#THIS IS SO STUPID but i just feel like the academic advisor is gonna hate me…. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

chrysanthemumpink · 2 months

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You don't deserve this tag. But I found someone else & for some reason that makes me think of you. And all of the things that you represent. Things you don't deserve to represent.

We'll probably be intimate soon. And for some reason, that feels official. It feels like more than my body, if that makes sense?

I didn't love you. I loved the life I saw with you. I wanted to be an artist & a critic & an academic & so many things that seem so childish in retrospect. I thought we could be quirky professors and writers living off the produce of a quirky cottage. Before I met you, a life like that seemed so real.

Now it feels like the fantasy it always was. He's a financial advisor, he wants to be VP of something, doesn't matter what. He's counter culture in the way that dating a black person turns him on. Like you were. But not enough to do anything about it. Unlike you. That's all he'll ever do to counter any culture.

But, like you, he represents so much more. He's not special. But my choices around him reveal so much about me. Being with him means I've officially given up on my dreams. Yea, the pay is nice. Paying bills and having more than enough for any service I want is also very nice.

I give men foo much credit when really it's about me. My first job in tech & finance offered 102k. I choose that over grad school. And the kind of people I meet here?

I met him here. He's the brother of one of my coworkers. They're both directors whose fathers & uncles were presidents, VPs, etc of other financial firms. They both want to be VPs but not in the way that you & I used to study to be professors. They want it in the way that they do stupid things like shell for dinners & cruises with the right people

In a way that makes him special. If he wanted a 6 figure salary, he would just be given one. But if he wants 6 figures and have the power of a corporate ladder behind him, he has to put in effort. And he does. Effort is something you never put in anything.

Men like him, surprisingly, aren't that hard to find if you aren't picky. He's 40. And like? What am I doing with my life?

Having sex with a 40 year old seems so adult. Is that what I'll be doing? Trading my life as an advocate and academic for a capitalistic one. Either way, it's still a straight white man, isn't it.

Sorry. The truth is that I have to get it out while I can. If I'm gonna stay corporate, then opportunities to talk like that won't come as often. Do you see how much I've been forced to move on?

I've met his family. As you know, I can sense things about people. Or at the very least, make wild fantasies that turn out to be uncomfortably close to the truth. His parents are desperate for him to find anyone. He's 40 for crying aloud. But this is where growing up Pentecostal comes in handy. This happens with a lot of white people. It happened with your family too. If it's going to be someone black, might as well be one whose knows enough about the bible to not cause too much trouble

What am I talking about? I'm going to fuck him. And yea, I have a lot of feelings about doing that. I honestly wish I'd done it sooner. Doing after meeting the family makes it seem like it's getting serious. I can't afford to let myself believe that

But back to me...I hate how much I tie men to life stages. This new relationship feels like a lot. It will mean I've accepted the world I've always considered an antagonist to mind. It means I work in tech and finance. It'll mean I'm a business woman who goes on business trips.

But...is it all bad? I mean? It is a lot of money. I went from an 18k grad stipend to 102k. Between you & me? I still have to whisper it. Like I've committed a sin. And I hear stories from other women. Women in tech are very friendly. My MANAGER of all people confided in me. She said that she regularly cries from the way that SAHM treat her.

That 90% of mothers groups are SAHMs who make her feel inferior because of her choices. They suggest that her career means she doesn't lover her child. Her son means the world to her.

And yet, my manager spent the morning of her son's birthday talking about training initiatives 300 miles away on a business trip. I know because I was with her.

She says, all the women say, that women like us make hard decisions. We do what we have to do. When they say "we," it makes me feel like I belong. And the scary part is, I do belong

I am a girl boss, girl bossing, who has the potential to be the ultimate girl boss. Lol, not really. But I'm smart, 28, and have found myself with no husband or children. I think they're protective of me. Like they know I'm in an unfamiliar world.

Now that I'm with him, it's permanent. Or will be. I'll be taking my securities exam soon. I want to be central to this district learning technologies. That's the life I'll have once I've officially left this one behind. I've already left it behind

Grad school broke my heart. You broke my heart. Now I don't even recognize myself. And I actually like it

#leo x pisces

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rosy-cheekx · 3 years

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I Want To Be A Real Fake

@kaiserkorresponds said: Black and White + "I want to be a real fake" + formal clothing <3

Prompted fic that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I received it! Hope you like it, Kaiser!

Jon would not consider himself fashionable. He has a distinct sense of style, yes, but that style lately has been Tired-Academic-Works-in-a-Cold-Office,-Steals-Sweaters-When-Necessary-core. Not exactly suitable for the business casual dress code The Magnus Institute “requires” (no one seemed to pay attention to the Archive staff’s choices of attire), but certainly not suitable for the small rectangle of cardstock Elias Bouchard hands him, on a quiet spring morning in the Archive.

“What’s…what’s this?” Jon asked, staring at the neat, printed text as if it was Greek. (If it were Greek, at least, he could decipher parts of it. He was an English Lit student, after all, and he had really enjoyed etymology.) The card was a stiff black and white, with the black owl logo, the symbol of the Magnus Institute, printed in the top middle. Glancing down at it, he saw a date, and the words: “black-tie.” Shit.

“My apologies, I forgot how tired your position tends to leave you.” Elias’s voice was prim and polite, but Jon still winced inwardly. “As a head of a department, you are now strongly encouraged to attend the fundraiser I host in April each year. Our donors are fascinated by our departments, and especially the Archives. Gertrude’s disappearance has raised questions as to her successor, and I trust you can assuage the concerns of our donors at your accomplishments in the position.” Jon chose to believe that Elias’s keen eye didn’t sweep the mountains of paperwork that surrounded his desk as he surveyed the small, poorly lit office. “I’m certain you’ll be able to find appropriate attire for the occasion.”

He turned on a heel, halfway to the door before seemingly considering something. “Ah, and Jon, one more thing. Gertrude always requested she bring an assistant. Would you like to do the same? I am happy to accommodate one more for the catering count.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut, utterly dumbfounded by the responsibility just thrust upon him, and nodded mutely, before clearing his throat. “Ah-um, yes, I would appreciate that. Does it matter which one?”

“Someone who can make a pleasant impression, please.” Elias raised an eyebrow, nodded almost imperceptibly, like he had made a decision, and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe on the way out. “I trust your judgement.”

Jon counted to thirty, to be certain Elias wasn’t coming back, and slouched into his office chair, scanning the save-the-date again, without the immense pressure of Elias’s eyes on him.

“The Magnus Institute Fundraiser Gala,” it read below the embossed owl, within a thin black border. “23 April, 7-10 pm. Black tie. Catered.” Jon traced the owl with the pad of his finger, flipping the card over to see, in Elias’s thin cursive: Make a good impression, Jon.

God, this is going to suck.

“Sasha, come on.” Jon wasn’t one to beg, but desperate times and all that. He had cornered her in the breakroom, while Martin was on a research trip and Tim was getting takeaway from the chippie down the street. “It’s only three weeks away, and you’re the one I trust the most. Please.”

“Jon,” Sasha sighed, smoothing her skirt patiently. “I would if I could, I swear to you. But my sister’s wedding has been planned for months, I’ve already requested time off, and I can’t undo all that for a work party.”

“Fundraiser,” Jon corrected instinctively, even as he signed in resignation. “Fine. I just really didn’t want to go alone.”

Sasha scoffed, shaking her head to herself as she opened the fridge and pulled out her bagged lunch. “You have two other assistants you know. What about Tim? Or Martin?”

Jon wrinkled his nose at the thought of bringing nervous, rambling, doe-eyed Martin to the gala. “God no. Martin would be too much; I need someone who can handle themselves and hold a decent conversation. I need someone who can attend a black-tie gala and look more at-home than me.” A withering look from Sasha.

“So why not Tim, then? He can do all those things.”

