#i was like.... actually i AM going to force the dash to perceive these kids hugging their goalie... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pl-panda · 4 years

Text

Of Heaven and Hell

Credits: Miraculous Ladybug team for the elements I take from MLB show. DC for their characters, @ozmav for the AU, @maribat-archive for giving me access to so many different stories to have take inspirations from, @ethelphantom for the cover I use at Wattpad and FF.Net and Me for the plot.

------------------------------

Of Heaven and Hell: Part 1

--------------------------

Of Heaven and Hell

From Encyclopedia Demonica

[...] and while many people consider angels epitomes of good, they are mistaken. Indeed, this regal beings are more closely connected to order than to goodness. They perceive divine law as imperative and hold little regard to human lives, as long as they serve their goals. And yet, most of the times they chose to not involve themselves in mortal affairs.

Typical angel have two forms. First look very similar to human, but they retain most of their powers. Such form is also much more durable and their physical capabilities exceed everything you could expect from a mortal. Second is close to the first one in appearance, but differs in terms of power and abilities. In this form Angel spreads his wings and feature specific to his sub-species appear.

Angel’s powers differ on subspecies, but universally include flight, enhanced senses, enhanced agility, strength and durability, large magical potential, access to magic unique to their species and high resistant to other types of magic. Specific subspecies have different additional powers. Each Angel also possess an ability that is unique to him. Usually, it reflects his personality and present itself when it reaches maturity. [...]

--------------------------------

Six years ago

Damian cursed under his breath. The temple was under attack. His mother told him to get inside. And he did. He ran to his room to grab his sword. A beautifully ornate weapon with guard in shape of two intertwined pairs of angel wings pointing toward the blade. Great for complicated maneuvers. The pommel held a teal pearl also protected by a pair of angel wings. It was a gift from his grandfather for his eighth birthday. The weapon was perfectly balanced and suited Damian’s style perfectly.

With the sword in hand, Damian unfolded his wings. His tunic had a special holed cut in the back to accomodate for them and he didn’t destroy every shirt he wore. A pair of large white feathered wings appeared and he dashed forward to battle. He couldn’t let his mother die. A small orb of white energy appeared in his hand before he launched it at the wall in front of him. The explosion created enough of a hole for him to pass.

In front of him opened a large yard. Usually, a new acolytes trained here under careful watch of angelic masters. Now it was simply a blood bath. Bodies were lying everywhere. But what shocked him the most was that angels were fighting one another. Some wore League’s armors, but overwhelming force was dressed in black-and-orange suits. He wanted to dash forward and into the battle, but someone grabbed him and pulled him into the shadows. A slender figure of his mother looked at him sternly.

“I told you to go inside.”

“Mother! I came to fight with you. I must fight with you. By your side. Together. It’s my destiny!”

“Your destiny is to live Damian.” She scolded him. “Now quickly. Let’s move. Some battles can’t be won.”

“But… what about the mission?” He asked confused.

“Mission will live in you and me. Now let’s go join your grandfather in the tunnels.” She started leading him away.

--------------------

Damian woke up from the dream. He instantly grabbed his sword and swung it around. Only then he realized that is was just a memory. He looked around his room, assessing any dangers. Once he was sure that nothing lurked in the darkness he got up. It was still night and quick glance at the electronic clock told him that it was 3:30 AM. Long time before others wake up. But Damian did not want to go to sleep anymore. He never did after this kind of nightmares.

He got down to the holo-training room and activated the highest setting. A series of ninja shimmered into existence. Without as much as a second of hesitation, Damian dashed forward. His silver sword cut through them as he zoomed through the arena. With each move, he took two of the enemies. A slight golden aura around him intensified as he burned through his anger. Finally, he collapsed, panting heavily from exhaustion. The “kill counter” showed that he was halfway to a thousand vanquished enemies. He was weak. He was useless. He ran away. He was no warrior but a mere coward.

But it was not true. He did the right thing. Because he ran away he met his father. He actually started to protect people instead to only try to control them. He was a nephilim, half angel, half human. He had all the powers of his angelic brethren and yet freedom to choose. He didn’t need to follow orders of higher beings. He could make his own decisions. And he chose to be a hero, not a warrior. Now, each day he reinforced this decision. First as Robin, fighting side by side with his father, now as… still Robin, but as a part of Teen Titans.

“You okay Demon Spawn?” A voice of Dick Grayson, better known as Nightwing, came from behind. Damian instantly spun around and stopped his blade less than an inch from his neck.

“Don’t do that if you want your head to remain where it is.” he scowled at the sight of his adopted brother’s patronizing gaze. “And don’t look like that.”

“Like what?” Dick asked confused.

“Like I am a baby in need of your care. I am sixteen-years-old Nephilim. I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“So that’s why you are awake at five in the morning? Taking care of yourself?”

“Get lost.” Damian barked and started to practice katas with his sword. He had his back turned to dick when suddenly he spun around just in time to block a projectile that was tossed at him.

“Come on bro. You and me. One on one. First to score three hits.” Dick taunted.

“I am stronger, faster and more agile. You stand no chance.” Damian said in emotionless expression. He looked at Dick for a moment before taking off his tank-top. “And I can fly.” He grinned at the surprised Nightwing. A pair of white-feathered wings appeared on his back.

“And yet I kick your rear every time we fight.” Dick smirked and drew his staff. Both ends started to crackle with electricity.

Damian boosted himself forward with a single flap of his wings. His silver sword met with the staff, but before he could cut it, Nightwing sidestepped and allowed blade to slide down. He used the Angel’s momentum to his disadvantage. Damian’s blade stumbled upon crackling electricity, sending a powerful shock through his arm. Normal humans would be paralyzed by this, but Damian only growled. It hurt, but he could fight. Damian tried several more times, but Dick always reflected or sidestepped before the blade could do any real damage. Finally, the Angel changed tactic. Flapping his wings, Damian rose into air. His off-hand glowed with golden light which next formed a runic circle around his fist before several projectiles flew at various arcs toward Nightwing. The hero had to dodge it quickly, but got caught by the last one and got sent into the wall. Damian didn’t bother to check on him. Instead, he dashed forward. Before Dick managed to get rid of flying stars around his head a silver blade was less than an inch from his neck.

“I win.” Damian proclaimed, looking smug.

“Nope.” Dick said, popping the ‘p’. He then used his staff to jab Damian’s stomach, then jump on his fit and separate his weapon into two escrima sticks. He then started to barrage the teenager with series of swift hits. While they would not usually hurt given angelic durability, the crackling electricity made it a bit painful. Damian shielded himself with his wings, but Dick found an opening and landed third and final hit that ended the fight.

“That is cheating! I had you!” The teen argued.

“So? You lost me. But good fight D. Maybe next time.”

“tt. That’s unfair! I want rematch!”

“Boys!” Kori joined the discussion. “As much as watching you fight is… entertaining, I made breakfast.” She said cheerfully while walking to nightwing. “And something special for you later.” She said seductively.

“Bleh.” Damian faked vomiting. “I will never understand humans.”

“You are part-human.” Dick pointed out

“And so is neandertales. Yet he doesn’t understand humans.” The teen deadpanned.

“I heard someone say breakfast!” Beast Boy barged into training room.

“I made pancakes.” Kori cheered.

“With maple syrup?” Gar asked

“And ‘love’.” Damian gave a sarcastic remark.

“So the best ones.” Beast Boy said with dreamy face. “I reserve the first batch!” He said while already dashing to the kitchen.

“Scarab said he detected pancakes!” Beetle said while zooming past the room in his full armor. Damian, Dick and Kori walked in normal pace, only to find Gar and Jaime staring wide-eyed at Rachel sitting there and calmly eating her breakfast.

“Took you long enough.” She said with a small smile. The red gem on her forehead pulsed weakly, but it was ignored in favor of consuming inhuman amounts of pancakes. Damian himself didn’t even realize that he finished three plates before Dick pointed it out to him. He turned pink for a moment before jumping away and claiming the remote for the day.

After the morning of cartoons Titans spent rest of the day on the beach near the island. Half-way through Dick and Kori disappeared and when the sun started to set Rachel and Garfield also went somewhere. Jami, Damian and their newest addition to the team: Cyborg, were completely obvious to this as their discussion came to sport.

“I’m just saying. Futball is the best game. Soccer is cool, but it’s for kids.” Victor argued.

“You say that, but last I checked Soccer was much more popular around the world.” Jami pointed out proudly. “Besides it requires much more skill and finesse. Futball is about pure muscle mass.”

“As if! Have you got any idea how important tactics, positioning, territorial awareness and condition are in Futball?”

“tt. The best sport is sword-fighting anyway.” Damian grinned at them. Inwardly, he loved this family. Sure, living with his father was great, but here he finally had one thing he missed so much: friends. They weren’t patronizing like Todd. They weren’t constantly trying to prove something to him like Drake and Grayson was even bearable here. That is if he didn’t act all sugar-eyes for Starfire. Is he even aware she is an alien princess and he is a peasant acrobat?

As the sun was finally down, the titans made a giant bonfire on the beach and roasted marshmallows. As Damian was about to eat his, suddenly a large yellow balloon sailed toward him. He tried to catch it, but his enhanced strength made him accidentally squash it instead. A wave of water assaulted him and made him wet to the very bones.

“Beast Boy!” He roared in anger. One thing he hated in the Titans were the constant prank wars that lasted for weeks.

*gulp* “Will it help when I say that I aimed at Jaime?” Garfield asked weakly.

“No hermano. It will only make it worse.” Blue Beetle looked practically offended, but he had a small smirk on his face.

Damian took off his t-shirt and tossed it at Beast Boy. His hand then glowed and a runic circle materialized around it. Garfield tried to run, but a golden beam hit him in his rear and suddenly his fur turned completely gold. He looked like some some hardcore sports fan supporting his favorite team.

“That’s not fair! I only tossed a small water balloon. You could cool off a bit bro!” Garfield tried to argue weakly while massaging his rear.

“Suck it up like a man and stop whining like little girl…” Damian said, but then looked at Rachel who sent him a death glare. “Not that I have anything against little girls?” He added quickly.

After that the atmosphere were great. Garfield was still a bit sore on the subject of his new color and decided that he will appreciate his green from now on. Finally, Damian excused himself and went to the tower to go to sleep earlier. As he entered his room, he felt a breeze of air going on. He distinctly remembered that his window was closed and nobody would enter without his permission. A glyph on the doors made sure of that. His sword appeared in his and and a glowing runic circle formed above his head. A less known fact about Angels was that their Halo was in fact a spell that allowed them to sense other Angels in close proximity. It also gave enough light to serve as convenient source of light. Not that they needed it as they saw in anything but perfect darkness. Damian would never admit out loud that he used it when he wanted to draw something in the middle of the night.

“Hello… Mother.” He said with disdain in his voice.

