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maprron · 3 years

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Crush Culture

Chapter 4

Chapter 1| Chapter 2| Chapter 3

Summary: Lucy is your average teenage girl... but she's not, it's complicated but not in a "OH I'm actually a supernatural being" but in a "OH I have to get married as soon as I turn 18" type of way. Problem #1 she doesn't like anyone and problem #2 she might have to marry her dad's friend's son... yay

Disclaimer: This story was created mainly for my friend and has no romance but they are gay so... also I did read over this a bunch but if something doesn’t make sense blame my dyslexia... okay let’s continue (yes the disclaimer is the same each time, I’m lazy :) )

Gray Fullbuster is one of the most popular guys in town and if you asked most of anyone they would say hottest as well.

Out of nowhere his family up and moved to Magnolia 6 years ago. Many businessmen were ecstatic to have THE Silver Fullbuster, a businessman who is equally rich as he is influential. This includes Lucy’s father. And this is how Lucy knows him.

That is also how Natsu knows him.

All those years ago both of their fathers dragged them to a fancy dinner party with the Fullbusters and other business families.

Lucy, who was 11 at the time, noticed that Gray felt nervous all night. He kept playing with the collar of his shirt, his tie, or kept twisting his short, curly, black hair around his fingers. Every time either of his parents would introduce him Lucy saw him tense up.

She thought it was odd.

Then when Natsu got bored in the middle of dinner, something that only ever happens at these dumb parties, he whispered something in Lucy’s ear

“I’m going to go talk to him,” his eyes fell on Gray, whose eyes quickly shifted away from Natsu’s gaze “wanna come?”

“Are you an idiot?” Lucy whispered back to the boy that was seated right next to her but it was too late and Natsu only had to prove the obvious, that he was an idiot. He got out of his chair suddenly and Lucy desperately tried to pull him back down to his seat beside her. She couldn’t so she ended up jumping up instead and flustered said “may we be excused?” quickly with her hands on her thighs and her head bowed a little.

“Yes, you may sweetie,” Gray’s mother said with a smile. Lucy lifted her head up to smile at the woman before going after Natsu.

“Hey, Gray is it? Uh my me and my friend-”

“Don’t bring me into this” Lucy whisper yelled at him, elbowing him in his side

“Ow what was that for?” He rubbed his side before continuing “anyway, I’m Natsu and this is Lucy and I wanted to know if you wanted to hangout or something” his goofy grin was present on his face

“Oh… I’m not sure if I should” Gray voice was quite as he tried to avoid their gaze, opting to look at his lap instead

“Aw come on it’ll be fun” he smiled once again

‘Natsu stop showing him that stupid grin you are probably making him uncomfortable’ Lucy thought to herself as she also thought of all the ways her father was going to kill her later

“Oh… okay” Gray said, still in that quiet voice. He gently took the dinner cloth off of is lap and placed it by his plate as he stood up “may I also be excused” this time it was his father that nodded his head

“NATSU HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND DO YOU KNOW MY OUR- NO MY DAD WILL DO TO ME FOR LEAVING A DINNER EARLY, HE HATES WHEN I-” Lucy yelled at Natsu as soon as they walked outside the house. Natsu swiftly covered the blonde’s mouth to shut her up

“Aw come on can’t you have a little fun in your life, besides I think he needs a friend” Lucy’s muffled screams could be heard behind Natsu’s hot hand. Natsu took his hand off of Lucy's mouth. “We,” he motioned to the both of them in a goofy manner “could be those friends”

“Gray I am so sorry if this idiot has bothered you” she sighed, reaching a hand out towards him “I’m Lucy and if anyone asks I am in no way associated with him.” That comment made Gray laugh

“You have a beautiful smile and laugh, how come you haven't used it all night?” Lucy asked, smiling back at the boy

“Oh… uh… I guess i’m just self conscious about it” he fiddled with his hand nervously

“You shouldn’t be it looks so good on you” her smile still showed

“Thank you” he mumbled

Hey Gray,” Natsu’s loud mouth decided to ruin the moment “why did your family move here in the first place?”

“Natsu!” Lucy rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips

“What? You know you were thinking it too” he said mimicking her pose

“Oh uh… my father… YEAH my father he thought it would be a better place to live” Gray nervously said

“You sure, you don’t sound confident?” Natsu said as he got way too close to Gray

“Uh YEAH, why wouldn’t it be? Is it hot in here it feels hot in here…”

“We’re outside…” Natsu said

“Oh right… um… I guess it’s too hot outside i’m going to go in” he was flustered as he walked back inside, fanning his face with both of his hands

“Natsu!” She turned to face the pink haired boy “what have I said about questioning what people say?” her face was full of anger as she walked off after Gray

“Not to do it” he said even though Lucy was too far away to hear him now

Lucy walked through the big house looking for Gray. She decided to stop in the dining room and ask if anyone had seen him.

“Excuse me” she smiled as she walked through the archway of the dining room. “Has Gray come through or past here?”

“No, honey, why do you want to know?” Gray’s mother replied to Lucy

“Oh… um… we’re playing hide n seek” Lucy lied but it was believable unlike the lies that Natsu would tell their parents about them “going to the zoo for the past” a real thing he said once.

“Well wouldn’t this be cheating” Natsu’s father replied with a laugh, Natsu has the same laugh, she guessed the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree

Lucy softly laughed “oh yes sir, I just couldn’t find him, he must be go” she smiled “I’ll be going now, thank you”

She then continued to walk the long hallways of the home, looking in almost every room until she found him.

“I’m so sorry about him, Gray” Lucy sighed as she found Gray sitting in one of the studies “he likes asking too many questions, he’s working on it” she found herself laughing at the joke that he was working on anything, no he is the same Natsu as he will be in 40 years, he won’t change

“Oh no, it’s fine” Gray mumbled into his knees with tears rolling down his face. Lucy saw them but chose not the comment on them.

“Are you still down to talk? I won’t ask any invasive questions” she said with a smile as she sat down beside the boy

“Sure” he looked up, wiping his tears off of his face with his sleeves. Lucy hoped that his parents wouldn’t care if he had tear covered sleeves and pants like her father or he would be dead as soon as he walked down those stairs.

“Alright” she clasped her hands together “uh let’s start easy, what’s your favorite color?”

