#does anyone else think nepotism is a good thing

[shiro-luvs-victor]

Gilbert von Obsidian, the main reason why I started playing Ikemen Prince. The main reason I started playing Ikemen games at all. Your route was so much fun, I can't explain.

Gilbert's route is not a route. It's basically a chessboard that we watch Gilbert play from both sides. Yes, it's a one-sided chess game and it's fun to watch. Really fun to watch! I was getting so hooked-up with the story and ended up falling in love with it.

👇👇👇Spoilers 👇👇👇

I think the fun part of Gilbert's route is uncovering his secrets slowly. For example, What is he hiding? Why did he change into....a beast? How does he know so much about Emma? What is his main goal here? All these questions get's answered in a well-crafted way in his story.

Gilbert is one of those characters who on the outside has all the characteristics as a villain but in reality he's a pure-hearted man who sacrificing everything for the better future of his country. Everyone just judges Gilbert based on rumors and what the previous Emperor of Obsidian did (I'm talking about the Bloodstained Rose Day). They all call him names like the 'Conqueror of Beasts' and 'Worldwide disaster' just because he's from Obsidian, a country known for corruption. But once you actually find out Gilbert's ambitions and what he's doing for his country, I just think he's a pretty cool guy. He's an anti-villain disguised as a villain.

His ambition to make sure everyone is being treated equally whether its royalty or a commoner and everyone should be punished for the crimes that they have committed and no one could gain favorable advantages because of their status, is truly remarkable. On top of that, he's not all fighting and conquering every nations he sees. He also works hard to make sure his country is doing better for his people. I'm talking about their food supply and technology upgrades. It does hurts me that Gilbert is only known as a 'Worldwide disaster' around the other nations especially in Rhodolite, instead of getting praised for developing his country and helping his people. People really like to look at only the bad side of a person, don't you think?

Gilbert also in his own way is trying to eradicate as much corruption and decay from his country. Starting with killing his own father, the Emperor because if the Emperor ain't doing anything for his people, he should either step down as an Emperor and let someone else more competent take the throne or just die. Neither happened, so Gilbert killed him to eliminate that threat. Then his killed of any corrupted nobles and that's why Obsidian is called the Country of Soldiers, because everyone inside the palace is a soldier (Including the maids, I guess)

Also, maybe it's only me, but I prefer the design of the Obsidian palace over the Rhodolite one. The Rhodolite palace is prettier-looking, covered with roses from head to toe every where both inside and outside. The Obsidian palace on the outside looks like a Haunted Castle that might eat you up, but in the inside, the ambience suites me perfectly. I don't really like too much light pouring inside my room.

Another thing I like about Obsidian palace is how Gilbert made sure everyone inside the palace who works for him is talented in their field of job. He recognizes talent over any kind of nepotism or status. Although Gilbert's ambition is to make sure that all people are to be treated equally, he's still feared by many ministers in the parliament. I think that's a good thing because it's good to be feared and having people do what you're asking for instead of letting them trample over you. Gilbert used to be like Emma, where he loved everyone and was kind to everyone. But since humans are the worst kinds of beasts, they will surely trample on kindness of people like Emma or former Gilbert. I'm not saying being kind is foolish but one should never let anyone trample over them for any reason. For example, we see Emma getting wrongfully bullied by some nobles just because she hangs out with Gilbert. Emma, for being a commoner gets bullied and other nobles or princes who talks with Gilbert, never. What frustrates me even more is that Emma just never stand up to her bullies and always let them have their way. I don't see any of the Rhodolite princes help her (except for one time when Yves caught that one noblewoman). When Gilbert clearly asks her, she calls him a beast and doesn't tell him. Honestly, I felt like Gilbert was the only one protecting her at that point, Emma was just being clouded by rumors about Gilbert where he's treated as the Voldemort of this world. He who-should-not-be-named!

I'm happy that later she does realize that she shouldn't be blinded by these rumors and must look at Gilbert objectively. Looking him as a human rather than a beast, but it's good thing that she admits her mistake. For her, she was like "I can fix him. I will bring him to my world which is filled with kindness and warmth and I can fix him and turn him into a human." and what does Gilbert do? He enters her world and paints it all black. Great job👍

Speaking of Emma, I love that Gilbert keeps giving her a reality check. Emma's whole ideals about fixing problems by talking things through is not a bad thing, but it's not effective in the current situation because of the tragedy known as the Bloodstained Rose Day. She never knew how much of tragedy that was and it was also partly the Rhodolite Princes' fault too. All this time, she was living in her own dream world like a main character of novel, that she mentions time to time, who never changes herself no matter how much hell she is put through. I think Emma is character who likes to dream a lot and she lives in a fantasy world which is all rainbows and sunshine. Once she is chosen as Belle, everything she thought about 'royalty' and 'nobles' which she read from books proved to be false. She starts learning about the cruel place she lives in, that is the royal palace, how the princes are not just some good-looking rich men but also very smart and strong, how the royalty can get a away with many things because of their status and even how much of piece of shit the previous Rhodolite emperor was. She learns these things and clearly realizes that despite living in Rhodolite for her entire life, she never actually knew everything about her country.

After being send as a hostage in Obsidian, it is only then she gets to see how truly developing Obsidian is, maybe even more than Rhodolite. People are all treating her well. The country wasn't like what she was expecting. To me it looked like she was having much better time in Obsidian than in Rhodolite, because at least there are no childish nobles that bully her just because they can.

Now coming to the meat of the story, Gilbert's illness. I was kinda surprised but also rolled my eyes at first when I heard that Gilbert had some kind of illness and he's going to die soon. I have seen this trope in other movies and dramas and it's usually a last minute thing that the story writers pulls it out of their ass to bait the viewers into keep investing in their characters. I always like to believe that they use these 'I'm dying from cancer' trope when they have no idea left. So when I saw Gilbert coughing blood I was praying so hard that the writers don't disappoint me. But thankfully it was not like that. I really did feel sad when I was reading the ending chapters. I admit that I was crying like a baby because Gilbert is just too sweet that I want to shower him with kisses. Every time. ALL THE TIME!

I think all in all Gilbert's route is really well written that I enjoyed most of it but it's not perfect. The issue is not that concerning, but I really wish they didn't emphasize it too much. I don't like cringy dialogues! Dialogues that make me physically cringy to the point that I roll my eyes. Dialogues like:

"What can I do to make you turn into a human?"

"If you shut down your feelings, you will eventually become a beast like me."

And my least favorite "He's the Conqueror of the Beast, the worldwide disaster...."

Emma just really loves that line to the point that she uses it every time Gilbert does something normal.

Sees Gilbert reading a book.

Emma: *gasps* "The Conqueror of the Beast, the worldwide disaster is reading a book!?!?!?"*shocked 101*

Sees Gilbert eating cookies.

Emma: *gasps* "The Conqueror of the Beast, the worldwide disaster eats cookies and not children!?!?!?"*shocked 102*

Yeah, and it's not just Emma, but some of the princes' and ministers except for Chevalier and Luke, who treats him like a normal human being. Maybe they have a past together. Probably the other other kid at the start of chapter 1 is Chevalier. They must be childhood friends. Luke and Gilbert also seems to know each other well, Luke was the only person that proudly claimed that Emma is doing very well in Obsidian so it seems like Luke must have been to Obsidian before.

Another thing. See the general rule of story-telling is 'Show than tell'. I want the writers to 'show' me how much of a pure-hearted character Emma is rather than the princes keep 'telling' the audience that Emma is kind and pure-hearted. If Emma is kind-hearted, I want them to show me her kindness in any way possible. For example, when they went to the orphanage, they could've have shown Emma mingling with the kids and helping them with whatever they need or maybe something like Emma doing a research about the Bloodstained Rose Day (actually she does, she goes around asking the princes but no one told her that the princes' were also at fault) learning both sides of the story. Show me things that would make me like her personality even more. Show me instances where she's actually a kind-hearted soul. If you don't show me, all I'm left with is a girl who forces her ideals onto others without thinking how much it's hurting the other person. I don't think Emma is terrible but I wish they could add more scenes for her where she truly gets to show her potential as a kind-hearted Belle.

Gilbert's route is a very neat political drama with a little bit of romance infused into it. Like I mentioned beforehand, the whole story is a chess game and Gilbert is the only one winning.

Both Gilbert and Emma's ideals are different. Gilbert, now, thinks that violence is the only means to get justice and Emma thinks talking is the only means to get justice. I don't think both are wrong. In cases like the Bloodstained Rose Day, the family of the victims needed justice because the royalty was not punished for their actions. That's why the anti-monarchy faction was developed. If Gilbert's ideals are followed, there would be Bloodstained Rose Day 2.0. If we go by Emma's ideals, it would be hard to get them to talk things through because of the gravity of the situation. It would still lead to the Bloodstained Rose Day 2.0. It was a straight up slaughter. It's a very complicated situation.

Anyways, I think Gilbert's route is truly amazing. A perfect 9.5/10. (I'm taking 0.5 points because of the cringy lines. NEVER COME SEE ME AGAIN!!)

#ikemen prince #ikemen series #otome #otome game #ikepri #ikemen prince gilbert #gilbert von obsidian #shiro reviews

[septembersghost]

jimmy sitting disheartened and all alone at the courthouse would be his day, every day, if he didn't indulge in ugly excess and fill every nook and cranny of saul's existence with continual noise and color and too loud advertisements and paid companionship and a bluetooth immediately in his ear. there's a piano in the mansion that never gets played, he can't explain why he even bought it, jokes it adds class. putting a tombstone in the middle of the room would be too unsubtle, not that he's aiming for subtlety. he avoids going down to court when possible, avoids interacting with the legal community in general, and they have a particular ire towards him when he does. they are not his colleagues, they are his adversaries.

suzanne called him a scumbag and there was only one person in the world who'd defend him against that accusation, and she's gone. when kim wexler left, the ada said, good for her, aloud to everyone in the vicinity, but then they all talked about what a shame it was to lose such a fine lawyer. it had to be the hamlin thing right? a few people whisper, maybe, in her time at HHM, she and howard were closer than they seemed, didn't you know the firm paid for her law school, there's another piece of the HHM legacy ruined forever, but those rumors are shut down quickly. first with, no, he wasn't like that. it's still hard to believe he could ever... and then with, no way, she was devoted to mcgill. she defended him at the hearing against his own brother, remember? that was the beginning of the firm's problems. even, i heard she accused howard of nepotism. then other details, she quit s&c abruptly, that was probably his fault. he did the same thing in santa fe. never made sense what she saw in him. or, she seemed to get fixated on wanting to help people, think it was guilt because she knew what he was becoming? or, she finally woke up, guess she was disgusted by what he was becoming. imagine having to live with him. or, why would a woman like that ever marry him? she disbarred herself! he totally tanked her life. or...?

discussions of james mcgill begin to treat him like he's dead, though no one quite realizes they're doing it. it wasn't that he'd been a bad lawyer, he was smart, he could be a really nice guy, but he was always wheeling and dealing. hard to know what was real until he showed it with that de guzman thing. maybe that was why she disappeared.

none of these discussions are had in front of saul because saul is never approached like a human being, but he still knows they have them. he's an annoyance, an aggravation, self-aggrandizing, tenacious. he succeeds with his cases, often. at a cost. they have to deal with his screeching commercials and his clashing suits, it is impossible to avoid this man in albuquerque, he rises to mini-celebrity status through sheer obnoxiousness alone, never letting anyone forget he exists. i'll fight for you. nobody knows what he's even fighting for - glory? money? respect is out of the question. they never see anything genuine from him except his desire to win.

he will not sit alone at the table. whatever, it doesn't matter who's there with him, but he's not pathetic. he's great. hell, he's untouchable. you've never mattered all that much to me...but so what? this is easier. no more pretending, no more attempts to play it straight, no one else to try and change for. he's a cathedral of justice with foam columns. they can't take him down. he beats them to it.

#IDK WHAT THIS IS #i'm upset #jimmy mcgill #saul goodman #kim wexler #better call saul #bcs spoilers #* #btw the rumors and commentary are dedicated to people who don't get this show lol

[katcadecascade]

If you believe the lies I tell (Snowjanus fic)

Summary: Coriolanus Snow doesn’t scent mark anyone, he doesn’t hand out tokens of his affections. No one can change his mind. Not Tigris’ pleading, not Clemensia’s begging, and not Arachne’s taunting.

Certainly not Sejanus Plinth’s gifts.

(Coriolanus Snow is a horrible omega and Sejanus Plinth is a horrible alpha. They’re a perfect match.)

Ao3

Chapter One: Bread

Word Count: 3,287

“You might be a top student, adorned by the masses, but I think there is one thing you fail at Coriolanus Snow.”

It’s not a surprise that Arachne Crane is openly taunting him. Usually she has more poise than going the direct route.

Here in the Academy’s dining hall, it’s more than their usual circle of classmates that are actively listening. No doubt by the end of the day, this little spat will go through the rumor mill.

Coriolanus has to control this little bug before he’s caught in a web.

Snow lands on top.

It has to.

He’s as collected as ever, giving Clemensia an apologetic smile, “Excuse me Clemensia, I have to go deal with this.”

“None taken, we can talk about our flawless grades later.” Clemensia flows his lead, degrading Arachne with their polite smugness.

“Alright Crane,” he addresses Arachne finally, standing to his full height but that’s too threatening.

He leans back to sit on the table, trying to ignore his half finished lunch.

It’s one thing to taunt a Snow. It’s another to interrupt a starving Coryo.

“Pray tell, what is the one thing I apparently fail at?”

Acclaming wealth.

Owning more than one clean shirt.

Gathering enough food to feed him, his cousin, and his grandmother.

Attaining his family’s former way of living any time soon.

Arachne doesn’t know this, she can’t know this. Yet she would flaunt her status much more than anyone else. Even more than Felix Ravinstill and his presidential nepotism.

The girl puts on a show, there’s a flare up in the air. Each and every one of their classmates gets a noseful of vanilla, fresh pressed and honey coated. Coriolanus wants to puke from the sweetness.

“You fail at being a good, no, a decent omega.”

This honestly catches him off guard. He can’t hide a glare before schooling his face, trying to remain as passive under the smug gaze of his fellow omega. Yet Arachne is watching him, believing she found a weak point.

As if, little spider.

“Arachne, I come to school to study.” He gestures around to their audience, “Not to flaunt around my scent. You might give people the wrong impression.”

He doesn’t bother to whisper, playing a little dirty with such an implication. Arachne doesn’t react angrily but her scent does lessen, no longer attacking his nose.

“Oh nonsense, Coriolanus,” she laughs off, “I’m just being sociable. Besides, my friends love carrying around my scent. I happen to not ever recall you gracing your own with classmates we so dearly grew up with.”

He can’t deny that. Any sort of scent of Coriolanus Snow hasn’t been spread out since they were little and on the playgrounds.

“We all have our preferences,” he begins diplomatically. “You don’t have to make a show out of something so trivial. I’m flattered that you're curious about me, Arachne but please, mind your manners.” This time Coriolanus does lower his voice, leaning down to be at her eye level, “It’s unbecoming of an omega to act so crassly.”

There’s a satisfying twitch in her left eye.

She whispers back, “You would know, Coriolanus Snow.”

The Crane heir backs away, hurries off to another table where her friends mutter to her, no doubt reassuring her that mean Snow totally got unnerved and that she didn’t look like a fool.

That’s not how everyone else will see it though. Coriolanus already sees others in the dining hall gossiping about their little spat.

Cooly, Coriolanus returns to his lunch. He’s got a bite in before acknowledging his companion.

“What is it, Clemensia?” Her hesitance flares up an irritation in his chest. One look of her uncertain frown tells it all. “No, no way. You can't be serious about what Arachne said.”

“Coriolauns,” and he instantly despises how worried she sounds. “We’ve known each other since primary school. You have never given anyone a token with your scent on it.”

She’s implying herself, trying to make him feel guilty over something that friends should do.

Gifting a piece of cloth or an article of clothing that has their scent on it or directly scenting over their glands. It’s a sign of friendship, of close companionship and community. Also the earliest stages of courting but for the most part the intention is platonic. Scent marking as a comfort for the pack.

Traditionally, it is the omega companion to initiation gift giving.

Coriolanus Snow can’t give away the little possessions he has just to prove he has friends. He could not sacrifice any of his clothes or money to please others, he would never. If he doesn’t bother with gifts, then there is no chance he’ll let anyone scent his neck.

“There’s no need to hand out my scent like holiday cards, Clemensia.” He says it slowly, like he’s lecturing a small child and not the person he aces school projects with.

Clemensia presses her lips into a thin line. Not happy with his explanation but she doesn’t fight back.

Good.

He doesn’t want to deal with this. It’s a useless fantasy to dream of.

In an ideal world, the Snows would have a full wardrobe, a well stocked kitchen, pristine furniture and a rose garden always in bloom. Nothing regarding a nest or gifts with scents were ever in Coriolanus’ priorities.

They continue on with their lunch. Clemensia’s wounded attitude remains but Coriolanus refuses to give in. He can repair their partnership with another passing grade. They work well together, he’ll admit that.

Just as the dining hall clears out, right as he’s about to swipe away some food into his school bag, Clemensia is still next to him.

“I’m sorry,” she begins, unknowingly wasting his time to steal food, “I didn’t mean to offend you or be pushy about scenting.”

He tries not to stare at the remaining food. An apple for Tigris and some bread rolls they can use for breakfast.

“Apology accepted Clemensia,” he tries to leave it there, willing her to turn away but she continues.

“Still, I just always wondered why. We all grew up with each other, we’ve seen how everyone’s dynamics presented and know their scents. Scent marking just became natural for us except…”

“Except for me.” Coriolanus didn’t need to force himself to match her sadness. “Clemensia, I just don’t want to be swamped with so many scents. I’m not sorry. Nothing that Arachne says will change my mind.”

He knows not to say ‘nothing that you say will change my mind.’

That’s just too mean, too directly in Clemensia’s feelings. Yet she’s smarter than he gives credit because there is a twang of sadness in her scent. A bitter tea that unnerves Coriolanus’ senses.

“Okay,” she says, “but if you ever need anything, you can tell me.”

This is permission to something Coriolanus won’t ever take her up on. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

A genuine smile accepts his empty words, the scent of lavenders are once more fresh.

“Let’s get to class, Coriolanus.”

Clemensia stands up with no intention of taking her food tray to one of the trash bins. They have janitors to clean this all up, after all.

Under her gaze, Coriolanus leaves his food behind and follows suit. He struggles to think of what could be for dinner now. More often than not, he relies on Tigris for their dinners but he can’t always expect her to be lumped with its work.

He has to push those thoughts to the side as he focuses on his classes. Yet once in a while he catches Arachne’s eye.

Was this her intention? Rattle him up with criticism on his dynamic as an academic distraction? It’s so stupid that it cannot be true. This is just his paranoia, his hunger bleeding to his fears. Luckily none of his thoughts are broadcasted into his scent, he will never allow that major of a slip up.

