#NOT to sound like some fucking snob or elitist

[unexpectedbrickattack]

What are your top 3 Peppino ships?

I feel like i am not the person to ask about this bc i only have one ship and its pepstavo 😭😭

#answered #// #/// #//// #///// #i dont even know other popular ships 😭 #like i think i saw him w the noise but i dont really like. the noise… not enough to ship him w anyone but noisette #if i were going to really REALLY try to make a ship out of something #through the specific lens of ‘platonic but homoerotic at the same time’ it would be him and pepperman bc of the comic #as in #when peppino is invited to galas and art exhibits people are like oh my look at him; a new consort?? #and meanwhile hes like eating the entirety of the appetizers table #‘no no no; not this time. he is simply my muse…and i cannot live without him.’ #*dramatic sigh* #tbh i am more shocked that u said 3 bc that implies theres more than 3 and i could ONLY list three if i tried super hard 😭 #can u tell i really dont go through the main tag??? 😭 #NOT to sound like some fucking snob or elitist #but i am like so wholly devoted on characterization #bc at my core i am someone who loves worldbuilding sm #that ships kinda come afterward #(person who has 8 unfinished comic ideas) #theres a reason why i havent really shared any pepstavo stuff either #bc it kinda comes second #its also why i can make almost any ship make sense #augh #*make sense to me #bc if i put enough effort into characterization; i can see how to characters would have chemistry; romantic or not #*TWO #its why despite pepperman being some rando boss #that one comic had people go like 🤔🤔🤔 i can see that…

[ghost-bxrd]

Correction. Jason fucking hates school.

Those fucking elitist assholes keep staring at Dick and him like they’re goddamn monkeys in a zoo. One had tried explaining the fucking concept of laptops to them earlier, like they’d been raised in the fuckin’ ass end of nowhere.

That guy had changed his tune real damn fast after Jason pointedly pulled out his own unreleased Wayne tech laptop and fired it up with a harsh glare.

Frankly, Jason wouldn’t be so ticked off if it was just him, but they keep. Targeting. Dick. After they realised that, wow, Jason isn’t the poor back alley rat with an IQ barely high enough to let him breathe correctly and take their shit lying down, they kept trying to crowd Dick.

After the third time some spoiled girl had tried touching the skittish talon in some guise of “Oh wow, your hair looks really soft!“ and Dick’s eyes had done the deer-in-headlights expression where he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to fucking say no Jason had snapped and nearly bit the offending hand off.

The surprised scream he got in retaliation was so fucking worth it, even if he’s pretty sure B will have choice words to say about it once they get back to the manor.

Sadly, Dick had also taken that reaction to mean that Jason felt threatened by the girl, which was… less optimal.

At least Jason had managed to keep him from literally tearing into her. If barely.

“I fuckin’ hate these snobs,“ Jason growls, opening their Alfred issued lunchbox with a bit more force than strictly necessary.

Dick coos inquisitively, back to his bird sounds in the relative privacy of the abandoned classroom they’ve been hiding out in since the fiasco during second period.

Jason hands him one of the sandwiches with peanut butter and jelly he loves so much and chooses one with with cheese and ham for himself, taking a vicious bite to vent his frustration in a way that won’t immediately get them expelled. “All these people thinking we’re some new and shiny toy. Wanna bet they think we don’t even know how to fuckin’ read?“

Dick eats at a more sedate pace from where he’s perched in a crouch on top of a desk, watching Jason rant with attentive eyes.

He doesn’t say anything, but that’s ok. Jason’s spitting enough vitriol for them both, and at least he knows that Dick is listening. Even if Jason were to suddenly switch topics and babble nonsense about the Teletubbies, Dick would still hang onto his every word. It used to be a bit creepy in the beginning, but now it’s… nice. Especially since he’d figured out how to interpret all the bird noises Dick makes.

“Really, if any of these privileged asswi-“

Dick’s head snaps up, body suddenly tense like a bowstring, and Jason whirls around so fast he almost gives himself whiplash, heart in his throat.

His eyes immediately lock onto the previously closed door where a wide eyed boy is standing, laptop under one arm, mouth agape, and looking more like a displaced toddler than a student with the pudgy baby fat clinging to his cheeks.

Dick makes a low tittering sound deep in his throat, wary but not yet hostile, and Jason takes one look at the tiny child that looks like he might start crying under the heavy stare of two older boys and exhales a groan.

“You need something, kid?“

The boy’s wide, blue eyes snap to him and Jason has to blink a bit at how similar they look to his own, if perhaps a few shades lighter.

He shuffles on his feet, clutching the laptop against his chest, “Uh, n-no. I was just- uh- homework.“

— Owl Song pt. iii Preview

#owl song #sneak peak #preview #snippet #drabble #batfamily #dick grayson #batfam #bruce wayne #robin #batfam fic rec #jason todd #tim drake #fic #talon dick grayson #court of owls #accidental child acquisition

[possumcollege]

No artist needs to "go to bat" for AI.

It's got all the support it needs from corporations and governments who've invested millions in a technology they believe will all but eliminate their need to waste money on human workers.

For some, that sounds like there could be a stable future in it, or new opportunities could be right around the corner. If Capitalism has taught us anything it should be that the person operating the machine that put 30 people out of work isn't paid well for long.

In my heart of hearts, all I see is another angle in this new golden age of scams.

The notion of AI was made for the benefit of artists and workers is an egg that developers lay in the brains of people who struggle to engage with creative work or people looking to capitalize as early adopters. They may dangle attractive rates or hype up the experience and cred you'll get from being a part of AI-centric projects but they will do to AI artists what they've done to everyone else and I assure you the laws we have now will allow them to fuck you over harder and faster than those who came before. Studio executives are fighting tooth and nail for the right to abuse writers, artists, crew, technicians, and actors that have made them billions of dollars in extremely profitable properties. Do we sincerely believe they'll dole out fat checks to someone they see sitting at a keyboard, asking the machine to make pictures? Do we really believe we'll own anything we prompted the machine to make for them? That would be uncharacteristically generous of them to put it kindly.

The AI systems they've built or claim to be building have tricked people into thinking it's an exciting new creative medium. The profit for AI is in that excitement, not the products AI generates. People are excited to play with it and businesses are excited to exploit it. Its successes so far have been driven by novelty, naivety, and greed. The very concept is a model of predation, exploiting the good faith of artists, writers, and creators online to feed their mimic of human labor.

It's in a business' interest to legitimize their use of AI so they invest in stoking the hype and bolstering its defense to cover up for the fact that it's meant to cut costs on human staff. Investors and developers take to forums and social media to prime their user base with talking points and paint the people threatened by the proliferation of AI as jealous, elitist, snobs. Everyone inside the wire is looking for a slice of the profits and everyone outside gets a steady diet of astroturf. Early adopters and aspiring influencers get to feel like they're catching a big wave with minimal personal investment. Those users get a few easy treats right away because the output really can be impressive and the controversy bakes-in opportunities for engagement, heightened visibility, and monetization. You can potentially make money by arguing with strangers online over the pictures you asked a program to make, but that potential has a pretty short lifespan as the field becomes saturated with people who are acceptably good at using the software.

The people who will reap the lion's share of AI's profits need users to believe they're on the side of the geniuses who are looking to the future and breaking down walls that the Art World built to keep regular people from eating its lunch. They do this because gaining users isn't enough, they need allies who become personally, emotionally, financially invested enough to carry their shields when the people whose livelihoods are threatened by AI demand protection.

THIS is the scam of AI. The people who are actually getting extremely rich off AI aren't prompt writers, users, artists, writers, creative professionals. They're idea men and parasitic startup ghouls who just need numbers and hype to show investors that their property, built entirely from the stolen reprocessed labor of hundreds of millions of uncredited, uncompensated people is hot enough to throw money at. They need people willing to work AI jobs so businesses feel confident enough adopt the technology. They need their competition to be seen as greedy, privileged, and outdated. The scam-crux of it all is that the people profiting the most from AI don't actually need it to be good or successful to get theirs. They relied on student researchers for labor, developed the technology on government grants and investor funding, trained the programs on resources they fucking stole, and when they were done, they were free to sell their product to all comers, collect licensing fees, and pretend that they aren't responsible for any of the highly predictable ways their product can be abused. How much of the operating cost is paying lobbyists to make sure the magic money lever isn't slapped out of their hands by regulation for a long as possible?

Even if their vibe-based cash train careens off the novelty cliff or slams into a wall of regulation (and fuck do I ever hope it does) these people have already feathered their nests. It doesn't matter if AI-generated copy makes people feel like they're going insane. It doesn't matter if AI art is off-putting and wonky, if the programs make products and services demonstrably less useful or effective, and make customer service a living nightmare. It doesn't matter if the programs starve when they can't consume protected data and poison themselves by consuming their own output. Some developers will be able to coast financially for the rest of their lives because they invented a way for the rich and powerful to spend their money on the smallest possible number of people.

It's an experiment that became a toy that can make a handful of people obscenely wealthy through exploitation, theft, and disenfranchisement. It's a system that says "Pay me now for this thing that might make you money later and if it doesn't you can address all complaints to the empty bag I left you holding."

Our security as creators, artists, writers, and workers is won by taking a bat to this kind of shit, not going to bat for it.

#labor #worker's rights #exploitation #scams

[nesquikflavoredchapstick]

i love being in higher education nearing the end of my degree and feeling highly educated (imagine) but i hate that it’s making me lose touch with what counts as common sense when it comes to my field and i hate that it’s making me sound almost snobby when i’m talking about my opinions

#it doesn't help that i'm in classics #like the most historically pretentious field ever #i complain about dead roman guys and pit them against each other bc it's a soap opera to me but i sound like some elitist over here like #anyways heres why modern educational latin sucks after doing classical latin so long' #in my defense all of the modern stuff ive seen has had english syntax which makes it harder to get used to actual historical syntax #its like taking something like japanese and only changing the words themselves instead of actual japanese #you cant do that #i get that its more about solidification of vocab and cases but it feels like its harder to read the grammar not in a classical structure #see i sound like a snob #i do however feel like classics while deeply fucked up from its foundations and most implementations is for everyone whos interested #something something understanding that its fucked doesnt mean you cant enjoy it #with classics it just means that you can talk at length about how different the concept of greece and rome that is used to support white #supremacy and actual greece and rome are from each other and deliver blows to the foundations of stupid bullshit that makes things bad today

[zooophagous]

you sound like a fucking snob who treats animals like decorative furniture instead of like actual creatures. disgusting. you're not cool youre not righteous youre just an elitist jerk who has zero actual empathy for the animals you let into your life if their appearance matters more to you than anything else.

You're right I have no empathy for animals that's why I spend hundreds of dollars and drive hundreds of miles running transport for animal rescues and have several adopted foster fails in my house, some of whom are missing pieces lmfao.

