#i just have this tendency to love people completely and wholly until one day i just stop and everything about them annoys me

[utytimeline]

I might make some people mad, but I'm gonna say it, anyway.

So, Ceroba's reason for choosing Chujin over Star was because she wanted someone more mature. At least, that's my understanding. Star was playing cowboy and role-playing with his friends while she wanted to settle down and raise a family.

And... yeah, Star had a lot of growing up to do. And he did almost none of it until Ceroba stopped him from shooting us.

Star's main character flaw is his ego, but it's even worse than just an ego. Half the reason he set up the Wild East was to help everyone else. He wanted to bring in money to help his family when the Swelterstone's effects caused a drought; he wanted monsters to get a taste of what the surface is like so they don't drown in despair; and he wanted to make Ceroba happy after she lost both her husband and her child. All of this on top of feeling like he was a "nobody farmer" that couldn't do anything or help anyone.

So Star's primary character flaw isn't as simple as just having a big ego. His primary character flaw is trying to fix others as a way of fixing himself.

Sometimes this is a good thing, tho. I often think of Star as the "papa" of the Feisty Five. He's the protective one, he's the one teaching them ethics (reminding Mooch that they're not supposed to be bandits, playing dead to teach Clover about the responsibility of potentially hurting someone), he takes care of the town, he's made ALL his own money from this town that he built himself (enough that Mooch wants his inheritance, so it's a sizeable amount), he even gave his posse a designated nap time, gave Ceroba a home (and possibly gave her his bed while he crashes on the couch), sews his own clothes, set up all the rules and regulations... and I could go on, but I think I've made my point. Star is not wholly irresponsible. He's not perfectly responsible- he, and the rest of the posse, have a habit of breaking and losing Blackjack's weapons, they're all loud and rowdy, and they have a tendency to forget to turn off their boulder machines out in the Dunes.

So, yeah, Star does still have some growing up to do. But he's got a good start.

As for... everything that went wrong... That was entirely due to Star's worship of humanity. Star fell in love with westerns and with the justice and overall sense of romance that they portrayed, so much so that he not only tried to make himself into one of his western heroes, but he then extended this worship to the first human to ever set foot in the Dunes- namely, Clover. And because of this, Star completely threw everything that was good about himself out the window. He sees a human an immediately decides "this is my deputy," without even really giving Clover a fair chance to see if they even are deputy material. He forgot the safety glasses, got so worked up he forgot how to pronounce "duel," became extremely temperamental, apparently forgot that Vengeful Virgil was scheduled for the train mission that day, locked up a Royal Guard against her will (arguably committing treason in doing so, I might add), and just generally began running over everyone's words and emotions, including Ceroba's.

So when it came down to the Showdown... Star blamed Clover. Star's not an idiot. He knows good and well it's not Clover's fault. It's Star's fault- or more precisely, it's his worship of humanity that is to blame. But the problem is, he's taken it upon himself to guard the feelings of other monsters, to make them feel hope and joy. And he just screwed up and stole all that from them. So he's conflicted, not willing to admit that he has done the exact opposite of everything he set out to do. And since it's his worship of humans that led him to this point, he decides to blame the human.

Hence, the Showdown.

But he doesn't want to do it. He says himself, "Monsterkind's Hero is a title soaked in blood." He loves humans. And he sees Clover as a friend. He doesn't want to kill them. He's not a killer, and he doesn't want to be one. He doesn't believe in it. Justice is one thing, but... how is it just to kill someone that did nothing wrong?

So. Here's where Ceroba comes in. Telling Star he needs to calm down and go back to who he used to be. And Star points out that she's changed, too. Even Ceroba says, before taking Clover to the Steamworks, that she doesn't know if she has room to tell Star to go back to the Starlo she used to know.

Ceroba, tho, is no different than Star (this is the part that I said might make some people mad). Ceroba worships Chujin just as much as Star worships humans.

Ok, look. Chujin was a great craftsman. He built so much- furniture for Dalv, his and Ceroba's house, the space heater at the Honeydew Resort, many other items in use throughout the Underground, Kanako's toys (even programmed a video game for her), and so much more. So much that even Star respects him for all that he did for everyone.

However, there is also much that indicates that Chujin wasn't the best at his job. His only award is "You Tried at Engineering," and it took 14 tries for him to build a working robot. In Chujin's defense, I will say that it is impressive that he did build a working, sentient robot without the use of a SOUL, which is how Alphys made both Mettaton and Mew Mew; however, if Chujin is really such a genius, why did it take 14 tries to get Axis to work, when it apparently only took 1 try for Guardener?

And then Chujin didn't just stop with robotics, but went on to SOUL research. Two completely different fields. (And before anyone starts commenting on Alphys, I just want to point out, yet again, that both of the robots she built did use SOUL power; so, realistically, Alphys never was a great robotics genius, but rather, everything she did was a part of SOUL research- hence, the reason Asgore hired her as the Royal Scientist). But Chujin decided to press on with his SOUL research, despite there being no indication anywhere that he had ever done any such research before.

Now, I'm not trying to say that Chujin wasn't remarkable or a genius. I'm just pointing out some things that indicate that maybe he wasn't quite the genius that Ceroba wanted to make him out to be. And... Ceroba's reaction to his "You Tried" award. She's proud of him. More pride than what is warranted by such an award.

Ceroba said she met Chujin when he pretty much rescued her after she twisted her ankle, fell into a ditch, and laid there for several hours, unable to move. She also said that she had considered dating Starlo before meeting Chujin. So... hate me for this if you want to, but I feel like she may not have the best judgement when it comes to guys. Now, that's not to say she picked losers or creeps. Both Chujin and Starlo were/are sweethearts that care deeply about everyone around them. But the fact remains that Ceroba left behind the guy that she'd known all her life for a guy she just met, just because he rescued her from a bad situation.

And I'm not even saying she made a bad choice! By all accounts- including Ceroba's, Martlet's, and even Starlo's- Chujin was a good, kind-hearted, hard-working monster, and a wonderful husband and father. But... he wasn't perfect. And I think Ceroba, even though they had to have been married at least 10 years, just always had stars in her eyes where he was concerned. He was her everything. She believed he could do no wrong. She believed it so strongly, she was willing to do... many horrible things.

Ceroba's drive to kill Clover started with her love for Chujin. She wanted to do anything to keep him alive in her own heart. And when their child begged and pleaded for a chance to help, Ceroba agreed, because Kanako woshipped her father, too. Ceroba's misguided belief in her husband guided her to do things she would never have done otherwise.

Thus the reason for her guilt. It's not just guilt over killing her own child. It's also guilt over knowing that it was her own misguided worship of a monster that wasn't as perfect as she thought he was, that this was what led her to kill, and to kill again.

Ceroba worshipped Chujin. Just as Starlo worshipped the ground Clover walked on, Ceroba worshipped the ground Chujin walked on.

So when people point to Ceroba's comment that Starlo didn't grow up... yeah. She's right. Starlo needed to grow up.

But so did Ceroba.

One of the hardest parts of growing up is realizing that the people you worship are just people. They make mistakes, and you, yourself, are mistaken for believing they can do no wrong.

So, anyway. There's as much Staroba (Starfox, I call them) hatred as there is love for the ship. I've seen both sides of the argument: Starlo isn't mature enough; Ceroba is insane. Yeah. You're both right. And that's why they're perfect for each other. They both made the mistake of changing everything they were in an effort to continue worshipping their idols. They both went nuts. They were both driven to kill. This is the inherent danger of idolatry, believing so much in something that isn't real, that you will do anything to make it stay real to you.

#undertale yellow #starlo #ceroba #clover #my analysis #character analysis #starfox uty #chujin ketsukane #kanako ketsukane

[eclipse-song]

I can't stop thinking about a tweet I saw a few days ago commenting on some completely unsourced comment on the Rider wiki. It was trying to say Kobayashi hated showa rider and coming up with a whole conspiracy theory on hating Inoue because his dad wrote a lot of Showa rider and this made him not like her. It was all pretty ridiculous and a lot of people were laughing at it as they rightfully should. But...idk it got me thinking about how toku fans especially have a tendency to form a lot of strong personalities and ideas about these writers that we quite frankly....don't know much about personally. Especially when many people are basing these ideas off of their writing, which I know from my work, it's broadcasters and producers who have a lot more say on story direction. Depending on the production, the writer is sometimes even working until they create something they dislike but pleases the client.

Kobayashi has very few interviews to be found but most of them indicate she has no problem working with certain people, and honestly it would be fairly unprofessional to outwardly state that she did in the middle of an interview. She's even expressed how she and Inoue have quite similar writing processes in one that I did happen to read.

and for Inoue...I feel like I maybe just have this very glass half full mentality or at least a tendency to assume the best of people but....I get confused by how a lot of people in toku fandom talk about Inoue. Like the guy isn't without fault but also I see people talk about him like he is malicious and intentionally seeking to harm people when everything I've read about him is that staff and coworkers of all ages have had extremely good experiences with him. He's old and in his 60s and can put his foot in his mouth sometimes (like the rtr question in that one livestream he did say he thought it was a bit ridiculous to have two Kam riders having gay sex) but also in that same answer he said he wanted to do something he wouldn't be allowed to show on TV which is equally true. He also in other places has said a major reason was simply that he thinks Tezuka's actor is a good looking man. There's also the fact he's been writing queer storylines in shows since the 80s (dirty pair trans episode is legit a banger episode) and in the zio vs decade stuff he has Heure and Ora have a meaningful conversation about how it's perfectly fine to be a boy who likes other boys. IDK! I think those aren't really the actions of a person who is actively looking to harm people, it reads a lot more to me as a 60 year old man who is making some genuine attempts at shaking things up and is just sort of missing the mark in places. Him being a 60 year old cis dude is also where I just go “yeah that’s why he writes a lot of women like that” though he does have some stand out characters as well who can be excellent. He reminds me of a lot of my old uncles who are ultimately well meaning but just say shit sometimes. Along with the fact he said he's attracted to people regardless of gender I don't see him really as some huge big bad villain who's "queer baiting" or any of that nonsense.

Ultimately this is a conversation that happens at my workplace a lot these days too which is why it makes me feel some type of way. Directors and story artists and writers I've met who have been painted as not so nice turn out to be lovely people who've had their actions misconstrued. Then I've met people who I've been rather excited to work with and ended up severely disappointed in their behavior. I just can't help but feel it's really strange to have tons of focus on writers who we mostly know through their work that they're paid to do according to how some client wants it. I've definitely been guilty of this in the past but formulating personalities of strangers we don't know, especially when painting them in a wholly bad light, is just sort of uncomfortable to me.

#might delete this idk #its something thats been weighing on my mind #i have strange anxiety around voicing these thoughts sometimes

[kajillionaires]

yo where are my bitches who haven't felt a thing since 2014

#well okay heres the thing i have cared about so many things since 2014 but never in a substantial way #i just feel like the older i get‚ the less vivid i become‚ & i'm just constantly trying to etch myself into my friends' & families' brains #as someone more alive and more vibrant and colorful that i don't feel i've been for the past 6 years #and somehow i've managed to completely lose any sense of being i've ever had yaknow because i just started molding myself to people #and having to be alone for awhile i've realized that without having someone to build myself around or anything really to commit myself to #i just don't know how to be alive alone without having anyone or anything to completely immerse myself in #and that's completely my fault also because it's not like those people i used to define myself by abandoned me‚ b/c most of them didn't #i just have this tendency to love people completely and wholly until one day i just stop and everything about them annoys me #i'm 97% sure it's a defense mechanism so that i never get attached to anyone long term & i will never be left #but anyway i haven't formed a longterm and meaningful connection with anyone in over 5 years and that scares the hell outta me so holla! #i always whine about wanting to be loved but i refuse to let anyone be around for long enough to love me yafeel #i am the toxic one! #also as far as things go #i've never had a passion i've just been walking through the motions the entire time and it scares me because I'm really fucken GOOD at it #i am a capitalist's dream i'm a goddamn workaholic b/c i don't know how to measure my own value in a way thats not tangeable #so i build my entire self esteem on meaningless busy work to the point where without it i feel like im worth nothing #n e way add these to the things i should probably talk to my future therapist about #shut up itzel

[screechesincoherently]

Bookworm

Jake Kizka x Reader

Request: Saw you were asking for requests, could you maybe do something where the reader is a big bookworm and loves reading sad angsty books. And either Jake or Josh come home one day to see the reader just sobbing cause of the book and it's all super fluffy and domestic

Uh- yes. Yes I can

Warnings: None :)

Word Count: 1,535

Waking up alone on Saturdays was always a bittersweet thing for you. As soon as your eyes were open, you’d scan the bed to see if he was there. Whether he was in your presence or not you’d get up to finish household chores so you two could spend as much time together as you could.

This day wasn’t any different.

You threw the comforter off of your body, debating for a minute whether you should really sacrifice your warmth for cleanliness. Glancing out of the bedroom window, your eyes were met with the slow fall of thick snowflakes. You loved winter, but you hated the feeling of not being able to do as much as you could during the warmer months.

Sliding your slippers on from the edge of your bed, you made a mental note of all of the things you needed to do. Dishes, go through the fridge, shampoo carpets, scrub the shower, and the week’s worth of two people’s laundry sitting against the wall of your bedroom.

Once your house was clean and everything was put into place, you decided that it would be best to at least shovel a pathway from your garage to your doorway. As you did so, you noticed slight, and almost jerky movement out of the corner of your eye, turning to find a little rabbit hopping along the perimeter of your yard.

As you watched the animal hop through the inches of thick snowfall, you heard birds chirping from the tree above you.

You’re not sure how long you stood there for, in the middle of your driveway, but in your mind, it didn’t really matter. The main tasks of the day were complete, what would be a few moments stolen by nature and all of its beauty?

You inhaled the crisp, stinging air of winter, matched with the refreshing gentle prickling of the freezing wind. Everything was gorgeous and untouched, just like how it was all meant to be- at least for now. Later there would be car tracks and other forms of disruption in the smooth blanket of snow, but for now, it was natural and pure.

You could have stood outside for hours, and god only knows, you might have. You have a tendency to have your phone on you in cases of emergencies, but you refrain from using it otherwise on the weekends. You simply want to be your wholly, unadulterated self whenever you can, so you only get sucked back into reality when your stomach let you know that more than enough time had passed since breakfast.

You stepped into your house, the heat from your radiator beating at your skin in a stark contrast to the chilly sensations you experienced outside.

You made your way through the house to your bedroom, grabbing your favorite loungewear and heading towards the bathroom to prepare yourself for a bath. As you walked alongside your dresser, your eyes were caught by the glimmering gold edges of the book you had thrifted days prior.

After you started the water, you began to rid yourself of the damp and cold clothes that had been occupied by the snow and wind, and stepped into the steaming water.

You dipped your toes into the water in an experimental fashion, letting them absorb the heat until you were comfortable enough to lay the sole of your foot against the ceramic tub, and following that pattern until you were mostly submerged under the water.

Almost instantly, your body was overwhelmed with goosebumps and shivers from the drastic changes in temperatures your body had just experienced, but you leaned into them. Inhaling deeply as if to let the steam work its way into your soul, and exhaling, letting all of the stress and tension you had carried out with the used air, sinking further into the water.

You had brought the book into the bathroom with you just in case you got bored, but you weren’t going to force anything on yourself the rest of the night. You decided you would let fate do its thing and whatever happened would happen.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling washing over your body, opening to find yourself looking over at the book.

You were a sucker for the classic looking novels, with the gold page edges, and rustic-esque covers, whether they were worn by time to arrive at the stage, or they were printed to appeal to the senses.

You grabbed for the hand towel drying the appendages, not wanting to ruin the object of your attention. You read, and you read until the water started to become lukewarm, bringing small shivers across your body once again.

Setting the book down on the closed toilet seat, you stepped out of the tub, enclosing yourself in a towel and draining the water. After you pulled on your clothes, you trudged into the living room, book in tow and began the fireplace to help keep the room warm while you continued your book.

As you read, the pages seemed to consume your mind, and suddenly you were sucked into the content of the novel. It was the best feeling in the world for you to choose a book off of a shelf and be entranced and brought into its world, feeling every emotion the author had intended for its reader to perceive.

Once you had been fully immersed into the story line, you had lost track of all reality. The plot was full of angst and sadness, the perfect contrast from the stories you normally read. You hadn’t noticed the extent in which you fell into the fabricated world until you choked out a breathy sob, the tightness in your throat and the headache that was forming suggesting that you take a break from the book, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to set it down. You pushed through the beautifully formed sentences, each one affecting you so much more than the previous.

Even when you had felt the presence of your boyfriend coming home and placing his hands onto your shoulders and lightly massaging them sensing your tension that had built up in the last couple of hours. You stayed completely encapsulated in your book, only acknowledging him by placing your hand on his.

He knew that you wouldn’t want to be disrupted, so he left you be until he returned to the living room after his shower to find you up from the couch, now with your back against the wall. The tears were violently falling down your face at this point.

He couldn’t stand to see you this torn over a book any longer, so he took it upon himself to walk over to you, gently taking the book from your hands, and pulling you into his chest.

“Baby, I love you, I really do, but it’s just a book.”

“But it’s such a good one Jake.” You gasped into his shirt, trying to catch your breath.

“I know, honey. Breathe please, okay?”

You took deep breaths matching the strokes he was placing on your back.

Inhaling when his hand moved up between your shoulder blades, and exhaling when he lowered it.

After a few minutes when Jake had felt your heart rate steady out, he removed his chin from on top of your head.

“Do you want to talk about it? Would it make it easier for you to return to it later?”

You shrugged, staring at where your tears had left a wet mark on his chest.

“Okay, you don’t have to. I think it would be a good idea if you took a break from the book for a while.”

You nodded in agreement, letting him guide you back to the couch, him against the arm, and you leaning against his free side.

“If this makes you feel any better, the house looks nice.” Jake complimented your previous day’s work with a cheeky grin.

“Thanks Jakey.” You replied, placing a soft kiss to his shoulder and being met with his hand rubbing up and down your arm in support.

“What do you want for dinner? I’ll order something for delivery. Whatever you want.”

You thought in contemplation for a moment, before quietly suggesting just a pizza for the two of you to split.

-

The doorbell rang signaling that your food had arrived, so Jake allowed you to sit up before he removed himself from his rightful spot between you and the arm rest.

“Your dinner has arrived, my emotional little bookworm.” Jake said making a grand gesture out of presenting the pizza to you.

“I hate you.” You told him with a laugh, letting him know that you weren’t serious, although he knew you would never mean it.

Nights like these, you were reminded of why you were okay with the Saturday mornings in which you woke up by yourself. Because as long as you both had patience and trust, this support and love would last a lifetime.

He was like the spine of the book, holding you together– allowing you to open and close yourself away from the world as you please, but not letting you ever forget that he was there hold you up.

#jake kiszka #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka gvf #jake kiszka imagine #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet #gvf

[breakyeol]

— SQUIRM, BABY.

You don’t like Doh Kyungsoo. Especially not when he’s got his fingers buried knuckle deep inside of you and your seeing stars —goddamn stars!— but can’t make a sound unless you want the entire library to know exactly what he’s doing to you under the table.

┗ Pairing: Tutor!Kyungsoo x Reader

Genre: college au, tutor au, enemies w benefits au, smut

Words: 4.7k 

Rating: 18+

Warnings: strong language, sexual acts in a public setting, fingering

A/N; tomorrow is going to be my 1 year anniversary as an EXO-L!! oh my goodness that feels so crazy, time really flies. so here is a little present from me to you, enjoy lovelies!!

“These are all wrong,” Kyungsoo mutters blankly, “start over.”

A loud groan is ripped from your throat, the sound earning you more than a few sideways glares from the surrounding tables but you can’t really bring yourself to care. You’ve been here for two hours, studying one of the most intolerable subjects in the world: Calculus. The mere mention of its name made you shiver in disgust.

To be blunt, you’d always been shit at math. Numbers and equations were never your strong suit, not in high school and definitely not now with the added complexities of derivatives and differential equations (neither of which made even the slightest bit of sense to you). You much preferred the gentleness of literature and history to the strict logic and rules of mathematics and science. Unfortunately for you, the latter subjects were just as vital a part of your education, and opting out of them was not an option.

“Can’t we take a break?” You almost whine the question, pressing your fingers into your throbbing temples. “My brain feels like it’s going to explode.”

“No.”

You scowl at the bluntness of his rejection. “I’m paying you.” You point out, stabbing a finger into his bicep for emphasis. “Shouldn’t I have a say in when we take a break?”

He rolls his eyes, swatting your hand away and shoving the paper back in your direction. “I’m giving you your money’s worth. Do it again.”

You let out a noisy huff of air, slouching over dramatically in the stiff plastic chair until your chin is pressed against the cold table. “I hope you know I am deeply regretting some of my life decisions right about now.” You grumble, shooting him an icy glare that you hope conveys the absolute loathing you feel for both him and the set of problems laid before you.

“I thought that was a daily thing for you.”

Scoffing, you bury your mouth in the thick sleeve of your hoodie. “Your face is a daily thing for me.”

He doesn’t even bother to look at you, though you could almost feel the intensity of his deadpan. “I think that was the shittiest comeback I’ve ever heard.”

“Your face is the shittiest comeback I’ve ever heard.”

“You do realize that that makes absolutely no sense.”

“Your fa—”

“Shut up and do your work.”

He either doesn’t hear or consciously chooses to ignore the colorful array of curses you grumble spitefully in his direction, though simultaneously resigning yourself to the fact that you won’t be able to put off your work inevitably. Kyungsoo was a stickler for proper time management. If he had an agenda set in place for your tutoring session (which he always did), then you better believe he’d be checking off each item within its designated time frame. And if you don’t cooperate— well then, your best bet is to pray that there isn’t a mechanical pencil within his reach.

He might not always be able to reach the top shelf, but Kyungsoo had ways of getting what he wanted. Usually, that chilling glare was enough to get those around him to bend to his will. He could be a scary little shit when he wanted to be. You’ll admit, even you had been the tiniest bit intimidated when you first met him. He was quiet, reserved, strict in manner, but also the dangerous unpredictable type, you gathered that much quickly enough. Maybe that’s why the two of you didn’t get on too well.

Where he was cool and standoffish, “a man of few words” some might say, you were more vocal about your opinions, social by nature, always eager to meet new people and make new connections. You had a tendency to speak loudly when excited and talk with your hands when passionate about a subject. That was something most people learned about you very quickly. Unfortunately, upon your first official meeting at a party in your freshman year with your mutual friends, Kyungsoo had no idea just how emphatic you could be until you’d knocked his drink clean out of his hand and spilled it down the front of his brand new shirt.

It was an accident, of course. You’d apologized profusely and he’d accepted it (albeit somewhat begrudgingly), but that was probably the first of many missteps in your... unique relationship.

With such conflicting personalities, it was understandable that you got into frequent arguments about one thing or another. Petty disagreements would often grow into something larger than they really needed to be. Mostly because despite having such contrasting personalities, you shared the trait of innate stubbornness, neither of you willing to admit when you were wrong. It was easy to argue with him, and you liked when you proved him wrong. You liked the way his brows furrowed and his cheeks flushed. You liked the way he glared, the way his lips pouted. You like the challenge he presented you with every time he opened his mouth. Above, you loved to win. Especially when it was against him.

So you pushed, and he pushed right back. And before you knew it, you found yourself a proper ‘frenemy’, though you aren’t sure that that’s quite the right word to describe whatever it was you two were.

But that’s just how the two of you are, how you’d always been. If you were being honest, riling him, seeing that usually so stoic, so controlled expression crack when you pushed just the right buttons— it was fun. You thoroughly enjoyed fucking with him, discovering new and creative ways to get under his skin. And you knew he got just as much satisfaction from doing the same to you, rendering you speechless with witty comebacks, flustering you with his sharp tongue and impressive rebukes.

So really, was it such a terrible thing?

Not to mention, a number of not-so-terrible things occurred as a result of one of your many arguments, such as hiring him as your calculus tutor. One that started out with you claiming he would probably be the shittiest teacher to ever exist (which seemed a valid argument at the time considering how short tempered and impatient he could be *cough* with you *cough*) to which he rebutted with the claim that he could “teach a goldfish advanced calculus” if he set his mind to it, and considering that you “had an IQ equivalent to one”, he could without a doubt teach you. His words, obviously.

It just so happened that you had a calculus exam coming up that next week, so to prove his point, he tutored you for the three days preceding said test. Even though you loathe being proven wrong, you ended up getting one of the highest scores you’d ever gotten on a math test in your entire academic career.

Putting your pride aside, you made the suggestion that he continue to tutor you. He only agreed when you offered him green in exchange for his troubles and admitted that he was right (it took a few extra hours to convince yourself that your grades should be held above your ego before you could bring yourself to verbally admit defeat).

