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rrasado · 2 years

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• When You Sculpt •

I vividly remember someone requesting for hadcanons of how Riddle and Malleus would react to a Yuu who did sculptures, there was also a 3rd boy but I genuinely can't remember who TwT (threw in the fae dad for substitute). This request was sent around last year and the ask itself is gone so to whoever sent that forgotten ask, may you find peace now with the complementary drink .

When you create sculptures

Someone of his background would have at least some sort of take regarding sculptures right? And even then it's limited to what he knows of their use within history's narrative.

For one he's aware that royalty such as the ever revered Queen of Hearts would flaunt their might through embellished luxuries, sculptures of their visage being one of them.

So to hear you, the prefect, having a level of adapetivity with that specific art... you have his attention. Depending on whether you wear gloves on the daily are leave them bare, he'll find out with the smudges of material left on your calluses.

At first he thought not much of it, maybe it was from an activity in class that day? Who knows, however his thoughts were disproved when you came up to him at an unbirthday party's aftermath.

It was rare for students to approach him after the tradition, after all no one wants to stay any longer within the rule's chokehold, before he could interrogate your sudden approach he was kept silent by the clothed object within your two hands.

"You'd like for me to unveil it...? This isn't an attempt to prank me is it?"

You'll have to forgive his suspicious considering the dorm he runs, but the genuine expression on your face convinced him enough to entertain your request, sure enough he wasn't disappointed no far from it.

Gifts were something he wasn't sure of, normally they were given in a beneficial sense by his mother or perhaps a favor if it's from some no name mob, but the hardened clay figure shaped to resemble him met his pale gaze, he was rendered speechless for a few moments.

Coughing to regain his composure he gently allowed his own two hands to take the base of the figure from your grasp, upon closer inspection he began to take in more of the details you paved down the block of material, down to the illusion of his dorm's cape cascading behind the sculpted figure of him.

He never thought someone would actually see him in such admirable light, Riddle appreciates your work and intends to show his gratitude with his actions towards you and the gift itself, if you're lucky enough to be close to him... you may just see it displayed on his study table. And whenever he's in doubt during a draining time all it takes is a lingering stare at that gift, assured that someone at one point revered him not as a tyrant, but as a hardworking figurehead.

Malleus is, royalty we all know that. So it wouldn't be a surprise that he's has had other artisans pave his image on blocks of materials for the sake of show.

And yet even then he couldn't help but to feel warm when he saw your shorter stature running up to him in the dead of night at Ramshackle's foyer, holding a miniature figurine of him with your initials engraved under the base.

All those gold and marble depictions of him at the royal ground in Briar Valley were grand yes, but there was something more personal with your craft, something meaningful with the nights you spent to perfect the curve of his two horns.

He doesn't admit it to your face, but you'll have to forgive the fae for catching you working hard near your bedroom window on nights you didn't see him on the grounds. That's one of the things humans fascinate him with, their general drive to pursue a goal with what little time is on their hands, and with a prefect like you who's bound to an array of duties and obligations? Your time is precious, even he understood that.

He even kept the satin green veil you used to cover your (admittedly not surprise) gift, the imagery of him standing ever sternly with his hand gripping the dorm's staff was one he thought was executed nicely.

"You seem to have a knack for this sort of craft...if I may intrude, would you care to share where you learned your skill?"

Whether you were eager or calm with your narration, he'd take in every word and sentence with great interest. The sculptors he knew were all seasoned in age and even then they were what you'd consider polymaths in their own right, so to see an ordinary human from another world practice the same meticulous art was of great amusement to him.

The Diasomnia dormleader stores your gift somewhere safe, when he got back to the dorm he easily handled the plethora of questions thrown by the ever loud first year retainer he fostered. Waving a dismissive hand and painting your work with quaint praise.

There at the top of his bookshelf far from his other belongings, stood the minuscule depiction of the fae prince himself, the satin cloth used as a surface cover in order for the green hue to reflect off the solid figure whenever the light hits it at the right angle.

In shorter terms, Malleus has once again been given a reminder of what humans can manifest should the circumstances garner them to do so. And on nights before slumber he gazes back to that gift with a personal sense of fulfillment.

The vice dormleader of Diasomnia knows many things about many subjects, more than he'd like to let on unfortunately. His take on sculptures were that of a veteran's.

He knew what they meant and possibly entailed, they can either be made to glorify a hero's victory, or perhaps to foretell the wrongdoings of some villainous figure in the form of flammable wood. Either way he knew the effort that was poured into making sculptures regardless of reason or material.

It was a simple Friday for him, classes have finished and he was about to make his way to the light music club's vicinity when he slowly caught your nearing image within his peripheral vision. With an ever friendly wave he greets you and your... sweating state?

Lilia tilts his hear at your current state, seemingly tired from what he assumed was walking all the way here holding something fairly heavy, at least that's what he guessed on the covered object you held so dearly. The third year didn't wait for your words- immediately raising the magenta cloth out of his own curiosity...and great seven he had no regrets.

There under the piece of cloth was what looked to be himself sitting upon an Ivy grown wall, wanting to see more he snatched the cloth off the piece allowing the sunset's hue to settle on the solid figure that depicted none other than him.

"What's this we have here? It's safe to assume it was none other than you who paved such a piece~? Fufufu I quite like it you definitely caught all my features."

Like Malleus, he most likely have already his fair share of sculptures dedicated to him back home at Briar Valley as a veteran to their history, but minor musings such as the one you tired delivered to him? He finds it pleasant in every right!

You were so busy catching your breathe he never allowed you to speak for yourself, going on his own tangent regarding how well done you carved out the vines that climbed the brick wall his miniature self sat on. Judging by the level of details he can only assume you were adept in your field of craft.

A string of chuckles left the fae, easing you of your burden by taking the figure into his own hands while waiting for you to finally regain your composure. His thumb grazed an embossed part behind the sculpted brick wall of the piece, raising the gift to inspect it closer only to see a hastily embedded signature, yours most likely!

To receive a gift such as this from an isekaid student, Lilia would deem it as rare among all the ones existing in the world, after all only few ever receive homage of respect from a non twisted wonderland native right? Lilia will take pride in that aspect, patting you affectionately on the head and leaving in his fae way leaving you alone in the halls. Before dropping by at the light music club he'd put the gift away in the comforts of Diasomnia's lounge where all may be graced with the glory of your creation. Lilia as eccentric as his way was, deeply appreciated the sentiment.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland headcanons #riddle rosehearts #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #twisted wonderland riddle #twisted wonderland malleus #twisted wonderland lilia #Moon Caffeine

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marvelous-writer · 3 years

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Ferry Rides, Panic Attacks & Cheeseburgers

Summary:

“Pete, you alright?” Happy quietly asks in a worried voice.

Peter snaps his eyes open and nods shakily. ��Y-Yeah.” He lies.

Happy turns in his seat as he leans in front of him and looks at his face. “You don’t look it,” he says worriedly. “What’s going on?”

“N-Nothing—I’m fine.” Peter tries to assure him—heck, to assure himself but he can’t get the thought of the ferry ripping in two out of his mind. He can’t fail everyone again—he can’t fail Tony again.

Peter’s art class goes on a field trip to the Statue of Liberty and Happy tags along.

Word Count: 2,490

Genre: whump, humor, hurt/comfort

Link to read on Ao3:

A/N: @webpril day 1: field trip

“We live in New York… and your school trip is to the Statue of Liberty?” Happy questions as they stand in Midtown High’s parking lot at ten in the morning, standing in line, dressed in his usual suit and tie attire with a pair of dark shades, standing out like a sore thumb beside Peter as everyone boards the bus.

