#you just know Clay has the most ridiculous displays of affection | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

apprentice-lex · 4 years

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Thank you so much, dear anon! That’s incredibly kind of you 💜 It’s no trouble at all, and I would also like to use this opportunity to wish all my lovely followers (and the wonderful Courtiers fandom) happy winter holidays! ✨ Best wishes from Valerius, Valdemar, Volta, Vlastomil, Vulgora, and myself!

Winter holidays with your favorite Courtier(s) under the cut; enjoy! (sfw, fluffy, and long)

Valerius

He is familiar with holiday celebrations, but... why would you want to spend the holidays with him? He still has trouble believing you want to spend this time with him, aren't you meant to spend it with your loved ones, friends and family? Surely, someone better than him, someone who deserves your time more. He won't say it out loud, of course, but it's obvious from his careful, hesitant behavior that he expects you to tell him to go away. Before he met you, he would of course receive invitations to holiday parties, but he'd inevitably spend the holidays shut in his study, working, secretly envying all those people who were well-liked enough for someone to want to be around them. And now you're here, with that genuine smile and that look in your eyes that tells him he's worth it and you want to be around him and he just doesn't know what to do with that. Everything must be perfect. The decorations you put up together, the food you make... he's such a perfectionist that you have to stop him in the middle of decorating, take his hands in yours, and tell him to stop worrying because, yes, you want to be there with him and he is someone you care about deeply. He'd blink the tears away and try to salvage what remains of his dignity with some wry comment. But, from then on, he is much calmer, you catch him genuinely smiling - so often as no one can remember him smiling before. He commissions artists to make sure your decorations are the most beautiful in Vesuvia; some whisper that even the decorations in the palace are lackluster compared to yours. Some of the palace cooks are whisked away with the promise of much higher wages. But what surprises you the most is the evening he invites you to his estate, and there isn't a servant in sight; just Valerius alone, putting the final touches on decorations. He turns around when you enter the room, smiles, and wordlessly holds out an ornament for you to take - an invitation to help him. Of course, you happily accept. Later, he takes you to the kitchens, and for the first time ever you see Valerius try his hand at cooking. Of course, it's rather disastrous, but filled with laughter and spilled flour and icing sugar in your hair; but when it's late in the evening and you and Valerius twirl around the dimly-lit kitchens to some unheard song, laughing together, a smudge of icing on his cheek and a spoon still in his hand - but the look in his eyes is one of deep, genuine happiness - you realize that this is it. There's no other way you'd rather be spending the holidays. Tomorrow, you'll be seeing all your friends and, knowing Valerius, there will doubtlessly be a pile of outrageously expensive presents waiting for you... but tonight, just the two of you, seeing this side of Valerius no one else gets to see, the two of you dancing like this with nothing to distract you but firelight and candles and the smell of cookies in the air... that's the best gift.

Valdemar

They're not usually one to celebrate - or pay attention to - such silly things as human holidays. They have far too much to do. But for you? Oh, for you they'll try their darnest to make these the best holidays ever. And what does Valdemar do when they feel they're unprepared? They read, of course. At first, you are surprised to find a book on "DIY decorations" among their medical encyclopedias, but you ascribe it to their eternally curious nature. However, it doesn't stop there. The week after, you find one on woodworking, one on paper sculptures, and a cookbook, of all things. When was the last time you saw Valdemar eat? You decide to confront them. They don't even try to hide what they're doing from you. Instead, they seem so proud to explain in detail the various projects they started; their smile wide and sharp, their crimson eyes glittering with inhuman focus and poorly subdued joy. It's not the holidays, you realize, it's the fact that they're doing something for you. They do need a bit of guidance; catching them poring over a book and muttering "hearts, yes, easily done, I do have several no one is using anymore..." you have to explain it's paper hearts, and not actual ones, but they're a fast learner. And they do so enjoy planning, so their staff all receive a detailed schedule and meticulously thought out arrangements, what pieces of furniture go where to make room for decorations, what times the meals are to be served... They approach the whole affair like they're planning a siege, stockpiling food and giving orders for their estate to be decorated like they're planning its defenses, and not holiday decorations. All the while they wear that wide smile and that obvious joy in their eyes; it's endearing, if eccentric. So, instead of stopping them, you join them, the two of you become a a force to be reckoned with, extending your efforts to the palace. When it's time for the holiday meal, everyone shows up - and you realize that the usually solitary Valdemar extended invitations to all your friends and loved ones, because it would make you happy. So as you sit at the table together, you hold their hand and smile at them, which they return. When you have a moment to yourselves, they wordlessly hand you their gift - it is a book, with a neat, dark cover; you open it to see pages of narrow, orderly writing. It takes you a moment to recognize their handwriting. You have no time to read it with all your friends around you, sharing food and happily talking. But you see enough to understand - they gave you their journal, started on the day they met you. People misunderstand too often, thinking that because the outward displays of affection aren't as prominent in your relationship, it is somehow lacking. Those people couldn't be more wrong. In your hands, you hold pages upon pages of all the things Valdemar loves about you. You are surrounded with the proof of their affection, their dedication. "Volume one," they explain, their eyes lingering on the tome in your hands before they settle on your face, and their sharp smile widens with sheer joy. "The first of many to come." And tucked between the final pages, crafted with otherworldly skill - a little paper heart.