How about this: when you're the one who feeds them, vets them, trains them, cleans up after them and pays for them you can make decisions about the animals in my house. Until then you can die and go to Hell for all I care! Have fun 💜

[gaknar]

Scotland blew up in the last issue when Proteus was resurrected, and out of the all the superheroes on Earth, they send in X-Factor to investigate. Not the Avengers, not local superhero team Excalibur, not even the People’s Protectorate (who in the fuck are the People’s Protectorate??). No, we send in X-Factor, a the bunch of entitled, elitist, New York snobs who I’m sure would rather be at some expensive restaurant pretentiously talking about how much better they are than everyone else. I’m sure they’re going to take their time and find a real compassionate solution to this humanitarian issue. (Yeah right). Anyway, as they get closer to Edinburgh, we find that Proteus has transformed the entire geographic area into something that looks like a computer program, and the rest of this comic basically looks like it takes place in Tron. Which is not nearly as awesome as it sounds. 

Unfortunately, this really isn’t the bloodthirsty, sociopathic Proteus that the X-Men tangled with all those years ago. He’s not turning everyone inside out and melting the skin of helpless bystanders and plucking everyone’s eyeballs out of their heads. If the original Proteus was a horror movie, this one isn’t even PG-13. He’s just very conveniently hanging out and holding everyone prisoner in his computer jail, and it’s not long before all the superheroes find each other and are conveniently given enough time to hatch a plan.

Well why are you just sitting around! What have you been doing! What a bunch of complete boners. I can’t wait to see what these assholes come up with. (X-Factor Annual #6 – 1991)

#x-factor #xmfbte #clare5 #new warriors #x-force #kingsofpain #cyclops #jean grey #proteus #the beast #archangel #iceman

[duskholland]

As You Are | Mob!Tom Holland

summary ↠ who could’ve known showing up to work late one night would put you in touch with a mysterious stranger, capable of turning your life upside down? 

word count ↠ 6.8k

warnings ↠ mature themes, drinking, cursing, gambling + mentions of violence 

a/n ↠ I don’t know how this ended up being so long honestly. I had a blast writing it and I really hope that people read it lol. anyway! this is part of my mob!Tom series -- a collection of oneshots set within the same universe. you don’t need to read the other parts for this to make sense. 

mob!Tom masterlist | general masterlist

You’re late. Fuck, you’re running so late.

Your tight, shiny stilettos rub the corners of your toes uncomfortably as you hurry off the bus, ignoring the stares of the passengers. You push your handbag further up your arm and start to run precariously down the cobbled London streets, your heart pounding harshly in your chest. As you pass the entrances to some of the most exclusive clubs in Soho, you find yourself blending into the crowd. All around you are London’s elite, dressed in expensive coats, rich cologne, and enough glinting diamonds to burn your eyes, and they don’t spare you a second look as you reach the end of the street, taking your tall heels and short skirt as standard.

Relief replaces your anxiety as you pull off at the corner and slip around the back of the largest club of them all: The Lotus Club. You whip out your ID and flash it at the looming security guard on the door, and a moment later you’re in.

Immediately you’re met with backstage: an eclectic mix of cheap hairspray, curling irons, and half-naked girls. You move past a group of feathered dancers and find your locker quickly, ditching your bag and clocking in as you curse yourself for falling asleep earlier in the night. You’ve been working here for three years and you never used to be late, but these days, it’s as if you’ve been pushing it closer and closer to the wire each time you stumble in for your shift.

“You’re late,” comes a loud, stern voice. You freeze, your fingers half-way through pulling off the lid of a deep velvety red lipstick, and you glance at the mirror on your locker door to see your boss standing behind you, arms crossed. Loretta’s a ripped, forty-year-old woman with so many tattoos you think she must be immune to pain. Her eyes are stormy and grey as you hesitantly turn to face her, wincing a smile. “I’ve checked the data for the last month. You’ve been late 12 times, Y/N.” Her face pulls into a disappointed frown. “I’ve always liked you and you’ve never let me down before, but I need staff that I can rely on.”

Instantly you feel cold dread pool in your stomach. “Loretta, look, I’m really sorry, but it’s been a hectic month. I- I’ll try harder, okay? I’m sorry.” And you don’t want to grovel, but this job is all you have. Waiting the tables in this exclusive Soho Club is the only way you can afford to keep your flat, and without that, you have nothing. “Please don’t fire me.”

She holds your gaze for a long, hard minute. Your body feels tight with angst, your fingers shaking around the lipstick. “I’ll give you one more chance,” she says finally. “You’ll need to wait the private booths tonight, though.” When you open your mouth to complain, she laughs lowly. “Oi, none of that. I know you hate it, but if you’re late in, you don’t get a say in where I assign you. Got it?”

With a bite of your lower lip, you nod your head dejectedly. “Alright. Thanks Loretta. I won’t let you down.”

“You better not.” And then she turns and walks away, no doubt on her way to harass some of the other workers, and you turn around to finish your makeup.

The Lotus Club is a boujee blend of bar, nightclub and casino, equipped with a whole secluded wing through the back for private dances. Like the rest of the street, it attracts the highest of the high - rich, snobby businesspeople and socialites who enjoy getting off by flaunting their power and riches. You’re yet to meet anyone who isn’t a complete and utter snob.

The private booths perfectly encapsulate the worst parts of the club: they’re secluded and shady, which means they’re a hub for illegal and underhand exchanges, and they cost a leg and a half to rent out. If you think the customers you’d find in the main foyer of the club were spoilt, the inhabitants in the booths can only be described as the richest assholes London can muster. 

You stare at yourself in your locker’s mirror, red lips sagging into an irritated pout. Your frown remains as you fluff up your hair for a final time and shut your locker abruptly. Your black skirt clings to your legs as you walk out into the front of house, the air clearing the moment you’re in the public sphere of the club.

It’s a very exclusive and elitist place, and the decor of the club indicates that exactly: large, glistening chandeliers dangle in every room, a rich red carpet curves across the halls, and there’s the controlled sound of restrained music drifting through large speakers. Each section of the club has a different vibe to it, and as you walk through the casino and into the section with the private booths, the tone shifts. The booths themselves are tucked behind a large curtain, and as you walk through, the lights grow dimmer and the sweet, husky scent of marijuana fills the air.

You find the supervising manager first - a small, unassuming man called Rob. He discreetly points at a circular table in the corner of the section. “That table over there,” he says. You squint your eyes and stare, making out the outline of a few young men. Curiosity replaces your irritation as you realise they look about as old as you. “You take them, yeah?”

You give him a nod. “Who are they?”

Rob shrugs. “No idea. Think it’s their first time.” He raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Make a good impression.”

You roll your eyes as you move away from him, flexing out your fingers as you walk towards the table. This is the VIP section, which means each booth gets a dedicated waitress - aka, you. You just hope the guys you’ll be serving are decent, because if they aren’t, it’ll be a long, long night.

You draw their attention easily, one of the side effects of being one of the few women in the room. Their gazes fall on you before you’re even at the table, and you suck in a quick, steadying breath as you manage a smile. “Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Y/N and I’ll be your server tonight. You ever been here before?”

Your eyes drift around the circular table as you wait on a response, taking in the men now you’re near enough to make them out. There are four of them: all looking young, but the number of tailored suits and watches attached to them screams wealth in a way you can’t ignore. To the left, two guys, both brunette and very similar - twins? To the right, a blond with dizzying blue eyes. And in the centre, a man, clearly the leader, with his arms thrown over the back of the booth. He’s in a crisp white shirt, a suit jacket lying crumpled on the seat beside him, and his golden brown eyes seem to linger on you for a moment too long as you wait on a response. The way he looks at you brings a warmth to your cheeks, the smile fixed on your face threatening to falter as you decide that he’s utterly delicious.

“Never been before, love.” Finally someone speaks, and it’s the blond. His lips twist into a slow smile. “Nice place you’ve got.”

You hum, returning his stare confidently. “It’s nice back here,” you agree. Then you reach down and pull a small, flat device from your pocket. You lean down and slide it into the centre of the table, making brief eye contact with the man in the centre as you pull yourself back up, a thrill of excitement cracking down your spine as you catch him staring at you. “That’s my pager. If you need me, just press the button and I’ll be here. Can I get you any drinks?”

They rattle off a list of drinks and you nod along, quickly memorising the drinks and faces, matching them with personalities. The guy in the centre goes for a Corona, speaking in a voice that’s just a little too perfect, and as you walk away towards the bar, you find yourself wondering why they’re all here. The private booths are the ideal location for illegal activities to occur, yet you couldn’t see any drugs on them, and none of them seem to have turned up with any documents or briefcases. They aren’t the usual age, either, and they all seem far too friendly to fit the normal typecast of the customers you’d find in the club. They’d smiled at you as you’d taken their orders, none of them looking at you through heady, lusting eyes - not even the man in the centre with the firm, brown gaze had let his stare slip away from your face. They feel like a breath of fresh air hidden away in an extremely stuffy room, and you can’t help but regard them fondly.

When you return to the table with a tray laden with drinks, you’re quick to distribute the bottles and glasses. The men are having a very loud and animated conversation, apparently at the expense of one of the twins, whose freckly face is burning a deep, embarrassed red. You’re in and out in a second, but in the moment you’re leaning across the table to put down a glass, the brunette in the centre meets your gaze again, his thin lips pulling up into a semblance of a smirk. “Thanks, love,” he whispers, tilting the glass towards you as you tuck the tray beneath your arm and step back.

“No problem. Let me know if you need anything else,” you say, nodding at the pager on the table. He glances to the device quickly, before looking back at you, eyes lingering on the curve of your painted lower lip.

“Will do.”

You breeze away from them, your heart rattling against your ribcage as you walk to the back corner and slip into easy conversation with some of the other girls.

Your table get a few more rounds of drinks over the course of the night. Each time you’re there within seconds of the buzzer going off, always with an eager smile on your face. One bonus to the private booths is that the people who rent them out tend to have such a surplus of wealth that the tips are huge, and you’d really like to have the extra cash. So maybe you smile a little wider than usual, and do your best to crack jokes and play along as you talk with the group, but it’s all part of the job, and all part of what’s expected from you. You’re sure the fact that the man in the centre gets your heart racing a little faster than normal has nothing to do with it.

It’s a little after 1am when you’re paged back to the circular table in the corner, the buzzing in your pocket causing you to stifle a yawn. With a start, you walk back to them, your tired feet clacking across the smooth marbled floor. As you draw closer, you realise that there’s only one man there, and with a start, you realise it’s the leader.

“Hi,” you say, smiling nervously. “Friends abandoned you?”

The man shakes his head, the tips of his wavy brown hair shifting delicately. “Gone to the casino,” he explains. He pats the open booth beside him questioningly. “Do you want to sit?” You ponder it for half a second. His voice is open and warm, and it lacks the air of expectation that you’d usually find when patrons ask you a similar question. With a small smile on your face, you sit down beside him. “It’s Y/N, yeah?”

You nod slowly, your bare legs feeling warm against the leather booth. The man is still settled in the centre of the semi-circle, but he slides a little closer to you as you begin to talk, one of his arms hanging over the side of the booth, inviting you closer.

“Yeah, that’s me,” you reply softly. “Are you going to tell me your name, or is that a mystery too?”

The man quirks an eyebrow, and for the first time you notice how endearing his face is. It’s hard, with deep lines crossing his forehead and his cheeks, but when he smiles, the angst fades away, leaving him with a gentle softness about him. His nose is slightly crooked and his lips are thin and lopsided, but he’s undeniably handsome.

“I’m a mystery?” He asks, amused.

