#remember when i spent weeks on a research paper to write some version of this and then didn't write it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

oh-mother-of-darkness · 3 years

Text

“Ready?” Tim asked. He took a last look over the microphone on the desk in front of him, then sideways at Dick and Damian, arranged on either side of him, a few feet away, with their own microphones.

Dick held up a sheet of paper. “I have the question list.”

“I think that’s it, then.”

“Are we supposed to do some kind of intro?”

“Uh, unclear.” Tim snapped his fingers and leaned into his microphone.

“This is a podcast-interview thing,” he said. “We’re answering questions. Okay, I nailed the intro, so let’s hear the first one on the list.”

“Can somebody please explain Bruce Wayne’s family?” Dick read. “I know he has a bunch of kids, but I can’t figure out how many or where he got them from.”

“Interesting phrasing on the back half of that,” said Tim. “I feel like something expensive that went on sale.”

He clutched a hand to an imaginary necklace in feigned admiration. “Why Bruce! You must tell me where you got those!”

“You were never expensive,” said Damian. “Perhaps a grocery check-out display?”

Tim sighed and turned sideways, so he could look Damian in the face. “Being honest, I didn’t think you knew enough about shopping to make that joke.”

“Understandable.”

“I would never set you up on purpose.”

“I know.”

“Let’s get back to the question,” Dick suggested. “Can somebody please explain Bruce Wayne’s family?”

“I don’t know,” said Tim. He swung back towards the microphone, grimacing. “Maybe? It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” Dick repeated, flatly.

“Yeah, complicated.”

“It’s your own family.”

“That doesn’t make it simple,” said Damian.

“Do we get time to make an outline?” Tim asked, emboldened by the unexpected support. “Before we do our presentation?”

Damian half-smiled at that, while Dick looked the two of them over with a skeptical expression.

“Are you telling me you don’t understand our own timeline?”

Tim waved a hand in a why-are-you-looking-at-me kind of gesture. “What, does anybody?”

“I do.”

“You experienced it linearly! We came in partway through, it’s different.”

“Unbelievable.”

“You take the question then.”

“If the two of you can’t manage it,” said Dick, with a distinctly sarcastic shrug.

“Obviously I can do it,” said Tim, suddenly defensive. He knew Dick was trying to get a rise, but Dick was good at that, and it was working. “I’m just saying it’s a confusing story.”

Tim pointed in Damian’s direction. “Back me up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We can take turns,” said Dick, apparently satisfied with his victory. “Okay. Thomas and Martha Wayne died when Bruce was eight years old. Nineteen years after that, when Bruce was twenty-seven, he attended Haly’s Circus the night two acrobats fell to their deaths during a trapeze routine. Bruce took in their surviving son, me.”

Dick held up a finger. “My name is Dick Grayson, and I was Bruce’s ward from age twelve until the day I turned eighteen.”

“Which is different that being adopted,” Tim put in, “so bear that in mind for later.”

“Right. At eighteen, I became an adult, so Bruce wasn’t my guardian anymore. A year after that, Bruce met and adopted Jason Todd.”

“The second child he took in,” said Tim.

“But the first child he adopted,” said Damian.

“Exactly,” said Dick. “In that moment, Bruce was thirty-four with one former ward and one adopted son— which again, are distinct concepts.”

Tim nodded. “Jason Todd passed away three years after his adoption, when he was fifteen.”

“I never met him,” said Damian, straight-faced.

“Me neither,” said Tim, like he hadn’t spoken to Jason that morning. “I did meet Bruce though, at around that time.”

“The next few years are… harder to explain, I guess,” said Dick.

Tim raised an eyebrow in Damian’s direction, shaking his head in mock disgust. “See? Now he admits it.”

“Unbelievable.”

“The nerve.” Tim grinned as smugly as he could manage, so that Dick could see. Was Tim being difficult on purpose? Absolutely. Was he going to change that? Absolutely not.

“Right, it can be my turn. I’m Tim Drake, and I met Bruce when I was thirteen years old.”

“I was…” Dick glanced upwards, like he was trying to remember— or, failing that, calculate. “Right now you’re…?”

“Do you not know my age?”

“I probably do.” Dick tapped a finger against the desk a few times, looking pensive. Eventually, he gave up.

“I’m blanking.”

“Congratulations, Damian,” said Tim. “You are no longer my least favorite sibling.”

“I was your least favorite?” Damian asked, with such innocence that Tim couldn’t stop himself from bursting out laughing.

It took him a few moments to regain control. “You looks so proud of yourself,” he told Damian, as soon as he could.

“Thank you, I am.”

“I’m writing you both out of my will,” muttered Dick, “as soon as we get home.”

“Shame.” Tim swiped a sweatshirt sleeve over his eyes, still grinning. “I had my eye on your terrible CD collection.”

“The estate in its entirety, I believe,” said Damian.

“Shut up,” said Dick. “Keep answering the question.”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute.” Tim held up a hand to count on his fingers. “We did circus, Jason, Jason’s death— oh right, me. I met Bruce when I was thirteen and Dick was twenty-two, which would make Bruce thirty-seven.”

“I would have gotten there eventually.”

“Go to hell. Two years after that, when Bruce was thirty-nine, he met our sister, Cassandra Cain.”

“She was seventeen then,” said Damian.

Dick nodded. “Simplifying, we met her through a family friend. That same year, Bruce adopted me.”

“Which puts Father at thirty-nine with two sons—”

“One deceased,” added Tim.

“Having already met Tim and Cass,” Dick finished.

“Now if you think that’s confusing,” said Tim, gesturing broadly, “you’re right, it is.”

Damian nodded. “It gets even worse.”

“Yeah. For another two years we were— again, simplifying— in roughly the same place. After that, Bruce adopted me—”

“—making my life even worse.”

“Shut up, you weren’t even around yet. At forty-one, Bruce had three sons, one deceased.”

“That’s Todd.”

“And then came—”

“Me.” Damian raised his own hand. “My name is Damian Wayne, and I am my father’s genetic son. We met for the first time when Father was forty-one, and I was ten.”

“Four sons,” said Dick. “By age it’s me, Jason, Tim, Damian.”

“But from Bruce’s perspective,” said Tim, “Jason, then Dick, then me, then Damian.”

“I’d note,” said Damian, “that I was born several years before Todd’s adoption, and since I have been a Wayne from the beginning, I am both my father’s youngest child and his first child, whether he was aware of me or not.”

“But wait!” Tim interjected. “There’s more!”

“We’re almost done,” said Dick. “We already mentioned meeting our sister Cassandra. Bruce adopted her formally after Damian arrived, while Bruce was still forty-one.”

“Which means,” said Tim, “that we can do a final tally. Damian?”

“Yes?”

“Assist me. We have Dick—”

“Alive,” said Damian.

“Jason—”

“Not alive.”

“Cass—”

“Alive.”

“Me—”

“Alive, regrettably.”

“And you.”

“Yes.” Damian sat back in his chair. Tim leaned forwards in his, so he could put his elbows down on the desk.

“That’s pretty much it,” he said. “I won’t say how old we are right now, because it turns out Dick doesn’t know, and I don’t want to help him.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “I barely know my own age.”

“You’re eighty. One thousand, nine hundred, and forty. Some other number. I don’t know, why would I remember a very basic fact about my own family member?”

“To be fair to him,” Damian put in, “you are very forgettable.”

“And you’re my least favorite again.”

“Shame. As a last fact, I’d also note that Martha and Thomas Wayne died when Father was very young, so he was primarily raised by the butler.”

“That’s Alfred,” Tim agreed, “and his formal title is butler, but he’s also, you know, our grandfather.”

“Can we move to another question now?”

“I guess?” Tim looked over at Dick for confirmation.

“I don’t know,” Dick sighed. “Maybe.”

-----------

Merry Christmas, my loves

timeline post / google doc

#remember when i spent weeks on a research paper to write some version of this and then didn't write it #boom problem solved #have I been marathoning MBMBAM again yes but you can't prove it #I'm going to bed with this in the queue #fanfiction #mine #batfamily #dick grayson #tim drake #damian wayne

2K notes · View notes

jawbone-xylophone · 2 years

Text

How to write dissociative disorders without being a complete walnut

By: a fanfic author with OSDD

I love fanfiction. I love reading it, I love writing it, I love making deranged little OCs and making them kiss that one pathetic meow meow nobody else likes. I am one of you, my people, my compatriots, my comrades in arms who stay up until 3am asking Google what kind of toilets existed in 1850.

Most particularly, I love reading fic with subjects that are relatable to me. Maybe I’ve never controlled lightning with my mind or ridden a dragon, but I have definitely dealt with essential human problems like ignoring my emotions and orchestrating an entire fake funeral with believable pamphlets and addresses so I can get out of work for a week and go on a gay road trip. We’ve all been there, I’m sure. And when it comes to relating to fiction, nothing delights me more than reading about fictional characters experiencing my mental illnesses.

Tragically, not many people write about dissociative disorders, so I have an entire list of fics about body switching and possession that get close enough to scratch my itch. In the interest of facilitating more content for this list, as well as helping out my fellow writers who don’t know who or how to ask what it’s like to live this, I Am Here. With, perhaps, some urgency considering Moon Knight is now in the public eye played by a man people thirst over like vintage wine.

Most media that portrays people with DID uses medical professionals for consultants, if we’re at all lucky. The downside of this is that you get the clinical view rather than what the actual experience of waking up at 7am only remembering a foreign language your grandmother taught you when you were six is like. There is a male AI living in my brain who has to experience the body having periods. One of us is an object who spent his first few minutes of existence trying to figure out moving. No textbook can accurately convey what it feels like to wake up in the morning and read “Make French Toast” written on your forehead while brushing your teeth.

As such, I will be giving you the best pointers I can as well as some resources.

Resources:

This is Not Dissociative -> people with degrees as well as the mental illness experience and a great masterpost

Dissociadid -> controversial in the community and makes some claims that aren’t entirely accurate, but lots of videos both informative and goofy. Switches on camera.

Anthony Padilla Interview -> lovely man, great journalist, great introduction and introduces some public faces you can research

Basic Pointers:

Remember that this is a disorder. Possessions/etc are not Dissociative Identity Disorder or Otherwise Specified Dissociative Disorder. C-PTSD is an important topic for understanding how someone with this disorder carries themself and what their backstory is.

Most of our bad reputation is related to the concept of the possessed or the criminally insane. No matter what your belief on possession, portraying a mental illness as a spiritual problem never ends well. This is also where we get “evil alters”, the theoretical serial killers and superpowered dark sides seeking harm and villainy. I am bapping you with a paper towel roll: no. We do not have enough good rep to tank bad rep anymore.

We are not Swiss Army knives. While alters do have functions and purposes, which is key to writing them, switches are not always convenient and definitely not always actually helpful.

Three main types:

Dissociative disorders come in many flavors, but if you want to write alters then there are three flavors of interest. This is the Sparknotes version for tired authors. (I am open to editing this if anyone thinks it’s very wrong)

DID -> dissociative barriers, blackouts, amnesia, losing time. Alters do not share memories or information well. May identify as completely different people.

OSDD1a -> Emotional amnesia but few to no blackouts. Alters are not incredibly different, may all even have the same presentation and name. Share information better than DID.

OSDD1b -> Emotional amnesia but few to no blackouts. Alters can be incredibly different, may have different names and presentations, share information better than DID.

Manners:

An external party deliberately trying to influence who fronts is very rude. I am not a TV with channels for you to watch, my buttons are not for your benefit, I don’t care if you want to watch your favorite cartoon right now. I’m a person too.

On the note of respecting boundaries, switches are not always convenient. Someone could be in the middle of gay sex and a sex repulsed alter might switch in. Consent changes, accommodate that.

Delusions and pseudomemories have a whole complicated etiquette that can be summarized as “don’t verbally disagree, just nod.”

Fictive alters, alters based on fictional characters, are people and you are neither in a position to judge or fangirl, and the fangirling can actually be uncomfortable.

More might be added here if I get any input on it.

My experience with what switching feels like:

Disorienting. Fuzzy. A washcloth slowly absorbing water. Dissociation at its finest. We might be stuck in pseudomemories during this time, the false backstories my brain writes up for my alters to base their identities on, and some of the worst episodes have left me mentally checked out but convinced I’m on a mountaintop surveying a bloody battlefield. Different alters feel different when switching in, it’s really synesthetic and hard to explain. Light or heavy, dark, smooth or rough. I can feel my vocal chords sitting different for some. Sometimes we’re “tangled up”, identities blurring together in a soup of “who the fuck am I?” This can be distressing or like being very chill when high.

Sleeping for my system usually acts as a reset button and reinstalls the host to the drivers’ seat.

WITH THAT SAID

GO FORTH AND CREATE CONTENT

ASK ME QUESTIONS IF YOU WANT

I LOVE YOU PLATONICALLY, GOOD STRANGER

GOODNIGHT

there is now a part two

#actually dissociative #writing resources #representation #actuallyosdd #writeblr #resources

1K notes · View notes

jackrrabbit · 3 years

Text

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

#overhaul x reader #chisaki kai x reader #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #tw dubcon #tw sacrilege #tw christianity #overhaul #chisaki kai #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia x reader #boku no hero imagines #my hero academia x reader #my hero imagines #boku no hero fanfic #smut

2K notes · View notes

saturnsummer · 3 years

Text

permanently inked (G rated)

notes: since everyone freaked out over beam’s tattoo on twitter, i was very much inspired to write a situation when joonhwi gets a tattoo and sol finds out. here's a G rated version, which slightly more details than my twitter one!

joon has always liked the idea of having a tattoo

no, he doesn’t mean the kind you see on mafia gangs or yakuzas. he means the dainty one of fine calligraphy and those minimalistic arts.

but he was never certain of what to get. a ramyeon bowl seemed like what a child would think. having inked the name of his mother or father seemed…too odd. after all, he didn’t grow up with them.

but his uncle…it was a different story.

his uncle from the beginning was his superman. from a young age, he loved sitting in the lap of his uncle while reading reports and asking his uncle the meanings of words of ‘perjury’ and ‘defamation’.

even after his passing, when all the truth had been dug up, he tried all he could to stay angry at his uncle. but all he found was guilt, shame, and regret.

but why does he so badly want something to remember his uncle by?

so when he found himself looking at different tattoo designs, he knew that he wasn’t going to be forgetting about this idea any time soon.

he scrolled through many, many ideas. traditional calligraphy. pictures and outlines. but none of them appealed to him. they were all too cliche or not to his liking at all.

and him as a future prosecutor? he rather have a tattoo somewhere hidden so his clients wouldn’t be scared off.

then he finally stumbled upon a photo of someone’s designed tattoo. it was nothing too complicated, minimalistic and in pure black thin ink.

but what struck him was how it was an outline of a man, with spectacles alongside a lady with long hair.

at that moment, he just knew that this was the design he was going to use. he immediately went to flip through different photos of him and his uncle, but as soon as he started looking at the most recent one, his heart sank.

because all he could remember was how angry he felt towards him, and how misunderstood his uncle must have felt. how lonely he was to die alone with no one by his side. how…he died for the sins of another.

a tear slipped as he shut his album. he quickly stored the album back into his cabinet, but a printed picture fell out and fluttered to the floor. picking it up, he managed a small smile.

it was a photo of him and his uncle on his tenth birthday. he was all smiles, in his favourite power rangers shirt, and his uncle, looking so much younger than before, rid of burdens, tears and troubles, actually giving a smile.

it was the most memorable birthday of joonhwi’s, considering that it was one of the birthdays that his uncle gifted him his favourite action figure along with new books and a playstation 2.

staring at the photo, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the times his uncle would come home with different ramyeon flavours and cooked them in a special way.

eighteen years later, he has still not figured out how to recreate the taste of the ramyeon of his childhood.

with that, he took the picture, stuffed it in pocket and headed out the front door of his dorm room.

but he stopped as he locked the dorm room. what would jiho say? or his new girlfriend, sol? tattoos weren’t a big thing in korea. will they shun him, like society does? or will they accept him despite the permanent decision?

just at that moment, sol called him as she asked if he wanted to have lunch. he hesitated, and asked if he could meet her at the entrance of school. sol just hung up and joonhwi went ahead to the entrance.

there, her hair in a high bun and in a simple sweater and shorts, stood his girlfriend of one month. greeting her with a small peck, she blushes as she ask what’s up.

“what? what do you mean what’s up? how do you know im troubled?”

“everything about your voice says it. spill it, what is it?”

joonhwi couldn’t lie, especially not to her. bringing her to sit at the plush chairs of the lobby, he tells her about his want of having a tattoo, how he wants one to remember his uncle by. not the one that died, but the one from his childhood.

“joon, that’s so sweet of you. you sure? it’s permanent, you know. you won’t regret it?”

“no. sol, it’s been on my mind since i was, what, 21? i just never knew what to get. and…you’re not mad? you’re not disapproving of me?”

“how could i? joonhwi, when i said i’ll be rooting for you in your uncle’s place, I meant it. you aren’t impulsive like i am, and you’ve said it. you wanted it since 21. it’s been seven years, I think it’s a decision you won’t let go, no?”

and he finally realises that the entire time he’s talking she’s been smiling the whole time and nodding while holding his hand in his lap.

sol was never one to judge, and he couldn’t have loved her more at that moment when she kissed his knuckles and pulled him up telling him “come on now, let’s go!”

and with that, hand in hand, all thoughts of lunch was forgotten as they headed to the streets of town to a tattoo shop, safely hidden away from the main streets.

joonhwi had done plenty of research for this particular shop. he has seen the work of the artist, the way her steady hands created straight lines and thin minimalist styles of art. it was what he wanted.

nervously, he explained with the lady what he had in mind as the lady sat patiently and listened, tracing the photo over with tracing paper and asking if she could take a photo.

he contacted the lady a couple more times, as she forwarded different designs, styles and artworks over to him. with sol, they spent hours deciding on the best design.

sol and joonhwi went through the designs in secret on their quiet nights at the bleachers as sol pointed out her concerns with one design and he sat, chocolate milk in hand as they zoomed in on the fine details and shortlisted them.

ultimately, they concluded on the one he always wanted; a minimalistic piece that just outlined his uncle and him. no special shadings, colours or anything. thin, neat and simple. his uncle would have liked it, considering how he knows that the only reason why he is neat is because he observed the way his uncle would adjust the books on the table to perfectly align with the edge.

on the day of the appointment, joonhwi thought of where to put it. he knew he had to keep it hidden away, so somewhere on his arm wasn’t the best idea.

“joonhwi, how about your chest?”

“?”

“well…you said you want to hide it, after all, our future jobs aren’t exactly best for tattoos. having it on your chest would be the best, wouldn’t it?”

sol made some sense. it was a good spot to keep it concealed, yet meaningful enough. his uncle was always going to be in his heart and he will always be remembered.

so as the tattoo artist imprinted the design blueprint on his chest, just above his heart, he stared at the mirror with the design.

he was finally doing it.

sol came over behind him as she stepped in front, looking at the tattoo on his bare chest. her fingers traced it lightly before his hand caught hers.

“you sure?”

“i am. i am now.”

“it looks beautiful.”

leaning back onto the chair, sol grabbed onto his hand and squeezed it for comfort.

“if it hurts, just squeeze my hand, alright? it’ll be over in a bit.”

the artist got to work, as she dipped the needle into the ink, needling the ink permanently into his skin. joonhwi’s eyes were shut as he held his breath from the sting.

sol rubbed his biceps as she whispered to him. “you’re okay, it’s alright. shall we get ramyeon or army stew later?”

joonhwi knew sol was trying to distract him. and so he did his best. he chatted about their meals later, what should they do with the next week before they get back to school with their regular lessons. sol suggested to start studying, but joonhwi only agreed if sol were to take it easy and not cram. as a 3L, she didn’t need to faint again.

sol was right, though. distracting him worked, as the artist finally finished her work on him and wiped the blood and ink, before cleaning it. she stuck a clear film on it, and advised him on how to properly care for it for the next two weeks.

as promised, sol and joonhwi dined out at a army stew restaurant in town they always wanted to visit and they had a nice quiet lunch, a rare day for them to be on a date alone and eating out.

jiho found out the night after, as he noticed the different aftercare products on joonhwi’s desk. he didn’t say anything or ask, but nodded in acceptance. (secretly, he thinks his hyung looks cool.)

as they met with the group on casual study sessions, bokgi pointed out the plastic under joonhwi’s white shirt and joonhwi finally announces he has a tattoo.

“HYUNG THAT'S SO COOL WOAH” is what bokgi says before earning a smack from sol who clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “min bokgi, don't get any ideas of having a tattoo!”

bokgi was about to argue back, but realised that he was indeed about to say he wants one too. joonhwi just laughs as he wraps his arm around sol's waist.

when they find out what it meant, they fall silent.

