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stratosphereedu12 · 2 months
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Unlocking Career Potential: The Co-op Programs of Canada
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Co-op programs in Canada, short for cooperative education, offer students a unique opportunity to blend their academic studies with practical, paid work experiences. These programs are particularly beneficial for international students seeking to enhance their education and career prospects while studying in Canada, said the overseas education consultants near me.
In a co-op program, students alternate between periods of classroom-based learning and work placements related to their field of study. Here's a breakdown of what co-op programs in Canada entail:
What is Co-op in Canada?
Co-op, or cooperative education, in Canada integrates academic studies with paid work terms. The primary objective is to provide students with valuable hands-on experience in their chosen career path while pursuing their degree.
What Does Participation in a Co-op Program Involve?
Opting for a co-op program requires students to take on additional responsibilities compared to traditional study-only degrees. These programs aim to simulate real-world career experiences, including the job application process. Students seeking co-op placements will create tailored resumes with the assistance of their school's co-op office or career center to impress potential employers and secure interviews.
It's important to note that landing a co-op position is not guaranteed, as students must compete with their peers for available positions. This competitive aspect often involves multiple rounds of interviews before securing a placement.
Once in a co-op position, students work in entry-level roles under the guidance of managers and supervisors. The goal is to familiarize students with the tasks and responsibilities associated with their chosen career. For example, a psychology student might work in a hospital research lab, assisting with studies, data collection, and paper drafting.
Where Will You Work?
Co-op students typically join companies and organizations aligned with their field of study. Each school maintains a list of approved partner companies that offer co-op placements. These are organizations with which the school has had positive relationships and experiences in the past.
While students are encouraged to explore opportunities from the school's list, some institutions allow for co-op positions outside of this list, provided they meet the school's standards and work term requirements.
Are International Students Eligible for Co-op Programs?
Yes, international students can participate in co-op programs in Canada under certain conditions, as outlined by the Government of Canada.
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punk-in-docs · 10 months
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🕷️ Girlfriend is Better 🕷️
Eddie Munson x reader
10.9k words
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Summary: Eddie x Pencils hit a bit of a hurdle in their early relationship. But she puts it to rights - and then hits the sweet metal head with an offer he can’t refuse- tw violence, past assault: in this chap folks - sorry its taken so long to get this done - enjoy
Eddie can feel their eyes on him.
He feels it’s undeserved and let’s be honest, a little odd. It’s not as if he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary here. He’s just being- normal.
His version at least. His wheelhouse batshit normal. Eddie-like.
They’re looking at him like he’s grown a new head.
Munson Motor mouth, rabbiting on its usual mile a minute as Motörhead shreds through the van speakers with Lemmy’s choppy and tasty riffs.
Early morning cigarette that he lit before he hopped in the van for the drive to school, curling smoke held between two fingers.
He’s batting the saggy steering wheel in time to the song. Ba-da-da with his other open palm to coincide with drum clashes that pound through like falling rocks and crashing thunder.
He still takes the corners way too fast like a coked up maniac. Some things will never change.
He looks the same. Smiles the same. But there’s a new breed of manic warping his usual calamity of a nature.
He’s not grumbling about this morning. Or a test or pop quiz he had coming up. No miserable sluggishness. Toothpaste breath. Not slumped and still yawning. With nothing but a weak instant coffee, two sugars, as his one and only source of breakfast. Gritty coffee that still catches the grounds between his back teeth.
Hair that mushed dry state that’s hard to tell if it’s met with a brush or not yet. Possibly this morning. It’s a maybe. It’s a not really.
Leather and battle vest showed up for duty on his lanky torso as per usual. Hellfire shirt of course. The ripped jeans. The wallet chain that swings and jingles and clatters to denim when he walks and makes him sound like a jangling six foot cat with a little tinkling bell on its collar. It’s all there. The jangly jacketed freak is all assembled.
But there’s this newness to the way he’s smiling.
So wide it dimples his cheeks. Creases the corner of those intimidating wells of eyes. It’s like someone’s fuel injected him with something to make him wilder. More swirly. Practically floating. Any higher he’d be in the big blue stratosphere. Sun grazed and heady. Icarus soaring too close to the sun. Not yet plunged to earth. Melting gold spattered on milk white swan feathers as he tumbled to earth.
Jeff makes a joke about him toking up before school. Eddie reached over and ruffled his hair. Making that demons smile. Rings flashing from his fingers in the meagre sun. “Man, I wish.”
“Got new pills from Rick or something?”
Eddie frowned. “Hell no. Besides. Wouldn’t be wasting those beauties right before first period English class.” He scoffs.
Dustin and Mike share a furtive glance that begs to know what’s up. Dustin mumbles What the shit, man?
He’s finally cracked. I’m calling it.
He didn’t have far to go.
He judders the van along the lot at school. Rumbling tyres over the loose gravel. Head bobbing to the metal as he lurches the wheel and swings into a space.
“Be seeing you. Little hellions. Be free. Give em hell.” He chuckles. Lumping the van into park. Watching them open doors and frown. Scurrying away to class. Gathered close and whispering. Hiking backpack straps up their shoulders and clutching chunky math books and still regarding him like more of an oddity than he actually is.
Of course there is a reason for the golden sunshine visibly sneaking out his pores, and bouncing the soles of his happy feet today. And it’s his wonderful secret.
Eddie shakes his head, and shoulders all his jagged chips and hatred for this place.
The amount of chips he’s got shelved there, worn on his shoulders, about this stunning educational penitentiary, frankly, he could very realistically wear like scales at this point.
He puts a cigarette to his lips and slips around the corner of the lot, jacket and wallet chain clinking as he goes, sneaking to the smokers spot.
A balding patch of grass skimmed to mud, and a graffitied brick wall, snugly hidden around the side of the squat building where some go to steal a quick smoke before class. He usually occupies the spot alone and has to haul ass like a frightened racoon if a teach clocks him.
No sooner had he come within an inch of the corner, cig almost to his lips, and he is yanked around it by a sturdy hand yanking him fully out of view - by his wallet chain. He feels the tug on the denim around his hip, pulling taut.
He wants to yowl and start squirming away from the grip, slinging fists into faces at this ambush. When really he wants to turn tail and leg it in the opposite direction. Flight not fight.
His back collided with graffiti breeze block and before he could turn out his pockets, show them holding lint and nothing else save for a quarter and a D20, screechily proclaim his dispensary is clean out man, back off-
Then some warm lips mould to his.
A gentle artists hand, faded blue polish on the nails, knuckles scraping bricks, is cupping the back of his wild mane and cupping him for a kiss he slowly melts too.
He honest-to-god goes fully boneless with the way you kiss him. The scrappy fight and shock slowly leeches out those gangly poky limbs. Sparks shoot to his fingertips.
He smiles. You can feel his dimples and a cold leathered arm comes folding around your back. The bracelet and the jangle of those zips up his wrists. Settling at the dip of your waist and his fingers slide into the back of belt loop of your jeans.
When you pull back for breath that you’re not sure you want more than him, he has the dopiest grin skated on his face.
“Morning.” You beam finally.
Because that kiss seemed way more important. You can’t help the feeling he instills. Feels like your belly is birthing a wild jungle crammed with winking wings of butterflies. Brilliant blue. Wicked electric yellow. Gossamer pink. They all shimmer.
“Hey hot stuff.” He smiles. Not restraining himself whatsoever.
Oh, they shimmer even more to the sight of that. Mad. Wild. Unhinged.
His cheeks kissed a little pink. He doesn’t even care that he dropped his cigarette in the mud. He’d rather chase the taste of your lips and let that sustain him all morning. Better than pills and nicotine. This static-fizzy-starburst feeling he gets big lungfuls of when around you.
“Didn’t mean to grab you like that. But I must admit that chain is certainly a handy hook.” You flick a fingertip to it. Sway that lolling chain into his thigh. Biting your lower lip in a smile.
He cups one side your face. If anyone got to chew that lip, it’s gonna be him. Leans in to gently smooch you again.
“Goddamn. I was reaching for my attack whistle there, pencils.” He rubs his hand over your hip. Rings chafe against your denim waistband.
“Maybe I was overzealous. But I do have a stunning defence.”
You lean up on tiptoes to smash a polite smooch back to his mouth. He mumbled a curious sound into your lips.
“Which is?” He seeks. Lips chasing yours for more. Even through speaking. Insanity catches.
“I missed you like crazy and it’s been barely 12 hours since I last saw you, and kissed you. And etcetera…” You flirt.
He can see these little delighted pips in your eyes. Like sowed little seeds of pride. The etcetera being all the dirty things you finally got to indulge in last night. Threaded in moonlight at skull rock.
No regrets. He doesn’t see any tint of regret in you.
Seeing that kicks his rocker heart right up to the moon, and sailing on over it. Like those old songs. Moonbeams and old soft tinkling pianos. Ladies with gardenias in their hair crooning about moondance, love and seeing stars.
He gets it now. He totally gets all of that sappy shit.
“I hereby decree that is far too long, and way too stupid of us, actually.” He finishes your thoughts for you. They were symmetrical to his own after all.
“So stupid. We’re just like, a complete pair of morons right now.” You concur. Linking your fingers into his. Standing toe to toe and just drinking in how it feels to be near again.
“So I’m thinking, we should cease all impending stupidity and uh y’know, catch a movie tonight or, grab a bite at Benny’s. Something like that. Anything.” He says. Smile all limned in excitement.
Shaking that big moppish mane of hair as a grin splits his mouth when he speaks, makes him look like an out and out excited little kid.
Fidgeting with your hands and immersing himself in the tactile deliciousness of your hands being held in his. Little touches that stayed with him all night.
Kept bugging him even in dreams he’s sure thoughts of you crept at the oil slick lining of his mind like wing tips of persistent gentle moths. The dusty old ones the colour of sour grey milk. Ones that they get flapping around the trailer porch light at night in balmy summer. The soft blink as they hit the glass shade.
“Burgers at Benny’s sounds so good.” You grin. “Loaded chilli fries?”
He scoffs. “Naturally. I’m not an animal.”
You run your hands through his wild hair. Listen to him talk. Heart entirely bloated with love of this boy. You swear it’s knocking all giddy up against your ribs like some deformed roaming creature seeking release.
“Shall we head out after class? I’ll drive.” He offers. His stomach zig-zags in vicious excitement.
“Catch you after class, handsome.” You grin.
“Ohh, whoa. I never said I was done with you yet.” His eyes flicker with something you think is cheekiness.
Swooping in to slow kiss you for a beat too long. An embrace that makes him hum softly. Makes you mewl. Right at he back of his throat. Lips roaming gentle and soft and your bodies rock together. Gets him cupping your back to keep you near.
“Fuckk gimme another one of those, pencils. I’m not below begging.” Cups your face again. He wants another kiss. Eyes wide as bourbon brown saucers
Chuckling in the muggy space between your smiles, cheeks fired all warm, sharing the same breath, you lean in and give it to him. Giving him the deep messy kiss you’d been craving.
When it’s time to pull back to guzzle air and maybe some reality again, Eddie chases your retreat with his mouth. His lips bruised a stunning cupid pink. Taking a breath that he’s not sure he needs more than he does you.
“Jesus H Christ. How the hell am I gonna even attempt to concentrate today-“ He asks. Voice all raspy and slow gravel.
“What usually stops you?” You sass him. He bites his lip all naughty and softly jabs you right in the stomach; a move designed to tickle.
“Blasphemy. Dear one. I mean, how dare you.” He grins. Chocolate drop eyes all crinkled at their corners. You cover his hand on your stomach, with your own. He likes the soft warm pouch of you there.
It’s tactile. It’s touch. It shoots right to the roof of Eddie’s brain and does something so funky to him he can’t even describe it in words. Actions maybe - Beer on an empty stomach. The first hit of some really silky smooth strain Rick gives him to try. The home made warm sugary scent of that peach cobbler Wayne makes him on his birthday.
They haven’t designed or discovered enough appropriate words to put to this feeling. None that even his whip smart nature can grasp at.
“I’ll soothe that wounded ego and buy you a chocolate shake later if it pleases.” You offer. Tilting your head. Offer placed on the table.
“An ego bruise is a problem I will gladly allow you to throw chocolate and ice cream at.” His fingers worm their way through yours. Knuckles locked. You could do this all day.
“Can be swayed with chocolate. Good to know.”
“And candy. Pizza rolls are good too.”
“Noted.” You beam. Snuggling to his front. Hands still joined. Fused as one.
The sound of the bell ringing for first period is a rude interjection into a morning that’s shaping up to be stellar.
Eddie didn’t seem best pleased by this. Judging by the way he takes advantage of that split second of your distraction hearing the bell, to snatch his hands at your shoulders and loop you round so your back is to the wall instead of his. Sneak attack.
His arm is a leather band over the back of your waist and he gently cups your chin and deepens a silky melting kiss that is, just, so many elements of perfect it should be outlawed that just kissing can be this good.
The plush of his deeply plump lips, with the scraping push of some stubble on his upper lip. It’s delicious. The way he kisses is better than any hit off any joint. You don’t care what he says. Better than purple haze. Better than fucking anything. Backed by sheer dopey sized crushes that take you both, head to toe. Crushes taking on a life of their own. Wearing your skins whole and making you desperate. Make you ache.
You kiss him back. Desperately. Drenched in want. But also knowing that you should be hot-footing it to your first class lest you get a tardy slip. To turn up late, with a very very kiss worn mouth like that would be about as obvious as the nose on your face.
“Eddiii-mmmmm.” You plead to his bewitching mouth. Smoky minty breath and the faintness of his morning coffee on your tastebuds. He’s cupping your face like your some sacred relic he has to handle gently. As if he had corrosive fingertips. Strychnine laced touch.
When he pulls back. Hands two big gangly paws holding your neck, there’s this sweet dazed look all over his expression. Drugged on you. The way you kissed him like his tongue is made out of cherry candy and you only want more- oh lord.
How’s that for irony. The Hawkins High school dealer and here he is getting a huge hit, from kissing you. Nothing that comes pre rolled in a baggie making his mind fuzz like hot molasses, or circled into a wild little chalky pill that makes his head all bright and fuzzy sharp like cotton candy.
Making out before class he can gladly get hooked on. He thinks he’s there already. DT-Ing for more. Make him shake and rattle on all fours like a rabid dog.
“One for the road…” He explains inbetween raspy pants for breath. A silly smile all yours for the keeping.
You pat his chest. He could honestly whimper at the tactile feel of your hand resting on the meat of his pectoral. So dangerously close to skin on skin.
“I better go.” You sigh. A drop kick to your mood to leave him. You take a step back.
He can’t allow that. He whines like a kicked puppy. Button eyes all round and shiny with whatever amount of sadness it would take to root you here, with him.
“Don’t. Pencils. Stay here. Stay uneducated and stupid with me and let’s just make out, all day.” He waggles some filthy intentioned brows at you. Pleading threaded onto his voice. Trying his best to yank you back.
“You could easily tempt me to play hooky any day, Munson. But I’ve been studying for this test all week.” You point out.
“Well. I can’t deny that dorky chicks turn me on.” He sighs nicely. You can’t help smiling.
