scared than anything if he does. You wave the 4x6 photo forward to entice your baby to look. "The most handsome man I've ever seen. Everyone thinks so too, even your uncle Aldo but he won't admit to that.

"But don't worry, baby. You'll be just as handsome and charming as your old man was."

As if he understands, the boy babbles happily, spit freely spilling over his lips and onto his cheeks. Grabbing a Kleenex from the bedside table, you wipe his face. It doesn't deter him. He continues to express his enjoyment through spit bubbles and random giggling. Your heart swells at the sight—his happiness contagious enough to erase your woes for the night.

When the sun rises, you'll tell Aldo all about the affection your newborn has been showing. He'll run down the street to coddle his nephew.

You don't continue until your baby boy calms down enough to the point where spit no longer seeps out of his mouth. By then, sleepiness is taking hold of him. He gives out a deep yawn. One of his tiny hands grips your right thumb while the other curls into a fist and rubs his eyes. A smile quirks at your lips. You take that as a sign to turn in.

“I’ll tell you about your daddy’s love for baseball tomorrow okay? I’ll even show you his prized baseball cards. but you can’t tell him or he’ll have my head.”

He’s knocked out by the time you lay him down. You pray he’ll sleep through the night, allowing you to earn to some much-needed shut-eye he’s deprived you of for months. After tucking him in, you tuck the photo of Donny under his pillow. You press a gentle kiss on his forehead, whisper a few sweet words to him, and then glide out of the room, leaving the door ajar in case he wails for your attention. You make do with this system until Jenny, Aldo's wife, takes you shopping for a baby monitor. She knows a lot more about baby care than you do.

Sleepiness is taking you hostage too with a yawn escaping your lips every 1-2 minutes but you had housework to complete before the morning arrives. Mostly just clearing out boxes of gifts the Donowitz family had sent from Boston. Some of them were open, others weren’t. Gifts like a microwave or other kitchenware were left in their respective box. You’ll deal with those on a later date.

There’s one box, though, that remains sealed. You inspect the plain cardboard container and see a word written across one side in neat cursive. But it isn’t the penmanship that has you gasping and dropping the box in shock.

No, it’s the word 'Donny' labeled across the surface that does.

It takes a moment or two for you to shake off the shock and another to get down to the ground. Sitting cross-legged, you stare at the box as if something will pop out and yell “surprise”—a harmful prank that will send you wailing for something you no longer had.

The knife seamlessly glides across the tape and you wonder when you reached for a knife in the first place. Your body is moving on its own accord without a thought concerning your mental wellbeing. While your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage, your hands steadily tear open the cardboard overlaps.

Taking a deep breath, you open the flaps and find a single sheet of paper covering the rest of the objects. It reads “for my darling daughter, with much love.” It’s signed “Mama Donowitz”.

Underneath the letter reveals a boatload of miscellaneous items from Donny's youth that he's shown to you with pride. His prized Lefty Grove signed baseball, favorite Wrigley's chewing gum, and his worn and torn favorite baseball glove stood out the most. Little things like that made you grin to the point where your cheeks reached your eyes. Anecdotes of Donny's childhood run through your mind—his voice echoing pure excitement. You take your time admiring each item, trying to permanently engrave them into your memory just like you had with his stories.

Then you find Donny's baby socks, embroidered with his name in red string. All resolve you bottled up for months disappeared instantly. You completely crumble.

You press the little socks to your chest as tears freely stream down your face and onto your neck, coating the bare skin with liquid. A wail bubbles up within you, crawling up your throat at a steady pace. But when you open your mouth to scream, nothing comes out. It dies in your throat. The only effort you can commit to is to rock back in forth, allowing sobs to shake your body. If someone saw you, they might have thought you were convulsing. They might have even called the ambulance.

The sobs don’t stop until hours later. By the time your heart calms down from its burning thrum, exhaustion envelops you.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Aldo kicks some dirt on the side of the road while lighting up a Chesterfield. It doesn't take long for him to reach your house since it's down the road. He checks his wristwatch before knocking on the front door. He has about 45 minutes to meet Jenny at the factory. He'll spend 15 minutes here for coffee before leaving. You always made better coffee than his wife.

After some knocking and no response, Aldo takes it upon himself to check through the windows. Most of them are covered by curtains but the window facing the breakfast table isn't. He peers through, searching for you and his nephew wrapped in your arms.

Instead, he finds you on the floor with no baby in sight.

Aldo runs to the back door and searches for the hidden key. Besides the backdoor, he digs under the false rock where he remembered he put. It’s gone. The Chesterfield falls into the hole. He crushes it out and fixes the dirt on top. As an act of impulse, he stands up, goes to the backdoor, and punches out the small window panels on the door. The glass breaks easily and shards pierce his hand just as smoothly. Just glancing at it, he can tell his flesh is free from any lingering shards. A clean slice on his wrist bleeds moderately.

He reaches on the opposite side of the door and tugs at the locks. Not a second later, the door slams open, and you shoot up in an upright position.

Immediately, a fury of questions spews out of Aldo's lips, blending together and becoming unintelligible to your groggy brain.

"Is it morning already? I swear I took a five-minute na—" You see Aldo's bleeding hand and gasp, reaching out to inspect his wound. Your current position on the floor completely escaping you for a moment. Aldo lets you worry for right now.

You drag him up to the sink and run his hand over the open water. "Will I be alright, doc?" His odd accent leaves a few letters out. It reminds you of someone you try not to think about. "Ain't seen such a wound since the war."

Briefly glancing at him, he throws a wink and you gratefully smile. "You're the bane of my existence." You take his hand out of the water to wrap it in a big Band-Aid. It has crude miniature drawings of Mickey Mouse that make Aldo question them. "Just in case either your kids or mine get hurt, they'll immediately cheer up at seeing Mickey. Band-Aid should really invest in designing their product. Who knows how much money they could make?"

Aldo agrees as you finish. "You'll see another day, lieutenant"

He crookedly grins at you and thanks you for your service. You offer him some coffee which he enthusiastically agrees too. He checks his watch as he sits down at the breakfast table. Jenny will have his head if he's late. But he doesn't worry too much about that. She'll understand once he explains what happened.

"Mind tellin’ me why I caught a heart attack on this fine Thursday mornin’? Findin’ you sprawled out like freshly ran over roadkill?"

"Disgusting, Aldo." You say while passing him his mug of coffee. You turn around to fix yourself a toasted bagel with cream cheese. "I guess I was so tired last night that I fell asleep sorting out the gifts." You lazily wave your hand at the unsorted boxes on the floor.

Aldo walks over to the opened box in the middle of the kitchen and grabs the socks you dropped hours ago. He looks them over and notices a letter embroidered on the top. 'D' in red thread.

"Those are Donny's." You confirm. Aldo meets your glazed gaze.

Aldo sucks in a quick breath. It finally clicks in his head. Jenny will understand.

“Darlin—" You look up at him with such a depressed expression that immediately shuts him up. All he does is gather you in his arms and rests his chin on your head.

He hears you mumble something about how small Donny's feet were before you silently cry into his chest.

After a few seconds, Aldo's cheeks become wet with his own tears as he mourns over not only his friend but the lives he left behind.

────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

word count: 1,661 published: august 21, 2020 edited: n/a

#donny #donny x reader #Donny Donowitz #sgt donny donowitz #donny donowitz fanfiction #donny donowitz x reader #donny donowitz imagine #inglorious basterds #inglourious basterds x reader #inglourious basterds imagine #inglourious basterds fanfiction #x reader #imagines #eli roth #my writing #fanfiction #anon requests

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wickednerdery · 5 years ago

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Title: Out of Time Author: @wickednerdery Fandom: Marvel Pairing/character: Loki x Stark!OC Rating: FRC Summary: “I’m always VIP.” Notes: So I found this gif on Google - if it’s yours, I’m happy to credit - and it inspired this idea where Loki (after escaping with the Tesseract in Endgame, perhaps?) ends up in a strange cyberpunk/futuristic Earth. No idea if I’ll continue this or what, but it HAD to come out, lol!

Chapter 2

The Midgard he arrived at was not the one he left. It was older, wilder, both brighter and darker in turn. Loki shifted into Midgardian garb before approaching a main street, nothing looking familiar. The cars ran on their own, machines walked alongside mortals, and the sky above was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.

“Hey, you lookin’ to jive?” A man asks from behind leopard-printed leather mask.

Loki takes the other in fully. Boots, hooded jumpsuit to match the leopard-print mask, and wild burgundy mohawk. The lights at the knuckles of his gloves alternate between red and yellow as he closes fist, then glow pure yellow across the board as a small, square, tab appears from between two fingers.

“Three million credits.” Heterochromatic eyes smile. “Thirteen million for VIP.”

“I’m always VIP.” Loki waves his hand, the man switches a plain white plastic bit for a red one, stamped with golden mask. “Now, tell me more about this ‘jive’.”

“Ms Stark! Ms Stark!!” The crowds, press and plebeians both, call for her as she steps from black auto-motive. Some cheer in excitement, telling her they love her. Others scream in tirades, declare her a “Tuhao war bitch”. Interviewers ask about men, women, freedom versus security, and her thoughts on Stark technology used to hold down the lower class.

“Sorry, no questions this evening. Not for Ms Stark anyway.” The voice of her car is that of her ancestor. Red lines blaze from head and tail lights, demarcating a barrier and allowing her to carry on into the museum unaccosted. “But I’d be more than happy to answer some, maybe take any praise you have for her.”

Once away from the masses, Ana tugs at the collar of her cocktail dress. It unravels gold, falling to the floor as a gown for the evening. Simple trick really, more to do with sewing than technology, but it never fails to turn heads. “Tony...” she smiles. “Don’t get yourself a parking ticket talking to all your fans.”

“Of course not, when have I ever done that?” The auto replies in her ear.

“Last week? That time in Tokyo...that other time in Mumbai.”

“Okay, okay, point made. I’m out.”

Ana chuckles as car tires screech away in the distance. She carries on, men stepping aside with bowing heads to let her in. Her name is a whisper of reverence on their lips. Upon entering the exhibit turned ballroom people catch sight of her and begin to applaud.

“Ladies and gentleman, CEO of Stark International, chairperson of the Avengers Youth of America, and head of Earth’s Legion of Scientific Security...Ms Ana Roget Stark!” In the official announcement by the museum’s spokesperson the applause rises in volume and gusto.

Loki looks up, drink in hand, with interest. Stark? His lips curl in amused interest. He scans the crowd, then moves his focus back to her. Like the Stark he knows, she’s wholly confident and reveling in the face of adulation. While more polite, her smile indicates she believes herself worthy of the love she receives.

Her eyes scan from the balcony, land on the mysterious man in black. When he lifts his glass in notable salute, her brow goes up a fraction. Then she turns to the museum head. “Yes, yes, thank you for that...way too impressive introduction. I really would have just settled for Nobel prize winning person of the century.” She laughs, all but Loki join in. “My great-grandfather, Anthony Stark, unknowingly started this museum when he passed, leaving behind his suits and prototypes in the workshop of Stark Tower. Some still unfinished, some ready for mass production to make the world safe in his absence. They were able to be preserved and, yes, even improved upon as this place was created around them. As much as the Starks may have given to this museum, it gave back to the world. It is a sprawling testament of technology and innovation, of how far we have come and how far we can go. I thank all of you, each and every one, for your commitment to science, to knowledge, and to this museum in particular. I encourage you to continue that commitment tonight at the auction and in going forward with your donations.” Her eyes return to the man whose eyes never left her. “Thank you for coming, I look forward to speaking with you all before the night is over.”

Loki does not approach the lithe beauty with his enemy’s name, but his eyes do not leave her either. She swans about the room with the same confidence as the Stark he knows, but her manner is more delicate. She uses more deference in approaching others, is more flattering toward them than herself. Her show is alluring, appealing, boarding on arrogant but never crossing the line. Yet, when she does finally approach him, her manner changes.

“So, how did you do it?” She’s direct, no longer glad-handing, but nevertheless rapt with anticipation as she sits beside him at a table. “Cyber worm? Reverse engineering? Or did you figure out the sequence and use the key-code?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s no clue what she’s talking about, can’t even think how to answer.

Ana’s face falls to disappointment bordering on annoyance. “You bought it pre-rigged. Figures. I send out a golden ticket and people can only think about the quick buck.” She sighs, starts to get up. “I hope this was worth whatever the invite cost you, because it’s all you get. I don’t have time for fans.”

“Wait.” His hand flies out, takes hold of wrist.

She twists free, grabs his wrist in retaliation, and hits him with 75,000 volts via taser ring worn on her middle finger. She keeps hold until he’s limp, then releases and lets him tip over the table like a drunk. “Security, toss the lump in black at table 17.” Frustrated at her failed test, done with the night, Ana heads out a discreet side door that leads to the rest of the museum.

Looking over the reconstruction of the late Tony Stark’s penthouse Ana sighs. This is still where she feels most at home. Here and her own workshop, but she’s no mind for innovation right now. “How did you do it? How did you keep going?” She asks her ancestor aloud. Failures didn’t bother her, they were always part of success. It’s lack of momentum that drives her to darkness, to the functional bar where she pours two fingers of old school whiskey.

“You are a Stark.” Loki, in more regal and battle-ready gear, stands before the screen display of old New York. “Though a far fairer one, to be sure.” He winks, laughs when glass drops, shattering at her feet.

“Who are you?” Hand goes to her ear first, patching her into Tony, then the ruby and gold bracelet. She rubs it, anxious. “Oscorp? Stane International? Yak?” Ana takes him in, his new suit and the wild glint in his eye. “Or are you one of the anarchists? AIM? One of those anti-techs groups?”

He laughs. “Oh no, I’m my own man, Ms Stark. I don’t follow, I am followed.”

“Well, you have my attention, Mr...Mystery Man. What do you want?”

Loki hadn’t thought that far ahead. He’s merely intrigued by her, by wherever, whenever, he’s arrived.

“Really? I give you the floor and you stand mute?” Ana smirks. “Fascinating...and pointless. Thanks for the disruption and broken glass.” She starts to make another drink.

“Not curious how I got here then?”

“Only when you plan on leaving.” New glass in hand she heads out of the exhibit. She sees a biohazard symbol swimming across a fully masked face, hears the huff of the silencer, and feels the world slip past her as she goes down.

In a flick of his wrist Loki blasts the man through the wall, rushes to Ana as her gold dress goes red, then black, with blood. He gets arms under before her head hits the floor. “You’re not allowed to die until I wish it.” He watches her eyes widen in surprise, as if she didn’t expect him to be real.

“H-How...noble...” She snarks through the blooming pain, her world going dark as the mystery man’s suit.

So...that’s everything I have that’s clear in my mind for this right now, haha! Like, I know that Ana lives and all, but I’m not sure after that. I’ve some options: Loki leaves her to recover and stalks her from afar, Loki brings her back to her home and keeps her semi-captive there, Loki leaves her, but she seeks him out in gratitude and interest. ...But, even then, unsure of the sweeping story - is there a set enemy to go against together? Do they become enemies themselves? Or is this more of a romance? Is there more time travel?? So many questions/ideas, not enough determined yet, lol!

I’ll take suggestions though, haha!! 😉

Side Notes: Tuhao is a Chinese term referring to people of wealth. By “jive” the guy means party, in general. The description of the sky is a pull from William Gibson’s Neuromancer (awesome book!). The groups Ana lists are all from Marvel, all enemies of Iron Man in one way or another. And, yes, her self-driving car has the voice and personality of Tony Stark - he is her main AI, just as JARVIS and FRIDAY were Tony’s.

Tagging: @lady-crowned-with-stars, @beccaliciooouuusss, gravitational-anomaly, @fuckthatfeeling, @v-2bucky, @ultrarebelheart, @tarithenurse @latent-thoughts @chibiyanai @lukeevansandjdmobession @sweetfictionalworld @ladyfluff ...And I legit don’t know who else to tag anymore lol

#loki #fanfiction #tony stark #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #marvel cinematic universe #stark!oc #plot bunny #cyberpunk #come and play with me #my writing #not my gif

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moonraccoon-exe · 6 years ago

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You know what sorta people I don’t understand, and I’ve seen a lot lately?

The ones that comment...unrelated things under an artwork? Idk how to explain it, but it’s like, not hate, not intentionally or straight attacking the artwork itself, but still...off comments.

The sort like, to recall some I’ve seen lately, it’s a super phenomenal artwork and someone goes

“I’m not even in the fandom or have ever played this game or anything related so what is this, is he upside down? where’s that hair coming from? WTF is that? how does this work?”

like...?? thanks for your unnecessary contribution? that was not hurtful at all please tell me more of how you don’t know the context but you’re still around not understanding this haha thank you, much useful very feedback!

Or it’s a super good artwork of a ship and someone goes

“But imagine (this other ship of this other unrelated different fandom)”

Like. Good? I gUESS? tha...n...ks...?

“this character and I share birthday”

Like. Cool jeremy but. the artwork. Did you like it? Did you not like it? Good thing to know you share a birthday but. Why not make your own post? Or why here and not via chat? WHY HERE? WHY NECESSARILY HERE?

“The artstyle reminds me of X which I didn’t like”

THEN WHY ARE YOU COMMENTING JUST SCROLL PAST IT

I mean I get it if it’s shitposting...and sometimes not even then because that’s how unrelated some comments are, but I’ve seen this happen in a lot of stunning, prize-worthy artworks that must have taken so much time & effort & passion & skill, and there’s still comments like

“Idk what fandom this is” “his arm looks like a lamp lol” “this reminds me of this other unrelated thing” “why in the last panel does he turn into his younger self lol” “the character depicted and I sleep in the same pose lol” “idk who the characters are” “it’s 3 am i’m making waffles and I see this lol” “I never share things like this” “my school has a chalkboard that looks identical!” “i have a sweater like that lmao” “something similar happened to me except it was this and that instead of that” “this looks like *this other artist* style” “When I first looked at it I thought it was this other fandom but then I saw it was not! :(” Or like

*super emotional, incredibly beautiful, detailed, stunningly colored wordless comic depicting a heartbreaking scene*

“this isn’t accurate because the real life actor doesn’t like burger king”

Like??? COOL, I guESS katherine but was that comment necessary? Was it. Was it...ultimately NECESSARY, do you believe in your heart, deep in your soul itself, if you sit and thoroughly think it through and come to the conclusion that yes, it is ultimately necessary that you HAD to say it even though there’s no way the artist can answer because you’re not saying something...anything related at ALL?

