#apparently they assume I don’t know text lingo
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Siri: *reads out text, containing opinion, over the car speakers*
Jefferson, to me: in *today’s language*, you should reply to that with “I…K…R.”
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Halloween Night
The throbbing in her neck was the first thing Clara noticed as she woke up. The second was that she was naked. What had happened last night?
As she pushed her fringe out of her face, she noticed a trail of clothes winding their way from the door to her bed. Heels, jumper, skirt. She lifted the covers, where she discovered her bra and underwear, neither of which were still on her body. But strangest of all were the orange knee-socks on the unoccupied pillow beside her. Were they hers?
On her bedside table, her phone announced it had finished charging. That should have taken it about one and a half hours, so either there had been a power cut last night, or someone else had recently plugged it in for her. Clara looked at the screen and saw on it a message from her flatmate, Priya.
“Noticed a redhead sneaking out of your room this morning. Congrats on losing your gay virginity!” Dozens of emojis followed; huge blocks of pride flags and fireworks lit up her screen, then the message continued, “Not going to tell the group chat until you’re ready of course, but girl, I am going to need all the deets!”
There may have been more to the text, but it was then that Clara noticed the date. November first. Suddenly it all came rushing back.
It was Halloween at Glitz.
The club itself had been dwindling for a while now and most of the cool young people had probably moved away to venues that were more ‘hip’ or ‘fresh’. The fact that Clara assumed that was still the lingo was part of why she still came to Glitz. Not often, granted. It was strictly on an annual basis now. An ersatz tradition dating back to their university days (back when they’d all briefly experimented with paganism) to dance at this increasingly outdated, overpriced discotheque every 31st of October.
Even in the rain
Clara was as usual the first to arrive. It wasn’t so much that she was always early as everyone else was always late. The whatsapp group had assured her a few hours ago that they’d be there though, so there was still a chance (however small) that they were already inside.
She flashed her ID to the bouncer, who made a point of studying it. She was 26 now, old enough to appreciate being mistaken for someone younger, but still young enough to be impatient about the delay. Or maybe it was the costume that was holding him up. Thinking about it, it must be hard to tell if someone is who they say they are when they’re dressed as Velma Dinkley.
Ever since she’d gone for a more bob-like haircut, she’d been getting a lot of comparisons to the Scooby Doo character, so it was an easy decision to lean into it for Halloween. This didn’t mean it was an easy or cheap costume – Clara Oswald never did things by half, after all. She’d been nosing around high streets and second-hand shops the last two weekends putting it together. The orange jumper was baggy but sewn so as to give a good impression of her figure. The glasses made her eyes seem even wider, and combined with the freckles she’d drawn on took five years off her face. Surprisingly it was the little red skirt that had taken her the longest to find, only appearing in a last-minute lunch-break scrabble in Oxfam, and between it and the knee-socks, she was showing a lot more thigh than she was used to.
I mean it looks damn good, she thought to herself, but it isn’t half cold…
The bouncer finally nodded her through, and soon she was enveloped by the warm haze and pounding bass of Glitz. Maybe two dozen people were on the dancefloor, jumping and swaying to a song Clara was fairly sure had come out this year, but not one she knew the name of. I’ll dance at the next one, she thought, or maybe wait until the others get here.
It seemed that almost the moment she found a seat at the bar, her phone pinged. Naomi and Ellen weren’t coming. Apparently some couple had been trying to book their wedding venue out from under them so they were resigned to staying in and shouting down a phone all evening.
That wasn’t good. Those two were the lynchpin of all group planning. It was always worth going out with Naomi and Ellen because there would always be a story the next day. This was because the drunker they got, the more they’d dare the other, and those dares usually involved even more drinking. Clara had even had to bail them out once after they got arrested for shagging on a pool table.
But without them, the group dynamic fell apart. Priya loved nothing more than when a plan got cancelled. For her it was an excuse to shrug her bra off and fall asleep in front of the tv. Clara herself only owned two bras, one good but itchy and the other comfy but old, but Priya could have five littered around the living room at any one time. She’d hidden them on one occasion to encourage future tidiness.
And Emerald, the last of the group, Clara didn’t know particularly well. She knew they kept up with Yugioh (somehow) and read PG Wodehouse, but they’d joined the group in Clara’s last term at uni and she’d had her nose too deep in books to get to know her in any great depth. No doubt they’d have put a lot of effort into some anime costume, but if it was just her and Emerald left, they wouldn’t come.
Okay Clara, it’s not too bad. Shake it off, get a cocktail in you. This night could still go well.
The two pings of doom arrived before she was even halfway through her pina colada. Two more cancellations. Urgh. This calls for a consolation drink. And make it a pint this time.
It wasn’t even nine yet and it felt like the night was over. Clara sighed audibly. Such a shame, she thought. It’s my first Halloween as an out bi woman. This should have been like gay Christmas! I had all this Sapphic energy built up inside me tonight and I’m going to waste it fingering myself in the bath reading Jane Austen again. I’m even wearing the bi flag underpants Ellen got me for my birthday!
She’d been considering the idea of a second pint for around five minutes when she got a tap at her shoulder.
“Velma!”
A jolt of electricity raced up Clara’s spine. She knew that voice, didn’t she?
She turned around in her stool just as the lights above the dancefloor shifted. The woman behind her was briefly illuminated from behind, her face a shadow, but her hair a fiery red halo. Putting a hand in front of her face for a second, Clara took in the rest of her body; a purple dress and go-go boots. Her brain rushed to piece it all together, arriving at the costume before the face.
“Daphne?” She replied, weakly.
As the lights shifted again, Clara was blessed with another view of this woman, who was somehow more dazzling out of the spotlight. She stood imposingly tall, her soft moon-like face looking kindly down on Clara. Taken altogether with her vibrant red hair, Clara felt like she was looking directly at a solar eclipse, and one she couldn’t look away from.
“Hi, I hope you don’t mind. My Shaggy’s gone off with my Scooby.” The woman smiled apologetically. “Thought I might go and make some new friends and well… the costume…”
Clara blinked. In fact she blinked rather a few times. She was still trying to process the fact that an angel had descended from heaven right in front of her.
“I beg your pardon?”
The redhead explained herself again. Clara made a note to focus on what she was saying, which, she justified, involved looking at this woman’s lips a lot.
“I did a group costume with these two guys. One was Shaggy, one was Scooby; we thought we’d come here for the night, have a few drinks, have a few laughs, but instead,” the next part of the sentence involved turning her head to shout pointedly “they’re GETTING OFF IN THE TOILETS!”
Clara let out a nervous giggle. It was a good cover for the big red wave of excitation that was coursing through her body. There was something about the way her Scottishness had just announced itself in her voice that made Clara’s thighs shudder. That woman could shout!
“Shaggy and Scooby-Doo?” Clara repeated. “The dog and the dog owner?”
“Exactly!” she bellowed. “Isn’t that mad?”
“That is so mad.” Clara nodded. Agree with everything this woman says, she thought. If she asks you to rob a bank, do it.
“And after only one drink as well!” She continued, exasperated, “They. Are. Terrible!”
“I guess that’s why they call him Shaggy?” It was a weak joke, Clara knew. And I fumbled the delivery. But frankly the fact that I managed a straight sentence around this woman is a miracle. Managing a straight anything was a challenge, to be honest.
And she laughed! She laughed at my dumb joke! I made that sound come out of her! That brogue-y Scottish cackle! Oh this is the best feeling in the world!
“I know! And that dog will do anything for a Scooby Snack!”
God, me too, thought Clara, as she unleashed a laugh a lot less cool than she hoped she would.
Ahem.
“Can I get you a drink?” Clara asked, thankful she still had any rational thoughts left.
“Ooh, yes. Rum and Coke, please.” She smiled. Such a lovely smile. “Do you have a name, or should I just call you Velma all evening?”
“Only if I can call you Daphne” Clara replied with a grin, signalling to the barman. This was a bit of damage control. It was suave and flirty, but she’d missed the window to introduce herself properly, or find out this charming redhead’s name.
“Oh, you want to play that game, do you?” Clara braced herself for the next word, as the redhead’s lips formed around it. “Velma.”
Beads of sweat started to form under her jumper. It was then that Clara realised where she’d heard that sexy Scottish brogue before…
The kissogram from Naomi and Ellen’s engagement!
Six months on and I’m just as flustered.
The drinks came and Clara positively snatched hers off the table. As long as her mouth was occupied with alcohol, she had more time to think. And as always, Clara, try and play it off as glamorous and mysterious.
The more strategic side of Clara’s brain spoke up; so you know who she is, but she doesn’t know who you are. What does that mean? You know what she does for a living – is that an okay thing to bring up? Does the fact that she hasn’t recognised me yet mean my costume is too good…
…or was that kiss unmemorable?
She chanced a look. The woman in the Daphne costume was nursing her rum and coke, but her eyes were still fixed on her over the rim of her glass.
Right. So what if she didn’t remember that kiss. It was half a year ago and in her line of work she couldn’t be expected to remember everyone she’d ever kissed. Clara could hardly do that herself. What it meant was that Clara could make another first impression. A confident, in-control one.
“Miss Blake.” She congratulated herself on remembering that scrap of Scooby Doo trivia.
“Is that Daphne’s last name?” The redhead half-giggled. “I’m sorry, I haven’t watched Scooby Doo since I was a wee bairn.”
Aha! The strategic part of her brain roared into force again. I know more about Scooby Doo than her! I can leverage this to my advantage… somehow! Strategy brain realised it should probably shut up for a bit, and that the reason it had been allowed to think so long without interruption was because the rest of her brain was once again cooing at the Scottish turn of phrase.
“So why Daphne, then?”
“It was a group costume with a bunch of friends, but there were a few no-shows, you know?”
Clara made a gesture to the four people who were definitely not standing next to her “I do know.”
“Between you and me, I’d have quite liked to come as Velma.”
The seriously unstrategic part of Clara’s brain practically roared: Come into the bathroom with me! We can swap clothes right now!
She continued. “besides, what other characters are there to dress up as, as a tall ginger woman?”
Jessica Rabbit, said Clara’s brain.
“Jessica Rabbit” said Clara.
Oh shit, said Clara’s brain.
“Naughty” she chided. “But I don’t think so. Not two years in a row, anyway.”
Oh shit, said Clara’s brain again, but with purpose (and without vocalisation). This is definitely flirting! This could go well! I haven’t made an embarrassing mess of myself!
Tonight, I’m going to rock her world.
“Would you like to take a seat?”
High on her own hubris, Clara hadn’t noticed the seats either side of her were taken. Um…
“I’d love to.”
Sirens blared in Clara’s head as ‘Daphne’ draped one arm over Clara’s back and slid both her indigo tight-clad legs over Clara’s until she was Sitting! In! Her! Lap!
“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?”
In a moment, all of Clara’s newfound confidence melted and words stuck in her throat. Clara worried for a moment maybe her nose was bleeding, or her entire lower body had turned to steam, or worse, that her damn traitor face might be giving Amy some reason to stop sitting on her.
“Oh, not at all.”
THINK OF SOMETHING TO SAY!
“So…”
SOMETHING WITTY, FLIRTY AND MAYBE TO DO WITH HER COSTUME!
“Daphne…”
HERE WE GO! SHOOT YOUR SHOT!
“Would you like to get in the van with me?”
THE VAN???
“The van?”
“The um… the mystery machine.”
“Oh, the van from the show”
“Yes”
“So you want me to get in the Scooby Doo van with you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a van?”
