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romeavecryst · 7 days

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Crush Culture˖ ࣪⊹

I. Nervous

sum: Tsukishima minding his business until he runs into someone while on his way to the bathroom.. why was his heart beating so fast, why where his hands so sweaty. Was he nervous? gross.

warnings: cursing, tsukishima having and attitude and reader having an even worse attitude, flirting, Blk!coded reader!

(II.)

.˚₊‧ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ‧₊˚.

A practice match against Nekoma, karasunos rivals. Everyone was excited well mostly everyone. The bus ride was long enough, and now he had to play, fun! Tsukishima was never one for the loudness that came with his team the stupidity that came for the two other first years to go along with it always got in his nerves. Lost in thought as he grabbed his bag tuning out the loudness. The school was big, I didn’t help people were just leaving classes as they arrived. The stares the team received, the whispers as they followed, a few girls here and there pointing out Tsukishima a fawn giggle leaving their lips as he continued walking.

“Annoying..” he muttered putting his headphones back on shoving his hands in his pockets.

Nekomas team captain had shown them a team room they could change and leave their stuff in, more spacious than the one at school. Leaving his stuff behind he went to hunt down a bathroom, he just wanted to wash his face and fill his water bottle.

He mentally punched himself for forgetting his headphones making himself seem approachable. Why would these school girls think that? After the multiple no thank you’s as he walk, he was going to lose his mind. These girls didn’t even know him yet felt the could walk up to him a simple ‘hey I think your cute.’ Would get him into their Snapchat. Yeah no. Maybe he was a dick but he simply didn’t care, he didn’t want the attention he didn’t ask for it nor put himself out there.

A solid thud to his chest knocking him back was enough to knock him out of his thoughts “For fucks sake watch where your going.” He groaned.

Looking up his eyes met a girls who was now giving him a dirty look, once an apologetic one. “Ya’ know I was gonna apologize until you decided to be a dick about it, god didn’t your mother teach you to have some manners.” She scoffed, her voice wasn’t high nor low but was still a bit deeper then what he expected a nice medium.

“Excuse me?” He glared at her.

“Your excused baby, but watch who you’re talkin’ to with that tone.” She spoke, her arms crossing across her chest as her hip piped out to the side.

Her attitude pissed him off, the red track suit she wore fitted tight different material then most track suits it hugged her body yet was still modest, on her thigh read ‘Nekoma Vollyball’ a spot on her chest ‘Manager’. Your fucking kidding me he thought. His eyes soon met her her dark ones giving him a nasty glare as he stood up straight, his eyes now examining her, her complexion was dark, the way her makeup sat in her face making her look nice and glowy, her lashes were long extensions maybe? The makeup around her eyes Smokey with a sharp wing, her lips lined and filled in slightly a dark cherry gloss coat over her lips. A gold hop in her nose matching the sets in her ears. Her hair was straight, parted to the side slicked back behind her ears her hair was a little past her shoulders.

He was definitely starring to hard because the snap of her fingers brought him back. The sound of her Acrylics making the snap a bit louder, “hello? I’m still waiting for an apology.” Her tone snarky he could see the little smirk in the corner of her lips.

He scoffed “I’m sorry?” His voice felt shaky.

Her lips pulled up quickly into a smile “thank you! And your forgiven, don’t be to late warmups will start soon.” she said walking away waving her fingers at him giving him a toothy grin, making Tsukishimas stomach tingle. Cocky little fucker. He scoffed, did that really just happen.

“What the fuck.” He said to himself his eyes wide, a half smile on his face. “What the fuck just happen.” He laughed irritably his hand touching his chest, god his heart was beating fast, are you kidding me. Did she just make him nervous. Gross. A girl being snarky and irritated towards him made him nervous.

Looking as his hands rubbing them together they were cold and clammy, no fucking way. He groaned whipping his face dramatically. He quickly opened the bathroom door. It wasn’t even the way she looked at him, her big eyes getting small as she glared as him, how her lips frowned as she crossed her arms. This is gross, disgusting actually. Why was he nervous he didn’t even know her. Plus she had an attitude her voice was annoying, but why did it continue to ring through his ears when she called him ‘baby’ her being obviously sarcastic with how her tone held it. Calling him that in a mocking manner. And he didn’t say shit back.

“I don’t know who’s fuckin’ son that is be he needs to be popped in the mouth.” She scoffed walking up to Nekomas team captain.

“Who needs to be beat up.” Kuroo asked. Getting the attention of Fukunaga, Yamamoto, and Lev.

“Some blonde kid tall lanky.. glasses. He’d be cute if he didn’t have a mouth on him.” She admitted turing away from the boys grabbing a clipbord.

“THAT SCRAWNY FIRST YEAR!” Yamamoto yelled.

Her eyes looked back at him raising an eyebrow “He’s a first year? Interesting..” she said smirking.

“I thought we were taking a break from boys.” Yaku said standing next to her his hip bumping hers.

She gasped dramatically “Yaku you act like I’m boy crazy have some more faith in me.” She smiled. “Plus I’m not into blondes.”

“It’s just that he’s blonde not even younger than you.” Kuroo said crossing his arms a teasing smirk on his lips.

She shrugged her shoulders “I’m both, Cougar, panther. I like my men well dressed, good music, treats me well and my dad has to like him.” She spoke simply her index finger tapping her chin, her gaze leaning Kuroo as the said blonde walked in to the gym his eyes meeting hers quickly, only to break eye contact immediately. She smiled amusingly “Plus he won’t know what to do with all this.” She spoke confidently her hands tracing her body.

“I hate you both. The only real person I like here is Fukunaga and maybe lev,” legs head Turing quickly about to say something only for her to cut him off “depending on the day.” She pointed at him.

“I’m gonna throw up on you.” Kuroo and Kenma said.

“So you hate me.” Yaku said, “no bae it not like that!” She fake cried.

“No no I get it.” He scoffed.

Tsukishima watch from the other side of the court how she laughed with her team mates, helping them warm up. He watched how she tucked her hair behind her ear moving it out of her face. How she talked to guys helping them with something when they came to her asking about form of how the should fix it. Her voice was faint but it was kind, unlike earlier when she spoke to him. Her eyes were the same, his heart dropped when her eyes met his, a smirk meeting her lips as she raised a brow as in saying she caught him looking again. He only scoffed shaking his head paying attention to his own team again.

Even during the match he kept stealing glances. How she sat next to the coaches talking to them while pointing at players them nodding and taking in what she said. “Yo! You got a problem blondie? Staring at our manager, I get she’s pretty but she’s not into blondes.” Yamamoto said making a face at tsukishima earning a smack to the back of the head from Kuroo.

“Don’t mind him but he’s right. Plus she’s to old do ya kid.” Kuroo smirked.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes she’s older? Third year maybe? To bad. “keep her I don’t want her. Plus she’s not even my type. I cant stand snotty little brats.” He smiled.

The two glared at him “ better watch your mouth.”

“Oh I did, I don’t like brats.” Tsukishima said popping the t.

Daichi quickly grabbed him “Sorry he’s not great with words, excuse him.” His tone apologetic as he patted Tsukishima on the back passive aggressively.

Tsukishimas snarky comments about the team’s manager obviously got back to the rest of the team and her because that whole team had it out for him. Maybe he was a bit of a dick but it’s just how he was. After saying their thank you’s he watched as the two managers, walked up to each other hugging. Saying goodbyes. As Kiyoko walked away his eyes met hers for the last time, her giving him a mocking smile waving as him with her fingers the acrylics on her nails making it seem more dramatic. He glared Turing his back to her, the tips of his ears hot, as his heart thumped heavy.

There’s no fucking was she made him nervous. Gross he doesn’t even know her name as he makes his hands sweaty and shaky.

This is bullshit.

#haikyu x reader #hq kei tsukishima #tsukishima kei x you #kei tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei x reader #tsukishima kei #tsukishima x you #tsukishima fluff #tsukishima imagine #haikyuu tsukishima #tsukishima x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader

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llovelymoonn · 6 months

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Could you maybe do something regarding being in a relationship but feeling like you can’t breathe? Like you’re being suffocated by it?

gregory orr orpheus & eurydice: a lyric sequence (via @derangedrhythms) \\ liana finck \\ fariha róisín who is wellness for?: an examination of wellness culture and who it leaves behind (via @feral-ballad) \\ victoria hannan kokomo \\ daniel segrove \\ james baldwin giovanni's room \\ richard siken crush: "litany in which certain things are crossed out"

buy me a coffee

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c-rowlesdraws · 9 months

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Well you can blame a late night browse and demily for a new follow

Im curious who your OCs are? Id love lil info dumps about them and/or just one thing you find most interesting about them

thank you!! And well if you're coming over from demily's blog then I'm assuming you like Mass Effect-- and if you don't, I'm very sorry but I am going to talk about more of my Mass Effect OCs. It's two that I haven't drawn yet, but they live in my heart and I want to draw them someday.

