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jkstompers · 4 years ago

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just to study | jjk

pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader

summary: your seat partner asks if you’re free after class, just to study.

genre: fluff, college!au, established friendship, flirtationship, mutual pining, they go to a ‘frat’ party together, also yugyeom! a sweetheart<3 we love him.

warnings: mature!!, mentions of alcohol + alcohol consumption, mentions of sex, strong language, SEXUAL TENSION, mentions of dick sucking??, hints of a wet dream on oc’s end, very strong urges to kiss each other but no kisses today </3, that’s pretty much it!

word count: 7.4k (i...kinda went overboard)

authors’ note: hello!! this is a pt. 2 to sleepyhead! it’s based a few weeks after so yeah <3 also the pacing is kind of weird but… i don’t really know how being drunk is so............(＞人＜) i’m sorry about that! one scene was inspired by this post haha it was just so cute to think about i had to do it. ALSO i literally haven’t taken anatomy since high school so i just used random terms from quizlet T_T pls excuse that as well! but otherwise, enjoy!!!!!!!!! (っ^_^)っ

(if u see any typos...ignore them pls T_T)

side note: imagine jk looking like this when he goes to the party lmao classic fboy look with the camo bomber and his piercings ugh <3

banner pic creds here ! <3

you made it to class on time today, woke to your alarm and even had enough time to eat breakfast before you came. in a particularly good mood, you made your way up the stairs to the row jungkook was sitting in, hoping that the seat next to him was empty (you didn’t have to hope, jungkook always saved the seat next to him for you, no matter what.)

“good morning, ___!” jungkook’s voice greets you the same as always as soon as you appear next to him. he moves his bag out of the way for you to sit down.

he looks especially cute today. his long floppy hair framing his face, his sweet smile beaming up to you. you wonder how dumb you looked drooling over him for a minute before you replied, “hi jungkook, how are you?” with the same smile on your face that you show him every time he sees you. it never changes, but it never fails to make jungkook’s heart skip a beat.

“i’m doing okay, you?” he answers while you pull out your laptop.

you didn’t have a chance to reply before your professor starts talking. informing the class about the test that’s planned at the end of the month, finals in two months, and then dropping the bomb that there’s a quiz tomorrow about the things you’ve learned in the past week. a slight panic takes over you, although you didn’t know why, you understood what he was teaching and you were retaining all of the information well. but when the professor pulls up all the information on the screen to review it all, all of the words and pictures overwhelm you.

to make things worse, jungkook is to your left, not paying attention to a word your professor is saying. instead, playing some game where he has to click his touchpad an obnoxious amount of times. your attention is split between jungkook’s erratic tapping and the notes that the professor projects onto the screen, even though his computer barely made any noise, his incessant movement was distracting you.

“jungkook, you’re taking notes and playing a game?” your voice comes out as a rushed whisper. there’s a snort that comes from him before he nods. you couldn’t be mad at him. “there’s a quiz on all of this tomorrow, you know?”

“i know,” he continues to tap and click, the motion growing incredibly annoying. you didn’t know why you couldn’t have just tried to block it out, but he was just so close to you and admittedly, you looked at his hands, a lot. the way that his fingers tapped against his keyboard and his veins that accentuate his already beautiful hands, it was free art you could look at, how could you not? at this point, you’re contemplating holding his hand to make him stop tapping.

you were in the middle of typing when he finally stops, leaning back and stretching his arms up into the air. you let out a sigh of relief, until he starts again. apparently he reached the next level on his game, tapping even faster, if that was even fucking possible.

quietly, you groan. turning your attention solely on him. you place your hand on top of his, the tapping ceasing almost immediately. “please, jungkook, you’re distracting me.”

he looks at your hand before he looks at you, his chocolate doe eyes wide to the action. he gulps, “sorry.”

you remove your hand, focusing back to the presentation. jungkook feels the heat from his cheeks travel to his hand. the feeling of your hand on his wasn’t something he was expecting to experience today, but he wants nothing more than for you to do it again. he exits the game tab and changes his focus to the lecture.

or moreso, you focusing on the lecture.

you look so cute. your cheek pressed up against your fist. he stares at the way that your forehead creases in concentration. he taps on your arm that’s resting on the table, “hey, you look like you’re stressed out.”

you turn your head slightly to look over to him. “that’s because i am,” you send him a quick smile before you go back to looking at the projection.

he furrows his eyebrows, “why? you’re smart, there’s no need to worry about what you get on this.” you were an a+ student, never anything less than that. jungkook knows that you ace every test that you take, so he doesn’t quite understand why you’re so stressed.

“because jungkook,” you groan. you expected a lot from yourself, sure b’s were okay, but a’s and a+’s were what you wanted and what you thought would make you feel satisfied. there was no way you could explain this without sounding like an overachiever. so you just sigh, “i’m just not really prepared.”

jungkook thinks of the perfect way to spend more time with you, snapping his fingers before suggesting, “we should study together after class, studies show that studying with someone else will give you an a+, guaranteed.” the confidence in his voice makes you smile, and helps you ease up a little bit.

you raise an eyebrow, a laugh creeping up from your lungs. “source for that statistic, sir?”

he taps his right temple, the gesture making you snort. “no but seriously, i’ll help you out,” he assures. his laptop turns towards you to show you all the notes he took, different words highlighted and colored differently.

you act like you think about it, staying quiet for a minute or so. but you know the answer was yes no matter what. “just to study?” you tease. jungkook raises his eyebrows in surprise, an amused smile on his face, “just kidding, we can go to mine? i owe you for the ride you gave me like two weeks ago.” you tap your fingers against your laptop nervously, your teeth taking in your bottom lip as you ask. you haven’t had a guy over to your apartment, not since you’ve moved in. there’s a certain anxiousness that comes with the suggestion.

jungkook nods, “sounds good.”

“okay, again.” you brush your hair behind your ears, preparing yourself once more for another pass of the flashcards. the two of you have been at it with these cards for the past hour or so, you were determined to get these right no matter how long it took. jungkook knew you were gonna get it down, you only had three more cards, these ones specifically stumping you.

“aponeuroses,” he looks at the card and then to you.

“connective tissue that forms a broad sheet which attach muscle to bone or muscle to other muscles,” you speak confidently. jungkook nods, moving onto the next card of the set of three.

“endomysium,” he reads the card. you hesitate on this one for a second, he plays with the corner of the card until you snap your fingers.

“that’s the connective tissue surrounding the… the— uh, oh! muscle fiber?” your brain works extra hard. jungkook rewards you with another nod, flipping to the last card.

“fascia.”

“dense connective tissue,” you begin, pausing to think of the rest of the answer. you start biting your thumb nail, knowing there’s more to it but it’s not coming to your brain quick enough.

jungkook just stares, watching your facial expressions as you search for the answer in your brain. this could be the worst crush he’s ever had, he thinks you’re cute when you’re just sitting there, thinking. he doesn’t remember ever liking someone this much, most of the time his crushes went away after a few weeks or so. but it’s almost been an entire year since he’s started crushing on you, and it still hasn’t stopped. you still manage to find a way to make his thoughts surround you.

“separates and holds individual tissues? it’s the one that extends into the tendons, right?” you perk up after a minute or so. your brain finally coming up with the answer. you blame jungkook’s presence for slowing you down. maybe you shouldn’t have accepted this offer to study together, because how could you focus when jeon jungkook is sitting right in front of you?

“you’re amazing,” he praises, setting the flashcards down onto the table. you blush at the compliment, jungkook takes notice, but he doesn’t mind, he thinks pink is pretty on you. he’s never wanted to kiss your cheeks as much as he did now, and trust, he’s thought about it many, many times. “all done?” he asks after staring at you for the longest time.

you nod, “just gonna highlight these terms to review them later so i can get it down 100%.”

jungkook watches as you diligently reread your notes and highlight them. an apple on the table taking his attention away for a second when he realizes he hasn’t eaten at all today. he takes a bite, the loud crunch noise seemingly startling the both of you. it makes you turn your head and raise an eyebrow towards him.

“sorry,” he chews, “hungry.”

your stare lingers a little longer than you wanted it to. his cheeks are full of apple, you can’t help but laugh a little. “there’s still the sticker on it,” you point out.

he turns the apple around to see the blue sticker. peeling it off, he holds it on his fingertip, an idea sprouting in his mind to see that sweet smile of yours again. so he places the sticker on your cheek, your gaze moving from your screen to him and then to the fruit sticker now stuck onto your cheek. “get it? ‘cause you’re sweet like this apple is,” he smiles.

oh my god. you blush embarrassingly, your entire face flushed pink as you hide your cheeks behind your hands. he laughs at your reaction. jungkook was feeling bold today, so he moves forward, gently taking your hands away from your face to see the cute pink tint he caused. he sits back, admiring your pretty face.

you feel yourself burning hotter and hotter the longer he stares, looking everywhere but his face, too scared to make eye contact. you look back to your computer screen, “um— there’s pasta in the fridge— if you’re hungry, i made it last night.” you offer, but he declines politely, telling you that he has to leave pretty soon because his friends are expecting him to join them today.

begrudgingly, you watch as jungkook packs his things up. he thinks about how content he felt hanging out with you today, and how he wanted to do it again, as soon as possible. a thought pops into his head before he opens the door to leave. he turns on his heel.

you weren’t expecting the sudden turn, accidentally bumping into his chest. “oof! sorry.”

“it’s alright,” he laughs, helping you steady yourself by holding your shoulders. “i just wanted to ask— uh, my friends are throwing a party tomorrow night, do you— do you wanna come?” his words come out jumbled, jungkook never fails to trip on his words whenever he’s near you.

tomorrow night...it’s a friday tomorrow, the quiz is tomorrow, why the fuck not? a stress reliever from all the studying you’ve done. “sure,” you answer after a minute or so of deliberation. you look up at him with a smile, suddenly realizing how close the two of you are.

your eyes flicker between his eyes and his lips, the close proximity makes you hold your breath. “great! i can pick you up? be your DD?” he quirks his head, a smile that matches yours on his face.

you nod, “yeah, i’d like that.” with that, jungkook takes a step back, widening the space between you both as his right hand goes to hold the strap of his bag.

“okay, i’ll text you the details.” before he turns around, turning the knob of your front door and letting himself out. before the door closes, he sends you a wave, one which you reflect as he pulls the door closed. you move up and lock the door, your forehead resting against the cold metal slab.

you wonder if this crush will ever advance into something more. neither of you really push the agenda, most of the time just cutely flirting with each other and only talking to each other during class. maybe this party will be a chance to further the bond the two of you have. you could only wish that you could drop this nervous shield that pops up everytime you’re around him, but jungkook is just so cool. the campus heartthrob, everyone wants to be him or be with him.

for the rest of the day, jungkook seems to occupy your mind, as he always does. when you get to sleep, the fantasies of jungkook’s lips on yours drift you into a deep sleep, one that eventually leads to a dream that has you rubbing your thighs together. his hands were all over your body, his cologne that you were so familiar with tormenting your nose, it all felt too real. so when you woke up to the sound of your alarm, sweat beaded at your hairline. you took deep breaths, cementing the fact that he isn’t here, and he certainly isn’t doing those things with you right now.

it was not helping that you dreamt of him sexually on the day of your quiz, the one that you were immensely stressing over. now, you’re gonna have to walk into class, act normal around jungkook even though your brain produced pornographic images of him, (it’s not the first time, but it’s the first time you’ve had to face him right after it happened) and ace this quiz.

you tried almost everything you could to have cleared your brain of your dream sequence. taking a shower, eating breakfast, studying once more, etc. but when you’re walking into the lecture hall, flashes of the dream and the sound of his imagined moan echo in your mind.

you walk up the stairs with your eyes down, not sure if you could make eye contact with jungkook without turning red. “hey, ___, good morning!” the familiar voice greets you.

“morning,” you reply, dryly. taking the seat next to him and silently taking your laptop out, waiting for the professor to start the quiz. jungkook seemed a bit taken aback by your cold answer, but he took into account that you’re probably just super nervous and stressed out because of the quiz, so he doesn’t take it too personally. instead, just sitting back in his chair and waiting patiently to take the quiz as well.

at this point, you were psyching yourself out, swearing that you already forgot all of the terms. if you were quizzed on the parts of male anatomy, specifically jungkook’s, then maybe you could ace it, but the terms that you were working oh so hard to memorize yesterday slip from your mind. when the professor tells you to separate and start the quiz, you start to bite your thumb nail again.

jungkook takes a look over at you, noticing the bad habit of yours. he gently takes a hold of your arm, pulling your thumb away from your teeth. the action causing you to make eye contact with him and his big doe eyes that hold so much love and light. you find yourself a bit speechless then, too many thoughts running around in your mind.

he whispers, “you’ll do great, okay?” the statement soothing your nerves. his voice somehow makes your body relax, even though you thought you would freak out if you made any sort of contact with him.

“you— you too, good luck,” you mutter. a half smile on your face. you were grateful that jungkook broke you out of your trance, his words of encouragement suddenly placing you in the testing state of mind. the images from last night's dream seem to put themselves away for now.

the next twenty minutes are complete silence. everyone focused on the questions before them. of course, you zoomed through the quiz, prepared for the trick questions and the harder ones that come up. jungkook finishes after you. it wasn’t a surprise, jungkook didn’t even have to try, you swear you’ve never seen him stress out before. nobody was perfect, you believed that, but jeon jungkook was the closest to it.

“okay, class! the quiz will be graded by tonight hopefully, you’re free to leave,” your professor alerts the class. jungkook waits patiently until you’re standing, following you down the stairs and out the door.

you decide to speak first, since you greeted him with such a dry response this morning. it wasn’t his fault that you dreamed of him on top of you, so why were you punishing him for it? “how’d you think you did?” you asked, turning to look at him.

he shrugs, “good i guess, i think i fucked up on one or two questions.”

“was it the striation part? i think i messed up on that one too.”

he shakes his head, “you know you aced that, don’t lie.”

you stay silent, the two of you walking to the campus parking lot. neither of you engage in conversation as you usually do. the images of last night’s dream slipping into your consciousness once again. you try to shake your head, to rid yourself of the thoughts. nothing else to distract you from them because jungkook was oddly silent the entire walk. you fear that he can actually read your mind and see all of your thoughts. if he could, he doesn’t mention it. not saying one word to you until he walks you to your car, greeting you with a ‘see you next class!’ before leaving to go to his car. not even mentioning the party to you, you start to wonder if he regrets inviting you. up until you heard your phone ring when you parked in the lot of your apartment complex.

[10:24 am] jungkook: hey! forgot to remind u about the party 😫

[10:24 am] jungkook: ur still down to come, right?

[10:28 am] you: hi! yeah :)

[10:28 am] you: is there a dress code or smth? haha

[10:29 am] jungkook: not that i know of 😂

[10:30 am] jungkook: u can wear anything u want

[10:30 am] jungkook: ur cute whatever u wear

[10:31 am] you: oh stop it jeon ur making me blush

[10:32 am] you: but tell me :( should i wear something casual? pants? a dress?

[10:34 am] jungkook: 😂

[10:34 am] jungkook: it’s kind of like a frat party…

[10:35 am] jungkook: so anything is okay

[10:37 am] you: ah okay

[10:37 am] you: i’ll surprise u then ;)

[10:40 am] jungkook: alright :)

[10:41 am] jungkook: i’ll come by around 9 to pick u up? sound good?

[10:42 am] you: yeah! gives me enough time to nap and get ready lol

[10:44 am] jungkook: great :) see u then cutie

you wake up from your nap around one, you had more than enough time for you to get ready for a party. so you decide to clean your apartment first, little chores to waste time before you get yourself dolled up. when you finished, it was around seven thirty. you washed your face, brushed your teeth, all that good stuff before sliding on a simple black bodycon that you got last summer. styling your hair and spraying on your favorite perfume before looking at yourself in the mirror. this wasn’t too much, right? lots of people wear stuff like this to frat parties, so you didn’t find it too fancy. the notification sound from your phone goes off, you move to check and see if it was who you were expecting.

[8:54 pm] jungkook: i’m here :)

[8:54 pm] you: ahh gimme a sec i need to pee haha

[8:55 pm] jungkook: take ur time cutie

[8:56 pm] jungkook: i’m right in front

jungkook only really had to wait about five minutes. the visual of you walking out of your apartment doors, looking the way you did, was breathtaking. his jaw drops, mouth slightly agape as he watches you walk up to his car through the passenger window. you are so gorgeous. it’s probably the first time jungkook’s seen you in clothes that really compliment your figure, most of the time you show up to class in hoodies and sweaters. so greedily, he takes in the way the dress hugs your curves deliciously. he shakes the thoughts from his head to get out of the car and open the door for you.

“what a gentleman,” you tease, getting into the car.

he joins you soon after, “you look...gorgeous.” jungkook doesn’t seem so shy now, his eyes taking in your beautiful self.

“thank you,” you blush under his stare. “is it too much?”

“no! no— not at all, all eyes will be on you tonight.” he smiles, turning the car on. now you were able to gawk over him. a simple outfit, all black with a black and white camo bomber. his side profile is perfect, his long hair draping over his face so gracefully and his piercings somehow sparkling in the dark of the car.

he doesn’t drive too far, somewhere in the suburbs where the big houses are. a huge iron gate in the front, seemingly too fancy for a frat party setting. jungkook rolls his window down to greet someone waiting in front of the gate with a couple of other guys.

“jeon! you’re late dude,” one of the guys gives him a handshake through the window.

“sorry man, i’m here now though,” jungkook laughs. the guy giving him the greenlight and opening the gate for him, jungkook parks inside on their stone driveway, decorated with a fountain and a beautiful garden.

“your friend lives here?” you inquire, impressed by the look of the place.

he nods, “fancy right? his parents are ceo’s.” makes sense, and it would also make sense as to why they were throwing a frat party here, rich sons always seem to stir up trouble whenever they’re bored.

he steps out of the car to open the door for you, always a gentleman. he takes your hand and helps you out, the two of you walking to the huge open double doors. as soon as you walk in, the smell of alcohol hits your nose, you try your best not to cringe. the blare of the speakers is the second thing you notice, along with the shouting of jungkook’s friends greeting him. “who’s this?” one of them asks, referring to you.

jungkook seems to hesitate at first, not really knowing how to introduce you. he settles by saying, “this is ___!” not attaching any ‘friend’, ‘classmate’, or anything to the introduction. his friend holds his hand out to shake yours.

you take it with a smile on your face, “i’m yugyeom, it’s nice to meet you!” a smile that reflects yours is on his face, it made you feel welcome. you were never really the type to go to parties, your time is spent working and/or going to school, but this interaction helps you ease up a little more.

“hello, yugyeom!” you reply, shouting over the music.

“do you wanna take a shot?” he asks. pointing to the enormous kitchen where they’re housing all the alcohol, you look to jungkook first who’s paying more attention to his phone rather than the conversation you were just having.

you shrug, “why not?”

yugyeom leads the two of you to the kitchen, jungkook following behind you blindly. he looks up from his phone, done with whatever business he was dealing with to ask, “where are we going?”

“taking a shot,” you answer, pointing to yugyeom who’s already pouring three shots.

“dude, i’m not drinking, don’t pour three.” jungkook tries to stop him before he fills up the third shot glass but his arm knocks yugyeom’s in the process, the bottle spilling the clear liquid into the third shot glass.

“i’ll take two,” you suggest, feeling a bit wild and down to venture out of your comfort zone.

yugyeom smiles at this, “i like her, jeon.” he hands you the two shot glasses full of vodka, jungkook stands next to you and watches as you down the first shot. your face cringing as soon as the alcohol touches your tongue.

“you didn’t even give her a chaser,” jungkook notices, scolding yugyeom who's already downed his shot and is sucking on a lime. “here, suck,” holding a slice of lime up to your lips. his choice of words disorienting you, especially since he was holding the lime up to your mouth instead of just handing it to you. your eyes flicker between the lime and his face, but nevertheless, you suck. sinking your teeth into the sour fruit. jungkook’s eyes zeroed in on how your lips wrap around the slice, slightly grazing his fingers. it’s not long before you’re making a cute scrunched up face from the sourness. “good,” he praises. you don’t deny the slight burn your lower belly felt when he said that to you. you swear he was making sex eyes to you, but you couldn’t tell. he broke eye contact with you soon after, throwing the fruit into the trash below the table that the alcohol was perched on.

yugyeom hands you another lime for your second shot, this time no jungkook to hold the fruit for you. the second shot burning down your throat with the lime chasing after, both yugyeom and jungkook cheer, congratulating you for being a trooper (even though two shots were their warmups).

the next hour or so, jungkook brings you around. he introduces you to his friends and making conversation with them. one certain group, you didn’t really enjoy. a group of five girls, clearly swarming jungkook as soon as he turned around from talking to another one of his friends. the girls ask how he’s been doing, all of the basic conversation starters. when jungkook tries to introduce you, they all turn to you and give you a little head nod before turning their attention back to jungkook. he stands there, conversing with them longer than he had with any of his other friends, and you found yourself getting, hm, jealous.

so you search around the room crowded room, looking for some way out. your eyes spot yugyeom in the backyard through the huge sliding doors, sitting on one of those lawn chairs with the one next to him empty. you decide to leave the group you were currently getting pushed out of and join yugyeom. he notices you when you step onto the grass, trying your best not to sink into the dirt with your heels. “you doing alright? where’s jungkookie?” he asks, sitting up.

you plop down onto the lawn chair next to him. “he’s in there,” you point to the house, “with five girls.”

the last bit of the sentence makes him laugh, a cackle where he holds his stomach because he was laughing so hard. “do you want a shot?” he offers after he recovers from his fit, pulling a tequila bottle out from nowhere.

but you agree, “two, please.” he fills the two shot glasses, but not completely like he did with the vodka earlier. there were no limes, or any type of chaser for you to take around, so you take the two shots like ripping off a band-aid, quick.

“you’re a funny girl,” yugyeom compliments when you’ve downed the shots.

“thanks?” you cough, the feeling of the alcohol still burning your nose and throat, “what did i say that was funny?”

“i think it’s because i’m tipsy, but that joke you made about jungkook being with five girls was hilarious.” he slaps his knee, almost making himself laugh up a storm again, but you weren’t laughing.

you raised an eyebrow, speaking with a serious tone. “it wasn’t a joke, he’s in there with five girls.”

yugyeom tries to collect himself, sitting properly on the lawn chair when he asks you to clarify, “you mean he’s fucking them? or he’s talking to them?”

you’re silent for a second before replying, why did you say it like he was in there fucking them? maybe it’s because he might as well be, so engrossed in whatever the hell they were saying to even notice that you were gone. “just talking to them,” you reply.