“I did tell you where we were going yesterday.” Peter reminds him.

“I know… but a field trip to the Statue of Liberty for art class? You guys couldn’t have gone to a museum or something?”

Peter sighs as he moves ahead further in line, rolling his eyes as he overhears Flash and Abraham bickering over who gets to sit in the back of the bus.

“Do you know what we’re doing anyways?” Happy asks.

Peter shrugs. “I'm not sure. I guess we’re going to study the statue and draw it. Ms. Betzing said something about studying light patterns and shading.”

Happy groans at his side. “You guys couldn’t have pulled up photos of it from Google or something?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Peter says, shooting a smile over his shoulder at him before he boards the bus.

...

It takes them a little over an hour until they reach Battery Park, where they will board the ferry that will take them to Liberty Island across the harbor.

“Alright, class! I want all of you to stick together and stay with your groups—no wandering off and everyone be on your best behavior,” Ms. Betzing says as she hands out the maps of Liberty Island and their ferry passes. “I want you all to sketch out anything that catches your eyes as we go and feel free to take any pictures with your phones for references!”

“What if we get motion sickness?” Someone from their group asks.

Ms. Betzing winces at the question. “Uhm… then you can feel free to wait until we’re off the ferry. I want you all to have a fun time on the trip and we certainly don’t want anyone getting sick today!”

They have to wait a few minutes until the ferry arrives, so Peter decides to pull out his small sketchbook from his backpack to kill some time, joining Ned and MJ over at a nearby bench.

“So, how are things going with shades over there?” MJ asks as she sketches something into her sketchbook.

Peter smirks at the nickname as he looks up at Happy, who’s standing near two of the other chaperones as their teacher talks to them, handing them maps as well. “Uh, okay I guess,” he says.

Happy looks bored, like he’d rather be anywhere else than here right now, and Peter can’t help but feel a little guilty. May had pushed Happy to go on the trip when Peter had her sign the permission slip last week, despite Peter’s protests against the idea of a chaperone, especially Happy being one. It’s not exactly the man’s thing and Peter knows how busy he is, being the head of security at SI and not to mention being Morgan’s part-time babysitter.

“You know, he kinda looks like he’s your bodyguard or something,” Ned adds in.

MJ laughs as she looks up from her sketch. “He does,” she agrees before lowering her voice so only they hear her. “It’s kinda sad that Spider-Man needs one though.” She says, shooting a grin Peter's way, earning a laugh from Ned.

Peter rolls his eyes half-heartedly at their teasing. “He’s not my bodyguard and you guys know it. He’s just here for the trip. May wanted him to go for some reason.”

“Why? Is it like… a bonding thing or something? You did say that she made you two have a ‘guys weekend’ last month.” Ned asks with a frown.

“Yeah, isn’t that when you slipped and broke your ribs on the toilet?” MJ adds.

Peter sighs, looking over at her with an unamused expression. “Thanks for reminding me,”

She smiles with a one-shouldered shrug. “That’s what I’m here for, babe.”

Ned makes a disgusted sound at the pet name. “But seriously, do you think that’s why he’s here? To spend more time with you or something now that he and May are engaged?”

Peter’s smile falters as he looks back over at Happy, who’s now looking at something on his phone with his glasses lowered down near the tip of his nose so he can see the screen. “I don’t know… maybe?”

When the ferry arrives at the port, they all get on and take their seats. Peter sits next to Happy again like he had on the bus and they wait for a few moments as passengers continue to get on board.

“You know, I bet Steve would’ve liked to go on this trip with it involving art and everything.” Happy says, breaking the silence between them.

Peter looks over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

Happy shugs. “He’s into art. He always has a doodle pad on him.”

“I never knew Cap was an artist.”

“He’s not bad, either. He once painted a picture of one of Tony’s cars and gave it to him for Christmas.”

Peter knows the exact painting he’s talking about, the one of the bright red Audi R8 Spyder that’s hung up in Tony’s office at the compound. “Cap painted that one?” Peter asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Yeah,” Happy says with a nod.

“Wow,” Peter breathes out as a small smile pulls at the corner of his lips. “Think he’d do a portrait of Spider-Man?” He asks in a quiet tone, only to earn an amused chuckle from Happy.

“You never know. Maybe if you show up for training on time on the weekends.” He says, giving him a knowing look.

He’s got me there. Peter thinks to himself.

By the time the ferry is moving and on its way to Liberty Island, it only takes a few minutes until Peter is hit with a sense of deja vu as the memories of the last time he was on a ferry comes to mind—the fight with Toomes.

And that time… the ferry had split in half, all thanks to Peter screwing everything up.

Which just so happens to be the reason why he tries to avoid going on boats.

Peter swallows hard as he squeezes his hands that are resting on his lap, feeling the knot in his stomach that had formed in the past few minutes tighten. He darts his eyes around the inside of the ferry, looking up at the ceiling to make sure there aren’t any cracks or any signs of it about to split into two. At least he has his web-shooters on him, but what good did they do him the last time.

Tony was the one who saved the ferry… but Tony is now retired from Iron Man, even though Peter knows he’d jump into a suit and fly here as fast as he could—which would take too long since he’s all the way upstate. The ferry would sink in a matter of minutes with all the water pooling in and they would all drown if lifeboats didn’t arrive in time.

The horrifying scene of it all playing out in Peter’s head has him shaking, feeling his chest seize up in fear and dread. He slams his eyes shut as he mindlessly shakes his leg, trying to push away those terrifying images of MJ, Ned, and his classmates floating lifeless in the Hudson.

“Pete, you alright?” Happy quietly asks in a worried voice.

Peter snaps his eyes open and nods shakily. “Y-Yeah.” He lies.

Happy turns in his seat as he leans in front of him and looks at his face. “You don’t look it,” he says worriedly. “What’s going on?”

Peter tries to take in a deep breath in hopes to calm himself down a little but it comes out more like a weak gasp. His chest feels like there’s a rubber band tightly wrapped around it, blocking off any way for air to get in.

“Hey, hey—look at me. Kid? Peter.” Happy whispers urgently as he takes off his shades and gently grabs Peter’s shoulder, suddenly finding himself facing the man’s worried face. “Tell me what’s going on?”

“I-I don’t know,” Peter murmurs as he shuts his eyes again, grateful they’re sitting in the back so none of his classmates see his meltdown. “I-I can’t breathe.”

“You’re having a panic attack,” Happy says in a soft voice that Peter’s heard him use on Morgan many times before. “You’re okay—you’re safe. Just try to breathe.”

“I-I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Try to take a deep breath for me, Pete,” Happy gently tells him.

Peter wills his chest to release its chokehold on him as he tries to suck in a deep, shaky breath.

In one, two, three… out one, two, three. Peter thinks to himself, remembering the breathing exercise Tony taught him one time when he was having a panic attack similar to now.

It takes a few minutes of breathing until Peter feels like he’s not drowning in his own panic anymore, now that his chest has thankfully opened back up. He feels shaky and tired, but he can breathe.

“Feeling better?” Happy asks, brows pulled together in concern.

Peter shakes his head slowly. “Think so… sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Happy says as he grabs Peter’s backpack and zips it open to retrieve a water bottle. “Do you wanna talk about it?” He asks as he cracks it open and hands it to him.

Peter takes a sip before he sighs. “It’s stupid,” he says.

“It’s not.” Happy reassures.

“I…” Peter pauses and closes his eyes. “I was fine when we got on the ferry… but then my stupid brain went against me and all I could think about was—the ferry splitting in half.”