Like, you don’t need to praise it with a whole paragraph, but even just a ‘cool!’ or ‘nice!’ does WONDERS to the artists’ self-esteems, but when you go “this isn’t my fandom” there’s...?? no way the artist can know if you liked it? disliked it? Say SORRY? Link you to something you actually like? WHAT DO YOU WANT ARTHUR, WHAT IS IT, HOW IS THAT COMMENT ANSWER-ABLE OR RELATED AT ALL?

I don’t say people can’t share their experiences or thoughts, you know I’m fan number 1 of commenting in creators’ works AND expressing everything you want to express, but there are comments that are COMPLETELY unnecessary, unrelated, and that can come off as hurtful for the artist.

Express every thought, feeling, experience you want to share, you say everything you want to say. But learn that there are places and people to tell them to. The limit of your freedom to express yourself ends where the line of respect for the other person starts. It’s not “stop commenting personal things, nobody cares” because yes, we care, some of us care. But tell those things to the people you know care, not under an artwork that the artist posted purposefully expecting people of the fandom to say something about the content itself because why else would they create something and share it if not to see what people think about it? If they wanted to know an unrelated story they would ask for it or make another post.

Wanna share an experience unrelated to the art, go make your own post, or hit someone up on DMs, show them the work and then make your comment to THEM to spare the artist from this, because they just want one person to say one word about their artwork, not completely unrelated comments that don’t even acknowledge the artwork at all like it’s less than a lamppost in the background. Why drop the comment under the artwork to no one other than the artist when you KNOW the artist has no clue what you’re talking about and when you’re not saying one single word about the art at all?

You don’t go to a violin solo concert, then go tell the violinist about how a dog was running outside when you arrived, they made that presentation to be the protagonist for once, can you please not....just...can you please. NOT? You don’t go see your friend act in the theatre play they rehearsed for months, the entries are free because they’re starting and want their work to be to everyone’s reach so it can be known because it isn’t yet, and then after two hours of watching your friend gifting you their years or months of work and passion and effort, the first and ONLY thing you tell them when they come off stage expecting to know if you liked it is “I have the same shirt you know”. You. DON’T.

Like, it’s cool to know you saw this at 2 am or that your bird scared you when you were seeing it or that you have slippers that look like the background’s stuffed toy or that you sleep like the character, it’s super cool much interesting haha 10/10 BUT DID YOU LIKE THE FUCKING ARTWORK, DID YOU AT LEAST LOOK AT IT?

The artists put a lot of their time and best skills and effort and so much heart into what they’re doing, and you come up with an unrelated comment that in many cases YES, THEY COME OFF AS HURTFUL. Express impressions, feelings that came out thanks to the artwork, thoughts on what you think about it, but the unrelated comments are just unnecessary. Not your fandom, not your ship, don’t know what’s going on, THEN FUCKING SCROLL PAST IT, or at least say something on the visuals if you want to support the artist!

Nobody gets any useful knowledge when you comment under an art “I don’t know the characters”. Well the artist does, that’s why they drew it you piece of unflavored discount cracker. Be nice to artists, if you don’t know the fandom or ship, praise the visuals, if you don’t like the visuals fucking scroll past it, why do some people have to stop and comment an unrelated, totally off, not helpful (not even in a bad way), not answer-able thing?

OR DON’T SAY ANYTHING DAMMIT. UNRELATED COMMENTS ARE AS BAD AS HATE-BASED COMMENTS, but at least hate could be replied to in a logical way.

Hate at least acknowledges the art and is most times based on envy. Unrelated comments dismiss the artwork like it it doesn’t matter, like nobody cares, like it doesn’t exist. Which, in my experience in life, hurts more than being hated. So just. Don’t.

If you’re not going to be grateful, then at least be respectful.

#coonrants #coontalks #lmao i'm sorry please don't attack me. I've just seen it so much more frequently than usual and I feel terrible for the artists #They work so hard...they put so much effort and passion and love and care into it...they create something from deep within their hearts #and peopel come up with comments that are '....' at best and hurtful at worst and most of the times #Like. HOW DIFFICULT IS IT TO SCROLL PAST SOMETHING YOU DON'T KNOW RO DON'T LIKE #IT'S NOT THAT DIFFICULT BARBARA PLEASE GO SIT DOWN NOBODY CARES #i tried very hard to not say 'nobody cares' but really even to myself...and a lot of you know me very well #extra hyper patient turbo patient like you won't know someone more patient than this moonie raccoonie #but even i have read comments that make me have that sensation of nobody cares #*masterpiece and jewel of an artwork* *someone has to go make some unrelated comment*#they make me have the full sensation of the sentence neville no offense but i really don't care #also please correct me if i'm morally wrong...i may be skipping something that i didn't think about so i'm sorry if this is offensive or #wrong. Please do correct me if you think it's necessary. I'm open to change for the better #but yes long story short be nice to creators and if your comment doesn't help neither for good or bad then just. Shh quiet you little bird #somebody once said it right? Forgot the person but the quote was more or less like 'if what you're going to say won't help make any #improvement...then don't say it'#but yes i've been having this in my chest for so long and two artists specifically who have made either the most emotional pieces i've #ever seen in my life or the most mindblowingly detailed have had this. So far only one has complained so far I'm aware #but that an artist doesn't complain doesn't mena THEY'RE NOT READING /AND FEELING/ U DISCOUNT CRACKERS #i've never understood...why it is so hard to be good to others. Or why we're so selfish everything we want to talk we make it about ourselve #acknowledge others. Loneliness is a fucker. Don't throw it at others by taking their spotlight to yourself. MAke others feel known #Feel known. Feel seen. If you won't appreciate them then just let them know they're acknowledged.#don't make anyone feel like a ghost. Especially not a creator because they take part of themselves and add something beautiful to #this ugly world...and yet we're brave enough to dismiss them as unimportant. Great. Speaks fantastic about humankind #Also I promise I'm back...just gimme time before starting to reply and post again ahahah ;w;

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twinkletoes-rp · 5 years ago

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Princess Tutu College AU Ch. 1 - “First Position”

Title: Of Fairy Tales and Ballet Shoes Fandom: Princess Tutu Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship. Romance, Rivals, Enemies to Friends to Lovers Rating: T (to be safe) Relationships: Ahiru/Fakir, Background Mytho/Rue Characters: Ahiru, Fakir, Rue, Mytho Words: 4,078

(Can also read on FFN | AO3 | Next)

Summary: College AU. Ahiru is the worst dancer at Gold Crown Fine Arts College, and her rival and accidental roommate, Fakir, never fails to let her know. But words can hurt more than anything, especially when hearing them from all sides, and after nearly losing Ahiru for good, he knows he needs to make things right. Resolving to help her catch up in her classes and even teach her some more advanced moves for good measure, they eventually become friends. The question is, just how close can they become?

“You’ll never be good enough to get in the advanced class if you can’t even get the basics down.”

Ahiru bristles, gritting her teeth and narrowing her eyes. She knows that voice…

Turning around, her shaky fourth position practice forgotten, she clenches her fists and growls at the older boy who’s come her way. “What do you know, Fakir? Just because you’re in the advanced class, it doesn’t mean you know everything!”

He huffs a laugh, glaring down at her. “I know more than you ever will.”

“So? That doesn’t mean I can’t be as good as you someday!” She pokes his chest. “You’ll see! One day, I’ll even beat you and become the best dancer this school’s ever seen!”

He scoffs, looking away from her like he can’t stand the sight of her anymore, arms crossed over his chest. “Right. Keep dreaming, Little Duck.” With that, he turns to walk away, throwing over his shoulder at the last minute, “If you want to keep staying after class for the rest of your college career, be my guest.”

Ahiru is left squawking after him, clenching her fists even harder in her fury before she throws all her frustration into practicing even harder than she was before. Stupid Fakir! What does he know anyway? She’ll show him! She’ll show all the other students who laugh at her and call her names behind her back – and even the ones who don’t believe in her to her face, like Lilie and Pique!

What was he even doing here anyway? His advanced class ended way before now. The sun is going down. Did he get back to their dorm and see she wasn’t there, so went to go look for her? Why would he do that? He knows her dance instructors usually force her to stay behind to catch up to the others. Her clumsiness and, well, natural inaptitude for such graceful activities don’t exactly cut her any breaks in the Dance Major department, particularly not the Ballet Division.

He’s always like this, though, so she shouldn’t be surprised. Always being mean for no reason, insulting her dancing and putting her down, always making her feel like she can’t do anything. She doesn’t think he knows that last part, but still. She always fights back against it, of course, always tells him he’s wrong, always twists it so it makes her feel more determined and hopeful than before. But lately…

Lately, she doesn’t know why, but it’s been bothering her more and more. She’s steadily felt a lot less enthusiastic, a lot less focused in class, a lot more confused and sad and…wondering if this really is the best path for her. Pique, Lilie, Rue, and Mytho have all been worried about her, the former two not grinding on her as much and the latter two trying to cheer her up and help her out where they can. She’s pretty sure she’s even overheard Rue and Mytho telling Fakir to be nicer, too.

Honestly, it probably wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t roommates on top of everything – which, actually, was all a huge accident in itself. According to the Rooming Committee, Gold Crown Fine Arts College had been so flooded with applications this year (more than they’d ever had, like magic!) and Ahiru’s handwriting had been so terrible, in all the confusion, they’d thought she was a boy and put her in the boys’ dorm. By the time they’d realized their mistake, the other students had already been sorted and refused to relocate, so…here they are. It’s already almost eight months into the school year at this point, so while she might be able to find someone willing to switch by now…really, it’s so late, she doesn’t see much of a point. She’d probably have better luck just waiting until this year’s over and finding a new roommate ASAP once the new term starts.

But still, going home to face him every day is…not one of her favorite things. It’s not for her neighbors either. She’s sure the Rooming Committee’s gotten so many complaints about their loud arguments that they’d kill to have one of them switch. But coupled with the timing, she’s stubborn as hell and hopes he’ll change someday, that she can change him by at least making him acknowledge her and see that she can do this, that she can be a great dancer like she dreams! (In her heart, she wants…to dance like him…!)

And yet, she still does. She goes home and studies in her room, eats the food he makes for her (because, in his words, ‘if he doesn’t, she’ll forget to eat like a moron’), cleans up the dishes and pots and all because it’s the nice thing to do, and she does her best to stay out of his way. When they do talk, they mostly end up fighting.

The thing that confuses her the most about Fakir, though, is that she knows he isn't really as mean as he wants people to think. She's seen his softer side, what she thinks is the real him, a few times.

Once, when she had a really bad fever and was too dizzy and woozy to even think of getting out of bed, he made her soup, got her water, helped her to the bathroom, and made the trek back from classes throughout the day to check up on her. He probably thinks she was too feverish to remember it, but she does. Another time, she heard some jealous upperclassmen talking badly about him and called them out, only to get some nasty bruises and cuts for her trouble. He carried her home and patched her up rather expertly (thanks to years of practice with Mytho as his adoptive brother, she supposes). When she cried and cried because someone stole her prized possession, a necklace with a pretty red pendant she'd had since she was a little girl, he somehow got it back and returned it to her (with mysteriously bruised knuckles...). And once, when she found him crying after a bad one-off fight with what sounded like his father, all he did was say she caught him at a bad time and hug her tightly, like she was the only thing keeping him afloat right then. She still doesn’t know why he did that instead of telling her to leave. She tried to ask how he was the next morning, but he pretended not to know what she was talking about (if he thought she couldn't see his bright blush, he’s crazy), and she never pressed.

So...this flip around he does just...she can't wrap her mind around it most times. How in the hell can they be the same person? And yet, they are, and she’s his roommate, so she has to deal with it.

Really, in the end, she just wishes she knew what to do. She only enrolled here so she could dance, the only thing she’s wanted to do since she first saw Mytho dance. She liked to swim in the lake on the outskirts of town growing up, and it was on one of those excursions that she caught him dancing there. He kept coming (and whether he knew she was there or not, she’s not sure), and it wasn’t long before she fell for both him and the art of ballet. So, when it came time to enroll in college, she chose the best ballet school she could, the same one she’d overheard Mytho talking about once when Fakir came looking for him. Of course, upon enrolling, she’d learned how Rue felt about Mytho, and after helping them get together, well…really, she’s not sure how she feels anymore.

Not just about Mytho either, but…everything. She’s the worst dancer in the school – and no, she’s not exaggerating, they have actual scorebooks, and she’s already had to work her way back up from the apprentice class once – she’s so clumsy and ungraceful and not even pretty like a ballerina is supposed to be, and watching her classmates be so much better and Fakir and Rue and Mytho be so amazing naturally despite being just a year ahead of her just…makes her think she really has no idea what she’s doing.

Well, actually, that’s not quite true. Since coming here, she’s at least realized it’s not all about Mytho anymore. She really does love to dance, she really does want to be good, she really does want to make Fakir realize she and her dancing aren’t disasters – but she doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what more she can try, has gotten to where she feels like she can’t do anything, so…she wonders if she should just…stop.

With that thought weighing on her mind, she decides she’s practiced extra enough today and opts to head home. It’s past dusk, so if she’s lucky, Fakir will already be in bed. She really doesn’t want to deal with his snide remarks right now.

The universe might just be smiling on her for once (or maybe it’s smirking and laughing at her instead; she wouldn’t be surprised) because when she gets there, lo and behold, Fakir’s in bed. He left dinner for her, and she’s not sure if it’s because it tastes so good or out of frustration or both that she cries throughout the entire meal and dishes, but by the time she changes into her nightgown and slips into bed, she’s even more exhausted than when she arrived. She hopes tomorrow will be better...

Unfortunately for Ahiru, things just get worse over the next few weeks. She falls farther and farther behind in her classes no matter how hard she tries, she has to stay behind every single day, she’s almost pushed to the apprentice class more than once, and things are to the point where Fakir’s words are pretty much white noise by now in comparison to her own dark thoughts. She feels more and more lost and depressed each day. Even seeing Mytho, even seeing him dance, doesn’t remind her of why she wants this anymore.

As for Fakir himself, well, if she thinks he hasn’t noticed, she really is a moron. He’s kept an eye on her since the start, watched her more and more, closer and closer, as time went on, and this change in her…it scares the shit out of him. She doesn’t even bite back at his derisive comments anymore, doesn’t snort and laugh in his face and wave her fists at him, but freaking agrees with them instead, which sends off instant alarm bells. She doesn’t have that stubborn resolve to get better despite the odds being against her, doesn’t seem to have that fierce shine to her pretty blue eyes anymore, doesn’t seem to have much to any hope left of reaching her dream.

The fire in her is gone, and it’s left him freezing.

It all comes to a head one morning mid-April.

Fakir wakes up feeling…strange. Like something or someone is off. Looking around, he doesn’t notice anything amiss in his room, but that just makes him more anxious. Throwing off his covers and crossing the hall before he can blink, he goes to knock on Ahiru’s door…but it just swings right open. Odd…

But looking inside, he sees why.

She’s gone.

All of her belongings – her books, her bedclothes, her uniform and day clothes hanging in the closet, even her ridiculous, yet adorable giant stuffed duck she sleeps with and that giant birdseed bowl she keeps by the window to feed the growing number of friendly birds every morning – are gone, too, down to the last pin in her photos of her and her friends (himself included in a few) on the walls. There’s nothing of her left.

Fakir is frozen, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. If she’s not here, where could she be? Did she find someone else to room with and not bother telling him? No, she’s too considerate for that. Was there some kind of family emergency she forgot to tell him about? No, as far as anyone knows, she’s an orphan. Is she freaking camping out in her class so she won’t fall behind again? No, she would warn him of that, even sarcastically, so he wouldn’t worry, at least. So, if it’s not any of those, then—?!

Suddenly, he remembers the look in her eyes the past few days, even duller and darker than the last few months, which was worse than back in January. Just yesterday, he remembers her leaving later than usual and coming back even earlier, eyes bloodshot both times, what he realizes now was…her crying in the middle of the night…—

Shit!

Heart seizing in his chest, he bursts out the door like hellhounds are chasing him (and they might as well be, this is all his fault, damn it!). He bypasses the headmaster’s office. Knowing her, she’s already been there, got up before the sun to thank him for everything before heading out. He’s sprinting for the front gate like his life depends on it. Please let her be there, please don’t let him be too late, please don’t let this be—!

He sees a familiar flash of red and blue and skids to a halt. There she is, suitcase packed, just about to take that first step off the grounds! He made it in time! Thank goodness!

"Ahiru!"

He’s pretty sure half the campus heard that, but the only one he cares about is right here in front of him. The girl in question freezes, pausing mid-step. No... It couldn't be...wouldn't be...right...? But she turns anyway, and her eyes widen. A tiny gasp leaves her, but whether it's out of shock or the sharp pang in her chest at seeing him, she's not sure. Angry, hurt tears prick her eyes, but she turns partly away so he won't see them, puckering her lips like a duck's bill as she tries to fight back her tears. "What do you want, you big jerk?" The ‘Haven’t you done enough?’ is implied, but not at all missed.