“Do all what things?” Jon jumped and spun around to see Tim, carrying a grease-spotted bag in one hand and a paper soda cup in the other. He surveyed Tim in a moment: the button-up shirt, red and printed with tiny black balloons, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, dark black hair artfully mussed. High cheekbones dotted with freckles, and what Jon swore could be the faintest bit of eyeliner.

“Tim, would you like to go to a fashionable, catered work party with me?”

“Boss,” Tim lowered himself to a knee and held out his soda solemnly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Tim, that’s backwards. The kneeler isn’t the one who accepts,” Sasha chuckles helpfully.

“You’re just jealous of our love, Sash!”

Good Lord.

Jon was really hoping the food would be good. He was in Tim’s flat, in the toilet, checking himself in the mirror one final time. His hair was carefully braided, courtesy of Tim’s deft hands and coiled into a thick bun at the base of his skull, gold and emerald hairpin snugly in place. His suit was nice: a respectable white shirt, dotted with tiny lime-colored flowers he had to strain his eyes to see, under a dark green suit jacket and matching trousers. The suit itself was cut in a rather androgynous style, pulling tight at Jon’s waist in a way he rather liked, and contrasted beautifully, he thought, with the smooth brown of his skin. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his thigh and, satisfied, stepped into the hall to tell Tim he was ready to go.

“Tim, I’m all-woah,” the exhale was accidental. Tim’s suit was certainly not subtle. He was wearing a deep blue turtleneck, hair perfectly coiffed. Over the turtleneck, the suit jacket was white, a spray of water-color flowers in all shades of blue and purple shifting with every movement. The navy blue heeled suede boots on his feet accentuated his already-tall frame “Tim, you look good,” Jon breathed.

“Ouch. No need to sound all surprised. I know I clean up well; I dirty pretty damn good too.” Tim chuckled and adjusted his sleeves. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. ‘I don’t want anything too crazy.’”

Jon grinned shyly, rocking on his heels of his own, less intimidating dress shoes. “I like it, I think. It feels nice.” The excitement over how good he felt in the clothes had, all too briefly, suppressed the impending doom he was feeling about the evening’s events. “Are you ready for tonight?” he asked for what must have been the fiftieth time, spinning the solid black ring he wore around his finger.

“Yes, Jon. Talk about the reorganization process as a structural renovation, converting files to audio formatting for future accessibility, don’t talk about artefact storage even a little, don’t get caught up with anyone too pretty, I get it.” His voice was flat, bored by the repetition. “This is going to be fine.”

“What-what if it isn’t, though, Tim? What if they ask about Gertrude or how their money is being used, o-or how the restructuring is going? I can’t bloody well tell them I’m using a tape recorder that’s probably older than I am.”

“Jon,” Tim’s well-manicured hand was on his shoulder, nails the same blue of his turtleneck. “Take a deep breath. For Gertrude: be honest. It was a tragedy, and you hope she’s found, but until then you’re doing your best to act on her wishes as her replacement. And for the rest, be vague. Restructuring is going ‘as well as can be expected’ or ‘is running quite smoothly with the help of your three wonderful assistants.’” He winked. “And tell them you’re using a multimedia system, that’ll confuse those old boomers enough to move topics. And it is technically true. Laptops and a tape recorder are multiple medias. Anything else we can riff, you know? I can talk with the best of them.” He eyed Jon meaningfully. “This will be fine. It’s one night. And we’ll get chips after. Promise.”

Jon nodded and closed his eyes, breathing steadying. He was grateful Tim had been available. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“So, how did you know what black tie meant?” Jon asked, eyeing Tim across the seat of the cab. They’re on their way now and Jon’s hands are steepled tightly, pressing his fingertips against each other until it hurts to do so. “I had to Google it last week when I went shopping, in case we had to wear literal black ties.” He needed to talk about anything, anything but this stupid fundraiser they drove steadily towards.

Tim grew silent for a moment, considering his words. “My brother was an extra in a movie once and started dating a stylist for one of the leads. He fibbed his way into getting us tickets for premieres, so I’ve made my way through a few high-fashion events.” He shrugged, fiddling with a thin silver bracelet along his wrist, were Jon knew the letter D was carved in delicate cursive. “I like it, too, you know? Dressing up for events. It makes me feel debonaire, like a spy.”

Jon shook his head in disagreement. “Makes me feel fake,” he mumbled, eyeing the lorry floor beneath them. “Like everyone knows I don’t belong. I hate having their eyes on me and knowing they’re better than me.”

Tim prodded Jon with his elbow gently, raising his eyebrows in a comforting manner. “That’s it though, isn’t it? We aren’t fake. We worked our way here. Hell, you’re the boss of an entire department, Jon. We’ve gotten to where we are in the Institute because we deserve to be here. And anyways, everyone at that party next week is gonna be fake. They’re pretending to care about our jobs, and we pretend to care about their money, and they pretend they’re even the ones who write the checks and not some snooty financial advisor in Wales.”

Jon shrugged, trying to keep himself from biting back that he wasn’t enough, didn’t earn this spot, that Sasha deserved it more than he did and was doing nothing to prove to Elias he was up to the monumental task of being the Head Archivist. He didn’t, though, and instead took a steadying breath, nodding to Tim’s comforting words.

“And anyways,” Tim continued, shrugging. “Even if we have to be fake for a night, it’ll be fun. We get to be a part of ‘the queen’s high society,’” he added in a high-pitched, overly fake RP accent, eliciting a chuckle from Jon. “And Rosie said the catering Elias orders is divine. Apparently we should keep an eye out for tiny samosas?”

As if on cue, the cab shuddered to a stop. Jon thanked the driver, paid, and followed Tim out.

The Institute looked different under the pretense of wealth and success. It was still the same building of course, but the floor was clear of the rain mats and the smooth marble floor paved the way to the library, the main sitting room of which had been cleared as a rather respectable grand hall to host a party. Tables lined the cordoned off books, hot plates and silver trays steaming slightly. Bottles of wine lined a bar, behind which a vested individual with slicked-back hair was pouring small glasses and taking orders. A quiet orchestra completed the scene, cello and piano in a delicate duet. Before tonight, Jon couldn’t have imagined this many people in the Institute alone, least of all the library. Not that it’s packed. There’s maybe thirty or so well-dressed individuals milling about, the din of conversation white noise in comparison to the floating of the music.

Tim’s hand is on his back, pressing kindly into his spine. Oh yes, he remembers dimly, and nods, allowing Tim to guide him into the library and hand him a glass of wine. They stand out a little, two beacons of color around what is a pretty drab spectrum of black and grey, save for a few spectacular dresses in the crowd. Jon finds he doesn’t mind it, except that it may lead to unwanted conversation. It’s not his looks he fears being judged on, but that he be found wanting when it came to his capabilities. He was always selectively self-conscious like that, some things utterly meaningless, others inexplicably important.

Jon isn’t a huge fan of wine, but he finds himself clinging to the glass as a lifeline as he and Tim meander through the crowds, largely ignored. The music is intoxicatingly simple; he finds himself caught up in the deep reverberations of the cello as they walk, feeling it deep in his chest. There were, in fact, samosas, as well as small cannoli, and he and Tim piled plates as high as they could without garnering stares.

There weren’t many people Jon recognized; he didn’t even see Elias as he scanned the crowd for faces. Wine in one hand, a plate in the other, he thought maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad.

Jon shivered, the sensation of being stared at prickling the back of his neck. He spun around, trying to appear casual, and spotted Elias at last. He was standing with a large man, broad and wearing a deep blue suit, scruffy beard a mix of tawny and white. Elias crooked his finger, smiling primly. As Jon made his way over to the pair-who he could’ve sworn he hadn’t seen previously, he was intercepted by a short bald man in a plum velour suit, leaning heavily on a cane.

