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jamaisjoons · 5 years

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intro: her mini #1 ⤑ knj | m

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 you enter namjoon’s life in the most unexpected of ways, but will you be able to stay, especially when he comes with three adorable but chaotic children, even more chaotic best friends and a bitch of an ex-wife? not to mention your own emotional baggage. 〞singe dad au.

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: single dad!namjoon x marine vet!reader

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: fluff

❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 2.1k

⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: none! just jiminie being an adorable baby

➵ 𝑎/𝑛: I wasn’t actually going to update this series until after spooky month, but then miss Sora suggested I write a lil drabble in celebration of Jimin’s birthday and I just couldn’t resist!! However,,,, this is clearly longer than a drabble and thus ITS A MINI!!! So here we are!! // dedicated to @honeymoonjin who I love with my entire heart and soul ♡

⏤ Main Series Masterlist

“Noona!” Jimin calls out. Smiling brightly, you wave at him. The six-year-old runs towards you, his little backpack bouncing in tandem with his hair.

“Jiminie! Hi Puppy! Did you have a good day at school?” you ask, crouching down to his eye level.

“I did! Where’s Daddy?” Jimin asks, curiously looking around for his father. You bite your lip, sending him a small smile.

“Daddy had to work today, so noona is here to pick you up. Where are Taehyung and Jungkook?” you ask, looking behind him for his brothers.

“It’s Wednesday! Gukkie and Hyungie have art club!” Jimin replies, smiling brightly at you.

“Oh? Joon didn’t tell me anything about that. Okay,” you reply, a slight frown marring your face.

“Noona,” Jimin suddenly whispers, his chubby little hand tugging at your jumper as he draws your attention back to him. Turning to him, you quirk your eyebrow, watching as he nervously looks around. His little feet shuffle around and you notice that he has one hand behind his back - clearly hiding something.

“Jimin? What’s wrong Puppy? What do you have?” you question, gesturing to the hand behind his back.

“Daddy’s not here? Are you sure?” Jimin asks, his voice hushed and tone almost conspiratorial. From his tone, it seems as if he’s almost hoping Namjoon isn’t around. Cocking your eyebrow, you look at him in surprise. It’s completely unlike Jimin to not want Namjoon near him - the boy was practically attached to his father.

“Daddy’s definitely not here, no. It’s just you and me today. Is everything okay?” you ask softly. Jimin bites his lip.

“If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell Daddy?” Jimin asks, his eyes widening and lip jutting out in the cutest puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen. You’re at a loss for words. You wish you could promise him that - but Jimin isn’t your child and if it’s something Namjoon needs to know, then you’re almost duty-bound to tell him.

“Jimin- honey, I can’t promise that. What if Daddy needs to know?” you reply. Jimin sniffles slightly and your heart breaks a little.

“Please noona!” he begs and the slight whiny tone in his voice has you caving in with a sigh.

“How about this? You tell me first and I’ll decide whether Daddy needs to know or not?” you say, attempting a compromise. Jimin’s face scrunches up adorably, his cheeks puffing up as he ponders your offer. Then, with a nod, he thrusts the hand behind him in front. Your eyes widen when you notice the plastic bag filled with water, a fat little goldfish swimming around. From the golfball like shape and its thick domed, opalescent scales, you know it to be the Pearlscale goldfish.

“Jimin?” you wearily say. As much as Namjoon loves sea creatures, you know the boys are forbidden from having pets. They’re still too young to properly take care of them and with Namjoon’s busy schedule, he just didn’t have the time to parent three kids as well as a pet. It’s also why the boys were so incredibly close to Rap Mon - he wasn’t technically their pet, he’s yours.

“Hanbinnie’s fishie is sick! I told Hanbinnie that my Noona is a sea doctor!” Jimin says, smiling proudly at you. Your heart lurches, face softening at his use of ‘my Noona’ before he continues, “So here! Make him better!” Jimin says, a wide grin on his face as he thrusts the bag into your face. Reeling back, you startle slightly before gently taking the bag out of Jimin’s hold.

Carefully, you inspect the goldfish. It doesn’t look sick you think - but then you spot it. Cotton-like white growths form along the underbelly of the goldfish, obscuring the iridescent orange scales. You frown slightly. A fungal disease? It’s not particularly contagious - however, it can lead to fatality - even in hardy creatures such as goldfish. Though, from what you know of the Pearlscale goldfish, they’re incredibly sensitive and vulnerable to changes in temperature or pH; and with the weather getting colder, it’s no wonder that the fish caught a fungal disease. It does, after all, only occur due to stress and a lowered immune system. Once done examining the fish, you let out a deep exhale.

“Puppy,” you sigh, “goldfish die sometimes. They’re not pets people keep for a long time,” you continue, trying to be as delicate as possible. The minute the words leave your lips, however, Jimin’s eyes begin tearing up, his cute little button nose turning rose as his bottom lip quivers.

“No! Noona, please! Save the fishie,” Jimin cries, little whimpers escaping his mouth. Instantly, your heart breaks and you gather the sobbing boy into your arms. Jimin clutches your shirt tightly, little fists curling into the material as his tears soak into the fabric.