A look of realization flashes across Happy’s face. “Why didn’t you say anything? You didn’t have to go on this trip if you didn’t want to.”

“I did want to go but I just didn’t think the boat would bother me because I’m with you and everyone else,” Peter admits. “I just… I don’t know...”

“Hey,” Happy says gently. “I get it.

Peter looks up at him and offers a small, weak smile.

When they’re finally off the ferry, Peter follows behind the group with Happy at his side as everyone starts to head further on the island, Lady Liberty standing tall and proud above them, glowing a brilliant soft green in the afternoon sun.

MJ and Ned walk over and join them by a picnic table, thankfully unaware of Peter’s panic attack on the trip over. They all start drawing in their sketchbooks while Happy goes on his phone, even managing to sneak a few pictures of them when Peter isn’t looking.

Peter takes a deep breath in when a warm spring breeze blows past them, feeling it flow through his lungs. He feels a lot better now that he’s on dry land, with his friends and Happy. Sitting here drawing is pretty relaxing, surprisingly too. He’s never been a great drawer but this art class has helped him get a little better to the point that he actually enjoys it.

“Does this look like a pigeon or a rat?” Ned asks with a frown as he holds up his drawing for them to see.

“Definitely a rat,” MJ says with a small smirk. “But with feathers.”

Ned groans as he drops his sketchbook to the table. “I’d like to say that I give up but we have to pass this in at the end of class tomorrow.” He says, earning a chuckle from them.

“I think it looks good, Ned,” Peter offers. “I mean, have you seen the city’s pigeons? Those things are monsters.”

“You got a thing against pigeons?” MJ questions, shooting him a grin.

Happy chuckles from beside him. “He’s still sore about that one time one swiped his sandwich from him.”

Ned laughs at that and Peter holds his arms out in defense. “It was a sandwich from Delmar’s! No one steals my sandwich and gets away with it.”

“It got away, didn’t it?” MJ asks.

Peter’s shoulders slump with a sigh. “Yeah.”

She shakes her head with a small chuckle as she looks back at her drawing.

...

The afternoon passes by in a blur and before they know it, it’s already time for them to head back. They’re now waiting in line as everyone boards the ferry once again and Peter is dreading getting back on.

“How about we hang back here for a little bit and let everyone else go on ahead?” Happy offers, seeming to sense his dread.

Peter raises an eyebrow at him. “But we have to get back to school.”

“Sure you can. I’ll sign you out for the rest of the day if you want.”

“You can?” Peter asks a little hopefully. He honestly doesn’t think he can get back on that boat right now and then go through another couple of hours at school.

“Yeah, let me go talk to your teacher then we’ll grab some lunch.” Happy tells him before he walks away from him to find Ms. Betzing.

It only takes Happy a few minutes before he’s back. “You’re all set.” He says.

“Really?” Peter asks, a little surprised at how easy it was.

“Yeah. She just had me sign a form,” Happy says as he nods his head in the direction of the group. “You wanna say goodbye to your friends?”

Peter shakes his head. “I’ll just text them later.”

...

Not even twenty minutes later, they’re seated outside of the Crown Cafe, enjoying two all-American burgers with a side of fries and two sodas.

“You know… you didn’t have to sign me out the rest of the day. We’re going to have to get back on the ferry anyways.” Peter says, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them.

“I know,” Happy says with a nod as he takes a sip of his soda. “But I thought you could use a break and our ride back is on his way.”

Peter raises an eyebrow to ask, only to be cut off when someone yells, “Hey, look! It’s Iron Man!” And below and behold, Iron Man suddenly drops down from the sky, landing across the way from them and drawing a crowd.

“We couldn’t have swam back to the city? Or what about a helicopter?” Peter sarcastically asks, turning back to Happy.

Happy shrugs with a smile. “I thought about the helicopter but I know May wouldn’t approve.”

Peter sighs before he takes another bite out of his burger.

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chubbunnyy · 2 years

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A lil info on Alaska

He's a 23 year old 7'2" werewolf man

Let's get one thing straight, he's an overconfident rich fuckboy asshole

And honestly? Given his circumstances he really shouldn't be

You see he had dated his ex, Neha, for 5 years and decided he wanted to marry him

But Neha hates being tied down and can't stand the thought of marriage, of fucking the same person everyday

So what does he do?

Completely ghost Alaska, pretends like he's never known him unless he wants some dick

And Alaska keeps letting Neha use him like this because he really held on to the possibility of them getting back together

Alaska: Neha please, I still love you

Neha: Aww Alaska, if only there was someone that loved you~

And for a month Alaska really was just depressed, he really put all his love and compassion into Neha and their relationship and for what? Just for him to step out without so much as a goodbye?

Did Neha ever really love him?

And really, put of nowhere, Alaska became really confident

Away too confident

He realized he could bag anyone he wanted, so why the fuck was he hung up on one person?

Alaska knows he's attractive, knows he could win anyone over with a smirk, and people constantly throwing themselves at him isn't helping that huge fucking ego of his

But he also has a soft side

I uh accidentally called him my f/o a month ago and he's had me in a chokehold ever since

He's soft, so extremely soft and caring that it's honestly shocking

When we first started dating he immediately deleted the numbers of all his hookups, blocked them on everything, and when we're out and someone tries to flirt he'll immediately tell them to fuck off

He only has eyes for me

Alaska is an asshole, but he's also the type of guy to hold you real close and tell you how much he loves you. How grateful he is that he finally found his true love and how he wants nothing more than to hold you in his arms for the rest of his life.

Alaska's an asshole, but he'll spend whatever money he needs to make you feel comfortable. Buy whatever clothes you want, all tailor made to fit you comfy, and let you use his black card for whatever your lil heart desires. He'll take you out on nice dinners, buy you really pretty lingerie sets, and absolutely adore you.

Alaska's an asshole, but you'd never guess how anxious he truly is. Hates waking up without you, he's afraid you'll leave him one day just like his ex did, just pack up and go without another word. He knows you wouldn't, or at least hopes, he just can't help the quickening of his heart when he can't find you in the house. He'll always wanna cuddle, if you want space he'll leave you alone, but he never really thought he'd settle down. Not with his personality and his track record as a loveless fuckboy. And he's so undeniably grateful for you and all your love.

As much as I might say I hate Alaska I really do love him

He uh might be the best thing that's ever happened to me, I just never really realized how smitten I was until I wifed him

(Art by @/miraclecherryblossomsblog)

This is him btw

He has a thing for showing off his tits, he knows he's hot af and loves the attention his body brings

Ugh I'm staring like a whore, I love him so much -🐝

god i want his dick inside me right the fuck now

#toby’s inbox #🐝 anon

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a-skirmish-of-wit-and-lit · 3 years

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Book Review: To Sir Philip, With Love by Julia Quinn (Bridgertons #5)