“It’s good to see you too Damian.” She responded with sarcasm.

“Why do you grace me with your presence?” If Talia’s voice was dipped in sarcasm, Damian drowned in it.

“I need your help.” She said, ignoring the obvious disrespect. “There are several demons in Paris.”

“So?”

“The city is warded against all things celestial. And magic hides it from your precious Justice League. Had any Angel tired to go there, he would not be able to enter the city. Should anyone else hear about the situation, they would forget it as soon as the discussion ended.”

“So? From what you are saying is true, Mother, then I am twice as locked out as anyone else. I will forget about it the moment you leave.”

“That’s why I need you.” She said with almost pleading voice. “You aren’t a full angel, but your mind is protected from the spell. You should be able to enter the city and remember everything.”

Damian pondered it for a moment. It did seem like something serious. If what she said was true, the whole city was at the mercy of those vile monsters and couldn’t even hope for any external help. “Fine. I will go there.”

“Good. I already enrolled you at Collège Françoise Dupont” She said with a wicked grin. With a flap of her two pairs of wings she was gone, leaving only a thin folder on his desk. Damian cursed under his breath.

“Looks like I’m going to school. tt. I hate teenagers.”

--------------------

Taglist: Open

#maribat #marinette x damian #angel and demon #Nephilim!Damian #Demon!marinette #maribat au #damienette

150 notes · View notes

jimlingss · 5 years

Text

Jungle Park [17]

Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18

➜ Words: 6k

➜ Genres: Fluff, Angst, Light Humour (?), Slice of Life, Workplace Romance!AU

➜ Summary: The equation is simple. Hoseok needs to hire someone. You need a job. Except like any actual equation, it’s not fucking simple at all! Not when you have to add the fact that he was forced to hire someone he doesn’t want in his office, he has little respect for your job in general, and oh yeah...once upon a time you might have—*CENSORED*.

➜ Warnings: depiction of a car accident, sad boi hours.

