#like I do not ever want to see that scene again

[starcrossedmusings]

Mine

Pairing: Hongjoong x Actress!Reader WC: 2.5k Warnings: smut (sexual degradation [reader is referred to as whore, slut, and hole], manhandling, tiny bit of spit kink, hickeys/marking, unprotected sex, use of a vibrator, oral sex [m receiving], light dacryphilia, spanking), swearing, jealous Hongjoong, possessive Hongjoong, established relationship, "good girl", probably some more that I missed (let me know)

Synopsis: You are an actress starring in a new drama, and fans online have been going crazy for you and your on-screen partner. After a particular scene goes viral, your boyfriend Hongjoong decides he needs to remind you who you belong to.

A/N: Requested by anon. I hope you like it!

The scene had gone viral overnight--one moment the drama you had been starring in was on the verge of cancellation, and now you were signing on for another season while your twitter blew up. The fans of the show were all in agreement: the season finale tension between you and your co star has sent a swarm of butterflies in their stomach. You had immediately called your boyfriend, Hongjoong, who was finishing up his world tour when you found out.

Hongjoong had wanted to be happy for you, and for the most part he was. But there was a nagging feeling that took root in his chest when he had watched that episode that he has no idea how to shake. He hadn't quite been able to pinpoint exactly what it was until Seonghwa pointed it out to him. He had been sitting backstage waiting for his turn in the hair and makeup chair, and was scrolling through the ship name tag on twitter with a clenched jaw. Seonghwa chuckled at his friend, immediately noticing the tension rolling off of him.

"You've gotta stop looking at all that shit. It's fine to feel jealous, but what you're doing now is gonna give you an ulcer."

Hongjoong continued his scrolling much to Seonghwa's dismay and determined that he was not jealous. No...he was fucking feral. The way you looked up at your co star was a look that should be reserved for him and him alone, and the likelihood of things progressing with the new season meant he needed to find a way to come to terms that you might be kissing this man. He was white knuckling his phone by the time his name was called. He just needed to get through one more night.

The following evening, you were lounging on your couch, silk pajamas on and a tv show playing. You were mindlessly invested in your show when you heard a knock at your door. You furrowed your brow, not expecting anyone at this hour. You paused your tv, and the knocking sounded again, but much more intense. You pad over to the door and look through the peephole, gasping and throwing it open in shock.

"Joong?! What are you doing here?" You throw your arms around your boyfriend's neck, tears springing to your eyes. "You must be exhausted, I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow morning?"

Hongjoong chuckles and wraps his arms around your waist, squeezing tightly and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"I needed to see my gorgeous girl."

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, angel. Thats why I needed to see you--needed to do this." Hongjoong brings your chin between his pointer finger and thumb, tilts your head up, and kisses you deeply.

The kiss is intense--a clash of teeth as he surges forward. He pushes you back into your apartment and kicks the door shut behind him, not ever breaking the connection between his lips and yours. It leaves you breathless and dizzy, the fervor with which he's exploring your mouth with his own.

Hongjoong feels like his chest could explode at any moment as he teeters on the edge between wanting to explain himself and wanting to just take what he wants. But he forces himself to separate from you long enough to let you catch your breath. He plants rushed kisses down your jawline and neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. He feels pride simmer hot and heavy in his veins as you sigh and tilt your head back to give him more access, your hands exploring the planes of his torso as he continues sucking at your neck. He chuckles as he feels your fingers slip under his t-shirt and trace along his skin.

"Did you miss touching me too, angel?"

The breath you loose from your nose is pointed, and he can tell his words are getting the desired effect. You nod, and he makes a tsking sound. "I need you to use your words."

"Yes," You breathe out almost instantly. Hongjoong smirks and starts kissing at your neck again, slowly walking you back towards your open bedroom door.

"Good girl. Missed how good you are for me" He mumbles into your neck, sucking a dark hickey into your pulse point.

"Fuck, Joong, easy! I have a shoot in a couple of days."

That sends his blood boiling. He pulls away from your neck, eyes dark and chest impossibly tight. He speaks lowly, maintaining eye contact.

"Worried your new boy toy will see?"

You furrow your brows in confusion, placing your hands on his chest as you halt your movement. You both stand on two separate sides of the threshold to your bedroom. "My what? What are you talking about?"

Hongjoong cocks his head, a dangerous glare taking over his gaze. "You know who I mean, angel. That asshole that has you so infatuated in your show. I've been looking at all the clips from your final episode. At the way you look at him. I'm not happy about it."

Realization washes over your gaze and he sees relief come flooding in. Wrong move.

"Oh you mean Christian? He's--"

Hongjoong grips your jaw roughly and forces your gaze to land on him, shock crossing your features at the harshness of his grip. He speaks with lethal quiet. "I don't want to hear you say his name. Ever." He steps closer to you, pressing his body against yours and gripping your hip harshly in his other hand. "Got it? You're mine. Nod if you understand."

He smirks as you nod, eyes all wide with shock and slightly glazed over. "There she is. Look at my good girl." He releases your jaw and smacks your ass firmly. "On the bed, angel. Hands and knees."

You turn and scramble over to your bed, planting your hands and knees firmly on the mattress. Hongjoong approaches behind you slowly, letting himself rake his gaze over your waiting form. He saunters to your bedside table, opening the drawer. He grabs your wand from the inside and smirks when he presses the button and finds it turns on. He quickly turns it off and turns to look at you.

"You left it on the highest setting?" He tuts, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you and holding the head of the toy up to your lips. He brushes it across your lips and tilts his head. "Angel, have you been a little whore while I've been gone?" He can see the way your breath catches and the embarrassed flush that starts creeping up your neck.

When you don't answer him, he smacks your ass again and growls out, "Answer me." He relishes in the way you yelp.

"Yes. Yes I've been a whore."

He smiles sadistically and tilts your chin so you're forced to look at him. "Whose whore have you been, angel? Your co-star's?"

You shake your head frantically. Hongjoong takes the wand and runs it teasingly across your clothed pussy, barely putting pressure and keeping it turned off.

"Whose whore are you then, angel?"

You take a steadying breath before you answer, focusing on not bucking your hips to meet the head of the inactive vibrator. "Your whore, Hongjoong."

He smacks your ass again, dropping the toy onto the bed and beginning to tug his sweatpants down to his thighs. "Damn right you are. And I bet my whore missed sucking this perfect cock, didn't she?" He stands and turns to face you, thighs touching the edge of the bed as his half-hard length springs free. You nod and lick your lips, staring up at him through your lashes. He tugs your hair, bringing you closer to the base of his cock. "Suck."

With the way you swallow him down greedily, Hongjoong thinks it's a miracle he doesn't cum immediately. Your mouth is so fucking warm, and the sounds of your gagging and choking alone could make him finish on a good day. He grips your hair at the root and forces your head further down until he feels your nose brush against his pelvis. He throws his head back and hisses out from between his teeth.

"Fuck yes. I missed your mouth." He lowers his gaze to look as you struggle to breath, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. His chest aches at the sight. "Awe angel, look at you. Trying so hard to stuff all of this cock down your throat. Such a good hole for me."

He doesn't miss the way your thighs clench together.

"You like being a hole for me? Like letting me use you?" He thrusts his hips into your mouth and almost loses it when you gag, a tear running down your cheek. He pulls you back and looks down as you gasp for air, coughing slightly. A trail of your spit is still strung between the head of his cock and your bottom lip. He forces you to look up at him.

"Open."

You open your mouth obediently, sticking your tongue out slightly. He pumps himself a couple of times, looking down as you wait patiently. He smacks the side of your face with his cock before spitting into your mouth.

"Swallow, whore."

He almost busts when you do without question, keeping your doe eyes locked on his fiery gaze. He pumps himself a couple more times, grabbing the vibrator and making his way to the other edge of the bed. He pulls your hips back into him, loving the way you squeal slightly. He pushes the flimsy material of your sleep pants and underwear down and runs a finger across your folds teasingly.

"You're soaked for me, angel. You really do love being a hole for me, don't you?"

You nod and whine, arching your ass back into him and savoring the way his cock brushes against you. You hear him turn the vibrator on, and gasp as he presses it firmly against your clit. The high setting sends you reeling almost instantly, and he harshly grips your hips to keep you in place.

"Whores take what they're given, angel. And right now, you're going to take everything I give, and you're going to thank me for it, aren't you?"

You cry out at the intense feeling building in your core, whining and sinking the upper part of your torso further into the mattress. "Yes oh god yes!"

Hongjoong smirks and runs a hand down your spine as he lines himself up with your entrance. He pushes in torturously slowly, and groans when he sinks in to the hilt. He circles the vibrator in tight circles on your clit, watching as you shake and thrash below him. He grips your hair again, pulling harshly until your ear is in line with his lips.

"I'm going to fuck you now, angel. And you aren't going to cum until I say you can." He feels you clench around him and nips harshly at your neck. "Ah ah, none of that angel. I'm not going to move until I know you'll be a good slut for me."

The vibrator is still pressed against your clit, and it takes everything in you to still your hips long enough to give him what he wants. You whimper and nod, trying to focus your breathing. "I'll be so good for you. Please."

All of Hongjoong's restraint snaps, and he pushes you roughly into the mattress, setting a brutal pace. The snap of his hips has your whole body rocking back and forth, each thrust hitting that special spot deliciously. He keeps the vibrator firmly on your clit, and you quickly feel your legs begin to shake as pressure builds rapidly. You're a whimpering mess beneath him, and Hongjoong feels like he's on cloud nine as you begin to squirm and writhe. He grips the base of your neck with his free hand, throwing his head back and relishing in the way your pussy sucks him in greedily.

"So. Fucking. Perfect. For. Me." He punctuates each word with a thrust, taking out his anger from the past 48 hours on your abused hole. "Would your co star make you feel this good, angel?" He growls out.

You whine again, long and high, as your shake your head. The sound is muffled by the plush mattress, but the sentiment makes its way across perfectly. Hongjoong coos and mocks you. "No? Awe, angel, whose cock are you gonna fall apart on, hmm?"

The choked "yours" that flies from your mouth sends Hongjoong completely over the edge. He snaps his hips even harder into you, circling the vibrator and hissing as you clench onto him like a vice. "Thats right, this pussy is all mine, your orgasm is all mine. You. Are. Mine." His thrusts lose their rhythm briefly before he cums, groaning loudly and gripping your neck impossibly tight. He resumes his normal rhythm shortly after, brushing against your g-spot with every thrust. Your whole lower half is trembling and he continues fucking into you, whines and moans flowing freely from you.

"Gonna fuck all this cum back up into my pussy, angel. Take it."

"Joong I can't hold it anymore," you whimper, "please let me cum!"

He leans down, pressing his body into yours as he goes impossibly harder. "Does my whore want to come all over my cock?"

You throw your head back, arching and whining, "Yes! God yes please let me!"

He chuckles lowly and circles the vibrator again, sending shock waves across your core, "Go ahead then, whore. Let me hear how good I'm making you feel."

Your orgasm crashes over you violently, profanities mixed with Hongjoong's name ripping from your lips as your whole body shakes. The pleasure has you seeing stars, and it's almost like you can't breathe as it peaks. Hongjoong fucks you through the entire thing, growling lowly in your ear as he thrusts, "Fuck, you're squeezing me so good, angel. Thats it."

As your orgasm ebbs away, Hongjoong slows to a stop and removes the toy from your clit. Both of you are breathing heavily, and he kisses the back of your shoulder gently. He stays buried in you as you collapse onto your forearms and takes a moment to stare down at how wrecked you look. He swears to himself that you never look more perfect than you do in the afterglow. He runs a hand down your spine and removes himself from you, taking note as his cum spills out of you and down the inside of your thighs.

"Stay there, angel. I'll be right beck."

He breathlessly stands and moves to your attached bath, wetting a washcloth and returning to gently clean you up. He chuckles lightly as you jump when he brushes against your folds and teases, "Feeling sensitive?"

"Fuck off." You breath out. He laughs and tosses the washcloth to the floor, pulling you into him as he collapses beside you. He kisses the top of your head. "How are you feeling, angel?" He marvels as you turn to look at him, pupils blown out and his marks on your neck.

"I'm feeling like I should make you jealous more often." You joke.

He huffs a laugh through his nose and nuzzles into your neck.

You're going to be the death of him.

[user211201]

Modulated

--- Original author: realhankmccoy ---

“I ain’t no motherfuckin’ redneck, you assholes! Don’t you fucking get it? I’ll never be ok with you being here and disrespecting our gay spaces!” I had shrieked and screamed, and I was being sassy as fuck. But they had darted me, so it was too late for me already. I had been one of the hottest little twinks in Colombia back then. I had such a tight little body, I was non-binary, and I was supportive of my local drag scene. I was absolutely into resisting these fucking fascists and their goddamn bullshit lifestyles, which I couldn’t stand.

That’s how I thought of it all back then, anyhow.

Man, that dart though, it had done its dirty work. I was writhing on the floor of the club, so I didn’t even get to witness the way it transformed me as I went into spasms. It was almost like having a seizure, but I could feel the muscle growing on me, and I could hear my shrieks and wails shift in pitch as I grew on into this whole new, far more masculine body.

I was getting to be built like a brick shithouse really fucking fast, and was taking on more of a mature look. Everywhere I was getting more muscle. I was splitting the seams of my jeans, and my underwear, and felt my back pressing up and splitting my tight pink t-shirt.

When I finally was able to sit up, I was in a daze. I had rendered my clothes asunder. I had bristles of hair all over my face, and the har on my head had grown longer, too, sort of flopping in my eyes. I was a mess.

And then the headache came. I was clutching the sides of my head and moaning, almost screaming in pain out loud, as my twinkish mind collapsed and got replaced by a growing part of me I didn’t even know existed. That part, my friends, is the motherfucking, take-charge redneck stud I am today.

My friends helped me get out of there, and I was still in transition. It takes a good seventy-two hours at least until you can fully collapse one of those weak-ass brains like the one I had before and until a more dominant, superior personality takes over like the one I was starting to get.

So yeah, like I said, I was a mess, and when my friends got me back to one of their apartments, I was still sporadically ranting about how dare those fascists do this to me, they’d never win, this was fucking awful. But as I heard myself talk, there was a growing part of me that was observing myself and thinking “so what? You sound like a raving lunatic. Look at this body! Damn, boy, just look at that muscle!”