“No one’s seen any of you around before,” you say, picking your words carefully. “Normally we get regulars in the VIP section.” You shrug lightly. “I’m just curious.”

“Well, it’s our first time coming here,” he tells you. Then he picks up his hand and offers it to you. “I’m Tom, darling.”

You take his outstretched hand and your smile widens as he takes your fingers into a strong grip. “Nice to meet you, Tom.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

[-----]

You talk with Tom easily, gradually unearthing a few details about the man. He doesn’t give much away, but you gather that he and his brothers own a few businesses around London and they’d come to your club tonight to scout out the competition. 

“Can I get you a drink, love?” He asks, about ten minutes into conversation. 

You’ve got a relaxed smile on your face as you nod in agreement.  “That would be nice,” you tell him. “I can go and get it, though.” You begin to stand, only to feel him reach out and take your hand, his digits loosely brushing up against yours as you meet his sparkly golden eyes.

“No, stay here,” he says, his voice soft. His eyes shift towards the bar and you watch as he catches the gaze of one of the other servers. She walks over to you and takes your order with a jealous grimace on her face, and you find yourself shifting a little closer to Tom as you sit back down.

“So...” You let your lips quirk into a coy smile. “What kinds of things does a man like you enjoy doing?”

Tom hums softly, his hand going to rest on your knee. The tips of his calloused fingertips draw small shapes and circles over your skin, his touch setting off warm fireworks. “I like golf,” he says, laughing quietly as you grimace. “It’s more interesting to play than it is to watch.”

“I’d sure hope so,” you joke. “I don’t think it’s really my thing.”

“Well, what is your thing?” You watch intently as Tom flicks his pink tongue out across his lower lip. Your breath hitches as you realise he’s flirting with you, and you’ve overcome with a strong urge to reciprocate.

“I like painting,” you admit. “Someday I’m going to quit my job here and open up an art gallery.” You reach up slowly, resting the flat hand on his shoulder as the tips of your fingers play around with his soft hair. “Would you be my model, one day?”

Tom brings his other hand to your waist, testing the waters. When you only drift closer to him, he holds your side more firmly, his long, nimble fingers slowly wrapping around you. His touch is intoxicating. 

“I’d be flattered to be your model, darling,” he tells you, eyes sparkling with something between lust and admiration.

As the night draws on, you find yourself inching closer and closer to him, his body heat attracting you like a moth to a flame. His eyes sparkle brightly, shades of golden browns appealing to you easily, and you can’t stop yourself from shamelessly flirting with him, your heart pounding each time he returns it just as thickly.

But you’re not completely blinded by lust. Over the course of your conversation, you pick up on a few unsaid details. First and foremost: Tom has a holster strapped to his belt, and whilst it’s empty, its presence is enough to have your guard up. You know there’s probably a hundred armed men out in the casino, but the sight of it makes you uneasy. Tom’s nice, and maybe a part of you had considered clocking out and leaving with him, but that - and the fact that you can see a pair of brass knuckledusters hanging out of his suit pocket - is enough to sour that idea.

It really is a shame. He’s nothing but charming, in a very sweet, romantic way, and if the circumstances were different, you’d want him in a heartbeat.

By the time Tom’s friends return from the Casino, stacks of cash in hand, you’re practically on top of him. Somewhere between the second and the third beer, he’d pulled you nearer, and now you have your head pressed against his outstretched arm as you sit lazily in his lap, your voice dying halfway through your anecdote as the presence of Tom’s associates disturb your conversation.

“How much?” Tom calls out, his eyes moving away from your face for the first time in an hour. You watch as his pupils dilate, swallowing the golden flecks of his irises as he stares at the rolls of cash greedily.

“50k.” The blond...Harrison, you think, says. “We should come back more often.” His blue eyes twinkle knowingly as he takes in the way you’re spread over Tom. “You ready to go, mate?”

You feel Tom shift beneath you, a hand going to sit on your waist as he hums. “Go settle the tab, yeah? I’ll be over in a minute.”

Harrison nods, and you watch as the group approach the bar and begin to sift through the rolls of cash. Clearing your throat, you stretch out your arm and move out of Tom’s lap, distancing yourself from him as you give him a coy smile.

“Well… I guess it’s goodnight, Tom,” you say, watching him carefully. His eyebrows furrow together slightly as an expression of intrigue passes over his face.

“Don’t suppose you’d want to come home with me, love?” He asks, voice honest and open. He reaches down and takes one of your hands in his, his calloused thumb passing over the back of your knuckles. The touch makes you bite your lower lip, and for a brief moment, you find yourself wishing you could.

“Sorry,” you say instead, ignoring the way a part of you wants to explore the man further. You’ve seen the holster and the knuckledusters. “I don’t know you.”

Surprise replaces his intrigue, but Tom remains looking at you fondly. He nods his head, holding your gaze as he brings your hand to his mouth, pressing his intoxicating lips to the back of your hand and kissing your skin softly. “I’ll see you around then, darling,” he mumbles, finally releasing your hand as he presses it back to your lap. He stands up and shimmies out of the booth, tossing his suit jacket over his shoulder as he goes. “It was lovely spending the evening with you, Y/N.”

Your smile is soft, genuine. “You too, Tom. Have a nice night.”

He raises his hand in a brief wave, and then turns, meeting with his friends by the door. They leave together, and you take a moment to sit against the back of the booth, breathing heavily through your mouth as your thoughts run rampant through your mind.

Everything about Tom feels to be a juxtaposition. His suit was expensive and he left the casino £50,000 richer, yet his shoes were scruffy and his watch looked old and worn. He’s clearly used to control, but he was perfectly content with you setting the lines and the limits. He has an obvious affinity for the darker arts, but his touch was always kind and gentle. Tom is a perfect paradox, and you can’t help but keep him in your thoughts as you begin to clear away the dirty glasses, your smile remaining on your lips for the rest of the night.

[-----]

When you come in for your shift a few days later, you’re called into Loretta’s office immediately. Dread and anticipation hang heavy in your stomach as you nervously push open her door, hoping with every part of you that she hasn’t called you in to fire you. You’re left utterly perplexed as the tall woman greets you with a long, tight hug.

“Y/N, my darling!” She exclaims, releasing you and gesturing down at a chair. You slip into it apprehensively as she walks around to sit behind her desk, her eyes bright and excited. “You’ve got a tip.”

Your eyes widen. “A tip?” You echo, voice uncertain. Normally the tips would be added to your pay-check at the end of the month, no further comment needed. The way she’s staring at you like you’re a celebrity makes you nervous.

“Someone left an anonymous tip for you,” she says, voice high. “I’ve already deducted the club’s percentage.” Loretta passes you a bulging envelope. “It leaves you with just under £5,000.”

Your jaw drops.

“What… The fuck,” you manage, eyes bulging as you tear open the envelope and run your thumb through the thick stack of cash. “Who?”

Your boss shrugs. “Anonymous,” she repeats. “Just thought you’d appreciate the heads up. I’ll keep it out of the books, as long as you don’t mention this to anyone.” Her voice is low, and you nod quickly, knowing that she’s doing you both a favour: the club takes a cut of all tips received, and you know that you’ll both come out better if the tax office doesn’t learn of your bonus.

“Thank you,” you say, flabbergasted. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing,” she advises. “Just take it.” As you rise to your feet and slip the envelope into your bag, she adds, “You can go back to serving the bar, as usual. I’ll get Monica to cover the private booths.”

“Thanks,” you say again, your voice soft and shaken. She bids you goodbye as you walk back to the lockers, your eyes wide and your mind scrambled.

You want to assume it’s Tom who’s left the tip. You don’t think you’ve made a big enough impression on anyone else recently to be rewarded this generously. It baffles you, because you hadn’t ever expected this, but then you find yourself warming to the idea. You’d gotten on well with Tom, and maybe a small part of you has been regretting denying him, and this… Well, this act of generosity would suggest that he’s still thinking about you, and that’s a very nice thought.

You begin your shift with a wide smile on your face, knowing your rent is taken care of for the next few months. It puts a lightness in your step, and you find yourself winning over all the patrons you come into contact with, your wallet growing heavier and heavier as the night draws by. A few times, you find yourself gazing around the bar, looking for Tom, expecting to see him, but not feeling surprised when you don’t. He’d told you himself that he was only in the club to scout out a rival business - why would he return after gathering his reconnaissance?

He doesn’t turn up that night. Or the next. Or even the next. You have to wait another week before you see another sign of him, and even then, it’s not actually him.

You’re clearing away a table when you feel a tap on your shoulder and turn around to see Harrison standing there, a black suit pulled around him so perfectly that he looks like a model and it takes your breath away for a second.

“Y/N?” He asks, voice clear and bright. You give him a nod, your eyebrows pulling up into confusion as he procures a red rose and passes it to you. “I’m Harrison, Tom’s mate. We met the other night.”

You twirl the stem between your fingers, glancing between the delicate petals and Harrison’s watchful face. “Yeah, I remember.”

He nods his head at the rose. “Tom wanted you to have that. He also wanted to know if you’d gotten his gift?”

The thorns on the rose nick your finger and you curse softly, bringing your thumb to your mouth and sucking away the small drop of blood. Harrison watches you intently, his eyes twinkling as he holds back a laugh.

“You mean the tip?” You ask after a moment, pulling your hand away from your face. You cross your arms over your chest as you stare the man down. “You do know that was an obscene amount of money, right?”

Harrison chuckles, running a hand through his blond curls. “I know,” he agrees. “Tom wouldn’t hear anything else. Apparently you made quite the impression.” His eyes sweep across you briefly. “He wanted to know if you’d join him for a date tomorrow night.”

You hum, your eyebrow raising slightly. “And why are you here asking me out, instead of him?” 

Harrison’s eyes widen at your controlled tone, his cheeks tinting with a rosy blush. “He’s busy.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “Well, you can tell Tom that I appreciate the gesture, but if he wants to take me on a date, he needs to come down here and ask me himself.” Acting on impulse, you pass Harrison back the rose, your eyes dancing mischievously. 

Harrison looks a little taken aback, but he nods slowly and looks at you with a shade of respect in his gaze. “I will pass on the message.”

“Thanks, Harrison.” You turn back to the table you’re clearing and you watch from the corner of your eye as he turns and walks away, leaving the club with the rose in his hands.

Your heart hammers in your chest, as part of you can’t believe you’ve just turned him down so boldly. But you know it’s for the best, because men like Tom can be dangerous, and if he thinks he can get away with anything, then that’s not the kind of person you want to see. You decide that if he can swallow his pride and show up to see you himself, then you’ll be happy to lean into him, but you won’t fall at his feet just because he’s flashed some cash. If he doesn’t respond to your demands, at least you’ll come out richer for it. But a part of you thinks you’ve got him nailed down, and you have the feeling he thrives on games like these, and so you return to the club the next night expecting to see him, and you’re not surprised when you do.

Tom’s leaning up against the bar, talking with one of the strippers amicably. The feathers coming out of her plumed headband fall onto his forehead as they laugh closely together, and an irrational stab of jealousy twists up through your insides as you watch them. It’s ridiculous, and you quickly swallow it back, but as Tom meets your eyes from across the room, you know he’s seen the envy in your eyes. His thin lips pull into a smirk and he beckons you over, your legs moving of their own accord.

