#I designed him towards my taste aka white guy lol

[sanasanakun]

Not me seeing a whitewashed “redesign” of Gortash on Twitter today😩

[ben-the-hyena]

If no one else has... Hatbox or Ghosthost.

Why not both !

Hatbox Ghost :

OTP for them: EMILY. FOREVER EMILY. WE MAY HAVE NOTHING MORE THAN A PIN OF THEM STANDING NEXT TO EACH OTHER AND HER TO BE CANONICALLY HIS BRIDE, IT IS ENOUGH FOR ME TO ENVISION THEM AS WHOLESOME, LOVEY DOVEY, CONNIVING AND PASSIONATE. I DON'T CARE IF THEY ORIGINALLY INTENDED HER TO HAVE BEEN EVIL AND HAVING KILLED HIM, OR IT TO HAVE BEEN AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE SINCE HE LOOKS OLDER, MY FANON, MY RULES. Love to imagine her as the faceless bright eyed one, not only because she is the one on the pin with him but also because she was one of the earliest and stayed quite long therefore is iconic, and I find her design the coolest that should never have been replaced

BROTP for them: Constance aside whom he despises, I love to see him get along more or less well with the other attic brides. He really has a fun energetic joking and sarcastic friendship with the Corpse Bride made of games and challenges, his friendship with Millie is kind of tender and protective because she is precious and very young compared to him as well as shy and innocent, he does like the Blue Spinster even if he finds her annoying and too loud and is sometimes embarrassed by how shameless she is, he does kind of like and sometimes has fun with the Tokyo bride even if he can be very creeped put by her and is not at all a fan if her tastes and morals NOTABLY the ones close to Constance like black widowing, and since he meets her in one of my episodes has a lot of sympathy and tenderness towards Mélanie and feels very bad for her and is protective of her against the Phantom he hates for that and did his best to be a moral support the time he hanged out with her and has since then been wondering what had become of her and where is she now. In short all his friends are women, let us say he was a feminist for the time period, part of why Emily fell for him since he respected her

Other ships: nope, none lol

What kind of fic I’d write about them: the fact I would write about his origins and death aside I would also write plots from episodes I wanted to direct one day, like the one he takes Emily on a very special anniversary vacations in Hollywood Tower Hotel but while they are away shit happens in the attic only he could remedy but he keeps refusing to return and minimilizes things, the one he and Emily have a big fight that almost drags them apart or rather what they think crying and getting support on their respective sides but events have them return to each other closer than ever, an episode where he would get dragged with the Hitcchiking Ghosts' shit far from the mansion after Ezra gambled but lied on his name passing as him since they both look corpse-like, one he and Emily are so desperate for a child on Mother's Day that they want to adopt a blind wandering orphan but struggle because the ghosts oppose not out of evil but out of ethic and they have to choose what would be better for him livikg with the dead or the living, or one he would confess to the brides that back in 1992 when he had been determined to go to a new haunged place that would want him and take Emily with him once he would have found he had actually returned because he had had a very haunting, bad and evil experience in a place called Phantom Manor with another, poor bride in it tortured by her evil father even himself, an undead, feared

A favorite canon moment: he doesn't have any, except standing there lol does the Marvel comics continuity where he is like a sort of mentor for Danny telling him about the magic behind that house counts because it's cool to see him as indeed a good guy ?

Color that reminds me of them: no matter how he has been blue and green since 2015, I am forever faithful to his original palette aka monochromic like an old picture minus his golden tooth. Therefore old black and white, as in not just black and white but when it looks like it's a filter from an old picture or movie

