#would love to send a copy to anyone that contributes also

[mpchev]

Dissertation on Fanfiction Bookbinding — Looking for participants! [EDIT: Thank you so much, participants found!!!]

[Edit continued: I'm still sorting through emails and setting up meetings, will reply to everyone very soon, I can't even begin to thank everyone enough for the visibility that's been given to this 💜 I'll keep the updates coming as I work on the dissertation (and learn how to bookbind), in case anyone would like to follow along. For any questions about the research or comments/suggestions/resources about ficbinding, my asks are wide open. Thank you thank you thank you!!!]

Hi! My name is Marie Chevrier, I’m currently doing my postgraduate dissertation on fanfiction bookbinding, and I’m looking for people to talk to about it!

If you’ve ever taken a fanfic from somewhere online and turned it into a physical copy, either for yourself or as a gift, I’d love to know more. From printer paper stapled together to typesetting and painted edges, nothing is too simple or too complex — I’m interested in the whole process, what motivates readers or authors to bring the story to a different format, and how it’s one more way to interact with stories actively and creatively. This will be the final project of my MLitt in Folklore and Ethnology with the Elphinstone Institute (University of Aberdeen, Scotland).

What to Expect

To participate, you must be 18 or older and speak English. I’ll give you more details and answer any questions you might have via email, and will then set up individual video calls with participants (if you happen to be in North-East Scotland, we could also meet at an agreed public location). I’ll tell you more about the dissertation and explain how what you share will be used, which depends entirely on what you agree to, including if you would prefer your contribution to be credited or anonymised. I will ask you about your experience with fanfiction bookbinding and if you have some examples to show me, I would love to see them! Meetings will last approximately 45–90 minutes and take place in June 2024. You have the right to withdraw your participation at any time.

Contact Information

If you’d like to participate or have any questions, please send me an email at m.chevrier.23@abdn.ac.uk

To know more about the Elphinstone Institute, please visit https://www.abdn.ac.uk/elphinstone/

To know more about me, here's an intro post for you.

If for any reason you don’t wish to participate but still have comments/suggestions/resources/musings you’d like to send my way, please do!

[andy-wm]

How to explain JK & JM and their endless coincidences?

Easy really, none of them are coincidences.

I'll admit that I'm not the quickest at reacting to what's going on around me. My poor ND brain takes a while to absorb it all and put the pieces together, but then I can't stop thinking and thinking and thinking about all those puzzle pieces.

Gotta get those thoughts out of my head to make room for new ones LOL... so here they are.

Everything is not a coincidence 🎶

I hear Jimin singing this in my head.

No, of course its not.

We've seen how intricately they plan their cocepts, outfits, stages and releases. We saw it in detail with the Artist Made Collection and the Photo Folios. The processes they went through were thorough and thoughtful. They considered everything.

For Jimin and Jungkook, aligning their message is nothing new. For years they've been coming out in matching clothes, jewelery, and accessories - including the cute and silly matching Pororo bandaids at the puma fansign in 2016 when neither of them had an injury (JK's idea, according to JM).

Sometimes the matching outfits are identical...

Other times the alignment is more subtle....

But it's so frequent, we barely comment these days.

When they aren't matching, they're swapping. Their shared wardrobe is legendary - especially for someone who doesn't like other people wearing his clothes (JK) and someone who has assured us they have different clothes (JM).

But I digress....

The gist is, we know they pay attention to the mesage they send with their clothes and styling.

AND...

They know WE we pay attention too - they know we notice it all. Every.Single.Thing.They.Do.

AND...

They tell us they know all the ARMY jokes and memes. They do and say things that correspond too closely to ARMY's conversations on socials to be a coincidence.

Everything is not a coincidence 🎶

So with the visual themes of their solo releases being so astonishingly similar, anyone with eyes in their head (and a moderately functional brain and heart) can't think it's accidental. And JK and JM can't possibly think they're being subtle either.

And I honestly don't think they're trying to be subtle. Not at all.

I think they are demonstrating very clearly that even when they're apart, they're together. They're always aligned*.

They share ideas, they work together (they certainly don't work in secret) and they agree on what they, together are choosing to show.

Everything is not a cooincidence 🎶

We know they've shared ideas for this because at no point has either of them shown suprise at seeing the other wearing a similar outfit, holding a similar pose, or adopting similar aesthetics. They're hyping each other's music and promo work, and sharing their pride and enjoyment with us. (JM posting on insta to celebrate JK's #1 on the hottest 100 was NOT for JKs benefiit. It was for ours 💜)

It's not a matter of who did it first or who copied...all of this they created together.

They're showing us their individual strengths and telling their own stories, but using an aesthetic framework they've planned together. The visuals overlap is enough to to unmistakablly link their narratives together without restricting their self expression.

It's genius really.

They're living their 'I am you, you are me' dream right now, but in such a way that they are also without a doubt independent individuals as well.

Personally I love this. I love them.

I love that they can contribute to one another's creative processes, each produce something wholly unique to themself, and still have visually connected stories.

One day this will become their shared history. With a brief glance, anyone who looks will be able to see how much they supported and cooperated with each other, and that they chose to reflect their personal relationship in these works.

This would be a very conscious decision - to be visibly connected, not just for the few months their solo work is on the charts but for as long as the record of BTS's existance remains.

And that will be a long, long time I am sure 💜

*They're always aligned, i believ, with regards to their goals. For their work but also in terms of their relationship.

I think they trust one another implicitly, both professionally and personally. I think they're honest but kind, and they have each others backs. They are each other's highest priority and I hope it will always be this way for them 💜

[sugoi-writes]

Hi Party People! A Kofi question✨️

(Mentions of crowdfunding, perks, some personal stuff, etc!)

I want to do a lil somethin-somethin with my Kofi... I just-- kinda set it up and honest to God, I STILL dunno how it works all too well???

But, I think I want to try something...

Im currently wanting to/trying to help hazelfoureyes raise some money to get her mom some TEETH (Read about it here). I know that for some of us, it can be pretty tricky to find the means, or do much more than shares/reblogs... HOWEVER:

What if I told you that I wanna scratch your back, for scratching theirs? I'm thinking of making Kofi more... rewarding for you????

Here's what I mean... picture this...

--

Kofi could also work as a more ✨️personable experience✨️... for every Kofi, YOU, YES YOU-- will have a catered-to-you blurb written for ya! By me, y'boi, Sugoi👈😎👈

Want the Deer Man to scream your legal name with reckless abandon? YIPPEE🎊 Wanna have your OC ride his, or Luci's or SOMEONE'S face? DONE 💦 Want a kink so specific that you need to scream about it because it's not on paper yet? COOL-- WITHIN REASON!!! No Kink Shaming Here, Love ♥️💦

I dont-- I don't want this to be disingenuous, but-- I want this to kind of be a way of giving thanks, too? A way of being like "Thank you for crowdfunding for teeth, here is SMUT OR FLUFF OR WHATEVER💦"

Would... would anyone be interested in something like that? Would that be fun?

Some promises I could make:

I am so long winded so blurbs would probably be FULL-ON flics... and I write decently fast. Hell, your blurbs would become Priority Number One

They would be a Kofi-exclusive! Just for yall! 🎊

If you want a personal copy, I'll DM it to you and you can SAVE that shit, if you REALLY want to! FUCK IT, I'LL MAIL IT TO YOU (mostly jk on the last bit, but an enby can dream~)

I will try and write most ANYTHING at least once-- so, fuck it!!! SEND ME THE GOODS

I would be willing to write for things in the Hellaverse, BNHA (once I catch up lol), Dungeon Meshi, KNY, and... shit, hells, I might write for **redacted**-San again--

POINT IS... I love you guys, and I love Hazel. And I want to help a friend out. So if that helps YOU in the meantime... then, fuck yes???

If this is a good idea, comment or PM me because I have been wracking my brain about it and it makes me nervous AF

Please see THIS POST for direct contributions!!! Hazel would appreciate it: ANYTHING HELPS AND YOU WILL GET A VIRTUAL SMOOCH FROM MEEEEE

Thanks for coming to my TED-Talk✨️

[the-lark-ascending69]

russian robin au?

I find russian Robin so interesting because I feel like Robin has this complicated relationship with Russia, or the idea of Russia, that isn't actually relevant to the show but it's very interesting to me specifically. In the podcast, her english teacher gifts her a copy of Anna Karenina in russian because he knew she wanted to learn, and she's very grateful for it. She'd told him she was interested in russian, I think, in the first episode. It's clearly like... the podcast's way of drawing a connection to Season 3, but I also love it because... most people in that sociopolitical and historical context wouldn't have been so excited about anything that came from Russia. It was the middle of the cold war, after all. But Robin doesn't even think about that. It's like she forgot about all of that, and choses to instead focus on classic literature. You can tell she romanticizes Europe a lot as this place of culture and adventure and freedom and if she's looking at Russia exclusively through the lenses of its classical literature, it wouldn't surprise me if she often failed to remember they were technically like the enemy. I'm not saying Robin is the most deconstructed anti-nationalistic anarchist out there, I usually prefer to not go too deep into politics when it comes to fandom stuff, but her interest in russian literature and language is certainly striking. It's like she sees past all of that and chooses to focus on the most beautiful artistic contributions of a country rather than the war. She doesn't join Steve and Dustin in their mission because she wants to be an American Hero, she's just bored and has such a great passion for languages that she saw a chance to approach russian in a real world situation and she took it, entirely and fully because of her love of knowledge, which trascends the war. I find that fascinating about her.

So, knowing that about her, I wonder how she would fit in an alternative universe in which she worked as a spy for Russia. I have several ideas about this.

Idea 1: My first idea is to put her in juxtaposition to El as a victim of the cold war caught in the crossfire, something something innocents paid for their crimes and they took medals home. In the same way they the US made experiments with children trying to create weapons, Russia would have made similar experiments, Robin being one of the kids involved. She doesn't get powers like El, she has no connection to the Upside Down. The results of the experiment are different. She has a much higher IQ than normal, and she can master other languages incredibly fast. They didn't think she'd be of much use until they learned she'd taught herself french with only a book and a dictionary, reaching a C2 level in less than six months. She's also incredibly good at cracking codes. Codes complex enough that would take a professional weeks of work came apart at her hands after a couple of hours. During her childhood, they use her for these purposes. They have her translate communication between their enemies and break secret codes for a few years, while preparing her for her actual mission: go to the States and gather information about the Hawkins Lab. She's 14 when they send her, and her english is so flawless you'd think she grew up in Indiana. Anyone older than her might have drawn more attention, and anyone else her age would still struggle with pronunciation, blowing their cover. She's perfect.

She's taken in by Richard and Melissa, a clueless american couple that thinks they're just adopting an orphaned girl from a nearby town. She enters Hawkins High, learns their ways, keeps an eye on the strange events around her and, at 17, gets assigned to work in the shopping mall with a boy she's identified to be involved with the conspiracy: Steve Harrington. She'll get close to him, earn his trust and, once he tells her everything, report back to her superiors. But then she ends up getting overly attached, and with this boy, she experiences something she's never known before: friendship, trust, love. He seems to care about her deeply and genuinely, and she feels compelled to tell him at least a small and tiny truth about herself, one of the few things they couldn't take from her. She likes women, and that has always seemed unimportant to her because she never thought she'd find love, or that she could ever afford to desire something for herself, but today she feels free with this ragtag group of misfits, and she wonders if maybe, once this is all over and she gets to go home, she'll be allowed to live in a house, not in their lab, go to university and love a girl one day.

Idea 2: she's actually not russian. She's an american girl intercepted by the russians at 15 because she cracked their code and was going to tell the authorities. They planned to kill her, but when she soon proved to be a literal prodigy, they decided to take advantage of her talent. All her parents know is that she went missing for two years and that when she returned, she came back... different. She doesn't remember what is it that they did to her, but she knows she's to rely information to them.

Idea 3: she's not an actual spy, but she's so good at russian that, when they capture her, she convinces them she's a super secret russian spy, so secret not even they know about her because she doesn't trust that they don't have spies among them. And she's actually in the middle of a very important mission with that dingus, so she needs them to release him immediately so she can see where he's going and do her job, thank you.

[adamwatchesmovies]

Under Siege (1992)

I haven’t watched all of Steven Seagal’s filmography but I’m nonetheless confident in calling Under Siege his best film. It takes a somewhat familiar formula (it’s Die Hard on a boat) and delivers everything you want to see. There’s a lot of action and thrills, the stakes are high, the bad guys are terrific - so good they easily steal the show.

Aboard the battleship USS Missouri, Executive Officer Commander Krill (Gary Busey) is preparing a surprise party for the captain. No one suspects there's more to it than music and a hot lady busting out of the cake. Actually, it’s a ploy to get William Strannix (Tommy Lee Jones) and his crew aboard so they can commandeer the ship and its nuclear arsenal. With all of the sailors killed or captured, it's up to the cook (Steven Seagal as Casey Ryback) and "Miss July" (Erika Eleniak as Jordan Tate) to save the day.

Unsurprisingly, Steven Seagal is not playing some lowly cook. He’s got special skills; exactly the kind required to take the Missouri back from the terrorists who’ve captured it. Even before we learn his backstory, you believe Ryback is up to the task because the character is smart. He knows he can’t take all of these baddies down on his own/through conventional methods so he finds ways to even the odds. Booby traps, subterfuge, calling for help, freeing some of his shipmates, getting anyone who will be sympathetic to help him and - my favorite - he picks up the weapons of those he defeats. It doesn’t sound like much but it’s what anyone with a brain would do in real life and in the movies, you rarely see anyone pick up a gun, much less pick up a spare so they can arm someone else to help. Though Seagal doesn’t prove himself to be all that charismatic, he handles the stunts well. You believe it when he sends the opposing goons to Davy Jones' locker. There are a lot of great kills in this movie, many of which will make you yell “Damn!” out loud.

I know Seagal has fans, but he's never been able to elevate the material handed to him. Luckily, we're in the hands of Andrew Davis (who made The Fugitive a year after this film) and a great supporting cast. First, there’s Gary Busey as Commander Krill. What a perfect role for him. The second he appears on-screen, you know he'll be an antagonist but then he surprises you by being even more despicable, sociopathic and corrupt than expected. You love to hate him because because you can tell he’s been thinking about this day for a long time, mentally picturing how it would all go down, and the people he was going to kill. You can’t wait for him to get what’s coming and the same goes for Tommy Lee Jones’ William Strannix. Somewhere between the cold, calculating Hans Gruber and the fanatical Egor Korshunov (from Air Force One”, another Die Hard-like action picture) he’s also enjoying this heist a little bit too much but between the jokes he makes at his victims’ expense, he keeps his cool. He recognizes the threat Ryback poses and comes up with counter strategies that keep him - and you - on your toes the whole way through.

