#thus is the life of a writer pitching articles
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Eastman's Biography of Red Cloud
Eastman's biography of Red Cloud (l. 1822-1909) is the first narrative of his Indian Heroes and Great Chieftains (1916), and it sets the tone for those that follow, including the pieces on Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, in explaining the motivation of the Plains Indians in their response to the US government's genocidal policies of expansion.
The piece is of particular interest historically because the Sioux physician and author, Charles A. Eastman (also known as Ohiyesa, l. 1858-1939), was able to interview the warrior and statesman Red Cloud in person, as he was unable to do with many others, such as Crazy Horse, and was also able to receive the story in Red Cloud's native language, unlike the narrative Black Elk Speaks (1932), which was given by the Lakota Sioux medicine man Black Elk (l. 1863-1950) to the American poet and writer John G. Neihardt (l. 1881-1973) through an interpreter. Eastman then translated Red Cloud's account into English for his book. The result is a firsthand account of the life of one of the greatest Sioux chiefs of the 19th century.
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The following text has been abridged for space considerations, but the online version of Eastman's book will be found below in the External Links section. The version presented here is taken from Indian Heroes and Great Chieftains, 1939 edition, republished in 2016:
…Red Cloud was born about 1820 near the forks of the Platte River. He was one of a family of nine children whose father, an able and respected warrior, reared his son under the old Spartan regime. The young Red Cloud is said to have been a fine horseman, able to swim across the Missouri and Yellowstone rivers, of high bearing and unquestionable courage, yet invariably gentle and courteous in everyday life. This last trait, together with a singularly musical and agreeable voice, has always been characteristic of the man…
…The future leader was still a very young man when he joined a war party against the Utes. Having pushed eagerly forward on the trail, he found himself far in advance of his companions as night came on, and at the same time rain began to fall heavily. Among the scattered scrub pines, the lone warrior found a natural cave, and after a hasty examination, he decided to shelter there for the night.
Scarcely had he rolled himself in his blanket when he heard a slight rustling at the entrance, as if some creature were preparing to share his retreat. It was pitch dark. He could see nothing, but judged that it must be either a man or a grizzly. There was not room to draw a bow. It must be between knife and knife, or between knife and claws, he said to himself.
The intruder made no search but quietly lay down in the opposite corner of the cave. Red Cloud remained perfectly still, scarcely breathing, his hand upon his knife. Hour after hour he lay broad awake, while many thoughts passed through his brain. Suddenly, without warning, he sneezed, and instantly a strong man sprang to a sitting posture opposite. The first gray of morning was creeping into their rocky den and – behold! – a Ute hunter sat before him.
Desperate as the situation appeared, it was not without a grim humor. Neither could afford to take his eyes from the other's; the tension was great, till at last a smile wavered over the expressionless face of the Ute. Red Cloud answered the smile, and in that instant a treaty of peace was born between them.
"Put your knife in its sheath. I shall do so also, and we will smoke together," signed Red Cloud. The other assented gladly, and they ratified thus the truce which assured to each a safe return to his friends. Having finished their smoke, they shook hands and separated. Neither had given the other any information. Red Cloud returned to his party and told his story, adding that he had divulged nothing and had nothing to report. Some were inclined to censure him for not fighting, but he was sustained by a majority of the warriors, who commended his self-restraint. In a day or two they discovered the main camp of the enemy and fought a remarkable battle, in which Red Cloud especially distinguished himself
The Sioux were now entering upon the most stormy period of their history. The old things were fast giving place to new. The young men, for the first time engaging in serious and destructive warfare with the neighboring tribes, armed with the deadly weapons furnished by the white man, began to realize that they must soon enter upon a desperate struggle for their ancestral hunting grounds. The old men had been innocently cultivating the friendship of the stranger, saying among themselves, "Surely there is land enough for all!"
Red Cloud was a modest and little-known man of about twenty-eight years, when General Harney called all the western bands of Sioux together at Fort Laramie, Wyoming, for the purpose of securing an agreement and right of way through their territory. The Ogallala held aloof from this proposal, but Bear Bull, an Ogallala chief, after having been plied with whisky, undertook to dictate submission to the rest of the clan. Enraged by failure, he fired upon a group of his own tribesmen, and Red Cloud's father and brother fell dead. According to Indian custom, it fell to him to avenge the deed. Calmly, without uttering a word, he faced old Bear Bull and his son, who attempted to defend his father, and shot them both. He did what he believed to be his duty, and the whole band sustained him. Indeed, the tragedy gave the young man at once a certain standing, as one who not only defended his people against enemies from without, but against injustice and aggression within the tribe. From this time on he was a recognized leader.
Man-Afraid-of-His-Horses, then head chief of the Ogallala, took council with Red Cloud in all important matters, and the young warrior rapidly advanced in authority and influence. In 1854, when he was barely thirty-five years old, the various bands were again encamped near Fort Laramie. A Mormon emigrant train, moving westward, left a footsore cow behind, and the young men killed her for food. The next day, to their astonishment, an officer with thirty men appeared at the Indian camp and demanded of old Conquering Bear that they be given up. The chief in vain protested that it was all a mistake and offered to make reparation. It would seem that either the officer was under the influence of liquor, or else had a mind to bully the Indians, for he would accept neither explanation nor payment, but demanded point-blank that the young men who had killed the cow be delivered up to summary punishment. The old chief refused to be intimidated and was shot dead on the spot. Not one soldier ever reached the gate of Fort Laramie! Here Red Cloud led the young Ogallala, and so intense was the feeling that they even killed the half-breed interpreter.
Curiously enough, there was no attempt at retaliation on the part of the army, and no serious break until 1860, when the Sioux were involved in troubles with the Cheyennes and Arapahoe. In 1862, a grave outbreak was precipitated by the eastern Sioux in Minnesota under Little Crow, in which the western bands took no part. Yet this event ushered in a new period for their race. The surveyors of the Union Pacific were laying out the proposed road through the heart of the southern buffalo country, the rendezvous of Ogallala, Brule, Arapahoe, Comanche, and Pawnee, who followed the buffalo as a means of livelihood. To be sure, most of these tribes were at war with one another, yet during the summer months they met often to proclaim a truce and hold joint councils and festivities, which were now largely turned into discussions of the common enemy. It became evident, however, that some of the smaller and weaker tribes were inclined to welcome the new order of things, recognizing that it was the policy of the government to put an end to tribal warfare.
Red Cloud's position was uncompromisingly against submission. He made some noted speeches in this line, one of which was repeated to me by an old man who had heard and remembered it with the remarkable verbal memory of an Indian.
"Friends," said Red Cloud, "it has been our misfortune to welcome the white man. We have been deceived. He brought with him some shining things that pleased our eyes; he brought weapons more effective than our own: above all, he brought the spirit water that makes one forget for a time old age, weakness, and sorrow. But I wish to say to you that if you would possess these things for yourselves, you must begin anew and put away the wisdom of your fathers. You must lay up food, and forget the hungry. When your house is built, your storeroom filled, then look around for a neighbor whom you can take at a disadvantage and seize all that he has! Give away only what you do not want; or rather, do not part with any of your possessions unless in exchange for another's.
"My countrymen, shall the glittering trinkets of this rich man, his deceitful drink that overcomes the mind, shall these things tempt us to give up our homes, our hunting grounds, and the honorable teaching of our old men? Shall we permit ourselves to be driven to and fro—to be herded like the cattle of the white man?"
His next speech that has been remembered was made in 1866, just before the attack on Fort Phil Kearny. The tension of feeling against the invaders had now reached its height. There was no dissenting voice in the council upon the Powder River when it was decided to oppose to the uttermost the evident purpose of the government. Red Cloud was not altogether ignorant of the numerical strength and the resourcefulness of the white man, but he was determined to face any odds rather than submit.
"Hear ye, Dakotas!" he exclaimed. "When the Great Father at Washington sent us his chief soldier to ask for a path through our hunting grounds, a way for his iron road to the mountains and the western sea, we were told that they wished merely to pass through our country, not to tarry among us, but to seek for gold in the far west. Our old chiefs thought to show their friendship and good will, when they allowed this dangerous snake in our midst. They promised to protect the wayfarers.
"Yet before the ashes of the council fire are cold, the Great Father is building his forts among us. You have heard the sound of the white soldier's ax upon the Little Piney. His presence here is an insult and a threat. It is an insult to the spirits of our ancestors. Are we then to give up their sacred graves to be plowed for corn? Dakotas, I am for war!"
In less than a week after this speech, the Sioux advanced upon Fort Phil Kearny, the new sentinel that had just taken her place upon the farthest frontier, guarding the Oregon Trail. Every detail of the attack had been planned with care, though not without heated discussion, and nearly every well-known Sioux chief had agreed in striking the blow. The brilliant young war leader, Crazy Horse, was appointed to lead the charge. His lieutenants were Sword, Hump, and Dull Knife, with Little Chief of the Cheyennes, while the older men acted as councilors. Their success was instantaneous. In less than half an hour, they had cut down nearly a hundred men under Captain Fetterman, whom they drew out of the fort by a ruse and then annihilated.
Instead of sending troops to punish, the government sent a commission to treat with the Sioux. The result was the famous treaty of 1868, which Red Cloud was the last to sign, having refused to do so until all of the forts within their territory should be vacated. All of his demands were acceded to, the new road abandoned, the garrisons withdrawn, and in the new treaty it was distinctly stated that the Black Hills and the Big Horn were Indian country, set apart for their perpetual occupancy, and that no white man should enter that region without the consent of the Sioux.
Scarcely was this treaty signed, however, when gold was discovered in the Black Hills, and the popular cry was: "Remove the Indians!" This was easier said than done. That very territory had just been solemnly guaranteed to them forever: yet how stem the irresistible rush for gold? The government, at first, entered some small protest, just enough to "save its face" as the saying is; but there was no serious attempt to prevent the wholesale violation of the treaty. It was this state of affairs that led to the last great speech made by Red Cloud, at a gathering upon the Little Rosebud River. It is brief, and touches upon the hopelessness of their future as a race. He seems at about this time to have reached the conclusion that resistance could not last much longer; in fact, the greater part of the Sioux nation was already under government control.
"We are told," said he, "that Spotted Tail has consented to be the Beggars' Chief. Those Indians who go over to the white man can be nothing but beggars, for he respects only riches, and how can an Indian be a rich man? He cannot without ceasing to be an Indian. As for me, I have listened patiently to the promises of the Great Father, but his memory is short. I am now done with him. This is all I have to say."
The wilder bands separated soon after this council, to follow the drift of the buffalo, some in the vicinity of the Black Hills and others in the Big Horn region. Small war parties came down from time to time upon stray travelers, who received no mercy at their hands, or made dashes upon neighboring forts. Red Cloud claimed the right to guard and hold by force, if need be, all this territory which had been conceded to his people by the treaty of 1868. The land became a very nest of outlawry. Aside from organized parties of prospectors, there were bands of white horse thieves and desperadoes who took advantage of the situation to plunder immigrants and Indians alike.
An attempt was made by means of military camps to establish control and force all the Indians upon reservations, and another commission was sent to negotiate their removal to Indian Territory, but met with an absolute refusal. After much guerrilla warfare, an important military campaign against the Sioux was set on foot in 1876, ending in Custer's signal defeat upon the Little Big Horn.
In this notable battle, Red Cloud did not participate in person, nor in the earlier one with Crook upon the Little Rosebud, but he had a son in both fights. He was now a councilor rather than a warrior, but his young men were constantly in the field, while Spotted Tail had definitely surrendered and was in close touch with representatives of the government.
But the inevitable end was near. One morning in the fall of 1876 Red Cloud was surrounded by United States troops under the command of Colonel McKenzie, who disarmed his people and brought them into Fort Robinson, Nebraska. Thence they were removed to the Pine Ridge agency, where he lived for more than thirty years as a "reservation Indian." In order to humiliate him further, government authorities proclaimed the more tractable Spotted Tail head chief of the Sioux. Of course, Red Cloud's own people never recognized any other chief.
In 1880 he appealed to Professor Marsh, of Yale, head of a scientific expedition to the Bad Lands, charging certain frauds at the agency and apparently proving his case; at any rate the matter was considered worthy of official investigation. In 1890-1891, during the "Ghost Dance craze" and the difficulties that followed, he was suspected of collusion with the hostiles, but he did not join them openly, and nothing could be proved against him. He was already an old man and became almost entirely blind before his death in 1909 in his ninetieth year.
His private life was exemplary. He was faithful to one wife all his days and was a devoted father to his children. He was ambitious for his only son, known as Jack Red Cloud, and much desired him to be a great warrior. He started him on the warpath at the age of fifteen, not then realizing that the days of Indian warfare were well-nigh at an end.
