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petalsfm · 10 months

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if you’re hearing I LIKE YOU (A HAPPIER SONG) by POST MALONE & DOJA CAT playing, you have to know MILAN “MILLY” EDWARDS (SHE/HER; CIS WOMAN) is near by! the THIRTY-THREE year old HOTEL MANAGER has been in denver for, like, ONE YEAR. they’re known to be quite OPINIONATED, but being ADAPTABLE seems to balance that out. or maybe it’s the fact that they resemble LAURA HARRIER. personally, i’d love to know more about them seeing as how they’ve got those SOUND OF A BELL RINGING, SIGHING AFTER A STUPID PHONE CALL, LIVING OFF TV DINNERS AND TAKEOUT, YEARNING FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER vibes. and maybe i’ll get my chance if i hang out around the DOWNTOWN DISTRICT long enough!

STATS:

full name : milan ramona edwards

nickname(s) : milly

birthplace : miami, florida

date of birth : 01 / 01 / 1990

parentage : elizabeth washington edwards & jeffrey edwards

relationship status : single

gender identity : cis woman ( she/her )

sexual orientation : heterosexual

faceclaim : laura harrier

BACKGROUND:

born in miami, florida to two… trying parents.

in no way was milan planned. in actuality, milan’s conception was meant to be no more than one last hurrah before her father left salt lake city, utah to fort hood in killeen, texas to join the military base

however, two and a half months later, sergeant jeffrey edwards receives a letter from the one and only elizabeth washington saying she’s pregnant and it has to be his

trying to do things the traditional way, the two find a way to get elizabeth to killeen and situated. around elizabeth’s four month mark, elizabeth and jeffrey decide to elope, tethering themselves together forever.

it’s around six and half months that the edwards’ are told they’re being relocated to florida.

milan isn’t due until mid january, but decides she wants to spend new years with her parents. she’s born on january 1, 1990 to a twenty-four year old jeffrey and a twenty-five year old elizabeth.

she spends the first year of her life in florida, but it’s at age one the edwards’ are told to move to seattle, and age three they’re told to move to washington d.c.

stability had never been a word milan was all too familiar with, seeing how she never lived in the same town for longer than two years at a time up until the age of eighteen

despite attending numerous public schools both on and off bases, milan had to really rely on herself if she wanted to retain any information. jumping from schools in the middle of the year always left her at a loss. either she was joining a new school ahead or behind where everyone else was.

neither of her parents were educated past the secondary level, but her mom tried to help her whenever she had time

luckily, the books and work she did seemed to be a constant in her life, which motivated her to do the work on her own. while the content of the work may have been inconsistent based on relocations, the expectation remained the same.

if she can’t control anything going on around her, she can control her own person. her grades were always good, and she always took really good care of herself. as she entered her pre-teen / teen years, she began reading different fashion magazines to figure out what to do with her hair, skin, and makeup. something she’s always had, though, is an incredible care for her teeth. it’s at age thirteen she decides she wants to go into dentistry when she gets older.

when she’s fifteen years old, jeffrey edwards is discharged from his military services. after living on bases all around the country, he decides he wants to settle down in vancouver, bc.

living in vancouver from ages fifteen to eighteen meant she was going to have a new record for place she’s lived the longest.

it’s not until things have really settled that milan notices her parents don’t seem to have the connection she thought they did. with the chaos of moving all the time with two parents working, it was never apparent to milan that they might not be a good match.

things are tense, and she hears harsh whispers across the hall when her parents believe she’s asleep.

still, they refuse to divorce. milan is almost out of the house, then they can be free to live life as they wish. after giving her years of instability, the last thing they want to do is spring yet another new life change on her. sometimes she wishes they had.

to get away from it all and back to what she’s familiar with, milan looks for a school in the states where she can get a degree in dental hygiene.

at age eighteen she moves to sacramento, california to attend carrington college. the program promises licensure in less than two years, and the sooner milan can get herself to a normal life, the better.

when she’s twenty and unfortunately after some mishaps with fiscal services and payments, milan is halfway through her program. just one more year and she’s done. and that’s when she meets her first boyfriend. she’s never been in one place long enough to really care to meet anyone, so this man is both nerve-wracking and exciting.

he is good to her. in fact, she’s never felt more COMFORTABLE in her life. with his love and support, the last year of the program is a breeze and she passes her licensing exams with flying colors.

she’s twenty-three and a year into her new job when she messes things up ROYALLY. her boyfriend’s sister is now engaged, and milan begins to think. she begins thinking of her parents timeline versus where her and her boyfriend were. they were almost the age her parents were when they had her. her parents never had the heart to tell her the truth about her conception, and although she knows their relationship is not good, she has no one else to look up to. she didn’t meet many friends parents growing up, and her parents would talk to more people on each base than she could keep up with.

for the first time in her life, milan is not fully in control of herself. sure, for the most part, everything is her choice. but wanting to be married was a decision they both had to make, and it didn’t seem like he was going to budge. before she knows it, she’s pushed too hard and he’s moving his things out.

not long after that, her parents finally decide to pull the plug on their own marriage as well. a cherry on top of the shit cake life had seemed to hand her.

with everything she knows crashing down around her, she feels herself spiraling. being a dental hygienist is not nearly as fulfilling as milan had planned for it to be, but the gig did come with some pretty decent benefits.

it’s the only way she can afford therapy. while she desperately needs multiple years to unpack everything she needs to deal with, it only takes a year for her to decide she needs to find a new job.

when her and her boyfriend were together, she was always the one planning dinners and parties, and she always felt her calmest when doing so. her therapist suggests it gives her the opportunity to have control, something she’d lacked the majority of her life. so, getting a degree in hospitality management and seeking jobs in that field seems like a no brainer.

she’s twenty-nine when she finally finishes school for the second time. she knows through social media that her ex has found his way to denver, colorado, and seems to have found peace for himself.

they haven’t spoken since he in years, but she ( hesitantly ) reaches out to catch up. she asks how he’s liking the city and what it’s done for him. in the end, she asks if denver is big enough for the both of them. ❛ I WANT SOME OF THAT PEACE YOU’VE GOT, ❜ she jokes.

to her surprise, he says yes. she goes back to work as a dental hygienist while planning small events on her off time. that, and selling most of the things still remaining in the apartment she never moved out of, seemed to be a bit lucrative. she saves enough money to get her to denver by february 2022, and her parents were kind enough to chip in what they could to help.

she quickly found a job at a hotel-- a receptionist, but there’s always room for growth. she moves up fairly quickly. it’s not long before she’s promoted to hotel manager.

she’s currently still trying to find her footing of life in a new(ish) town with a new(ish) career. overall, my girl is strugglin !!!!!

#this is an essay im so sorry yall dont have to read this #anyways hi!!!!!#chq;intro

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abimee · 1 year

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people always tell me my art style remindse them of childrens book illustrations and i rarely make kid friendly stories anymore but you know what i need to make some so here

Aria Wewason is a freshly indoctrinated middle schooler of the Island Cities Elementary School in the disastrous and opportunistic year of 2008; smartboards and chunky computers have just been rolled into the classrooms, and on-line video-hosting websites have just taken off in the public conscious, and Aria has one dream set in her mind above all else --- to start a media production club in her final years at her school, and become the host of her own web series!

However, she lives in a secluded and slow-to-the times town tucked in the farthest reaches of Wisconsin; where iPhones are still coveted between the rich kids, and most kids her age still lived off of their parent's landlines and slow-running computers and have little to no access to the world wide web. Aria herself has little knowledge of technology herself, but is determined to become the most tech-savvy kid in her school and show the world her creativity and imagination through video!

Luckily, she's got a team behind her set to help her out;

her best friend since they were in preschool, Bell Mabel, who has access to the latest home computer through her parent's at-home jobs, and even owns her own Nikon handheld

the most popular --- and richest --- girl in school [name here], who after a rocky start in elementary school spent picking on Aria came to consider Aria her best and only friend, with an obsession for trading card games and with one finger on the pulse of all things gaming

a strange and energetic 4th grade who asks everyone to call her ''Tock'', who has a school-renown habit of causing trouble and gaining the ire of the teachers around her, yet is unmatched in her artistic and roleplay skills, and her through place in special education has a curious and strange level of knowledge of the inner workings of the school.... including where their budget goes?!

two IT techs crammed into a small closet the school calls their ''server room''; highschool dropout Ryder MacNamara, the second in command and often the one running around from classroom to classroom helping with the daily disruptions and presentations. Also known to moonlight as the Friday Popcorn maker, and routinely known to interrupt gym class to ''borrow'' the use of the gym teacher's microwave stashed in their room, which usually brings no less than five minutes of her picking on the teacher in front of the kids and making them laugh.

Ruyan Wozniak, a married woman and the showrunner behind everything plugged into the walls of the school. Often only found crammed into the small closet with her army of cables and screens, and known for her unending amount of kindness and patience for the students of the school when seemingly nobody else would listen to them, she has grown to become the kids' favorite ''teacher'' of them all, but when asked if it's true that she's married to the gym teacher she will often lie and tell them that theyre siblings, and she's actually married to a famous football quarterback for some reason

Seth Wewason, Aria's younger brother and classmate of Tock, whos always following around Aria and talking about wanting to be a weather forecaster on their local channel some day.

With the support of her friends and two IT nerds behind her, Aria is dedicated to seeing her goal achieved, and to leave the lasting legacy of the founder of the media productions club at her school! But when the Charter School section of her school --- a hallway blocked off from the rest of them, and spoken to in hushed whispers as ''holy curriculum'' full of classrooms with bean bag chairs and no homework --- begin to talk about forming their own media productions club, will Aria and co be able to defy their odds and be the ones to first the school's first-ever video-based morning announcements, or will Aria's only shot be taken away by the prestigious elites of the school?

#comes included with a very obvious bit about middle school currency wars and going to the nurses office etc etc #ocs #what to call it. hmmmm. lights camera classroom there #Lights! Camera! Classroom!

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computerfrog2000 · 1 year

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So as an update to this post by @whalesharkpasta :

I wanted to do an updated version for myself after thinking more about my autism symptoms and recent-ish regression/burn out I’ve experienced.

So when it comes to how strangers perceive me in public, it mostly depends on how overwhelmed or stressed I am. If someone is casually observing me I can either just appear fidgety and aloof, or I can be ticcing, moving unusually, and unaware of my surroundings where I’m running into things and other people.

Now when I actually interact with a stranger that’s a different story. All focus goes to just being able to say what I need. This will involve stuttering, completely forgetting words and how tone works, and long pauses to get my thoughts together. And with fidgeting and little to no eye contact. I think most people realize there’s something up with me at this point. Luckily most of the time they are patient and kind.

I am constantly moving my body repetitively and “weirdly” and rarely notice that I’m doing it. Most of the time I think it’s funny that I do this and my boyfriends poke fun at me at how I do things and maneuver around. Other times it can be problematic where my tics can’t be controlled or I run into things/other people. I often have bruises of unknown origin from banging into things and not feeling it.

My meltdowns often can lead me to banging my head or even trying to run away. Meltdowns usually lead to shutdowns afterwards, or shutdowns happen on their own. Shutdowns can and often do make me go catatonic and unable to speak. This can last anywhere from like 20 minutes to a couple hours.

I was in general education and got speech therapy and was in “social skills” groups in elementary school. I definitely should have gotten occupational therapy for my sensory processing and motor skill issues. I luckily am getting that now at the age of 24… I was not diagnosed with anything when I was a kid due to weird reasons like my parents and pediatrician not wanting to label me with anything. Plus my mom having sexist views on girls having autism. Even though she is a speech therapist. She actually was my speech therapist at my school since she worked there.

When it comes to my language, I completely understand what others are saying for the most part, except for auditory processing stuff, once I know what words they’re saying I do understand. I struggle with expressive language most of the time to some extent. When I am not overwhelmed I sound pretty “normal” with good tone, though I still have frequent pauses because I don’t think in words. I think in images, feelings, abstract concepts, vibes, etc. Before I speak or write/type I have to translate my thoughts to actual words. This happens faster or slower depending how I’m feeling. I often forget words, several times a day. I remember the feeling of the word, and that it exists for the context of what I’m saying. (Though there have been times where I think a word exists when it actually doesn’t)

When I get overwhelmed I can lose all tone and rhythm to my speech. I pause after every couple of words for several seconds. Sometimes I give up and go to using gestures or typing. I’ve been considering using symbol based AAC during these times, I just would need to get that set up and find a decent app for it. Plus get over my internalized ableism and embarrassment associated with it.

I used to be a lot more functional than this. Most people wouldn’t think that I was autistic in middle and high school. Even from ages 18 to 21 ish. But I started regressing for various reasons. Especially in the past year or so. Thankfully I think the regression has stabilized at this point.

I was finally diagnosed with autism sometime last year by my neuro-psychiatrist. I’m wanting to get a full psychological assessment to fully determine my level of support needs and what sort of support I would benefit from. But finding providers who assess adults and take Medicaid is nearly impossible.

Looking at this guide, which shouldn’t be viewed as an actual diagnostic tool, it can be helpful in understanding yourself and give thought to what to bring up with your doctors. Discussions with my loved ones and therapist/doctors has led to thoughts on what my level could be. Me and my boyfriends half jokingly say I’m level 1.5

It’s hard to say without getting fully assessed. I know that I require support, and it seems like I require more support than a lot of level 1 autistics I personally know. There’s a lot to take into consideration, since the shutdowns are exasperated by my dissociative disorder. And my level of independence is impacted by my seizure disorder(s). Plus a bunch of other things that complicate how my symptoms present.

I want to briefly clarify that I am fully supportive of people self diagnosing. I self diagnosed in middle school with ADHD and autism, mostly cause no one would listen to me and the adults in my life had no interest in assisting me. Turns out I was correct. And I believe most people who self diagnose are correct about their situation as well. Not everyone is privileged enough to get diagnosed, and some people don’t want a diagnosis for various reasons. Sometimes just understanding why you feel and experience life in the way you do is enough. For me, I needed to get diagnosed because I require supportive services that would otherwise be unavailable to me without diagnosis.

Alright, have a nice day everyone!

#will.txt #autism tag #long post #just me talking about my personal autism symptoms

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thistleandthorn-rpg · 2 months

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Name: Marcia Fogarty Designation: submissive Age: 22 Birthdate: January 25, 2002 Faceclaim: Agatha Moreira Orientation: Hetero-romantic, pansexual. Kinks: Bondage, Impact, Muscle/Body Worship, Orgasm Denial, Public play, humiliation, roleplay, open to anything not on the anti-kinks. Anti-Kinks: Cutting, Needles, Basically just run it by me if it’s not on the kink list, just in case. :)

Key Points:

Docile

Ditzy

Outgoing

Carefree

BIO

Marcia Fogarty, a vibrant, starry-eyed girl, embodies a unique blend of traits that shape who she is. Growing up in a household where the dynamics of BDSM were not just accepted but also exemplified, Marcia imbibed a docile disposition from her parents' positive example.

Marcia's deep bond with her older brother, Javier, is a cornerstone of her life. Their upbringing, guided by loving parents who embraced the principles of the D/s system, instilled in them a profound respect for its values. While Javier navigates his path with a penchant for dominance, Marcia finds solace in her submissive tendencies, finding joy in relinquishing control in intimate relationships. Having been homeschooled alongside her siblings, Marcia's education was enriched by their family's frequent travels. While Florida remained their home base, trips to destinations like Kenya gave Marcia a broader perspective on life and culture. Through these experiences, she keenly appreciated the diverse expressions of human connection, a sentiment mirrored in her approach to her relationships. As Marcia embraces adulthood, she navigates the complexities of her desires and aspirations with a sense of curiosity and openness. While her submissive nature may guide her intimate relationships, her outgoing personality ensures that she approaches life enthusiastically and is willing to explore new opportunities. With Javier by her side as a constant source of love and support, Marcia’s as ready as she ever will be to embark on her journey with a spirit of adventure and a deep appreciation for the values instilled in her by her family. As ready as she is, she hasn’t grasped who she is as a person or submissive. Receiving her mark was a relief because while it was apparent where she belonged, mark-wise, there was always the fear in the back of her mind that the school she’d eventually attend would get it wrong. Luckily, that wasn’t the case. Even luckier, she followed Javi to Stonewall quickly enough to spend a good amount of time with him there before he graduated, which she knew she needed. After all, venturing off somewhere far from her family for the first time was scary, so having Javi nearby would be a massive comfort.