And now here you are, not flunking out of calculus. You’d consider that worthy of the bruise to your pride, even if only by a small margin.

“Kyungsoo, why’d you mark this one wrong?” You frown at the large red X marking problem two as incorrect. You’d been glaring at your scribbled work for almost two minutes, running over the problem in your head, but you couldn’t seem to figure out where he thought you’d gone wrong. It looks right enough to you.

Kyungsoo shifts over to get a better look, his arms pressing against yours in the process and you are briefly stunned by the sudden, unexpected closeness, wholly unable to stop yourself from noticing the faint, woody scent of his aftershave that caresses your senses. Fuck. You can’t tell if you hate or love the fact that he smelled so good. Partly love it because good hygiene is always something to admire in a man (even if that man was Doh Kyungsoo), partly hate it because dammit it’s Doh Kyungsoo and you loathe finding anything that has to do with him attractive. Plus, it’s distracting. You’re here trying to learn and he has the audacity to go around smelling like pine trees and fresh moss after a rainfall. Unfair.

“Right here.”

The scowl you don’t realize you’re wearing immediately drops away as the low baritone of his voice thrums through the cavity of your ribcage and you lean forward to see exactly what he’s pointing at.

“You multiplied straight through instead of distributing.” He explains further upon seeing the uncertainty on your face. A few seconds of further inspection and you finally see what he’s talking about.

“Fuck,” you hiss, “I’m so stupid.”

“It’s an easy mistake to make.” He reassures.

“Yeah, but I should know that by now, I should’ve—” you turn your head, only to nearly choke on air as you discover that any space that once existed between the two of you has virtually disappeared, “... seen it.”

He’s close, so close that you can feel the cool rush of his breath against your skin as he exhales, goosebumps bristling across your arms in response. He’s close. Too close. You can’t think straight, can’t even breathe. The moment that surrounds you feels fragile, like even the slightest disruption would rupture it completely.

Frozen, you can only swallow around the sudden dryness of your mouth as your treacherous eyes drop to trace the plush line of his lips. Who even has lips like that? They’re just so big and so pink, that dark, kissable kind of pink that every girl just wishes her lips could be. You, included. They look soft, and you can’t help but to wonder if they’d still taste like the strawberry bubblegum he’d been chewing on at the beginning of your tutoring session.

“Careful, ___.” The sound of Kyungsoo’s voice, raspier than you recall it being before and laced in a faintly taunting pitch, is enough to break you from your trance and, once freed, you whip your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash.

“Fuck off.” You cough, jaw clenching as you attempt to drag your mind out from the gutter and back onto the calculus problems you have yet to correct. But for whatever reason your brain refuses to cooperate, instead filling your head with images of his pretty mouth and everything it could be doing instead of rambling on about something as uninteresting as calculus. Damnit.

No doubt seeing the distress written clearly across your face, Kyungsoo chuckles, the sound low and smooth where it drips from his lips, and a familiar heat blossoms in the pit of your stomach.

You can feel his eyes on you now, every cell of your being suddenly hyperaware of his presence beside you. The pressure of his knee where it nudges against yours, the teasing curl of his lips as he watches you struggle to focus, the warmth of his palm caressing up your thigh, the— wait what?

Your gaze whips down, breath hitching at the sight of Kyungsoo’s hand gently gripping the lagging clad flesh just above your knee. It’s another few seconds before you’re able to find your voice again.

“W– What’re you—?”

“Focus.” He cuts you off smoothly, fingers soothing over the inside of your leg, squeezing gently. When you don’t look away from him, he smirks, jerking his chin forward in a manner you can only interpret as challenging. There’s a familiar glint in his eye, a dangerous glint that doesn’t fail to provoke your competitive side. You know that look well. He’s challenging you.

And you don’t back down from a challenge.

Especially not from Doh Kyungsoo.

Determination flairs up inside of you, your jaw clenching as you strike him with a single, heated glare that read plain and simple ‘you. are. on.’ before honing all your attention onto the worksheet in front of you. It’s not too difficult to focus at first, to disregard the tingles that erupt across your skin where his hot touch sears into it. You manage to find and correct your error in one of the problems (impressive for you even if Kyungsoo wasn’t feeling your leg up under the table).

But whatever pride you find in doing so is quickly quelled when his hand suddenly shifts higher, and you feel the faintest pressure against your heat. It’s a sensation that robs you of your ability to breathe entirely for a handful of seconds, and you can’t stop the shiver that ripples down your spine.

This, you see, is one of the more recent developments in your oh-so complicated relationship with Doh Kyungsoo. Yet another that began with a disagreement at a party, over something you can’t even remember anymore thanks to the haze of alcohol that clouded both your minds at the time, that spiraled way out of proportion. You remember yelling at him, insulting him, stabbing your finger into his chest, feeling the sting of his lethal glare. God, he’d looked so pissed off, and you just fed off of it, fed off the rage and the frustration that festered like lava in those dark brown eyes. The angrier he got, the harder you pushed, until he finally snapped.

You’re still not sure what you expected to happen. What you expected him to do. But you sure as hell hadn’t anticipated him grabbing you by the throat and pulling you into one of the hottest, most mind numbing kisses you’d ever experienced.

Next thing you remember is being in a bed. Whose bed it was, isn’t important. What is important, however, is the fact that that night you had the best sex of your entire life with the man you thought you couldn’t stand.

Hate sex with Doh Kyungsoo opened your eyes to a whole new world of mind boggling pleasure that you’d never experienced before. Pleasure that no other person had ever been able to give you. God, the things he did to you. No one had ever touched you like that before. It was like he knew all the places on your body that made you unravel. He honestly ruined all other men for you that night because none have even come close to comparing. Which was beyond frustrating especially considering that, at the time, you thought it was a one time thing.

The morning after you both pretended that nothing happened. In the two weeks following as well, neither one of you mentioned it. You tried to erase the memory from your brain, tried to go back to normal, but it was hard considering every time you needed some sexual release (which was more often than you care to admit), it was his hands, his mouth, his cock that you imagined while you touched yourself. You replayed his moans in your head, his deep, rasping voice growling your name, and fuck, you never came harder.

But it was still nothing compared to the real thing.

As time passed you only grew more and more frustrated. Worst of all, you could tell he was feeling it too. It was obvious in the way he looked at you, with fire burning in eyes, in the way he spoke to you, with a pitch of something hot and wanting in his voice, in the way he lost his cool far quicker and far more often than he had in the past, your arguments fiercer and more frequent than they’d ever been. The tension between the two of you was palpable, thick enough to be cut with a knife. It got to the point where even your most oblivious of friends started noticing it as well, though they knew better than to voice their curiosity.

The second time it happened, you were both sober and, somehow, it was even better than you remembered. The pleasure was more intense, more overwhelming, a feeling you can’t even put into words. Then it kept happening. Late at night when he’d show up unannounced at your door. Early in the morning when you had an important exam later in the day and you needed some pre-test de-stressing. Between classes in the back seat of his car just because you could. At parties when your friends were too shit faced to notice the two of you slipping into an unoccupied bedroom.

Just sex. That’s what you both agreed to when it became blatantly obvious that your little ‘arrangement’ wouldn’t be coming to an end any time soon. No strings. Just sex. Just really, really good sex.

And that was perfectly fine by you.

Exhaling shakily through your nose, you try to block out the feeling of his thumb as it begins to caress gently up and down your clothed core, suddenly very grateful for the layers of fabric that separate you from his intoxicating touch. But it’s a gratitude that’s short lived. Just as you manage to adjust and scribble down a correction, he cups his hand over your mound and squeezes. A gasp escapes you, and you try to cover up the sound with a series of short coughs, the sting embarrassment intertwining with the warmth of pleasure as a few eyes briefly glance in your direction.

“You’re such an asshole.” You hiss under your breath, thighs tightening around his hand, locking it in place.

He throws you a lopsided grin, brows lifting and you don’t miss the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I’ve been called worse.” What he means is you’ve called him worse.

Your lips part, but any intelligible words die on the tip of your tongue as he grinds the heel of his palm down, directly against your clit. Your head drops, eyes squeezing shut, teeth locking down firmly on your lower lip in order to silence the soft moan that threatens to break free.

“F- fuck.”

You hear him coo tauntingly beside you at your slip, the tips of his skilled fingers easily locating your entrance and prodding experimentally. At this point, you don’t doubt he can feel the fabric of your leggings growing hot and wet with your arousal.

Despite being used to the quick effect he had on your body, you can help but to feel the slightest twinge of shame at how he was able to rile you up this much with little more than a few well-placed strokes of his fingers. But fuck, it felt so good. You’d already been feeling somewhat deprived since you’d both been so busy this past week with exams and projects and what not. This is the first time you’re spending time with him since almost a week ago.

And you are in need of a fix.

“You look like you’re having a bit of trouble on that problem. Do you need my help?” Kyungsoo leans into you, his face right up next to yours, and you have to resist the sudden urge to kiss him right then in there in front of everyone in the stupid library.

Instead, you grit out an unconvincing, “I’m fine,” and force yourself to stay focused on the dizzying mess of numbers and letters on the worksheet in front of you and not on the delicious warmth of his hand where it is applying just the right amount of pressure to keep you teetering between pleasure and the insatiable need for more.

“You sure?” There’s a certain lightness to his voice that tells you he is thoroughly enjoying watching you struggle. Sadistic bastard.

“Positive.”

And just like that, he’s gone. You almost gasp as a rush of cold air fills the places he had been, and you can’t help the frown that tugs at the corners of your lips, disappointment and irritation coloring your features before you can reel them in. From the corner of your eye, you chance a glance in his direction. The smug, knowing little smirk staining his lips sends a wave of heat pulsing into your cheeks, and you grit your teeth in frustration.

“So what, you’re just going to stop?” You whisper sharply, not making any attempt whatsoever to hide your annoyance.

A look of feigned innocence overcomes his features. “You said you didn’t need my help.”

You grit your teeth, glaring at him as hard as you can manage with how incredibly turned on you are. But he remains unfazed.

“If you want my help,” he continues, voice dropping an entire octave, “you’re going to have to ask for it... nicely.”

Nice wasn’t a word in your vocabulary when Kyungsoo was involved.

Seeing the resistance you are still putting up, he feathers his fingers over your thigh, tracing slow designs across the thin, black fabric. You swallow, unable to look away as they trail dangerously higher, teasing closer to where you both knew you wanted them most.

“You do want it, don’t you?”

Fuck, you want it so bad.

You know that he knows you want it. It’s just the getting yourself to actually say it out loud part that proves to be a challenge. But that’s exactly what he wants you to do, he wants to hear you say it, wants to see you cast aside your stubborn pride and beg for it. Beg for him.

Lifting your eyes, you glance unsurely around the library. It isn’t overly crowded anymore since most of the other students have begun to trickle out as late afternoon approaches. Plus, the table you were seated at was tucked into the far back corner of the room, secluded and out of the way. But still, your nerves buzzed at the thought of someone seeing. Though maybe — just maybe — there was a buzz of something else as well. Excitement, perhaps?

Grip tightening around your pencil, you chewed on the corner of your lip, refusing to meet Kyungsoo’s penetrating gaze as you let out a soft murmur. “...ease.”

He leans closer, mirth shimmering in his eyes. “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Groaning, you shoot him a scowl, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Please help me, asshole.”

Laughter bubbles at his lips, the genuine kind that makes his cheeks lift and his nose wrinkle. You like it when he laughs like that. Makes him look a lot less like a serial killer.

Sinking his teeth into the pillowy flesh of his lower lip to stifle his laughter, he shoots you a lazy grin, “that’s all you had to say.”

Next thing you know, his hand is slipping beneath the elastic of your leggings and into the soft cotton confines of your underwear. Your mouth fell open, a sharp inhale filling your lungs with cold air as his fingers slid through your slick folds.

“I knew you were wet but shit.” He hisses, thick brows furrowing at the feeling of your heavy arousal coating the length of his digits. “I must say, I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe, eyes fluttering, “even Chanyeol can get me this— ngh!”

Without warning, he plunges his middle finger inside of you, and the remainder of your sentence pitches into a strangled moan. One look at his face, jaw clenched, nostrils flared, lips down turned, tells you he isn’t all too pleased at the mention of another man’s name, especially when he’s the one buried knuckle deep in your greedy cunt.

A hazy smirk curls onto your lips and you let out a low hum of pleasure, walls squeezing around him. “You’re sexy when you’re mad.”

“Is that why you enjoy pissing me off so much?” He questions, tone biting and low, and you shutter involuntarily as he rolls the pad of his thumb harshly over your aching clit.

“Partly.” You admit, somewhat breathless. “But you’re also just a really fun person to piss off.”

He chuckles dryly in response, though the sound lacks any genuine amusement. “You are such a brat, you know that?” He emphasizes the word by stretching you around a second finger, and you have to drop your pencil in favor of clasping your hand over your mouth, unable to swallow down the soft whimpers that tremble up your throat.

“You love it.” You manage to get out before you’re forced to bite into the tender flesh of your palm to muffle a desperate cry when the slow thrusts of his digits suddenly picks up speed. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, hips jerking up to grind your throbbing clit against the heel of his palm. Electricity ricochets through your veins, and you feel that distinctive tightening in the pit of your stomach. Kyungsoo also feels the way you throb and clench around him, and makes sure to grind down hard against your swollen clit.

Heat immediately spreads through your core, the intensity of the pleasure becoming more than you can handle. “Oh god, Kyungsoo.” Your voice comes out louder than you intended, and you quickly duck your head, doing your best to make it seem like you’re focusing on your work and not the fingers drilling relentlessly into your g-spot, praying to god that no one had seen the blissed out expression on your face. Still, you can’t help the quiet whine that escapes you when his ministrations slow.

“Are you trying to get us caught?” He asks in less than a whisper, breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Ever hear of subtlety?”

“Ever hear of suck my dick?” You snap back without missing a beat, only to jolt as his fingers curl inside of you, pressing directly against that sensitive bundle of nerves. Every muscle in your body tenses, and fuck you’re so close you can almost taste it. Frantically, you thrust your hips, desperately trying to fuck yourself down on his digits.

“Sit still.” He growls, and you quiver when he sinks his teeth into the lobe of your ear, obeying only because you really don’t want to get banned from the campus library if someone happened to catch on.

“Soo— fuck,” the force with which you bite into your lip is nearly about to break the skin, but you can’t be bothered by the pain, not with how quickly your orgasm was approaching. Sensing as much, Kyungsoo goes the extra mile of drawing hard, fast figure eights over your clit with his thumb while simultaneously thrusting his fingers into you so fast that you swear you can almost hear it.

All at once fire roars through your veins, euphoria consuming you as your high crashes over you. Your walls spasm around his digits, painting them with your release.

He doesn’t withdraw from you until you go slack, thighs spreading, body slumping back in your chair, eyes fluttering as a hazy, blissed out smile touches your lips. You can only watch through hooded lids as he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, sighing in amazement as he sucks them clean. There’s a twinge of arousal in your core as he moans softly at the taste of you on his tongue, a downright lethal sound that somehow manages to rouse your positively spent pussy.

This man is going to be the absolute death of you one of these days.

“Fuck.” You chuckle airily, heady gaze flickered over him lazily, only to do a double take when you notice something standing upright beneath the zipper of his jeans. The corners of your lips twirled into a mirthful grin, eyebrows raising slowly.

“Need some help with that?”

“Yes.” He answers shamelessly and without hesitation, grunting softly as he adjusts himself in the tight confines of his jeans to make the raging hard-on he’s sporting somewhat less obvious. “But not here.”

“I figured. So... your car or mine?”

“Didn’t you just get a new one with reclining seats?” He questions, running the tip of his tongue over the seam of his lip at the mere implication.

You strike him with a wicked grin, already beginning to shove your things into your bag. “I did indeed.”

“Then what are we— wait.”

“What?”

“You didn’t finish correcting the worksheet yet.” He points out, drumming his fingers across the paper that had completely slipped your mind.

You pull a face, pausing in the act of gathering your belongings long enough to cross your arms pointedly over your chest. “No offense, Kyungsoo, sweetheart, but I’d much rather suck your dick than do one more of those stupid fucking calc problems.”

His brows leap to his hairline, and he offers a single nod of acceptance, in no position to argue with such a valid point.

“Noted.”

#exo imagines #exo oneshot #exo scenarios #exo au #exo smut #exo fluff #Kyungsoo #doh kyungsoo #kyungsoo x reader #exo x reader #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #exo fic #kyungsoo imagine #Kyungsoo Scenario #kyungsoo oneshot #kyungsoo au #kyungsoo smut #kyungsoo fanfic #kyungsoo fanfiction #exo kyungsoo #d.o. #kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #exo

[iliveiloveiwrite]

A Ghost is a Wish // G.W.

Summary: Three years after the events of Potions and Constellations, George Weasley cannot help but wonder of the ghosts that haunt the many rooms of the enchanted castle he now calls home.

A/N: Part two to Potions and Constellations! I have decided to make a mini series out of it, focusing on Professor!George and his many adventures at Hogwarts. Title is a quote from The Haunting of Hill House (I love that show so much). I don't think you necessarily need to read the first part to understand this, but some parts could be confusing.

Warnings: time skip, ghosts, spectres, hauntings, swearing, grief, established relationship, fluff, cute, fred is dead.

Word count: 3.8k

At this point in his life, George Weasley has been teaching three years. It wasn’t meant to be a permanent post, but rather a position filled until someone more qualified was found for the job. That was what McGonagall had led him to believe so many seconds, minutes, hours ago.

Yet, three years later, George was still to be found lecturing day in and day out to scores of young witches and wizards about the benefits and downfalls of potions and their ingredients. He didn’t say it often, but he had found his home within the walls of the dungeon that served as his classroom. He felt nothing but comfort as he meandered through the stone corridors of the school, greeting students by name, always getting a happy response in return.

Three years later, and he finds himself wholly in love with you and ready to dedicate his whole life to the profession of teaching in order to remain close to you. He misses his brother; the grief of losing someone so close to you isn’t something that simply fades over night, but having you close by, willing to share that burden makes it all the easier.

The grief of Fred still weighs him down; it still crawls up his throat and threatens to suffocate him, but he finds ways of managing whether it is planning a new lesson or distracting you from your own school work. However, it cannot be ignored for long and though the burden has been halved, George still finds himself missing and wondering about Fred.

----------

George paces the front of his classroom, his hands moving in circles as he explains the task to his class. A rather light potion for Sixth Years to be brewing but given that it’s Friday afternoon and Potions is the last lesson of the day for these students, George decides to go easy on them.

“I want you to revisit a potion from Second Year. Collect the ingredients for and brew a Wiggenweld Potion. You have the rest of the afternoon to do so and you can chat amongst yourselves. I’ll be making rounds so if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Auden Vincent raises his hand, waving it so fast there is genuine worry he might hit another student. Deciding not to repress his smile, George acknowledges the Sixth Year.

“Sir,” Auden begins, “Did you enjoy your time at Hogwarts?”

“What does that have to do with a Wiggenweld Potion, Auden?”

Auden shrugs, a large smile on his face that shows he knows exactly what he is doing. “I can’t help but be curious, you haven’t been here as long as the other teachers.”

“Three years, Auden. I’ve been teaching you Potions for three years.”

“Still,” The young teenager argues, “I think we would like to get to know you more.”

George sighs and glances at the clock. Knowing Auden and his tendency to disrupt lessons, George chooses to give in to the teenager. “I enjoyed my time at Hogwarts very much. Now, please, get on with your potion.”

From the frown that spreads across Auden’s face, it is clear that George has not given enough information. Already, the fight begins to light in Auden’s eyes, more and more questions rising to the brink, ready to be dropped into conversation and derail George’s lesson.  

“Auden,” George sighs, “Before you ask any more questions, understand that I attended Hogwarts through the Second Wizarding War. Whilst I enjoyed my time at the school, I also fought in the war.”

Any argument Auden was going to pose falls flat; the fight leaves his eyes in a second. The teenager nods wordlessly before turning his attention back to the set work. George feels awful; he would love to do nothing more than to tell his students about his time at Hogwarts, but all of his memories contain Fred, and even though it’s been years, and even though his grief doesn’t haunt him as often as it used to, he just isn’t ready to verbalise such happy memories.

Rolling up his sleeves, George starts to wander around the classroom he has made his own. A whole wall is dedicated to lines and lines of ingredients; each one sealed in jars and carefully labelled. Think back to his own lessons in this very classroom, George can see how the room has lightened with his presence. The darkness that encompassed Snape completely absent as George expertly weaves through tables and past students.

He smiles encouragingly at every student; letting them know where they’re going and where they need some improvement. George believes that it is important to revisit past potions, to keep minds sharp and fingers nimble before moving onto something more difficult.

It’s as George is leant over the cauldron of Alexandra Shea that the door to the classroom opens. “I’ll be one moment,” George calls out before pointing Alexandra in the right direction.

“Take all the time you need, Professor Weasley.”

George smiles before he can help himself. Your relationship had never been a secret; the whole school knowing the two of you were in love long before either of you realise, but George still tried to keep some level of professionalism around students.

Tried being the operative word.

You stand by the doorway, one of George’s jumpers hanging from your torso, the sleeves are so long that they swallow your hands. A tired smile is on your face, your hair barely brushed into some semblance of a ponytail. Professionalism be damned when you look like that.

You’re perfect, he thinks as he brushes himself down before walking over to you.

“Love,” George greets as he sends the class back to their potions, “What are you doing up? You’re teaching tonight.”

You shrug, a soft smile spreading across your face, “I missed you. I wanted to see you.”

George smiles, feeling the familiar flush spread up his neck and to his cheeks. Years on, and you still make him feel like a teenage boy experiencing his first tryst with love. “Consider me flattered, Professor,” George flirts.

“You should be,” You counter, the soft smile still on your face, “Will I see you tonight?”

Friday evenings had been reserved for you two. Your schedule as the Astronomy Professor meant that you worked markedly different hours from George, but regardless of the piles of work and awkward hours, Friday evenings were set aside for you both.

Reaching out for your hand, George tangles your fingers together before squeezing. His gaze doesn’t leave yours as he replies, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I have to know the story behind Corona Borealis.”

You shake your head in exasperated fondness, “You’ve heard that one before.”

“I’ve heard them all before,” George reminds you; knowing your curriculum just as well as his own, “But every time feels like the first time when you tell me the story.”

You roll your eyes, “A flirt, Weasley. That’s what you are.”

“Only for you,” He mouths, not letting his students overhear every word of your conversation. George brings your hand to his lips, dropping a kiss to the back of it before dropping it, “Go back to bed, love. I’ll come see you before dinner.”

The smile on your face grows as you stand on your tiptoes, pressing a long kiss to his cheek – an innocent act that only holds headier promises for the future. “I’ll be waiting, Weasley.”

A flush spreads across George’s face as he watches you go, closing the door behind you. He waits a moment, calming down before turning back to the class. His students try to look as if they haven’t heard the whole exchange, intensely focused on the potions brewing in front of them.

“Not a word, Auden,” George warns, pointing at the student before throwing himself back into the melee.

-----------

Over his time as a Professor, George had come to known the ghosts of Hogwarts. As a student, he hadn’t bothered getting to know them – believing that pranks and jokes were of a higher importance that hearing the histories relayed by Professor Binns. However, now older and wiser, George made sure to spend time with the spectres that floated down corridors and through walls. He spoke to them, hearing their stories, understanding their histories.

George doesn’t admit it to anyone why he seeks out to know the stories of the ghosts of Hogwarts. He doesn’t tell a soul that he’s trying to find the answer to the one question that has plagued his mind since he took up the job offer from McGonagall all those years ago.

Nearly Headless Nick had greeted him with the same amount of gusto as he had when George was a First Year worried about spending his first night away from home and his mum. Nick often checked in with the Gryffindor he had watched grow up; often floated to the dungeon to see how George was doing, frequently staying longer to talk about anything and everything that occupied either of their minds.

The Bloody Baron was harder to talk to. A staunch Slytherin, the ghost was dedicated to his house, but warmed up to George somewhat when George explained how he worked and spent most of his time in the dungeon teaching Slytherins.

Peeves the Poltergeist has only ever respected a handful of people. Begrudgingly, he would admit that he admired the Marauders – confessing it now as they had all passed on and his words could not be used against him. Nonetheless, Peeves would tell any soul who would listen for than one minute that he respected the Weasley twins and their dedication to all things mischief. For George, it was easier to talk to Peeves. They could compare prank ideas and products for the shop, and slowly but surely, George grew to understand Peeves backstory.

Late at night, however, George couldn’t help but wonder whether there was one more ghost in the castle he had yet to meet.