Volta

The changes to the Procurator's personality in the few weeks leading up to the winter holidays are... alarming. Where you'd once be invited to almost every meal - and several picnics - throughout the day, these few days she's been... reclusive. "Otherwise occupied," her servants tell you. Worried about the Procurator, you resolve to confront her and find out more about what has been keeping her so busy. You are a guest at her estate so often that the staff treats you as if you lived there... and maybe you do, with how much time you and Volta have been spending together... but you wander the long, cluttered hallways without anyone questioning your presence there. Her staff - mostly comprised of cooks and other kitchen staff - are busy with the upcoming meal. They always are. But Volta is nowhere to be found... until you hear the familiar sound of her footsteps from a long-disused hall. Covered furniture looms in the semi-darkness - the fireplace is the only source of light. Chests and shelves and piles of clothing from ages past, from every corner of the world, fill the otherwise cavernous room. And there, amidst all those things, is Volta - her dress is stained with paint, and she is running an unfinished, gold-embroidered, translucent shawl through her hands with an anguished expression on her face. You call her name quietly and she almost jumps - like you'd caught her doing something forbidden. You do not have to insist much - she shares everything with you willingly, so she shares this, as well; try as she might, she could not find the perfect gift for you. So, she tried making one. Slowly, you take in the chaos around you - half-finished portraits, done by the Procurator's own hand. Half-finished garments, hundreds of hours of focus and effort gone into the stitches. Half-finished poems and unfinished recipes, sculptures half smooth lines and half rough clay. "Nothing," she confesses, her smile tearful and trembling as she looks up at you. "Nothing is good enough. And there is no time, anymore." Wordlessly, you embrace her; she'd spent so, so many hours crafting, sewing, painting, creating with you on her mind. You were, judging from her attempts at art all around you, her sole muse almost from the day she met you. None of the works are expertly made, but all are clearly made with love. Uneven brushstrokes of a loving hand, after all, make for a masterpiece much greater than a loveless heart could ever produce even if it belonged to a master artist. Embracing her, you realize that Volta had already given you a rather priceless gift; her love, her loyalty; and, through her art, countless hours with nothing but you in her thoughts. She has given you her trust. Her hope. Her heart.