“Really? I figured tiny pleated little cheerleader skirts and peppy bouncy pom-poms turned you on.” You tease. Voice all sultry.
He leans in and smacks a kiss to the end of your nose.
“Nuh-uh. I like em’ covered in paint and jeans and artsy, and working in record shops with old hippies. And hopelessly in all consuming love with me.” He grins.
“Kiss ass.” You smirk. Smacking a kiss to his cheek. Stepping back. His hand slithers to find yours again. Links fingers. His rings glitter. They’re all warm where he’s been holding hands with you. On you.
“Hey, my girlfriend is a damn fox. This is a hill I’ll die on.”
You bring your joined hands up and kiss the back of his for that.
“Class beckons.” You roll your eyes. Shouldering your bag. Unwilling to unlink hands until you absolutely had too.
“See you at lunch?” You ask. His brows creased. Makes him look like an upset puppy.
“Can’t. Got a drop to make in the woods.”
“Parking lot after school?” He counter offers.
“You bet.” You agree. And you cannot even handle the wait.
You walk away around the corner. Eddies eyes trail over you as you go.
“Enjoy the smoke.” You turn over your shoulder and call back.
He saluted you with a flicking motion, with that million dollar grin pleasured all over his face.
“Brutal babe. You know what I’d enjoy more…” his inflection at the end of his words lets you know what he’s referring too.
“Down boy.” You play as you head off. Smile all secret and wide for him. Grin so wide it makes his heart pulse.
He’s grasping a hand over his mad heart as you slip away. One knee bent up. Sneakered foot flat to the wall behind him.
He reaches for that cigarette and his lighter. Though he doubts this little stick will do any damn thing that kissing you didn’t. He lights up. Grinning. You left his heart thrashing about and kicking inside the shell of his denim and leather like a damn drum in a cramps song.
Way, way across the field, sat high up on the bleachers with some of the girls on the cheer squad. In full view of the back brick wall where you had just been. Supposedly around the corner and concealed from view-
Linda snapped her binder shut. Eyes packed in venom. Huffing as she picked up her books.
Lipsticked lips pursed together in a grim hot pink line. Annoyance fills her chest and rams up against her ribs. Sour in her stomach. Nastiness curdled up on her tongue. She’d seen enough.
You and the freak. Just like Jonny said.
No fucking way.
~
Eddie bapped along to some rock that had been trapped in the lining of his crazy head since this morning. Head bumping as he hummed along, sang under his breath to Rattlehead. That mane flicking every which way.
Metal lunchbox swings from his hand and clatters as he bounced along the familiar route. Feet trained for the way. Leaves cushion his rustling step. He drags his eyes over the foliage spread high above.
Dappled with gold sunshine of the afternoon that chips down. The odd scurry of a bird flapping around the treetops. Nature and the soothing crash of wind lacing through wide apple-green leaves. He darts his eyes around, seeking and searching for the shape of anyone to come crashing through the trees.
He arrived at his little decaying stoop in the woods. The table that’s so carved and scarred with crude drawings and initials it’s chipped and falling to bits. Cig butts littered everywhere and Eddie shamefully admits some of them are most likely his. His place of business is well reputed.
Swinging his leg over the bench seat and slinking himself up onto the table to take a pew. Sneakers resting on the seat. Cause when has he ever approached anything normally, or fallen into doing anything that comes into the category of usual.
He throws the lunchbox lid open with no gilding the lily, and braces his scattered mind into this deal. Shoves through the bags to find the semi-decent stuff. Wave of heady green hits him in the nose as he rummaged and carried on humming to himself.
Though really for the preppy guy who propositioned this drop, he’s tempted to charge way too much for a thin little roll of ditchweed.
Alas, his reputation is too important. One bad sale and he’d never touch profits on it again. He will unwillingly part with some decent sativa for the knucklehead.
He thumbs through his papers and rustling bags and makes a note of exactly what he’ll put his fistful of measly dollars from the sale towards; another date with you.
He’s heard of this great alt store a couple towns over. Super your style. Record store in back, cool clothing, apparantly a rock n roll kinda vibe that you would appreciate. Posters, merch, jewellery, you name it.
He can’t think of a better place to take you for a date. He’s keeping it under wraps even though, god knows, his blabber mouth which runs and rants away from itself, wanted to yell and shriek about it to you nonstop.
How he wanted to scrape together some dollars to buy you something. A handful of punk style patches, a tee, a poster for your bedroom door that needed some anarchy or some goth Siouxsie. Maybe a little Joan and some Blackhearts action.
He’s heard you crank them up on your headphones to blaring when you’re trying to concentrate on a sketch. Like the loudness lifts you out your mind and transcends into the paint.
How he wanted to make a mixtape for you, of all the metal songs - and to his embarrassment some of the less tacky love ballads - that bring you to the forefront of his mind when he hears them. Even some older crooning songs that Wayne likes.
The stuff he was drip-fed on in his early days, sweet and crooning, like slow gold honey melting into his ears. Listening to them and snatching pieces of melody that breezed through the trailer. Warm and sunny to listen to. Softly swaying Don Henley, Woodie Guthrie, and Jim Croce. Even some Ella or some Julie London and her smokiness.
He smiles to himself as he comes to Rattlehead’s chorus. Toes tapping the rotten old bench and creaking the wood, as he scrunches bags aside this way and that to find the pre-rolls. Fingers drum the beats off the side of the tin. Clacking out into the woods.
The brutal snap of a twig makes him peer around.
Eddie swims his eyes through the trees and eventually drags them to find a Jock with his hands shoved in his pockets.
It’s not someone he’s on a first name basis with. He’s lost amongst a sea of sensible jeans and varsity two tones. Sea green and blinding white with the lion gold yellow Hawkins H proudly blazoned on his front.
Crazy how differently they wear their allegiances.
He’s the anti-thesis of Eddies style. Shirt tucked in. Sensible white sneakers that aren’t beat up to shit. Preppy. Hair brushed. Some square jawed Ryan or Chad or whomever, pads towards him.
The look in his eyes twists Eddie’s gut like wet flannel. Scathing.
He’s seen hatred and distain before. Of course. It’s poured very freely his way.
Thats nothing new to him. Distaste. Eye rolls louder than claps of thunder and tutts coming stabbed under breath peppered with nasty words.
This is that crowd at its ugliest. The tribe this guy is happily a part of. Supposed fuckin’ Normalcy. They scar the word ‘Freak’ into him over and over again. Stomp it into his messy maned head over and over with their feet.
Finally he got tired of the brutal raining down kicks and just took it. Weened the power of it. Stole it from them and flipped it. Made it his shield. Propped it up with that DIO patch on his back. Let their hatred sink into that and roll away useless.
Let them know it doesn’t sink down to places where they want it to hurt.
Eddie swallows. Throat suddenly a sticky chasm. Tried to soften the blow and put away whatever the fuck this guy was trying to scowl and throw at him.
“Hey, man. You’re my 1 o’clock right?” He asks. Tapping his knee still and fiddling with his hands.
The guy swerved his jaw before he spoke. “Yeah.” Spine held poker rigid as he answered. Like it offended him to have to be here and talk.
He came into the clearing. Sneakers rustling leaves. Something feels sour about this whole thing.
“Okay. Well- um.” He awkwardly clears his throat. Reaches into the box that he gently sets beside himself. Grabs the joint and fidgets with it for a second.
“It’s uh, it’s twenty bucks for a pre-roll.” Eddie tells him.
“Great.” He watches the guy nod. Curt. His expression steely. Eyes glassy in a way that’s beyond unsettling.
“Ohhhkay.” Eddie nods. Eyes a fraction too pinched at the corners. Concerned frown dragging down his brows. Wondering what the stitch up is. His eyes dart around. Bordering on panic.
He stands to get off the bench, the guy doesn’t so much a muscle to reach across and take the joint off him. Hands still shoved deep in his pockets.
Eddie holds the joint. The guy doesn’t even move to take it.
“It won’t bite man. Smooth as silk and just, hits you like a cool wave when you smoke that puppy. Trust me.”
Something flickers like a sneer across the guys mouth. He looks at the innocuous rolled joint Eddie’s holding out to him. Looks at the brown paper all rolled in his palm.
Eddie shrugs. Wide open. Leather crinkles over the jutting movement of his shoulders.
“You want it or not?” A razor edge starting to creep into his tone.
If this is someone who hasn’t made their mind up, he’s got other places to be. Better times to be had. Than waiting on whether or not the preppy jerk is gonna take the goods off his hands. Or use more than two syllables.
“If you don’t want it. I’ll go right now. Forget it. No hard feelings.” He takes the edge off for him.
Despite the fact that actually a little simmering front of annoyance bubbles at his belly for the guy wasting his free period he could have used to kiss you senseless with wandering hands, right up against the side of his van.
He turns around and throws the joint back into the box. Shaking his head. Making his hair do that wild kicky thing it usually does.
“Maybe you should go. Freak.” Comes spat his way. Drawn in a snarl.
“Whatever, dude.” Eddie puts his back to him. Folds his product back into his box.
More snaps. More rustled leaves. Eddie drifts his eyes up and sees three more guys coming through the woods to the clearing. Walking slowly, picking over nature to come to the bench all menacingly slow. Like he was a deer they were in danger of spooking.
All wearing Hawkins letterman jackets. Sneers writ on all their faces. Intimidation carved into every step they take. They look way too happy to see him here alone.
Suddenly Eddie feels small. Feels like he’s right back in middle school. Being tossed around and bashed up by the bullies. Coming home with stinging scraped knees and a cheek that feels swollen hot, itchy like bloated meat. The crust of dried rust scabbing under his nose.
This feels exactly like that. Some things never change.
“The fuck?” He asks. He won’t lie. His voice wobbles to a croak. Set on shaking sands.
“Where you goin’ loser?” One of them huffs out. Eddie turns his head.
Strutting towards him like the bullshit cover of macho magazine. Or J-Crew, is Barbies boyfriend. The blonde ape.
One of them he doesn’t recognise proudly comes up and slaps the lunchbox out his hands.
Eddie flinches back. Shrinks away. Puts distance between every step they eat up eagerly to come towards him. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want whatever’s coming barrelling his way. He hasn’t done anything except sell some reefer.
“Alright. Alright-“ Eddie stumbles back from the table. Hands high and empty. Voice jittery. His head and gut yell in sync - telling him to run the hell outta there.
“Clearly you guys have some sort of agenda I’m not aware of so why don’t we all just-“ His smile is all tremulous and shaky.
A fist drags his collar into a yank. A curled up punch swings into his face and knocks him clean to the ground before he can chew out his next words. His jaw snaps together. Hot pennies comes flooding his tongue where his teeth cut his cheek.
Stars and bursting black galaxies accompany his artless tumble to the ground.
And then some more fists come raining down. A sneakered foot planting square into his side to kick the wind clean out of him.
They leave him crumpled on the ground. Cushioned by rotting dry leaves. Smeared in mud, blood leaking from two places in his face. Spotting down to his dark shirt.
As a parting gift one of them empties his lunchbox over the floor and stomps its contents into the dirt.
He knows the feeling only all too well.
~
You clatter into the bathroom after your last class.
Let the bustle of crowds fall far behind you as everyone rushes to the lot to leave. Afternoon summer sun stripes its sneaking glory across the halls and slants the window ledges in gold.
You cross to the sinks and set your sketchbook crammed with new drawings on the side. Leafs of the paper and all the dried paint crinkling, as it’s wedged partially open by the sheer number of crammed pages all skated on dusty pencil or charcoal.
You’d need to buy another pretty soon. One with thick cloth like paper pages for you to fill up.
You go through new books like running water. Never stop sketching. You’d wanted to take Eddie to the funky art shop you grab your supplies from. You’ve a feeling he’d love seeing the paint sets and the sheer number of spray paints they got.
Creativity seemed to flourish from him. His imagination permanently running wild. Could never stop it. One of your favourite things about him in fact.
He would talk about your sketches. Ask you about them. Ask you what the best paint would be for decorating some new figurines he’s got.
He’d twirl the pen you’re using out your hand and tell you all about the way he’d sit in the library for hours drawing fantasy maps for his campaigns on graft paper. Drawing rolling green islands. Mountain caves with trolls. Boggy muggy swamps with draping trees and hidden dangers. Vast seas with coily sea serpents hiding in the waves.
He’d chat to you about your ideas. The ones you’re struggling with for art class. The things you need to study and learn about. The theory of colours. The use of them all dotted in a Poussin or swirled in a Van Gogh.
You could talk to Eddie about anything. For hours and hours. The mere fact of going to grab a huge greasy meaty junk fest of a dinner with him has you walking on clouds.
You want your evening with him already. It can’t come fast enough. You want salty loaded fries and a cold shake and relentless plush Eddie kisses. You wanna climb into the comfy ratty seat in that tired old van that you love. Listen to whatever blasting metal cassette he’s been humming along to all day.
Hell- even just seeing his whole face light up with a smile as you saunter up to his van. The way he’d look at you - the way he always looks at you - with those big shining brown eyes all haloed in golden sun. Brimming with mirth. Cheeks split wide and crow-eyes all bunched up at the corners in glee.
He burns so bright to see you, it’s like he’s swallowed the sun and stars combined. You feel so lucky to have that.
The way he links his fingers with yours. Lopes your fingers together as one and doesn’t even mind if your all paint spattered or your hands are too dry. Palms all hard from scrubbing off acrylic smudges.
He kisses your fingers and acts like you’re draped in diamonds.
Acts like you weren’t wearing a ribbed worn Henley. A large - borrowed - Berkeley blue varsity sweater knotted around your waist, or your straight worn baggy jeans, cuffed up hems and patched at the knees that you mended. And your truly awful red sneakers that are so beat up with age they’re almost a sad faded pink.
He still looks at you like you’re a holy revelation. Each time.
You heap your bag next to the sinks and scrub the last of the charcoal off your hands. Sticky pink soap making a lot of lather around your fingers as you washed the smudgy grey away from the creases in your knuckles. Watch the way it circles down the drain.
You pull up and dry them with the crinkly paper tissues sat on the side.
Take a second to look back to the mirror. Centred all around the ugly squiggles of old sharpie doodles etched on the walls. Contemplate your reflection.
You smooth the hair away from your forehead. Attempt to neaten some of the crazy fluffy bits that kink down around your ears. Fuss with it for a minute or two. Smudge the charcoal away off your cheek.
“Who you trying to look so nice for-“ Comes a cutting tone from behind you. Tone dredged through revulsion and back out again.
A twist over your shoulder reveals Linda. Stood there in her oversized acid wash denim jacket and too-short purple skirt. Hair all bunched up and piled on her head in a half up style wound with a magenta scrunchie. She stands with one hip cocked. And her eyes are frosty daggers.
Heat licks your spine in the shame that you’d been caught preening. “No one.” You say too quick.
Try and inflect some humour on your voice. “You know I don’t exactly have anyone to preen for.” You lie.
Looking down at your hands as you dry them. Scrubbing water away with damp paper. Crush it into a fist and ball it in the bin when you’re done.
You can feel her stare embedding itself into your skull. Like an engraving. Sharp. Scratch of a knife on hollow bone.
“I saw you with him. So don’t try and come at me with your bullshit.” She spits. Words tired and clipped.