The curiosity niggled at the back of his mind; the very idea of it settled deep within his bones, stirring him to life in the middle of the night when the ghosts were at their busiest. Countless times, George had woken from a daze to find himself with his hand on the handle to his door, ready to turn and find out for himself.

On one hand, George desperately wants to know whether there is a chance.

On the other hand, George knows that he barely coped in the months after the war. He knows that if he doesn’t get the answer he so desires, it could the setback he has been dreading.

----------

The corridors of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry have always had an uncomfortable atmosphere to them. When filled with the rushed footsteps of students, the pathways have a lighter air to them, but after the students are safely tucked up in their beds, the darker parts of the castle come out to play.

George’s grip on your hand remains tight as you both wander through the corridors of the school, keeping an eye out for straying students. Scores of portraits decorate the stone walls of the castle; each one a prominent figure throughout the history of witchcraft and wizardry. Each one is asleep; their snores punctuating the silence between you and George.

Checking the old watch on his left wrist, George sighs with relief, “Midnight. We can get back to bed now.”

You smile, happy for your extra-curricular task to be done, “Thank Merlin. Let’s head back.”

Something feels different about the corridors as the both of you make your way back to your shared rooms. There’s a charge to the air around you, something electric that only has your steps quickening the closer you get to your rooms.

It’s the odd flashes of silver you spy out of the corner of your eye that have your steps beginning to falter. There was a ghost nearby, but it could not be Peeves – you hear him before you see him unless he has something especially sinister planned. It’s not Nick, the Baron or the Friar – they’re all at Ravenclaw Tower, trying to persuade the Grey Lady to socialise more.

It has to be someone new.

But as you catch eyes with George, you realise that it has been years since a new ghost has made Hogwarts its home. The Battle of Hogwarts had created ghosts and spectres galore, but in the aftermath, they had all found their peace and moved on.

“Georgie?” A voice calls and George promptly freezes, his hand falling from your grip as he trips up on thin air.

“George?” You murmur, puzzled at his sudden stop.

He can feel the colour drain from his face; feel the unwelcome churning of his gut as memory after memory washes over him. That voice… he hasn’t heard that voice in years.

“George… it’s me,” The voice calls out once more; it sounding stronger now, surer of itself.

Steeling his nerves and his heart, George turns in the direction of the spectral call.

He meets a face identical to his, but not. He meets a face that has not aged, has not hurt, has not cried in years. He meets a face entirely youthful and at peace.

George meets the face of his twin brother, Fred.

“Fred?” George whispers, voice breaking from sheer disbelief. In that one word alone, you can hear the years of grief and upset. You can feel the tears that will surely fall later tonight; you can see the pain written across George’s face.

Fred smiles: it’s as watery as you can get for a spectral vision, but it’s there. “It’s me, Georgie,” He reassures, “I promise.”

“It’s been so long,” George states needlessly. “So long,” He repeats as if counting the days of absences for his brother, noting each second, minute and hour that he has been without his twin.

“Who’s looking after the shop?” Fred asks, changing subject, dragging his brother away from the dark path he once wandered alone.

“Ron,” George answers, “He has some help from Harry on the weekends when it gets busier, but Ron is managing a lot. I think Bill is wanting to help out more too.”

“That’s good,” Fred nods. “You seem to fit in well, Professor Weasley,” Fred comments, gesturing to the robes now adorning his brother’s frame.

George laughs, his hand reaching for yours once more as you remain silent through the whole exchange, “Who would have thought it?”

“Not me,” Fred snorts, laughing at George’s bark of protest. All too quickly, Fred’s eyes are drawn to you, standing by George’s side, hand clasped in his ever so tightly. Your heartbeat quickens at seeing the stark youth on Fred’s face.

“It’s been too long, (Y/N),” Fred greets.

“How are you, Fred?”

“Better now that I know he isn’t alone.”

“You were watching?” George asks, tone aghast.

Fred gives his twin a look that coveys not only his brother’s stupidity but also the overwhelming brotherly love Fred has for his twin. “Of course I was. That’s how I knew I could come to you now. You aren’t alone, you’re managing.”

“I haven’t been alone for three years,” George points out as if would make an ounce of difference to Fred’s reasoning for showing up tonight.

Fred rolls his eyes. “I know that, but you weren’t ready. I could have appeared months ago but chose not to. I wanted you to be okay after I go again.”

George’s hand tighten around yours; his knuckles whitening as Fred’s words sink in. “You’re not a regular ghost of the castle are you? Not like Nick or Peeves?”

Fred shakes his head. “I have to go back,” He says, gesturing behind him as if the place in which he now belongs is right there within reach, “But I wanted to see you, so I got my wish.”

“I got mine too,” George says so quietly you wonder whether you’ve misheard him.

“You look old,” Fred laughs, defusing the tension that threatens to boil over any moment.

George snorts, speaking without thinking, “That’s what life will do to you.”

George immediately freezes as the words leave his mouth. He meets Fred’s gaze, a thousand apologues ready and willing to fall from his lips as rain would fall from the sky. Sorrow is written in every premature line, and in every blink of his eyes, but George doesn’t get to speak the words

“I know,” Fred replies. The both of them more than aware that those two words cover more than the apology left unsaid just now by George. They cover years of repenting on George’s behalf; for not being there, for not saying goodbye, for not protecting his brother.

“Will you do me a favour?” Fred asks, drawing his brother back from the depths of his mind and his grief.

“Anything.”

“Tell Mum, I’m okay? I know she worries, and I know she misses me. I just… I need her to know that I’m okay and I’m looked after.”

“I’ll floo home this weekend and tell her,” George promises; conviction and determination weighing down his voice.

“I have to go,” Fred comments, sadness in his tone as he glances back behind him, as if hearing a call only audible to his ears alone.

“I miss you,” George whispers as Fred fades away.

His twin brother pauses, lifting a hand to him, “I’m always with you, George.”

Those are his final words before he fades away back to the afterlife; the place in which he watches over every member of his family, keeping an eye on them like a determined guardian angel.

-----------

The walk to your shared room is completed in a daze. You had known Fred from your time as a student; unable to get away from the stories of his pranks, but as your relationship with George progressed, you felt as if you knew him better.

Fred’s visit was unexpected, and as your hand only wraps around George’s tighter, you can only wonder what was running through his mind.

He doesn’t speak as you push open the heavy wooden door to your rooms; doesn’t speak as you lead him to the bed. “Love,” You say gently, “We need to get ready for bed.”

George does so woodenly; still in a daze with what he’s just experienced in the corridor. You watch him with worried eyes, chewing on the inside of your cheek as he pulls back the covers and slides into bed.

Tomorrow, you promise yourself. Tomorrow you would broach the subject; you would let him have tonight to work through the flurry of emotions no doubt rushing through his veins this very moment.

As your eyes grow heavy, you fist your hand into George’s thin t-shirt, reminding him that you’re here.

----------

George doesn’t sleep. He feels your breathing slow; watching the exact moment your eyes start to flutters as dreams begin. Gently he shifts in bed, sliding out from the covers and leaving you behind as he tries to work through the events of the evening.

He wanders out to the small living area; big enough to fit a couch and a table that is used more for marking than it is for eating. George slumps down onto the couch; running a hand down his face and waiting for the inevitable tears to start flowing down his face.

At the same time, he feels such sorrow and such relief. For years now, George has carried the weight of his guilt surrounding Fred’s death on his shoulders. On his more dramatic days, George would compare it to the weight Atlas feels when holding the Earth. George has carried this burden for so long, and in a ten minute conversation with the ghost of his dead twin, he has been absolved of it.

He doesn’t know the extent of what he is supposed to feel.

George stares into the permanently lit fire; questioning all he can about the events of the evening. The guilt and grief he carries for his brother is what kept him from replying to McGonagall all those years ago; it was what had him rejecting the idea altogether. Instead, after a conversation with Ron, he said yes, and so far, George had yet to regret such a decision.

After all, if he had said no, he would not have met you, and would not have fallen in love so desperately.

George thinks of you; thinks of how you stood by his side, hand holding his tightly as George spoke to his brother. You had to have questions. George had told you everything; he couldn’t keep a secret from you. This was discovered early in your relationship when George had blabbed about the presents he had got you for Christmas – way too excited to know your reaction rather than wait.

He continues to stare at the fire; mind running through memories of Fred, wondering whether McGonagall would give him next week off to go home and be there for Molly when George inevitably passes on Fred’s message.

How does he do it? How does he begin to live his life now that Fred has forgiven him?

He has carried this burden for so long; passing it you when you asked to help. For years, after his death, Fred was a massive part of his life. George has lost count of the times over the years that he has heard something hilarious and turned to share it with Fred only to find he no longer stands at his side. How George rushed home the weekend he asked you to be his partner; desperate not only to tell his mum he thinks he’s found the love of his life, but to tell Fred as well to find his mother waiting with happy tears in her eyes and no sign of Fred whatsoever.

“George,” You rasp from the bedroom door, voice heavy from disturbed sleep, “Come back to bed.”

George nods, not speaking as he climbs back into bed. Positions change immediately. Usually, it would be you who would cuddle up the redhead, wanting to wrap yourself around him and fall asleep with his scent enveloping you. Instead, it is George’s turn to hide his face in your clothed shoulder as your arm wraps around him comfortingly. His whole body shudders as a fresh wave of grief overtakes him, but you’re there for every battering and every sob.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, running a hand through his hair.

George shakes his head, calming himself down long enough to whisper, “Not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry,” You repeat, “It wasn’t as if you were expecting that tonight.”

“I wasn’t,” George admits, tears starting to slow, “I didn’t think I would see him ever again.”

“Are you glad that you have?”

George nods; his nose brushing your collarbone, “I am. I miss him just as much as I did in the beginning, but I know I’m going to come out of the other side now.”

“You do?”

“I do. I have you.”

******

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @harrypotter289 @theweasleysredhair @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @figlia--della--luna @probably-peeves @big-galaxy-chaos @annasofiaearlobe @imboredandneedalife​ @levylovegood​ @awritingtree​ @haphazardhufflepuff​ @stupxfy​ @chaoticgirl04​ @accio-rogers​ @starlightweasley​ @dreaming-about-fanfictions​ @lestersglitterglue​ @msmimimerton​ @obx-beach​ @izzytheninja​ @slytherinprincess03​ @bbeauttyybbx​ @breadqueen95​ @acciotwinz​ @kashishwrites​ @slytherinsunrise​ @kylosleftbuttcheek​ @remmyswritings​ @they-write-once-in-a-blue-moon​ @ria-rests-here​ @superbturtlemakerathlete​ @inglourious-imagines​ @ithilwen-lionheart​ @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown​ @ilovejjmaybank​ @theonly1outof-a-billion​ @phuvioqhile​ @moatsnow​ @storyisnotover​ @himooonlight​ @missmulti​ @amourtentiaa​

The Weasley Twins taglist: @whizboingies​ @seppys-return-to-madness​ @hexmione​ @ickle-ronniekins​ @oh-for-merlins-sake​ @somekidinacoma​ @wand3ringr0s3​

#george weasley x reader #george x reader #george weasley imagine #george weasley imagines #george weasley

[appendingfic]

Sooo...

@c2ndy2c1d​ made a pretty fantastic comic, Rockababy (found here), which I would totally recommend reading. And if you can, bookmark and comment on it - good creator engagement can help them with further development on the comic, and I selfishly want to see more.

And I was really inspired and was in a place in my writing cycle that I wanted some (3,500 words worth of) shipping fic so.

I hope y’all enjoy!

Observation 

Rating: T

Fandom: Rockababy

Ship: Richie/Shifty

Summary: The facts are undeniable - Richie has been watching Shifty very closely. To what purpose, however, Shifty is determined to find out.

Shifty was sitting at his workbench, but unlike other times, there was no gadget or technology to work with at it. Just a notebook - identical to the dozens Richie kept in his room, observations on aliens - more detailed, now, that he had regular access to all the species that had found their way to Earth.

Identical in all respects except for one.

This notebook's contents were exclusively about <I>Shifty</I>. He steeled himself to open the book again, page through notes that were both more detailed and less focused than he was used to from Richie's writings.

"Not ticklish," was scratched out, bold letters next to it reading, "Ticklish at base of spine/tail - DO NOT TOUCH". Richie had inadvertently (Shifty hoped) discovered that fact during one of their photo sessions, documenting the regrowth of Shifty's tail. The memory almost brought a smile to Shifty's face - Richie had been mortified, blushing as he apologized fervently from across the room when Shifty had nearly bolted off the exam table at the touch.

"Has a sense of humor", another page read. "Not slapstick - not observational. Absurd? Smiled at a pun - denied it BUT I KNOW THE TRUTH". Shifty actually smiled at that.

Another was a list of foods, apparently random unless you had been studying Shifty's tastes. Next to the word "Chocolate" was a doodle of Shifty's natural face, frowning. The discovery Shifty didn't like chocolate had seemingly depressed Richie, and Shifty still wasn't certain if he'd disappointed Richie by failing to enjoy that particular human treat. The page after that was another apparently random list of foods, again, unless you'd been trying to determine what foods Shifty liked. Six fruits were circled, lines drawn from them to a margin where Richie had written "FRUIT", and, next to it, "even Durian?" There was a doodle of Shifty's face - natural, again - smiling next to the word "peanut butter", and a line drawn between that and "bananas", a wholly intriguing proposition Shifty vowed to explore later.

There was something crossed out with heavy lines next to the word "suckers" - the only letters Shifty could make out were "OR-" and "-IXA-", and the tail end of a question mark. As he had no idea what the note could have been, he left it alone.

Especially as there were other, more puzzling notes filling the notebook. A list of numbers which had been mystifying until Shifty recognized one as his normal body temperature, at which point, the others included a startlingly accurate indicator of at what temperature Shifty started feeling cold. There was a number underlined several times, which Shifty recognized as the temperature the fever he'd had two months ago had pushed him to, and a rambling series of notes that Shifty recognized as documenting Richie's frenzied attempts at treatment when Shifty had finally admitted he was sick (not that the NESB didn't have perfectly adequate medical care, but Richie had been adamant Shifty shouldn't have to recuperate in their medical lab or, as Shifty had suggested, handle it himself). 

Dozens of drawings - of the patterns on Shifty's skin, of his hands, of his tail. Detail of his face - or attempts, as Richie had scribbled over each one. Shifty stared at one such attempt for a moment before flipping to find the doodles next to the lists of Shifty's favorite and least favorite foods. Looking at those drawings, he couldn't pinpoint what had frustrated Richie about the others - the disappointed frown on drawn Shifty's face felt true to life, and while Shifty didn't see his own smile much, the delighted cartoon Shifty looked - much the way he felt when one of his friends drew a smile out of him.

The notes were clearly the work of months of observation - most, if not all, of the period of their...acquaintanceship (friendship. They were friends. The first people who'd seen his natural form and agreed to raid a corporate lab to rescue an infant alien were his friends). And Richie must have been keeping it with him most of the time, as Shifty had discovered the notebook on the couch when Richie had last visited.

So...months of observations. At first glance, somewhat scientific, unless you'd seen Richie's other work, and realized how little of the notebook's contents lacked the - objective veneer he maintained for other work. The notes he included with the photographs of Shifty he submitted to the NESB were professional, and rarely included any of the banter Shifty had to keep up to distract himself from the vague discomfort of being under such close examination.

This notebook was more of the same.

...Technically.

For all it didn't involve the complete suite of photographs sitting in an NESB lab somewhere, the notes were more intimate. They all touched on things that no one should know without having been close to Shifty. It wasn't that he suspected Riche were keeping the notes to - sell them to tabloids or something ("Aliens Love Peanut Butter" wouldn't sell papers, he guessed).

But not knowing what Richie was trying to accomplish with this left Shifty a little uneasy. They were supposed to hang out the next day, ostensibly to study for their calculus final, although both of them were far beyond needing the additional help, which meant it would be a perfect opportunity to get some answers.

Ms. Cunningham answered the door when Shifty arrived at their home, eyes brightening at the sight of him. "Blueberry!" she said, kissing him on both cheeks as she stepped around him to step outside, ignoring the flush on Shifty's cheeks (in human guise, it at least remained confined to his face). "I assume you're here to see Richie - he's in his lab, while I'm off to mine." She pulled Shifty in for a hug before letting go and stepping back to grin at him. "So you boys have fun, and make sure Richie eats."

"Oh - absolutely," Shifty replied, watching Ms. Cunningham drive away. He stepped inside; the Cunninghams had opened their home indiscriminately to Shifty, and he'd only recently become comfortable with it. He knew they had good reason not to worry about him wandering around their home, even if he was expected. He didn't have much reason to wander, of course, except, taking Ms Cunningham's comment into consideration, to bring Richie a sandwich (and experiment with the notion of peanut butter and bananas for himself). 

When Shifty descended the stairs into Richie's home lab (an examination table, a desk, and a couch that had migrated down there at some point in the last several months), Richie barely looked up from a notebook he was writing in, at least until Shifty set a plate down next to him.

He looked up and smiled at Shifty, an open, bright expression that made Shifty glad he hadn't let his human form drop, because his tail had developed a traitorous tendency to wag when Richie smiled at him.

"Your mother said you should eat," Shifty said as an explanation.

"Oh, yeah, thanks." Richie picked up his sandwich, took a bite, and set it down again. He twisted around to look up at Shifty, a frown almost taking over his mouth before his expression smoothed out. "Did you want to get started on studying?"

"Come on," Shifty replied, leaning against the desk so he could look down at Richie's notebook (neat, organized, nothing like the one in Shifty's bag). "You and me have studied enough. I'm just here to keep you from starving to death."

Richie looked back at his sandwich, and picked it up for another bite, apparently focused on it while he ate, although Shifty was certain Richie kept glancing sidelong at him.

"You're, uh. Just trying to keep me fed?" Richie asked. There was a tone to his voice, almost - lilting, and Shifty suspected he was being teased.

"Well, I also wanted to ask you about something you left at my place," Shifty replied. "It probably fell out of your backpack or something-"

"I'm sorry!" Richie blurted, holding up his sandwich between them like a shield.

Shifty, who hadn't expected such a violent reaction, stood, shocked, until he saw jam leaking from the bottom of Richie's sandwich. He caught the drop before it could hit the floor and licked it off his finger.

When he actually looked back at Richie, Richie was staring at him.

"What?" Shifty demanded.

"You...aren't mad?"

"I don't know," Shifty replied. "I'm not sure what you're apologizing for."

"O - oh." Richie's cheeks flushed as he looked away from Shifty. "I thought you found the. Uh. Pictures."

"The drawings?" Shifty asked, and somehow, Richie's cheeks went redder, his entire posture tensing into something that made it look like he was about to bolt.

"Richie?" Shifty asked, leaning forward, realizing only as he reached out to Richie that he'd dropped back to his natural form, pale, clawed fingers coming to rest on Richie's shoulder.

"I kept some of the photos," Richie said. "The ones you didn't really want the NESB to keep because they were a little…" He trailed off, and Shifty, remembering the discussion and in his natural form, felt his whole body blush, because.

Richie had tried to be professional when taking the pictures, requesting standard, clinical poses, but even so, some of them had ended up looking a little-

Well, like the pinups Boomer had implied Richie kept in his room.

"It just seemed a shame, because they're good pictures, and you look really - you look good in them. I haven't shown them to anybody or anything, but…" He trailed off, staring at his feet, and if Shifty were inclined to hugging anyone besides Buttons, he might have tried to hug Richie to calm him down.

Except while Richie had panicked over the photographs, the mention of drawings seemed to have freaked him out worse.

"Can you maybe tell me what you found?" Richie asked, voice a little reedy. "So I know what I'm freaking out about?"

"It was a notebook," Shifty replied, pulling the book out of his bag and handing it over. "At first I thought it was one of your alien data books, but it was - about me, and sort of...personal?"

"I'm sorry," Richie repeated, snatching the book out of Shifty's hands to clutch it against his chest. "I wasn't like - secretly trying to find a way to hurt you or anything. Obviously, I've been paying attention if there was anything you were allergic to because I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I got you killed because you had a peanut allergy or something."

"You also appear to think it's a tragedy I don't like chocolate," Shifty pointed out, and Richie, who'd seemed to be calming down, flushed ducking his head to hide it behind his notebook.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Don't be," Shifty said, settling against the desk so he could lean closer to Richie, squeeze his shoulder in a way he hoped was reassuring. "I mean, it's a little weird - and it's sort of driving me crazy trying to figure out what it's for-"

"I just wanted to figure you out," Richie said. When Shifty didn't respond immediately, he continued, knuckled still white from the strain of holding onto his notebook. "Like - I thought maybe I didn't understand you because you were an alien, so I started paying attention. Like if you were allergic to anything, or if you're ticklish or sensitive-"

"If I can get sick," Shifty interrupted, bringing Richie up short, quiet as he considered that.

"Yeah. And I didn't really have friends before, so I was also trying to figure out friend stuff, like what you liked, what you didn't-"

"I do like puns," Shifty said. At Richie's slightly shaky stare, he shrugged. "It's fun, playing around with words like that."

"I…" Richie's gaze drifted down to his notebook, one hand twitching; it was almost certain he was fighting the urge to document this new revelation immediately. 

"You can write it down," Shifty said gently. "Now that I know it's just you being - observant, I don't mind."

"Oh." Richie set the notebook down and flipped open to the page on which he'd mused on Shifty's sense of humor, making a few notations on it. "Thanks."

"Don't worry about it," Shifty allowed. He eyed his own sandwich, forgotten in Richie's panic, wondering if it was safe to start in on it again. Probably not; this conversation didn't feel over yet. "I liked the drawings of me in the notebook. They're - good." He paused a moment, trying to sort out his thoughts. "I liked the little cartoons."

Richie scowled. "They're dumb. I only drew them because I can't get your face right when I'm drawing it seriously."

"I don't think it's dumb. That smiling face looks like - how I feel when I'm smiling."

"...Oh." Richie closed the notebook, but didn't move after that. "I'm glad. That you aren't upset. I don't want to upset you."

"Hm," Shifty replied. "I don't think you would. Do anything that would upset me." And now that he was...observing, considering facts with an assessing eye, Shifty had a - hypothesis.

Richie had been watching Shifty <I>very</I> closely. He had in his possession photographs they had both decided were a little - much for the scientists at the NESB to see. And there were...drawings, somewhere, that Richie didn't want Shifty to see.

Without his conscious input, Shifty's tail began to swing behind him, a slow horizontal drag that Richie had probably been watching Shifty closely enough to interpret. Shifty leaned over Richie, finding he liked the idea of - testing his hypothesis.

"You've been watching me pretty closely, haven't you?" he asked. And Richie had taken his eyes off of Shifty, because when he looked up, his face paled and he licked his lips, a nervous swipe of his tongue.

"Yeah, but not in a creepy way-"

"It's a little creepy," Shifty pointed out. "I'm pretty sure there's a drawing of the marks just above my tail in there. And I don't have much chance to look at it, but it's a pretty good likeness."

Richie closed his eyes. "Sorry, I-"

"Where did I give you the impression I minded?" Shifty retorted, and Richie's eyes snapped open, jaw dropped, and he just...stared.

"Wha," he croaked out after a few quiet moments.

"It's a little creepy for - professional interest," Shifty continued, as he let his tail continue to sway behind him. "But if it's a more - personal interest." He paused, hoping he hadn't read this embarrassingly wrong, or he'd never be able to face either of the Cunninghams for the rest of his life. And then he leaned down just a little more, so the next words were spoken just next to Richie's ear. "That might be a project worth - exploring."

In Shifty's defense, everything he knew about flirting he'd learned from television, and the "bad boy" type he'd sought to emulate always acted this smooth.

In Richie's (as Shifty learned later), no one had ever hit on him before.

So Richie's startled flailing resulted in a bruised and slightly bloody nose on Shifty's part, and a possibly fatal case of embarrassment and remorse on Richie's, as he sat as far away from Shifty as the couch allowed while Shifty iced his nose.

With Richie licking his (metaphorical) wounds at giving Shifty literal ones, Shifty suspected he would have to speak up if he ever wanted to resolve this.

"I'd sort of like to know," Shifty said, at last. When Richie looked up, his eyes were almost looking wet, just on the edge of tears.

"What?"

"If you're just - looking, or if you. Want," Shifty concluded, finding the words awkward to force out. "Me," he clarified, and he probably shouldn't have, because his face was starting to flush again, which meant it was a matter of time until it encompassed his entire body. "Because if you do, I'd. Apparently, I like smart, sweet guys who care about. Snakes." He wasn't certain how he'd managed to make this sound more awkward than it already was, but. Here they were. Shifty with all of his cards on the table, and Richie.

Staring. 

He was used to Richie staring - Richie was the budding xenobiologist, and whether Shifty was in human guise or his natural form or somewhere in between, Richie wanted to see anything he did that was out of the ordinary. But he wasn't used to watching Richie staring, and Shifty suspected if he ever had, they might have had this conversation a while ago.