As Lucy asked the question, Gray's eyes lit up, something they hadn’t done in a long time.

~~~

“Ah, well I see you two finally got over your differences?” Gray stood in front of the two that were sitting next to each other at lunch. Lucy was reading a book and Natsu leaned against her shoulder mumbling something about “how are you reading so fast” and “slow down”.

“Not quite,” Lucy said, looking up from her book to stare at the blue eyed boy in front of her “he’s still the same idiot he has always been”

“He’s working on it” Gray quoted Lucy from all those years ago

“You know I was lying when I told you that” Lucy laughed

“Yeah, but it cheered me up a little”

“What?” A confused Natsu looked back and forth at the two.

“I’m glad you aren’t mad at me for making empty promises” she giggled as she avoided the question

Gray smiled at Lucy’s comment, tucking his hands into his baggy hoodie that it seemed like he always wore.

Many people questioned why he never joined a sport, he was the perfect fit for it after all. “Was being popular the perfect fit?” He questioned every time he was told that. He chuckled to himself as he left the cafeteria, heading for the bathroom. He is reminded of all the times coaches had begged him to at least try out as they claimed he had the perfect body for it.

But that’s just it. It is because he doesn’t have the perfect body that he can’t.

But they don’t know that

Gray stood alone in a school bathroom that no one ever went to, or so it seemed. The truth was he wasn’t alone. He heard the crying. He knew he wasn’t alone because he followed the source of the tears in there after he left Lucy and Natsu alone in the cafeteria.

They didn’t know he had but the moment they saw his shoes from under the stall, as he stood in front of the sink staring at his reflection, they tried desperately to stop crying.

It didn’t work.

Gray could hear the sniffles from them.

He heard the pain.

Pain that they tried so desperately to hide.

He wishes he could cry out to them, that it gets better, but it doesn’t.

And that is pain

No, Gray realized that none of it ever is easy, the world doesn’t work that way.

“You don’t have to quiet your pain” he heard his mouth say before his brain could even think of it.

“Doesn’t that make me weak?” He heard the soft voice of the person that is said to have never spoken. Of course that is just a joke because he can hear it right now

“No” he spoke gently

“Yes it does” they cried more. They heard his shoes sound like they were walking away so they assumed he had given up and just left the bathroom. They were startled when that turned to not be the truth.

“Open the door” Gray suddenly said as he stood in front of the closed stall door

“N-no… then you’ll know who I am and leave… like everyone else” they cried louder as if the world was crushing in on them

“I know who you are” he said “now open the door”

They were confused on how he knew them but they unlocked the door and opened it slowly anyway, they knew who they were talking to. Who wouldn’t recognize Gray Fullbuster’s voice.

“Why would you want to talk to me?” They said as they opened the door

“Why would you want to hide from yourself?” Gray said observing the person in front of him. They had short, curly, blue hair that stopped right above their shoulders. They wore a baggy blue sweater that went just below their butt with some baggy jeans. Gray thought the outfit suited them yet also showed them running from themselves. It represented them hiding, like a turtle in its shell.

But who was he to say anything about it? He has worn the same hoodie for years to hide.

“I’m not,” they remarked. A lie

“You are, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk I just figured you needed someone to talk to” he rubbed his next and let out a sigh

“But why you? We have nothing in common” they said, rubbing their hand up and down their arm

“You might be surprised how much we actually do,” he smiled down at them.

They remained silent for a moment before Gray reached out a hand to them and said “Gray Fullbuster”

“I know who you are,'' they laughed. Gray shot them a glare that told them to tell him their name “Juvin-”

“Your real name” he looked at them and they were taken aback.

“Whatdoyoumeanthatismyrealnamewhywouldn’t-” they nervously said

“Slow down,” he cut them off “just tell me your name”

They sighed “um… Ju… Juvia Lockser”

He smiled at her “hm Juvia? Nice name”

“T-thanks” she smiled, probably for the first time in her life

#I think every time I write these Nia hates romance more and more #lucy heartfilia #natsu dragneel #gray fullbuster #Juvia Lockser #fairy tail #fairy tail fanfiction

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indiavolojones · 4 years

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anon it’s like you’re LOOKING at my diary ヽ(｀Д´)ﾉ

2.5kish, gen, dia/luci.

“Before you do anything stupid that involves my permanent work on your body," the distaste radiating off of Lucifer is palpable, "Try an ear piercing first. It's plenty shocking to you business types, and a helluva lot less painful.”

“So, what do you say, Lucifer?"

SPECIAL THANKS TO @canonlucidia FOR BEING THE LUCIFER TRANSLATOR WE ALL NEED TO ELEVATE OUR FICS

“Huh,” Diavolo tilts his head, “I would have never guessed you were over eighteen.”

Lucifer's ID shows none of the telltale signs of forgery, nor does the man look like a teenager. Diavolo just likes to have fun with people that seem too serious for their own good.

Besides, it would be impossible for Diavolo to misjudge the man in front of him as a child—there are no children with eyes as hard-edged as Lucifer’s. Lucifer’s drenched coat is slung over his arm, the layers beneath thankfully still dry. His long hair is twisted up in a messy, haphazard bun—something about this man makes Diavolo think this is unusual.

Probably the impeccably tailored, expensive-looking vest and suit jacket. The watch peeking out from underneath his shirt sleeve is worth at least a couple hundred dollars, if Diavolo’s instincts are right. Minutes within meeting Lucifer and he already knows that this is a man that takes an incredible amount of pride into his appearance.

Lucifer narrows his eyes, but the effect is less than intimidating to Diavolo, who has faced far worse than severe looks. Besides, the dark, exaggerated bags under his eyes can’t lie. The proud jut of his chin and squaring of his shoulders be damned; Diavolo can sense his bluff a mile away. Lucifer is more likely to pass out from exhaustion than start a brawl.

“What an interesting business model, insulting your potential clients like this.” Lucifer retorts, and Diavolo thinks he’s probably terrifying when he’s had at least eight hours of sleep.

“There are plenty of other tattoo parlors around town,” Diavolo offers with another disarming smile, his arms crossing. An asshole customer is an asshole customer, no matter how pretty their mouth is.

“No,” Lucifer insists, “It has to be this one.”

“Okay… Then you’re going to need to relax a little, because it’s not often that I have people come in during a storm demanding a full back tattoo out of nowhere,” Diavolo shrugs, passing Lucifer’s ID back to him.

"I wouldn't do any work on you today anyway. You haven't paid the deposit and we haven't had a consultation meeting. Sorry, it's my policy." Diavolo shrugs, not very sorry all and Lucifer can tell. Lucifer looks like he's about to spin on his heel and march out the door, and Diavolo, damn his soft heart, holds up his hands.

"But… if you'd like, we can set you up for a piercing session. We've got an open slot and I'll give you a returning customer’s discount."

"I want the tattoo." Lucifer says, like Diavolo's stupid for offering anything else and he has to stamp down his own mild tinge of annoyance.

"And I get that. If you can afford my rates, I'm willing to discuss." Damn it, Diavolo knows the man is trouble, but Lucifer's mouth is so pretty when it frowns, as if affronted at the possibility of him not being able to pay. "But I can tell this is some kind of act of rebellion. I see types like you all the time."

"Types like me—" Lucifer repeats, suddenly furious, and Diavolo holds his hands up placatingly.

"Hear me out." He says, and Lucifer's mouth snaps shut at the interruption.

"You’d have to be blind to not see that this is part of some… bigger thing for you," Diavolo gestures at all of Lucifer, "And you're an adult that can make your own decisions. But for now, before you do anything stupid that involves my permanent work on your body," the distaste radiating off of Lucifer is palpable, "Try an ear piercing first. It's plenty shocking to you business types, and a helluva lot less painful. So, what do you say, Lucifer?"

Lucifer doesn't look keen on it, but he at least seems to be seriously mulling over Diavolo's offer.

More time passes where Diavolo grows more and more convinced that Lucifer is about to tell him to fuck off and walk out of his life. At this point, it would probably be for the best. Diavolo is a sucker for sullen, gorgeous businessmen with obvious emotional baggage—not that he'd realized that until a scant ten minutes ago, but Diavolo's always been a bit of a masochist.

As if the day's events have finally, truly weighed down on him, with a barely visible slump to his shoulders, Diavolo sees when Lucifer relents before he hears it.

"Fine."

Barbatos' workstation is immaculate as ever, and the other works with maximum efficiency to prep his required instruments.

“You’re the one that pierced my brother, Mammon,” Lucifer says, and something in Diavolo’s brain clicks. Mammon. Lucifer’s brother is Mammon—the very thought almost makes Diavolo burst into laughter.

Barbatos is nothing if not polite as he tips his head to the side, as if trying to remember Mammon. He snaps his gloved fingers, and nods.

“Ah, yes! He’s the one that passed out, I believe.” Lucifer looks strangely… delighted by that.

“I’ll be over there, then,” Diavolo says, leaning against the door frame and gesturing back behind him at the front office. Diavolo almost laughs again when he sees the clear alarm in Lucifer’s eyes, can hear the silent why aren’t you doing it before it’s said out loud.

“Barbatos is one of the best piercers I’ve ever worked with, you’re in expert hands,” Diavolo hums, soothing.

It somehow works, because Lucifer is lowering himself into Barbatos’ chair. Not a word escapes from Lucifer as Barbatos finishes prepping the earrings, two black studs that Lucifer had chosen from Diavolo’s display case. Lucifer actually looks a little pale, and Diavolo thinks it’s adorable.

“Unless… you’d like me to hold your hand, if you’re scared?” He teases, and Lucifer’s eyes narrow in purposefully unconcealed fury for one beautiful, brief moment. It shutters away as fast as it comes, and Lucifer is staring impassively at the wall before him.

“You may leave.” Lucifer dismisses Diavolo.

Diavolo hangs out, just to be a dick. Lucifer does not flinch, or sway in his resolve past that one moment of weakness. Barbatos finishes one ear—Lucifer does not react in the slightest—and moves to the next. He tilts Lucifer’s head gently to get better access, and it makes Lucifer have to look at Diavolo in the doorway. Diavolo gives him a brilliant smile, but Lucifer glares at him the entire time.

Diavolo loves it.

Diavolo doesn’t see Lucifer for one week; but he hasn’t received any terrible reviews on Yelp, and no department official has come knocking down his door with a surprise audit, so he thinks he’s in the clear. All in all, he chalks the experience up to some kind of weird twist of fate. He’s perched on a stool behind the register at the display case when the automatic doorbell chimes. Diavolo’s lips part to welcome the guest even before he looks up.

“Hey, how’s it—oh,” Diavolo says, finally glancing up from his newspaper, “You got bangs.”

Gone is the messy, windswept bun that Lucifer had his long hair tossed into, and instead, a short, layered cut has replaced it. It makes him look younger, somehow. Or maybe he’s just gotten more sleep. Lucifer reaches up to card a hand through his hair, pushing the now loose strands out of his face.

Diavolo spares a moment of silence to mourn that he never got to see how long Lucifer’s hair was in person, “It looks nice.”

He places his cheek in one palm, grinning at his client. It would be easy to miss the light blush on Lucifer’s cheeks at his comments, but Diavolo is more perceptive than most.

The blush on Lucifer’s cheeks intensifies, and he coughs into his fist. “Thank you. The hair was a nuisance, so I cut it off.”

Silence passes, and Lucifer blinks, as if he’s not quite sure why he overshared. Diavolo takes pity on him, and tries to continue the conversation.

“How are your ears healing, then? Are you—”

“I’d like to set up a consultation meeting.” Lucifer breathes, and Diavolo blinks at him. Then he sighs.

“Before that… I suppose I should apologize for my impudence the other day, Mr. Morningstar.” Diavolo says, finally, elbows propped up on the glass counter. He watches for Lucifer’s reaction like a hawk.

“How did you—” Lucifer’s lips remain tight, before realization dawns behind his eyes. "You saw my ID the other day."

He glares, no doubt wondering if Diavolo gone to the press with information of his spontaneous request. It would be like dumping chum into shark infested waters for them to hear how the otherwise resolutely tight-lipped eldest brother is doing. Too many people are already trying to pick at the man’s psyche for more garbage to feed the greedy masses.

“I barely even noticed your last name," Diavolo waves his hand in the air dismissively, "However… it's a little hard to ignore a face like yours when it’s been plastered all over the news,” Diavolo spins the newspaper around, sliding it across to show the grainy picture of Lucifer and three of his younger brothers at the last company gala. Lucifer's proud, intimidating stare is unmistakable in its intensity.

The headline ‘FALL FROM GRACE: Lucifer Morningstar Leaves Celestial Industries over Disinheritance Scandal with Brothers’ stretches across the page in blocky, damning font.

"I didn’t reach out to any media outlets. You can relax,” Diavolo huffs, “But really? Your first move after all this is to go and get a tattoo?"

“Do all of your consultations feel like interrogations?” Lucifer shoots back, lips turned down in a frown. He does not look down at the article, his gaze keeping level with Diavolo's.

Diavolo laughs, and holds his hands up, “No, not really. I only try to make sure my clients understand that this is too permanent and expensive of a decision to make on an emotional bender. Tattoo removal is possible, but it’s costly.” Diavolo lets his own eyes narrow in the slightest, “Considering you don’t have the fortune of a multi-billion dollar corporation to fund your whims anymore, I doubt you’d have the money to spare if this is something you regret.”

“Why are you antagonizing me over this,” Lucifer grits out, hands fisted at his sides.

“I take pride in my work, Morningstar.” Diavolo stands, inherently pleased to see that Lucifer’s furious gaze has to tilt up in the slightest to continue meeting his eyes, “I have no desire to see someone else's terrible work slapped over something I created."

"If you get paid, what does it matter?" Lucifer spits, clearly reaching his wit's end. Diavolo stares at him, silent, and Lucifer shuts his eyes. He exhales through his nose for strength, and cards a hand through his hair again, clearly unused to it still. When he speaks, his tone is genuine, and he sounds tired.

"I apologize," Diavolo blinks, not expecting the other to deflate as they have. When his eyes open again, they are alight with a fervor that Diavolo's breath catches at. “I have had…. An interesting week.” His smile is wry, too tangled up with hidden meanings that Diavolo isn’t sure if he should consider it a smile at all.

“I understand that this is permanent. As permanent as being disinherited publicly.” Lucifer’s stare is unflinching, his resolve ironclad and as spirited as Diavolo’s own, “Which is why I have come to request a consultation appointment, rather than demand you do it today. You are the only one who I want for this.”

Why rests on the tip of his tongue, but Diavolo knows the hard look in Lucifer's eyes, the kind of determination that refuses to be ignored, denied. It's entirely possible that Lucifer himself does not know why, only that he must. Diavolo keeps his gaze for another moment longer, fingers suddenly twitching for a habit that he quit long ago. Barbatos would kill him if he started smoking cigarettes again anyway.

Another moment, and Diavolo allows himself to smile.

"You could have scheduled a consultation online, you know," Diavolo laughs, and moves from around the counter towards his small side office.

"Come on," Diavolo says, but Lucifer does not move, still staring Diavolo down from his place in Diavolo's front desk area. Diavolo looks up at the heavens, exhaling ruefully, "I'm assuming you have an idea of what you want."

Lucifer only takes a moment to shake himself out of his stupor, the cool, almost snobbish expression back on his face.

"Of course."

Diavolo's laugh shakes the walls of the small office, and Lucifer's face is, amazingly, deep red. Diavolo is hunched over, hands gently sifting through the sketches.

"You're insane. Your first tattoo and you want a fully detailed back piece? Not to mention it's huge."

"We’re looking at somewhere between twenty and thirty hours of work. What if you can't handle the pain? Back tattoos can be rather painful, depending on where I'm working at the time."

"That won’t be an issue." Lucifer sniffs, back straight as he sits across from Diavolo.

“It’s going to cost you,” Diavolo warns. He knows what his work and experience is worth, and charges appropriately.

“Everything does,” he says, simply. He catches the quick glance Lucifer tosses at his now bare wrist, and remembers something about Lucifer wearing one of those fancy watches last time he’d seen the other. Had he sold it?

Diavolo hums, before looking back down at the sketches in front of him.

"Did you draw these?" Diavolo asks, impressed with the amount of detail. It'll be a challenge for sure, but if Lucifer wants to keep the tattoo exactly like the source drawing, Diavolo's confident he can do it justice. However… if Lucifer allows him to add his own touch... it'll be spectacular.

"My sister," he hesitates on the word, and Diavolo knows there's a lot to unpack behind that, and immediately labels that as 'definitely do not touch', "She was the artist of our family."

Ah, was. Lucifer's gaze darkens as he stares down at the papers, and Diavolo sighs. He runs a hand through his short hair, and leans back on the couch. Crossing his arms, he huffs when he looks at Lucifer again.

"Alright, you're crazy, but it's your money."

Other assorted headcanons/thoughts:

Not exactly sure what Lu’s desired tattoo is but it’s something like this pic

Lilith has like, Just Died. Is v sad.

Getting his ears pierced felt like absolute nothing to Lucifer, but having no point of reference he’s allowed to be a lil apprehensive. (“It’s like a shot, just… really close to your face!” Thanks, Mammon.)

Mammon has awful tattoos from different artists, but ever since he discovered this Diavolo fellow, they've all been coming out beautifully. Asmo has also gone! Lu doesn't trust online reviews, and while he takes what Mammon and Asmo say with a grain of salt, he can’t deny the quality he's seen of Diavolo's is phenomenal.

Diavolo's art style is similar to Lilith's.

All the brothers are around in this lil universe. for certain Reasons, it's just Luci/Mams/Levi/Asmo that have all been disinherited for now.

It's been several years since I got a tattoo so I pulled details out of my ass sorry for the inaccuracies

as always ty for reading (ノ°∀°)ノ⌒･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*☆

#obey me lucifer #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me fic #writing #dialuci #ch: lucifer #ch: barbatos #ch: diavolo #pr: dialuci

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everydayanth · 4 years

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American Beauty Standard: A Brief History and Modern Application

I learned this in an anthropology class and I don’t remember the resources, but I know one of them was Tocqueville talking about the American obsession with committees and associations as a way to accomplish tasks with people from tons of different cultures and backgrounds and no formal aristocratic class.

So, back in the day of colonial America all the way through like... probably modern day if we’re honest, wealthy families that came to America kept strong ties with relatives or positions in their home countries. When their sons came of age to marry, they would often find a wealthy upper-class woman from their home country or ethnic background to wed, which meant that wealth circulated the culture it was coming from. A wealthy English lad would go to London and find himself a lady to bring to the US, a wealthy Frenchman would stay with his family in Paris or wherever, the would tour the continent blah blah, and come home with an upstanding lady of the gentry.

UNLESS an American girl could catch their interests first. This was why American girls were taught independent skills (homemaking rather than the class skills of entertaining), why they were allowed to marry for love (lack of a gentry class and singular cultural/social rules to follow), and why, at the end of the day, beauty became the most valuable tool.

Because a poor American girl who was beautiful and useful could out compete the European class rules of etiquette to secure herself a wealthy husband. And if you start there and work your way forward, our obsessions with smart or pretty girls (but watch out for too-smart or too-pretty), our beauty pageants and cosmetics advertising, our taboos and traditions, our girl vs. girl competition, it all starts to make sense.

Because being beautiful, witty, and useful meant you could be noticed and loved or admired, and married to a wealthy man. Wealth meant comfort and comfort meant safety and safety meant security and security meant freedom. Isn’t that what we all want? Isn’t that what we still want? Aren’t we still just competing for independence, for respect and freedom? Same tools, in many ways the same world. Girls fighting over college admissions, internships, medical research funds, they aren’t any different from girls competing in beauty pageants or arts, it’s always about freedom and for some, beauty is a way to get there.

There are a lot of socially aware people on the internet and I just wanted to add this nugget of history to the conversation about beauty standards. We seem to be aware that being able to follow trends is a sign of wealth, we seem to easily discuss that beauty standards themselves are an impossible oppressive tool to control and manipulate, and we are perfectly blunt about the wealth of industries capitalizing off insecurities. I wanted to bring this history into the conversation as well. Because like it or not, competition and our ability to be “wives” has historically been part of “American” culture since colonization, and that includes an incredible amount of isolated puritan and protestant extremists coming to the “new world” because their countries called them out on some bullshit or maintained economically exclusive advantageous relationships with their leaders.

Anyway: American [white] female beauty standards begin with competition for wealthy husbands and the illusion of comfort and freedom they could provide (with plenty of truth to the illusion) and still exists today. American girls were taught to “make” a home as a resource for their husbands while their European counterparts (of the same [similar] class) were often taught to entertain and host within the home as an accessory to her husband’s success, as expected by their class and/or station (often equally oppressive).

There are so many other interesting components to the conversation as well and I just figure that if we’re interested in having it at all, I might throw some other things out here:

WARNING: Long geeking rant about individual body adaptions and why they are incredibly beautiful follows:

Like how male beauty also evolved, with Americans emphasizing the fitness of a laborer or farmer, becoming the independent middle class, while their middle class European counterparts were often more slight and “intelligent” (relative, as perceived by access to education) businessmen, lawyers, doctors, etc., as they retained the inherited gentry and the American self-made man became more desirable to American women who had no single cultural courtship ritual and so relied on love and picking out a reliable husband based on their own choosing (which leads to its own conversation on American victim-blaming in assaults on females, especially when combined with that puritan past).

Which is then complicated further when looking at pockets of immigration where different adapted physical male bodies are living next to one another in America (the Dutch and Polish of W. Mich are a great example). They are separated by countries in Europe, so their different builds are suddenly compared in an entirely new environment that doesn’t necessarily fulfill their previous adaptions (MI isn’t as cold as Poland, so the shorter stature isn’t as useful, while the sexual selection of the tall Dutch male remains, it isn’t as differentiated from other larger Europeans (like lowland Germans and Scandinavians), and so isn’t as genetically insulated.

Anyway, these are all focused on “white America,” other cultures and ethnicities will also have changing and adaptive standards for different reasons. There are also some we will share as a whole culture. We’re having smaller families so each child will want to be the most healthy available. Guess what big booties are a sign of? Healthy babies (the type of rich fat stored in the butt is used to help form baby brains and shit), so as a general correlation, humans tend to figure out that curves = healthy babies. As our family-size expectations get smaller with the lowering of infant mortality and rise of individual life expectancy/health/comfort of average citizen, and as we push the age of first conception, we want to make sure that one-shot kid is healthy af.

Being black anywhere but the American South is hard, and even that’s muggy and wet as opposed to the drier conditions of the west coast of Africa many African Americans were adapted for when brought as slaves. Which means the likelihood of being vitamin D deficient is higher, without being too crass or negating to address social racism issues, I’ll round it out and say we’re all going to eventually have a Brazil effect, where people living in areas for a long while will adapt to them or “breed into” them and we all become a similar middle skintone. The SW US is going to be more “Mexican” because that’s the “proper” (ie most useful) adaptive skin tone to protect from the changing climate there, while those in a place like the Olympic Peninsula in WA are going to be a bit lighter as an adaption to the weather, but probably not as white as Europeans.

