#('enemies to lovers' future biopic applicant)

[triflesandparsnips]

Man I cannot wait for you disgusting Izzy stans to eat dirt in s2.

You type rapidly, copy-pasting the message you've posted half a dozen times already. It feels good, hitting the button and sending the message -- a fizzing rush beneath your skin, a dull spike of something hot pressing the back of your neck. The jitter fades almost as fast as it comes, and that's the last thing you want. You type "Izzy" into the tag search, looking for another open ask box.

But my darling, you don't have to look for another.

People have the most astonishing ability to sense when they're being watched. Or, in this case, studied-- people, like yourself, can feel when someone is looking them over. All over, in fact-- from the small hairs above the shell of your ear, to the shadowed skin just beneath the collar of your shirt, to your wrists, and your hands, and the tips of your fingers pressing eagerly against the soft indents of your keyboard's keys.

Yes, sweetheart, I see you. And what's more, I'm with you; just over your shoulder, just close enough that I'd feel the air move if you turned around to look.

You do all this because you seek some proof, any proof, that you have the power to make others feel something. There are easy ways to do that, and you think you've found one of the easiest, because it seems so very simple to make others angry: Pick a thing you think they care about, and insult it. Run from any confrontation, hide behind a faceless mask, breathe hard and tell yourself that you did it, you did it, you made them feel what you wanted them to feel (and if you look back you'd get proof, but you rarely do, hardly ever do, and you don't want to think about why)--

But sweet, darling, dear one-- if you ever do turn around-- if you ever look back-- you'll see me there. And I need you to know, above all else: I couldn't possibly be angry with you, not for this.

All that need, all that want-- it's intoxicating to behold. I could watch you for hours like this and never have my fill.

And it's because that rush you seek, dear heart-- that high that comes so fast and leaves you lower than you were before-- that thundering adrenaline that keeps you pressing pressing pressing keys in hopes of finally getting enough--

I think that's the closest any of us will ever be to really understanding the motivation of Izzy Hands. Because you've done it, love. You're him.

Isn't it wonderful, then, that so many would love you despite it all? That so many would seek you out specifically to love you? That there are those who know you-- who see you-- and want to show you how to find a rush that never truly leaves?

My dear and darling, my Izzy: thank you for drawing my attention. You have it now. I'll think of you tonight, and tomorrow, and for days and days-- I'll be thinking of your hands, and the fine hairs just above the shell of your ear, and the shadowed dip between your shirt and skin-- and most of all the burning depths of want you have that push you to do so many ill-thought things.

#I can only assume you came here to flirt with me #our flag means death #my own personal Izzy Hands #('enemies to lovers' future biopic applicant)

[triflesandparsnips]

Um. Izzy WAS rude first in that scene, though. The first thing he says isn't "still it's a nice room", it's "I was thinking what a complete misuse of space this is" or some such Badminton bullshit--and that's deliberate. He's deliberately being paralleled with Badminton with that line. Fucking piece of shit Izzy apologist bullshit.

My darling! My peach! Thank you for pointing out the true meaning of this scene, which, obviously, is the historical art of

COURTSHIP THROUGH CONVERSATION

As you and I both know well, dear heart, a popular publishing genre of the time was SAMPLE DIALOGUES between a wooing lover and a coy mistress -- as seen here, and here, and here, among many other places, several of which also include Etchings of a Curious Nature that I may only Hint At ere I too quickly tax your Gentle Sensibilities.

But leaving that aside, my darling moon and stars and small heavenly bodies that have been previously miscategorized as planets but that I nevertheless hold sacred in my heart-- there is a delightful subset of courtly conversation that, quite clearly, and as demonstrated by the canon and by your own dear letter, applies not only to our own tentative trembling tryst but also to that of Stede and Izzy!

I had not considered the matter before now, but your sly missive, so artful in its gentle tease and saucy in its declarations, reminded me strongly of what the sages called Mock-Complements, or Drolling-Complements. That is to say, when two would-be lovers, attempting to enter into a courtship but hesitant to appear too forward, treat their conversation with one another as if enemies rather than the hot-blooded lovers that they so dearly wish to be.