“that’s what i thought, jungkook isn’t like that anymore,” yugyeom nods his head, pouring another shot out for you.

“anymore?” you ask. he hands you the shot, you hesitate this time, starting to feel the effects of the first four shots you took. he doesn’t push you to take it. he just leans back onto the lawn chair as he sighs.

“you could say he’s retired,” he shrugs.

the term makes you laugh, “...a retired fuckboy?” you sit back into the lawn chair as well, looking up to the night sky. the shot glass forgotten on the table next to you. your body feels like it’s floating.

“yeah, he hasn’t really been doing stuff like that recently,” yugyeom spills. you stay quiet after he feeds you this information. yugyeom offhandedly telling you that you shouldn’t be jealous makes you feel guilty. why were you even jealous? jungkook was technically still just a friend to you. just because the two of you flirt every now and then doesn’t mean you’re together. of course he would be surrounded by girls, just look at him!

“there you are! i was looking all over for you,” jungkook interrupts your inner monologue. his voice comes from across the lawn, you look up to see him walking over to you and yugyeom.

“hi, jungkookie,” you smile up at him. the alcohol having more of an effect on you the longer you let it sit in your stomach.

he almost freezes up at the nickname, looking over to yugyeom and asking, “did you tell her to call me that?”

yugyeom holds his hands up in innocence, “i didn’t tell her to do anything, she’s like five or six shots deep though.”

you take the shot that was forgotten on the table and down it. “six,” you clarify.

“alright, slow down, iron liver,” jungkook jokes. yugyeom stands from the lawn chair, receiving jungkook’s telepathic signals to get the fuck up to he could talk and hang out with you.

“play beer pong with me later, ___! i’m gonna go look for eunwoo,” yugyeom points to you, giving you a thumbs up before leaving the backyard and moving into the house.

“feeling okay? think you might throw up soon?” jungkook asks, replacing yugyeom in the chair next to you.

“feel like i’m surfing, you know? like wavy,” you answer. the feeling was hard to explain, you weren’t dizzy but at the same time your brain was telling you to stop moving, even though you were completely still.

“ah, you’re getting there,” jungkook snorts. you didn’t have much willpower to answer, so the two of you sit there in a comfortable silence before a group of people coming towards, all greeting jungkook and you. they offer you a red cup, despite your current predicament. leaning against the chair and your droopy eyes, telling them that you’ve taken too many shots. a lightweight at her peak.

jungkook tries to deny it for you, but with a smile, you accept the cup. it was filled with the fancy mixed alcohol juice they had. “thank you,” you place the cup onto the table, “i’ll drink it.... later..” your words begin to draw themselves out. jungkook somehow finding a way to make the entire group leave, making it just the two of you again.

“give it to me, you’re starting to slur your words.” his hand is open, laying on the table and waiting for you to surrender the cup.

your eyes flicker from the red cup, to his face, then to his hand. a smirk on your face when you hold the cup up to your lips, tilting it back and drinking the cursed juice. you weren’t able to down it all, it was too much, you drank maybe ⅔ of it. you cough, taking in a deep breath as you try to steady yourself.

you weren’t sure if it was because you were drunk, but the way that his face looks in the moonlight was so pretty. so you just had to tell him. leaning forward, you speak, almost a whisper, “you’re so handsome.” you drag your finger across the expanse of jungkook’s hand. “did you know i have no gag reflex?” you smile, not your typical sweet smile that he’s used to, but a devilish grin.

jungkook’s eyes widen, his cheeks flushing immediately at your remark. “alright, you drank way too much.” he takes the red cup from your hands, dumping it out onto the grass in front of you both.

“hey, i wasn’t done,” you pout, but jungkook didn’t give you much time to mourn your spilled drink before he was holding your arm, lifting you from the lawn chair you were sitting on. “where are we going?” you ask, trailing behind him with your hand in his.

“gonna get you some water and something to eat,” he answers. the two of you move through the house, jungkook pushes through groups of people and makes sure you’re safe behind him.

“i have to pee.” you tip toe to tell him your emergency in his ear. he stops at the stairs, knowing a bathroom where no one else goes. his friend specifically telling him to use that bathroom when they have parties because the other ones get way too gross.

he brings you up the stairs to the guest bedroom, opening the door to reveal one of the biggest rooms you’ve seen. “the bathroom is there,” jungkook points to the door on the left. you nod, your wobbly legs making their way to the toilet.

jungkook sits on the bed patiently, waiting for you to finish. he hears the flush and the sound of the sink running, the door opens and you’re coming out of the bathroom, pulling your dress down. “are we gonna have sex?” you utter, slurring the end of your sentence. your alcohol poisoned mind taking over your ability to speak.

his eyes widen at the question. “no! no— oh my god, this is just the room with the cleanest bathroom, we’re not—“

you’re next to him now, “you don’t want to?” you pout. glassy eyes looking into his.

“no! i mean, yes, i want to but— fuck, just— just not now, yeah?” jungkook stumbles over his words, his face blushing a blood red. your pretty face peering up at him makes him even more flustered, his hands start to sweat.

“okay,” you nodded. your drunken brain deciding to stop the interrogation of jungkook’s desire for you. to which jungkook lets out a sigh of relief, taking your hand and bringing you out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the driveway. he brings you to his car, opening the passenger door for you. “wait, are we leaving already? yugyeomie wants me to play beer pong with him,” you complain, wiggling your hand from his grasp.

goosebumps appear on your arm when you make it outside of the house. jungkook notices when he turns around to look at you. without a second thought, he takes his jacket off and places it over your shoulders. the newfound warmth shielding you from the cold night. he didn’t mind the breeze, especially since he was still recovering from the stunt you pulled in the guest room.

“we can come back later if you want, let’s just go grab something to eat first so you won’t regret this tomorrow morning.” his explanation is pretty solid according to your drunken brain, so you oblige, moving to sit in his passenger seat.

he joins you in the driver’s seat not long after. “can we get mcdonald’s?” you ask as soon as he sits down.

a smile appears on his face as he starts the car, “sure.”

the drive made you feel a little dizzy, it makes you laugh. “you okay?” jungkook asks, but you nod your head. he’s so sweet, always asking if you’re okay, making sure you weren’t feeling too awful, etc. it only makes sense that you were falling head over heels for him.

“totally fine,” you look over to him with a smile on your face. he’s so fucking pretty, his side profile is something you could rave about for days. as he’s pulling into the mcdonald’s drive through, he’s talking into the intercom, ordering the two of you something to eat when you’re suddenly mumbling, “mcflurry, kookie, oreo mcflurry.”

he looks back to you, an amused smile on his face, “oreo mcflurry?” he repeats. you nod, “okay, anything for you.”

he reiterates the request into the intercom and the server gives him the greenlight. he drives forward and waits until the next car moves up, in the time being, he looks to you. your head laying up against the door and your eyes slowly blinking, warning him that you might fall asleep. so he reaches into his backseat, his arm looking for the water bottles that he usually keeps in his car.

“hey,” he taps your arm gently, “drink some of this first.” he hands you the water bottle, you blink slowly, trying to figure out what he was handing you. once you realize it was a water bottle, you take it, opening it and gulping some of the water down. jungkook is grabbing the food when you’re screwing the cap back on. he parks somewhere in the parking lot and tells you to start eating.

you grab your mcflurry first, the feeling of the cold ice cream on your tongue soothing your dizzy brain. “yum,” you think out loud.

jungkook laughs, taking out his hamburger while he takes out your chicken nuggets. “make sure to eat some of this, yeah? don’t want you throwing up and hating me.”

the thought makes you smile. jungkook was taking such great care of you. sure, he let you down the alcohol like it was nothing, but you never opposed to it, always taking the shot because you wanted to. now jungkook is here, taking care of you, because he wanted to. you knew that if it were anybody else, they probably would have left you at the party, letting you fend for yourself. the sudden warmth in your chest makes you want to tell jungkook everything.

with his jacket wrapped around you instead of him, you can see the bulge of his arm muscles peek out from the short sleeved shirt he was wearing. even drunk, your brain seems to travel back to the images from your dream. “you know, i had a dream about you, a reeaaaallllllyyyyy dirty dream, jeon jungkook.” you blurt out the confession before your thoughts catch up with you, the alcohol still very much blocking off the common sense part of your brain.

he tries his best not to overreact, but you had a dream about him? a dirty dream at that? it awakens something in jungkook, but he pushes it down, ignoring the feeling as he asks, “you did? what was it about?” he curious as to what you meant and what your dream entailed, but he didn’t want to push too far. especially since you were drunk and most likely just spilling everything because your brain doesn’t have the willpower to hold it back.

you stick your hand into the bag to steal some fries, stuffing them in your mouth. “oh, you don’t wanna know,” you chew.

jungkook quirks a brow, “well, was i good at least?” he jokes.

you scrunch your nose, nodding nevertheless. “too good, couldn’t even focus during the quiz because of it.”

jungkook is silent for a second. the conversation making him hot even though he wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore. so he clears his throat, trying to change the subject in a subtle manner. “is that why you were so mean to me this morning?” he pouts, connecting the dots.

you laugh at the question, “sorry, i didn’t mean to, i swear.”

with that, the rest of the time is spent eating. jungkook makes sure that you ate enough and drank enough water, the empty water bottle in his cupholder as proof. “do you want me to take you home now?” he asks, the two of you finished eating and now a silence takes over the car.

“are you going back?” you ask, fiddling with your fingers. he thinks you’ve started to sober up, or maybe have gotten to the point where you just want to sleep.

he shakes his head to your question, “honestly, i’m kind of tired, but if you want to go back, we can go.”

“no, i’m okay,” you decline the offer. jungkook laughs, starting the car again and driving back to your apartment complex.

you take this time to try to get yourself together. you know you’ll regret confessing to jungkook that you had a wet dream about him in the morning. but in the moment, it felt right to confess, (to your drunken brain of course). you tilt your head back, pushing your head against the headrest, and suddenly, you’re reminded of the stars jungkook has on his ceiling. you were silent as you admired the lights, jungkook takes a look at you when he’s stopped at a red light.

so cute, he thinks, staring up at his ceiling like it’s the real night sky. when he pulls up to your apartment complex, he wishes the night could be longer, that he could spend more time with you. he parks the car in the front, exactly where he picked you up. you’re looking to him now, your hands in your lap and your heart seemingly beating three times as fast as it usually does. it wasn’t the alcohol.

“did you have fun tonight?” he asks. his voice never fails to make you melt.

you nod, “i did.”

“i’m glad,” he smiles. there’s a small silence before he speaks once more, “also, y’know, you don’t have to stress yourself out so much, i know you might have expectations for yourself and stuff, but you should give yourself a break from time to time.”

the alcohol’s effects fading slowly from your brain when you start to realize that the entire reason jungkook invited you out was to help you destress. it makes you fall even harder, he was so thoughtful. even though a party wasn’t your scene, he invited you to give you a glimpse into how he has fun and hoped that it would help you loosen up a bit. you were grateful for the mental break he provided you.

you didn’t reply, purely because you were thinking about how much you want to kiss him right now, but it wouldn’t be right. when he speaks up again, there’s a nervous lilt in his voice, scared that he’s overstepped. “if you need anyone to help you— i don’t know, let loose? you can— you can always call me.” he scratches the back of his neck.

but you try your best to reassure him, smiling at the offer. “i will, thank you for tonight, jungkook, i really enjoyed it, despite being a lightweight.”

he laughs, staring at the way your face cutely scrunches when you giggle. he too, is fighting the urge to kiss you, because right now isn’t a good time. he wants to do it right. he doesn’t want to fuck it up with you. so instead, he hops out of the car and moves to open the door for you. helping you out of the car and walking you to your door, your hand in his.

“i’ll see you in class?” you turn to face him, squeezing his hand.

he nods, “yeah.” his signature bunny smile coming out to greet you a goodnight. “text me before you sleep?” he requests. you give him a thumbs up before he’s letting go of your hand and you’re sticking the key into your door, it’s then that you realize that you’re still wearing his jacket.

“oh!” you exclaim, taking the jacket off and handing it to him. but he holds his hand out to stop you.

“keep it, you can give it to me the next time we hang out, or something,” he suggests. you try to hide the growing smile behind a nod.

you hold onto his jacket, “goodnight, jungkook.”

he sticks his hands in his pockets, sending you another grin, “goodnight, ___.”

jungkook drives home, his empty apartment welcoming him. he plops down onto his bed, not even bothering to change out of the clothes he was in because he was that tired. the events of today running through his mind.

he hopes you don’t think he was doing anything with those five girls. he saw you walk away when you did, he tried his best to escape the conversation, but they kept pulling him back. he gave up after ten tries of trying to get away, standing there for a good fifteen minutes listening to them babble about how much they missed him. jungkook had never rolled his eyes so many times in a conversation.

the talk the two of you had after was another thing taking over his mind. your dirty flirting and your dream you mentioned in the car had his imagination running all over the place. he didn’t want to push you when you explained, but he was very curious as to what he did in your dream, and how good it was for you to have it run through your mind all day.

his phone rings next to him. he turns and opens it, a smile on his face when he reads your message.

[12:32 am] you: hi jungkookieeeeeeeee

[12:33 am] you: im sleeping noww

[12:33 am] jungkook: alright cutie

[12:33 am] jungkook: goodnight! again 😂

[12:34 am] you: goodnight <3

he turns his phone off after that. looking up to his ceiling with a dumb smile on his face. his mind thinking of you and only you.

1K notes · View notes

missinghan · 4 years ago

Text

aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales.

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage.

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is.

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess.

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time.

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back.

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school.

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence.

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield.

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene.

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers.

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where?

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck.

“What’s your name?”

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed.

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform.

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief.

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care.

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease.

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.”

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly.

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night.

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom.

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle.

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you.

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next.

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world.

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path.

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat.

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind.

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail.

“What the fuck?”

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely.

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less.

Because that’s the least of his problem right now.

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization.

four.

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that.

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand.

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground.

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home.

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager.

Minho feels awful.

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him.

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice.

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out.

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up.

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions.

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?”

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand.

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously.

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?”

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.”

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life.

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld.

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?”

“It’s Lee Minho.”

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five.

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility.

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here.

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life.

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much?

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for.

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too.

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great.

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one.

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike.

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes.

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away.

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor.

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now.

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave.

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don’t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child.

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his.

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place.

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then.

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are.

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself.

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process.

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words.

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares.

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in.

You can only nod. “Yeah.”

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest.

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony.

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists.

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years.

Nothing makes sense.

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself.

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break.

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin.

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms.

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within.

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear.

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react.

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about?

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.”

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done.

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart.

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?”

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess.

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection.

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause.

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.

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somegirlsnerdywords2 · 4 years ago

Text

Anime i’ve Watched

That begin with a K (Part 2)!

Yep this is how i’m going to bring over all the anime and manga i’ve watched and posted about on the old blog. It’s not so detailed but it will have to do. Anything new I watch or read from this point on will have their own posts.

Karneval

Genres: action, fantasy, josei, mystery, sci-fi

Synopsis: While in search of his precious friend, a young boy named Nai falls captive to a beautiful woman, whose looks are matched only by her taste for human flesh. Meanwhile Gareki, a clever thief, is in the midst of robbing her luxurious home. After causing a distraction, Gareki agrees to help Nai escape, but they are discovered upon the woman's return. As she transforms into a ghoulish monster, the boys flee. On the run, Nai and Gareki are found by "Circus," a government defense agency that deals with criminal activity too difficult for the police to handle and protects civilians from "varuga"—terrible monsters that devour humans for sustenance. In the hope that it will lead Nai to his missing friend, he and Gareki decide to join Circus. On their perilous journey, they face dangerous varuga and begin to uncover the secrets behind a shadowy organization known as Kafka. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 7/10

Finished airing in 2013 with a total of 13 episodes.

My Thoughts: Love the character design and I was interested in the story but the series is far too short. I’d suggest you go read the manga (which is farther along) but it’s rarely updated so I can’t confidently say it’s worth the read. Your choice is read/ watch this and suffer alongside me with the lack of updates or erase its existence from your mind. Your call!

Kaze ga Tsuyoku Fuiteiru (Run with the Wind)

Genres: comedy, sports, drama

Synopsis: Former ace runner of Sendai Josei High School, Kakeru Kurahara is chased away from a convenience store for shoplifting. Shaking off his pursuer, he runs into Haiji Kiyose, another student from his university. Haiji is impressed by Kakeru's agility and persuades him to live in Chikusei-sou, the run-down apartment where Haiji resides along with eight other students. Having lost his entire apartment deposit at a mahjong parlor, Kakeru accepts the offer reluctantly. However, Haiji reveals a secret during Kakeru's welcoming party: the apartment is actually the dormitory of the Kansei University Track Club. He unveils his ultimate goal of participating in the Hakone Ekiden—one of the most prominent university marathon relay races in Japan. Unfortunately, all the residents apart from Haiji and Kakeru are complete running novices. Worse still, none of the inhabitants are even remotely interested in being involved with Haiji's ridiculous plan! With only months before the deadline, will the fourth-year student be able to convince them otherwise and realize his elusive dream of running in the Hakone Ekiden? [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 10/10

Finished airing in 2019 with a total of 23 episodes.

My Thoughts: This was a masterpiece in my opinion, an anime I won’t soon forget and one of the best of its season without a doubt! Good stuff right here and not in a high school setting which is a change of pace for a sports anime! A very satisfying anime that I highly recommend.

Kaze Tachinu (The Wind Rises)

Genres: drama, historical, romance, film

Synopsis: Although Jirou Horikoshi's nearsightedness prevents him from ever becoming a pilot, he leaves his hometown to study aeronautical engineering at Tokyo Imperial University for one simple purpose: to design and build planes just like his hero, Italian aircraft pioneer Giovanni Battista Caproni. His arrival in the capital coincides with the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923, during which he saves a maid serving the family of a young girl named Naoko Satomi; this disastrous event marks the beginning of over two decades of social unrest and malaise leading up to Japan's eventual surrender in World War II. For Jirou, the years leading up to the production of his infamous Mitsubishi A6M Zero fighter aircraft will test every fiber of his being. From witnessing firsthand the growing antisemitism in Germany to fatefully reuniting with Naoko at a summer resort, his many travels and life experiences only urge him onward⁠—even as he realizes both the role of his creations in the war and the reality of the waning health of his beloved. As time marches on, he must confront an impossible question: at what cost does he chase his beautiful dream? [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 8/10

A film released in 2013

My Thoughts: Beautiful and dreamy but not one of my favourite anime films unfortunately. Still very good though!

Kekkai Sensen

Genres: action, comedy, superpower, supernatural, vampire, fantasy, shounen

Synopsis: Supersonic monkeys, vampires, talking fishmen, and all sorts of different supernatural monsters living alongside humans—this has been part of daily life in Hellsalem's Lot, formerly known as New York City, for some time now. When a gateway between Earth and the Beyond opened three years ago, New Yorkers and creatures from the other dimension alike were trapped in an impenetrable bubble and were forced to live together. Libra is a secret organization composed of eccentrics and superhumans, tasked with keeping order in the city and making sure that chaos doesn't spread to the rest of the world. Pursuing photography as a hobby, Leonardo Watch is living a normal life with his parents and sister. But when he obtains the "All-seeing Eyes of the Gods" at the expense of his sister's eyesight, he goes to Hellsalem's Lot in order to help her by finding answers about the mysterious powers he received. He soon runs into Libra, and when Leo unexpectedly joins their ranks, he gets more than what he bargained for. Kekkai Sensen follows Leo's misadventures in the strangest place on Earth with his equally strange comrades—as the ordinary boy unwittingly sees his life take a turn for the extraordinary. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 8/10

Finished airing in 2015 with a total of 12 episodes.

My Thoughts: I recall this terribly sad episode that was an absolute masterpiece but to be honest the rest of the series didn’t leave much of an impression on me. I didn’t even bother watching the second season when it came out. Do what you will with that information.

Kenka Banchou Otome: Girl Beats Boys

Genres: action, martial arts, school, shoujo, TV short

Synopsis: Kenka Banchou Otome - Girl Beats Boys, Hinako Nakayama has spent all of her life being raised in state-run orphanages, without ever knowing her family. As she's about to enter high school, Hinako is approached by Hikaru, a boy who claims to be her twin brother. According to Hikaru, Hikaru and Hinako are the children of the head of the powerful Onigashima yakuza family, and Hikaru wants Hinako to switches places with him at Shishiku Academy, an all-boys school overrun with the nation's toughest delinquents. Can Hinako save her brother, find romance, and become the new boss of the school? (Source: Crunchyroll)

My Rating: 7/10

Finished airing in 2017 with a total of 12 episodes.

My Thoughts: Reverse harem style, tv short with a tomboy female lead. Not really long enough to leave much of an impression but fun enough if you have some time to waste. Surprisingly great art/ animation.

Keppeki Danshi! Aoyama-kun

Genres: comedy, seinen, sports

Synopsis: He is charming, cool, athletic, a good cook, but more importantly, he's a clean freak. Aoyama is idolized and respected by everyone, but they can only admire him from afar due to his mysophobia. Despite that, he plays soccer—a rather dirty sport! As the playmaker for Fujimi High School's soccer club, Aoyama avoids physical contact at all cost and cleanly dribbles toward victory. However, the path to Nationals will not be easy for Fujimi's underdog team. But alongside striker Kaoru Zaizen, Aoyama will show everyone that even as a clean freak, there are things he's willing to get dirty for. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 7/10

Finished airing in 2017 with a total of 12 episodes.

My Thoughts: comical with what I recall to be very little focus on the actual playing of sports which is a bummer if that’s what you’re looking for. It was alright but there are definitely better comedy (and for sure sports) anime's out there!