“Ah, Archivist,” he smiled warmly, extending a hand to shake before seeing Jon’s hands were full, and nodding his head instead. “Congratulations on your promotion. Elias has told me he expects great things from you.”

Jon smiled politely, glancing over to see Elias and the other man gone again. Regretfully, he turned his attention back to the man. “It’s a shame about Gertrude, yes, but I’m hoping I can do her proud,” he said in a practiced tone. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Tim? He was just with him.

“Of course, of course. I was hoping I could have a word?”

“W-with me?”

“Yes, you see, I was rather concerned when I heard Gertrude’s position had been left open. When Elias said you yourself where at the junction to take over, I wanted to meet you for myself. I worry about the Archivists in your institute, so many of you do such monumental work for so little recognition. Do you worry your work to be meaningless? Your name insignificant when it is all said and done?”

(It is this conversation he remembers, months later, when he demands to record Prentiss’ attack. He refuses to be another mystery, a name on a placard to be wondered about.)

“I-ah, yes? No?” What was the right answer here? Jon stammered out a half-assed reply about doing his best, midway through when he felt a hand firmly on his shoulder, where his neck and collarbone met. Glancing to his peripheral, he saw a golden ring, an eye, and was frustratingly grateful to hear the cool tones of Elias Bouchard over his shoulder.

“Now Simon,” he said, voice even, “you aren’t trying to scare my dear Archivist, are you?” He gave the shoulder a squeeze but remained put. “Jon, I believe you’ve heard of Simon Fairchild, a significant donor to our establishment.”

Jon nodded wordlessly, not really listening to the two bureaucrats delve off into some topic or other, craning his neck to look for Tim. The music had picked up, he registered dimly, a orchestral melody led by a violin, sharp and whimsical.

“Jon?” Another squeeze to his neck, and Jon tried not to wince. “Wouldn’t you agree,” Elias asked, voice patient at surface level. “That the best way to move forward is to restructure the Archive?”

Jon nodded, trying to recall the answer he had rehearsed. “Yes, ah—my team and I have worked quite hard at recording the statements a-and organizing them in a way that will last long-term.”

“Ah, what a delight,” Simon—Mr. Fairchild—said warmly. Jon was reminded of the voices adults would use when they spoke to him as a child, when his inane facts about space or etymology had moved from endearing to obnoxious.

The conversation lasted for what felt like days, Jon feeling rather like Mr. Fairchild’s cane: a statement piece, contributing nothing to the conversation but unable to find a smooth exit. Leading questions from Elias led to thankfully rehearsed answers before Simon found his own exit and walked away smoothly, eyes wide and taking the room in.

“I-I really should find Tim,” Jon muttered, glancing around the room anxiously.

“Nonsense. He’ll be back,” Elias said, releasing Jon’s shoulder and taking his elbow in turn, “I would like to introduce you to a few dear friends of mine. I believe Tim is keeping one occupied at present.” Jon sighed inwardly (and maybe outwardly as well) and allowed himself to be led around the room. His wine glass was empty, as was his plate and he found it snatched away by a member of catering. He had nothing to cling to, to keep his hands busy, and was struggling not to pull out his delicately-placed hair pin just so he could fiddle with something.

Jon was taken on a tour of old rich people of England. Names flew past him, conversation buzzed around him, and still Jon felt like nothing more than a well-dressed trophy to be ogled at. Did Gertrude do this every year, he wondered dimly. No wonder she disappeared. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, speaking when needed, and feeling the swirl of the orchestra build up in pressure behind his eyes. The music was beautiful but hard to listen to. Something about it was ugly, hiding a dark secret behind the innocent melodies.

Eventually, the evening was so much of a blur that he couldn’t even begin to fathom how much time had passed. It may have been weeks, may have been merely twenty minutes. Jon glanced down for his watch before realizing he had taken it off at Tim’s flat and never strapped it back on. Pity. It only added to the dreamscape reality he seemed to be participating in.

At last, Elias led him towards the large burly man that was suddenly in view (hadn’t he always been? Jon wasn’t quite sure. The wine must have affected him more than he thought with the nerves) and Jon saw Tim, similarly trapped in conversation as he had been. He smiled apologetically as Jon and Elias approached and the larger man smiled warmly at the newcomers.

“Ah, Archivist. I hope you don’t mind I stole your companion away briefly. I was curious about the nitty-gritty of your Archive. Timothy here was very informative.” Tim winced at the use of his full name and a part of Jon smirked, relating to the sentiment of being called Jonathan or worse, John.

“I’m glad he can answer your questions.” Elias spoke before Jon could open his mouth. “I’m quite proud of the Archive staff. Jon chose well and I am sure the four of them are going to do great things together. Jon, you remember the Lukas family?”

Jon nodded, confused for a second before the man in front of him extended his hand. “Peter Lukas, at your service.” The hand was cold, and a feeling of dismay washed over Jon as he shook it. He couldn’t help the feeling that the shake of that hand was a seal of his fate.

The orchestral music had picked up, a swirl of strings and piano, ascending in pitch until it grated at Jon’s ears. No one else seemed to react to it, however, as the manic notes pulling at something inside Jon’s brain, something he couldn’t explain. It was almost like a migraine, but sharper and deep in his spine and in his ears. Elias let go of Jon’s arm at some point during the conversation with Peter Lukas, a discussion about boats, maybe? Travel? This was the conversation Elias was so keen on Jon being a part of?

As Jon felt that grip relax, the glint of the ring on Elias’ finger seeming to wink at him, Jon took a staggered step backwards. “Mr. Lukas, ah-Peter, it’s been a pleasure. Elias, ex-excuse me.”

Jon turned and dashed out of the library, feet carrying him on instinct through the winding halls and down the stairs of the institute, deep into the Archives. He stopped when he felt his feet echo against the cold, solid lino of the archival storage and bent over, hand on the wall, gasping in shallow, rapid bursts. It was too much, it was too much, he thought he could do this but it was too much and he wasn’t enough for them-

“Woah-boss.” Tim was there. When did Tim get here? Was he speaking out loud? Shit. “Jon, yeah-hey, Jon. I’m here. You’re okay. Take some deep breaths, okay? You’re going to black out if you’re not careful.”

Jon felt his suit jacket being shrugged off of him and the newly allowed freedom of his shoulder helped. He took a deep, sputtering breath, the sweet oxygen flooding his system and sharpening his thoughts.

“The-the music and the talking,” he said under his breath, Tim craning to listen without infringing on his personal space. “Too-too much.”

“The music? Jon, hey, hey, just focus on calming down, okay? That was a dick move of Elias to separate us immediately. I was talking to that Lukas guy for way too long. Not even sure what we talked about. I think he’s just one of those guys.” Jon smirked to himself as he focused on the floor beneath his feet, breathing slowly until his heart rate had resumed a normal rhythm.

“Says you,” he mumbled, eyes closing as he pressed his warm cheek to the cold wall.

“You bastard!” Jon felt a light swat on his shoulder. “I listen to people! I have meaningful conversation; just ask Martin and Sasha and Alexa from Library and Calvin from Artefact Storage. I am practically a professional listener.”

Jon smirked, satisfied with his jab and turned around, now pressing his back to the wall. “God, Tim, I do not want to go back in there.” It was hard to admit out loud, even if the evidence was written all over his face.

“Okay. So, we won’t.”

“What?” the answer was so mind-bogglingly simple, Jon reeled.

“We don’t want to be here. We’ve talked, we’ve eaten. Let’s just leave. I can tell Elias I had an emergency and you had to escort me home, like a true gentleman.”

“Lie to Elias? I feel like that cant end well.” The offer was tempting, Jon hadf to admit.

“I mean, Sasha has keys to my flat. I could ask her to start a fire, if you think that’s sufficient?”

