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chocominnie · 3 years

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One Last Time 04 — Pjm. (M)

⇢ pairing: Jimin X Reader

⇢ Genre: Idol!Jimin, Exbf!Jimin, model!reader, sad au, fluff, tons of smut, angst

⇢ Synopsis: Your idol ex boyfriend Jimin cheated on you. You two have been broken up for a while now and the media has been keeping track of you and him. You’re trying to get over him, but the things that happen inbetween makes you re-think the entire breakup, and so does Jimin…

⇢ Song : xxxxx

⇢ Previous : 00 01 02 03

⇢ Word Count : 4.7k

⇢ Warnings: dominant jimin, makeout sessions, this is honestly a sad angsty au, cheating, pregnancy, unprotected and protected sex, a bunch of sex, no really a LOT of sexual themes too, I know I’m forgetting some but sorry in advance!

⇢ Copyright: please do NOT repost, translate, or modify my works in any way, shape or form, on any platform. If found doing so , it is considered as plagiarism and appropriate LEGAL action will be taken

⇢ Authors note: This is my mini series for the summer! Get your tissues, things to take your anger out on, and sit back and watch the drama unfold. Shall we begin?

Last night can’t get out of your mind. It’s not like you to do such a dumb thing. Kissing Jimin... you didn’t know what had gotten into you last night. The last thing you’d ever want to do is have someone go through the same thing you did with Jimin when he had cheated on you. Your mind raced all night thinking if that kiss, that one sole kiss, would make you the bad guy? Make this whole situation worse?

Wrong.

Both of you were vulnerable and just not the same. Of course you’re still tender to the subject of and about him, and forever will have have a soft spot for Jimin. You didn’t expect that to happen though.

‘‘ Yes.. Yes.. Okay.. I understand.”

You drone on for the millionth time today. Only 9 am and calls are making their way to you. You’ve been caught. Someone spotted you and Jimin last night walking to your apartment. Luckily the pictures were only garage scenes of you and him. Jimin’s head hanging low trailing a distance behind you while you hold your sore arm. Thankfully, by the looks of the new articles every damn hour, they think that you had hurt yourself and Jimin was supposedly there for you for comofort.

The fanpages are going to have a field day with that.

Your manager continues to lecture you about how this could start a scandal, how you should of been more careful, and finally that those words everyone has told you before. He wasn’t good to you, move on.

‘‘ Listen im just going to be with Ryan today and she’s bringing Jungkook. We are heading over to Ryan’s office to discuss things and what not.’‘ You sigh into the phone, wanting to hang up already.

Your manager on the other line is hesitant for you to go, but gives in once you say you’ll only be an hour in and out. That’s the only way you’ll get to go out today. Whenever small scandals like this brew up, the management company would make you stay low for the next three days.

You both say your goodbyes and then hang up. Finally. Somewhere in the room Clara lets out one of her tiny meows making you smile to yourself. The day planned ahead is way more exciting than you worrying to yourself

‘‘ Baby please. I have to go’‘

Isabel smirks lowly while shaking her head. Jimin watches her intensively as her hands roam all around his now bare chest, that was covered with a shirt two minutes ago.

‘‘ Jimin, you and I both know that we haven’t had much time to ourselves lately.’‘

Her dainty fingertips trace over his forming abs one by one staring him straight in the eyes. He bites his lip hard just before letting out a useless groan with his head thrown back in the chair. It’s true. With all the celebrity show appearances they’ve had, the quality time together has been cut short.

He ries to pry her hands away from his jeans but it’s no use. “ I have to leave, Jungook wants me at Ryan’s office in twenty minutes.”

Her face turns into a pout, lifting her hands from his jeans. ‘’ So he’s more important than your girlfriend?’’

‘‘ Well I mean he is my blood broth- Fuck!’’

It’ was quick enough to where he didn’t feel it coming. Before he knew it, his jeans were unbuttoned and her mouth glides across the imprint of his shaft hiding behind his boxers. “ We can stop and you can leave.. if you want..” She knows exactly what shes doing by making sure her voice is low and those round eyes meeting his.

His groans only become louder when she takes a long, slow lick from the base to the tip. There’s no way on hell he’ll miss this opportunity to get some head. Jimin’s craving for sex has been high lately and with no time to recieve pleasure, he damn sure wasn’t gonna let up this offer. “ Fuck that. Keep going my love.”

Grabbing a fistful of Isabel’s hair, he yanks his boxers down revealing his thick, hard member hat springs up to his belly button. Isabel smirks at him just before taking the whole thing down her throat making Jimin moan out louder in pleasure. The sound of sucking, wet noises fill the studio’s ambiance.

Jimin watches her intensely while letting out low groans and growls as her bobbing head becomes quicker. This isn’t what he wants truly. What he wants is you. You is who he wishes who’d be pleasuring him right now. The way you’d sometimes gag on him when his dick filled your mouth completely was something he’d always enjoyed seeing. The way your eyes water with him stuffed in your mouth but determined to go on was a major turn on for him. He wants you and only you. Right now in this moment Isabel doesn’t mean shit to him but you do.

He can’t help but to lean back in his chair and close his eyes waiting to chase his high, all with the thoughts of you and your guises past sexual encounters turning him on even more with the lost track of time in the back of his mind.

You on the other hand, wait with Jungkook and Ryan who are getting a bit anxious waiting for the boy’s arrival. You of course didn’t want him to come. It’ll only make things more complicated than it is right now. Essentially you were going to leave when Jungkook said he’d be inviting Jimin.. yet again.

Seeing as though when you were on your way to the office, you had glanced at the clouds and could see a big thunderstorm brewing. You’d rather not take your chances of being rained on while walking back to your apartment.

‘‘ Geez where is this guy? He’s always late ever since he’s been with Isa-”

A shove by Ryan shuts him right up before finishing his sentence. Ryan gives him a glare and a few utters of words to him before turning back to the giant window that gazes over the bright nightlife of Seoul.

One part of you wishes for Jimin not to actually show up but the other does. Just to see his face and reaction too you ever since yesterday. But just for the sake of it, you won’t bring it up. Play it off like it never happened.

‘‘ Was it really necessary for us to come at night? We couldn’t of just come during the day?’’ Jungkook says, walking over to her.

He snakes his arms around his waist placing gentle butterfly kisses around her neck. The reflection off the mirror shows her facial expression, a slight smile as they sway from side to side. A ping of happiness shoots through you at the sight of them. It reminds you of you and Jimin. That happiness quickly shuts down.

You smile to yourself, “Well i’m a model, Jungkook and his brother are idols, and you’re an upcoming fashion designer dating said Idol. ”

Jungkook clears his throat before placing his arm gently around Ryan, “ Yeah she’s MY girlfriend.’’ He says proudly. Ryan shakes her head while playfully rolling her eyes.

You giggle along with her. It’s only been a short while since he’s asked her and he seems so happy and proud with her. Something you wish that Jimin wouldn’t have ruined for you two.

‘‘ Nobody knows we are dating and If paparazzi catches you coming to my office it’s going to stir up something rather it be little or not.’‘ Ryan sighs, sitting down next to you on the white couch.

Jungkook pauses to be silent for a second but continues on, “ That would happen regardless because paparazzi comes out at any time of day. We just so happen not to get caught.’’

Your frail hands begin to play with the sleeve of your shirt at the wrists. Something you do when anxious but trying to keep calm. You’re starting to get annoyed with this couple talk. You’re happy for them but rubbing it in is starting to hurt a bit. Where is he at?

‘‘ You know what im tired of waiting. If he comes he comes. If he doesn’t oh well we already knew he’s an asshole because of that girl now.” Ryan scoffs.

She folds her arms as she leans onto Jungkook who’s now sitting on the arm of the couch. He chuckles at her pouting and sudden anger just before giving her a kiss on the forehead.

You take in the sight of them. Two love birds that mean the world to each other. You wouldn’t dare want nor try to break them up. You knew Jungkook has been waiting for that moment to ask her. When he did on that day Ryan couldn’t of been even more happier.

And if as on cue, that familiar face comes in quietly with two large brown bags in his hands. You choose not to make eye contact with him when he stops infront of the couch, glancing at you.

‘‘ Im sorry im late. I bought food for us..” He pleads for forgiveness. If it was up to you then you wouldn’t have forgiven him. Hell, you still don’t want to forgive him for that act last night. Yet you can’t be a hypocrite because you’re just as guilty.

Jungkook takes the bags from him due to the way to familiar scent coming from them. Jajangmyeon. His favorite noodles of all time. A quick way to earn his forgiveness of anything.

‘‘ You are forgiven don’t let it happen again,” He says, smiling ear to ear as he pulls out his serving of noodles.

Ryan hands you a pair of chopsticks and your serving of noodles. You thank her and look down at the bowl. If you did eat it that means you forgave him, if you didn’t that means you wont. Your mind doesn’t know which one to pick.

While everyone sits there talking amongst themselves you sit there with chopsticks in hand zoned out. You seen the hickies when he had came in. When he had tilted his head announcing his arrival, thats when you saw it peeking from under his scarf. that The dark bruises peaked up and back into hiding whenever he moved.

‘‘ You don’t like the noodles?” Jungkook says, taking a big bite of noodles then slurping them up.

Ryan gives you one of your guises code looks but you give one back to say you are fine. ‘’ Im sorry I was just zoned out.’’

You don’t engage on any of the conversation instead you sit there eating your noodles quietly until they’re gone. That is until the real reason why you are here is brought up.

‘‘ We are here because me and Jungkook have thought about you guys.” Ryan glances at the boy who’s now wiping his face free of sauce.

Great. When are people going to stop doing that though?

‘‘ Ryan come on now, I honestly don’t care. He’s happy with her and I am with myself. Im serious. Please stop thinking about things like this. Im happy can’t you see that! ‘‘ By this point you know you’re all worked up.

It isn’t the truth, but you just want everyone to stop worrying so you could move on. Bringing the whole situation up all the time is draining for you and you’d rather not be reminded of Jimin and what he does and how he’s doing.

Jimin keeps quite with a stare that’s intense on you. You stare right back at him with an emotionless expression. The both of your eyes never leave each-other but you knew it had hurt him. Saying that you’re fine but he knows you’re bothered a lot.

Jungkook sighs heavily, “Baby-Cheeks don’t get all upset now. We are just worried solely on you. Even Jimin is and we all came to an agreement to have this civil conversation right here and now because all of it needs to be addressed.”

You cock your head slightly to the side not leaving Jimin’s eyes. You knew for a fact that this entire conversation is his doing just by Jungkook saying that last sentence.

“ I told you to stop worrying about me. I really meant it. I’m fine. I am F I N E .’’ You spell out the words, then shake your head clearly pissed off.

‘‘ But you aren’t. You constantly lose focus and don’t talk as much. Im worried for you so much that it pains me to even see you like this.” Jimin bites his lips to prevent from breaking down. You know that expression all to well.

That still doesn’t mean he should be worrying about you. You two are no longer together and no matter how many times you scream it to the top of your lungs each time, nobody listens to you.

‘‘ I am fine. I promise you guys. I’ve just had a comeback and they set me on a strict diet for the next few months and I go to the gym more than I used to because that’s what us models do. Since I have been absent for a year now my break time is over. The reason I zone out is because I have a busy schedule and sleep is whenever I can get it so that makes me tired often. I am fine.”

Your explanation is partially true and you do feel bad for lying on some of the parts but knowing them they will keep doing whatever to make things right. It’s time for you and them to stop worrying about Jimin and your relationship with each other.

The group doesn’t say anything after that. You tried to keep the best serious tone you had to explain that to them. Luckily they fell through and believed it. All except Jimin.

‘‘ Now can we move on? Is everything okay now?” You ask, looking at both Ryan and Jungkook. They both shake their head slowly still unsure of what to think.

‘‘ Well since that is over with, lets all take our leave yeah?” Ryan sighs, collecting everybody’s trash from the food. You nod your head and begin to help her while the boys go somewhere in the room to talk privately together.

You don’t care enough to want to know about what they’re saying. As long as they don’t bring anything of worriedness about you again then it’s okay. Soon after the room is all cleaned up you grab your coat and scarf. Jungkook grabs Ryan’s and helps her into hers, zipping it all the way up.

‘‘ My baby can’t catch a cold.” He giggles before placing a kiss on her forehead. Ryan turns a deep red in her cheeks as he continues to dress her properly for the snow outside.

‘‘ Can we talk privately again?’‘ A quite voice says behind you. You knew it all to well. But you don’t turn around at all while slipping your coat on.

‘‘ I’ve thought I made myself clear. I don’t need to say it again. Please just accept it.” The maroon colored scarf is gently placed around you from behind.

You grab his hands to stop him but he’s quick enough to come in-front of you and begin to wrap it for you. “ You lied. You can fool them but not me.’’

You break his hands away from the scarf, making sure to glare at him before you storm out of the office. All of the pressure and just concern in general is getting to you. It’s not like you to get worked up to this point. You hate making scenes and you knew that when you left like that it’s going to spark more curiousness.

The heel of your black suede thigh high boots click down the hallway fast as tears feel the brim of your eyes. Why wont they just leave it be?

After taking the long way out and going down three flights of stairs from the emergency exit, you make it down to the lobby and out the rotating doors.

When you do you almost choke out a whimper at the sight at Jimin greeting Isabel with a hug in which she pulls him down to a deep passionate kiss while waiting in-front of his car.

He was just upstairs dressing you properly, but kissing on her a few minutes later. Typical Jimin.

You bite your lip hard enough for the taste of blood to fill your mouth to prevent from crying right then and there. You can’t show her any sign of weakness. This is what she wants you to do. Cry and breakdown in-front of her to gain victory. She can’t have it. She wont have it.

You slip your hands into the coat pockets and begin your journey down the street. Catching a taxi would be no use. The cold harsh wind mixing with the hard drops of rain feel euphoric but numb to you.

‘‘ What are you doing? You’ll catch a cold for walking in this type of weather!” A voice yells far from behind you.

You don’t bother to look back at him. You up your pace just by a little to get that voice far away from you as possible. He kissed you last night, but kissed her right infront of you. The lump in your throat is sore and your heart hurts with each step you take. Is this how the game goes? It hurts. It hurts a lot.

The wind blows harsh and the rain blows on your face making your makeup wet but not smeared. The mascara running down your face doesn’t matter from your wet tears.

The stop lights turn yellow, red, and then green a couple of times. You count the number of changes before walking past it. Three times total.

Yellow

Red

Green

then back again.

The thunder roars causing you to jump a bit, but you’re numb to any noise around you anyways. You sniffle repeatedly to stop your nose from running but why not just let it run? Why not just let everything go. Let yourself go. Yeah that sounds about right. Let yourself g-

The blackness of your vision is sudden. No chance to react when the sound disappears from it. To the ground your body goes, laying there in a puddle of water. Your eyes blink slowly when you wince in pain upon bringing your hand up to your head. Vision goes in and out, in and out. You can’t hear the disorted person above you screaming and shaking you just before blacking out again.

The look of horror on his face and adrenaline runs through his body as soon as your eyes close. He thinks it’s his fault. His fault for wanting to keep talking to you. His fault for kissing you last night. His fault for stressing you out to your limits for you to walk home instead of asking him for a ride.

Running his hand through his hair, he slowly picks up your limp body. He saw that fall, and that fall was hard. You slipped on a decent sized amount of a dirt and mud mixture from not paying attention. Tears roll down his eyes when he places you in the passenger seat to buckle your seatbelt where your chest rises up and down. A sign of life.

The ride to your house is hell for him. Constantly hitting the steering wheel out of anger from himself and crying loudly wishing for you to be fine and okay. The hospital wasn’t an option right now. If paparazzi saw him taking you in unconcious right after the small scandal, he’d be sure that he’d be on the news for the next two weeks for supposedly abusing you, which isn’t the case.

It doesn’t take him long to arrive, considering he was tokyo drifting through the streets of Seoul. Laying your body on your bed, he sees the bottom of your outfit is dirty with mud. At first he hesitates but keeping muddy clothes on you wouldn’t be right of him.

After picking out some sweatpants, he moves on to your hoodie collection and spots one in the back of the drawer folded into a ball. Jimin lets out a small laugh when he realizes its one of his. It must of ended up here in transit when packing from the old apartment.

Nevertheless, he decides it’s that one you’ll be wearing and not anyone of the others. When it comes time to undress you, he looks away when taking off your clothes and putting the new clothes on. He tucks you in when done, planting a small kiss on your forehead just before going to get an icepack for you to place it on your head.

The sound of cartoons playing in a distance wakes you up. Your eyes stir open until full view. The throbbing of your head makes you wince a little. You’re just as more confused as to when you made it into your apartment let alone your room.

‘‘ You’re awake?’‘

He places the icepack on the back of your head but when he goes to grab your hand to make you secure it, your heart skips a beat when his soft hand touches yours. It’s been a while since you last had his warm touch against yours.

The thoughts in your head stops when he lets go of your now cold hand. ‘‘ Why are you here?” You say, finally looking at him.

‘‘ You fell. You fell on a puddle of mud while crossing over to the next sidewalk.” He sighs, eyes staring at you with anger yet relief. Instead of fighting back for the sake of your throbbing head, you just look down.

Thats when you notice the new set of clothes on your body. You certainly weren’t wearing this hoodie before. In fact you knew for a fact that this particular hoodie was balled up in the back of your dresser drawer. It’s his.

“ You undressed me?” You yell, furrowing your eyebrows at him. You pull the cover closer up to your body out of embarassment but Jimin doesn’t care. He’s more worried about the fall than the undressing.

“ Do you fucking know how got damn worried I was?” Jimin walks over to you with his arms crossed and jaw clenching. You want to hide right about now. “You’re more worried about if I was a pervert or not but news flash, I didn’t even look at you while undressing you. I’m not the asshole you think I am.”

Silence is golden.

‘‘ We all shouldn’t have been out there with a storm coming, but we came to the office for your sake. You keep putting yourself at risk, just stop!‘‘ He semi-yells at you.

You know he’s correct but that doesn’t stop you from forming the lecture into an arguement.

‘‘ Risk? I don’t take risks unless necessary. I was just minding my business and walking home. I guess I wasn’t mindful for that the weather wasn’t suitable for walking. Thank you for tending to me.’’

The boy scoffs with a sarcastic smile on his face backing away from your bed. You close your eyes knowing you shouldn’t of said that. ‘‘ Wasn’t mindful? Really? Why can’t you just listen to me whenever I need you to?”

‘‘ You were with Isabel. I don’t have anything to do with your guys relationship at all. I didn’t want to seem like a threat to her. ‘‘

Jimin sighs and rubs his temples, ‘’ You know you’re hard headed right? Do you think I give a flying fuck if she was there or not? You health and you yourself are important to me. ‘’

Here we go again.

‘‘ I said don’t worr-’‘

Jimin raises up quickly with anger and sadness written all over his face, ‘’ I don’t care what you say. Fucking listen to me when I say so! I’m going to worry about you until the day I die and cannot breathe anymore! Accept it okay?’’ He semi- yells, chest heaving up and down fast.

You keep your eyes away from his. You knew it would happen. You knew he would blow up somehow today.

‘‘ Im not going to accept it. Want to know why? I’m not your girlfriend anymore. I have to accept the fact that you no longer are in a relationship with me Jimin. You need to too.’‘

Jimin sighs, pacing back in forth across the wooden floor while running his fingers through his hair repeatedly, “ I was hoping it wouldn’t have to be like this. I’m not letting it happen anymore. From now on I will be checking on you everyday. Understand?’’

‘‘ No I don-”

‘‘ Understand?’‘ He growls, head whipping towards your direction.

There it goes. Pissed off Jimin. The side of his dominance that he dares anyone to overpower.

‘‘ Jimin you cannot come he-”

He shoots you a glare wanting his question answered now. You bite your lip making sure to shut the fuck up at this point. Anything you say after you know would do damage. ‘‘ Do you. Fucking. Understand?’‘

You nod your head. When he becomes like this there isn’t any way to stop him or change his mind.

‘‘ Good. Im not leaving for the night.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “Woah Jimin. Okay that’s too far. That’s considered cheating on Isabel.”

‘‘ It’s not. Not if im not with her anymore.’‘

Your heart jumps at those words. Not with her anymore?

‘‘ You honestly didn’t have to break up with her for me.”

You know you’d honestly feel very bad, but not as bad because she honestly deserves it for being a homewrecker. Then again, what does that make you?

‘‘ We technically are on a break. Im planning to break up with her in a couple of days.” He says, turning the blaring hot heater that was turned on prior to you waking up, onto it’s low settings.

You decide that’s enough of questions and to just enjoy his company there while it lasts. Putting the cover back down, you pick up your phone from the nightstand. A few texts from your manager, a missed call from Ryan. By the looks of it they both don’t know what happened and that somehow relieves you.

Looking back up at him, you notice him turned around about to take off his shirt. His back muscles are evident and flex whenever he moves. You miss those. The way they’d feel under your hands and nails when he used to be ontop of you giving you the best nights of your life.

You hadn’t known he had turned around because you’re too deep in thought recalling those nights. “ Im assuming you like what you see?”

So you’ve been caught. “ No. Put your shirt back on.” Its a lie but you can’t admit to daydreaming about him.

‘‘ Hush im just changing into new clothes.’‘

You watch him go to your bottom left dresser and it all clicks to you. Back when you both shared an apartment Jimin kept extra clothing for emergencies always in the left bottom drawer.

You don’t know why, but you felt that it was tradition to put his extra clothing inside the bottom left drawer when you moved into here. Jimin had left the box of emergency clothing, on accident, with you as the both of you moved out.

When things had arrived here and you started unpacking you had seen what was inside the box. Instead of calling him to retrieve it, you just placed them in the bottom left drawer of your dresser in case something had ever happened where he was in need.

And that scenario just so happened to play out today.

You close your eyes as he casually slips his pants off in front of you. You want to peak but choose not to. ‘‘ Why are you covering your eyes? You’ve seen all of me before.”

And you want to see it all again.

‘‘ Yeah whatever. Im sleepy.’‘

You rub your eyes and let out a quite yawn. You can feel his eyes staring into you so you turn to face him while getting comfortable under the covers.

Jimin turns out the lights first and then the t.v. Pitch black just how you like it.

‘‘ I forgot how cute you can be.’‘ He shakes his head, pulling you closer to him to where you’re laying on his chest with his arms wrapped around you.

His heartbeat is relaxing to you. So relaxing that soon enough, the both of you are fast asleep tangled in each-others love.

Once again, you fell for his sweet-talking and little white lies. All because you want another chance, one last time.

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spine-buster · 3 years

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The President Wears Prada (William Nylander) | Chapter 32

A/N: Another ‘friend’ of ours makes an appearance in this chapter (unfortunately for me lmao)

August 2nd, 2020

Aberdeen Bloom was as prepared as she could be for Game 1 against the Columbus Blue Jackets.

Scotiabank Arena was freezing – more freezing than normal – because of the three-games-a-day and all the hockey being played. She knew the players and team personnel would complain if the ice was crap (apparently they could tell, though it beat the shit out of her how they could tell), and of course Scotiabank Arena, and the Leafs in general, wanted to make an excellent impression. They were the centre of the hockey world, so Aberdeen knew they could pull it off. It just didn’t help that it was August and it felt like early November indoors.

She joined Brendan and Kyle in their usual box – luckily they didn’t have to give that up. The team was taking their pre-game skate below and Aberdeen watched as William shot pucks towards Freddie in the net, sneaking one past him before skating around their perimeter of the rink a few times. On the other side of the ice, the Columbus Blue Jackets were doing the exact same thing, though she barely knew or recognized a soul on the team. One of them could walk by her in the arena and she wouldn’t know better.

“How do you think it’s gonna go?” Brendan asked from six feet away from her, his black mask covering his face.

Aberdeen shrugged her shoulders. “You should stop asking me these questions, Brendan. I know nothing about hockey.”

“That may be,” he said, not letting up, “but you know the boys, on a level far superior than your knowledge of hockey. So what do you say?”

Aberdeen thought about it. She knew them on a personal level, but that didn’t matter at all – at least she didn’t think it mattered – when it came to a playoff game. She knew how much pressure the guys were under. She also knew that they were still adjusting to the bubble life and how weird everything was. Make no mistake – they were being taken care of exceptionally well by the staff at the Royal York Hotel, and Aberdeen made sure she said a loud thank you to every worker she came across and interacted with. She heard every single one of the guys do the exact same thing. But she didn’t know how that would translate into a hockey game. They were two different things. They were to different entities that she had no idea how to join together.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, her voice soft. “When you ask me these questions, I feel like you want me to be Nostradamus or something. What if I said they were going to lose 2-0?”

“I’d believe you,” Brendan shrugged.

***

The Leafs lost 2-0.

“C’mon Nostradamus,” Brendan said as he packed up his clipboard and tucked it under his arm. “The social media posts can wait. You need to go mediate the post-game interviews and press calls.”

Aberdeen packed up her iPad after she rolled her eyes. She shouldn’t have said anything. She should have responded ‘They’re going to win 5-0!’ the first time he ever asked her that question and kept that answer throughout the entire season. She followed six feet behind Kyle, who was in turn six feet behind Brendan, as they made their way to the locker room. By the time they got there, Sheldon was nearing the end of his post-game speech. Most of the guys were half undressed – at least at the top – and a few of them were shoving off their elbow pads and chucking their tape from their socks into the bins. They all looked irritated.

She made her way into the media room and set up the Zoom call where a bunch of reporters joined. Morgan and Auston walked into the room, and she quickly typed in the chat which players were there so they could organize their questions accordingly. Morgan and Auston sat down in their chairs.

“Is Steve on the call?” Auston asked suddenly while Aberdeen was adjusting the camera.

“Uh, yeah. Why?” she asked.

Auston pursed his lips together and shrugged it off.

The interviews were going fine. She hated hearing the sound of her own voice on recordings but she knew she’d have to suck it up for the sake of the media call. She called on each reporter by name. The boys answered their questions. It was all very routine.

“Steve Simmons from the Toronto Sun,” Aberdeen called out. She waited, and while waiting, she saw Morgan’s and Auston’s demeanour completely change.

“Uhhh, Steve Simmons, Toronto Sun for Auston – it’s one thing to hear about how tight they play, and to even watch the films of how tight they play. What was it like to experience it?”

Auston took the lead. “Uh, well I mean first of all, it’s unfortunate that I’mn getting a question from you at this point, Steve, but I just wanted to say I didn’t really appreciate the article you wrote about me a couple months ago. I thought, uh, it was very unethical to be honest, but…uh, moving along…”

Aberdeen didn’t hear the rest of his answer. Truthfully, she didn’t care. All she could feel was a burning sensation shooting up her spine at Auston’s words. He did it. He called out Steve Simmons, the most annoying reporter known to mankind.

She smirked.

***

After the media interviews, Aberdeen found a quiet space and took out her iPad again to post the final score graphic to the team’s Instagram page. As she finished typing the caption – ‘Battled hard. Back at it on Tuesday.’ – she heard some fairly loud footsteps behind her before they stopped. “A girl?” a voice from behind her said.

She didn’t recognize it – and it wasn’t like anybody from the team would refer to her as “a girl” – so she furrowed her brows and turned around. She saw what had to be a member of the Columbus Blue Jackets staring at her. She couldn’t see it, but she automatically knew from the way he was standing and the energy he gave off that he was smirking smugly underneath his mask. “Yeah, we exist,” she shot him a look, not ready to take any bullshit from him or anybody else. The way these men thought she was a complete novelty astounded her. “Have you never seen one of us before?”

“So Barzy was right,” the man continued. “The Leafs have a girl in their bubble. Incredible.”

Aberdeen could tell by the way he said and emphasized girl that this conversation – if you could call it that – was gonna be a doozy. The guy was huge but didn’t look any older than she was, so she knew she would be able to put him in his place. “What are you even doing in this hallway? You’re not supposed to be on this side,” she said sternly. “I suggest you leave and go back to your area of the arena unless you want me to complain to the NHL that your breaching protocol.”

From the very end of the hallway, another figure walked by, stopping at the gap when he apparently found who he was looking for. Aberdeen could at least recognize him – John Tortorella, the head coach of the Columbus Blue Jackets. “Pierre, what the fuck are you doing there? Come on, we gotta go.”

The man, named Pierre, gave Aberdeen a smoldering look. She rolled her eyes. “Must have taken a wrong turn,” he said, loud enough so John would hear.

Dead set on not taking any bullshit, and just really, really wanting to put this guy in his place, Aberdeen didn’t let up. “Perhaps you should remind Pierre of how to speak to the staff of another NHL team,” she said sternly. Both men were too far away to notice how red she was getting, but she could see Pierre whip his head to look at her and his eyes go wide in shock. “And perhaps he should read another copy of the social distancing and bubble protocols tonight in his bedroom so he doesn’t make this unfortunate decision again,” she said, deliberately using ‘decision’ instead of ‘mistake’, because she fucking knew this was no mistake. She wondered what other rumours were swirling in the Royal York about a girl being in the Leafs bubble.