Your hands grasp the steering wheel and you take a long glimpse out the front windshield. It’s an empty street, reminiscent of an apocalypse especially when it’s pitch black outside and the horizon isn’t visible to the eye, but there’s a lack of zombies and pandemonium that would otherwise bring panic to you. You’re waiting for the red light to flicker green, even when the intersection is void of any vehicles. It’s better to be safe than sorry since the last thing you want is to run the light and be ticketed. So as your fingers tap against the wheel, you hum and glance into the rear-view mirror. “You must be really excited to see your family again.” “Yes, I am.” The older man doesn’t bother concealing his ginormous smile. He looks out the window even when he really can’t see anything. “I don’t know why but a lot of my friends can’t wait to get away from their wives and their kids, but I miss them so much.” Your heart melts from his genuine proclamation and a soft smile appears on your features. A rare feeling sneaks up your throat, one called envy. “That’s really sweet. Your wife is lucky.” “More like I’m the lucky one.” He chuckles, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing. “I feel bad for always leaving on these business trips and making her stay with the kids. But my wife is literally superwoman. I don’t know how she does it, but she does.” He shakes his head in awe. You look ahead again, still waiting for the light to flicker. It takes an unusual amount of time and you wonder if it’s broken. “Those flowers are for her, right?” “Yeah.” He holds up the bouquet, the plastic cover crinkling. “It’s probably not enough, but I tried.” Your smile only widens and a soft sigh leaves the seam of your lips. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, you find it’s three in the morning. In the quiet city, it feels like only you and this passenger are the sole ones awake. But right as you muse such a thought, you’re proven wrong. Suddenly, there’s the sound of tires screeching on pavement from afar. Headlights pierce your rear-view mirror, reflecting into your pupils and making you frown. Vision blinded and unable to see, you twist your waist around fully to get a better view of what’s going on behind you. Your passenger shifts as well. “What is that?” There’s another car coming in the same direction, swerving from the left lane to the right lane, out of control as if the driver is merely twisting their steering wheel in every direction for their own rush of adrenaline. The yellow headlights blind your vision and before you can even shout, “Oh my go—”, your car is being slammed into. The entire vehicle is shoved forward into the middle of the intersection, the crash defending to your ears. Your spine straightens, neck whipping back before it accelerates forward with your torso and your head hits against the rear-view mirror. The airbag deploys at once, saving your skull from being smashed into the steering wheel. The shock hits you in waves. You knock unconscious for a complete ten seconds before your eyes are blinking back into focus. Your ears are fuzzy, vision hazy. And you’re utterly shocked. Confused. Reeling. Your lungs gasp for breath and you realize you’re okay….you’re alive. Your hands quiver as your fingers move to pull off your seat belt and open the car door. Against your will, your entire body shakes uncontrollably, but you forcibly lug yourself out the vehicle, nearly stumbling onto the pavement. You’re bathed in the yellow headlights of the other car, unable to feel the tips of your fingers or your nose, but you pound against the glass window of the backseat before pulling the door open. “A-Are you okay?” “I’m fine. I’m fine,” the man reassures with a groan. Luckily, his cheek only hit the front of the plush headrest. His face is a bit numb, but unlike you, he doesn’t sustain any real injuries. “I’m so, so sorry.” You’re frantically hyperventilating while he gets out of the car, at a loss of what to do, how to fix this situation. “I’ll call another taxi for you.” “It’s oka—” The door of the car that hit you opens. The intoxicated male driver leans against his vehicle, eyes barely open. “Hey! Why din’t...y-you go, b-bitch?!” “It was a red light!” Your passenger is screaming. “You were the one who hit us!” “ino, I didn't liar! I didn't hiit any- anyone!” He’s barely coherent, slurring all his words together and you’re thankful no one got hurt more than they did. He could’ve killed you and stepped out unscathed to deny it. The very thought is haunting. “I’m calling the police. This is ridiculous. He’s obviously drunk.” The older man turns around, dialing his phone without missing a beat. A few seconds pass before it sinks in what he’s about to do and you begin to panic, even when it’s entirely illogical. Sheer hysteria takes its grip on your bones. This wasn’t supposed to happen. “Wait—” “Hello? Yes, I’d like to report a collision. I’m a passenger of a taxi and a car just rear-ended us. I’m pretty sure he’s drunk right now. He can barely stand up and he’s screaming at us.” There’s a slight pause. “Yes. We’re at the intersection between Imlings Avenue and Seventh Street. Yes...okay…” The guy who hit you is still howling, “di'nddt do it!” The situation is getting out of control. Again. The car insurance wouldn’t raise your rates since it wasn’t your fault, even if the taxi is for lease. You won’t have to pay for any of the damages, and the male who rear-ended you can deny all he wants, but your passenger is your witness. Everything will work out…..but in this moment, you forget. You forget that you’re protected by contracts, insurances, witnesses, health insurance provided by your good day job. In the midst of panic and fear, you forget everything that’s important and would otherwise protect your sanity. Instead, the concern that presses on your mind first and foremost is that you can’t afford to be hurt. Physically. Emotionally. You can’t handle any more than what you already have. “Oh my god.” The older man points to your head, stopping his conversation. “You’re bleeding.” Your right hand lifts to your temple and you can feel the rough ridges of your skin, glass stuck in it. Through the bright headlights, you find the tips of your fingertips red with blood and you’re unable to move your left arm. You still can’t feel anything, but you’re petrified. When you snap back into it, there are police cars, a fire truck and an ambulance surrounding the intersection. The blue and red lights flash and burn to the back of your eyeballs. You’re sitting upright on an orange stretcher, strangers surrounded you while the guy who hit you is being escorted to the back of a police car in handcuffs and your passenger is speaking to an officer. Panic rises in your chest again. Your head is stuck in one position, unable to be moved when your neck is a brace, and your eyes widened in horror. “No….No! I don’t want to go to the hospital!” “Ma’am, you need to go,” the female paramedic insists, shaking her head and trying to keep you calm. You were too disoriented to answer her questions properly and now you were being wheeled away. “No. I-I can’t. I have work in a few hours.” “Well, you probably won’t be able to work for the next few days,” the male paramedic says in a more lighthearted tone, but it doesn’t help the situation and you envision yourself jumping off the stretcher and booking it — the rational part that’s left of your brain prevents you from doing so. “You’re in shock, ma’am.” The stretcher rolls towards the ambulance. “But everything’s going to be okay. We just need to get you to the hospital and check out your dislocated shoulder, alright? We also gotta check if you have a concussion.” You might be crying, but you’re not so sure. You still can’t perceive or sense anything. The pain has yet to set in with the adrenaline pumping through your veins and maybe that’s a blessing in surprise. All you’re aware of is the franticness inside you. It’s hard to breathe. Hard to focus. The stretcher is lifted into the ambulance. The doors shut. You watch as the paramedics work, checking your heart rate, if everything is in good condition. As they work, they continue to keep you calm and awake. “Is there someone you’d like to call, sweetheart?” “I—...I don’t know.” The female smiles, squeezing your hand. “Who’s your emergency contact?” You nearly scream when you realize who you’ve always listed your emergency contact as. “Don’t call my mom! Please! Don’t call her. She’s old. She won’t know what’s going on. Or how to get here. She doesn’t even know I drive a taxi as a part time job.” “Okay, okay, we won’t,” she reassures in a soothing voice. “Is there someone else?” It’s the first name that comes to mind. The first person you think of. And his number tumbles from your mouth faster than your mind can register— “Hoseok. He’s a friend. Please call him.” // He comes running faster than his brain can register, feet stumbling, body lurching forward. He pulls through the front entrance before it can even properly open and he dashes past clusters of people, scanning everyone’s faces and giving quick glances in every corner, anxiousness eating him alive, feeling like tiny bugs biting beneath his skin that he itches to get rid of. He sweats, every inhale and exhale slowed down, chest tight and uncomfortable. He prays and hopes that you’re not one of the people being wheeled past him with doctors surrounding the bed, shouting commands and others on top continuing chest compressions. He’s scared. Hoseok is out of his mind. He makes it to the desk, the nurse lifting her head with wide eyes. The lawyer swallows hard, scraping together his dwindling composure. “I’m looking for L/N Y/N?” Before the female has time to blink, someone else has stopped and interrupted behind him. “Are you Jung Hoseok?” He turns to face a male stranger and one glimpse of his expression has the stranger showing him. “She’s over there.” Hoseok follows the older man and they both walk with quick steps. “I was the passenger in her taxi. I’m okay and I already talked to the police to file the report. It’s just that I’m not sure if she’s okay.” They approach and Hoseok immediately pulls back the curtain. The doctor looks up. “And you are…?” “I’m her lawyer.” Hoseok looks at you, breathless. You’re laying down flat on the bed with bandages wrapped around your head and gauze on the right side, bruise by your eye that’s darkening in a purple. You’re in a neck brace, left shoulder is in a sling, arm completely wrapped in the black material. Hoseok feels a muscle in his cheek twitch. His jaw ticks. His teeth clench. “Lawyer?” “He’s a friend,” you clarify and when he takes another few steps, your eyes finally land on him. A tiny smile graces your lips, a bit guilty and sad, like a puppy that just got kicked. “Hi.” Hoseok is wholly unimpressed. “Hi?” “Oops?” Nervous laughter bubbles from your throat, feeling a lot calmer than earlier, especially now that he’s finally here. You don’t feel so afraid anymore. “Well,” The doctor clears his throat, putting down his clipboard. “It looks like you’ll be okay.” He looks off at Hoseok in case you’re still loopy. “We gave her some painkillers. She has a neck strain, so we put on a neck brace that she can take off after two to three days. It’ll heal on its own and can take a week to three months. Her left shoulder was dislocated, but we popped that back into place. She did a very good job handling that, by the way. She can stop wearing the sling after a few days and resume normal activities after two weeks. But it takes twelve to sixteen weeks to fully recover and be able to lift heavy things again. Until then, she should take it easy.” He glances down and smiles. “We ran a CT scan and everything looks okay, but we recommend staying overnight in case something happens. Other than that, your injuries are only flesh wounds and should heal in a week’s time. And if all’s good, you should be discharged in the morning. Do you have any questions?” “No,” you groan out. “Thank you, doctor. I’m good.” He looks at Hoseok and he nods, to which the doctor dips his head slightly in acknowledgment and walks off with the nurse to attend to other patients. Hoseok stays completely silent and takes a seat beside your bed. You push a button, bed being reclined upwards until you’re in a sitting position. “Oh. You should go home, Minseok.” “Are you sure?” Your passenger was kind enough to check up and stay with you for so long. You feel lucky to have run into someone so lovely and an asshole who would’ve blamed you and ran off before helping with the police report. “Yes, I have him now.” You hitch your right thumb towards the lawyer who’s brooding silently. It feels like you’re about to get into trouble with the way he’s glaring at you, but you laugh it off anyways. “Thank you for staying. I’m really sorry.” “It’s not your fault. Honestly, I feel partly responsible too for not being able to help you anymore.” “Please, you’ve helped me a lot.” You smile, glad to have made a friend in this whole experience. “Tell your wife and kids I said hi.” “Will do.” He bids goodbye to you and Hoseok who mumbles a farewell too. The older man tells you his contact information is on the police report in case and you thank him one more time. The curtain is pulled again for privacy and Hoseok stays quiet. He sits on the small stool while you’re upright in the bed. You can’t really move or shift yourself to look at him properly and if you could, you’d find his head downcasted, hair hanging over his eyes, his bottom lip quivering. Suddenly the noise and chaos from before has completely dialed down into nothing but silence. The crash, the wailing sirens, the shouts of paramedics and officers, of the blaring ambulance zipping past, the hasty actions of doctors, flashing fluorescent lights above you and wheels of the stretcher rolling against the floor, heart rate monitors flaring — it becomes absent. All you hear now is your thundering heartbeat, the sound of his breathing. All you feel is the way he’s holding your hand, not sure when he took it, but so sure that he’s gripping you tightly. “The guy who hit me…” You’re the first to shatter the silence. “...he’s saying he didn’t do it.” Hoseok swallows hard, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “I can handle it.” “The medical bill….” “I’ll take care of that too.” His voice is smooth and soft when he’s whispering, soothing to listen to. It tickles the hairs on the back of your arms. “Thank you.” It goes quiet again. “It’s really not that bad…” Hoseok lifts his chin and scoots closer until you can see him and he can lock his eyes with yours. You’re not sure if it’s any better. His gaze is too intense. “You don’t get to say that when your head is bandaged and you’re wearing a fucking neck brace and you have your arm in a sling.” You wince at his sharp tone. “Sorry.” An extended sigh comes tumbling from his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me you drove a taxi?” Rarely is Jung Hoseok angry and you can’t say you’ve seen him like this more than three times. Bubbly, bright, warmhearted — yes. Strict, disciplined, hardworking — even more so. But seldom does he let his emotions get the better of him. He is not easy to upset or made enraged. Hoseok is not temperamental. He is composed, but every word he speaks to you at this moment has a pointed punch to it and rather than making you feel guilty or bad, it reminds you of when your mom scolded you after you had a particularly bad fall as a child or when your dad used to chide your mom when she accidentally nicked herself in the kitchen making dinner. You know he speaks from good intention, from sheer worry and concern, and that makes it all the harder. “It-...I never felt the need to,” you murmur. “It’s just a side thing. To help me find more cash.” “So you drive at night and work at the office during the day? How do you even find the time to sleep?” “I...take a nap when I get home. And my shift really isn’t that long, so I sleep before work.” He swallows hard again, trying to get past the thick lump in his throat. Hoseok’s eyes bore into yours and you’re unable to scramble back or distance yourself. “Are you having financial difficulties?” “S-Sometimes….not...so much anymore.” You can feel the waves of his fury emanating off his skin. He isn’t pouting childishly or showing any affection, purely fuming in his spot. But even when the air is tense and he’s staring at you like this, you somehow don’t doubt your impulsive choice. If given the chance, you would pick Hoseok to be here, again and again. You’d pick him to be called. Out of everyone, you’d pick him to come to you. “Are you mad?” “Yes.” He squeezes your hand, but never hard enough for it to hurt, just enough to show that he doesn’t want to let go. “I’m fucking pissed. What would’ve happened if the accident was more serious? What would happen if you ended up like me?! In the hospital for an entire year and having to go under therapy?!” “That wouldn’t be so bad,” you mutter, barely coherent. “Maybe I can be the one to forget you this time.” There’s a pause drawn out, making their atmosphere more suffocating. “That was a tasteless joke. Sorry.” “What were you going to do if something happened to you?!” He’s made more upset by your comment, that you could even consider that desire for a mere moment. While he’s been trying to rack his brain for memories, for what’s been stolen from him, you have the audacity to want — you want what he’s been grieving over most. “What about me?!” Hoseok is heaving, staggering inhales and shallow exhales pulling through his withering lungs. “I can’t go on without—” “Sir.” The curtain is torn back, an annoyed nurse wearing an indignant expression on the other side. “You can’t shout or argue here.” “Sorry.” “It’s nothing. We weren’t arguing,” you rush to his defense. “We’re sorry.” “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “It won’t happen again.” “We’ll lower our voices,” you promise. The thin curtain is tugged back and he sighs once again in exhaustion. It occurs to you that Hoseok’s still wearing his pajamas. He only threw on a grey sweatshirt, but you can still see the blue collar of his pajama set and his spaceship-printed pants that match. His hair is messy, freshly washed, and it flops when he lowers his head. Hoseok holds your held hands up by his temple as if in deep thought. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry about,” he explains, still finding a hard time to find the right words. “Just get better for me.” “Okay.” // He tells you that he’ll bring you to his house for a week to recover but you refuse. You don’t have anyone at your apartment to help, but Hoseok will be at work during the day anyways and it’ll end up being the same thing as being alone. So, you end up deciding to go to your mom’s, even if she barrages you with a thousand questions and concerns. But as long as you can walk and you’re not laying in a hospital bed, you won’t worry her to death. Hoseok also tells you to quit driving the taxi around and he’ll talk to Jimin and increase your pay until you’re no longer struggling to make ends meet. Though you skirt around the issue. You don’t drive just for the money, it’s because you also enjoy meeting others — but it’s an idea he is unable to understand, growing increasingly frustrated as you stand your ground. Hoseok decides to delay the discussion for a later time before it spirals into another fight. And while you catch up on some rest, the lawyer doesn’t catch a wink of slumber. He can’t even shut his eyes for more than thirty seconds without his head going into overdrive. And his inability to sleep is the reason why he ends up eating a stale sandwich at the cafeteria right when it opens. He eats it all before picking up his belongings and walking to the familiar west wing, taking the elevator to the fourth floor. It’s ironic really — to have set an appointment a week ago and for things to line up in a way where he was already here. He wonders if he would’ve run into you anyways if you never called him. Then again, the hospital was massive, and he probably would've missed you and it would be yet another issue of bad timing. The thought makes his chest feel uncomfortable. “Why isn’t it Jung Hoseok?” The familiar doctor turns away from his desk, smiling at him. “To what do I owe the pleasure to?” The lawyer releases a deep exhale, not knowing where to begin. And he closes the door. // The endless hallways fade behind him. His steps shuffle against the floor, body on autopilot. The intercom above him flares to life, squeak of wheelchairs heard echoing with the clacking of keyboards. The overwhelming scent of disinfect singe off his nose hairs, air tinged with burnt coffee from machines and bland hospital food. “Retrograde amnesia,” he says it like it’s his second name. “Yes.” “You said I recovered from it.” “You did.” The man in the white coat nods and recalls the event years ago. “Luckily, it was only temporary. Took only a few days before you remembered everything again. Sometimes it’s like that for traumatic head injuries.” “See, that’s the problem.” Hoseok braces himself. “I didn’t recover.” He turns the left corner, walking towards the nurse’s bench and preparing for your discharge. He fills the form with ease, sign his name and is briefed by the nurse on how your recovery will look like, what to do to help, and that if anything should happen, you would return to the hospital just in case. “There’s this person that was in my life.” He inhales a breath. “I don’t remember them at all.” Hoseok pulls back the curtain, shedding light into the space. And you’re there, smiling at him, sitting on the edge of the bed. Your right hand is still mobile and he takes it, palms clamped together, knitting his fingers through yours before helping you stand and walking off. “And apparently we spent years together. She was really important to me, enough that I was thinking of marrying her.” The doctor only hums, listening to his grief. Hoseok doesn’t know what else to say but— “Why?” Once you’ve made it to the car, he helps you get in before sliding into the driver’s seat. He reaches over, pulling the seat belt over you with gentle care and you thank him. He doesn’t say anything, putting the keys into the ignition, letting the engine roar to life and then driving away. “Why can’t I remember her?” Hoseok’s brows are furrowed deep, wrinkles permanently creasing into his skin. His temples thump at a constant beat, but he remains concentrated on the road ahead. You don’t speak a single word, letting the quietness settle in and around you. “I’m honestly not sure. Maybe this person is linked to your trauma somehow. Maybe your subconscious doesn’t want to remember. Maybe the brain injury destroyed the neurons that were linked to her. There’s a lot of reasons for selective amnesia and it’s hard to be certain of the reason.” Once he’s stopped in front of your apartment, he helps you unbuckle your seat belt and holds your hand again, helping you get off. Hoseok still doesn’t let go, even when you’re inside the elevator, only when he takes your keys and opens the front door. You both walk inside your small home and he’s left staring at the knick-knacks and photo frames on your shelf. He peeks into the kitchen, imagining you cooking and eating there, envisioning you sitting on the couch in front of your television, watching by yourself and curled up in that blue blanket. Slowly, Hoseok makes his way into your bedroom. “Then how can I remember her again?” You’re running around, grabbing your necessities, clothes and toothbrush and all your little items. He helps you open your luggage and pack things into it since you can’t move your left arm at all or your neck for that matter. “You can’t force these things, Hoseok. There is no definite cure. You can try looking at old photos, talking about it, spending time with this person, try to go to therapy or even unconventional methods like hypnosis. But there is no guarantee that you will recover these lost memories.” You close the suitcase, satisfied with what you’ve packed. As you walk out, you turn off the lights and gently shut the bedroom door. “I want to remember again.” Hoseok has never been more earnest and it’s not a statement he speaks towards the doctor. He is making a begging request. “I—” His feet stop. You almost bump into his backside. He puts down the luggage in the living room and turns around to face him. You blink a few times, feeling a bit silly with your arm in a sling and your neck with a brace on, but you know he doesn’t care about how you look, so you’re not bothered by it much. It aches, but never hurts too much that it’s unbearable. You’re beginning to think that it’s the placebo effect caused by Hoseok’s sheer presence. You’re an idiot for falling into his trap. For feeling this way. Again. “I know.” “Know what?” You frown, confused at his simple remark. And maybe you are aware that what’s about to stumble from his lips, but your fixation on denial doesn’t allow you to see or believe. “That we dated for four years.” Your ears fail you. “What?” “Y/N, we dated for four years. You and I. We were together.” He repeats it, but it’s not enough to lessen the shock, the shock that should be nonexistent. Part of you wonders if you should deny it — laugh and tell him that it’s ridiculous, that he’s mistaken, that he’s wrong. But you’re not sure if you can handle lying or holding back the truth anymore. “Oh. Who told you?” “Doesn’t matter.” There it is. It’s finally out in the open. There’s no more running away...and you don’t think you could even try with a neck brace and your arm in a sling. You wouldn’t get far either in tip-top condition. Jung Hoseok would be able to catch up to you within seconds. You can’t jump out the window without him holding onto you or catching you — you can’t lie without him detecting it in an instant — you can’t hide, escape, instead forced to face the terrible music meant for a tragedy. “We were engaged.” “Only because of the pregnancy scare.” Your next coping mechanism is to make light of it, to embrace it in hilarity like it’s a joke. It’s not a big deal if you don’t make it a big deal. But your lighthearted laughter bleeds with too much nervousness. “So, it means nothing really. You just felt like you needed to propose.” “A pregnancy scare?!” More and more bombs keep dropping on his shoulders and he’s appalled. “Look, just let it go, Hoseok,” you tell him and at the same time, you’re telling yourself. “You told me the past is in the past. It was years ago. Eight to be exact. But I’m not counting. We should just leave it there.” “I can’t just leave it there!” His arms are in the air, upset and shocked that you could say these things so lightly, as if it means nothing to you. “You think I can?! I can’t! You lied to me!” You stand your ground. “I didn’t!” “First you told me we were acquaintances.” “Which we were,” you defend. “At some point, we were acquaintances.” Jung Hoseok ignores you. “Then there’s the entire story about how we were in the same class and we worked on a group project and you bailed.” “It’s true.” You follow him when he walks off his anger, turning to face the window. It’s ironic — how you’re the one who’s injured on the outside and you’re beginning to find out how he is too, but on the inside. “That’s how we met.” “Then you told me how we went on two dates and I never called back.” “That’s true too!” Your voice strains and it burns, but you disregard it. “So I called you. I never lied.” “But you never told me the entire truth,” he spits out bitterly. “You lied to me. You pretended like we were nothing. You pretended that you were never important to me.” “And I wasn’t!” You scream out, not noticing that you’re crying, that tears are flooding down your face unwarranted. “You want to know why I never talked about it?! I don’t want to remember! I don’t want to remember you. I want to have nothing to do with you.” Hoseok shifts and his eyes lock with yours. He is still lost. Confused. Disoriented. Doubting everything he’s ever known. And he questions himself, pummeling his past self in curses and insults, wondering how much he actually hurt you, what he exactly did to gain this response. A staggering inhale is stolen from your lips. “Did you think I could just sit you down and tell you that I loved you?! That we lived together and we were supposed to get married?! That you were my best friend?!” You face him, forcing him to look into your eyes, even when you’re pathetically crying and breaking through the spaces of his fingers, like sand he could never hold. You keep yourself together, feet rooted in the floor, mustering the strength to confront your greatest fear. “Didn’t you think it was painful for me?! I had to see you every. single. goddamn day. You have no idea what we were. You have absolutely no clue whatsoever.” “You still could’ve told me.” “For what?! For what reason?!” “Because I deserve the right to know!” He shouts, pushed to the brink. “I deserve not to be left in the fucking dark! I deserve not to be lost and confused! I deserve not to find out from some god stupid reunion! Those are my memories too! They’re not just yours!” “Fine. You want to know?” You poke him in the chest, hard enough where it hurts your own finger. “I was ready to move across the country with you when you got accepted at your law school. I would’ve followed you to the ends of this Earth. Why? Because I cared about us.” “I loved you, Jung Hoseok.” You’re sobbing and you hate it. It’s ugly. It’s hideous. You can’t see where up or down is, you don’t have any grasp of control on your own emotions, of how tears run down your face, of how you’re slobbering over your own words, spitting them out. This is what you’ve been running from and to be forced to face the music, you realize how ugly the melody is, how ugly you are, how ugly your precious love was. “And I was supposed to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you!” “Then why? Why did we break up?” “I-...I don’t know.” You step back, distancing yourself from the man you can’t bear to stand in front of. “Y-You dumped me. During your second year of law school. You broke off our engagement and dumped me. Probably because I wasn’t good enough.” There’s a long pause and you blink, forcing the tears to stop clinging onto your lashes. Your timbre is broken when you speak again. “There. Happy? Now you know.” It’s silent. The warm light from the hallway and kitchen casts his shadow on the wall. It illuminates half of your visage, making your teardrops twinkle as they fall. “....did I….did I cheat on you?” He tries to find reasons why he would’ve left, why he would’ve left you. Nothing makes sense. “No,” you respond confidently, bringing the back of your hand up to wipe your face. Your nose is red, eyes swollen red and the lump in his throat thickens enough for him to realize that he’s crying too. “I asked you and you said you didn’t. And I know for a fact that you didn’t.” “How can you be so sure?” “Because you’re Jung Hoseok,” you whisper, as if it could explain everything, as if could show how much he actually cared for you, how surprised and broken you became when he severed your ties, when he called off the marriage, when he broke off the future you were so prepared for. Hoseok still can’t remember. No recollection. No memories. Part of him doesn’t know if he can even believe it. While you….you remember everything. The first time you sat beside him. The first exchange of conversation. The first time you lifted your head and saw him sitting across the table at the library and a shy smile graced your features. The first time you shook hands and you heard the sound of his laugh. The first time he held your hands, cautiously and gently, like he was afraid to scare you away. The first time he asked you out on a date. The first time you shared a warm meal with him. The first time he called your name softly and he leaned in to kiss you. The first of everything. You remember it, as clear as day. “I think you should go.” Hoseok stays standing motionlessly in the middle of your living room. “Y/N...” You don’t want to look at him anymore. “I don’t want you here. I can manage by myself. So...get out. Please.” For ten full seconds, he stays in his spot. Then with ten more strides, the noise of the door closing echoes throughout your small home. And all at once, all your grief spills into your hands. You cry, sorrowfully and heart wrenchingly. Wails pull from your aching throat and you sob, not knowing what else to do, not knowing who to call. On the outside, Hoseok presses his backside on the surface of the front door. He hears you, loud enough that he stays and cries silently. His chest hurts, put under torment, wanting to know what he’s forgotten. Wanting to know more about the girl he was about to spend the rest of his life with. “I want to remember again.” Hoseok has never been more earnest and it’s not a statement he speaks towards the doctor. He is making a begging request. “I love her.”