Because Richie's gaze dragged over Shifty, along the frills on his head and arms, the patterns along his skin, including the heart-shaped one on his forehead, the pointed, inhuman head, and his tail, from the tip to the base, where Richie knew Shifty was - sensitive.

Richie pressed his palm against the end of Shifty's tail, a feather-light touch. And then he trailed his palm along the frills, a lighter touch, if possible, and Shifty shivered. Richie's gaze shot up to meet Shifty's, eyes wavering, wide, afraid.

(Shifty dismissed the thought that Richie was worried what Shifty would do, but that left as the only possible conclusion that Richie was worried for Shifty.)

"Gentler treatment than I'm used to," Shifty said, winking at Richie. "Seeing as I live with a kid with grabby hands." When Richie didn't move, Shifty flicked his tail to brush the end against the back of Richie's hand. "You can keep going."

Richie's gaze shifted from his own hand back to the lazy waving of the tip of Shifty's tail. And the next touch was - firmer, more present, if still tentative. Shifty grinned and twisted around toward the back of the couch so he could provide Richie access to his tail without discomfort, even if he had to crane his neck slightly to watch Richie draw his hand along the frills of Shifty's tail. 

It was - intimate, if at the same time a step back from some of the - implications of what they'd been talking about. Still, the slightly dazed expression on Richie's face faded over the course of several minutes, and gave way to something more - analytical.

"So," Richie mused. "There's some. Stuff. We haven't talked about. About your species and. You. And." His voice rose throughout his stuttering statement, until Shifty decided any amusement he took from Richie's slowly-growing discomfort would be cruel and a diversion from Shifty's - well, not ultimate goal, but his most immediate one.

So Shifty tugged his tail from Richie's grip and crawled the short distance that separated their bodies, leaning up just enough to kiss Richie. Just a press of lips, more a statement of intent than anything.

Richie didn't jerk backward - but only just. His cheeks were red, and he was looking at anything but Shifty. "What-"

"You were working your way up to a question," Shifty replied. "I was giving you an answer. As for romance, that's a yes. As for kissing, that's a yes. As for - other concerns, I figure we can...explore that question in further detail if the rest seems to be working out." Shifty smiled, aware the slow, deliberate expression was likely one Richie hadn't seen before, a notion confirmed at the distant, glazed expression on Richie's face (either that or the promise that any forays into more complicated activities would come with the expectation of scientific inquiry and rigor, even if Richie and Shifty were the only people who ever benefited from it).

Shifty leaned back in toward Richie, pausing this time when he was almost close enough to touch. "Soo," he drawled, grinning. "What's the verdict?"

Richie crossed the few remaining inches to press his lips against Shifty's, and then press forward to - experiment, Shifty realized, to observe and detail his findings. Shifty grinned against Richie's mouth at the thought, surging forward to contribute to Richie's obvious desire to explore.

They passed an hour or so that way, before Shifty dropped his head onto Richie's lap, looking up as Richie traced along the marks on Shifty's face, face fixed in concentration, until that concentration faltered and Richie gave Shifty's mouth a strange look.

Shifty smirked. "What's that look for?"

"Your smile is - you're really pretty," Richie stammered.

And Shifty might have - suspected Richie thought that, but hearing it sent a thrill along his spine, and his smile widened. "I guessed," he replied, "seeing how you kept all those photos."

Richie ducked his head away, covering his face with his hands. "Oh god, please don't bring that up. It's embarrassing."

"Is it?" Shifty asked, stretching out (and not failing to notice how Richie's gaze darted toward Shifty's stomach as he did so). "Then maybe we could talk about the drawings that came up earlier."

It would take some time, Shifty suspected, before he got a straight answer about those (even if Richie's embarrassment was incredibly telling about the nature of said drawings). But Shifty was certain enough about his intentions, and Richie's own, not to worry overmuch about it. Richie had better things to occupy his time with, now, anyway.

#fanfiction #fanfic #writing #rockababy #c2ndy2c1d

[1rintooru]

At Arm's Length

a/n: someone explain to me why i love making myself sadder with angst when i’m already in angst-mode???🤡🔫 decided to do smth wild and write some suna angst ✨

word count: 1230

summary: you reminisce on a potential situationship with our beloved pussy-banged Suna Rintarou💖

When you first met Suna, you initially didn’t like him. At all. There was something about his aloof and cocky demeanor that rubbed you the wrong way. Your first impression of him was that he was this arrogant rich kid chasing one high after the next. You never gave him much time or thought and for the most part your interactions were quite dry; it wasn’t like he cared that much either- he was constantly surrounded by people, even if that group of friends was broad and everchanging.

So, imagine your surprise when you couldn’t find your friends during your lunch break, only to spot a rare, yet isolated Suna. You contemplated ignoring him. You considered making a one-eighty and searching for your usual lunch-buddies. “That’s just cruel,” you thought to yourself as you begrudgingly made your way to his table. His attention broke from his phone once he saw you pull a chair out.

“Where is everyone?”

He shrugged, “I have no idea. I thought the same thing.”

A silence settled between the two of you, but it wasn’t awkward. It felt peaceful and you couldn’t help but notice the shift in Suna’s demeanor as well. His intense, deadpan glare was replaced with something much softer and his eyes seemed warmer.

You were looking forward to getting a mouthful of your carefully made lunch, but you received an earful instead. What started out as pleasant small talk and him asking, “Have you heard of Lil Uzi’s latest single?” ended up in him going off on multiple tangents. Within 45 minutes you learnt about the meaning of life, the possibility and likelihood of aliens- which then led to him raving about Star Wars and reciting multiple lines from movies you’ve never watched and finally about how religion changed throughout history. Even without a mouthful of rice you wouldn’t have known how to properly respond to his rapid-fire theories but it didn’t matter. Suna’s eyes lit up in a way you had never seen before. He was glad that someone was finally listening to him.

After that moment in particular, you and Suna would conveniently end up near each other. Whether it was on your lunch break with the rest of your mutual friends or because you had been partnered together. He still held this aura of aloofness and didn’t seem to care too much about others but when it came to you, he became uncharacteristically soft-spoken and curious. You were spared from his blunt and sarcastic remarks that he usually aimed at his friends. He wouldn’t ask for your input to be polite, but because he sincerely wanted to know. If you offered advice, he would nod his head thoughtfully, taking the weight of your words seriously.

At some point in time, you two must have made the unspoken agreement to walk home together. Suna wasn’t notorious for being conversational, but that seemed to change when he was with you. You were surprised with how family-orientated he was. His eyes would light up and an immense pride bubbled through his voice when he spoke of his mother. He would complain about his little sister frequently, but his words were laced with so much love that it caught you off guard. “Oh my god, that brat looks like a clown,” is what he’d usually say.

You were convinced this man had short-term memory or that he’d been too heavy-handed with his green. He had a tendency to retell his stories or repeat an observation he’d already made or ask a question you’d already answered. Normally you’d find this grating after a short while, but you could hardly get mad when you knew you were one of the few who got to see this side of him. So, every time he showed you pictures of his mother, with the same enthusiasm and pride, you’d always respond equally as intrigued. You didn’t mind when he showed you his sister getting into their mother’s makeup for the umpteenth time. You didn’t mind how close he would get to show you the video on his phone. You didn’t mind how his hands would absentmindedly brush against yours. And you definitely didn’t mind the warmth that would bloom in your chest every single time.

You yourself felt prideful. Prideful that you had cracked the code of the mysterious and unassuming Suna Rintarou. It was in the way he would let his goofy side show around you. Cracking a history pun or making a movie reference that only you would understand since no one else cared enough to listen. It was in how he expressed his care. You were always kept up to date on the antics of his little sister and he somehow always knew when you were angry, even though you thought you kept a straight face. The way your eyes would always shyly meet and how your feet would always end up entangling themselves into another was no coincidence; especially not with how he spoke to you, as if the sound of his voice could break you.

You saw the real him. Those moments you did see the real him were brief and fleeting, but you embraced them wholly. Little did you know at the time, the two of you were more similar than you initially thought. You too, had let your guard down and showcased a much lesser known but equally important side to yourself. He made you feel different. His interactions with you made you special. You could’ve gone days describing him and how complicated your relationship was, but deep down you knew that the tugging of your heartstrings were a much simpler explanation instead.

After the both of you graduated, the two of you went your separate ways. Just like a phantom, he had vanished from your life completely. Overnight, a seemingly invisible string had been cut between the two of you. It hurt initially, but you were quite quick in moving on; you were busy in your new life, juggling a part time job and more school. Suna Rintarou quickly became a fond memory, though the lack of closure felt incredibly bittersweet.

It was an ordinary, albeit cloudy afternoon when you took the bus back home. You were absorbed in your phone until your attention moved to the two young men who got on at the latest bus stop. You were easily able to recognize one of the men from the way he walked alone and you felt a sense of giddiness. Your eager eyes scanned him intently before finally moving upwards and being met with an intense, deadpan glare.

He had forgotten you.

The silent joy you felt instantly dissipated as a wave of wistfulness washed over you. You weren’t even surprised, not when he looked at you as if you were a stranger because now everything made sense. You understood now why Suna was so popular. Everyone liked him for how he made them feel, yet he kept everyone at arm’s length; he was like the sun and everything else just orbited around him. As you snuggled into the back of your seat, you thought of how the man you hated in the beginning became the one you would cherish the most. You thought your relationship was special, but it was actually quite ordinary. You were not even a memory to him.

You thought he was the one. But you knew you were one of many.

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #suna rintarou #suna x reader #hq suna #suna rintaro #suna rintaro angst #suna rintaro oneshot #selfmade #haikyuu imagines #hq imagines

[alexa-crowe]

une nouvelle vie, chapter 1

AO3 | @frogsmulder

A round of knocks sounds on the door. It’s far too late to have a visitor; Lily must be so exhausted as to be delusional. But then, another round of knocks. Perhaps not a delusion after all.

“Lily, I know that you are in there. Please... Perhaps you fear my confession, but I feel that—that I owe you as much honesty as you have gifted me, and that I owe complete honesty to myself.” Selden? “When I let you assume that I was no longer in love with you, it was a farce. My feelings never lessened, not once. Since I’ve known you, my amorous tendencies concerning you have only ever increased, despite the periods of time during which I fervently wished that I could think of you with pure hatred, or with no feeling at all. I love you, and I only wish you could see how happy we would be if you were able to step outside of yourself for a mere moment.”

Lily blinks, and she’s startled to find tears cascading across her face onto the bedding. The chloral sits untouched on the bedside table.

Selden continues: “I cannot offer you a yacht. I cannot offer you a house for every season. I cannot offer you the jewels and dresses a lady’s heart desires. But I can offer you food when you are hungry, and a fire when you are cold. I can give you a shoulder to dry your tears upon when you are melancholy, and I can relieve you of your monetary burdens. I will care for you when you fall sick, and I will give you gifts on your birthday. I would grow old with you by my side, Lily. Please, let me in...”

She stifles a sob into her pillow as she tries to collect herself, eventually scooping the scattered shards of her self into something resembling the person Lily once knew herself to be. The mental action completed, she rises from bed and forgoes any form of redressing as she silently makes her way to the door. She is still trembling, sure her eyes are rimmed with pink, the same color as her nose; she inhales deeply and unlocks the door before opening it. And there stands Lawrence Selden, hair mussed and clothing askew—obvious signs that he was the recipient of a midnight revelation that sent him racing here.

“Lily,” escapes his lips as softly as the wind sighed across the grounds of Bellomont so long ago.

And then, as if he cannot bear to be physically apart from her any longer, he steps forward and pulls her into his embrace. Lily finds herself enveloped by his familiar scent and submits to the immediate craving to meld her body with his. She wraps her arms around him, and this time she is unsurprised to find herself sobbing into Selden’s chest, clutching at him as if she has been lost at sea and he is her buoy in the water—at once keeping her afloat as well as marking her nearness to the safeties of land. They stay entwined as such for a lingering stretch of time, Lily aware in some small portion of her mind that Selden is holding her just as close.

When they finally part, tears spent, he slides his hands from her back and skull—respectively—to cup her pinkened cheeks. “Marry me,” he says, his offer now in no uncertain terms. Yet, still, Lily hesitates; she gazes into his eyes and finds that his, too, are rimmed with pink from tears. “Think on it. We shall stay here for the remaining hours of the night.”

She nods in a stupor and follows him back to her bedroom, though in her eyes it can hardly be considered such. There is no room for modesty between them tonight; Selden undresses to his underclothes and joins Lily in her small bed, curling himself around her like they are spoons in a silverware drawer. She clasps his hand in hers against her stomach, shifting so that she is surrounded completely by the warmth of his body on one side underneath the flimsy blanket. With his steady breaths puffing against her hair and the knowledge of his presence permeating her mind, Lily finds her eyes drooping for the first time in weeks.

—

While no apologies are given for their behavior the previous night, neither has the mood wholly continued into the light of day. They dress separately and Selden treats her to a hearty breakfast, unabashedly gazing at her the entire time. After they are fed, they walk the streets aimlessly. “Have you come to a conclusion, then?” he asks, the sun now high in the Spring sky.

They come to a stop in the shade of a tree, a rare sight in the bustling city. Lily sighs heavily, averting her gaze from his. “No,” she says, offering him the truth.

“Why not?”

She looks around them at the steady flow of people going about their days, unbothered by troubles such as hers. “It would feel like betraying my mother and father. Of course, my father is the one who drained our finances before passing, so I suppose it is more that I would be loath to disobey my mother’s last wishes.” Lily meets his steady gaze. “No matter how much I may wish to.”

Selden nods slowly, one hand in the pocket of his trousers. “Did it ever occur to you that you do not owe your life to your parents?” He lets her digest his words as he leads her to sit with him on a nearby bench. “As in, you are not your mother, and certainly not your father. Do you not deserve to—to take charge of your life as you see fit rather than as others see fit?” Lily opens her mouth to respond but finds that she has no answer. Selden sighs heavily. “I should think that this conversation would be more apt in my flat. Come.”

She recovers enough to say, “You are ever so persistent, my dearest Lawrence,” as she loops her arm through his. It is more than she has ever dared to give him before, and she knows that he understands what she means by the way he looks over at her, their gazes meeting.

The walk to Benedick gives Lily time to think over all of Selden’s words, but there is still a small part of her that lies paralyzed and terrified: once she takes this leap, she can never turn back. She looks up when she sees the familiar arch and revels in the smile that slips easily onto her lips.

“It seems that we are back where we started this fateful journey,” she comments, chancing a glance at him.

Selden nods. “That we are.” The corner of his mouth lifts up. “Tea?”

Lily’s smile blooms into one that shows her teeth and she nods. “Tea with you sounds wonderful.”

—

His tea is not as strong as she is used to, but it warms her heart all the same, and tastes as it did that day in September. It is familiar and safe, Lily decides, as Selden’s presence is. “What is holding you back?” he asks, no longer disguising his love showing in his eyes.

“I am afraid. Once I take this step forward, there is no way to turn back. And this path that I have been slowly but surely walking down for the majority of my years is the one I have known the longest. I hardly remember the times of my childhood when monetary issues did not make themselves known. In this position, I must give up so much—none of it concrete—and it is... nothing short of terrifying. I would liken it to standing at the edge of a cliff; there is a ladder to climb down to a river below, but I have been traveling on the sanded highland for years on end. The river is what I have come to need, but it would mean forsaking everything that I have ever known, even if that has been done to me previously, if not entirely. My mother would want me to forsake the river, even if the action sentences me to death.”

Selden cups her cheek and turns her face to his, his own open and earnest. His other hand takes custody of the opposite cheek. “But what do you want?”

Lily gazes at him, her answer rapidly crystallizing in her mind as she regards his face: his earnest eyes, the shape of his nose, his Cupid’s bow leading down to his kissable lips... And then she has her answer; she kisses him, holding her lips against his until he tentatively responds. It is short and relatively chaste; she presses her forehead against Selden’s own when it is over, placing her hands over his on her cheeks.

“You,” she whispers, tendrils of ecstasy slowly but surely worming their way through her body, filling every nook and cranny. “What I want is you.”

“Then you will marry me?”

“On one condition.” Selden holds his breath. “Assist me in recalling why I have made the decision to do so however many times is necessary, in whatever fashion that assistance should need to be.”

He lets out a tearful laugh and strokes her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “I shall do that for you, my dearest Lily. Let us enjoy the rest of the day how we see fit; any troubles can wait for tomorrow.”

#it's THE fix-it fic from me guys #<333 #house of mirth #fanfiction #mine

[curious-menace]

Arkham Scarecrow SFW Alphabet

im really enjoying writing arkham scarecrow. maybe ill do something similar to my random riddler headcanons posts with some scarecrows

long post under the cut

 A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Uhhh, the short answer is no. Jonathan is almost wholly incapable of what most people would term “affection”. His idea of loving is not using you for his experiments, only giving you small doses to build up your immunity( not that that will stop him from enjoying watching you panic). Jonathan leans heavily on gifts and words of affirmation as his language of love ( assuming he can even feel that emotion). He calls you  “my dear”  and “my darling” or once “my pumpkin” if he had too much to drink. 

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Jonathan would make a good friend if he could ever be wrangled into admitting it. He’s a complete bastard, but he's a loyal bastard. He always goes above and beyond for his friends but it's always in a “aw shit. My favorite idiot needs help AGAIN?!” begrudging , kind of way. You probably met in university/college and if you've stuck with him this long he’d be hard to get rid of.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

He never asks for cuddles and is pretty touch adversed as a rule. Sometimes though, He simply plonks himself in your space and expects you to know what he wants. Usually it's gentle backrubs/strokes like you would with a child. Sometimes he just wants your warmth to sooth his aching body. He’s heavier than he was in Arkham asylum but still very underweight so you shouldn't have too much trouble moving him into a comfortable position.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Absolutely not. I'm not convinced this man owns more than his books and the burlap sack on his back ,never mind a home. He has plans to take the cloudburst on tour, to go cross country and then across the world spreading fear. That would be a little difficult if he had gotham mortgage sending him nasty emails every other day about missed payments. While he can cook and clean, I doubt you'd want to eat anything he made. Ignoring his filthy hands, he's probably laced it with fear toxin or a lethal amount of hot sauce.

His homemade cleaning chemicals are pretty stellar mind you. They can get blood, piss or tears out of anything. 

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Scarecrow really is a ride or die kinda guy. If you've wormed your way into his life then he’s going to do literally everything and anything to keep you in it. He’s not above making you dependent on him for safety just to keep you around longer. He’s not a total monster to the people he cares about mind you. If you really didn't want to be with him, he’d let you go….eventually.

I'm not sure he fully understands the concept of a “breakup”on his end. He gets that you don't see eachother anymore but I don't think he quite grasps that it's not because one party is dead. There's a 99% chance he’ll use you for his fear toxin experiments as a way of kicking you to the kerb. If you wake up in a ditch with a text that says “we’re through” you should consider yourself lucky. 

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

I canon arkham scarecrow as having been engaged at one point in his life, possibly around the time of origins. I can imagine his partner gave him a “me or the fear toxin” ultimatum which has led to the man you know now. Despite how he looks, how he speaks and acts, he’s still open to the idea of a partner. He’s a loyal man who can't stand backstabbers, he’d appreciate someone like a spouse/husband/wife to have his back. If he decided he wanted to get married he’d propose almost immediately. It might be more of a business or thesis type proposal with lots of talking rather than flowers and wine and you're likely to be married as soon as you said yes. 

He has a tiny pumpkin ring saved for the occasion. Something like this (image credit https://www.banggood.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He’s gentle, in a creepy way unsurprisingly. He was a little stronger than the average man before the incident with croc, all that cardio and fighting with batman made him a skinny legend amongst the rogues for how well he could fight. Now? He couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. Mostly he's calm and soft, especially when you wouldn't expect him to be.  He can still be an emotionally manipulative person but chances are good you're smart enough to see right through him. Calling him on his bs is actually a good way to endear yourself to him. He likes a challenge and he loves it when people think they can outsmart him.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Hmm. yes and no. Scarecrow is severely touch adversed, but...It's not like with Riddler; Edward is on the autism spectrum and genuinely gets overstimulated by a lot of physical contact, he doesn't usually enjoy it unless under specific circumstances. Scarecrow WANTS to be hugged and held on occasion, but the mere thought of someone in his personal bubble sends his hackles up. 

When he first woke up after the asylum, he clung to you like a lampent. Scarecrow gives and recieves hugs like someone who needs them to breath.Your warmth soothes the aching pain when even drugs couldn't . By the time of Arkham Knight he’s grown cold and distant. His hugs are few and far between and unusually half hearted even when he initiates them. Maybe he’s just preoccupied with batman.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

I doubt he’d ever say the words ``i love you” but he’s absolutely going to quote love poetry at you, recite lines from his favorite literature  “shall i compare you to a summer's day” and all that. That’s far better than a simple “i love you” right?

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Jonathan is sort of one note when it comes to expressing frustration. Coffee machine not working? Melt it down into fear toxin vials. Line at the grocery store? Gas everyone out of his way. He doesnt get mad, he gets even. He’s not a super jealous person, he’s probably the most secure in himself out of all the rogues in Gotham bar Selina and ivy. But when something does hit his jealousy bone just right? LORD HE IS TERRIBLE. 

Unless you were the instigator, you are 100% safe but the poor soul who made the mistake of flirting with you will never see the light of day again.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

He can't really kiss to be honest. He lacks a lot of lip tissue and tongue dexterity for deep smooching. He’s quite happy to give you little pecks on the cheek but anywhere else will get sloppy and he's not a fan of that. Jonathan has actually started to bump you with his head like a cat in lieu of kisses. Rare as it is, when he wants kisses he has a tendency to nuzzle into the crook of your neck or rest his head on your shoulder. He likes to be kissed on the cheek , forehead and top of his head. Most other places are covered in scars and lack the sensitivity to enjoy it.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He likes to scare kids. It's not as malicious as it is with adults, he just likes to yell boo at them, smiling as they scream and giggle and run away. It's probably the most innocent he’ll act around other people. He still doesnt like them per say but he’ll tolerate them in small doses. 

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Scarecrow , like most rogues, is not a morning person. He doesn't sleep well and he is hella grumpy when he first wakes up. Expect to watch him shuffle around his hideout like a zombie, still wearing a quilt and his dressing gown as he complains about everything from the weather to the loud creaking of the floorboards. You should present him with food and coffee and then retreat to a safe distance until he’s fully awake, otherwise he’s liable to turn on his grumpy old man routine on you. If he's feeling particularly sore or needy, he’ll ask you to help change his bandages and dressings .

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

It really depends on what he feels like in the moment. Sometimes he’ll leave you at home while he goes out to cause general mischief, sometimes he’ll bring you along as a look out. Sometimes it's a low-key night at the hideout reading and sometimes it's a caffeine fueled frenzie of experimentation and lab work with you as his trusty lab assistant.  He doesn't sleep well at night, the aches keep him up. If he were ever to actually go to bed he might find that you make a great pillow.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

As much as he resents people having the upperhand with information, it's hard not for people to see his past. His scars are so easily visible, inside and out. He doesn't talk about his past unless prompted. But if you do he’ll quite happily answer all your questions; he’s not afraid of discussing it. 

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Jonathan is a very patient man, not just when it comes to revenge.It takes quite a lot to make him fly off the handle and he cools off again quickly. That's not to say he doesn't hold a grudge like he’s being paid for it, only that it's more of a simmering anger rather than a boiling one.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He remembers most things about you, he has an excellent memory. But that being said he never lets on that he knows these things. He likes to hear you talk about the things that interest you, even if you've told him about it before. Watching you wax lyrical about your chosen subject makes him feel close to you. 

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

I don't know if it's a favorite or even a positive memory but when he first woke up from surgery after croc you were lying beside him. He was understandably confused, maybe even afraid, but seeing you there brought him great comfort. He didn't know what was happening because of all the meds, but as long as you were with him he was confident things would work out for him.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He means well, you should always keep that in mind  before you snap at him. He brought you to the arkham knights HQ to protect you from his plans, he’s given you micro doses of fear toxin to build your resistance and by the time of arkham knight you can hardly move for the amount of guards he has following you around. He’s overbearing bordering on controlling but I think it's because he simply can't admit the thought of losing you scares him, even just a little. You aren't a rogue, you don't know Batman like they do. He just needs to keep you safe from batman, from the police and from the ugly world outside.

Given how weak he’s been viewed practically all his life, I believe he’d resent the accusation he needed protecting. deep in his mind he knows no one man is an island. He appreciates little helps even if he won't say it. He doesn't need protection per say but If nothing else, after being injected with his new toxin, he's going to need someone who’s corpus mentis in his corner for court and medical proceedings.  