Sleeping on it, man, that twink brain of mine must have collapsed even further. I woke up and I just wanted coffee with a splash of alcohol in it, so that’s what I got. Then I added two splashed. I had already stripped out of my shredded pink t-shirt, and my friends had some loose boxers that fit me, but I was just this naked, muscular stud in awe of his own body and trying to come to terms with who I was now.

I was seeing my friends with new eyes, too. They seemed anxious to me, weak, full of nervous, overly feminine motions, jittery, immature, skittish and mostly just kind of fucking annoying. “Those are your friends,” I’d remind myself. “This isn’t you who’s thinking this.”

But that growing part of me was thinking “This is you. This is all you, stud. You’re so much better than them. They don’t even know you’re thinking this, and if they only knew, they’d probably be terrified.” That thought made me want to laugh out loud, so I did.

“What are you laughing at?” one of them asked.

“Oh, nothing man, nothing,” I said, looking away and scratching my head. “These are your friends,” I told myself again, but I didn’t really seem to believe what I was trying to tell myself that morning. “So what if they’re your fucking friends,” my new mind was saying. “They’re fucking losers, man. Don’t let them drag you down. You ought to just get out of here.”

That morning, I was feeling just hornier and altogether more fucked up than I’d ever been. I was thinking, nah, this can’t be the new me. I’m no motherfucking redneck. I don’t think like them. But already I was feeling excited, having this body, having these different feelings, realising that I didn’t feel like such an evil guy like this, not like I thought I would, anyhow. All I wanted to do at that point in time, I felt like, was get the hell away from these people. I didn’t know to where. I borrowed some shoes and a t-shirt that was so tight it hurt, pleading that I had to get back to my apartment. It felt like the shoes would split, and the shirt was riding up on my belly, as I trotted back to my place.

I didn’t know what I was doing or what I was gonna do. When I got home, I felt thirsty, just wanting to drink a little, feeling like that would make this feel better, even though I told myself no, you have to compose yourself, you have to call people, you have to report this. Just one drink, I thought. It turned into shot after shot, and before I knew it, I was drunk, hard in my boxers, having kicked off the shoes and thrown that tight-ass shirt on the ground as soon.

Then I was beating off, and cumming, and the build-up to that orgasm, man, it flooded my brain with some real redneck juice. I wasn’t thinking of the type of guys I usually did. I was thinking about redneck studs, studs like myself, feeling the drool run down my chin as I beat off. As I came, shooting way up on my pecs, rubbing it in with my hand, I was whispering to myself, almost like a confession that I had yet to voice to anyone, “You hot fucking redneck. Holy fuck, you love this, don’t you. You’re a redneck now. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.”

The desire to live for working out and fucking was already growing in me.

Thoughts were just racing through my head then. I knew I didn’t want to be some lame-ass yuppie or some weak-ass queer, man. I felt this powerful attraction to the redneck scene, the working class scene, the country scene, the military scene, the jock scene, you name it, any scene were men were men instead of the glitter fairy I had been before. I couldn’t quite pin it all down at that point yet, but my thoughts were sure racing.

Can you picture me, getting drunk in my apartment, turned on at my own body and swirling thoughts? And then I started to really know, man. I started to know. There was no going back now. The guy I used to be was a loser. I didn’t want to be him anymore. I was pissed off that I ever even was him.

I walked barefoot into the bedroom, checking out his stuff in the drawers and on the walls. Almost none of it would even fit me anymore. His feminine attire and the way his shithole apartment was decorated disgusted me. It made me want to punch the wall, even, so I did that and it felt good. I saw the paint crack and the drywall cave in. This new body had power.

I screamed then, a roar of pure rage and exhilaration. I punched the wall again, and it felt so fucking good that soon I was ripping all his shit off the walls and throwing it in a corner, ripping that flouncy shit off the mattress and I didn’t stop, screaming the whole while, until the bedroom at least look bare bones enough to resemble something a man would want to sleep in. I’d be damned if I ever let that loser back into this mind.

There were a few flashes, sure, and man was he a crybaby as he went out, as well as one hell of an angry little prick. Lots of hatred in his heart. I’d just laugh and say, “Fuck you!” sometimes out loud as I felt that twink brain collapse forever.

And now, as far as I’m concerned, he’s gone man. No longer a part of me, thank God.

I was nervous at first, when I started trying to hang out with guys I thought I’d have a lot more in common with that my old friends. Would they accept me? I was pretty desperate for acceptance at that point. I starting hanging out at a diner that I knew a lot of them liked to frequent, classic diner that pre-dated even the 1950s, a real antique. But these sexy ass guys would show up there, and soon we got to talking over waffles and hash browns.

Soon I was telling them I was darted, and they were saying that was hot as fuck, wanting to hear the story. Soon I was telling it to them, my legs in the air, sweat dripping down my bearded chin, as I was getting fucked.

Months after that, I was almost fully integrated into the lifestyle, man, and soon I was the one doing more of the fucking, especially after I got these sweet-ass tattoos all over my right arm. Getting fully into it, the desire to be that all I could be as man, hell, it ran in my veins now. I was going to let those commies know that I was better than them in every single way imaginable, and I wanted to show it off. I still get hard just at the thought of that, demonstrating my own superiority in the most tangible – well, to them, intangible, because I don’t want them even fucking touching me – methods available to me.

Yeah boys, it meant war for me, just like it had when I was a stupid twink, only this time I was playing for the other side, and it was chess instead of checkers.

Of course, there’s a lot more to life than just that for me, namely having hot-ass sex with all sorts of country studs and military men, hell, being part of that whole network of strong and powerful men who worship and respect other guys who’ve worked for it. I feel like I’m serving my country and being a paragon of virtue for it even when my legs are slung over some guy’s bull neck and thick, rounded deltoids as he plows the fuck out of me with his long-ass rod.

I had never gotten fucked this good when I was a twink.

I do real work with myself now, a man’s work. I dress like a man, I eat like a man, and I live my life like a man. I’m fucking proud of it, too. I love who I am now, and relocated to the other side of town, too, where the action’s hotter and I have way more in common with most folks.

I am sure glad I’m a buff stud with a thick-ass chest these days, and I don’t ever go clean-shaven. Been really into guy’s pits lately, and getting them to flex for me so I can lick those. Yeah, shit, I’ve gotta stop, because here I’ve got a raging boner just telling you all about that right now. I swear I’m way more horny than I used to be. At least seventy-five percent of the time now, I’d bet, I’m a top these days.

I don’t really like bottom boys, either. Their mere existence tends to piss me off, to be honest, so when I do fuck them I tend to be an aggressive power top. A lot of the time I don’t even think of it that way, though. I just think of them as so weak that the same rules don’t even apply to them. Different rules, in a way, because they’re a different kind of guy than me. Much more like women, unable to control themselves, you know how they are. I used to be one of them, and I’m so glad I’m not anymore, that’s for fucking sure.

A lot of the time I prefer to just fool around with guys such as myself. I love topping another top, having to wrestle somebody for hours in a strength and dominance competition. Gets the blood flowing. I like somebody who puts up a fight. C’mon, son, do you have any idea how fucking fun that is for me now? To meet up and hook up with another guy who’s just as manly as I am? That’s the stuff I live for now. I’m ready to just fuck my life away with hot ass guys at this point.

So, yeah, I’m a top who loves to wrestle with other tops and see who can dominate. I must be pretty good at it if I swear I’m scoring a seventy-five percent these days, but that’s just because occasionally I throw in some twink losers. Yeah bud, even some of these leftists get thrown a bone by me every now and again. They need us, and I like them to know they need us. They wouldn’t know what to do without us.

One of these days, I might even check with one of my army friends and see if I can come along on a mission so that I can dart one of them myself. I think I’d laugh my ass off when my dart goes in his neck or his shoulder, wherever it his him. Just to see the look on his face, shit boy. That could turn a guy on just by imagining it, so one of these days I’ll have to make it legit.

Fuck if I care about the loser I once used to be or what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. My life is better now and that’s all that matters to me.

Hot-ass guys, man. That’s what I live for.

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (XI)

Chapter 11: ‘Lived to see you throwing me aside.’

Hi! Here is another chapter! On the menu today: a dinner with Sam and Frank… I’ll let you guess how well this will go… (I hope my choice for Andrew's pic for this chapter gives you a clue...)

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 2933

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Hesitate to call

Lived to see you throwing Me aside. That fought Like nettled fish inside me. Saw you throbbing In my syrups. Saw you sleep. And lived to see That all that all flushed down The refuse. Done? It lives in me. You live in me. Malignant. Love, you ever want me, don’t.

Louise Glück, The First Five Books of Poems

Andrew checked his appearance in the mirror for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

He was nervous beyond reason, after all he was heading to a restaurant to see Sam. And after a long-term relationship, he shouldn’t have felt so troubled by it. But things were different now, things were… complicated, to say the least.

Still, he heaved a sigh, checked his appearance once more. He had let his hair loose, had put on contacts, was wearing a black shirt and some dark jeans. He looked tired, exhausted even. Work was a lot at the moment, he had a thousand things to do. He still struggled to sleep, was still tortured with thoughts and dreams of Sam, of her leaving, of her loving someone else.

November was ending, and with it, the remnants of Andrew’s and Sam’s plans. Plans…

A weekend in Kerry in September. Saimhan with friends. Now, Andrew should be packing. He should be choosing clothes, not for an evening in a restaurant, but for a weekend in Glasgow. A flight late at night leaving from Dublin, another one during the night between Sunday and Monday. And in between, a couple of days just for them, spent eating, visiting museums, seeing the sights, walking around the town. A night in a hotel, one she had chosen, spent on filling their hearts with love and their bodies with lust and desire.

He looked at his reflection again, stared right into his own hazel eyes. They were greener than usual, probably because wearing contacts made his eyes water. He would have been more comfortable with glasses, more relaxed as well, more himself, in a way.

He blinked tears away as a thought crossed his mind, a painful one he wished he could have kept at bay, but he didn’t have the strength for that. Beating himself up was a habit, since childhood. There were thoughts sometimes that formed in his mind that brought him pain, but he listened anyway. Sometimes they were quiet, sometimes they were deafening. These days they were loud and clear.

He went to get his coat, grab his car keys, get ready to leave. He petted Elwood, told him to be a good boy, that he would soon be home. The thought followed him outside his home.

Being himself was never enough for Sam to love him.

Christ, Sam was so beautiful…

It was breaking his heart that they weren’t on a date. As he entered the restaurant, saw her sitting at a table waiting for him, Andrew was reminded of hundreds of evenings spent like this, going on a date in a restaurant, at the cinema, it didn’t even matter where. At the end, they didn’t go out much anymore. Sam always seemed to be too busy for that. At the time, Andrew thought it was only because of her job. Now, he wondered if maybe she had not already started to give up on them.

But he hadn’t. To this day, he hadn’t given up on them…

He kept on admiring her for a few more seconds, until the rest of the table was revealed to him, and the illusion waned. You were there too, facing Frank. The restaurant was posh, he felt a little uneasy in this atmosphere. He wouldn’t have chosen such a place for a date, but he had no doubt that Sam liked it.

He forced a smile as he approached, was greeted warmly by Frank, the first one who spotted him as he approached. You turned on your chair to greet him with a relieved smile, and his heart made a happy jump at the sight of you. He had an ally tonight, he wasn’t on his own…

“You’re late.”

He turned to Sam, his heart dropping again. Her tone was flat, emotionless, and he knew her enough to be aware that it was worse than annoyance. She was angry. He struggled to swallow.

“Yeah, sorry… Had some stuff to take care of before coming.”

She rolled her eyes, knowing it was a lie. Or well, it wasn’t a lie, but the real reason was simply that Andrew was always late. To everything. He couldn’t do much about it; if left unattended, he simply lost track of time. The alarms he had set up had done little to help him tonight. He didn’t add anything, merely took a seat.

“Ha, no worries!” Frank reassured him, and Andrew could tell that he was nervous and willing to make Andrew feel welcome. As a result, Andrew was highly uncomfortable.

“The food looks… interesting,” you commented, trying to drag the conversation away from Andrew, and he was grateful for it.

“The oysters are particularly good!” Frank recommended.

You said nothing, but Andrew frowned.

You… hadn’t you told him once that you weren’t such a fan of seafood?

Indeed, when you chose what to eat, you didn’t follow Frank’s advice at all.

Conversation drifted towards work, and your respective lives. Catching up or getting to know each other.

And Andrew understood Frank’s appeal tonight, as he watched him lead the conversation. He was louder than Andrew ever was, bright, clearly extraverted, longing for people’s attention. He was funny, charming. And handsome, that too, Andrew couldn’t deny that either. His complete opposite. Average height, muscles that threatened the fabric of his sleeves while he passionately talked about his work and moved his hands around, blond with electric blue eyes.

So… that was what Sam longed for? What had made you fall for him?

Andrew tried not to think this way. There was nothing he could do about his physical appearance, his ridiculous height, his gangly stature… there was no need to torture himself over that. He could show that he took care of Sam though. That he paid attention to her. That he loved her…

Because Frank didn’t seem to care all that much. Andrew saw it as you talked about your work, about how nervous you were as you got ready to give your students their first test of the year. And if Andrew was intently listening, Frank was clearly uninterested. He drew the conversation away from your job as soon as he could, offering encouraging words, and quickly moving on. You smiled, but you weren’t fooled. Andrew saw it in the way your gaze saddened, in the way the excitement that had been glimmering there died out instantly. His heart ached at the sight. And when Frank spoke again, Andrew didn’t care.

“Will you set a limit for the length required for the essay?”

Frank grew quiet, frowned. You turned to Andrew, clearly surprised by his question.

“Erm… I haven’t decided yet. I usually don’t.”

“Once a student gave me a twenty-pages long essay…”

“Twenty pages?!”

“Yeah… she was thorough, for sure.”

“Did you read the whole thing?”

“Of course. And now I set a limited word count.”

You chuckled, nodded.

“Maybe I should do that. What about your class about Yeats? Have you decided on a subject for an essay?”

“I’m still hesitating… I want to prepare one about Yeats’s involvement in the Irish Literary Revival… but I could choose one of his love poems about Maud Gonne too.”

You chuckled.

“Why do I feel like they’ll hear a lot about No Second Troy…”

“I love that poem.”

“Anyone who speaks of literature with you for more than ten minutes knows that,” you teased. “It’s a short poem to study, though.”

“Yeah… but that means they would really have to work on each line, instead of simply skipping whatever element they struggle with.”

“True.”