Pierre scurried to the end of the hallway. From her spot, she could hear John chuckle. “You must be the Aberdeen Bloom I’ve only ever heard good things about,” he said. “Keep it up. I might ask you to take my place to keep the boys in line.”

She couldn’t help but smile. Pierre took one last look between his coach and ‘the girl’. “I could take ‘em,” Aberdeen commented, getting a nod from John before he and Pierre disappeared.

She let out a breath.

***

After the team got back to the hotel, picked up their pre-packaged dinner, and settled into their rooms, Aberdeen showered and changed. She sat at the desk where she put the meal and took out her phone. She sent some quick texts to her parents, Siena, and Camden before bringing up William’s name.

U up?

lmao minskatt isnt that what i should be saying to u *wink emoji*

Do you want to eat dinner together?

of course

I’m ready whenever you are babe

She waited for him to start the call. Not even two minutes later, her phone began to ring and “Head Empty” flashed across the screen. She accepted the FaceTime call almost immediately. When it connected and he appeared on her screen, walking in his hotel room with his bathrobe on and his hair wet and tied back, she smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi minskatt,” he said, his voice low. She watched as he put a pair of headphones on. “That’s better.”

Hers were already in. “I’m sorry about the game tonight,” she said, perching her phone on a high point on the desk. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not really. At least, not right now,” he said, putting his phone down too. “Maybe later. Like, after we have dinner.”

“Promise me we will.”

“I promise,” he said, looking into the phone. He knew she would want him to talk about it, and he made her a promise all those months ago. He would never break it. “Right now I just want to have dinner over FaceTime with my girlfriend even though we’re less than fifty feet away from each other.”

Aberdeen chuckled, if only because she agreed wholeheartedly that this whole thing was ridiculous. The tone of William’s voice made her know that he thought it completely ridiculous too. “It’s hard. I know. At least we get free food,” she held up a forkful of the marinated chicken breast. “And good food. It’s not like it’s airplane food.”

William smiled slightly. “First thing I do when we get out of here is bring you to Canoe or Ardo or Miku and splurge on every meal they have on the menu,” he said.

“Sounds good to me. Maybe by then I’ll have a new job to celebrate, anyway.”

“How’s the article coming along?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said. She’s started in the other day and already had about 1500 words worth of material. She figured the best way to go about it was keep a sort of diary every day and then edit it down when she could. “Might talk about how fucking awkward you hockey boys are these days with women.”

“I’m excluded from that, right?” he asked. “I mean, I totally swept you off your feet when we first met.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “You did.”

***

August 3rd, 2020

Aberdeen accompanied the team to one of the workout facilities just so she could catch a glimpse of sone sunshine on the day off. Instead of working out, she sat on the sidelines of where all the equipment was and the boys worked out, furiously typing away on her personal laptop. Every so often when she’d glance up, she’d see Morgan’s thighs almost ripping through his shorts as he did some lunges; she’d see Auston’s biceps almost bursting through his sleeves as he lifted weights above his head; she’d see William’s thick torso exposed as his shirt rode up from him throwing a heavy medicine ball above his head.

A million girls in this city would kill her to be in her position.

And here she was, writing 10,000 words about them instead of ogling them. Well, everyone except her secret boyfriend.

***

August 4th, 2020

Game 2.

Aberdeen was confident that the boys would respond to Columbus’s win in Game 1. She could tell in their energy throughout the day and in the arena they were ready and they were ready to win.

“Hey Nostradamus,” Brendan called out, winking. Aberdeen saw Kyle chuckle from behind his mask. “What’s the score gonna be?”

“Oh shut it,” she shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest and smirking to herself. Except she couldn’t hold her tongue. “3-0, but this time for us.”

“I believe her!” Kyle piped up.

Brendan snorted. “Who’s placing bets?!”

The bell rang and everybody settled down to stand for the anthem. As the game got underway, Aberdeen could feel rushes of electricity move up her spine every time the Leafs touched the puck. They were playing phenomenally. They looked focused, into it, and like a complete team. It was a night and day difference from Game 1. Though the first period didn’t have any goals, Aberdeen knew they’d be coming – for the Leafs only.

In the second period Auston scored and Aberdeen jumped out of her seat to celebrate. And when John scored late in the third period to get a two goal lead, she was even happier.

Then, with less than two minutes left, disaster hit.

It was a play behind the net. Pierre Luc Dubois – the guy from the other day, Aberdeen had learned – basically cross-checked Jake Muzzin, and Jake fell awkwardly, trying to break it, with his head hitting a Blue Jackets player’s leg. He fell to the ice.

He wasn’t getting up. And the referee hadn’t blown the whistle.

Those fuckers.

“BLOW THE FUCKING WHISTLE!!!” Aberdeen screamed at the top of her lungs, startling Brendan and Kyle. Her face was turning red. She was sure she’d been so loud the referee actually heard her, because he finally blew it. Jake was having a hard time getting up, and then he lay back down. One of the trainers immediately made his way onto the ice, rushing towards Jake.

The replays began to play from every angle, and Aberdeen watched on the TV screen in the box how his head and neck contorted once he hit the player’s thigh. She had tears in her eyes as she watched the worst angles. She looked back out onto the ice to see Jake still lying there. The trainer was still with him, though more were making their way onto the ice now. Then, she saw one of the trainers put his hands near Jake’s neck. They called for a stretcher.

She bolted out of her seat.

“Aberdeen!” she could hear Brendan call out after her, but she didn’t listen. She didn’t turn around. She hurried down to ice level, her mind running a mile a minute, and flashed her credentials to anyone and everyone she needed to, not bothering to stop so they could actually see them.

By the time she got to ice level, she could hear the distant sound of sticks tapping, letting her know he was being stretched off. She met all the trainers and the stretcher at the entrance. “Jake?!” she asked frantically.

“Aberdeen?” he asked.

“Are you okay? Did you break your neck?!”

“I didn’t break my neck. I can feel my arms and legs,” he said. Aberdeen let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding in. “Did it look scary?”

“Is that a joke?” she asked. “I ran down here the second they called for the stretcher.”

“We’re going to take him to the hospital. He’s going to have to leave the bubble,” the head trainer informed Aberdeen. “You need to tell Brendan and Kyle. Then update us on the protocol of what it will take to get him back into the hotel.”

Before she could acknowledge what was just said, Jake spoke up again. “Aberdeen?”

“Yeah Jake?”

“You need to call Courtney for me. Tell her I’m okay,” he said. “She’s probably worried sick.”

Aberdeen’s heart sunk into her stomach. Courtney. “Yeah yeah, of course—”

“—You have her number, right—”

“—We really need to get him to the hospital—”

“—Yeah, I have her number—”

“—Call Courtney, please,” were Jake’s last words before he was stretchered off.

Aberdeen watched until they were out of her line of sight. For a few moments, the images of what just happened flashed through her mind, and she momentarily forgot about everything. She felt sick to her stomach. Jake said he felt okay, but she knew hockey players always just said that. Morgan had been playing injured for the better part of the year until he actually got injured. High sticks to the face, lost teeth, blood drawn – these guys just put a bandaid on it and said they were fine. But this was different.

When Courtney’s face crossed her mind, she jolted back to life and grabbed her phone out of her pocket, scrolling until she found Courtney’s number. The phone didn’t even have to ring twice. “Aberdeen?!” she asked frantically. “How’s Jake?”

“Hey Court—he’s okay—”

“He’s okay?!”

“Well, they’re bringing him to the hospital right now,” she said. “But I was able to talk to him because I rushed down to ice level and he told me he was fine and to call you.”

“So you—you were able to talk to him,” Courtney said, her voice much calmer than just moments before. “You saw him?”

“Yes. He told me he could move his arms and legs,” Aberdeen informed her.

“Okay. Okay. Does that mean he has to leave the bubble though? I mean can I go visit him?”

Aberdeen cringed. “I don’t think so,” she said. As she did, she could hear Luna being fussy in the background and Courtney trying to calm her. “The NHL has an agreement with Toronto General about potential injuries. If everything is okay and he comes back into the bubble, all he has to do is pass three negative tests,” she explained, listening to Luna get even fussier.

“Okay. Alright. But they’ll call me, right?”

“Absolutely. I’m sure Jake will even be able to call you from the hospital. Our trainers all have their phones on them.”

“Thanks Aberdeen,” Courtney said, and Aberdeen could hear the relief in her voice. She knew all Courtney wanted was to hear from her husband. Luna let out a loud cry. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye Court,” Aberdeen ended the call.

Families. So many of them had families. So many of them had families that were suffering and making do with a prolonged absence and Aberdeen couldn’t take it. The players were sacrificing so much to be in the bubble. And their families were sacrificing so much letting them go into the bubble. She knew most of them had money – to cope, to do whatever, really – but that didn’t compensate for presence. That didn’t compensate for having daddy around to play and snuggle with.

She began to cry as she found herself walking towards the locker room, not even knowing whether or not the game had ended. She didn’t really care at this point. All she could think about was Courtney and Luna at home, worrying about Jake as he was being taken to the hospital. To Aberdeen, nothing else mattered right now.

She heard some commotion from the locker room and she knew the boys were back in. She didn’t know how long they’d been back for, and didn’t bother to peek in to see. She didn’t want to when her eyes were still red and welling up with tears. Instead, she hid herself around a corner, crouching down with her knees against her chest, wiping at her eyes every so often and trying to control her emotions before having to go in, or getting called by Brendan, or by Kyle, or—

“There you are.”

Well, so much for that.

She looked up from her crouched position and saw Jason looking down at her. He wasn’t completely undressed – he had all his UnderArmour on – but he was still sweaty from the game and his hair was matted against his head. She wiped her eyes one last time before getting up. “Hi.”

“Did you see Jake?”

She nodded. “He’s okay. He can feel and move his arms and legs or whatever.”

“Why are you crying?”

She knew he wasn’t asking to be insolent, but did she really have to have to spell it out for him? “Don’t tell me you’re immune to this shit,” she said. “I just had to call Courtney and explain to her that her husband didn’t break his neck and end his God damn career. Luna was crying in the background. It’s a lot, okay?”

Jason nodded his head. “I know it is. I’m not trying to…fuck, I know that came out wrong. He’s gonna be okay, Aberdeen.”

“Thanks.”

“Come on, Aberdeen,” he said soothingly. “It’s gonna be okay.”

She shook her head, wiping away the last of her tears. “I know. I’m just being a big baby.”

“No you’re not,” Jason said. “You’re not being a big baby. You’re being a human being. Someone you cared about got hurt. Do you want to talk about it when you get back to the hotel?” he asked.

She considered it for only half a second before she shook her head. “No. I know you call your girls every night. I can’t take time away from them.”

“Aberdeen—”

“I’ll be okay,” she asserted. “I promise. I’ll be okay.”

“Aberdeen!” Kyle’s voice suddenly called out. He rushed towards her with his phone in his hand. “They took him to the hospital, right?”

“Yeah,” she nodded her head, trying to steady her voice and make it seem as professional as possible. “He’s technically left the bubble, so we have to update the trainers on protocol to get him back into the hotel and how—”

“I’ll handle that with Brendan and Josh,” he interrupted. “But he was okay?”

“He could feel his arms and legs. That’s what he told me. Then he asked me to call Courtney and I did that.”

Kyle nodded his head, looking – really looking – at Aberdeen for the first time in their conversation. “Were you crying?”

“I’m going to be fine,” was all she said.

***

“I’m going to come to your room,” William said through the phone in a strained voice.

“Don’t you dare,” Aberdeen chastised him, a new batch of tears having fallen down her face as she lay in bed. “Don’t you even think about leaving your room, William.”

“Aberdeen, you need me and I need to be with you right now—”

“And you need to stay in your room so you don’t get kicked out of the bubble,” she said sternly. “I’m being serious, Will. Don’t come over.”

She watched as he bit his lip and shook his head. She could see all over his face how conflicted he was. It was one of the things she loved most about him – to the world, he seemed cool and unemotional and that he didn’t really care about anything or take anything too seriously, but to her, he was the entire range of emotions in one conversation. He had a heart full of gold and she knew it would always stay that way. “This is killing me, minskatt,” he whispered, his voice defeated. “I want to be there for you when you need me. Always. I mean…you need me, right?”

Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know where this was coming from, but like some things with William, she felt like it was something that had been on his mind for a while and was only letting out now. He was still learning to talk to her about his feelings. He was keeping his promise from February, so she could appreciate that. “Of course I need you,” she said softly. “I’ll always need you like you need me. We’re in this together. You know that. But you need to be on this team right now. You need to help them fight. This isn’t about me. It’s about the team.”

“It’s always about you,” William said. “You still don’t get it, do you? It’s always about you.”

“Don’t make it about me right now, Willy. It’s not about me. It’s about Jake, and the team,” she paused for dramatic effect. “Make it about me later,” she added, trying to be humourous.

It garnered a small smile from him, and she felt proud of herself. “I love you, minskatt.”

“I love you too Willy. Promise me you’ll get some sleep?”

He nodded slightly. “I promise.”

***

Aberdeen’s iPhone was still in her hands as she woke again from its vibrations. She jumped at the sensation of being awoken in the middle of the night. If it was Willy calling her at three in the morning, she was gonna kill him.

“Hello?” her voice was groggy.

The voice on the other end was not William’s. “I lived, bitch.”

***

August 6th, 2020

It wouldn’t be a Toronto Maple Leafs series without some drama, apparently. And the drama tonight was how the team blew a 3-0 lead, allowing the Columbus Blue Jackets to win 4-3 in overtime, with Pierre-Luc Dubois scoring a hattrick. That meant the Columbus Blue Jackets were now up 2-1 in the series.

It meant the Leafs could go home tomorrow.

Aberdeen tried not to think about it.

She didn’t bring it up with anybody as they went back to the hotel, and she knew, judging by the looks on their faces, that they didn’t want to hear about it either. Nobody would be turning on their TVs tonight, and she doubted they would check the news on their phones, either. Maybe they’d play video games to take their minds off of it. Or maybe they’d go right to bed and rest, since they had to do all of this again in less than 24 hours. Fuck.

Aberdeen took a shower. She washed her face. She did her skincare. She put on a sheetmask.

Her phone rang.

She knew it was William, so she tucked herself into bed and accepted the FaceTime call. When he realized that she had a sheetmask on, a smile broke out on his face from ear to ear. “Nice sheetmask,” he said, biting his bottom lip.

She smiled cheekily and shrugged her shoulders. “You’re used to it by now. Shouldn’t come as much of a surprise,” she said.

“I am used to it by now and—oh shit, hold on, I forgot something…” he said, trailing off as he set his phone down so Aberdeen could only see the ceiling in his room. Knowing William, he probably forgot to turn the light off in the bathroom or something. But the longer he took, the more Aberdeen became skeptical of his whereabouts. She barely heard anything on the other end. “There we are…” she heard his voice. And then she saw what he had on his face: a sheetmask. He was still smiling from ear to ear. “Now where were we?” he asked.

“William!” Aberdeen squealed, letting out giggles she couldn’t hold in at the sight of him. He looked ridiculous. It was clearly the first time he’d ever put one on himself. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

“You love these things!” he tried to justify himself. “I brought one because I knew I’d catch you at least once in here with one of these things on. And if we can’t do it together…well, physically, then we can do them together in separate rooms. Like everything else we need to do.”

Her cheeks flushed red – not that he could see. He bought sheetmasks and put them on with her. He gave her time to write. He encouraged her writing. He listened to her. He cared for her. He was even better than anything she could have imagined in a dream boyfriend. How did she get so lucky? How did she let guys treat her like shit before him? She felt tears well in her eyes. He was going all out to make the best of the bubble, and she couldn’t be more thankful. “I love you so much, Willy.”

“I love you too, minskatt.”

“No…I love you Willy. Like love you love you. Love you love you love you. I don’t even have the words…and I’m a writer! You make me speechless, Willy. There aren’t enough words in the English or Swedish languages that I can string together that will, like, tell you or show you how much I love you.”

“I get it, minskatt. Don’t worry. I feel the same way.”

“I don’t know how I got so lucky with you.”

“I annoyed you enough until I wore you down,” he quipped.

She giggled. “You seduced me is what I’d call it.”

“I don’t know about that. If I remember correctly it was you rubbing yourself against my thigh that morning.”

She made a face at him. He made the exact same face back but crinkled his sheetmask so he had to flatten it with his free hand. She watched him with complete adulation. “Willy?”

“Minskatt?”

“Can we listen to our song together?”

William smiled. He fiddled around with his phone and his ‘Minskatt’ playlist until the familiar chords started playing over the phone, filling the air with the nicest, best, most beautiful sound Aberdeen had ever heard – save for Willy’s laugh, maybe – because she knew this song was about her, about them, and it was still their little secret.

166 notes · View notes

babyflossy · 4 years

Text

exposed | p.js

pairing: jisung x reader

requested: i’m working on loads of request atm but when i saw this i had to write it straight away lmao

summary: when dispatch reveals your secret realtionship with jisung to the public, the fans aren’t the only ones surprised.

warnings/genre: unedited, kinda just self-indulgent fluff, lots of words, not much happens

word count: 1.7k

a hand on your shoulder breaks you from your slumber, words already being spoken at you. in your sleepy haze, they floated straight through your head, mind still groggy from being woken up so suddenly. as soon as you recognise the voice as your manager’s, your eyes snap open, meeting equally wide ones over the head of your manager. haemee, your leader, shoots you an apologetic look, something unsettling for so early in the morning.

“what happened?” the words are quiet and tired and your manager sighs in pity, handing over their phone. your eyes squint in response to the brightness, stomach dropping when your eyes finally focus on the news article.

BREAKING; DISPATCH REVEALS UQS’ Y/N AND NCT’S JISUNG ARE DATING.

the title is accompanied by three photos; one of you at a fansign, smiling at a fan, one of jisung waving at a camera in the airport, and then a blurring photo of two figures walking hand in hand through a park at night. the park you and jisung had visited two weeks ago.

“there’s a meeting at the company. can you get ready quickly, please?” despite the ‘scandal’ and the stress your manager was most likely under, she shoots you a comforting smile and ruffles your hair before leaving, phone already ringing.

as soon as you and haemee are left alone you reach for your phone, feeling the bed dip as she sits beside you. she rests a hand on your shoulder, rubbing her fingers down your back soothingly. your lockscreen in full of text messages. you thumb through them, seeing many from jisung, along with the other nct members you were close with. you ignored them all, only searching for the ones from your boyfriend.

jisungie <3: have you seen it yet?

jisungie <3: call me when you see this

jisungie <3: are you okay?

jisungie <3: i know you didn’t want ppl to find out like this

jisungie <3: let me know you’re okay plzzz x

“it’s gonna be fine, you know?” haemee’s hands abandon your shoulder and take your phone out of your grasp, tipping your chin so she can look at you. there’s still a smile on her face and you’re reminded of why she’s the group’s leader instead of anyone else; always able to keep things calm. “think about all the other idols that have dated. i bet the fans were expecting this, anyway.”

that was probably correct, you knew. ever since you and jisung had starred on a dancing show in america together, your social medias were full of edits of the two of you, compilations of your interactions from the vlogs you had filmed. as jisung wasn’t fluent in english you had translated for him and done the speaking whenever you ordered food, giving the fans loads of things to include in their edits.

the show had been fun and you had kept in close contact with jisung after it ended, eventually deciding to start dating after months of pining over each other. since then, only haemee, taeyong and the company knew, although you expected chenle knew as well due to the teasing you got whenever you met jisung outside of your training hours.

when haemee left you to get ready you took your phone back, unlocking it and calling jisung as you flicked through your wardrobe, trying to find your hoodie. the call connected after the first ring, jisung’s voice echoing over the line and into your bedroom.

“are you okay?” although there was high chance you were about to be scolded for days, the worry in jisung made your heart beat just a little faster, a reluctant smile taking over your face.

“i’m fine. what about you?” spotting the lilac hoodie at the end of your closet, you pulled your sleep shirt, jisung’s shirt, over your head, replacing it with the warm softness of the purple material. you followed it with a pair of jeans, slipping a face mask on after realising there would probably be reporters outside the SM building already.

“yeah, i’m fine now. i freaked out at first, though,” he chuckled, shouts coming through from his end. “jaemin came in screaming about how he was so betrayed i didn’t tell him, i had no idea what he was talking about.”

“what’d you think is gonna happen?”

there was a pause before he spoke and you had time to grab your bag, throwing in your headphones and a spare mask along with a pair of sunglasses incase. “i’m not sure, taeyong said he’s hopeful, though. so it might not be that bad. it’s not like the company’s finding out about it, though, so it might just be press and stuff.”

“yeah, i hope so. i’ll see you in fifteen minutes i guess,” before you left the safety of your bedroom, you reached for the bucket hat hanging from the corner of your chair, pulling it over your face to hide your eyes. you looked ridiculous, like you were planning to rob a bank, but you guessed it was better than the alternative; hundreds of photos released of your sleep-deprived, drooping eyes.

no one else in the dorm is awake and you’re able to slip out the front door before haemee catched you again, taking a deep breath before heading outside to the car waiting. as it’s just you and your manager, you’re able to sit in the front seat, something you would normally be ecstatic about but due to circumstance it feels lonely and cold. not a word is spoken until the car reaches the entrance to the SM building, throngs of people with cameras waiting outside the front door.

“we’ll go in the back entrance.” you manager says with a frown, eyeing the reporters with concern. “god, it’s impossible to get any privacy nowadays.”

after security escorts you through the back door, pushing reporters out the way when they got too close, you can finally breath properly. for the most part you ignored their questions, signing the first song that comes to mind in your head to distract yourself. ironically, it’s chewing gum, and you realise with resentment it’s going to be stuck in your head throughout the meeting.

upstairs, taeyong and jisung sit on the opposite side of a glass table, two seats left open for you and your manager. their manager stands and motions for him and your manager to talk privately outside, leaving you with the two boys. you take off your hat as you sit down, pulling you mask down so you can talk properly. jisung’s tired eyes crinkle with a smile when you do, a smile you return eagerly.

for a moment you see taeyong think over what to say in his head, trying to find the right words for the situation. eventually, he settles on what your own leader had already told you. “i’m sure this will be fine,” and as if he realises how cliche his words are, he adds “in the end.”

“in the end? what’s that supposed to mean?” jisung tears his eyes away from you to look at the older boy.

“well, i mean, it’s gonna be a big deal at the start,” he states matter of factly, eyes switching between the two of you. the voice he uses is just as level and calm as the one haemee uses whenever she’s trying to sort something out, it must be a universal thing. “the press and the fans will go crazy for a bit, let alone everyone you didn’t tell.”

the reminder makes you dread going back home, knowing the rest of your members will blow this way out of proportion. you were the youngest, and they always managed to be overdramatic whenever it came to you ‘growing up’ as they had put it so many times. none of them knew you were dating jisung, and you could already picture the gloomy pouts you would get for the next few weeks.

after your managers returned, a few more staff entered, filling the last few seats and closing the door, successfully locking you in. they talked for what felt like hours, only occasionally asking you or jisung a question. they decided the easiest thing would be to just come out and admit it, allowing you and jisung a moment to disagree. you locked eyes for a moment, having a silent conversation between yourselves. you raised you eyebrows in question, taking the minuscule nod he sent your way to be the go-ahead.

“i don’t see why not,” you answered for the both of you, smiling at your manager who nodded in agreement back at you.

you don’t get a chance to say goodbye to jisung properly before you leave the building, the staff ushering you in opposite directions to get your schedules for the day started. in the car on the way back to the dorms you send him a text promising to facetime when you both have time, mentally preparing yourself for the confrontation from your members.

“you’re dating jisung?” is the first thing you hear when the front door opens, closely followed by “why didn’t you tell us?” which is swiftly followed by “i can’t believe you’re the first one to date anyone, it’s not fair.”

“that’s mean.” you smile back at the oldest, laughing at the disbelieving smiles covering their faces. “why are you guys so surprised? you didn’t think i could do it?”

“whatever, but, why didn’t you tell us?”

“in my defense, the company told us not to tell anyone.”

for the next few days, your group’s twitter was hectic. you trended on twitter for nearly a solid day, photos and edits and memes of you and jisung together filling your timeline. there were the negative comments, obviously, from jealous fans of both fandoms, some even claiming you should both be removed from your respective groups. they were easy to ignore when the positive comments and the text messages from your boyfriend outweighed them astronomically.

jisungie <3: as much as i hate to say it.. taeyong was right x

a/n: if you got this far im acc proud of you lmao i rlly dont like this but it's been a kinda mentally exhausting day for me so im gonna post anyway and edit tomorrow x

#park jisung imagines #park jisung x reader #nct imagines #nct x reader #jisung imagines #jisung x reader #nct dream imagines #nct dream x reader #nct idol au #idol!reader #nct #nct dream #park jisung fluff #jisung fluff #nct jisung imagine #jisung #nct fluff #nct dream imagine

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mysteriouslytransparentwitch · 3 years

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5 unexpected exercises to regain self-esteem (it's a translation)

Self-esteem ... a bit of a fuzzy psychological concept for most of us. Yet we are all aware that low self-esteem can have devastating consequences in our lives.

Something not to be taken lightly then ...

Especially since it can directly impact your eating habits.

Are there solutions to increase your self-esteem?

Fortunately, the answer is "Yes"!

In this article, discover 5 easy (and rather unexpected) exercises to regain self-esteem.

If you tend to devalue yourself, then trust me, these exercises are a must!

A word of advice ... stick with it until the end because I will offer you a recognized test to assess your level of self-esteem at the end of this article.

This will allow you to know where you are and also to re-evaluate yourself shortly after performing the exercises regularly.

Pin it What is self-esteem? According to Wikipedia, self-esteem is "a term for the judgment or assessment made of an individual in relation to their own worth. ”

In other words, self-esteem refers to "how we see ourselves, how we assess our worth".

When we talk about self-esteem, we are therefore talking about the look and value judgment that we have on ourselves (and which does not necessarily have to do with the skills that we may have. ).

When self-esteem is positive, it allows you to:

➖ Feel good about yourself,

➖ Face the difficulties and trials of life,

➖ Take control over your actions.

You feel capable of accomplishing your goals and getting through to your projects.

You are determined!

A bit like putting on a super heroine costume ...

You are ready to challenge all obstacles!

Whereas negative self-esteem makes it really very difficult to take action and accept your mistakes.

You feel helpless in the face of events in your life. Demotivation sets in ... You feel incapable, weak, basically completely zero ...

As you can see, self-esteem is inextricably linked with the assessment of one's own skills.

If she is weak and fragile, it will be difficult for you to feel competent. Failures in your life will reinforce the lack of self-esteem and increase your feeling of worthlessness ...

And if that weren't enough, if you have low self-esteem, unfortunately you will tend to attract so-called "toxic" people 😬.

You know those “vampires” thirsty for the affection and energy of others?

These people know very well how to spot and take advantage of your weakness, if you are psychologically fragile.

Do you lack self-esteem?

Don't be surprised when you find yourself in toxic and demeaning relationships.

It makes sense when you think about it, since deep down inside you think you don't deserve better ...

So self-esteem is related to others? Indeed, positioning yourself in relation to others is one of the fundamental factors that allows you to adjust your self-esteem.

We all naturally tend to self-assess by comparing ourselves to others.

Whether in the professional or academic field (skills), but also on our physical aspect, in the material field (wealth and social rank), in our emotional and family successes or failures ...

If comparing yourself to others really weighs in with your self-esteem, so does the way others look at you.

Feeling loved and appreciated weighs heavily.

Finally, studies show that skills and performance are not necessarily good indicators of high self-esteem.

For example, students who are popular with their peers often have much higher self-esteem than students who are good in class (even if their academic performance is poor).

Self-esteem is therefore more linked to relationship aspects.

Moreover, parental attitude and style of education play a crucial role in the development of a child's self-esteem.

Supportive and caring parents will help their children to have high self-esteem even compared to overbearing or neglectful parents.

So you know what to do if you want to help your children not suffer from low self-esteem!

Speak encouraging, respectful words, show them affection, care and gratitude when they succeed in certain tasks that they deem important.

The impact of low self-esteem on diet: If you suffer from low self-esteem, you must also be feeling bad about yourself… Logical!

This is unfortunately part of the packaging as we have seen previously.

The risk of falling into depression is also much greater.

If your self-esteem is low, you also risk developing anxiety disorders and addictive behaviors (excessive consumption of sugar, chocolate, screens, etc.)

Feeling bad about yourself, devaluing yourself, thinking that you do not deserve the love and appreciation of others is THE main factor that leads to developing eating disorders such as bulimia, anorexia, or overeating.

The negative impact on all daily life is therefore very significant.

Really, don't take this aspect of your life lightly.

If you think you lack self-esteem, I suggest you perform these 5 very simple little exercises inspired by Positive Psychology, daily.

Do not underestimate them, it could really improve many facets of your life!

How do you improve your self-esteem?

1 / Self-awareness exercise A great sage said:

"Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift that's why it's called the present" (the mothers here will probably recognize this very ... literary reference! and no one laughs at my references 😂)

Becoming aware of yourself is the first link that allows you to develop your self-esteem. This is why I suggest you start with this exercise.

➡️ Every morning, take time to relax.