Scent blockers are a requirement just as much as their school uniform. A daily pill that conceals anything surface level. While its effectiveness varies from person to person, it’s all about self control. Not once in his spat with Acrahne did his scent falter or reveal itself. For years he has kept a handle on it. The most integral communicational instincts of everyone and Coriolanus Snow has never partook in that exchange of trust.

Tigris and the Grandma’am are the only ones who’s faced the blunt force of his scent. The Snows were their own pack, in agreement to never let anyone in. They couldn’t afford to.

Yet under Grandma’am’s knowledge and her deteriorating sense of smell, he catches Tigris with tokens. Colorful scarves or shawls that smell of a multitude of friends. He has no idea who they could be. Coriolauns never had the boldness to ask.

Knowing that his alpha cousin scent marked tokens for others made Coriolanus wonder about doing his own. It’s a conflicting idea.

On one hand it’s the norm, exchanging scented gifts strengthens bonds. It all staves off loneliness and invites kinship and intimacy. But the idea of pouring his heart to anyone is terrifying. Coriolanus absolutely refuses the idea of letting anyone lay some sort of mark on him.

He simply can’t so he rejects gifts and never offers a token to anyone else.

It’s for the best.

Yet it happens everyday. A traditional courtship that just became a commonplace occurrence in the modern day. This small and simple thing that sends a wave of envy down with his hunger.

Sometimes the gifts are food.

The rest of the Capitol has it so easy. With enough food and clothing to leisurely give to anyone who catches their eye.

He hates that they all have so much to give but he’ll hate it more if anyone gave him a token. Because it means they want something from Coriolanus Snow.

The moment anyone realizes that he has nothing to give, it’s over.

Coriolanus Snow has to remain as perfect as ever. One of the top students of their year, in the good social graces of his peers or can dominate any smack that Arachne can throw at him. Here at the Academy, no one can know how far the Snows have fallen.

No wealth.

No food.

No one else to rely on.

A blinding envy roots around his cerebral cortex, seeing everything he has ever wanted in every other student he passes. Clemensia Dovecote has her intellect. Urban Canville is a calculus genius. Felix Ravinstill can and will use nepotism by virtue of being related to the president. Even Arachne Crane uses her lavish wealth for her fashion habits.

Worst of all there is Sejanus Plinth. It’s hard to ignore his existence ever since primary school.

The boy from District Two who’s father literally bought their place in the Capitol. Drowning in more money than others, Sejanus still acts like he’s a plain boy in the Districts.

Everyone views him as an outsider. Coriolanus tolerated him better than most. After all, he’s smart enough to not get on the bad side of money, no matter if it came from the Districts or Capitol.

Sejanus may not be the one to start arguments but he certainly finishes them.

It’s the only proof of his alpha nature.

By the time they all began their studies in the Academy, there hadn't been much fighting amongst themselves. Only the usual snipes from Arachne or boasts from Festus.

Today surprises Coriolanus by how many of his classmates want to make fools of themselves.

When classes are done, everyone heads out the Academy’s grand doors to where lines of valets are waiting to pick students up.

None of these automobiles are for Coriolanus. He hadn’t had a chauffeur since his mother was alive. So he remains inside the building, pretending to read or assuring his kinder classmates that he’s waiting for the crowd to die out.

He always declines Clemensia’s offer to take him home.

No, he can’t risk her seeing how bad his house is, let alone the disrepair the street is in.

Coriolanus planned his routine well enough after all these years, once there’s no more cars around he is free to walk the long way home.

To his dismay there are two cars waiting for passengers by the hour mark.

“Hey Plinth, fancy seeing you here!”

“This is school Festus, if anything it’s a shock to see you’re still around.”

Fantastic, another one of Festus getting a rise out of Sejanus. That boy is a glutton for humiliation.

Coriolanus manages to hide behind the doors, outside of anyone’s perspective but also leaving him in the dark.

Thankfully Festus is loud.

“A shock? Wow, that really hurts my feelings, Sejanus. I thought we were friends.”

A snort is almost a reflex, Coriolanus can’t believe how utterly transparent Festus is. What in the world is he doing, trying to butter up to Sejanus?

“Festus, I already told you, no. I’m not doing it. Also I don’t believe we were ever friends.”

“Alright, but what about Persephone? She’s like the nicest girl in class. Do it for her.”

“I see why you’re doing this. It’s really sweet of you to try to arrange this but I’m not doing all the work just because you can’t do it yourself.”

That gets Festus to shut up for a moment, likely reflecting on his soul on Sejanus’ words. Maybe he’s turning over a new leaf and becoming as honorable as Sejanus Plinth.

“I can sabotage Urban to flunk so that you can get the top calculus score.”

Or not.

“Festus, just stop. No party is worth screwing over your friend’s grades.”

“It’s for Persephone’s birthday! It’s worth it to me to get her favorite desserts.” A ragged sigh makes it sound like Festus is truly suffering, “She just had to love your homemade cookies and your mom’s red velvet cake.”

“They are really good, so I’ve remembered. I can’t quite recall the last time I baked you all pastries.”

About a couple of years ago, back in their early primary school days. Coriolanus recalls perfectly the time when Ma Plinth brought the most delicious baked goods to their class. He and Persephone had to hold back tears from eating that red velvet devil cake. They knew they were in the same boat of starvation at that time.

Persephone Price’s family fared better in the later months, no doubt pushing those dark times of desperate stomachs and questionable meals to the back of their minds.

As for Coriolanus, on his worst days he’d remember the taste of those peanut butter cookies. His stomach aching for its weight while his ego despises the fact that they were made by Sejanus Plinth.

Many of their classmates teased Sejanus for doing the work of servants after that day. As a result, Sejanus never again brought them food.

Coriolanus Snow hated all of them. They don’t know the games of hunger they put him through. Maybe that’s why he never felt like scent marking any of them. A young stomach never forgives those who deny it food. It’s easier to blame them all for his hunger.

“My answer is still no, Festus.”

From the silence, it sounds like they’re doing a staring contest.

Utterly bored, Coriolanus uses the best of his imagination on what Sejanus looks like.

Brown hair that’s too curly, too unruly. Moles are scattered on his face, one predominantly on his cheek. He can’t ever recall Sejanus’ smile. Maybe once when they were little but it’s hard to picture that wet-eyed, plain looking boy onto the young man with soul-seeing eyes and a defensive scowl.

Tis the fate of someone surrounded by enemies, any genuine kindness out of sight.

Festus leaves stomping. No doubt back where he started, frustrated by Sejanus Plinth. Coriolanus can sympathize with that.

“He’s gone now.” Sejanus’ voice sends a chill down his back. “You can come out, Coriolanus.”

Coriolanus can really sympathize with Festus on being frustrated by Sejanus.

He steps out, taking in the empty courtyard. There’s a car waiting for the Plinth so Coriolanus has to deal with him before walking home.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he tests out something that’s not quite an apology, but it does paint him as not at fault.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sejanus shrugs. “Unless you want to tell Persephone how desperate Festus is trying for her.”

He thinks he understands what this is all about. “If Festus is trying to give her the perfect cake for her birthday, then he should try a little bit harder than begging for it. Or conspiring against Urban’s calculus skills.”

That surprisingly makes Sejanus laugh, “A conspiracy for good grades? That sounds like something Dennis comes up with, not Festus.”

“You obviously don’t know Festus’ grades, then.”

It’s strangely easy to talk with Sejanus. It’s mostly just making fun of their classmates but enough to feel normal. But that’s a ridiculous notion, Coriolanus is only so carefree with his tongue because it’s only them here.

No one’s around to witness Coriolanus Snow being friendly with Sejanus Plinth.

That’s for the best when the richer boy takes a step closer. He’s actually taller than him but Sejanus is broader in the shoulders, his uniform well fitted.

“Coriolanus, I…” Sejanus awkwardly stumbles with his words, leaving Coriolanus hopelessly confused.

He quickly opens his satchel, takes something out to shove into Coriolanus’ hands. He blames being too curious to just reflexively hold whatever this is.

It’s a balled up handkerchief. Flipping one corner over reveals bread rolls.

An ache rings around his stomach. A usual reaction to food but this makes Coriolanus nauseous.

He saw. He has an idea, no matter how small, on Coriolanus Snow needing food.

For a split second he has the urge to throw it all to the dirty ground. Survival instincts stop him.

“Coriolanus?”

His voice is so small, like he sees Coriolanus as small.

A bitter fury shakes through his hands as he shoves it into his bag. Coriolanus refuses to even look at Sejanus, being reckless by knocking their shoulders together as he stomps off.

This is the type of alpha Sejanus is. Always giving others a reason to hate him.

He could not begin to care if Sejanus is curious as to why the Snow is not driven home or why he wanted to scavenge food.

Sejanus already knows too much and Coriolanus will not provide any more ammunition to be used against him.

When he gets home his feet humm with tension, too much marching the weight of a poor boy. Yet this little bundle of food weighs truly on his mind, trying to pin down Sejanus in his memories.

Arachne tried to make a mockery of Coriolanus in front of as many people as she could get. If anyone paid attention to him, they would’ve noticed if he ate with starving rapture, which he didn’t. They would’ve noticed him save the remainder of his lunch in his bag, but he never got the chance to.

All Coriolanus did was send one last parting look at his lunch tray before Clemensia took him to class. That was enough for Sejanus Plinth to witness, to know something is wrong with Coriolanus Snow.

As he takes in the peeling wallpaper, the creaking floorboards, the dulled and worn down furniture, and the ruin of his once beautiful home, Coriolanus hopes that Sejanus won’t know more about him.

He takes out the handkerchief and now inside these cold walls, away from the world and its endless distractions, he smells it.

Nutmeg.

It’s not from the bread, its smell is on the cloth.

Coriolanus hates how good it smells.

-

Thanks for reading!

#snowjanus #snowjanus fic #my fic #coriolanus snow #sejanus plinth

[a-student-out-of-time]

*Meanwhile, in another part of the hotel*

Are...Are you serious about this?

I’m afraid so. Looking over the evidence Masa gave me, there’s no doubt in my mind.

As soon as this gets out, people are going to want answers, and the brunt of the consequences are going to hit people like you all.

The scale of this is just...

Shit...

But...what about Suzuko? Or Taro?

Chiaki, Mahiru, none of them had anything to do with any of this!

Seriously, what’s gonna happen to them? I’m prepared to sue if necessary.

It’s not as though any of us wanted to use nepotism to let them in!

Hey! Please, everyone, calm down. We’ll get this figured out.

These are the facts: Nijiue Ayato used his connections to get Nanami Harumi kicked out from what would’ve been her position in Class 49. Sato Emina, later Nijiue Emina, received her position instead. That we know for certain.

...

So, if this comes to light, what happens?

Well, the good news is that you’ll finally be recognized for your talents.

The Nijiue’s meddling means that the police lost their best investigator. They’ll be quick to issue an apology and you may even get some job offers from law enforcement.

Seriously? They’ll give Haru her job back?

Sure, but not if it means everyone else loses theirs. How many people is this going to affect?

...A lot of people. Probably a few thousand, at least.

I was afraid of that.

...Including me, right?

But Hitoshi-kun, you weren’t part of that plan! They shoved you in at the last minute! How is that your fault?!

Yeah, c’mon man! You’re a great construction worker! You helped with that investigation in Seoul!

Yeah, but you think that matters?

I didn’t get in on my own merits. I was there to fill up space, probably because they decided they didn’t want a cage match or something just a week before our class started.

I knew I didn’t belong there.

But it isn’t your fault!

It doesn’t matter. Just tell me, does Mahiru lose her place in Class 77 because of this?

That depends: has she done anything worth getting kicked out?

No. Not to my knowledge, but...maybe Kaori could tell you more.

Alright, all I need is a bit of cooperation from you all. When this comes up, I’ll get all the pieces together and help you all as best I can.

I can’t promise I can keep you all from being stripped of your titles, but I’ll make sure the blame gets passed squarely onto those who’ve earned it.

And knowing the Steering Committee, if they or anyone else want to escalate things, I’m prepared to do the same.

Well, here’s my question, Esumi-san. Not that I don’t trust you, but I’d like to know just what makes you sure they’ll listen to you.

It sounds to me like you’ve got personal experience with this sort of thing.

You wouldn’t happen to have connections, would you?

Sharp as ever, Ouma-san. You’re right, I do.

Before even your time in Hope’s Peak, I was one of their original scouts. When I graduated, they had me go cross-country, looking for the best of the best.

So I know a thing or two about just what sort of things could put everyone at risk. I know how the people in charge of that school work.

#danganronpa #nwpm #neo world program monitor #sdra2 #Super Daganronpa Another 2 #akira esumi #masa esumi #kasumi ouma #harumi nanami #tenmei nanami #shinji kasai #Hitoshi Koizumi #Mio Yonaga #yuka saihara #goro hirabayashi #ichiro kashiki #sakura arima #sakura fushimi #a student out of time #DR #All Eyes On Me arc

[floralovebot]

I think Riven was poor in the show... I think Riven hated Sky for being a prince too. They're fighting was because of that too. Are you saying that Riven did not hate Sky because he is a prince? Riven said a lot that he did not like Sky because he is rich and rich people are unfair. Please share your thoughts for me.

I'm pretty sure this is in response to this post? But let me know if not!

Anyway, Riven coming from a poor or even "middle class" background isn't canon, it's just a really good headcanon. I say it's a headcanon because when it comes up, it's always a vague implication that could also be about something else. Like his mother abandoning him could definitely have led to him growing up poor, but it's also not an exact confirmation. His mother leaving for money could mean they were poor, but it could also mean she just wanted More Money. Darcy saying he has "a darkness inside him" is likely about mental illness and trauma rather than him being poor and taking it out on the others (also anyone who uses this as an example just know i am beam blasting your house so hard). Riven calling out nepotism and classism could definitely be more personal but it could also be an example of his very high morality and moral judgment. (like riven is extremely intelligent and stands up for people in less fortunate situations a lot.)

Like,,, it's never directly stated that he's poor and the implications that people usually see could very easily be about something else. Kind of like the headcanon that Helia grew up at RF or comes from a military family; lots of good implications, but not canon. Or s1 implying that Flora could be a lesbian or wlw; lots of implications, but not canon. On the flip side, there are tons of things about Riven that are directly stated or directly implied (like his trust issues, issues with administration, his mental health issues, and even his mother leaving him). But Riven coming from a specifically poor background is something that's more often than not just an implication that could be implying something else. I'm not saying that implication isn't there at all, but it can definitely be read in other ways (for example, I've seen people headcanon that Riven comes from a noble family and hates classism because he's seen it up close). But regardless, Riven being poor is just an implication because it's not stated or shown in canon.

Also, I should note that my post wasn't about shitting on this headcanon. I like the idea that Riven comes from a poor background. It makes sense within canon, I do think it's implied (even some of the weaker implications are still fun to me), and I often use it in other headcanons and aus. But again, it's not Canon and his rivalry with Sky and the other specialists had a lot of components that aren't related to classism. My post was specifically about how the Sky vs Riven rivalry wasn't just about classism. Riven absolutely does not like royalty or the idea of different classes in general. However, his rivalry with Sky was never just about Sky being a prince.

Riven calls Sky out for having advantages over them, yes. Riven calls out the other characters for not knowing something, for being privileged, for nepotism, etc, yes. But his dislike of Sky specifically didn't stem from classism. Like I said in that post, classism was absolutely a factor but it wasn't the Biggest Factor.

Riven had a lot of internal issues in s1 and all of them played a factor in his rivalry with Sky. Sky being a prince was the icing on top. It really cemented everything that Riven thought of Sky before, but it was never the First Reason, the Big Reason, or the Only Reason. Riven didn't like the specialists because they were constantly undermining him, constantly insulting him (sometimes in a direct insulting way and sometimes in a "playful/joking" way), always assuming the worst of him, and never taking his side in literally anything. He also has extreme trust issues, felt like he would be better off alone, and used everything they said and did as a confirmation of why. Like s1 Riven had a really bad case of confirmation bias and was constantly looking for reasons to hate them (Sky being a prince was One of those reasons).

Like I said in that post, the Riven vs Sky rivalry had a lot of depth and both parties played into it. In canon, it was never just Poor Boy Hate Rich Boy. Sky being a prince and therefore having a lot of privilege was absolutely a factor in Riven's dislike of him, but it was never the only thing or the biggest reason. If Sky hadn't been the prince, Riven still would've hated him. Like,, that's important! Riven didn't hate Sky Just because he's a prince. He didn't trust Sky, hated that Sky looked down on him (regardless of their class standing), and hated that Sky "saw better in him". He hated that they were both extremely stubborn, irrational pricks who took it out on each other. He hated that Sky clearly didn't like, trust, or respect him.

And again, I really do think his relationships with the other royal and/or rich characters back this up. If Riven hated Sky simply for being a prince, that energy would've been directed toward Brandon first and it would also be directed toward Bloom, Stella, and Aisha. But it isn't. In fact, Riven often shows that he respects and likes Aisha! Even when he does call the other royal/rich characters out, it's never with animosity. It's usually in this, "yeah you're rich and dumb and privileged here I'll show you how it's done 🙄" kind of way. With Sky, it's more "i hate you i hate you i hate you i hate myself fuck off i hate you AND you're a prince god could you get any worse???". Yknow?

#long post #like again i want to make it clear that im not shitting on the Riven Poor headcanons #i Like them and theyre very juicy to me #but it is still just a headcanon and even if it was canon its still not the only factor in the rivalry #like i was specifically talking about how people have a sort of... well this is gonna sound mean but a very one dimensional - #understanding of the sky/riven rivalry #classism IS a factor and sky being a prince IS a reason but thats not the Only component #and it genuinely bothers me when people think classism is the ONLY factor because it really brings the rivalry down so much #there are So Many factors in their rivalry and when people boil it down to Just Poor Boy Hate Rich Boy its really awkward #it erases a lot of what riven was feeling and how he took it out on people #it also erases a lot of sky's involvement in their fighting beyond his privilege #because again his being royalty does play a factor but he's also stubborn and judgemental and assumes the worst in people #and riven Hates those kinds of people and sky was always taking it out on Him #like sky didnt treat anyone else like that ??? #sky was his worst fucking nightmare ajhdflg #and again sky being a prince really just solidified Everything that riven Already thought #sky and riven both had a Lot of internal issues and they were taking it out on each other #that would stay the same if sky was genuinely not a prince or even if he was poor #because it was never Just about him being a prince. that Was one factor - not the entire rivalry #so again headcanon whatever you want about riven's background! i for one will continue to think he grew up poor #but its still just a headcanon and their rivalry still has a lot of components that arent related to classism or nepotism #answered #i hope none of this comes off as mean anon i promise im not trying to shit on your thoughts #like.. i think besides the riven poor in canon thing we're in agreement? #i think another aspect of riven hating sky for being a prince is that sky hates being seen as A Prince and riven really doesnt get that #like they just Do Not understand each other and they often refused to try #after s1 we see both of them actually trying and their relationship gets better because of it

[milanarora]

— BASICS

Name: Milan Arora  Age / D.O.B.: 37 / 1st August 1984 Gender, Pronouns & Sexuality: Cismale, he/him, heterosexual Hometown: New York City, New York Affiliation: Media Job position: News Anchor @ ABC Education: Harvard, BA (PoliSci) Relationship status: Engaged Children: None Positive traits: Outgoing, Fun-loving, Generous, Confident, Personable Negative traits: Vain, Immature, Irresponsible, Self-absorbed, Dramatic

— BIOGRAPHY

The Arora dynasty -- their bloodline can be traced back to Indian nobility where their wealth primarily came from land, property and gold.

