#I AM HALFWAY THROUGH THE WRITING PROGRAM AT SECOND CITY

[scary-senpai]

Headcanon: Saitama has no idea what anything in the kitchen is called.

Genos had designed the kitchen, and Genos was a minimalist. There were no spice whoosits, no pot whatsits, not even those weird banana-holding thingamabobs. Everything was hidden in cabinets, and even the cabinet knobs were unobtrusive and discreet–if you weren’t looking for them, you wouldn’t know they were there. 

The original line was "spice racks, pot holders, and banana-holding thingamabobs" ... but because I am of the Disney generation, I cannot use one thing without the other, so now it's whoosits and whatsits galore. ^_^

[dstryvampres]

Lab Assistant

MINORS/AGELESS BLOG DNI !

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Reader

Warnings: smut LOL, dub con, pnv, unprotected sex, use of fear toxin on some dude, he smacks your ass like once

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: this is my first time writing just pure smut, sorry if the set up is super long.

For the past week your heater had been broken, and despite multiple calls to your landlord which always ended up with the promise that he would come over to fix it eventually, you were still freezing. Though you could escape the biting cold throughout the day by taking up a second home at your university, you always had to eventually come back to your shitty studio apartment and suffer through the night. You’re excess time spent on campus was well spent, studying in the library, napping under stairwells or in-between shelves in the library, stirring around coffee you didn’t even like but knew you have to drink to stay in the cafe, or staring longingly at your psychology professor Dr. Crane. The lack of any privacy throughout your day had started to get annoying after the first three days, not helped by the fact that because you saw Dr Crane more than you usually do, leading to you feeling more high strung. Gotham was not treating you kindly.

“Excuse me,” a voice called out quite loudly above you, forcing you out of your final exam induced coma. You gritted your teeth, knowing that you were likely overstaying your visit to the campus library, especially since you had just finished your last exam of the season, who knows how many hours ago.

Looking up you were met with the face of your favourite professor, Dr Crane. Another horrible coincidence, it was embarrassing for someone so put together and professional to find you so vulnerable, especially someone who you had in mind when your hand was shoved down your pants most nights. 

“The library is closing soon, I would recommend getting your stuff and heading out,” Dr Crane says, his voice oddly empathetic. A jarring contrast to the usual mix of hostility and boredom his voice held during lectures. He sighs and takes off his glasses, pinching his eyebrows together, seeming conflicted over what he wants to say next, so instead you fill the space with your own voice.

“Of course, I’m so sorry sir. I seemed to lose track of time, and was too exhausted to walk home. Again, I am so sorry. I should have set a timer or just maybe not sleep in the library, that was so-“

“You have been spending a weird amount of time on campus for the past week,” Dr Crane interjects, giving you a once over. “Is everything okay at home?”

The question was so genuine it made your brain short circuit. Why would he even care about you?

“Not really,” you laughed, the two words coming out of your mouth before you had time to think. A habit only recently picked up due to sleepless nights.

A smile crept over your professor's face, one that didn’t seem to reach the rest of his face. You couldn’t tell if it was from the shock of your honesty or something more sinister. He sat down in front of you, scratching his nose, letting a silence stretch out. Just long enough for pricks of discomfort to stir.

“Well, I’m running a program here at the university over the winter break. Just need an assistant to help me over at Arkham for an experiment I’m conducting. The job would include housing closer to Arkham, since it’s a little out of the city, and it pays about a dollar over the minimum wage. If you’re interested,” he slides a business card over the table, smile now dropped, “just email me in the next 48 hours.”

Taking the card eagerly between your fingers, mumbling a small ‘thank you’ under your breath before pocketing it. When you look up he’s already halfway gone. Packing up your things as fast as you can, you leave the library and hop on the train back to your shitty apartment. An email is sent to Dr Crane that night, and the following day you are confirmed as his assistant for this experiment the next day.

𝜗𝜚

The space provided for your three week stay was slightly better than your studio apartment, mostly because it had heating, but also because you shared a wall with Dr Crane. Besides the housing, the internship also came with an average pay, some work experience, and enough credits to compensate for one class. Your first week there had mostly been mundane tasks, taking notes outside of interrogation rooms while Dr Crane interviewed patients, making coffee for the two of you, making patient profiles, and making sure no one took any of Dr Crane’s “special medicine” for the experiment. Despite the easy work and the decent benefits, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something more sinister that Dr Crane wasn’t telling you about the experiment. With a thesis based around the concept of fears, you had yet to notice any great dive into the topic beside a few one-off questions.

“Before we start this week,” Dr Crane starts, sitting down in the chair opposite to you, “I want to just warn you that this is when the experiment starts to become a little more intense.”

He holds a coffee mug in his hand, as he talks the liquid sloshes around the cup. It's all information you already know, you signed an NDA, he trusts you, do what he says, and that he needs you to stay out of the room no matter what. Last week you learned just how Dr Crane enjoys his coffee, no milk and one sugar, you can’t understand how he can drink it. One sugar can’t mask the bitter taste. He drinks it quickly though, remembering the taste makes you gag.

“Before we begin today, can you prepare the variable today in syringes? I will be introducing it into the experimental group today.”

He sets down the now empty mug, a loud thump echoes through the room, startling you. Dr Crane smiles at your reaction, it’s the same one he always gives you, the one that doesn’t reach the rest of his face. You ignore the stone that has formed inside your stomach, picking up your clipboard and pen.

“I’ll meet you in room 283B,” your professor puts a hand on the small of your back, leading you both out of his office. A shock is sent through your body at the contact, once out of the room you turn to look at him, but his hand is gone and he’s headed in the opposite direction as you.

Something else that you have noticed throughout this week is just how close Dr Crane is now. He’s more touchy than you would pinpoint him as. Which isn’t saying much, but the small lingering touches he lays on you, a hand on your shoulder, maybe on the small of your back, doesn’t seem to be too professional. One… two… three millilitres of solution per syringe. The questions he asks also seem to be a little weird, especially due to the matter of the study. A common thread being his prying into your fears, and a look of hunger when he asks the questions. Soft thud of the storage container hitting the ‘chemical waste’ bin. Though you can’t really complain, this past week has given you enough content for your late nights to satisfy you for your whole university career, Masters program included. Laying out each of the syringes in a row on the tray, and counting them out. Three syringes on the top tray, six needles on the lower tray. Rolling the tray out of the room and over to the elevator to head up to the second floor.

You softly knock on the door, waiting for Dr Crane to open up the door to the observer section. The door opens in a matter of seconds, only a crack for a couple more seconds, before it is completely opened. 

“Thank you,” Dr Crane says, looking down at the tray of syringes. He takes one in his gloved hand, holds it up to the light and nods, a stamp of approval given to your handiwork. “Remember: that if anything goes wrong, do not enter the room, just call security, and take as detailed notes as possible on the patient’s behaviour and the levels on the monitor.”

You nod, taking a look at the monitor set up beside the one-way glass, all vitals seem to be steady at the moment. The door to the room holding the patient opens up and shuts quickly, Dr Crane slipping in and greeting the patient, thanking him for his time. The patient seems to be a middle aged man, scars run across his arms, roughed up from whatever he did before his time in Arkham, he’s bald and seems to be displeased with his situation. Still, when Dr Crane comes to insert the syringe into his arm he stays still and takes it. The opaque liquid disappears as Dr Crane pushes down on the syringe, removing it once all the liquid has entered into the man’s system. A ‘thank you’ is expressed by Dr Crane before he exits the room, syringe in hand. Once the door is locked, Crane disposes of the syringe in the toxic waste bin in the observer’s room.

“The solution will take about five minutes to kick in,” he says, looking at you and it’s now that you realise just how excited he seems to be. 

The heart rate on the monitor starts to speed up, taking your attention away from Crane, and noting it down.

“Are you sure you estimated the time correctly?” You ask hesitantly, not wanting to offend your professor.

“I did. No worries. Injections can do this to people.”

The next five minutes pass by slowly, Dr Crane behind your chair, his breath tickling your ear. It’s almost impossible to focus like this, you just want to do something about the growing wet spot in your pants. Screaming immediately breaks through the tension you were feeling, you look at the patient. His eyes are wide, his pupils expanded, and his heart rate reaches around 140 bpm. Alarm sets into your own heart, you didn’t expect this big of a reaction from the patient. Dr Crane nudges your shoulder, reminding you to start writing your observations.

11:06: patient’s heart rate reaches 140 bpm

11:07: patient starts uncontrollably screaming at seemingly nothing

Your continued scribbling of notes doesn’t seem to discourage Dr Crane from talking.

“I didn’t know it would be this effective. I’ve been waiting years for this to be approved and this is better than I could’ve ever expected.”

Nausea settled from the mix of pleading for mercy and screaming from the patient, and Dr Crane’s glee from his reactions. Unsure how you could continue on with doing this almost every single day for the two weeks. Writing soon became sloppy due to your own lightheadedness and nausea, every moment you begged someone to make this stop. It was too much. It stretched on for over fifteen minutes before the patient finally came back from whatever drug induced hallucination he was forced into, yet he was still crying. Wanting to distance yourself so far from this experiment, you place the clipboard down.

“Wonderful isn’t it?” Dr Crane asked you, placing a hand on your shoulder. Whatever response you thought you could muster was stuck in your throat, so instead you nodded. “I call it my ‘fear toxin.’”

Once his hand left your shoulder, you immediately stood up, head spinning so much that you stumbled right into Dr Crane.

“Are you okay? Did the ‘fear toxin’ effects startle you?” He asks, putting his hands on your shoulder to stabilise you, his voice bridges between mocking and actually concerned.

“I just need to go to the bathroom,” You squeeze out, stumbling into the hallway and waving goodbye.

Stumbling around, unable to find the bathroom, you slide down the wall of an empty hallway. Sitting on the floor and curling up into the fetal position. Nausea slipping out of you slowly, eyes closed, just wanting to forget about the whole experience. What substance could even make a man react so horribly? Why would anyone make that in the first place? What purpose could a substance like that even serve? How will this even help-

“There you are,” a voice comes from above you, Dr Crane. You open one eye up, becoming flustered at your unprofessionalism, and enraged at the sight of your cruel professor.

He kneels to your height, offering you his soulless smile. “I’m sorry if that startled you, but I thought you would be better than them. I thought you could fully see my vision, look past the gruesome bits and understand what I’m trying to do here.”

His words both enrage you even further and make you feel even more embarrassed. He created a horrible substance, tested out on a man that, from what you know, didn’t deserve it, and essentially tortured him. On the other hand, this is a man who you have dreamed about and only want to please. For the past three years, you have sat in his class and dreamed about only him. For him to think that only you could understand his plans and dreams, is a flattery you could only dream of.

“Maybe I just didn’t prepare you well enough for this. Can I make it up to you?” Dr Crane asks, offering his hand to you. It takes a couple seconds, but you take it and he leads you upwards. 

His hand is oddly cold, his grip on your own hand is firm, but not harsh. His skin is smooth. It’s embarrassing that he has to lead you out of this room, has to coax you to continue.

“Let’s go to my office, hm?” Quirking an eyebrow, but not waiting for a response he led you down the hallway.

Everything seemed to blur together for you, the trip to the elevator, down the elevator, and into his office. He clicks the door shut, locking it, then turns to you. Stepping forward until he’s cornered you onto his desk.

“You think I don’t hear you at night. Calling my name. The walls in that place are very thin,” Dr Crane whispers into your ear, his hand slithering up your thigh.

A gasp escapes your lips, both at the hand now dangerously close to the warmth growing in your pants, and also because you didn’t think he would be able to hear your late night pleasure sessions. Soon he’s cupping your sex and you moan into his ear softly, earning a hum from him. Finger wander up from your sex to cup your chin, he brings you into a kiss. It’s bruising and hungry, he’s biting at your lower lip and you swear you can taste your own blood. His fingers make quick work unbuttoning your pants, sliding them down your legs until they drop to pool around your ankle.

“You're so wet already, how interesting,” He teases, tracing a finger over your clothed slit. Moaning in response you chase after his lips, but he pulls away. 

Your underwear is pushed over to the side, and his middle and ring finger breach your entrance. A loud ‘oh’ comes from your mouth, crane presses his lips to yours again to silence you. His fingers move slowly in and out of you, he catches each moan you let out with his mouth. His lips are soft, but the kiss is rough, his fingers speed up. They stretch you out so nicely it stings a little bit. It’s been so long since someone else has pleasured you, at all.

His fingers pulled out of your sex slowly, deliberately. A painstaking motion that left you close to pleasureless as he pulled out of your kiss. Quickly flipping you around and pressing you into his desk, the shock between his warm body behind you and the cold desk pressed against your front sent you spiralling. There was shuffling behind you, before you felt him lineup his cock with your cunt.

“Beg for it.” 

Your mouth opens and you spew out a string of ‘please’s and ‘need it’ that seem to satisfy him enough for him to push inside of you. He’s girthier than you expected, but not as long as you expected, which is fine for you. The stretch makes you ache and he won’t be bruising your cervix. Without giving you a moment to adjust he starts to move in and out of you.

“You have to be quiet, okay?” He says, before picking up his speed.

He sets up a consistent speed, hitting a spot inside of you that makes you grip the edge of the desk so intensely that your knuckles are turning white. The desk creaks as he moves in and out of your cunt, his breathing speeds up, one hand twists into your hair pulling your head back and you can’t tell if it’s to ground himself or as a reminder for you not to be too loud. Another hand comes to smack your ass, it's a swift hit, but it makes your knees buckle. 

“You're so much better than I thought you would be,” Dr Crane strains out between grunts.

He presses his front to your back, the hand in your hair softening its grip but not leaving. His breath tickles the back of your ear, the grunting coming from him makes you bite your lip to suppress your moans so hard there will be an indent left there tomorrow.

“Dr Crane, can I cum? Please, I’ve been so good, please let me cum,” you babble, the side of your face pressed into his desk making your words slur a little bit.

“Cum for me,” he says, moving the hand not tangled in your hair to your clit. Pressing small circles into your clit, he starts to speed up. 

Soon the pressure in your stomach releases and it goes black for a couple seconds. You feel Dr Crane’s hand press into your mouth to silence you as your legs buckle. Once you’re conscious again, he has already pulled out of you and you can hear him zip up his pants. You stand on your shaking legs and follow suit, trying to press your hair down into a more professional shape.

“I would recommend you get cleaned up,” Dr Crane says, giving you a smile, “Was that enough motivation to continue aiding me in my experiment?” “Uh- Yes,” you answer, not fully aware of what you were even saying, too embarrassed and lightheaded to even compute anything he was saying besides ‘getting cleaned up.’

“Perfect. After you get cleaned up, please meet me in room 256B. We can meet again here tomorrow during our lunch break if you continue to need the motivation provided,” He pats you on the shoulder, and leaves you in the room alone.

[let-them-read-fics]

Too Late To Apologize?

Requested By @rosiesandlilies​: “I was wondering if I can request a Rosé x female reader story where Rosie is an idol who also happens to be ur wife and since she and BP are taking over the world by storm, she starts to forget about you and whenever u ask her to spend a little bit of time with you, she gets upset and fights with you. You’re also an important person but you always make time for her. Can it be angsty with fluff 🥰”

Pairing: Rosé x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ~ 6,026

Warnings / Misc: -- Angst, Self Doubt, Strained Marriage / Relationship, Crying, Some Swearing, Fluff

Disclaimer: This writing is a work of fiction, and no disrespect is meant for those mentioned herein.

A/N: Oooooo lord, here we go. I am feeding 👏 you 👏 all 👏 today! This one took a while to write, but I’m pretty happy with it. I wrote it all in one go, starting at like 3am (as usual lol), so forgive me if it’s a little rough. I put a lot of effort into it, though, so I hope you guys enjoy. Thank you for requesting -- Happy reading!

PS ~ I highly recommend that you listen to these songs as you read this:

You Were Good To Me -- Jeremy Zucker & Chelsea Cutler

Surrender -- Natalie Taylor

The Night We Met -- Lord Huron

I Found -- Amber Run

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Hongdae, Seoul  --  8:00 PM

“Good evening, everyone! Before I open the doors, I’d like to thank each and every one of you for taking the time out of your day to stop in. We couldn’t have done this without your support, and we’re endlessly grateful. We hope you have a wonderful experience with us tonight. Now, without further ado, welcome to La Rêverie!”

To your amusement, the sizable crowd erupts into a fit of cheers once your opening speech is over. Echoes of the joyous sounds carry across the city, wiggling their way through the alleys and streets, bouncing off of the nearby buildings. The customers slowly filter in, greeting and congratulating you on their way; you’re beyond excited to start this new journey, and seeing people so happy to be a part of it only makes you more proud.

Eventually everyone makes it inside to their seats, and you join them.

--- Later That Evening ---

“Y/N, we have a private party that would like to see you. They’re eager to meet the woman behind all of this,” Pierre smirks, quirking an eyebrow suggestively. His demeanor confuses you slightly, seeing as how this isn’t the first time high profile celebrities have requested your presence -- that’s just one of the perks of being a world renowned chef. You brush off his remark as playful banter and send him to tell them that you’ll be out soon. 

---

“...yes, actually. Y/N and I were fortunate enough to meet when she was studying in Paris; we were being trained by the same chef. We’ve been close ever since. I’m not surprised that she hired me, though; I’m practically a master in the kitchen.”

At Pierre’s cocky words, your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head. A small grin plays on your lips nonetheless, and you smooth out your top one more time before rounding the corner. 

“What’s this idiot on about now? Did he tell you about the time that he nearly got kicked out of our mentorship program for giving Anthony Bourdain the wrong dish?” You ask the table, sending them a glance while ruffling his hair as you come up behind him. They all snicker at that, and it’s his turn to roll his eyes; with an annoyed shove, he scolds you for bringing that story up again.

“Must you always tell people about that?”

Your smile widens, spreading cutely across your face. Mocking him is one of your favorite things to do. “Mhm,” you say simply, nodding your head for emphasis. He attempts to hide his embarrassment, but it only brings a deeper blush to his cheeks. 

At the VIP table, the suppressed sound of laughter carries over to you, and you’re reminded of your reason for being here in the first place. Upon offering your full attention to the table now, no longer distracted by Pierre, you’re met with 4 different pairs of eyes on you. Warm, yellow light illuminates the area, the classy overhead fixture emitting a soft glow to cast down on the guests beautifully. It’s cozy and inviting, just like you had intended it to be, and the sight makes you happy.

As you quickly scan over each of the girls, your brain pieces together where you know them from.

“My oh my, it’s Blackpink themselves. To what do I owe this honor?” All of the natural charisma that you possess takes over now, doing its best to override your nerves. It’s definitely not the time to fangirl over them; you have to act cool. One by one, you shake their hands, making sure to give each of them a glimpse of your award winning smile. 

Jennie is the first to speak up. “Yourself, of course. You’re the talk of the town, Y/N, how could we miss this?” The way that she says it so casually, already skipping past the formalities, puts you at ease. 

“Ah, you’re too kind. Was your food prepared to your liking?”

A chorus of approving noises leaves the table, successfully boosting your confidence in the process. “It was truly incredible, Y/N.” Rosé gushes, her adorable accent adding something magical to the simple phrase. For the first time tonight, your mind goes blank; ever since news broke of your plans for this new restaurant, you practiced to avoid this very thing. As you stand there floundering for a beat, she takes notice of the effect that her words have on you; it doesn’t take long for her to realize how much she loves to make you blush.

“Thank you so much. We’re so glad to have you here tonight.” 

“We’re happy to be here! Rosé hasn’t stopped talking about it for the past week.” The Australian’s eyes go wide as Lisa exposes her, and she shoots the younger girl a shocked look. Lisa only smirks at this, her shoulders rising and falling in a nonchalant shrug. Jisoo nods in confirmation, adding, “Yeah, she’s been super pumped.”

On the inside, you’re freaking out. Rosé was that excited to try out your creations? There’s no logical explanation for that one. Your own surprise is evident in your voice as you respond, “Oh really now? And why’s that?”