“I feel like it would be easier for them to work on the more political side of Yeats’s work during exam season. The material is easier, and we’ll go thoroughly through the most important aspects of these texts in class. So… I think I’ll ask them to work on love poems at home.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

You exchanged a smile. When Andrew looked up at Frank and Sam, they had stopped listening and were both eating their meal in silence. Sam was looking at something on her phone, a habit she had developed in the past couple of years.

She hadn’t asked him about his job. She hadn’t asked him if he wrote, how he felt, if he was suffering because of her. Perhaps she didn’t want to hear his answers. Perhaps she didn’t really care. Andrew was starting to have doubts. The more the evening was progressing, the more he realised that she didn’t seem to care. Sam and Andrew had spent years together, but she wasn’t listening as he spoke of his work, of the things he loved most on Earth.

Did she even care at all about him anymore? She used to listen to him talk about music and poetry for hours, back when they were students…

Or did she? She had never liked his own writing, but he thought she listened when he spoke of what he loved, still. She didn’t seem willing to make an effort these days… but then again, they weren’t together anymore. So, why would she?

“I’ve listened to your record, by the way!”

Andrew blinked, looked at you again.

“What?”

“Duke Ellington and John Coltrane. I’ve listened to it.”

He raised a surprised eyebrow.

“Did you? Really?”

You nodded, an excited smile on your lips.

“Of course! I’m going to sound very basic, I think In a Sentimental Mood was my favourite… although I really loved My Little Brown Book too.”

His mouth broke into a bright grin.

“Grand! Like… that’s grand! I’m glad you liked it.”

Frank stared at you for a moment.

“Who are you talking about?” he asked, trying to slither in the conversation.

“Andy recommended me some music! I have a whole list at this point,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow and making him chuckle and blush.

“It’s Jazz,” Andrew explained. “Some of the greatest, honestly.”

Sam heaved a sigh, still focused on her screen.

“Oh… nice,” Frank nodded, although he didn’t sound convincing at all.

“I really liked it a lot,” you went on. “I don’t really have the vocabulary to describe it, like… on a technical point of view, you know? But I liked it. It was very… like… drawing me in, in a way. There was tension, and then once I was trapped in the song, there was so much emotion there… And it’s unusual for me to be so focused when listening to instrumental music. I have a busy brain, I get distracted easily.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I have a busy brain too… but that’s what Blues and Jazz do to me. They kind of… shush my brain. Make it go quiet.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“You like music, then, Andy?”

Andrew looked at Frank again, wanted to correct him and ask to be called Andrew… but he didn’t want to seem rude. He didn’t like it, though, how he used his nickname.

“Yeah, a lot.”

“Andy wanted to be a musician, back in the days,” Sam intervened, putting her phone down again.

“Really? What instrument do you play?”

“I sing, mostly… play guitar too.”

“But you didn’t make a career out of it? Not that it’s surprising, it’s a tough field to work in. Most people can’t make a living out of it. Like… there’s so much competition, so few who actually get to make it. It must be a tough life.”

“A few of his friends made it though, and he had the talent for it,” Sam went on. “But Andy is not one to compromise easily.”

Andrew stared at her with a raised eyebrow.

“What do you mean by that?”

She shrugged.

“You could have had a record deal, had you accepted to change a few things about your songs.”

Andrew huffed, he could barely believe his ears…

“There was never an opportunity for me to record my own songs, and you know that. I didn’t want to sing those… attempts at pop hits that felt soulless to me.”

“And you didn’t get a record deal.”

“I didn’t want that kind of deal. I wanted to record the songs I had written.”

She didn’t say a thing, but her thoughts were loud enough for Andrew to guess them.

And then you didn’t record any of those either.

“Why are you saying all that like you’re resenting me?” Andrew asked, and Sam shook her head.

“I don’t resent you, of course! It was your choice.”

“You do sound like it though…”

“I’m just pointing out that you’re not the kind of guy who compromises much.”

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow and huffed again.

“You’re one to talk…” he mumbled.

Andrew spent his time compromising. Had he not compromised when he wanted to take a job in London and had settled for Dublin instead because she didn’t want to move there? When she refused to move in with him and asked for more time to find herself? When she chose most of their topics of conversations? When he barely talked about his work?

He let out a long exhale, took a bite of the overpriced fish he had ordered. He didn’t even like the food…

Sam spoke again, about some stupid tv reality she had been watching with Frank, and you listened even though you hadn’t seen it. Meanwhile, Andrew wanted to talk about music with you again. He wanted to ask you about Duke Ellington, he wanted to ask you what songs you liked, he wanted to listen to you ramble about how music made you feel. Your thoughts were always interesting, he could have talked with you for hours… and sometimes he did.

But he shook himself. He wanted Sam. He wanted to have Sam back, and nobody was perfect. There were some things in Sam that annoyed him or disappointed him or that he didn’t understand but at the end of the day she was Sam, and that was enough for him.

He was quieter throughout the rest of the evening, trying to do some damage control over the couple of tensed moments that had occurred during the night.

But then the conversation settled on the wedding itself, and things turned ill all over again…

“And we need to settle on a cake too! Christ, everything is complicated when you’re planning a wedding!” Sam laughed, while Andrew was tightly closing his fists under the table, until his nails drew crescent marks into his palms, while you looked away in a hurry.

“You know… I thought we could choose a strawberry cake,” Frank said. “It’s a classic, most people like those…”

“Sam is allergic to strawberries,” Andrew answered without thinking.

An uncomfortable silence settled across the table.

“Oh… you didn’t tell me that, babe,” Frank told Sam, who frowned.

Clearly, she had told him before, but she said nothing.

“Well, we’ll choose something else!” Frank shrugged.

“What about your career, then?” you asked your ex, staring intensely at him.

“My career?”

“You… you used to say that you wanted to wait to get married because you needed to focus on your career.”

Slowly, Frank nodded.

“Yeah… that’s true. I used to want that. But… it’s different with Sam.”

Andrew saw the pain that shot across your features. There was so much anger that ran through his veins then…

“Right,” you nodded.

“Like… my work seemed the most important, but now… not anymore. Or… not in the same way. So, why wait?”

“Why wait, indeed…” you slowly nodded while Frank and Sam exchanged a tender gaze, one that made Andrew nauseous.

He looked down at the piece of cheesecake he had barely touched, decided not to eat it. He couldn’t get anything more down…

The meal ended in a quiet mood, with conversations spent mostly between Sam and Frank, but the couple seemed satisfied with this situation. When they disappeared in a cab together, Andrew felt emptier than ever. A shell without a pulse or any other semblance of life…

“Andy?”

He turned around to look at you standing behind him in the street, right before the restaurant. Your frame was illuminated by both the white light coming from the restaurant’s sign and the orange hues of the streetlights.

He caught himself thinking that you were beautiful, had to push the thought away. But you were. You had dressed up tonight, undoubtedly to impress Frank, just like Andrew had tried to impress Sam with his careful choice of outfit. And Andrew was impressed, at any rate. You were gorgeous…

You offered him a humourless smile.

“Tonight was… a lot, right?”

He nodded, letting out a long exhale through his nose.

“You can say that…”

“I can’t say that it went… incredibly well.”

“No… it was… strange.”

“Let’s put it that way, yeah.”

“I’m not sure it helped us make any progress.”

“I’m not so sure either. On the contrary. But we tried, at least.”

Andrew nodded, looked at you as you heaved a sigh.

“You know what I want right now?”

He shook his head, tilting his head to the side as he waited for you to speak again, his hands now buried in his pockets.

“I really… really… want to get drunk. Like… hammered. Properly destroyed.”

Andrew exploded with laughter.

“You know what… sign me up! Getting very drunk sounds nice!”

“Let’s go to my place. I don’t want to be surrounded by people anymore,” you offered, and Andrew easily accepted.

As he followed you throughout the street, he reckoned that at least one thing in this evening could be pleasant, after all.

[eyecan02]

Beetlejuice In Love is the Softest Thing Ever

We all know Beetlejuice to be crude and sleazy. His behavior with Lydia is interesting. When he finally reunites with Lydia during the Therapy Session scene, he tries to pull the gliding move he did in the first movie to make her come to him.

Judging from the way he said "C'mere!", he would've likely had Lydia in his arms and bent her backward like he did with Barbara. Except it wouldn't have been a chaste, close mouthed smooch. He would've tried to stick his tongue down her throat in crudest, sloppiest way possible.

I think he realized his overeagerness to have Lydia again what with the suggestive "porn pop up-like" texts he was spamming her with, and magically having her give birth to his baby. That's why he breaks out the guitar in the next scene- to try to "romance" her properly.

They go a while without seeing each other until Lydia is finally forced to summon Beetlejuice. And what is his reaction? He stood super close to her, is obviously checking her out despite her modest clothes but does not try to feel her up/touch her the way he probably wanted to do in the Therapy Session scene.

He doesn't touch her until he takes her hand to prick it with the quill pen to sign the marriage contract. And everytime he touches her, it's her shoulders, upper back and tenderly kisses her hand. Even when they're dancing together, there's a respectable two feet of distance between their bodies.

He finally has her and he's going the extra lengths to be a gentleman and not scare her off again. He's learned restraint and boundaries as well as how to be romantic. I wouldn't be surprised if he just spent a good chunk of time marathoning romantic films for those 30 years in preparation for his reunion with Lydia. I'll do a separate post on which films I think he liked/took inspiration from.

The way Beetlejuice looks at Lydia , lip syncs for her, dances with her and the way he kisses her hand tells me he absolutely would be the kind of husband who would give Lydia sweet forehead kisses, hugs from behind, surprise her with her favorite flowers, gush about her to his employees and pretty much do anything to make Lydia happy. I like how even Keaton and Justin agree that Beetlejuice is husband material for Lydia.

[paperstorm]

Kicking things off with a little scene from 4x18 that I've had saved in my drafts for months, in the spirit of some of us rewatching the season 4 finale on Monday :)

-

“Don’t,” he mutters harshly, the second he sees movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Carlos,” TK practically whimpers.

Carlos looks at him. Tk’s eyes are bright and sparkling with tears. He presses his lips together and squeezes his eyes shut, dropping his chin as tears drip down off his own face and fall to the floor.

TK whispers, “Baby.”

Carlos shakes his head. TK’s been calling him that for so long. Carlos has loved it every time and strived to be worthy of it, and right now it’s like nails on a chalkboard. He'll never hear Carlitos or mijo in his father's deep timbre again.

Suddenly TK is in front of him, hands touching his biceps and then arms being tossed around his neck, pulling him into a hug. The dam completely shatters; Carlos’s shoulders shake as his body is wracked with violet sobs. He grasps helplessly at the back of TK’s shirt, clutching him, keeping TK close because without him to lean on Carlos thinks he would be in a heap on the concrete floor along with his tears.

“I know,” TK murmurs, stroking his hair, his cheek, the back of his neck.

“I don’t know what to do,” Carlos forces out as another flood of tears soaks TK’s shirt.

“Nothing. You don’t need to do anything, baby, you just …” TK cups his cheek, gently nudges Carlos’s head up so their blurry eyes can meet.

TK’s are red rimmed and his cheeks are blotchy, and Carlos is sure his own face is covered in mucus and wetness and shame. He aches down to the marrow of his bones with the fact that he can’t ever remember his father being sweet and silly with him. Carlos would give everything – every penny in his bank account, anything else the universe wanted to steal from him – to replace his memories of years of quiet disapproval and unspoken disappointment with the version of his father who spoke in a terrible Australian accent to make Carlos laugh. He wants to buy a fireproof safe to keep that VHS tape in so that he can watch it every day for the rest of his life, and he wants to drop it onto the sidewalk outside and smash it to bits with a hammer so he never has to watch it again.

He wonders when it stopped, when Gabriel turned stoic and serious and withholding. He wonders if it was all in his head, if he can’t even trust his own memories because they’ve been warped and twisted by too many years of his own insecurity – everyone is so insistent that his father loved him, so maybe Carlos is the problem, if he can’t seem to remember a time when that felt true. Maybe he wasted the only years he’d ever get on pride and stubborn arrogance, and now his papá is gone.

“Do you remember the night my mom died?” TK asks.

Carlos nods miserably. Neither of them will be at their wedding. The thought scrapes away at his insides.

“We sat right there, right on that couch, and you held me while I sobbed. That’s what we should do.”

“It won’t make anything better.”

“No. It won’t.” TK kisses the damp side of his face. “But neither will anything else, right now. So just let me be with you while it sucks. We’re soulmates, remember?”

The word unzips Carlos even further and he feels his face crumpling, tipping forward so his forehead bumps painfully into his fiancés.

“Say it,” TK urges gently.

“You’re my soulmate,” Carlos repeats, the words feeling monotonous and not tasting as sweet as they should.

“You’re the love of my life. I’m so heartbroken that you’re hurting this much. I can’t take it away but I can hold you. Please let me.”