You turn over your shoulder. She stands there seething. Looking as bitchy as she usually does. Pink lips pursed.
“Saw me…” you check.
“Yeah. You and Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson?” She poses the words like they’re offensive. Mocking.
Anger furred the back of your tongue. Like feasting on too much sugar. Or a chalky jagged pill lodging itself in your throat.
“Look. I know you’re like, a lonely little virgin or whatever, and you wanna pop your cherry and all, but there’s way better guys out there to screw-”
Your venom stops her words dead.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” You bite.
You see her face fall into shock at your tone. Snappy and sudden. She looked stunned. As if you’d wheeled around 360 and slapped her.
“Oh my god. Don’t tell me you actually like him? Are you serious?” She gapes like it’s illogical.
“He’s a loser with ratty hair who sells weed and lives in a shit hole trailer park.”
“I do like him. I more than like him. We’re dating.” You tell her with steel. “We’re going out tonight as it happens.”
“I knew you had a screw loose but this is just another level of low. Even for you.” Linda bitches.
“How do you never get tiredwith that constant tirade of shit that spills out your mouth Linda.” You snipe.
She rallies to respond. Scanning you with hard eyes backed with new levels of poison.
“I’m not the one dating the King of the freaks.” She hits at you, real low.
“No. You’re dating a two-bit jockstrap who doesn’t even like you, unless you blow him. At least Eddie wants me for more than my pussy.” You point out.
She swallowed. Eyes glimmer. You know that one bit deep.
“Don’t come crying to me when that trailer park asshole dumps you like a cup of cold poison.”
You shake your head and try to remember how to breathe. Snickering cracks of bones in your throat as you swallow. You want to fly into rage and slam your textbook into her stupid scathing face until it dents one of her precious cheekbones.
“You don’t even know him. None of you do. You don’t even know the first two things about him.” You defend loud.
“I know he’s weird as shit and sells skunk. What a catch.”
You bite your tongue. Plenty of insults about Jonny come crawling to mind.
“How long have you two been-“ She sniffs.
“Couple of weeks now. Since Kyle’s party.” You hurl at her furiously.
Her face fills with an expression you can’t read as everything comes to make sense. Falls into place. Puzzle pieces clicking.
“You’ve been lying to me this whole time.”
“Yeah. And you’re so self centred look how long it’s taken you to even notice or give a shit about what’s happening to me or my life.” You finally say all the things you should have voiced long ago.
“You’re only interested now because you care what other people are gonna say on Monday, and what they’ll gossip about.”
“He’s trouble, and he’s gonna get you hurt. Probably gonna give you a filthy rash or something too.” She sneers. “Lord knows what he’s riddled with.”
“You’re such a fucking bitch.” You grit your teeth. Emotion gets the better of your voice. Tears bubble at your lash line. Red hot.
“Not gonna be my problem to have you trailing round after me anymore. Cause by the way, we are no longer friends.” Linda spits. Eyes narrow to slits.
You nod. Resigned. Tears of anger prick the corners of your eyes. You’re too angry to let them loose.
“What a goddamn relief.” You hit back. Chew your lower lip.
“I’ve had to listen to you bitch at me, and whine and snipe, and moan, for years. I’ve had to endure your tantrums and your cutting comments, and every play-by-play of every unsatisfying Friday night screw around, with your shitty dirtbag of a boyfriend who treats you like garbage. And who you run back to each time he fucks you over. And I’m so sick of you.” Your voice comes out raw.
“So yeah. You’re right. We’re not friends anymore. I don’t think we’ve been that for a very long time.”
You put your back to her and grab your books.
“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. Freak.” She sideswipes nastily as you shoulder your way past her.
Catching her on purpose. Shoving her with your shoulder to catch her teetering in those heels.
“Have fun with your trailer trash.” She snips.
“Word of advice. Make sure Jonny wraps it first. Word is he’s been screwing Tina on the cheer squad behind your back every Wednesday.“
You watch her saunter up past you to get to the mirror and touch up her lipstick. Ignore ignore ignore.
Her too sweet Revlon perfume making your stomach roil. She looks at her reflection. The thing she loved most. It’s amazing you ever got a look in. She scrunches up sections of her hair to make it bounce. An indifferent mask on her face.
Trying to ignore you already so the tears don’t come. So what else is new.
You pause at the door. Hand on the handle. Books piled on your arms.
“Sad thing is. I never expected you to act any different when you found out. Turns out you’re just that shallow vain bully I always suspected you to be.”
She pretends not to hear as you slip out the door. You’re sure to slam it as loudly as you can.
Coming out into the partially empty hall. Quickly skating a hand down your cheek. Taking a gulp of a deep breath. Starting down the hallway to come to the doors at the end.
Letting the distance to that girls restroom salvage some of your anger. Let it ebb away and let the savage venom words roll down your skin like blunt razors.
You wait to see if they feel like they’ve drawn any blood.
Maybe just a raking deep black bruise. Perhaps the confrontation has lifted a rock solid weight off your chest. Cut your ties to something corrosive.
You storm to the doors at the end, and push your way out. Into the midsummer air. Afternoon sun washing over you as it creeps it’s golden-fiery way by. Slanting ochre across the parking lot.
A gaggle of people clutched around one of the sticky lunch tables stops you dead in your tracks.
That weight comes crashing back with all the subtle tact and grace of a tank storming a building.
It’s Hellfire. The crowd. It’s Gareth, Mike, Jeff and Henderson. They’re all clutched around someone sat on the bench seat. Someone who is leaning forwards with his elbows resting on his knees. One hand held up to his head.
Your mood plunges even more. There’s a sour shift as some of them twist to look at you.
Big childlike eyes full of something that approaches wariness. Sadness dashed with insecurity. The kid-like uncertainty of how to deal with this very gruesome and very real situation.
A cold can of tab, now warm, for the crescent bruise taking shape around his eye socket.
One of them fishing around in the bottom of their bag for crumpled blue band aids. Anything to help.
A wad of crinkly and loveless paper towels snatched from the boy’s restroom and wadded into a wet lump for the blood pouring under his nose. The fresh red that’s staining his tee like big gruesome poppy petals.
His free hand is wrapped around his side for the bruise he can already feel like a dark cloud of cherry red and blue cobwebbing up his skin and over each slat of his ribs on his left side.
They shuffle away from the table and you finally get to see what they all look so grim about.
Eddie is hunched over with a black eye and a bloodied face and nose. He’s muddy and dirty and scratched up and when he meets your gaze, your world shudders on its axis, to a grinding halt.
The way he’s looking at you shatters your damn heart into huge glassy shards. Diamonds and sprinkles of it, sharp and chunky, cut into your chest. Daggering.
He’s hurt.
He swallows and keeps eye contact. Looks at you with such fear and sorrow emanating from those big round bourbon eyes. You see the apprehension in his body.
It doesn’t get any better when he winced and tries to stand. Body bowing as he slowly eased himself off the bench seat. Hand cupping his ribs as he inched his way to a full stand. You hear him groan.
You see as pain flickers across his face. The usual springy frolicking gait is muted. It’s etched with pain and writ with ache.
He wishes he could read your expression right now. As it is he’s struggling to sort it into one emotion.
You look hurt, tear stained, livid and clenched rigid with something that could only be bone deep anger. Venomous, mind numbing, anger. And it was just bubbling and clawing it’s way to a fever pitch.
“Pencils-“ He wets his lips. Looks meek as he watches you carefully. Tenderness in his voice.
You dump your books where you stand and turn on your heel. Sketchbook cast to the floor and heaped atop your bag. You slam back through the doors and into the school - mind set on one salient thing.
The doors slam not seconds after you. The creaking jolt as the metal crunches back into place. Footprints scatter after you on the lino. The squeak of muddy sneakers. The gusting air of a sigh bred with a wince.
Eddie chases after you with all his might. Hooks his hand to your elbow. Tries his best to stop you.
“Hey. Pencils. Babe. Please, let’s get outta here. Let’s just forget this. I don’t know who it was- I didn’t see them.”
He’s really a terrible liar.
“With all due respect Eddie. I know who did it.” You explain bitterly, as you wander along. His touch turns to a tug on your elbow. Pulling at your shirt.
“Because he’s not smart enough to juggle two thoughts at once, much less try and hide the fact he beat you up. And second his jagged pill of a girlfriend just tore me to strips in the girls restroom for finding out.” You say. Possibly louder than you intended.
His face falls.
“Hey, hey…” He says softly.
You turn back. Tears springing down your cheeks. His hands are all over you. Cupping your neck. Your shoulders. You can smell the blood coming off him. Sour pennies. Desperation laced his voice. Comes off him in waves.
Desperate for you not to to this.
“This isn’t stupid shit to me Eddie. This is not okay. Not something I’m gonna let get brushed under the rug-“ your lip wobbles. You shake your head. You rub your nose. Chase the tickling tears away.
He mimics you. Shaking his own head so his hair flicks out. Eyes wide and terror stroked words pour out his mouth.
“Don’t go getting into trouble for me. I don’t want that for you.” He begs. His eyes are wide with it.
“Good thing I want it then.” You resolve.
He looks apprehensive. Choked by it. Scared by your resolve. He doesn’t want to let you do this. This is a doomsday territory.
“Pencils-“
You continue down the hall. He follows. Still doing everything in his power to convince you, or try to stop you. Credit to him, his list of reasons are pretty excellent.
Babe. Please. It doesn’t have to be a thing.
You’re on track. You have your grades. You got Indie state in your future to think of. I don’t want you jeopardising that for me.
I don’t want you going and getting in trouble for this.
He doesn’t stop you from making your way to the gym. But he is right there at your back as you push open the doors, shove your way inside and you don’t care if your entrance is loud.
The idiot jocks practice in the gym after school. Basketball mostly. Some dotted in the bleechers. Long suffering girlfriends sat with bubblegum pink coloured files, shaping their nails to the side and chatting and trying not to look too bored whilst the guys play. Linda sits chattering to one of the cheerleaders.
You wrinkle your nose at the stench. Whole place smells like musty sweat, floor polish and old socks.
Jonny has his back to you as he dribbled the ball. The ricochet of it pangs across the court.
You race across the floor to him like a hell fury. Fists clenched at your side. Eddie still trying in vain to get between you and your stubborn brain. To try and talk you out of this before it’s way too late.
Your entrance with him hot on your heels and whispering pleas at you, draws laughter and sniggering sneers from some of his dirtbag friends. Shouts come aimed your way.
Hey, look who it is. It’s the freaks.
Closed practice, morons.
Jonny doesn’t turn back but you make your presence known.
“Hey. You dumb fuck stain.”
You march right up to his sweaty back and shove him hard with both hands. Wrinkle that goddamn white basketball jersey.
The guys around him make mocking noises. Chorus of awes and exclamations.
The room slowly dawns quieter. The squeak of shoes muffled. Everyone’s eyes centre court where you stand seething. Panting for breath and trying to look as livid as you felt.
He turns back to you all slow and condescending. Like he’s some golden haired Apollo flouncing down from Mount Olympus to grace you with his presence. He’s limned in sweat and dissects you both with conceited arrogance.
“What’s your damage?” He sarcs. Looking down at you like you’re an ant. Or a mangy mongrel.
He flicks his eyes across and landing on Eddie.
“Munson. How’s them ribs.” He sneers.
You’re about ready to topple over the edge and spit nails. Anger gently creeps to a boil.
“Just peachy, thanks for asking.” Eddie answers. Mouth is a grim line. And his eyes look stern coal black. He turns his attention back to you.
“Pencils please. Let’s just let it go. There’s no point…” He whispers. Standing with his hand gently cupping your forearm.
“What do you want? Teams full. We don’t accept weirdos anyway.” Jonny pushes at the both of you.
“I’m not leaving this spot until you tell me why you attacked my boyfriend.” You steel. Voice low and even.
You can feel Eddie’s eyes on you like lasers. Burning holes in the back of your head.
His mouth gapes a little. If it weren’t for the fact he’s terrified off his ass stood here, his heart would flutter like a fledgling baby birds wings, to hear those words admitted aloud.
“No reason. Just don’t like him.” He shrugs all honesty. Passing the ball over to his friend. Standing with his hands on his hips.
“Careful hefting those big thoughts around. You might hurt yourself.” You fire out.
Your fight with Linda left sharp scalpel words on your tongue and now you ache to use them to their fullest.
He doesn’t look happy. Dark gold hair beading sweat down into his cenote blue eyes. Rigid anger on his frown as he glares at you.
“Linda didn’t like the idea of him being around you. She told us we were teaching him a lesson. To stay away from you. We were protecting you, moron.” He says like it should be obvious.
“How fucking considerate. Your girlfriend couldn’t think her way out of a damn paper bag if she had a map, Jonny.”
You feel Linda’s scowl all the way across the room. The weight those slitted eyes and a bitchy scoff. You know those echoing words found their target. Slammed right into bullseye red making their mark. You hope it truly hurts. As much as she hurt you
“She didn’t reserve the right to presume any fucking thing about me. And not one thing gave you not the right to hurt Eddie. Not under the guise of some macho-stupid ‘protecting-you’ crap.” You snarl.
He bounces the ball. You slam forwards and bat it out scathingly out his hand. Send it rolling away.
More chorus of noises scattered around you both as you stepped toe to toe with the guy who almost towered over you.
“You acted out of pure hatred. So don’t try and dress it up at something else. You useless. shithead.” You insult.
“And what are you going to do about it, freak, huh?” He jabbed. Nostrils flaring. Lips pressed together unattractively thin. Looks like a provoked silverback in his enclosure. About the beat his chest.
He turns to guffaw laughter and sneer with his friends.
When you speak it’s so reed thin it even makes a shiver run up Eddie’s spine. Slices of jagged metal.
And he’s not even on the receiving end of this frightening ire of yours. The one that’s bursting out of you like raw lightning. Like it can’t fathomably contain you. Love and fierce packed rage tight in situ.
“This…” You remark with a clenched fist. Thumb wrapped over your knuckles.
Your nail polish glints blue in the light like steely-inky beetle wings. Your eyes barely smother down live-wires. Danger, danger.
You thought about how they would’ve laughed at him.
Kicked him into the dirt like wet leaves and muck that drifts off the trees in fall.
How they would have laid into him and left him there. On the floor. Blood soaked.
Shown the freak who’s in charge.
It flashes when you rear your arm back. Putting full force into your right shoulder, feet taking a firm stance. You channel everything you have into this fearsome right hook;
You swing your fist straight into Jonnys face.
It’s powerful enough to hear a loud crack, you feel the blow shudder into bone. Catching his nose, which spurts blood.
He recoils and staggers. Knocked off balance. Sound punctured out his mouth. Clutching his bleeding face as red streams drip on his pretty white shoes. Stains his pristine uniform. Good.
Try explaining that one to mommy and daddy dearest.
You don’t even let him swing back around. You grab the shoulder of his disgusting sopping jersey and ball it in your hand. Using that as leverage to drive your knee high - hard - into his balls.
Before you let him slump to the floor in a bleeding pile of sweat glazed limbs. You mutter words just for him to take caution of.
“Come near me or Eddie again, and believe me I will break your goddamn jaw, Lopez.”