Preferably, before checking your emails, Instagram notifications, Facebook etc ... which only pollute your brain unnecessarily.

➡️ Take a notebook or journal.

Take 3 minutes to close your eyes for a moment and reflect on what you are feeling like emotions, sensations and feelings at that moment.

Do you feel sad, happy, tired, energetic, motivated, anxious…?

➡️ Write this in your journal without going into judgment or analysis.

Just try to write down as much detail as possible about how you are feeling physically and psychologically at this moment.

2 / Exercise on self-acceptance: Another aspect that goes hand in hand with self-esteem: self-acceptance.

It is necessary that you learn to support yourself rather than blame yourself. Encourage yourself, value yourself.

To help you accept yourself, there's nothing like asking your loved ones about your qualities and what they like about you.

➡️ Write all of this in your notebook and reread it whenever you feel you are devaluing yourself.)

Also take the time to remember your successes, the highlights of your life.

What are you particularly proud of? What can you rejoice in?

The exercise that I am offering you here to better accept yourself but also and above all your destiny (the Decree of Allah) is therefore to write down every evening 10 things that have made you happy during the day.

10 things for which you are grateful to Allah عز و جال.

By asking these questions to your consciousness, even if you are in a "bad mood", your brain will be forced to search for the answers.

This will force you to focus on the positive rather than your worries and trials, which can often seem more important to you than they really are, if you have low self-esteem.

Remember, glorifying Allah عز و جال and praising Him in all circumstances are part of the believer's duty, which will bring her the satisfaction of her Lord but also inner peace.

3 / stop comparing yourself to others Do you want to please me?

Focus on your own goals and stop comparing yourself to others!

You did not start at the same time as the others, nor do you have the same background, the same tests, and even less the same qualities and skills ...

So I am going to offer you a rather funny exercise here, you will see ...

This must have already happened ...

You are busy but silent and then you find yourself talking to yourself (internally or out loud, it depends on the seriousness of your case 😂):

"Bint Fulana is more beautiful, more intelligent, and in addition she kept a flat stomach despite her pregnancies ... She raises her children better than me, and then you have to face reality, she is also more pious because she knows the Koran by heart and not I, she often goes to meetings, while I rarely manage to do so with all my obligations at home… " Does that remind you of someone?

This little voice does not wish you any good! Be aware of this.

She just wants to make you feel guilty.

And if you listen to it, you are going to put pressure on yourself.

You'll never feel up to it and it might end badly.

Because what's the point of comparing yourself to people who have paths and personalities totally different from yours? It doesn't make sense, don't you think?

So ... once you realize this, I suggest you name that part of yourself that is trying to make you feel guilty!

As if she was a whole person… and above all, find him a very ridiculous little name.

The next time you find yourself having this kind of "inner talk," don't hesitate to call him out:

“Here is Medusa (or Cruella) coming!” (no you won't have dissociative personality disorder!)

You will see. This exercise will gradually lessen the weight of that bad voice on your self-esteem by ridiculing it and minimizing its impact on you.

You will also be more able to become aware of these internal discourses which have no benefit for your "sanity".

Don't laugh it really works, trust me!

4 / Exercise to increase self-love: By increasing your love for yourself, it will boost your self-esteem. And for that, you really have to learn to take care of yourself.

Think about ... what actions can you take each day to experience happiness, pleasure or take care of yourself?

So take your nice little notebook or journal every morning.

And, after performing the 1st exercise, think about the moments, actions or situations that have given you well-being and satisfaction during the last 7 days?

How did you feel ?

➡️ Write down what these situations or activities are and try to reproduce them as often as possible.

It can be very simple things like having breakfast in peace when everyone is still asleep, relaxing with a good bath, visiting your sister, spending time with your husband, doing a painting activity with your child. .

You should see a marked improvement in your mental state over time.

5 / Exercise to enhance the self-image: "Self-image is an individual's representation of themselves, including the physical aspect as well as the psychological one."

As this aspect is purely cognitive, it is easy to "reprogram" your brain to further enhance your self-esteem.

In cognitive behavioral therapy, we talk about cognitive restructuring.

Your mental images and thoughts depend on the cognitive process of processing information, although you may not always be aware of it.

By focusing on your cognitive patterns and dysfunctional beliefs, you can try to change the processes that cause you to think badly about yourself.

So my exercise is to try to modify these bad automatic thoughts by finding alternative thoughts that will improve your emotions and your self-image.

I'm talking about the famous positive affirmations!

➡️ Every morning, take your little notebook and after doing exercises 1 and 4,

Write down one or two positive affirmations, which you will repeat aloud at least 10 times, then as often as possible throughout the day.

Remember, we are talking about positive statements, so there shouldn't be any negative words in your sentence.

For example, you can start your sentences with:

"I am …"

"I want …"

"I can …"

"I like …"

Here are some ideas:

"I accept myself as I am",

"I love me as Allah created me",

“I am able بإذن الله to carry out my projects”,

“I am different and unique and this difference is my strength”…

And so you don't forget to repeat your positive affirmations, some apps can allow you to schedule notifications of your favorite positive affirmations at different times of the day.

Warning. This exercise will only be effective if it is repeated regularly, until your brain has fully integrated and accepted these statements as “truth”.

Here are the girls, for the 5 exercises that will help you regain your self-esteem.

Do you want to know if these exercises are really effective?

Ok. I suggest you take this little test which will allow you to assess your level of self-esteem.

This is a recognized test. It was developed by Morris Rosenberg, a sociologist. This scale is the most used by psychologists nowadays to assess the level of self-esteem, so it can be considered reliable.

To perform the TEST, click on this link: [FREE ROSENBERG TEST]

#self-esteem #perso

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hunxi-guilai · 4 years

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Hi! I have a question regarding translation and names. This is really something I’ve wondered about for years, but Zidian reminded me. I saw that Zidian can translate to “purple lightning” which is kinda just a description, so when they call it Zidian in the show are they saying it as a name, or as more of a descriptive title? Like when they call it Zidian, does it sound the same as if they said “Purple Lightning?” Or is it it’s own word that means “purple lightning” but exists separately (1/2)

ah, okay, one crash course on ideographic language coming right up!

So first, a little terminology (for both of us, or I’ll get tangled up in my own post, since I don’t actually know anything about linguistics):

word - a semantic unit

character - a single type-able symbol. In English, these are individual letters. In Chinese, these are individual characters， i.e. ‘你’ ‘我’ ‘他’

morpheme - a meaningful unit of language that cannot be further divided (e.g. in the word ‘abnormal,’ ‘ab’ and ‘norm’ and ‘al’ are three separate morphemes since ‘ab-’ communicates negation, ‘norm’ is the central meaning/concept being modified, and ‘al’ is a way of converting a noun into an adjective)

binome - a combination of two characters in Chinese to make a single semantic unit, or word

Generally speaking, individual characters/letters in English are not morphemes on their own (notable exceptions are “I” and “a,” which are the first-person pronoun and singular article, respectively). You have to cobble a bunch of characters together just to form a word with semantic meaning in English; this also means that once you’ve learned the alphabet, you can read pretty much any sentence written in English out loud, even if you don’t know the semantic meaning of the words.

Not so in Mandarin Chinese -- first of all, every character is also a morpheme. Every character has its own goddamn meaning.* Try imagining if every letter in a sentence, heck, in just a word had its own meaning. Are you imagining it? Is your mind getting boggled at the scale of that? Okay good.

You can write a thousand-word essay, and it’d be less than a page, single-spaced. A book in Chinese of the exact same page count and dimensions as a book in English is, in reality, much, much longer just by sheer word count.

And, on top of that, Chinese characters don’t necessarily carry phonetic information. 成 on its own tells me absolutely nothing about how it’s supposed to be pronounced, though I can read it and tell you that it means ‘to complete, to accomplish.’ That being said, knowing that 成 is pronounced cheng gives you a hint whenever you see other characters that incorporate it, like 诚 ‘honesty, sincerity’ or 城 ‘city.’ Both of these are pronounced cheng as well, which is convenient if you’ve stumbled across one of them and don’t know how to pronounce it -- you can usually hazard a respectable guess based on a sub-character within it, but it’s truly a crapshoot whether you’ll get it right (for example, 泪 lei includes the character 目 mu and they sound... nothing alike).

This slippage between the sound of a word in Mandarin and the possible characters that could be associated with that sound -- so the way cheng could be 成，诚，城，or, y’know, 承，逞，乗 -- is why this language is so ludicrously homophonous and prone to puns (thus, Xiao Zhan’s ability to cultivate a train track instead of the ghost path).

In the case of 紫电 Zidian, I think you’re right in guessing that there isn’t exactly a meaningful distinction between a name that means something in Chinese vs. a name that just is something because it’s always the latter: every name has a semantic meaning, but when it’s in the context of a name, you usually just focus on the characters as carriers of phonetic information -- that is, the sound of the name -- rather than their semantic significance.

紫电 Zidian is, literally, purple lightning; the characters break down as:

紫 zi - purple, violet

电 dian - lightning, electric, electricity

This also means that, technically speaking, there is a choice in translation with every name, which means that the sentence

江澄将紫电扔给金凌

could be translated as:

Jiang Cheng threw Zidian to Jin Ling

or:

Jiang Cheng threw Purple Lightning to Jin Ling

or, if we wanna get real extra:

River-Clarify threw Purple Lightning to Golden-Ice

because, once again, every character in Chinese has a semantic meaning. One of my greatest difficulties while reading books in Chinese is just peering at an unfamiliar binome like “...are you the name of a new character or just a word I don’t know?” and it’s... A Time.

This is why you’ll see English-language fanfic authors refer to Lan Wangji’s love song to Wei Wuxian as either “Wangxian” or “Forgetting Envies,” because the name of 忘羡 is, phonetically, “Wangxian,” but semantically, would translate as “Forgetting Envies.” Both of these are equally accurate! It just depends on whether you’re emphasizing the binome in its phonetic, name capacity, or its character-based, semantic capacity.

Does this mean that, in Chinese, folks are really out here calling each other “blue forgetting devices” (Lan Wangji) or “gold light jade” (Jin Guangyao) without batting an eye? Not at all -- just like when normal English words get turned into names (Rowan, Chase, Clay, Carol), we stop interpreting them semantically and interpret them simply as names -- admittedly, names with meanings! but all names have meaning when you think about it -- and what are names aside from phonetic social cues to get someone’s attention?

Hope this clears things up!

*yes yes, there are notable exceptions like 兮 and 啊 and other exclamatory particles that don’t technically carry semantic meaning but do a ton of heavy lifting when it comes to tone, but that’s beyond the scope of this post, I’m not ACTUALLY a linguist

#ask and ye shall receive #language learning tag

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ayuuria · 3 years

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Yashahime Translation: Animage December 2020 Issue (Part 1)

Please do not repost this translation without my consent! This includes screenshots. If you wish to share this translation, simply link to this post.

For more information regarding the use of my translations, click here.

This month’s Animage article was quite loaded with 6 pages of content. It consisted of an illustration with Kohaku and Hisui (2 pages), an interview with Kimura Ryōhei and Urao Takehiro (2 pages), and an interview with Uru (2 pages). That being said, this translation has been split into two parts.

Part 1: Interview with Kimura Ryōhei and Urao Takehiro Part 2: Interview with Uru

Click Here to read Part 2

The Demon Slayers Have Arrived!

While butting heads with each other, the strength of unity between Towa, Setsuna, and Moroha slowly increases. Watching over and supporting those three girls are the uncle and nephew demon slayer combo.

Towa, Setsuna, and Moroha return to the feudal era from the modern Reiwa era. Lately, they have been slaying more demons together. In episode 5, they defeated one of the “Four Perils”, Tōkotsu; in episode 6, they subdued the demon cats nesting in the old temple. Each has a different goal: Towa’s is to break the spell of the “Dream Butterfly” cast upon Setsuna, Setsuna’s is to fulfill her duties as a demon slayer, and Moroha’s is to defeat demon bounties in order to pay off her debt. However, from spending time together, their teamwork seems to be slowly improving.

Supporting the girls’ efforts are demon slayers Kohaku and Hisui. The two of them show concern for Towa and the others by doing things like taking care of Towa who came from the modern era or providing hints to Setsuna on demon subjugation. Especially Kohaku who has relations with their parents in that he joined forces with them to defeat Naraku. Given that, that could be more reason why he pays attention to the girls. Starting from the reason why the Tree of Ages requested the three girls to “Defeat Kirinmaru and Sesshōmaru” to the existence of Rin sleeping within the Tree of Ages, the circumstances surrounding the three girls is full of mystery. Surely Kohaku and Hisui’s existence will become of help to the girls as they overcome trials.

(Character Bios)

Kohaku When he was a boy, it was said that he “Wasn’t suited to be demon slayer” but now he serves as the head of the clan. He was the one who accepted Setsuna as a demon slayer.

Hisui Miroku and Sango’s child and a demon slayer who fights with Hiraikotsu as his weapon. He did not know Setsuna was a half-demon until he was told by Kaede in episode 3.

Higurashi Towa In order to free her younger sister, Setsuna, from the spell of the Dream Butterfly, she returns to the feudal era. Due to having lived in the modern era for so long, she is somewhat hesitant about fighting demons.

Setsuna A demon slayer who had her sleep and childhood memories stolen by the Dream Butterfly. While she pushes away her elder sister, Towa, who for some reason involves herself with her, she also seems to be concerned for her (Towa).

Moroha In order to repay her debt, she bounty hunts. When she puts on rouge, she becomes “The Country Destroying Beniyasha” and displays unparalleled strength but she falls asleep less than a minute later.

Miroku A monk who previously traveled with Inuyasha. Defeating Naraku, the Wind Tunnel in his right hand disappeared. After the battle, he married Sango and became the father to three children which includes Hisui.

Sango Kohaku’s older demon slayer sister. She previously traveled with Inuyasha and her weapon at the time was Hiraikotsu. She had three children with Miroku: Kin’u, Gyokuto, and Hisui.

That Kohaku Became a Dignified Adult

The Role of Kohaku: Kimura Ryōhei “Kohaku is a character that also appeared in “Inuyasha” but he matured well. When one’s impression of him changes this much, I don’t have to keep Akko-san (Yajima Akiko who voiced Kohaku in his boyhood) in mind so he’s easier to play which is nice. As of now, he has the impression of an adult who doesn’t get into a tight spot or loses composure. They handle him with dignity so I think I can play him without worry.“ (translator’s note: Not sure if I translated that last sentence correctly…)

Kohaku During His Boyhood

Sango’s younger brother. He lost his life to Naraku’s trap but was revived with the power of the Shikon Jewel shard. At first, he was being controlled by Naraku but he regained his memories later on.

Kohaku and Sesshōmaru’s relationship

In the story of “Inuyasha”, Kohaku was always in danger of demons targeting the Shikon Jewel shard. At one point, Sesshōmaru saves Kohaku who had been captured by Byakuya of the Mirage and afterwards, Kohaku accompanies Sesshōmaru on his travels. Normally Sesshōmaru does not get close to others but he did not object to Kohaku travelling with him. It could be that to Sesshōmaru, Kohaku was someone that he could allow to stay near him.

What Did He Inherit from His Father, Miroku?

The Role of Hisui: Urao Takehiro “While Hisui is a little older than Setsuna and the others, he has quite a calm impression. It’s just that he is still young, so he has an unknowing and inexperienced side to him. His uncle is teaching him in that regard. I think Hisui’s strong personality resembles his mother, Sango. The lecherous side of his father, Miroku, hasn’t appeared in Hisui yet so I wonder what I’ll do if he has that kind of a side to him (laughs).”

The Reliable Uncle and the Inexperienced Nephew

— From the start, what sort of impression did you have of the work, “Inuyasha”?

Urao: I’m definitely part of the “Inuyasha” generation. I think I was in upper elementary school when “Inuyasha” started broadcasting. I really liked it and I would watch it every week while eating dinner. The first CD I ever bought with my own allowance was V6’s “CHANGE THE WORLD, Inuyasha first opening song” too.

Kimura: I think I was in high school at the time, so I was right on the cusp of the age for watching anime on a daily basis. I felt it was about time I moved on. It’s just that in regard to “Inuyasha”, it left the impression that it was a work that could be enjoyed not just by kids but also by high schoolers and older. In addition to it being the work of Takahashi Rumiko-san, the creator of my absolute favorite “Ranma ½”, I was working in the industry at the time but I enjoyed it as a viewer.

— Which character left an impression on you?

Urao: My favorite was Shippō. In any case, he’s cute. At the time, I was a real scaredy cat so whenever the demon battles began, I would always look away from the screen (laughs). Within that, Shippō was a comforting existence. I also liked the romantic comedy, so I enjoyed watching the exchanges between Miroku and Sango.

Kimura: The one who left an impression on me was Naraku. At a glance, he didn’t really feel like a final boss. When you look at Sesshōmaru, you know “This guy is strong”. But with Naraku, it’s like “Is this guy strong? What?!”. He could probably win in a fist fight but that air that he has of not allowing you to punch him is something I actually found creepy.

— The current work continues the world of “Inuyasha” but apparently, you were offered the role rather than auditioning for it.

Urao: I was extremely happy. I knew the work, “Hanyō no Yashahime” was being created before it was discussed with me so I was looking forward to it as a regular viewer. It was then that I was asked to play Hisui and I was really surprised and honored.

Kimura: I didn’t know that they were moving forward with this work so I was all the more surprised (laughs). It’s not often that you get to be involved in an anime that you watched as an average viewer during your childhood, so I was happy. I had a connection with Rumiko-san from a previous work called “Kyōkai no RINNE” so I’m thankful that I get to have another connection via this work of completely different nature. If I had to say, though they’re the same in that they’re works by Rumiko-san, “Ranma ½” and “Kyōkai no RINNE” left a strong comedic impression. However, I was very excited to take part in the fantasy adventure world that is “Inuyasha”.

— How did you feel about the concept of “Continuing the world of “Inuyasha”, drawing the story of the next generation”

Kimura: Continuing a great work is exceedingly difficult so I don’t think it’s something that should be done at a moment’s notice. It’s just that “Inuyasha” was a big hit work that was drawn by the famous artist, Takahashi Rumiko. It was watched by many and loved for a long time. If the staff who created a work of that level decided to do a continuation, there’s no way they could create something half-hearted. Upon receiving talks, I just reminded myself to that level on my own and thought “It will definitely be okay!”

Urao: The generation that watched “Inuyasha” in real time are now adults and there are some that have children. That’s why I think “Hanyō no Yashahime” is a work that can be enjoyed by two generations. Adults can watch a new story together with the kids while explaining to them “”Inuyasha” was this kind of story”. I’m hoping I will be able to assist that kind of work. Actually when episode 1 aired, my high school senpai contacted me saying “I’m about to watch it with my son”.

— That’s a wonderful story. When playing the roles of Kohaku and Hisui, do you keep in mind Kohaku’s boyhood days in “Inuyasha” or Miroku and Sango who are Hisui’s parents?

Kimura: Actually, I don’t keep that in mind one bit.

— I see.

Kimura: For example, even if I were to keep Akko-san (Yajima Akiko who voiced Kohaku in his boyhood) in mind, if asked if I could come near that, the answer would be no (translator’s note: not too sure I got the translation of this sentence right). It’s just that when I was told that Akko-san said “Oh my~ he’s become a fine man”, I was relieved. I’m glad she didn’t think “Tsk!” (laughs).

Urao: I completely mindful of that! Especially in episode 2 when shouting while throwing Hirakotsu; I recorded the voice of Kuwashima Hōko-san (the role of Sango) saying “Hiraikotsu” and the whole time I was riding the train, I listened to it and did image training.

Kimura: I see. It certainly is something like a signature move.

Urao: First, I thought I needed viewers to acknowledge “Hirakotsu!”. Also, since the image of Miroku being able to calmly assess and explain the situation was strong, I’m really conscious of that in explanation scenes. I rewatched the anime and researched the way he spoke.

Kimura: There’s a lot of scenes where Kohaku and Hisui give explanations on demons while splitting lines (amongst themselves).

Urao: Indeed.

Kimura: Kohaku and Hisui probably meet up beforehand. Something like “I’ll explain up to here” (laughs).

Urao: Responding “Then I’ll explain the next (part)” is something they might be doing (laughs).

— How do you view each other’s characters?

Urao: Kohaku has always been a person who’s known that he was being manipulated and yet still moved in secret; but I also got the impression that he had a strong heart. It means that Ryōhei-san is playing someone like him and it’s really reassuring. As an average viewer of “Inuyasha”, I’m deeply moved that “He’s become a reliable man!” and as Hisui, I feel that “He’s a reliable uncle.” Calling him “Uncle Kohaku” felt kind of fresh (laughs).

Kimura: The impression I got from Hisui was “He’s a good young man.” Although I can say the same for the main three and not just Hisui. At the beginning, I wondered how Kohaku and Hisui would balance out but thanks to the scenario, lines, and Urao’s acting, it became “While he’s gaining experience as a demon slayer, there’s still a part of him that’s inexperienced.” That’s why I was able to grasp the balance between the two naturally instead of being strangely conscious of it. I became convinced of this in episode 2 in their first appearance scene.

He Can’t Use Any Other Weapon? Hisui Is Still in the Midst of Growing (as a demon slayer).

— Next, please tell us your impressions of Towa, Setsuna, and Moroha.

Urao: Even though they were raised in the feudal era, all of them have some “modern era girl” touch to them. Like the chattering ambiance (laughs). Also, I think each of them has an aspect that they inherited from their parents. Setsuna is the daughter of Sesshōmaru; you can feel that Moroha is Inuyasha’s daughter; Towa’s easygoing aspect gives you the sense that she was raised by Sōta.

Kimura: In a sense, Towa is the hardest to grasp. I think that gives her that protagonist feel.

— You feel she is hard to grasp?

Kimura: She’s full of energy and has an overflowing sense of justice but she has moments where you don’t know what she’s thinking. There, other characters and the readers get tied up… I think you see that a lot in protagonists of thrilling shōnen manga. I think Towa has that sort of precarious aspect. Heck, a modern middle schooler going back to the feudal era; that’s when you think something’s wrong with them (laughs). However, the story won’t progress if you don’t have that and it’s because they’re like that that they can remain the protagonist. Setsuna is cool and of few words but it’s easy to see what she’s thinking. I think the energetic Moroha is the easiest to understand.

Urao: My favorite of the three is Moroha. I can really feel that she inherited Inuyasha’s blood. Like how she’s a little hasty and the way she talks.

Kimura: The way Moroha’s voice actress, Tadokoro-san (Azusa), skillfully plays her is nice. Listening to her talk at a nice tempo feels good. Also, the voice actress for Setsuna, Komatsu-san (Mikako) is able to properly incorporate a sense of inexperience to a character that is prone to appearing boorish; I thought that’s her for yah. With this work, this is my first time working with Matsumoto-san (Sara) who plays the role of Towa and she’s good at acting! During today’s test recording when she said the line “Setsuna!” she got directed once, but the “Setsuna” in the actual recording came out sounding good like bam! I feel something like a synergy effect as the three work each other up which I think is splendid. It seems that the three cast members get along really well too.

Urao: The three of them act wonderfully don’t they. Just, I wonder why Setsuna is somewhat cold towards Hisui (laughs). As of now, Hisui calls Setsuna’s name the most but she looks away from him a lot… I hope they can close the distance between them moving forward!

— Kohaku and Hisui’s role is sort of like a guardian to Towa, Setsuna, and Moroha right.

Kimura: That’s right. It’s like the two of us are watching over the three girls.

Urao: We are sending them to slay demons after all. Hisui should’ve gone with them (laughs).

— In episode 5, due to Hiraikotsu not being effective on the demon they were taking on, Hisui had to stay behind.

Kimura: You know, Hisui is a pro so make him be able to use other weapons! What is he going to do when he doesn’t have Hiraikotsu on hand! (laughs)

Urao: You’re right (laughs). He might get more from here on. He is in the middle of growing (as a demon slayer)!

— Hisui’s development from here on is something to look forward to (laughs). Today (at time of the interview) is right after the televising of episode 1 but Urao-san was posting live on social media. You reacted to the line “Don’t cry Hisui~”

Urao: That’s the line that Hisui’s older twin sisters (Kin’u and Gyokuto) said. Hisui was still a cute baby!

Kimura: They seem strong if they fight as twins. I wonder when the grown-up sisters will show up. Could it be that they’re part of the demon slayer team?

Urao: I’m sure they will make an appearance. The content within episode 1 made “Inuyasha” fans very happy. You could feel the “Inuyasha”-ism everywhere. For example, the program sponsor background image, heads mercilessly flying off, and the background music that makes you go “When this music plays, the demon can be defeated”; everything was nostalgic.

— Yasumura Makoto’s role as Miroku was a topic of discussion as well.

Urao: I was moved. He played the role he inherited from Tsujitani Kōji-san (played the role of Miroku in “Inuyasha”) with great respect. He made me think it was actually Miroku and as his son, I got fired up even more.

— Lastly, please give us your thoughts on the illustration of Kohaku and Hisui published in this month’s issue.

Kimura: Both of them look so reliable!

Urao: Yeah, they look cool. When I see them like this, they really look alike. Uncle Kohaku has a big scar on his nose but I wonder if the one who gave him that scar will make an appearance in the future? The freckles he had as a kid are gone too which is impressionable.

— In the future, is there a situation you would like to see in a copyright image?

Kimura: This is a staple but Kohaku and Hisui in swimsuits?

Urao: (laughs) For me, I want to see the whole family lined up. Like a family photo with the parents, Hisui, the older sisters, and Uncle Kohaku.

Kimura: I like that! The family getting together doesn’t seem like something we’ll get to see much in the actual show. Also, I might want to see the two’s desperate expression. As of now, Kohaku and the others have an air of composure about them; it would be nice to see their forms in action. I’m sure something like a strong enemy will appear and the figures of them fighting valiantly will be drawn in the show. However, there are three protagonists, so our turn probably won’t be for a while (laughs).

Which scene up to episode 6 left an impression on you?

Kimura: Mistress Three Eyes that Nabatame-san (Hitomi) played was scary. She was a formidable foe. She looked just like the demon that first appeared in “Inuyasha”; it was amusing that they continued that.

Urao: Apparently, she’s the grandchild of Mistress Centipede.

Kimura: That confirms a second and third generation. The part where “That thing also had children!” is surprising too though (laughs).

Urao: For me, it had to be the scene where Hisui and Kohaku make their first appearance that left an impression. To think the day would come where I could ride Kirara and throw Hiraikotsu… I was deeply moved like we’ve crossed over eras.

Kimura: Even if you encounter a wonderful new work, it’s not often that you get to experience the same things the people playing the characters in the wonderful preexisting work felt.

Which character are you curious about?

Urao: Kirinmaru who has that mastermind aura. How is he going to move from here on?... There’s a person named Kirin Osamu-sensei in the modern era too so I’m curious as to the relationship between that.

Kimura: There’s no way that that’s the only screen time Hosoya-san (Yoshimasa who plays Kirinmaru) is getting. There’s this feeling of expectation that he will appear again.

Urao: Yeah

Kimura: Not only is there a chance that his existence is connected to the feudal era, but maybe there’s a possibility that he’s actually someone’s descendant? Well, we know absolutely nothing about the scenario ahead so we can just say whatever about the (plot) progression from here on (laughs).

#Yashahime #Hanyou no Yashahime #Yashahime: Princess Half-Demon #translation

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phykios · 3 years

Text

honesty and promise me, part 3 [read on ao3] [co-written with @darkmagyk]

Several more weeks and hookups later, Annabeth thinks she should probably come clean. Some people might bury it deep, and for sure, Annabeth’s considered it, but, well. It is kind of embarrassing that she didn’t know Percy’s name at first. Stuff like that doesn’t usually bother her--she’s had nameless one night stands in the past, and despite Thalia’s ribbing, she knows that Thalia doesn’t really care either. It’s just that, you know, he’s Thalia’s family, and they’ve seen each other a few more times, and they are planning to continue to see each other a few more times in the future. Or more than a few times.

Anyway, she kind of feels like she owes it to him. Like he deserves this small nugget of truth, payment for all the times he’s fucked her blind. It’s nagging at her, and she hates feeling like she owes anyone anything.

Piper certainly seemed to think so, when Annabeth had told her over their monthly brunch date.

“It’s just common courtesy at this point,” she said. “Like, what if you guys end up married and then sell your story to Hollywood, they cast my dad as the male lead, and it comes out in interviews that you didn’t know his name for like a month? He’s gonna get the wrong idea.”

Annabeth wasn’t sure which part was more ridiculous: the movie, Piper’s dad being involved, or them being married.

Anyway, sharing some of her avocado fries, Piper had reminded her that being mean wasn't very punk rock, shutting her up effectively.

She’s out on site in the Lower East Side, taking measurements for plots of land, writing down sun angles and measuring the wind velocity between the brick buildings, when she gets a text from him.

I’m on a break and I’m starving 😩 Want to grab something to eat?