What is natural for an area’s skintone is also based on diet. The Inuit and Sami live at a similar parallel but the Inuit are much darker skinned on average. Why? Well, they eat more fish and seafood with Omega3s and Vitamin D (therefore needing less of the Vitamin D to enter through skin from sunlight) and live often on open plains (therefore absorbing more sunlight when it is there), while the Sami eat more red meats from reindeer herds with less Vitamin D, and travel through fields/forests (therefore needing more Vitamin D to enter through skin which results in lighter skin).

My favorite statistic I ever learned was that on average, an African’s skin can absorb NINE TIMES more sunlight than their European counterpart without getting burned. Nine times! For one hour in the hazy European sun, a black person would need to spend nine (+) to get proper Vitamin D amounts, while in Africa, a white person after ONE HOUR would begin to burn from too much uv. That’s so cool! Bodies are crazy awesome!

That applies to hair texture as well, black hair is often coiled to protect the head (you know, cus we stand on two legs and it’s in the sun all the time). Two inches of coiled black hair can dispose of that 9x uv by holding onto water and a bunch of other crazy amazing processes, while two inches of white hair generally dries quickly and lies flat against the head to insulate and keep warm, not expel heat.

Hair, eye, and skin color are all affected by melanin counts in the body (or melanocytes, which is where melanin is created, including collections of melanin at melanocytes which cause freckles and moles!), lots of melanin produced by the body makes someone darker skinned, but that doesn’t mean they need the coiled hair protection from the sun, which gives us so many varieties of follicle shape (which is what defines the curl tightness or looseness of a hair, with round holes producing straight hair and curved/slanted holes producing curls and coils like how you curl a Christmas ribbon with scissors, which means yes, you can have curly patches on your skull, your hair will change as you grow and based on your diet, hydration, products, etc.).

Having little to no melanin makes someone “albino,” or extremely light (which affects eyesight as having little or no pigment in the iris doesn’t shield the retina from light, though some may simply have extremely low pigment with light blue eyes). There are in-between colors like red hair, hazel/green eyes, and highly-freckled skin that result from different concentrations of melanin in different parts of the body, and there are things like heterochromia (different color eyes) which result from different concentrations of melanin in the same body part, and other things like Vitiligo (what Michael Jackson had), where concentrations in melanin change overtime, in this case from the shutting down of melanocytes which then produce little or no pigment for the skin, causing patches of whiteness.

There are so many ways for bodies to be different from one another and it’s incredible when you start to understand how unique our individual combinations are! Nose size is a direct correlation to air humidity, as are our sinuses. Face shape can often be the result of language, people from the American midwest accent will have rounder cheek apples from pulling their mouths wide and working different muscles than those with say, an RP British accent who pull their jaws down and cheeks in instead of wide on many vowels, resulting in more defined cheekbones. Jawlines are a symbol of genetic diet, if you have a less defined jaw, your ancestors were probably coastal people, more adapted to seafood proteins, which requires less chewing than those in higher altitude and mountain regions, which would require herds of red meat or poultry for protein, which is more chewing, plus the different textures plants must have to grow at different altitudes and climates. This is a loose correlation and there are plenty of other factors that combine to make different results, but they always fascinate me!

Why are African men often stereotypically faster than Europeans? Because their adapted environment is often flat savannah and adaptions for running long distances and fitting the climate generally involve being tall to expel more heat through the skin (while a cold-adapted person is generally more stout and short to keep more heat in with less skin surface area – there are always exceptions for other reasons, the Dutch are tall due to sexual preference of females, the African Baka people are shorter due to reasons still being discovered, most recently it is thought to due with denying puberty growth hormones because denying them retains immunity to certain dangers found in the environment or provides some advantages over niche environments). Part of being adapted tall and slim to dispel heat (Allen and Bergman’s laws for you curiosos) is that pelvises are more narrow, males even more than females, and narrow hips mean more straight femurs rather than the slight bow of wider/rounder hips, which means, if you go to physics, a faster turnover with no need for overcorrecting the bow, and less strain on joints. While a European body adapted to its environment would require different survival adaptations, the bow of the femur allows for less speed, but often more agility for moving through forests and up and down highland slopes and rocky craigs. Again, there are always exceptions, which is why you cannot identify race by a skeleton, though there are probabilities.

Adaptions to altitude are their own category and they begin from birth and before. It’s so cool! Being born in high altitudes develops larger lungs for taking in more oxygen in the less oxygen-dense atmosphere, which can develop into barrel lung, where the chest is nice and round like a barrel to allow the lungs full expansion. That’s so cool! When I go to higher altitudes, my sea-level coastal body is just like... wheeze. I also broke a bunch of ribs and they don’t expand easily due to complications, so it’s even harder for me to be at a higher altitude now, being adapted to it if I have to live there sounds ideal.

We seem to understand things like race are a result of biological adaptation to environments, but we don’t often carry on the conversation past that. What does adapting to climate change look like? What about colonization and immigration? What about pollution? What adaptions happened in the past, did we lose them when they were no longer necessary? How long does it take for people to become adapted to a new environment? Generations? Why do we socially present some things as more desirable than others? Why do we create beauty standards at all? How does a shared culture of diverse backgrounds even have a “standard?”

Everything comes down to predicting health and trying to live longer, to protect ourselves from danger. Whether that’s trying to be accepted by an outsider community or blending in with the “standard” at large, our understanding of beauty will continue to change as our social, political, economic, and climate/environment aspects of our shared culture change as well. For me, learning about why my body is the way it is was endlessly enlightening. Any doubts about my big nose (which was also broken, so bigger than my relatives’) are quelled by understanding that it helps humidify and avoid that horrible feeling I hate in dry air where it feels like my nose is going to start bleeding (I’ve only gotten it in saunas though). Moving around the country helped too, I understood a lot more about the purpose of those adaptions and saw how different localized beauty is marketed.

In Southern California, along the coast, the ocean spray makes everyone’s hair a bit curly, the humidity is high and I loved it (Jake, not so much). But the sun got to me. I got so many new freckles and my skin was always a bit dry, I had to work extra hard to stay hydrated and moisturized (even though my Polish side tans really well and I don’t burn easily, I was always dehydrated). Then we moved up to Seattle and I loved it even more! My hair stayed curly (though I’ve since learned that shower water and products make the biggest difference), I got more freckles as my skin adapted to not needing so much melanin and my hair got a lot darker for a while, my eyes seemed to get lighter in San Diego, which was crazy (and kinda cool). Then we moved to the desert-desert, the straight Mojave, and my body did not love it. I smelled all the time (dry air, my sweat is made for humid, but not too humid lol, that’s why I think white people smell in Asia and it’s not just a stereotype), my hair got sun-bleached and I lost a lot of the curl, it wasn’t the worst, but I was only there for a few months. Then we came to New England and I started to notice the change in trends and how my own preferences had changed in beauty and fashion. Marginal peripheral influence will do a lot and I can’t imagine living in that with none of the “qualifying” standards.

So basically, I’m writing this book of a post to say that if we step back and look at all the pieces, they have reasons, some of them shallow, others valid, but that they are changing and will always be changing and so is all of humanity. Your body is doing amazing things to protect you every single day, beyond digesting your food and feeding you dopamine. Every single thing about it has a purpose and a goal or a reason, except for maybe genetic mutations. I’m not going to go stand on a hill and say you’re missing an arm or your body hates you for a reason, my body built my stomach outside of me during fetal development and I promise that was just a fuck up, there was no reason (but my mom will tell you there was and it was God).

Bodies are crazy cool, sometimes they mess up and make cancer and don’t notice and it gets too big and we need help. Sometimes they only have one red-haired gene and we get blonde and brunette men with confusing bright red beards (lol, Jake), sometimes we’re in the middle of an adaption and we get patchy beards while living in a society that values them (looking at you, boys from genetic lines of men adapting to humidity where beards kinda suck or cultures that don’t like them). Sometimes we have been moved to a place where our genes aren’t as advantageous or actually hurt us and we don’t know about it or have to work harder than others to stay healthy, and sometimes our native or natural diet isn’t available to us and we work really hard to stay healthy but our bodies just don’t respond because they can’t or won’t.

For some people it feels overwhelming, or blasphemous, to talk about humanity as a whole, to look at ourselves as a single version of all the endless possible combinations of changes that can happen in a body, but I find it incredible! There is no one like you, but there are people who are similar, there are places where you’re perfect and there are cultural adaptions to help you when you’re not. Understanding the reason or purpose behind the body’s reasons for selection or change, combined with the lottery of your localized DNA options from your parents and potential genetic mutations during development and later in life, understanding that the body is always changing and adapting to what is best for you or catching up from past changes can explain so much of ourselves!

I just think it’s really cool!

I used to geek out about it a lot more and Jake would play a game where he would point at a face and ask me to guess their genetic heritage or combination of peoples/geographies. He still does it sometimes, I’m pretty good at it, but it’s more fun to be wrong and surprised, if I’m honest. Humans are just cool.

That being said, if there’s a thing about yourself you don’t like or don’t understand, that you feel doesn’t fit in to beauty standards and never will (for me, it was my nose and freckles, why so many freckles?), shoot me a message and I’ll do my best to tell you why it might be a thing so you can appreciate the incredible diversity of your own body as it adapts to your ancestors’ forced or willing migrations and changes to fit its new environments!

American beauty standards are complicated, but if there is one thing they always revolve around, it’s a humble confidence in your own value. I found that value in others, in seeing how intricate and unique humans are from each other, which lead to an appreciation of my own unique pieces. No industry standard or media pacification can take that or change it or judge it, because it’s your body doing its absolute best with the tools it has to protect you and make you the safest and most comfortable you can be in any place of the world. <3

#thanks for coming to my ted talk #sorry for the book #sorry not sorry #adaption #humanity #beauty standards #american beauty standards #anthropology #culture #society #beauty #beauty trends #diversity #unique

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obsidianfr3sk · 4 years

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The Origins (Chapter 1)

Summary: Before the Renegades put an end to the Age of Anarchy, they were six kids trying to survive day by day in a city ruled by chaos and desolation. Is there a space for hope and kindness somewhere in Gatlon City? Maybe.

Sooo i’ve been playing around in my head with this idea for a six part fanfic that i have about how i think the OG renegade’s lives where during the age of anaychy and how they were as kids. we don’t really know a lot about their early years, so i saw this as an opportunity to experiment with some headcanons. i’m not an english native speaker, but i hope i’ll improve my writing skill with time (renegades fandom is non-existant in spanish).

here’s the link to the story in ao3, if you rather read from there: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25123756/chapters/60870652

but anyways, enough about me. hope you like it! :))

The world that’s waiting up for me

Age of Anarchy

Year 2

He was running at full speed. The air was cold and burned his throat each time he needed to breathe. His legs had started to hurt two blocks ago because of the hits he received during his fight with Fred, but Simon wasn’t going to stop now. He was leading the run.

He turned what he believed to be a corner, and ran into a dead end. Then, he looked around, hoping to realize that his brain was fooling him into seeing that, but no. There were four boxes full of rotten fruit, an enormous closet, and dozens of black bags…

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It was obvious Fred had seen him get into that alley. Surely he was already fantasizing with the one hundred ways he was going to torture Simon as soon as he got his hands on him.

Simon heard his haunter’s fast and threatening footsteps. He analyzed his options once again. Boxes, bags, closet…

He stepped into a little puddle in his way to the closet. Closed its doors so fast, that he almost hurt his fingers. The closet wasn’t that large, so he had to remain still, so that damn old piece of furniture wouldn’t fall into pieces.

His socks were wet. Those were his best socks.

There was a minuscule space between the doors that allow him to see Freud running into the same dead-end Simon had.

But, instead of being confused, Freud grinned. The blood coming out his nose had dried and, with his crooked teeth, his appearance was even scarier than normal.

Simon still didn’t fully understand where he had gotten the courage to turn around and punch him right on the face. Laura had told him not to do that.

“Never hit the nose, Simon. You could kill someone.”

But Simon had done it. He had disobeyed Laura.

Laura had also advised him not to hear what Freud had to say about him. It was simpler than what he expected; Simon could bear with dignity all the comments about his ragged clothes, his old shoes, or his not so good looks. He could even bear when Freud started calling him “rat” and all his classmates followed the trend.

Laura would be so disappointed at him for using brute strength before words. His mother would be too. His father probably would say something between the lines: “My boy finally is starting to turn into a real man”, and the baby… well, she wouldn’t say anything. She was a baby.

But what Fred had said to him…

It comforted him knowing that if Laura had heard what Freud said, she would have hit him too.

“Where are you, little rat?” Asked Freud with a trace of mockery in his words. “Look at you. Running. Like a rat. Like your whore sister.”

The day was gray. A faint ray of light illuminated the blade of the jackknife Freud held. The image of that blade stabbing Simon in the chest, was enough for him to not get out of his hide spot and broke Freud’s nose.

“They said she tried to run,” Freud keep saying while he looked for him in a big trashcan, “but I don’t think so. I think she even enjoyed it.”

Freud kicked the boxes. Yeah, because Simon was hiding between that old fruit.

“And even if she hadn’t, I say it again: she deserved it,” Freud sentenced, disgusted by the stench that the fruits emanated. “Prodigies like her had always been freaks. Dangerous freaks. I don’t fucking care how many Ace fucking Anarchy appear to defend you and try to scare the shit out of us, we won’t bow before you. Do you hear me? WE WON’T BOW!”

Simon wasn’t a prodigy. Laura’s powers were creating bubbles. Since when bubbles were dangerous? Since when being able to make them out of thin air was an excuse to kill someone the way they killed his sister?

Before he realized, Freud’s eyes met his.

He had found him.

“No one humiliates me and lives to tell the story, rat.”

Freud opened the door wide, and Simon was ready to be stabbed when a third figure appeared behind the older boy.

“That wasn’t a nice thing to say.”

Freud frowned. He cleaned the blood off his face, and slowly turn around to see the face of the one who dared to defy him. Simon couldn’t help but poke his head over his bully’s shoulder.

He was a blond kid, not older than him. He wore black frame glasses, attached with a piece of tape. His blue eyes looked at Freud with disapproval with which no one had ever dared to look at him.

“Do I know you?” asked Freud after laughing his ass off.

“I’m just saying that, if you have a problem with someone, you report that person with the school’s authorities,” the blonde boy kept saying, ignoring Freud’s question. “It’s not good taking justice into your own hands. It just causes more trouble.”

“Shut up!” Freud screamed as he pushed the blonde boy into the same pond Simon had stepped in a few moments back.

The most surprising thing, however, wasn’t how calm the boy looked when he was facing Freud. It was that he never stopped talking.

“Is that a jackknife?” he asked. Freud looked at the object he carried “Do you take it with you to school? Sharp weapons are not allowed inside school grounds. I’m afraid I’m going to tell a teacher about this.”

Freud cried with hatred and lunged at him, the jackknife ready to kill him. However, the blade broke as soon as it made contact with the blond boy's side.

Before he could process what had just happened, a silver stake sprang out of nowhere and narrowly pierced Freud's shoulder. He managed to move just in time for it to only leave a deep cut.

Simon wouldn’t deny it: Freud almost getting pierced by a stake gave him a morbid sense of satisfaction. His scared, hurt, and confused gaze almost made him cry of pure happiness. How blissful (and relieved) he felt when Freud ran away from the scene.

Just like a scared rat.

The blond boy had dropped shoulders and glasses on the tip of his nose. From his looks, he looked like one of the sons of those businessmen, who lived in those big houses in the northwest of the city. However, his clothes were as old as Simon's. He looked apprehensively at the stake as drops of blood stained his gray sneakers. He didn't see that he had it while he was reading Freud about good behavior, and it was too big to keep in his pockets. It was as if he had created it out of nothing.

And maybe he had.

Immediately, he regained composure and smiled.

“You can go out now!” he exclaimed animatedly. “He's gone”

Didn't he see him standing in that old closet? He was literally in front of him.

As if hearing his thoughts, the blond boy turned to the closet and his face lit up. Simon wanted to run away when he saw him approach with abnormal enthusiasm on his part, but there was nowhere to move.

“Amazing!” the boy yelled. He looked in all directions and muttered, “You are like me.”

“Sorry?”

“Don't be scared, I'm with you,” he whispered. “My name is Hugh.”

He held out his hand. Simon accepted it out of sheer courtesy.

“How old are you?”

“Eight.”

“I had never met a prodigy my age.”

“I am not a prodigy,” Simon clarified.

Hugh's smile froze.

“But I just saw you use your powers.”

“I run very fast to run away from the gangsters,” he said sarcastically. “It comes naturally.”

He gave a loud laugh. Making him laugh was not his intention at all.

“No, I am talking about the other power.”

“What other power?”

“That you turn invisible!”

Hugh quickly covered his mouth and Simon released his hand. He hadn't realized all the time he had been holding it until now. Hugh had a very strong grip.

“Sorry, it was not my intention to shout it,” he mumbled. “I know that sometimes it is better to go unnoticed.”

“Have you stabbed someone else?”

His smile disappeared for a moment.

“I usually don’t do that.”

He did not believe him. There were times when people sometimes had to do things to survive that they were not proud of. But, well, Hugh could continue lying to himself. It was not his job to get him out of his bubble.

“Freud deserved that and more.”

Hugh looked up to protest, but instead said:

“You’ve done it again!”

To hell with this.

Simon raised his arms to push him away, just to realize he was wrong: Hugh was not crazy.

His hands... his entire body was completely invisible.

He moved his fingers and felt the movement. Then his legs. The atmosphere seemed to distort slightly every time he moved. He blinked hard, hoping that when he opened his eyes again, he would realize that it was all a dream, and he was lying down, with his sister preparing to take him to school.

However, he opened them and his sister was not there. He guessed then, neither did his mother.

It was just him and Hugh.

This can’t be true.

His mother and Laura were the only prodigies in the family. They always knew that there was a possibility that Simon was a prodigy too, but after a certain time, they began to realize that he wasn't. Before she died, his mother said she hoped the baby wasn't a prodigy, either. It was best for everyone.

Now, his family's worst nightmares had come true. How was he going to explain to his father what had just happened? How was he going to react? Was he going to kick his son out of the house? If that happened, where would he go? What was to become of him?

He was panicking, and Hugh wouldn't stop looking at him like he was a Christmas present under the tree. That didn’t help.

His hands appeared.

“Your power is so cool,” said Hugh.

“I swear to you, this is the first time I've done this,” he whispered.

Again, the frozen smile.

“Are you serious?”

“Completely serious.”

Hugh adjusted his glasses, shocked.

“I'm sorry,” he said awkwardly.

“Why?”

“Because ... this is not how origin stories should be,” he replied.

Oh, that.

“It doesn't matter,” he replied. He wasn’t lying, the topic never concerned him. However, now he had the feeling that he should be concerned.

“I've seen you at school,” said Hugh, trying to change the subject.

“Yes, I am the rat,” he blurted out angrily.

Hugh shook his head.

“I wasn't going to say that. You're Simon Westwood,” he corrected him. “You're Laura Westwood's brother. She worked at the pawnshop.”

“I was her brother,” he corrected.

“You are her brother.”

Simon did not want to continue arguing. He had already realized that it was not worth trying to win an argument over that guy.

“Did you create that stake?” he asked. “I mean, out of the blue?”

“Yes…” he replied showing him the stake. “I'm not proud. It's just that sometimes when someone attacks me like that, they just... appear? Like a defense mechanism or something. But I'm working on it.”

“What is it made of?”

“Chromium. That’s what my auntie says.”

Simon looked at the stake. There it was again, that morbid feeling…

“I've never seen a prodigy using their powers for good,” said Simon thoughtfully.

“I didn't do something good,” Hugh replied. “I almost killed someone”

Laura would have said, “Please, a shoulder injury doesn't kill anyone.” But Simon said:

“You would have done the right thing killing him.”

“What did he do to you?”

Oh, boy, what he hadn't done to him.

The insults, the teasing. Although, the beating was something new. Freud must have been bored of not receiving any reaction with the verbal attacks, so they evolved into physical attacks. The first was after Laura's funeral.

How crazy do you have to be to do that to someone who had just lost his sister?

That had been going on for two weeks now, and Simon put up with it, just like before. But he was never going to allow anyone to mess with her family.

“He said Laura deserved it,” he replied.

Hugh went silent.

He heard a pair of thunder in the distance.

“We should go to our houses,” Simon said.

He stood up and went to the street. Freud's jackknife was on the ground. The blade was next to the red, plastic handle. He took both of them very carefully and put them back together. It wasn't tight at all and surely was going to break in the slightest attempt to cut something or attack someone, but it was still menacing.

Without much thought, he picked it up and put it in his pocket. Just in case.

“Hey,” Hugh called out, still sitting in the closet. Simon turned to see “Where do you live?”

“Over there,” and pointed to his right.

Hugh smiled again. He hadn't realized he had dimples on his cheeks. Surely they had formed it after giving away so many smiles.

“What a coincidence,” he said. “Me too”.

Then Simon smiled back at him. It was an honest smile.

When was the last time he had smiled like that?

#renegades #renegades trilogy #archenemies #supernova #simon westwood #hugh everhart #fanfic #ao3 #the origins

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spacecharr · 5 years

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Why I’m Not Threatened By Old Men

A (high) treatise on why young women shouldn't be afraid of all old men.

Written by a (high) young bi woman of colour.

---