And so, just as your dear note falls between those lines, so too does that conversation between Stede and Izzy! For as you well know, since you most definitely reviewed the scene so as to ensure utmost accuracy in your thoughts and feelings before penning your note of Deep Romantic Interest as to My Person, behold:

Between a Roguish Sailor and a Fallen Gentleman. The Rogue, all courtesy How goes the fuckery? The Gentleman, his sharp reply What are you doing in here?

My God! What flirtatious delight! What promise of future connubial bliss! Look how clearly the Gentleman attempts to indicate the mode by which he wishes to be wooed! No sweet embrace nor honeyed words for him-- he seeks the speedy wit of a clever lover, pushing away with one hand while beckoning with the other, all Beatrice to his would-be Benedick. See how very intentionally Stede behaves rudely first, because gosh, protagonists can very much be assholes in their own right regardless of the motivations of any nearby antagonists who happen to be sharing screen time with them and for whom perhaps the audience is overly concerned with demonizing to the point of willfully ignoring the very literal previous dang line of dialogue--

Which, of course, you know! Because you too studied this scene with care and attention, and so, with your letter, wished to draw my notice to the deeper meaning of this clearly loving moment. My thanks, dear Sibyl, sweet Relevator of Forbidden Love, for urging forth this understanding.

And yet! A sad conclusion is simultaneously revealed. The tragedy of this bathic pairing is that while Stede has studied the modes and methods by which he can indicate his interest, Izzy has not had as thorough an education in the Artful Ways of Wooing. Rather than a fanciful rejoinder, he instead mirrors Stede's gambit-- a noble attempt at meeting his would-be paramour halfway, but sadly, only a Recipe for Missed Meanings. Our sad Izzy's reply would seem to parry the Gentleman's overture, rather than enjoin it-- and leads them, thus, to the Comedy of Errors wherein now they find their love, and also Ed is around here somewhere.

But never fear, my pocket pumpkin of pleasant fancies-- I will not make this mistake! Just as you so kindly dropped your handkerchief of Rather Ridiculous and Perhaps a Touch Juvenile Displays of Media Illiteracy before me in hopes that I might take it up for you, so too shall I offer it back again, perfumed with the hopes, dreams, and delights of our no-doubt felicitous and quite impending nuptials.

#look look! it's another #('enemies to lovers' future biopic applicant) #lemme just aaaaadd them to the list #*seals with a kiss* #our flag means death #and the continuing adventures of Strangers attempting to Woo Me with their Deeply Silly Tantrums #wait lemme add some real tags here #history #stede bonnet's theoretical library #trifles the amateur history enthusiast strikes again

[triflesandparsnips]

Sometimes-- as this season progresses and we see that Izzy is, in fact, the show's favorite little redemption blorbo-- I think about my beloved 'enemies-to-lovers future biopic applicant' Izzy-hating anon who sent me love letters so many months ago and I wonder...

...do they still feel me there. Right behind them.

Loving them anyway.

#play psychosexual games win psychosexual prizes #I like my romance like I like my horror #weighted with foreboding #('enemies to lovers' future biopic applicant) #our flag means death #our flag means death s2 spoilers

[triflesandparsnips]

random anon: *sends me hate*

me: *makes note in ledger under heading "Applicants for 'enemies to lovers' part of future bio pic"*

me: *adds little hearts over all the "i"s*

#for future tag searches let me further add: #('enemies to lovers' future biopic applicant)

[triflesandparsnips]

"izzy hits on jim" you cultists are so delusional it's disgusting.

Hello, my darling, faceless wonder! Did you mean to stumble here? The woods are dangerous, dark and deep. I come here often, though; let me pull you up so that you may ride pillion behind me on this rather nice pale horse I suddenly seem to have in my possession.

Have you ever ridden, dear one? No? Me neither! It's certain to be an adventure.

(Feel the hoofbeats beneath us? There are bells ringing. Hide your face if you must, my sweet-- I don't need it to know the beat of your heart, too fast, too raging, your hands clasped unwilling around my breast as we both try not to fall from a beast that moves too fast.)

And here's something they don't tell you about riding: It is said that light turns red the slower time goes-- which must explain the blood lapping now against the horse's knees; that must explain the unending ride with no sun, no stars, just a forest stretching out before us. It gives us too much time to think on how we came to be on this path, locked together despite our best intentions: I pulled you up, yes, but it was you who traveled to my woods, who picked the double-rose-- wait, no. That's a different story.