Kill la Kill

Genres: action, comedy, superpower, school

Synopsis: After the murder of her father, Ryuuko Matoi has been wandering the land in search of his killer. Following her only lead—the missing half of his invention, the Scissor Blade—she arrives at the prestigious Honnouji Academy, a high school unlike any other. The academy is ruled by the imposing and cold-hearted student council president Satsuki Kiryuuin alongside her powerful underlings, the Elite Four. In the school's brutally competitive hierarchy, Satsuki bestows upon those at the top special clothes called "Goku Uniforms," which grant the wearer unique superhuman abilities. Thoroughly beaten in a fight against one of the students in uniform, Ryuuko retreats to her razed home where she stumbles across Senketsu, a rare and sentient "Kamui," or God Clothes. After coming into contact with Ryuuko's blood, Senketsu awakens, latching onto her and providing her with immense power. Now, armed with Senketsu and the Scissor Blade, Ryuuko makes a stand against the Elite Four, hoping to reach Satsuki and uncover the culprit behind her father's murder once and for all. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 9/10

Finished airing in 2014 with a total of 24 episodes.

My Thoughts: One of my top three favourite anime's of all time despite my not giving it a perfect score and the sole reason i’m such a Trigger fangirl despite the way they continue to disappoint me with each and every new release... Highly recommend! Fair warning there’s plenty of skimpy outfits and fan service which may turn some off but if you can get past it this really is an anime worth checking out. Great story, characters, music and style! A chaotic feast for the eyes and ears! I really should rewatch it...

#Karneval #kaze ga tsuyoku fuiteiru #kaze tachinu #films #kekkai sensen #kenka bancho otome #keppeki danshi! aoyama-kun #kill la kill

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weirdponytail · 4 years ago

Note

How modern is everything in MIC? Like what technology do they have? Plus, what does dragon armor look like in this universe, I’m really curious, lol?

Haha, once again that’s a sort of difficult question that needs to be answered!! Buckle in, folks. Sorry the post got so damn long!

Modern Inheritance Cycle is a bit of a misnomer, really. Technology varies pretty widely, so I can’t point to a chunk of our history and say ‘iz like that!’ for MIC. I’ll do my best to give a general overview.

Big things are that fossil fuel engines do not exist. Planes, automobiles, etc, do not and will not exist in MIC. Horses and walking are still the main travel methods. Both swords and guns are used. In the Broddring Empire, the most technologically advanced computers are those box computers from the late 90s early 2000s. Somehow, MP3 players exist, but not the sleek ones we know now (Eragon has one that he keeps on his person at all times). There is some difference between the level of computer tech humans have when looking at the Empire and Surda. Elves and dwarves have their own levels of tech that are more advanced. Radios are a thing, but for communication and entertainment/news, and again differ somewhat between races.

Also, big note that my friend Cor brought to my attention: My dumbass completely forgot about the Urgals and figuring out their levels of tech. It’s low, mostly due to combat focused and rather secluded (iirc) lifestyles.

Alright, let’s get down to specifics.

Handheld Weapons: While guns are a thing (modern, right here, right now guns), they haven’t taken over swords and other bladed weapons completely. Heck, swords are still a major part of the series! Close combat is done with swords, while guns are usually pistols, rifles, etc, used mid to long range. Things like AKs and very large magazine automatics aren’t very common, but burst fire and semi auto are okay. Examples: Arya and Brom both carry pistols and occasionally a long gun or combat rifle of some sort, while Murtagh has a specialized rifle he uses. Fäolin was a trained sniper. It’s sort of up in the air really. I add them when I feel like it.

Large Weapons: As mentioned in my MIC Dwarves post (LINKED), dwarves developed some artillery type weapons and small tanks (WW2 levels at the highest), run on magic energy. This energy is usually stored in mid to low quality minerals and crystals and can be replenished either via putting your life energy into it, or (and this is something new, I’m not sure if it’s going to stay or not) channeling the resulting energy release from basic exothermic chemical reactions into the crystals, though this is only a thing that dwarves know how to do and they are NOT sharing that information.

Armor: Oddly enough, Kevlar isn’t really prevalent. There’s still enough of a focus on hand to hand sword fighting that there’s mixes of other materials that could deflect sword blows with materials that can dissipate the impact of projectiles. Dwarves are the best to look to for their lightweight metal alloys for this purpose, and Saphira’s armor is the pinnacle of that technological achievement. I’m rusty (HA!) on my metallurgy and aramid fiber applications info, so you’ve sparked my urge to do some research. I’ve not figured out a good dragon armor design yet, but when I do I’ll definitely draw some up!

Oh, more armor! Elves have perfected spidersilk armor, and when properly mixed with metals or aramid weaves it creates fantastically resistant cloth and plating. Arya’s jacket, mentioned plenty of times in MIC stories, is made of this spidersilk cloth mixture. It’s stopped bullets before, and is pretty resistant to cutting from nearly everything but a Rider’s sword or other crazy rule breaking/bending magic. Arya’s armor in my original ‘The Soldier’ drawing is also spidersilk, though it’s more spidersilk alloy plate. If you see anything that’s a mottled texture, mottled blue or blue grey in my MIC art, that’s had spidersilk added to it. Elvish armor (and even some weapons) relies on it heavily.

Elves tend to have the ‘highest’ level of tech, but it’s mostly due to an abundance of magic, time, and knowledge in other fields that lead to strange new inventions. They don’t develop it often, as it’s mostly a fleeting hobby, but when they do implement it with their magic it can be pretty dang cool. Glenwing studied, among his mental health and medical training, electrical engineering type things and thus knows how to rewire both nerves and devices. Rhunön is quite adept at working magic into her forging, as well as mechanical and electrical (sort of) work. When Glen loses his arm in the ambush, Rhunön is the one that makes a prosthetic for him that sort of ends up being like Fullmetal Alchemist Automail, but without the painful surgical requirements. It requires only the same amount of energy that movement and actions with muscle and tissue would require with his real arm, so it is linked to his own energy. Arya, meanwhile, picks up a lot of mechanical engineering from bothering Rhunön as a kid and gets even more experience with it via dwarvish tech, weapons sabotage, and ‘use everything till it falls apart’ forced rationing with the Varden, leading to a combination of her and Glen’s skills to create their squad’s special radios that are mentioned in a few of the MIC stories.

Dwarves are the most mechanically inclined and, again, use energy storing crystals very frequently in their creations. I think it’s mentioned in my dwarf post that many many households have items and tools that house these crystals. I go more in depth with the post I mentioned so that’s probably where you’ll get the most info.

Humans are kinda stuck. Galbatorix tends to draw from things reported on/seen while fighting against other forces and has his people develop from those. Military weapons have been the main focus, so there’s not much in the way of computers or that kind of stuff. Those old box computers are usually only used in businesses that can afford them for finances and the like. As for artillery, the Broddring Empire has developed ‘cannonbombs,’ artillery shells that are clusterbombs inside an outer shell that can be on a timed fuse for detonation before impact or explode on impact and releases several more explosives (If you want a better explanation, check out MIRV grenades from from the Borderlands games). They’re the bane of trench fighters.

Meanwhile, in Surda, computers are a little smaller! Due to the hot climate, Surdans learned to make more efficient cooling systems and were able to make them smaller and more compact, leading to an explosion of research into making the rest of the equipment smaller as well. They’ve moved on to tower+flat monitor type computers. Surda is more interested in chemical engineering and tech towards the center of the kingdom, while defensive tech and development takes precedence along the border for obvious reasons.

Even though humans seem to have gotten the short end of the stick, I always want to mention that in MIC, humans are the most ingenious, able to use, reuse and repurpose due to their ‘limitations’ when side by side with other races. They think outside and all over the box, occasionally cutting the material of the box to see if they can make something out of that. It’s something that most dwarves and elves just don’t understand, and thus often overlook or underestimate.

That’s...all I’ve got at the moment. I hope that helped a bit! Please, if you have any more questions, ask! :D I love world building!!

#modern inheritance #modern inheritance cycle #eragon #inheritance cycle #The Inheritance Cycle #modern inheritance lore #mic lore #mi lore #enjoy the exposition #technology in mic

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internetbynight · 5 years ago

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𝙊𝙣 𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙇𝙞𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙖-𝙈𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙎𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚

In some remote corner of the universe, poured out and glittering in innumerable solar systems, there once was a star on which clever animals invented knowledge. That was the highest and most mendacious minute of "world history"—yet only a minute. After nature had drawn a few breaths the star grew cold, and the clever animals had to die.

One might invent such a fable and still not have illustrated sufficiently how wretched, how shadowy and flighty, how aimless and arbitrary, the human intellect appears in nature. There have been eternities when it did not exist; and when it is done for again, nothing will have happened. For this intellect has no further mission that would lead beyond human life. It is human, rather, and only its owner and producer gives it such importance, as if the world pivoted around it. But if we could communicate with the mosquito, then we would learn that he floats through the air with the same self-importance, feeling within itself the flying center of the world. There is nothing in nature so despicable or insignificant that it cannot immediately be blown up like a bag by a slight breath of this power of knowledge; and just as every porter wants an admirer, the proudest human being, the philosopher, thinks that he sees on the eyes of the universe telescopically focused from all sides on his actions and thoughts.

It is strange that this should be the effect of the intellect, for after all it was given only as an aid to the most unfortunate, most delicate, most evanescent beings in order to hold them for a minute in existence, from which otherwise, without this gift, they would have every reason to flee as quickly as Lessing's son. [In a famous letter to Johann Joachim Eschenburg (December 31, 1778), Lessing relates the death of his infant son, who "understood the world so well that he left it at the first opportunity."] That haughtiness which goes with knowledge and feeling, which shrouds the eyes and senses of man in a blinding fog, therefore deceives him about the value of existence by carrying in itself the most flattering evaluation of knowledge itself. Its most universal effect is deception; but even its most particular effects have something of the same character.

The intellect, as a means for the preservation of the individual, unfolds its chief powers in simulation; for this is the means by which the weaker, less robust individuals preserve themselves, since they are denied the chance of waging the struggle for existence with horns or the fangs of beasts of prey. In man this art of simulation reaches its peak: here deception, flattering, lying and cheating, talking behind the back, posing, living in borrowed splendor, being masked, the disguise of convention, acting a role before others and before oneself—in short, the constant fluttering around the single flame of vanity is so much the rule and the law that almost nothing is more incomprehensible than how an honest and pure urge for truth could make its appearance among men. They are deeply immersed in illusions and dream images; their eye glides only over the surface of things and sees "forms"; their feeling nowhere lead into truth, but contents itself with the reception of stimuli, playing, as it were, a game of blindman's buff on the backs of things. Moreover, man permits himself to be lied to at night, his life long, when he dreams, and his moral sense never even tries to prevent this—although men have been said to have overcome snoring by sheer will power.

What, indeed, does man know of himself! Can he even once perceive himself completely, laid out as if in an illuminated glass case? Does not nature keep much the most from him, even about his body, to spellbind and confine him in a proud, deceptive consciousness, far from the coils of the intestines, the quick current of the blood stream, and the involved tremors of the fibers? She threw away the key; and woe to the calamitous curiosity which might peer just once through a crack in the chamber of consciousness and look down, and sense that man rests upon the merciless, the greedy, the insatiable, the murderous, in the indifference of his ignorance—hanging in dreams, as it were, upon the back of a tiger. In view of this, whence in all the world comes the urge for truth?

Insofar as the individual wants to preserve himself against other individuals, in a natural state of affairs he employs the intellect mostly for simulation alone. But because man, out of need and boredom, wants to exist socially, herd-fashion, he requires a peace pact and he endeavors to banish at least the very crudest bellum omni contra omnes [war of all against all] from his world. This peace pact brings with it something that looks like the first step toward the attainment of this enigmatic urge for truth. For now that is fixed which henceforth shall be "truth"; that is, a regularly valid and obligatory designation of things is invented, and this linguistic legislation also furnishes the first laws of truth: for it is here that the contrast between truth and lie first originates. The liar uses the valid designations, the words, to make the unreal appear as real; he says, for example, "I am rich," when the word "poor" would be the correct designation of his situation. He abuses the fixed conventions by arbitrary changes or even by reversals of the names. When he does this in a self-serving way damaging to others, then society will no longer trust him but exclude him. Thereby men do not flee from being deceived as much as from being damaged by deception: what they hate at this stage is basically not the deception but the bad, hostile consequences of certain kinds of deceptions. In a similarly limited way man wants the truth: he desires the agreeable life-preserving consequences of truth, but he is indifferent to pure knowledge, which has no consequences; he is even hostile to possibly damaging and destructive truths. And, moreover, what about these conventions of language? Are they really the products of knowledge, of the sense of truth? Do the designations and the things coincide? Is language the adequate expression of all realities?

Only through forgetfulness can man ever achieve the illusion of possessing a "truth" in the sense just designated. If he does not wish to be satisfied with truth in the form of a tautology—that is, with empty shells—then he will forever buy illusions for truths. What is a word? The image of a nerve stimulus in sounds. But to infer from the nerve stimulus, a cause outside us, that is already the result of a false and unjustified application of the principle of reason. If truth alone had been the deciding factor in the genesis of language, and if the standpoint of certainty had been decisive for designations, then how could we still dare to say "the stone is hard," as if "hard" were something otherwise familiar to us, and not merely a totally subjective stimulation! We separate things according to gender, designating the tree as masculine and the plant as feminine. What arbitrary assignments! How far this oversteps the canons of certainty! We speak of a "snake": this designation touches only upon its ability to twist itself and could therefore also fit a worm. What arbitrary differentiations! What one-sided preferences, first for this, then for that property of a thing! The different languages, set side by side, show that what matters with words is never the truth, never an adequate expression; else there would not be so many languages. The "thing in itself" (for that is what pure truth, without consequences, would be) is quite incomprehensible to the creators of language and not at all worth aiming for. One designates only the relations of things to man, and to express them one calls on the boldest metaphors. A nerve stimulus, first transposed into an image—first metaphor. The image, in turn, imitated by a sound—second metaphor. And each time there is a complete overleaping of one sphere, right into the middle of an entirely new and different one. One can imagine a man who is totally deaf and has never had a sensation of sound and music. Perhaps such a person will gaze with astonishment at Chladni's sound figures; perhaps he will discover their causes in the vibrations of the string and will now swear that he must know what men mean by "sound." It is this way with all of us concerning language; we believe that we know something about the things themselves when we speak of trees, colors, snow, and flowers; and yet we possess nothing but metaphors for things—metaphors which correspond in no way to the original entities. In the same way that the sound appears as a sand figure, so the mysterious X of the thing in itself first appears as a nerve stimulus, then as an image, and finally as a sound. Thus the genesis of language does not proceed logically in any case, and all the material within and with which the man of truth, the scientist, and the philosopher later work and build, if not derived from never-never land, is a least not derived from the essence of things.

Let us still give special consideration to the formation of concepts. Every word immediately becomes a concept, inasmuch as it is not intended to serve as a reminder of the unique and wholly individualized original experience to which it owes its birth, but must at the same time fit innumerable, more or less similar cases—which means, strictly speaking, never equal—in other words, a lot of unequal cases. Every concept originates through our equating what is unequal. No leaf ever wholly equals another, and the concept "leaf" is formed through an arbitrary abstraction from these individual differences, through forgetting the distinctions; and now it gives rise to the idea that in nature there might be something besides the leaves which would be "leaf"—some kind of original form after which all leaves have been woven, marked, copied, colored, curled, and painted, but by unskilled hands, so that no copy turned out to be a correct, reliable, and faithful image of the original form. We call a person "honest." Why did he act so honestly today? we ask. Our answer usually sounds like this: because of his honesty. Honesty! That is to say again: the leaf is the cause of the leaves. After all, we know nothing of an essence-like quality named "honesty"; we know only numerous individualized, and thus unequal actions, which we equate by omitting the unequal and by then calling them honest actions. In the end, we distill from them a qualitas occulta [hidden quality] with the name of "honesty." We obtain the concept, as we do the form, by overlooking what is individual and actual; whereas nature is acquainted with no forms and no concepts, and likewise with no species, but only with an X which remains inaccessible and undefinable for us. For even our contrast between individual and species is something anthropomorphic and does not originate in the essence of things; although we should not presume to claim that this contrast does not correspond o the essence of things: that would of course be a dogmatic assertion and, as such, would be just as indemonstrable as its opposite.

What, then, is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms—in short, a sum of human relations which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins.

We still do not know where the urge for truth comes from; for as yet we have heard only of the obligation imposed by society that it should exist: to be truthful means using the customary metaphors—in moral terms: the obligation to lie according to a fixed convention, to lie herd-like in a style obligatory for all. Now man of course forgets that this is the way things stand for him. Thus he lies in the manner indicated, unconsciously and in accordance with habits which are centuries' old; and precisely by means of this unconsciousness and forgetfulness he arrives at his sense of truth. From the sense that one is obliged to designate one thing as red, another as cold, and a third as mute, there arises a moral impulse in regard to truth. The venerability, reliability, and utility of truth is something which a person demonstrates for himself from the contrast with the liar, whom no one trusts and everyone excludes. As a rational being, he now places his behavior under the control of abstractions. He will no longer tolerate being carried away by sudden impressions, by intuitions. First he universalizes all these impressions into less colorful, cooler concepts, so that he can entrust the guidance of his life and conduct to them. Everything which distinguishes man from the animals depends upon this ability to volatilize perceptual metaphors in a schema, and thus to dissolve an image into a concept. For something is possible in the realm of these schemata which could never be achieved with the vivid first impressions: the construction of a pyramidal order according to castes and degrees, the creation of a new world of laws, privileges, subordinations, and clearly marked boundaries—a new world, one which now confronts that other vivid world of first impressions as more solid, more universal, better known, and more human than the immediately perceived world, and thus as the regulative and imperative world. Whereas each perceptual metaphor is individual and without equals and is therefore able to elude all classification, the great edifice of concepts displays the rigid regularity of a Roman columbarium and exhales in logic that strength and coolness which is characteristic of mathematics. Anyone who has felt this cool breath [of logic] will hardly believe that even the concept—which is as bony, foursquare, and transposable as a die—is nevertheless merely the residue of a metaphor, and that the illusion which is involved in the artistic transference of a nerve stimulus into images is, if not the mother, then the grandmother of every single concept. But in this conceptual crap game "truth" means using every die in the designated manner, counting its spots accurately, fashioning the right categories, and never violating the order of caste and class rank. Just as the Romans and Etruscans cut up the heavens with rigid mathematical lines and confined a god within each of the spaces thereby delimited, as within a templum, so every people has a similarly mathematically divided conceptual heaven above themselves and henceforth thinks that truth demands that each conceptual god be sought only within his own sphere. Here one may certainly admire man as a mighty genius of construction, who succeeds in piling an infinitely complicated dome of concepts upon an unstable foundation, and, as it were, on running water. Of course, in order to be supported by such a foundation, his construction must be like one constructed of spiders' webs: delicate enough to be carried along by the waves, strong enough not to be blown apart by every wind. As a genius of construction man raises himself far above the bee in the following way: whereas the bee builds with wax that he gathers from nature, man builds with the far more delicate conceptual material which he first has to manufacture from himself. In this he is greatly to be admired, but not on account of his drive for truth or for pure knowledge of things. When someone hides something behind a bush and looks for it again in the same place and finds it there as well, there is not much to praise in such seeking and finding. Yet this is how matters stand regarding seeking and finding "truth" within the realm of reason. If I make up the definition of a mammal, and then, after inspecting a camel, declare "look, a mammal" I have indeed brought a truth to light in this way, but it is a truth of limited value. That is to say, it is a thoroughly anthropomorphic truth which contains not a single point which would be "true in itself" or really and universally valid apart from man. At bottom, what the investigator of such truths is seeking is only the metamorphosis of the world into man. He strives to understand the world as something analogous to man, and at best he achieves by his struggles the feeling of assimilation. Similar to the way in which astrologers considered the stars to be in man 's service and connected with his happiness and sorrow, such an investigator considers the entire universe in connection with man: the entire universe as the infinitely fractured echo of one original sound-man; the entire universe as the infinitely multiplied copy of one original picture-man. His method is to treat man as the measure of all things, but in doing so he again proceeds from the error of believing that he has these things [which he intends to measure] immediately before him as mere objects. He forgets that the original perceptual metaphors are metaphors and takes them to be the things themselves.

Only by forgetting this primitive world of metaphor can one live with any repose, security, and consistency: only by means of the petrification and coagulation of a mass of images which originally streamed from the primal faculty of human imagination like a fiery liquid, only in the invincible faith that this sun, this window, this table is a truth in itself, in short, only by forgetting that he himself is an artistically creating subject, does man live with any repose, security, and consistency. If but for an instant he could escape from the prison walls of this faith, his "self consciousness" would be immediately destroyed. It is even a difficult thing for him to admit to himself that the insect or the bird perceives an entirely different world from the one that man does, and that the question of which of these perceptions of the world is the more correct one is quite meaningless, for this would have to have been decided previously in accordance with the criterion of the correct perception, which means, in accordance with a criterion which is not available. But in any case it seems to me that the correct perception—which would mean the adequate expression of an object in the subject—is a contradictory impossibility. For between two absolutely different spheres, as between subject and object, there is no causality, no correctness, and no expression; there is, at most, an aesthetic relation: I mean, a suggestive transference, a stammering translation into a completely foreign tongue—for which I there is required, in any case, a freely inventive intermediate sphere and mediating force. "Appearance" is a word that contains many temptations, which is why I avoid it as much as possible. For it is not true that the essence of things "appears" in the empirical world. A painter without hands who wished to express in song the picture before his mind would, by means of this substitution of spheres, still reveal more about the essence of things than does the empirical world. Even the relationship of a nerve stimulus to the generated image is not a necessary one. But when the same image has been generated millions of times and has been handed down for many generations and finally appears on the same occasion every time for all mankind, then it acquires at last the same meaning for men it would have if it were the sole necessary image and if the relationship of the original nerve stimulus to the generated image were a strictly causal one. In the same manner, an eternally repeated dream would certainly be felt and judged to be reality. But the hardening and congealing of a metaphor guarantees absolutely nothing concerning its necessity and exclusive justification.