I can't believe I'm about to say this but--I disagree with Mama Bridgerton. Now, before you exclaim HOW DARE YOU obscenities at me, I'd like to clarify by saying that it isn't so much that we disagree but that our opinions diverge when it comes to what makes Eloise a charming lady. Violet says that it's her daughter's impatience. For me, though, I think her appeal as a person, as a character, comes less from her impatient nature and more from her frank and restless chatter. So what if she talks a lot? Who cares if she asks questions, probes for a two-sided conversation? It's endearing! It's infectious! It's genuine! She's a curious person who wants to get to know people, really know them. She strives to get along with everybody she meets, to understand them, and I think that's charming, indeed! The constant stream of Eloise's chatter can be grating or bothersome at times, sure, but only when someone else is desperate to be heard or to get a word in edgewise. Despite that, there's still something lovely about Eloise being open and secure enough in herself to want to share her thoughts as soon as she has them. I couldn't help but like her for that. Admire her even. I wish I could be more like that instead of swallowing most of what I want to say. I was markedly less invested in Philip as a character, however. He came across as petulant and "woe is me" at times, particularly when he was discussing his unhappy marriage with Marina, who was clinically depressed. (Sensitivity, understanding, and nuance was lacking in the writing here.) His behavior toward Eloise wasn't fabulous at times, either. I'm willing to go easier on him on that score, though, because part of his arc included learning the difference between expectation/convenience in marriage vs. reality/compromise in marriage. The children, Amanda and Oliver, were also a nice addition. They reminded me of the rambunctious havoc my brothers and I used to wreak as kids. We never pulled a flour prank that I can remember but there were a few blocks-to-the-face, pool-strainer-over-the-head, dares-that-resulted-in-stitches moments of our own. I do think Eloise and Philip are a well-suited couple overall. They had fun banter, decent conflict. I'm only disappointed we didn't get more of them connecting over letter-writing because I think that was a missed opportunity. I wanted it! It's a lost art form, okay? ALL THE ROMANCE POTENTIAL. Oh, and the Bridgerton brothers bursting into the place to defend Eloise's honor was the best scene of the whole book. Probably my favorite sibling intervention of the series, if I'm being honest. My brothers would also put a guy in a chokehold and demand to know if he'd been a gentleman if I absconded to his country home without warning.

3/5 stars

**Follow me on Goodreads

#ashlee bree's book reviews #to sir phillip with love #bridgerton series #julia quinn #historical fiction #romance #recs: ashlee approved!#read april 2021 #bookblr #book reviews

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 4 years

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Wicked Child | Feeding Habits #2

Hey People of Earth!

I’m back with another writing update for Feeding Habits (Moth Work #2) at last!

A few things since the last update: this project is 100% going to be a novel and also has a title (Feeding Habits)!

Chapter two has been sort of strange to write as I actually had written a majority of it before starting over after realizing the events I’d written needed to happen later. This is why it’s taken me a while to update on this book, but I’ve finally completed the chapter and am now here to share it with y’all!

Here’s a scene breakdown of this chapter, which is probably the longest chapter I’ve written in years (6300 words). Buckle up, this update is THICC. TW: lots of religious content in this one.

Scene A:

We go through Lonan’s lonely morning routine (lol) that’s interrupted by Anya, a neighbour he vaguely recognizes. She’s there to take him up to her apartment to paint her kitchen as her husband is away and can’t do it, a plan he was not aware of! (Eliza’s voluntold him to hopefully distract him from wanting to help his friend which is outlined in update #1).

Scene B:

Anya dips before the scene starts to grab some extra supplies to make Lonan some sourdough so Lonan is tasked with watching her young son Joey while he tapes up the baseboards. This is where the “wicked child” aspect of this chapter comes in as he compares the wickedness he feels he and others in his life possess to the full innocence of Joey.

Scene C:

Anya gets back from running errands and at first, seems to be a *chill mom* but as she and Lonan interact more, we get to see that something isn’t fully right with her. From some observation, Lonan finally figures out Anya’s husband is actually dead and she’s struggling with grief.

Scene D:

Lonan is back in his apartment, filling up his bathroom sink. We know from Moth Work that one of Lonan’s hobbies is holding his breath underwater, and he does this in this scene to think. In the middle of this ritual, Eliza gets home and speaks to him as she unwinds, reading rather cryptic notes from fortune cookies she’s brought home with takeout.

Scene E:

Unbeknownst to her, Lonan’s not staying for dinner as Anya invited him to her place as a thank you! However this news doesn't break well and the two bicker until they’re both successfully upset.

Scene F:

Instead of going to Anya’s for dinner, Lonan finds himself at a church confessional. He stumbles through reconciliation in a bit of a haze and eventually heads outside where a concerned mother and her two kids ask if something’s wrong. His thoughts from scene D overwhelm him and he eventually sort of gives himself up to the moment in a bit of a chokehold with the sun.

Though this chapter took a while, I’m happy with the threads I introduced and really got to see Lonan’s mind at this point in time--a sort of lonely state of living. There’s also a lot of religion related stuff in this chapter which is always interesting to write as someone who grew up Catholic, and I was surprised at how pertinent these themes are in this book.

Excerpts:

Here’s the opening bit:

The next morning, Eliza leaves two energy shots on the counter for him, along with a slice of sourdough she bought from the bakery across the street. Both sit on a breakfast tray, room temperature from sitting out too long, icebergs of ginger floating along the glass’s surface, butter on the bread gone pallid and spongy. Next to it, she’s left a note, as she usually does: green casserole in the fridge, running low on OJ.

Lonan retrieves the television remote from the nook between the knife block and flicks the TV to life as he drinks the first shot. Gingerroot—and this morning, a new addition, carrot stems—mush against his incisors, and he swallows just as the TV brightens to an image of some amphibian, a leafy looking treefrog. The crank of their calls bulge like each red eye, the familiar husk of narration outlining the workings of mating. Lonan scoops up the second shot with his pinky and the saucer of sourdough with his index finger and thumb, takes both to the couch where he sits.

Classic Lonan (TM) interaction:

He’s mid chewing the stale crust when he opens the door, expecting a package delivery, an unaddressed sympathy card. Instead, a woman stands in the door, her hair damp and smelling like the coconut salve Eliza rubs onto her kneecaps. He recognizes her face in a fleeting, neighbour-like way, someone he might’ve held the door open for, or let step off the elevator first.

“Breakfast?” She points to the crumb stuck to the corner of his mouth.

Lonan swallows the remainder of the sourdough quickly, combing off the crumb with a shallow smile.

“Sourdough.”

“Did you make it yourself?”

“It’s probably from the back of our medicine cabinet.”

The woman laughs at this, though he’s not fully meant for it to be a joke.

Apparently a new motif in this book is the word stunning that both serves as a descriptor for something magnificent/dazzling and the process of subduing an animal (love being heavy handed about this lmao):

She peers at their half-bloody kitchen wall. “You’re doing red?”

“Eliza’s vegetarian.” At the woman’s blank stare, he turns to look at the wall, examining each plane of his throat as hot embarrassment makes him red like the paint. “Her favourite colour. We’re trying something new. Avant garde.” All things he’s heard Eliza say.

“That’s unique. Very. So unique,” she says, adding, “It’s so kind of you to offer some help while you’re in the middle of painting your own kitchen. When Eliza told me about your offer, I danced in my living room. Is that weird? I danced because I’m going to have a green kitchen—a green one.”

Lonan nods, and steps farther back into the apartment, toward the stack of paint rollers, one of many rolls of tape. “Of course,” he says.

“It makes you feel alive,” the woman says. He forgets what she’s referring to, doesn’t know her name, only vague details like the jeweled bangles she wears on one wrist, the shiny cast of hair gel stirruped around her curls, her teeth, white, like the canines of a wolf. But she doesn’t seem to notice, a starriness in her gaze as she says, “The paint. The green. It’s stunning. Isn’t it?”

Anya’s initial dialogue is some of my favourite I’ve written. Probably because of the moon mention lol. Also Joey’s just chillin and I love him for that!!

The woman’s name is Anya, and she lives three floors up. He finds this out at the same time he finds out Eliza offered to paint her kitchen on his behalf, though what Anya says sounds more like “When Eliza told me you’d paint the wall, I could’ve—what is that saying? I could’ve jumped over the moon. I would’ve. The entire thing. All its phases.”