You let him crumple this time. Flag to the floor in a heap of collapsing bones and sweaty jock uniform.
He looks up at you, trembling. Blood skirting down his arms and past his cupped palm. Tears streak down his cheeks. You step back and let him crumple.
He’s spitting and snarling crude insults in between wails of pain, and a sticky mouthful that smears his teeth red, and stains his tongue with metal.
“You broke my nose, you crazy fuckin’ bitch.” He spits. It sounds wet. Words sluiced in crimson.
“Finally. A nickname I can warm too.” You scathe.
When you look up, guys around him flinched back a good few paces in case they fell into the category of your rage. Wariness edging their expression. Eyes wide and mouths caught suspended open, like brain dead guppies at feeding time.
Eddie stepped forwards and gently laid his hand on your shaking arm. His fingers urge you closer. Get you following him to haul ass outta there.
You scan the room and find Linda gaping at you just as dumbly as everyone else. She’s risen to a stand. Face like she’s just swallowed a painful poison pill. Apparently in no rush whatsoever to get to her boyfriend.
“It’s ok. I’m done here.” You tell him. Gritting your teeth. Meeting Linda’s eyes.
You turn and walk away. Back to this whole affair Amazed how scarily easy it is. Leaving your supposed friendship in the dust. Bleeding crumpled on that floor.
You feel an enormous sense of relief walking out that gym.
Your hand killing you. No doubt about it. Shooting mad red hot fireworks up and down your forearm. Your knuckles feel like hell. Sparking furious with pain.
You reach for Eddie’s hand anyway. Screw the pain. You slip your fingers into his. Turn and catch his eyes.
He’s watching you with so much cautionary care and concern.
You breathe. Lungs shivering around new calm air. Words come easy but you feel shaky with them.
“C’mon. Let’s go get you something for that eye.”
He agrees with a nod. Then that hopping spark that’s truly skated in usual Munson mischief, comes springing back full force into his eyes. Lovely happy bourbon again.
“Wouldn’t dare refuse you, Pencils. Not after seeing what you’re capable of.” He grins. Nudging you with a shoulder to get a smile out of you.
“Damn right. Those idiots just cost us a date night. He deserved all that and more.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He smiles. Eyes still stuck on your face.
He lopes alongside you. Hand clutched in yours. Shoulder rolling to yours. It feels whole. It feels like trust.
~
You sit in Eddie’s van in the parking lot of the Fair Mart. Despite your protestations, he fully insisted he was fine to drive. He rolled into park out front just about as the sun began to set.
The night started to pull in. All lilac and periwinkle skies, soft as a vintage eiderdown that made you think of bluebirds feathers as you watched that solemn shade of blue overtake the sky.
Making the all too yellow lights within the dingy place stand out proud. Blinking a little. Humming along with the huge freezers inside. All the twee touches of home made signs telling you about the canned goods on offer. Written on card with flicky show-manly italics. Some easy friendly music sparkles out the speakers.
The plump clerk is smiling and jolly and bubbly bright, even when you unload for a whole armful of some medical supplies on the counter. Eyeing your now purpling knuckles with sparky perception. Ringing things up, you throw in a bag of jolly ranchers and a couple of ice cold cans - they suggest a rattling jar of aspirin.
“Take away the sting, honey.” He wafts a knowing hand. “That’ll be $11.90.”
You pay with a watery smile and walk out with a paper bag full. It crinkles in your arms as you go back to Eddie. Who’s sat with his legs dangling out the driver side of his van. Fidgeting with his rings all skittish. Legs swinging to an invisible tune. Still Rattlehead, actually.
You’re the only people in the place. Talk about lulled and sleepy Hawkins. This clearly isn’t a place for two teenagers on a Friday night. They’re all off sucking face at the quarry or skull rock. Or gathering at the arcade.
You come back and get to work cleaning him up.
Lump the bag down beside him, close to his hip, and you stand between his spread legs. Hand fiddling with your belt loop so carefully. He feels you gently brush sweeps of his bangs off his forehead to get at his skin and smudge away a bit of dirt. He lets you. Sat there and losing himself in his gazing.
He winced a little when you gently dabbed some antiseptic cream on the cut at his cheek.
“There’s Jolly ranchers in there you know.” You supply.
“Is that a bribe for me to sit still?” He checks. “Cause it will definitely work.” He dives his hand into the crinkly paper and searches for the candy. He finds one and holds it in his palm until you’re done.
“Who, um.” He swallows. Looking too intently at his ripped jean kneecap. “Who taught you how to—“
You draw back and let him find his words. Let him come to you with it.
“Who taught me how to throw a punch?” You smile.
Still dabbing his cheek. Fingers slipped under his chin and tilting his head up to you. When he could stay still enough.
“My sister. She bought me self defence lessons after-“ The words die and wither up all grey and ashen in your mouth.
You break eye contact for a second and rub at your brow.
It slowly creeps over his head like some dreadful tide. After what?-
Eddie knows he doesn’t like the look settling over your features. One bit. He doesn’t care for it at all.
“It was the summer before junior year. Around the time Linda and Jonny started dating. We went to this party. She didn’t want to go alone so I was roped in. Dressed me in one of her stupid mini skirts, planned to set me up with one of his buddies, Alex.” You pause and chew over the words.
“It was stupid as shit, looking back now, but we got so stupid drunk. Teen freedoms and lite beer. We thought we were so cool. So much so I didn’t notice that my drink was spiked with something. I don’t even know what. All I can remember is just, blackness, and then waking up with Alex sliding his hand up my skirt.”
Eddie blinks. Shuts his eyes for a second. His voice sounds so far away. “Shit. Pencils.” He rasps. Upset and angry on your behalf. He looks more hurt than all those bruises scattering his face.
“Nothing else happened. I screamed blue murder, and shoved him off me and just turned tail and got the hell out of dodge. Walked miles home in heels til I got blisters all over. Charlie was so so pissed. First time I’ve ever seen my Mom go full apocalyptic angry.” You explain.
“She wanted to bring charges but Alex’s family lived on Loch Nora, and his dad was a bigwig in local council so naturally he just chalked it up to underage kids having too much drink and touting it around town that a ‘misunderstanding’ occurred. Transferred their golden boy to a private school. And it just got, quietly swept away.” You accept.
All the pieces slowly floated and formed together to clarity in Eddie’s head.
“Linda stayed with Jonny even after all that shit you went through…” He asks. You nod.
“Stuck like glue.” You infer.
He can’t stand it any longer. wraps his arms around you fully and tugs you into a bold hug. Burying his face in your chest. Listening to the tick of your heart, and feeling you hold him back. Smiling and pressing a kiss to the wild nest of his hair. He smelled like sour-sweet green apple shampoo and earthy papery leaves.
“I’m so sorry.” He rumbled into your arm. His hug says so much more than that.
I’m here and I’m not leaving. Whatever you need - I’ll give it. Carve it out of my chest because you own every piece of me - in full.
“Not your fault, Eddie. I stopped being mad a while ago.” You tell him. Pressing another kiss to his head.
That’s why he’d been so unsuccessful in being able to stop you today. Because you’d let one bout of assault go, like hell were you about to let that happen all over again. And not to him. Drew some blood of your own to partially settle an old debt. To quiet some old violent ghosts.
He lets go of you and plonks the red wrapped jolly rancher in your right hand.
“I think you need and deserve this more than I do. And I’ll keep on being mad on your behalf - if that’s ok.” He says honestly. Fingers slithering through yours. He twists your hand over and sees the bruises wrapping around your knuckles.
You smile.
“I’ll take that.” You answer in reply to his offer. “The candy and that kind offer.”
Cause this is exactly what you need. Him. Him in all his unusual and funky glory.
Metal head with a heart so pure you’re actually certain it is made of solid gold. He whom proclaims to the world he’s nothing but a devil worshipping Satanist, made up of cynical death metal, and pot smoke.
Yet, he’s the guy who puts wrapped candy in your hand. Plies you with kisses and tried to hard to keep you out of tumbling headlong into trouble for his sake. Wanted to take you for a greasy burger and just share every silent soaked moment with you. No matter what you’re doing as long as you’re shoulder to shoulder.
He’s springing up before you can stop him. Sits you in the seat he occupied and told you firmly to ‘wait here, toots.’
Then, he’s scampering across the grocery store lot all jangly jacket and mad frizzy rocker hair bouncing as he goes. The soft pad of his feet on the doormat and the swish of the door he pushes open.
He drifts around the aisle for a few minutes before you see the top of his head bounce as he jaunts to the checkout and pay with a load of coins and a crumpled bill dug out his pocket.
He’s out the doors and whirling back to you in no time at all.
Hand on his ribs as he winced and realised that moving around all silly like he normally does would have its consequences. Ode to a bruise.
He comes over and crouched in front of you. Proudly showing you his purchases. He holds them up like he’s won an award.
bag of frozen peas and a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
“For you, my most dangerous slash badass weirdo.” He grins. Even under that black eye, and the cut limned with purple across the bridge of that nose, his brightness and joy is infectious.
He takes your hand and you smile as he settles the peas on it. Settles his hand on top of it and stays crouched. Looking up at you with literal stars in his eyes.
You’re hit with such a fierce wave of love it shocks you from the inside out. Punching into your ribs and mangling and mashing your heart and lungs together with something that burns all mean like static. Words trip off your tongue like a smudge of sugar. You feel drunk on them; fever and maddening realisation in a shockwave.
You put your hand over his. Ice cold and shifting crunch on the bag.
“Eddie, you’re free tonight right?”
“Well the beauty pageant will have to take a hike with these shiners.” He plays. Tilts his head.
“What would you say if I asked you to spend the night?” You check.
His brain seems to crunch and churn through the cogs to answer.
“The night?” His eyebrows almost swoop up and disappear into his bangs.
“Not sure your mom would be too wild about that.” He says.
“She’s in San Francisco. Short haul. Not back til Monday.”
“Oh.” Eddie nods. And then it hits him.
“O h.”
You keep eye contact and smile. “I'm game. What’s say you, Munson?”
“Holy shit. Pencils.” He wets his lips. Grinning.
~
T A G S darlings
@ceriseheaven @indouloureux @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @greenishghostey @svenyves @sammararave @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @munsonswhore @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831
@hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt @thincrusttheworks @manicpixiedreamcurl @therosietoesy @fanficappreciationblog @thicksexxualtension @tvserie-s-world @sharp-and-swift @dadsbongos
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akookminsupporter · 1 year
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Namjoon gave an interview to El Pais in Spain and I wanted to share the translation of the interview for those who may not understand Spanish.
Question. The track opens with the lines: "Fuck the trendsetter / I'm going back to the age of 9 / when I was more human". Does the stratospheric success of K-pop dehumanise the artist? Answer. You start your career very early and as part of a group. There's not a lot of time to be an individual, but that's what makes K-pop shine: very young people, trying very hard at the same time…. You generate energy that you only have in your twenties. You fight day and night to perfect the choreography, the videos, the music, and there's an explosion, a big bang. From 20 to 30, we put all the energy and time we had into BTS. You get success, love, influence, power, and after that? The root of it all remains: the music… What was the question?
Q. Does the system dehumanise? A. My company doesn't like the way I answer this question, because I partly admit it and then the journalists throw their hands on their heads, "it's a horrible system, it destroys the young people! But it's partly what makes this such a special industry. And things have improved a lot, in terms of contracts, money, education, there are now teachers, psychologists...
Q. Korean record companies train their artists for years, you lived with your peers from 16 to 19 before your debut as BTS in 2013. What did your parents say? A. My mother spent two years, "Go back to school, you were so good at it, go your way, go to university, make music a hobby!"…. But there was no going back.
Q. The biggest lesson from your time as an apprentice? A. Dancing. I was incapable.
Q. And what did you miss out on by being one? A. College life.
Q. The cult of youth, the cult of perfection, the cult of K-pop overexertion? Are these Korean cultural traits? A. In the West, people just don't get it. Korea is a country that has been invaded, razed to the ground, torn in two. Just seventy years ago there was nothing. We were getting aid from the IMF and the UN. But now, the whole world is looking at Korea. How is that possible, how did that happen? Because people are working fucking hard to improve themselves. You're in France or the UK, countries that have been colonising other countries for centuries, and you come to me and say "oh God, you put so much pressure on yourselves, life in Korea is so stressful". well, yes. That's how you get things done. And it's part of what makes K-pop so appealing. Of course, there are shadows, everything that happens too fast and too intensely has side effects.
Q. What is the biggest prejudice about K-pop? A. That it's prefabricated.
Q. What would your career have been like if you had developed it on the alternative circuit or in another country? A. I think about the multiverse a lot, and the lesson of Doctor Strange is always the same: your version of the universe is the best possible one, don't think of others. There is nothing better than being a member of BTS.
Q. Did you imagine this version? A. Not at all. My dream was not to be a K-pop idol. I wanted to be a rapper, and before that, a poet.
Q. Your influences include rappers like Nas and Eminem, groups like Radiohead and Portishead, but you never mention boy bands. A. The Beatles were also called boy band... I'm not comparing us, they were the creators of everything. But I guess you mean NSYNC or New Kids on the Block: bands whose pop music I actually liked, although I wasn't a super fan… What got me was rap: rhythm plus poetry.
Q. You say you get jealous of who you admire, for example? A. Kendrick Lamar, always. And Pharrell Williams. He's living history, I'd like to be one too, maybe in the future. That's why I don't paint, to be jealous of Picasso or Monet would be too much.
Q. You do collect, how do you choose the pieces? A. I've only been collecting for four years and I've been changing. My focus is 20th-century Korean art. But I'm not Getty or Rockefeller…
Q. You don't do it to invest. A. I guarantee it. If I wanted to invest, I would buy black artists, women artists, emerging Indonesian artists… My goal is to open a small exhibition space in about 10 years because I think Seoul needs a place with a young taste, but respectful of the Korean legacy, to which I would also like to bring artists like Roni Horn, Antony Gormley or Morandi.
Q. Have you always had the collector's bug? A. I've collected toys, little cars or Takashi Murakami figures, then vintage clothes, then furniture, I love Charlotte Perriand and Pierre Jeanneret [both collaborators with Le Corbusier], but my favourite is George Nakashima.
Q. On your album there are songs from very different genres, some critics say it's inconsistency, others say versatility… A. I think the word genre will disappear in a few decades. R&B, Hyperpop, Jersey Club, UK Drill, Chicago Drill, K-pop! They don't mean anything. Music is an accumulation of frequencies that makes people get into a certain mood.
Q. Are you fed up with the "K-" label? A. You could get sick of Spotify calling us all K-pop, but it works. It's a premium label. The guarantee of quality that our grandparents fought for.
Q. Your album features Anderson Paak, Youjeen and the elusive Erykah Badu, how did he convince you? A. She knew BTS because her daughter is a fan, but that's not enough. I had to persuade her, I sent her a text with Yun's story explaining why I needed her wise queen voice for those verses.
Q. You mix English and Korean sometimes in the middle of a line, how do you decide? A. Words in different languages have different textures; the same message, with a different brushstroke. It comes naturally to me. I don't play instruments, I compose and create melodies with my voice, which is my instrument and most of my songs start with words.