“No.”
“But you just invited me to your van.”
“Yes.”
Clara blinked a few times while her brain rebooted.
“It’s a metaphorical van.”
“And what exactly is it a metaphor for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Truly, this is one mysterious machine.”
“…Yes.”
A few mortifying seconds later, her strategic brain came back online. As did her non-strategic brain. They both made this noise: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!
The Daphne impersonator slid her legs off Clara and stood crouched at eye-level.
“Look, can I propose something?” asked the redhead “Instead of you trying to entice me out of the club, into a dirty alley, and into the back of your metaphorical van, why don’t we just get a taxi back to my place?”
Clara fell off her seat.
“Oh my God, your little flustered face!” She belly laughed. “Oh we are going to have such a lot of fun tonight! Come on, Clara.”
Their hands touched as the redhead reached down to help her up. In all future memories of this moment, it seemed to Clara like she was in Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. Any hints of the reality, that a wide-eyed, shakey-legged sex-addled Scooby Doo cosplayer was being picked off the floor of a bar, were quickly purged from her mind by a greater realisation.
“You know my name.”
“Of course I do. I don’t get to snog many girls in my line of work.” She winked “And I make a note of the cute ones. I’m Amy.”
Clara nearly fell to the floor again.
But Amy kept her on her feet, one arm pulling her whole body to her.
“How about we get you into that taxi, I let you calm down for a little bit, and then you and I can get to know each other, okay?”
A sigh of relief from Clara; this was going well at last!
“Okay.”
“And then after that we can make out a little and I’ll put my hands up your jumper, sound good?”
“Oh God yes.”
END OF PART 1
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Clickbait(YouTuberAU)--Chapter 5
Pairings: Kiribaku, Tododeku
Words: 4,437
Summary: A lot of great things came with being a big name YouTuber, but along with those perks were some serious drawbacks. One of the biggest being your lack of personal privacy.
Due to just one video, Kirishima's least well-kept secret has become a viral sensation overnight, and now he has to deal with the repercussions from both the YouTube community and the public. Hopefully, those he's dragging down with him won't mind...
Notes: Welcome to how many Buzzfeed Unsolved references can I fit into one chapter lol. Had a lot of fun with this, so I hope you all like it!!
Read the full thing here
Kirishima laid haphazardly across the leather sofa, upper body sunk perfectly into the cushion now melded for his form. He shoveled a mouthful of Americanized-Chinese take-out that had been ordered once too often that week and numbed his mind with another Disney princess movie. As Rapunzel cupped Eugene’s cheek, singing through tears to bring her new love back from the dead he brushed his thumb longingly against his cell phone. If only he had someone who would cut their hair and sing to him if he were dying.
“Are you just going lay there and mope all day?
Kirishima groaned, pausing the movie with his phone. “I’m not moping. I’m relaxing.”
“You’ve been on that couch for the past three days,” Sero said. He kicked one of many take-out boxes surrounding Kirishima. “In those same clothes.”
Kirishima pulled his childhood Crimson Riot blanket above his head. It had been a full week since he and Bakugou exchanged numbers, and the only thing he received from him was a thumbs-up emoji when Kirishima texted him about their video hitting number one trending. An emoji like that basically meant ‘fuck off’ in text lingo. Kirishima hadn’t known what he did wrong, but he could take a hint.
“Do you think you could be… overreacting?” Sero asked.
Kirishima pulled the blanket down far enough to glare at Sero. “I would never overreact about this.”
“Clearly.”
Kirishima didn’t care what Sero thought. He would rather lay here in the mingled smell of Chinese leftovers and armpit stench than face reality.
His cocoon of warmth was ripped away as Sero pulled the fleece blanket off. Kirishima sat up and reached after the covers, but Sero had been too fast.
“What the hell, dude,” Kirishima said, giving up and lying back down.
“Mina told me I needed to get you up today, and I fear her more on a good day than you on your worst.”
That was fair, but it didn’t mean Kirishima liked it. He turned to face away from Sero and burrow further into the cushion’s warmth, not suspecting Sero to grip his legs and drag him off the sofa. “Bro, what the fuck!” Kirishima said, kicking at Sero’s hands and gripping the armrest for dear life.
Sero won. Kirishima flopped belly first onto plush carpet, feet atop Sero’s lap who’d fallen over the moment Kirishima lost his holding on the side of the couch. Before Kirishima could berate Sero for ruining his depressive episode the couch cushions started to vibrate. He realized his phone fell between the cracks during their tussle.
Kirishima figured Mina was calling to check on him and he had a thing or two to say to her. He dug between the cracks, annoyance allowing him to ignore a large number of crumbs his fingertips were brushing and whipped his phone to his ear.
“Mina if you don’t start minding your own—"
“Kirishima!” Midoriya’s voice threw Kirishima off guard. He pulled the phone away and nearly dropped the device when ‘Bakugou Katsuki’ flashed in all caps. “I’m so glad you picked up.”
“Yeah,” Kirishima said confused. Midoriya was panting heavily, and it sounded like the phone was being jostled around. “Are you okay, dude? Why do you have Bakugou’s—"
“Everything’s fine! Hey, we’re filming today, and I was wondering if you wanted to come to hang out?” Midoriya asked. Kirishima strained to hear what he thought was yelling in the background.
“We, like, Mysteries Unsolved?”
“Yeah! You and I still haven’t talked. I need to get to know the guy that Kacchan—oof.”
There were muffled arguments after Kirishima assumed the phone had been dropped. He called out to Midoriya a few times, growing concerned when he heard a high-pitched squeal.
“Shitty Hair?” A husky voice filtered to his ear. Kirishima’s mouth went dry and he gripped the phone tighter.
“Uh, that’s me?”
“What did that fucker say?” Bakugou asked. “He’s a damn liar. You can’t trust him.”
Kirishima looked up at Sero who had started eating the rest of the General Tso he’d gotten for lunch. Kirishima kicked him onto his side.
“He said you were filming today and that I should come over.”
“Oh.” The line went quiet for a little too long and Kirishima had to check they were still connected. “That’s fine. You should do that.”
“Are you sure? I don’t have—”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.” Suddenly the fact that he’d been wearing the same clothes for three days became more apparent. “I just gotta get ready and then I’ll head over.”
They said their goodbyes and Kirishima fell back onto his back with a sigh. Sero crawled to hover over him with a mocking look and Kirishima eyed him suspiciously. “What?”
“I would never overreact.” He said, voice pitched higher and face scrunched, shaking his head and clearly mocking him. Kirishima shoved him onto his side again and rolled into a squatting position to boost himself up. He had to wash off his depression stank.
~*~*~*~
Kirishima realized, standing in front of Bakugou’s red-bricked apartment complex, that it was a lot less intimidating than he remembered. Maybe because he didn’t have the feel of impending doom rolling around in his stomach this time.
“Alright,” Sero said, leaning across the passenger seat. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Yes, mom,” Kirishima said while rolling his eyes.
“And be safe. Those are basically strangers up there.”
“Okay, mom.”
“And make sure you use protection. I can’t take care of any more children.”
“Sero. Leave.”
Sero laughed and drove off, leaving Kirishima to grumble his way down the stone path lined with daisies and white-painted benches with hearts cut into the backs. Kirishima paused to watch a small bird drink from a layered fountain—had he seriously been freaking out over this place? He reached the glass vestibule that buzzed the moment he texted Bakugou he’d arrived. Unlike the last time he came to the complex Kirishima navigated the dimly lit halls much easier, only getting lost once. He blamed it on the random flyer informing tenants not to leave their dog’s droppings in the hallway.
He found the silver plaque reading 420 rather quickly and after a self-pep talk knocked strongly on the wooden door. He bounced on the balls of his feet, and when the door pulled open the guy with half his hair dyed from the party was staring blankly back at him. Kirishima remembered Uraraka saying he was Bakugou’s roommate and their editor, how did he forget he’d be here.
“Shitty Hair.” Todoroki—he thinks that’s what Uraraka called him—said. Kirishima waited for more, but after an uncomfortably long time staring at each other, he realized that was it.
“Can I come in, please?”
Todoroki’s eyes narrowed and he found himself shrinking under the gaze. He thought once things had been figured out between him and Bakugou this Todoroki guy wouldn’t hate him anymore, but it looks like he’d been wrong.
“Is that Kirishima?” Midoriya came bounding up from behind Todoroki. “What are you doing in the hall? Come on, we’re almost done setting up!”
Kirishima slid past Todoroki with as much space as possible. The apartment looked massive compared to how it’d felt crammed with all those people the night of the party. The furniture that Kaminari had fallen off was now pushed against the walls to make room for the set that Kirishima had seen in so many of their YouTube videos. An old wooden table and chairs became the focus and a backdrop was being set up behind them. Taped to the backdrop were wanted posters, maps with red string and post-its, and various black and white photos of vehicles, people, and crime scenes. Kirishima felt an uncontrollable smile start to form.
“I always pictured you having a studio or something.”
“It looks more complicated than it is.” Midoriya shrugged. “It’s already intact in Todoroki’s room. We just move it out here.”
“You keep the table in your room?” Kirishima asked turning to Todoroki.
“It’s our dining set.”
Kirishima eyed the old, cracked table and the two uncomfortable chairs. He couldn’t imagine having to sit on those for anything other than a short film session.
“Kacchan is in Todoroki’s room grabbing the last of the camera equipment,” Midoriya said. “If you wanted to go help him.”
Kirishima did. He nodded to Midoriya and wandered down the only hallway that could lead to other rooms. He had no clue which door led to Todoroki’s room, but after hearing several curses he had a pretty good idea.
He nudged the ajar door open with his foot and found Bakugou headfirst in a closet.
“Fucking half-and-half bastard. I told him to leave them out, but nobody ever fucking listens to me. I swear to fucking god I’m going to lose my mind.” Bakugou muttered to himself while throwing clothing items and books behind him.
“Would you like help?”
Bakugou pulled out of the closet too quickly, causing a few crashes to be heard inside. “Hey.” He said breathlessly. Kirishima figured from digging around in the closet so long.
“Hi.”
“I’ve almost got it. Just hold on.” Bakugou said before diving back into whatever chaos Todoroki maintained in there.
Kirishima took small steps around the room that was about as plain as the owner itself. The walls were blank, the bedspread was grey, and even his computer desk was barren. The only thing that stood out was the two pictures hung above his bedframe with scotch tape. The first was him, Midoriya, and Bakugou holding their one-millionth subscriber plaque, and the second was two young boys in jerseys covered in dirt, the blonde boy had a cocky grin with his arm slung around a pale-haired boy who smiled shyly.
“You can carry these.” Bakugou offered Kirishima two heavy leather bags filled with equipment only Sero could name. He followed Kirishima’s gaze to the pictures on Todoroki’s wall and scoffed. “I told the hag not to give him that.”
“Is that you?”
“Yeah, but it’s a stupid picture.” Bakugou nudged Kirishima forward with his own case. “I don’t know why he likes it so much.”
Kirishima followed Bakugou out of the room to help him unpack the equipment while Midoriya and Todoroki completed the backdrop.
“Kacchan, I’m going to start recording the voiceover,” Midoriya said, walking toward the hall with Todoroki trailing after.
“Fucking do whatever I don’t care.”
“Voiceover?” Kirishima asked.
“Yeah, the dramatic explaining bull shit. Half-and-half cuts it in with us fucking around. It sounds cleaner that way.”
Kirishima nodded. That made sense. He guessed he never thought about it that intensely while just casually watching. “So, what’s the topic today?”