She has plans for the future, or, at least, ideas for what she’d like her future to look like Inspired by her parents' illustrious careers in the medical field, Marcia harbors a deep admiration for the profound impact they have on the lives of others. From a young age, she found herself drawn to the intricacies of the human body and the art of healing, envisioning herself one day making a difference in the lives of those in need. Pursuing a career at all, let alone one in nursing as a marked submissive, is no small feat. Still, she’s confident she’ll be able to find a Dominant eventually who’d support her aspiration - at least, she’s hoping she will. Only time will tell.

BIO QUESTIONS:

What are your feelings about the mark you have received?

I feel good about it. I grew up thinking about what mark I’d get and I always had a hunch it’d be this one. ..Okay, that’s an understatement. Relief. Massive, I-can-finally-breathe-again relief is actually what I feel. If I’d gotten the Dominant mark, I…I don’t even want to think about it.

How do your feelings on the system compare to your parents’ feelings on it?

I’d say we’re on the same page there. I grew up seeing it in a good light, so naturally, I don’t have an issue. Now, had I been mis-marked, my answer might be a little different, here…but again, we don’t have to think about that because the system worked for me. I feel bad for those who aren’t so…lucky…and maybe the fact that there’s any amount of luck involved is an issue worth thinking about…but I’m rambling. Sorry. Shutting up now.

Where do you see yourself after you graduate?

Oooh, good question! I see myself shacked up with a super hunky, gorgeous Dominant, maybe thinking about kids…but also definitely thinking about how to start pursuing my career in nursing. I want to follow in Mama’s footsteps and heal. Somehow, someway - and realistically, nursing is the most practical way to do that, but who knows? Maybe life will take me in a different direction between now and then. I’m open to whatever path my life winds down, honestly.

How do you feel about authority?

I love it. Like…a lot. I love being under it, really. I’ve submitted casually here and there, and the thrill of trusting someone else to do all the thinking for me while I just pleasure them is the best thing in the world. As you can probably tell, my brain is constantly moving, so much so that I even stutter pretty frequently. When I submit, all the noise quiets down, and I relax a little…mentally, at least. I’m rarely physically relaxed in these scenarios…unless I’m like, restrained and can’t do anything but enjoy whatever someone’s giving me~.

#d/s rp #kink rp #smut rp #adult rp #mature rp #riverdale rp #taken #marcia fogarty #student bio #student bio taken

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lgbtmenslifecoachpgh · 1 year

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This one was a LONG one to learn for me gang. I remember when I started training professionally for a gym in West Mifflin. Not even a month had passed and I got a bad review online by someone that I didn’t know, wasn’t a member of the club or had interacted with me at all. The review was based mostly on my physical appearance, with lines like “Trainers are supposed to inspire and I don’t think I’d be inspired by a guy who looks like that” and “look at the way he looks, he should be getting trained instead.” Luckily my employer, like always, was in my corner but it left a huge mental stain on me that lasted a long time.

Even when I was in PT school, I always wrestled with the fact that I wasn’t…..’blank’ enough, tall enough, buff enough, attractive enough. Personal Trainers have a very public career, depending on far you develop your business and people are cruel with their words. Once I became more educated and started getting years under my weight belt, I realized that you can look like Thor but if you don’t know what you’re teaching someone, it doesn’t amount to anything. You lose clients, your business fails and your mind starts to play tricks on you.

At this point in the game, I KNOW that I am platinum status when it comes to being a great trainer because I have educated myself and continue to do so. I also know how to listen to people where many trainers don’t. Let this be a lesson to those just beginning any sort of journey, you can always look the part but if you can’t back it up with actual substance, quit while you’re ahead. When you know better, you perform better and then you can truly say in the mirror, I AM ENOUGH.

#fyp #reflection #behaviormodification #motivation #compassion #personaltrainer #onlinereviews #depressionawareness #performanceanxiety #menswork #coaching #educateyourself #fitness #learningeveryday #lifelonglessons #teachingmoments #fyp #foryou #bodybuilding #positivity

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theowritesstuff · 3 years

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Extraordinary Girl

Jeff Winger x reader

Warnings: mentions of smut. did I make Jeff awful? its s1 Jeff, so there's that

A/n: This is based on the Green Day song Extraordinary Girl, but specifically the version from the broadway production of American Idiot (it’s v good, I highly recommend). I know the song is called Extraordinary Girl but I’m going to try to keep it gender neutral. I’m not sure if I actually like this one or not.

Summary: Friends with benefits relationship with Jeff (angst)

She's an extraordinary girl

In an ordinary world

And she can’t seem to get away

You didn’t know too many people at Greendale. You’d been there for a while, but kept your distance from most. You had always planned to do big things once you graduated, but anyone who spent even just a week at Greendale knew that it was near impossible to escape once you were there. Whether that was due to a love for the school that had blossomed over time, or a pure lack of getting an actual education was anyone’s guess.

He lacks the courage in his mind

Like a child left behind

Like a pet left in the rain

Jeff had a bad childhood. His father left him when he was a kid, and it really affected the way he turned out. He refused to even look up his father when he was an adult. He had built up walls, trying his best not to have real relationships with people. He thought it best to meet, hook up, then never see each other again.

When the two of you had met, Jeff immediately took a liking to you. He turned on the old Jeff charm and flirted with you endlessly. You would always laugh at him and flirt back.

It was easy to flirt with Jeff. He was cute, and he was a nice guy.

The two of you drunkenly hooked up one night after you spotted each other at L Street. You woke up the next morning in your bed alone. There were no signs that Jeff had been there at all.

You knew that sleeping with Jeff was a mistake, but he could’ve at least stayed so that you guys could talk about it.

The next day at school you kept an eye out for him, but when he wasn’t present in your history class, you pretty much realized he was avoiding you.

You managed to spot him in the cafeteria sitting with his Spanish group.

“Hey Jeff, can we talk?” You ask, awkwardly holding the straps of your bag.

The study group gives him weird looks. “Sure.” He says as he stands up to follow you out of the cafeteria.

“So about yesterday-” you started.

“It was just a thing that happened. We had sex, and now we’re back to the way it was before, right?” He looked at you expectantly.

“Yeah! Of course! Totally!” You replied. “We’re classmates.” You told him.

You were ready to do your best to avoid seeing Jeff in public for a while, just to avoid any awkwardness.

You didn't have any negative feelings toward Jeff. You didn't really know him too well before you hooked up, so there weren't any feelings you had associated with him.

You were doing fine until you were told you would have to do a project in history with partners. Unfortunately your teacher thought it would be a good idea to assign you and Jeff as partners.

You were absolutely ready to have to face uncomfortable encounters with Jeff as you worked on your project.

Luckily Jeff was good at pretending nothing had happened between the two of you. You were able to finish working on your project without having to talk about it.

Working with Jeff was actually pretty enjoyable. When he wasn't working, which lets be honest, was most of the time, he was trying to distract you with sarcastic comments about your teachers or quips about your classmates.

Jeff offered to walk you to your car as you were leaving the library for the last time.

"Jeff, you don't need to walk me to my car. It's still light out, and I'm pretty sure I could take anyone that tries to hop out of the bushes at me." You raise your fists like you're ready to fight jokingly.

"Oh, I don't doubt that at all." He laughs.

You stop when you get to your car. "I feel like we were able to actually put together a decent project." you say to him.

"I think it's definitely a passable project." he replies.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow Jeff." You turn to get into your car.

"Wait-" he says as he reaches for your arm. "It was nice working with you."

"It was nice working with you too."

"It was nice just being with you, in general." He starts to lean closer to you.

"Yeah?" It's almost as if the closer he gets, the more your brain fogs up.

When he leans down to kiss you, it feels like your brain short-circuits. All you can think about is him. You reach your hand up to grab at his hair, while the other tries to pull him closer to you. Both his hands rest on your waist, holding you against him.

He pulls his lips away from yours to start traveling down your neck. You close your eyes, and are ready to just be completely consumed by him.

"Your place?" he asks hurriedly.

The most you can do is nod your head.

The two of you take your car back to your apartment, and rush up to your door. You fumble with your key as he stands behind you, trailing kisses down your neck.

When you manage to unlock your door you both hurry to your bed. A small part of you says 'no Y/N, don't do this again' but that thought, much like your clothes , is quickly thrown aside.

She’s all alone again

Wiping the tears from her eyes

The next morning was almost identical to the one you had previously experienced. The only difference was now there lay a note on your bedside table. It read:

That was fun

we should do that more often

(XXX)XXX-XXXX -Jeff

Part of you wants to crumple up the note and throw it down the garbage chute. The other part wants you to cradle that note close to your chest, keeping it with you forever.

You don't know why you thought that things would be different with Jeff this time. You don't know why you feel so strongly for him. You feel a tear escape your eye, then all of a sudden, you're crying.

How could you have let a man have such a big part in your emotions? No. You weren't going to let him control how you felt. You grab your phone and shoot him a text:

That was fun, I'd love to 😉

Before going back to school you made sure that you looked your best. You wanted everyone to know that you were confident, and didn't need anyone's approval.

Everyone stared at you as you walked down the hallway. You looked great, and everyone knew it.

You and Jeff continued to sleep together, about once a week. Every time he left you would feel a small part of yourself get more and more tired. You didn't know if you were tired of him, or tired of the situation, but it didn't feel as great as it did at the beginning.

You were sitting in your math class, when it was announced that there was a new student. He seemed nice enough. You took it upon yourself to introduce yourself to him after class. He was actually very sweet. You spent lunch talking to each other about the school and the classes he had.

“I guess I just can’t believe what some of the courses offered here are. Like, why do we need a class called ‘Ladders’?” He asked.

“I honestly don’t know.” You laughed.

“Hey Y/N.” A voice said. Jeff was standing next to your table. He looked kind of uncomfortable. “Can I talk to you?” He asked.

“Sure.” You followed him to the hallway outside the cafeteria.

“Do you wanna hang out later tonight?” He looked at you expectantly. You actually didn’t feel like you wanted to be with Jeff tonight.

“Um, I don’t think I can, I’ve got a ton of homework I need to do.” You told him.

He looked surprised. “Oh, okay, well I’ll text you later.”

“Yeah, later Jeff.” You left him standing in the hallway and went back to your table with Harry. It almost felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders.

Some days he feels like dying

She gets so sick of crying

-Jeff’s POV-

Why didn’t Y/N wanna be with him anymore? He could start to feel you slowly slipping away from him.

He liked what the two of you had. It was simple. There were no feelings, no commitments, but you were still able to enjoy each other’s company. You were someone he could go to who wouldn’t question him about his feelings. But now he didn’t know what to do.

He watched as you talked with the new guy. You looked happy. Weren’t you happy when you talked to him? What does this guy have that he doesn’t?

Maybe he should’ve made more of an effort with you. He could’ve at least stayed with you in the morning and made you breakfast. Or, let’s be honest, have takeout for breakfast with you.

And now because he closed himself off from you, he lost you to someone else.

#Spotify #community #community x reader #jeff winger #jeff winger x reader

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starfleet-jelly · 3 years

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Some Vulcan Headcanons

They have like no base in canon just things I thought about Vulcans most of them don’t have evidence either. Most of my Vulcan fanfics will probably be based off these headcanons, I’ll be adding and editing this post whenever I feel differently or think of new things~ 💕

* Vulcans can outrun humans with speed, however humans can outrun Vulcans by distance.

* Vulcans are better climbers

* Vulcans have death grips. Once they have you, it’s gonna be difficult to get away.

* They have slightly longer fingers, better for climbing!

* Vulcans can’t jump as high as a human can, however, it isn’t by much, a couple inches at most.

* Vulcans eat a lot more than they are shown. Even though they have slow metabolisms they have dense muscles that need lots of protein, luckily there are lots of high protein grains and vegetables on Vulcan.

* Ancient Vulcans were cave dwellers. The caves provided protections of predators and kept them cooler in the extreme heat of Vulcan.

* Due to the fact that the seas are small and in few numbers on Vulcan, most Vulcans cannot swim, however, in coastal towns, more of them have the knowledge on how to swim, but it seems most Vulcans still prefer to not to go for a dip. There is always the odd duck who loves to swim though.

* Before sonic showers, Vulcan use small bucks of water with a rag, or more commonly sand to bathe with

* Because of their muscles and flexibility, Vulcans don’t take a lot of fall damage, even a Vulcan child could fall from the a height that would easily kill a human and walk away with minor injuries

* Vulcan have very strong leg bones and muscles because of the slightly higher gravity than Earth

* Vulcans in the north prefer spicier food while people in the south prefer food with little, if any, spice. Humans to try the food are often stuck with something that seems boring to them, or just downright painful from the spice

* Because of their telepathic abilities, Vulcan babies need a lot of skin contact in their first few months after birth. It is not uncommon for a Vulcan mother or father to carry their infant child to their bare chest, even in public, usually tucked into their robes

* Because Vulcans are touch telepaths children get a sense of calm from their parents when they are in contact but also form familiar bonds, lack of touch can lead to malformation and damage to new neural networks in the infants brain

* Vulcan toddlers are volatile, they have yet to master their emotions and tend to throw fits over many things. Skin contact, such as hugging, holding and cuddling, from their parents usually calms them down. It’s common for children from ages 0-5 to sleep in their parent’s bed as they need near constant contact. During this time Vulcan parents begin to tech meditative practices such as hymns and monturas. As Vulcan children grow older, parents will begin to slowly step away from skin contact in exchange for led meditations

* On Vulcan, it is common practice for one of the parents to stay home and raise the child or children, however, if one of the parent die, close family such as grandparents or aunts and uncles will also help take care of the child or children.

* Young Vulcan children (5-12) do not completely suppress their emotions, they do however learn not to express them. Bullying, fighting, and rebellious behavior is not uncommon for this age group.

* For older Vulcan children (between 13-25) who have difficulty controlling their emotions, even with led meditations, the child is usually sent to a monastery for education.

* Vulcans aren’t fully mature until after the age of 30.

* Vulcans usually don’t experience Pon Farr until after the age of 30, usually between 30-35, but there has been some outliers. Some Vulcans can go through Pon Farr as early as 26 and as old as 40, but this is uncommon and usually means there is a health problem.

* Both male and female Vulcans go through Pon Farr.

* I don’t care what anyone tells me, Vulcans do and will have sex outside of Pon Farr.

* Vulcan ear shape is hereditary. The more curved ears you see on Spock, Sarek, Taurik are less common than the flat ears you see on T’Pol and Tuvok

* Vulcans with light colored eyes tend to have bad vision and worsens with age. They tend to spend more time inside because the sun can be unbearable at times. But Vulcans with light colored eyes can see in the dark better than Vulcans with dark colored eyes. Light colored eyes was a mutation that only accrued after urbanization of Vulcan.

* Vulcans are cold to the touch, like someone who has been outside without a coat in winter. Because they’re naturally cooler Vulcans don’t need to sweat to keep cool. If ancient Vulcans got too hot they could move into caves to cool down.