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #hoseok angst #hoseok fanfic #hoseok fluff

684 notes · View notes

echodrops · 6 years

Note

So, given Dabi's perceived incompetence, you think his scars are self inflicted? I figured that, if Dabi is indeed Touya, he must have tried to impress Endeavor and show him that he is "worth it". So he probably tried to train himself in seclusion. But with a body meant for ice, he was not able to handle the flames and ended up burning himself and running away, traumatized or something along those lines. Admittedly, it could be a stretch, since we have no details on what exactly happened.

Post is NOT spoiler free, watch out anime-only fans~!

Had a bunch of asks about Dabi in my inbox after my Dabi post but I got distracted thinking about ships… I’m back now and gonna answer a few that are all about that Dabi is a Todoroki theory~

Look man, if he’s not Touya, I will officially be the S H O O K E S T. At this point, the real plot twist would be if he wasn’t! I really think there are just so many signs at this point that I can’t make myself believe it won’t happen. I mean the fact that Horikoshi deliberately drew Endeavor’s eyesight being damaged before his confrontation with Dabi so that Endeavor wouldn’t be able to see him clearly??? COME ON.

But man we’re all going to look so stupid if he isn’t Touya…

Rest under the read more to save people’s dashes:

As for how Dabi got his scars… I don’t have any answers, of course, just my own theories and conjectures based on vague statements and panels in the manga…

I guess first I’d point out that while we don’t know really much about Touya at all, we do know a couple things:

1) He physically took after Rei way more than Natsuo or Fuyumi did. Despite being Natsuo’s confirmed older brother, Touya was a tiny kid. Given that he would have to very close to Fuyumi in age or older than her, the fact that he was shorter than his sister just makes this all the more noticeable. This kind of tininess is usually (although of course not always) a deliberate visual indicator that there was something wrong with the child’s health. Looking at the only two panels he appears in definitely gives the impression that he was a pretty fragile-looking kid who I would not be surprised to hear had health problems (bad fevers from an overpowered fire quirk, anyone?).

2) His posture in this frame is also pretty telling. They all look nervous–it’s obvious they’re being looked at by Endeavor and are uncomfortable with it–but while Natsuo looks a little shame-faced and Fuyumi a little confused, Touya is clutching his hands together in a classic “timid child” pose. It seems likely to me that he wasn’t an especially assertive kid.