“Oh honey,” you coo, gently petting his head as you try to console him. Jimin always did have the biggest heart in the world and he loves animals - you know from the way he gets excited every time Namjoon brings him over to the aquarium and he gets starry-eyed - or the way he cuddles up and strokes Rap Mon while telling your pup about his day. Indeed, Jimin has the biggest heart in the world - and apparently, just the thought of someone else’s fish, not even his own, passing away, has him crying in your embrace.

“Please noona,” Jimin sobs, little hiccups escaping him. Taking in a deep breath, you put him at arm's length. You cup his face in your hand, your thumbs brushing away his tears before placing a soft kiss on his forehead. Jimin snivels under your ministration, body slightly relaxing in your hold. Then, you hand him the water-filled bag and easily pick him up into your arms.

“Alright, Puppy. Let’s see what we can do, yeah?” you finally say. Jimin’s lips curl into a large, watery smile.

“Yes! Thank you Noona!” he cries, laying his head on the crook of your neck before snuggling into you as he delicately holds the goldfish.

Face softening, you pull him tighter into you as you walk to your car. How hard could it be to treat a goldfish after all?

Sitting in your lab, you carefully move the goldfish from the bag and into an antiseptic, empty tank - of course, after making sure the tank’s conditions were suitable for it. Jimin stands close to you, hands on the table as he peers over the edge, watching you carefully. He’s barely tall enough to overlook your actions and even as he stands on his tiptoes, only the top of his head and his eyes make it over the counter ledge. Carefully, you grip onto the fish, making sure to keep your clutch gentle while also holding firmly enough so it doesn’t slip out of your grasp - not that your latex glove covered hands are helping.

Plopping it into the tank, you watch as it frantically swims around its new location. Undoubtedly, it’s stressed - not only from your handling of the creature - but also from its new environment. Hopefully, however, it acclimatises pretty quickly. You know that additional stress can lead to white spot disease - and considering the fish is already ill, you want to avoid any further strain on its immune system.

As you leave it to get acclimatised, you move along to gathering the different equipment you’d need to treat it. Jimin watches you with hawk-like eyes before he begins following you around like a lost puppy. Once you’ve gathered the correct equipment and treatments, you take a seat at your laboratory counter once again.

You begin by undoing the filter from the tank, taking out the active carbon as swiftly as you can before replacing it: after all, the fish needs clean water if you want it to recover as soon as possible. When you replace the filter once again, you feel Jimin tug at your trousers. Turning to him, you let out a little laugh as he holds onto the legs of your slacks, his little body jumping as he attempts to crawl into your lap.

Unsnapping the gloves from your hands, you wrap your arms around him and pull him into your lap. Jimin grins at you before shifting into a more comfortable position. Your arms cage his body as you resume working on the fish. Jimin’s eyes follow your exact movements, watching as you reach out for a little brown glass bottle. He turns to you, his head tilting up slightly.

“What’s that noona?” Jimin asks, curiosity laced through his voice.

“Methylene Blue,” you hum back in response, not really thinking about your answer. Jimin’s features twist, his face falling.

“What’s what?” he asks. You stop, letting out a little laugh.

“Sorry honey,” you apologise. You’d completely forgotten that Jimin is simply a six-year-old and not a trained veterinarian like you are, “it’s a type of medicine. To treat your friend’s fish,” you explain. Jimin nods in response, turning back to watch you carefully unscrew the lid before he once again turns back to you.

“Can I help?” he inquires, his head tilting to the side. A smile curls on your lips before you nod at him. Jimin grins brightly in response before excitedly placing his little, chubby hands on the back of your own. His hands follow yours as you treat the tank with a few drops of the solution, watching as the colour of the water tints blue.

“Is that it?” Jimin asks, his body moving forward as he stares at the fish in interest. With a chuckle you shake your head, instead, reaching for another bottle.

“Not just yet. We need to add the freshwater aquarium salt and then let the fish do the rest. Hopefully, it will recover soon,” you reply gently. Jimin nods enthusiastically.

“Hanbinnie will be so happy! I can’t wait to give him back his fishie and tell him my noona made him better!” Jimin happily says as he kicks his legs enthusiastically. Once again, your heart swells at his use of ‘my noona’.

“Would you like to add the salt, Puppy?” The words tumble out of your mouth before you even think about them. Jimin sits up in interest, his entire body perking up as he nods frantically.

“Yes, please! Can I?” he asks, the words racing out of his mouth as he buzzes with excitement. A light laugh leaves your lips and you stroke his head before nodding. Taking the bottle in your hand, you measure out the appropriate amount into a beaker before handing him the glass jar.

“Okay, just sprinkle this over the water and then we’re done!” you reply. Jimin carefully takes the beaker into his little palms, the jar almost dwarfing his hands. Then, with the utmost look of concentration and his little tongue poking out of his plump lips, he carefully sprinkles the salt over the water.

“Like this?” he asks, nervously turning to you.

“Just like that!” you reply, arms automatically wrapping around his plump little belly. Jimin keens under your praise, smiling brightly as his eyes turn into little half-moons. When he’s done, he places it back down and leans his head into the crook of your neck, watching as you finish off by stirring the water - as gently as you can to not disturb the goldfish - so the salt mixes in.

