#removing staples for eight hours a day

[paperchamomiles]

removing staples is kind of fun. you just kind of lever them off!!

[eryiss]

[Jet x Freed] Cubicle Capers - Chapter One

Summary: Jet was meant to do more. He was meant to do something with his degree. He was meant to have a purpose. He'd taken a job at Grimoire Pharmaceuticals to work his way up into a lab position, but found himself stuck in a cubicle. Every day the same. At least he had a new boss coming. Freed Justine. He’d be like the rest, though. Boring, outdated and.. hot as hell?

Notes: Hi all. This was requested by @jethro-art, and I’d forgotten how fun these two are to write for. They might be a little OOC for the first chapter, but they get back to themselves pretty soon. Hope you all enjoy it.

Links: Ao3, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Epilogue

Chapter One - The New Boss

Jet

Every morning, Jet would walk to his cramped cubicle to three stacks of paperwork. He'd be disavowed of his hope that the buzzing light overhead would have been fixed, he'd log into his PC knowing full well he'd be watching the spinning circle for the best part of five minutes, and he'd idly wonder what it would be like to just up and leave the office never to return. Every morning was the same, and yet it never stopped being so sad.

This had meant to be a step onto the ladder. Who cared if he was on the bottom rung? He'd just climb up to where he wanted to be. That's what he'd thought five years ago, as a fresh-faced college grad with a degree in chemistry. He'd been wrong.

"Morning Jet," someone said in passing, not bothering to slow down their pace as they walked past the cubicle.

They were gone before he could see they were, so he didn't bother replying. Instead, he flicked on the paper scanner which gave a clunk of protest and got to work removing the staples from the nearest stack of paper. They got caught up in the scanner if he didn't. How was a guy meant to spend eight hours scanning documents, and then copying the exact same information he'd just scanned into a spreadsheet, without a working scanner?

He'd thought he would be working in a lab by now. That's why he'd taken the job. Grimoire Pharmaceuticals gave the hard sell during the interviewers when talking about internal promotions. Jet had been naive back then and believed them.

"You fucker," he hissed, biting his thumb as a little drop of blood spilled from it. He'd nicked himself with the staple remover. Perfect start to an inevitably shitty day, really.

Typically, he wasn't quite so morose. He hated his job on the best of days, but he could mostly console himself that it paid the bills and let him live alone and on that wonderful day when he did quit, it would look amazing on his resume. Hell, on a good day he'd carve out a scrap of individuality and slip in an earphone and listen to a podcast. The hours didn't fly by exactly, but they picked up the pace to a slightly favourable lollop.

Today, though, they were getting a new department manager. An outside hire - internal promotions my ass, Jet had nearly said when he'd heard - who would inevitably be the same golf playing, gin swilling, employee hating douchebag they all were. Another asshole higher on the ladder that Jet could no longer leave.

One day, when the endless towers of documents eased up, Jet would put some time into pinpointing the moment he went from a carefree kid to… whatever he was now.

Sometime in the morning – it could have been early, could have been late, all Jet knew was that the first stack of papers was half done, and he'd accidentally been copied into three emails meant for an accountant called Jeremy – the general manager plodded into the office and called for everyones attention. Jet, just like every one of his colleagues, stood up with lethargy and boredom evident in his movements, and peaked his head over cubicle.

"Everybody," began Mister Stinger – heaven forbid you call him by his first name – called in introduction. He was the general manager for a few departments, and a corporate dickhead in every sense of the word and seemed to be always ready for a screaming match. "This is Freed Justine. He's you're new manager."

An office full of gazes shifted to the man beside him, Jet included. Jet found his brow raising on its own, equally shocked and impressed. The new manager was not what he expected.

Pretty tall and pretty young, Mister Justine looked like he still had life behind his eyes, a rarity in the office. He stood tall and didn't show much on his face, and gave Stinger a small nod of appreciation for the introduction. He stepped forward, a confident step as he looked over his employees. His skin was pale, his features sharp but not exactly delicate, and his hair, long and green, tied up high. He was handsome, but that wouldn't last. The office had a habit of draining the life from things.

"Thank you, Mister Stinger," he spoke, and his voice had a honey-like quality behind the authority. That would go too; Jet idly wondered how long until he'd hear a tired rasp wearing away that firmness of tone. "I've heard good things about this department. Hard workers and dedicated employees. Looking over your numbers, you tend to hit targets fairly consistently, so you're doing something right. I don't intend to fix what isn't broken, so I assure you I won't be barrelling in with new ideas. Should everything go as I intended, you'll barely notice the change at all. Except, of course I'll be aiming to get that rate of meeting targets from fairly consistent to resolutely consistent. That's for another time, though. I wouldn't want to take up anymore of your morning break."

Jet wasn't shocked. Neither that they'd waited until the morning break to make the announcement rather than on company time, nor that this new guy was as much a corporate mouthpiece as the rest of them. The fancy suit and the glitzy watch gave that away.

Still, at least he was good looking. He wasn't a middle-aged slob like most of the managers they'd had, and as he turned to address the rest of the room, Jet let his eyes flicker down his new boss's form. Mister Justine wore his suit well. It hugged his thighs and drew subtle focus to his firm looking ass. A bit of eye candy would be a welcome distraction, for as long as it lasted. Jet had to wonder what exactly would make Mister Justine unattractive; would the life be drained out of him, would he reveal himself to be a total ass like the rest of management, or would he simply be promoted before Jet could truly appreciate the man's appeal?

"While I have an open-door policy, I expect you all to take initiative and only interrupt my work as a last resort," Mister Justine continued, and Jet might have rolled his eyes if Freed hadn't turned to face his side of the room again. "Respect for one another's time is tantamount to a good working environment, so if you give me respect, I'll do the same to you."

Jet could guarantee that at four thirty that afternoon he'd get another stack of invoices to scan, and he'd be working at least an hour late to get them all scanned. Nobody had respected his time in five years.

"Quite right," Mister Stinger agreed, then addressed the room at large again. "Chain of command is still the same. Want to speak to me, do it through your manager. Anything else you want to say to them?" Freed gave a small shake of his head. "Back to work then."

Mister Stinger walked to the hallway, Mister Justine walked to his new office, and Jet collapsed back in his squeaky chair. Break time was over. He'd have to wait until lunch to get himself another mug of coffee. Great.

New day. New manager. Same shit.

———

Freed

Maybe it would be unfair to say that the office seemed lifeless, but that was the first conclusion that Freed had made. He didn't really like much of it, so far. Too many cubicles, too many computers that looked like they should have been trashed during the Y2K panic, and far too many people who looked like they'd rather repeatedly slam their heads against the wall than work another day in the office. If this was the reality of corporate America, Freed wasn't a fan.

Still, needs must. When one returns to their hometown, they must get a job. Grimoire Pharmaceuticals paid well, they gave reasonable benefits to management and above, and as pharmaceutical companies went, they weren't totally immoral, which was a win in Freed's view. He'd just have to get used to this world; he'd see the good aspects of office working soon enough, no doubt.

A nagging voice told him he'd made a mistake.

He'd seen the world in his past job. Being a translator for higher with thirteen languages under his belt had given him opportunities seldom seen for most people. He'd visited country after country, worked with politicians, dignitaries and the uber-elite. But he'd also been nomadic, and it was time to settle. The office might seem a little bleak, but it beat the hell out of the liminal mind fuck of staying at yet another chain hotel night after night, living from a suitcase with no home to call his own. Endless corridors of the same carpets and doors haunted him, and an office was a welcome relief.

No, it was time to put down some roots. If working a nine to five was how he got those roots down, then so be it. He could live a boring life, everyone else seemed to be doing fine with that. Yes, they looked dead behind the eyes, but maybe that was just something Freed needed to get used to too.

Looking over the past year's performance reviews didn't lend him much confidence. There was a growing theme where dedication to the rules were prioritised over any advancement. The more subservient – perhaps there was a better word, but Freed didn't find one – an employee was, the better their review. Any employee who did as they were told was more likely to get their meagre raise when the opportunity came. Those who questioned things were seen as troublemakers.

The performance review of a young man named Jet made that clear. A bit too loud. A bit too boisterous. Happy to voice his opinion. A possible union starter. A troublemaker.

Warning after warning had been hidden in the language of corporate speak; clearly this Jet was the dissenter of the group. Good to know. Freed pushed away from his desk, left the little private office latched onto the far side of the floor, and walked through row after row of cubicle, looking for the ginger hair that had snagged his gaze earlier in the day.

He saw Jet before Jet saw him, which gave him a chance to see how he worked. He checked a document for staples, scanned it when he was sure there weren't any, moved the scanned document to the other side of his desk, and typed on his keyboard. Simple, effective, boring as all hell.

Freed approached, a small, antagonising smile on his face. Jet was a troublemaker? Well, so was Freed.

"Why are you cluttering your desk like this?" Freed said in lieu of greeting. It was rude, of course, but Freed felt you saw a man's true self if his feathers were ruffled a bit. "Surely it'd be better to take the scanned documents to the recycling after you don't need them anymore."

Jet looked at him like he was a moron. That was fair; Freed's suggestion had been purposefully moronic.

"That'd be kinda…" Jet was clearly trying to think of a diplomatic word. Freed had to wonder what words he was dismissing. "-slow. Getting up and going all the way over to the trash cans. I can be fast, y'know, but not that fast. Don't wanna get behind."

Freed let the point lay in the air. Jet didn't offer an alternative point of deference. Good. "Up to you."

He walked away without further words, and as he turned a corner in the maze of cubicles, he could see the look of open bafflement and irritation on Jet's face as he tracked Freed's movements. Freed didn't look over his shoulder as he returned to his office, somehow knowing that Jet wouldn't be following Freed's frankly ridiculous advice in an attempt to suck up to the new boss. He still had some pushback in him, and that was something Freed was glad about.

Sure enough, when Freed flicked on the monitor with the CCTV feed on it, it didn't take him long to find Jet's desk just as cluttered as before. More-so, actually. The stack of scanned documents which had been pretty neat before were now splayed out and a little precarious, hanging over the edge. Had he messed them up out of spite?

It wasn't good to have a favourite employee, especially after having essentially no contact with him or anyone else in the office, but Freed felt a tiny glimmer of happiness. He liked spiteful people, if they were principled with it. Maybe Jet would have that.

He switched off the CCTV monitor – it felt terribly invasive to be watching his employees from cameras he wasn't sure they even knew about – and went back to the performance reviews, hoping to weed out more rebels in the office. None came, and by day's end Freed could only conclude that this office had leeched the life out of all of its employees to the point of banality.

Except, of course, for Jet.

[kitchenhermit]

New York-Style Bagels

The New York-style bagel is truly iconic. When I lived in NYC I couldn’t get through a week without a few of these! When I moved out of the city, bagels were among the things I missed the most. Luckily, they are super simple to make at home.

Bagels were brought to NYC by Ashkenazi Jewish immigrants from Poland in the 1800s. Overtime, they became a widespread local staple, and they’re still a popular mainstay to this day. New York-style bagels are distinctive because they are boiled before baking. This is how the famous chewy texture is achieved.

I’ve included a recipe for “everything seasoning,” but these bagels are also great plain. As far as fillings, these bagels are perfect with just cream cheese and chives or with the addition of smoked salmon, capers, pickled onions, and dill. 

Ingredients:

Bagel dough:

 297 grams/320ml water 90F/32C

10 grams dry yeast 

23 grams white granulated sugar 

500 grams bread flour / Manitoba

6 grams/1 1/2 tsp salt 

1tbsp baking soda/malt syrup (optional)

Egg wash:

1 egg

1tsp cream/milk

Everything seasoning:

Makes 3/4 of a cup - so there’s some leftover!

2 Tbsp + 2 tsp white toasted sesame seeds

2tbsp black toasted sesame seeds

4 tsp Maldon sea salt flakes

2 tsp poppy seeds

2 tbsp dried minced onion

2 tbsp dried minced garlic 

Method

Whisk in the yeast and sugar to the warm water, and let it rest for about 10 minutes or until frothy. 

In a large bowl, whisk bread flour and salt together. Add in the yeast mixture and stir until the dough is shaggy. Once everything is well-combined, turn it out onto a lightly floured work surface and knead for about 10 minutes or until the dough is smooth and pliable. You can also do this in a mixer with the dough hook. 

Put the dough into a lightly-oiled bowl. Cover with a damp towel and place in a warm place away from drafts (I use the oven with the light turned on), Let it ferment for about an hour or until doubled in size. 

Then, punch down the dough to deflate it and turn it out onto your bench. 

Before you move on to the next step, put on a pot of water to boil and pre-heat your oven to 218C/425F. You can add baking soda or malt syrup to your water, but this is optional. 

With a bench scraper, split the dough into eight pieces that are roughly the same size. I cut it in half, then quarters, then eighths. Pinch each piece to create a seam and then place it on an un-floured work surface (seam side down) and move your hand in a circular motion to tighten it into a ball. 

 Place the dough balls onto a baking sheet lined with baking paper or a silicone mat. Cover with a damp towel and let them rest for 10 minutes. 

When your water is boiling, pick up a ball with a floured hand and poke a finger straight through the middle. With two fingers in the hole, slowly turn the bagel to widen it. Then carefully drop the bagel into the water and boil for 1 minute on each side. Drain well and place on a baking sheet lined with baking paper. 

When all the bagels have been boiled, whisk the egg and the cream together and brush the bagels with the egg wash, covering the surface well. 

Sprinkle a generous amount of everything seasoning on top of the bagels. Bake in the oven for 15-20 minutes or until the bagels are golden. Remove from the oven and let them cool completely on a wire rack. Enjoy with your favourite toppings!

Did you like the recipe? Let me know on Instagram! 

[yomica12345]

Glass-says: Chapter 19

Chapter 1 Link, Chapter 18 Link

Ao3 Link

Warnings: Implied Physical Abuse

Chapter 19: A Study Over

"A study -over?" Logan repeated, his face scrunching up.

"Because it's like a sleepover but you're all studying." Patton nodded, chuckling.

Logan held back a sigh, putting his bag down beside the coffee table and removing his textbooks, setting them up as he would his desk at home. "I suppose now that you believe you have stumbled across a clever name that encompasses the activity you will not be accepting constructive criticism."

"I think it's perfect, Padre." Roman spoke up from the doorway, glancing to Logan, raising a hand up to his neck. "Logan, I'm…"

Logan looked to his watch. "Sorry you shoved me while I was attempting to help you as I have been for approximately five days, seven hours and eighteen minutes now?"

Roman blinked. "Approximately?" 

"If I knew the exact time I would be able to list it off to the second." Logan pushed up his glasses, waiting for Roman to continue.

"You're a nerd."

"Roman." Patton folded his arms, raising an eyebrow.

Roman exhaled, lowering his hand. "Logan, I'm sorry. You're… right."

Logan's lips turned up at the admission, giving a nod of his head.

"You've only been trying to… encourage me in your own strange way. I just got frustrated which is not an excuse so I'm sorry for pushing you and I hope we can still be friends."

Logan pushed himself up carefully to his feet. "It's alright, Roman, I should not have pressed you so hard for an answer straight away." He extended his hand. 

Roman looked down at the hand for a second and gave it a light shake, relieved he wouldn't have to worry about things being too awkward between them. "I promise I'll tell Virgil. Maybe not just yet, but I will."

"Tell me what?"

Roman jumped, twirling around to face the emo, gesturing with his arms out at him. "Virgil, hey, you're here!" 

"Yeah… I sort of live here." Virgil nodded, entering the space and plopping his notes on an empty spot on the coffee table.

"Yeah, you do." Roman grimaced, face palming.

"So?" 

Roman glanced up quickly, face scrunching up as he swiftly put down his hand. "So what?"

"What do you have to tell me?"

"Tell you? Nothing important. I can just tell you later."  Roman waved off, grabbing a textbook. "We should really be focusing on studying right now anyway." He looked down at the math textbook in his hands, making a face and trading it for the language arts one instead.

"I agree." Logan pulled out a stack of paper. "I have prepared worksheets so I will be able to understand where you both are and what parts of each subject you are struggling with."

"You brought worksheets?" Roman plopped the textbook back onto the coffee table, splaying out on the couch. "But we just got out of school a half hour ago." He whined.

"Actually, forty-three minutes and twenty-eight seconds ago." Logan fixed the position of the discarded textbook before handing Virgil a neatly stapled worksheet and holding one out for Roman. "School does not end when we leave the school building. It ends when we have properly completed our work and understand the material we are covering. In a sense it also goes beyond that in that we-"

Roman snatched the worksheet from him. "Let's just get this over with."

~

"My brain hurts." Roman complained, slumping back against the couch now that they were finally finished studying for the night.

Virgil set his pencil down, massaging the side of his head. "Well I think I feel a migraine coming on."

"I can barely feel my hand."

Virgil raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching upwards. "You can feel your hand?"

Roman sat up narrowing his eyes slightly at Virgil. "Are you… Are you trying to one up me?" 

"Don't think it's trying when I clearly am." Virgil smirked.

Roman sputtered indignantly. "You can't one up me! That's- That's impossible!"

"Doesn't seem like it is to me." Virgil chuckled softly.

"Oh my gosh they're so cute!" Patton squealed. 

"It is quite enjoyable watching Roman when offended." Logan admitted with a slight nod of his head. After a moment he turned his attention back to the table to finish packing his textbooks away. He got out a pair of pajamas and a familiar container, getting up and starting towards the stairs. "I will return shortly."

Patton nodded, with a grin, turning back to Virgil and Roman. "Who's ready for a mov-" He froze as someone passed right through him.

"Is this your new boyfriend, Virge?" 

Virgil stopped laughing, his cheeks warming as he scooted ever so slightly away from his friend. "Roman is not my boyfriend."

"So you have a boyfriend then." The girl smirked, setting her bags down.

"No, I don't- I-" Virgil stuttered.

"Virgil, il mio bambino." A woman with hair matching the darkness of Virgil's roots, dropped her own bags, tugging Virgil to his feet so she could kiss him on the head and give him a big hug. 

Virgil grimaced, a little out of breath from the crushing force of his mother's arms around him. "Hey, mom."

His mother pulled away to look him over, smoothing out his hair. "Hai mangiato bene? È successo qualcosa mentre eravamo via? Com'è stata la tua ansia?"

"I'm fine. Nothing's changed since you texted me two hours ago." Virgil mumbled, his eyes flickering to Roman.

Virgil's mother followed his gaze. "This is Roman?" She moved over to him, taking Roman's face into her hands for a moment to look him over. "Oh, mio caro ragazzo. You are welcome to stay here as long as you like. I mean it. You are part of our family now."

"I…" Roman stared over her shoulder blankly as he processed the information, his eyes tearing up a bit.

"Anything you need Wilder and I will provide." Virgil's mother let go, narrowing her eyes. "You want us to take those horrible parents to court, we will do it in a beat of the heart. You have siblings? We will take them in. Anything you need."

"That's- That's fine I'd rather no one have to go through the trouble."

"For you, it'd be worth the trouble." She gave him a kiss on the head. "Welcome to our family. You can call me Giovanna or whatever you are most comfortable with." She gave Roman another quick hug. "Now what would you like for supper? Anything you want I will make it."

"What I want?" Roman looked to Virgil. "I don't…"

"Gnocchi, I'm sure Roman will love your gnocchi." Virgil spoke up.

"Gnocchi, oh, you will love it." Giovanna nodded eagerly. "Bianca and I will get started on it right away." She pulled out her phone, scooting Bianca out of the living room as she scolded her. "Faresti meglio a non spaventare quel povero ragazzo, Bia."

Roman watched them go before turning back to Virgil. "So that's your family then, huh? I never would have expected them to be so…"

"Doting?" Virgil offered, falling back onto the couch.

"Affectionate." Roman sat down beside him. "It's just you're so…"

"Cold, yeah, I get it." Virgil mumbled, fiddling with the end of his sleeve.

"No, I wasn't going to say that. You're an emo edge lord, that's all." Roman nudged Virgil. "I wouldn't love you for it any other way."

"Love… me?" Virgil looked up, tilting his head, brows furrowed.

Roman's face turned a dark shade of pink, holding up his hands. "I- I did not mean it like that I only meant as- as a friend that cares about you and-" He stuttered.

Virgil quirked an eyebrow, lips turning up at the corners as he moved closer to Roman. "As just a friend?"

"Of course." Roman chuckled awkwardly, leaning away as his friend got even closer.

"Then why the blush, Prince?"

"I'm not blushing, I am merely… I am just hot." Roman started to fan himself for emphasis. 

"Wanna bet? 'Cause I don't think you can stare into my eyes for a whole minute." Virgil smirked.

"I can too!" Roman sat up, meeting Virgil's eyes with determination.

Virgil shifted over a bit after a few seconds. "We have to be closer than that." 

Roman's cheeks were still warm as he maintained eye contact, straightening his posture as the time ticked on.

Virgil looked between Roman's two eyes, pulling at the sleeve of his jacket.

Roman started tapping on his leg, breathing out softly.

Virgil's eyes flickered to Roman's lips for a moment before quickly looking back up.

"You looked away first!" Roman laughed, jumping to his feet and pointing at Virgil. "Who likes who now?"

"I- that doesn't count you breathed!" Virgil argued, his cheeks flushing with a dusting of pink shining through his foundation.

"So I'm not allowed to breathe then or is it that you cannot resist my rosy lips?" Roman grinned.

"You said you love me." Virgil shot back. 

"As a friend. I meant as a friend. I was only caught up in the moment because I wanted to make you smile, I-" 

Someone cleared their throat. "Hey, kid, how have you been?" 

Roman shut up, quickly taking a step to be out of Virgil's way, his cheeks red.

Virgil got up from the couch, sticking his hands into his jacket pockets and glancing Roman's way for a half a second. "Hey, pop. I've been fine."

Wilder gave a little nod, looking over his shoulder. "Your friend Logan is a smart kid." He turned back to Virgil, gesturing to his office. "Could we possibly talk for a moment, Virge?"

"Um, sure, yeah." Virgil hesitantly followed after him. 

Wilder softly shut the door. "How much do you know about Logan? His home life? Other friends? Is he possibly being bullied?" 

"Not, this dad." Virgil sighed. "Don't scare him away by reading too much into things." He fell back into the chair, resting his head over the back of it.

"He is quite tense for someone your age, Virgil. I am merely worried about his mental health and the possibility of him being in an unsafe home. Are you certain there is nothing to worry about?"  

Virgil stared up at the ceiling with a frown. "Yeah… 'Course I am."

His father exhaled, reaching for the door again. "Please keep an eye on him for me at least. Let me know if anything is wrong before anyone does something idiotic as well."

"I will, yeah." Virgil got up, rubbing his arm as he stepped out of the office. Was Logan actually okay? He still wasn't sure how Logan hadn't even gotten hurt. Had never met his father either… How much did he actually know about the nerd? Did Patton possibly know anything? Should he be worried? He bit his lip as he glanced up to watch Logan talking with Roman and Patton. Maybe he should keep an eye on him, just in case.