“I-I’ve just heard a lot of great things, you know? You’re pretty talented.” She tries to sound confident, but the stutter in her voice betrays her. The tips of her ears are burning with embarrassment, and after sending her yet another smile, you decide to spare her by changing the topic. 

“Well thank you, again. It’s truly a privilege to cook for you girls.” The conversation continues from there, effortlessly moving from subject to subject, and you love how welcome they make you feel. Occasionally you excuse yourself to check on the other guests and ensure that they’re enjoying their dinner, and every time, Rosé finds herself sorely missing your presence. Despite only officially meeting tonight, she feels like she’s known you her whole life. The two of you clicked instantly, and she can’t seem to get enough of you.

After spending the better part of 2 hours chatting and getting to know one another better, you grow bold and ask the question that’s been rolling around in your head all night. 

“Would you guys like to come back to the kitchen for a bit? I could give you some tips and we could make a couple dishes, if you want.”

Rosé nearly interrupts you from how eager she is to accept the offer. The second that you’re done asking, she’s already saying yes. The others happily agree as well, and soon you’re leading them to the back to get prepped.

_________

“Just like this, everyone. Cut thinly here,” you inform, using your knife to point to the areas in question, “...then turn it and follow through with the slices. It should come out diced, like so.” The girls observed your swift motions, peeking over at the small cubes once you’re finished. Things continue on like this for a while, and soon you’re halfway done with the veggies while they’re barely done with the first part of their batches.

“Slow down, Y/N! You’re too fast for us grandmas.” Jisoo jests, her voice bouncy with amusement. 

“Okay, okay! I’ll wait, just let me know if you need help.” Your knife comes to rest against the cutting board, and you take the opportunity to lean back against the countertop to watch them work. Your eyes trail over to Rosé, only to find her already looking at you; she tenses once she realizes she’s been caught, and she returns to her previous duties. You decide to tease her.

“Everything alright, Rosé? You seem a little distracted…” She momentarily shuts her eyes at your words, trying to refocus her thoughts and collect herself. A subtle snicker from Lisa can be heard, and Rosé delivers a quick jab to her arm. The maknae lets out a little “oww” before setting her things down to rub away the newfound soreness of her arm. 

A little later, Jennie requests some assistance, prompting you to make your way over to her. The station that she’s working at just so happens to be next to Rosé’s, and you’d be lying if you said that didn’t thrill you. 

“Do we peel this first or leave it on?” 

“Cut the ends first, then slice it in half and remove the outer layer.”

Under your watchful eye, she follows your instructions and is soon back on track. She thanks you, and you bring your hand up to give her a pat on the back. Although she feels childish for it, the action works to make Rosé the tiniest bit jealous; she wants your attention on her. 

The blonde clears her throat before speaking up. “Y/N, I need a little help, too.” Your heart jumps at her words, and you fight hard to keep yourself in check as you spin around to face her.

“Of course, Rosé.” She sighs at the way her name rolls off your tongue, and she’s completely convinced that you’ve secretly put her under some type of spell. Her thoughts of you and your mysterious ways are interrupted when you come to stand next to her, your hip lightly brushing against hers. 

“Oh, well there’s your problem: you’re holding the knife wrong. Here,” you start, reaching out to reposition her hand in a better spot. Now she’ll be able to control it better, and she won’t run the risk of cutting herself.

“Better?” You ask innocently, missing the way that she bites her lip. The close proximity of your bodies is making her head spin, and she can’t decide if she wants you to stay or go. “Yes, thank you.” She looks like she wants to say something else, but she doesn’t, so you take that as your cue to go check on the other girls. Rosé silently curses herself for missing that golden opportunity to flirt with you, but she takes solace in the fact that she catches you stealing glances her way fairly often. You feel the connection too, and she’s pleased with that -- maybe she was doing something right after all.

The next stint of the night is spent preparing and cooking the dishes you promised them while trading jokes, banter, and teasing remarks. A mini food fight also took place, but for the sake of professionalism you won’t mention that. You couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day.

---- 

“Goodnight girls. I hope you come by again sometime soon!” 

They all assure you that they’ll be back before you know it, and you believe them. After all, they gobbled those dishes down like they hadn’t eaten in days -- it’s safe to say that they enjoyed them.

Rosé lingers in the doorway, eyeing you as you work to clean off the counter. She doesn’t want to go; she’s loved getting to hang out with you. Contemplating her options, she decides to be brave; she tells the girls to go on ahead, that she’ll be there in a minute. 

“Rosé, did you forget something?” You ask, looking up at her as you reach forward to wipe any remaining debris off the sleek surface.

“Yeah, your number.” Somehow, she possesses all the confidence in the world now, her new demeanor completely opposite to its previously shy counterpart. 

You tilt your head at her, a dumbfounded smile parting your lips ever so slightly. “Bold, are we? Alright, I’ll bite.” You say, holding a hand out for her to give you her phone. Her eyes widen a bit -- was she not expecting you to say yes? There’s no way you could turn down a chance like this. She fumbles around in her bag until the smooth screen of her phone comes into contact with her fingers, letting her know she’s found it.

“Here you go,” she chuckles cutely, an adorable little pattern of blush rising to her cheeks again. 

After entering your number, making sure to save the contact and even take a goofy picture of yourself for it, you give it back to her. “Call me anytime, love.” Her smile spreads even farther at the pet name, and she ducks her head to hide her reddening cheeks.

As she slowly approaches the door, walking backwards, she says, “I will… love,” offering you a little awkward salute at the end of it. You giggle at her antics, and soon bid her goodnight. 

No more than 5 minutes later, your phone dings as it displays a notification from an unknown number. 

“I’m usually not that awkward 🤦‍♀️ pretty girls just make me nervous.” The message makes your heart flutter, and you quickly save her number to your contacts. 

“Really? We have yet another thing in common, then.” 

The girls watch as Rosé does a little victory dance in her seat, her movements a bit limited by the belt stretched across her body. She’s practically glowing with excitement, her fingers already firing off another reply.

________

3 Years Later -- Rome, Italy

Upon seeing Rosé saunter down the aisle, your emotions get the jump on you; before you can stop them, tears flow freely down your face, and you bring a hand up to your mouth to quiet yourself. She looks bruisingly beautiful: the natural curves of her body are accentuated by the silky material of her dress, and her shoulders are covered in lace. An angel cast down from the heavens above. 

She smiles at the audience that’s filled with your close friends and family, offering little greetings as she passes them. Once she and her father make it to the altar, he pulls you in for a big hug, a few tears escaping his eyes. After he takes a step back, he looks between the two of you with pure pride on his face, his hand resting on your shoulder. 

The song ends, signalling for the two of you to join hands and face each other, and he returns to his seat. 

“We’re gathered here today to celebrate the joyous union of Y/N L/N and Roseanne Park. Two souls destined to find their way to one another, travelling millions of miles in the process. We come together to revel in this fact and send them into their new life together with all of our support.” The officiator says into the microphone, smiling at the two of you. You can tell he loves his job, and he’s damn good at it. 

Rosé’s grip on your hand tightens as she tries to contain her tears, but you’re quick to assure her that it’s alright. “You can cry, baby.” At your words, her lip is released from between her teeth, and her tears begin to flow. You wipe them away, stepping closer to rest your forehead against hers. 

The ceremony continues on and the two of you recite the personal vows you wrote. Somehow, unbeknownst to you, there doesn’t seem to be a limit to how much you can cry in one sitting. Rosé is having the same problem, seeing as how her makeup is smudging some as the tears wash the substances away. You don’t care though, and you make it a point to remind her of that; she’s never looked more beautiful to you.

“I do.” You choke out, beaming at her as you run your thumb across her knuckles.

“I do.” She responds, impatiently bouncing on the balls of her feet as she waits for those final words from the officiator. 

“You may now kiss the bride.” 

Her lips are on yours before he even finishes the phrase, her hand resting on the back of your neck as she pulls you in closer. Your lips move with hers in perfect time, working to seal your union in the best way possible. “I love you, forever,” she whispers against your lips. 

____

Present Day, 1:17 AM

In order to spare you from the overwhelming sadness that you’re being subjected to now, your brain takes you back to those happy times from the past. When Rosé still made time for you; when she loved you. 

Even though you hate it, you still find her in everything. The bright sunshine of the early morning reminds you of all the times she would wake you up with kisses, holding you close. The songbirds outside of your window bring to mind when you’d come home to find her at the piano, alternating between striking the keys and strumming her guitar as her beautiful voice carried out across the house. 

You miss that Rosé, so, so much. The Rosé that would call you in between sessions at the studio, if only for 5 minutes. The Rosé that longed to hear your voice after a long day; who fell into your arms the second that she shuffled through the door after practice. 

As time has passed, though, she’s seemed to fade more and more from your life; missed calls and texts have become a given, and it takes everything in you to mask your sorrow. Anyone who knows you well at all can easily see through the facade: you’re now a shell of who you once were, your normally vibrant and cheery self gone. You attempt to hide your sadness behind a smile, but it never really works out; your eyes don’t shine like they used to, and your lips don’t quite tweak up at the corners in the special way they had before. 

But you’re getting ahead of yourself again. Your reason for crying tonight is simple: for the hundredth time this month, she’s cancelled your date night plans, opting to spend the time working instead. The argument that the two of you had earlier replays in your mind:

"I don't have a choice."

Except, she did. She could choose you, choose to take a break, if only for the evening. You never ask too much of her, knowing that she can't handle even more stress competing with what she already has from the company and media. Being an idol is hard enough, and you know you can never fully wrap your head around everything that's expected of her.

Though, that makes this all the more ridiculous. All you've asked for is a couple hours of her time -- for her to relax with you and get away from it all. Earlier that day you had gone to the store and picked up all the necessary materials to treat her to a little spa day, complete with bath and body oils, face masks, and even some bath bombs. 

"Asking my wife to spend an evening with me is not unreasonable, Rosé."

"I'm not having this argument again, Y/N. I get enough shit from everyone else; I don't need any extra from you."

Maybe it was something in how she said it, so final and hateful, her face coming to rest in a scowl. Her arms were crossed as she stood in front of you, and you could see the muscles in her jaw clench and release repeatedly. In some twisted way, part of you was glad to have this encounter; it hurt like hell, but at least she was paying attention to you. She hadn't looked at you for this long in a while.

Before you can even get another word out, she sighs, saying, "I don't have time for this. I have to go back to the studio." 

Just as she turns to go, you catch her wrist. With a slightly annoyed look, she turns to face you.

"If you walk out that door then I'm leaving; at least for the night. We need to talk about this, but if you don't care enough to even give me that, then…" you trail off, tilting your head slightly. You want her to apologize, to say how wrong she's been for doing all of this to you -- but she doesn't. Her expression is tired, irritation written plainly for you to see. She pulls her arm away, offering a petty, "Oh well," with a shrug before exiting the house. 

How could she be so cold? Maybe that's what hurt the most. Seeing the love of your life turn into someone completely different than who you fell for stung more than any argument ever could. The reality is that she's not the same person anymore. Accepting that would be half of the battle in and of itself. 

Your heart is betraying itself, stuck in a sticky situation: you're constantly struggling between your love for her and the respect you hold for yourself. Half of you wants to stay, to make her listen and fight for this; but the other half of you, perhaps the more rational side, knows that that won't work now. You've tried that already, you reason with yourself, racking your brain for any new way to get through to her. 

Sometimes it's like she forgets all of the sacrifices you make for the relationship. Despite having your own busy schedule to deal with, you always make time for her. So why could she never do the same for you?