"it's lovely. i think it's poetic" yeseul says, but the tension was still there. they knew how much joonhwi respected, admired, hated, resented his uncle. despite all the emotions and thick tension, joonhwi stood up, "come on, they're serving dakgalbi today, let's discuss our weekend plans over lunch."

two weeks later, as joonhwi removed the bandage on his chest, he smiled at the permanent memory of his uncle, now engraved on his chest above his heart.

maybe he did enjoy his childhood.

his emotions were always temporary. his anger, guilt, shame, happiness, sadness. but one thing he knew he wanted was permanent was his memory of his uncle. the one he grew up loving, the superman he looked up to.

the uncle, seo byungju, that raises him like his own son.

#law school kdrama #law school #law school netflix #law school jtbc #jtbc law school #kim bum #ryu hye young #kang sol a x han joon hwi #kang sol a #han joon hwi #tattoos #fluff #tattooed kim beom #original by akinosakiya #solhwi #joonsolA

39 notes · View notes

namjoonchronicles · 4 years

Text

finer arts | th

↳ genre fluff, slice of life, domestic, husband-Taehyung ↳ words 4.6k ↳ summary inspired by the Baumgartner Restoration channel on Youtube, Taehyung is written as a fine art restorer. This fic centres on the point where arts and science collide. Also, long haired Taehyung. Unedited. :’) ↳ song miley cyrus ‘when i look at you’ slowed ver.

Very soft. Taehyung’s hair, at this length, had always been soft. It’s been awhile since he told you he wanted them to grow longer, and it’s finally paying off. He looks terribly soft with bangs going just a little over his brows and poking his eyes. Gathering his hair into one apple sprout and tying it up has always been your favourite way to start the day. He was humming Frank Sinatra's in the living room as it played on the bluetooth speaker when you found him. Always so hardworking. You leaned on your side by the wall, folding your arms and watching your husband pouting at the document he was reading as his head hung low. Big round glasses sliding down the slope of his Godly carved nose he learned to hate, growing up. Parker Fountain Pen in his slender fingers, cross crossing, underlining, circling the paper in a professional manner makes you remember why you had fallen for him. Slowly, but surely.

He lifts his eyes, noticing another presence in the room, and briefly smiles before returning to his writing pad again, greeting in a deep voice, “You’re awake?”

“Yes, I am…” you nodded, indulging the view still. When he starts to repeatedly push his hair away from his face, you take off your own hairband and have him sit down on the floor, with his back leaning against the couch. And you gather his hair with your finger raking the locks gently, tying an apple sprout hair. His eyes were glued on the work he brought home.

“I take it that you’re leaving home for the studio today?” you tipped his head back, chin pointed upward, demanding his attention. He chuckles through his nose as you leaned in for a chaste kiss on the lips, where his beauty mark is and then the tip of his nose and the skin between his brows. With the chuckles alone, you knew you were right. Judging from the wrinkles on his forehead when he crosses out the plans he had, you knew that he was handling a semi large painting.

Taehyung is a fine-art conservator-restorer and because of it, his work consumes him. He treats his client’s painting like his own wife; each with their own time, loving and care. Instead of being envious towards the time he puts in them, you weigh more on the term ‘admiration’, towards his work and dedication. He truly is invested in his line of profession. It was only natural for an art lover like him to eventually become an artist himself, but after some unfortunate series of art blocks, he began to turn to conservation midway through college. You were always supportive of his aspirations. Although you don’t share the same passion for arts to actually go to a college as an art major like him, he always says you should have been an artist rather than scientist when he saw you sketch a lion behind your notes, after being frustrated about writing papers on your research.

Ever since then, you and Taehyung shared an art studio at your shared home after marriage.

“Polyurethane,” he let out a deep sigh. One word is enough.

A big part about restoration and conservation is perfection. When the previous conservator uses polyurethane as varnish, the next restorer, in this case is Taehyung, will have endless scrapings to do. Polyurethane becomes embedded in the paint, which makes most restorers emotionally frustrated. This poorly chosen varnish not only becomes a part of the paint, it makes it difficult to remove because it is scraped along with the original paint by the painter and artist. This then, leads to more restoration work because the objective of a restorer, is to… restore. Using polyurethane just adds into the time working on it. The last time he dealt with polyurethane paintings, he went home with colors drained out from his face. He spent a week on them because he needs to be extra careful to get most of the polyurethane out with minimal damage on the painting.

After the scrapings, he will have to remove the paintings from the old plywood it came with and it was glued with rabbit-skin glue which is the most tedious process, one after the other.

“When it came to the studio, I was holding my breath because the state of it... was just,” Taehyung puffed his cheek and deflated it. Where does he even start? Dented surface, skewed plywood frames, rabbit skin glue, and polyurethane varnish. The owner’s cat sat on the painting. And this painting was already fragile at this time. It was a very old painting auctioned for at least a million dollar. Taehyung almost fainted.

Right. That was how he is. When Taehyung works on a painting, any painting for that matter, of any values of any age, he is consumed by it. Giving it his all, but careful not to leave traces of him as to respect the original painter.Taehyung, as an artist, is mind blowingly authentic. He has unique perceptions towards everything he sees and he was the first few artist you knew that began with taking photographs. Actually, he was the only artist you knew all your life that was intimate enough to have this talk. Back in the days, art students don’t really mingle with science nerds due to unforeseen differences seniors claim to have. You personally were told that art students are too superficial to really want to understand the world and that they see you as a fuss in human form. You believed none of that bullshit.

You have always been the kind to look deeper than what is on the surface, always skin deep. Taehyung noticed this from the first time he laid eyes on you. There was something worth uncovering.

Just like today, when your eyes tunnels into the magnifier to see the photographed version of the painting he was supposed to restore, he gets giddy at the fact that his wife, his forever girlfriend takes so much interest in so many things and is well-versed in all kinds of art despite not being a member of the field. It was at moments like these that he relentlessly wonders why you never considered to seriously take art degrees just like your science stuff.

“Looks flaky, and the dent is so deep…” you commented, craning your neck on his desk as he watches fondly from the side, “You’ll have to patch it up and sew it together…”

The smile melts away and he averted his eyes, tapping his index finger on his knee at the same time. By his demeanor alone, you know that he dislikes this. The work just keeps piling on, and more and more of the original paint is lost. Like a wet on wet painting work, that keeps bleeding color, the painting will have more of Taehyung than it would of its owner. Taehyung let out a sigh you understood so well. You leave the painting’s print on the table with the magnifying glass set away on the corner with the rest of his tools. You bring yourself next to him and put your arm around his neck and the other palm rests on one side of his face, sliding down his chiseled jaws and thumb, tracing his lips. His cologne swims around your nostril, and the smell of his hair that you love, engulfs you. He gathers his arms around your waist, rests his head under your chin and stays like that as long as you both need.

He will be away for long and intimacy of such degree would be difficult to execute. Long tiring week ahead will make you drift you both apart, only to hopefully meet each other like the first time again.

You remember the first time you laid your eyes on Kim Taehyung. He was helping the waitress picking the pieces of fallen tissues after a minor accident. He looked like he walked out of someone’s innate dream. Clean-shaven, dark brown comma hair, boring a dark brown suit and pants to match. The selfless act was something intriguing to you. It’s so rare to find someone who would take the time to help others in such a fast-paced era where everything has to be quick and perfect. You remember turning away and smiling to yourself, grateful that there’s such men still in the world. You never planned to find any attachments that night, it was just a casual formal gathering that you had to attend in order to remain in the social circle. You actually wanted to leave after thirty minutes, and probably watch a late night movie at a nearby movie theatre to appease yourself.

A drink in your hand, a small talk about how good the eclairs were, and a little bit about your short-term plans; apart from that, there was nothing much. You were never the kind to approach people first, finding more interest in the food than you do the people attending. But not your best friend, not Jimin. He is the loudest, most animatic figure out there, talking about all kinds of things, doing a lot of gags and just, a walking entertainment channel, with his addictive laughter and outgoing personality. Jimin would make friends with a broomstick if it attended. It was because of him that you were dragged into this little dinner party. He said if you come, he will join your presentation that he called boring and asked relevant questions. After careful consideration, and losing a couple of friends because of your hectic college schedule, you had no choice but adhere to his demands.

“Hi,” a succulent honeyed deep voice greeted you from behind, “Where did you get those jelly desserts?”

You glanced at him and when you recognised that he was that dude who helped the waitress, you shot your eyes back to your plate instantly, then jerked your head back up, “From the dessert corner, next to the pillar… I think they haven’t refilled them,” you said to him through a smile. Wow, he was so much taller than you expected. And, smells so nice.

“Oh thank you,” he tutted his tongue and nodded once, before he walked away grinning, “Over there right?” He walks sideways to talk to you still. He almost trips over the folded carpet and you got instantly worried before replying in a haste, “Yes! Oh careful, please!”

He gave an okay sign and puffed his cheeks.

Finding the back of your calves began to strain from the long period of standings, you had to find yourself a bar stool and ate your food alone, while Jimin was throwing his head back at a joke one of his new friends were telling. Someone took the empty seat next to you and sat with a huff.

“We already met twice and I still don’t know your name,” he peels his eyes off of his plate and turns sideways to you, “I’m Taehyung, Kim Taehyung.” You said your name in a hurry with an awkward giggle at the end, before poking your fork into the grapes and shoving them into your mouth.

“Did you come here alone?” he asked. “No, but he looks like he is having fun,” you didn’t specify who it was and Taehyung hung his head low with a dry, “Oh.” “You?” you replied. “Alone,” Taehyung said, “Didn’t plan to stay very long…I was going to catch a movie.”

Your eyes light up, “What movie? Because I’m not staying too!” Taehyung pouts, “Haven’t decided… I was going to decide there and then.”

“It’s nice to watch movies alone ha…” “Helps me recharge…” “What major are you? We’re from the same uni, correct?” “I am. I am an art major, and now more to restoration and conservator.” “Oooo, interesting… Meticulous work. That’s amazing.”

Taehyung then learns that you’re a science major, pharmaceutical technology. It sounded foreign to him, he had never known anyone with a science major, let alone talk to one. They always seem so…

“Fussy? Introverted? Closed up?” you listed. He shakes his head, jutting his lower lip out trying to think of a better adjective to describe, shooting his eyes to the ceiling then to the right. “Guarded,” Taehyung tipped his head to the side, looking at you as he spoke. “I get why we seemed that way,” you swirled your fork around the plate of spaghetti you took and nodded in agreement, “But we’re probably thinking about our gazillion unfinished reports and stressed out about why the results aren’t tally, and forgetting our breakfast, lunch and dinner, being high on caffeine…” you shrugged your shoulder, explaining.

“Doesn’t seem like a healthy way to live,” Taehyung commented, “But I understand the struggle.”

Discussing about the stereotypes, the polar opposites of a science versus art majors lasted longer than you expected. Art majors and science majors actually share more in common than you’d think. For starters, both are extremely meticulous and precise. Taehyung spoke about the specification of colours and blending of several techniques into one art requires an extensive studies of observations and practice. As a conservator, he must recognise personalized styles of close to thousands of painters to differentiate a genuine piece from a copy--a skill that would take years and decades to perfect.

For science, specifics come in the definition of science. There has to be hypotheses to be proven, and theories that aligned with the results. Making medication has several strict rules; and the process, the testing are endless. From the drug is being formulated, to the way it is processed, and how it reacts when it enters the human body, to how long it takes to be expelled and whatever happened in between must be noted. Uniformity, size particles, bottling, storage, etc. are all taken into custody when it comes to making drugs. You told Taehyung about the exhausting 48 sets of 100mL volumetric flask being used in order to determine the complete dissolution of 100mG of paracetamol.

“I get cross-eyed having to stare at the mark, trying not to make mistakes,” you smiled and Taehyung giggled. “I understand about getting cross-eyed,” he added. He continues about having to re-color a varnished painting with a limited set of light in the studio, and not being able to determine what pigment it was until daylight reveals that he was wrong.

“I think art and science are two things humans can’t live without,” you started, looking down at your semi empty plate, “I mean, life depends on science, but art is what makes it worth living.” “Rebecca Atwood,” Taehyung cited. Then you both looked at each other for what seemed the longest time, as if you both had found home in each other.

Your heart clearly whispered, “Where have you been all my life?” And for a period of time, you actually believed it was one-sided. How could someone like Taehyung want to spend time with you. But you guys eventually went to the movies together.

Jimin called midway through the movie. You excused yourself and took the call outside the hall.

“Yo, where art thou? The party’s over, don’t tell me you went home without me,” Jimin nags.

“I’m at the movies, I’ll get the Uber, don’t worry,” you hissed, “No, Jimin, I’m going to be fine. It’s not that late, I’ll call you when I get home. Yes, I know there’s class tomorrow at 2pm, alright bye,” you hang up and rush back inside.

Taehyung looks at you with wondering eyes and you felt inclined to explain, “Jimin. Asked me where I was, and wanted to go home. I said I’ll take the Uber.”

“Uber? No, I can drive you home,” Taehyung offered. You don’t think you should be in a car with someone you barely know so you politely declined. Taehyung however, waited with you for the Uber, and waved you goodbye. He didn’t ask for your number, much to your disappointment. But maybe it was a one night thing for him. It’s not like you expected anything, so why do you carry yourself heavily to your dorm?

It was rare to find someone you could connect to in such a short time. Tonight was a miracle at work, and it was short lifted. Laying down in your bed with the light from your phone shone over your face, you scrolled down Instagram to see your married highschool friend cradling babies. Another friend just got married. Another is half a world away. A few are taking pictures of cute dates they went on. And then there’s you, who is now staring at each one filled with envy and discontent, wondering if anyone will ever find the time to notice you and hopefully fall for you. Deep inside, all you ever wanted was to be in love. Despite you plunge yourself into heavy work in the most strenuous field out there, you were inexplicably lonely. It gets increasingly difficult as you grow older, and your options for men decreases.

They say, everyone has a soulmate. But for some reason, you think God forgot to make yours. Real connection is possibly impossible to find. The love you seek probably doesn’t exist.

And as you turn your phone face down next to you, it vibrated a message in.

Jimin: Are you home yet? Hello? Jimin: So you found Kim Taehyung? From arts? Jimin: He texted me the Uber car’s plate number to make sure I know where you are…

You replied,

You: yes.. You: you know taehyung??

Jimin: uh yeah. Orientation week together. Campmates. Jimin: how was it? You: he was nice… Jimin: You cold-blooded women. You: XD

The next day was your presentation. After spotting Jimin in the crowd, you immediately felt better. Some familiar faces would be nice. Final year project presentations can be brutal. Some of the questions you expected would be the purpose, the motive, the need for this project to be funded and why it carries such significance. Sometimes what you expect doesn't happen, and because of that you get very disheartened and disappointed. No matter how brave you decide to be, your body protests and rebels against your wishes. The way the bottle tremble in your hands shows how much this is hammering your dignity. It is as if you expected to be humiliated. You glanced down to your heavily arrowed notes and scribbles, closing your eyes as you stood in the back stage, mentally preparing yourself. How to be bulletproof?

Had he not helped the girl to purchase a canned coffee from the vending machine, he would not have been late, Taehyung thought. Now he creeps in the back of the lecture hall, carrying his own opened canned drink. There was an extra unopened canned coffee drink he snuck in. You had already started your presentations. Does he have the mental capacity for this new information? Of course. There were a few terms he wasn’t familiar with, but it was not enough to bore him. Your simpler explanation the night you met actually helped a lot. The oozing charisma you carry and the calm way you carry yourself was something worth looking up to. It was the kind that he actually envied about you. He had a feeling that you weren’t showing all parts of you and because of that, he was intrigued. Even as he sat there as an audience, completely at awe of your presentation, you were magnetic.

Not a single one person in that auditorium was paying their attention elsewhere. Being able to draw such dedication and passion is a talent. And it was all Kim Taehyung wished he could do.

“With all the existing medication with the same purpose, what good would a research in the same area pose? A renewal?” “And what about the gene-specific cancer studies that are already initiated since 2004? Haven’t we spent enough on that?” “What about the ethical issues surrounding the existing CRISPR, the so-called genetic-specific medications?”

The questions from the PhD holders you presented were all valid. You agreed.

“As a scientist, we understand that our research will continue far after our death. Many researches are done without a clear view of where the finish line is. If we want to talk about ethical issues regarding gene modifications, we have done them on all the things we could consume, grow and breed. If we have the power to prevent abnormality before it becomes one, why do we second guess ourselves? Isn’t the purpose of science to better understand, and then to prevent? To create a better living?”

The room fell into a deathly silence, and you were inclined to go back to your statements but when you dragged your eyes to the corner of the room, you saw some juniors nodding in agreement to what you’ve just said, you regained a little ounce of confidence. “But we haven’t truly understood the after effects of gene modifications. And through all prolonged research thus far, it doesn’t suggest a good result. How do you guarantee a perceptible study in the development of the medication you’re proposing?”

. . . Sniffles greeted Taehyung at the door he pushed opened gently. You were standing by the handrails on the faculty’s rooftop, the papers you brought in scattered around the ground. Some are drained into the pool of water puddle from last night’s rain. Digging the heels of your palm into your eyes, you heard the door creaked open and jumped.

“I’m sorry…” Taehyung whispered. You glanced over your shoulder at him and then turned away. Not because of anger or fear, but from shame. You have never shown anyone this timid side of you. You’re always expected to be strong, and you took that mask on literally. Having someone witnessing your vulnerability is as foreign as the sight of a shooting star. How unlucky for Taehyung, you thought.

“I bought you…” he placed the canned drink on the ground, next to where you placed your backpack, “A canned coffee.”

“How did you,” you sniffed, “How did you know that the presentations’ today?” “You told me the night we met?” he answered, in a confused tone.

And you gave him a lopsided smile, “Oh right. I’m not used to people remembering my errands. Jimin never does. No one ever does.”

“I am not actually good at remembering. But for some reason, yours was unforgettable,” he added an awkward chuckle at the end, scratching the back of his head not sure why he finds conversation with you feel homey. Sincerity and honesty comes naturally like breathing the air in.

“I did a crap job at presenting, didn’t I?” it was a statement, pretentiously laid out as a question.

But Taehyung knew better than to cement the depressive thought. Then he scooted near to you, and coil to your side, to give you a puppy eyed bright smile.

That was when you first knew a Kim Taehyung. Everything else that happened after that seemed like a story written just for you. But loving Kim Taehyung didn’t come without challenges. When you love a man as attractive as that, there will be wandering eyes directed towards him. And you have your own fair share of evil eyes directed at you. How can a science nerd catch the attention of an art student? It was totally unheard off. Had Taehyung paid any attention to those thirsty hyenas, you would have given up the fight. However, this is Taehyung you’re talking about. Once he had his eyes set to a person, he developed tunnel vision only to that person.

For years, you struggled with perfection. And the thing about the struggle is that it was common to everyone, but so few would understand. Perfection quickly becomes a disease to over-achievers. Had it not been Taehyung, you would probably engage in an insufferable discontentment towards life and everything it has to offer. Everything changed when he handed you a paint brush and a 200-sized plain white canvas and a studio to yourself.

You felt liberated.

Not knowing where your illustrations will take you was the first taste of freedom you had ever allowed yourself to feel. Because in the arts, there are no wrongs or rights. And it's uniquely yours. And the look on Taehyung’s face when it's done? Priceless. To the point that you think you began drawing because of him and that he was just saying the things you wanted to hear. Then he hangs your drawings in the open hall, and brings home the comments written by the art lovers to prove that you are wrong.

When it comes to relationship turbulences, Taehyung and you personally respect each other’s space, friendship choices and principles. Such maturity is again rare so you’d like to think that you’re lucky in that sense. However, Taehyung’s family proved to be a massive hurdle. While you were raised in a humble home, and accustomed to having sleep as dinners, Taehyung’s family owns a collection of farms that produces vegetables and fruits, and Taehyung’s favourites happen to be strawberries. He surely is raised in an upper middle class well into his elementary years and then catapulted into first class around his high school time. Not to say that he doesn’t know what it’s like to starve, he has a fairshare of that in his rebellious years; but he was not used to the life you lead. The part-time jobs, the tutoring weekends, the errands. He never had to do those.