* Young Vulcans (under the age of 10) and old Vulcans (over the age of 130) have a difficult time keeping warm. On modern Vulcan it is fixed with indoor heating and cooling.

* Vulcan has many hot springs, most of which are underground, and are popular. However most tourists, such a humans, cannot use them as most are too hot.

* Vulcans have two different types of robes. Robes they wear during the day that keep them cool, and robes for night to keep them warm.

* The silk that Vulcans robes are made of are actually from a plant. The plant produces a silk like substance that is sticky to prevent animals from eating it. It’s very strong and ancient Vulcans scrapped the silk from the plants and ate them. Modern day Vulcans grow these plants near the seas in the north and far south near the pole.

* Other Vulcan clothing is made from wool from an animal that is similar to sheep and alpaca. Their wool is usually use to make evening wear. The wool also used in the making of blankets, pillows, and rugs

* The soles of Vulcans shoes are usually made from a hard woody root, which were better for walking on rock. Vulcan shoes can also be made from a type grass that is common on Vulcan, which are better for walking in sand. Shoes for military are made from rubber.

* The reason why Vulcans in tos have all kind of different hair styles is because at that time period Vulcan youth wanted to rebel against common standers, it’s also why T’Pring did not wear a traditional Vulcan wedding dress.

* It’s common for Vulcan women to cover their hair, whether it be long or short. Not only does it keep their hair clean from sand but it also protects their head from the sun.

* There is actually a wide variety of fashion on Vulcan, differing types of robes, dresses, and suits. Most common colors are usually neutrals but silvers, blues, purples, and greens are common in the south while golds, reds, oranges, and yellows are more common in the north.

* The common Vulcan bowlcut, humans call it, is more common in the government and military of Vulcan. The short hair is easy to maintain and keep care of. Many Vulcan citizens has varying hairstyles and most depend on what region they live in. It is not uncommon for Vulcan men and women to have long hair, especially if they do not work in manual labor.

* Most Vulcan men shave their faces. There are many reasons for it, such as, it’s cleaner, easier to maintain, keeps them cooler, and it looks more professional.

* When it comes to body hair, it is 50/50 on who shaves. The area around the reproductive organs are usually maintained but not shaved, as for legs, arms, and under arms, some areas it is more common to save than others. Young Vulcan men usually shave their chest, but as they get older is more uncommon.

* Vulcan women have on occasion worn makeup. Buying makeup on Vulcan is uncommon, many women on Vulcan grow plants that can be use for make up such as flowers that can be ground for lipstick or a crushed leaf for rouge. These plants usually have other uses such as medical or as food.

* Sehlats are not the only pets Vulcans keep. They also keep small rodents and occasionally a ferret like animal too.

* Vulcan pet names are usually old Vulcan names no one uses anymore or names of monsters or animals from ancient Vulcan literature.

* Sehlats aren’t fed meat, but instead high protein grain and vegetables and eggs. Sehlats are naturally omnivores but the need for meat was bred out of thousands of years.

#Vulcans #star trek #Vulcan headcanons #star trek headcanon #Spock #t’pol #Soval #t’pring #Tuvok #vorik #sorry for tagging random Vulcans this applies to them too doesn’t it?

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writing-in-april · 3 years

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Dressed in Crimson

Spencer Reid x Female Reader (Royalty AU)

Summary: Spencer is a stable boy with a passion for learning and Reader is the princess of the palace that he serves in. They’ve been in a secret relationship, the two grow restless about not being able to be out in the open.

A/N: Guys I’m so excited for this one I really really loved writing it- it’s my fourth fic for my 30 fics in 30 days for April and it’s also written for @omgbigfluffwriting !!! I kinda immersed myself into this quite a bit- and it’s my longest oneshot I’ve ever written 🤭The specific historical period theyre in is not specified and the world that they’re in is entirely fictional and not based on any specific point in history- if you’ve ever watched Merlin that’s kinda the vibe I was thinking of just without the magic lol (please still ignore that the gif does not have an accurate clothing choice from Spencer I just wanted a good shot of his hair that I thought of while writing this) i feel like it’s becoming so obvious how much I love historical fiction lol 😂 I’d like to hear from you guys also so if you want to drop me an ask here! It can be about anything 🥰 hope y’all enjoy!!!

Warnings: 18+, Reader has a horrible Father, subtle hints about sexism, Classism, Period typical clothing, Reader and Spencer fight for a little bit, Smut, Dom Spencer, Fingering, Handjob, Unprotected Sex, Day dreaming about fucking in public, Spencer’s possessive as hell, Ignoring the potential consequences of a creampie

Main Masterlist Word count: 4.7k

My day started out like any other with my corset made of whalebone being cinched tightly around my figure with my chemise underneath of course. Every time the ends of the laces were pulled taught on my body I thought of the days where I could get away with not having this wretched piece of clothing cutting off my breath. Those days had been so long ago, when I was just a small child, almost so long ago that I had to strain my memory to recall it. It wasn’t even until I was done clutching my mother’s skirts before I started to be forced into the confines of the worst invention in history. I would have rather muck in the mud in pants like the men, unless there was a reason for me to actually want to wear a dress.

Today, I had chosen a crimson colored gown, one of my only favorites. The front of the bodice was adorned with embroidery, one embroidered with a glistening gold thread. The sleeves were long and ever so slightly off my shoulders, ending just at my wrist. It had been perfectly handcrafted just for me, a seamstress being hired to slave away at each detail with precision. If it had been up to my father the seamstress would have been paid little to nothing for this masterpiece, but you had your own coins stashed away from your allowance to give extra to anyone that gave you goods and services.

The dress was my favorite almost solely because of someone else’s appreciation for the lush fabric, no one needed to know about that though. I did like to look nice on certain occasions, but only special ones. There was no special occasion scheduled for me to have a reason for wearing it, well none that the greater majority of the court would know about.

Only my maid Emily knew what my excursion would be today, why I dressed up so nicely. There was no feasible way for me to hide my dalliances from her, especially the one I was about to go to as it required some higher levels of stealth to be able to evade my father’s guards.

His name was Spencer, one of my father’s stable boys. I loved him more than anything, definitely more than any potential match that was arranged for me.

I gifted him whatever I could without raising suspicion, though I often hid my purchases if someone asked by excusing them as more frivolous in nature, such as a new dress. Spencer had no real need for pretty things as he’d said before, except from myself- those were his past words not mine. And, he did express to me how much he loved the dress I was wearing right now, which was tied to how we had first met.

When I first met him I had been looking for a fabric in the market stalls. I hadn’t really wanted to, I was content with all the dresses that I owned right now, they had no ornament on them, just how I preferred. However, my father demanded I get something fancier for some sort of frivolous ball that was coming up that undoubtedly had no reason to take place besides bleeding everyone else dry.

I brushed hands with him for the first time as I was looking for the material I wanted, something just fancy enough to appease my father. The stall filled with fabrics bordered one that had stacks of books, I would have much preferred to be looking at that one. My hand had gotten close to the edge while I was inspecting a fabric and it had bumped into a man who was looking at one of the books.

When I had looked up to see who had brushed my hand I was met with frantic eyes filled with apology. His stuttered apology had covered my attempt to assure him that it was fine, it had taken me grabbing both of his hands to steady him for him to listen to my reassurance.

When he had introduced himself to me after I asked it flowed into a long conversation. I could have talked to him forever, I would be content to never talk to anyone else. For a stable boy he was exceptionally smart, which I learned was from his mother who had made sure he was educated even in poverty, specifically through having him read anything she could get her hands on. From then on our blossoming friendship had flourished, and had eventually developed into more.

I slung a shawl over my shoulders made out of a fabric of similar color to my gown and also grabbed a purse filled with coins with a smile due to my reminiscing . It wasn’t cold enough for one of my velvet cloaks just yet and most of the walk down to where Spencer was housed was indoors.

The walk from my rooms in the main part of the castle to the stables on the lower floor towards the East end was longer than I would have wanted. Truthfully, I wished I would not have to live in a castle at all, I’d rather live in the small house that Spencer lived. It was just past the castle grounds at the edge of the surrounding village adjacent to the stables so he did not have to walk far for work in the mornings.

My feet tiptoed down the corridors carefully, I was lucky that I had figured out to be somewhat light on my feet otherwise I’d be caught swiftly for sure. I passed by the rooms of most of the lords and ladies staying at court, I always wondered why some chose to stay here, it was positively suffocating here. The door I used to go outside was through the kitchen, that had a myriad of breakable things strewn about that I had to stealthily avoid. Luckily, I knocked nothing over that would have woken up the cooks who slept just a room over. Turning the handle of the door had to be a slow process so no one would hear the creak of the knob while it was turned, but I did successfully make it out with no disturbance.

Beginning the stretch of my journey that was outdoors was perhaps the most risky. Guards were stationed around the perimeter of the castle in greater numbers compared to the ones indoors which were only stationed by important rooms. I weaved my way through, in some aspects it was even more confusing than the inside of the castle. Hiding behind each of the pillars was the most effective way to avoid them, the construction of them making a series of small blind spots. I had just snuck behind one of the last ones when one of the guards nearest to me moved forward a little. I stopped breathing immediately, holding it tight in my chest while I plastered myself as close as I could to the back of the pillar. My nails dug into the stone of the pillar in fear, if I was ever to be found sneaking out at night or worse in the presence of Spencer, I would either never leave my rooms again or be whisked away into marriage even earlier than planned.

When the guard did not move to investigate further I let go of the breath I was holding, still making sure to let go of it slowly so he could not hear me. Moving swiftly forward after I had taken a breath was a bit of a challenge, my knees had gone weak with fear. I pushed myself to take each step even with the weakness in my knees, there was no way I could linger any longer.

Finally I was no longer walking on stone, I was walking on the muddy earth now. It was nice to feel the ground under my feet instead of the harsh stone, it told me that I was now only a handful of strides away from Spencer’s home.

The leaves littering the ground mixing with mud crunched under my feet even as I tip toed carefully. The guards may be in the distance now, but I didn’t feel keen on testing how good their hearing may potentially be.

Passing the stables was the last marker for my journey, then I would be able to see his home too. As I passed the sleeping horses by anticipation began to replace the fear inside me. It had been a while since I had been able to come see him, making me yearn for his touch even more.

His home came into view, even in the dead of night I could make it out if I squinted my eyes hard. My pace picked up exponentially when I landed my eyes on his humble abode. It was a quaint home, fallen into disrepair as he could not afford to fix it on the meager salary that my father paid him. The purse of gold that I had brought with me was exactly for that, the repairs. He would most likely protest the gift just like any other thing I had tried to gift him. From my experience the most effective way to get him to accept anything was to leave it there with no conversation about it. I think it made him feel less guilty even though in my opinion he was owed the money in the first place, no one should have to live in squalor when they did their job every day without question or complaint.

When I finally was at the entrance of his home I entered through the door swiftly, too impatient to wait or knock. Stress melted from my shoulders when I caught sight of him, hunched over one of the books I had given him, candles strewn around to give him enough light to read.

The candles he had lit to be able to read in the night illuminated us both with a glow. He would always compliment me whenever we found ourselves in similar lighting such as this, but in my opinion there was no rivalry. Each time the candle flickered it brightened up every highlight of him, letting me see his wild curls, brown eyes deeper than any others I had ever seen, and a body that I had no doubt was crafted to perfection illuminated in a beautiful glow.

I went to compliment him just as he always did with me, but I became mesmerized when he stood up, then moving his way closer to me.

“It is nice to see you, it feels like it’s been an eternity.” It may seem dramatic for him to say that it felt that long, but I echoed his sentiment willingly.

“It is nice to see you too, Spencer. I agree it’s been far too long.” I was sure it had been at least a full moon cycle since we had the pleasure of being alone with one another, our duties to my father keeping us separated.

It had been painful whenever I would go out for a ride on my horse, to see him hand me the reins of my mare and be unable to reach out to touch him. There had been one day, about a week ago, that I had let my hand brush against his own for a moment while he handed the reins to me. It was an innocent brush of a touch, that also had a barrier in the form of my leather gloves. To anyone else it had meant nothing, but to me and him, it meant everything.

His eyes were blown wide with desire, as I suspected mine were as well. We let ourselves take in the sight of each other for a minute longer before Spencer broke the silence with a request,

“Drop your shawl, so I may see you better.” A stable hand commanding someone of such a stature such as I would’ve seen him whipped if it was any other person before him. His boldness was not unexpected, it had taken a while for him to grow so comfortable with my company. In truth, he had been quite scared when I had first met him. It was perfectly understandable considering his employer was my father, who was not known for his kindness. And, even then after his fear had faded he still had a shy exterior for a while, it only had been lifted when we began to become extremely comfortable around each other. We were each other's only form of solace in this world, we could only escape our reality when we were together.

Instead of having malice in my voice like other nobles would I simply pulled the shawl more taught around my shoulders and teased, “Why should I?”

The expression on his face was one of the ones I loved seeing on his face the most, a sly smirk. He came closer to me, with careful steps as if he was waiting for the right moment to pounce. We were so close together when he stopped moving, but still not touching. He was playing a game with me, not touching until I obliged him. As he leaned in to speak into the shell of my ear he was careful with the way he tilted his body forward so I could only feel his breath on the small portion of my skin, “Because you like it when I look at you.”

My arms fell to my sides releasing my shawl to fall from my shoulders onto the floor at his words, as they rang true. I did want him to look at me and also, of course touch me.

“You wore your favorite dress.” He observed, still not quite touching. I didn't need to answer the statement he made with the thought in my mind ‘I wore it for you’ because I knew he had already figured that out. His observational skills were keenly honed in by his constant reading whenever he had the chance, often reading books that I had gifted to him. He even sometimes read well into the night, straining his eyes in the darkness when the candle was almost merely a wick. I had found that out the first- and sadly, only time I had the opportunity to stay overnight. Since then I had pushed him to get more rest as I knew how hard he was worked to the bone during the day, courtesy of my father.

His eyes were staring at my dress, pupils blown wide, his mind seemingly off in another world maybe thinking about all the things he wanted to do to me.

“Please, touch me.” I didn’t need to speak loud, only a soft whisper for him to hear me because of how close he already was to me. So close, yet so far.

He raised his large hands, calloused from working so hard day in and day out. My own hands were soft from the expensive creams I had been pampered with since I was just a small child. I liked his hands better, they showed the hard work he used everyday to cultivate his beautiful mind and body.

I subtly licked my lips in anticipation of his touch, wanting to feel every inch of his hand roaming my body, from the tips of his fingers to where his palm met his wrist.

His fingers then started to trace over the top of my corset, just a hair away from touching the swell of my breasts. My chest was rising and falling with each breath, each inhale pushing it slightly closer to his fingers. With each fall of my chest I felt the need to quickly let go of my breath, so I could once again inhale and be brought closer to his touch.

“Please touch me.” I repeated, breathless from forcing myself to breathe into his touch.

“I am touching you.” His fingers still did not move to touch my skin, only the crimson accented in gold. It was his turn to tease me now, I was at his mercy, ready and waiting for it.

I could beg again, though quite obviously I could not convince him with it. As he was running his fingers over the cloth for what felt like the millionth time, still not touching me, I teased him back instead of begging, “No you are touching my dress.”

A mere ghost of a touch from his fingers then floated across my skin. What should have calmed my heaving chest from my gasping breaths only served to make my breathing even heavier. The slight touch was still not enough, only making my desire for his hands to roam every inch of my body even more severe.

“Perhaps I should take your corset off, to help you breathe better.” He said, as if he read my exact thoughts.

“I like your thinking.”

I was then spun around so my back was pressed into his chest. It soothes my desire for his touch some, but we both had barriers of cloth preventing me from fully feeling him. I could feel some of the warmth that was hidden underneath his shirt, which was made up of a much billowing white linen that compared to his trousers.