Tagging @theghostofashton @birdclowns @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut

@carlos-in-glasses @actual-sleeping-beauty @thisbuildinghasfeelings @herefortarlos @heartstringduet

@goodways @alrightbuckaroo @lightningboltreader @freneticfloetry

@liminalmemories21 @nancys-braids @lemonlyman-dotcom @whatsintheboxmh

@bonheur-cafe @reasonandfaithinharmony @thebumblecee @never-blooms

@sanjuwrites @orchidscript @jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce

@fifthrideroftheapocalypse @fitzherbertssmolder @butchreyes @just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh

@captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @anactualcaseofthetruth @ironheartwriter @eclectic-sassycoweyes

@ditheringmind @emsprovisions @irispurpurea @nisbanisba @corsage

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[iamtired10]

jealous jealous

— fluffy (slight angst) headcanons

pairing - newjeans members x female reader

synopsis - how they would react when they get jealous.

warning - jealousy and kisses (same warnings as before..)

a/n - im not totally sure if this is accurate or fun, but here it is. enjoy reading and bye—

requested by — @somedaydream

kim minji

minji is always the steady, reliable one.

but when jealousy hits her, that calm exterior fades into something much softer, more vulnerable.

it’s almost cute how she thinks she can hide it, but you know her better than that.

when she sees someone else getting just a little too close to you, her lips press into a thin line, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

she doesn’t make a scene—not minji—but the way she sidles up to you, slipping her arm around your waist, says everything she won’t.

suddenly, she’s attached to you like glue, her hand never leaving yours.

and if you thought she was clingy before?

it’s nothing compared to how she holds onto you now, as if letting go would mean you’d slip away.

minji isn’t loud about her jealousy, but the intensity is unmistakable.

she’ll rest her head on your shoulder, her breath warm against your neck as she murmurs, “you’re mine, you know that, right?”

her grip tightens ever so slightly, like she needs the reassurance that you’re not going anywhere.

you’d tease her about it, call her out for being so possessive, but her response is just to snuggle closer, burying her face against you with a soft,

“shut up, you love it.” and yeah, you do.

pham hanni

when hanni gets jealous, it’s like watching a storm roll in—fast, loud, and impossible to miss.

she’ll try to act indifferent at first, throwing in a casual, “i don’t care,” as her eyes narrow at whoever’s hogging your attention.

but the pout that forms on her lips is unmistakable, her foot tapping impatiently as she waits for them to leave.

the second they’re out of sight, though, she’s right there, tugging at your sleeve with a mix of frustration and vulnerability.

she’ll fold her arms, puffing out her cheeks in the most adorable way, and mutter, “you’re not allowed to let anyone else make you laugh like that.”

you try to calm her down, but she’s already climbing onto your lap, wrapping her arms around your neck with a stubborn grin. “i’m the only one who gets to do that. got it?”

but the best part?

when she tries to act all tough but fails miserably.

she’ll poke at your cheek, trying to act mad, but the second you kiss her nose or ruffle her hair, she’s all giggles and soft smiles again, her walls crumbling in an instant.

hanni can’t stay mad for long—especially not when you pull her close and tell her she’s your favorite.

danielle marsh

danielle is usually the most carefree, bubbly person you know. jealousy?

it doesn’t even seem like it’s in her vocabulary.

but when it sneaks up on her, it’s a quiet, almost shy thing.

she won’t say anything at first, but you’ll notice how she pulls back ever so slightly, her usual easy smiles faltering. danielle is all sunshine, but when she’s feeling insecure, the clouds start to roll in.

she won’t ask outright, won’t accuse you of anything, but you can see the way her gaze lingers on you, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

the laughter isn’t as bright, her touches not as bold.

instead, she becomes quiet, distant, like she’s afraid she might lose you without even realizing it.

and the worst part?

she’ll try to hide it, not wanting to burden you with her feelings.

but once you notice, once you pull her aside and ask her what’s wrong, she’ll melt.

her arms will wrap around you in the tightest hug, her face buried in your chest as she mumbles, “i just... don’t want to lose you.”

you’ll reassure her, over and over, until that bright smile returns, her whole body leaning into yours like she can finally breathe again.

danielle doesn’t get jealous often, but when she does, she needs to know you’re hers, and only hers.

kang haerin

haerin is the silent type, always observing, always thinking.

when she gets jealous, you almost wouldn’t know—almost.

she doesn’t make a scene, doesn’t throw tantrums or pout.

instead, she just watches, her eyes sharp as she quietly takes in every interaction you have with someone else.

her expression remains neutral, but there’s a tension in the way she moves, like a panther ready to pounce.

she’ll slip closer to you, her fingers brushing against yours in a way that’s so subtle, yet so possessive.

haerin doesn’t need words to show you how she’s feeling—her presence is enough.

she stands just a little too close, her gaze never leaving you, as if she’s reminding you, without saying a word, that you belong to her.

later, when you’re alone, she’ll sit beside you, her hand resting lightly on your leg, her voice low as she finally speaks. “you’re not interested in anyone else, right?”

it’s not even a real question—she knows the answer.

but hearing you say it makes something soften in her eyes, the tension melting away as she leans into you, her head resting on your shoulder.

haerin doesn’t need to make a big fuss, but when she’s jealous, she’ll make sure you never forget where your heart belongs.

lee hyein

hyein is the youngest, but when she gets jealous, she acts like she’s years older, her voice sharp and demanding as she pulls you aside.

“who was that?” she’ll ask, her eyebrows raised, trying to act all serious and mature.

but you can see right through her.

she’s still the playful, dramatic baby you know and love, even when she’s pretending to be tough.

she’ll follow you around, refusing to let anyone else get too close, her hand firmly in yours as she shoots glares at anyone who dares even glance in your direction.

“you’re mine, no sharing,” she’ll declare, her voice full of mock authority, but the way she clings to you like a kid with their favorite toy betrays her real feelings.

and when you finally laugh and call her out for being so possessive, she’ll just huff, crossing her arms as she pouts.

“i don’t care, you’re not allowed to make anyone else smile like that.”

but underneath all her dramatics, she’s still soft, still the sweet hyein you know.

she’ll eventually lean her head on your shoulder, her voice a little quieter, a little softer.

“i just like you too much, okay?”

a/n - working overtime for y'all :(

[solreino]

Swan Song

Chapter 1: Taking Flight

Summary: In preparation for your debut as Odette in Swan Lake, you encounter a few bumps in the road. Little do you know this is just the start.

Pairings: TF 141 x Reader

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: Eating Disorders, Toxic Beauty Standards, Creepy/Unwanted Behaviour, Period-Typical Attitudes (1910's), Innacurate Translations.

A/N: I'm not well informed about ballet, I have never danced it before, so I apologize for any inaccuracy regarding terminology. Also, the story is set mainly in Russia, so the reader is presumed to be of Russian origin.

MASTERLIST Next➔

[November 11th 1911, The Bolshoi Ballet Academy, Russia]

"1 and 2 and 3 and 4!”

Your eyebrows furrow in concentration as Mr. Lenkov begins to play Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake Suite, Op. 20a: I. Scene "Swan Theme" for what feels like the sixth time this hour. His nimble fingers dance across the ivory keys once again as the composition presumes its macabre melody.  

To say the last few weeks have been stressful would be a dire understatement. Since taking up the role of Odette in Autumn, you’ve yet to recall the last time you’d had the pleasure of succumbing to the sanctity of slumber, nor rest altogether for that matter. From dawn to dusk, you’ve found the studio becoming a second home to you; like an ever-so gracious host with a tendency for passive-aggressive hospitality, who coaxes you from the front door in promise of warm tea and a place to rest your head, insisting you stay "just one more hour". You know better, well at least you think you do, because beyond the studio door you know there’ll be no rest awaiting you, only relentless recital. Still, you don’t look back as you accept its welcoming embrace. Because- 

Anything but perfection would not suffice. You see, back-breaking discipline; impeccable precision; artistic competence; meticulous dedication, it’s nothing new to ballet and in turn, it’s nothing new to you, either. To be a ballerina means to surrender yourself to the artistry, and let your body become its mindless muse.

The Ballet industry is an anomaly compared to other artistic sectors. Unlike others, it subverges from the ideals of ‘beauty in the eye of the beholder’. Conformity is key. There are strict standards to be met and an unquestionable quota to be completed. Anything but, will not do. It disregards the need to sugarcoat its shallow requirements; skinnier, sharper, prettier, thinner; if it fulfills the requirements, it will suffice. 

Image is everything. It’s a shallow, superficial sentiment that directors set upon budding ballerinas like hounds to hares. From day one, they plant it into the impressionable minds of aspiring dancers. Uncontrollably, self-doubt sprouts like a stubborn weed. Each off-hand comment or direct dig, whether it be about a girl’s weight of en pointe form, encourages the festering parasite to root itself deeper into her mind. Then she grows older - it’s too late - and the parasitic thought has poisoned her once innocent outlook on life and has rotted it right to its roots. For the rest of her tragic life, the girl will only know the number on the scales, the image in the mirror, and the misery in her mind. 

You’ve seen it happen to others. You’ve seen it happen to you, because-  

Ballet has ensnared you - mind, body, and soul. Over the years, you’ve felt its callous claws dig deeper and deeper into your flesh, leaving scars so severe - both physically and mentally - sometimes the pretty pink ribbons you adorn your feet with prove futile in the bid to cover them. Prodding and poking and probing; fingers jabbing mercilessly into your sides, accompanying a doubly ruthless "you'll need to lose this extra weight if you want a spot on my stage". For a sport so vain, you ought to think it would go easy on its victims. A session of self-reflection proves otherwise.

You learn to bear and grin through it all. You don’t have much of a choice anyways. After all, many before you have suffered the same, and those who come after you will too. Because after many years of being a ballerina-

You learn to see beauty in the pain. 

The blood you bleed makes the red roses you receive at curtain call worthwhile; the sadistically sweat-inducing masterclasses make the shining smiles and standing ovations from awestruck audiences worthwhile; the tears make the champagne chutes you get to drink at the expense of your company worthwhile. You chase these highs like you do with stardom.  

All you've ever dreamed of since a little girl was to be a ballerina. Perhaps, it was the beautiful dresses a child of your class could only dream of back then, or how pretty the woman on the front page of your father’s newspaper looked posing on the tip of her toes. You don’t know for certain what exactly it was that enthralled you with it all. Sometimes, you wish you had never boarded that train to Moscow, never bothered with all that came with being a ballerina. It’s a selfish and self-deprecating thought, for you know if you were to stay on that homestead, there was an imminent chance you would have succumbed to the troubles of poverty you had faced back home. Admittedly, there are times you miss your life before coming to the city. None can be done about that, however.

Now, you have to push your body to its limits and beyond. Daily, you trespass boundaries you had once believed your body did not possess the ability to, reciting the same sequences endlessly, over and over again, until you physically can’t pursue your practice further that day. Even then, you find yourself persevering through the pain and fatigue; limbs heavy like lead; a mind strong like steel. If you knew your efforts were futile in the bid to rid yourself of any flaws in your dance, you would be wrong because-    

Ultimately, you knew no matter how much effort you exerted, the Dance Principal; Ballet Mistress; the reputable Madame Orlova would not miss a single thing.

For decades, word has circled Moscow of the cold-hearted, quick-witted, sharp-tongued old woman who ran the prestigious academy with an iron fist. It was just your luck that she had taken you under her wing as one of her pupils. You dare say she had taken a liking to you, though, she did have a tough way of showing her fondness onto others. 

Never a day was there without some sort of mistake to be mended by her recognition. At times you think God had cursed her to be forever unfulfilled in her outlook of life. The others in the Troupe seem to think so too. 

You dread to think of how much Mr Lenkov’s fingers must be hurting from playing the same melody over and over again for this past hour. It wouldn’t surprise you if the composition begins to haunt your dreams like a creaky, broken music box. You’ve never had the pleasure of owning one, though you had seen one in the window of a repair shop one time and-

And, as the Ballet Mistress shouts at Mr Lenkov to cease his playing, you know she has once more found a flaw in your dancing. 

The symphony stops abruptly with a garble of incoherent notes before it can reach its crescendo. Inwardly, you sigh. 

"No, no, no!" She scolds.

Her boney fingers rub feverishly against her temple in frustration. Rising slowly from her chair before you, her walking cane thumps anticipating against the studio’s oakwood floor as she ambles towards you. Wrinkled eyes bore into you; you struggle to withstand the urge not to writhe under the intensity of her stare.

"Your arms,” She begins slowly, her gaze raking over you in scrutiny, “They are stiff.” 

“From the shoulder to the fingertips,” She gestures with her hand down the length of your arm as she speaks. “It must flow, like the wing of a swan.”

She uses the moment of silence as you take on the command to survey your form, prodding and poking your stance to adjust it to her liking. 

“Do not forget this.” She finishes. 

"Yes, Madame Orlova," You nod in acknowledgment, wincing slightly each time her finger jabs into your shoulder blades and readjust your position to better suit her expectations. 

She huffs a breath in what you can only presume is somewhat satisfaction, signaling for Mr Lenovo to resume playing.

“Again!”

The song resumes its somber sound, and you take heed to the Ballet Mistress’ words. Flowing from your shoulder blades to your fingertips, you encapture the essence of the White Swan; melancholy in her mourning of a lover whose heart he had promised to another. She is vulnerable in her virtue, and she shows that in her final flight. Odette longs for the skies, for an escape from the betrayal of who she had held dear, but her wings fail her. In desperation, she flexes and flaps her wings, but alas, she cannot take flight. And so-

You spiral in a presession of slow spins, arms portraying the anguished attempt the Swan Queen takes to take flight for the final time before decelerating into a despairing descent as Odette. The tune tumbles to its end from beneath Mr. Lenkov’s fingers as you complete your practiced plummet to the studio floor, encasing your body with your arms the wings of the white swan, as the grief-stricken creature takes its final breath. 

You raise your head to look at Madame Orlova.

And, for the first time in your decade-long enrollment at the Bolshoi Ballet School, you think you see the infamously stone-faced stone-hearted ballet mistress smile. 

It's a cold evening in Moscow tonight. The winter winds thrash ferociously at the loose and unraveling threads of your scarf. Whilst it does little to protect you from the frigid frost lingering in the air, you wear it anyways as any warmth you can garner to combat the icy environment is, in your eyes, worthwhile.

Snowflakes dust your hair with specks of glistening white, gathering upon the crown of your head where you have neglected to put on a hat. They tickle your nose and gently brush against your rosy cheeks as you tilt your head back. Your face turned towards the sky; watching as the snow twirls and tumbles from the clouds above, gradually blanketing the ground ahead in a pristine carpet of soft white. It crunches as you walk towards the theatre, leaving footsteps on the once-untouched landscape. You take extra caution not to slip on any hidden ice - an injury is the last thing you needed on a day as imperative as this. 

Somewhere in the far distance, the Kremlin bells ring. 

Thirteen mighty chimes thunder throughout the city. You feel the ground rumble in response beneath your feet - a reminder to hurry.

Rushing up the snowy steps of the Bolshoi Ballet Theatre, you quickly let yourself inside in an attempt to escape the chilling temperatures of the Moscovian evening - and to avoid running behind schedule. 

The warm air inside greets you welcomingly. You eagerly pull off your gloves in its presence to soak up the heat it has to offer. Slowly, you begin to regain feeling into your fingers. Sighing a relieved breath, you make your way backstage as the marble floor of the foyer echoes noisily beneath your shoes.

There, you receive a not-so-calm yet begrudgingly familiar greeting. 

Pre-performance is usually like this; congested backstage corridors; a cacophony of frantic demands and directions; boxes of overflowing props and costumes rushed up and down the hall; the deafening pounding of ballerinas breaking in their pointe shoes;  dim lighting making it near impossible to navigate. However today, with your debut as the company’s newly appointed principal dancer just hours away, it feels even more nerve-wrackingly overwhelming. 

You brace yourself as you get swept away in the havoc of opening night, tangled in the rambunctious crowd as it traverses through the labyrinth of backstage passageways.