The decision to settle in America came from Milan’s grandfather. Him and his two brothers decided to branch out and America was the perfect playground for them to build on.

It didn’t come without struggles, finding their place in rich white America wasn’t easy, but they were able to establish their standing through hard work and the help from connections, and now the family are able to enjoy their prominence.

Now they share the blueprint of the typical, American old money family, with a finger in every pie: business, politics, law, entertainment and the media.

Milan’s dad took over the family business, one of the biggest privately owned conglomerates in the world, whilst his mom is a retired actress. They are known for their political and investing activities, creating a network of donors with like-minded individuals.

As a child, it was obvious Milan was never academically driven. He loved to have fun, spend time with his friends, and got distracted too easily. His grades were above average, but he lacked the ambition to excel, to be the best of the best. And that’s where he fell short of expectations.

Harvard was the obvious choice for him, though it has never occurred to him that he was only accepted because of his family name. 

A classic nepotism baby who thinks his hard work is the same as everyone else’s hard work. He did everything the ‘right’ way, started from the bottom and worked his way up to the top, though essentially he has had his foot in the door since birth.

As time went on, it became clear Milan would not follow the path his parents had planned for him. That wasn’t for a lack of trying, however. He wanted to be taken seriously, to be the star of the family and impress everyone with his accolades. Unfortunately, he just loved people too much. Attention, validation. Fame. And so, he went into media. More specifically, the news.

Once he finally reached the screen, the reviews were great. He was loved! He boosted ratings. He started off as a substitute, then became a news anchor, from overnight shows to morning shows, and then finally getting his own morning news slot at ABC as a co-anchor.

His engagement was informally arranged. Milan has always known he would marry Simran. Their families were close, it was talked about openly, as though it was expected of them but it was their choice, and Milan had no desire to let anyone down. Besides, Simran has always been so pretty!

Their relationship began after graduating from Harvard. It started off like a dream, he fell for her fast. But when the time came to announce their engagement, Milan had his reservations but he was determined to make it work. It was clear neither of their hearts were truly in it, but it was convenient.

Simran decided to make it work for them, making their relationship very public, crafting this picture perfect image for themselves. With both of their jobs placing them in the limelight, it was one thing to be good but another to be likeable. People became invested in them, in their relationship and it helped attract viewers and increase ratings.

Milan has always liked this side to her. It makes him feel like they are on the same page. Their families are always about image, intensely so. Rarely does a scandal ever reach the light, and it’s nice to know that this doesn’t scare her off. She has always been by his side, despite all of his fuck ups, and he couldn’t be more grateful. Every now and again, he’s sure he’s still in love with her, but then they’ll fight, or he’ll have a conversation with a total stranger, and he’s back to square one.

For now, however, it works for him but he has bigger goals. Doing the news on ABC is only a stepping stone. He wants the prime time slot at CNN, by himself, where he would be taken a little more seriously. Reporting real news to real people. 

A lot of his critics complain he is only there through nepotism, that he is more of a celebrity than a news anchor (they’re not wrong, he loves a good hashtag), his family have high expectations of him (to achieve more than what he would’ve achieved had he become a politician), so he has a lot to prove and he is starting to feel the pressure.

However, he has made many mistakes along the way, things that could come out and ruin his reputation: drugs, strip club, cheating, friends with gang members. Every day he wakes up and fears it will leak and this has made him incredibly restless. He wants to bury all leads before progressing in his career and with that he’ll need to enlist the help of some friends.

Personality wise, Milan channels the Kardashian spirit. Loves social media. He is Cringe but he is free. He loves attention, obsessed with validation, and loves to be liked. Honestly portrays himself as someone who is super down-to-earth, relatable, one of the ‘people’. In some ways, he is naïve, genuinely tends to see the good in others and has a fairly big heart. He’ll talk to anyone he bumps into on the street, and if they thought of him poorly beforehand then it’s likely they would’ve changed their minds. But he is inherently selfish. If he wants something, he’ll go for it, and if it hurts someone along the way, he’ll simply regret it after.

— WANTED CONNECTIONS / PLOTS

SIMRAN - His wife. Most of the details are in the bio but happy to flesh them out a bit more. The general vibe is they have a strained relationship but it’s too late to back out now and it is convenient. To the public, they have a perfect relationship, the kind that people always post like ‘if they break up then true love isn’t real’. At home, they’re hot or cold with each other. They fight and the love is barely there. This has lead to Milan seeking it elsewhere and Simran doesn’t know about it, or if she does then Milan doesn’t know that she knows, and honestly she could be cheating on him too. But it is vital that it doesn’t come out. 

GHOST WRITER - Milan isn’t stupid but he definitely wouldn’t be where he is now without the influence from his family. He isn’t underqualified per se but he has the help of interns, assistants, journalists who write his questions for him beforehand and he rarely goes off script. This could be someone who either enjoys their job or feels very undervalued and feels like they should be in Milan’s spot.

CHILDHOOD FRIENDS - People from high society, influential families, etc. He’s social butterfly, likes to befriend everyone and is good at maintaining all those friendships. A true and loyal friend, someone who will always have your back, and will always show up at your door if you need a shoulder to cry on. That’s why it’s hard when he does eventually fuck up over a stupid mistake. 

Specifically Laurie x Jo or Laurie x Amy vibes. Anything Laurie x March family basically. 

ALMOST - Probably a childhood friend, someone he has known for a long time. Milan has always had feelings for her, and it was probably obvious to a lot of people, including her. I think it’d be spicy if it was unrequited but ofc the decision is UTP. Either way, both of them knew it could never become anything serious because of his arranged marriage, so maybe she thought he was just joking, or never took him seriously, but they managed to stay friends despite it all. He probably will always have feelings for this person. 

EXES/EX FLINGS - Self-explanatory. It could be at any stage of his life up until his marriage around 5 years ago. Could’ve ended on a good note, terrible note, maybe they haven’t managed to end it clearly so keep circling back to each other.

FIRE EMOJI - They’ve been talking in the dms and it could be passed off as friendly, but also not really. Maybe milan is reading too into it. For whatever reason, either on milan’s part or your characters, they haven’t had a chance to meet up yet. But now they’ve finally set a date...

LET LOOSE - Maybe a gang member who owns a club or a bar and Milan trusts them enough to be able to let loose in private, away from the public eye. Maybe they were friends beforehand, or maybe Milan pays them a hefty sum of money, or has even invested.

POLITICIANS - Someone whose campaign he worked on during college, or maybe they didn’t like the way he covered one of their elections, or maybe they want to befriend him to serve him well for an upcoming election.

RIVAL - Someone from a rival network who has a show at the same time as him. They are at each other’s throats. Anyone behind the scenes are aware of this but in front of the cameras they’ll smile and give each other a hug.

YOU DID WHAT - Milan likes to think he is dedicated to finding the right story but honestly he has other priorities. He likes debriefs, scripts, morning meetings whilst he’s getting his hair done. But maybe he stumbled across a story, involving a gang member or someone corrupt in a high position, and your character knows who he is and is trying to scare him into not doing anything with it.

GANG GANG - several ideas for characters involved in a gang:

Someone he met randomly, literally anywhere, and they got on and became friends. The gang member could’ve lied about what they really do for whatever reason and Milan believes it. Maybe it’s some sob story, and Milan gives them like a wad of cash thinking he’s helping them out. Has potential to be very, very funny if the truth ever comes out because he’ll just be like this.

Alternatively, someone who he was friends with but found out about their nature of work and Milan decided to cut ties with them. 

Dealers who will keep quiet but honestly Milan will also want to talk about his day

Other generic connections I haven’t listed above but as always I’m willing to brainstorm anything!

#wb.intro #so long and for what

[pers-books]

Fic: Reunions (Doctor Who)

Summary: After Prentiss tries to kill Kate Stewart she goes into hiding. Luckily a certain Time Lord had left a key with her so she has somewhere to go to regroup. Unexpectedly, another old acquaintance is nearby.

Notes: Having re-listened to the Big Finish Eighth Doctor boxset series, 'Stranded', I figured Kate Stewart having a key to 107 Baker Street, the Doctor's occasional pied-a-terre in London would give her somewhere to go to regroup after Prentiss tries to kill her in Survivors of the Flux. And since I'm ALL about shipping Kate and Martha Jones, who should be living in the flat opposite Kate's but... Yeah, Martha Jones.

Written for Kate Stewart Week 2022 for the prompt New Recruit.

Big thanks to @thisbluespirit​ for beta-reading! You're a star!

                                              *  *  *  *

Kate Stewart breaks her phone in two after telling Osgood that she’s going dark, then hurries away from her home, furious with Prentiss for what he’s done, not so much what he’s done to her home (although that does annoy her), but what he’s done to her organisation. Because, despite what he or anyone else might think, UNIT is hers: she’s the one who dragged it kicking and screaming into the twenty first century; the one who shifted the emphasis from the military to the scientific. Her father’s legacy, handed on to her, although it was some time before people knew that she was her father’s daughter: she’d been extremely careful to preserve that fact from the top brass for as long as she could. When she’d asked her father if he minded her dropping the ‘Lethbridge’ from her name he’d laughed and told her that he thought it was a good idea.

“You’ll find it hard enough to be taken seriously as a woman scientist in charge of what’s been a military organisation for over a century,” he’d said. “You don’t need people thinking that nepotism had any role in you taking over.”

She heaves a sigh, then heads for her car. She doesn’t plan on driving it away, but she does want her emergency bag from its boot. She needs clothes and other things to get her though this situation, not knowing how long it’s going to take for her to regain control of UNIT (and she’s thinking in terms of months and years, not days and weeks, because she is fully aware that Prentiss is playing a long game).

She approaches her car carefully, then pulls out a different phone, a burner she took the precaution of purchasing a few weeks ago and made her backup phone. She activates a scanning app and walks at a distance around her car. To her relief, the scan shows no sign of incendiary devices attached to the car, so she unlocks the boot and pulls out the holdall that’s got two weeks’ worth of clothing and other supplies stashed in it, in addition to several useful gadgets that Osgood had given her. It also holds her service revolver and one small but very important key. She shoulders the bag, then sets out to cross London to 107 Baker Street.

Kate is completely worn out by the time she reached Baker Street, but that doesn’t stop her from double checking that the premises are secure before she lets herself in. She can’t help feeling incredibly grateful to the Doctor, the tall Scottish one with the ‘attack eyebrows’ as he’d insisted on calling them, who’d given her the key. He’d simply wandered into her office late one evening when almost everyone else, apart from the night security team, had gone home and he’d handed her the key with the words ‘In case you ever need a home away from home’. At the time she’d been completely baffled by the idea, but she’d hung onto it nevertheless. When a man who travels in Time and Space offers you a key with words like that, you take him seriously as there’s a good chance he knows something about your future he’s not directly telling you.

The house had been converted into flats at some point in the past and Kate has the key to one of the two ground floor flats, Flat 1, so she lets herself in, then closes and locks the door behind her, setting the chain in place with a quiet sigh of relief. Then she heads to the bedroom with its ensuite bathroom where she has a quick shower before changing into pyjamas and settling in bed with her highly encrypted laptop.

She’s been working for an hour when there’s a quiet knock at her front door and she feels instantly alarmed. No one should know she’s here. She quickly activates the security camera which Osgood had installed above the door soon after Kate had accepted the key from the Doctor and is startled to see Martha Jones standing at her door. She sets aside the laptop, then picks up her shoulder holster and settles it in place, slipping the gun into it, before she pulls on her dressing gown over the top. She’s worked in UNIT long enough to know that both alien duplicates and mind control exist and she is quite sure she’d rather be prepared unnecessarily than be caught out.

She unlocks the door, but leaves the chain in position, and opens it to the full extent of the chain.

“I’m so glad that you made it here,” Martha Jones says, clearly incredibly relieved at Kate’s presence.

Kate can’t help frowning at the younger woman. “Explain,” she says curtly. She doesn’t normally talk like that when she meets the Doctor’s companions, but she’s exhausted and feeling very paranoid.

“Here.” Martha holds out a USB stick. “Osgood gave me this earlier, after you called her to say you were going dark, and asked me to give it to you.”

“Did she tell you where to find me?” asks Kate, feeling irritated that Osgood would be so foolish when she should know that Kate going dark means no one besides Osgood herself should know where she is.

Martha huffs a laugh. “No. I live in flat 2, opposite you. I’ve been here about a year. I would’ve knocked earlier, but I was waiting for the rest of the tenants upstairs to come home and get settled before I came knocking.”

“You’ve got surveillance on the house?” Kate asks, both surprised and impressed.

“I’m surprised you don’t,” Martha says. Then holds up her hands. “Sorry, that wasn’t intended as criticism.”

Kate sighs, then unhooks the chain from the door and opens it, stepping back just far enough to admit Martha into her flat.

“Thanks.” Martha steps inside, which is when Kate notices she’s carrying a large paper sack from which are emanating enticing scents. “Have you eaten?” Martha asks.

Kate shakes her head. “I didn’t have the energy to go back out for food.”

“Osgood mentioned you like Thai food,” Martha says and holds out the bag.

“Come through,” Kate says, accepting the bag and the USB stick.

They make their way into the kitchen and Kate pulls out plates, cutlery and glasses, while Martha unloads cartons of Tom Yum Soup, Panang Curry, and mango sticky rice dessert. There are also bottles of apple juice and still water, and they are soon settled at the kitchen table, eating and catching each other up on their news.

When they’re both finally too full to eat any more Kate puts the dirty crockery and cutlery in the dishwasher while Martha stores the leftovers in the fridge, then rinses the empty cartons before dropping them into the recycling box in the corner.

“Thank you for this,” Kate says, weary, but warmed by Martha’s kindness.

Martha gives her a surprisingly shy smile. “Can’t have the Head of UNIT collapsing from low blood sugar,” she says softly. “Not with the long haul you’ve got ahead of you.”

Kate blows out a breath. “It’s almost more than I can bear to think about.”

“Then don’t,” Martha says firmly, stepping into Kate’s personal space and resting a hand on her arm. “It’s almost midnight and you’ve had a long and exhausting day, and nearly been blown up, I might add. Leave it until tomorrow to worry about what’s ahead.”

“Doctor’s orders?” Kate asks, smiling.

“This doctor’s orders, at any rate,” Martha says with a soft laugh. She leans in and presses warm lips against Kate’s cheek. “Goodnight, Kate.”

When Martha goes to move away Kate reaches out and stops her. “What was that?” she asks hoarsely.

Martha raises an eyebrow. “What do you think it was?”

“I’m not sure,” Kate admits. “That’s why I was asking.”

“It was a goodnight kiss,” Martha says. “How much significance you want to attach to it is entirely up to you. If you want to just forget about it, we can do that. Believe me, I’ll understand if you feel that you don’t have the time or energy for anything more than friendship between us. It doesn’t have to change anything if you don’t want it to – I’ll still have your back, regardless.”

“Can I – can I think about it?”

Martha nods. “Of course.” She gives Kate an intent look. “Want a hug?” she asks. “Because you look like you could use one. No strings. Just a hug between friends.”

“Um – I – yes,” Kate manages.

Martha gives her a warm smile, then wraps her arms firmly around Kate’s body and holds her tight for a long time, longer than Kate would normally allow a hug to last (assuming she’d allowed someone to hug her in the first place, an activity she usually restricts to her children), but she can’t pretend that she doesn’t need it right now.

Eventually, Martha pulls away. “Go and get some sleep,” she says. “I’ll drop by about eleven tomorrow morning to bring you some food staples until you get a chance to go to the shop.”

“Thank you, Martha,” Kate says. “Thank you very much.”

“Us Defenders of the Earth have go to stick together.” Martha moves away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Kate nods, then follows her back to the front door, securing it carefully behind Martha. Then she heads back to her bed, wondering just what she’s going to do with regard to Martha’s kiss. She can’t help feeling that she just won’t have the time or energy to be in a romantic relationship with anyone while attempting to fight Prentiss. She doesn’t have the time for a romantic relationship ordinarily, let along while battling a hostile takeover of UNIT and possibly the entire planet as well.

She climbs back into bed, setting aside her laptop and the USB stick Osgood had sent her via Martha. She’s too sleepy to try to focus on anything resembling work now.

She pulls the duvet up, then switches out the light.

She’ll have to turn Martha down, at least until Prentiss is dealt with, but after that – well, who knows. That future, she’s certain, is a long way off.

Right now she needs sleep.

#Kate Stewart Week 2022 #Kate Stewart #Doctor Martha Jones #Fanfic #My Writing #Doctor Who #Doctor Who Flux

[pfenniged]

Me Continuing to Hate-Watch Godfather III because I love The Godfather Parts I and II So Much: Part Four: THE FINAL SAGA:

NOOOOO MIDLIFE CRISIS MICHAEL KIDNAPPING KAY

I’M SCREAMING KAY’S FACE IS MINE LIKE WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WE’RE BOTH LIKE SIXTY

The fact that Sofia’s lines are so painfully ADRed too though- her mouth isn’t even moving sweetie

#justiceforwinona she would have crushed this role

But Connie saying “You’re the only one left with my father’s strength” to Vincent and the lighting being exactly like the lighting for a young Vito in Godfather Two down to the waistcoat- attention to detail thank you cinematographer 

Cinematographer still killing it with the shots of the Italian countryside

I also like how the dialogue sets up the difference between Michael and Kay: That he’s focusing on where his father was born and how they came to kill Vito as a child, and Kay is distracted by the sounds of life and a wedding. It highlights how in some ways, even though she’s a WASP, Kay has more of a sense of family in line with Vito than Michael has grown to have, because everything he does to protect his family is out of a sense of fear of losing them, and not simply enjoying the moments that life bring. This was also highlighted in the second film, so touché, whoever was actually paying attention to theming in this script (because we all know it wasn’t Francis whoops)

“I spent a lot of time in this room- thinking of you.” “And then you got married.” I’m just here for sassy Kay at this point calling Michael on his bullshit.