Lavinia Kazian is a young turian who moved alone to the Citadel after completing her mandatory military service to escape what she felt was a stifling, strict culture back home on Palaven, and to escape her stifling, strict family of decorated soldiers. She didn't realize how much harder life would be without her family's social network or money to rely on, but she's stubborn and resourceful and determined to make an independent life work. Her rotating schedule of part-time jobs includes working as a club bouncer, a dockworker, and a restaurant delivery driver on her very own hoverbike. She meets Siwa by accidentally hitting her with her bike while making a delivery-- in Lavi's defense, Siwa was jaywalking and really should have looked both ways (she isn't seriously hurt).

Miellera T'Vola is the heir (but crucially not the sole heir) to a multi-generational asari empire: the T'Vola Fruit Preserves Company, a millennia-old business valued in the billions of credits. She and her older sister have spent their lives as inseparable, carefree socialites, appearing in fashion magazines and trashy tabloids alike, but recently her sister has been trying to rehab her image as part of preparing to step into the role of CEO, and that means leaving her younger sister behind more and more. Lonely and in a personal crisis she doesn't want to examine too deeply (it would totally bum her out), Mimi has been throwing her energy--and plenty of her family's credits--into a solo pop music career. Her name, notoriety, and actual genuine talent as a performer helped her hit the charts with a splash-- but the extranet has erupted in controversy over her recent choice to wear a partial quarian helmet as part of a stage costume, to artistically distort her voice for a song. Will her career recover? Will she learn a valuable lesson about cultural appropriation? Will she get uninvited from this year's Illium Fashion Week galas??

#mass effect #mass effect oc #asari #turian #ask #catie talks

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lillxart · 14 days

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Snip from CH 9

“I never asked before, but why do you think Elenwen would want you dead? I mean, you’re really good with magic and you’re efficient with killing things.”

“HA! That’s certainly one way to put it. I imagine from an outsiders perspective that’s all the Thalmor would need from an Altmer.” Taliesin gave a dead chuckle and leaned back into his seat. Eventually she shrugged. “It could’ve been any number of reasons really. My brash attitude, my candid inability to hold my tongue–”

“–You do seem to be quite the quippy quipster 0v0”

Taliesin stopped and looked at her. Just stared at her face for a long time. Then his mind went back to the brilliant notes he just read, and then he looked back at her face again wondering how the person who wrote such notes and the ditzy Breton were the same person. “Do you have an alternate personality by any chance?”

“Wuh? 0<0 Nooooo, why? :>” There was nothing going on behind those eyes of hers.

“No reason.” Taliesin rolled his eyes. “Anyway, to put it plainly she wanted me dead because she doesn’t believe I’m a good Thalmor. I’m not a reflection of the Altmer people, not the pinnacle of bigoted lesser elf hating nationalists all the other members of the Dominion back home are.” He huffed. “Those of us sent to Skyrim are meant to shine in her own image, to make Elenwen look good… Apparently I didn’t make the cut.”

Snow White silently took in the explanation. She put her alchemist's tools down and lowered the heat of the beakers so nothing would explode. The witch found herself thinking of her own people, how she would never make the Spring Elves have to ‘shine in her own image’ and kill them if they failed. The weight of such a concept made her shoulders ache and her stomach curdle. It was beyond unfair and she hated it. Snow White looked back at Taliesin, who was staring down at a book, but not quite reading it. His brows were furrowed and he was clearly thinking about what he just told her, and of course what that meant for him. The high elves are an esteemed and prideful people. Being told that you’re not ‘good enough’ when your whole culture is based around perfection…

…it leaves a scar.

“H–Hey…! What are you doing?” Taliesin startled at the Breton making herself comfortable on his lap. “Erm–ever hear of personal space? You could at least give a little warning first!” He raised his hands, panicking a bit and not sure where to put them.

“Oh stop it -3- I promise this filthy halfbreed Breton won’t do anything to you. Just wanna have a looksee…” Snow White placed her hands on the side of his face, tracing her thumb down his cheekbone and using her index finger to trace the arch of his brow.

Taliesin’s posture went completely stiff, eyes hyperfixed on her every motion as she studied him. His mouth was twisted into a nervous frown, very unsure how he should be reacting to her invasion of his personal space. Ordinarily he’d like some–warning before someone gets too close to him, his instincts from the war making him prone to skirt away or shove anybody that could be a threat. But the Altmer really had no idea what Snow White was doing. He cleared his throat, hoping to bait out an explanation from her. To no avail, since she remained quiet which only caused his face to go red at her continued proximity.

Once Snow White had examined every part of his face she settled back gazing into his eyes. Taliesin averted his stare, acting nonchalant about the deepness in her somewhat simple actions. “Are you done whatever it is you’re doing yet? You’re quite heavy.”

“No I’m not -o- I’m tiny and light. Shut up and look at me!”

“Well that’s a polite way to ask for attention isn’t it?” Taliesin had never seen her eyes this close and for the first time noticed there were little…fractals of light deep in the grey. It would be wrong to describe them as gold, or green, or blue, but it was a mixture of all those colors. Just pure light. He found himself hypnotized by them. Since when could humans possess such a color pallet? They look like…diamonds. Seemingly satisfied, Snow White gave a hum and hopped off his lap. Taliesin felt like he could breathe again. “Do you crawl onto the lap of every man you meet, or am I just lucky?”

“You look like an Altmer to me! :D” Taliesin glanced back at her and tried to pick apart that statement. When it was clear he couldn’t make heads or tails of it, Snow White giggled and poked his forehead. “I looked over every inch of your angular face! You have a pointed nose, ears that stick out like a sore thumb, that typical tired scowl high elves have, arched and well groomed eyebrows…”

“Am I supposed to be taking this as the strangest compliment I’ve ever gotten or are you spouting nonsense again…?” He rolled his eyes mildly insulted, though still a bit flushed.

Snow White only smiled brighter. She leaned back down and traced the rims of his eyes, continuing on her little tangent. “…you also have some of the most beautiful eyes Nirn has ever seen…” Taliesin found himself blushing, heart skipping a beat and mind not even processing that she could actually mean that.

What?

Snow White took a step back. “Soooooo, you’ve got all the attributes of a high elf! >W< Which means Elenwen is stupid!”

“Poft–! What? Did you; you stuck your grubby little hands all over my gorgeous face just to mouth off Elenwen?” Now he was really lost.

“Well I had to make sure you were an elf! And you are! You’re all elf! One hundred and ten percent organically grown Altmer from the Summerset Isles! >v< If Elenwen can’t see how you’re not a reflection of the Altmer people when you are an Altmer then she must need glasses!” She pointed a finger up like a scholar at the end of their thesis.

After a moment of thought, and soothing his rapid heart from the bizarre touches, Taliesin found himself smiling at her decisive; although naive way of putting it. He found himself quietly laughing, both in bitter irony and maybe even a little melancholy. He looked down at his gloves. The clothes of the Thalmor Dominion, the shell that covers him. “It’s not as easy as simply having the ears, the eyes, the skin of an Altmer. In the Summerset Isles if you aren’t the kind of elf they want you to be then you’re no elf at all. Death is merely the fitting reward for being sub-par amongst the expected standard…”

“Taliesin. No one has the right to tell you what you are except yourself.” Her back was turned to him, going back to check on her beakers. Her voice was serious, the certainty in her tone something he didn’t expect to hear from someone of her childish persona. It made her words more raw, and made Taliesin all the more discouraged.

“Are you trying to cheer me up?~” Taliesin deflected how he felt with humor, smirk on his face.

“Just stating the obvious! ^v^” Her brew started to bubble, she decided to focus on the milk. “Ohhhhhh OoO”

Taliesin took the bait and went back to reading her magic notes, the audio of her excited giggles and the scrawls of formulas on parchment no doubt similar to what he was reading right now. After a moment to himself, Taliesin softly smiled.

“No one has the right to tell you what you are except yourself.” It’s not that simple…

…It was…a nice thought from her, though.

#skyrim #elder scrolls #tes v skyrim #oc #elder scrolls oc #skyrim custom followers #fanfiction #skyrim taliesin #taliesin mod #snowwhitethedagonborn #lorkir #snow white is lorkir #but this is like the second timeline #this isn't abandoned but I'm working on something else rn #motivation #I just love Taliesin so much #I promise I will wash his hair and shower him with the love he deserves

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abbeybutnottheroad · 1 year

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Somewhere in Italy

(Part 1/2)

I heard Grapejuice and thought about drinking wine with Harry in Italy, because even though I adore winter, I had a sudden longing for summer.

In the story Harry IS famous BUT the reader doesn’t know he is.

Hope you like it.

Pairing: Y/N & Harry

AND be warned, there’s smut in the next part, which will be posted one of the next days

Word count: 5961

(Btw I DO NOT speak Italian, so I hope the few Italian translations are correct, otherwise I’m sorry)

The sun was shining down upon the grey pavement, making it almost unbearable to tread on with bare feet. That didn’t stop Y/N from doing it though. She found it one of the most joyous things in the summertime. Walking around, enjoying the outside without being constricted to wearing shoes. This way she got to feel the earth in all its forms beneath her. And it felt wonderful. If she could do it all year around, she would. Unfortunately, though, hypothermia is very real.