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

His idea of a perfect date is you two working on your respective projects in comfortable silence, maybe a trip to the museum if he feels like the exercise. Obviously that suits some people down to the ground, myself included, but he gets that it's not for everyone. He’s probably ok with you planning the activities provided you warn him beforehand. 

Given everything he’s been planning for batman, things like important dates and even everyday tasks have a tendency to get lost in the fray. He's not doing it on purpose, He’s glad to celebrate these things with you if you remind him, He's just got his priorities in a funny order.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He shuffles his feet when he walks and is one of those people who always has conversations in doorways. You can never be sure he isn't aware of these habits and is doing them on purpose. He also used to smoke quite heavily but has since given it up due to his throat and lung issues.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

It's sort of a mixed bag with him. On the one hand he knows he’s ugly, that's the point. You're MEANT to be scared looking at him, he’s leaning into it. But on the other hand his “look” is a carefully maintained visage; if it slips it might lose the intended effect. He might not be as scary to look at or worse, people might look at him in pity. It's not ordinary vanity or narcissism but yes, he is concerned with maintaining the way he looks 

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

The concept of feeling whole is somewhat lost on him; He’s clearly missing a few screws even in his most lucid moments. That said even in the depths of madness brought on by his toxin, he still notices your absence. Still incredibly distressed In his cell in blackgate, he can often be heard crying out to you for comfort  but is lacking the wherewithal to understand why you're not there. 

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Given that he has pretty extensive facial injuries, eating is pretty difficult for him. He used to really enjoy bagels and cubanos from gothams many deli’s. His favorite was a kosher deli in The Cauldron, before Joker ruined it. They’ve since rebuilt and while he can't eat many solids anymore , he still enjoys their matzo soup and smoothies. 

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Like most of the rogues, he absolutely can't stand bullies.He also can't stand physically aggressive people; if you're going to even TRY and intimidate him maybe you could use your words like someone with more than 2 brain cells to rub together, rare as that is in gotham. Back when he was a psychiatrist he hated people who were chronically late. Not his patients, most of the time it wasn't their fault  due to executive dysfunction or traffic, but people who kept HIM back and made HIM late were the bane of his existence. 

Z = Zzz (What are their sleep habits?)

Crane is a back sleeper who snores because of his damaged septum.He knows he makes a noise akin to a flip flop in a lawn mower but there is literally nothing he can do about it besides sleep on his stomach. He squirms around a lot in his sleep so even if he starts on his stomach, he’ll be on his back snoring like a dead horse in no time. The only thing that could keep him frontwise is if he were to sleep on you and have you hold him in place. 

#Sfw alphabet #scarecrow #jonathan crane #headcanons #scarecrow headcanons #my headcanons #my stuff

[amphtaminedreams]

Spring/Summer & Haute Couture Week 2021: Whoops, I’ve Missed a Loooot (Part 2)

Hey to anyone reading,

I’m so sorry for the gap between the last fashion week review post and this one! Argh. I had no idea I posted it as long ago as the beginning of March but I think we can all agree that lockdown has fucked with our perceptions of time completely. I wish I could say the delay in posting was as simple as me being busy but I’ve also started to reflect on whether or not I want to carry on this format of posts for the time being; on the scale of problems, this one is wayyy down there in the very lower quartile of the first world region, but my motivation to carry on this kind of content in the form of long-winded text posts is...meh...not so much there anymore. At first I was thinking the issue was that working on these was my last priority on my daily to-do lists but as I’ve got back into writing fiction, it’s kind of occurred to me that the fact I was putting these posts on my to-do lists in the first place along with things like doing the ironing and contacting student finance speaks volumes. When I’m back from work or winding down, opening up Tumblr and coming back to this draft isn’t something that I think of as a fun stress reliever in the way drafting stories is. It doesn’t feel like I’m using my imagination or my creativity or expressing myself in any way and it’s not much of an escape from day to day life in the way that writing dialogue or exploring characters is. Maybe it’s because I’ve done quite a few of these posts now but I just tend to feel like I’m repeating myself, you know kinda like when you’re writing an essay and trying to fill up a word count; of course there are collections that I do have a lot of opinions on but by and large, sometimes it boils down to THESE CLOTHES ARE JUST FUCKING PRETTY, OKAY?! There’s only so many things you can say about a tulle skirt or an exaggerated collar before you want to strangle yourself with said tulle. I used to think iF VoGUe RuNwaY wRitErs CaN dO iT WhAT's MY exCusE until I realised that 1). Vogue Runway writers actually get paid and 2). for the most part all they do is explain the designer's intentions behind the collections verbatim without giving a critical opinion anyway.

I think a lot of the pressure I feel to justify what are in reality quite simple observations and opinions goes back to some of the feelings I explained in my first ever fashion week review where people who know more about fashion and have a formal education in the subject tend to be kind of gatekeep-y and elitist. It can never be that you appreciate different things about a collection but rather than one of you has taste and the other doesn’t and if it wasn’t obvious, the taste level assigned to you by the powers that be tend to positively correlate with the amount of money you have available to spend on a degree that has a reputation for failing to provide a steady income, which for most makes it an unrealistic avenue to pursue. I know, I know, the pressure is totally self-inflicted and wholly imagined seeing as I have under 500 followers on here and those who do interact with these posts most likely do so for the pictures but I still feel it, and given that I’m going to have enough external pressure to write essays when I return to uni in September, why on earth am I wasting time putting it on myself? When just posting photosets of my favourite looks is not only actually enjoyable for me but is also what other people WANT to see too? Nobody wants to read a self-indulgent paragraph like this when they’re here for the clothes and to be honest, for the most part I don’t want to write them anyway unless it’s something I have strong feelings about or if a collection can only be properly appreciated with analysis. I think I’ve made pretty clear which designers I’m a fan of, do you really need to hear me raving about Gucci or Zimmerman or Miu Miu or Balenciaga again? Is there gonna be anything revolutionary in yet another rant about Maria Grazia? Course not. I mean, if you are reading, you might have to witness those things one last time because I do intend to finish off this season’s review in this format for consistency purposes and because I’ve already got all the notes now but on the whole, I doubt anyone will miss my rambles.

So, with all that in mind, I think after I finish my S/S21 posts I am gonna start just uploading these posts without the written part. I mean, for one, the simplicity of doing this means I’m much less likely to procrastinate making them which in turn means I’ll be able to get them out right after the shows as a kind of summary as opposed to months later when they’re no longer as relevant. This will also give me more time to work on the writing I actually enjoy. Right now I’m going through and editing my 17 year old self’s “grown-up” take on the Pretty Little Liars blackmail murder mystery style plot line which I wrote back when I was completely and utterly obsessed with the show and bitterly disappointed by the last couple of seasons. The writing is pretty mediocre and often hugely cringey to read back now but I am still a fan of the basic plot and I’m genuinely motivated to see if I can make it something actually worth reading, and to get onto that ASAP; this feels especially important right now given that the HBO version of the series’ apparent upcoming release has sent that ever-present writer’s fear of seeing-your-same-storyline-done-better-by-somebody-else-thus-forever-relegating-your-version-to-being-the-poor-imitation-so-you-gotta-get-there-first into overdrive (or maybe that’s just me and my neuroses). Again, it’s a totally unfounded fear based on the fact that the HBO show will probs get millions of viewers whilst I will be doing little more than shouting into the void but anybody who’s used Turnitin to submit an essay that ultimately counts for little more than like 1% of your grade or degree will know that no matter how irrelevant your work is, the concept of failing a plagiarism check, be it via a computer algorithm or one random stranger on the internet’s assessment, is enough to conjure visions of the 4 horsemen of the apocalypse galloping towards you screaming “START THE WHOLE THING AGAIN” before releasing a hoarde of 2015 Chanel vs. Walmart style comparison memes.

Now, speaking of Chanel, I should probably get back into the reviewing. 

So for the last time for a little while, here’s Christian Siriano:

Siriano’s designs are a great example of work I feel guilty enjoying. I know that when it comes to quality, the high fashion community have a lot of (negative) things to say and I really can’t speak to that because quite honestly, I know very little about textile manufacturing. Solely from my own point of view though, I do like his work a lot. I wouldn’t claim for a minute that he’s a pioneer in terms of his creations but I would 100% love to wear them and I DO hugely admire his commitment to putting women of all sizes on the runway and designing pieces that don’t simply cater to straight up and down types which is more than can be said for most brands. I get that his collections are pretty formulaic, taking what has worked for the likes of Chanel and Alessandra Rich, De La Renta and Carolina Herrera, Michael Kors too (who is kind of guilty of the same thing himself), but that’s not to say his work is bad. Let’s be real, we’ve been on this planet thousands of years, we’re all taking inspiration from someone, and maybe figures like Kors and Siriano could wait a *little* longer before taking said inspiration but their aim at the end of the day is to sell clothes, not break barriers, a task which although often left to the big name brands, they too often fail at. I’m not going to lie, I’m feeling this whimsical mid-century tea party vibe, it’s elegant and it’s cutesy and My Fair Lady-esque, and you bet your arse I would be absolutely thrilled to wear one of these looks on a summer red carpet. I just can’t say no to anything tulle-maybe it’s that I was on Toddlers & Tiaras in a past life or maybe it’s that I watched too many Barbie Princess films growing up, but I like pretty much everything going on here, especially Siriano is giving us matching fedoras too. Plus, can we take a moment to praise Siriano for his COVID relief efforts? Near the beginning of the pandemic, he turned his studio into a mask manufacturing factory in order to send them out as donations, and I think that is very cool.

Then there’s Christopher Kane who once again came through with the most insanely gorgeous prints:

I mean, paint splattering is hardly a new technique but I haven’t seen it done as a print so tastefully before-it eats the Moschino biro scribble print (which apparently was copied too speaking of the tendencies of designers to “borrow” inspiration) for breakfast. It’s shit because there weren’t many looks in this collection and they weren’t really shot in a way that does them any justice but I thought I’d include the few I saved.

Comme Des Garcons is a fave of the high fashion community and one I look forward to seeing at fashion week but can never quite get behind. I appreciate the what-the-fuckery of it all with this show totally being able to pass as a run-through of some kind of nuclear waste themed scare house at one of Thorpe Park’s fright nights. I assume given that and the plastic Mickey Mouse print it’s supposed to be some kind of reference to the part late-stage capitalism has played in the hellish landscape we find ourselves in today? Or something all intellectual? In which case I made my interpretation with farrrr too much confidence. But Anyway! Who knows! I’ll leave the analysis to the fashion students, and give it one word: trippy.

Onto Dion Lee, a brand I truly do get excited to talk about because it’s rare that I don’t LOVE his work.

Without fail, Lee manages to be confidently ahead of the curve without going out of his way to announce it and his genius to everyone with flamboyant shows and exaggerated designs and extortionate prices. He is very much an underdog in the fashion world in terms of big names but you’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who doesn’t love his collections. His S/S21 collection is one of my favourites of the bunch. I love seeing something I’ve never seen before and the palm leaf breast plate is so odd but so cool and so perfectly Dion Lee at the same time; we’ve seen jungle/tropical inspired collections sooo many times *cough cough D&G cough cough* and THIS is how you make them fresh and unique. I mean, never in a million years did I think I’d get behind the resurgence of the gladiator sandal trend but Lee has me changing my mind. This is one of the very rare times you will ever see me using this meme to praise a man but:

I mean, he has Fernanda Ly modelling for him, that the man has taste goes without saying.

Now for a bit of a full circle moment, given that I did actually praise Dior’s haute couture collection in my first ever post; Maria Grazia did GOOD. Well, with haute couture at least.

She’s always pretty hamfisted with her references, there’s no denying, with that Grecian Goddess style RTW collection typifying that statement completely, but luckily she struck gold this time round; as someone who studied the Tudors for A-level history, seeing a modern take on the exaggeratedly feminine renaissance silhouettes with the baroque prints and the deep jewell tones got me super excited especially when you throw in the dreamy tarot theming and the nods to the mystical and arcane. Seeing as the Heavenly Bodies Met Gala (I know, I know, I need to move on) was some time ago now and Cersei Lannister’s *SPOILER* been crushed by a rock (could also be seen as a metaphor for the irrelevancy David Benioff and D.B Wise condemned GoT to when they aired that shitty ending tehe) and so probably won’t be getting a collection based on her costumes any time soon, this is the only fashion take on this kind of period dress I’m going to get…and you know what? I’m okay with that. Thanks Maria, I guess?

Her RTW collection wasn’t absolutely awful either, and slightly better than the past few collections at least. Put a monkey in a room with a typewriter (or show it enough similar well-received collections) and it will eventually write something that makes sense, don’t they say? I like the nomadic feel of a lot of the looks and there’s beautiful layering going on but the aura of exotic opulence unsurprisingly didn’t stick around for long and I found that there was a decline in quality in the midsection of the show that landed a lot of the outfits in either awkward mother of the bride at a beach wedding or The Only Way is Essex Ocean Beach PLT sponsored poolside party territory. The looks picked back up a bit towards the end stretch of the show but I wasn’t a fan of the Gucci style oversized glasses which were so out of place with the rest of the theming that if anything they seemed like a cheap grab at relevancy. So yeah, a middling, subpar Etro-esque collection which is better than usual for Dior I suppose.

Next, Elie Saab, whose S/S21 collection was kinda disappointing, tbh. Oh how the turns have tabled given that positive Dior review and my usual love of Saab’s collections.

I know his dresses lose some of their appeal when we can’t see them in motion but even ON the runway I can’t see myself being dazzled by any of these pieces the way I usually am. They’re lacking the level of detail and craftsmanship I associate with the brand seemingly in favour of block colours and suits and the issue is that the whole Disney Princess fantasy has always been the appeal for me because the silhouettes aren’t interesting enough on their own. They’re not ugly pieces, they’re nice, but does nice really have a place in high fashion when the pieces are so basic in both their design and presentation that the shots could pass as ripped from a catalogue? The strongest parts of the collection were when it did go down the more delicate route with the muted blue suits and the white feather trimmed dresses, the small, ornamental gold details reminding me of a very toned down nod to Schiaparelli’s hardware, but with regards to the bright coloured pieces, I can’t lie-they did look like something you could find in the M&S Per Una holiday section. Then you’ve got the weakest parts, which were just flat out ugly: sheer giraffe print, sweat band style elasticated waits, and long chiffon shirts that I hate to admit read as frumpy. There are times where I’ve not been particularly excited by an Elie Saab collection in the past, but I do think this is the first time I’ve actively disliked parts of it.

Conversely, Erdem’s S/S21 collection was super strong, and solidified the brand’s place in my mind as a dependable source of kooky maximalism, this time round giving us  Anya Taylor Joy’s Emma wardrobe on speed. You could tell me Erdem Moralıoğlu had just raided the Bridgerton set’s fitting rooms and put it on a runway and I would 100% believe you and I mean that in a positive way because to give my unpopular opinion, the clothes were the only good thing about that show. The endearingly florid details of exaggerated bows and clashing florals were still there but this time in a way that felt more subtle and self-assured, as if the calming influence of the wooded set’d had a direct hand in the designs, giving the rugged, ethereal feel to the collection I associate with brands like Brock and Simone Rocha, all whilst keeping the parts of Erdem I’m so fond of.

Is it really much of a shock that I included pretty much every look from the Etro S/S21 show?  Like, you know that Christian idea of God, like, (the voice in my head is very much taking on the dumb valley girl voice that anybody who reads this is most probably getting too) knowing our souls? I think Veronica Etro knows mine. So no, no surprise. Though there were a few unconventional touches thrown into these looks (the campier prints and nautical theming we see with the 80s beach towel print, for example, reminded me a bit of Versace) the mystical bohemian it girl that Etro designs for would still be highly satisfied. Sure, it might be a wardrobe fit for a holiday less adventurous than backpacking but if she wanted a tropical poolside holiday, this collection is the one, the paisley print chiffon mini and maxi dresses especially. I’m just gonna pretend I don’t see the monstrosity that is leggings worn as trousers-it’s a fashion rule I refuse to abandon-because they are the only stain on an otherwise expectedly gorgeous collection.

Next, an unusually reserved RTW collection from Fendi:

More in line with the wardrobe of a European fashion editor than the glamorous trophy wife (who let’s say uses that facade as a guise to ruthlessly run her husband’s whole business empire from behind the scenes because in this house we do complex female characters only), these pieces are lot “smarter” and more professional looking than Fendi’s typical offerings; where I feel Fendi usually designs for the society girl who wouldn’t mind a front page scandal, these are the kind of outfits a young member of Monaco’s royal family would wear for a positively received but business-as-usual press tour. I know, Fendi is an Italian brand, but this is more Southern France to me. We’re talking some 2nd page shots of a Kate Middleton type on a yacht on the Riviera smiling and waving as her PR team’s ideal scenario. Still, whilst fewer exaggerated silhouettes, animal prints and overtly luxurious fabrics (real leathers, silks and furs for example) mean that the drama’s a little toned down, it’s all still very expensive looking and combines the classically feminine glamour of the past and the minimalism of modernity in the artful manner that we’re used to. Maybe it’s me being a basic bitch but I always love seeing Ashley Graham on the runway too, even if brands to tend to use her as their single token plus size model.

Kim Jones’ debut haute couture collection for Fendi, however, wasn’t a very well received one. I don’t hate it personally but I can see where the criticisms are coming from. Whilst it’s closer to the version of Fendi I’ve come to expect and there were some stunning pieces which completely encapsulated that distinctive aura of luxe and glamour, there were quite a few lazy pieces which could’ve been from any designer. I also felt the collection was a bit upstaged by what seemed to be a who’s who of the modelling world; having Bella, Cara, Kate and Naomi ALL walk in one show was a bit distracting and took the focus off the clothes completely.

Giambattista Valli’s RTW collection was gorgeous as ever; the man has undeniably mastered the art of delivering classic, objective elegance, the kind of designs I feel would make you light on your feet and smell like strawberries and cream the minute you put one on. Whilst as a brand his RTW shows are rarely trendsetting, they reliably produce a plethora of unfailingly graceful and demure pieces, as appealing to your mum and your grandma as they are to young women and little girls, and this collection is another victory lap for Valli when it comes to upholding his signature tea party and artisan cupcake making and rose garden strolling and bottomless rosé brunch appropriate aesthetic. There were a lot of outfits that were bordering on overly juvenile, with structures a little too basic to justify the amount of sequins thrown on, but when it’s good, it’s so sweet that regardless of how to formula it is, I can’t help but fall in love.

Valli’s haute couture collection was stunning too and for sure a more exciting offering than the RTW. There was of course a lot of the signature tulle but it was head-turning, over the top in a way that leant far more towards the experimental than I expected. The photos themselves are 100% believable as a some kind of Vogue behind the scenes editorial shoot on the set of live action Disney princess movie (in between takes of the climactic ball scene if you wanna get specific with the vision); if you are looking for a prettier alternative to the primary colours and disruptive shapes of a Molly Goddard collection, this is the one. It’s giving the themes of excess and abundance I associate with that of the Hunger Games Capitol but through the softer lens of a Sofia Coppola movie, and being the typical cinema loving white girl I am, I’m obviously on board with that vibe.

I did SUCH a 180 on Givency’s S/S21 collection from when I first saw it to writing a review. My initial reaction was one of disappointment, I guess simply because Givenchy has given us so many bold pieces and presentations over the last few years whereas this is more low-key. After properly considering it though as I would any other brand, I came to the conclusion that I do actually really like it. It’s still got the strange, androgynous silhouettes popping up throughout and the futuristic space-age details but with a more down-to-earth, streetwear feel, albeit a very slick, glossy spin on the trends of the rabble (that’s us guys) of course before we go believing it’s achievable. On the one hand, the devil horn accents are a touch Claire’s accessories halloween range but at the same time, done with confidence they’re kind of cool and bring something new and fun to the table in line with the dark theatre of Givenchy’s last few shows.

Now for Gucci, which for the first time I have to say, if I'm attempting objectivity, is not a standout. 

Like, can I just start by saying though the format it’s presented in is cute, it’s not ideal as a way of actually showing the collection. I get that the vintage shop bin vibe is a huge part of Gucci’s brand but polaroids make it SO hard to actually see the clothes, and that’s what we’re here for right? I don’t want to give the impression that I don’t like what I see here-the clothes are gorgeous, an idyllic ode to the off-duty wardrobes of Studio 54-ers, bohemian style icons like Charlotte Rampling and young Olivia Newton-John, psychedelic rock guitarists and the inhabitants of San Fransisco’s Haight during the late 60s and early 70s, Alessandro Michele’s favourite period of reference. I can’t pretend otherwise, or act like I wouldn’t want to wear the shit out of this collection. Buut, for Gucci? It’s a little underwhelming. These are the kind of filler looks we get in a typical Gucci show to go alongside the more statement pieces, which this collection is lacking. It’s just that these are designs which usually gets people talking and these pieces don’t do that. It sucks because for most other brands this would be a stand out collection, an immersive, luscious vignette of what people tend to think of as a cultural golden era, but when you’ve had a show that involved models carrying replicas of their own decapitated heads down the runway in the last 5 years, of course something more toned down like this is gonna generate a lot of “is that it?”s.

I owe Hermes an apology. Looking back, I have disliked all their previous collections for the same reason that I now really like this one; maybe it’s in part down to the frustration of still having to whack out the winter coat on occasion in May (fuck British weather and climate change), but suddenly I really appreciate the value of some good quality, versatile outerwear. Hermes is giving us that in spades here and for that, I bow down to them. The pieces on offer are clearly well-made and genuinely practical, and through the minimalist approach manage to retain both an air of timeless sophistication whilst also being youthful and on trend. The leather tactical vest co-ord I can easily see edged up and taking centre stage on one of those insane Seoul street style slow-mo TikToks that were big a couple of months ago and there are several pieces that could tie together a grunge influenced k-style look just as well as they could exist for years on end as the wardrobe staple of a high-powered businesswoman. Designer Nadège Vanhee-Cybulski’s strengths really come through with the simpler looks and it’s the patterned pieces that drag down an otherwise flawless collection; I guess because the aesthetic is very minimalist, the patterns can’t be anything overly decorative but unfortunately this has a bit of a dowdy effect when you pair it with such modest silhouettes. Disregarding those elements of the collection though, it was super good.

It goes without saying that Iris Van Herpen’s haute couture collection was breathtaking; if the fashion community can agree on anything, it’s that this woman’s work is consistently awe-inspiring. She captures the wonder of the universe, the biological structures and kaleidoscopic colours we don’t even register, through fashion in a way that others can only imitate, to mesmerising, truly transcendent effect; I can only assume Van Herpen has mother nature whispering into her ear because how the hell else do you explain her ability to take the kind of microscopic organisms they show you images of in an outdated GCSE science powerpoint and make a dress that resembles one so stunning? Care to explain, Iris? Because if there is some kind of line of communication between the two of you can you please tell the bitch I’m over this weather and that I have cute summer outfits I’m waiting to wear so can she pack this torrential rain shit in? K, thanks xoxo

See it seems shady as fuck to go from IVH to Isabel Marant like this because we are talking 2 designers with totallyyyy different approaches to fashion; Iris Van Herpen is haute couture for starters whereas Marant is commercial, and that’s her thing, but unfair comparisons aside this collection is still a bit of a let down. This is considering I do usually really like Isabel Marant collections based on whether or not I’d wear the pieces, which seems a more appropriate barometer to use to come to a quality verdict. Whilst there were a few of the elegant bohemian pieces my mind goes to when it comes to her brand, the steps outside of that comfort zone didn’t pay off; graffiti print (can be cool if done with some subtlety which apart from a few exceptions was not the case here), cheap looking reflective fabric, and MC Hammer style dungarees, it seems to be an attempt to merge 80s trends with modern urban culture, and an attempt that at times verged on the disastrous. It’s good for a brand to experiment, of course, and appeal to a wider client base than usual, but when it’s bad the unfortunate take away is that the design team don’t have the chops to pull off straying from familiar territory; designers wouldn’t be showing at fashion week if this was truly the case because disregarding the influence of nepotism, fashion is an area you need real talent, perseverance and business smarts to excel in, and so it doesn’t do a team justice when they do fail.

J.W Anderson, on the other hand, really put his best foot forward this season and presented this work in a really cool way too which only added to the positives; whilst the way the shots were edited was funky af, it didn’t detract from the actual outfits, and if we are to see the same limitations when it comes to the F/W collections being released, this is something a lot of designers and editing teams should take note of. The idiosyncratic exaggerated shapes that we see as a recurring feature of Anderon’s collections were still on show but this time round with added femininity, billowing skirts and trailing jewellery that channel the stage looks of Stevie Nicks in a way that’s modern and functional and maybe even fit for the office if you were to work in a more creative industry with a chill boss. Could also work for a coven of witches who practice meditation by bonfires in the moonlight and burn the letters of men who wronged them in some Arizonian desert, so like I said, functional! Who doesn’t like versatility? The only thing I’m not too keen on is the shoes but they’re not so bad that it affects my opinion of the collection and they look comfy I guess.