Chapter 20

[angelinaaabn]

Fine Eye Care, Starting from a Young Age

I have a skincare regret that deeply reflects upon me, and that is neglecting the fine care of my eyes when I was young. Back then, my focus was on whitening, which was an incorrect priority. In every heartfelt article I write, I remind young women to thoroughly pay attention to eye and periocular care, especially those with large eyes. Don't make the same mistake as me and wait until you realize the need to invest more effort to correct the situation.

However, no matter how difficult it may seem, with determination, even if the results may not be fully as expected, it can still provide us with significant positive feedback. Through my efforts and dedication over the past two to three years, my eyes have visibly improved, making me look several years younger. The fine lines and hollow areas that plagued me in the past have been significantly reduced or eliminated altogether. Eye masks played a decisive role in this process.

Of course, choosing the right eye mask is also crucial. Remember not to choose ones that show no effect after use; those should be discarded as they can be harmful to the eyes with prolonged use. Today, I won't delve into technical analysis but rather share my personal experiences and the actual effects of the eye masks I have tried recently. These are the essence eye masks that I have repeatedly repurchased, and I genuinely recommend them!

Rui Yan: There's no need for much explanation; it's a bit pricey but worth it. The queen of skincare products, something to strive for while earning money. The effectiveness of this eye mask is beyond doubt. Despite its high price, finding a skincare product that delivers real results is not easy, let alone one with such powerful effects. The cost-effectiveness of this eye mask is already quite high. I call it the "eraser."

VIICODE: The eight-hour eye patch is a gel-like essence eye mask that needs to be applied for six to eight hours, basically overnight. I was genuinely amazed by this eye mask. Firstly, the gel-like essence is thick and soft, indicating good absorption. After waking up, the eye area appears fuller, with almost no visible fine lines, and the dark circles are concealed. Its main focus is to improve the skin's oxygen absorption ability, providing antioxidant effects while combating eye area aging. This is also a staple product in my skincare routine.

Sensai: I have recommended this brand countless times, and it always ranks among the top in terms of anti-aging eye masks. I have repurchased it numerous times. It has an abundance of essence, and I usually apply it for about half an hour. Its immediate repairing power is exceptionally strong. No matter how tired I am after outdoor activities, I feel at ease knowing that I can apply this eye mask before going to sleep.

Shiseido Yutaka Wei Eye Mask: This is an old favorite, and this packaging is the latest version. I have used three different versions, and this one is currently the most effective. Let's talk about cost-effectiveness here—it's incredibly high!

In summary, when it comes to choosing skincare products, we should only use ones that are effective; otherwise, even if they are cheap, it's a waste of money. You can choose any of these four eye products based on your personal needs. They are all eye treatments that will definitely produce results. Before applying the eye mask, I recommend applying an eye serum, and after removing it, gently pat on some eye cream. VIICODE is a special case and can be used alone. Remove it the next day, saving the use of eye serum and eye cream for one night. Remember to take good care of your eyes!

[naadbramhaidli]

Fascinating Story of Idli, The Healthiest breakfast

Idli is the healthiest breakfast in India. This blog is about the fascinating history of Idli.

Idli is derived from the word “iddalige,” claims famous culinary historian and scientist KT Achaya. It was originally stated in a piece of Kannada literature by Sivakotyacharya titled Vaddaradhane in the year AD 920. Idli first appeared as “iddarika” in a Sanskrit encyclopedia called Manasollasa in the year 1130. According to the text, it is “made of fine urad flour formed into little balls and then flavored with pepper powder, cumin powder, and asafoetida.”

Achaya also refers to the fermented dish known as “kedli” from Indonesia, which is a close relative of the idli, the healthiest breakfast. He said that several fermentation techniques were transmitted to South India by the South Indian chefs of Indonesian rulers who had returned home to look for wives.

Subsequently, there was debate among scholars and food historians as to how idli came to be. Elizabeth Collingham, for instance, attributes idli to Arab traders who settled along the coast of South India.

She claims that because they were unsure where they would get halal food, they opted for steamed rice cakes with coconut chutney. It appears that blending rice and urad came considerably later. It might not have been an imported practice at all but rather something that developed in one of the southern states.

Idli is very typical and the healthiest breakfast item for Indians everywhere, regardless of where it originated. So, it is not surprising that six years ago, a passionate Chennai-based idli caterer by the name of Eniyavan made the decision to designate a day for the common breakfast served in South Indian homes.

He decided to prepare and supply 1328 different types of idlis on March 30 in honor of International Idli Day. Government staff cut a 44-kg idli on the same day to declare March 30th to be International Idli Day.

Idlis has developed into a local specialty in South Indian states nowadays. a favored, highly desired healthy breakfast!

Comfort food

It has evolved into comfort food for many throughout time. Idli is a go-to whether you’re feeling under the weather or just want something light. It is also quite easy to make. You’ll need fenugreek, salt, thick beaten rice, par-boiled rice, and urad dal. You are ready to produce soft and fluffy idlis following a few hours of soaking and fermentation.

The regular idli has undergone various changes, leading to numerous variations, including Gujarat’s “dhokla.” Idli is now also available in ready-to-mix varieties with flavors including beetroot, carrot, and even chocolate.

They are typically made with perforated molds because they enable even the cooking of the idlis. Before pouring the batter, some chefs line the container with a thin, moist towel. The fabric makes it possible to remove the idli from the mold right away after steaming rather than having to wait a few minutes for it to cool in the mold.

The healthiest breakfast

Although it has been a staple of our diet for a while, the food is a wonderful discovery for westerners because it is vegan and gluten-free. In fact, so much of south Indian food is already vegan that we don’t really notice the trend.

However, Idli offers a variety of nutritional advantages that make it the healthiest breakfast. A study examined several breakfast foods nationwide. The study examined the nutrient profiles of four major cities, including Kolkata, Delhi, Mumbai, and Chennai. Idli, one of the most popular breakfast items, was found to have the best profile in Chennai.

According to a survey by Uber Eats, it is the most often requested breakfast item.

It gives you lots of carbohydrates, fiber, and protein. In fact, one idli has eight grams of carbohydrates, two grams of protein, and one gram of fiber. It also contains a lot of iron.

Healthiest breakfast

Variety of choices

There are a variety of idlis to choose from, including rava idli, ragi idli, beetroot, chocolate, idli filled with schezwan, and Thatte idli. Also, there are many options for accompaniments. They can be covered in chutney (coconut or tomato), sambar, and chutney, or dipped entirely in sambar.

If you are craving idli, the healthiest breakfast, after reading this, Naadbramha Idli offers the tastiest idli in Mumbai at just Rs. 10. They have more than a hundred franchises across Maharashtra.

Visit the nearest Naadbramha Idli restaurant and grab your favorite idli.

[perpetuelledaydreaming]

L.o.v.e.l.e.s.s. generation

Request: Amazing!! Can i ask for a billy hargrove imagine where he and the reader are together and at a party. They separate for like an hour so he goes with his friends for a while and shes with hers and she gets roofied. Steve and nancy try to help her and then call billy and hes a mess trying to get her to throw up and hes just blabbering and crying and mad af. So much angst and then fluff and yeah. 

@peakascum​ i’m so sorry for taking so looooong. 

words: 7.4 k

Summary: Billy has a bad feeling about a party at Tina’s and you don’t trust your gut feeling because of a kiss, Nancy can kick some ass and both, you and Billy, are the kind of people who cry in the shower. 

Warnings: *trigger warning* We have dark shit here, like pls people if any of your friends get too drunk or you think someone has put something in their drink GO TO THE HOSPITAL. Don’t follow the characters behaviour down below.

billy hargrove masterlist

"There’s a party at Tina’s tonight”, you muttered after disconnecting your lips from Billy’s, who had been more than happy on your make-out session in the parking lot of Hawkins High. 

You fluttered your eyes to watch your hot, hot, boyfriend who was perfectly placed between your legs while he kissed you softly. You weren’t sure how Billy kept his glowing tan all year long, especially in Hawkins but you loved how it combined with his blue electric eyes that pierced you every time he watched you. You removed some of the blonde locks falling on his forehead and placed another kiss on his full lips. 

Sometimes you didn’t know how you managed to snatch him. 

He sighed, “I heard, are you sure you want to go?”, he groaned as he tried to chase your lips once more but you stopped him as you jumped from the hood of the blue Camaro. 

��When does Billy Hargrove rejects a party?”, you asked while raising your brows. You picked up your bag from the floor and began fixing your skirt and sweater, you had to be ready for the debate team meeting while he rolled his eyes. 

You smiled but you turned around as you heard a couple of girls from Billy’s friend group nattering about you from afar as they saw Billy pulling you in once more for another kiss. 

See, how could you even start to recount your relationship with Billy Hargrove? it was hard. Not because it was a difficult relationship, but because you two seemed so different from the outside that sometimes people didn’t even believe that you had lasted so long in the first place. Billy and you had been going strong for over eight months now and it felt like you were on cloud nine. 

He was mesmerized by you since his first day of school, he wasted no time in asking you for a date -to the disapproval of his new gang and the dismay of most of the girls at the school- you were elated by it but you said that he needed to do a lot more if he wanted you to say yes. It wasn’t that you weren’t oblivious to Billy’s charm but you knew his type and he was definitely not on yours. 

Billy didn’t seem more than an aggressive jog and you bore those type of guys, they weren’t stimulating and you had learned to value yourself and your time, more than anything else. So, it took Billy time -with a lot of rejected attempts and multiple pairings on classes- to actually get a yes from you. 

And so, you had come to learn that Billy Hargrove was more than he showed and it hit you to the core because you did the same. They were just different acts, both of you were familiar with the fact that people liked to put tags on others, to label them and keep them in a box, they liked making you one dimensional for them to feel comforted in a stupid status quo. And both of you followed swiftly because sometimes is easier to play a role than to be yourself, it’s easier to make people believe you are one thing. Sometimes it was easier to be just a good girl and sometimes it was easier to be just a bully, but you weren’t that and neither was Billy. 

Billy Hargrove wore his heart on his sleeve and no one had noticed that, you instead kept it locked in a safe to survive and no one had noticed that. 

But Billy noticed your lock and you noticed his sleeve, he understood you and you understood him. 

After hours or even whole nights talking to each other, laughing, even crying you finally agreed to go out with him. 

“I always want to do whatever you want to do”, he whispered to your lips as he pressed quick pecks. You sighed into his lips; eyes closed in bliss as his lips touched yours. “Pick you at nine?”

You smiled as you heard him and your lips now were chasing his. 

…

“See you in an hour or so?”, you asked as you opened the door for Tina’s house, Billy was behind you. Both of you were analyzing the scene in front of you. 

There were a lot of people, far more than what you were expecting but it was the last Friday before Thanksgiving break so you kinda got it. Many of the kids that went away for college were coming back to see their families and since Tina’s parties were always a staple of Hawkins High, you knew most of them wouldn’t miss it. So, there it was: an ocean of sweaty and drunk teenagers and young adults having fun and blasting music.  

You turned around to see a frown on Billy’s face as he saw the scene while you rolled your eyes. You didn’t really know why he was so opposed to partying when he was always down for any type of rave. 

See, although both of you were so similar in many senses, it wasn’t at all the case when you were partying. Billy was the type of guy who liked the attention, he craved it and he found it most of the time in senseless partying. While you, you were the type of girl who liked to be lowkey about your presence at a party, if you had the attention it was from your amazing dancing skills. Otherwise, you liked to spend your parties taking a few shots, dancing, and talking to your friends; nothing more and nothing less. Billy, instead, liked to do his keg stands and playing games, getting a bit more than tipsy. 

Most of the time you were together months of your relationship you both had made sacrifices, sometimes Billy wouldn’t do his normal circus act so he could be in a more calm conversation with you, and sometimes you had decided to cheer him when he was doing his keg stands or accomplishing the dares his stupid friends wanted him to do.

And it was fine, except for the fact that you had exploded one Monday a few months ago when you heard the rumors about the past party, especially the rumor about the “Queen of Hawkins” and how everyone was beginning to think that you were nothing more than a pretty thing that Billy wore around his arm, an accessory. You hated it, you hated it so much that you had ended up ranting about it to Billy who had been patient and listened to every single word without saying much. 

“I’m fucking captain of the debate team, since when I’m an accessory?”, “I’m running for president of the student council, does it look like I care about being Queen of Hawkins?”, “I’m not clingy or sticking to you all the time, it was just one party!”

And so, you had come up with the party plan. It was really simple: As soon as you got to the party, each one would go and do their thing. Billy would go out and play games while you hang out with Steve and Nancy and Johnathan. If there were any good songs or if you were craving each other presences, you would find each other and would dance for a couple of songs or maybe have a little (long) time out inside any room available where you could moan each other’s name. It had worked on the parties that you had gone to for the last few months and it had been fine, most of the time after you found each other you wouldn’t let go.

Today had to be no different, another party at Tina’s, usual business. 

But you knew it wasn’t, Billy turned around to see you with narrowed blue electric eyes, brows bumped together in a scowl and lips pressed together. 

“Billy?”

“I’m not really feeling like partying”, he muttered as he sighed and took a hold of your waist and pulled your flesh against his. 

Sometimes you were more than sure that Billy’s arms were made perfectly for you, you loved being held by him, and feeling like nothing in the world could hurt you. Being held by his biceps and pressed against him always made your heart skip a bit, you didn’t even think twice as you quickly took a hold of his face and you pressed your lips urgently against his, making you whimper into his lips. It was intoxicating the dance between your lips and tongues, you sometimes even got dizzy after kissing Billy but you were more than happy to get drunk on him rather than on vodka. 

But today you wanted to hang out with Nancy, Johnathan, and Steve, you hadn’t been seeing them much since school started again since, well, Billy was a handful. 

“I’ll see you later sir”, you whispered as you gave him the last peck and walked away from him with a smile on your lips. 

Billy stayed stunned after a few seconds and cursed to himself but he knew that you were in the mood for partying and the least he could do was give you space to be by yourself, to have times with your friends. He didn’t want to admit it but he had taken a lot of your time the past few weeks, he had wanted to take advantage of his father leaving Hawkins for a work trip, so he had spent most of his time buried inside of you or sleeping next to you or laughing with you, etc. And he wanted tonight to be no different, but he also respected you and your wishes. So, although he wasn’t too excited, he managed himself. He quickly threatened his way to get a whole bottle of tequila and went outside where Tommy and Carol were waiting for him already. 

“You look stunning!”, Nancy gasped as she saw you, you twirl so they could give a look at your outfit: A tight black leather skirt, military boots, and a cutout band t-shirt from Billy. 

Steve and Jonathan cheered for you as you moved your hips and Nancy clapped, while you then twirl her around for her to model her outfit. 

“You look stunning all the time!”, you replied as you hugged Nancy. 

“That’s indeed true”, Johnathan muttered as he pulled in Nancy for a kiss on her forehead while she wrapped one arm around him, quickly pulling him into a passionate kiss.

Steve rolled his eyes as he got closer to you, “Are we going to dance?”, he whispered in your ear and it made you shiver. 

You couldn’t lie that you had a thing for Steve when you were younger than you were less than thrilled when he started dating Nancy but as time passed, your feelings had changed and Steve became just a great friend in your eyes. Although, it didn’t mean that sometimes Billy didn’t get jealous of him and how close you two were. But he had come to accept it, as he should, and Steve also started to deal with Billy by your request since he didn’t really like him after he had dethroned him as King of Hawkins. 

“Yes, we are”, you replied and quickly pulled Steve into the living room where everyone else was dancing. 

The way you felt the music cruising through your body made you get lost on it, eyes closed and jumping, swaying your hips to the beat, laughing, and smiling all along. Should I stay or Should I go from The Clash was the tenth song you had danced to with Steve and you were sweating from bopping your head to the last bit, throat a little bit sore from screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs. 

Steve wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss on the top of your head. “I forgot how good it was to dance with you, Y/L/N”, you nodded without much breath but you turned around to see one of the boys from Billy’s group watching you with malice. The narrowed eyes and puckered lips weren’t anything new for you, especially from his “friends” or followers, but you knew how much they would like to initiate any rumor that could create any drama in Hawkins since they didn’t have anything more exciting to do. 

“I’m going to get something to drink”, you muttered as you glared at the loser who had been watching Steve and you, but soon he turned to the patio, where you imagined Billy was. 

You rolled your eyes; you knew you had to do damage control with Billy. Although Billy seemed like he had all the confidence in the world, you knew deep down he was insecure thanks to his relationship with his father, and especially, as months had passed by, he was insecure about your relationship sometimes. It seemed to him that you could do so much better and he was perpetually on edge when he thought about you and Steve too much, although he trusted you completely. 

And on your part, it wasn’t too different, Billy had girls throwing themselves at him permanently which was always annoying, girls who whispered at him that they would make him feel so much better than you ever did and that they wished he could make them scream. Billy had assured you and showed you that he only had eyes with you, and it did become funny sometimes because if there was someone in love with his girlfriend was Billy Hargrove. But still, sometimes that burning feeling that crept its way your heart and spread it through your body, making you feel like you could spitfire didn’t go away.

Especially not at the moment. 

Billy was outside, playing a nice game of beer pong and chugging more beer than you thought he would like tonight, but there he was… with Heather freaking Miller. She was leaning into a flustered Billy as she giggled while he poured the beer on his mouth, a little bit too fast that it made the drink spill all over his naked chest -he always lost some buttons or his shirt at some point in a party-, you imagined that he was a bit tipsy at the moment but you couldn’t help to feel your stomach twisting as you saw Heather pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. 

You spun on your heels faster than you could even imagine, not even wanting to watch Billy’s reaction to her kiss and if you had been a bit drunker, you might have been bold enough to start going off at her and Billy. But you weren’t in the mood, to hell if Billy was told something about Steve, whatever. 

“You said something?”, a guy in the kitchen asked you, as you leaned on the kitchen island in front of the living room that served as the dance floor, realizing that you had been muttering out loud. There weren’t many people in the kitchen, the great majority of the people were dancing or outside, but there were two boys. 

You huffed as you turned around and saw the guy. He had short brown hair and a nice smile as he sipped from his red solo cup. He looked familiar and you remember him being a cheer on after a basketball game while you were a Sophomore at Hawkins High and he was a Senior. He was from an affluent family, you remembered that as well as you might have seen him in one of your parent's Christmas parties, but you weren’t social. 

“Do I know you?”, you asked a bit coldly, annoyed still at the image of Heather and Billy. 

“Burn!”, another boy close to the one that had just talked to you shouted as he laughed at his friend. You recognized him too, he was also known as a Senior when you were in Sophomore, he wasn’t on any team but he was on the popular crowd. 

You vaguely remember the class that had graduated that year, only remembered a few bullying incidents but mostly that they were sexist assholes. You hoped that college had changed them, at least you liked to believe people could mature, but seeing them three years later in a party of their high school didn’t give you much hope.

“I’m Brad”, the boy with short brown hair stated as you sighed and smiled, trying to be as polite as you could taking into account how mad you were. “This is Chad”, he said pointing to his friend. 

“Y/N”, you answer as you shook his hand as he had offered it. 

He held it for a bit too long and you felt goosebumps erupting on your skin, but they weren’t good goosebumps, the way he was looking at you was way too intently but you figured that he was trying to flirt and score a girl. 

“Brad! I just…”, another boy came from the living room with a bottle of tequila in his hand as the three of you turned around to watch him, you took the opportunity and removed your hand from his hold as your eyes began to look for some wine or vodka to take to Steve. “Who’s that?”, the same guy muttered as he got closer to Brad and Chad. 

“Shut up, Logan”, Brad rolled his eyes as he saw you reaching for a bottle of vodka, he quickly took it and then handed it to you with a strange smile. “You have to apologize, my friends, they are…”

“Wonderful?”, Logan said with a smirk.

“Charming?”, Chad answer as he seemed to be taking something from his Varsity Jacket, you didn’t manage to see really what he had since Brad quickly placed solo red cups for you to do shots in, blocking the view.

“Annoying”, he stated as he poured a bit of the vodka on two small cups and then passed the bottle to his friends. You smile at the way he said it, the guy had a charm but there was still a hint of something you didn’t like. Something that didn’t add up to his pretty greyish eyes or his sharp jaw. “Want one round?”

You sighed and nodded. At the moment, you only wanted a drink and don’t think a lot about Billy and Heather, you didn’t want to be too mad about it, especially since it was your idea to do a party plan and you left the road wide open for girls like Heather to flirt with Billy. 

It felt like it was your fault. 

“Sure”

The vodka burned your throat a little bit more than you would imagine but you didn’t care. It tasted okay enough and your eyes simply wondered towards the patio door, in the hopes that Billy might come looking for you but there was no sign of him coming. 

“You have a boyfriend?”, you heard Brad asking and you turned around as you passed a hand through your hair. You watched as Brad’s friends began pouring another round of shots with the vodka but your attention went right to Brad again. 

“I do, he’s with another girl at the patio”, you muttered angrily as you took a hold of the shot and chugged it right in. The vodka still burned on your throat but it now felt bubbly, still burned a bit more than before but you figured it was because you hadn’t been drinking in a while.  

“Ooh”, the two friends shouted and it made you roll your eyes, they weren’t being good company and you tried to snatch the bottle of vodka from the table where they had left it but Brad took it first. 

“Let’s do two more rounds, it will make you feel better”, he cooed as he got closer to you. 

If this was any other moment, at any other party, you would’ve said no and leave without a bottle and look for Billy. But the blonde hair from Heather on Billy’s shoulder, his laugh, and her lips on his jaw were burned on your head at the moment and you wished that maybe vodka could help you, you wished that angry drinking would be enough to make you feel better. 

“Fine”, you answer with a smirk and Brad smiled as well, his friends cheering in the background as you chugged another shot that had been served by you. 

It had to be almost four more rounds of shots of vodka -at least you believed but it didn’t taste like vodka after the second- that they had handed to you when you began to feel weird. 

It began slowly, the sleepiness taking over your body, spreading from your belly towards your chest, and soon it seemed to get on your head. It didn’t feel bad right away, simply weird. You were never a hard drinker, you had never blackout before and you weren’t planning to tonight. Getting tipsy? Yes, getting drunk? Maybe, but this felt like it was happening faster than what you had anticipated. 

You closed your eyes and leaned into the kitchen island for a second, trying to recover your breath to see if that was it, you just needed a little break. But as seconds passed, you felt your muscles getting sleepier and even when your eyes were closed, you felt like you were on a carrousel and it wasn’t stopping. 

“You don’t look so good”, you heard Brad said as he wrapped his arm around your waist, which you tried to get off but it seemed as if your muscles were going in slow motion. “You want to go to the bathroom?”

You felt like you could vomit at his questions, it sounded wrong. You shook your head as you opened your eyes and glared at him, motioning for him to let you go and he did, but as you turned around everything began to be blurry. 

“Iwanttodance”, you slurred, words tumbling against each other. You began walking towards the living room, trying to get away from the kitchen while you desperately tried to look for Nancy, Johnathan, or Steve. 

You felt your head getting dizzier and dizzier as each second passed, your brain seemed to be trying so hard for your limbs to move at the pace that you needed them too but they felt disconnected like there was a short-circuit between them.  