But right now, it was mid-July, the days were long and warm, the nights short and starry, and she was waltzing around in her own little world, exploring the town in Italy where she usually would go on vacation. The town was very small and consisting of all she loved about the Italian culture. Everything looked like it was painted with beautiful and artistically curved brush strokes, looking simultaneously random and carefully considered. It had narrow cobbled streets, with compact crooked houses, barely making room for each other. A palette with all the warm and bright colours you could imagine covering every surface.

It wasn’t an abnormality for Y/N to walk around in her own little world. In fact, she did it more than what was probably considered healthy. But in a place like this, she just couldn’t help it.

The first time she went here she had bought a little bookstore, not able to refuse the idyllic idea of owning such a precious little one-of-a-kind thing. It was only open for two months every summer, the two months she would be here of course. But sometimes during the small vacations as well, like if she for some reason didn’t spend Christmas with her family, or during spring break. The local people of the town were always glad to see her and greeted her with great joy whenever she was back. Some even brought her flowers she could put out in the little store; others brought her wine which she much enjoyed drinking in her little garden behind her house, that she rented out when she wasn’t occupying it herself.

Walking down along the promenade, Y/N was greatly occupied by the heavenly view of the sunset over the ocean. Her habit of daydreaming had seemingly made her unaware that something was wrong. It wasn’t until she could hear the bottom of her tote bag rip, dropping all the twenty-or-so books inside to the cobbled ground beneath, that the real world got her attention again. Too late, unfortunately. Y/N wasn’t usually one to curse, however she couldn’t help but let a hissed fuck fall from her lips. Looking defeatedly at the mess, she could do nothing else but bend down, picking the books up one by one, carefully examining them to see if any damage had been done. When she got to book number seven, it became more of a struggle to find how she was ever going to carry all of them home, seemingly an impossible task to balance all twenty books in her arms. She stood up and started to unfold a plan in her head about how she could do this in the most practical way, until a deep voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Hai bisogno di aiuto?”

She couldn’t help but let a shriek leave her at the unexpected sound, nearly dropping some of the books again. But the man that had suddenly appeared in front of her was quick to reach out both of his hands, stabilizing the books in her arms again.

“Grazie.” Y/N said as a reflex, only then looking up to see who had come to her rescue.

Before her stood a man. And a heavenly one at that. He was out running it seemed, his tall figure covered in a grey t-shirt with the sleeves bend up, showing off more of his strong arms, the left one painted with ink all over, the right one only containing a few drawings. Shorts showed off his legs, another tattoo peeking out from the fabric which stopped mid-thigh, and she couldn’t help but think how she really wanted to see the rest of that tattoo. Just out of pure curiosity, nothing else. To her despair, black, squared sunglasses were covering his eyes, but she was nonetheless convinced that his face was one made by the gods. A smile so charming that even though the Italian sun was burning hot, that smile would be the reason she finally melted if she looked at it long enough.

“Vuoi che ti aiuti? Uhm, Po-posso poartare alcuni dei li-libri per te?” The man stuttered in a half Italian, half - what sounded like a - British accent. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, and he looked at her waiting to see if she had completely understood what he said, hoping internally that he hadn’t accidentally said anything inappropriate. It had happened to him a few too many times.

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at his politeness. Though she didn’t want to put him through the misery of not knowing, that he could easily communicate with her in his native tongue, as he seemed to find his lack of finesse for the Italian language a bit embarrassing.

“Thank you so much for wanting to help me. I do speak English if you would rather prefer that?” Y/N asked, tilting her head the slightest bit. She watched as a slow smile erupted on his face, followed by a defeated chuckle.

“Is my Italian really that bad?”

“No, no don’t worry, everything you said was right,” Y/N quickly reassured him, “but a British accent is kind of hard to hide”

“Yeah, I can’t really run from that.” He chuckled again, scratching the back of his neck “You shouldn’t, I love British accents.” Y/N uttered before she could even think about what she was saying. Her eyes went big, and she could feel her face heating up the moment she realized what it had sounded like. God no, that was inappropriate. She didn’t want this stranger, who she had just met, thinking that she was coming on to him. Not so soon anyways. But his reaction was another than she’d expected. His eyes, like hers, had a moment of surprise, before his whole expression changed to a more cocky one, and a smirk formed on his lips.

“You do? Mmh, that’s good to know.”

“I- I didn’t mean it like that, I just… uhm. I’m Y/N” she said. Instead of stuttering her way through an apology, a change of subject would do the situation good she thought.

“I’m Harry.” He replied, reaching out his hand for her to take. “It’s lovely to meet you. Do you need me to carry them somewhere for you?” he then asked, after letting go of her hand again, and gesturing down towards the ground where the rest of the books were laying, which Y/N momentarily had forgotten all about.

“You really don’t need to; I don’t want to bother you.” “You’re not bothering me, I’m offering.” He said so genuinely that Y/N couldn’t’ help but take him up on his kind offer. Anything else would be rude. And besides, his company didn’t seem all that bad so far.

“I guess you’re right. Yes, thank you so much. I live just down the street from here.”

Harry nodded, before bending down to pick up the 13 or so books with ease, stabilizing them in his arms. “Lead the way.”

The two of them walked side by side, down the beautiful promenade in silence for a couple of minutes, before curiosity got the best of Harry.

“What are you doing with this many books?” he asked, looking at the old hardbacks laying in his arms.

“I own a bookstore.” Y/N casually shrugged, not really thinking of it as an impressive thing. Harry did, though.

“No way! You do?” he exclaimed with excitement. “That is so cool.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. He was very fond of books himself and thought he had quite the collection at home. But it was nothing compared to owning a bookstore.

“You think so?” Y/N asked. That wasn’t the reaction she had expected, usually people that weren’t from this little town thought it sounded lonely or boring, as if most bookstore owners were somewhat weird or antisocial and introverted people.

“Of course! Is it here? In this town?” Harry asked eagerly, now wanting nothing more than to see the place. He could only imagine what treasures the charming girl beside him had collected.

“Yes. It’s just at the other end of the promenade, down a little street, hidden away between two buildings.” Y/N explained, making Harry furrow his eyebrows in confusion.

“But shouldn’t I help you carry these to the store instead?” “I’ve closed it for today. I’m just taking these home to fix them, some of them have pages falling out and are very worn.” Y/N explained to which Harry nodded, silently disappointed that he wouldn’t be visiting the store today.

As they approached a small two-story building, painted in a light-yellow colour Y/N slowed down and turned to look at Harry. “This is me.” His eyes scanned over the building while smiling to himself, as he could imagine her living there. Cozy and small, all windows adorned with bouquets of flowers in every colour, the white curtains pulled to the side to let the sunlight in.

“You can come in if you want?” Y/N muttered unsure if he was in fact just being polite, or if he did take an interest in maybe getting to know her better, as she had taken an interest in him. Harry turned his eyes away from the building, looking at Y/N instead, a smile adorning his face as he proclaimed, “I would love to.”

Inside Y/N’s small house, it looked just as he had imagined. Nearly every surface of every wall was covered in some kind of art. Posters, paintings, sculptures, flowers, plants. A whole wall in the living room was dedicated solely to a bookcase, filled to the rim with books. Earthly and relaxing colours were all around, making the space seem much less messy, than you could otherwise imagine it would. Y/N stepped over to a small dresser, standing in the hallway leading to some stairs at the end. She carefully put the books down, and turned to look at Harry, who seemed lost in a trance, studying every inch of her small house.

“This is my living room, through there is the kitchen and a door out into the little garden I have. You can go out there if you want, I just need to get these books upstairs into my office.” She said, reaching out her hands to take the books he so politely still was holding.

“Let me help you with that, don’t want you to drop them all again.” he chuckled, clutching the books in his arms a bit tighter, so she couldn’t take them from him.

Y/N looked at him for a moment before a small smile formed on her face as she shook her head slightly. Figuring there was no point in arguing with him, as she was certain he wouldn’t give in.

Her sweet voice just barely reached his ears, as she shyly uttered a Thank you, before once again picking up the books and making her way up the stairs.

Harry obediently followed behind her, trying to be somewhat of a gentleman. Though it was hard, as her small sundress flickered a bit with every stair she climbed, giving him a better view of the soft, tanned thighs hidden beneath. Dirty thoughts overtook his mind, thoughts about what it would feel like to trace his fingers up her legs, he bet himself they would be soft. He thought about how he would leave goosebumps on her skin, as she would shiver at the pleasure of his touch. How he himself would get goosebumps just by the privilege of getting to touch her.

Feeling guilty, he shook his head cursing himself, as he tried to shake the thoughts off him.

“You’ve just met her you creep, Jesus.” He whispered to himself.

“Did you say something?” Y/N turned to look at him, as they’d both finally reached the top.

“No, nothing.” Harry quickly stammered, feeling heat rush to his cheeks at the embarrassment of nearly being caught.

“Alright” Y/N just grinned, willingly believing him.

After a few steps in the narrow hall they were now occupying, Y/N turned to her left, and used her elbow, opening the door into another room. The floorboards creaked slightly as she stepped further inside, laying the books on a dark-brown, mahogany desk, standing in front of a window, that Harry assumed overlooked her small garden, she had referred to earlier.

“You can just put them over here.” she said, standing behind the desk, while quickly organising the books into different piles.