“All done! Now, I’ll need to keep Hanbin’s fish here in the lab under observation for a couple of days. But when he’s healthy again, you can come and get him and give him back to Hanbin, is that okay?” you ask. Jimin nods eagerly.

“Yes! Thank you noona! You’re the best!” Jimin responds before twisting in your arms and hugging you tightly. Your face softens as you once again wrap your arm around him.

“Mhm. Are you ready to head home now?” you ask and Jimin nods once again before hopping off the chair and running to grab his coat. Laughingly, you follow him before helping him put on his jacket and wrap up warm. Then, you hold out your hand, letting Jimin’s mitten covered one grab it.

“Come on then. I’m sure Daddy, Taehyungie and Jungkookie are waiting for us,” you say as you lead him out of your lab. Before you do, however, he stops and looks at you with curious eyes. Turning to him, you cock an eyebrow as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Noona… do you think I could become a sea doctor?” Jimin asks. Your eyebrows shoot into your hairline at his sudden question, surprise filling you.

“Hmm. You’d have to work hard, but I don’t see why not,” you finally reply. Your words cause him to beam brightly at you, a toothy smile on his lips as his eyes squish together.

“Then I’m going to become a sea doctor! Just like you noona!” Jimin calls out cheerily. And with that, he tugs you out of your own lab.

a/n: i sincerely hoped you enjoyed this cute lil mini of jimin and yn,,, because I know I enjoyed writing it 🥺 please lemme know what you think!!! // intro her will officially return in november!!

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andytfish · 4 years

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FREELANCE GUiDANCE: A 10 PART SERIES - #10 Make Excuses or Make Progress

We come to the end-- I hope the advice has given you some insight and guidance into the rigors of freelance.

I'm not going to recap what I've already written, you can do that on your own, rather I'd like to take a look at the obstacles you might be facing in your drive to succeed; the biggest one might be YOU.

Are you the kind of person who often blames misfortune on someone else? Are you the kind of person who feels the world is against them? Are you the kind of person who looks at the success of others and feels a sense of jealousy or do you develop an attitude that they "just got the breaks"?

Successful people don't waste their time with blame. They don't waste their time with jealousy. Instead, they set goals, some realistic, some seemingly impossible, and they do everything in their power to achieve those goals.

Mistakes will happen. Misfortunes will come. Setbacks will occur. As Richard Nixon said in his autobiography only when we've been to the lowest valley can we truly appreciate the view from the highest mountain.

You either make excuses or you make progress but you can't do both. It's like attempting to win the Indianapolis 500 with your foot on the brake. Not going to happen, not a chance.

If you fall into the category of the excuse maker...STOP.

Today. This minute. Make a pledge and stick with it. Change the outlook and you'll change the outcome. Do you know what your goals are? If not, spend a minute to think about them and then set course to achieve. Here are a few basics to help you get started:

GOALS: Write them down. I am not one who believes in making a big deal about my birthday. When asked my age I often have to stammer for a few minutes because it's not something I ever think about- why?

BECAUSE ORSON WELLES WROTE AND DIRECTED CITIZEN KANE WHEN HE WAS 25 YEARS OLD.

That right there is enough to make me hang up my creative tools and go back into the fine world of retail, where you work a LOT of hours but if you get into management you make real money (unless you're working at Wal*Mart-- NO one should work there).

So I don't think about it. I don't set goals like "by thirty five I need a million dollars in the bank"-- rather I do it by more generic thought. "in the next ten years I want to do XX" << maybe that's all psychological but it works.

Write down your goals and then create a road map of how to get there. LINKEDIN is great for this, because through two connections on my own account you can be in touch with Jack Welsh. Amazing what technology does.

MENTOR: Find someone who's done what you want to do and try to learn from them. Most highly successful people are willing to share insight and even time with those lower down on the ladder of success. Most are willing to give a helping hand where they can, but they won't do the heavy lifting and it's easy to spot someone looking for an easy ride rather than someone who is willing to put in the effort. If you're sincere it will come through.

My favorite gallery of all time was SPACE 242 in Boston. I liked it better than many of the galleries I know in New York City and in Portland Oregon. I liked the vibe. I liked the themes. I liked that it was near the MCA so I could double up my culture. I liked that it was in SoBo which was experiencing a renewed art vibe. Most of all I liked their Halloween Show-- because it was boss.

We attended probably two years worth of shows before we introduced ourselves to Gallery Director Ami Bennet who looked at our work and soon gave us a very successful solo show at the gallery.

NETWORK: Get thine ass out and mingle with real people. It will benefit you both socially and professionally. If you're an artist, get to openings and bring business cards with you which lead prospective gallery owners and other artists to your website.

This is separate from getting out and hanging with friends-- that's important too-- but networking is getting together with your peers and people with similar interests.

TIME: Time is our enemy if we don't plan for it. Ignoring a deadline or a difficult task only puts it off until it's too late to effectively do something about it. Time with planning is our biggest ally.