Lastly, we’ve got to talk about Jacquemus, one of the most influential names in fashion at the moment. And yes, this time round, I’m doing it: I’m buying into the hype.

This collection is gorgeousss! I can see already that a lot of the recurring elements of the show are going to be big summer trends for this year (the cut outs and strappy details on the blouses are everywhere already) even though it isn’t hot enough to have collectively decided the time to start dressing for heat is upon us yet, and that’s always a good indicator of how successful the designer was in their vision and attempts to assess the needs and wants of fashion enthusiasts; whether I’m as big a fan of his work as everyone else seems to be, there’s no denying Simon Porte Jacquemus has always excelled at this practice if the buzz around him is anything to go by. It makes sense given the last year of us all being stuck in and suppressed that a lot of us are already romanticising the summer ahead, anticipating picnics and beach days and general Theresa May running through wheat fields type shenanigans galore, in spite of how dubious an assumption it is to make that British weather will allow for this; Porte Jacquemus has very much catered to this wishful thinking and the popularity of the whole escapist “cottage core” aesthetic, sexing it up a little bit with pieces that hug the body in ways only Mugler knows how whilst being lightweight and relaxed enough to look good with windswept, sandy hair and a little dose of sunburn. I’m talking enough to give you some cutesy freckles and rosy cheeks not PSA on the importance of suncream territory, guys, what is it with those of us on the gen Z/millennial cusp not taking sun damage seriously!? Why do I have to beg so many of my friends to wear it!? Does nobody else remember those photos they’d show you in PSHE in English primary schools of burnt people’s skin under UV lights? Or is that just me being weird and only having such a vivid memory of the images because teachers told us we had to wait until year 6 to see them due they to their “graphic” nature only for my gore-loving self to be extremely underwhelmed when we finally did get that lesson? They showed us a woman giving birth in year 4 for fuck’s sake. THAT was traumatising.

Back to the actual point anyway, with just a couple of negatives, the first of which being that the pieces are very similar to those feminine looks we saw dotted about the Jacquemus menswear collection from last year that were all over fashion Twitter. In Simon Porte Jacquemus’ defence though, it makes sense that those tones and silhouettes would be revisited in a full womenswear collection for that very reason; considering they went down so well and that lockdown gave us a bit of a half-baked summer in 2020, expanding on those elements enough for a whole new collection makes good business sense. We did get some cool additions too, mainly in the form of accessories, with the hardware details on the belts similar to those included in the Givenchy collection and the abstract hair slides being standouts for me. It was all exquisite-the shoes, the jewellery, the styling, everything 10/10. My other nitpick, and I say nitpick not because it’s not important but because it’s an issue that’s hardly restricted to Jacquemus (this casting team are far from the worst offenders, Saint Laurent I’m looking at you), is that I WISH we’d see more diversity with the models. Despite what my body dysmorphia yells at me, I am small, and yet seeing all those fucking minuscule waists made me die a little inside; it’s crazy to me that in 2020 the lack of variety in body types on the runway is still such a problem.

I must have said this a million times but I don’t want to end on a negative note so let me reiterate: this collection was STUN. NING. Plus there were some others I’ve talked about in this post that I’m sure will make it into my top 20 in the final part, Jacquemus, Dion Lee and Etro for sure; we even got some gorgeous pieces from Maria Grazia which I thought was a sentence I’d never type out. Have I said enough to not leave a bad taste in the mouth of anyone who read to the end of this post? I hope so, lol! TBH, it’s impressive given everything that’s going on that the majority of designers did roll out collections in September as usual so serious respect to them and their design teams for that.

In the next post, I’ll fingers crossed be able to include everything from Kim Shui (exciting!) through to at least Off-White (actually pretty good this time?!) and make this whole thing a 4 parter before getting straight on top of the photo posts I’m thinking about doing for the time being for the F/W21 shows. So as usual, if you did read to the end thank you so much and I respect the perseverance you must have to get through all my rambling, lmao. Hope everyone is well and coping okay and again, my inbox is always open for any post suggestions, constructive criticism, or just a chat for anyone who needs a listening ear.

Big love and thank you again!

Lauren x

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[welllpthisishappening]

On This Night and in This Light (3/3)

Emma Swan knows she’s pretty good at what she does.

Helping the magically afflicted and affected find jobs in this realm isn’t the most glamorous thing in the world, and, sure, there’s a lot of paperwork, but she figures she’s helping people and that’s the important thing. It’s structured. Calm, even.

Until. It’s always until.

Killian Jones shows up with his stupid smirk and his tendency to lean against the door frame in Emma’s office and his distinct lack of magic. Or knowledge of what they’re really doing at Mills Personnel. Everything kind of goes off the rails after that.

—-

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 6.5K of magic and eventual happily ever after

AN: There’s some magic here. Some kissing. Some curses. And happily ever after, of course. Thanks for reading along with this little distraction from the legitimate stress of the real world. You guys are all an absolute delight.  

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the top

—-

“Are you good?” Tilting her head up to meet Killian’s vaguely crinkled forehead and passably confused expression, Emma almost regrets the question she didn’t plan on asking. That’s the problem with him. And them, at least in the abstract sense. 

Words tumble out of her without much thought to their meaning or collective, if not slightly metaphorical, weight. Defenses she’s spent a lifetime cultivating feel as if they’ve crumbled at her feet, which is impressive since she’s laying down, but the metaphor still checks out and Emma keeps asking questions. 

Without being wholly afraid of the answers she’ll get. 

“Be more specific,” Killian murmurs, and her heart does something stupid. Skips a beat. Sparks her magic. Threatens to leave her glowing in the tangle of sheets she’s absolutely stolen in the middle of the night. 

“Just—I mean with everything.” Nosing at her cheek, Emma can practically hear Killian’s smile. “‘Fraid that’s not any more specific, my love. But if we’re going to speak in the abstract before coffee—” “—Oh, we should make coffee.” He kisses her cheek, that time. “Then I am exceptionally good.” “Pretty vast adverb.”

“Well, you asked a very broad question. But I stand by my answer, particularly when you’re not wearing any clothing. Why, am I giving off not-good vibes?” “Maybe lame ones if you keep using the word vibe in actual conversation. I just—I don’t know, wanted to make sure, I guess. Working for Mills isn’t exactly the height of luxury and it can be a weird place, and I...we never really looked at apartments for you, because we can do that if you want to, but—” Stumbling over the words, Emma wishes her hands were free. She’d like to wave them around. Use them as a distraction to whatever has settled on her face and in the pit of her stomach, and this wasn’t really the plan. Granted, the plan occurred while she was overly exhausted and reeling a bit from rather large emotional realizations, but telling him the truth about absolutely everything is suddenly a bit more daunting in the light of day. 

And they haven’t even had coffee yet. 

Killian’s hand moves. Faster than Emma’s entirely ready for, his fingers brush a strand of wayward hair away from her eyes and then he’s kissing the bridge of her nose and pulling her against his chest and—

“This was not my plan. In some great expectation for my life, I’m not sure I could have ever imagined this is what it’d be like. But,” Killian adds, as soon as Emma’s magic shifts into something far closer to dread, “if all of this ended with your freakishly cold feet waking me up every morning, then I can’t be very upset about it.”

Swooning pre-coffee can’t be advisable. Emma’s heart doesn’t care. It flips and flops and does that possible explosion thing again, and she’s a little concerned the force of her smile will have adverse effects on the paint in her bedroom. 

“You don’t think Mills is weird?” “Do you?” Emma shakes her head. “Nah, no questions for questions. This is—” “—An inquiry?” Her shoulders slump. Under the blankets, and she’s really got a shit ton of blankets. “I don’t know, Swan. Mills is...a place, a job. One where you work, and that’s mostly why I’m interested in continuing to work there. Should I not be thinking that?” The last few words come with a bit of understandable concern and maybe a hint of frustration, and she should have said something earlier. 

It’s very frustrating to realize how much smarter the part-time cricket is than Emma.

She hopes he’s enjoying his job, too. 

“My feet aren’t really that cold.”

Killian scoffs. “I promise, they are like little ice cubes attached to your legs.” “Lucky you’re here to provide external heat, then.” 

Burrowing her face closer to the crook of his neck, Emma gives herself a moment to relish in that warmth, like he’s some sort of personal sun or a battery or another bit of science she doesn’t understand and David always likes to say that science is just explained magic. Emma wonders if it works the other way, too. 

Magic is something that simply hasn’t been explained yet. No rational reasoning, or anything except the kind of gut feeling that can change everything. 

“I am,” Killian says, and it probably isn’t meant to sound like a promise. “Are you good?” Dots of light appear behind Emma’s eyelids every time she blinks, trying to come up with an answer that won’t send him running and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he runs. Energy prickles at the tips of her fingers, curling around either one of her wrists and lingering in the slight bend of her left elbow because at some point her left palm has flattened itself against Killian’s stomach. “Mills can be kind of weird,” Emma mutters, trying to pick her words more carefully now. “And that’s...there’s a reason for that, and a reason I started working there and—” A phone starts vibrating. 

Loudly enough that it also immediately falls from the nightstand it was charging on, and keeps buzzing around on the floor. Killian sighs. 

“Hold that thought.”

Emma wishes she could. But her hands are already back underneath the blankets, and she’s all too aware of how bright they’ve gone in the last few seconds and the state of Killian’s shoulders make it obvious he’s not all that pleased with whatever he’s being told. “Yeah, yeah, I can—I mean, it’s like twenty blocks the wrong way, but—God, yes, Scarlet. I can come back for a few minutes.”

He doesn’t bother to plug the phone back in, and for like a solid half second Emma gets distracted by the lack of clothes before her eyes fly up and Killian’s sighing again and the weight in the pit of her stomach grows. 

“Coffee later?” Emma blinks. “Sure. Is everything ok?” “No idea, just that Scarlet said he had to talk to me and it couldn’t wait and—” Killian shrugs, fingers finding the back of his neck. “I probably won’t be that late, but if Regina asks—” “—I’ll tell her.” Something tugs at the back of her mind, a warning Emma can’t place, but she can sense a lie with almost startling accuracy and she knows Killian isn’t lying to her. She just can’t figure out why Will would lie to him. 

Halloween’s not her favorite day. 

People assume all magical and mythical creatures thrive on this one day of the year, but more often than not Emma finds that it’s just another busy day when those same magical and mythical creatures come out of the metaphorical woodwork in droves to get jobs. And sure, some of the rumors are true. There are certain times when the fabric between realms can be a bit more flimsy than usual. Both midnights, for example. Eleven-eleven’s another big one. So, teenage girls had that one right, at least. 

And yeah, ok, Halloween also means Regina bakes half a dozen apple pies for the whole office, but when the whole office is already overrun by inquiring applicants, Emma can’t find it in herself to be very excited for a dessert she only kind of likes. 

She’d never admit that to Regina. 

Self-preservation instincts, and all that. 

Plus, days like this are always cold. Fraught with that certain nip in the air, and leaves that crunch under Emma’s boots. Only to also get stuck to the bottom of Emma’s boots, and she has to twist her wrist to get rid of her leaf-based trail on her way to her paperwork-covered desk. 

The same one David’s leaning against. 

“You tell him yet?”

She missed one leaf. Figures. Emma never even went trick-or-treating as a kid. Halloween’s a sham. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” “Sure you don’t. It’s dumb that you haven’t yet.” “Voice your opinion a little louder, please.” “Nothing is going to happen,” David says, but Emma barely hears over the sound of sudden and complete disagreement that scratches its way from the depths of her soul. Maybe Halloween makes her a little maudlin, actually. She can’t believe she didn’t get to tell him. “It hasn’t yet.” “Why are you jinxing things like that?” “There is no such thing as jinx, and c’mon, if you guys can get through today with a hundred magically unemployed people, then sky’s the limit.” “Not even clever.” David shakes his head. “You’re impressed and swayed, I know it. Plus it’s not like you’re a bad witch or anything.” “I’m sorry, a bad witch?” “Yeah, you know. None of your intentions, even when lying to the guy you’re stupid into—” “—Opinions keep coming fast and furious, don’t they?” “Because he’s right,” Ruby calls, twisting around desks to involve herself in a conversation Emma doesn’t want to participate in anymore. “You really didn’t tell him yet? That’s nuts. And you’re a good person, Em. With a very good looking face. Who wouldn’t want to make out with that? Ad nauseum.” “I’m going to be honest, using a word that sounds like nauseous isn’t helping your case much,” Emma says. “And I’m going to tell him. I am, just—things got crazy this morning.” Ruby howls. With laughter. Drawing more than a few curious stares, and rather pointed glare from Regina’s direction. David pales noticeably. “Did they?” Ruby presses. “How crazy are we talking and was it also vaguely acrobatic, because I feel like Jones could move if he had to, but that’s strictly theorizing on my part, so—” Sentences without end are quickly becoming Emma’s least favorite thing. Only slightly edging out ringing phones. The one on her desk lights up, which doesn’t happen very often, but she can’t imagine the light is supposed to be green. 

David’s talking. She’s dimly aware of it — the soft hum that sounds more like Charlie Brown’s teacher than any of the human characteristics Emma is certain they both have, and that’s another quasi-Halloween reference. Rocks appear to have landed rather forcefully in her stomach, and that’s what she gets for optimism. 

“Swan,” Killian breathes, as soon as she pulls the phone to her ear. “Swan, Emma listen to me, you can’t—” Seriously, the lack of sentence structure is becoming intolerable. Killian grunts, the sound turning into a gasp almost immediately and a few shouted no, no, no leave them alone and Emma doesn’t remember standing. 

Only that she’s knocked her chair over in the process. 

“Is this Ms. Swan?” a new voice Emma almost recognizes asks. “Because it seems I’ve got something of yours, while you have something I’m particularly interested in. Let’s make a little exchange, shall we?”

It’s disappointing that her mouth goes dry. Emma assumes that’s because she’s all but panting, bent awkwardly over her desk while her eyes scan the room for something or someone and—it clicks. The voice. 

“Zelena. This is Zelena, isn't it?” Both David and Ruby make matching noises of disbelief, but the buzzing is back and Regina is moving and the line’s gone dead anyway. “She’s not supposed to be here,” Regina says with enough calm that it grates on every single one of Emma’s already-fraying nerves, “magical control sent her back to Oz.” Emma can’t cope with this. Any of it. All she wanted was to drink coffee with her decidedly human and very normal, if not ridiculously attractive boyfriend and they’ve never actually used relationship qualifiers. 

That’s disappointing. 

“Right, right, yeah, ok, of course” Emma mumbles, and she doesn’t bother to fix her chair. “Happy fucking Halloween, I guess.”

It takes her all of five minutes and one person dressed in costume to realize that running is absolutely and completely pointless. 

Emma’s a goddamn witch.

And it’s raining. 

Drops slide down her temples, drip down the back of her neck and work under her jacket because she never even got the chance to take her jacket off. Which is something of an exceptionally small miracle now, but she’s already cold and she’s always so fucking cold and—

He called her Emma. 

He called her—

“My love,” she whispers, entirely to herself and that part isn’t really true. Shadows hover just outside the edge of her vision, what Emma knows are her friends waiting for instructions or a plan, and she’s got to come up with a plan and she doesn’t know where Belle and Will live. 

She doesn’t have to. 

Reaching her hand back, Emma’s fingers lace through Regina’s, and her soft instruction of “all instinctual,” doesn’t get lost in the hum of the city or the bustle of a holiday that requires masks and chocolate-based gluttony. It takes root. In Emma’s mind, and those same pieces of her soul, finds the tiny bits of space between her stomach rocks and spreads out from there. 

Warming her from the inside out. 

She closes her eyes. 

“What the fucking fuck?” Will shouts, Emma’s feet slamming into hardwood floor that was probably highlighted in this apartment listing. Eyes bugging, he’s plastered to the wall opposite her, and Emma’s pleasantly surprised to find he’s not gagged, but she also kind of figures it’s because Belle is and there’s something inherently villainous about allowing the love interest to make noise while their partner is being tortured. 

By a woman wearing a pointed witch’s hat. “Kind of cliché, isn’t it?” Ruby muses, and Emma’s not surprised they’ve started their rescue mission with sarcasm. She also can’t respond. Her eyes are too busy trying to take in the scene. 

Stacks of books litter the floor, half the living room furniture on its side as if it’s been knocked over in a fit of inevitably-magical rage, and Belle doesn’t look as scared as annoyed that she’s been bound in one of the few upright chairs. Emma’s heart stutters. Catching her breath is impossible, head on a swivel as she tries to find—

“Killian,” she exhales, and he’s not gagged either. No visible restraints keep him a few feet away from Will, but Emma can feel the magic rippling off him and it smells strongly of bitter lemons. Or expired key lime pie. 

Neither of those things are inherently Halloween, or all that magical. But then Zelena’s turning slowly and the green splotches on her face ensure any attempts at passably funny metaphors or desperate attempts to maintain her sense of reality disappear. 

“Huh,” David says, “that’s new, actually. We ever see anyone change color before?”

Regina clicks her tongue. “She’s not changing color. She’s giving in.” “To what, exactly?” “Jealousy. Isn’t that right, Zelena? Been the crux of the problem forever, hasn’t it?”

Emma’s head is spinning. She’s not moving. “Wait, wait, what the fuck is going on?” One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up, amusement in his gaze and that can’t possibly be right. “You are stuck to the wall, idiot!’ “Oh, Swan, you do know how to flatter a man.” “What is happening?” He can’t shrug, but Emma knows he tries and that should not be as charming as it is. Mary Margaret squeezes her hand. The one that’s almost neon. “Turns out Scarlet didn’t actually want to talk to me this morning. We definitely could have had coffee.” “Is that a euphemism for—” Ruby starts, only to snap her jaw closed when Regina gapes at her. Emma’s starting to lose feeling in her fingers. 

And she sees the exact moment any sense of teasing and entirely false bravado leaves Killian. Lips going thin, his shoulders still don’t move, but Emma swears his fear reverberates through her and that’s not the emotion she was interested in sharing that morning. “You’ve got to get out of here, love. Now, it’s—” Zelena’s hand moves so quickly, it’s not much more than a passably-green blur. Nothing else comes out of Killian’s mouth. His jaw moves, working against a shield none of them can see, and Emma’s stomach is somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. 

Even with all those rocks. 

“How did you get back here?” Regina asks, stepping towards the front of their ragtag group. Fire bursts from her hands, flames that flicker up her forearms and draw another grunt out of Will. Whether it’s surprise or just the generic sound of being impressed, Emma’s not sure. 

Bits of green cling to the end of Zelena’s mouth when she smiles. “Shall I start at the beginning, then?” “God yes, please,” Emma sighs. 

Zelena doesn’t take her hat off. Really, she’s almost making it work for her. As far as costumes go, this one’s kind of basic, but there’s no cape or a broomstick and Emma’s never met a witch who was interested in flying a broom anywhere. 

“Wanted to stay conspicuous, you understand,” Zelena says, “Draw too much attention to myself and—ah, well, that’s not what’s important now.” “What?” “Why you, Emma Swan. Obviously.” “This isn’t the beginning,” David mumbles, and both Emma and Regina shift before Zelena can so much as lift her chin. One of the windows on a different wall flies open, half a dozen pigeons descending on the living room and nipping at the ends of Zelena’s hair. They pull on the sides of her dress and peck at the green spots that are growing on her cheeks. 

Whistling, Mary Margaret jerks her head and the pigeons fly away, looking a little like an avian synchronized swimming team. “Leave him alone.”

“Shit,” Ruby says, “that was impressive and aggressive. Ignore the rhyme.”

Emma tilts her head. “Slant rhyme, right? Can’t rhyme matching sounds.” Someone makes a noise — it comes from the general direction of Killian and Will, but it can’t be Killian and Emma wants it to be him anyway. Zelena doesn’t look very impressed with any of them. That’s fair, it’s probably frustrating to have your monologue interrupted so often. 

“If you don’t mind,” she sneers, Emma waving her free hand like she’s capable of giving the bad guy permission to keep talking. “It had been quite some time since I’d been in this realm, and plenty of things had changed. More magic, a certain kind of power that hung in the air. Energy that could change the course of everything, strong enough that it could probably rewrite time itself if it wanted to. And I want it to.” “To what?” “Were you not listening? Rewrite time.”

Breathing out of her mouth is not attractive. It’s loud and makes Emma’s tongue feel larger than it actually is, especially when she has to keep using it to lick her lips. “That’s—that’s insane. You’re insane. You didn’t just want to get a normal job? I mean...you were at Mills. I saw you.” “Power of the Universe at my fingertips and you think I’d be satisfied with a normal job? No wonder you have no idea what you are. Which,” Zelena glances meaningfully at Killian, “means you, Emma Swan, are the reason I’m here.” “Speak English!” Zelena huffs. “I am. What I felt when I returned to this realm? It was you, my dear. Your power, your magic, your ability. And, yes, I could have given into the hum-drum existence of this place and the structure of Mills Personnel, but where exactly is the fun in that?”

Emma hopes she’s not expected to answer. She doesn’t have one. It’s entirely possible she’s going to snap several of Mary Margaret’s fingers in half. 

“Anyway,” Zelena continues, “locating that power wasn’t easy, but Regina Mills’ ability to make things happen is legendary. Finding a person’s niche, that’s her greatest talent. And so I did come to Mills, looking for a position that would help me get the rest of the requirements.”

Ruby keeps shaking her head. Emma can’t seem to move. Or breathe. Her eyes keep darting back towards Killian, trying to make sure he’s breathing or reacting in a way that doesn’t threaten to make her cry. Nothing. 

He’s plastered to a wall with magic, of course not. 

“You see, a time spell is one of the more complex out there. Need all sorts of things in addition to the kind of magic that can fuel it. Which is what I wanted when I got to Mills. Hoped I could get placed in a hospital or something of the sort.”

On the increasingly small scale of things that surprise Emma, that somehow makes the cut. “You need, like, an IV drip or something?” “A baby,” Zelena replies easily, and Belle whimpers against the gag. “Pure of spirit, you understand. Other things too. Courage, wisdom, maybe a heart if I could get lucky—” “—An actual heart?” Will balks. “Spend a lot of time in Wonderland, did ya?” “I mean, she could probably get the heart in the hospital too if she wasn’t picky about her choices,” Ruby reasons, and this whole thing is absurd. Maybe that’s the theme for Halloween as a whole, though. 

More of Zelena’s face is green. 

“I had hoped I’d get someone competent who could help me. Or even the source of the power. Naturally,” she jerks her head in Killian’s direction, “I ended up with this sot. Who suggested working at a clinic or agreeing to something called an orderly position. Well, I knew he wouldn’t help me, but I did get something out of it. I knew you were there, Emma. And—” Zelena’s eyes rove towards Belle, and the hands collapsed over the front of her stomach. Realization crashes over Emma in waves, the rocks disappearing only to be replaced with a bone-deep chill that douses any bit of light in her. “So I do have a few options for you all now.” “What are you trying to fix?” “Hmm?” “Fix,” Emma repeats, “or change, I guess. I mean—that’s not how life works.” Zelena hums in what can only be passing interest and something almost like an agreement. “Seems unnecessary to tell you my whole plan, but when it works it won’t make much of a difference. I want to get rid of the girl. That nasty little thing that fell in Oz and ruined everything. Robbed me of my chance to prove myself, claimed there had to be good witches and bad witches and you’re absolutely right, Ms. Swan. That’s not how life works. Nothing is quite so cut and dry as all that.”

Words hang off the tip of her disgustingly dry tongue. Want to be said and proclaimed, and for all the mistakes Emma has made — good and bad, right and wrong, trusting and the opposite, she’s happy to find she’s not particularly interested in changing them. 

Not if she ends up here. 

Well, maybe not here—with her boyfriend, they’ll get to that eventually, magically silenced and Belle doing her best to glare daggers at the half-green witch who commandeered her living room, and Ruby’s teeth are definitely getting longer. But maybe here-adjacent. With people who care about her, who followed her without question or thought and the guy who is still somehow staring at Emma like he’s got every intention of keeping her feet warm. 

Ad nauseum. 

“I’m not really interested in anything you need.”

Disappointment flashes across Zelena’s face, only to immediately morph into something much closer to fury. “Hero types, always so sanctimonious. That’s why I said several options. It’s one now, but—” Flicking her wrist, Killian slides down the wall in what Emma knows isn’t actually slow motion. Still, the amount of time it takes for his knees to crash to the ground seems to last forever and Zelena doesn’t try to stop Emma from rushing forward. 