You weren’t sure when they had actually disconnected, it had to be a second before you reached the living room by going down simply two steps. It was something you were sure you could accomplish, not even on your worst drunk stories you had been so unaware of your body, you had never felt like that. So, it wasn’t a surprise when you saw the world turning upside down and you felt a sharp pain on the right side of your body, your head crashing on the floor as you closed your eyes from the impact. 

You fell, badly. 

You whimpered in pain as you felt people’s gaze on you, although you had your eyes closed you could feel people’s presence close to you and you wish you could even stand up but it seemed like nothing worked and you could only motion simple things You heard a couple of people laughing, guessing that maybe you were too drunk and were unable to handle your booze. You felt some girls getting closer to you and asking if you were okay but your words weren’t really words anymore, only mumbles, the pangs of pain still spreading through your torso, hips, and legs while the numbness started to spread as well. 

 It was even getting hard to keep your eyes open for too long. 

Before you knew it, someone was wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you off the ground. You prayed it was Billy or Steve, with Nancy by their side or even a couple of the girls who had been asking if you were okay. 

“Seems like she’s ready to go to sleep”

You froze as you heard Brad’s voice and a deep feeling of panic started invading your body. You protested, at least you thought but your words didn’t come out from your mouth, your eyes were still close as the pangs of pain from the fall were disappearing quite quickly, which made you worry. 

Brad quickly took a hold of your body and carried you bride-style to god knows where, you suddenly felt your stomach sinking as you realized how weak you were and the fact that you were in the hands of strangers. Sleepiness crawling over your body and anxiety too, everything began to become foggy. 

“We’ll take care good care of you” Logan stated as you felt the music farther and farther away.  

You whimpered in protest as you opened your eyes as you tried to shimmy yourself out of his hold but it just came as spams on your limps, nothing strong enough and it seemed like they were going through the foyer, towards the door. 

“Stop”

Nancy’s voice felt like it had been sent from the sky, you tried to turn your head as quickly as you could and there she was.  “Who are you?”, she asked as she got closer to you. 

You knew Nancy might be little, she might have been a little mousy when you met her but she was fierce and she could end anyone who came on her way. Such a small girl could raise hell if she decided to and you felt like crying with happiness when you -in a blur- watched her crossed her arms across her chest and glare at the guys she was standing in front of.

“She’s feeling bad”, Brad explained with a shrug but the sassy nature of his answer gave him away to Nancy, “She had a lot to drink and she told us to get her home”

“She has a boyfriend for that”, Nancy replied right away angrily. “And friends that know her”

“We are her friends”, he barked back and it made you jump on your inside. 

These guys were aggressive, the way that he answered to Nancy… you felt like tears were pooling in your eyes. This was not okay and panic raised again, flooding your body. You needed Nancy to take you away from their paws, now. You didn’t want to think where this was going if she didn’t manage to stop them. 

“Nancy” you managed to mumble and with all the effort you had, you tried to take a hold of her but your arm gave up before you reached her, soon your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your head fell backward.

You were too weak. 

Nancy froze for a second with fear as she saw your state, and so hell was loose. 

“Get her down now!”, Nancy’s growl made your body tremble, it was so loud that you were hoping that anyone else noticed. 

“Fuck you”, Chad replied as you heard a struggle in front of you… they were holding Nancy now as Brad began to move again, your heart sinking 

“Her boyfriend is being called right now!”, Nancy yelled as you could hear her struggling while you passed in front of her. 

The cold air hit you hard and you cried as you tried to move from Brad’s hold but he wouldn’t budge, they had managed to sneak you and this was the worst-case scenario. Billy was the only thing you thought before your brain began to shut down when you began to drown in the darkness. 

“We shouldn’t have given her so many”, Logan muttered as he opened the door of the car that was parked in the front patio of Tina’s house, close to many others. 

“Can you just shut up?”, Brad growled as he tightened the hold on your body, and tried to see how he could fit you in the car correctly. 

“Maybe it’s better”, Logan muttered as he opened the driver’s door, still talking to himself. “She won’t remember anything”

“WHERE IS SHE?”

The growl coming from the main door from the house shook Brad and Logan to the core. They both turned around to see Billy, exiting the party with Steve and Nancy behind him. 

Billy had been trying to get a Heather Miller off his back since he had started to play a beer-pong match, it had all been easy and messing around until Heather had come in and began to linger closer to Billy each time he drank. She had placed a kiss on his jaw when he had barked at her to back off, people began to laugh around them and scream things, Heather seemed to be annoyed by the statement and tried to talk him out of being so aggressive. Billy remained silent and shrugged her off each time she tried to flirt with him again, it was annoying to him and he knew that his friends would take any chance to start a rumor that could affect your relationship. So, the rest of the time he tried to get as far away from Heather as he possibly could, he even flipped her off before Steve had run towards him and ask him to go with him.  

Billy felt as if a black hole had grown in his stomach as Steve told him what had happened, that some guys were trying to take you somewhere and that you were barely conscious, that Nancy was trying to hold them back but you needed him now. 

Billy wasn’t exactly sure how fast he had arrived, how he didn’t even notice the guy on the floor that Nancy had managed to beat up with a flower vase at the foyer or how he couldn’t hear anything because his heart and breathing were so loud that he could only focus on what he saw. 

And there you were: completely limp, head falling from Brad’s arm, eyes rolled back on the back of your head. You seemed so small; it shook Billy.

Sometimes Billy had these gaps in time when he became so mad that he didn’t feel like himself anymore, he could only feel the anger filling his body as the seconds passed. It was almost automatic when his hands formed into fists and he began to growl. You had talked to him about it and had helped him to never lose control again since you began dating, helping him breathe and control his emotions. 

But not this time. 

Billy yelled as he took Logan first. The guy didn’t even have a second before Billy yanked the keys out of his hands and smashed the boy’s head against the window of the car. Billy didn’t really notice when the window cracked, he only noticed when it broke in front of him as he smashed once again Logan’s head. 

Logan fell on the ground with a groan, blood coming out of the right side of his face, laying with the broken glass on the floor. Billy then turned around quickly to go and get you, Brad had already been cornered by Steve and Nancy while Johnathan tried to rip you off from Brad’s hold. 

“HEY!”, someone yelled as he pushed Billy making him slam against the car door. 

Billy turned around to see Chad, nose already bloody from Nancy’s punch and more coming out of his eyebrow cut thanks to the vase. The guy was already beaten up by Nancy, badly, but Billy didn’t hesitate to beat him to a pulp with his fist. It seemed rather like a gap of time where Billy had no control, as his knuckles slammed against the guy's jaw while he screamed in pain. Chad managed to punch Billy on his ribs but Billy quickly retaliated and knocked him out with a single punch. 

Billy’s breathing was too shaken up, he almost couldn’t even hear how Nancy had been telling him to stop as he kept kicking the guy on the ground. It was only until Nancy hit him in the back of his head, rather hard, that he turned around. 

“We got her”, Nancy yelled at him as she glared at Billy. She didn’t seem too shaken up, her hands were bloody as well and her eyes seemed steady. 

Billy’s eyes traveled to Steve who had you in his arms while Johnathan let Brad fall from his hold against the car, his nose was already bloody, as well as his lips. But at the moment, Billy didn’t care about anything else, he got closer to you so quickly that he felt like he couldn’t breathe anymore. 

“Y/N”, he whispered as tears began to stream from his face. 

You didn’t respond, your eyes with long lashes were closed while your arm was dangling. You were cold, you usually got cold as Billy would work as a heater for you, but right now you were too cold. 

It hurt. 

Billy swore he had heard something breaking inside of his chest, he sucked in a breath as he pressed your cheek with his palm as if in any moment you would open your eyes again, that you would watch him lovingly and place a kiss on his lips like many times before but you didn’t react, you seemed lost. 

It hurt him so much that when he heard a groan coming from the floor, he saw Brad there with barely any real damage on him. Billy felt his muscles tensing up as he walked towards him, ignoring Nancy’s pleas. Billy seemed like a robot as he quickly opened again the door of the car and place Brad’s hand on the edge, without much thought, he shut the door roughly.

“aaaaAAHHH!!”

The painful scream coming from Brad’s lips shocked Nancy and Steve, and even you in your state. The scream had been the only thing that had managed to make you come back from the darkness, you couldn’t really move but your body was screaming for something to happen but your limbs seemed useless. 

Billy quickly kneeled and punch Brad again, making his nose bleed even more. The groans and whimpers coming from Brad didn’t bother Billy, it only bothered him when he wrapped one hand around Brad’s neck and he noticed his knuckles already getting purple. 

He hated being like this. He knew you would disapprove if you had been there watching him but the rage that he was feeling at the moment, he hadn’t felt it in such a long time that if he thought he remained still, he would burst. 

“I see you or your rat friend’s again, and I’ll kill you”, Billy murmured as he let go of Brad’s neck and allowed him to breathe again as he coughed thanks to the pressure Billy had on him.

Billy turned around to see Nancy, Steve, and Johnathan looking terrified, he tried to shake it off and came back to you. 

“They must have roofied her”, Johnathan explained as Billy was desperately trying to wake you up. 

“Y/N, please are you there?”, Billy couldn’t believe it was his voice, so wobbly and small as he moved your hair from your face and took a hold of you had, begging internally for you to wake up. 

You couldn’t believe it was his voice either, you wanted to scream and cry, you wanted to be held by him and feel safe again. But you couldn’t do anything, you could only beg your body to move, nudge, talk, do something. 

And it seemed as if it had listened to you for a moment. 

“Billy”, the whisper was so faint that Billy wasn’t sure it was real, he stopped dead on his track and saw how your glassy eyes were half opened and Billy felt his shaking hands coming over to your hand. 

But then you suddenly gave up, the darkness eating you once again as your eyes rolled to the back of your head once more and you were lying there, emotionless. 

Billy felt his body cold. 

“Y/N?”, Billy asked as tears streamed down once more. “Baby?”, Billy’s voice was so raw and shaken up that it almost scared Nancy as he looked at her and yelled. “Nancy, what should we do?” 

Nancy stayed still for a second, doubting herself but then she walked decidedly towards Steve who was holding your body. “We have to check her breathing and her heartbeat”, Jonathan coming right up helping her to check your vitals, while Billy gave a step back and held your cold hand. 

“She’s still breathing, it’s like she fell asleep”, Nancy answered.

“We have to take her to a hospital”, Steve stated as he held you tighter on his arms. 

Billy panicked and shook his head, knowing exactly that -even though your parents had come to accept your relationship- they wouldn’t waste a second if he gave them a reason to break you guys up. 

“Her parents would know; you know they would never let her see me again”, Billy explained to Steve, his eyes pleading with him not to do it because he knew what the consequences were and he might ruin what made you and Billy happy.  

Steve didn’t like Billy, but he had never seen him like this or anyone for that matter. He had never seen such true desperation; he had never seen someone show such raw emotions for someone. He didn’t like Billy, but you did and Steve knew that Billy was everything you wanted. 

“Fuck, what should we do?”, Johnathan sighed as Billy began taking you from Steve’s arms. 

Billy remained a second as he adjusted you in his arms, his arms around you securely as he watched you carefully. You seemed so pale and fragile, and he hated it because he knew that this wasn’t you. He couldn’t get out of his head how scared you must’ve been before you went out, what they had done to you. He wanted to take you to the hospital, he knew it was the most appropriate way but he also knew that he really couldn’t and at that moment he had a flashback to California when people took more pills than they should. 

“She’s going to have to throw this up”. Billy stated as he tried to wipe the tears with his shoulder as he took you into the house, as quickly as he could. 

“Billy, what are yo-”, Nancy protested as she followed him but Billy was on a mission, 

“She couldn’t have taken them too long ago”, he muttered as he entered Tina’s house.

He was shaking as he muttered to himself deliriously: you are going to be okay; you are going to be okay; you are going to be okay. He pulled you closer to his chest and his eyes urgently tried to find a bathroom, people were gathering around him at the entrance of the party, watching Billy splattered with blood and knuckles purple with you limp on his arms. Billy didn’t care about the people as he tried to see where was it better to take you, he even wondered if the kitchen was right but he knew you wouldn’t want anyone to see you or him in that state. 

Tina ran towards him, as she was about to speak Billy interrupted her.

“Tina!” He screamed, his voice was raw and torn -the urgency in his electric blue eyes seemed almost psychotic-, she shook at his scream. “Bathroom with a shower”

“Oh my god, what happened?”, Tina squealed as she tried to get closer but Billy stepped back. 

“Bathroom”, he growled once more startling Tina. 

“Upstairs in my room! Turn to the left”

Billy said nothing as he ran upstairs, adjusting you in his arms as he followed Tina’s instructions. He let out an all-encompassing sigh of relief as he entered the bathroom. 

“Come on, come on baby”, he whispered as he placed you on the tub and then turned on the shower. The lukewarm water began to wash your legs and lower abdomen as Billy hurried and placed himself behind you. 

He made sure that you were well position, laying on his chest so he could sit you, and then he began to place his fingers on your throat. But nothing was happening, you weren’t reacting as he tried to place his fingers on the right spot for you to throw up whatever they had given to you. 

Tears began to fall from his face, a part of him glad they were being masked with the drops of water. Billy felt like he wanted to puke himself as he gazed at the bottom of the bathtub and realized the blood was being mixed with the water -blood from the guys that he had beaten up and his own coming from his knuckles-. 

He shivered at the thought of how badly he had reacted and what would you think of him, but he quickly snapped out of it as he continued to cry for you. 

“Y/N please”, he cried. “Baby please, come on”.

Billy’s voice seemed so broken and raw, his pleas could be heard by Steve and Jonathan who were outside the bathroom while Nancy was talking to Tina outside her bedroom, convincing her not to enter until you were okay. 

But you weren’t okay, nothing was happening and Billy snapped. 

“pLEASE! Y/N”, it seemed as if his screamed had ripped through his chest as he held you, and once more, he placed his fingers on your throat in one last attempt. 

The gagging was like music to his ears, how your body finally reacted and you raised a bit from his chest with the help of Billy and you began to throw up. You felt like if you were getting out every organ inside of you as your body spammed as you threw up with Billy’s face bury on your neck as he held you. 

It wasn’t until you finally stopped after a minute of throwing up everything you could, that you realized that the fogginess and darkness that had trapped you were leaving, your head was clearing again and Billy felt like he could breathe. It wasn’t like you were completely fine, your breaths were still raggedy but they were stronger than before and you could raise your head for a second, hold yourself. 

You could hold yourself enough to throw up once more, another round, but this time it felt more like a reaction of the fear that you felt from those guys. You didn’t want anything inside of you, nothing from that night, the thought of those guys made you sick. 

It wasn’t until you were unable to throw up anything else, you turn around softly, still feeling woozy. 

And there he was, the only one you had ever wanted. 

Billy’s hair was wet, the streams of water were still falling from his body but you recognize his tears as well. His blue electric eyes that had always been heaven to you, were red from crying and his usually tan skin seemed as white as a paper, completely pale, he looked terrified. 

Indeed, Billy was terrified but he tried not to show it as he caressed your hair and help you lay more comfortably on his chest. It was only when your eyes connected and you took a big breath that you began to cry. The tears were streaming without control from your eyes and it seemed like before, you just wanted to feel empty and clean and safe. Billy held you as close to him as he could while you sob.

He kissed your head, he kissed the back of your neck and your hands as you whimpered and tried to hold anything from him, the craving of him becoming stronger every second. 

“Hold me”, you slurred and Billy nodded, wrapping his arm around your body as you cuddle against him while being wash with the water. 

“I’m so sorry”, Billy whispered as he rocked you back and forth. “I’ll never leave again”

His voice sounded so truthful that you began to think that he meant something for good, so permanently that it made your heart skip a bit but you didn’t want to say anything, you simply nodded and leaned into him even more, burying yourself against his chest. 

“I love you”, he whispered. 

[jjcnes]

Occasionally, I give a damn.

► GENERAL INFORMATION

FULL NAME & ALIAS: jessica campbell jones CURRENT TEAM(S): defenders / alias investigations PREVIOUS ALIASES: none AGE: 39 SPECIES: human mutate MULTIVERSAL ORIGIN: earth-199999 ( mcu )

GENDER IDENTITY: cisgendered female SEXUALITY: bisexual NATIONALITY: american ETHNICITY: incredibly white

► APPEARANCE

FACECLAIM: krysten ritter SPECIAL / RECOGNIZABLE FEATURES: bags under her eyes, scar on her stomach from spleen removal + scar on the hand from a knife wound HAIR COLOR: black EYE COLOR: brown ACCENT: faded new york CURRENT COSTUME: some version of her staple leather jacket, boots, faded jeans, fingerless gloves + her camera around her neck from the jessica jones show

► BACKGROUND

CURRENT HOME: hells kitchen, new york PAST OCCUPATION: sandwich sign shaker  CURRENT OCCUPATION: private investigator at alias investigations SNAP STATUS: survived

► RELATIONS

SIBLING(S): trish walker ( adopted / estranged ), phillip ( deceased ) PARTNER(S): luke cage ( formerly ) CHILDREN: none PARENT(S): alisa & brian jones ( deceased ) / dorothy waker ( legal guardian / deceased )

► HEADCANONS/FUN FACTS

she almost strangled herself when her purse got stuck on a doorknob when she was eight; she never used a purse again.

tried alcohol as a kid and hated it so much she threw up. oh, how times change.

is a college drop-out

she won’t admit it to herself, but jessica was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, she could be a hero when kilgrave came into her life. after that she realized she couldn’t save herself, let alone anyone else

jessica became pregnant with kilgrave’s child but ended it after she escaped from him, a difficult choice that she was never certain about. she later envied how easy the choice was for hope even though she supported her. 

after she got away from kilgrave, jessica felt like she had to cut ties with trish. she hadn’t been a hero, she’d been a failure, and she couldn’t stand to see the pity on her friends face. she had always been the one to protect trish, help her get clean, and she couldn’t bear knowing that trish would know about what had happened to her. so, she shut her out. she didn’t let trish see how she fell apart after she had tried to help trish get together. she planned on calling one day when she was ‘over it’, but the more she drank the longer time stretched on and eventually she was too embarrassed and didn’t know what to say

jessica was a social drinker before kilgrave. after she walked away from reva’s murder in a daze and didn’t know what to do. she walked into her apartment that had been sitting empty and drank the only non-expired thing in here: some alcohol. she didn’t stop after that. even though she became a functional alcoholic, jessica never considered other drugs

she struggled to call herself an alcoholic, even when she was one. she was just ‘coping’

after escaping from kilgrave, jessica would stand for hours in the shower trying to wash the feeling of him off of her but she never could

the p.i. thing kind of just happened it was a welcomed distraction for jessica to focus on how ruined everyone’s lives were instead of her own.

post kilgrave she threw out all dresses she owned and bought two pairs of jeans, a sweatshirt and a few other basics from a thrift store to get as far away from the dress up that kilgrave had forced her into

she has a strong aversion to the color purple

jessica breaks a phone cord at least once a week

jessica jones loved patricia walker more than she loves herself. it’s not a romantic love but platonic, one coming from two people who grew up defending each other. she would shoot herself in the head if it meant keeping trish safe. trish always saw the best in her, even when she couldn’t see it herself.

she still loves trish, but it’s harder now. different. she sees trish and remembers how she killed her mother and jessica feels like she’s lost all of her family now. she didn’t quit on trish and refused to kill her, even though it meant trish attacked and injured her.

she thinks her anger management treatment is stupid so she has not yet attempted to get any kind of help for her ptsd

fighting ninjas was the dumbest shit ever but she knew she had to

the anniversary of hope’s death is one of the hardest times of the year for her

losing matt murdock had a strange effect on jess: she realized she should have died as less people cared about her and he was actually doing good for others. now the asshole is back. whatever.

she didn’t know what a spleen was until she lost hers and she’s really fucking pissed about it.

despite all the shit she talks, jess would team up with the defenders again

she misses luke but also knows her actions are what drove him away

► WANTED CONNECTIONS

 luke cage - former boyfriend and current friend

danny rand - defender

[honey-dewey]

When I’m Older and I’m Wiser

Pairing: Marcus Moreno/ Dentist Reader

Word Count: 4,262

Warnings: General medical fic involving dentistry and recovering from wisdom tooth surgery. Mentions of pills, blood, needles, and Marcus being very high. Some use of (F/N) (L/N), but not much.

How the hell Marcus Moreno has gotten this far in his life without getting his wisdom teeth removed is beyond you. But that fateful day comes, and honestly you really should just quit being the Heroic’s dentist because it’s probably taking years off your life. Mostly because your current patient is very cute, very high, and in your care for the next 24 hours, which is a dangerous combination.

“Ow.” 

Missy looked over from where she’d been getting a second glass of milk, turning her attention to her dad. Marcus was staring at the eggs on his plate, seemingly frozen. The look on his face could only be described as offended, as if the eggs had just bit him back. 

“What’s wrong?” She asked, sitting back down and nudging Marcus with her foot. 

“Hurts,” Marcus mumbled, putting a hand to his cheek. The last thing he had expected was pain upon eating scrambled eggs, but it was there. 

Missy shrugged, digging into her own eggs. “Could it be a cavity?” 

Marcus shook his head, moving his hand to his other cheek. “Both sides.” 

“Two cavities?” 

Giving Missy a playful dirty look, Marcus took another bite of eggs, face scrunching when the pain persisted. 

Missy raised an eyebrow, and Marcus suddenly regretted having a tiny powerhouse of a daughter. “When was the last time you saw Dr. (L/N)?”

“Uh,” Marcus squirmed a bit under her judgmental gaze, thinking back. “I made an appointment right before your mother passed, but then she died and we were in mourning, and then I quit actively hero-ing full time, and then I took a while off to raise you, and then I started my new job, and then I was kidnapped by aliens, so I dunno. A few years?” 

“A few years?” Missy said, cocking her head slightly. “You make me go every six months!” 

“You’re still growing!” Marcus defended. “I’d be an awful parent if I didn’t keep up with your health.” 

Missy sighed. “Please tell me you’ve seen an actual doctor recently.” 

Marcus nodded. “Saw my GP last month.” 

“Good,” Missy said. “Can you see Dr. (L/N) today please?” 

Again, Marcus nodded. “Y’know, sometimes I wonder just who’s running this household.” 

“It’s me.” 

“I know kiddo. I know.”

Their drive to Heroic headquarters was silent, but comfortable, as it usually was. Marcus parked, the throbbing in his jaw just getting worse as he and Missy got on the bus into headquarters. Missy broke off in the reception area, heading down the hall with a wave. Marcus waved back, smiling at her as she disappeared. 

Wiping his hands on his shirt, Marcus walked up to the receptionist, who gave him a friendly smile. “Hello Marcus, what can I do for you?” 

“Hey Rhea,” Marcus said, leaning slightly on the counter. “When’s my first meeting?” 

Rhea hummed, putting his name into the computer and clicking a few times. “Looks like your earliest meeting is at 2:30.” 

“Awesome,” Marcus groaned. “Does Dr. (L/N) have any available appointments in the morning?” 

“Has someone been skipping out on the dentist?” Rhea said jokingly, moving to a different computer screen. “Was it Missy who made you go?” 