Harry obeyed, carefully putting the books down, feeling a small relief in his arms as he had carried them around for quite a while now.

“So, this is your office?” he asked, looking around him. It resembled her living room a lot, though smaller. A little bookcase was stood against the wall opposite the door, adorning books that all had labels on the side of them. He walked a bit closer until he could see what the labels read. “Repaired”, “Needs new back,”, “Pages falling out”, “Needs new front,”, “Repaired”,” Repaired”, “Keep?” and so on.

“You really fix all these books yourself?” He asked, not having thought that he could’ve been more astonished by the girl that he only had met a mere hour ago.

“Yeah, I do. It’s kind of a hobby of mine, I guess.” Y/N quietly said, not seeming like she cared for bragging about any of her talents, even though Harry thought that bragging would be thoroughly acceptable in a situation like this.

“That’s really impressive, Y/N.”

Her heart quickened its pace the slightest bit at his praising words, and she quickly looked down, investigating some of the books on her desk, so he couldn’t see her now rosy cheeks.

Looking further around the room, seeming in no hurry to leave at all, Harry noticed an old record player standing in the corner, and at least a 100 vinyl records, stacked beside it. Of course, he thought to himself, this girl is like taken straight out of the 70’s.

“Do you, do you want something? I have water, soda, wine, coffee?” Y/N asked, walking around her desk to stand in front of it.

“I would love-” Harry was just about to accept her offer, a cup of coffee and more time to talk with her seeming like the best evening he could think of, but his phone rang before he could finish his sentence. He quickly pulled it out of his pocket, muttering an “excuse me” before stepping out of the room to answer.

Y/N, who was now left alone for the first time since she met him, could finally gather her thoughts around the whole thing. She felt completely mesmerized by the ridiculously handsome man that was currently in her house. Rarely had she met someone so sincere and real, who she felt like she could listen to talk until the end of the world. At the same time, of course, she wanted to pounce him, in the truest sense of the word. Or she wanted him to pounce her, as she was much too shy to insinuate anything like that. It was like a fire awoke inside her whenever he merely looked at her. Caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t even notice when Harry appeared again, having finished his phone call.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” He asked, eyebrows furrowed as a worried expression was covering his face.

“Oh yeah, of course, sorry. I was just uhm… thinking. Is everything alright with you?” She asked referring to the call, eagerly turning the attention away from herself.

“Yeah, well no. Uhm. I really wish I could stay, but that was my friend who I’m here with. He’s managed to lock himself out of our house. Prober bonehead he is. So, I’ve got to go.” Harry explained, looking rather annoyed by the whole situation.

Y/N felt her heart drop a bit, at the thought of him leaving and only nodded her head slightly in understanding.

They made their way back downstairs, Y/N following behind him this time, all the way to her front door. Before he opened it, Harry turned around to face her, taking a step closer, so their chests were nearly touching. He looked down at the girl in front of him, wishing more than ever that it would be appropriate to kiss her goodbye.

It wouldn’t.

“I’m really sorry,” Harry said again. She could tell that he meant it, he really didn’t want to leave, as much as she didn’t want him to.

“It’s not your fault Harry. Thank you so much for your help, I don’t know how I would’ve made it home without you. I am in great debt to you.”

“Can I see you again sometime?” he uttered the words so quickly that she almost didn’t catch them. But when they finally sunk into her brain, she couldn’t help the butterflies swirling around in her stomach and the smile that appeared on her face. Y/N thought he’d never ask.

“Uhm wait here two seconds.” She said, holding a hand up in front of him, a silent gesture for him to stay put, before she ran off to the back of the house somewhere, leaving Harry a bit worried that she just wanted to avoid answering his question, and feeling like a dickhead. Of course, she wasn’t interested in seeing him again. She didn’t even know him. She was just being polite, he thought to himself. He just couldn’t help how he acted around her, it was like she-

before he could finish his thoughts, Y/N came jogging back, stopping to stand in front of him again, this time with a little piece of paper in her hand, which she shyly held out.

“What’s this?” he asked curiously, long fingers gripping for the little note, with something scribbled on it. “It’s uhm… it’s the address to my store. You can come visit it. If you want to of course. I mean you don’t have to feel obligated to do it, I- “

“I’ll stop by tomorrow.” Harry interrupted, already longing for tomorrow to arrive. Y/N’s face lit up, losing all sign of the worry it held just seconds before.

“Really?”

“Of course, I can’t wait to see it.”

Once again, the sincerity behind his words nearly had her jumping him right then and there.

“It was lovely meeting you Y/N,” Harry then said, reaching out his hand for her to take just as when they’d met an hour earlier. But this time, he didn’t shake it. He slowly lifted her hand to his lips, before leaving a lingering kiss, making everything in her tingle.

She could feel it all the way down in her toes it seemed.

He reached behind him, opening the door to the outside world which had long been forgotten by the both of them.

“Until tomorrow.” He grinned, turning around and leaving Y/N with nothing else to do than think about him.

🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷

Y/N was daydreaming again, like so often before. This time it was about late-night conversations and adventures, road trips to the hidden away treasures of Italy and drinking wine. And one particular person kept appearing in these daydreams. Certain brown curls and green eyes, dimpled smile and tattooed arms, were nearly haunting her by now.

It was around 4pm and she had been waiting all day for Harry to visit. Each time the door to her store opened making the little bells above it chime, her heart dropped a little further into her stomach when she didn’t see the charming man she was longing for. Maybe he had changed his mind? Or maybe he had never intended to visit in the first place and had just been polite yesterday? Though a part of her didn’t want to believe that. She had seen his eyes as he had asked if he could see her again. Those hadn’t been the eyes of a deceiving man.

“Alright” Y/N whispered to herself, “If he isn’t here by 4.30, I’m closing up.” She then took a deep sigh and went into the back of the store to make herself a much-needed cup of coffee.

As she came back, she couldn’t help the small squeal that left her, when she saw that she wasn’t alone in the store, because leaning against the front desk was Harry.

Harry.

Y/N’s daydreaming images had not done him justice at all. He looked even better than her brain led her to remember.

He wasn’t wearing running clothes anymore but was instead clad in blue jeans and a simple white t-shirt, a pair of squared sunglasses lifted on his head, pushing some of his curls back.

A smile immediately covered Harry’s lips, as the woman he had spent all his time thinking about came into view. Another small, flowy sundress was covering her frame, and he partly cursed her, partly himself, for what those dresses did to him.

“Hello Love.”

“I… I didn’t think you’d show up.” Y/N said, and the tone in her voice nearly made Harrys heart break in two. She looked genuinely stunned that he was standing there, in the middle of her little store.

“Now, why would I be stupid enough, to let such a lovely girl as yourself down, huh?” Harry charmed with a smile that made Y/N question why she ever doubted him. And she internally scolded herself for voicing that concern. What a great way to start a conversation.

“So, what do you think?” She asked, mirroring his smile and gesturing around her shop.

Once again Harry found himself looking in awe around a place she owned. He took a few careful steps towards the bookshelves lined parallel to each other throughout the whole bookstore. There were about twenty of them, nearly floor to ceiling of old, well-kept books. He attentively slid his fingers over the wrinkled spines, telling him, that though they were taken care of, they had also been fully enjoyed in the hands of many curious minds over the years. Every title of what you would consider classic literature was found in here, both English and Italian.

“Wow, this is, I mean… Wow.” He was astounded, turning around in the small space, careful not to miss a single thing. The bookcase she had in her living room, was nothing compared to this.

“Wow?” Y/N asked, as if trying the word on her tongue. “So, you do like it?”

“This is one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen” Harry muttered, though it sounded as if it was more to himself, than to her.

“You really think so?” Y/N couldn’t help the blush that crept onto her cheeks, and she thought to herself that it might as well stay there, since it seemed a habit of his to make her all flushed. “Are you kidding? I think this just became my new favourite place.”

Y/N watched as he pulled a book out of the shelve, carefully turning it in his hands. He looked over it in adoration, flicking through a couple of pages, before putting it back again.

“Do you want something? Water, soda, a glass of wine?” She asked, pulling Harry out of the trance he appeared to be in.

He looked at her for a moment, as if the words hadn’t fully gotten to him yet before a smile erupted on his face. This time a phone call didn’t interrupt his answer.

“You have wine here?”

Y/N shrugged and chuckled with a sly smile, “We’re in Italy, of course I have wine.”

“I would love a glass then.”

“Red or white? Or pink?”

Harry pondered for a second before deciding, “Red, please”

Y/N went to the back of the store again and appeared soon after with two glasses in one hand and an opened bottle of wine in the other.

“Follow me.” She said, brushing past Harry, who bit his tongue to stop himself from declaring, that he without hesitation would follow her anywhere she’d like.

Y/N led them in between some of the bookshelves where a door, to Harry’s surprise, was hidden in the dark green wallpaper. It opened into a little storage room filled with boxes.

“These are all the books that I haven’t’ gotten to repairing yet. They’re all just laying here waiting for a new home.”

“How do you get all these books?” Harry asked, as they continued their way out of the storage room, through another door located across from the other.