Finally, we have Erika Eleniak as "Miss July", who might think is just a pretty face - and a bare chest - to add to the “R” Rating but she contributes A LOT. She’s the avatar for the audience: brought onboard the ship under false circumstances, she is totally in over her head. She realizes her only chance is to stick around with Ryback and yeah… that’s what you’d do too! I’m surprised more films haven't copied this aspect of Under Siege to give the hero someone to bounce off of and help them when they find themselves in a jam there’s seemingly no escaping.

Under Siege is a surprisingly memorable take on the Die Hard formula. I know that sounds like a backward compliment - like it’s only good if you’ve seen Die Hard a thousand times and you want something new - but this picture is solid. It’s a great “dad movie”, something you and the old man could sit through and thoroughly enjoy any day of the week. It makes great use of its location, both villains are memorable, the action is satisfying, Seagall handles the stunts well, and his sidekick is a great new ingredient to spice up the recipe. When you catch it, feel free to stay until the end of the credits to get some bonus facts about the ship upon which the film was shot. (On DVD, February 11, 2022)

[a-captions-blog]

[Plain text: Vivoxy is an incredible friend of mine who is moving to a house with their mom. While they have money to eat, they’re worried that the good money will have to be used for moving so they’re eating and sharing the little they have. Which to me, as someone who always struggles with trying to find food to keep myself from spiraling from food instability, is not okay. If y’all are able, please contribute to Viv’s Cashapp to ensure Vivoxy and her mom can get food. the things on Viv’s throne wishlist. For example: Viv’s Cat Euthanasia bill, Flight to Germany, and Pads for Viv.

I saw this in the Inkblot Discord server, a creatives platform where I post my creative arts content on. I felt it only right to post it here, as I believe folks may be interested in this. The announcement is here, please help Jay if you can. @jammerlee posted this on bluesky but please take Jammer’s incentive to help Syntax! Syntax made a separate post on bluesky as well. @a-captions-blog for the embed image below- [Image description: Post by Jammerliee Jamie A. Lee @Jammerlee.bsky.social that says: ‘I’m offering an incentive to anyone willing to help out Syntax. For every $25 you donate to her ko-fi (must provide proof of purchase), I will do a sketch of your choice of single a character, and for every $50 I will do a full-color cel shade.’ Attached is a commission sheet showing singular characters for $25 (20% off regular price) and coloured characters for $50 (30% off regular price). \End description] While I’ve have regained stable housing, I do need help with food and other expenses, it would amazing if y’all contributed to the funds on my throne. For example the flomask filters; I desperately need more I’ve run out; And a Grubhub gift card for food delivery. I have Thrive Market as well but also need cash for the full grocery delivery on that as well. Amongst other things. Anything is appreciated.

Dastal is live at the moment and has recently made a throne so if you’re able, please support him.

Mooshgi is currently feverish and still testing to roll with life’s punches, despite being barely able to stand up without falling over. Please send since love over to them financially. For right now this is all I’m able to gather, so please bump this post if you can. Reblog, comment, copy link and share, those are preferred—thank you so much!!

Have a good day today! \End PT]

Mutual Aid List Post

With everything that’s going on with me, I have noticed folks I care about our interact(ed) with are in dire need of assistance or shares of the like. It’d ease my mind if even posting or sharing their posts would bring the eyes and assistance they each need. The list is numbered but the numbers have no standing on importance, it’s just a list. Please view under the cut.

Moosblossom (Fae/Moo/It/He/She) is once more opening up faer coms!! Moosblossom needs to save up to fix faer car, if you’re interested in helping ; https://moosbloomcoms.carrd.co/#ii

Hey guys, the Co-founder of BarPOC (18+ Community for Black, Indigenous, and other Furries of Color) server, Kandy, REALLY needs help right now, whatever you can donate please hand it over to them, they'll need it to overcome this. Thank you guys 🧡 https://bsky.app/profile/kandyelmo.com/post/3kd6gr4l43d2z

@annie-manga’s friend, @theawesomeadventurer (unsure why I’m unable to tag them but—Annie if you see this I hope sharing their posts will help them) is in financial need! https://www.tumblr.com/theawesomeadventurer/730798307796025344/i-am-still-in-need-of-financial-assistance-btw

Juutanart is an exhausted artist and wonderful mom; any help is appreciated.

This post is not made lightly, and Synne [Pronounced Sin] wanted to make sure that it is known that she wouldn't be sharing this if Synne didn't need the help. Synne’s never been wealthy, but having lost out on two paychecks due to their carpal tunnel putting her out of a job, they’ve been severely behind. Synne and their partner just spent the last of their money on groceries, and now only have two dollars between them to last until Friday. If anyone is able to help Synne and their partner at all, it will be greatly appreciated. We are also willing to do a little art in exchange, although we don't have the capability to do digital art at the moment. Synne’s Paypal: https://paypal.me/JessBiondo?country.x=US&locale.x=en_US | Synne’s partner's Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/puppyresidue

There’s my parental figures, as well; and trigger warnings are provided in the post. https://www.tumblr.com/cjoat-boost/731258299453997056/liv-webb-need-our-help

Finally me, as it’s November, (I’ll be homeless by the 12th…If allowed a week longer, the 19th; and I’m making it known that I’m trying to raise at minimum 500K to attempt to buy my first home before the end of November. My links and context provided are here: https://www.tumblr.com/cjoatprehn/731033172982300672/i-am-going-to-be-homeless-in-30-37-days

I can always add more folks in need, but my mana slots are running low, so i need to break for a moment. But it would mean so much if you were able to share this post.

[skybristle]

as promised, a more in depth lorepost regarding my fake event story in regards to this post [go look it has tk drip]

once again copy/pasted shit from discord, under the cut! no tws this time m pretty sure but putting it under a cut because its LONG and it would be very mean of me to clog ppl's dashes. rbs appreciated as always!! i love talking to ppl abt my ideas, feel free to contribute or send asks my way!

okay okay so basically the concept of this is like. operation timeguard costumes get an event because the lore was SO COOL and for WHAT. plus i have timekeeper mental illness and they gave me their interaction and did NOTHING WITH IT so fuck it im doing it MYSELF rougefort finds out their heirloom got auctioned to an unknown bidder and is like Hey! What The Fuck! and is desprately trying to steal timepeices to see if it's the right one. But uh. stealing timepeices is really fucking hard! mainly because tbd enforcers p much immediately get on their ass and its a lot harder to get away from someone with literal fucking time travel on their side. so they're stuck on a roof and cornered and like Awww fuck. but then time freezes around them, a rift opens framed with oversized golden scissors, and a cookie pops out of it and props themself up on their scissors in a gay little pose tk basically goes "i'm timekeeper cookie, and i see a quite entertaining future with you,,, but you won't get very far locked in the tbd slammer. so, would you like to strike a deal? you play your little games and i,,, help you along. the tbd's easy to play with when i'm a time god" and rougefort doesnt Really have a choice??? tk is kinda manipulative and an asshole but like hey what do you expect its tk} also tk is the one who gives them their airship AND their pursuit of lost time drip. for the former it's just because literally the ONLY other place we see airships in crob is in her fucking,,,, trailer animation and the latter,,,,,,,, Uhhh fuck you queue a BUNCH of fuckery with rougefort making mysterious getaways that don't make sense logically. they start hoarding timepeices mainly because. can't really RETURN them when you're a wanted criminal AND they can't really get rid of them because 'oo shiny' and also yaknow they're extremely powerful and could destroy the world in the wrong hands tldr tk sends rougefort off on a wild goose chase and makes good on her promise to help them, being incredibly vague to croissant abt it and not really helping at all to find rougefort and their mysterious accomplice. croissant chalks this up to tk being an asshole and liking to watch this unfold and doesn't think the DIRECTOR OF THE TBD is the fucking accomplice as soon as walnut finds out the phantom bleu has switched modus operendi shes like. "girl WHAT" and immediately heads over to the tbd because,,,,,, she's like 12 and this is WAY out of her league and it's the TBD's job to deal with time criminals. but it isn't like her to completely leave the case to them croissant takes the case [given how high profile it is] and i dont have as much on this but i just. Think that her and walnut would make a silly little team. i can't describe it but. Cool older sister energy. win! croissant peices together all sorts of weird evidence but is kinda,,, in denial it could be tk?? considering they literally JUST agreed on a rule that wouldn't let tk do this shit anymore [technically, she just said 'not to hurt people' but thought that was a good blanket. this is tk we're talking about. It Wasn't]. it could really be anyone with time travel,,, or anyone else at the tbd. the thought unsettles her and drives her to GETTING THEIR ASS eventually they finally get rougefort cornered in a clock tower [note: rougefort ONLY makes their getaways in secluded spots after evading authorities long enough. timekeeper doesn't wanna ruin the game by having their cover blown] and croissant starts hissing about what'll happen to them if they don't hand up the timepeices and tell them the accomplice, making all sorts of wild threats about what the director will do to whoever betrayed them in their ranks before a rift opens over their heads, framed by familiar golden scissors "oh, croissant. i'm rather not in the mood for self-mutilation. it appears i've been caught. it was fun while it lasted!" and with that, she leaves a dumbstruck [and very sick of tk's shit] croissant and walnut alone as she pulls rougefort away into timespace's safety insert a monolouge here i haven't

thought out fully yet, but it ends by tk basically saying she had the heirloom the entire time, handing it to rougefort [who's. Too shocked to strangle her ass for all of this when SHE WAS THE FUCKING BIDDER ALL ALONG], telling them to use it wisely lest they end up on the bad end of the tbd, and proceeds to return to her office to take their crimes off the record, only to be met with a very, VERY pissed croissant sitting in her office, ranting her head off and tk simply says "well, nobody got hurt, did they?" and, i mean. she's right, and croissant just slumps over defeated that's it!! my silly fake event. i can talk abt it more in depth if you ask specific questions probably but like heres the runover / stuff i remember from my brain

[darkpurpledawn]

For @racketghost 's 13 days of Halloween, prompt "graveyard"

7:00

Agreed to take ‘graveyard shift’ at bookshop for the angel. Angel worried about unscrupulous collectors getting their covetous hands on his first quartos during his trip to Edinburgh. Probably third most adorable worry this year. Fourth, counting the badgers.

Promised to pull wriggling-maggots gambit on any would-be thieves, did not promise to refrain from eating leftover palmiers. Angel oddly concerned about ‘what the shop might get up to.’ Assured him working at night is nothing new, have a saying in Hell that ‘it’s always the graveyard shift somewhere.’ (Was inspiration for the signs about five o’clock, for which received award for Special Contributions in Intemperance.)

Angel left. Briefly brushed shoulders as he was putting on coat, i.e. life still unendurable disaster.

7:33

Should be preparing conference paper for annual Hell all-hands in Las Vegas, can’t be bothered. Intend to waste entire night watching tv humans make complicated desserts and posting misattributed Victorian quotations. Not going to ransack Aziraphale’s kitchen, doze off, or go looking in obscure cabinets.

8:15

Woke up as snake coiled around till amid palmier crumbs. Not good, not supposed to be sleeping. Weird dream in which dressed in white, waiting for a dog, angel had curly moustache. Moustache should not have been attractive, was. Bugger it all to Heaven. 

Made tea in the angel’s atrocious kitchen, caused eviction of mouse family when retrieving kettle, probably instigated fall of mouse civilization. Kettle one of those disgusting 1950s flower-patterned nightmares, of course. 

Checked email, heaps of bids for own illegal listings on eBay. Should be able to fulfill lust quota for month with posts selling purported toenails of celebrities. Played d*vil’s adv*cate on Twitter (not allowed to actually write that down or Office of Infernal Counsel will send a c&d for making overstated legal claims), started rumor that cauliflower is actually dehydrated human brains. 

Heard shuffling sound. Should probably go check for quarto thieves.

8:30

Could not find source of shuffles anywhere. Looked in back room, nothing unusual. All ten zillion throw pillows angel insists on burdening sofa with appear to be in place.

Have had too many thoughts about that sofa. Picked up nearest bottle and went to kitchen to drown idiocy in several teacups of whiskey.

9:00

Got bored, started poking around. Found mildew stain that appears to be accurate map of Antarctica. Considered eating preserves noticed in back of cabinet, but unable to verify that it was made subsequent to Charlemagne’s accession. Briefly entertained notion of reading a book, came to senses and scrolled through 15 articles on phone about dogs that look like famous dictators.

Continued papery-sounding noises in the background. Would not be shocked if angel has white noise machine designed to sound like someone rifling through dictionary pages.

10:00

Got bored-er. Attempted to clean grime from windows experimentally and lost nerve about ten seconds in. 

Peeked into bathroom on second floor (which have been unconditionally invited to use but have only entered once to vomit in after regrettable work event in fourth circle). Angel apparently hoarding soap from past three centuries, in least surprising development of modern age.

Washed hands to get rid of window gunk. Refrained heroically from sniffing any towels.

Heard whispering from downstairs. Neighbors? Cannot believe anyone is actually waiting around to steal first quartos from world’s unfriendliest-looking bookstore.

10:12

Finished whiskey. “Cauliflower Is Brains” trending on Twitter. Found own decades-old tie deep in sofa cushions, not that was examining these too closely.

10:50

In attempt to trace whispers, entered stacks. Began imagining scenarios in which unexpectedly holy book toppled and caused catastrophic injury. Do not want angel to return to smoldering pile of ex-demon on his unspeakably dusty floors. Also do not want to be smoldering pile of ex-demon, naturally.

Obtained gloves the angel uses for book repair from end table. Also took umbrella from its place hanging on hatstand and partially opened as defense against falling books. Probably looked like Edwardian wanker. 

Proceeded with stack-examining. Organization system unclear. Slightly alarmed by discovering volume of Galen with recent takeaway receipts seemingly serving as bookmarks for easy reference. May explain why angel still refers to all colds as ‘excesses of phlegm.’

Too difficult to navigate narrow shelves with umbrella. Abandoned umbrella, substituted trilby hat for protection from falling sacred texts. Have never looked more ridiculous, very much including all of 17th Century and that time had snakebite piercings and mullet with short fringe.

11:21

FUCKASPIDERCRAWLEDONMYHANDFUCK

11:24

Can never go back to Hell, spider might be waiting there. 

11:30

Well. That’s certainly interesting.

Section of one bookshelf protected by some kind of holy bond-of-secrecy-whatsit. Should have left alone. Could have broken it with hellfire, but am in most flammable location in known universe, decided that was terrible idea. Managed to undo holy bonds using profane combination of two parts own venom, one part hoarded soap spritzed through a salad mister.

So. 

The angel has about two hundred books and fifteen scrolls concerning how to summon and bind demons. Thought at first maybe was for professional development. Too many. Angel has copy of the Big One, the one that can force a demon to do whatever summoner requests. 

11:32

In fact, angel has all known copies.

Have only had it used twice before. Once some pissed aristocrat wanted to steal Love’s Labours Won, turned into whole thing. Second time group of students got very desperate trying to complete science fair project. Learned way too much about thermodynamics.

12:00

Theoretically should be extremely horrified that the angel has all extant copies of Big One and can summon and bind demons at any time. 

Feeling am experiencing is...not horror.