Eventually, she’ll realize why. 

“Regina discovered what I was trying to do,” Zelena explains, “my fault. Kept coming back to Mills, demanding better placement and as much as it pains me to admit she’s smart...well, she sent me back to Oz.” “So how are you here?” Mary Margaret demands.

Emma doesn’t need that answer, either. Halloween is a bullshit, overrated holiday. Pulling Killian close to her, he’s far too limp and impossibly silent, and Emma barely spends a moment thinking about either of those things before she’s kissing anywhere she can reach, mumbling apologies and half-explanations into his skin and—

“Ah, I’d be careful if I were you,” Zelena says, a soft lilt to her voice that rattles down Emma’s spine. “See, your option is to give me your magic, Ms. Swan. If you won’t do it willingly, I’ll take it by force.” “I don’t—” 

Movement catches Emma’s attention, the soft flutter of fingers across her back and she has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. At first. All it takes is a few seconds, and that’s probably another sign. She hopes so. Tracing letters on her jacket, Killian’s eyes flutter shut like he’s exhausted and determined not to sleep and— “No,” Emma exhales, but Zelena’s smile looks victorious. It’s too late. They’re too late. And there’s nothing they can do to change that. 

Slumping against her, Killian’s eyes don’t open again. His breathing evens out, and Emma supposes that’s something of a very twisted victory because he isn’t dead, but he’s even more obviously sleeping and sleeping curses are notoriously hard to break.

“Especially when they so often require a kiss,” Zelena grins. “True Love, and all that. So let me ask, Ms. Swan. Do you think what you and the plebe have is True Love and, more importantly, will you be willing to sacrifice your magic for it? Because the only way he’s waking up is with a kiss and the next time you kiss him, you’ll lose your magic.”

To suggest that it kind of all goes to shit after that is something of an understatement. 

Light pours out of Emma, unsteady legs under her even as she juts her chin out. To her credit Zelena doesn’t back down. She stands there and she turns a bit more green, and magic is so goddamn weird. Emma’s also never been in a magic fight before. 

Spending so long hiding that part of her — certain it was going to be the reason everyone left, the opportunity never really presented itself. Fighting for the sanctity of time itself and Killian’s consciousness seems as good a reason as any to flip the script, so to speak. 

Heat races through Emma, wind swirling at her ankles as frames clatter to the ground. Shards of glass fly on the manufactured breeze, Mary Margaret darting towards Belle and David sprinting towards Will, and it’s something of a confidence boost when they’re both able to pull them away from the battle. 

Although Emma can’t really believe she thought the word battle, even in her head. 

“Not exactly the magical dominance you were bragging about, huh?” Emma quips, twirling a finger in the air. Bands of light circle Zelena’s calves, twist up her legs and turn her answering laugh into a gasp that also does dangerous things to Emma’s ego. 

“I never—” Zelena grunts, twisting against bonds that don’t even flicker. “—You were the powerful one, I thought I made that blatantly obvious.” “I mean,” David shrugs. 

Ruby nods. “She did kind of, Em. That’s true.” “Whose side are you on?” Emma snaps, but the retreat back to absurd is almost comforting in a familiar, banter-filled sort of way. 

“Please,” Regina sighs. Her hands are on fire. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, and I know you claimed you didn’t have to tell Killian the truth before.” “Yeah, well, cat’s pretty much out of the bag on that front, don’t you think?” “Flew out on pigeon’s wings, I think.”

Laughter has no place in a moment when Zelena’s entire face has turned green, and her own fireballs are threatening at her palms, but Emma can’t help herself and maybe the dumbest thing she’s ever done was suggest Killian shouldn’t have worked at Mills. Or that she couldn’t be head over heels in love with him. 

That helps, honestly. 

“You’re not getting my magic,” Emma announces, all too sure she sounds as ridiculous as she feels. Heroic soliloquies are also overrated, it seems. “And you’re not getting Killian or—God, were we actually talking about Dorothy that whole time?” Zelena snarls. That must be the response. 

“Well, you’re not getting her either. Sneaking back here on Halloween was dumb. Trying any of this was ridiculous and threatening Killian was the worst of all your ideas. Because—” Emma takes a step forward. Nothing shakes. If anything her knees almost lock out, the hair falling over her shoulders noticeably brighter than usual and Zelena recoils. Seriously, her confidence is through the roof. “Magical job placement might be boring, and it might have a shit ton of paperwork, but it’s also a chance to help people and that’s...that’s the point, isn’t it? Finding that sense of belonging? Giving a person a chance. Being able to—” “—Fall in love,” Mary Margaret cries, scrunching her nose when Regina and Ruby shush her. “I mean…that’s what it is, isn’t it? Love’s not a weapon. It makes Emma glow.” And that makes Emma curse. “Maybe we phrase it differently?”

“Maybe we worry about language once we actually defeat the witch, huh?” Regina challenges, and that seems like a legitimate plan. 

Balls of fire fly through the air. Ricochet off Emma’s lights, and every window flies open as Mary Margaret calls upon not only pigeons but what look like several sparrows and a few nightingales if the sounds they’re making is any indication. Leaves swirl around the room, partially from the actual wind and also from whatever Emma is apparently capable of. 

A lot more than she thought, honestly. 

Warmth rises in her spine, sets her shoulders in a straight and determined line and she gives Will an appreciative smile when he pulls Killian out of the fray. Only to immediately jump back in, ducking and twisting and there’s a lot more cardio involved than she thought, but then a flash of magic nearly singes her ear and Emma’s thankful for her own agility.

She moves. Refuses to back down, ignoring the growing ache in her muscles and the weird popping thing her hip is doing. And Zelena starts to cower. In an especially villain-type of way.

Backing into the nearest wall, she stumbles over her feet as light tightens around her. It pins her arms to her side, curls around her ankles and guarantees she can’t run away when Emma stalks forward. 

With a smile on her face. 

Oz authorities appear at eleven-eleven, which seems to suggest it is somehow still morning and Emma cannot rationalize that at all. 

They thank Emma for containing the fugitive, nod towards Regina and well—that’s that. Leaving the rest of them in a slightly singed apartment with pillows that somehow haven’t burst, and what feels like a distinct lack of oxygen. 

“So,” Will drawls, “what do we do now?” He doesn’t have to look at Killian. The still-sleeping form is the far-more-attractive-than-an-elephant elephant in the room, draped across a couch that David had to lift on his own. One of his feet is hanging over the side. “True Love’s Kiss isn’t a real thing,” Emma whispers, but the words taste like ash on her tongue and Regina makes a very obnoxious noise. 

“Dumb, dumb, dumb.” “Do you think I’ll lose my magic?” “Do you actually care?” Shaking her head, Emma doesn’t bother saying the words. Not when she knows they’re so obviously painted on her face and sudden realization is almost as annoying as not ending sentences. She knows what he was tracing on her back. 

Maybe she is the idiot, actually. 

And for a moment, Emma’s mind falters. Remembers that other moment, standing frozen as a different set of lights threatened to blind her and metal snapped around her wrists and she’d been so certain then. Never again. Nothing else would get through the defenses. No one else would know. No more mistakes. 

This isn’t a mistake. 

Careful to avoid the glass on the floor, Emma tiptoes forward and crouches next to Killian. She brushes her fingers over that scar on his cheek, the ends of lips that are somehow still tilted up into half a smirk and—

“God, just do it already,” Belle shouts. 

That’s that, again. 

Kissing at this angle isn’t particularly easy, and Emma’s knees aren’t particularly pleased with the amount of pressure she’s putting on them, but it does allow her to basically drape herself across Killian and that also makes it easier to get her hand under the hem of his shirt. And nothing else really happens. 

No sharp inhale. No tilt of his head. Absolutely no sign of his tongue, which Emma has come to find herself almost obsessed with in the last few months. She doesn’t care. Doesn’t allow herself to stop, not when there’s a flicker of hope and all that want simmering between her ribs, mixing with her magic and how ridiculously in love she is and it’s annoying that she’s the one who gasps. 

As soon as arms circle her waist. 

Emma can’t really tumble when she’s above him, but the edge of the couch digs into her thighs and Killian’s doing an admirable job of trying to get her parallel to the rest of his body. Her fingers find his hair when he arches up, his own hand roving the expanse of her back before his arm curls tightly around her like he’s trying to make sure she’s still there. Leaning into her palm against his chin, Killian’s lips drag across the back of Emma’s wrist, sparking another round of magic and even more glowing. “Oh shit,” Emma mumbles, not able to pull herself away from Killian. Because of his arm. And...other reasons. 

“Was that a response to me, or—” “—No, no, I just—well, there’s still magic. I’ve still got magic. And, uh, I’m a witch.” He laughs. Throws his head back and lets his body shake under her, which really isn’t helping Emma’s state of mind at all, but she’s admittedly preoccupied with the overall volume of the laugh and how wide his smile is. “Swan, Emma love, did you honestly think I didn’t know?”

She—

Has absolutely no idea what to do with that. 

Ruby might fall over. Regina’s eyes bug, Mary Margaret using David to stay upright, Belle covers her mouth with her hand, Will cackling loud enough for the both of them. 

“Did you,” Emma starts, but Belle and Will shake their heads and Killian’s tongue click is awfully put-upon for a guy who was just cursed. 

He taps on her jaw until she’s able to look at him. And his stupid blue eyes. “I could feel it, love. Also you have a tendency to...glow. Which I'm assuming is a compliment, for me. Or us. There's an us, right?" She nods. Can't do much else. "And you’re not very subtle. Extra cinnamon in the cabinets, moving the remote so I don’t have to look for it. Working at a job placement agency that helps the magically afflicted. Plus there was paperwork. Was Freddie really a gold statue at one point?” “Yeah, but they un-statue’ed him with water from Lake Nostos. Not True Love’s Kiss.” “So we won, then?” “Competitive weirdo.” “Absolutely,” Killian nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I figured you’d get around to it at some point and then you were talking today and—” “—We’re not such shitty friends that we’d demand Killian show up back here before nine,” Will reasons. “Plus, it’s been kind of nice to have a free couch.”

Killian gags. “Did I say congratulations yet?” “We were busy.” “Wait, wait,” Emma sputters, and she’s going to go into cardiac arrest. Or magic overload. “So this whole time. You knew.” “Well, not the whole time,” Killian objects. “Most of it though, yeah.” “But you’re still here.” “Where else did you expect me to go? Aside from your apartment now that we’ve defeated the wicked witch? I’m assuming we defeated the wicked witch.” Emma nods. “Well, then I’ll apologize for drawing you into that, too. She was half the reason I started to suspect anything, honestly. Told Regina about her and the last thing I expected when I got here was to see her, or to have her demand I get you here. I tried to avoid that.” More nodding. More aching muscles and poorly performing hearts, and Emma wouldn’t mind if Killian traced several other sentiments into a variety of different areas, but they’ve got an audience and a pregnant lady and they never did get coffee. So, it makes sense to ignore that for a second. Or several. 

“I love you,” she says instead. Shouts, really. “More than I realized I could and I—” Any other words get lost in the feel of Killian’s mouth on hers and the ability of his tongue to incite butterflies in her stomach, and she hardly hears him say I love you back. It doesn’t matter. She hears it on loop for the rest of the day, once they’re ushered unceremoniously out of Belle and Will’s apartment. Neither of them think much about getting coffee. 

And she’s just on the cusp of sleep, eyelashes fluttering and blankets halfway to stolen when Emma hears something else. Pressed into that one spot below her ear. 

“I’ve got no intention of leaving,” Killian whispers, “not because of the magic or the power that comes with it, only because I love you. A ridiculous amount, honestly.”

Sleep seems kind of pointless after that. 

He decides to leave Mills, eventually. 

“I don’t have magic,” Killian rationalizes, and Emma supposes that makes sense. “But I will need some help finding a job.”

Sliding a file with his name written in swirling script across her desk, he’s got the gall to smirk at her and Emma resists the urge to magic him into her chair. “Luckily I do have other skills, including a job offer—” “—If you’ve got a job offer, you don’t really need my help.” “Yeah, but you’re very pretty and I hear you’re real good at what you do.” “Which is?” “Moving in with me,” Killian says, which isn’t the last thing she expects but it still manages to catch her off guard. Lights erupt at the end of several strands of hair. “The reaction I was going for, absolutely.” “No, no, that’s—that’s dumb.” “Is it?” “I was going to ask you to move in with me. First.” “Competitive weirdo.” “I have an apartment,” Emma argues. “With laundry on site.” “Ah, yeah, that is a marker in the pro column. Plus, you’ll be there right?” “In my apartment? Yeah, probably,”

Pushing back on the chair he’d never really been sitting in, Killian leans across Emma’s desk. To kiss her. Hard. Magic flares in the air around them, causing bulbs to flicker and more than a few cries of get a room . “What I’m trying to do,” Killian mumbles. “If you’re asking me to move in, Swan, I’m going to accept.” “Make it sound less like a warning next time.”

He chuckles against her mouth, either ignoring the desk that must be pressing into his stomach or not bothered by it at all, and Emma tries not to throw herself at him too quickly when he brings a whole box of recently-bought blankets with him.

“So you don’t get cold, love.”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #on this night and in this light #MAGIC BATTLES #MORE KISSING #MAGIC BATTLES WHILE FLIRTING

[erbferbatinlerb]

sorry for the long post, i'm on mobile and cant put a read more but.... drumroll please.... due to popular demand here it is! Phineas Has ADHD: The Essay.

Hyperfixation on building/inventing things: Even more specifically amusement park rides ("Rollercoaster", "Rollercoaster The Musical", "One Good Scare", "Leave The Busting To Us", "Don't Even Blink", "Cheer Up Candace", "Delivery Of Destiny", etc.) Now, you can argue that he's a kid, and rides are fun, so of course he likes them, but if you look at it from a building standpoint, from an engineering standpoint? Phineas' interest lies in fun, of course, but he also must have an extreme interest in the engineering aspect of a ride in order to be skilled and knowledgeable enough to build them, and to be able to focus on the task so wholly.

He also gets incredibly attached to very specific things that some people often find strange, which seems like evidence of hyperfixation to me. (E.g.: aglets in "Tip of the Day", dental hygiene in "Bully Bust", Bulgarian folk dancing in "The Beak", detective movies in "Finding Mary McGuffin") hot tubs in "Bully Bromance Breakup", "Lotsa Latkes", "Swiss Family Phineas")

HYPERFOCUS: He and Ferb will dedicate their whole day to just one idea that they have. Phineas is able to weaponize his hyperfocusing talent incredibly well and stick to one task, but only if it is something he is extremely interested in — for example: In "Bully Bromance Breakup", he becomes almost unable to function without the stimulation of inventing, to the point where climbing a mountain with his friends—something he, by all accounts, should enjoy—becomes a difficult task for him.

He displays forgetfulness: In "Mom's Birthday", Phineas forgets it is his mom's birthday until he hears Candace mention it, and then he feels extremely guilty. We then see a montage of him, during various situations from the previous episodes (on the rollercoaster, etc.) telling Ferb: "We can't forget mom's birthday." Even though this was of course, a bit, if you take this as being canon (which there's no real reason not to), it means Phineas was constantly talking about their mom's birthday for weeks leading up to the event because he really didn't want to forget it and he was worried that he would (and in the end, he did), implying he may have a consistent tendency to be forgetful.

Phineas has an intense love of summer, and is implied to have a dislike for school—  which is natural for any kid his age, but it's not hard to imagine that he might feel cooped up and creatively stifled during school. Especially if we put his attitude towards school next to that of Baljeet, with whom he shares a love of learning and knowledge, it's hard to ignore the difference. Being as we've seen Phineas get agitated when he's not able to build and invent freely and on his own terms ("Bully Bromance Breakup", "Summer Belongs To You"), it's easy to imagine he may struggle in a public school environment.

He has impulsive and thrill-seeking tendencies, which are evident in many of the big ideas. ("Escape From Phineas Tower", "Rollercoaster", "Ain't No Kiddie Ride", "The Beak", "One Good Scare", "Phineas and Ferb-Busters", "Leave The Busting To Us", ETC.) Adrenaline-seeking behaviour is common in individuals with ADHD and goes hand-in-hand with a low tolerance for boredom which Phineas explicitly states himself to possess in the very first episode of the show. ("Rollercoaster")

However, on the flip side to his aversion to boredom, he can also spend literally hours just standing in the backyard, not even talking, if that's just what he feels like doing that day. ("Best Lazy Day Ever")

He is highly energetic and is the most talkative one of his friends. He has also suggested having an awareness and perhaps an insecurity that he talks too much in some situations. ("Misperceived Monotreme")

He sometimes has trouble with listening, and interrupts people, especially when he's excited: in "Ready For The Bettys", when they stumble upon Perry's lair, Phineas assumes Ferb built everything and doesn't listen, constantly interrupting when Ferb tries to protest; in "Hail Doofania", he assumes that he knows what Isabella is talking about (not having seen a rainbow before) and makes it his mission for the day to do what he thinks she means, and doesn't take the time to hear her out when she tries to explain otherwise because he's too invested in/excited about the project he has in mind.

Obliviousness / missing of social cues: The most obvious example is Isabella's crush on him, which he consistently fails to notice. ("Chronicles of Meap", "Meapless in Seattle", "That Sinking Feeling", "Happy New Year", "Summer Belongs To You", "Happy Birthday Isabella", "Doofapus", "It's No Picnic") He also seems not to understand that Candace wants to get them in trouble, nor that he actually probably would get in trouble if his mom knew what he and Ferb were doing. In fact, he gets excited about sharing their endeavors with Linda, clearly oblivious to the potential repercussions. ("Traffic Cam Caper", "What'd I Miss", "Suddenly Suzy")

Highlighted Episodic Evidence

Chronicles of Meap/Meapless in Seattle

Phineas's dismissal of Isabella's "cuteness" comments shows again his difficulty picking up on social cues, especially when distracted by a mission. He does not seem to understand, or at least does not acknowledge, Isabella's clear frustration with him. He does not understand that he is dismissing Isabella's feelings, because to him it feels obvious that she is cute and he doesn't think he needs to say it. Followed up in "Meapless in Seattle" with the "You think I'm cute?" "It's a scientific fact!" interaction—Phineas is not understanding that this isn't really how to give a compliment; he does not seem to realize that by not acknowledging Isabella's cuteness he could be hurting her feelings/nurturing her insecurities.

That Sinking Feeling

Once again, he misses cues from Isabella about her feelings for him, or if he understands them, he does not outwardly acknowledge them. He also tries to create romance for Mishti and Baljeet by taking "scientifically" romantic things, based upon his research (mostly the movie Titanic): candles, live music, the situation of a sinking ship... He over-does these things in a calculated way to try and curate the most scientifically romantic situation possible. This also mirrors Candace's opinion about his cold, calculated methods in "Perry Lays an Egg".

Cheer Up Candace

Phineas cares about Candace and when he sees her upset, he wants to help her, and he makes it his goal to do so. He hears the first step from Isabella's magazine is a makeover and he immediately thinks of a clown. He sets off to execute his plan without consulting anyone (except Ferb) and after it goes, as you can expect, not well, he realizes in hindsight that his impulsive idea was built on flawed logic. However, rather than dwell on this, he decides to dive right into the next step and he continues to do wildly over the top, fantastical versions of the magazine suggestions. I think this demonstrates a lack of understanding for social cues as well as impulsivity and impatience. Furthermore, he doesn't even wait to hear step two before setting out to achieve step one, and he doesn't ask Isabella her opinion or even listen to her suggestions once he has entered his own Idea Zone. Also, the Mix 'n' Mingle Machine is a great example of his unconventional and greatly efficiency-focused thought processes—  

he thinks of it as the most efficient way to meet as many people as possible in a short time, demonstrating a clear misunderstanding of what the actual intent of "meeting someone" was in the magazine. He is also basing this idea on his personal notions of what he finds fun, not what Candace would necessarily want.

Summer Belongs To You

When stranded on the island, Phineas shows an intense frustration when he's unable to put an optimistic spin on things. He also has a clear discomfort when he is without any tools to build with. Again, we see his hyperfocus on inventing (in this case: fixing the plane) get in the way of Isabella trying to have a romantic moment with him, and in the way of relaxing in general. She sees the sights of Paris, alone time with him, and chances to enjoy themselves, whereas Phineas sees things he could use as airplane parts, single-mindedly focused on his mission. And again he misses or does not acknowledge Isabella's frustration with him in the "It seemed like romance was a foregone conclusion" scene. This is strong evidence for Phineas' hyperfixation because he gets so caught up in his own world when it comes to inventing/building/working that he doesn't even notice what's going on around him, then he fails to see the irony of him identifying Candace&Jeremy and Ferb&Vanessa as romantic interests while entirely missing the fact that Isabella & him are also "a boy and a girl, alone in the city of love."

Also of note is his complete focus on completing the Summer Solstice goal. Because, despite the fact that they made it back to Danville safely after being in a pretty perilous situation—which should have become their main concern being as they were just stranded on an island with no food or way to call for help—he cannot be satisfied with that. Needing to get home before the sun sets for the sake of winning his bet and symbolically representing his worldview, he yells at candace when she doesn't want to get on the trike, because he's determined to still get there on time, intensely focused on both proving a point and upholding his personal values.

Happy Birthday Isabella

Isabella does not want an over-the-top surprise party, all she wants is to spend time alone with Phineas, but Phineas is so focused on his idea of her perfect birthday party that he does not seem to realize what her wishes are. He sends her away from him so that she won't know about the surprise, and does not even do so very gently (getting Buford to carry her away in a sack) instead of even asking her what she wants.

Bully Bromance Breakup

In this episode, Phineas is shown to get extremely distressed when he has to go even a short period of time without building/inventing anything. This is representative of a need for constant stimulation (which would explain why he is so adamant that he cannot put up with boredom). This also evidences his hyperfixation on building/inventing. The whole time that they're climbing the mountain with Baljeet, Phineas is completely preoccupied by his ideas for inventions, and after Baljeet rejects his ideas a few times, he gets increasingly agitated, eventually gets to a point where he is unable to climb anymore and has to get pulled up by the others, and he is shown rambling to himself about all of the invention ideas he has.

This is by no means a definitive list, and I'm sure there are many more moments in the show that provide evidence of these ideas, but this is the ones that stood out to me. Anyway, in conclusion, Phineas has ADHD. If you're still reading this incredibly long post by this point: uhh, thank you, I guess! Have a nice day. 💖

#phineas flynn #phineas and ferb #pnf #adhd #i dont think i need to regail you with proof for doof and candace also having adhd #but the evidence for phineas is more subtle and i wanted to like. write it down so uhh. i did #THIS IS A HEADCANON. I WANNA CLARIFY THAT #this is purely headcanon based upon my personal interpretation of the canon and any other hcs for phineas and any other character are valid #♡♡♡ #tagging this as #dannywrites #i guess jshsn #idk how the formatting of this is gonna turn out but. take this

[theforgottendaydreamer]

in defense of Allura

Disclaimer: I do not accept any kind of hatred under this post. I expect all readers to act politely toward those who don’t share their opinion, and I expect you to expose your own ideas respectfully. Toxicity is forbidden on my blog. I don't hate any character, and this is just an analysis. Anything that stimulates a mature debate is welcomed, as long as you do it politely. Thank you!

The time has come. Long enough I’ve dwelled upon the choices that the writers of VLD have made, especially in the last seasons: in this post, I’ll focus on the decisions concerning Princess Allura. 

We were introduced to Allura in the pilot of the show, and it only took a few minutes- should I say doboshes?- to understand her overall personality. The Princess stumbled out of the pod, disoriented and confused, and only an instant later- the time necessary to snap out of her groggy state- she defended herself against a possible threat, being Lance in this case: she physically overwhelmed him with only a few rapid moves, her grip on him steady. Everything about her body language and verbal language screamed “strength”, in the following scenes as well. As she remembered about her father’s death, and about her homeplanet Altea being destroyed, the initial shock faded rather rapidly, and in a few instant she recovered from it. This doesn’t mean that if she hadn’t done it she would have been weak, not at all; it means that Allura, being a leader, knew how to put her feelings aside for a better situation, in order to better focus on the mission at hand.

It’s immediately clear to us that she wasn’t minimally interested in Lance’s advances: she considered him as a teammate, and later as a dear friend, but nothing more than that was  shown in the first seasons. When Lance got badly injured, she didn’t seem too worried- though she immediately jumped into action to secure the perimeter. A couple of episodes later, when Lance exited from the healing pod, she spoke to the teen kindly, relieved that he was alright. Yet, this is not a sign of being in love: all of us would be happy if a friend of ours who was at risk was said to be finally out of the woods. 