Song that reminds me of them: I will be honest, none unfortunately

A headcanon about them: he was banished from 1969 to 2015 because the Ghost Host and Master Gracey had FINALLY found a Gracey descendant and even better knew paranormal therefore could be spoken with and they were eager to know more about him and make him visit the family mansion when they invited him in. In the meantime, Hattie was doing a show a for the brides in the attic, upon a bet with the Corpse Bride to prove them and especially her he could juggle with anything. His cane, his hat, a ball, a candle... a hatchet. The cane fall, he tripped on it and rolled it, fell over and everything he was holding sprang everywhere, the hatchet ending RIGHT into Gracey's skull as the Ghost Host opened the door for him. And he didn't return as a ghost and had no children yet. The last Gracey was forever gone. That was the last straw for the Gravey masters who already hated him and kicked him out of the mansion, not pf the property since they did know Emily was married to him and she still could see him in the graveyard but NEVER ever again in the mansion for never pulling this kind of shit again as they thought. Now in 2015 he returned for reasons I had not thought of until TODAY : they found out upon deeper searches that his name was Gracey but he was just a homonyme and had nothing to do with their own Gracey branch that did end with Emily like they had thought for decades, therefore rightfully. They HATED having to do that since they remember the horror and anger they felt and did find the guy attaching family or not, they had no real reason to keep him out anymore and reluctantly allowed him back in. Needless to say, he rubbed it at their faces for weeks and celebrated with the brides (minus Constance) especially HIS bride now he could finally be back in bed with her

A random AU I think up on the spot for them: like it is for a lot of characters in franchise, how things would have been if he and his wife had not been murdered on their wedding night and had lived on. He and Emily would be happily married for decades til a later death would do them part (not since they would reunite as ghosts here too but very old looking and fulfilled with a long untragical life behind them and a descendance striving) with a lot of children like they always wanted

Anything else: THE BEST PROOF FANBASES CAN BE STRONG ENOUGH IF UNITED : IT TOOK 46 YEARS, BUT HE WAS FINALLY PUT BACK IN THE RIDE ! LET THAT BE AN EXAMPLE FOR ALL FANBASES AND A MESSAGE OF HOPE

Ghost Host :

OTP for them: none really. Just that in my headcanon he and my fanon Elizabeth Henshaw loved each other as teenagers but due to racism it was impossible and her family moved. He never saw her again and never loved romantically again

BROTP for them: as a trio with Master Gracey and Constance Hatchaway since I headcanon they are siblings, he the eldest. They do have lots of differences now they all are reunited and comfortable in their deaths and that it was found she was a black widow the whole time and that he has to lead 998 other ghosts with their contradicting opinions, but they were still very close as children and he was deeply devasted each time one died, so much findinf out Constance and Emily whom he had raised since Master Gracey's death had died on the same night had him hang himself

Other ships: none at all lol

What kind of fic I’d write about them: I would either write his origins and how he was before dying or like other haunts like Hatbox Ghost plots of episodes I had in mind like having to deal with a human who now sticks around, or lose his mind and needing a pause after years and years of leading nonstop or some fluff about his family, his siblings and his niece notably, either alive or dead already

A favorite canon moment: "There's no turning back now. Of course, there is always MY way~" thundercrack and you see his hung corpse. CHILLS

Color that reminds me of them: green and purplish blue

Song that reminds me of them: the mansion's theme when he speaks of course

A headcanon about them: he has a hatchet and so does Constance (and in my HC Master Gracey) because their mother was the heiress of a big woodcutting company and she gifted them on her deathbed to teach them things could start as low as a lumberjack having to do his work himself and be able to be both beneficial and dangerous, in short to teach responsibilities one last time (CONSTANCE DIDN'T REALLY GET THE CONCEPT...). They would sometimes have fun doing a choregraphy with it singing the company's motto as their secret handshake ; with one voice less after Master Gracey died. At least they were all reunited to do again after they all died and met again !

A random AU I think up on the spot for them: other than how he would have been as a granduncle in the previous Hatbox Ghost AU, nothing

Anything else: his voice HMMMMMMMM sooooo bad it contrasts with his looks

[krissysbookshelf]

Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek Of: The Authentics by Abdi Nazemian!

  Daria Esfandyar is Iranian-American and proud of her heritage, unlike some of the “Nose Jobs” in the clique led by her former best friend, Heidi Javadi. Daria and her friends call themselves the Authentics, because they pride themselves on always keeping it real. But in the course of researching a school project, Daria learns something shocking about her past, which launches her on a journey of self-discovery. It seems everyone is keeping secrets. And it’s getting harder to know who she even is any longer. With infighting among the Authentics, her mother planning an over-the-top sweet sixteen party, and a romance that should be totally off limits, Daria doesn’t have time for this identity crisis.  