As you get to Tom, he leans down and whispers something in the woman’s ear. You watch as her expression falls, and then she pulls away from Tom to circle the room in search of another visitor. He greets you by opening his arms, and you pause for a moment before sinking into them, his fingers finding your waist as your head goes to the crook of his neck, finding home briefly in his warmth and the rich scent of his powerful cologne. As you pull back, one of his hands goes back to his side, but the other finds your face for a moment, holding you softly as his lips brush over your cheek. You have to bite back a smile as he mumbles a quiet, “Evening, love,” not wanting him to see how utterly giddy it makes you feel to have him so close again.

“Hi, Tom,” you reply, your head clearing up as he finally drops contact with your skin. Your eyes drift over his familiar face, taking in the details of his handsome features. “Looking for a stripper, eh?”

“Not unless she’s called Y/N,” he replies, voice controlled but suggestive. You chuckle quietly, your face heating a little as you grow slightly bashful.

“Smooth,” you comment. “You gonna buy me a drink?”

“Whatever you want,” he promises. His eyes sweep over the room. “You’re not working?”

You shrug as you slip up at the bar, Tom settling on the stool beside you. One of his hands goes to rest on your knee, the contact firm and grounding, and it makes your body fill with a subtle, thrumming heat. “I am, technically,” you say. “But it’s my job to entertain the guests,” you shift your gaze to his suggestively, “and I’d say you’re in need of a little fun.”

“You’re definitely right there, darling.”

You drink a few rounds with Tom, treating yourself to some of the bar’s most expensive wine because he’s already given them his card and you free rein over the drinks menu. Any reluctance you feel to exploit his kindness disappears as you remember how easily he’d left the casino up £50k the other night, and as you slowly grow lighter and your bloodstream more diluted, you find yourself loosening up. Tom does too, and as you talk about any and everything, his hair becomes messier as his cheeks flush. Your knees touch and sometimes your shoulders brush, and it’s like the rest of the world burns away until it’s just you, and him, laughing, talking, feeling, and it’s so natural that you almost forget that you come from two different worlds.

But then Tom shifts on the stool, and your eyes catch his empty holster, and you’re slammed back to earth, your mood shifting. He picks up on it immediately, his eyebrows furrowing as he reaches out and picks up your hand, playing with your fingers softly. “You alright there, love?”

You hum. “What do you want from me, Tom?” You ask after a moment, voice unassuming.

“What do you mean?”

You give him a coy smile. “You know what I mean,” you tease. “Chatting with me, leaving me thousands of pounds, getting your friend to ask me out… Even being here tonight. What do you want?” And your voice is open and honest, and Tom ponders it for a few moments before squeezing your hand.

“You intrigue me, Y/N,” he admits. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the night we met… I don’t know why, or what I want from you, but I guess, I’d quite like to know, what do you want from me?”

“Oh, no, you don’t get to turn this on me.”

“Why not? I’m definitely allowed to do that.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re sneaky, Tom,” you mumble. “If I’m being honest, part of me thought you’d show up tonight and expect me to leave with you. Because, y’know, the money.” He opens his mouth to argue, but you raise an eyebrow and he pauses. “I don’t think you’re that kind of guy, though. Are you?”

He shakes his head quickly. “I’m not a dick.”

“Arrogant, sometimes?”

“Yeah.”

“A bit egotistical?”

“Well, uh, I guess you could say that.”

“Dominating?”

Tom’s eyes shift a shade darker as he nods. “You like to talk,” he comments, bringing a smile to your face.

“I can leave you to your thoughts, if you’d prefer that,” you tease. He tightens his grip on your hand, and for the first time you look down at his fingers and notice that his knuckles are bruised and bloodied. “Shit, what happened here?” You bring his hands nearer your face, gently grazing your touch over the curves of his cut knuckles. He winces but he lets you inspect the injuries.

“Nothing,” he mutters. When you tighten your gaze, he shrugs haplessly. “Got in a fight. No big deal.”

“Yeah, right.” You rise from the stool, dragging him with you. You’re about to turn and pull him across the room when you hesitate. “Are you packing?” He looks surprised by the question, so you add, “I won’t take you backstage if you’re dangerous.”

“I’ve not got a gun on me,” he says, dodging half the question but it’s good enough for you. You lead him out, through the bar, past the casino, and you pull him through a large door that says Staff Only and take him back to one of the locker rooms. It’s peak time so the room is quiet, and you sit him down on a bench as you grab a clean cloth from beside the sink and run it under some warm water.

“If you don’t take care of your injuries, they’ll scar,” you tell him as you dab at his knuckles. Tom’s gaze burns into your cheek as you wash away the dried blood, exposing the deep colours of fresh bruises just below. You glance up at him, your breath hitching in your throat as you meet his stare, his eyes dancing with a thousand different words. “Who’d look after you if I wasn’t here, huh?” You walk across the room before returning with a cotton pad soaked in disinfectant. “This might hurt,” you warn, but Tom doesn’t even flinch as you drag the pad over his cracked skin. You throw the pad into the bin and then settle in front of him, crossing your arms over your chest as you stare at him questioningly.

“Come sit,” he says finally, his voice more laboured than before. He spreads his legs a little and pats at his lap, and without hesitation you step forward and straddle him. You have to shift around until you’re comfortable, but you manage to stretch your legs out behind him on the bench and his hands go to anchor your hips in place. Your faces are really close now, and he easily brings a hand up to settle on your cheek, the tips of his fingers resting on your cheekbones. “You’re unbelievable, you know that, love?”

You smile slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You’re just…” He breaks off, sighing comically. “So fucking perfect.” The compliment draws your smile into a large grin as you chuckle softly.

“Perfect, eh?” You tease, running a hand over his shoulder. You rest it at the nape of his neck, your fingers playing with the tips of his hair. “I don’t think perfect exists.”

“It does,” he says immediately.

“Maybe.” Acting boldly, you lean in and press a soft kiss to his jaw, admiring the sharp line with your mouth as he sighs beneath you. “You’re a dangerous man, aren’t you?” You say, finishing your trail of kisses at his ear. You let your breath fan out across his skin for a moment before pressing a final kiss to his earlobe, feeling his body tense beneath you.

“Yeah,” he admits.

You pull yourself back to face him, your eyebrow arched. “Will you keep me safe?” You ask. It hangs heavy in the air, a multitude of layers hidden away behind the few words.

Tom nods, a hand drawing up to find home in your hair. His fingers bury in the strands and he uses his leverage to draw you nearer until your noses are touching, his cold skin pressing to yours in the most delicate way.

“I will always protect you,” he promises, voice serious.

Your lips quirk into a slight smile. “Kiss me,” you ask.

His mouth is on yours in an instant, lips chapped but warm as they slide over yours. It’s soft, for a moment, but then you grip his hair and pull him nearer and it grows stronger. Passion flows between you as you cling to him, his mouth hot and luxurious and it draws a heat between your legs as you feel his teeth catch at your lower lip. When you part your lips and grant him access, his tongue dances with yours and you moan into his mouth, every inch of you aching for him, burning with desire to keep him here. His hand in your hair holds you close as the other wanders over your side, caressing your figure softly but warmly, and you turn to butter in his hold, kissing, and kissing, and kissing, until your lips are numb and your lungs burn. When you pull away, he presses his forehead against yours, his eyes pulling open just enough to make brief contact with yours. He looks softer now, less anxious, more in control.

“I wish I could do that forever,” he admits. Both hands find your waist, holding you comfortably as he smirks at you. “You’re something else.”

You shrug slightly, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “I could say the same about you, Tom,” you tease, eyeing him carefully. “You gonna come back again tomorrow?”

He raises a scruffy eyebrow. “You want me to come back tomorrow?”

Your lips split into a wide smile. “Yeah,” you admit. “Maybe the day after that, too. If you want.”

“I’ll be here,” he promises. “I’ll be here for as long as you want me to be.”

You kiss him again, softer. His lips are warm and they already feel a little bit like home. You realise that he’s got you, both physically, because his fingers grip your waist so strongly, but also emotionally, because you look into the depths of his warm, mysterious eyes, and you realise you don’t want to forget what they look like.

“I might want you around for a long time. Is that a problem?”

Tom shakes his head, body relaxing. He kisses you. “Not a problem at all,” he confirms. “I feel like… I feel like you might change my life, love.”

You laugh quietly, rolling your eyes. “Who knew you’d be such a sap,” you tease. Tom frowns, his grip on your waist tightening, and you swallow deeply as he steadies you. “I’m kidding. Relax.” You kiss him again, quickly.

“You think you can just distract me with kisses?” He says, voice confident. You nod your head arrogantly.

“Oh, yeah,” you confirm. “I think you’re the kind of person who will be very easy to distract.” To prove your point, you take a long moment to grind your hips down, feeling the hard presence of his erection pressing up against your covered core. You giggle and your head falls to the crook of his neck, and Tom’s hands rub over your back as he holds you close.

“You’re a minx,” he says. “Such a tease.”

“I’m a lot of things,” you whisper against his neck. You feel his lips brush over the top of your head and let him hold you, close, gripping you tightly, and it feels like you’ve known him for infinity already.

“I’m excited to figure you out, Y/N.”

You tilt your head and run a line of brief kisses up his neck until eventually finding his lips, seizing them in a short peck. “Me too, Tom,” you admit. “I feel like you’re gonna be really special to me,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

“Oh, so who’s the sap now, huh?” He teases, drawing your smile wider.

“Shut up,” you say.

“Make me.”

And then, quite simply, you’re back to kissing, and you know he’s dangerous, and you know he’s powerful, but his touch on your waist is gentle and he’s kissing you so slowly and softly that none of that really matters. It doesn’t matter that you don’t entirely know who he is, because there’s a connection tethering your soul to his, and you can feel it - even if it’s only been a few days. It’s a type of connection that you’ve never felt before, and it thrills you, but it also terrifies you. Because you know that the man beneath you holds the keys to the world, but it comes at a cost, and you’re not sure you can afford the price if it all falls apart.

But fuck it. He’s kissing you, and it’s perfect, and you crave to stay like this forever, curled up in his lap like this. So what if the world burns? You’re perfectly happy exactly where you are, Tom’s hands on your hips, your mouths moving in sync. And as he holds you close, you know there’s nowhere else your heart would be safer than tucked up here with him.

#tom holland #Tom Holland oneshot #Tom Holland x reader #mob!tom holland #mob!tom #Tom Holland x y/n #self insert #self-insert #y/n #y/n use #my writing #mm #:D #mob!tomfic

[duhragonball]

I was curious to hear about what you think of the anime splitting DB & DBZ into separate shows. Personally, I get Toei’s logic and find it ridiculous how some extremists & purists act so hostile/resentful about DBZ being treated as a sequel to DB, especially since Akira Toriyama didn’t have any problems with it.

I agree, anon, there's really not much to the name change. The way I understood it, the manga kept the same title, "Dragon Ball", from start to finish, while the anime changed to "Dragon Ball Z", mostly to put a fresh coat of paint on the series, I suppose. I always understood the "Z" was a reference to Toriyama's intention to bring the story to a close, which turned out to be ironic, since the Z portion lasted so much longer.