Jon barked out a laugh at that. “Ah, no, lets save a fire for something big. Yes. Let’s-let’s go, Tim. And-er, I suppose I should thank you. For coming tonight. I know its not an ideal way to spend an evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim did a twirl, Jon’s own jacket slung over his shoulder. “I look hot. You think I’d pass up an opportunity to dress up like this? You’re dreaming.” He smirked and took Jon’s arm, leading him back up the stairwell. It felt different than Elias’s touch. That had been a cold tug, directional and leashed. This felt…snug, more like a link in a chain than anything else. Comforting, reassuring.

(Luckily, they weren’t laughed out of the Nando’s they popped into late at night. Lemon and herb and spices covered their hands, but they were careful to keep their jackets clean. Jon, when looking back on the evening; remembers this moment, talking and laughing and letting the fresh night air was over them. Elias, Lukas, and Fairchild be damned. He’d deal with that tomorrow.)

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fanfic #fanfic to a tea #jonathan sims #tim stoker #prompt fic #black-tie #elias bouchard #still a dick #peter lukas #simon fairchild #sasha james #me? write everyone BUT martin>#amazing

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vermillioncrown · 3 years

Note

Hello im here to cause trouble. Zyx transmigrates into Yue Qingyuan.

hi sorry, i was busy with skule and work

SJ!SQQ would immediately clock an imposter, if Z!YQY doesn’t play it right as they transmigrate

(bad ending SJ!SQQ murders Z!YQY lol)

Uhhhh if Z!YQY manages to sus out what’s happening, and with the limited (and lacking) perspective in PIDW they manage to discover and speculate on a few things

og!YQY barely has his shit together. Sword and cultivation masquerading as whole, perfect façade as sect leader gone in his private quarters, odd trinkets that seem so mundane for a powerful man to keep. Heap and heaps of spiritually potent gifts, boxed in beautiful lacquered wood and ready to go... to whom?

og!YQY isn’t stupid (that was her worst case opinion), just indulgent. ZYX was of an absolutely low opinion of YQY - his behavior was similar to academic advisors that let their shittier students run roughshod over the rest of their mentees, sabotaging, scheming, stealing, all the nasty stuff. And while ZYX despises those students, they also feel it’s the professors’ job (as the ones that selected these students at that academic level) to enforce and impart integrity on those assholes. the SQQ&YQY dynamic is everything that pisses her off

OG!LBH missed a lot of detail when it didn’t concern his immediate sphere of influence. He noted that SQQ ‘hated’ YQY, but Z!YQY (with a more normal and socialized upbringing than all these trauma-bait characters) starts to understand that it’s almost like mean pigtail pulling. Baffling.

ok ok ok... there’s history there, and holy shit out of all these low iq imbeciles, it’s gonna be the most vicious fucker out there (barring bingge) that will find them out.

Z!YQY grits their teeth, pulls xuan su out, and fakes a qi deviation like their life depends on it (it kinda does). it fucking hurts, like someone stuck an immersion blender inside, pureed their life essence into a bisque, and sucked it out their belly button through a straw. so it’s kinda necessary that Z!YQY stay on qian cao for a bit

“Asking Mu-shidi... don’t tell Shen Qingqiu”

MQF pauses whatever he’s doing. gives Z!YQY a Look.

“Has Shen-shixiong lost zhangmen-shixiong’s favor?”

Z!YQY tries so hard to not let the ‘o i fucked up’ look slip out.

“This... one has given more thought to--to many subjects,” they answer vaguely. MQF thinks they look pensive and melancholic. Z!YQY is actually tiptoeing through a verbal and social minefield. They look up, and give MQF a helpless smile. “On this shixiong’s sickbed, we can afford to be more candid. Mu-shidi, please tell me your honest opinion?”

using every ounce of their gossip-gathering skills (not that they developed it for evil - it was just fun to know gossip, and sometimes people needed to vent and then they would say the most interesting things -), Z!YQY pries out MQF’s perspective on the SQQ-YQY Issue. it’s not a complete perspective, but there’s more to go on with YQY’s hidden cultivation issues, SQQ’s also unstable cultivation (?!?!?), and the... sheer duration of this.

Since they were disciples.

Z!YQY thinks they know the approach to take now. It’s not going to be resolved by one, grand and impeccable act towards SQQ - rather, Z!YQY is going to have to manipulate their dynamic to evolve.

It starts with a simple, distant greeting. “Shen-shidi,” at the next peak lord meeting, one that Z!YQY called to get an emergency update on the state of affairs due to ‘unexpected health issues’.

SQQ looks like Z!YQY backhanded their face. Anger and annoyance at some routine changing. but when SQQ starts mouthing off, sly and poisonous barbs thrown across the meeting hall, Z!YQY marvels at how obvious SQQ’s apprehension and fear are.

not one peak lord says anything addressing it.

LQG storms out of the meeting as soon as he is able to. “Lacking manners and respect for Zhangmen-shixiong - I refuse to stomach more of your insufferable attitude,” he calls out when others try to slow him down. He nods firmly in Z!YQY’s direction before stomping out and flying off on cheng luan (probably off to kill a thing - Z!YQY could commiserate after bad lab meetings)

the other peak lords try to (not so subtly) keep SQQ from Z!YQY (”Zhangmen-shixiong, perhaps it’s best to let Shen-shixiong cool off for a bit...”), but Z!YQY lingers and the peak lords can no longer play at any polite pretense to separate the two.

SQQ is vicious once out of public eye. between the two of them, he doesn’t hold himself back as the most elegant peak lord of cang qiong, needing only his tongue to devastate enemies - his words still poisonous but with a rawer quality, his body language barely contained and coiled with tension, unafraid to get up in Z!YQY’s face.

‘what,’ Z!YQY thinks as SQQ verbally rips into his character and dignity, ‘the fuck did the original goods do to SQQ? steal his girl? fuck his mom?? smash and dash his sister??? YQY you did fucking something to this guy!’

again, this diatribe is so ... obviously someone lashing out. SQQ wants something from YQY, but a specific something on his terms. And whatever YQY was giving him before was not only what he wasn’t looking for, it actively upset him.

But potentially losing YQY upset him even more. Interesting.

okay, zyx; pull up your meager theater skills! let’s go!

Sad, overgrown puppy hangdog look. Tears barely held back. A soft hold on SQQ’s wrists, restraining him from further jabbing his really pointy finger into Z!YQY’s pecs (ouch).

“Qingyuan does not know what to do, nor is he able to read minds. Shidi wanted me to stop bothering him, and so Qingyuan listened. And now, it is apparent that Shidi wants something else he’s not saying.” timed look up through their eyelashes, even if YQY’s body is slightly taller than SQQ’s. hm. the hunched look adds to the sadboi act. “Qing--I don’t know what to give you if you don’t tell me, Shen Qingqiu.”

SQQ violently yanks himself out of Z!YQY’s grip.

One more blow. “Just... tell--let me...,” Z!YQY stops themselves from reaching out, and turns abruptly. “Pardon this shixiong.” Exit stage right.

So here’s the thing.

Z!YQY was banking on dangling the prospect of their changing dynamic to spook SQQ into saying something (and it’s less of a prospect and more of an inevitability). It’s definitely something, with the way that SQQ stalks performatively around Z!YQY, trying to draw attention to the fact that SQQ 1) exists, and 2) is fucking furious with Z!YQY.

Being as gentle-mannered as OG!YQY is exhausting, but SQQ definitely would not react well to ZYX’s true brand of conflict resolution (”Okay, tell me what the fuck is wrong with you/what the fuck is wrong with us because I want to fix it”).

(It pays off when SQQ finally cracks and it culminates into a one-sided fight where Z!YQY is accused of “finally throwing [SQQ] away like unwanted trash, the last black blemish on YQY’s gallant and spotless reputation”

“Shen Qingqiu.” SQQ looks like he’s about to strike Z!YQY himself. “I cannot change the past or stop each other from carrying its burdens. But-” Z!YQY hopes they’re getting the words right, through half-observation and half-speculation, “-you’re still here. How can you call this ‘being thrown away’?”