It’s 2pm on a Thursday and he wants to grab something to eat. If Annabeth didn’t know any better, she’d say that that sounds like a real, honest-to-goodness, bona fide date. (Meeting up at and subsequently leaving bars together does not count as a date, she’s pretty sure. Neither do the booty calls.) He’s been getting a little free with his texts, that boy, sending her selfies and memes and questions about her day, and now this? An invitation to their first, actual date? She should block him on principle, just for the sheer audacity.

sure, wya

520 8th, text me when you get here 😁

That’s another thing: Percy loves his emojis. If this is going to continue, they’re going to need to have a serious talk about that.

She doesn’t need to text him when she gets there; he’s already outside, leaning on the stone edifice of the building like a particularly jacked rent boy in his tight t-shirt and broody look, cigarette between his fingers. The sweatpants sort of ruin the image, though. He looks particularly comfortable in a way that warms Annabeth right from the inside out. “You know, when Nico said you smoked, I honestly didn’t believe it.” she says, not even bothering to say hi.

He looks up from his phone and smiles, the sun behind his teeth. “Hey!”

“Hey, yourself.” She doesn’t even hesitate--she plucks the cigarette out of his hand, taking a drag off it herself. “You been smoking for a long time?”

“Who do you think taught Thalia how?” He raises an eyebrow, bemused. “Is that a problem?”

It is, but it’s not like she can tell him that without losing some of her credibility. “Wouldn’t smoking fuck with your cardio?”

Percy shrugs, conceding. “A little. I used to be a lot worse, but I just can’t quite kick the habit. It’s mostly a stress thing, anyway.”

“Rough practice?” she asks, putting just enough effort into her lip wobble to make it abundantly clear that she’s making fun of him. “Were the other boys being mean to you because of your tights?”

He grins at her, saucy. “Annabeth Chase, do you really think that NYCB rehearses here? In the Garment District?” But he laughs before she can stammer out an answer (and thank God, she’s lived here three years and can barely keep the boroughs straight, let alone the neighborhoods). “I just wrapped up teaching a class. I don’t have to be at rehearsal until 5, I was thinking we could hang out? Bryant Park?”

A first date at the New York Public Library. She almost hates to admit it, but Percy Jackson might be kind of her dream man. “I believe I was promised food,” she sniffs, but she does hold out her hand, and when he takes it, lacing his fingers through hers, she’s sure that he can feel her heart beating, palm to palm.

Twenty minutes later they’re settled on a bench in the corner of the green, Annabeth halfway into a ham sandwich and Percy juggling a salad and an iced coffee. He’s been regaling her with tales from the more exciting side of ballet, a side she hadn’t even imagined could actually exist. “So by the time I land in Paris,” he says, taking a sip of coffee, “the guy’s foot has swollen up to, like, twice its original size, and when I finally managed to find some wifi to check my phone, there’s, like, eight missed calls from my mom and my agent, and an email from her that just says ‘READ THIS,’ in all caps, and of course the article is in French, which I didn’t really speak at the time, and I was so stressed that my ADHD made it so I couldn’t even read the Google translation, and I had to ask someone to translate it for me.”

“Oh my god,” she says, struggling to keep it in.

“And that’s how I found out that I’d been moved up to first cast in Le Corsaire, from the poor barista at a coffee shop in Charles de Gaule!” He laughs.

“That’s insane,” Annabeth says. “And the show was the next day?”

“It was that night! I had to haul ass to the opera house and get warmed up, because I was going on in about four hours. You should have seen the looks on everyone’s faces when I stumbled in, I’m sure that they all wanted to kill me.” Percy chuckles, taking a bite of leafy greens. “Now I wasn’t just the twenty-year-old upstart American, I was the twenty-year-old upstart American who skipped town when I wasn’t supposed to.”

“How did it go?”

“Killed it, of course,” he says, deservedly smug.

Despite her best efforts, she’s absolutely entranced; he’s a great storyteller. “I bet you break that story out at parties all the time, don’t you.”

He laughs. “Whatever gets the donors to open their checkbooks, right?”

“I can’t believe you lived in Paris. I’ve always wanted to see it.” She’d had a few chances to when she was in college, the semester she’d studied abroad in Rome, but she just never got around to it. Just another item on her long, long list of regrets, placed somewhere between the sketchy burrito from last week and not telling her mom to fuck off earlier when she’d had the chance. “If I were you, I’d never leave.”

Percy shrugs. “It was amazing, I won’t lie. But towards the end I just really, really missed it here. All my family is in NYC, you know? My mom, step-dad, and my sister live here, and Thalia and Nico and Hazel, too. I tried to come back and visit whenever I could, but being away from them was really hard.” There’s something soft and inviting in his expression when he says, “I’m really happy to be back home.”

“What are they like?” Annabeth asks. “Your family. Your non-mob family, I mean.”

He rolls his eyes, but he grins another one of those blinding grins, too. “My mom is the most amazing person you will ever meet. Not only did she support my dance habit, she did it as a single working mother who had to raise an angry, ADHD asshole of a son who didn’t always appreciate her. I don’t even want to know how many hours she had to work or how many scholarships and grants she had to track down in order to pay for me to go to SAB, but somehow she made it work, and managed to write her novel at the same time. She married my step-dad the summer I turned sixteen, and my baby sister was born the next year.”

Even Annabeth, cynical and black-hearted as she is, has to smile back. The love he has for his mom is so palpable, so tangible, she can practically see him glowing. “And the…” What had Thalia called them? “The ‘Cousin Consortium’?”

At that, Percy laughs, full-bellied, unrestrained. “The name was Nico’s idea. I didn’t really have many close friends when I was a kid, apart from my buddy Grover--he had to wear this really gnarly leg brace and I liked to dance, so you can imagine how much we got picked on--but we were all really close growing up, since our dads were all assholes. They may have left us emotionally scarred, but at least we had each other’s backs the whole time.”

This is a very Percy thing, she’s starting to realize: he can not and will not hold back on his feelings. He simply refuses to. Where most guys might try to hide or downplay their affection for their friends, Percy’s is written all over his face. Maybe it’s a byproduct of doing ballet, but he’s so unashamed of his love for his friends and his family and his art, that maybe Annabeth kind of wishes she could be included in that love too, if it always feels this warm and joyful.

“I think it’s amazing that you guys are so close. I only had the one cousin when I was growing up, and we didn’t really talk all that much,” Annabeth says, almost without her permission. Something about him, it’s just so easy to talk to him. He makes it safe to open up.

“The med school guy, right?”

Annabeth nods. “Magnus. Fifth generation Harvard student. We’re all very proud.”

Ugh. Even she has to wince at the false cheer in her voice. Percy gives her a half-smile, sympathetic and soft. “Harvard not really for you, then?” he asks, picking up the threads of a long and complicated story, and one that she absolutely does not want to get into right now. Or ever, if she can help it.

“More like I wasn’t really for Harvard.” Which wasn’t entirely untrue. She had been good enough for the university in Cambridge, Mass--good enough for two degrees and graduation with honors--but she had never been good enough for her mother’s capital-H Harvard. Never good enough for her mother at all, really.

Percy takes her hand. His fingers are cold from his iced coffee. “Hey. It’s their loss,” he says, with a sincerity and an intensity that makes her blush.

Every part of her wants to pull away. His thumb is rubbing against the joint of her finger, soothing and sweet, and she thinks she may break out in hives from it. “Damn right it is,” she mumbles.

He is so nice. So nice and hot and sweet. Objectively, what she’s about to do is a terrible idea, and might torpedo a really good thing that they have, but if she doesn’t come clean now her own guilt is going to drive her insane.

“Okay, I have a confession to make.” Percy raises his eyebrows, slurping the last dregs of his drink. “When we met… and then when we hooked up the first time… I may have… thoughtyouwereJason.”

He blinks. “Pardon?” he asks, mumbled around the straw.

Annabeth buries her head in her hands. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

“You… thought I was Jason?”

“Well,” she sputters, glaring at him through her fingers, “you were being all bro-y with Thalia!”

He is valiantly trying to hold in a smile. “You know, I distinctly remember telling you my name that morning.”

“I was really hungover,” she whines, “and you were shirtless and making breakfast so I wasn’t really… paying attention.”

“For a whole week?”

This is so embarrassing, why couldn’t she just keep her stupid mouth shut? “Yeah.” She slumps her shoulders, stuffing her hands into her jacket pocket. “Sorry.”

She’s not entirely sure what she expected: at best a couple of weird looks and a tentative promise to meet up later that would end up not working out, at worst she thinks he’ll just get up and leave her here at Bryant Park. Either way, they’d be doomed to months of awkward interactions, until eventually they wouldn’t be able to be around each other, and Thalia would have to pick a side--and Annabeth’s seen what Thalia does to people who cross her family. She’s seen Thalia beat a dude to pulp for calling Nico the f-slur. Picking Percy over Annabeth? That’s nothing.

So when he starts laughing, Annabeth is completely at a loss. Slowly, at first, then all at once, he’s laughing so hard his shoulders are shaking, and he has to put down his salad so it doesn’t topple over onto the grass. His head is tilted back in joy, the grey, late afternoon light adamant that Annabeth can see all of his features clearly, from his screwed up eyes to his bright, white teeth to the single dimple in his cheek.

Of course, even his laughter is hot. Asshole.

“You thought I was Jason!” He shrieks.

Annabeth crosses her arms, scowling.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I really don’t mean to laugh,” he giggles. Annabeth can feel her own giggle rising in response, and she ruthlessly quashes it. “I can definitely say I’ve never heard that one before. You do know Jason is blond, right?”

“As a matter of fact, I did not. Besides, you and Thalia look exactly alike.”

He scoffs. “No we don’t.”

“Uh, yeah you do. You, Thalia, and Nico are all basically clones of each other.”

“Okay, Captain Glasses, whatever you say.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

“I’m sorry,” Annabeth feels like she has to say again.

He cocks his head. “For what? For thinking I was Jason? He’s a pretty cool guy.”

“No, for,” she blushes again. All this blood rushing to her head can’t be good for her. “For sleeping with you when I still thought you were Jason.”

Percy scoots closer to her, throwing her a grin and slinging his arm over her shoulders. Without even realizing that she’s doing it, she settles in beside him like she’s been doing it her whole life, slotted up against his torso, tucking her booted feet beneath her legs. “I am choosing to take that as a compliment,” he says, smirking. “You couldn’t resist my charms, even when you thought I was a brogrammer.”

Annabeth can’t help herself. She kisses him, wiping that smug grin right off his face, and when she finally retreats, after what feels like hours, he looks so dazed she could probably keep calling him by any name she wanted and he wouldn’t even realize it.

After their lunch, they meander for hours, headed in a vaguely southerly direction, holding hands the whole time, a steady, uninterrupted flow that took them all the way from Midtown to Greenwich Village. He tells her about his first day at ballet school; she tells him about her favorite monuments. “There are two architectural environments in America,” she says, ranting, speaking with enough force that she might forget the feeling of his hand in hers, “endless dead suburbia, or cities where every single building is either a concrete or a glass block--and not even Brutalist concrete, just shitty, poorly designed, paint-by-numbers concrete. It is an absolute travesty of modern government that they don’t fund any public works projects anymore.”

“That’s why all the gardens and stuff?” he asks.

“Nowadays everything is built by the lowest bidder. At least I get to add some beauty back into the city.”

“I know what you mean,” Percy says. “Paris is practically overflowing with public works, you almost forget about it sometimes.”

She sighs. “You’re so fucking lucky. Paris is so beautiful and everything in New York is just hideous.”

“Aw, come on,” he says. “Not everything. What about the Empire State Building, or Central Park?”

“Well, obviously, those,” she says, just a teensy bit flustered, but she’s not about to give up the argument without a fight. “I just mean like, normal, every day buildings: offices and apartments and stuff. It’s all so samey and boring.”

He looks to her right, pointing at the building they are passing. “What about this one?”

She turns.

If she had known they were headed this way, she never would have taken them past here.

“It’s… okay, I guess,” she mumbles, staring up at the arched windows, pedimented doors, and Rococo details of Miss Minerva’s Private Pre-College Prep School. A shudder goes down her spine, like someone walking over her grave. “There are better Beaux-Arts buildings.”

Sensing her discomfort, he picks up the pace, and changes the subject.

Finally, he stops outside a nondescript building, turning to face her. “This is me,” he says, a little bit mournfully, squeezing her hand. “Are you okay to get home safely?”

This man is ridiculous; it’s not even dark out. “I think I can manage a few blocks,” she says, lightly swatting him. “Isn’t it kind of early for you, though? It’s only four o’clock.”

He flushes faintly, one hand coming up to rub at his neck. “Uh, well, I always give myself a little extra time--you know, time blindness and everything.”

“You baked in extra time in case I wanted you to walk me home, didn’t you?” She mock-gasps, secretly delighted. “Scandal!”

“Guilty,” he grins. “You’ve been to mine so many times, I was curious.”

She just barely stops herself from laughing out loud at the very idea of Percy coming to her apartment--as if. Thalia hasn’t even been to her apartment. Nobody knows where she lives, none of her neighbors know who she is, and this is entirely by design. “Cut me some slack; a girl’s gotta have some mystery. Can’t make it too easy for you, can I?”

“I have a feeling you’ll never make things easy for me,” he says, white teeth gleaming.

“You better believe it,” she smiles back. “Now that I’ve foiled your plans, are you going to be too bored?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” he shrugs. “I’m very resourceful when it comes to boredom.”

Inspiration strikes, and she grasps his hand, pulling him down the alleyway. She almost hates to admit it, but she has something of a Pavlovian response when it comes to hanging out with Percy. Annabeth has come to expect some really excellent sex whenever the two of them meet up, and maybe spending all afternoon with him has made her a little bit horny.

She presses him up against the brick wall, hidden from the street by the long afternoon shadows, and kisses him. His hands flounder for a second, before coming up to rest on her shoulders, this thumbs tapping against the base of her neck, fingers fluttering on her jacket. It’s an intimate touch, kind of chaste and very respectful, and he holds her with precision and grace. He wouldn’t do anything she wouldn’t want to. This is a date with no expectation of sex on his part. But Annabeth does not want grace right now, spooked by the ghost of her old school. She does not want precision. She just wants him. She just wants to keep him on his toes, keep him interested, blow his mind a little.

She just wants to blow him, to be honest.

He squeaks into her mouth as her hands fly to his belt, deft fingers practically ripping it off of him in an increasingly familiar motion. “H-hey,” he says, squeezing her shoulders, “this is--”

“Do you not want me to?” she asks, one hand playing at the top line of his underwear.

“No--I mean, are you sure? I’m-I’m okay with this, I just want to--”

“I know.” She kisses his cheek, then drops to her knees. “But we’ve got some time to kill, don’t we.”

Afterwards, when she’s finished with him, Annabeth wipes her mouth, and he whimpers.

“Ho… holy shit,” he pants, flushed and trembling.

She tucks him back into his boxers, doing up his fly. “There we go. That was better than being bored, right?”

He nods wordlessly, swallowing, shaking. His eyes are glassy and glazed, stupid like he’s just shot out his brain through his dick.

In the short time they’ve been together (though, honestly, this might be the longest relationship she’s ever been in before… and they haven’t even broached the “dating” conversation yet) Annabeth has been on the receiving end of several different Percy looks. His face will light up with joy when he first lays his eyes on her, so happy to see her (though she can’t really fathom why), glinting like the sun on the water. His eyes will narrow, glaring, even as he furiously tamps down on his growing smile when they start arguing over something stupid, like Annabeth’s affinity for olives. He’ll grin at her, knife sharp and slanted, licking his lips and looming over her after she comes down from yet another orgasm via his mouth or his hands.

Percy looks at her now like someone took a bat to his head, and instead of seeing stars, he sees little miniature Annabeths flying around.

He pulls her to him and kisses her, entirely too sweet for what she’s just done to him, but that is also a very Percy thing. And when she leaves him with a final kiss on his cheek and squeeze of his ass, she can feel that look burning a hole through her jacket, following her down the alley and around the corner, and she finds that she doesn’t mind the weight of it at all.

#my fic #percabeth #pjo #the rivalry ends here #ballet au #darkmagyk #woot!!!!

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eschergirls · 4 years

Photo

Originally posted at: https://eschergirls.com/photo/2020/04/22/guaranteed-get-female-your-bag

Another gem from Jess Morrissette on Twitter:

"What if we simply played to our strengths? What if we're so good at gaming, it somehow triggers an 'I want the alpha male' response in females?" A Game Geek's Guide to Getting Girls (PC Accelerator, February 2000).

I know PC Accelerator was trying to be a Maxim for gamers thing but holy crumbs. Even as comedy this comes up short. I almost would say you could make a drinking game out of reading this article but you'd probably die taking shots whenever "a female" showed up. Also extra points for the advice to hide your gaming interest from a woman until you "bag" her because not letting your partner know about an important hobby in your life is a great way to make sure she's interested in it. >_>

Transcription for screenreaders (thanks again to Bella (@MoviePosters00) for the transcription):

A GAME GEEK’S GUIDE TO GETTING GIRLS

Okay palm-shavers, listen up! Reaction time is a factor. Say the first word that comes into your mind when we say "flying fat baby with a bow and arrow." No — not Messiah! Dammit, your answer is the reason we're writing this article. When you see that pint-sized chubby cherub whizzing around plinking people, it means Valentine's Day is breathing down your neck ... and baby, with this much love magic in the air, even you might be able to get a date.

As a service to you, our reader and — dare we say it — our friend, PCXL has sought an answer to the mystery that plagues so many gamers, "how do I get a girl?" We've searched high and low, discussed this conundrum over beer, subjected ourselves to countless seconds of daytime talk shows, drank more beer, picked up (and hastily put down) many women are from Venus-type books, slurped down more brew ... and, amazingly, reached an answer.

COMMUNICATION

To get chicks, a guy needs to communicate — often by talking. Realizing this Herculean task would prove impossible for almost any gamer worth his gaming spurs, and tougher for those even more worthless, we beat our heads against this barrier for days (and sucked down more beer) until a glimmer of hope laser-burned its way through the hangover.

What if we simply played to our strengths? What if we're so good at gaming, it somehow triggers an "I want the alpha male" response in females? Heavy stuff. Before we could commit our theory to print, we knew it needed rigorous testing, experimentation, quantifiable results. Unfortunately, we have no scientific credibility whatsoever. But we've never let a lack of credibility stop us before.

TERMINOLOGY

Here's a quick primer of terminology used in our experiments ...

Chick = Girl = Babe = Woman = Lady = Female = The ones with the bumps who constantly perplex us

Game Guy = You = Horny = Geek-like = Perplexed = Everyone needs a little help sometimes

Game =Game

Theory = An unproven idea that's more than likely wrong

Hypothesis = An unproven idea that's more than likely wrong. Also, the side of a right-angled triangle opposite the right angle.

Postulate = Something you assume from the outset to be true, unproven and wrong pretty much by definition

PCXL = Horny = Geek-like = Perplexed = Everyone needs a little help — and we're here to give it

EXPERIMENT ONE: THE "INTERACTIVE ROMANCE"

SUMMARY

In an ongoing effort to bring males and females together via the arena of computer gaming, a number of new companies are creating "gender-friendly'" titles. DreamCatcher Interactive (http://www.dream-catchergames.com) has developed an interactive romantic adventure based on a true story. The Legend of Lotus Spring (set to release February 2000) has players of most major sexes participating in the story of a young emperor and the woman that he is forbidden to love. Described as a "whimsical, non-violent game," TLLS takes you to the Far East over 100 years ago, touching on cultural, as well as romantic and adventure elements. As a date-locating technique, the TLLS experiment was an abject failure, as evidenced by this Session Excerpt from a co-ed focus group:

SUBJECT ONE (female)

They should've gotten Fabio to be in this thing!

SUBJECT TWO (female)

I'd like to help with the "motion capture" for that!

SUBJECT ONE (female)

It's so whimsical and non-violent!

SUBJECT THREE (female)

Awwwww, look at that! There's a "virtual serenade."

SUBJECT FOUR (male)

Sweet Jesus, please let me die.

PLUSES

Subjects 1-3 enjoyed whimsical, non-violent gameplay; Subject 4 also experienced Culture and Sensitivity-Broadening elements, as per his previous plea bargain with the City and County of San Francisco, California. (His original offense involved animal shelter felines and "Black Cat" brand firecrackers, but we shan't elaborate on that story.)

MINUSES

Despite a sincere effort on Subject Four's part to share the cultural and romantic elements of the game, considerable friction erupted. Subjects 1-3 suggested a "Fore-Player HunkMatch" mode while Subject Four insisted the experience remain a "Single-Player Shooter." Alas, Subject Four did not survive the triple-strength Silent Treatment that ensued.

OVERALL SUCCESS RATING (OUT OF FIVE)

Minus One. Not only did the male subject fail to score, but he was repeatedly and needlessly reminded of his utter lack of resemblance to Fabio.

EXPERIMENT TWO: PLAYING HOUSE

THE SIMS

Frankly, everyone believes that The Sims, from software-as-living-toy masters Maxis, is going to be an absolutely cool game. If you didn't read last month's exposé (crawl out from under your rock), it's the "game of life" made real.

You develop characters, Sims as they're called, and guide, coddle, force, etc. them through various phases in life, searching for financial and marital success. You can end up a lazy, jobless, criminal (much like the PCXL editorial staff) or you can develop a thriving career, gain the respect of your peers and co-workers, and generally lead the sort of enviable life we'll never quite achieve.

Lightbulb flashin' over your noggin yet? That's right — this should be perfect for connecting with chicks! We had the same thought ... not surprisingly, we once again demonstrated our total lack of experience and knowledge of the female thought process.

We were deep into the experiment when we realized that playing The Sims with a cute lass is like eating the broccoli and skipping dessert. How so? The Sims is just so real when you play it with a chick. They actually try to do well with their characters and they want you to succeed too. By the time you're done, you're married, employed, saddled with children ... and you haven't even gotten a kiss off the girl (in real life).

PLUSES

If you're really hard up, The Sims is sort of like practice for relating to real flesh and blood females.

MINUSES

The Sims presents all the work with none of the perks. Perhaps the most telling test-result was this ... babes don't get weak-kneed around men who play house!

OVERALL SUCCESS RATING (OUT OF FIVE)

2.5 dollies — While the game initially got the attention of the female subjects and painted the male subject in a sensitive light, it eventually rendered the male subject more hard up than ever in "real life."

EXPERIMENT THREE: GIRLS THINK THEY CAN DRIVE

NASCAR LEGENDS & TEST DRIVE 6

Why did man invent the wheel? So he could invent cars. Why did he invent cars? So he could impress chicks, of course. The attempt to translate the theory that "chicks are impressed by car-savvy guys" into "chicks are impressed by car-GAME-savvy guys" began with Test Drive 6 from Infogrames —and an utter failure to "get her motor running." The following audio was recorded during a race through Rome:

GUY

Hey! Watch the curve coming up!

CHICK

Is there a map? I don't think this is the best route, we should stop and ask for directions. Isn't Father of the Bride on Channel 4 tonight?

CAR

[CRASHES]

The session was immediately scrubbed and re-started the next day using Nascar Legends. In addition to bitchin' graphics, the incredibly realistic races in Nascar Legends are on tracks — eliminating the whole map thing. Our male test subject was able to expound on the muscular virtues of a 1970 Plymouth and get veeeery groovy in his lingo.

GUY

This is so groovy.

CHICK

Did you just say the word "groovy"?

As the race intensified, Nascar Legends and the general grooviness seemed to be having the desired effect.

CHICK

Mmmmm, wish I could drive this with a joystick ...

Unfortunately, this test case proved inconclusive, because the friggin' puss — ahem — guy, made the fatal mistake of paying too much attention to the game and ignoring the girl. He allowed a full 37 seconds to elapse before responding to the joystick statement, sending several possible messages to the test chick:

A) He was not interested in any way whatsoever in helping her get her hands on a joystick.

B) He cared more about the game than he did about her.

C) He is a total lame-ass and is wasting oxygen that a real man could use to deliver a clever joy-stick retort.

Despite the excellence of Nascar Legends, this experiment resulted in the death-knell response:

CHICK

Isn't Father of the Bride on Channel 4 tonight?

OVERALL SUCCESS RATING (OUT OF FIVE)

Five joysticks for the game, three joysticks for the experience of actually playing this with a female, and an obvious and complete lack of a joystick on the part of the male test subject.

EXPERIMENT FOUR: CHANGING TACK

NOCTURNE

When G.O.D. opened the Spook-House doors and unleashed their deliciously ghastly Nocturne, little did they imagine the power they were placing in the hands of the would-be non-virginal male. A combination of "X-Files" chic and classic survival horror action, Nocturne will give you the tools to awaken your "little zombie" from the dead, but you can't expect G.O.D. to do all the work. Take a cue from the game's incredible atmosphere and transform your grotty little hovel into an environment suitable for jitters-induced romance. Lower the lighting ... candles would be a nice touch. Make sure your friend/room-mate/mom (oh, you sad little boy) won't pop in and burst your love-bubble at the climactic moment. Steal some grave stones and casually lay them about:

GIRL

Are those real grave stones?

YOU

Oh, these? They sure are.

GIRL

You're so cool, after we play a little bit of Nocturne, let's do some ... rubbings.

Don't talk during the game play if you can help it. Let the silence and tension build so that when a shambling horror suddenly lunges at her onscreen persona, she'll shriek. The effect is totally ruined, however, if you're the one who lets loose an effeminate shriek.

PLUSES

With proper set-up and execution, a "Nocturne Date" will deliver more sizzle than a dozen oysters. Even if you don't score, a night of blasting werewolves and zombies is a night well spent.

MINUSES

There's a definite gross out factor at work here. When ghouls overwhelm your date and feast on her twitching on-screen corpse, she may be more inclined to vomit than make out with you. On the other hand, you can turn this negative to your advantage by slapping a hand over the offending image and intoning in your best movie hero voice, "This isn't something you want to see."

OVERALL SUCCESS RATING (OUT OF FIVE)

Four Severed Zombie arms. Good for you!

EXPERIMENT FIVE: SAVE ME HERO!

THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT

Admittedly an unlikely candidate for Date Movie of the Year, The Blair Witch Project — the overhyped no-budget, shake-cam, low-grade-video epitaph for three missing-and-presumed-screwed filmmakers — yielded the highest results in terms of female subjects exposed versus female subjects, ah, exposed. Throughout the course of the film, the three actors lose their bearings. hurl profanities at each other, and eventually meet an enigmatic but doubtless unpleasant end.

Of course, the game version of this, utilizing the Nocturne engine, is in the works and will be published by G.O.D. A clingy female, the DVD, followed by the game… what kind of loser would you have to be screw up this opportunity for a terror induced tryst? Now where the f —k is the map?

PLUSES

The overwhelming majority of female subjects tested responded positively. often sporadically clinging to the males next to them during, and in most cases after, the film. At least two left the theater with the stated intention of staying with the males that evening. Of course, at least a quarter of the male subjects also clutched the males next to them at least once during the film. There are, ah, other magazines that will deal with those test results.

MINUSES

A very. very slim but noteworthy percentage (about 8%) of otherwise-sensitive female subjects found the film's terror element utterly ineffective —thereby degrading the relative status of the participating males (who thought the film was scary) to that of instant, shriveled Weenie. “This is so not cool, Josh!”

OVERALL SUCCESS RATING (OUT OF FIVE)

Five wood-stick-figure-thingies. Heh, heh, heh — we said "wood."

WHAT WE LEARNED

Of course, much of our experimentation assumed the herculean task of getting the girl into your "love nest” in the first place. If you can manage that, then it's best to keep your passion for gaming a secret (until you've bagged her).

Going the route of using horror to terrify a “victim”' to your arms is more fraught with problems (not to mention issues of legality). So get them in to your life in whatever way you can, then you can use the tips and game styles we've investigated to ensure that you can still spend time at your PC and keep the girlfriend happy (a tough mix — trust us).

What could possibly be better than a lovely co-operative Diablo adventure, a Worms: Armageddon face-off, or living out your virtual lives together in Everquest or Asheron's Call?

Remember though, that the real fun and frolics needs to be done in the real world, not online. There are probably laws against that kind of thing.

EXPERIMENT SIX: LET’S GET LITERARY

SALEM'S LOT

This technique was developed outside our offices but captured on videotape. It's so diabolical, so shameless, that we hesitate to even report it. But we will anyway.

The Diabolical Test Subject (DTS for short) had candles lit, Courvoisier at the ready, and was seated with a girl (GIRL for short) on a couch. Further still, he was, brace yourselves, talking to her. In the midst of our shock we realized that he was reading.

It took us two minutes to determine what tome of romantic lore he was reciting ... it was Salem's Lot, by Stephen King.

You may be saying "So what? I'm a gamer, not a librarian.” Or perhaps you've seen the 1970s made-for-TV movie “Salem's Lot" starring Starsky (or was it Hutch?) Well, pay attention Love Master ... by borrowing someone else's words you'll seem smart. By displaying no fear (even during the graveyard scene with little Danny Glick) you'll seem more manly. But above all else, by reading, you will appear to be communicating.