It's obvious that in its current state, this relationship is only wrecking your mental health -- a testament to that is every night you've spent lying awake, sobbing into your pillow as your list of insecurities grows longer and longer. She used to be the person you'd run to when negative thoughts plagued your mind, her sweet words of love showing how much she valued you. But all of that's gone now, leaving you with a shattered heart and racing mind. When had you stopped being enough?

~~~~~~~

It’s late, well past 4AM when Rosé manages to make it home. Practice absolutely wrecked her today, leaving her body exhausted from dancing and throat sore from all the singing she had to do. She’s more than ready to collapse into bed and pass out. 

One thing that always stayed the same was your sleeping arrangement. No matter how much Rosé hurt you, you still slept in the same bed. Her subconscious was always kinder to you than she was, anyway; the two of you would cuddle in close like before, her arms wrapped around you as she slept peacefully. No arguments or yelling, you could always count on the nights to heal your heart a little bit. 

As she enters the empty bedroom, the memory of your argument from earlier that day comes flooding back. She remembers that you said you were leaving, but part of her didn't fully believe you. She should've known better -- you always keep your word. Guilt washes over her, and she gently taps her head against the wall as a sort of self-punishment for her previous actions. Why did she say that to you? The hurt look in your eyes broke her heart, but she couldn’t afford to skip practice, especially with the comeback quickly approaching. In retrospect, she should’ve just told you that she didn’t feel prepared, and that’s why this practice had been so important. Even though she doesn’t show it, you still mean the world to her. She just so happens to be her own worst enemy. 

With a heavy sigh, she makes her way to the bathroom; there she finds a cute little basket of goodies next to the tub, and a note on the counter of the sink. She approaches the basket first, quickly discovering that it holds some of her favorite self-care items from the local store. Yet again, a deep pang of guilt courses through her upon realizing that you had prepared that for her. Defeated, she picks up the note. 

Roseanne,

If you’re reading this, then I’ve already left. I don’t want you to worry, if you even still care enough to do that, so I decided to leave this letter for you. I’ll be staying with my friend for the next while. I don’t know how long, but that depends entirely on you. I’ve tried to communicate with you, but we’re getting nowhere; we both know it. We’re not who we used to be, Rosé, and I hate that. I want us to be happy again, but it seems that I can’t do that for you. If you want to end things, let me know. 

- Y/N

Rosé’s heart is breaking, splintering into a million different pieces and leaving her with no possible way to collect them all. How had she so royally fucked this up? She only has herself to blame, and she knows that; she can’t believe that she let things get like this. She had been so blinded by the stress that she lost sight of the most important thing in her life: you. It’s slowly sinking in that she very well might lose you for good this time, and she doesn’t know how to cope with that. She can survive without her career, but she knows she can’t go on without you.

-----  La Rêverie, 2 Weeks Later -----

She only intended to walk by -- to see if you were there and safe. But as she gazes through the windows, peeking into the place that houses so many of her dearest memories, she’s transfixed. Her eyes land on you, finding you hard at work in the kitchen. It’s always been where you go when you’re stressed or upset about something -- two things that Rosé knows she’s the cause of.

You’re in your element, face donning a look of pure concentration as you prepare what she assumes is a new dish. Your hair’s in a bun, a few strands coming down to fall around your face as you move about. Gravity takes its time in gently coaxing them out of the tie's hold, and Rosé’s breath hitches at how beautiful you look; it’s as if she’s falling for you all over again. She’s always admired your skills, but they hold a whole new meaning now, an unspoken tension in every movement you make. 

How had she been so selfish? You had been there for her all along, waiting patiently for the day that she would come to her senses. You would always have dinner ready -- usually one of her favorites, hoping that would spark something again -- but she always brushed you off. She never stayed long enough to see the crushed look on your face, or how the pain was becoming clearer and clearer by the day. She realizes now just how much of a toll her actions have taken on the both of you; you're still just as breathtaking as ever to her, but that special sparkle in your eye has long been eclipsed by something more dull. You're tired of being let down repeatedly, stuck in a constant loop of excuses and avoidance, and Rosé can't blame you for a second.  

The time apart hasn't been kind to her at all; there hasn't been a single day that's gone by where you haven't consumed her thoughts. She misses you so badly it hurts, and even now, despite being so close to you, separated only by the walls of the restaurant, you've never been further away. 

The distant sound of a car alarm cuts through the silence, simultaneously scaring her and drawing your attention. Before you can spot her, she ducks down; there’s no way that she can face you yet. Taking this as a sign, she decides to leave.

She’s spent the past 2 weeks attempting to spare you by not coming around; she thinks you need time away from her to deal with everything she’s put you through, and she doesn’t want to upset you anymore than she already has. Ever-torn, part of you is glad that she’s stayed away; however, another part of you just wants to see her again. You miss the nights more than you thought you would. 

--- A Few Days Later ---

Steady sheets of rain pound harshly against the window, vibrating the latches with each gust of wind. Times like these are always the worst, especially when you don’t have Rosé to calm you down. Violent thunderstorms never fail to frighten you, and this one in particular seems like it’ll be the worst one of the season. Swiftly padding over to the window, you sneak a quick peek outside, only to find the branches of the large oak tree that occupies the yard swaying in the wind with reckless abandon. The sight terrifies you, but you do your best to keep yourself from panicking, even having to do some breathing exercises. Your friend can sleep through anything, and you know she needs the rest; so, you stay in the spare bedroom that she’s so graciously allowing you to reside in, and lie awake. 

Across the city, Rosé is tossing and turning. The storm hasn’t fully reached its peak there yet, but she knows how worried you must be. Tears spring to her eyes at the thought of you huddled up under the covers, body trembling in fear as the storm rages on. The deep-rooted shame that she’s grown so accustomed to since you left plagues her conscience, making her even more disgusted with herself. 

After turning over yet again, her eyes land on the picture she has of the two of you propped up on the nightstand. It was taken on your wedding day, that stunning view of the venue paling in comparison to your beauty. A sense of determination washes over her -- determination to make you that happy again someday, in whatever way she can -- and she gets out of bed to collect a few materials. She’ll do whatever it takes.

----

The sound of a car door slamming perks your ears up, and your curiosity gets the better of you. Quickly pulling the curtain back, you’re beyond shocked to see Rosé out there, holding something in her hand. Just as you lean in closer to the window to try and see what it is, her caller ID pops up on your phone. 

“Come downstairs, please.” 

Even with the vast array of emotions coursing through you at the moment, you’re only focused on getting her inside and out of harm’s way. 

You nearly knock the door off its hinges with how quickly you snap it open. To your surprise, she’s still standing by her car, but now you can see what she was holding before; a white sign with black writing on it. The words are barely legible with how much it's raining, the dye of the marker horribly smudged, but you can make out: “I’m sorry! I’m an idiot.” It’s like something out of romantic drama.

Before you can even comment on everything that’s happening, Rosé begins the speech that she’s been trying to piece together ever since you left. 

She has to raise her voice so you can hear her over the storm. You wonder why she doesn’t just come in, but you think that maybe she’s doing it to show you that she’s willing to punish herself by standing out in the elements. “No words that I say will ever be able to fix the pain that my actions caused. You don’t deserve any of the shit I put you through, and I hate myself for being such a coward. I was too immature to look past my own struggles and just talk to you about them.” 

Now, she takes a few cautious steps towards the front door, testing the waters as she scans your face to gauge how you’re feeling. “I guess I just thought I could deal with it like I always do. But losing you showed me how wrong I was; I love you so much, Y/N. I don’t want to end things; I’ll never want that. You’re my world, baby; I’m so sorry that it took me this long to see what was right in front of me.” 

How are you to respond to that? Can you trust her? She looks more sincere in this moment than she has in a long time, and that puts you a little more at ease. Her eyes are begging -- pleading -- with you to believe her, and after a moment you step to the side, wordlessly telling her to come in. You don’t even realize that you’re crying until a few stray tears drip onto your shirt, leaving little marks in their wake. She has to restrain herself from reaching out and wiping them away; she has no idea when -- or if -- you’ll be able to forgive her. 

Soft pitter-patter of the water running off of her coat echoes lightly across the foyer, serving as white noise for the conversation you’re having. Her sniffles work in tandem with it, and she bites back her sobs in order to get the words out. 

“I know this won’t be fixed overnight, but I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll let me. I won’t blame you for a second if you can’t forgive me, either. I just couldn’t let you get away without a fight.”

With each new fresh batch of tears that settle in your eyes, you have to work twice as hard to blink them away. “I-I don’t know what to say, Rose. You’re the only person in this world capable of hurting me that badly, because you mean more to me than anyone else. But I never thought you’d treat me like that. Do you know how many times I doubted myself, thinking I did something wrong?” Your tone is bitter now, voice conveying the pain from those months of anguish that you had to endure, and Rosé hangs her head. 

“I know that now, Y/N, and I know that I can never take it back. But God, how I wish I could. I’d do anything in my power to take that pain away. It was never your fault; none of it was.”

You know she’s being honest. After seeing the opposite for so long, it’s easy to spot when she’s telling the truth. You nod a couple times, deciding to pull her in for a long-overdue hug. She’s motionless at first, not quite knowing if you want her to return it or not, but the second that you quietly say, “Hold me, Rosé,” she’s scooping you up in her arms like her life depends on it. Her head rests in the crook of your neck, and the two of you cry together, letting all of the pent up frustration and sadness leave your bodies. 

After standing there, embracing one another for who knows how long, she pulls away just enough to look into your eyes. Her gaze subtly falls to your lips, but you don’t fail to notice. “Can I?” She asks gently, raising her eyes back up to yours. “Yes.” You utter, nearly swooning as her soft lips brush against your own. You’ve missed them. 

Her chilled hands cup your cheeks with purpose, and you can feel water running off the ends of her hair and onto your chest.

She kisses you in such a poetic way: softly, as if you might break at any moment, but urgently, like a lost soldier finally returning to the arms of their lover. She wants to make you feel how sorry she is, how much she loves you, and this seems like the perfect place to start.

“I love you, jerk,” you say through your tears, brushing your thumb along her cheek as you look into her eyes.

“And I love you, angel.” She picks you up, spinning you around a couple of times before setting you back down on your feet. 

After a moment, you glace at the window. “Shhhh, wait. Do you hear that?”

She cocks her head to the side as she listens closely for any potential noise that you might be talking about, but she hears nothing. “No? I don’t hear anything…” 

“Exactly; the rain stopped.”

“Huh. I guess it did its job, then.” She smiles, silently thanking the universe for working in its wonderful ways. It brought the two of you back to one another, and neither of you can contain your happiness. Maybe you don’t hate storms as much after all...

[phroyd]

One of our Great Comedians leaves us this day! Rest In Peace, Jackie! - Phroyd

Jackie Mason, whose staccato, arm-waving delivery and thick Yiddish accent kept the borscht belt style of comedy alive long after the Catskills resorts had shut their doors, and whose career reached new heights in the 1980s with a series of one-man shows on Broadway, died on Saturday in Manhattan. He was 93.His death, at Mount Sinai Hospital, was confirmed by the lawyer Raoul Felder, a longtime friend.Mr. Mason regarded the world around him as a nonstop assault on common sense and an affront to his sense of dignity. Gesturing frantically, his forefinger jabbing the air, he would invite the audience to share his sense of disbelief and inhabit his very thin skin, if only for an hour.“I used to be so self-conscious,” he once said, “that when I attended a football game, every time the players went into a huddle, I thought they were talking about me.” Recalling his early struggles as a comic, he said, “I had to sell furniture to make a living — my own.”The idea of music in elevators sent him into a tirade: “I live on the first floor; how much music can I hear by the time I get there? The guy on the 28th floor, let him pay for it.”

The humor was punchy, down-to-earth and emphatically Jewish: His last one-man show in New York, in 2008, was titled “The Ultimate Jew.” A former rabbi from a long line of rabbis, Mr. Mason made comic capital as a Jew feeling his way — sometimes nervously, sometimes pugnaciously — through a perplexing gentile world.“Every time I see a contradiction or hypocrisy in somebody’s behavior,” he once told The Wall Street Journal, “I think of the Talmud and build the joke from there.” Describing his comic style to The New York Times in 1988, he said, “My humor — it’s a man in a conversation, pointing things out to you.”“He’s not better than you, he’s just another guy,” he added. “I see life with love — I’m your brother up there — but if I see you make a fool out of yourself, I owe it to you to point that out to you.”He was born Yacov Moshe Maza in Sheboygan, Wis., on June 9, 1928, to immigrants from Belarus. (Some sources give the year as 1931.) When he was 5, his father, Eli, an Orthodox rabbi, and his mother, Bella (Gitlin) Maza, moved the family to the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where Yacov discovered that his path in life had already been determined. Not only his father, but his grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great-grandfathers had all been rabbis. His three older brothers became rabbis, and his two younger sisters married rabbis. “It was unheard-of to think of anything else,” Mr. Mason said. “But I knew, from the time I’m 12, I had to plot to get out of this, because this is not my calling.”

After earning a degree from City College, he completed his rabbinical studies at Yeshiva University and was ordained. In a state of mounting misery, he tended to congregations in Weldon, N.C., and Latrobe, Pa., unhappy in his profession but unwilling to disappoint his father.Hedging his bets, he had begun working summers in the Catskills, where he wrote comic monologues and appeared onstage at every opportunity. This, he decided, was his true calling, and after his father’s death in 1959 he felt free to pursue it in earnest, with a new name.He struggled at first, playing the Catskills and, with little success, obscure clubs in New York and Miami. Plagued by guilt, he underwent psychoanalysis, which did not solve his problems but did provide him with good comic material.Nevertheless, he found it hard to break into the nightclub circuit in New York — in part, he claimed, because his act made Jewish audiences uncomfortable. “My accent reminds them of a background they’re trying to forget,” he said.

While performing at a Los Angeles nightclub in 1960, he caught the attention of his fellow comedian Jan Murray, who recommended him to the television personality Steve Allen. Two appearances in two weeks on “The Steve Allen Show” led to bookings at the Copacabana and the Blue Angel in New York.Mr. Mason’s career was off and running. He became a regular on the top television variety shows, recorded two albums for the Verve label — “I Am the Greatest Comedian in the World Only Nobody Knows It Yet” and “I Want to Leave You With the Words of a Great Comedian” — and wrote a book, “My Son the Candidate.”

After dozens of appearances on “The Ed Sullivan Show,” Mr. Mason encountered disaster on Oct. 18, 1964. A speech by President Lyndon B. Johnson pre-empted the program, which resumed as Mr. Mason was halfway through his act. Onstage but out of camera range, Sullivan indicated with two fingers, then one, how many minutes Mr. Mason had left, distracting the audience. Mr. Mason, annoyed, responded by holding up his own fingers to the audience, saying, “Here’s a finger for you, and a finger for you, and a finger for you.”Sullivan, convinced that one of those fingers was an obscene gesture, canceled Mr. Mason’s six-show contract and refused to pay him for the performance. Mr. Mason sued, and won.The two later reconciled, but the damage was done. Club owners and booking agents now regarded him, he said, as “crude and unpredictable.”

“People started to think I was some kind of sick maniac,” Mr. Mason told Look. “It took 20 years to overcome what happened in that one minute.”His career went into a slump, punctuated by bizarre instances of bad luck. In Las Vegas in 1966, after he made a few ill-considered remarks about Frank Sinatra’s recent marriage to the much younger Mia Farrow (“Frank soaks his dentures and Mia brushes her braces,” one joke went), an unidentified gunman fired a .22 pistol into his hotel room.A play he starred in and wrote (with Mike Mortman), “A Teaspoon Every Four Hours,” went through a record-breaking 97 preview performances on Broadway before opening on June 14, 1969, to terrible reviews. It closed after one night, taking with it his $100,000 investment.He also invested in “The Stoolie” (1972), a film in which he played a con man and improbable Romeo. It also failed, taking even more of his money. Roles in sitcoms and films eluded him, although he did make the most of small parts in Mel Brooks’s “History of the World: Part I” (1981) — he was “Jew No. 1” in the Spanish Inquisition sequence — and “The Jerk” (1979), in which he played the gas-station owner who employs Steve Martin.Rebuffed, Mr. Mason set about rebuilding his career with guest appearances on television. His new manager, Jyll Rosenfeld, convinced that the old borscht belt comics were ripe for a comeback, encouraged him to bring his act to the theater as a one-man show.

After attracting celebrity audiences in Los Angeles, that show, “The World According to Me!,” opened on Broadway in December 1986 and ran for two years. It earned Mr. Mason a special Tony Award in 1987, as well as an Emmy for writing after HBO aired an abridged version in 1988.

“I didn’t think it would work,” Mr. Mason said. “But people, when they come into a theater, see you in a whole new light. It’s like taking a picture from a kitchen and hanging it in a museum.”In 1991 Mr. Mason married Ms. Rosenfeld, who survives him. He is also survived by a daughter, the comedian Sheba Mason, from a relationship with Ginger Reiter in the 1970s and ’80s.“The World According to Me!” generated a series of sequels — “Politically Incorrect,” “Love Thy Neighbor,” “Prune Danish” and others — which carried Mr. Mason through the 1990s and into the new millennium.He published an autobiography, “Jackie, Oy!” (written with Ken Gross), in 1988. He also found a new sideline as an opinionated political commentator on talk radio. In the 2016 presidential campaign, he was one of the few well-known entertainers to support Donald J. Trump.Mr. Mason’s forays into political commentary caused him trouble. He was reported to have used a Yiddish word considered to be a racial slur in talking about David N. Dinkins, the Black mayoral candidate, at a Plaza Hotel luncheon in 1989. Mr. Mason was a campaigner for Mr. Dinkins’s opponent, Rudolph W. Giuliani. Mr. Giuliani said the incident had been blown out of proportion but nevertheless dismissed Mr. Mason from the campaign. Mr. Mason at first refused to apologize but did so later.

He drew attention for using the same word regarding President Barack Obama during a performance in 2009.Appearances on the cartoon series “The Simpsons,” as the voice of Rabbi Hyman Krustofski, the father of Krusty the Clown, confirmed his newfound status, and earned him a second Emmy. Not even the 1988 bomb “Caddyshack II,” in which he was a last-minute replacement for Rodney Dangerfield, or the ill-fated “Chicken Soup,” a 1989 sitcom co-starring Lynn Redgrave that died quickly, could slow his improbable transformation from borscht belt relic into hot property.“I’ve been doing this for a hundred thousand years, but it’s like I was born last Thursday,” Mr. Mason once said of his career turnaround. “They see me as today’s comedian. Thank God I stunk for such a long time and was invisible, so I could be discovered.”

Michael Levenson contributed reporting.

Phroyd

[billionairebabes]

Quarantine Update - Extensive Post

Hey babes!

Like many, I have a lot more time at home which means I’ve been able to spend more time thinking about what I want for my future and now. It’s been a great time to identify my strengths and weaknesses as well. Utilize my strong suits and strengthen my weak ones. Here’s what I’ve realized and have been doing in quarantine. 

I’m a Leo as some of you know from my bio but for the astrology girls out there I’m going to mention that I am a Virgo Moon and Rising. I strive on structure and schedules. I make plans for everything. There are probably more than 50 sticky notes in my room currently and growing. I’m THAT type of girl. Now that most of us are home most of the time, we don’t have the same structure and schedule as we did when life was normal. I’m not the type of person who can plan out every hour of my day but I do have a list of things I strive to complete for every day of the week. There is a whole list of things that I do every day that I won’t mention here because they’ve become habit now. The List below are tasks I have to be intentional about.  It looks like this: Mondays: Manifestation & Journaling + Setting Intentions for the Week Monday & Wednesdays: Guided Workouts (YouTube) Admittedly, having a hard time integrating this into my routine. & Face Exfoliating + Teeth Whitening Wednesdays: Do work and research for business idea Tuesday & Thursday: HTML + SQL practice on Codecademy Friday: I use Fridays to feel human. I get dressed and do my makeup to keep my skills sharp. Still perfecting getting my lash strips on. I’ve tried lash extensions but the application process was unbearable to me. Just tears and headaches lol Saturday & Sunday: Spiritual Reset & Journaling: Days to practice being still. Intention setting meditation and stuff. Little more reading on the law of attraction, the law of vibration, scripting etc. I do my full body exfoliation on the weekend too. Honestly, just once a week works for me. I alternate between a ginger scrub I got from The Body Shop and a dry brush. Lastly, I clean my apartment on either one of these days. I tidy up nightly during the week but weekends are when I do the more intense cleaning like swiffering and the stove. 

Finally getting serious about getting my MBA! I’ve always wanted my MBA but now that I have a clear business plan and idea, it’s now even more important to me. It’s also important to me that I go to one of the top programs in the country. I graduated in December from undergrad but my GPA was okay. I have to be very intentional about preparing for the GMAT as my score there will likely have to compensate for my GPA. Going to a top business school for me isn’t just about the academics but more so about the connections. I saw a post about Megan Markle a few weeks ago that inspired me to strive for academic success on that level. I’m debating between Business Administration and Supply Chain Management. I guess the cool thing about wanting an MBA is that most top programs require that I have 2 years of work experience so I have time to figure this out. 

I’m looking to completely overhaul my wardrobe. I kind of refuse to buy anything right now because I really don’t know what season it’ll be when we’re actually let out of quarantine BUT I’m still online window shopping. Pinning away on my Pinterest board. My goal is to look put together regardless of what I’m doing. Like a t-shirt and leggings should make me look like that girl with a few basic accessories that I’ll likely wear every day. I’ve also always had dark hair, 1B - Jet Black Weave. This year, I want to experiment with a brown highlighted look like pictured below (couldn’t get it inserted directly under this paragraph for whatever reason) 