He's just watching her, panting with chest heaving from the run and panic and adrenaline rushing through his veins, somewhat disbelieving and yet thanking everything he made it in time. He doesn't understand why it hurts so much to see her cry (or maybe that’s just what he tells himself), but it feels like he’s being torn askew. So he can't help but breathe a laugh, a bit choked as he finds himself wanting to tear up, too, when she calls him a jerk. He gets it. God, does he. He’s disgusted with himself, too. "Yeah, you're right. I am a big jerk. I deserved that. I deserved all the things you haven't been calling me, too, the things the real you would've called me a thousand times by now."

She looks over at him, blinking, tilting her head some. "'The real me?'"

Hesitantly, giving her plenty of space to pull back, just like he will if she's uncomfortable, he takes a step forward, and then another. He stops within about five feet of her, not wanting to push his luck. He considers himself impossibly lucky to be allowed this far. He nods, a look on his face she's never seen before. It's...a smile... It's...gentle and kind and angry, but at himself, altogether disarming, and she...somehow, it makes her feel better than she has in months.

"The real you. The you who'd always tell me to quit making fun of you, vow to show me who was the best around here, swear you'd knock me off my high horse someday. The you who was so full of determination and hope that it inspired everyone around you, no matter how down they were feeling." Something in his face grows fonder, and Ahiru feels her cheeks heat up slightly. It's like he's looking right into her. "The you who always puts other people's feelings before your own," he remembers how she helped Rue get with Mytho, even though he knew for a fact that Ahiru was the one in love with him, "who's the first to jump in to save people," he flashes back to the day they met, the first day of college, when Ahiru saved Mytho from cracking his skull open in trying to rescue a falling baby bird, "who always does your very best at everything you do because, as you see it, you’re just an ordinary girl, but somehow, someway, that's more than enough."

And then, his expression turns sad, even heartbroken, and despite herself, Ahiru aches to know what's wrong. Luckily, he doesn't keep her waiting long. "The you who's only felt so awful about herself and who's only about to throw away her dreams because of me." He takes a deep, almost shaky breath. Everything inside him is desperate to turn away, hide his face and his feelings, but he can't. If he does that...if he does what he usually does...well, that's how they got into this mess, isn't it?

When he opens his eyes again, his expression is even softer, warmer, than before, and Ahiru's breath leaves her lungs. Something tells her she's the only one besides Mytho and maybe Fakir's father who’s gotten to see this side of him. Maybe, even for them, it's been a long, long time. "I know it'll sound empty after everything, and you certainly don't have to accept it - hell, I'd honestly be surprised if you did - ...but I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Ahiru. I never meant to hurt you like this. In my own way, it..." he hates what he's about to say, curling his nails into his palms and gritting his teeth, mostly to get himself to be a man about this and keep eye contact, not hide like he always has before, "...it was meant to encourage you. It was meant to give you something to work toward, a goal to reach and, yes, maybe someday, even surpass. I thought of us as rivals, so..." in a moment of weakness, he looks down, away from those wide, disbelieving, still slightly wary, yet hopeful blue eyes, but he finds his way back after another, "...it was meant to make you better..."

There's a large boulder on the grass behind him, and he sits down on it with a heavy sigh, resting his arms on his knees and hunching over in a way she's only seen him do when he's particularly frustrated with himself. "But it seems, as usual, I messed up. I hurt you, and knowing you, it's probably more than you'd ever truly tell me," the way his eyes flick up to her fills her with a charging energy, and she can tell he's giving her all the power here - it's exciting, but frightening, too, "and that's not something I ever wanted to do."

She hunkers down on the grass in front of him after a beat, hugging her knees to her chest, heedless of the way the fresh grass will probably stain her hilariously-yellow shorts with the wings that match her name. Secretly, he's always thought those were adorable, but he gets the impression they wouldn't be nearly as on anyone but her. She puckers her lips again in a thoughtful pout, and he waits on bated breath for her response, heart hammering in his chest.

"You sure have a messed up way of showing affection, Drosselmeyer."

A quip isn't the first thing he thought she'd say, but honestly? Perhaps it should have been. He's so startled that he actually laughs, and Ahiru snaps up at that, eyes wide. He's never done that before. As in, not in class, not in the mess hall, in their room, talking to Mytho or Rue, never. So she doesn't think she can be blamed for the way her cheeks glow a bit from how delighted he looks. He finds himself smiling at her again, far easier this time, and she wishes she could capture this moment to remember forever somehow. "Believe me, you are not the first person who's told me that. Hell, they've told my foster father, and he just laughed in their faces."

She makes a sound not unlike a duck's quack, smirking his way in a manner that catches his breath in a vice he'd, again, rather not analyze right now. "Oh, I can believe that easily.”

They both laugh this time, the tension of the last months bleeding out of them, and when they’re finally done, Ahiru drops her chin into her palm and just…looks at him. It’s a little unnerving, so after a few silent moments, he looks away, pointedly ignoring the red coloring his cheeks.

“So...do I really suck that much?” she asks all of a sudden, and he whips back around to look at her so quickly, it actually smarts a little. There’s a small, sad smile on her face, and for whatever reason, that hurts more than any wound. Realizing how that might sound, she waves her hands in front of her and blushes to the tips of her ears, down her neck, and keeps going. Fakir refuses to let his eyes follow. “I mean, I’m not an idiot! I know I do, I’m so clumsy and can’t even dance without shaking!” She pokes her fingers together and looks at her feet. “I just meant, um…can I…with everything you’ve said…” taking a breath, she looks back at him, “…do you think I can improve? At all? Even a little?”

It’s Fakir’s turn to stare. Her eyes and expression are so hopeful and earnest, fierce underneath it all, something he’s missed dearly, and he can’t help the relief and absolution that flood him. Because he knows that’s what all this is for her. He shakes his head, an undercurrent of laughter to it. “Well, you’re definitely not very good,” her face falls, and he’s quick to fix it in standing up and holding out a hand to help her up, “but you have potential, and I think I can help.”

She gasps and snatches his hand to stand even faster, clutching it with both of hers, eyes shining. “Really?! You’d do that?” Thinking for a moment, she cocks her head to the side. “Wait, is that even allowed?”

Fakir blinks and then smiles at her softly again, almost helplessly, his hand unconsciously squeezing hers at the same time. She doesn’t know why her heart skips. “Yes, I will.” He starts leading her back toward the main grounds, taking her suitcase from her with gentle hands. “To be honest, I don’t know, but I don’t see what it can hurt. I’m just helping a fellow student, after all.” She sees his strategy in those last words, and he opens one eye to smirk over at her, making her giggle. Taking a breath, something in her finally soothes. This is certainly a page she didn’t see her life turning, him helping her out, them teaming up, but…she can’t say she isn’t excited and definitely grateful. “I’ll even teach you some of the more advanced moves. How about that?” It’s the least he can do to even begin to make up for what he’s put her through.

“All right!”

They talk meeting times and places (and Fakir’s theory that her instructors simply don’t know the correct way to teach someone like Ahiru) as they make their way back to the headmaster’s office, and after explaining the situation, Ahiru is allowed to move back in and continue her enrollment. Fakir accepts the few days’ suspension for ‘bullying’ gladly, pointedly ignoring her glare when he stops her from defending him, and then they head back to their dorm.

It’s mostly silent while they get Ahiru’s room back in order, each lost in their own thoughts. Things aren’t quite patched up yet, they know. There are still a lot of things they need to work out. Hell, this is only the start of them becoming hopefully-friends after eight-and-a-half months of being enemies. They’re going to have to start over, take things from the top…but at least, with any luck, it’ll be easier now.

Everyone notices the change in their dynamic even before class starts (mostly from the lack of arguing or, more recently, tense silence), and they all know one thing for sure: things are going to be interesting from here on out.

#Princess Tutu #Princess Tutu fanfiction #College AU #Fakiru #Fakir x Ahiru #(Any feedback is much appreciated!)#(Hope you like ALL the canon parallelsss!)#(The astute may notice that the narrative style/'POV' flow is also a nod to the anime's)#(Figured I'd keep Fakir's last name as Drosselmeyer since he'd have no reason to change it for his safety in this world)

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lawgrain · 6 years ago

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Not Boyfriends (Phandom)

Fandom: Phandom (Dan and Phil)

Pairings: Take a random guess at it, I’m sure you’ll get it right.

Summary: This is actually a prompt fic. It goes something like this: “ Where a superhero has to deal with a super villain that thinks they're best friends.” I thought it’d be more fun to do boyfriends instead of best friends. This story has just been chilling out on my laptop (for at least a year), it’s kind of cheesy but I thought I’d post it.

***Those who follow me for Sanders Side, this is not that fandom but I’ll finish that fic up O.o

Story!

Phil's POV

“Put it down.”

“But honey!”

“Why do you insist upon being difficult?”

“Darling, I was getting it for you. I thought it'd be special.”

“For the last time. We. Are. NOT. Dating.”

Phil put his head in his hands out of exasperation. Normally it's a dangerous idea to break eye contact with the enemy but this was a special case.

This was Phantom Dove.

Phil hates him. Primarily because he decided to spend his time pretending Phil was his lover and they most certainly were not.

“Gasp! Are you breaking up with me?”

“Did you actually just say ‘gasp’? And no I'm not breaking up with you because we were never together!” Phil didn't know why he even humors the man.

“Oh good so you're not breaking up with me. And the gasp was for irony so you can't say anything.” Phantom smiled innocently, completely ignoring the latter part of Phil's statement.

They could honestly go all day if Phil didn't put an end to this.

“Just put the jewels down and we’ll get you to the police.”

“Really? Has that ever worked with me before?” Phantom’s voice laced with sarcasm because no, it had not worked. Ever.

“Fine. Shall you start or me?”

“Awe, you know I’d never throw the first punch, love.”

And just like that, they were off. Phil threw a powered punch straight towards Phantoms head. He dodged leaving just barely a space between his nose and Phil's fist. He shot a light beam with his other hand. Again Phantom dodged. Phil heard a shattering of glass behind them where his attack must have landed. He didn't hesitate at the sound and barreled forward with a kick aimed towards his side. This time it landed, shoving Phantom to the floor.

Quickly, the other got up. “You got one in, babe! You're getting so good at thi–” Phil cut him of with lasers streaming from his eyes. And no, not figuratively. Phantom jumped to the other side of the room ten feet away. Phil always hated when he did that. He liked playing a game of cat and mouse where Phil would have to guess where he'd be next.

Phil wasn't having that today. He flew forward, eyes lit up and ready to attack. He got a hold of Phantom and pinned him in the wall a few feet above the ground.

“Oh darling, I didn't know we were going to play kinky today.” He smiled. “Want me to call you daddy?”

Phil sputtered in shock. He wanted to kill Phantom right now. Taking advantage of Phil's hesitation, Phantom electrocuted him.

Phil didn't even see how he did it. Usually the man had to touch his hands to Phil in order to shock him but Phil thought he had the other securely pinned.

That didn't matter now as Phil laid on the floor with an approaching super villain.

“Wow, I hope that didn't hurt too much.” He leaned down and inserted something in Phil's arm. “Don't worry about this. It's just a thing I made that'll keep you still long enough for me to get out of here.” He pulled back and saw what must've been the syringe he put in his arm.

The thief continued to raid the place for more priceless items while Phil was unable to move a muscle. Before long, sirens could be heard in the distance.

“That's my que! I'd tell you when that stuff wears off, but considering your super healing, I don't actually know. Feel free to tell me later. Bye love!”

And then Phantom was gone. The police lost him and by the time Phil was able to move, it was much too late. He had disappeared like a ghost.

After speaking to the police, Phil was finally able to hang up the cape for the night and focus on getting sleep for his day job. Somehow, masquerading as a vigilante in a mask didn't help him make a living. That's why during the day, he worked as a film editor for various companies and people. He liked working on small projects so he could stay at home.

Once he'd considered becoming part of the police force, but luckily his common sense kicked in and he realized that would be too strenuous to keep up when he went out every night. He much preferred the decision he made. He got to put away his false sense of seriousness and be an actual person with friends.

When Phil was younger he couldn't say he had much of a social life. He was awkward and majorly confused at why he could fly and others could not. Later it became known that superpowers were a thing. Sadly, the world found out because of a super villain, but Phil supposed that was how he became the world's first superhero.

Surprisingly, the world wasn't complaining. Not about Phil at least. He knew that the lack of hatred was due mostly to how much crime had gone down in his city. Phil always caught the bad guy and not many with superpowered people were psychotic. The few that were caused unrest and Phil made sure to stop them as quickly as possible.

The only one Phil couldn't seem to catch was Phantom. It was ridiculous that a villain that took nothing seriously could always best Phil. It wasn't like the man was a top priority, but he still irked Phil. Most people had some sort of reason for crime but Phantom Dove made it look like a hobby. No motive, no purpose, just a thing to do. And that made him unpredictable. He lived up to the name Phantom. The man couldn't be found or tracked. He simply appeared for the heck of it and disappeared when things got tough.

Phil couldn’t wait to catch him. He couldn't wait to finally put a name on the obnoxious man. And he certainly couldn't wait to put him in jail.

Dan's POV

Fighting was a fucking bitch.

Dan should've been quicker. Should've dodged that kick better. If there was one thing he envied about Light Knight was his super healing abilities. Actually Dan would be happy with any superpowers.

Oh yeah, that's the real ringer isn't it? The super villain of the city isn't super at all. Not that Dan would sell himself short. His genius inventions had somehow tricked everyone that he was super. Even the city's superhero thought so.

Although that came with some downsides. For example, the hero never held back on Dan. Meaning he always came home with cuts and bruises and today he had a really bad bruise on his ribs. While his suit could absorb the brunt of any blow, he was pretty sure the surrounding neighbors thought he was abused.

Dan had tried stalling the man after that particular attack, but was certain the hero was too focused on winning to hear the strain in his voice. It didn't matter in the end. Dan had won and left with a lot more money than he came in with.

That wasn't the real prize though. No, the real prize was the Light Knight. Dan had been utterly paranoid about the man. He felt unsettled that he could be anybody on the streets and he'd have no idea. Dan set out to fix this and put a tracker on him while he was paralyzed.

Sure there were some ethical things being broken here, but Dan wanted to feel safe. So what if that involved violating someone's privacy? Then again Dan could've picked a less dangerous occupation if he wanted security.

Too late now.

Taking some pain medication, Dan took to looking at where the tracker was. Needless to say, he was beyond relieved to find out the hero wasn't a neighbor. That was somehow a worse case scenario to Dan. But it wasn't to be because when the man had settled for the night, he was not in Dan's area.

This brought Dan to phase two. He wanted to know the man's name. For others this would be hard but something tells him that no one knows of his side hobby: hacking.

He knows that his life decisions were morally ambiguous, but fuck society.

He had actually picked up the hobby as a thing of boredom. He wanted access to things the internet simply refused to supply and Dan just wasn't okay with that. He didn't know at the time that he was going to become a criminal, but it certainly didn't hurt when he accessed Light Knight’s building security, traced the footage from when he entered the building and then to the when the man arrived at his flat. And it really helped when he searched for the homeowners name of said flat.

Philip Lester. A rather disappointing name in Dan's opinion.

He supposed it was alright but he was sort of hoping for better material to tease the man with. Dan was fully aware that he shouldn’t piss off a guy with powers, but he couldn't help it. When he put on his suit he could be anyone he wanted. And he wanted to tease the straight-laced grumpy hero who was apparently called “Phil”.

Phil was the first thing that gave him actual happiness in a long time. He had been in the middle of a more complicated heist when they had met. Honestly, it wasn't extremely complicated other than the fact that Dan was apparently working with idiots. One of which would've gotten Dan killed, accidentally knocking him from the roof of a building, if it weren't for Light Knight catching him. For that reason, Dan wasn't even upset that his temporary partners were caught. In fact, it gave Dan the chance to sneak away.

After he started engaging with the hero as much as possible. Dan had never met a man that would give a criminal a second thought— someone who would save a criminal. He was used to people who shoot first and asked questions later. Once he'd gotten to know the hero more, Dan found himself enjoying their banter and quick quips. It got to the point where Dan thought they had a sort of relationship.

And not a romantic one. He wasn't delusional. That type of bantering started when he found out how much it bothered Light Knight and only then did he start to use flirting at every turn. It was refreshing to be able to do things he'd never do with the mask off. As Phantom Dove he could be confident, flirty and silly. As Dan Howell he was just a quiet depressing loner. Given his options, Dan chose to go with the thrill of being Light Knight’s friendly enemy. The relationship wasn't necessarily a positive one... But if a rivalry was the only connection Dan could have with someone, he'd take it.

He doubted the hero genuinely hated him though. Believe it or not, Dan wasn't the only bad guy around. While he relied on technology for crime, others actually did have superpowers. They also had no qualms about killing others which Dan would never do. If it's destruction and theft, count Dan in, but if it's world domination and murder, he wants no part in the deal. He thinks Light Knight just is pissed that he can't catch Dan. Well that and Dan insists on making suggestive comments to him.

Plus there was that one time he went overboard and said Light Knight was his boyfriend on national tv. The next time they saw each other he received some bruises that lasted a month.

Worth it.

For now though, all Dan had on his mind was how he was going to use this information to get under Phil's skin. He wouldn't deal out the information to others but there was no way he wasn't going to have some fun with this.

He couldn't wait.