12:15

Relevant pages in the Big One crossed out in indelible ink, ‘absolutely not’ written in weird cursive angel was using four hundred years ago. Impossible to see incantation. 

Theorized why this might be throughout second bottle of whiskey. Enjoyed feelings of profound relief. Ignored feelings of vague disappointment.

Theory one: angel at one time planning to use Big One, decided not to. Reasonable theory, but does not explain why every copy is in this bookshop.

Theory two: angel bought every copy with the express intent of crossing out incantation so no one could completely control a demon ever again.

Unreasonable theory. 

Will never mention any of this unless perhaps world ends. Probably not even then. What would that really change?

[jenomark]

➔Pairing: Haechan x Reader (Female)  ➔Other Members/ Characters: -.- ➔Genre: Fluff ➔Warnings: Angst | Mentions of death | Cursing ➔Word count: 6,865

➔Summary: He was always yours, even before you wrote a book about him, even before he disappeared from your life after high school, and even before he broke his promise. 

➔Request: can I request a drabble of haechan friends to lovers? 🥺

➔ I hope you don’t mind that I turned this into a longer story that is more on the fluff side. I felt really inspired to do so. Thanks for sending in the request! 💚

You

  You hated school. Not because you weren’t serious about your studies. You liked the subjects well enough. You liked eating lunch at a table, a little package of apple slices, and a chocolate milk that always tasted like the carton it was in. You liked hanging up your coat in the coat closet, little rain droplets dripping on the wooden floor when the weather was bad. You liked your teachers and how they would encourage your love of reading. You liked all the things to like except one: school hours meant time away from him.

  Him. He pulled your hair sometimes when he was bored. You cried once, your mother saying something sexist about how he must like you. Your father never paid attention, just kept watching the television. You wondered if all boys were that stupid. He also made fun of the way your nose would wiggle when you talked. He had a smart comment for everything. He thought he was smarter than you, even. There weren't many nice things to say right off the top of your head, but you loved him anyway.

 During the school year, the school hours especially, you never talked to him. He was off parading around with his squad of friends, each one more pigheaded than the last. They’d act like they didn’t care about school in the schoolyard, but all of them got decent grades. Sometimes they would pick on others boys, the principal telling others that that’s just what boys did. Sometimes he would raise his hand in class and answer the right question, and even though you sat next to each other in class, he’d never look at you. 

  Your school life was a little different. You were off spending time hovering by doorways, wishing the days would end until you could see him again. You looked at him from the corner of your eye, a question of whether you truly knew him or not always on your tongue. You didn’t spend time pretending other people were your friends, because your best friend had always been him.

  After school felt like a different time zone. Neither of you took your time with homework. You would rush, a telltale sign being poorly erased letters and crumpled papers shoved into bookbags. Usually, he would walk to your house and meet you in the tent in the backyard, talking long before he reached the entrance. He always talked about his day as if you weren’t in it. He liked to talk a lot.

“I don’t want to hear it.” you would say. “I don’t know why you’re friends with those people.”

 You were both at an age where you were figuring stuff out. You fought a lot, with him storming out of your backyard tent and walking home, and you resisting the urge to follow him. There was always a phone call from his concerned mother, eased by your own mother reassuring her that you’d both work out your differences soon. You’d been best friends since you were even younger, clinging to each other only when other people weren’t looking. It was too late to make a clean break.

 Summers were your favorite because you had him all to yourself. At that age, you weren’t aware that keeping him was holding him back from other things. You were all too happy to lounge on a beach with him, watching him get stuck in the sand and laughing at him until your stomach hurt. To you, it was the purest form of love. 

 Time made things weird, as it does. The summers you used to love started fading out. He no longer came on family trips. Instead, he went to summer camps with other thirteen-year-old boys. He would come back boasting about being taught to shave his face by the older kids, and then he would show you his new skills. Even though you were disinterested, you always watched him intensely, thinking that if he let you in to this one valuable piece of information, he would open the door to the rest. He never did.

  Gradually, after-school hangouts were taken away from you, too. Your father’s only contribution to any conversation was to say that your best friend would be more interested in girls now. Even as your parents left you alone, the words of  “But I’m a girl!” leaving your lips until the last light was shut off, you never really understood what it meant. In fact, it wasn’t until he flirted with someone else in front of your face that you got the hint. You were a girl, but he never thought of you that way. And he would rather spend his time after school walking to someone else’s house.

 None of that was as bad as high school was. Up until then, you’d been clutching at straws to make the friendship what it once was. You made the tent bigger to accommodate his growing frame. You offered to pay for movies if he’d come alone, and you would even sit through the boring ones just for him. On the rare chance that you’d guilt trip him into staying a little longer with you, it was enough to keep you enduring. When high school truly hit, the studying took up most of your time. The scraps that were left were spent having family time, or visiting schools your mother wanted you to attend after high school.

 Though he no longer ignored you in school, things had gotten harder. He was dating often, sweeping girls off their feet with his wild, charming sense of humor. It was hard for them not to get jealous of you. Though you weren’t around much, the bond you both shared was obvious to everyone who watched the pair of you together. He never really wanted to choose between his childhood best friend and someone he was seeing, but the choice was always very apparent to you. 

“Maybe you should date, too,” he had said.

  You shut it down quickly, appalled that he would even suggest a thing. When you realized your dismissal must have hurt his feelings, you backtracked.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” you asked.

 His smile made you feel like you were on top of the world. Of course he had someone to introduce to you. Thus, the double date was born. You could tag along with him and his girlfriend, with a friend of his you eventually started dating. It wasn’t the most ideal situation, but it had rekindled something in your friendship you didn’t know you’d been missing.

 He had even come around to your house more. You came home from a study group one time to see him in your childhood tent, his long legs sticking out of it. He bent his body forward, holding up a bag of snacks you recognized.

“You still sit in here?” he asked.

You sat down next to him, the plastic of the tent hitting you in the forehead. “When I need to think.”

“You have a brain?”

“Funny.” you said. “Why are you here?”

  He got a far away look in his eyes, like he did whenever he was truly going to say something stupid. There were times he spoke philosophically, because deep down, he was never the stupid little boy you said he was.

“Life is moving too fast,” he said. “Remember when we were kids and it moved so slow? I would suffer waiting for summer.”

“I remember it vividly.” you said. “Are you feeling nostalgic?”

  He ate some of the snacks, offering you some. When you didn’t take it, he pulled on your hair a little bit. It pulled you to wherever he was at, back in time to when things felt much easier than they were. High school was ending, and you were all walking down different paths, none of them leading back to this tent.

“I want you to promise me something.” he said. “After high school, I want us to always be best friends. This last year has made me realize how much I missed you.”

 You wanted to tell him how much you missed him, to take his hand and hold it in yours. There was something in you that couldn’t do it. You just kept chewing, waiting for him to keep talking. 

“Let’s promise to call each other at least once a day when we’re adults.” he said, getting this excited look in his eyes. He felt more like the real Haechan right then than he ever had in the past five years.

“Promise.” you said, holding out your pinky and getting ready to kiss your thumb.

  Haechan linked his pinky with yours, his thumb connecting to your thumb. You leaned down to kiss it at the same time, your faces coming closer to each other than they had in a long time.

  Sadly, after high school, the promise was never kept. The image of him walking away from your backyard was the last time you saw him in any place you called home.

                                                          ~♡~

  You held the phone away from your ear because it was too hot. In your other hand, you held a cold, strawberry smoothie, the condensation dripping down your fingers. The sidewalks were busy, so it was tricky trying to weave in and out of the people, all while holding an unfinished manuscript for the next book you were writing. Years of dodging kids in school hallways made you a pro. As you were about to collide with a delivery man, you spun around gracefully and avoided disaster. After taking a sip of smoothie, you brought the phone closer to your ear.

“Do people still do book signings for physical copies?” you asked. “I thought everything was about selfies now. I definitely don’t look good with the flash on.”

“Of course.” your agent told you over the phone. “I don’t think anyone over the age of existence does. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.” you said.

 Your agent on the other end sighed. “You’re too young to be worried about any of this. I’ll book you for the signing and people will come, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 You wanted to rattle off all the reasons you were freaking out over it, but you were in public. You took another sip of smoothie and looked at the manuscript tucked against your body. Twenty-four and published, with your book rising in the charts, and a second book underway. You shouldn’t be so scared to have human interactions with strangers who enjoy your work, and yet...

“Okay.” you said, closing your eyes for a moment.” Okay, you can do it. I don’t know why I get like this. Seriously, you’re the best.”

“I know. I know.” your agent said. “Take a bath and relax. Call me later.”

  You hung up and threw your phone in the deep recesses of your bag. Your one hand was wet, and you didn’t want it touching the papers, so you tucked them deeper against your body and kept on walking.

                                                        ~♡~

“A book signing. Can you believe it?” you said into the phone. There was no answer on the other end, not even a little static. You walked a little slower on the sidewalk, letting the outside world disappear from your vision. You took a deep breath. “I sold so many copies, mom. I know you would be proud of me.”

  The message ended with a beep. You left the phone on your ear and stopped walking. You stood still, wondering if one day calling your mother and leaving messages on her old cell phone would eventually make you feel better. She died shortly after you graduated from high school, and the phone number was the only part of her still kept alive. You called it whenever you felt a little lost, or on days when you had exciting news to share.

  Feeling a tightness in your chest, you turned off your phone and dropped it into your bag. You were almost home, but you felt like you weren’t ready to face your apartment again. You found it so funny that your professional life was so full and booked, but your personal life was so hollow and empty.

  You turned away, thinking that you could retrace your steps and find yourself on a street with a cafe still open. You would gladly sit at that table and write, watching strangers living their lives, each one stuffed to the brim of character. Men that tried hitting on women who were disinterested, the click-clacking of their heels walking away from potential danger. Mothers with their children, each child holding a mushy, spit-covered ice cream cone. There was always someone who didn’t belong in the crowd, someone your eyes glossed over, and someone who brought up memories of someone you used to know. It was your favorite pastime: watching people who weren’t watching you. You smiled at the thought of getting to live those many lives, when you remembered that there was always a writing deadline to attend to.

  Another time, you thought, before taking the remaining steps to your apartment and looking through the darkened glass front door. Maybe you would take up your agent's suggestion of taking a bath.

 Feeling a little more jolly, you walked up the steps and let yourself in. You stopped to check your mailbox (empty), stopped to check your phone messages one last time (also empty), and lastly, checked your surroundings. When you were sure no one was around, you walked up the steps, feeling tired both mentally and physically. When you reached the top of the hallway, you stopped.

“Haechan.” you said, his name too quiet for him to hear.

   Sitting outside your door, a hood over his head, sat the boy who used to pull on your ponytail. Only now, the figure in all-black clothes, a little 5 o’clock shadow on his face, the one that looked up at you like he didn’t recognize you, pulled at your heartstrings. 

                                                           ~♡~

  You liked to remember Haechan often, especially considering the main character of your book was written with him in mind. Well, you changed his name in the book and made him a lot cooler, but the core of him was the same. Both men were the epicenter of your whole world, even though one of them had left years ago. 

 Looking at him sitting on your floor transported you back in time. Briefly, your mind tried to convince yourself that you were seeing a ghost from the past. But, when he got up from the floor, approaching you cautiously, and he paused for a second before reaching out his arms to hug you, your fingertips knew what your brain didn’t: he was real.

  “Why are you here?” you blurted, pulling away from him, your body regretful that you had let him go.

“I don’t get a hello?” he asked.

  You raised your eyebrows, the surprise on your face real. You were struggling with words, which annoyed you as a writer. All you could do was look at his face and how much it had changed over the last few years. He was a man now. He was a little taller, and the baby fat on his cheeks was gone. He still couldn’t dress right, and the old confidence faded, but he was still as handsome as ever. When he smiled to show that he was joking, you couldn’t stop looking at his teeth.

“How did you find out where I live?” you asked.

“Your dad.” he said.

 Haechan didn’t so much as give his apologies for missing your mother’s funeral, and he had the good graces not to bring her up at all. You felt grateful, saving the pain of both things for another time. 

“I don’t talk to him much anymore.” you said. “He only comes by to give me old things he thinks I want.”

  Not knowing what to do with the piece of information, Haechan shoved his hands into his pockets. You hated how awkward it felt being in front of him. The silence outside of your apartment was magnified by your deep breathing. 

“Are you here because of my book?” you asked.

Puzzled, Haechan blinked. “Book? I didn’t read your book.”

  You adjusted your bag in your hands and thought of something to say. Before you could speak, Haechan motioned to the bag he brought sitting in front of your apartment door. You looked at it, the big black boulder holding no significance to you.

“I was actually just passing through town. I was wondering if you could let me stay a night.” he said.

Him

  He said he hated the apples, even though they were his favorite fruit. He put them on your lunch tray when you weren’t looking, because if you’d seen him do it, you would have made a fuss. Then, he’d get up from your table and go back to wherever his other friends were, because that was what was expected of him. But his eyes always went back to your table to make sure you were eating well, and he would try his best to remember the way you’d smile when you looked down and saw what he had left behind.

 He hated school. It was full of adults who tried to change him. Laugh a little less, they said. Don’t be a clown. Don’t make too much trouble. There was never any room for dreamers or troublemakers, never any kind of future for those who didn’t have plans by the time they were pulled from the womb. Behave and listen. Listen and learn, or we’ll call your parents. He had heard it all by the time he was thirteen, and he hated every bit of it.

 Not you, though. You never tried to change him. You let him go on his way, even though he knew you felt like he was abandoning you. You were the only person he trusted most days, and in the tent in your backyard, he had felt most like himself. 

“I don’t want to hear it.” you had said once. You were angry, he could see it in the way you tried not to say what you wanted to say. “I don’t know why you’re friends with those people.”

 He hadn’t known, either. They liked the way he made them laugh, and he liked the attention they gave him. They were different, in the way that they didn’t remind him that friendships were temporary, that everyone you know might someday disappear. He was terrified of that, of the idea that good things didn’t last.

“Are you jealous?” he asked.

 He wanted the words to sting. He knew you were jealous, and he knew you would never admit to it. He would have been jealous, too, if the roles were reversed. He wanted nothing more than for you to admit that you cared about him, that you loved him, or to rouse any kind of feeling in you at all. Those words spawned a fight that made it hard for either of you to bounce back from. He pulled and picked at you until you were deteriorating in front of his eyes. Choice words were said, and though the wounds healed as you both grew older, neither of you really forgot the beginning of the end.

 Summer came and went, time never slowing down for anybody. The hatred  burning in his heart subsided as he grew into himself more, though he never really learned how to savor the moments as they happened. He was always reaching for more, stuffing his greedy face full of anything that could keep him content.

   His phone calls to you melted down to just one call per week. He didn’t stop by the tent as much, didn’t ask to catch up on homework. He was drifting through school, using the passage of time to measure the length of girls legs, and how they’d move in his direction any time he smiled.

“Maybe you should date, too,” he had said.