Bakugou shrugged. “The dynamic works better if I don’t know.” He said, struggling with a tripod. Kirishima sat cross-legged and watched helpfully. “I set up all the outings and Deku does this bull shit.”
Kirishima’s jaw dropped, “but I thought you hated being a ghost hunter.”
“I’m not a fucking ghost hunter.” Bakugou paused, staring blankly ahead. “Am I a ghost hunter?”
“I mean by definition...” Kirishima shrugged. “Sorry, dude.”
“I don’t want to be a fucking ghost hunter. This is bull shit!”
Todoroki poked his head out from the end of the hallway. “Izuku would like me to pass on, ‘Kacchan shut the fuck up. You’re ruining my recording’.”
“Tell him to suck a fat one.”
“I will not.” Todoroki left and Bakugou stuck his tongue out childishly.
“Izuku?” Kirishima asked.
“Yep,” Bakugou motioned for Kirishima to hand him one of the items lying beside him. “You give someone a place to stay and they betray you by sleeping with the enemy.”
“That didn’t sound overdramatic at all.”
“I’m not overdramatic.” He muttered under his breath. Kirishima leaned back on his palms and glanced back to where Todoroki had disappeared.
Midoriya’s head poked out from the hall. “Kirishima there’s a fun ransom note in this case and I was wondering if you wanted to do the voiceover for it?”
“Fun ransom note?” Bakugou shook his head.
“Me?”
“Normally Todoroki would, but since you’re here I figured it’d be fun to switch things up.”
Kirishima scrambled up and bounded down to the room opposite Todoroki’s. Bakugou’s room had a lot more to take in than Todoroki’s had. The amount of superhero merchandise—All Might specifically—that Bakugou had was impressive even to Kirishima. He had posters hung all over, actions figures and Funko Pops on bookshelves—most unopened, comic books resting on his nightstand, and an All Might blanket strewn across his black comforter. In between the superhero posters were a few pop-punk bands from the early 2000s that he was sure Sero would appreciate.
Kirishima’s eyes landed on a silver laptop on Bakugou’s bed that had a few YouTuber’s logo stickers on them. He noticed one was worn and nearly peeling off the surface, and it took him a moment to recognize it as his own logo. It was Kirishima’s first attempt at merch from nearly four years ago. He’d changed his design completely since then since hardly anyone had bought those. Bakugou had said he only knew so much about the Vlog Squad because Midoriya watched their videos in college. If that was true why would he have—
“Alright, here are the sections we need,” Midoriya said, handing him a paper with several highlighted sentences.
“Do I have to read it all dramatic?” Kirishima asked, skimming the words. He took a seat in front of their expensive-looking microphone while Todoroki clicked various buttons on the screen before him. This was all completely out of his basic editing toolbox.
“Just read them like you want to kidnap and murder a little girl,” Todoroki said somehow disinterested.
“Shoto.” Midoriya smacked his arm lightly. He muttered under his breath, leaning back and gesturing to the mic in front of Kirishima. He stared at it blankly.
“Don’t worry too much,” Bakugou said, leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms. “Whatever you do will be fine.”
“If not, I’ll just rerecord it when you leave.”
Midoriya smacked Todoroki again. Bakugou gave Kirishima a millisecond half-smile and that was all the encouragement he needed to begin. The ‘fun’ ransom note turned out to be extremely depressing, and unfortunately, Kirishima ended up having to read it several times before getting a good take. He fumbled over a few larger words, but Midoriya was incredibly forgiving. After all the unnecessary compliments he received Kirishima left confident that he’d performed decent enough for a working edit.
“Alright, time to get this bitch over with,” Bakugou said, kicking off the doorframe.
“That’s the spirit Kacchan.”
Excitement fluttered through Kirishima’s stomach as Bakugou and Midoriya took their seats. He sat atop their kitchen counter a few meters behind the film equipment so any noise he made wouldn’t get picked up by audio. Todoroki made a few final adjustments to Bakugou’s set up, ignoring his insulted rants, and counted off to signal the start of filming. Once the camera was on he moved back beside Kirishima, and it was clear by his cold demeanor that he had little intention of humoring him with a conversation.
Like all videos, Midoriya began with explaining that week’s topic while Bakugou half-listened, twirling a red pen between his fingers. They would be covering the unsolved murder of a young girl, a case that their patron had been actively requesting. Midoriya barely got three minutes in before Bakugou interjected.
“Are those business folders going to be a regular thing now?”
“I was planning on it,” Midoriya said. “Why? Does it bother you that I look professional now?”
“No. It pisses me off because I know a bunch of ghost bull shit is going to end up in there.” Bakugou said, leaning back in his chair.
“Well, it’s not bull shit, so sorry but—”
“Wait,” Bakugou turned serious and put his hands up. “Did you hear that?”
Midoriya shook his head and Bakugou pointed his pen downwards. “It was my chair squeaking. Did you think it was a ghost? I’m just making sure you know the difference.”
Kirishima snorted. Bakugou and Midoriya both turned to him, Bakugou’s expression elated and Midoriya’s crestfallen.
“Kirishima,” Midoriya said whining.
“I’m sorry.”
“This is great.” Bakugou crossed his arms behind his head for support as he leaned back. “We should have a live audience more often.”
“This audience is biased, and you know it,” Midoriya muttered under his breath.
Bakugou rolled his eyes and waved for Midoriya to start up again. They continued with the episode and Kirishima tried his best to force down laughter whenever Bakugou made a snide remark. It hadn’t helped that Bakugou would make direct eye contact with him after every incident.
Todoroki started mumbling beside him.
“What?” Kirishima figured there was no harm in trying with Todoroki.
Todoroki side-eyed him. “Bakugou’s showing off. This is going to be annoying to edit.”
Kirishima didn’t know what that meant. As far as he could tell Bakugou was acting like normal.
“Are you taking notes?” Midoriya asked. Bakugou had his head down over his small yellow notepad and Midoriya strained to see what it said. “When have you ever taken notes that doesn’t—Deku is a fucking idiot. That’s…that’s real funny. Are you proud of yourself?”
Bakugou wiggled his eyebrows cockily at the camera and made brief eye-contact with Kirishima again. He supposed Bakugou was acting a little goofier than usual, but Kirishima wouldn’t consider that showing off.
Todoroki groaned dramatically beside him, so he clearly disagreed.
Bakugou listened to Midoriya explain the first two suspects and suddenly he slapped his hand over Midoriya’s mouth. Midoriya peeled Bakugou’s hand off and looked at him like he’d gone insane.
“What’s happen—”
“Deku, I’ve connected the fucking dots.”
Midoriya looked a cross between amused and angry. Kirishima had his hands covering his mouth and was keeping his laughter down by sheer willpower alone. He wouldn’t allow himself to ruin what he knew would become a historical moment.
“Kacchan, there is nothing for you to connect yet.”
“I’ve connected them,” Bakugou said. He went on to rattle off a theory connecting the first two suspects to the murder. Kirishima and Todoroki both glanced at each other confused by what was happening before them. Bakugou spoke with such confidence it was hard not to believe he’d just solved the case. Midoriya read through the paper in his hand, looking between it and Bakugou before throwing it behind his back exasperatedly.
“Yeah, that’s… that’s the second theory.”
Bakugou raised his hand for a high-five and Midoriya eyed it wearily. Bakugou didn’t even bother waiting before he high-fived himself.
There were only several minutes of recording left as Midoriya wrapped of the final theory, which was always the most ridiculous and would send Bakugou in a tizzy. He ranted for remaining time as Midoriya laughed, but once Bakugou calmed Midoriya ended their ride with his classic phrase, ‘for now the mystery remains unsolved’. Kirishima grinned giddily as the words left Midoriya’s mouth.
“Those guys were assholes,” Bakugou said, stretching his arms as he stood from his chair.
“I mean they’re all murder suspects,” Deku said, propping his feet onto the wooden table. “Do you think that’s ever been someone’s last words to a murderer? You’re a fucking asshole?”
“Those would be my last words.”
Midoriya laughed getting up to help Todoroki look over the past forty minutes of footage. Bakugou walked straight up to Kirishima who was swinging his legs on the edge of the granite countertop.
“So, was it everything you dreamed it’d be?” Bakugou asked.
“That was amazing,” Kirishima hopped off the counter, accidentally landing a little too close to Bakugou. “You guys were so cool.”
Bakugou flushed with color and looked away from Kirishima’s sunshine smile. “It wasn’t anything special…”
“That’s uncharacteristically humble of you Kacchan,” Midoriya said, a teasing lilt to his voice. Bakugou flipped him the bird.
“Can we eat now? I am hungry.” Todoroki said placing the camera back onto the tripod.
“You’re getting food with us, right?” Midoriya asked Kirishima.
“I didn’t know you were getting food.”
“We always have a celebration meal after we record an episode. Kacchan was supposed to invite you.”
“Nobody fucking told me to—”
“Do I have to do everything,” Midoriya muttered under his breath. He grabbed Todoroki’s hand and led him toward the front door. “Shoto is going to help me take something to my car. We’ll be right back.”
“But we aren’t carrying anything,” Todoroki said. Midoriya didn’t respond and Todoroki shrugged helplessly to Bakugou as he let himself be dragged out his apartment.
Bakugou and Kirishima were left staring at the door confused.
“That was…”
“Tactless.” Bakugou offered.
“I was going to say interesting, but yours works.”
“Obviously you’re invited to get food with us,” Bakugou said, avoiding eye contact by staring down at his plain black socks.
Kirishima nodded. “I figured.”
The moment Bakugou did look up Kirishima’s mind was erased of anything he’d planned to say. All he could think about was how intensely attractive his eyes were, how privileged he felt to be in that situation, and how he wished his heart would slow the fuck down because there’s no way Bakugou couldn’t hear it beating.
“I’m glad you were able to show up,” Bakugou admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah, uh, I’m glad I got to see you again.” Kirishima didn’t miss the way Bakugou’s eyes briefly widened before he looked away.
“Sorry I never really texted you. We went to the middle of nowhere for four days, so I didn’t have cell service.”
“Middle of nowhere?” Kirishima asked.
“Yeah. We were hunting… bigfoot.”
Kirishima bit his lip to hold back another smile. Only he would find a guy who could use hunting bigfoot as a legitimate excuse for not texting him back. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not like I was depressed eating to Disney movies for three days straight or something.”
Bakugou eyed him suspiciously and Kirishima immediately started backpedaling.
“Besides, we aren’t dating or anything, so you don’t owe me any explanations,” Kirishima said, hoping he could deescalate the suspicion.
“Right. No. Yeah. We’re not… that.”
Kirishima realized he may have de-escalated too much when an ounce of hurt flickered across Bakugou’s face. That was bad. He needed to fix that. Kirishima racked his brain for ideas, but he could only come up with stupid plans. Kirishima noticed Bakugou’s face scrunch up like he was about to overthink something, and he took a deep breath.
It was time to do something stupid.
“Not that I would hate if we were…” Kirishima said. “Dating or something.”
Bakugou’s cheeks tinted red and Kirishima hoped that was a good sign.
“Right,” Bakugou nodded. “That wouldn’t completely suck.”
Kirishima didn’t bother holding back the smile that broke out. “Well then maybe we should—"
“We’re back!” The front door swung open and Midoriya strutted into the living room. "Shoto and I were thinking about tacos if that works for you… two…”
Kirishima hadn’t noticed how close they were until Bakugou backed up an exaggerative distance. Kirishima didn’t anger easily, but at that moment if looks could kill Midoriya would’ve dropped on the spot.