“Some I go out and buy myself, some get send to me by people who want to give the books a new life. Sometimes people exchange a book they don’t want anymore, for a book they find here, it varies a lot actually.”

“That’s really cool”

Y/N didn’t answer but instead stopped in her tracks and turned around to stand face to face with Harry. He tilted his head to the side as if confused.

She smiled at him and said, “I thought we could sit here”

For the first time since they’d stopped walking, Harry took his eyes off the girl in front of him and looked around the new location. She had let him to a little back porch at the other side of the bookstore. A narrow garden was in view in front of them, lining up to two other gardens on each side, belonging to the houses the bookstore was squished in between. The porch itself was filled with blankets and pillows, and one garden lounger with a small table beside it.

Not before long, they we both seated comfortably on the pillows, leaning up against the sliding doors with a generously filled glass of wine in their hands. It was an idyllic scene.

“How long have you had the store?” Harry asked, before taking the first sip of wine.

Y/N contemplated for a while, before answering. “Two years this summer.” She nodded thoughtfully. She hadn’t even realized it had been that long.

“What made you move to Italy to run a bookstore?”

“Well, I haven’t moved here permanently, I’m usually only here during vacations, primarily summer. But I don’t know. I guess I got tired of the boring 9-5 life. I mean I’ve never wanted to work like that, never wanted to be a part of a workaholic world where I was just one in a million who got up at 6 every day and home at 5, just to think about work when I got home also and never really relaxing. I’ve never wanted to be one of those people who were too busy to live their own life. But suddenly I had become that person. I work for a publishing company, which I love, but I was always either working or thinking about working and well, I guess this was my way to escape that, sort of. A least for the periods of time I’m here.”

Harry listened carefully to the words that suddenly seemed to flow from her mouth. This was the most he’d ever heard her talk and he silently begged for her to never stop. He could sit and listen to her thoughts forever it seemed.

Y/N on the other hand felt like she’d talked too much, never really having been a fan of talking about herself.

“Why are you here?” She asked instead, turning the attention away from her own life. “I’m here on a vacation with one of my mates. His family is from Italy, and I happen to have a house here, so we thought we would make a trip out of it.”

“You have a house here as well?” Y/N asked in surprise. She couldn’t help the blossoming feeling erupting in her stomach, as she thought that meant they were destined to meet at some point, whether it be yesterday or a year from now. It was a comforting feeling to her. It was comforting to know, that he had always been right there within reach, but just out of sight.

“Yeah, I do, I’ve been in love with the town for a couple of years now also. I couldn’t help myself.”

“What do you do for a living, if I may ask?”

Harry observed her for a minute, while she patiently waited for his answer. And when he didn’t immediately reply she felt like she had said something wrong. He scanned her face a couple times more, before clearing his throat and finally responding.

“I’m a musician, nothing special really.”

The way he had answered seemed strange to her. He had muttered the words out, not necessarily sounding angry or sad. More so, he sounded tired.

“That’s wonderful. I would love to hear some of your music. You could play it to me sometime if you want? I promise I’m a good audience.” “Hmm, I bet you are.” He chuckled, a smile finally adorning his face again.

And so, there they sat, in the back garden of Y/N’s bookstore, cozy and content for a couple of hours, slowly watching the pink and orange colours overtaking the sky as the sun went down.

Though, an inevitable question seemed to have awaited in the back of Harry’s mind all evening. Now, a few glasses in, he finally felt like he had the courage to ask, or more so, the courage to hear the answer.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” The words left him carefully, apprehensively. Y/N looked him once over before responding nonchalantly.

“I’m engaged actually.”

Harry choked on his wine as the words left her lips, and he turned to look at Y/N with wide eyes, only to see her nearly crying with laughter at his reaction. She was joking.

“God you’re a little minx, you know that? Nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/N uttered between erratic sounds of laughter, “I just couldn’t help it.” Trying to calm herself down, she put her hand up to cover her mouth.

Harry wished she hadn’t and felt an urge to reach out and remove her hand again. He could listen to the sound of her laughter for the rest of his life and die a happy man. It was better than music. As her laughter died down, she turned to look at Harry again, to find him sitting utterly still with a small grin, already looking at her, as if wating for her to continue.

“I had one, he’s my ex-boyfriend now. I’ve come to realize while I’m here, that I am fleeing from him as well.” She explained.

Harry tilted his head with a curious look. “Why?”

“He wasn’t treating me very nicely I suppose.”

Harry tensed beside her. He barely dared ask, but he needed to know nonetheless, so he could figure out to which degree he should hunt this certain ex-boyfriend down and hurt him for ever treating a girl like her badly. How anyone could ever treat someone like her badly, was beyond him. Unfathomable. Y/N felt how his posture changed slightly and saw his hand clench around the glass.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “he didn’t hit me or anything like that. It was more psychological, I guess. Slowly he just took the joy of what I liked doing away from me. When I would be reading or writing or even just working sometimes, he would scold me for being boring or antisocial. He always blamed me for never wanting to spend time with him, even though in hindsight, he was the one always away, out with friends or gaming on his computer. But, you know, slowly I started to believe him and stopped doing all those things. At the end of the relationship everything happened on his terms, and we only did stuff he liked you know? I lost myself. Then I kicked him out of my apartment, travelled here to get away and fell in love with the place. I bought this store as a promise to myself I would come back. And it’s just starting to feel like I’ve found myself again.”

Y/N took a deep breath and a sip of wine, trying to calm her thoughts down from the apparent ramble she had gotten caught in. She realized then that she had never actually spoken to someone about this, about these feelings and thoughts that led to her leaving in the first place. The explanation she came up with to her parents, were only a few sentences of it’s just because I need a change, I need to try something new, to explore the world a little. Which wasn’t entirely false, but it wasn’t entirely the truth either.

She looked down into her near empty glass for a couple of seconds, before she felt a warm hand embracing hers, that was laying on the ground at her side.

Harry couldn’t help it any longer. He needed to touch her, to comfort her, and his hand had acted like it had a mind of its own.

A tingling sensation went through both their bodies. It felt right, and neither of them would have minded sitting there for the rest of the night, simply holding hands and listening to each other’s spontaneous thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N uttered, turning her hand a bit so she could grip around Harrys tighter.

“For what?”

“Oversharing, I guess.” She answered unsurely.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Harry replied in such a tone, that she couldn’t help but turn to look at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in a while.

A serious look was on his face. “Don’t ever feel like you’re oversharing. Not with me. I want to know everything. I asked because I wanted to know. Your thoughts and feelings are valid Y/N, I would love to hear about all of them.”

She smiled at his reassuring words, and a little while went by again where neither of them said anything before Harry broke the silence.

“What are you thinking?”

Y/N hummed. She felt a little wine drunk, but in a good way, in a comfortable way.

“I’m thinking it’s late, and I’m hungry.”

“We could go out and get dinner if you want?” Harry suggested, praying in his head that she would say yes. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her yet. At this point some part of him felt like he would never be.

As she seemed to ponder his suggestion, he made a new one, desperate to find a solution that would keep her with him. “Or we could go back to my place and make some dinner?”

“That sounds lovely, but what about your roommate?”

“Ah, don’t worry about him. He’s not going to be home tonight.” Trying to hide the suggestive tone that easily could’ve appeared in his voice. He didn’t want to scare her off. But Y/N didn’t seem to mind as her eyes lit up and she grinned. “Even better.”

Part 2

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfiction #one direction #one direction fanfiction #one direction smut

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dailyadventureprompts · 2 years

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Heavy Topics: Elemental Madness and Mental Health

To catch everyone up on the discussion that’s been going around regarding the depiction of “madness” in TTRPGs, there’s a long tradition in media of portraying those suffering from breaks or disruptions to their mental health as dangerous and alien. This has not only stigmatized those people most in need of sympathy and aid but has slowed down a lot of discussions regarding mental health and by doing so created an environment where ignorance, neglect, and traumatic abuse can be perpetuated.

At the same time, this concept of “madness” as it exists in media has taken on a life of its own, seen as an almost elemental force that can pervade the world and eat away at the inherent order of things like an acid of the mind. This sort of madness has mechanics in many game systems, with characters having to resist and treat it as they would poison or a magical curse. The problem arises when these systems begin to interact with real mental health concerns: I’ve played games where taking PTSD or Alcoholism as a flaw at character creation got me more skill points, to say nothing of Lovecraftian horrors inflicting schizophrenia or obsessive compulsion as an AOE attack.

TLDR: What we have here is a topic that needs to be handled with nuance, a situation that TTRPGs have been historically bad at. On one hand as someone who wants his hobby to be welcoming and who has had long struggles with mental health, I don’t want to include things in my game that could be alienating or othering. Conversely, there is a place in gameplay for both mental strain and psychic fuckery but those systems need to be handled with tact and placed at a remove from mental health conditions which should be something dealt with more on the character side of things. If we really want to cement this gap, I propose separating “elemental madness” into an actual force that doesn’t just afflict the mind, but reality itself, afflicting the targets and their surroundings with a dreamlike surrealism.

I’ll talk about my reasoning behind elemental madness below the cut, as well as why it’s fucked up to try and deal with real mental health issues through game mechanics.