Lemme start by saying I wrote that title because I thought it would be clickbaity. And I wrote the subtitle like that because I'm being "funny" and I anticipate it will generate trolling. My popcorn is getting cold, and I want a show.

And incidentally, it's all true.

Because this is SpaceCharr pontificating on #authenticity and weed, son!

My local Starbucks is small, has a tiny little patio, limited seating and serves a wildly diverse customer base. From your Basic Skinny Pumpkin Spice Latte Bitch(TM) to uniformed police, from sharply dressed businessmen to soccer moms with three kids and a Burberry purse, from punk-rock loud and proud visibly LGBTQ folks to button-down sweater-vest old-schoolers, and from local college kids to retired old men.

It’s fascinating to see the crazy range of people and it makes for eavesdropping lazily on some hilarious (and sometimes very serious) conversations ranging all over the place.

And for some reason, I have a really really easy time getting old white men to talk to me.

Lemme lay some context: I’m a friendly gal. I’m sociable, (I’ve been told) charming, easy going, and very casual. I remember in elementary being given feedback by my teachers that I was “unapproachable”, and they were worried I would have difficulty making friends. From junior high on, I purposefully (after much coaching from my parents and my mom especially) sought out opportunities to learn better social skills. As an only kid, I didn’t have any siblings to be guaranteed friends with, and my relationship with my extended family was spotty at best.

So if I wanted friends, I knew I’d have to get them on my own. (Troll Note: I know some dipshit’s gonna be all “omg sure #thathappened. Like a grade schooler can know that” - and you’re right! Grade like, 3-6 me had no fuckin’ clue. But 20s me? Who’s gone through a bunch of psychotherapy? Now she knows a bit more)

I learned interpersonal skills. I did drama, I joined clubs, I did Toastmasters (fuckin’ fantastic, btw, look for your local chapter), and I even did the Dale Carnegie Interpersonal Skills course that’s based off How to Win Friends and Influence People (1000% recommend, A+ on how to be a decent human despite its manipulative-sounding title which is brilliant). I learned how to be a more approachable person - and I learned why people find it approachable.

I saw the difference in how people received me when I spoke formally versus when I spoke in a very familiar tone (”hello” vs “hey, hey!”). I noticed that I could easily put the people I was dealing with off-balance in a good way (relieved surprise) with humour and well-meant self-deprecation. I learned through trial and error what body language and touch cues elicited in terms of responses across various types of people. It became second nature for me to analyse and act on these, and my knowledge of these techniques helps me daily in my work as a consultant.

So now, after several years in the workforce, multiple significant life events (aka I’m relatively old), and more overall life experience, I’m often described by my coworkers and friends as “very friendly and often happy”. Of course, according my sibling-like co-scoundrels in my cube farm, I am “disgustingly upbeat” - but they say it with love because they know I’ll tease them relentlessly, too.

I have found over the years that I have actually changed down to the core of that grade school girl. I’ve gone from a kid who struggled to make friends and who was seen as unapproachable, to a person who can very quickly establish good rapport.

(side note: holy fuck I just realized I went from Dandere to Deredere... I’m a fuckin’ anime side character, shit)

Kind of the best example of what I mean is an interaction I had with a new massage therapist at this place I had a gift card for. That is to say, a complete and total stranger whom I had never interacted with or seen in the past. The shop I was at had you wait in the reception area with the receptionist until the RMT came to get you. So this dude came out to meet me, introduced himself and we chatted easily for a bit. After not even a minute of us chatting, he and I were laughing together and shared an easy chemistry. The receptionist - remember, who’d been there when the RMT and I introduced ourselves for the first time - then asked me “oh, are you two old friends?” to which he and I laughed and said “no, we’re just friendly”.

Anyways - that’s the context.

I’m a friendly gal. Sociable, a bit charming, easy going, and easily able to manipulate her own behaviours in order to make the other person feel more comfortable.

In Harry Potter-code: I’m a Slytherin who can play a Hufflepuff, but only because it gets me what I want - your cooperation and rapport - more easily. However, I also do genuinely mean those nice Hufflepuff-like actions - just, there’s an ulterior motive attached.

I’m also young, and obviously with South Pacific Islander blood in me (exotic features - I’ve been told I’d be cast in Miss Saigon if they ever did a musical in my city - I took it as as compliment, since I’m friends with the old white dude who told me that and he did mean it as a compliment).

Let’s put this together:

Exotic, tan-skinned young woman

Chatty, friendly, skilled at making people feel comfortable

Can make someone feel like an old friend

Easily self-deprecating and humourous

In a Starbucks with chatty retired old dudes and a lot of shared seating

Can anyone else see why my title makes more sense? (Legit, I am high, so if it doesn’t make sense, that makes sense)

Lemme spell it out for you bois: I’m an old perverted white man’s wet dream.

(yes, I’ve been told such to my face; yes, I believe from experience that most of the people who won’t believe me are straight young men - not out of malice, I think, but out of a belief that people aren’t that bad [not that old men finding young women attractive is bad - acting on it in certain ways however, can be]).

I’ve worked out of the Starbucks I mentioned several times in the past. As a consultant, I have a measure of flexibility in my schedule and I find I work best on some of my problem solving and documentation work when I’m out of the office. The change of scenery and the need to shut out the environment to “see” my work helps me - plus I don’t get drawn into the co-scoundrel shenanigans.

And I’m not kidding you - 8/10 times that I go there, I make a new old white man friend. Even the bi dude I met (srsly, it feels like since I made the decision to be openly out, I’m meeting more and more bi people everywhere when before there was nobody) was an old white dude.

I fuckin’ love it.

I am a young, bi woman of colour who loves having old white man friends.

Because they’re just as chill, non-judgemental, self-deprecating, sociable, and easy-going as I am. And they appreciate my dad jokes and bi puns. Seriously. Dads everywhere - we all secretly love your jokes.

And, y’know what? I think more young women - LGBTQ or not, PoC or not - should want to have old white dudes as friends.

INB4 tumblrinas: I don’t mean resurrect Hitler and be his gal pal. I mean don’t dismiss a possible friend just because they’re old, white, and have a dick. Use your brain - not every human is good, but likewise, not every human is bad. We come in shades in all ways.

I won’t tell you what to do, because I don’t know. What I want to share with you is why I feel the way I do. And let you do what you will with it - because I’m not interested in changing your mind. I’m interesting in trading stories and adventures - and understanding more about each other through that exchange.

Here’s why I love being open to talking to old white dudes:

Dad jokes. I’m not kidding. I love Dad Jokes.

They’re often past the point of giving a shit about society, so if you have a genuine, good-natured conversation about your point of view, chances as they won’t give a shit as long as you’re happy and no one’s dying.

They have amazing stories. I can’t tell you the number of times a new friend of mine has launched into crazy tales of things they got up to when they were younger.

They have great advice. Often, they’ve made some pretty bad mistakes. And they’re all too happy to share their lessons and spare someone else the trouble.

They often just want a chat. They don’t need a new friend, they don’t want your number, they just want a lively conversation with someone who isn’t gonna call the cops on them.

It’s so freakin’ easy to make their day and make them smile. And the genuine surprise when they find a young chickie they’ve no doubt had to weigh the pros-and-cons of talking to, who is easy-going and as happy to make their acquaintance as they are hers? It’s so cute. Old man smiles are so cute.

They respect you for being unapologetically who you are. They know that they’ve invited themselves into a talk with you - and they’re willing to carry and/or exit that talk if they find you being openly yourself. (which means if “yourself” is a fuckwit, they’ll just drop you if they know what’s good for ‘em; but then you’re just a fuckwit in Starbucks)

I guess for more location context, I should add that I live in Canada; it’s not an uncommon occurrence here for spontaneous conversations to happen. It might be more rare in other places, though. My city is also quite progressive and has a fairly active and supported LGBTQ scene.

All this said, it’s just a really nice experience in my mind to have good relationships (passing conversations, spontaneous coffee clubs, casual friendships, or more serious friendships) with old dudes as a young woman.

It’s like having a legion of second father figures, or uncles, more accurately fun drunkles, and older brothers.

I enjoy several significant friendships with old dudes:

I go for coffee almost every week with two white old dudes and a dudette (I’d say “old” but she’d punch me out): our conversations range from politics to wood relationships to name calling to sibling-like teasing.

I have three co-scoundrels at work that I’m close friends with, all are old men. None are in a position to help me with anything at work, but damn are they hilarious and they’re a ready Friday-afternoon morale boost with their antics.

I have a very close old Japanese-Canadian friend. We have a complicated and somewhat tense relationship, but ultimately I think it can be said that we have a certain platonic love for each other. Though we don’t speak frequently, we’re both very significant to the other. He was my taiko instructor.

I have another very close relationship with one of my long-standing old dude friends. He’s known me since I was 9. A single hug from this man can stop an anxiety attack in its tracks. We kiss each other on the cheek and like to weird out the ladies at Starbucks when we go there with each other by holding hands - we’re both Slytherin trolls.

Don’t forget the OG Old Guy: my proper Old Man. My papa. Our relationship was strained by my mother’s unhealthy approach to all her familial relations during my early years. But as I’ve moved out, gotten older, and gained more life experience, it feels like my dad is finally realizing I’m not a little girl anymore - that I’m a woman, with woman needs, woman wants, and woman expectations and behaviours. We don’t talk about all things, naturally, he’s still my dad. But I can’t tell you how great it feels to have a dad who I know has my back no matter what.

I feel like there’s a certain conditioning for young women to “fear” the “old white man”. Certainly for me in particular it feels like there’s lots of factors in play: my “tropical” ethnicity, my youth, my LGBTQ nature (still haven’t been asked for a threesome as a bi woman - I’m impressed with my city), and, naturally, my gender.

While I do know that those are all things that certainly do warrant a certain amount of wariness around strangers (old in my neighborhoods usually means highly conservative about, depending on the age of said person, “the immigrants” or “the non-whites”. Age from young-old to old-ass-old. They’re a product of their time.), I also think it’s vital not to let that wariness get in the way of making a possible new friend.

Anyways, I need to wrap this up.

How does this loop back into #authenticity and weed? Well, it’s been my experience that the old (white + some Asians, in my case) dude friends that I’ve made are some of the best people to help you be yourself.

They have anecdotes to illustrate benefits, cons, risks, and rewards; they have dad jokes and puns to bring some much-needed levity; they don’t give a fuck about the other Starbucks goers - for better or for worse; and they - just like you - just wanna have a good day and be able to be themselves.

Does this apply to every old man? No. Does it not apply to every old man? No.

If you’ve read this far, you have the brain capacity necessary to give someone a chance. Now, you’ll wanna do some preparation if this is nearing your max capacity, because you wanna make sure you’re not letting the wrong old man come talk to you all friendly-like.

But once you find one who’s just a swell dude? Cut ‘im some slack, maybe remember that he’s struggling to speak your vocabulary as much as you’re struggling to understand his.

Sit back, drink some coffee, smoke a joint, and share a story once in a while.

Anyways. That’s been SpaceCharr Pontificating.

Cheers, buds.

Stoner note: My hand rolling’s gotten so much better. And the weed I have doesn’t seem to smell as strongly as the pre-roll I had that one time, so I might sesh in the park at some point. I have my inaugural shroom trip this weekend - bestie agreed to tripsit! Yay! And she’s bringing the whole Planet Earth HD collection! - so it might not be for a while. I want to give the experience the attention it deserves, plus I need to establish a clean baseline to experiment accurately with microdosing.

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yourfandomfriend · 6 years

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Context is Everything

One of the things that lit a fire under me to start this blog was my crippling inability to unpause youtube videos in my watch later when I had a meta on the brain, this one about how much context changes old characters but why Donald Duck is somehow still the star of The Three Caballeros.

Random right? Get used to it.

**SPOILERS** For The Three Caballeros and Legend of the Three Caballeros **SPOILERS**

So let's go back to the 1940s. By the time America finally got dragged into WWII, the Axis Powers had been taking it over like an evil Beyonce. Understandably terrified that our southern border would go the way of Kelly and Michelle, the United States government decided to start trying to actually, you know, make friends with Mexico, Central, and South America.

Those were the days, right? And all it took was one little Hitler.

So Walt Disney grabbed a planeload of his best artists and went to South America, coming back with all the inspiration they needed and then some to make a movie to help friend our cousins down south. But instead of it being a forced, pandering, culturally insulting attempt to kiss Brazillian ass, it was one of Disney's greatest successes, in no small part due to its popular new character, José Carioca, a Brazilian green parrot whose popularity in other countries outlived our short American attention spans.

But of course, Donald Duck was ultimately the star.

And while Disney had a policy of no sequels, ("You can't top pigs with pigs.") Amigos was so popular that Walt tried again with The Three Caballeros, this time going to Mexico and introducing another amazing, popular character, Panchito Pistoles, a Mexican rooster who made the duo a trio. Somehow, this movie was everything Amigos was and more.

And still, as fun, interesting, and likable as José and Panchito were, Donald was still the obvious star.

Now let's skip ahead to a darker time for Disney: since the early 1980s, Michael Eisner had been saving the company from financial ruin with his business acumen, but unfortunately, the future chairman of the Walt Disney company didn't have a creative bone in his body.

And I can't help myself. I have a theory, that Eisner deeply resented artists, especially Uncle Walt. He completely restructured the hierarchy in the company to put businessmen at the top while creative became expendable. He kicked the animators out of their own building so he could have fancy offices for himself and his corporate cronies --

-- and eventually shut down feature animation altogether. He drove off Jeffrey Katzenberg, which is why we have this --

-- And did you know Eisner tried to get rid of Mickey Mouse? Yeah, not hyperbole, he tried to replace him as the company's mascot with Winnie the Pooh on the logic that Mickey was too old-fashioned, which is why Disney in the late 90s and early oughts had so much Pooh just flung around like we all demanded “More Pooh!” and they were just obliging.

As a result of Eisner's influence, hand-drawn animated offerings (when available at all) had become script-driven rather than creator-driven, which is why I was so stunned all these years later when Gravity Falls came out.

Not only was it a beautifully animated show, but it was creator-driven and coincidentally, turned out to be a giant success for Disney. But I'm guessing the part where Alex Hirsch (the show's creator) got to decide big things (like when and how the show would end) bothered them, and meant Disney was looking to make lightning strike with some properties they already owned outright.

And so the rebooted Ducktales last year, and it was (and is) a huge success due to the talent, hard work, and imagination of the team reviving it. But could Disney pull off the hattrick?

One of their latest attempts (one they don't *seem* to feel confident enough with to release in the US yet) is a fun, nostalgic little series called Legend of The Three Caballeros, a very different AU adventure comedy with a mystery element, where Donald, José, and Panchito are the no-account, flat-busted descendants of the original Caballeros, who were hero adventurers.

This time around, they modified the characters a bit for a modern audience and a series format, but they basically stayed the same.

Meanwhile, Disney's sensibilities, sense of humor, and priorities have completely changed around them.

So why is Donald still the star? It's not because he's the more famous character, though he is that. And it's not because he's so popular, though he's that, too. So what's up? What have I been driving at for paragraphs and paragraphs?

Well, let's look at the original. The number one priority of Disney and his artists during the studio’s golden age -- more than patriotism or technical advancement -- was artistic achievement, and basically, Donald was the funniest guy they had, and the most fun to animate. He was the butt of every joke, the one with the shortest fuse, the one who acted on every impulse, no matter how extreme.

Meanwhile, José and Panchito, fun as they might've been, were created to represent their native countries and to a certain extent, they were way more chill than Donald, who was prone to going off the rails on a whim.

But the values of the company would go corporate. The belief Eisner fostered was that earnest, happy, carefree characters were no longer relatable in a post-Seinfeld world. So it's no surprise Donald is the main protagonist now -- his sulky, surly, cynical, anxious, perpetually unlucky character suits current tastes far more than his super-friendly, endlessly optimistic pals.

So while José and Panchito began as the far more grounded and realistic characters in the 1940s, in the new millennium, sullen Donald is the straight man and his happy, lighthearted friends are taken as empty-headed goofs for not having the good sense to be as miserable as the rest of us.

Context is everything, even when it ends up coming full-circle. It's weird how that one worked out.

#the three caballeros #legend of the three caballeros #spoilers #long post #had to get that out of my system #meta

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laraslandlockedblues · 6 years

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Writer Process Meme

Tagged by @jonogueira @inuy21 and @princessvicky01, thank you lovelies!

Short stories, novels, or poems?

Mostly novels, some short stories (I seem to have a problem writing anything short...whoops!) Poems tend to have too many rules for my style. Whenever I do write poetry it definitely shows off my chaotic neutral side, haha.

What genre do you prefer reading?

Any kind of fiction, really. I’m a sucker for classics, have a soft spot for historical romances, (Fun Fact: I’m actually related to Kathleen E Woodiwiss) and like mysteries and fantasy if they’re well done. But even any sort of general fiction - just give me beautiful words, complex characters, and an interesting plot and I’m good.

What genre do you prefer writing?

Turns out it’s romance, haha. For a while I struggled with where that left me, since I dream of writing best sellers and the next Great American Novel, but my best friend gave me some really wonderful, reassuring advice. Love and romance are such an important part of life for so much of humanity, that they’re just as important to write as any other kind of writing. After that I stopped doubting “just being good at romance writing” and embraced it.

Are you a planner or a write-as-I-go kind of person?

I suppose I’m a write-as-I-go kind of person. It’s always all in my head - I know that I need to get from Point A to D to K and then fill in the bits in between as I go. Occasionally if I’m worried I’ll forget an idea I’ll jot down a loose plan, but normally I just sit and write. Some of my fics have been more planned out - Miss Grey had a pretty decent plan/outline up to a point to make certain I kept it all straight. Otherwise I just wing it.

What music do you listen to while writing?

Any music, I just have to have something going at all times. I have a massive writing playlist (maybe 600+ words?) that I just continually add new songs on to when I discover new music/remember old songs I like. Certain fics have had designated playlists - Even Doves Have Pride had its own, for example. But otherwise I just turn on my favorite music and write. I’ll admit to having a weird soft spot/habit of listening to Eminem sometimes when I write. No clue why, I just do.

Fave books/movies?

Oh dear. I’ll try to narrow it down to only three each, otherwise the list will be wayyyyy too long.

Fave Books: Dracula by Bram Stoker, Lady Chatterly’s Lover by DH Lawrence, and Shanna by Kathleen E Woodiwiss

Fave Movies: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Fountain, and Moonrise Kingdom

Any current WIPs?

Is this question supposed to be funny? It’d be easier to list my completed works, haha. Right now I’ve been really in the zone with my Abby/Ry fics, so mostly Just Like Heaven (my TGiM fic), Wicked Game (a companion piece to Just Like Heaven that has very little to do with DA, haha), and Your Arms Feel Like Home, my joint fic with @dismalzelenka. I’ve also been trying to throw in updates for Miss Grey and Beautiful Disaster when I can. I’m hoping to get back to After Rain soon as well as a few others of my Cullen/Evelyn fics. Hopefully.

If someone were to make a cartoon out of you, what would your standard outfit be?

A long sleeve black shift dress and some cute little combat boots, too much black eyeliner, and rings.

Create a character description for yourself:

The trend seems to be a gif, which I think I’ll go with since I hate talking about myself xD

Do you like incorporating people you actually know into your writing?

I don’t directly insert anyone I know, but I definitely draw inspiration from people I’ve met. Grayson is a combination of every “Nice Guy(TM)” that I’ve met, every guy who’s been upset when they realized I had “Friend Zoned” them. But he’s not based on one person, just stories and traits from people I’ve interacted with or heard stories about from girlfriends. John has characteristics from people I’ve met in different places, including businessmen who chatted me up when I was a bartender. But I’ve never written someone who was a direct copy of anyone I’ve known.

Are you kill-happy with characters?

I’m kill happy in my character’s back stories (sorry Evelyn, Abby, and Cecilia!) but so far my main fics haven’t really had any actual character deaths. I prefer happy endings.

Coffee or tea while writing?

Wine. And I guess coffee when I write during the day.

Slow or fast writer?

Possibly too fast, haha. I’ve been trying to make myself take my time with it recently instead of the way I was obsessively writing too much too quickly before. Trying to get back to fleshing everything out and getting into detail and context. But in general, I’m definitely more of a Stephen King type than a George RR Martin type of writer.

Where/who/what do you find inspiration from?

Anywhere! Music definitely, shower thoughts, and then of course the writer trademark of drifting off during conversation with someone when a new idea strikes. My poor hubby has had to deal with me stopping him mid-sentence to jot down an idea real quick before he can continue his story waaaaaay too many times. Poor guy.

If you were put into a fantasy world, what would you be?

Being some sort of mage/sorcerer/warlock/witch something would be amazing. Being an alchemist or healer though would be fun as well.

Most fave book cliche? Least fave book cliche?

Most: Besides a happy ending, I’ll admit I’m a sucker for the “misunderstanding” romance where one or both of them misunderstand the other’s feelings/intentions/actions and think they could never be together/reciprocate their feelings. Until they realize they were wrong and get together, of course, hehe.

Least: Love triangles (for no reason other than drama, occasionally a love triangle makes sense) and poorly written female love interests (the kind who could be replaced by a lamp and the story would be the same). Ugh.

Fave scenes to write?

Smutty smut smut! Although pining and angst are both fun as well, but...I do love me some smut.

Most productive time of day for writing?

Late at night.

Reason for writing:

My brain is constantly going and going and going coming up with ideas and characters and scenes and stories. Before I started channeling it into fic I was struggling to focus it into a single story. But writing like I have been has helped me better channel the disquiet of my imagination into something productive. Plus I love it - creating makes me happy and insanely fulfilled.

Tagging (sorry for repeats and no obligation as always!): @windysuspirations @ladymdc @dismalzelenka @kagetsukai @shannaraisles @a-shakespearean-in-paris @shakespeareinthepark @amaranthine-daydream @felorinbailenshield2 @kawakaeguri @hylianblues @lechatrouge673 @fereldenpeach

#writer process meme #tag meme #thanks for the tag!

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coccolare-blog · 6 years