But yeah, that's basically all it is. There was a clear division between one and the other. Z has Gohan and Vegeta, and OG Dragon Ball does not, for example. But you can make a similar case for other parts of the story. The division between kid Goku and adult Goku, in the Piccolo Junior Saga. I've long maintained that there's a very clear border around the halfway point, when Goku fights Recoome. Before that moment, everyone was worried about Dragon Balls, and after that moment, it became all about Super Saiyans. And you could make a case for the post-Frieza stuff being a very different story from what came before. I watched the opening theme to the French dub of DBZ once, and the visuals kept emphasizing Goku for the "Dragon Ball" part of the song, and Buu-Era Gohan for the "Dragon Ball Z" part, like the Buu stuff was Z alone. So there's plenty of other candidates for places to draw the line if you wanted to cut the story in two.

Ultimately, "purist" fans are going to do what they always do, and a lot of them use these artificial divisions to arbitrarily declare the point where the show stopped being "good". It's the same bullshit as the myth about Toriyama wanting to end it with Frieza. There's no truth to that, beyond Toriyama considering it and eventually deciding to continue. A lot of people think he planned to keep Goku dead after the Cell Games, and was forced to bring him back to appease the fans, but that makes no sense either. Goku returned *very* soon after the chapter where he died. Fans act like he was absent from the comic for seven years, just because he was dead that long, but it was more like a few months. But a lot of fans like to perpetuate that myth, because they think it justifies their dislike of the Buu Saga. "Oh, it could have been good if Toriyama hadn't been hijacked by Goku stans, so now it's terrible."

As far as I'm concerned, the post-Frieza stuff is the best part, and I think the Saiyans and Frieza are good but overrated. I also really dig the run from Mercenary Tao to Piccolo Junior a lot. This is probably why I never tried to play the whole "It was great until X," because there's ups and downs for me. And the ups are very long, and the downs are still pretty good, so I don't try to convince people that my opinions are facts. "Oh, well Toriyama got a new assistant after General Blue, and then he left around Raditz and came back when Trunks showed up, and that guy was the one who made it kick ass." That's dumb.

Like, with JoJo, I can understand preferring art styles and characters, which change over the course of the series. Part 8 just looks different from Part 4, and some folks like one more than the other. I mostly dig Part 7 for the horses and the scenic views of the continental U.S. Not everyone would agree. But I don't see a lot of folks saying things like "Oh Part 6 is terrible because Araki overdosed on Bad Comics Pills in the early 2000's." No, just say you don't like it, and move on.

But Dragon Ball is pretty damn consistent, other than the art style getting more angular over time. People will talk about the shift from fantasy to scifi, but Z ended with the boys fighting a genie in Superheaven, so how scifi is that? You don't have to like the later stuff, but it's not so easy to put it in a box like that.

But the fandom snobs love to act like their opinions are objective truths. "Oh, the Saiyans arc was better because Goku and Vegeta's hair actually moves." Really? Is that what this show is about? Hair animation? I like the Cell episodes because he's a fucking monster from the future, and that's rad as hell. I guess I was too busy having fun to notice that the *hair* isn't as well animated.

Actually, let me flip that around. The Androids/Cell/Buu episodes are superior because everyone is jacked in those. Early Vegeta's costume was all baggy, but after Namek he had the big horseneck and Bulma made him a uniform so tight that you can see his entire asscrack. That's *better*, as far as I'm concerned. Tien always looks swole as hell, but he's extra jacked in the Cell Saga, and that's the way I like it. Everyone who disagrees is a plebian.

It sounds pretty dumb, doesn't it? But that's what these elitists do. They pick on some minor infraction and tell you it's unlovable beyond this point, and if you do love it, there must be something wrong with you. Well, I'm here to say there ain't, folks. Toriyama's still making this stuff, so don't try to tell me he regrets the later material. If the Buu Saga is so terrible, why does everyone keep making sequels to it? Toriyama could just ignore the parts he doesn't want to use, the way he apparently ignores GT.

It's like the Terminator movies. I bought a box set recently because I never saw 4 or 6, and I thought it'd be fun to watch them all in order. But I already know the later movies have nothing to do with each other. T3 killed off Sarah Conner off-screen, but she's alive in T6. Basically, every movie after T2 is trying to be a direct sequel to 2, without bothering to acknowledge the others, because different people made 4, 5, and 6, and I guess they all hated 3. So they just did their own thing. Toriyama could do the same thing whenever he wants, but he always seems to make an effort to acknowledge his older stories. He doesn't de-age Gohan or change Bulla's name. Because he remembers working on the Cell and Buu stuff and he still respects it enough to keep it. I know people don't like how Videl turned out in DBS, but that process started way back in 1995.

I'm not saying people shouldn't have opinions, but acting like the letter Z ruined 60% of the story is kind of reductive, to say the least. Sometimes, things change, and they may not change the way we want them to, but that doesn't mean they're "ruined" or that other people can't enjoy them.

#dragon ball #ask duhragonball

[btsybrkr]

You’re Hired

I love The Apprentice. I look forward to it every single year. It’s the one reality series that too-smart-for-you TV snobs won’t look down on you for watching, despite the fact that The Apprentice is really just Big Brother in suits. Think about it: larger-than-life contestants, living together in a big house, completing tasks where they will always be destined to fail (because it makes for much better conflict), all while being watched closely by an omnipotent figure, who calls all the shots.

In fact, Alan Sugar is a much scarier man-in-charge than the titular Big Brother. For one thing, he looks the contestants in the eyes when he’s destroying them emotionally - Big Brother hides away in a little recording booth somewhere, where he’s safe from any angry housemates, who’ve snapped after the pointlessness of what they’re doing has finally dawned on them. What a coward. Also, Alan Sugar is really bloody rich. Alan Sugar is so rich that he could probably buy you, and sell you back to yourself at a much higher price, and that’s pretty scary, if you ask me.

But, I digress. The thing that’s so great about The Apprentice is that it’s so low-stakes. Not to the contestants, of course, but to the viewer. See, it’s the only reality show where I never care who stays or who goes, and that’s because the contestants are usually, without exception, cocks - and this year hasn’t been much different.

Obviously, the stand-out recipient of the ‘Jesus Christ, You Really Are Absolutely Awful’ award this year has to be librarian and general irritant Lottie Lion, whose name alone makes her sound like the archetypal spoiled brat character from a Roald Dahl novel. It suits her so well, it’s almost as though her parents just sensed from birth that she was going to turn out that way. Or maybe she came out of the womb riding side-saddle on a horse and waxing lyrical about how much better she is than everyone else. I can’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

When she wasn’t shooting a piece-to-camera to repeat her mantra “I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to win”, she was busy coming up with increasingly ridiculous reasons why she was the ideal candidate for the top job in each task. She started out strong in Week 1 by announcing she was the best choice for sub-team leader in a tourism task, because “I know that the population of South Africa is 51 million”, and yet, amazingly, still managed to out-BS herself week after week. Perhaps the finest example was Week 9, in which she described having viola lessons when she was four as having been “in the music industry for 15 years”. By that logic, I’ve been in dentistry for 23 years, because I can navigate my own mouth with a toothbrush without taking out six of my teeth in the process.

Oh, and let’s not forget the remark she allegedly made in a contestants’ group chat, in which she told Pakistani candidate Lubna to “shut up, Ghandi”, before allegedly threatening “I’ll fucking knock you out at our press training”. Obviously, this is horrendously racist and absolutely out of order, and with any luck, Lubna might knock her out first, since, as a person born with arms, she has technically been in the boxing industry for 33 years.

On a much lighter note, this series might have introduced us to one of the most genuinely likeable contestants The Apprentice has ever seen in the form of Thomas Skinner, a self-described “full-time geezer”. Obviously, that’s not his day job - geezering does not pay very well, especially in this difficult economic climate. He’s a salesman, and a bloody good one - he’s so ridiculously charismatic that he could sell me the very concept of breathing itself and I’d probably pay over the odds for it.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t very good at much else, and was fired by a reluctant Alan Sugar after losing eight out of the nine tasks he’d been involved in. I got thinking, though… couldn’t Alan Sugar just take him on anyway? Considering the lack of success that previous winners have experienced, he honestly might as well. I’m not sure exactly what he would hire him to do, but if anyone can help Thomas realise his dream of actually making a living as a full-time geezer, then I’m sure it’s him.

Personally, I think he deserves all of the money and maybe a knighthood, purely on the basis he’s the first candidate in a long time that hasn’t once described himself as ‘cutthroat’ or ‘brutal’, or made some ridiculous statement about how money is so important to him that he’d probably murder his entire family for a fiver. You know, like they usually do.

This year’s final saw headhunter Scarlett Allen-Horton and artisan bakery owner Carina Lepore go head-to-head for the opportunity to work alongside The Ultimate Sugar Daddy, with the final task being to create a hypothetical launch for their respective businesses.

Step one was to pick a new brand name. Carina and co. decided on Lepore’s, because - as Thomas put it - “people will go for the bread, but they’ll go for you, too”. It’s a nice enough point, but if she’s opening a chain of bakeries, she won’t always be in there, will she? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been disappointed to go into a Blackpool branch of Gregg’s, only to be told that, once again, I’m unable to speak to King Gregg himself. He’s probably hiding in one of his fancy London stores, the big elitist. Scarlett had slightly more trouble with rebranding her recruitment company, which aims to place more women and minorities into top level engineering positions. Marianne helpfully suggested naming it after “those animals that build their own homes”. Beavers. She means beavers. Beaver Recruitment? Really? Not exactly suited to a top level headhunting agency, but on the bright side, she may have just stumbled on a great new way for men to describe going out on the pull.

Next on the agenda was to come up with a billboard and a TV advert. The billboards were both surprisingly good, at least in comparison to anything else filmed against a cheap green screen in this year’s series (the now infamous soundbite “who took my unicorn, Sparkle Stars??” from Toy Week immediately springs to mind). The TV advert task was a different story for Scarlett, who was surprised to find that her ‘vision’ of Lewis, Lottie and Marianne driving an imagery car in an empty warehouse wasn’t absolute advertising golddust. “It’s cheesier than I imagined”, she said, upon seeing it for the first time. How? I genuinely can’t understand how she came up with that and thought it was ever going to look like anything other than part of a hastily-planned GCSE Drama performance. But then I would say that, because as someone who has seen a TV advert before, I’ve technically been in marketing since 1996. On Carina’s team, their prison-themed advert for her artisan bread (no, I’m not sure how they arrived at this idea, either) was far more impressive - prefect from a 1960s comic book Ryan-Mark even managed to put in a convincing performance as a hungry jailbird, which wasn’t something any of us were expecting to see this year.

After this, and the all important pitches - which I’m not going to go into, since it’s consistently the least entertaining part of the finale, where I imagine most people, including me, take a toilet break - it was time for the final boardroom. In all seriousness, the tension in the final boardroom is mad. I can only imagine it’s like you and another person are staring down the barrel of a madman’s gun, except the madman is Alan Sugar, and you want to be shot because, instead of bullets, it’s money. Actually, it’s not like that at all, is it? But it must be absolute squeaky bum time for the candidates, is what I’m trying to say.