3) Then there’s the whole hair issue–is his hair red like the anime or white like the manga? The only reason I could see for not coloring his hair dark in the manga is that Horikoshi specifically uses black ink for the red color of the Todoroki family’s hair–coloring Touya’s hair completely black would make it beyond obvious that he’s Dabi. But still, couldn’t he have used tone like he does for Kirishima’s hair? We know that white hair = ice quirk, so I am very interested to find out whether the anime has it right in using red, or whether the white used in the manga is plot relevant, and we’re going to find that Touya really did have a body meant for an ice quirk…

4) We also have Natsuo’s ominous comment:

To me at least, this statement seems somehow… specific? Like there was some Big Deal™ that immediately caused Touya not to be in their lives anymore, and Endeavor was directly involved in it. Natsuo definitely strikes me as the type who would blame Endeavor for a training accident, even if Touya was training of his own free will, but I can’t personally shake the feeling that Endeavor was right there whenever the Bad Thing with Touya happened and that Endeavor, Fuyumi, and Natsuo all know more about Touya’s fate than they’re willing to talk about. I think it’s important that we’ve never seen a scene of Natsuo and Fuyumi getting any close looks at Dabi either.

6) The kids’ ages are important I think. Shouto is about five years old when he sees his siblings playing soccer, and they all looked about the same age there as in this second screen cap, although I wouldn’t put Fuyumi at 12 in the screen cap above, so maybe not… In any case, we know that Shouto was already in training (~5 years old) and Touya had no major visible scars. So Touya made it to at least 12 years old without doing major damage to his body (although of course it could be under the clothes). Based on that, personally I would doubt a bit that he was training and burning himself in secret, at least not for any extended amount of time.

6) The one piece of evidence we have for figuring out what actually happened to cause the scars is the burn pattern itself, especially on Dabi’s face. One thing that people have often pointed out is that Dabi’s facial burns line up fairly well with the places fire also settles on Endeavor’s face:

Also I’m pretty sure Dabi officially qualifies as BNHA’s biggest glow up. If you compare chapter 67 to chapter 190 it’s like looking at two totally different characters lol

But, more importantly than this, I think, is the fact that we never see Dabi’s fire take this shape in the manga. Although in a couple of scenes his flames have covered parts of his face, we’ve never–not even one time–seen fire specifically come from below his eyes or around his mouth like Endeavor. This is not something that normally happens with his quirk–which could mean that he was copying Endeavor when the injuries occurred.

So what did happen?

I don’t know, but if you ask me for a personal headcanon about it:

In a desperate attempt to protect his mother from being taken away and forced into the mental institution, Touya Todoroki challenged his father to a fight he could never win and pushed his own body so far beyond its limits that he nearly died.

I mean, if sweet baby Shouto had a reaction this intense:

Just imagine the reaction of the children who would have been conscious to see their mother ripped away from their home, possibly violently, possibly forever? With Rei having snapped hard enough to attack Shouto, I can’t imagine that she would have taken well to Endeavor physically confronting and restraining her to force her away… It could have been quite a horrific scene in the house after Shouto passed out from the pain, and what better way to cover up damage to one kid then to blame Rei, who had already damaged the other? This would help lend greater credence to Rei still being in the mental institution too: if the doctors have her on the record for causing or at least provoking the injuries of not one son but two…

Obviously such a fragile-looking child as Touya, who we know was never formally trained, would have stood no chance against an absolutely enraged Endeavor, but if we know one thing about the Todoroki family, it’s that they’re stubborn beyond belief. Endeavor probably batted aside his failure of an eldest son like it was nothing… but Touya refused to stay down. I think, overwhelmed by hatred and resentment, he put everything he had into trying to fight back against his father, bursting with flames too hot for his ill-suited body, heedless of his own pain.

That break in Dabi’s bottom lip is from the unprotected skin splitting as he screamed in rage and agony while on fire. Just sayin’!!

And even after going beyond his limits in every way, to still inevitably be crushed beneath his father’s heel… I can’t imagine the degree of loathing such a miserable defeat would make a child feel for heroes and all of hero society who let down the Todoroki siblings so badly…

If Touya ran from the hospital afterward, we could even be looking at a situation in which Dabi has been raising himself all alone since he was 12 or 13. Hell, he might even have caught the tail-end of Stain’s soapbox speeches about the revival of heroics while living out on streets…

BUT, YOU KNOW, that’s just my imagination running wild. XDD

I’m sure that my headcanon is too exaggerated to be true, but I do think the scars are self-inflicted and that Touya did fight with Endeavor at some point before abruptly leaving the Todoroki household.

Or… he’s not even a Todoroki and he totally gave himself those scars just to look cool or something lolol.

It’s SYMBOLICCCCC.

Okay, being a little more serious, I think it’s mostly being used the same way as that one scene of Itachi in the rain in Naruto:

Holy shit I never thought I’d be looking at a page of the Naruto manga again…

It’s basically a scene used to humanize and show a tiny glimpse of a “villain” character’s hidden depths–is Dabi all evil, or is there some softness underneath?

The blood is definitely supposed to symbolically represent tears, which actively tells the reader “Something about the idea of families hurts Dabi.” Coupled with the fact that he’s also smiling in a way that does not suit the moment at all and talking about how thinking about what Snatch said actually drove Dabi crazy, I think we’re also supposed to be getting the feeling that Dabi is not quite as calm and collected as he seems to be on the surface. We all love to call him the “sane man” in the League of Villains’ sea of crazy, but it’s entirely possible that Dabi is experiencing or has, at some point, experienced a psychotic break and that the almost lazy, unaffected behavior we see from him most of the time is little more than a thin veneer on top of a much less stable inner-mind…

What interests me is how many people (even the BNHA wiki) seem to suggest that these symbolic blood tears indicate that Dabi feels remorse for the families of all his victims… But I wonder if that’s really the case at all.

Does he feel remorse regarding his victims’ families… or only his own? While I think it’s tempting to imply that Dabi feels bad about all the families he’s hurt in general (which would be a good redemption arc flag), I’m actually inclined to think that Dabi is a little more self-centered character than that, and it’s his own family that’s on his mind here, not guilt over strangers he’s never met and never will meet.

I lol’d. Even more than that–by saying this to Endeavor, he’s almost certainly ensured another Dabi vs. Endeavor clash in the future, so like… he basically gave his dad impenetrable plot armor for another 50-100 chapters. XDDD

Dabi, my dear heart, why are you such a dumpster fire???

#dabi #dabi is a todoroki #touya todoroki #dabi headcanons #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #boku no hero academia meta #dabi meta #you can pry this headcanon from my cold dead hands #my hero academia #my hero academia spoilers #I dislike when series are not named the same thing across all languages #it's a pain feeling obligated to tag with two names for the same thing

194 notes · View notes

tanyaodebra · 4 years

Text

You 2.4: “The Good, the Bad, & the Hendy” – A Finished Basement

Before I begin this episode’s recap, I want to give a hat tip to my friend Trina who explained that love and forty are the lowest and highest scores in tennis, respectively. I will never know a sports reference and I’m kind of offended they would sneak one into my program. You was originally slated to be on Lifetime, so our touchstones should be solely comprised of femme shit for an audience of gaydies! But to my original point, Love and Forty’s parents must really be assholes, because naming your kids after tennis is an outrage. They might as well have named them Standard and Poor. Also, whenever anyone is like, “aw, it’s so sweet that your name is Love, your parents must be hippies,” she has to be like, “actually, it means zero in tennis, because my parents are rude yuppies.” Eventually we’ll meet these parents, probably in some sort of vile display of their blood money.

Let’s crack this shit open, starting with the fellatio interruptus. Love is about to pour herself a cup of Joe when Forty calls. Instead of simply chatting real quick then getting back to the best part of waking up, Love decides to multitask. NEVER WOULD I EVER perform a sexual act of any kind while talking on the phone to my brother. Gross. And due to the magic of twindom, Forty clearly knows she’s hooking up with Joe in that very moment even though she’s been keeping their relationship secret. Double your pleasure, double your gross. Post coitus, Love discovers Joe’s telescope, pointing out that her apartment can be seen from it. The big bad wolf simply states the truth; all the better to spy on her with. Seems like she should have pushed the issue, but maybe she’s into being surveilled. Later on, Love delivers her own no-no, albeit not nearly as frightening as Peeping Joe’s – she springs a surprise meal with her friends on him. Forty initiates a brunchus interruptus and flips his shit about Love’s secret boyfriend. Joe decides the only way to keep Love happy is to keep Forty happy, so he pretends to go whole hog on the ménage à twin. Luckily Forty is a simple soul, so he easily accepts Joe’s writing, brunch and beach offerings.

Our teen queen reigns supreme, having discovered the spyware on her phone. But Ellie missteps, though she doesn’t realize it; she blames Delilah instead of Creepy Joe. No problem – Joe keep tabs on Ellie via Henderson’s jacktop instead. With a little help from Will, Joe busts into Hendy’s apartment and locates his trophies, a cigar box filled with Polaroids hidden under a loose tile in the sex dungeon. Then he pulls a classic dude move, which is to believe he knows more about a woman’s profession than she does. He plants Hendy’s photos at Delilah’s doorstep, assuming it’s all she needs to expose Henderson’s pedophilia. Wrong. According to her fuck-buddy cop (Danny Vasquez), the photos have no context, especially since Delilah doesn’t want to out herself as one of Hendy’s survivors. In white-knighting a capable woman, he’s royally fucked up the whole operation. Joe’s sexism led him here. Had he trusted Delilah to do her job herself, perhaps Henderson would have faced the consequences his actions deserved. Instead Hendy got some bullshit vigilante punishment, which is a deeply unsatisfying ending for his victims.

I’m not ashamed to admit when I am wrong, and I was definitely wrong about Henderson’s fate. Creepy Joe does not have the self-awareness to understand how similar he is to Hendy – how he, too, stalks, grooms, drugs, abducts, and takes trophies. Joe believes that because he doesn’t rape, he is somehow better than Henderson. They are both total fucking scum, but one rapes and the other murders. One of these things is way worse than the other, and if you believe rape is worse, you might be a sexist monster. Henderson uses his celebrity to lure Ellie, the teen Joe is stalking, to his rape pad. Joe has already broken into Hendy’s house when Ellie arrives, so he’s able to witness Henderson’s slick technique to manipulate Ellie into practically forcing her way into his place whilst all but guaranteeing she’ll never tell anyone she was ever there. It’s painful to watch Ellie; I never listened to the older women in my life when I was her age even though they were right and I was wrong. She makes every classic mistake: hanging out alone, staying late, and accepting a beverage. She thinks they’re friends. She has never come into contact with such a good liar before. She hasn’t yet learned that no amount of cool, smarts, humor, or good taste will stop a predator. She doesn’t know how charming predators can be. Just like Joe, Hendy is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A scotch for himself and a juice for the young lady makes Henderson seem like the perfect gentleman – until the GHB comes out. Joe creates a distraction so he can drug Hendy’s scotch, too. Once Ellie and Hendy are out for the count, Joe sets up shop in the sex basement. When Hendy comes to, he’s been blindfolded and tied to a chair. Wearing a Hendy mask, Joe attempts to force a confession from Henderson, but Henderson isn’t a dummy. He tells Joe about having been molested as a kid, and says he can tell Joe went through something similar. He tries again and again to draw parallels between the two of them, but Joe won’t have it. Henderson manages to knock over the chair and escape, but only briefly. As Henderson runs up the stairs, Joe grabs him and flings him back down the stairs, accidentally smashing his head against the cement wall. Hendy is dead.