I had a routine that I stuck with pretty much Monday - Friday. I would give a neighbor a ride to their job first thing in the morning, my dog in tow and we'd hit Elm Park for either a long walk or even a run around the park each and every morning. Then I'd walk the two blocks over to Dunkin Donuts on Chandler Street for a coffee and one of their lower calorie breakfast sandwiches. I was such a regular that the women who work there would know my coffee order as soon as I walked in.

I'd eat my breakfast sandwich and drink my coffee on my way back to the car and then be back in the studio by 10am with breakfast eaten, the dog walked and ready to work. I liked this routine because it ensured that I would be up early (as a freelancer controlling my own work schedule early rising can be an issue) and it also got me out of the studio for two hours everyday.

The downside was I was spending $7 on every visit.

The neighbor retired, and I kept up the routine for a few weeks but eventually I opted to make my own coffee and breakfast at home and walk my dog at the huge park near my home that was less than a half block away. While Elm Park was full of people, my park was deserted save for the occasional other dog walker or the old guy who would hit golfballs into the woods. It didn't have the same vibe, but it accomplished what I was looking for.

What I noticed was my spending money increased dramatically. I never really put it together that the $7 I was spending daily (it's only $7 after all) really added up. I decided everyday I'd drop the same $7 in a Lost In Space Cookie Jar I have in my studio. Just like Dunkins.

I kept doing it and paid it little attention. Spring came and went-- summer did too-- and before I knew it we were on the cusp of Halloween.

I decided to count the money in the Robot-- $1120. ONE THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY DOLLARS.

ONE THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY DOLLARS on a breakfast and coffee I barely even liked???

Holy hannah.

It's time you see? Time.

This works for projects, goals, money, relationships-- you name it. Time used wisely is your best friend. That's it my friends, re-read the posts, make some notes and put some of this advice to work. But most of all stop making, and stop accepting excuses.

You can do this.

Andy Fish is a freelance artist and writer who has been living the lifestyle longer than there has been an iPhone on this planet. The advice given has worked for him, it might work for you, he hopes it does. But like all advice, take it with your own situation in mind. If you want to contact him shoot him an email [email protected]

#ADVICE #FREELANCE #FREELANCE LIFESTYLE

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negasonicimagines · 5 years

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Passion

request: Buffy Prompt 6 with Yandere Ellie?

[ 6: “Passion…it lies in all of us. Sleeping, waiting, and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir, open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us, guides us… passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments; the joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we’d truly know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank… without passion, we’d truly be dead.” ]

notes: Yeah, I like Poet!Ellie & Photographer!Ellie. Leave me alone. I made Ellie a little more confident in this one, and centered it more from the reader’s perspective. Writing this made me want Brianna Hildebrand to play a yandere lesbian character more than anything ever. This Ellie is a little more goth, I think. F/H=Food (you) Hate, E/N=Enemy’s Name, and L/G=Least (favorite movie) genre. F/F=Favorite Food, F/TV=Favorite TV (show.)

warnings: Yandere, so a bit sexual & a bit violent & a bit creepy. Nothing too bad for the trope, though, I think.

Passion - Ellie Phimister

It lies in all of us, sleeping.

Waiting.

And though unwanted, unbidden,

It will stir, open its jaws, and

Howl.

It speaks to us, guides us…

Passion rules us all.

And we obey.

What other choice do we have?

Passion is the source of our finest moments;

The joy of love,

The clarity of hatred,

And the ecstasy of grief.

It hurts sometimes,

More than we can bear.

If we could live without passion,

Maybe we’d truly know some kind of peace.

But we would be hollow.

Empty rooms, shuttered and dank.

Without passion,

We’d be truly dead.

“Compelling stuff,” you breathe to yourself, realizing you’d been nearly panting at the piece. There was something about it, the darkness seductive to you. You wonder what inspired her to write this one. You’d never really met her beyond sharing a class or two, but you’d grown a bit of a crush on the star of your school’s poetry club. Her words drew you in.

“You think so?” She says from behind you, a little too close, but who were you to complain? You turn quickly, to face her and those eyes, oh god, those eyes. Absolutely penetrating.

“Yeah, I love all your work,” you compliment.

“Mind if I ask you a favor, then?” She wonders.

“Anything,” you tell her. “I mean, within reason,” you add half-heartedly.

“Well, I have this assignment for Photography that I sort of procrastinated on because I wasn’t sure how to fulfill the prompt… Do you think you could help me?”

“Sure. You really think I could help? You’re way more of an artist than me,” you tell her.

“Everyone has their own inner artist. They just need to find their medium, and...Unleash.” Her words fill you with the best kind of tension, and you squirm. “Sorry if I made things uncomfortable. I’ve been told I can be a little intense.”

Uh, yeah. Intensely hot, you think. She turns dark red, and you realize you must’ve said it out loud.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” you apologize, but she shakes her head.

“No, no, it’s fine. You’re just… Also attractive. That’s why I like to photograph you- I mean, why I want to photograph you for my project.” Something sparks in her eye, her blush fading.

“When?” You wonder.

“Would now be alright?” Ellie asks.

“Sure,” you reply, and she takes your hand, leading you to her dorm. Ellie closes the door behind her, and you smile, suddenly a bit nervous. She smiles back.