If my skirts were not so large I wondered if I were to push back if my behind would come in contact with his cock and whether or not his desire would be as prominent as the slickness dampening the bottom layer I was wearing. I’d have to find a way to find a pair of trousers then, sometime soon, so I could try to grind into him at a later date. There was no doubt that we’d surely find ourselves in a similar position again.

As his hands started to undo the laces of my corset with care, despite both of our desperation, a thought slipped out from his lips that I’m sure he intended to keep to himself, “I wish I could call you mine in public.”

“My father would kill you!” The taste of my voice would have been bitter in anyone’s mouth, quickly spat out in the same way I said those words. Perhaps my quick anger to his innocent thought would be insane to some, most would probably consider it a sweet thought. However, he knew from previous conversations that when those sweet thoughts were expressed that all I could feel was a heavy sadness sitting inside me, instead of desire.

Tears clouded my vision, so much so that I did not see Spencer’s arms come around me to envelop me in an embrace. I flinched a bit at first, but then melted when I realized it was him. We held each other for a while as I sobbed softly into his billowy white shirt.

He stroked my shoulder with his large hands that I loved, but the corset he had not taken off fully yet was blocking me from feeling his touch the way I wanted.

“Take it off please.” I begged softly, I wanted to feel his skin on mine, and not just his lips or his hands. I wanted to feel every inch of him.

The laces of my corset were already half undone because of his previous attempt at getting it off of me. He finished the job, pulling the corset off of my body, tossing it down to the floor. He may have loved the dress, but he was showing me through his actions that he loved what was underneath more.

Turning me around was his next step, so he could properly kiss me. The pressure was soft at first, as if he was testing the waters to see how I would feel. Feeling his soft lips on my own just made me want to pull him in further, and I did so. My fingers tangled into his curls as the kiss devolved into pure passion, we were both throwing ourselves fully into it, trying to express our feelings nonverbally.

His own hands moved to cup my breasts as he backed me into the cot he slept on every night. I did not let him push me down on the bed so he was on top of me like normal, this time I wanted to be on top for a while. When I straddled his hips the first thing I felt was his cock straining in his pants. I unbuckled them so I could wrap my hands around his cock, I wanted to feel his thick and heavy length in my hands. Precum was already dripping down his hard cock as I pumped his length with my hands. My own arousal was dampening the underneath of the skirt I still had on. Spencer confirmed it himself when he snuck his fingers underneath the fabric to play with my pleasure spots. We both groaned as his fingers entered inside me while he rubbed circles into my swollen pearl.

My skirt was bunched up in his hands, pulling up all the way to the tops of my thighs. He soon got fed up with the skirt being in the way though and maneuvered me to shuck it off of me as fast as possible. Being bare before him did not make me wither in self consciousness, it made me lean into his touch even more.

He leaned up to kiss me again while I grabbed his length and restraddled him. I was definitely wet enough to have him enter me, my separation from him making me desperate, it had been so long since we had the chance to be together like this.

I then sunk down on his length slowly, it was for me to adjust to his size and to relish in the feeling of him sliding inside me. I stilled on top of him as the back of my thighs hit the top of his, he filled me with perfection. Spencer only let me be still for a little while before his hands gripped my hips and started to guide me to roll my hips. The pace I set- well Spencer was the one who set it, was slow and deep, I was languidly rolling my hips while he thrusted up into me at a similar pace.

My face twisted in pleasure as his thrusts became more powerful, still at the same pace but with more force behind them.

“Fuck- I want everyone to know that you’re mine!” It was the exact same thing he had spoken to me earlier that had sparked anger and melancholy inside me. This time it caused a spark of pleasure instead, making me think about him fucking me in front of everyone claiming me as his.

“My father would kill you.” This time when I said it it was gasped into his mouth with little to all anger disappeared from it.

My words made Spencer growl which was swallowed by a possessive kiss. He then flipped me over roughly, my back now pressed into the cot. A high pitched squeak had escaped my lips unintentionally in surprise, it was quickly changed into a moan when he entered me again. This time the pace did not start off slow as I did not need to adjust to him inside of me.

“I don’t care.” His speech was agitated as he pounded into me, holding my legs open with both hands spreading me out for him to see everything, “No matter what anyone says or does, you’re mine.”

Pleasure sparked through me at his possessive words, I grabbed desperately at the cotton sheets trying to hold onto something as my finish was fast approaching. When the cotton sheets were not enough of a stabilizer for me I lifted my hands up to wrap around the back of his neck and pull him close.

“Come on I know you’re close, I’m close too baby.” My nails dug into his neck and back during the latter half of his sentence causing him to slightly wince. I knew he enjoyed it though because of the question that he groaned out next, “Can I cum inside you?”

Biting my lip hard was painful as I nodded my head in response to his question that had me falling over the edge. The consequences of him finishing inside me danced in the back of my head, I chose to ignore them as he did. I did not care as he filled me and I rode out my release, even if I was to somehow get pregnant because of our recklessness it did not matter. I’d gladly have his child, even if it meant I’d have to go on the run.

Instead of falling on top of me directly after finishing like I’ve heard most men do with their wives he gently removed himself from my entrance and laid down beside me on the cot. Bliss was mingling in the air between us, both unburdened by any of our problems that would become a reality as soon as I left for the night. For now we would just hold onto the bliss until it was cruelly snatched away from reality.

Spencer had a solution as always to our problems, and seemed to be thinking about the same thing I was with his next suggestion,

“Run away with me.” We were both covered in sweat that had cropped up from our activities, a contrast to the chilly air outside and in the castle. It was nice to feel warm every time I was in his arms, It was hard to resist being greedy and deciding to stay in his arms forever. It had crossed my mind more than once, but there was always something stopping me from going through with it fully. I opened my mouth to point out all the reasons why that would not be possible when he added, “And, before you say no I want to ask- what’s stopping you?”

His reasoning was sound, as it often was. My mouth opened and closed, struggling to find a reasoning before I accepted that he was right. The only potential downfall was my father’s forces searching everywhere to find me, but it would be worth it. We could also easily cross the border into nearby lands ruled by someone else that was not in alliance with him. I already felt lighter thinking about being free from the confines of the castle- and hopefully my corset. Though I would have to keep the crimson dress I wore today, even if I only wore it around him, It was his favorite and it symbolized the day that we met. He glanced over at me just as I did the same, looking right into his eyes as I spoke,“Alright.”

The light that sparked in his eyes made my heart soar, I could feel just from his gaze how ecstatic he was to spend his life with me. I didn’t need any words to know how much he loved me.

We basked for a moment in the presence of our love, Spencer broke the silence again when he started planning,“You need to go pack!”

I moved myself to sit up even though my limbs protested, wanting to sleep after our post coital bliss. A soft smile was exchanged between the two of us, “I’ll pack light, only the stuff I need.”

The purse of gold I had brought for him would no longer be used to fund his repairs, but to fund our life together. I climbed on top of him again leaning forward to capture him in a kiss that was much more chaste than the ones earlier in the night.

“I. love. you.” He whispered in between kisses making my eyes wet with tears. They weren’t born out of sadness, but of happiness that I had someone to love me as much as Spencer did.

“I love you too, I will see you soon.” I pulled myself away from his lips even though I did not want to, I then got up to leave reluctantly. Though it was easier than previous departures as I knew that it would be the last one that I would have to complete. My whole being was lighter and happier than I had ever felt before as I snuck back with a spring in my step. The only hint of what I was about to do, where I was about to go, was the mud stained at the hemline of my crimson dress.

Ask me anything

—-

Tag lists (message me if you want to be added):

All works:

@shotarosleftpinky @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar @s1utformgg @takeyourleap-of-faith (why wont tumblr let me tag you😭

All MGG characters: @muffin-cup @willowrose99

Spencer Reid/CM: @calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss @slutforthegubes @onlyhereforthefanfics @jareauswifey

Dom Spencer: @rainsong01 @evlfknb @jakobsdump

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #matthew gray gubler x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut #mgg #matthew gray gubler #mgg x reader #mgg smut #matthew gray gubler smut #30 fics in 30 days

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epicene-humanoid · 3 years

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some trans Jeff thoughts:

he realized he was trans in elementary school and just went fuck it I'll just start introducing myself as Jeffery and see if anyone decides to stop me (as we know, jeff winger can get away with almost anything)

he got top surgery the second he could afford it (around the same time he started at his law firm), and probably bribed someone to keep it a secret

"I'm jeff winger and i would rather look at myself naked than the women I sleep with" are the words of a man proud of his transition

he's really insecure about his fashion sense, which is why he mostly dresses like the douchey guys at his firm in the start of the show, he thought you can't go wrong with the sleazy lawyer look

he will never admit it but he feels super good about the dean hitting on him, because the dean is a (cis) guy, acknowledging that Jeff is more manly than him

i think he starts out stealth and comes out to everyone one by one, probably starting with abed because he knows abed won't judge him and will probably just see it as an interesting backstory.

abed just says it's cool and maybe worth a prequel exploring Jeff's transition, and jeff asks him to predict how all of the members of the group will react to him coming out.

abed's predictions:

britta will be over-the-top supportive and do a ton of research about trans history, probably put together a slideshow just to prove how progressive she is, and jeff will be a little bit weirded out, but also touched that she did all that for him, though he would never let her know that

shirley will be confused, because she doesn't know how someone she trusts and knows so well could be part of a group she was raised to hate, but ultimately realizes that there's nothing actually against the lgbtq people in the bible, and, as a cool character development arch, starts to advocate against use of the bible to justify bigotry

troy will just think it over and decide that Jeff's physique and coolness are even awesomer knowing how much work he'd had to put in to be like that, and respects Jeff's manliness even more

annie will give him a hug, say something sweet about how she'll always love him, and worry about his health, because even she read somewhere that taking testosterone makes you more likely to have a heart attack, jeff will explain that the risk is still only as high a cis guy, and she'll be the one to always remind him to take his shots

peirce will say at best say "jeff winger used to be a chick?" and at worst call him a slur, either way there's sure to be a lot of misgendering from him, and pestering to know Jeff's deadname (needless to say, Jeff just doesn't tell peirce)

the whole group goes out of their way to keep their beach trips a secret from pierce (the girls don't want him there anyways, he's too liable to be creepy) even though jeff knows that even if pierce saw his scars, all he would have to do is make up a story about some childhood accident and pierce would never question it

sorry this ended up being super long. can I hear some of your headcanons for him?

YES ALL THIS!!! yes yes i’m fully accepting this as canon oh my god

i’m about to type a whole ass ESSAY at midnight because i have been DYING to talk about this for months ajfdksljk,,, this is going to be obscenely long and i might end up adding even more to it as i continue to rewatch the show because there is truly no shortage of trans jeff content (especially when you’re trans and see transness in every little thing ajdkslfkjs)

spoiler warning for literally everything about this show under the cut <3

i 100% agree, i feel like he realized he was trans super young, especially since in the show we see him as a little kid a couple of times.

like look at little jeff with the oversized sweatshirt and little ponytail!! that’s childhood trans fashion. not to be dramatic but part of me thinks that jeff’s dad left before he fully came out to his family (which gives him even more angst about it, because until that one Thanksgiving episode, he’s never able to prove to his dad that he’s a better man), but part of me thinks that his dad left after he came out (which adds that spicy i-should-have-stayed-in-the-closet guilt that he has to work through).

either way, because his dad wasn’t there, he had to base his concept of masculinity on something else, which was becoming a lawyer!! there’s some line that’s like “after the dust and divorce papers were settled the only man i looked up to was [the lawyer guy]”. like, replacing your father figure in your mind with the concept of “a job where you can talk your way in and out of anything and distort other people’s concept of reality”? that’s trans.

and the fucking THANKSGIVING EPISODE... i struggle to watch it without crying hehe <3 yeowch! the dichotomy of willy jr. being the “wrong” kind of man because he’s “too soft” but jeff also not being enough despite adhering to all the social standards of masculinity... fuck!! this whole scene of him telling his dad “i am Not well adjusted” and talking about how he gave himself an “appendix surgery scar” when he was a kid and he still keeps the get-well-soon letters from his classmates under his bed? oh my god. the implication of people loving him not despite his scars but because of them?? trans. i can’t think about this episode for too long or i’ll start yelling.

OH and this scene? where he talks about how his mom got him a girl costume for halloween?? and everyone said “what a cute little girl” and after a few houses he stopped correcting them?? and “once the shame and the fear wore off, i was just glad they thought i was pretty”?? THAT’S TRANS... the man needs validation oh my god... and then in all the halloween episodes we see he has these ultra-masculine costumes (a cowboy, David Beckham, one of the fast and furious guys even though he never watched the movies, a boxer with his DAD’S boxing gloves... god) costumes are about becoming something else and he always chooses to be hypermasculine and that is trans.

THE PHYSICAL EDUCATION EPISODE!!!!!!! being uncomfortable during P.E. is a queer experience. period. but him being specifically uncomfortable in the clothes someone else is assigning to him? trans. “are we gonna talk about clothes like a girl? or use tapered sticks to hit balls around a cushioned mat like a man?” TRANS. and him eventually stripping in public? celebration of transness. and the fact that he eventually becomes comfortable in both the uniform and his own style!! trans!! god i love this episode.

AND AND AND!!! the gay dean coming out episode!!! where it’s the three of them discussing the best way for the dean to come out as gay despite not entirely identifying with that label!! so we have both frankie and the dean who are sort of ambiguously queer, and jeff who’s a stealth trans man who’s probably only out to only the study group at this point. this scene where the dean and jeff have this like eyebrow communication while frankie is talking is just so cute. queer-to-queer communication. “I am so curious” “oh?” “intellectually.” “oh...” ajfdksljfk this scene just screams high school GSA to me and i love it so much.

and SPEAKING of the dean!! i totally see you on that. i feel like jeff has some internalized homophobia/biphobia (like he’d throw punches over someone else, but when it comes to himself he has a lot of shame). and also seeing the dean so confident in all his different outfits/costumes has a weird affect on him bc it’s like “okay, the dean, a cis guy, can do that, but i as a trans guy could Not because that’s Breaking the Rules”. which, like, throwback to the halloween thing. of course there’s no right way to be masculine, but mr. winger does not know that.

another thing!! the episode where their emails get leaked? that includes his emails with his therapist. fuck!! he was outed to the whole world in that episode!! no wonder he was so fucking angry!! this whole episode (and really any time he mentions his therapist) is so interesting when you think about them as a person he talks to about his transition. OH which adds to the thing with the dean!! “and you told your therapist you wanted to be alone this weekend” and “not you jeff, i know you’ll be visiting your dad” ”I told you to stop reading my emails”. luckily his study group has his back and just makes fun of him for emailing astronauts lmao

and WHO can forget “they’re giving out an award for most handsome young man!!!!” what else is there to say about this line besides: he’s trans. you know he didn’t get awarded enough for being a handsome young man when he was a kid, and no amount of compliments when he’s fully-grown can really make up for that. some people crash a kid’s bar mitzvah to cope with the fact that they struggled to be seen as themselves when they were a teenager <3

also his weird relationship with pierce? where he kind of hates him (understandably lmao) but at times has this almost-friends-almost-father-son relationship with him? especially in this episode where he’s forced to bond with him and ends up having a good time by accident (at a barber shop no less, the perfect place to Be A Man with your Man Friend). idk what to say about him besides the fact that pierce says his mom wanted a girl when he was born and made him dress like a girl (and his middle name is anastasia!) so if they’re gonna do any bonding over transness it’s gonna be that.

okay one last thing and then i’ll shut up for the night. this episode kills me (and almost kills jeff hahahahelpi’mcrying). it’s a very Trans thing to not be able to visualize your future self, it just is. growing up trans at the time he did? i don’t know what kind of future he saw for himself, but i’m so happy that he ended up with a group of friends who became his family and love him the way they all do. i’m so emotional over this asshole it’s ridiculous.

in conclusion:

they’re trans, your honor <3

#community #jeff winger #trans jeff winger #GOD i'm gonna make a video essay about it if nobody stops me #yall know that youtube channel AreTheyGay? i want to be that but AreTheyTrans #the videos would just b like... jeff community. neo the matrix. bill and ted bill and ted. audrey little shop of horrors. jo little women.#maybe i should start that youtube channel sjdfklsj #thank you for prompting me to talk about this because i think about it twice a day #i might end up reblogging this and just adding different responses jeff has had to casually homophobic/transphobic things that happen #in the show #like the episode that last photo is from when the dean is like #'spring transfer student dance isn't rolling off the tongue so we're calling it The Tr@nny Dance!' 'much more greendale.'#OH AND ACCIDENTALLY KILLING PIERCE'S DAD!!! HOW DID I NOT MENTION THAT EARLIER SJFKLSJ #'you LITERALLY killed a father!' 'well not MINE dummy!!'#alright i need to do my homework now ajfklsdjfl

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inkweaver22-blr · 3 years

Text

Welp. Here's the first chapter of that Tang fic I was talking about. Hopefully the characters aren't too out of character for this first chapter. They will be for sure in the future though. No content warnings yet but if that changes I'll make sure to add them. There's going to be lots of pairings in this one but I don't really know any of the ship names so if people want to call them out as they appear I'll add them to the tags.