IM MOVING TO MIAMI!! Jk, well at least not yet. I’m just practicing how I’m going to say it when my move becomes official. I’ve been to Miami more than a few times and honestly, I just love the city. There’s a different type of zen and happiness I feel when I’m there. I love beach life and city life. I’ve been watching Miami vlogs nonstop. I’m going to begin my scripting soon. I recently contacted an old SDBF who’s in real estate for advice on whether to try to buy or rent. I already feel the excitement of moving there and feeling is the key to manifesting. Today, I will be making a “moving to Miami” mood board. I may share that with you guys. I’ve even started collecting inspiration photos for my Miami condo/apartment. I use Canva to put together little inspo pics. I’ve never moved and lived in a new city on my own before so even the challenge of this move excites me. I know for certain that it’ll make it step out of my comfort zone and with that comes insane growth. Life is too short to live in fear so I won’t. There are some things I definitely want to have in order before I move though and I may expand on that in a different post but yeah my mind is made up. I’m going. Plus sugaring in Miami is >>>>>>. If any girls live down there and have any advice, I would love love love to hear your thoughts. 

 I want to be intentional about putting myself out there. I tend to lean more reserved and lowkey but for the next level in my life, I’ve realized I’m going to have to lean out of that a little more. I did some real soul searching to figure out why I am the way I am. Won’t share that here but I know the extra effort will be worth it. I’ll be starting small by actually posting pictures on to my Instagram. I get so critical and nit-picky that I inevitably post nothing at all. I’ll work my way up to actual content creation one day. I went to Bangkok, Shanghai, Phuket, and Paris all within a 2 months span and didn’t post a single picture from any trip.  We’re still less than halfway through 2020, I’m ready to grab the second half or last quarter by the balls lol. 

Really I do mood boards for everything. They keep me inspired and in the vibration of the goal I want to achieve. When I’m really in the moment I’ll write a coinciding script. Like with my business idea mood board I will be writing about what a day in my life as a CEO looks like. What I’ll wake up and wear. What my mornings look like, what I eat, how I feel etc. Scripting is honestly so powerful and I recommend it to all you babes. 

Conclusively, this is what quarantine life looks like for me. I’ve also been cooking so much more and trying my hand at new recipes. A few days ago I made sausage, egg, and cheese pockets with some pastry dough I made. Some days are better than others but I do the work to keep myself in a positive mindset. I’m alone and don’t want to spiral. I’m home all day now and would love to chat up about you guy’s goals and quarantivities. 

XXX, 

BBC

[olliedollie1204]

for future reference

Virgil works at the reference desk. Logan is looking for a very specific book.

Pairings: Platonic Virgil and Logan

Word Count: 3,613

Tags: Librarian Virgil, Kid Logan, (very loosely) implied but not shown romantic Moceit

based on that one tumblr post that is maybe the cutest thing i’ve ever read? also, Logan mispronounces some words because he’s Babey, so I included a guide at the end to clarify what he was trying to say.

also i meant to make this short and simple but i tripped and came up with an entire new AU, so hopefully if y’all slam that mf like button I will find the energy to write the sequel

(Read it on AO3!)

Working at the reference desk was cool. When you walked through the main door of the library, you’d never suspect that nestled beyond the rows and rows of adult nonfiction, far away from the busyness of the community room or the chaos of the children’s section, was a neat and well-tended desk, behind which sat just one man.

That one man was currently alternating between scanning the sea of tables and chairs in front of him, and reading a cheesy romance paperback under his desk. Listen, he had an image to maintain, okay?

Virgil had always liked the solitude of a good library, almost as much as he’d liked the books themselves. Despite spending many long hours hidden away among dusty shelves when he was younger, he'd never thought about actually working in a library. He wasn’t a people person, and libraries, unfortunately, tended to attract people; so when he found out there was a position where he could get away with isolating himself behind a computer monitor all day long, where his main form of social interaction was helping patrons fix the printer approximately nine hundred times a day, where he could read or play Temple Run or just sit still and daydream for hours on end? He was sold.

He supposed he had to thank the library’s set up for his lack of work; truly, most people never made their way this far into the building, and those who did were usually just looking for a place to sleep for a few hours, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to go an entire shift without speaking to a single person.

It had looked like today was going to be the same, with Virgil halfway through his shift and having only spoken to one patron who was looking for the bathroom. He had just gotten to the part in his book where the farmhand and the farmer’s son were trapped together in the barn during an unexpected thunderstorm, shirts dripping wet and faces flushed from humidity and passion (and maybe Virgil had read this one once or twice already, don’t worry about it).

It was a perfectly normal day. Until the kid showed up.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Virgil certainly did not jump about a foot into the air at the kid’s sudden appearance, but it was a close thing. The librarian quickly sat up in his rolly chair, dog earring the already well-worn novel and shoving it back under the desk.

“Uh, hi,” he replied, gazing down at the child in front of him. He was small and scrawny, with wildly scruffy hair and a large pair of glasses on his face. As Virgil sat up taller, he was able to see that the kid was actually tiny, his chin barely reaching past the edge of the desk. Despite his small stature, he had an oddly serious look on his face.

“How can I, uh, help you?” Virgil asked haltingly.

“I need to find a book about baby names,” the child informed him plainly. His quiet, high-pitched voice felt completely at odds with the grave importance he seemed to place on his request.

“Oh?” Virgil said for lack of a better response. He quickly scanned behind the kid, looking for an adult that might’ve misplaced their incredibly somber toddler, but he quickly brought his attention back to the child in front of him as he nodded.

“My dads told me that I’m going to be a big brother soon and I need to find the names for my baby twin brothers who we are taking from a woman in the city because she is a sugar-ette and she is giving us her babies to keep,” the child replied in one long breath. Virgil blinked at the sudden influx of information.

“Ah,” he replied, absolutely nailing this conversation with this random, unaccompanied baby. “Let me… look that up for you.”

He paused for just a second before jerkily turning on his monitor, opening to the library catalogue’s search engine. Instinctively he opened the filter and clicked ‘search for keywords’ and typed ‘baby names’, until he looked down at the… really small child in front of him, like damn, were all kids that small?

“Um. How…”

How old are you? How many letters of the alphabet do you know? How stupid am I gonna look if I send you to the checkout desk with an armful of dense, high-level books about etymology?

“How high is your reading level?” he settled on. To his surprise, the child puffed out his chest in pride.

“I am five and three quarters years old and I will be going into kindergarten in Set-member and Dr. Picani says that I am reading like a kindergartener and I even can read first grade books, too.”

Okay. Virgil didn’t know who Dr. Picani was, but that wasn’t important. Kindergarten to first grade reading level. He switched the filter to adjust for that new information, but he was quickly met with the realization that the kid was looking at him for… some sort of response, because that’s how conversations work, Virgil, come on.

“That’s cool,” he replied lightly. Lucky for him, the kid didn’t seem to mind his lack of social graces. He just nodded, rocking back and forth on his heels as he watched Virgil type.

“And my Daddy gave me a bunch of chapter books for my birthday and I already read them all because that was last year and he and Papa said that for my next birthday I can get some more chapter books but I hope they are mit-sery books because I like the mit-sery books most of all. Dr. Picani told me that’s because I like to collect and organize information. I like it when Papa reads the mit-sery books to me, even though I can read all by myself, because he is always bad at solving the mit-sery and I have to explain it to him every time.”

At first, Virgil had merely been listening with a polite interest, nodding a little as his eyes scanned the page for what books they had checked in, but as the kid continued to talk (and Virgil was seriously starting to wonder if he ever ran out of breath), he realized he was now listening with a genuine interest. This kid seemed pretty smart for his age, even with his tendency to mispronounce words in his rush to get them out of his mouth, and it was honestly kinda endearing. This coming from Virgil, who was running out of excuses as to why he couldn’t help out with any of the children’s programs that the library hosted in the community room twice a month.

He pulled his eyes back to his computer. “Okay, so, um, it looks like we’ve got a couple books that you might want.” They had more than a couple books about baby names, of course, but Virgil really didn’t wanna hurt the kid’s feelings by giving him a book that was too difficult for him.

“I’m gonna write the titles down on this piece of paper,” Virgil continued, pulling out an index card and one of the weird tiny golf pencils that were at every desk in the library for some reason. “Here’s what the book is called, here’s the last name of the person who wrote it, and here is the number of the shelf where you can find the book, okay?”

He finished writing and slid the paper across the desk to the kid, who hesitated for a moment before taking it.

“... Thank you,” he said stiffly, turning on his heel and marching away. Virgil wasn’t gonna look away until the kid was out of his sight, but to his surprise he stopped just about ten feet away from the desk, looking between the paper in his tiny hands and the tall rows of shelves.

Virgil stood up suddenly, feeling like an idiot. He’d just told an infant to go look for one specific shelf in a giant room of identical shelves. Alone. Fuck.

“Hey, kid,” he called softly, moving around his desk and hurrying to the child. The little boy turned to him, eyes wide behind his glasses lens.

“How about I help you find those books, okay?” Virgil asked, trying not to tower over the tiny child. The kid looked around for a second before nodding quickly.

“Okay, I think that is a good idea, because I know where the books are in the playzone but I think this li-berry is really big and— and maybe I’d get too lost and my dads are scared of me being lost and so I don’t wanna make them scared,” he finished, looking down and scuffing the toe of his shoe against the carpet.

Virgil raised an eyebrow at the end of the kid’s sentence. “Do you know where your dads are?”

The kid nodded quickly. “They’re having storytime in the group room!”

Virgil nodded. He knew there was an adult book club happening in the community room that day, so that definitely made sense. But still, he leaned down, catching the boy’s eye with what he hoped was an appropriately stern face for the circumstances.

“Do your dads know where you are?” he asked. As he expected, the kid began to look slightly guilty, scrunching the hem of his navy polo in his hands.

“Um…” he started. It was the first time Virgil had heard him pause between his words. “Well, technically, they told me to stay with the li-berrian, and they thought I was gonna stay in the playzone with Ms. Dot, but technically, if I can stay with you then I am with a li-berrian and so I’m not in trouble.”

There was a note of self-satisfaction in the kid’s voice, like he’d just solved a riddle as opposed to trying to explain why he disobeyed his parents. Virgil got the feeling that this was a kid who knew how to use his words to his advantage.

“Okay,” Virgil replied, gently pulling the paper out of the kid’s hand and scanning what he’d written. “We’re gonna go look for some books, but then I’m taking you back to the children’s section— uh, I mean the playzone— and Ms. Dot is gonna watch you until your dads are done, deal?”

The child nodded, watching Virgil with intensity, and the librarian gently ushered him to the side and led the two of them down a row of books.

“What’s your name?”

“Logan,” the little boy replied, running ahead a little and turning to wait for Virgil to catch up. “What’s your name?”

Virgil reached Logan at the end of the row just as he answered, “Virgil.”

Without warning, Logan darted ahead again, reaching the end of the next row before turning around to face him. “Daddy says I should call the li-berrians Mr., Ms., or Mx. What are you?”

“Mr. is okay,” Virgil replied, a little bemused by his childish bluntness. “And be careful, okay? I don’t want you to trip and hurt yourself.”

Logan trotted back to Virgil, walking backwards for a minute so he could look at Virgil while he talked. “I’m sorry for running, but I really want to find a book about baby names because my dads are busy making the babies’ bedroom and buying all of the baby clothes and toys and ex-cetera and I want to be a good big brother and I want my baby brothers to have names that are good but my dads are really busy and they don’t even know what they want to name the babies yet!”

Virgil smiled at the indignation in Logan’s little voice. Of course, he knew there were far more important preparations to make when expecting a new child (let alone two new children at the same time), but to a child as young as Logan, the name was probably the most important decision to be made.

“Well, they should be on the next shelf over, so let’s—”

Logan took off before Virgil could finish his sentence, running halfway down the row and looking at Virgil expectantly.

Virgil scoffed, an amused smile on his face. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

As he entered the row, he began scanning the numbers on instinct; he knew these stacks pretty well, but he didn’t have them memorized.

“Okay, 929.4,” he muttered to himself, bypassing books about genealogies before coming to the section for baby name books. “Here they are.”

Logan came towards him, standing on his tiptoes as he reached his arms up high.

“Mr. Virgil, may I please have the biggest book, please?”

Virgil looked back at the shelf, immediately seeing which book Logan was talking about. He pulled it out, holding it in both hands as he scanned the cover.

“‘Ten Thousand and One Baby Names For You’,” he recited, passing it down to Logan. “Is that enough names to choose from?”

Logan’s eyes were wide, struggling to open the heavy book while still keeping it in his arms. “I never even knew there were ten thousand and one names!”

“Same,” Virgil replied, helping Logan open the book without damaging it. “I think this book has lots of names from all over the world, plus some super old names from the last century.”

“Like the 1990s,” Logan said, nodding seriously, and Virgil had to pretend to cough to avoid laughing outright at the kid’s earnestness. He turned back to the shelf, pulling out a thinner yet still dense book.

“And this one is called ‘The Story Behind the Name’,” Virgil explained, holding it down to show Logan. “It tells you more about what the names mean, where all of the names came from… stuff like that.”

He held the book out for Logan to take, but to his shock the child was looking at him with something akin to distress.

“Do names mean things?”

Virgil blinked. “Oh! Uh, sometimes? Not really. But some names have things that they used to mean, a long time ago, but a lot of people don’t know what they meant. Like—”

He hastily flipped the book open to the ‘L’ section, skimming the page before he found what he was looking for.

“Like, ‘Logan’, for example, is an Scottish name,” he explained slowly, “and it apparently means… uh, ‘from the hollow’? Which, I don’t even really know what that means, so. It’s not that important nowadays.”

He looked back at Logan, who was looking into the distance with a pensive look on his face.

“But what if I give them a name that means something bad,” he pondered slowly, and Virgil’s stomach swooped at the idea that he’d just given this kid something to worry over.

“Well, here,” he said hurriedly, holding the second book out to Logan. “If you take this one, you can check that the names you pick mean good things. Some people like to choose names that remind them of something good, like nature or history or— or their favorite book characters.”

That perked Logan up, causing him to eye the book with a new interest. “Really?”

His gaze flicked between the second book, and the much larger book that he still held in his arms.

“I think I should take both,” he said after a long moment to think. “Just in case.”

He smiled up at Virgil, who literally couldn’t stop himself from smiling back if you’d paid him. Logan was just too darn cute.

“Well,” he said, “how about I carry your books and take you back to the playzone, and you can get started reading these before you check them out?”

Logan nodded, somewhat reluctantly handing Virgil his large book as the two made their way out of the nonfiction section. “That is a good idea, because I am already checking out a lot of chapter books and my book basket is full and so I think my dads will help me carry these books to the checkout counter because they’re really big books.”

“They sure are,” Virgil said conversationally, holding a hand out to stop Logan as another librarian walked by with a cart. Before he could take another step, however, he felt something small and soft wrap around his free hand. Virgil looked down to see Logan holding his hand in his own tiny grasp.

“Papa says I shouldn’t hold hands with strangers,” Logan informed him, idly swinging their hands together, “but I don’t think we’re strangers because I know your name and you know my name and you’re helping me carry my books because you are a nice li-berrian.”

Virgil felt an inexplicable surge of protectiveness over this child he’d met only fifteen minutes ago.

“Sure,” he replied softly, letting Logan continue to talk as the two walked hand in hand back to the populated side of the library.

He almost didn’t want to interrupt Logan when they did finally arrive at the playzone, but he wanted to make sure this kid got back to where he was supposed to be before his dads found out he’d left. Dot looked at him from behind Logan, her eyebrows raising at the sight of Virgil a) not behind his reference desk, and b) attached to the world’s chattiest five year old.

“Hey, Lo,” he gently interjected when Logan took a breath, kneeling down to be on the young boy’s level. “I’m gonna set your books down with your book basket, okay? Where is that?”

Logan paused, eyes flitting around the colorful rug. “Um… it’s… oh! It’s right there!”

Virgil’s eyes followed where Logan was pointing. There, on the ground next to one of the large plush sofas in the reading circle, was one of the library’s book baskets. From here, Virgil could see at least a dozen junior chapter books poking out of the basket.

“Oh!” Logan exclaimed, darting forward and grabbing the handle of the basket in both hands and tugging it back over to Virgil. “Mr. Virgil, look, I raised my hand and asked Ms. Dot if I could please have the storytime book to check out for a little bit because I liked it a lot, even though it’s not a mit-sery book, but it is about cephalopods and those are octopusses and squids and ex-cetera, and she told me to turn around and the shelf behind me had tons and tons of books about cephalopods, and I picked out this book because it has pit-chers but it’s not a pit-cher book, it has chapters, too—”

Logan flopped onto his butt in the middle of the carpet, pulling out each book one by one and explaining to Virgil exactly what it was about and how many chapters it had and how he couldn’t wait for bedtime so he and his dads could read them all together. He chattered on and on and on, and Virgil didn’t even realize when he joined Logan in sitting cross legged on the floor. He didn’t have to talk much, but every now and then Logan would actually pause to breathe, and Virgil would ask another question that set the young boy off onto an entirely different spiel that lasted another ten minutes.

It was so different from working at the reference desk, quiet and hidden and isolated. Different, but not bad.

“Mr. Virgil?”

Logan’s voice was suddenly quieter, and it snapped Virgil back to reality. He looked at the kid, who was looking at his own tiny hands folded neatly in his lap.

“Yeah, Logan?” Virgil asked. “Are you okay?”

Logan nodded. “Yes, thank you, I’m okay. I think you are maybe the nicest li-berrian ever.”

The sincerity in his little voice nearly made Virgil reel back in shock.

“Really?” he asked, and normally he might be embarrassed about how insecure his voice sounded after receiving a compliment from a five year old, but Logan nodded immediately.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Ms. Dot and all of the other li-berrians are nice but I think you are the nicest because I broke the rules and you didn’t tell my dads and you gave me the name books for my twin baby brothers and you let me hold your hand and I like talking about my books and you liked hearing me talk about them. So I think you are— I think you are the best li-berrian I ever met.”

Logan fell silent, looking down at his lap and fidgeting with his shirt hem, and Virgil was honestly a little speechless.

“Oh,” he said slowly. “Um, thank you, Logan. I think you are… the best reader I’ve ever met.”

No sooner were the words out of Virgil’s mouth that Logan looked up at him with wide-eyed shock.

“Really?” he squeaked. Virgil was literally going to get a cavity from all of this sugar.

“Yep,” he replied. “You’re smart and kind and you care a lot about your baby brothers. Your dads must be very proud of you.”

Each word of praise was brightening Logan up bit by bit, and he switched to sitting on his knees and bouncing up and down.

“Will you play checkers with me?” he asked, hands flapping in excitement. “I always want to play checkers but Ms. Dot says I’m not old enough, but you’re definitely old enough, right?”

Virgil laughed outright at that. He thought about his reference desk, sitting unoccupied on the other side of the library. He looked at Logan.

“Sure, kid,” he replied, standing up with Logan’s book basket. Logan grabbed his free hand, and Virgil let him lead them both to the game table, Logan already explaining the rules in anticipation.

Yeah. Different, but not bad. Not bad at all.

~

Post notes: As promised, here's the guide to Logan's incorrect words!

Sugar-ette: Surrogate Set-member: September Mit-sery: Mystery Li-berry: Library Li-berrian: Librarian Ex-cetera: Et cetera Pit-chers: Pictures

[stefciastark]

Metal Arm ~ Webpril Day 7

A/N: Here is Part 1 of what will be a 2 part mini-story. Doombots threaten Manhattan, but with a significantly reduced team and some bad luck, things don't go so smoothly for Peter. It only briefly touches on the 'metal arm' prompt, but this is also inspired by a request from Hannah on AO3 to write a bit of 'post-battle injured Peter hides his injury and won't admit anything is wrong.' I'm really excited to write Part 2 tomorrow, had a lot of fun writing this first part!

~Read on AO3

~Read on FFN

Peter had never really been strangled, yet today it had happened not twice, not thrice, but it was bordering on his fourth time being on the receiving end of a chokehold. The Doombot cutting off his air circulation ended up being at the wrong place at the wrong time however, as three out of its four limbs were obliterated and sent to mecha-heaven. All except the one heavily bicep-ed metal arm that clung to his throat like shit to a shovel.

“Get. OFF,” he gritted through his teeth, tearing the appendage off of his throat and tossing what was now just a torso, head and forelimb onto the growing pile of Doom scrap metal.

He had to take a breather for a moment and remind himself that these were robots and not real people. Despite how convinced their A.Is were that they were in fact the real Doctor Doom, their suicide missions were nothing more than a result of malevolent - albeit skilled - programming.

“You good, kid?” The Ironman suit hovered a few feet away from Peter, appearing to dance slightly in the air as Peter’s brain started playing ‘catchup’ with oxygen. He felt himself nodding in response, muting his comms momentarily so that what was present of the Avengers wouldn’t hear his breathing; he was pretty sure the exhaust pipe on the old Vauxhall Cavalier his uncle used to own sounded healthier.

The team was small today; Thor was offworld, Bruce didn’t feel like having another near miss after almost levelling another city during an incident the week prior near Seattle, and Clint was - as Tony put it - too busy ‘playing house’ in the country. That left Tony, Peter, and Natasha Romanoff on the mission. Peter was unsure whether to call her Nat, Romanoff, or use her Black Widow alias, and instead anxiously settled for using none of the above and simply avoided using any moniker to address her whatsoever. It had worked out for him well so far.