“Yeah.” 

Rhea laughed. “That kid,” she said softly. “And you’re in luck. Dr. (L/N) has an available appointment in half an hour, at nine. I’ll get you set up with it, okay?” 

Marcus sighed. “Yeah, that works. Thank you Rhea. I’ll see you later.” 

He waited for his appointment in the hero lounge, reading a book and chewing absently on his thumb nail. When his watch read ten 'til nine, he put his book in his bag and began to make his way down to the medical wing of the building. 

The medical wing was not one Marcus was in frequently. He knew some of the staff, but not all of them. But he waved to them all the same, eventually reaching the dentist’s section with five minutes to spare. 

“Mr. Moreno!” The nurse behind the reception counter said cheerily. “I thought it had to be a mistake when I saw you had an appointment.” 

“Please,” Marcus said. “Just Marcus will do.” 

The nurse nodded. “Of course. The doctor will be right out. You’re her first of the day, and honestly, I think she thought your name was a typo too. It’s been too long.” 

Marcus sighed. “Yeah. Missy chewed me out about that earlier.” 

“I’ll bet.” The nurse gestured to a row of chairs. “Take a seat. I’ll go see if the doc is ready.” 

Marcus sat down, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs in an effort to calm his nerves. 

“Moreno?” 

He looked up, heart suddenly beating fast. Standing in the doorway that separated the waiting room from the actual office was Dr. (L/N), looking very expectant and a tiny bit disappointed. 

———

Marcus stood, following you back into the office. His steps behind you were nervous, a high contrast to the confident clicking of your shoes. 

“Long time no see,” you said, pushing open a door and gesturing Marcus into the exam room. “What finally brought you back?” 

“Aside from Missy?” Marcus asked, sitting in the chair and rocking his left foot back and forth on the ankle. “I woke up this morning and it hurt to eat breakfast.” 

You nodded, washing your hands and donning a pair of gloves. “And there wasn’t any pain last night?” 

“Maybe a tiny bit.” Marcus watched you sit on a rolling stool, moving so you were just at his side. “But nothing I was worried about.” 

You crossed your legs, thinking. “Did you do any intense training in the past 24 hours?”

“Nothing involving my head.” 

“Well then it’s probably just a cavity or two,” you decided, rolling closer to Marcus’s head and putting both feet on the floor. “Let’s take a look, get some x-rays, and see if we can’t have you feeling better soon.” 

You adjusted the chair so Marcus was staring up at the ceiling, and at a large space mobile you’d hung ages ago. “Ready?” 

“As I’ll ever be.” 

You smiled, pulling a mask up over your nose. “Relax Marcus. I’m not gonna hurt you on purpose.” 

Marcus still squirmed a bit as you examined his mouth, your brows knitting tighter and tighter as you realized this wasn’t a simple case of a few cavities. 

“Marcus,” you said slowly, sitting him up and tugging your mask down under your chin. “You’re in your forties, right?”

“Yeah?” 

“Please tell me you don’t still have your wisdom teeth.” 

Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know. Why? Is that a bad thing?” 

“Most people have theirs removed when they’re teenagers,” you explained, pulling down the x-ray machine. “That way, there’s less risk of nerve damage. It’s not a bad thing to have them removed later in life, but it does come with higher risks.” 

“Oh.” The reassurance didn’t comfort Marcus much as you softly directed him through the various x-rays. 

You pulled the piece of plastic out of his mouth as the final x-ray hit your computer. “Sorry about that,” you said, watching Marcus rub his face. “I know it sucks. But, good news, I have an answer for you.” 

You let Marcus turn so he was facing your computer. “It’s definitely your wisdom teeth,” you said, tugging your gloves off and pointing at the computer screen. “See? All four of them are coming in, which is impressive. I can probably take them out tomorrow, honestly. Those suckers can get really painful really fast, so we’re gonna want to take care of it as soon as possible.” 

Marcus paled. “Tomorrow?” 

“That would be best.” You put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’ll be okay. I do one of these surgeries like, once a month. I know what I’m doing, and you’re going to be just fine.” 

“Okay,” Marcus said, nodding and staring at you. “I believe you.” 

You smiled. “Perfect. So I can schedule your surgery for super early tomorrow, I’m thinking around seven, maybe seven thirty. We wanna get it out of the way early because you can’t eat anything for twelve hours beforehand.” As you explained, you gathered some papers from a desk drawer. “I assume you want general anesthesia.” 

“Is that the option where I sleep through it all?” 

“Yep,” you said, stapling the papers together and handing them to Marcus. “As per protocol, we’re going to need reassurance you’ll be with a responsible adult guardian for at least forty eight, if not seventy two hours post surgery. The first twelve to twenty hour can be brutal, so you definitely want someone there during that.”

Marcus shook his head. “I haven’t got anyone besides my mom, who I assumed would be taking Missy while I healed.” 

“That’s okay,” you promised. “We can get someone here to care for you for two days. You’d have to stay here at headquarters, but you’d be comfortable and cared for. Whatever you do, I’ll call in some pain prescriptions and the like for you to pick up after work today. Just see the pharmacy out front and they’ll give the pills to you.” 

You stood, gesturing Marcus up. “So, to recap. Get here early tomorrow, no food after seven tonight, and wear comfy clothes. Most patients go with sweatpants, but you go with whatever is most comfortable to you. Bring a change of pyjamas and your prescriptions if you’re staying with us, and I’ll see you tomorrow Mr. Moreno,” you said as you led him back to the lobby. 

Tomorrow came faster than anticipated, and before you knew it, it was seven AM and you were waiting for Marcus with your nurse beside you. 

“Damn his mouth is messed up,” the nurse mumbled, looking over the x-rays. “All four?” 

“All four,” you agreed, smiling as the lobby door opened. “Mr. Moreno! Follow me. I assume you stuck with the rules I gave you yesterday?” 

“Yeah,” Marcus said, handing you the paper bag with his prescriptions and a small drawstring bag that presumably had clothes in it. “I’m gonna be staying here.” 

“Perfect,” you said, pushing open the operating room door. “I see we’re dressed for the occasion.” 

Marcus turned red, looking down at his soft black sleep pants and a worn out Fleetwood Mac shirt. “Yeah.” 

You put Marcus’s stuff down on the counter, handing him a small white cup. “That is a super powerful mouthwash,” you explained. “Take it, and do try and keep it in your mouth for a minute. I know it tastes horrible.” 

Marcus did try, but he only made it to thirty seconds before he had to spit out the disgustingly bitter mouthwash. 

You laughed at his face, pulling on your gloves. “Alright Marcus, that works.” 

He smiled softly, relaxing a tiny bit. “Thanks.” 

“I wouldn’t thank anyone who made me take that stuff,” you said, grabbing a thin tube and holding it out. “That goes under your nose and over your ears, just like that,” you praised as Marcus threaded the tube over his ears. “Now, can I see your hand?” 

Marcus let you clip a heart rate monitor to his right index finger, watching as you walked to his other side and held up the final thing. “And last, but not least.” 

Immediately, Marcus looked extremely nervous again. You put down the IV line and rubbed his shoulder, trying to work away some of the tension. “Hey. Look at me. Just a pinch, and then you can take a nice long nap, okay? Deep breaths Marcus, deep breaths.” 

Marcus took a breath, and you carefully took your hand off his shoulder. You slowly directed his head onto the chair’s headrest, still murmuring reassurances. “That’s it. Count the stars on my mobile out loud. I can’t remember how many there are.” 

“Okay.” Marcus looked up, slowly counting out loud as you found his vein and stuck him with the IV line as quickly as you could. You administered some of the anesthesia, smiling as Marcus’s numbers began to slip and slide, until he wasn’t even counting as much as he was just mumbling out random mushy words. 

“Goodnight Marcus.” 

You gestured the nurse in, and she smiled, taking Marcus’s glasses and setting them on top of his other things. You finished off the anesthesia, watching Marcus’s eyes close. 

When he woke again, it was to you pulling the IV line out and taping a cotton ball to his arm. “Wa’s happ’nin’?” He slurred around the cotton and the drugs. 

“The surgery was a success,” you explained softly, despite Marcus not really understanding you. “All four teeth came out with no issue, and we’re about to take you to recovery. Oh, Marcus, keep your head up.” 

Marcus struggled to keep his head upright, and you giggled, holding your hands out. “C’mon. Let’s get you into a real bed.” 

You’d been through this with many patients before Marcus, but he seemed to be a stand-out, as you had some trouble getting him in the wheelchair and down the hallways into the recovery wing. He definitely fell under the ever entertaining category of ‘toddler high’ patients. His slurred words and puppy dog eyes made you laugh more than once on your way to his room. You actually had to stop and pause to laugh when he slurred out that he thought you were an Angel. He simply watched you with an exaggerated worried expression, half his words getting lost as he tried to mumble something out. 

“What was that Marcus?” You asked, wiping your eyes and continuing down the hall with him. 

“You’re tho prethy.” He said, head tipping down. 

“Head up,” you coaxed softly, smiling despite yourself. “Look, there’s your room.” 

Getting him in the room, which was more of a small, one person condo space, was thankfully the hardest part. But once you were in, he was very sleepy putty in your hands. 

“Okay Marcus,” you said gently, helping him out of the wheelchair and onto the couch, piling a few pillows beneath his head “Do you want anything before you go to sleep?” 

Marcus looked up at you. Between his cotton stuffed cheeks and his wide doe eyes, he looked a tiny bit ridiculous. You smiled, pulling out your phone and snapping a quick picture while he was still drugged as hell. “Marcus?” 

“Mittenth.” 

“What?” 

Marcus pointed to his bag. “Mittenth.” 

You walked over to the bag, opening it up and finding a black and white stuffed cat right on top. “Oh. Mittens.” 

You handed the cat to Marcus, who immediately snuggled it to his chest and rolled over a bit, falling asleep instantly. 

Again, you couldn’t help but stare. He looked so innocent like this, all curled up and sleeping. You hesitated to call him adorable, but if the shoe fit.

You sighed, picking up your phone and trailing into the single bedroom. Changing quickly into your leisure clothes, you texted one of the people at the pharmacy and requested a few ice packs and a wisdom tooth slushee. Both things were delivered in a matter of minutes, and you placed them securely in the small freezer to wait for Marcus. 

When he woke up, he was significantly less high. Looking around, Marcus poked his cheeks and made a face. “I can’t feel my nose.” 

“The entire bottom half of your face is numb,” you pointed out from your position at the two person table in the kitchen. “And believe me, you’re gonna want it to stay that way.” 

Marcus sat up, looking over at you. “I’m hungry.” 

“No solids for a while,” you told him, standing and grabbing his slushee. “But you can have this. And before you ask, yes you have to use the spoon.” 

Marcus pouted, but took the slushee. “But the cotton.” 

You nodded, settling on the couch next to him. “Open wide.” 

Marcus did, allowing you to shove two fingers into his mouth and fish out the cotton. “Still bleeding,” you mumbled to yourself. “We’ll shove more in there when you’re done. For now,” You tipped the slushee at him. “Eat up.” 

You turned your attention to the TV while Marcus ate slowly, taking tiny bites and occasionally sticking his tongue out. “It’s really numb.” 

“That’ll fade by tomorrow morning,” you promised. “At noon I want you to take your first pills. Then you get more at one.” 

Again, Marcus pouted, but simply sank lower into the couch cushions and mindlessly watched whatever was on TV. “Is my face swelling?” 

You shrugged. “No more than other patients. But yeah, just a bit.” 

“Do I look stupid?” 

The question made you laugh. “Marcus, I’ve had so many ridiculous patients. You’re no worse than some of my other ones, I promise.” 

Marcus accepted this and continued to take small bites of his slushee. “Why’s it gotta be blue?” 

“Because blue isn’t even remotely close to red.” You didn’t even look up as you answered. “Same goes for when little kids get teeth pulled. You want something that’s soft, easy to swallow, and isn’t the color of blood.” 

“Oh.” 

You nodded. “Yeah. How’s your mouth feeling?” 

Marcus mulled it over, eventually deciding on saying “Kinda achy.” 

“I’ll give you those pills soon,” you said. “It’s gonna be tricky, considering any kind of anything touching those holes in your mouth is gonna hurt like a bitch.” 

“Even water?” 

“Even water.” 

Marcus groaned, and you shrugged. “Sorry. But you’re the one who waited until now to do this.” 

When Marcus finished his slushee, you grabbed a pill bottle off the kitchen counter, quickly glancing at the label and nodding. “Two of these,” you said, opening a cabinet and taking out a glass. “Come here.” 

Marcus trudged over, leaning heavily against the counter’s edge. You put the two round pills on the counter, along with the glass of water. “Best to do it quickly. And one at a time.”  

Picking up one of the pills, Marcus carefully put it on his tongue, taking the glass with a hesitant hand. He took a sip, swallowing quickly and audibly. “Can’t I use a straw?” 

“Yeah,” you said sarcastically. “If you want dry socket, go ahead.” 

“Do I want to know what that is?” 

“Nope.” You pushed the second pill towards Marcus. “Take that, then you can lay back down.” 

Marcus sighed, mirroring his previous action. However, instead of simply swallowing with a tight face, Marcus started, eyes filling with tears as he spit the water into the sink, the pill clattering against the metal. 

You immediately began to worry as Marcus cried. It wasn’t a small tear or two either. He was full on sobbing, gripping the edges of the sink so tight his knuckles went white. 

“Marcus,” you murmured, putting a hand on his arm. He looked up at you, and you put on your most comforting smile. “Hey, it’s okay.” You picked up a towel and slowly wiped the residual water off his face. “C’mere.” 

He collapsed into your arms, going limp and continuing to cry. You rubbed his back, heart tightening whenever he let out a whimper of “hurts.” 

“I know,” you said softly. “I know it hurts. But you have to take the pills.” 

“Can’t,” Marcus hiccuped, burying himself deeper into your sweater. 

“Marcus,” you said firmly, slowly untangling him from you. “I know it hurts. But you’ll be in more pain from not taking the pills. Please, for me?” 

He took a breath. “Can we watch TV afterwards?” 

You smiled. “Of course. I can give you ice for the swelling too.” 

Marcus nodded, looking into the sink. “Do I take that one?” 

“No,” you said, fishing a new pill out of the container. “It’s in the sink, I’m not gonna take that risk. Here.” 

Marcus stared at the unassuming white pill in his hand. “Which one is this?” 

“The acetaminophen.” 

“The what?” 

“Tylenol.” 

Marcus nodded, popping the pill into his mouth and quickly gulping down the water. This time, he avoided hitting his stitches and simply handed you the glass. “I’m not doing that again.” 

You took the glass, putting it in the sink. “You have more pills to take in an hour.” 

Marcus groaned. “TV?” 

“Of course,” you said, walking to the couch and smiling as Marcus fell onto it. “What do you wanna watch?” 

Marcus turned his red rimmed puppy dog eyes on you. “Say Yes to the Dress?” 

You laughed. “Are you serious? We can, but that’s not what I expected at all.” 

“I like trash TV when I feel terrible.” Marcus grabbed Mittens and cuddled the stuffed cat to his chest. 

You found the show, setting it up and standing. “More cotton. You're probably still bleeding, and we definitely don’t want that. Open.” 

It took some finessing to get two more wads of cotton into Marcus’s mouth, but you succeeded, despite his complaints of feeling like a cartoon chipmunk. 

 “I’m gonna go start on dinner,” you said.  “Are you gonna be okay here?” 

Marcus pouted. “Do you have to start now?” 

“Yeah.” You gestured to the kitchen. “Don’t worry, I’ll only be gone for twenty minutes. Soup just needs to sit for a while.” 

Slightly consoled, Marcus zoned out at the TV while you got to work making a simple chicken noodle soup. 

“Done,” you said, wiping your hands and walking back to the couch twenty minutes later. “Marcus, are you still awake?” 

Marcus grumbled, holding his hands out. “C’mere.” 

You passed him an ice pack, and he made a face. “Not what I want.” 

“What do you want?” 

As if somehow knowing they were your kryptonite, Marcus gave you his puppy dog eyes. “Wanna hold you.” 

You sighed, but crawled into his arms anyway. When you finally settled, he was on his back, head and neck propped up on the arm of the couch, and you were on your side between the back of the couch and Marcus. He was warm, wrapping one arm loosely over your waist and using the other hand to press the ice into his cheek. 

You quickly slid into a nice comfortable headspace, occasionally smiling when Marcus commented on the wedding dresses on screen. 

“You dropped Mittens,” you realized after a while, shuffling to grab the discarded toy from the floor. 

Marcus took Mittens, gently placing the cat on his chest, so that it was secure on his sternum. 

“Does Mittens belong to Missy?” 

“Belonged to Clara.” 

“Oh.” You saw the change in demeanor, noticed how Marcus’s face steeled when he said her name. He rarely talked about Clara, especially at work. “I’m-“ 

“Nah,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “It’s the past. I’m happy now, and so is Mittens.” 

You nestled deeper into his chest. “Happy right now?” 

“Definitely happy right now,” Marcus said softly. “Very happy, even though I can’t feel my face.” 

“Even if you could,” you mumbled, knowing where this was headed. “You can’t kiss anyone for a while.” 

Marcus grinned. “I guess we’ll just have to wait then, won’t we?” 

You mirrored his mischievous smile. “You can’t kiss,” you said, scooting upwards, until you were laying on top of Marcus, your belly on his ribs. “But I can.” 

You lay gentle kisses across his cheeks, smiling when he laughed at your insistence upon kissing his nose. His cheeks were cold from the ice and tender from the swelling, but Marcus never tried to stop you, so you continued downwards, kissing the pulse points on his neck. 

“You’re a damn tease,”  Marcus huffed. 

You simply smiled into his skin and tugged the collar of his shirt down, pressing firm kisses into the points of his collarbones.

“Hey,” Marcus nudged your head. “Can we finish this when I don’t have a mouth of stitches? I still can’t feel my tongue.” 

“Of course,” you said, pushing his shirt collar back up and laying your head on his sternum. “How long?” 

“Hm?” 

You shrugged, watching a woman try on a stunning wedding dress on the TV. “How long have you wanted to kiss me?” 

Marcus thought it over. “Last year,” he finally decided. “When Missy had three teeth out. You were so kind, and I just melted.” 

“But you didn’t fall in love hard enough to ever pay me a visit,” you teased, tracing the faded symbol on his shirt. 

“Didn’t ever want to go under and realize I’d spilled everything,” Marcus confessed. 

You smiled. “Too late. You said I looked like an Angel in the hallway.” 

Marcus turned bright red, and you laughed at him. “It’s okay,” you promised, kissing his cheek that didn’t have the ice pack. “I think you’re pretty handsome yourself.” 

That night, after dinner and more pills and ice cream for dessert, you and Marcus settled down in the only bedroom, clinging to each other as if your lives depended on it. 

Waking up was hard. Marcus was well enough to go home, most of the swelling gone and the numbness completely faded. 

“So,” you clicked down the halls of the dentist’s office, Marcus behind you. “No really hot liquids for another few days, and try not to do solids until then either. That antibacterial mouthwash should be used twice a day, and you can start brushing your teeth again in two days. Remember, no straws, take your pills, keep icing your cheeks, and if I see you in this office before this time next week, I will be calling your mother.” 

Marcus nodded as you pulled open the lobby door, where Anita and Missy were waiting. “Anything else Doctor?” 

You shook your head. “You should be all clear Mr. Moreno. I’ll be seeing you for your check-up next week. Don’t you go skipping out on me now.” 

Marcus smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he promised, leaning a bit closer to you. “And I cannot wait to kiss you for real.” 

He pulled away, leaving you flushed and dizzy. “See you next week Doctor.” 

“See you next week Mr. Moreno.”

If you liked this, I do dialogue prompt requests as well! Go request something if you want!

[badartfriend]

There is a sunny earnestness to Dawn Dorland, an un-self-conscious openness that endears her to some people and that others have found to be a little extra. Her friends call her a “feeler”: openhearted and eager, pressing to make connections with others even as, in many instances, she feels like an outsider. An essayist and aspiring novelist who has taught writing classes in Los Angeles, she is the sort of writer who, in one authorial mission statement, declares her faith in the power of fiction to “share truth,” to heal trauma, to build bridges. (“I’m compelled at funerals to shake hands with the dusty men who dig our graves,” she has written.) She is known for signing off her emails not with “All best” or “Sincerely,” but “Kindly.”

On June 24, 2015, a year after completing her M.F.A. in creative writing, Dorland did perhaps the kindest, most consequential thing she might ever do in her life. She donated one of her kidneys, and elected to do it in a slightly unusual and particularly altruistic way. As a so-called nondirected donation, her kidney was not meant for anyone in particular but instead was part of a donation chain, coordinated by surgeons to provide a kidney to a recipient who may otherwise have no other living donor. There was some risk with the procedure, of course, and a recovery to think about, and a one-kidney life to lead from that point forward. But in truth, Dorland, in her 30s at the time, had been wanting to do it for years. “As soon as I learned I could,” she told me recently, on the phone from her home in Los Angeles, where she and her husband were caring for their toddler son and elderly pit bull (and, in their spare time, volunteering at dog shelters and searching for adoptive families for feral cat litters). “It’s kind of like not overthinking love, you know?”

Several weeks before the surgery, Dorland decided to share her truth with others. She started a private Facebook group, inviting family and friends, including some fellow writers from GrubStreet, the Boston writing center where Dorland had spent many years learning her craft. After her surgery, she posted something to her group: a heartfelt letter she’d written to the final recipient of the surgical chain, whoever they may be.

Personally, my childhood was marked by trauma and abuse; I didn’t have the opportunity to form secure attachments with my family of origin. A positive outcome of my early life is empathy, that it opened a well of possibility between me and strangers. While perhaps many more people would be motivated to donate an organ to a friend or family member in need, to me, the suffering of strangers is just as real. … Throughout my preparation for becoming a donor … I focused a majority of my mental energy on imagining and celebrating you.

The procedure went well. By a stroke of luck, Dorland would even get to meet the recipient, an Orthodox Jewish man, and take photos with him and his family. In time, Dorland would start posting outside the private group to all of Facebook, celebrating her one-year “kidneyversary” and appearing as a UCLA Health Laker for a Day at the Staples Center to support live-organ donation. But just after the surgery, when she checked Facebook, Dorland noticed some people she’d invited into the group hadn’t seemed to react to any of her posts. On July 20, she wrote an email to one of them: a writer named Sonya Larson.

Larson and Dorland had met eight years earlier in Boston. They were just a few years apart in age, and for several years they ran in the same circles, hitting the same events, readings and workshops at the GrubStreet writing center. But in the years since Dorland left town, Larson had leveled up. Her short fiction was published, in Best American Short Stories and elsewhere; she took charge of GrubStreet’s annual Muse and the Marketplace literary conference, and as a mixed-race Asian American, she marshaled the group’s diversity efforts. She also joined a group of published writers that calls itself the Chunky Monkeys (a whimsical name, referring to breaking off little chunks of big projects to share with the other members). One of those writing-group members, Celeste Ng, who wrote “Little Fires Everywhere,” told me that she admires Larson’s ability to create “characters who have these big blind spots.” While they think they’re presenting themselves one way, they actually come across as something else entirely.