 His bright idea didn’t rub off on you. You didn’t smile, didn’t look at him the excited way he looked at you. When you shut it down so quickly, he wondered if your rejection had something to do with him. He was trying really hard to keep your friendship alive, even catching up in the hallways before class to make sure you were taking care of yourself.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” you asked, a simple smile appearing and disappearing before he could blink.

 Introducing you to one of his friends, in hindsight, wasn’t the best idea. He’d had better, but he could hardly take it back. You looked happy when his friend's attention was on you. You were radiant. And it was the perfect set-up. You both could double date and spend time together, just like the old days, even making both of your dates uncomfortable by how close of a bond you had together.

  When the jealousy arrived in a perfect little handbasket, he was sure it was payback for treating you differently, as he was getting to know himself more. He burned whenever he saw you with the other boy, whenever you reached out for his hand, your lips quivering for a kiss. He would stay up late at night in a restless fit, his mind taking turns convincing himself that you were losing your virginity every waking moment. 

 “You’re spending a lot of time at my house.” you had said to him on more than one occasion. 

“Do you mind?” he asked. “I can go home, if you want.”

“No.” you said quickly, your eyes sparkling.

 He wanted to kiss you then. It was a fleeting , special moment, and it hovered in the air between you both from that moment forward. He thought maybe he was imagining it, but he had been close to many girls, and no one looked at him the way you did.

 Sitting in your tent, his legs stretched out of it because he was too big, he thought back to every time you made his heart do backflips in his chest. Ever since you were small, he had feelings for you. In fact, his parents used to joke that the two of you would end up together one day, maybe have a wedding in the backyard,  your inside jokes written into your vows.

 Hearing leaves crunching underfoot, he sat up.  “You still sit in this thing?” he asked.

You sat down next to him, the plastic of the tent hitting you in the forehead. “When I need to think.”

“You have a brain?”

“Funny.” you said. “Why are you here?”

 He wasn’t sure why. He had been taking a walk and found himself there, his feet knowing exactly where to go. He had been thinking too hard about life after high school, and about what kind of man he wanted to be.

“Life is moving too fast,” he said. “Remember when we were kids and it moved so slow? I would suffer waiting for summer.”

“I remember it vividly.” you said. “Are you feeling nostalgic?”

  He ate some of the snacks, offering you some. When you didn’t take it, he pulled on your hair a little bit. Getting you to eat properly was important to him. If he wasn’t around to remind you to take care of yourself, how would you survive the rest of life without him?

“I want you to promise me something.” he said. “After high school, I want us to always be best friends. This last year has made me realize how much I missed you.”

 When he felt like he was going to cry, he shoved more food into his face. He was watching you out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he should continue. When you remained quiet, he began again.

“Let’s promise to call each other at least once a day when we’re adults.” he said, getting this excited look in his eyes. He felt more like the real Haechan right then than he ever had in the past five years.

“Promise.” you said, holding out your pinky and getting ready to kiss your thumb.

  Haechan linked his pinky with yours, his thumb connecting to your thumb. You leaned down to kiss it at the same time, your faces coming closer to each other than they had in a long time. It would be so easy to seal the deal with a real kiss, one that had been years in the making. But he didn’t, and neither did you.

“I have to go.” he said, getting to his feet. “You’re going to keep your promise, right?”

“Have I ever broken a promise to you?” you asked.

                                                       ~♡~ 

  He was raised not to comment on the state of other people’s homes, good or not. Looking around yours, he wanted so badly to tell you how well you were doing for yourself, and how proud of you he was. He looked around, his fingers itching to touch the pretty ceramic birds on an end table, to run a fingertip on a dustless counter and hold it up to the light. 

“You can put your bag down over here.” you said, motioning to a spot beside the couch. “My couch isn’t much, but it is comfortable.”

 You were a little awkward, your eyes unable to connect with his. He could see your mind waiting to defend yourself against the little jabs old Haechan would have made about your space. When he didn’t, you didn’t let your shoulders relax. He moved further inside your apartment, and to your confusion, he said it was a nice place, and that he would be happy to sleep wherever. 

 Compared to your nerves, he was quite calm. He felt like he had walked into a time machine and transported himself into the backyard again. It was like nothing had changed at all. You still looked the same, with nicer clothes that looked more expensive than the average persons. It looked like you went to the hair salon to ask for an “adult” haircut, but your baby face made it hard to take you seriously. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” 

Haechan shrugged. “Sure.”

  When you didn’t ask if he was hungry, Haechan made himself comfortable on the couch. You sat on an opposite chair, folding your hands in your lap. You kept looking around the room nervously, as if you were scared to be alone with a stranger. It hurt him a little bit, but he was mature enough to let it slide.

“Thank you for letting me stay.” he said.

“It’s fine.”

Haechan sighed. “This is much harder than I thought it would be.”

“What is?” you asked, touching your fingers to your neck.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  You got up from your chair as if you’d been electrocuted. “I forgot I need to make a phone call. I will be right back. Don’t touch anything.” 

  Haechan watched you as you grabbed your bag and left the room. Never one to keep still, an old habit that never died, he got up and looked around. He came across the room you entered and saw that the door was ajar. He didn’t listen to the conversation, just grabbed little pieces of it regarding a book signing to take place the next day.

“So soon?” he heard you ask the person on the other end of the phone.

 Haechan walked away, his attention set on the fireplace. On top of it sat a bunch of picture frames, one of which he was in. Haechan stared at it for a long time, his eyes tracing the outline of the little boy he used to be. In the picture, the two of you were hanging onto each other. You were maybe eight years old, ice cream running down your chin, and a blissful ignorance only a child can carry on your sweet face.

 He didn’t know where things had gone wrong. The two of you should have been friends forever. It just made sense. He reached out to touch his fingers to the photo but reeled back when he saw your face in the reflection.

“My mother took that photo.” you said, appearing behind him.

He nodded. “I remember.” 

 The air was heavy. He wanted to apologize for not going to her funeral. He had been out of the country during that time, but he should have called you. He could have written a letter, he could have done anything else but ignore it. 

“I was scared.” Haechan said, the words surprising himself.

You held up a hand, as if you didn’t want to talk about it, but Haechan continued, “I loved her, too.”

 You turned your back and went into the kitchen. Quietly, Haechan followed. He wasn’t going to bring it up anymore. He sensed your sadness because it brewed in his chest, too. He sat on a stool as you got yourself a cup and poured cold water from a pitcher into it. 

“How was your trip?” you asked, your voice shaky.” Are you still traveling?”

 Since he left high school, Haechan felt aimless. He needed to explore the world in an attempt to further his education surrounding himself. He had traveled to many countries and met many people that changed him. Disappearing was never the plan, but it was addicting to not have phone calls, or to adhere to schedules. 

“I’m seeing where it goes.” he said. 

  You took a sip of water and never stopped looking at him. When you were done, you placed it on the counter. “I guess I should ask the million dollar question.”

Haechan leaned back in his stool, “Hit me with what you got.”

“Why are you here?” you asked.

“I didn’t want to pay for a hotel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not a liar.”

“Haechan, I’ve known you all my life.” you said. “Lying is your calling.”

“I wanted to see you.”

You inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.” he said. “I’ve never lied to you.”

  The bitterness was morphing your face. He could tell you were thinking back to the promise, about how broken it had made you. After he left, he heard from his parents that you called his house often to ask where he had gone. You wrote him letters that were undelivered. You nearly followed him halfway across the world until your mother got sick. 

“Okay.” he said. “It wasn’t a lie when I made that promise. I had every intention of being with you until we were old and wrinkly.”

“Please.” you said. “You knew what you were going to do before you did it. You booked the plane ticket two weeks in advance. You were with me at graduation. You kissed me.”

  He remembered the kiss well. He had thought about it often on his travels, remembering the way your velvety lips felt, and how he never wanted to stop kissing you. The kiss made sense. It was the one thing time had every permission to slow down. 

“I know.” he said.

  He kissed you. You didn’t kiss him. He was happy about graduating. He was riding the high of the plane ticket, of the unknown waiting for him. He was scared it was the last chance he had to show you his feelings. When you kissed him back and it felt so good, he was then scared that he would never have the guts to leave. 

  You continued speaking, each word obliterating his thoughts, “ You want to think going away was just some spontaneous thrill, Haechan, but it fucking wasn’t. You could have told me it was what you wanted. I would have understood. You didn’t have to leave without saying goodbye. You didn’t have to-”

 You couldn’t say the words, so he finished them for you. “-leave. I know. I’m sorry. This isn’t an excuse, but I...didn’t want to lose you.”

  The words felt stupid as soon as he said them. You held your hand up to your head and said you had a headache. Haechan took the time to excuse himself and use the bathroom, locking himself away to figure out what he really thought was going to happen when he showed up at your door to get you back.

You 

  You collapsed onto your couch. The last hour felt like a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings. You were older and more equipped to handle confrontation, but there was something about seeing Haechan that made you want to curl in your mother’s lap like a child. You bit down on your thumb and thought of the ways you could ask him to leave your private space. There was a hotel down the street that was relatively cheap. 

  You looked at the photo on the fireplace. The little boy staring back at you had no idea one day he would break your heart into a million pieces. He was still a little unsure of himself, his smile unknowingly gearing up to be mischievous in a few years time. You thought of the grown man in the bathroom, and how the years had passed, but he still felt the same. A part of you wanted to pinch his cheek and wrap your arms around him like you would when you were young. An even bigger part of you wanted to kiss him to see if the feelings still lingered, even though you already knew the answer to that.

  Moving your foot, you accidentally nudged his backpack. You looked down at it. It was worn in places, with band buttons adorning the front. One of the zippers was open and the edge of something was sticking out. You looked at your closed bathroom door and back to the backpack before gathering up your courage and unzipping it slowly. 

  Digging your hand inside, you pulled out a corner of his underwear. With a quick “Ew”, you shoved it back inside. Your knuckle touched against something hard. You wrapped your hand around it and unearthed it to see that it was your book. You pulled it out even more and audibly gasped. 

“You liar.” you whispered.

 Hearing the toilet flush, you panicked and pulled the book all the way out and shoved it underneath your couch pillow. Quickly, you zipped his backpack and sat back, crossing one leg over the other. When Haechan came out, he hardly looked at you.

“Coming here was a bad idea,” he said. “I don’t know what I expected.”

You stood up. “Wait.”

  Haechan didn’t hear you. He grabbed his bag and threw it over his shoulder. You could see that his face was wet where he had thrown water on it. He didn’t make eye contact with you, just waved his hand and apologized for being an inconvenience. 

“Leaving again?” you said.

  Haechan stopped moving. He turned back. “I thought about you every day I was gone. Every day. And every day, my next thought was that I didn’t deserve you.”

 You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing at all. For a beat or two, you both stared, your eyes searching each other's. You could see every age of Haechan since you’d known him on his face, from the adorable child to the handsome adult. 

  You let Haechan leave this time. He closed the door with a soft click, his presence feeling like a fever dream. Mindlessly, you sat back down on your couch, and only remembered the book still laying there after some time.

 You took your book and placed it on your lap. It was so worn that some of the pages were slipping out of the binding. You opened it carefully and flipped through the pages, the margins filled up with black pen ink. Haechan had written down his input on most pages with things like:

Am I really like this? There is no way this guy is cooler than me.

You know? You’re actually kind of funny. 

Your mother was better than us all.

  You closed the book with a snap and felt the tears falling. You put your head down and tried to feel everything all at once.

                                                         ~♡~

  Your agent walked next to you, her stride slowing to match yours. She didn’t outright say you looked like shit, though it was the truth. Your eyes were a little red, your cheeks were puffy, and you kept itching your neck all throughout the night until there were red scratch marks all on your skin.

 She held open the door to the bookstore “Are you nervous?”

“Am I nervous?” you asked. “I’m shitting myself. I don’t think anyone is going to show up, but with my life, I’m pretty sure I can deal with the embarrassment.”

 Your agent rattled on and on about how special you were to people. She dragged you throughout the two story bookstore, pulling you harder when you tried stalling. You mostly blocked out her words to save your sanity. You didn’t love when people tried buttering you up.

“Just over in this section.” she said. “It starts in twenty minutes, so don’t expect many people right away.”

  When you both turned the corner, there was a sizable line leading up to a table stacked with new books. When the people saw you, they gawked. Some clapped, which made your face turn as hot as your neck. 

“I can’t do this.” you whispered.

  Your agent directed you to a chair, holding you down by your shoulders, so you wouldn’t run away. You took a sip of cold water sitting by your side.

“They’re all here for you.” she said. “Smile and try to be happy.”

“I’ll try.” you said, but when someone smiled at you in front of the line, you felt yourself returning a genuine smile.

 Twenty minutes passed by faster than you wished. When the first person approached the table, you tried to remember your school teachers who believed in you. You recalled all the people who inspired your stories, making a mental bid to thank them for making the first signing so sweet. 

“I really love how you write.” someone had said. Hearing those words made you feel touched. You tried your hardest not to tear up, signing your sloppy signature as best you could.

“Thank you.” you said, the gratitude you felt hopefully being translated well.

  You signed for a long time, the line growing and growing as time passed. Some people came with their own dog-eared books, others with fresh copies. They asked what your upcoming book was about, which made you excited to finish writing it. 

“There isn’t a set ending quite yet, but I’m writing like crazy!” you said.

  You looked down at a book before you and smiled, your fingers touching the pages softly. You signed it and handed it back, giving the fan a smile that reached your eyes. When your eyes locked with his, you felt the world move. Staring back at you was Haechan.

“I would have given you my own copy to sign.” he said. “But I seem to have misplaced it.”

 There was a knowing smile on his face that made you feel flushed all over. He took the signed book back and tucked it underneath his arm. Since yesterday, he looked freshly showered in a similar black t-shirt and jeans. His hair was carefully laid flat on his head like he cared what he looked like in public. He looked handsome, and his cheeks were definitely not puffy.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you read the book?” you asked. 

“You and I both know I don’t make the best choices.” he said. 

  You smiled faintly. There was pain in the smile he returned. You wanted so badly to reach across the table and smooth away the lines on his forehead.

“I know this isn’t the best place.” he said, turning around to look at the line behind him. “But I came here to tell you the truth of why I was outside of your door yesterday.”

“Okay.” you said, your attention no longer on those people.

Haechan continued. “You see, I’m not traveling anymore. “

“You’re not?” you asked. “Then, what are you doing?”

“I’m coming home.”  

 You didn’t know what he expected of you, but he looked a little deflated when you held out your hand. He looked at the book under his arm and back at your hand, his smile unsure. He took the book out and placed it gently into the palm of your hand. You placed the book back onto the table and opened to the space where you had signed your name.

“I’m not going to ask for promises anymore.” you said. “I’ve always asked you for too much. For now, I would just like to tell you something.”

In the book, just below your name, you signed “I love you, Haechan.”

  Before you could even close the book, Haechan came around the table and brought you into a big hug that certainly felt like home. 