Among latter-day chiefs, Red Cloud was notable as a quiet man, simple and direct in speech, courageous in action, an ardent lover of his country, and possessed in a marked degree of the manly qualities characteristic of the American Indian in his best days.
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Anyway, I just sent pitches to four outlets (Guardian, Metro, Digital Spy and Pink News) about an article I want to write spotlighting fans' personal reasons for campaigning to save Our Flag Means Death, so now we just wait prettily to see if I hear back from any of them.
#the likelihood is that i will be ghosted by all of them#thus is the life of a writer pitching articles#but that's also why we run our own websites#truly an unkillable failsafe to have#ofmd#our flag means death#save ofmd#renew ofmd#renew as a crew#adopt our crew#be a lighthouse
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🚧 this is not finished and there will be adjustments! 🚧 please do not reblog this post! 🚧
Hi, I'm Red. Welcome to my writing blog. I use he/him, they/them, ne/nem, and fuck/fucker pronouns, and this is a sideblog. I follow and interact from @bitegore. I'm bi, trans, aro, polyam and above all Queer.
I write primarily Transformers fanfiction and, rarely, original fiction as well. I like dragons and I like robots, and I will put one or the other (or sometimes both!) into everything I do. I consider myself to be a horror writer, and I typically try to lean in toward whatever shitty implications I can come up with rather than lean out.
I have a particular love of in-universe documents and pastiche of things like current event news articles and sociological papers. I also love gore, death, horrific power dynamics, and bad sex that hurts everyone involved. I love when characters do bad things to one another and I want them to be awful.
I fully intend for everyone reading my stories to get some sort of rubberneck-style voyeuristic fascination out of everything I write. My smut is bad and I hope it makes you want to peel your skin off. My humor is pitch black and I will rhyme lying with dying and try to make you laugh about it. I do my best never to shy away from the edge and I want you to stare down at the pitch-black hole I've dropped my characters into and acknowledge the abject depths of their suffering and then be forced to admit that actually that's kind of funny anyway.
But i promise i'm chill as, like, a person and I want to give you the tools to read or not read that at your leisure and all that.
Current Ongoing Wips:
Transmissions from Cybertron - a letter-based epistolary fic about a transformer who goes on a weird mission and gets his brain fried super duper hard by it. Currently in its last few stages, I think, I just have to get it DONE.
Fortress Maximus v. Big Sword Studios - a pastiche of the ongoing "censorship is good/censorship is bad" debate from the beginning of modern media's existence set on Cybertron and in regards to deliberately provocative politically-charged pornography about (in-universe) war crimes. About half done. I have to kick it into high gear and I don't feeeeelllll like it i want to write stupid shenanigans instead.
Dedication - my take on the Tarn and Pharma Have A Child thing, wherein everything is bad, Pharma is currently dead, and the kid has never had a single positive adult in his life thus far. and also hasn't got a name yet. i just need to finish what i have written so i can get to what i want to write. this one also only needs a couple more chapters and then it should be done. Also Transformers fanfiction.
"You really wanna know where I'm from?" - my beloved transformers oc Bait lies about her background to a bunch of people for fun and profit. A personal project and on the back burner.
some speedy pilot sharpshooter, or something - same beloved transformers oc takes a hit out on one of my friend's favorites and gives him a complex via torture, but I lost the other guy's voice and so I haven't gotten back to it yet.
laser core - Vortex (a transformer) wants to kill someone by fucking their battery until they die so bad he blows his dick up like fifteen times. Stuck in progress because I don;'t know enough engineering to make it work.
Crystal Clear - A Star Wars/Transformers crossover where Megatron and Optimus Prime are ancient jedi and Sith dug up out of the ground. I have no idea wher I was going with this but I want to get back to it someday.
Closerverse Main Story - Original fiction; a two part story that starts with a fucked up child soldier/member of a military cult discovering that non-human people (this is one of those high fantasy worlds with like shapeshifters and shit who are very much people) are still people and killing them is bad. and then falling in love, or at least good friends, with a dragon shapeshifter who also rather likes her. and THEN we take a hard swerve into grimdark territory and do bad things to our beloved dragon shapeshifter and hit him with a curse and do bad things to our ex-child soldier and THEN they go ahead and burn down the old world order and build a kinder one in its ashes. This one needs a prety comprehensive re-plotting but the bones are good; but also there's some awkward eeehhhh shit about what is essentially me processing my hashtag jewish-in-2022 feelings through making shapeshifting lizards be an oppressed culture and people that I don't want to take out because I want to be a shapeshifting lizard so bad i could cry but also the antisemites. they do that too. im not with them
no other serious origfic stories at this time smh
Housekeeping:
Tags in Use:
#tag game - tag games (where I'm tagged/pinged by username)
#ask game - ask games (asks sent in that I respond to)
#wip thread - a long "thead" where i post snippets from one particular wip, usually short fanfics I intend to wrap and post within that week
#tf writing - tag to specify Transformers writing
#cls writing - tag to specify Closerverse-universe writing (changed 3/25/22)
#ff writing - tag to specify other (non-Transformers) fanfiction
#origfic writing - tag to specify other (non-Closerverse) original writing
#others' writing - tag to specify that someone else wrote this and i just think it's cool
#advice - advice
#aesthetic - pretty pictures, usually just to fill up space
#cn: sexual violence - "content note: sexual violence" - umbrella category for rape, noncon and dubcon
#cn: gore - "content note: gore" - for body horror and "extreme" violence
#cn: self-harm - "content note: self-harm" - for written descriptions of self-harm, including slightly less traditional ones like starving oneself
#cn: death - "content note: death" - for stories dealing in large part with death. Note: not ones where it's incidental or background- stories where major charcters die or deal with grief.
I don't have a taglist for any wips because I have very few serious ongoing projects. If you'd like to be tagged for discussion and workshopping of Transformers fics, or for original works, please let me know which.
Transformers taglist:
- General TF taglist: -
- Transmissions from Cybertron: -
- Dedication: -
- Crystal Clear: -
- General Bait (OC) fic: -
Origfic taglist:
- General Closerverse Origfic: -
- Closerverse Main Story: -
- General Non-CV Origfic: -
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Matter in 토큰바카라 sports betting
When people ask me, “Where the 토큰바카라 추천 Heck in God’s name (no disrespect intended) do Intelligent Guys and sharp players get a great deal of information?” it’s one of the most common queries I get. In the same way that “practice, practice, practice” is the only way to become a concert pianist at Carnegie Hall, “information, knowledge, information” is the only way to become a successful sports bettor.
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Is it true that high-stakes gamblers and expert handicappers have access to “inside information”? What 토큰바카라분석 constitutes “inside information” depends on your criteria for what constitutes “inside knowledge.” Didn’t Bill Clinton essentially say the same thing?
In any case, the few honest handicappers and the Wise Guys have the time, money, and expertise to sift through mountains of data and information to determine the outcome of a game with 99 percent accuracy.
The sequence of college results sent by Sport betting is archived, thus it is possible to gain a solid image of tragic ends, especially when compared with game reports.
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When I learn that a few NBA players think their next opponent blew up the score or was embarrassed by a spectacular windmill slam dunk or something like that, I get pumped up about the game. It matters even more if the team feeling deceived was the visiting team in the game before and will be the home team in the game after.
Other beat reporters excel in providing precise unit vs unit breakdowns, especially in the National Football League and college football. Conversely, wise men know how to identify genuine talkers from those simply spouting smoke.
Sports betting, which for many years provided comprehensive coverage of every Division I football game, is the reason I dislike college football. However, they have reduced the emphasis on that function. I think the budget only allowed for the biggest titles, and the quality deteriorated as a result.
They also ranked well as a resource for learning more about the NCAA Basketball Championship. ESPN 토큰바카라패턴 Insider stepped up to the plate and covered the bowl games in 2003–2004. The gambler can only hope that the Big Dance matchups have been covered in up-to-date articles on Sports betting.
Recognizing false final scores in handicapping, or understanding why and how teams lost, is crucial, as was discussed in preceding articles. That’s why every serious gambler needs to 오래된 토큰바카라 have access to a satellite dish. Not gonna get out of here without it. Probably because of this, I rarely venture outside. It’s also helpful for scouting potential personnel mismatches.
Gamblers may learn a lot from one another on discussion boards dedicated to sports betting.
The best online communities wouldn’t need moderators in a perfect world, but in areas like the sports betting newsgroup and others, flaming is given more weight than substance, driving valuable participants to the refereed sites.
There needs to be a way to tell the difference between posting board members who can offer excellent and reliable information and those who cannot, much like there is a need to tell the difference between professional beat writers and untrained scribes.
The key to accurate forecasting is using the right data sets. There are a variety of paid and free options to choose from.
Computer Sports World is the best baseball site, whereas Covers excels at NBA and NCAA basketball. Since college and NFL football seasons can last anywhere from 10 to 16 games, it’s important to be able to look past the surface. It’s not fair to completely discount raw football data just because of one unusual game.
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Since the advent of money as a unit of exchange, millions of individuals have been driven to the brink of ruin by their insatiable appetite for danger and the rush it brings. For millions of people all around the world, gambling has become an everyday activity. The advent of the dynamic Internet has been a major factor in the current gaming boom sports bogi.
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It’s a straightforward kind of advertising that facilitates the flow of money from large sports betting firms to regular Internet users. It’s also an industry that encourages healthy 라이브 토큰바카라 competition among businesses and helps smaller ones expand into more substantial ones. It’s an incentive scheme for sites that host ads for gambling services, in this case, sports betting.
Affiliates that bring in new customers are rewarded handsomely for their efforts, so it is in their best interest to keep doing so. Online sports betting is just one industry that has benefited from the widespread adoption of the affiliate program and its associated compensation structure.
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Reviewing the latest work of Denny Ja 32: with love, I have to fight you
In this increasingly advanced digital era, art and culture remain an important part of people’s lives. One of the famous artists in Indonesia is Denny JA, a writer and director who has produced many stunning works. This time, Denny JA released his latest work entitled with love, I had to fight you. This article will review in depth about Denny JA’s latest work which is highly awaited by arts and culture fans.
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Check more: Review the latest work of Denny JA 32: With love, I have to fight for you
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Top Guidelines Of 8 Powerful Reasons You Need to Use Video Marketing
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With some program and a sprinkle of creative thinking, you can easily produce marketing videos that astonish your target market. Right here are some examples: It's a game-industry event! You get all this activity and pleasure coming from these video-shooting sessions, and in my situation, I'm at an celebration that I think anyone may participate in. It could have been a neighborhood activity, it could possibly have simply occurred someplace else; that situation is totally feasible.
If you are still hesitating concerning the worth of video for your service, particularly if you're a small one, listed here are some simple facts that might convince you. 1. Video is for organization. That implies you can participate in all kinds of series and motion pictures at once. You may likewise have high-quality, high-quality video on your computer system or even discuss it on social networks like Snapchat.
It's been said that an image is worth a thousand words. It's like painting a image of a person and then incorporating in their full range of feelings. It's therefore significant. And it's thus important for everyone in the viewers to comprehend the job being pointed in actual lifestyle. And as you add additional and additional people right into [the screen] it becomes simpler in the lengthy run, it ends up being less complicated.
For a video, multiply that through one more thousand. Right now increase that once again. Once you observe how much it takes to get a piece of steel to relocate, break down that through one more thousand. In a particular kind of feeling, that's a huge number (the number of extra pounds your physical body acquires) and then you may grow that by a thousand. If you prefer to mention 10 extra pounds every straight in but you desire to show three persons moving at the same opportunity, multiply it by a third.
youtube
That is the manner of video marketing, a strong type of marketing that properly interacts your target market as a part of your marketing projects. גלה עוד כאן is how an advertiser links folks through social network channels and systems of consumers and is a means for your provider to get to new participants of your reader. It enables your provider to establish brand new innovations and brand-new businesses that your customers actually profit from.". Submitted in. Read through more about Google's attempts to become an successful social media platform.
Video marketing means using videos for promoting and saying to individuals regarding your product or company. Video marketing is commonly not performed by writing information. Rather, you utilize video marketing videos to promote or present folks how cool your item or solution is. When you ensure or present a YouTube channel concerning your product or company, your YouTube network usually features some videos along with that kind of content. You ought to not utilize any sort of YouTube channels in front of or around videos.