“So, this project is about… Vulnerability. The best way to make someone look vulnerable in photography is for there to be a certain balance in the lighting. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow, that kind of thing,” Ellie explains, and you find yourself hanging on her every word. You can tell she knows this, and that she likes it, a hint of cunning in her small smile. “A good way to capture vulnerability is to have the subject look directly in the camera, or in another direction that’s meaningful in the context of the picture.”

“I don’t know if I’m the best subject… I don’t really have any modelling experience.”

“Oh, no, you’re perfect,” Ellie insists. “Trust me, I had you in mind when I got the assignment.”

That creeps you out a little bit.

“M-me? Really? We don’t even know each other that well…”

The expression on her face is one you can’t quite comprehend. “Well, it’s not as much about your personality as it is about… Those eyes of yours. They’re the windows to the soul, isn’t that what they say? And yours…” She trails off, staring into them. Your face heats up under the intensity of her gaze, the intensity that draws you to her and her art, whether photography or poetry. There’s a longing inside it all, inside her, that speaks to you.

Your faces inch closer together, and, before you can think about it, your lips meet. Slowly, she pulls away from you, and your earlier-mentioned eyes flutter open. You remove them from hers.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” you apologize, but she shakes her head.

“Let’s take those pictures, eh?” Ellie gets her camera off her shelf. “Do you mind taking off your jacket?” Once the strap is around her neck, she takes the black top sheet off her bed and hangs it on the wall, covering the door. She gets a stool out from her closet and takes your jacket off for you. You shiver, the room a bit cold.

You sit on the stool, and look in the camera like she specified, a bit nervous.

“Look at me,” she suggests, but it feels a bit more like a demand. You do so, wrapping your arms around yourself. After the shutter clicks a few times, she looks through. “Hmm… I’m just not sure about these. Maybe we should do something to get you in the mood. Could you maybe talk about something that makes you feel vulnerable?”

“Hmm… I guess so…” You begin tentatively, but find yourself opening up to her in a way you’d never really opened up to anyone, about anything. Even with the uneasy feeling in your stomach, you felt like you could trust her. She’d never hurt you, or betray you, you were sure.

In the end, you’re crying softly. Before you realize what she’s doing, her arms are around you.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Y/N. I wish I could’ve been there to protect you,” she tells you, smoothing your hair from your face and wiping your tears away. “I think the shots we got today were excellent. I’m sorry for making you cry.”

“No, no, you didn’t. You’re really nice, Ellie, we should hang out more often. Especially since you know my tragic backstory and all,” you joke.

“We should,” she agrees, but her tone is suspicious, to say the least. You go to exit, pushing the makeshift backdrop aside, but she stops you, a tight grip around your arm that almost hurts. “How about we hang out, and walk to dinner together? No point in going all the way to your dorm, by the time you get there it’ll be dinnertime and you’ll have to walk all the way to the dining hall,” she reasons.

“I suppose you’re right,” you admit, and the tension returns as your eyes meet. At first, it made you nervous, but now it excited you. There was a darkness within her that enraptured you. “Here, I’ll put up the stool,” you offer, going over to the closet. You don’t see her attempt to stop you, and you open the door, putting the stool inside. You gasp.

The walls of the closet are lined with pictures of you. Looking out the window in class, eating breakfast, training, sleeping, there’s even a few of you-

“Oh god,” you say before covering your mouth, mortified.

“Y/N, I can explain, I- I just- You- You’re my muse. I can’t- I can’t stop thinking about you, I need you, I-” Her breathing becomes labored, her eyes are practically the size of golfballs. “You can’t leave,” she insists. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Y/N, I just said it! You’re my muse. You’re the reason for all my creations. Those poems, all the pictures I take, it’s you, it’s all for you. You’re my inspiration, I love you.”

“You- You love me? But you don’t even know me,” you disagree, confused and a bit frightened.

“But don’t I? I watch you all the time. I know what you don’t like, F/H, E/N, L/G... I know what you do! My poems, F/F, F/TV… I know your birthday, your favorite color, your insecurities, I know everything about you, and I want you to know everything about me. I want you to be mine, and no one else’s. I know you’re lonely. I- I can make it so you’re never lonely again. You’ll always have me, and I have friends, friends that would like you.” You can tell Ellie’s putting all her effort in convincing you… And she does seem quite thoughtful. You are lonely. You already have a crush on her, would it really be the worst to take the next step and make it official?

“Then I’m yours.”

“And no one else’s?” Ellie asks, sounding a bit meek as you both step closer to each other.

“No one else’s,” you agree.

“Perfect,” she grins, placing a kiss on your forehead. You blush, smiling back at her. “That’s a good girl…” she purrs, moving your hair so that your face and neck are more accessible to her before pressing her lips to your own. You feel her inner fire, both literal and metaphorical, in the kiss, and your knees weaken before your lips part

“So, those pictures in there… You’ve been watching me for a while… It looks like since freshman year,” you note nervously.

“I have,” she willingly admits, fingertips tenderly ghosting down your cheek and neck, to your shoulder, and back up. You shudder in pleasure, bite your lip, and look to her, restlessly. “Oh, is it like that, now? I looked through your internet history, love. I know just...what...you...like...”