Okay but it’s actually really cute because you can tell that Al and Diane really love each other and it kills me inside thanks 

Also Michael’s little “of the people” neckerchief is killing me

Please this scene is actually good but poor Al’s buzzcut is still a hate crime

“I had a whole different destiny planned.” “Don’t dread me, anymore.”

That was actually a good scene good job Godfather III you did it I’m proud of you

OKAY WE’RE RAMPING UP FOR THE LAST FORTY FIVE MINUTES THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE GOOD-

Michael saying he wanted to be good also a death

Connie being sweet to Michael but Michael making Vincent give up Mary ughhhhhh that’s the choice and he takes it ughhhhhhh

Now I see what people are saying about the last 45 minutes

Seeing what it’s done to Michael- Al Pacino’s body acting is on point and all the light that's been sucked out of him

The Opera is an amazing setting though

POOR ANDY GRACIA ACTING CIRCLES AROUND SOFIA IN THE BREAKUP SCENE IM SCREAMING IT’S LIKE YOUR SCENE PARTNER’S A PLANK OF WOOD

“Love somebody else.” Please that would have hit so hard if it was anyone else in this scene-

The Opera parallels itself are amazing and actually reach the scale of Parts One and Two in terms of grandeur

Connie with the cannoli was actually badass too

Okay but why is Sofia’s best acting so far when she’s cheering her “brother” on for her performance that’s like weirdly sweet but also poor baby

HER BEST ACTING IS HER DYING NO BUT EVERYONE IMMEDIATELY ACTING CIRCLES AROUND HER

COULD YOU IMAGINE THIS SCENE WITH WINONA

COULD YOU IMAGINE

Please them on the stairs though I love my fucked up Corleone family

oh no I DID NOT NEED THIS ENDING WITH A MONTAGE OF THE GIRLS IN MICHAEL CORLEONE’S LIFE NO

NOR HIM BASICALLY DRESSED LIKE OLD!VITO

NOT HIM GOING TO PET A DOG BUT THEN SLUMPING OVER AND DYING WITH AN ORANGE IN HIS HAND

NOOOOOOOO

Okay final take- this movie was completely unnecessary because the first two films were literally perfect, but that last scene, Andy Garcia, Al Pacino towards the later half of the film, and the cinematography were all things that could have benefited from cutting this movie down by at least an hour/ hour and a half. And Sofia goes without saying but literally it was her father’s nepotism that put her in that place after Winona got sick and Francis needed money so he couldn’t even bather to wait for his leading lady who would have made the movie 100000000000 times better but I digress.

AND THAT’S THE STORY HOW I FINALLY MADE IT THROUGH GODFATHER THREE FOR COMPLETIONISM’S SAKE THANK CHRIST.

#it was a journey but I made it lol #The Godfather #personal #The Godfather Part III #there were good elements but god was it a herculean task lol

[softersinned-arc]

@balldwin​ said: ❝ do you have a specific course of action to propose? ❞ 

Over. Under. Around. Stop; undo it all; try again. Over. Under. Over. Under. Through. No. Stop; undo it all; try again.

          Astoria can count on one hand the number of times she’s seen him crack over the past decade. More often than not, Baldwin’s unease manifests as anger, typically aimed outward (never at her), and she’s learned by now how to read it, when he needs intervention and when he simply needs to say whatever’s on his mind and put it behind him. From her vantage point, perched on the desk just a few steps away from him, legs crossed and stockinged foot swinging back and forth in time to a song she’s been humming all morning, she can see trouble, though everyone else seems too busy to notice it, consumed as they are with the myriad crucial details that will make or break this press conference. She hops to her feet and with a flick of her fingers towards the door and a politely cleared throat she dismisses everyone else from the room—his assistant, her assistant, some intern carrying the wrong coffee order for everyone—and when they’re alone Astoria reaches forward to rest a hand on his arm, gently turning him away from the mirror.

          “Gimme.” Immediately she has the tie in both her hands, though she doesn’t do anything with it just yet. Instead, she stands on her toes, and Baldwin dutifully leans towards her to meet her halfway. She is of course a believer in the restorative power of a quick, hard fuck against a wall to work out one’s nerves, but there’s no urgency just now. Now, he doesn’t need a distraction; now, he needs a bit of tenderness, and she finds she’s happy to provide. The kiss is slow, instead, and sweet, and lingering, and when she pulls back she reaches up to swipe her thumb over his lip, and she watches the corners of his mouth twitch upward with obvious pleasure.

          When he straightens up she takes the tie again, and she carefully begins to move the fabric, making sure that everything is perfect. “I actually attended a lecture on proper tie knots once,” she says, and his smile widens just a bit, just enough for her to see it. “It was part of a week-long program your stepmother signed me up for. This was before your father hired me, for the record. I think she just wanted to be sure I knew how to tie your ties.”

          “Sounds like Ysabeau,” he answers dryly, and Astoria laughs. Over, under, over, under, over, up, through, pull tight.

          “This one’s apparently called the Prince Albert.” Baldwin raises his eyebrows at her and she grins, wrinkling her nose as she does. “I actually bit the inside of my cheek until it bled when I learned it. Good thing you’re marrying your favorite person in P.R., or you’d never be able to ask for one.”

          “Are you dropping hints, cara?”

          “Shut up.” But she’s laughing again, and his smile widens now, pleased as he is to have prompted the sound. “Do you know why Philippe hired me in the first place?”

          “Nepotism?”

          “Bastard,” she says, with overwhelming affection.

          “Fine. Your qualifications, ruthlessness, and cult-like charisma?”

          “Nice save. I think he’d have hired me regardless but I don’t think he’d ever have let me be promoted if not for this. When he asked you to go handle the bill, and talk to the maître d' about bringing something home for Ysabeau, Philippe asked me why he should hire me. He said that pretty girls with big ideas were a dime a dozen, which he was right about, and that he could find anyone on the street willing to talk him in circles for a paycheck. So he asked what made me different, besides that I had my own money and that I could have gone anywhere else.”

          She pauses for dramatic effect, smoothing his tie and walking around him to collect his jacket from where it’s hanging on the edge of the mirror. He knows her well enough by now to wait patiently as she does, and he lets her guide the jacket onto his shoulders before she comes around to face him again.

          “I told him that I didn’t really give a shit about him.”

          It’s not the response he’s expecting. Baldwin’s eyebrows arch, and his lips part so he can speak, but she presses two fingers to the side of his jaw as if to halt his words.

          “I said that if he wanted to hire someone totally, irrevocably committed to him, he shouldn’t bother with me. He already had a team he could trust and who would have all been willing to sacrifice everything—their careers, their personal lives, anything—if he asked. He didn’t need another one, and besides, that wasn’t me. I said that he should hire me because someday he was going to step down and you were going to be in charge, and he needed someone willing to do all of that for you, right from the start. You deserved to have someone ready to go to war for you on day one, without needing to be trained and without any conflicted loyalties. You deserved someone who didn’t care enough about anyone else to save them if it meant a second’s discomfort for you. He asked me why I was willing to do all of that for you and if it was just because we were involved and I told him that it was because you were the smartest and deadliest person in any given room and that you’d earned my trust and my confidence a thousand times over by then. And that I firmly believed that as good as he is, you’d be better someday. I don’t think he really liked that, and I doubt he’d ever trust me completely, but he did hire me, so I said something right. And I meant every word.”

          One of Baldwin’s hands moves to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, before both hands settle at her sides, his thumbs brushing back and forth along her rib cage.

          “Your father would never have hired somebody who believed in you more than him if he didn’t think you could handle this, love. He wouldn’t have given you this responsibility if he thought you’d fuck it up.”

          “It’s a big deal.” And it is; the issues in the London office will require more time than either of them has. He’ll be here at least twelve hours a day for weeks trying to solve it. She’ll be here, too.

        “Yeah? So are you.”

          She pulls him down this time by the lapels of his jacket, careful not to hold too hard and leave wrinkles, and she kisses him until she’s almost forgotten what they were talking about, until his hands at her sides are wonderfully painful in their grip on her.

          “Is this why you’re not wearing lipstick?” he teases quietly, and she shrugs.

          “I’m a planner.”

          His fingers flex against her sides.

          “Do you have a specific course of action to propose?”

          “Look at me.” She takes his chin, gently but firmly, between her thumb and index finger. “You’re not Philippe. Thank god for that. This problem doesn’t need Philippe. It needs you. Don’t think about what he’d do, because he’s the reason we’re in this mess in the first place. Think about what you’d do to solve it. Your instincts are right. And let them see they have a new beast to fear.” Another kiss, and she steps back, smiles warmly, lovingly. “I’m going to bring everyone else back in if you’re ready.”

          She watches him from the back of the room as she takes notes. She smiles when he bares his teeth. She nearly laughs when he draws blood.

          She kisses him senseless the moment they’re alone and she murmurs against his mouth that he’s never more beautiful than when he’s going to war.

#balldwin #i. here's the truth from my red lips. ( answers ) #iii. the rest of you (the best of you) belongs to me. ( baldwin x astoria ) #(pre-wedding pre-philippe dying post-astoria getting promoted enough (in part because nepotism) that philippe would send her -) #(- with baldwin when he's got to handle shit? anyway. i love them. i'm gonna write them drawing actual blood next)

[anonil88]

Why won't anyone hire me?

Why won't anyone hire me? Is that selfish to ask.

I hate that my finances are up and down month to month with no feeling of well at least I work x or I got something saved. I even kept some length to my hair so I dont look too harsh for interviews, hard time looking in the mirror cause of it. This is the normal and what being an adult is, I'm told but no one will say why that can't change. This thing millions of people experience before me and alongside me is just the way things are. Don't like that.

Making a mental list of all the things I need to change or seemingly change to make myself more hireable. I hate that hireable just means marketable. I don't like being considered a product in any sense. Promoting my art is easier cause I don't have to be the complete face but thats been changing with social media algorithms and needing to promote since no job. At least someone might wanna buy some art or commission a design. One commission will mean groceries or even paying off some bills.

Overwhelmed with everything you do can become a profit. I don't think that's what economist meant when they said diversify your skills and income.

I can make people's vision creatively come to life out of nothing but I can't create a path for myself, I can't create a job or resources to sustain myself or anyone else. Maybe I'm too confrontational with asking how in work places. Is it just me.

Put some stuff up on poshmark only sold a pair of shoes a few weeks ago despite being on there for years now. I don't really know what will see there right now. I kinda fell out of trend cycle. The biggest sale I will make which is private i can't sell until fall/winter.

I look at my hands and wonder when did I get it all so wrong. Tuck my thumbs under my fingers and close my eyes trying to manifest and hope something will occur. I dont know if i entirely believe it anymore or maybe anything really. I still hope somewhere its heard and something bounces back. My faith in human nature might fall faster though. Faith doesn't work with no do but it seems neither does doing.

I'm not depressed not yet no, but just in this state of I don't know what to do next.

I wonder if nepotism rich babies know how good they got it. Are they born knowing.

Ca: $Naniw13

#capitalism #my thoughts #just thinking and putting thoughts out there #jobs #job hunt #unemployed #unemployed friend

[eremosjournal]

"Having Loneliness" by Elise Letrondo

It didn’t dawn on me until recently how much time Jesus spent alone. I guess we could theorize that he never felt alone because he was in constant contact with God. But in rereading The Temptation of Jesus, I found it strange that there wasn’t more emphasis on Jesus’ willingness to go into the wilderness for forty days and forty nights completely on his own.

Jesus’ humanity is drilled into Christians relentlessly. We belabor the significance of his humble birth every winter, and are constantly reminded by the image of the crucifix that, for all his sight-giving, water-to-wine power, he still bled and suffered to death. But didn’t Jesus get lonely? “It’s lonely at the top”, people say, and Jesus was literally the son of God, the original nepotism baby. Who was there to relate to him? Why isn’t there more focus on what that must have felt like for him?

In The Temptation of Jesus, one of the defining scriptures of the Lenten season, we find Jesus entering the desert to attempt a test of character that even Christian Bale might find extreme. No food, no water, no one. I know Jesus was a strong guy but I’m not sure what the objective of self-confinement would even be. Isn’t the real temptation out in the world where food and drinks and sexy people are? 

Reading that story in my Bible brought me back to the good old Christian custom of making a Biblical passage all about me. Could I go forty days without contact with another human? How would that change me? I can project pretty confidently that on day four without a single notification, mindless exchange with my siblings, or friendly coffee shop interaction, all of my organs would simply shut down. Don’t get me wrong, I love time to myself. I need it. But bearing forty days and nights without any human contact at all sounds so horribly lonely.

But is loneliness, in itself, horrible? It’s a feeling. Maybe a bad one. As long as you’re living life fully, bad feelings are promised, right? It’s part of humanity, and humanity comes with a lot of baggage. We have stress, have depression, have confusion. So why is it so difficult to have loneliness? Not just to bear it, but to hold and sit with it? 

There are times when loneliness is a purely dark place. When we cushion bad feelings with wrong crowds, shameful vices and selfishness because sitting with it is just too hard. Loneliness has a great power to beget more loneliness. We fall into cycles of isolation- fearing judgment and enabling our own negativity with the stubborn belief that, even if we did open up, no one would understand us. We force ourselves to deal with things on our own to prove our own strength, or avoid implicating others. But not only does this attract loneliness to our healing, it attracts it to its wonderful, hard-earned result. Sometimes, growth can feel tarnished slightly by the knowledge that others don’t know how difficult it was to achieve it. So we live with the question of whether anyone could understand how much of the worst of us we had to leave behind in order to offer the world our best. 

But loneliness isn’t always found in dark places. I hope I’m not alone in realizing that, as I make my way through life’s messes, I’m so proud of myself. Not because of any specific accomplishment, but because I can consistently get out of bed and feed myself and wiggle around society treating people nicely. I’ll be partway through my day and think, This is going pretty smoothly and I haven’t put myself or anyone else through unnecessary dread or pain, and be really proud of that. And where that’s such a positive and pure feeling, it makes me feel lonely, because I don’t know how to interpret to others how much that smoothness means to me. But why should loneliness and goodness be at odds? I’ve found a lonely feeling in the nicest moments of my life. I’ve wondered quiet, lonely things like, Do my friends love me as much as I love them?, or, Do I deserve to be this happy? But that kind of loneliness doesn’t feel sad or dark. It feels curious and new. I constantly find myself in the nebulous space between celebrating being someone I’m proud of, and wondering if anyone could ever be as proud of me as I am of myself. If loneliness can contain that much self-love, maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

Getting back to Jesus, I think he got lonely more than the Bible leads on. And this conclusion isn’t necessarily informed by my decade of Catholic schooling, four years as a youth minister, or the dry “The Bible as Literature” course I narrowly passed in undergrad. I know Jesus got lonely because he was human. I’m sure there were days in the desert when he wanted more than anything to hug his mom, or swore he heard the chatter of a crowd out in the wild air. But Jesus made it out of the desert without being tempted. He made it forty days and nights without food or water, alone. And though a billion dollars couldn’t entice me to attempt what Jesus did, I’m starting to think he might have understood something about being human that many people don’t. Just as he learned to sit with his hunger and thirst, I believe he learned to sit with loneliness. He simply had his loneliness, however that felt to him. Not in a sad, forsaken way, but because he knew he had to in order to get on with his day, to get on with his life, even when he knew it would be a short one. He had nothing to cushion the loneliness with, only trust in God and the persistence to finish his weird desert cleanse. 

With the onslaught of negative feelings promised in life, maybe the better approach is not to learn how to make them go away but to find a way to de-villainize them, so they don’t scare us into being worse versions of ourselves. Maybe there’s an appreciation to be found in loneliness, once we remove the shame and sadness so often implied by it. Sure, loneliness can suck. But it can also serve as a sweet reminder of our nature, a nudge in the direction of connection and self-care. They always told us in Catholic school to be kind to others because “tHeRe’S jEsUs iN eVeRyOnE”. Maybe all that means is that we’re all just human. Jesus was just a guy. He got hungry and thirsty and lonely. And if we can have tenderness for Jesus’ capacity to feel all those things, maybe we can find tenderness for one another’s - and our own - same capacity. It’s not sad. It’s just humanity.

#deconvert #deconversion #deconstruction #exvangelical #excatholic #ex christian #exchristian #ex catholic #lent #religious trauma

[zorilleerrant]

there’s this thing in writing that I like to call Straight White Man Syndrome. (it’s not always that group of people, which, like, in general bodes well for feminism and gay rights, but you know why I use it as shorthand.) and it’s because people look at these little gender conforming white boys and go, oh, they’re little, let’s encourage them to do things.

so what they do is, when the little six year old gives them a tepid ass fact that literally a six year old knows, they pretend that they, actual grown adults, did not know that fact. (instead of the useful thing, which would be acknowledging the information and building on it, engaging the kid in learning.) and so the kid grows up thinking he’s smarter than everyone on the planet at six years old, and then assumes he must be even smarter every year after that.

and the thing is. generally, if a girl does this, she’ll eventually encounter plenty of teachers and strangers who go ‘actually, girls are stupid, so you must be lying when you say you know a fact’. and she has to go about learning more to prove herself. if a visibly queer kid does this, people will start calling them slurs, telling them everyone knows those facts. and nonwhite kids don’t even get the time of day to tell people facts, just yelled at. but straight white boys? everyone humors them and pretends to be dazzled by their intelligence right up until they’re adults, and then even afterwards, under the ‘pretend to be impressed and he’ll go away’ instinct. they never get a reality check.

and it’s almost worse when it’s about creative output, because learning a fact is just something kids pick up as they go along. with something creative, there actually was an effort, even when it’s a poor showing. and so this hegemonic subset of kids gets actively encouraged and cooed over whenever they do the slightest thing, even when it’s not good. and other kids don’t.

and this straight white boy, he doesn’t see the difference in the art. he isn’t looking at anyone else’s art. nothing in his life ever suggested to him that he’s expected to care about other people. he only sees that people are telling him he’s creative and talented and making masterpieces, and that they’re telling the other kids they’re annoying and trying too hard and will never be famous. he thinks that makes him the best.

people in power, unfortunately, are all this guy. so every time there’s a hurdle, they go, oh, yeah, he seems like the best. I mean he’s so confident. he’s such a go getter. he’s got some indefinable quality you can see it just by looking at him. I can always tell the best candidate for a job in thirty seconds. and so, even above the nepotism and the higher access to every stepping stone along the way, he keeps being told yes. he thinks he’s god.

this leads, inevitably, to him writing a book in which his main character, an absolutely fuckboy of an insufferable piece of shit, suggests that one of the other characters might not know about fucking Roanoke. that a joke about people disappearing on an island, which is simply to say ‘haha like Roanoke’, literally it’s not even funny it’s the most straightforward thing imaginable, might go over the head of someone who got into every Ivy League school. she’s canonically supposed to be solving calculus in her head on the fly. she’s canonically supposed to be a history nerd and she doesn’t know about fucking Roanoke?