At press time we hadn't managed to work out whether Blue Byte's new Stephen King-based release F13 will induce the same terror effect as Salem's Lot. It does feature a new story from the currently rehabilitating horror-meister and desktop themes and screensavers, etc. for fan boys. Fan-girls are fewer, but never turn to their touchy-feely drivel as a substitute.

TIFFANYSDOMAIN.COM

Do you know why we love Tiffany so much? (If you've seen her pictures here and you don't know, you've got bigger problems than we thought). We love her because she's on Playboy's new video "Wildwebgirls.com"

And we love her because she's on the Playboy Channel's "Night Calls." She also has her very own website that we've been spending an inordinate amount of time “researching” for this feature ... tiffanysdomain.com.

If, after reading this little bit of prose, you still remain chickless, you can see a whole lot more of Tiffany (and a wagon-load of other babes who have problems staying dressed) on "Wildwebgirls.com”... or checkout www.playboy.com for all the steamy details.

Thanks Tiffany!

#magazines #pc accelerator #video games #double standards #representation #general sexism #links #submission

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batfamscreaming · 3 years

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Dick’s first day of school snuck up on them.

Bruce drove him down in a rusty small blue honda civic from the 1990s. They’d picked it up off the lot for under 3,000 and were using it as a way to ferry themselves to the junkyard to pick up parts for their special car--but for now, they were using it to drop Dick off at school.

Drop Richard Malone off at school.

On paper, Alfred paid for Dick to attend Gotham academy. A private school. It had both boarders and day students. Dick would be a day student, so long as it was feasible.

...on the first day of school, Bruce drove Dick down to his alma mater (which translated to ‘place you never wanted to visit again,’) and dropped him off outside the gates.

“Want me to walk you in, Chum?” he asked, despite it not being any Malone’s alma mater yet, and Dick glanced back at him and shook his head sharply, mumbling a quiet “see you later,” before going off towards the gates.

Bruce turned to drive home and realized, belatedly, that Dick had never not been homeschooled.

He waited for afternoon to pick Dick up again, and resolved to remember to pick up milkshakes on the way back, so he can ask how the day was with a backup plan.

“It is not the right time of year to prune,” Alfred told him. It was far too close to school starting. Far too close to fall. “But, I suppose, it isn’t impossible . It will just be a good bit trickier to know which branches need it.”

Bruce obligingly bought a new plant from a chain store--a nursery would’ve properly pruned it weeks ago, but chain stores didn’t have that same attention. Alfred brought it home in a little green planter: a tiny bush cut into a lopsided circle.

“This isn’t, in fact, how to do it,” Alfred said, setting it beside Bruce on the patio table. “Can you tell me why?”

“..it doesn’t target the dead branches,” Bruce said, and Alfred gave a nod.

“It’s indiscriminate. And quite sloppy.”

He handed Bruce a pair of pruning shears.

“With it cut like this, it’s a little difficult to find the dead branches, but you’ll manage.”

...after a moment, Bruce shoved his hand inside the bush and just… gripped one of the little branches that didn’t have any leaves on it between his fingers. He glanced at Alfred, who nodded obligingly and gave a smile that felt far too much like it was meant for a child.

“How far back do I cut?”

“As far back as you can.”

Bruce nodded and pushed the shears in. And snipped.

The metahuman had power over plants, the paper the day before had said. She argued she’d been acting in self-defense. Her children were crying out for help. And so she helped.

(“‘ I is hearing the scream of a flower as its stem is twisted from the ground,’” Dick read aloud by Bruce’s bedside, trying to work through the recommended reading list for his level. One year behind his age level wasn’t bad for three years on the road, but it was a lot to catch up on all the same. “‘ I is hearing the soft moan of the old oak, like an old man dying, weeping, when it is felled.’ ”)

As the state of New Jersey did not recognize plants as people or her as the property owner, her appeal was denied. She would spend several years above minimum in Belle Reve for aggravated assault.

(even though the one she assaulted wasn’t there. Bruce hadn’t stepped into court. Bruce hadn’t said a thing. There was one phone call, and a woman, naked, trapped outside on a Gotham street, and then five other people stepped forward, claiming to be someone she’d attacked.

And he didn’t know what to think about that. If what everyone said was true was true, or if it was just falling into the fallacy of mob mentality. If it was easier to accept what was said as true. Even if he'd seen the violence first hand, it was him being attacked, that was different--)

He kept his mouth shut, and reached for the next dead branch, and clipped.

“...and how would I trim something that’s not dead, but it might… be overgrown? Or the wrong height?”

“Hmm,” Alfred said, still watching him. “Well, first we will need to get you a proper ladder.”

Justly imprisoned or not, the metahuman--a former botanist called Pamela Isley--would be in Belle Reve for several years.

Maybe he could change something in this town while she was gone.

Therefore, Mr. Malone came to the Gotham Parks and Recreation office, asking if when he got this 501c3 approved that he be allowed to enter Robinson Park and clean up the place.

And the budget-starved Parks office said fuckin’ do it if you’re brave enough, man , and sent him on his way.

It was… much easier than he expected, really. But perhaps the Parks department carried so little influence no one had even bothered to bribe them to keep people out. All the same, he’d listen to that backwards warning.

He drafted the papers in two days. He worked over it at dinner, trying to fill the gap that had once been occupied by discussing with Dick where to travel next and how to best avoid a million impending dooms. He had a free consultation with an attorney in the morning who looked up at Bruce over his glasses, eyebrows up, and reminded Bruce that the park was where mob deals went down and that grassy lady attacked a fella the other day.

Bruce said that was fine. He knew. He wasn’t here to cause a ruckus.

Legal documents. Articles of Affiliation. Mission Statement. It was helpful to have a second pair of eyes that actually expected the little bureaucracies innate in law, things that Dick and Alfred preferred to grumble at rather than knot through. Not that Bruce had been trained in law himself, but his school friend, Harvey Dent--

(was still in the hospital. Burn ward. He’d stabilized, but wasn’t often conscious--)

...Bruce submitted the paperwork after the Parks commission met with him, and then all he had to do was draw up a budget and wait. Alfred ‘lent’ Mr. Malone the startup money to establish a paper trail. After the initial donation, Bruce could make periodic donations to himself in various names; have miraculous windfalls whenever cash grew thin. Even without any backing or campaigns, he could make this startup impossible to fail.

...the problem is, Bruce has long proven his judgement is impaired.

When Dick returns from school not sniffling but vibrating with stress all the same, Bruce’s first thought is to run and start over somewhere else.

He thinks it might be an averted suicide response. The need to pack up and leave the current problems behind. With a hardline against being able to die, his mind latches onto another option. A fight-or-flight response that only hits flight when the problem isn’t something that can’t be physically fought off, like a tween coming into the car and sitting down in the passenger seat with a deep sigh.

...Bruce asks how his day was.

Dick says it was fine.

Bruce doesn’t ask if he wants a milkshake. He goes through the drive-through and buys some anyway. They go home and work how to install tail fins on the car frame slowly coming together in their garage.

...the ‘suicide’ response isn’t the only thing that lingers. Bruce isn’t really sure ‘lingering’ is the right term, actually. The flight response only arises when things can’t be handled directly in front of himself anymore, but the fight response--

Bruce has impaired judgment.

He proved it as soon as his first ‘suicide’ response sent him to the League of Assassins, and he decided to not flee the moment they made it clear nothing would continue until he took a life. He proved it when he wasn’t able to avoid dragging a literal child in the middle of a personal crisis into his mess, rather than leaving him somewhere safe and far, far away from him. He proved it with each near-death experience from Deathstroke in Metropolis to Isley in Gotham.

And yet, here he was again, finding himself cleaning up the Batman suit long after Dick was put to bed, adjusting it with better material to withstand a bullet’s penetration.

The people at the parks department weren’t wrong. It would be dangerous to work the area while the mob still operated widely inside it, and he would not cooperate alongside the mobs for protection. The alternative was therefore relatively obvious: get rid of the mobs.

Mobs weren’t exactly like a snake, but they did function well enough like one. Cut off the head. And like a hydra, if new heads sprouted--smother them.

...that, at least, he knew how to do. Kidnapping and recon, and finding information. Find proof of a mob boss’ wrongdoing and get a prosecutor not so cowardly to be bribed. Hand the information over. Don’t let them fail the charges. High profile dangerous people wouldn’t be kept in a local jail, but would likely be transferred to a higher-security prison, circumnavigating the cluttering, and with a focus on high-priority prisoners rather than most random people out on the street, they would be moved through the system more quickly, hopefully at least stalling out their operations in the meantime, if not shattering the whole system beneath them with the sudden departure.

This was the best plan he had, and it relied far, far too much on too many external variables--finding a clean court, getting a jury that felt safe enough to actually put their foot down, finding witnesses willing to testify, a prosecutor who wouldn't be bribed--

(fuck)

--and dealing with a Commissioner whose good graces he might’ve worn out.

…

But the alternatives were to allow this to continue growing, complicit by his own inaction.

(he was already complicit enough in too many crimes.)

(How did you clean up a world that you yourself aided in the destruction of?)

Prosecutors that couldn't be bribed?

They ended up like Harvey Dent.

Batman appears without Robin that evening, because it is a school night and Dick needs to sleep. He stops what crimes in progress he comes across and starts watching Robinson Park more closely.

He doesn't interfere inside it. He just watches. Plants cameras in the bushes and on the branches of trees, and zips his way out, to watch the footage and get to know the day and nighttime patterns of the area.

It… will take time. That's something he's not used to. Dick and he worked fast on the road, and even before that he was either handed his information by the ones lower down the chain or only spent a handful of days doing legwork to verify things that'd been missed. Instant gratification, he guessed he could call it. Just… dealing out a death and being done with it.

(And somehow, he'd drawn the line at known violent mobsters and Deathstroke.)

...he had to do a lot of meditation to get through the park video feeds. He had a lot of work stacking up between tracking down faces from the feeds. Police database of mugshots helped more than he expected. He started a tally of how many people in the mugshots were brought in bloodied and who brought them in to look into later.

After all, if Gotham was going to get rid of its mob problem, the police force would need some pruning, too.

Gotham recidivism was above 80%. Bruce gargled his coffee and tried very hard to not spit it out somewhere, because somehow, he was more tired by this statistic than shocked. A bit of, ‘oh, I knew it would be high, but really?’

No fucking wonder there weren’t enough cells in the world.

(What do you do when you can’t put anymore garbage in a landfill?

Learning what a fucking recycling program is might be a good first step.)

It's okay, though. He's totally got a handle on this. He's already been looking into what makes recidivism lower, and the difficulty of access to jobs for felons seems like a big one. Lack of change to living situations that caused pettier crimes like reselling material or shoplifting. The inside prison situation has an effect, according to Norway, which has a prison system Bruce isn't even hoping to replicate, even if he were a living millionaire with a clear conscience.

Reading other people's’ writings on recidivism has… definitely helped clarify things for him, even if all he can think of for the worst of criminals is still to lock them in a cell far away from everyone or until the death penalty finally takes it out of his hands.

But it is one thing to lock up a murderer who sabotaged a family performance and killed in front of an audience, and children, and child … versus locking up the child who killed trying to protect their family from an abusive partner.

They’re different. They have to be.

If Bruce has any right to be alive, he has to be able to believe in gray areas.

Bruce drops the first of several Maroni forerunners on Gordon's desk in the northern precinct. When he finds the precinct desk vacant, he pays a visit to the commissioner’s house instead.

The thought process is that it would probably be best to clarify that the dropoff isn’t an attack on the commissioner's authority. It’s an opening for compromise. Bruce will be mindful of the incarceration rates, but he won’t be leaving Gotham and he’d like cooperation from the police when it came to prosecution.

Unfortunately, he proposes it in the form of a paper note (written in his off-hand) slipped onto Gordon’s bedroom table where the man will notice it as soon as he returns for bed, which is much more threatening than he fully realizes.

(He doesn’t imagine Gordon’s daughter will find the note first and replace it just as she found it after reading. Then again, he doesn’t ever find out it happened, either.)

The county’s defense office wants to cut a plea deal with the gangster brought in, because no one wants to be the next Harvey Dent. The Assistant DA, a woman named Rachel Dawes, seems willing to try, but the department is extremely reluctant to support her, even as she steps up to take Dent’s place until another election can be held.

In the precinct, Bruce’s audiobugs catch officers he’s tracking placing bets on how long until someone finishes Dent off in his hospital bed.

Bruce decides he needs to be more aggressive.

Twenty-seven aggressive anonymous tipoffs and two synchronized FBI raids half a month later, and Bruce is startled when the door to his bedroom opens and Dick walks in. Bruce doesn't really jump in surprise anymore-- it’s more of… half reaching a position to fight, and stopping in a split second as he realizes the threat doesn't exist.

“Ah,” he says, “do you need--?”

“I was at school,” Dick says, answering the question in an odd way. He didn't need anything, he'd just come back from school--

Bruce’s neck snaps up to look at the clock, while the other part of his brain realizes that it’s nearly dark outside.

“Did Alfred--” he says, a panicky shame he’s not used to rising up within him.

“No,” Dick says, shrugging his backpack off and slumping onto bed. “When I realized you weren't coming I walked home.”

Bruce's throat feels tight. “You should've called.”

“Figured you were busy,” Dick says, watching the ceiling, “you've got more important stuff than school.”

Bruce remembers, the pain less raw with years, the slow agony of a school day, knowing there must be more he could do than sit through the farce.

He remembers that agony of adolescent uselessness clearly, pain dulled or not, but he’s also wisened to its falsehood over the years. There was little he could manage at the time.

“...I’ll set an alarm next time, but school isn't unimportant,” he says, keeping calm and controlled for an extra moment, before doing a double-take on the thought he’d had just a moment before.

Adolescence?!

School is over a month in. Dick’s anniversary is coming up soon. Bruce has gotten the Feds back in Gotham and an internal investigation into the police force for corruption. His nonprofit is finalizing some paperwork and looking into how to hire nonviolent offenders and start training them for small-time landscaping and cleanup by contracting with a local pre-established landscape crew that mostly does the outer and northern Gotham estates. Harvey Dent is conscious but minimally verbal in the hospital. And Dick is thirteen, officially a teenager.

Bruce does not know how teenagers are different from younger children. He does not recall being any different than he is now at either age. Only morose haze interspersed by flashes of overwhelming tension and temper.

Harvey once knew him at that age. Not that Bruce could talk to Harvey--not… as himself. The man Harvey knew was long, long dead, (or, it would be simpler if that man was dead, and Bruce as he was now was a new man entirely--) and it’s not as though Bruce could ask advice anyway.

Still. Maybe he will send Harvey some flowers they’ve started in the backyard...

Once the Justice League gets out of his living room.

Aside from Superman calling over the phone whenever he seems to please, once a month Martian Manhunter seems to show up, posing as just another social worker or lawyer or family friend, here to check in on how things are going with adoption, or the 501C3, or the… latest cookies out of the oven.

And if it’s not Martian Manhunter helping Dick sneak cookies off the cooling rack, then it’s Wonder Woman, which is somehow even worse.

There are not a lot of situations when Bruce would rather a mind reader with incredible telekinetic powers who could mentally and emotionally cripple him with a thought be in his presence, versus just a very strong lady who could rip him in two by breathing.

Diana Prince has made that situation a monthly occurrence.

She came this time while they were in the garage, putting together a much-overdue car engine. Alfred had insisted on dinner before business. Diana Prince stands in his house for over an hour by the time the rope finally came out and they got down to business. It is an hour too long. Bruce doesn’t think he’s had more than a few words of conversation with her since they moved into Alfred’s townhouse late summer, but he has heard the same questions out of her mouth far too many times.

“Have you been hurt lately?”

“No,” Dick says, because he only patrols on weekends, and Bruce makes sure he’s kept well away from anything that looks like it will have guns.

“Are you being treated well?”

“Yes.”

“Are you happy?”

“Y…”

...Bruce blinks for a second, before he realizes that Dick’s teeth are clenched tight and his face is turning faintly to another color.

“Dick…?” Diana says, before Dick gives into the rope, and says the truth.

“No.”

He’s not sure if anyone else can hear the air leave the room, but it does, and Bruce feels his lungs collapse in the vacuum left behind. His stomach shrivels into a ball.

He wants to run from the room, but his feet are too heavy and slow to move, so he just crosses his arms even tighter, and digs his fingers into his ribs.

“...why is that?” Diana asks. She doesn’t even glance back at Bruce when she does it. She doesn’t even glance away in the first place, even as Dick is screwing his eyes shut. The color his face has settled on is red, and blotchy, and fast.

Dick drops the rope from his hand and hiccups.

Bruce can’t move to comfort him.

...Diana looks between Dick, and the dropped rope, and pulls it back into the lasso loop. She stands.

“...I’m going to head outside for a bit and give you two some privacy.”

She turns and walks out to the garden, where Alfred is still watering the flowers.

Dick hiccups again, and Bruce is a stranger in his own body as he sits on the floor cross legged, and pulls Dick into his arms.

...he’s a lot bigger than he was when he was eight and curled into Bruce’s side, just minutes after his parents fell. Bruce puts his hand on the kid’s head, fingers running through the cropped dark hair.

“...Dick?” Bruce says. “Dick?”

He doesn’t get a response. He sits there, uncomfortably rubbing Dick’s hair, until Diana returns some long minutes later, announcing it’s about time she headed out.

“I’ll see you next month,” she says, mostly to Dick, who still hasn’t looked up.

Even as Bruce wonders if it’s a threat, something in his chest loosens when Diana leaves and Dick stays behind.

Eventually, they get up, and try to get ready for bed.

—

Harvey Dent wakes up again.

The last thing he remembers is a gun being pulled on him; a court case that he had to win, no matter what—

The nurses are alerted to his consciousness by the sound of his screaming.

Bruce Malone has no reason to visit him. No clearance. No nothing. All he does is run a small nonprofit startup, currently sending out applications to the very criminals Harvey put behind bars.

He doubts Batman would be welcome.

—

Gotham elects temp-head Rachel Dawes to permanent DA to finish out Harvey’s term by seventeen votes. Bruce doesn’t rig the election, though he thinks of doing so. Instead, he spends the week beforehand trying to disrupt the bribery network connecting the ballot counters to the remaining mob and asking Robin to go make sure the paperless polls aren’t hacked the night before.

...Robin isn’t happy with Bruce going out on his own still. But they compromise, some.

They send Harvey flowers.

They leave a note on Dawes’ desk. An offer, if she needs anything. They don’t want her to end up like her predecessor.

—

In the morning, at the first hint of workable weather, Bruce has some on-parole inmates and recent-releases standing in the middle of the park, shivering, holding shovels and rakes.

This is the first day they’ll be working together and training on the job. There will be a stipend associated with the work. Tools are provided. There’s just—they haven’t done this before. And neither has Bruce Malone, who failed to shake off his kid, Richard, who is sitting off on a picnic table not far away, arms wrapped around his snow pants and pouting furiously.

...He stays quiet as Bruce starts showing the group what they’re supposed to be doing— first snipping the large bushes down to size, raking the sticks and leaves into piles, and then coming up the back with shovels to help define areas for mulch beds around the bushes. Generally they would not be pruning this early into fall, but… the bushes have to go.

It’s step one (ignoring Bruce’s personal twenty-step plan midway through execution) to help keep the park safe and free-er of illegal activities: just being able to see into the damn park.

Once they actually start working, Richard gets up from his perch and glumly takes a rake, helping follow along and pulling the old foliage and branches into a set of neat piles a couple feet out of the way.

It would be one thing if Dick seemed to be having fun, but… he doesn’t really. He’s tolerant enough with the car (whose construction has largely stalled) but he’s never really had the kind of brain like Bruce’s which likes the simple, repetitive patterns of gardening, or kata, or math.

(“I don’t want to stay home,” Dick had said that morning.

“Then wouldn’t going out with a friend be better?” Bruce said over breakfast.

“I don’t have any friends!”

Bruce did not respond to that, and had escorted Dick to the park.)

...they pack up in the later afternoon, when the sun is still high but before banks close-- Bruce gathering up all the direct deposit information for the ones who sound interested in coming back, and paying the rest with checks. Dick waits in the car.

When they drive back home, something big, and blue, and midwestern is already in their kitchen, and is talking to Alfred about pie crust technique.

( Hell. )

Superman is wearing his full goddamn uniform as they enter. He turns and smiles when they come into the living room, raising up one big hand to greet them.

“Hey there! Decided I’d stop by.”

“....You did,” Bruce agrees, while Dick seems to perk up, eyes widening at the very large and blue man leaning on the counter.

Dick had met Superman already. Spent a week at least on the same spaceship as him. Stared him down over Bruce’s unconscious body. Somehow, it wasn’t stopping him from having that bright excitement in his eyes, now.

Maybe Superman was more exciting when he presumably wasn’t here to arrest anyone.

Presumably.

“Uh-huh,” said Superman. “And Mr. Pennyworth was telling me some about how things have been going for you here! Community service work. Sounds good.”

Sounded innocent was more like it. Sounded like prisoners in bright orange vests on the roadsides picking up litter for fifty cents an hour. Doing time, paying back society for all he’d done to it— yeah, he figured it would sound good to Superman.

“It is,” said Bruce.

Dick, maybe in a better mood now that they were out of the Gotham smog, saves him again.

“Are you here for dinner?” Dick asked, not quite on his tiptoes—not on his tiptoes at all, actually.

He’d grown again, Bruce realized. Now he stood almost to Bruce’s ribs, where once he’d had to stretch to reach.

“No, I didn’t think I’d be that welcome,” Superman said, smiling sheepishly, and good. At least he knew. “I’m just the messenger this time. Because we are going to have to start cashing in on that deal we made.”

For a moment, Bruce’s heart stills, and he feels Dick tense just a little bit beside him.

(Is it wrong, for a moment, that he’s still glad that Dick tenses when they both know it won’t be him attacked?)

“Woah, woah, no scary faces—“ Bruce’s face had not changed. “We just need your input. Information sharing, remember? Flash has had some weird things going on in his neighborhood and we thought maybe it’d be something you’d recognize.”

...Right.

Right.

He was getting protection from This League in exchange for cooperation, not just his dignity.

Before he could pull himself back into his body, Superman added, “and Robin too, of course.”

“Robin doesn’t need to—“ Bruce began.

“—Robin would be delighted ,” Dick said, raising his voice unnecessarily high and drowning out Bruce’s own.

Bruce looked down at Dick, mouth flat. Dick stared back up at him, scowling and arms crossed.

“You hate busywork,” said Bruce.

“It’ll be fine!” Said Superman, suddenly in his face , arms moving between him and Dick, pushing them apart, like they were dangerous to each other— “Flash was just going to bring his kid, uh, flash along with him, and thought it would be good for them to meet. Should’ve led with that. Just, giving kids friends in their own age bracket.”

Bruce had stood rock still, staring at the same spot Dick had been, now blocked by Superman’s arms. He did not look away.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “You should’ve led with that.”

—

...the next evening, his attempts at trimming his hair were interrupted by Alfred, who was quick to steal the scissors away and finish things himself. Soon, it was short enough he could slick it back for the first time in… a while. He pulled on one of his better dark turtlenecks. Business slacks. Dark shoes. Dark. Maybe too obviously a hide-away-in-the-background type dark.

They met Flash… on the other side of a zeta beam. Bruce hadn’t ridden one since first being escorted from the Watchtower to Gotham.

He hadn’t forgotten how uncomfortable it was, but it was one thing to remember in the mind and another to be given a reminder in the body.

Neither he nor Dick were in costume. There was no reason for Batman and Robin to suddenly be in Central. There would hopefully be no reason for anyone to suspect Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson to travel so far away from their little safe haven and attack.

Flash, however, did have some things to protect still, and so he waited on the other side of the zeta with his bright red costume made darker in the night, and an unfortunately bright smudge of yellow standing beside him.

“Hey, Bats,” Flash said, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you nicely this time.”

Bruce was really glad he hadn’t given in to breaking this guy’s legs. That would have made this reintroduction unbearably uncomfortable. As it was, he met the hand slowly, and enough of a sound for acknowledgement.

Flash didn’t say anything about it, turning instead to Dick. “And you! Also glad to see you’re doing fine; hooow’s the ankle. This is my sidekick, Kid Flash.”

There was no time to answer to the ankle before Flash had introduced and thumped the yellow teen him on the back, getting the very encouraging response, “I’m not a kid I’m a teenager, ” which was too obvious to have needed pointing out, considering the cracks in his voice and the speckles acne surrounding his lips. “Don’t embarrass me!”

“I would never do that.”

(While Bruce remained cold in his skin despite the warm night, beside him, Dick let out a little bit of a laugh. Almost a few huffs of one, really. It was softening. It was enough to unfreeze Bruce some and get him going again.)

“You needed help with identification?” said Bruce, stepping forward to end the introductions.

Flash’s expression changed back to serious in a… flash. At least he didn’t look disappointed. Or surprised. “Yeah. Follow me, there’s a place a little more private down the street.”

That place ended up being a deli bakery. One that had very much closed for the evening, and had shuttered its windows for good measure. This made very little difference to Flash, who pulled out a key from a very discreet pocket, and opened the staff door in the back.

“They donate the day-old stuff to me,” Flash said, grinning, like that explained much at all. “Why don’t you kids go see if there’s anything set on top of the counters in the back?”

The little yellow flash made a sound that wasn’t quite a whoop, but wasn’t quite quiet, either.

And then the little hand reached out, grabbed Robin’s wrist, and pulled him through the door behind the counter.

“Woah, easy, chief.”

Flash’s hand wasn’t touching Bruce, no, but it was in front of him, ready to block and restrain in a movement as Bruce took a step forward to follow.

He turned to look at Flash, and met his same hard eyes looking back through Flash’s mask.

“They’re just gonna look around and see if they can find some food. It’s fine.”

Bruce knew that was just what they were doing, of course. He just wanted to— check. Just to make sure. It was a closed up shop of people they didn’t know in a city that was too dark and empty at night, save for a few well-maintained streetlamps and a pair of teenage girls walking down the sidewalk to the seven-eleven, sticking close together in the Midwest fall—-

“Let’s just get a seat and wait for them, and we can get started. How’s that?”

Flash had removed his hand, and was gesturing now to one of the booth seats near the bar. Not by the windows. Maybe far enough from the windows that anyone who looked in and saw a book light on would just assume management was doing the books late.

(Bruce’s jaw was not tight , it was just his teeth kept pressing down together. He sat down across from the seat Flash gestured to. It was better to get through work quickly, and head home.)

“Okay,” said Flash, suddenly in the booth with him. Bruce almost still felt the breeze of the movement as a book-clipped green folder was produced and laid out on the table. “So, this is a case that’s been going on a little while. Take your time and let me know what you think of it.”

The file was pushed over to Bruce’s side of the table, and he took it quietly, removing the clip and flipping it open.

He disregarded the notes and bios and instead turned first to the photos.

...he did not like looking through other people’s photos. All he could think of was that he would have liked a bit closer look at the doorframe, or just a little bit out of angle, or frustration at someone’s focus being a little bit out. That was why you took lots of photos of course, but it was still a gnawing anxiety in him that they were going to just miss something. All he had were his eyes through someone else’s lense and someone else’s word to take for it.

Which he was very bad at liking.

….but that was just what this was, he guessed. The case was from five years prior. A body of an older woman on the floor of an enclosed porch. Broken glass. Gunshot wound to the left shoulder, close enough to the heart she’d probably been dead within a minute or two, long before the first police officers had arrived. A bullet hole in the wall behind her. Fallen out of her chair. Glass window of the porch had shattered. A bullet had been extracted from the wall, looking like a .22– moderately furnished house with plastic sheeting over the couches. Wicker chairs. An expensive security system had captured what were rendered as stills of the moment the bullets entered the cameras view, and a man a minute or so later on the front door at the other side of the house, running inside, presumably to inspect.

There were other things. They seemed comfortably middle to upper-middle class, from the photos, and finally turning to look at the profiles confirmed it. 68. White. Retired with a moderate stipend. Married thirty years. No priors or connections that Bruce might consider linking to any of the people he knew. Just things like public intoxication, driving violations, a few fines—

Her husband was found with her, and owned the same caliber gun that had broken the glass encasement, shot the woman, and knocked her out of her chair before lodging in the wall. He’d run in from across the street to investigate the gunshot, he said. He denied doing the deed, and circumstantial evidence was not enough to make a conviction on—

...Bruce flipped through the folder again, frowning.

Flash, who had pulled out his phone, looked up. “Something?”

“...what is it you want me to say about this?” It was a neatly put together file. Very neatly. No real loose ends, if everything in it was true. What was he supposed to be catching, here?

“Just, I guess, your thoughts. Anything stand out?” He took the moment to arch his back and stretch his arms out a bit, one hand still holding the phone. Smiled a bit. Friendly.

Bruce frowned while looking at Flash this time.

“This is a test,” he stated, “and I doubt just to see if I’d throw out a name just to be ‘useful.’”