Vlastomil

He starts worrying nearly two months in advance. Others fail to notice, but you notice how the Praetor has become distracted, sweeping papers off his desk when you enter his study, stopping on your walks to talk with merchants. It becomes clear what this is about, when you enter his study in search of him one day - he isn't here, but the window is open and the wind carries several sheets of papers right to your feet. You pick them up, scanning the neat, looping script in his handwriting, and the world spins when you realize this is a list of gifts - every single thing you mentioned you wanted, even in passing, no matter how ridiculously expensive. Usually, you'd not pry into whatever you come across in his study, but this? You have to confront him about this. You bring it up that evening, while you're having tea, and the moment you pull the paper out, his silvery eyes widen anxiously, darting from the paper in your hand to your face. He's... afraid? What could Praetor Vlastomil possibly be afraid of? With much - gentle but firm - insistence, the story comes to light: yes, he has been keeping a list of all the things you mentioned wanting, and yes, he commissioned and ordered many of those things, because he absolutely cannot find a gift worthy of you, and oh, he thinks you deserve the world. Besides, he isn't really... used to celebrating holidays, with people not usually wanting to be around him... Taking his hands, you smile and you explain to him that you don't need those things, that you need him. He's at a loss for words. But the next day, you find out from palace servants that the Praetor announced he would be unavailable all throughout the winter holidays - because he is spending them with you. And indeed, you spend those days at his estate - the decorating and cooking has all been taken care of by the staff, as Vlastomil wants no distractions. He wants to share all his hobbies with you, and he wants to learn all about yours - as well as to try new things together. You try your hand at painting, at playing the piano - Vlastomil spends more time holding your hand than playing - you read a book together in the evenings, and you make sure to pick a hilariously inappropriate play just to see him blush reading his lines. It finally sinks in what he's doing - your gift-related plea was heard, and what Vlastomil is trying to do is give you something that can't be bought. The things he is adamant you deserve - his time, his attention, his care. He is sharing with you endless gardening tips and worm care trivia because he wants to share with you all those fundamental things that make him, well... him. And he wants to learn about you. In truth, you've never seen the Praetor so vulnerable, so open, so enthusiastic; his smile so genuine and the look in his pale eyes one of sincere adoration. Of course, you still received way too many expensive gifts, but the greatest one? Curling up with him under a blanket, in front of the fireplace, with a book in his hands and a faint blush on his cheeks every time he looks at you as he reads a line where the hero speaks of love. He repeats that line. But this time, he puts the book away.

Vulgora

"You LIGHT THINGS ON FIRE? I LIKE THIS!" You smile with endless patience and more than a little amusement. "You light candles, Vulgora." It's been like that ever since you expressed the desire to spend the winter holidays with them. No wonder - Vulgora lived and breathed battle. And so, all the efforts they put into decorating and preparing for the holidays were just that - war. "Our decorations shall be a thousand times more brilliant than Nadia's." When they first made that solemn promise, their gauntleted hands clenched into fists and their golden eyes narrowed, you did not take it seriously. The next morning, you woke up to the entire estate covered with decorations - Vulgora elected to decorate instead of sleeping. The same thing happened with food - they were standing in the middle of the kitchens like an avenging angel, hands on their hips, issuing commands to the kitchen staff like a general on the battlefield. The large ladle they brandished like a weapon made more than a few of the servants wince, and you were at the very least grateful the ladle wasn't sharp as you gently pried it from their hands, laughing. Vulgora set out to give you the best possible holidays with single-minded determination, and they ran their estate like a monarch would run an army. You could do nothing to stop them - not that you wanted to - so you elected instead to follow them around, laughing good-naturedly at their unshakable determination. When the holidays finally arrived, passers-by would stop to look at Vulgora's estate in open-mouthed wonder - they seem to have acquired almost every single decoration available in Vesuvia. The stockpiles of holiday food were probably enough to feed a small army, and you could do nothing but laugh at Vulgora's brilliant, sharp, proud smile as they presented their accomplishments to you. Well, the holiday meal could always be moved from the palace to Vulgora's estate, you mused. That winter - with you at their side - was the first one Vulgora didn't spend alone. As the last guests said their goodbyes you found yourself alone with Vulgora; they took your hand to lead you out onto the balcony, crisp night air stinging your cheeks, but Vulgora's cloak was warm around your shoulders. There, they wordlessly handed you yet another gift - a box, beautifully carved and made from some dark red wood. The blade it contained wasn't a surprise, as beautiful and masterfully made as it was, breathtakingly expensive, its hilt decorated with gold and rubies. What surprised you was how well it fit your hand, how incredibly light it was - and yet by merely holding it you could tell it was deadly. It was a symbol as much as it was a weapon. The laughter, their bluster, was gone; replaced with something you couldn't quite define - a quiet determination. You gazed into Vulgora's golden eyes, understanding dawning on you. They didn't need to speak. You shared the silence in the falling twilight. But you understood what the blade in your hand meant. They were the blade, and you the hand that wields it. They were the will and you the purpose which drives it. You were their hope now. Their why. Without the other, both of you would feel so woefully incomplete, now that you knew there existed another who felt like the other half of you. Tugging their gauntlet off, they quietly intertwined their fingers with yours.