[doctorthreephds]

Synapses: Part 3

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

WC: 4.8k

TW: Mentions of death and drugs--specifically from the episode Demonology

A/N: Hey! Just a forewarning, the forensic techniques in this are complete speculation from what I know and they are probably not accurate at all. 

Summary: After starting your new job and getting closer to Spencer, you find yourself having your first fight with your new friend when the anniversary of your mother’s death approaches. 

Masterlist

Taglist: @obsssedwithjustaboutanything​ @green-intervention​ @eevee0722​

Starting your new job was hard, like all things, but enjoyable. The first few days were learning the ropes and the area and you often came home exhausted, tired from a long day’s work in a lab you were unfamiliar with. The little things were what kept you going. Every day, you made an effort to eat lunch with your father--leftovers or food to go from a nearby restaurant or deli. When your father went away on his case, you spent time with Penelope in her bat cave. It was fun to hang out with her, spouting comedic rhetoric whenever someone called her for advice.

“Please don’t eat near the merchandise, baby, it’s my money maker,” she states, typing away at the speed of light as someone rings in. “Information highway speaking, you’re on speaker with me and the good doctor.”

You snort and let out a small laugh as you silently dig into your takeout box of chow mein.

“The good doctor? I thought that was me,” you hear Spencer speak up from the phone and smile, lifting your chopsticks to your mouth.  

“You’ve been replaced, Dr. Reid. Sorry!” you say before taking another bite of the noodles.

“What are you doing--”

“Stay on track, boy genius. What do you need from me?” Penelope asks and you zone out, not wanting to listen into the details of the gruesome murders they were investigating. While your job sometimes involved dead bodies, you were in fact eating lunch and wanted to keep your lunch down for the rest of the day. After they were finished, you could hear them wrapping up and you inserted a final goodbye.

“Bye Spencer! I’ll see you soon,” you state as the phone beeps to signal that the call has ended. 

“See him soon?” Penelope spins around as she fiddles with a pink pen with a puffball on the end that almost matches the pink blush on your face. 

“I mean I’ll see him when the case ends,” you mumble and toss your takeout box into her trash, taking a sip from your water bottle.

“Hm, I’m sure that’s what you meant,” she smiles and turns back to her computer, typing something up. “If you need any info on him, I can tell you anything you want to know, sweets.”

“I’m not gonna do that, it’s an invasion of privacy,” you stand and check your watch, it’s about time for you to get back to work. “But if anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

Other times, when your father was too busy to entertain you, you would eat with the others--or more specifically, Spencer. Travelling up to the sixth floor, you check to see if Spencer is anywhere nearby. When you deduce that he is nowhere near, his plush office chair becomes your new home as you open up your bag and grab the tupperware full of salad while you wait for his arrival. Opening the small container, you poke at the leaves with your fork and make a face when you see that they’re soggy and limp.

“Have a salad today?” he asks as you look at the sad lettuce in your small tupperware container. 

“Yeah. Although, it doesn’t look very appetizing,” you state and put it down on his desk, looking up at the cup of coffee in his hand that looked far more delicious than the monstrosity that was sad salad. 

“Did you know that salad comes from the latin word ‘herba salta’ which means ‘salted herbs,’ so perhaps you don’t have enough salt on your herbs,” he states and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head as you close the container and put it away. 

“Any more salt and my blood pressure’s gonna be at risk. Wanna grab lunch at the deli?” you ask and stand. He nods as the two of you exit the bullpen, taking the elevator down.

This was your schedule, and you loved it. It didn’t take that long for you to build a good relationship with everyone, constantly checking in on their lives outside of Quantico. Emily was doing well with Sergio, Henry was growing at a rate that JJ couldn’t comprehend, Penelope was still going out with Kevin, and you and Spencer were often found hanging out on the weekends when he wasn’t called away for a case. 

You found it odd how easily you took to Spencer, how his fun facts were always there to brighten up every conversation and his constant pursuit of knowledge was admirable. He took you to his favorite bookstore as well as his favorite used bookstore that he frequented in hopes of finding first editions and original copies. He also would take you to his favorite park, the one that he went to so that he could play chess and he would always win. It wasn’t always about him, though, you loved taking him to go see new movies as opposed to the older and foreign ones that he enjoyed. The two of you also committed to trying new foods together. With his sensory issues and your picky nature, you both embarked on a journey to eat new foods in hopes of finding something new and delicious.

While your new found friendship was almost perfect in the way that you committed yourselves, it too could not come without ups and downs. The first bump came when you helped consult on an unofficial case, something that had happened with Emily’s close friends. It was only a few days before the anniversary for your mother’s death and you were running on fumes.

“Hello?” you ask sharply, pouring over several reports that were due soon. Your temper was short today and you just wanted to go home.

“Hey it’s Spencer. Are you okay?” he asks and you sigh, rubbing your temples in frustration.

“Yeah, I’m fine. What do you need?” you sit back in your chair and take a sip of your coffee, attempting to quell your anxieties while he speaks.

“I’m not at Quantico right now, I’m at a victim’s house. His name is Thomas Valentine and he died of dehydration but Emily believes there’s foul play. I’ll have Garcia send over his tox reports along with Matthew Benton’s to see if the pathologist missed anything. We’re on our way back so feel free to meet us upstairs when we debrief,” he says and you nod, writing down the information on a stray post-it note so that you don’t forget. “By the way, your dad says ‘hi.’”

“Tell him I say ‘hi’ back. I’ll meet you upstairs,” you state and hang up the phone, sighing as you run your hands through your hair to release some nervous energy. It was only a few more days and you would be on your day off, it was only a few days until you would be able to visit your mom again.

Just as if she heard it from five floors up, you receive an email from Penelope with the toxicology reports from both victims. A quick skim shows that there is a lack of intense scrutiny due to the simple cause of death. But, if Emily and Spencer believe otherwise then it was in your best interest to assume so as well. Looking into Matthew Benton’s report, there was evidence of long-term methamphetamine abuse which could contribute to the death but nothing out of the ordinary. It was only midday and you were running out of steam but your friends needed you so you had to pull it together.

After printing out all the information you have and stashing it in a folder, you make your way up to the bullpen and watch people rushing around. The busyness and chatter made you a bit woozy but the sight of Spencer helped to ground out a bit. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t have to be here,” he frowns as he sees you approach and you shake your head.

“I’m fine, I just want to help out in any way I can,” you mumble and move past him toward the conference room where almost everyone was gathered. Once Hotch arrived, they began to pour over details and possibilities within this pseudo-case. 

Listening intently, you take note of the evidence as it is laid out for you, the scuff marks under the bed, the missionary church in Spain that the two victims had visited, the idea that each family had been highly religious. Years of going to church in France and D.C. were being brought back in an instant. 

“That sounds like an exorcism,” you blurt out and look up to see everyone staring at you. It was odd to hold their attention but you nestled down in your chair and continued to listen. 

“Look, I know the Bible just as well as anyone, but I also know there’s nothing more open to behavioral interpretation than religion,” Derek comments.

“Meaning what?” Emily asks, shaking her head.

“I think it’s dangerous for us to wanna find a connection between these deaths,” he states.

“Wait, was Thomas’ wife religious?” Emily frowns and looks around at your father. 

“She was concerned that he had been cursing God,” your father recalls as Spencer dives into an inference. 

“Exorcism ritual can take days to complete. It’s possible the stress induced could cause a heart attack, especially in someone with a history of drug abuse,” he explains and looks at you. 

“Definitely, drugs leave marks on your body that are irreversible unless you completely stop. It makes an impact on your hair growth, your skin, your heart, so it’s completely plausible. And it could explain how someone died of dehydration,” the facts fly so fast through your head as you try to connect the dots while you speak, your head spinning. Even a couple minutes in the conference room was overwhelming, you couldn’t imagine doing this all the time.  

“Guys, look, I’m willing to say that we might have an unsub who ritualizes killings as if they were exorcisms, maybe. But, right now, we don’t even know if we have a crime yet,” Derek voices his concerns and you slowly nod, thinking about how you could help to clear up any room for error. It was possible if you were able to look at the bodies and examine them that you may have the ability to try and see if there were any other traces of possible deadly substances. 

“Morgan’s right. We need to step back. Let me talk to someone before I have us all telling ghost stories,” your father suggests and everyone appears to take this as time to cool off and rethink any possibilities, standing and leaving the room to follow their own leads. Dread settles in your chest as you sit in the chair, looking down at the folder to find any piece of information that could help you come to a conclusion but the words were flying around in your head and you felt too sluggish to do anything. 

“Do you think that you can get me the victim’s clothing? Perhaps something was done to them topically that would explain their deaths further,” you stand and sigh, already dreading going back to your reports. 

“Yeah, sure. It’ll be our lunch break,” he says and smiles. While his smiles usually have the power to brighten your entire day, your sour mood only extinguished any fire of joy inside your body.

“I have too much to do, just go on without me,” you respond and begin walking out of the conference room. You can already feel Spencer’s pestering bubbling up and wanting to know what’s wrong but you didn’t have the heart to tell him.

“Are you sure? Studies have shown that taking breaks help boost blood flow and information retention--”

“I’m sure, Spencer,” you snap and continue walking toward the elevators before he reaches out and grabs your arm to stop you.

“What’s going on? Are you mad at me?” he asks.

“God, I’m fine Spencer! Stop babying me, you’re not my dad,” all the emotion that had been building up in the morning spilled out in anger and your heart shattered to see Spencer so confused and sad. “I’m sorry.”

Stepping into the elevator, you press the button to go down and watch the doors close in front of you, not looking anywhere in the direction of Spencer. The fluorescent lights above you suddenly look far too bright and tears well in your eyes. What would your mother say if she could see you now? Would she be disappointed? Would she be angry? A vibration in your pocket breaks you out of the self-loathing spiral.

From Dad (12:24PM):

I think you just about broke this kid’s heart.

To Dad (12:25PM):

I didn’t mean to. It’s just so close.

From Dad: (12:25PM):

Just tell him. He’ll understand.

To Dad (12:26PM):

I know. I love you.

As you sit at your desk and stare at the papers, your mind moves on autopilot to complete the rest of your tasks. With only two cups of coffee in your system, your head was starting to hurt and your focus was fizzing but when Spencer came back with a couple bags full of clothing to be processed, the guilt overpowered any feeling of fatigue.

“I brought the evidence. Just send the report to Garcia,” he states and drops the bag off at your desk before turning to leave. 

“Hey, Spencer?” he turns to look at you, his eyes narrowed as you speak. “I’m really sorry. I’m not feeling well.”

“I could have told you that, and I’m not even a medical doctor,” he mutters and sighs. The air between you is stale and you want to speak, but don’t know what to say.

“Do you want to stay and help me process the evidence? It’ll only take a little bit,” you ask, your voice small. He appears to ponder the thought before nodding and you smile, standing and taking the evidence over to one of your machines. This was where you thrived. While you worked in silence, it was comforting to have Spencer around, even if the two of you were still on rocky ground. 

You first started with isolating the fabric and the substances on the clothing. From there, you take them and test what they are to see if there are foreign substances that may have contributed to the deaths of Matthew Benton and Thomas Valentine. Processing goes quickly and you print out the report, frowning at the traces of nerve agent on the clothing.

“There’s sarin on their clothing,” you tell him and hand over the papers for him to read through. 

“Thanks,” he mutters and stands to leave. 

“Are we okay?” you ask him, watching him turn as you wrap your arms around your torso in a comforting way, warming your hands from the cold lab.

“Obviously not, if you’re not telling me something,” he puts down the folder and comes up to you, reaching out to take your hands. It was a bit of a shock, considering the fact that you knew he hated touching hands, but it was progress and it made your heart melt to think that he would feel safe enough to do so. “I know something’s wrong and I want to help you, but you’re not being honest with me.” 

“I just haven’t eaten, Spence. And I’m under the weather, which doesn’t help. I promise that I’ll be okay,” you tell him, staring up into his eyes and speaking with as much truth as you can. But it wasn’t convincing enough and he pulls away as if you just burned him.

“I guess you don’t trust me, then,” he mumbles and turns around, picking up the folder and getting into the elevator. As the doors close, he stares back at you like he was disappointed and it completely broke you. Fat tears roll down your cheeks as your chest bubbles with anxiety and sorrow. You find a seat at your desk and desperately try to wipe the tears away, breathing in deeply to calm yourself down. You were still at work and you still had work to do. 

Quickly, you dive back into your reports, writing them up as quickly as possible and pushing Spencer to the back of your mind. Before you know it, the end of the day comes and you’re out of the building and on the metro at record speed. The vibration of the wheels rolling over the tracks lulls you into a sense of security, distracting you from the pangs in your stomach. Without the distraction of work, your mind was able to wander.

Was it fair for you to hide this from Spencer? Why did you? Why did you need to keep this secret so badly?

Perhaps it was the years of being on your own after her death or the fact that showing sadness was opening yourself up to vulnerability and connection that you feared. Perhaps it was both, you didn’t have many friends in grad school and only talked to your dad once every blue moon. The thought of being a burden was unbearable, but losing Spencer was unfathomable. You could deal with a little bit of vulnerability if it meant getting your friend back. 

Your legs guide you home once you reach your stop and you reheat some rice and add some soy sauce to make something that is edible and that you can keep down without issue. After eating, you shower and head to bed, falling asleep the second that you hit the pillow. 

The next day, your alarm jars you out of a dreamless sleep, shaking you from a night that felt far too short. Your entire body was fatigued and your brain was a mess, but it was your last day at work before you got the day off. As you got ready and out the door, your phone was blowing up with information sent by Penelope and Emily. There was another death and they needed you to analyze the clothing of the third victim to confirm that nerve agent was being used to kill these men. 

One you reach the office, you sit down and begin writing as you await the evidence. If you worked quick enough and finished the reports, you would be able to go home early. The fog in your brain makes it hard to focus as you work on more write ups, the words barely forming sentences, but you force yourself to persevere through lunch. Late in the afternoon, Spencer appears again with the evidence bag you need to process.

“Just send the report to Penelope when you’re done,” he states and turns back around to get into the elevator but you stand and pipe up.

“Can we talk?” you ask, hoping and praying that he would let you speak. 

“I don’t know, can we? Because you seemed pretty adamant about keeping secrets from me last time we tried to talk,” he mumbles as he turns to look at you, his eyes dark and full of storm clouds. 

“I’m sorry,” you begin, trying to find the right words so that your thoughts form coherent sentences. “I’m bad at talking about what’s plaguing me. I’ve been alone for a long time, and I’m sorry. It’s not an excuse, I know, but it’s a start.”

You want to say ‘I’m sorry’ over and over, but it wasn’t an explanation and he deserved at least that.

“Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mother’s death,” his frown almost vanishes from his face as you speak which makes you feel a hint of encouragement to keep talking. “And I’ve always dealt with it alone. Maybe because I don’t let myself handle it any other way, but I hope that you’re able to understand. I’m sorry, Spencer.”