Anya’s got a toddler named Joey. He’s turning two next month, a little boy with a curly halo for hair, two dimples Lonan sees whenever he glances up from his tape-job of the baseboards. Joey eats apple slices dipped in almond butter and watches cartoons with both feet propped onto the couch cushion, too short to dangle down. Ever so often, he laughs, a shimmery sound, like the inside of a snow globe. Lonan half-watches him, as Anya’s asked—He’s good, don’t stress—if he cries, he wants you to turn up the TV—because she’s out of bread flour and insists on making Lonan two loaves of sourdough.

Some Joey:

“Joey’s good, isn’t he?” she asks, her fingers curving around the tape company’s logo. Lonan inhales. Anya smells like Eliza sometimes does, vaguely floral, like jasmine, or cherry blossoms. “Children are little blessings. Powerful little blessings.”

Of course, he should say. There’s no other way to describe a child—he’s a blissful little thing, his only purpose to keep his feet in his two-inch socks, to stare wistfully at a television like it’s telling his fortune in a language of pictures. Of course a child is a blessing—soft cheeks like the belly of bread dough, pinchable, kissable, thumbable, hands dipped into glittery tempera paint and fingers that make chicken scratches that will never be anything but art. Of course, he should say. He knows that, he should say. But Lonan’s vision fuzzes. He sees little of the TV colours projected on the walls like a hypnotic, technicolour exorcism; he doesn’t remember what it’s like to be that small, what it’s like to have his hands expand right in front of him, like seedlings.

Here’s the title drop ft. a rewritten Bible verse (Revelation 21:8):

He wants to believe children are always powerful little blessings that stay good. He doesn’t know why he doubts her. Joey is just this—a blessing on her couch, smiling at a screen because it’s all he needs to do. But he knows better, knows the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable exist, where they all live, and how they all start—as little blessings. He’s met murderers, liars, sorcerers in the shape of his father, sisters, mothers, all the wicked things that emerge from their second deaths unscathed. He doesn’t know what makes a child wicked. If he is one. If he’s been one. How many wicked children he knows.

Eliza hasn’t returned any of Lonan’s phone calls since he tried dialling somewhere between the first and last half of the wall. It’s obvious Anya knows he wasn’t aware of the plan, which is why every few minutes, she states new reasons for her forgetfulness with the time. “Eliza ran into me in the hallway, and I’m so bad at hallways,” she said, while rolling the dough between her knuckles. “So many turns.” Brushing her benchtop with more flour: “Time as a mother is such a commodity. It’s like, what’s the down payment for five minutes alone? But Joey’s worth it. Joey’s always worth it. He’s just magnificent. Can’t stay away from magnificence.”

More interactions I adore:

“You want some OJ?”

Lonan looks up from the paint blankly, focusing on Anya in an embarrassingly slow haze. “What?”

Anya reaches over to the fridge and tugs on its stainless-steel handle. It gives with a haunted sound, a subtle sort of groaning, and emerges with a glass bottle of orange juice.

“OJ,” she says, and shakes the bottle so the liquid froths.

“Oh,” he says. Green casserole in the fridge. Running low on OJ. “We’re low on that.”

Okay sorry but I’m so in love with Anya and Lonan’s interactions lol:

“Where are you from again?” She undoes her apron from the back with one hand. It falls, a lilac clump, onto the tile, and she leaves it there, only nudging it slightly with her toe.

Her eyes are golden too. Everything in her apartment. Even the silver parts are somehow gold. How much she could pawn off for eyes like those, like individual buttons of solid gold. Anya squints, and there the gold goes, focusing on him until she leans forward and plucks a strand of hair from his jaw. It sags with green paint, and before he blinks, she’s clipped it with a pair of kitchen shears.

“You got some paint on you.”

“Oregon,” he says. “Boston. New York.”

“What?”

“You asked where I’m from.”

Anya pockets his hair. He’s sure it’s a subconscious tick—she hasn’t even realized—but still, he wonders what she’ll do with it. If she’ll send it somewhere to get scanned, bagged, tested. How much you can find out about someone with just a nib of hair.

“That’s a lot of places,” she says. “You’re basically transcontinental.”

From her pocket, Anya’s hand twitches. He wonders what she’s doing, if she’s touching the hair, or flaking off its paint, or simply flattening out her pocket.

“Are you going to clone me?” He gestures to her pocket.

Anya doesn’t look.

“I could.”

“Why?”

“You paint walls fast. You’ve got nice hair.”

“Do you collect hair?”

“Just from the people I like.”

We get to see Anya unravel a little here as she and Lonan share a drink:

He’s always been good at watching. This is what he does as Anya pulls a miniature bottle of a deep amber liquid from her fridge along with the orange juice, mixing them together so what he pushes toward him smells like ammonia. She drinks half, an easiness as she swallows, and then slides the glass to him.

He leaves it there for a while. He watches Joey, how he claps when more animals show up on screen and gets quiet during the wrangle of commercials. He’s gold just like his mother, with a gap tooth that matches the man’s who grins in every photo hung neatly on the walls. A face he doesn’t remember, not even in the hazy slots he reserves for what he remembers working the hardware store. No evidence of him anywhere else, the shoes on the front mat only women’s heels or child-sized sneakers. One hook that holds one set of keys. Only the photographs.

“Where is your husband right now?” he asks. One wine glass in the sink. One coffee mug. One saucer.

“Businessman. Very busy.”

“I don’t remember him coming into the store.”

Anya takes another sip of the orange juice even though it’s Lonan’s turn to drink. Anya looks at Joey, a desperate fondness that answers Lonan’s question for him. She looks at him like she’s searching for the face of the man in the pictures, searching because she hasn’t seen it in years.

Anya really unravelling:

Anya’s face is bloated and red, a soreness in her eyes like she needs to blink but can’t. Lonan instinctually reaches for her hand, and it’s then that he notices it—two wedding bands on her ring finger. Her fingertips jolt him, but her palms are warm, the skin there taut, like she’s been clutching it for years.

“I thought the wall would help. Green means new life. Doesn’t it? I read that in a magazine. That it brings new life, I mean. New beginnings. New, new, new.”

Lonan getting existential ft. the first Harrison mention so far tho I’ll probably cut it because I want it to be a little more impactful and also half of this makes no sense oops:

His father is a dead man. Just like Anya’s husband is a dead man. Lonan knows so many dead men. Some that matter more than others, some names he revisits sometimes at the graveyard when Eliza thinks he’s out to run an errand as innocent as replacing a bad container of cottage cheese. He knows of men who are dead but still living, like Harrison’s father who no longer exists as a person in his dimension, but a corpse, hanging around in unnecessary things like a last name, an eye colour. Beyond men, he knows of many other dead things: dead pets, dead street names, dead countries, dead houseplants, dead first ladies.

He knows what a dead father does, what a dead heart does, that these things are meant to die—an inevitable thing; a sort of giving up of flesh, burying, toiling into new soil.

This is basically a monologue:

Lonan is in love with Eliza. He always has been. He always will be. There is nothing better than being in love with Eliza. There is nothing wrong with being in love with Eliza. There is no reason to not be in love with Eliza. Eliza is intelligent. Eliza is driven. Eliza is sensitive. Eliza tries to listen. Eliza knows how to take care of him. Eliza knows how to spell words like zolpidem, wears lipstick in the shade Very Vermillion and is delighted when it rubs onto her teeth. Eliza is lucky. Eliza is hypnotic. Eliza is a holy woman, a sacred woman, a careful woman, a wicked woman.