Madness as genre conceit: Every culture has superstition surrounding mental health, but as the western enlightenment gave way to industrialization the old thoughts about demons and visions from god gave way to the concept of insanity as illness, and that those experiencing or expressing abnormal behaviours or beliefs should be confined just like those suffering from any other form of contagion. It was this tradition that intersected with one of the most prolific writers of the 20th century: Howard Phillips Lovecraft and the xenophobia that underlined his work

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Lovecraft was terrified of the unknown, in that if he didn’t understand something he was very likely to write a short story about it being the vessel for a life ruining/world dooming horror. Central to his work is the idea that there are things one can learn that can break the human mind, entities so vast or so terrible, truths so impossible, that it destroys a person’s ability to reason and leaves them to gibbering terror (his natural state apparently). This is the form of madness that d&d has inherited, the sort of thing that has cultists pledging themselves to gods intent on ending the world, and villains acting in nonsensical ways because they have to do something in order for the story to make sense.

Madness in this way is a crutch for lazy writing, a means by which an author can move their narrative chess pieces about without having to write REAL justifications for why they’re acting this way. Saying that a serial killer is “crazy” lets you skip past writing about how cycles of abuse and social pressures can lead someone to kill, the same way that a cult performing vile rites saves you from having to write a reason for people to be brought to that extreme, or to examine your own justifications for why this group should be the enemy

Madness as a Mechanic: Personally I don’t believe there’s anything truly beyond human comprehension, both in that we’re imaginative beings and if we really did encounter anything outside of what our rudimentary organic perceptions could perceive, we’d simply come up with a working model and deal with it, much in the same way that we’ve done with quantum physics. This is one of the reasons I’ve never been on board with lovecraftian horrors that break the brain just with their mere strangeness. That said, I’m a firm believer in the idea that our minds can break down, as I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to rebuild from such a break down and prevent another one. As such, here’s a scattering of thoughts regarding mental health and how it should and shouldent be handled

By far “stress” is a more useful mechanic to track than a building “madness” or depleting “sanity” pool, because stress can be applied to all manner of situations. Everyone understands that there’s a wide veritety of things that can stress you out, from having to rough it over multiple days in the wilderness to seeing a friend fall in combat to confronting a horrifying monster. Stress buildup could switch off the refresh rate of abilities over time, or cause a character to act out should it reach some kind of threshold, leaving it up to the player to decide what kind of outburst is appropriate for their character (mental health event included).

D&D’s madness tables do an okay job representing various short-circuits in the brain, aside from the indefinite madnesses, which hew a little too closely to real world. These tables are usually used when the character is suffering some form of psychic trauma or attack, so it’d be better for the indefinite side of the table to emulate longterm scars such an attack can do.

Dealing with mental health challenges on the character side rather than the mechanical side allows us to sidestep a whole bundle of troubling implications. If my depression or anxiety could be removed with a restoration spell, what about my autism? sixty years ago homosexuality was considered a mental defect, could that be taken away with 100gp worth of diamonds and a quick trip to the local cleric?

Madness as Surrealism: Yeknow what’s scary? When your lack of control over your life and environment manifests and once fundamental forces like causality and reason begin to break down. This is why genres like ARG horror and the new weird are taking off, and why projects like the Backrooms are resonating with such a wide audience. We’ve gone beyond the horror that we might be trapped in a space with someone who’s violently out of touch with the world, and have entered into a horrifying new era where we are trapped in a world that’s violently out of touch with us. THIS is the toolbox I want to play with, rather than the dementophobia of lovecraft’s era, where I can paint with everything form Escheresque architecture to glitch-horror to the revelator ravings of abrihamic doomsayers.

This to me fits far more with the theme of horrors outside of reality trying to press in, and gives a wider pallet of options to pull from if I don’t want to muck about in any mental health baggage my audience might be dealing with.

#heavy topics #mental health #cw mental health #dm advice #dm tip #dm tips #dm tools #writing advice #self harm #Cultists #homebrew mechanic #d&d mechanics #madness

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feral-ballad · 10 months

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I thought I had been surviving, and yet, what I was really doing was hanging by a string, loosely holding myself from collapsing. I was always on the verge, and I could feel that friction in my soul.

Fariha Róisín, from Who Is Wellness For?: An Examination of Wellness Culture and Who It Leaves Behind

#fariha róisín #excerpts #writings #literature #prose #fragments #selections #words #quotes #prose collection #healing #survival

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harryforvogue · 2 months

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Part One | Chapter Two: Me And My Husband

Greenwich Village, New York

May 1919

Liberty Eagle Elementary lets out earlier than usual due to the heat wave. Parents gather outside the building, looking for their children. I walk out with two students, holding their hands reassuringly, and bring them out to the crowd. When they find their parents, they run to them, embracing as they always do because the 7 hours they've spent separated from one another are just cruel, and cruelly spent learning about things their little minds do not care for just yet.

My class is one of those, a tedious one no doubt, for children between the ages of 9 and 10. French is not an easy language to learn, and while I try my hardest to make the subject interesting, there will always be moments of frustration and exhaustion. The children surely complain about their horrible French teacher who forces them to make sounds they've never previously made, the sound of me echoing, "From the throat! From the throat, mes amies!" in their heads as they fall asleep at night.

The final child leaves and then I do as well, beginning the short walk home.

I do enjoy working with children, even though I complain about it often. Despite not being a very maternal person, I find children fun to be around. Their blunt way of speaking and frustrations are easy to share as an outsider in America. Children, I think, are outsiders after all, just learning to fit into the society of adults through the education they receive in these schools. They learn history, just as I did before arriving in New York, and they learn how to form proper sentences as I did when I was younger, my parents making sure I knew how to speak more than just French.

I'd like to be a close friend to these innocent children, but this may be because it's been a struggle to find my own adult friends during the two years I've been in America. New York, we researched, would be an area filled with strangers and people from all over, coming together to make a new culture, a new identity. Although I'm legally American now, I'm much more European in my ways and manner, the French in my culture.

I did insist when Harry proposed the idea of running away from England that it would take time to get used to a foreign place, but he welcomed the idea like a challenge while I worried at night.

Harry hasn't had the time to properly integrate himself into society yet, having just returned from France on Christmas last year. He was supposed to teach history in a high school just two miles from Liberty Eagle, but he's been failing his wellness examinations.

Harry and I run on a schedule on weekdays. At 7 in the morning, I wake up and get ready to go to school. Harry's normally already awake, eating his breakfast in the dining room. When I arrive downstairs, he'll pick his head up from the book he's reading and nod at the french press with the hot coffee. I'll sit across from him and sip at my coffee. I'll make small talk with him: "How did you sleep?" or "It was quite cold last night, wasn't it?" or "I think I'll be home a little late today." Harry nods and answers my questions and then tells me what he plans to make for dinner. I agree with him and then say goodbye. He follows me to the door and locks it behind me.

Weekends are trickier. I wake up later than usual and lazily move to the kitchen. Harry wakes at his usual time, this time sitting on the couch, reading his book. I make the same small talk, but this time I can't run away from the awkwardness between us. I sit there and try to continue the conversation with him. Then I do that for Sunday.

When I arrive home today, Harry's pacing in the living room, running a hand messily through his hair. It used to be longer than it is now, touching his shoulders, but since he had an evaluation today, he was forced to cut it. I can see his face much better this way and the white scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. His curls are healthy and dark, bouncing back as he continues to mess with them. The sound of the door closing causes him to look up, startled.

"Hi," I say, putting my bag down. I remove my shoes and open the collar of my shirt. "It's very hot outside. They let us out early."

Harry nods. His own collar is open. "It is hot."

"How did your evaluation go?"

"I didn't pass."

He's laid out the papers with the red slashes on the dining table. I pick up one sheet and peer at it, tackling all the red specifically. Harry continues to pace behind me, the wood floor creaking under his weight.

The comment at the bottom reads:

Although Mr. Styles has shown promise in his recovery, the Board of Administrations believes some more time would be suitable before allowing Mr. Styles to return. Mr. Styles' progression is impressive compared to previous evaluations, however, we cannot permit him to return to his post and continue working with children. We will reconvene and reevaluate Mr. Styles August 25, 1919.

I look through the rest of the documents. "They didn't even give a reason?"

"They said there's something off about me," Harry says, taking the paper from me. "Fuck's sake."

At first glance, Harry does seem recovered and collected, but when you hear him speak and spend time with him, you suspect he may be on the verge of a breakdown at any given moment. I don't reply, unsure whether or not to show my support of this evaluation. Time off has been good for Harry, I agree, and his condition shouldn't affect how he behaves with children.

Harry itches to return back to work. It's partially because he doesn't like the fact that I'm single handedly keeping our heads above water and partially because he chooses to ignore the impact of his military service on him.

"Annaliese," he says, leaning against the wall connecting our dining room and kitchen. He looks very attractive in his suit as opposed to his normal casual wear. "I don't know how much longer I can do this."

His eyelids are heavy, and he looks tired, shoulders falling from exhaustion.

"August 25 is only three months away," I tell him in an attempt to be optimistic. "You'll be back just in time for the reopening of schools."