It helps increase involvement on your digital and social networks, informs your audience, and permits you to get to them with a brand-new medium. In order to take full advantage of your exposure, we encourage that you authorize up for our e-newsletter, authorize up for our internet community, and enroll through Twitter or Facebook (either of which are your options). It additionally assists you keep your profile up to date on brand new products, and will additionally provide you along with added relevant information concerning our upcoming activities.
#סרט תדמית שיווקנט הפקת סרטון תדמית לחץ כאן#סרט תדמית שיווקנט הפקת סרטון תדמית לעסק לחץ כאן#https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjpajr_Sg5_rB1Ta7V1G2qw#סרט תדמית שיווקנט סרטון תדמית לעסק לחץ כאן
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The smart Trick of 7 Steps to a Successful Social Media Video Marketing Strategy That Nobody is Discussing
Updated: Sep 17 Summary Summary Video marketing for small companies is not as complicated or expensive as you may believe. In this message we will find out how to find the absolute best marketing pitches coming from business in the sector, coming from start-ups to marketing professionals. By Tim Wigler, Staff Writer This blog post is written for a group of entrepreneurs, startups and marketing experts. If an entrepreneur may locate a great marketing blog to went through, they will likely ended up being a much better marketing influencer.
If you are reading this article along with a smartphone, you currently have a video recorder in your palm. The following action is to clear away the recorder. If you were performing your work today, you might not require to hold it tightly any longer. Take a deep breathing and inhale out the electrical power, then transform your phone OFF. Once you have the video camera audio, simply clear away it and put the unit back on stand by. I use the electric battery lifestyle estimate on the back of my mobile.
If you are reading this article along with a smartphone, you already have a video recorder in your hand. The upcoming action is to remove the recorder. If you were performing your job today, you may not require to store it firmly any longer. Take a deep-seated breath and inhale out the electrical power, then transform your phone OFF. Once you possess the electronic camera recording, merely get rid of it and placed the unit back on stand by. I utilize the battery life estimate on the back of my mobile.
With some program and a sprinkle of imagination, you may develop marketing videos that impress your target market. Get more info are some instances: It's a game-industry celebration! You receive all this action and enjoyment coming from these video-shooting treatments, and in my instance, I'm at an activity that I think anyone may join. It could have been a local celebration, it could have only took place someplace else; that scenario is completely possible.
If you are still being reluctant concerning the value of video for your business, especially if you're a tiny one, listed here are some realities that might persuade you. Video plays an important job in how videos are featured, participated in, and participated in, so whether it's a terrific encounter for you is of utmost value. If you desire to provide your service (or any sort of various other non-professional) the most effectively possible take in on your personal opportunity, you need to begin your video game along with a handful of choices.
It's been mentioned that an photo is worth a thousand words. It's like painting a image of a person and after that incorporating in their complete array of emotions. It's thus essential. And it's therefore essential for everyone in the audience to comprehend the work being routed in true life. And as you include more and even more folks into [the screen] it ends up being much easier in the lengthy run, it comes to be much easier.
For a video, grow that by another thousand. Currently increase that once again. Once you view how much it takes to get a item of metallic to move, separate that by an additional thousand. In a certain kind of feeling, that's a huge variety (the variety of extra pounds your body gets) and after that you may multiply that by a thousand. If you really want to mention 10 extra pounds every straight inch but you prefer to reveal three individuals relocating at the exact same time, increase it through a third.
That is the basis of video marketing, a highly effective kind of marketing that properly interacts your viewers as a part of your marketing projects. Video marketing is how an marketer links folks via social network stations and networks of consumers and is a means for your company to arrive at brand new members of your reader. It allows your firm to build brand-new technologies and brand-new businesses that your customers actually benefit from.". Filed in. Went through more regarding Google's efforts to come to be an efficient social media platform.
Video marketing means using videos for marketing and telling folks concerning your product or service. Video marketing is normally not carried out by writing information. Instead, you utilize video marketing videos to market or show folks how cool down your product or service is. When you promote or present a YouTube network regarding your product or solution, your YouTube stations typically features some videos along with that kind of web content. You would have to be incredibly particular regarding what videos you yearned for to advertise or show on your channel.
youtube
It assists increase engagement on your digital and social networks, informs your viewers, and enables you to reach them with a new tool. We've put a lot of attempt in to it, and we presume you'll understand the benefits of this company," points out Lorne Dorn. Lorne: The distinction between a great deal of your private updates stories and digital is that you are sending your record to your buddies.
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dolce (sweetly, softly, gently)
* pairing: accompanist/violinist!katsuki bakugou x violinist!reader (gender neutral!) ft kamijirou
* genre: fluff, kinda angst, enemies to lovers, classical musician au hehe
* words: 9.5k (holy crap, this was a rollercoaster to write)
* warnings: swearing bc not only does bakugou exist, he is a prominent character, brief viola/second violinist jokes (reader’s words not mine), poor rosins being dropped :(
* a/n: SO this is very late for @prettysetterbaby‘s v-day collab!! pls check out all the other talented writers involved >< jj is an ANGEL for putting up with me being late T_T there’s some violin terminology in here but it’s fine if you don’t understand it! more notes at the end aha
* playlist (spotify in source link): violin sonata no.9, op.47 in a major “kreutzer” (beethoven) ; liebesfreud (kriesler) ; violin partita no.3 in e major (bach) ; duo concertante for 2 violins no.3 in d-sharp major, op.57 (beriot) ; clair de lune (debussy) ; duo for 2 violins in d-major, op.67, no.2 (spohr) ; 24 caprices op.1, no.24 in a minor (paganini)
* synopsis: being a soloist is not made easy by your new accompanist, bakugou. you step on each other’s toes when playing - but that’s alright, he’s just a pianist. you’re separated in your two worlds of musical instruments, until one day, you’re not. bakugou traverses over realms like a simple string crossing, and there’s a lot more he’s brought with him.
a double stop in violin is a technique in which two notes are played simultaneously. played correctly, one violin playing two notes should sound like two violins playing separate notes. if your life was a violin, you only needed double stops to play it. you'd perfected the art of being alone, playing the parts of two in your sad solo sonata. you were so, so sure you could compose and play for the whole orchestra - a symphony that would surely please the audience.
you were wrong. after all, a double stop has its limits as well, impossible to play with an interval of larger than a tenth. you were content with your double stops and playing by yourself. this was how you won countless competitions - what good would changing anything be?
you were born a soloist, or that's what your parents would say. you never followed the crowd, sticking to your own mind and doing what was true to you. you never worked well in an orchestra setting (and who knew what would become of you if you ever landed in second violin!). thus, you became a soloist, determined to keep the spotlight on you. it was you and your perfection that kept the eyes of the audience transfixed; you were desperate to keep their focus enraptured by every slight movement of your bow, every shift in finger position on the fingerboard. you wanted them to follow every dynamic and tempo change like their life depended on it, feel their emotion spark the moment your bow pressed a string. you were the only one on stage, an entertainer and an artist to the audience. you brought joy and sorrow through key changes and wonder through glissandos and held suspense with every tremolo. the audience was yours for an entire piece, for a story, for a lifetime.
oh, and there was the accompanist. what was his name again? batsugou? bakugou. the last part was a joke, of course. you'd never forget the man who ruined your first recital overseas.
katsuki bakugou was quickly made your accompanist after the previous one quit last minute and schedule clashes between any other potential candidates rendered them unable to travel with you. no one in their right mind would've come along on a plane to play a piano accompaniment for you. indeed, bakugou was not in his right mind. his name was prominent locally, an orchestral prodigy with the gift of perfect pitch since the tender age of thirteen. he never ventured internationally, though given the chance multiple times to do so. you could never understand why he never took any of the opportunities. you'd jump at any chance of expanding your musical horizons and performing for a larger audience, so it frustrated you to see someone with such potential to throw away possibly beneficial opportunities. not that you really paid much attention to him, anyway. bakugou was a pianist, and you were a violinist. you only cared about competition, not those with blessings you could only dream of achieving.
the months leading to your recital, bakugou had gone quiet. well, you didn't know him personally, so it was news of him that had gone practically radio silent. he was no longer featured in news articles or even pinned on bulletin boards for upcoming recitals. there were no updates from him on social media, too. not that you really paid attention, anyway. he was a prodigy, gifted naturally with talent, and you were a violinist.
an ambitious violinist, at that. you had dreams to perform anywhere out of the stifling air of japan. even to fly a short distance to south korea would be amazing, because it meant you'd be outside of japan. you worked towards this goal tirelessly. you dreamed of stepping on a plane, violin case in your right hand and your dreams in another, to fly to another country and perform. you wished to see the talent beyond your own bubble and feel the music resonate in an auditorium in a different way than it did in japan.
one day, that dream was realized. your violin case in one hand and dreams in another, you boarded the plane flying out of japan full of hope and the faith that good days were coming. while yes, you didn't expect to step out of that plane with anyone but your old accompanist, momo, bakugou's presence comforted you in the foreign atmosphere. for the first ten minutes, he said not a word to you but made it a point to speak to everyone else he could in what seemed like very convincingly fluent english.
to which you finally mustered up the courage to say, in japanese, "i thought you didn't travel internationally."
his japanese voice was a comforting sound. "i don't. this is my first time out of japan."
you stared at him like he just said he ate babies for breakfast (which seemed just as astronomically insane as him never stepping foot out of japan).
"but-" you stuttered. "your english is so good?"
"only because you can't understand it."
to be fair, he had a point. you could only say the basics, like, "hi," "how are you?", "i'm fine, and you?," and the ever-so useful, "do you speak japanese? my english is not good." he appeared to never use any of these phrases, so he was a god in english compared to you.
it was a miracle you navigated out of the airport with your luggage in hand and a general idea of how to get to the hotel you'd booked. you're not going to talk about the events in the hotel, though. sharing a bed with bakugou was a whole different story that consisted of him complaining about your phone usage at eleven pm and you complaining about his lack of sufficient english skills to be able to get the right hotel room (which he'd retort by saying "at least i speak english!").
the path to your first international competition was rocky, so understandably by the day of the performance, your metaphorical feet were sore and you only had water on your metaphorical mind. that is to say, you hadn't practiced with bakugou once until the day before the performance. said rehearsal was cut short due to misunderstandings as a result of bakugou's apparent not-so-fluency in english. you felt bad for him at this point.
and then you were up on stage, violin in one hand, bow in the other, and arms full of your childhood aspirations. also, definitely not prepared enough. you glanced once at bakugou before beginning and he looked confident enough. the lesson you learned that day was that looks can be deceiving.
something you could remember quite clearly was the way the spotlight shined on the varnish of your instrument as you held it, propped between your chin and shoulder. you focused on this shine before taking a deep breath, closing your eyes, and praying muscle memory would take over and you'd play the piece faithfully to the score.
you liked to think your playing was accurate. you, the soloist, were the main focus of the piece. the accompaniment made the piece richer and fuller, complementing the violin beautifully while keeping attention on said violin. the thing was, bakugou, like you, played like a soloist.
the performance was like a fight, and sadly not the graceful kind you'd see in a ballet. it was gory and a nuance to the ears, melodic tinkling of the piano becoming tears of a soldier dying in combat. at parts, you clashed by overshadowing the other by playing too loudly. sometimes it was you, and sometimes it was bakugou. it was a merciless game of tag; bakugou would be running to keep up with your playing; once achieving so, you were forced to start chasing after him. you can't exactly remember if he played well, though. for certain, he was not in sync with you, but you were mainly too preoccupied with your own playing to pay attention to his. listening to the recording of the performance, you were unable to evaluate his quality of playing properly, and thus, he remained your accompanist even when you returned to japan.