#Arcana imagines #Courtier imagines #Courtier headcanons #Consul Valerius #Quaestor Valdemar #Procurator Volta #Praetor Vlastomil #Pontifex Vulgora #Valerius x reader #Valdemar x reader #Volta x reader #Vlastomil x reader #Vulgora x reader #my writing #answered asks #food cw #I still have a few WIPs but this was a time-sensitive one #thank you for the kind words once more anon #also Vlastomil will always be my baby

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mnemememory · 6 years

Text

boom

Caleb literally trips over the answer to his dreams. On par with the rest of his life, it gives him a concussion.

(or; time travel - recommended for treatment of ongoing trauma)

fine part one on ao3 here and on tumblr here

Caleb literally trips over the answer to his dreams. On par with the rest of his life, it gives him a concussion.

Nott scrambles up from where she’s pouring acid into a vial. It sprays across the wooden floorboards and promptly begins to dissolve its way towards the first floor. Nott pays this very little mind, sprinting across the room at a breakneck pace and dropping to her knees next to Caleb’s still body.

“Caleb,” she says, pinching desperately at his cheeks. He groans, but refuses to open his eyes. Nott squeezes harder. There will be bruises, later. Very oddly shaped bruises.

“I don’t think –” Fjord begins to say, and then cuts himself off as Nott turns her wrathful gaze onto him.

“Go. Get. Jester.”

Fjord nods and hurries out of the room, trying to look as though the reason he’s rushing is because he’s worried about his friend. The homicidal, slightly manic look in Nott’s eyes does not bode well.

(Neither does the growing hole in their floor).

Nott turns her attention back to where Caleb is still on the ground, still groaning but not opening his eyes, still breathing (but for how long?). Nott presses her ear to his chest and listens to his heartbeat, her own sounding a little unsteady as blood roars through her ears.

Jester barges into the room, spells sparking pink on her fingertips, face a mask of blind panic.

“What happened?” she says, crouching next to Caleb and slapping him non-too gently in the face. The only reason Nott moves it because Jester is a healer, and also maybe because she could (theoretically) smack Nott by accident and send her flying into the wall. Jester tended to get a little…overenthusiastic, when she actually deigned someone bed off enough to be in need of her healing. It had happened before.

Nott points with a low hiss at the offending object – the dodecahedron, sitting out of Jester’s pink backpack, glowing faintly in the dim lighting. Caleb had taken it out to study, but had gotten frustrated halfway through and started pacing. Nott hadn’t been paying too much attention at that point, but now she wishes she had been.

From where Nott is sitting, it looks unbearably smug with the situation – insomuch as an inanimate (probably inanimate, Nott is onto it) object can express emotion. She kind of wants to grab it and throw it down the stairs.

Just as Jester is about to shock a spell into Caleb’s body, he gives a low gasp and lurches forward, eyes flying open. In his rush, he headbutts Jester, and is immediately knocked back onto the ground in a daze. Jester, unbalanced by the unexpectedness of the attack, falls onto her butt.

“I can see it,” Caleb rasps, reaching out to grab Jester’s wrist in a vice-like grip. “I can see it all. There’s – there’s so much of it, Jester, there’s –”

“FUCK!” someone yells, downstairs, as acid drips onto their head.

There are still only three cups.

“I thought I had more time,” Caduces says, mouth quirked slyly as he picks up his own cup of tea to take a long drink from it. They’re all piled outside his house in the cemetery, overgrown canopy dappling the sunlight green and grey. Most of them have found indifferent purchase on the graves, except for Molly, who is sitting on the ground. “I didn’t know when you would show up.”

Caleb’s smile is unbearably fond. “Never change,” he says.

Caduces gives them all a proper grin, teeth showing and eyes lazy. “Oh, I doubt that will be a problem,” he says. He looks at Molly. “And who is this? Your friend?”

“Your friend, too, now,” Nott says. She’s bundled herself next to Caduces to ward off the slight chill in the air, foregoing the tea in favour or something heavier.

“Of course,” Caduces says, face unchanging.

“Mollymauk Tealeaf, a pleasure to be at your acquaintance,” Molly says. He starts to get up, but Yasha just grabs the back of his ridiculous coat and pulls him back to the ground.

“Don’t bother,” she says, taking a small sip of tea. She passes the cup to Molly.