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the breakup.

It’s been two days since our breakup. R and I dated for a year and a half. And now it is no longer. I didn’t see it coming, even though I should’ve.

My heart still hurts, I still cry spontaneously throughout the day, and my nose hurts from all the tissues I’ve smooshed into my face.

He was the first person that I’ve ever wanted to marry. I wanted to have his kids. I wanted to build the urban garden we talked about, start the charity we brainstormed about. I wanted to support him as he grew his company. I wanted him to be by my side as I built mine. I wanted to read the book he brought me for my birthday together. There were so many things that I wanted.

When he told me he wanted to break up, I was over come with emotions. Sadness because I didn’t want to be separated from him. Regret for the hurtful words I said, and for the things I did, or didn’t do. Anger for all the things I wanted him to do, but he never did. I admit, I was also afraid. What would happen to me? I just turned 27, and I couldn’t bare the idea of being alone.

I cried, he cried. I pleaded and reasoned and begged for him to not give up. For him to give me a chance, us a chance. For him to try a little harder. Anything. He didn’t budge.

At the end I said, “I wish there was some concrete explanation I could understand.”

He said, “I just don’t love you,” admitting defeat.

“Ok.” I felt numb. “Ok.” It was over.

It wasn’t “I love you, but I don’t love you,” or “I’m just not in love with you anymore,” or some cliche breakup line like that. In fact, in all this time, he has never told me he loved me and he never had.

He wasn’t like my high school boyfriend, who told me he loved me a week in. Or my college boyfriend who said it a month in. R said they were tricksters, not believing in the youthful romances. They must have said it to make me trust them, for me to give them everything I had. Or they confused their hormones with love, or maybe it was their initial sense of infatuation. Something like that. It wasn’t love.

R isn’t the typical romantic. A few months in I waited for him to say these words that other boys seemed unable to hold back. When they didn’t come, I confronted him. Not to ask him why he wasn’t in love, but to ask what he thought love was. He had never been in love. He started dating later in life, when he was 23 or 24. He had three girlfriends before me. 6 months, 3 months, 1 month. Each grew shorter as he eliminated the possibilities.

I asked him if he thought he was capable of love - something I was questioning myself before I met him. He said, “I would very much like to be in love.” The end rose in tone, as if asking a question.

He wanted someone that he trusted. In all sense of the word. Smart, caring, capable, self sufficient. Someone who could handle things so that he could do other, more important things, like work. Work was always on his mind.

He also wanted to do all sorts of projects. Whatever big idea that caught his fancy- a new business idea, or a charity. For someone who loved capitalism so much, he was surprisingly into helping others. His thing was that you could help so many more people if you used money effectively. He wanted a partner who would do it with him.

His final thought, which he prefaced with “I don’t know if this is reasonable, but...” he felt that he would be sure he was in love once they face some sort of hardship or big event. If they made it though, overcame it, averted the crisis in a way he deemed reasonable, then he would know. It was probably some sort of ultimate test to see if she will be a fit mother.

I joked that we weren’t going to get into a car crash to find out.

I was enamored by him from the start. When people asked what I liked about him, I instantly said “I like the way his brain works.” That isn’t to say that I always agree with him. We shared many things- values, future visions, an affinity to dry humor- but we didn’t agree on everything or share many interests. I didn’t need that, and was fine with accepting him as he was.

I was fascinated. I wanted to poke holes and wriggle my way through these thoughts, swimming in an endless pool of ideas. I wanted to know him in a way that I didn’t, and probably couldn’t, understand anyone else.

From his idea of love, you can probably tell, he is a very special type of person. He is driven, confident, and strangely idealistic. He has an ego too- not surprising for a young man who is successful, handsome, and smart. He probably feels like he can conquer the world- I don’t blame him.

Ego is not a terrible thing, but it gets in the way sometimes. It blinds you from other perspectives, closes you off from considering other possible truths.

While I wanted to meander through thoughts, he wanted an answer. My mind was always in between- seeking, finding, analyzing different possibilities. He thought there should always be a best answer. The right answer. All else was pointless.

I grew weary of answering leading questions. I didn’t like being dismissed because my argument was weak, or being questioned if I, by principle, really believed what I said.

He lost interest when I became a blank slate. I didn’t tickle his brain or challenge his beliefs the way he wanted. I resented his stubbornness to not consider my ideas significant.

Another thing you should know about him was that he really judged people. Perhaps there’s a better word I should use instead, but it was a self-proposed word that he enjoyed as a proud INTJ. He really strongly identified with each letter, despite the pseudo science behind it.

He really admired people, particularly good businessmen, who made a lot of their life. Rockefeller, Ford, Kroc, Bezos, Musk. What he didn’t like were people who didn’t aspire to anymore more than a normal desk job. He surrounded himself with friends who were entrepreneurs, smart people, go getters- people who think big.

He liked that I was also a entrepreneur, and he loved to talk about work. He would give me advice and new ideas of things I could do. He pushed me to do better.

I’m not a typical entrepreneur though. I didn’t venture forth with twinkling eyes- filled with ideas about changing the world. It was my sister’s idea to start it, and I went along because I liked not working for a boss. I like making things. I was the creative type, the work horse, the factory worker. I like to work and I want to do well, but maybe I’m just missing some gung-ho “I’m the best out there, and people love me” kind of vibe.

I’m terribly insecure.

I didn’t like talking about work with him. Compared to his business, we were a drop in the pond. He had started young, dropped out of college, bootstrapped the company and everything. For my sister and I, it was our first year of actually making any money, which even then was not much, On top of that we had issues with inventory, delays, and various mistakes that two non-business savvy people will make when they’re starting a company. Plus we were scared, risk-adversed and timid - not the kind of attitude you need to grow a successful business.

I grew up poor. Maybe not dirt poor, or homeless, or surviving on food stamps poor. My parent’s were hardworking immigrants who never had a chance to make much money. My dad never even went to high school thanks to the communist revolution. He worked in construction even though he was really an artist at heart. My mom married my dad, a stranger ten years her senior, to move to America, and she went to learn accounting at city college to get a job. It’s amazing really, what they accomplished, but we never had much money growing up.

He on the other hand, had two well educated, tech industry parents and grew up in a wealthy suburb.

Like most people who grew up poor, I never liked money, wasn’t particularly good with money, other than saving it (or rather hoarding it like a camel who doesn’t know where they’ll find water next), and never had confidence in my fiscal intelligence.

So when he told me I needed to do more, I felt like he was calling me stupid. When he told me I should work faster before competition came after us, I felt like he was calling me lazy. When he asked if I felt pressure, and if the pressure pushed me harder, I felt weak.

It’s not his fault that I didn’t want to talk to him. I never told him these things.

Instead I got upset, asked him to stop, and to calm down on how much we talked about work. This ate away at his soul. It was his favorite thing, and it was so rare for us to be both in this position. It should be a goldmine of topics to talk endlessly about. But i shut the door on him.

These days I can’t stop thinking about where it all went wrong. I wonder if I had been more confident, really talked about how I felt about work and money, been proud of what I had done, been OK with where my company was because I knew eventually it would grow, if he would have fed off of these conversations. I wonder if he would have fallen in love.

I have crazy fantasies about texting him, or calling him. Sometimes I run into him on the street, maybe at a coffee shop - even though both of us don’t drink coffee. I’ve daydreamed about emailing him voice recordings of me reading the book he gave me, and he would listen to my voice and miss me.

I can’t seem to eat anymore, so I guess I’m finally going on that diet I’ve been meaning to go on. I’ve been waking up early and working out. I’ve been doing yoga and reading articles about overcoming insecurity and building self-confidence. I can’t sleep, so I stay up reading about hydroponics and aquaponics, and homelessness- all topics we used to talk about.

I dream about months later, how I will get a text from him. We reconnect and meet to have dinner, I’d show off how beautiful I’ve become. How much knowledge I’ve gained. How well work is going. My new found confidence.

And he would find me so dazzling he wouldn’t be able to resist taking me back.

#love #heartbreak #breakup #story #short story #modern love #long reads

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abundantchewtoys · 5 years

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HS EpiPro: page 3 reaction

After giving it more thought, I know Rose might simply have been moved by the goodbye.

There's a possibility it's a farewell, that John might not be able to rejoin them, but then that would mean HIS victory state is something else.

And if I'm honest, the main thing that would move him to choose the other versions of his friends above those that he won the game with, was if their adventures somehow led to his Dad's resurrection. At least, that's the only thing I can come up with right now.

I also no longer think that Rose might have gotten 'ideas' due to her current state, but it still stands that her condition, if it wouldn't improve, is a serious impediment. Comparable to any debillitating illness you can get at a young age, like Parkinson or young dementia.

On to greener pastures, for now. I'm looking forward to the John/Roxy interaction. Apart from the funny quips they'll exchange, I'm looking to see what nuggets of wisdom she may have to share with him. If she won't join after all, she may have something for John as a Rogue of Void, shedding light on something he was too oblivous to have noticed or remembered.

---

Hmm, so Rose was in the Human Kingdom? Kind of strange, considering Kanaya's commitment to the trolls' legacy. It... might just be that the Human & Troll Kingdom are located at the same coordinates on the planet, just the first one on the surface level and the other, partially submerged? We know from the snaps that Karkat's hive, at least, was on the surface.

"For whatever faults this paradise you created might have, you sure don’t hear many complaints about the weather." Those faults including the troll rebellion that kidnapped Jane?

"You’re sitting with Roxy and Calliope on a giant, chessboard-pattern tablecloth. It’s a nice touch, you think. But if you spent any time shopping in the Carapace Kingdom, you’d know most things you can buy are chess themed." Pffff, hah, of course that's a thing. At least a chess-themed cloth is not so on the nose as, say, chess-themed cars or clothes.

"JOHN: she looked alright. mostly just tired.

JOHN: at least she seemed to have enough energy to babble at length about philosophical gibberish, and things about canon and such.

ROXY: lmao

ROXY: guess she filled you in on all the ultimate self junk then"

So Roxy knew about Rose's condition, but at minimum hadn't spoken to her that day yet. Also, she knows about the merging of selves! The 'ultimate self' term could've come from Jade, from when she talked to Davepetasprite^2.

"JOHN: you haven’t been feeling anything like that, right?

ROXY: what getting to know my ultimate self?

JOHN: yeah.

ROXY: man ive barely got a hold of my basic ass self" Hah, nice. At least John isn't the only one.

"the only illicit substance i’ve ever done is lick that STUPID trickster lollipop" Well, okay, so John didn't loot Dad's liquor stash, if the man had any to begin with.

"JOHN: NEVER AGAIN." Calliope might think the incident bears repeating, unless she learned by now that irresponsibly discarding your issues doesn't resolve anything.

"ROXY: cant say its much my business anymore

ROXY: rose and i arent as close as we used to be

You nod, sort of knowingly, because you’re thinking about how you hadn’t talked to Rose in ages either. Roxy gives you a quizzical look, but you turn away before she can draw meaning from it." :/ They've drifted apart over the years, then. I kind of hoped they'd keep in touch, all sister-like. And Roxy might be a whiz at reading subverbal clues, come to think of it, as Rogue of Void.

"ROXY: maryams been keeping her real busy since they got hitched

ROXY: they both vanished down the brooding caverns and that was p much that

ROXY: only since she got sick and spent more time at home did we start talkin more again

ROXY: its been great but our conversations have been a lil bit upsetting" Eesh, so... Kanaya's calling kept the two of them so wrapped up they lost contact. That's sad. I wonder if Rose came up because exposure to the sun helped alleviate some of the symptoms, due to Vitamine D and all that. In any case, if they hadn't talked that much in so long, there's still a lot of unresolved issues between the two of them.

"You look towards the bell tower in the distance. It’s a gothic building so tall that it cuts a shadow through the midday sun. It’s an important landmark in the kingdom—the tallest structure for miles around—and the only way you can ever navigate your way here flying. Carapace architecture is otherwise identic, a reflection of their functional, collectivist society." I'm pretty sure the bell tower resembles the towers with the prototyping orbs on Derse & Prospit. I can picture anyone not a carapace getting lost pretty quickly in this kingdom.

"ROXY: ive thought about it but ill probably never wanna live in a different kingdom

ROXY: still feel most at home around the chess guys" Aww, yeah, it's the society she grew up knowing, identical architecture included.

"JOHN: that’s about how i feel about the salamanders. JOHN: which... i realize actually makes no fucking sense." I think the Salamander Village somehow reminds John of his old town. Maybe by subconsiously equating the pipes of LOWAS to the Pipe Lake that was near his home. (Look it up if you don't know, the location of John's town really exists.)

"JOHN: they lead simple lives.

JOHN: i don’t really care for the chaos of human or troll cities." I think John longs for the suburban feel, and maybe there are a lot less suburbs on Earth C that can hold up in comparison to his old neighbourhood. Plus, the salamanders make a best effort to act like proper businessmen bringing food on the shelves and taking care of their atomic family household. It's just recognizable, to John.

"You watch Roxy smile and reach for Calliope’s hand.

> Look away before you start dwelling on it.

You start dwelling on it immediately, looking probably quite conspicuous with how quickly you whipped your gaze away. But seriously, what is up with their relationship? Is it romantic? Platonic? Can cherubs even have a romantic relationship? Are they even interested in it, like, on a fundamental level? Do their brains and hearts even work that way? Questions like this used to keep you awake at night." Ah, John, I know your the fandom avatar here, but for you to be this preoccupied with romance is weird. :P I'd figure he'd figure they were just close friends, like a good shonen anime protagonist would. I'm reminded of the events from the snaps, where Roxy & Calliope appeared to be dating, but eh. I suppose due to the snaps existing outside of canon, they're all squared off into a "choose what you want to keep from this" zone.

You look at them, at where Roxy’s fingers are entwined with Calliope’s green claws. Calliope is still wearing the Ring of Life. The same one you obtained in a ludicrous adventure through the afterlife, and then re-obtained in a ludicrous adventure through canon when it was stolen from you. It’s the same one that allowed Calliope to stop being dead in the first place, and to come live with your friends here on your beautifully renovated home planet." I've begun thinking: if John would retcon the Game Over timeline, Aranea would still be in possession of the Ring of Life. But she may not keep it, it just depends on whether removing the ring rekills her or not. If not, then that's a Chekov's Gun they'll probably need at some point.

"And it’s the same one you gave Roxy all those years ago, to fulfill a promise made to a very special new friend.

At the time, the gesture felt so important. It felt more meaningful than any gift you’d ever given. Like there was some grand emotional gravitas about it that signified something deeper than... than what it turned out to be.

You have since concluded you were just imagining things. Ascribing symbolic meaning to gestures that they simply didn’t carry, like the dumb kid you were." Yeah, Roxy x John was being hinted at pretty badly back then. I figure part of the reason John hasn't stayed in touch with her is because the feelings were, in the end, not to last or be reciprocated in full. Then again, it might have been a case of one thing leading to another - John distancing himself because he didn't know what to make of Roxy & Calliope's relationship, in turn alienating Roxy little by little.

"But you can’t stop thinking about it. What goes on in Roxy’s head. What she thinks about you.

You and all your friends have dispositions affected by your classes and aspects. You think you know what that means in your case. But what about her? You can only speculate. Void is a place where things sink and disappear. Where they linger forever, but cease to exist. You aren’t actually sure if your feelings for Roxy ever really faded, or if they just grew numb with time and distance. Is it the same for her?

You search your soul for the answer, but come up empty. The truth is, you suspect her mental interior is unfathomable. In fact, you feel sure of it.

You wonder suddenly, watching her. This version of her, that is. The one with whom you share all these bittersweet memories—will you ever see her again?" I do wonder what John's class & aspect does to his disposition, that he thinks. As for Roxy's feelings being swallowed by the Void or the workings of her mind & heart being incalculable... That is just taking an easy way out of thinking about a hard problem, in my opinion. I do however like the fact that John at least realizes that by goiAgang back into canon, he risks losing his way back here. It's good the realization didn't just came after the fact.

Again, what's HIS victory state: Dad revived, and Roxy committed to a relationship with him, if she really isn't otherwise engaged? ... I wonder if he'll seek some last minute guidance from Nannasprite (either one), before leaving, come to think of it.

"CALLIOPE: ahem." Aha! I was kind of beginning to doubt she'd even speak up. It's easy to think of Calliope as a background character in this story, but she's been an important catalyst for a lot of events. And, she or a version of her will probably still have a large role to play. Though Blaperile and I wonder how there could be another version of her, since Roxy only revived her after the events of Game Over.

"CALLIOPE: please forgive me if i come across as impatient. bUt if we are finished with the pleasantries, i believe yoU have a choice to make." I don't think the choice is: cake or cookies. Then again, it just might be, since Blaperile reminded me the choice was referred to in the epilogues summary. It'll probably get lampshaded a couple times again before it really happens, and they do seem to be picknicking right now.

CALLIOPE: the choice as to whether yoU will go defeat my brother, or stay here." Ooh, I'm glad it's a serious choice. I wonder about Calliope's stance in this matter. She hates Caliborn, also fears his powers, presumably. But she's wise enough to understand his importance to the whole of Paradox Space.

"CALLIOPE: have yoU decided yet?

JOHN: there’s a choice??" Real, capitalize-C Choices, in Sburb at least, always seem to beget two timelines, but inside an epilogue, the consequences of that would be... confusing.

"ROXY: tbh its a relief to finally be doin this

JOHN: it is?

ROXY: mm hm

JOHN: how much have you actually... talked about this? i mean, how many people knew this was going to be a thing?" ... Did EVERYONE of the players talk about this beforehand, has everyone made there peace with John possibly leaving them forgood to save their own futures? On the one hand, that would sooth John of most worry, but on the other hand... That must sting a little or a lot.

"ROXY: just us and rose. well dirk too i think" Oh, so only them and Dirk? Is it because of his powers as the Prince of Heart, that he has his own understanding of the ultimate self, by way of keeping in contact with all shards of his person in some way or another? ... Is the epilogue version of Dirk, or Brain Ghost Dirk, going to be able to use some of post-canon Dirk's knowledge in the matter, I wonder?

"ROXY: shes been talkin to me about it a bunch

ROXY: and him too but i dunno how much

ROXY: hes got like

ROXY: “thoughts” about all this shit

ROXY: but whatever thats not important or even remotely surprising

ROXY: bottom line, rose has been tormenting herself about having to tell you

ROXY: im just glad she finally said it so she can rest" Ah, so that is the main reason Rose & Roxy's latest conversations weren't more pleasant, then. Also, Dirk and Rose have always been the strategists of their respective cliques, among the humans that is.

"CALLIOPE: yes. take all the time yoU need.

CALLIOPE: again, we aren’t here to inflUence yoU. it’s very important that the decision come from yoUr desire to go throUgh with it, one way or another.

CALLIOPE: any tampering coUld taint the resUlts.

JOHN: taint the...

JOHN: wait, what?" Oh yes, John has to decide for himself, no one can just, like COMMAND him to do it through the narration or anything. :P Funny how, meta wise, indeed we can't influence John, but in-story, he's of course still getting railroaded into making a choice. There's supposed to be three options in this: fight, flight or indecision, but he's denied the last one.

This is actually one of the first times John is going to make the call for himself after being informed of the stakes. I mean that in, he's not supposed to decide on the best course of action together with someone else.

"A chill runs through you and stays there.

> Consider the gravitas of this choice.

You try, but you can’t, because you weren’t really prepared for it. You didn’t think it was a choice at all until this very second." Even if they won't influence him in word, being informed of the stakes may convince John that there is not really anything to say in favour for NOT doing this.

"You think back to the way Rose looked at you before she went to bed. What has she told Roxy that she didn’t tell you? The chill tightens around your throat and turns into fear.

No, not fear. The feeling is worse than that. It’s regret.

You wasted your time here on this idyllic restoration of Earth. Why did you spend so much time alone? Moping around the house mourning your dead father, who probably would have wanted you to get more enjoyment out of your teen years, as well as your unusually early retirement. There’s so much you could have done. You could have even reached out to Roxy again; maybe she was waiting for you to do that. Maybe your withdrawal hurt her. Maybe she was heartbroken, just like you kind of feel right now. You study her perfectly stoic face and conclude nothing from it. Her expression reminds you of how Dave used to look, when you first met for real, before years of living with Karkat softened him up. Impenetrable cool." John might get a lot of second chance out of this adventure, but it won't make up for what he and everyone else has gone through already... I'm glad John is coming back from that whole "unfathomable mental interior" idea he had. It shouldn't be that hard for him, to picture what he'd feel if he was her and had gotten the same treatment as he gave her.

"It’s too late to figure any of this out now. You fucked it up already.

Unless, of course, you choose to stay.

Upon further examination, you realize that Roxy’s stoicism isn’t cold. There’s concern there. She is displaying restraint, keeping quiet while you make up your mind. You’re sweating, you realize. Cold sweat. Even worse than the anime nightmare sweat you woke up soaked in this morning.

ROXY: john u ok?" The gravitas of the situation is fully stalking him now. At least, if he chooses to stay, I'm convinced another version of him would turn up to fill the... ahem, void. Like the version of him he met when he went back to talk to Terezi and got the scarf instructions.

Blaperile has a good point, that John for once has to form an opinion on the best course of action and stick to it, not letting himself be influenced. That kind of resolve is rare for him, after all, he's done so much relying on other people to know better.

"JOHN: ..." This is really not any responsibility John enjoys having.

"CALLIOPE: this decision is far too important to be made on an empty stomach." Oh, NOW the cake & cookies come out. :P I think John'll have to think this one over some more still, asking other people for input.

"CALLIOPE: behold, an array of savory delights for the carnally inclined.

CALLIOPE: or perhaps something for yoUr sweet tooth, if a lUst for treats is what stokes yoUr desire?" Hah, her diet's still the same then as before, meat & candy.

"You scoot to the side and peek into the basket to see if there’s anything else. There’s a book in there, but no more food. This is all there is." Might that be Rose's tome in there? It would be funny for John to only make his decision after having reread the entirety of Homestuck, as a refreshener of everything that happened to him. :P