AO3 Link

Chapter Two

Scattered Cicadas - Chapter One: The Cycle

Tang seems to be stuck in a strange cycle. Might as well make the most of it.

-------------

Tang was certain by now that whatever was happening wasn’t a time loop. The starting points of each new cycle were too inconsistent, as were their endings. After nearly three dozen of these strange restarts and only a third of them beginning on the day MK received the Monkey King’s staff, the scholar was fairly confident in his conclusion.

“Alright, let’s see what this timeline has in store for us,” the man said as he stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror next to his dresser. He had started this little exercise around the seventeenth reset or so after noticing something else that only added more evidence against his original time loop theory.

“My name is Tang. I work at the public library.” So far nothing out of the ordinary. “I share an apartment with my good friend Pigsy.” Ah, the first and most common change he had noticed throughout this strange experience. And it was a change. He was fairly certain he had his own place originally. “While I am not in a romantic relationship with Pigsy, I harbor a small crush on him.”

Tang continued listing things about his current life as they came to him. He had discovered the various discrepancies compared to his original time fairly early on. So far the differences had been relatively minor. Demon Bull King being freed in the Winter instead of Spring. Mei’s family being descended from a blue dragon instead of green. Sandy’s ship being filled with therapy ferrets instead of cats.

The scholar was at first thrown by the changes, and had gone through some rather embarrassing freakouts the first few times. Luckily he discovered early on that while he never personally experienced the events of these worlds or timelines, if he focused enough, the memories of them would appear. Thus his new little routine he did at the beginning of a new cycle. He found looking at himself in the mirror seemed to speed up the recollection.

“It has been roughly two weeks since Demon Bull King has been freed and MK received the Monkey King’s glaive, thus becoming his successor.” Now that was interesting. This was the first time the Monkey King’s signature weapon was different.

It was all these changes to the world and the new memories that matched them that had squashed the initial time loop theory. In all his reading of both fiction and historical events, Tang had never heard of time travel that worked this way. His second theory, that he was somehow trapped in the Calabash by Jin and Yin, was also quickly discarded. He had the displeasure of experiencing its effects first hand several cycles back and it certainly did not implant new memories into his head.

Tang finished up the recap of his new memories and paused. Nope, nothing else it seemed. With a shrug he finished preparing for work. Hopefully it would be a slow day so he could get a bit more research done into what might be happening. Perhaps this was a celestial punishment as opposed to a demonic curse? He hoped that wasn’t the case but he wouldn’t be a scholar if he dismissed any avenue of investigation just because he disliked it.

Locking the apartment behind him, Tang made his way to the nearest bus stop with a spring in his step. While the situation was certainly less than ideal, the thought of some thorough research was always something he looked forward to.

------------

Tang slowly stirred the noodles in his bowl, his brow furrowed in distraction. One of his favorite reference books for ancient mystical history at the library had been changed. Well, to be more accurate, it was different in this timeline. The author was the same, but the contents were certainly not.

Why had it not ever occurred to the librarian that if the current history around him could change, that ancient history could as well? If that was the case, then how could he trust whatever lead he might find to be actually helpful to his situation? What if the knowledge he needed didn’t exist in the timeline he was currently in? What if it only existed in his original timeline?

With a despondent sigh, Tang continued to swirl around his untouched noodles, his negative thoughts seeming to spiral in the same circular loop.

“Oi! Earth to Tang!”

Tang jumped, almost spilling his bowl as he jerked at Pigsy’s shout. He looked up to see the pig demon across the counter with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

“If you’re going to be a freeloader you might as well appreciate the food I worked hard on,” the chef scolded without any real heat in his tone. “Something eating you?”

“Uh, y-yes I suppose you could say that,” Tang stammered. Pigsy raised an eyebrow and Tang flushed. The lack of confidence he normally projected had certainly been noticed by Pigsy.

“Well spit it out then. Don’t have all night.” Despite the gruffness of his words, Tang could pick out the small bits of concern in the chef’s tone.

“Well, I seem to have hit a stumbling block in one of my research projects,” Tang explained as he pushed his glasses back up and began to relax. While Pigsy always acted angry at Tang for the mooching of noodles, the pig demon, across every timeline so far, never forced the scholar to pay and was always a great listener. “I’ve come across some evidence that many of the historical texts I’m looking into might be presented differently to the events that actually transpired.”

“Isn’t that how most of history is like though?” Pigsy leaned against the counter, his scowl replaced with a puzzled frown. “Didn’t you say something last month about how history books were mostly the writers' biases or something?”

Tang blinked at that. He did somewhat recall the conversation as he focused on it, but hadn’t thought Pigsy had been paying enough attention to his rant at the time.

“Yes I suppose that is true,” the scholar conceded.

“What do you normally do when you come across these changes?”

“I keep looking for a more accurate version of the text or form an educated guess based on all the evidence I gather.”

“Then what’s the problem? If you already know how to solve the issue then there’s no reason dwelling on it. Just keep going until it's fixed,” Pigsy said bluntly.

Tang just stared at the chef for a moment. Was it really just that simple? A smile slowly spread across his face as he realized that, yes, yes it could be. Even if the knowledge in this timeline was different, that didn’t make it useless. Knowledge was power, and who knew what tiny pieces he could find to fit together into a workable solution. Leave it to Pigsy’s pragmatic outlook to cut straight to the problem and efficiently solve it.

“Thanks Pigsy,” Tang said, smiling sincerely.

“Yeah, no problem.” Pigsy waved his hand in dismissal and, was that a blush Tang saw? “Now eat your noodles before they get cold.” The pig demon quickly moved off to help a new customer that had walked in, leaving Tang to his bowl.

As he ate the delicious noodles, Tang watched Pigsy as he worked.

He had always admired his friend, even in his original timeline. What he was unsure of were the romantic feelings he had for the pig. Outside of sharing an apartment together, the relationship status between the pair was the second most common change he experienced. The first time he had woken up in the same bed as Pigsy had resulted in one of his earliest embarrassing freak outs that had resulted in a few hurt feelings for a while.

While Tang could see how these feelings could have blossomed, he couldn’t quite remember if he had felt this way in his original time. He had simply gone with the flow the many times they were romantically involved and if he was honest, they had been some of the most pleasant moments he could remember since this whole timeline jumping mess had started.

He studied the chef as he gracefully moved about his kitchen, chopping vegetables and rolling dough. The pig demon had a gruff exterior, but obviously cared about those around him a lot. He was steady and sensible, always scolding someone for doing something stupid but always there with straightforward advice if asked. He made sure that no one would ever be hungry while he was around and woe be it unto any customer who insulted his family within his earshot.

Pigsy, as if sensing the eyes on him, looked up and met Tang’s gaze. He gave the scholar a brief smile before returning to the broth he had been stirring.

As a warmth filled his chest that didn't have to do with the noodles, Tang made a decision that he was sure Pigsy would have approved of. It didn’t really matter what their relationship was. Platonic or romantic, Tang loved Pigsy for being Pigsy and always would. If these alternate worlds seemed set on making them more than friends, well then who was he to complain.

Drinking the remaining broth in his bowl, Tang grinned as he decided to act on Pigsy’s advice. This version of him had a crush on the chef and he already knew the solution for fixing that.

“Hey Pigsy! You free for a date this Friday?”

His grin grew wider as Pigsy dropped his ladle into the pot of broth and whirled around and began stammering. Behind him, the scholar heard Mei crow in victory and began demanding that MK ‘pay up’.

These strange jumps in time were certainly a less than ideal situation, but Tang decided to not worry too much about them. He knew it was only a matter of time until a solution presented itself. While he waited for that to happen, who would blame him for trying to enjoy himself in the meantime?

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First chapter done wooo! Now the following chapters won't be in a strict chronological order as Tang jumps around, but some events do come before others. As for what's going on... You'll just have to wait and see~ See you in chapter two!

#Ink Writes #LEGO Monkie Kid #Monkie Kid #Scattered Cicadas #Tang #Tang Monkie Kid #Pigsy #Mei #MK #freenoodleshipping

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sarita-daniele · 3 years

Note

Hi, angel! Hope you're doing alright 💓 (hola ángel! También hablo español :) ) I was wondering if you could give some advices in starting out in an arts career?

Hola amigx, ¡perdón que nunca vi tu mensajito! I’m not on my Tumblr very often and definitely forget to check my messages. Luckily my favorite causita @luthienne told me you’d messaged me!

I don’t know what arts discipline you’re in, so feel free to let me know if the advice I have doesn’t apply to you (and ignore it!). There are so many ways to build an arts career, but I’m happy to share some things I’ve learned through trial and error along the way.

(Outrageously long post below break!)

Educate yourself in arts technique, but also study widely.

Techniques are important in art, but only as important as the concepts behind them. When I was younger, I wowed people by drawing near-photographic portraits, but that technical talent and skill alone couldn’t make me a professional artist. Memorable artwork has not just a how, but a why. It isn’t just the object but the story behind the object, and the meaning of the object in the world. Art is about what interests you, what makes you think, what you most value and want to change in this world. So as you build an arts career, learn the techniques behind drawing, woodworking, casting, writing, music-making, whatever your discipline is, but take time, if you can, to also study history, sociology, anthropology, ecology, linguistics, politics, or whatever else you’re drawn to conceptually. Study as widely as you can.

The studio art program I went through (a public university in the US) was very technique-forward; we signed up for classes according to technique, like printmaking or small metals, learned those techniques, completed technique-based assignments. Then I did a one-term exchange at arts university in the UK that was very concept-forward. We had no technical courses, just exhibition deadlines, and what mattered in critique was the concept. Both of these schools had their strengths and flaws, but what I learned was that, to be a practicing artist, I needed both technique and concepts that I genuinely cared about and could stand behind. If I could go back and change anything, I would probably take fewer studio courses (after graduating, I couldn’t afford access to a wood shop, metal shop, or expensive casting materials, and lost many of those skills) and more courses in sociology, Latin American studies, linguistics, ecology, anthropology, etc., because my artwork today centers on social justice, racial justice, Latinx stories and histories, educational access and justice, the politics of language, and community ethics.

And please know that whenever I talk about seeking an education, I’m not talking solely about institutional spaces. College career tracks in the arts (BFA, MFA, etc., much less high-cost conservatory programs) are not accessible to everyone and aren’t the only way to establish an arts career. You can study technique and learn about the world using any educational space accessible to you: nonprofits that offer programming in your community, online resources, Continuing Education programs. And of course, self-education: read as much as you possibly can!

Know the value of your story.

I come from a Cuban/Peruvian family and grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA. My father’s family fled political violence surrounding the Cuban Revolution and came to the U.S. when he was a teenager. My mother was born in Brooklyn to Peruvian parents on work visas and moved back to Lima in her childhood. I grew up with these two cultures present and deeply embedded in our household, in our language, our food, our sense of humor, our sense of history. And yet, some residual assimilation trauma still affected me. I drifted towards the most American things, the whitest things, English authors and Irish music, in part because I enjoyed them but also because those were the things I saw valued in society. I wanted to fit in, wanted to be unique but not different, wanted to prove that I could navigate all spaces. The reality of marginalized identities in America is that our country tells us our identities are only valuable when they can be seen as exotic, while still kept inferior to the dominant, white American narrative (note that this “us” is a general statement, not meant to make assumptions about how you identify or what country you live in).

But as an artist, all I have is my story, and who I am. I wasn’t willing to look at it directly. For years, I avoided doing so. It turns out, though, that I couldn’t actually begin my career until I reckoned with myself and learned to value everything about myself. To fully acknowledge my story, my history, my cultural reality, my sense of language, and my privileges. So I encourage young artists to look always inward, to ask questions about themselves, their families, and what made them who they are.

The reason for doing this is to understand the source from which you make art. Sometimes, however, for marginalized artists, the world warps this introspection into a trap, pigeonholing us into making art only “about” our identities, because that work is capital-I-Important to white audiences who want to tokenize our traumas. This is the white lens, and if anything, I try to understand myself as deeply as I can so that I can make art consciously for my community, not for that assumed white audience.

Know that your career doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s, or like anything you’ve envisioned up to this point.

As a high schooler I imagined that a life in the arts meant me in a studio, drawing and making, selling my work, getting exhibitions near and far, and gaining recognition. It was a solitary vision, one with a long history in the arts, rooted in the idea of individual genius. My career ended up completely different. Today, my arts projects involve teaching, collaborating, collecting interviews and oral histories, and creating public installations, rarely in traditional galleries or museums.

As you work towards an arts career, figure out what does and doesn’t work for you: the kind of art you like and don’t like, the kinds of spaces that feel comfortable and those that don’t. I always thought I wanted to be part of traditional galleries, so I got a job working in a high-end art gallery in Boston during my grad program. Once in that space, however— even though I found the space calming and the work beautiful— I realized that there was something that I deeply disliked about the commodified art world. I didn’t like that we were selling art for over $10,000, that our exhibitions were geared exclusively towards collectors and wealthy art-buyers. The work was often technically masterful, but didn’t move or connect with me on a deeper level, and I realized that was because it wasn’t creating any change in the world. I liked work that shifted the needle, that made the world more inclusive and equitable, that centered marginalized stories (that gallery represented 90% white artists). I liked artwork that people made together, which drew me to collaborative art. I liked artwork that was accessible to everyone, not just the wealthy, which drew me to public art. I liked art exhibited in non-institutional spaces, which led me to community spaces. Since I was in an MFA for Creative Writing, I liked interdisciplinary art that engaged performance, technology, text, that was participatory and not just a 2D or 3D object. Figuring out all of these things led me to apply to my first major arts job: as a teaching artist in a community nonprofit that made art for social change in collaboration with local youth, in a predominantly Latinx neighborhood.

My career path didn’t look like anything I expected, but I love it. The bulk of my income comes from teaching creative writing and art classes for nonprofits, working as a core member of a public arts nonprofit, and freelance consulting for book manuscripts. I love being an educator and consider it part of my creative practice. I love that I’m constantly collaborating with and talking to other artists. I love working with books and public art every day. I publish poetry, fiction, and literary translations, and exhibit artwork I’ve created in the studio and through funded opportunities.