When it comes to literary success, the stakes can be pretty low — a fellowship or residency here, a short story published there. But it seemed as if Larson was having the sort of writing life that Dorland once dreamed of having. After many years, Dorland, still teaching, had yet to be published. But to an extent that she once had a writing community, GrubStreet was it. And Larson was, she believed, a close friend.

Over email, on July 21, 2015, Larson answered Dorland’s message with a chirpy reply — “How have you been, my dear?” Dorland replied with a rundown of her next writing residencies and workshops, and as casually as possible, asked: “I think you’re aware that I donated my kidney this summer. Right?”

Only then did Larson gush: “Ah, yes — I did see on Facebook that you donated your kidney. What a tremendous thing!”

Afterward, Dorland would wonder: If she really thought it was that great, why did she need reminding that it happened?

They wouldn’t cross paths again until the following spring — a brief hello at A.W.P., the annual writing conference, where the subject of Dorland’s kidney went unmentioned. A month later, at the GrubStreet Muse conference in Boston, Dorland sensed something had shifted — not just with Larson but with various GrubStreet eminences, old friends and mentors of hers who also happened to be members of Larson’s writing group, the Chunky Monkeys. Barely anyone brought up what she’d done, even though everyone must have known she’d done it. “It was a little bit like, if you’ve been at a funeral and nobody wanted to talk about it — it just was strange to me,” she said. “I left that conference with this question: Do writers not care about my kidney donation? Which kind of confused me, because I thought I was in a community of service-oriented people.”

It didn’t take long for a clue to surface. On June 24, 2016, a Facebook friend of Dorland’s named Tom Meek commented on one of Dorland’s posts.

Sonya read a cool story about giving out a kidney. You came to my mind and I wondered if you were the source of inspiration?

Still impressed you did this.

Dorland was confused. A year earlier, Larson could hardly be bothered to talk about it. Now, at Trident bookstore in Boston, she’d apparently read from a new short story about that very subject. Meek had tagged Larson in his comment, so Dorland thought that Larson must have seen it. She waited for Larson to chime in — to say, “Oh, yes, I’d meant to tell you, Dawn!” or something like that — but there was nothing. Why would Sonya write about it, she wondered, and not tell her?

Six days later, she decided to ask her. Much as she had a year earlier, she sent Larson a friendly email, including one pointed request: “Hey, I heard you wrote a kidney-donation story. Cool! Can I read it?”

‘I hope it doesn’t feel too weird for your gift to have inspired works of art.’

Ten days later, Larson wrote back saying that yes, she was working on a story “about a woman who receives a kidney, partially inspired by how my imagination took off after learning of your own tremendous donation.” In her writing, she spun out a scenario based not on Dorland, she said, but on something else — themes that have always fascinated her. “I hope it doesn’t feel too weird for your gift to have inspired works of art,” Larson wrote.

Dorland wrote back within hours. She admitted to being “a little surprised,” especially “since we’re friends and you hadn’t mentioned it.” The next day, Larson replied, her tone a bit removed, stressing that her story was “not about you or your particular gift, but about narrative possibilities I began thinking about.”

But Dorland pressed on. “It’s the interpersonal layer that feels off to me, Sonya. … You seemed not to be aware of my donation until I pointed it out. But if you had already kicked off your fictional project at this time, well, I think your behavior is a little deceptive. At least, weird.”

Larson’s answer this time was even cooler. “Before this email exchange,” she wrote, “I hadn’t considered that my individual vocal support (or absence of it) was of much significance.”

Which, though it was shrouded in politesse, was a different point altogether. Who, Larson seemed to be saying, said we were such good friends?

For many years now, Dorland has been working on a sprawling novel, “Econoline,” which interweaves a knowing, present-day perspective with vivid, sometimes brutal but often romantic remembrances of an itinerant rural childhood. The van in the title is, she writes in a recent draft, “blue as a Ty-D-Bowl tablet. Bumbling on the highway, bulky and off-kilter, a junebug in the wind.” The family in the narrative survives on “government flour, canned juice and beans” and “ruler-long bricks of lard” that the father calls “commodities.”

Dorland is not shy about explaining how her past has afforded her a degree of moral clarity that others might not come by so easily. She was raised in near poverty in rural Iowa. Her parents moved around a lot, she told me, and the whole family lived under a stigma. One small consolation was the way her mother modeled a certain perverse self-reliance, rejecting the judgments of others. Another is how her turbulent youth has served as a wellspring for much of her writing. She made her way out of Iowa with a scholarship to Scripps College in California, followed by divinity school at Harvard. Unsure of what to do next, she worked day jobs in advertising in Boston while dabbling in workshops at the GrubStreet writing center. When she noticed classmates cooing over Marilynne Robinson’s novel “Housekeeping,” she picked up a copy. After inhaling its story of an eccentric small-town upbringing told with sensitive, all-seeing narration, she knew she wanted to become a writer.

At GrubStreet, Dorland eventually became one of several “teaching scholars” at the Muse conference, leading workshops on such topics as “Truth and Taboo: Writing Past Shame.” Dorland credits two members of the Chunky Monkeys group, Adam Stumacher and Chris Castellani, with advising her. But in hindsight, much of her GrubStreet experience is tied up with her memories of Sonya Larson. She thinks they first met at a one-off writing workshop Larson taught, though Larson, for her part, says she doesn’t remember this. Everybody at GrubStreet knew Larson — she was one of the popular, ever-present people who worked there. On nights out with other Grubbies, Dorland remembers Larson getting personal, confiding about an engagement, the death of someone she knew and plans to apply to M.F.A. programs — though Larson now says she shared such things widely. When a job at GrubStreet opened up, Larson encouraged her to apply. Even when she didn’t get it, everyone was so gracious about it, including Larson, that she felt included all the same.

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Now, as she read these strained emails from Larson — about this story of a kidney donation; her kidney donation? — Dorland wondered if everyone at GrubStreet had been playing a different game, with rules she’d failed to grasp. On July 15, 2016, Dorland’s tone turned brittle, even wounded: “Here was a friend entrusting something to you, making herself vulnerable to you. At least, the conclusion I can draw from your responses is that I was mistaken to consider us the friends that I did.”

Larson didn’t answer right away. Three days later, Dorland took her frustrations to Facebook, in a blind item: “I discovered that a writer friend has based a short story on something momentous I did in my own life, without telling me or ever intending to tell me (another writer tipped me off).” Still nothing from Larson.

Dorland waited another day and then sent her another message both in a text and in an email: “I am still surprised that you didn’t care about my personal feelings. … I wish you’d given me the benefit of the doubt that I wouldn’t interfere.” Yet again, no response.

The next day, on July 20, she wrote again: “Am I correct that you do not want to make peace? Not hearing from you sends that message.”

Larson answered this time. “I see that you’re merely expressing real hurt, and for that I am truly sorry,” she wrote on July 21. But she also changed gears a little. “I myself have seen references to my own life in others’ fiction, and it certainly felt weird at first. But I maintain that they have a right to write about what they want — as do I, and as do you.”

Hurt feelings or not, Larson was articulating an ideal — a principle she felt she and all writers ought to live up to. “For me, honoring another’s artistic freedom is a gesture of friendship,” Larson wrote, “and of trust.”



Image



Sonya Larson in Massachussetts.Credit...Kholood Eid for The New York Times

Like Dawn Dorland, Sonya Larson understands life as an outsider. The daughter of a Chinese American mother and white father, she was brought up in a predominantly white, middle-class enclave in Minnesota, where being mixed-race sometimes confused her. “It took me a while to realize the things I was teased about were intertwined with my race,” she told me over the phone from Somerville, where she lived with her husband and baby daughter. Her dark hair, her slight build: In a short story called “Gabe Dove,” which was picked for the 2017 edition of Best American Short Stories, Larson’s protagonist is a second-generation Asian American woman named Chuntao, who is used to men putting their fingers around her wrist and remarking on how narrow it is, almost as if she were a toy, a doll, a plaything.

Larson’s path toward writing was more conventional than Dorland’s. She started earlier, after her first creative-writing class at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. When she graduated, in 2005, she moved to Boston and walked into GrubStreet to volunteer the next day. Right away, she became one of a handful of people who kept the place running. In her fiction, Larson began exploring the sensitive subject matter that had always fascinated her: racial dynamics, and people caught between cultures. In time, she moved beyond mere political commentary to revel in her characters’ flaws — like a more socially responsible Philip Roth, though every bit as happy to be profane and fun and provocative. Even as she allows readers to be one step ahead of her characters, to see how they’re going astray, her writing luxuriates in the seductive power that comes from living an unmoored life. “He described thick winding streams and lush mountain gorges,” the rudderless Chuntao narrates in “Gabe Dove,” “obviously thinking I’d enjoy this window into my ancestral country, but in truth, I wanted to slap him.”

Chuntao, or a character with that name, turns up in many of Larson’s stories, as a sort of a motif — a little different each time Larson deploys her. She appears again in “The Kindest,” the story that Larson had been reading from at the Trident bookstore in 2016. Here, Chuntao is married, with an alcohol problem. A car crash precipitates the need for a new organ, and her whole family is hoping the donation will serve as a wake-up call, a chance for Chuntao to redeem herself. That’s when the donor materializes. White, wealthy and entitled, the woman who gave Chuntao her kidney is not exactly an uncomplicated altruist: She is a stranger to her own impulses, unaware of how what she considers a selfless act also contains elements of intense, unbridled narcissism.

In early drafts of the story, the donor character’s name was Dawn. In later drafts, Larson ended up changing the name to Rose. While Dorland no doubt was an inspiration, Larson argues that in its finished form, her story moved far beyond anything Dorland herself had ever said or done. But in every iteration of “The Kindest,” the donor says she wants to meet Chuntao to celebrate, to commune — only she really wants something more, something ineffable, like acknowledgment, or gratitude, or recognition, or love.

Still, they’re not so different, Rose and Chuntao. “I think they both confuse love with worship,” Larson told me. “And they both see love as something they have to go get; it doesn’t already exist inside of them.” All through “The Kindest,” love or validation operates almost like a commodity — a precious elixir that heals all pain. “The thing about the dying,” Chuntao narrates toward the end, “is they command the deepest respect, respect like an underground river resonant with primordial sounds, the kind of respect that people steal from one another.”

They aren’t entirely equal, however. While Chuntao is the story’s flawed hero, Rose is more a subject of scrutiny — a specimen to be analyzed. The study of the hidden motives of privileged white people comes naturally to Larson. “When you’re mixed-race, as I am, people have a way of ‘confiding’ in you,” she once told an interviewer. What they say, often about race, can be at odds with how they really feel. In “The Kindest,” Chuntao sees through Rose from the start. She knows what Rose wants — to be a white savior — and she won’t give it to her. (“So she’s the kindest bitch on the planet?” she says to her husband.) By the end, we may no longer feel a need to change Chuntao. As one critic in the literary journal Ploughshares wrote when the story was published in 2017: “Something has got to be admired about someone who returns from the brink of death unchanged, steadfast in their imperfections.”

For some readers, “The Kindest” is a rope-a-dope. If you thought this story was about Chuntao’s redemption, you’re as complicit as Rose. This, of course, was entirely intentional. Just before she wrote “The Kindest,” Larson helped run a session on race in her graduate program that became strangely contentious. “Many of the writers who identified as white were quite literally seeing the racial dynamics of what we were discussing very differently from the people of color in the room,” she said. “It was as if we were just simply talking past one another, and it was scary.” At the time, she’d been fascinated by “the dress” — that internet meme with a photo some see as black and blue and others as white and gold. Nothing interests Larson more than a thing that can be seen differently by two people, and she saw now how no subject demonstrates that better than race. She wanted to write a story that was like a Rorschach test, one that might betray the reader’s own hidden biases.

When reflecting on Chuntao, Larson often comes back to the character’s autonomy, her nerve. “She resisted,” she told me. Chuntao refused to become subsumed by Rose’s narrative. “And I admire that. And I think that small acts of refusal like that are things that people of color — and writers of color — in this country have to bravely do all the time.”

Larson and Dorland have each taken and taught enough writing workshops to know that artists, almost by definition, borrow from life. They transform real people and events into something invented, because what is the great subject of art — the only subject, really — if not life itself? This was part of why Larson seemed so unmoved by Dorland’s complaints. Anyone can be inspired by anything. And if you don’t like it, why not write about it yourself?

But to Dorland, this was more than just material. She’d become a public voice in the campaign for live-organ donation, and she felt some responsibility for representing the subject in just the right way. The potential for saving lives, after all, matters more than any story. And yes, this was also her own life — the crystallization of the most important aspects of her personality, from the traumas of her childhood to the transcending of those traumas today. Her proudest moment, she told me, hadn’t been the surgery itself, but making it past the psychological and other clearances required to qualify as a donor. “I didn’t do it in order to heal. I did it because I had healed — I thought.”

The writing world seemed more suspicious to her now. At around the time of her kidney donation, there was another writer, a published novelist, who announced a new book with a protagonist who, in its description, sounded to her an awful lot like the one in “Econoline” — not long after she shared sections of her work in progress with him. That author’s book hasn’t been published, and so Dorland has no way of knowing if she’d really been wronged, but this only added to her sense that the guard rails had fallen off the profession. Beyond unhindered free expression, Dorland thought, shouldn’t there be some ethics? “What do you think we owe one another as writers in community?” she would wonder in an email, several months later, to The Times’s “Dear Sugars” advice podcast. (The show never responded.) “How does a writer like me, not suited to jadedness, learn to trust again after artistic betrayal?”

‘I’m thinking, When did I record my letter with a voice actor? Because this voice actor was reading me the paragraph about my childhood trauma.’

By summer’s end, she and Sonya had forged a fragile truce. “I value our relationship and I regret my part in these miscommunications and misunderstandings,” Larson wrote on Aug. 16, 2016. Not long after, Dorland Googled “kidney” and “Sonya Larson” and a link turned up.

The story was available on Audible — an audio version, put out by a small company called Plympton. Dorland’s dread returned. In July, Larson told her, “I’m still working on the story.” Now here it was, ready for purchase.

She went back and forth about it, but finally decided not to listen to “The Kindest.” When I asked her about it, she took her time parsing that decision. “What if I had listened,” she said, “and just got a bad feeling, and just felt exploited. What was I going to do with that? What was I going to do with those emotions? There was nothing I thought I could do.”

So she didn’t click. “I did what I thought was artistically and emotionally healthy,” she said. “And also, it’s kind of what she had asked me to do.”

Dorland could keep ‘‘The Kindest” out of her life for only so long. In August 2017, the print magazine American Short Fiction published the short story. She didn’t buy a copy. Then in June 2018, she saw that the magazine dropped its paywall for the story. The promo and opening essay on American Short Fiction’s home page had startled her: a photograph of Larson, side-by-side with a shot of the short-fiction titan Raymond Carver. The comparison does make a certain sense: In Carver’s story “Cathedral,” a blind man proves to have better powers of perception than a sighted one; in “The Kindest,” the white-savior kidney donor turns out to need as much salvation as the Asian American woman she helped. Still, seeing Larson anointed this way was, to say the least, destabilizing.

Then she started to read the story. She didn’t get far before stopping short. Early on, Rose, the donor, writes a letter to Chuntao, asking to meet her.

I myself know something of suffering, but from those experiences I’ve acquired both courage and perseverance. I’ve also learned to appreciate the hardship that others are going through, no matter how foreign. Whatever you’ve endured, remember that you are never alone. … As I prepared to make this donation, I drew strength from knowing that my recipient would get a second chance at life. I withstood the pain by imagining and rejoicing in YOU.

Here, to Dorland’s eye, was an echo of the letter she’d written to her own recipient — and posted on her private Facebook group — rejiggered and reworded, yet still, she believed, intrinsically hers. Dorland was amazed. It had been three years since she donated her kidney. Larson had all that time to launder the letter — to rewrite it drastically or remove it — and she hadn’t bothered.

She showed the story’s letter to her husband, Chris, who had until that point given Larson the benefit of the doubt.

“Oh,” he said.

Everything that happened two years earlier, during their email melée, now seemed like gaslighting. Larson had been so insistent that Dorland was being out of line — breaking the rules, playing the game wrong, needing something she shouldn’t even want. “Basically, she’d said, ‘I think you’re being a bad art friend,’” Dorland told me. That argument suddenly seemed flimsy. Sure, Larson had a right to self-expression — but with someone else’s words? Who was the bad art friend now?

Before she could decide what to do, there came another shock. A few days after reading “The Kindest,” Dorland learned that the story was the 2018 selection for One City One Story, a common-reads program sponsored by the Boston Book Festival. That summer, some 30,000 copies of “The Kindest” would be distributed free all around town. An entire major U.S. city would be reading about a kidney donation — with Sonya Larson as the author.

This was when Dawn Dorland decided to push back — first a little, and then a lot. This wasn’t about art anymore; not Larson’s anyway. It was about her art, her letter, her words, her life. She shopped for a legal opinion: Did Larson’s use of that letter violate copyright law? Even getting a lawyer to look into that one little question seemed too expensive. But that didn’t stop her from contacting American Short Fiction and the Boston Book Festival herself with a few choice questions: What was their policy on plagiarism? Did they know they were publishing something that used someone else’s words? She received vague assurances they’d get back to her.

While waiting, she also contacted GrubStreet’s leadership: What did this supposedly supportive, equitable community have to say about plagiarism? She emailed the Bread Loaf writing conference in Vermont, where Larson once had a scholarship: What would they do if one of their scholars was discovered to have plagiarized? On privacy grounds, Bread Loaf refused to say if “The Kindest” was part of Larson’s 2017 application. But Dorland found more groups with a connection to Larson to notify, including the Vermont Studio Center and the Association of Literary Scholars, Critics and Writers.

When the Boston Book Festival told her they would not share the final text of the story, Dorland went a step further. She emailed two editors at The Boston Globe — wouldn’t they like to know if the author of this summer’s citywide common-reads short story was a plagiarist? And she went ahead and hired a lawyer, Jeffrey Cohen, who agreed she had a claim — her words, her letter, someone else’s story. On July 3, 2018, Cohen sent the book festival a cease-and-desist letter, demanding they hold off on distributing “The Kindest” for the One City One Story program, or risk incurring damages of up to $150,000 under the Copyright Act.

From Larson’s point of view, this wasn’t just ludicrous, it was a stickup. Larson had found her own lawyer, James Gregorio, who on July 17 replied that Dorland’s actions constitute “harassment, defamation per se and tortious interference with business and contractual relations.” Despite whatever similarities exist between the letters, Larson’s lawyer believed there could be no claim against her because, among other reasons, these letters that donors write are basically a genre; they follow particular conventions that are impossible to claim as proprietary. In July, Dorland’s lawyer suggested settling with the book festival for $5,000 (plus an attribution at the bottom of the story, or perhaps a referral link to a kidney-donor site). Larson’s camp resisted talks when they learned that Dorland had contacted The Globe.

‘This is not about a white savior narrative. It’s about us and our sponsor and our board not being sued if we distribute the story.'

In reality, Larson was pretty vulnerable: an indemnification letter in her contract with the festival meant that if Dorland did sue, she would incur the costs. What no one had counted on was that Dorland, in late July, would stumble upon a striking new piece of evidence. Searching online for more mentions of “The Kindest,” she saw something available for purchase. At first this seemed to be a snippet of the Audible version of the story, created a year before the American Short Fiction version. But in fact, this was something far weirder: a recording of an even earlier iteration of the story. When Dorland listened to this version, she heard something very different — particularly the letter from the donor.

Dorland’s letter:

Personally, my childhood was marked by trauma and abuse; I didn’t have the opportunity to form secure attachments with my family of origin. A positive outcome of my early life is empathy, that it opened a well of possibility between me and strangers. While perhaps many more people would be motivated to donate an organ to a friend or family member in need, to me, the suffering of strangers is just as real.

Larson’s audio version of the story:

My own childhood was marked by trauma and abuse; I wasn’t given an opportunity to form secure attachments with my family of origin. But in adulthood that experience provided a strong sense of empathy. While others might desire to give to a family member or friend, to me the suffering of strangers is just as real.

“I almost fell off my chair,” Dorland said. “I’m thinking, When did I record my letter with a voice actor? Because this voice actor was reading me the paragraph about my childhood trauma. To me it was just bizarre.” It confirmed, in her eyes, that Larson had known she had a problem: She had altered the letter after Dorland came to her with her objections in 2016.

Dorland’s lawyer increased her demand to $10,000 — an amount Dorland now says was to cover her legal bills, but that the other side clearly perceived as another provocation. She also contacted her old GrubStreet friends — members of the Chunky Monkeys whom she now suspected had known all about what Larson was doing. “Why didn’t either of you check in with me when you knew that Sonya’s kidney story was related to my life?” she emailed the group’s founders, Adam Stumacher and Jennifer De Leon. Stumacher responded, “I have understood from the start this is a work of fiction.” Larson’s friends were lining up behind her.

In mid-August, Dorland learned that Larson had made changes to “The Kindest” for the common-reads program. In this new version, every similar phrase in the donor’s letter was reworded. But there was something new: At the end of the letter, instead of closing with “Warmly,” Larson had switched it to “Kindly.”

With that one word — the signoff she uses in her emails — Dorland felt trolled. “She thought that it would go to press and be read by the city of Boston before I realized that she had jabbed me in the eye,” Dorland said. (Larson, for her part, told me that the change was meant as “a direct reference to the title; it’s really as simple as that.”) Dorland’s lawyer let the festival know she wasn’t satisfied — that she still considered the letter in the story to be a derivative work of her original. If the festival ran the story, she’d sue.

This had become Sonya Larson’s summer of hell. What had started with her reaching heights she’d never dreamed of — an entire major American city as her audience, reading a story she wrote, one with an important message about racial dynamics — was ending with her under siege, her entire career in jeopardy, and all for what she considered no reason at all: turning life into art, the way she thought that any writer does.

Larson had tried working the problem. When, in June, an executive from the book festival first came to her about Dorland, Larson offered to “happily” make changes to “The Kindest.” “I remember that letter, and jotted down phrases that I thought were compelling, though in the end I constructed the fictional letter to suit the character of Rose,” she wrote to the festival. “I admit, however, that I’m not sure what they are — I don’t have a copy of that letter.” There was a moment, toward the end of July, when it felt as if she would weather the storm. The festival seemed fine with the changes she made to the story. The Globe did publish something, but with little impact.

Then Dorland found that old audio version of the story online, and the weather changed completely. Larson tried to argue that this wasn’t evidence of plagiarism, but proof that she’d been trying to avoid plagiarism. Her lawyer told The Globe that Larson had asked the audio publisher to make changes to her story on July 15, 2016 — in the middle of her first tense back-and-forth with Dorland — because the text “includes a couple sentences that I’d excerpted from a real-life letter.” In truth, Larson had been frustrated by the situation. “She seemed to think that she had ownership over the topic of kidney donation,” Larson recalled in an email to the audio publisher in 2018. “It made me realize that she is very obsessive.”