After a few minutes of back and forth, and a couple more minutes of Carina and Scarlett turning on each other at the last second - which I’m absolutely, one hundred-percent, completely sure the producers definitely didn’t encourage in any way - The Sugarman arrived at a conclusion, and crowned Carina the winner, with a statement that I’m sure we can all agree with: “I do like the idea of more bread.” Well, don’t we all?

Anyway, deserving winner found - as well as plenty of memorable moments and ridiculous characters along the way - that’s it for another year. The only thing I’m left wondering is why it’s called The Apprentice, since the prize is a £250,000 investment, and since most real life apprentice jobs pay about £3.90 an hour. But then I wonder that every year, and to be honest, I’m all fired out.

#tv #television #oatniel #the apprentice #bbc one #apprentice #thomas skinner #lottie lion #carina lepore #scarlett allen horton #alan sugar #comedy #comedy writing #reveiw #tv review #blogger #comedians

[tricktster]

this is a weird fish rant incoming

i wrote that post about my newest aquarium with darkmantle the betta fish about 18 times because on the first 17 passes i kept trying to find ways to reassure whoever found it through the tags that the tank was big enough and cycled and my parameters were great...

because, like, in my experience aquatics as a hobby at large (but particularly on tumblr thanks to anon asks) has the potential to be incredibly judgmental! Which... like, honestly i get!

A lot of us love tech and we love learning new techniques and how to care for species with really specific needs, but when it comes down to it... there are really just a few things you have to do to keep everyone in your average freshwater tank thriving, and i’m gonna hazard a guess and say 60-70 percent of people don’t do any of them, at least not at first!

like, fucking it up is almost baked into the hobby. we still give out goldfish at carnivals, we still see products claiming that you don’t need to change water ever if you just buy their additive or throw a plant in it and call it aquaponics, and we still sell tanks specifically marketed for betta fish that wouldn’t be a humane place to keep any living being. and how do you beat that mentality, you know? when there’s a full industry saying “no, these animals actually like! living in unheated, unfiltered plastic cubes,” or “they’re great favors for parties, put them in mason jars as a centerpiece!” there’s always gonna be some percentage of people who don’t ever question that, and it’s upsetting!

worse, the people who are really into the hobby? like i said, bad care is basically where most of us started out! most of us made those same beginner fuckups, and we didn’t provide proper care for our underwater buds because we were kids, or information wasn’t available because we had dial up, or even the information in books was often wrong, or the clerk at the pet store said it was okay, or the fucking instructions on the box did. we learned that we were wrong when our pets died. then like, we got a little knowledge, and now we feel guilty that we caused any living being to suffer in the past because we didn’t know enough or do enough to prevent that suffering.

and this is kind of a wild thing about this hobby i stumbled into, because, unlike many other hobbies, there is a measureable cost to fucking it up. tiny lives are on the line, and if you’re bad at it, they die early and unnatural deaths. for those of us who find joy in figuring out how to help our charges thrive, it sucks to know that for some people who claim to love it too, an aquarium is where you put a fish until it dies a few days/weeks/maaybe months later and you get another fish. there’s some moral weight involved that other hobbies don’t have. like, there’s a lot of bad artists out there. some people genuinely suck at knitting or the harmonica. i cannot in good faith call the thing my body does to music “dancing.” generally, the errors people make if they’re bad at a hobby do not lead to suffering and death. (exception: see, my attempts at dancing, supra.)

also, the people who are really fucking it up in the aquarium sphere don’t have a huge overlap with the people who are enthusiastically showing progress pics or asking questions about the science or art underlying these little closed ecosystems. i think people really dedicated to the hobby don’t get the opportunity to interact very often with the subset of people out there fucking it up hard. like, you know it’s happening, and it’s easy to find pictures of a shitty tank if you go looking, but most people are doing pretty fucking good if they’re already actively engaged in the hobby.

so, this is my theory about judgy, judgy fishblr. i think all that anger at people who don’t care about their animals mixes with our own shame for our early mistakes and emotions run high; then, like anything else people are passionate about, some people become holier-than-thou fundamentalists about the whole fuckin thing. if they call you out, they can stay above reproach. if they can claim that anything different from how they engage with the hobby is wrong, they can’t be accused of ever making a mistake, and maybe they don’t need to grapple with their own guilt about their own fuckups that way either. like, i know this all sounds really overblown but...seriously, my tiny following on this site is because I Am A Person Who Wrote 475000 words of Fanfic About Sans Undertale, Including His Dick, and for that crime against decency, i’m sure i DO deserve some anon hate. yet somehow, in spite of my many public sins, my most unpleasant interactions on this or honestly any social media site have been about aquarium stuff? it’s not even directly mean, it’s concern trolling like “uhh sweetie good try but you really shouldn’t have a betta unless you’ve got the space for it 😏😉” and inside i’m like “BITCH IT’S 6.6 GALLONS, it’s ONE FISH, IT’S A NANO TANK,” and yet my response is always closer to “thanks for the tip 😁😁😁😁. here’s why you’re wrong but i’ll be CHEERFUL AND FRIENDLY about it because deep down i STILL need validation that I’m not hurting my animals, EVEN THOUGH I KNOW I’M DOING GREAT”

(this, i swear to god, happens often enough that it’s a joke on the aquatics subreddits? like someone will post a pic of obscenely enormous empty tank, drained swimming pool etc and be like “any ideas what i should put in this?!” and the comments will be like “maybe big enough for a betta???” “no way. with a tank that small, one amano shrimp tops, and that’s PUSHING it”)

so there my dumb ass was last night, trying to write jokes about my fish while still preemptively demonstrating that i know my shit to stop any doubters from fishsplaining at me? and i just COULDN’T get it, and i was getting really frustrated, because it’s so obnoxious to be lumped in with people who never change their pets’ water and don’t know to cycle their tanks and certainly don’t regularly find themselves hunched over 5 ml beakers waiting for the reagents to assure them their ammonia level is as close to 0 parts pet million as possible...

and then i remembered how i deal with anyone who questions my competency in literally any other field. I don’t smile and emoji my way through being attacked by some asshole on the internet when any other topic is on the line. i certainly don’t scramble for the reciepts to prove they’re wrong. instead, i use every debater’s most feared technique:

I threaten to crawl into their house and put things in their ears while they’re sleeping.

Hmmm, oh, are you implying that I don’t know how to care for my obviously healthy, thriving animals? not anymore, because you can’t question my commitment with your EARS FULL OF GOOGLY EYES, JARED!

...this went so far off the rails. in conclusion, take care of your pets, and don’t be insecure in your abilities.

oh, and saltwater tank elitist snobs can eat my farts. give your balls a tug ya shitheads.

[becky-helene]

So interview at job I’ve been obsessing over lately is set for Wednesday at 9:30.

And, forgive me for sounding like some elitist snob, if calling in this morning (returning call guy left Friday, office was closed by the time I tried calling back) is any indication.....no wonder they’re hiring a new receptionist.

Backstory/info: mom and I are theorizing this place probably functions with 2 receptionists. Which, tbh would be awesome. The place I interviewed at a few weeks ago also did two receptionists on duty. First time I’d seen an office like that, and I came to conclusion that that’s such an ideal set up. With my work history/experience as kinda ehh* as it is, side by siding it with another receptionist showing me the ropes and all that would greatly reduce my ‘oh fuck I’m going to mess shit up so badly I know nothing’ anxieties. So, if this place also runs that way, that’s so comforting.

So, last Thursday I missed HR guy’s initial call, called in and person who answered phone (I figured receptionist or person filling as receptionist if they’re filling in a completely empty role atm) was good. Very receptionist-y, clear voice and all the marks of admin phone A++ ness.

This morning, calling in another person answered and....same could not be said. The guy rushed through greeting, voice sounded half dead, and just general did not sound like he has any interest answering a phone.

Half dead dude: [pretty much mumbling through greeting]

Me: [0_O face for a sec, recovering]. Hi, this is [me], I’m returning a call from [guy] in HR.

HDD: umm who are you calling for?

Me: ...[guy]. In HR.

HDD: oh okay one minute. [puts me on hold, but I overhear him asking/telling someone I’m assuming beside him who I’m calling for. A lil while moment] uh...yeah, one moment. [back on hold]

Me: Sure...

New person, sounds like maybe the person who answered when I called Thursday: [not half dead, clear tone, general professional-y] Hi, I’m sorry, who are you holding for?

Me: [guy] in HR.

New person: Okay, and your name is?

Me: [me]

New Person: Great, he’ll be with you in just a minute.

Me: Great, thanks!

Soooo yeah, I’m just going to assume Half Dead Dude maybe works in a whole other area and forced to fill in reception duties for the time being. Either that, or he really is one of the receptionist.....and in either scenario, I can kinda see why maybe they’re looking for a new receptionist. Because, yeah....yikes.

#from the mind of curvycurlygirly #becky needs a job #sorry if im sounding bitchy #it was just really offputting #the guy’s tone most of all

[thesinglesjukebox]

KACEY MUSGRAVES - HIGH HORSE [7.38] You can take your high... scorse... and ride them straight... onto the sidebar, Kacey.

Lauren Gilbert: I am a connoisseur of song intros. Long before I wrote for TSJ, or any publication, I had lists of my favorite intros, playlists of just the first 30 seconds clipped out of context. (Needless to say, my ringtone game has always been on point.) This is a fucking excellent intro. The pulsing beat, the disco feel, the Shania Twain "oh, I bet you think you're John Wayne" - the intro is a solid [12]. The rest of the song is probably an [8] - despite being only 3:33, it feels like it runs out of ideas by the bridge - but this still averages to a solid [10]. [10]

Jonathan Bradley: "High Horse" is about as disco as Kylie Minogue's "Dancing" was country: that is conscientiously and carefully, without threatening to intrude too far upon unfamiliar cultural spaces. Instead each settles on a kind of naff AM-radio appeal that as easily positions it alongside "Islands in the Stream" as it does "September" or even "Copacabana." But where Minogue's song stirs nostalgia, the faded polyester drift of Musgraves's more Western sound fits her lyric's exhausted contempt. The opening line -- "I bet you think you're John Wayne" -- is sass worthy of Shania, but Kacey's disaffection crystallizes in her more arch dismissal: "You're classic in the wrong way." The hand claps, popping bass, and very canned strings underline the point. [8]

Alfred Soto: The question isn't whether Musgraves should record a Kylie-dusted cut like "High Horse"; it's whether the cut is better than middling at best beside Brandy Clark's unskinny bop fryin' up some girl's bacon in 2016. [6]

Joshua Copperman: I have qualms with "High Horse" that are more personal preference than genuine criticisms (I would love a more dynamic arrangement, for example), but I feel too late. Like "Run Away With Me" or "Praying," the place of "High Horse" in the modern pop canon was secured upon arrival. Musgraves sets up and lands every punchline, no matter how corny ("I bet you think you're first place/someone should give you a ribbon") or vague ("everyone knows someone who knows someone/Who thinks they're cooler than everybody else"). The song could literally consist of "I bet someone's got a bad case of the Mondays" repeated but Musgraves would still make it work. That the delivery is as good as it is separates Musgraves from both her country peers and her should-be pop contemporaries. With its meticulous craftsmanship and unapologetic twang, "High Horse" is great not despite being country, but because of how it stays true to the storytelling of classic country music while forging its own path. [8]