Chapter 2

#phanfiction #cheesy #what am I doing

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bangtan · 7 years ago

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BTS Speaks Out In Seoul: The K-Pop Megastars Get Candid About Representing a New Generation

No sound on the planet inspires as obsessive a fandom as K-pop. The “Bulletproof Boy Scouts” of BTS have (finally, for real) imported that mania to America -- all in Korean, as they rally dissatisfied millennials around the globe. Built in 1957 as a reception hall for South Korea’s fledgling postwar government to entertain foreign dignitaries, the Korea House is a quiet oasis amid the tumult of Seoul, with a photogenic courtyard and collection of old-school Korean houses known as hanoks. Normally it’s the setting for historical TV dramas or weddings, but on this bright, cold mid-January morning, it’s a hideaway for the seven-man Korean pop group BTS, whose celebrity has expanded past K-pop’s traditional sphere of influence and, especially during the last six months, moved into the United States as well. When I arrive, the band is sequestered in a room within a room, behind paper doors manned by a security detail. In the outer room, over 20 groomers, publicists and other handlers from the group’s management agency, BigHit Entertainment, mill about, grazing on the provided snacks and drinks. Everyone speaks in low tones. The members of BTS need an extra 15 minutes before the scheduled photo shoot, I’m told. They are, understandably, exhausted: Their schedule has been packed since New Year’s Eve with performances, TV appearances, commercials and meet-and-greets. I flew into Seoul expressly to meet them for this rare opening in their calendar. The first to emerge from the room is J-Hope, 23, the former street dancer from the city of Gwangju, who capers down the steps, then doubles back to get RM, also 23, the group’s leader and English-speaking ambassador. The rest soon file out wearing similarly dark Saint Laurent-heavy outfits: Suga, 24, the idealistic and soulful rapper; Jimin, 22, the baby-faced modern dancer; V, 22, the master impressionist; Jungkook, 20, the golden maknae (youngest member, a sort of privileged position in K-pop) who’s good at everything; and Jin, 25, who’s known as “Worldwide Handsome.” They form a semicircle of multicolored bowl cuts, and RM comments on how tall I am (6 feet) and that I can speak Korean (like a 10-year-old). They’re photo-ready but groggy enough that I wish they’d taken another 15 minutes to rest. But time is money, and these guys are worth a lot. It’s reasonable that BigHit would handle the members like prized jewels. They’re among the biggest stars in K-pop -- their last album, 2017’s Love Yourself: Her, has sold 1.58 million physical copies around the globe, according to BigHit. And while it may not be a household name in the United States, BTS -- which stands for Bangtan Sonyeondan and roughly translates to “Bulletproof Boy Scouts” -- is pulling unprecedented numbers for a group that mainly sings in Korean to an American populace that has long resisted K-pop’s charms. Love Yourself: Her debuted at No. 7 on the Billboard 200 in September 2017, and BTS claims the two highest-charting songs for a K-pop group ever, “DNA” (which peaked at No. 67 on the Billboard Hot 100) and the Steve Aoki remix of “Mic Drop,” featuring Desiigner (No. 28). In the States alone, BTS has sold 1.6 million song downloads and clocked 1.5 billion-with-a-“B” on-demand streams, according to Nielsen Music. BTS has connected with millennials around the globe even though -- or really, because -- the act seems to challenge boy-band and K-pop orthodoxies. Sure, it’s got love songs and dance moves. But BTS’ music, which the members have helped write since the beginning, has regularly leveled criticism against a myopic educational system, materialism and the media, venting about a structure seemingly gamed against the younger generation. “Honestly, from our standpoint, every day is stressful for our generation. It’s hard to get a job, it’s harder to attend college now more than ever,” says RM, until recently known as Rap Monster. ��Adults need to create policies that can facilitate that overall social change. Right now, the privileged class, the upper class needs to change the way they think.” Suga jumps in: “And this isn't just Korea, but the rest of the world. The reason why our music resonates with people around the world who are in their teens, 20s and 30s is because of these issues.” The shoot’s done, and we’re sitting on couches in a small living room-like space amid the production studios at the BigHit offices, the members changed into cozy but still-stylish jackets and knitwear. Here at home, speaking in Korean, they’re calmer and less eager to impress than they were on their recent, occasionally awkward American press tour, where they did the rounds on The Late Late Show With James Corden, Jimmy Kimmel Live! and The Ellen DeGeneres Show, where RM gamely evaded questions about dating. Today, their voices are noticeably deeper, more sonorous. RM does, as usual, a lot of the talking, sometimes throwing questions out to the quieter members. But Suga is a surprise: garrulous and thoughtful, seemingly primed for a socially conscious rap battle. Rabid K-pop fandom is, by now, a pop-culture cliche. Even in a world where supporters of American stars engineer efforts to goose chart positions and feud with rival fandoms -- Beatlemania multiplied by the internet, basically -- K-pop stans are legendarily devoted and influential. The BTS ARMY (that’s short for “Adorable Representative M.C for Youth”) is the engine powering the phenomenon: It translates lyrics and Korean media appearances; rallies clicks, views, likes and retweets to get BTS trending on Twitter and YouTube; and overwhelms online polls and competitions. BigHit says that it makes sure to disseminate news and updates about the band on the fan cafe, so as not to arouse the wrath of the ARMY. The global fan base is why a group you may never have heard of is attaining the upper ranks of the U.S. charts; playing late-night slots; appearing at the Billboard Music Awards, where it picked up the fan-voted top social artist trophy in 2017; and performing on the American Music Awards. (“The AMAs were the biggest gift we could have gotten from our fans,” says Suga.) Purely in terms of social media, they’re just about the biggest thing going, driving BTS to 58 weeks at No. 1 on the Social 50 chart, a total that’s second only to Justin Bieber’s, and more than doubles the number of weeks scored by the third-place act -- none other than Taylor Swift. The ARMY doesn't merely idolize the members of BTS, it identifies with them. When the group debuted in 2013 with 2 Kool 4 Skool, the members talked about the pressures familiar to any Korean student: the need to study hard, get into college and find a stable job. Their first singles, “No More Dream” and “N.O.,” castigated peers who attended classes like zombies without a sense of purpose. What was all this education for, they asked -- to become “the No. 1 government worker?” The tracks were a throwback to Korean pop acts like H.O.T. and Seo Taiji & Boys, only updated for a generation saddled with debt in an increasingly competitive economy. “I was talking about my past self,” says RM, confessing that he was one of those drones. “There was nothing I wanted to do; just that I wanted to make a lot of money. I started the song by thinking about it as a letter written to friends who were like me in the past.” “College is presented like some sort of cure-all,” says Suga. “They say that if you go, your life will be set. They even say you’ll lose weight, get taller...” RM: “That you’ll get a girlfriend...” Jin: “That you’ll become better-looking...” Suga: “But this isn't the reality, and they realize that was all a lie. No one else can take responsibility for you at that point. “If we don’t talk about these issues, who will?” continues Suga. “Our parents? Adults? So isn't it up to us? That’s the kind of conversations we have [in the band]: Who knows best and can talk about the difficulty our generation faces? It’s us.” As they become increasingly famous, though, the artists have also become wary of saying what might be perceived as the wrong or “political” thing. Suga is the most outspoken. When I ask them about the massive candlelight protests calling for President Park Geun-hye’s resignation in Seoul last winter, Suga readily takes on the topic: “Moving past right and wrong, truth and falsehood, citizens coming together and raising their voice is something that I actively support.” RM, on the other hand, is more alert to potential sensitivities. On the recent death of Jonghyun of K-pop group SHINee, who suffered from depression and committed suicide last December, he says, “We went to give our condolences that morning. I couldn't sleep at all that night. It was so shocking, because we had seen him so often at events. He was so successful.” Adds Suga, “It was a shock to everyone, and I really sympathized with him,” and then RM moves to end the conversation: “That’s about all we can say.” But Suga goes on. “I really want to say that everyone in the world is lonely and everyone is sad, and if we know that everyone is suffering and lonely, I hope we can create an environment where we can ask for help, and say things are hard when they’re hard, and say that we miss someone when we miss them.” I later bring up a tweet that RM wrote in March 2013, saying that when he understood what the lyrics to Macklemore & Ryan Lewis’ gay-marriage anthem, “Same Love,” were about, he liked the song twice as much. BTS fans naturally took this to mean that BTS openly supported gay rights -- a rarity in K-pop. Today, he’s slightly circumspect on the topic: “It’s hard to find the right words. To reverse the words: Saying ‘same love’ is saying ‘love is the same.’ I just really liked that song. That’s about all I have to say.” Suga, though, is clear on where he stands: “There’s nothing wrong. Everyone is equal.” BTS’ meteoric rise was something of a surprise, even in Korea. Three years into its career -- eons in the K-pop life cycle -- the group finally gained traction in 2016 with hits like “Blood, Sweat, Tears” and “Burn It Up.” Part of the reason is that BTS is the first major act to come out of BigHit Entertainment, an anomaly simply in that it is not one of the “Big Three” entertainment companies -- YG, JYP and SM -- that control the Korean music industry, producing most of the past decade’s notable pop acts, including Girls’ Generation, BIGBANG, Super Junior, Wonder Girls and 2NE1. And BTS simply didn't have the same feel as factory-fresh groups created to dominate the Asian music markets. Bang Si-hyuk, the founder/CEO of BigHit, cut his teeth at JYP, working alongside Park Jin-yong and writing and producing hits for Rain, 2AM and Baek Ji-young. “Even the people around me didn't believe in me,” he says, recalling the early days with BTS. “Even though they acknowledged that I had been successful in the past, they didn't believe I could take this boy group to the top.” Like the other companies, BigHit oversees everything from recording to distribution to marketing to events for its acts. He says that people thought the “Bulletproof Boy Scouts” name had a North Korean feel, but he felt that they would become a metaphorical bulletproof vest for their generation. Bang originally wanted to create a hip-hop group -- “like Migos,” according to RM. He first listened to RM’s demo tape in 2010 and still remembers some of the lines. (He cites, “My heart is like a detective who is the criminal’s son. Even as I know who the criminal is, I can’t catch him.”) “It was shocking to me,” says Bang. “RM is extremely self-reflective, sophisticated and philosophical, considering his age.” RM, whose real name is Kim Nam-joon, was only 15 at the time. Bang signed him immediately. Back then, though, “idol groups” -- boy bands and girl groups -- like Super Junior and SNSD were ascendant. So Bang created an act that would meld the honesty of hip-hop with the visual flair and charisma of a boy band in the vein of BIGBANG. During the next couple of years, he recruited Suga, a rapper he describes as having an “I don’t give a fuck” magnetism masking a humble core, and then J-Hope, the street dancer. BigHit then held extensive auditions. A casting director chased Jin after seeing him get off a bus and convinced him to try out for the group; he eventually made the team alongside V and Jungkook. Jimin was the last to join, after a BigHit agent scouted him at a modern dance school. In the beginning, each of the members tried their hand at rhyming. “I went so far as to learn how to rap,” says Jimin, who, like Jungkook, now sings. “But after they had me do it once, they were like, ‘Let’s just work harder on vocals.’” RM nods -- “It was the wise choice,” he says -- and everyone bursts out laughing. These were BigHit’s ragtag champions, and they have a sense of unity. Early on, they lived together in one small room, sleeping in bunk beds and learning one another’s sleep habits. (Jimin does strange contortions in bed, and Jungkook has started snoring. “It’s TMI,” acknowledges RM.) They still live together, just with a little more space -- J-Hope and Jimin sharing the biggest room -- and plan to keep doing so. “When we’re at home, we go around to everyone’s room,” says Jin. “Even when I go home [to see family], I get bored, honestly,” adds Suga. “And if there’s a problem or someone has hurt feelings, we don’t just leave it, we talk about it then and there.” “So if Hope and Jin fight, it’s not just the two of them that resolve it,” explains Jungkook. “It’s all seven of us!” says Suga. “Everyone gathers together,” says RM, ever the intellectual. “It’s like an agora in ancient Greece: We gather and we ask: ‘What happened?’” After the interview, RM takes me to his production studio, a small room at the end of a hall decorated with giant KAWS figurines in glass boxes, a Supreme poster of Mike Tyson and skateboards. Inside, the walls are lined with his own KAWS toys and a model version of the Banksy piece “Rage, Flower Thrower” that he admits paying a hefty sum for. Other than that, there’s just a typical workstation: a pullout chair, giant monitor and the most precious item of all, his laptop. In BTS’ lyrics, there’s a motif of the baepsae, a squat, fluffy bird native to Korea and known as the crow-tit. A Korean expression says that if a crow-tit tries to walk like a stork, it’ll tear its own legs. It’s a cautionary tale -- a suggestion that you shouldn't try too hard or be something that you’re not. But BTS deploys it as a brag, a declaration of a small, striving bird. In “Silver Spoon,” Suga puts a cheeky, boastful spin on it: “Our generation has had it hard/We’ll chase them fast/Because of the storks the crotch of my pants is stretched tight/So call me baepsa e.” Now that they are, almost in a literal sense, on top of the world, can they still claim to be underdogs? “We’re very careful about calling ourselves baepsaes now,” says Suga. “But the reality is that that’s where we started and that’s where our roots are.” And RM points out that they still consider themselves agents for change: “If there are problems, we’ll bring it up so that our voices can get louder, so that the climate changes and we can talk about it more freely.” BTS is the K-pop group of the moment because it balances the contradictions inherent to the genre on a genuinely global scale: The act is breaking through in America singing and rapping in Korean, creating intimacy through wide exposure on social media, expressing political ideas without stirring up controversy and inspiring fervent obsession with mild-mannered wholesomeness. It is the underdog that has arrived. But the group would rather you not ask what’s next. Its members and producers are skillfully evasive when it comes to questions about the next BTS album -- although they apparently have no immediate plans for an English-language release, intuiting that such a move would alienate their core fan base. Instead, they seem content to keep doing what they do. RM, of course, is philosophical about it. “In Korean, the word ‘future’ is made up of two parts,” he explains, proposing a sort of riddle about how far the band has come and how far it might yet go. “The first part means ‘not,’ and the second means ‘to come.’ In that sense, ‘future’ means something that will not come. This is to say: The future is now, and our now is us living our future.”

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#bangtan #bts #v #jin #suga #rm #jimin #jhope #jungkook #t:article #180215

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anywaffle · 7 years ago

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More Than Things

More than Things

Fandom: Bright

Pairing: Kandomere x Reader

Word Count: 3,627

Warnings: Very lightly implied nudity, otherwise it’s all fluff.

Summary: A week of affection shown in the gifts Kandomere gives. Often times they’re far more than things.

Monday is surprisingly grey and dreary for L.A. and your mood decides to match the weather. Work hits a lull and you find yourself bored and disinterested in whatever tasks you pick up. By the time your break rolls around you’re wishing it was actually the end of shift but you’re fine enough with settling into the break room with a snack and your cell phone.

Two bites into granola bar your coworker calls you and you groan, anticipating an early call back to the front. You’re just standing when they trott in, grinning over a bouquet of beautifully arrange flowers in a lovely vase.

“Somebody’s got an admirer!”

They set the flowers on the table and point out the little card kept among the blooms with your name typed on it. You feel your heart flutter and pluck it up with gentle fingers, flipping it open to read the message inside.

To brighten your day. - K

It would be hard to argue that the smile on your face isn’t a little goofy, cheeks warm with the giddy joy suddenly filling you up. You plunk back onto the couch, letter clutch to your chest, and sigh happily.

The rest of your day is a cheerful breeze, bright as the flowers you take home to lighten your living room.

Tuesday you wake up late and scramble into work frazzled. When Kandomere texts you good morning and asks how you are you relay this to him, tone light despite your mild frustration. Work ticks on normally enough, the two of you texting back and forth when you have time.

What time is your break? He texts you a little before noon.

About 1:30 if everything goes right. Only a 15 though. You shoot back.

He goes quiet after that but you figure work just picked up, wish him safety, and hope for the possibility of a phone call later. You saw him on Saturday but that already seems so far off. Time goes on and you daydream about him.

At 1:28 your coworker calls you over. You’ve got a visitor apparently and you feel your heart racing in anticipation. You can’t help the smile that comes when you see him.

“Afternoon,” you grin, walking up to the blue haired elf.

“Afternoon,” he replies, a slight smile on his face. “Do you have time for coffee?”

It’s now that you notice the drink tray and pastry bag he has in hand, bag and cups decorated with the logo of your favorite cafe several blocks down.

“Definitely!” You chime, “you’re a sweetheart you know.”

He simply shrugs, following you out to find a patio table nearby. “I was in the area, thought you could perhaps use the caffeine,” he teases lightly.

The coffee certainly helps keep you up but the 15 minutes you get together are what truly carry you through the rest of the day.

Wednesday your laptop quits. It goes from working to blue screen to black and refuses to turn on again. It’s a long time coming honestly, you’ve been putting off upgrading for years in a bid to save money but it’s finally come back to bite you.

You’re glad to hear the files are recoverable when you go to see someone at Best Buy but they let you know you won’t be getting any more use out of the CPU or frame. Small victories, you guess. Still laptops are expensive.

Your looking at the cheapest possible replacements when Kandomere calls, a lul in work giving him time to talk to you, to let you know he’s being made to take Friday off and ask if you would possibly want to go out for dinner then, have a proper date?

The thought makes you feel a fuzzy, warm sort of happy and you answer in the affirmative before asking after his day.

“The usual,” he says, as if there’s anything usual about working to regulate and contain magic and magical items “yours?”

“Eh,” you sigh, “laptop finally died. I’m sitting in a Best Buy parking lot right now.”

“They’re selling laptops in the parking lot?” His joke catches you so off-guard you snort a little when you laugh.

“No silly, price checking. Laptops are expensive.”

“What make would you like? I’ll buy it.”

“What no! Laptops are expensive!”

“And?”

“You fixed my car 2 months ago.”

“And?”

“I can’t just… let you keep buying me things, can I? You’ll start thinking I only keep you around for your money.” You keep your tone light but it’s a legitimate worry.

“I promise I won’t,” he reassures you. “Does it really make you that uncomfortable?”

“I mean no… Yeah…? I don’t know, kinda?” you settle on.

“Half then?”

“What?”

“Would half be acceptable? That way at least you won’t be getting a cheap piece of junk.”

“You think on it a moment. That would still be a few hundred dollars but…

“Okay, half. I think I saw a nice one on sale for $600.”