“We’ll just wait in the hall,” Midoriya said, quickly pushing a confused Todoroki back out the door.
Bakugou had both his hands on his face and he looked at Kirishima through spread fingers. Kirishima gave him a half-grin and shrugged.
“Can we talk later?” Bakugou asked. “If Deku walks in one more time he’ll be the star of our next video.”
Kirishima felt his face burn. “Yeah. Later works.”
Bakugou nodded. “I have to… get shoes and stuff.”
He left Kirishima alone in the living room. Kirishima smacked his cheeks so the blush would be gone by the time he went into the hall. He had his hand on the brass doorknob when he spotted a whiteboard hanging beside the door.
It was a calendar whiteboard, the type you usually find in college apartments. It was color-coded based on each boy for chores, appointments, meal prep, rent, and bill payments, and other random reminders—Bakugou had one about picking Todoroki up from his dentist appointment. At the bottom left there were stick figures of Todoroki and Bakugou that looked to be drawn by the opposite. Kirishima had never seen something so wholesome and organized in his life. He knew that if his house tried to implement this it would go to shit in less than 12 hours.
The right side was more chaotic and had been invaded by Uraraka and Midoriya. Various things like fuck Deku, altered with a yes please beneath it; Uraraka is awesome, rewritten as Uraraka is stupid; Kacchan smells, a sloppy GOOD scribbled underneath; and Todoroki is a boss ass bitch, which was left alone. This was more like what anything at his home would resemble.
“I got it because half-and-half needed to learn how to be a functioning adult,” Bakugou said, sneaking up behind him. “Nobody takes my shit seriously.”
“Can I write on it?” Kirishima asked, already reaching for the red dry-erase marker. He found a clean spot in the bottom right and wrote ‘Kirishima was here’ with a shark-toothed smiley face.
Bakugou stared intensely at the spot then nodded. “Let’s go.”
The moment they entered the hall Midoriya apologized which started an argument between him and Bakugou. Kirishima tried seeking help in Todoroki as the two trailed behind them, but it appeared Todoroki still wanted nothing to do with him. Kirishima hoped he’d be able to fix whatever was going on because Todoroki seemed like a big part of Bakugou’s life. Mina always told Kirishima that befriending people was his hidden superpower, so he would just have to hope that he’d be able to ware Todoroki down. Kirishima wanted to be a part of Bakugou’s life, and that meant getting along with the people who were in it.
Bakugou aggressively punched the down button for the elevator while informing Midoriya his poor taste in movies made his every opinion irrelevant. When the doors slid open Todoroki shoulder checked him while walking past and Bakugou paused his fight with Midoriya as if thrown off by Todoroki’s actions. Kirishima guessed it really was just something about him then wasn’t it. The two appeared to be having some sort of telepathic conversation now and Kirishima just leaned against the cool metal of the elevator’s wall.
Don’t get him wrong. Kirishima was thrilled to be hanging out with everyone but…
He hoped later wouldn’t be too far away.
#kiribaku#clickbait#youtuber au#bakugou katsuki#kirishima eijirou#bakugou x kirishima#bnha#boku no hero academia#bnha au
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Sweat [Seth Rollins]
#83 "You're just leaving me here? At least have the decency to finish me off with a stick."
From prompt list for Anon! Huzzah, this one is actually kinda funny. To me, at least - mostly because I have no idea what the prompt sentence may have been intended for.
Cross fit. Cross fit. Cross fit.
Gross.
Fit.
You let out an obnoxiously loud, extended groan as your eyes peeked open, the piercing light of he fucking sun too much to maintain shut eye. Moreover, the only ray of light being allowed to hit your face was right over your eyes, since the rest of it was being blocked out by Seth's body.
Couldn't have used that thickness to help a girl out?
"Why do you torture me so?" You rubbed your face in annoyance, lazily sitting up.
"I let you sleep in. But you're not getting out of going to the gym with me this time, Y/N."
Seth was home for the weekend, and had been texting you non-stop about how he wanted to spend time with you. Thing was, he also had Summerslam coming up, so he had compromised with you coming along to work out. And by compromised you meant you'd given into the puppy dog eyes.
Wasn't even in The Shield anymore but the goddamn puppy dog eyes.
As much as you hated hardcore workouts, you did love Seth— even if he counted 'sleeping in' as waking you up at 7 AM.
"Wow. You're so kind, baby." You whined, smashing your pillow over your head to suffocate yourself.
Seth sighed, and in the next instance his arms were under your back and legs, scooping you up like a freakin' feather. He began repping you like he was already at the gym, doing so rather fast and catching you off guard.
Squealing, you tried pushing away from his chest with both hands, only to have him step away from the bed and start to spin around as well.
"If you don't wanna go to the gym, I guess I'll just work out here," Seth said flatly, continuing to pivot around whilst lifting you up and down. You began to get a little dizzy and you had a sneaking feeling Seth would keep going until you damn near threw up- because he was crazy like that and being a wrestler meant you had a certain tolerance to dizziness, apparently.
You closed your eyes, throwing your arms up.
"Okay, okay, just lemme go change first..!"
He set you down nice and gentle on the edge of the bed.
"God... you're absolutely insufferable sometimes." You huffed, finger combing your hair.
Seth only smirked, giving your forehead a quick kiss.
"I'll go get some shakes ready. Don't take too long."
You glared.
Leaving the room in triumph, you threw on a sports bra and some active wear shorts before going to the bathroom to at least brush your teeth and splash your face a bit. When you came out to the kitchen you hair was pulled back and Seth was sitting on the couch armrest on his phone.
"Lets go before I chain myself to the bed and you have no choice but to drag the entire thing if you want me with you."
Slinging his bag over his shoulder and juggling two cups full of some liquid packed with protein and... health, he laughed that obnoxious laugh.
"One, that would be a great challenge workout. Two, if you want me to tie you up later, just say please."
You flushed, grinding your teeth as you opened the apartment door.
...
You realized upon arriving at Gold's what it was that you hated about gym settings.
They always smelled the same.
A mixture of locker rooms and testosterone— maybe some cleaning products if they were really trying hard. It also reminded you of your terrible times in PE.
Seth handed you one of the smoothies, instructing you to drink at all if you didn't want to die today. You decided if you drank it at all you'd die even quicker, so.
Water it was.
"You should do my regiment with me, that way we can stick together and you won't break yourself or any of the other equipment." He grinned mockingly. "I remember when you thought the levers on the shoulder press were suppose to go side to side and you almost pulled a muscle—"
You held up a hand, eyes wide as a couple guys on the treadmills snickered, trying to appear like they weren't hearing anything.
You flipped them off while keeping eye contact with Seth. "I'm at your will, Rollins."
"Alright. Let's get this shit done."
...
After a half an hour, you were crawling on the ground.
Literally.
You were reaching for your nearly empty bottle of water (your second one), but stopped when you felt the twitch of pain in your bicep.
You'd just got done doing the twenty burpies, the onslaught having followed a whole set with the kettlebell, amongst several other things involving jumping and squatting before hand. Sweat was dripping down your face, but you hardly cared once you finally had the bottle in your hand again, swinging your head back to get a gulp.
Seth had been kind enough to give you a bunch of alternative workouts from his personal schedule, since - even if you wanted to - you weren't in the shape to be doing proper toes to bars or extreme deadlifts anytime soon.
Speaking of Seth, you glanced up at him, where he was setting down a barbell with god-knows-how-many pounds on it; when he stood straight, releasing the breath he'd been holding the last seconds of the lift, he put his hands on his hips, now looking like some immaculate, chiseled statue. A statue with sweat slicking his skin and a bit of a fuzzy man-bun, but still. Fuckin' hot even when he was getting "ugly" in the gym with all his Crossfit worship.
You hated this entire experience, apart from being able to ogle at your boyfriend's well-worked body, all rippling muscles, slick olive skin, and trails of dark hair in all the right places to properly enhance his physique.
You were already panting enough from the torture you'd endured, but in the moments you weren't suffering too much you couldn't help being almost grateful to be there.
"You alright, baby?" Seth called, bag over his shoulder while he redid his disheveled bun as he approached.
"Define... alright," you grunted, sitting up into a cross-legged position with more effort than you liked to utilize in daily life.
“If you drank that smoothie, I bet you’d be feeling better.”
You sighed, re-thinking yourself; only you remembered how the smoothie had tasted the last time he made you try it, so the pain was somewhat worth it.
"I'm going to go..." Seth began.
Your eyes suddenly sparkled in hope.
"— finish this workout with some cardio. I was gonna go down to the park and do some murder sprints after climbing the hill."
You raised a hand, fingers trembling.
"Stop right there. I can't... physically do that."
Honestly, with how heavy your legs felt, you started to believe you really had pulled something again.
"If you don't wanna come, you can just stay here." Seth suggested, something unreadable in his eyes. You weren't sure if it was concern, annoyance, or other.
Unable to believe he'd be so inconsiderate, you stretched out your legs, readying yourself mentally to stand up.
"You're just leaving me here? At least have the decency to finish me off with a stick." Your hand reached blindly for the mounted weight shelf, beginning to steady your body on weak knees. "Or a damn barbell."
It would be easier. And quicker.
As you puffed out short breaths, you narrowed your eyes at the ground, making sure you were actually off of it. Before you're letting go of the shelf, an arm cradled your waist, familiar warmth radiating from Seth's body as he let you lean your weight onto him.
"You want me to carry you again or can you walk?" He chuckled, eyes staring at you fondly while you slapped a hand to his chest— to hold yourself up and just cause.
"I can walk now. But I'm not suicide sprinting with you today, no siree."
Only, that was a lie.
When you took a couple steps forward you felt your leg cramp up, and you buckled slightly; Seth rolled his eyes, scooping you up bridal style. Again. And this time in public with a bunch of sweaty dudes judging you.
"Put me down, Seth-"
"They're called murder sprints." You furrowed your brows at his ignoring you. "And I was just joking about the park, Y/N."
He half-smiled, content that his honesty had distracted you enough that you noticeably relaxed in his arms. You went quiet, eyes darting off to the side and your lips pressing together like they always did when you were embarrassed.
Seth cleared his throat, "When we get home I'll finish you off, Y/N," You rose an eyebrow.
"And not with a stick or a damn barbell." He seemed to be trying to tickle you with sexual lingo. You totally got it. And if it wasn't sexual lingo then Seth just told you he was going to murder you.
You shook your head and laughed dryly, assuming he was kidding.
"Why would you do that? Working out just get you going, big boy?"
"Sometimes."
Oh.
"But I don't usually get to see you when you exercise... and it was kinda hot."
It certainly didn't feel hot. Now you really thought he was kidding, but he continued.
"The only other time I get to see you that wrecked is when you're on your knees for me or I'm thrusting into you, ya know?" His tone was disguised as casual, but it dipped to a lower when he mumbled against your ear. The pair of you went through the double doors as you wet your lips.
"And with all those other guys thinking they can look at you, knowing only I get to touch you," He placed you back on your feet right in front of the passenger door. "It all got me thinking I'd like to get you home right about now."
Alright.
You wouldn't fight against that; after all, you were going to be sore tomorrow either way.