"Your entire world narrows to a single point of light as you are utterly consumed by the overbearing decision about which of these absurd meals to have for lunch." Ah yes, not the Choice the victory state deserves John to make, but the one John needs right now.

"> MEAT or CANDY?

Meat or candy. The two possibilities pinball around your skull. Meat or candy. It’s a tough choice. On any other day you might be inclined to simply follow the whims of your cravings, but no clear victor surges to the forefront of your mind."

Hmm, there seems to be a parallel being drawn here to John's actual Choice. Is the timeline going to split over it, I wonder? ... Blaperile has a good point. Is this indication that, even in this, John will be able to pick a third option, like how the Vriska/Terezi standoff got resolved? If neither option seems to lead to an entirely satisfactory outcome, he might have to create his own terms somehow.

"Either option offers a tempting means of sustenance. You know the meat will be rich and filling, and if you’re being honest with yourself, you haven’t had the most robust diet as of late. You didn’t even have breakfast. It’s probably a good idea to eat something resembling a real meal for once." So, is MEAT in this allegory John going back into canon, kicking off a new, fulfulling adventure? And CANDY being John staying in the victory state, everything staying happy happy joy joy but ultimately not leading to anything? Then again, MEAT is bloody. The adventure won't be cleanly resolved, just like Homestuck proper had some loose ends.

"But you’re no stranger to Calliope’s tastes, as far as carnivorous comestibles are concerned. You know every cut on that plate is rare to the core. It’ll fill your mouth to bursting with juice, lie heavy on your stomach for hours to come as your body works to break down all the nutritious protein and fat." Aka Hussie tells captivating tales, that we'll need to digest for some time. We should be wary about this.

... Are we going to get a choice as readers at the end of this page? Stay or leave? (Not to be confused with the Brexit poll choices.)

... No!

This is the end of the it, for now!

"To Be Continued" Cooooooool.[/spoiler]

In all honesty, I had been spoiled on my dash that a TBC was incoming, but I didn't know when or if in the meantime the comic might have updated again.

#homestuck #homestuck epilogues #reaction #homestuck liveblog #spoiler alert #upd8 #john egbert #roxy lalonde #calliope

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inktae · 7 years

Text

the blue notebooks

↳ time travel au

◇ pairing: jimin | reader ◇ genre: fluff, angst ◇ word count: 8.575 ◇ warnings: none ◇ author’s note: this story will have a sequel since there is much, much more I want to tell, but I wanted to keep it under 10k and I figured this part worked well as a standalone. please enjoy :)

You meet Park Jimin after a particularly rough landing.

You wish time traveling was as easy as the books like to describe, or as beautifully romantic as the movies depict. It is a concept that’s been overly embroidered with advantages that do not exist — and even if normal humans see it as a fortuitous skill, one they long to have, they rarely realize that having a normal life is out of the question for your kind. Even so, there is no point in wishing for something that won’t happen in this lifetime, not with the time traveling genes burning strong within your veins.

The only way of coping with your so called gift is by being independent — a nomad, of sorts. Time jumps are volatile and precarious, they throw you into the future with only a ten second warning, and the universe has no mercy as it makes you skip five years every few days, over and over. You can only rely on the large backpack that never leaves your side, on your instincts and experience, on controlling the fear and the discomfort of being pushed into a brand new world every single week. You can only rely on yourself, because concepts like friendships and relationships are foreign and leave a bitter taste on your tongue.

There is no point in putting your feelings out there, because five years later they always forget about you.

Right before dropping into the year 2020, you were in the middle of a light chat with another time traveler — a young girl whose time jumps made her skip five months. You were trying to restrain the jealousy bubbling in your chest when you felt that familiar sensation stirring in the pit of your stomach, and you could only give her an apologetic smile that she swiftly understood, nodding as she bid you a fast goodbye.

You did not even get to hear her name.

The thing about time jumps is that their locations tend to be unknown, even if the number of years you jump always remain the same. Five seconds later you find yourself on the verge of a roof as fierce gusts of air swipe at your face relentlessly, eyes widening and voice getting stuck in your throat when you realize you’re standing on top of a skyscraper, feet unsteady as you try to find your balance again.

Had your location shifted five centimeters, you would be plunging into the crammed street that lies hundreds of meters below. A squeak leaves your mouth as you stagger back, tripping from the shock as your body falls to the ground.

“Oh my god,” your body trembles as you try to make sense of the situation, the fact that you’re still alive sinking in and making your heart stutter painfully.

“Y/N! Holy shit, I can’t believe we both landed on a freaking skyscraper. Are you okay?”

A hand clutches at your shoulder and you immediately turn back, almost giving yourself whiplash from the sharp movement. A boy is staring down at you with wide, worried eyes, features tense as he extends his hand in your direction.

It is rare, oh so rare, to find someone that actually knows your name. The sensation is as warm as it is unsettling, and you force your weakened legs to move as you stand up, still carrying the heavy bag on your back as you give the boy a quick once over. He does not ring a bell, not with those exceptionally bright eyes and full lips and gentle features that make you wonder about his age. He looks so soft, and a small part of you wants to trust him right away, even if you’ve gone all your life not needing more than the briefest interactions with other travelers.

The boy tilts his head, and a confused smile lifts his lips. “Is something wrong? Did you hit your head?”

“I, um—” you get up without his help, and the boy’s hand falters. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?”

It’s fascinating, the way so many emotions break through his face as they interlace in the depth of his wide eyes. Not used to witness so much… vulnerability in front of you, you’re left just as speechless as he seems to be, and his lips part and close a few times as he tries to form words, though they never come out of his throat.

You fidget in the spot, finally looking around. The roof you’re standing on is, thankfully, completely barren — and even if normal humans already know of the existence of time travelers, they still gape openly whenever someone materializes in front of them, eyes almost burning with curiosity and filling you with a deep uneasiness.

The boy finally finds his words and you turn back to him immediately, fingers fiddling with the straps of your backpack as you try to think of how to get out of the conversation with the least awkwardness possible.

“Sorry, I just— I almost forgot this day was near,” he laughs, a choked out sound that barely escapes his throat. It’s then that you realize he seems to be holding back tears, making you gulp nervously as you take a step back. He seems to compose himself fast, though — lifting his gaze again and giving you a bright smile. “Nevermind. I’m Park Jimin, hi,” he extends a hand again and you take it this time, albeit slowly and with a blunt hesitation that makes him wince.

“I’m… well, you seem to know my name already,” you don’t ask him what his previous words meant. If there is something you’ve learnt about time travelers over the years, is that they always say the strangest things.

“I promise I’m not a stalker.”

You scoff at that, though the smallest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. “Well, unless you’ve also been jumping to the future every five years, then it’s impossible for you to stalk me.”

“Don’t worry about that,” his voice softens up at that, eyes lowering for a fraction of a second. “Um, should we go and find a way out of here?”

“I already did,” you point at the emergency stairs on the other side of the roof. “We might get in trouble for breaking into the building, though.”

“We travel through time, how can we not get in trouble?”

“Good point,” you still feel hesitant, but the light feeling in your chest reveals how strangely comforting his presence is. You have heard of time travelers forming their own teams when their time jumps match, and the idea always made your chest constrict in stinging wistfulness, painfully aware that five years is a particularly long span for an ordinary traveler. There is rarely someone out there who jumps more than three years.

But the idea still jabs at the back of your mind as you go down the stairs with Park Jimin, questions tangling on the tip of your tongue as you try to keep the bubbling hope at bay. There is no way your jumps match. This was just a coincidence. Calm down.

The stairs lead to the highest floor of the building, and your eyes bask in the strangely modern hallway, already packed with scurrying businessmen that barely give you a glance. Jimin does not seem to mind either, unusually unruffled as he makes way between the busy strangers.

“I… people seem to be more used to time travelers this year,” you comment, biting your lip nervously. You are not used to confessing how long your timespans are — you hide it like a shameful secret, one that always earns pitiful looks whenever you let it out.

Jimin only blinks at that, tilting his head in confusion before realization hits his expression. Realization of what, you’re not sure. “Oh! I almost forgot— you come from 2015.”

You halt at that, heart skipping a beat. It is one thing for him to know your name, which is strange, but not worrying — and another is for him to mention the length of your jumps like common knowledge. Jimin grimaces as soon as the words are out, looking like a deer caught in headlights as his wide eyes trace your stone cold face.

“I…” he does not find the words, though. His voice fades and only the low murmur of the workers fills in the stretching silence, humming in the background as the continuous thud of your heartbeat grows louder behind your ears.

“Let’s… get out of here first, you can explain once we’re outside.”

“Okay,” he looks painfully crestfallen as he turns around to keep walking, and you feel immensely guilty for a second, unsure if giving him the cold shoulder is the right course of action here. You cannot take anything back, though — skipping time does not mean you can mold it in any way you want, as much as you wished that was the case.

A surprisingly fast elevator takes you through eighty floors in less than ten seconds. Even though the shock of technology has always filled you with deep wonder, it only falls flat this time, thoughts swirling under the mystery of the other time traveler that silently walks by your side.

The sounds of the outside world are somewhat comforting when you finally exit the building. Your eyes swipe over the crowded sidewalks and the modern cars that flash by, inevitably finding themselves connecting with Jimin’s a few seconds later. He looks more and more uneasy by the second, gingerly rubbing the back of his neck.

“I guess I should start with my jumps, then,” he licks his lips, hands digging into the pockets of his timeworn jeans.

“Have you been following me? Do you also jump five years into the future?” you blurt out, unable to keep the words down any longer. He quickly shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again. The glint of vulnerability you got a glimpse of before is there again, making it hard for you to keep gazing into his eyes.

“I do jump every five years,” he says, and your heart almost stops. “But into the past.”

You freeze at that. “What?”

“I… I come from 2025,” he explains, running a hand through his hair. “I travel… backwards.”

All the air seems to escape your lungs, eyes fixing on the ground under your feet as your brain tries to make sense of his words.

“That’s… new,” you look up again, giving him a stunned look that makes him smile nervously.

“I know. Five years are already hard to match— add into the past and it’s not exactly the luckiest position to be in,” the boy is still smiling, words forming easily between his lips, and your heart suddenly tugs at the way he’s grown used to this life of his, so effortlessly, so helplessly. Without a choice.

Silence stretches again, though it is not uncomfortable this time. You break it a few seconds later, mind reeling as your finger brushes against your bottom lip absentmindedly.

“You jump five years into the past,” you repeat, swallowing. He nods. “Does that mean…”

“We’ve met before,” he admits. The words are slow and his tone is dubious, making his cheeks flame faintly. “We’ve met… quite a few times.”

“And this is the last time you find me,” you state plainly. It makes sense, even if it’s no more than a bizarre, twisted game of the universe — this is your first time meeting Jimin. This is the last time Jimin meets you.

“So it seems,” he clears his throat, seemingly distressed with the topic. “The more I jumped into the past, the less you seemed to recognize me, but today was still so... sudden. The same thing will happen to you as you jump into the future, though— there will be a day when I won't recognize you anymore, and then your journey with me will be over.”

His voice is heavy with forlorn and defeat, emotions you can only witness but not truly feel. You still don’t know him, after all. But the look in his eyes still brings a faint pang to your chest, the one caused by sad stories and melancholic movies.

It takes you a few seconds to realize you haven’t given him an answer. He exhales in a loud sigh, as if trying to evaporate any trace of his previous words from the stalled air.

“I guess it’s my turn to explain the rules.”

“Rules?”

His lips curve at that, slowly brightening up. “You did it, once— very far in the future for you. Come on, let’s go sit somewhere. There is a lot we have to talk about.”

It doesn’t take you long to realize the peculiarity of yours and Jimin’s situation — you don’t know the boy, but he speaks to you with an easiness that only belongs to that of very old friends, imbued with a reliance and a trust you cannot relate to, not yet. It is perplexing to think of a future version of yourself that speaks to him with the same comfort and conviction, someone that returns his smiles and gestures and touches.

They do not go unnoticed. A subtle brush of his hand upon your shoulder, knees brushing against each other with a casualness that doesn’t even make him flinch. You’re both sitting on a lonely bench located under a tall, thick tree, bordering a large park you faintly recognize. Even if your locations are inherently random, they never stray away from a handful of cities relatively close to each other. The surroundings always change, though — five years is a gap normal humans do not notice, and you wish they could see how different everything looks and feels and smells, and the traces of the city you knew ages ago is almost buried under the subtle touches of new technology, humanity growing more and more demanding over the years.

Jimin takes a small, blue notebook out of his backpack — just as big and heavy-looking as your own —, tongue peeking out in concentration as he quickly skims through the pages. He immediately jerks away when he sees you trying to get a glimpse of the words written on it, eyes flashing with a shock you cannot understand.

“Rule number one— no looking at my diary!”

“Oh,” you lean back, frowning as the embarrassment crawls up your neck in the form of a burning blush. “Well— I have no idea what my… future self and you have been up to. Why do you carry a diary, anyways?”

It’s his turn to blush, eyes lowering down as he looks at the heavily written pages. “Sorry, I keep forgetting you don’t… um. The first time I met you, you had a diary where you basically recorded every single one of our meetings, so I decided to do the same,” he’s still blushing, skin hot and pink as he struggles to meet your gaze. “And that is the only spoiler I’m giving you.”

The fact that you will actually get a diary to write about this boy is hard to believe, and it makes your heart thump strongly, sending shivers down your body.

“God, this is so weird,” you moan, elbows resting on your knees as your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose. “What kind of paradox did I get myself into?”

He laughs, then — a breezy sound that makes your chest feel inevitably warm. Glancing at him, you notice the way he’s biting his lower lip as he tries to restrain his chuckles, smile soft and secretive as he continues to search through his diary.

“What is it?”

He throws you a glance, smile vanishing slightly. “I said the same thing when I met you for the first time. Ah, damn — I keep talking about the future, sorry. That’s another rule. Spoilers are forbidden.”

“Why the hell did we implement rules in the first place?”

“Found them,” he finally stops searching, stopping at a page that has scribbled down at least fifteen lines. Looking at you again, his eyes glint with excitement, as if your question makes him brim with fascination. “We have rules because you brought them to me in the first place.”

You can feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing against your temples. “But… you are the one telling me the rules right now.”

“Exactly, it’s a loop. Like you said, we’re in a paradox, one that has no beginning— and we have to be careful. Following the rules is important, or we could break the tissue of time.”

“Isn’t it easier if we just… parted ways? if we didn’t get involved with each other?” you ask, hands pressing at your cheeks as your thoughts swim and huddle together in frantic disarray.

He falls silent at that, and it takes you a few seconds to realize he’s not giving you an answer. Finally gazing at him, your thoughts grow quiet when you notice the troubled expression he’s openly wearing, a long exhale escaping his parted lips.

“I… that’s… you’ll eventually realize why, I guess,” he clears his throat, not meeting your eyes. “Just… trust me. Trust us,” he finally looks at you, eyes imploring and smile painfully hopeful.

And you may not trust him yet, because the depth in his eyes still belongs to a stranger, even if he seems to hold memories of you that reflect in his features as deep affection, one you’re not brave enough to acknowledge. But something in your gut — call it intuition — makes you agree, and your lungs are able to take air easily at the satisfied look on his face.

He tells you the rules, then. No spoilers, no peeking at each other’s diaries, no sharing past meetings, no warning each other in case of accidents or major disasters that may happen in your surroundings. Changing the past or the future is not your job, nor it is Jimin’s — and the best course of action to keep spacetime safe and sound is to let the universe entangle your time jumps in any way it wants, and to let the future develop as naturally as possible. You are riding a wave too large and significant to control, and trying to get a hold of it would only end up in catastrophe.

“We can only focus on the present, basically,” you pipe in after the fifth rule. Jimin’s eyes seem to be reading rule number six over and over, cheeks permeated with a violent blush that makes you stare at him curiously.

“Yeah… um, about the next rule,” he starts, but never continues. The urge to glance at his notebook is painfully strong now, but you try to resist, eyes focused on Jimin’s mortified expression.

“What is it?”

“Don’t… don’t think I’m a pervert, okay? this is another exception we decided to tell each other to avoid any… awkwardness.”

“Oh,” you may have a faint idea of what he means, and it makes you fidget uncomfortably on the bench, not sure of how you feel about your future… endeavors with Jimin. You’ve seen the way he looks at you, after all — something was definitely going on with him and your future self, and you suppose it makes sense to receive a warning, of sorts.

“The cottage and the pyramids.”

Well, you were not expecting that. “Huh?”

He doesn’t look into your eyes, face still brimming with a deep red. “Our first and our last.”

You inhale sharply, and force yourself to breathe normally as Jimin’s words burn in your mind. You are not sure if you want to know what kind of first he means, and what kind of last he means — but the images flashing through your head are already making your skin tingle.

“The cottage and the pyramids… got it,” you swallow, hands digging into the fabric covering your thighs. “Wait. Are we both jumping into Egypt at some point?”

He chuckles at that, covering his lips briefly. “Spoilers.”

You don’t reply, noticing the way his smile reaches up to his sparkling eyes. It’s a rare sight, to see so much mirth in someone else’s gaze. Rare, but oddly pleasant, even if you’re not the one feeling so gleeful.

“Say, Jimin…” you sigh, feeling somewhat relaxed as your muscles slowly unwind under the sound of rustling leaves, gently swaying with the wind. “Why are our jumps matching now? It doesn’t… make much sense.”

He leans back, balancing his weight on his hands as he looks up at the crown of the shadowing tree. “We asked ourselves the same question everyday— why does it start now for you, why does it end now for me,” his tone softens, lips pursing after the words are out. “Or why do we start appearing in the same places all of a sudden. But time travel doesn’t make much sense, does it? trying to figure it out is like… trying to understand spacetime— and that’s a language we’re just not ready for, I think.”

His words are quiet, open and familiar on his tongue, as if they’ve been stewing inside his mind for countless nights. And you understand him, even if you never gave your ability much thought beyond the surface — you just… accepted it, like a third arm you did not truly need, but never did much harm.

You felt only reluctance towards your jumps, and never saw them as fascinating as Jimin seems to do. Even if he’s traveling backwards, leading a life no other human could ever understand — he still smiles, and his eyes still shimmer with a captivation you’re only starting to grasp, as scary as this situation might be.

“Well? Did I scare you off?” he continues, nervously running a hand through his hair.

Glancing up at him, you can’t help but smile at the way he’s clutching tightly at his notebook. One that contains so many words related to you, and it’s a knowledge that makes you feel strangely jittery, though not in a bad way — in a giddy way, if that makes sense.

“It’s absolutely insane, but I believe you.”

How can you not? All your life you’ve been craving for a companion that matched your jumps, even if this is not the way you were expecting it to happen. If Park Jimin is only fooling you, then you will feel no more than a brief mortification the next time you plunge five years into the future. You know he will be there, though — a slightly younger version of himself that has not gone through this conversation just yet.

“Good!” he straightens up, opening his notebook again with child-like excitement. “Now, let me read you the rest of the rules. They are all silly things, though.”

Jimin continues to read, pointing out things like we must wait for each other if one of us takes a few minutes to appear, or we must keep an eye out for the late jumper if the location is somewhat dangerous. They do not sound all that silly to you, especially after the scare on the top of the skyscraper — but you just nod along quietly, trying to keep them in your head as you frantically force your brain not to forget any of it.

He puts his notebook away when he’s done, thrusting it into his backpack before getting up. He looks somewhat… hectic, fidgeting on the spot as you slowly get up.

“Um. Now what?” you wonder, biting your lip as he glances around.

“I… ah. There’s this place we like,” he gives you a coy look, choosing his words carefully. You can only snort, already getting used to that ambiguous gaze.

“Spoilers?”

He smiles, relieved. “Spoilers.”

You walk beside him, leaving the quietness of the park and entering the bustling city again. It feels somewhat less intimidating with Jimin by your side, who walks with an ease you wish you owned as he struts down the streets with you following along. He turns to you a few times, eyes brimming and lips parting, as if the words inevitably crawl up his throat before he swallows them down again. It makes you wonder how many things he longs to say, and for a second you’re almost jealous of your future self, of that time traveler who has already explored every corner of Jimin’s persona, who has probably lived a hundred adventures and more with him.

You’re not able to put a name to your destination until Jimin drags you inside a large building that looks strikingly older than its surroundings. Its timeless walls almost bring a sense of familiarity, a reassurance that there are places that simply won’t age, no matter how many times you jump into the future. Your heart swells as your eyes eagerly take in the interior, whiffs of a comforting scent sneaking into your nose.

“Oh yeah, you definitely know me.”

Jimin smiles at your whispered words, almost too loud as they probe through the smooth silence. The walls are immensely tall, torrents of books spreading across your sides and turning small and blurry in the distance, faint dots that hold so much life within its pages. You’ve barely taken two steps inside and you’re already glad you’ll be back — because according to Jimin’s words, this is a place that’s familiar for you both.

“Come here, let me show you something,” his fingers circle your wrist — a gentle touch that mostly resembles a graze and not a grasp — and he takes you towards the center of the endless library, steps shifting towards one of the shelves on the left. Your eyes widen when you read the words describing the section, immediately giving Jimin a dumbfounded look.

“Time travel diaries?”

He stops in front of the large shelf, head tilting to give you an enthusiastic smile. “This is one of the few libraries that collects diaries from remarkable time travelers. Look,” his finger skims across the spines of the books in front of him, eyes squinting as he rapidly reads the titles. It doesn’t take him long to find what he was looking for, features brightening as his hands stops. “Aha, here it is.”