“Mr. Clay,” Caduces introduces himself, nodding his head in a slight bow. “This is just delightful. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“And I’ve certainly heard a lot about you,” Molly says, which isn’t exactly a lie per say, but they hadn’t really gone out of their way to explain…well, Caduces to him. Yasha had taken a tiny bit of savage glee in the jealousy generated from the pink mohawk. “Though I would certainly love to know just how you met my wonderful travelling companions. Everyone certainly seems very comfortable with each other.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Beau says through a yawn, basking in the sunlight. She had balanced herself between two graves – the names chipped clean, though the words “I TOLD YOU I WAS –” could be vaguely made out beneath the ivy – and was lying back with the kind of peace that can only be found in a graveyard, surrounded by friends. “I only met you a month ago.”

Molly squints at her suspiciously.

“I’ve heard only good things,” Caduces reassures him.

“…likewise,” Molly says, after a long moment. He drags out a showman smile, bigger than life and twice as wide. “When did you say the last time you left this place was, again?”

“It’s been – hmm – twenty seasons, now? Eighteen?”

“Okay, what the –”

Yasha leaves, as Yasha is want to do.

“I’ll be back in a month,” she says, the storm an intense backdrop to the glare she gives them all. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”

“We’ll try not to!” Nott says, giving her a quick hug. Molly has stopped reacting to these open displays of affection now, but Yasha can tell it still startles him in the moment. She has never been an overly affectionate person – that has always been Molly’s bit. Despite her own…slight…overprotectiveness of him, she’s managed to keep it together well enough to fool composure. If Yasha is anything, she is an actor.

(Somewhere along the way, she’s become something so much more).

Yasha crosses her arms and stares them down, daring any of them to even get a scratch while she’s gone. Then she turns to Molly.

“if you die,” she says, enunciating the words very clearly. “I will kill you.”

He arches an eyebrow and twists out a smirk. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, and reaches up to press a kiss to her cheek. “Like I would ever do that to you.”

Yasha looks back at the group, who all – to varying degrees – look as though they’ve been sucker-punched straight to the gut. What a dick, she thinks.

“If any of you die,” she begins.”

Beau rolls her eyes and shoves her forward, darting in front of her to brush a quick kiss over her lips. It’s over before Yasha has time to react.

“Get going, already,” she says. “We’ll still be around when you get back.”

Yasha goes.

(They’re still there when she gets back).

“Keg!”

“What the fuck?”

Keg jumps back a good fives paces as two overly enthusiastic (and five less enthusiastic but still present) bodies surround her. She’s tired, she hasn’t slept in a good two days, and she’s run out of booze. Today probably isn’t a good day to antagonise her.

“Oh, Keg,” Nott says, latching onto her arm and hugging her.

Keg stares down at the little halfling (is this a halfling? Keg can’t tell, the creepy mask is blocking pretty much everything) with undisguised horror. “What the fuck,” she says, again.

“It’s been so long!” Beau says, sweeping both Keg and Nott up with an impressive show of strength. Keg grunts and tries to wriggle out of their grasp, but despite getting in a good kick to the kidney, Beau doesn’t let go.

“Who are you?” Keg yells.

“I’m so glad this isn’t just me,” someone tall and purple says off to the corner of her peripheral. Keg chooses to ignore that, because she has more pressing concerns. Namely, what the actual fuck.

They pick up someone who can turn into a horse, because of course they do.

Keg doesn’t even know if she’s supposed to be surprised by anything anymore. Honestly, it’s all just one massive alcohol-fuelled blur at this point.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

Molly turns slowly to face Yasha, who is looking at him with the kind of crazy eyes he’s been seeing more and more often the longer they stay with this group of rabid maniacs. No offense intended – he enjoys the odd rabid maniac as much as the next person (probably more, if he’s going to be honest) – but Molly isn’t sure he’s enjoying just how much Yasha is being dragged in. He’s used to the almost claustrophobic (but not quite) closeness that she radiates simply by being in the same room; warmth, really. Molly has had so little warmth.

This does seem a bit excessive, though.

“Into the house?” he says, gesturing vaguely with his sword. On the other side of the compound, Nott is murdering a set of guards with the kind of stealth Beau wishes that she possessed.

“I don’t think so,” Yasha says.