Every person who is familiar with such considerations has no doubt felt a deep mistrust of all idealism of this sort: just as often as he has quite early convinced himself of the eternal consistency, omnipresence, and fallibility of the laws of nature. He has concluded that so far as we can penetrate here—from the telescopic heights to the microscopic depths—everything is secure, complete, infinite, regular, and without any gaps. Science will be able to dig successfully in this shaft forever, and the things that are discovered will harmonize with and not contradict each other. How little does this resemble a product of the imagination, for if it were such, there should be some place where the illusion and reality can be divined. Against this, the following must be said: if each us had a different kind of sense perception—if we could only perceive things now as a bird, now as a worm, now as a plant, or if one of us saw a stimulus as red, another as blue, while a third even heard the same stimulus as a sound—then no one would speak of such a regularity of nature, rather, nature would be grasped only as a creation which is subjective in the highest degree. After all, what is a law of nature as such for us? We are not acquainted with it in itself, but only with its effects, which means in its relation to other laws of nature—which, in turn, are known to us only as sums of relations. Therefore all these relations always refer again to others and are thoroughly incomprehensible to us in their essence. All that we actually know about these laws of nature is what we ourselves bring to them—time and space, and therefore relationships of succession and number. But everything marvelous about the laws of nature, everything that quite astonishes us therein and seems to demand explanation, everything that might lead us to distrust idealism: all this is completely and solely contained within the mathematical strictness and inviolability of our representations of time and space. But we produce these representations in and from ourselves with the same necessity with which the spider spins. If we are forced to comprehend all things only under these forms, then it ceases to be amazing that in all things we actually comprehend nothing but these forms. For they must all bear within themselves the laws of number, and it is precisely number which is most astonishing in things. All that conformity to law, which impresses us so much in the movement of the stars and in chemical processes, coincides at bottom with those properties which we bring to things. Thus it is we who impress ourselves in this way. In conjunction with this, it of course follows that the artistic process of metaphor formation with which every sensation begins in us already presupposes these forms and thus occurs within them. The only way in which the possibility of subsequently constructing a new conceptual edifice from metaphors themselves can be explained is by the firm persistence of these original forms That is to say, this conceptual edifice is an imitation of temporal, spatial, and numerical relationships in the domain of metaphor.

We have seen how it is originally language which works on the construction of concepts, a labor taken over in later ages by science. Just as the bee simultaneously constructs cells and fills them with honey, so science works unceasingly on this great columbarium of concepts, the graveyard of perceptions. It is always building new, higher stories and shoring up, cleaning, and renovating the old cells; above all, it takes pains to fill up this monstrously towering framework and to arrange therein the entire empirical world, which is to say, the anthropomorphic world. Whereas the man of action binds his life to reason and its concepts so that he will not be swept away and lost, the scientific investigator builds his hut right next to the tower of science so that he will be able to work on it and to find shelter for himself beneath those bulwarks which presently exist. And he requires shelter, for there are frightful powers which continuously break in upon him, powers which oppose scientific truth with completely different kinds of "truths" which bear on their shields the most varied sorts of emblems.

The drive toward the formation of metaphors is the fundamental human drive, which one cannot for a single instant dispense with in thought, for one would thereby dispense with man himself. This drive is not truly vanquished and scarcely subdued by the fact that a regular and rigid new world is constructed as its prison from its own ephemeral products, the concepts. It seeks a new realm and another channel for its activity, and it finds this in myth and in art generally. This drive continually confuses the conceptual categories and cells by bringing forward new transferences, metaphors, and metonymies. It continually manifests an ardent desire to refashion the world which presents itself to waking man, so that it will be as colorful, irregular, lacking in results and coherence, charming, and eternally new as the world of dreams. Indeed, it is only by means of the rigid and regular web of concepts that the waking man clearly sees that he is awake; and it is precisely because of this that he sometimes thinks that he must be dreaming when this web of concepts is torn by art. Pascal is right in maintaining that if the same dream came to us every night we would be just as occupied with it as we are with the things that we see every day. "If a workman were sure to dream for twelve straight hours every night that he was king," said Pascal, "I believe that he would be just as happy as a king who dreamt for twelve hours every night that he was a workman." In fact, because of the way that myth takes it for granted that miracles are always happening, the waking life of a mythically inspired people—the ancient Greeks, for instance—more closely resembles a dream than it does the waking world of a scientifically disenchanted thinker. When every tree can suddenly speak as a nymph, when a god in the shape of a bull can drag away maidens, when even the goddess Athena herself is suddenly seen in the company of Peisastratus driving through the market place of Athens with a beautiful team of horses—and this is what the honest Athenian believed—then, as in a dream, anything is possible at each moment, and all of nature swarms around man as if it were nothing but a masquerade of the gods, who were merely amusing themselves by deceiving men in all these shapes.

But man has an invincible inclination to allow himself to be deceived and is, as it were, enchanted with happiness when the rhapsodist tells him epic fables as if they were true, or when the actor in the theater acts more royally than any real king. So long as it is able to deceive without injuring, that master of deception, the intellect, is free; it is released from its former slavery and celebrates its Saturnalia. It is never more luxuriant, richer, prouder, more clever and more daring. With creative pleasure it throws metaphors into confusion and displaces the boundary stones of abstractions, so that, for example, it designates the stream as "the moving path which carries man where he would otherwise walk." The intellect has now thrown the token of bondage from itself. At other times it endeavors, with gloomy officiousness, to show the way and to demonstrate the tools to a poor individual who covets existence; it is like a servant who goes in search of booty and prey for his master. But now it has become the master and it dares to wipe from its face the expression of indigence. In comparison with its previous conduct, everything that it now does bears the mark of dissimulation, just as that previous conduct did of distortion. The free intellect copies human life, but it considers this life to be something good and seems to be quite satisfied with it. That immense framework and planking of concepts to which the needy man clings his whole life long in order to preserve himself is nothing but a scaffolding and toy for the most audacious feats of the liberated intellect. And when it smashes this framework to pieces, throws it into confusion, and puts it back together in an ironic fashion, pairing the most alien things and separating the closest, it is demonstrating that it has no need of these makeshifts of indigence and that it will now be guided by intuitions rather than by concepts. There is no regular path which leads from these intuitions into the land of ghostly schemata, the land of abstractions. There exists no word for these intuitions; when man sees them he grows dumb, or else he speaks only in forbidden metaphors and in unheard-of combinations of concepts. He does this so that by shattering and mocking the old conceptual barriers he may at least correspond creatively to the impression of the powerful present intuition.

There are ages in which the rational man and the intuitive man stand side by side, the one in fear of intuition, the other with scorn for abstraction. The latter is just as irrational as the former is inartistic. They both desire to rule over life: the former, by knowing how to meet his principle needs by means of foresight, prudence, and regularity; the latter, by disregarding these needs and, as an "overjoyed hero," counting as real only that life which has been disguised as illusion and beauty. Whenever, as was perhaps the case in ancient Greece, the intuitive man handles his weapons more authoritatively and victoriously than his opponent, then, under favorable circumstances, a culture can take shape and art's mastery over life can be established. All the manifestations of such a life will be accompanied by this dissimulation, this disavowal of indigence, this glitter of metaphorical intuitions, and, in general, this immediacy of deception: neither the house, nor the gait, nor the clothes, nor the clay jugs give evidence of having been invented because of a pressing need. It seems as if they were all intended to express an exalted happiness, an Olympian cloudlessness, and, as it were, a playing with seriousness. The man who is guided by concepts and abstractions only succeeds by such means in warding off misfortune, without ever gaining any happiness for himself from these abstractions. And while he aims for the greatest possible freedom from pain, the intuitive man, standing in the midst of a culture, already reaps from his intuition a harvest of continually inflowing illumination, cheer, and redemption—in addition to obtaining a defense against misfortune. To be sure, he suffers more intensely, when he suffers; he even suffers more frequently, since he does not understand how to learn from experience and keeps falling over and over again into the same ditch. He is then just as irrational in sorrow as he is in happiness: he cries aloud and will not be consoled. How differently the stoical man who learns from experience and governs himself by concepts is affected by the same misfortunes! This man, who at other times seeks nothing but sincerity, truth, freedom from deception, and protection against ensnaring surprise attacks, now executes a masterpiece of deception: he executes his masterpiece of deception in misfortune, as the other type of man executes his in times of happiness. He wears no quivering and changeable human face, but, as it were, a mask with dignified, symmetrical features. He does not cry; he does not even alter his voice. When a real storm cloud thunders above him, he wraps himself in his cloak, and with slow steps he walks from beneath it.

Frederich Nietzsche

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uhxrp · 4 years ago

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member groups

these are open to interpretation. our site’s member groups include seven character groups as well as four side groups that we’ll give you the run down on just to keep everything transparent. something to remember for our character groups, however, is this: you have full power on which group your character falls into. we understand that characters, just like people, often fit into many different groups, and sometimes it’s hard to choose. because of this, we just ask that you pick the one that makes the most sense to you, the one that seems like the best fit even if they have qualities of other groups. basically, as long as you can rationalize it, we’re good. the choice is entirely yours.

Our member groups are as follows:

BLOOD MOON - #c991a1

the staff. this group is for the members of the site staff team.

this is a side group.

SOLAR ECLIPSE - #c99c91

the leaders. these are naturally commanding, self-assured, decisive characters. they are the 'leaders of the pack', so to speak. these are the ones to make the final decision. unfortunately, great power also comes with great sacrifice and these characters tend to be demanding, haughty, inflexible, intolerant, overbearing, and ruthless at times. these characters are the ones to make things happen, which can be good but leads to a power struggle between responsibility and power. these characters are leaders, but being a good leader means listening to the will of your followers, and the balance is not an easy one to master. still, those in this group are magnanimous, calm in stressful situations, and they inspire loyalty.

aesthetics. aficionado of history, badass in a nice suit, cunning concealed by painted lips, delighting in the waves, doves, eloquence, expensive watch, flash of lightning, flirtatious winks, force of nature, gets turned on by danger, high-rise buildings, juggling multiple events on their busy schedule with ease, lenny face, maintains order, most likely to be voted class president out of their peers, natural charisma, nightmare-filled nights, planes soaring through a cloudless sky, pretends they don’t have feelings but they do, proud arm around their lover’s waist, running on coffee, sees the world as a runway, staring wistfully from a balcony, strolling along the beach, strong handshake, technician on the piano, the sea washing their ankles, thrives on attention, thunder in their heart, unapologetically sexual, wants to be adored, your girlfriend thinks they’re attractive.

NEW MOON - #c9b991

the newbies. this member group is what we call our registering members, those who haven't been accepted yet. everyone will start off in this group.

this is a side group.

MOON MOON - #bec991

the forgotten. this member group are those who have been archived, but don't sweat it. we allow for character reactivation at any time, should the need occur.

this is a side group.

WANING CRESCENT - #a1c991

the artists. these are naturally creative, sensitive, and dexterous. these characters find the future and make it discoverable. they see the world as a place to build and admire. these are the artists, the entrepreneurs, the inventors. these are creative spirits with unique ideas, outlooks, and inspired souls. they can be artificial, moody, self-destructive, and flaky - but they can also be spontaneous, refreshing, and romantic.

aesthetics. always up-to-date on the latest technology, cool rain, cows grazing on a pasture, crafting masterpieces, dark eyes that penetrate your soul, devil-may-care smile, does it for the vine, downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath and netflix, files that under ‘fuck it’, fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, folded maps, hand clutching a string of pearls, hoodies and sneakers, ink-stained hands, large chandelier with glittering crystals, long drives on the highway, loving and hating fiercely, marble and gold, neatly-organized music sheets, notebooks filled with poetry, paint brushes, paint coated boyfriend jeans, pictures of the sky while flying on a plane, resting bitch face, romance to realism, spontaneous road trips, will steal your french fries.

LUNAR ECLIPSE - #91c9b9

the inspirational. these are the optimists, those who are uplifting, motivating, and energizing without even trying. these are your visionaries, the people who turn terrible situations into manageable ones with ease. they reassure you, encourage you, and cheer for you on the sideline. but these aren't just side characters, these are the people who create revolutions. these people bring good intentions to life. these characters also have a strong downside though, often coming off as irrational and fanatical in their die-hard beliefs and own decided moral/ethic code.

aesthetics. blueprints for future projects, broad shoulders, cherry blossoms, clothes smeared with paint, coffee shops, colorful coral reefs, compass with a spinning arrow, cotton candy, even their muscles have muscles, fixing up a busted up car and giving it cool upgrades, flame burning in their eyes, fondness for diy projects, goes jogging in the morning, grocery shopping, handwriting that flows across the page, holding hands, knee high socks, leather jackets, love confessions, ma and pop diners, mood as ever-changing as the sea, nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin, owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns for more, puts googly eyes on everything, revolution in their kiss, secret daggers, sexual tension, spicy food, stirrer of passion, storm with skin , striking a match, stroking the soft fur of a cat, sweaty brow, the calloused hands of someone who knows labor, the roar of a motorcycle, the sea casting its spell, their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop, tousled locks, velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams, waves crashing against the shore.

WAXING GIBBOUS - #91bec9

the intellects. they question everything, they look at everything in a different way. they find themselves naturally curious, studious and academic not because they have to be but because they feel this undying need to be. they're analytical strong left‐brainers who question every reality of this world and pursue the answers endlessly. they're dependable while remaining independent, conventional but investigative. they can be arrogant, they can be reclusive, but they are beautifully brilliant.

aesthetics. a shy kiss on the cheek, a steamed up mirror, abs that can cut steel, ancient buildings, armor that intimidates, balls of wool displayed on shelves, big fan of logic, breathless laughter, campfires, can kill you with their brain, dipping your feet into a swimming pool, discerning gaze, eye for architecture, glittery eyeshadow, go-getter, hair done up, heads to the library often to research, loves brain teasers, matte nailpolish, modern buildings, natural lipstick, old books, owl perched on their finger, plays the sims for the sole purpose of building houses, pottery classes, quiet museums, rainy days, sharpened pencils, stargazing, stoic statues, storm clouds, studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid, sweaters in neutrals and cool colors, the glow of your phone at night, the patience of a lifelong teacher, the rooftop of a building, unreadable face.

BLUE MOON - #91a1c9

the unknown. this group is for those first viewing our site, our guests and potential new registers. this is the main look of our site, prior to becoming a newbie.

this is a side group.

FULL MOON - #9c91c9

the entertainers. they are built with more charm and charisma in one pinky than most others have in their whole body. these characters are naturally engaging, articulate, and expressive, often the people who keep the world turning by making it an enjoyable place to be. characters like these remind us what it means to be human and how to feel emotion. unfortunately, they can also be a bit arrogant because of this, as well as dramatic, demanding, and deceptive.

aesthetics. arrow to the heart, art galleries, bathing in the sunlight, beautiful cover of wonderwall, being made of gold, being the baby of the bunch, collecting vinyl records, creeping vines, drunk shitposter, glitz and glamour, grand opera houses, hanging out at music festivals with their friends, healing touch, inspiring loyalty, lives for the applause, masquerade balls, on their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second, playing multiple instruments, pouring champagne into flutes, probably has a tinder account, receiving a standing ovation, rich fabrics on dark skin, rolls of film, rose caught between their teeth, seductive smirks, shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the wine-spilled floor, shunning lies, sleek-furred panthers, sleeps naked, smile mingled wrath, speaking in prophecies, sporting shades, stage productions, tasting like sunshine, the powerful urge to create, theater masks, turning the volume up, untamed curls, wild parties that last from sundown to sunup.

WAXING CRESCENT - #b991c9

the survivors. they can be forceful, but are loyal to a fault. these are the protectors, those born with determination in every fiber of their being. these characters don't know when or how to quit, always striving to be the best they can be in every aspect of their lives. problem is, these characters are often seen as brutally blunt, sometimes intimidating and hot-tempered, and nearly always unforgiving of mistakes, even when they themselves make them. these characters are people based on action, those who set goals and are always trying to move toward them. they can be persuasive or coercive, and sometimes find the balance between the two hard to find.

aesthetics. armed for battle, arrow hitting a target, bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles, blood on their hands and face, bonding while circled around a campfire, boxing gloves, curses under their breath, damaged goods, disheveled braid, exhausted, fear is a prison, fights against injustice, fist raised in protest, force to be reckoned with, freckles like constellations on their skin, gives piggyback rides, ignites revolutions, keen sense of a hunter, lying on the grass and staring at the stars, moonlight peeking through the shadows, more sensitive than what their tough shell will make you think, mother doe and her fawn, not being much of a people person, patience on 3%, piercing eyes, popping egos, protecting their kin, quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree, red roses, running with wolves, scarred body, soft spot for children, the calm of the forest at night, the moon shimmering on a still lake, touches heaven and returns howling, wants to raise a dog with their significant other, warm hugs, well-worn combat boots, willing to fight the world for the ones they love.

WANING GIBBOUS - #c991be

the caring. their biggest battle comes in the form of service vs servitude, or the form of serving the common good vs losing their own power. these characters are naturally accommodating, compassionate caring, hospitable and altruistic. they are the ones who always takes care of you when you need it. they are dedicated in relationships, often coming off as the "mom friend" in their friend groups. on the opposite side, however, these characters can often be overworked, easily frustrated, and self-sacrificing. they are often prone to self-disparagement and can become a bit controlling. still, these characters are trustworthy, competent, warm individuals who often are just trying to help others.

aesthetics. being the mom-friend, can lift you and your friends, caring for someone, curls crowned with flowers, daisies dotted across a collarbone, dressed in silk and satin, fairy lights, field of flowers, flower in their hair, flowers kept in the pockets of overalls, flushed cheeks, folded pile of sweaters in warm hues, greenhouses, heart as strong as a mountain, hugs, laughter-loving, leaves rustling in the wind, picking fruit, playing in the snow, pulling out fresh-baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air, skin loved by the sun, smile that can bloom flowers, soil-covered hands, speaks to their plants, stalks of wheat, stargazing, staying up all night to talk to someone you like, sweet smiles, takes pride in their beautiful garden, the sound of a pen scratching against paper, travelling, twirling around in a pretty dress, values simplicity.

#unhxlyrp #groups #updates

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pamphletstoinspire · 5 years ago

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Let Sorrow For Sin Help You Overcome Your Sins

“For I know my iniquity, and my sin is always before me.” - Psalm 50:5

The more accurately we appraise God’s sanctity and the consequent completeness of His condemnation of evil, the more deeply shall we know the malice of sin, and hence, the more sincerely and enduringly shall we repent. But true repentance forces its way down to the soul’s profoundest consciousness very slowly. In the hardened sinner especially, the moral sense is only gradually quickened to anxious sensitiveness over the commission of his sin.

What uncertainty, what vacillation, what irresolution, what doubt, what dimness of vision, what partial hopes, what slow, fitful enlightenment, what conflicting struggles attend such a soul’s effort to rid itself of sin! God’s mercy works to free the soul from its slavery, and sin ever strives to keep it within the narrow confines of its deceitful captivity; God’s grace ever seeks to illumine it, and the darkness of sin ever deepens, to blind its eyes; the soul yearns to be released from its merciless thralldom, yet is so attached to sin, so mired in sin, as to fear that God will not release it. But grace by degrees refines the soul’s moral sense, clarifies gradually its vision, until it beholds, to the full extent of its limited powers, the hideousness of sin and God’s ineffable mercy; and smiting the soul, as it did St. Paul, with the consciousness of its desolation, grace finally snaps asunder the chains of its degrading slavery.

What an experience was the sense of our first sin! Perhaps our dormant powers were awakened to the consideration of our diseased state by a sermon, by the death of a dear friend, by “the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns,” by a sudden illumination of grace piercing the darkness, and causing the scales to fall from our souls’ eyes.

But what a change was effected in our spiritual lives! Even souls schooled in the art of self-discipline, insistently “mortifying by the Spirit the deeds of the flesh,” daily subjecting the natural to the supernatural, have experienced this ever memorable smiting of their spiritual sensibilities over the commission of sin.

How lasting and how profitable is the undying remembrance of such a crisis! How eventful the change wrought by it in the soul’s life! What a complete conversion it worked in the soul of the slave of sin, deciding for him, perhaps, his eternal salvation! What a renewal of fervor, what a stimulus to progress in virtue, now seizes the regenerated soul!

The crisis has instilled the spirit of self-reproach, which, in its sincerity—beholding the soul’s sinfulness, and realizing that there is much more to be repented of and that to bring to light hidden sins is a positive sign of growth in holiness — broadens and deepens the penitential spirit. The soul now realizes that its past sorrow has been without the depth that would enable it to atone for its sins, and it loves God all the more from the conviction born of the knowledge of the guilt of these lapses, and God’s infinite patience with them. And as the soul’s love of Him becomes purer from the consciousness of its guilt, so likewise does its repentance ever increase.

The touchstone of remorse is sorrow of soul inspired by the conviction of sin. It is a sorrow which beholds sin with a vivid and unchanging appreciation of its malice, which constantly contemplates the pain and anguish that sin caused the Redeemer, which gazes with fixed vision on the eternal consequences of sin. This indispensable prerequisite of the true penitential spirit is ever active in the soul to deepen its detestation and sharpen its vision by associating it more closely with Christ’s vision of sin, thereby increasing the soul’s hatred of the guilt of sin; this hatred of sin grows with advancing years and becomes perfect only when the soul enters God’s eternal court, where sorrow shall be no more.

Godly sorrow aroused by the power of grace working remorse in the soul may be transient or permanent. When the conscience of the sinner is first smitten with the sense of sin, he is impulsive, restless, morose, yearns for self-denial, and almost blinds himself to the mercy of God through a false idea of His justice. This unreasonable sorrow soon passes, under the powerful stimulus of grace, into sorrow that is reasonable and permanent. The soul foregoes its violence and grows calm; its fear of God is no longer slavish, but reverential; it becomes more patient with, although not indulgent of, itself; its grief is now silent rather than assertive, because it has penetrated beneath the surface.

Secure in the possession of Him who cannot change, the soul is not eager for fitful sensible fervor. Grounded in humility, it is more vigilant, but also not dejected when it falls. Wholly diffident of itself, it clothes itself with the very strength of God by its childlike trust in Him. Sorrow springing from remorse may, in its twofold aspect, be likened to a river swelling and overflowing its banks, sweeping all before it in its fury, but by degrees subsiding as it sinks into the absorbent soil.

But permanent sorrow has its stages. Even in its advanced state, there is often a trace of the force and assertiveness of its first manifestation. As the soul becomes more keenly receptive to grace, its sense of sin grows, and bitter sorrow makes itself felt at the sight of even slight faults, as it formerly was convulsed by poignant grief for serious sins. The soul’s consciousness of sin has been so quickened, its vision is now so sharp, its appreciation of the sanctity of God and the severity of His justice is now so true, that it is transfixed with fear at the least violation of His law.