It’s not immediately resolved, but apparently SQQ takes it as Z!YQY wanting to wipe the past clean for both of them instead of leaving him and his 100 lbs overweight emotional luggage behind. Thus, Z!YQY gets away w never knowing nor using 'Xiao Jiu/Qi-Ge' stuff.

‘Oh,’ Z!YQY nearly says when a scent like fresh forest and cut bamboo invades their nose and they feel tentative, soft lips upon theirs.

SQQ looks offended when Z!YQY doesn’t reciprocate and pulls away, is mollified and made angrily bashful when his hand is pulled in for a kiss and then strong fingers gently lace through his own slender digits.

“One step at a time, one day at a time,” Z!YQY says, trying to keep their voice light and teasing. They tug SQQ’s hand up and back, leading the other peak lord until they’re standing chest to chest.)

(Eventually, as the sect leader, Z!YQY pays attention enough to catch SQH.

SQH is terrified of all the changes, but delighted to meet a fellow transmigrator that respects service workers (even if they pull no punches in how they think that PIDW was a malformed, inbred horse that needed to be brought out back and shot).

“Man, how’d you pull the stick out of SQQ’s ass? I thought he’d never get over the whole slave thing and the Qiu household-”

Z!YQY does a spit take. “-the what.”)

#zyx au's #svzyx #Anonymous #inquiry #hey it's been a hot minute #i had so much shit to do #random storytime on my 'acting skills'#i've pulled off pranks that required some theatrics #one was on a hs acquaintance that felt compelled to lie about his successes bc we were at a very competitive school #but none of our friend group respected the lies because they were so easily debunked and honestly unnecessary #but the guy spent middle school acting smug and eventually we all caught up and surpassed him so he already was used to bragging about shit #tldr his biggest lie (even to his best friend) was that he was going off to georgetown for college but we all had piecewise evidence to the #so we planned a 'going away' party to soften him up into confessing #i pulled out tears and a gruff/reluctant admission that we're all going to miss our shenanigans (they were fun tbh)#and managed to get the truth directly from his mouth #it was glorious #after 4+ years of compulsively lying and none of us calling him out it took me showing a (fake) emotion to nail him #i mean i also leveraged his weird stockholm sydrome-esque crush on me but he was better off being honest to us #made him less likely to implode #and now he's off enjoying wealthy diplomat money instead of suffering the pretense of academic success

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pomegranate-belle · 6 years

Text

Figured I’d join in on the WIP amnesty thing @werelibrarian is doing because I wrote all I really wanted to of this and I have no idea where it was going; so have the scattered bits and pieces of my angsty DD college fic:

Foggy just grinned and joked about it, because what else could he do? If he’d jumped into a language course half-cocked for a pretty girl, Matt damn well had the right to do the same. The fact that one of these things had happened before their meeting and one after was wholly irrelevant. Especially when Matt’s full-body gay panic flinch had Foggy flinging himself bodily back into the closet in a fumble so obvious it could be seen from the freaking moon. So. Yeah. It was fine.

Really.

Sure, Foggy felt kind of twitchy and dishonest, and a little bit sick inside, boarding up the windows to his attraction to men. But Matt was... He was funny and charming and stunningly handsome and Foggy’s own personal hero since the age of nine and, well... Foggy wanted to know him. So badly.

And the more he learned, the more he knew about Matt, the more he knew him, the more he realized that he didn’t want to be without him. Like... Ever.

Over time everything eased into comfort. Foggy dated guys again, and Matt didn’t bat an eyelash. That felt good; really good, actually, except for the part where Foggy was still low-key in love with his painfully straight roommate and probably would be for the rest of his pathetic life.

—

The bruises were... Well. At first, at first it was just hickeys, love bites. They made Foggy’s stomach twist, yeah, but Matt came home grinning dopily every time so Foggy couldn’t make himself begrudge the Greek girl anything.

But then they started appearing elsewhere. Bruises. And not the nice sexy kind. Ugly blotches of purple and green, splayed across Matt’s ribs so that Foggy only caught a glimpse when his roommate was rucking up his shirt to change clothes. Ugly red scabs and rope burns around Matt’s wrists.

And then came the black eye, poorly concealed by Matt’s dollar-store Matrix shades.

“Jesus Christ, Matt! What happened?” Foggy demanded, because weird bruises were on the fence enough to be awkward but there was nothing even remotely kinky or sexy about a straight-up shiner.

Matt just shot him that charming-blind-guy megawatt smile, the one he used to bend professors and academic advisors alike to his will, and shrugged.

“I’m fine, Foggy,” he said cheerfully. “I’m sure it just looks worse than it is.”

“It looks like you went nine rounds with a sledgehammer-wielding lumberjack, dude,” pressed Foggy.

But all Matt did was laugh, brightly, like it was a joke. Foggy wanted to say, I’m not kidding, Matt, but the words wouldn’t come out.

—

“So— so what?” Matt demanded, agitated. “Just because I’m blind she has to be taking advantage of me?”

“C’mon, Matt, you know that’s not what I—“

“Then what,” Matt bit out viciously. “What did you— Did you mean? Huh?”

“It’s not about being blind, Jesus Christ, Matt! It’s that you don’t show up for class anymore! It’s that I can’t remember the last time we hung out! It’s that you look like a fucking PSA about domestic abuse! God if you could see yourself right now...!” Foggy tugged anxiously at strands of his own hair, his voice tight and hurt. “There is no way this relationship is safe or healthy or—! Just...! She’s not good for you, Matt!”

But that was the wrong thing to say, because when Foggy looked up again Matt had slipped on his shades and his face had gone flat and cool. He looked the way he did when he was about to go up against someone he hated in a mock debate. A sudden cold, swooping feeling overtook Foggy’s stomach.

“And who is?” Matt asked quietly. “You?”

Foggy let out a whuff of air like Matt had actually reached out and punched him. All his limbs felt heavy and numb and chilled.

“Matt...”

It was something they didn’t talk about. Well, Foggy had hoped maybe Matt hadn’t noticed at all but that was probably a long shot. For all his awkward raised-by-nuns socialization and for all that he couldn’t actually see an expression to gauge it, Matt was crazy good at reading people. It would’ve been stupid for Foggy to assume he was an exception to the rule, especially since they spent so much time together. It was just... They’d always managed to sidestep it before. Nothing incriminating, nothing to see here, just mushy best friend feelings. But badmouthing Elektra must have crossed the line far enough to make that an acceptable counterattack in Matt’s mind. Well, turnabout was fair play.

“Elektra knows me, Foggy. She knows me better than you ever did. And I know her too.”

It was a fatal shot right to the tender underbelly of Foggy’s insecurities. Ones he hadn’t even thought to consider, before those hard words spilled from Matt’s mouth. Because, ok, yeah, Elektra was hot like burning in a way Foggy could never hope to be, and she was a girl, so he got it, sure. But that she knew Matt better than Foggy? That she understood him better? That the tone of Matt’s voice said, you’re superfluous, you’re annoying, I never wanted you around...

“I...” Foggy stammered, but the words ‘thought we were best friends’ wouldn’t pass his lips. “Yeah, alright...”

Suddenly thankful for his roommate’s blindness, Foggy pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes to force down hot, ugly tears. There was nothing wrong with a good long cry, and he definitely planned to schedule one very soon, but you didn’t cry after a hit like that. Not where the person who hurt you could hear it. Well, at least there was one good thing to come from being bullied in American public schools — better tear duct regulation.

Anyway, who wanted to play the victim? Just because it hurt... Matt was angry, he’d just said it because he was angry. And even if he hadn’t, Foggy knew that Matt had always had trouble bringing down his walls. It was... It was good that someone could surmount them. And Matt had said he was happy. With her. Elektra. He was an adult and he could take care of himself and make his own stupid choices, couldn’t he? Foggy didn’t get a pass to treat Matt like glass just because they were friends, he knew Matt hated that.