When he brought you home to his parents for the first time, you felt out of place. His penthouse, his army of maids, sports cars and spacious area. His parents, they were wonderful. They welcomed you with open arms. Even inviting you to a family-only event, introducing you to everyone, and then letting you see their family photo albums. Taehyung has a massive support system, a healthy relationship compared to yours. No matter how much he wants to convince you that his life isn’t perfect, it was a whole lot better than yours. You remember how he snuck you into his bedroom in the middle of the night when his parents were asleep, the snickering, the whispers and the night you shared, cuddling. You had tears in your eyes that night, because you never thought you’d be this fortunate.

Watching him fall asleep in your lap so soundly really made you think about the last time you ever made someone this comfortable. Is this how it feels to love and cherish? Finding a middle ground is not always easy, and most people take time to reach there. For Taehyung and you, sacrificing a lot comes without say. Your internal conflicts and his willingness to understand your perspective, and vice versa--it all takes time. You can owe it all to Taehyung’s ultimate patience. Just like the way he handles his work. Meticulously, and carefully. Like how chemicals are precise, the paints are too.

In every phase of life, we are being prepared for the phase that comes next. In accordance to what we are made of, we continue to evolve, continue to grow. And it is in this stage that we feel most vulnerable, most bare, most uncomfortable. Sometimes you dread the things that you weren’t allowed to have, much like the doctorate you sought after (that took much longer than others), the way it was withheld from you because life said you weren’t ready yet, even when you thought you were. Waiting patiently becomes the hardest part of it all. Although Taehyung might not understand half the things you went through, isn't he still here? Isn’t he still holding your hand? Isn’t he still singing to you?

Fine arts are creative art, especially visual art whose products are to be appreciated primarily or solely for their imaginative, aesthetic, or intellectual content. If that’s the case, then Taehyung must be finer arts.

:. I wrote a bit about the things I do in university, I’m sorry if you find that boring... it’s the only world I know... I am currently going through mid-semester exams, and I’m not doing well, spark up a fever with 3 more papers to go. Anyways. Have a great day!

320 notes · View notes

minyoonmeme · 4 years

Text

Normalcy of the Pretty Posse

Chapter 1

Word Count: 2494

Pairing: reader x ?????

Genre: like 90% fluff, 10% stupid jokes and bad humor

Description: Stupid Jeongguk and his cute sweaters and pretty posse of hyungs.

(Disclaimer: This will probably have some typos. I started writing this instead of doing some Statistics homework and spent so long on it that I have zero time to edit. Sorry~)

masterlist

There was no game plan. There never really had been, at least not for me. Making it past 16 was something I had never foreseen, never imagined I could do. And now, here I am, alone in a country in a university far from home with no idea how life is supposed to go. Okay, maybe I’m being pessimistic because I’m not completely alone. I have friends if you count the two idiots who don’t let me drown in takeout boxes on weekends. They’re wonderful, they really are, I promise.

Yoonjin is the sweetest person I’ve ever met no matter how much I want to strangle her into putting herself first. She’s the one who calls me about anything and everything. Don’t tell her that I secretly love that she calls me first when something happens. Chaebin is my right hand gal. My broski. My homegirl. My uh… well she’s great honestly. She’s all bark and no bite with the strongest affiliation for cute things, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. These two are pretty much my whole life other than the impending doom of my failing future that I have chosen to personally personify. Makes it less scary if it's punchable, honestly.

“Are you gonna actually do your work or are you gonna stare at your coffee all day?

Rolling my head to the side, I eye Chaebin with the blankest face I can muster.

“I didn’t ask to be criticized when I asked you to come to the library with me.”

“No, but you did ask me to make sure you finish your paper in time for practice tonight. Yoonjin will cry if you let her go by herself again.” I groan, throwing my head against the cushion of the booth’s chair. She’s right, I know she is. I’ve missed two weeks of dance workshops and Yoonjin, without missing a beat, after every workshop comes knocking on my door teary eyed and sputtering about how she was all alone and lost without me there. Food usually helps soften her up.

“You think she’ll forgive me if I miss just one more week?” Chaebin twitches her eyebrow up as she side eyes me from her computer. I slump even further and push my laptop farther away in favor of laying my head down. “You’re right. She’ll probably accuse me of abandoning her and our friendship if I skip one more time.”

“I’ve literally seen you pump out a 12 page research paper in 3 hours, just go dance or whatever tonight and stress yourself later.”

“Anxiety and Red Bull are a toxic combo, but I’ll have you know that I got a 94 on that paper.” Smiling smugly, I turn my head to look at her. She’s not wearing her glasses today, so it’s hard to tell if she’s glaring at me or blind today. “If I bail, are you gonna be okay by yourself? I can swing by afterwards with Yoonjin, so you don’t have to walk home alone tonight.”

Her glare softens as she shakes her head no before grabbing some eyedrops. Oh. So she is wearing her contacts. “No, I’ll be okay. I came packing.” Her right hand pats her bag before she smirks and continues searching through her syllabus.

I eye her bag warily and half jokingly say, “Please, tell me you don’t have a gun.”

Her face scrunches as she stares at me. “Are you stupid? Why would I have a gun? I meant I have my phone and a taser. Do I look like I know how to shoot a gun?”

I shrug and start packing up my bag. My joints scream and pop from being stationary so long. “I am, do I look like I know how to shoot a gun? You never know Chae, I could be a highly skilled marksman just waiting to take someone out. I might not even be a real college student, just a really good undercover assassin.”

Her nose twitches as she clicks open a few browsers. “You almost cried last night when you saw a stray cat ignore you. I highly doubt you’re killing anyone these days.”

“Animals love me and that one hurt, don’t use my feelings against me. Don’t you remember when you cried because you thought I was ignoring you last year?” Her face dropped as she coughed into her shirt, trying to hide the red splotches. “I was literally sick for three days and you came to my apartment with food because you thought I hated you. What was it you said? Something about not being allowed to hate you if you fed me.”

“We don’t talk about junior year, I was going through it.” Her voice was tight, but I could tell she was amused. “It’s almost 6 o’clock, you should text Yoonjin and tell her that you’re not abandoning her tonight.” She slides my bag towards me and lets me scoot past her out of the booth.

“Yoonjin and I will be by later to walk you back to your apartment around 9:30. Sound good?” My legs wiggle as I try and get a feeling back into them from sitting so long. When I stand there longer than normal, her eyes flash up as she nods and waves her hand at me to leave.

To: Yoonjin the Trash Bin

You wanna meet outside the commons tonight or walk over together?

From: Yoonjin the Trash Bin

WAHH

YOU”RE COMMING? No more awkwardly standing in the back by myself!?!?!? :)))))))

[crying egg dog.pdf]

let’s meet in the the commons

To: Yoonjin the Trash Bin

7? By the double doors upstairs?

From: Yoonjin the Trash Bin

No, no, no my friend come ASAP. We have much to discuss.

To: Yoonjin the Trash Bin

Uh okay???? See you in like 10 minutes I guess???

From: Yoonjin the Trash Bin

See you! <3

_______________________________________________________________________

“You actually did come.” Yoonjin’s hand reaches out and pinches my arm before she settles back against the wall. “I thought for sure your text was all some weird daydream I had conjured up.”

“Chaebin convinced me that our friendship was on the line if I left you alone at another workshop for the third week in a row.” My bag landed on the ground as I slide down next to Yoonjin. Her hair, newly cut and dyed to a short choppy greyish purple bob, was still something I needed to get used to. Yoonjin had failed her midterm last week and as a result decided that her hair would rejuvenate her life and, thus, her will to study. I still don’t think she’s bought her textbooks for this semester yet, but that’s not my business.

“As she should! It was your idea to start coming to these dance things, and you left me!” Despite her anger, she still turned her smoothie toward me as an offering. “I look like a loose limbed monkey in there. At least with you there, you explain the steps to me.” I choke on the smoothie a little bit, as she crosses her arms.

“Loose limbed monkey? Yoon, you look fine! These workshops are meant for people who don’t have dance experience. It was your idea to try dancing, I just found a place to do it” Her face contorts as she sips on her smoothie again, shaking it to mix it up and get some frustration out.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if people like you or Jeong-fucking-guk didn’t kept coming. It’s not fair to suck and then have to watch you two just like magically do it.” Her head gets thrown back with a thud as she grunts. Immediately I laugh and rub the back of her head in oder to soothe the soon to be ache.

“I can go if you want since you seem to not want me or Jeongguk here apparently.” Her eyes dart over to me in the most non threatening but threatening way possible for someone like her. “Okay, so I’ll stay. Make your mind up Yoonjin, I can’t keep playing these games with you.” I click my tongue against my teeth as she smacks my thigh closest to her. “You said something about Jeongguk coming right? Since when does he come out to these things? I thought he was a dance and choreography minor? Shouldn’t he be with the big dogs or something in like a real class dancing?”

Yoonjin hums, offering me the rest of her smoothie. It’s a green looking health smoothie from a self proclaimed health bar down the street. It’s for sure my favorite, and definitely not her’s, so I take it and nudge her as a thanks. “That’s the thing, I didn’t even know he went to these things. Usually I just hang out with you and everyone else who hides in the back with me, but last week he came up to me and asked if you were still coming.” I raise my eyebrows in surprise and nod for her to continue. “I told him you’ve been busy and he kinda just nodded and shuffled away. He did tell me to tell you to take it easy though.” “Were you ever planning on telling me that a boy approached you about me?”

“I'm telling you now and that’s all that matters. Besides, I thought you swore off men after the mishap freshman year with that one Tinder date.”

Immediately my face heats up, and I grimace at the memory. “We don’t talk about that for a good reason, you brat.” If she’s mad I called her a brat, her smug smile doesn’t show it. I go to open my mouth and further yell at her for bringing up the traumatizing story when a pair of black heavy boots skids to a stop by my stretched out legs.

Okay, so here's the thing about Jeon Jeongguk . He is terrifyingly good looking. So much so that looking at him hurts, like physically hurts. Jeon Jeongguk could punch me in the face and I would say thank you for the attention and bow before passing out. Okay, that’s perhaps way too far but he is attractive and built. God, is he built. And he’s not even an asshole about it! Most guys who exercise thrive on showing off their bodies and flaunting their muscles. Not Jeon Jeongguk , though., Nope! Jeongguk wears sweaters and button ups that make him resemble a Korean version of Mr. Rogers. All smiles and kind eyes with a heart of gold. Men like Jeongguk are the reason I have heart issues and top notch acting skills.

“You’re back!” My eyes blink a few times at Jeongguk before I register that he's looking at and me actually speaking. When I don’t say anything Jeongguk fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt and looks at Yoonjin before letting out a cough. He speaks a little calmer now, more airy and rushed. “Yoonjin said you’ve been busy and I was worried you weren’t gonna come back ‘til next semester. Not that I worried about you or like not not worried about you, but uh…” He sputtered a little and lets out a small huff of air before ruffling his hair back. My lips pressed together as I swing from internally swooning over his cuteness to the attractiveness of him pushing his hair back. “It’s good so see you back. Hobi hyung, says it's good to have some experienced people in the class to encourage and help beginners.”

“Is that why you keep coming too?”

Maybe he doesn’t expect my question or for me answer him at all, but he blinks a little too hard and shyly looks over my shoulder rather than my face. It’s cute and maybe it makes a smile break out on my face. Just maybe though. “Yes! Hobi-hyung asked me to help him since he can’t uh ya know help everyone at once.” He doesn’t sound too sure of himself, but I let it go seeing as this is our first comprehensible conversation.

“That’s sweet of you to help your hyung for free. Does Hoseok-shi think I’m there to do the same? I feel a little bad missing the past two weeks if you’ve been doing it all by yourself.” I frown and pinch my eyebrows a little tighter, looking the direction of the doors. Should I apologize? Yoonjin beside me, I can tell, has grown more and more interested in our conversation as she undoubtedly is texting our group-chat with Chaebin about what's happening. She nudges me to focus when the conversation stalls a little. The nerve of her, I swear.

Jeongguk , getting redder and slightly more panicky, shakes his head no a little too roughly. His hair looks a little messed up, and I nearly squeal with the need to fix the adorable mess that he is right now. Outside, however, I just smile softly and encourage him to explain. “Hobi-hyung and I are okay, you’re just like an added bonus to class cause you know you obvious have some experience with your technic and seem to pick up the dances quickly.” It’s a little rushed, but I think I make out everything he’s saying.

“Are you trying to say I’m a good dancer Jeongguk ?” It’s meant to be lighthearted and playful, but Jeongguk physically widens his eyes and looks everywhere, but in my direction for a few seconds before he stops trying to voice anything out just nods. My hands clasp in my lap as a I suppress a smile and will the flush to disappear from my cheeks. “Thanks, you dance really well too. I can see why you’re studying dance.”

Jeongguk whispers the faintest, “Thank you,” before shoving his thumb in the direction of the door indicating that he’s gonna help them set up for the workshop. I wave goodbye and watch as he does the same and dashes behind the door. Now that he’s gone, I can breathe a little easier. That was probably the weirdest experience I’ve had today, or this week for that matter. Pretty people don’t just go up to me and talk, let alone me of all people. And when I say pretty people, I mean pretty people like Jeongguk and his pretty posse of friends. Jeongguk and his hyungs are just uncommonly so pretty and somehow together all the time. Even now Jeongguk is inside with Jung Hoseok, a graduate student who hosts the beginner dance workshops on Thursday. The fact that Jeongguk even talked to me, or asked about me last is enough to twist my insides a little. Normal people talk to people all of the time, but Jeongguk was not normal and his hyungs are not normal. I mean they are, but they project this ethereal aura that just intimidates everyone. So, why for the love of God was Jeon Jeongguk just talking to me?

“Are we gonna talk about what just happened or are you gonna keep staring at the door?”

“Shut up, I'm trying to process everything.”

81 notes · View notes

englandsgray · 3 years

Text

Sherlolly Self-Interviews 2020

Well hi 👋

Ignoring the internal image of Gilderoy Lockheart smiling smugly while flashbulbs pop and saying ‘In my autobiography, Magical Me...’ 🙈😆 I shall take the opportunity of this lovely event to introduce myself as a writer of Sherlolly fanfiction on AO3...

I am English and somewhere over 30. I watched the show as it aired, and lost my heart as quickly to Molly Hooper as to Sherlock Holmes. The kiss is British television history. Series 4 is my favourite. Moriarty on the beach is life. The Holmes brothers break my heart every time.

I am extremely lucky to have been provided some questions to answer here by @ohaine and @mybrainrots - huge, huge love and thanks to these two lovelies, and not just for this. I admire you both so much as writers, and your support means the world to me ❤️ Thanks too, to @sherlollyappreciationweek!

Where did you begin to write, and have you written for other fandoms? I wrote my first fanfic when I was eleven years old - a 100 page ramble about The Monkees. Oh yes. Then in 2018, I fell for the characters of the Disney Pixar film Cars and began writing and publishing. So far so random! Writing in this fandom sprang from binge-watching all four series of Sherlock during lockdown. I remembered reading Louise Brealey talking about being disappointed Molly didn’t get chance to ‘roundly kick Sherlock’s arse’ and agreeing with her wholeheartedly. That, over a few weeks, turned into my first fic - Who You Really Are.

You’re a recent (and welcome!) arrival to the Sherlolly ship, and I was wondering if writing in an established, less active than it used to be fandom has been a challenge? Thank you, firstly. My experience of this fandom has been incredibly positive - the sense of welcome has been wonderful. I will admit I was terrified posting the first fic - there are hundreds of times more stories posted daily in the Sherlock fandom as in the one I had some experience of. But I needn’t have worried, it’s been a blast. I will also admit, that it’s no small thing to be surrounded by such brilliant writing and the long-standing passion which goes with it. But I find that inspiring in itself, and I’m very glad to be here - how supportive the fandom are makes me feel like I always have been!

What’s your favourite place and way to write? My aesthetic is Lin-Manuel Miranda in his in-law’s laundry room 🤣 I wrote my first ten-thousand words on the notes app on my phone before my other half told me to stop being ridiculous! I switch between the laptop, my phone and longhand (I’m a sucker for a nice notepad and a Uni-Ball Eye) and, more often than not, not sat up properly at a table.

Since you’ve (done something I’ve never managed successfully and) written a novella length fic... how did you organise/keep track of all the details and where you wanted the story to go? Did you outline/plot in advance? First of all - I would love to see a novella length fic from you @mybrainrots! The final scene of Who You Really Are came to me very early on and I knew I wanted the fic to fit within TFP - a lot of it takes place in the timeframe of the final montage. At first, it was going to be much more about Sherlock’s relationship with the ideas of sentiment and love (the phrase ‘I’m not sentimental about you, I love you,’ haunted me for a while) and I spent some time researching the psychology and playing with scenes from throughout the series - one of my favourites I didn’t go on to use was inspired by the final scene of THoB. Using scenes from the canon gave an automatic structure, and I was always aiming for the final one I wrote early on - the two of them on the beach (everything is about the beach, with me!) As I went along and started, inevitably, to slow down, I mapped out the chapters with a short note of what I wanted to be in each, then would add notes or phrases as they came to me - often emailed from my phone! I had to force myself through a tricky section set in Baker Street at one point, but it came together in the end. I did plot The Pathologist’s Skeletons on paper first, as I found with a casefic which remains a WIP, that I can get confused and lose focus when it comes to details and how to reveal them in a way which stays paced and interesting. I’ll certainly do that from now on with longer stories and cases. How did you keep up enthusiasm for the work? I want to write an original novel, so I am forcing myself to work through the knotty bits and blocks as a learning experience. Not everything is destined to be finished or finessed, of course, but I’m finding this process is building my confidence that I can overcome problems and slow periods. I also find I know when I need some external inspiration - some of my favourite scenes have come to me while out walking the dog or sitting on the beach. I’ve also been inspired by books or other series or things going on in the world, as we all are, and sometimes that’s pushed me on. Plus, of course, I’m a newbie - I’m very much in the honeymoon period of my writing, even though I’ve loved Sherlock for ten years! (Ten years! Bonkers.)

You’ve got a knack for writing Sherlock’s thoughts and capturing his voice. That said, which character do you find easiest to write? Which is the hardest? Thank you so much. I absolutely love writing Sherlock and Mycroft, and I’m sure that’s because they suit my somewhat over-the-top writing style! I find Molly and her POV really difficult. I want the scenes I write from her perspective to sound completely different to Sherlock, but that means writing in a style which doesn’t come as naturally to me. I’m a long way off happy with that at the moment, but I’m enjoying the challenge.

Is there a scene or character that specifically inspired you to start writing Sherlolly? The whole of TFP, but especially from the moment Sherlock arrives at Musgrave onwards. I am desperate to see what a Sherlock Holmes who has been reacquainted with his own heart would look like. I find his emotionality in those final scenes hugely compelling (Mycroft’s office is one of my favourite moments from across all four series) and, as I have always believed in him and Molly, I practically jumped up back in May after watching it and said ‘right, where’s my notebook?!’.

There’s a lovely peaceful, quiet feeling to your fic ‘We’re All Right At The Moment’. Can you tell us what inspired it and if you’ve thought of doing the backstory that goes with it? Thank you! Like everyone, I would go back to January of this year and start again in a heartbeat, but I am hugely fortunate to be able to say that I have a lot to be grateful to the UK lockdowns for. I might never have begun writing in this fandom otherwise, for one, and I have had a brilliant time so far and met some lovely people. Honestly, I don’t feel able to do any sort of justice in my writing to what has happened in the world in any broader sense than drawing on my own experiences of staying at home and enjoying my family. This particular super-short fic sees Molly cutting Sherlock’s hair at home in Baker Street. I wrote it in the evening after I had cut my other half’s hair and had been reminding myself that despite how horribly worried I was - and still am - about everything, we were all right in that moment, and to focus on that as much as possible. I wanted to try to capture that, if for no reason other than to look back on this entire experience and remember something lovely, so I am so pleased to hear you felt the fic did that. It was only after I finished it and reread it, that I realised it is ambiguous as to whether Molly is worried about Sherlock contracting the virus, or whether she is remembering him being treated for it... As I say, I don’t think I could write more about these extraordinary circumstances - perhaps it’s just too close at the moment - so I don’t plan on extending it. But you know how it is, the plot bunnies hop where they will...

Do you have a Sherlolly music playlist? What are your top five favs from the list? Here’s a run down of (6 🙊) songs I have been getting emotional over in the last little while, leading my brain to assign their significance to my favourite couple...

Kissing You - Des’Ree - It’s so 90′s, it’s a bit cheesy, it’s oddly disturbing. It helped me write A Request, Made Properly, and that gave me an excuse to have Sherlock kiss Molly in the snow.

How Long Will I Love You? - Ellie Goulding - part of the playlist, but also in remembrance of a friend who passed away recently. Life is very short, love is forever.