Despite the absurd amount of people crammed in corridors unable to withstand even a fraction of their current capacity, you miraculously manage to maneuver your way to the dressing room; elbow-to-rib style, ducking under boxes and weaving past those racing in the opposite direction. 

Relief hits you as you swing open the dressing room door, closing it quickly behind you as your eyes blink rapidly to adjust to the bright lighting inside. The much more quieter, yet seemingly livelier chatter of friendly conversation and girlish giggles encompasses you as you move further into the dressing room. You shrug off your coat, laying it to rest on the coathanger and take your seat in front of your dresser.

Tranquility seeps into your bones as you slouch against the chair’s backrest momentarily, soaking up the opportunity of rest no matter how short-lived the moment may be. Mentally, you take the moment to prepare yourself for the evening, and all the chaos and calamity it is sure to bring. 

Sighing, you straighten yourself up in your seat, glancing at your reflection in the mirror as you do so. 

"I didn't know you had a secret admirer.” 

You don’t turn around as the voice chimes up from behind you. You of all people know better than to entertain her playful antics. 

The voice reveals itself from its lurking in the background, resting her chin just above your collarbone and draping her arms over your shoulder. 

Your eyes meet hers in the reflection. She grins back at you.

“Valeria.” You sigh, patting the hand resting around your shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

Valeria, crowned tonight’s Black Swan, is one of the company’s longer-serving principal dancers and has self-appointed herself as your tutor and friend as of late. Graciously, she has taken you under her wing these past couple of months as you have gradually adjusted to your newly bestowed title, joining her amongst the Bolshoi’s most prestigious ranks. 

“You too,” She smirks, a little too suspiciously for your liking, pecking your cheek in greeting before returning to her seat at her vanity next to you. “You too.”

You begin to rummage through your stage makeup, tilting the mirror toward you so you can better see, before laying out your needed products on the desk space. You pay no mind to her mischievous staring as you do so. But, as you have learned over your time acquainted with Valeria, nothing can deter her from getting what she wants. And right now, that is to find out who this supposed ‘secret admirer’ is.

"So tell us then," She drawls teasingly, "Who's the lucky boy?"

The edge of your desk presses uncomfortably into your side as you turn to give her your attention. For the time being, anyways. You yourself are somewhat curious as to what she is talking about. But the sooner you can resolve this suppositious accusation, the sooner you can resume to the real issue at hand - getting ready for Swan Lake. 

Confusion stirs at her question, and you tilt your head to the side, urging her to explain further.

A ribbon-wrapped gift box is pushed toward you. You watch on, confused. 

Valeria’s legs swing idly back and fro as she gazes at you expectantly. The corners of her lips tug further into a grin at the silence that ensues and at the completely dumbfounded expression on your face. When you give her no answer, her Cheshire-cat-like grin falters. 

The girls around you giggle, peering over from their makeup stations to indulge in the drama unfolding. Valeria shoots them a look from over your shoulder, one you cannot decipher, but it quietens them down. 

“For me?” you ask doubtfully, slightly stumbling over your words as you take the generous gift into your hands. “Oh Valeria, you shouldn’t have-”

“Not from me.” She huffs.

“I don’t understand,” you mumble, eyes scanning over the gift as you look for a label, a note, a letter, anything that may reveal the gifter’s identity. “Who could this be from?”

She shrugs indifferently, turning to focus on her reflection in the mirror, transfixed on getting the edges of her lipstick just right. 

“The girls who were here before me said it came delivered to the dressing rooms earlier this hour-” She smiles at her appearance, appreciating her flawless makeup in the mirror. Placing the lipstick tube down with a quiet thump, she turns to focus her attention on you once more. 

She pokes a finger at you in playful accusation. “-Asking for you specifically!” 

It’s your turn to shrug your shoulders, unable to give her the answer she craves, for what reason, is beyond you.  

She eyes you incredulously, before returning her attention to her mirror seemingly unable to neglect her reflection for just a moment longer.

“Well,” She gestures toward the ribbon-wrapped gift with her free hand, playing an unbothered facade. You know full well she is practically itching to uncover this mystery. “Are you going to open it?”

Your eyes dart between her and the suspicious box, almost expecting this to be some sort of ruse, perhaps she had given you a jack-in-the-box and was waiting for you to get the fright of your life; her idea of fun.

Hesitantly, you begin the unravel the sheer ribbon keeping the box from opening. The fabric rubs soothingly against your fingertips, a luxury fabric you have not had the experience of touching before. It was clear that whoever had purchased this was of a wealthy background.  Perhaps, you think, you could make this into a bow to wear. 

You don’t know what you were expecting when you lifted its lid, but you definitely were not expecting a pair of .

“Aye chingao!” Valeria startles as she leans over your shoulder to get a better look.

Nestled between a blanket of draped deluxe fabric, a pearlescent pink, almost winter-white, pair of the most exquisitely crafted pointe shoes lie. You fail to restrain the exasperated sigh of awe at the sight, carefully grazing your fingertips over its silky satin finish as if the slightest touch could possibly damage them. You can confidently say, they are the most beautiful gift you have ever had the pleasure of receiving. 

“No secret admirer,” she says.” Valeria quirks an eyebrow up at you.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's probably just costuming.” You dismiss her far-fetched conspiracies, though, you find it hard to draw your eyes away from the pair of shoes, and the fact that this had definitely not come from the costume department. So who had sent you these?

"Ha, as if Mr. Baryshev would ever allow the budget given to costuming to be used for anything but lining his own pockets!” She laughs bitterly. 

“I’ve been-” Valeria exhales out a frustrated breath, “-trabajando como un burro to afford the means to get wear this!” She growls, her hands gesturing to the coal-coloured feathered fabric of her intricate bodice and tutu. 

You open your mouth to give her your consolation before a knock comes to the door. You, Valeria, and the rest of the room quieten into hushed murmuring - just for a moment. Then-

“On in 30, Ladies!” A gruff voice hollers from the other side of the door.

The room erupts into chaos.

A tsunami of frantic ballerinas surge forward towards the row of dressers, crashing against each other like the tides of a raging sea you had heard many-medal adorning men recount about in tales of some distant land. The only redeeming thing about conducting post-performance business is the stories and tales you overhear; the rest, you are not so keen on.

You take the distraction in stride, shoving the pair of shoes more like semi-worn in pointe hand-me-downs from costuming somewhere under your vanity, and replacing them with your newly acquired gift.

“You’re going to wear them?!” Valeria hisses incredulously. 

You glance at her sideways, smirking back at the priceless expression of amused disbelief on her face.

“Well, they’re shoes, aren’t they?” You jest, grinning at her mischievously. “It would be a shame not to.”

She shakes her head in mock-dissappointment, haphazardously stuffing her stage makeup in its designated drawer before firmly slamming it shut. 

“I fear my mischief is rubbing off on you too much.” She mumbles as she looks up at you, feigning a tone of dismay, only to be betrayed by the growing smirk on her face. 

“Well,” She smoothes her hands over her slicked-back bun of cropped raven hair, "I'll see you out there." 

You give her your goodbyes as she pats you on the shoulder, rising from her chair and making her way toward the dressing room’s door. 

“Don’t let the Director find out,” Valeria whisper-shouts from over her shoulder. “You know what he’s like.”

She ushers the remaining lingering corps-de-ballet girls out of the changing rooms, winking at you as she closes the door gently behind her. 

You listen as the chatter slowly retreats from beneath the doorframe, Valeria’s distinct, accented laughter mingled with that of fast-paced Russian retreating down the echoey corridor ‘till you could hear it no more. A serene silence hugs the now-semi abandoned dressing room; those, including you, who aren’t to appear until later acts remain, a more pacific atmosphere stirs, with subdued gossiping, softer laughter, and a more slowing-encroaching sense of time.

You slump in your chair. 

You have a long evening ahead of you.

The rear of house is relatively quieter now.

You can no longer hear the lively chatter associated with the pre-performance buzz, only the occasional hushed conversation resurfacing through the suffocating silence as people pass by. Walking backstage is always an awkward feat, your pointe shoes make an unpleasantly loud noise against the cold concrete floor with each precarious step you take. 

You had felt bad for having to break them in; they were an extraordinaryly well-crafted pair of pointé shoes, they fit perfectly too, and you were certain the price tag was even more extravagant. You still hadn’t resolved the identity of the mystery gifter, but you’d make sure to thank them profusely for their kindness. For now, however, you have a debut to make. 

Your feet thump rapidly as you semi-rush toward the entrance to the left wing. The further you near, the more people it seems are gathered in anticipation for their appearances onstage. The conversation is greater here than that of in the deeper bowels of the theatre where the dressing room had been. Mingling herds of ballerinas and dancers lean idle against the walls, stretching in preparation for their scenes, and chatting amongst themselves, but done so in more gentle, lower tones so as not to alert the audience of their presence a mere wall away. 

They regard you with reassuring smiles and words of good luck as you briskly waddle by; you reciprocate them with a short-but-sweet smile. 

The music grows in amplitude as you enter the left wing officially; the once gentle thrumming is replaced with an all-encompassing eruption of expertly strung-together instruments. The welcoming embrace of the song is quickly diminished though, much to your dismay because-

The rafters here have always given you the creeps. With no help from Valeria either, who  divulges in gossip of the ‘ballerina’ who had been ‘crushed to death’ by a poorly-secured light fixture on the theatre’s proscenium arch each time she catches you gazing nervously upwards at the looming space. You know it’s mainly just the technicians who lurk up in the rafters, commandeering light cues and stage transformation sequences as the ballet progresses. 

‘You have nothing to fear’, you admonish yourself. 

Still, that doesn’t stop the hair on the back of your neck from standing up as you approach the left stage-side.

Your presence goes unnoticed for not even a second. 

Someone speaks your name in a hushed whisper.

You peer over your shoulder at the source of the sound; the silhouette of a stout-statured man emerges from the left-wing doorway. He seizes you suddenly by the shoulders before you even have time to recognise the overly-touchy-friendly Mr. Ustrashkin.

You stagger at the sudden force with which he embraces you, regaining your balance with an awkward squeak. It is only then do you see the disconcerted look that his face has taken on.

“Mr Ustrashkin?” You begin hesitantly. “Is something the matter?”

“Walk with me, dear.” He requests, but he has already pulled you into motion with the firm grip of his hand on your shoulder.

The two of you trail off to the side to make way for the group of pas de corps, and for the privacy of what you can only assume to be bad news. The ballerinas smile respectfully at you, lowering their heads slightly as they account for your company before skittering off, their ghostly white tutus fluttering by behind them like swirling snowflakes. 

When the last of the dancers had passed by, Mr. Ustrashkin speaks again. You take the small queue of silence to compose yourself exteriorly for what is to come. 

“Something..." He stalls, theatrically contemplating the correct word to use before resuming. "...unexpected came up within these previous hours. A true shame it is, but Fyodor, your dance partner, has sustained an ankle injury. As you can understand, he will be out of commission for the foreseeable future, and unfortunately is unable to perform with you tonight." 

Your heart sinks. It collapses from your chest cavity like a marionette doll on snapped strings; as its puppet master surveilled with cruel glee from above. You wonder what you had done to anger God, for him to administer such a thing onto you. On today of all days too. 

“Oh, um, I-” You stumble over your words in a tangled array of shock, panic, disbelief and uncertainty.  

“None of that now, little swan.” Mr. Ustrashkin tuts, almost as one would scold a misbehaving child. 

You recoil at the unwanted nickname, but are too overcome with internal panic at the newly arisen situation to pay it much mind. Saying anything anyways will get you in trouble, and you have climbed too far into the good graces of the executives of the company to fall out of favour for something so insignificant. 

You struggle to maintain your composure, hanging on the thread of internal and external unbridled alarm. You bite the inside of your cheek to withhold any curses from escaping your mouth.

‘On all days this could have possibly happened on.’ You mumble to yourself mentally. 

“So, if Fyodor isn’t dancing tonight..” Your eyebrows scrunch up in confusion, eyes trailing from Mr. Ustrashkin and the conversation at hand to the semi-concealed view of the stage. “Who is dancing Prince Siegfried onstage as we speak?”

Swan Lake has been going for around an hour by now, but with your appearance not until the second act, you needn’t be in as much of a rush as those in the first. You had spent that time responsibly; the majority of which was in the dressing room ensuring the costuming was to standard and ogling over the anonymous gift. Much to your displeasure, that also meant you didn’t have the pleasure of seeing everyone off at curtain opening, and you hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of this ‘Mactavish’ Mr Ustrashkin had been singing his praises about to you. 

"Do not fret that pretty little head," The plump man quips. Mr. Ustrashkin pats your back, presumably in an act of reassurance, but the force which he uses almost sends you stumbling forward. "His understudy, Mactavish, has taken up his role."

“Mactavish?” Your head tilts to the side as the syllables of the foreign-sounding name roll off your tongue with a questioning implication. 

“Oh yes!” He startles with a cheery smile. “A wonderful dancer through and through. We scouted his talent in London and had him transferred from The Royal Ballet to dance for us instead.” He rambles on in recollection. “Though the two of you aren’t properly acquainted yet, I’m sure he’ll be substantial as a dance partner in Fyodor’s absence.”

All you can do is nod your head absentmindedly, hoping to be relieved of his unwanted presence. And, like all men are, his attention is quickly drawn to another. 

A loud laugh barks out from across in the right wing. 

“Valeria!” The now-agitated man growls lowly, his teeth grinding together as he storms toward her as quickly as his little legs can carry him. 

‘So that’s where she went,’ you think, half-bemused, half-concerned. You also thank her in your head for unknowingly getting you out of a conversation you no longer had any interest in being involved in.

Rolling your shoulders to relieve some tension that had been building up, your eyes search diligently for someplace to stretch before your presence on stage is needed. Finding one, you make sure to apply an ample amount of rosin to the bottom of your shoes before skittering your way over. 

The minutes pass by neither quickly nor slowly, more like a muddled mixture of the two. Your body moves without control, years and years of dedicated practice leading up to this much anticipated moment allowing your body to memorize the moves. Your thoughts, however, are the fore-focus of your attention. They rumble through your mind like a blinding blizzard, burying any logical thought with a suffocating, unmoveable barrier of bleak snow and amounting stage fright. 

The Pit Orchestra unleashes Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, Op. 20, Act 1: No. 9, Finale Andante’s crescendo upon the awestricken audience as such Zeus would do to the land below Mount. Olympus with his thunderbolts. If you dare a glance, you may manage to see Mr. Lenkov strumming his harp melodically, or his musical protégé he can’t help himself but boast about day in-day out. 