But backing down still made his stomach churn. Those cuts and bruises made his stomach churn.

“I’m, I’m just gonna,” Foggy stammered at last, willing his voice not to crack. “I should. Go. Do something. Not here.”

Because, settled at his desk with his feet planted heavily on the floor and his posture wide and aggressive, there was no way in hell Matt was going anywhere.

Too raw and humiliated to crash with anyone, Foggy spent the night tucked in a dark corner of the law library with his knees hugged to his chest like a kid.

—

Matt was gone even longer after that. Two weeks went by where Foggy didn’t see him, even in class. Unwilling and unable to push further, he contented himself with tracking his worry by the shifting of Matt’s belongings across the room. At least if that book had moved or the laundry pile shrunk, it meant Matt was alive. Even that couldn’t completely dissipate the sickness in Foggy’s gut, though.

—

Midway through week three without sight or sound of his roommate, Foggy found himself at a bar, his gut already so full of acid that the thought of anything but water made him want to hurl.

Marci Stahl took one look at him — sober, bruise-eyed, a mess — and curled a manicured hand around his shoulder. It was probably the most tender gesture Foggy had ever seen her make.

She took him home with her that night, and they slept — just slept — in her bed. It was the first time since the fight with Matt that Foggy woke up feeling rested. He had enough energy that day to do his homework, to take notes in class. Before he could trudge back to his empty dorm room that night, Marci led him back to her place again. It was probably a testament to how broken up Foggy looked that Marci allowed the arrangement as long as she did — a whole week.

On the seventh morning she rolled to face him on the bed, sighed gustily, and stroked a long-nailed hand through Foggy’s hair.

“I’m nice, Foggy, but I’m not that nice,” she said. “So. Are we going to have sex, or are you going to get out of my apartment?”

And, well. Marci was an attractive woman. Plus, Foggy really didn’t want to go back to his dorm room to find Matt not there. Again.

—

The irony was that the night that Foggy finally decided to bite the bullet and go back to his own room instead of Marci’s, Matt was there. Sitting lifelessly in his desk chair, fingers trailing across the Braille of one of his textbooks with uncharacteristic sluggishness.

“Elektra dumped me,” he said, and the tone was.

Foggy couldn’t even place it. Wary but challenging. Hurt but sharp. A minefield.

Matt looked like shit. Even more than he had when Elektra had been — god, Foggy didn’t even know, beating the shit out of him? Entering him in a fight club? And it had everything to do with the emptiness of his expression, the defeat in his posture. Foggy opened his mouth to say something, anything. Console Matt with shitty platitudes, tell him ‘hey man I’m here for you’, offer to buy the first beer.

And then the memory of Matt’s derisive ‘you?’ hit Foggy full in the chest and he stumbled. Couldn’t force a sound out.

He slunk to his own bed, defeated, and curled up beneath the covers.

—

Foggy didn’t say ‘I told you so’. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all. Half of Matt was immensely grateful for his silent, steady presence across the room. The other half longed for Foggy to just talk to him, even if it was to berate him. But truthfully, Matt supposed, he deserved whatever Foggy decided on, whether that was silent detachment or spoken vitriol. It wasn’t Matt’s right to choose. Not after he’d let the devil loose on his only friend, torn into Foggy’s heart the way he’d torn into Roscoe Sweeney with his fists.

For that same reason, Matt had no right to bristle at the cloying smell of Marci Stahl’s perfume, or the way Foggy wouldn’t come home some nights, would instead return early in the morning smelling of sex. Foggy was allowed to be in a relationship. Just because Matt’s had imploded didn’t mean Foggy was obligated to stop dating in solidarity.

—

Foggy’s heart started racing again, tripping over itself. It was actually almost gratifying for a moment, a terrible thing to think, except then Matt’s nose caught up with his ears. Foggy didn’t smell like arousal, like attraction.

He smelled like fear.

It hadn’t been anger fueling Foggy’s silences, Matt realized with a suddenness that left him dizzy and filled his chest with ice. Foggy didn’t hate Matt... He was afraid of him. Afraid of reaching out and being tossed aside again, a fear so antithetical to the open softness of Foggy Nelson that it hadn’t even been a consideration before. And Matt had induced it in him. Had made him second-guess himself. Made him flinch back from his characteristic offers of physical comfort.

—

“Foggy, I’m—“

“It’s,�� Foggy interrupted with a hitch in his breath that would have revealed his lie even if his heartbeat hadn’t, “It’s fine, Matt.”

“No, it’s not fine. Fog, I never should’ve... I shouldn’t have said any of those things to you.”

“You were upset,” Foggy replied mildly.

Matt’s hands flexed angrily on his cane.

“People— people get upset all the time, Foggy. That’s no excuse, I shouldn’t have... You’re my best friend. And whatever feelings you had,” because he definitely didn’t have them anymore, “I should never have, I... It was cruel. And I know I don’t deserve... I just. God, I just, I miss you Foggy.”

—

Foggy didn’t ask because he didn’t want to know. And Matt would tell him, right? If it was anther Elektra Thing, then Foggy... No. Matt would tell him. And even if he didn’t, confronting Matt about it last time was a nuclear-level disaster. A Chernobyl in the Ukraine of their friendship. Repeating the mistake wouldn’t help anyone.

—

“God, you know what, you were right. You were so fucking right, Matt, all those... Those years ago. I don’t know you at all.”

The sound of Matt’s sob shattered them both.

“No. No, Foggy, don’t— please don’t say that.”

“I might not have— crazy lie detecting powers, Matt, but you meant what you said then. It’s this, right? All this is what Elektra understood that I never did.”

#daredevil #writing #october wip amnesty #long post #because the read more functionality on this website is a god damn crapshoot

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dynamic-instability · 6 years

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Hi, I just finished my freshman year in premed and my grades were horrible (like C average) and it was because I'm just not good at science in college like I was in hs... I'm so tired all the time and like I don't have chronic illness or anything and so I know it's not even like what you went through and maybe I'm stupid for complaining but I just don't know if I can keep doing this. I've wanted to be a doctor all my life, how do I give up on that dream??

(2/3) I just feel like I’m giving up and letting down everyone who expects things of me but when I think about things like having to get volunteer and shadowing hours I just feel like I’m panicing and it’s just this crushing weight and maybe I’m just not good enough but like how do I give up?? Doesn’t that make me weak?? My grades in other stuff like my history classes and even in calc were good but gen chem and gen bio fucking killed me I’ve always been a good student idk what to do now

(3/3) I’m sorry for sending this long thing that probably doesn’t even make sense and you dealt with so much shit with your sickness and stuff and you got really good grades obviously and I don’t even have anything like that, I’m just not good at school anymore?? I just know I need to make a change if I’m gonna do this premed thing and you’ve had to think about in the past what you’d do if you can’t be a doctor. I guess I just wanted your advice sorry this is so long lol I’m kinda freaking out

Oh my sweet bb anon. The first thing to do is to take a breath. The second thing to do is to stop comparing yourself to me or to anyone. Don’t start down that road of who has it harder and who is overcoming more, because that’s just not a productive line of thinking, okay? I’ve been there, I’ve done that to myself, it doesn’t lead anywhere good. Your struggles are your own struggles, and whatever you choose to do, it is valid. It does not make you weak.

There’s kind of a lot to unpack here so I’m just going to do my best.