“What? Why?”

“Yasha points to a log. “Sit. Stay.”

Molly gapes at her. “I most certainly will not!”

“Shh,” Fjord says, off to the side. “We are trying to be sneaky.”

“You as well,” Yasha says. She hasn’t stopped pointing.

“Nice try, Yasha.”

Yasha shrugs and then goes back to glaring at Molly, which is almost a reflex these days. Molly still isn’t sure what he did to warrant such an extreme reaction, but as soon as he figures it out he’s going to fix it.

He still isn’t entirely sure how they ended up here, anyway. They had met the delightful Keg on their way back from Shady Creek Run with Caduces ambling along with them, only to immediately turn heel and start back towards the (veritable) hellhole as soon as they met up with Keg. Almost certainly planned, Molly thinks darkly – or he would, if Keg didn’t exist in such an obvious and perpetual state of confusion.

“If I told you,” Fjord says with an easy kind of confidence. “That this was a one-off, trauma-based paranoia, and we would never, ever ask you to sit out of a fight like this again – would you concede to staying behind?”

“Absolutely not,” Molly says. “The only way you’re keeping me out of this is if you tie me to a tree.”

They tie him to a tree.

“You shouldn’t worry so much about it,” Caduces says, when they’re heading back (for real, this time) and their shared watch drags long. “They’re – well – they’re only worried about you, you know. It’s almost endearing.”

Molly bares his teeth and lashes out his tail, frustration building hot. “I’m not helpless,” he says.

“No,” Caduces agrees.

Molly flicks him a narrow look. “But you agree with them.”

“In this case, yes,” Caduces says. “But, well, only because they would have been very distracted with you there. You have noticed that, right? That you’re very distracting?”

“I am aware,” Molly says. It’s a struggle to keep a smile fixed in place, but that’s nothing new. At every turn, his new travelling companions are finding new and impossible ways to dazzle him with their bullshit. It’s an impressive feat, since he finds them so delightful that he doesn’t even mind it half the time.

“It won’t happen again,” Caduces says. “I’ll, well – I’d better talk to them about it. It is getting a little silly.”

“Just a bit,” Molly says.

They sit together in warm, companionable silence, watching over their sleeping friends and waiting for morning to come.

They’re thrown out of the inn.

It isn’t one they frequent very often, which is probably why Nott’s little “accident” comes as such a surprise. Anywhere they stay at for more than a week is bound to take at least some wear and tear – something that usually comes out of their shared budget. A lot of their regular holes are just charging upfront for damages, now, which is probably for the best.

“So what do we did we lean from this?” Fjord says. He still looks slightly stunned from the ferocity of their departure. The managed had actually come down from his office and loudly counted “one, two, three, four…” outside of their doors as they had scrambled to gather everything together, culminating in a shouting “YOUR FIVE MINUTES ARE UP!” and a swift boot to the backside. Nominating Jester to be the one to smooth things over had, in hindsight, been a bad idea.

“Absolutely nothing,” Caduces says, looking a little disgruntled at hanging been working up so rudely. Naps always did wonders for his composure, and a lack of sleep was an unfortunate necessity while travelling on the roads that had lead to this town.

“I need to get some things,” Caleb says, visibly dazed. There’s an ugly bruise forming high on his temple, and his eyes gleam with a frenzied sheen that seems to have very little to do with his recent (possibly ongoing?) concussion. “We should – go buy some – I should go and –”

Someone clears their throat pointedly behind them.

Caleb turns around to see Beau glaring at the group, leading Yasha forward by the hand. She looks simultaneously unimpressed and unsurprised.

“We’ve only been here three hours,” she says.

Her presence seems to have snapped Caleb out of his state of confusion, only for mania to take hold. “I have so much work to do!” he shouts, waving his arms around like a crazy person. Then he runs off.

They all stare after him for a long second.

“Not it,” Beau says, finger on her nose.

“You can’t be –”

“NOT IT!” Jester yells.

“Not it.”

“I’ll go find him,” Nott huffs, storming after Caleb without a backwards glance.

Here’s the thing: on his knees on the floor of their (new) shared inn room, his friends curled up in unconscious grumpy balls along the wall, Caleb has no idea what he’s doing.

Somehow, it works out anyway.