Fellow artists tell me often that I’m lucky, that my “day jobs” are all within the arts. But there are downsides to the way I’ve chosen to structure my career. I’m constantly balancing many projects, and my income is unstable. It’s difficult to save and plan towards the future,. I get by, but financial instability isn’t an option for many artists with families and dependents, with debts, medical expenses, and just isn’t the preferred lifestyle for a lot of people. I know artists who worked office jobs for years to support their practice and gain financial stability. I know artists who had entire careers as lawyers or accountants before becoming artists full time. I know artists who teach in public schools or work as substitute teachers. I know artists who are business owners and artists who work in policy and politics. I know artists who work in framing stores and shipping warehouses while being represented by galleries. These are all arts careers, and I admire every one of them. So as you build your career, don’t feel like it has to look like anyone’s else’s, like there’s anything you “should” be doing. Focus on the kind of artwork you want to make and what kind of work-life balance is best for you, then structure your career around that as best you can.

Any job you use to support yourself can connect to an arts career!

I get asked often by young people looking for jobs what kinds of jobs will best propel them towards an arts career. I believe that any kind of job can connect to and support an arts career, and I know that some suggestions out there in the arts world (like “get an unpaid internship at an art gallery!” or “become a studio apprentice to a well-known artist!”) assume a certain amount of privilege. So I want to break down how different kinds of jobs can connect to your art career:

1) Jobs that allow for the flexibility and mental capacity to create. My friends who work restaurant jobs while going to auditions fall into this category. Who work as bartenders in evening so that they can be in the studio by day. Who dog-walk or babysit or nanny because the timing and flexibility allows for arts opportunities. My friends who are Lyft drivers or work in deliveries. These are often jobs outside of a creative field, but they can be beneficial because they don’t drain your creative batteries, so to speak. You still have your creative brain fully charged, and some jobs (like dog-walking) even allow for good mental processing (you can think through creative problems). As long as the job doesn’t drain you to the point where you have no energy at all, these kinds of jobs can be great because they allow time and space for your creative work.

2) Jobs that place you in arts spaces, arts adjacent spaces, or spaces where you can learn about material/technique. My sculptor friends who work in hardware stores, quarries, foundries, or in construction. My printmaker friend who interned with graphic designers. My writer friends who work in bookstores and libraries, artists who work in art supply stores. My friend who worked with her dad’s painting company and got to improve her precision as a painter, which she then took back to the canvas. My teen students who get paid to work on murals or get stipend payments for making art at the nonprofit I work for. My filmmaker friends who worked on film crews. Friends who worked as theater ushers, in ticket sales, or as janitorial staff at museums. All of these jobs kept these artists adjacent to their artwork, whether through access to tools, materials, supplies, or books, through networking and conversations with other artists, or through skillsets that could enhance their art.

3) Jobs that deeply engage another interest of yours, that bring you joy or can influence your work in other ways. If there’s a job that has nothing to do with your art but that you would love, do it! First, because I believe that the things we’re passionate about get integrated into our art, and second, because any job that gives you peace of mind and joy creates a positive base from which you can create. My friend who worked at a stable because she got to be around horses. My friends who worked at gyms or coaching sports because it kept them active. My friend who worked in a bike repair shop because he was obsessed with biking. An artist I knew who worked at the children’s science museum because she loved being around kids and planetariums. An artist who worked at a mineral store because rocks made her happy. If you have the opportunity, work doing things you like without worrying about whether it directly feeds your arts career.

Because believe it or not, all jobs you work can intersect in some way with your art. You’re creative— you find those connections! A Nobel-Prize winning poet helped his dad on the potato farm and wrote his best-known poem about it. Successful novelists have written about their time working in hair salons and convenience stores. A great printmaker I know who worked in a flower shop began weaving botanical forms and plant knowledge into her designs. The key in an arts career is to see all your experiences as valuable, to find ways that they can influence your art, and to be constantly thinking about and observing the world around you.

As for me, I worked as a tennis instructor, a tennis court site supervisor, an academic advisor, an art gallery intern, and a coffee shop barista before and during my work in the arts!

Let go of objective measures of what it means to be good.

I was always an academic overachiever. Top of my class, merit scholarships, science fair awards, AP credit overload, the whole thing. On the one hand, I grew up in a house where education was valued and celebrated, and my parents emphasized the importance of doing my best in school— not getting good grades, but working hard, doing my personal best, and reading and learning all I could. I loved school. I loved academics. And I’m not saying this to brag, but to lay the groundwork for something I struggled with in the arts.

It is jarring to be an academic overachiever and enter an arts career. I thrived off of objective value systems: study, work hard, get an A. If I worked hard and learned what I was supposed to learn, I earned recognition, validation, and opportunity.

And then I entered the arts. The arts are entirely subjective. We hear it over and over— great artists get rejected hundreds of times, certain art forms require cutthroat competition, etc. —but it’s hard to understand the subjectivity of the art world (and the entrenched discrimination and commercial interests that affect who gets opportunities and who doesn’t) until you’re trying to live as an artist. That you can work hard on something, give all of your time and physical effort and mental and emotional energy to it, only to have it rejected. That what you think is good isn’t what another person thinks is good. That there is a magical alchemy in the act of creation that can’t be taught, or learned, but must be felt, and that you can be working to find that light while actively others try to extinguish it. That you can be good and work hard, yet still not get chosen for the awards, the exhibitions, the publications. If you chased being “the best” your whole life, you’re now in a world where there is no “best”, where greatness is subjective, where the idea of competitive greatness is actually detrimental to artists supporting each other, and where work that sells or connects to white, cishetero traditions is still the most valued.

After struggling with this for a long time, I came to the conclusion that the most important thing to me now is making the art I want to make, the art only I can make, whether or not it fits what arts industries are looking for or what’s going to win awards. If I make art I believe in from a healthy mental and emotional place, doors will open, even if they aren’t the doors I expected. So try to let go of any sense that worth comes from external validation. Learn to accept critical feedback when it is given kindly, thoughtfully, and constructively. Surround yourself with friends and artists who who can talk to about your work, who build up your work and help you think through it rather than cutting you down. Don’t believe anyone in the arts world who thinks they get to be the arbiters of what’s “good” and who has “what it takes”. People have probably said things like that to the artists you most admire, and if they’d listened, you wouldn’t have experienced art that changed your life.

Work to gain skills in basic business, marketing, and finances for artists.

Many artists (at least where I am in the U.S.) go through an entire arts education without receiving resources or training in the financial side of the arts world. Your arts career will likely involve some degree of self-promotion and marketing, creating project budgets and grant proposals, artist statements and bios, sorting out taxes, and other economic elements. I can’t speak to other countries, but for artists in the U.S., taxes can be extremely complex. If you’re awarded a stipend, grant, fellowship, or employed for gigs or one-time projects, you’ll likely be taxed as an independent contractor and have to deduct your own taxes. Through residencies and exhibitions, you may pull income in multiple states and countries, which can also affect taxation. If you’re an artist who doesn’t have access to resources about finance and taxation in your arts program or who doesn’t independently have expertise in those fields, I recommend finding ways to educate yourself early: online resources, low cost courses, or even just taking your financially-savvy friends out for a coffee!

ANYWAY SORRY FOR THE LONG POST I HOPE SOMETHING IN THIS DIATRIBE WAS HELPFUL I HOPE THERE WEREN’T TOO MANY TYPOS AND I hope you have the most wonderful, fulfilling arts career! <3

#resources #writing life #arts life #arts career #visual art #studio art program #mfa #bfa #arts education #i have no chill when you ask me questions like this #long post

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apothecarinomicon · 3 years

Text

Spring week 3, part 1

I felt much better this morning. I suppose whatever sickness fairy visions impart is strictly transient—or maybe dealing with reagents has given me a good immune system.

When I went outside, I found that I’d somehow managed to plant the foxsocks in the garden. I don’t know how I could have done it in my feverish state and I certainly don’t remember it, but there it is. The foxsocks seem to be thriving already, or at least to have a solid foothold. As I’d hoped, they should be reliably available from here on out.

As I stood there, sleepily puzzling over the garden, I heard a screech from above. Looking up, I saw what at first appeared to be a large bird circling down towards the ground. When she landed, though, I saw she was a woman with wings instead of arms, talons instead of legs, and a feathered tail, wearing a khaki uniform—a postal harpy. She greeted me while balancing on one leg and asked me to confirm my name. I told her and she introduced herself as Liùsaidh. She indicated I ought to retrieve my mail from her talon (it’s polite to wait for their permission). She asked if I might be sticking around and I said I thought I was. She said she’d see me next time I got mail and flew off.

What she’d brought was a letter, with a return address listed as “The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke.” It was a single handwritten (actually, impressively calligraphed) page. The spelling and grammar was, shall we say, characteristic. It’s easier to just stick the letter in between the pages than copy it down, so that’s what I’ll do.

To whom it may concern:

It has come to our attentionne at The Friends of The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke that ye are a practicing vvitch reſiding in the hamlet of Greanmoore. We would like to congratulate ye on your appointmente and hope you find the positionne both fulfilling and rewarding. We had brief correspondence with your predeceſsor and were glad to learn of yovr presence.

The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke is among the premiere magical muſeums in northweſternne High Rannoc. It has one of the moſte exhauſtive collections of magical materials, svbſtances, and hiſtories native to High Rannoc in the vvorld. Academicks, travelers, and school field trips regularly reference and reſearch the Muſeum’s collections in their purſuit of more compleat knowledge.

As The Muſeum of Magicke does not have a repreſentative in Greanmoore or the surrounding areas, we have a requeſte to make of ye if you are willing to fulfill it. We pride ourſelves on the compleatneſs of our Magickal Components collectionne, but we are miſsing many of the species native to Greanmoore and its svrrounding locations. We humbly ask that ye help vs remedy this deficiency. If you are willing to do so, we woulde requeſt that ye send one of each magickal componente available in the area to the Muſeum, at the returnne addreſs listed above. Should you do so, ye will receive compenſationne.

We hope ye will partner with vs in this endeavor. Your contributionne to societal knowledge shall be greatly appreciated by generationnes of reſearchers, thinkers, and touriſts.

Eagerly avvaiting your reſponſe,

The Friends of The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke

[A plain text accessible version of this letter is available here.]

Obviously, the spelling is horrendous. This might have been forgivable a few decades ago, but the shape of the ‘s’ (that is, it not being that odd ‘f’ looking thing sometimes) and the distinction between ‘u,’ ‘v,’ and ‘w’ have been standardized since before I was born. Not to mention, the Ledgerwood Museum is associated with the University of Arcbridge—so there must be someone there who knows better.

The thing is, for a long time the only people who could write were those who received higher education, so the vast majority of documents that exist throughout history have to do with academia. So, even as reading and writing became more accessible and spelling and grammar more standardized, that outdated irregular styling retroactively became associated with education, with decorum, with genius.

I’ve never really had much respect for that kind of posturing—I think that if you’re brilliant the content of your writing ought to speak for itself. You shouldn’t have to so explicitly climb on the shoulders of those who came before you, especially not by intentionally making the mistakes they made or using the outdated styles they used.

I sent back a letter inquiring about the specifics of compensation along with a sample of my foxsocks.

I’m going to the library.

────⊱⁜⊰────

The Greenmoor Public Library is near the center of town, not quite in the square but on Market Street directly off of it. It has some interesting architecture: it looks as if it was originally three separate buildings the size of single-family houses, that were all connected up at a later date by a circular addition between them so that the final building looks like a cog with three spokes. Each section of it is made up of a different material—exposed stone, lime render, and brick for the original houses, and cement for the central cylinder—but it all works together in a quirky, oddball way.

There are no internal walls in the library—even where there must have been external walls in the original houses. They must have knocked them down (I don’t envy that job). Every wall is lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and in each of the spokes there are many close-set freestanding shelves besides, with only narrow aisles left between. At the center of the center is a circular desk, and around this are scattered tables with benches and clusters of armchairs for convenience of reading and research.

The library is owned and run by Donella and Saundra Glasford, an older couple. Saundra is actually the schoolteacher, but she helps with reshelving and organization on weekends. I know this because Donella explained it to me in detail. As soon as I walked in the door she stood from behind (within?) the circular desk and approached me, insisting that she give me a tour of the library. In addition to a survey of the entire space and what kinds of books it contained, this ‘tour’ involved a hefty amount of insight into the daily lives and routines of the Glasford family.

They have a kid named Muiredach, who’s very interested in ancient things at the moment—giant skeletons and the like. Donella has lived here her entire life but Saundra moved here forty years ago. Saundra’s expertise is in thaumatology (specifically thaumatozoology, the study of magical animals), in which she has a degree. Meanwhile, Donella has extensive knowledge of literary and epistemological history, though she received no formal schooling past twelve.

After she finished showing me all the different sections and layouts of the library, Donella told me I should feel free to poke around as much as I wanted. She added that I wouldn’t find any secret passages or hidden rooms, and that they had nothing to hide.

I hadn’t realized before she said that what this was all about.

I told her that the rumors weren’t true, that I wasn’t some Government spy or anything like that (I heard Saundra mumble something like “well you’d also deny it if you were a clype, wouldn’t you?”). Donella quickly assured me that she believed me, but then said “better safe than sorry,” so I’m not quite sure she actually did. I told her I didn’t understand where all the suspicion was coming from. Saundra piped up, saying that I was a stranger who came to a small, isolated town I had no prior relation with to fill a position whose previous occupant had mysteriously disappeared, and asked if I understood how that looked (not in quite those words—her accent and dialect was rather strong). I told her I’d been summoned directly by Mòrag McKinney, and had the paper trail to prove it. I asked if she thought Mòrag was involved in some conspiracy, too. She shrugged and said she was just saying how it looked.

Donella said regardless that I should feel free to use the library—it was for the public, after all—and pointed me in the direction of the section on rune magic. Thus, the conversation ended, but my uneasiness didn’t entirely abate. Still, I’d come to the library for a reason.

The rune section was limited, but I didn’t need to know any more than the basics. I’d only ever been taught one way to create runes, and it was clear my predecessor used a different one—all I needed to do was to figure out which and I could reverse engineer the runes’ meanings.

I found that she used a combination of the witches’ circle and magic square methods, which are both apparently very popular. I wonder why I was never taught them. Both systems derive the shape of the sigil directly from the letters of the intentions they’re meant to invoke. It’s traditional to remove the vowels before doing so, but luckily for me my predecessor chose not to do that.

So, with a bit of work I was able to determine that the sigils I copied down meant: life, autonomy, gentleness, congeniality, and empathy respectively. It was clearly built to be a very kind golem. Now that I know that, I’m going to try to create my own sigils and charge them, and see if that helps.

────⊱⁜⊰────

While I was at the library, I also collected a few of the greatest works of modern literature—Lord of the Midges, Beathag’s Choice, To Kill a Gull-Drake, et cetera. The next morning I packed the books into the rucksack I’d used to travel to Greenmoor and set out to take them to Morna, heading to Hero’s Hollow by way of Moonbreaker Mountain.

As I skirted the base of the mountain, I heard a voice call out from above me, crying “hey, you! Groundling!” It was clearly far above me but somehow also quite loud. I looked up and saw, blotting out the sun, a great hot air balloon. I’d heard vague stories but had never seen one in person before. The most striking part of it was the balloon itself, made of canvas patterned beige and blue and larger than a house. The top half of it (as I was informed later) was enclosed by a net, which had metal rings on its edges attaching it to a tangle of myriad ropes and cords. These in turn held aloft the basket, which was not the simple platform I’d seen described in books but rather looked like a small sailing boat, complete with railings, rotors, and a steering wheel.

The voice announced that it hadn’t seen me around before and that I ought to climb aboard. A ladder with metal rungs unfurled over the side of the boat, just low enough that I could reach it if I jumped. I did so after making sure my rucksack was firmly on my back and shut, and climbed up to reach the aircraft.