The clean-up for this little mishap is very messy. A little blood drips out of Joe’s nose, but before he can clean it up, the robotic vacuum is taking a crack at the puddle under Hendy’s head, which mixes their blood together. Joe does his best to mitigate the mixing by mopping the edges to make a smaller blood-pool, and he dashes off with the plasma-soaked robo-vac as well as Hendy’s headphones. Is jay-walking a big deal in LA? As a New Yorker, I definitely wouldn’t have known this and neither did Joe, because he gets nabbed on the way to the dumpster with a trash bag full of evidence. Oh-oh. The cop is Delilah’s fuck-buddy. Joe gets a little reprieve when the cop looks no further than the top of the bag where Hendy’s limited-edition headphones rest. Joe, claiming everything was going to Goodwill anyway, offers them up to the officer, who accepts and cuts Joe loose. Hopefully those headphones will come in handy later.

Back in the secret room of Joe’s own earlier in the episode, Will negotiates his severance package. Will promises to flee to the Philippines, never to speak of any of this again. But how can Joe possibly believe him? Once again, Will attempts to prove his loyalty by assisting Joe – this time by disabling Hendy’s security system. He tries to get Joe to see that killing Henderson is an act of a deeply disturbed person, telling Joe that he’s confident he won’t kill Hendy, because he’s not a bad guy. He’s definitely smarter than I originally gave him credit for, because he plays on Joe’s need to be perceived as being and doing good. And after Joe kills Hendy, he’s pretty desperate to prove to himself and to Will that being a killer does not preclude him from being a good guy. Joe takes Will’s advice and does the one thing that will prove that he’s good – he releases Will. Is Will really going to be so content with freedom that he doesn’t turn Joe in? Sounds like Will has some pretty shady shit in his past, so it’s possible he doesn’t want this kind of heat. Maybe he’ll just slink out of the country in order to avoid the spotlight of a high-profile court case. But what name will he use now? How will he deal with the consequences of identity theft? Maybe Will won’t go gently into that good night after all. We’ll just have to wait and see.

This episode also has a series of dreams and flashbacks about Joe’s childhood. Looks like dad’s a beater and mom’s a cheater. After mom takes a four-hour “date” when she’s supposed to be grocery shopping, Joe winds up on the receiving end of dad’s ire. Mom rewards Joe for keeping her secret, and she promises Joe that one day she’ll kill his father. I’m relieved the audience won’t be able to simply heap all the blame on the mother, and I’m curious to see where this is going.

When I saw Ambyr Childers’ name in the top-of-show credits I knew we were in for a fun time, and luckily I had forgotten all about it by the end. Joe sends Forty to SXSW Pitch in order to extricate him from Love’s time and immediate vicinity. This move backfires when Love hops a plane in order to be Forty’s sober companion. While in Austin, Forty makes a romantic connection and insists that he and Love need to get a third plane ticket to bring this woman back to LA. Is this a ghost I see before me? No. It’s Candace. Or, rather, Amy. So, it looks like Candace is indeed alive and well and not just a figment of Joe’s imagination. I am not totally ruling out a collaboration between Love and Candace, but it’s looking more unlikely now that Forty’s in the crosshairs. I cannot wait to see what this bitch is up to. See You next time!

#you season2 episode4 netflix recap

0 notes

setoangel01-fanfiction · 7 years

Text

Adrift

Set Me Free - Chapter 14 (Previous Chapters)

Fandom: Sing 2016

Pairing: Ash x Johnny

Rated: T

Chapter Summary: Johnny drives Ash home and they discuss what other options, if any, they both have left for their respective futures.

Fanfiction.net

A03

"So…do you know what you're gonna do? About your dad, I mean." it was meant to be a quiet car ride but Ash found her mouth and tongue moving anyway.

If she analyzed the situation closer, she had no idea what had her trying to get this guy to open up more to her. Yet with a 45 minutes of silence as they drove back to the heart of the city in front of them, she supposed it wouldn't hurt to start some kind of conversation rather than just dealing with awkward silence.

"I uh, have an appointment later this evening to see him actually," Johnny admitted with a helpless shrug, "He probably won't show up, but…that's okay."

As Johnny drove, Ash glanced over at his profile. It was still hard to believe how traumatic this guy's life was; how much he had on his plate and the emotional strife he had to deal with was hidden behind such a kind eyes and a positive demeanor. How everyday, this guy went home with an permanent ache in his chest as he had to live with the possibility of his dad dying behind bars.

It must have been absolutely crushing.

"...So, what are your plans?" Johnny suddenly spoke again and Ash yanked her eyes away from him.

"Eh, I dunno." she muttered, forcing her gaze out the small amount of scenery she could perceive from the window.

"Will you try out for more performances around town?"

"Probably… Well, until I get rejected again that is."

"Aw, c'mon." he chuckled when he halted the truck at a stop sign - the shift in gravity making her stomach lurch forward. "You need to be more positive than that! You're a great singer and musician - go in there knowing you'll get chosen. You've gotta to be more confident in your abilities, Ash."

The porcupine had to force her eyes not to roll when she glanced over a him. He was looking at her, a smirk pulling up one side of his mouth and her stomach lurched in a different sense when she saw the flash of his white canines peaking through his gray mouth and instantly wanted to slap herself for thinking he had a great smile.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah... Practice what you preach then." she grumbled under her breath and forced her eyes to drift from his face yet could still see his confused expression in her peripheral.

"Hmm?"

"You just said your dad wasn't going to show up - where's your confidence?"

Johnny's face fell for a moment before his normal calm smile was back. The truck accelerating back down another long winding road before he spoke again.

"You're right… I should be more positive. Thank you, Ash."

"I wouldn't thank me yet." she muttered mainly to herself whilst glancing back out of the window. Eyes glazing over as a sudden wave of exhaustion hit her hard. More mentally and emotionally draining than anything, but still there. Yet, she was focused and made sure to stay awake even if it meant continuing what she found to be her rather awkward attempt at conversing.

A few moments later and one question that had been lingering in the back of her mind kept pestering her; flitting about no matter how many times she tried pulling it down. After awhile, she stopped fighting it anymore and it just slipped out.

"If the singing thing doesn't work - what are you going to do?" She felt as if the question should have been directed toward herself but she couldn't deny she was curious about his options. Maybe it would give her more ideas to add to the list of her measly ones.

"...Truthfully? I never really took singing as a career seriously 'til I found that paper..." for a moment, her memory flashed to that moment she first saw it too - stuck to Lance's quills when they were getting on the train.

Upon reading it, a fire grew in her chest when she thought of possibly winning…that same fire now gone and now she just felt cold. Thinking of how useless all of this was; how if she didn't find it and they didn't go to that audition…she'd probably still be with Lance…Stuck with that jerk and working worthless gigs and dead end jobs for the rest of her damned life. At least now, she had other options and a chance to make her own future instead of being stuck in a rut with a boyfriend who never cared about her.

Who would have thought that single piece of paper could have changed her life (and Johnny's as well) the way it did? Her thoughts suddenly coming to a halt when said gorilla began speaking again.

"It just came out of nowhere when I was shutting the garage door," the way he said garage with his accent made her smirk a little, "I mean, before then, it was more of a hobby; somethin' I enjoyed but never took too seriously. An unfathomable dream almost but when I went to the audition and Buster chose me - or rather had to pick me over that giraffe…" he said with a mirthless chuckle, "It was the very first time I realized that I wanted to do this. I wanted to be a singer…" Johnny relayed the story slowly; his main focus on the road prevalent in this situation.

"So, you never sang much before then?"

"I wouldn't say that. I'd sing all the time - just only when I was alone. Typical places like in the shower, at the gym, when I'd go out for walks or skateboarding…even while I was waiting for my dad to finish his heists and I was the lookout."

"Wait...you sang when you were supposed to be a lookout for your dad?" Ash couldn't help but laugh a little at that; picturing sweet, innocent Johnny (lost in his head as usual) singing without a care in the world as his dad's somewhere robbing a bank. It was rather comical if you thought about it.

"Eh…" Johnny's face grew a tinge of red at her statement, "I wasn't the best lookout, I admit…"

"Heh. No kidding. But that was it? You never sang in front of people or played piano before now? I find that hard to believe." she said with a furrowed brow; she heard him playing the piano that day as she passed by Buster's office - he didn't sound like someone who first touched ivory keys a week ago.

"No...I never sang or played in front of people before recently…well, except my mum that is." A horrifying sadness flashed in his eyes; the briefest hints of a frown pulling at his lips when he spoke but before she could say a word, he continued, "…but that was a long time ago. I-I used to play piano when I was a kid so I guess some of it's coming back but also, Miss Crawly's a good teacher and I've always been a bit of a fast learner."

Ash was so tempted for him to elaborate more about his past but she wondered again why she was bothering getting to know Johnny even better now. Not to mention if he'd even open up to her anymore than he already had. She had to accept this was perhaps the last few moments she'd ever spend with him. Their dreams dashed by Buster's refusal, there was hardly any need to get to know him more but for some twisted reason, she kinda wanted to. Pushing down her doubts, she opened her mouth to speak but Johnny (thankfully in retrospect) beat her to it.

"To answer your question from earlier, I have other options. I worked at my dad's mechanic shop my whole life. In London, that was his job and owned his own business, but when we moved here and the business was slow…he had to give it up and that's when he started…well, you know; but I suppose that's one option I still have open." Johnny stopped at a light; glancing over to her to give her a slight shrug of his shoulders.

It seemed strange to think of Johnny under the hood or body of a car, covered in motor oil and grease; cutting up fingers that played the piano so beautifully; exhaust and the stench of gasoline perhaps ruining those vocal chords after hours of breathing it in. Fixing cars wasn't a profession she seen Johnny enjoying but she didn't picture herself working in a retail shop with a red shirt and khaki's either but beggars aren't choosers she supposed. In a perfect world, they'd both have record contracts and be living the high life but sadly…this was reality.

Ash thought if Johnny could make due with a regular job like most of the population, she supposed she could as well.

"What about you?" Johnny suddenly spoke again; the car lurching forward had her hand subconsciously grasping at the leather seats to steady herself even if the seatbelt was doing that for her. "You've been singing a long time?"

The question wasn't one she expected but since she asked him about his past - it was only fair she answered.

"My dad used to tell me as soon as I could talk, I was singing. Didn't pick up a guitar til after I met Lance though," she said with as much disdain as would fit in her voice; the one aspect she hated was that asshole was the one to teach her to play. Her beloved guitar containing such tainted memories she'd rather not ponder.