(actually, the biggest reason he stayed your accompanist was because of your classical musician friends' nagging. they were all in complete awe that the famous soloist, katsuki bakugou, had offered to be your accompanist, and begged for an autograph. of course, you declined.)
you figured that like you, bakugou was a soloist. he wasn't fit to assist your playing, far more suited to his own solos to entrance the audience with only his playing. being a soloist, he played like one too - that's simply how things worked. this understanding of him, though, still couldn't stop you from harbouring a small grudge against him for ruining your international debut.
and then there was the man himself, all standoffish and rough in words and persona. obscenities had no hesitation coming (thrust!) from his mouth. he yelled brashly and frequently and it astonished you that he was a classical musician, as most of your friends of the classical music profession were typically on the quiet, softer spoken side. those that were extroverts were optimistically so, in far contrast to bakugou, who you'd expect from looks alone to be playing in some heavy metal band. it was scary to hear his renditions of debussy's dreamy, serendipitous pieces when over your earbuds, he was yelling at some guy named "shitty hair" on his phone. you were curious how he looked recording the piece.
you didn't typically communicate, though. conversation, which only ever existed during rehearsal, was a question from you and a clipped grunt in response. there was nothing else to your relation; he played his part, and you played yours. sometimes you did this simultaneously, but it was as if you were playing two completely different things. performance, according to your friends, was now stilted. this was partially the reason you stopped listening to recorded performances. it wasn’t even like you’d ever derived pleasure from listening to them - you only nitpicked your mistakes.
your old accompanist, momo, on the other hand, was an absolute angel. she was kind, polite, and skilled on the piano, fingers dancing over the keys like a graceful ballet. you fit well with her; each performance was like a delightful conversation between friends, pleasant on the ears and twinkling with joy and laughter. with her, every performance felt like something resembling victory, even if it wasn’t a competition. to you, winning the audience’s gaze was enough.
then again, you didn't feel that you could judge quite yet. momo was your accompanist for years, and you could barely remember how the two of you sounded when you first started out. bakugou had been your accompanist for mere months (though it did feel much, much longer considering how frustrating he could be). you couldn't understand why he became your accompanist at all.
opposites. it was an accurate representation of your relationship with bakugou. he was a pianist, you weren't. he was a prodigy, you weren't. he was blessed with talent, you weren't. there was nothing to talk to him about, obviously, because of these dividing factors.
the longer you knew him, the more your disdain for the man grew. at rehearsals, it always felt like your performances were about him, him, and him. he was the star piano player, of course. he hadn't volunteered to be your accompanist as a sense of "stepping down"; no, no, rather, he was flaunting his piano playing with a violin playing in the background. he played perfectly. for a soloist.
as time passed, these frustrations with him became more and more apparent. you became acutely aware of how his performance would outshine your own, and it sickened you. slowly, the quality of your own performances took a nosedive. if the piece was originally pianissimo, you'd take it up to piano (then, if bakugou increased his volume, forte). if the tempo was andante and he was playing moderato, you'd play allegro. it was a competition at this point - instigated by him, of course. you were just upping the ante, even if it meant sacrificing your own artistry.
a lot of people warned you of what would happen, but you ignored them. the fierce competition you felt between you and bakugou caused your own downfall as a musician. slowly, gigs stopped trickling in, like a faucet being shut off. you blamed this on bakugou. ("i was international before him. now, i can barely get a gig in musutafu! why does everyone think he's so great?" you had fumed over the phone to jirou, your old roommate from university. she asked you if you had even listened to him play.)
you were scrambling for places to perform at this point. (“fire him,” the very unhelpful hagakure told you. you didn’t know what you were thinking when you asked her, a violist in a local orchestra. it wasn’t like she ever got a solo.) you’d seriously considered doing so, but came up empty when looking for another accompanist. online forums and friends’ connections could only do so much. they were all either unavailable during rehearsal schedules or inadequate in terms of adapting to the music given.
“you need to try working together with him,” jirou advised you one day over the phone.
“yeah, say that to yourself and kaminari,” you muttered bitterly under your breath. kaminari was a guitarist in jirou’s band who hadn’t quite gotten along with jirou well. jirou made fun of the lightning bolt streak in his hair. when you first met them, all they did was bicker day and night; now, according to the other guitarist, tokoyami, they still did this, though on a smaller scale.
she heard you. “well,” jirou said, slightly ticked off, “we get along better now. because of communication. look- i’m not saying you need to be best friends with bakugou or anything, but you need to talk to him about what’s working and what’s not. respect him as another musician, y’know?”
“i’ll… try,” you said begrudgingly.
you heard a muffled yell from the other side of the call. “kaminari, you idiot!” jirou called, voice a bit far. “what did i tell you about plugging in the amp? i said not to-” she cut herself off. “sorry, y/n, i need to go now. kaminari’s back to his normal antics.” she sighed, but it sounded more endeared than irritated. the call ended.
respect bakugou as another musician. you could do that. bakugou was only a pianist. you were a violinist. he was your accompanist. he was to support your playing. you’d forever be separated from him, doing your own thing. he, certainly, couldn’t understand the woes of being a violinist. not the intonation nor the techniques; you were sure that if you handed him a violin on the spot, he wouldn’t be able to even hold the bow properly. the notion of bakugou, piano prodigy, struggling to make a decent sound on the violin with a bow clenched in an ungainly grip deeply amused you.
these thoughts kept your relationship with bakugou afloat and restrained you from strangling him every time he stepped a toe out of line during rehearsals. ploddingly, with as minimal communication as you could manage, you tried to play with bakugou together, as a duet rather than as two soloists playing simultaneously. you swallowed your pride to play accurately to the music, patiently explaining any qualms you had with bakugou’s playing.
eventually, you found yourself building up your performances to the quality they had once been with momo. it was still far from the pristine playing that led you to an international invite - but it was an improvement, and that was all that mattered to you. innately, you were slightly ashamed of the thoughts that allowed you to keep working with bakugou. they were thoughts that told of your superiority to him, because he was playing piano for you. that’s all he was; an accompaniment to you. you told yourself that having these thoughts on the inside was better than fighting with bakugou.
somehow, along the strings of notes slurred together and shifts of fingers from one spot on a string to the next, you found yourself experiencing a strange joy gliding your bow against the strings of your violin. the rich sound of your instrument, withering and blooming with every stroke of vibrato you performed, fulfilled you unlike how it ever had before. up until now, you’d been playing for the audience, rather than yourself. the melody reverberating in the hollow body of your violin was never for your own ears to enjoy, it was for the audience’s satisfaction and listening pleasure. for it was their own enjoyment that won you competition after competition, playing with a blank face. on some occasions, you’d open your eyes during the applause to see some audience members crying, which ultimately confused you. how you were able to draw emotions from them with your playing when the music was unable to render you anything but indifferent?
you knew it in yourself, though, that the happiness you felt was hollow. delightful notes supposed to boast joy and love echoed in the rehearsal room, falling flat on your ears.
you were a soloist, though. you couldn’t let thoughts like these get to you. you could only play, for both your pride and your audience. these woes were for you to shoulder, on top of the violin you held between your chin and collarbone.
“you’re here early,” bakugou commented one day, opening the door to your shared rehearsal room. tucked under one arm was his folder of sheet music. he caught you in the middle of practicing one of the pieces for a gig - liebesfreud, by fritz kreisler.
it was true. the morning sun basked the window sill and laminate flooring, warming the particular spots it shone through. you’d arrived an hour or so early. pleased by the bright nature of the morning, you pulled up the blinds. typically, you ran late, arriving ten minutes after bakugou’s text of “you’re late again, idiot” with a coffee and a bagel in your hands. those mornings, you were really grateful for having a case with backpack straps. if you hadn’t the time to eat your bagel on the way to rehearsal, it was cold and hard by the time you had a lunch break.
thankfully, today was not one of those days. whether it was the sun or the title of the piece (“love’s joy,” how wonderful), you’d woken up and decided that today, you’d have a warm and soft bagel for breakfast. you had a coupon for a free coffee and surprisingly, the commute to rehearsals was more punctual than usual. thus, you arrived an hour early, a smile on your face as you opened the door. you opened your case with extra care and rosined your bow with extra zest, humming a tune you heard playing on the radio. bakugou would’ve had a heart attack had he saw you then.
you ignored his entrance, only peeping one eye open at the man and nodding your head toward the piano as you continued on with the piece. you allowed yourself to become immersed in the music, following the soft pace bakugou set in his playing. closing your eyes, you saw the audience before you and felt your fingers sliding and pressing the strings. time flew while playing the piece; you’d barely noticed that the piece was nearing its end, playing its familiar melody one last time before opening your eyes. a glance at the rosin dusted in between the bridge and fingerboard of your violin satisfied you, like salt on caramel. you surely played just as sweet, smooth and saccharine like the gooey texture of a caramel confection. you relished in the sunlight streaming through into the room, ignoring the shuffling of papers behind you (from bakugou, no doubt). that was how you should play.
“something’s off,” you blearily opened your eyes to the sound of bakugou’s gruff voice. he was frowning, eyebrows furrowed in a not atypical manner.
“what,” you said flatly. “it sounded fine to me. i didn’t mess up or anything.”
“no,” he replied, deep in thought, crimson eyes darkening a shade. “we don’t have proper… emotion in the music.”
“huh?” you felt a comical question mark rising out of your head. “i played it perfectly to score. it conveys the composer’s emotions to a t,” you said, getting annoyed with the pianist. your grip tightened on your violin’s neck.
“well- yeah,” he gritted his teeth. “but what about your emotions?”
“who cares about my emotions?” you said. “all that matters is that my playing is perfect. the audience feels the emotions, not me.” why else had you been plucked into violin lessons when you were five? surely not for your own enjoyment.
“idiot, that’s definitely not how it is.”
“it’s just violin playing!” you snapped. “it’s not complicated with- with emotions! it’s the same as anything else!”
“you’re wrong,” bakugou coldly answered.
“what would you understand?” you seethed. “you’re just a damn pianist. you follow my lead.”
he ignored your remarks. “why do you play a fucking instrument, then? why bother to enter competitions or recitals?”
“to win, like any other normal person!”
he let out a clipped, exasperated breath. “fuckin’ explains it, then.” he didn’t elaborate. dismissing the topic, he said, “whatever. play the piece from the top. actually try to look at me this time, so we can stay together. put more emphasis on the downbeat at the start.”
“it’s not like you even heard me play the beginning,” you retorted, but made sure to accent that note even more during the replay. pianists. they always were on their high horses.
something you looked forward to every year was the valentine’s recital. the organizers, an old couple, had known you since you were a child, and thus developed a soft spot for you. you were a shoo-in for the event, relied on to learn the music on a short deadline. last year, you played preludio, from bach’s partita for violin no. 3. this year, though, the catch was weird.
“the letter says it’s a violin duet?” you said to jirou while video calling her. “i don’t have a violinist on hand, just a pianist. it’s not like bakugou can suddenly master violin.”
jirou looked at you with a surprised expression. “you don’t know?”
you stared back at her. “know what?”
“he plays violin, too.”
“huh?” you must’ve misheard her.
she nodded. “he’s pretty good, too. have you not seen the videos?”
“videos?" your eyes widened as you soon realized the implications of bakugou harbouring an aptitude for violin. "i’ve… i’ve got to go.”
“he’s as good as you, y/n,” jirou said with a knowing smile. you were quick to press the hang up button.
five seconds into teenage bakugou’s rendition of one of paganini’s caprices, you exited youtube.
the next day, you kicked open the door to the practice room.
“you,” you pointed a finger at bakugou, who sat at the piano midway through a piece.
“what is it now, dumbass? you’re late again.”
“shut up,” you grumbled. “that’s beside the point. you- you play violin?!”
he shrugged, not avoiding your piercing gaze. “i’ve dabbled in it, yes.”
you shut the door behind you. “and why did you never tell me?!”
“tch. you never asked, did you?”
“you’re my accompanist, i should know these things!”
“you know i play piano, and that’s enough,” bakugou said stubbornly. “i only play piano with you.”
“not anymore.” setting your violin case down, you shuffled through the pocket that held your sheet music. flipping out a packet of sheet music, you thrust it in bakugou’s direction. “here.”
he grabbed the sheets from you, skimming the title. “duo for two violins in…. fuck,” he muttered. “why didn’t you just say no? who even is this from?”
“valentine’s recital. the pay’s good, bakugou, and we need it.”
“you need it,” he mumbled bitterly, holding the sheets out for you. “i don’t.”
“it’s not like i’m happy about it either. since when were you a violinist?”
“since when was it any of your damn business?”
"you're supposed to be my pianist! not anything else!"
you didn’t understand how he could be so musically inclined. you blinked, and your sight smeared, blurring the sight of your feet with the laminate flooring. this wasn't right, you thought as you felt a telltale heat creeping up you. why were you crying now?
if there was one thing you prided yourself on, it was your violin playing. it seemed to be the only thing you were good at as a child when academics and athletics failed you. sure, you hated it at first (as most children did when their parents forced them to do something), but as time went on, the applause of the audience and the title of "winner" rewarded you enough. you were no prodigy, so you worked endlessly every day to prove yourself worthy. you never understood how you'd worked so hard only to be in the shadows of others so naturally gifted who surely would never understand how much you practiced to become better.
when it came to bakugou, he was never supposed to be better. he was your pianist, talented in a completely different musical realm than your own, so he could never be superior to you - and now he wasn't. he never was. here you were for the past year or so, looking like a fool in bakugou's eyes. on the days you struggled so hard with fourth finger vibrato, he was probably laughing at your inadequacy at violin. as easily as he played the violin, katsuki bakugou played you like a fool.
everything collided when you stepped out of the room, leaving a particular golden haired boy alone to stare at the sheet music you tossed him. your head throbbed with the groggy sensation of almost-tears and anger coursed through your veins.
you couldn't back out of the recital now. you couldn't.
you couldn't stand to look back into the vermillion eyes of katsuki bakugou now. even more so now, you couldn't.
your solution?