Roanoke. the well known fact that dumbass little six year old learned and everyone in listening range pretended it was the most goddamned fascinating thing they ever heard.

#look i said something

[ginnyweasely]

Dakota Johnson at the 75th Venice International Film Festival

#dakota johnson #mine #actress #fsog #djohnsonedit #does anyone else think nepotism is a good thing? i love dakota johnson i think she's a great artist #userthai #dailywomen #badassladiesedit #dailywomengifs #tvactorsdaily #femmefataledaily #thequeensofbeauty

[magpiesbones]

just. all the characters in witch hat are so good? and the art is fucking amazing holy shit

but just. Coco and her outsider view on all magic that ricochets from “this is the coolest thing ever” to “wait why is that a rule” and Qifrey and his Incomprehensible but existent moral code that seems to be based on the sunk cost fallacy and Agott and her perfectionism and Tetia and her delight in gratitude and Richeh and her fear of unwanted growth and Olruggio and his insistence on following the rules that goes out the window if he cares about someone

like they‘re all SUCH good characters and they all illustrate one or more of the failures of witch society (Tetia isn’t super obvious or maybe I haven’t read enough to know but she definitely feels like someone who is trying to be the antithesis of something) and just aaaaaaaa

this WAS just going to be a little rant but now I think this could be a sort of meta and i think it Will. not a super detailed one because I don’t really feel like pulling sources so if you know you know and if you don’t welllll spoiler warning up to chapter 45???

so, obviously coco is the outsider view and she’s so full of wonder over magic and its possibilities even though she knows the other possibilities of magic (her mom, Romonon, Euni, etc) and the thing about Coco is that she believes that she can do anything with magic even after evidence to the contrary and she’s (and Qifrey and Coustas too, I suppose? I’m not caught up) going to prove that nonwitches can and should be allowed to learn magic, and that the barriers to learning benefit no one (it’s not like there Aren’t still brimhats, it’s just harder to combat brimhat magic)

and then (because I’m going by order of introduction) there’s Qifrey, who is. complicated. Qifrey is made of hubris and regret and vigilante justice (rereading chapter two after chapter forty gives a bit of Extra Thought) and doesn’t want to tone any of it down because this is a man who thinks that if he Deals With It it won‘t bother anyone else. This is a man who does not understand a support network, not that it’s really his fault since he’s never had one that is not undercut by the Knights Moralis. He had One traumatic event occur and then the entire rest of his life has been dealing with the aftermath of this event he barely remembers, and even tho his treatment at the hands of the witches has been genuinely not great they still think they’re doing fantastic by him because they gave him the gift of magic. He is quite clearly a foil for Coco as they’re both outsiders, but Qifrey is what happens when someone would rather have good intentions than good parenting skills. This does Not excuse his behavior since I’m not apologizing for anything and also because this man is a literary device, and he is a fucking personification of the Worst consequences of isolationism on witch society. anyways this is a man who is trying his best and also who has deep issues, some of which are self esteem and others of which are anger, and he’s making mistakes.

now. Agott. I love her. This girl is a tightly pressurized container of perfectionism and spite and she is Going To Follow The Rules. Except there aren’t rules and people aren’t going to like her more if she gets everything right. she wants to be the best because she too is a consequence of isolationist witch society except she is a consequence of failed meritocracy. Agott genuinely believes the best of all witches or people who she sees as smarter than her, which is why she doesn’t understand that people Will lie to sabotage her (not sure how explicit it was but the vibe I got from Agott Backstory is that someone lied to keep her out of Arklaum Atelier), and she thinks the primary objective of everyone is to get as far up in witch society as they can on their own merit. This is a girl who did not know about nepotism and is now deeply disillusioned, which is partly something she can be because she was so privileged within witch society. She was the best because she had to be and because she had to be she was allowed to be, which now that I wrote it is a very convoluted sentence and yet the heart of Agott’s issues. She is a feedback loop of perfectionism.

Tetia: I live in hope of Tetia backstory. I don‘t know a ton about her so i can’t really analyze her But I didn’t want to leave her out.

Richeh is a consequence of the loss of creativity inherent when you have such an intrinsic Right Way To Do Things. she does things that are genuinely impossible if she tried to do them the Correct way (windowways in particular) and her fear of growth sort of mirrors the entire society’s fear of growth after traumatic incident (brimhats vs That Man) except she is letting go of it and growing and experiencing resolution in a way that other characters really haven’t.

Olruggio is absolutely wild because this is a man who is meant to report directly to witch police except he just, like, doesn’t. It’s sort of implied that he was some sort of prodigy (in ch 34-39, by Hiehart and Utowin) and it’s definitely implied that he doesn’t like being the focus of attention, so I’m going to say that he and Agott are foils. Most of what I know of Olruggio’s backstory is Blatant implication and headcanon even tho I know new chapters I haven’t gotten to yet have a little more info. I Will say that Olruggio’s technically police-adjacent role and his apparent ideaology of ‘I only break rules when I think they are dumb’ is a pretty pointed reflection of the Knights and their ‘brimhat magic is bad except when it’s useful to us’.

#ANYWAYS #witch hat #can you tell Agott and qifrey are my favorites #This is more of an extended rant than a meta #Really I got into this series for the art and stayed for the characters and the Story goddamn #anyway I’m sure I’m missing important tropes and stuff but seeing as I never pulled quotes it’s really quite casual #probing character psychoanalysis and musing on the use of characters to reflect worldbuilding #which is hmm delicious #long post #…sorry #witch hat atelier #tongari boushi no atelier

[yeojaa]

( DEVIL IN A NEW SUIT. )

Money’s something that makes the world go around.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with securing the bag.  You don’t shame anyone for doing what they need to do.  

That is, until you come face to face with the poor guy that’s being suckered out of both his heart and cash.  You simply can’t let it go on.

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  idiots to lovers.  fluff, angst, smut.  the holy trifecta, babies!  explicit, obviously.  

tags / warnings.  mentions of infidelity, kook being adorable and sad, reader being a bit of a tactless butthole, a satin playsuit (very nsfw), kook does a 180, smut in the form of: a slight oral fixation, too much spit, overstimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected sex (pls don’t be irresponsible).

wc.  12.2k of nonsense.  pure nonsense, i tells ya. 

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ did what she always does aka read through this and made me a better writer and @yeoldontknow​ dealt with my big dumbass and let me cry about my pea brain to her.  i love you both sm!!!  ✨💜

author note.  the long-awaited fic is here!!  i really hope you enjoy it.  if you do, please maybe leave a comment or something?  i swung back and forth between loving and hating this so it’d really, really mean a lot.  anyway, thanks as always for reading and i adore you!  stay safe and happy and healthy!

He’s a sucker.  That’s what you think of him, despite the fact you’ve never met him.  It’d be impossible not to, given what you’ve heard. 

His girlfriend - or something - is in every other week, flashing his black card like she has something to prove.  Sometimes, she’s by herself;  often, she’s with another gaggle of girls that fawn all over themselves and shriek a little too loudly for your taste.  They’re vapid, snooty in a way that makes you cringe every time they step into the boutique.  Still, you’re nice because this is your job and you have to be.  You can’t exactly tell a paying customer to get lost - even if you think it at least six times each visit. 

“He has no idea.”  It’s always the same thing, a story that pulls at your heartstrings yet has you scoffing in equal parts.  “I told him we were doing a girls’ trip but Hyunjin’s going to meet me on his way back and we’re spending the week at the Ritz.”

How can he possibly be this dumb, you wonder.  How can’t he see past the pretty pink lipstick and perfectly coiffed blonde hair?  It isn’t even that nice of a colour job - too icy and reminiscent of Malibu Barbie. 

(She’d bragged about it once - how she’d gotten an appointment at one of the most coveted salons in the city, spending hours in the stylist’s chair to get this “perfect shade”.  Her words, not yours.)

You figure he must be some lonely schmuck, some poor old sap who can’t possibly get what he’s looking for anywhere else.  Maybe he had some weird spoiling kink - if so, where was your man like that - or he just wanted companionship and found it in the arms of girls who paid him any sort of attention.  Truthfully, you thought a lot of things about him.  Kind of had to, given how often his girlfriend was in, rambling about her exploits and snickering behind his back.

You’d never expected him to be like this.

Jeon Jungkook shows up on a Sunday afternoon, shortly after lunch and with the dopiest smile on his face. 

Your colleague notices him first, nudging you to attention because you, unlike her, actually do productive things while you’re at work like go through layaways and make sure items aren’t sitting in the back gathering dust.

“He’s cute,”  she very poorly whispers, voice carrying because it always does.  She’s a younger girl - maybe a few years your junior, who’d gotten her job through pure nepotism - but she’s sweet enough.  Zero tact, though.  Never notices when she’s being just a little too forceful with her sales but her sweet smile and full rack seem to keep her from getting into any trouble.  You consider her a vaguely annoying sister, someone you love even when you don’t necessarily like her.

You glance up from the iPad balanced in your hands, disinterested.  “Who?”

There’s an older couple striding past the entrance, hand-in-hand with three Hermes bags.  (God, what awful taste.)  There’s another couple standing at the mouth of the Louis Vuitton boutique, bickering about which belt will best match the boyfriend’s tux best.  (The answer is neither, because those belts do not belong with a classic black tux.)

“Him.”

Yejin all but points him out, jerking her chin in his direction.  You don’t know how you hadn’t really clocked him in the first place.  Maybe because he’s so unassuming that you’d just brushed over him, noting his outfit before moving on.  When you look at him - really look at him - you can’t look away.

You think he’s handsome in that off-kilter kind of way, too-big teeth and too-wide eyes.  He’s terribly innocent looking, despite the fact that he’s wearing a gleaming gold Rolex and sleek black boots you recognise from Prada’s 2019 RTW.  Everything he wears is tailored, fitting him to the point you wonder who his seamstress  is.  

But then he speaks, and it’s not the suave, sultry voice you’d expect.  It’s featherlight and almost shy, bashful in its delivery.  

“I’m here to pick up a bag for my girlfriend?”  He upspeaks.  It’s stupidly adorable.

Bless her soul, Yejin throws a glance in your direction first.  A silent ‘yours or mine?’ that’s answered when you step forward, blindingly bright customer service smile in full effect.  “What’s the item and the name it’s under?”  You keep in mind he’s said girlfriend very clearly, even as you can’t help but trail your stare over his shoulders, the dimple that digs itself into his cheek when he speaks again.

“Oh, it’s under mine.  Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” 

You’re floored.  This is Jeon Jungkook?  This specimen draped in leather and fine Japanese silk is the poor idiot wrapped around Barbie’s finger?  You’ve got to be kidding.

You wonder whether the surprise is evident on your face.  It must be, given how quickly Yejin interrupts, piping up in that saccharine sweet voice of hers.  “I’ll grab it!  The Box bag in cloud, right?”

Jungkook can only nod dumbly.  He has no idea what he’s there to pick up - only that he needs to because his girlfriend is away on a trip with her two best female friends.  He tells you as much, chuckling at his own ignorance.  It’d be cute if it weren’t so sad, his eyes twinkling like the jewels set in your ears.  There’s so much love in his eyes it’s frankly sickening.  

It comes before you can help it, snapping off your tongue - an oil spill ready to drag him to the depths of hell.

“Oh - you’re Kiko’s boyfriend?  I thought you’d left for Hong Kong already.”  Your head tilts - the picture of innocence as you continue to spew things you shouldn’t, staining the innocence of his expression with each word that drops off.  “She said she was leaving on Friday.”  Even while you’re tearing this poor man’s life apart, you’re racking your brain for the off-handed comments she’d made.  “She kept going on and on about how she was so excited to be staying at the Ritz.”

It’s almost like you gain some sick sort of satisfaction in watching his face fall.  You’ve never seen someone crumble so quickly, every ounce of affection swept up and spat out in the time it takes you to take a solid, proper breath.  

You do feel bad.  Not for saying it, but for being the person to do this.  For hurting this stranger.  (At least he knew?)

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”  Gone is the sunny friendliness, the blissful geniality.  He’s very much uncertain, bunny teeth digging into the full swell of his bottom lip.  He’s pigeon-toed and round-shouldered, thick brows drawn neatly over his stare as he focuses on some indeterminate point somewhere by his feet. 

If Yejin were on the floor with you, she’d tell you to knock it off.  Chastise you for getting involved in something you had no business being in.  (She’d be right, but you’ve always been an advocate for tough love.)  As it stands, she’s still in the back finding that stupid girl’s bag and you’re here, shaking your head, weakening Jungkook’s resolve with the edge of your teeth.  “No, she definitely said she was going away with her boyfriend.  Did you maybe give us the wrong name?”

Maybe if he weren’t so upset, he’d be more offended by the insinuation he’s stupid.  Instead, he only falters further, head mimicking yours.  Poor guy.

“I—I think there’s been a mistake.”

Yeah, you dating that gold-digger, you want to say.  Instead, you meet his stare like you haven’t just dug a thousand holes in his foundation.  “Oh, maybe.  I’m sorry.”  The apology is honest, even if the meaning behind it isn’t.  That’s a thing, right?  Apologising to make someone feel better, even when you don’t necessarily agree with it?  

God, you’re an altruist. 

“It’s fine.”  When he stutters, adorable lisp coming out to play, you know it’s not.  You applaud him for his brave face, even if it’s very poorly offered - a makeshift mask you think you could tear off with just another well-aimed word.  (You won’t.)

“Here it is!”  Yejin’s back, bouncing out from behind the counter with the giant white bag in her hands.  If she notices the atmosphere, she says nothing.  You remind yourself to tell her good job once Jungkook leaves - and you know he’ll leave the moment he’s got those silk handles in his hand.  He looks about ready to cry - or ready to fight, you’re not sure.

Once the purchase is passed over, he nods his head furiously and you swear you see a tear go flying.  You don’t have time to ask before he’s hoofing it out of the store.  

He doesn’t even notice he’s left his wallet on the counter.

By the time you snatch it up and round the corner, he’s nowhere to be found.  Probably because running in stilettos is next to impossible and he’s gotten an embarrassed head start.  Well then.

“I guess we’ll have to call him,”  you hum, turning the Prada bi-fold over and over in your hands.  It’s practically brand new, stuffed with large bills, his driver’s license, and few credit cards, including a Hyundai black card.  The same one on file that his girlfriend - maybe soon-to-be ex-girlfriend? - uses shamelessly.

Yejin’s watching you carefully, silently.  You’re counting down how long it’ll be until she asks - because you can see the curiosity swimming in her eyes, practically bulging her cheeks with the effort of keeping her questions caged behind her teeth.

Finally, after a good three minutes, she’s at your side, bony point of her chin digging a grave into your shoulder.  It’s probably not the most appropriate thing but she’s never much been one for decorum.  (You either, but still.) 

“So… what was that about?”

You don’t bother to turn when you speak, back to running through order details and matching them with customers.  “What?”

“You know— that!”  She waves her wrist in a circle, gesturing toward the space Jungkook had occupied not five minutes ago.  “He ran out of here like he was scared for his life.”

“Scared of the truth,”  you correct. 

You hadn’t thought it was possible for her to get more pale - she’s already fine porcelain, perpetually slathered in sunscreen - but she somehow does, balking at your response.  There it is. 

“What?”  There’s a reproachful edge to her words, an uncertainty that tells more than the single syllable. 

“What?”  It’s mimicry and a challenge all in one, meeting her stare from the corner of your periphery.  You can read every emotion that runs through her expression:  shock, displeasure, confusion.  

She retreats a step, bottom lip caught between her teeth.  (She really does remind you of your little sister.)  “So, you told him?”

You shrug, a noncommittal gesture that disrupts the curtain of silk that falls over your shoulder.  You hadn’t laid it out for him but surely he had an idea now.  There was no way he didn’t. 

“I pointed out a few conflicting facts.  That’s all.”  You’re not ashamed about what you’ve done.  You’d want to know if you were him.  Consider it an act of goodwill. 

The silence that meets your ears isn’t surprising but you don’t pay it any further mind.  What’s done is done.  Now he knows, or something close to it.  The chips would simply fall where they were meant to. 

You have to admit - you’re rooting for him. 

Whatever Yejin’s thinking, she keeps it to herself for the rest of the shift.  She knows better than to berate you about something like this, not that she would anyway.  Obnoxious as she can be, you have an understanding.  It strengthens your not-quite-close-friends-but-more-than-colleagues relationship. 

It’s only at the end of your shift that she brings it up again, drifting over to you as you complete your cash count for the evening. 

She holds Jungkook’s wallet in her hand, mouth pursed thoughtfully as she taps it against the edge of the counter.  “You have to call him.”

You almost lose your count, finishing with a pinched expression.  “Whoever works tomorrow morning can call him.”  You’re not brushing off the responsibility - you really could care less - but simply passing it along to the next person.  Sensible. 

As it turns out, you’re the person who works the next morning, called in because another associate has come down with a cold.  

You’re two lattes deep when you remember the wallet, tucked neatly behind the counter with a yellow sticky note posted to the front.  You suppose it’s your responsibility now.  You know if Yejin comes in tomorrow and sees it, she’ll give you her childish brand of hell. 

The line rings twice before it picks up, that oddly familiar voice crackling through the speaker.  “Hello?”

“Jungkook?”  

There’s a beat of silence followed by a careful confirmation. “Yes, that’s me?”  Upspeaking again. How cute. 

“I’m calling from the CELINE boutique.”  You can practically imagine the look on his face, eyes as wide as saucers as he recalls the awful-to-him encounter.  “You left your wallet here and I wanted to make sure you got it back.”

“O-oh, uh—“  It’s like encountering a baby bunny - or deer or something equally adorable and vulnerable.  “Thanks.  I didn’t even notice.  Um, I can come pick it up today?”  There’s another pause, the sound of fingers over a screen, and then he’s back.  “Is that okay?”

Leave it to him to have lost his wallet and yet be worried about putting someone else out.  He truly was a sucker. 

“That’s fine.  We’re open until six tonight.”  

“I’ll be there before dinner.”  As if realizing how vague that is, he continues, words running headlong into each other like he can’t get them out fast enough.  “Before six, I mean.  Um, is around five-thirty okay?” 

You want to tell him to just come whenever, that it really doesn’t matter to you, but that probably isn’t going to help the situation.  Instead, you hum a quiet sound of confirmation.  “Of course.  We’ll see you then.” 

He hangs up immediately. 

The second time you meet Jeon Jungkook, he’s just as endearing as the last.  It’s actually surprising, if you’re being honest.  You’d thought he’d be resentful or mean or any other emotion better fitting someone whose entire world had turned upside-down.

As it stands, he’s just the right-side of anxious, a hundred little sparks of uncertainty flaring beneath his skin and lighting him up in neon.  You can see him from a mile away he’s lit up so bright, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin.

Your heart aches for him - and then it skips, almost trips over its own two feet when he wanders into the store with his hands dug deep into the pocket of his pants.