He takes it out and hands it to you, allows you to check out the first few pages in silence.

“Wait… this is—” you lift your head, stunned, and Jimin smiles at your perplexed expression.

“The diary of a man who skipped ten years into the future,” he points out as you continue to turn the pages, jagged and delicate under your touch. “He died twenty years ago, unfortunately. But the way he describes how he experiences a new world everytime he jumps is just… it’s amazing, really. He was really brave.”

The tone of his voice makes your chest constrict, because it feels like he’s talking to you, even if the life of the man you’re holding between your hands is clearly more outstanding than yours will ever be. Jimin lets you read as his eyes start to wander over the myriad of titles, and your heart only shrinks even more as you sink deeper into the traveler’s story, immediately noticing the loneliness imprinted in the words. You can relate to it, way more than you’d like to.

You and Jimin end up with a decently sized pile of diaries at some point, one you both decide to take to one of the empty tables meant for reading purposes. The silence is broken every few minutes, anecdotes shared as each of you stumble upon funny or interesting diary entries. You slowly find yourself paying more attention to his reactions rather than the passages you read, gaze entranced by the brown eyes that seem to drink up the diaries eagerly, the silky brush of his chestnut hair across his forehead as his head unconsciously leans closer to the book he’s holding.

You still find it unbelievable, and a little absurd — before today, you were no more than a traveler who was forcing herself to get used to the loneliness, always stating that even if she was alone, she was never lonely, a deep-rooted lie that made it infinitely easier to skip five years every week. But now you find yourself next to a boy whose jumps and locations have suddenly decided to match, for no logical reason other than the universe’s unknown progression. From one minute to the next you found yourself a companion, and a friendly one at that — someone who might also match with yourself, not only your jumps. It’s ridiculous, insane, and it almost makes your eyes burn with tears.

“Hey, Jimin—” you clear your throat when your voice comes out constricted. “How long do we stay in each time period?”

He looks up at that, eyes glazing over as he thinks. “Three, four days at most.”

You release a long exhale — that’s significantly shorter than your previous jumps. You fidget in your seat, putting away the diary you were reading as you anxiously start eyeing the rest. Jimin reads the sudden shift in your mood in a matter of seconds, with a startling ease that keeps reminding you of how well he probably knows you at this point.

You do not expect his next move, though. You freeze at the sudden warmth that spreads across the top of your hand, eyes fixating on the way his fingers brush yours above the table.

He removes his hand at your intent gaze, movements thoroughly awkward as he taps his fingers on top of the wooden surface. “Sorry. I know you get a little nervous with your jumps, and that they used to last longer when we weren’t together. I used to stay fifteen days in each year before we met, if that makes you feel better.”

“They might go back to normal the next time you jump.”

He diverts his gaze at that, eyes unreadable as he casts them down. The feeble smile on his lips expresses anything but happiness. “Yeah, maybe they will.”

You feel a sudden pang you try to ignore, cheeks heating up in mortification at your own blatant indifference. It’s strange to want to feel something similar to the way his shoulders are slumping and to his bleary gaze, which is clearly unfocused even if he’s pretending to read. A heavy staleness hangs in the air and you crave to stop it, body getting up so suddenly the chair scrapes violently against the floor.

Jimin’s eyes flicker up in bewilderment, blinking at the eager look on your face.

“Show me around,” you say, voice a little too loud. “You said we knew the city, right? Show me what we loved about it.”

“Bossy,” he mutters, but his lips curve in a smirk as he closes the diary in his hands. “The city is quite big and it might take us all three or four days to see everything. I’m willing to do that if you are.”

For the first time in your life, your heart flutters at the prospect of exploring an entire city before jumping. And with your firm nod he only grins broadly, showing his own excitement, even if he’s only retracing steps he already took.

It makes you wonder if the sole idea of your company makes it worthwhile.

Jimin keeps his promise, sticks to it earnestly as he follows a mental map he traced in his head in less than five minutes. He shows you a nearby park with a shallow lake on the centre, where you feed ducks and coo at the squirrels sprinting by; he takes you to an inconspicuous museum of impressive, peculiar architecture that used to be the home of an eccentric artist two hundred years ago — one you recognize and remember seeing alive, which Jimin finds utterly intriguing —. He takes you to the cinema, not to watch a movie but to point out the future releases and to give you his sincere opinion on them, which are already old and familiar for him.

You find yourself deeply fascinated every time you get a glimpse of the future through his words, which he allows to slip past his lips when it doesn’t concern you or any circumstance you might be going through in a few years. He talks about technological advances and other trivial matters, such as fashion trends and books that have not been released yet but he deeply loves and misses — Jimin doesn’t allow himself to bring anything from the future with him, nothing too flashy, at least. He’s too careful, too afraid of misstepping and accidentally modifying the past.

“I could disappear if I change the past too drastically,” he explains on the second day, during a pleasant breakfast in Jimin’s favorite café. Dawn is barely rising and you still feel the lethargy of nighttime, clinging to your limbs as you lazily allow the steaming coffee to warm up your body.

You both stayed at a hostel meant for time travelers like yourselves, spontaneous wanderers that usually do not need to stay more than a few days. Small and cozy, you found yourself surrounded by a comforting sense of belonging that always floods your veins whenever you show up at this kind of hostel. Everyone has that look in their eyes that only belongs to those who jump through time, of untold stories and rooted frustration and a lonesome wisdom they’re not aware of owning.

“What do you mean?” you ask Jimin, cup of coffee still brushing your lips.

He leans back, bottom lip dragged under his teeth as he tries to think of a way to explain himself.

“I come from a particular timeline, where I was born hundred of years into the future and started traveling backwards when my ability revealed itself at fifteen years old. But that timeline could cease to exist if I did something, if I triggered a change that could lead to an entirely different future,” he says, eyes unreadable as he gazes at his unfinished bagel. “And that change could be as insignificant as misplacing a book or accidentally nudging someone’s shoulder on the street. Each of my actions could have catastrophic consequences, and I would never know until it was too late.”

His words leave a bitter taste on your tongue, especially after hearing how he started traveling while being so young — your ability unfolded when you were a confused eighteen year old, already aware that there was something not quite right with you —, but you try not to let it show.

“But… how do you know you would disappear? You said we don’t know how spacetime works. Maybe you’d just… continue to exist, even if you weren’t meant to.”

And Jimin only smiles, a gesture that makes your throat tighten involuntarily. Even if you can count your social interactions with two hands, what’s clearly flashing across his face holds a grounded pain you’re not sure you’ve felt before.

“I know because it happened to a friend. My best friend, actually. The only other person who traveled five years into the past, and that’s something I know will never repeat itself. And the saddest thing is — no one knows who he is, who he was. I’m the only one who remembers.”

There’s no trace of that gentle, enthusiastic boy you met the day before — right now, he looks hundred years old, with eyes bearing too many emotions at once as he tries not to fall apart under your worried gaze. You are not sure if you should look away or not, if Jimin’s silently begging for a moment to be alone or if he’d like for you to get closer.

What would my future self do? It’s impossible to find an answer to that, though.

“I’m sorry,” you croak out, hands fiddling over the table. The leftovers on your plate look less appetizing, their savory scent turning dull as the tension stretches. “What was his name?”

He doesn’t seem too shaken up by the question, thankfully. He actually looks faintly elated as the conversation switches to his old friend, as if he’s been desiring to talk about it for a long time.

“Taehyung,” he reveals, smile a bit more genuine and words easy on his lips. “His name was Kim Taehyung. I actually hated time traveling, you know. I thought I was cursed, doomed, you name it — but thanks to him, I learned to find some joy in it. We had a lot of fun.”

You can almost see him buzzing, lips brimming with countless stories he longs to tell — so you let him. You ask him more about Taehyung and he delivers earnestly, sharing tales that manage to draw genuine chuckles out of you, and soon enough your stomach aches and your eyes burn with tears through the relentless laughter that keeps bubbling out of your mouth.

“This is the first time I tell you this— I wasn’t brave enough to talk about him before,” he says when the conversation fades away, sighing loudly and looking deeply satisfied, like he finally got rid of a heavy burden that was lodged in his chest. “I can’t believe you already knew about Taehyung in the future.”

You can only smile, leaning your elbows on the table. “Thank you for telling me.”

Talking about his adventures with Taehyung lifts the gloomy mood entirely, and Jimin spends the rest of the day glowing with the same bursting excitement as the day before, if not more. He’s eager to show you more of the city, and you allow his presence to comfort you even if a part of your heart is shadowed under Jimin’s painful memories. You never thought you’d be able to hurt this much for someone you only met one day ago, and it’s almost scary to think this is only the first time you jump with him.

Your heart will only grow more and more attached, with a speed you may not be able to keep up with. It’s frightening, and exciting, and it makes you really think about the future, a sharp change after avoiding the sole mention of the word.

Not knowing what the future holds is undeniably daunting — but Jimin knows, and that’s the best reassurance you could ever hope for.

When the third day arrives, you can already sense the invisible swirl of the strings, slowly dragging you into the future.

Sometimes your intuition is strong and sometimes it’s so invisible you don’t realize you’re about to jump until there are only three seconds left. Today it almost feels like an universal truth, a silent understanding between you and the thread of time. Jimin must feel it, too — given by the look he gives you when you join each other outside of the hostel room, after a quick shower that left you both refreshed and ready for the day, backpacks ever so present behind your backs.

He looks like he’s struggling, a line of sweat delicately tracing his temple as he gives you a nervous smile. It’s then that you realize how this is it for him, that the next time he jumps he’s all alone again — and that awareness mixes with the heavy memory of Kim Taehyung, the best friend he lost and that only exists in his memories. Your chest aches and you can’t restrain the desperation burning under your ribcage, making your hands tremble as you return his smile with an equally anxious one.

“Jimin… there’s something I want to do before,” you say, skin buzzing. He nods, already understanding the meaning of your words. There is no need for you to explicitly mention your inevitable parting — it is already there, fizzling in the air and ringing in your ears.

You tell him you need to find a stationery shop before the tug gets too intense, and he immediately complies, giving you that bright smile you’ve grown fond of in the last three days of exploring the city with him. He helps you with ease, hardly hesitant as he drags you into his smooth, comforting pace through the main streets of the large metropolis.

It doesn’t take you long to spot a charming little store in the middle of two large clothing shops, and a strange heaviness settles onto your stomach the moment you step inside — not necessarily uncomfortable, but still unsettling and confusing.

“I think I just had a déjà vu,” you blurt out, steps slowing down as you look around. It is clean and cozy, with its white wooden shelves and pale colors splattered into a diverse collection of pencil cases, folders and notebooks. The background music is so faint it almost feels like you’re imagining it, a tiny voice in the back of your head that makes your own breathing sound loud in comparison.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, and the moment you turn to him you almost laugh — even if he doesn’t open his lips, his widened eyes clearly say what his mouth can’t.

“I’ll come here with you, won’t I?”

“Not this place exactly, but… something like that,” he mutters, a slight pout forming on his lips at how easily you read him.

“Hmm. So cryptic,” you retort. He smiles at your words, warm eyes glinting playfully. “Then it’s not a déjà vu, but a premonition. Never had one before.”

“That’s good,” Jimin replies, features soft and calm. “It means my future still exists.”

“Of course it does,” you say quickly, stiffening slightly at the thought. You try not to think about it too much, how feeble Jimin’s existence is and how it can crumble down under the softest touch. All it’d take is a nudge, a nimble graze of fingers, the caress of a gust of wind. It reminds you of your jumps, and how unreliable they can be — how landing onto a skyscraper could, very well, end up in a dreadful fall.

You both wander separately as your eyes glide across the colors, steps slow and strangely calm under the urgency of the growing tug of time. It’s rare for you to be so sure of your imminent jump, and something in the back of your mind lets you know you still have at least one more hour to enjoy this year, before the universe inevitably drags you into another world.

It doesn’t take you long to find the object you were looking for. Your eyes sink into the deep blue of the small pile of journals placed on the corner of a table, strikingly vibrant against the pale colors that surround the rest of the shop. You’re quickly drawn to them, fingers grazing the soft cover of the one on top before grabbing it firmly. Opening it on the first page, blank and satisfyingly new, you can’t help but think of the day you’ll fill the last page of your journey.

You buy the diary and a pen with the money you managed to collect before your first jump — a combination of your part time jobs and the savings your parents forced you to carry at all times, who already bore the time traveling genes deep within their blood and knew there was a high chance it’d unravel in your generation.

Jimin’s already waiting by the door when you’re done, and he doesn’t even ask to see the journal inside the plastic bag you’re carrying. He probably knows already, you realize — and it’s strange to think how abundant his current knowledge is, and how his memories will become less and less the more you jump by his side.

There is no talking for a while. You both walk aimlessly, with no direction, though Jimin seems to shift his steps a few minutes later and starts walking with more intent. A gentle warmth clambers up your skin when your eyes find the park he took you on that first day, its blooming trees forming a delicate wall between the dewy nature and the rest of the world.

And even though the quietness is thoroughly welcome, you both accidentally step into a peculiar scene that unfolds right in the middle of the park — two young girls holding each other’s hands tightly, one of them clearly frightened and eyes tightly shut, while the other stares straight ahead into a faraway place, as if struggling to stay brave. They both vanish three seconds later, and it feels too abrupt and sudden, like an unwelcome glitch on a video game being wiped out before you’re able to process it.

“They were so young,” Jimin mutters after they disappear. “No wonder they looked so scared.”

“At least they’ve got each other.”

Jimin turns to look into your eyes and smiles at your words, in that gentle way that easily manages to unwind the tension in your shoulders.

“Oh, by the way— we had this kind of… ritual,” he suddenly starts to explain, words rushed and cheeks faintly pink. “We usually sat down together and wrote in our journals on the third day. Sometimes we couldn’t, since one of us disappeared without warning a few times— but I feel like now’s a good time, since… you know. We’ll be jumping soon.”

You nod, feeling nervous for some reason. Jimin takes you to a bench located in front of a rounded fountain, and the smooth sound of water falling turns into pleasant background noise as you both start taking out your diaries — Jimin with ease and familiarity, you with fingers trembling and movements hesitant.

You pinpoint the origin of your nerves the moment you open the first blank page and awkwardly place your pen on the first line, journal precariously placed on top of your legs. Noting down your first jump with Jimin makes it official, somehow — as if you’re signing a formal contract, one that has a beginning and an end, one that does not take into account the countless ways your heart might get broken halfway through.

You hold onto the pen tightly, throat constricting as you finally start writing.

March 19th, 2020.

Three days ago, I met Park Jimin for the first time.

Writing the last word takes you out of a trance, eyes widening when you realize you just wrote five pages straight. The words are clumsy and jumbled, as if you’d been keeping them from bursting all this time and finally allowed them to slide out, in rapid sentences that formed in your brain too fast for your hand to keep up.

You finally understand the reason for the journals, though. It feels freeing and liberating, comforting, to fix your thoughts in time and knowing they will always be there no matter how many years you skip. It’s like a permanent proof of your unstable life, one you will always be able to look back on and reminisce with.

The feeling must be even more powerful for Jimin, who is so wary of leaving a mark of himself in the world. You stare at him as he continues to write, tongue peeking out and eyes fully concentrated, expression so endearing you feel your chest swell. The heat on your face is almost permanent, which burnt vividly as you wrote about Jimin without holding back. You’re almost afraid to look at your own notebook, fearing to see the growing feelings laced in your words.

“Done!” he suddenly exclaims, closing his journal — already used and withered — before turning in your direction, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t peek, did you?”

“Of course not,” you grumble, poking his arm. “I’m not that nosy.”

“Good. The things I write are too embarrassing.”

The blush that springs to his face matches yours now, and the curiosity inevitably stirs in your stomach as you glance at the closed journal on his lap. Just the idea of his pen tracing your name makes your chest flutter, and you try not to think about how many times he has written it at this point, how his fingers have probably memorized the curves and turns of the word.

You both decide to stroll around the park a little more, still too quiet under the fresh morning of spring. There’s a strange feeling hanging in the air, though — of time dwindling and fading, of words falling short and lacking. It feels unfair to know you’ll be seeing him tomorrow, while for him the journey is finally coming to an end.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Hmm?” he murmurs, seemingly entranced with the swaying trees as he dazedly blinks in your direction. You try not to melt under the charming look on his face, focusing on the earthy path in front of you, which twists within the heavy vegetation.

“Our time together,” you stutter, biting your lip. “Was it enjoyable?”

“Oh,” his eyes fall, lips forming a straight line as any signs of a smile disappear. “Of course. It was— well. You’ll see.”

“Gah, just tell me,” you groan, making him chuckle.

“Don’t you want to find out for yourself?”

“Of course. I just… I want to know if it was worthwhile for you.”

His gaze grows serious and piercing at your words, finding your eyes in a strong connection he breaks a few seconds later.

“It was the best story a time traveler could ever experience. And believe me— I’ve read many, many diaries before.”

The intensity of his words leaves you breathless, and Jimin seems to look embarrassed all of a sudden, eyes wide as his cheeks start to flame again.

“I mean— you probably think it’s boring, who knows,” he laughs, voice shaky. “But… there will be a few cool things. I promise.” his mouth curves in a tight lipped smile, eyes looking up at the tree crowns as patches of sunlight filter through the abundant branches and fall on his skin. He seems to be reminiscing and you allow him, wondering if you will be the same when the time comes — with the nostalgia leaking in waves off your gaze and a jagged blue journal that’s already losing its color from the overuse.

Your steps falter when you feel a sudden, stronger tug, heart jumping as Jimin’s eyes flood with the same realization. Hands shaking, you grasp Jimin’s wrist firmly, making him look into your eyes with silent surprise.

“I’ll be there after you jump,” he says, voice barely audible. You shake your head, struggling to find the words.

“It’s not about me,” your hand tightens its hold slightly, feeling his quick pulse under your fingers. It makes your heart ache. “Just… don’t you dare look for me in the past, okay? I don’t want you to disappear by doing something reckless.”

He gives you a smile at that, eyes so bright it almost looks like he’s holding back tears.

“I’ll try not to.”

“I’m serious. Take care,” the tug is more insistent now. You take a step closer, feeling a deep urgency swirling in your stomach. What would your future self say? How would she comfort him right now? “I… I will keep writing about you.”

“I know,” he’s still smiling, so soft and gentle around the edges. “I will, too.”

You want to ask him why, because for him, you won’t be sharing any adventures anymore. But the words get stuck in your throat as the tug grows immensely intense, and in a matter of seconds you’re thrown into the void of space-time and five years into the future, with Jimin’s glistening eyes painfully imprinted in the back of your mind.

And you know they will stay there, so alive and full of color, for now on until the last page of your story.

#btw - I got inspired by a character from doctor who and you get a cookie if you guess who :D #btssunshinenet #bangtan bookclub #kwritersnet #jimin angst #jimin fluff #bts angst #bts fluff #jimin fanfic #bts fanfic #bangtan angst #bangtan fluff #writing

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jaxxonpollux · 5 years

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seattle ramble

not as nauseatingly hipster as i expected it to be, not as portlandy. still has a ton of young people in beanies with old timey mustaches, composting and diy culture. i guess i just have a bad taste in my mouth with those types of people from my run-ins with hip sects in columbus. but the waterfront is beautiful, and the mountains on either side. the big cranes down next to the highway, the drawbridge, the "hollywood hills" feel, wealthy folks' houses tucked up there on display. the waterfront especially is awakening some real love of the sea in me, something my dad left in me from his yacht club sailing days. makes me want to move someplace by the water, or be a fisherman, something like that. a class of preschoolers was having lunch down at the sculpture park, and they even had little signs put up on the walkway to say they were in session. it was quaint, slice of life

downtown was nice and busy, not very many businessmen like i would expect, a ton of places to eat. i guess it's not much different from downtown columbus, but it feels much wider and spacious. the roads all have bike lanes and trolley lanes, and the hills make everything seem so dynamic. a lot of construction, like you'd expect. city's always growing and changing

went past an argentine steakhouse with tango classes. went past a cat cafe with little pawprints on the sidewalk leading to it, from a few blocks away. a lot of graffiti and vandalism in some spots, but none of it feels gang-related or anything. and most of it is really nice and polite? stickers that say "love yourself" and "sissies rule!" soft anti-police warnings in a place that doesn't seem like it needs heavy policing to begin with. i can only imagine it comes from high school and college kids posturing, practicing their tags, flexing their conceptual art muscles. ran across a few sprayed graphic art portraits too, some of which were repeated here and there, someone's character. whiffs of pot every now and then when you walk down the street. lax rules about people riding their bikes on the sidewalk, like really lax.

and then there's oddfellows, which i wandered to again on the second day. it seems like it's a pretty well-established place; they have their own building with a few different businesses and it's a multi-purpose type of place. bookstore, coffee shop, and apparent student study hall on one side, bar and restaurant on the other. cup of coffee for 3.50 which is where you wanna be for students (i only say that because this place is packed with students right this moment, and maybe like one old guy reading the paper).

i still don't know shit about coffee. seattle is horny for coffee. i ordered an americano because that's what annie ordered yesterday. it's more bitter than a standard coffee, i think. i think? but i would need to probably line up an americano, a cortado, a macchiato, and a cappuccino for a taste test before i could tell the difference between any of them. it's like wine, every type tastes different, and every brand tastes different, and they often overlap. one man's malbec might taste just like another's pinot noir. same with coffee. there's probably someplace in this city that has the perfect coffee for my tongue, "the best coffee in seattle!" if i even liked coffee. but there are so many places that serve their own brand of coffee, trying to find that place would be like trying to find a droplet of pepsi in a bottle of coke.