"In high school, I was in band and an after school music club was where I met him and the rest was history. He taught me guitar and even bought my the one I play - the only decent present he ever bought me. Over the years, we were a band I guess you'd call it; getting occasional gigs and I was hoping Moon's contest would be our big break…"

Ash let out a deep breath; accessing silently how life could change so fast without any warning. A rug ripped from under you leaving you no choice but to tumble and fall flat on the ground. Forcing you into the aftermath of staring up at the sky - gasping for air but none would come…

"Well, you know how that ended…" Ash shrugged it off; not bothering to acknowledge the glance of sympathy Johnny sent her. "But I'm not giving up - I'll figure this out. May take longer than I want it to, but truth be told, I'd rather be where I am now that still stuck with that cheating bastard. If that's all this did for me...I guess that's something I'll always have to thank Buster for."

Johnny smiled; the gesture more in her peripheral but still there. It was weird but it was true. At least where she was, she could do things on her own. Carve her own path in the sand and either follow the wind or fight against the tide. It was her life now and she planned to make the most of it.

"You'll be fine, Ash. You got that fighting spirit - you'll do just fine." Johnny's words were quiet and almost spoken under his breath.

"Yeah…and so will you."

At the next stop, Johnny glanced over at her.

Ash made sure her arms were crossed and eyes steadfast on the dashboard in front of her. Wanting to hide the fact she'd said something encouraging even if it slipped out almost unintentionally. Ash didn't catch the smile on his face or sparkle return to his eyes; only stared at the window as the truck and it's occupants began moving closer into the heart of the city.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived back at her apartment; the tires of his truck coming to a halt where he parallel parked in front of her apartment door. The ignition turned off and remained still for a long time; Ash hesitated and it was obvious Johnny was too. His eyes still steadfast on the road even when the car was long since parked. By the tilt of his brow and furrowed lips, you can easily tell he was tempted to say something but she wouldn't push it especially when her own mind was flooded with a million and one things that wanted to leech out.

If you asked why she was hesitating to leave, she couldn't exactly tell you.

Perhaps it was because she some part of her didn't want this to end… That once she passed the threshold of the truck door and back into her dark, empty apartment, all of this would truly be over for good. This past month, while crazy and wrought with unimaginable grief, torment, and pain…there was something about it she wasn't ready to let go of just yet. Would even fully agree that maybe, just maybe, she'd grown attached to those she met thus far - Moon, Miss Crawly, Rosita, Gunter, Meena…and of course, Johnny.

Hating it was only now that she finally realized it…

To think it took a new family of sorts to make her feel somewhat whole again after Lance's earth-shattering betrayal and her new encounter with loneliness that she never experienced before. These animals she just met were there for her when no one else was: listened to her, talked, comforted, and reached out when no one else bothered to ever care before (not even the guy she gave five years of her life to).

It was awhile before she even realized that Johnny's eyes were on her. Ash turned her head toward him and met his gaze steadily, an ache growing in her chest when he suddenly gave her the barest hints of a smile; one that clearly didn't reach his eyes for the first time she could ever recall.

"Well, we're here." he muttered the obvious and she couldn't help but smirk at that.

"Yeah. I noticed."

"Hmm. S'pose you did…Um, I guess, uh…I-I'll be seeing you around, Ash."

Ash knew he didn't intend to lie but who were they kidding? With no more hope of Buster turning around and making this competition a reality, there was really no reason they would see each other again. They were still teetering on this delicate edge of acquaintances and…maybe friends? Perhaps just two souls who needed to meet to realize other animals had struggles too and they had helped each other out in that sense.

"Yeah." she replied steadily; she guessed she was a liar too.

In those moments of hearing about his father, she'd felt as if she knew a side of him no one else did. He willingly told her a part of his life he had kept secret from everyone up until today…and it felt good. Felt good to connect beyond simple greetings and exchanged pleasantries.

"Sorry. Let me get your door." Johnny muttered and Ash watched as he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of his side of the truck. Busying herself with doing the same when he opened her door for her.

Her task complete, icy blue eyes met chestnut brown before slipping down his body to where his hand was proffered once again. The stubborn side wanted to push it away and climb down herself but in all actuality, she was just tired and didn't care about acting prickly and flippant right now.

With slight hesitation, she took his hand and allowed him to help her descend.

"Hey! Who knows? Maybe I'll bump into you again." Johnny chuckled in an obvious intent to try and lighten the somber mod that filled the air. Ever so gently, he squeezed her hand a bit as he helped her down the truck bed.

"Yeah. Maybe..." Ash couldn't help but return the sentiment as she stepped safely onto the sidewalk. The two glanced at one another, a few words going much left unsaid and it was a full minute before either of them realized they were still holding hands.

"Ooh. Sorry." Johnny was the first to apologize as he gently withdrew his hand.

"Don't be." Ash said without thinking, flinching a bit at the words and pretended to kick at an invisible pebble. Didn't want to acknowledge how cold she felt without his hand grasping her own by sticking her hand into her skirt pockets and cursing those plaguing thoughts.

It felt so awkward and misplaced but the quietness felt comfortable. A silence between what she would now consider more than just co-workers, competitors, or acquaintances. It felt more than that now…but as things were, it's all it would be. The pain accompanying that realization was one Ash was nowhere near ready to confront…

"...I hope everything works out for you, Ash. I really do." Johnny stated and Ash met his eyes.

"...Yeah. Same to you too."

"Thanks." he replied with a soft grin.

Without even asking, Johnny began walking her to her apartment, a comfortable silence that was broken by their soft pattering of dragging footsteps as they approached her door.

It felt like the shortest walk of her life; one Ash would reluctantly agree she wished was a little longer. The very sight of her door made her fur prickle; the little knicks from quills, or all the times Lance kicked the ajar door open because he was too lazy to take his hands out of his pockets, or bumped it with his guitar case when he came home drunk.

Memories she wished would just go away…especially now…

"It was nice getting to know you a little more." Johnny spoke, breaking her out of her reverie. Her fragile heart skipping a bit at the context and the genuine tone in which he spoke. "...and thanks for opening up to me and listening. It really helped me Ash. Thank you…"

"Eh. Yeah." she shrugged casually even as her heart nearly pounded out her chest and her palms sweat something fierce, "No problem."

Johnny's smile grew but fell a second later when she finally took her keys out of pocket.

"Oh. Sorry for keepin' ya." his whole demeanor shifted; a look of guilt rose on his face that Ash immediately squashed down.

"No. It's fine. Really."

"Well, anyway…" Johnny glanced out toward the street and somewhere far off before continuing, "I still better be going - that appointment with my dad is pretty soon."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, you better not miss that." Ash continued to hide behind a nonchalant shrug.

"True. Heh… Well, um…I guess this is goodbye for now." it was Johnny's turn to shrug, his smile lopsided and not at all the smile she was used to.

"I guess so." she waved a bit; the words felt hallow in her throat but was able to choke out, "Bye, Johnny."

"Goodbye, Ash." Johnny smiled for real this time before all of a sudden, he'd turned his back to her and began walking away.

In this moment of sudden panic she desperately wanted to say something. What exactly, she had no freaking idea, just something…Yet the more stubborn side ignored it; told her she was being ridiculous and for the first time in awhile, she listened to it. Forced her to turn around and push her key in the door and open it.

She didn't care.

She didn't care…it was the only mantra that kept her from screaming out to him…but he beat her too it upon reaching his truck and turning back around.

"Oi, Ash wait!" Johnny suddenly spoke and a spark of happiness she didn't care to meditate over appeared in her like a spark when she turned back to him. Her eyes wide and curious as he approached.

"Yeah?" she said, voice much higher pitched than she intended; clearing her throat and hoped he didn't notice how her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"You almost forgot these." he said and in his large hand was the baggie of cookies she got from Rosita's place.

…Had that only been a few hours ago?

…it felt like a lifetime…

"Oh." was her first disappointed reaction until she quickly followed it with a chuckle and an "Oops. Heh. Glad you remembered."

Ash reached out to grab the baggie, her fur prickling when she accidentally brushed the side of her hand over his warm palm. Once they were in her possession, Johnny pulled back and gave her a small military type wave with a flit of his his index and middle fingers by his forehead.

"See ya, Ash." he said before he had walked away and was in his truck before she could even fully process what was happening.

Forcing those strange feelings down, Ash turned around and opened her door and quickly closed it behind her. Yet something had her going to her window, peeking from behind her curtains to see Johnny sitting in his truck for a moment. Chestnut eyes flicked toward her apartment and for a few brief seconds, she thought perhaps he could see her but those faded when he turned away again. Fiddled with his steering wheel for a brief moment before she heard the truck come to life.

The purr of an engine and quick glance in his rearview mirror - than he was gone.

Ash flinched when the abrupt gravity of his absence hit her; staring off toward the direction his truck disappeared to for a longer time than she cared to admit…Only one thing was for certain…she didn't know how to feel about anything anymore…

#sing 2016 #sing movie #sing fanfiction #johnny #ash #johnnyxash #ashxjohnny #fanfiction #sing illumination

18 notes · View notes

thebookofyas · 7 years

Text

What does advertising contribute to politics?

“The constant personal attacks on Jeremy Corbyn may have actually backfired, generating sympathy for the Labour leader. He refused to respond in kind to the smears, lending him a certain nobility. He seemed brave and statesmanlike in the face of bullying from Tories and their supporters in the media. Furthermore, the constant attacks on his supposed links with terrorist organisations seemed far-fetched and overblown to the British public [...] the public are not stupid. They are not sitting passively, waiting to be fed their opinions by the Tory media. It is more nuanced than that.” Sam Delaney, 2017

What does advertising contribute to politics, according to Sam Delaney’s book ‘Mad Men and Bad Men: When British Politics Met Advertising’?

The best thing about this book is that it is consistent with its overall message – that politicians are forever indebted to admen for presenting their arguments in an easily tangible way. Although Delaney’s book is about a niche subject like creativity in politics, he omits the complicated jargon, the extended sentences with about 20 commas, dashes and colons between them and the overly descriptive flowery language which ends up being monotonous. Mad Men and Bad Men is filled with charming insights and interesting details - interspersed with gripping anecdotes. As a result, you do not feel like you are reading a book or watching a documentary. The book has the aura of a casual chat… where you just happen to learn a lot about politics and communication! Indeed, Delaney’s biggest achievement here is to turn a matter as tedious as political communications into a thoroughly spell-binding experience.

The crucial things we learn from this book are that firstly – politicians are indebted to the admen for enabling them to effectively communicate with voters and forcing them outside of the Westminster policy bubble. Secondly – advertising adds precision to campaigning strategies. The book raises questions of whether positive or negative advertising is more effective. Nonetheless, the downside to such surgical precision, is that parties can totally avoid issues they are perceived as weak on. I spoke to Sam Delaney about points raised in his book, with reference to the 2017 election.