While it was by no means a three person job, they would have to make do, and so far, they were making...something happen. The showdown had initially begun in Hell’s Kitchen and was progressively and concerningly migrating towards the Lower East Side. The closer the action got to the east side of Manhattan, the closer it got to Brooklyn, and the closer it got to Brooklyn, the more there was a chance of the threat moving to Queens, and Peter wanted to keep the rough and tumble away from his neck of the woods if he could. So far they had left in their wake twelve office buildings turned to rubble, eleven burst sewer pipes, and at least ten separate fires that he was pretty sure were still burning. All they needed now were nine civilian casualties and they were almost halfway to rewriting ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’.

Tony didn’t have time to follow up with Peter’s uncharacteristic lack of a verbal response as two Doombots that had split from the herd attached themselves to the red and gold armour, their green capes combining with the suit to make a metallic caricature of a Christmas tree. Tony had a whole three seconds of warning before their self-destruct protocols were activated, and everything within a 300-foot radius erupted in a shower of rubble, flames, and smoke.

The suit - for the most part - diminished Tony’s impact with the building adjacent to the Tenement Museum. Peter didn’t quite have the luxury of inches-thick armour, and as he sailed diagonally across Delancey St through the glass window of Double Chicken Please, he made a personal vow to make them his new go-to fried chicken joint as a form of apology.

“Stark, was that you?” Nat (Peter decided that was the name he felt most comfortable with) queried over the comms, the distant sound of shots being fired and the purring motorcycle beneath her leaking into the background.

A stream of expletives from the man in question poured in through his suit’s speakers. Peter found it funny that if it were anyone but Tony in any other situation other than their current predicament, the frankly obscene amounts of swearing would be concerning.

“How many left on your end, Rushman?” There was a groan and the uncomfortably familiar sound of shifting rubble. “I think we’ve just about wrapped up here.”

Peter had been working on gently extricating himself from where he lay in a supine position behind the bar, struggling to hold onto consciousness through a haze of pain. The wall between Double Chicken Please and Subway had collapsed, half of it inconsiderately laying across his chest. He noted wryly that he didn’t expect himself to be battling unconsciousness behind a bar until he was at least twenty-one, yet here he was, five years too early.

A large bang went off from what sounded like only a block away, which was then followed by a moment of complete and utter stillness.

“I think our last guests just left the party,” offered as an explanation from Nat, finally breaking the silence.

“Don’t you hate it when you have company and they don’t even offer to help clean up? I am sickened by the youth of today.” Tony had managed to disentangle himself from what could now barely be called a building. The engineer was able to identify the date of manufacture on the most recent wave of Doombots - they were only three months old. “Speaking of, Spiderling, let’s get this cleaned up. I have a date with takeaway and my favourite sweatpants waiting for me at home.”

“Try not to wreck any more buildings while I’m gone, boys,” Nat said, immediately beginning her commute to the Avengers facility.

Natasha had become the face of the Avengers during the inevitable PR followups that seemed to accompany any and every brush with threat since the Chitauri attack on New York. She was level-headed and presented well, and so far had the least amount of tallies on the “PR Fuck-ups” chart that hung in the communal kitchen in place of a calendar. It was the team’s personal inside joke that S.H.I.E.L.D didn’t approve of, which of course made them double down their efforts if it meant ruffling Nick Fury’s feathers.

“Try not to wreck my public image, it’s what funds those luxury bath bombs you keep ordering,” Tony shot back, no venom in his teasing words.

Peter was otherwise occupied during his teammates’ little exchange. He had his arms arranged in an upside down tricep pushup position, palms pressing against the sizable concrete slab that occupied the space from his waist to his sternum. As he lifted the offending cement off of him, he very nearly dropped it back down as the air rushed out of his lungs. Something in his chest shifted sickeningly, followed by a stabbing pain that burned everything from his ribs to his airways. Failure never an option, he persevered, relieved when the hunk of wall finally slid gracelessly down the pile of debris.

He thought having a literal chunk of concrete off his chest would feel better.

“Pete?” His name was said with such a mixture of impatience, exhaustion, and concern that Peter found his nerves standing on red alert. This would be the first hour of many on cleanup duties

Taking a wavering breath, afraid to breathe too deeply, he steadied his voice and activated his comms. “Sure thing Mr Stark, on my way!”

Peter winced; he definitely overdid it on the enthusiasm. With every step he took his discomfort grew until the pain from his chest radiated down to his hips and he had to stop himself from hunching over and limping his way back to the Delancey St intersection. There were only two of them now, a whole lot of city to tidy up, and not a whole lot of time to spend fussing over what was probably just some deep tissue bruising. Plus, this was his first call to action since July, and it was now approaching the end of November.

Bracing himself for the amount of suckthe next few hours would entail, he gritted his teeth against the throbbing that rolled like waves from deep within his chest, and prepared to put on his best Oscar-worthy performance he’d titled: “I’m Fine - A Teenager’s Pledge”.

There was no way he was going to let Tony down.

A/N: There we have it! Things didn't go so smoothly for Peter, and I know he has superior healing and all but this poor boy needs some more safety built into his suit. Tomorrow will be the Part 2 fill for this mini-story, so check back in for the concluding part :) Thank you for all your continued support, kudos, and comments. Please feel free to send any fic requests into my Asks! Sending hugs to you all <3

[recentanimenews]

Random Reads 2/18/21

Are You in the House Alone? by Richard Peck Are You in the House Alone? came out in 1976 and though I totally could’ve read it when I was a teen—and thus still a member of its target audience—I never did.

Gail Osburne is a sixteen-year-old high school junior and native New Yorker who’s not at home in the quaint Connecticut village her family relocated to several years back. I knew that the plot involved Gail receiving menacing anonymous notes and phone calls, and I was expecting these events to get started quickly and the suspense to remain high throughout. But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, the story is told retroactively, so we know Gail survives. Also, obvious culprit is obvious. (I hope the reveal wasn’t intended to be a surprise, but perhaps readers were less savvy about such things in 1976.) Initially, much more of the focus is on Gail’s relationships with her parents, boyfriend, and best friend, and in particular how the latter two are in the slow process of dissolution. Eventually she receives some threatening notes and creepy phone calls, gets scared, is let down by people in positions of authority, and comes face-to-face with said obvious culprit. That happens halfway through this slim novel. The rest of the book is about Gail’s recovery from her ordeal.

I thought Are You in the House Alone? was going to be fun, suspenseful fluff, but it turned out to be fairly serious and occasionally (intentionally) infuriating. I really appreciated how Peck was able to weave in a couple of threads that seemed very random at first and make them integral to the denouement, too. Ultimately, I didn’t love the book, but I kind of… respect it, if that makes sense. It didn’t go the cheap route.

The Automatic Detective by A. Lee Martinez Mack Megaton is a hulking robot who was created to destroy. He developed self-determination, however, and went against his programming. Now, he’s a probationary citizen of Empire City, where mutagens and pollution have created a very diverse population. While some “biologicals” are still “norms,” others have been physically transformed (like rat-like Detective Alfredo Sanchez) and others have been changed in not-so-visible ways (like Mack’s friend, Jung, a talking gorilla with refined literary taste). Mack works as a cab driver and is trying to keep a low profile, but when his neighbors are abducted, he can’t help but try to rescue them. This gets him into all sorts of trouble, of course.

Despite its name, The Automatic Detective isn’t really much of a mystery. I suppose it’s more… sci-fi noir. Mack meets various thugs, beats some of them up, gets beat up himself, etc. Slowly, he makes progress on uncovering a huge conspiracy. At times, I felt like Martinez was a little too enamored of the gimmick he created, and places in the middle dragged a bit as a result, but the ending is pretty satisfying and overall the book was enjoyable enough, even though it’s quite far from the sort of thing I usually read.

As a final note: I really liked that Martinez limited himself when it came time to invent universe-specific profanity. Instead of the text being liberally sprinkled with words like “frell” or “frak,” the phrase “Oh, flurb” appears but once (during a moment where the meaning is 100% apparent) and made me laugh out loud.

I don’t know if I’m necessarily eager to read more by Martinez, but I’m glad I read this one.

The Inimitable Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse When I read My Man Jeeves back in 2010, I was somewhat disappointed because so much of it was repetitive. While there are some common elements that recur within the eleven stories that comprise The Inimitable Jeeves, it is still so very much superior that I’d now say… forget about that first book. Start here. Go back and read My Man Jeeves for completist purposes, if that’s your inclination, but start here for the best introduction to these characters and Wodehouse’s uniquely charming and amusing writing.

First published in 1923, The Inimitable Jeeves contains a linked set of stories that typically involve affable Bertie Wooster being imposed upon by either his eternally lovesick friend Bingo Little (who is “always waylaying one and decanting his anguished soul”) or his mischief-making younger cousins, Claude and Eustace. One plot thread involves convincing Bingo’s uncle (who provides him with an allowance) to agree to Bingo marrying a waitress. Jeeves comes up with the idea to ply the uncle with romance novels featuring class differences to soften his heart, and it ends up that Bertie is compelled to go visit the old fellow and claim to be the author. In addition to containing the most elegant description of sweat I’ve ever seen—“The good old persp was bedewing my forehead by this time in a pretty lavish manner.”—this situation is referenced a few times in subsequent stories until Bingo succeeds in getting married to a different waitress who really is the author of those romance novels.

So, even though you’ve got episodic happenings, it’s rather a satisfactory conclusion. Bertie is endearing, Jeeves is competent, the writing is excellent, and it made me laugh. (I especially liked when a character was described as resembling “a sheep with a secret sorrow.”) I’m so glad that I didn’t give up on the series after the first book; now I feel as though I finally see what the fuss is all about. I’d also like to give credit to the fabulous narration by Jonathan Cecil. I’m not sure if it’s deliberate, but I hear echoes of Fry and Laurie in his performance, and I heartily approve. I will certainly seek out more unabridged versions read by him.

The Murders of Richard III by Elizabeth Peters This is the second in the Jacqueline Kirby series of mysteries. I haven’t read the first, and wouldn’t normally begin with the second, but the book promised an English country mansion plus “fanatic devotees of King Richard III” so my usual routine flew right out the window.

Even before university lecturer Thomas Carter likened himself unto Watson, I’d noticed the similarities between how this tale is told and the Sherlock Holmes stories. We are never permitted inside Jacqueline’s head. Instead, we see her how Thomas, hopeful of one day securing her romantic affections, views her. It’s fairly interesting, actually, because Thomas’ opinion of her fluctuates, sometimes peevishly. “You drive me crazy with your arrogance and your sarcasm and your know-it-all airs,” he says at one point. And though he soon after claims “I’m no male chauvinist; I don’t mind you showing off,” the fact is that earlier he was grumbling inwardly about her feigning “girlish ignorance” to reel in mansplainers and then walloping the “unwitting victim” with a cartload of knowledge. It’s true that Jacqueline isn’t especially likeable sometimes, but for remorselessly trouncing the sexist louts she encounters throughout the book, I must commend her!

The mystery itself is somewhat bland, unfortunately. The leader of a Ricardian society has received a letter purportedly written by Elizabeth of York, which would exonerate Richard of the deaths of her brothers, the “princes in the tower.” He calls a meeting of the society, with each attendee costumed as one of the historical personages involved, and summons the press, planning to unveil his find with much fanfare. But someone begins playing practical jokes on the Ricardians reminiscent of the fates of the people they are pretending to be. The book isn’t a long one, and soon the pranks start coming right on the heels of one another. Because of the swift pace—and some shallow characterization—the solution is rather anti-climactic.

Still, while I’m not sure I’ll seek out any more Jacqueline Kirby mysteries, this was overall a decent read.

A Perfect Match by Jill McGown The series of books featuring Detective Inspector Lloyd (whose first name is a secret for now) and Detective Sergeant Judy Hill begins with a short yet enjoyable mystery in which a wealthy young widow is found dead in a small English town on property she’d just inherited from her recently deceased husband. Unlike some mysteries of which I am fond, there’s no preamble where readers get to know the victim or the circumstances of their life. Instead, immediately there’s a policeman discovering the body and then Lloyd turns up to question the victim’s next of kin. This same lack of character development hampers the romantic tension between Lloyd and Hill, leaving me with no idea what motivated Hill to finally decide to act on her feelings for him, betraying her marriage vows in the process.

The mystery itself is interesting enough, however, involving long-married Helen and Donald Mitchell who have ties to both the victim, Julia—her late husband was Donald’s older brother and Helen thinks they were having an affair—and chief suspect, Chris, originally a friend of Donald’s who has fallen in love with Helen. I can’t claim to have mustered anything more than a mild curiosity as to what the outcome would be, but neither did I guess the specifics, so that was good. I liked the interrogation scenes, too.

McGown’s writing had some fun moments. I loved the super-evocative imagery of Lloyd telling Hill that her new perm makes her look like Kevin Keegan. I also really appreciated a recurring bit where each chapter ends with the point of view of wildlife. When Chris is eventually brought in by the police, his arrest is depicted from a bird’s perspective, for example. There are also ducks, a moth, a fly, a cat… I don’t know if this device recurs in later books in the series, but I look forward to finding out.

Reconstructing Amelia by Kimberly McCreight This is the second mystery/thriller I’ve read in which a single mom who is a lawyer with a cold and unfeeling mother of her own attempts to work out the mystery of what happened to a family member (the other being Girl in the Dark by Marion Pauw). Is that some kind of trend these days?

Kate Baron has a demanding job at a swanky firm, but she’s trying her best to be a good mom to her fifteen-year-old bookworm daughter, Amelia. She’s shocked to get a call from Grace Hall, the prestigious private school Amelia attends, saying that her daughter has been accused of cheating, and by the time she makes her way to the school, Amelia has evidently jumped to her death from the school roof. The police are only too happy to classify her death as a suicide, but when Kate gets a text that says “Amelia didn’t jump,” she starts trying to put together the pieces of what happened.

Reconstructing Amelia has quite a few problems. Despite her better judgment (and a promise to her best friend), Amelia joins a clique of bitchy girls at school who end up publicly humiliating her and trying to get her expelled when she falls in love with someone deemed off-limits. It’s hard to muster sympathy for what she ends up going through when one remembers the cruel prank she was willing to pull on someone else as part of the initiation process (largely kept off-camera to keep us from disliking her too much, I guess). We’re repeatedly told about the great relationship Amelia and her mom share, but never shown it. The subplot about Amelia’s dad is the literary equivalent of wilted lettuce. And the fact that the new detective who gets assigned to the case allows Kate to question suspects is absolutely ludicrous.

And yet, I couldn’t hate the book, largely because of Amelia’s friend, Sylvia. For much of the book she comes across as shallow and self-absorbed, but when Amelia really needs her, she’s there. She gives Amelia this tour of “great moments at Grace Hall” to cheer up her impressive pal, right before breaking down about her own legitimate pain. I never would’ve thought at the outset that I would have such immense sympathy for Sylvia, but I do. I find myself hoping that she’ll be okay.

Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane It sure is nice going into a book unspoiled, particularly one as twisty as Shutter Island. I was quite happy with the book as it began, with U.S. Marshals Teddy Daniels and Chuck Aule taking the ferry to Shutter Island to track down a patient missing from Ashcliffe Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It’s late summer 1954, and these guys are manly but accessible, and surprisingly funny. Consider this relatiely early exchange that cracked me up:

Pretentious Doctor: *makes remarks on the lives of violence the marshals must lead* Chuck: Wasn’t raised to run, Doc. Pretentious Doctor: Ah, yes. Raised. And who did raise you? Teddy: Bears.

For a while, all seems straightforward. Then Teddy confides to Chuck that he’s actually come there looking for a patient named Andrew Laediss, who was responsible for setting the fire that killed Teddy’s wife two years before. Gradually, one starts to doubt everything (and there was a point where all of the uncertainty got to be a little much for me) but the ultimate conclusion is a very satisfactory one.

Why Did You Lie? by Yrsa Sigurdardottir Set in Iceland, Why Did You Lie? starts out with three different storylines taking place a few days apart. The first involves a photographer on a helicopter journey to take pictures of a lighthouse on a rock in the middle of the ocean, the second is about a policewoman whose journalist husband has recently attempted suicide, and the third is about a family who returns from a house swap with an American couple to find some of their stuff missing and weird footage on the security camera. Of course, as the book progresses, these storylines converge, and it’s pretty neat when the police activity the helicopter flew over in chapter one turns out to be almost the culmination of the policewoman’s plot thread.

For some reason, I can’t help wondering how Ruth Rendell might’ve written this book. I think Rendell would’ve done a lot more with characterization, for one thing. There’s certainly some here, especially for the anxious husband who struggles to make his wife admit something really has gone wrong with their houseguests, but the primary concern seems to be getting on with the suspenseful action. Quickly, each plot features some kind of creepy lurker and then ominous notes (variations on the “why did you lie?” theme) figure in to all three, as well. Nina, the policewoman, digs around and talks to people and works out that everything connects to a supposed suicide from thirty years ago.

The result is certainly an entertaining book, but not one I could really love. One major issue I had is being able to predict something very significant. The number of characters who could’ve been angry enough about the 30-year-old lies in question to terrorize people in the present is very small. And once the existence of a certain person is oh-so-casually mentioned two-thirds through the book, I thought, “Oh, well, it’s them, then.” And then a little later, I figured out which of the characters it must be and I was right. This made for an anticlimactic ending that was clearly meant to be a shocking one. Also, I would’ve liked to have cared more that one character ends the novel poised to move on with life but, in reality, still in jeopardy.

I still would read more by this author, though.

By: Michelle Smith

[notyourpapashockey]

Hispanic Heritage Month Fan Highlight: Elan Lozano

NOTE FROM NOT YOUR PAPA’S HOCKEY: SOME PEOPLE DECLINED TO SHARE LAST NAMES, TWITTER HANDLES AND/OR PERSONAL PICTURES. WE RESPECT THEIR RIGHT TO PRIVACY, AND WE HOPE OUR READERS DO AS WELL. WE HAVE NOT EDITED ANSWERS ASIDE FROM SLIGHT SPELLING ERRORS AND ADDED CLARIFICATION.

Not Your Papa’s (NYP): Tell me a little about yourself - name, pronouns, where you're from, fun fact if you want, etc!

Elan (E): My name is Elan Lozano, I am a 29 year old Mexican-American male from Saint Paul, Minnesota. I am not only an extremely huge hockey fan, but I am a musician as well. I play the drums, a little bit of guitar and work at a music shop as well. I have a hockey jersey collection that is currently up to 20, but most likely will be more by the time this article will come out.

NYP: Who is your team (or teams)?

E: Minnesota Wild all the way!

NYP: Who is your favorite player and why? 

E: Matt Dumba, no question. He’s the definition of a true leader in my opinion. He is always the first guy to help the younger guys get acclimated to the team. He is always there to pick up his teammates when they are hurt and the first to stick up for his teammates in a scrum or a fight. He is also finally getting recognized for it with his King Clancy Award this year, but he is an extremely huge community leader. He is always donating his time to multiple programs, charities and even strangers since the first day he arrived in Minnesota. He has done a ton of work with the ACES program and it is amazing to see. He has also donated money to help rebuild Minneapolis and for Black Lives Matter. It still boggles my mind that he has not been considered an option as a potential team captain when Mikko Koivu retires.

As a player, when he is on, the Wild are on as well. He’s a player that very much can dictate where the team can go. Plus, he has one of the best one timers I have ever seen. He has an absolute bomb of a slapshot! I honestly think if he did not get hurt halfway through last season, we would be talking about Matt Dumba across the league a lot more as one of the top offensive defenseman in the NHL. I have all the confidence that he will be able to turn back around and become the 20-30 goal scorer he looked like he was going to be before he was injured.

NYP: How long have you been a hockey fan and how did you get into hockey?

E: For as long as I can remember. I would guess around 6 or 7, so 22 or 23 years. All I remember was seeing The Mighty Ducks as a kid and being hooked! I mean, it was a movie that was filmed in my hometown. It was like it was meant to be. As far as NHL hockey, it easily has to be the 1999 Stanley Cup Finals. I just remember Dominik Hasek being an absolute madman in the net and making some of the craziest saves I have ever seen. Still, to this day, it amazes me how he made some of the saves he did. In my opinion, Dominik Hasek in his prime was the best goaltender to ever play the game. He almost single handedly won the Sabers a Cup. Shoutout to The Dominator. Still is one of my favorite players of all time.

NYP: What do you like the most about hockey? 

E: This is [a] tough question. I do not know if I can pick just one, but one of the things I love most about the sport is the fact that an underdog can win on any given night, and I do not think you can say that about any other sport really. Especially, in the playoffs. How many other sports leagues can say that an 8th seed has a shot at winning their league’s championship if they are able to make the playoffs and get hot at the right time? Not many, if any at all. The feeling of anything can happen is just pure amazing.

Another thing I love about the sport is the passion of anyone who is involved or surrounded by the game itself. The players, the announcers, the writers and the fans. We all live and die with our teams. The players leave it all out on the ice. The fact that a player can get as big of a cheer for blocking a shot as they can for scoring a goal tells you all you need to know about the passion the players and the fans have for the game and for each other.

NYP: How has being Hispanic/Latinx in a white-male centric fan community affected your relationship with the sport?

E: My experience with the sport has been positive for the most part, but there are moments where things have not been so positive. I remember growing up and saying my favorite sport is hockey. You would have kids make comments like, “But, you’re Mexican.” I never took those kids as meaning anything hurtful by it. Most of the time, they thought it was cool that I was Mexican and liked hockey, but I learned quickly at a very young age that there was not a lot of Latinx representation in the sport and that has always disappointed me.