“Whatever you like, darling.” The note of amused affection in his voice and the pet name make you smile. You have a new laptop before 8 and a promise of date night for Friday.

Thursday a package arrives at your house. It’s wrapped plainly, an Amazon box stamped with Fragile on the side, and you rack your brain trying to think of what it might be or when you last placed an order. It definitely has your name and address on it. A present? It’s not your birthday though, not even near it, and there’s no major holidays coming up either.

Cautious but also curious you grab a pair of scissors and cut into the tape with your face away from the box, peeking into it when it doesn’t explode or start screaming.

Whatever it is has been wrapped in brown paper and bubble wrap and surrounded by those air packing things. The fragile stamp was there for a reason then. What is this?

You reach in and start to pull away the various layers of packaging until your prize emerges, your shoulders shaking with muffled laughter at what you find.

My puns are koala-tea! is printed around a cute cartoon koala and a teacup on a coffee mug bigger than your fist. You’d seen the stupid thing online last weekend and laughed when Kandomere rolled his eyes at the pun and your declaration of, “You’re pretty quality yourself!” You’d thought it was hilarious at least.

“I can’t believe…” you mutter to yourself, going to retrieve your phone.

Kandomere is fully expecting another inconvenience when his text tone breaks the relative silence of the room. Today has been mess after mess and he’s anticipating more at this point. So, when he flips it face up and spies your name on the screen he lets himself feel a little more optimistic, and when he opens your message and is greeted by a snapshot of your smiling face he feels his spirits lift. And then he scrolls down, sees the mug in your hand, sees your photo’s caption,

looks like I got a gift from quite the koala tea fellow~

He lets himself huff a little laugh and text back

You’re welcome, hermosa.

Friday is a pleasant surprise. You love going out with Kandomere but sometimes the places he takes you have you feeling a little out of your depth. People are always kind of course, or at least cordial, but the sheer amount of affluence present can make your head spin. With that in mind you’ve really enjoyed the night so far. Dinner was somewhere more low-key, a place of with a cozy atmosphere where you didn’t feel compelled to dress like you were red carpet-ready and could pronounce most of the menu. It was nice to sit together and eat and talk about things that got missed in your Cliff Notes conversations on the phone and by the time you left you both felt light and warm and satisfied.

Now you’re riding along in the car, jamming to a playlist the two of you have been slowly building together, wondering where exactly it is you’re going. You never would have taken Kandomere for someone who likes surprises but his smirking silence now makes that clear.

Wherever it is he says you like it and you don’t doubt that. You trust him after all.

You don’t recognize the building you pull up to or the parking lot, but you note several other cars, other people parking and walking up. From the signs posted here and there you can guess that you’re on a school campus, though you’re not sure which one. Kandomere helps you out of the car, keeps his hand in yours while you approach the building. You see a lot of couples but some singles and small families too.

“Okay but seriously, where-”

His smile is frankly self-satisfied when you trail off, eyes catching the sign by the door you’re approaching.

Planetarium Shows Friday 8 p.m. and 10 p.m. $6 or $11 couples

The happy noise you let out turn his smile fond.

The kind young woman at the counter inside scans the qr code on his phone and directs you down the hall and up a set of stairs. The room you settle into is spacious and warm and you take your seats just a few minutes before the show starts. Watching the stars bloom beautifully around the room you feel your heart flutter when Kandomere reaches over and grabs your hand again. You lean into him smiling. It’s a lovely night.

Saturday you sleep in. His bed is soft and warm even without him in it and you’re happy enough being able to hear him padding around his home. You press your face into his pillow, pulled close to your chest sometime after he’d gotten up, and inhale the scent of him. The butterflies in your stomach make you smile.

You hear the bedroom door open, the soft approach of footfalls and perk up the slightest bit, turning over lazily to look up at Kandomere when he stops at your side.

“Good morning, mi alma,” he says fondly, sitting by your side. “Breakfast?”

“Sounds great” you hum sleepily, reaching up towards him to pat his cheek. “C’mere though.”

He leans down at your urging, lips meeting yours in a soft, sweet kiss. His hair falls over his shoulders and tickles your cheeks enough that you find yourself giggling against his lips. Slowly he pulls away and your taken by his starlight gaze. His eyes are soft when he looks at you, adoring and gentle.

He presses another parting kiss to your forehead and stands, calling over his shoulder “come on, before it gets cold.”

You take a moment longer to enjoy your warm cocoon, stretching arms and legs languidly between the duvet. When you finally emerge you have to take a moment to locate your clothing, no longer scattered on the floor as you’d left them but now folded neatly on the loveseat situated across the room. You pull your underwear on but pause a moment after, eyes catching on the blue button-up Kandomere had been wearing last night, settled beside your clothes. He wouldn’t mind, right?

He’s already sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone with one hand, a fork full of eggs in the other. His back is to you and you take the opportunity to drape your arms over his shoulders and hug him, face pressed into his soft hair.

He chuckles quietly when you press a solid smooch to the back of his head and then back off, walking around to the other side of the table. You hear him hum when you enter his line of sight.

“Nice shirt.”

“Thanks, just got it” you joke, twirling quickly before striking a silly pose.

There’s that fond smile again, setting your heart all aflutter.

“The color suits you.”

You feel your cheeks warm at the compliment, ducking your face into a glass of water you find next to your plate. He always gets you, doesn’t he?

The two of you eat in companionable silence, discussing plans for the day over a shared load of dishes after. Mostly it boils down to cuddling on the couch, your body draped over his while you watch the movie one of your co-workers suggested. He’s free today, or at least he’s supposed to be.

His phone rings a little passed four, the noise distant to your half asleep mind. You come back slowly with the sound of his voice rumbling in your ears, it’s usual measured timbre underlined with slight annoyance at being disturbed.

“I’ll be in shortly then,” he says, hanging up a moment later.

“You gotta go?” you ask, voice husky with sleep.

“It seems so. Come, get dressed. I’ll take you home first.”

You think to protest for a moment and then realize he wouldn’t offer if he didn’t have the time to. You raise yourself up off of him and the couch and follow him to get dressed propper. It’s a little hard not to get distracted watching him put his ensemble together, go from your lazy day boyfriend all soft at the edges to the striking MTF agent most know him as. He raises an eyebrow when he catches you staring a little too long and you decide it’ll be better if you’re facing the other direction while you pull the rest of your clothes on.

“Where do you want this?” you ask finally, holding up the shirt you’d borrowed.

“Keep it, if you’d like. It looks good on you.” He says this as he finishes buttoning his suit and you can’t help but think that he looks much better by far in anything and everything he wears. You’re happy to keep the shirt though.

You kiss him before you slip out of his car, longer and harder than the usual goodbyes you give each other. Something about his sudden calls into work make you nervous, make you worry. Sometimes you forget a bit how dangerous his job is, for all his talk of paperwork and procedure. His hand is gentle on your cheek, thumb stroking softly against your skin.

“Be safe,” you mutter against his lips.

“I will,” he promises.

You watch his car disappear down the block before you head inside, missing him already. When you dress down again, up in your appartment, you slip on his shirt and manage a small smile. It smells like him, obviously, and you can almost pretend your lazy day didn’t have to end. He’s holding you in your dreams.

Sunday you worry. Evening rolls around without a peep from him, no good morning, no good night as the time creeps closer to 11 p.m. You realize that this isn’t the first time this has happened, sometimes he gets far too busy, has a case far too important, to use his phone for anything nonessential. You’re sure some days he probably doesn’t even think of you, and while that thought stings a little you reason that it’s not out of a lack of fondness. He’s a busy man with an important job. Still, tonight has you worried, has your stomach twisting in knots at the sound of every police siren that zooms by. Perhaps it’s because there’s been quite a few.

The judge show you’ve been watching in an attempt to avoid looking at your phone or email cuts out suddenly to a special news report. There’s a hostage situation happening just a few miles away, a man threatening some dozen people if his demands aren’t met. Possible magic artifact on the scene, two officers already injured.

With every word from the newscaster, ever extra bit of information, you feel your anxiety grow. Is this what Kandomere is dealing with right now? Is he safe? Is he one of the officers injured? Or would they have said agent? Did it matter? Is he okay?

You’re torn for a moment between changing the channel and continuing to watch but decide leaving it on will only add more fuel to the fire that is your racing mind. It’s not as if you could do anything about it right? You’d only be in the way, likely wouldn’t even be able to get near what was happening. And anyway, Kandomere was trained for these kinds of things, he knew what he was doing. He’d be fine…

You change the channel back and forth a few more times before leaving it on the news once more. You feel nauseous either way.

The volume is most of the way down because you can feel a headache coming on, likely stress induced, a growing pain at the front of your skull. You’re wearing his shirt again, fingers of worrying at the hem while you try to sit still and calm yourself down. At some point you fetched your phone and now it sits in your lap, seemingly defiant in its refusal to give you news of the man you’re coming to love so dearly.

It’s cool in your hands when you pick it up but warms slightly with every up and down pass as you fidget, try to decide what to do. Is there even anything to do?

Please be safe you finally type out with shaking hands.

…

Nothing in five minutes. You change the channel in favor of cooking shows. Ten minutes, you curl up on the couch. Thirty and you can’t count how many times you’ve looked at your phone. In an hour you’re fitfully dozing, jolting up at the slightest sound, the smallest of phantom sensation against your palm. Your heart is pounding unpleasantly, pulse an uncomfortable thrum, but you feel exhausted all the same. You’ve been worried about him before but for some reason this feels different, worse. You think you might cry but instead you tow the line, fists wrinkling the blue fabric where you clutch at it, bring the collar up to breathe in the soothing scent of him. It helps a little but you still feel a pang.

The soft vibration wakes you around 1:30 and you drop your phone in your disoriented surprise. It takes a second to fish it out from underneath your coffee table but once you do you feel your body slowly start to wind down from the fear you’d been feeling.

I am is the simple reply on the screen, an answer to your earlier plea. It’s amazing how much easier it is to breath with that piece of mind and you slump back into the couch, tension draining from your body. You’re so tired.

Your phone buzzes again and you check the message, the first smile you’ve had in hours making its way onto your face.

May I stay with you tonight? I’m closer to your home than mine.

As much as you’d like to fall right asleep you’re sure you can stay up a bit longer to let him in. Of course, you shoot back, and decide to start a pot of tea to keep yourself up, it’s ready by the time you hear a knock at your door.

He looks exhausted when you finally see him, bags under his eyes more pronounced, hair slightly disheveled, suit wrinkled. You notice the slight pinch in his brow and think he’s probably making the same assessment of you, a certified hot mess after an entire day of worrying. You can’t help the look on your face, smile tired and worried but still there and full of adoration.

“Hey,” you say, taking his face in your hands gently.

“Darling,” he sighs, lips pressing against yours.

You offer him tea but he declines, asking after your shower instead. You listen to the sound of running water and the chug of your washing machine from the couch. He gets out just after you toss the laundry, you can’t wash his suits but his underwear are cotton at least, into the dryer. You set it to time dry and follow him into your room.

“Candy?” you ask, surprised at the sight of Kandomere perched at the edge of your bed unwrapping a chocolate bar.

“It’s been a long day,” he shrugs and motions to the pillow on your prefered side of the bed. “For you too, it seems.” You certainly hadn’t expected to be brought your favorite candy tonight but there it was.

You pick it up and get into bed, turning to thank him when you see the large bruise starting to darken on his back. It makes your heart ache, seeing him hurt, remembering that despite his strength and resilience he’s still mortal, still breakable. You put the candy on your bedside table and scoot up behind him, careful of the bruise when you wrap gentle arms around him.

“Thanks hon,” you say softly. “I think I’ve got all the Kandy I could ever want right here though.”

You can’t see his face but you’re sure he’s smiling, breath coming out in an amused little huff. He takes one of your hands in his and kisses it, thumb stroking your skin gently. It’s a nice moment, quiet and calm after a day of anxiety. You pull back first, slipping under the covers, and he follows suit, pulling you close.

You curl into his chest, forehead pressed near his heart so that you can feel its steady beat. He’s here, alive and breathing and safe, real under your fingertips. His hands slide slowly up and down your back, gentle and soothing, lulling you to sleep.

“Night, Kandomere,” you mumble, pressing a kiss to his chest before you drift away.

“Good night, mi amor,” is his whispered answer.

The second love language story~ Still not a drabble but whatever. Proof reading happened at 1am so forgive me for mistakes. I’ll probs come back to edit soon. Tags for @starscreamerrr @theawfuledges @kandomereappreciationblog @kandomerx @kandomeresbitch @anise495 Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in my future works =D there should be at least 8 more of these.

#kandomere #kandomere x reader #bright #bright netflix #bright fanfiction #reader insert #love languages #this one was: gift giving #waffle writes

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tigersplaygrnd1 · 8 years ago

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About YoI, “resellers,” and market depletion

Mostly ranting.

Recently, I went to the Bungou Stray Dogs Ani-kuji lottery event. For those who don’t know, Ani-kuji is Animate’s own anime goods lottery, in which you buy tickets and then get prizes. Much like Ichiban Kuji, there are no losing prizes, but the higher level prizes are not only rare but also exclusive. “Kuji” is translated to “lottery,” but I would liken the event more to a raffle, which has limited prizes and doesn’t necessarily get better with the more people who draw. Bungou Stray Dogs does not do any other lotteries, such as Ichiban Kuji; so often enough, the Ani-kuji is the only event to play this kind of psuedo-gambling for the series.

It was on a weekday, which means that I would have to take off time from my “day job” in order to go to it. I woke up at 4:30 am to see the sunrise and headed to the office to get my morning’s work done, as I expected that I would probably be standing in line all morning long.

To my pleasant surprise, when I arrived there were only about 5 people in line with three people already at the register doing their lottery pulls. At the previous Ani-kuji last November, I had arrived around an hour late but still managed to draw even though there was a line well out the door. I thought I was in good shape. I was wrong.

For the most part, there is no limit on the number you can draw. This system worked for the previous BSD Ani-kuji, as fans tended to be measured in their gambling and just do a few draws and then get back in line to draw again hoping the odds would move in their favor with more people drawing. This system works out for most, because as people are satisfied with different levels of prizes (i.e. I wanted the second-to-lowest prize), it helps people try for the item they want with the lowest amount of tickets necessary. This year, however, this did not happen.

There was a reseller, who was already there when I had arrived. I am not even sure how many tickets they had pulled, but it was well over 100. It is even possible he drew most of one box of prizes by himself. We were all standing in line. A few more fans showed up, like me, pleasantly surprised by the short line, but as we watched the reseller open each ticket one-by-one and then subsequently receive all their prizes one-by-one (necessary to confirm the winner is getting the correct prizes), we all became antsy and just generally not happy, even though we all walked into the store generally excited.

Now, the more cutthroat amongst us might be saying, “Well, there is no limit. That should be expected.”

While that is true, that is definitely not in a JP BSD fandom context. Sure, some people will show up to the event ready to drop down $1000 on lottery tickets, but in general, they won’t. Who really wants to spend $1000 in one go anyway? They’ll space it out in order to play their odds and not hold up the line. Sure, there is a level of competition for prizes, but we are generally nice and polite to each other.

While standing in line, my phone battery died. I watched the same anime trailer over and over again on the staircase’s LCD TV while the three other people at the register waiting to draw started to get into a panic seeing all the prized go to this one person, who showed next to zero interest in the prizes, just stuffing them into bags with zero emotion.

The next two people drew 80 tickets and 60 tickets, respectively. Regardless, the number of tickets had dwindled, the atmosphere grew more competitive, as a woman, I assumed had already drawn, came back and asked if she could draw more, because she didn’t know there was no limit. She had to get back in line. Another fan asked to wait until the new box started because she didn’t want to draw if certain prizes were missing. It was, indeed, a cluster-fuck.

To add insult to injury, the Animate staff this time had zero competency to deal with the issue at hand. As you would expect at a retail establishment, the employees deferred to the manager, who I would say, is not a very good manager. She sat by and watched as the reseller spent over 45 minutes at the register and tried to explain to the fan who bought 60 tickets that she could not buy more, because they will start a new box, and she can’t buy from two different boxes at once. (Luckily it seems the 60-ticket fan hit her prizes, so she did not draw again after that. She was asking for 100.)

After the manager finally woke up and realized that they were running out of tickets, she went to the line and asked us one-by-one how many we wanted to draw. We, of course, are not sure. We wanted to know what was left before we decided how many to draw. If the prize we want is not there, we will not draw or we will draw less. It’s a pretty simple logic, but the manager seemed to not understand this. Even when questioned by the fan in front of me about why she was asking and if she was asking our maximum, etc., the manager brushed her off, explaining her own logic that she wants EVERYONE in line to have a chance to draw.

Most of us say we want 20-30 draws. This should have been expected. We don’t know what prizes are left. We don’t know how many tickets are left. Even if I’m only going to draw 10, I said 20. The manager goes to the calculator and then announces, “THERE IS NOW A 10-TICKET LIMIT, BECAUSE IT IS ONLY FAIR FOR ALL OF THE PEOPLE LEFT TO DRAW. PLEASE COOPERATE.”

This, of course, didn’t improve the atmosphere at all, and the workers were also showing signs of stress and were rushing, because the manager was rushing them. The did not update the remaining stock in time.

By the time I get up there, there are less than the limit of 10 tickets in the current box, and I am also restrained by the “no fishing in two ponds” rule. They show me the “remaining items.” There are still a slightly rare prize that my friend wanted so I agree to draw out the rest of the box. This should, by any logic, mean that I am guaranteed those prizes. I did not win those prizes. Instead I won all the lowest prize. (If I had known it was all the lowest prize, I would not have drawn.)