It was then, in August 2018, facing this new onslaught of plagiarism claims, that Larson stopped playing defense. She wrote a statement to The Globe declaring that anyone who sympathized with Dorland’s claims afforded Dorland a certain privilege. “My piece is fiction,” she wrote. “It is not her story, and my letter is not her letter. And she shouldn’t want it to be. She shouldn’t want to be associated with my story’s portrayal and critique of white-savior dynamics. But her recent behavior, ironically, is exhibiting the very blindness I’m writing about, as she demands explicit identification in — and credit for — a writer of color’s work.”

Here was a new argument, for sure. Larson was accusing Dorland of perverting the true meaning of the story — making it all about her, and not race and privilege. Larson’s friend Celeste Ng agrees, at least in part, that the conflict seemed racially coded. “There’s very little emphasis on what this must be like for Sonya,” Ng told me, “and what it is like for writers of color, generally — to write a story and then be told by a white writer, ‘Actually, you owe that to me.’”

‘I feel instead of running the race herself, she’s standing on the sidelines and trying to disqualify everybody else based on minor technicalities.’

But Ng also says this wasn’t just about race; it was about art and friendship. Ng told me that Larson’s entire community believed Dorland needed to be stopped in her tracks — to keep an unreasonable writer from co-opting another writer’s work on account of just a few stray sentences, and destroying that writer’s reputation in the process. “This is not someone that I am particularly fond of,” Ng told me, “because she had been harassing my friend and a fellow writer. So we were quite exercised, I will say.”

Not that it mattered. Dorland would not stand down. And so, on Aug. 13, Deborah Porter, the executive director of the Boston Book Festival, told Larson that One City One Story was canceled for the year. “There is seemingly no end to this,” she wrote, “and we cannot afford to spend any more time or resources.” When the Chunky Monkeys’ co-founder, Jennifer De Leon, made a personal appeal, invoking the white-savior argument, the response from Porter was like the slamming of a door. “That story should never have been submitted to us in the first place,” Porter wrote. “This is not about a white savior narrative. It’s about us and our sponsor and our board not being sued if we distribute the story. You owe us an apology.”

Porter then emailed Larson, too. “It seems to me that we have grounds to sue you,” she wrote to Larson. “Kindly ask your friends not to write to us.”

Here, it would seem, is where the conflict ought to end — Larson in retreat, “The Kindest” canceled. But neither side was satisfied. Larson, her reputation hanging by a thread, needed assurances that Dorland would stop making her accusations. Dorland still wanted Larson to explicitly, publicly admit that her words were in Larson’s story. She couldn’t stop wondering — what if Larson published a short-story collection? Or even a novel that spun out of “The Kindest?” She’d be right back here again.

On Sept. 6, 2018, Dorland’s lawyer raised her demand to $15,000, and added a new demand that Larson promise to pay Dorland $180,000 should she ever violate the settlement terms (which included never publishing “The Kindest” again). Larson saw this as an even greater provocation; her lawyer replied three weeks later with a lengthy litany of allegedly defamatory claims that Dorland had made about Larson. Who, he was asking, was the real aggressor here? How could anyone believe that Dorland was the injured party? “It is a mystery exactly how Dorland was damaged,” Larson’s new lawyer, Andrew Epstein, wrote. “My client’s gross receipts from ‘The Kindest’ amounted to $425.”

To Dorland, all this felt intensely personal. Someone snatches her words, and then accuses her of defamation too? Standing down seemed impossible now: How could she admit to defaming someone, she thought, when she was telling the truth? She’d come too far, spent too much on legal fees to quit. “I was desperate to recoup that money,” Dorland told me. She reached out to an arbitration-and-mediation service in California. When Andrew Epstein didn’t respond to the mediator, she considered suing Larson in small-claims court.

On Dec. 26, Dorland emailed Epstein, asking if he was the right person to accept the papers when she filed a lawsuit. As it happened, Larson beat her to the courthouse. On Jan. 30, 2019, Dorland and her lawyer, Cohen, were both sued in federal court, accused of defamation and tortious interference — that is, spreading lies about Larson and trying to tank her career.

There’s a moment in Larson’s short story “Gabe Dove” — also pulled from real life — where Chuntao notices a white family picnicking on a lawn in a park and is awed to see that they’ve all peacefully fallen asleep. “I remember going to college and seeing people just dead asleep on the lawn or in the library,” Larson told me. “No fear that harm will come to you or that people will be suspicious of you. That’s a real privilege right there.”

Larson’s biggest frustration with Dorland’s accusations was that they stole attention away from everything she’d been trying to accomplish with this story. “You haven’t asked me one question about the source of inspiration in my story that has to do with alcoholism, that has to do with the Chinese American experience. It’s extremely selective and untrue to pin a source of a story on just one thing. And this is what fiction writers know.” To ask if her story is about Dorland is, Larson argues, not only completely beside the point, but ridiculous. “I have no idea what Dawn is thinking. I don’t, and that’s not my job to know. All I can tell you about is how it prompted my imagination.” That also, she said, is what artists do. “We get inspired by language, and we play with that language, and we add to it and we change it and we recontextualize it. And we transform it.”

When Larson discusses “The Kindest” now, the idea that it’s about a kidney donation at all seems almost irrelevant. If that hadn’t formed the story’s pretext, she believes, it would have been something else. “It’s like saying that ‘Moby Dick’ is a book about whales,” she said. As for owing Dorland a heads-up about the use of that donation, Larson becomes more indignant, stating that no artist has any such responsibility. “If I walk past my neighbor and he’s planting petunias in the garden, and I think, Oh, it would be really interesting to include a character in my story who is planting petunias in the garden, do I have to go inform him because he’s my neighbor, especially if I’m still trying to figure out what it is I want to say in the story? I just couldn’t disagree more.”

But this wasn’t a neighbor. This was, ostensibly, a friend.

“There are married writer couples who don’t let each other read each other’s work,” Larson said. “I have no obligation to tell anyone what I’m working on.”

By arguing what she did is standard practice, Larson is asking a more provocative question: If you find her guilty of infringement, who’s next? Is any writer safe? “I read Dawn’s letter and I found it interesting,” she told me. “I never copied the letter. I was interested in these words and phrases because they reminded me of the language used by white-savior figures. And I played with this language in early drafts of my story. Fiction writers do this constantly.”

This is the same point her friends argue when defending her to me. “You take a seed, right?” Adam Stumacher said. “And then that’s the starting point for a story. That’s not what the story is about.” This is where “The Kindest” shares something with “Cat Person,” the celebrated 2017 short story in The New Yorker by Kristen Roupenian that, in a recent essay in Slate, a woman named Alexis Nowicki claimed used elements of her life story. That piece prompted a round of outrage from Writer Twitter (“I have held every human I’ve ever met upside down by the ankles,” the author Lauren Groff vented, “and shaken every last detail that I can steal out of their pockets”).

“The Kindest,” however, contains something that “Cat Person” does not: an actual piece of text that even Larson says was inspired by Dorland’s original letter. At some point, Larson must have realized that was the story’s great legal vulnerability. Did she ever consider just pulling it out entirely?

“Yeah, that absolutely was an option,” Larson said. “We could have easily treated the same moment in that story using a phone call, or some other literary device.” But once she made those changes for One City One Story, she said, the festival had told her the story was fine as is. (That version of “The Kindest” ended up in print elsewhere, as part of an anthology published in 2019 by Ohio University’s Swallow Press.) All that was left, she believes, was a smear campaign. “It’s hard for me to see what the common denominator of all of her demands has been, aside from wanting to punish me in some way.”

Dorland filed a counterclaim against Larson on April 24, 2020, accusing Larson of violating the copyright of her letter and intentional infliction of emotional distress — sleeplessness, anxiety, depression, panic attacks, weight loss “and several incidents of self-harm.” Dorland says she’d had some bouts of slapping herself, which dissipated after therapy. (This wasn’t her first lawsuit claiming emotional distress. A few years earlier, Dorland filed papers in small-claims court against a Los Angeles writing workshop where she’d taught, accusing the workshop of mishandling a sexual-harassment report she had made against a student. After requesting several postponements, she withdrew the complaint.) As for her new complaint against Larson, the judge knocked out the emotional-distress claim this past February, but the question of whether “The Kindest” violates Dorland’s copyrighted letter remains in play.

The litigation crept along quietly until earlier this year, when the discovery phase uncorked something unexpected — a trove of documents that seemed to recast the conflict in an entirely new way. There, in black and white, were pages and pages of printed texts and emails between Larson and her writer friends, gossiping about Dorland and deriding everything about her — not just her claim of being appropriated but the way she talked publicly about her kidney donation.

“I’m now following Dawn Dorland’s kidney posts with creepy fascination,” Whitney Scharer, a GrubStreet co-worker and fellow Chunky Monkey, texted to Larson in October 2015 — the day after Larson sent her first draft of “The Kindest” to the group. Dorland had announced she’d be walking in the Rose Bowl parade, as an ambassador for nondirected organ donations. “I’m thrilled to be part of their public face,” Dorland wrote, throwing in a few hashtags: #domoreforeachother and #livingkidneydonation.

Larson replied: “Oh, my god. Right? The whole thing — though I try to ignore it — persists in making me uncomfortable. … I just can’t help but think that she is feeding off the whole thing. … Of course, I feel evil saying this and can’t really talk with anyone about it.”

“I don’t know,” Scharer wrote. “A hashtag seems to me like a cry for attention.”

“Right??” Larson wrote. “#domoreforeachother. Like, what am I supposed to do? DONATE MY ORGANS?”

Among her friends, Larson clearly explained the influence of Dorland’s letter. In January 2016, she texted two friends: “I think I’m DONE with the kidney story but I feel nervous about sending it out b/c it literally has sentences that I verbatim grabbed from Dawn’s letter on FB. I’ve tried to change it but I can’t seem to — that letter was just too damn good. I’m not sure what to do … feeling morally compromised/like a good artist but a shitty person.”

That summer, when Dorland emailed Larson with her complaints, Larson was updating the Chunky Monkeys regularly, and they were encouraging her to stand her ground. “This is all very excruciating,” Larson wrote on July 18, 2016. “I feel like I am becoming the protagonist in my own story: She wants something from me, something that she can show to lots of people, and I’m not giving it.”

“Maybe she was too busy waving from her floating thing at a Macy’s Day parade,” wrote Jennifer De Leon, “instead of, you know, writing and stuff.”

Others were more nuanced. “It’s totally OK for Dawn to be upset,” Celeste Ng wrote, “but it doesn’t mean that Sonya did anything wrong, or that she is responsible for fixing Dawn’s hurt feelings.”

“I can understand the anxiety,” Larson replied. “I just think she’s trying to control something that she doesn’t have the ability or right to control.”

“The first draft of the story really was a takedown of Dawn, wasn’t it?” Calvin Hennick wrote. “But Sonya didn’t publish that draft. … She created a new, better story that used Dawn’s Facebook messages as initial inspiration, but that was about a lot of big things, instead of being about the small thing of taking down Dawn Dorland.”

On Aug. 15, 2016 — a day before telling Dorland, “I value our relationship” — Larson wrote in a chat with Alison Murphy: “Dude, I could write pages and pages more about Dawn. Or at least about this particular narcissistic dynamic, especially as it relates to race. The woman is a gold mine!”

Later on, Larson was even more emboldened. “If she tries to come after me, I will FIGHT BACK!” she wrote Murphy in 2017. Murphy suggested renaming the story “Kindly, Dawn,” prompting Larson to reply, “HA HA HA.”

Dorland learned about the emails — a few hundred pages of them — from her new lawyer, Suzanne Elovecky, who read them first and warned her that they might be triggering. When she finally went through them, she saw what she meant. The Chunky Monkeys knew the donor in “The Kindest” was Dorland, and they were laughing at her. Everything she’d dreaded and feared about raising her voice — that so many writers she revered secretly dismissed and ostracized her; that absolutely no one except her own lawyers seemed to care that her words were sitting there, trapped inside someone else’s work of art; that a slew of people, supposedly her friends, might actually believe she’d donated an organ just for the likes — now seemed completely confirmed, with no way to sugarcoat it. “It’s like I became some sort of dark-matter mascot to all of them somehow,” she said.

But there also was something clarifying about it. Now more than ever, she believes that “The Kindest” was personal. “I think she wanted me to read her story,” Dorland said, “and for me and possibly no one else to recognize my letter.”

Larson, naturally, finds this outrageous. “Did I feel some criticism toward the way that Dawn was posting about her kidney donation?” she said. “Yes. But am I trying to write a takedown of Dawn? No. I don’t care about Dawn.” All the gossiping about Dorland, now made public, would seem to put Larson into a corner. But many of the writer friends quoted in those texts and emails (those who responded to requests for comment) say they still stand behind her; if they were ridiculing Dorland, it was all in the service of protecting their friend. “I’m very fortunate to have friends in my life who I’ve known for 10, 20, over 30 years,” Larson told me. “I do not, and have never, considered Dawn one of them.”

What about the texts where she says that Dorland is behaving just like her character? Here, Larson chose her words carefully. “Dawn might behave like the character in my story,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean that the character in my story is behaving like Dawn. I know she’s trying to work through every angle she can to say that I’ve done something wrong. I have not done anything wrong.”

In writing, plagiarism is a straight-up cardinal sin: If you copy, you’re wrong. But in the courts, copyright infringement is an evolving legal concept. The courts are continuously working out the moment when someone’s words cross over into property that can be protected; as with any intellectual property, the courts have to balance the protections of creators with a desire not to stifle innovation. One major help to Dorland, however, is the rights that the courts have given writers over their own unpublished letters, even after they’re sent to someone else. J.D. Salinger famously prevented personal letters from being quoted by a would-be biographer. They were his property, the courts said, not anyone else’s. Similarly, Dorland could argue that this letter, despite having made its way onto Facebook, qualifies.

Let’s say the courts agree that Dorland’s letter is protected. What then? Larson’s main defense may be that the most recent version of the letter in “The Kindest” — the one significantly reworded for the book festival — simply doesn’t include enough material from Dorland’s original to rise to the level of infringement. This argument is, curiously, helped by how Larson has always, when it has come down to it, acknowledged Dorland’s letter as an influence. The courts like it when you don’t hide what you’ve done, according to Daniel Novack, chairman of the New York State Bar Association’s committee on media law. “You don’t want her to be punished for being clear about where she got it from,” he said. “If anything, that helps people find the original work.”

Larson’s other strategy is to argue that by repurposing snippets of the letter in this story, it qualifies as “transformative use,” and could never be mistaken for the original. Arguing transformative use might require arguing that a phrase of Larson’s like “imagining and rejoicing in YOU” has a different inherent meaning from the phrase in Dorland’s letter “imagining and celebrating you.” While they are similar, Larson’s lawyer, Andrew Epstein, argues that the story overall is different, and makes the letter different. “It didn’t steal from the letter,” he told me, “but it added something new and it was a totally different narrative.”

Larson put it more bluntly to me: “Her letter, it wasn’t art! It was informational. It doesn’t have market value. It’s like language that we glean from menus, from tombstones, from tweets. And Dorland ought to know this. She’s taken writing workshops.”

Transformative use most often turns up in cases of commentary or satire, or with appropriation artists like Andy Warhol. The idea is not to have such strong copyright protections that people can’t innovate. While Larson may have a case, one potential wrinkle is a recent federal ruling, just earlier this year, against the Andy Warhol Foundation. An appeals court determined that Warhol’s use of a photograph by Lynn Goldsmith as the basis for his own work of art was not a distinctive enough transformation. Whether Larson’s letter is derivative, in the end, may be up to a jury to decide. Dorland’s lawyer, meanwhile, can point to that 2016 text message of Larson’s, when she says she tried to reword the letter but just couldn’t. (“That letter was just too damn good.”)

“The whole reason they want it in the first place is because it’s special,” Dorland told me. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t bother.”

If anything, the letter, for Dorland, has only grown more important over time. While Larson openly wonders why Dorland doesn’t just write about her donation her own way — “I feel instead of running the race herself, she’s standing on the sidelines and trying to disqualify everybody else based on minor technicalities,” Larson told me — Dorland sometimes muses, however improbably, that because vestiges of her letter remain in Larson’s story, Larson might actually take her to court and sue her for copyright infringement if she published any parts of the letter. It’s almost as if Dorland believes that Larson, by getting there first, has grabbed some of the best light, leaving nothing for her.

Last year, as the pandemic set in, Dorland attended three different online events that featured Larson as a panelist. The third one, in August, was a Cambridge Public Library event featuring many of the Chunky Monkeys, gathering online to discuss what makes for a good writing group. “I know virtually all of them,” Dorland said. “It was just like seeing friends.”

Larson, while on camera, learned that Dorland’s name was on the attendees list, and her heart leapt into her throat. Larson’s life had moved on in so many ways. She’d published another story. She and her husband had just had their baby. Now Larson was with her friends, talking about the importance of community. And there was Dorland, the woman who’d branded her a plagiarist, watching her. “It really just freaks me out,” Larson said. “At times I’ve felt kind of stalked.”

Dorland remembers that moment, too, seeing Larson’s face fall, convinced she was the reason. There was, for lack of a better word, a connection. When I asked how she felt in that moment, Dorland was slow to answer. It’s not as if she meant for it to happen, she said. Still, it struck her as telling.

“To me? It seemed like she had dropped the facade for a minute. I’m not saying that — I don’t want her to feel scared, because I’m not threatening. To me, it seemed like she knew she was full of shit, to put it bluntly — like, in terms of our dispute, that she was going to be found out.”

Then Dorland quickly circled back and rejected the premise of the question. There was nothing strange at all, Dorland said, about her watching three different events featuring Larson. She was watching, she said, to conduct due diligence for her ongoing case. And, she added, seeing Larson there seemed to be working for her as a sort of exposure therapy — to defuse the hurt she still feels, by making Larson something more real and less imagined, to diminish the space that she takes up in her mind, in her life.

“I think it saves me from villainizing Sonya,” she wrote me later, after our call. “I proceed in this experience as an artist and not an adversary, learning and absorbing everything, making use of it eventually.”

Robert Kolker is a writer based in Brooklyn, N.Y. In 2020, his book “Hidden Valley Road” became a selection of Oprah’s Book Club and a New York Times best seller. His last article for the magazine was about the legacy of Jan Baalsrud, the Norwegian World War II hero.

Correction: Oct. 6, 2021

An earlier version of this article misstated the GrubStreet writing center's action after Dorland's initial questions about potential plagiarism. It did reply; it's not the case that she received no response. The article also misstated Dorland’s thoughts on what could happen if she loses the court case. Dorland said she fears that Larson would be able to sue her for copyright infringement should she publish her letter to the end recipient of the kidney donation chain. It is not the case that she said she fears that Larson might be able to sue her for copyright infringement should she write anything about organ donation.

[definegodliness]

Petty and stiff-bourgeois

When the internet gets to me with people displaying next-level pettiness and stiff-bourgeois demeanour, I sink back in my chair to remember the pre-internet age. Not because those days were better, hell no, but because it was so much easier to put things into perspective. Nowadays, I’ve noticed that some of the eighteen-forties narratives posted would make me groan like a dog growls when a random person passes the window, soft and prolonged. It got that bad. So I had to find an antidote. And so I think of the times when a brand new national dictionary would come out. Because when a brand new national dictionary came out, you’d shortly after always get a sent in letter in the newspaper.

Now the newspaper and I go way back. I know I was a weird kid for reading them. But I always, and still do, loved the smell of inky paper. Some people like the smell of gasoline, this is my tic. Back in the day I loved its stern black and white aesthetics as well, and I do think newspapers ruined themselves by colour printing, just like churches ruined themselves by adding central heating. Churches should be cold. I’m not even religious, but there can be no discussion. How else will people feel small and humbled? Get your comfort at home, sinner. This place has been surrendered to the elements. The way God intended. Discomfort keeps you on your toes, and so newspapers should be large, printed in black and white, and without those convenient staples in the middle keeping it together, because the truth is large, clumsy, and uncomfortable. 

Truth should stain your fingers.

Those newspapers made me study Journalism, right around the time old media extinguished. During that time, one thing happened that to this day baffles me still. Imagine this: a class of say twenty-five aspiring journalists, asked if they’d rather be sold dry facts or opinions, and all but I preferred to be sold opinions. I argued that one needs the dry facts to shape an opinion, and they all looked at me as if they saw water burning. And I remember the vacant stares when I mentioned I actually liked doing the effort to shape my own opinion. I have rarely felt so alien and misunderstood in my life. What happened to ‘the fly on the wall’? I wondered. The teacher chuckled. 

He was glad ‘we’ still had a purist. 

So that day I decided New-Age Journalism wasn’t for me. And, despite the nostalgia, I gradually stopped reading newspapers, like the rest of the world. Knowing the type of people who’d write what I was consuming of course didn’t help. But in the end I simply stopped reading because the truth had turned convenient, small, biased, and comfortable to whatever your affiliation is. To get a snippet of reality, I had to buy at least four different opinion pushers, which I did, and then puzzle my way toward the golden mean. It became such a chore I found myself solely enjoying the funnies, and, of course, the sent in letters.

When the internet gets to me with people displaying next-level pettiness and stiff-bourgeois demeanour, I think of what once was the rarest and most hilarious breed of human. You see, every time a brand new national dictionary would come out, there’d be sent in letters of people complaining about a myriad of words that our youth and good town folk in all decency should never be allowed to read. Cuss words, of course, but also words as uninspiring and plastic as ‘penis’, ‘vagina’, and ‘bosom’. Not to mention ‘scrotum’, or ‘nipple’. They’d go apeshit over ‘apeshit’, and in displaying their fifty shades of rigid fanaticism they’d become so grim, so helplessly humourless, that of course the contents of their letters became hilarious. 

Boob is not a funny word per se, well, it’s kind of funny, but there is little more absurdistically enjoyable than the word ‘boob’ leaving the pen of a sourpuss in genuine disgust.

There are, and have always been, people so petty and stiff-bourgeois that they’d go through the lengths of buying the latest edition of a dictionary on the first day of publishing to then immediately dedicate hours of their time, locked up in the study to remain undisturbed, executing a self-imposed divine calling. Taking their trusty and angry red pencil to tag, count, and mercilessly comment upon commonly used words. Words sometimes distilled to their driest version, leaving no synonym at all to describe for instance a bodily feature. The entire endeavour demands such tenacity and dedication in maintaining that level of maddened outrage that you cannot convince me there isn’t a moment somewhere halfway the process they’re thinking:

“What am I doing?!”

The must consciously ans repetitively shush that voice of reason. Then, after all that, they manage to go even further. Let’s zoom out for a second to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. Someone who has just finished scouring the dictionary for words deemed immoral, utilising a standard that would put even the most dedicated puritan to shame, now sits behind their desks and takes the time to write an actual handwritten letter utilising their freshly and painstakingly gathered information. Enraged, I reckon, for the red lettered filth by their own hand written. And this is the frame of mind in which they probably read it over a couple of times, checking for spelling mistakes, therefore unable to see the undeniable irony of writing all these words they condemn so deeply, for people all over the country to read. This should be another chance to favour a moment of reflection. However, they are already in too deep, and now can only live with themselves thinking the end justifies the means.