How he looks tonight is nothing like how he’d looked yesterday.  Somehow, you like it more.  The undone head-to-toe Balenciaga, the unruly curl of his dark hair.  It’s effortlessly chic - though you think it might have something to do with the fact that he’s just an attractive person.  (Good-looking people could get away with anything - even god-awful fashion faux pas.)

At the sight of you, he seems to further lose steam, eyes widening to such an extent you briefly worry for him.  Surely they’ll fall out of their sockets one day.  

“O-oh.  It’s you.”  The moment the words come, he’s blushing the colour of your red-soled shoes, horrified.  “I m-mean, just—”  He takes a deep breath, finds his footing and tries again.  “You’re the girl that helped me yesterday.”  Spoken like you, the exact girl who helped him yesterday, wouldn’t remember that fact yourself.  

“That’s right,”  you say evenly, expression neutral.  It’s almost as if that surprises him more - as if he’d expected you to shy away from the knowledge.  

The two of you stare at each other for longer than is strictly speaking necessary.  Well, you stare at him and he kind of bounces his eyes around the room.  You know he can’t be that interested in the croc stamp Belt bag behind your head or the selection of small leather goods in the glass case.  

He’s so awkward.

(You did kind of ruin his day though, so you can’t blame him.)

“So, um, my wallet?”  He’s made barely any headway, still lingering awkwardly by the front of the store.  You can’t help your smile - it’s more of a smirk - as you raise the item in question.  

“Right here.”

Jungkook glances from it to your face, then back again.  He makes the same trip twice more.  “Can I have it?”  To your surprise, he’s taken two whole steps toward you, brow furrowed.  He’s still terribly soft, rounded edges and innocent eyes, but he’s making progress.  Good job, you think.

“Of course.”  You mirror him, moving out from behind the counter.  Somehow, that’s not the right move, because his features are breaking and rearranging, big bunny teeth worrying a hole straight through his bottom lip.  You’d think he’d be more confident, more demanding, more… everything.  (You quite like that he isn’t - a complete anomaly - but you also imagine it’s also to his detriment.  Too much honey, not enough vinegar.)

This time, he closes the distance with three long strides.  It hadn’t escaped you how tall he was, the length of his gait - after all, you’d tried to run after him - but you’re still a little surprised when he’s in front of you, not a foot away, arm extended.  Palm out, he asks again, all while refusing eye contact.  “May I have it, please?” 

You hand it over with a soft laugh, pressing the grained leather into his hand.  You expect him to retreat immediately and he does - but then he turns and his expression is inscrutable.  Is he going to say thank you?  Berate you for what you’d done yesterday?

Neither, it seems.  “Why did you do it?”  There’s no anger, just an abiding sadness that laces his words, turns them the saddest shade of blue.

“Do it?”  You know what he means.  You ask anyway.

“Why did you tell me?”  Jungkook’s doing that thing again, alternating between biting his tongue and chewing his cheek as he stares at you.  You can practically see the melancholy rolling off him;  it shines dark on the depths of his irises, how his fist trembles just barely at his side.  For all his good looks and leisurely charm, you can see the effort it takes to hold himself together now.

Guilt ascends, starts somewhere deep in your stomach and turns stomach acid to butterflies.  It creeps higher and higher over your spine, locking each vertebrae until you’re immobile, unable to tear your gaze from his.  “I thought you deserved to know.”

“But why?” 

“What do you mean?”  

It’s almost comical, how both your expressions descend into bewilderment - like looking into a fun house mirror.  He’s trying to wrap his mind around your actions and you’re just trying to make sense of his confusion.  

You anticipate a response - can see it tittering on the tip of his tongue - but he seems to think better of it, shaking his head.  It dislodges a wayward curl from behind his ear, silver twinkling with the movement.  

“Thank you” is all he offers before speed-walking away.

You don’t expect to see Jeon Jungkook for a third time.  

He’s waiting for you when you end your shift on Thursday, standing somewhere between the two boutiques, loitering like some kind of gremlin.  (Except he’s dressed exceptionally well, slick black jeans and a Balenciaga tee shirt that rivals the cost of your shoes.  Of course he’d get away with hanging out in the store without being told off.)

��Excuse me.”  For once, he doesn’t sutter.  The lisp doesn’t present itself, either.  Was this the same Jungkook?  You’re not sure until you meet his stare - or try, his own skipping away the moment you make contact.

There he is.

“Yes, Jungkook?”  He flinches, as if he isn’t expecting you to know or say his name.  How can someone so big, so broad across the shoulders with a face that belongs on billboards, look like such a terrified rabbit?  It makes no sense to you.

“Can we talk?”  The stare he levels you with is unfair, too sweet and coaxing for you to even consider saying no.  You’ll still mess with him a bit though.

“We are talking.”

He sputters at that, hacks out a cough that makes you snicker openly.  It’s just so easy with him, like taking candy from a baby.  

“I mean like— talk talk.”  The set of his jaw gives away the whisper of frustration, the fleeting touch of exasperation that doesn’t allow itself to live anywhere else.  His eyes are still soft, round and glossy beneath the fluorescent storelight.  

“Sure, we can talk talk.”  

“Did you, um, want to grab dinner?”

You don’t mean to mock him (at least, not really) but he just makes everything so easy. You hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way.  “Are you asking me on a date?”  

“W-what?  No!”  Despite the immediacy of his response - the look of utter shock that cracks the careful facade - he’s burning bright, cheeks aflame with colour that licks up and over his ears.  “I just— I thought you’d want to talk somewhere else—”

“I’m kidding.  Let’s go.”

You move first, stepping past him and onto the elevator without a backwards glance.  He scampers after you, trails like a lost puppy in the wake of your shadow.  Even while you stand in the corner, waiting for the lift to meet the main floor, he keeps a careful distance, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.  

“So, what do you want to talk about?”  It seems you have to take the initiative, throwing him a curious stare as the floor number ticks down.  His gaze is trained on neon digits, unmoving.  You repeat yourself, glancing up at him, half-tempted to nudge him out of his reverie.  It’s almost like talking to a really hot brick wall.  “Jungkook?”

He tears out of his thoughts like a wayward bullet, head swivelling wildly.  “Huh?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  

“Um—”  He hesitates, not as if he doesn’t know the answer, but rather that he’s hesitant to speak it into existence.  There’s a tidal wave in the depth of his stare, a cresting wave that looks on the edge of breaking.  “—m-me?”

Brows furrow then amusement spills out.  “You want to talk about… you?”  

“That sounds bad.”  The shape of his grow prominent over his bottom lip, his mouth pulling and pursing with whatever maelstrom exists inside that pretty skull of his.  

“It’s fine.  We’ll talk at dinner.”  

He nods.  You think it means thank you.

Sitting across from each other in the Michelin-starred restaurant - a sought after spot that takes reservations weeks in advance - it’s easy to imagine Jungkook is just another guy.  Another bachelor with too much money and not enough sense, eager to sink his teeth into his next victim.  

It’s hilarious how far that is from the truth.

“What did you want to eat?”  He’s speaking into the pages of the leatherbound menu, half his face hidden.  Whether it’s a defense mechanism or just how he woos pretty girls, you’re not sure.  (You have a feeling it’s the former.)

“Whatever.”  Everything here is incredible.  You really don’t mind.

Jungkook’s face falls, folds in on itself like wet paper and you sigh a sound that further breaks apart the pillars keeping his composure in place.  His right cheek is hollowed, interior being shredded by enamel.  You take pity on him then, flipping open the menu with a great flourish. 

When the waitress - a lovely little thing whose gaze lingers on your dining partner for too long to just be polite - comes to take your order, you rattle off your usual order, doubling certain selections.  Soft-spoken as he might be, you have a feeling the size of his stomach makes up for all the mumbling and half-hearted glances.

“So?”  You level him with a stare over the rim of your glass, lavender and lemonade bursting across your tongue.  

He echoes you, wide-eyed and Bambi-like and stupidly cute.  “So?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  If you’d had a worse day, if you were a lesser person, you might be irritated by having to repeat yourself so often.  As it stands, you’re only curious, your inquisitive nature outweighing your naturally short temper. 

“Oh.”  Poor boy looks like he’s been asked an impossible question, like what’s the meaning of life or the secret to eternal youth.  He fumbles with the edge of his sleeve, turns the plaid over and over in his fingers as if it were a puzzle.  You stare at him the whole time, unflinching, unrelenting.  He’d asked you here so you damn well expect an answer.

You’re about ready to repeat yourself - fourth time’s the charm? - when he finally finds his voice.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

It’s not the answer you’d expected.  It whacks you in the face, smacking your usual confidence out of place and shooting your carefully threaded eyebrows into your hairline.  “What?” 

He’s terribly uncomfortable, unhappy with being on the spot.  You watch the flicker of emotions through his face, the ones that creep into the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the wobble of his bottom lip.  Try as he might, he can’t keep the light from his eyes - twinkling stars that bloom like newly minted stars.

“Thank you.”  It’s just that much harder when he repeats himself, edges he builds with his bare hands and a clearing of his throat.

You’re silent for a long while - long enough for the first few plates to be set before you.  You gather up shredded radish and perfectly charred beef with your chopsticks, chewing thoughtfully on the morsel.  Jungkook doesn’t move - doesn’t even reach for his chopsticks - and simply stares at you.  You might find it off-putting if it were anyone but him.

You get through half the bowl of green beans, well on your way to finishing it, when he finally begins eating, deftly transferring little bites to his bowl.

The only sound is crunching - king oyster mushroom tempura, ice from your cocktail - and you’re pleasantly surprised to find it’s not uncomfortable.  A little different, sure, but altogether nice.  Like dining with an old friend.

You finally answer when half the plates are gone, another three laid out in their wake.  You’re careful not to speak with your mouth open - you notice Jungkook doesn’t either - and take a long sip of your water.  “You’re welcome, I guess.”  

Something tells you you’re always surprising him - whether intentionally or not.  His eyebrows have a tendency to shoot up, making him look even more shocked than he normally does.  (Seriously, how big are his eyes?)  You find that funny but don’t comment on it, opting to pop a silken piece of black cod into your mouth.  Your stare never falters, trained on his face as you chew thoughtfully.

“What?”  He’s had enough of your quiet observation, apples of his cheeks reminiscent of the tree in your parents’ backyard.  

“What?”  You parrot back, shameless, dark eyes twinkling at him.

“Y-you’re staring at me.”  

“You’re sitting in front of me.”

The line of his mouth hardens then, tongue rolling against his cheek in a gesture that stands out.  It’s the first glimpse of something rude, something not doe-eyed and innocent.  Oh?

“You don’t have to stare.”  Said with a speared piece of sashimi, the end of his chopsticks assaulting the poor piece of bluefin tuna like it has personally offended him.  

You reach for the same place, knock ornate wood against his, and quirk a brow when he meets your stare.  “Does it bother you, Mr. Jeon?”  The inflection is drawn out, almost mocking, only softened by the smile you offer.  

“That’s not my name.”  The bite disappears past his teeth.  You expect him to continue three chews later but he only goes for another, filling his plate and then his mouth.

“Sorry— Jungkook.  Does my staring bother you?”

It feels a little like playing with fire - holding your hand too close to a flickering flame, curious what it’ll do.  Juvenile in a way but enticing in another.  You’ve never met anyone quite like Jeon Jungkook.

“It’s rude,”  he reasons, glossy eyes meeting yours for perhaps the fifth time that evening.

“Maybe I’m just rude.”

He shakes his head then - dislodges untamed strands from behind his silver-lined ears - and sets his chopsticks down.  (Perfectly matched up, propped against the provided rest.)  “You’re not.”

You can’t keep the surprise away, the emotion threading through your brows to tie them into a little knot of consternation.  He says it so readily, as if he knows you and this isn’t one of a handful of very short, very unexpected conversations.  He’s not even looking away, meeting your stare with a confidence that surprises you.  

It lasts for all of five more seconds before he clears his throat and sips at his tea.  Anything to busy his hands, you think.

“You don’t know that,”  you finally return, after what seems like too long.

“I do.”  He nods - almost to himself - and continues, matter-of-fact.  “You care about people.  You’re… hard around the edges but you don’t mean to hurt anyone.  You want to do what’s right.  Sometimes it means you have to do things that aren’t easy.”

For once, you’re at a loss for words.  Really and truly silenced, unable to articulate anything that might beat back the kindness he’s offering.  

How the tables have turned.

He likes waffles with chocolate syrup rather than honey.  He doesn’t like whipped cream or citrus-flavoured desserts.  He has a tailor he’s gone to since he was a child, the same elderly woman he sometimes calls halmoni because she’s watched him grow up.  He decorates his apartment with the most random things:  limited edition KAWs figurines and the guitars he still hasn’t had the most practice with, one of a kind paintings from the gallery one of his best friends curates.  He buys the most expensive bottles of wine at any given restaurant not because his palate is so evolved it matters, but because it’s what he’s been taught to do.

He’s been in four serious relationships in his twenty-five years.  All of them have ended poorly, though his latest with Malibu Barbie is the first where he’d been cheated on.  (Somehow, you doubt that but you don’t voice this disbelief.)  He tends to lean towards long-term relationships with women who baby him (your words, not his).  He scoffs when you call him a serial monogamist, insists he isn’t even as you list out all the facts pointing otherwise.

“I just… don’t like wasting my time,”  he insists from behind his coffee cup.  

“You mean you don’t like the potential to be hurt.”  

Jungkook blinks at you then, Bambi eyes so big and bright you almost want to laugh.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  He seems confused - as if his reasoning is solid, irrefutable. 

“High risk, high reward, Jungkookie.”  It’s something your father had taught you years ago, the crazy old sap.  It’s probably why he’s had three divorces since you were seven years old, but you suppose it’s worked out for him now.  He’s been happily married for the last ten years - the longest relationship he’s ever had.  Youngin is good for him, though.  You like her - even if you sometimes wish she weren’t young enough to be your older sister and not his wife.

“You say that a lot.”

“I mean it when I say it.”

He’s quiet then, shoving a corner of his croissant past his lips.  When he speaks - starts to, anyway - his mouth is still full and you level him with a look that silences him until all traces of the pastry are gone.  “Girls are scary.”

You laugh.  Cackle, really.  You can’t help it.  He says it with a pout, the expression so utterly at odds with the offensively revealing shirt he wears, the smooth unblemished skin of his chest almost too much for such a quiet afternoon.  He glares at you across the table, shoves another piece of the flaky golden treat into his mouth, and waits for you to speak.  He knows you’re going to give him a piece of your mind because you always do, rebuffing 99% of the things he says.  (Sometimes for fun, often with good intentions.)

“Heights are scary.  Death is scary.  Leaving your wallet at home when you’re low on gas is scary—”

“Don’t you have Apple Pa—”

“Don’t interrupt.”  He clamps his lips shut, folding his arms across his chest.  From anyone else, it’d be a defensive gesture;  from him, it’s patient.  “Girls aren’t scary.  Having real feelings for people is scary, but that doesn’t mean you should just stay with people who don’t deserve you.” 

“Not all of us have cheater-sniffing noses.”  

You suppose he’s right but the fact still remains that he’s too nice for his own good.  Too trusting, too lenient, too blind to all the red flags.  Like he’s living life in greyscale. 

“Well, that’s what you have me for.”

The look Jungkook gives you then is incredulous, screwing his pretty face up as if he’s about to sneeze.  Instead, he laughs.  “I’m not hopeless.”

“Oh, but you are.”  You’re adamant, insistent.  He’s more comfortable with you now - sometimes teases you in a way you’d never have expected weeks ago - but he’s still so soft.  An absolute marshmallow dressed in designer duds, a heart of gold wrapped up in a bubble gum package.  

You want to protect him, teach him to fly.  Be his wingwoman until he’s soaring the skies on his own.  

You know it’s not his pride that keeps him from saying yes.  He doesn’t have an abundance of that, far too gracious to ever deny help when he really needs it.  He’s just shy, doesn’t know what he wants until it’s staring him right in the face.  

“Fine,”  he agrees after you’ve stared at him for too long.  It’s one of his weaknesses - his inability to handle attention when it’s laser-focused.  It makes him sweat, prompts his nervous habit of chewing at his bottom lip, long fingers picking at the peach fuzz on his cheeks.

“You won’t regret it.”

Jeon Jungkook has gone on six dates over the last ten days.  You know, because you’ve helped him pick out outfits for each of them, seated at the edge of his bed with your knees folded and a bag of white cheddar popcorn in your grubby little paws.

It’s not that he isn’t stylish - you both know he is - but there’s a certain finesse to dressing for dates, to knowing the likes and dislikes of your potential partner and playing to those.  

He, to no one's surprise, does not have this finesse.  If it were up to him, he’d wear his favourite clothes every day, different jeans and joggers in medium-wash denim and impossibly soft cotton.  He’d swap his Balenciaga separates in and out and stick with the finely tailored Gucci suit he calls his lucky ticket (ew).  He’d live in those stupid two-toned sneakers and barely do his hair, allowing it to become a powder puff reminiscent of old Hollywood movies.

The girls would probably still love it.  (It’s easy to love him.)

“What do you think?”  It’s low-cut black, relaxed in the shoulders and flattering in the torso.  It holds him just right, hugging the muscle that threads across his shoulders like armour, coils around his upper arms and makes his tattoos stand in stark relief where the sleeves end, mid-forearm. 

It looks good— but then again, a lot of things look good on him.  He wants great.

You answer honestly, because that’s what you do and that’s what he has you there for.  To knock him down when his (admittedly small) ego gets a little too big, remind him of his hubris like the summer sun upon his candle wax wings.  “Not bad…”

You don’t even need to finish the thought for him to be tugging the shirt over his head, back flexed, ink-strewn fingers gripping the hem.  

Not for the first time, you’re reminded of just how unfair life is. 

How had Jungkook - bona fide dork, certifiable shy guy - been gifted one of the best bodies in human existence?  (You wish you were joking.)  It was utterly absurd, a complete waste on someone who’d only learnt to utilise his good looks in the last five months you’d known him.  

“This one?”  He’s grabbing another hanger, all but thrusting it into your face.  Medium-weight cashmere.  Probably too hot for a night like tonight but you’ve seen it on him before and it hugs him like a lover, displaying his best assets (titties) and drawing attention to the narrow shape of his waist.  It’s the equivalent of a little black dress.

“Look at you go,”  you tease, mouth full of mirth and popcorn kernels.  “Throw that Juun.J trench you have overtop and you’ll be set.”

Jungkook nods sagely, as if your word is law.  You suppose it is.

“Thanks, ____,.”  He says it in that sweet way of his, eyes lost to the weight of his gratitude.  

Your response is a shrug.  “Bring me back some dessert and we’ll be even.”  You don’t know where he’s going tonight but you figure it’s one of the many restaurants you’d recommended earlier in the week when he’d started lining up his various dates.  You know there’ll be something good on the menu.  