Staring down at the ground, you will the tears to stay in your eyes so that you can keep up some image of togetherness, but they fall as quickly as they form. Suddenly his arms are wrapped around you and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. This was him accepting your apology and you suddenly felt like you could breathe. You worm your arms around his torso and pull him close, allowing yourself to take in all of him. The smell of his cologne, the feeling of muscles as they squeeze you tight, the fact that his hands were intertwined behind your back and his head was settled on top of yours. 

“I’m sorry too,” he mumbles and you pull away slightly to look up at him. “You didn’t have to tell me that.”

He pauses as he also stumbles over his words.

“But, I’m glad you did.”

You let out a sigh and hug him tight again, wanting to memorize the way his arms felt around you. After another long hug, you pull away and wipe your nose, shaking your head as you look over at the evidence bag. 

“I’m sorry, Patrick. I’ll get to processing your clothes now,” you mumble and let out a light laugh as you wash your hands and ready the evidence, processing the substances on his clothing. Beside you, Spencer leans against the wall and watches silently. It’s a bit nerve wracking to have someone watching you the way that he does, with bright eyes and attentive body language, but you do your best to explain it to him as the machine brings up the results. 

“Nerve agent, it’s sarin,” you turn to him. “Go tell them.”

He nods and picks up the newly printed report.

“I’ll come get you afterward,” he promises. “We can ride the train together.”

“There’s no need, I’m going home now. Just text me,” you smile up at him as he nods and takes your hand, squeezing it one last time before leaving.

You feel lighter now, like you lifted a rock off your chest. It was a burden, keeping secrets, but now you could feel a little bit better. After writing up all the procedural stuff on how you processed the evidence, you pack your bag and head to the metro. When you’re on the train, you get a text from Spencer telling him that they caught the priest and he was being deported back to Italy. 

To Spencer (7:45PM):

I’m glad.

From Spencer (8:01PM):

Do you want me to come over?

To Spencer (8:02PM):

No, it’s okay. I’ll be okay.

When you finally arrive at your stop, you easily find your way home. There was still sadness lingering, it was getting to be that time, but you had Spencer and that was enough. Getting home and getting to bed is a quick ordeal after you eat something and drink way too much wine to try and drown your sorrows and quiet your mind. The same days every year, you take a couple off so that you can mourn the loss of your mother and visit her grave. It was almost like a way to pretend that she was alive, even if just for a day. You had a lot to tell her after everything that’s happened, but it still didn’t help the fact that she was gone forever. 

Waking up the next morning is rough, it feels like a train plowed into you after a night of tears shed and one too many glasses of wine as you reminisced. Looking at your phone on this bright Friday morning, you see that you’ve managed to sleep in pretty significantly, but at least it was still technically morning. Waiting for you are a text from your father and a text from Spencer.

From Dad (6:00AM): 

Chin up, tesoro. Your mother loved you very much, she would be proud of everything you accomplished. 

From Spencer (7:02AM):

Do you want to get dinner after work?

From Spencer (7:34AM):

Where are you?

From Spencer (8:01AM):

Let me know what I can do.

The blanket of isolation took over you as you slowly began your morning routine, slowly being the key word. While Spencer knew, you didn’t know what to do now. This was uncharted territory for you and while you knew you weren’t alone, you had also never mourned with another person besides time spent at your mother’s funeral. Perhaps another year, another time. He was only just your friend. 

After you throw on comfy clothes and brush your teeth, you put your hair up so that it’s out of your face and eat some cereal--something easy and virtually effortless. Once you finish, you make a mental note of what you’re going to pick up at the store before heading to the cemetery to spend time with your mom. Throwing on a coat and slinging your bag over your shoulder, you punch in the security code and open the door to see Spencer there.

“Spencer? What are you doing here, it’s only like two,” you frown and close your apartment door behind you, locking it with your keys.

“I finished up all my paperwork so I took a half day and I wanted to cheer you up,” he states as you look up at him. “Maybe we can watch some Star Wars or that vampire movie you always talk about.”

“I’m going to visit my mom,” you tell him.

“Oh, sorry, I’ll go then,” he says and begins to turn and walk away but you pipe up before he can get too far.

“Why don’t you come with me?” you ask. He was already here and he wanted to help you feel better. His presence alone was grounding, reminding you of what you had and not of what you lost. 

“Are you sure?” he asks and you nod, walking up next to him.

“She would have loved you,” you almost reach out and take his hand before you realize what you’re about to do. “Can--Can I hold your hand?”

You’re almost positive he’s going to say no. After all, you know he has issues with germs and sensory issues, the day before being a special occasion because you had broken down crying in front of him. But, when he nods and holds out his hand, you feel your heart flutter. The two of you make your way downstairs in a comfortable silence and the warmth of Spencer’s hand in yours is comforting. As you exit the elevator and make your way out onto the street, the cold D.C. air is refreshing.

Together you walk to the local grocery store to grab some food and flowers, daffodils, which were your mother’s favorite. After, you ride the metro down near the cemetery. This whole time, the presence of Spencer is enough to distract you from the ever present cloud looming over your head, but when you finally walk through the cemetery’s gate, all hell breaks loose. 

When Spencer hears you sob, he instantly wraps his arms around you. The floodgates open and you softly sob into his chest, your arms wrapped around him in a vice. Your heart hurts, you miss your mother. She should have been alive to see all the accomplishments, to see your wedding and your second graduation. It’s times like these where you wonder if anything could have been done, if you could have seen the symptoms sooner or if you could have found another doctor, but your father always reminds you that you did everything in your power to help her and that she would have been proud of the person you were today. 

Once your sobs subside, you sniffle and pull away to wipe your nose. 

“Sorry for crying on you,” you huff out a small laugh and try to wipe away some of the snot that got on him while you cried.

“It’s okay, I understand,” he says and you sit down on the blanket, Spencer sitting next to you and helping to lay out the food. 

“Hey mom,” your voice breaks a little and you clear your throat before turning to Spencer. “This is Spencer and he works with dad. He’s my best friend.”

You smile at him as he turns and waves at her headstone. The notion is so heartwarming that you feel the tears rise up again.

“Hi Ms. Montgomery, your daughter is one of the best people I know,” he says as you begin to eat cheese and crackers from the charcuterie board.

“He works in the same building I do, I got the job at Quantico. I know that FBI agents and you don’t mix very well but I enjoy my job and they have all these new machines for me to play with,” you lay your head on Spencer’s shoulder and continue talking as he wraps an arm around you instinctively. As the two of you sit there and pick at the food, continuing to talk about your mom and your fondest memories, there’s a part of you that wishes it could be like this always. Maybe you didn’t have to always hide your sadness and spend it in isolation. And just maybe, there was always a rainbow after a storm.

[glittergummicandypeach]

Fake Hafez: How a supreme Persian poet of love was erased | Religion | Al Jazeera

This is the time of the year where every day I get a handful of requests to track down the original, authentic versions of some famed Muslim poet, usually Hafez or Rumi. The requests start off the same way: "I am getting married next month, and my fiance and I wanted to celebrate our Muslim background, and we have always loved this poem by Hafez. Could you send us the original?" Or, "My daughter is graduating this month, and I know she loves this quote from Hafez. Can you send me the original so I can recite it to her at the ceremony we are holding for her?"

It is heartbreaking to have to write back time after time and say the words that bring disappointment: The poems that they have come to love so much and that are ubiquitous on the internet are forgeries. Fake. Made up. No relationship to the original poetry of the beloved and popular Hafez of Shiraz.

How did this come to be? How can it be that about 99.9 percent of the quotes and poems attributed to one the most popular and influential of all the Persian poets and Muslim sages ever, one who is seen as a member of the pantheon of "universal" spirituality on the internet are ... fake? It turns out that it is a fascinating story of Western exotification and appropriation of Muslim spirituality.

Let us take a look at some of these quotes attributed to Hafez:

Even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, 'you owe me.' Look what happens with a love like that! It lights up the whole sky.

You like that one from Hafez? Too bad. Fake Hafez.

Your heart and my heart Are very very old friends.

Like that one from Hafez too? Also Fake Hafez.

Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living in better conditions.

Beautiful. Again, not Hafez.

And the next one you were going to ask about? Also fake. So where do all these fake Hafez quotes come from?

An American poet, named Daniel Ladinsky, has been publishing books under the name of the famed Persian poet Hafez for more than 20 years. These books have become bestsellers. You are likely to find them on the shelves of your local bookstore under the "Sufism" section, alongside books of Rumi, Khalil Gibran, Idries Shah, etc.

It hurts me to say this, because I know so many people love these "Hafez" translations. They are beautiful poetry in English, and do contain some profound wisdom. Yet if you love a tradition, you have to speak the truth: Ladinsky's translations have no earthly connection to what the historical Hafez of Shiraz, the 14th-century Persian sage, ever said.

He is making it up. Ladinsky himself admitted that they are not "translations", or "accurate", and in fact denied having any knowledge of Persian in his 1996 best-selling book, I Heard God Laughing. Ladinsky has another bestseller, The Subject Tonight Is Love.

Persians take poetry seriously. For many, it is their singular contribution to world civilisation: What the Greeks are to philosophy, Persians are to poetry. And in the great pantheon of Persian poetry where Hafez, Rumi, Saadi, 'Attar, Nezami, and Ferdowsi might be the immortals, there is perhaps none whose mastery of the Persian language is as refined as that of Hafez.

In the introduction to a recent book on Hafez, I said that Rumi (whose poetic output is in the tens of thousands) comes at you like you an ocean, pulling you in until you surrender to his mystical wave and are washed back to the ocean. Hafez, on the other hand, is like a luminous diamond, with each facet being a perfect cut. You cannot add or take away a word from his sonnets. So, pray tell, how is someone who admits that they do not know the language going to be translating the language?

Ladinsky is not translating from the Persian original of Hafez. And unlike some "versioners" (Coleman Barks is by far the most gifted here) who translate Rumi by taking the Victorian literal translations and rendering them into American free verse, Ladinsky's relationship with the text of Hafez's poetry is nonexistent. Ladinsky claims that Hafez appeared to him in a dream and handed him the English "translations" he is publishing:

"About six months into this work I had an astounding dream in which I saw Hafiz as an Infinite Fountaining Sun (I saw him as God), who sang hundreds of lines of his poetry to me in English, asking me to give that message to 'my artists and seekers'."

It is not my place to argue with people and their dreams, but I am fairly certain that this is not how translation works. A great scholar of Persian and Urdu literature, Christopher Shackle, describes Ladinsky's output as "not so much a paraphrase as a parody of the wondrously wrought style of the greatest master of Persian art-poetry." Another critic, Murat Nemet-Nejat, described Ladinsky's poems as what they are: original poems of Ladinsky masquerading as a "translation."

I want to give credit where credit is due: I do like Ladinsky's poetry. And they do contain mystical insights. Some of the statements that Ladinsky attributes to Hafez are, in fact, mystical truths that we hear from many different mystics. And he is indeed a gifted poet. See this line, for example:

I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.

That is good stuff. Powerful. And many mystics, including the 20th-century Sufi master Pir Vilayat, would cast his powerful glance at his students, stating that he would long for them to be able to see themselves and their own worth as he sees them. So yes, Ladinsky's poetry is mystical. And it is great poetry. So good that it is listed on Good Reads as the wisdom of "Hafez of Shiraz." The problem is, Hafez of Shiraz said nothing like that. Daniel Ladinsky of St Louis did. 

The poems are indeed beautiful. They are just not ... Hafez. They are ... Hafez-ish? Hafez-esque? So many of us wish that Ladinsky had just published his work under his own name, rather than appropriating Hafez's. 

Ladinsky's "translations" have been passed on by Oprah, the BBC, and others. Government officials have used them on occasions where they have wanted to include Persian speakers and Iranians. It is now part of the spiritual wisdom of the East shared in Western circles. Which is great for Ladinsky, but we are missing the chance to hear from the actual, real Hafez. And that is a shame.

So, who was the real Hafez (1315-1390)?

He was a Muslim, Persian-speaking sage whose collection of love poetry rivals only Mawlana Rumi in terms of its popularity and influence. Hafez's given name was Muhammad, and he was called Shams al-Din (The Sun of Religion). Hafez was his honorific because he had memorised the whole of the Quran. His poetry collection, the Divan, was referred to as Lesan al-Ghayb (the Tongue of the Unseen Realms).

A great scholar of Islam, the late Shahab Ahmed, referred to Hafez's Divan as: "the most widely-copied, widely-circulated, widely-read, widely-memorized, widely-recited, widely-invoked, and widely-proverbialized book of poetry in Islamic history." Even accounting for a slight debate, that gives some indication of his immense following. Hafez's poetry is considered the very epitome of Persian in the Ghazal tradition.

Hafez's worldview is inseparable from the world of Medieval Islam, the genre of Persian love poetry, and more. And yet he is deliciously impossible to pin down. He is a mystic, though he pokes fun at ostentatious mystics. His own name is "he who has committed the Quran to heart", yet he loathes religious hypocrisy. He shows his own piety while his poetry is filled with references to intoxication and wine that may be literal or may be symbolic.

The most sublime part of Hafez's poetry is its ambiguity. It is like a Rorschach psychological test in poetry. The mystics see it as a sign of their own yearning, and so do the wine-drinkers, and the anti-religious types. It is perhaps a futile exercise to impose one definitive meaning on Hafez. It would rob him of what makes him ... Hafez.

The tomb of Hafez in Shiraz, a magnificent city in Iran, is a popular pilgrimage site and the honeymoon destination of choice for many Iranian newlyweds. His poetry, alongside that of Rumi and Saadi, are main staples of vocalists in Iran to this day, including beautiful covers by leading maestros like Shahram Nazeri and Mohammadreza Shajarian.

Like many other Persian poets and mystics, the influence of Hafez extended far beyond contemporary Iran and can be felt wherever Persianate culture was a presence, including India and Pakistan, Central Asia, Afghanistan, and the Ottoman realms. Persian was the literary language par excellence from Bengal to Bosnia for almost a millennium, a reality that sadly has been buried under more recent nationalistic and linguistic barrages.

Part of what is going on here is what we also see, to a lesser extent, with Rumi: the voice and genius of the Persian speaking, Muslim, mystical, sensual sage of Shiraz are usurped and erased, and taken over by a white American with no connection to Hafez's Islam or Persian tradition. This is erasure and spiritual colonialism. Which is a shame, because Hafez's poetry deserves to be read worldwide alongside Shakespeare and Toni Morrison, Tagore and Whitman, Pablo Neruda and the real Rumi, Tao Te Ching and the Gita, Mahmoud Darwish, and the like.

In a 2013 interview, Ladinsky said of his poems published under the name of Hafez: "Is it Hafez or Danny? I don't know. Does it really matter?" I think it matters a great deal. There are larger issues of language, community, and power involved here.

It is not simply a matter of a translation dispute, nor of alternate models of translations. This is a matter of power, privilege and erasure. There is limited shelf space in any bookstore. Will we see the real Rumi, the real Hafez, or something appropriating their name? How did publishers publish books under the name of Hafez without having someone, anyone, with a modicum of familiarity check these purported translations against the original to see if there is a relationship? Was there anyone in the room when these decisions were made who was connected in a meaningful way to the communities who have lived through Hafez for centuries?