Then there’s the moment when they walk downstairs proudly waving that letter, already in its envelope.

“Debra, I’m gonna tell ‘em!”

And Debra also doesn’t offer a voice of reason. Debra doesn’t even look up from her crossword puzzle and says:

“That’s nice, honey.”

And so they walk on. Toward the mailbox. With a letter of Don Quixote-like insanity that bears their full name and address as a sign of sacred dedication. And even then I reckon they still could be sobered up by the fresh air, experiencing a moment of clarity, actually seeing the ridiculousness of the entire situation. Another chance at self-reflection. And then still, lastly, there is still one moment of possible hesitation and contemplation left, the moment where they slide that letter into the mailbox’s slit and fate is finally out of their hands.

These people exist.

There are around eight decision making moments in this what is the shortest summary of necessary circumstances wherein the windmill chasing self-proclaimed virtuous crusader decides against better judgement. Eight decision making moments in an entire day of living dedicated to removing the word ‘nipple’ from the national dictionary’s latest edition. That was then. And this was when solely the utmost madly bigoted, self-righteous, and oblivious otherworldly specimen of human could seep through the filters of media consumption. Offered a platform for nothing other than editorial shits and giggles. 

Now these people have internet:

Write, post.

Two decision making moments. And when the internet gets to me with narratives belonging to the eighteen-forties, I think of all the like-minded martyrs who in the time of ancient media went through all those steps aforementioned, only to bail out at the very last second of actually dropping off that dumb-ass letter in the mailbox. I think of the time when seven chances at contemplation was enough to save us from a mind-numbing display of mental deterioration. I imagine how vast this stiff-bourgeois crowd gets with every fewer necessary step. When the threshold has been lowered to merely two moments of chanced contemplation and reasoning.

When I sink back in my chair and groan like a dog growls when a random person passes the window, I make myself remember that who we are dealing with are non-threatening, hilarious crazies. Red pencil wielding dictionary condemners who have been shaken free from the threshold of effort. And I think we all tend to forget that. We forget to laugh at them. Laugh at them with all our hearts, shaking our heads simultaneously. We forget we are witnessing rarities. And must not allow ourselves to be cursed into taking the windmill chasers riding under the flag of anonymity seriously. When we forget to laugh at human absurdity, we become part of the joke ourselves. So let’s go out and wield some ‘lol’s and ‘tears of joy’-emojis.

[addercharmer]

The next two months were nonstop activity. Somehow Nezu had adopted her, which led to shopping and more questions. 

When he found out that she liked analysis, his smile gained a sharp edge, he looked predatory. 

Nezu also dumped a large stack of tests on her lap one afternoon, he had told her she had four hours to complete as much as she could. Going through it she realized that it was standardized tests that were given to all students across Japan. 

She felt as if something was missing from them though, it had only taken her three hours to complete the stack. 

Nezu looked ecstatic when she had handed it back to him, and Izumi felt a shiver of anticipation run down her spine, right along with a mild dose of worry.

The next night he claimed a seat next to her, pulling her attention off of the murder mystery she had been reading. 

"Izumi." His tone of voice sent alarms ringing in her head. "You dear child, are a genius. The test from the other day covered general education all the way through university." 

Izumi felt her jaw drop a little, she knew deep down she was smart, but a life time of being called stupid had left its mark on her. 

"I have sent it to the necessary people, it will be put on your record that you have graduated from general studies at university levels, with honors. It will make it easier for you to learn anything you wish." Izumi just nodded, she felt a little faint. 

"I would however like for you to get a teaching license, as well as a quirk counseling license." Izumi chokes on her spit. 

"And along with that I will be teaching you many other things. Hacking, programming, reading body language, media influence, how to work loopholes. Things that my daughter needs to know." Nezu looks like he has found the answer to all life's questions, and it wasn't forty-two.

Between her accelerated university classes and Nezu's own lessons on reading the body and media influence Izumi found she didn't have a lot of spare time, but when she did it was further used by things such as reading for enjoyment, analysis, and on three occasions doctors visits. 

The first visit was standard, it was a health check up, they ran through every test that could be imagined, they gave her a referral to see a plastic surgeon to help minimize or remove her scars, Izumi wasn't sure if she would take the opportunity or not. 

The second doctor's appointment was to a quirk specialist, Izumi had figured it was just to have a record of her being quirkless. However it turns out that she had a quirk, it seemed like it was a mutation of what had been in her D.N.A before the rewind. 

The quirk specialist had a very interesting quirk of their own, it was much like Nighteye's in seeing a future, but it only saw the quirk at its full potential. 

Izumi had theorized after that appointment that One-for-All connected to the user's quirk, and in the way it stockpiles power it kept the positive of the quirk and none of the drawback. 

Izumi had been told by the specialist that she would have toxic green energy whips, mild physical boosts, and electrokinesis. She had been in shock at being told that the energy whips would most likely come with the mastery of the electrokinesis, and the electrokinesis is what made her brain function at higher speeds. 

The third doctor's appointment wasn't really a doctor's appointment, they had gone to the plastic surgeon, and Izumi had declined the procedure to remove the scars from her body. That appointment had led to her being taken to a salon where she had quirks used on her to lengthen and add highlights to her hair.

With the all clear from the first doctor, Nezu signed her up for classes in dance, parkour, gun safety and handling, combat, and gymnastics, there was also time scheduled at quirk gyms to give her a chance to figure out her new quirk. 

Two months turned into six and Izumi had just finished her degree in quirk counseling, Nezu had been over the moon, he had bought her a brand new laptop that had been cleared of everything but the basic programming. 

With one of her online classes finished, Nezu started teaching her programming and hacking. Izumi was surprised by how much she enjoyed these lessons with her new guardian. 

Her new computer was programmed to her wants and needs, the two had made sure it was almost as protected as U.A in the future was rumored to be, Nezu could still get past her fire walls. 

It was a year into her new life with the stoat that he brought up attending the hero school, in a way it was redundant. She had already graduated highschool, but she also knew that if she wanted to be a hero that she needed to attend a school. 

The only thing really of note to Izumi was that Nezu had her write any and all facts that would happen in the next seventeen years, no matter how small. She had filled close to eight notebooks of everything that could remember. 

One of the things that had passed in the year was Hawks being taken by the commission, Nezu was working hard to free the boy from their clutches when Izumi had told him of the dead eyes and fake smiles. 

Izumi begged the universe each night that Nezu would be able to save the blond boy with crimson wings. She was sure that once he had that Hawks would become her sibling by law, even if the adoption wasn't fully legal. 

When it was finally time for Izumi to take the entrance exams she had gotten her teaching license in general education and had started to take classes so she could specialize in math and languages. 

When her lessons with Nezu started to become more sporadic and less about new things she had filled the time with learning other languages. She was now fluent in English, French, JSL, ASL, and struggling with Spanish. 

 The thing Izumi had been happiest about was finally having her fifteen year old body back, it wasn't much, but she had filled out and looked the part of a young woman again. On the other side of the coin she had been an absolute mess being forced through puberty again, Nezu had learned quickly to keep chocolate as a staple in their kitchen. 

Outtake: 

"DA-ZU!" Izumi screamed from the kitchen. 

"Yes?" The stoat that she was starting to see as her father asked from behind her. 

Spinning around, Izumi asked. "Where's the chocolate?"

"You finished the last of it yesterday." Nezu told her, his voice was flat, and Izumi could hear that he was judging her for not remembering. 

No warning was given. 

Izumi broke. 

The tears that were rushing down her cheeks fell fast. There was no sobbing, no wailing, just a waterfall tears as Izumi collapsed on the floor in a heap of depression. 

"Izumi?" Nezu asked, he sounded very lost on what to do, it only made Izumi's tears fall faster. 

"I...I…" She hiccuped, before finally forcing a demand past her lips. "Get me chocolate." 

Nezu shuddered at the demonic tone, turning sharply as he left to get his kid chocolate.

[newstfionline]

Friday, August 6, 2021

US plans to require COVID-19 shots for foreign travelers (AP) The Biden administration is taking the first steps toward requiring nearly all foreign visitors to the U.S. to be vaccinated for the coronavirus, a White House official said. The requirement would come as part of the administration’s phased approach to easing travel restrictions for foreign citizens to the country. No timeline has yet been determined, as interagency working groups study how and when to safely move toward resuming normal travel. Eventually all foreign citizens entering the country, with some limited exceptions, are expected to need to be vaccinated against COVID-19 to enter the U.S.

Big tech companies are at war with employees over remote work (Ars Technica) All across the United States, the leaders at large tech companies like Apple, Google, and Facebook are engaged in a delicate dance with thousands of employees who have recently become convinced that physically commuting to an office every day is an empty and unacceptable demand from their employers. The COVID-19 pandemic forced these companies to operate with mostly remote workforces for months straight. And since many of them are based in areas with relatively high vaccination rates, the calls to return to the physical office began to sound over the summer. But thousands of high-paid workers at these companies aren’t having it. Many of them don’t want to go back to the office full time, even if they’re willing to do so a few days a week. Workers are even pointing to how effective they were when fully remote and using that to question why they have to keep living in the expensive cities where these offices are located. Some tech leaders (like Twitter’s Jack Dorsey) agreed, or at least they saw the writing on the wall. They enacted permanent or semipermanent changes to their companies’ policies to make partial or even full-time remote work the norm. Others (like Apple’s Tim Cook) are working hard to find a way to get everyone back in their assigned seats as soon as is practical, despite organized resistance. In either case, the work cultures at tech companies that make everything from the iPhone to Google search are facing a major wave of transformation.

At least 10 dead as van carrying migrants crashes in Texas (AP) An overloaded van carrying 29 migrants crashed Wednesday on a remote South Texas highway, killing at least 10 people, including the driver, and injuring 20 others, authorities said. The crash happened shortly after 4 p.m. Wednesday on U.S. 281 in Encino, Texas, about 50 miles (80 kilometers) north of McAllen. A surge in migrants crossing the border illegally has brought about an uptick in the number of crashes involving vehicles jammed with migrants who pay large amounts to be smuggled into the country. The Dallas Morning News has reported that the recruitment of young drivers for the smuggling runs, combined with excessive speed and reckless driving by those youths, have led to horrific crashes.

Turkish wildfires are worst ever, Erdogan says, as power plant breached (Reuters) Turkey is battling the worst wildfires in its history, President Tayyip Erdogan said on Wednesday, as fires spread to a power station in the country’s southwest after reducing swathes of coastal forest to ashes. Fanned by high temperatures and a strong, dry wind, the fires have forced thousands of Turks and foreign tourists to flee homes and hotels near the Aegean and Mediterranean coasts. Eight people have died in the blazes since last week. Planes and dozens of helicopters have joined scores of emergency crews on the ground to battle the fires, but Erdogan’s government has faced criticism over the scale and speed of the response. In the last two weeks, fires in Turkey have burnt more than three times the area affected in an average year, a European fire agency said. Neighbouring countries have also battled blazes fanned by heatwaves and strong winds.

Sri Lanka’s financial problems (Foreign Policy) Sri Lanka is threatening to become South Asia’s economic weak link. It’s mired in a severe debt crisis, and its budget deficit exceeded 11 percent of GDP during the last fiscal year, which ended in March. The country’s foreign reserves can only pay for three months of imports, prompting Colombo to cut back on many foreign imports, including turmeric, a staple product. Fitch Ratings has warned default is a real possibility. Sri Lanka’s woes stem in great part from a floundering tourism sector. Tourism typically accounts for at least 5 percent of GDP, and some estimates even put the figure at 12.5 percent. The sector’s troubles began before the coronavirus pandemic, when suicide bombers killed at least 290 people in churches and hotels in April 2019, keeping visitors away. But the pandemic still dealt a giant blow. A 2021 assessment found tourist arrivals between January and April fell nearly 100 percent from the same period in 2020.

Australia to spend $813M to address Indigenous disadvantage (AP) Australia’s government on Thursday pledged 1.1 billion Australian dollars ($813 million) to address Indigenous disadvantage, including compensation to thousands of mixed-race children who were taken from their families over decades. The AU$378.6 million ($279.7 million) to be used to compensate the so-called Stolen Generations by 2026 is the most expensive component of the package aimed at boosting Indigenous living standards in Australia. Prime Minister Scott Morrison said the compensation was a recognition of the harm caused by forced removal of children from families.

Israel launches airstrikes on Lebanon in response to rockets (AP) Israel on Thursday escalated its response to rocket attacks this week by launching rare airstrikes on Lebanon, the army said. The army said in a statement that jets struck the launch sites from which rockets had been fired over the previous day, as well as an additional target used to attack Israel in the past. The IDF blamed the state of Lebanon for the shelling and warned “against further attempts to harm Israeli civilians and Israel’s sovereignty.” The overnight airstrikes were a marked escalation at a politically sensitive time. Israel’s new eight-party governing coalition is trying to keep peace under a fragile cease fire that ended an 11-day war with Hamas’ militant rulers in Gaza in May.

‘Winning a medal doesn’t make him Jewish’ (Washington Post) When gymnast Artem Dolgopyat stepped off the podium as only the second Israeli to win an Olympic gold medal, he triggered one of Israel’s many cultural tripwires: It quickly emerged that the country’s newest sports hero is banned from marrying his fiancee here because he is not considered Jewish enough by the rabbis who control Israel’s marriage law. Immediately after Dolgopyat took top honors in the men’s floor exercise, his mother took the chance to complain that Israeli religious law is keeping her engaged 24-year-old son from tying the knot because only his father’s side of the family is Jewish. Marriage law is tightly controlled by Israel’s Chief Rabbinate. And for generations, couples who are of mixed religions—or who are atheists, gay or inadequately Jewish—have been forced to marry outside the country. Dolgopyat’s training schedule has made that impossible, said his mother, Angela Bilan. “I want grandchildren,” Bilan said Sunday in an interview with Israeli radio.

Talking to strangers (Atlantic) A hefty body of research has found that an overwhelmingly strong predictor of happiness and well-being is the quality of a person’s social relationships. But most of those studies have looked at only close ties: family, friends, co-workers. In the past decade and a half, professors have begun to wonder if interacting with strangers could be good for us too: not as a replacement for close relationships, but as a complement to them. The results of that research have been striking. Again and again, studies have shown that talking with strangers can make us happier, more connected to our communities, mentally sharper, healthier, less lonely, and more trustful and optimistic.

But tanks make such handy snowplows... (BBC) A German retiree was fined nearly $300,000 by local authorities on Tuesday following the discovery of a World War-II era tank in his basement along with other items of the period, including a flak cannon and multiple machine guns. The Panther tank was removed from the man’s property in 2015, a job that took 20 soldiers almost nine hours to complete. The unnamed 84-year-old might have been able to hold on to his tank and the rest of his collection—which must now be donated to a museum within two years, according to Tuesday’s ruling—had he kept it a better secret. “He was chugging around in that thing during the snow catastrophe in 1978,” Heikendorf Mayor Alexander Orth told reporters.

[karthe-surick]

Karthe’s Layers. Like an onion. Stinky.

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE

Name: Karthe Surick

Eye Color: Blue

Hair Style/Color: Unnaturally white that is casually groomed but tastefully unkempt

Height: 5′11″

Clothing Style: Often described as “homeless chic”, Karthe typically wears blues and purples with a hood that serves as a staple for most of his outfits. 

Best Physical Feature: He’s not physically remarkable, though his white hair attracts attention.

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

Your Fears: "The constant, widespread abuse of magic for meaningless gain.”

Your Guilty Pleasure: “Laughing at people when they try to be emotionally vulnerable.”

Your Biggest Pet Peeve: “People who think themselves simply above magical law and consequences. You’re not powerful or original.”

Your Ambition for the Future: “I just want to continue studying the arcane in peace.”

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

Your First Thoughts Waking Up: “Aaalrighty.”

What You Think About the Most: “How much I despise.”

What You Think About Before Bed: “A nice few hours to myself.”

You Think Your Best Quality Is: “I suppose most people think I’m reliable. They still come to me for magical help even if they hate me.”

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

Single or Group Dates: “Single. I don’t want to suffer some other couple.”

To be Loved or Respected: “I suppose loved, simply because I’ve figured out how to get what I need without being respected.”

Beauty or Brains: “Is anyone shallow enough to actually admit beauty?”

Dogs or Cats: “Dogs.”

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

Lie:  “Whoever says they don’t lie is a liar.”

Believe in Yourself: “I’m confident in my abilities.”

Believe in Love: “What kinda socially inept sadsack walks around saying love is a hoax?”

Want Someone: “Who doesn’t?”

LAYER SIX: EVER?

Been on Stage: “No. I’d rather die.”

Done Drugs: “No.”

Changed Who You Were to Fit In: “Literally everyone does this, everyone wants someone’s approval.”

LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

Favorite Color: “Blue.”

Favorite Animal: “I find rams to have a pleasing aesthetic from their horns.”

Favorite Movie: “What’s a ‘moo-vee’?”

Favorite Game:  “I haven’t gotten to practice much, but I like chess. I dream of achieving a Fool’s Mate one day.”

LAYER EIGHT: AGE

Day Your Next Birthday Will Be: “December 24th.”

How Old Will You Be: “29.”

Age You Lost Your Virginity: “Creepy. Weird. Don’t ask that. Stop.”

Does Age Matter: “Yes. Anyone who says otherwise needs to be arrested.”

LAYER NINE: IN A BOY OR GIRL

Best Personality: “Sensible, practical, assertive.”

Best Eye Color: “I dunno. Depends on if light or dark eyes compliment your face.”

Best Hair Color: "Style matters more than the color.”

Best thing to do with a Partner: "I appreciate the ability to have a comfortable silence. Removes all the pressure.”

LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE

I love: “The arcane.”

I feel: “Indignant, enraged, spiteful.”

I hide: “All my really valuable and important magic shit.”

I miss: “My patience.”

I wish: “The general public was capable of nuance and would shut the fuck up about ‘peace with the Horde’. It ain’t happening. An armistice is not the same thing.”

Tagged by: @foxglovethings​

Tagging: I swear I’ve seen everyone be tagged so if you haven’t done it, DO  IT.

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Convince Me To Go {12}

AU Chris Evans x Reader

Warning: Cursing, Angst, Plot

Words: 4.5k

Summary: When we run away, we’re usually running from something. This time you may have run toward it instead.

Note: Welp. 🤷🏾‍♀️  I hope you enjoy this.

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Your studies in school you studied many different theories and laws. Some of your favorite were The Butterfly Effect, Chaos theory, and Murphy’s law.

 Murphy’s Law says that “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.” Case in point, your wedding day. You hadn’t slept a wink, you tossed and turned and even rolled off the bed at one point which resulted in you banging your head on your nightstand table. Your mother had a fit which prompted her to make you have almost every facial treatment at the spa that morning. Her hope was that they would be able to exfoliate and microdermabrasion it all away.

 Now at ten in the morning sitting for makeup that bruise was being persistent. No makeup in the world covered it well enough for your mother. So, when the makeup artiste finished while it wasn’t a huge focal you and your mother could still see it. That resulted in almost a thirty-minute tirade from your mother about the importance of your beauty and how things would be jinxed and ruined if you didn’t look like a pristine virgin bride. You tried to tell her that virgin bride hope was long gone, but she didn’t seem to hear.

 Next, your hair didn’t want to cooperate for the planned style. Your edges just wouldn’t lay right and after an hour and a half at almost eleven forty-five you stared in the mirror at your coifed hair with dull amusement. You know who wasn’t amused? Your mother. She went on another tirade, this one you didn’t listen to. You simply sat in the “bride” chair and sipped your seventh glass of champagne. You didn’t care that it wasn’t even noon yet.

Next, the lingerie that was picked out for you to wear underneath the dress was delivered and it was all wrong. What was to be nude colored lace that matched your skin complexion was blush. It was pretty but absolutely wrong, compared to your mother. So, you stood around in the blush-colored lingerie, strapless bra, tanga panty, suspender belt, and your garter sipping what else—more champagne. By twelve-twenty there was nothing else to do but continue forward.

 The entire time you managed to keep yourself composed and tightly wound. You didn’t mutter a peep or remove the plastic smile that was stapled to your face from the moment you sat up. this marathon was far from over.

 Thankfully, your dress was right and as your eight bridesmaids assisted you in getting into the frilly contraption you continued to smile. When you stood in front of the mirror at twelve-forty you almost passed out but not from the pulling and tugging of the laces of your garter back gown or the suffocating way your breasts were hoisted up like you were some eighteenth-century French prostitute, but from the sight of you in the dress. You hadn’t worn it for almost a month and a month ago you felt differently.

 You tried to tell your mother that white was unnecessary, but she wouldn’t hear it. you also told her that the ballgown was too much, but she insisted. It was a beautiful gown, one that cost more than most people made in a year and took nine months to make special for you, but it was not you. you could barely recognize yourself. Everyone around you praised you and said you looked gorgeous and Brod would cry when he saw you, but you tuned them out. From the mirror you caught Bree’s expression, she wasn’t smiling nor was she frowning, she had a complacent look as if she were waiting for something. Probably your impending breakdown, you thought.

 You were supposed to be at the venue by one forty-five so the ceremony could promptly begin at two. Traffic had other ideas; you were sitting in the elaborate white nineteen thirty-six Rolls Royce limo with your mother as your company.  It was bumper to bumper and that was not acceptable to your mother. She proceeded to go on yet another tirade and pestered the driver to hurry up. It was amusing. She didn’t even say anything to you when you popped open the bottle of champagne there. As traffic snailed along you shook your head at yet another thing that had gone wrong.

 When the Rolls Royce finally arrived it was almost two. Your entire party had to hurry into the elevators and to the “bride’s chambers” to make final preparations for the ceremony. As everyone bustled around you rushing to make sure everything was as it was to be you sat in your seat and just twirled your new and improved engagement ring. It was never something you’d done. You didn’t have nervous ticks like shaking legs or chewing your bottom lip or fidgeting before. You’d been groomed to always be poised, controlled. Now you had all three.

 “Ten minutes everyone. Let’s get our places,” your mother cheerily announced. A knock at the door brought everyone’s attention. In walked your father dressed like the perfect gentleman. His smile was warm as he made a beeline to wrap you in a hug.

 “I’ve been so worried.”

 “I’m sorry, daddy.” He looked at you for three seconds and turned to everyone.

 “Everyone I’d like a moment with my daughter.” Everyone made a move for the door leaving the two of you.

 “You’re beautiful, princess.” You smiled.

 “No father can ever imagine that there is a man good enough for his baby girl, his only daughter. With Princeton we have it easy, he’s a boy—a man now. You are my princess, my fragile, precious little jewel.” He brushed the back of his hand across your cheek. You smiled.

 “You’re different. I can see it. you may be able to hide it from everyone else, but not me. I have always seen you.”

 You averted your eyes and sighed.

 “I always thought you’d put an end to this thing. I thought you’d come to me and tell me flat out that this was not what you wanted. I thought you’d find the strength, the courage to forge your own path but here we are.”

 You studied him and saw that he knew.