Lonan gulps water. Too much to keep himself controlled; he sputters, splatters the mirror. He hooks his fingers over his waterline, tugging until water falls out. He paces, chews his palms like Anya did, and steadies himself slowly from the counter to the tile. He is a wicked child. Eliza is a wicked child. Everyone he knows—all wicked children.

“Accept what comes to you each day,” Eliza says, which means she’s opened three of four of the cookies. “That’s truthful. That’s raw. That’s all you need to do.”

Some Eliza dialogue I like in reply to Lonan’s statement that he can’t do things since she bars him from driving:

“You don’t need a car to do things, Lonan.” She stirs her bowl of congee, the plastic spoon scraping against the Styrofoam. “You need hobbies. Like cross stitch. Pickling. Painting neighbours’ walls.”

Lonan and Eliza being Lonan and Eliza:

Lonan secures his fingers around the tin of madeleines and shifts once more, only for her to mimic his movement. They dance like this for a moment—his shuffle left matched by her shuffle left, his step up matched by her own. More of her mascara has smudged from where she unclumped her lashes, a lazy slash of colour like a samurai belt. Even their stares match each other—as he bores through her with a nimble focus like it’ll move her somehow, she does the same.

Here’s a line I like:

As she reddens, he adds this to his list of synonyms for baptism: to tame.

Here’s an excerpt featuring self indulgence and proof I miss Harrison:

The confessional smells rank, like rotting paper and expired cologne, all of its corners seedy with overuse. Scratches mar the fabric he rests his elbows on, like someone clawed into it while reliving their sins, track marks on the floor from a rainy day. He can’t imagine anyone else but him in this small box, caged in by the lattice, mumbling incoherent sins to the priest he hasn’t even committed. Stealing a set of glass eyeballs from a garage sale. Forgetting his wedding anniversary. Missing Easter Sunday mass to go whale watching. He doesn’t sign himself at the right times or speak at the right times or thank the priest at the right times. He lies when he’s asked if he’s lied since his last confession. He mentions nothing of drinking with Anya, of not saving the sheep or the bunnies even though he knew the outcome of their lives without finishing the program. Of being a wicked child, of knowing wicked children, of not knowing the difference between wickedness and innocence, and which one he learned first. He says his name is Luka. He works at a law firm. He’s married to a Harriet, a seamstress or a stock broker or an antiques trader—he doesn’t know. He likes golfing, parcheesi, drinking martinis on yachts. He’s never overindulged, he’s loyal to his woman, he wants three kids and a house with finished floors and no neighbours. He’s a good father, a gentle father, a careful father, no wickedness, just an empty shell of goodness, like a father should be. His father is retired, and visits him on weekends—they play checkers, paint birdhouses, keep a distance but toast with spirits he can’t pronounce. Everything is good—it’s all good, all good. That’s not a sin, the priest should say but they laugh—it’s good to be good. Children are good, marriage is good, fathers are good, everything an iteration of good. By the time his confession is over and he’s well on his way out of the church mumbling I am heartily sorry, he believes his lies are true—he’s absolved into someone new, Luka married to Harriet, three kids, an empty shell, dreamily stumbling through a house with finished floors that’s actually just the sidewalk until a woman passing by with a two small children has to help him sit on the curb.

This image gives me Forever & Ever More by Nothing But Thieves vibes (music video was def inspo):

She asks if he needs something to drink, if he needs someone to call, and emerges with a half-empty bottle of sparkling water and a cell phone. She asks what’s wrong with his eye, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong with anything—with eyes, with children, with sins, with confessions, with baptisms, with orange juice, with madeleines, with wickedness, with practicing how long he can breathe underwater because he knows it’s possible just like walking on it.

One of the children, hair pulled into two plaits secured with pearlescent butterfly bobbles, pokes at her mother and asks if he’s crazy. Her mother shushes her at the same time her older sister shows him a cool trick she learned with a toy convertible. Its wheels whir. Lonan gasps. The girl says, “Even crazy people think I’m gifted,” and wheels the car again. People stop to watch. Church bells gong an elegy he’s sure he’s heard before. The woman’s sparkling water dribbles from his mouth and dampens his dress shirt. Sun eclipses his face and eats at his throat like a parasite, like it knows all the unclean things about him, a watcher, an eyeball, a scorching little thing that bullets through his neck like the tooth of a wolf. The woman shushes her children and asks if he’s got a health problem, a drug problem, any problem, and he could say yes to all three but instead keeps repeating I am heartily sorry, I am heartily sorry. And when she does call someone, no one he knows, he leans against the cool pavement, cranes his neck to the sky, and parts his lips so the sunlight fills his mouth.

So that’s it for this update! I haven’t really been drafting lately, but I hope I can get more of this written because I love sharing!

--Rachel

#writing #amwriting #writeblr #writerblr #writingupdates #mothwork #feedinghabits #fostered

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vin-taege · 7 years

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Petals pt. 2

Summary: Taehyung bumps into Jungkook again, but in more awkward circumstances.

Pairing: Taehyung x Jungkook

Words: 2k+

Taehyung went home thirty minutes late. His hyungs didn’t really mind, except Jimin, who tried to act angry at him.

“Yah, ‘I’ll be home before six’, he said. ‘Just going for a walk’, he said.” Jimin eyed him, a small smile breaking through his lips. He grabbed Taehyung, hooking an arm around his neck in a mocked chokehold. Jimin began ruffling the younger one’s hair. “Who did you meet up huh? Did you go out for a quick fuck without telling us?”

Taehyung cringed at the thought. He didn’t want easy catches. Even though he had a sugar mommy, he still believed that sex was for two people in love,not just for temporary satisfaction. Everything he did was wrong most of the time, but that doesn’t mean he lost his moral code.

He squirmed at of Jimin’s grip. “Hell no. Like I said, just for a walk.” He shrugged his jacket off, carelessly tossing it on the floor. They usually had dinner at seven, but he saw Namjoon and Yoongi already sharing a big cup of ramen on the couch.

“Ah, dongsaeng. Your shirt’s torn. Who the fuck did that?” Yoongi asked, nodding to his side. He followed the older boy’s action and saw his shirt ripped on his right side. He had second thoughts about telling them his encounter at the library. They might tease him for defending someone, thinking he’d gotten soft. Even such an act was foreign for him. It’s been a while since he’s done something good for a change. Plus, he couldn’t let them know that he was at a library.

“I got into a fight.”

He said timidly. He didn’t show the whole truth, but for him, that was better than lying. “Hm? With who? One of Seungcheol’s men? Goddamnit, I already told Woozi-”

“No, no. Just a uni jock. He had a big mouth on him.” Partly saying the truth again. Yoongi took it in and continued eating. “Next time, make sure to include us. I’ve always wanted to beat up a jock.” Namjoon piped up, his mouth still full of noodles.

Taehyung chuckled. He knew why Namjoon’s blood was so hot with jocks. Namjoon did well in school. He always got good grades and high honors, which was why everyone was shocked when he dropped out. Except for his seniors in the varsity team, who made sure his school days were filled with torture. But he was grateful, because he learned how to fight because of them.

Everyone had a reason for being in the group, mostly because they were neglected, and pushed to a point where they acted out. Taehyung left because of his parents, who had an attitude shittier than their couch. He was just glad to be where he was right now, even though he wasn’t exactly the best influence.

“Namjoon needs to stop smoking before he gets sick. We can’t afford a new couch, much less his chemo.” Hoseok sighed, partly annoyed, partly joking. Taehyung walked next to him, Jimin behind them. Namjoon initially ordered Jimin to get him a new pack of cigarettes, but Hoseok wanted to come too, and dragged Taehyung with him.

“I just want to scare everyone on the way to the market for shits and giggles.” Hoseok had said when they went out.