#wwe drabble#prompt list#seth rollins#seth rollins drabble#seth rollins fanfiction#wwe imagine#wwe fanfiction
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Managed NoSQL Database In The Cloud - Amazon AWS DynamoDB ##UdemyOnlineTraining ##UdemyFreeCoupon #Amazon #AWS #Cloud #Database #DynamoDB #Managed #NoSQL Managed NoSQL Database In The Cloud - Amazon AWS DynamoDB Today, enormous amount of data is getting generated from everywhere. All these years, for storing and handling huge amounts of data, the IT world has been dependent on the Relational Database Management Systems or RDBMS. However, around 80 to 90 percent of this generated data is in the unstructured form such as presentations, texts, audio/video files, photos and various forms of business documents. RDBMS is proving to be insufficient to handle the unstructured data that is being generated with the exponential rate. Since the amount of unstructured data is growing so rapidly, there is a need to store and harness the benefits of this huge amount of data. So what is the solution? Where can you store such huge amount of unstructured data? 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Her Latest Flame Chapter 23: It's About F'ing Time
Previous Chapters
Where were we?
Wait. Rephrase.
Where were you?
Oh, hey, Sophie. Long time, no see.
Fuck. Right. You were there.
You’d hoped (prayed) (wished) (been willing to offer up a sacrifice) (like your first born - if you ever have one and if you don’t then Lauren’s and then you thought about that for a second and felt even worse) that, somehow, it had all been a dream.
Not a good dream which, you know, is sort of odd coming from you cause, let’s face it, there haven’t been many times when you would have considered a dream of Karma mounting you and professing her love to be bad.
Especially the mounting.
And yes, you do mean that. Cause, as much as you don't want Karma like that (girlfriend) and as much as you really don’t want Karma doing that (the whole professing bit) there’s still a part of you - the so exceptionally masochistic, often drunker than your brain, and just plain fucking dumb part - that’s always wondered what Karma doing that (the mounting) (duh) would be like.
“I kinda feel like I deserve it,” you told Sophie once, on one of those rare nights when you both struck out (which was really you striking out and Sophie choosing to cause she didn’t want you to be alone and drunk - and you were already one of those - and fuck all, that’s just another in the long long list of reasons why you don’t deserve her.) “Like, I went through hell cause of that girl and she broke my heart in like five or six or, you know, nineteen different ways and, if she ever does decide to do the whole ‘I’m in college now and that’s when we try’ route, I kinda feel like I earned being the… the… ”
“The try out,” Sophie offered up - she even finishes your semi drunk, semi problematic and all ridiculous sentences - and you nodded (which your swimming in cheap beer and even cheaper schnapps brain regretted, immediately.)
“Exactly,” you said, reaching out a hand, which she took (and damn, she’s always so warm) and steadied you before you toppled over in the street. “The try out. If Karma’s gonna go out for the team, I at least should get to be like a judge, don’t you think?”
An eight. You’d give her an eight. You’d go higher but the other judges would probably accuse you of favoritism and no, you had no idea what the hell you were thinking-slash-talking about.
Also, in answer to your question ('don’t you think?) (just to refresh) Sophie didn't think though, in fairness, her 'didn’t think’ was a bit different than your 'didn’t think’ as in hers was much more of a 'didn’t think that was a good idea’ and yours was a 'didn’t think’.
Like at all.
Not unusual for you. You know.
Still. You always did wonder (even if you told Sophie over and over that you didn’t) and you always did suspect, as in “I suspect it will happen, someday”, even if you only ever said that
to other girls, drunken girls, girls whose names you didn’t remember in the morning, so you
also didn’t remember all the weird looks they gave you whenever you started babbling about hooking up with your 'fake’ high school girlfriend (like everyone had one of those) and, come to think of it - no pun intended - you were so incredibly lucky that you were so incredibly good with your tongue (in all the ways that weren’t talking) or you probably would have had a lot more of those drunk and alone nights.
You wouldn’t even let Sophie make a rule about it. “I think I can keep myself in control around Karma without adding it to the list.” Of course, it did help that Karma was several states away and only came home on breaks - you hardly even saw her at Thanksgiving - so 'control’ wasn’t much of an issue.
Also of course, that was right up until that last time Karma came home and then there was that hug at the airport and you texted Sophie that there definitely needed to be a rule and that, you remember now, was the day.
This is Amy, my roommate and Amy, this is Reagan, my fate.
Wait.
Date. She said date, not fate and oh, who’s projecting now, which is sorta silly cause no one else was projecting then and yes, you’re totally stalling (again) cause not stalling would mean dealing with what’s going on right now and that takes us back to question #1.
Where were we?
Ah, yes…
Previously, on your fucked up, oh who writes this shit and - seriously - maybe you’d be better off just going straight (and no, you don’t mean that in the that you should stop committing crimes sense, unless you’re talking crimes of the heart) life:
You roll over, damn near causing a midair two head pileup as you come face-to-face and then, seconds later, lip-to-lip, with just about the last person you expected to see, this morning. Or kiss, this morning. Or feel quickly straddling you and sliding a pair of very soft yet surprisingly cold hands up under your shirt, this morning.
Or any morning.
And oh, guess what? Karma’s home.
You barely have time to register that she’s there - and by there, you mean on you and by on you, you mean on you - or to try and pull your lips from hers (which takes a surprising amount of effort, mostly because she’s chasing you as you move and one of those so cold hands is now on the back of your neck and damn, Karma’s been working out) when you hear the sound of your door opening back up.
“Amy, your mom said I could just come on up…”
Your eyes squeeze shut as Karma’s lips disconnect from yours with a loud smack (and you can already sense another one of those, the slightly more painful kind, in your near future) as she turns to the door.
“Oh, hey, Sophie,” Karma says and oh, how you wish you were fucking deaf. “Long time, no see.”
That's right. This is where we came in. Right about the moment when you were thinking, well, you were thinking several things:
1.) Sophie’s going to punch you. Again.
2.) Sophie’s going to punch Karma.
(You hope she waits until Karma's not still straddling you to do either #1 or #2.)
3.) Later, after the punching (assuming you survive) (which seems likely) (unfortunately), you’re going to have to have a very long and very pointed chat with your mother about letting people just 'come on up’.
4.) The fact that the word 'thruple’ has actually crossed your mind in the thirty seconds since Sophie walked in is - most likely - an indication that you need some serious therapy or that you’re still somewhat drunk or both.
(Your money is on both.)
5.) You thought it was like seven in the morning but that just clearly can’t be - Sophie's awake - and so, at least, you got some sleep last night.
Gotta find the silver lining somewhere, right?
Oh… and…
6.) Please don’t say 'this isn’t what it looks like’ cause, really, it's exactly what it looks like, though with perhaps less participation by you than first glance might suggest but, really, that’s like a minisculely minor point.
You finally open your eyes (and the brightness of the room and the way it blinds you and no, that isn’t just some angelic glow behind your roomie (totes is) suggests that it’s probably a bit past noon, so yay, sleeping in!) and glance in Sophie’s direction. She’s leaning up against your door with her arms crossed over her chest and one brow arched - it looks only slightly less sexy when she does it - and you open your mouth and… well…
“This isn’t what it looks like.”
Oh, for fuckity fuck fuck fuck’s sake.
Sophie eyes you from the doorway and you’re not sure - hopeful, but not sure - that you see a familiar twinkle in her eye, the same one she gets every time you’ve done something incredibly stupid (so, like, at least once a week, on average, twice or even three times in weeks when the bars run two for one specials, four or five in weeks when you run into Elsie) and Sophie knows she’s gonna have something to hold over your head, at least until you do something incredibly stupider.
(That’s usually not that long a wait.) (It may be more so, this time.)
“It looks,” Sophie says, stretching the word out - looooks - and judging by the shit eating grin on her face, it 'loooooks’ like she’s having a ball (no pun intended) (but you will have to tell her that one later cause she’ll totes snort) “like Karma showed up just before me, climbed up on the bed, whispered that she loved you too, you rolled over in shock, she kissed you and then she put her apparently freezing hands up your shirt and you were trying to get away.”
Well… um… so…
Apparently, it really is exactly what it looks like.
(And later, when you ask - cause you'll have to know - Sophie will tell you that no, she doesn’t have the ESP and yes, she was standing right outside your door the whole time and yes, that was absolutely cause she wanted to make you suffer just a bit and no, you can’t blame her for that at all.)
“My hands are not cold.”
You and Sophie both turn and look at Karma incredulously (you’ve always wanted to use that word) (even if only in your head) cause, really?
That's her take away?
“Of course they are,” Sophie says and you recognize that tone, her 'I’ve totally got you whupped on this so please, please please try and argue with me’ tone and, to be honest, you really hope Karma does.
“How do you figure that?”
And maybe someone upstairs is listening to you after all.
“Well…” Oh, this is gonna be good. A Sophie 'well’ means someone’s about to get schooled and, for just a moment, you feel a rush of panic, but then you remember.
It’s isn't you.
(For once.)
“First of all, your hands are still on her stomach,” Sophie says, nodding at the twin spots where Karma’s hands are resting on either side of your abs (you knew she always did have a… thing… about those.) “Which means you haven’t gotten to second base - and, just so we’re clear, that does mean the same thing for the gays as it does for the straights, in case you weren’t sure of the lingo and all.”
Oh, how you've missed Sophie.
“So,” she rolls on. “Even though Amy could cut glass… like five inches of it, at least… with her chest right now, I’m gonna go ahead and chalk that up to either an excellent Reagan dream that you interrupted or her body temperature dropping like eight degrees from the… well… 'magic’ of your touch. And since she’s got goosebumps running all up her arm…”
You do. You really do.
They’re only partly from the cold and mostly from watching a master at work.
“Plus,” Sophie says (and oh, there’s more!), “I shook your hand once, when we met, and, I gotta say… cadaver… was kinda the word that popped to mind.” You wanna yell 'burn!’ but that’d be kinda bad - what with Karma still on you - and, also, it would so not fit the whole corpse motif Sophie’s got going. “Like, I seriously thought that maybe I should give you the number for my grandmother’s heart doc, in case of some kinda… issue… with your circulation. But then, I figured, it was just you and, well, you know, cold hands, cold heart.”
Karma glares and her skin flushes and, surprisingly, her hands don’t warm at all. “That’s cold hands, warm heart.”
“Yeah, it is,” Sophie says, “but we were talking about you. So…” She takes a couple quick steps across the room and drops down into your desk chair, spinning around one complete revolution just to let that sink in. “Now, Karma sweets, if you don’t mind, could you unmount my roomie so she and I can have a very overdo chat without me having to stare at… all… this.” She waves a hand in the general direction of your… situation. “I don’t feel like washing my eyes out with holy water today, K?”
Did you mention that you missed her? Cause you did. You totes missed her.
Which is a bit more than you can say for Karma.
“Amy… will you please tell your roommate," (she says it like it’s a dirty word) (like fucker or twat waffle) (or Liam.) "That whatever it is she thinks you two have to discuss, it’s far less important than what we need to talk about?”
She looks at you, expectantly.
Sophie looks at you, expectantly.
And if this is anything like the beginning stages of a thruple (no ice to go breaking here) then, really, you're so gonna stick to twoples for the rest of your life cause this?
So. Much. Pressure.
(and not just the Billy Joel song and why, of all times, does Billy come to mind now, it’s not like you know anyone who still listens to him, like in the tape deck of their truck or something and, wow, that’s a very specific and weird image to have and you feel like you should know, but…)
But… the pressure is lessened, somewhat, by Sophie cause, yes, she is looking at you all expectant like, but also a bit amused, like she’s enjoying this, with this being watching you squirm - and not in the way Karma would like - and no, you can’t really blame her if she’s
finding a little joy in this and, as long as she keeps smiling at you like she is, well,then it’s
all good.