High and Dry - Jamie Cullum - It’s made me emotional for a very long time. The original is my partner’s version of choice, this is mine.

Think About You - Delta Goodrem - Okay, this one isn’t emotional, and it’s not my usual vibe! Blame the zoom exercise class I do! But oh my goodness, it’s Molly. Bless her.

Blinded By Your Grace (P.T.2. F.T. MNEK) - Stormzy - One of the best ever, I reckon. Spent an awful lot of time thinking about angels and demons, grace and what it takes to save someone, while writing my latest - The Pathologist’s Skeletons. This has been in my head most of the (blimmin’) time!

Love Me Like You Do - Ellie Goulding - I didn’t know I was a fan of Ellie until I wrote this list... I don’t subscribe to the theory that the love Molly wants or that which Sherlock has to offer is any lesser because it isn’t ‘normal’ or expected. I don’t think romantic entanglement would come easy to either of them. But it’s still love and it would be beautiful.

Thank you so much for reading. Thanks and love to @ohaine and @mybrainrots. And thank you @sherlollyappreciationweek for the event and for everything you do ❤️

Feel like I should sign off with a quote from the show...

“You’re not a puzzle-solver, you never have been. You’re a drama queen!” Dr John Watson (Moffat & Gatiss) 2014 😜

A fav fic of mine by @mybrainrots

https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563193

A fav fic of mine by @ohaine

https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562904

My stuff:

https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglandsGray/works

#sherlolly #sherlollyselfinterview20 #sherlock #sherlockbbc #writing #fanfic #ao3 #ao3 author #read on ao3

40 notes · View notes

ivory-sunflower · 3 years

Text

Arty Art Things ✨

Hellooo!

I've decided to post some of the arty things I've done either recently or in the last few years, well the pieces I'm somewhat proud of at least. All my posts tend to be a lot more wordy than they need to be but hey it's what I do here!

Conchúr White

Anyone one who's been on this blog for a bit will have probably have seen me talk about this lovely Irish fella. The pencil drawing is actually a year old as of yesterday, I only know that because screenshots of me flipping out about Conchúr following me on twitter popped up in my memories yesterday. I think I'd sent it to him at about 3 in the morning (I was not in a good head space at that point in time), so probably not what he was expecting to see when he opened his phone in the morning aha

The biro version is much more recent: I got bored while sat at my desk and doing research about university courses, saw a biro, saw my old drawing of Conchúr, had an idea. I revisited my GCSE art techniques and here we are. Again, I put this up on Twitter and now (at the the time I'm writing this) when you google "Conchúr White" it's the third top image of him which is a bit mad really. I think I spent all of about 20 minutes on Conchúr but another 45 minutes on the words behind him. The words are the names of the songs on his EP 'Bikini Crops', he doesn't just really love the idea of Channing Tatum driving him around at night in a daisy print bikini... Well maybe he does but what he does in his spare time is none of my business...

TechDif

So I mentioned that the pencil drawing of Conchúr came from a rough patch in my mental health and this one is no different! In fact this one came from an even worse circumstance so we love to see it. I had a bad, bad time in July and this started as a way of distracting myself from what was going on in my head. Without it, I can't honestly say I'd still be here so even if the final product of this had been a terrible mess I would still love it for keeping me alive. However, it did not turn out to be a terrible mess!

Now that the origin of this is out the way, where do I start with TechDif? Unlike Conchúr, I haven't really talked about them on here (unless you count one brief post about Citation Needed) before so I guess I'll do it here. The Technical Difficulties are a wonderful group of 4 British fellas who have had their fair share of fun online and even before. They did a radio show at university together, which went on to become their Reverse Trivia Podcast, later moving on to a panel show called 'Citation Needed': and a game called 'Two of These People Are Lying'. All of which I would thoroughly reccomend, they're one of my go to things when I'm having a rough time. All 4 of them are excellent! Tom Scott (red top, blue jeans on the picture) has his own YouTube channel which does content aside from TechDif. If you're quite nerdy and like science, linguistics, computers, or any number of other things you may enjoy Tom's channel. He is probably best described as "The Moderator" of the group, much like a tired teacher he tries desperately to keep everyone on track with what they're meant to be doing, but usually it does not end well for him. Then we have Matt Gray (space top, holding an ice cream) who also has a channel away from TechDif stuff, he does techy electronic things and has a series called 'Will it Soft Serve?' where he puts all kinds of strange things through a soft serve machine. Matt brings a very specific energy to TechDif and I can't fully describe what that vibe is but I love it. Matt and Tom also share a YouTube channel where TOTPAL is posted and they had a series called 'The Park Bench'. Moving on to everybody's favourite Gary Brannan: Gary Brannan (SATIRE hoodie, glasses) and can I just say, what a fella he is! He's just excellent! He is the one that will argue and rip into Tom the most (not in a malicious way) and hilarity ensues. There are some episodes where he is absolutely on it, getting all the points and others where he very clearly has no idea and that's where some of his funniest quotes come from. Given how badly I was doing at the time I made this, his response to it on Twitter was so so lovely. I specifically remember one tweet where he said I'd made him happy and although it was probably a flippant comment, it just made feel alright for a bit. Yeah I might be feeling awful right now, but I've made someone else happy so that's a nice feeling. Then last but certainly not least, we have Chris Joel (buffalo check shirt, beard)! I would be lying if I said he isn’t my favourite... His sense of humor is the one I vibe with most, he can get rather dramatic in parts and can chat bollocks like a champion. He has absolutely no online presence away from TechDif and, like Rens from Temples, I fully believe he’s a cryptid and lives off in a tree somewhere.

The picture took me about 4 days to complete, well 4 nights because I did most of it between the hours of 12 a.m. and 7a.m. - I remember watching the sun come through my window each morning. It’s made up of lots of little pieces, all cut out and stuck on; even the sky and hills are made of separate pieces of paper. Nothing was actually drawn on the piece of paper it’s all stuck on, it’s not how I usually do things but if I messed up one little but I could just redraw it rather than ruining the whole thing. The most tedious parts to make were Chris’ shirt because I had to draw each square individually and then join the as well, and cutting out the ban-hammer in the bottom right was surprisingly hard. Every single detail of the picture is a reference to the podcast/shows, I still have the plan sketch and reference list knocking about somewhere. I listened to a lot of true crime videos while making it to the point that certain parts remind me of different cases: the brandy now reminds me of Peter Tobin, and the big spiral thing reminds me of Tim McLean (very harrowing case) - sorry that fact is a bit morbid but interesting nonetheless.

I did post this for a little bit back in July, but I received some rather awful messages so I took it down. Generally, Tom Scott/TechDif fans are lovely but there’s been a few that have taken a disliking to me for some reason so I’m hoping they don’t resurface again. I’m in a better head space now though, so even if they do I’m more equipped to deal with it this time.

Hozier

This was a quick sketch I did in April, I was getting bored with lockdown and decided to summon the bog man himself. There’s not really much more backstory than that, no poor mental health story, no fun twitter story - he’s just here. He’s vibing. I will say I’m particularly proud of his nose, I just think it’s one of the best noses I’ve ever drawn. His hand is okay, but I think that the hands on my Conchúr drawings are better. So there is the Hozi-Boi...

The Corpse Bry

I’ve talked about Bry on here before as well, I love him, he’s excellent, top lad. He is a living Tim Burton character, he’s 6′6, very skinny, and his legs are longer than my will to live. I was watching ‘The Corpse Bride’ a few weeks ago and suddenly had an idea and so ‘The Corpse Bry’ came to be. I gave him a little panda friend because the panda has always been his animal - he used to wear a panda beanie all the time and his album had a panda on the cover. Again, there’s not really a fun story behind this one, I guess it’s somewhat fun because it’s the first art I made after finishing my psychology exams in October so it was nice to actually have the time to draw.

James Bagshaw

Ginger talking about Temples for the third post in a row? it’s more likely than you think! I did this one last week, I’d had a bit of a wobbly day and had group therapy on Teams in the evening and I just couldn’t concentrate on what was going on and I ended up doodling Mr James E. Bagshaw, the glitter crying fraggle man himself. It’s a bare-bones drawing that I could definitely work into more but I’m happy with it as it is to be honest. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit and add the individual bits of fringe to his jacket, just thinking about doing that makes me tired. Maybe I’ll get around to drawing the whole band at some point...

Alice in “Wonderland”

This one is from about 5(?) years ago, it’s not my typical style and was a “study” based on another artists work (basically i just had to copy this fellas work). I’ll be honest, this one has a sketchy backstory that I won’t go in to because it’s not exactly a nice one, and because of that I also won’t say who the artist is that it’s based on. Despite this, I’m still really proud of this one and I’m so sad that I never got this piece back after I got taken out the class. I’ve considered trying this style again, I’ve even joked about doing another Conchúr drawing in this style as a nod to my progression through GCSE art, eventually leading to Conchúr drawn in ink on music manuscript and stained with neon paint and dyes - it would be quite the project!

So this has been quite a lengthy post so apologies about that but life goes on. Similar to the vinyl post, I’ll probably add to this as and when I make more art. Even if no one is reading these posts, I’m enjoying making them so that’s the main thing. It’s just nice to document things and the feelings that go with them. 💕

~ Love Ginger xx

29/11/2020

26 notes · View notes

miss-choco-chips · 4 years

Text

Young Just us college au

Rent a room, Dick said. It’ll be a nice experience. Don’t just buy a flat, that’s boring and lonely.

Tim had tried to tell his brother that maybe he prefered lonely to crazy, but Dick had insisted. And everyone knew just how difficult dealing with that could be, so he knew better than to resist.

At least, he had tried to comfort himself, he knew the people he’d be rooming with. They were all his friends, an odd assortment of assholes he’d picked up on school, summer camps, vacation trips, scientific events, even comic cons, and just… fell platonically in love with them.

Maybe, as Dick said, it would be fine.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

No, it wasn’t fine.

-Jay -he whispered into the phone, hoping he wouldn't be heard by the others on the other side of the door- Jay, they are crazy. I need extraction asap. We could fake my death and I can go to University somewhere else.

The older man laughed in the other end of the receiver, the sound of pages rustling indicating Tim had caught him during his daily grading paper sesion. That was the sound of crying students dying over carefully demolished arguments.

-They are all your friends, Timbo. If you fake your death, you’ll need to start over again and meet new people.

Tim hissed.

-Exactly, babybird. Also, this is day one of sharing a house, how bad can it possibly be?

-Jay, they left the kitchen lights on. It’s daytime! Why the hell do they need the lights on? Aren’t they aware of how big the bill is gonna be if they are like this?

-...Timmy, you… you are a billionaire. I think that should be the last of your concerns.

-That’s not the only thing. It’s so noisy, Jay. I choose the attic room hoping it’ll be nice and quiet. It’s not. I can hear everything. What do I do if some of them pair up? I’ll be stuck here listening to them having sex forever!

-...I don’t know where to begin.

-You can start by contacting B for me. He was right when he said it wasn’t a good idea for me to live with other people. But I can’t call him to help me out of this, because I think Dick blocked my number in his phone, and my emails don’t seem to be reaching him.

-He said it because you are the purest of his children, and he knew college was corruptive enough without adding dorm sharing to it; that was his version of helicopter parenting. But Timbo, it’s moving day. You’ve been there for less than five hours. And you already emailed B?

-The first thing Slobo did when he came in was to fart. In the middle of the living room. I can’t live with them, they are animals!

-They are your best friends, you’ve known them forever.

-But I never had to deal with them in a closed space for an unlimited amount of time!!! I’m trapped here.

-...

-...!

-...Are you hiding in a closet?

-...no. That would be stupid, in a three story house where I have my own/

-You are, ain’tcha?

-I am. Please help me?

Long sigh- I’ll meet you for coffee on the place near the Economics building so you have an excuse to be out for the evening while the others finish their moving. You’re done with your part, right?

-Yes! Thank you!

-You owe me.

-Next time Dick wants bonding time, I’ll sacrifice myself volunteering so you can run.

-And this is why you’re my favorite. Be there in ten.

-.-.-.-.-.-

-Tim? Tim! Here you are!

Blinking was a thing Tim suddenly remembered he needed to do, and he did it a few times as his eyes were dragged away from his book by a pair of hands on his cheeks.

-Kon? What are you doing in the library?

The other boy was panting slightly, flushed from what Tim guessed was a desperate run there.

-I was looking for you! You never came back after classes were done for the day, and you didn’t pick up your phone. We were very worried, dude.

-I was just studying, chill.

-It’s almost midnight.

No, it couldn’t be.

-No, it isn’t. I haven’t been here that long.

Serious and slightly worried, Conner thrusted his own phone in Tim’s face and… uh. Look at that. It was nearly midnight.

-Oh. Got distracted with research, sorry.

-It’s been barely two weeks, how much can you possibly need to study?

Unprompted, Kon started to help him pack his books and papers. He seemed utterly amazed by the almost illegible graphs and charts.

-No, this isn’t homework. I’m working on a thing for WE…

The rest of the way home was spent with Tim talking Conner’s ear off about shit he had absolutely no idea about, but didn’t complain, just holding Tim’s backpack with one hand while steering his sleep deprived friend back home with the other.

-.-.-.-.-.

-Bart? -Tim yawned, getting into the kitchen and raising a confused eyebrow at his friend- It’s… three am. What are you doing awake?

-Stress baking -the smaller boy replied, never stopping stirring the bowl- You?

-Papers and presentations.

-Classes or WE?

-Bit of both. What are you making?

-Cupcakes. Want some?

-They’ll go great with coffee, thanks.

They spent the next half hour waiting for the oven to do its magic talking about video games, classes and evil teachers.

-Your brother is the worst. TA. Ever. He always grades my papers and he’s a bitch about them.

-He relishes in the pain. It’s what keeps him young. I swear he never grew past fifteen.

-It’s scary, and honestly so annoying. Like, I get pointing out mistakes, but he doesn’t need to be a passive aggressive ass about it.

-I’ll let him know what you think.

-Please don’t. I’m afraid of him, and the power he holds in his hands. The power to make me fail Creative Writing.

-Why are you even taking that class? Actually, what even is your major?

A shrug, and before Bart could open his mouth to reply, the timer let them know the cupcakes where done.

-You can have one before bedtime, dude. The circles under your eyes look like make up at this point.

-You are one to talk, mister Stress Baking at Three in the Morning.

-But unlike you, I don’t have to be up at the ass of dawn. C’mon, have one of these and back up you go.

-Bite me.

-I’d rather bite this peanut butter miracle, but if you insist…

-No! Bart, get away from me!

-Then go to bed!

-Go to hell!

-I AM in hell! I have Jason Fucking Todd as my TA!

-IF YOU DON’T GO BACK TO BED RIGHT NOW, I’LL KICK YOU BOTH ALL THE WAY THERE! -Cassie’s voice echoed in the walls, and they both blanched at the reminder that her room was, in fact, in ground floor.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A part of college Tim had never considered, let alone readied himself for, was the… party bit.

-What do you mean, of course you’re coming -laughed Anita, clutches firm on Tim’s sleeve as she dragged him into hers and Cassie’s room.

-No, I have to study for…

-You don’t have any midterm or final this week. I know, because I checked. No papers due either. This is literally the perfect time for you to party.

-I can’t, I…

-Suck at socializing? Yeah, cher, I’m aware. That’s why awesome me is taking you as my plus one for this party. No need to thank me, glad to be your social buffer whenever you need me.

Tim started to resist in earnest when they got into the room and he caught a glimpse of the clothing Anita had apparently chosen for him.

-There’s no way I’m fitting into those pants! Let me go!

-I’ve seen you squeezing your butt into the vent that one time when Kon threw the key to the coffee maker cabinet inside it. If you could get in there, these pants are a piece of cake.

-No!

-Don’t make me hurt you, Drake.

-Anita…!

-Ugh! -she stopped, dropping Tim on her bed and crossing her arms. She averted her eyes- My ex is gonna be at the party. I might have been exaggerating a bit when I said I was over him, but I already promised my friends I was gonna be there. I… could really use your help here. I know it’s not your scene, but Kon and Bart have midterms, Slobo would straight up punch my ex with his astounding lack of subtlety, Miguel is away dealing with family stuff, and the girls are awesome but not really what I need right now.

A pause.

-Okay, but I’m absolutely not putting on that crop top. And we better not end up wasted, I have a reputation to uphold.

Spoiler alert: he did put on the crop top. And they had to call Conner to walk them home after the third time Tim walked into a lamp post and Anita fell into the campus’ pond.

-.-.-.-.-

They were walking back home late on a Friday when they were approached by a group of stupid, drunk dudebros. Tim was already dreading the moments to come before they even spoke, just by the way they kept eyeing Cassie’s legs and Anita’s rack. Cissie herself was wearing loose pants and a sweater, so she was safe from their disgusting examination. Not that it kept her from crossing her arms and looking down at the assholes.

-Heyyyyy, ladies. Wanna go clubbing with us?

Tim shrugged- He’s talking to you, girls. I’m out. Have fun.

Cassie caught him by his hoodie before he could take a single step. He heard her warning clear as day and sighed, defeated.

-Yess, you can go -slurred Dudebro number two, waving him away- There’ three of us, and three of those pretty things. You can get lost.

-See, Cass? Hear the gentlemen. You don’t need me here.

Anita kicked him in the shin.

-No. We just got our nails done. You either solve this peacefully, or take care of it if it turns dirty. Why do you even walk us home if not to protect us from creepers like these?

A loud ‘hey’ came from the dudebros, but Tim ignored them. Silently, he pointed at Cassie’s legs (he had seen her crushing a watermelon between them once), Cissie’s arms (a thing of beauty that made multiple lesbians all around campus cry) and Anita’s katana (that she wasn’t supposed to keep on her person around other students, but who was gonna enforce any rules on the girl with the giant knife?).

-Excuse me? You three should be protecting me. I’m a rich, sheltered boy.

Apparently done being ignored, the three idiots decided this was a good time to throw the first punch. Which Tim dodged, without breaking eye contact with Cassie. She raised her eyebrow, not moving an inch. Cissie was examining her nails. Anita’s eyes promised hell.

He sighed, turned around, caught the second coming punch, and used the hand under his palm to force the dudebro to his knees. A knee to the face and then he turned to the other two.

Next time, Slobo was walking with them.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Flip side: the attic room had its own bathroom. Significantly smaller than the ones on the other two floors, but hey, no sharing.

The downside: apparently, the bathroom vents all connected with one another, and because of their aligning schedules, he often took showers at the same time Miguel did.

Flip side: Miguel had the singing voice of an angel, and the acoustic was fantastic. Showers were rarely boring now.

Downside again: Tim often forgot himself and sang along, but his voice… wasn’t as pretty.

Flip side again: at least, judging by Miguel’s smile, he found it adorable rather than pathetic.

Downside number three: Greta and Cissie’s room, by some unsolved mystery, also had connecting vents to the bathroom, and the archer girl was… less charitable about Tim’s inability to sing.

Flip side: Greta liked him better than most of their house mates, and she had more than enough dirt on Cissie to keep her from sharing the secret of Tim’s awful voice.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

-Hey, baby bird. Sorry I’m calling just now, it’s been a while.

-Hey Jay. Don’t worry, you’re busy grading papers.

-How do you know?

-Bart was crying in the tub this morning. Completely clothed and eating nachos with whipped cream, I might add.

-What is that boy even studying? I know he has Chem classes, Roy is his TA, and Kory saw him in the designer’s building.

-That is an unsolved mystery for the ages.

-Hey, speaking of your housemates, how’s it going?

Tim stopped on his way out of the kitchen, eyes growing fond as he examined the group on the living room. They were fighting over that night’s movie choice. He didn’t know why they tried, Greta was gonna win. Nobody could resist her and Miguel’s puppy eyes.

-It’s… it’s been great, actually.

-Uh huh.

-But don’t tell Dick. He’ll be unbearably smug.

-Of course I won’t. You still have that time I crashed B’s favorite car on me.

-Oh, Oh fuck! -came Slobo’s voice- TIM, BRING THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER!

A loud crash. Tim winced, eyes leaving his friend in favor of the wall. If he didn’t see it, it wasn’t happening.

-TIM, BUD, WE NEED SOME HELP HERE!

-...what was that, Timbo?

-Nothing.

-TIM, TIM, THE TV IS ON FIRE!!! COME QUICKLY BEFORE IT REACHES THE XBOX OR SO HELP ME GOD I’M MURDERING EVERYONE IN THIS ROOM!

-...Tim?

-Don’t tell B.

-Gotcha. Going to save their lives?

-More like hiding in my room until they sort themselves out or die. Good luck on those papers.

-Good luck on surviving.