It is growing. Slowly, but it is growing. I always looked up to Scott Gomez and would do reports in school on him as much as I could because he was an inspiration to me. It is amazing to see that we have a Latinx GM for the Minnesota Wild in Bill Guerin. It is amazing to see Alex Meruelo as the first Latinx owner in the NHL. I cannot tell you how exciting it was to see Auston Matthews go First Overall in the NHL Draft. There was such a high sense of pride for me seeing a Latinx player go first overall and especially to arguably the biggest hockey market in the world AND be their star player. 

The more negative experiences I have had have more come from looks or getting the feeling someone is talking about you because you are different. When I have been at the local bars surrounding Xcel Energy Center grabbing food and beer before a game, there are a few times I will get looks or get the feeling someone has been talking about me. It has happened at the arena a few times as well. I never let it bother me much because I am not going to allow someone to ruin my good time and waste the hard earned money I spent on my ticket to the game, but at the same time, I am human.

I can only deal with so much before I want to say something. I usually never do because, for one, I am usually alone and two, I am a Person of Color by myself at a hockey game. I would like to think a majority of the fans would have my back in helping defend me against racism, but I always get the feeling security or the cops at the arena would take the other person’s side if I did ever speak up. The worst part is I am a Season Ticket Holder and I still feel like very few people would have my back to support me. 

NYP: What do you wish you could see from teams or players when it comes to Hispanic Heritage - especially teams in areas with large Hispanic/Latinx populations?

E: Simple. Outreach, outreach, outreach. Most of the time, the teams will go to the suburbs of the city they play in, but where the outreach is needed most is usually a lot closer to the arenas these teams play in. It would be as simple as taking the time to go to a local rec center and play some floor hockey in the gym with the kids. If you did that once a week or even once a month, you would get so many more eyes on the sport and get kids interested at a much younger age.

Outreach is the first step. The second would have to be donating not only time, but money and/or gear. The game is extremely expensive. From my personal experience, my mom did not have the money to get me the gear I needed to play hockey when I was younger. A few years ago, I was able to get myself skates and a helmet and started to trying to learn how to skate on my own. There was no way my single mom could have afforded to buy the gear and ice time I would have needed to be able to play.

NYP: In relation to the question above, what would you like to see your favorite team, specifically, do for Hispanic/Latinx fans?

E: I would give the two same answers as before, but I will specify it more to my city and to the Minnesota Wild. I live on the West Side of Saint Paul, which has a very large Latinx population, more specifically, Mexican and Mexican-American. I live literally 5 minutes from the Xcel Energy Center and in the near 20 years of the team’s existence, there has been no or hardly any outreach to this side of town. We could not live any closer to not only the arena, but to the practice facilities as well. There is no excuse the team has to not have more of an outreach in our neighborhood. We have a new rec center in the area, an indoor ice rink and the rec center also makes two outdoor rinks every year. There are plenty of opportunities for the Wild to outreach to the neighborhood I live in, but I have seen more outreach in the suburbs who are 30 to 45 minutes away from the arena. Even the Minnesota Twins rebuilt the baseball fields that are attached to the rec center and they are based out of Minneapolis, not Saint Paul like the Minnesota Wild are. It is extremely disappointing.

NYP: What is your favorite thing a team or player has done for Hispanic Heritage? 

E: It almost feels disappointing that this is my answer because I feel like it should be something on a bigger scale to talk about, but it has to be an interview/YouTube video that SportsNet’s Donnovan Bennett did with Auston Matthews about his Latinx heritage that was released back in February this year. It was great to hear him talk about his family and his culture. It shows where he comes from. Sadly, the video has under 100,000 views at the time of me writing this. It is crazy to me that the Leafs, or the NHL for that matter, did not promote this more for one of its Superstars players in the league.

[Note from NYPH: the video has since surpassed 100k views but barely, it sits at 100,684 as of Sept. 23, 2020.]

NYP: Tell me about a favorite hockey memory.

E: Hands down, my favorite hockey moment is Andrew Brunette’s OT Game 7 winner against the Colorado Avalanche in 2003. I was 12 and I remember it was one of the rare times my mom let me stay up late to let me watch the game. No matter how late it could have gone, she was going to let me stay up and watch the entire game. She knew what it meant to me. Quick shoutout to my amazing mom for always being supportive of my passion for the sport of hockey. My mom even let me watch the game on the big TV in the living room.

I remember Brunette getting a break to the net and when he scored, it is a feeling I will never forget. I just remember jumping up and down, screaming and crying out of pure joy. The emotions came over me. To this day, whenever I see this goal, I get a chill down my spine. No one gave us a chance and we took down the mighty Avalanche. We were the underdog, and we fought so hard to get a chance. To get respect. That is why I connect with the game so much. I am that person in my everyday life. I have to fight for every inch and you have to do that exact same thing in hockey.

NYP: What is something you wish people knew as a Hispanic/Latinx hockey fan? 

E: I think from a cultural standpoint, we have so much to offer to the game to make it better. We are passionate. We love hard! We dive headfirst into the things we love. We will fight, scratch, claw and defend our team to no end. Imagine having more players with that fire and passion on a team or in a front office. We have so much to offer the sport. We just need the opportunities to do so.

You can find Elan on Twitter: @MapexDrummer26.

[leahlisabeth]

– tagged (indirectly) by @aflailureandamasterpiece

are you staying home from work/school?  if you’re staying home, who is with you?

I am staying home from work.  I work at a library organizing programs so I’m laid off for the time being.  I am at home with my husband but he’s still working full time so I am alone a lot.

are you a homebody?

For the most part, yes.  But every once in a while, I do get the urge to go somewhere and do something.  We live in a small town and I like to go to the city at least once a month.  Being stuck here is definitely hard.

an event you were looking forward to that got canceled?

Hubby and I were planning to go to a concert where the Orchestra plays the score alongside the screening of a movie.  They were playing Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. It was scheduled for March 13 and we’d had the tickets for months.  They’re still planning to have the event when they can but it might be years...

what movies have you watched recently?

Hubby had never seen Kung Fu Panda so we watched the first one and we’re about halfway through the second.  We also recently watched Get Smart.

what shows are you watching?

I just finished a rewatch of Once Upon a Time and now I’m working my way through Psych.  Hubby and I also started watching The Tick together but I’m not sure if we’ll continue.

what music are you listening to?

When it’s just me, mostly a lot of folk music, either Scandinavian or Celtic. We recently added a bunch of Doctor Who music to our joint playlist.

what are you reading?

Lots of fanfic. I have a bunch of Marissa Meyer novels that I took out of the library but I’ve been writing and crafting more than reading so I haven’t gotten to them yet.

what are you doing for self-care?

Pilates every day, or nearly.  Also, yoga and stretching because I’m working on my flexibility right now. I’m trying to eat really well, lots of veggies and good whole foods.  I go walking as often as I can too. Lots of video calls with friends and family and trying to make sure that I have things to look forward to, like my weekly Pathfinder game.

I don’t really feel like tagging anyone so go nuts.  If you want to fill this out, just say I tagged you and you’re good!

[katcadecascade]

ML WIP Fic of Season 1

I got a bit tired of the salt of s2 and s3 and I ended up writing a canon divergent of one of the things that really got on my nerves originally: the adults

Winning is easy. Governing is harder.

“Mayor Bourgeois, any comments on your opposing candidate becoming today’s akuma victim?”

The flashing lights and loud pestering of the news media were brighter than ever in the city council’s hall. All the attention and publicity were magnetized due to the unusual circumstances that have unraveled throughout Paris.

Heroes with unparalleled strength and powers fighting against a villain that can easily manipulate a person into their darkest selves.

With that latter part in mind, Andre Bourgeois shakes his head with shame, “Witnessing Mister D’Argencourt becoming so deranged and agro over our professional careers is such a sad mark on our history. I thought he would be better than to succumb into his failures.”

“By succumb do you believe that all akuma victims are far too emotional and weak to the whims of Le Papillion?”

Ah, leave it to reporters to twist words the moment they enter the air.

“Nonsense!” The mayor said loudly, not shouted mind you, for he is a politician. “This Le Papillion fiend is the cruelest to everyone’s humanity. Thankfully we have our heroes, Ladybug and Chat Noir, ready to save the day.”

At the bold declaration, the cameras glinted at the super duo’s mention. Everyone in the grand hall couldn’t help but belt out more questions about the heroes, either about fears or hopes of the future but one voice prevailed over the others.

“Daddy, don’t forget to say how Ladybug saved my life!”

His dear sweet daughter is truly modest is she not?

Chloe is instantly at his side, despite his bodyguards’ initial protest. Her smile shines like a star, giving the cameras a picture perfect look of the mayor as a good father. He’s even wearing a matching tie for his daughter.

“Ladybug is simply the best,” Chloe stated, “Today she totally stopped that Dark Sword guy all to save me again. She just treats me as the jewel of Paris because that’s exactly what I am.”

The girl flips her hair over her shoulder, turning her head this way and that. Oh, the father thought, she must be modeling. That Agreste boy should give her a few more pointers.

“Oh my dear, darling,” Andre laughs, pressing a kiss on her forehead.

She immediately pushes him lightly, whining angrily, “Daddy, you’re going to mess up my hair!”

“I’m sorry Chloe,” he quickly has a bashful smile for the ever present camera. “Girls and their hair, I’ll understand it one day.”

A few reporters laugh, the men’s more notably than the women’s.

“If something as simple has hair puzzles you, I can’t help but fear the other things that you do not understand today,” a sharp voice enters the hall.

The click of high heels gains all of the cameras’ attention, leaving Andre’s twitching frown unseen for the most part.

“Hello, Amelia,” the mayor greets and makes sure his charming smile is captured as he makes a big gesture to meet her halfway and shakes her hand.

With the massive focus on Armand D’Argencourt akumatized into Le Chevalier Noir, the other mayoral candidate, Amelia Archambeau, had the perfect opportunity to have a dramatic entrance.

Her subtle smile does nothing to blunt the quick scratch from her red painted nails when their hands meet.

“Madame Archambeau,” a flurry of reports call out but one has a question that digs into Andre’s side, “are you implying that Mayor Bourgeois is lacking his duty?”

“Surely she’s not,” Andre answers for her, “that would be quite a childish remark.”

“Au contraire Mayor,” Amelia rebuts with her tone as sharp as her hair cut. There’s a snake in her smile as she continues, taking a step closer to the camera, “He dares say it’s childish on my behalf when in reality, it is unprofessional on his.”

“Excuse me?” He splutters but quickly composing his face. He lets Chloe be the face of his anger as her jaw drops dramatically.

“Le Papillion may have turned Paris upside down and yes, we have our faith in Ladybug and Chat Noir to return everything back to the way it is, our normal day to day lives,” Amelia’s strong voice enraptures the entire hall, everyone silent and patience to hear her.

From a nearby TV screen, Amelia Archambeau is framed in the center. As disrespected and angry Andre feels at this moment, he’s impressed at how her small frown is enough to not be interpreted as unreasonable fury nor uninterested disappointment. It’s her eyes that frighten him, black and confident and utterly ready to speak her truth.

“Yet that’s just it, our day to day lives where we experience emotions both big and small. Le Papillion abuses our vulnerability, forces it down into our weakness and his strength. Our heroes save us each and every time but does our mayor do?”

Having no idea where this is heading, Andre strides to her side, looking down at her, “I give where credit is due, to our heroes. They handle this akuma attacks. What do you expect me to do?” He turns to the cameras with a humorous smile, “Wear spandex and jump around Paris?”

Their audience laughs but when his eyes meet again with Amelia’s, her unimpressed little shake of her head is only a prelude to his downfall.

“I expected you to at least help,” she stresses, her lips pressed into a thin line. “There have been thirty akuma cases and each one woke up confused and disoriented and felt guilty for feeling emotions. No one should ever feel invalidated by that. My department of community service and volunteer programs has been setting up therapist and specialized experts on assuring the public that Le Papillion’s control on us is not inevitable. But we are a small effort compared to the absolute nothing that you, Andre B, have done.”

“I support our heroes through enforcing the police force,” he defended, feeling the easy air in the council hall boil under the tension. “Security perimeters are set to protect the public.”

“If that’s the case then why is there a teenager running into the fray?” Amelia directs her tight lipped frown to the people behind the studio grade cameras, “How is it that only one blog has the closet shots of the fights while the official news channels only cover up the aftermath?”

While the cameras are still steadily meeting the woman’s gaze, the reporters’ eyes shift elsewhere.

That elsewhere is Chloe who scoffs loudly.

“That blogger just doesn’t know when to quit her embarrassing little website,” Chloe claims, mindlessly checking her nails like it’s all boring news.

Amelia only blinks at her, “She’s also your classmate. Her website tells the public that majority of the akuma victims are also in your class,” her cold stare doesn’t waver off Chloe but then that ice targets Andre once more. “Most of these victims are children, Andre, your daughter’s schoolmates. Ladybug and Chat Noir are seen to help out the victims once the akuma is gone but surely there is more than can be done. You could have done more, Andre, you could’ve put more support in the public’s census fear of having one bad day and suddenly lashing out with an unbelievable damage.”

The mayor couldn’t speak a word. His general knowledge and efforts relied solely on the heroes and the police district.

Madame Archambeau faces the cameras, “I’d like to remind you all of my plans if you choose me as your new mayor. There has been an unbalanced of power to the police, the public, and the heroes. Everyone is responsible for their emotions but no one is responsible for a terrorist manipulating an unhappy individual into a bomb. I already have my department in charge of giving back to the public through the means of food drive, blood drives, therapy programs, homeless shelters, and many others that I know and seen Le Papillion lay his butterflies on.”

She closes her eyes, shame and sadness exposure through the tiniest of trembling hands that reminds Andre on how much pressure it is to be responsible for so many people that suffer.

Yet as the mayor, his pressure would weigh the same wouldn’t it?

It takes a few seconds for him to correct himself, now realizing how he effortlessly slides that sense of duty to the red and black heroes.

There were so many things he could have done, he realizes far too late as he watches Amelia open her eyes and straightens her posture.

“However this election ends, I will continue to put in all of my efforts into protecting Paris.” Amelia smiles kindly, so soft and strong, “It’s the least I can do to help out Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

That smile and those words, the ones that speared into his gut and politely shook sense to his brain, Andre Bourgeois can already see the results before any grand announcement is played.

He spends his last day as mayor thinking about the little amount of help he provided for his city.

[misstinfoilhat]

The Boy in the Belfry, part 14. A Bungou Stray Dogs fic

It was another week before Dazai was lucid and able to stay awake long enough to actually answer a couple of the many questions that Kunikida had written down in his book of Ideals (without scowling at the chair at his bedside and accusing it of judging him- Dazai really didn't react well to being medicated), while Fukuzawa lingered in the back. Ranpo was there too, as an observer and had gotten the task of calling out Dazai if he tried to bluff. Atsushi was there mostly as moral support.

Dazai sat propped up by pillows, wearing a metal back-brace, and his leg had finally been properly dressed in a hard cast. His head was bandaged after a couple of stitches to the back of the head, and Yosano had tried her best to replicate how he wore his other, usual, bandages. 

Old wounds, new wrappings.

Dazai sported his trademark crooked smile as Kunikida stared him down, waiting for the answer to his first question; what the fuck?

Dazai scoffed. "Yeah, I know, right?" 

He rolled his eyes wryly and shrugged his shoulders as mundane as could be. 

"Leave it to Dazai to be kidnapped by an old demented paranoid schizophrenic preacher," Dasai tsk'ed and shook his head in such disappointment of himself.

Dazai's inability to take anything seriously enraged Kunikida more than he could put his words to, but he had to keep his temper under control if he wanted to avoid being kicked out of the room by Dazai's doctors, and keeping his ass from being kicked by Chuuya (or Atsushi for that matter, who was staring at him warningly).

Kunikida's dissatisfaction with him was clear as day, which Dazai obviously had expected.

"Stupid questions get stupid answers," he concluded, reaching his tongue out.

"To be fair, it was a pretty... vague question," Ranpo added carefully.

"Don't you have some glasses to polish?" Kunikida snapped back, receiving a mournful look from Ranpo, being reminded of the grave loss he had experienced when he couldn't figure out what was going on with Dazai.

"Kunikida..." Fukuzawa warned.

"I'm calm!" 

… 

"Okay, I'm not calm." 

He took a deep breath and held it for ten seconds as he walked a couple of laps around the room.

"Dazai-kun, there's really no need to withhold any information anymore. We already know more than I know you would like us to... The only thing we really need to know is why," Fukuzawa said calmly.

Dazai's smile didn't stir, but there was something sad that shadowed over the usual twinkle in his eyes and dulled them considerably. He chuckled, but there was nothing humorous in it.

"Yeah, I-" he tried. 

Something in him wanted to tell them everything. At least everything he knew or could remember. He really wanted to... be understood. He wanted them to know why he was the way he was. Why he couldn't express his feelings, because, it wasn't that he didn't want to express himself, he just didn't know how to. 

Every emotion that once possibly had come naturally to him, he had been stripped off before he could even remember.

No crying, no laughing, no smiling, no anger, no sadness, no happiness, no weakness, no fear, no love, no hope.

His stomach started to feel queasy and he realized that he had been glaring at his feet for way too long. They were all looking at him, With the expressions, he knew was 'worried', which, they probably could feel for real. 

All the while, he was still smiling, which was the wrong expression,

He mentally swift through his "emotional library" and tried to fit the situation to his facial expression, but it was all too much and his stomach was feeling bilious and the feelings that he did have, that he had no control over, completely overturned him as his heart started to race and the bile was halfway up his throat. Panic. A feeling that turned physical, that he couldn't wean, only hide.

What happened next, he didn't know if was a blessing or a curse. 

But vomiting, he didn't need to fake. That came naturally.

He threw up all over the bed, panting with raspy breaths in a mix of discomfort and pain between the dry-heaves, as Atsushi tried to keep a straight face while stroking his back and Fukuzawa ordered Kunikida to do- something- Dazai didn't hear, didn't care, as Kunikida ran out of the room.

...

The following hour went by with a bath and a change of rooms. Dazai was reminded of how much of a pain in the ass it was to get clean with a cast on, and he tried his hardest not to react to the way the male nurse who was helping him watched his bare skin as he undressed the bile-covered bandages with that compassionate and surprised look they always got. 

He was so, so sick of it. Wished he could crawl out of his skin, shed it like a snake, and rid himself of it once and for all.

All the fuzz had made him tired, as well as the strong pain medication he had gotten when they had to move him around as much as they had to. His co-workers had left, but he knew they'd be back tomorrow to try again to get the answers they wanted, probably armed with barf bags.

Dazai didn't know how he was going to be able to tell them, rubbing his face with frustration, as he heard a strange knock on the window.

It could only be one person, as his new room was on the fifth floor.

Dazai's bed was placed next to the window by his own request, and he pulled the curtain away and cracked the window open, letting Chuuya manipulate the gravity to pull the security lock open himself and climbing in.

"There's a perfectly fine door over there, you know," Dazai said tiredly.

"The receptionist told me visiting hours were over," Chuuya answered nonchalantly and very carefully crawled over the bed- to not repeat the disastrous 'butt-to-fracture action’ he had caused a couple of weeks ago. 

"Also, you know I have a love for the dramatics."

Dazai smiled, for real. Chuuya could sometimes bring that out of him, which he appreciated.

It made him think...

"Chuuya, I need to ask you something."

"No Dazai, the hospital gown doesn't make your ass look fat," he sighed jokingly, looking in the mirror that was placed over a sink on the other side of the room, fixing a couple of stray hairs that had gotten loose from his pony-tail on his way up the side of the hospital.

"I know. I have a bony ass. You've told me," Dazai said exasperated. Maybe Chuuya wasn't the right person to talk about this with after all.

Chuuya seemed to sense Dazai's tension and regretted his ill-timed joke. 

"I'm sorry," he said and turned back to Dazai. "Are you okay? Kunikida-san messaged me about the incident with your... stomach contents."

Dazai's lips twisted into a slightly curved smile. "You and Kunikida-san seem to message each other a lot recently," he commented, acting hurt.

"Yeah, well, it's hard to have joint custody of a twenty-two-year-old."

Chuuya placed a chair next to Dazai's bed and sat down. 

"So, Dazai-chan," he said softly in a slightly higher pitch, as if he was talking to a child, receiving a tired smile from Dazai, and returning the smile calmly.

"What's going on?" he said, changed back to normal. Or, maybe a bit nicer than his normal, normal.

Dazai seemed to search for his words.

"I think- I think you are my oldest friend," he started. Chuuya's arched an eyebrow.

"I also think that, except for Mori, you're the person who knows the most about me, and... the stuff that has happened, you know, before..."

Chuuya nodded, unable to look Dazai in the eyes, knowing that Dazai probably looked the other way too. When Dazai didn't continue, Chuuya assumed he was stuck.

"Kunikida also told me that you blanked out..." he told him, realizing without much effort that there had to be a connection between Dazai's sudden sentimental statements and the events that had unfolded earlier that day.

"Yeah, I guess I did. Chu... I-I don't know why it happened. I actually wanted to tell them everything. Is that weird?" He looked on the other with genuinely questioning eyes.

"If you're referring to blanking out to the point that you puke- yeah, a bit. But, about letting your friends know what's been going on with you? No. Not at all. I think it'd be good for you to tell them."

"I couldn't. It felt like it got caught in my throat and when I finally got it unstuck- it came out as bile."

Chuuya sneered. "Well, I guess the imagery is pretty accurate."

Dazai only hummed in response, and leaned back in the bed, watching the city outside of his room.

They sat like that in silence for a little while, both reflecting on the years that had led up to this moment, where they were finally able to sit by each other's side as friends again, somewhat fucked up and complicated friends, but, there was nothing that wasn't fucked up and complicated with anything in their lives.