(And oh, that still sounds so…ugh.) (Leave it to Karma to ruin another phrase.) (She takes 'all good’ from you but leaves 'thruple’? That’s just wrong.)
“Amy?” Karma nudges you which is less nudge and more gentle squeeze near your abs and oh, the look on face as she does… well…
What was that about holy water?
“Um… well…” You clear your throat cause, other than 'this isn’t what it looks like’ (and really?), you haven’t spoken since you talked to Lauren yesterday and man, it’s suddenly dry in here and where’s that glass of water you’re sure you brought to bed -
“Amy.”
Right. No water. And, really, no clue and, for once, you don’t think that's your fault.
“Karma, Sophie and I have a lot to talk about,” you say and she gets that look on her face, like the one from that night at Communal when you told her you 'had it’ (and you did, for that one single night) and if she looks like that now…
“And we don’t?” she asks, those fingers tightening ever so gently against your skin and you really didn’t ever think there’d be a day you wouldn’t like that.
You were wrong.
Again.
“I don’t know,” you say. “To be honest, Karma, I don’t even know what the hell you’re doing here.”
She pulls back, her hands slipping out from under your shirt (warmth! there’s warmth!) and fixes you with a look you haven’t seen since Hump Day. (Her video) (Not Wednesday.)
“I’m here because you texted me,” she says and that just clears absolutely nothing up. “You said you loved me.” She reaches into her purse which, apparently, has been sitting on your
bed the entire time, and pulls out her phone, cueing up messages from you. “See? Look! It’s
all right there!”
You see. You look. And it is. It’s all right there.
Every bit of proof that you should never ever be allowed to use a phone again.
You told her. You told Lauren.
I should not be allowed to own a cell phone.
You told her. And she told you.
Yeah. Because the phone is the problem.
(Well, it was the phone that got you and Reagan busted and it was the phone that had all the pictures of you and Reagan that sent you spiraling down 'good times with the ex’ memory lane and it was the phone that you were looking at right before you saw her again, standing outside your door.)
(Common denominator? The phone.)
(And yes, you’re aware that there's another common denominator there, but two denominators is math and we all know how well you do with that.)
But, you reminded Lauren, she hadn’t seen the messages. The texts that you 'wrote’ (and you use that term so very loosely.) The ones that read:
I miss you.
It was all my fault, I know that. I soooooooooooooo know that.
I don’t deserve you.
And you don’t deserve me. And I mean that in the you don’t deserve to suffer the horrible horrible horrible fate of having me in your life, not in the way I don’t deserve you.
You probably knew what I meant.
I’m so sorry. Sorrier than I’ve ever been for anything. Even sorrier than when I slept with Liam, which is probably not a thing to bring up right now, but you know me, open mouth, insert foot and oh, please tell me you’re not thinking of other things I’ve put in my mouth and oh, I’m just making it worse and I am so deleting this before I hit send.
I hope someday you can forgive me and I hope someday my feelings won’t be such a problem for us and I just hope you know that you are the best part of my life and I really do love you and I hope that someday
The texts that you wrote (still loosely) (but one air quotes is enough to make a point, right?) and sent to Sophie. Lauren never saw them.
And, apparently, neither did Sophie.
“I’m here because you texted me,” Karma says, again cause it wasn’t clear the first time.
Well… actually… it wasn’t.
But it is now. Oh, so fucking clear. And, if the smirk on Sophie’s face is any indication, it’s clear to everyone but Karma.
“You texted me and apologized for ignoring me after Christmas,” she says, “when I tried to talk to you about how I was feeling, and then you said you loved me.”
“Uh, Karma?”
She is not to be deterred. “You apologized,” she repeats (and you totally do notice that that’s the part she seems most stuck on.) “And you said I was the best part of your life and that you loved me and I hopped a plane as soon as I got them and flew right here because I couldn’t stand to be apart for one more minute.”
“Did you get that, Amy?” Sophie asks. She's so loving this and if you hadn’t, you know, just recently fucked her girlfriend (or semi-girlfriend) (kinda girlfriend?) (quasi-girlfriend?) you’d
so be planning how to get her back for this. “Not one minute more!”
Karma nods enthusiastically, pointing at Sophie as if to say 'what she said!’
Some people have beer goggles (you) (usually on Thursdays) (dollar pitcher night) and some people have rose colored glasses (Sophie) (when it comes to you) (usually) and Karma?
Obliviators. Get it? Oblivious and Aviators cause she’s always trying to be fashionable and cause it so totally sounds like something out of Harry Potter and you just couldn’t resist.
“Karma -”
You try. You to cut her off, to head her off at the 'oh, honey’ pass. You really do.
Not very hard (that’s what she said) and not very well (also what she said) (if she was you and you were asked about Liam) (or about Elsie) (or, frankly, about Karma, given her cold hands on the abs technique.)
“Amy, it’s OK,” she says and no, it’s not and no, it’s not going to be and yes, you were thinking that you’d lost a best friend and while you haven’t (apparently), you’re pretty sure that’s a matter of yet. “I understand,” Karma says. “It was easier to text, so much simpler than saying it face to face. I know we don’t have the best track record with that…”
You think?
“So, I get it,” she says. “I understand. But it’s just you and me now -”
“And me,” Sophie says, barely holding back the laughter. “Don’t forget blondie over here.”
Karma glares. “Your hair's purple.”
Sophie nods cause, well, yeah. “Right you are, buttface. It is purple. Gotta say, Karma, you don’t miss a thing.” She leans back in the chair, smirking away. “Except for, you know, the obvious.”
She’s talking about now but she’s right about, well… always. There’s a list of the obvious that Karma’s missed over the years, one about as long as your arm. One that starts with you and,
it would seem, ends with you too.
“Buttface?” Karma wheels back to you (which has the effect of grinding her down onto you and you don’t know whether to moan or wince.) “Amy! She called me buttface! You call me that and only you call me that.”
She (this time the other she) is right. You do call her that. You’ve called her that for years. In fact, that’s always been her name.
In every cell phone you’ve ever had.
“It’s funny,” Sophie says - and Karma whips her hips back around and damn, you so should’ve worn thicker shorts to bed - “but Blondie and Buttface. Two B’s. I mean, that kind of puts us close together, doesn’t it?”
She jumps out of the chair and climbs up on the bed, shoulder to shoulder with Karma and, really, all you need right now is for your mother or Lauren (or Reagan) (especially Reagan)
to walk in and this day would be complete.
“Will you look at that!” Sophie says (and quasi-girlfriend fucking or not, you’re gonna get her for this), “we're right next to each other.” She grabs your hand and holds it out, between them, like you don’t know which to touch. “I mean, it’s almost like, if Amy were confused or blindfolded or maybe, you know, drunk out of her mind for like six days running, she might just 'reach out and touch’ the wrong one.”
Karma looks at Sophie. Karma looks at you. Back at Sophie. Back at you.
Your arm hovers there the whole time and you haven’t been to the gym in like… ever… so it’s a bit too heavy for you to keep holding it up there while she figures it out cause, you're sure, that’ll probably take a while.
“You’re next to each other, Karma,” you say - and she looks at you like 'duh’ cause, well, they are - and you need to clarify. “In my phone. Blondie and Buttface. I sent all those texts to the wrong one. They were meant for her, not you.”
Karma cocks her head (you’re not thinking of that beagle video you watched on YouTube, you’re just not) and you can see it sinking in, the wheels turning, it all finally coming clear for her.
“Oh my, God,” she says and your heart breaks (really) (no, really) at the embarrassment she must be feeling. “You meant to say all that to Sophie.” Karma scoots back - and oh, there is
still feeling in your legs - and crouches at the end of the bed, her eyes darting back and forth between the two of you. “Amy…” she says, sounding a bit too much like that night for your comfort. “You’re in love with Sophie?”
Wait.
Just… wait.
Just… “I'm what now?”
“The texts,” Sophie says, cutting you off before you reach the 'holy balls did I say something I didn’t think I said but maybe I secretly meant to say’ whack-shack your brain will obviously go to. “You said you love me and, to her, that means you're in love with me.”
Oh. Right. You forgot that you had to translate drunken Amy into sober (but may as well be drunken) Karma.
“Wait,” Karma says, and oh no. Just… oh no. “So, you're not in love with Sophie?”
So you’re telling me there’s a chance?
You stammer and stutter and you’ve got no idea how to tell Karma the truth cause, well, let’s face it, the best way, the easiest way - the only fucking way that makes any sense - is to tell
her the truth.
You. Tell Karma the truth.
(Go ahead and laugh.) (Come back when you’re done.)
…..
(Ready?) (OK…)
Fortunately, you’ve got an ace up your sleeve (if your shirt had any) that you’ve never had before. A purple haired, all out of every conceivable fuck Ace.
“Of course, she's not in love with me,” Sophie says, which does nothing to squelch the fire of hope in Karma’s eyes. “She’s in love with Reagan. And Reagan’s in love with her. Trust me, I know.”
And that’s the funny thing about hope. Sometimes (Karma) it dies. It dies a horrible, bloody, this is 'my worst nightmare’ and 'didn’t we get rid of her like two seasons ago' death. But then sometimes… well… sometimes (you) it springs eternal. Sometimes, it sneaks up on you and smacks you upside the head and makes you think that maybe… just maybe…
And Reagan’s in love with her.
So… she’s telling you there’s a chance?
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stranger in a fannish land 2: the unpopular opinions
So there's a meme where people are weighing in on what they'd change about The Raven Cycle and it's like.... Many people in fandom really have no sense of what's 'good for the story', or the difference between your personal satisfaction or reaction and 'a good idea' for the plot. Like, I realize that some things are sad, or unfortunate to have happen. But like, just because it's unfortunate (for ex, a character-- say, Noah-- doesn't get a happy ending) doesn't mean it's better not done in fiction. Alternatively, just because you can imagine it, doesn't mean it's even remotely a good idea for the fictional situation and/or characters as they stand. I mean... anything *can* happen, but not everything *should* happen, given you're trying to justify it as a Good Idea in the first place.
Sure, Ronan could've been together with Gansey, or even Kavinsky before Adam. Why not? He also could've been kidnapped by a pedophile as a child, or he could've been hit by lightning and got grey hair, or he could've been born on Maui and never met Gansey. He simply could've died as a baby, etc etc. If you're actually talking about desirable outcomes or things helpful to the relationships between Gansey, Adam, Ronan and Blue, you have to limit these potentialities and look at what *ought* to happen to preserve their dynamic, though. So yeah, Ronan/Kavinsky would be especially destructive to every major relationship in the books, and any hope for growth Ronan has, and in that sense it's equivalent to Ronan being born in Hawaii or dying as a baby. But Ronan/Gansey is just differently destructive to the group dynamic as we know it, with the characters as we know them. It would mean Ronan isn't so romantic and innocent, either, so his whole characterization changes, or it means they're not simply best friends. I mean, you can't 'just' casually have a crush on your closest friend if you're a romantic. If you do, it's usually not something one quickly or easily gets over to move easily onto the next friend, whether that's Blue or Adam. Further, Gansey's power over Ronan would start being really questionable all of a sudden, to the point where you'd have to wonder if Kavinsky was right. Jealousy and weird unrequited feelings would probably threaten the boys' connection with Blue, and this would probably change both Gansey's and Ronan's relationship with Blue. Regardless, an actual canon attraction or relationship between Ronan and Gansey, or between Henry, Blue and Gansey, is not just a fun, sexy little detail you can easily insert at any time. Every choice has consequences like ripples in a pond. That's how life works, but more importantly, it's how fiction works. This is the very thing that fans seem particularly oblivious of.