#critical role #critical role campaign 2 #caleb widogast #mollymauk tealeaf #caduceus clay #beauregard #yasha #jester #fjord #the mighty nein #time travel fix it #i think i'm funny #peak comedy here guys #series: black powder #part 2 #crack treated with vague seriousness #fanfic #my writing #2.4k

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bachelorette-pnw · 6 years

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Season 14, Episode 3: “Second childhood”

This week’s two main plot points were a contrived meeting between Colton and Tia (snooze) and the sad departure of Clay, who was genuinely a standout hubby candidate and nice person. The contrast between Clay—a sweet, family-oriented man who is willing to be vulnerable and soft in front of other men—and Reek (the male model), a physical embodiment of toxic masculinity, was particularly striking this week. There were a lot of puffed-up chests, shoulder-clapping, and high-fiving. Pushups and sports. It was an Old Spice wet dream.

Reek exists to remind the other men in the mansion how to abide by masculine norms, calling people ‘bitches’ when they fall out of line and generally being horrible. If a medieval sculptor wanted to create an allegorical figure that embodied Toxic Masculinity to set beside Synagogia and Philosophia, Reek would be it. His greatest crime, though, according to the other men, is how much time he spends picking out his clothes. In other words, they code his flaws as feminine and react to his outbursts with amusement rather than antagonism; they are not threatened.

Reek gets a rose:

A particularly telling moment about this attitude toward femininity takes place in the spa, when Becca’s girlfriends cheerfully paint the men’s nails (a moment of gender play we all remember from high school, a way of testing boys’ sense of security). The men put up with the exercise because they think it is comical: Isn’t it silly to try to look pretty as a man? Isn’t being a girl stupid? Hardly an attitude that seems appropriate when the goal is to win over a woman, but there you go. In The Bachelorette universe, nail polish on men does not signify a loosening gender binary, but rather a joke about how humiliating it is to come across as feminine. Reek overcompensates for his pickiness about clothing by calling men ‘bitches,’ tearing into Chicken Suit Guy for being a wuss, emphasizing his ‘professionality’ in dealing with women (as if they are transactions to be handled), and generally abiding by the more sinister features of toxic bro code.

Yes, he is wearing a chicken suit:

Speaking of bro code: David, our venture capitalist Chicken Suit Guy, overhears Reek telling a ridiculous story about his 100% match rate after 4,000 swipes on Tinder. Chicken Guy decides to tell this to Becca; he is a child telling on someone to a teacher. He speaks almost in a whisper, face and hand gestures like a sculpture titled, ‘So lame, right?’ Later, Becca high-fives Reek in front of the group, congratulating him on his conquests, and he feels burned. Reek is the villain, no doubt, yet he comes off looking good by comparison. Chicken Guy looks around for reassurance: ‘You all thought what he was saying was ridiculous? Right, guys? Right?’ But Chicken Guy broke the bro code, rule 112, stating ‘thou shalt not divulge to women the dealings of men.’ Reek was being particularly stupid by bragging about his match rate on a show where he is supposedly trying to meet a soulmate. You never see him having a one-on-one with the camera talking about how ‘he really thinks he is falling for her’ (most of them do it and we want to throw garbage at them). But, competition aside, Chicken Guy’s betrayal threatens the men: he removed a safe space for everyone. They need to be able to talk about the gross stuff they need to talk about. You know, locker room talk. Grab ‘em by the pussy kind of stuff. Becca probably deserves to know that some of these dudes are assholes (though let’s be honest, she already knows; Reek is fooling no one but Reek). Even so, Chicken Guy is shunned because he divulged the foolish ramblings of one man to a woman. It is as though they all know they are full of shit, collectively, and someone broke rank. That’s not how this works, Chicken Guy, we are here to win someone (or something in Reek’s case). Winning is more important than emotion.

Fan favorite and all around real person Clay:

The group dates reinforce the importance of physical prowess, whereas the one-on-one dates force emotional vulnerability. Clay unfortunately falls victim to the physical competition of the group date and breaks his wrist during a football game, which sucks because he is actually an NFL player and needs his wrist to work. He is carried home on the sacrificial altar of bro code. His departure is telling: here is this BFG (big friendly giant, big fucking dude, whatever you want) who by all accounts shouldn’t be on the show. He is friendly and sincere, earnest and vulnerable. He is does not appear overly bright, nor does he appear overly dim. This is his biggest strength. He seems to care sincerely about the going-ons of the other competitors, who would eagerly feed this teddy bear through a meat grinder if it meant they could hump Becca’s leg for 30 seconds. While all of these other doofy bros twiddle their finely-manicured mustaches and bump into walls, Clay simply is. His strategy is that he is Clay and he likes Becca. Butterflies land on him as he reads the Bible in a park. He is not very exciting, but so what? He is as constant as the North Star.