Jimin was silent. He didn’t like going outside much, except for bars or nightclubs. But aside from that, he didn’t want interacting with people who aren’t like him. At least that’s how he labelled them. In his world, there are only two types: those who are bent, blindly following a path already made for them, and those who make their own.

He was considered a disappointment in their family the second he went to his first dance competition. So he lived up to that name, but this time he did what he want.

“Hyung, keep your voice down. You don’t want unneeded attention.” Jimin muttered from behind them. Normally, he was cheerful, but being in town made him sour. He loved how the crowd parted for them, how fear was evident just because of their presence. But he didn’t like the stares they got.

“It’s those boys again, huh? Going to be involved in another gang fight, probably.”

“Gonna get shit-faced at the bar again.”

Jimin heard the whispers loud and clear. He has always been the most sensitive regarding these things. Even though he couldn’t give less of a fuck, those comments still managed to get under his skin. He looked at the younger boys in front of him. Hoseok was smiling, still going on about a story only he found funny, while Taehyung stared straight ahead, seeming to be deep in thought.

“Shit!”

Hoseok was on the ground, books and papers sprawled around him. A boy laid opposite him. They were both rubbing their heads, and Taehyung couldn’t help but laugh. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but the laughter was still heard.

In a flash, Hoseok got up and grabbed the boy by his collar. “What the hell where you-”

“Jungkook?” Taehyung stared. Hoseok paused and looked at him. “You know this guy?” Taehyung nodded. With a huff, Hoseok let go and walked over to Jimin.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t see where I was going. It was my fault.” Jungkook said, frantically gathering his things. Taehyung helped him, occasionally giving him glances. His hair look messier, fluffier, than the first time they met. “No, it’s okay. Hoseok’s okay with it, right?” Taehyung said, pointedly looking at his hyung.

Hoseok scrunched his eyebrows, but after seeing the pleading look from his dongsaeng, swallowed his remarks. “Yeah, whatever. Just watch where you’re going. Come on, Tae.” Jungkook stood there, gaping at them. He’s only heard stories about their group, but now three of their members are standing before him.

The two started walking away, while Taehyung shot him one last glance and slowly followed. “Wait! Uh, I’m not busy, and I’m assuming you guys aren’t too. Do you- do you guys want some coffee? As an apology? I can treat you guys out if you want.” Jungkook said, jogging up to them. Hoseok looked at him, a small smile on his face. Taehyung tugged at Jimin’s sleeve.

“Hyung, free coffee! We haven’t had coffee in a while. Plus, I need something other than booze to keep me going.” he whispered. “Yeah, and this guy does owe me an apology.” Hoseok added. “We can get the cigarettes later anyway.” Jimin groaned. There was no way his friends where going to turn down the offer. He stopped walking and eyed Jungkook. There was something about that kid that screamed they could trust him. And he was the first person to look at them like they were actually humans, not monsters.

“Yah. What’s your name?” he said, making his voice purposely cold. Maybe he could scare him off.

“Jeon Jungkook” Jungkook shifted his weight to one foot, intimidated by the man in front of him. “Sir.” he hesitantly added.

“Do you study or...?”

“I go to university.”

After a minute more of eyeing him down, Jimin knew he wasn’t going away. So with a sigh, he held out his hand. “I’m Jimin. The one you bumped into earlier is Hoseok hyung. He’s too nice for his own good”

“Hey!” Hoseok glared at him. “I guess you’ve met Taehyung?” Hoseok patted Taehyung’s shoulder. Jungkook smiled. “Yeah. He kinda ‘saved’ me at the library yesterday.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.’ he thought. His hyungs looked at him, suspicion and a glint of mischief in their eyes. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh yesterday.” He shrugged it off, trying to play it cool. He could already hear Jimin’s voice teasing him.

“There’s a really cozy coffee shop down there.” Jungkook pointed straight ahead. “They make nice latte art too.” He grabbed Taehyung by the wrist, being most comfortable with him, and dragged him in the direction of the cafe. The older boys gave each other a look, before following them.

“Well, you were right about the latte art. I thought I had to kill you there earlier, but you proved me wrong.” Hoseok said, contentedly taking another sip from his cup. Jungkook nervously laughed. He was sure everyone at the cafe were looking at them, especially when Jimin began picking his nails with a small pocket knife.

“See? I told you he’s nice. What do you think, hyung?” Taehyung nodded towards Jimin, “Oh? Yeah, the coffee’s great.” he said, sparing an uninterested glance at his mocha latte. “Jungkook, what course are you taking?”

“Fine arts. I’ve always wanted to, ever since I was young.” he beamed. He was thankful that his parents were supporting him. He thought they wouldn’t let him move, since Busan was far away from Seoul. But here he was, living by himself, going to an arts college.

“Wait, then what about that thesis freak?” Hoseok smirked at Taehyung. The younger one groaned. Jungkook just had to tell that story. Even Jimin grinned a bit.

“Oh, Daewon. He’s in the other school a few blocks away from ours. He’s older, but he always got held back. He uh, thought I was nice enough to make him his thesis.” Jungkook said, not wanting to touch that topic much. Getting, the hint, Hoseok asked him another question. “Do you have any part-time jobs?”

Jungkook nodded. “I wait tables at Burgundee. That burger place downtown.”

“The one with the good cheese sticks? Doesn’t Jin hyung work there?” Jimin said, suddenly engaging in the conversation. “Can you get us discounts?” he whispered. Hoseok smacked him lightly on the head. Jungkook laughed, not scared anymore by Jimin’s cold demeanor earlier.

“I could try. You know Jin hyung? He’s really nice to me. A bit clumsy at work, but he’s a gentleman.” Jungkook smiled at them. Taehyung returned the same warm smile.

“Hey, kid. No offense, but aren’t you, well, scared of us or something?” Hoseok didn’t want to make things awkward, but he found it weird, although pleasing. He was used to getting feared, but this was a nice, slightly odd, change. “Well, I couldn’t really judge you based on rumors. I should’ve thought of that more before.” he shot Taehyung an apologetic look.

Taehyung nodded and looked at his hyungs. They seemed to like Jungkook, which was a good sign. They normally weren’t comfortable with people they just met, but there’s something about Jungkook that made him so like-able. The way he spoke softly, his gentle actions, how he’s so passionate about arts.

Then Taehyung felt something itchy in his throat. He coughed into his sleeve. “Excuse me.” he quickly got up from his chair and rushed to the bathroom, coughing.

As soon as he locked the cubicle door, he leaned on the sink. Something was stuck in his throat, and he did everything just to get it out. With one last violent cough, a spur of color went out. He felt dizzy, and at first he thought he was seeing things. There was no way he was high or drunk. The last party he went to was over a month ago, and he’s been clean for a few days.

When his vision cleared, he looked at the sink, only to be greeted by a mixture of flowers and his saliva. His eyes widened. He has heard about this, but never true. Even Jin and Yoongi told him about it, but he has never seen it happen.

With another hack, he leaned over the sink. He thumped his chest and spat out one more petal. He slid down the floor and tried regaining his breaths.

“Taehyung? We’re leaving.” Jimin knocked on the door. Taehyung kept silently for a bit, his throat sore and exhausted. The knocks became louder. “Tae? Are you okay in there?” Jimin asked, worry laced in his voice. “Uh, yeah. I’ll be out in a bit.” Taehyung weakly replied.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.” he added with much more conviction

‘I need to to tell Jin’

#bts #bts imagines #bts scenarios #v #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #jeon jungkook #kim taehyung #kim namjoon #vkook #taekook #taekook imagine #vkook imagine #kpop imagines #otp

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mizlizthebizwiz · 7 years

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Flash Back: Slavery and the black lens in Get Out

Plot description below: If you are avoiding spoilers, fall back. If you don’t mind me focusing your view of the film, carry on.