 “I love your mother more than anything. She’s given me two incredible gifts, you and your brother. I can never thank her enough. She has though turned into someone else over the years. Someone who is completely different than the woman I met. I didn’t love her when I met her or married her. It wasn’t until just before she told me she was pregnant with Princeton that I realized I’d fallen in love with her. It is an unconventional path to take toward love, but we ended up there. Not everyone’s path is the same princess. Grow into love, or Fall into love and grow together. It is all up to you.”

 “Daddy, what are you saying?”

 “Don’t live your life for your mother, or for me. It is your life. Do what makes your eyes sparkle when you smile, do what makes you feel.”

 He placed a soft kiss on your forehead and walked through the door he came. You turned to the mirror and stared at yourself. The breakdown that was steadily approached was so close. You locked the door and pressed your back to it and closed your eyes trying to stave away your panic attack. You ignored the knocks and the rattles of the doorknob. Only when you felt composed enough did you turn it. The first one in was Bree.

 “Ready to go?”

 You heard the double meaning in her words and nodded your head. You flipped the veil and took your bouquet from her and walked through the door toward where your father stood. When he saw you, a somber smirk spread across his face. You couldn’t tell if it was disappointment on his face or sadness. You bit your bottom lip and breathed out as you stood beside him.

 “Ready for the first day of the rest of your life?” It sounded like a threat instead of a well-meant question. Glancing at him his smirk was present but he was looking ahead.

 “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He nodded and touched your hand and nodded. Giving Bree one more glance you nodded. 

The doors opened and your procession line walked down the aisle to the chosen music, a classical piece chosen by your mother. You snorted and laughed. When you tried to stop you continued and everyone looked at you as if you were crazy.

 “Are you okay, princess?” you nodded but continued to laugh.

 “I’m sorry. Oh my god.” Through the words, your laughter continued. Every time the doors opened to allow another of the bridesmaid-groomsmen pair to enter the guests heard your boisterous laugh.

 “Oh my god. Do you—do you realize mom picked every single thing? Everything. The flowers, mom. The color of the bridesmaids' dresses, mom. The groomsmen tuxes, mom. The shoes, mom. The venue here, mom. The priest, mom. The tux you’re wearing, mom. My dress, mom. My underwear, mom, my hair, my makeup, my life. Mom has picked it all. This is her wedding, this is not my wedding,” you frantically blurted out.

 “Nothing involved here I picked. Brodrick, mom picked him. she thought our families would mesh well, she thought our families would be able to dominate together.”

 There were two couples before you now, and Bree was staring at you.

 “I don’t like anything here.”

 “So what are you gonna do about it?” You looked at your father’s stern face. He was daring you to grow some balls, daring you to make a decision you wanted. Daring you to live your life.

 The doors opened and Bree waited for your signal. You knew she was prepared to get you out of there. You took a deep breath, held it and slowly let it out. The song continued to play, and you knew everyone was growing restless. You could imagine your mother standing there getting nervous.

 You looked to Bree and nodded but she didn’t move. She looked to be begging you not to do this. Trying to convince you to go. You nodded again more sternly and she sighed and turned forward and the doors opened allowing her to walk down the aisle.  When the doors opened again you were calm. Everyone in the room gasped and awed when you began the walk of your life. You found Broderick at the end of the aisle standing beside his best man Gavin and a smile spread across his face, but there were no tears. You looked to your mother who also had a pleased smile on her face as many whispered to her no doubt telling her how gorgeous you were.

 Maybe you could grow to love Broderick, he wasn’t an asshole or a bad guy, he’d always been kind and generous. Maybe you could do just what your parents did. Maybe love was a daydream, maybe it was something impractical and frivolous. Maybe those two days in Boston were just you feeling the stress of today and cold feet. Maybe you really could have a happy life and future with Broderick. Anything was possible, right?

 You glanced into the rows of faces; most you didn’t know well. they were there to witness the opulence, the sheer awe of a socialite wedding. You looked up and saw an insane number of flowers just handing from the ceiling and shook your head. This was all too much. None of it felt like you. Now the veil over your face felt claustrophobic, your breasts sitting pretty under your chin felt suffocating, the scent of all the flowers turned from pleasant to putrid, the six-inch heels you wore felt like pins and needles rather than three thousand dollars of comfort. Everything was getting to you, the lights, the falling rose petals from above the flashes of the camera before you cementing every move you made toward your future. A future of doom, you thought. Your steps stopped with the thought. Your mother’s smile stayed where it was, but her eyes were a different story.

 Your father leaned to your ear and asked if you were okay. You didn’t respond. You were too busy trying to shake off the feeling of dread you were wrestling with. Slowly you began again and looked from left to right smiling at your guests. They didn’t know you at all, more than half of these people couldn’t say they knew the first thing about you, not even Broderick. That thought made you stop again. You looked down to your ring finger at your engagement ring, your upgrade. You snorted. An infidelity clause and an upgraded ring from six carats to eight, that was what he thought you would need.

 You continued your walk and quickly looked to your right and saw him.  you looked away before it registered and smiled to your left before your head snapped back to search for him. frantically your eyes went looking but you didn’t see him and thought you imagined him. before you knew it you were at the front where Broderick was waiting. He smiled at you. it was then he lifted the veil off your head and nodded.

 “You’re gorgeous.” The two of you approached the priest and you looked out over the hundreds of people in search of one. You hoped you didn’t imagine him, hoped he was real. You wanted him to be real. After looking through nearly all of them your attention was brought back to the ceremony.

 “If anyone can show just cause why this couple cannot lawfully be joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

 Silence in the room stretched and you looked again and sure as the roses were still falling there he was. He was standing toward the back with wide eyes and a pale face. you almost passed out. He was there. He was at your wedding. He was watching you right now. A ton of thoughts rushed through your head and so many words came to mind.

 “Let’s continue then. Dearly beloved--.” The words of the priest brought you back as Broderick’s hands squeezed yours. You couldn’t breathe. When you looked still there. Your heart sank and you began slowly hyperventilating. You felt everything you felt over those two days come crashing down. Flaring your nose your tears sprang to your eyes.

 “Do you Broderick Pierce Havenmayer take F-N/ M-N/L-N” to be your lawfully wedded wife?

to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death you are parted by death?”

 “I do.”

 You looked to him again and didn’t hear the priest ask you the same question. You got lost in his eyes again. You then looked over to your parents. Your mother had a stern look that was a threat you knew it, but your father looked mellow, neutral. You looked back to him and you saw the break in his calm disposition. His jaw clenched and his nose flared, and you recognized the slight look of pain.

 “Y/N?”

 Looking back to Broderick and then the priest you nodded. “I—I—I—do.”

 The priest continued to speak and when you looked up it was in time to see the door close. He was gone. Panic went through you, panic you’d never felt before, panic you didn’t know how to deal with. Panic that had you grip your stomach and groan loudly.

 “Are you all right?” those in your bridal party sprang forward ready to assist, your parents were also there as well as Broderick. You fanned them all off and hyperventilated loudly.

 “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.” Your bridesmaids fanned you as the murmuring throughout the room increased. You felt hot and agitated. You ripped the veil off your head and sent a few tendrils of your curled updo in disarray. You then fanned and batted each of them away. “Get away, get away. I can’t—I can’t—I can’t do this!”

 Everyone gasped and gaped at you.

 “I can’t do this, I can’t do this. I can’t continue living this complete lie. I can’t keep pretending to be this perfect daughter, a perfect debutant. I don’t care about any of this, this is ridiculous. I look ridiculous. I hate everything about this day, everything. I only like my underwear and that was a mix-up. you snorted and took the first deep breath that felt good enough in a long time. You then looked at Broderick who looked sad.

 “I can’t marry you, Broderick. You don’t love me, not really. You don’t even know me and that’s not your fault until the day before yesterday I didn’t know me either. I can’t stand up here and vow all of these things especially if I don’t love you. I don’t want to grow to love, I want to fall in love and grow together. I want to go to candy stores and eat candy, I want to go to diners at two in the morning and pig out on everything, I want to walk through libraries and do nothing, I want to sit at your besides worried you’ll die because I care, I want to trace your freckles that are on your back with my fingertips in the dead of night when you’re asleep but I’m wide awake. I want to build something for myself, not from my parents, I want to stay up all night doing impractical things, spontaneous things. I want to drink gin and coconut rum together because the combination is actually pretty great. I want prince charming. I don’t want any of this. I’m sorry Brod.” Everyone was silent.

 Your eyes finally landed on your parents. Your father was smiling but your mother looked furious.

 “I’m sorry mom. This is your life; this is your everything. It’s not mine. I want more than just we fit together, or we look good together or we can have a life that most dream of because of money. I want everything else. I want we belong together; we go together, we are going to have a life that most dream of because of love. I want love.”

 She didn’t speak and for the first time, you were so glad about it, because you didn’t care. Your father stepped forward and hugged you. “Go find love.

 You smiled and then took off the ring you wore and handed it to Broderick. He sighed and nodded. You hurried down the aisle you just walked up and out the doors. Frantically you looked around hoping to see him. Every wait staff you passed you asked if they’d seen him, but none had. That continued with you looking throughout the rooms for him. 

After thirty minutes you had no idea what to do. You didn’t even know his name. slowly you became discouraged and walked outside. The snow was coming down and you stood there taking in the fresh air, taking in your freedom. For the first time in your life, you were completely free. You could do whatever you wanted, and you were absolutely terrified.

 Those who passed by stared at you as if it was a strange sight to see a woman in a grand wedding dressed just standing outside in the dead of winter. You probably looked like you belonged anywhere else. A little girl approached you and smiled.

 “You look like the fancy woman in a snow globe.” You smiled and bent down to her and took out one of the flowers in your hair and handed it to her.

 “Thank you.” She giggled and ran off. You smiled and watched her and took another deep breath. Across the street, you saw a bar and decided why the hell not you had nothing else to do.

 You gathered what you could of your dress and walked down the steps to cross the street. you drew the attention of everyone walking down the sidewalks and driving. When you walked into the bar you had to pull your train in after you. When you finished everyone was watching.

 “Hey, where’s the groom beautiful?” You scoffed and approached the bar and gathered your dress around you as you sat. Thanks to all the pouf and frill it was a comfortable sit but now you were surrounded by while tulle and frill.

 “At the altar, where I left him.”

 “Oh, tough for him.”

 “He has a lot of money to keep him warm.”

 “What can I get ya’? it’s on the house in honor of this.” He pointed up and down on you.

 “Thanks. Gin and coconut rum.”

 “Together?” You nodded, he looked at you as if you were crazy.

 “Keep em’ coming.”

 He walked off to prepare your dink. Behind the bar, you saw the mirror and it was the first look of yourself you got. Your hair was a mess, curly tendrils fell down all around your face, the put-together look you had hours ago was gone. You looked crazy. you snorted and laughed at yourself. The bartender put a drink in front of you and you wasted no time downing it in one breath. The burn woke you up and made you breathe out and shake your head.

 In the mirror, you saw his reflection. He was sitting in the back, in the dark staring at you. Your heart sped and you looked at yourself again. The glint of the gold wrapper of butterscotch in a dish on the bar made you smile. Sliding off the stool you walked over to him with the drink in your hand. The train and bustle of your dress bounced seats and other patrons. When you stood in front of him he took you in from toe to face but he didn’t speak.

 “What’s a nice man like yourself doing in a place like this at three in the afternoon?”

 “Looking for a runaway,” he responded.

 “Runaway? What did she run away from?”

 “Well first she ran from her perfect put-together life that had no love, then she ran from the possibility of one that wasn’t so perfect or put together but would have been all the love she needed. Now it seems she ran from this perfect loveless life again.”

  “Maybe she realized that in order for her life to be perfect and put together all she needed was love.”

 He nodded. “Spoken like the writer of a Hallmark card.” You smiled.

 “I still don’t have millions of dollars. I don’t come with some earth-shattering wealth and companies that are worth billions. I don’t have private jets, or fancy outfits and cars to offer you. I don’t have a penthouse in the sky with doormen and drivers. I probably can’t afford a Harry Winston diamond. I won’t be able to take you out on my yacht, or keep you decked in Chanel, Fendi, Prada, and Loubitons every single day of every year. I’m not Broderick.”

 “Thank god for that.” You bit your bottom lip put the drink on the table and held out your closed hand to him then opened it showing him the butterscotch in your palm.

 “Can you promise to love me for the rest of my life? Can you promise to listen to me, respect me, honor me, be faithful to me one hundred percent? Can you promise that you’ll always be a man of integrity and goodwill and will work every day doing honest work to keep us comfortable? Can you promise that though I have an overabundance of wealth you can easily exceed it in love, devotion, and passion?” A small smile spread on his face. he reached for the butterscotch and you closed your palm.

 “It’s only yours if you can promise those things.” He stood coming face to face with you.

 “I promise fancy face,” he answered. You smiled and held out the butterscotch. He took it then popped it into his mouth. He then pulled you flush against him and wrapped his arms around you in a tight embrace. You relished his scent and the feel of him in your arms again. It was a feeling you thought you’d never have again.

 “Are you sure about this? You sure you won’t regret this and wish you could be who you are?”

 You touched his cheek. “I wasn’t me until I met the nicest asshole in the world who saved my life twice and showed me who I was.” His smile was wide as he shook his head.

 “Asshole huh.” You nodded.

 “But I love the asshole. He’s the only man I could ever love. I love you prince charming. you never had to prove to me or anyone else you were good enough. I needed to be good enough for you. I left Broderick because he wasn’t you.”

 He looked choked up and you saw the emotion in his eyes.

 “I love you, fancy face.” You smiled and crashed your lips to his and kissed him with every ounce of love and passion you had for him.

 “Careful buddy, she left the last guy at the alter!”

 Everyone around you laughed, you pulled away and laughed as well.

 “You did.”

 “I did. You missed the best speech I’ve ever given in my life. In front of everyone, I blew up my life.” He smiled and took out his phone to show you a video of you doing that very thing. Your jaw dropped. You’d made it to the gossip blogs already.

 “I caught it. I was pretty good.” You smiled again and kissed him some more. You’d never get tired of kissing him. He lifted you into the air against him and the joy you felt couldn’t be measured or duplicated. 

 “Ready to go back to Boston?”

 “Convince me to go.”

 He smiled again then whispered the kinkiest things you’d ever heard in your life. You looked at him with wide eyes and his laugh was loud, the laugh you loved.

 “Don’t you think it’s time I knew your name?” He smiled again and stepped back from you then held his hand out.

 “Chris Evans.” You smiled, he kind of looked like a Chris.

 “Y-F-N/Y-L-N.” He nodded then shook your hand.

 “Nice to meet you,” the two of you said in unison with smiles as wide as Manhattan. Chris took up the drink and gulped half then held it out to you. you finished the glass and nodded.

 “Good together huh.”

 “Belongs together,” he finished.

 You smiled and kissed him again. Then the two of you walked out the bar into the snow, you in your fancy two hundred-thousand-dollar wedding dress and six in heels and him with a smile plastered to his face. He took his jacket off and put it around you then held his hand out for you. You took it and both of you walked down the sidewalk ready for whatever came next.

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[jamielea81]

Back to School

Chapter 1

Pairing: Professor Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Some cursing

Description: After taking years off of school, you finally decide to go back and finish up that degree.

Word Count: Approximately 1,800

A/N: Welcome to my new series Back to School! This is a professor AU with a twist. This series will be on the shorter side (no more than 10 chapters) and will be updated weekly. I’ve tagged those that have asked to be tagged before, if you would like to be removed just let me know. 

*Italics are internal thoughts.

Sticking out like a sore thumb wasn’t your idea of a good first day back to school. It was like high school all over again, but instead of wearing cheap clothes from the clearance rack while the other girls in school wore designer jeans, you wore business attire. Black pencil skirt, blouse, heels, makeup done up, that was your staple most days at the office. Students hanging around campus and in your first class were dressed in pajama pants, jeans, gym shorts and t-shirts. You were vastly over dressed, but it wasn’t your fault, you had to go back to work after your second class.

You had taken a few years off of school. Who were you kidding? You took 13 years off. It was always your intention to go back to college and finish up that degree, but life got in the way.

During senior year, you had gotten sick. It started out simple enough with pains in your stomach, but no amount of pain killers and rest could cure it. Once it was apparent you weren’t getting better, you made numerous trips to the health center on campus. They in turn referred you to the regional hospital that diagnosed you with an ovarian cyst. It was already quite large and your doctor recommended surgery as soon as possible. Two weeks later, you had the surgery to remove it. Because of the recovery time and the days you missed being ill, you had no choice but to take incompletes for all your classes that semester. Your job on campus was also terminated because you were no longer enrolled in classes.  

Life back at home with your parents wasn’t a breeze. After being away for nearly four years, it was quite the adjustment living under their roof once again. They encouraged you to take classes at the nearby University which you did, but you struggled. Driving into the city was a pain and finding parking was even harder. You stuck with one of the two classes you enrolled in and managed to finish it leaving eight credits to go.

You found a job fairly quickly after a friend working in a call center gave you the heads up about an opening. It started as a fulltime position that summer, and you planned on going part time in the fall so that you could take a couple of classes to complete your degree. You ended up moving in with said friend at the end of summer. The money was rolling in as you turned out to be quite the sales woman. Deciding to take one more semester off to put some money in the bank, turned into a year off. Student loan bills started to arrive in your mailbox since you weren’t enrolled in classes. That one year turned into two. You moved out on your own. Took a new sales job with great benefits and a 401K. Two years turned into five. A job in middle management became available and you took it. Even though you were great at sales, you didn’t particular love it. Motivating others and knowing how to manage a team was more your forte. At that point you were doing quite well for yourself that school went on the back burner. Before you knew it, you were in your mid 30s worrying about a fifteen-page paper due at the end of the semester.

The campus is nice, as far as colleges go. It was also conveniently located thirty minutes from your home and office. Lush green lawns, loads of maple trees, benches and tables scattered along the wide walk ways. There’s a coffee shop in the student union, but you found a coffee cart located outside near a row of benches that faced a large water fountain in the center of the campus.

You acquired yourself a cup with two shots of vanilla. Grabbing a few capsules of cream and adding them to your cup, you planted yourself on an empty bench. You reached into your briefcase to grab out the syllabus from your first class, Economics in the Modern Age. There was no point in acquiring a backpack when you had only two classes and you had to get to work right after your second one. An hour between classes was more than enough time to look over your notes and get a cup of coffee.

“Can’t believe classes have started up again.” A deep voice in front of you said.

Looking up, the sun partially blinds your view. You put your hand up to shield the sun to get a better look at him.

“Sorry.” He says, moving about a foot to the right to block the brightness from your view.

And what a new view it was. Broad shoulders, dark blonde hair, nicely groomed beard, and those eyes. A poet could write several books about those eyes. He looked to be about your age, which was refreshing. Dressed in dark blue jeans, buttoned down checkered shirt and a brown sport coat over it. You were starring. Once you realized it, you looked down and quickly took a sip from your cup and nodded.

He stuck out his hand and you quickly set your cup down next to you on the bench. “Steve Rogers. History.”

“Ah, um, Y/N Y/L/N. Business administration.” You said, shaking his hand. His fingers fit nicely against yours. You really hoped he didn’t notice the blush.

“Do you mind?” He asked, gesturing toward the empty space beside you.

“Not at all.”

Be cool Y/L/N. Just because the hot guy wants to sit next to you, it does not mean he’s interested.

Going slow was never easy for you, which is why you were single. Your mind had a hard time differentiating between guys who were being friendly and guys who were interested. One would think with age and time, those kinds of problems would be sorted.

“Beautiful day.” You offered. Not really knowing what to say.

He hummed in response. “I’m looking forward to the cooler weather. I hate always feeling over dressed this time of year.”

You nodded. Giving him a small smile. “Same.” You said, gesturing to your long-sleeved blouse. At least you had opted to go bare legged. “It’s not so bad in the shade.”

This small talk is killing me.

Steve nodded his head. “How’s your schedule this semester?” He asked.

“Only two courses. Think I’ll manage.”

“Nice. I’ve got four, but two are twice a week.”

“Ouch. I’ve always hated those.” You replied.

He smiled. Eyes crinkly as he looked at you. “Why haven’t I seen you before?”

“I’m new here.” You said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Well, you can count me as your official welcoming party.”

You laughed. “I give you my thanks then.”

A small alarm sounded in your briefcase. Reaching in you pulled out your phone seeing you had twenty minutes until your next class. Not knowing where all the buildings were, you wanted to give yourself plenty of time to get there and hopefully find a seat in the back.

“I better get going.” You said, standing up and grabbing your bag. “It was nice to meet you Steve Rogers, History.”

He stood up as well, laughing hard, throwing his head back slightly. “You as well Y/N. I hope to see you around campus more.”

Your face flushed and you hoped he didn’t notice. “Hopefully.”

You quickly turned your back to him heading in any direction to get away from the handsome man. Not that you really wanted to run away, but you didn’t want to ruin something that hadn’t even started by saying something stupid.

After walking aimlessly for ten minutes, you consulted the campus map on your phone and started walking in the correct direction. You reached the History building with a few minutes to spare. The room wasn’t far down the hall and all rooms were numbered legibly. Finding the door was still open, you felt relieved. The room was a large lecture hall with stadium seating. Stepping inside you felt a small wave of panic as most seats were occupied with only a few open ones in the front rows and a couple single seats scattered in the middle.

Next week I am so getting here a half hour earlier.

You begrudgingly walked down the staircase, dodging careless backpacks left in your path. Sure, you wore heels daily to the office, but that was mainly at your desk or in a conference room, not down a large staircase with legs stretched out, ready to catch a victim not paying attention.

As you made your way down the steps to the mostly open first row, you couldn’t help but notice eyes on you. Instantly you felt self-conscious, thinking perhaps you had something on your face or coffee down your blouse. You took your seat and the eyes drifted away, back to their phones or conversations with the people they were sitting with.

They thought I was the teacher. That’s it, I’m changing at the office from now on.

You dug out a notebook and pen. Blue ink, not black of course. We all have our habits. You scribbled “History Beyond the Walls” on the front cover of the notebook. You picked the course randomly as you only needed a 200 level history class to complete the requirement for your degree.

The door in the back closed with a loud bang. A muttered sorry was heard and you, much like everyone else, turned around to see what caused the disturbance.

Whoa. Steve’s in this class.

You silently prayed that he’d take the seat next to you. Just for the camaraderie of adults going back to school, nothing more. Right? You continued to watch him descend the staircase hoping he’d see you. You subtly move your eyes to his left hand to check for a ring since you didn’t do so earlier. It’s naked which makes you smile. I suppose he could have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend.  

Shaking your head slightly to get out of your own mind, you go back to the intense eye contact that pays off as Steve sees you. His face is a mix of surprise and confusion. A small smile graces his face but it quickly fades. His eyes crinkle and small lines appear on his forehead. Head tilting to the side you hear a muttered “Y/N?” You give him a slight wave as he walks completely past you, setting his bag on the desk at the front of the classroom. Now it’s your turn to be confused.

Steve turns around and looks at you briefly before scanning the rest of the room.

“I’m Professor Rogers. Welcome to History Beyond the Walls.”

Well, shit.

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