I got back in line with the few remaining fans, who all seemed to be dying for Chuuya, to finally be able to really draw 10 tickets. My first draw didn’t even feel like a draw. When I finally get to the counter for the second time, the manager is like, “Can I help you open the tickets?” More rushing, but I agree because I am not an asshole, but she is opening the tickets literally as I draw them. She opens an A prize, the highest prize, but she does not tell me. I don’t even know what my prizes are until she is running back with all my items, mostly can badges, but OH MY GOD IS THAT A BLANKET. It is literally in a bag before I can react.

[You can see some items I got from this event in the livestream I uploaded to YouTube. Yes, my double can badges are all missing from this image.]

Now, you might be thinking this is the manager’s fault, or there should have been a limit from the beginning. I asked, and at other stores, there were not really many problems with resellers or having to impose limits. This was in fact a special case, and indeed, they mishandled the situation. In my personal opinion, Haikyuu events are the most well run. Even if they run out of an item, they still have enough stock for at least 70% of their expected capacity. They also literally write they will refuse to sell to resellers, which means, even beyond the “limits” they can literally say, “No, you cannot buy here.” (Even if they don’t enforce the rule, it keeps resellers from even trying.)

Additionally, last year’s Ani-kuji, at the same Animate, was pretty well-run. They didn’t rush, but they also didn’t make any mistakes with what was remaining. In that kuji, I came up, and there were about 12 tickets left. I asked for 10, but she showed me the remaining items; and, after asking about what I was shooting for, she told me in more words, “Just buy them all.” I got all the prizes she showed me were remaining.

Then, there is the reseller. People might find it hypocritical that I am criticizing a reseller, because I am, after all, a reseller. For events, however, I never buy more than what is acceptable for one person to buy; and additionally, I respect the other fans and don’t hold up the line, by, for example, doing 10 at a time. I limit the number of requests I accept. I go with one or two specific buyers in mind, sometimes my personal friends, so I know what they want and am shooting for certain prizes, just like everyone else. I make measured decisions on how much I have to spend and try to spend less than quoted. I’m not just trying to buy the whole damn store. The reseller wasted our time by doing their pulls that way, when they could have done it all online. They also changed the atmosphere completely. Regardless of the”Black Friday” mentality of the culture I grew up in, I like and enjoy this fandom and like to share anxious moments with them, but this time was not enjoyable at all.

(As a perspective, the vast majority of attendees to non-kuji events, myself included, will buy 1-5 items max. Also, buying “gifts” for friends is a common practice in Japan, so I stay within my own limits of what that looks like. While there are fans that buy up to the store limits for themselves, it isn’t as common as you would think.)

What does this have to do with YoI?

I’ve known for awhile that certain resellers that sell to international fans ruin the atmosphere in similar ways at YoI events. In general, I don’t usually run into them as I usually don’t have the resources or time to go to an $80 event for just 2 people. Additionally, I go at different times as them, because, well, again, I’m busy and don’t have time to be there Day 1. Yes, this means I do miss out on some goods, but I usually can still get what my buyers are asking for, so it isn’t a big deal.

But, if I am being honest, if I saw one of these resellers in the line ahead of me doing this to me, I might say something to them. Much like the reseller at the BSD event, they seem to slip by because of stereotypical Japanese politeness. I’m going to say this in a rather rude way, but that is taking advantage of an otherwise friendly fandom. Much like the reseller at the BSD event, they are probably already out the door without realizing the chaos they have caused in their wake. I would stretch to say it is even worse, because we were just some 10 people in line being imposed a limit at a free event. It is no comparison to some hundreds of people who paid good money to attend an event but are faced with sold-out goods. That is just devastating. Sure, the event is partially to blame for not being clairvoyant, but then, you have to remember the resellers are making money from it.

The unpopular point.

The main point I want to make is that these resellers are in seen as my competition. People think maybe because of my mediocre social media presence, I am somehow the same as them. I am not. I do not see them as my competition because I do not do “preorders.” I do get exclusive goods, but I get them the same as a normal Japanese fan: second-hand markets, trying to attend to events with the little time and resources I have. I get the bulk of my goods second-hand, which is being influenced and affected by these resellers, whether international fans realize it or not.

I even find the discourse on YoI prices laughable, as the international fans need to know the fact that they are willing to pay high prices and “requesting” large amounts of goods before they can even hit the Japanese second-hand market is indeed increasing the resell prices in the Japan. International fans aren’t just innocent bystanders at the whims of the Japanese fandom. I’m not saying international fans should stop buying. I am saying they need to be open-minded to the idea that international fans affect the Japanese market as well.

Finally, these items are in fact, exclusive goods, regardless of how easily they are to buy on the internet. Sure, there is a premium, but compared to the everyday Japanese fans who do not know about the international preorder market, the fandom is not expecting to be at the exclusive event and then being told everything is sold out before the event is even halfway in, or getting there four hours early to have to wait another hour for one person to finish their transactions. The average Japanese fan spends a lot of time and energy just to get one thing, but resellers can bulk buy and spread their premium out over dozens of buyers who aren’t even at the event.

Now, some people seem to think I am a fool for wanting to play by unspoken rules in the Japanese fandoms (that I enjoy and regularly interact with, btw). Others seem upset that I would even dare to say anything is wrong with the international preorder market or the business practices of my “competition.” I get that they are your “only outlet” to exclusive goods, but that just tells me that you do not see me as a viable “outlet.”

I have over a hundred unsold YoI items in my store. My only option is to turn back to the Japanese market and do a part of my selling again here.

I will still continue to sell YoI, but my stock will be much more limited then it is now. Thank you all for your support until now and your continued support in the future.

(Yes, beka army fam, Otabek goods will still be priority items for me.)

#ranting #store #faq

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jammie3132 · 8 years ago

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Prop Bets: Collecting on the Bet

Fandom: Glee Characters: Blaine, Sebastian, Warblers Words: 1005 Summary: It’s the Tuesday after the Super Bowl. Time for the loser to pay-up.

“You know that you are supposed to wear official Dalton wear to Warbler practice.”

“I am” Sebastian told his boyfriend while holding out his arms and turning to prove his point “I have on my Lacrosse sweatpants and hoodie, both official Dalton wear. Just because I have on the jersey of my new favorite athlete on the planet, Mr. Tom Brady, over the hoodie doesn’t mean I am out of uniform.”

“Plus, before you try to get out of this, it didn’t matter that Tommy boy engineered the greatest comeback in Super Bowl history. I had already won the bet. Sammy’s guy remembered all the words to the National Anthem and GaGa rocked the house with Bad Romance. Face it Killer, I won fair and square!”

Blaine knew he was losing this argument. Sebastian was right, he had won fair and square. Also, Blaine had to admit that he was the one that came up with the idea of the winner having the loser do something embarrassing at Warbler practice. What he had forgotten was that his boyfriend was an evil, evil person.

However, Blaine had an ace up his sleeve. At least he hoped.

“You know Seb” Blaine brought out his “sexy” voice as he walked up to Sebastian and started playing with the bottom of the new jersey “I would be open to changing your prize to something a little more private.” Blaine then slid in closer and started kissing Sebastian’s neck as his hands moved lower.

“Kkkiiilllllleeerrrr” Sebastian moaned, momentarily considering Blaine’s latest proposal.

But only momentarily.

Sebastian pulled away and gave Blaine a slap on the ass “Good try, but I’ll see you in the commons in 10 minutes. Don’t be late!” He then quickly grabbed the box that was on his desk and got out the door before Blaine tried something that he wouldn’t be able to say “no” to.

When Sebastian arrived at practice without Blaine everyone was surprised. No one could remember it happening since the two had become a couple.

“Where’s your better half?” Jeff asked “And what’s in the box?”

“He’s coming. He has prepared something special for you guys, and this” Sebastian held up the box “is part of that. Now everyone have a seat.”

The Warblers all knew more was going on than Blaine performing something special. Sebastian was practically, well…giddy. He was literally bouncing around the room, which considering he was still in a cast was really impressive. Then they KNEW something was up when Sebastian told them all to get out their phones and then close their eyes. Once he made sure that everyone had their eyes closed he called out to Blaine to come in.

“I cannot believe you are making me do this!” Blaine huffed as he got into place.

“Hey, don’t blame me. I would have never thought of this if you and your mom weren’t talking about seeing Emma Watson in the new live-action movie.”

“Can you lovebirds stop bickering so we can open our eyes?” Thad complained, but most of the other Warblers nodded in agreement.

“Ok gentlemen! Open your eyes!” Sebastian called out in a voice that was happier than any of the other boys ever remembered him having. When they opened their eyes they could see why and immediately reached for their phones.

Blaine was standing in the middle of the room in a giant tea pot costume, Mrs. Potts from Beauty and the Beast to be exact.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” Sebastian yelled as he picked up the mysterious box and pulled out a “Chip” tea cup, handing it to Blaine “Now you’re ready!”

Blaine looked at his boyfriend and said with all seriousness “You know you are never getting laid again, right?”

At that moment Sebastian didn’t care “I’ll take my chances. It’s tea time, Killer!” Blaine let out a loud sigh and then started to sing.

I’m a little tea pot short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout. When I get all steamed up hear me shout “Tip me over and pour me out!”

3 Hours Later “Never getting laid again!” Blaine repeated. He was sitting with Sebastian on his bed, but had placed a wall of pillows in between the two. They had Sebastian’s laptop open and Blaine was trying to figure out which one of his friends was going to die!

“Come on B. All of you McKinley friends loved the video. And it’s not technically a viral video until it goes over a million views in 2 days.”

“It’s been 3 hours and it’s at 100,000 views! Never getting laid again!”

“I’ll tell you what” Sebastian tried to move one of the pillows, only to have Blaine put it back “you forgive me this and I’ll forgive you THIS” lifting up his cast.

“You already said you forgave me.”

“Well, how about I don’t bring it up every time I want a blowjob?” Sebastian countered.

“Fine” Blaine finally relaxed and gave him a smile “No more blowjobs.”

Sebastian set aside his computer and started to pull away the wall of pillows “I never said that” he told Blaine as he tackled him.

2 Days Later Sebastian was sitting in the Warbler’s commons looking at his laptop. He should have been doing the research for his paper on the Ottoman Empire, but instead he was “researching” Tom Brady’s previous Super Bowls.

“Save me from your boyfriend Smythe!” Jeff yelled as he ran into the room.

Blaine came in just a few seconds later “Judas! It was you!”

“Killer, what’s going on?”

Blaine walked over and took the laptop from Sebastian, pulling up a certain site “It has 2 million views, Seb!”

Sebastian tried desperately not to laugh as he took his computer back and said “Sorry Sterling, you’re on your own”

As Blaine took off, back to chasing after Jeff, Sebastian went back to his “research”. After all, he needed to be ready for next year’s Super Bowl bets.

#seblaine #Super Bowl bet #Sebastian is evil #in a good way

4 notes · View notes

sunbrights · 8 years ago

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fic: by the claw of dragon (1/7)

fandom: danganronpa characters/pairings: natsumi kuzuryuu, fuyuhiko kuzuryuu, peko pekoyama + 77th class ensemble, et al. kuzupeko. character tags will be updated on AO3 with plot-relevant characters as chapters are posted. rating: m summary: The Kuzuryuu Clan stands on the precipice of the greatest era of its history. Kuzuryuu Natsumi promises to be the strongest leader the clan has ever seen, the Overlord of the South born again. That Hopes's Peak Academy would select her for it's 77th class was assumed, not hoped for.

To the younger Kuzuryuu son, everything is as it's meant to be.

The Kuzuryuu family arrives to the entrance ceremony in the compound’s entire fleet of armored cars. In the first, there is only Natsumi and her father. In the second, her mother and brother ride with her aunt and three of her first cousins (the eldest, Yuuto, has not been welcome in their territory for almost two decades). In the third, there are the personal servants and bodyguards of anyone in the first two.

The other seven contain the rest of her family: blood relatives and loyal underlings who have earned the right to stand alongside them.

(“They are here to witness the beginning of a new era in our history,” her father tells her on the way there. “It starts today, whether you’re prepared for it or not.”

Natsumi listens to the steady hum of the car’s engine, and looks him in the eye. “I am.”

Her father says nothing. She can't tell if he approves or agrees, or doesn't. He only nods, and leans over to pour himself a drink from the bar.)

They form a massive block of the audience, a swath of dark suits, expensive jewelry, and mostly-concealed weaponry. The others in the crowd give them a wide berth, and Natsumi can’t help but grin in her seat.

The senior student council president recites something about hope and history and the school’s mission statement. Natsumi isn’t sure; she’s not listening. She doesn’t care about what Hope’s Peak stands for, or how it thinks it’ll change the world. She cares about what it has to offer her and her family: resources, connections, and opportunities.

If it couldn’t give her that, she wouldn’t waste a single second more here.

All the families crowd the students after the ceremony, and Natsumi receives hers in a line out on the grass, Peko behind her left shoulder and Fuyuhiko behind her right. Her father insists; he’s the one that corrals all of them, and then he waits off to the side with her mother until Natsumi’s seen every single one.

For the first few minutes, it’s fine; her aunt clasps both of Natsumi’s hands in hers and says a prayer for the family’s future right then and there, and her cousin Rin shows her the World War I-era pistol she’d managed to get off a collector as payment for outstanding debts. But as the line proceeds and the number of faces already familiar to her start to dwindle, Natsumi begins to understand why her father arranged it this way.

“Natsumi-chan!” Togawa Minato is a grand uncle, who married into the family eight years ago. He reaches out to take her hands, and she folds them behind her back instead. He falters, fingers outstretched into the empty air between them. “Y-You’ve grown into a magnificent woman since I saw you last, Natsumi-chan. Truly. Truly.” Natsumi only looks at him, and without anything to grab he starts to wring his hands instead. “I did have a small favor to ask, if you’ll hear me out. Your mother and I go way back of course, of course, you remember my beautiful wife, and we’re in need of a small loan—”

“We can arrange something with my mother,” Natsumi tells him. “I’m sure she’d love to hear why you decided to presume so much about her generosity.”

He pales. “Oh. Oh, no, no, no. N-No need. I wouldn’t want to bother your honorable mother with such a trifling thing. I’ll be on my way, of course, congratulations again, Natsumi-chan!”

It goes on like that for a while. Most are only here to butter her up before she leaves for school, but some have the stones to ask for more immediate favors: money and contracts and forgiveness. Natsumi knows her father is watching her, and she handles them.

“Lemme guess,” Fuyuhiko mutters eventually. He’s been fidgeting for the past fifteen minutes. “This one wants to know if you can convince the old man to give him an extension on what he owes him after they played cards that one time they were our age.”

“No way,” she whispers back. “He wants free drugs. One million percent.”

“Bullshit.”

“Two bags of karinto says it’s drugs.”

She can feel him glowering at the back of her head. “Fine,” he hisses after the man has introduced himself as second cousin Jun, visiting from the United States. “You’re on.”

It takes five seconds for second cousin Jun to clasp her hand and step close to ask her, “Exactly how big are the shipments coming out of Taiwan?” and only five more for Peko to remove him from the line. Natsumi bites her lip to keep herself from laughing while Fuyuhiko swears in her ear.

They go back and forth; it makes handling the last third of the line less of an excruciating bore than it might have been otherwise. In the final tally, he owes her three bags of karinto and Peko a lemon soda. (Natsumi had been able to goad her into guessing exactly once: she’d blown the both of them out of the water by identifying the sibling of another student who’d snuck into the line to ask for work, and then had removed him, too.)

“Look who it is,” Fuyuhiko whispers. Their cousin Yuina has cut to the front of the line; Natsumi remembers her face from childhood playdates that had ended a long, long time ago. “She thinks she’s better than us. Thinks it’s supposed to be her and not you.” He grunts when Yuina comes up from the head of the line, all smiles and false friendliness. “What now, bitch.”

Natsumi sputters a laugh right into their cousin’s simpering face.

Yuina ends up stomping away, red-faced and fuming. It doesn’t matter in the long term, not with her family so far down in the clan hierarchy, but the murmuring from the line turns their father’s head. Natsumi clears her throat.

“I think the young mistress has the rest of things in hand, Fuyuhiko-sama,” Peko murmurs. Her voice is too light and too warm; Peko is good at a lot of things, but telling off Fuyuhiko will never be one of them.

“What, being fought over like some kinda prize ham?” he whispers back. “Yeah, I think so too.” He pinches the back of Natsumi's arm. “Like you really needed Peko to say that for you.”

Natsumi smiles wide at the next person in line, a second cousin once removed from Yokohama whose given name starts with either E or F. “No,” she whispers, “I just figured you’d like it better coming from her.”

Fuyuhiko has nothing to say about second-cousin-once-removed Eikō from Yokohama. Or anyone else after that.

Her parents stay long enough to confirm that her things have been properly delivered and unpacked in her dorm room. Her mother gathers her up in a bear hug before they leave, and even her father reaches out to wrap one strong arm around her shoulders.

Fuyuhiko lingers at the door, and waves their parents off when they’re finished with their goodbyes. “We gotta take care of something,” he tells them, “I’ll catch up.”

He follows her and Peko to the school store, and argues with her the whole way about the odds of Yuina posting a vague message on social media before the night is out. (Natsumi’s position is that she absolutely is, and that he absolutely needs to find it and take a screenshot of it for her.)

“There’s your karinto.” He slaps the bags into her open hands, fresh from the vending machine. Natsumi pops one open right then and there, just for the look on his face.

“Good luck,” he tells her anyway, hands deep in his pockets. “Don’t fuck it up.”

She hugs him then, too, half because he hates it and half because it already feels weird, being separated from him. He elbows her in the ribs until she lets go, but not before she feels him pat her back with one hand.

“Don’t forget!” She points at the drink machine, and swipes the edge of her sleeve against the corner of her eye when his back is turned. “You owe Peko, too.”

“That’s not necessary,” Peko says, even though Fuyuhiko is already pressing the buttons. “The young mistress should—”

The soda clatters into the bottom of the vending machine, and Fuyuhiko bends to grab it. “She got it wrong. You won fair and square.” He holds the bottle out, and Natsumi looks up at the ceiling when Peko glances over to her for help. “What’re you sayin’, I shouldn’t pay my debts?”