(In that one, the two characters were lovers, but I doubt that's where our story leads. This one leads to Scottish balladeers with a penchant for truthtelling, though, so perhaps we might consider whether fiction doesn't really have much by way of significance within the real world.)

I should mention too that at this point, narratively speaking, we should also be hearing the roaring of the sea. And maybe there is an ocean somewhere beyond the treeline, full of ships that sail in circles and songless shantymen and storylines we have no say in. It's a nice thought. Perhaps it exists for people not currently stuck on horseback, though, so--

--and suddenly, the forest clears.

Not to the sea. Not yet. Instead the trees part, the red washes back, and three paths grow before us. The horse's gallop does not break. The paths get no closer but rather, somehow, longer.

I know a plot device when I see one; I can guess at the dialogue that comes next.

I raise my hand and point. "Dear one, do you see that narrow road, all beset with thorns and briars? That, love, is the road to righteousness, though after it but few enquire."

(It's not in the script here, but I'd be remiss if I didn't add: "Righteousness seems like it rather lacks reward for you; but meanwhile, it's given me a nice excuse to write up an adventure wherein a mysterious anon stranger is now hopelessly enamored with me and my taste in balladry. Granted, this bit of flimflam has approximately as much meaning as literally any other story or shipwar -- which is to say, none -- but I'm still having a nice time. Which begs the question: What has it given you?")

The play's not done-- I point again. "Sweetheart, do you see that wide, clear road that lies across the lily leaven? That is the road to wickedness, though some call it the road to Heaven."

("I mean, are you actually having fun with this? Searching out ways to be unhappy? Because this one certainly is a search-- you picked one bingo square that happened to turn up in a randomized image file to declare your outrage. Dear one, there are over 900 different options in that generator. This one isn't even that positive! The overall index contains significantly more Izzy-positive -- and significantly more Izzy-negative, for that matter -- options for you to be horrified by, and with the wonder of Writing Fiction, any one of them can be turned positive or negative with the flick of a word. But, getting back to the point of the ballad: Anger for the sake of anger, at paths you perceive other people taking... isn't it exhausting? How glad you must be to have a moment's rest on horseback here with me; how glad I am you tripped!")

And then there's the last, at last, last and waiting for us:

"Don't you see our best and brightest road? It lies across the grass-green waves." (And that's not a mistake-- the road is curling out into water, and there, there in the distance, the promise of a ship full of idiots we want to see dash about for our entertainment.) "That," I whisper, and hold your hand tighter, "is the road to reasonable engagement with narrative devices in fiction; where you and I tonight must go."

The horse's gallop doesn't pause, and the roads don't seem to come any closer, but-- come, love, come along with me. We're on this horse together. We might as well enjoy the ride.

#our flag means death #and the typical self-implosion of a fandom #right on time #but bless their boots #I'm guessing 17 years old in their bio maybe #or 25 and lying about it #and this is the first fandom they've ever cared about #the first time they've felt that rush of so much so hard so bright and burning #(it's hard to be young and in love on the internet) #and when the fall comes and they feel like they'll never love again #I hope they remember the feel of the gallop beneath them #and someone who held their hand for a moment even when they were desperate to claw and bite #('enemies to lovers' future biopic applicant)

[triflesandparsnips]

I wish you joy of your impending nuptual bliss, the deeply to be desired outcome of your witty correspondence- with such sterling and scintillating intellect in abundance in your conversational ripostè one could only be assured of a most advantageous match, yet I wish you joy all the same of your marital match, be it only your well-deserved due to find such happiness with your fragrant little satsuma, your coy koi-fish, your dearest darling angel of anonymity.

Many thanks for your kind felicitations! My beloved kumquat of endless dreams and glories is but one of many who seek my eager hand-- and, considering how publicly I share my affections, the fact that these suitors continue their approaches means I can but only assume that the wedding we are all, in concert, planning to one another shall be one requiring an extraordinary number of extravagant vows and a reception of truly Bacchanalian proportions.

#oh anons #ignore the furs I've draped about my person #let me just hide this thyrsus behind my back #cmon babes let's have a PARTY #an excellent follow up to another #('enemies to lovers' future biopic applicant)

[triflesandparsnips]

tonight's tragedy: a new enemies-to-lovers future biopic applicant who has only left a reply rather than a reblog or ask

#nevertheless I take their application and look forward to seeing how their future work develops #('enemies to lovers' future biopic applicant)