The man onboard was only slightly taller than me. His white shirt was rumpled and stained with oil, and his left suspender was fraying. The thick goggles on his forehead, held together with large bolts and screws, were the only thing keeping his thick black hair from whipping in all directions with the wind (mine, in contrast, had already become hopelessly tangled). His sleeves were rolled up, but his forearms were covered by brown leather fingerless gloves, with metal studs that flashed in the sunlight as he hauled the ladder back onto the balloon. He wore a mask over the lower half of his face, with a cylindrical chamber marked “O2” sticking out from each cheek. Directly in front of the mouth was a clear window, so that I could see his lips moving when he spoke. He offered me a similar one and I accepted—the air was rather thin so high up. I could see him say something that was drowned out by the wind, and then he beckoned me towards a door. Given the shape of the craft, I wasn’t surprised to discover that it led to a kind of captains’ quarters.

Inside, the wind wasn’t quite so brutally loud and I could actually make out what my host was saying. He introduced himself as Captain Akash Majhi, aviator extraordinaire, and asked if I needed a lift. I said it might have been a bit late to ask since I was already on the balloon, which made him chuckle. I said that since he’d offered, I was headed to Hero’s Hollow, and he replied that that would be no problem. I noticed as we conversed that he only made eye contact when he was speaking—when I spoke, he instead watched my lips.

As Akash turned to pull a lever on the wall, I asked where he was from. He didn’t respond. With the lever pulled, a large strip of the ceiling rotated so that a piece of what had been the floor above—the piece to which the steering wheel was attached—became the ceiling of this room. Akash then tapped what seemed to just be a wooden accent covering a swath of the metal wall above the desk and bed. The wood slid to the side, revealing a bay window through which he could see.

He took his place at the wheel, positioning me in his field of view, so I asked again where he was from. He told me he was a proud resident of the Cloud Isles. I told him I’d never heard of such a place, and he said I really must be new to the area. Belatedly, I told him my name and that I had in fact only moved here a few weeks ago. He told me that the Cloud Isles were just that: islands in the clouds, with wildlife, ecosystems, and culture. At the center was a great city that, yes, was attached to the clouds, but had mostly been built flying between and amongst them by generations of architects, donors, engineers, artists, and aviators like himself.

I asked him where the city was located and he vaguely waved his hands. “Here and there.” He said that as the clouds drifted so did the Isles, but that the city itself never strayed too far from Greenmoor—otherwise, mapping and resource-gathering from the ground below would be difficult or impossible.

I asked him how I might visit the Isles, and he told me I’d need to be able to fly. He said the general ethos of the residents leaned towards mechanical solutions, but he had heard that there were magical ways of flight as well. I said I would have to look into that. He handed me a business card with his name, “balloonist | engineer | aviator extraordinaire,” an address, and a smoke signal pattern to use to contact him. He said if I was ever in the city he’d be happy to show me around. Then, he announced that we’d arrived.

We went back onto the deck and he unfurled the ladder over the edge. I went to hand him the oxygen mask back but he told me to keep it—they were expensive, but he had plenty and I’d be needing it when (and he did say “when”) I visited the city. I thanked him, shook his hand, and started descending the ladder.

────⊱⁜⊰────

I made it back to the ground (the hop down from the ladder was smaller than the hop up had been), and smoothed my hair down before setting off into the Hollow. I’d only barely made it into the skull when my plans for the afternoon abruptly shifted.

It was just around midday, so the guards must have been on break or between shifts. Hurrying out of the dungeon was a group I recognized—it was the Lows, the mining family. Angus was carrying the son in his arms. The boy was clutching his thigh, and even from a distance I could see blood seeping through his fingers.

Crystal spotted me and immediately called out to me, thanking the gods for my arrival. I hurried to them and guided them back to the cottage, where I knew I’d be able to better determine how to treat the issue. Morna would have to wait—I had a patient to tend to.

⇦●〇●⇨

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hoodoo12 · 4 years

Text

Roses and Rot

This is based of a loose prompt: “Jealous and possessive Keatlejuice where the boy goes feral”. My pals @vicunaburger (Last Train Home)and @clairjohnson (Night Out) also wrote for this prompt; go check them and their fine stories out!

NSFW. Possessiveness, extreme violence and gore, smut, minor bondage, dub-con. This is a darkfic.

There hadn’t been any sound. No warning, and that was the scariest thing of all. There was some asshole douchebag who’d been catcalling you and who jogged after you down the sidewalk, even though you’d made it plainly clear you wanted nothing to do with him. The guy had the balls to grab your shoulder, and that was the end.

He’d been torn away from you so abruptly you’d been jerked back too, stumbling and losing your balance. You shouted, because you’d first thought the guy had done it himself, but when you gathered your wits your shout died in your throat at the sight that met your eyes. The douchebag was on his back and screaming, although his voice also went the way of yours. For a different reason, however: it was hard to scream when there was no breath capable of being drawn after the hand shoved in his gut ruptured his diaphragm and was now elbow deep into his chest. “Heart’s still beatin’. Pity,” Beetlejuice laughed. “Not for long though, buddy.” Straddling the man’s legs like they were wrestling or they were lovers, he extracted his hand slowly, like that would be a kindness to make it hurt less. When just his hand was still inside, he cocked his head. “I think that’s your liver. Spleen feels a little less smooth, an’ if I’d gone through it--whoa! You’d have bleed out way too soon! Oops, looks like my damn ring is caught on something--”

With a more violent jerk than maybe needed to happen, he yanked his hand out of the guy with the thickest wet sound you’d ever heard. You retched involuntarily as Beetlejuice examined what looked like a rope of intestine in his hand. Your gag caught his attention. Quick as a snake, he looked up and caught your eyes. Typically pale blue, his eyes were blown dark with what you would have classified as arousal, except he was drenched in blood and was pawing through a person’s innards like picking up candy from a destroyed pinata. Beetlejuice grinned ferally at you, licking his teeth. He seemed to realize he’d gotten some blood sprayed onto his chin, because he licked further down to remove it. You weren’t sure what to think. Or say. Or do. You felt frozen, a rabbit, pinned by a predator’s gaze. Your choices were to not move and maybe he’d ignore you, or run and hope he was having too much fun with the soon-to-be corpse under him. “What’s the matter baby?” he said with much too much amusement in his voice. “I did this for you.” You could barely wrap your head around that, and you shook your head slightly because of it. The amusement on his face melted to a scowl, and you flinched. Luckily, Beetlejuice seemed to believe it was due to the man twitching and still trying to draw breath underneath him. He turned ferociously back to him. “You fuckin’ cocksucker--you apologize to the lady!” he spit, literally, in the dying man’s face.

It was unfathomable to you the amount of pain and shock the guy must be in, with his guts systematically being pulled from the hole Beetlejuice put in him. When he didn’t respond to the order that had been given to him, the specter snarled and used his unoccupied hand to grab the guy’s chin to twist his head up and over awkwardly to look at you. “Fucking apologize,” he demanded again. He held on with so much force his nails cut into the man’s cheeks. The guy who may or may not have assaulted you given the chance, whose only ‘crime’ was being a prick in public and daring to lay a hand on you, managed to raise his eyes enough to meet yours. He was crying, but still no real noise came from him; collapsed lungs didn’t provide enough air to pass through vocal cords. He wheezed, a little.

Beetlejuice cranked his head back to a more proper position. “That’s much better,” he said brightly, like a teacher praising a pupil that finally understood something complex. “I’m sure you’ll never do anything like that again, will you?” The guy wheezed again, and you could see that his tears made clean tracks through the blood on his face. “WILL YOU?!” Beetlejuice screamed suddenly, dropping his face within inches of the man.

The guy still had enough strength to flinch. That made Beetlejuice laugh again, and he planted an opened-mouth kiss to the man’s mouth. It prevented you from seeing what his hands were doing, but you didn’t miss the specter sucking in like he was stealing the last of his victim’s breath. When he sat back up, a string of bloody saliva bridged between the two men’s lips. With one hand on the man’s chest and the other still running intestines through his fingers like fine silk, Beetlejuice cocked his head. “Heart’s giving out, buddy. Maybe, if I’m quick--” And again, with no warning, he torn into the man’s torso with a frenzy. You’d never known how strong he was; you’d never considered how strong he was, but skin and muscle split and ribs were cracked, and before you even had the chance to look away, Beetlejuice had his prize: exposure of the guy’s heart, still in his ruin of his chest, beating erratically from blood loss and rapidly dropping blood pressure. Beetlejuice looked up at you, gave you a wink, and gave the heart a vicious flick. Luckily the guy didn’t feel it; he was obviously dead. Hawking something up from the back of his throat, the specter spit a gob of mucus directly into the dead man’s open chest. You’d never seen someone die before. You’d never seen such frenzied carnage. If you could have torn your eyes away from the show of wanton destruction, you would have. You felt numb and shocky yourself, like you wanted to vomit and curl into a fetal position all at the same time. All your limbs were cold. The fact that it was done so casually, that Beetlejuice looked just as he’d always looked--grimy, moldy, the corners of his mouth always just about to turn up like he was always one step ahead of anyone else around--he didn’t look monstrous at all except that his favorite suit was now that start of a joke--what’s black and white and red all over--

--your thoughts felt fractured, a skipping record, and a giggle slipped out of you, less for amusement or approval and more because you had no reference on how to respond to any of this.

Beetlejuice took your giggle the wrong way, of course. In a flash, between one blink and the next, he was at your side, arms around your waist to hold you upright and against him. The blood soaked into his suit felt clammy and left smears on you. There was still a feral light in his eyes, and pressed this close, it wasn’t any secret he was aroused. “Nobody gets to touch you but me, baby,” he informed you. Just as he leaned down for a kiss that you dared not refuse him, he continued, “You’re mine.”

His mouth covered yours and you held your breath. The taste of him, damp soil with base notes of roses and rot, was familiar; the new flavor of iron from the residual blood on his face was not and you did not care for it much. Naturally, he didn’t care. While you squeezed your eyes shut and tried not to act too put off in case that made him angry, an odd pressure surrounded you and when he released you and you opened your eyes, you were back in your bedroom. You didn’t dare point out that if he could just remove you from the situation on the street he didn’t have to tear that guy apart.

Wiping his thumb along his lower lip as he stared over you with hungry eyes, he repeated in a low voice, “You’re fucking mine,” as if you’d argued.

He still seemed to think there was some disagreement, however, maybe because you were still shocky from the events and you weren’t as responsive as typical to his advances. He lifted his lips in what you thought was supposed to be a smile but came off more as a snarl. “Men. Always sniffin’ around, always thinkin’ they can touch whatever they want without consequences. Never thinkin’ that what they’re touchin’ might belong to someone else!” he ranted. This was not the time to try and educate him on the fact that the word “belong” was offensive and demeaned you into being property.

He took a breath that you know was for show because he didn’t actually breathe any longer, and focused on you again. “I know you didn’t flirt with that guy, baby. I know you didn’t ask for him to follow you and touch you. He was just a prick who got his just reward. But I gotta say . . . seeing him try and get your attention . . . it got me a little possessive.” Once again you held your tongue, although that was damn obvious. You weren’t against possessiveness, per se, and had occasionally breathed into his ear that you only wanted him, you were his, those sentiments and the like slipping from your lips as he fucked himself into you, but this was a little more than typical. The standard thrill of his aggressive behavior was there, even if your pulse also pounded out of fear. Beetlejuice gave you a much softer smile, and it almost made you relax. When he stepped up to you again, however, the smile slipped and a rock settled in your gut because your subconscious better recognized the not so sweet intent behind him coming close again. He grabbed the back of your head, his ragged nails catching in your hair. That was not uncommon; his hand being tacky from mostly dried blood was. You gasped and automatically pulled your head back in response. That only made him laugh. “Gotta be a way to show assholes like that you’re mine--” he growled half to himself, but loud enough for your ears too. “Gonna show them you’re mine--”

With that, he spun you around. Off balance because you weren’t expecting it, you fell front first onto the mattress. Before you could twist or protest or anything, you found yourself without a stitch of clothing on; one of his ‘parlor tricks’ that sometimes you liked very much. A new element had been added, however: your arms stretched forward and wrists restrained with exactly what, you didn’t know. You didn’t keep any ties or shackles in your bedroom; there’d never been any talk of tying up or restraint--

“--gonna prove it, I know you know you’re mine, baby, but other people, other people need to know--”

His obsessive rambling didn’t calm you. He drew his tacky hands down your back to the swell of your ass, and he kicked open your legs, putting you in a more precarious position without your feet under you. You heard the soft noise of a zipper, even with both his hands still on you, spreading you open so your pussy was exposed.

“--I’ll show ‘em, it’ll be a giant neon sign announcing to the world--”

You had no idea what he meant, but could only imagine it was some sort of other phasmagorical trick he could conjure. Maybe he’d brand you with his name? Maybe he’d claw you till you were bleeding, leaving scars which would give other people pause to even talk to you? His cold fingers dragged themselves through the folds of your pussy and automatically your back dipped to allow him better access. He chuckled through his word vomit and now the head of his cock, wider than his fingers, followed their same trail. You relaxed as best you could against the restraints stretching your arms, knowing what was coming next. With one hand still gripping your hip, when Beetlejuice found where he wanted to be he thrust forward and filled your cunt with one motion. With zero preparation and a slaughtering as foreplay, the friction was immense and you cried out. You’d fucked him often enough that he opened you up easily, and the tight drag and pull lit up your nerve endings anyway. Your cry of surprise that devolved into a moan made him chuckle again. The hand he’d used to hold the base of his cock while he seated himself inside you came up and slapped your ass more sharply than you expected and you jumped and yelped, which only spurred him on more. He did it again, this time spanking you lower on your ass. You felt the extra sting of his ring making heavy contact with the thin skin of your upper thigh.

Through it, he fucked you at a blistering pace.

You cried out with each thrust; you groaned each time he pulled back. You’d have reached behind yourself to grab at him, to hook your fingers into his waist, or slipped a hand under you to finger your own clit, but neither of those were options since he decided he wanted all the control himself. You had no choice but to enjoy the rough ride. Beetlejuice hadn’t stopped talking, although it was now interspersed with his own guttural groans. “--fuck-fuck-fuck, your fuckin’ cunt is the best, baby--it’s mine an’ I’m gonna make sure people fucking know it--”

Going to your tiptoes, even with your legs spread to accommodate him, helped tilt your pelvis so he managed to thrust against the perfect spot inside you, even if he didn’t do that on purpose. Drool made a wet spot under your cheek on the mattress, because he drove such pleasure into you it was difficult to remember to do something like close your mouth or swallow. “--gonna fucking fill you up, fuck! Gonna, gonna--” Beetlejuice leaned over you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress. He hadn’t shed his clothing, you learned with a start, as the still damp-with-blood fabric of his jacket and shirt chaffed over your back. You wiggled more out of disgust than pleasure at the feeling of it, but he didn’t seem to recognize that subtle difference, or he didn’t care. He moved one hand to entangle itself into your hair again, to steady himself and stretch you back towards him. With his face now against your neck he grunted, “--gonna fill your cunt with come, baby--”

You gasped at those words, and he laughed again. “--oh, you like that? You like the idea of this dead guy’s come up in your pussy, smelling like me, huh? No one’d mess with you then, so full of rot--gonna flood your cunt--”

Was that even possible? Typically he liked to pull out and come on you, and yes it didn’t smell great but it was easily washed away. If he came in you, would the stench linger? The thought terrified you. The thought also excited you. You should be ashamed and alarmed, but just couldn’t be; him positioned on top of you, his cock still hammering into you, throwing sparks of bliss keep into your belly, promising that no one else would want you, you couldn’t do anything but take what he gave you and it was so, so good--

With a howl, you came around his cock, your pussy spasming even as he continued to thrust into you. He was still talking but your ears were ringing, and in another few moments, while you worked to catch your breath, Beetlejuice yanked your hair hard enough to make you cry out, and shoved his hips so hard into you it actually hurt, and groaned during his own release, deep inside you, just as he’d promised.