“No,” Peko answers, and she reaches to take the bottle with both hands. “Of course not. Thank you.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Anyway— I should go. Mom’ll lose it if we get home too late to have dinner on time.”

“Like she’s not going to lose it anyway,” Natsumi says.

“Yeah, and I’m the one who’s gotta deal with it, right?”

He tilts his head back in Peko’s direction, and Natsumi fights the urge to roll her eyes. It’s the same every time and he doesn’t even know it. He lifts his chin instead of waving because it looks cooler, eyes creasing at the corners because he’s trying not to smile, and Natsumi considers herself a top tier sister for not gagging right there on the carpet.

“Later, Peko.”

“Goodbye, Fuyuhiko-sama.”

They leave at the same time, in opposite directions down the hallway.

There are introductions the first day of class, even though it’s pointless. Anyone with half a brain and ten minutes of spare time would have done enough googling to put names to faces. (Natsumi knows much more than just names and faces by now, but not everyone here is her. She’s generous enough to give them a lower bar.) She doesn’t see the point in separating them into classes at all, but the school seems determined to pretend it’s even halfway normal, at least in the first few days.

Natsumi stands when it’s her turn, and when she tilts her head, so does Peko.

No one in the room misses it.

“Kuzuryuu Natsumi,” she says. It starts right away, eyes shifting and people leaning across desk aisles to whisper. A swell of satisfaction lifts her chin. “Nice to meet you, I guess.”

Peko bows her head, on cue. “I am Pekoyama Peko. It’s nice to meet everyone.”

That’s all anyone ever needs: Natsumi’s name, and Peko’s sword. The rest sinks in on its own. Natsumi sits, counts to five in her head, and then she sorts them.

There are three who won’t meet her eyes at all: Tsumiki, Souda, and Hanamura.

There are four who seem too stupid to understand what’s in front of them: Owari, Mioda, Nanami, and Komaeda.

That leaves five potentials: Nidai, Saionji, Tanaka, Sonia, and Mitarai.

Well. Five potentials, and one more:

“Oh, wow. Look who it is, Peko-chan!” She laughs behind her hand when Koizumi stands up, loud enough to get as many pairs of eyes to swing toward her as possible. “Did you get lost on your way to the Reserve Course, Koizumi-san? I didn’t think they’d even let trash like you through the gate.”

“Hey, hey.” The teacher stirs behind his desk; he doesn’t raise his head, but he does flick the edge of his hat up to look at her properly. He reeks of tequila. Natsumi assumed he was dead. “Let’s treat our classmates with respect, yeah?”

“Back off, Natsumi,” Koizumi says over him. “I have just as much of a right to be here as you do.”

“Ohhh, I remember. The pictures, right? Sure, sure. They were kind of cute, I guess.” Natsumi leans back in her seat, and makes sure her smile is wide. “My bad. Go on.”

Koizumi does, and even manages to keep her face from flushing red until after she’s already sat down again. Frustration or embarrassment, Natsumi doesn’t really care which. If she’d known they’d actually be put in the same class together, she would have done something about it, but it’s too late now. She’ll just need to handle it, like everything else.

“Right, right. Nice to meet everyone,” Kizakura says, after Nanami has spent thirty seconds standing at her desk playing her game, completely silent. Natsumi thinks the odds that he was listening to any of them at all are pretty low. “We’ve got about thirty-five minutes left.” He burps into his hand and tries to pass it off as a cough. “So, uh, unstructured free time, I guess.”

It’s about as much as any of them expected. A few people chat quietly, but most everyone else works on their own: Mioda plucks a few notes out on her guitar, Tanaka encourages his hamsters through a relay race on his desk, Souda tinkers with some kind of robot that looks like it could either be a dog or a chicken

Natsumi takes stock.

Her list has shrunk since the start of class: Tanaka had talked for five straight minutes and said almost nothing, and she still has a headache from Nidai’s shouting. Mitarai had been soft-spoken and stuttery in his introduction, not at all what she expected after the cool stare he’d given her after hers, but that doesn’t necessarily mean much.

She has unstructured free time to burn. No reason not to test a few theories.

Natsumi stands, stretches (she can feel eyes on her, but there’s fewer now; people are learning), and follows a winding path toward the front of the classroom. She bumps Koizumi’s desk with her hip on the way there, scattering photographs across the floor.

Koizumi glares. “Watch it.”

Natsumi smiles at her, and twists one of them under her shoe. “Oops. Really sorry, Koizumi-san.”

Mitarai is looking at her. When she meets his eye this time, his head drops immediately back down towards his desk. He quails under her scrutiny, shoulders drawn up and face pressed so close to his tablet he might smudge it with his nose.

She kicks the picture under her foot toward him. “Hey, Mitarai-kun,” she says, “I think one of Koizumi-san’s pictures fell over there. Can you grab it?”

“Oh.” He lifts his head, but he’s looking past her, at a point somewhere behind her shoulder. “Um.” He bends, and holds the picture out to her.

The flip-flop is almost even more pathetic than the ones who’d known not to stare right off the bat. A miscalculation on her part, or maybe some temporary bravery on his. Either way, he’s not worth wasting time on.

She plucks the picture from his fingers and tosses it back onto Koizumi’s desk, dust and all. “Hey,” Koizumi snaps, “You can’t just walk around here like you own the place. You—”

Natsumi ignores her. She turns her back on Koizumi's self-righteous lecture and raises her voice just enough to carry. “Hey, Peko-chan?”

Peko lifts her head. She’s near the front, behind Souda. “Yes, young mistress.”

“It’s kind of a pain with you sitting all the way over there and me all the way over here. Do you see somewhere we can sit together?”

Peko doesn’t need to be told what to do. She makes as if scanning the room for empty spots. “I’m sorry, young mistress. They all look to be taken already.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I bet we could trade with somebody.”

Natsumi reaches over Souda’s shoulder to pluck his dog-or-chicken robot off of his desk; he jerks in his seat, and the noise that comes out of his throat is somewhere between a whine and a yell. She hops up to sit on the edge of his desk, and fiddles with one of the robot’s loose screws. “So! Souda-kun.” She smiles down at him; his eyes are so big they could fall out of his head. She points to an empty desk in the back corner. “You sit there now.”

“H-Hey. You can’t—”

“What? You don’t want me and Peko-chan to be able to sit together?” She indicates past his shoulder with a tilt of her head, and she knows he doesn’t need to turn around to picture Peko behind him, tall and cold and immovable. “We’re inseparable, you know.”

“No, that’s not what I—”

“Then what’s the problem? You don’t mind swapping desks, do you?”

“It’s just that I—”

Natsumi leans down into his space. She holds the little robot under his nose. “You what?”

His teeth clack together when his jaw snaps shut. “That’s what I thought,” Natsumi says, and drops the robot into his lap. He jumps straight up in the air, knees knocking against the underside of the desk, and nearly falls over himself scrambling out of it. Natsumi waits until he’s clutched his books and bag against his chest and hurled himself toward the back of the room, and hops into his empty seat.

“I feel you may have been too harsh with Souda-san,” Sonia says from her right.

“I just did you a favor,” Natsumi tells her. She stretches out wide into the seat, arms crossed behind her head. “Did you see the way that guy was looking at you? Eugh.” Sonia did see; she’d been looking straight forward at the blackboard when Natsumi came in the room, even when Souda leaned forward to try and catch her gaze. Natsumi shudders to hammer the feeling home. “He’s a stalker-in-training. Now, instead of a creeper, you’ve got your year back. You’re welcome.”

“He can be a little… much sometimes, that is true.” Sonia rolls her shoulders in what Natsumi thinks is probably the princess-equivalent of a shudder. “It is what it is, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Natsumi grins at her. “You can owe me one.”

Natsumi spends afternoon homeroom in the dojo with Peko. There’s no point in going back to class today; Kizakura is a pushover, and there’s no official punishment from the school even if he wasn’t. She made the impression she needed to make. (She ate lunch alone, the entire table empty except for her and Peko.) It’ll solidify better the longer she lets them stew in it.

Besides, what’s the point of being at this school if she still has to sit in some boring class, anyway?

She sits by the lockers instead, out of the way enough that she won’t be caught in the crossfire of any Ultimate Archers or Gunslingers or whatever else, and watches Peko rise and fall through her forms. Natsumi names each one in her head as she goes (Ippon-me), the way she has since they were both small and Peko was just beginning to learn.

(Her father had strong objections toward her sitting in on Peko’s lessons, at first. He’d thought it was inappropriate and that Natsumi’s time could be better spent.

If they were meant to work together, she’d argued back, it only made sense for her to know exactly what and how much Peko was capable of.

Natsumi had gotten her way.)

There are times now when Peko moves too quickly through them for Natsumi to see the transition between each one. (Nihon-me.) When that happens, she sits in on as many more of Peko’s practices as she needs to until she gets it right. If she lets the gap get too big, she’ll never catch up, and she refuses to let that happen.

Today, Peko goes through them more slowly than normal. Natsumi knows she’s doing it on purpose; she’s adjusting to the new environment, new equipment, and new training partners. Even when her partner trips over herself trying to show-off to the new Ultimate Swordswoman, Peko keeps the same slow, measured pace.

Peko has nothing to prove to anyone.

(Sanbon-me.)

Natsumi rifles her phone out of her bag, and texts her brother.

me 14:09 🎉🌏💁

She doesn’t expect him to answer right away, and he doesn’t. (Yonhon-me.) She taps her phone against her cheek and waits until it buzzes in her palm.

fuyu-chan 14:13 when the fuck are you going to start using words like a grown up

me 14:13 👎👎👎

fuyu-chan 14:13 you shouldn’t even be texting in class anyway

me 14:13 i’m not in class

fuyu-chan 14:13 the hell is that supposed to mean

fuyu-chan 14:14 are you skipping???

fuyu-chan 14:14 IT’S DAY ONE

Natsumi waits. (Gohon-me.) Peko’s phone pings in the open locker next to her. It barely even took him one full minute.

me 14:15 🙌

me 14:15 peko’s skipping too btw don’t even bother

me 14:16 literally nobody cares about this except you

(Roppon-me.)

At first she thinks he’s started ignoring her after that, but then Peko’s phone pings again. Natsumi counts backwards from twenty in her head, and gets to three.

fuyu-chan 14:19 goddammit quit dragging her into your bullshit

fuyu-chan 14:19 and stop snooping around her phone

me 14:20 maybe you shouldn’t be texting her while you’re in class!!

me 14:20 that’s so disrespectful to the teacher fuyu-chan 😲

(Nanahon-me.)

He really does start ignoring her after that. (She sends three more messages, with as many combinations of the heart emojis as she can manage.) One of the downsides of them not going to the same school anymore: she doesn’t get to appreciate how red his face gets when he’s trying not to throw his phone across the room.

It’s Peko’s final set of forms. She finishes with her partner, sword sheathed with no flourish or flash, and bows deeply. All those repetitions and she’s barely even broken a sweat; her partner tries to hide the way her breath heaves in and out, and fails miserably.

“I am finished, young mistress,” Peko says, when she comes back over. “Thank you for waiting.”

Natsumi doesn’t bother looking up from her phone. She watches because it's important for her to, not because it’s some imposition; Peko knows that just as well as she does. “So? How’re the new digs? Is it everything the website said it would be?”

“The facilities are even more extensive than I expected,” Peko admits. She’d brought all of her equipment with her, but today the only things she hadn’t swapped out were her shinai and her sword bag. Natsumi knows because it had all been shiny and slightly too big, not at all like Peko’s broken-in and battered equipment from home. “I’m grateful for everything your family has provided—”

“Whatever,” Natsumi says. She flips her phone back against her palm and leans her chin on her hand. “If you see something you like better, tell me and I’ll get Dad to buy it for you. He doesn’t get to skimp just because he feels like it.”

“Thank you, young mistress.” Peko reaches into the locker for her change of clothes; she balances her phone on top of the pile, its notification light still blinking. “Did something happen?”

“It’s my brother,” Natsumi tells her, while she scrolls through the messages. “We’re gonna need to chat with him in a couple days. He’s getting something ready for me.”

“He says we shouldn’t be skipping class,” Peko says. “In mostly capital letters.”

“Oh, yeah. That too.”

“Should we attend class tomorrow?”

Natsumi laughs. “Me? No way. I’m not spending my morning watching some old guy sweat out his hangover. You?” She shrugs. “It can’t hurt, I guess. You can go if you want to. I think it’d be a waste of your time, but whatever. I’ll tell you if there’s ever a day you definitely need to skip.”

“Yes, young mistress.”

Fuyuhiko doesn’t respond to her until the weekend. He’s just being a baby; she knows it doesn’t take him that long to crunch a few numbers. He does it faster than she does, which is why she even asks him to do it in the first place.

She video calls him from her dorm room before dinner, while Peko sits on the bed to wait.

“Still with the fucking emoji code?” he says when he answers. “What are you, eleven?”

“Hi, Fuyu-chan.” He glowers, and she grins. “Did you get what I asked for or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Fuyuhiko waves a manila folder at the camera. “I’ll have somebody bring it to you. What do you even need these numbers for?”

“I want to see how we measure up in Europe,” Natsumi says. “I think I can open up some contracts.”

“Europe?” He lays the folder flat out on his desk, and flips to one of the center pages. The aluminum crackle of the bag of karinto under his left hand isn’t friendly to her computer’s speakers.

“How many bags of those have you had today?” she asks.

“Shut up.” He snaps the next piece noisily between his teeth. “It’s pretty pathetic out there. You’d have to get a lot more to make it worth anything. Maybe find someone other than those Nagahara dumbasses to make the shipments. The only reason Mom didn’t roll them after the last one they lost was because it was barely worth anything anyway.”

The shipments. She hadn’t thought of that. It’ll set all her still-forming plans back by at least six months if she can’t find a decent way around it, maybe even squash them before she has a chance to get them any further than that. The whole point was to expand into the region by securing more lucrative contracts, but if the goods go missing between here and there, they’re even more dead in the water than they were already.

“That’s fine,” she says anyway. “I’m Ultimate, aren’t I?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, according to somebody. Still a dumb as fuck thing to call it, if you ask me.” He ducks out of view of the camera, and Natsumi knows he’s rifling in the bottom drawer of his desk for more karinto. “What’s that place like, anyway? Are the toilets made out of solid gold or what?”

“They might as well be. There’s a kid in my class whose real talent is dumping the perfect log, I think. Ultimate Actual Shitter.”

“Fucking gross. I didn’t need to hear that.”

“Well, I had to, so now you have to.” She waits until he starts fidgeting with the packaging of his snack, and then tilts her head to talk back over her shoulder. “Oh! Plus, Peko’s got a bunch of cool new stuff to try out. Right, Peko?”

Fuyuhiko says, “Peko’s there?” behind her, his voice tinny over the speakers.

“Did you bring any of it back with you, Peko?” Natsumi says over him. “I bet Fuyuhiko’s dying to see it.”

“No,” Peko says. Natsumi nudges the edge of her laptop to put her in better view of the camera. “The equipment is intended for all the athletes. It wouldn’t be fair to keep it to myself. I’m sorry, Fuyuhiko-sama.”

He fumbles. Natsumi could set everything up perfectly for him, and he’d still find a way to mess it up. “No, that’s not— Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“That’s okay,” Natsumi says, “I’ll take a picture next time!” She leans her chair back as far as it will go, and frames Peko and her laptop between her fingers. “Ka-chk. It’ll be just like you were here too, Fuyu-chan.”

“Yeah, hard fuckin’ pass on that one.”

Natsumi describes it instead, the way Peko has already worn through three training volunteers without even trying, until the bells ring to tell them they’re late for dinner.

For two months, everything is fine. Her teacher gets more and more useless every day, and her classmates stay out of her way, which gives her all the time she needs to do what she needs to do. She opens eleven more weapons contracts in France, Belgium, and Italy, with a twelfth in the pipeline.

All of them are conditional on her having a better and more reliable shipment team within the next six months, but that’s fine. She can find the contracts, and she can find the shipments.

Natsumi texts her brother a time and an address while she waits for Peko to change and start her forms. The deal is too big to lose, but too small for her to go herself; sending Fuyuhiko lets them feel good about themselves, but reminds them that they aren’t good enough yet to see the heir in person, much less the boss.

The door to the dojo creaks open. The woman who steps in is too old to be a student, but she’s not any faculty worth knowing. Natsumi ignores her. “Kuzuryuu-san.” She doesn’t look up. “Kuzuryuu-san, did you know class has started?”

“That’s a laugh,” Natsumi says, and she does laugh, for good measure. “Calling that garbage ‘class.’ I think I might actually get dumber the longer I spend in there.”

“Ah. Sorry, maybe I misspoke! What I meant was—” Natsumi doesn’t know how a teacher managed to get reflexes like that, but next she knows she has a faceful of ginger ponytail, and her phone isn’t in her hand anymore. “Kuzuryuu-san, it’s time for class.”

Natsumi swipes her hand out, but the teacher ducks back out of her reach. It’s the most anyone has crossed her since the very first day, and Natsumi nearly has to sit on her hands to keep herself from leaping off the bench. She grits her teeth, says instead, “Take it up with Kizakura. Or maybe all of your students dropped out already?”

“I’m Yukizome Chisa,” the teacher says. She smiles, bland and placid, like she isn’t holding Natsumi’s phone hostage. “I’m your new homeroom teacher.” Her eyes lift past Natsumi’s shoulder. “Pekoyama-san, I hope you’ll come with us as well.”

Natsumi looks; Peko is just a few steps behind her, her shinai half-drawn. She doesn’t answer, only looks to Natsumi for instruction, and Natsumi jerks her head.