"If I pass."

"I know you will." I smile at him, nodding firmly. "I believe it."

His eyes narrow, resting his head back against the wall. "You've said that the past two times."

It's true, but I know he's closer to passing this time. "We'll be alright, Harry. If you're worried about the money, it's not all that bad. We have savings and more than enough to keep us comfortable. That, plus what the government sends us for your service."

Harry pushes himself off the wall and gathers all the papers, tucking them into the manila folder. He sits down heavily and rubs his temple, taking a few deep breaths.

"Sit, Annaliese."

I do, watching him carefully.

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "I want to get out of here," he says, leaning in as if he's telling me a secret. "How about this weekend?"

A getaway? Now? "Harry, you can't keep running from your problems."

"It was your idea to run away the first time, Annaliese," he says dryly with a twitch of his scarred eyebrow. "You wanted to avoid the war."

Irritation pricks at my face. "And you wanted to run from your father."

Harry's jaw tenses as it always does his father is brought up in conversation, but he attacked first, so it's my turn. "I'm not running away from anything. And you'd be there too."

I lean back against the chair, surprised. "You'd want me to go with you?"

"Christ, you think I'd go by myself? Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, yes," I say sharply. "You're the type to do that."

"Maybe before I had a wife I would. So will you come?" He pauses and fixes his impatient tone. "I'm thinking of Atlantic City. You said your friend was there just last month."

My friend he's remembering is the neighbor. Her name is Alexandra, a mother of two, and the most insufferable woman I've ever met, but she's the only one who I've been able to speak to thanks to the close proximity. I always bump into her when she's walking to work in the same direction as me.

"Right, but I'd have to ask her how to get there and you know how much I hate talking to her. My life goal is to avoid her at all costs. Last time I went over for a recipe, she told me about her weird brother who threatened to kill his wife. Now, why the hell would I want to hear about that?"

"I know. I'd go if I could, but we need those directions soon. Pop in and get the directions, and leave."

"You know she's going to hold me hostage, Harry."

"I know. But it's better than blindly figuring it out ourselves. It's Wednesday. Is the weekend too soon for you?"

"No," I reply, thinking about my kids and how they could probably use a lighter lesson on Friday. "I should be good."

"Do you want to go?" From his voice, I can tell he's worried about him being my only company. I wish he'd look at me.

Of course I want to go, and the thought of being alone with just Harry and nowhere to run is exciting, but nerve wracking.

I recall the last time he said to me he wanted to just leave for a few days. It was only 3 years ago after he had a physical fight with his father and came back wounded and blind angry, seething with rage and the need to physically harm something else. After I ordered him to sit still so I could clean the blood spilling from his shoulder where his father's ring had cut him, he demanded we go someplace, just the two of us. It had been our first getaway, our first night alone from his family who I was staying with. Just the two of us, nervous young adults in a hotel room with one bed and barely enough space to pass each other.

This time is different. Instead of deciding for the two of us that we needed to leave our home for a weekend, he's asking. One proper glance at his face tells me he's growing more and more desperate with every passing second I spend not replying to him.

"I do," I tell him sincerely. "I'll go see Alexandra before dinner. Harry, are you sure this is what you want? When we come back, all of this will still be here. This anxiety about the evaluations, the need to return back to work when you're still unable to. It won't just go away while we do."

Harry nods, absentmindedly looking over my shoulder. "I know. But just for two days, I'll be alright."

"Is two days really enough? Shouldn't we work on this fear together? Here? We have to one day."

"Annaliese," Harry says, focusing back on me briefly, nervously messing with his sleeves. "I don't want to. I want to go away and come back with a clearer head. I don't care that it's not a long term solution. It'll help me for two days and that's more than I already get."

That's the thing about Harry: he's stubborn. I love him dearly, but he doesn't budge when he makes a decision until I argue with him about it. These days, we don't argue a lot. Albeit, we don't talk much either, and sometimes I miss those nights where we'd yell at each other, passionately arguing for ourselves and then reaching a common goal, returning to bed happily. It's the nature of our relationship and it has been for the years I've been with him. It's one of the things I love about him: how passionate he can be for the things he believes in. A part of me wants to go against my own wishes and argue with him about this proposed getaway, just to rile him and demand him to yell, fight for what he believes in instead of holding back and returning to his own room, leaving me alone in the dining room until I head back to my room. This is the irrational part of me.

The more rational part of me reminds myself that Harry has been through a lifetime worth of trouble and avoiding those kinds of arguments are best for his health, mentally and emotionally. I can't help but feel selfish when I want him to talk to me like he used to, touch me like he used to, and kiss me. He's rarely ever around me and when he is, he's rarely ever fully present.

"I'll talk to Alexandra today and we'll figure all of this out tonight."

He nods and then stands up, tucking the manila folder under his arm. "I'll start on dinner then."

Before he can leave, I stand up and quickly grab his sleeve, halting him in his steps. He looks at me and then glances down at my hand clutching his shirt.

"Can you stay in our room tonight?" I quickly ask before my confidence leaves me. "I'd really like that. It's been so long since we've slept together."

His eyes have darkened by the time he looks back at my face, jaw tense. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" I press, stepping closer. I lay a hand on his torso and feel his stomach muscles tense. "Harry, it's been months."

"I don't want to. I want my own room--"

"But--"

"Annaliese, please don't argue with me right now. I have a headache."

"I don't mean you have to sleep with me. I don't mean sex. Just want you to sleep in the same bed as me. Like a normal married couple."

I let go of him when he doesn't reply, taking a step back. "I haven't even done anything to you. Why are you punishing me?" I demand.

Here come the fucking tears. God, I hate being weak. Desperate to hide them, I blink furiously and look at our feet, trying even out my voice. "If I've done something wrong, I'd like you to tell me so I can apologize and work on being better." Realizing my tears will not just dry up, I look back up to his stoic expression, demanding through my swimming vision, "What did I do?"

Harry watches a tear slide down my face and then my hand that angrily wipes it away. A muscle in his jaw jumps. "I didn't say you did anything. If anything, sleeping next to you is a punishment for me," Harry says quietly, stepping back, turning towards the kitchen. I reach out and quickly grab his shirt again, holding him in place.

"No. You don't get to walk away from this conversation. I've been trying to have it for months now. Why would it be a punishment for you? What have I done to you that's so bad, you can't find it in yourself to forgive me?"

"Christ, Annaliese. Let me go," Harry says coldly. He moves out of my grasp despite my strong hold on him and disappears into the kitchen. "Let me start on dinner and we can talk about this later."

We are not going to talk about it later. He's made excuses many times. I drag a hand over my face to catch any residue of my weakness. Helpless is what I feel now, and especially when he walks away from an important, long overdue conversation we must have. All I want is to be able to read his mind for a day, just to know what's troubling him the most. Instead of being helpful, I feel like a mother who can't get her child to sit still and just listen. Perhaps my help at the school feels rewarding because those children demonstrate that they've learned the lessons I've been teaching them. With Harry, it's like talking to a wall sometimes. It was never like that before.

I gather myself and then exit the house, walking across the street to Alexandra's house.

***

Alexandra never talks about anything positive, especially when it comes to gossip. She makes me write down the instructions on how to get to Atlantic City after getting the information from her husband, and then begins her usual gossip.

Then, to my horror, she makes me sit down for a cup of tea.

"My cousin's husband was diagnosed just last week," she starts, taking a sip of her tea.

I desperately look at the door, hoping someone will save me from this conversation, but nothing happens. I glance back at her and offer her a tight smile. "I hope everything is okay."

Alexandra has lived in America her whole life. Her grandparents came to America from Ireland in the early 19th century and lived in New York. Alexandra grew up in the south, in Georgia, and moved here to live with her husband who I rarely ever see. She's quite attractive with her long dark hair, blue eyes, and thin mouth, but as soon as she begins talking, all the beauty goes down the drain. More specifically, I want to pull my hair out.

She still talks with a slight southern accent which is very hard for me to understand at times because I've never heard it in my life. My accent isn't any easier for her to understand, but while I try to listen closely and not ask her to repeat often, she doesn't care about kind gestures and often asks me to repeat what I'm saying.

Since I've come here and people have told me that I'm barely understandable, I've tried to put on a bit of an American accent, trying to mimic their rude way of speaking and their lingo, but I can't always hide my natural accent. I don't know some words in English either. I always imagined that there would be more French speaking people in New York as I heard that there would be all kinds of people here, but I've yet to meet any. In the meantime, I stuck with the insufferable woman who insists on telling me about things I don't care about.

"He's got the disease everyone's talking about. You know..." she gestures to her gut, "down there."

"Oh," I say, swallowing the overly sweet tea. "I'm sorry to hear about that. I hope he recovers soon."

"Yeah, I doubt he will. It's just awful. It's terrible." Alexandra's eyes shine as they do whenever her evil mind thinks of something wicked to say or hear. "Maybe this vacation will be a perfect time to check if your husband is suffering too."

I choke on my tea and cough quickly, patting my chest. "Excuse me?" I demand.

She tucks her black hair back and shrugs innocently. "Aren't you curious? Maybe that's the reason he hasn't been sleeping with you." She catches the expression on my face. "Oh, Annaliese, I didn't mean to offend you!"