Abdullah Siddiqui: Fun, but vacant. Musgraves sounds unconvinced of her own pandering. And also, why is it considered innovation now, within a genre, to make things pinker and shinier? There was a kind of delicate grit to tracks like "Blowin' Smoke" and "Merry Go 'Round" that was genuinely interesting but she seems to have completely abandoned that. It's a little depressing to think how mainstream concessions are no longer just inevitable in the course of a musical career, but lauded as innovative. [4]

Ryo Miyauchi: Kacey's usual passive handling of conflict makes me wish this went a little harder on the personal with a more explicit hint that this may have actually been a diss at someone real. But the lyrical decorations from the Shania Twain-channeling opening line to that chorus full of silly twists to cowboy cliches forgive the lack at which she sinks her teeth. Oh, and the disco strut works wonders as well. [7]

Ian Mathers: Fun but slightly anemic-feeling pop country/lite disco hybrid seeks slightly more compelling chorus... the current one has a moment where it seems like it's about to lift off, but then it never does. Sometimes songs like this reveal with repeated listens that you've been tricked and in fact the gentler approach is key to the song; with "High Horse," as winning as it otherwise is, that just never happened for me. [6]

Stephen Eisermann: In my childish mind, this song is a big middle finger to everyone's least favorite country music critic/villain: the one who decides what real country music is and is trying so hard to save it (from bold women, it often feels like). This disco-flavored, pop-country track has all the makings of an anthem, but is delivered with such chilliness that rather than chant along, you can't help but let Kacey take the center stage to deliver each biting line with as much pettiness as possible. It's delicious, but also impressive - who thought that one of country's most recent rising stars could foray into pop so easily? [8]

Katherine St Asaph: Whenever country or country-leaning artists are poised to cross over, there's a certain tension, as they try (or don't) to reconcile the genre's Southern-libertarian values with mainstream pop culture. Comparisons to "That Don't Impress Me Much" are inevitable and probably intentional, but "get off your high horse," as an idiom, isn't about ego but moralizing. And buried in the guts of "High Horse" is the trope of the elitist carpetbagger from out of town who looks down upon the regular everyfolks -- a trope with, to put it mildly, baggage. (Also a trope where pointing it out is liable to get you branded one of them.) But it's left unexplored, subtext beneath a lyric of generalities; there's nothing as cartoonish as "I can't believe you kiss your car goodnight," but also nothing as vicious. Same goes for the lite-disco arrangement. [6]

Edward Okulicz: It's kind of a pity this song has to be disco to get the attention, because it's a neat little pop song to begin with, and the way it's been performed doesn't put that cleverness front and centre. It's fine as it is, but it could stand to be more full-blooded in its trip to the nightclub. It's got the whole Shania Twain going on meets the Alanis Morissette of not quite understanding the word that's the linchpin of your chorus, and that is viral paydirt, but you know Shania wouldn't have been so polite. The banjo line at the end reminds me of a song this should also sound more like: Basement Jaxx's "Take Me Back to Your House" which came at the country/dance combo from the other end, and works better on both counts. The icy but dreamy vocal performance of "High Horse" says Musgraves is not slumming it for laughs in the genre, but it's still not too late to commission the appropriate remix to prove it (the Kue remix is close, but not quite). [8]

Josh Love: If you stare at the lyrics too long, the sense of "High Horse" starts to go a little wobbly. Where I'm from, people who are on their high horse are usually thought to be acting holier-than-thou, like moral scolds, and are therefore rarely concerned with seeming like "they're cooler than everybody else." It's doubly fortunate then that this song's real selling point is how sleek and effortless it sounds. Maybe the words don't altogether scan, but as a piece of popcraft "High Horse" is assembled seamlessly. [7]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: A pure symbiosis of music and lyrics -- this fully commits to the disco-by-way-of-country aesthetic, which allows Musgraves' portrait of arrogance to turn from just another riff on "You're So Vain" to an instant camp classic. It helps that this is deeply fun, from the "giddy-up"'s of the chorus to the guitar and banjo parts, which skitter across the track with such precise glee that it almost made me think that someone should make more country & disco records. [9]

Alex Clifton: I've tried writing a more coherent review, but I'm struggling because I love this so much. So: it's everything I've ever wanted as a queer person who lives in the south who loves both disco and country! Kacey sounds amazing! I wanna karaoke this and point at random people in the crowd and tell them off for being snobs! I wanna rent a truck and blast this up and down the road! I wanna rent a truck and take this to the White House and blare it there, too! I want every song that comes out this year to make me feel as jazzed about being alive as "High Horse" does, and I won't settle for anything less! [9]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

#kacey musgraves #music #new music #music video #country #country music #music writing #music reviews

[textsfromumbridge]

Can you do the second reunited au with the singer for Enjonine? :D

“this is so unfair there’s this song getting popular and the singer sounds like you and all these lyrics almost sound like they could be about me but you’re singing about lost love and you weren’t in love with me wait I’m watching the music video and crying and hey that’s definitely you wtf” au

(for you, always, even doing this TWICE because my laptop fucked up and closed the wrong thing and made me lose EVERYTHING)

…

Her arms are held tightly behind her back by a burly security guard, while his comrade talks into a walkie. It leaves her free to kick at him, but she doesn’t appear to be doing much damage to him, seeing as he’s a head taller and about three or four times her weight. 

“This is a violation of my rights,” she hollers as loudly as she possibly can. “I didn’t do anything and then mister Gorilla just grabbed me.”

How she ended up like this? Well, that is quite a story. 

This whole thing started back in freshman year of high school, when she had a stupid crush on her old neighbor Marius. He’d just always been nice to her even when everything went to shit. 

Not the point. 

So, to make him notice her, she started hanging out with his friends, all guys and most of them pretty damn cute. And she figured, why not make Marius jealous by hanging out with these boys and talking to them and maybe doing a little flirting?!

Well, it only worked with one guy. The only times Marius ever got annoyed was when she talked to Gabriel, the friend Marius only referred to as Enjolras. 

The first time she backed Gabriel up in a discussion, Marius about had a coronary before dragging Eponine off to lecture her about how Enjolras was a bad influence and she should not be hanging out with him. 

These guys were surprisingly hostile towards each other for people who were considered friends. They yelled at each other about most everything, from general political theory to popular culture to the merits of Napoleon. Gabriel usually made more sense than Marius, but she was never going to say that to her stupid crush. 

So she continued to side with Gabriel (when he wasn’t blatantly wrong about everything), figuring that Marius would soon figure out that he was just jealous of Eponine’s support and attention. She continued to think that until Marius showed up with a pretty blonde girlfriend Eponine recognized from a girl she’d been in a group home with after the first time her parents got arrested. 

She didn’t get along with the little bird then, and she knew that was not going to change - Marius was already lost to her. 

But by then she’d actually started to like Gabriel as a person. He was her friend, even though he was the epitome of a rich, privileged white boy and there was no way their worlds were supposed to collide like this. 

Still, he made sure to listen to her point of view, and he did not try to force any charity on her and her siblings. Most of the kind things he tried to do for them were framed as being a part of a decent friendship, and she let him do that - because there had been many a time when she’d hidden him from a debutant his parents were desperate to set him up with. 

His parents were terrible elitist snobs and she occasionally wondered how they even managed to spawn such a sincere son - until she realized what a terrifying force of nature Gabriel could be. All for the sake of a better world, of course. 

The friendship lasted all through high school, but by senior year her now best friend started keeping secrets and keeping his distance from her. Clearly he’d figured out that she’d started having not so platonic feelings for him and was trying to let her down gently and with her dignity intact. 

When they went to colleges on opposite sides of the country, the damage was already done. He’d helped her so much with applications and scholarships, but they couldn’t manage to bring their friendship back to where it used to be. 

She hadn’t seen him in six years, not since that dreadful Thanksgiving sophomore year of college, and while she did miss the boy he used to be quite terribly, she’d managed without him. Even though that stupid crush had never quite gone away completely. 

That and her college friend Chetta, while amazing, could not quite replace her Gabe. And he was hers, in a lot of the ways that mattered - that nickname was hers and hers alone. But now, after six years? There was no telling how many boys and girls would have been allowed to call him that over the years. 

Even though she definitely worked with a big part of their target demographic, she’d barely heard of Les Amis de L’ABC - only to understand the French pun inherent in their name (her high school fosters had taught her that language). But they were obviously a boyband, so she hadn’t actually bothered with the band members or the songs. 

Until fourteen year old Claire, one of her favorite clients and a big fan of the Amis, had a terrible day and all she wanted was to listen to her favorite band with her social worker. Eponine figured she could tune out for most of it - she’d put herself through a lot if it helped her kids. 

And then Claire played the first song, the latest single “The First To Fall”. It seemed slightly different than the average boyband fair, but it was obviously still a love song - it had to be. 

When the lead singer started to sing, Eponine just about choked on air. It sounded like him, like that time in junior year when he revealed that he was actually quite the singer and he made her blush by crooning a classic in the secrecy of her bedroom. 

“Is something wrong?” Claire was always astute. 

“Just a bit of a cough,” Eponine tried really hard to sound casual. “Just start again at the beginning.” 

Claire listened well, for once, and Eponine steeled herself. She just had to get through this one song without choking on the memories of a high school crush and her first real love. She could do that. 

Until she heard the lyrics to the chorus: “I was the first to fall / you built your barricade / I fight here in your name / feelings won’t be betrayed”. 

Feelings? How did this song sound so much like him, like them? How did this singer manage to sing her high school experience back to her?

It couldn’t be! 

“So, what did you think?” Claire asked. 

“Not bad for a boyband,” Eponine shrugged. 

Of course, Claire considered that very high praise from her usually so stoic social worker, and pulled up the music video, just to torture Eponine some more. Oh, she wasn’t doing it on purpose, but Eponine really did start to believe in karma at that point. 

She obviously deserved this pain. 

Ferre was the first one she recognized, dorky glasses exchanged for a model that was a little more hip, and his pin straight hair styled into a messy just out of bed look. He’d come a long way from the geek he was in high school, unlike Courf, who looked basically the same as he did back then. 

And then the screen was filled with Gabriel Enjolras himself.

That and a single ticket to an almost sold-out concert is what led her to this point, being held by Burly Security Dude right at the entrance to the backstage area. 

“I just need to talk to Gabriel,” she is trying to explain to Walkie Guy. “I went to high school with these idiots. You can just tell him Eponine is here.” 

Burly Guy continues to have a tight hold on her hands, and she knows that there will be bruises. She is not a fangirl, but clearly they think she is out here for nefarious reasons. 

It should make her happy that Gabe and the boys are so well-protected, but right now she just sees it as a giant annoyance. She is someone they actually know, and someone Gabe will actually want to see - or so she hopes. 

“I promise to leave if he won’t see me,” she vows. “I’d cross my heart and hope to die but I’m losing feeling in my hands.” 

That finally loosens Burly’s grip, and he actually appears to look a little guilty as he sees the state of her wrists. She would feel triumphant if she wasn’t exhausted and in pain, but at least Walkie is finally trying to get in touch with Gabriel for her. 