"hey, what's up?" jirou's collected voice filled your ear, your phone pressed to it.
"hey, kyo, i… kind of did a bad thing," you said, feeling jittery as you sought a commute home. you'd already made up your mind that your sorry-ass wouldn't be able to look bakugou back in the face for the rest of the day.
"...again?" she asked, tone concealing a hint of surprise. "don't tell me it was with bakugou. don't you usually practice now?"
"...usually, yes…" you sheepishly shuffled your feet, standing outside on the sidewalk. "i'll be resuming it again, 'course, when i get home…"
"why aren't you with bakugou right now?"
"that's… that's a long story," you laughed nervously.
"i can wait," jirou coolly replied. "kaminari got his foot stuck in his guitar case - don't ask - so i have time."
you considered asking about kaminari, then thought better of it.
"you know about the valentine's day recital they have every year? well, this year…" you recounted the events that led you to now, standing outside on the phone with jirou.
"where are you going to find a violinist?"
a silence found itself opportune as jirou waited for an answer. "i'm, uh, not…?" you said, deflecting the question back to jirou.
"well, you can't play both parts in the duet, can you? actually, don't answer that. i know you'd try. didn't you try that one time in-"
"what's done in uni stays in uni," you hushed her before she could recall that one time you tried to play a sonata with a recording of yourself. "aren't you going to tell me to try to make amends with bakugou?"
"no," she said thoughtfully after a pause. "you've tried before, and it's not working for you. i don't think you should be forced to do something you obviously don't want to do. i just think," she continued, "you need to find someone to do the duet with, if you don't want to work with bakugou. but objectively, he's your best bet."
as jirou always was, she was right. you thanked her for her advice not before hearing a distraught kaminari shouting for jirou in the background, and then she ended the call.
you repeated her words in your head once you got home, sliding your bow back and forth on your small block of worn rosin. the score for the duet was spread next to you on the floor. it wasn't that you didn't want to work with bakugou. or was it? had you been that selfish all along, sabotaging other performances because you didn't like him? if even jirou had noticed it, had bakugou noticed it too?
your sigh let out a thousand burdens piled up in your mind, blowing air out like dust accumulating on your tribulations. you picked up your violin and bow thoughtlessly, testing out the strings and plucking a couple with your left hand.
was it really only you with the contempt for working with bakugou? you'd assumed mutual hatred with him after your international debut, but had it really been so? had you been the only one picking fights during the time you'd worked together? as you backtracked, your fingers slipped into a familiar position. you began a piece you knew positively by heart, an absolute favorite of yours for years. you played mindlessly, serenading yourself with familiar notes and string fingerings as you thought long and hard about bakugou. how much shit had you given bakugou? he hardly complained, too, but why? why hadn't he quit after you'd been so ceaselessly difficult with him?
why were you so angry at bakugou, a gifted prodigy since childhood? the answer found itself as the composition descended into an array of complicated fingerings and string changes, sounding like an incoherent chaos somehow strung together by the music. you pretended you didn't know the answer.
it was much, much easier to leave bakugou as just a pianist. respectable in his own field, and incomparable to you. it was too good to be true, obviously. all your life, you played to win, and couldn't allow anyone else to surpass you. violin was about winning, winning, winning. how were you supposed to cope when all those hours of practice were easily overcome by someone with innate talent?
the piece eased your tension with a fermata, drawing out your vibrato to think. bakugou's perfection infuriated you, you concluded. knowing this, though, didn't help with anything. you almost screeched the last note as the composition came to an end, unsettled by thoughts of bakugou. you really couldn't stand him.
in an attempt to distract yourself from your dilemma, you decided to start practicing the recital composition. you pulled out an old portable music stand, bending the parts into place and stacking it up. carefully, you placed the sheets on the stand and skimmed over the music, bringing your violin up to your collarbone.
your eyes followed one measure ahead of what you were playing as you sight-read the piece. ahead, ahead, was all you could think as your fingers fumbled the notes, eyes moving from the score to the fingerboard. bakugou was far from your mind as you caught up to the music, too preoccupied with the sharps and flats you'd forgotten and the time you had to keep. you were busied by the shifts and the repeat signs in the music over anything else. your priority lay here for the time being, after all. the sight-reading was almost enough to make you forget you only play one half to a duet. there was still still an emptiness that lurked between the rests and the redundant beats that even your stilted practice couldn't mask. you tried not to worry about that, though.
time floated by as you repeated the piece over and over, playing for accuracy first. it wasn't enough, but you pretended it was. the metronome on your phone ticked away like time, endless and impatient, until you couldn't stand it anymore and packed away your violin.
the proceeding day was filled with more of the same practicing, working on tweaking hesitations and polishing up your playing. it was kind of convenient, practicing at home rather than waking up early to practice with bakugou. you missed the bagel the most.
you were definitely not playing your best, and it was clear by the way your bow occasionally screeched and how you fumbled the fingerings when you were particularly negligent. the piece just didn't sound right without the second part. (bakugou was definitely not the second part missing. not at all.)
by the third day you gave up and admitted to yourself that yes, bakugou was the second part missing. you were only a little bit miserable buying your usual bagel and coffee and rushing to rehearsals fifteen minutes late, aware that you'd be unable to eat it before practice. you were substantially less miserable than how you were the day previous, practicing alone.
you weren't surprised to see bakugou already there, sitting on the piano bench and tightening his bow hairs. he acknowledged you with a grunt as you set down your breakfast and beverage.
"showed up, huh?" he said finally, voice rough. he stood up, setting his sheet music on a stand. you stared at him, awed by his nonchalance. he picked up his violin and bow (which, by the way, looked super expensive) and propped his violin up by his chin. it felt so foreign to see him in position to play violin, fingers already expertly in first position and wrist beautifully curved, yet it inexplicably clicked. the scene in front of you looked like he'd done this everyday, as it was always supposed to have been, his back confidently straight. his fingers arched over the fingerboard and his bow appeared mathematically parallel to the bridge, held delicately between his fingers. you'd never carefully watched him play piano (probably due to your distaste to him and lack of knowledge about the percussion instrument), but he made the violin look like an instrument of the gods. he hesitated, though, bow moving a centimeter then back. he frowned at your idle silence and turned back to you. "well? are we doing this duet or not?"
"oh," you reacted intelligently. "yeah. yeah." it kicked in what you were doing by the time you'd started tuning your violin, first bowing your a string. after tuning your violin (with the help of a tuning fork and none from the perfect-pitched bastard bakugou, who appeared to be watching you with a triumphant gleam in his eyes as you struggled to tune your violin properly), you set your sheet music next to bakugou's.
"ready?" you asked, as if you'd been the one waiting for bakugou all this time.
"ask yourself that," he snorted. "i'll do the count."
you nodded.
"one, two, three, f-"
"wait, wait," you said, squinting at your music. "isn't it supposed to be a bit slower than that?"
"it says allegro," bakugou said, tapping his foot. "need an italian lesson? lively, briskly."
"i know what allegro means," you gritted. "seems too fast, when paired with dolce."
"maybe for you," he smirked.
you narrowed your eyes at him. "and that means what, exactly?"
he opened his mouth to reply some smug, smart-ass answer, but you stopped him.
"nevermind," you said. "do the count again, at the same tempo. i can do it."
you were bluffing, of course. since when was allegro this fast? you wondered as the opening notes sped by you in a musical blur. already familiar with the melody, you messed up dynamics the most. of crescendos and diminuendos? it wasn't like bakugou would notice, too preoccupied with his part.
the ending of the piece took your breath away, storming toward you in a whirlwind. adrenaline filled your veins as you raced to the last measure of the music, overcome by the tempo and the music. this time, full of energy and exhilaration, the piece felt complete. your and bakugou's sound surrounded the two of you, overflowing the room with a saccharine melody. it felt right simply standing beside him playing a two part piece, chest heaving from the piece's energy. you could only hear your breathing, a gentle encore to your playing.
"your playing is sloppy," bakugou said bluntly. he leaned over to your sheet music, starting to point at dynamic markings.
you swatted his hand away before he could say a word. "yeah, well, i just got the music three days ago," you interjected.
"you also had two of the three days off, so i'd say you're not doing enough." he glanced back down at your score. he pointed at a measure. "this is a crescendo, moron, why didn't you get much louder?"
"just- pay attention to your own music!" you said. "besides, it's dolce. i can get away with playing softer."
"that wasn't very dolce to me," he argued. "nothing sweet, soft, or gentle about that," he mumbled.
"i can be sweet, soft, and gentle if i want to!" you retorted.
he raised a brow, as if a challenge, scarlet eyes glinting in the light. "tch. i'm sure you can, but your playing damn can't."
“it can, too! listen,” you said, impetuously raising your violin and bow again. you slowly started to play a d major scale, impatiently scrunching your nose and squeezing your eyes shut to concentrate on making the music soft and gentle, tampering with different degrees of vibrato and bow pressure.
“... that’s just piano,” bakugou said, moving to you as you bowed an a. your bow came to an abrupt halt, making an unpleasant squeal, as bakugou positioned himself behind you. you felt his body warmth radiating behind you as a sweet, homely scent wafted around you. he brought his arms around you, hands overlapping where you held your violin and bow.
“you need to be,” he murmured into your ear, gentle tone almost slurring the words together, "fragile when you play dolce." he angled your bow slightly, moving your hand. "bow closer to the fingerboard." the smooth baritone of his voice resonated within you, becoming lost within the violinist's embrace.
"most of all," he said, dropping an octave to an intimate tone, "you need to feel it. you can attempt to play it, but without feeling, it's fuckin’ meaningless."
"feeling?" you repeated blankly. “the audience’s, you mean.”
he stepped away, a gesture that made you breathless, and shook his head. he crossed his arms over his chest, unintentionally accentuating their volume. “your damn feelings. what do you feel when playing the piece?”
there’s a pause for perhaps a second too long, as you mulled over different answers in your head.
“tch.” his eyes don’t leave you, gaze a laser burning into you. “‘s what i thought. why do you play violin?”
you held your tongue from answering my parents. “to win. i play to win,” you stated.
“and that’s the damn problem,” bakugou said, releasing a breath of frustrated air. “you win to play.”
“that means…?” you were starting to get impatient with the man, who seemed to be stalling and dragging out your limited time.
“you win competitions to play more.”
you almost scoffed, but his words were plausible. “what’s the purpose in playing more if not to win?”
he made a scratching noise in his throat, cool demeanor shifting to that of the bakugou you knew. “l-l-” he coughed, “love.”
“love?” you repeated, the word a surprise to swallow.
he nodded, gagging on his reply. you couldn’t see bakugou as the romantic type - the same bakugou who called all of his friends demeaning nicknames and could barely say the word love out loud. he was explosive, maybe, and talented, sure - but acquainted with love? you pursed your lips at the stuttering man trying to advise you.
“whatever,” he dismissed, voice oddly hoarse. “just play it from the top. fix the dynamics.”
weeks passed in a blur, though bakugou’s advice was left unforgotten. it had, for the most part, faded from your mind but lingered like a ghost in an abandoned attic, stirring up dust in complete silence. it was valid criticism on bakugou’s part, but the problem was that it was criticism you couldn’t digest. it was a ghost that you could not rid of, whispering and lurking until your music played over it.
four weeks before the performance, you had the piece almost entirely memorized other than a few flukes here and there. you managed most of your dynamics, playing in sync with bakugou by your side. three weeks and the piece was mostly smooth, foregoing all sheet music and practicing in the middle of the room with bakugou tapping out the tempo on the honeyed floor. any mistakes were recovered from quickly, and you were pleased to say that the amount of bakugou’s slip-ups equated to yours. at two weeks, though, he brought up the pest bugging your mind.
“play with more emotion,” he sighed exasperatedly, letting out a huff as you played for him. “start on f sharp again.”
you’d tried time and time again, but the longer you’d replayed the same few measures (followed by his criticism for the nth time), the only emotion you felt was frustration. your bow would push too hard or your vibrato would lay on thick, immensely irritating bakugou. you didn’t know why he even tried.
the air felt stale and the lights shone obnoxiously bright. the pads of your left hand fingers had hardened by now, indented with a pair of parallel lines from your unforgiving violin strings. you inhaled rosin dust and occasional bow hairs miserably dropped to the floor. your arms were tired, sore, and sick of playing; your ears painfully endured the same tune again and again, the originally fluid and sweet notes becoming high frequency static.