He promises he will as he slides the turtleneck on, tucking it into the dark trousers he’d picked up days ago, and redoes the slim black Rag & Bone belt around his waist.  You have to admit - you’ve done another great job of styling him.  Simple yet painstakingly attractive, playing at all the little bits of Jungkook’s best qualities without outlining them in bright red ink.  Understated but elegant, effortless yet seriously hot.  

Maybe you should quit your day job and become the female Hitch.  That was a viable plan, right?

You’re mulling it over when you realise your walking Ken doll is making toward his bedroom door, wallet clasped in one hand and phone in the other.  “Hey!  You’re leaving already?”  It’s polite surprise that colours your words, stare drawn to the screen of your iPhone.  It’s only 6 PM and the reservation isn’t for another hour.

There’s a sheepish look creeping over his features, painting itself in delicate strokes that you spy past the line of his smile, how the skin crinkles around his eyes.  For a moment, he’s the shy Jungkook you’d met in your store and not the one that now bleeds careful confidence, filling his little black book (read: phone contacts) with names as easily as he breathes.  “I was, uh, going to stop and get f-flowers.”  A silver-lined hand scrubs across his nape, dislodges the carefully styled waves he’s settled for.

Flowers, huh?  Well, that’s certainly something new.  Good for him, you think. 

“Jeon Jungkook, going all out.”  It’s heavy on the teasing, playful mockery lending a warmth to your words.  “She’s special.”

Which you’d figured, given he was seeing her.  Repeats were rare for him now that he’d learned how to weed out the bad seeds, held his hand a little closer to his heart (at least, sometimes).  Since he’d started dating again, this would be the first time he’d be going on a second date.  It’s a big deal. 

“Yeah—“  Nervousness sparks across his face, lights up his stare like the stars in the night sky.  “I guess she is.”

You smile fondly, like a proud mother.  “Go get ‘em, tiger.”  

“I will,”  he promises, looking so giddy it makes your heart swell ten sizes.  

You don’t even think anything of it as you follow him out of his room, bag of popcorn neatly rolled under your arm and your socks slid back into place.  It’s only when he levels you with a strange stare, pauses in the shrugging on of his coat, that you return his look.  “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“Leaving?”  

“Why?”

Wasn’t that the million dollar question?  

You don’t normally leave, usually waiting here at home for him until he returns to give you a rundown of his date (and the promised appetizer/dessert/whatever).  It feels somehow wrong to stay, though, as if you’re taking up space that doesn’t belong to you.  He’s going on a second date, after all.  Soon enough, he won’t need your help picking out clothes or deciding on a restaurant.  You won’t get to curl up on your usual corner of his sectional, wrapped up in the obnoxiously soft blanket you’d convinced him to buy one night while online shopping.

But it’s fine.  Totally, one hundred and ten percent fine.  The two of you are friends.  You’d always expected - anticipated, hoped - this day would come.  Baby boy was growing up. 

“Y’know.”  You answer a second too late and he’s still wearing that odd expression, handsome face flooded with something that looks like disappointment.  It flickers in the bits of his stare you can make out past his fringe, partially concealed by the dark silk that you know feels as soft as it looks.

“I know?”  He never tries to read your mind - knows it’s utterly useless.  

You wiggle your hand dismissively.  “Second date and all that.”  

Jungkook giggles - the same deceptively sweet sound he always makes - and finishes tugging his jacket on.  It fits him so well it should be illegal, falling to his knees and ending just shy of the intricate laces of his boots.  “Just stick around.  I’ll drive you home when I get back.”

It’s something he always does - his way of saying thank you for putting up with all of his first date jitters, his outfit changes, his worrying over how to first approach a girl on Tinder - so you don’t doubt him.  “Fine.  I’ll stay.”

He beams, caught halfway out the door.  “Tell me to break a leg.”

“Go break her back,”  you retort to the sound of his laughter.

You’re almost asleep when your phone starts going off, the vibrations jolting you awake.  It rattles across the glass table, won’t shut the hell up until you’re slamming your hand atop it, glaring at the screen as it lights up with notifications.

It’s almost 2 AM and they’re from Jungkook.  This can only mean one thing.

from jeon jungkook:  Hey. from jeon jungkook:  I’m really sorry but I won’t be home tonight. from jeon jungkook:  If you want to stay over, I can drive you back in the morning. from jeon jungkook:  Please don’t be mad.

Leave it to him to apologise for getting his dick wet - to feel bad about having a successful second date.  It makes you laugh as you stare down at the texts, tap a quick response you know will have his heart racing.  (Even after months of friendship, it’s hard not to tease him just a little bit.)

to jeon jungkook:  i officially hate you

The typing notification gives him away immediately, but the moment you do the same, he stops.  Of course.  He hates confrontation - would rather leap off a cliff-face than deal with negative emotions.  (He’d told you that once, over a night of beer and fried tteok.)

to jeon jungkook:  it’s fine!  have fun! to jeon jungkook:  turn her world upside down 😏

He doesn’t answer after that but the read receipt pops up.  Good, you think.  About time he finds someone nice.  You wonder what she’ll be like when you meet her.  

Jungkook’s third date comes with another third - you.

He drags you along to dinner, insisting there’s nothing at all weird about the fact.  He has to repeat it at least four times during the drive there, head nodding like a plastic bobblehead as he weaves in and out of traffic. 

“I want you to meet her,”  he mumbles, like that makes it better.  As if bringing a friend along to a date with that reasoning means it’s totally acceptable and not on the list of Hard No’s When Dating.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”  He’s too focused on changing lanes to answer you, signalling before seamlessly drifting over.  (He’s an impressively responsible driver, but that’s unsurprising.)  You repeat yourself.

“It’s not… weird.”  But you have a feeling that he knows how odd the request is.  Knows and doesn’t care, unfortunately.  “She wants to meet you too.”

(When had Jungkook turned into this person who argued with you?)

You somehow highly doubt that.  No girl in her right mind would leap at the chance to meet her potential beau’s wingwoman.  It’s something reserved for official status, when the foundation is set.  Still, you play into his hand, level him with a stare he should recognise.  It’s the one you throw his way any time he’s too nice, gives a mile when he shouldn’t even offer an inch.  (It doesn’t come as often anymore, but it still makes appearances once in a while.)  

“What does she even know about me?”

“That we’re friends.”  His vague response speaks volumes.  The look changes - grows into a glare that has him furtively peeking at you from the corner of his periphery.  When he speaks, it feels like a dead giveaway.  “That I really value your opinion.”

You groan, a noise so loud it rattles around in the car and interrupts the ballad playing through the speakers.

“She’s trying to figure out if I’m competition or not!”  Of course.  It’s obvious.  She wants to know what she’s getting into it before things get too serious, determine if her Prince Charming is really all that.  (He is.)  “I’m not coming to dinner.”  

“You’re already in the car,”  he reasons.  

You note he doesn’t deny your first statement, mouth rounding into a pout that should crush your resolve.  Instead, it drives you mad, irritation bubbling in your throat.

“I just won’t go in.”

“____,.”  When he says it like that, it’s hard to deny him.  Jungkook might not utilise his charms often but when he does, it’s lethal.  Undeniable with those dumb Bambi eyes of his.

“No.”

“____,,”  he repeats, almost pleading.  You can’t look at him.  You won’t.  The moment you do, you’ll be sucked into the swirling vortex that makes up his stare - a million pretty little lights caught in the brown of his iris, so many possibilities you’d lose yourself trying to explore them all.

You last a whole ten seconds before his staring becomes too much, those round eyes tracking you in the rearview mirror until you’re relenting, softening in the way that only he can cause. 

“Fine.”  You hate how it sounds rolling off your tongue, terse and a little pissed off.  You’re not actually mad.  Just worried.  You’ve seen situations like this play out - not that you’ve been in this position before - but female friends and potential girlfriends just don’t go hand-in-hand.  It takes a very special kind of person to facilitate a meeting this early and you are not that person.  You’re ragged edges, uneven temperament, distrust that you can’t help.

Jungkook knows that.  Should, anyway.  You’ve grown close over the last nearly half a year.  

When he mumbles a quiet sorry, turns to rest his chin against his knuckles as he drives, you know he means it.  He’d never put you in this position if it didn’t mean a lot to him - if his own happiness wasn’t somehow also on the line.  (Truthfully, it’s your fault.  All that self-love encouragement was coming back to bite you in the ass.)

You grumble an obligatory acceptance as the streetlights fly by.  You’ve got a reputation to uphold. 

“You’re paying for my dinner.”

“Of course.”

How many times have you pictured this same situation, watched it unfold on your television screen as the protagonist gasps wildly, hand at their throat?  How many times have you laughed at the exchange, snickering into your palm as the romantic interest makes some wild declaration of love and wins the protagonist’s heart?

Answer:  you’ve lost count.

Still, it doesn’t prepare you to be thrust beneath the spotlight, half-dreaming and terribly confused.  

“What’re you doing here?”  At any other time, it might be as reproachful as you want, full of disapproval and sleepiness.  Here and now, it’s slurred speech and the lines of your pillow dug into the softness of your cheek, lashes dusted with sleep and breath freshly minted.

Jungkook’s oddly surprised, considering he’s appeared unannounced at your doorstep at the crack of dawn (not really).  “C-can I come in?”

You don’t budge.  It’s not because you’re about to say no, but because you’re still really tired.  So tired you stare at him for a moment too long, zoning out as you drink in his appearance.  He’s wearing the clothes from last night - the same animal-print silk shirt that hangs obscenely low and reveals too much skin.  You recognise it because you’d picked it out for his date.  

(The one where he was supposed to ask Jiwon to be his girlfriend, you fail to note.)  

You repeat yourself around a yawn, ignoring the way your vowels crash into each other and barely make it to the light of day.  “What’re you doing, Jungkookie?”

“Please let me in,”  the doe-eyed prince at your door mumbles, gaze bouncing somewhere beyond your shoulder, over your face, to the wayward strands that’re the result of sleeping too well.  Everywhere but your eyes.

“Fine,”  you huff, stepping back to allow him over the threshold.  You don’t miss the way he smells - his signature cologne and something else.  If you had to guess, it’s her perfume.  It’s distinctly floral, drawing you into a garden of roses.  You don’t know if you like it.

Without a second glance, you’re shuffling away from him, dragging your slippered feet into the kitchen.  

You move on autopilot, spooning coffee grounds into the Chemex filter.  You don’t bother asking whether your surprise guest wants any - assume he does, because the fiend somehow lives on caffeine - and settle against the counter as you wait for your kettle to whistle.

You’re still so tired you feel like you might fall asleep standing up but you think you do a good enough job of levelling Jungkook with a solid stare.  “So?”

“W-what?”  

It’s been so long since you’ve last heard his stutter that it surprises you, recentres your attention from your own exhaustion and has you frowning.  Something’s happened.  Must have.  There’s no other explanation for it - for how he looks at you, so uncertain like all those months ago when you’d smashed his glass house to pieces.

“What’s going on?”  You’re demanding, full to the brim with concern as you round on him.  He flinches away as if your words have burnt him, leaning into the stainless steel side of your fridge.  

(Silly Jungkook - that won’t protect you.)

“What do you mean?”

The early hour has, luckily, dampened your usual aggression.  He’s stalling, you can tell.  You hate when he does this.  You tell him as much, glowering at him as he tries to shrink his nearly six foot frame into something small.  “You’ve showed up at my house unannounced.  What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?”

He looks as if he’s on the brink of repeating himself, biting it back behind his neat white teeth when your expression grows darker, more frustrated.

It’s impossible to stay dressed in red, lethargy swathing you up like a cocoon and softening your edges.  You sigh heavily - perhaps a little overdramatically - and go about completing your coffee ritual.  Patience works best with Jungkook, you’ve learned.  (Though, he sorely tests your own sometimes.)

With a steaming mug in your hand and the other passed over to him, you gesture toward your living room.

He nods once - a small up and down of his head.  

“So.”  You try again, softer this time, warmed by the heat that permeates ceramic and settles your sleep-ravaged nerves.  You’re seated cross-legged on your couch, facing him with your back pressed to the arm rest.  He’s half-turned to you, coffee cup slotted between his thighs.  Feet turned in, mouth wobbling with the intensity of how hard he’s chewing into his bottom lip.

“I couldn’t do it.”  The words rush out too fast, tumble into each other in such a way you have to take a second to comprehend what he’s said.  Couldn’t do… it?

You stare at each other for a long while, you trying to understand and him refusing to meet your stare.  

When realisation dawns on you, you can only imagine how you look.  It must be terrifying by how Jungkook practically tries to crawl into the cushions of your couch, shoulders rising around his ears like a turtle.

“You didn’t ask her?”  It explodes out, a question that demands an answer. 

He’s staring past your head, unblinking.  You’d almost worry he was a robot if his voice weren’t so damned human, full of melancholy and rounded by his lisp.  “I c-couldn’t.  It was just…”  The shrug he offers is half-assed at best, not nearly good enough to excuse him.

“Just what?”  

“Just—”  There’s the wiggly hand gesture you do that he’s adopted, his ink-strewn hand waving through the air like a floppy chicken foot.  He thinks it’ll earn him a pass but your unrelenting glare indicates otherwise.  He deflates, hand falling back to his lap, clutching his mug like it's a makeshift security blanket.  “It didn’t feel right.”

What did that even mean?  Feel right?  

Love didn’t just appear, fully-formed and complete.  It took work and dedication and the understanding it could all come crashing down.  Didn’t he understand that?  Hadn’t you drilled that into his head?

You exhale through gritted teeth, push breath past enamel that acts like a solid steel gate.  

“Jungkook, it’s not going to just ‘feel right.’”  You’re air quoting, all tact thrown out the window.  “You like her, don’t you?”

You expect him to nod immediately.  He doesn’t. 

“Jungkook.”

“Yeah?” 

“You like her, right?”  

“I think so.”

You want to tear your own hair out.  Instead, you press the pads of your fingers into your temple - apply pressure in hopes of alleviating the tension that settles there.  “So, you like her.”  It feels a bit bad, condescending in a way;  you don’t mean it in any way but supportive.  You just want him to be happy.  “But you couldn’t ask her out because it didn’t feel right?”

“She’s not you.”  

He’s looking at you now, looks like he might have a heart attack if he does so any longer.  But he doesn’t tear his gaze away when you meet it, entire expression warped into something you don’t recognise.  Hope, maybe?  Fear?   

“What?”  You wish it were hard rather than feather light, almost lost to the cacophony in your head.

The hollow of his cheek is thrown into stark relief, the line of his jaw clenched tight.  He repeats himself even as you’re the one looking away, shaking your head as if that might will away the irksome answer.  (It won’t.)

“Don’t say things like that.”  

It’s hurt that flashes through his expression and strikes you right in the centre of your chest.  His face crumbles, brows knit together beneath his mop of shiny hair.  He looks so terribly sad - a kicked puppy, an abandoned deer.  Bambi, through and through.

“You asked why I didn’t do it,”  he reasons in a voice far more solid than he looks.

“I didn’t think you’d say something so ridiculous.”  It’s cruel.  “You’re making a bad choice.  You’re into this girl.  Don’t be dumb.”

His features rearrange, then so do his limbs, entire body lifting from his seat in jerky, disjointed movements.  “I’m not dumb.”  There’s a reproachful quality to his words, a distaste he doesn’t bother to mask.  It’s not something you’ve ever faced, surprising you enough to draw your eyes to his face.  

He doesn’t look like the Jungkook you know.  

When he leaves - sets his cup in the sink and storms out the way he’d come before you have time to stop him - you wonder if you ever knew him at all.

“Okay.  Spill.”

Yejin’s tired of your abrasiveness, tired of having her head bitten off every time she tries to approach you with a question.  You can’t blame her.  You’ve felt like shit the last week, sleep-deprived and generally pissed off.  

All because of a doe-eyed idiot.  

“What?”  It’s less snark, more sigh.  You’re counting down the minutes until you’re free, until you can curl back up in your bed and try to sleep like you’ve done the last four days.  

“What’s going on with you?”  

“Nothing.”  

“Bullshit,”  she hums, trailing after you as you move behind the counter.  “You’ve been in a bad mood all week.  I’ve never seen you this upset like, ever.”  She’s right, of course.  You’ve always been very careful to keep business separate, pushing the customer service agenda no matter what.  “Did something happen?”  

You grit your teeth.  An expletive careens off your tongue when you slam the tip of your finger within the drawer you’d just shut.

“____,”  she tries again, concerned.  

“Nothing happened.”

“See, I don’t believe that because like, look at you!”  She gesticulates wildly, adorned wrists clinking loudly.  “You look like hell—”

“Thanks.”

“—and you’re being clumsy and like, I think I know you well enough.  So just tell me?”

You hate that she’s right.  It doesn’t mean you’ll relent, too caught up in your own strange brand of strength to unload.  (Maybe it’d be helpful.  Probably.  But you’ve never found comfort in other people.  At least, not like this.)

“Yejin.”  Her name stops her in her tracks, hurried and insistent as you pull your coat on.  “It’s fine.  Really.”  You’re swallowing your pride - practically choking on it - as you offer what you hope is a reassuring smile.  “I just need to get some sleep.”  And figure out what the hell to do about Jungkook, but that’s a can of worms you refuse to open and certainly not here.

Maybe at home, over a glass of wine, fueled by liquid courage.  

The bottle of Côtes du Rhône has aided you more than you’d hoped, offered an armour that slinks over your shoulders and drives your fingers to action.  It’s prompted something - started the ball rolling.

(Idly, you think that might not have been a very good idea, but it’s too late to care now.)

“You’re here.”  You being him and him being Jeon Jungkook, hair damp and imposing frame draped in an oversized sweater.  He looks terribly uncomfortable standing in your doorway - more so than he had days ago - hands shoved into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, dumb sneakers pigeon-toed as if he’s ready to take flight.

“Y-you asked,”  he mutters, refusing to meet your stare.  At least, you think he’s refusing.  It’s a little hard to focus when there’s this fine film turning everything hazy, the bitter taste of wine heavy on your tongue.  

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

He looks at you like you’re crazy then, though he never quite meets your eyes.  It’s a smart tactic - level you with a look then immediately bounce it away.  It has you coming back for more, eager to refocus his fretful gaze until it’s locked with your own.

“Will you come in?”  You sidestep, give him enough space that he can enter without feeling suffocated.  He still hesitates, takes a second too long in deciding.  “I won’t bite.”

You don’t miss the better promise that comes under his breath.

“So.”  This feels oddly familiar, him backed into the corner of your couch again while you settle across from him.  He hums a noise but offers nothing further.  

This is how it’ll be then.  Fine.  If he wants to be this way.

“You like me.”

He sputters - doesn’t mean to, by how big his eyes go.  He hadn’t expected it to come barreling out of your mouth.  “I—  I don’t—  I didn’t say that.” 