In the warmth of growing faith, habitual, quieter, and deeper sorrow gradually gains the ascendancy, and, slowly but surely, it leads the soul to the heights of holiness.

To suppose that sorrow does not exist because it is not demonstrative is a fallacy. Sorrow is very much akin to love. In its first fervor, love is vehement, yearns to express itself, is urgent to prove its sincerity. When it grows calm and wholly possesses the soul, becoming an unfailing source of kindness, self-sacrifice, and inviolable fidelity to duty, love is then the soul’s sublimest passion. At first, it was only a fleeting emotion; now it is a fixed state following the dictates of reason, and thus befitting an intelligent creature. Likewise, sorrow for sin, which divests repentance of excitability and makes it conform to the stern law of duty, far from languishing, acquires a more secure hold on the principles of the higher life.

The striving of the soul to rid itself of sin is the best evidence of the progress of its remorse. We are more certain of our sin than of our penitence. We know our sin directly; only by inference from its practical results can we prove our penitence. Only when the conviction of our sin is so rooted that it touches with healing the very source of our sin — only then are we sincerely repentant.

The sinner, however, no matter how depraved, does not love sin for its own sake. As the intellect clings to error, not because of the error, but because it beholds at least a modicum of truth in it, so the will consents to evil because it appears good. We are enamored, not of sin in itself, but only of the effects of sin. The man who circumvents his neighbor loves, not the trickery involved in deception so diabolical, but the result of it, the gain that he thinks will accrue to him. The acquisition of wealth is very powerful in its appeal to the man who is sordidly materialistic, but the duplicity and dishonesty that he may resort to in amassing a fortune cannot but be distasteful to him.

In short, man may long to gratify his passions, but not for the sake of the sin implicated with such indulgence. The desire to please self is so strong in him that it may stifle all his revulsion to sin and plunge his soul headlong into it. He is attracted by the pleasure the sin gives him; he loves the fountainhead and source of the sin. The satisfaction of his passions urges him on, driving him to trample on grace and its fruit, the desire to please God, which is entirely inconsistent with self-gratification.

Not the malice of sin in itself, but rather, the love of self-indulgence, is the reason for sin. The hatred of sin in itself is not therefore the essential difference between true and false repentance.

True repentance is easily discerned. Mortification is its soul. When we repeatedly resist our ruling passion, when we remove the causes that stir it into action, when we lay the axe to the root of sin, when we are proof against the alluring voice of self-love, which ever seeks to discredit the claims of conscience, when we bridle the triple concupiscence of the world, the flesh, and the Devil, when we are guided by the divine philosophy of the gospel and not by the uncertain, shifting maxims of the world, when the spirit of self-denial has so thoroughly woven itself into the fibers of our religious life as to make us impervious to the poisonous exhalations of worldliness, sensuality, and pride, when there is a substantial, not an accidental change in our attitude toward sin in its complex guises, when the Cross is for us the test and measure of success, when we learn the secret of sanctity from its greatest exponent and exemplar, Jesus Christ, who “did not please Himself,” when we “rend our hearts and not our garments,” and turn wholly to the Lord, our God — then and then only are we truly penitent.

The soul sincerely repentant appreciates the force of Christ’s words: “Watch, and pray that you enter not into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Such a soul is ever watchful, keenly conscious of the many subtle distempers of the human heart, ever ready to fight courageously against the passions that may, in an instant, be kindled into a mighty conflagration within it, ever on its guard lest the enemy surprise it openly or lead it covertly into the occasions of sin, deepening its confidence in God by increasingly distrusting its own strength. On the contrary, the soul that is not truly penitent still hankers after the seductive sweetness of sin; it flees not its devious paths; its enchanting spell still lulls the soul to sleep; self-love, and not the love of God, still rules supreme.

With such a soul, amendment is not a firm, efficacious resolve, but a mere weak wish that is powerless to withstand the stress and storm of temptation. The soul in this state, without the abiding conviction of sin, cannot renounce itself nor arouse the spirit of self-denial so essential to sincere repentance. The supreme need of such a soul is a strong sense of the sanctity of God, and of His consequent detestation of sin as revealed in the punishment which He reserves for it hereafter.

The essential difference between true and false repentance shows the indisputable necessity of sincerity with God. Our service of God must be free from duplicity. Christ enforces this truth: “He that is not with me is against me.” God cannot tolerate any compromise with sin: “He that gathereth not with me scattereth.” The man who tries to bargain with God is a weakling.To confess and not to change is treason against God. The eye of the soul must be sound. To the conviction that we are sinners, we must add honesty in dealing with our sins and in addressing ourselves to God for their pardon. Grace not only can reveal to the soul its characteristic weakness — without the cloak in which dishonest self-love would hide it — but also can counteract the deadly poison of sin and give the soul the moral strength to overcome the treacherous tempter.

Just as the vividness of the sense of sin is the measure of the growth of penitence, repentance is the great law of spiritual progress for both saint and sinner. But paradoxical as it may seem, the penitential spirit is more fully developed in the saint than in the sinner. The saint’s foundation of holiness is laid, and its superstructure mounts higher through watchfulness, prayer, and fasting. These are the means he uses to prevent carnal darkness from curtaining the eyes of his soul. He is convinced that he bears in his flesh the seeds of sin. He realizes that he carries about with him a body prone to sin.

Constantly reflecting upon the records of human corruption in the world about him, he beholds with the power of ever-broadening vision the sources of sin within him. He knows that his heart is a miniature of the great heart of humanity, and the melancholy monuments along the high road of history which he daily beholds are cautionary signals warning him against the snares that threaten his own spiritual ruin. Conscious that he is a child of sin, he checks his vicious tendencies and restrains his passions by drastic self-discipline.

Such penitence is essentially progressive. As the soul quits the haunts of sin and grows in virtue, its sorrow for sin must increase because, under the searching rays of truth that enlighten the soul as it tries to reach a higher plane of moral rectitude, it sees the essential difference between the oppressive darkness of its former sinful state and the pure, invigorating atmosphere of sanctity which it now breathes, and it better appreciates the miracle of mercy performed by God in working so marked a change in it. The soul inured to a life of repentance, ever maintaining its empire over the infirmities of the flesh, will utter its act of deepest, most godly sorrow at the hour of death. As long, however, as the soul lingers in its prison, regardless of its advances in sanctity, persevering penitence is absolutely necessary.

“Blessed is the man that feareth the Lord. Converse in fear during the time of your sojourning here. With fear and trembling work out your salvation. He that thinketh himself to stand, let him take heed lest he fall.”

These words are addressed to both saint and sinner. The fear of the Lord, the crown of all the gifts of the Holy Spirit, is an essential part of the penitential spirit. Christ our model availed Himself of this gift, “who in the days of His flesh, with a strong cry and tears, offering up prayers and supplications to Him who was able to save Him from death, was heard for His reverence.”

The possibility that we may lose our souls is a thought well calculated to strike terror into our hearts. Fear must therefore be the sustaining nourishment of our sorrow. If we fear God, He will hear our sighs, and we will swiftly proceed along the rugged but royal way of repentance until we arrive at the mountain of God.

Habitual penitence is the infallible test of growth in holiness, of the depth of its penetration, and the sincerity and consistency of its profession. The spirit of self-condemnation and of profound abasement must be the food ever feeding the energies of our resistance and self-denial, renewing our powers of self-discipline, restraining our tendency to indulgence, which is born of self-love, and strengthening us in the hour of trial by tightening our hold on God.

In the light of these truths, Lent, the season of serious thought and solemn penitence, should exert a dominant influence upon the soul aspiring to closer union with God. During this sacred time, the Church bids her children to scrutinize with care the plain, bare, searching truths of her sublime moral code. Somber in penitential garb, she invites them to contemplate the “Man of Sorrows” and to lay the deep foundation of veritable repentance by meditation on what it cost Him to redeem us.

The voice of God, during these forty days, seems to speak more clearly, perhaps because the ears of our souls are more sensitively attuned by grace to catch its faintest whisper. It gently chides us and thus awakens within us the power of remorse. It strengthens our conviction that we are sinners and, opening the sluices of our sorrow when we confess, wafts the wail of our heartfelt grief to the throne of God. We hear the echo of God’s forgiveness in the words of absolution; and the smile of God, appeased again, illumines our souls. Whether smiting us directly or sharply reproving us through its divinely appointed oracles, it is the voice of love.

What more singular proof of God’s mercy to sinners than His perennial pursuit of their souls? Now He speaks to them sternly through mental anguish or bodily pain; at another time, He humiliates them to the dust by the loss of earthly possessions or the coldness of ardently cherished friends. Thus He rouses them from their spiritual inertia to the serious consideration of the ravages of sin within them and the danger of eternal loss; and so, inspirited with the fear of the Lord and made “wise unto sobriety,” they forsake sin and adorn their souls with the virtues that will render them precious in His sight and be the pledge of their eternal union with Him.

BY: CHARLIE MCKINNEY

#overcoming sin

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sonicrainicorn · 6 years ago

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Made of Love, Chapter 15

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Table of Contents

Ship(s): Logicality, (platonic) Prinxiety

All Characters: Thomas, Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, Dr. Picani, Joan, Talyn, and Deceit

Synopsis: Humans Roman and Virgil get wrapped up in some serious magic business without meaning to. Their other companions aren’t exactly as they seem, either. Together they all must defeat a great threat for the safety of humanity.

Chapter Desc.: Virgil finds out some things that may help out Logan, but it seems too good to be true.

TW: Cursing

Prefer to read it on Ao3? Click here!

Virgil was going to punch something.

Maybe a wall, maybe someone’s face, maybe even the goddamn sun. He felt as if he had to. Logan continued to refuse to tell anyone about his problem, and at this point, Virgil was keeping it a secret just for pleasantries. But that was starting to wear thin. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to tell Patton. It was the right thing to do -- Logan was just being stubborn. And a maniac.

Honestly, he wasn’t fooling anybody. Anyone who knew him would be able to tell that something was up. It wasn’t something easy to pin down, but one could see that he wasn’t the same. Even if they weren’t that familiar with him.

And yet nothing was done about it. The three people in the whole, wide world who knew a thing about it, did absolutely nothing. Thomas and Patton continued to be out of the loop, having questions but never getting answers. It was awful. It brought Virgil closer and closer to his breaking point because this whole thing was just ridiculous.

“We have to do something.” Virgil stopped in front of Roman during a brief break in the busy demand of drinks. The bar was the one place they could talk in private. As ironic as that seemed.

Roman stopped messing with his empty shot glass to look up at Virgil. “About what?”

“About the suicidal maniac at home.”

“Oof. You still on that?” He put his head in his hand. “He’s not gonna change his mind. I think he would have to literally be dying to even consider saying anything.”

Virgil hated how right that was. “We can’t just stand back from it. He’s being a stubborn idiot. Doesn’t that frustrate you?”

“That’s always frustrated me about him. I’d say I’d know that better than anyone, but Patton’s dealt with him for over two hundred years, so.” He gave a half-hearted shrug. “What are we supposed to do about it?”

“I don’t know. Something.”

“You know, you’re really hot when you’re all riled up.”

Virgil scowled. “You make me want to punch your teeth in.”

“That’s kinky.” A lazy grin slid across his face.

He resisted the overwhelming urge to break a glass over Roman’s head. “Stop trying to deflect issues by making innuendos.”

“That’s literally how I got through the entirety of my adolescence.”

The urge was strong, but he couldn’t go through with it. Not in public. “We have to come to some sort of consensus on this. A final decision or something. Literally anything. Because he obviously can’t be trusted with his own life and we’re the only other two people that know.”

Roman dropped his hand. “He’s magic-less, Virge. We can’t just fix that.”

“Then we tell Patton. Or find Altair ourselves.”

“Do you honestly think two humans would be able to find a spooky wizard man when the actual magic users can’t even do it?”

Virgil tried to hold onto that thin thread of confidence, but it fell from his grasp. He deflated with a heavy sigh. “No. But I’m just worried, and frustrated, and --” he let out an aggravated groan -- “I hate keeping secrets. Especially something that’s as big as this.”

“You’re worrying too much. It’s out of our control.”

“But it’s exactly in our control. We can tell Patton at any time.”

Roman paused as if to mull over the words. “Okay. How 'bout this -- the next time we see him glitching out, we tell Patton. We don’t promise him anything, and we don’t let him stop us. Sound good?”

That was a start.

Most of the night passed as it normally did. Roman ended up finding a pen and some napkins to play games with Virgil anytime he wasn’t busy. They played four rounds of tic-tac-toe, more rounds than necessary of dots and boxes, one round of Pictionary, and now they were on hangman. It wasn’t how they normally passed the time together, but it seemed to be waning down the intensity of their previous conversation. So that was a plus. Also, Virgil didn't have alcohol clouding his judgment so he won most of the games. That made things a lot more fun.

Two hours until closing, Jamahl came up to the bar in uncertainty. "Hey, uh, Virgil?” He drummed his fingers against the counter. “There's a guy over there that wants to see you." He motioned over to one of the booths.

Virgil frowned. "Does he have a name?" He didn't see any faces he recognized. The pens in his pockets felt a lot more prominent.

"Don't know. He didn't say anything other than needing to see you."

He shared a glance with Roman. Confusion passed between them as well as uncertainty. "I'll check it out. Thanks."

Jamahl left with a nod of his head.

“You’re not actually going over there are you?” Roman set down his pen to give Virgil his full attention. “We don’t know who he is. Or if he’s human. He could be anything.”

“Right. So you’re gonna watch my back.” He looped around from behind the bar, leaving Roman gaping in his seat. "The answer's Prince Phillip, by the way."

He couldn't hold back a smirk at Roman's astonished mumble, "Why are you so good at this?"

He walked along the booths and took note of the people still in the building. Many of them were in groups; friends having a good time out for once. Very few were drunk. He slowed to a stop at a booth with only one person. A man lazily playing with a fork and zero interest in anything around him. He didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the patrons.

Once the man noticed Virgil staring, he looked up. A slow smile stretched along his face. Not a Figment, then. "I heard you're looking for Altair."

Virgil slipped a hand in his pocket. "Says who?"

"Says a lot of people. But more specifically, you did."

Oh, shit, he did. Maybe talking out in the open about magic wasn't the smartest thing to do. Virgil wasn't the only person in the world good at eavesdropping. "Okay. So why does that matter to you?" He slid into the seat across from the man.

"It doesn't, really, but I do happen to have a conscience. And that means I can't go on unless I tell you what I know."

"How is it that you know anything?"

He set the fork down and placed his hands together. "I guess you can call me a theorist of sorts. I figure out things so other people don't have to." He winked.

Virgil didn't find it amusing. "So what does that have to do with me?" He moved the pen out onto his lap, twisting it between his fingers.

"I have things that you want -- well, one thing. Altair's location."

He placed his elbow on the table top without stopping the pen from moving. “How can you know that? No one knows that.”

“Correction: no one wants you to know that. Anyone who does know is saving their own skin.”

Virgil narrowed his eyes. “Then why would you say anything? What makes you so different than anyone else?”

He smirked a bit, but maybe that was his version of a smile. “It’s my job. If someone needs something found out, then I go through the efforts of getting all the information I can. Now, you didn’t request my services but I feel you need my help. I have a hunch that you’re on a bit of a time limit.”

“Then get on with it.” Almost as if on impulse, Virgil stopped and clicked the pen. Instead of a dagger, however, the ballpoint tip poked out like it was a normal pen.

“Don’t brandish a weapon in public,” Thomas’s voice hissed at him.

Right. That wouldn’t have been smart. The muffled sound of the voices around them was a gentle reminder that they weren’t alone for this discussion. All it would take was one glance in their direction to see a dangerous weapon out in the open. There was no way he’d be able to explain that.

The Theorist didn’t seem all that impressed. “Why don’t we put the pen down?” He pushed Virgil’s hand down to the table with a finger.

Virgil scowled, clicking the pen and putting it back in his pocket. “How am I supposed to know if I can trust you?”

“Oh, you don’t --” Virgil was about ready to leave without a second glance back -- “but is that a chance you’re willing to take? Do you honestly think Logan will last until you get a lead of your own?”

Virgil stared at him in shock. “How the hell do you know about Logan?”

He placed a finger to his smirking lips. “I have to keep some of my secrets.” He dropped the act, suddenly taking on a serious tone. “Do you want the info or not?”

Virgil pursed his lips. If this was a trick, he’d be putting everyone in danger by saying yes. If it wasn’t, he’d run the risk of killing Logan by saying no. Either decision had a dangerous consequence. “What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one. Maybe let me know the conclusion to your story. I do appreciate a good ending.” He offered out his hand.

Fuck it. “Fine.” Virgil shook it to seal the deal. “Tell me everything you know.”

So Virgil listened. The Theorist explained how Altair nearly perfected the art of hiding away. Nearly, but not quite. He most often stuck to less populated areas. Which, as time marched on, became harder to find. He was left sticking to places that people abandoned. And that’s where he was now. In an old, run-down building off of Hazelnut and Terrace. Just right outside their little city of Balledo.

“It shouldn’t be hard to miss, but I’d watch out for anything. I hear he doesn’t take kindly to intruders.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He slid out of the booth to head back over to the bar. “Thanks or whatever.”

“Charming,” the Theorist muttered. “Oh, and Virgil,” Virgil froze. He didn’t recall ever saying his name, “watch out for that little boy, would you? He seems to get into a lot of trouble.”

Virgil didn’t have a verbal response to that. He continued on his way as if he hadn’t heard it at all. But he couldn’t pretend he didn't hear it even if he wanted to. It almost sounded like a warning -- a certainty. Like he knew something Virgil didn't.

"What happened? What did he do? Are you okay?" Roman didn't wait to bombard Virgil with questions. He even stopped him before he got behind the bar.

“I’m gonna need you to tone it down real quick.” He returned Roman down into his seat. “I’m fine. We just talked -- he said he had information for me.”

“What kind of information?”

“Where Altair is.”

Roman’s eyes widened. “Like actually? He knows where he is?”

“That’s what he said.” He frowned a bit. “I don’t know how reliable that is, though. Patton and Logan have been searching forever with no sign of him, but suddenly this guy knows where to look? Seems a bit suspicious.”

Roman frowned as well. “Then what are we supposed to do? This is the closest we’ve gotten yet -- are we just gonna pass it up? Logan’s not gonna last forever.”

“I know. We just -- we just need someone to know if this is true. We have to ask someone else.”

They didn’t talk about it for the rest of the night. Not even on the car ride back home. They let it hang in the air over them, constant ‘what-if’ scenarios playing out in their heads.

Once they stepped into the house, they stopped in their tracks. One light was on in the living room. Thomas sat on the floor, a canvas in front of him and a paintbrush in his hand. It looked like he was struggling to stay awake. His palette carried a mix of dark colors which translated onto the canvas as that cloaked figure in the grass as before, though this time it appeared more completed. There were five purple hyacinths -- a flower with clusters of star-shaped petals -- but the one the figure touched was starting to wilt. Its fingers transformed the deep purple of the petals into a murky brown.

"Hey, kid," Virgil said in a low voice as he took a seat on the couch. He vaguely registered Roman heading off to his room. It became a sort of unspoken agreement that Virgil would be the one to talk to Thomas whenever they found him up late. "Whatcha up to?"

Thomas blinked a few times. "Painting."

"Really? Kind of seemed like you were falling asleep."

He yawned. "No."

Virgil couldn't help the small smile that twitched at his lips. "What are you doing up so late?"

"Painting."

"I see that. But you should be in bed. It's late and you look exhausted."

Thomas waved a hand as if to dismiss such an idea. "It's only two AM. I can handle staying up later." Despite his words, he rubbed his eye, and ended up smearing black paint underneath it.

"It's almost three, kid."

"What?" He looked over to the digital clock beneath the TV. Sure enough, the time was a lot closer to three than it was to two. "Oh, man. I guess I have been up for a while."

"What's keeping you up?" Virgil let his eyes wander over the canvas. It was a rather dreary painting if he were to be honest.

Thomas shrugged. "Just needed to do something." He ran the brush up and down the palette, leaving a dark streak in its wake.

Right away Virgil could tell something was wrong. Like an innate instinct that pulled at his stomach. "Is there something on your mind?"

"I've just… I've been thinking."

"About what?"

He dropped the brush and sighed. A heavy and sad sound. "Logan's been hiding something. I know he has. But he doesn't want to tell me." He occupied himself with his hands by peeling off the dried up paint that dotted them. "And I know that you and Roman know, too," Virgil felt his stomach drop, "but I don't want to hear it from you. I want Logan to tell me."

"Why's that? You could easily ask either of us and we'd tell you."

"I know Logan almost as well as Patton. He wouldn't want you to say anything." Virgil had to agree. "And it's not the point. If he were to tell me, it would be straight from the source without any of your filters. Except he's never going to tell me no matter how many times I ask." He stopped messing with his hands. "He still thinks of me as a little kid. He treats me like I'm still five years old and I can't handle anything. I'm almost a hundred. I'm not that immature, am I?"

"Of course not. But… you are a kid, Thomas. You're his kid. He doesn't want to upset you."

"And keeping things from me is supposed to make that better?" He frowned at Virgil. His eyes were starting to water. "It's something big. It has to be. Why else would he keep it from Patton, too?"

Virgil hesitated. There was a chance it made Thomas feel better. "Maybe it won't be an issue anymore."

Thomas furrowed his brows. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I may have found out where Altair is. And that might help his problem."

His eyes widened. "For real?"

"Maybe. I don't know if the person who told me can be trusted."

"Who told you?" Before Virgil could even open his mouth, Thomas continued, "no. Wait. Don't say anything. I know exactly who we have to ask." He paused. "Maybe when it's a normal time. I don't think they'd want to be woken up in the middle of the night."

"I guess that means you should head to bed, then."

"I am ninety-four years old. You're not the boss of me." He rubbed his eyes again. "But on an unrelated note, I will be heading up to my room after I clean up."

Virgil shook his head with a fond smile. "Don't forget to wash your face. You look like a raccoon."

The next morning, Virgil woke up at the ungodly hour of 8:30 AM. That shouldn't have been a real time. He would have stayed in bed if someone didn't open up the curtains to let all the awful sun in. He let out a mixture of a groan and a whine as he tried to block it out with his blankets. It didn't work.

"Come on, Virgil." Thomas shook his shoulder. "We gotta go see Joan and Talyn so you can tell them who you saw. We'll be back before you know it."