Allura was very practical, focused on her mission: she wanted to save the universe at all cost. At the beginning, her continuous arguments with the paladins may have given the impression that she was annoying and too strict, but she was simply driven by passion and desire to prove to everyone, herself included, that she could do the right thing for the universe. Though she never made it explicit, it was obvious that Allura cared about the opinion that the others had about her (even when she simply insisted on thanking the Arusians) because she tried to overcome her own insecurities by making herself as useful as possible to the cause. Even when she “just” flew the Castleship, she always offered her support and ideas to improve training, strategies and team bonding. 

Throughout the seasons, we learnt that Allura had the tendency to blame herself, like when she thought that the Galra were tracking the team through her, for example. Allura also threw herself into battle if it meant saving the others, like when she pushed Shiro out of the way and ended up prisoner, or when she saved the Balmera and risked her own health, pushing herself too far to do the right thing and help the innocents that she couldn’t protect during the 10’000 years of absence. So, according to the evidence we had collected in the first seasons, Allura was selfless and caring, despite everything. 

And then, just when we thought we’d seen it all, Allura became the paladin of the Blue Lion of Voltron (I’ll talk about this event in Lance’s p.o.v. in a different post, don’t worry). She was uncertain at first, but ready to dive head-first into the battle, willing to learn and improve her skills. Being an Altean, she immediately connected with Blue, and everything seemed rather easy; though at the beginning her piloting skills weren’t the best, she learnt in the matter of a single episode, and if you don’t consider it quick learning, then I don’t know what it was. Added to that, Allura was also talented, “progressing a lot faster than any of [the other paladins]”, as Lance said some time later.

When Keith confessed his Galra lineage, her attitude towards him was childish, but it was how someone would have normally reacted in a similar situation. People often have a hard time accepting someone that is unwillingly part of a group whose members caused them any harm; it’s one of the principles of racism, and that’s a synonym of ignorance as well. Human minds work like that, because we all tend to associate trauma with a certain group of people, or day, or any other input: it’s despicable, and sadly most people think like that. Luckily for all the Allura stans (me included, though I stan all the main characters of this show) she overcame this issue quickly. What I like about it was that she didn’t brush it off, but she apologised to Keith in person, evidently mortified for her behaviour, and after that she moved past it, accepting her friend and overcoming their differences happily. Mature people apologise, while childish ones pretend that their mistakes didn’t happen: by making amends for her mistake, Allura showed us just how mature she is for a 18/22 year-old (we do not have an official age, so my guess is as good as yours). 

Things seemed to be going well for her: she learnt how to better manipulate quintessence, she gave Keith space when he needed to find Shiro after his mysterious disappearance, she learnt how to better pilot her Lion and so on and so forth. It was all going well, until Lotor’s arrival: then, it all started to go downhill.

Lance became inexplicably obsessed with her again, and at the same time, Lotor slowly  manipulated Allura. Now, I don’t personally like Lotor since he willingly commits genocide for his own purposes, but I will not dwell further on the topic for it’s not my main discourse now.

Lotor tricked the Princess into believing him, she played into his hands, blinded by love. Mind that when I wrote “love”, my left eyebrow rose impossibly high. In fact, Allura had never shown to be interested in love; surely enough, she was romantically (and sexually, apparently) interested in people as we have witnessed, so the possibility of a love interest wasn’t odd at all. It was just sudden. Too sudden, for my personal opinion. 

The problem I have with Lotura (Lotor x Allura, and I specify because I had to google the ship name) is that it’s based on nothing. The team was wholly against Lotor, except for Shiro who was not himself, quite literally. Allura never gave any impression of trusting people easily: not only when Keith said that he was half Galra, but also when Shiro begged her to trust Ulaz. She was hesitant and not happy about having someone she didn’t trust on board. Thus, her sudden burst of trust toward Lotor was odd, especially when it was quite obvious to most of the audience that the Galra prince was not telling the whole truth. I also wish that we got to see more interactions between Pidge and Allura and Hunk and Allura in s6 and beyond, since they rarely talked anymore despite being on the same team. Even Allura’s interactions with Coran were so diminished in number that they looked like complete strangers in the second half of the series, and it hurt. 

I mark this point as the start of Allura’s downfall: from iconic character to mere love interest, which is not wrong at all per se, but it is when any other trait and development is purposefully ignored and forgotten by the writers “for the sake of the story”.

Thankfully, Allura seemed to recover quickly after Lotor’s betrayal (the scene when she flips him like a coin? Priceless), declaring all of her hatred towards the cruelties he’d committed and how he let her down irreparably. One good thing that Lotor did- and I have to admit that it was good-  was that he made Allura discover new abilities and become stronger, powers-wise speaking. Yet, all of this was secondary to her being a love interest with no other apparent purpose. Why do I say this? Because as soon as she got rid of Lotor, she got together with Lance, and to be honest it’s not quite clear to me how or why. 

I can’t deny that when I watched s1, I was an Allurance shipper; I was sixteen, a hopeless goofball who believed in all the clichés. Now, however, I do realize that Lance’s advances were annoying and obnoxious (and he’s my absolute favourite character, so this shows you just how honest I’m being, hopefully), and that I’m so grateful that Allura didn’t give in. At least, she didn’t do it at the beginning. In the last season, however, she fell in love with Lance in a single episode: when he asked her out, she seemed hesitant and only accepted because Romelle pushed her to give it a try. The dinner sequence was where Allura understood that Lance wasn’t the womanizer she thought he was, but I don’t believe that in reality that would have changed anything. You don’t simply fall in love in one evening only because your date’s family tells you that this person isn’t what they seem; in fact, that would worry me even more, personally, because it would mean that my date is a total stranger.

Lance’s “I love you” was not completely uncalled for, but simply very confusing: he seemed to be over her, but he became jealous when Lotor showed up. I tried so hard to see this as a “protective brother/friend” dynamic, but that sentence leaves no space for speculation (again, I’ll talk about Lance another time). What shocked me was Allura reaction’s to Lance’s confession.

She’d never looked at him with any kind of romantic interest, and even if some scenes may be seen as such (when she resuscitates him. And proceeds to hide it from the team. Yeah, another huge disastrous plotline), it’s undeniable that the Princess had trust-issues, and for a good reason too. That one time that she went against her team’s choice and trusted Lotor a bit too much, she got used and heartbroken. So why was she suddenly so in love with a boy that she’d always treated as nothing more than a good friend? My answer is: bad writing.

If Allura had shown any romantic interest in Lance for at least three consecutive seasons out of eight- to create a deeper connection- I would have taken it without complaining much. If Lotor hadn’t committed genocide and didn’t proceed to use Allura, I would have accepted Lotura too (friendly reminder that I don’t do ship hate unless ships involve rape, pedophilia and incest. So I’m not hating on Allurance and Lotura, though Lotor is a villain and I don’t like him, but that’s just my opinion). If Allura was allowed to be both strong and romantically interested in anyone, I would have taken it. But especially in s8, the writers erased her personality, turning a bright and iconic character into dating material. It wasn't fair to her nor to Lance, honestly.

The last straw was her sacrifice: Allura died to save the universe and since it was her main goal, I’m okay with it, though it hurt as she’s my second favourite character. What I didn’t like about it was that the villains got a happier ending than she did. Lotor, who committed genocide, got to live happily ever after with his parents, a violent conqueror and an abusive hag who ripped the universe apart to be with her son (I get it, mothers love their kids, but this is far too extreme). And furthermore, Lotor didn’t even like his parents, but still for some reason he was happy to be with them again, maybe because at least he got to spend eternity with someone that loves him despite everything. 

Allura, however, died without saying goodbye to Coran, the man who stayed by her side for all their- but also ours- adventures, the one who believed in her the most and who did everything to protect her. She died without getting a last look at the universe she left behind, at the people who weren’t there in her final moments but that cared for her and vice versa (Shay, Romelle, even Krolia. Even the mice, Kalternecker and Cosmo, really). Each character had about a half a minute to say their goodbyes, except for Lance, whose goodbye was the longest but also the least impactful, in my opinion. The writers played too much with the dramatic idea of it and the result was sloppy- as much as I love dramatic scenes, this was purposeless. 

Allura’s last act of kindness- as if saving the whole universe and every existing reality wasn’t enough- was gifting Lance with the Marks of the Chosen. Though, I’m not sure how to interpret it. In a fic I recently wrote, I theorised that “Allura gave you [Lance] these marks because she knew that you had greatness within, and they can actively remind you of it in your darkest moments [...]”. Of course, I’m far from sure that this is the real reason. My question is, was there even a real reason, or did Allura give him the Marks for dramatic purposes? If so, I’m glad that it wasn’t confirmed officially, because at least we get to make our own theories that surely are more satisfying than “we wanted fans to cry more”. Still, I see those marks as scars, and I will talk about it thoroughly in Lance’s analysis. 

In conclusion, I don’t think that Allura was bad at all. I think that, in the end, she was simply badly written, which is entirely different.

s1-s5 Allura was a strong, compassionate, empowering, trustworthy, bright, lovable and fun character and for that, she deserved a better- much better- ending. She’ll always be in my heart, and I hope that future reboots will treat her right. 

I will always remember Allura dearly. As Coran said in the final episode, “Just around this table I see so many lives touched by her actions. For some of us, she was a diplomat, a teacher, a leader, and a friend. But to those of us around this table, she will always be family”. Raising an imaginary glass, I just want to say... “To Allura”.

#friendly reminder that when i say what type of ships i don't support it doesn't mean i hate the shippers. i just don't enjoy that ship. #not anti-lotor fyi #i love allura so much #my emotional support princess #she's baby uwu #but she can kick ass too òwò !! #allura #princess allura #vld #voltron #voltron legendary defender #analysis #vld analysis #lot*ra #all*rance #lance #lotor #pidge #coran #hunk #shiro #keith #kalternecker #cosmo #krolia #romelle #mice #alfor #altea #long post

[bitchesofostwick]

I feel like this is a lot to ask but do u have any tips for writing Cullen?

*rubs hands together* ohohoho DO i??? (the answer is yes. i do.) i’ve actually saved a lot of this in a draft to post but here is the opportunity to finish it!

full disclosure: i’m not entirely sure where this runs from canon to personal headcanon. i spend a lot of time in cullen’s headspace with my own fic, and i’m well aware that my interpretations of him are not always shared by others. 

Rule #1. Cullen is not an Alistair clone. More can be found in my post here. But the main sentiment? Yes, they are both awkward around potential love interests, and yes, they both grew up in the Chantry system. But that’s about where the similarities end.

Which leads me to clarify: Cullen is not actually awkward. Hear me out—we all know Cullen can be reduced to a stuttering mess when he’s around a potential love interest, but outside of that? NEVER. He may not be one for eloquence, but romance aside, he has zero trouble stating exactly what he means, and especially so when he’s angry.

He’s not one for wordplay or eloquence. He says what he means and means what he says, and in the very rare event that he is sarcastic, it’s so dry it could easily be missed, so when writing a Cullen joke, it should be so subtle that without context, one could miss the joke entirely.

He is competitive, and outside a romantic situation, he will stop at very little to win, whether it’s in chess or in a war council decision. He is unforgiving (possibly as much to himself as to people who’ve wronged him or what he stands for). He is decisive. Unless you’re writing him in a romantic situation, I wouldn’t envision him ever answering “I don’t know” to a question or a problem posed, but rather be either strongly affirmative or resistant to an idea.

In following up to his competitiveness, Cullen would die on a sinking ship. In a humorous sense, he continues to play Josephine in Wicked Grace until he’s left with literally nothing (when you’d presume he could’ve quit any other time before his losses became so...great). But in a less funny sense, he literally sticks around Kirkwall until the very end. He’s not one to easily admit he was wrong, and that’s one of his flaws. It takes a lot (many would argue too much) for him to see the error in his ways, and even when he does, he spends more time berating himself for his actions (or inactions) than he does trying to make things right.

Which leads into another point: Cullen has a tendency to live in the past. So much of what he does for the Inquisition is as a counteraction to what he’s done in Kirkwall, or even Ferelden. He canonically says that he can’t give less to the Inquisition than he gave to the templars, which is admirable in a sense, but also goes to show just how much his past runs deeply into everything he does. I’m a firm believer that it takes an outside influence (be it the Inquisitor, a romanced character, or friends) to get Cullen to start living for now and for the future instead of for the past.

But enough dark takes! A romanced Cullen is softspoken, kind, gentle, honest, and even doting (if you’ll pardon the headcanon). A complete turnaround from Cullen among enemies. He’s just so soft in general. You can just tell he’s never felt a love like this before (or dare I say never felt love at all?) because he’s just so in awe of everything when it comes to his LI. I think he’d be protective. Maybe overprotective, even. I think he has the potential to make foolish decisions in the name of someone he loves, although I understand that’s more of a personal headcanon of mine. I think he loves deeply and would wear his heart on his sleeve for the right person.

He also has friends. I generally believe this is unique to DAI-and-onward Cullen, but he has friends who he cares about and who care about him. This includes, even platonically, the Inquisitor, but also Cassandra and Varric, who were there before and perhaps at his worst and still support him. And he can make more friends. I think for much of his life he’s been too devoted to the Chantry and the Order but Inquisition affords him the opportunity to make friends, and I greatly value Cullen fics where he not only has a positive romance but also has positive friendships.

My last bit of advice for writing Cullen is simply to write him dynamically. With complexity. He is nether wholly evil nor a saint, and I’m steadfastly wary of anyone who portrays him on either side of that spectrum. He’s a deeply flawed character who wants to atone for his past and has the potential to be a better person, a good person. Whether you believe Bioware did this for him is up to you, but as fic writers and creators, this is something we can do for him ourselves, if we want to and if we approach it right.

#cullen rutherford #dragon age meta #dragon age inquisition #dragon age #dai #cullen #long post #sexysideoftheforce #answered

[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

M*A*S*H: The Characters Part 4: B.J. Hunnicutt, Sherman Potter, Charles Emmerson Winchester III and Conclusion

Of all of the cast shake-ups throughout M*A*S*H’s run, none were more impactful on Hawkeye Pierce than the departure of Trapper McIntyre.

The original ‘sidekick’ and best friend archetype, Trapper’s absence at the 4077th immediately took its toll on Hawkeye, who came back from R&R to find that his best friend had left without a note.  For both the audience and Hawkeye, however, there wasn’t much of a wait before his absence was filled with a newcomer: Captain B.J. Hunnicutt (Mike Farrell).

A surgeon hailing from San Francisco, California, B.J. was a newcomer, fresh out of med-school and completely unused to the horrors of front-line surgery.  Introduced at the start of the new season, (meeting Hawkeye in the middle of his frantic attempt to say goodbye to Trapper) it became instantly clear that he was no ‘replacement’, but instead almost an opposite, a foil to the previous character’s archetype and to Hawkeye himself.

Where Trapper was a womanizer, B.J. was a loving, devoted husband and family man, a Nice Guy who started the show out as a tad naive, gentle, and idealistic.  He was a prankster, sure, but he was more likely to take a stand and argue with Hawkeye than Trapper had been, possessing a temper that, once roused, could be dangerous (leading to at least one physical altercation with Hawkeye).  At the beginning, the ways of war are a sudden jolt to him, one that he doesn’t necessarily take well.  As with every character, as time goes on, B.J. began to change as a result of the war, growing a mustache in a distinct ‘anti military’ move, and becoming more jaded, slowly evolving into the cynic between himself and Hawkeye.

B.J. was a good man at heart, as concerned for his patients as Hawkeye, but without the level of external breakdown that Hawkeye tended to go into.  More of a Tranquil Fury type, B.J. managed to keep a reasonably cool head, (most of the time) and acted as a Morality Chain, a voice of reason where Trapper was an encourager.  He was a more mature character, a husband and father increasingly feeling the wear and tear of being forced miles away from his family without any way to see his daughter grow up.  He also possessed a nasty jealous streak, seen often when Hawkeye mentioned how much Trapper had meant to him.

Despite their differences, B.J. and Hawkeye became very close friends throughout the show’s run, constantly having each other’s backs and being each other’s coping mechanisms through the horrors of war.  As surely as the others, B.J. became part of the 4077th’s family, and as a result, his character required the same amount of closure that the characters that had been there from the beginning deserved.

At the end of the show, B.J., like the others, gets to go home, and we as an audience learn that B.J. really doesn’t like saying goodbye.

After dancing around it through an entire episode, B.J. leaves a final farewell message to Hawkeye, (and the audience) in a heartfelt display of affection to his best friend, the man who made Korea bearable for him.  In the end, in a fitting display of the entire basis of his character, B.J. does what Trapper never did: he left Hawkeye a note.

But he wasn’t the only newcomer to make an impression.

Following Henry Blake’s death, the 4077th was in desperate need of a commanding officer (someone to relieve Frank Burns from his tyrannical reign), and replacement came in the form of Sherman Tecumseh Potter.

In much the same vein as B.J. was the complete opposite of Trapper McIntyre, Colonel Potter was very much the Anti-Blake, in the best way possible.  A career army-man, Potter was both a dedicated surgeon and a dedicated army man, on his third war.  Hailing from Hannibal, Missouri, Potter was just the man to shape the 4077th into some semblance of order, following Henry’s bumbling chaos.

Although still a Reasonable Authority Figure with a sense of humor, Potter was no pushover, standing his ground against Hawkeye and B.J.’s schemes and Frank Burns’ wheedling.  A Father to His Men (and an actual grandfather – Potter was another family man, a direct contrast with Henry’s cheating), Potter settled in instantly, a Cool Old Guy with a love of westerns and horses who could be empathetic and caring for his unit in their moments of weakness, and also make sure that Klinger didn’t get away with this week’s Scheme.

Potter was probably one of the characters who developed the least as the show went on, most likely due to his already settled personality as an ‘Old Soldier’, but by no means did he leave Korea unchanged.  As the show went on, Potter had moments of hidden depths, notably in terms with hearing the news that the last of his old squadron had died.  Potter often grappled with his age, sometimes causing him to feel competitive with his surgical abilities, attempting to prove that he could keep up with the younger doctors.  Like the others, despite his age and experience, Potter was very human, afraid of making mistakes, and, after three wars, was thoroughly tired of the killing.

“They keep inventing new ways to kill each other. Why can’t they invent a way to end this stupid war?”

After the war ended, Potter, too, got to go home to his wife, Mildred, saying goodbye to his newfound family, and receiving a genuine salute from both B.J. and Hawkeye, becoming one of two characters Hawkeye ever saluted (the other being Radar).  In the end, Potter had his unit’s affection and respect, and left Korea with dignity.

“Well, boys – it would be hard to call what we’ve been through fun, but I’m sure glad we went through it together.”

Despite beginning the show as a potential ‘replacement’ for Henry Blake, he ended it, much as B.J. did for Trapper: as an entirely new character in his own right, who changed the dynamic of the unit in general, bringing a wholly unique style to his command, and the show in general.

But there was one other character who had yet to appear on the show: another ‘replacement’ character who quickly proved that he was no simple replacement.

Exit Frank Burns, replaced with Major Charles Emerson Winchester III (David Ogden Stiers).

Charles Winchester, originally from Boston and then stationed in Tokyo, was a thoracic surgeon and pediatrician, and very good at it.  Born into a wealthy family (Very Blue Blood) and schooled at Harvard, Charles was an asset to the 4077th once he was assigned there, (after trouncing a commanding officer at cards and boasting about it) despite multiple pleas to the unmoved Colonel Potter to be reassigned.  

“But, know this: You can cut me off from the civilized world, you can incarcerate me with two moronic cellmates, you can torture me with your thrice-daily swill, but you cannot break the spirit of a Winchester. My voice shall be heard from this wilderness, and I shall be delivered from this fetid and festering sewer.”

As with Potter and B.J. before him, Charles proved very quickly to not simply be ‘the new Frank Burns’, displaying instead a completely separate and different series of personality traits, not the least of which was competence.

While Frank’s less than stellar abilities as a surgeon were repeatedly the butt of many jokes (and a source of superiority for Hawkeye, Trapper, and B.J.), Charles was legitimately excellent as his job, his only difficulty being adjusting to the pace and style of ‘meatball’ surgery when not able to utilize the time and equipment available in high-end hospitals.  But there was more to Charles than simply being good at his job.

Charles joined the cast to fill in as an antagonistic character, a role vacated by Margaret several seasons ago, and a part left entirely empty thanks to the departure of Frank Burns.  However, while Burns tended to be ineffectual, more of a nuisance than a problem, a consistently ‘inferior’ character who was always obviously wrong, Charles typically had more weight and reason to his actions.  While consistently butting heads with Hawkeye and B.J., Charles’s snobbery and selfishness could be treated as a joke, yes, and his character overall as ‘worse’ than the other two Swamp inhabitants, but at the end of the day, Charles was simply more human than Frank, and thus, a lot harder to hate.

Despite multiple attempts to ‘Break the Haughty’, Charles remained steadfast and stubborn through his time in the war, a Gentleman Snarker who slowly revealed a Jerk with a Heart of Gold type of personality.  He had a great sense of Family Honor, and despite his Insufferable Genius tendencies, proved that he had Hidden Depths, (and a potential history of a Lonely Childhood and Parental Neglect) which occasionally showed to prove to the audience, and the rest of the 4077th, that Charles was no Frank Burns.  Indeed, despite never losing his position as a ‘foil’ to the 4077th cast, Charles remained a proud, but good man from the moment he arrived until the moment he left, another symptom of a show who had matured past the need for cartoonish sit-com villains.

Despite the fact that Hawkeye never succeeded in breaking the ‘Winchester spirit’, Charles did leave Korea a changed man.  Besides learning to operate in horrendous conditions, at a pace designed merely to keep people alive and not much else, Charles took one final blow in the M*A*S*H finale: “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen” that spoke to both his character, and the toll that war takes in general.

Throughout the show, it was made abundantly clear that Charles adored classical music, viewing it as a haven away from the war, allowing him to forget about it for a little while.  His love for music enabled him to connect with a group of Chinese prisoners of war, who know some Mozart.  Throughout the episode, Charles teaches them some more, bonding with them until a prisoner exchange sends them away.

Later, the POWs are killed en route to the exchange.  As they’re brought back to the 4077th, only one is still alive, and he dies before Charles even has a chance to operate.  This devastates him utterly, to the point where he destroys his own record of the song he’d been trying to teach them.

“For me, music has always been a refuge from this miserable experience… now it will always be a reminder.”

In the end, Charles gets to go home, and in a sign of how far he’s come, he leaves the 4077th on the last remaining vehicle, a garbage truck, with utmost dignity, remarking that it’s only fitting.  Charles leaves his 4077th family, and the audience, in a somewhat surprising turn of events, misses him, is sorry to see him go in a way that we were never sorry for the absence of Frank Burns.

There were other characters, sure: the paranoid Colonel Flagg, the kitchen and mess hall staffer Igor, Klinger’s mortal enemy, Zelmo Zale, Ascended Extra fan favorite nurse Lieutenant Kelleye, and sympathetic psychiatrist Sidney Freedman, or Margaret’s less than stellar husband, Donald Penobscott.  This was more evidence for the care and realistic development that the M*A*S*H world was given: a variety of people filling in alongside the main cast, making a comfortable family that over eleven years, viewers got to know very well.

In the history of television, very few casts have had the lasting impact on viewers the way the M*A*S*H cast did.  At the end of eleven years, the audience was owed that finale, a way to say goodbye in a fulfilling way to characters that had become very familiar, important, almost real to viewers who had been tuning in to see them grow and change for over a decade.

The cast of M*A*S*H each served a place in the stories, with unique characters with depth and personality that transcended the flat character types typical of sitcoms just a tad previously.  The audience knew these people.  They liked these people.  Every character feels real, genuine, and memorable, and their dynamics are nearly as memorable as the characters themselves.

Throughout the show, you watched these characters grow and change, finding new ways to approach situations, as viewers got familiar with the core traits of their individual personalities.  They work very well as characters, as people, both entertaining and compelling figures for the audience to want to spend time with every week.  They felt real, like people you could know in real life.

And it worked.

M*A*S*H’s characters are still loved to this day, for being both entertaining and stellar examples of what happens when television characters are written like real people, with flaws and growth and kindness in varying doses.

In the end, it is that humanity in each character that gives M*A*S*H it’s longevity, and what places these characters as some of the most iconic and beloved in American television history.

Thank you guys so much for reading!  Join us next time as we discuss M*A*S*H’s place in the times and the culture.  If you have anything you’d like to say, don’t forget to leave a comment!  I hope to see you all in the next article.

#M*A*S*H #TV #Television #TV-PG #70s #War #Comedy #Drama #Alan Alda #Loretta Swit #Jamie Farr #William Christopher #Wayne Rogers #McLean Stevenson #Larry Linville #Gary Burghoff #Mike Farrell #Harry Morgan #David Ogden Stiers #Larry Gelbart