Q. You have also gone through several identities, as a teenage rapper you were Runch Randa, then in BTS Rap Monster and then RM (for Real Me). Have you thought about using your real name? A. [laughs] We all have a past, a dark history, we say in Korea. Runch Randa was my nickname in a role-playing game, then I wanted to be, you know, "a rap monster!″, then I matured… I prefer my name to be known by as few people as possible, I'm not John Lennon, Paul McCartney, I can check into a hotel quietly and I like that.
Q. You've also changed a lot in the way you dress. A. I went through XXL T-shirts and baseball caps. Then I got into high-end brands… Like Rap Monster, I started wearing only black and white [rolls his eyes and shrugs]. Now I'm interested in timelessness, I don't go for trends, I look for vintage jeans, cotton t-shirts, natural things, that don't scream "hey, I'm here".
Q. Rumour has it that you are going to collaborate with Bottega Veneta, whose fashion show you have just been invited to in Milan. A. I would love to. Although I've lost interest in brands, in fashion weeks and that constant change of Pantone… Bottega is different, they don't use logos, they have a history with fabrics and leather, they don't even have Instagram, they are beyond fads and fashions.
Q. How heavy is it to have an army of fans? A. You can't walk around in the middle of nowhere without being recognised and the standards to which you are subject weigh heavily. But you have to grow up and deal with it, not be pitiful like "oh, I just want to be normal". Look, if you want to think fame is a rock, it's a fucking rock, but for me, it's given me what I was looking for: to get influence and financial freedom as quickly as possible to make the music I want to make without worrying about the charts… I'm not there 100%, but I try to focus on the noise inside, not the noise outside.
Q. And how are you facing your thirties? A. I've never experienced such a confusing time. For a decade I was the leader of BTS, and it was very stable and fun, always going up. In 2023 a lot of things have changed, professionally and personally, although I can't tell. As I'm about to turn 30, I like myself more than I did when I was 20. Now I will spend a year and a half in military service, which is very important in every Korean man's life. And after that, I am sure I will be a different human being, hopefully, a better and wiser one.
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suzukiblu · 6 months
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ask game: reveal
(also sorry if I’m sending too many of these lol)
For the record there is no such thing as "too many of these", lol, you have nooooothing to be sorry for, friend, send away. ❤️
Usually Kon just doesn't mention the whole "genetically designed to fuck Superwoman" thing, since a) it's personally embarrassing for him and b) he's personally embarrassed for Cadmus. They were trying to make the ideal mate for Superwoman and they made him? Really? He was their best design for that?
That is so far past embarrassing that it's coming back around the other way.
When Kon's sixteen and not even "Kon" yet, that fact's just a casual mortification that he occasionally feels when he gets inadvertently reminded of the "education" uploads that were supposed to make him consider Superwoman the hottest piece of ass on the planet and also make him want to "keep her in line", but otherwise it's irrelevant to his life. Because, like–he's sixteen, and she's Superwoman. Even if he did want to bang her, there is literally no way in this or any reality that it would ever happen. Like, ever. The chance is so far less than zero that it is literally in the negatives.
Also, if Kon did want to bang Superwoman, he cannot imagine that ever making him want to keep her in line. Given his dating history, in fact, he's pretty sure he would've been cheering her on in literally every altercation she ever got into and actively advocating for her to throat-punch any implication of the line into the stratosphere. Like, that seems much likelier an outcome there.
Look, Kon has a type, and that type is "can kick my fucking ass and make me fucking like it". He is not ashamed of that fact in any way whatsoever.
So Kon gets older. Fills out, gets stronger; develops more Kryptonian powers and stronger TTK and better control of both. Gets a whole lot bigger than Superwoman, after a few very uncomfortable growth spurts, but still continues not to want to fuck her even after Kalura Jor-El gives him a real name and even after he meets Clara Kent and her demurely pleated skirts and geeky glasses and even after his first time seeing her rip open her neat little button-up to reveal the bright and bold "S" stretched tight over Superwoman's aesthetically perfect tits.
Like, Kon can acknowledge that Clara's goddamn gorgeous, whether she's wearing the "S" or the geeky glasses or even just beat-up farmgirl flannel. He's not blind or oblivious. Just he just genuinely has no interest in fucking her and honestly? Thinking about the idea of it kinda grosses him out. Cadmus was way too detailed in those education uploads that frequently function more like intrusive thoughts, though, so he figures pretty much anybody with his style of rebellious nature would feel similarly.
Anyway, a Kama Sutra's worth of creative ways to get a female omega off is not the worst thing anyone ever put in Kon's head.
Possibly the creepiest, but not the worst.
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qqueenofhades · 1 year
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How accurate is the ‘medieval peasants worked less then we do today’ statement? I looked it up because I find it very hard to believe, but had trouble making sense of it since history is not my strong point.
The answer to this is complicated, and represents a lot of (indeed, often erroneous) assumptions about past and present alike. Either the past is presented as a terrible place where everyone was miserable and dirty and assaulted all the time, or as an essentially more idyllic and pastoral place where people didn't have to contend with capitalism, credit scores, minimum wages, underpaid work, and all the other onerous apparatus of the modern economic system. Of course, neither the excessively bad or the excessively good version is true, and usually reveals more about the point that the modern debate wants to make, rather than anything to do with history itself.
First, I would like to note that the whole "all non-king medieval people were peasants" stereotype likewise really grinds my gears, and it is often presented uncritically in claims of this type, clearly intended to draw a parallel between overworked medieval people and overworked modern people. Which is fine, but again, not entirely accurate. As should be obvious to anyone who thinks about it for two seconds, medieval society consisted of all kinds of people and all kinds of occupations, both skilled and unskilled. Like, who do y'all think built the cathedrals? A bunch of random grain harvesters from nearby Podunkville? There were brute laborers who pushed wheelbarrows and hauled stones and etc, but there were also highly educated architects and engineers, who knew how to do things like make sure Durham Cathedral would minutely adjust over hundreds of years to the boggy ground it was built on, and not just fall down. There were master artisans, masons, glassworkers, sculptors, carpenters, etc etc. (See the creator of a recent "medieval" Netflix show claiming that medieval people had no use for art and me wanting to kick him like a football into the stratosphere). In towns, there were merchants, brewers, embroiderers, greengrocers, butchers, bakers, everything else you need to run a basic local economy. There were soldiers and mercenaries and other military occupations, which became increasingly professionalized throughout the medieval era and not just a matter of recruiting the local guys from down the road. There were priests and clerics and an extensive church bureaucracy. There were academics and professors and scholars and writers. Etc etc etc.
Anyway, the point is that when you're talking about medieval peasants, you're probably referring to the people who lived in largely rural or agrarian environments and made their living primarily from subsistence farming and animal husbandry for a landlord. Obviously, they did work hard in physically grueling occupations (though they were generally not malnourished and starving, as I have written about before, except in years of bad famine or crop failure, and then their wealthier employers would suffer too, because they all existed in the same material goods universe, whereas the rich and poor are millions of miles apart today). Their wages were often low, and even in the absolute worst of the Black Death’s first wave in 1349, King Edward III of England issued the Statute of Pleading that attempted to keep wages down and prevent peasants from negotiating for higher rates, even in the middle of a literal fucking apocalyptic plague and crushing labor shortage. (He was ultimately not successful). Widespread discontent with the exploitation of the peasantry, the crushing tax rates to fund pointless foreign wars, and other oh-hey-that-sounds-familiar problems led to the Peasants' Revolt in 1381, and the widespread popularity of the Lollards, a social and religious reform movement who criticised the static hierarchy and endemic inequality of medieval European society. So there were obviously some of the same problems as there are today, especially in regard to economic inequality and systemic oppression, and medieval peasants, far from being stupid sheep who just put their heads down and took it, were just as involved in trying to organise movements and protests to change it.
However, medieval peasants did not exist in global capitalism (obviously) and thus both their work and the reason for it was different. This was before the Protestant Ethic of the late 19th/early 20th century, that explicitly linked religious salvation with hard work in the capitalist system. Martin Luther bitched about indulgences so much because it was an accepted system to just pay the church something and be like "okay I'm good, I can kick back and not worry about it." (The medieval Catholic church had many, MANY problems, but the fact that Luther is so often presented as the "good guy" heroically saving these lazy dissolute people tells you all you need to know about how Protestant triumphalism informs Western historiography). In 1215, at the Fourth Lateran Council, Pope Innocent III had to issue an explicit degree to order people to go to church or take communion more than once a year, which he would not have had to do if they were all mindlessly devoted zealots who spent every waking moment there. Medieval people liked to sleep late and chill out on Sunday, just like modern people do now.
Obviously, religion was a more explicit and structured part of their lives than it generally is now, but sometimes the "medieval people worked less" argument is presented as the all-powerful and Machiavellian church craftily providing the people with a lot of public holidays so they didn't revolt against them. As noted, medieval people complained about and ignored and rebelled against the church anyway, and anyone who ever tells me that they were all uniform and brainwashed and always accepted the Catholic church's view on things needs to read one (1) book on the 13th century. Besides, the church just never had that level of total control over society anyway, and this presumes that everything they did was in deliberate bad faith solely to preserve their secular/social power -- which, while secular/social power was also often at stake, is likewise a wildly simplistic misreading of how things actually worked, and what the church actually wanted to do.
There were indeed a lot of public holidays, both religious (i.e. saints' days) and folk (Lammastide, the harvest, Celtic festivals, etc), where people weren't expected to work, and/or to go to church instead. As noted re: Pope Innocent and his struggles in this department, this was often not necessarily the case. There were also ordinary community holidays like house-raisings, weddings, christenings, Christmas, etc etc., where people could (and did) often have a good time for days. There were fairs, tournaments, carnivals, markets, and other opportunities for leisure or to attend entertainment events. So it certainly wasn't the case that peasants were always slaving away with no respite, and that if they weren't working, they were in church. They also didn't have to work for their entire lives; elderly peasants could retire and be supported on a portion of the overall estate yield, in medieval social security, and if this wasn't given to them, they could and did sue their landlords to get it. So yet again, medieval life was NOT just nothing but filth and misery and being worked until you dropped. People are people. They have lived as people in all ages and eras of the world. They have enjoyed themselves and worked and lived and died. We do need to examine the very real problems of the modern world, but I continue to hope, however vainly, that we don't need to keep relying on excessively distorted versions of the medieval world to do it.
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seat-safety-switch · 1 year
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On my tombstone they will carve, IT NEVER GOT ECONOBOX ENOUGH FOR ME. I was a slave to those small engines, those dizzying peaky horsepower numbers lower than the fuel economy sticker, those Macpherson Struts. I’m getting sweaty just thinking about it. But mopeds? That was a bridge too far, or so I thought.
My accountant Roy saunters into the office, and he tells me that he just found five hundred bucks under the couch cushions in the breakroom and we should go buy mopeds. He impresses upon me the value of my investment in what he defines as motorized art, the alloy steeds spoken of in legend. In the parking lot, I ante up on the deal by popping the clips on my Subaru’s door card and extracting a further five hundred dollars, preserved minty-fresh by the vapour barrier.
As if on cue, the college radio station’s federally-mandated afternoon cultural appreciation programming, consisting entirely of artisanal banjo music, filled the speakers and our hearts with a sense of rural adventure. Together, we departed for the countryside, barging through covered bridges in full opposite lock.
“How many cylinders has it got?” I ask the swarthy man as he sneezed into his handkerchief, and rubbed his moly-greased paws on his hay-covered overalls.
“Got maybe one, I wager. I got it off one of them college boys came out here to protest the sour gas wells. Ambulance left it behind.”
I considered the moped carefully. It was a gently dented ‘71 Kreidler Florett, and it leaked oil and fuel in such quantities I had no doubt the paramedics had performed triage at the scene and slotted it into “already gone.”
“You boys aren’t college educated, are you?”
His line of questioning was interrupted by the stuffing of money down his denim neckhole. I was a moped owner. I was a motorcyclist. I was one of the Nicest People that you would meet, if you were driving a Honda at the time.
Weeks later, Roy tentatively rapped on the front door of my house. He was concerned. I hadn’t turned up to work for weeks. Did I have an accident learning to ride a motorcycle? I opened the door, just a crack, not wanting him to see my deep shame, but he shoved it open, knocking me onto my ass.
The scene that unfolded before him was one of horror. Every available surface in the house was occupied by mopeds, or moped parts. He turned and stared at me, his face white with disbelief.
“They’re just so small,” I whimpered. “I ran out of room in the garage and I just had to keep saving them they were so lonely, I don’t know what to do.”
As always, my intrepid accountant had a good idea of how to spend my money. Weeks later, our series of vintage moped rent-a-racer events had flourished and America was rediscovering its love of the two-stroke. We were both richer than we could imagine, but the greatly soaring demand for mopeds had raised the price of our junk into the stratosphere.
I rode home on the Kreidler, wondering where it had all gone so wrong. At the lights, I looked up to witness an enormous billboard, advertising the triumphant and flashy return of the Honda CT90. You asked for it, the ad copy roared, and here it is.
Yes. I asked for it.
Note: This is the 3000th entry on this tumblr. I can't believe it's lasted this long, and I'm a little humbled that people seem to be really enjoying it. In honour of the anniversary, this is my all-time favourite post (check out the best of tag for more, or enjoy a random post from the collection) and I'm taking the night off, rather than writing a new one. New shitbox posts resume tomorrow. Thanks for reading.
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nattspencer · 1 year
Text
Awakening
Lady Lesso X Reader
Summary: Always competing with Lesso for the first of the class, the red head finally demands to have the Reader’s mother diary.
A/N: English is not my first language, I’m really sorry for any mistakes. This took me forever to write and to be honest I didn’t quite like the result, i’m really sorry for whoever requested this story but beilieve me, that was the best I could pull off, also, sorry for taking it so long. As always, I’ll still be trying my best to write great stories, so if you have any ideas and want to send me a request, I might take long, but I’ll try my best!
Warnings: bad language, mentios of smut, betrayal, angst, fluffy parts, no happy ending
Word count: 3.6k
The GIF is not mine.
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          Some days you wish just not to have been born at all. Being the daughter of someone so well known, feared and respected like your mother meant that there was always a huge amount of pressure on top of you, even when you were just a kid, for you to be the best of the new generation, to achieve what your mother couldn’t, to bring evil to its golden age, or better, to its darkest age, to do what no one else could and bring glory to your family. And seriously? You couldn’t hate more all of this bullshit.
          Not that you didn’t want to be great, powerful or evil, no, the sight of people being tortured, terrified and broken was just too amusing to resist, the screams were your lullaby, you definitely wanted all of that, however, all of the pressure about it on top of your own perfectionism absolutely drives you crazy. One thing was wanting to be great, another completely different thing was to be demanded to be great, otherwise you would bring disgrace to the name of your mother, foreshadow all of what she accomplished and bury her legacy into forgetfulness.
          The days where the pressure became too hard to bear by yourself were the days you missed your home the most. Diablo of course always put that states for your raising and education way up high in the stratosphere, always urging to unleash the very bad parts of you, just as your mother would wish if she were alive, nevertheless, he was also your rock, your safe place to crumble, to put yourself back together again, and safety was definitely the hardest thing to have when you were a Never. Trust no one, that was the ultimate rule.