Hafez's poetry has not been sitting idly on a shelf gathering dust. It has been, and continues to be, the lifeline of the poetic and religious imagination of tens of millions of human beings. Hafez has something to say, and to sing, to the whole world, but bypassing these tens of millions who have kept Hafez in their heart as Hafez kept the Quran in his heart is tantamount to erasure and appropriation.

We live in an age where the president of the United States ran on an Islamophobic campaign of "Islam hates us" and establishing a cruel Muslim ban immediately upon taking office. As Edward Said and other theorists have reminded us, the world of culture is inseparable from the world of politics. So there is something sinister about keeping Muslims out of our borders while stealing their crown jewels and appropriating them not by translating them but simply as decor for poetry that bears no relationship to the original. Without equating the two, the dynamic here is reminiscent of white America's endless fascination with Black culture and music while continuing to perpetuate systems and institutions that leave Black folk unable to breathe.

There is one last element: It is indeed an act of violence to take the Islam out of Rumi and Hafez, as Ladinsky has done. It is another thing to take Rumi and Hafez out of Islam. That is a separate matter, and a mandate for Muslims to reimagine a faith that is steeped in the world of poetry, nuance, mercy, love, spirit, and beauty. Far from merely being content to criticise those who appropriate Muslim sages and erase Muslims' own presence in their legacy, it is also up to us to reimagine Islam where figures like Rumi and Hafez are central voices. This has been part of what many of feel called to, and are pursuing through initiatives like Illuminated Courses.

Oh, and one last thing: It is Haaaaafez, not Hafeeeeez. Please.

The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera's editorial stance.

This content was originally published here.

[i-am-a-fucking-nerd]

Hey if u need any last minute tzedakah my friend needs help and could rly use it! pls consider donating or sharing this if u can & thank u so so much to anyone who contributes, i’ve copied and pasted the fundraiser info below as well as the link 

https://www.facebook.com/donate/339235770757267/?fundraiser_source=external_url 

or venmo @enthusiasun 

tl;dr: nomadic friend's car broken into, majority of personal possessions and savings stolen - need repairs and replacement objects & funds. if venmo is better, send to @enthusiasun. my dear friend and quarantine buddy, casey, drove us to a socially-distanced tashlich (jewish custom for this time of year) today at a local park. he's been dealing with unsafe living situations for a long time, and generally travels with a majority of his important and special possessions; he was also planning to spend the night, as it is yom kippur (arguably the holiest day of the jewish year). while our little tashlich group sat across the street, three cars - including casey's - in that park's parking lot had their windows smashed and their contents stolen. despite being just across the street, no car alarms were triggered, so we heard nothing. although a report has been filed we are unlikely to recover anything. this is a fundraiser on his behalf (if you know him, you know why; if you don't, you don't need to). funds are asked for the following in priority order: - repairs for a broken window ($100-450, no quote yet) - fees to replace driver's license & get certified copy of birth cert to replace ss card ($20 and $32) - cost of replacing physical possessions, including laptop, inhaler, backpacks, clothes, masks, toiletries - replenishing lost cash savings and prepaid visa card - building towards a stable future, where his belongings and being are secure in a place that feels like home; this would hopefully prevent such a disaster from happening again regrettably, no fundraiser can return his journal, lyrics, photos, drawings, favorite hoodie, and more that he cherished and carried with him everywhere. how terrible that because of lack of stability, he was targeted for theft. if you cant contribute, i totally get it. please consider sharing or asking loved ones with capital to donate. thank you so much, and may you be inscribed in the book of life for a good new year.

https://www.facebook.com/donate/339235770757267/?fundraiser_source=external_url

or venmo @enthusiasun 

[summerof85zine]

FAQ

👑 What’s a Zine?

A fanzine (blend of fan and magazine) is a non-professional and non-official publication produced by enthusiasts of a fandom/pairing for the pleasure of others who share their interest.

👑 Relevant information about the “Summer of ‘85” Zine?

Size: A5 

Page count: (yet to be decided)

Format: Softcover, only physical copies

👑  What will it cost?

The team is still working hard to determine the final price of the finished zine. We want to make it as affordable as possible! As soon as we are done wrangling the numbers, you will be the first to know! You can still sign up on our Fan-Survey to let us know that you are interested!

👑  What kind of content will be in the Zine?

The “Summer of ‘85” Zine will contain both artwork and short stories, revolving around our favorite loverboys.

👑  Will the Zine have a theme?

Yes, The Theme of the Zine is “Summer”! We are as excited as you are what everyone will be comming up with!

👑  Will there be adult content or triggering content?

No. To make the Zine a great source of enjoyment for as many people as we can, the fandom’s first Fanzine will be rated PG. (But if you are interested in a possible R18 Zine in the future, feel free to let us know!)

👑  Which Creators will be featured in the Zine?

Creator Sign-Ups have just started. We are as curiouse as you are who will want to join! Make sure to tell your favorite artists and writers about the Zine! (Please don’t spam anyone)

👑 Who is organizing the Zine?

Learn more about our Team!

👑  What goodies will be included?

We are planning for a list of awesome goodies! You have the chance to vote in a pool for what goodies you would love to have the most, so we can prioritize!

VOTE HERE!

👑  When will Pre-Order start?

To make sure the Zine is as perfect as possible, Pre-Order is a few months away from now. We are going for one of the summer months and will keep you informed about our progress!

Sign your E-Mail Address in the Fan-Survey to be notified about the Start of the Pro-Order!

👑  Will there be another way to get the Zine then Kickstarter?

No. Preordering one (or several) copies, while our Kickstarter campaign is running will be the only way to get your hands on the Zine.

👑 Good to know for Contributer

👑 Where can I sign up as a contributor?

Sign ups are open from April 1-April 30, so dont miss out! Click here to add your name!

👑 What happens to any profit?

After paying for all expenses for printing the Zine, making the goodies and shipping everything, all remeining profit will be donated.

👑 Will I be outomatically accapted as a contributer once I signed up?

No. Depending on how many artists and writers will sign up, we might have to make a selection. There’s a multitude of factors that go into selecting participants. The skilllevel, dependability and how well their style fits into the Zine are just a few of them.

Once Sign-Ups are closed we will send out E-Mails with further informations.

👑   Can I contribute already existing art ar fiction?

No. Every piece of art and writing in the Zine has to be new.

👑 How can I help to make the goodies?

You can offer to help with creating the designs for our goodies in the Creator Sign Up Form. The Team then will get them made.

You don’t have to make and order anything yourself.

👑 Why should I volunteer to offer comissions?

Offered Comissions will help us reach our Kickstarter goal. An artist or writer will be able to let us know after the Sign-Up-Phase how many slots for what rate they are willing to volunteer.The team will set this up as a buyable Tier in the kickstarter compaing.

No particiupating creator is obliged to offer Commissions, so don’t worry if that sounds to daunting! Deatiled informations regarding the process will be communicated soon!

We hope you are as excited as we are!

Feel free to send an ask for any further questions!

FAQ’s, Fan Survey, Creator Sign Up, Twitter

(Also, credit and thanks goes to @granpappy-winchester for our adorable header on this post!)

[nearlymanaged]

2. Falling Out and Crushing

“Did anyone else notice that Snivellus hasn’t been hanging around Evans all the time lately?” James plopped down into a seat at the Gryffindor table at lunch, halfway through their first week back at Hogwarts.

“They don’t even sit together at Potions anymore,” Peter added. 

“In fact, it appears that they try to sit as far away from each other as physically possible without leaving the classroom.” James’ eyes gleamed with mischievous excitement.

“That’s all very well, but if you haven’t noticed, Evans did not reject you three hundred times because of Snivellus. She’s just not into you,” Sirius shrugged.

“Yes, she is. She just doesn’t realise it yet.”

“Bordering on creepy a bit there, James,” Remus mumbled without tearing his eyes off his copy of The Standard Book of Spells that he had propped against a jug of pumpkin juice.

“I think you meant romantic, Moons.”

“No, I think I meant creepy,” Remus replied happily. “Either way, I’d have to disagree with SIrius this time - this turn of events might, in fact, lend itself to helping you woo her. I happened to overhear her talking to her friends after Care of Magical Creatures. She was telling them she’d first go out with that vile James Potter before making up with Snape. Apparently, they fell out at the end of last year and it sounded like she categorically rejected his only attempt at making amends over the summer.”

James goggled at Remus with a half chewed mouthful of food, then quickly swallowed with some difficulty, and frowned. “Why am I only hearing this now!?” 

“I haven’t seen you since I found out… I’ll send an owl next time.”

“This changes everything…” A strange, dreamy yet still mischievous smile returned to James’ face and he spent the rest of lunch not contributing to the group’s conversation much.

“Moony,” Sirius sat up and turned his whole body towards his friend. “How do you always know about these things?”

“I’m in the right place at the right time a lot. It’s easy when people don’t really notice you.”

“What are you talking about? Who doesn’t notice you?”

“Nothing…” Remus waved him off. He didn’t feel like diving into a tirade about how he feels invisible most of the time, and the rest - people just gape at his scars as though he’s some grotesque old antique collecting dust at Borgin and Burkes. He wasn’t even sure why he started thinking about that now.

“I think I’m going to ask Lydia Rooks out,” Peter said vaguely, gazing at a dark haired Hufflepuff girl across the Great Hall.

“Good for you!” Sirius patted his friend on the back, causing him to spill juice down his front. “Oh, sorry. You can’t really see it, she won’t notice,” he added, inspecting the damage done.

“Wh-- Oh, I’m not doing it now!”

“Why not?”

“There’s people around! What if she says no?” Peter gaped at Sirius and then at the girl again.

“I don’t know...you walk back here?” Sirius offered, sounding confused as to why that was a concern for Peter.

“Have you ever been rejected in front of the entire school and then had to walk back to your seat? Again, in front of the entire school?”

“Hm. Nope, not that I can remember.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so...”

Remus didn’t really hear the rest of that conversation because his thoughts were hurtling down a memory lane filled with all the girls Sirius had ever asked out or been asked out by. For a fleeting moment, he’d wished he could like girls too, instead of boys, not to mention - one of his best friends. But then he had to admit to himself that just that thought alone felt wrong and weird. Almost as wrong and weird as his actual experiences with girls.

“Are you okay, Moony?”

“Huh?” Remus lifted his eyes to Sirius’ face.

“You’re scowling. Is the school year already taking a toll on your pretty face?”

Remus rolled his eyes, now feeling a little annoyed. He thought it was a bit of a low blow, but of course, he knew Sirius didn’t mean anything by it. Either way, what did it matter whether he was pretty or not, there were more important things in life. Or so Remus tried to convince himself...

“What do we have now?” Peter asked just as they were getting up from the Gryffindor table.

“You two,” Remus indicated him and James. “Have some free time to catch up on your homework. While me and - miraculously - SIrius are off to History of Magic.”

“Miraculously? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I suppose I never realised you harboured a secret passion for listening to Binns for forty-five minutes to an hour and a half at a time.”

 * * *

This was the third History of Magic lesson of the term that professor Binns began with the same spiel about the grave importance of their N.E.W.T.’s; Sirius was pretending to listen, holding up his head in his hand, but his mind was completely elsewhere. In fact, his mind kept wandering to the same thing, over and over again, since the morning at King’s Cross station…. 

How come Remus was five or six inches taller than him all of a sudden? And why did Sirius kind of like that? And how come his long, freckled arms were so nice to look at? And why did his voice sound so mesmerising? It’s as if Remus spent the summer drinking some kind of a potion that turned him from one of Sirius’ best friends into a beautiful, enigmatic creature that Black could not ignore, no matter how much he tried. 

As a matter of fact, he didn’t try to ignore Remus at all. Quite the contrary, he was giving in to this new-risen curiosity. He was comparing how he saw James and Peter, his best mates, to the giddy happiness he felt when he was around Remus. And, frankly, it didn’t take a genius to deduct that Sirius had a crush on his friend. Just as he formulated this thought in his head, he glanced around the classroom, as if to make sure that no one was watching him, reading his mind. Then he leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two hind legs, his gaze landing on Remus’ concentrated profile. Yeah, he’d had enough experience with these sort of things to know it - he had a crush on his friend.

SIrius was notorious for developing crushes in seconds, sometimes multiple times a day even. He’d snog a girl one day and then go out with her best friend the next week, and the truth was that he genuinely liked them all. It wasn’t a game, as some of his previous romances had accused him of. But he was having loads of fun and enjoying himself immensely. He’d just never had a crush on a boy, which made it all the more exciting.

“Well, well, well…” He mumbled under his breath, wondering what changed about Moony to make him so attractive out of the blue. Perhaps it wasn’t completely out of the blue; naturally, he’d always felt a certain kind of love and admiration towards his friend...

“Huh?” Remus cast him a distracted glance but then took a double take. “What?”

“What?”

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Have you been going out with anyone this summer?” SIrius blurted out without thinking.

“No…”

“Hm. Didn’t think so. You would have mentioned it in your letters. You seem the type.”

“Excuse me, what type?” Remus snorted.

“The swooning type.”

“I am not the swooning type!” Remus whispered loudly, causing a few people to glance around in confusion. “What in Merlin’s beard are you talking about?”

“Have your eyes always been this green?” As soon as the words left Sirius’ mouth, he sobered and landed his chair on all four legs. He flashed a quick grin at Remus, who seemed to still be trying to figure out what was going on, and pointedly turned to look at professor Binns.

He shouldn’t be doing this. This is his friend Remus. Moony. He’s not a random girl from one of the other houses, or a pretty Muggle next door. This is Moony. Sirius can’t be so flippant about it...or else, it would result in a friendship-destroying disaster.

And anyway, not like Moony ever showed any interest in him, or any other boy. This was similar to all the other crushes SIrius had had, but also very different - it was highly unlikely to ever turn into anything. Perhaps Sirius just needed to wait it out, become interested in someone else (as he always eventually did), and move on.

But his thoughts refused to move on from the topic for the rest of the lesson. Remus had never been girl-crazy, as long as they’d known each other. He’d been on a few dates here and there, but he was never the one initiating them. Sirius had always assumed that his friend was just really picky, but maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe the problem resulting in a series of mediocre first dates was the fact that… No, it couldn’t be it. Maybe it was just that Remus was such a poised, controlled person - maybe he simply didn’t care for something as reckless and trivial as teenage emotions and urges. But maybe…

[inspired-by-the-music]

Missing the shinee universe guys. What kind of place do you think each couple would move into first? Who would wait until they were married or engaged first? Who would live in a condo, apartment, fixer upper home? -SLA

Ahhh, shinee universe! I had every intention of revisiting the shinee universe before I dedicated my whole life to the ever-expanding For You universe, so thank you for this question! feel free to send more!