In contrast to this effective display of physical prowess, Chad—or no, Chris—we literally can’t keep all these white bros straight—is put to the test of emotional vulnerability during a one-on-one date at Capitol Records. The minimum requirement of a ‘one-on-one’ is to open up about your past, your family life, your relationships, to lay on the table all your various hang-ups from previous experiences and beg for understanding. (Preferably before tongue kissing). The more baggage the better, as long as you cop to it. ChadChris struggles with this because his dad left when he was seven and rejected his attempts to reunite later. In other words, Chris’s emotional toolbox is fucked. But he has to do well: if Becca doesn’t give him a rose at dinner, he will have to go home, missing out on his only chance at love. He slumps in the hallway of Capitol Records, full of anguish. There is real pain here and it sucks to watch. Becca snuggles up for a pep talk, reminding us of a mom encouraging her adolescent son. He finds the courage to write a sweet song for her and passes the test.

We have mixed feelings about getting vulnerable on first dates. On the one hand it makes sense because the contestants have a limited amount of time to get to know each other, and ‘opening up’ early on is really the only way to ramp up to a proposal that feels authentic at the end. But in this environment, opening up to another person doesn’t happen naturally, as it would in real life—it has to happen on the first date. These circumstances create an uncomfortable pressure that violates the rules of consent. You HAVE TO talk about your childhood and past relationships and be vulnerable or you will be kicked off. In a world that shames men for expressing emotions, this message is very damaging: a person should never be required to be vulnerable on command, to shed their protective walls when they are in a state of threat. Those walls are there for a reason. See a therapist! Forcing someone to open up in this way is wrongful. It teaches us that the woman in the relationship is responsible for, or in control of, a man’s ability to express vulnerability; she dictates when and where he does it, and he must do it for her benefit, not his own. For example, if a guy expresses his jealousy during the cocktail party, resenting having to share Becca with other men, she tells him that it’s just part of the process and he has to buckle up. Emotional vulnerability happens in prearranged spaces as a test of a man’s adherence to the contrived progression of the relationship, remaining a tool in the hands of women. How progressive is that?

The thrill of watching these men be horrible to each other is, we have to admit, part of the fun. If the show was all Clay all day it would be boring. In a way, voyeurism allows us to maintain a separation between what we consider to be the fantasy world of the show and real life. We are determined, as viewers, to be skeptical of the process because we don’t want to ruin our own ideals of courtship. If it is true that a person is able to find Neruda-esque love on a show like this, then we, in the real world, are doing it all wrong, casting about randomly for a mate when things could be arranged. Could you find love like this? If enough data about you and your interests and values were all accurately mapped, and potential suitors chosen from that criteria? And all you had to do was put up with the idiots who make the show interesting? What if The Bachelorette producers actually love the idea of love? A manufactured environment where men have to compete with you and are forced to say nice things all the time—that’s actually a pretty nice fantasy for a single woman. It’s an appealingly simplified way of finding love. You go on several romantic, very expensive dates, you open up and feel refreshingly vulnerable, you make out, and BOOM you’re ready to get engaged. Nobody is ever busy; nobody ghosts you. There’s no one else in the world except some villains trying to keep you apart. It’s like Disney.

The show knows it is ridiculous. They are kind of inviting you bring a bat and hit the piñata. They have built their very own Disney playground where forty Gastons vie for Belle’s affection on a weekly basis, with some WWE theatrics thrown in. Much like Disney, the behavior and overwhelming lack of people of color makes the show almost like vintage satire: wealthy ruffians engage in fisticuffs for the admiration of a fine southern belle. It is hard to know if the show is kidding or not. We hope the departure of Mr. Congeniality is not a bad omen.

#the bachelorette #the bachelor abc #masculinity #love #becca kufrin #feminism

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