LEARN MORE

  Chapter One

  WHEN YOU LOOK UP AT the sky in Los Angeles, all you see is a strange film of smog, like the whole city is filtered through the lens of your dirtiest sunglasses. You can’t see any stars. And if you’re really unlucky, there’s a blimp up there writing the words “Happy Birthday, Heidi!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” in the sky in pink. Yes, with sixteen exclamation points, one for every year of my former best friend Heidi Javadi’s life.

I was at the rented mansion hosting Heidi’s sweet sixteen party, wishing I was anywhere else. Seriously, I would rather have been dissecting a bat or listening to my mother lecture me about how there’s nothing shameful about Spanx.

Caroline led Joy, Kurt, and me inside. I turned my gaze down from the sky toward the mansion the Javadis rented for Heidi’s party. Beautiful cocktail waitresses in pink dresses stood at the entrance of the event, holding pink champagne for the grown-ups and pink “Heidi-tinis” for us, welcoming us to this very opulent version of hell.

“You guys know this is exactly what Iran was like before the revolution, right?” I asked.

“Obviously,” Kurt said. “Everyone knows all of Iran was painted pink until those mullahs stepped in.”

“And Heidi’s name was permanently emblazoned over the skyline of Tehran,” I added.

Caroline laughed, slapping me on the shoulder a little too hard. Caroline did everything in her life with a little too much passion. She was the most outspoken member of our group of friends. If someone was leading the way, it was usually Caroline.

Kurt, Joy, and Caroline had been their own little posse since junior high. I joined the crew when high school began, so I was still the newbie. But I was the one who had dubbed us the Authentics, because my new friends were the first people I’d met more concerned with being who they were than with who others wanted them to be. We weren’t the coolest kids in school, or the most popular, but we were the realest. At least that’s what we thought.

“Wow,” Caroline said, looking at the pinkstravaganza around us. “Is this the most Persian party in the history of parties?”

“It may be super-Persian,” I said, “but it has nothing to do with being Iranian.”

“Semantics,” Caroline said. Being my friend, she knew that Persian and Iranian were terms the same exact community of people used to describe themselves. Persians felt pride in their ancient empire and shame about the current regime of their homeland, while Iranians believed in accuracy over pride and shame. “This is who you are, Daria. Embrace your truth. You do you.”

“You do you is a really gross expression,” Kurt said. “It’s trying to be about self-empowerment, but doesn’t it sound like it’s about masturbation?”

“Ew,” Joy said. “Seriously. I do not want to picture you doing yourself, Kurt. And can we stop? This is actually Daria’s culture, so can we all be a little less judgy?”

Joy got it since her parents were from Nigeria, which is nothing like Iran, but which is still somewhere different. She got that living in one world in your home and in a completely different world outside your home was like being two puzzle pieces that didn’t really fit together.

We found a cocktail waitress holding a pink tray of Heiditinis, and grabbed some.

Caroline gazed around the room. Pink balloons, pink disco balls, pink tablecloths, pink cupcakes. “This is color fascism,” she announced drily.

“Or tint totalitarianism,” Kurt said, and Caroline high-fived him.

But I was still stuck on Iranian stereotypes. “I mean, my culture basically invented poetry, math, and rice,” I said. “But all people seem to care about is that some of us have tacky taste, wear too much cologne, and build really ugly McMansions.”

“Hey,” Kurt said. “At least you have a culture. The only culture in my house growing up was homemade yogurt.” Kurt’s mom was an actress or therapist (depending on what day you asked her), and she was all about growing her own vegetables and fermenting kombucha.

Kurt had a point, but I hated that most people who heard the words Persian, fifteen, and Beverly Hills would immediately assume I was a spoiled Persian princess. They would’ve thought I was one of those girls who pouted until her father hired One Direction to perform at her sweet sixteen party. For the record, I liked One Direction . . . when I was nine.

The girl you’re imagining—the beautiful Persian princess—that’s Heidi, who stood in a circle with her Persian posse, aka the Nose Jobs. Heidi looked up at me and smiled. Her just-whitened teeth were perfect. She was wearing a skintight pink leopard-print dress. Her hair looked like it was straightened on an ironing board, and it had pink highlights for the occasion. Basically, she looked like a cross between Kylie Jenner and Hello Kitty, and by the way, she was the kind of girl who would’ve taken that as a compliment.