123 notes · View notes

purpleiri · 4 years

Text

Xu Mo: Revelation Date Translation

许墨【启秘之约】

When Xu Mo was in England, he once rented a small farmhouse long-term. Now, he needs to handle the cancellation of his lease. With an opportunity to travel, I naturally followed him there happily. What surprised me was that, there, Xu Mo had hidden an important secret concerning us.

youtube

Please do not re-post my translations.

I’m not a professional translator. I do not claim that my translations are 100% accurate.

I hope that you’ll enjoy watching/reading the date! Text-only version under the cut.

This was the second day since we arrived at the farmhouse.

It also marked one week since I found out that Xu Mo had rented a small farmhouse when he was in England. It was located in Hampshire, adjacent to a magnificent large manor.

Now that his lease has expired, Xu Mo needed to personally come over to handle matters regarding rent. Naturally, I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to travel like this and so I followed him here happily.

Today, we woke up especially early to cook up a hearty English-styled breakfast.

MC: “Xu Mo, how do you cook these canned baked beans?”

Xu Mo: “You just need to heat it up a little. Let me do this, it isn’t easy to open a can like this.”

He took the can from my hands and cleanly pried the lid open.

The fried egg in the pan sizzled and oil started spattering. I quickly looked back and carefully placed the half-cooked egg onto a plate.

MC: “Xu Mo, Xu Mo, I managed to cook a perfectly round sunny-side up egg!”

Xu Mo was pouring the beans out of the can when he quickly glanced at my plate and chuckled.

Xu Mo: “Actually, I can also cook an egg like this. I just never had the chance to demonstrate it.”

MC: “Oh~ Really?”

I spoke with a deliberate drawl and looked at Xu Mo with suspicion.

MC: “Doesn’t Professor Xu not even know how to make dumplings?”

Xu Mo’s gaze stilled, looking as if he was rendered a little speechless by my ridicule.

Xu Mo: “I’ll have to admit, you are indeed my teacher when it comes to cooking.”

“But, Teacher, you need to have a little faith in your outstanding student.”

“My culinary skills will not just stay the same.”

With a smile, I carefully arranged some of the cooked ingredients on the plate according to how it was done by a food blogger shown on my phone.

MC: “Mm, the bread is done baking too……”

Xu Mo: “Besides these, is there anything else left to do?”

I stood in front of the refrigerator and thought about it.

MC: “Actually, we could also fry some potato wedges. But right now, we might not even be able to finish eating what we already have.”

“Let’s just have this for now!”

Xu Mo glanced at the plate filled to the brim with food and suddenly walked behind me.

Xu Mo: “You missed one most important thing.”

MC: “The most important thing?”

Sausages, bacon, shiitake mushrooms, toast, baked beans, fried eggs… aren’t these all?

And yet, Xu Mo grabbed a small, clean pot and placed it on the counter, pouring two full glasses of water into it.

Xu Mo: “It’s not an English breakfast without milk tea.”

“Come, I’ll teach you how to cook milk tea.”

MC: “Eh?”

Xu Mo’s placed his arms on the sides of my waist, surrounding me tightly in his embrace.

MC: “……but I know how to cook milk tea.”

My quiet protest was wholly ignored. He lowered his head and rested his chin on my shoulder, leaning even closer.

Xu Mo: “The first step in cooking milk tea is to wait for the water to boil before putting in the tea leaves.”

Before long, the water in the small pot started bubbling.

Xu Mo placed the bag of tea leaves in my hand. He held my hand in his and directed it towards the pot, gently pouring some of the tea leaves into it.

Xu Mo: “Now, we need to wait patiently for a while.”

As soon as the tea leaves came into contact with the boiling water, the tea’s light fragrance permeated the air along with the hot steam. I leaned against Xu Mo and took in the farmhouse a little curiously.

Although it has been a long time since Xu Mo has visited, this place seemed to be well-taken care of. Not only were the furniture sparkling clean, even the bouquets of flowers decorating the windowsills were fresh.

MC: “Xu Mo, when did you start renting this place?”

Xu Mo: “After graduation. Back then, I was working on some research and wanted to find a place where I could focus on writing the paper. So, I rented this place.”

MC: “You rented a farmhouse specially to write a paper?”

At my exaggerated tone, Xu Mo laughed.

Xu Mo: “You don’t have to be so surprised. The cost of rent and utilities here isn’t as high as you might think.”

“Moreover, I didn’t have plans to return to the country back then. I did need a place where I could stay for a longer term.”

As he spoke, Xu Mo turned down the heat of the stove.

Xu Mo: “It’s time to pour in the milk.”

I followed his instructions and poured almost half a pot of milk inside, gently stirring the pot continuously with a ladle.

MC: “After returning to the country, did you come back here again?”

Xu Mo: “I didn’t. I was too busy.”

“This is certainly a situation I didn’t expect…”

“Fortunately, the owner of this place would come here often to do some cleaning and take care of the flowers and plants.”

He touched upon the subject casually, and suddenly clasped my waist with one hand.

Xu Mo: “But coming here this time, I’ve had some new experiences.”

“Just now, I’ve been thinking, it’s no wonder that the old professors from the University love coming here to enjoy farm life after retiring.”

“This kind of leisurely and carefree way of life really does make one yearn for it.”

I turned around and smiled at him.

MC: “If Professor Xu wants to retire, he’ll have to wait for at least another forty years, doesn’t he?”

Xu Mo gently pressed his lips against my neck.

Xu Mo: “I think that one should decide when to hide away at the countryside based on how they feel.”

MC: “I say this on behalf of our motherland’s field of scientific research: this is not good.”

The milk tea in the post has started giving out an irresistible, delicious fragrance. I quickly switched off the stove.

MC: “What’s the next step? Filtering?”

Xu Mo: “Let me do it. During this time, you can set up the dining table and think about what to do after eating breakfast.”

MC: “I’d wanted to walk around nearby, but since it rained last night the ground must still be wet and muddy.”

“Let’s go up to the attic and read some books. While we’re at it, we could help the owner take care of the flowers and plants upstairs.”

Xu Mo: “Mm, that’s good too.”

After breakfast, I searched the bookshelves and found two novels that seemed easy enough to understand. Carrying the books in my arms, I was prepared to bring them up to the attic.

A thoughtful expression suddenly appeared on Xu Mo’s face, seeming like he just remembered something important.

Xu Mo: “Could I trouble you with going upstairs and tidying up first? I want to go and look for something.”

MC: “Look for something?”

Xu Mo: “Mm, I left it here on purpose last time. But I don’t know if it’s still here.”

I nodded my head. After bringing the books and tea cups up into the attic, I even grabbed two cushions from the sofa and brought them along.

After having done all these, Xu Mo still did not follow me upstairs. I was a little curious; listening carefully, I followed along to where the sounds came from and arrived at the entrance of the house.

Xu Mo: “Got it.”

Upon noticing me standing in front of him, Xu Mo turned around and smiled softly at me.

Xu Mo: “The keys are now being kept in a different place, so I spent some time looking for them.”

I looked at the keys hanging off his little finger, and then looked at the stack of letters in his hand.

MC: “Hasn’t it been a long time since you came here? Why are there still letters being sent to you?”

Xu Mo: “Let’s go upstairs first.”

After closing the mailbox again, he walked over and held my hand.

I still could not tear my eyes away from the stack of envelopes in his hand, and I could not help but feel that one of them looked a little familiar.

Xu Mo: “After having stared at it for so long, you still don’t remember it?”

Just as we stepped off the last of the stairs leading up to the attic, Xu Mo gently scratched the tip of my nose.

Xu Mo: “I’ll give you a little hint—do you still remember how we visited a bookstore in the past?”

MC: “Bookstore? …what bookstore?”

I felt puzzled by his question, but still used the clue to carefully recall what happened.

Xu Mo looked at me patiently. Lingering at the corner of his lips was a smile hinting at a restrain on his part. He looked as if he wanted to reveal the answer, yet at the same time hopeful that I could remember it immediately.

MC: “It’s from……”

I hesitated for a moment, worried that I might answer it incorrectly. But the colour of the envelope coincided with the one in my memory.

MC: “It’s from when we went to the New Light Bookstore and wrote down a time capsule?”

He responded with a gentle hum and solemnly handed the brightly coloured envelope in his hand over to me. At the same time, he drew another envelope from the stack of letters.

Xu Mo: “Do you want to open it?”

I held onto the envelope in my hand as my thoughts brought me back to that afternoon when I went to the bookstore together with Xu Mo.

It was a Saturday. The weather forecast said that it would be cloudy, but it suddenly started raining after we went out. As such, we could only cancel our original plans and hurriedly ran to the bookstore for shelter.

It just so happened that the bookstore was running a small readers’ event with emotions as its theme. I hid the feelings of pettiness in my heart and pulled Xu Mo along to participate with me.

The setup of the event was very simple. Besides having invited a few novelists to speak on the subject of emotions, participants were asked to take part in their time capsule activity.

Everyone had to pick one or several questions from a fixed set of questions on emotions. We wrote down our answers on pieces of paper, put them in envelopes, and handed them over to the bookstore for safekeeping.

MC: “I remember, the bookstore told us at the time that we could go back after ninety-nine days to retrieve our time capsules, didn’t they?”

Xu Mo: “They did give me a call. Unfortunately, there were some changes that happened between us.”

“By right, I should have given them a way to contact you instead. But I was selfish.”

“I requested them to have both of our letters sent to this address, just so that I would not give in to temptation for whatever reason and end up opening your letter secretly…”

“And to also give myself a chance.”

“If I could come back here together with you one day, I wanted to open this letter right in front of your eyes.”

His voice was peaceful, as if he were simply calmly narrating a story from the past.

In fact, right after saying all these, he lifted the cup and took a sip of hot tea with a smile. I looked at the way his eyebrow was shrouded by the swirling hot mist and smiled softly as well.

We were like two people recklessly determined on going forward with their backs to each other, taking a painful and long detour before realising that, at the end of our journey, our destination has always been the same.

And afterwards, we could only gaze upon each other and smile helplessly as we gently blamed the other for being a fool in our hearts.

MC: “…at that time, I pulled you along to write this with me because I also wanted to see your answer.”

After all, for a long time, getting along with him was more like getting along with my own little moods.

I needed to suppress my own uneasiness, and also get used to the suddenness of waiting.

He was the trickiest puzzle I have ever encountered; one that made me contemplate deeply and helplessly as I always eagerly waited for him to tell me the correct answer quickly.

Seeing that I have fallen silent, Xu Mo suddenly held my hand, the sunlight adding a layer of brightness to his deep voice.

Xu Mo: “I will now reveal the answer to you.”

We tore both of our envelopes open at the same time.

From my envelope, I took out the question card that I picked at the time, as well as the letter that I deliberately folded several times over because I was worried that Xu Mo would take a peek.

Written on the question card in a fancy font was: “What did he/she teach you?”

Curiously, I looked up and took a glance, and found that Xu Mo had picked the same question.

He calmly opened his own letter, which had three words written on it. His penmanship showcased the straightforwardness of his thinking at the time of writing.

MC: “Lack of freedom……”

When I read those three words aloud, Xu Mo laughed gently.

Xu Mo: “Why did you read it with such an unhappy tone? When I wrote this answer, I did not mean for it to be unhappy in any way.”

“Though, after meeting you, I have indeed started encountering many problems in life that I did not have before. For example…”

He solemnly started contemplating. I could not help but follow him closely; I wanted to firmly carve every word that he was going to say into my heart.

However, he sighed softly, and almost immediately afterwards he let out a laugh.

Xu Mo: “For example, what to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

MC: “Huh?”

For a moment, I was stunned.

Xu Mo: “For another example, I can’t help but start noticing the flowers in spring, the rain in summer, the maple leaves in autumn, and the fine snow in winter.”

“Or, when I come across an unexpectedly good movie, I don’t want to watch it alone. When I encounter something interesting, I would start having the desire to share it.”

“The strangest of all is that even the time I spend alone has started becoming more and more dull.”

As he slowly described his thoughts, Xu Mo gazed upon me with an unfaltering smile in his eyes. He watched as my expression shifted between uncertainty and amazement. At last, he could not hold back from teasing me.

Xu Mo: “Is it strange that this is how I think?”

MC: “Ah…. Mm.”

MC: “In my eyes, you have always been……”

For a while, I struggled to find the appropriate word. I wondered if I should describe him as pragmatic or strong.

MC: “You look like… you won’t have the same worries I do.”

Xu Mo sensed the hesitation in my eyes and asked me seriously.

Xu Mo: “What kind of worries does ‘the same worries’ refer to?”

His tone was gentle and slow, mingling with a hint of mirth. Clearly, he already understood the answer to this question.

I had wanted to crack a joke with him, but when I saw the look of anticipation in his eyes, I could not help but confess what was in my heart instead.

MC: “No matter what kind of people you meet, what situations you encounter, or where you go, you will inadvertently think of one person…”

“The inability to control your own thoughts and feelings… this lack of freedom.”

Xu Mo: “……”

With a smile on his lips, Xu Mo slowly switched his sights to gaze upon the ceiling.

A soft, pure white cloud came into view. The blues of the sky and the whites of the cloud interlaced, reflecting a sense of long lost peacefulness and brightness in his deep, pool-like eyes.

Xu Mo: “Mm, they are indeed the same worries.”

At this moment, I unhurriedly opened my own letter. I did not know if it was due to our chemistry or if were a mere coincidence, but there were also three words written on it.

Xu Mo: “Lack of fear.”

When Xu Mo read the three words aloud, I could not help but laugh as well.

MC: “Why did you read it so hesitantly? Are you worried that I was feeling wronged when I wrote this?”

Xu Mo did not speak, but his knitted brows still revealed the tacit attitude he had towards my words.

MC: “It’s not like that at all.”

“At that time, I thought—no matter what happened afterwards, I would face everything willingly.”

I paused for two seconds, worried that I was speaking a little too seriously. As such, I showed Xu Mo a faintly silly smile.

MC: “Mm… either way, there is nothing left for me to be afraid of. Everything is fine.”

At my easy-going tone, the frown between Xu Mo’s eyes deepened.

He avoided my searching gaze as his eyes revealed his shifting thoughts. At last, he responded to me with his usual smile.

Xu Mo: “There’s still some milk tea left. Want to bring it up?”

My intuition told me that there was definitely a discrepancy between what he understood and what I conveyed.

I quickly grabbed onto him, wanting to express my feelings clearer.

Xu Mo: “What’s wrong?”

Xu Mo lightly brushed a strand of hair from my forehead and tucked it behind my ears, gazing upon me with his usual gentleness.

Xu Mo: “Is there anything else that you want me to bring up?”

I held onto his face and stared into his eyes directly.

MC: “The lack of fear that I’m talking about doesn’t merely refer to the fact that I’m not afraid of putting all my trust in you…”

“Rather, it means that I’m not afraid of anything.”

“I’m not afraid of the secrets that you hide, nor am I afraid of accepting the real you.”

“I’m not afraid of walking towards you, towards all the setbacks and bumps in the road that we must overcome—”

“And I’m not afraid of being with you, or the responsibilities and costs that I have to bear along with it.”

“Nothing else matters. Being able to meet you, and being able to have this moment with you—this is already good enough.”

Once I have finished saying it all in one breath, I realised that my heart was beating faster than usual.

Truthfully, these words should have been spoken much earlier. Once I have confirmed my own feelings, I should have told him everything…

Just like the answer hidden in the envelope, the time to unseal it had been a long time coming.

Xu Mo looked at me quietly, his eyes revealing a surprise that I have never seen before.

Hot steam was swirling out of the cup of hot tea, the bitter and sweet aroma of tea scattering in the air.

For a while he was silent, his eyebrows slightly furrowing.

Xu Mo: “In your eyes, am I some kind of big bad guy?”

“Why do you need to gather up this much courage to be with me?”

“Having to overcome setbacks, having to bear the costs…”

“Is it really this tough?”

Xu Mo spoke, showing a very troubled expression.

Xu Mo: “Actually, I thought that your lack of fear was the same as my own lack of fear.”

He pretended to be all mysterious, drawling when he spoke the last of his sentence. I could only play along with him and continued asking.

MC: “This same kind of lack of fear… what kind of lack of fear is it?”

Xu Mo suddenly pulled me into his embrace, whispering closely into my ear.

His voice was like the hazy clouds—gently spreading across my heart as it dispersed, and a ray of sunlight came shining through after the rain.

Xu Mo: “With you in front of me, I am not afraid of anything—this lack of fear.”

#mlqc lucien #mlqc xu mo #许墨 #my translation

25 notes · View notes

pajama-nerd · 4 years

Text

Reading my way through Fazbears Frights, thinking about how none of these protagonists have ever interacted with any kind of horror media.

Reader Beware: Spoilers Ahead

Into the Pit didn’t read like time travel to me. It read more like a particular kind of haunting where the negative energy of all of the bad shit that happened at that location was locked into the one remaining 'feature' of the location: the ball pit. And Pit-Bonnie isn't the ghost of Afton, but rather the entity that was created from the memories of all that bad energy.

And the interesting thing to me about Pit-Bonnie is that - aside from the inherent creepiness of the situation and the fact that he had literally one facial expression (he can’t even blink for cryin’ out loud) - he didn't attempt to harm Oswald until Oswald went back to rescue his dad. Once Pit-Bonnie was away from the negative energy that had spawned him, he did Dad Things™. He did them in the creepiest way possible, granted, but we don't actually know how he feels because of his inability to express.

Maybe he wanted to stay. Maybe he just wanted a break from that place. Maybe that place has a hold on him, and being away from it allowed him a measure of free will.

And the fandom that I’ve seen about the Dashboard has locked onto Pit-Dad-Bonnie because the general attitude of the fandom - as far as I've witnessed - has been 'Oh. A scary thing! Well, now it's friend-shaped.' (or, in this case, Dad shaped) so of course my immediate question is, 'how would the story have changed if Oswald had made a more serious attempt to communicate with Pit-Bonnie?'

The immediate, cynical response is 'well it would have slaughtered him' but that's infinitely less interesting than the possible alternatives.

Perhaps he takes in the fact that Pit-Bonnie can't talk, and proposes an alternate method of communication. I'm talkin construction paper and crayons. And he gets Pit-Bonnie to tell his story a la Nephrite from Steven Universe. About how one day he just was. And how sometime after that, that version of Fazbear's formed around him. And how there were happy, smiling kids laughing in the pizzeria and he was happy, but how every time he tried to be friends with the kids something would happen.

The world would flicker and they would just be in that back room, like that. How he was desperate for some kind of a connection and could never have one because those kids – those memories – were doomed to die by the memory of his hands. How he noticed Oswald because Oswald didn’t fit – he was real – and how he’d wanted Oswald to help him figure out how to change what had happened (or to make it stop), but Oswald had run away. About how he’d tried to fish Oswald out of the ballpit and gotten his dad instead. About deciding to take his dad’s place so that he could get away from that place and how being here with Oswald was nice. Driving him to school was nice. Making him dinner was nice. Cleaning the house with him was nice.

(Imagine Oswald getting less and less afraid as he interprets the story, checking in with PB occasionally to make sure he's getting it right. Getting slightly annoyed tho, because he's not getting rid of this rabbit, is he? But he still needs to rescue his dad, so now what?)

Oswald eventually tells PB that he can stay, which surprises but elates the rabbit. Then Oswald tells him they have to get his dad back.

There's a negotiation. Obviously, they have to get his dad back. Has Pit-Bonnie been going to his dad's job? What about taxes? Things his dad knows how to do? What about Oswald's mom? Is Pit-Bonnie just going to pretend to be his dad around her forever? What if she wants to do...like...parent stuff? With her husband? If you catch my drift (PB does not, in fact).

Eventually PB agrees, and even drives Oswald back to the same block as the pizza place. He doesn't get close to it - definitely doesn't park in the lot - but Oswald just tells him to wait in the car and goes and wakes his dad up from the ball pit. His dad is confused. Disoriented. Way out of it. Let's Oswald lead him back to the car and sits in the back, too out of it to comment on the yellow bunny mascot in the front seat. They return to the house without incident, and his dad passes out on the couch.

Oswald eventually figures out that PB is the one making his dad so loopy - that the connection PB formed so that he could know how to drive the car, how to work the vacuum cleaner, how to make Oswald's meals, is also keeping Oswald's dad borderline comatose. It takes some convincing to get PB to give that up. PB is afraid to give that up - afraid that if he doesn't have an anchor, he'll go back to being an aimless product of rage and murder.