Virgil pulled down the blanket enough to scowl, though in his groggy state it might have come across as a pout. "This is my sleeping time. I have work tonight. Which, in case you didn't notice, requires me to stay up late."

"You can sleep when we get back." He yanked off the blankets.

Virgil groaned in loud and obvious annoyance but rolled out of bed anyway. After a slight wardrobe change, they were on their way.

"Going to Joan's with Virgil, be back as soon as possible," Thomas mentioned in passing to Patton and Logan.

"Before breakfast?" Patton asked from the stove.

The mention of food made Virgil's mouth water despite rarely ever eating breakfast in his life.

"Save us some," was Thomas's response.

"Don't tell Roman I'm taking his car," Virgil called back as he grabbed the keys. "I don't want to deal with his whining when I'm sleeping later." Then they left.

They hopped up the front steps to a familiar little house in a sleepy neighborhood. Virgil still felt like staying in bed was a better option. He didn’t know how Thomas could be so awake. He didn’t know how anyone could be so awake. It was exhausting to think about.

That thought only tripled in his mind upon seeing Joan having no trouble at such an early hour in the morning. Well, early to Virgil at least. Far too early.

“So what’s up?” Joan asked as they all sat down in the living room. Talyn was already there with a little dog in their lap. Sephone wasn’t anywhere to be seen, which made Virgil on edge.

“We need you to fact check some things,” Thomas explained. "Virgil met someone who thinks they know where Altair is."

"Who was it?"

Virgil snapped out of his nervous scanning of the room to process the words that were spoken to him. "Uh, I never figured out his name. He referred to himself as a theorist, I think."

"Wait -- a theorist? Or the Theorist?" Talyn questioned.

"Um. I don't really know." He pulled his hoodie sleeves down to cover part of his palms. "He said he figured things out so people don't have to if that helps."

Talyn thought for a moment. "Sounds like him."

"Who's him?" Thomas looked at them in confusion.

"I would also like to know about this mysterious guy you know so much about," Joan added.

Talyn ignored the obvious teasing in favor of laying down some exposition. "They call him the Theorist, but that's all anyone really knows about him. He's like an urban legend, really. Just a name whispered around when you need to know something you probably shouldn't. He's a Seer, I think."

"What's a Seer?" Virgil asked.

"Someone who can see the future," Thomas explained. "But, like, they can just do it themselves. They don't need a spell or mystic object or anything. They can also look into the past if they want. Logan's sister was a Seer, actually --"

"We don't need a history lesson at this exact second, Thomas," Joan said.

Virgil felt as if he needed one. How long has Logan had a sister?

"Right. Uh, so does that mean we can trust what he says?"

Talyn pondered the question for a moment. "From what I've heard, he usually gives out genuine information. Sometimes what he says isn't always true, but that's a rare circumstance. I think I've only met one person who's complained about him. He's a pretty chill guy."

"What are the chances he's given us the right information?" Virgil grimaced. He jumped at the feeling of something in his lap. One of Sephone's heads looked up at him with puppy eyes. For a big dog, she was rather sneaky.

"Nine out of ten?" Talyn shrugged. "I've only ever heard stories, but he never tries to trick anyone. He genuinely likes helping people."

"That sounds like a good sign." Thomas grinned.

Maybe it did. But Virgil couldn't find anything to celebrate about. The Theorist could see into the future -- he had a natural ability to do so -- which meant that the warning he gave Virgil shouldn’t be taken lightly. He knew more than he was saying. And Virgil didn’t want to experience it first hand.

(Next)

#sanders sides #roman sanders #virgil sanders #thomas sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #joan #talyn #logicality #platonic prinxiety #coinverse

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vivienwise · 5 years ago

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Impressions in the Land | Part 2

Last semester I looked at a lineage of women using their bodies in the land. I compared the way these women use their bodies, how their backgrounds and methodologies change the work, and how viewers can relate to them. How does blending in to one’s environment speak to the way we negotiate our identities in and through space? What is the relation between self and environment? How do technological extensions of the self enable and disable relationships with the environment? In this post I will trace my trajectory from studying these artists to my own experimentation with digital technology in an effort to answer these questions.

Ana Mendieta

By looking back to ancient and aboriginal cultures, Ana Mendieta embraced a worldview that placed humanity not above, separate from, or in control of nature, but as a part of it. Mendieta’s exploration related directly to her own experience and to her overriding desire to ground herself in place, time, and history.

As she says, “I have been carrying on a dialogue between the landscape and the female body. I believe this to be a direct result of my having been torn away from my homeland during my adolescence. I am overwhelmed by the feeling of my having been cast out of the womb. My art is the way I reestablish the bonds that tie me to the universe.”

When Mendieta began her Silueta Series in the 1970s, she was one of many beginning to work in the emerging genres of land art, body art, and performance art. She combined the three in what she called earth-body sculptures. Her purpose and interest were rooted in nature’s symbolic meaning; Mendieta wanted to fuse with the land, not aggressively scar it. Mendieta often used her naked body to explore and connect with the Earth. She carved and shaped her own figure into the earth to leave haunting traces of her body made from grass, sand, dirt, flowers, tree branches, gunpowder and fire.

Rebecca Belmore

An interdisciplinary indigenous Canadian artist, Rebecca Belmore��s work focuses on issues of place and identity in the context of Indigenous people. Belmore’s work reminds us that the notion of intertwining self and world pre-dates the modern ecology movement. This idea has been central to Indigenous approaches to land for thousands of years.

In the early 90s, Belmore created Ayum-ee-aawach Oomama-mowan: Speaking to Their Mother, a project in which she travelled across the country with an intricately crafted, giant megaphone and invited Indigenous participants to use the megaphone to speak to the land and acknowledge their relationship to it.

The megaphone operated as a performance, a sculptural object, and a functional tool, “reaffirming the historical stewardship of the land and underlining the power and importance of voice”. There is a reciprocity of self and site that honors rather than collapses cultural difference. In the case of this project, the intertwining of self and world has been done acoustically. Viewers are invited to listen to the land while also recalling that the land is an audience, one that is listening.

In my own work, I am thinking about care and how it connects my body to the land. I am being cared for by the land, how can I reciprocate that? The idea behind this project came from asking myself how I find “topographical intimacy: (a term coined by Lucy Lippard*). What does it mean to find intimacy within a landscape? How can I connect to the land? The mountains are a place with which I feel connected, grounded. This led me to considering a sort of self portrait within the land, an intimate embedding of myself within a topography. What would it be like if I could lie down amongst these bodies of land, like lying in tall grass but at a different and impossible scale? Is the topography of my body that different from the topography of these mountain bodies?

Experimentation

After spending the fall semester of my externship working on one large project in response to that research, I decided to spend the spring in a far more experimental stage, trying to learn and play on a few different tools in the DSC. I want to see what digital tools can be useful to me and dip my toes into a few more things!

Maybe one of my favorite digital tools to use is the Structure 3D Scanner. I scanned myself and a friend, as well as some interesting landscapes in Utah.

I then used those 3D scans to do some more experimentation on the 3D printers – printing with resin for the first time as well as ceramic on the Form2.

The DSC recently got a small CNC (Computer Numerical Control) router which I have been excited to try out. The best way I can describe its function is a drill bit attached to a computer. As a fiber artist, my inclination is to work with soft things. I wanted to see if I could cut models out of a soft foam to create some cushion/pillow/forms. My first problem was that the CNC does not cut soft things. But! If you freeze foam in water, it is then a solid. So now I am working on cutting some mountains out of soft foam.

At this point I’m interested to see what the larger role of digital technology will have in my work and how it intersects with the traditional craft processes I’m more accustomed to using. The artists I’ve been looking at are directly engaging with the land and here I am sitting in the basement of a university library in the middle of a city.

I am hoping that using technology will help me to get at this compulsion to connect my body to the land, to satisfy the urge to leave a trace of myself in the landscape. While I live in Philadelphia, there is something that makes the mountains more accessible via digital tools. I can access these spaces that would otherwise be challenging for me to get at, and explore my interaction with these land bodies at a scale this not possible in the real world.

*Lippard, Lucy R. The Lure of the Local: Senses of Place in a Multicentered Society. New York: New Press, 1997.

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merrylittlehogwartsrp · 6 years ago

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Happy Holidays, Emily! We are thrilled to “invite” Dean Thomas (fc Keiynan Lonsdale ) back to Hogsmeade for a little forced Winter Cheer. We particularly liked how Dean was set up for growth in this application--not necessarily launching a career post-Battle of Hogwarts and still learning about himself. Dean’s roommate is: Harry Potter!

OOC DETAILS:

NICKNAME: Emily

AGE (must be 18+): A grandma in the rp world

PRONOUNS: She/her

ACTIVITY ESTIMATE: I work on political campaigns and there is a race I am starting in January which kills my time immensely, but right now I have ample free time and can lurk/plot the whole time!

CHARACTER DETAILS:

FULL NAME & NICKNAMES: Dean Allen Thomas

BIRTHDATE: October 1st 1979 Dean is a FIRM Libra. “"The balanced beautifier of the horoscope family, Libra energy inspires us to seek peace, harmony and cooperation. The essence of Libra energy is charming, lovable, fair, sincere, sharing, beautiful and hopelessly romantic.“

BLOOD-STATUS: Half-Blood, although he grew up believing he was Muggle-born

* GENDER IDENTITY: Cisgender male (although I would like to eventually explore a world where Dean could be more open to referring to himself as agender or gender fluid)

* GENDER PRESENTATION/PRONOUNS: Fairly masculine, he/him

* SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Dean is bisexual, although he very only recently fully came to terms with this.

* NOTE: this does not have to correspond to canon, or to the temporary pronouns in the bios!

CHARACTER SITUATION:

OCCUPATION: Dean works at a sporting goods store near his house and while it is not his ideal job, it does leave him with plenty of time to focus on his art. This is the main way he copes with the last three years.

HOUSING: He lives in a tiny, tiny flat in Clapton. It’s about a thirty minute train ride to his home, and while he would like to stay at home, there simply isn’t enough room now that the girls are growing. Not to mention, he quite enjoys his alone time away from the chaos of his family occasionally.

SOCIAL STANDING: Dean still can’t believe that he is in The Order of Merlin, First Class, thank you very much. It’s a bit of a wild title, especially for someone that people consider Muggle-born. Dean is known as a friendly face, and will always be a friend to those who need it, but his name usually doesn’t garner recognition. And frankly, he prefers to keep it that way.

CHARACTER CONFIGURATION:

TALENTS/WEAKNESSES +Artistically inclined + Athletic, which made him a great addition as a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team -Potions. He could never get the portions right, not to mention he thought it a dull subject -Not a strong leader

STRENGTHS/FLAWS + Bright; always knows just what to do or say to cheer someone up + Huge empath; keen ability to improve others moods + Loyal like no other person, whether that be to people or sports teams. He is your #1 Fan - Terrible at making decisions, which causes him to go with the flow a lot of the time -Self-less, which can lead to putting himself second and the needs of others first. Also causes a bit of a self-confidence issue

CHARACTER HISTORY:

FAMILY BACKGROUND Being raised by a single Muggle mother, Dean learned early on to dislike his father, Alexander, with every fiber of his being. His parents had married young, and he always blamed their split on that. Alexander was too young, he got cold feet. Couldn’t handle a baby anymore, let alone being a father. While Martha never gave him an outright reason to dislike his father, Dean was the one acting out about it. Looking back, it was probably because he was compensating for his mother’s own nonchalance on the subject. Why wasn’t she upset? Why wasn’t she screaming? He later realized that her spending hours in front of the television set alone was her own version of screaming.

They had been fine. Martha and Dean had built a life together, just the two of them. They lived in a tiny flat and ate tiny meals and wrapped each other in tiny blankets and only each other could feel the warmth. The introduction of Graham Richards into Dean’s life was not a welcomed one. They met at his produce shop, sharing casual flirtations down the turnip aisle. Nothing made her laugh as much as those cabbages.

As Graham started spending more time in their flat, Dean started coming to terms with the idea that maybe he wasn’t all that bad. He had shit taste in sports, sure, but he was a great cook. And he made Martha happy. Damn, did he make her smile.

It took him eight years to propose to Martha, and by that point it came as no shock to anyone. They were already basically married, having moved in together years ago. Graham was basically already Dean’s father, having helped him through a break up and always supporting him in his art projects. Veronica and Bridget were already welcomed additions into the family, and shortly after baby Sam was no different.

Soon his tiny flat became a spacious three-bedroom. His tiny meals became three-course dinners. The blankets became shelters for movie nights and a home for Dean’s stories from school.

Since his father’s death, Dean harbors serious regret for his treatment of the man he barely remembers, mainly because of memories he lost and resentment he held. He wants to tell his father he is proud of him. That he understands all that he did in order to protect his family. That he would have done the exact same thing. While he can’t look back on many memories, he will always wonder what if.

LIFE DURING THE WAR: Not being able to return to Hogwarts for his final year was devastating to Dean. He loved his friends and he loved Quidditch and he loved the charmed sugar spoon that he used each morning in the Great Hall for breakfast. The fact that he was Muggle-born should not have affected his ability to attend school, but he quickly learned it was for his own good. He would stay up late and write letters his father would never be able to read. In those letters, Dean promised he would get through all this. He promised that, eventually, there would be happiness for at least one of them.

Dean wasn’t keen on having to fight in a war in his home away from home, but like a true Gryffindor, he pummeled himself headfirst into the throws of Battle. Finally, he felt welcomed again in this world. Perhaps it was the rush of finally seeing his friends after all this time (physically there, if mentally in pieces) and seeing Harry—his old friend, his sole source of hope when no one would believe that there was a reason to hope anymore—do what’s right that continued to propel him forward after all this time.

LAST THREE YEARS

Dean chose to fully immerse himself in the Muggle world. In the Muggle word, they can’t force him to run away from his friends and family. He loves being a wizard of course, but his last year on the run really took its toll on him. He still wakes up with nightmares when a neighbor makes too much noise. He is constantly afraid of being alone, as he was alone for most of his Final Year. Dean doesn’t want to think about life in terms of goals because, to be quite honest, he really has no idea what he wants to do after Hogwarts. A small part of him didnt even think he’d make it this far. Instead, he has a lot of different interests and ideas, but nothing that is jumping out at him right now. The Ministry of Magic is urging those in The Order of Merlin First Class to follow the career path of an Auror. And there is a part of him that feels he could make a great Healer or Auror, and another part of him that longs to be a Quidditch star, and somewhere inbetween there is his desire to paint and draw for a living. The more he thinks about it the more overwhelmed he gets, so he conveniently chooses not to think about it. His goal right now is a lot simpler than that–if he is forced to come back to Hogsmeade, enjoy this festive Holiday celebration before he can’t anymore.

HOLIDAY DETAILS:

The Thomases were never big Christmas-celebrators in the whole Navity-set-and-going-to-church kind of way, but they do spend copious amounts of time watching Holiday specials that come on the telly and they have a tree with an unhealthy amount of tinsel. Dean’s step-father is a fantastic baker and Dean has a competition with him and his younger sister that involves cooking competitions and ginger snaps. His mother always ends up declaring it a tie because she can’t decide. He always valued coming home for the holidays simply because he recognized the traditions he was making with his half-sisters and knew that he wanted to be as involved as he possibly could. Being away from these traditions is enough reason for him not to want to go back to Hogsmeade, but he felt like he couldn’t say no. They crammed in as many of these traditions as they could before sending Dean off on his own.

OOC SUPPLEMENT:

SHIPS: I will not lie and say that Deamus makes me weep because clueless best friends to lovers hits a little too close to home for me, but I am also open to alternatives! Especially when Chemistry and Drama are thrown into the mix! Also super interested to flesh out Ginny and Dean’s past relationship, as I feel like that was not explored enough.

CHANGES: This is a very tiny tiny change, but I do think Dean will be excited to go to Hogsmeade. I always kind of thought of him as that guy who would actually want to go to a high school reunion of sorts, and I think it’s because he just loves his friends so gosh darn much!! He was robbed of a proper “Senior Year” and spent most of that year on the run. As a result, I think that he is spending a good portion of his life making up for lost time. Also because the kid loves a party, and a distraction.

FACECLAIM: Truly having a tough time debating between Keiynan Lonsdale and Alfie Enoch. I would not be mad with either!

#merrylittleapp

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chubsonthemoon · 7 years ago

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sunshine boys and daisies

summary: Todoroki meets the new baker, and makes a discovery.

pairing: midoriya izuku/todoroki shouto

words: 3128

based off of this lovely art by @03xlimit!

also on ao3!

Until the day Todoroki Shouto meets Midoriya Izuku, he’s not aware that he even has a favorite kind of flower. Strange, he knows. As a florist, he’s spent his entire life surrounded by them (some dying, others blooming, but all of different colors and scents that fill the bustling Todoroki’s Garden), but a specific kind has never truly struck his fancy. In fact, when he finally informs Fuyumi of his discovery, the day after his first encounter with Midoriya Izuku, she says with a laugh, “They’re not even real flowers, Shouto. They’re weeds.”

Less than a day ago, he would have agreed with her.

(Midoriya Izuku, as he came to learn, changes a lot more than his opinion on flowers).

He’s opening shop for the day: unlocking the front door, flipping the door sign so that open faces the street, and stepping outside, when he notices him. There, standing bashfully in front of the store window, unruly green hair framed with early morning light, is a boy. He’s holding a bread basket full of pastries, all wrapped up in shiny plastic, and he smiles when he sees Shouto.

Shouto’s grip on his watering can slips, just slightly.

“Um, hello!” the boy says, a little too loudly. He holds up the basket awkwardly, one arm going to hold his head from behind, and Shouto’s eyes travel from his impossibly green eyes to his other arm, which—why is he wearing so many bandages? “I just, uh. Wanted to drop these off to you…”

Naturally, the first thing Shouto thinks is, we didn’t order any bread today. And then: that’s really nice of him. Finally: he’s cute, too.

He elects that none of these thoughts are appropriate to say aloud, so instead he lets the door shut behind him, the tinkling of the bell fading away as it closes. He secures his grip on his watering can before it can escape his slightly sweaty palm and undoubtedly be his downfall. “Thank…you?” he finally says, and winces internally. Social interactions…

The boy, however, doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, his face brightens, a radiant smile crinkling the corners of his eyes and scrunching every one of his freckles in a way that his not good for Shouto’s breathing. “You’re welcome!” he says, and drops his hand from behind his head. “My mom always says that making good first impressions with your neighbors is important, so I’m delivering little gifts to everyone on the street. I think Yaomomo and Jirou’s bookstore is next, and then Kirishima’s motorcycle shop…I’ll probably have to make an extra loaf or two for Kacchan, even though he’ll probably throw it away again…Oh! I’m Midoriya Izuku, by the way.” He says everything in a rush, words pouring out of his mouth so fast Shouto is swept away.

Shouto blinks. “Todoroki Shouto,” he says after a moment, still stunned by the life Midoriya seems to emit from his every fiber of his being; his hands are constantly moving, the bread basket swinging this way and that, his mouth animated and excited, curls bouncing slightly. “Are you from the new bakery that just opened next door?”

“Yes!” Midoriya beams. “One for All Bakery, at your service.” He holds out the basket. An invitation.

Shouto accepts. He also gives into the temptation to see if Midoriya really has that many freckles—it has to be a trick of the light—and takes a hesitant step forward, nearly tripping over his own welcome mat in the process.

Way to go, Shouto.

Midoriya, if he notices, says nothing, only moving forward to meet Shouto halfway, arm outstretched. Shouto takes the basket from him gingerly, fingertips brushing Midoriya’s, and even though Midoriya’s bandages are the only thing that technically meet his skin, Shouto swears he feels the warmth of the Midoriya’s hand beneath his own. He ignores the swooping sensation in his stomach and gestures to Midoriya’s arm vaguely. “Is your arm ok?”

Midoriya smiles, and the way he fiddles with his hands is one of slight embarrassment. “Oh, this. Yeah, it’s fine! I work around a lot of ovens, and—well, let’s just say that some of those metal baking sheets can get really heavy.”

(For a moment, Shouto thinks of boiling water and purple-blue bruises and the sharp smell of bile, and is relieved to hear that this does not seem to be the case for the sunshine boy before him). He feels something loosen inside of him.

“But yeah, that’s that. I really do need to be more careful, especially since we just moved here from our old location and we need to get business going. And all that,” Midoriya finishes, scratching his cheek. He peeks up at Shouto through his eyelashes, and—in the name of all that’s holy, why is he so pretty.

Shouto almost allows a smile to make its way onto his face, and he readjusts the basket on him arm in a way that could be taken as a nervous gesture. “Well, I wish you a speedy recovery,” he says softly. “Thank you for the bread. It looks delicious.”

The tips of Midoriya’s ears flush a faint pink, and it’s such an endearing sight that Shouto’s almost-smile becomes a real one. “You’re welcome!” he says, beginning to turn away hastily before Shouto can explain that he didn’t mean to sound like he wanted to conversation to end. “If you ever need anything, please stop by. We’re always open for a cup of coffee!” He turns around, walks a few feet quickly, then stops. He pivots and faces Shouto, ands adds, blush intensifying, but grin wide and lovely, “Bye, Todoroki-kun.”

And with that, he hurries away, leaving Shouto standing in front of his family flowershop with a basket full of hot bread and a head swimming with green eyes, green hair, and a sunlight smile.

He walks back into his own store, places the pastries and the forgotten watering can on the counter quickly, and wonders just how, exactly, he is going to survive with Midoirya Izuku next door. Fuyumi walks in from the back and finds him like this behind the register, with hands folded over his green apron in his lap, eyes staring at a pot of marigolds to his right. “Hey, did you water the plants outside?” she asks, and Shouto looks up.

“I will,” he says, before continuing with his musings. Fuyumi gives him a look, then notices the bread basket.

“Hey, where did those come from?”

“Bakery next door.” Theoretically speaking, if he says they’re always open for coffee, then lunch break qualifies as ‘always.’

“Oh, the new owners?”

Lunch, then? “Yes.”

“Ooh, nice.”

Shouto looks up and sees Fuyumi already unwrapping one of the plastic wrappers on a loaf of bread. “Is it socially acceptable to drink coffee during lunch hour?” he asks.

He’s standing in front of One for All Bakery with a bouquet of sunflowers when he realizes that this was probably not a good idea.