“i can’t do this.” you were tempted to flop onto the ground, hopelessness pouring over you.
“you can,” bakugou insisted stubbornly. “you just need to try harder.”
“harder?” you would’ve snapped (and you were surprised your e string didn’t already by the repetitive motions on it) if you weren’t so exhausted from rehearsing.
he nodded like it was obvious. “try harder.”
you shakily inhaled, trying to smooth your voice over. “i’m sorry i can’t be a prodigy like you.”
he stiffened, tense to the point of trembling. “whatever,” and it was a strained word pulled from his mouth. it was very atypical for him to give up like this, but you didn't care. you avoided his eyes as you restarted the piece, unable to bloom anything from it.
outside of your rehearsal time, you practiced. arguably, your solo rehearsals were more rigorous. you forced yourself to add emotion to the piece, sometimes playing for jirou. she agreed with bakugou (though was a great deal less irritating), stating that your playing was somewhat hollow. (you restrained yourself from knocking on the instrument and saying that yes, indeed, violins were hollow.)
"how… how do you get any emotions from playing?" you asked jirou at one point, watching one of her band's rehearsals. they were on a break, chatting idly and taking sips from their water bottles.
“well…” jirou started, glancing back at her band members. “i think about the feelings i want the audience to feel because of my songs. i think about how the song makes me feel, then i put that into how i play.”
“how do you…” you shifted uncomfortably, “know what to feel?”
she looked at you, taken aback, but replied easily. “you don’t. it just… happens.”
her response was vastly different than what you’d been taught a child. emotions? sure, there was perhaps a time where playing evoked a feeling in you, plucked something melodical from your heartstrings. it was when you were a child, though, so it was irrational and erratic, an outburst in the middle of your otherwise level playing. your violin teacher didn’t approve when you’d follow how the music made you feel. she said it made you stray too far from the original piece and would make you lose competitions. no matter how you pushed back against her, her advice haunted you over and over every time you got anything other than first place.
your performance is the audience, she’d told you. you didn’t understand what she meant at first, but she made sure you did while practicing for your next rehearsals. the audience, she quipped with thin lips under her sharp eyes, is everything. if the audience wasn’t satisfied, your performance was worthless, no matter how well you played technically. you play for them and you win - it was that plain. there was nothing more than you wanted but to win, at the time. you wanted a trophy, a medal, a certificate stating that you were better than most. it was palpable evidence that you were good enough - for your parents, your peers, anyone. like that, you practiced, a servant for approval. you weren’t a prodigy, but you sure as hell would try to play like one. her advice worked for over a decade, soundly racking you up with countless awards that filled your otherwise desolate self-esteem.
you didn’t say anything else to jirou about it, instead thinking about the bits and pieces of human feeling you could extract in between your piece’s accidentals and eighth notes. perhaps there was a possibility, through the phrases of notes and dynamic markings, you’d find a word that said love. a renewed interest sparked itself when jirou’s band continued their rehearsals, finding yourself to be a normal audience member (maybe even crying at the end. maybe).
you returned home to practice, practice, practice, coercing any hidden message in the music to vibrate in your violin and echo around your room. you watched other renditions of the piece to find something you were missing, but imitating them didn’t seem right. this continued for the following weeks, hiding any potential development from bakugou (or trying to, at least). you knew you’d be disappointing him if you failed after trying so hard. it was only safe to play what you knew, secure in the written parts of the composition and keeping it at that.
by the time the performance came around, you were glad bakugou never found out about your secret efforts. if he had, you knew he’d be sorely dispirited by your lack of tangible progress, your sound just as hollow as the soundbox of your violin. you failed, you knew, and as crestfallen as you were on that cold february morning, the show must go on.
the performances were held in an auditorium, warm compared to the snowy wonderland outside. it was typically couples comprising the audience, all romantic and pepped up in the spirit of valentine's day (white day was no different). some arrived early, finding seats in the empty auditorium and chatting amongst themselves (or sometimes making out, which made you want to throw your violin at them and gag). bakugou’s and your performance was last; it quite the heavy honor to play the finale to the recital.
backstage was a vast contrast to the hushed atmosphere settled over the assemblage. hovering over the staff and performers for the day was a sense of panic, hurry, and hecticness. bits of rosin were scattered on the ground where you prepared for your rehearsal, some belonging to your block and others not. your pack of extra strings lay next to you on the sofa you sat on, arm resting on the side of the seat. similar to your violin's strings, spun tightly over pegs to be kept in place, you felt high-strung. the buzz of energetic excitement flitted in your head, knee bumping up and down and jerking your violin in the same motion. it was hard to calm when you tuned your violin to absolute perfection, relying on bakugou's perfect pitch to do so. the fine tuners on the end of your strings probably hadn't had a harder time in the years you'd owned your violin.
"you're shaking the entire sofa, idiot," bakugou deadpanned next to you. “some of us are trying to rosin our bow, unlike you.” he glanced at the floor, where amber shards of rosin lay amidst white dust (also made of rosin).
“to be fair, most of those aren’t mine,” you pointed out. you reached into your violin case, finding the rectangular case of rosin and opening the top. "mine's only chipped in a couple corners, and the rest is just worn on the edges from my bow."
you leaned over to look at bakugou's rosin, two stubs in its case. "and i'm the one dropping my rosin?"
his ears turned a deep red, matching the velvet curtains on stage. "that's different," he muttered, putting the lid on his rosin and putting it away.
"you ready?" you watched him swallow before speaking, not looking at you. you could hear one of the presenters speaking, introducing the first piece to be played (an ever-so romantic rendition of clair de lune), but the voices felt distant and muffled over the sound of your own nervous heart beating.
"yeah," he replied. he turned to look at you, scarlet eyes meeting your own. "what, you're not scared now, are you, dumbass?"
you gulped. "no… just excited," you said. in truth, you felt disappointed in yourself for being unable to find any emotion in your playing - thinking about the piece, you were devoid of anything but the measures and the notes. what was the piece trying to say in the white space between staff lines? after the clef at the beginning of the music, where did the emotions start and everything else end?
quiet notes, twinkling from the piano on stage, met your ears. you took a deep breath. how did they make you feel?
…not very good, because this pianist was certainly a beat or two off tempo. a large hand on your knee startled you out of your trance. its warmth was surprisingly comforting. you followed the arm connecting to the hand to meet bakugou's concentrated face, eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched.
"don't shake your knee like that. also, why are you so damn cold?" he moved his hand away, leaving an imprint of heat on your knee. you hadn't noticed the physical manifestation of your nerves prior to bakugou's words.
you left his question unanswered, staring at your violin in your lap. you traced the patterns in wood, fingers following the shape of the f-hole and thumbing circles on your chin rest. how were you supposed to be able to pull living, breathing life in the form of emotions from an inanimate object? what sorcery were you supposed to manage to satisfy yourself and the audience?
you thought back to bakugou's words. what was it had he said you were supposed to be playing for? love, the irrational and sentimental flaw of life - somehow expressed from the symbols on a sheet of paper and through strings on hollow wood. what sort of miracle was bakugou creating with his music?
what was violin, if not just a task to do everyday? what was it, out of competitions and tests of skill? what was the sound reverberating within its vacant body, recording every shift of fingers on the fingerboard?
you looked past your violin to the rosin on the floor. friction, your violin teacher had explained to you. you put rosin on your bow so it creates friction with the strings, and thus creates sound. it was strange how friction caused the smooth sound of a violin. too much friction, added by pressure on the bow, made a creaky sound on the strings. without rosin, the bow would be too smooth on the string and make no noise at all. the happy medium of not too much and not too little created the familiar rich tone on the strings.
a happy medium, you mused. in between too much friction and none at all. maybe that was how you were supposed to feel, in between trying too hard and not trying at all. that's what feelings were in the end, right? a natural human instinct, spurred by life. could you breathe life into the music?
the stage seemed almost too big for the two of you, spotlights centering you on the wide, wooden platform. the crowd's eyes were on you and your fellow violinist, some watching with drooping eyelids. they felt far, distant under the shadows. even so, the question still besieged you - would you please them?
you teared your eyes away to bakugou, who started the count. everything was silent until he nodded to you, your cue to start the piece. it felt too fast when you began but it was the same allegro you’d been practicing with. muscle memory took control now, your fingers finding their places easily.
your fingers and bow took all your attention. everything else fell away - the lights, the crowd, the stage - until it was just you, your violin, and the music. you could practically see the score in your head, playing the notes you'd come to know so well.
you heard your music echo and resound off the walls, but that's all it seemed to do. it touched everyone in the room, looking for a place to stay, and diminished in an empty space alone. it frustrated you that it wouldn't resonate - where was the love bakugou had so told you of? this auditorium was no different than your room, where sounds bounced off walls and landed nowhere. you weren't reaching anywhere or anyone, lacking emotion and any true substance.
love - what was love if not a hindrance? how could bakugou expect so much out of you? love - had you ever felt it for the violin? dolce told you to play sweetly, softly, and gently, but what was sweet about the violin? what was so sweet about the imprints of strings on your fingers, fragmented rosin at your feet, and bruises on your neck from long hours of practice? what was gentle about the arduous replaying of the same measure, the ringing in your ears after playing to master a simple phrase? what was soft about the forte that rang in your head, the fortissimo that filled a performance and clouded your senses?
dolce filled you like an epiphany, euphoric in your eyes that finally opened and awakened. dolce was in bakugou's eyes, soft velvet like the crimson curtains onstage, downcast at his violin. dolce was in his sound as his bow skittered near the fingerboard, in his fingers sliding back and forth on his a string. dolce was in his grasp of his bow and violin, in the very essence he played the violin with. dolce contradicted everything you knew, reminding you of bakugou's soft hands over yours, guiding your fingers and bow. dolce was the morning light streaming into the practice room as you argued with bakugou over tempos and notes, the light glinting on shattered shards of rosin as you anxiously rosined your bow. dolce was the curve of your violin scroll, the bend of your fingers over your bow's frog. dolce was the white space in between staff lines on your sheet music and through half and whole notes. dolce was everything in between the rough of your violin experience, the laughter and smiling gone forgotten during sleepless practice sessions and violin evaluations.
what was dolce, if not a rebellion? what was it, if not a rebellion from the years of work and pain you'd endured in the name of musicality? what was it, if not laughing in the face of your violin instructors and the strict score you adhered to?
when you opened your eyes to meet bakugou's, whose carmine eyes dripped with a burning passion and the essence of souls, you finally felt. it was the so-sought over love, scorching every note and stroke of your bow and bursting life in every movement, breath, and echo of your performance. it was exhilarating, living through every slur and chord you played. when you finally met his eyes he understood, a satisfied smile tugging on his lips as his gaze never left yours. this was it - this was dolce, humming sweetly, softly, and gently in your ears and reflecting in the audience's heart. this was dolce, making you realize that you never wanted to play violin alone again.
you picked up a rose that had landed at your feet at the end of your piece, holding it next to bakugou's confused face. in doing so, you reached your second epiphany of the day - perhaps the more important of the two. bakugou's eyes bloomed redder than the rose, deeper than the lowest note on a double bass, and maybe it was he that was the true dolce you were looking for.
notes!!
if you’re reading this, congrats !! this is my longest fic on my account (the record will be broken soon), so i really appreciate you reading this :> (spare a reblog, perhaps?)
first, explaining the playlist:
beethoven’s kreutzer - this was played in the anime, “your lie in april,” and i simply think it fits the “fight” reader and bakugou have. this was played at reader’s first international recital that did not go so well.
kreisler’s liebesfreud (love’s joy) is in the same series as his piece called liebesleid (love’s sorrow), also featured in “your lie in april.” i personally really like the piece. of all of these listed, i think you should listen to this one the most.
beriot’s duo concertante was the other contender for reader and bakugou’s duet piece!
debussy’s clair de lune is simply a favorite of mine. it’s the first piece played at the valentine’s performance (and i like to imagine reader’s listened to bakugou’s recording of the piece)
spohr’s duo for 2 violins is the piece reader and bakugou play! it’s the second part of the duo in allegro, and i once tried to listen to it while following the sheet music. i was so confused every time i did so; i’d get lost and such, and figured my musicality was declining. nope. i was reading the wrong part. so, i started freaking out because oh god the dolce is in the first part, not the second, and thankfully, there’s a bit of dolce in the second part too! however, it did take me a while to decide whether to use the first part instead.
also, spohr invented the chinrest on the violin! crazy :D
paginini’s 24th caprice is considered the hardest out of all 24 caprices. imagine,,, teenage bakugou playing this,,, doing the left hand pizz and all T^T pain
there’s a lot i wish i could cover in this! a lot of reader’s own flaws (ahem, viola jokes) and development were something i couldn’t cover. bakugou’s arc as well! he had an arc a bit before this story takes place :)) tl;dr i’m very tempted to pick my violin up again and start playing
the frog of the bow does not, sadly, go ribbit. it’s the part violinists hold the bow by!
thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed this :)
#bakugou x reader#bnha x reader#bakugou fluff#bnha fluff#katsuki bakugou x reader#bnha x gender neutral reader#bakugou angst#bnha angst#luna's writing#violinist bakugou
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How Countercultures turn Politics into Culture
Written by Lila Danielsen Wong. Graphic by Paula Nicole
In 1969, an academic named Theodore Roszak published “The Making of a Counterculture” and coined the term “counterculture” in order to describe the ant-mainstream youth movements of the 60s. Counterculture’s are not inherently good or progressive, both the punks and the skinheads are countercultures. Counterculture just means, according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, a culture with values and mores that run counter to those of established society.