Heidi gave me a small wave with her left hand, and I noticed how perfect her manicure was. She had turned into our mothers, and I had turned into a chunky girl with dirty fingernails. I gave Heidi an awkward wave with my left hand, and then I quickly tried to hide my hands in my pockets. But the poufy pink dress I wished I weren’t wearing didn’t have pockets, so the gesture just felt weird and unfortunate. I knew better than to bother walking over to Heidi, and she didn’t come over either. It was hard to imagine that Heidi and I used to be best friends, but that was a long time ago. Now she was beautiful and popular, and I was, well, authentic.

Heidi’s mother, basically a grown-up version of Heidi, approached her and whisked her off to another room, no doubt to greet some elderly Persians. Respecting your elders is a really big thing for us.

As the Authentics and I did a lap around the room, I realized this was the first time my two disparate worlds—high school and Tehrangeles—had been brought together. To my left were the drama kids. To my right were my father’s golf buddies. To my left was our high school soccer team. To my right were my mother’s rummy ladies. And then I saw my parents gliding toward me, looking sophisticated as ever. We had arrived separately, since I’d gotten ready at Joy’s house.

“There you are,” Baba said. “You look beautiful.”

He was lying. I looked fat and pimply, though the dress Joy had picked out for me was cool in a throwback kind of way.

“Thanks, Baba,” I said.

“Hello, kids,” my mom said as she took in our colorful outfits. Caroline was wearing a pink bow tie with a vintage white polyester suit. Kurt was wearing a pink checkered shirt, white pants, and his signature fedora. Joy wanted to be a designer, so she’d picked all our outfits, but obviously hers looked best, a fuchsia disco dress she found on Melrose that she swore once belonged to Bianca Jagger. Joy was good at dressing us, but an expert at dressing herself. True confession: I had to Google Bianca Jagger, but I didn’t tell Joy. She took her style icons very seriously.

“It’s wonderful to see you all,” Sheila said to my friends. My mother liked me to call her Sheila, probably because it allowed her to pretend she was my older sister.

She was lying too. I mean, my mother liked the Authentics all right, but she wished I were still best friends with Heidi. She got Heidi, and she had no idea what to do with the Authentics. Maybe it’s because my mother valued being fabulous way more than being real. If my mother still believed in the Persian Empire, then she also believed she was its Cookie.

“Did you see the aquarium of pink goldfish in the bathroom?” Sheila said. “They’re so beautiful.”

We all laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Sheila asked. “I thought it was clever.”

“Beauty is in the pinkeye of the beholder,” I said, and my mother gave me that look she gave me when she thought I must be an alien she birthed.

“LOL,” Caroline said. Caroline’s goal in life was to skip college, move to New York, and become our generation’s preeminent lesbian performance artist. In her last piece, she vowed to incorporate an internet acronym into every sentence she spoke. IMHO, it wasn’t her strongest piece (that was definitely the one with the rats and the stilettos), but it did get people talking about communication and technology, and how we had all stopped really listening to each other.

Baba grabbed a pink meatball from a waiter’s tray. “Is this meatball undercooked or color-treated?” he asked as he popped it into his mouth.

Sheila laughed and threw her hair back. She turned to me and asked, “So, any ideas for your party yet?”

“We’ve talked about this. I don’t want some gross sweet sixteen party,” I said. “I just want to invite my friends—my real friends—over to the house.”

Perhaps sensing a tense mother-daughter moment, Caroline announced, “I think I’m gonna go try some pink fondue. The line doesn’t look too bad right now.” Joy and Kurt followed Caroline, and though I wanted to go with them, I stayed behind with my parents. Sometimes I felt like so much of my life was an obligation. There were so many things I had to do that it was hard to remember what I really wanted to do. But that’s what I loved most about the Authentics. They were the first part of my life that hadn’t been curated by my parents.

“Daria, please understand,” my mother pleaded. “We can’t throw a party without inviting the Ghorbanis, and the Palizis, and the . . .”