Flash blinked innocently at him, but he was still smiling. “I mean, haha, can’t blame us too much…? You found a lot of trafficking chains, but, I mean—“

“The case has already been closed, and you’re certain of who did it,” said Bruce flatly. He flipped the folder shut and shoved it back across the table. “I’d rather see the scene myself, but if the numbers are right, the bullet hole is too steep an angle for a flat lawn if the husband shot from shoulder height. Someone half his height, or someone kneeling or lying in the grass. He’s old enough to have trouble getting up from that position, much less from the edge of the yard, to run around to the front of the house and avoid grass stains from a new cut lawn. There’s not enough other information to know who might’ve had a motive to make it professional or not.”

…

Flash blinked at him, leaning his elbows on the table to watch. He wasn’t smiling or laughing anymore. Good.

“Yeah,” Flash said. Moved the folder off the table, to the booth seat, out of view. “Some kids were playing with their new .22 in the yard across from the house and accidentally shot her through the window. They confessed a few months ago.”

It was a small enough crime that news wouldn’t have made it to Gotham. Or been widely publicized at all, if ‘kids’ meant they were still minors. That would make them thirteen at most at the time of the shooting—

Bruce wasn’t sure if his throat was full of acid or metal as he said, “Is there anything else for me to look over?”

Flash hesitated a moment (an eternity for him, surely) and said, “Well…”

Bruce stood and made a straight fucking line to the door Dick had been pulled in and not yet emerged. Flash called out, “Hey—!”

….even as the hand fell on his shoulder and tried to pull him back, Bruce had frozen in the doorway.

On the other side, he could only see a bit— the doorframe was too narrow and he dared not step closer—but he could see enough.

He’d wondered, a little bit, why Robin hadn’t emerged when he’d begun speaking. Surely he was loud enough to be heard from the back room. They were only meant to be separated minutes. Just a quick mission. Now, he could see, though—

Dick, sitting on an industrial chest freezer, his legs kicking, not near touching the floor.

He was holding a popsicle. One of the fudge ones. Partly eaten and the top of the stick beginning to show, and Robin didn’t see how it was beginning to drip down over the crinkled plastic wrap, and would soon run over his fingers.

He was busy, looking at Kid Fash. Kid Flash squatting on the floor with a creamsicle, holding it up to the color of his suit, and visibly whining with an orange tongue, a pouting face—

And Robin ignored his own melting ice cream to laugh.

...Flash’s hand tugged on his shoulder again, this time gentle enough that Bruce felt it. He turned with the pressure, and headed back for the booth.

He sat down in it, across from Flash and his already-solved case folder.

“...this was not for case files, was it,” Bruce said, staring at the table between them, feeling very stupid and small.

“I mean,” Flash said, looking almost as embarrassed as Bruce was shamed. “...we did want to know. But… we thought maybe my uh, my cousin could use someone who could relate to him.”

Ah yes. For Kid Flash’s sake. For the boy who they’d never seen publicized before, who was complaining about his outfit color as if he hadn’t chosen it, who didn’t know that in Flash’s ‘occasional empty diner hideout’ he was allowed to run off and eat before being told.

Not for the boy that for the past month Diana’s pitying face had hung over, the boy who had eagerly asked to Superman to stay for dinner, and who Martian Manhunter would deliver sleeves of choco cookies to, even though they had more than enough money to purchase a box for themselves.

...perhaps Bruce should be glad Flash wasn’t the best at lying. Perhaps Bruce was too used to looking for tells, and mistook super speed masking for the truth.

“I see,” was all he said.

When he’d been a child, there had been plenty of others who knew death, and who had never moved him an inch for all their crying. He’d done his best to make that untrue for Dick the past few years, and now they knew each other’s grief inside and out.

Bruce did not know what else to do from there.

It was grief all the way down.

“He’ll need to learn how to counter people who might actually know how to fight speedsters,” he said, watching the table. “There’s pads in the basement, if he’d like to improve sparring with Dick sometimes.”

Flash blinked at him again. Flash sat up straighter, grinning. “Oh?”

“Oh,” Bruce agreed, looking up to scowl. “But for fuck’s sake, bring more than one casefile next time.”

—

On Robin’s anniversary, a gang fight breaks out in the Diamond District.

Something gone wrong. A shootout.

Bruce isn’t sure if it could’ve been called a shootout before the police arrive. By the end of the night, the building is on fire, and a gas vein has blown. Heavy smoke drifting down the street causes a panic, and then a stampede—

He doesn’t want to let Robin out tonight.

On the news, it looks like there are fights breaking out in the stampede. There are people lying down, specks of color on the ground as the helicopter news anchor tries to describe the scene. She’s pure professional. Cold eyes. Clear eyes.

The smoke momentarily engulfs the helicopter, and she begins crying.

He does not want to let Robin out tonight.

He will deal with the outrage in the morning.

—

(On Robin’s anniversary, Harvey Dent sees the fires and hears gunshots from his hospital room. He drags himself and his IV stand away from the bed, towards the window, and fumbles with the latch with ineffective hands. The nurses come with the heart monitor alert. When they sedate him, Harvey is still screaming “Burn it down, burn it down.” )

—

...as often as it happens, Bruce doesn’t think Gotham knows how to deal with tragedy. Wasn’t it common by now? Weren’t they used to it? But as much as the flags should’ve flown half mast and statues been erected, the world stood still— the next morning, school busses take the children to school, and their parents march out to work.

Bruce has a distinct face, but with enough makeup and a red wig, he can seem to be a different person for a while. He can dress himself up as officer and with enough confidence and disdain walk right passed the caution tape and into the crime scene the next morning.

Is it still accurate to call several city blocks a crime scene? Is it a crime scene at all?

There’s caution tape around it. He knows what the words mean in his head. A shape, more than a real definition, with real letters attached— a block of space that has crumbled differently from the world around him. A depression of buildings, some with more tarps laid down than others.

Most of the bodies have been taken to the morgue by now. Not all of them. But most.

Is he going to sneak into the morgue tonight? Is he going to cut open an innocent person who gave no consent to him? To do more than what their family may have agreed to? Will he just steal the coroner’s report and assume they did their jobs properly?

….it is Gotham. He will assume nothing until proven otherwise. Even now it feels like the police are more rattled than usual, like something has actually gone and bitten them and made them pay a bit more attention.

Inside the building where the shootout started, he starts to look for the bullet holes and take pictures. He looks for scorch marks to track towards the origins of the blaze.

He doesn’t find a blown gas vein, no matter how hard he looks.

There was a difference between a storage building and a warehouse. This was a storage building. It had perhaps had a secretary and some organizers. Someone in charge of keeping track of records. There had been unused parts of the building. Bare rooms without much beyond stripped light switches and unpainted walls. One or two empty office spaces, for meetings perhaps. For presentations.

It was on the second floor where he found the lab. What appeared to be the remains of a lab, in any case. It had been shot up through the floors, and the papers had burnt up in the fire. Police hadn’t officially come up this high yet. The stairs didn’t seem stable. Bruce had not specifically used the stairs. As long as no one saw him slip back down, it would be fine.

It seemed as if the lab had not been in use at the time of the shootout. Fortunate. The beakers were broken, but they were all clustered together near the sink, clean, and so presumably had all been put away after any use. There was nothing sitting out that seemed to have been mid-use. He would’ve believed a Bunsen burner might’ve started part of the fire, but there was none of that, either.

...there was one thing. A broken tankard in the corner that had caused most of the damage, to be certain. A high caliber round seemed to have punctured it, either from the floor below or fired from the hall outside. Otherwise, there would’ve been another body up here, or at least the remnants of one. But the sudden decompression seemed to have mostly left just… a badly scattered room and shrapnel damage on the opposing wall.

He was about to move to the next room when he noticed the faint texture inside the tank and a matching sort of stain on the ceiling above.

...he moved closer to the tank, holding his breath and not daring to hope (should he be hoping for something?) and investigated.

A thin layer of green-ish white powder layered the insides of the tankard. An explosive cloud of the stuff must have also flown towards the ceiling and stained it during decompression. He’d assumed it was an oxygen tank. Assumed wrong.

Taking out a few q-tips, he picked up a few wipes and sealed them away in an evidence bag, did another once-over of the room, now trying to double check everything and ignore his ‘assumptions’, but the burnt papers remained largely illegible, and the cleaned lab materials yielded nothing new.

He moved on to the next room, and slipped out quietly from there to check the rest of the street.

—

He arrived back home in different clothes just about the time that Dick (picked up by Alfred) returned home from school.

The kid looks at Bruce as Bruce enters the front room, and a silent but perceptible drone passes between them.

For a moment, Bruce simply looked back, wondering what it was he was supposed to say here.

Eventually, he fumbles in his pockets and pulled out dust-covered q-tips. They’d done this lots of times on the road, hadn’t they? And it had been fun, then. “Want to help identify oddly colored dust?”

Dick lets his head drop back with an open-mouthed groan at the ceiling, but he does come to the garage lab without… any other response than that sound and movement.

...Bruce was not sure what that meant.

—

Who the fuck was rigging exploding nitrous oxide cans to deliver green-dyed powdered LSD?

—

Monday, at the park, he tells the ones who show up they can stay and work in the park as they’ve been doing the last two weeks, or they can come with him to help clean up the areas damaged by the fire.

Most of them, eight out of the ten, peel off to go help with the fire damage. He can’t say he expected that. But they wander out of the park, keeping together in a group, and spend the day with magnet sticks picking up nails and crooked metal and stacking bricks up out of the walkway. They hose down the ashes to stop dust and at Bruce’s insistence, scoop the ashes into garbage bags instead of just washing it all into the sewer.

It gets him some weird looks, but no one is ready to argue with him after only working for two weeks, because these are the ones who stayed for that daily stipend-- there’s not a contract here; these ten are the ones who hate this work less than anything else they might’ve had available, so they break out two flat shovels and bag things up, wearing cotton masks to avoid inhalation. Bruce trots back to the park to get the truck and pick up all those bags for disposal.

He’s prepared for the ones they left behind to have skipped out early, unsupervised, but as he rounds the (now lower) hedges to look at their base of operations he finds… they actually have acquired an extra person.

No, the shovels aren’t moving and the hedges don’t look that different from what they’d been like this morning, but that’s still not abandoning a position. And instead they have some soda cans from the nearby vending machine, and are leaning on a termite-eaten picnic table, talking with rapt interest to Dick Grayson.

Bruce paused to take it in a second time. Dick certainly clocked him coming into view even though the kid didn’t turn to look his direction. Dick was still there, though, sitting on the other side of the picnic table with a fizzy orange juice and his legs crossed under himself. It wasn’t Bruce’s day to pick him up, Bruce was certain, and yet he had a moment where he had to think of it again to make sure, and checked his phone, and his pocket schedule. But his instinct was right, and it was indeed Alfred’s day to pick Dick up from school while Bruce worked here in the park--

He started to walk over just as Dick turned and raised a hand in greeting, letting the recruits cue into his presence before he was close enough to startle them. And yet, they were still startled enough to look at their shovels and very obviously say “shit,” even when Bruce was still too far away to actually hear it. Then, one seemed to realize they had cursed in front of a tween, said “shit” again, and smacked themselves on the forehead.

Dick’s nose wrinkled up as he smiled. Bruce couldn’t hear it, but he knew it was a laughter snort.

(He did not acknowledge his jaw untensing as he walked up to Dick who was smiling and sociable again.)

He came over intending to smile and say words and have a nice conversation, and… then he was close enough and realized he didn’t know what to say. Did he tell them not to corrupt Dick? Would they take that as him implying they were poisonous to others? Would Dick take that as him being protective and spoil the mild good mood? If he told them to take the rest of the day off since clearly things weren’t going to happen, was that dismissal? Or was that chasing them off? Would it be a threat to their paycheck, even though he intended to pay the day’s wages fair as always?

Things seemed to be going almost well lately. The park was slowly being cleaned and Dick was in better spirits than he’d been for two days since the anniversary--

“Oh, he stalled out, don’t worry about it.”

It is not embarrassment, but Bruce does snap out of his train of thought and back into the present. “Sorry,” he says, and looks to the two grown men in their baggy jackets and laced up work boots and secondhand hats. “We’re just finishing cleaning up some of the ash. If you come help move the last bit, we’ll all call it a day.”

As they got up and started shuffling away from the picnic table, Bruce did glance at Dick, and after a moment of still confusion, say, “Coming?”

...the expression Dick gives him was not a smile. But he did come.

They throw the garbage bags in the back of the trunk, and pack it largely to the brim. Surreptitiously, before Dick can climb into the passenger seat, Bruce digs out a simple dust mask and hands it to him. With barely a second look, Dick puts it on and rolls down the window before settling in. It’s smooth, and no one asks questions or looks much askance, because he and Dick are good by now at not announcing something is happening that is different than normal to the world at large.

(And Dick has become very good at seeing through that with Bruce, but Bruce is… starting to wonder if perhaps, he has taught Dick too well to hide anything that would draw attention that something was wrong. Like a wounded animal could run on a broken leg, or a predator bleed from the mouth, and neither would ever make a peep.)

They drove the bags of ashes home to hide behind the house’s perimeter walls, and Bruce tried to explain. The dust, and the huge plume of heat and smoke that could’ve blown even heavy particles down the street, and the sort of cues that psychedelics took from the state you were in. How most people probably wouldn’t exactly get a good trip, surrounded by gunfire and smoke. And maybe there was something else he missed, in the ash, unsafe for casual disposal, how he wasn’t certain he hadn’t missed something--

Dick laid his head back on the car seat, sighing through his mask, and Bruce stopped his mumbling.

Glanced over.

“...maybe I can… arrange for Flash to take a look, if you want to come along,” he offered as they pulled onto their street.

Dick sat up a little straighter, a little light in his eyes.

...he wondered, maybe unkindly (but mostly tiredly), if Dick would rather move in with the Flash and his sidekick. He didn’t have any real evidence for this. Kids did tend to be fairly excited to see friends around their own age, and just because someone might enjoy a trip to a festival didn’t mean they wanted to live in one.

...yet, Dick probably would’ve been quite happy, adopted into a renaissance fair circuit.

Maybe it wasn’t that Dick needed more friends. Maybe the issue was Bruce.

But it’s too late to change that now, isn’t it? Dick drew his line in the sand in front of the Justice League, and Bruce had given him too many secrets to have to keep, and there was nowhere else to go.

—

Bruce goes to Gotham Academy early. Very early. Two hours before pickup is meant to be.

Dick has gotten into a fight.

The parents of the other kid are already there when Bruce arrives and is shown to the principal’s office (it is in the same place it has been since Bruce went here) and ushered inside to the sound of anger and snapping threats.

The office is wood, with a centered carpet and a large mahogany desk at the center, and surrounded by three adults and two children, one of them his.

Dick doesn’t have a scratch on him, unless you count a faint bruise starting to show on his knuckles. The other boy, who is bigger and taller in every way, has a tissue up to his nose and an ice pack on his ear, and is simultaneously shielded and towered over by his two parents, neither of whom have stopped arguing with the principal since Bruce arrived.

He barely gets a chance to get to Dick’s chair by the wall when he is also pulled into the argument by a “Is this little heathen yours, Mister Malone?” from the mother.

Things are not going to improve from there, he’s pretty sure.

“What’s going on?” he asks the principal instead, who is a balding white man with age spots on his face and horn-rimmed glasses on his nose.

“ Master Richard here has assaulted Master Reynolds--” the principal begins.

“--and we will be pressing charges if adequate disciplinary action is not taken,” says the father.

“But what actually happened,” Bruce says, and somehow the noise gets louder in the room. Not the physical noise of three or four people talking at once, but also the hot dissent from Dick in his corner, the hidden bloodied fear of the boy he attacked, the principal patting the desk with his hands over and over, trying to call attention back to himself. Fluorescent lights bright as static. Itchy polyester fake turkish carpets even though his shoes. The room is small and red-orange with wood stained to look like cherry, yellow copper accents on the studs of cushions and trophies and the frames of portraits and certificates hung on the clustered walls--

Dick is suspended three weeks.

Dick is curled in the front seat of the car, furious that Bruce didn’t defend him enough and fight back, and get his sentence reduced or vetoed entirely. His body is balled up tight enough he’s no bigger than he was at eight, curled around the seatbelt in a haze of fury.

“He was picking on people ,” Dick says in a way Bruce knows means Dick had seen it before, but this time it had crossed a line. “ He should be suspended.”

‘He’ is getting two stitches and a formal apology written (ostensibly) by Dick. Dick will not be the one writing it, even if it’s his name at the bottom. ‘He’ will be in school, not in trouble for bullying but now with free reign to his targets without Dick to stand in the way. If Dick was even in the way before at all. If being in the way without being physical meant anything in this case.

“You’ll just have to be more subtle about it,” Bruce says, trying to be encouraging. Because Dick didn’t do anything wrong to step in. Maybe it didn’t deserve a bloody nose, maybe it could’ve been handled some other way, but he still hasn’t been able to wrangle the exact story out of anyone but he is certain that--

Dick goes “RRR” and kicks the windshield hard enough that Bruce startles and slams on the breaks.

Their seatbelts jerk tight and a car horn behind them blares.

...there is the faintest tap on their bumper, but Bruce is already speeding the car forward again, heart pounding too hard to stop.

There’s not even a scratch when they get out at their house later.

He goes to Dick’s bedside in the evening. Dick’s lying on top of his covers with the lights turned off in a darkening room, staring at the wall opposite the door. There was music playing before, but the CD player turned off as soon as Bruce turned the door handle.

He sits by Dick’s bedside and asks if he’d like to go out for the evening.

Dick agrees, but there isn’t much laughter that night, except the sort Robin scares people with.

The mood is still there the next morning.

It is Superman’s turn to check in. Apparently.

The visit is unscheduled (and probably because of Dick’s suspension) and today involves casserole, which Bruce is primed automatically to dislike.

"Yes?" Bruce says upon seeing big blue and buoyant in their kitchen, hovering over the kitchen island with a glass dish covered in aluminium and Alfred looking over a handwritten paper beside him.

"Oh, hey, good morning there," Superman says, as if he's surprised to see Bruce here when there was no other person for him to be there to see . "I was just dropping off the casserole recipe Alfred wanted to try."

…one of the only people for him to be here to see. But Bruce still doubted a casserole was a real reason for a whole visit. So Bruce tries again. "Did you need something?"

Alfred looks up from the paper with a frown and without a word starts shooing them out of the cooking space if they're going to be talking business. "I dunno. Was there something you needed to talk about?"

They make it to the couches of the living room, though neither of them sit down.

"No," says Bruce.

"Alright then," says Superman, who Bruce is learning is an asshole. "I heard some stuff happened with Dick at school?"

Which is entirely unsubtle and a very clear sign that Superman is not leaving until Bruce asks some sort of question or resolves whatever this is.

So fine. Bruce hasn't even had some fucking coffee yet. He'll ask a question. "What would you do if your child, who is aware that at nightime they can go out and punch abusers and rapists, during the daytime attempted to defend an underclassman, and as a result are threatened with criminal action or suspension while you are trying to lie low and causing a big fuss about it and fighting the decision will do the exact opposite of laying low, severely limiting their freedom regardless of if we win."

Like a coward, Superman's expression says he had been thinking of Dick as a kid who was not Dick , and sheepishly says, "I guess, what would your parents do?"

Bruce thinks he feels it this time. The expression on his face turning colder. He feels it the same way Dick can always see the change. "I wouldn't know that, now, would I?"

...this was why he left in the first place, wasn't it. This eternal loop of days upon days surrounded by people who just forgot or never could let him forget. It's been easier as an adult, almost-- it's normal now for people's parents to be dead. It's normal to not have people ask after them like limbs they can't see have detached. Even if Superman doesn't know his old name, doesn't know that stupid story about a boy billionaire and his rich family, its jarring to realize that even the most alien being on earth just assumes--

--well, of course. He would know all humans have parents.

But the bite in Bruce's voice is cold enough, and the way Alfred's slight shuffling in the kitchen goes quiet, it's enough to get through apparently-- Superman's head is ducked down embarrassed and he says, "right, sorry," because perhaps Bruce returning to Gotham to the fucking Wayne Butler's House should've been enough reason to realize he didn't have any family left of his own. "The person who raised you…"

"Nothing they said," Bruce interrupts, "has ever done anything about this."

…

Maybe he's angry. He hasn't had any coffee yet. But he turns to end this conversation and walk out to the garden, and hears Alfred's sigh from the kitchen.

But he's telling the truth.

Even if Alfred had found something new to say in the years since Bruce tried to bite his therapist's face off, if he's tried to say it to Dick, it clearly hasn't been working.

There is a thing like a piston beating up against his head. A hammering rhythmically at the front of his skull. One thing, then another, then another, then another, and when he wakes up the next morning to one more ring there will still be all the ones behind him, echoing through the halls still unresolved.

He wasn’t made to live like this. How was anyone made to live like this? One thing after another and another and when he wakes up in the morning there are still more banal, useless things to do in a world that eats up and eats up and eats up--

How does the grocery store clerk wake up each morning? How does she go to bed at night knowing the same thing will happen the next day, but worse, and more tired, and less pay, over and over, for eternity.

#batman #dick grayson #bruce wayne #robin #fanfic #roadtrip vigilantes

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inyoursheets · 3 years

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i got tagged by the kind @bourbon-ontherocks to do the language tag game thingy so let’s goooo

below the cut bc my english language journey has many twists and turns (jk im just a wordy person) (in writing) (as you may know by now)

How many languages do you speak?

two bc im an embarrassment to all my high school modern language teachers. so just dutch and english im afraid

What’s your native language?

my first language is dutch

Which language you’re most comfortable with?

it’s unnerving as hell but............it’s increasingly becoming english? youd think dutch would be the answer and it is in some ways, but considering most of my degree was in english, i genuinely struggle to express myself in dutch more when speaking on topics related to my field. so basically whenever someone tries to debate me im like !! i know but i dont know how to say this in dutch !! aah !! help !!! many thoughts, zero coherent sentences

the only reason im less comfortable w english is when speaking, mostly bc of my pronunciation. speaking english is something i do considerably less compared to reading, writing, and listening in/to english, especially now that im done w my studies.

also! i notice that while i understand the meaning of english words, sometimes when i deliberately literally translate them in my head (a much slower process than the intuitive way i normally speak/listen to english) the meaning hits me more? like, it sinks in a little more, it lands closer to home? english not being my first language means it creates some emotional distance from what im talking about.

so, i now sometimes try to deliberately seek out books and articles in dutch on important topics, bc that way i take in more of the depth of meaning and i feel addressed more directly on an intuitive level. does that make sense? for example, reading about racism and white privilege in english gives me a little more distance from the subject tho it shouldn’t, by virtue of it being in a language that is not the one i was raised with. so especially topics relating to (my) societal privileges, i try to also engage with in dutch, and not just in english. im not gonna stop learning about them in english, there’s a fuckton more information out there on any topic, really, in english, and so many people i learn so much from speak english. but i gotta keep reminding myself to also consume dutch articles/books/etc., especially when it’s very important that i really hear what’s being said

Where or how did you learn English?

formally? i started in primary school and then all of high school (we dont have middle school here, fyi). but really, what helped the most was reading books and watching tv shows and films in english.

first, id read the dutch translation of a book. then id read the english version, already knowing the story. then slowly i got to a point where i didnt need to already know the book before being able to read it in english.

same with tv and film -- first id watch dubbed versions of tv shows, which is common practice in the netherlands with shows aimed at a young audience (that’s the extent of it as far as i can tell - other than kids’ movies, films in the cinema are not dubbed). then i got to a point where i could watch those same shows in english with dutch subtitles (shows airing earlier in the day would be the dubbed version, and in the evening theyd be subbed). then i got to a point where i could watch shows that aren’t dubbed in the first place, with dutch subtitles. then i got to the stage where i watched shows with english subtitles. and now i forget subtitles exist and only watch things in english. the only time i’ll turn on (english) subtitles is if there are people whose accents i find more difficult to understand.

i think consuming media in english in these stages (which took years! slow process! happened alongside of high school english classes!) is what helped me learn english the most, next to formal training. that’s really how my vocab improved and how it keeps improving, i guess. tho the amount of times i encounter a word i dont know the meaning of has significantly lessened

(also what helped is living in sweden and in the uk for a few months. no choice but communicating in english. and like i said, most of degree was in english so i had to read and write in english like every day. in conclusion: being surrounded with english on a daily basis is why im at this level, not just from watching hannah montana)

When outlining a fic, which language are you thinking in?

ok so i dont really outline fics ??? it’s more like. a few bullet points of vague ideas (in english) and then i start. but if i were to finally get my shit together and actually properly outline, id do so in english

When planning a fic, which language are you thinking in?

yeah also in english

Is the first draft in your native language, or is it in English?

also english. it wouldnt even occur to me to draft or outline in dutch. i might if the show itself was in dutch but since it’s in english....ok wait no i wouldnt, im far too lazy to translate a whole draft and i commend people that do!

What do you [think] of your English?

ummmmm well. i think i could improve on the speaking front and that my pronunciation leaves a lot to be desired. and i think i could stand to be a little less arrogant sometimes bc i tend to think i know meanings of words but sometimes i dont know the exact nuance of a word or all of its meanings. so if i were a little less cocky about the whole ordeal id probably improve more. annnnd bc these days i learn most new words on online, i should be more proactive about figuring out where terms originate from and pay attention to whether a word or a phrase is okay for me to use or not (like not appropriating AAVE).

other than that i think my english is fine. and i think that me thinking in english more often than in dutch means im what dutch people talk about when they say dutch is dying out lmaoooo you’re WELCOME

im tagging................. ok im actually not even sure who in this fandom doesnt have english as a first language? so im just gonna tag fic writers and hope they speak multiple languages. like my wife @mrslackles (i should know this about my wife! sorry!) or @bethsuglywigs ?? @septiembur ??? @riosnecktattoo ???? somebody pls send help. ok you know what im just gonna double tag @bathroombreaks and @missmaxime

also whether i accurately tagged you or not, no pressure. also if you’re reading this and english isnt your first language, TAG YOU’RE IT

#it’s....something....to notice that i think in english a lot #esp considering i live in a country where my first language is the one used the most #eh.....let's just let dutch die a fiery death #can you tell im overthinking who to tag #i dont wanna imply things about people's english ??? i just literally dont know who doesnt have english as their first language #except missmaxime and bourbon-ontherocks #my goodness this is more difficult than figuring out which ao3 handle goes with which tumblr url #when i couldnt read (much) as a child id ask my parents to read the subtitles out loud #so there are some shows that were dubbed by my parents right in my living room #whenever my grandparents would watch us theyd be so slow to translate and i missed the whole episode #bc my grandpa would first repeat what a character said in english and then translate to dutch #tag games #long post #one day i'll stop overexplaining and get my wordiness under control #(today is not that day)#this post is really just a very elaborate way of saying that hannah montana greatly impacted my life

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artificialqueens · 4 years

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Baby Let's Keep It Secret (Jan x Jackie) - Ortega

a/n: i speed-wrote this after being struck with inspiration and a new-found obsession with jankie, so enjoy!! i legit hate it more with every re-read though so i’m submitting before i honestly del-yeet it off the face of the internet. it’s a little piece within the strictly au-verse from one of the background couples’ points of view, and i’m planning to do more of these so keep a lil eye out! i hope u all enjoy anyway, and that u for all the love on chapter 4! it makes me dead happy xxxxxxxx

plot summary: “But now she’s here, on a wet, cold Monday morning, with no texts and no sign of Jackie and a heartbeat that belongs to a hummingbird. Jackie probably regrets everything and Jan has to spend the rest of the competition with her and it’s going to be unbearably awkward.”

***

Jan is the first to arrive at the church hall on Monday morning. It’s freezing, and she pulls her off-shoulder gym sweater over her wrists and fidgets with the sleeves. She both feels the cold and doesn’t. The racing that her pulse is currently doing serves as a heater, and she can’t stop pacing either. She thanks God that the film crew aren’t there this morning, because she doesn’t have very many coherent thoughts, never mind words.

They had won the first episode. Well. “Won” isn’t the right word, but they came top of the leaderboard, and the praise from the judges still rings in Jan’s ears if she thinks about it hard enough:

“The technical elements were all there, and Jan, that choreography was to die for, well done.”

“This partnership is gonna be one to watch, for sure, the chemistry between you two is just incredible!”

“This was a strong first week, keep this up, I can’t wait to see what comes next from you.”

“It was so full of fun and joy, such a cheeky routine and you both created so much tension, good job!”

Although instead of the joy they’d all sparked on Saturday night, instead they now all serve as a reminder as to what happened after that, and Jan feels her face flush hot as the embarrassment hits her all over again, fuck. Why does she have to be such an eager lovesick puppy all the goddamn time? It never ends well. Jan knows that, but she keeps repeating the same behaviour every time she gets a new crush and expects different results.

But Jackie is different. She’s a woman, at least, and that’s new for Jan. Jan’s used to either men- rough, heavy hands, too fast and too slow all at once- or girls- all her high-school experiences that she’s repressed and shoved in the back of a filing cabinet in her mind for future Jan to deal with.