The floor beneath your feet vibrates as the composition reverberates deafeningly throughout the auditorium; you would struggle to believe the crystal chandelier that looms overhead is not swinging violently nor the champagne glasses the aristocrats’ cradle has not shattered at the absurd volume. Though, it could just be the nervous shaking of your legs.

You catch fleeting visions of the dancers on stage; their shadows flickering in and out of view like the dimming flame of candlelight. Your thoughts are once again drawn back to Fyodor’s supposed understudy. Not once had you had a recital with him, and so you could only hope he was adequately practiced for his role. 

The melody of Act 1’s final act concludes with the triumphant trill of the violin ensemble. The audience erupts into an oscillating ovation; cheering, clapping, whistling; at a volume so loud it could rival its predecessor. Your doubts about Mactavish’s adequacy are quickly disproven. 

It only brings a sliver of comfort, however. 

You linger in the shadows for a moment, trembling fingers brushing hesitantly against the fabric before you. Then, cautiously, you peer out from behind the safety of the illustrious velvet curtains. Your jittery hands fiddle with their golden tassels as you gaze at the exceedingly large audience. The auditorium of the theatre had never been so full.

You try not to let the sheer amount of people overwhelm you; a thousand thousand faces staring stagebound.

You fail.

And as the announcer commences the beginning of tonight's performance, you also fail to notice the man watching you from across the other side of the stage.

 “Bolshoi Ballet proudly presents Swan Lake!”

[storytellering]

Do you think DMC has a incestuous subtext? I am kind of new to the franchise (and also the fandom... Which isn't really respectful that I can see) and I want to know if I am not the only one who thinks that it's pretty obvious why the ships between DVN have many believers.

First of all, welcome to DMC, anon! And OH BOY, you'll definitely find that that's the majority opinion, at least within the Spardacest circles - honestly, most "normie" circles too. Every grass-touching, non-internet poisoned dudebro I've ever met and talked dmc with has made one or two incest jokes at me about it, definitely noting how the rivalry between the twins is very charged - the only people I've found who flat out deny it are the antis. To go more in depth about the actual subtext there - well, one should start with the roots of dmc in dmc1, right? DMC1 is definitely a gothic game - it's everywhere in the aesthetics, the inspirations, the imagery and the environment, and what is gothic horror without the incest? The initial incest in Kamiya's dmc, before Itsuno stepped in, was definitely obvious in Dante and Trish (who I'm pretty sure according to kamiya at least were supposed to be endgame) - and like, c'mon. You can say all you want that she only looks like his mom, she isn't actually Eva, she doesn't even have her personality... but from a moral perspective, that's still weird as fuck if we're going by real life standards, right? You wouldn't fuck a clone of your mom without it being at least a little bit incestuous.

Then Itsuno stepped in from 3 on, and the incestuous undertones became more focused on the immediate Sparda family - the twins, and eventually, Nero.

...Do I need to even explain it? Sure, in 3 the twins bicker and banter like real brothers, but there's definitely a suggestive edge to it - so many quips between them that really cannot be explained by "oh haha brotherly banter" without it getting at least a little bit weird. Not to mention all the "impalement as penetration" comparisons that can be drawn, and I'll leave a nice little video that goes deeper into a lot of that (as well as the gothic inspirations in the dmc franchise) so you can hear it from the mouth of someone far more eloquent than me.

And then in 4... I mean, if the amount of people who almost ubiquitously shipped Dante and Nero as soon as 4 dropped and continued doing so until 5 officially confirmed their relation (which, to be fair, Nero being Dante's nephew had actually been hinted at all along, but exactly because of so many people shipping them and not wanting it to be incestuous/the dudebros not liking Nero very much when 4 was new, pretty much everyone in the english speaking side of the fandom had been in denial about it until 5 spelled it out in big, bold letters) is kind of the test, no? That the tension and chemistry is so obvious the moment the incest element is hidden or unclear, everyone is suddenly in agreement about it. I could go on and on and on about Nero's obvious puppy crush/hero worship on Dante, Dante's immediate fondness of Nero, how if you read the 4 novels it's even more blatant and in your face... but all I'm gonna say is that that initial fight scene was softcore porn and no one can convince me otherwise, lmao. Listen, I'm just saying that if the intention wasn't to be suggestive, having Nero wrap his legs around Dante to pull him closer, bite his gun, and then straddle him like that was a very poor choice. Honorable mention for the reboot, whose devs were VERY aware of the tension between the Spardas in the og franchise, called it out by saying their game wasn't gonna do "all that gay shit" (obviously in the early 2010s the issue wasn't the incest, but it being GAY incest 🙄) and then accidentally made their version of the twins SO very....... whatever the hell is going on with the reboot twins. Not not-incestuous and definitely not straight, I'll tell you that.

And then 5, again. Do I need to explain it? Nero and V are, once again, a perfect textbook example of "couple that had so much natural chemistry everyone was flocking to it before it was revealed to be incest", plus the way everything about Dante's story, at the end, now that he's a weathered old man, is made to revolve around Vergil... yes, Dante is a depressed old alcoholic because he pushed everyone away, because of the laundry list of issues he ended up with because of everything that happened in his life, BUT Vergil was always front and center within it, even when he wasn't there. That Dante's story quite literally begins and ends with Vergil... well. I dunno about you, that just doesn't feel like your regular siblings dynamic. Also another honorable mention: "I'll make you submit" is a totally normal thing to say to your estranged father. Not weird at all with absolutely zero implications. OH, not to mention, even if we stay purely within canon and don't even look deeper at any implications or subtext... the literal only canon couple is incestuous, too. Let's not forget Kyrie and Nero are adopted siblings, Nero was raised as her brother, and the game itself calls it out in the character descritption (in 4's character bios it says Kyrie is at once Nero's "lover and family") + it's quite literally spelled out in the novels (having Nero think that "well, while it's true that he's been raised with Kyrie as siblings, he would've liked her even if they weren't family"). There's SO much more I could still go into, I have quite literally spent the past 3 years replaying the games over and over and overthinking/hyperanalizing every single frame, rereading the novels and the mangas to the point I could cite them by memory, and it's just... I dunno. I saw someone else say this somewhere, but if you're into DMC and grossed out by incest... this might not be the franchise for you.

[transient-winds]

This is later than I usually post but oh well.

Wind Breaker Chapter 155 Spoilers ahead.

Tell me why did the first part made me almost cry? I'm glad we got a glimpse into Takiishi's perspective. I guess it makes me a little happy to see that he does acknowledges (in some capacity) Endo and Umemiya (he said his name!!).

The fact that Takiishi views himself separately from being human? Is this because he himself can't understand or feel human emotions that he completely detaches himself from the word because it doesn't fit him? TELL ME YOUR BACKSTORY, WHAT MADE YOU THINK LIKE THIS OR DID YOU ALWAYS FEEL LIKE THIS TAKIISH???

It's complimentary to the way Endo himself observes & can read emotions and feelings yet lacks the capacity to understand them completely (which leads to his bad judge of character). They're both giving flavors of ASPD (Antisocial Personality Disorder) but I'm not a psych student so I wouldn't know.

Also:

Then, Endo thinking it was over hahaha. Umemiya lives, bitch. (Endo clapping like the fight was a meal-)

SAKURA AND US, WE KNEW HE'D GET UP AGAIN!!

Sakura's confidence in Umemiya, my hearrtt. Look at our future and current Bofurin leader y'all. He's grown so much these past months. I'M IN LOVE WITH THE LAST TWO PANELS. LOOK AT THEY'RE SMILESSS! LET'S GO UMEMIYA, KICK HIS ASS!!

Me:

Godlyy scenes. I'm in awe. Never have I ever wanted to draw scenes in my style as much as I do now wthhh. UMEMIYA'S CONFIDENCE IS OOZING, HE'LL WIN THIS FOR SURE. THAT'S THE UMEMIYA WE KNOW AND LOVE.

–

The visualss, Nii-sensei out done himself once again and ahhhhhh the dialogue 😍 (Jacqueline 🛐🛐). Please go support the official releases over on KManga Kodansha.

[zahri-melitor]

The thing that actually most frustrates me about Damian's pets is not only that it's turned into a gratuitous menagerie that only show up en masse because it's now turned into 'Damian likes animals, give him another pet' without considering how many he already has, but that the basis of a good story already existed before we ended up where we are today.

The problem is that we wouldn't be in the situation we are today with them if not for Grant Morrison.

Because look, if you read Batman and Robin 2011 on its own, Tomasi and Gleason do a solid job of using Titus as a route to demonstrate Damian's growing responsibility and ability to show affection and connect with Bruce. Titus is explicitly framed as a responsibility, as 'a boy and his dog', and one dog around the Wayne household is pretty common (usually an Ace). It's the opening steps to more story about Damian trusting others.

If Damian loved animals and stopped to play with kittens in alleys and just had Titus at home, we wouldn't be in this situation.

Bat-Cow, and honestly Alfred the Cat, are what caused the problem.

Bat-Cow as a concept is inherent Silver Age ridiculousness (what a surprise from Morrison), but also Damian saving a milking cow who is being sent to an abattoir is far more of a demonstration of what we end up getting, which is what looks like a possessive level of hoarding. Damian not only saves the cow, but wants it installed in the Cave, even though that is a terrible environment to keep a cow in, and there's very little point in having a cow living on the Wayne property. And what annoys me more is that nobody will let the cow just quietly disappear off panel never to reappear again (she's at least now been on a 'farm' since Joker War and Bruce losing Wayne Manor).

Alfred the Cat irritates me in that he's just a duplicate story to Titus, only done with less effort and entirely because Grant Morrison never reads anyone else's work AND Morrison wanted to give Damian a pet to humanise him right before killing him off. Alfred is a narrative device and annoys me because a good editor would have had Morrison just use Titus instead, who could have hit very similar beats, rather than Damian acquiring three separate pets in just over a year of comics, right before dying (and as far as Morrison was concerned, dying permanently). A pet is for life, not just a reward because you're getting killed.

And from there on, it's just turned into 'oh Damian likes animals!' so we get Goliath and Jerry the Turkey (who I believe recently emigrated to main canon in the last few years rather than being in Lil Gotham). And the story doesn't know what to do with so many animals, so they disappear entirely aside from occasional art cameos, Super-Pets stories, and about one story beat ever 3-5 years. He's endlessly going through the story of 'why' he acquired a pet to humanise him, rather than being humanised by playing with a long term pet.

There's also a narrative problem where we never actually ever see Damian caring for his animals (outside of Titus and occasionally Alfred the Cat), but what scenes we do get of people looking after the animals are all scenes of Alfred and Bruce checking in on them because Damian's not available. So while the dialogue in those scenes tends to be 'oh Damian would normally be doing this but'... we don't see Damian doing it. We only see Alfred and Bruce doing it. Or Maya, who's looking after Goliath. And given how often Damian runs off to find himself on an island, a lot of that pet care over the years has been from Alfred and Bruce, because he's not been living at home.

And yes, there's also the issue that Damian And His Pets is rather similar to the self-centred position Damian has on his various clones. He considers his clones his brothers; but the narrative is frequently setting that up in a manner that suggests this is grace that Damian especially extends to them because they are his clones. It's not really grappling with the concepts of extending that care and humanism to people or animals that are not 'his'.

It's just endlessly frustrating to me, because if Damian just had Titus, I think both Titus would appear on panel more often (and thus have more narrative use), and there would be the potential to build further plots out from Titus, if writers wanted to explore the themes around what pet ownership can demonstrate.

[morphean42]

Rewatching Falsettos I was suddenly struck by an epiphany that I’m sure someone else has had at some point, but I needed to write out. This ending scene from “March of the Falsettos” jumped out at me from the first watching, but even though I recognised the nod to the “See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil (and lesser known do no evil)”, I didn’t know what it meant. Today, I tried to piece it together, and I think I’ve gotten it. These poses represent core attributes of the characters, as well as Trina’s view of them, so click the read more to hear the ravings of a mad man wayyyyyy too obsessed with this show

The idea of ‘evil’ to me is very loose. It can represent a lot of things for these characters; their actions towards each other, their character flaws, etc. But, for this analysis, one can replace ‘evil’ with ‘truth’. Each of the characters refuses to see, speak, hear, or ‘do’ the truth (please excuse the lack of grammar for that last one), and that is where the ‘evil’ stems from. Taking into account this is mostly based on Trina’s view of the men, I think ‘truth’ fits in well.

Let’s start with the one who fits in least— Jason. “March of the Falsettos” is a physical manifestation of how Trina views the men in her life (as childish and immature), but some slack is given to her son. He doesn’t sing his lines in falsetto, because we acknowledge he is in fact a child, and has more of an excuse to act as such. So, take his analysis with a grain of salt. The boy has every right to be a little selfish— he’s 10.

So, Jason has his hands over his eyes, representing ‘See No Evil’. This is a direct nod to his character flaw; his view of the world with him at the center. Although his parents are less than good to him, he still sees them through unfair lenses— ‘My mother’s no wife/My father’s no man’. He sings ‘everybody’s yelling and everybody’s ruining it’ in “Everyone Hates His Parents” because he is unhappy with how his Bar Mitzvah is turning out and wants to simply cancel it. He doesn’t have a concept of doing things for other people (again, he’s a child, I’m not blaming him per se), so he is blind to the will of others and refuses to see their side. In addition to this, even when Mendel tells him Whizzer will most likely die, Jason pleads with G-d to save him. He still views himself as the center of his world, thus Mendel’s line ‘Life’s not all about him’.

In addition to this, his ‘See No Evil’ means something when thought about from Trina’s perspective. She thinks her son is blind to the truth of the world, this son who stays inside playing chess alone, this son who ‘seems like an idiot to [Trina]’. She worries Jason will turn out like these other men in her world, blind to everyone but himself.

Now we come to Mendel, who has his hand over his mouth in ‘Speak No Evil’. Mendel’s flaw throughout the show is his refusal to accept the truth of any situation. He tells Jason to ‘feel alright for the rest of your life’ instead of actually trying to help, he is ‘frightened of questions’, he repeats over and over ‘I’ll make you well’ to Whizzer in the hospital. He will never say anything negative, nor will he allow others to do so. Even in the end of the show, he tells Jason they don’t know ‘when or if’ Whizzer will get better— he is still not accepting that it’s a definite thing. He believes that if he and those around him just don’t speak about the real problems, they’ll go away.