"Maybe you could write it down," Chuuya suddenly suggested.

"Huh?" Dazai turned to face him again, confused and weary.

"Write it down, what you want to tell them. If you're not comfortable with saying it... without spraying it," Chuuya looked way too smug about his own joke, "then maybe you'll be able to write it down."

Dazai grimaced. "I'm on a sick-leave for another 6 to 8 weeks. I don't want to write a report. Also, you know my handwriting looks like chicken-scratches."

"Yeah, you don't have to remind me. I'm sure you remember who wrote all of our hand-written reports for three years. But, it's not going to be like a report. It might actually put some weight off your back, and you only have to write what you want to write. I can bring you your laptop tomorrow."

Dazai thought about it for a second. Then, he looked back up at Chuuya with an undecipherable smile and gave a faint nod.

"Yeah, that's- that's actually a good idea." ...

The next day, before lunch, Fukuzawa was a little surprised to find an email from Dazai in his inbox. Even though the title said "DO YOU WANT TO INCREASE YOUR PENIS SIZE BY 51%?! WE HAVE AN INSANE OFFER FOR YOU!!!" he decided to open it. His anti-virus program was pretty air-tight, after all.

Also, he knew Dazai.

I am sorry about yesterday. I can't seem to actually talk about this whole mess, even if I kinda want to. So, I'm going to try to write it all down instead. Please tell Atsushi that I truly am sorry for puking on his shirt, and to Kyouka, who probably had to clean it. And to you, Fukuzawa-senpai, if you're insecure about the size of your penis. 

(Fukuzawa edited this part out of the email before printing it out).

I don't know my father's real name. I've only ever called him Father. Neither do I know my mother's real name, but my father told me to call her Yariman -Slut.

She died when I was eight. I also had two older sisters, which both died before I was born. Father only wanted a son. They are buried with my mother under unmarked graves in the Shinja graveyard, I've never known where.

Much of the events of my early life are not relevant to the case. I might be ready to share some of it with you someday, but not today. What is relevant, is that Father's ability is called A Sinners Chagrin. As you might have guessed, it's the ability to make anyone's greatest fear appear before them. He spent most of my childhood making sure that my greatest fear was of God. Which it was, for a long time. A child's mind is easy to corrupt, and his ability started in the form of a generic boogyman and slowly turned in to my own depiction of God. After that, he was able to prove all his horrifying tales of what God would do to me, as he manipulated his ability to do just that.

(Fukuzawa: I ask that you are the only one who reads this next paragraph and that you remove it before anyone else can read it).

I'm sure the question all of you are dying to know the answer to, is how he was able to use his ability on me, and I'm afraid that the answer isn't as exciting or spectacular as you might think. It's simply because I'm afraid. And when I'm afraid, my body shuts down and disassociates, which apparently leaves me open for attack. I have never experienced it with anyone else but Father, but then again, he is the only one that has ever made me truly scared. Except for myself, apparently- considering the latest form of Father's ability. No idea how that happened... Nope. Guess that one will remain a mystery.

As you probably understand, this is information that leaves me in a pretty vulnerable position if fallen into the wrong hands, which is why I ask that no one else reads it.

(…)

(Baha! I just explained to Fukuzawa why Father's ability works on me and asked him to delete it before any of you scavengers can read it, suckaaaas)!

I guess where to go next is how I came about to join the Port Mafia. I have my suspicions that there is a little more to the story than I know for sure, but anything other then what I can actually recall will be speculations.

As Father was able to make 'God' appear by using me, he started to do exclusive performances to the elite of the extremist Christian societies around Japan. You all saw what the man had become- a deranged and utterly useless preacher that actually believed his ability to be a miracle, but he didn't start that way. He was a con-man. He knew what he was doing from the day he started doing it.

Sure, some of the pure insanity was there from the start (runs in the family I guess- so don't come for me), he did kill his wife and two daughters after all. I'm not an expert on family dynamics or anything, but I'm pretty sure that that is a kind of thing that isn't supposed to happen in the stereotypical nuclear family.

Anyway, the former main physician- turned boss of the Port Mafia, Ougai Mori, somehow got a whiff of Father, and decided to arrange a showcase of his "ability to make God appear" in front of the former boss, with the pretense of recruiting him. I was ten at the time and had recently started to develop some issues with Father's ramblings of how there was nothing worse than the wrath of God, which I guess somehow had been a pretty big part of my entire life at the time.

We did our usual shtick, and, I screwed up. I had no fear of his 'God' anymore, but I did have a great fear of him. Father.

The pain he had caused me was very real and very much caused by him and him alone. So, that was who showed himself that day, and ruined everything for him.

I don't know what happened the next hours. I have no recollection of it what so ever until I awoke in the belfry the next day and let myself drop to the ground.

I have never tried to hide my wish of dying. This was the day I first tried actively to make that happen. The day I decided that I wanted it to happen by my own hands.

As I am writing this, it won't come as a surprise to any of you that I failed. Whatever happened the next couple of days are as defuse to me as what happened the hours before. I woke up in Mori's care and stayed there for a very long time. He told me during that time, that I did not need to worry about Father anymore, and later told me that he was dead. Clearly, he was wrong.

One thing that both Father and Mori both had in common, was the fact that their goal was to make me unable to feel anything. Not physically (far from it), but emotionally. This is the reason I am writing this. Because as much as (this is hard for me to even write) I know I have overcome, the part of real emotion is one thing that I can not...

I'm sorry. I just don't know. I can't.

(Chuuya is threatening me with releasing a video of me while I was going through puberty online if I don't leave that last part, and I just realized that severe self-consciousness is a feeling I have gotten back).

The Port Mafia trained me to be a numb pawn purely made for withstanding torture without giving in, and killing. That is my design. What I am. Or was. I don't know.

That leaves me to address what happened the night I was injured, when this whole mess started.

During the night (I actually do sleep sometimes), a letter was slid through the crack under the door of my room at the dorms. If you want to see it, you can, but in short terms, it said that he was back, and wanted me to come back to him. I don't know what made me go- the feeling of terror I guess (another feeling I guess still lingers). So I did. I was instructed to go to the belfry, so I also did. I blacked out, and I didn't understand what had actually happened until that day we were all in Shinja. He had used his power, and as it took the form of myself at ten years old- I did get scared. I didn't think it was real, which was my mistake.

I told everyone that I was pushed off the tower, which I was, technically. I pushed myself off. I don't know if that counts as another suicide attempt, but that is what happened.

…leave it to Dazai to be a suicidal maniac while trying to survive an attempted murder on himself, committed by himself.

And I think you all kinda know what's been going on after that. Except that- yeah, I did know what Mori was planning. I also knew that Chuuya was in on it. But don't tell Chuuya.

(Chuuya just hit me).

(and he told me not to write that, so I did). Fuck you, Chuuya.

I'm going to finish this off with a request that the contents of this letter are never to be read out loud.

Whoever within the Agency that wants to read it can read it, but after that, it is to be burned and never spoken of again. I don't want to know who reads it, and I don't want to see traces of its content in any of your eyes. I'm still shitty-Dazai, bandage-waisting-device, the office slacker and an annoying piece of shit.

I hope this answers all of your questions, Kunikida. This is the best answer I could make of 'what the fuck?'

Within the next hour that Kunikida read Dazai's letter, he stood by his bedside. Dazai was apprehensive, as the stern man walked steadily to his side.

The first time Kunikida actually believed that Dazai relaxed, was the first time he ever hugged him. "Dazai, you are so, so, so wrong. You feel plenty. I know you don't understand it, but you do. You are a good human being."

Somehow, Dazai did believe it. Even if it wasn't true, really. But, if Kunikida believed it- he wouldn't prove him otherwise.

[shadesofjanuaryblues]

Chiberia

Chicago.

 Chicago. One of the greatest cities. THE Windy city.

Also known as Chitown, Chiberia.

I live here. Not directly in the city, but about 30 minutes out west, in the most basic middle class town. It doesn’t fall into the small-town category, but it isn’t a big town either. But basically, you go to the grocery store, and there is a 43% chance of you running into someone you know.

Well, let’s start from the beginning. I’m an immigrant. 

I am pure-breed, one hundred percent Lithuanian. Born and raised. Well, I guess, “halfway” raised. I came here when I had just turned thirteen. Straight into the school-year. Eighth grade.

The middle school I went to wasn’t big. Everyone knew everyone. Obviously there were the popular, the “independent” friend groups, and of course, the not-so-popular. But I’m not here to describe the social pyramid of the American school system.

All you have to know, is that I was placed in an ESL class, which was created to help out students who have a hard time with English. This helped me gain two friends, which gave me a little comfort to go through the school day without having to cry in the bathroom during lunchtime. Hell, I was glad to have someone to borrow a notebook from.

Going back to the whole ESL thing: my family stumbled into the office of the school, merely 2 months after moving here, me having absolutely zero English skills and having not formed any because I was only surrounded by my Lithuanian speaking family, we were told that I was not going to be able to repeat 7th grade, and that I was going to be placed straight into the next school year. Of course, our pale flustered faces were accompanied by my second-hand cousin, who had attended that school as well, earlier on. Anyways, they put me in a class - for immigrants. FANTASTIC resource, don’t you say? Except the biggest problem was that my ESL teacher’s second language was not Lithuanian, it was Spanish.

Now you say, “so many people go through these classes, they learn English, like even you, you’ve been here for, what, eight years already? I can’t even tell that you have an accent!”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Heard it all before. Yeah, truthfully that class did help me. Not to learn English, but to complete my homework. That’s it. Meanwhile I was in an English class learning the same stuff as the other eighth graders were. History? A bunch of foreign words and gibberish. Science? Oh man, don’t even get me started. Even PE? CONSTANTLY hearing shit I did not understand. Like pacer test? Do you know how much nerve it took for me to ask a fellow classmate what the fuck that was and how do I do it? To literally make a fool out of myself with my “broken English”? Even math. Slopes, fractions, functions? I had not even heard of those terms when I got there, and in eighth grade they weren’t learning it anymore, they were perfecting it. So many hours spent by my kitchen table crying.

One advantage American kids had, was that they could ask their parents. I couldn’t.

Well, in other words I did, but they didn’t know.

 And the purpose of this whole written rant isn’t for me to shit on Americans. Not at all. It’s for you, the reader to realize or relate to the struggle immigrants have to go through. And many other issues that I’ll cover later, but this would be the first.

 Comes the age 15, I had befriended a fellow Lithuanian, a year earlier, who helped me ENORMOUSLY with my English. Not only the formal language, but the slang as well. This friendship was beneficial to us both, because at this point she had been living there for eight years, and having moved here at an earlier age, her Lithuanian was getting rusty.

Anyways, at 15 I started setting up my first bank deals with my parents. In person I would introduce myself as their daughter, the translator. I was learning new banking terms in English and Lithuanian on a weekly basis. By the phone, I talked on behalf of my mother, I mastered the art of lowering my voice and sounding more formal, knew my mother’s social security number by heart before I had even really looked at mine.

By sixteen I was handling most of my family’s bills, loans, car payments. I was answering most of their formal calls. Later that year my parents opened up a trucking company. With the help of some Lithuanian representatives, and myself, the company was running. I went over all of the contracts that were signed in terms of buying a truck, leasing a trailer, safety and all other regulations (not going to get into detail). Then, I got a temporary job at another trucking company in the summer solely to learn how to dispatch.

I had to learn how to dispatch so I could teach my mother. My mom’s English was still very weak at the time and she was scared to go and learn it herself.

In other words I had no choice. I spend my summer mornings waking up crabby as shit, going upstairs to make phone calls with cocky dudes with egos breaking through the roof. “Illinois to Alabama, one pick, one drop. Potatoes. 750 miles, rate 950”. See at that point I was taught to shoot double, then lower it to the most reasonable price. “Where’s the pickup? Loose potatoes? (Requires a paid wash afterwards, therefore rate should always be higher- waste of money and time), I’ll take it for 1500”, “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHa are you out of your mind, where have you even heard of prices like this? 1000, take it or leave it”.

Approximately 70 calls a day with one successful, if it’s a good day. Sometimes I’d be on that computer for over 10 hours.

My mom learned, she started dispatching, things got a bit easier. I only had to handle the “bigger” things. Claims, detentions and other shit like that. Stressful as hell, burned out most of my patience out by the age of 17.

At seventeen, I started rebelling. I wasn’t happy with my life, but I also felt fucking invincible. By then I had earned a bit of social acknowledgement, I guess everyone saw me as the bitch I was portraying myself to be. Reckless and bad as fuck.

Street racing, going 120 on the highway to the city and back, drinking in the forest in the car. Coordinating who’s throwing a party on what weekend, sneaking out and coming home hammered, only to sleep for a few hours and go about my day like nothing ever happened.

This lasted a whole year, shit more than that. I made a lot of good and bad memories, been places I really shouldn’t have been, but I don’t regret any of it. But guess where I ended up on Halloween night the year I turned 18?

Cuffed to the fucking wall at a police station.

Wow.

Who would’ve thought, what a surprise!

 I’m not quite comfortable going into detail in writing, but if you know me then you know the story, and if not, ask me about it in person, I’ll be happy to tell you.

The one thing I want to put on the table is that it wasn’t drug affiliated, and not criminal.

 However, I was facing jail time. But hey, I was lucky enough to get those charges dropped, and that was the biggest lesson I could ever have.

 From that point on, I went to my court dates, reevaluated my life, and started rebuilding. I had to switch schools, which introduced me to new people, ended up cutting some off, and befriending new ones. Graduated, started going to the local community college. I was working the whole time, trying to make spending money, still helping out my parents with all the financial stuff. In college I was undecided, tried out a couple different options, they didn’t seem to work out.

Not this brings up another issue I have with the way society has been built.

HIGHER EDUCATION.

I ended up picking something I felt I had an interest in, and not what my parents thought would be good for me. I enrolled in the architecture program. I was doing great, I was able to keep my focus, I wanted to improve and was eager to learn new things. Finished off the first semester. Through sweat, sleepless nights, and tears – ended up with all A’s. That significantly brought my GPA up.

By the second semester, I was ready. I was excited, because at this point we were actually starting to be able to create. This had to be my favorite part, because I consider myself relatively creative, I constantly have random ideas flowing in my head. It’s kind of like slight madness.

Anyways, when we started, my architecture program coordinator was teaching one of the classes. By that time I had already formed a professional relationship with her, she was very helpful and gave enormously valuable advice. Every project we did, I put my heart and my soul into. There weren’t any major guidelines, yet I kept being told to simplify my work. I kept being told to change it up, almost so I would blend into the other projects hanging up beside mine. I talked to my professor, she complimented my creativity, she said she hasn’t seen this much creativity and thought in a very long time, yet I still had to change it, and simplify it.

I don’t blame her, or anyone, really, but I felt myself get more and more suppressed. I felt like I had to fit into a basic box that’s been designed by someone else. I accepted it, decided to move forward. Life is all about compromise, isn’t it?

But then, in the middle of my somewhat peaceful life…

 ….I found out my mom was having an affair.

 It’s almost like being practically the head of the family, I finally stepped a couple steps down and within a few blinks everything went to shit.

Wow, I can’t even describe you how I felt, truly broken. Like even worse, I felt like family was ripped out of my hands.

I tend to rely heavily on friends and family, and these two really are the only thing that kept me alive throughout all those years. And just like that, it’s gone.

The day I found out, I had been driving to the mall with my mom. I was putting a song on thru her phone, when a text message came in. I recognized the number, I had asked her about it roughly 4 months ago.  She told me it was nothing, just some stupid guy hitting on her, and that she blocked his number. During that car ride, looking out the window I realized that all those evening yoga classes weren’t really even yoga after all. Shit hit me hard. But what I managed to blurt out was “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see this, so that we have one good last day, and I will deal with this tomorrow”.

Fast forward over the next month or so, listening to my mother’s lies, and my dad’s psychosis trying to vent to me, I lost my mind. Actually, this time. I lost it. I dropped out of school after numerous failed attempts to show up. I would park up, get my backpack and tell myself “okay I’m going to go in one minute”, on repeat, until the class ended and I would take my ass back home, shameful and full of hatred. My anxiety and depression peaked at this point. I went to therapy, refused drugs, decided to continue going to therapy until I got somewhat stable. My friends pulled me out of the hole, forcefully, very unpleasantly, but I am eternally grateful for them. Took a very long time to heal, but I healed, I got back up, and I started moving forward.

Shortly after my father found out my mom was having an affair, he switched his life around trying to win her back. I respect him for that, however it didn’t work. The house went on sale. The house got sold. Dad (who is actually my stepdad but has been raising me since I was 3 years old), was moving in with his friend. I didn’t like that friend at all, he was an alcoholic and quite inappropriate at times. Mom? Off with her new husband. Greta with her dog and cat? Choose.

Do I want to live with someone who makes me feel very uncomfortable and is quite unpredictable?

Or do I live with the man who is the reason my family, and my life has fallen apart? Whom I, in fact, fantasized about stabbing at the time?

 I said fuck you to them both. Picked up more hours at my two jobs, with the help of my dad, I rented out a 500 square foot studio apartment. I worked a fuck ton, and I mean it. From one job to another in the same day, back and forth thru the week. Paid my bills, dad helped if I came up a few hundred bucks short. My diet consisted of solely the food I could get at the restaurant I was working at. If I worked there only 4 days that week, that means I was only going to be eating those 4 days, the next three, I’d get off my other job, if the time was right I would visit someone and eat what they gave me, if not I’d literally not eat. Cigarettes were expensive and they were my priority.

Slowly my dad got back on his feet, despite his deep depression that he simply wasn’t able to understand. He started out helping out more and more, at this point I was able to save a few bucks for myself. Those bucks were spent mostly on ramen and bottom shelf wine.

A while later, I got promoted at my job. I started being a manager at the restaurant I was working at, and then slowly went into accounting.

Quit my retail job, and have been relying on shifting from manager to waitress for the past 6 months.

I would go into detail about how difficult it is to be put in a higher position as a 21 year old white woman, working with middle age white men, but that’s just a buzzkill. Everyone knows “white men run this shit” and I have a HUUUGE problem with that, but it’s fine. Not going to worry about it.

  So why, after all this time, this magical city that I’ve seen my best ant my worst moments in, suddenly makes me sick to my stomach? Why can’t I stand being here?

Is it a bad case of (literally all year long) January blues? Is it all the cold and the gray? Is it all the garbage on the streets?

Downtown Chicago is like a painting you hang up on your wall. “Like, wouldn’t it be cool to be there right now?”, or “okay, this is the building I’m going to live in”. Pure fantasy, baby. You drive to your minimum wage job that you hate, you see the Chicago skyline in between the clouds ahead. All it is – a reminder that you probably will not be able to live on the 92nd floor of that building, no matter how hard you try. Some of us will try our best, but we will not achieve great things. Chances are slim, so we definitely should still try, but prepare for the worst. Life is funny, it will never go the way you want it to.

 I type this from my dad’s apartment, which I moved back into, with the hopes of going back to school soon.

  A few more things I want to mention while I’m here:

1.       Value your family, always. No matter how dirty they do you.

2.       It’s okay to hold your life on pause, to fix and reevaluate, as long as you make progress after.

3.       Don’t rush to move out of your parents, you will feel lonely. Like really fucking lonely.

4.       Don’t max out your new credit cards if you don’t want to be paying the bill (I’m currently still working on this)

5.       Yes, these new Nike’s will make you feel like a bad bitch, but you worked 10 hours for this amount of money.

6.       Don’t take a fucking 5 year loan out on a car that doesn’t hold value, shit drops value by the minute. Worst thing to ever invest in.

7.       Treat your friends to lunch, and make sure they feel appreciated, even if it’s Wendy’s 4 for 4.

8.       Last, but not least: don’t fucking litter please.

[juliaisabellphoto]

February 28, 2019 - Stray Dogs and Fancy Hot Dogs in Santiago

This is my second time writing this post late at night on a Thursday because halfway through writing it my computer crashed. Now I am grumpy. Today, however, was fantastic. It was the longest day in the history of the universe, but it was fantastic. 

The students in my program and I were led on a tour to the major sights of Santiago by a university tour guide, and wow. I love this city. I have never been in a place so modern and antique at the same time, and I am obsessed with the diverse aesthetic of this South American paradise. So, here are some photos from our long stroll through Santiago and some fun facts that go with them! 

Plaza de Armas: The city center of Santiago. Apparently, every Chilean city has a Plaza de Armas, and the distance between cities is measured by distance between these plazas. 

Cerro Santa Lucia: The Golden Gate Park of Santiago. This is my new favorite picnic spot - the radiant green of the plants, old beautiful arches, and cobblestone paths make this feel like a fairy garden. 

There are a lot of stray dogs in Santiago! Not the mangy ones you would expect in the US - really pretty, clean labradors and retrievers that just stroll around the city begging for food and water. One tagged along for our tour, as shown below!

The tour guide stopped to discuss something that Chileans really value - inclusion. He did so using the example of this mosaic - the box on the wall next to the art piece has an imprint of the face as well as a description in braille so that people who are blind can appreciate it! I thought this was really really nice.