Except they’ve all come bursting out at once like that scene in Bruce Almighty that used to make her laugh so much as a teenager. It was induction day, really, that had caused it all. Jan remembers standing on the opposite side of the room to Jackie Cox and trying not to make it obvious that her gaze was getting drawn to her every five seconds like she was a magnet, the black running leggings and cutout strappy sports bra she had been wearing still sending shivers up Jan’s spine if she thinks about them again. The way her heart had risen to the sky with anticipation and excitement was almost cringeworthy; she had truly felt like a schoolgirl with a crush on a teacher. Okay, Jackie isn’t that much older than her, but Jan knew her, of course she knew her. She is Jackie Cox. You can’t switch on the news without seeing her face, you can’t go on Twitter without seeing people retweet her latest biting bit of government-critical commentary that’s likely going to get her fired one day. Watching her chat with the other girls on that induction day was mesmerising- she was fun and goofy and had a big smile on her face the whole time but she simultaneously exuded a calm and self-assured sense of power that Jan had felt inexplicably intoxicated by.

They’d been paired together and Jan had been so nervous and anxious to impress her and get on well with her but Jackie had just been so relaxed and easy-going and had taken to everything Jan had taught her like a duck to water. When they’d been officially paired on launch night Jan had been so overjoyed that she’d screamed the place down.

And now they’re partners. For the past fortnight they’ve spent every waking moment together, and it’s been both a blessing and a curse. In rehearsals, Jackie is no-nonsense- she wants to learn the dance, and she wants to be taught- but every time they stop for a break Jackie’s goofing around and winding Jan up and pestering her to post this, that and the next thing to Instagram. The woman is limpet-levels of touchy, not that Jan’s complaining. She’s always resting a hand on Jan’s knee when they stop for a break, grabbing her arm as she laughs at something Jan’s said, gently butting her head against Jan’s shoulder when it’s late and they’re both tired but they just have to finish up this last little bit of the routine.

Of course, if Jan notices it with every hour they spend together, then it’s not long until it gets picked up on by others. They’ve gone live on Instagram one day and Jackie’s got her arm around Jan’s shoulders and Jan’s leaning into her. Jan can feel Jackie’s heartbeat and it’s going like a bullet train and Jan wonders if it’s her that’s making Jackie’s heart race as much as it is before dismissing that thought as the delusional ramblings of someone with a too-big crush. They’re answering questions that their fans have sent in and Jan taps on one a little deliberately.

“Jackie, what’s your favourite thing about rehearsing with Jan?” Jan reads, smiling with her tongue trapped between her teeth. She doesn’t dare turn to face Jackie because she can see on screen how close her face is to hers and she doesn’t need that proximity adding to the list of reasons Jackie’s able to mess with her head. Jackie’s looking at her though, and her smirk is so cheeky that it turns Jan’s insides to jelly.

“Uh, nothing, she’s dreadful,” Jackie says, causing Jan to yelp an affronted cry and Jackie to stick her tongue out at her. It’s near the end of their first week of rehearsals and it’s nice that they’re already at the stage that they can joke about in the way that they’re doing.

(Some might call it flirting, but Jan’s loath to get her hopes up so high.)

“No, I think in all seriousness it’s…her smile,” Jackie concludes, and the answer feels like the best kind of gut punch. Jan has to actively control her facial expressions and mold them into something that isn’t just two ginormous heart eyes and a dopey lovesick smile. The smile that Jackie likes the best. Jackie continues, her eyes now cast into her lap as she picks at a bit of fluff on her leggings. “She’s always smiling, she’s always positive. Even if I mess up the routine, she’s still smiling at me and patient with me. And it’s just nice. So…yeah.”

Jan can’t help herself. She turns to face Jackie, deliberately shoots her a dazzling smile. “That’s sweet. Thank you.”

Jackie gives her a little wink that translates to you’re welcome. Jan wants to interpret it as something more, but she can’t hope that much.

That’s when it starts. The first comment scrolls across the screen, then another, then another.

janetmanitoneeeee: omg u guys are too much

strictlyjan2003: something’s going onnnnnnnnn

janstan04: WE ALL SHIP IT

janstan04: JANKIE

Jan tries to ignore them all but they’re relentless and swarming across her screen like locusts, and Jackie points them out before she can do a thing about them.

“What the hell is Jankie? What ship?” she laughs, confused. Jan waves her hand dismissively, gives a snort.

“Oh, God, it’s like…they think we would be good together. Like. As a couple.”

“Oh,” Jackie raises her eyebrows. Jan is blushing slightly as she keeps her eyes trained on the screen. Jackie’s face is surprised, but not unpleasantly so. “So they want to see us bon-”

“Family show, Jaqueline!” Jan laughs, cutting her off before she can reach the end of her sentence. Jackie snorts and the conversation is dropped as they move on to something else.

But Jan wonders how the sentence would’ve ended. Scratch that, she knows how the sentence would’ve ended, and from that day on there’s a change in the atmosphere. Jackie doesn’t look at her the same but that’s not necessarily for the worse. Their routine ramps up a gear- it’s somehow just better. Well, not somehow, there’s a reason. It’s the same reason Jan can feel Jackie’s eyes on her whenever she stretches in rehearsal, whenever she peels a layer of clothing off in a break. It’s the same reason they’ve started openly flirting with each other, and Jackie’s little suppressed smile and raised eyebrows is what Jan imagines cocaine might feel like- she’s not done it, she wouldn’t know. Making Jackie laugh becomes an addiction, spending time with Jackie is an addiction. When Jan gets the tube back from Hounslow and arrives back at her flat all shrouded in darkness she feels as if there’s part of her missing. Which is ridiculous. They’ve only been paired together for a week. Admittedly in that short time there’s been a few tabloid articles about them, the speculation already beginning. Jan would be lying if she said she didn’t like it.

Through it all, they rehearse. They practise and practise until Jan’s muscles ache, because more time rehearsing means more time with Jackie and the more they rehearse means the better they get. It’s a win-win situation. So when they smash their routine on Saturday, really knock it out the park, and get (“Eight!” “Eight!” “Eight!” “Eight!”) 32/40, Jan’s head is spinning. On the floor they were electric and sexy and the sparks were practically flying off them, Jan didn’t imagine it. Jackie doesn’t take her hands off her once it’s done- a protective arm around her waist as they receive their critiques, her hand in Jan’s as they tear up the stairs and give their post-routine interview, both arms around her in a crushing hug after their scores are revealed. An arm around Jan’s shoulders as they weave their way backstage to yet another interview, a hand lazily pressed against her hip. The constant close proximity is making Jan almost lightheaded, and so when they’re finally alone Jan isn’t really thinking straight. That’s why she takes Jackie’s hand and tugs her towards her dressing room, laughing gently at the confusion painting her face.

“Jan, we’ve got to go back to makeup!”

“Just…c’mere!” she giggles, tugging on Jackie’s hand again. Jackie gives her a roll of her eyes and a long-suffering smile, and takes two steps forward to follow Jan into her dressing room. As soon as the door swings shut, Jan can’t control herself any longer and she immediately pulls Jackie in, one hand still tangled in Jackie’s and the other curled around her waist, and Jan is so close she swears she can pinpoint the moment Jackie’s pupils dilate.

“Oh,” Jackie murmurs. It’s nothing, a literal letter of the alphabet, but Jan swears it’s the hottest thing she’s ever heard. Jackie wets her bottom lip with her tongue. “So this is why we’re in your dressing room.”

“Uh-huh,” Jan nods quickly. Her heart gives a concerningly heavy thud as Jackie brings her free hand up to ghost over her neck and tangle in her hair, tousled and wavy for the routine, and Jan thanks Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus that it’s not in some intricate bun. There’s a pause where nothing seems to be happening except the two of them smiling at each other and waiting to kiss. Jan loves it, though, this kind of purgatory they’ve created, so she presses her body against Jackie’s as she drops her voice lower. “You were so good out there, fuck, you were amazing.”

Jackie tries and fails to conceal a smile. She drops her hand out of Jan’s grip and brings it up to rest at her waist. “Did you just bring me in here to compliment me, or are we going to kiss?”

“Fuck, please,” Jan breathes. It only takes that much for Jackie to instantly lean down and close the gap between them. It’s not enough and too much all at once, the tension that’s been building between them finally coming to a head and Jan feels like she’s melting, ice to Jackie’s fire. Her lips are soft and slick with the gloss that makeup applied before they went on stage and Jan is gripped with a sense of longing and wanting that’s so visceral it almost scares her. She pulls her body flush against Jackie’s own and she feels Jackie gasp against her lips. The noise only adds to how embarrassingly needy Jan’s becoming- she’s way too turned on already, shockwaves pulsing through her whole body. It’s a kiss, it’s nothing more than that, and yet it’s better than any sex Jan’s had with a man in her life.

Jackie pulls away. Jan whines, and it elicits a smug smile from the other woman. Jan doesn’t want to know how much of a mess she looks. If it’s half as much as how she feels, it’s going to be too telling. She takes Jackie by the wrist again, pouts as she tries to pull her in. Jackie doesn’t budge.

“Makeup,” she teases. Jan lets out a groan. She cannot go back and interact with other people right now. Her whole world is Jackie.

“Please, just two more minutes,” she begs. For a moment Jan thinks she sees a flash of lust in Jackie’s eyes. She takes the sign of weakness and runs with it, pushing her bottom lip out. “Please?”

“Fuck, Jan,” Jackie laughs, rubs the back of her neck and rolls her head to the ceiling. “You’re so gorgeous and it physically pains me to have to say it but someone’s gonna come bang on this door if we don’t get back soon.”

Jan sighs, doesn’t wipe the pout off her face. Jackie quirks a warning eyebrow at her in return.

“Stop being a brat, c’mon,” she warns her, and Jan would be lying if she said Jackie didn’t just make the whole situation worse.

Or better. Probably better.

They go to makeup and they get their smudges cleaned up and the foundation they’ve sweated off re-applied, and they head back to the studio to watch the final dance of the night, Crystal and Gigi’s. Jan cheers for her friend despite the fact the pair of them are so good at their frighteningly fast Samba that they threaten to topple her and Jackie off the top of the leaderboard. They don’t, but they come close (thirty-one), and as Jan claps she makes a mental note to step up her and Jackie’s choreography tomorrow. The pair of them don’t get another moment alone until they’ve cleaned all their makeup off and got changed back into their comfies ready to head home. Jackie swings by Jan’s dressing room as she’s packing up and Jan involuntarily blushes, remembering the last time they’d both been in this room a mere thirty minutes ago.

“Hey. Crushed it tonight,” Jackie smiles proudly, the praise lighting up both Jan’s face and heart.

“Yeah, we really did that, huh?” she returns her grin, looks to the floor with slight embarrassment. Jackie pauses before she speaks next.

“Well, guess I’ll see you Monday?”

Jan tries not to look disappointed, but really, the single logical brain cell she possesses scolds her, what the hell did she think was going to happen? Her smile becomes fake despite it not physically changing. “Yeah, sure!”

Jackie gives a small laugh. “Sure, Jan!”

Jan has to let out a small snort at that, and she risks meeting her partner’s eyes again. Jackie is hovering at the door.

“I’ll text you,” she smiles decisively, Jan’s hopes instantly being raised as she nods enthusiastically and waves goodnight.

But now she’s here, on a wet, cold Monday morning, with no texts and no sign of Jackie and a heartbeat that belongs to a hummingbird. Jackie probably regrets everything and Jan has to spend the rest of the competition with her and it’s going to be unbearably awkward. All Jan did on Sunday was choreograph their dance, the sexiest tango she could possibly manage, while replaying their kiss in her head and checking her phone obsessively. She feels like an idiot, even more so when Jackie bounces through the door and waves at her with a big grin on her face as if nothing has happened.

“Morning!” she sing-songs as she shrugs her jacket off and chucks her bag down underneath a pile of stacked chairs. Jan blinks at her, taken-aback. “How are you? Good day off?”

“Well, I mean. I was doing choreo, wasn’t exactly a day off,” Jan shrugs. She can’t help but be cold- Jackie is acting as if she’s got short-term memory loss, and it’s killing Jan along with the sweatpants that are slung low on Jackie’s hips and the baggy sweater that’s hiding her thin frame. The shift in tone seems to work and Jackie is looking at her through narrowed eyes, then laughing slightly.

“Shit, yeah, sorry I didn’t text. I honestly was wiped out yesterday, I did a stint on News 24 and then I had like an eight-hour nap in the middle of the day.”

Jan can’t help but quirk a smile at her. “Eight hours? That’s not a nap, that’s a full sleep.”

Jackie shrugs, and her dark eyes soften. Jan is reminded of looking into them on Saturday, her pupils wide and blown, and the memory almost gives her whiplash. “I am sorry, Jan, I can tell you’re mad at me.”

Jan gives a scoff of a laugh, tries to pretend she’s offended. “Mad? I’m not mad at you, God, I’m not…no, I’m chill. It’s fine.”

Jackie raises her eyebrows at her disapprovingly and it makes Jan’s stomach flip over and heat pool low in her stomach. “Yeah, you sound it. Okay, what’re we doing this week?”

Jan swallows before she speaks. “Uh, tango! I thought, y’know, the judges loved our chemistry so much last week so if we play on that it might get us good scores again.”

Jackie’s smile grows on her face and it makes Jan’s heart flutter in anticipation as she takes two steps closer to her. “Mm, good plan. Definitely not seeing an ulterior motive behind that at all.”

Jan is warming up to her but she wants to make Jackie suffer just a little so she flips her golden ponytail over her shoulder and turns away from her, fiddling with her phone and scrolling to the song she’s chosen. To her satisfaction, Jackie follows her over to the speaker near the raised little stage at the other end of the hall, jumps up so that she’s sitting on it and swings her legs. “What’s it to?”

Jan bites back a smile. “React.”

“As in Pussycat Dolls, React?” Jackie grins at her. Jan is fighting to hold back her smirk as Jackie inspects her nails. “That’s kind of ironic.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jan shrugs lightly, making to walk into the centre of the room when Jackie shoots a hand out and takes her by the wrist.

“Hey,” Jackie murmurs, pulling her close. Jan is standing right in front of her and Jackie’s knees are digging into her stomach a little, but she doesn’t mind. “I was thinking about you yesterday. I promise I didn’t forget about Saturday night.”

Jan raises her eyebrows in slight disbelief. She’s about to make some comment about not missing her enough to text her, but Jackie spreads her legs and guides her in between them so that they’re close. The action makes Jan’s eyes flutter shut in a heavy blink as she attempts to gather her thoughts. Jackie squeezes the hand she’s taken.

“You’re really cute,” Jackie says bluntly, and Jan feels the blush hit her face like she’s been slapped.

“You’re really cute,” Jan parrots back at her, her knees almost turning to jelly when Jackie reaches out and tucks a small strand of loose hair behind her ear. There’s a moment where they’re both just gazing into each others’ eyes, and Jan feels as if it’s straight out of a movie scene. Her heart almost hurts with how much she likes Jackie.

Jackie drops her voice low to a whisper, pulls Jan closer. “Can we kiss in a church?”

Jan feels like she’s just been shocked by a defibrillator. “Well. Jesus might be watching.”

“I’m sure he’ll allow it,” Jackie shrugs before tilting her head, sliding her hands onto Jan’s waist, and meeting her lips with her own. Jan melts into her slowly, refrigerated chocolate on a hot day. This kiss is different to the one they shared on Saturday night- they know it’s just them, and they know they have all the time in the world so they kiss as if time doesn’t exist. It’s so early that Jan can taste Jackie’s mint toothpaste, and the realisation makes her heart give a twinge of affection. Jackie does like her, and Saturday wasn’t a mistake, and the blood in her veins races in anticipation because something is happening between them and it’s more exciting than any glitterball trophy.

Jan breaks the kiss this time, the petty side of her still wanting the upper hand, but she doesn’t move her arms from their position looped around Jackie’s neck and resting on her shoulders. She doesn’t even try to conceal the smile that appears on her face as she watches Jackie’s eyes flutter open lazily, the moment so unexpectedly tender that it knocks her for six.

“Is this a thing now?” she finds herself saying before she can stop the words rushing out of her mouth, and she instantly wants to cringe. Too keen, too eager, too enthusiastic. Although the panic rising in her throat dissipates when Jackie tries to stifle a grin and fails.

“Fuck, we’re the worst kind of cliché. Strictly curse got us by week three,” she groans, tilting her head to the cracks in the ceiling. She brings her gaze back to look Jan in the eye, suddenly turning serious. “We’re going to have to keep this quiet, though. Not that I’m ashamed or anything, sorry, that came out wrong. I just don’t want anyone thinking this is some cheap stunt we’re using to get votes because it’s…more than that. To me, anyway.”

The affirmation Jackie’s just given her sends Jan’s hopes rocketing skywards and this time she doesn’t even try to lower them. The smile on her face turns scheming. “I can sneak around if you want, although I don’t know how easy it’s going to be for you to keep your hands off me, Miss Cox…”

Jan laughs as Jackie groans and shoves her away playfully. As much as Jan wants to pin her to the stage and smother her with kisses and maybe a little more (the thought of fucking in a church is too much to entertain at this particular moment), she straightens her posture decisively and grabs her phone.

“Right, we need to rehearse. Because the better we do in this competition, the longer you get to spend every single day with your hands all over me. And that’s just during rehearsals.”

Jan shoots Jackie a wink and Jackie laughs as she saunters across to the middle of the room to warm up.

If Jan’s got anything to do with it, they’re not going to be leaving the competition any time soon.

#rpdr fanfiction #jankie #jan sport #jackie cox #strictly au #lesbian au #baby let's keep it secret #ortega #s12

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itsclydebitches · 4 years

Note

Re the BTD recap: "the prose is still incredibly messy in places" "To be frank, it’s not that I think this is all particularly good… just not particularly bad either." If it's not too much trouble, can I get some concrete examples for why? I feel like I often don't notice this sort of thing, so I want to know what I'm missing. Might help me to be a better writer.

Challenging request, anon! :D I feel like I need a few disclaimers here:

The book is serviceable. It’s just not going to be winning any awards. Talking about how the prose and dialogue can be better isn’t meant to translate to, “This is the worst thing ever written.” Because it’s not.

This is very much a pot calling the kettle black situation. Anyone here has the capability of hopping onto AO3, finding a horribly written passage of my own, and shaking it in my virtual face. So this is likewise not intended to be me standing atop a pedestal going, “Anyone - myself included - could do better.” I often can’t do better because writing is hard.

I’m not a creative writing instructor, thus it’s often difficult for me to articulate why I think a piece of literature doesn’t read well. If you’ve ever, say, come out of a movie with a strong sense of it not being “good” but can’t easily explain why it failed? It’s similar to that. By consuming lots of media we get a sense of “quality” over “badly written” that then informs our reactions to new texts, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to boil that response down to, “See here on page 3? They shouldn’t have done this. Fix that and it’s ‘good’ now.”

Nevertheless, let’s try. I’ll take a passage from the prologue where Sun is facing off against these “goons”

Two glowing clones of Sun flared into existence, one facing Pink and the second squaring off against Green. That left Brown—whom he figured was both the leader of the group and the most dangerous. Why? Because he was hiding the most.

Brown slashed a hand toward Sun. “Take him.”

“Which one?” Green asked.

“The real one,” Pink said. “These are just flashy illusions.”

Sun directed one of his clones to punch Pink in the face.

She blinked and looked more annoyed than hurt.

“That’s no illusion!” Green reached for clone Two.

Sun’s clones were physical manifestations of his Aura, every bit as capable of inflicting damage as he was. But it could be difficult to control them, especially while he was fighting. They were better suited to giving him the element of surprise, extra pairs of hands, or emergency backup when he needed it.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t sustain them long, and they couldn’t take much damage, as they drew Aura from Sun himself. If he kept them going too long, or tried to create too many clones, it usually weakened the Aura shield protecting him. But he’d improved a lot with training, and his Semblance was a lot stronger than it used to be.

Sun whipped out his gunchucks, Ruyi Bang and Jingu Bang, spinning them as he and Brown circled each other slowly. At the same time, Sun was fighting Pink and Green through his clones. Pink was some kind of boxer, dancing around and jabbing with her fists, which One was managing to block. Meanwhile, Green was trying to grab Two and wrestle him to the ground.

Brown had some kind of martial arts training similar to Sun’s—but he wasn’t nearly as good. Sun leaned back as Brown did a high roundhouse kick; he felt a breeze as his opponent’s booted foot swept past his nose with a lot of power behind it. Sun flicked his right gunchuck to loop it around Brown’s ankle and pulled him out of his stance, hitting him with the closed gunchuck in his left hand. The man took the full blow, but it didn’t even faze him.

Now let’s break down some of the reasons why this passage doesn’t work for me. I’ll work chronologically.

As mentioned in the recap, it’s rather awkward for a PoV character to ask and answer their own questions. Especially when they’re not presented as literal thoughts. The “Why? Because...” takes me right out of the story. It suddenly sounds like I’m attending a lecture or reading an article. Sun believes X. Why does he believe this? Because of Y evidence.

The dialogue is clunky. This problem is admittedly more obvious at other points, but there are a lot of moments where it doesn’t feel like this is a natural thing someone would think or say. Which again, is really hard to write. How people speak is quite different from how we think they speak and finding a balance between that (eliminating most pauses like “um” or “like” that would be too frustrating to read, giving characters more flowery language to serve the story’s goals even if it’s not realistic, etc.) is hard to nail. Here, Sun is often thinking things that don’t sound l like an actual thought in a panicked teen’s head.

Oh crap, Sun thought. I’m losing. How am I actually losing?

It just sounds like exposition. The reader needs to know that Sun is losing! So Sun will tell them that.

The villains, so far, are a bit too cartoony for me.

“You got lucky, monkeyboy,” Green said as he walked off, his companions following him through the cloud of foul vapor. “This time.”

Which is admittedly a matter of taste and does have some justification given RWBY’s early writing (think Roman). Still, it’s hard to take lines like this seriously, especially when we just had the group making fun of Velvet for cheesy quips. But the villain’s quips are supposed to read as daunting?

Connected to Sun’s thought above, there is a lot of telling rather than showing throughout. For example: “She blinked and looked more annoyed than hurt.” There are ways of showing the reader that Pink is annoyed (indeed, just leaving it at “She blinked” would have gotten the point across) rather than resorting to, “She looked ___”. Another good example would be “ Sun leaned back as Brown did a high roundhouse kick; he felt a breeze as his opponent’s booted foot swept past his nose with a lot of power behind it.” You don’t need to reassure the reader that there was “a lot of power behind it.” The action itself - feeling a breeze, his boot passing close to his nose - conveys that on its own.

To be clear, telling isn’t something you can’t ever do (break those writing rules!!) especially when sometimes you just want to be clear/convey something succinctly, but it is something to keep in mind. It’s another balancing act. Too much telling and the reader feels like they’re just being told a list of things to believe. Too much showing and it feels like the writer is trying too hard to make everything detailed, exciting, etc. Still, a good writer is going to be able to convey everything (Sun losing a fight, annoyance, a powerful kick) without feeling the need to remind the reader of things every few lines, “This is what’s happening. Don’t get confused!”

After the fight starts we immediately get a two paragraph info-dump about Sun’s semblance. How it works, what his limitations are, and what that means for this fight. Again, show that! We’ve just started an action sequence. The fight is underway. The reader doesn’t want to get pulled out of the action for another lecture. Rather than hitting pause on the fun stuff to explain things, create scenarios where these details become relevant and can be shown to the reader. Right now we don’t care what Sun’s limitations are unless those limitations become important.

We get another announcement in the form of “[Brown] wasn’t nearly as good [as Sun]” instead of (again) showing us that. Indeed, as I mention in the recap all the action that comes next contradicts this. So where did this assertion come from? If Sun knows that Brown uses a martial arts style similar to his then theoretically they’ve been fighting for at least a few seconds... but the reader doesn’t get to see that. Meyers was too busy telling us about Sun’s semblance.

Finally, there are pockets of Meyer’s writing that are all roughly the same. Meaning, sentences have little variety to them. This isn’t a consistent problem (and it’s certainly not the worst example I’ve seen of this) but on the whole he could use a more engaging flow to his work, both in terms of sentence length and balance among actions, dialogue, descriptions, and thoughts. Otherwise you get prose that reads, “This happened. Then this happened. This happened next. See the length? It’s all the same. Very little changes. And the reader gets bored.” Again, not a consistent problem, but one he should keep working on.

There are a number of other, smaller issues that are beginning to pop up. Such as the in parentheses pronunciation of the teams’ names, or the overuse of “he sent” whenever Fox communicates telepathically. In contrast, there are things about the writing that I’ve enjoyed. There are moments of dialogue - such as Fox’s joke in Chapter One, or how Sun’s instructions to “find Shade” literally refer to the school but also remind the reader that shade, in such a hot environment, is crucial - that I think are worth pointing to and going, “Yeah. That was a nice touch.” Overall though? It’s that, “I just came out of a bad movie” feeling. There’s too much clunkiness throughout. The writing often lacks variety or feels absurd. I’m taken out of the story more often than I fall into it. Is it the worst thing I’ve ever read? Far from it, but fans aren’t wrong when they say things like, “I’ve read better fic than this professional story.”

#rwby #rwde #mymetas #Anonymous

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dawnwave16 · 4 years

Text

Gamer Girl

Yes another SAO/MLB crossover. I love SAO so I can’t help it! I was going through my grammerly works and saw the start of this and realised I had never completed it despite starting it in Dec so here you go!

Part 1; part 2; part 3; part 4

AO3

Story:

You would think that Lila Rossi’s lies would be exposed quickly once they had been posted onto the Ladyblog. In fact, you would think that they would be exposed almost as soon as they were spoken with someone so smart in the class. Either way, you would be wrong. It had been six months since the Liar had joined the class and the lies she had told still hadn’t been exposed. Marinette had tried at first but she had soon stopped when it became clear to her that as long as Lila had a story to tell, her class would listen.