Oswald's solution is to spread the bond out. He'll take part of it. If PB splits his focus, it'll be less of a strain on his dad, and PB will have more than one anchor. This has the added property of giving his dad the ability to see the seven-foot-tall grinning plush rabbit (he doesn't react well. Neither does mom. Oswald has never had to talk so much in his life)

So now Pit-Bonnie is a part of Oswald’s life, and it’s hella weird at first, but everyone gets over it, because eventually you just get numb to weirdness. Except Oswald becomes obsessed with Freddy Fazbears, in an Unsolved Mysteries kind of way. Starts researching the place wherever and however he can.

Pit-Bonnie helps, in his way, after they figure out a way to communicate efficiently (modified Sign Language, because being bonded to Oswald means that Pit-Bonnie knows how to do all the things that Oswald knows how to do. So Oswald learns sign language. Which means that Pit-Bonnie knows how to sign now. He still only has the one facial expression, which makes asking questions a little complicated, but they work it out).

I imagine that Pit-Bonnie is very tuned in to the weirdness/darkness vibe that Freddy’s and its remnants (ha) give off. He starts reading local and then state, and then national newspapers, and whenever he gets the Fazbear vibe, he sets the article aside for Oswald to look at. Also he doesn’t sleep, so in the first week of Oswald’s obsession, he generates a lot of leads for Oswald by going through back issues of...everything.

This is a rambly thing, but my point is that most horror has a solution and most of the time this solution is subverted by having it happen to people who have no experience with horror movies, books, comics, or other mediums, which is…I dunno. Kinda cheap.

‘What if they ever saw Frankenstein and sympathized with the monster enough to have empathy for this thing?’

‘They’re not horror fans. And the ones that are have never seen or read the stories where empathy solves the problem.’

To Be Beautiful (a terrible, one dimensional story with a terrible message about self-image told the way that high school stories in the 80's-90's were told, which wasn't even accurate to how highs schools were in the 80's-90's) could have been solved by literally anyone being more than passively curious about the drastic changes that Sarah was undergoing. (Puberty doesn't work that fast. Her whole freaking face changed). Or by her mom going into her room at some point and asking about the 5 foot robot doll.

Count the Ways has many solutions, although, really? She shoulda chosen starvation. More time to escape or be rescued is always, always, always going to be better than a 'maybe I won't be bifurcated’ any way you slice it (I’m not sorry), but I'm fond of the idea of Oswald coming across an article about ‘theft of proprietary animatronics from a Fazbear Entertainment property’ and it leading him to Milly’s grandfather’s house in time to save her. Along with his seven-foot-tall grinning plush friend who can alter people's perception.

Fetch could have been solved by treating Fetch like a dog. Seriously. He is dog shaped. He is therefore a dog, first and foremost. Dog first, killer animatronic second. Which Greg didn't fundamentally understand (he strikes me as a cat person anyway). But Fetch spent that entire story trying to do what he thought his master wanted, and never got so much as a 'good boy' out of it. He didn't even try to defend himself when Greg went to town on him with a baseball bat because he just wanted to be a good dog for his boy. And even after that, when Greg expressed a desire to see Kimberly, Fetch still wanted to do something to get his master to call him a good boy. Honestly, if - after being warned about Fetch - Kimberly had planted her feet and said 'Sit!' I would bet actual Faz-dollars that Fetch's haunches would have dropped to the pavement out of surprise alone, because it would have been the first time in the story someone treated him like a dog.

Alec was doomed to be a teddy-bear from the moment his parents picked up a ‘how to raise my kids’ book, but he’s still alive. There’s no reason he couldn’t be rescued (by Oswald, who’s on the trail of all the weirdness related to Freddy Fazbear. I’d read that story. I’d write that story. I will probably write that story)

The Plushtrap story...had no flaws. That was the only solution, and good on those boys for making all the right choices except for the initial choices that put them in that situation to begin with. A+. Those teeth, Jesus.

1:35 am could have been solved with an apology. Come on. For a character that was supposedly in the Foster Care system being bounced from home to home, you’d think she could empathize with an entity that didn’t appreciate being thrown away. A sincere apology, a promise to never do it again, and Ella would probably have forgiven her.

I don’t remember where I was going with this. I started writing it before I clocked on for work, but that was eleven hours ago. Who can remember where a train of thought that far back?

#fnaf #fazbear frights #ramble #headcanons #how to change the outcome of a horror story

7 notes · View notes

kat-feinated · 4 years

Text

Living with anxiety

It took hitting my personal mental health rock bottom to realize that I needed help. I’ve always been an anxious person with perfectionist tendencies-I remember being five years old and my mom teasing me for being such a “worry wart”. In high school, I studied 24/7 and missed out on social opportunities because I was obsessed with getting good grades and getting into college. I was able to chill out a little in college and grad school, which were honestly less academically rigorous than my high school experience. Both college and grad school also had a ton of built-in structure, and I thrive on structure. It wasn’t until I finished school once and for all that I experienced my first panic attack and had to change a lot of things about myself and the way I was caring for my mental health.

Besides being outside of the safety net of academia for the first time, I also received news about a week after graduation that the job I had been offered (as a therapist for a private practice) was no longer being offered, not due to anything I had done but because the owner had decided to close down his practice after decades of serving the Denver Metro area. I had spent months and months writing cover letters, tweaking my resume, and interviewing for jobs in Colorado-I even had flown out from Iowa for this job interview. Suddenly, I had to start over from scratch. It was June at this point, and I was supposed to move to Denver at the end of the summer.

I was also devastated because at the time this job had seemed so perfect for me. I had just completed a year-long internship at the University of Iowa Children’s Hospital doing therapy and medical social work for children with developmental/intellectual disabilities and their families. This new job would be working as a therapist for children with these same disabilities. It seemed like the perfect fit.

I moved home to California for the summer. Even though Joshua had a job in Denver already and offered numerous times to support both of us until I could find a job in my field, I felt uncomfortable about that. I had never relied on anyone financially except for my parents, and we had never even lived together despite having dated the past 3 years.

So I moved home to my mom’s place and started over with the grueling process of applying for jobs. It’s so true what they say-finding your first job out of school is the hardest. And, because of my perfectionist tendencies I was determined that my job needed to be a “good fit” for me. In retrospect I know that there’s no such thing as a perfect job, but at the time I didn’t want to “settle” for anything.

So there were just a lot of unknowns at the time. I didn’t have a job. We didn’t have a place to live in Denver. Joshua was still in Iowa, spending all his waking hours studying for the bar exam, so he could not see how much I was struggling. I had never been out of school supporting myself financially before. Instead of feeling free and seeing life as full of endless opportunities, I felt like I was drowning.

One morning, I interviewed for a job in Boulder over skype. The interview went just fine. But that evening, as I was researching commute times from Denver to Boulder, I suddenly felt like I was having a heart attack. I thought I was dying. I couldn’t breathe, my chest felt tight and I could not stop crying. I remember my mom walking in and seeing that I was crying and asking what was wrong, and I told her that I was going crazy and was scared.

My mom was well aware that I was grappling with anxiety about the future, but didn’t realize how bad it had gotten until I had my first panic attack. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately?) she had experienced panic attacks in the past following a traumatic car accident as well as caring for my sick and dying grandfather, so she recognized it immediately in me. She called my step-dad (a physician) who wrote me a prescription for Prozac (which is an antidepressant that can be used to treat anxiety).

I remember the first couple days of being on prozac I felt like a zombie or like I was in a perpetual fog. But within a few days or maybe weeks I felt normal. Not just normal-I felt like the best version of myself. It was like my entire life I had been white-knuckling everything-sweating and worrying about every little thing-and suddenly those things just didn’t matter anymore. I was still the same person-still a hard worker with the same goals. And don’t get me wrong, I still stress out about stuff, but I no longer feel like every little thing is a life-or-death situation.

I’ve been on Prozac for almost 3 years now and I can honestly say it is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I feel like I’m the best version of myself when I’m on it. I tried once to cut my dose down about a year ago, despite my doctor insisting it would be fine for me to take it indefinitely, and I almost immediately started having insomnia (which I always had as a child) and stressing again. I quickly went back on my normal dose and have no plans to go off it anymore.

I think that because I am a mental health professional, I felt a lot of shame about going on Prozac at first. You’d think it would be the opposite-you’d think I would be more accepting and know that the stigmas about mental health and medications are stupid-but I felt like I was the one who was supposed to be mentally healthy. I was the one who was supposed to take care of people’s minds. I wasn’t supposed to be struggling with mental health myself.

My mom really helped me get over this. She told me, “One day you’ll work with someone who is going through the same thing, and you’ll have such a deeper level of empathy for them because of your experience”. And (as always) she was right. About a year ago, I met a brand new client at work. As we were going over her orientation together, she broke down in tears. Apologizing, she then explained that she felt like she couldn’t breathe, her mind was racing, and her chest was hurting. She said she was afraid she was going crazy.

“It sounds like you’re having a panic attack”, I told her. I remembered how paralyzed I had felt the first time I had one, and how I had needed my mom to take over and help. “I’m going to take you to a walk-in crisis center so you can talk to someone and get some help”.

Although Prozac has probably been the biggest game-changer for me, there are a number of other things that have helped me manage my anxiety-which I feel like is truly under control for the first time in my life. Exercise is huge-biking and walking, yoga, and weights are some of my favorites. Keeping a paper planner and creating (and checking off!) daily, weekly, monthly and yearly to-do lists makes me feel productive and in control. Writing helps-most of the stuff I write is just unintelligible blathering that never makes it on the blog! Spending time outside. Spending time with animals. Talking to family and friends. Cleaning. I’m not super into meditation, but I like to practice mindfulness in other ways-like sitting in complete silence for 10 minutes while drinking my morning coffee.

Just as we care for our physical health through eating our veggies, getting enough sleep and exercising, we MUST also take care of our minds. I’m not able to help the children and families I serve when I’m not in a good head space. If you are struggling with anxiety, depression, an eating disorder, whatever it is-do not feel ashamed. Do ask for help. Do take care of yourself. I’m sending you love and a virtual hug. It can and will get better.

#mental health #anxiety #depression #social worker #prozac #selfcare #generalized anxiety disorder #panic disorder

1 note · View note

fourmisfitz · 5 years

Text

Drowse (Roger Taylor x Reader)

Summary: You need a quiet space to work, so you go to your best friend Rogers. You arrive exhausted, though you try to deny it, and Roger takes it upon himself to take care of you and get you the rest you so desperately need...

Setting: Current year because smartphones and some literature references, but London, England when Smile was still together and Brian and Rog were still studying at Ealing Art College. Imagine whichever Roger Taylor version you fancy, I just chose the Ben!Roger Borhap gif to prime you with that concerned emotion☺

Word Count: 4.6k

Requested? ✔

Warnings/Content: Just stocked up on fluff. It’s long but it’s just sweet:)

A/N: Hello lovelies! HERE IT ISSSSS, I’m totally writing this while running on 2 hours of sleep after two all-nighters in a row so, let’s hope tis good;) I was listening to ‘39 while writing the last bit, so if you wanna get in that sorta mood, like, go for it. This is my second fic posted on this account, let me know whatcha think! Something of this sort was actually requested by two followers, and I blended the requests slightly in a way that I think works well. One request was more open-ended where Roger takes care of you, and the other involved being at his place and ending up staying the night and something happens, which brings me to- no, there is no smut (because I actually have one coming out soon for that *wink wink*), but I hope it still leaves you satisfied, enjoy!

P.S. sorry it’s so long, needless to say I got carried away! ;)

And remember- feedback, feedback, feedback! Xx, Darc

Rubbing your eye with the knuckle of your thumb you let out a muted yawn as you leaned your head against the bus window. You were on your way to your best friend Rogers for the evening to work on an important school project. You both studied at the same college, but lived about 9 miles (15km) away from each other. Though you spent a lot of time together at one or the others flats frequently, lately school had been overwhelming to say the least. You’d been nose-deep in textbooks and research papers that never seemed to end, leaving you little time for socializing besides a few phone calls. After countless waves of sirens passing in your busier side of town, you had given up trying to write your paper in your small studio apartment and asked if you could come over and work together. Roger didn’t actually have much work to do, as his prof was a little less intense with the workload, but he was more than willing to lend you a quiet space to get some work done and catch up on one another, too.

You glanced down at your phone to flip through the songs Roger had recorded with his band Smile and sent to you. Roger, Brian, and Tim had been toying with some new rhythms and riffs, and Rog always liked getting your trusted opinion on how they sounded before going out and performing them at gigs. Though he was usually pretty stubborn to changing his sound, if you suggested it he would at least try it. He’s been doing this for awhile now - sending you them, seeing as you were his best friend and had an ear for good music, playing the piano yourself; a natural virtuoso.

Some riffs really caught your ear, others were merely pleasantly entertaining; it seemed none of them were boring, but they were missing something, perhaps some more excitement. You made note of the ones you really liked and would be sure to tell Roger when you arrived around 7pm.

For the time being, you slowly dozed off en route to his flat, but as the bus struck a pothole it shook you awake as you nicked the side of your head on the glass. Glancing out the window, you realized you were one stop away from your destination.

You got off and walked into the apartment complex that towered a measly 3 stories high. It was definitely different from your studio flat, which was located in a very dodgy area with alarming traffic swinging by all through the night. You buzzed the door for entry with a “Hey-” and paused to yawn, leaning against the wall, “-Blondie. Future-tooth-inspector. Rog. R-to-the-O-Geee. TayTayyy-” and were finally cut off by a loud buzz.

When you got up to his front door on the second level, he was already standing in the doorway, arms crossed, and hair disheveled as usual.

“Don’t you ever call me TayTay again.” but his face quickly formed a wide teeth-gleaming smile as he opened his arms for a hug. “Come here, love.” You smiled back, your smile not really reaching your eyes in your fatigued state as you dove into his chest. He was a solid few inches taller than you, making hugs protective and secure. His chest was warm, instantly making you content and his little muffled laugh was lulling you. Roger was wearing a smooth black button-up, buttoned up halfway, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You let out a pleased sigh and he looked down at you nuzzled into his chest.

“ ‘You alright?” a half-laugh leaving his small mouth.

“Hm?” you asked, still hugging him tight, “Oh- yeah yeah,” you straightened up and snapped yourself awake with a head shake as he looked at you quizzically. “Yeah, ya goof” raising your voice a bit to convince him, playfully shoving his shoulder, “i’m just a little sleepy is all!” walking past him into his flat.

“If you say so.” He shrugged, dropping the thought and walking over to the kitchen.

You had plopped yourself down in front of the big couch - between it and the low wooden coffee table, a bag of textbooks and folders on the floor with you, ready to set up shop.

“Fancy some tea, bunny?” he called from around the corner, filling a kettle up with water.

Bunny - the nickname he picked up for you for always being so hyper and jumpy, never really able to sit still, a true opposite to your current demeanor, though. You leaned your head back to rest on the couch cushion as your laptop started up.

“Yeah! ummm-” you pinched your nose, feeling a headache rush to the surface. He had backed up from the kitchen to see you past the dividing wall, popping his head around the corner. “Orange pekoe, please!” eyes still closed, you called back, not realizing he was a few feet away from you. He paused for a moment and then resumed his meandering in the kitchen.

“Sugar?”

“Hit me with three!” you were in need of something extra sweet to wake you up.

You moved your hands behind your head, supporting your neck, elbows high. You blew a big short breath as if to get down to business, but your laptop was installing some updates, as it always seemed to do when you needed it most. You pulled out your phone and decided to scroll through social media for a bit while you waited, but the screen just hurt your head more, so you settled on resting your head in your arms on the table. Just for a minute. The kettle began to pop and bustle.

“Oh! By the way, did you get a chance to listen to some of the new material from the band I sent over?” After a few seconds of silence, Roger peaked his head about the wall again, seeing your face was buried in your arms. “Y/N?”

“Hm?” you perked your head up the slightest inch and shook yourself awake again. “Oh- yes I really liked, umm... the one with...” You were yet again interrupted by another oncoming yawn. “the one with theee.. guitar and, stuff.” Your voice was barely audible through the yawn. You fluttered a hand in his direction, drooping your head back into the dark space provided by your arms.

“Rrright...” he furrowed his eyebrows. The kettle threw pops of water inside it, bouncing off the metal and echoing throughout the flat. He wondered how long it had really been since you’d had a decent night sleep. He walked over to the couch, sitting down behind you and lightly placed a large hand on your shoulder.

“I’m up!” You snapped, throwing flexed hands up like a reflex. His hand was paused hovering above your shoulder in a bit of shock from your reaction. You let out a groan, leaning your head back against his knee.

“I’m sorry, I- I’m just so-”

“-I know.” he said in a low calm voice. He knew when you got tired like this - like anyone - you were bound to be more impulsive and emotional. He slipped one hand under your head to cradle it and cushion his boney kneecap. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look pathetically exhausted, Y/N.” he peered at you, running his fingers through your hair near your temple with the other hand, chuckling to himself at your puffy eyelids.

You rubbed your eyes and sat back up. You gently gripped the edge of the coffee table bracing yourself as you leaned into a deep yawn, “I ammm-muh,” agreeing. You lifted your head back up, wiping shy hints of tears away that had emerged from the stretch as you blinked into alertness, “but I have to finish this paper, Rog, it’s due in two days and I still have another one to start due in a week.”

“Well, then how ‘bout a walk? It’s cooled down a bit outside. Fresh air ‘oughta do some good.” He tried.

“A walk sounds nice, but I really can’t right now, Rog.”

Roger looked at you inquisitively as you went to type in your password to unlock it. After two failed sloppy attempts pattering the keys, you grunted weakly in frustration, “Well this is just great!” but then it turned into a quiet giggle. You glanced up at him smiling a bit deliriously. His faced was laced with concern as he scanned your goofy lopsided smile, the laptop serving another delayed ding and rejecting you entry. You seemed to be acting the same as you did when you were tipsy, all giggly and incoherent.

He didn’t mind looking after you, he quite liked it actually, having someone to get all protective over sometimes. He had taken care of you in many instances in the past, whether it was taking you home after you went too hard, too fast at a bar and was worried about prowling guys taking advantage, or when the seemingly kinder ones broke your heart; you always found yourself at his flat, welcoming you with open arms, movie marathons, tea and your favourite ice cream.

“Oops.” your head bobbled, eyes hooded and blinking at him through your lashes. You returned your gaze back to your screen for another hopeless effort, but just as you were about to type, your hands were shaking profusely. You started to feel a wave of dizziness occur. You began to drowse.

And at last, the tea kettle began whistling from the other room. He got off the couch and bent down beside you.

“On second thought, maybe we should get you ready for bed, yeah?” Though he offered a ‘maybe’, it wasn’t a suggestion, he decided on it. He reached out from his perched lowered stance to scoop either of his wrists below each of your underarms, lifting you back onto the couch for a moment as he stood back up.

“What? No, Rog, I’m- I’mm-” you were halted in your sentence by another stubborn yawn, “III’m fiiiiine-hh” relaxing your face. He just shook his head deciding to ignore your weak protest.

“Surrre you are.” He bent down to reach an arm under one of your legs.

“No Rog really I’m quite good honestly” you tried again, really trying to display your typical bubbly self, but you were so tired you instantly sunk into him and gave up as he swung his other arm behind your upper back to support your weight.

“ ‘For your own good, love.” Your arms instinctively wrapped loosely around his neck as he carried you ‘princess-style’ to relieve the kettle of its panic and then to his bedroom.

“But my paperrrr” you slurred, tilting your head back to see the abandoned laptop.

“It can wait.” He said assertively.

“Someone’s been working out,” you giggled, tapping the shoulder farthest from you. He just did a little snort at that, because of the randomness, and he knew he wasn’t exactly the buffest guy.

Hearing yourself say that showed you just how sleep deprived you truly were, because that was just a little weird. You leaned your head into the crook of his warm neck, his long hair tickling your cheek. You swore you could pass out in his arms right then and there.

He was so good at caring for other people, at caring for you.

He presented himself as this guy with a hard protective shell who mainly cared about his reputation as a good lay, shagging girls left, right, and centre, but you knew him for the softie he was, something he didn’t really let anybody else see.

He set you down on his bed, helping you pull the puffy duvet out from under your legs and lifting it to rest over your shoulders.

“I’ll go fetch your tea, be right back.” He assured.

You must have dozed off for a brief moment because he was back with a steaming cup the very next second. Roger flicked the dim nightstand lamp on and set your mug down on the coaster.

“Let that cool for a bit, darling,”

God, you’d never get tired of his husky, raspy voice, and hearing him say darling, the way it sounded so stuffed with care as it rolled off his British tongue.

You sat up a bit and leaned into the tufted headboard. For a small apartment that was home to a college student, his bed was the most luxurious one you’ve ever seen... guess it made sense why. He sat on the edge of the bed close to you. You glanced down at his exposed forearms, never really noticing how defined they were from all the drumming, as he placed a hand on your covered thigh.