We visited the “Chilean White House” (which the Chilean president doesn’t actually live at.) I was struck by the fact that the below statue of Salvador Allende, a prominent feature in this square of government buildings, was placed just in front of the Ministry of Justice and Human Rights. A pretty clear statement of the national perspective on Chile’s tragic dictatorship and the government that existed beforehand. 

Next, we ventured to the Chilean Financial District - a beautiful mix of colorful art and old architecture. I was absolutely taken by the view below - the woman seems to be swimming under the street, completely free just below the city’s structure. 

Next, we went to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. This is a place where I would certainly like to spend more time. I know almost nothing about Chilean art, and it was nice to sit down with pieces by artists I know nothing about. I was particularly taken with the two pieces below - I wish I had remembered to photograph their descriptions and remember the artist names! 

Lastly, Chileans love hot dogs. Not normal hot dogs - “completos.” These are basically chili dogs on crack - hot dogs with anything you could imagine piled on top. The same is true for french fries. With my first bite, I decided that this city’s food culture was made for me. My stomach’s later reaction to the excess of cheese and bacon and hot dog begs to differ, but that won’t stop me from indulging every time I walk past the restaurant below, “Hogs,” in the future. I get the feeling I am going to gain weight here, and I’m not mad at it.

[storytimewithcort]

Fresh Start (Part 7)

FRESH START PART 7

Fandom: Marvel, MCU

Basic Summary: Everyone’s favorite ol’ AU where we forget Infinity War ever happened! Loki and Thor are living with the Avengers because why not. Reader is hired to work for Tony and Pepper, and she and her son soon meet Loki. Etc Etc Etc - Part 7, reader starts to miss her daily interactions with Loki, while Loki expresses his feelings with help from Thor

Pairing: Loki x Reader (Single Mom Reader)

Warnings: nothing to report this time around

A/n: I have been been both busy with work and then super sick this past week. So, I have replayed certain conversations and scenes in my head multiple times, but have been able to write in a many days. Sorry for the wait. I do have part 8 partially done.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

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The next three weeks flew by and you never had a chance to really talk to Loki about what had happened between the two of you that night you spent in the tower. You had started to the morning after, but you were only halfway through your cup of coffee when Pepper called you with questions about Jonas' typical breakfast routine. That broke the mood for sure, and you didn't know how to bring it back up. Loki seemed more than content to allow the topic subside. He quickly started to ask you instead about your plans for the day.

You wouldn't say it was awkward, it really wasn't or so you thought at first. When you did get a little time to spend with Loki you two were back to how you had been for weeks. You comfortably discussed books, old earth legends, or your four year old's naive yet uniquely philosophical views on everyday life. However, you were starting to think that you were seeing much less of Loki than you were now used to.

At first you didn't have time to take note of it. You were taking a class to get re-certified in CPR and first aid as well as working with Pepper to get Jonas into an unbelievably prestigious preschool program for the upcoming spring session. So you blamed the lack of Loki on your own schedule and didn't think too much of it. You barely had time to think for yourself anyway.

That changed starting two days ago when you felt like your life was winding back down to it's normal amount of crazy. You set both the kids down for a nap and were blessed that Jonas actually wanted to nap since he was starting to grow out of wanting to nap at all. You left the nursery hoping to find Loki in the kitchen area or outside on the balcony per usual, but he wasn't in either spot.

The same happened yesterday. And again when you went looking for him today. You sighed to yourself. Maybe he was avoiding you, or maybe you had been unintentionally avoiding him and he was now bored of you or upset with you. You decided a quick trip upstairs would be okay, you just had to make sure to avoid Tony as he didn't particularly like you leaving the floor with the kids.

As you entered to large common room upstairs you literally ran into the object of your search.

"Oh...Hi" you mumbled as you took a step back, trying to not focus on the hand Loki placed on your arm to help steady you.

"Can I help you with something Y/n?" He asked, looking down at you.

"Well, I just put the kids down for a little bit...Are you busy right now?" As you asked you were certain for a moment his eyes lit up in excitement, but he simply shook his head slowly at you. You notice how he's dressed in a warm jacket and scarf, even holding a pair or gloves in one hand and your stomach sunk.

"I'm afraid I am busy, Thor is taking me to see...something...I honestly wasn't paying attention to what, but he insists." Just then Thor comes around the corner and when you see him dressed for the weather too, you can't help but slump your shoulders a bit. "Rain check?" Loki offers in a more gentle tone.

"Only if that's what you want...I..uh..never mind then." You slipped back into the elevator and hoped you didn't look too disappointed in front of Loki. Just then the brothers entered into the elevator with you and before you could say anything else the doors shut and you forced yourself to stand up straight. Thor was as bubbly as ever and even offered you to join them on their trip, but you obviously had to decline.

As you made your way to step out of the elevator your hand brushed against Loki's unintentionally. His reflexes were astonishingly quick and he grabbed your hand in his before you could walk away. He held you in place for a brief moment making eye contact with you. Rubbing his thumb across your knuckles he repeated, "Rain check, I promise."

You nodded with a little smile and slipped away.

Outside the wind was harsh but it didn't really bother either brother as they made their way through the city. Thor led Loki through streets as if he knew they place as well as Asgard. A fact which Loki couldn't decide was impressive or a bit sad.

"Do we have to walk there through all these people? You're just going to get stopped every few feet by some adoring fan." Loki pouted as a group of teenagers practically tripped over themselves as Thor smiled in their direction.

Thor continued to smile and nod towards each passing onlooker. They were in fact stopped by a few people. To Loki's alleviation, not one of the fans seemed to notice much less recognize him. Once the men were more secluded street. Thor turned to Loki with a look that Loki dreaded. This was Thor's patented I know something face. It always caused Loki a headache.

"So..." Thor started, tone sickly sweet. "Y/n?"

"What about her?" Loki said flatly, the dull ache of annoyance settling in.

"You two seem...close." Thor commented, "Are you two together?"

Raising his eye brows, Loki scoffed, "I'm not talking about this with you."

"And who else would you talk to? I'm your only friend." Thor added, smacking Loki's shoulder lightly.

Loki simply walked a bit faster, putting a little distance between them as he tried not to acknowledge Thor's words. The cold weather suddenly as cold as the most arctic parts of Jotunheim. Or maybe it was just him. After all, there was truth behind Thor's statement, among other reasons. After a few minutes of silence, Loki reluctantly turned his head towards Thor.

"I don't know."

"You don't know if you have any friends or if you're with Y/n?" Thor teased.

Loki glared in Thor's direction, but continued anyway, "I don't know how to categorize my relationship with her."

"That's not hard to figure out. You obviously enjoy spending time with her. And she obviously likes spending time with you." Thor beamed.

"So you're saying I do in fact have another friend." Loki laughed hollowly.

"Loki..."

"Look," Loki sighed, "We have had...moments...of flirtation and romance. However, there will not be anymore in the future. I assure you."

"Does she know that? She seemed excited when she came upstairs specifically to find you today." Thor's voice grew at bit more interested.

Loki took a moment to gather his words correctly, "I think it's best for her if I leave her alone. She's clever, inquisitive, charming, and quite possibly has the kindest heart I've ever known."

"All of that sounds like good reasons to be with someone..."

"All good reasons for a good person to be with her. Not me."

"You're not a ba-" Thor started.

"I am a bad person." Loki cut Thor off with a side glance that emphasized his seriousness. "As honored as I am for your restored faith in me. I'm still viewed as a monster by most of this planet including Y/n's own employer. She has too much going for her to be bogged down by an association with me."

Thor's shoulders slumped a bit, unsure of how to argue Loki's sad point.

"Plus," Loki added, "She has a son, a family. I have a horrible track record with family. I've failed every one in my family at least once." He only paused to raise a finger in Thor's direction, cutting off Thor's words of encouraging disagreement before he could even voice them. "I've even failed you countless times, brother. I like Y/n far too much to hurt her or Jonas in the ways I know I'm capable of."

Thor made a noise of solemn disgruntlement and Loki thought for a fleeting moment that Thor might actually understand what he was feeling for once.

"So..." Thor started quietly, "When do you plan on telling her any of this."

"I've been trying to distance myself from her for a couple weeks now. However whenever I do see her, I forget all about distancing myself. I swear I can't say 'no' to her and I can't keep myself away from her. I hate it." Loki looked down at the ground as he spoke.

"That's because you like her." Thor mused, drawing out the word 'like' longer than necessary.

At the comment a small rock came flying out of nowhere directly at Thor's face, hitting him in the temple. Loki sent another pebble towards Thor, this one hitting him on the side of his left arm.

As Thor looked around the street to find where the rocks came from, Loki let out a small chuckle. "I already told you I like her. Weren't you listening?"

Brushing his arm as if to remove the nonexistent dust the second rock left behind Thor spoke, "I think I understand your concerns. But, you cannot make this decision for her. If you like her and she likes you. She deserves a say in whether or not your relationship moves forward. I say you tell her your concerns and see how she feels. I have a feeling she doesn't see you as a monster at all."

"I did not ask for your advice."

"Ah but you get it! It's my privilege as the older brother to impart my wisdom." Thor boomed, giving Loki another strong pat on the shoulder as Loki rolled his eyes.

After Thor finished showing Loki an museum exhibition on viking history, they finally made it back to the tower in the early evening. It turned out Thor's only interest was the few references on various artifacts to each of them, proving that at least at one time many humans saw both Thor and Loki as godly heroes, not monsters at all. Against his better judgment, all Loki could think about while they wandered around the exhibit was how you'd enjoy seeing it yourself.

As they entered the lobby the elevator was opening to you and Jonas making your way to leave.

"Hi Mr. Snake! Hi Mr. Thor!" Jonas chimed excitedly when he saw them.

"Why hello Master Jonas! How are you this fine evening?" Thor returned in a matching level of excitement.

"Momma says I can have noodles for dinner!" Jonas explained.

"That sounds lovely, I always loved noodles myself. I've got an idea." Thor offered, "How about I get Natasha or Bruce to order us noodles. They understand phones better than I do. Then you both can stay here for dinner. I could even let Jonas play with my helmet." Thor looked at Loki with a huge grin.

You shifted in your shoes, "I don't want to impose. There's a Thai place a block from our apartment, we can just pick something up there. Plus, I'd rather get Jonas home before it's any darker out."

"But Momma! Mr. Thor promised to show me a super hero helmet!" Jonas pleaded, tugging on your shirt sleeve.

"If your worried about traveling too late, Loki would accompany you home make sure you all made it home safely." Thor continued, eyeing Loki excitedly.

You glance between Jonas and Loki for a moment before relenting. "Ok."

"Yeeessssss!" Jonas screamed, running back into the elevator. Once inside he turned back and waved his little hand in his direction, "come on come on."

"You guys heard the boy," you laughed softly. Turning back to the elevator.

Sure enough, Natasha was around when you all reached the common area upstairs. She seemed surprised to see you, but was pleased. After ordering a impressive spread from a local Italian restaurant, you all just had to wait about half an hour. Thor kept his promise and brought out his armor and helmet. Jonas thought it was the coolest thing he's ever seen and proceeded to wear the way to big helmet with glee as he fumbled around the room.

You settled into a spot on a side of one of the couches to watch as Thor played well with Jonas and even somehow convinced Bruce to join in. Once food arrived you all ate as one odd, disjointed family.

By the time Jonas had eaten enough alfredo rotini to rival Thor, you saw the telltale signs of a toddler ready to pass out asleep at any moment. You quickly thanked everyone and started to gather your belongings. Ignoring the puzzled looks from Natasha and Bruce as he got up from the table to follow you, Loki made his way to you across the room.

"I can escort you home." He said as he reached your side.

You turned to face him and instantly blushed at his proximity. This is the closest you had been to him since you were literally in his lap and you couldn't stop your self from thinking about just that. He obviously noticed your blush, because he smirked and raised an eyebrow at you. You shook your head in a way to calm your self and nodded more directly to Loki.

"I'd love that."

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Lovely people: @1v-kayla , @unicorniorosacomefrutillas, @jessiejunebug, @hiddlestonstansworld, @hey-liz-hey, @fortheloveofallthatsholy, @perceptorxbrainstorm, @kinghiddlestonanddixon, @ godhateskyleigh, @illogicalfangirl and hopefully I didn’t miss anyone.

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[disorientedblog-archive]

“A Form of Excavation” – Interview with Jihyun Yun on Writing Poetry in Korea and in Diaspora

Jihyun Yun is a Korean-American poet from California. A 2017 Fulbright Junior Research grantee and four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, she received her BA in Psychology from UC Davis and her MFA from New York University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bat City Review, 32 Poems, Adroit Journal, AAWW The Margins, and elsewhere. She currently resides in Ann Arbor Michigan where she is editing and querying her first full-length collection Some are Always Hungry. Follow her work on www.jihyunyun.com and on Twitter @jihyunyunpoetry.

Paige Morris: Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with Disoriented. First of all, could you tell me a little about yourself? Your essential or inessential biography, anything you deem noteworthy, is welcome.

Jihyun Yun: Thank you so much for reaching out! I’ve loved so much of what I’ve read on Disoriented and wholeheartedly support your mission, so I’m thrilled to be in dialogue now.

I’m a second-generation Korean-American. Though I was born and raised in California, Korean was my dominant tongue until I entered school, after which I swiftly and deliberately stopped using and forgot much of it. It’s a huge regret of mine that I’m trying to rectify now by practicing Korean as much as possible.

I came to poetry when I was a junior at UC Davis in California. Before then, I was a psychology major actively pursuing a career I wasn’t really equipped for in crisis counseling. The poem that flipped the switch in my head was Li Young Lee’s “Persimmons.” The way the poem handled identity and linguistic estrangement really spoke to me. That one poem was the reason I switched tracks so late in my undergrad to major in English and eventually enroll in New York University’s MFA program. It completely rerouted my life, which I am thankful for.

An inessential piece of biography is that I’m a complete glutton, and my love-language is food. My family and I cook for each other in lieu of saying I love you which I feel is true for many immigrant families. This is embarrassingly prevalent in my poetry.

PM: I, for one, love the centrality of food in your poems. I’m currently an MFA student myself, and in a recent class, a professor of mine—the poet Brenda Shaughnessy—said poets often spend their lives writing the same poem, carving smaller poems out of that one, writing variations on the same theme. How true would you say that is for you and your poetry? What would you say is the poem—the theme, the obsession, the question—you tend to circle back to in your work?

JY: (First of all, swoon. I love Brenda Shaughnessy’s work so much!) I would definitely agree with that idea, at least for myself. My work is obsessed with being the daughter of a family of immigrants, with my family history—particularly my Grandmother’s experience fleeing from North Korea during the war—and with food—both the having of and the dearth of, how food is informed by history or used as a vehicle to survive where you are othered. My poems really circle mostly around the lives of the women I love, so much so that my body of work is almost bereft of men. If they appear, they appear mostly as a vague, ominous force, like dangerous weather.

This vulturing around a handful of topics used to be a source of anxiety for me when I first began writing, but I no longer discredit myself for it. Navigating the same themes is a form of excavation for me. It’s interesting to read back on some of my very first poems about identity and those same obsessions I write about now, seeing how much internalized racism I still held in my throat at age 21, and understanding how far I’ve come.

PM: There are some fantastic, contemporary Korean American poets writing in diaspora today. The access each poet has to the place(s) they write about, from, and/or toward in their work, of course, varies. Some poets like Lee Herrick are said to be writing toward Korea from outside about topics like adoption, location, and exile. Other poets like Emily Jungmin Yoon write poems with dual sensitivities, rooted in both Korea and North America. Where in this diaspora, this conversation, do you see yourself and your poetry?

JY: I think I’m still trying to understand where I fit on this spectrum. On one hand, I know I am an inheritor of much of Korea’s modern history: my Grandparents both lived through the Japanese colonization of Korea and then the war, and my Great-Aunt was a “Western Princess,” a somewhat derogatory moniker that was used to refer to Korean prostitutes on US bases and camp-towns during the Korean War, many of which were conscripted into sexual labor via coercion and desperation. It’s impossible to feel unaffected by their testimonies I grew up listening to, and I believe it informs me in more ways than I fully understand. I feel a personal call to write towards them, but I know I must do so from the position of a guest, not fully rooted in either.

PM: Speaking of place, the first time I encountered your work was during a conference on Jeju Island in South Korea. You were a Fulbright scholar presenting your creative project, a collection of poems exploring the lives of the female divers, the Haenyeo (해녀), in Jeju and Busan. Can you talk about the origins of that project?

JY: I was actually encouraged to apply for the Fulbright grant by my thesis advisor, Yusef Komunyakaa. So many of my thesis poems were about family history and Korea, so when I told him that I’d actually never gone to Korea before except as a two-year-old, he insisted it would be important for me to experience living there.

I’ve been fascinated by the Haenyeo since I was young. My Grandma used to tell me stories, and I remember us watching a television documentary about the tradition together. I think when I first set out to write that project, I felt an urgency knowing that the tradition is slated to disappear in my lifetime.

About halfway through the grant, though, I noticed myself distancing from the project. Not because I was not interested and in awe of these women, but because I realized I wasn’t the right person for this task. I think this goes back to your question about where I see myself on the spectrum of Korean writers of diaspora. As a guest in the country with no familial ties to Jeju, I just ethically didn’t feel right about being the one to write this collection anymore.

I still continued to go observe and interact with the Haenyeo for the duration of my grant, but I no longer wrote poems about their work. Now my Fulbright work-in-progress manuscript is a long-form hybrid essay/memoir about my family’s immigration and repatriation, my feelings about failing the mission of my grant, and just basically being in Korea for the first time as a second-generation Korean. I’m realizing now that there is really no way for me to make that sound at all interesting, but I’m having a great time writing it.

PM: What is most salient to you now about the time you spent living in Korea?

JY: I lived in Busan on a street lined with love motels. A pickup truck drove down my alley every morning with a megaphone atop it announcing the price of hairtail and tilefish. The men on mopeds often nicked my ankles with the business cards they were paid to flick as they drove around the city. There was an old-school liquor store in my neighborhood run out of a grandma’s one-room home. When I went in to buy water or beer, she was usually behind a curtain watching TV. She would tell me to leave the money on the table and take whatever I need. I never even saw what she looks like. I spent many nights on Gwangalli beach, and the light show never failed to make me happy.

In Jeju, I helped a group of Haenyeo harvest a bunch of turban-conch from their shells. I did a homestay at one of the women’s home in a village where no one locked their doors. I went on a Jeju Massacre remembrance tour and listened to the testimony of a living survivor. I went to the basalt beaches and watched tourists enjoy themselves in the water. I took a volcanic rock back home with me in my pocket.

PM: How did your writing process change, if at all, while you were living in Korea?

JY: My time in Korea was such a gift in that it allowed me to treat writing as my full-time job, something I’d never experienced up to that point. In California and New York, I was always juggling writing with waitressing in order to make ends meet. In New York, I sometimes worked upwards of 50 hours a week and put writing on the backburner. I was lucky if I wrote one poem every few months. In Korea, I got to fully commit to immersing myself in the day-to-day life of the city, strike up lazy conversations with strangers and write for hours every day without guilt. Travelling was also a big part of my year in Korea. Most often to Jeju to talk to the Haenyeo, but also often to Uijeongbu, which is the city my mother was raised in and where my Grandparents have recently repatriated to.

PM: In what ways did your experience living in Korea inform your poetry, in the end?

JY: If living in Korea has informed my poetry in a significant way, I don’t think enough time has passed for me to detect it. As someone who had never travelled abroad before, I thought the transformation in my writing would be immediate and obvious, but it hasn’t really been so. Perhaps with more distance and time, though, I’ll look back and realize a shift had occurred without me even knowing it.  

What I am thankful for are all the experiences and memories I have that I was able to render into poems. Like exploring Seoul with my Grandma and seeing the city through her eyes like a double-exposed film: the Seoul it is today and the Seoul it was in her youth. Revisiting her old elementary school, and the location where her first love’s cigarette factory used to stand (it’s a shopping complex now). Even if my general tone and way of writing experiences has not changed dramatically, I’m so glad to have so many memories catalogued to wrought poems out of.

PM: What draws you to places as subjects of poems? Are there other places you’re interested in writing about?

JY: This is also within Korea, but I regret never going to Iksan in Jeolla province during my Fulbright year, as that is where my Grandfather is from. My Grandfather’s early life has always been a bit of a question mark to me, but the bits and pieces I am told by my Mother and Grandmother are fascinating. I know he has some living relatives in Iksan, and I would love to talk to them. Whether or not I write about it would depend, though, as I’m not sure if there would be a permission there. But in the future, I would like to write about my Grandfather (and perhaps the other men in my life) more.

PM: What’s next for you? Are there any projects you’re excited to share, poetic or otherwise?

JY: An unexpected gift from my year on the Fulbright is that it helped me finish my first full-length collection of poems which I’d been working on since my MFA. I’m in the process of querying it now at various presses. In April, I am collaborating with The Visible Poetry Project and emerging filmmaker Damani Brissett on a short film based on my poem “All Female.” And I am steadily working on my aforementioned memoir, tentatively titled Our Blue the Hue of Thirst. I’ve never written memoir or lyric essay before and the newness is still giddying.

Photos provided by Jihyun Yun