I think the biggest question you have to ask here is whether you still genuinely want to be a doctor. So you’re struggling in your science classes, that’s okay, some C’s in freshman year don’t have to stop you. Just because your first year was hard, it doesn’t mean it won’t improve, and that’s true for a bunch of reasons. The material, for one thing: I didn’t like gen chem, but I loved orgo, and I know a lot of people for whom that’s been the case (it depends on how into quantitative thinking you are, I think). Also, intro-level bio classes can sometimes be the hardest because you have to learn a whole new vocabulary and way of thinking, but then once you have those skills it can get a lot easier. Also, regardless of your field of study, the first year of college is hard socially and academically, it’s a rough adjustment. I don’t know you, but maybe your mental health suffered from the stress and the transition, or maybe you just didn’t have the study skills yet because your high school coursework didn’t demand them. A couple bad grades does not mean you’re unable to do this.

What worries me more is that you said things like “I’m tired all the time” and “it feels like this crushing weight.” A look back through this blog will tell you I’ve had my share of feeling like this, and that not all of it can be attributed to chronic fatigue. But at least when it came to bio, I’ve always loved the material. Even when it was killing me, I love biology. I love biology and medicine so much that I do shit like writing a completely unnecessary 50-page lit review about cholera. I love a lot of other things, too, like music and history and linguistics, but nothing makes me happy like medicine makes me happy. If you love it and you’re struggling, you don’t need to give up, you just need to find better strategies for doing well. Find a tutor, work with classmates, find new study/organizational skills, retake some courses if you failed them. And there are going to be some courses in your prereqs that you just won’t like (see: me and physics) and that doesn’t have to stop you. The courses you take in undergrad are not necessarily reflective of everything to come. But if you hate science? Don’t put yourself through this. It isn’t worth it.

Here’s the thing. There is such a thing as a weed-out class, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Being “weeded out”, so to speak, doesn’t have to mean you’re not good enough, it can just mean that you’re figuring out what is and is not a good fit for you. My friend @carminapiranha went through this her freshman year, suffered through a year of pre-med where she struggled and was miserable before admitting it was not what she wanted. She has a degree in art history, and is about to go get a master’s degree. There was a girl I knew freshman year who was sure she was going to be a surgeon, but she got a D in gen bio 1 because the class didn’t make sense to her and made her miserable. She got an MBA and is making like hella money now.

You can change your mind, that is a valid decision. It doesn’t have to mean you’re giving up, it doesn’t have to mean you’re weak, it can just mean you’re looking for something that’s a better fit for you. You said you did well in history classes, but did you also like them? What was your favorite class you’ve taken? I know there are some degrees that feel more “useless” than others, and it would be naive of me to claim that that doesn’t matter when college is so freakin expensive, but honestly? Very few people get jobs directly in the field of their degrees. People end up doing totally random jobs all the time. Maybe there’s something else that’s a better fit for you. If there is, you should go and do that!

So I guess my question is this: why are you trying so hard to stay pre-med? Is it because this is what you want and you can’t see yourself being fulfilled the same way doing anything else? For me, that’s the wall I come up against every time I quit being pre-med (which has happened like… three times now?) If that’s the case then maybe look at alternate careers in the medical field (I myself have thought extensively about becoming a genetic counselor–similar academic requirements, but not as harsh in terms of training, and probably not quite as competitive as far as undergraduate GPA), or you can just keep pushing towards this goal and try to find better ways of studying. As for the extracurricular stuff, I would recommend that you try to stop viewing it as this crushing obligation. Find volunteer opportunities that are things you think are cool and that you want to do, not because they’re things that will look good on a resume. View shadowing as an opportunity to see whether various medical field things are right for you, not as ticking a box for some imaginary (or literal) application-strengthening checklist. If your campus has a pre-med/pre-health club, see about going to some of their events or talks. Talk to a pre-health advisor about options and opportunities. Talk to other pre-health people. It’s a lot, being pre-med. I feel the pressure too, all the time, and it can be exhausting, but if it’s really what you want to do, you don’t have to give up. You certainly don’t have to give up this early. You’re only a baby freshman (well, a baby sophomore, now, I guess) (I can call you a baby because I’m 24 and I have a whole degree now, so #dealwithit) (I promise I mean it with love and not condescension). One year of not-great grades is not going to preclude you from being a doctor.

But if the reason you’re so reluctant to change paths is out of obligation instead of an actual passion for the field, then it’s not worth it to keep making yourself miserable.

Whoever it is that you feel like you’ll be letting down by not becoming a doctor–your parents or your grandparents or your high school science teacher or whoever–you don’t owe them. I don’t know if you’ve got parents putting pressure on you or what, but if you do, just remember that it’s your life and no one has the right to tell you what to do with it.

Or maybe the person you feel like you’re betraying is your past self, the version of you that’s dressing up as a doctor for Halloween and telling everyone for the past 18 years how you’re gonna be a doctor and sitting in your bedroom watching Grey’s Anatomy and getting all fired up about how that’s gonna be you one day. This is a thought I’ve had a lot over the past six years or so. It’s hard if you’ve identified yourself by this desire your whole life to suddenly imagine being anything else. I don’t know if that’s the case for you, but I feel sometimes like I have this 12-year-old Kari in my head and I’m breaking her little idealistic medical nerd heart every time I take a step outside the path she’d have me on. But guess what? You don’t owe your past self shit. Your past self had ideas of what your life would be, just like baby Kari had ideas for what my life would be, but she didn’t have all the information that I have. I know better than she did. You cannot control the actions and the thoughts of your future self, you just have to trust that they are better informed than you are.

You are allowed to change. Your identity is yours and yours alone to shape how you please. It doesn’t make you weak to change course, it makes you flexible. (And hey, if studying biology has taught me anything, it’s that adaptability is key to survival) (There’s a reason my blog is called “dynamic instability”)

#premed #pre med #Kari tries to give advice I guess #sorry if this makes no sense I wrote it in the middle of the night #I kind of wanted to reply 'why the fuck are you asking me I'm a certified disaster'#but I didn't #because I had things to say so #anon #asks

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jngukie · 7 years

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WIP Tag

i was tagged by @floofyeol! idk if this is a blessing or a curse let’s find out.

some of these fics have been in drafts for ages? so tbh i don’t even know if i will post them but hey we’ll see. (so assume for now that none of these will be posted—except when stated otherwise with an *)

the first couple will be ships. the later ones are reader-inserts. all are still protected by the Creative Commons license.

slide it up in here: chapter 10* pairing(s): jikook, namjin, yoonseok genre: humour, crack, drama, angst tags/warnings: texting, college au, slightly filthy, innuendoes, Awkward Jeon Jungkook™, slowburn, self-esteem issues, self-hatred, implied/referenced homophobia, everyone is a mess™

SUMMARY

gguki: [image attached] gguki: what should i do with it chimothy: um chimothy: dude idk if i’m entitled to give you suggestions but chimothy: i mean you could always just stick it in the ass???????

or jungkook accidentally sends a stranger a picture of his roommate’s brand new dildo

PREVIEW

the (9)7 wonders of the world

tol: ok here’s the plan dabs 24/7: yugyeom no offence but your plans kinda suck muscle pig: ^^ what bambam said muscle pig: i don’t trust you anymore tol: wow that hurt tol: but i promise you this one will be better dabs 24/7: don’t do it kook tol: it won’t backfire in any way

untilted vhope pairing(s): vhope, namjin genre: humour, fluff tags/warnings: college au, skype dates, profanity, neurobiology/pyschology major!namjoon, ra!jin, music major!yoongi (i think), some major!hoseok, and high schooler!tae, tbh idrk bc i haven’t finished writing it lmao

SUMMARY

When Jung Hoseok signed up for college, he didn’t think he’d end up on academic probation so soon. Hell, he’d never guess he’d have friends who would use him as a fucking lab rat for their atrocious experiments. He definitely did not expect to fall in love with his resident advisor’s little brother—and then proceed to sneak into said resident advisor’s room and hack his computer just to have one more Skype date with the little brother. Without getting caught by said resident advisor. Yeah—he’s a little stressed, to say the least.

→ a continuation of It’s Burning Up in Here.