Trina’s view on Mendel is complicated here. In the next song she agrees to marry him, of course, and we know she at least likes him (the most of all three adults she knows). She says that Mendel ‘decides the role to assume’. She looks down on the fact that he can’t speak the truth to her, that he’s expecting this happy wife, this perfect new family. He wants her to play along with him and make their home together, even if she sings ‘liking our lives’ instead of loving. Even if he’s better than Marvin ever was, there’s still an element of control here. Mendel wants this family, and he wants them to all pretend nothing is ever wrong again.

Marvin, our titular character, is in the ‘Hear No Evil’ position. This one is fairly straight forward— he wants control and will never listen to the needs of those around him. He can’t hear what they actually need, he simply does what he wants. He also struggles with his masculinity throughout Act 1, his outward misogyny and need for the nuclear family (his treatment of Trina and Whizzer), so he imagines himself at the top of his family system. He will never take any other opinions, or counsel, in his decisions, seeing that as weakness. He’s similar to Jason in this regard, as he only hears what he wants to (like Jason only sees what he wants). He ignores the pain around him to pursue his own desires, he covers his ears and moves on.

Trina, of course, despises Marvin at this point in the show. Her subconscious showing Marvin in ‘Hear No Evil’ can tell us a lot about their relationship, how she was never seen as equal in decisions. Marvin always put her to the side, not listening to her needs, acting without thinking of her.

Whizzer is complicated. I’ve seen people laugh at his pose before, saying we’ve got ‘See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil, and Gay’, but I think he represents the ‘Do No Evil’. This final character is not often seen with the other three, and can be depicted with arms over the chest or covering the genitals. It wouldn’t make sense to have Whizzer be the outlier (especially because the fourth depiction of evil does exist), so I’m assuming he is supposed to be ‘Do No Evil’.

This fits in well with Whizzer’s flaws throughout the show. He doesn’t accept responsibility for his relationship with Marvin; seen in the lines ‘I’m not responsible’ during “Late For Dinner” or ‘I will not accept blame’ in “Games I Play”. He sleeps around, despite Marvin wanting monogamy, and clearly did not have an issue hooking up with a married man. Whizzer fundamentally doesn’t think his actions have consequences, he believes he has done nothing wrong (he has done no evil). Whizzer also has a hard time admitting to his love for Marvin. He says it ‘depends on the day’, he flat out says ‘no’ when asked if he loves him. He doesn’t want to show his love for fear of being too vulnerable, so he hides and doesn’t do anything about it.

To take this even further, him being ‘Do No Evil’ can represent his later question of ‘why me of all men’ when he is dying. He hasn’t done anything to deserve his death, and ‘all men get what they deserve’, right?

Moving on to how Trina sees Whizzer. He’s come into her life and ruined her marriage, though she ‘wants to hate him’ she can’t. She views him as the cause of her recent hardships, his actions being to blame. He is ‘Do No Evil’ to her because he has done evil in taking Marvin away (though it is obvious Trina is better off because of it). He has upset the careful balance of her world by breaking down the lies of her marriage and exposing the truth— Marvin never loved her, could never love her. She puts him in ‘Do No Evil’ because what he has done is what the rest of the men won’t— see, hear, speak the truth even at the detriment of her family.

Another way to view this is, of course, the fact that ‘Do No Evil’ is rarely seen with the others. Trina is separating Whizzer from the other men, not putting him in the same category as the rest of the ‘family’. He views himself as an outsider as well, yes he’s part of the group, but only as a technicality. Only as Marvin’s lover. Once he leaves Marvin, he is easily taken out of the equation and the remaining three do not feel the loss.

My conclusion is such: Each of the poses our men do represents the character flaw they must overcome throughout the show, as well as how Trina views them in her mind. I really hope this made any sort of sense, and if someone has already said all of this well… I guess it can’t hurt to be thorough.

I’m way too tired to read through this again so if there are spelling mistakes please print out this post, correct it in red pen, and send it to me by carrier pigeon.

[bangpop91]

The Breakfast Aisle

I am finally caught up! This is is my story for Day 5 of @bucktommypositivityweek and today's prompt is coming out scenes. I hope you all enjoy this short little drabble.

Buck and Tommy had a rare Saturday where both of their days off lined up, so they were taking advantage of it to spend time together while catching up on domestic chores and errands. That morning they’d already gotten the laundry sorted and several loads of laundry finished, written up their meal plan and shopping list for the week. Currently they were traversing the grocery store, getting their weekly groceries and picking up the ingredients for the chopped salad and Tiramisu they had been told to bring to the 118 family barbecue that evening.

They were in the middle of the breakfast aisle comparing the nutrition labels for two different brands of pancake mix that proclaimed to be high in protein.

“Buck?” He turned around at the familiar voice, not expecting to see Taylor standing there with her own basket of groceries over her arm. 

“Hey Taylor.” He says, doing his best to be friendly. Their breakup had been as amicable as it could have been given all of the circumstances of the last few months of their relationship. He might not be the biggest fan of her tell-all book about the 118 but he is grateful she protected their identities at least. “How've you been?” He asks, trying not to sound uncomfortable as Tommy sticks the chosen brand of pancake mix into their cart and marking it off the list.

“I've been good, really busy.” Buck nods, he's sure. Last he'd seen online Taylor had been picked up by a major news outlet as an investigative journalist. “How've you been?” The conversation is awkward and stilted despite their best efforts.

“Good, busy as well.” He says vaguely. Tommy is patient as ever, letting Buck try to wrap up the conversation while answering a text on his phone. Taylor nodded uncomfortably, shifting her stance.

“Um, who's your friend?” She asks nodding towards Tommy, who snorts at the question.

“This is Tommy, my boyfriend.” He says doing his best to maintain the attempt at friendly yet awkward conversation. He watches as a complicated emotion flashes across Taylor's face before settling on neutrality.

“You're gay.” She says flatly and it makes him feel defensive. After figuring he's bi, and started coming out he had thought that would be it. He'd be out. He hadn't anticipated that he would be spending the rest of his life coming out or having to clarify his label.

“Bisexual.” He responds defensively. Taylor looks like she wants to say more.

“We should keep going, Darlin. We still have a lot to do today before the barbeque at Bobby and Athena's new place.” Buck could kiss Tommy for giving him an out to end this awkward conversation with Taylor. Buck nodded to Taylor.

“Good to see you Taylor.” He said simply as he and Tommy started moving towards the other end of the aisle, Tommy grabbing a box of his preferred protein bars and a box of Jees's preferred granola bars for when they babysit in a few days. Taylor says her own good-byes moving in the opposite direction. It definitely could have gone worse, but he also hopes he doesn't run into his ex again for a long while.

[the-troll-book-of-mormon]

@davekatweek day 1: plush!

in which dave does not want anything remotely puppet-like to watch the proceedings

(+ my rushed attempt at dialogue below)

DAVE: hey karkat sorry to totally crush your wildest selfcest dreams here but do you think maybe we could put that cool guy away before we go any further here

KARKAT: WHAT?

DAVE: your squishy dude over there with the sideways mohawk

DAVE: lil kat

KARKAT: ARE YOU REFERRING TO MY CUSHION EFFIGY?

DAVE: ok theres absolutely no way thats actually the troll word for plushies but ill let it slide without completely derailing the conversation this time

DAVE: yes that guy

DAVE: could we maybe do this without him watching

DAVE: idk something about the way hes been staring at me with those big yellow depression eyes is just killin my vibe

KARKAT: ANY OTHER COMPLAINTS YOU WANT TO GET OFF YOUR NUB WHILE YOU'RE ALREADY SCUTTLING YOUR EFFRONTERY GASH?

KARKAT: WOW DAVE, REALLY GLAD THAT AFTER ALL THIS TIME YOU FINALLY FOUND IT WITHIN THE ECHOING CAVERNS OF YOUR HOLLOW PUMP BISCUIT TO TELL ME THAT MY "DEPRESSION EYES" ALLEGEDLY "KILL YOUR VIBE".

DAVE: i love your depression eyes you know i love your depression eyes

DAVE: dude what

DAVE: thats totally different

KARKAT: ONCE AGAIN I AM COMPLETELY MYSTIFIED BY THE BOUNDLESS GENIUS OF YOUR ATROPHYING SPONGE. HOW COULD I EVER HOPE TO KEEP UP?

KARKAT: I DON'T KNOW, DAVE, IS THIS A THING THAT I KNOW?

KARKAT: YOU DON'T THINK THERE COULD BE ANYTHING CONFUSING ABOUT THE FACT THAT YOU ARE CLAIMING TO "LOVE" AN ANATOMICAL FEATURE OF MINE THAT YOU SIMULTANEOUSLY FIND SO DISGUSTING THAT YOU CAN'T POSSIBLY BRING YOURSELF TO ENGAGE IN CONCUPISCENT ACTIVITIES IN ITS PRESENCE?

DAVE: holy shit dude i cannot believe this is actually something youre stuck on

DAVE: this is a real unfortunate time to be getting into this but maybe its because your depression eyes are attached to the real life body of my sexy as fuck boyfriend and i can look at them and not get the weird fucking heebie jeebies about being watched or secretly filmed

KARKAT: OH.

DAVE: i mean look hes cute and all and on the one hand its genuinely hilarious that in a way were fulfilling plush karkats voyeuristic fantasies that he inherited from you

KARKAT: HEY!

DAVE: but on the other its kinda jarring that every time i glance up and see his weird little fabric face im getting flashbanged by my kid selfs fucked up programming and for a split second its like im seeing something completely different

DAVE: so yeah nothing wrong with his depression eyes specifically its just that theyre eyes and theyre not real and somehow that makes it way more real

DAVE: like maybe someone somehow snuck a webcam in there just now when i wasnt looking

DAVE: which doesnt actually make sense because first of all why

DAVE: and second of all im always keeping my eye out for that sort of thing anyway so i would definitely notice before we got this far

DAVE: but all this dumb shit just makes it kinda hard to focus on the actual depression bedroom eyes right in front of my face

DAVE: not to mention the rest of this effigy im tryin to get my ganderbulbs and prongs all over

KARKAT: OKAY I GET IT, STOP TRYING TO DISTRACT ME FROM THE FEELINGS JAM BY APPROPRIATING TROLL VERNACULAR.

KARKAT: I'LL PUT HIM IN THE OTHER ROOM.

...

i had more of the scene i could write, but it was getting long and im already late for day 1! maybe one day i'll actually write out a scene and post it on ao3

[sweetyyhippyy]

Secret. Steve Harrington x plus size fem! reader. *Angst/Fluff*

Summary: Steve and his girlfriend have a secret relationship. She wants that to change, but she fears he cares more about his reputation.

Word Count: 2.8k

TW: Allusion to car sex, mentions of body shaming, Steve caring too much about his reputation and being clueless, a bit of cheese.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You okay, honey?” Steve nudges his nose against hers softly, his body laying on top of hers in the backseat of his car. His hairy chest presses up against her bare chest. 

The air in the car was heavy, the smell of her perfume and his cologne mixed with the scent of sex. 

“Yeah, I’m good Stevie.” She smiles, pushing his hair back out of his face. “Just trying to come back to life a little bit.” 

“You did so good, baby.” Steve kisses her lips sweetly, his hand holding her round cheek lovingly. “Always do.” He smiles before kissing her again. 

Steve and her had been seeing each other for 6 months, but nobody at school knew about it other than her sister and her best friend Robin. 

They both thought it was for the best that they keep their relationship quiet because of Steve’s friends and how cruel they could be. 

She was brainy, beyond pretty, and super sweet to everyone. 

Steve’s biggest worry was that his friends would make fun of her appearance. 

She was one of the more curvaceous girls at school, and people already made snarky comments about her body, and somehow the comments always got back to her. She never let the comments bother her, she felt confident in her looks. 

She wasn’t his normal type physically, but he loved and cared about her more than he had anyone else in his dating history. He always did little things to show her how much she meant to him: telling her how beautiful she was, spending his weekends with her whether it was at his house or hers, giving her a necklace with a heart charm. 

At first she was all on board with the secret relationship, only giving each other small glances in the cafeteria and friendly smiles in the hallway. She appreciated the fact that Steve wanted to keep her away from the offensive remarks of his shitty friends. 

Within the last few months, she started to regret their arrangement. She wanted to walk the halls with Steve holding hands while they go to class together, sit with him at lunch while he stole kisses from her, to go on dates in town and not in the next town over to avoid someone from school seeing them. 

She couldn't help but feel like maybe he was embarrassed of her. 

Prom was two weeks away, and she really wanted to go with Steve. There was multiple girls around school who were brave enough to ask Steve to go with them, but he turned them down, saying prom was lame and wasn’t his scene. 

She pulls back from the kiss first, regretfully so. “I gotta be home in 20 minutes, Steve.” 

Steve looks at the watch on his wrist. “Shit, lost track of time.” He kisses her forehead before sitting back up and rummaging through the discarded clothes in the front seat, handing her the stuff that belonged to her. 

“Stevie… can I ask you something?” She breaks the silence as she tries to slip her skirt on. 

“Of course babe. What’s on your mind?” He asks, throwing his shirt on. 

She chews on the inside of her cheek, trying to figure out the best way of going about her question. “Do you ever think about, you know… maybe changing our arrangement?” 

Steve raises his eyebrow, his mind already running through the possible scenarios she’s talking about. “What do you mean?”

“I mean us being a secret. Do you ever think about us not being a secret couple anymore?” 

Steve leans back in the back seat, looking at his girlfriend and the quizzical look on her face. “I have, yeah. I just…” He sighs, his voice trailing at the end of the sentence.  

“Just what?” The pit in her stomach growing harder. “Steve, I can’t be a secret anymore.” 

“I know baby, I know. I’m just afraid of wh-,”

“You’re just afraid of what your stupid friends are going to say.” She interrupts. “Are you ashamed of what I look like?” 

“What? Honey, no, no. I love the way you look, you know that.” He slides closer to her, softly taking her cheek and turning her to look at him. “I think you’re so beautiful, baby. I just don’t want my friends to say something about you and it hurt your feelings.” 

“Wouldn’t you stick up for me? Tell them to leave me alone?” 

“O-of course I would.” He shrugs his shoulders. 

She pulls back from his hand, a knot in her throat forming. “You hesitated.” 

“I didn’t mean to! Baby, please can we talk about this?” 

She shakes her head, sighing to herself. “I gotta get home, Steve. My dad will flip if I’m late again.” She grabs her shoes from the floor, avoiding eye contact with him. 