          Surrounded by people yet always lonely, that was the fate assigned for you. Don’t get me wrong, you had your fair pair of friends that actually seemed very loyal to you, however none of them scored as high as you on the tests, and you knew better than trusting blindly on people, that was an Ever’s thing to do. Deep down you worried that they were only your friend because you had been given your mother’s diary, which among other things, contained tips and tests questions about every single subject in the school. 
          All this worry and caution nonetheless, were unconsciously thrown up in the air when the subject was a silly smart devious reader that had been battling with you for the number one position in your classes. Leonora of woods beyond, now Lady Lesso, was the furthest and the closest thing of a true friend you had. Furthest because you were always fighting, teasing and deriding each other, she was absolutely infuriating and would do everything in her power to outrival you. Closest because she was the only one that actually understood you, your only company to your cold sleepless studying nights, and something within you just… liked her.
          Something also tells you that she might not despise you as much as she tries to portray. It wasn’t rare to find yourself waking up in the library with an unknown warm blanket resting carefully upon your shoulders, the scent of ginger tea and petrichor intoxicating your senses, lulling you into a peaceful, deserving sleep. Somehow you never had any of your usual nightmares in these nights, of course, you blamed your unbelievable state of tiredness, never fully wanting to admit how much the redhead had grown on you.
          Your own blanket also rested on her shoulders a few times, the library as the whole school of evil was especially uncomfortably cold at the late hours, and you would never just see her shivering body shrink and do nothing about it, maybe if she was someone else. 
          Returning the given blankets back, however, was a particularly fun activity to do. None of you wanted to lose and admit that they were grateful for the small gesture, so it always led to an insane battle of flirting and teasing that was amusing for both of you.
          “Here, your blanket, little dove” You said handing her black fluffy blanket back, for some reason you slept with it the whole night, even when you were at your own dorm.
          “Oh, did it serve well the damsel in distress?” Lesso said with a snare smile and a raised eyebrow.
          “It did my mighty knight, it was really comforting and cozy, thank you for caring so much for little old me, I might be growing a little too big in that rotten heart of yours” Your voice was in a higher pitch, trying to impersonate the way some ever princess speak.
          “My, my, rotten heart, you really say the most delightful things baby girl, maybe your mouth isn’t so bad after all” Her left hand pressed against the stone wall with her weight at the side of your head, half trapping you there.
          “Oh no, my mouth is as bad as its owner, but that doesn't mean it can’t drive you crazy” A mischievous smile painted your lips.
          “You bark a lot little minx, your bite must not be so exquisite after all” Your faces were inches apart and challenge was dancing in your and Lesso’s eyes, the high difference making her look slightly down.
          “Who knows? I haven’t heard any complains tho” You shrug.
          “Low standards is definitely something around this place” Lesso says leaning backwards and dropping her hand from the wall, recomposing herself in a indifference façade.
          “Guess you would have to find it for yourself. Too afraid you might like it a little too much?” Your hands boldly touches underneath her chin in a father like motion.
          “You wish” The last thing you see is a dramatic roll of her eyes before she starts walking again, her blanket between her hands.
          Sometimes, just like now when she wasn’t looking or paying any attention, you got the strange habit of noticing the little things about her. You could draw by heart the shape of her back, and would recognize her in any type of crowd. The sharp edges of her face, the beautiful curls of her red cascade, the cruelty and determination in her eyes facing something new, the way her face twists when she can’t quite understand some subject, her habit of slightly taping her long fingers on the desk when she is anxious, well, you could spend hours just naming all of it, actually, thinking about it now, that’s kinda weird, nonetheless you can’t deny, she is absolutely hot. 
          Also, from time to time, you could feel her eager eyes on your figure when you were doing something else, normally it would be just a sting in your spine and when you tried to look back at her she would distracted by some other thing, however, you knew better and caught her looking at you though random reflections in the room once or twice. You always wondered why, maybe she was just trying to have any type of wicked ideas about what her next prank would be, but something about the look in her eyes on those occasions just made your stomach twist and flip on itself. Odd.
          Hundreds of snowflakes fell thick out of the window now, painting everything pale, dead and white. It was the middle of the finals test week, soon enough you would be home with some cozy hot chocolate made by your favorite bird that because of one of your mother’s gifts, could turn itself human to take care of you. Tiredness weighed heavy on your shoulders and more than anything your mother’s diary was your safehouse, not because it had the answers for the test, but because it made you feel closer to her. She passed away when you were only ten years old, and honestly, she could be bad and all, but there wasn’t a single day you didn’t miss her. 
          Two tests left, just this, two tests and you are ready to go. These were the thoughts that kept you going though that day, your eyes were clouded due the lack of sleep and all you wanted was burying yourself in your bed. While returning some books to the library before going to your chambers, you saw her slim figure in one of the desks, Lesso’s hand barely supporting her sleepy head, falling constantly in and out of the morpheus realm. You knew she was just stubborn enough to keep like that for hours, your conscious self decided to just tease and play with her, however, the buried, cover, forbidden, parts of you wanted her to go quickly to bed, she deserved to rest. 
          “As much delicious the sight of you drooling is, I don’t think it’s worth ruining a perfectly good book, especially at the test week” You stood behind her and sneakily bend down to whisper the words in her ear, watching closely her body reacts to you as she startle slightly, making you be able to see in first hand her scruffs’ hair rising.
          “Says the one who doesn’t even have to study by the books. Mommy’s girl is too good for that” The woman said in a monotone voice, her last words dripping with venom while she turned to look directly at you. In response your body straighten and you look down at her seated position.
          “As if I didn’t get to see your ugly face almost every day in this ragged old dusty library. I study as much as you do Lesso, don’t blame my mother’s diary for you being often second best” You knew you hit the wasp nest, but the flame and rage in her eyes just made her so much more attractive. She immediately got up and stared at your eyes, no personal space between you.
          “Say that again to my face” The taller woman dared you inches away from your head, her breath fanning your features sending a chill around your spine and making your stomach twist in a weird way. You could see the devil in her façade and her voice would make any great villain feel like an naive hero.
          “No need for getting all worked up baby girl, you know you always put on a good fight” You smiled, this woman definitely drives you mad, in this villainess mode then, for hades sake she just looks luscious.
          “Don’t underestimate me just because I wasn’t born in this place” She hissed between her teeth.
          “Oh, I would never think of it, I’m well aware of the threat you are” Your left hand drifted between one of her red curls, toying purposelessly with it “Sometimes I wish you were put on the school for good, just to have you as my own witted nemesis” There was a glimmer of desire in your eyes and you could see a fire roaming and dancing behind her own.
          “As much as being good disgusted me, having killing you as my destiny makes me quite amused” Her lips twisted in the most blissful way, full of lust and cruelty.
          “Likewise darling. Now, if you excuse me, I’ll go to sleep as this is a important part of the learning process, and I would recommend you to do the same, if you still wanna put up a good fight tomorrow” You said stepping away from her, your smile never left your lips.
          “Do your worst little Mal” The nickname she gave you after your mother, Maleficent slipped from her mouth in a challenging voice.
          “Oh I always do, hellish dreams, Leonora” That was the last words you said, already on the way to your dorm.
          Your heart was pounding fast on your ribcage as it always does when you get to be this close with the red head, your stomach was equally strange, but there was a large grin painted across your face. Secretly you loved the effect she had on you, and you loved even more the effect you knew you had on her, seeing all her little subtle reactions were more amusing then you dared to admit. 
          Surprisingly calm, that’s how you would define today’s test. It wasn’t easy, actually it was very far from it, only you and Lesso were the ones to put up a fight and get almost all the questions right, however, in the end, as usual, you managed - barely - to beat her and get the first place. If eyes could kill, you would probably be dead by now, normally you wouldn’t care for things like that, but she just gets so much prettier when she is pissed, and you just loved being the one dragging those expressions to the surface. 
          After the test you headed straight to your chambers, as always at this time, you were a bit too exhausted and you already had studied for the last test tomorrow, all you really needed was a big refreshing time of sleep, so when you woke up, you could just go over your notes and be able to do the test with full attention. 
          Fogged minded and sleepy you walk carelessly to your dorm, when suddenly something throws you roughly against the cold hard stone walls of the castle, her scent invading your nostrils as she has a hand painfully tight on your throat. Her breath fanned your face and her sculptural body was tied into yours.
          “Give me the fucking diary” The way she swears just did something between your legs.
          “I don’t think so beauty, that’s private property i’m afraid” You said with a snare smile.
          “And since when a Never cares about it? I want it, I’ll take it, I’ll claim it” The hand on your throat tightness slyly and her left grabbed your face roughly.
          “Oh… did I just make you so very frustrated you needed to assault me for it? Tsc tsc you should study harder little lamb” You said playing with fire.
          “You’re cheating you filthy bitch, you have the fucking answers” Lesso spat the words at your face and you could feel her breath fanning roughly your hair.
          “Oh your mouth really says the most delicious things baby girl. However, I’m afraid I don’t give a fuck, nor our teachers” The snare smile never left your lips, you were supposed to be scared, or concern, or trying to free yourself however, you now find yourself enjoying every single second of it.
          “I could kill you right here right now” Lesso threatens again.
          “But you won’t, because you adore toying with me as much as I adore toying with you” Your left hand is now drafting between her red curls.
          “I can find new pets” She said with a raised eyebrow but a well known smile was creeping on her lips.
          “Not in this school, not in the same way we toy my little pet. You desire me Leonora” Your hand is now caressing her scruff scratching it and pulling it, while your right embraced her waist, dragging her even closer to you, as if it was even possible.
          “The feeling it’s not unilateral, I can see your hungry eyes on little old me every time I get closer” Her right hand left your face and enchase itself on your own waist, while she caressed the skin of your neck with her left thumb, still grabbing your throat.
          “Perhaps we could use this anger of yours to do something way more ravishing” You asked biting your lips at staring at her own.
          “Why do you get so much more attractive like this, fuck-” Her lips crashed on yours harshly and her hands squeezed your waist deliciously, everything in your conscious went black, as all you could feel was her, her body, her hands. 
          Didn’t take long for her tongue to meet yours, and god, it was better than any daydream you could ever dare to have. You let her dominate while a deep moan ripper though your throat making her groan in response. The cold weather of the castle faded, everything turned hot as flaming blazes roamed in a decaying empire and both of your bodies weld like cast iron. 
          When air was needed and the kiss needed to be broken, Lesso’s devious mouth didn’t dare to rest. It traveled sinuously down to your neck, kissing, sucking, biting, bruising everything along the way as you gasp for air. Half of your fogged mind remind you that you were in the middle of the dark corridor near your room and if someone passed by you would be screwed, and not in a good way, but damn, it was so fucking hard to think anything coherent when she was almost eating your neck off.
          “Less- Leo-” You tried to say when a moan erupted on your throat as she just sucked the right place “My room. Now” That was all you could manage to say.
          “Lead” She said, detaching from your neck and looking at your eyes, breathless. 
          Taking a long deep breath, you grabbed her collar and dragged her towards your room. As soon as you arrived you opened the door and pushed her roughly in, closing it behind you as you pinning her, your mouth finding its way to its newest addiction, her own.
          No sound will ever be as pleasant as the sound of her voice issuing the lowest notes as she moans delightfully, when your mouth finds the right spots on her neck, sucking and abusing her skin just as she did with yours. 
          In that room evening turned into night as the hours faded in pure pleasure. You and Lesso fucked, had sex and loved eachother blissfully as you toggle between showing your truest feelings and succumb into the deepest pleasure full of roughness and devilish delight. You didn’t count how many times you and her cummed together, how many times you felt her taste and she felt yours, however you only stopped when your bodies couldn’t physically keep up with your desire, and begged you to give yourselves up to the sound sleep waiting for you.
          A wet red mane was spreaded across your sweat chest, as Leonora’s body rested tangled on yours. Your right hand gently caressed her scalp, and your left drew incomprehensible symbols on the small of her naked back. Only a thin sheet covered half of your bodies and for the first time in many many months, you finally felt at home, with her in your arms. 
          “I wish we fought less” You said almost in a whisper, staring at the ceiling.
          “Why?” Lesso asks sleepy.
          “So I could finally get to really know you” Your eyes drift slowly towards her “Not only by your mannerisms. I see you Leo. But I wish I could truly talk to you, get to know how you truly are without the shell you and I have built to ourselves”
          “Leo?” She asked raising her head from your chest and facing you.
          “Yeah, sorry, nevermind, forget what I said” Your eyes avoid her and the ceiling looks suddenly so much more interesting.
          “No, I like it” Lesso gently turns your head towards her, her eyes so much softer than you ever saw “My mom used to call me Leo” She confesses.
          “Can I call you like that?”
          “Only when we are alone”
          “Only when we are alone” You repeat as she lays again against you.
          “I see you too” 
          “What?” You ask gently.
          “I see the little things you do, how you try your best in everything you do, how your eyes frown when something doesn’t go as you expected, how you smile slightly when some of your friends achieve good grades” She sighs “What I wanna say is that I see you, and I like what I see”
          “I really like you too”
          “Maybe when this test week is over, we could have a lunch, and maybe we could talk, in that silly way you want”
          “Good”
          “Good” That was the last thing you said and heard before the tiredness came over your body and you surrendered to Morpheus' realm.
          That night was so much more than you could ever dared to dream, however, the higher you get, the greater the fall. A hot unpleasant ray of sunshine striked your face rudely, making you wake up annoyed and almost blind by the strong light that came through the window. You sit down lazely and rub your eyes, realization hits you as Leonora can’t be found nowhere, the drawer you kept your mother’s diary laying open, broken into, just as the piece of your dying heart shattered. 
          You should know better. You are a N.E.V.E.R, you only get nightmares, not dreams, and it was as if the destiny wanted to show where you belong, what is your place, as someone who doesn’t deserve a happy ending, as an rotting person who is dead long before your heart strikes for the last time. You are not loved, everyone who loved you is dead, and soon Diablo will be too, so you are left there, alone, as it was supposed to be.
          While tears stream down your face and you die a little more, all you managed to do was to clap your hands. Well played Lesso, toying with one just to get what you want, betraying their trust, using them, making them feel loved, god that was just the cherry on top, so cruel, so perfect, it was a masterpiece indeed. Any teacher would be proud of her, and she definitely got first place this time, but you will make sure it is the last one. Every villain needs an awakening, she was yours. Even if your rotting heart dares to love her, you would rip it from your chest and bury it, you don’t deserve happiness anyways.
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denimbex1986 · 4 months
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'The moment Jodie Whittaker’s Doctor regenerated will go down history as one of the great rug-pulls of modern Who.
There she was, standing on a rocky outcrop, ready to hand over the mantle to the next in line. But this time there was an extra twist for those watching. Instead of regenerating into Ncuti Gatwa, who was announced as the next Doctor in 2022 after rising to fame in Netflix's Sex Education, people instead saw David Tennant standing in his place, ready to reprise the role he’d last held thirteen years ago.
To quote the Doctor, as he reacted to this change of plans: what?!