PREVIEW

He didn’t sign up for this. He thought college would be a great idea—who would pass up the opportunity for ultimate freedom and youthful stupidity? No, he was ecstatic for college—but he definitely hadn’t signed up to be the fucking victim for his resident advisor’s boyfriend’s experiments.

“Hoseok-ssi, please stay still or otherwise this will hurt. A lot,” Namjoon begged as his friend Yoongi tried to hold him down on the fragile coffee table.

“That’s not what your needle’s saying! You said it was a harmless experiment! You said I’d be fine!”

“You will be! I just need practice drawing blood once—”

“You’ve never even done this before?” Hoseok shrieked, writhing some more. Yoongi growled in frustration and flung his entire weight onto Hoseok’s body—and thus effectively snapping the legs of the coffee table and sending them down towards the floor.

His advisor ran into the room then, eyes wide in alarm while holding a skillet filled with half-cooked meat, his creased white apron reading World’s Best Dad! in pretty cursive pink. “What the hell is going on here?”

untitled taekook* pairing(s): taekook, yoonjin genre: fluff, angst, humour, crack tags/warnings: restaurant au, running away, mentions of nudity, exhibitionism, does getting caught dancing naked in your room count as exhibitionism idek, mention of mpreg, but there’s no actual mpreg, i mean it’s the sims it’s not real, many many references to the male organ, but sorry folks no smut (A/N: this is literally what i have in my docs wow i’m such a nerd for preparing ao3 tags LMAO)

SUMMARY

The last thing Jungkook expected after running away to Seoul is to score a private live viewing of Naked_Neighbour_Dancing_In_His_Bedroom.mov—and then proceed to bump into him when he’s not-so-naked. And then also manage to greet him with a slap. It also probably doesn’t help that Nude Neighbour is his new boss. All in all, Jungkook just maybe kinda wants to die. (But of course Seokjin isn’t gonna allow him, so he’s just going to suffer—for now.)

PREVIEW

He sighs, turning his head to gaze out of the window, only to freeze when he realises his view isn’t exactly the most… decent.

Because across from his small studio apartment window is a perfect view of a larger apartment in the building across, and currently, the tenant (he hopes the boy’s the tenant) is enthusiastically dancing through his room completely naked, dinglehopper fully on display. He’s mouthing the words to some song, throwing a finger up in the air as he shuts his eyes and nods his head as though the music (Jungkook thinks there’s music) blasting in his room is speaking to him on a spiritual level.

Jungkook’s face is bright red when he finally breaks out of his trance, and he wishes he wasn’t so bad at reacting appropriately to inappropriate situations so he could at least have saved himself from adding a thirty-second clip of Nude Neighbour to his collection of non-digital memories. He rushes to the window and pulls the curtains close, fingers stiff as he tries to rid his brain of such scandalous images.

At least he was hot.

His face is redder now—if that’s even possible. “Fuck me,” he whispers, and then flushes even more. “Wait, no. Don’t fuck me. That’s not what—why am I even talking to myself. Agh.”

take these words out of my lungs (and set them free) pairing(s): vmin genre: angst, fluff tags/warnings: major character death, suicide attempt, depression, body image issues, depressed!jimin, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, ambiguous original character that appears for like five seconds, high school au

SUMMARY/PREVIEW

three pounds. that’s how much he’s gained since he last stepped on the scale, the dictator that rules over his life. he stares at the numbers again, frowning at the digits glaring up at him. perhaps there was a mistake; maybe the scale is rigged or jammed or simply broken. he couldn’t have possibly gained three pounds in a span of two days. hasn’t he been walking around his neighbourhood enough?

he sighs, stepping off the scale and turning around to flush the toilet before washing his hands. even the cold water burns his skin, and he wishes he could melt through the cracks on the floor. would he slim down then? would he finally be skinny enough?

“jimin!” he hears his mother call, and he forces his way from the sink, sneaking out his parent’s bathroom and into the living room outside. their apartment is small but cozy. jimin hates it.

untitled kim seokjin* pairing(s): platonic OT7 genre: fluff, angst tags/warnings: anxiety, depression, eating disorder, negative body image perception, lapslock (lower case)

SUMMARY

honestly, he can’t remember what it’s like to live anymore.

PREVIEW

breathe in. breathe out.

three lucky charms. four cereal pieces. seven bits down the drain.

he smiles, staring at the milk-stained sink as the spoon clatters against metal, bowl turned upside down. it’s ugly—white ink staining burnt grey like liquid cobwebs feeding on rust. it looks exactly as how he feels: dirty, wasted, trash. one-seventy-nine centimetres down the drain.

untitled kim taehyung pairing(s): Kim Taehyung/Reader genre: fluff, humour, probably angst bc knowing me tags/warnings: (sor far) nudity, profanity

SUMMARY/PREVIEW

Kim Taehyung has no regrets. Sure, he probably should’ve thought twice before he spent all of his money on BIGBANG merch just to show Jungkook that yes, he’s the bigger fanboy, and sure, he definitely should’ve listened to Jimin when he warned Taehyung that no, he shouldn’t eat three whole pizza pies by himself, but that doesn’t mean he regrets any of his decisions. Even though blowing all his earnings on people he’ll never meet did cause him to starve for a good or so month.

(Thank god for ramyeon.)

So, no, Jimin, he doesn’t regret running out of the shower butt naked when he heard her singing on her way to the second floor of their co-ed dorm, doesn’t regret shouting, “I love your voice!” before she screamed, “Oh my god, you’re naked!” And he definitely doesn’t regret yelling, “Oh, shit!” into Oblivion before sprinting back into the bathroom to resume the hot shower he abandoned.

“For fuck’s sake, Taehyung,” Jimin says to him once Taehyung’s finished recounting the story, the two of them lying side by side on Jimin’s bed. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”

“I should probably say hi,” Taehyung muses, blinking at the ceiling. “Do you think she remembers me?”

Jimin glances down, and snickers. “With how small your dick is, she probably does.”

untitled park jimin pairing(s): Park Jimin/Reader genre: fluff tags/warnings: (so far) blind!reader

SUMMARY

He is an angel; and she doesn’t need to see to believe. She fathoms his widespread wings as he gently picks her up, worriedly and urgently asking for her health, voice so soft it touches her skin like silk on smooth glass. His eyes must be crinkled in the corners, a smile stuttering through apologies, heart too warm for the human hand to touch. She imagines what he looks like, faintly deciding through his rapid Korean that he must be chesnut if not vanilla, not in skin but in connotation because he sounds and smells and feels like home.

Her pause is a millennia long, and she hears him repeat himself again, the sound of melting marshmallow oozing out of beautiful lips: “Are you alright?”

She produces a smile, feathery and light, eyes glassy and the world continues to remain black. “I’m fine,” she replies, and her voice is cracked from its lack of use; she hasn’t met anyone worth talking to in what feels like a century. Another smile reappears, much strained than what she’s used to, and she picks herself up from where the concrete lay, the dust falling from her voile skirt. “No damage done.”

untitled kim taehyung #2* pairing(s): Kim Taehyung/Reader, platonic OT7 genre: fluff, angst tags/warnings: i think it’s schizophrenia?, mental illnesses, depression

SUMMARY/PREVIEW

There is a moment when time stands still. It’s fleeting, escaping the moment your fingers curl around it and pull. But it is during this moment happiness enraptures you with its warm hug as your heart thunders against your chest—the steady thump, thump, thump of a snare drum awakening. It is during this moment pain ceases to exist.

But after, everything will come rushing back.

i have more but these are the ones that are decent, at the very least.

to pass the torch on, i’ll tag @minmelly @kinky-koreans @pasteljeonggukk @haneulismykoreanname @rnjmnster and anyone else who wants to do it! (if you don’t, no pressure. good luck to you and your writing!)

#tags #i actually have like 10 more wips #i didn't know i had this many #will i actually write any of these #hopefully at some point

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