In general, my point is that just because you have a preference for X thing, or you react in a negative way to Y plot point, it doesn't mean that said X is good and Y is bad. I dunno, I feel like I'm stating the obvious. These aren't super-deep thoughts, are they? I mean, it's actually really blatant that say, Noah had a great arc and/or served his purpose wonderfully in the books, and yet maybe 5 people out of 100 seem aware of this in Raven Cycle fandom. Almost every post complaining about TRK states Noah's resolution sucked 'cause he 'deserved better'. I'd understand if 6 year-olds said that sort of thing, because it takes a while to understand dead people don't get better, but otherwise, I don't see how ghosts deserve happiness. Like, they're already dead, basically. Noah started out dead, and this had a major purpose in that plot. And dead is dead, man. That's kinda the *point* of being dead. It's both permanent and unhappy. As far as being dwelled on afterwards, none of the events of the climax got dwelled on afterwards. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Anyway, so the number one thing that drives me batty in fandom is people ignoring the entire idea of characterization or plot requirements in the story and assuming any old thing or headcanon that they wanted could actually somehow work. I dunno if these fans even think in terms of things 'working', though maybe I should be more optimistic. Like, for example, even agreeing it'd be great if Gansey also kissed/liked boys and was bisexual... why would he *randomly* kiss his friends? Who in the world does that outside pure romantic/sexual fantasies? Why not at least ask the question of 'why Gansey' first? Or why not demand Adam kiss random boys, 'cause at least he's confirmed to be bisexual in canon? Is there any other point except that everyone needs to be queer at all times? Even individual fanfics would usually at least try to make sense, rather than randomly putting in an assortment of happy headcanons. (Granted, I've seen fics that claim to incorporate an assortment of headcanons, but this isn't typical.) Who really wants books to be a collection of politically correct boxes checked, double checked and triple checked? Honestly.
What really drives me nuts is not really the fact that people want these counterproductive things to be canon, because surely the heart wants what it wants. It's the misunderstanding of the way fiction works, and consequently that these posts blame the writer(s) for their so-called failure in delivering what makes no sense in the first place. Like, some critiques are valid, obviously, even though I don't think the characterization of either Ronan or Adam (as it stands) easily transfers onto a POC character. Their background would need to change to some degree (particularly Ronan's, being Irish as a matter of characterization), so essentially it'd be a different character (though Blue is different). Anyway, so one can certainly critique that, as well as the pros and cons of labelling Adam bisexual more explicitly and so on. But stuff like randomly bi Gansey or happy Noah are just headcanons and pure wish-fulfillment. And my issue is that fandom doesn't draw any kind of serious line between these two kinds of 'critiques', in part because they often use the same lingo. It's literally like no one is aware that say, polyamory isn't really even in the same box as racial and sexual diversity representation, so Stiefvater had no responsibility to include Sarchengsey. Just because you care about that headcanon and/or real life issue doesn't make it a *social justice* responsibility that needs addressing in the media. I would think that's obvious, but it definitely isn't.
I think the underlying problem in my relating to fandom these days is that I don't... 'read' characters any particular way. Like, I may have interpretations about what happened and guesses as to what will happen, as well as hopes, but I don't just *decide* things. I never personally decide to read a character as gay, trans, ace, or a POC (let alone polyamorous), unless they're stated or super-heavily implied as being intended as any or all of the above. That is not a thing that happens to me. Of course, 'implied' kinda means that canon can get fuzzy to me, which is certainly true. Usually I'm just aware 'this is fuzzy'; maybe it's that even if I do go further, I don't fill in blanks with personal experience on any conscious level that I've ever noticed. It's not that I'm (that much of) a canon absolutist; I'm just unlikely (and indeed almost incapable of) making leaps that aren't ultimately suggested by the text. I'm also definitely irritated by many people who *do* make such leaps in a preachy, pushy, in-your-face way, like canon is irrelevant and fanon is the Only Truth needed (and if you disagree, you're the problem). If it's subtle but still intentionally textual, I'll (eventually) see it. If it's not textual... I probably won't. I don't read against the grain, basically.
It wouldn't be so bad (my mental dissonance in fandom, I mean) if not for the pushy holier-than-thou posts about the Truthiness of things which are absolutely Not Canon, which are always at the back oh my mind. So I guess I can overreact to some innocent wish-fulfillment stuff sometimes. I don't mean Truthiness like those (wanky and unfortunate) old debates about canon Johnlock or even (apparently) whether Victuuri is canon. That's actually less weird 'cause at least I can see people genuinely reading the text differently in that case, for whatever reason. Like yeah, I mean, I think denying Victuuri is canon is ridiculous and I haven't even watched Yuri on Ice. But at least those people seem to have some sort of reasoning as to *why* they think Victuuri doesn't exist, even if it's bad or homophobic reasoning. What really frustrates me the most is the growing fandom trend of people who wilfully ignore canon and the very idea of interpretive/headcanon plausibility without even acknowledging there's a deeper disagreement.
Like, we're talkin' the level of the folks who go beyond 'let's racebend Ronan Lynch' (ok, sure!), through the valley of 'you better racebend him or you're Problematic' (um, are you sure? I think I'm going to go with 'strongly disagree') and into the shadow of 'Ronan Lynch *is* black, and if you *deny* it you're Problematic'. I know it's all fun, games and headcanons, but when you're trying to get other people to replace their idea of canon with your headcanon, or trying to justify it in general, eventually it becomes all too easy to forget you'd ever even noticed that, say, Ronan is white while reading the books. And in fact, many people seem genuinely confused about that aspect of canon reality at this point, which is kind of terrifying to me. I value my ability to process the text correctly, pay attention to basic facts and, well, perceive objective reality in general. And yes, white Ronan Lynch is objective canon reality. You can certainly mess with it in fanworks (that's what fanworks are for!), but it remains canon, and no headcanon is morally superior enough to canon to *have* to be the preferable choice, let alone actually *replacing* it. In fact, the very idea that the more morally superior thing is somehow more 'correct' on a literal level is... Problematic. At least, to me. Not least because I think that although we do definitely need more representation, fellow fans cannot have a responsibility to invent it where it doesn't exist. Ability is not *responsibility*.
Basically, while transformative readings and headcanons are a great outlet and a fundamental part of fandom, it's not the *responsibility* of other character fans or fellow shippers to follow them or even support them. To me, that's really basic stuff that's long made fandom function on a fundamental level (on par with 'ship what you like'), and the fact that it often seems the majority of Tumblr fandom disagrees is making participation near-intolerable, at least in The Raven Cycle (the most extreme examples of this type of wank are concentrated in book fandoms, it seems, 'cause I think actors are more 'real' to people visually). It should just always be unnecessary to even say that if you don't want to slash, or racebend, or even ship outside of the canon sandbox (or you want to sometimes but not others), there's *nothing* wrong with that, as long as you accept that others won't have the same preferences. I really can't believe I feel I even have to say so, but I know I do. There's nothing wrong with preferring or enjoying canon as is. That's the basic level of the meaning of being fannish, surely. You like the thing you like! Liking it the way it is in canon cannot be considered the *inferior* way of liking it. So yeah, the mental dissonance can get very, *very* intense for me.
Essentially, good characters (especially ones I care about at all) and their core emotional responses and frameworks are real to me: Ronan is an individual. He's white, he's Irish-American, he's a Southern boy, he's got blue eyes. He's also angry, depressed, idealistic, loyal. Sherlock is an individual. He's also a white male, he's a Londoner, he's got dark curly hair, a low voice and many chins. And he's analytical, sensitive but interpersonally oblivious in some ways, obsessed with John, jealous of Mycroft, etc. You *can* certainly change most of this in a fic, but this doesn't mean you *should*, certainly without acknowledging the broad-ranging consequences. In a good and IC fanfic, you would have to acknowledge that those core traits are still the basic starting points, part of the definition of the character. Basically, as anyone who knows me will know, I've got an unholy obsession with ICness, even/especially in the context of fanon pairings, settings or situations like AUs. The characters and their core motivations are simply not fungible or interchangeable to me. This isn't really a failure of imagination ('why can't you just imagine whatever?' you say), but rather about seeing an imaginary person *so* vividly in my mind they they become effectively real.
In a way, this sounds similar enough to what people say happens with various projections and headcanons, but the process actually seems rather different, 'cause I pay attention to the text and not just my reactions to it. I love to imagine, to build upon the possibilities of the canon world, of course. I just... have to have a foundation. I can't imagine being *any* kind of fan without paying close attention outside of myself and caring about what I find there, in the text. Fanon and canon have to be separated for *either* to have true meaning.
In any case, in a broader sense, I do think I understand what happens to the people who get hung up on their headcanons and start insisting on them. My imagination is always something that starts out broad and open and ends up cast in stone, once I feel I've figured out what the relevant 'truth' is, in context. I can certainly settle on an interpretation and get pretty hardline about it, which happened to a large extent with my ideas about canon Johnlock (though I was always aware what's opinion and what's fact, I became very certain about my reading and I definitely got pretty easily frustrated by people who ignored the 'obvious'). That's why I separated a close reading or interpretation like canon Johnlock and even Victuuri from something like racebending Ronan Lynch, though. That's not a plausible reading or interpretation; rather, it's a simple denial and substitution of canon (which, as I've said, I never do). Telling me that doing it would be morally preferable doesn't really help (to say the least), although the process of how people get to this point *is* familiar to me.
I can and *do* often enjoy AUs or graphics where there's a new context for the character (say, edits where Ronan is Korean or Mexican-Irish have been cool). Not all AUs are created equal to me, though, 'cause not all AUs or fanon scenarios work with the characters' core traits, as written. Sometimes, though, fanon ships (a form of an AU) do work on the level of potential, like the Road Not Travelled By. You can sometimes imagine the canon arc splitting off at some crucial point, so it bends but doesn't break. This can be complicated stuff, but it's how I intuitively think of it. Generally, I'd need a sense of broader changes to who they are as a result of a new life history, but that's still an agreed-upon suspension of disbelief. Consequences, in other words.
#me myself and i#pointless rambles#oh fandom#shipping#raven cycle#reader response#narrative#characterization#Irish!Ronan#fandom meta
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I’m sick of fighting moronic culture wars The best weapon against people who take themselves too seriously is not to denounce but to make fun of them. BY LIONEL SHRIVER
Lionel Shriver is an author, journalist and columnist, who writes regularly for The Spectator. She is based in London.
When I left Australia in September of 2016, I didn’t expect to ever go back.
I’d been invited to deliver the opening address of the Brisbane literary festival. The organisers had originally requested that I speak on the theme of “Community and belonging”; I told them for such a soft, sappy topic they had the wrong speaker. By all means, choose your own subject, they wrote back. I proposed to speak about identity politics in fiction, and received wholehearted approval.
I chose to focus on a concept I’d only recently encountered, which at the time had primarily been used to castigate adventurous musicians and fashion designers. ‘Cultural appropriation’ was a brand new taboo: ‘stealing’ from other people’s traditions for your own evil creative purposes without ‘permission’. Although it was baffling however one might go about securing such a licence.
In 2016, I was hard-pressed to come up with examples of this peculiar no-no being used to impugn works of fiction. But I did manage to dig up the fact that a white male British novelist had recently been chided in reviews and on social media for daring to employ a female Nigerian character. I worried that if this sort of rebuke spread, the new taboo could be catastrophic for my occupation, one wholly dependent on imagining what it’s like to be someone else.