1. Advertising enables politicians to communicate properly:

I. “Hamstrung by their own intelligence”:

In the chapter ‘People aren’t idiots’ Delaney points out that political types are “hamstrung by their own intelligence. The detail and intellectual rigour is all very well […] but you need an aggressive clarity, the sort of expert grasp of simplicity that great admen specialise in and great politicians are rubbish at”. For all the time intellectuals spend grasping abstract theories, they ultimately become hamstrung by their intelligence due to an inability to present this knowledge in a tangible way. This culminates in the futility of preaching to the already converted, whilst being perceived as self-important and swotty.

This is what makes politicians indebted to advertising agencies, as one of Saatchi and Saatchi’s founders (Jeremy Sinclair) says: “advertising disciplines force politicians to get to the heart of the policy, to deliver the key argument succinctly in a way people can understand. We helped politicians understand how to speak to people in a way they could hear.”

Advertising imposes discipline into politicians. There is a wonderful anecdote in the book about Labour’s 1979 election campaign. A commercials director (Sid Roberson) hired by the author’s uncle (Tim Delaney) to film TV broadcasts – told of how he interrupted the then-energy (Labour) minister Tony Benn’s speech;

“He’s just going on about all the oil produced and all this technical mumbo-jumbo, so I stopped him there and I said ‘Look, I’m just a punter, mate. I’m here to direct the film and it’s not my place to tell you what to say, but I am a voter. And you’re talking about a lot of [waffle] that nobody cares about, let me tell you. People know about their kids, their jobs, their health, but all this [waffle] you’re talking about is completely wasted on them. I know you’ve got your head up in it but I haven’t and nor has anybody else. If I were you, I wouldn’t say all of that”.

Where the politician was hamstrung by his intelligence, the advertisers enabled him to keep it simple.

II. Keeping it simple:

Keeping it simple is easier said than done. It is usually better done by the Tories than Labour. The juxtaposition between ad strategies is evident in Delaney’s description of Labour’s campaign of 1983: “dry and overly forensic in their explanation of policy […] preaching to the public about Keynesian economic theory which the average voter had little interest in”. By contrast, the likes of Tim Bell (now head of Bell Pottinger, a globally leading communications firm) and the Saatchis - perfected the art of the simple, concise messages which touched upon pre-existing voters fears and values.

Yet, in 2017 Theresa May’s simple, concise message of ‘Strong and Stable Leadership’ was not only a source of ridicule, but it also failed politically. Sam Delaney explained to me why;

“It didn’t tally with reality. In 2015 the message from the Tories was about a long term economic plan. They were five years in and had not deviated from the austerity programme. Ed Miliband seemed weak and memories of the 2008 economic crisis were still fresh in the public’s mind. The message hit home. George Osbourne and David Cameron appeared sensible and focused in comparison to Labour;s leadership. But in 2017, Theresa May spoke about being ‘strong and stable’ while refusing to engage in debates or with the public, dithering over her response to the terror attacks and performing u-turns on her manifesto pledges. Her actions and her rhetoric were at complete odds to each other. The British public could see that. In contrast, Corbyn was consistent in his actions and his rhetoric. Even if you didn’t agree with his positions, you began to respect him for his integrity.”

III. Out of the bubble:

Advertising forces politicians outside their Westminister policy bubble. The Tories learned this during William Hague’s leadership. For the 2001 election, they hired a small agency which did wonders for the party in Scotland. They did not care that the key figures of Yellow M advertising agency did not share their political convictions. After all, Labour had their campaign in 1983 run by Johnny Wright, a massive supporter of the party – this ideological attachment perhaps constraining them in properly targeting potential floating voters. Sam Delaney expanded to me on the importance of ideological detachment;

“I think what matters is a will to win. This requires a cold understanding of what motivates voters. The Tories have often tapped into the fears of voters, understanding that this is a key motivator. Labour have used supporters, committed ‘socialists’ who have a perhaps overly positive perception of human nature. They have more usually tried to appeal to the better nature of voters, attempting to win them over with rational arguments in support of their policies. Johnny Wright did this in 1983 with Shadow Ministers coming on TV to painstakingly explain the fundamentals of Keynesian economics. That is overly complex and boring to the average floating voter. Meanwhile, the Tories were making easily digestible and funny points about how close the Labour manifesto was to the Communist Parties’. That resonated much better with the British public. Labour teams have often been hamstrung by their own convictions - in that they can’t quite understand the perspective of people who don’t necessarily agree with them.”

In 2001, The Tories had the benefit of regular interactions with an ideologically detached agency. Yet they failed to listen to them when told to ignore the matter of Europe since it was only a big concern inside party ranks and a minor issue everywhere else. Labour comfortably won that election.

2. Advertising adds precision to campaigning strategy:

I. Precision:

When Labour recruited renowned American pollster Bob Worcester in their election campaigns, he told them that they only need to target 4% of the electorate. They already had a core vote they could rely on and the Tories had a similarly unshakeable core. Therefore, the election campaign needed to target, with precision, that 4% of the electorate in marginal seats.

The input of the advertising agencies may also influence party policy, as we learned through the struggles of Johnny Wright and Garnet Edwards during the 1983 Labour campaign, with the latter simply arguing that “the product wasn’t right” and therefore far harder to sell. By the next two elections – the ad agencies responsible for Labour’s campaign began to portray the leader Neil Kinnock as the unique selling point, understanding the toxicity of the party brand.

II. Negative vs. Positive campaigning?

Tory campaigning orthodoxy has usually been negative campaigning. Indeed, negative campaigning ultimately swung the 1992 election according to Delaney. After 11 years of Tory rule, they were widely expected to lose. Yet they just kept attacking Labour on tax, pouncing upon public fears that a Labour government would simply cost too much. Creatively, Saatchi’s devised a tax calculator based on the estimated costs of Shadow Chancellor’s John Smith’s spending plans – divided by British tax-payer revenue, so that you could see how much more tax you would pay under a Labour government according to your salary.

But negative campaigning only works when you have specific flaws to target. It failed for the Tories in 1997 (for more, see my video comparing Labour and Conservative election campaigns of 1997) because New Labour was an almost identical product to them. It did not help that there were contradictory messages on display. Tory campaign said that New Labour was copying them (see the party political broadcast ‘a tree without roots’) whilst simultaneously saying that they were dangerous. By contrast, New Labour’s campaign was very positive. The ‘Things can only get better’ video captured the vibe of the Britpop era wonderfully, whereas the fly-on-the-wall documentary style displaying Tony Blair’s normality worked splendidly.

20 years later, The Tories negative campaign on Jeremy Corbyn also failed. Sam Delaney explained to me why;

“Fear of the other side is what ordinarily works. But you can’t go too far with that. In 1992 the Tories made some very effective attacks on Labour’s tax plans. They made sense and tapped in to the pre-existing instincts of the electorate. But in 2017, the constant personal attacks on Jeremy Corbyn may have actually backfired, generating sympathy for the Labour leader. He refused to respond in kind to the smears, lending him a certain nobility. He seemed brave and statesmanlike in the face of bullying from Tories and their supporters in the media. Furthermore, the constant attacks on his supposed links with terrorist organisations seemed far-fetched and overblown to the British public. In 1992, the Tory campaign made a measured and calculated attack about Labour tax plans, something that the public were already suspicious about. But in 2017, they made attacks that seemed wild and didn’t quite tap into a practical or existing fear. You can’t start the fear in the public’s mind. You have to find out the fear that is already there and exploit it. Lastly, the incessant negativity from the Tories in 2017, twinned with empty and receptive soundbites about being ‘strong and stable,’ suggested that the government were devoid of ideas and complement about victory. The public are not stupid. They are not sitting passively, waiting to be fed their opinions by the Tory media. It is more nuanced than that.”

III. Issue avoidance:

But is it neccesarily good the amount of precision that advertising adds to campaigning strategy? We saw above how parties are advised to not really bother with the other team’s core voters. They fear spreading themselves too thin, so the orthodoxy is to focus on the 4% in marginal seats. Precision can also lead to issue avoidance. Dick Worthing, a political consultant and election guru behind Ronald Reagan’s election wins – advised Tory director of communications for 1992 (Shaun Woodward) to simply not fall into the bait of talking about health. The justification for this is that the Tories are already perceived as weak on it, so it is best to totally avoid.

Worthing devised the most important election campaign diagram. He would draw a vertical line with the top labelled positive rating and the bottom labelled negative rating. Then a horizontal line, with the right labelled high salience and the left labelled low salience. Then, both of the parties policies would be filled in accordingly. The result was a campaign strategy which emphasized the positive rating and high salience issues of the Tories (like economic management and defense), whilst totally ignoring negative rating and high salience issues (like health, which Labour had positive ratings for). In addition, they would attack Labour on their negative rating for high salience issues (like economic management and tax).

Of course, this is a strategy devised by those who want to win by any means. The Tories continue to neglect discussions on health and public services. Could it be the reason why the Tories have not won a majority for so long? I asked Delaney if it is wise to keep dodging questions on public priorities:

“I think framing the debate is still very important and, yes, the government should of course use their advantageous position to frame it around the subjects on which they are strong. It is harder to do nowadays because of the proliferation of outlets. Social media in particular is difficult for spin doctors to manipulate. In the past it was about giving a speech in the morning, getting it picked up by the Today programme and then by three or four papers. Now there is a sprawling mass of media outlets writing whatever the hell they like so it is much harder to keep the debate under control and within narrow confines of your choosing.”

3. Conclusions:

· Politicians are hamstrung by their own intelligence, they need the advertising, marketing and communications people to keep it simple for them, ensuring, that their messages do not fall on deaf ears.

· Simple, concise messages usually work best. In 2017, Theresa May’s ‘Strong and Stable Leadership’ soundbite failed because people could see that it was inconsistent with the campaign.

· Advertising forces politicians into professional interactions outside of their policy bubble. Unlike their constituents, these are people who advise them, as opposed to complain to them.

· Advertising adds precisions to political campaigns, to the extent of influencing policy. Politics is like a business, with its own target markets and unique selling points.

· Negative campaigning usually works – but only if it exploits pre-existing fears. As Jeremy Corbyn’s exceeding of expectations in 2017 showed – fear cannot be manufactured and smearing can work in the oppositions favour.

· The orthodoxy of issue avoidance is no longer feasible in the social media era. Westminister no longer controls what is discussed. Tory reluctance to discuss public priorities like health can be damaging to their image in the long-run.

Written by Yassin M. Yassin, with many thanks to Sam Delaney for taking time out to talk to me. You can get his awesome book here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Mad-Men-Bad-Happened-Advertising/dp/0571312381

0 notes