If it were anyone but him, you’d take his reticence as rudeness.  

“Tell me why.”

The poor boy blinks, stares at you full on now.  Can’t look away, locked in the intensity of your stare.  

“W-what?”

“Tell me.”  You sip carefully at the liquid in your glass, swirl it ‘round and ‘round.  “You said that girl wasn’t me but you haven’t made a case as to why that matters.  What have I got that she doesn’t?”  

“You’re serious?”  

“As a heart attack, Jungkookie.”

The brunet swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.  You think he might say no, outright refuse.  You don’t expect him to start rattling things off like the list lives in his head, answers printed against the darks of his eyelids.  

“You’re funny.  You’re honest.  You speak your mind.”  You don’t mean to scoff but his reasons are so shallow - so easily found in other people.  He must read the doubt in your expression, pushing on to cut you off from doing the same to him.  “Y-you care about people even when you pretend like you don’t.  You’re just as scared of being hurt as I am.”  

For the first time in a long time - in years and years - you feel seen.  As if he’s pulled back the cover of your unpublished draft, memorised the redlines and notes in the margins.  

“I don’t—”

“You have this face you make when you’re proud of me.”  He’s turning his own fingers over in his lap, knuckles white from the strain of locking them together and undoing them again.  “When I do something you approve of or when I make you laugh.”  

There’s something thick in your throat.  

“You make me want to try.”  He clears his own, speaks so softly you have to strain to hear it.  “Y-you make things not so scary.”  

It grows heavier, harder to breathe as you stare at the man sitting across from you.  He’s focused wholly on his hands, too caught up in his words to help the way he plucks at his skin, fiddles with the silver chain that loops around his wrist.

“You know what I need, even before I know myself.  You make me laugh.”  He laughs, an almost choked sound that fizzles and rattles bashfully. “You look really, really good in your work skirt.”  You know the one he means - all black, pencil-fit.  Makes your legs look a mile long, despite the fact that they aren’t.  

You can’t help but join him, a little breathless, with a strange sensation behind your ribs.  Like sunshine on a cold day, filtering past the walls you’ve put up, streaming through the windows that’d replaced drywall when Jungkook had waltzed into your life with his fluffy hair and boyish laugh.

When you speak, you don’t even believe your own words.  They come of their own accord - a defense mechanism.  “I can’t.”

As if he knows - as if he’s got a polygraph going, Jungkook shakes his head, meets your eyes and holds you there with the intensity of his attention.  “Can’t or won’t?”

“I—”

“I’m not asking for the world here.  Just a chance.”  He’s got a peculiar look on his face.  “Don’t you think you owe it to me?”

“Excuse me?” 

All of a sudden, he’s close.  Closer than you’d expect, far closer than he should be.  There’s nothing beyond his expression, the way his eyes twinkle under the dimmed apartment lights as he stares you down.  The scent of his cologne is cloying now, the fading nectarine hint of his shampoo making your mouth water.  

“You kind of ruined my life.  I think this makes us fair.”

You sputter, gasp, make sounds that careen off your tongue and fill the air with nonsense.  You’d ruined his life?  (You’d made it better - made him see the light, you thought.)  You’re working to find your voice, ready to tear into him for this abrupt accusation.

Then he’s giggling, nose scrunched and delight filtering past his teeth.  

“I’m kidding.”  

It feels like whiplash.  You’ve created a monster.  

“But you do owe me, I think.  So why not?”

You only have yourself to blame when you say yes, conceding to his pretty eyes and sweet smile.

Dating Jungkook is easy - as effortless as breathing.  He’s a bona fide dreamboat plucked from your wildest dreams. 

He texts when he says he will and picks you up every night, stamping a kiss to your cheek the moment you’ve clocked out.  He holds your hand and refuses to let go, rubbing soothing circles over your wrist when you’re tired or stressed or annoyed.  He brings flowers to every date - insists on them even when you tell him they’re a waste of money.  He knows your coffee order, has learned the art of the pour over when he wakes up before you.  

You understand now, why he’d stayed with women who were terrible for him (to him).  If you were them, you wouldn’t have let him go either.  Would lock him up in an old tower like your own personal Rapunzel.

(You say that because you’ve been on a Disney movie binge.  He is, unsurprisingly, very into these sorts of things.)

“Open it,”  he pleads, pushing the luxurious pink box towards you.

You stare down at the lid, the Agent Provocateur label glaring back at you.  You can’t help how you laugh, sound bouncing around his bedroom.  “Are you trying to tell me something, Jungkookie?”

Your lover - not boyfriend, because you haven’t had the talk and it’s still new and you’ve never been this careful before - rolls his eyes, pushes the box closer with a huff.  It’s adorable.  

“Just open it.”

You finger the soft bow strapped across the top, play with the neatly cut ends.  You can feel the impatience radiating off Jungkook, feel those pretty doe eyes boring holes into the top of your head.  You take your time even more now, unravelling the ribbon with slow, measured twists of your wrist.  

Whatever you’d expected to find nestled among the tissue paper, this isn’t it.  

You’d imagined he’d be into something feminine, all pristine white lace and scalloped cups.  Something he could brush his cheek against, run his fingers over.  

Tucked within the box is something that doesn’t even earn the title of lingerie, a few flimsy straps bonded together.  Blush pink satin and dressed with buckles, you turn it over in your hands, trying to make sense of the way it all connects.  Surely there’s more to this.  Surely, darling innocent Jeon Jungkook doesn’t expect you to wear just this?

“Do you like it?”  You can sense the eagerness in his voice, that desire he has to please that seems to never go away.  

“What is it?”

“It’s a playsuit.”  

“A playsuit?”  You’re no stranger to experimenting in the bedroom but this— this looks like it’s meant to harness a dog in.  Would it even fit?  Soft as it is, it seems terribly restrictive, made for someone with model proportions and no body fat at all.

He nods, round eyes so bright, so hopeful, you can’t voice your concerns.  “Will you wear it?”

It fits you better than you’d expected.  Or at least, you think it does.  If Jungkook’s reaction was any indication, it’s heaven sent - the perfect gift wrapping for a present he’s been dying to claim. 

The buckles you’d studied earlier - that had taken you too long to strap together - dig into the tender flesh of your hips, the shape of his fingers imprinted along the metal.  He grips you so tight you think you might bruise, left with a reminder of his love for weeks.

“S-so wet,”  he groans, sound dropping into an almost whine as the swollen mushroom head of his cock brushes through your folds.  The satin of the playsuit has been long since tugged aside, stained with your arousal as it cuts into the softness of your thighs.  He repeats the motion once, twice, coats your clit in pre-cum that leaks out of the slit and adds another layer of slick.  “So ready for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod dumbly, drool around the two fingers he’s got slotted against your cheek, ring finger pressed down over your tongue.  

“Use your words, gorgeous.”  As if you can, as if you’re not riding the high of your last orgasm and about to come apart beneath his playful teasing.

The palm of his hand meets your overstimulated clit with a sharp smack, the cold of his teeth bared against your neck.  He doesn’t like when you don’t answer - much prefers to make an effort even if it’s indiscernible.

“What did I say?”  

Something garbled comes, a plea as much as a sob.  Another hit lands, just shy of the pearl that throbs with need and pain, landing instead on the sensitive, already red skin of your inner thigh.  He soothes it this time around, massages your own wetness into the roses that bloom beneath his touch.

When he speaks again, it’s so utterly sweet, tender as can be.  The Jungkook you’ve known for months and not the devil in disguise.  

“You like this, don’t you?”  His kisses are searing, laced with reverence that feels at odds with the way he forces your gag reflex, taps his curved cock against your pussy.  “You like what I’m doing?”

“Y-yes,”  you cry, spit pooling past the sides of your mouth, dripping lewdly across your breasts.  The hand cradling your chin is all but drenched, dark ink thrown into stark relief by the way it slides over his skin.  Jungkook hums against your cheek, licks a fat stripe from shoulder to ear.  

“Good girl.”  Two fingers spread across over your heat, pointer and index sliding over your lips.  You’re spread obscenely - can see it in the mirror that rests against the far wall.  Can see how the head of his cock peeks between your thighs, runs the same path over and over with each languid, slow roll of his hips.  “Such a good girl for me.  My perfect girl.”

Your shoulders shake with the effort you put into nodding, throat clenching on reflex when the three fingers in your mouth flatten over your tongue, hold you steady in place.

“Pretty girl wants more, doesn’t she?  Wants me to fill her up?”

He’s teasing you, the bastard.  Dragging his aching erection against your cunt as you writhe against him, desperate.  It’s amusing to him - you can read the delight in the reflection, see it shining bright like a beacon when he pulls his hand away and recentres it across your chest.  Digits tease at the already pebbled buds, swollen and sensitive from how hard he’d sucked them into his mouth earlier.

“Say it.  Say you want me.”

You do, without hesitation, without fear.  You know he’ll catch you.  “I want you.”  

He sinks into you the same instant the words fall, holds you tight against him when your entire body begins buzzing and threatens to do the same.  Your walls feel like a vice grip around him, greedily sucking in his cock as he slams home, ruts into you like a wild animal.  

Strong as he is, he’s weak to the noises you make - the broken sobs that spill off your tongue and make up the prettiest sound he’s ever heard - and how you feel absolutely perfect, wet and warm.  The muscle in his thighs strain, pleasure vibrating up the notches of his spine, setting every nerve ending alight with its ascent.

“B-be mine,”  he returns, practically begging as he spreads you wide, making you take everything he has to offer.  Heart and soul and stupidly huge, perfect cock.

“I am.  I am.  I am,”  you chant, tears welling along your lash line.  They fall when his rhythm stutters, when the heat overwhelms and you’re coming for the third time that night, crying his name like it’s the only word you know.  

They continue to pour, carve trails down your reddened cheeks as you reach nirvana, wait for moment he’s right there with you.  It doesn’t take long - a few more punishing thrusts into your fluttering heat - and then he’s found his bliss, crying into the silk of your hair, spilling inside you. 

It doesn’t happen how you thought it would - a shy question poised over dinner, sealed with a sweet kiss on the way to the car - but it means just as much.  Breaks you apart as it rebuilds you, fills you up as it splits your seams.

You’re his and he’s always been yours. 

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @shaybtsforever @we-found-wonderland-in-1989 @justanothergirlfromeurope @jalexad @bonnyskies @coffeeismylife28 @haeilove @purplespaceymermaid @sunsetsnsirens-blog @beingbeings​ @veronawrites​ @notmontae97​ @papillonsgf​ i’m really hoping i didn’t miss anyone e___e

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[sapphicchaos]

Class and Privilege allegories in High School Musical 2

This post is long... so the rest is under the read more

I feel like High School Musical 2 could be an interesting allegory for class and privilege. Troy gets a whole world of privilege handed to him and becomes an asshole. The rest of the Wildcats get intentionally stressed out to the point of quitting because Sharpay didn’t like them. The Wildcats, especially Gabriella, get reprimanded for actions that Troy takes part in too, yet Troy continues to get promotion after promotion. Sharpay is the pinnacle of the upper class eating itself over its own greed and hatred of those they’ve deemed “unacceptable.”

Troy didn’t ask for people to start serving him. He didn't ask for the Evans's attention. He wouldn't have gotten anything he had without the nepotism of being the basketball coach's son. His popularity status is the main reason Sharpay is so enthralled with him and gives him these opportunities. 

He weaponizes the fact that he didn't ask for it. Troy tells Chad as much when Chad brings up how much he's changed. I found this similar to how people in places of privilege disregard these conversations because they "didn't ask to be born white, straight, able bodied, etc. so there must be nothing they can do about it." 

The upper class feeds him steps up the class ladder. He's faced with the choice between helping himself up towards scholarships, networking, and pay raises by turning his back on his working class peers or stand in solidarity with them, demanding the upper class treat them all properly. 

His dad says, "never be ashamed of attention as long as you've earned it," which reiterates the bootstraps sentiment. However, Troy didn't earn his position much more than anyone else on the team. Everything he gets is circumstantial. The first time he meets with Mr Evans and makes a good first impression could even be considered circumstantial. His knowledge in talents like golf, basketball, and theater are all only known to him because of nepotism/his parents or the flimsy circumstances that brought him into the theater world. None of these are the "hard work, you've earned it" kinds of things given that he's more or less stumbled into these hobbies and attained recognition for it. 

Gabriella and Troy get in trouble a couple times. Messing around on the empty golf course and swimming past the time the pool is closed. Gabriella gets reprimanded with strikes towards a threat of firing, while Troy gets promoted to a new position. All because Sharpay desires to see Troy succeed and everyone else, especially Gabriella, fail. 

This on top of Sharpay telling Fulton to make the rest of the Wildcats want to quit mirrors how our current system works. According to the rules in place by Mrs Evans, the Wildcats can't outright be fired just because Sharpay doesn't like them. In our society, on paper a legal system may be equal because they don't outright discriminate against minorities based on arbitrary distinctions between people. But the system still has ways of disenfranchising minorities and marginalized people. It may be illegal to flat out discriminate, but it's fully legal to subtly make society a living hell for said marginalized group. 

Chad’s breaking point with Troy comes when Troy is having lunch with basketball stars. Chad serves them, per the nature of their changed dynamic. Chad thinks Troy is going to introduce him, but instead sends his food back because it’s not what he ordered. This does a couple things. It reinforces the new class difference between Troy who’s getting waited on while teaching professional basketball players how to play golf -the pinnacle rich man’s sport- and Chad who is still the working class obeying the upper class. This displays Troy’s descent with how he treats service workers, essentially dehumanizing Chad and reducing him to the being that brings out his food, rather than his best friend who happens to work in the food industry. He isn’t abusive to service workers, but his focus leans much more towards the rich people in front of him instead of all the hard work and humanity around him making this interaction even possible.

Gabriella tries really hard to be the class bridge. A large part of her character is conflict resolution and fairness. She makes attempts to remind Troy of his humanity and humility, but ultimately knows she can’t help him if he truly desires wealth and networking over relationships and his sense of self. When this becomes apparent with Troy blowing off plans and breaking promises and Sharpay screwing everyone over with the change to the talent show rules later on, Gabriella lets Troy go. Conversely, around the same time she shows Ryan what it means to be accepted by their working class. The infamously homoerotic baseball scene happens because Gabriella invites Ryan to have fun with them after he gets backstabbed by Sharpay. He’s always humanized the Wildcats more than Sharpay, but after the baseball scene he truly starts to see them as peers. 

Gabriella quits the country club and breaks up with Troy because she can’t handle the conditions and stress any longer. While the in-movie consequences of this have more to do with the relationships and how this affects Troy’s view of the situation instead of monetary consequences, it’s still interesting to look at from a class perspective. Gabriella got out. She saw the damage the job was doing to her and she left. But not everyone has that luxury. Multiple characters specify they need to pay for things like college and cars. Fulton expresses abundantly how he hates leaning into the privilege of the Evans’s but needs to pay his bills somehow.  

Sharpay plays a large part in this too. As the rich and pretty, she thinks she has all the power but she ultimately doesn’t. She has this insatiable hunger for patriarchal approval, leading her to shove Ryan out of the way to make room for Troy, cutting off her only ally which becomes her downfall. Sharpay could easily represent the rich and influential, powerful but still held back by the more powerful of her parents. Still subject to her power being taken away from her in losing her myopic goal of allying with Troy, losing her longest lasting ally in Ryan, losing the talent show in which she puts a lot of self-worth into, all while her relationship with her parents stays distant and superficial. 

Her last-ditch effort to get Troy to herself and hoping the other Wildcats quit is banning all junior employees from participating in the talent show. It’s not even hidden behind off the books subtlety that she wants the talent show to be exclusive. This is reminiscent of how many ways to become successful rely on already having money or connections. The working class is outright barred from participation, much like how things like college, physical and mental health, reliable transportation to well paying jobs, etc. are behind paywalls that a lot of lower income people don’t have easy access to. Sharpay considers Troy an exception to this “no employees” rule because in her words Troy is an “honorary member” due to his connection to her. Lending credibility to the connection that his privilege has offered him the unique ability to climb the ranks and become a special anomaly. This direct discrimination and favoritism opens Troy’s eyes and he drops the talent show and resumes his original position in the kitchen with the rest of the Wildcats. Sharpay’s own greed and disdain for an entire demographic leads to her downfall. In the privilege context, things don’t really click for how bad the disparity is until the privileged are forced to face it. The entirety of 2020 and 2021 have highlighted this with the horrors of systemic racism and police brutality not being so openly talked about in white spaces until George Floyd and the various protests and police reactions since. COVID has put a spotlight on the inequality in healthcare for lower income households as well as how much our societies aren’t equipped to accommodate for disabled people, things that both communities have been talking about for ages and society has pushed them aside. 

Keeping up with an allegorical reading of privilege, it could be said that Sharpay’s version of Music in Me would be akin to cultural appropriation. Kelsi wrote a song with a specific meaning and tempo for Troy and Gabriella. Sharpay demands it from Kelsi by threatening her job and forcing her to change it in a way that loses all meaning but fits Shapray’s aesthetic desires. Making it something that can lift her and Troy up while simultaneously tearing everyone else down, targeting Gabriella, Kelsi, and Ryan. 

Sharpay’s demise culminates with her pushing away Ryan, Gabriella quitting while confronting Troy about losing himself, Troy finding out about the employee ban and ultimately leaving, rejecting the privilege Sharpay gave him. Sharpay loses everything at once. It isn’t until then, after she’s faced with the terrifying reality of crying alone in her dressing room as Fulton smugly counts down the moments she has until she’s supposed to go on stage, as Ryan manipulates her into thinking she’s singing with Troy again, as Troy makes her face the Wildcats’ motto from the first movie of “we’re all in this together.” It’s not until then that she’s truly able to humanize her brother and her peers again. Only then is she able to see how her selfishness affects those around her. Only then does she start to let go of this fictional version of Troy she has in her brain that will leave Gabriella for all the material things Shapray can provide and Gabriella can’t. Troy stands up for his peers, lowers himself off the privilege pedestal he’d been given and shows Sharpay how unsustainable treating the working class like shit is. 

High School Musical 2 follows Sharpay, the rich and powerful, on her journey through dehumanizing the working class and discovering empathy. It follows Troy on his journey through privilege and learning to navigate being given things for simply having the circumstances he has, discovering that he can’t indulge the desires to climb the social ladder while preserving his humanity and relationship to his working class peers. Through Sharpay, HSM 2 demonstrates the cannibalistic nature of the upper class preying on the exploitation of the working class. 

#long post #i didn't even mention how Sharpay's lesbianism fits into this #or the constrictions of heteronormativity and her attraction to rich but unavailable men #high school musical #high school musical 2 #hsm #hsm2 #sharpay evans #ryan evans #troy bolton #gabriella montez #zeke baylor #kelsi nielsen #media analysis #overanalyzing kids movies #chad danforth #wildcats #nostalgia #brainrot