With that catchphrase (can a word be a catchphrase? With Tennant, anything is possible), he was back in the TARDIS, and I was immediately reinvested – catapulted back in time to a version of my teenage self where long scarves were sacred and Converse magically looked good when paired with pinstripe suits.
I wasn’t around for original Who, but watched from behind the sofa as my father (a lifelong fan) turned on the telly for the reboot in 2005. Terrifying as the Daleks may be, this show is catnip for kids: the monsters; the prospect of entering a magic box and going for adventures in time and space; and above everything else, the knowledge the Doctor will ultimately save the day.
Heading up the first rebooted series, Christopher Eccleston came and went, with a brooding kind of mystique to him – a bit too dour for my nine-year-old self, but the baddies kept me hooked: the gas-mask zombies, the Slitheen, even (shudder) the return of the Daleks. And just as I was getting properly into the show, along came David Tennant.
For millions of fans like me, Tennant wasn’t just a version of the Doctor: he was the definitive Doctor. Taking the reins from Eccleston after the show’s excellent but troubled first season (Eccleston has talked about how leaving the show put him on a BBC blacklist and almost destroyed his career), he immediately breathed fresh life into the character.
Alongside the showrunner Russell T Davies (who himself has an impressive list of credits to his name, including It's A Sin and Queer as Folk) Tennant helped launch Who into the stratosphere: suddenly, watching the show was (wait for it) cool, something that both kids and adults would tune in for. In its prime, Doctor Who under Tennant pulled in as many as 13m viewers - a world away from Jodie Whittaker's swansong, which only pulled in four.
Davies’ combination of grounded characters – he always took the time to flesh out the companion’s families and make their lives feel meaningful – and tightly plotted episodes was a winning combination. Think The Parting of the Ways, where the Doctor and Rose tearfully bid farewell on a bleak beach in Norway; or the haunting Midnight, which must be among his bleakest.
Of course, a great script is one thing, but selling it is another. As the face of the show, Tennant could switch from cheeky chappie to ultra-serious blaster of baddies in a nanosecond; yes, Eccleston had the gravitas, but Tennant had that, plus sass. And clearly, he loved playing the Doctor: a lifelong fan himself, he once told GWR FM, "Who wouldn't want to be the Doctor? I've even got my own TARDIS!" It’s a fair point.
Needless to say, I lapped it up; even more so when Catherine Tate came on board as the permanently furious Donna. It was a golden era, but alas, all good things must come to an end. When both Davies and Tennant left in 2010, the show struggled. Matt Smith was charismatic and chirpy, yes, but the writing, under Steven Moffat’s tenure, was blander, the plots more slapdash. Where were the classics: the Blinks, the Empty Children?
As the years progressed, I stopped watching entirely – as did many others. Doctor Who was no longer cool; it was once again the domain of nerds and dedicated fans who were invested enough in the show's lore that the fiendishly complicated scripts made sense (or indeed the show's revolving catalogue of rebooted monsters from the original series). For some, the bad patches were worth toughing out. Which is fine, of course; I’m a nerd myself.
Something was missing; a spark, perhaps. Both Jodie Whittaker and Peter Capaldi’s tenures suffered as a result of poor scriptwriting; the plots were shoddy. The Doctor suddenly started sprouting mysterious incarnations. Why were the Weeping Angels suddenly everywhere? I would read the series reviews and roll my eyes at the screen, longing for the good old days.
I was just about ready to hang up my sonic screwdriver for good - at least until I heard that Russell T Davies was coming back as the series’ showrunner once more, along with Tennant and Catherine Tate as his companion Donna. The classic gang, back together again, and returning for one more bite at the apple before passing on the mantle to Gatwa.
Bringing Tennant back was a masterstroke from Davies. If my ears pricked up, so too did the ears of thousands of ex-Whovians, hungry for some sweet nostalgia. And we’ve been amply rewarded: that first sight of Tennant strolling around London in his revamped Tardis made me squeal like a child. As did the first mention of “Allons-y!”, his old catchphrase.
Watching him bounce around the universe with old companion Donna has been a joy; even better, this is a Doctor brought firmly into the modern-day universe. He’s still recognisably himself, but this time around he has crushes on Nathaniel Curtis’ Isaac Newton (“He was so hot... oh! Is that who I am now?”) and lets Donna and her daughter Rose (Yasmin Finney) school him on pronoun usage. You can sense the mischief in Davies’ pen, as well as the clear love he still has for the series, peppering his scripts with Easter eggs galore.
So as the third and final special approaches, I’m not ready to let Tennant go yet. How could I be? We've only just gotten him back, but wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey rolls on, and it's been a joy to see the show looking more invigorated than it has in years.
Job done? With Davies in charge, I'm optimistic that the soft reboot he and Tennant have kick-started will continue in style. Gatwa has big shoes to fill, but one thing's for certain about Doctor Who: it's all about change. Roll on the future... but if Tennant ever decides to make another guest appearance, I'll be there in the blink of a Weeping Angel's eye.'
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the-empress-7 · 8 months
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From Fed Anon: “I did hear at one point that Kamala really can’t stand Meghan and has her blocked or won’t ever return her call. So something definitely went down.”
Empress, may I put this in perspective for your readers who may not know? Re: the above + MM as “Fist Lady botherer” (South Park lol) - whether one agrees politically with VP Harris or various FLOTUSs or not, “love ‘em or hate 'em”…VP Harris and the various FLOTUSs who have been linked to MM are all highly educated women of accomplishment, stratospheres above Meghan, who shouldn’t even be mentioned in the same breath as these women. Apples and oranges to the max (!):
Hillary Clinton: (Wellesley/BA, Yale Univ Law/JD, top of her class), lawyer, FLOTUS, US Sec. of State, US Senator, first female US Presidential nominee (won the largest popular presidential vote in US history until Biden), a TRUE feminist icon, best-selling author
Michelle Obama: (Princeton/BA, Harvard Univ Law/JD), lawyer, FLOTUS, cultural icon, best-selling author
Jill Biden: (Villanova/MA, Univ of Delaware/BA, EdD): professor, FLOTUS, passionate advocate for education
Kamala Harris: (Howard/BA, Univ of California Law/JD): lawyer, VPOTUS (first female US VP), US Senator, Attorney General of California
Note: all of the above women have doctorates (“PhDs”) in either law or education
Meghan Markle: (Northwestern/BA): D-list cable TV actress, working senior royal/BRF (18 months), any claimed “philanthropic”/“diplomatic” creds, pre- and post-BRF, were ALL merely PR-arranged events and photo ops to fluff up her fake “global profile” lol
'Nuff said :) (it makes me so mad lol!). The massive hubris and ego that MM has to cold-call these women (and other female US Senators as well), or to attempt to align herself with them, is mind-boggling and delusional! And any interaction that these women may have had with MM was due to their respect for the British monarch, as Head of State of the UK, not for MM (or Harold).
=====
I agree that she does deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence as them, and can’t believe the left leaning celebs in the US actually helped encourage her bullshit. 
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arcadekitten · 8 months
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There’s a question that’s been keeping me up at night… well, a few, actually. Is it alright if you answer them? I would be very grateful! <3
Are star witches born *before* they get baseballed into space, or is the shooting star like… an egg, that gives “birth” to a fully grown, mature adult? Or do they have a baby-to-grownup stage, where they just stay that way for eternity? Is there a common space where recently-born stars are kept and taught a basic education until they’re old enough for a “ceremony” to get launched into the stratosphere?
If so, what was Stella and Corona’s life like before they got thrown into space?
How are star witches MADE, anyways? Are they just like… born inside of violent supernovas, or something? Where do they get their clothes? Is it like… a two-for-one deal?
What kinds of “culture” and “traditions do they have? Is it for languages, foods, ceremonies, stories, clothing… or something more intricate?
Are there any star witches that are siblings or twins? Is each star witch unique and different, or are there some similar ones depending on how they were born? Also, are there any star witches with ‘imperfections’ and birth defects?
Are star witches lonely sometimes? I don’t mean lonely in a physical sense, but do star witches ever get lonely when there’s no one to talk to and truly understand them?
If two star witches get together, is there a special ceremony? And do they ‘merge’ or ‘join’ their respective planets together?
Other than Lambchop, have there been cases of other ‘subjects’ being disillusioned on other planets? What do the star witches normally do about it?
And finally… why do none of the other star witches share Stella’s belief that her “subjects” are just as real as she is? Is Stella unique in that aspect? Why does only she think that when no one else does? And also, why doesn’t she have the urge or desire to spread her control across the entirety of the planet? I know that she’s not controlling OR ambitious, but WHY? Is there some lore there, or is it just in her nature?
Thank you for taking the time to read this whole thing, I absolutely love your games and all that you do. :) Have a good day! (Or…. Night…. Idk 🤷‍♀️)
I will do my best!!
I can't answer much about their origins, at least not at the moment, but maybe one day! ===
'Culture' is subjective. Star Witches are so independent that I don't think they even have much culture outside of what we've seen. They don't have foods, or special cultural dances, clothing always changes...I'd say the most culture they have is what's in their nature and this pseudo-competitive society they've built for each other. That and of course, t the Batting of Stars, as well as the ceremony they hold when two Star Witches officially get together. ===
I don't imagine Star Witches to have siblings at all. Some might be similar, but that's probably just coincidence. Imperfections are definitely possible, though! ===
I think this is also a way in which Stella differs from (most) Star Witches, because she does get lonely. I don't imagine a classic Star Witch like Corona even knows the feeling. ===
There is a ceremony for when two Star Witches get together!! It is seen as a big cosmic event and a ceremony takes place if the couple wants it. Many Star Witches show up to this "wedding" of sorts where they use as much magic power as they can muster to bring the planets of the Witch couple together so they can orbit around each other, so they never have to be far from one another (even if traveling isn't that much of a hassle) ===
I imagine that there's been cases like Lambchop on other planets. The difference is that they're dealt with at the first sign of trouble, unlike he was. ===
Stella was just born that way. Perhaps in some ways it could even be considered one of those "defects" you mentioned earlier. She has an extremely caring nature and enjoys the idea of creating and having friends. Perhaps the reason she feels so in tune with her "subjects" is because she feels like they are much more like her than other Star Witches are. Stella's nature is definitely why she didn't go after the whole planet, but I don't think she did it on purpose, if that makes sense? I feel like some part of her subconscious knew that if she were to go after the whole planet, she wouldn't be able to be a standard friend to others so much as just a helpful figure constantly passing through. I think she likes the idea of having a regular friendly community where the people in it regularly see her.
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beautifulpersonpeach · 10 months
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Happy Festa BPP! Is this something ppl do? Wish Festa like holiday? Ta! Happy Festa anyway!!
Don't know if you've said this before but how did you become army?
***
Hi Anon,
Honestly, no. I don't think wishing people Happy Festa is a thing within ARMY... People reminisce and all that but actually sending wishes, not really. But it's a nice gesture so I appreciate you sharing that festive energy with me.
All the Festas are sweet but something about a 10-year anniversary evokes strong memories. It's been a wild ride.
I've talked about how I became ARMY many times, but I can give an abridged version here.
I watched BTS's debut showcase No More Dream for the first time, some time in August 2013 but I don't remember which day exactly. I had heard about BTS by that point, (a lot of people had, which was unusual for a group from a small company and further shows how strong an impression they made at debut), but I didn't get around to actually watching their stuff till August.
I felt they were strong performers but had no other real opinion about them, and kinda forgot about them for a year, till their Dark & Wild comeback in August 2014.
After that album comeback, I consistently kept up with BTS but didn't really think of myself as a fan. The way I engaged with k-pop was to check out several groups I was interested in, sometimes go to their comeback shows if I was in Korea, attend KCON concerts, read Korean forums, etc. Like a fan of many groups but a stan of none, if that makes sense. So, I sort of watched BTS from the sidelines in 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, and 2018. Throughout this time, I realized I loved every new musical output from them more than the previous one. It was clear they were improving not just their songwriting, production, exploring more genres, etc, but that they had a very distinct voice - a consistent message in their storytelling that seemed to come from their own lived experiences, for all seven members. Executed at the highest level. And that was something I had never, ever seen in k-pop or anywhere else really.
Of course, during this time, their fame, fortune, and success multiplied as well. And the latent animosity I'd observed since debut towards BTS from the wider k-pop fandom, just became more overt the more BTS became successful. That mess with EXO fans and the Blue House was particularly disgusting and soured my opinion on most fans of SM groups and the wider k-pop fandom. But by 2018, when it was clear BTS's rise was definitely stratospheric and already beyond the realm of k-pop, the gloves were off. The hostility became extremely blatant to the point k-pop stans were working with real life neo-nazis to physically assault Japanese ARMYs who were attending a concert, they were spam calling Japanese newspapers and Jewish foundations in America to put out a statement condemning BTS, and asking for the American government to blacklist BTS.
It was bonkers.
Sulli had ended her life just before the hate campaign against BTS hit a fever pitch in Fall 2018. I liked her a lot and her death shifted something in me - it made me re-evaluate my distanced, detached almost apathetic approach to k-pop beyond the music, especially regarding hate campaigns from k-pop stans that used to run completely unchecked and only escalated and became more sophisticated especially when the target was someone who broke against the norm. So, I linked up with some J-ARMY friends and we spent a weekend coordinating with local Japanese police to track down some k-pop stans working with neo nazis to assault BTS and ARMYs, and by the end of November 2018, I was calling myself an ARMY.
Nothing has really changed since then compared to how I was a fan of BTS before. Except that now, I buy their albums more consistently (it was kinda more sporadic / spontaneous before). I've never been a collector so I don't really care about PCs and what not. I educated myself on charts and fandom norms, and started watching more of their non-music content. I was already very familiar with their personalities and interpersonal quirks (jikook has stood out to me since 2015, yoonmin, namgi, namseok, and sope since 2014, and taekook since 2016 or so), but since 2018 I've found myself enjoying more of their auxiliary content though it's still not something I seek out (I still haven't watched SOOP 2 for example, lol).
Most of my friendships with fans of other k-pop groups I've maintained till now, and I still check out almost every new release in the industry when I have the time, and becoming a fan of BTS has been wonderful.
The ARMY community gets a lot of flack, like all big fandoms do, but there's a real community of genuine and smart people here that I appreciate. BTS has never disappointed me - and I had to really think before writing down that sentence. This industry is harsh, cruel. BTS had to navigate channels no k-pop group or Korean artist has had to before, they've single-handedly elevated an entire industry into the social consciousness of the wider world, and are still holding on to their relentless drive and sense of wonder.
These seven men are remarkable. They're some of the hardest workers I've ever seen. Fully dedicated to their craft and their team, artists and performers in every sense of the word. I thoroughly enjoy being a fan of the music they make, and supporting their growth as artists and people.
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Happy Festa everyone! I'm treating myself to Taro ice cream topped with pistachio nuts today to celebrate. Maybe we should make this some kind of holiday lol.
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stratosphereedu12 · 2 years
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Post-Graduation in Japan and South Korea; Pros and Cons
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Japan and South Korea have successfully established themselves as reputed countries in the arena of the contemporary higher education system. According to abroad education consultants in Kolkata, both countries provide dynamic prospects to the students who wish to pursue postgraduate studies.In case you are wondering which country is more suitable for you, this article will help you decide.