For one, Fuyumi had been way too excited than strictly necessary about this whole…situation, eagerly selecting from their best blooms so that Shouto could walk them over to the Midoriya’s. She had given him a pat on the shoulder, a whispered “good luck,” and a wink, all three of which he had no idea how to interpret.

Second, now that Shouto is actually here, red sneakers shifting on the cobblestone, he is not so sure that it is coffee he’s really after.

However, Fuyumi insisted, and he’s on lunch break right now, so. He supposes he could get a little something. Supporting local businesses and all.

Business. Right.

He pushes open the door and steps inside. Almost immediately, he smells the slightly sweet aroma of baking bread, sees the dark wooden paneling of the floor and the well-loved leather couches with throw pillows strewn artfully across their cushions, feels the comforting air of warmth that feels especially nice now that autumn is almost here. His eyes trace the red, blue, and gold painted walls and land on the glass display cases that line them, featuring cakes iced with swirling designs, dainty little cookies that seem to be woven with lace, and sweet bread bursting with crème and fruits.

All in all, the entire affair is something Shouto enjoys very, very much.

Or perhaps it’s actually the smiling face behind the cash register, freckles dotting his cheeks like stars as he places an intricately frosted cake on a glass stand. His tongue pokes out a little, his brow furrowed in concentration, and Shouto thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. At the sound of the bell tinkling when Shouto walked in, he says, without looking up from his task, “Welcome!”

Shouto steps forward, mouth suddenly dry. “Hello.”

Midoriya’s head perks up at the sound of his voice, and he flashes a smile so radiant Shouto has to resist the urge to squint. “Oh, it’s you!”

Shouto, ever a man of many words, nods. “Yes. It’s me.”

“What do you think?” Midoriya grins, gesturing to the shop around them.

I think you’re beautiful Shouto wants to say.

“It’s very nice,” is what he says instead. “I enjoy the atmosphere.”

Midoriya finishes placing the cake atop the glass display and turns his full attention to Shouto, much to Shouto’s pleasure and distress. “I’m glad! Mom said my fanboy side was showing when I picked the color scheme, but I like it, too.” He props his elbows up on the counter and rests his head between his heads. “So, may I get you anything?”

Shouto blinks, then offers the flowers as an answer. “These are for you,” he says. “As a…welcome to the neighborhood thing.”

Midoriya removes his hands from his palms to form a V over his mouth and gasps softly. “For me?” he asks, eyes wide. “They’re beautiful.”

Shouto wills the flush in his cheeks to go away. “Well—” for your family he means to say. “Yes,” he says. “They reminded me of you.”

There is a pause.

His mouth seems to be acting separately from his brain today. Fantastic. To cover up his panic, he jerkily holds out the flowers to Midoriya, willing him to just take them, please.

Midoriya blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. “T-thank you,” he stammers, reaching out to take them from Shouto. “I—I’ll go get a vase for these!”

He dashes somewhere into the back storage room, and just beyond, Todoroki can see a glimpse of the kitchens. He is left standing there for approximately one minute and nine seconds with nothing but his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, and he now understands why Fuyumi wished him good luck.

Before long, Midoriya has returned, a pretty glass vase in hand. He places the sunflowers in them carefully, with as much focus as he had the cake a few minutes earlier. While he rearranges them, Shouto tries to calm the butterflies in his stomach, with limited success. “Thank you so much, really,” Midoriya says while he moves a stem over gently. “You didn’t have to.”

“No, it’s ok,” Todoroki mumbles. “I—we—wanted to.”

Finally, Midoriya deems the arrangement satisfactory, then looks up at Todoroki, their height difference made more apparent by the counter between them. “As my thanks, you can have anything you want on display, free of charge!”

“But you’ve already given us the bread,” Todoroki protests. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“Oh, that was nothing,” Midoriya waves his concerns away. “It’s my treat. Really.”

Todoroki debates whether or not he should argue further, but the conviction in Midoriya’s eyes is almost scary. “I think—alright,” he says reluctantly. “What do you recommend?”

With a grin, Midoriya moves a little further down the counter, and procures a slice of red-and-white colored cake. “One of my personal favorites has always been the strawberry shortcakes,” he says, holding up a slice for Shouto to try.

Shouto breaks a piece off with his finger and slips it on his tongue. It’s delicious.

“It reminds me of you,” Midoriya adds with a wink.

Shouto feels himself begin to spontaneously combust.

Midoriya laughs a little breathlessly, red cheeks betraying him. Shouto isn’t much better off. “Just kidding! Here, let me get you a box…”

He places the nibbled slice on a paper napkin, and then, to Shouto’s shock, bends down to remove the entire remaining cake from the display and set it into a large paper box. Shouto begins to shake his head. “Midoriya, please, there’s no need for that much—”

Midoriya slides the box over to him, a ribbon already tied on top. “No, really, please take it. As a thank you.”

Shouto looks helplessly at the cream-colored container, then at Midoriya, who stands resolutely with his hands pressed on the counter. Blue and black eyes meet green, one pair unsure, the other unwavering. He swallows.

“Ok,” he finally says, because he’s a sucker for sunshine boys who give free cake and smiles like it’s nothing, and takes it gratefully. “Thank you,” he adds again, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop saying it.

Midoriya flashes him that grin that makes Shouto’s heart do cartwheels. “You’re welcome.”

He’s spared from saying anything stupid or helplessly enamored when the door opens behind him, and he hears a group of customers making their way to the register. Midoriya’s eyes shift to the newcomers, and Shouto lets out a breath.

“Thank you,” he says, one last time.

Midoriya’s lips curve into a smile, and he nods. “I’ll see you around, Todoroki-kun.”

Shouto leaves All for One Bakery feeling very faint.

When he returns to relieve Fuyumi for her lunch break, she raises an eyebrow at him. “You just keep bringing back free food,” she notes. “Any reason for that?”

When he doesn’t respond, she laughs, eyes way too knowing for Shouto’s taste.

“Holy crap, there’s a whole cake in here!” she exclaims a little while later, after opening the box. Then, while Shouto very pointedly prunes some stray thorns off their newest shipment of roses without responding, she says, “You should really consider marrying the new baker boy.”

He accidentally shears off an entire rosebud.

Finally, the day ends. Shouto is exhausted. An hour before they were going to close, they had received a massive rush order for a client’s wedding, and there was still so much work to be done. He locks the front door with a sigh (Fuyumi had gone home ahead of him to prepare dinner for Mom). First thing tomorrow, he would have to contact their second supplier, because their first choice didn’t do deliveries on Sundays. Then he’d have to figure out if he could call Iida’s Express to help him deliver, because there’s no way he’d be able to do it alone…unless he could somehow haul a thousand flowers by himself across town…maybe Yaoyuzuru and Jirou would let him borrow their truck…

“Todoroki-kun?”

He nearly drops his keys, and turns to face none other than Midoriya Izuku, for the third time that day.

“Midoriya,” he says, trying not to let his surprise show. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Midoriya says, voice a little rushed. His hands are behind his back as he speaks. “I just wanted to thank you again, for today. So many people complimented your gift.”

Shouto coughs slightly. “Midoriya. I gave you some flowers. You gave me an entire cake and a basket of bread. I should be the one thanking you.”

Midoriya shrugs, as if it had been nothing. “No, no. I actually,” he says, beginning to turn a shade of red that resembles the potted amaryllis hanging in flower baskets above them. It makes the green in his eyes stand out even more, which isn’t fair. “I also wanted to just…” He moves his hands in front of him, and there, in his palms, is—

“I don’t know much about flowers,” he says, self-conscious. “But these grow in the yard behind our place, and I just thought they were nice. I know they’re probably weeds.”

He presses a crown of woven daisies into Shouto’s hands. “For you,” he says, flushing even darker.

Shouto blinks. Midoriya shifts from foot to foot, looking like he’s waiting for something. Shouto figures it out a second later, and slowly places the crown atop his head in a daze. “I…this is…”

“I know, I know, it’s cheesy,” Midoriya smiles sheepishly. “But my friend Ochako thought I should find a way to talk to you again, without free food, and you run a flower shop, and I thought you would look really pretty with daisies in your hair, and I was right—oh wait. Did not mean to say that out loud. Wow, ok. Wow. I’m sorry.” His eyes are wide and his voice very high. “I’ll just leave now.” He begins to turn away.

“I love it,” Shouto blurts. “This is the best gift I’ve ever received.”

Midoriya freezes mid-movement and glances at Shouto out of the corner of his eye. “You must have never gotten any good gifts before,” he says, voice tentative, but slightly teasing.

Shouto looks at him—and he means really looks—and makes a decision. He removes the daisies from his head, taking care not to jostle them too much, then walks forward. He places them on Midoriya’s crown, fingers brushing his curls. They’re just as soft as it looks, he thinks in wonder.

Midoriya’s lips part, his hand moving to touch the petals gently. His eyes are inquisitive.

“I wanted to see how you looked, too,” Shouto explains, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Midoriya lowers his head and slowly smiles back. “And?”

Shouto looks at his head haloed in the evening sun, a mirror image of this morning, at his right arm still wrapped in bandages; how Midoriya, standing this close, actually has freckles that run down his jaw and kiss the tips of ears, how his laugh is so bright Shouto wants to reach out and taste it, like leaves to the sunlight.

“Daisies are actually my favorite kind of flower,” he finally answers, and Midoriya’s tilts his head just a tad bit to the right. A question. The flowers shift slightly with him, endearingly crooked in a mess of beautiful green curls. Shouto is glad to see that his face isn’t the only one burning.

“Really?’ Midoriya asks, a head crowned with daisies and eyes full of light.

“Really,” says Shouto.

The next day, Midoriya brings two cakes, much to Fuyumi’s delight.

Shouto gently places a white-and-gold flower behind Midoriya’s ear as thanks for his troubles, and Midoriya's shy smile after he does so is more beautiful than any bouquet Shouto has ever seen.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #tododeku #todoroki shouto #midoriya izuku #todoroki x izuku #fic

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neptunecreek · 4 years ago

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Podcast Episode: Why Does My Internet Suck?

Episode 002 of EFF’s How to Fix the Internet

Gigi Sohn joins EFF hosts Cindy Cohn and Danny O’Brien as they discuss broadband access in the United States – or the lack thereof. Gigi explains the choices American policymakers and tech companies made that have caused millions to lack access to reliable broadband, and what steps we need to take to fix the problem now.

In this episode you’ll learn:

How the FCC defines who has broadband Internet and why that definition makes no sense in 2020;

How many other countries adopted policies that either incentivized competition among Internet providers or invested in government infrastructure for Internet services, while the United States did neither, leading to much of the country having only one or two Internet service providers, high costs, and poor quality Internet service;

Why companies like AT&T and Verizon aren’t investing in fiber;

How the FCC uses a law about telephone regulation to assert authority over regulating broadband access, and how the 1996 Telecommunication Act granted the FCC permission to forbear – or not apply – certain parts of that law;

How 19 states in the U.S. have bans or limitations on municipal broadband, and why repealing those bans is key to increasing broadband access

How Internet access is connected to issues of equity, upward mobility, and job accessibility, as well as related issues of racial justice, citizen journalism and police accountability;

Specific suggestions and reforms, including emergency subsidies and a major investment in infrastructure, that could help turn this situation around.

Gigi is a Distinguished Fellow at the Georgetown Law Institute for Technology Law & Policy and a Benton Senior Fellow and Public Advocate. She is one of the nation’s leading public advocates for open, affordable and democratic communications networks. From 2013-2016, Gigi was Counselor to the former Chairman of the Federal Communications Commission, Tom Wheeler. She advised the Chairman on a wide range of Internet, telecommunications and media issues, representing him and the FCC in a variety of public forums around the country as well as serving as the primary liaison between the Chairman’s office and outside stakeholders. From 2001-2013, Gigi served as the Co-Founder and CEO of Public Knowledge, a leading telecommunications, media and technology policy advocacy organization. She was previously a Project Specialist in the Ford Foundation’s Media, Arts and Culture unit and Executive Director of the Media Access Project, a public interest law firm. You can find Gigi on her own podcast, Tech on the Rocks, or you can find her on Twitter at @GigiBSohn.

Below, you’ll find legal resources – including links to important cases, books, and briefs discussed in the podcast – as well a full transcript of the audio.

Please subscribe to How to Fix the Internet on Stitcher, TuneIn, Apple Podcasts, Spotify or your podcast player of choice. You can also find this episode on the Internet Archive. If you have any feedback on this episode, please email [email protected]

Resources

Current State of Broadband

The American Federal Definition of Broadband is Both Useless and Harmful (EFF)

America is Still in Desperate Need for a Fiber Broadband for Everyone Plan: Year in Review 2019 (EFF)

Report: Most Americans Have No Real Choices in Internet Providers (Institute for Local Self Reliance)

Social Distancing, the Digital Divide, and Fixing This Going Forward (EFF)

Fiber

The Case for Fiber to the Home, Today: Why Fiber is a Superior Medium for 21st Century Broadband (EFF)

ISP Anti-Competitive Practices & Broadband Policy

1996 Telecommunications Act

Broadband Monopolies Are Acting Like Old Phone Monopolies. Good Thing Solutions to That Problem Already Exist

Samuelson-Glushko Technology Law & Policy Clinic at Colorado Law White Paper re. Modern US Broadband Market

Local Communities Can Inject Desperately Needed Competition in the ISP Market (EFF):

19 States Restrict Local Broadband Solutions (Institute for Local Self-Reliance)

The FCC Can't Save Community Broadband -- But We Can (EFF)

Why is South Korea a Global Broadband Leader? (EFF)

Net Neutrality

2005 National Cable & Telecommunications Assn v. Brand X Internet Services Decision (Wikipedia)

Cable Wins Internet-Access Ruling (New York Times)

New Neutrality Takes a Wild Ride: 2014 in Review (EFF)

DC Circuit Court’s Decision in Verizon v FCC

An Attack on Net Neutrality Is an Attack on Free Speech (EFF)

D.C. Circuit Offers Bad News, Good New on Net Neutrality: FCC Repeal Upheld, But States Can Fill the Gap (EFF)

Mozilla v FCC EFF Amicus Brief (EFF)

California's Net Neutrality Law: What Happened, What's Next (EFF)

CA’s Net Neutrality Law Letters of Supporters (EFF)

Broad Coalition Urges Court Not to Block California's Net Neutrality Law (EFF)

California Net Neutrality Cases - American Cable Association, et al v. Xavier Becerra and United States of America v. State of California (EFF)

Other

Gigi Sohn's website

Transcript of Episode 002: Why Does My Internet Suck?

Danny O'Brien: Welcome to How to Fix the Internet with the Electronic Frontier Foundation, a podcast that explores some of the biggest problems we face online right now, problems whose source and solution is often buried in the obscure twists of technological development, societal change, and the subtle details of Internet law.

Cindy Cohn: Hi, everyone. I'm Cindy Cohn, the Executive Director of the Electronic Frontier Foundation, and, for purposes of this podcast, I'm also a lawyer.

Danny O'Brien: And I'm Danny O'Brien, and I work at the EFF, too, although they have yet to notice I'm not actually a lawyer. Welcome to How to Fix the Internet, a podcast that explores some of the more pressing problems facing the Internet today, and solves them, right then and there.

Cindy Cohn: Well, or at least we're hoping to point the way to a better future with the help of some experts who can guide us and, sometimes, challenge our thinking.

Danny O'Brien: This episode, we're tackling a problem that has been a blatant issue for years here in the United States, and yet no one seems able to fix. Namely, why does my broadband connectivity suck? Cindy, I live in San Francisco, supposedly the beating heart of the digital revolution, but I'm stuck with a slow and expensive connection. My video calls look like I'm filming them with a potato. What went wrong?

Cindy Cohn: Well, maybe take the potato away, Danny. But, you know, it's a recurrent complaint that the home of the Internet, the United States, has some of the worst bandwidth, the highest costs in the developing world. And that's a problem that our guest today has been tackling for much of her career.

Cindy Cohn: Gigi Sohn is one of the nation's leading advocates for open, affordable, and democratic communications networks. She is currently a distinguished fellow at the Georgetown Law Institute for Technology Law and Policy. Previously, she was counselor to the chairman of the Federal Communications Commission, and she co-founded and led the nonprofit Public Knowledge for 12 years. And I'm proud to say that she's currently a member of EFF's board of directors.

Danny O'Brien: Welcome, Gigi. When we talk about broadband policy, what we're really talking about is fast Internet, home and business Internet that's speedy enough to do what we need to do these days online. Yet, I was looking and the FCC, the regulator in charge of such things in the U.S., Defines broadband as 25 megabits per second down and 3 megabits up. That seems a little low to me.

Gigi Sohn: Yes, it is very slow. But before I start on my rant and rave, I just want to say how delighted I am to be with you guys today. Very socially distant, 3000 miles away, but also how proud I am to serve on EFF's board, so thank you, Cindy, for asking me to do that, and I love being part of this organization.

Gigi Sohn: So, yes, 25 megabits per second down, three up. That is the definition that was set in 2014, when I worked at the FCC. And now we are in 2020 and we are in the middle of a pandemic, and it is quite clear that, if you, like me, have three people working from home, on Zoom calls, at least two of us on Zoom calls at the same time and another doing her homework, that 25 megabits per second down and, particularly, three up, which nobody ever focuses on the upload speed, is just wholly inadequate.

Gigi Sohn: So, let me tell you a story. Up until about six weeks ago, I had 75 megabits per second symmetrical at the low, low price of $80 a month. I called my broadband ISP, Verizon, and I said, "There's three of us in the house and we're all working at the same time. I need 200 megabits per second symmetrical for an extra $30 a month." And the tech told me the truth and said, "Yeah, 75 symmetrical, that's not enough for three of you."

Gigi Sohn: So, that'll tell you a bit about how outdated the FCC's definition of broadband is, when a company representative is telling you that 75 megabits per second symmetrical isn't enough for just three people.

Danny O'Brien: And I mean, what's crazy to me, and we're going to be talking in this show primarily about the United States experience, but I use what bandwidth I have to talk to people in the rest of the world, and it seems most countries, or a lot of countries, I should say, have far better connectivity at a far lower price. So, it seems crazy that the United States, which is certainly one of the origins of the Internet, has struggled to provide that Internet to its own citizens.

Gigi Sohn: Well, I think there's a very simple explanation for that. In the other countries, the countries have either made, like South Korea, a major investment in broadband. They consider it infrastructure. They consider it, if not a public utility, like a public utility. Or, in places like England, the policy permits great competition. And we have neither of that.

Gigi Sohn: The investment that this government has made in our infrastructure, in our broadband infrastructure, has been nominal. Now, there's some proposals out there I'm happy to talk about to up that number considerably. But perhaps even more importantly, the policy that we had, which promoted competition in the narrow band world, in the dial up world in the late 90s and the early 00s, the average American had access to an average of 13 different ISPs. Today, you're lucky if you've got two.

Gigi Sohn: It does amaze me how little competition there is in San Francisco. So, there's a recent study out from a group called the Institute for Local Self Reliance, and it showed that nearly 50 million Americans have a choice of only one broadband provider, and that's using the FCC's really lousy data, which grossly overstates who has access to broadband. And that Comcast and Charter, the two largest cable companies, have a monopoly over 47 million Americans and another 33 million on top of that have only digital subscriber line, or DSL, which is not even 25/3 most of the time, as their competitive choice.

Gigi Sohn: So, because we got rid of policies that promoted competition, we now have a series of regional monopolies, and they can charge what they want. And they could serve who they want.

Cindy Cohn: So, how did we get here, Gigi? How did we end up with this lack of choice in the United States?

Gigi Sohn: I think it's two reasons. Again, we let the private sector take over what is essentially public infrastructure. The government said, this was Democrats and Republicans, this is not partisan, "We should let the free market, so to speak, flourish. We should let the market flourish."

Gigi Sohn: And for a while there, again in the late 90s and early 00s, it did. But then the FCC deregulated broadband and eliminated the requirement that dominant telecom providers in a community had to open up their networks to competitors. And that was the beginning of the end. So, that's when we had a choice of 13 dial up ISPs per American. But as soon as the FCC said, "No, no, no, broadband Internet access is something different than dial up. It's different than phone service. We're going to deregulate it and we're not going to subject it to that requirement that the dominant provider open up their networks," that's when the entire competitive ISP industry shrunk to nothing.

Danny O'Brien: So, I remember a time when, during the transition between dial up, it was dial up, which was slow, but we had competition, so you had all these mom and pop ISPs, and you could pick which one you wanted to use just by calling a different number. And then there was DSL, and DSL was provided by the phone companies. Correct me if I'm getting this wrong [crosstalk 00:08:18]

Gigi Sohn: Correct.

Danny O'Brien: But down the copper wire. And that was sort of competing with cable, which had already laid its wires and could provide something a little faster.

Gigi Sohn: Not exactly. So, DSL came first, and the Federal Communications Commission, which regulated DSL, considered it just like telephone service. It did come over the same copper wire, and they regulated it like telephone service, and again, required the AT&Ts and the Verizons of the world to open up their networks to competitors. This was a result of the 1996 Telecommunications Act, which is a much derided, but I believe, actually, it was quite an excellent piece of legislation that really has almost no force and effect anymore.

Gigi Sohn: Then cable modem service came along afterwards, and the cable industry went to the FCC and asked it to declare how it should be regulated. Should it be regulated like DSL, or should it be regulated like something else? Or unregulated, or deregulated? The FCC decided, this was in 2002, that cable modem service should be deregulated, not subject to the same requirements as DSL.

Gigi Sohn: That case went all the way up to the Supreme Court, which said, "Well, we don't think the FCC's reading of the Communications Act of 1934, which is its organic statute, the statute that it is required to follow, is the best. But because it's the expert agency, they get deference." So, the FCC won, and then the FCC said, "Well, if we're not going to regulate cable modem service like a telephone service, we're certainly not going to regulate DSL that way, and we're certainly not going to regulate mobile broadband, or mobile wireless that way."

Gigi Sohn: So, that's when, in 2002, well, 2005 really, after this Brand X decision came out of the Supreme Court, that's when everything came tumbling down, and this so-called free market in broadband was allowed to reign. And what you got, again, under both Democrats and Republicans, was intense consolidation, regional monopolies. And guess what happens with concentration and monopoly? High prices. We have some of the highest broadband prices in the world. We average about $79 a month for broadband, and again, that's the crummy broadband.