yesterday annie insisted i try a wine from the bar, a rose. not as dark as others i've had, not as mild. it was nice enough. my first actual drink at a bar too, a glass as expensive as a cheap bottle from the grocery store. actual selected and curated alcohol (side note, curator always makes me think of charlotte from sex and the city for some reason, even though she was an art dealer not a curator. whatever!)

also had a sip of some alcohol the bartender was chattering about, in a conversation i couldn't really keep up with at the time. a lot of jet lag and a little disoriented trying to take it all in, meeting my friend for the first time and whatnot. the alcohol, the name of which i've already forgotten, was apparently really popular in (chicago?) and some lady started making it in her basement after the original dude died because it was so beloved. anyway it tasted alright at first, and then coated your mouth and throat with this weird bitterness that developed into all sorts of terrible flavors over the next few minutes. it was a fun drink at the very least! but not a go-to, i don't really know what the hell people in (chicago?) think is a good time.

they (bartender, annie and etc) also had a very animated conversation about a restaurant with wood paneling that baffled me just a little bit. that must be some seattle-ism, i can't remember the last time i got excited over interior design, if it ever happened at all. the bartender seemed like the kind of guy at which i could get really infuriated and jealous. he seemed a little bit like the "have you even heard of that?" type. showoffy, i guess, but my impression of him was so brief that it would be really unfair to skewer his character like that. still a stranger to me. i'm sure he's the nicest guy in the universe, or whatever.

and annie! is a sweet girl, and more attractive than she is in pictures. a little shorter than me, seems like she's growing up into a very stable adulthood, like, mentally and physically i mean. actually i don't know what i mean by that. like she has the manual for her 30s, she has drive and standards and takes care of herself as well as she can. not married yet, maybe not even of interest to her, maybe still not completely in love. or maybe in love but the rest of daily life doesn't make any sense for marriage yet. she said she had a crush on that bartender, which i thought was kind of funny. but it makes sense, like her brain is still shopping around for excitement and success and something fresh and new all the time. and other adult stuff too, health insurance, sensible habits, trying out nicotine patches again. some concept of where she wants to be in ten years, a commitment to baker's life, a love of creating and inventing recipes. not as harebrained and scattered as she thinks she is, i've known people way worse. studious attention to her plants, like trying to put together the puzzle pieces of having a successful and thriving houseplant (side note, houseplants seem really symbolic sometimes??). it's cool when someone has little projects and it doesn't make you feel envious, just glad for them.

her boyfriend is nice, seems a little trodden down, like a lot of depression under the surface. not like me, wearing my depression right on my dumb face. he seems kind of your average sort of intellectual composting seattle young guy, nothing outright offensive about his character. also seems like he has a few big ideas tucked away, again, diy things, projects he wants to work on if the universe ever found a way to give him the time and money to do it. seems like the kind of guy who likes hiking but gets bored of it after a while. stuck in the same kind of situation as annie (and myself, to some degree), works as a line cook, or probably any kind of cook he wishes to be depending on where he wants to work. never making enough money. seattle is so highly saturated with restaurants, becoming a chef seems like something you could slip into easily if you're drawn towards food at all.

by the way, when did money get so stupidly important? sometimes all i can ever talk about is money, and i just hate the stuff. the only times i care about money are when i see my friends talking about needing investors to get their dreams started. or when i see those preschoolers at the park and start thinking about my own future kids and the opportunities i could give to them. or when i see the waterfront here and get a huge wanderlust boner, half wishing i could hit a reset button and grow up all over again in another part of the country, try to do it better than i did already. it really makes me seriously consider going all-in on a pure money-making job. i told annie i spend all of my money on my friends, and hearing stories and having so many talented broke people in my life really makes me wish i could help. i wanna finance things and put my eggs in every else's basket (which could easily lead to me like, losing everything, but it's just the kind of person i am).

it's really weird every time i see couples squabble. it always feels like a precursor to something kind of bad, because the fights are always something that... like, they're something that you have to have been working at for a while. like your personalities have to be grinding up against each other for long enough for little things to really start driving you crazy. like when one person has the day off and doesn't do the dishes, which is something my boss literally complained to me about her husband the other day. small deal things that get amplified by feelings that have nothing to do with whatever it is and become Very Sizable Deals. i can't tell if annie has a bad temper or if there's just like a vague upsettedness bleeding into places where it doesn't really belong. we talked a lot about our careers and life goals at lunch and there's a lot of frustration there on both ends. probably a lot of people our age feel that way, feet stuck in the mud.

i hope it's some comfort to annie that i still really look up to her in a lot of ways, and in my eyes, she really has accomplished a great deal. i do still look to her as a mentor, even though that part of our relationship is still in development. really bummed i couldn't get to work with her the other day, i wanted to see what she was like in her element. i wanted to see what would make her raise her eyebrows about what i do in the kitchen and show me Her Way of doing it. she's just threatening enough to be a good teacher, i think. and she's had enough bad mentors to know what to avoid when she's consciously in that zone. i'm bummed!

i sometimes wonder what it would be like if we ever got together, during that minute we had the hots for each other. either she would have shaped up to be a very different person or i would have. i think she made right decisions, and she dated guys that could show her things i couldn't have, experiences and hobbies and new passions and friend networks and generally stuff that intimidates me entirely. like going to bars and shows, or being handy with a screwdriver. maybe it's just my low self esteem talking again, but i'm glad i didn't have the chance to drag her down.

i still want to be a better person, i just live a very slow life. half the things i discover make me feel like a newborn baby, i've spent so long isolated in my own head. i can't even really appreciate seattle in the Big Picture sense because i get caught up on really stupid small

details with such bright eyes. like when i was trying to cross the street and the crosswalk sign kept audibly telling me "wait!...wait!...wait!" and then when it was time to walk, it started playing what seemed to me like the beginning of a techno song. people back at home are going to be so disappointed when i tell them the story of the techno crosswalk sign, but those are honestly the things i paid attention to. i guess i get a really limited sense of seattle by noticing those sorts of things, i'm not gonna be able to tell people what seattle is like with any accuracy. i hope people don't ask about the trip too much. i'm failing miserably at taking enough pictures to accurately portray the place so that i don't have to explain it...

i act so idiotically flippant with money when i travel. i literally throw it in the garbage. i'm not like, a wealthy dude or anything, i just stop paying attention to prices when i'm "vacationing," and i let future me worry about it. i wonder if that leaves a sour impression in people's mouths, that i spend money like it's poisonous to me and constantly say stuff like "don't worry about it" when people tell me something's expensive. who am i, the great gatsby?? mediocre gatsby maybe. the truth is i'm just so violently eager to treat people to something nice when i have the opportunity, and i never want to spend on myself. i desire so little, and i only really value companionship and love and dumb poetic things like mountain views and puns in barbershop windows ("y'all comb back now, ya hair?!"). i hope i don't come off as a huge cunt, anyway.

i should probably walk back to the hotel now. need to remember to take pictures of oddfellows in case people ask about it. it's been giving me an inordinate amount of anxiety for some reason.

stopped at the bookstore at oddfellows walking out, why the heck wasn't i shown this before? took a peek at the cookbooks, they all seemed really good quality, unlike the ones you find at half price books, and in the poetry and fiction section, i started to notice all these little tabs on the shelves; they were notes written by (other customers? seemingly) who wanted to promote the books they had read. it made my fucking english major heart melt. look! there is still a place where people are excited about reading! maybe i'm just really sheltered and these places are all over, but it was the first time i came across it. i guess i've seen employee recommendations at barnes and noble back in the day, but this was a different level of adorable. anyway i got really horny for reading and spent 90 bucks on books.

and a tote bag. i don't know what it is about seattle, but i've been feeling like a huge asshole when i don't have a tote bag with me. i went to the grocery store for snacks and was really miserable when they asked "if i needed a bag." there's only one grocery store in columbus that i've been to that really expects you to bring your own bag, and i always dismissed it for just being in a self-righteous neighborhood. but i get the impression that most of seattle is pretty eco-friendly, or uh eco-award, so i feel like a real sore thumb when i go around like your average terrible human.

maybe i just don't walk often enough, but i've found myself very much in disagreement with about half of the crosswalk signals i've come across today. it's comforting seeing that just about everyone else out on the streets shares this view; i witnessed a great deal of jaywalking today and committed it quite a few times myself. walking around all day really kind of inspires me to do the same in my own city. i'm always complaining that i've lived in columbus all my life yet i've experienced so little of it. maybe that's what it takes, a long walk in a neighborhood that isn't my own. poke my head into a restaurant or antique parlor every now and then. the areas i've lived in are not very friendly to walkers. i used to get threatened walking home from high school, back when skinny jeans were popular. some people are just really, really not a fan of skinny jeans, for reasons i don't really wish to decipher

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agameoftangledwebs-blog · 7 years

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#18 A Modest Purchase

“You see in this illustrious district, the very center of our city, many diverse members of the Alliance spend extended time within its walls, much as you clearly have been doing for the past days, perhaps weeks.”

“Weeks indeed, yes. It has been a fruitful stay.”

The city in question was Stormwind, what I am told is one of the oldest and most prominent cities of human culture. After spending the time I have in this stone stacked establishment I came to appreciate the odd irony such a city presented. Like how could such a metropolitan city be both so young and yet look so worn, not unlike a blade you kept repeatedly using on blunt surfaces without sharpening. And also how despite being a human city in some places it often felt as if humans were barely a majority. Either this city was evolving before my eyes in a strange way that makes no sense due to my observing mid-transformation, or this pinnacle of the Alliance was merely a tourist trap.

“And it is more than understandable that one such as yourself would desire a place of your very own, here in the shade and splendor of the Cathedral of Light. And we do have many such homes like this one here within and near this district that many have an eye on.”

“As I saw. I cannot agree more with what you say.”

The property in question sat roughly over a hundred meters away from the nearest leyline and not too far from a prominent source of Light energy. Physically, the property was a house that sat next to a canal in the city of Stormwind in the same block of space as the Cathedral of Light and facing a ruined run-off cliff where great destruction had been wrought. Even now it still stank of fire and brimstone, but if I concentrated hard enough I could guess and see a rough outline of how that part of the city may have been according to how the rest of the city was laid out. I’m told it was once a park. A shame.

“However, such as it is, we are not like other districts, and the Clergy of the Church of the Holy Light are not businessmen. As I explained earlier during my initial surprise, homes such as these are generally not for open sale.”

“But it is available for sale in some fashion, from what you say?”

The corpulent man in question in front of me was dressed in priestly robes that stretched around his belly. Even with my short and simple statements he loved to respond and speak in so many words. He gestured and returned to recounting the history of the property I currently had my interest in, again reiterating its value and again reminding me that it was not a mere property to buy, regardless of my question. At least I think that’s what he was currently doing. Once his circular logic and onerous train of words began, regarding how the house was of course for sale but how it was mainly reserved for certain members of Stormwind’s class and character but of course it was for sale, I began to tune him out. Further attempts to make fuller sense of his words left me beginning to see the folds and creases in the the corpulent man’s face as his words became only so much shuffling to my ears, and I turned away to opt to look back at the property I was looking to purchase.

Outwardly I could tell the house was better kept than homes in other districts of the city. Yes, it was made of the same stone, clay and wood as every other home here, but it was much less shoddily done, and people have bothered to make repairs on this house as well. It was one of a handful of homes that shared a small garden space sequestered and hidden between walls with a small passage that led to it. From what few facts I could garner from the corpulent human’s words homes like these were often reserved for either members of the Cathedral’s clergy, or noblemen and women who held the clergy’s work in high regard by contributing to their coffers. As a true home, this hardly compared to what wealthy living I was marginally exposed to. As a private place to stay that wasn’t an inn, it was more than adequate for Kir-Moldir and I.

It didn’t matter if we weren’t truly living here in this city. Kir-Moldir and I can only rent out rooms in inns for so long. Regular time spent in the city doesn’t hold strongly the illusion of a couple on an extended stay. Even with how we were outwardly it also wouldn’t do to have the two of us regularly occupying and sharing spaces with other people. There was value in privacy, or what approximated privacy in this city. He did say that his wealth was mine, and this seemed a fairly practical purchase in my mind.

And if Kir-Moldir found himself unsatisfied with the purchase, well, then that would be a lesson, too.

“Was adding your tithe and contribution to the Church something you wished to do, as other patrons do? Such contributors often have easy access to usage of the homes in the district. My lady?”

It just then occurred to me that I had neglected to give an immediate response to the last inquiry, but the human was still talking at me with the same rate of words as before. I looked at him and saw what might have been expectation in his eyes. Expectation, something approximating concern, and a slight look in his eye that I have come to recognize in the more naked Highborne I have been near, a look I have come to associate with greed. There might have been respect, too, though I could not tell to what degree. I did not come dressed in my best, but I did dress closer to my station like Kir-Moldir said I should. If such a home was truly meant for those associated with the clergy and noblemen of this city, then this man on principle should have dismissed me right away. The fact that I was still being spoken to and assured and reassured constantly of its worth and place in society left me feeling annoyed.

I didn’t want to draw out this script any longer, and I didn’t want to expend more thought on this man than I had to, so I made for as swift a conclusion as I could with a blunt ploy that I would not be able to get away with anywhere else except here.

“I will pay twenty thousand gold for this property.”

The surprise was evident as his rate of words diminished significantly. “T-Twenty thousand?”

“Is that too little? My apologies. Forty thousand gold, paid directly to the Clergy, for the property and all its assets within. To be paid in four hours.” A hand gesture, a conjuration and the scribbling of a pen, all within a span of time less than a minute, and I had a rough contract ready for the man to sign. He made no mention of any formal contract in any of his words so I simply drafted my own.

Through his remarkably restrained sputtering and shock, I could see the true way his folded creases in his brain were crinkling. That knee-jerk reaction of greed, with the calculating contemplation of more material greed. It was a possible outcome, my ploy encouraging this human to make me pay even more with how freely I was paying to begin with. If he went that way, that is when he’d find I don’t bend quite so pliantly and would merit a stern scolding that I thought would not look too out of character for someone in my position.

Fortunately it did not come to that and the human broke out his smile, not even looking at the contract he held in his hands and signed. I started tuning him out again but made the appropriate eye contact and head motions as he continued to thank me profusely for my contribution to the church coffers and assurances that he would be able to convince his fellows to accept an offer of such.

I helped myself to the door once he was out of sight. I did not have the gold ready yet but I saw no need to wait even that long to begin proper ownership of the property. Hand resting on the door handle, despite looking so bulky, the door opened with remarkable ease as I stepped inside into the shadowed walls.

I had no strong grasp of human aesthetic but I couldn’t help but feel this house was horribly outdated, and marginally lived in given the dust in some places, yet not others. How some furniture has clearly seen use, yet others looked no different from decoration. Clergy, noble or no, this property was used no differently than the inn rooms Kir-Moldir and I occupied. It rankled me that the human would spend so much time proclaiming the praises of what amounted to a subpar guest house. It took me no time at all to pan my eyes over the immediately visible features of the interior, the dining table, the bear rug, the mahogany chairs and feather cushions, the back kitchenette with a narrow window that showed the vines and trees of a back garden and the railings leading up the stairs that then keep in the second floor. My magic took my senses where my eyes can’t go, through the termite ridden walls, a latch leading to the roomy basement, the small but functional rooms tucked away upstairs, and the roof rats living all too comfortably in the attic. One look was all I needed to tell me this space would do.

Taking a breath and closing my eyes I see the house in its bare dimensions, each corner, panel and tile. Like so many pages of filler I cleared away all the many unnecessary components in my mind, the rugs, the cutlery, the furniture, all the human furnishings and decoration. All of it was going to go away. With a muttered spell I began doing just that as the bear rugs became to shrivel and become nothing but ash, most of the furniture slowly following suit, the wallpaper and painting flaking away to piles of dust.

The termites and rats had to go and most of the walls need to be replaced. Before I finished that thought my mouth had already begun a simple incantation setting a spell in place to clear pests. The rats, clever things, knew something was changing and immediately fled for adjacent properties but the termites could do no such thing. I allowed myself some pleasant leisure time as I watched in my mind’s eye the termite colony begin to die en mass before I worked to assess the wood damage. Repairs are very doable, but will take time. Or at least that was my estimation. I knew little about house furnishing, but I was a quick study.

Idly I stepped past the decomposing furnishings and made for the basement latch just underneath the intact stairwell. It took a bit of effort on my part, but I managed to lift it and prop it open with enough confidence that it wouldn’t shut closed behind me. Descending the stairs I raised my hand to emit a bright light as I assessed the basement contents.

I don’t know what I was expecting, really. I was hoping for a room of illicit secrets or a room with a higher purpose such as those devoted to politics or war, but the stone brick basement was nothing more than expensive yet still plain storage for more valuable furnishings and kitchenware. Picking up a dusty shining goblet I debated the merit of disposing of so much metal when a faint reflected glimmer caught my eye. It wasn’t the glimmer of anything valuable, but of moisture.

I sighed, and wondered if the corpulent man I handed off my contract to was aware that this basement was one or two hammer strikes away from taking on canal water. I had a lot more work to do here than I thought.

Most of an hour later I returned from my unscheduled home repair sojourn into the basement to stand in the middle of the property to take a long look around in all directions.

The home was nearly down to its stone foundations with how much of the older wood had to go away. There was nothing left of any of the antiquated furnishings or decorations, and even the dust piles have been properly disposed of. Just to make sure I stepped to the stairway and pressed a hand to the stone and wood. Some of the pieces need replacing.

I was about to leave to retrieve the gold payment when I noticed something off about the now equally bare kitchenette. The activity of my spellwork dirtied up the window to the outside and was allowing significantly less light through. I don’t know why that bothered me a great deal but it did.

With a careful stroll over the now uneven flooring I stood by the narrow window to the back garden and with careful application of water cleaned off the murky glass until I could see through it clearly once again.

“This will do,” I said aloud to myself.

I then abruptly turned back towards the door because right then that corpulent man returned and he did a double take at what was happening inside the home. Rather, he was startled and downcast at how quickly the property had emptied of nearly all furnishings, and how some of it was even evaporating right before his eyes under my guiding magic.

“Oh, oh my.. This, well.. While your contribution and means to stay are not in question, not at all, this is highly irregular.. Oh, I don’t know about this, oh...”

Watching him fidget and sweat was making my fingers itch and my hearing distort in uncomfortably familiar ways as the features and edges of the human started to blend and blank out. It’d be so easy to keep looking, letting the creases and folds show to reveal what the man truly was, to fold him back to the blank pages he’d come from.

But I had my mind still, and my mind remembered this was to be a Kir-Moldir property. I was not going to mar it.

Instead I strolled to the man as he continued to pan around, fidgeting and sweating in nervousness, until he stepped back in surprise again as I was once again near him. It was no weapon or spell I brought to bear, but a glass and chilled refreshment conjured in hand, and the best disarming smile I could muster.

“You look parched and overworked, dear sir. Please, enjoy this drink, courtesy of my home back in Kalimdor.”

Clearly the sweat from this human was not solely from nerves because he perked up right away as he accepted the chilled drink from my hand and began guzzling with only marginal grace. The highborne I am familiar with wouldn’t deign to taste the generic wine I just conjured but if the way the human’s face lit up was any indication this was quite likely the most flavorful and refreshing wine he has ever drank. “What is your name, sir?”

“My name? Oh, Fairgold. Brother Edward Fairgold, just like my father before me and his father before him.”

He spoke the name with such pride. I measured out approximately the same amount of pride in my own voice as I enunciated his full name in turn. “Brother Edward Fairgold. I apologize for my earlier curtness, I was simply overwhelmed by your generosity and the generosity of the church. I have a place now, and it is thanks to you.” I plaster on a smile directed at the bewildered man. “When renovations are complete I would like to show you what I’ve done.” Refilling his glass to his delight I conclude with, “I look forward to continuing my patronage and contribution with the Church, especially if it’s through a fine gentleman such as yourself.”

I just wanted to get back to my work on the house, but he opened his mouth again. This was unpleasant.

#world of warcraft #roleplay #highborne #moon guard

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