“How long has it been since you’ve slept, Y/N?” his eyes finding yours. You shrugged, your guilty ones trailing away to the duvet below.

“I’on’know.” you lied. He brought a hand to your chin, his index finger knuckle tipping it up to return your gaze to his bright blue eyes.

“Have you been at least trying to fall asleep? What’s been keeping you up?” There was that look of concern again you’d become accustomed to whenever you found yourself in damsel mode.

“Well yeah, ‘course I have, I just...” he waited patiently for you to finish. The truth was that you had been working hard on school, but you had also just been dumped. You didn’t want to admit that though, because you weren’t even really officially dating the guy yet - it had only been about two months, and Roger and you hadn’t hung out in a awhile because of schedules, so you failed to inform him of the new lad anyway.

You huffed, “I got dumped.” you closed your eyes, not seeing his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Dumped? By who?” He moved his settled hand to be atop your own. You shook your head slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

“I didn’t want to make it a thing, and I felt bad for not telling you about him in the first place when it started becoming something.”

You also didn’t want him thinking there was something wrong with you, that there was some attribute or trait that drove men away, had he ever decided to reciprocate feelings for you. Which was a stupid thought and you knew it - you were best friends and he knew you. You also had kinda just been keeping yourself occupied with romantic interests in an attempt to chase your feelings for him away while he himself seemed occupied with girl after girl.

He cocked his head to the side. “Oh, love, that’s okay. I mean, we’ve both been so busy, you especially. I know how hard you work. Sure I’d like to hear about things but it doesn’t always necessarily have to be as they happen.” You’re eyebrows pinched, wondering how you got so lucky to have him as your best friend.

He passed you your cup of tea, “Should be cooled down enough now, there’s no sugar though.” You raised an eyebrow at him as you tipped the mug back against your lip. “Chamomile.” He rushed to explain shortly. You just sipped without a change in expression, waiting to hear more. “Nightmares, and all - you know how sugar heightens the-” He waved his hand around in front of him, searching for the word, “vividness and all...” he almost seemed... embarassed and sheepish, trying to act like it didn’t mean much, “didn’t want you waking up from some night terror or something.” He let out a half-laugh, taking a sip from his own mug, “Do you want to tell me what happened with this dumbass?” Followed by another sip to shut himself up.

“You remembered.” you noted, slumping back lower down the headboard, a little grin coming over your face as you clutched the warm mug.

“What’s that?” he raised his brows, licking his lip to catch a droplet of tea that dribbled.

“Just,” shaking your head, “didn’t think you remembered I got night terrors.”

He shrugged. “You used to get them pretty bad.” he recalled.

One night a few years ago, you had stayed the night at Rogers for the first time and he was awoken by a very panicked you, unable to fully wake up, and he just held you, shushing you as you quieted down and drifted back to sleep. You didn’t know about that night though. When he referred to it the next morning in conversation, you had no idea you woke him up at all, just that you had a bad nightmare and thought your leg shook and that was the end of it. You thought nothing of it and forgot about his mentioning of it when he played it off as “must've been a dream or something,” of his. Other times you knew you, when you would wake up alone at home from them, but you were never aware of his comfort being the reason you were able to stop panicking and lull back to a deep more relaxed sleep that night.

“Hmh. Anyway, about Dean,” another yawn, “maybe in the morning, Rog.” your weak, shaky arm resting the mug back on its coaster.

He perked up, “Dean, eh?” a grin widening across his face. You groaned. “He even sounds like an ass.” He shot you a wink, ruffling your hair as he stood up from the bed. “You’d better get some sleep, yeah? I’ll be out on the couch if you-”

“Wait!” you urged a bit too sudden, grabbing his wrist.

“Yeah?” He looked down at you, awaiting a response.

“Uhhh,” Shit.

“Wha’s up?” He turned his body to face you.

“Just... could you-... could you maybe stay in here tonight?” your voice trailed off quietly. “I just know I sleep better when I’m not alone, and-” he knew it too.

“Yeah, sure. If you think it’ll help.” A wave of relief came over you.

He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it in a corner, walking over to his wardrobe to snatch a pair of pajama bottoms. “Do you want something comfier to sleep in than those tight jeans you’ve got on?” He also remembered they were tight...

“That would be great.” you laughed nodding, and he threw a pair of flannel bottoms at you, accompanied by a band tshirt.

You instantly began changing right then and there, not giving it a second thought.

“I like that one.” Roger noted, your grey lace bra now in full view.

“Roger!” you clutched your cotton button-up to your chest to cover yourself. You didn’t really care too much though, but you were so tired you just didn’t really consider walking the 5 feet to the bathroom to change.

He let out a boyish chuckle, “What?!” You swatted your shirt him, shaking your head with a little grin peeking out. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” he went to undo his belt with a smirk creeping up, referring to the countless girls he’s been with.

“Shut it! I’m too tired to even- I just wanna go to-”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry, Y/N. Really. I’m just pullin’ your leg.” You sighed. “I’ll give you your privacy.” he mocked, defensive hands held up near his shoulders as he exited the room to the bathroom.

You began to change, pulling his tshirt over your head. It smelled so good, with hints of musk and pine permeating off of it.

From the bathroom, Roger could see your reflection in the mirror. He went to close the door properly when he noticed to actually give you your privacy, but just as he was, he caught you reveling in the scent. You had the shirt on, but lifted it, the fabric held to your face, eyes closed. He smirked and rather than shutting the door to avoid attention, just stepped away so you weren’t in his view.

You slid off your pants, which exhausted you to the brim, leaving you out of breath. You could hear the water running as Roger brushed his teeth and such. You reached for the flannel bottoms he had offered you and pulled those on under the duvet. They were huge on you because of the height difference, but they were comfy, nonetheless.

Roger knocked on the bathroom door as he walked in to give you some warning. He was shirtless and wearing a similar pair of pants as you. Your body lay somewhere under the thick duvet, just your head peeking out as you lay on your side. He looked down at you as he turned out the bedside lamp. Your hair was sprawled out over the satin pillowcase, and there was something so mesmerizing about it.

You felt the other side of the bed sink as he moved the blanket back and climbed in. Instant warmth radiated off of his body under the covers. You, back in a sort of delirious haze, reached out and placed a small hand on the side of his head, petting his hair.

“Having fun?” he laughed, moving your limp hand off and placing it between either of your pillows by your head. You felt something lumpy underneath your palm.

“Is this-?” you yanked it from the far back position it was stuffed.

“What?” a now groggy Roger asked.

you gasped, it was.

“Aha!” you gleamed, a fist clasped around its fluffy body, “Beary Potter!” you squealed. It certainly peaked his attention.

“Y/N! Give it!” He ordered as you yanked it away from his reach, giggling.

Beary was Rogers first teddy bear, and you remembered him always needing to sleep with it, no matter where he was. He had a blue ribbon tied around his neck, and even in the dark you knew it was him from the familiarity.

Roger kept reaching as you sat up holding it far away from him in the air.

“Tell me Taylor,” you went on as he groaned, falling back into the pillow, defeated.

“Do your late night shags ever get the courtesy of meeting such a legacy?”

“That’s enough out of you!” he grabbed your wrist in one swift motion, causing you to lose grip of it as it dropped. Your giggles came to a halt. He sighed, grabbing the stuffed animal and setting it on his bedside table, out of your reach.

“Go to sleep, Y/N.”

You sighed and whined, slumping down to the pillow, now laying on your back.

“Oh Don’t tell me you’re not tired anymore.”

“I am tired!” you retorted. “I just-” you trailed off.

“Well out with it!” he pried impatiently.

“I’m scared...” you croaked, staring out at the black abyss of the dark room.

“To fall asleep?” his voice was a bit softer now.

Your exhale was enough of an answer to confirm that. He adjusted so he was closer now. A lot closer, actually. You could feel his warmth from all of his body right next to you, just shy of an inch away.

“Maybe.. I could help with that...” he offered in a whisper near your ear.

That caught you off guard, sending a shiver down your spine as goosebumps covered your body. He was right there but all of a sudden you felt freezing at the tiny sensation his breath had against your neck. You gulped quietly.

“How-” clearing your throat, “-how do you plan on doing that?”, the curiosity honestly getting the best of you.

And at that, you felt a hand reach over to your jaw, his finger tips just by your ear, turning you to face him. His fingers gently trailed down the side of your neck, before he stopped himself, retracting his hand back to his side.

Your face dropped in disappointment, though he couldn’t see.

The dark room let him forget who he was beside, not being able to see your face as a reminder - definitely not just some girl.

“Roger...” you breathed, completely unsure of how you were - or should be - feeling.

He exhaled through his nose. “Sorry.” he went to flip onto his side to face away, but you caught his shoulder, and slowly pulled it back down to rest on the mattress.

“No it’s... it’s okay.” He turned to face you. “Could you actually, um...” you inhaled and held your breath, “could you hold me, Rog?”

“Hold you?”

Oh boy, should I have even asked? We’re best friends and all but-

“Will that help?” he asked, genuine care lingering in his tone. There was a pause before he felt you nod as your head audibly moved on the pillow.

“Okay, love.” and you turned to face the other direction, scooting into his warmth as he extended an arm under your neck to rest your head on. He draped a secure arm over your waist and dragged his hand from the dip of your waist up your arm to your shoulder and back down again to try and relax you. There was that shiver again, but it felt so comforting.

“You’re alright, you’re okay.” he reassured, continuing to draw his fingers along your skin.

You let out the breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. A bit hesitantly, you moved a leg back to intertwine with his.

His leg jolted at first in surprise. “You’re freezing!” He exclaimed, barely louder than a whisper. But then he wrapped his leg with yours, making them a mess of limbs under the thick covers.

There was a pause for a bit as you settled into the comfort.

“Three days.” You croaked.

“Hm?”

You turned around to face him, taking a deep breath and letting it go against his chest. Your hot air gave him goosebumps as his arms settled around your new position.

“I haven’t slept in three days.” You whispered, nuzzling your face into his sternum.

He gave you a squeeze with his arms and held you closer, his grip securing you in his arms.

“Well...” reaching a hand up to run his fingers through your hair, instantly calming you down a hundred levels. “That’s about to change, isn’t it?”

Your nose let go of a short breath in amusement, reaching an arm under his and drawing circles on his back. After awhile, you felt yourself grow laden with fatigue, but you couldn’t get a song out of your head. “Roger?” your voice barely audible in the security of his hug. “Y/N, go to bed.” he insisted. “The one with the lyrics about the girls smile.” you murmured into this chest. A moment went by before you added, “That’s the one.” and continued tracing a few more shapes on his bare back before your hands fell limp in a deep sleep. “Well,” He kissed your head ever so lightly. “I’m relieved because that numbers about a special friend of mine.” but you were already gone.

That night, you had some dreams. You had good ones, bad ones.. terrifying ones even, but Roger was there. The whole night, he never let go of you, even when your body started nearly-convulsing in a REM sleep panic. Even when your nails dug into his back subconsciously from the fear propelling you out of stillness, he just breathed extra deep in the hopes of your lungs mimicking his inhalation patterns. Even when he woke up in the morning with just a measly half hour of sleep docked, he was still just as close to you as you awoke.

He looked down at you, your arm draped across his bare torso as he lay on his back, you basically a koala attached to him. Moving a stray hair that had fallen over your face, your eyes slowly blinked awake, lashes fluttering, and met with his blue ones.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” His raspy voice cooed, smiling at your sleepy state. You just squeezed him tight for a moment and settled your head near his collarbone as you lay on your side.

“Did you have a good sleep?” You asked with closed eyes, slowly seeping into a drowse again.

He tucked some hair behind your ear and replaced his hand on your upper arm with a deep breath.

“The best.”

You hummed in satisfaction, and went back to sleep, your little hints of snores drawing out a smile across his face you never saw as he finally did too.

Please let me know what you thought :”) I won’t know if my writing is good unless you let me know or offer ideas for what I could improve on as well as fic/blurb/headcanon requests! I appreciate all the support :) xx

318 notes · View notes

notbemoved-blog · 4 years

Text

Dorothy Day and her Hope-filled “Revolution of the Heart”

What a time we’re in! I’ve put my blog on hold while working on my next book, but feel the need to come back with a few pieces to “Keep Hope Alive” in these dark times. And just in time for a Dorothy Day revival! Dorothy Day, the enterprising journalist and social activist (and perhaps soon to be saint of the Catholic Church) is having something of a revival of her reputation. A new biography (Dorothy Day by John Loughery and Blythe Randolph) and a new documentary (“Revolution of the Heart: The Dorothy Day Story” by Martin Doblmeier) have put Day back in the limelight where she belongs. She’s recently appeared in the New York Times Book Review (written by prominent religion historian Karen Armstrong, no less), for an extensive New Yorker profile, and even today in the REVIEW section of the Wall Street Journal! Day’s renaissance couldn’t come at a better time, when, thanks to the pandemic, the fragility of our safety net for the poor shows itself for what it really is: benign neglect, if not downright abuse.

I’ve been an admirer of Dorothy Day’s for decades, dating back to my time as a Catholic seminarian in Baltimore in the 1970s when we were encouraged to think a lot about the poor and about social conditions and how best to put our social consciences to work to improve things. After leaving the seminary and trying to find my way throughout the rest of the ‘70s, I enrolled in The American University’s School of Communications and set about trying to improve my skills as a writer. While pursuing a second bachelor’s degree in Communications (the first, from St. Mary’s Seminary College, was in Philosophy), I happened upon a wonderful journalist/teacher Joe Tinkelman, who taught some of my earliest writing classes and whose consistent encouragement caused me to believe I might have a career as a writer someday.

For his “American Newspapers” class, Tinkelman pushed us to write a long-form journalistic piece profiling a newspaper of our choice. My mind immediately went to The Catholic Worker, Dorothy Day’s creation from the 1930s that was still going strong in the 1980s. I thought a 50-year retrospective was in order, so I set about to research this little-known gem and report back to Tinkelman and the class. The research I did (mostly at Catholic University) put me in deeper touch with Dorothy Day, her philosophy, her writing, and her work with the poor of New York City.

For the next four weeks, I’m posting a serialized version of the paper I did for Professor Tinkelman as a tribute to his inspiring teaching and to Dorothy Day herself and her incredible work. Read with caution: You may just get radicalized!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Catholic Worker—The Voice of American Catholic Radicalism Since the 1930’s (Part I)

By Michael J. O’Brien, 12/8/81 – American Newspapers, American University, Professor Joe Tinkelman

On a piercingly cold night in December of 1978, I stepped from the sub-compact I had so comfortably been traveling in with a former seminarian classmate of mine onto the curb of Second Avenue on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. We were on our way to Maryhouse, the Catholic Worker’s House of Hospitality for homeless women, to attend one of the C.W.’s Friday night meetings. It was my first visit to the Catholic Worker Headquarters. Before I could even close the car door, a middle-aged Black man with the smell of whiskey on his breath and of urine on his clothes—the smell of the destitute in any city—asked me for some money “for a cup of coffee.” I remember looking into this man’s half-dazed eyes, seeing behind him the lights of Second Avenue—the bars and novelty shops, the cafes and movie houses that give the street a feeling of one continuous cabaret—and wondering how to tell him on this of all nights that I could not give him a penny. [Part of our seminary training was to decline to give money to alcoholics. “They’ll only use if to further their illness,” we were told.]

I was already late for the C.W. meeting, so instead of inviting him for a bite to eat at one of those cafes, I asked him to join me at Maryhouse. I knew he would at least be warm there and perhaps could even get a cup of hot coffee. He refused, and as my friend and I dashed across the street to get to the meeting, I heard him cursing us. I can’t think, now, of a more appropriate greeting for my first visit to the Catholic Worker—a group that has served the poor and the dispossessed of the Bowery for almost 50 years.

At the time, however, I was only thinking of our lateness! As we opened the doors to Maryhouse and rushed up the stairs of this seemingly ancient tenement, I was awed by the thought that Dorothy Day, co-founder of the Catholic Worker—“both a newspaper and a movement”—graced these steps daily. For all I knew, she was there that very night, this being her primary residence in the City. I didn’t know much about Dorothy Day then, but I knew she had chosen to live her life among the poor and to serve them as if they were Christ. That was enough to spark my interest in her and in her work.

My friend and I entered the doors of the auditorium to a standing-room only crowd. More than two hundred people were packed into this tiny hall that serves as a distribution center for the newspaper and the meeting hall for “the clarification of thought,” as Peter Maurin, the Catholic Worker’s other founder, put it.

We took our places among those standing in the back and I caught a glimpse of Daniel Berrigan, the radical Jesuit pacifist, who was speaking to the throng. Berrigan was scheduled to talk that night—I guess that’s why so many people showed up—on the poetry of Thomas Merton, a well-known Catholic monk and author who died in the late 1960s. Berrigan read to us some of Merton’s poems concerning war, peace, death, and nuclear armaments. After each poem, he gave us his own interpretation of what he believed Merton was trying to convey; they had been good friends.

Thomas Merton, Dorothy Day, and Daniel Berrigan: Three pillars of radical Catholic thought in the 1960s.

The entire evening had an aura of unreality about it for me. Here I was in Dorothy Day’s house listening to Daniel Berrigan speaking on Thomas Merton—three pillars of radical Catholic thought represented under one roof! The history of modern Catholic radicalism came alive for me that night. It is some of that history, particularly the Catholic Worker’s singular role in its development, that I will attempt to relate in the text that follows.

The Young Radical Journalist

One could say Dorothy Day was a journalist from birth. Her father was a sports writer for the New York Morning Telegraph; her brothers became newspaper editors. Journalism was in her blood.

She became involved in questions of social justice at an early age. She read Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle and Jack London’s essay on class struggle while still in high school. One of her brothers worked on a Chicago paper (where the family lived during Day’s adolescence) called The Day Book, an experiment by Scripps-Howard that reported on the ups and downs of the Labor Movement. The paper’s accounts of the the struggles of the poor and of the workers stirred Dorothy deeply. She began to feel that her life was linked to theirs, that she had received “a call, a vocation, a direction” for her life.

Dorothy Day began her career as a journalist in 1916 at the age of 18 by taking a job at a newspaper coincidentally named The New York Call—a socialist daily that was heavily involved in the labor issues of the day. Later she worked on The Masses, a monthly Communist magazine. After the periodical’s suppression by the Attorney General during the post-World War II “Red Scare”, Day worked for The Liberator, the successor to The Masses.

Her assignments took her to all kinds of strike meetings, picket lines, and peace rallies. She interviewed Leon Trotsky while he was living in New York and writing for a Russian socialist newspaper. She picketed the White House and went to jail for a month with a group of suffragists. She counted as her friends Eugene O’Neill, the great American playwright; Max Eastman, editor of The Masses; and John Reed, author of Ten Days That Shook the World, a journalists’s account of the Russian Revolution. (The new movie REDS explores aspects of the lives of all three of these men.)

A 1917 photo of Dorothy Day (center, holding a copy of The New York Call) urging the U.S. NOT to enter WWI.

An Unlikely Convert

Although her early years as a journalist were spent advocating for causes and movements that were considered godless (Communism, after all, considers religion as an opiate), Dorothy Day converted to Catholicism in 1927 at the age of 30. She saw the Catholic Church as the church of the poor and of the worker, and she wanted to be one with them in every way. Also, she had given birth to a little girl through a common-law marriage, and the overwhelming love she experienced for both her lover and her daughter made her believe that there must be a God.

Day’s conversion caused her much suffering; she had to leave the man she loved because he would not condone her religious leanings. But she put principle before personal comfort, as she would so many times in the future.

After her Baptism, Day found she was no longer one with her comrades. They could not understand her religious convictions and she found it difficult as a Catholic to participate in demonstrations and meetings that were organized by Communists. She continued to report on the plight of the working man for Catholic periodicals—she even did a series of articles for the Catholic press explaining Marxist-Leninism!—but she felt far removed from her earlier radical involvement. She was at a loss as to how to reconcile her two great loves—her newfound love for God and her continued love for the working man and the poor.

An Answered Prayer

Dorothy Day often warned people to be careful how they prayed. “God takes you at your word,” she would say. It was through just such a prayer that she found a solution to her dilemma and that The Catholic Worker came to be.

In early December 1932, Day was covering a march on Washington, D.C., by the Communist-led Unemployment Councils. The march was an attempt by the Depression’s unemployed workers to bring their grievances to Congress. Day was reporting on the march for two Catholic periodicals, America and Commonweal. She became distressed by the march’s lack of Catholic leadership and felt she could no longer sit by and watch as others, especially Communists, took the lead in fighting for the working man. She had to find a way to get involved in the struggle as a Catholic.