She waits for only a minute or so, but it feels like three days. 

“Apparently she’s cool,” Walkie only seems slightly skeptical. “You can follow the PA and he’ll take you straight to Mr. Enjolras.” 

With some muttering about how he isn’t aware Mr. Enjolras even has a first name, Burly holds the door open for her. The PA boy - is he even old enough to buy his artists alcohol? - is already waiting for her, motioning for her to follow him down a partly lit hallway. 

There’s a door at the end of the hall, and just like the last one it is opened for her. The PA waits for her to enter the room before closing it behind her, leaving her in a dressing room with just… Gabe!

“Eponine,” his voice is deeper than it used to be as it wraps around her name. 

His blond hair is longer than the spikier look he had in high school - he looks more like Danny Zuko now than he did in their version of the musical. There are hints of laughter lines around his bright eyes, and it looks like he finally filled out his formerly gangly form. 

But his bright smile is somehow exactly the same - it even has the same butterfly-inducing effect. 

“Gabe,” she almost whispers. 

He hears her, judging by how his smile gets impossibly wider. He’s pretty much giving the Joker a run for his money at this point. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he breathes. 

Before she can say another word, he pulls her in close for a hug that isn’t quite like the ones they used to share. The smell she breathes in is similar but not quite the same, but her head still ends up snuggling into his neck business. 

Oh, she still remembers that ridiculous rant fondly. 

Just when she relaxes in his arms, her arms having rediscovered their old familiar place around his waist, he pulls away slightly. They are no longer hugging, but he still pulls her into his side. 

“I missed you,” he is somehow still smiling. 

Can they really just slip right back into a friendship after six years of nothing, and does she even want that? Sure, she’d be lucky if he still wants to be her friend, but after that song she’s wondering if maybe, just maybe, there is more still in the cards for them. 

“You were in love with me?” she has to ask about the song. 

It’s been going through her head ever since she heard that damn song - he did have feelings for her then. Unless it’s all for the song, but she doubts that. He never used to be that kind of guy. 

Gabe has always been open and genuine about his feelings - except for senior year. She thought it had been about her crush - but maybe not. 

“You didn’t know?” Gabe appears stunned. 

“Of course I didn’t know you felt the same way,” she is exhausted and the words just slip out. 

He freezes briefly, and then he presses a soft kiss into her hair. 

“We’re idiots,” he mutters. 

“Not so much anymore,” she grins as she finally pulls him down to kiss her. 

#hihiyas #enjonine #enjolras x eponine #you are my revolution #my stories #I'm so glad it's done #I don't want to write this a third time

[anne-moss-blog]

The Panty Thief of Bridgeport

Ed Wagemann hasn’t changed much in the last 20 years. He might actually be wearing the exact same socks he wore in 1997 in fact. That may sound like an insult, but Sir Edward (as he now insists on being addressed during interviews) takes insults as compliments, and vice a versa. I met up with him on an rainy May day at his favorite burrito place in Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood to discuss the revision of his first novel The Panty Thief of Bridgeport.

Me: Sir Edward, You recently decided to revise your 1997 novel The Panty Thief of Bridgeport [PTOB]. Why?

Sir Edward: I use Panty Thief like a priest uses his Bible, kinda…

…long pause… [as I wait for what sounds like the set up to a Catholic Church joke]

Me: And how’s that?

Sir Edward: Whenever I get bored or stuck with whatever I’m currently writing I will go back and start picking away at Panty Thief.

Me: And that helps you get inspired?

Sir Edward: It reminds me that I should be having fun. [chuckles] This time around though I took a different approach. I decided to use the collective wisdom of the Internet to actually give Panty Thief the overhaul it has needed for awhile now.

Me: Tell me how that’s going.

Sir Edward: Great, if you like a bunch of smart ass trolls and Lit snobs telling you what a shit writer you are [chuckles again]. What I did was I started a blog where I’ll release one or two chapters of Panty Thief every couple of days and then I blanketed a bunch of writer’s groups on the internet with these open invites to come and participate in what I described as ‘the historical first EVER Interactive Revision of a published novel’… Then I sat back and watched the train wreck.

Me: Is that true? That this was the first EVER Interactive Revision?

Sir Edward: Hell if I know. But I got some actual feedback that I could use and I even met a couple of folks who actually dug it.

Me: And did you actually make any revisions to it based on that feedback?

Sir Edward: Yeah, some. Not as much as people thought I should though… One thing I did when I was inviting readers, writers, editors, etc to the Historical Interactive Revision was that I included a contest, sort of. I said that I would write two brand brand new characters into the novel who will be based on actual people that contribute comments to the Interactive Revision. But then I didn’t follow through.

[I found out later that more than one person threatened to sue Wagemann if he used their likeness in his novel. This may explain why he bailed on his idea of inserting characters in PTOB based on people who made comments during the Interactive Revision.]

Me: Hmm….

Sir Edward: Next Question! [laughs]

Me: During this Interactive Revision, what were the biggest criticisms of The Panty Thief of Bridgeport?

Sir Edward: You know, the usual. There were complaints about sentences that are too long or complaints about switching from present tense to past tense then back to present tense again. There were complaints of switching back and forth between active voice and passive voice… There was this one Lit-Nazi who actually put The Panty Thief through some computer program that analyzes writing. Oh man, I gave that Puritan an earful!

Me: Oh no, what did it is say?

Sir Edward: Well of course this computer program shot the novel to hell, pointing out that I used the word “that” 500 thousand times and that I made one million and six thousand and 32 word usage mistakes, and this and that. It made me laugh really, because I can’t name one computer that ever wrote a great novel, so why the fuck should a computer be trying to tell anyone how to write a novel?

Me: You’re talking about Grammarly, or the Hemingway Editor. They are computer software, not actual computers.

Sir Edward: Is that what they are? Well yeah, I don’t give a fuck. And I asked this Nazi if they had tried that computer analyzer on Catcher In The Rye? Or A Clockwork Orange? Or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? The stats on any of those are probably a million times worst than Panty Thief… The obvious problem with these computer analyzers is they don’t account for the individual voice of a first person narrator. So I kindly thanked the Nazi for their input but told her that I don’t put much stock in the paint-by-numbers computerized approach to creative writing. I mean WHO programs these computer programs? And what fucking standard are they using? Some elitist, grammar snob literary society standard that Hubert Selby would wipe his ass with.

Me: You mentioned The Panty Thief of Bridgeport was criticized for having sentences that were too long.

Sir Edward: I did?

Me: [looking down at my notes] That’s what I have written here in my notes.

Sir Edward: Oh well, if its written in your notes… [For the record, the audio playback of this interview confirmed I was correct]

Me: So what is YOUR opinion of overly lengthy sentences?

Sir Edward: That’s just another bull shit criticism. I mean, it might have something to do with the fact that we live in such a short attention span culture and we are being conditioned to process things in these nice little soundbites.

Me: But doesn’t the idea of short, economical sentences go back to Hemingway and his tip of the iceberg approach to fiction?

Sir Edward: Fuck Hemingway. Hemingway can suck the tip of MY iceberg, that no talent hack… [awkward laugh]. I personally don’t count the words in my sentences. And if a reader is distracted by the length of the sentences in a novel, then that means the content must be pretty fucking boring. Plus, you know, there’s the argument that long sentences can actually quicken the pace of the reader. Especially in a first person narrative. It can give the impression that the author is thinking quickly, that he or she is in a hurry and that there is an urgency to what they have to say… Unlike something like Camus’ The Stranger, which has a lot of short sentences and seems like the narrator is really going slow. So, it can be a pacing thing. But mostly it depends on the narrator’s voice. If the narrator I create for a story thinks and talks in long sentences, then I have to be true to that. Also it depends on the situation the narrator is in. Some times the narrator may be thinking in long sentences and some times he or she might be thinking in short ones… [Wagemann pauses to take a bite of his burito] And by the way, the same thing goes for cliches. The use of cliches is perfect, if the narrator thinks in cliches… like the narrator in The Killer Inside Me [by Jim Thompson]… it just depends on the narrator’s voice.

Me: Speaking of the narrator’s voice, you once gave me a very unconventional rational for switching back and forth between active voice and passive voice in The Panty Thief of Bridgeport. Do you remember that?

Sir Edward: Well, yeah, a central locamotion that keeps Panty Thief’s story moving is this clash between the narrator and the “mechanism” inside him that is trying to regulate his actions. So to differentiate between when the “narrative reality” is being controlled by this mechanism as opposed to the first person narrator I will slip into passive voice. So instead of saying “I listened to the music” the narrator will say something like “The music came to my ears and invaded my brain” or some shit. But that’s another thing that Lit-Nazi’s gas me with, all this switching back and forth between active and passive voice. Its just not proper they say…

Me: Well, it’s pretty experimental, don’t you think?

Sir Edward: Well, if it is experimental, then the Lit Nazi’s are just admitting that they aren’t open-minded enough to digest it. Which is no reason to criticize me. They should be criticizing themselves! [laughs]

Me: As you alluded to, the plot of PTOB hinges on the development and realization of some mysterious “mechanism” that lies within the narrator. This mechanism sends physical cues to guide the narrator. You use a succession of examples to illustrate how the mechanism does this, most of which are shown through flashbacks. Some are very recent flashbacks, while others happened years prior. So this means you are jumping around in time and space and you have to switch from present tense to past tense and then back to present tense again at the end. My question is, with so much jumping around, wouldn’t it have been better just to do the entire thing in past tense?

Sir Edward. Well, ask yourself why does anyone write anything in present tense instead of past tense? And I think the answer, in part, is to provide a certain real-time immediacy to the narrative. And I wanted that at the time I wrote it. Its the decision I made, so I’m sticking with it.

Me: Why use so many flashbacks though, more than 3/4 of the novel is in flashback.

Sir Edward: Really? That much?

Me: Yes, and after the opening chapter there is a series of flashbacks that for the most part are not in chronological order.

Sir Edward: Right, they are in the order that certain plot points need to be revealed. Then, at the end, when all of the plot points are fully realized, the narrator returns to present tense. You know, I’m a big fan of the flashback. In Panty Thief these flashbacks are there to answer certain questions while at the same time they are there to create other questions. Is this ‘mechanism’ a tool of god? Is the narrator simply insane? Is this mechanism a force of good? A force of evil? Is it all just a psychological trick the narrator has created to survive? Or is it just part of a complicated scheme to win the love of a woman? And so, its these questions and answers that move the story forward… it’s a ‘the more you know, the less you know’ kind of thing…

Me: But isn’t it hard to keep the reader engaged with all of these changes in time and place? Don’t you think it can disorient some readers?

Sir Edward: I really had to work hard on my transitions, to make sure they aren’t confusing. I’ve taken pains to put things into context in a way that keeps the story flowing and coherent… But I also think that all these changes in time and place challenges readers, and that’s a good thing because it keeps their imaginations working. And I admit I enjoy challenging readers because I like being challenged myself, when I read. But of course, this isn’t for everyone – most people want sugary breakfast cereal and bubblegum, Harry Potter and 50 Shades Of Gray shit. But there are those of us who get off on being challenged…

Me: And those are the people that The Panty Thief of Bridgeport was written for?

Sir Edward: Sure.