Steve sighs, getting out of the back of the car and heading to the driver's side to take her home. He watches her in the rear view mirror as she gets redressed and waits for her to join him up front, hoping to continue the conversation. 

She slides back in the backseat, grabbing the seatbelt and fastening it across her chest, her gaze looking out the window. 

He sighs again, turning the key and driving out of the empty lot. 

*** 

The entire ride back to her house was silent, Steve was too distracted to even put the radio on. 

He felt like the worst boyfriend, if she even wanted to consider him that anymore. 

Of course he would have defended her against anyone at school who dared said anything negative about her, he was too hung up on what his friends would say to him. 

He knew it was low and it was shallow and that it made him a piece of shit, but his image meant a lot to him, but so did she. He felt guilty even admitting in his head that. 

The car rolls into her driveway, getting her home 5 minutes early. 

Steve parks the car and turns to the backseat, hoping to talk more with his girlfriend before she went in for the night. 

He watched her grab her bag and jacket, not once looking up at him nor speaking to him, and shove the door open. “Honey, just wait a second.” 

Steve opens his door, following her up to her front door. “Can you give me just 30 seconds?” 

She looks up at him for the first time since their conversation in the backseat, her eyes glossy and slightly puffy from tears that she had wiped away silently on the ride home. “Just give me some space, Steve.” She shakes her head as she turns away from him to unlock her door and walk in, slamming the door in his face. 

“Fuck.” Steve sighs, a pit in his stomach forming. He wanted to ring the doorbell and beg her to answer the door, but he knew she hated his guts right now. 

Steve hated his own guts. 

*** 

The weekend came and went, Steve had called all weekend wanting to talk to her but she gave her sister the job of telling him to stop calling- which he didn’t do. 

She pulls into the parking lot of school, the parking lot always busier than normal on Mondays. She finds an empty spot in the middle of the busy parking lot and pulls in. 

“Are you going to talk to hair boy?” Her sister, Lyla asks as she collects her bag from the backseat. 

She shoots her sister a disapproving look, rolling her eyes. “Don’t call him that. And probably not. We never talk at school anyway so.” She shrugs her shoulders. 

“Are you guys going to break up?” 

She sighs, looking out the windshield. “I don’t know, Lyla. I love him a lot, but I also want to be able to love him in public, not in secret anymore.” 

“If my opinion means anything, I think you deserve to be shown off by the person you love.  Definitely not hidden.” 

She looks over at her sister, giving her a warm smile. “Look at us having grown up conversations. Thanks Lyla.” 

As she heads into the building, she looks around the halls for Steve, wondering if he would show up to school today. 

She stops at her locker to grab a book she needed for her English class. From behind her she could hear the unmistakable goose like honk come from Tommy as he laughed about something funny. 

She looks at the mirror that hung on the inside of her locker door, seeing all of Steve’s friends over by Carol’s locker talking and laughing. Her eyes land on Steve, meeting his eyes in the reflection. 

He stared at her from afar, wanting to walk up to her and hug her, tell her how sorry he was for being a dickhead. Steve also wanted to tell her that she looked pretty in the baby blue skirt she was wearing, he loved the color blue on her. 

“Steve!” Becca snaps in his face to wake him from his daydream. 

He blinks quickly, looking down and glaring at Becca. “What?” He quips at her. 

“I asked if you were skipping first period. The bell just rang.” 

“Oh, uh… no. I gotta get going.” He pushes past Tommy and Carol, hoping to meet his girlfriend at her locker as he passed by, but as he looked down the hall he could see the back of her head halfway to her class. 

***

The morning flew by and the cafeteria was loud and buzzing. 

Her friend Robin waved her down from the corner of the cafeteria with a big smile on her face. 

She moves through the room of people over to their usual lunch table, putting the plastic tray down next to Robin’s. “Hey.” She smiles at her, sitting next to her. 

“Hey. So remember how I told you my mom was going on a baking frenzy this weekend? I told her how big a fan you are of her brownies and I brought you some.” She slides a bag over to her. 

“Thanks Robin. I actually really needed something to make me smile today.” 

“Uh-oh. Something happen with Mr. Perfect this weekend?” 

She gives Robin a flat face, nodding her head. 

“Does that mean I’m coming over after school for hot chocolate and girl talk?” 

She can’t help but snort out a laugh. “Hot chocolate? Robin, it’s May.” 

“But girl talk always has hot chocolate.” The tone of her voice sounding offended that she was denying her of hot chocolate. 

Before she can banter back with Robin the chair across from them screeches as it gets pulled back and someone sits down in it. 

“Ladies.” Steve smiles his best “million dollar smile” at them, his gaze lingering on hers. 

A few of the other people sitting at the table look at Steve with raised brows and confused faces. 

Was he lost? 

“What are you doing?” She asks, furrowing her eyebrows at him. 

“I want to talk to you. I’m hoping you want to talk to me too.” 

She chews on the inside of her bottom lip, looking down at her lunch tray. 

“If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. But at least hear me out?” 

Her eyes flick up to stare at him, motioning at him with her hand for him to speak. 

“I’m a jerk, I know that and I need to work on that. But I want you to know more importantly, I love you so much, I love everything about you and I hope you can forgive me for what happened on Friday night.” 

“Wow.” Robin pipes up from next to her, shoving a chip in her mouth. “That was good. It took you all weekend to come up with that?”

Steve can’t help but shoot her a confused look. 

“Robs.” She sighs, digging into her backpack to retrieve a crumpled up dollar. “How about you go get yourself a soda and walk back real slow?” 

Robin snatches the money from her friend and stands up. “Okay but I want a word for word conversation break down tonight… with hot chocolate.” She whispers in her ear as she walks away. 

She shakes her head at her friend before focusing back on Steve. 

His face looked hopeful as he stared at her, waiting for her to speak to him. 

“Steve, my problem was never you not loving me. My problem is I asked if you wanted to change our arrangement and you showing me off as your girlfriend. My problem is I feel like you’re embarrassed to do any of that because of how I look. That’s my problem.” 

Steve sighs, fidgeting with his hands on the table. “I’m not embarrassed. I’ll admit that I was a little nervous of what people would say to me about dating you and I thought people would talk shit. But I realized that I would rather have that, than to not have you.” 

She drops her gaze from him, going silent for a while, racking her brain for the best way to say what was on her mind. 

“Talk to me, honey.” 

“I feel like… I feel like it shouldn’t have taken us getting into it for you to realize that you would rather have me in your life than to deal with people whispering about you and your girlfriend in the halls, Steve.” 

Steve was speechless, this was not how he expected things to go at all. 

“Maybe us dating wasn’t such a good idea after all, Steve. I don’t think you’re ready for a relationship with someone that you aren’t comfortable with being public with.” She grabs her backpack and gets up out of the chair, starting to walk away from the table. 

“Wait! Wait, honey no, don’t walk away please?” He pleads as he flies out of his chair and grabs her hand. 

She stops mid step, getting pulled back toward Steve’s body. 

“I don’t care about my reputation, I don’t care what anyone has to say about our relationship. Yes I should have realized that sooner, but after not talking to you all weekend and not having you by my side, I know that i can’t handle not having you in my corner again. I can’t handle losing you.” He says softly to her. “Please, let me show you I can do all the things you want me to do. Let me prove I’m ready.” 

Tears looked like they could fall from Steve’s big chestnut eyes any second, the palm of his hand felt clammy as he held her. 

“Okay.” She says, barely audible enough for Steve to hear. 

“Yeah?” Steve smiles at her. “Yeah? Okay, just wait right here, right there for two seconds. Don’t move.” He lets go of her hand and walks away and behind her. 

She awkwardly stands in the middle of the cafeteria, earning a few glances from other students who were sitting in the surrounding tables. 

Her eyes catch Robin on the other side of the cafeteria as she scans the room for any sign of Steve. 

“What’s he doing?” She mouths. 

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. 

For a split second she sees Robin’s attention turn to behind her friend, a small pout forming on her face before a bouquet of flowers comes into her vision. 

She follows the flowers up toward Steve, a warm smile on her face as she takes the bouquet from him. 

Steve clears his throat loudly, lifting his foot up and jumping up onto the top of the table, making a few of the girls there gasp loudly. 

“Excuse me!” Steve bellows, earning looks from more than half the room. “Hey! Shut up.” 

She’s frozen in her spot, her heart beating out of her chest as she watches Steve. 

What was he doing? 

“I wanted to ask my girlfriend, yes my beautiful girlfriend of six months, if she would do me the honor of going to prom with her idiot boyfriend.” 

Quiet whispers scatter throughout, more than likely wondering if Steve really referred to her as his girlfriend, and if he really asked her to prom. 

“Steven!” She says through her teeth, feeling hot in her face at the attention she was getting. 

“What do you say, honey? You want to go to prom together?” 

All eyes were on her, waiting for her to answer. 

“Yeah I’ll go to prom with you. Please get down.” She looks at him with pleading eyes, feeling embarrassed that everyone was looking at them. 

Steve jumps down from the table top, grabbing her cheeks and kissing her lips. 

The normal commotion of the cafeteria goes back after Steve puts his feet on the floor, everyone already losing interest in the new to them, old to her and Steve’s relationship. 

“You’re nuts, Steve.” 

“Yeah, nuts about you.” 

She can’t help but laugh loudly, “Eww you cheeseball.” She fake gags. “All jokes aside, thank you for doing that.” She says as she presses a kiss to his cheek. “No matter how embarrassing that was.” She jokes.

Steve looks over to the table his friends usually sits at, Carol, Tommy, Becca, and Lucas all giving them glaring stares. He sighs, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “You want to officially introduce me to Robin?”

“You don’t know what you’re in for.” She quips. 

[sokkastyles]

I just think some of y'all are waaay too comfortable judging Ursa over something she had no control over. Yes, I hate the plot point of Ursa giving up her memories, too, but I hate it because it's unnecessary, and actually stems from the same place of feeling like a woman has to have some justification for making the choice to continue with her life instead of, idk, endlessly suffering. Even if she hadn't had her memories erased, there was absolutely nothing she could have done for her children. She was literally forced out of their lives forever, and the only reason it wasn't forever is because Aang defeated the firelord.

Like, we see in the series that most people stopped believing in an end to the war after the Avatar disappeared 100 years ago. We see what hopeless people become. Ursa had no hope that her suffering would ever end, or the suffering of her children, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. People aren't angry at her because they think she could have saved Zuko and Azula, because she could not have. What they mostly seem angry about is that she had a happy life instead of one full of endless suffering and fear. As happy as she could be given the circumstances, although we also see in the scenes where she has her memories that she didn't want to forget her children, and regretted that she could not be there for them.

Idk, I just think it's odd that y'all can forgive a redeemed villain but not a mother for being forced into an impossible situation which she already blames herself for.

And Katara...Katara is a character who represents hope. You really think she would look at a woman who has no hope and condemn her for it? You really think Katara would condemn the actions of a woman who was forced to leave her home and family because it was the only escape from a man trying to control her, when her own grandmother did the same?

And again, this is not about her children, because there was nothing she could have done for them after she was banished from the country. What the hatred seems to primarily be about is that she continued to live her life and was her own person. Which is something that people do every day, despite being forced into horrible circumstances. It's something Ursa would have had to do even if she hadn't forgotten her children, and the fandom would have likely hated her even more for it. The misogyny directed at mothers and wives is primarily the reason the amnesia plotline exists, because y'all refuse to understand how trauma works, and Ursa still gets blamed even when writers try to come up with magical reasons to try to explain that trauma.

Ursa also doesn't get to be judged as a human being. Instead, the main criticism I hear is that she's "a bad mother." For something she did at a point in her life where it was no longer even possible for her to be a mother to her children, no matter what choice she made.

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2024: 18 Hackneyed

“This is,” Thancred began, waving the thin paperback carelessly. “Quite possibly one of the worst things we have yet read.”

Aeryn snatched the book from him before it slipped—purposefully, the dexterous bastard—from his fingers, glowering. “You liked the characters.”

He grinned at her indignation. “I liked a character, and how she makes the others come to life when sharing scenes, but one well-written character who is quite likely the author’s self-insert cannot make up for a trite and tired plot. Which you said of it first.”

“I said it employed some hackneyed tropes that did weaken the climactic moment,” Aeryn said, trying to smooth the spine and cover again. “You’ve gotten crumbs in the binding, how in the world…”

“Anyroad,” Thancred said with a dismissive shrug. “I think we can agree that even for a cheap yellowback, it’s a stale and clichéd tale that was produced for a quick gil and will be forgotten just as easily.”

Aeryn nodded, shaking the last of the crumbs out and fixing a few dog-eared corners. “It’s the sort of novel that lives up to the stereotype of purchases from those wandering book stalls. Yet you never fail to let them stop you and sell you some tawdry affair.”

“When we were young, Fourchenault once called them a plague in the city streets, and thus did they become my favorite places from which to purchase reading material,” Thancred replied cheerfully. “I have in fact found a few rare gems among the muck, now and again.” He gestured at the tattered tome Aeryn was attempting to clean up. “This is not one of them.”

“Highly readable, though,” she mused. “You know it’s drivel, and yet keep going because it simply moves along.”

“Oh, the author has a way with words, certainly. Neither of us stumbled or grew tongue-tied whilst reading aloud. Excellent craftsmanship. Now if they could only extend that to plot and characters.”

“Perhaps they do,” Aeryn said. “The bookseller said this is an early entry in a series.”

“No!”

She nodded. “A dozen and counting, all around that one shining character and her exploits.”

Thancred rubbed his chin. “Hrm. This may bear further investigation, then.”

“You said you hated it.”

“I said it was among the worst things we’ve ever read. That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. And so did you.”

“Well. Sure. But do we really want to read more?”

“Now that we are aware of the possibilities, I say we unfortunately need to. It’s become an imperative.”

Aeryn rolled her eyes.

“I’m quite serious,” Thancred said, getting up and meandering to the door. He looked over his shoulder and smirked. “Especially since some of that authorial talent with wordplay during the sex scene had quite the impressive effect on you.”

Her blush instantly darkened her cheeks as she opened her mouth to retort, snapped it closed again, and resorted to glaring and fuming about how mad she actually wasn’t. She would not throw the book—for various reasons, chief among them her tendency to baby anything bound—but it was probably one of the closest baits he had managed yet.

“Come along,” he urged, nonchalant. “Let’s find that bookseller and see if they have more of these wretched things, and if they do in fact improve with the writer’s practice.”

She did join him, and arm in arm they made their way out to Sharlayan’s streets and plazas, searching out cheap and terrible reading material.