As a result of this Marinette had stopped trying to protect her class from Lila’s lies. She had taken to simply ignoring her. She had started to ignore her class too. She didn’t make them the huge birthday cakes or mountain of cupcakes anymore. She didn’t bring in cookies for the whole class once a week and she stopped making personal gifts for everyone. If they wanted anything they had to ask for it but that would require that they remembered that she existed first. It was at the stage where if she didn’t remind her class that she was there, they simply forgot her. She honestly didn’t mind though as it had freed up quite a bit of time for her. Her design business had taken off in Japan as she had several friends there. If she wasn’t ladybug she would have considered moving there as she was much happier there then she was here in Paris. It was due to this that when Marinette had any downtime she had taken to gaming again. Not just any gaming but playing VRMMORPG’s. She had been a little wary of them after being caught in SAO several years prior but when Yui had contacted her after Kirito had logged in to ALO to try to save Asuna, she had willingly gone back into a full dive in order to help him and continued to do so as she went on frequent raids with his group. She had met Kirito when he had wandered into her clothing shop looking for a way to either upgrade or replace his black coat on one of the days that she had been running it rather than leaving it to an NPC. The two had partied together at her suggestion to get the correct mats and had become fast friends with him coming to her whenever he wanted his wardrobe upgraded. Unfortunately, she had reduced the amount of time she had spent gaming due to her class relying on her for so much but now that they weren’t, she had picked up where she had left off. Her stats had skyrocketed with her return to gaming and she had realised that her crush had made her act a little like Klien did whenever he saw a pretty girl. As soon as she realised this she had taken a hard look at herself and decided that while Adrien was handsome, he wasn’t worth making a fool of herself over. The fact that the girls in her class weren’t pushing her at him anymore helped with getting her to calm down too and now she was able to speak to him without looking like an idiot. The past week had been quiet. She’d seen her classmates all talking about something but Marinette hadn’t even asked what it was. She had a raid planned with Kirito and the others that she was looking forward too. Unfortunately, Asuna hadn’t woken from SAO. The blow she had taken from Kiyaba when protecting Kirito had killed her and not even the fact that the game had finished extremely soon after that had saved her like it had saved Kirito. The Asuna that had been pictured at the top of the world tree in ALO that had driven Kirito and herself back into gaming so soon after SAO had been cleared had been an AI that had been created by a mad man. Her family had been unwilling to believe that she was dead when everyone else had started to wake up, choosing instead to believe that she was one of the three hundred that were still trapped somehow. It had been a terrible blow to them when they had realised that this was not the case. The planned raid was one planned in her honour as this Saturday marked the anniversary of her death. Marinette still couldn't believe that three years had passed since she had been declared dead, nor could she believe all the VR events that had happened since then. Marinette had found it ironic that, now that she was no longer focused on Adrien, she had been able to see that she had had a crush on Kirito the whole time. When she had realised this the two of them had sat down and had a long conversation about their hopes and dreams. She had told him about her interest in fashion while in SAO and had kept him up to date with how her brand was doing IRL. In turn, he had told her about how his studies were progressing and how frustrated he was becoming by trying to read all the articles coming out of America about the advancements within his chosen field of study. His face when she had suggested that he have Yui run a translation program over them so that he could read them more easily had been fairly comical, even though she had reminded him that it would be in his best interest to learn English properly anyway. Marinette was drawn out of her musings when Mlle Bustier finally managed to get the class's attention. “Class I know this is may come as a surprise to you but due to the fact that Lila has to go to Achu and we won't be able to celebrate her birthday with her on the actual day, we will be hosting a party for her this Saturday.” The class immediately jumped into planning mode. “I'll do the music!” Nino called. “Ooh, Jeluka and I can organise the decorations!” Rose pipped up “Oh please! I'm going to London with Mummy and Daddy and I'm taking Sabrina with me. You losers can count me out.” Chloe sniffed while Sabrina nodded quickly, even though she didn't look too happy about it. “We could have the party at the park,” Mylene suggested which had Kim, Max, Alix and Ivan nodding eagerly in agreement. “I can't guys, my father has me scheduled for an all-day photo shoot,” Adrien said while he rubbed the back of his neck and appeared regretful. Marinette doubted it but she didn't say anything. “Awe, that's too bad, maybe we can facetime you in one or two of your breaks? I can organise that easily!” Alya tried to comfort him by saying. Marinette shared a look with Nathaniel who shook his head showing that he didn't but this story any more than she did. “What about you, Marinette?” Mlle Bustier said in a sickly sweet tone as though she expected Marinette would agree no matter what her real plans were. The class looked at her expecting her to say she would organise the food because none of the others had offered to do so. “I have plans for Saturday,” Marinette stated calmly. Mlle Bustiers eyes turned cold even as the class started to protest and say she had to organise the food. “Now Marinette, don't you think it would be nice to organise the food for the party?” Mlle Bustier's voice was saccharine sweet as she tried to convince Marinette that she should just comply. “If you want the bakery to do the catering you need to place an order and pay for it like everyone else. I have babysitting for Madam Chamack in the morning while she does her grocery shopping and has a few other appointments. I also have plans for the afternoon but those are personal and something I have been helping to plan for a while now. I can't back out of them now.” Marinette rebutted firmly. She was going on the raid in Asuna's memory no matter what. As she spoke the expectant gazes of her class had turned to glares. “Look, you guys haven't wanted me around for over six months. I have resigned as class president, giving that title to Alya.” Just as Marinette was about to explain more, Kagami walked in wearing a yukata. It took a moment for the class to notice her but Marinette noticed something that the class hadn't noticed and quickly walked towards her. “Do you need some help with retying your yukata?” She asked quietly, not realising that she had slipped into Japanese as she spoke. “Please,” Kagami's voice was filled with relief even as she let Marinette adjust and retie the garment. “How do you know how to do this, let alone speak Japanese so well?” Kagami asked as Marinette worked. Neither girl noticed the class staring at the two of them in shock. When everything was tied properly Marinette stepped back. “I have my own set of yukatas from some of my closest friends in Japan. When you spend as much time with people as I did in the game, you try to find other things to keep you occupied other than grinding for levels. Asuna, Lisbeth and Silica all got together to teach me how to tie mine without relying on in-game mechanics. They also worked on my accent which is why I barely have one when I switch to Japanese, or so I have been told.” Marinette smiled sadly as she remembered the times they had gotten together to have a girls night at one of their homes. The game mechanics meant that they hadn't been able to do much by way of dress up or spa treatments but because Marinette had the tailoring skill she could manipulate fabrics and they had taught her that way. She shook her head quickly and looked back to Kagami. “Are you comfortable?” Kagami nodded and thanked her and they spoke for a little while longer before Kagami left and Marinette turned to walk back to her seat, only to see the class staring at her. “What?” “Marinette, what was that? What language were you speaking? Since when are you and Kagami friends?” The three questions had been thrown at her by Alya, Mlle Bustier and Adrien. Marinette sighed and shook her head then answered. “In order, that as you so eloquently put it Alya, was me helping Kagami to retie her yukata as it is always easier to do when someone helps you, especially if you want one of the more complicated knots. The language, Mlle Bustier, was Japanese. One of the five languages I speak fluently. The other three are Cantonese, Italian and English. I didn't list French as it should be obvious. And as for your question Adrien, Kagami and I became friends on Friendship day

while playing that game. I stuck to French that day so I'm not sure she knew to come here but it doesn't matter.” Marinette was walking back to her seat as she spoke, taking care watch where she put her feet as the class had taken to trying to trip her every so often. “Why did you need my help when your uncle visited then if you can speak Cantonese?” Adrien said in bafflement. “Simple. Uncle Fu speaks Mandarin not Cantonese so we wouldn't have been able to understand each other. I also thought you might enjoy a day practising a language that you were being taught rather than just reading it.” Marinette replied with a small smile even as she sat down again. The class was still glaring at her but she ignored them and Lila quickly reclaimed their attention with some false tears and a sob story. By the time Saturday came around the class had forgotten all about the incident with Kagami and Marinette's refusal to help out with the food or having anything to do with the party. This left the class scrambling to organise food and drinks in time and unfortunately made everything a lot less enjoyable then they had hoped it would be. Marinette, on the other hand, had had a fabulous time looking after Mamon as Kagami and her mother had come round and between them they had dressed Mamon up in different yukatas and kimonos, teaching Mamon how to speak a few words in Japanese at the same time. Despite her very stern nature, Kagami's mother had seemed pleased to be passing on a small part of her culture to others who were eager to learn. The raid had gone well too and she and Kirito along with the others had shared some of their favourite stories about Asuna once it had been completed. Despite the sombre reason for the gathering, everyone had made the effort to be happy and to celebrate the good times they had had with her and with each other. They had held the get together at Marinette's home, which was above her in-game shop so they hadn't needed to worry about finding a private spot when they were ready to log off. When Marinette had walked into class on Monday, she had expected to be bombarded with stories of how great the party was. Instead, she was met with sullen glares and dead silence. Marinette raised an eyebrow but shrugged and ignored them, turning her attention back to her phone. She had woken up an hour early but instead of getting up straight away she had started messaging Kirito as he had been online. They had finally decided to give dating a try the previous day but they were taking things fairly slowly. Currently, they were talking about if she would be able to visit during the upcoming school holidays and trying to work out the logistics if she got permission to do so. “Marinette.” Mlle Bustier called. “Yes, Mlle Bustier?” “I thought you were going to do the food for Lila's party on Saturday. Where were you?” Marinette raised an eyebrow. “I told you I had plans for Saturday and that I would not be at the party.” “Marinette, remember what I said about -” “Mlle Bustier” Marinette cut her off, “While you might think that babysitting and going to the memorial of a friend is less important than a party for someone who does not like me, I don't. While my friend was declared dead three years ago, Saturday was the first time any of us had the chance to truly get together and remember her. Asuna died trying to give others a chance to live and she deserved to be remembered by those of us who were closest to her.” Marinette's voice was sharp and her tone was ice-cold as she spoke. Mlle Bustier and the rest of Marinette's class stared at her. “Footage was recently released of how she died if you are callous enough to demand proof. Unfortunately, I think you are because if anyone except Lila tells all of you anything you just swallow it but as soon as it's to do with anyone else you insist on having proof.” Marinette could tell that the class was about to start shouting at her but she ignored them and looked at her phone only to freeze. From what she was seeing, Yui had copied herself onto her phone and found all the videos from the past six months, as well as recording the confrontation that had just happened and sent it to the School Board. Marinette had planned to try to get a bit more evidence before she did that but it seemed that Yui had decided enough was enough. She was brought out of her frozen state when she heard Max asking if he had permission to play the video he had found for the class. She was about to warn them that it was fairly violent but Mlle Bustier had already granted her permission and Markov was projecting the video of the final SAO battle against the Skull Reaper on the white screen that Mlle Bustier had pulled down to cover the blackboard. The class watched in horrified amazement at what was being shown and gasped when they saw the younger Marinette on the screen amid the fighters. Marinette could see they were wanting to point out the fact that this was a game, you couldn't die because of a game and that none of the female players had died in that fight when they saw that Marinette's eyes hadn't left the screen and that the video hadn't ended. They gasped in horror as they watched everyone collapse to the floor and screamed when a girl jumped between the two players that were duelling, killing her. The video ended and the class was silent. Marinette spoke then, breaking the silence in a voice that was so brittle and hollow that none of them knew what to think. “What you just watched was the final two fights of SAO. The girl that died was my friend Asuna Yuuki. Before you say it's just a game, get Max to look up the details. It was well documented. I'm going home, don't bother to try to stop me. You just made me watch my friend die AGAIN, I think I've earned my mental health day. I will stay in this class for the rest of the term, then I will be transferring to a different class. I want nothing to do with any of you anymore, Mlle Bustier I hope you are proud of yourself for letting things escalate to this.” Having said her piece, Marinette turned round and walked out of the room. She knew there would probably be Akumas that would be created by what had just happened but at that moment she just wanted to be alone. Or better yet, surrounded by here real friends.

#salt #all kinds of salt #character bashing #marinette needs a hug #gamer marinette #saltinette

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britishassistant · 4 years

Text

Mr. Hale’s Art 301

August— Before Class

7 Months Earlier

Peter needed to remind himself more often that, high schooler or not, Lydia Martin was a force to be reckoned with.

She and the rest of the original Hale-now-McCall pack vowed revenge on him not long after he revived, but all went about it in different ways.

Scott McCall simply punched him in the face and left it at that.

Stiles Stilinski somehow managed to find and break into his apartment and sprinkle crushed wolfsbane into enough garments and towels that Peter was still wary when he was getting ready for the day.

When Allison Argent was alive, she repeatedly left arrows bearing her family sigil in both his home and places he frequented— presumably, like Stiles, to violate his sense of territory and just to show that she could.

Derek just brooded and looked by turns murderous and guilty whenever his uncle was in the room before he left town, though his stint as Alpha could be called punishment enough.

Lydia Martin, however, played the long game.

He still wasn’t quite sure how she’d managed it.

Somehow, despite Peter never sending in his resume or going for an official interview, Lydia Martin had arranged for him to become Beacon Hills Middle School’s new art teacher.

She’d even managed to have a touching, heartfelt story printed on the front page of the Beacon Hills Daily about the miraculously recovered coma patient attempting to give back to the community via imparting his gift to impressionable young minds.

How she’d found out he was capable of art despite all of his portfolios and most of his dissertation research burning in the fire was also a little beyond him, but he digressed.

Scott appeared so moved by the article that any attempts to suggest that Peter wasn’t actually going to take the job resulted in the alpha’s claws and fangs coming out in a way that promised either a maiming or expulsion from the McCall pack entirely.

And Peter had too many irons in too many fires to allow that to happen.

So he’s standing in the front office of Beacon Hills Middle School, contemplating the rictus of existential pain on the face of something he thinks is meant to be a beaver.

It’s one of the better methods that he’s devised so far of blocking out the scent of emerging hormones, social anxiety and too strong body spray belonging to over 300 adolescents that are sleepily beginning to shuffle into the halls of the building.

While waiting to meet the Principal and Assistant Principal of this farce of an educational facility at 6:30 in the fucking morning.

So yes, Lydia Martin needs to have a closer eye kept on her in future.

For the good of man- and werewolf-kind really.

Finally, finally, he’s able to hear a man’s footsteps walking towards where he’s been waiting and politely avoiding the leering gaze of the elderly secretary. For some reason the man’s heartbeat, as choked by cholesterol as it is, sounds vaguely familiar.

“Well, well, well. Long time, no see, Hale.”

A portly man with a large bald spot has swung open the door and stands there with his hands on his hips as though he’s in some kind of soap opera. He has the beginnings of jowls and a shiny badge with the words ‘Assistant Principal’ on it that smells like it’s recently been polished. He’s also got a look of cocksure smugness on his face that seems out of place for some reason—

Peter’s mind supplies an image of a gangly teenager with overlarge glasses, a perpetually resentful expression, one ill-fated month with a fedora, and several pathetic attempts at a beard.

“Tommy!” Peter exclaims, smothering as much delight into his tone as he possibly can. It’s galling that he has to work for this sniveling toad, but he’ll be dammed if he lets the scum of his high school know it. “It’s been ages since we graduated, how have you been? You seem to have done well for yourself.”

Tommy’s face drops into the nostalgic expression of sour resentment that Peter so fondly remembers. “It’s Assistant Principal Thorne to you, Hale.”

He turns sharply on his heel. “You’re late— not a promising start. Follow me.”

‘Because you kept me standing out here for 30 minutes while you primped for your grand entrance, you miserable tapeworm.’ Peter thinks, but does not say, plastering on his widest devil-may-care smile on his face instead.

Memory serves him well despite his brief sojourn into the great beyond, because Thorne’s face twists further in response before he feebly tries to not look like he loathes Peter’s guts.

He is lead into a warren of corridors that end in a door that is marginally nicer than the others, with the plaque ‘Principal Melinda Johnson’ on it.

Thorne knocks on it, and opens it when a pleasant female voice bids they enter.

The Principal is a professional, pleasant woman with cropped hair and prominently displayed family and wedding photos on her desk. She looks him in the eye when shaking his hand and tells him honestly that she is honored to have him on board her staff, without a whiff of arousal to be found in her scent to Peter’s subtle relief.

She is clearly more used to dealing with the administrative affairs of the school as her speech about her school and students makes it evident that she is laboring under the slightly misguided assumption that her successes as a parent have translated to successes as an educator.

Thorne continually shoots his boss dark glances that were overlaid with the warring stink of contempt and arousal.

Peter kept a disgusted snort to himself. The toad really hadn’t changed since high school. He’d been like that around Talia, loathing her for her position as Student Body President and objectifying her in the same breath.

It was one of Peter’s most cherished memories, watching his sister casually verbally tear the covetous little bastard a new one when he tried to suggest that she was somehow unsuitable for her position due to her “womanly concerns”.

It was just a shame she’d shot down his suggestions to tear Thorne’s gaseous black sedan a new one as well.

“And once again, Mr. Hale, may-I-say that your decision to come in so early for your new position shows remarkable promise for your future teaching career.” Principal Johnson enthuses, oblivious to the mutinous glares of her subordinate.

“Early, ma’am?” Peter inquires pleasantly, feeling the prickles of both righteous outrage and not-quite-so righteous homicidal urges at the sight of Thorne’s now sickly grinning face.

“Oh? Well, I thought Mr. Thorne had sent you the package that outlined the time slot for your class this year–1:30, wasn’t it Mr. Thorne?”

“12:30, Principal Johnson, just before A-lunch.” Thorne replies in a tone that does very little to disguise how smug he sounds.

Peter needs to clench his hands slightly to force his claws back in.

Don’t rip his throat out now. It’s too quick. Too painless. Wait until McCall’s pack is suitably weakened, then tear apart this farce of an educational facility while the toad whimpers, and string his guts from the rubble.

Maybe total his car beforehand just to rub salt in the wound.

Peter smiles sheepishly, making sure none of his intentions for the school or certain members of its incompetent staff are visible. “Unfortunately, my apartment’s mail system is a bit byzantine; it wouldn’t surprise me if one of my neighbors ended up with my packet and forgot to return it to me.”

“Oh dear! Well, I’m sure Mr. Thorne can easily print you off another copy, can’t you, Mr. Thorne?”

“Mr. Thorne” curls his lip and then attempts to straighten his expression into a genial smile at the small frown that flits across Principal Johnson’s face.

Peter keeps his look of boyish, charming innocence, and begins to plot exactly how he can have the assistant principal removed from office, and maybe even from the great state of California.

He’s got to amuse himself somehow during this torment, after all.

Peter wishes he’d been able to go home and at least nap for one of the six hours between his meeting with the principal and when he was due to start his class.

But no. Assistant Principal Thorne decided it was imperative for him to meet every member of the faculty that the school building had to offer.

After the third lunch lady and the fourth janitor, the adults began to blur together into an amorphous mass of names, ink and stress-soaked scents, and awful, awful fashion sense.

Really, Peter should be commended on his self-control for not ripping out Thorne’s throat in the boys’ locker rooms then dragging the body outside to claim that it was a random vicious mountain lion attack.

But he digresses.

A couple do stand out.

The gym teacher—Brody or something— who starts out acting like he belongs on McCall’s high school lacrosse team, before breaking down in hysterics over his ex-wife and children. The long-suffering faces of his students suggest that this isn’t an uncommon occurrence.

The mathematics teacher— a Ms. McGrath—who reeks unpleasantly of resentment and poorly concealed fear. She is in the Derek Hale School of trying to control people via shouting and threats, though hers are more geared towards grades than bodily harm.

The english teacher— Mr. Joshua Nord— is a name Peter takes the trouble to remember simply because he appears to be the least afraid of his own students. He could be tolerable company or the one most likely to stand up to Peter if he gets bored and decides to make his own fun.

By the time 12:00 rolls around, Peter already feels exhausted. He hasn’t even had to deal with any of the actual children yet.

He was suddenly very glad for Principal Johnson’s insistence that he only hold one small class this year, as though exposure to too many middle schoolers at once would send him back into a coma.

Still, at least the scents of paints, inks and clay was familiar enough that it loosens something in Peter’s chest a little.

Funny, the things you don’t realize you miss until they’re suddenly returned to you.

He decides to peruse the back rooms, see exactly what he’ll be working with and how much he’ll need to compensate for budget limitations.

It’s mostly cheap paints, crayola color pencils, crayons, markers, a few sharpies, and some watered-down india ink, but at least there’s a decent set of lino blocks, some traditionally “craft” materials, and several air-sealed bags of clay that make him grin in anticipation.

A pair of small footsteps approach his classroom, and the door creaks open.

Peter contemplates emerging, but none of his students should be here yet. The footsteps that creep into the room are cautious, hesitant, ready to turn and run at any moment.

There’s a couple of high-pitched whispers of “It’ll be on the desk!” and “Quickly, quickly!” and Peter shifts so that he’ll be able to spy on the intruders into his territory through the glass window in the back room door.

The brown hair that rests on the child’s shoulders reminds Peter of a beagle’s floppy ears. The bags under her eyes (it’s usually a her with that sort of hairstyle) only furthers the similarities as she looks around wide-eyed on her twitchy, overly-cautious journey to his desk, clutching a brightly colored piece of plastic.

There’s a scent of heavily applied makeup emanating from near the door, combined with high-pitched snickering, suggests that her lookout is most likely a girl as well.

The child finally gets to his desk, and Peter rolls his eyes at the sound of rustling papers.

Really, how does this child ever sneak anything past her parents or older relatives? It’s almost cartoonish how obvious she is— she makes Stilinski at his most discombobulated seem subtle and discrete.

There’s a soft scratching sound, and the scent of graphite. So a basic graffiti prank then. He hopes she at least does something more creative than a simple penis. Though it could make for a good first critique project...

The acrid burst of Sharpie ink gives him pause. Well, either she’s going above and beyond in the call of duty or, as the repetitive sound of the mark making suggests, she’s looking more to conceal something than to add.

Peter’s lips curl into a slow smirk.

The pencil scratches a few more times against the paper before the girl loses her nerve and barrels back towards the door of the classroom, bumping into her lookout, and the two sets of footsteps pound off down the hall, nervous giggles floating in their wake.

Peter lets himself out of the back room, and rearranges the freshly photocopied syllabi and scattered codes of conduct. He pauses to take in the results of the intruder’s meddling.

The smirk widens.

This promises to be interesting.

#my writing #art 301 #art teacher Peter Hale #teen wolf #peter hale #art class #middle school #lydia martin #scott mccall #stiles stilinski #talia hale #teen wolf oc #chase brody #ocs #nanbaka oc #wkm oc #AP Thorne #Principal Johnson

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xavantina · 5 years

Text

I got my hands on a copy of the new Euroman for @idontfindyouthatinteresting, and I took the opportunity to translate some of the interview as well. I tried scanning the article, but my scanner is broken, so you’ll have to make due with iPhone pics of the photos until someone with a working scanner gets in the game.

Rest of the photos and the interview under the cut.

The interview itself was a monster of a thing with lots and lots of flowery descriptions of random scenery, so I cut it down to just the questions, though a few highlights of the rest include:

When he was knighted the Queen of Denmark told him she liked Flame and Citron and he was like ‘fuck yeah’.

He rolls up with his classic bedroom eyes, mismatched tracksuit, and worn sneakers, and just needs a smoke before they go in.

The reporter thinks it’s pointless for a hairdresser to style Mads’ hair because it’s amazing already.

Mads goes around introducing himself to everyone in the room with “Hi. My name is Mads.”

He speaks very fast in Danish.

Onward with the questions:

Q. You were an unknown dancer for ten years before you became an actor. In terms of staying grounded, has it been an advantage for you that you had your breakthrough at such a mature age?

A. Yes, I think so. I probably wouldn’t have had problems staying grounded even if I had been 20 years old. But I think it’s harder for a 17-year-old today, where you can have your breakthrough on a whole different platform and gain three million followers, or whatever the hell they have. It’s obvious that if everyone thinks you’re cool, and you’re told so a bit too often, then you start thinking ‘yeah, I am. I’m cool’. It’s easier to handle being recognized in the street when you’re 32, than when you’re 17. I think.

Q. Your James Bond co-star Jesper Christensen has said that he can no longer enter a public space and just sit there observing, because everyone is always staring at him. He can no longer gain inspiration for his work from real life– from ‘ordinary people’ – like he used to. Do you feel the same way?

A. It’s a terrible loss. It’s not that I’ve always been preparing to be an actor, but I’ve always been curious. Even as a child, I would sit in different places and watch what was happening over there, human behavior, the way they looked and the way they walked. Always. And too often I started copying people when I saw them. I would sit just like them for a while, just to try how it felt. That’s over now. Whenever I’m out somewhere, 50 people are sitting around staring at me. Then I have to worry about scratching my nose, and there’s 40 camera phones in my face. Then I have to go to a different country.

Q. Don’t you get recognised abroad?

A. They know me around the world to various degrees. There are definitely many places where they don’t care at all, but James Bond, Star Wars, and Marvel movies, all of which I’ve starred in, have a great reach. The happy result of this is that people become curious about me as an actor, so I’m often stopped abroad because people know me from The Green Butchers or The Hunt. That’s super cool.

Q. Is it important for you to get recognition in the business? And do you?

A. A foreign colleague whom I have great respect for told me that he and three friends would sit down and watch the Pusher trilogy every weekend. That made me happy. Recognition from colleagues is important. Recognition from yourself is just much more important. You can get into a cycle where you go around constantly patting each other on the back because you need it so badly in my line of work. We’re judged all the time. It’s really hard, and so we probably have a tendency to praise each other more than we should. You should be happy when other people think what you’re doing is great, but you need to remember to consider what you think about it personally. ‘Was this what I wanted? Yes, okay, fine. Next time I might go in this direction instead.’ That’s important. And it’s the same if what people are saying about you sucks. There are many opinions out there. And if you start reading on social media you’ll never get to bed. You should stay away from that.

Q. Where do you find material and inspiration when you can’t go people-watching anymore? Do you have a memory bank you draw from?

A. Probably. I can also sit and watch people on screen, television and so on. But inspiration should primarily come from the script and the director. But I really miss sitting around and watching other people, and I certainly miss them not staring at me. I don’t try to hide though, I never wear a cap or anything. Sunglasses annoy the hell out of me, so I don’t use those at all. Luckily I‘m forgetful: I walk outside in the morning and don’t spend a second wondering how it’s going to be when I arrive somewhere – whether I’ll be recognized, I mean. That’s not just something I’m saying. I get in my car and drive somewhere and enter wherever I’m going, and don’t think about it at all. It’s not until people do this (Mads widens his eyes and turns his head) and do a double check that I’m reminded what it’s like. And that’s good, because otherwise I’d never leave the house.

Q. But you haven’t always been famous – in Hollywood you were a total unknown in the beginning. As the unknown from a small country did you have to work to earn the respect from people around you when you did your first foreign films?

A. I never consciously considered that I had to do something to make them listen to me. If I thought something could be done differently, I haven’t been afraid of going up to people and telling them. Obviously it’s not like it is in Denmark where I can just call Thomas Vinterberg up and say ‘hey, I just had an idea, won’t you come over?’ A Hollywood director on a big movie has maybe 30 actors on his list and everybody wants something from him, so the scale is different. But I still speak up, if there’s something wrong, and only if I’m serious about it. If I’m not serious about it, we just start working on whatever we’re doing.

Q. Are you treated differently on set now that you’re a bigger star?

A. Yes. I was very surprised with first time I was part of a large foreign production. We were on set, and I approached someone from the light-crew to ask about something. Then he looked down at the ground and didn’t answer. Turns out there had been this big name actor, whose name I can’t be bothered to mention, who had just done a movie with this crew, and the crew was under strict orders to never look this actor in the eyes. So there I was, a product of all this. Those were the kind of things I had to get used to. Luckily I found out that if I just focused on my work in the same way I usually did my surroundings would relax pretty quickly. They care more about things abroad than they do in Denmark. I’ve had some pretty weird experiences on foreign jobs. For example, I’m often assigned a so-called handler. Someone who meets me at the airport and helps with checking in and stuff like that. Which is fine, if you’re in Beijing and your have no idea where you’re going. But on foreign gigs I’ve also tried being a assigned a handler at Copenhagen Airport, who is supposed to follow me and help me. That’s pretty absurd, since I’ve checked in 2000 times before in Copenhagen and know how to do it. A handler is always dressed really nicely too, so everybody at the airport ends up staring at me even more. That’s a weird service.

Q. How about the treatment you receive from the other stars, or the business as a whole? How do you experience the hierarchy in Hollywood?

A. When I worked with Benedict Cumberbatch in Doctor Strange and with Daniel Craig in Casino Royale it was their first big films as well, so the hierarchy wasn’t crazy. I’ve been spared from meeting someone abroad who was a real hot shot or just tired of doing what they were doing. There are plenty of people with attitude, plenty of large personalities, but I’ve met very few proper divas who are impossible to work with. The few I have met have been here at home. It’s actually a myth, that this is a diva business. If you did an inquiry and compared us to bus drivers or doctors for example, I think actors would rate much lower than them on the diva-scale. We’re very conscious about not behaving like divas, so everyone tries to act natural. Nobody wants to be branded like that. And when one finally comes along, which obviously happens, then it’s so exciting, and it sounds like the whole business is infected with them. But holy shit, man, how many little kings in their little kingdoms have you met driving the 8 Line?

Q. Your generation, which had its breakthrough 20-25 years ago, has taken up a lot of space back here at home and internationally. You’ve become…

A. You can say ‘old’. We’ve gotten bloody old.

Q. Has it only now become clear how much space you take up?

A. No. I think it was obvious from the beginning. We were a generation that grew up with a big fascination for certain foreign films. Many of us had Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola in common. There weren’t’ many Danish films we could relate to. [here follows a whole bit about Danish movie history that no one outside Denmark will care about, so I’m skipping it] We felt like we were living in the 50’s. We were watching foreign movies like ‘Taxi Driver’ and saying to each other ‘is this from 1975?’ What have we done in Denmark this year? It was crazy. Completely crazy. Obviously something had to be done. And it was. We grew in different directions but suddenly the gap wasn’t so wide… I mean, we were no longer being told what it was like to be a teenager by an 88 year old director. We were the same age and we communicated directly. Just like Scorsese and De Niro in the 70’s. Same age, let’s go, rock’n’roll. Obviously it’s hard for the next generation, who comes after us, to just change things as well. Because we did the right thing. So now they either have to copy that approach, or improve it, or come up with something completely new. It was easier for us, if I’m being honest. We said ‘Hey, have you seen this before?’ and people went ‘No, we haven’t. Cool!’ But we had to do it. And we were allowed to do it, first and foremost. Some things went wrong, some things went right. But it was really important.

Q. You and your brother both seem like you’re very down to earth. Is that a result of growing up on Nørrebro?

A. Yes, I guess. No… Where the fuck did Pilou (Asbæk) grow up? He has some higher ‘a’s than I do, when he taaaaalks. But he’s damn well down to earth too. So I think it’s a Danish thing. If you try to rise a bit above other people, it won’t be very long until you’re pulled back down.

Q. Have you tried it?

A. No. As a Danish person it’s very hard to demand only to be served the yellow M&Ms without people laughing at you.

Q. Can’t it be limiting, that we’re like that? That everything has to be so down to earth.

Pause.

A. It’s funny, because we’re different than the Swedish. They have a whole different way of engaging with their stars. The Swedish are down to earth too. But when Swedish actors sit down to talk like this, like I’m doing now, and a journalist enters the room, that they start (Mads straightens and adopt a somber tone) speaking like this. And the things they say become great philosophy. They also start to move (he waves his arm theatrically) like they were on stage at the Royal Theatre. When I see that I think ‘what the fuck just happened?’. The Swedish write with great reverence about their stars as well. They have a huge amount of respect for what they give us. Swedish stars have a whole different status in society than we do in Denmark. They like putting things up on a pedestal, and they’re allowed to do that in a totally different way then we are. You can’t do that here. And thank God for that. But you can also say, that in Denmark you don’t always respect people for what they can do. Sometimes people will go ‘Fuck man, I can do what Caroline Wozniacki does. She’s the worst I’ve ever seen.’ Okay? I mean, it’s nice that we’re down to earth in Denmark. But it’s grotesque to say that ‘What Wozniacki does, I can do just as well.’

So that’s how I spent the last five hours of my life...

#Mads Mikkelsen #translation

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