Post-Graduation in Japan
Pros:
Japan has some of the most highly ranked universities.
They offer several research-based curricula.
Professors encourage the independent research work of students.
Japan is extremely safe for foreigners.
Cons
Living in Japan can be a bitexpensive.
Communication can be a hedge due to Japaneselanguage.
Japan's overly dedicated lifestyle is both a boon and a bane
Post-Graduation in South Korea
Pros
South Korea is also a land of numerousreputed universities.
The promising technology, infrastructure and high internet speed add up to a remarkable educational experience.
The cost of living in South Korea is comparativelyreasonable.
It offers top-notch safety to foreign students.
Cons
The courses are extremely competitive.
Hierarchy is prevalent in South Korean universities.
Language can be an inhibition while communicating with the locals.
For further information, consult abroad education consultants in Kolkata.
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Navigating the Ozone Layer Depletion Crisis
The ozone layer, a fragile shield of gas enveloping the Earth, plays a critical role in safeguarding life on our planet. However, since the mid-20th century, human activities have triggered a cascade of events leading to its depletion. The ozone layer, primarily located in the stratosphere, absorbs the majority of the sun's harmful ultraviolet (UV) radiation, shielding the Earth's surface from its detrimental effects. Ozone molecules (O3) undergo a continuous process of creation and destruction, with ultraviolet radiation breaking apart oxygen molecules (O2) to form ozone. This delicate balance maintains the ozone layer's integrity, ensuring that harmful UV radiation remains at bay.
The onset of industrialization heralded the era of ozone-depleting substances (ODS), synthetic compounds containing chlorine and bromine that catalyze the breakdown of ozone molecules. Chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs), once widely used in refrigerants, solvents, and aerosol propellants, emerged as the primary culprits behind ozone depletion. When released into the atmosphere, these ODS molecules migrate to the stratosphere, where they undergo photodissociation, liberating chlorine atoms that catalytically destroy ozone molecules.
The depletion of the ozone layer poses grave consequences for ecosystems, biodiversity, and human health. Increased exposure to UV radiation threatens marine ecosystems, hindering the growth and development of phytoplankton, the foundation of the marine food web. Terrestrial ecosystems, including forests and agricultural crops, face heightened risks of damage and disruption, with implications for global food security and biodiversity loss. Human health is also at stake, as heightened UV radiation levels amplify the incidence of skin cancers, cataracts, and compromised immune function. Vulnerable populations, such as children, the elderly, and outdoor workers, face heightened risks of UV-related health ailments, necessitating proactive measures to minimize exposure and mitigate health risks.
Recognizing the urgent need to address ozone layer depletion, the international community rallied behind the Montreal Protocol on Substances that Deplete the Ozone Layer, a landmark treaty adopted in 1987. The Montreal Protocol mandated the phasedown and eventual phaseout of ozone-depleting substances, spurring innovation in ozone-friendly alternatives and technologies. Through concerted global cooperation and scientific research, significant progress has been made in mitigating ozone depletion. The phaseout of CFCs and other ozone-depleting substances has led to gradual recovery of the ozone layer, with projections indicating a return to pre-1980 levels by mid-century. However, persistent challenges remain, including the emergence of new ozone-depleting substances and the complex interplay of climate change and ozone depletion.
Addressing ozone layer depletion demands sustained commitment and collaboration across national borders and sectors. Efforts to accelerate the phaseout of ozone-depleting substances must be coupled with initiatives to enhance monitoring, research, and public awareness. Investing in ozone-friendly technologies, renewable energy sources, and sustainable practices can bolster resilience to ozone depletion while advancing broader environmental and societal goals. Education and outreach play a pivotal role in fostering a culture of environmental stewardship and responsible consumption. By raising awareness about the impacts of ozone depletion and empowering individuals to take action, we can catalyze collective efforts to protect the ozone layer and safeguard the health and well-being of present and future generations.
In conclusion, ozone layer depletion represents a complex and multifaceted challenge with far-reaching implications for the environment, biodiversity, and human health. By leveraging scientific knowledge, policy interventions, and global cooperation, we can chart a course towards ozone resilience, ensuring that the protective shield of the ozone layer endures as a beacon of hope for generations to come.
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mobscene-london · 4 months
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BASIC INFORMATION:
NAME: Izabele Anasenko.   AGE: 29. PLACE OF BIRTH: Kyiv, Ukraine. AFFILIATION: The Russian Mob. OCCUPATION: Supermodel. FACE CLAIM: Anya Taylor-Joy. AVAILABILITY: OPEN.
BIOGRAPHY:
“You’re really willing to sacrifice everything we’ve worked for to be with a man like him?”
Everything we’ve worked for.
That statement summed up her mother perfectly.
Even though Izabele had started out life in Ukraine’s largest city, her family had been far removed from any affluence it might’ve afforded others. Both her parents—a turbulent marriage that only survived as long as it did because neither could cope financially without the other—worked long days for little pay. The home in which they raised their three children was hardly large enough for one, and they barely had the funds to make the place habitable, let alone comfortable. Childhood should’ve been miserable. Maybe for her two brothers, it had been.
Izabele always clung to the positives, though—ever the perpetual optimist.
Even when her father finally left them to shirk the financial burden of his children, she had remained an impossibly good natured child. Izabele hadn’t cried when she wasn’t allowed to take dance lessons like her peers because her mother couldn’t afford them, nor did she become petulant when told there would be no feeding of an extra mouth when she found a stray puppy on the way home from school. Mostly, she stayed in her quiet corner, reading books her brothers stole for her, and contemplating how she would one day create a life for herself that was better than this. Wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to solve anything. Her parents had proven as much.
Izabele had only been fourteen years old when she’d been spotted by a talent scout whilst out in the city with her mother. There was no denying that she’d always been uniquely beautiful. It was about the only thing she was ever complimented on; a disappointment for a girl who worked so hard at her education, and even more so, to be a kindness to others that hadn’t always been offered to her. Izabele didn’t really understand what being a model was, nor did she much like the people they were dealing with, but her mother swiftly took control of the situation, and made the decision for her. Back then, she’d liked to think it was because her mother believed in her, but the reality was, her mother believed she could make money for her.  
The connections in Ukraine felt shady, and the situations she found herself in were uncomfortable, but her mother insisted she was being delicate, and that she had to persevere if she wanted to move on to bigger and better things. Izabele didn’t, though. All she wanted to do was go to school.
For years, her mother paraded her around like a material possession to be bragged about. When they broke into the world of fashion, though, things became a lot more palatable, and Izabele started to embrace that she was genuinely very good at what she did. The young girl graced the cover of Ukrainian magazines, and became one of the most sought after models for teenage fashion lines. Then, aged sixteen, she finally had her big break when she found herself at Paris Fashion Week, walking for an up-and-coming designer who would unknowingly shoot her fame into the stratosphere. Izabele stood out; natural talent, looks, and a gentle nature that made her easy to work with. The rest came in a flash so quick she barely felt present for most of it.
By the time Iza was eighteen, she’d walked for the likes of Givenchy, Chanel and Balmain in cities across the globe. She’d been on the cover of three different editions of Vogue, had been the face of a Dior campaign, and had been invited to awards ceremonies and movie premieres as though she were a star. The young girls of the world had become infatuated with the media’s portrayal of her. Social media was inundated with feel-good stories about what she’d achieved whilst coming from humble beginnings, and in the big cities, she couldn’t go outside without being recognised by somebody itching to be close to fashion’s next big thing.
At the absolute peak of success, she’d horrified her mother—who thankfully no longer had any control over what she did with her life—by deciding she wanted to take a break from her career. Izabele loved what she did enough not to want to give it up entirely, but she was also a realist. Spotlights faded, and this whirlwind wouldn’t last forever, and that was precisely why she wanted to pursue education like she’d always aspired to. Using her fame—because even if she was more than bright enough to be worthy of a place, that wasn’t how it worked at prestigious institutions like Belmonte University—she managed to secure a place studying literature in Launceston.
School came easily when she loved the subject as much as she did, but a degree wouldn’t be the only take away from her time in the city. Cressida Baryshnikova—or Berkeley, as she had been back then—had become her best friend as easily as if they’d been born to meet each other. A chance run-in at the library had not only delivered her someone she could finally trust to have her best interests at heart (a world away from the fickle friends she made in the modelling world) but also an unexpected connection to the man who would eventually become her husband.
Mikhail Vorshevsky.
At first, she didn’t quite know what to make of him. The Vorshevsky name was well known back in Kyiv, and apparently, even more so in Launceston. Never for good reasons. It left a bad taste in her mouth when she’d always had a particularly strict moral compass. But he was Cressida’s good friend, and Izabele always found it difficult to say no to the people she cared about. So, with no intention of disguising her reluctance, she agreed to go on the double date.
“You could have any man in the world, and you’re going to marry the son of a mobster? The brother of a Russian politician? Imagine what this will do to your reputation, Iza. Your career!”
Izabele wasn’t sure what she’d expected from Mikhail, but it certainly wasn’t to fall head over heels in love. To eventually have to sit her mother down and tell her she’d be leaving the new life she’d made for them in New York, and staying in Launceston to marry a man that somebody with as kind a soul as hers should’ve ran from.
Her mother was furious. Cut off all contact until Dmitri was born.
By that point, it was too late. Izabele continued to send enough money to her mother that she might live comfortably, but she and her brothers had a new life now, and it was healthier without her.
Whilst she could never wrap her mind around the idea of her husband—a man she truly adored, and who adored her in return, more than she ever thought possible—was involved in organised crime, she was wiser than to ask too many questions. The same couldn’t be said for her best friend and her husband, however, and Izabele learnt more about Vorshevsky dealings because of that than she’d ever wanted to. Perhaps a case could be made that she was just as bad as the people involved for being willing to turn a blind eye, and maybe she felt that guilt some mornings, too, but to her, he was perfect. Treated her with respect and kindness, and was such a wonderful father it made her soul happy just to watch him with their son.
Motherhood is still relatively new to her, but eventually, now Misha has moved their family to London, Izabele is hoping she can find a way to juggle it with a return to a modelling world that has vocally missed her. Surprisingly, her celebrity status has stood the test of time, in spite of her mother’s warnings that her choice of husband would blacklist her. Being married to a Vorshevsky brings with it a whole other spotlight of its own, however, and now they’ve left the Russian stronghold of Launceston, even she is beginning to wonder if her husband’s business—a world that she’s tried so hard to ignore for so many years—is finally going to force her to pay attention.
Izabele will always love him, in spite of the things he does. There is nothing he could do that would change that. But she can’t help but wonder whether this move is going to put both him and their small family in more danger than they can outrun.
And that scares her.
SOCIAL CONNECTIONS:
RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Mikhail Vorshevsky (husband) FAMILY: Dmitri Vorshevsky (son, unplayable), Borys Anasenko (brother), Vasyl Anasenko (brother, unplayable) CONNECTIONS:
Cressida Baryshnikova: Best friend. Being married to a mobster is difficult, but she's glad that her best friend in the world fully understands it. Whilst Izabele is the kind of person who attracts many friends, the relationship she has with Cressida is different. They're practically family. Even before they became the couples that did everything together, they were joined at the hip, and despite their very different personalities, Iza would be absolutely lost without her.
Andrei Baryshnikov: Good friend. Even though he's a little rough around the edges, Izabele loves him dearly. Their two families spend so much time together, it'd be difficult not to. Whilst she hopes Mikhail can placate him somewhat for Cressida's sake, whenever he's with the girls, he's a gentleman, and that's the side of Andrei she has grown to adore. Mostly, she's grateful to know that her husband has somebody so loyal watching his back out there.
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balanceingrace · 1 year
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Who has done more offensive stuff that nick bosa? Deshaun Watson obviously, you could throw mixon in there but that was a long time ago and was a reaction to someone being racist towards him, maybe Carmen for the stories that came out last year. But I feel like people always are calling out those guys (not so much Carmen cause he wasn’t playing until this weekend but twitter was still pretty upset when those stories came out)
I don’t really want this to turn into a big thing but there’s a very popular QB with worse comments/tweets and language than Nick’s who very recently tried to say “I didn’t think they were that bad.”
What Nick said was absolute garbage and my opinion on his beliefs will probably never change. He also sat there in his first press conference as a 49er, owned it, said he was going to educate himself, and according to the dozens of black teammates he has-he has done that work. I can’t say that about everyone but for some reason they’ve received a hall pass.
DeShaun is in another stratosphere of terrible.
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docnomore · 7 months
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Odd thoughts and old topics rarely discussed. My youngest son, working on his masters degree in ancient languages - who is not the physical/manual laboring type, helped me yesterday. In gratitude I took him to breakfast this morning for the two of us to eat, plus tip, cost $60.
Sitting across from me, looking at him, he brought back memories from the early to mid 1980’s. More than slightly over weight, full head of hair - still off the collar, wire framed glasses and a beard and mustache. Literally looks like a few typical CIA bubbas with whom I worked including an old friend whose name I cannot mention.
Like me, my friend worked both the Far East and Southwest Asia (AKA: SWA pronounced “Swah”). He’d returned to the states and while crossing a one way street in DC, a car going the wrong direction hit and killed him. It was a rental car, later found abandoned and the driver had left the country - diplomatic immunity. My friend was given a quiet, unceremonious funeral in our home state with his obituary stating that he was a banker and died of a car accident. I miss him. He was good company.
My son reminded me of him along with the much older versions of the same with whom I’d worked in Mogadishu. Sitting there at breakfast took me back to when I was his age. My son literally slept through K-12 school. His senior year was spent teaching elementary math to high school students who never learned to add, subtract, multiply or divide. He also spent his senior year in the computer lab grinding out programs for teachers he didn’t even like.
After high school, he insisted that he hated the whole education process and wanted nothing to do with any of it. Again, he’s not the physical/menial labor type. He belongs in higher education. I gave him a job working for me. I also gave him every scut job that needed doing until he quit. He got a job working at the local grocery where the indigent shop (where I shop). His job there was aisle clean up and retrieving shopping carts from the parking lot. He very quickly decided this too was not his idea of a good time.
We talked him into giving us a year at the local community college. Told him to knock out the basic requisites for an associates degree and while he was at it to look for and take two classes per semester in odd ball subjects that might prove interesting to him. He agreed and in the process, fell in love with Latin and Ancient Greek. The last two weeks of his junior year at the university, he begged permission to turn in all late assignments even if it only got him half credit. The prof.s agreed, probably believing he would not deliver. Instead of three weeks, he did it in two. At his graduation, I was introduced to those professors all of whom spoke highly of him. They gave him full credit and told him that all he need do was apply for the masters and they would guarantee him a seat. He’s taking a year off.
My goal is two fold. First, to try an prevent “life” from taking over while he’s on hiatus. And second, to re enforce in him that some of us have business to attend to at the stratospheric levels of the education system. Some, maybe and still others, none what so ever. And that each of us has to both play the hand we’re dealt and to work to our strengths while developing our weaker sides. So yesterday, I put a shovel in his hand and put him to work in the 100+ degree heat. Reminding him of muscles he didn’t know he has and the sting of blisters. He needs to ready himself for school. I love him, even if he does remind me of bubbas with whom I kicked around in my former life.
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