#wlw fanfiction #wlw imagine #wlw x reader #yandere imagine #yandere fanfiction #negasonic teenage warhead #negasonic teenage warhead x reader #negasonic teenage warhead imagine #ellie phimister imagine #Ellie Phimister #ellie phimister x reader #marvel #x-men #marvel fanfiction #x-men fanfiction #fanfiction #yandere

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byjayr-blog · 5 years

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Divine Femininity, Power of Her Aura - Ella.

I’ve been in the arts and music industry for about 4 years or so now, and inevitably saw how the rise of women in the creative industry hasn’t been getting as much attention, so I’ve decided to start a series based on women all around the world who are in the creative industry. I ask them to share their story with me (and you :) ) as to how they got to where they are today. The series will introduce a new divine woman once a month, as my first post to this series I’d like to introduce July’s divine woman my friend Ella.

Ella is a Fashion Model currently based in Montreal, I’ve asked her to share her story with me, enjoy.

byjayr - Walk me through your story, and can you recount any specific pivotal moments (as much description as you can remember on where you were and how you were feeling)?

Ella - My story is a long one. I guess it’s not just one story at all, there’s a lot of events and challenges that have led me to where I am today. For this interview I’m going to specifically talk about the part of my story that concerns the journey I’ve been on regarding my physical appearance & health.

I’m not really sure how to start this, so I guess I’ll start at the baseline. I was a happy person. Grew up without financial burdens in a suburban white family. I kept honours in all of my classes at school, loved theatre, had very high muscle strength for my size from ballet & gymnastics, was super fit and healthy, conventionally attractive person. Everything changed in November of 2011 when I had to become a tough bag of knuckle and grit, being flown by air ambulance to Halifax for an extremely rare auto-immune disease (Rapidly Progressive Glomerulonephritis) that had given me stage 5 (end stage) kidney failure. I was a young body filled with dreams but my body disagreed with me. You lose a lot of trust in yourself when your own body turns on you.

For the first three months or so of my sickness I was undergoing chemotherapy as a method of trying to suppress and reboot my immune system in order to get my kidneys to work again. During this time, I had huge diet restrictions (basically all I could eat was white bread, gummy bears and water) and became extremely malnourished. On top of that, I was on high dose steroids with horrible side effects, making me extremely weak. All I know is that I spent the last hours of 2011 sitting on the floor, staring at my legs, being astonished by skinny they were. I was strangely proud of how undernourished and skeletal they were, I had always wished I had the will power to intentionally be that skinny- but that’s another story. Both physically and mentally my functions were imbecilic. That night I blacked out and received the a blood transfusion that saved my life, but gave me a rash from hell. Physically, you honestly couldn’t recognize me.

The transfusion helped me in gaining my strength back from the months of crawling on the ground like a helpless baby. Despite my new found dividend of health, everything I was going through at this point made me ugly. Chemotherapy had taken away my thick, luscious locks of strawberry blonde, it took away all of my fingernails and toenails. The rash that covered me head to toe was gruesome. My entire body kept shedding it’s skin like a snake, leaving behind fragile pink tender skin that wasn’t even ready to be exposed to air. I felt like an unflattering cardboard cutout of an ugly caricature of myself.

I stopped leaving the house for a solid chunk of my precious time. Alone and sad, waiting for the day I could finally close my eyes for the last time. I don’t think I saw anyone but my family and my friend Mia for at least three months. No photos exist of this time. Evidently this made it hard for me to keep up with my then “boyfriend”. In fact, I remember him asking if I’d take him back when I recovered, but all I said was “I’m not getting better”, and proceeded to ignore him. I couldn’t accept that he had the nerve to still adore me, I was so painstakingly un-sexual. How dare he want to kiss me. I knew I was no longer the girl who was all the perfect fashion, and eventually I really started to mourn for myself. I would never be glamorous, I thought, but at this point I desperately sought being able to be something completely ordinary and unremarkable. Staring at my familiar, tragic limbs- I believed my cold pink hands would never again feel pretty.

One very vivid memory I always think about is when I left to go to the mall for the first time since being sick. I slathered on a coat of the makeup watching actual centimetre parcels of skin peel like a million meaty sunburns that oozed out makeup. I started peeling and picking off the scabs but the more I peeled the more I bled. I came to the conclusion that I would have to peel off my entire face if I wanted to even out the texture of it, so I gave up. I slathered it in vaseline to glue the drooping flakes back onto my face in attempts to mimmic a smoothness and then used half the bottle of foundation to even out the colour. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror for what felt like hours. My face was the texture of a golfball; but more uneven and porous. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t even close to me. Even my eyes had grown so passive, my lids that were once a flirting device batted still- but with their sparsely fallen out lashes they were so dim, so dead.

By late February of 2012, they realized my kidneys just weren’t going to start working from the chemotherapy. They stopped the chemo and I was put on peritoneal dialysis. In a nut shell, that means they put a tube in my belly, the tube connected to a machine every night at home and ran for 8-12 hours, depending on what the circumstances were. Essentially, dialysis does the work for your kidneys, but its more of a temporary thing, and as I found out the hard way, it has lots of complications. Years went by and I had plenty of brushes with death. Plenty more stories to be told about that. But this story is about the growing pains of my confidence & beauty, not my psychical pain.