Once Aimee and I sat down to talk about this, we pumped out our answers pretty quickly. A big chunk of the delay in answering was due to the fact that I re-read the shinee universe to get the answers canonically correct, so you should probably prepare for a novel, SLA! As always, pls feel free to tell me what you think! -Ash

It’s so weird to write these answers out of order, but I decided that it would be best to do this in the order in which the members get married!

Minho

It’s already established that Minho is total husband material, so it’s probably not shocking that he’s the first in this bunch to get married

Minho and his significant other don’t move in together until wedding plans are underway

They move into a house that isn’t technically in the city, but everything is still accessible on the frequent occasion that Minho wants to take his lady out on a date 

Minho encourages his fiancee to make all of the fun decisions about decorations for the wedding and for the house while he deals with what he considers “boring adult stuff”

Although he tries his best not to show it, Minho gets so stressed from all the planning that he decides within himself that he’s NEVER moving again

So he picks a house that has every feature anyone could ever need. He even thinks ahead to make room for any future children. 

All in all, Minho wants to settle into comfortable domestic happiness with the person he loves. Obviously, he’ll still be fun and competitive and exciting, but he doesn’t try to prove that by moving into a new, bigger, fancier house every other year or by making constant home improvements

Plus, he’s a little too busy helping Jinki to start his own projects

Jonghyun

Canonically, Jonghyun and his girlfriend live together in an apartment before they’re married

Although he is the second to get married, he wasn’t in any particular rush to propose until a few years into the relationship when his gf marries off the main characters in her newest best-selling novel

She had never written about a wedding before! Knowing that writing is where she explores her dreams, Jonghyun immediately goes into town to buy a ring after finishing the book. 

(He left in such a hurry, in fact, that he left the book on the park bench. His heart dropped until he found it still sitting where he left it, guarded by a kind old lady who was feeding the birds)

He’s a pretty creative guy himself, so he doesn’t exactly copy the proposal from the novel or from any movies or dramas. 

Very little changes in their daily lives after marriage since they were practically living as a married couple soon after their first hello. 

The wedding rings aren’t the first matching rings Jonghyun and his girl wear to express their love, but there is something special about them that even Jonghyun can’t express in any song-- something that his wife can’t describe in any book

Onew

Jinki is shook because his girlfriend brings up marriage first

His response id delayed not because he’s afraid of commitment but because, “Wow, I didn’t think I’d ever get this far in dating!”

Then, he laughs as he reminds her about their catastrophic iconic first date, and she laughs too, and somehow it’s decided that this is an adequate proposal. 

Jinki still buys her an engagement ring because “She deserves it!” It’s probably blue and beautiful. 

On one of his days off, Jinki gets lost in one of those home renovation marathons on tv, and decides, “I can do that!”

He realizes very quickly that he cannot do that, but he’s already bought a new house that’s in desperate need of renovations so he can’t turn back

Minho and Taemin are the only people who respond to his SOS texts. Place your bets on who steps up to build that house from the ground up!

Onew and Taemin aren’t entirely useless. Onew helps with some heavy lifting, and Taemin. . . well, he makes good playlists, and his awestruck stares fuel Minho’s superhuman strength

Onew has a distorted sense of his contribution to the construction of his house. He brags to everyone, “I built my home with my own to hands!” 

And he also constantly tackles home improvement goals that would never be accomplished without Minho’s help. 

Taemin

While Taemin is one of those “live in the moment” people, he’s also one who believes in destiny. It was never a matter of if he would get married to his girlfriend; it was a matter of when. 

Never truly afraid or embarrassed, Taemin told her outright very early in their relationship, “I’ll marry you one day-- when we’re al grown up!” He meant it, and she knew it. Neither of them is rushing to grow up, though. 

In the meantime, they enjoy each other’s company. They don’t technically live together, but she stays at Taemin’s apartment most of the time because his balcony provides the best sight of the moon and stars she has ever seen

Their favorite pastime is pestering his group members. 

Because Minho is her brother, he is the first target. Uninvited, they invaded his kitchen one morning, knowing well that neither of them knew how to cook to save their lives. Minho would have scolded them then and there when he barrelled down the stairs in his pajamas, expecting to find a burglar, had his wife not smiled so fondly at their effort to play house

Next came Jonghyun, but he wasn’t a satisfying target for any pranky because he always welcomes Taemin and his girlfriend with open arms. He even invites them to spend the night on the pull out sofa in the living room. His hospitality sends them onto the next victim. 

If anything, though, they are Jinki’s victim. When he isn’t insisting on giving them a tour of the house he built with his own two hands-- the house Taemin watched Minho build-- or forcing them to watch home renovation marathons, Jinki asks them with a broad smile, “So, when are you two gonna get married and make me a grandpa?”

Key is the only satisfying target. Taemin and his girl were able to spend an entire weekend in Key’s attic undetected!

“What’s making that noise up there?” Key’s girlfriend asked on the literal day that she moved in.

Key joked, “It’s the demon!”

Determined to prove Key wrong (or right by terrorizing everyone), Taemin stomped on the floor and screamed, “I’m not a demon!”

Suffice it to say that Taemin is lucky to see his wedding day after the beating scolding he received from Key

Key

Key doesn’t really plan to get married. He’s not opposed or anything, but he would only do it after a series of serious conversations with his significant other

He’s not one to judge, but he feels like most people rush in their relationships, and he’s not really about that life. Lowkey thinks Jonghyun is a maniac for moving in with his gf just a month into dating but anyway

His house isn’t a mansion or anything, but it’s obviously too big for just one or two people. He likes to live lavishly. His bathroom is practically a personal spa. 

The first time she visits, his girlfriend thinks he’s kinda weird for living in such a big place without a roommate, but she hides that behind compliments about the interior design or something. 

Key is the least likely to fantasize about living with his significant other. Like, no offense, but his house is his sanctuary. He likes having his own space. Also, he’s kinda particular about his living habits(and he doesn’t really want to share any of his closet space). 

Key only invites his girlfriend to live with him after they’ve been together long enough for him to decide that they can live together in harmony

This is somewhat unrelated, but I imagine that Key hired a housekeeper for a while, but he’s that kind of person who always went through the rooms to reorganize/clean things to his own (admittedly high) standard. So one day he wakes up like “What am I paying this person for?”

Key likes to complain and get under his gf’s skin, so she’s probably not counting the days until she gets to move in either tbh

They definitely 100% bicker the most out of all the couples, but that’s just how they communicate. They make up for their many petty arguments through the week with frequent ‘self-care’ nights wherein they watch dramas while wearing mud masks and sipping wine. 

[mittensmorgul]

The Tumblr Beta Version: an objective analysis

I was tempted to just type “it sucks.” And while that is an objective analysis, it’s not exactly helpful. I’ve sent several requests to @staff and @support to restore my account to the old tumblr dashboard format, and received the same automated reply twice now. I’ll copy/paste it here so everyone is on the same page:

(lol, I had to go back and edit this, because apparently the beta version doesn’t display block quotes on the dash. So I’ve also put the block quotes in italics... hopefully it’ll display properly... note after editing: nope, it doesn’t display italics either... how the heck am I supposed to differentiate quoted text? I’ll start each quoted bit with an asterisk, I guess...)

*Thanks for reaching out about the beta dashboard.

*We're currently testing it out, and your account seems to have been selected to take part in the test. Thanks for your patience while we work on it! At this time there is not a way to opt out of testing. You may see your Tumblr experience return to normal as we continue testing.

WE CAN ONLY HOPE.

*In the meantime, check out some of the new features available only in the beta dashboard:

OKAY TUMBLR, IF YOU INSIST, though I would MUCH rather have back all the functionality I personally invested into this website through xkit... you know... making the site ACTUALLY FUNCTIONAL. Let’s see what this beta version has given me instead of functionality:

*Change Palettes: Go to the person icon, then click "Change Palette." You'll find the classic Tumblr blue, dark mode, and a few other color palettes for your dash.

So I tried out all the color palettes. In addition to the ones mentioned here, there’s one that’s trying to look like a green screen terminal that gives me flashbacks to the early 80′s. There’s a reason we stopped using green screen terminals... Another one is “canary yellow.” It’s very yellow. The “classic tumblr” isn’t actually classic tumblr... all the post boxes are dark blue with grey type, not white with black type. And all the other colors are the insanely bright fluorescent of the new Dark Blue standard tumblr scheme. Which means links are practically invisible unless I highlight them. It’s migraine inducing. The one theme with a light colored background is called “Concrete” or “Cement” or something like that and even that only works for about half an hour before the migraine aura really kicks in. I just want my Old Blue via xkit back. You know, what tumblr actually used to look like. I don’t want any of these horrible color palettes. None of them work for me.

*The new "meatballs" menu: This is where you can copy the post link, unfollow the Tumblr who made or reblogged the post, or report a violation to our Community Guidelines.

I could do all of this from the user menus with xkit, too. I don’t regularly report violations or have the urge to block people I have chosen to follow. Why on earth would I want to do any of this? And why would I want these features located directly beside the post link copy feature? 

You know what I do miss? I miss the xkit timestamps feature. I didn’t have to hover dangerously close to the KILL IT WITH FIRE meatballs menu in order to see when a post was made, and in this era of disinformation and misinformation spreading around this site faster than Covid-19, being able to see when a post was ORIGINALLY created is a far more useful feature than an easier way to block people. For reference: I currently have three blogs blocked. Two of them are pornbots. One is a nazi. If I don’t want someone’s content on my dash, I don’t follow them. This “feature” is entirely useless to me.

*A quick note: Pagination is not supported in this beta test, but we're collecting feedback to send to our engineers.

THIS IS THE ABSOLUTE WORST. This beta test might actually be tolerable if I wasn’t trapped into endless scrolling. If I could page through my dash, refreshing it every ten posts or so. You know why? Because once I scroll about 30 posts down my dash, tumblr starts overheating my laptop under the load of ALL THOSE POSTS. Things start malfunctioning-- it takes longer and longer to load new posts the farther I scroll. And the keyboard navigation (both page down and hitting J to advance to the next post, and even just using the down arrow to scroll as I read a long post) freeze and stop functioning. One of my laptop fans has actually begun to malfunction.

You know why this wasn’t a problem on the old version? If the data load got to heavy, I could open a post in a new tab, click view on dash with xkit, and voila! Brand new tab! I could close the malfunctioning tab and everything would be refreshed to normal! But without pagination, THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE.

Also, after reblogging a few posts, the beta version of this site breaks, and doesn’t open a post tab to add commentary or even tags. It just... reblogs the untagged post with no warning whatsoever. You know... that’s really really not cool. I tag EVERYTHING. Well, almost everything. The tags are the only way to keep track of the 40k+ posts on my blog. And warn people that I am posting potential spoilers, or other specific content. It’s REALLY inconvenient to have to either immediately go to my blog to edit the post and add tags, or even comments. The alternative is to scroll up to open individual posts I want to reblog in a new tab, and then reblog directly there. Ironically enough, THOSE pages actually open with xkit installed, and everything (surprise!) functions perfectly there.

It’s perfectly reasonable to understand why this specific issue has limited the number of posts I reblog. Reblogging content should not be this much of a hassle. Creators have been complaining for a while that reblogs have drastically slowed down, and I think making it even more annoying and difficult to reblog posts will not help this problem.

Also, with xkit enabled, there’s a function that auto-loads images as you scroll, so the images are always visible BEFORE they appear on screen. I don’t have to look at the colored boxes and wonder if this is a post I’ve already seen or something I should sit and wait for. Don’t even think about watching tumblr videos. Loading priority is given to the ads that you cannot pause or dismiss, so that video loads and plays in choppy two second bursts instead of being given priority. Since that’s the content I am actually here to consume, it kinda makes me want to do the opposite of patronizing anyone who advertises here with graphically intense ads. And then when you scroll away, with xkit, gifs and videos you’ve scrolled past STOP loading and playing, which I think might be contributing to the intensity of the resource hogging that’s literally melting down my laptop.

And for reference, I have a pretty decent little gaming laptop. A blogging platform shouldn’t be driving it to the brink of frying itself. I didn’t realize just how much xkit worked to streamline this and provide basic functionality to this site.

*And lastly, if you're an XKit user, know that the XKit team is working hard to update things on their end to make it compatible with the beta dashboard.

And this doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of what I’ve lost without xkit. And this is a really REALLY garbage response to user complaints. “Oh, yeah, sorry we made our site suck even worse, but those nice people who do our jobs for free will surely fix our garbage soon!”

Dear wonderful people at @new-xkit-extension, I love you, and I miss you, and while I wish xkit worked with this beta version I’ve been forced into living with, I truly feel for y’all who are trying to deal with this nonsense on behalf of all of us.

And to the folks at Tumblr... maybe try to just... make your site actually more like xkit. You know, actually functional. None of these special new features are useful or functional to me. I respectfully request for a fourth time to be removed from this inane beta test.

Give us OPTIONS. Let us display ALL THE TAGS without having to click a button. Let me have back my Activity+ that actually allowed me to interact with people from my dash! That showed me real-time inline notifications in a way that I could reply to with a single click! Bring me back to my column of open messaging conversation icons so I have easy access to the people I talk with throughout the day instead of closing them all every time I refresh the page. I already feel socially isolated in freaking quarantine, please stop shutting off all my avenues of communication!

Let us have pagination! I mean, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to force heavy users of this site into a beta version that doesn’t allow us to opt out until your engineers had actually figured out how to make it work in a very basic way.

*Let me know if there's anything else I can help you with!

YES. PLEASE REMOVE ME FROM THIS BETA TEST NOW. I have let you know exactly what I want from this site. I just want it to ACTUALLY WORK. For someone who spends 12+ hours a day on this site, this beta test version is NONFUNCTIONAL. PLEASE ALLOW ME TO OPT OUT. I AM LITERALLY BEGGING YOU. I WILL ACTUALLY PAY YOU CASH MONEY TO ALLOW ME TO OPT OUT OF THIS AND GO BACK TO HAVING A FUNCTIONAL BLOG AGAIN. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!

PLEASE! 

I AM OFFICIALLY AT THE END OF MY PATIENCE FOR ENDURING THIS NIGHTMARE.

(one final quick note... I’ve only been back on my dash long enough to make the parenthetical edits-- i.e. adding italics that don’t display and then adding the asterisks at the beginning of each section of quoted text, and already my laptop is overheating again. For reference, I originally typed this entire post from within my tumblr inbox page-- which still functions normally with xkit-- and spent over an hour on it. My laptop was fine the entire time. Clearly the issue is this beta version of the website. I will never forgive tumblr if y’all fry my literal only portal to the outside world at this time. PUT ME BACK TO NORMAL NOW. THIS IS ABSOLUTELY INFURIATING AND ENTIRELY UNACCEPTABLE. Thanks)

(oops apparently i lied... when the asterisks and the previous final note failed to display, I thought that seemed suspicious, and realized that I literally needed to refresh my entire dash in order to see edited changes. Funny how xkit enabled me to do that in real time, which is just another bit of functionality I’ve lost with this beta program. Please guys, this is really, really not working for me at all, just put it back.)