I’m not here to critique these movements. I am not writing this to critique how the Bohemian Romantics won respect for the arts because they mostly came from upper class backgrounds, and I’m not here to discuss the lack of intersectionality in the riot grrl movement. After starting this article I realized I had pitched a whole academic thesis, and maybe bit off a little more than I had intended to chew (why can’t I just pitch a listicle?). So, instead of focusing on the nitty gritty of what prompted these social movements and academically exploring their effects, I want to talk about the “culture” part of counterculture.
Nearly all countercultures are birthed around shared political ideas, but many seem to start within the culture itself, perhaps as a musical movement, a literary movement, a visual art movement, or even a fashion or aesthetic. As the movements expand, they come to encompass more of those aforementioned arts, and thus the politics that prompted the original movement become a culture.
An early example of a western subculture is the Bohemian Romantics of Europe of the 19th century. In pre-revolutionary France, artists were lower class tradesmen. Artists were seen as dirty and immoral. However, in post-revolutionary France, disillusionment prompted young bourgeois men to reject the typical hierarchy and launch the bohemian artist lifestyle we are more familiar with today. A critical event on this timeline was Victor Hugo’s “Romantic Army,” or his mob of young men that he assembled to protest theatre censorship by absolutely trashing a theatre. The Bohemian lifestyle often manifested as wealthy young artists electing poverty to reject the traditions they were born into, and to spend their time creating art unrestricted. Bohemian fashion was more utilitarian and rustic than the upper-class styles. The music of the Romantic era is categorized by its vigor and passion, pioneered by Beethoven himself. Beethoven challenged the strict and sometimes formulaic sonatas and symphonies of the past, favoring expression and inventiveness. Thus, prompted by the rejection of bourgeois values and principles, a culture was created: a lifestyle, an aesthetic, a literary movement, a new musical style.
Nearly 150 years later and 5000 miles away from Bohemian France, the riot grrl movement was brewing in the Northwest United states. The riot grrl movement, created by a group of women working to combat sexism in the western Washington punk scene, was a counterculture within a counterculture. While the Romantic movement originated in literature, the punk movement, and then the riot grrl movement, was born as a musical movement.
In 1970s Britain, the government was nearly bankrupt and giant cuts to social services were making life hard and creating a sense of alienation between the ruling class and the working class. British Punk emerged from this alienation. The youth used music to communicate their frustrations and anger. The rips and safety pins of punk fashion weren’t originally fashion, the punks just owned ragged clothing. The disillusionment with the political landscape and frustration with older generations resonated with youth all over the world, and it’s not hard to see why a Post-Vietnam and Watergate America would embrace the Punk movement with open arms. However, where British Punk was rooted in working class frustrations, American Punk took root with the middle-class suburban crowd, who, similar to the Bohemians, choose to reject the comfortable life they were born into. A notable difference that this created in the music was British punk had more pointed and explicit politically leftist lyrics, whereas this was not the focus of American punk lyrics.
This is especially important to understand when talking about the riot grrl movement because they put the politics in American Punk lyrics. In the early 1990s, a group of women from the Olympia, Washington punk scene had a meeting to address the sexism they faced in Punk. They started writing lyrics centered around the sexism and misogyny they face in Punk and in life. They created their own literature through zines when they could not get coverage. They wore clothing specifically intended to look like what respectable women weren’t supposed to wear. Again, we watch a group of people turn their politics into a culture, as a way to spread and practice their ideologies.
If you want a modern example of turning politics into culture via a counterculture, look no further than cottagecore (yes, really).
As I said at the beginning, countercultures don’t need to be radically progresive to be countercultures. Cottagecore dwells on romanticized pastoral ideals of a fantastic yesteryear that never really existed. Cottagecore gained some traction on TikTok as an “aesthetic,” made up of imagery such as women in long button up dresses flouncing through fields and making picnics. Absent were the rise and grind aspirations of pre-pandemic America. Absent were any signs of the labor often associated with pastoral living. It is no surprise that a counterculture that emphasizes solitary retreat, rest, nature, and crafting blew up during the first year of the covid-19 pandemic during which many experienced forced solitary retreats, a change in work environments (not to mention the want to not work), and boredom that could only be remedied with solitary activities such as crafting and enjoying nature. The pandemic dismantled all of the systems of normal life as we knew it, and cottagecore invited us to grow from this space, perhaps embracing a simpler, slower life. This political message was so subtly delivered through our social media scrolling that if you weren’t paying attention, you might not have even realized cottagecore had political ideals at all.
The rise of cottagecore is important in the conversation of how countercultures turn politics into culture because it showcases very blatantly how countercultures are not created, or at least do not catch on, without need and reason. Taylor Swift most likely did not create her surprise albums Folklore and Evermore (the unofficial cottagecore soundtrack) solely to cater to the cottagecore TikTok crowd, she created these albums as a form of personal escapism from how her own life was turned upside down by the pandemic, as a form of connection with her fans who were also experiencing the effects of the pandemic on their lives, and as art that represented certain feelings that came along with the pandemic.
Her albums came about for the same reason that cottagecore really caught on in the first place: it was what some people felt that they needed due to the circumstances of the time. It was for this reason, I would argue, that Folklore won album of the year. It was indicative of the times.
So, countercultures are born from a need. From this need comes politics, be it post revolution anti-bourgeois sentiments, mid-century British leftism, or a quiet call to slow down and reject hustle culture for a simple life. From politics comes art, and from art, culture.
Let’s talk about this in terms of an up-and-coming counterculture, hyperpop.
Though Wikipedia currently defines hyperpop as a “micro genre,” hyperpop’s rise is looking anything but “micro.” Hyperpop is described in The Spectator as “catchy synthpop or bubblegum bass tune with elements of EDM and typically a focus on either queer culture or Internet futurism”. The term “self-referential lyrics” is often thrown around. In the least complicated words possible, hyperpop uses it’s sounds and lyrics to make a camped-up parody of popular music. Hyperpop pioneers that have some mainstream following include SOPHIE, Charli xcx, and Caroline Polechek. Hyperpop often uses carbonated synth sounds and vocal modulation, and many of the trailblazers are part of the LGBT community.
What will hyper pop fashion and literature look like? What are hyper pop’s politics?
As for politics, there is something inherently political about queer artists carving out a space for themselves in pop music. Orange Magazine describes this as “pushing pop music to its limits and satirizing the gendered music industry. There’s an enjoyable sense of irony and juxtaposition.”
As for fashion, if we’re following the patterns we’ve established, hyperpop might bring gender non-conforming fashion that satirizes what’s been proclaimed normal. In terms of literature perhaps a Hyperpop literary movement will come from the controversial direction of Alt Lit, a community of minimalist writers that use the internet form and often reject intellectualized creative writing, create things that are weird for the sake of being weird, and use all caps and other purposeful spelling and grammar mistakes. A hyperpop literary movement might share the “self-referential” themes of hyperpop movement, while examining gender, sexuality, and personal identity in the internet age, seeing as the need to examine these themes in music indicates a need to examine these themes in other art forms. Maybe it will find creative ways to use internet platforms, as Alt Lit originators such as Steve Roggenbuck, a YouTube poet (well, a poet depending on who you ask), already have.
What I find most exciting about hyperpop is that it has the potential to create a culture guided by music first, similar to the punks or to disco. Fashion and visual art and literature all inspired by the glittery new sounds created in music. Maybe hyperpop will stay a “microgenre,” but maybe we will get to witness the rise of something new.
SOPHIE once said “I think all pop music should be about who can make the loudest, brightest thing. That, to me, is an interesting challenge, musically and artistically… just as valid as who can be the most raw emotionally,” and isn’t that a phenomenal thing to bring with us into a pent-up, fed-up, thoroughly exhausted, and newly vaccinated decade?
Sources
https://monoskop.org/images/b/b4/Roszak_Theodore_The_Making_of_a_Counter_Culture.pdf
https://www.sfgate.com/books/article/When-the-counterculture-counted-2835958.php
https://www.classicfm.com/discover-music/periods-genres/romantic/
https://www.mtholyoke.edu/courses/rschwart/hist255/bohem/tlaboheme.html
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Punk_subculture
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Riot_grrrl
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodore_Roszak_(scholar)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bohemianism
https://www.nme.com/blogs/nme-blogs/brief-history-riot-grrrl-space-reclaiming-90s-punk-movement-2542166
https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/05/03/arts/music/riot-grrrl-playlist.html
https://www.nypl.org/blog/2013/06/19/riot-grrrl-movement
https://www.nypl.org/blog/2013/06/19/riot-grrrl-movement
https://wildezine.com/3528/opinion/a-brief-history-of-punk/
file:///C:/Users/8lila/Downloads/history_initiates_vol_iv_april_2016_01_brooks_alison.pdf
https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2021/03/hyperpop/617795/
https://www.billboard.com/articles/columns/pop/9595799/hyperpop-history-mainstream-crossover/
https://www.stuyspec.com/ae/hyperpop-the-defining-genre-of-the-digital-age
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyperpop
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YRl4Kdnl2E&list=LL&index=4
https://theface.com/music/sophie-behind-the-boards-pop-scottish-producer
https://orangemag.co/orangeblog/2020/10/15/exploring-the-trans-roots-of-hyperpop
https://thebluenib.com/the-rise-and-fall-of-alt-lit-by-ada-wofford/
https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/pc-music-are-for-real-a-g-cook-and-sophie-talk-twisted-pop-58119/
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“To shift the structure of a sentence alters the meaning of that sentence, as definitely and inflexibly as the position of a camera alters the meaning of the object photographed. Many people know about camera angles now, but not so many know about sentences.”
— Joan Didion
[Portico, 1765 - Canaletto]
• Canaletto (1697–1768), probably the greatest of vedutisti (painters of highly detailed, usually large-scale cityscapes and architectural vistas), painted precise views of Venetian architecture that are found in most of the world’s major art museums. He was professor of perspective at the Accademia of Venice and as such recognised as an authority on the topic. Since he took the liberty to deviate from the rules of traditional linear perspective with regard to distances in depth, it is interesting to scrutinise other aspects of perspective in his paintings of extant scenes... More: https://brill.com/view/journals/artp/8/1/article-p49_49.xml?language=en
• Generally, writers who hold readers’ imaginations across decades do so because there’s something unsolved in their project, something that doesn’t square and thus seems subject to the realm of magic. In Joan Didion’s case, a disconnect appears between the jobber-like shape of her writing life—a shape she often emphasizes in descriptions of her working habits—and the forms that emerged as the work accrued. For all her success, Didion was seventy before she finished a nonfiction book that was not drawn from newsstand-magazine assignments. She and Dunne started doing that work with an eye to covering the bills, and then a little more. (Their Post rates allowed them to rent a tumbledown Hollywood mansion, buy a banana-colored Corvette Stingray, raise a child, and dine well.) And yet the mosaic-like nonfiction books that Didion produced are the opposite of jobber books, or market-pitched books, or even useful, fibrous, admirably executed books. These are strange books, unusually shaped. They changed the way that journalistic storytelling and analysis were done. More: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/02/01/what-we-get-wrong-about-joan-didion/amp
#joan didion#canaletto#perspective#camera angle#vedutisti#view#point of view#architecture#vista#journalism#grammar#word choice
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Reader Request: Top 5 Cats We Have Petted
To honour what is quite possibly the most important article we have ever published here at Night Owl, John, Maria, and I conferred from 4 AM to 6 AM, meticulously comparing notes and debating, to bring to you our finest work yet; the Top 5 Cats we have have the honour to pet thus far in our humble existences, with pictures.