It’s 2019 and it’s been five and a half years since I received my life saving kidney transplant. My mind has a weird complex built up around how I see myself in the mirror. I often find myself comparing myself to who I was before I ever got sick. I have this way of idealizing who I was before the sickness came, and I’m always seeing the world through rose coloured lenses when I think about my childhood. Sometimes I take a look at myself in the mirror and it’s really hard. I’m so quick to notice how frayed I am at the edges like I’m some kind of hand-me-down lace. Sometimes I just feel like all of my bones are too old for me, that they creak like a dusty house full of empty photo albums because I lost so much opportunity to fill them up with all the teenage memories I had to miss out on. People tell my all of these experiences make me strong but for the most part I just find myself thinking they make me heavy. I had to grow up too fast and it hurts. It hurts but it’s going to be okay. The ocean is fucking heavy, mountains are fucking heavy, but they’re so perfect and beautiful and that’s all I should be seeing about myself too.

Today I feel secure, complex, and empowered. Maybe I won’t tomorrow, but taking things day by day is the best way I’ve learned to navigate through this world. There will always be people who take me for face value & my looks alone. It takes serious courage to love yourself in a world, in an infrastructure strategically set up to make people who have suffered trauma feel isolated, unworthy, and heavy. The caliber of experience I have endured has done nothing but expand my emotional intelligence, even if it isolates me. Our dominant culture is filled with violent myths. Break them.

J - What inspired you to do what you love?

E - The internet, contemporary situations, and people I surround myself with can be a source of inspiration/influence, but they can also be a huge form of intimidation/comparison. I used to try so hard to impress people but ultimately it just created huge insecurity blocks. Seeing other people competing for acceptance is toxic. I think it’s important to keep some things to yourself. Deconstruct the social construct of what “talent” is. You don’t have to cater to other people. The world doesn’t have to be this finite, limited space you think it is. Don’t let people devalue your creative ability and worth just because they don’t understand it. It’s their loss. My mom is the biggest loner I know and she inspires me every day. I think I work best alone and I get that from her. Maybe this sounds selfish to you but I think that more than anything, I inspire myself. My life has been one dark struggle after another and somehow I crawl my way out of it every time. I’m strong enough now to realize that being alone isn’t a bad thing at all. Isolation breeds individuality. Once I realized that, the world became a safer place for me.

J - What do you find yourself daydreaming about, and can you recount a specific daydream you’ve been having lately?

E - I want to be somewhere new. I’m so tired of Montreal. I dream of being somewhere where absolutely nobody knows my name or where I’m from or how I got there. I don’t want to talk about myself. I want to learn about other people. To get inspired by them. Lately I’ve been working on music lots. It’s something I’m really passionate about and I can’t wait to share it with people who are open to listening. All I daydream about is being somewhere warm and somewhere exciting. The last few years have been really hard on me. I struggle with a lot of issues that I’m not going to delve into right now, but my biggest dream is just to be happy. To be able to look at myself and be proud, and to make my friends & family proud too. Life moves really fast and I’m making lots of changes. Things are changing for the better, I have to believe they will. <3

Thank you Ella for sharing your inspirational and moving story! <3

Come back next month to see August’s Divine Femininity. :)

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exrussian · 5 years

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✘

For a moment, Bucky’s silent, slightly shivering. He takes a deep pull from his cigarette, entire frame tense as Steve’s fingers trace tenderly the patchwork patterns of violence etched across his skin in pale rivulets and angry pinks. What do you say to someone who is mapping out the very worst parts of you, while reverence still shines in the bright and clear blues of his eyes? There’s a lump the size of a softball in Bucky’s throat, his mouth has gone completely dry, he can’t speak even if he wants to. He’s not sure that he does, not sure whether he should lash out and scream at Steve to stop, push him away as forcefully as he can and fling himself through the nearest exit- or. Or.

And it’s the ‘or’ that gets it. Gets him to remain still, to allow the gentle intrusion, to try to will his own body to relax and accept that nothing bad can come from this. It isn’t new, the knowledge that these scars do exist, but the sensation of padded fingers that don’t mean harm pressing against them is very, very new. Finally, when the softball has reduced to a size more manageable (golfball, maybe?), he takes another drag of the cigarette before releasing a slow stream of spiraling smoke into the air. “Shouldn’t do that, y’know,” He murmurs, and now his voice is barely audible, kept low to keep from cracking, breaking. “Treat me like I’m something fragile, like I’m gonna fall apart at your touch or somethin’. I’m not fragile. I’m not beautiful, not even in a pitiful way, so stop lookin’ at me like I’m some sad work of art instead of the Frankenstein’s fuckin’ monster that I am.”

#v. | tbd #[wow whoops i made myself sad that's great]#battlesthatmatter

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salientgrievances · 6 years

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Skewed

In childhood, I suffered from several versions of weirdness and captivity. If you know me as an adult you may think that is nothing newsworthy, but it was true in different ways back then. One such account was my selective embrace when it came to pretending.