As Sheila continued rattling off the names of every Iranian family within a ten-mile radius of Beverly Hills, I caught Baba giving me a sympathetic glance. “Sheila djoon,” Baba softly interrupted, “I think Daria already understands that you would like to invite the entire Persian community to her sweet sixteen.”

“It would be rude not to,” Sheila said, as if we had no choice in the matter.

“Yes, I understand,” Baba said. “But since it’s Daria’s birthday, perhaps we can all compromise . . . and only invite half of the Persian community.”

And to my surprise, my mother threw her hair back and laughed again. This was her physical cue that she was having a good time. She did it when she was dancing, watching reruns of Seinfeld, or winning a round of rummy. Her hair was her tell. Kurt, whose mother had instilled in him a very deep love for astrology, said it was because she was a Leo. He said Leos needed their manes brushed all the time. I think Kurt meant that Sheila needed to feel admired, and Baba had figured out exactly how to do that. As for me, I wasn’t much of a mane brusher. I was the girl who’d chopped the hair off every Barbie doll I ever had.

“Well, I love parties,” Sheila said. She wasn’t lying. Sheila was always telling me to dress up more, go out more, put on more makeup, and have more fun. Sometimes, when I was in the library studying, I would tweet that I was having a dance party with friends just so Sheila would get off my back.

“So, Daria, if you don’t want your sweet sixteen to be the party of the century,” she continued, “then how about we focus on my forty-ninth birthday party next summer. I’d like everything to be lavender.”

“Even the goldfish?” I cracked, and to my shock, Sheila laughed and threw her hair back. Had I brushed her mane without even meaning to?

“Okay, we’ll throw you a lavender forty-ninth birthday,” Baba said, with a smile my way. In truth, she was fifty-two, but we let her get away with shifting her age as she saw fit. “It’ll be a party to remember,” Baba said. “We’ll paint the house lavender, and have lavender fondue, and lavender meatballs, of course.”

Sheila laughed and slapped Baba’s arm playfully. He pulled her close to him and gave her a kiss. And by kiss, I mean he went for it.

“You guys, get a room,” I said. “Preferably soundproofed.” Their passion was a cruel reminder that I had never even kissed anyone.

Luckily, a slide show began, diverting my parents’ attention. The whole party oohed and aahed as photos from Heidi’s past appeared on-screen. There was baby Heidi, smiling a gaptoothed smile in her mother’s arms. There was toddler Heidi, in ballet class, obviously. There was seven-year-old Heidi, randomly sitting on Kelly Ripa’s lap. There was tween Heidi, riding a roller coaster with her father. There were Heidi and her new friends, looking airbrushed and blow-dried, posing on top of Heidi’s dad’s car like they were Bravo reality stars doing a Carl’s Jr. commercial. And there was Heidi and me. We were twelve years old, lounging by her pool. Heidi, of course, looked adorable. I, on the other hand, looked frightening. My skin was covered in acne, my hair was frizzy, and I was wearing a too-tight bathing suit that made me look like a raspberry muffin.

All around us, the Persian parents commented on how cute Heidi looked and how beautiful she always was and how she looked just like her mother. I hated myself in that moment, because I wanted their approval as well. I wanted to be cute and beautiful and to look like my mother. The picture was up there for all of five seconds, but by the fourth second, I felt like I was being suffocated by it.

“Can we please leave?” I begged my parents in an urgent whisper.

“They haven’t even cut the cake,” my mother replied in a hushed tone. “It would be rude to—”

But I didn’t wait for her to finish the sentence. Instead, I walked out, causing a few of the guests to turn their attention away from the slide show. My parents followed me outside, and I could feel my mother’s annoyance radiating off her.

Once we were outside and alone, I turned to my mother ferociously. “You know who’s rude, Sheila?” I asked. “Heidi is rude. She makes me feel awful.”

“She’s your friend,” Sheila argued.

“If she’s my friend, then the shah and the ayatollah were besties.”

“Who is the shah in this situation?” Sheila asked.

“Obviously, she is,” I said.

My mother rolled her eyes. If anyone was going to be the shah in this analogy, it would be her daughter.

“Maybe you’re the queen,” Sheila said.

“Fine,” I said, “I’m the queen.”

Sheila placed a hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. “Now you just need to believe it.”

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