Danny O'Brien: Yeah, I do remember that it was specifically around about this time, around 2005, when connectivity began to really suck here in the West Coast. I remember, really, before that, there were competitors in copper wire DSL, COVAD and Sonic were two of the challengers here on the West Coast. But after that decision by the FCC, they really seemed to struggle to compete with AT&T, the local phone incumbent whose wires they were using.

Danny O'Brien: Still, all of those series of decisions you described did leave cable and the phone companies sort of dueling with each other. Why wasn't there enough to bring competition to the next stage of broadband?

Gigi Sohn: They're not because the phone companies have been punished when they've invested in fiber. Right? So, Verizon Fios, when it came to market, everybody was really excited and Wall Street just pummeled its stock price. So, for all intents and purposes, Verizon Fios is not expanding. It's in really very limited areas. I don't know if you can get out there in San Francisco, but in a lot of places, you cannot.

Gigi Sohn: Similarly, AT&T, I think, not wanting to follow Verizon's lead, hasn't invested in that either, and those two companies are far more interested in building out their mobile wireless capacity than they are in building their wire line fiber capacity. So, that's why you don't see Verizon Fios and AT&T's Uverse, that's the name of their fiber offering, which again, is very limited. And by the way, AT&T still offers DSL in a lot of places, particularly in inner cities.

Gigi Sohn: That's why you don't see a lot of competition between the two of them. And really, that was the thinking behind the Telecommunications Act of 1996, was that you were going to have this kind of fervent competition between the cable companies and the telephone companies, and you would have fervent competition between cable companies themselves.

Gigi Sohn: But what these companies did, good for their bottom line, was basically split up the country into different regions and become monopolies. But it said AT&T and Verizon, I think if they could sell off their fiber, they'd do it in a heartbeat and just focus on mobile.

Cindy Cohn: So, Gigi, how do we break up this situation where we're stuck with a duopoly? And how does this conversation fit in with the ongoing, very public fights around network neutrality?

Gigi Sohn: Yeah, so the first thing that the FCC needs to do, if we have a new FCC, is restore its authority to promote competition in the broadband market. And look, I'm glad about how many people know about net neutrality. My 15-year-old daughter and all her classmates know about net neutrality. My 86-year-old mother knows about net neutrality, and my relatives know about it.

Gigi Sohn: But net neutrality, in my mind, is less about ISPs blocking and throttling and discriminating against traffic. Obviously that's something we really, really want to prevent. But it's more about is there somebody, is there a government agency that is overseeing an industry that is highly concentrated, that controls an incredibly essential resource, and that, without anybody to oversee them, is free to charge whatever they want and free to do whatever they want.

Cindy Cohn: One thing that really shifted things for me was the 2014 DC Circuit decision that rejected the prior legal basis that the FCC was relying on to do network neutrality. As part of that, the DC Circuit told the agency that it couldn't even pass rules to target abuses by the ISPs. So, as a result of that decision, the FCC couldn't stop ISPs from blocking, it couldn't stop them from discriminating among applications, favoring its own or making a pay-to-play scheme, and it couldn't stop special access fees. This meant that we really weren't going to get a market correction here, and we had to do something. And ultimately, what we did was the Open Internet Order.

Gigi Sohn: Yeah. Look, here's the problem. The part of the Communications Act, what is known colloquially as Title II, or Chapter II, in plain English, right now, is all the FCC has to assert its regulatory authority over broadband. Now, should Congress pass a new chapter, a new title, that really is just super focused on broadband? Yeah, I think that would be a great idea. But we don't have that right now.

Gigi Sohn: And that's why, when I was at the FCC in 2015, we reversed that 2002 decision that I talked about some time ago, and said, "No, no. We're going to regulate broadband like a telephone service," although not entirely like a telephone service. And this is where it gets a little complicated. Because obviously, a law that was written in 1934, every jot and tittle shouldn't necessarily apply to broadband.

Gigi Sohn: But the good news is, in that same 1996 Telecommunications Act, the FCC was given permission to forebear or not apply parts of Title II that it didn't believe to be in the public interest. So, what we did was said, "Look, the only game in town for us to protect consumers and promote competition," and this is really important, and I'll talk about that in a minute, "Is Title II." But I think we didn't apply 75% or 80% of the Title II provisions because they didn't make sense to apply to broadband.

Cindy Cohn: I know. I remember when that fight was going on and our activism team was like, "Title II plus Forbearance." Doesn't really lend itself to a slogan or something we could put on T-shirts or anything. But it really was a way that I think, and you were inside the FCC at this time, a way to really ensure that we were able to think about regulating broadband in a way that was consistent with how broadband is, that we weren't straitjacketed into things. I mean, the whole thing would be better if Congress actually just did its job and thought about how to regulate broadband.

Danny O'Brien: I feel like a lot of the theme of our conversations about fixing the Internet is that the most obvious solution is somehow blocked in some way, because, given that it's so obvious, why don't we do it? And looking at the fights that have gone on about broadband, regulation and encouraging competition, the obvious thing to do is not to have a law written in 1996 based on a law written in 1934, but to write a new one.

Danny O'Brien: And it just so happens, in the United States, that Congress is so dysfunctional right now that we can't do that. So, what are the other, sneakier, skunkworksy kind of routes can we take to fix this?

Gigi Sohn: Well, look, the fact of the matter is if we're going to close the digital divide in this country, it's not just about fast broadband, Danny. It's about over 140 million Americans that don't have broadband, either because they don't have any infrastructure or because they can't afford it. It's important to note that the affordability problem is far larger, like 2.5X larger, than the infrastructure problem.

Gigi Sohn: So, at a time like today, like now, during this pandemic, where the only way you can work and your kids can learn, and you can communicate with others in a safe way is through the Internet, we've got to deal with the problem at hand, and that's the affordability problem. And that is not going to get solved by the private market.

Gigi Sohn: What's interesting is, right now, you're seeing both the wire line and the wireless companies going to Congress and saying, "Can you provide a $50 a month credit for broadband for low income Americans?" And they're finally admitting two things. Number one, is that government must have a role, and they hate that, right? Because it's all about the "free market" for them. And number two is they cannot close the digital divide themselves. They've been boasting about how they're providing broadband free during the pandemic and they're not cutting people off, that they're not charging them late fees.

Gigi Sohn: But the latest numbers I've seen is that, in the first two quarters of 2020, only 2.4 million people took up broadband that didn't have it before. And that doesn't necessarily mean they're low income. That still leaves... I testified in front of Congress that 141 million Americans don't have broadband either because of affordability, infrastructure. Microsoft estimates 162 million, almost 50% of Americans. Okay?

Gigi Sohn: So, we're talking about a huge gap, and if all they've signed up at the beginning of the pandemic is 2.4 million, industry is not moving the needle. So, that takes us to who's going to fill that gap. It's got to be government and it would certainly help if the 19 states that have prohibited their communities from building their own broadband networks, those laws were repealed.

Danny O'Brien: Wait, wait. Back up a bit because I want to get this down. Because when I said there must be someone else if the federal government is doing this, I was coughing under my breath and pointing out like the states could do it or maybe we've had rumblings in San Francisco for many years that maybe that San Francisco might build out its own broadband. But you're saying that the states actually prohibit cities from creating their own competition.

Gigi Sohn: Yeah, so 19 states either totally ban local communities from building their own broadband networks or limit them in some way, put hurdles over them. So, for example, in Colorado, if you're a local community and you want to build a broadband network in that community, you have to have a ballot initiative. Now, as it turns out, something like 70 Colorado communities have had that, but think about if you're a low income community. It's expensive to have a ballot initiative, and who are you fighting? You're fighting the resources of a Comcast or a Charter or an AT&T and a Verizon, who are trying to block you.

Gigi Sohn: So, there are either enormous hurdles or they're flat out bans. Now, when I was at the FCC, we tried to preempt those state laws and we were struck down. Our decision was struck down by the 6th Circuit. So, it's either going to take Congress to pass a law, and in fact, there is one law that actually was passed by the House of Representatives, the Accessible, Affordable Internet for All Act, that would preempt those state laws, or states themselves.

Gigi Sohn: I've urged communities. I say to them, "Get every mayor that you know, get every chamber of commerce, get every university, and go to your state legislators and say, "You are killing us and you are killing the state economy. You need to repeal this law."

Cindy Cohn: Yeah, it's a disaster. Now, we do have some good news. One of the things that happened with the last DC Circuit ruling around network neutrality is that the circuit freed up the states to be able to do some of this work.

Gigi Sohn: The Communications Act of 1934 does explicitly note that it is both the duty of the states and the federal government to provide connectivity for all. Obviously, they weren't thinking about broadband. They were thinking about telephony, but again, this is the telephone of the 21st century. There's always been a dual role.

Gigi Sohn: Now, what happened, again, this was around the late 90s and early 00s, was that the cable and telephone companies went to state legislators and they said, "You know, the feds got this Internet regulation thing. You don't need to do it. You can deregulate yourself." And that's what they did, and indeed, Governor Brown signed a largely deregulatory bill in California. So, the states got out of the business of protecting consumers, protecting competition in their own states. And when you have a state as large as California, the notion that the state government would have nothing to do with this vital resource is kind of a crazy idea.

Danny O'Brien: I think one of the things that we got, I got to spend some time a few years ago doing that thing where you have a focus group and you get to hear people actually talking about your issues. We were behind one of those two-way glasses. And the funny thing was, of course, that our topic of interest is surveillance.

Danny O'Brien: So, there are all these people talking about surveillance, and then occasionally looking over at the two-way mirror and wondering who exactly was listening to this. But the thing that came out of it, for me, was people were freaked out about surveillance. People were particularly mad, though, at the cable companies and the phone companies, out of all the people that were.

Danny O'Brien: What was interesting to me is that this was sort of before the Facebooks and the Googles began to attract the venom that they have now. People really don't like their cable companies. And this turns out, politically, too. I think particularly after the pandemic. Every single person who has a child need broadband right now because otherwise they can't comply with the education requirements of this day.

Danny O'Brien: So, I think there's a real political moment here, and I think, tell me if I'm wrong, but I've seen politicians actually pick this up as an easy issue that isn't being addressed by, really, either side of the political divide effectively. And I think that it can work at every level. It can work at the city level, it can work at the state level, and the federal level. What should we be telling those politicians who, maybe, realize that this is a vote winner?

Gigi Sohn: So, again, let's start at the state level. If you have a law that severely limits or prohibits local communities from deciding whether or not to build their own broadband networks, repeal it. Repeal it today, repeal it tomorrow. That is, to me, the number one target, in my mind, that is limiting competition, is limiting the closing of the digital divide. It is terribly anti-competitive and anti-consumer. So, that's number one.

Gigi Sohn: At the local level, I would say consider building your own broadband network. There are so many cities and towns where, if you live just outside the city limits, you have to buy satellite. You have to buy three different services. You get DSL, satellite, it costs like $300-400 a month. Those are places that the private sector don't want to serve because there's not an economic return that's big enough for them. That's where community will serve.

Gigi Sohn: And at the federal level, look, the Feds have to do a couple things. Number one, they have to immediately, first on an emergency basis, and then permanently, pass what I call a monthly broadband benefit of at least $50 a month. Because these local community broadband builds are not going to happen overnight. So, you've got to make a dent in the affordability gap. And the way you do that is either you could call it a voucher or a credit. I don't care. Now we've got industry on board.

Gigi Sohn: The only thing that's holding this up right now is that Republicans don't want to pass a COVID-19 relief bill that's anything but a skinny bill that deals with some of the employment problems. I think this is definitely a COVID-19 problem, but the Republican Party doesn't agree. So, they need to do that, number one. First on a temporary basis, second on a permanent basis.

Gigi Sohn: They need to preempt the states to the extent that the states don't do it themselves, the federal government has to preempt those prohibitive state laws on municipal broadband. And third, they need to make a big bet on infrastructure, at least between $80-100 billion for infrastructure in those places where there is no broadband. And just to say, everybody likes to focus on rural America, rural America, rural America. There are lots of places in urban and suburban America that don't have infrastructure either.

Gigi Sohn: But what's important is the government has to do a better job of making sure that they get a return on that investment. We have spent tens of billions of dollars over the last decade on building infrastructure. And what's happened? It's happened in California. You get a company like Frontier that goes to the government trough, and doesn't build what it promised. And now it's going into bankruptcy.

Gigi Sohn: So, what's critical is for both federal and state governments working together as opposed to being adversaries, which they have been for the last three years, to make sure that, if my taxpayer dollars go into Frontier's pocket or CenturyLink's pockets, or anybody else's pockets, that we get the networks that we were promised.

Cindy Cohn: Gigi, let's go to the question that we kind of started with. What does the world look like if we get this right? How does our world get better if we get this right?

Gigi Sohn: If we get this right, every American who wants to be connected will be connected, and that's pretty much every American. One other thing that drives me absolutely nuts is people who say, "Well, there's lots of causes for the digital divide. Relevance is one of them." People don't think it's relevant.

Gigi Sohn: Well, all you need to do is go see the lines to use the computers at the library to know that is false, and that relevance means a lot of different things to different people. It's another way of saying, "I can't afford it." It's another way of saying, "I don't have the digital literacy to be able to use a computer." So, every American is connected at robust speeds of minimum, in my opinion, of 100 symmetrical, and that the government money is going to build future-proof infrastructure, not stuff that we're going to have to upgrade again in another 10 years, and that means fiber.

Gigi Sohn: Everything that allows for full participation in our society and our economy is now dependent on a robust broadband Internet access connection. So, that's what the world looks like, and I think we can get there, but we are so far from it right now, and it's shocking. The first national broadband plan was written in 2010, by my friend, Blair Levin, who was, at the time, coordinated this process at the FCC. And we have not even come close to fulfilling 90% of what he proposed in that report, and that is really sad.

Cindy Cohn: There's so much that we're going to get if we fix this. It's kids, it's work, it's flexibility for everyone to be able to set their lives up in a way that matches them better. In this time of the pandemic, we're seeing how important it is to some people to be able to support their families. Robust broadband everywhere gives people so many more choices.

Cindy Cohn: And I think there's an equity point under this, as well. Right now, it's pretty expensive to live in some of the places where people have to live to make a living. If we end up with robust broadband everywhere, we're going to free up people to do good work and do it from wherever they happen to be. I just don't know how many good works and excellent memes and good organizing and groundbreaking ideas we're missing because the only people who really get to participate are people who can live in places where there's really strong broadband. There's just so much we can gain from this.

Gigi Sohn: Think about the moment we're in right now, where people are protesting in the streets every day for racial and social justice. The digital divide disproportionately impacts people of color, regardless of income. And that's because of systemic racism. That's because of unjust credit practices, unjust and discriminatory housing practices. You name it.

Gigi Sohn: And years ago, in the 60s, Lyndon Johnson dictated something called the Kerner Commission. He basically had a guy named Otto Kerner, I don't remember what Kerner did, but he basically looked at the causes for social unrest and racial inequality in this country. One of the causes was the lack of access to what was the only medium at the time, broadcasting. The way that broadcasters covered the protests, the Civil Rights protests, and how they covered communities of color. And needless to say, it was not a positive.

Gigi Sohn: So, access to the means of communication is a way of pulling one's self up and being equal in society, having an equal voice in society. So, it's much more than, can somebody in a garage invent something. It's, can all Americans have equal rights and equal access to the main means of communication in this country and, frankly, in this world.

Cindy Cohn: I think that's such an important point, Gigi. We have to understand the role of technology in lifting people up and giving them access to information, and uniting people from different backgrounds. Lots of people have talked about that for years, but what we spend less time talking about, and what I think is equally important, is how technology is being used every day to document abuses of people in power, including police abuses against people of color.

Cindy Cohn: And once those abuses are documented, how easily they can be widely and immediately shared, accessed and discussed. This ability to see what is actually going on in the streets in nearly real time has helped to shift the conversation about equity in our country. We have so far to go, but we're not going to get there without people across the country, and honestly across the globe, being able to participate by sharing what they see and accessing what other people see on their phones and computers, reading the articles, commenting on social media, organizing and reaching out to their representatives.

Cindy Cohn: Internet access is just vital to all of these things. It is the infrastructure of democracy in our time, and also of social change. We have to understand that vital role and begin to think about broadband in that perspective.

Danny O'Brien: I remember in the 90s, arguing with someone about broadband, and what was fast and what wasn't. I said, "Well, what about the upload speed? We've got to have a fast upload speed." And I remember this, he worked for British telecom, he sort of said, "What are they going to upload? Video? And are they going to create? We have the BBC."

Danny O'Brien: Of course, that's what starts revolutions, is the ability to upload what you see around you and show that to the rest of the world, and you need fast Internet to do that.

Gigi Sohn: Yeah, absolutely.

Cindy Cohn: Well, thank you so much, Gigi. This has been a lot of fun, and I think we can build that better world, and I'm so glad you're a part of helping make it happen.

Danny O'Brien: That was super interesting and I think one of the positive elements that I got out of it was this vision of people getting the chance to build or contribute to their own Internet connectivity. Though it seems to me that part of the reason why people get frustrated is because they don't feel they have any power, and the idea that you might have a municipality or a community or a local business providing you Internet connectivity is very inspiring because it'll mean that you literally have a connection to the people providing you the connection.

Danny O'Brien: And also good for technologists, too, because I sometimes get frustrated, but it's not like I can go to Comcast headquarters. Whereas, if it was just down the road or my local city, I might be able to make a difference.

Cindy Cohn: Yeah, I think that's right. The theme of a lot of this is how do we bring back user control, and what was exciting to me is Gigi's really talking about giving users control of the very means in which they get to the Internet, which is the very first step. And I think the other thing that was really important from this is that we had a reasonable market in the late 1990s. We had a lot of choices for ISPs, and maybe a lot of people who came online later than that may not realize that.

Cindy Cohn: This was something that we had kind of gotten done pretty well, and then we broke it. This is something that got broken. It got broken, in part, because of FCC deciding that it didn't want to regulate anymore. That decision being confirmed by a Supreme Court case called Brand X in 2005. Then we had a regulator that wanted to regulate again, which is when Gigi worked there. And now, we have, under Ajit Pai, an FCC that doesn't want to regulate again.

Cindy Cohn: But the good news in all of that is that we do know what a good answer looks like. It's not an all or nothing in terms of regulation, as if, once you're regulating, you're all the way to a public utility. That the Open Internet Order that we had in the last years of the Obama administration had a balance, basically, requiring some regulation in order to spur competition, but also something called forbearance, with the regulators saying, "We want to regulate in this way, but we don't need to do everything that we do for broadband in the same way we did for telephone."

Danny O'Brien: Right. I feel like there's just no way you can not regulate the telecom industry because it's already tied up in so much red tape. And not just in the U.S., To be honest. This was a very American-specific conversation that we had here, but I end up working with a lot of people all around the world and I know that I said that lots of countries have better connectivity than the U.S. On average, but a lot of countries have much worse connectivity as well.

Danny O'Brien: And when I sit and talk to them, folks working there, they have exactly that same frustration. It always seems to be the same combination. It's always how do we break through a lack of competition, or the fact that the telcos have come to this agreement with governments that isn't working.

Cindy Cohn: Yeah, it's interesting because sometimes this gets framed as regulation or not regulation, and first, as I mentioned, you can have smart regulation that really helps, but also, a lot of what Gigi was talking about was actually the law getting in the way, regulation. And she was talking about the things that we need to do to fix it. The first thing on her list was we need to get the 19 states that have said that people can't have municipal broadband or can't build their own competitors to the giants. We need to get those laws repealed. That's regulation as well, but it's regulation that's disempowering users, rather than empowering them.

Danny O'Brien: What did you think about the idea of giving everybody $50 to get decent Internet?

Cindy Cohn: Well, I think it's worth thinking of in the short term. And she said that. This was a short term subsidy. She basically said we're not going to be able to build out the infrastructure we need, especially for, and I thought it was important that she pointed out that we need infrastructure built, not just in rural places, which is where we think of immediately, but lots of urban places. We need to build that infrastructure.

Cindy Cohn: So, I think the thought that we needed to give people a subsidy so that they could get broadband now, because people need broadband now, especially during this pandemic time, that would be a bridge towards a time in which we had competition actually helping us have more options and the prices go low.

Cindy Cohn: I'm open to that. I think we're in a time in which we need to think a little more broadly about how the government can support people. And certainly, the concerns that she raised about some of the ISPs, Frontier, for instance, taking a whole lot of government money, saying that they were going to build out infrastructure, and then not building it out and going bankrupt. That's just a horrible situation. And at least if you give money to the end users to buy connectivity for themselves, you avoid that kind of problem, which frankly is a lot more money lost.

Danny O'Brien: Right. So, the idea is that, at least if you're giving the money to the users, they're going to expect and hopefully get something from those companies, rather than just giving the money directly to the companies. And yeah, I agree with you. It seems like the biggest fix here, it's the thing that stood out for me, was we need to get those 19 states that actually prohibit community and municipal broadband involvement. We need to get those laws off the book.

Cindy Cohn: Yeah, and I guess the good news/bad news about that is it seems very clear that everybody hates their broadband providers. They hated them before the pandemic, and the pandemic has just made it worse. So, as an activist organization, that's our opportunity. There's a lot of public support for making sure everybody's kid can get an education while staying safe. And that sense, I think, from a lot of people, that they've been ripped off by their broadband providers for a very long time. We need to harness that energy towards a movement to basically fix this, to give us the broadband that we deserve.

Danny O'Brien: Well, on that slightly mixed note of taking people's hatred of broadband providers and turning it into political action, we should wrap up. Thanks very much, Cindy, and thanks to our guest, Gigi Sohn.

Danny O'Brien: Thanks again for joining us. If you'd like to support the Electronic Frontier Foundation, here are three things you can do today. One, you can hit subscribe in your podcast player of choice, and if you have time, please leave a review. It helps more people find us.

Danny O'Brien: Two, please share on social media and with your friends and family. Three, please visit eff.org/podcasts, where you will find more episodes, learn about these issues, and donate to become a member and lots more. Members are the only reason we can do this work, plus you can get cool stuff like an EFF hat or an EFF hoodie, or even a camera cover for your laptop. Thanks once again for joining us, and if you have any feedback on this episode, please email [email protected]. We do read every email.

Danny O'Brien: This podcast was produced by the Electronic Frontier Foundation, with help from Stuga Studios. Music by Nat Keefe of BeatMower.

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