Alas, only three years later, I’d have found copious examples of fiction writers who’ve had their knuckles rapped for helping themselves to what didn’t belong to them.
Before delivering that lecture, I’d been solely concerned that my thesis was so self-evident that the speech would be boring. Afterwards, I was informed that one audience member, a 24-year-old from Southern Sudan, had flounced down the middle aisle and out of the venue – to be followed, after several minutes, by her concerned mother.
The young woman — who has dined out on her rude exit ever since — promptly posted an indignant screed online about how deeply hurt and offended she was by my talk (much of which she did not hear). Said screed was so over-written that it was actually funny. Nevertheless, the Guardian, which has an increasingly, shall we say, ambivalent relationship to my politics, picked up the blog and posted it on the paper’s website.
The rest is history.
Media across the world piled on. The story, such as there was one, was widely misreported. One woman walking out, followed five minutes later by her mother, transformed into a mass audience desertion. My final flourish of donning a sombrero – a droll reference to the speech’s intro, and worn only during the last three words of the speech – was mis-described in every account. According to news reports, I’d worn the sombrero belligerently during the entire 45-minute address. Now, that was slanderous. I have a far better sense of theatre.
To set the record straight, I had had my publicist post the keynote’s text online. Meanwhile, the festival administrators informed the press that I had spoken “beyond my brief”, and had no permission to address this topic. When my publisher sent the organisers a copy of the email thread demonstrating that they knew perfectly well what I would speak about and had given the topic their blessing, we got back sorrow about my “hurt” and “pain”. I wasn’t hurt or in pain. I was pissed off. Advertising that I go rogue at the podium impugned my reputation, and potentially curtailed future speaking invitations.
In private, I received a surprising quantity of supportive email, some from friends I didn’t know I had, but most of these defenders didn’t take a public stand. Oh, and that British writer, whose novel I stuck up for? He’s never spoken to me again.
*
It had been my intention to nip in the bud a poorly thought-out hard-Left injunction that had the capacity, if widely applied, to make my occupation untenable. Instead I fear that I helped spread the very concept that I’d hoped to discourage. For ‘cultural appropriation’ has in this last three years become widely regarded as forbidden in fiction.
I confess that I’m sick of the subject. Nevertheless, my opposition to this harebrained notion has grown only more implacable.
It took me a while to figure out that the ‘appropriation’ foofaraw is, in part, about the commodification of identity. In those indignant 2016 comment pieces, I encountered outrage that pale-faced authors were making money from experience that wasn’t theirs to sell. Thus the idea must be to reduce supply of writing about ‘marginalised communities’, and thereby to increase demand. Presumably, if we white writers are prevented from using ‘stolen’ material – if we’re required, in the latest lingo, to ‘stay in our lane’ – then, clamouring for fiction about characters from Southern Sudan, the minority-starved reading public will turn the recent first novel of a certain huffy African-Australian activist into a bestseller. I fear this model displays a poor understanding of economics and publishing both.
In literature, too, ideological predation on established writers is intended to allow younger, woker folks to take their place. When I was coming of age, we younger writers were eager to find mentors whom we admired, and with whom we often tried to ingratiate ourselves in Master of Fine Arts programs. We inhaled the work of accomplished predecessors, the better to hone our own skills.
We now have a generation that simply ‘cancels’ the older generation, the better to clear the stage and clamber onto it. (None of these people read anymore, but mysteriously they all still want to be writers.) What I encountered in Brisbane hewed to an ugly behavioural model that has more in common with big game hunting than with art.
More fundamentally, I challenge the propositions that any of us ‘own’ our own culture, that a culture is even subject to strict definition, and that a culture has any borders that can therefore be rigidly policed. Because we are all elements in other people’s landscapes, our experience – how we act, what we say, what traditions we observe – is also an ingredient in other people’s experience. Thus I would submit: we do not even own exclusive title to ourselves.
I reject this hoarding, hostile, selfish, and perplexingly commercial relationship to ‘identity’. Better that we all conduct our work and social lives in a spirit of sharing, generosity, exploration, curiosity, experimentation, and even willingness to fail in our sincere efforts to understand one another.
But apparently we white writers are now on notice that we don’t have “permission” to write non-white characters. There was actually a headline I tripped over online during the Brisbane hullabaloo, atop an article I didn’t choose to read: “Lionel Shriver Should not Write Minority Characters” – just in case I hadn’t got the message loudly and clearly enough. Ironically, this implies that authors like me are obliged to portray the Western world as if it’s still the 1950s. Off the page, our countries may grow ever more ‘diverse’, but between book covers we’re back to apartheid.
*
The strictures now constraining the imaginations of fiction writers are not limited to a ban on cultural kleptomania. All artists today are encouraged to be political, but only in the service of a narrow hard-Left orthodoxy. Any novel that challenges the trans movement or the 100% socially and economically beneficial character of today’s mass immigration to the West will attract a Twitter mob and scathing reviews. And that’s assuming you could get such books published in the first place.
Cutting-edge artists were once famously ‘transgressive’. Now to be cutting edge is to be cookie-cutter. Despite the reputation of the artist as a maverick, I live in a world of conformity. I don’t personally know a single fiction writer in London who supports Brexit.
You know, even having characters voice views or behave in a manner that runs contrary to progressive mores is now dangerous. At the 2016 Sewanee Writers Conference in Tennessee, fellow authors accused Allen Wier of a “microaggression” because three old men in a baseball park ogled a young woman in his short story.
It’s especially perilous for a novelist to express anything but officially approved progressive opinions in non-fiction – and as a prolific comment writer and columnist, I should know. I should have kept my noxious libertarian views about tax policy, the EU, and affirmative action to myself. I’ve made myself a target of animosity for virtually all the people who can influence my career – who commission the manuscripts, judge the literary prizes, award the writing residencies, and assign the reviews. For politically, my professional milieu is almost perfectly homogeneous. In outing myself in journalism, I’ve branded myself an outsider, if not an exile, among my own kind.
Hence I now get a brand of review I’ve come to recognise —whose author pre-hated me, and read my novel only with a view to locating unforgivable sins against social justice.
A friend of mine who teaches criticism at Columbia’s Master of Fine Arts program in New York confirmed that this recent inclination to judge literature in accordance with its adherence to a political catechism is not all in my head. Over a glass of white wine last summer, she despaired that all her criticism students think the job of a critic is to assess a given work in accordance with its implicit racial or sexual mores. Her students won’t even cut historical texts any slack if the content doesn’t line up perfectly with contemporary progressive values.
*
Writing fiction used to be a hoot. Now it’s fraught with anxiety. My colleagues and I have been made destructively self-conscious about any sentence that touches on race, ethnicity, disability, gender, sexual harassment or assault, Israel, colonialism, imperialism, diversity, class, or inequality – and that list keeps getting longer. As a consequence, too many of today’s artists are struggling to be ‘good’ rather than to do ‘well’. Perpetual nervousness that a foot wrong could get you banished from civilisation for life is not conducive to making art at all, much less outstanding art.
Publishers’ practice of employing “sensitivity readers” to vet and censure manuscripts is currently restricted largely to Young Adult fiction, but could soon be coming to a mainstream publisher near you. Self-appointed experts in the delicate feelings of a range of protected special-interest groups supposedly ensure that the text doesn’t offend anyone —although at this point if your book doesn’t offend anyone, it’s probably not worth reading.
After #MeToo, we authors are also fearful about how we behave at parties, which could not only invite personal censure but get our books withdrawn from the shelves. Now that the presumption of innocence is out the window, we have to protect ourselves from both our real sexual lapses and mere accusations of such lapses. Ask Junot Diaz. It took months of ignominy to clear the author’s name after he was accused of planting an unwanted kiss, and meanwhile booksellers banned his work.
Remember when writers like Hemingway were expected to be licentious hell-raisers who drank too much? I’m perfectly capable of batting the odd hand from my knee, so please give me back the old days, when being a novelist was good fun.
*
What are we all to do? Because this watch-your-step environment is not only a problem for artists. We’re all being coached to use dumb expressions, to edit what we say lest we violate a host of unwritten regulations, and to be increasingly avoidant of people different from ourselves not because we’re bigots but because we might say something wrong.
The hard Left’s code of conduct is drafted by people with no authority. A small group of self-nominated tyrants concocted ‘cultural appropriation’ as an unpardonable transgression, but that doesn’t mean we have to pay any attention to these bullies. The only thing that gives made-up rules any teeth is obeying them.
I’m an old-school rebel. Tell me I can’t do something and my immediate impulse is to do it. I write minority characters. You can only dispense with silly rules by breaking them, and any freedoms that you don’t exercise you’re bound to lose.
This means resisting the all-too-rational protective urge to self-censor. In 1969, Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint outraged American conservatives, and Roth meant the novel to be outrageous. He recognised that artists are supposed to push the confining cultural boundaries of their times. But these days, that means pushing back against the rigid rectitude of the Left.
We can also maintain our senses of humour. The best weapon against people who take themselves too seriously is not to denounce but to make fun of them. They deserve it, and we deserve a good belly laugh at their expense.
It’s also important to come to the defence, publicly and not only in private emails, of artists, academics, journalists, and thinkers who have stuck their necks out only to have their heads chopped off. The august, yet temporarily disgraced philosopher, Roger Scruton, who was crucified by an irresponsible journalist taking his quotes out of context, was only restored to respectability with the assistance of friends and allies who advocated on his behalf.
Otherwise, we just have to weather the storm. This Left-wing mania for dos and don’ts can’t last forever. I fear what may be required is some sort of catastrophe, one that makes ‘microaggressions’ suddenly seem as trivial as the expression suggests. This lunatic authoritarian obsession with an infinitely growing list of rules in relation to an infinitely growing list of specially protected categories of people? It’s an ailment born of prosperity. It’s the ultimate first-world problem. A plague of antibiotic-resistant flesh-eating bacteria across the planet might kill billions of people, but it would also wipe identity politics right off the map. In my desperation to restore sanity, playfulness, mischief, and abandon to our cultural landscape, I just hope I don’t have to resort to disseminating the bacteria myself.
Both artists and arts consumers need to return to first principles. That is, the purpose of art is not to do good. A given novelist may choose to promote the author’s version of virtue, but being good-as-in-virtuous is not what makes a book good-as-in-excellent.
It’s time to return to valuing not only nuance and complexity, but anarchy, wickedness, and heresy. It’s time to stop feeling obliged to be such good little campers, at least in our heads. Both writers and readers need to feel free to explore the unseemly underbelly of our imaginations. After all — aren’t books the ultimate ‘safe space’?
And sometimes we just have to talk about something else — something besides whatever group is socially disadvantaged this week, or what remark some public figure made about race or gender that’s supposedly beyond the pale. Sometimes we authors have to write about something else — so maybe I’m even apologising for the very topic I’m speaking of right now.
Because for me, the biggest trap of this whole identity politics lark has been getting lured into debating a proposition that’s unworthy of my address. I get drawn into fights from which I’d be better off just walking away. I’m genuinely embarrassed to have continually explained what I think is wrong with the concept of ‘cultural appropriation’ for three solid years. It’s a dumb idea, and it’s dumb terminology. Call it ‘cultural appreciation’ and the argument is over. For there’s a way in which, when you spend your precious time on this earth battling something dumb, even if at length you prevail, you’ve nevertheless thrown your pearls before swine, and the morons have still won.
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