He didn’t immediately pull out and roll off of you either, as typical. He stayed right where he was, rocking his hips through his orgasm as if actively working his come to where it needed to be to leave your pregnant. After several moments and slowly feeling like you were going to have to struggle to get him off you so you could draw a full breath, he pushed himself up and back. You heard him fiddling with his fly again, and wondered if he even dropped his trousers during at all.

As his cock left you a gush of wet soaked you and the edge of the mattress. Beetlejuice grunted and shoved his fingers up against your pussy as if to push his come back in. You stretched and wiggled against the restraints on your wrists, and suddenly they were gone too.

You rolled over, not caring that whatever bloody mess he’d transferred to you would be on your bedding now. You weren’t sure how you were supposed to feel.

The specter still looked like he worked in a particularly unsanitary butcher shop. Instead of stripping or anything else remotely politely human, he dropped onto the bed bedside you and spooned into you, like all this had been normal.

“I fucked up, baby,” he whispered, to your amazement.

Oh! Maybe he did see that he went overboard and unnecessary!

He sighed and kissed your shoulder. You felt the imprint of his teeth, but he didn’t bite you. In an even lower voice, he continued, “I should’ve kept that guy alive so he could’ve seen all that we just did there. Then I shoulda fuckin’ offed him.” You kept your mouth shut once again, and just lay with him like he wanted.

fin

#writing #fanfiction #Beetlejuice #Keatlejuice #Beetlejuice x reader #dark #vicunaburger #clairjohnson #movie Beetlejuice

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100dad · 3 years

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The 6 things that crushed dads in the last 50 years.

This experiment is over. It is a complete disaster. A failure. Single moms are not the answer to a better society. Stupid dads are not the answer for a more united America. Locked-up dads are not the answer. Uninvolved dads are not the answer.

The studies are boring to read but unanimous. When dad is in the home (regardless of the quality of dad) kids perform better in school and achieve higher education than their peers with no dad in the home. Income is higher in a home with a dad in it than in homes without a dad. Poverty rates skyrocket when there is no dad in the home. Dependence on welfare skyrockets when dad is no in the home. Crime rates are crazy high in households that do not have a dad present. Kids raised in a home with dad present have much more opportunity in life.

Teenage pregnancy skyrockets in households without a dad, leading to a continued cycle. Mental health issues are much higher in homes where dad is gone. The odds are ever in your favor when Dad is home. Your odds tank when dad is gone. That is white paper research. Decades of studies. Government-funded. From many many different research organizations.

This is what we have done over the last 50 years to destroy the family unit and take Dads out of the home.

Shift in Workplace

The shift in economics was a real cause. Dads were home and their presence was felt. They were often farmers or local merchants. As the world shifted so did families. Small farms disappeared. Industrial Revolution called for workers to spend long, hard, dangerous days away from the home. Eventually, companies became bigger and bigger with national reach. Local shops shuttered in exchange for big box stores. Sales became a leading career. Dads traveled, they moved, they spent more time away from their families. No more working side by side in the fields. No more being taught how to fix things and make the farm run. No more stopping by dads store and spending time learning the family business. Now dad was either out of town or working for a company where having your family stop by would be frowned upon.

Let’s not forget more and more women going into the workplace. Which often meant more and more influence in raising kids not coming from the parents. Even with Dad gone, to some extent, mom kept his memory alive in the house. “Our” rules were still enforced. Our values. And Mom was gonna tell dad when he did get back home.

Move to Public Education As the world keeps on spinning most people go with it. And public education became and has become a massive influence in American lives. I’m not going to bash public education because education truly is important. There are other options, and our family has avoided the public-school route. Education in small schoolhouses was a much different picture of education than it is today. Today’s kids spend an incredible amount of time inside the school system and much of that time is not productive. Todays students graduate not nearly as educated as they should be. The US ranks very poorly in worldwide education standards despite being the heaviest spender. Regardless of my views here 2 things come from this shift. A massive amount of the day is spend being influenced by people who are not Dad (or Mom). And since teaching is a field dominated by women there are arguments that the shift of so much time without male role models is the reason masculinity has declined and become attacked.

Court Systems

Ask any dad that has had to go through the court system and he will admit the deck is stacked against you. Courts have predetermined that Dad is not important and his value is in check writing. “And if you force our hand then fine---here are some days you can see your kids. Be thankful for the scraps we just tossed you.” – Signed family judges everywhere

Family Courts have crippled Dad's influence in kids' lives. And its politicians that create the laws and incentives Judges follow. Did you know states receive federal dollars based on how much they are having to collect in child support. If you want to know why courts stack against dads and care mostly about child support.......there is some real incentive for states to get the child support number as high as they can.

My other target is Dads here. As much as I am disappointed in the judges. Dad allowed the situation to get to a point where a judge decides what he can and can’t do. I know moms are at fault too. But this is a dad page. Dad’s – Sex can make babies. Stop having sex with crazy women. Marry women you want to spend your lives with. Make sure you guys are on the same page with life- how to manage money, how to raise kids, how many kids, what faith you are and want to raise kids in, how involved in-laws can be in our lives…. these are some of the biggest issues. Some of these divorce stories I hear, ya’ll can do better.

Politician Passing Stupid Laws

I do not like politicians. I think they are all slime balls. Even the ones you like. Especially the ones you do not like. They make incredibly stupid laws. Lets call out these idiots for a bit, not that they will be held responsible or even accept blame.

Child support is collected by states and used as the measuring stick for how much federal money states get. States get more money from the federal government when they collect more child support. Wonder why dads don’t get custody when they should? Wonder why Dads get stuck with a heavy bill and limited contact?

Welfare rules and government incentives finance the breaking up of families because hell the government will pay you for that. Politicians create laws that incentivize the breaking up the family unit especially in low-income and minority families. There has been a real effort to replace the husband and the father with a government handout.

There is a lot of chatter about laws passed that disproportionately took minority fathers out of the home and into jail for relatively minor offenses. I haven’t seen enough to make a judgment, but I would not be surprised at all.

Remember while there is always someone to blame-- we can take power out of the courts and politicians' hands by making good decisions and not ending up reliant on government money or stuck in their courts. When dads step up and become great we make all this way less relevant.

Entertainment Finds Ratings in Crushing Dads

Gone are the true role models of Dads. The Leave It to Beaver type dads are gone. The Dad with high integrity, that did not get caught up in drama, and was always good for dispensing wisdom and seriousness. Now the leading TV dads are the butt of the joke. While I admit it's often funny. I’m also certain we are a culture easily influenced by entertainment and the stigmas in tv influence generations and how they act. Now they are idiots. Mom is the smart one that really does everything. Dad drinks beer, watched tv, groans about doing any work, loves sports more than his family, and is clueless and clumsy. Luckily, mom is there to do literally everything. No respect, No honor, no integrity. Let’s be honest…. that doesn’t get laughs. Decades of that humor on top of not actually having dads in the home and a dramatic rise in how much we watch tv has reshaped what many men think a dad should act like and be like. It’s a wrong interpretation and families are paying the price. It must be recognized that tv dads are punchlines, not actual real dads that should be modeled after.

Feminism

Before I get torched let's clarify a few things. Women are great. Women are strong. Women are smart. Women are capable. I am not saying otherwise. Feminism was needed for the evolution of the world because there was no voting for women and workplaces shy’d away from women and certainly would not pay them well. And at higher levels of business, they were being turned down opportunities when they were more qualified and talented. It was needed. Some feminists have taken the cause way further. The ones saying women should be single and not get married. Single moms are better than married moms. Career women are better than stay-at-home moms. This is where the rest of the world rejects the cause. Now feminists divide and attack women. It's more that men are evil and toxic. These views attack marriage, child-raising, and healthy families. That’s simply wrong.

You tie all these together and you see how they feed each other. The feminist desire to put all women in the workplace means there’s more burden on school systems to raise kids. The courts and politicians feed the "see men are bad" crowd. Entertainment rears a generation that is not influential and present in their kids lives. The cycle turns and turns spewing out more and more kids born out of wedlock. Not raised in the family unit. More likely to be raised and influenced by underperforming schools and disappointing entertainment options.

Dads – Break the cycle. Avoid this fate. Be a prominent and influential role model. Stay away from the courts and politicians. The more we know and recognize the more we can fight against this rigged system. Just because the deck is stacked against you doesn’t mean you won’t come out on top. Shoulder back, head up high, power forward. You got this.

And to the rest of the world. This is a stupid trend. If you want to make a world a better place with less crime, poverty, less welfare, fewer taxes (because of reduced crime and welfare), better communities, better education….it goes on and on….DO EVERYTHING YOU CAN TO KEEP FAMILIES TOGETHER!!!!!!

Make Dad the center of the family. Make dads the source of wisdom and influence. It solves so many problems in this country!!

Follow 100% DAD on www.100dad.com & Social: Instagram: @100Dad Facebook: @100Dad TikTok: @100Dad YouTube: 100% Dad Twitter: @The100Dad

#parents #fatherhood #father #dads

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keeperofhounds · 4 years

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Minority Report (Quirkless)

Hello, I am a college student studying abroad in Japan. I would like to share the similarities and differences between the United States and Japan. This is to expand and teach others about how Japan is like to people from the outside.

This story was inspired by @aconstantstateofbladerunner who wanted a story that expanded on the world of My Hero Academia. Note this story takes from modern day Japan, but as an American it might not be entirely accurate.

Recently I bore witness to an event that shook me to the core, there was a student. Normally this wouldn’t matter if I were to describe him, I would go so far as to say that he looked like he had a bad attitude. You could see it with the way he carried himself and glared at everything as if it all personally offended him. Yet, I don’t want to focus on him, that student will be mentioned later. What I want to focus on is another student who was at that event on the same day.

At first glance you can tell the other student is nothing special. In fact he’s very plain with nothing special about him. I would even say that he might be shy with how he held himself, trembling, looking at the floor when the heroes were talking to him. Not that I blamed him those talks were actually scolding.

You see dear reader, this boy did something crazy, he went running towards a villain, and from what I heard that same boy was quirkless. Let me give you some context on what was happening before this kid came running into the scene, throwing his backpack and clawing desperately to give a victim breathing air.

Earlier in the day at around 3:30 pm (roughly the time when schools let out) a villain with a sludge like quirk robbed a store. Luckily the occupants at the time were not seriously injured after the villain left, in a stroke of luck All Might, the symbol of peace happened to be in the area and gave chase. At some point All Might lost the villain in the sewer system which can be described as long winded and confusing, which allowed the villain to find a hostage.

After some research after the story broke the hostage's name is Bakugo Katsuki, he is a middle schooler with a quirk that allows explosions to be set off from his hands. When he was caught, the student tried to get away as any reasonable would try to do in this situation, this in turn caused complications. The heroes were unable to find a way to extract with the sludge villains clutches.

I’m not going to focus on them, what I want to focus is on the other boy. Despite all my investigation I could not find the name of the boy in any publications about the incident. There was one thing that stood out however and it was the boys status. He was quirkless.

At first I was surprised, but then I was impressed, not unlike a blind person learning to play the piano, or a deaf person learning to sing. Although these might be poor comparisons given the situation it did answer some questions I had in mind, but also bring some more questions. I finally knew why the heroes were scolding him, but I also noticed they were praising the other boy.

Not to rub salt on a wound or blame the victim, but the boy made things worse not only himself, but the people around him. Not to mention the heroes stood frozen as a child ran into the fray doing only enough to give another time to breathe. It’s a small thing, but it mattered the most.

Knowing this, I would have expected people in the area to talk about what happened. News stations talking about how this kid brought enough time for All Might to swoop in and save the day, but nothing. They talked about the victim, they talked about All Might, they talked about the villain, but they never talked about the other boy.

What happened? In the United States the local news stations are always about bringing up local heroes, even if it’s as simple as inviting a stranger into their home for thanksgiving after a mistaken phone call (the stranger accepted), but nothing in Japan. It was as if the other boy was erased from the narrative all together.

I was simple to figure out what happened, the people involved were embarrassed. I couldn’t fathom about what made this kid different until I really thought about it. While in Japan I noticed an unusual tell when it came to people introducing themselves, they always said their names, and the types of quirks they had. This was especially true with children when my co-worker brought them to work.

It really started to make me wonder, but I didn’t want to make any assumptions. I knew that Japan had some issues when it came to how they did things. I know the United States still has issues when it comes to descrimination and racism, but when you really look around there is something clearly wrong. In Japan not once have I ever seen or heard of any people without a quirk.

I asked a few of my co-workers in the college what was up with that, and they told me that they didn’t think that quirkless was still even a thing in this country. Which made me wonder even more, I didn’t like how flippant the dismissal was from my friend. Another stated that the hate speech on the internet they have found in chat rooms has increased.

According to NGO reports, incidents of hate speech against minorities and their defenders, in particular, on the internet, grew. The national law on hate speech applies only to discriminatory speech and behavior directed at those who are not of Japanese heritage and is limited to educating and raising public awareness among the general public against hate speech; it does not carry penalties.

Further research shows that “Quirklessness” is a disability in Japan, with similar protections to any other disability by law. The Basic Act for Persons with Disabilities prohibits discrimination against persons with physical, intellectual, mental, or other disabilities affecting body and mind and bars infringement of their rights and interests on the grounds of disability in the public and private sectors. The law requires the public sector to provide reasonable accommodations and the private sector to make best efforts in employment, education, access to health care, or the provision of other services. The laws do not stipulate remedies for persons with disabilities who experience discriminatory acts nor do they establish penalties for noncompliance. Other law mandates that the government and private companies hire minimum proportions (2 percent) of persons with disabilities (including mental disabilities) or be fined. Disability rights advocates claimed that some companies preferred to pay the fine rather than hire persons with disabilities

Nonetheless, persons with disabilities faced limited access to some public-sector services. Abuse of persons with disabilities was a serious concern. Persons with disabilities around the country experienced abuse by family members, care-facility employees, or employers. Private surveys indicated discrimination against and sexual abuse of, women with disabilities. While some schools provided inclusive education, children with disabilities generally attended specialized schools.

Mental health professionals criticized as insufficient the government’s efforts to reduce the stigma of mental illness and inform the public that depression and other mental illnesses are treatable and biologically based.

As I write this article, I am appalled at the complete lack of protections and descrimination faced by the minority. It’s as if they don’t exist in the eyes of the public and the government. There this one article written by a reporter, who covered a murder, but some how they spun it to make it sound like it was the victims fault. The victim was an elderly man who was attacked while on his way home with some groceries. Apparently there were many witnesses, but no one was willing to come forward.

Interviews stated that people assumed that someone else would help, that a hero would come to save the day. Others just didn’t care, assuming that the injuries weren’t as bad they looked. The perpetrators were never found and this murder became a cold case. To me this is clearly a hate crime, but to them it’s nothing, but another statistic in a growing trend.

I feel pity for that boy who ran, but at the same time maybe it’s better if people don’t know he’s quirkless. I bet life is difficult, I just hope that someone else see’s a good kid and sees what he has other than what he doesn’t. We need more people like him, because some people are too busy being full of themselves.

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Sections of the text is not my own but taken from https://www.state.gov/reports/2018-country-reports-on-human-rights-practices/japan/ (This in regards to italic passages)

If anyone has ideas on what should be brought up next, please leave a message. Not to mention any other reliable sources of information about Japan.

#boki no hero academia #my hero academia #my fanfiction #worldbuilding #QUIRKLESS #bnha quirks #midoriya izuku #bnha izuku #bnha toshinori #All Might

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