"Harry does not have... that!"

Alexandra hides behind her tea, blinking. "How do you know?"

"He just doesn't! Besides, you can tell from the symptoms!" And he'd tell me.

I stand up and put my tea down, grabbing my bag. Anger is coursing through me like a river. I'm not angry at the possibility of Harry being ill, but the nerve of her to disregard any respectful boundaries and reach into my life without a second thought. "My God. Thank you for the tea, but I must leave now. I...I have to pack."

She jumps up too. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry! You know I didn't mean to be rude!"

I ignore her, quickly walking away before I feel the need to physically maim her. I open the door, step out, and slam it behind me.

I hear her voice calling my name, but I need to remove myself from the situation. I've always had a bit of a temper when I was younger. Seems like it never went away. It's something Harry's always laughed about.

Back at home, Harry's cleaning the rice, straining it as he holds it under an open faucet. There is a boiling pot of water on the stove and he looks up at me when I stomp in, caught off guard. The expression on his face tells me I've frightened him with my loud noises. He looks out the window at Alexandra standing outside her porch with a frown on her face.

"Everything okay?" he asks uneasily. "What did you do to her?" He puts the strainer down. "Annaliese, don't tell me you hit her."

I shake my head, forcing my steps to be lighter. He rinses the rice one more time. "I didn't, but I swear one of these days I will."

"Oh, God."

"Harry," I say, reaching out to touch his sleeve. I immediately pull back before I touch the material of his shirt. "Sorry. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." He wearily looks at my hand.

Harry slowly pushes the washed rice into the boiling water and then gives me his attention.

I'm not really about to ask him this, right? He waits for me to say something.

"Nothing," I dismiss, looking away embarrassed. Opening a drawer, I remove a wooden spoon and hold it out. "It's nothing. Here."

He takes it from me and confusedly begins stirring the rice. "Did Alexandra say something to you?"

"Yes and I got out of there before I punched her face in. It was a close call this time."

"Oh," he says, slightly amused. "That's quite like you. Did you get the directions?"

"I did." I produce the paper from my pocket and hold it out for him. He opens it and glances over it quickly while stirring.

"Well, that's simple, I'd say. Are you sure everything is alright?"

I nod, swallowing hard. "Yes. We should do laundry before we go and then pack."

"Okay," Harry says, looking away. The tension returns between us and it's so intense, I need to remove myself from this conversation immediately.

"I'll see you at dinner then."

Harry nods and quietly answers, "Bye."

I walk around him, half waiting for him to call me back. He doesn't.

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phasmophobie · 5 months

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⸻ repost three favorite pictures of yours, put a quote under them and tag people.

I thought I had been surviving, and yet, what I was really doing was hanging by a string, loosely holding myself from collapsing. I was always on the verge, and I could feel that friction in my soul. ⸻ FARIHA RÓISÍN, from Who Is Wellness For?: An Examination of Wellness Culture and Who It Leaves Behind

tagged by: @vikasgarden tagging: @caughtbetweenworlds @thisis-elijah @xtoariadnesdarklightx & anyone who hasn't done this yet!

#*muse game

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lenbryant · 1 month

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(LATimes) In ‘The Exvangelicals,’ Sarah McCammon tells the tale of losing her religion

Sarah McCammon.

(Kara Frame)

Book Review

The Exvangelicals: Loving, Living, and Leaving the White Evangelical Church

By Sarah McCammon St. Martin’s Press: 310 pages, $30

The term “exvangelical,” a reference to disillusioned evangelicals after Donald Trump commandeered 81% of the white evangelical vote in 2016, has always struck me as contrived and a tad too cute. It’s a variation — a reversal, I suppose — of Ronald Reagan’s famous lament that he didn’t leave the Democratic Party; the Democratic Party left him.

Although the author, a national political correspondent for NPR, purports to be telling “the stories of millions of Americans,” this book is really autobiography with a few cameo roles. Nevertheless, McCammon’s history is captivating and well told: a childhood cosseted in the evangelical subculture, with schools and sermons trumpeting the Christian nationalism that’s fueling so many culture wars now.

In “The Exvangelicals,” McCammon’s evolution unfolds as a series of steps, chapter by chapter, on a descending staircase toward disillusionment.

She begins by questioning the conviction that only Christians (by which evangelicals mean evangelicals) go to heaven, then rejects creationism and embraces the veracity of science before moving on to such matters as female submission and sexual identities.

“Having a female body came with heavy responsibility and fear,” she writes, referring to admonitions at home and school to dress modestly lest she inflame unholy passions.

Perhaps not surprisingly, McCammon devotes a great deal of attention to her own sexual awakening, much of which occurred at the small evangelical college she attended (which, as it happens, is where I was an undergraduate a couple of decades earlier). The “purity culture” of evangelicalism demanded that women be demure, while young men were cast as warriors and defenders.

“On our wedding night, we didn’t know how to have sex,” one informant tells McCammon, who adds, “That experience is not unusual for young evangelicals who begin their honeymoons with little or no sexual experience, and, often, years of sexual shame.”

Many exvangelicals testify to enduring religious trauma, some of it caused by corporal punishment or perhaps fear of the Rapture, the belief popular among evangelicals that Jesus will return soon to collect the faithful and those “left behind” will face terrible judgment. One psychotherapist cataloged the symptoms of religious trauma as “anxiety and depression, chronic pain and intestinal symptoms, feelings of shame and a tendency toward social isolation.”

Religious trauma drives many evangelicals, including the author and one of her siblings, into therapy and out of evangelicalism, though not necessarily in that order.

McCammon is especially effective at juxtaposing the condemnations of Bill Clinton’s philandering with full-throated defenses of Donald Trump’s sexual predations — the condemnations and the defenses coming from the same evangelical sources with no apparent self-awareness and no hint of irony. Even more devastating is the author’s examination of her Christian school textbooks and recollections of classroom conversations in those schools regarding slavery. One textbook conjured the halcyon days on the plantation — “Southern weather was warm and the slaves stayed healthy” — and a student recalled his teacher’s remark that bondage “was a pretty good gig for them; they got free housing and all their meals were taken care of.”

If historical accuracy and context are missing from these textbooks, however, those qualities are also lacking in McCammon’s narrative, although her missteps are not nearly so egregious. She talks about evangelicalism reaching its peak of influence “beginning in the late 1980s,” ignoring the fact that evangelicals set the nation’s social and political agenda for much of the 19th century, especially in the years before the Civil War, albeit with very different sensibilities.

The author might have explored how white evangelicalism was different before its hard-right turn in defense of racial segregation in the late 1970s. Might an understanding of evangelicalism’s generally laudable social agenda in centuries past — abolition, prison reform, public education, even women’s suffrage were all evangelical concerns — have provided McCammon and her compatriots with a standard to which they could appeal in their quest to reform their churches?

As in many coming-of-age narratives, those who leave the safety of the subculture rarely have smooth landings. McCammon’s marriage to a classmate three months after their college graduation “felt awkward and surprisingly lonely,” she writes; it ended in divorce. The author tells of her parental-enforced estrangement from her grandfather because he was gay. The two mended their relationship and became close during the final years of his life, although McCammon’s overtures to him created a rift with her mother and father.

The author’s schoolmate, Jeff, came out as gay, thereby rupturing the relationship with his parents, who refused to acknowledge his husband at their son’s graduation from seminary. “I am not an evangelical in large part because there’s no room in most of American evangelicalism for queer people,” he told the author. “I’m angry about that. I’m angry and sad for the kids that are still in evangelical churches who are being told they can’t be themselves.”

All these factors and more, together with what many evangelicals regard as the hypocritical embrace of Trump, are leading some evangelicals out of the fold. But leaving itself is traumatic, both for the individuals and for family members left behind.

McCammon quotes a South Dakota exvangelical’s angry letter to Focus on the Family, the organization partially responsible for the subculture veering to the right in the decades surrounding the turn of the 21st century. She cultivated a deep Christian faith outside of evangelicalism. “But thanks to you,” she wrote to the group, “my mother believed I was living a sinful lifestyle because of how I voted.”

“Leaving conservative evangelicalism means giving up the security of silencing some of life’s most vexing and anxiety-inducing questions with a set of ‘answers’ — about the purpose of life, human origins, and what happens after death,” McCammon writes. “It also means losing an entire community of people who could once be relied on to help celebrate weddings and new babies, organize meal trains when you’re sick and bereaved, and provide a built-in network of support and socialization around a shared set of expectations and ideals.”

McCammon insists that the challenge for her and others is to define themselves in positive rather than negative terms — they do not want to be known for what they are fleeing — in which case the label “exvangelical” isn’t exactly helpful. Nonetheless, these “expatriates” are finding safety, or at least comfort, in numbers.

“Many of us who’ve been cast out are surveying the wilderness around us,” she writes, “and finding that we’re anything but alone.”

Randall Balmer teaches religion at Dartmouth College. His most recent book is “Saving Faith: How American Christianity Can Reclaim Its Prophetic Voice.”

#refrigerator magnet #exvangelicals #exvangelical #sarah mccammon #losing my religion

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