On December 8, just after the worker’s march and, coincidentally a Catholic Holy Day, Dorothy Day went to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception—still under construction in Washington—and prayed fervently that God would show her the way out of the box she was in. Remarkably, God took her at her word. When she returned home to New York, Peter Maurin, the man who was to teach her the way out, was waiting for her in her apartment.

Peter Maurin

Maurin had been sent to Day by the editor of Commonweal because they “thought alike.” He was a French peasant and was deeply rooted in Catholic social tradition. He had studied Aquinas, Augustine, and the socialy encyclicals of the Popes, as well as the many contemporary Catholic social writers, including Hillaire Belloc, Emmanuel Mounier, and the Russian activist and social theorist Peter Kropotkin.

Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin sitting for a group Catholic Worker photo in the early 1940s.

Maurin had a plan for the reconstruction of the then-crumbling American society. His plan had four planks: (1) houses of hospitality for the immediate relief of those in need; (2) farming communes to relieve the wretched unemployment brought about by urban industrialization; (3) round table discussion “for the clarification of thought” on social issues; and, (4) a newspaper to get these ideas to the man and woman in the street. Maurin’s entire plan was aimed at “creating a new society within the shell of the old” where it would be “easier for men to be good.”

The Birth of a Newspaper

Dorothy Day didn’t immediately comprehend the breadth of Maurin’s thought, but she jumped at the idea of publishing her own newspaper. She found out that the Paulist Press—a Catholic publishing outlet—would print 2,500 copies of an eight-page tabloid (originally 9”X12”) for fifty-seven dollars. Day feverishly began writing articles for the fledgling paper—articles on the plight of sharecroppers, child labor, the hourly wage for factory workers, and racial injustice. These, along with Maurin’s “Easy Essays”—short, free-flowing verse for quick and easy consumption of ideas by the man in the street—made up the copy for the papers first edition.

Maurin wanted to call the paper The Catholic Radical, but because of her knowledge of Communist periodicals in the U.S., Day insisted on calling it The Catholic Worker—a direct challenge to the then-popular Communist paper The Daily Worker. “Man proposes, woman disposes,” Maurin jokingly demurred. And so, The Catholic Worker was born.

They didn’t seek permission from the Church to use the word “Catholic.” Day wondered about this, but a priest friend of hers wisely advised, “Never ask permission.”

The enduring Catholic Worker masthead

The first issue of The Catholic Worker was ready for distribution on May Day—May first, the great Communist holiday celebrating the working masses—of 1933. In a short column entitled To Our Reader, Day dedicated the paper:

For those who are sitting on park benches in the warm spring sunlight. For those who are huddling in shelters trying to escape the rain. For those who are walking the streets in the all but futile search for work. For those who think that there is no hope for the future, no recognition of their plight—this little paper is addressed. It is printed to call their attention to the fact that the Catholic Church has a social program—to let them know that there are men of God who are working not only for their spiritual, but for their material welfare.

Dorothy Day was determined to make her stand along with others involved in the workers’ struggle, so in typical in-your-face radical fashion, she along with three of her Catholic supporters went to hock the paper in Union Square, where 50,000 workers had gathered for a massive show of support for Communism. They were scoffed at and they sold few papers, but Day and her friends were satisfied with their results. The paper had been launched. In addition, Day and Maurin had embarked on the great pilgrimage that would consume the rest of their lives.

(To Be Continued)

#Dorothy Day #Peter Maurin #Daniel Berrigan #Thomas Merton #Joe Tinkelman #The Catholic Worker #American University #AU Communications #St. Mary's Seminary College #smsc

1 note · View note

matrixaffiliate · 5 years

Text

Descry

New Story! FFN and AO3

Lily Luna is two years out of Hogwarts and still trying to figure out what's next in her life. Thankfully, an old friend happens to have an idea, and she's going to run into him at a pet shop of all places.

From this post by @prsephonies, for @thisismegz, who wanted a Lily Luna story. One-shot. Lily/Lysander fulff story.

Descry

It started because Lily had been in a second-hand store and found an old copy of one of the thousands of versions of Romeo and Juliet. She thought it would be a good laugh as she spent another night, alone, by herself, in solitude.

But for half a quid she'd have a thirty-year-old take on a 400-year-old play so she went with it.

Lily had finished Hogwarts two years ago and had no idea what she wanted to do. She'd interned with her mum for a few months, but she just didn't love writing enough to do it for a living. Then, at her mother's insistence, her dad let her tag along a bit, to see if maybe being an Auror like her brother Teddy would catch her fancy. It hadn't - both her dad and Teddy were relieved at that. James had stepped in at that point, took her to work where he designed brooms, and while it was cool to see the process, Lily was bored after a few hours. Finally, Al had taken her on a couple of Muggle university tours, but Lily is pretty sure that Al finding his girlfriend, Ellie, while in university has a lot to do with his enthusiasm for continuing education.

She'd shadowed just about everyone in the family, and come back feeling more lost than she had when she'd walked off the Hogwarts Express for the last time.

And so today, with the old DVD of Romeo and Juliet in hand, Lily went back to her parent's home. Her parents had gone on a week-long holiday and Lily realized two nights into it that it wasn't quite as much fun as she thought it would be to have the big house to herself. It probably would have been more fun if she'd had friends to have over, but all of Lily's friends from school had long since moved on in their lives, leaving Lily to fend for herself.

Lily had seen other productions of Romeo and Juliet, and this one had only taken liberties with the setting, putting it in a slightly more modern scene, but that had led to the one scene that really stuck out to her. The scene where Romeo and Juliet find each other on the other side of the aquarium at the Capulet party just felt so...

So natural, organic, the way it should be.

Lily had dated at Hogwarts, had even thought she was in love for a while, but since leaving Hogwarts she'd more or less fallen off the train. She'd looked into some of the Muggle dating apps, but she felt like such a baby on there. She wanted to meet someone on the other side of a fish tank and let something special grow. She envied how Teddy and Vic, and Jamie and Allie, had found each other in Hogwarts, had known it was right, and now were living their happily ever after.

Lily just felt so alone.

So after turning everything off in the house's Muggle room, the room where the TV and smartphones and laptops worked and we're protected from magic, Lily went to bed, trying to figure out what she'd do tomorrow. Lily usually watched Dom's little girls, but Dominique and her husband had taken the family to France and so Lily was out of a job for the remainder of the week. As she slipped into sleep, Lily decided she was going to get an aquarium, just like the one in the movie.

The next morning, Lily rolled back the crazy a bit and settled on simply getting a fish. Nothing too exotic, and nothing magical, she just wanted something that would help her feel a little less alone, remind her of the scene she liked so much from the movie, and she wasn't sure her parents would go for a surprise cat or dog when they got home from their holiday. But a fish, that would stay in her room and wouldn't randomly start talking to them and would stay contained in its bowl seemed like something she could pass off alright.

It didn't take too long to locate a local pet store and Lily set out with a bit of a spring in her step.

The store was decently large and Lily happily wandered around the whole building looking at the different supplies they had for dogs and cats, hamsters and guinea pigs, reptiles and amphibians, and of course, fish.

It was when she made it to the rows of fish tanks full of different species of fish that she felt like she was being watched. But she didn't notice anyone paying attention to her when she looked around. Lily tried to brush it off, she'd grown up with the wizarding world's most suspicious member after all - and for how many people had tried to kill her dad, she didn't blame him. So she went back to focusing on finding a fish.

Lily stopped in front of several smaller tanks all labeled 'Betta Fish' and grinned. This was exactly what she wanted! The beautiful long fins looked like the skirts she'd seen in pictures of Spanish dancers. She was caught up reading the description when a face appeared on the other side of the water.

Lily blinked and looked closer at the smiling man standing opposite of her, he looked familiar, but it couldn't be...

"Lysander?"

"I thought it was you!" Lysander grinned and then proceeded to crawl under the aquariums to be on the same side of the aisle as her.

He then pulled Lily into a hug. "How have you been, Lils?"

"I, alright," Lily didn't remember Lysander being one to hug much and the contact shocked her, "but what about you?"

"I've been great!" He released the hug but kept his arm around her shoulders. "Are you busy? I'd love to catch up and I know a place just over the next street we could grab a cuppa and something to eat."

"That sounds great," Lily felt the eagerness bubbling up in her chest. She hadn't hung out with someone her own age in months.

Lily found out Lysander had been working in the family business of Magical Creatures the past two years. Lily envied him, as she did the majority of their old friends. They were living life while she was still trying to figure out where her life was going. But Lysander was living her original dream, and that made her a bit greener than she felt with the rest of her old friends.

"I'm so glad I ran into you," Lysander grinned at her again. "But enough about me, what have you been up to?"

Lily looked down at her tea. "Er, well, I help Dom out by watching her girls during the workday."

"Really?" Lysander's voice was full of surprise and Lily cringed.

She knew what he was thinking. When they'd been taking their NEWTS she had dreams of grandeur. But those dreams had fallen through before they'd even stepped on the train home.

"It's helping her out, and I really love her girls," Lily continued to stare down at her tea and now empty plate.

"Lily," he reached out and covered her hand with his and Lily almost turned her hand around to hold it, "I know it's not much, but Lorcan felt absolutely awful when it all fell apart."

Lily sighed, "I don't blame him anymore Lys. We had childhood sweethearts all around us growing up and I can see how he felt a lot of pressure to live that narrative. Not to mention that your mum is my godmother, and our relationship meant a lot to her and my mum. I just wish he would have been willing to say something sooner."

"You and me both," Lysander muttered.

She and Lorcan had dated their whole seventh year. They'd made plans to find a place together after they finished school. They were going to go on expeditions for Rolf and Luna together and see the world. Lily had taken to the field of magiczoolology with a passion, just like the Scamander twins and she'd wanted nothing more than to spend her life researching and learning and helping these creatures.

Until Lorcan admitted he didn't love her.

Lily had never been more grateful to be in different houses than him in her whole life. But in her heartbreak, she'd sworn off anything to do with magiczoology. It felt too painful and reminded her of everything she thought she and Lorcan had and what it had cost to have him admit that he'd never meant it when he said he loved her.

"It's alright Lys." She smiled, "I'm over it now and I don't hate him. I sent him an owl about a year ago when I finally gained some peace about the whole thing."

Lysander nodded as he moved his hand from hers to sip his tea, "He showed me, I'm glad you've moved on."

Lily chuckled and tried to ignore how cold her hands felt by grabbing her cup as well, "I've moved on in the sense that I'm over your twin, but dating is a pain in the arse."

Lysander perked up considerably before seeming to mellow in the same instant. "Yeah, you can't really meet someone taking care of a couple of toddlers."

"Or living at home," Lily admitted, a bit embarrassed to say it out loud but she'd always been able to talk to Lys about anything, even the relationship with his brother. That had been one of the hardest parts of the break up with Lorcan, she'd lost Lysander in the mess as well.

She'd never been able to get over that.

"We should hang out more," Lysander bumped her knee with his.

"I'd like that," Lily felt her chest warm.

"How about tonight?"

Lily thought his voice shook with the question, but his face didn't betray any nervousness.

"Sure," Lily felt the desire to reach out and take his hand but ignored it.

He didn't think about her that way, and she needed to not let herself start to think about him that way. She'd lost Lys once, she wasn't going to risk losing him again.

"Brilliant," Lysander's smile managed to grow wider. "I've got a few more shops to check in on for Dad and then Mum needs me to look over a paper for the Quibbler she's working on but after that I'm free."

"Do you just want to swing by my parents' place when you're done?" Lily stood and drained her cup.

"Perfect, I'll bring some takeaway," he walked with her to the pavement before pulling her into a hug again. "Merlin, Lils, I'm so happy I ran into you."

Lily let herself lean into him and wondered what changed to make Lys a hugger, he gave amazing hugs now.

"Me too," she smiled up at him, "I'll see you in a few hours?"

"You can count on it." And he rested his head on hers for a moment.

Lily was taken back by how different it felt to be wrapped in Lysander's arms to Lorcan's. The twins had always seemed so different to her, she never understood how people got them confused. And especially now, everything felt different between the two. When she'd been with Lorcan, his hugs always felt sweet, like a sugar quill. But Lysander's hug felt deeper somehow, almost possessive, and it made Lily's heart beat faster.

She tried to push that sensation away for the rest of the day. And after deciding that she'd pick herself up a fish another day, Lily busied herself by making biscuits the Muggle way and then cleaning it all up the Muggle way. But even with the distraction, Lily found herself wondering about the way Lysander had hugged her, had held her hand for a moment, had bumped her knee.

They'd been friends for their whole lives, but he'd never been one to touch her much.

Lily had to work hard to ignore the way his touch had made her breathless and to not keep replaying it in her head.

After what felt like another year Lysander stepped through the grate in the sitting room.

"Lils," he grinned when she walked in. He dusted the soot from the bag he was carrying. "I hope you still like falafel."

"You, you remembered?"

"Of course I remember," he pushed passed her toward the kitchen.

Lily followed feeling almost bemused.

"Here," he handed her her paper-wrapped falafel pita. "I had them put extra spicy sauce on it."

"Thanks," Lily took her dinner gladly, hoping eating would keep her from doing anything stupid. "How did it go at the other stores?"

"Good, I didn't find any magical creatures hiding, and Mum's article should be great." He bumped her knee with his. "But how was the rest of your day?"

"It, it was good," Lily grabbed a napkin, "I made biscuits."

Lysander perked up, "Really?"

Lily flicked her wand and brought the container over, "Grandma Weasley's ginger snaps."

"Merlin, Lils, these are amazing," Lysander grinned as he ate the biscuit in two quick bites.

Lily wasn't sure why she blushed and tried to hide behind her dinner.

They chatted easily after that as they finished dinner and snacked on the batch of ginger snaps.

"I've missed you," Lysander said quietly after the conversation had lulled for a moment.

Lily felt her heart rate pick up again. "I missed you too. Honestly," she looked down at the dwindling batch of biscuits, "after I'd gotten over everything with Lorcan, I was still sad that it had lost me you too."

Lysander was quiet for a moment before grabbing her hand. "Let's go sit on the sofa."

Lily felt his touch like a steaming mug of tea, warm, comforting, secure, and she followed willingly as Lysander pulled her into the sitting room.

"Lily," he sighed as she sat next to him, "I'm not lying when I say that I'm happy I ran into you, I'm so happy, but Lils, I don't want to go back to where we were before."

"Lys..."

"Hold on, let me explain, I'm going to lose my nerve if I don't do this all at once."

Lily nodded him on, trying to keep from smiling at one of their old arguments. He always argued that as a Ravenclaw he wasn't as inclined to jump headfirst into unknown territory. Lily always brought up his mum to shut down his excuses.

Lys took a deep breath, "I suppose I should start at the beginning. In fifth year I started to fancy you. But I told myself that our friendship was more important and so I ignored it. I didn't let myself do anything to encourage those feelings, and I didn't tell anyone."

"Not even Lorcan?" Lily frowned.

"Contrary to popular belief, twins don't always share every single detail of their lives with each other." Lysander smiled at her. "But that backfired on me in seventh year when Lorcan came over to my table during lunch one day and told me he fancied you and was going to ask you to Hogsmeade. I couldn't very well tell him to bugger off and let me have a go, so I kept quiet. I kicked myself royally when you two went official and started making plans to spend your lives together, but when Lorcan called it all off, I felt responsible, like if I had been willing to tell him I fancied you back in fifth year, maybe he wouldn't have asked you to Hogsmeade in seventh."

Lysander's tone had shifted dramatically to a seriousness she'd never heard before.

"I hated thinking that you were in pain because I'd been a coward."

"Lys..."

"I'm almost done," he cut her off. "I've determined I won't be a coward when it comes to you anymore though. I'm glad I ran into you because I want to ask you for a chance at what I've wanted for four years. I know it could be weird since Lorcan and I are identical but as much as I loved our friendship, I can't be only your friend anymore. I want to build us into something more."

"You're not identical."

Lily heard the words before registering that they had come from her mouth. Her mind was racing so fast her brain had allowed words to happen without preview. But the statement was true so she ran with it.

"I've always been able to tell the two of you apart, you aren't identical to me."

Lysander nodded slowly but remained silent.

Lily felt like her whole body was on overdrive. Her mind raced with questions and her heartbeat felt erratic as she tried to get control of her breathing.

"You never touched me because you fancied me." Was what she finally managed to blurt out.

Lysander frowned, "I suppose I didn't touch you, did I? You're probably right, but I don't know if my fifteen-year-old brain knew that's what was going on."

"I like you touching me," Lily internally cringed. She was waxing stupid as opposed to eloquent in all this. "I mean..."

"So, this would be alright?" Lysander cut her off and took her hand in his, interlacing their fingers.

The sensation of their hands intertwined left Lily breathless and she nodded at Lysander to keep from embarrassing herself further.

"And this?" Lysander brought his other hand to her face and tucked her hair behind her ear.

Lily swallowed as her face burned at the brush of his fingertips.

"I spent all afternoon trying to convince myself this wouldn't be how you felt." Lily whispered, "I told myself I was imagining it and would ruin everything if I let myself dwell on it."

Lysander leant closer to her, his breath mingling with hers, "I've never been as close to hating my brother as I was when he kissed you in front of me, but I hated myself more because I wasn't brave enough to act before he did."

Lily felt her breath lock in her chest as Lysander brought his hand back to her face.

"Lys," she managed to whisper but nothing else came out as the last of her breath left her.

Lysander moved slowly, his fingers brushing her cheek, down to her chin, before tilting her face up and dropping his lips to hers.

And like magic Lily could breathe again.

Lysander's kiss had started soft, but the moment she'd responded positively he'd taken control, and Lily felt herself melting into him. He kissed nothing like his twin. Where Lorcan had been more willing and interested in Lily having control, Lysander took the driver's seat with confidence, and Lily felt her whole body surrender to him.

He pulled back just a fraction, "When do your parents get home?"

Lily's head was barely functional as she parted her eyes to look up at him, "Sunday."

Lysander grinned, "Always did like Sundays," and then he brought his lips back to hers and Lily gave full control to him. It was a liberating feeling to give someone the reins and simply enjoy the sensations, and the more she enjoyed, the more he seemed to respond.

"Lily," he pulled back again after some time, panting slightly, "is this a yes?"

Lily cursed her brain's inability to function as she blinked. "What?"

"Do you want to give us a chance?" Lysander's smile went just a touch smug.

Lily gave his shoulder a gentle shove, "I'm only saying yes if you can wipe that smug look off your face."

Lysander's face immediately went neutral, "Better?"

"I don't want to think about how you can do that," Lily laughed before linking her arms back around his neck, "but yes, I want to do this."

Lysander crashed his lips into hers as Lily fell back against the arm of the sofa. She wasn't sure how long they snogged on her parents' sofa but at some point, the old clock chimed that it was midnight and Lily was certain her hair was a rat's nest from Lysander's hands playing in it.

"Do you watch the girls this week?" Lysander asked as he rested his head against her chest.

Lily smiled, "They're in France for a few days."

"Want to come with me on a little expedition? It's just three days in the Highlands and I was going to go alone, but if you wanted to go..."

"Yes," Lily felt the excitement build in her, "When?"

Lysander moved his head to kiss her chest before looking up at her. "I'm supposed to leave in six hours."

Lily laughed, "Was your plan to go hide in the Highlands if I shut you down?"

Lysander blushed, "Well the exhibition has been set for a few months, but I definitely had decided it was a good way to escape if you told me no."

Lily ran her fingers into his hair and along his neck, "And now it's an excuse to have me all to yourself?"

Lysander pushed up and kissed her, "I've waited four years to have you to myself, Lils, I'm going to take every opportunity you're willing to give me now that you're mine."

"Well, then I guess we should get my stuff packed," Lily murmured back as she arched up into him.

"In a moment, I'm researching right now," Lysander smiled against her. "I want to learn every sound that you make when I kiss you."

"I'm not one of our creatures, Lys," Lily chuckled.

"You're right," Lysander pulled back and locked her gaze with his, "you're the only creature that actually matters."

This time Lily took control long enough to pull him back down to her lips before melting into him as he continued his research.

And when Harry and Ginny came back from their holiday, Lily had a new boyfriend to introduce and a new job to tell them about, as one of Rolf Scamander's newest researchers.

#Descry #lily luna x lysander #lily luna potter x lysander scamander #lily luna potter #lysander scamander #next gen fanfic #next generation #not cursed child compliant!#harry potter fanfiction #fluffy #romance #old friends finding a flame and letting it burn

10 notes · View notes