As for creativity, some things I did as expected, like join the theatre program, and write horrible, horrible (really horrible) angsty poetry. While not particularly good at art, I embraced it and produced some severely fucked up abstract pieces as a teenager. The more the teacher hated it, the more I loved it. Lots of shadowy figures and depictions of despair were had. My mother preferred my earlier works, before I became jaded to the use of colours. She still hangs proudly in her hallway my submittal to a project wherein we, the 4th grade class, interpreted Mona Lisa through the eyes of Picasso. Or I might have just come up that concept on my own. The memory is hazy.

I also came up with extremely weird and obscene songs in the back of the car with my sister, for which we never got in trouble as long as she was participating.

A friend and I came up with a game that we played for weeks called Golfball, a combination of golf and baseball that incorporate an underground dog house. I spearheaded a lot of weird shit.

Truth be told though, I was not a big make-believe guy. I suppose the educators and family members got accustomed to my disregard for imagination during playtime, but it was something that disturbed other adults.

***

There was a playground built near the library that I thought was just unbearable. It was built so that the end protruded into the mulch in the shape of a boat as if it were sailing, stupidly, through the park. There was a kid I knew from school at the helm playing captain, smugly spinning the wheel shouting “all aboard!” to me. We had never been nice or mean to each other. We had not actually interacted before, but I hate smug.

“It’s not real.”

“You’re gonna get eaten by sharks!” he barked like an ass.

“Does this look like water to you?” His mother came over in blotchy waspy way, pudgy hands on her hips, and bowed down above me “Why would you say a thing like that?”

“Cuz I don’t like dumb games.” I retorted. “and all aboard is for trains.” quothed I, rolling my eyes. She backed away. Don’t get me wrong - I played the floor is lava and built sofa forts and stuff like that. There were just certain moments, none more obviously make-believe than others, where I simply thought things were fucking stupid and I just couldn’t get on board with it.

***

I once got extremely angry at myself and threw a very rare temper tantrum. It transpired in the driveway of an old guy we called Lurch during his garage sale. He had piles of mass produced knick-knack junk for sale - his stuff kinda looked he worked at the flea market, which he presumably did. In one bin, there were fake cell phones. Now, this was when cell phones had just came out, and were built like bricks, so you could barely get your hand gripped around them. They were so big you couldn’t put them anywhere on your body or in your pockets. You couldn’t wear a clip without looking like a complete ass - even in the era of the fanny pack. My demonic stepfather wouldn’t even leave his on the passenger seat whilst driving because it would go flying when you hit the breaks; he kept it tucked under the seat belt, or just make one of us hold it. It was a ridiculous design and I hated it. But not today - I thought I had found a miniature one. One that made sense and went in your pocket, but looked exactly the same. It had the same buttons, with the same lights, and made the same sounds when you pushed them. I payed the 50 cents to Lurch and ran to the curb to call home and leave a message on the answering machine. It didn’t work. I ran up to Lurch like “This is broken I want another one.” He looked at it for holes or scratches and said “Seems OK to me.” “It doesn’t even get a dial tone.” I shot at him, and he rolled his old knuckles over his for head, sighing, and said “This - is a toy.” “Well you shoulda put that on a sign so the customers know that before they buy!” I was furious at myself and was getting a lump in my throat. I was the stupid one and I desperately needed a way to blame somebody else. This was unfamiliar. Lurch tried to explain to my parents across the street, being about as diplomatic as he could. However, the look on his face clearly conveyed “Your kid is weirdly naive but has grown-up issues at the same time. Can you come take care of this please?”

***

One year, Halloween was approaching, and I really, really wanted a particular mask from the sad people’s party store. It was a truly disgusting and hyper-realistic latex mask that completely covered your head. It sort of looked like the Toxic Avenger in a more advanced melting stage. There were eyeballs hanging from sockets in different latitudes, and a jaw that was hanging by bloody diseased threads, with the tongue ladling out of the body like a murdered cow. Various lesions were festering in parts of skin that remained, and it had gross hotdog wrinkles in the back of the neck. It was wonderful. If someone wore it in the house, the dog would go berserk, and then start peeing and running and circles before cowering in a corner. It was a disgusting piece of horror movie genius and I, upon seeing it in the shop, respectfully accepted defeat in my costume ideas; I was never going to create anything that could compete with how grotesque this mask was. I think my mother was somewhat disappointed because I had historically welcomed her creative ideas. Maybe she just wanted me to be open to her DIY approach. I did a year dressed in hospital gauze for the Mummy. I had a cowboy year too that she did a good job on. Around the age of 5, she even made a full crescent moon with a face cut-out in an altered pillow so I could be Mac Tonight, McDonald’s smoothest character to date. Perhaps she thought the mask was too easy.

“Look at it though!” “Yeah it’s pretty disgusting. What are you gonna wear with it?” “Who cares?? Just look at it!” I was shoving my hands towards the store display, doing my best George Costanza. Shortly after we got home from the party shop, I sauntered out of my bedroom wearing the mask tucked neatly into the collar of a white button down, affixed with a neck tie, some khaki slacks, and a belt and loafers.

“What the hell are you?” she asked. “A lawyer.”

***

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