Yukizome has the air of one of those starry-eyed schmucks in their first teaching job, determined to motivate everyone into holding hands and doing their homework. She’s not the half-drunk limp noodle Kizakura is, but it isn’t like taking care of her is going to be hard.

“Yukizome-sensei, huh?” Natsumi drapes both arms over her knees and meets Yukizome’s persistent pleasantness with a saccharine drawl of her own. “You’ve got a lot to learn. Me and Peko-chan are like peas in a pod, you know? Even Kizakura knows that.” Peko falls into place behind her, silent reinforcement. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Her phone buzzes in Yukizome’s hand. That’s her brother, probably complaining about how far away the meeting place is. “I understand,” Yukizome says. “What if I made you a deal?”

“A deal?” Natsumi repeats, “Is this a joke? What’re you gonna offer me, my phone back?” She flicks her wrist; she’s done with this stupid conversation. Peko ducks to start collecting their things from the lockers. “Whatever. Keep it. Read my texts if you want. I’ve got better things to do.”

Yukizome doesn’t read the message; she doesn’t even look to see who it’s from. “You come to class with me today,” she goes on, “And I’ll owe you one favor. Anything, no questions asked.”

Natsumi laughs in her face. “It is a joke! Are you hearing this, Peko-chan? Keep at it, Yukizome-sensei, you’re already miles ahead of Kizakura.” Peko’s ready; Natsumi can feel her waiting for what to do next. She stands up, both hands on her hips. “What am I supposed to get out of that? Somebody to make my bed for me?”

Yukizome considers the ceiling. “Well, you could if you wanted,” she says. “But I was thinking more along the lines of… Access to school security and surveillance footage? Faculty contact information? Performance and disciplinary records?”

She lists them on her fingers, one by one, like they’re items on a grocery list instead of potential breaches of her contract. Natsumi looks her in the face and still can’t decide if she’s stupid, bluffing, or ballsy.

“Please,” she says, “You don’t have access to any of that.”

Yukizome’s smile doesn’t flicker. “That doesn’t mean I can’t get it,” she says. “Just remember! It’s only one, Kuzuryuu-san. That’s the deal.”

As far as Natsumi can tell, there’s no downside. She suffers through one class, and if Yukizome is telling the truth, she has an ace in her pocket. If she isn’t, then Natsumi can break her fingers later for her practical exam. “Yeah? And what’re you getting out of this?”

“You’re my student,” Yukizome says, like it’s obvious. “It’s my job to help you accomplish your goals.” She holds the phone out, an offer. “So, will you come to class this morning?”

“One class,” Natsumi says.

“One class,” Yukizome agrees.

Natsumi snatches her phone back.

There are six other students already waiting outside the dojo. Sonia beams when Natsumi and Peko follow Yukizome out; the others groan all at once.

“There was a betting pool on whether or not you’d agree to Yukizome-sensei’s terms,” Sonia explains on the way to pick up Komaeda. “None of the others thought you would.” She pulls a small wad of yen from the front pocket of her uniform. “I have just ‘made bank’!”

“That was a stupid bet,” Natsumi tells her. “I almost said no.”

Sonia only smiles. “Admittedly, I did not know the details,” she says. “But a good leader will do something unpleasant if it benefits the people who follow her, yes?”

Natsumi’s phone buzzes again. She shrugs Sonia off, and tells Fuyuhiko to suck it up.

#natsumi kuzuryuu #fuyuhiko kuzuryuu #peko pekoyama #kuzupeko #danganronpa #it's here finally i'm locked in #me: let's do a chapter fic #me: let's make a character with like three minutes of screentime the main pov character #me: let's put emojis in it #me: sets me on fire #don't ask me if the emojis were worth it i don't want to talk about it #i'm excited though!!#fic: by the claw of dragon #sunwrites

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bechi6715 · 7 years ago

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No sound on the planet inspires as obsessive a fandom as K-pop. The “Bulletproof Boy Scouts” of BTS have (finally, for real) imported that mania to America – all in Korean, as they rally dissatisfied millennials around the globe.

Built in 1957 as a reception hall for South Korea’s fledgling postwar government to entertain foreign dignitaries, the Korea House is a quiet oasis amid the tumult of Seoul, with a photogenic courtyard and collection of old-school Korean houses known as hanoks. Normally it’s the setting for historical TV dramas or weddings, but on this bright, cold mid-January morning, it’s a hideaway for the seven-man Korean pop group BTS, whose celebrity has expanded past K-pop’s traditional sphere of influence and, especially during the last six months, moved into the United States as well.

When I arrive, the band is sequestered in a room within a room, behind paper doors manned by a security detail. In the outer room, over 20 groomers, publicists and other handlers from the group’s management agency, BigHit Entertainment, mill about, grazing on the provided snacks and drinks. Everyone speaks in low tones. The members of BTS need an extra 15 minutes before the scheduled photo shoot, I’m told. They are, understandably, exhausted: Their schedule has been packed since New Year’s Eve with performances, TV appearances, commercials and meet-and-greets. I flew into Seoul expressly to meet them for this rare opening in their calendar.

The first to emerge from the room is J-Hope, 23, the former street dancer from the city of Gwangju, who capers down the steps, then doubles back to get RM, also 23, the group’s leader and English-speaking ambassador. The rest soon file out wearing similarly dark Saint Laurent-heavy outfits: Suga, 24, the idealistic and soulful rapper; Jimin, 22, the baby-faced modern dancer; V, 22, the master impressionist; Jungkook, 20, the golden maknae (youngest member, a sort of privileged position in K-pop) who’s good at everything; and Jin, 25, who’s known as “Worldwide Handsome.” They form a semicircle of multicolored bowl cuts, and RM comments on how tall I am (6 feet) and that I can speak Korean (like a 10-year-old). They’re photo-ready but groggy enough that I wish they’d taken another 15 minutes to rest. But time is money, and these guys are worth a lot.

It’s reasonable that BigHit would handle the members like prized jewels. They’re among the biggest stars in K-pop – their last album, 2017’s Love Yourself: Her, has sold 1.58 million physical copies around the globe, according to BigHit. And while it may not be a household name in the United States, BTS – which stands for Bangtan Sonyeondan and roughly translates to “Bulletproof Boy Scouts” – is pulling unprecedented numbers for a group that mainly sings in Korean to an American populace that has long resisted K-pop’s charms. Love Yourself: Her debuted at No. 7 on the Billboard 200 in September 2017, and BTS claims the two highest-charting songs for a K-pop group ever, “DNA” (which peaked at No. 67 on the Billboard Hot 100) and the Steve Aoki remix of “Mic Drop,” featuring Desiigner (No. 28). In the States alone, BTS has sold 1.6 million song downloads and clocked 1.5 billion-with-a-“B” on-demand streams, according to Nielsen Music.

BTS has connected with millennials around the globe even though – or really, because – the act seems to challenge boy-band and K-pop orthodoxies. Sure, it’s got love songs and dance moves. But BTS’ music, which the members have helped write since the beginning, has regularly leveled criticism against a myopic educational system, materialism and the media, venting about a structure seemingly gamed against the younger generation. “Honestly, from our standpoint, every day is stressful for our generation. It’s hard to get a job, it’s harder to attend college now more than ever,” says RM, until recently known as Rap Monster. “Adults need to create policies that can facilitate that overall social change. Right now, the privileged class, the upper class needs to change the way they think.” Suga jumps in: “And this isn’t just Korea, but the rest of the world. The reason why our music resonates with people around the world who are in their teens, 20s and 30s is because of these issues.”

The shoot’s done, and we’re sitting on couches in a small living room-like space amid the production studios at the BigHit offices, the members changed into cozy but still-stylish jackets and knitwear. Here at home, speaking in Korean, they’re calmer and less eager to impress than they were on their recent, occasionally awkward American press tour, where they did the rounds on The Late Late Show With James Corden, Jimmy Kimmel Live! and The Ellen DeGeneres Show, where RM gamely evaded questions about dating. Today, their voices are noticeably deeper, more sonorous. RM does, as usual, a lot of the talking, sometimes throwing questions out to the quieter members. But Suga is a surprise: garrulous and thoughtful, seemingly primed for a socially conscious rap battle.

Rabid K-pop fandom is, by now, a pop-culture cliche. Even in a world where supporters of American stars engineer efforts to goose chart positions and feud with rival fandoms – Beatlemania multiplied by the internet, basically – K-pop stans are legendarily devoted and influential. The BTS ARMY (that’s short for “Adorable Representative M.C for Youth”) is the engine powering the phenomenon: It translates lyrics and Korean media appearances; rallies clicks, views, likes and retweets to get BTS trending on Twitter and YouTube; and overwhelms online polls and competitions. BigHit says that it makes sure to disseminate news and updates about the band on the fan cafe, so as not to arouse the wrath of the ARMY.

The global fan base is why a group you may never have heard of is attaining the upper ranks of the U.S. charts; playing late-night slots; appearing at the Billboard Music Awards, where it picked up the fan-voted top social artist trophy in 2017; and performing on the American Music Awards. (“The AMAs were the biggest gift we could have gotten from our fans,” says Suga.) Purely in terms of social media, they’re just about the biggest thing going, driving BTS to 58 weeks at No. 1 on the Social 50 chart, a total that’s second only to Justin Bieber’s, and more than doubles the number of weeks scored by the third-place act – none other than Taylor Swift.

The ARMY doesn’t merely idolize the members of BTS, it identifies with them. When the group debuted in 2013 with 2 Kool 4 Skool, the members talked about the pressures familiar to any Korean student: the need to study hard, get into college and find a stable job. Their first singles, “No More Dream” and “N.O.,” castigated peers who attended classes like zombies without a sense of purpose. What was all this education for, they asked – to become “the No. 1 government worker?” The tracks were a throwback to Korean pop acts like H.O.T. and Seo Taiji & Boys, only updated for a generation saddled with debt in an increasingly competitive economy.

“I was talking about my past self,” says RM, confessing that he was one of those drones. “There was nothing I wanted to do; just that I wanted to make a lot of money. I started the song by thinking about it as a letter written to friends who were like me in the past.”

“College is presented like some sort of cure-all,” says Suga. “They say that if you go, your life will be set. They even say you’ll lose weight, get taller…”

RM: “That you’ll get a girlfriend…”

Jin: “That you’ll become better-looking…”

Suga: “But this isn’t the reality, and they realize that was all a lie. No one else can take responsibility for you at that point.

“If we don’t talk about these issues, who will?” continues Suga. “Our parents? Adults? So isn’t it up to us? That’s the kind of conversations we have [in the band]: Who knows best and can talk about the difficulty our generation faces? It’s us.”

As they become increasingly famous, though, the artists have also become wary of saying what might be perceived as the wrong or “political” thing. Suga is the most outspoken. When I ask them about the massive candlelight protests calling for President Park Geun-hye’s resignation in Seoul last winter, Suga readily takes on the topic: “Moving past right and wrong, truth and falsehood, citizens coming together and raising their voice is something that I actively support.”

RM, on the other hand, is more alert to potential sensitivities. On the recent death of Jonghyun of K-pop group SHINee, who suffered from depression and committed suicide last December, he says, “We went to give our condolences that morning. I couldn’t sleep at all that night. It was so shocking, because we had seen him so often at events. He was so successful.” Adds Suga, “It was a shock to everyone, and I really sympathized with him,” and then RM moves to end the conversation: “That’s about all we can say.”

But Suga goes on. “I really want to say that everyone in the world is lonely and everyone is sad, and if we know that everyone is suffering and lonely, I hope we can create an environment where we can ask for help, and say things are hard when they’re hard, and say that we miss someone when we miss them.”

I later bring up a tweet that RM wrote in March 2013, saying that when he understood what the lyrics to Macklemore & Ryan Lewis’ gay-marriage anthem, “Same Love,” were about, he liked the song twice as much. BTS fans naturally took this to mean that BTS openly supported gay rights – a rarity in K-pop. Today, he’s slightly circumspect on the topic: “It’s hard to find the right words. To reverse the words: Saying ‘same love’ is saying ‘love is the same.’ I just really liked that song. That’s about all I have to say.” Suga, though, is clear on where he stands: “There’s nothing wrong. Everyone is equal.”

BTS’ meteoric rise was something of a surprise, even in Korea. Three years into its career – eons in the K-pop life cycle – the group finally gained traction in 2016 with hits like “Blood, Sweat, Tears” and “Burn It Up.” Part of the reason is that BTS is the first major act to come out of BigHit Entertainment, an anomaly simply in that it is not one of the “Big Three” entertainment companies – YG, JYP and SM – that control the Korean music industry, producing most of the past decade’s notable pop acts, including Girls’ Generation, BIGBANG, Super Junior, Wonder Girls and 2NE1. And BTS simply didn’t have the same feel as factory-fresh groups created to dominate the Asian music markets.

Bang Si-hyuk, the founder/CEO of BigHit, cut his teeth at JYP, working alongside Park Jin-yong and writing and producing hits for Rain, 2AM and Baek Ji-young. “Even the people around me didn’t believe in me,” he says, recalling the early days with BTS. “Even though they acknowledged that I had been successful in the past, they didn’t believe I could take this boy group to the top.” Like the other companies, BigHit oversees everything from recording to distribution to marketing to events for its acts. He says that people thought the “Bulletproof Boy Scouts” name had a North Korean feel, but he felt that they would become a metaphorical bulletproof vest for their generation.

Bang originally wanted to create a hip-hop group – “like Migos,” according to RM. He first listened to RM’s demo tape in 2010 and still remembers some of the lines. (He cites, “My heart is like a detective who is the criminal’s son. Even as I know who the criminal is, I can’t catch him.”) “It was shocking to me,” says Bang. “RM is extremely self-reflective, sophisticated and philosophical, considering his age.” RM, whose real name is Kim Nam-joon, was only 15 at the time. Bang signed him immediately.

Back then, though, “idol groups” – boy bands and girl groups – like Super Junior and SNSD were ascendant. So Bang created an act that would meld the honesty of hip-hop with the visual flair and charisma of a boy band in the vein of BIGBANG. During the next couple of years, he recruited Suga, a rapper he describes as having an “I don’t give a fuck” magnetism masking a humble core, and then J-Hope, the street dancer. BigHit then held extensive auditions. A casting director chased Jin after seeing him get off a bus and convinced him to try out for the group; he eventually made the team alongside V and Jungkook. Jimin was the last to join, after a BigHit agent scouted him at a modern dance school.

In the beginning, each of the members tried their hand at rhyming. “I went so far as to learn how to rap,” says Jimin, who, like Jungkook, now sings. “But after they had me do it once, they were like, ‘Let’s just work harder on vocals.’” RM nods – “It was the wise choice,” he says – and everyone bursts out laughing.

These were BigHit’s ragtag champions, and they have a sense of unity. Early on, they lived together in one small room, sleeping in bunk beds and learning one another’s sleep habits. (Jimin does strange contortions in bed, and Jungkook has started snoring. “It’s TMI,” acknowledges RM.) They still live together, just with a little more space – J-Hope and Jimin sharing the biggest room – and plan to keep doing so.

“When we’re at home, we go around to everyone’s room,” says Jin. “Even when I go home [to see family], I get bored, honestly,” adds Suga. “And if there’s a problem or someone has hurt feelings, we don’t just leave it, we talk about it then and there.”

“So if Hope and Jin fight, it’s not just the two of them that resolve it,” explains Jungkook. “It’s all seven of us!” says Suga.

“Everyone gathers together,” says RM, ever the intellectual. “It’s like an agora in ancient Greece: We gather and we ask: ‘What happened?’”

After the interview, RM takes me to his production studio, a small room at the end of a hall decorated with giant KAWS figurines in glass boxes, a Supreme poster of Mike Tyson and skateboards. Inside, the walls are lined with his own KAWS toys and a model version of the Banksy piece “Rage, Flower Thrower” that he admits paying a hefty sum for. Other than that, there’s just a typical workstation: a pullout chair, giant monitor and the most precious item of all, his laptop.

In BTS’ lyrics, there’s a motif of the baepsae, a squat, fluffy bird native to Korea and known as the crow-tit. A Korean expression says that if a crow-tit tries to walk like a stork, it’ll tear its own legs. It’s a cautionary tale – a suggestion that you shouldn’t try too hard or be something that you’re not. But BTS deploys it as a brag, a declaration of a small, striving bird. In “Silver Spoon,” Suga puts a cheeky, boastful spin on it: “Our generation has had it hard/We’ll chase them fast/Because of the storks the crotch of my pants is stretched tight/So call me baepsae.”

Now that they are, almost in a literal sense, on top of the world, can they still claim to be underdogs? “We’re very careful about calling ourselves baepsaes now,” says Suga. “But the reality is that that’s where we started and that’s where our roots are.” And RM points out that they still consider themselves agents for change: “If there are problems, we’ll bring it up so that our voices can get louder, so that the climate changes and we can talk about it more freely.”

BTS is the K-pop group of the moment because it balances the contradictions inherent to the genre on a genuinely global scale: The act is breaking through in America singing and rapping in Korean, creating intimacy through wide exposure on social media, expressing political ideas without stirring up controversy and inspiring fervent obsession with mild-mannered wholesomeness. It is the underdog that has arrived.

But the group would rather you not ask what’s next. Its members and producers are skillfully evasive when it comes to questions about the next BTS album – although they apparently have no immediate plans for an English-language release, intuiting that such a move would alienate their core fan base. Instead, they seem content to keep doing what they do. RM, of course, is philosophical about it. “In Korean, the word ‘future’ is made up of two parts,” he explains, proposing a sort of riddle about how far the band has come and how far it might yet go. “The first part means ‘not,’ and the second means ‘to come.’ In that sense, ‘future’ means something that will not come. This is to say: The future is now, and our now is us living our future.”

#BTS # BILLBOARD #JHOPE #JIN #SUGA#V#JIMIN #JUNGKOOK#RM #article

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