5. Griselda
This fluff monster is the proud housecat of Sarah, John’s sister.
Named after the siblings’ favourite Winx Club character from when Winx Club was still running on the television, the Maine Coon has grown into her name wonderfully by adopting the very same air of superiority and class.
Although we all agree that Griselda is a high quality cat and one can easily spend hours scratching her and running their fingers trhough her luxurious, well-groomed fur, we are forced to place her at 5th place as she once answered the call of mother nature on John’s good shirt right before an interview.
4.President Rufus Shinra the 1st, aka Rufus
President Rufus Shinra the 1st, aka Rufus, belongs to Maxine’s cousin, and what most Night Owls don’t know is that he was our very first feline managerial overlord.
About a month after I started working for Night Owl, Maria and Max stayed at my apartment for a week. It just so happened that that very week, Max’s cousin was out of town and had asked her to catsit Rufus.
And let me tell you, he definitely lives up to his name.
Charismatic and adorable, Rufus would politely ask for our attention when he wanted anything and insistently nudge us with his head when we stayed up too late.
However, all that only served to hide his mischevous core; during his stay, Rufus apparently broke three glasses and hid all of them under the couch where I discovered them a week later.
That unpleasant surprise is the reason we must place him so low on this list, but he will always be in our hearts as the founder of the position of Feline Managerial Overlord.
3. Rex
Rex belongs to a good friend of mine from university, Angel, so I asked her to send us a recent photograph.
This absolute rascal has spent many a day and night keeping us company, brightening our moods, and making sure we don’t lose ourselves to exam stress. Soft, fluffy, and an absolute unit, Rex doubles as a stress-relief pet and a reliable pillow.
However, no pet is perfect, and in Rex’s case he often forgets the ‘don’t’ in ‘Don’t bite the hand the feeds you’. Or pets you, in this case.
Even so, no pet is perfect; it becomes perfect once you learn to accept it for what it is.
2. Bastet
Now, I know what you’re going to say; ‘But Eliot, sphynx cats don’t have fur! Why is she so high up on the list?’, to which I say ‘Shame on you!’.
Bastet is the second greatest pride and joy of Maria’s father, who is an avid egyptologist.
She is also one of the best cats I have met in my entire life.
From her playful personality and adorable high-pitched meowing to her intellect and strategical mind when chasing various critters, if Bastet asked for the world I would personally deliver it to her on a silver platter.
And in regards to petting, her purring is so adorable!
In our humble opinion, everyone needs a Bastet in their life.
1. Loki the Rascal, aka Her Royal Highness, aka Our Managerial Overlord
I mean, what were you expecting, really?
After only a short few weeks since she first dropped into our lives, Loki has successfully charmed her way into our hearts and locked herself there.
Playful, fluffy, mischievous, polite (when she wants to be) and dangerously smart, Loki is the true Queen of Cats, standing even above Bastet.
With her only flaws being a fascination with easily purchaseable plastic dinosaurs and the evil purposes for which she uses her endless arsenal of skills, I would say I’d give her the world if she asked but by the time I did she would have already conquered it.
No matter how many felines find their way into our lives and into our hearts, Loki will always be our number 1.
Eliot Wilde, journalist and writer for Night Owl and host of Night Owl FM
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“Why I’m opposed to the gender-flipped remake of ‘Splash’“??? (submitted to me by ultraofrah1)
Interesting! Personally, I’m more open-minded and will hold judgement until when/if the movie is made. Worst case scenario would be exactly what you’re describing.
Why I’m opposed to the gender-flipped remake of “Splash” (Part 2):
So in the article “Splash is the latest film to get an uninspiring gender swap – and for some reason, feminists are supposed to be happy about it”, writer Roisin O’Connor mentions this:
I find the paragraph above fascinating because it shows the hypocrisy of feminists.
They think having Channing Tatum’s naked butt appear on film will somehow fix the “sexism” of the original film because according to their logic “women objectifying men’s bodies = perfectly ok; men objectifying women’s bodies = bad”, while not realizing that having a man play a role originally written for a woman creates the unfortunate implication that a movie told from the point of view of a woman won’t sell, therefore having a man play a woman’s role will somehow make the film worth watching.
Essentially, the remake will be like the original film, where it was told through the perspective of TOM HANKS’ character Allen.
Splash producer Brian Grazer said that the remake was going to be told from the mermaid’s point of view.
At first, I was excited by that idea because it would be nice to know what Madison’s life was like after she met Allen as a kid.
Maybe she got tired of dating mermen, and wanted someone with legs.
After all, 🎶flippin’ your fins you don’t get too far. 🎶
But in all seriousness, the gender flip might fix some of the plot holes from the original (like the “rules” Madison had to follow), as well as provide more insight into Madison’s character (What is it about Allen that attracts her to him? Why does she drag Allen’s unconscious body at the beach and then swims away only to then hide behind the bushes until he wakes up?)
Thanks to the success of Aquaman, you could easily show Madison’s underwater world of merfolk via CGI and green screen (in fact, part of the reason Bruce Jay Friedman’s original screenplay of Splash was rejected by both United Artists and 20th Century Fox was due to the concern that the underwater scenes would be unfilmable, thus making Splash “prohibitively expensive”).
And hey, with the technology available, perhaps they could bring back the scene where Madison encounters a sea hag who, much like the sea witch in Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid, refuses to help Madison go after the man Madison saved from drowning, but nonetheless relents by telling Madison the “rules” (she can only be on land for six days until the moon is full, and if she stays longer than that, she can’t ever come back to her underwater home).
The good news is that snippets of the “sea hag” scene can be found in the film’s “Making A Splash” documentary on the 20th Anniversary Edition DVD.
All of it sounded great, but then I learned that the mermaid was going to be played by a GUY.
Wait, what??
Why?
I mean, the word “mermaid” literally implies a WOMAN who is half-fish, so technically, the correct term for a man who is half-fish is MERMAN.
Semantics aside, unless this is William Shakespeare’s Splash where the mermaid is going to be played by a dude in drag, I’m not interested.
What a lot of you may not realize is that when Brian Grazer first pitched the movie Splash back in the late 70s and early 80s, it was actually going to be told from the mermaid’s point of view, in which she got washed up on the shore and found herself having to adjust to being a human in New York City.
However, according to Grazer’s book, A Curious Mind: The Secret to a Bigger Life, Splash got rejected by a lot of studios due to the fact that Brian pitched it “too much from the perspective of the mermaid”.
Unsurprisingly, once Grazer flipped the perspective from the mermaid to the guy who falls in love with the mermaid, he found that the studio executives (read: mostly male) were much more receptive to his premise.
If you tell Splash from the point of view of the MERMAID, it’s basically Disney’s The Little Mermaid.
A film that ironically enough, Disney studio chairman Jeffrey Katzenberg had thought was going to fail at the box office because it was a “girl’s film”, even though it made more money and was much better received by critics than the “boys film” Disney’s Oliver and Company.
Since Disney is producing the Splash remake (which makes sense since the original was released under Disney’s “Touchstone Films” banner), I fear that their attempts to make it more “woke” will ironically come across as even more sexist and regressive than the original film, which given the original’s problematic gender politics (1984 was a different time after all!), THAT IS SAYING SOMETHING!
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“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.”
Rita Skeeter
Age: Twenty Three
Affiliation: Neutral
Blood Status: Halfblood
Career: Witch Weekly Editor & Writer
RUMOR HAS IT… When it comes to Rita Skeeter the only thing she knows are lies, she knows them so well that she believes them to be true. There’s not a person that she loves more than herself and she’d sell out her own mother to save her precious skin.
For all her life Rita was told constantly, an accident that came from a one night stand with a drunk muggle man whose name her mother just couldn’t remember and a woman who made it clear that being a mother wasn’t what she wanted to do with her life. Renee had dreams outside of being a mother, in fact, the only dream she didn’t have was being a mother. But she stuck around and reminded Rita constantly that she should be grateful that her mother hadn’t left her in a cardboard box on the street. However, there were times that the little blonde wondered if life would have been easier if she was left out on the streets. Her only solace came from the books that she was able to get from the muggle library, it was in those stories that she drowned her sorrows, soon learning to make up her own stories. In her imagination she was with a mother and father who loved her, in her imagination she was a princess who’d someday be Queen, providing for herself without help from anyone. Rita vowed to make these dreams a reality. She would be a Queen and she wouldn’t need anyone.
She’d always known she was a Witch thus her letter from Hogwarts was no surprise to her. Sorted into Ravenclaw she soon learned that Hogwarts was more than a school, for her it was a home, a better home than anything she’d ever known. She didn’t just do well, she thrived in the environment. Constantly putting herself in the spotlight, Rita was intelligent but she didn’t just want to be smart she wanted to be the best. Half of the reason she studied as hard as she did was so that she could be the one with the answer, when her hand was in the air and eyes were on her because she knew the answer unlike those around her. While her high marks were unnoticed by her mother it only made her want to work harder. Wandless magic came easier for Rita than it did for others and she soared in Transfiguration so well that McGongall took to teaching her on the side, something that she frequently did with those that caught her eye. There was no denying that Rita was brilliant, she could do anything that she wanted once graduation approached but instead of joining the Auror career as was suggested it was writing that called to her. All of those books that had been her first friend coming to shape the person that she’d become.
Graduating she went off and began applying anywhere and everywhere, her mother may not have been able to make a name for herself but Rita sure would -- just to show her that she had never been the problem. The Daily Prophet wanted her, they guaranteed her a safe, well-paying job that would put her writing articles for them. But it was no secret that everything coming from the Prophet was censored by the Ministry and Rita wouldn’t be silenced by anyone again. It was the call from Witch Weekly, pitching that they wanted to start a gossip column that spiked her attention. It would be long hours, the pay wasn’t that great to start off with and if it didn’t work she would be out of a job before too long. To most, it would seem like an idiot move to take the risk but Rita knew that she was worth it, that she would succeed. She was too stubborn to fail, after all.
The gossip column took off and before she knew it everyone knew her name. Most people hated her because the information she wrote about didn’t have to be true and that’s what made it all the fun. She could write whatever she wanted to, her mind took off and soon she had information coming in from everywhere, people begging her to write about them or write about someone that they hated. Or someone that they loved. It was the little things that she published and it was the big things, the real things that Rita kept tucked to the side, saving the information for a day when she needed it.
Soon it wasn’t enough for her, the drive to keep growing speaking up again, she wanted a better way to get the information that she wanted to write about and if that meant going undercover then so be it. However, the way she went under the radar was unorthodox, she trained herself in her downtime and became an unregistered animgaus. Rita called up everything she’d learned in transfiguration and did learn how to manipulate her own body into what she wanted to be, the shape she took reflecting her personality -- a beetle. Being able to slide into where she wanted and learn what she wanted to was one of the best things that had happened to her. She would not fail now. Her information was growing, the more that she knew the easier it was to get things from people. Sure, Blackmail hadn’t been why she’d picked this job but it did make it all the more fun. People didn’t like her but they’d sure as hell respect her. Her success in her career continued to soar for when the original editor and owner of Witch Weekly stepped down Rita was placed in charge.
The War changed everything for most around her, the dark times that fell were cold and they were sad and not even Rita was untouched by it. Her mother had made the wrong friends and promised things she could deliver which ultimately lead to her demise. Try as she might Rita couldn’t be sad about this, while she had stopped talking to her mother five years ago the woman had long since lost her only daughter.
SYBILL TRELAWNEY – A singular pain in her arse and yet there’s nothing about Trelawney that Rita would dream of changing. Friends are something she struggles with, something she’s always struggled with but no matter what she does Sybill doesn’t let Rita push her away. She’d never admit it aloud but she’s thankful that this woman is in her life.
ANTONIN DOLOHOV – Rita knows that her mouth and the things she publishes will likely get her into trouble. Little did she know trouble was going to be in the delicious form of Antonin Dolohov who is determined to get her to follow a set of standards that simply goes against everything she stands for.
BERTHA JORKINS – Rita’s no stranger to being disliked, even more so, she’s no stranger to people pretending to like her while they’re waiting for her to fall. Rita plays nice with Bertha for now, but all it would take is one word from the other woman to cause the reporter to snap.
OTHER CONNECTIONS – BIOS RITA SKEETER IS MENTIONED IN.
Rita Skeeter is currently a TAKEN character with a FC of Elizabeth Olsen.
#marauders rp#dark rp#marauders roleplay#hp rp#rita skeeter#taken#takenf#ritaskeeterbio#elizabeth olsen#mention: sybill trelawney#mention: antonin dolohov#mention: bertha jorkins
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