In the 2017 movie Get Out, Jordan Peele takes the thriller genre and turns the camera on the world through a playful black lens. I am using “black lens” to talk about a collective identity, consciousness, and, in this case, humor rooted in cultural references and histories. Seeing the world through the eyes of a black director and protagonist is a rare, powerful, and funny thing. I had to see it twice... to look for the hints along the way.

The first time, I went to see it opening night in Hollywood and it was a decidedly black viewing experience for me. I had a friend put it this way – the best part of the movie was the reaction to it by other black people in the movie theater. The audience was a mixed crowd but the humor rooted in black cultural references was heard loud and clear in the laughter and commentary throughout the film. Responding to what we hear and see on the screen is part of the party. The humor of the film and the audience’s riffed reactions to it served as a salve for me while viewing a movie about psychic and physical terror.

A memorable example is when the protagonist, Chris Washington, a photographer in a white New England suburb, realizes that he is neither the first, the second, nor the third black person his white girlfriend Rose has dated. Chris is flipping through physical photographs of different black people posed lovingly with Rose Armitage, all unknowingly being lured into her family’s elaborate trap. After a few photos, someone behind me started narrating names for each new boo as he went through the images. It was something like “Tyrone, Jamaal, Sindarius...,” you get the idea. This improvised commentary provided comic relief for people within earshot and we definitely laughed. Humor was especially necessary because Get Out deals with such a frightening and familiar subject for black American viewers - the exploitation of black bodies. I realized later that seeing the photos of each black person as themselves - before their terrible transformations - was powerful. Once their bodies were owned, they would not be photographed; especially not with flash.

After seeing it once, I read and thought about the ways slavery is invoked in the film, especially in the scenes when our hero is trapped in the basement of the Armitage house. Chris is bound to a chair, with straps around his ankles and arms; the sound of which ring true to the movement of shackles and chains in movies about slavery and the slave trade. The imagery of Chris strapped into place is also a reference to the electric chair, invoking continued black subjugation through mass incarceration. The electric chair foretells the certain death of the occupant, and Chris faces the threat of (a sort of) death in the enslavement of his body to the will of the chosen white bidder. He also picks cotton, a trope in images and stories of black American slavery; and this act helps save his life. After scratching through skin of the chair over time, he picks out the stuffing and puts it in his ears, blocking out the hypnotic preparation for surgery he sees and hears on the television screen in front of him.

While strapped to the chair, coming in and out of consciousness, Chris is presented with two types of video. First, there is old footage of three generations of the Armitage family, with Rose and her brother Jeremy as children, their mother and father looking younger, their grandmother, and the mastermind grandfather explaining the process. This video was another moment of black humor my first time seeing it. There is a long shot of the grandfather walking onto the screen and his stride, posture, and clothing are absurdly and hilariously white – a type of performance one might do when mocking whiteness. Despite being in one of the tensest moments of the film, there is a comic relief in way the white domination is portrayed.

The other video - a live, interactive feed of the white man who won the auction for Chris’ body - did not invoke laughter. Chris met Jim Hudson earlier in the film, at “grandpa’s” gathering at Armitage home where white people and couples came to view and place bids on Chris Washington without his knowledge. The man is blind and an art dealer, and Chris has heard of his gallery. When they first meet, Hudson admits that art is a strange business for a blind man and says that his assistant describes art to him in great detail; and that he knows Chris’ photographic work. In that moment, Hudson tells Chris that he has a “good eye.” When Chris encounters Hudson again on the screen in the basement, the blind man says he bid on his body specifically for his eyes. In Chris Washington, Hudson envisions himself living a life where he can not only see, but have an eye for art. The form of exploitation Chris is being prepared for, and that all the people in the photographs are being subject to, is one where their bodies, including their eyes, are no longer their own.

The Armitage scheme involves the capture of a black person, through deception and abduction. This is followed by hypnosis performed by Rose’s mother. We learn early on that Missy Armitage hypnotizes people to stop smoking. In preparation for the horrific surgical procedure, she mentally paralyzes the person, relegating their conscious mind to what she refers to as “the sunken place.” After that, they are kept in the basement of the Armitage home and forced to view videos before Rose’s father, a neurosurgeon, performs a double lobotomy and transplantation. Late in the film, we see Dr. Dean Armitage cut open the skull of Jim Hudson to take out his brain and surgically place it in Chris’s head. In the Armitage family business, they sell stolen black human beings to serve as the physical vessel for the brain and will of a white owner. The black body remains with part of its own brain intact, but that body functions under the submission of a white buyer’s mind. As we see in many moments of the film, however, the consciousness of the black person is never fully extinguished.

The black character who makes the disturbing outburst that reveals the resilience of the black mind is the first person we see in the film. In the opening scene, Andre Hayworth, a young musician from Brooklyn, New York is walking down the street at night in a suburban neighborhood where he feels uncomfortable and (rightfully) thinks he is being followed. Someone gets out of a car, puts him into a chokehold until he passes out, and then dumps Andre’s body into the trunk. We later find out that his abductor is Rose’s brother, Jeremy Armitage. Andre appears again later in the movie when we see him through the lens of Chris’ camera at the mostly white gathering; the auction party where he meets Hudson. Upon spotting a black man, Chris approaches and says it is nice to see another brother at the party. Chris is quickly and thoroughly disturbed by the other black man’s performance: the failure to pick up on black social cues, the apparent relationship with a white woman more than twice his age, and the out-of-place clothing - including a funny hat hiding the scar tracing the circumference of Andre’s head. Even without knowing about the awful scar, Chris decides to document this strange black man with a picture and send it to a friend back in New York City. While attempting to surreptitiously snap the smartphone photo, the camera flashes… and a spell breaks. Andre’s eyes appear to lose a sort of animation, he bleeds from the nose, and returns to himself. With the flash of the black photographer’s camera, Andre’s own mind once again animates his flesh, and he immediately charges toward Chris, grabbing him and urging him to “Get Out! Get Out! Get Ouuuttt!” Chris knows that this episode is not a seizure as Dean and Rose claim because he recognizes the brother he just unknowingly and temporarily emancipated.

When I saw the film a second time, there wasn’t the same raucous reaction and laughter that gave me so much life opening night. I went with a friend one evening after work over a week after it was released and the theater was much whiter, quieter and hesitant to laugh. We walked away in a serious mood discussing the family, community, and operation in the film. She opened my eyes to the fact that smoking is strongly discouraged before surgery to lessen the possibility of complications. Rose throws Chris’ cigarette out of the car window on the way to the house; upon arrival, Dean discourages him from smoking; and that night Missy hypnotizes him to be disgusted by cigarettes. These small details related to the surgical nature of the process in the film disturbed me.

Soon after, I saw an exhibition of work by artist Kerry James Marshall, and was struck by a painting called Beauty Examined. In it, a black woman is laid out on an examination table and her body is surrounded by notations and measurements pointing to different parts of her body. The surreal scene also has such elements such as muscles and cut-through views of organs. Prominent text at the top reads faintly “Exhibit A.” Floating just above her body reads: SUBJECT / female blk, age 30, 5’3, 148 lbs, blk ha(ir).” There is also two shots resembling a mugshot of another figure at the top of the painting, referencing the use of photography to criminalize black populations. The woman on the table is looking away, fixed in a serious expression. This piece helped me realize what was so disturbing in thinking about the surgical part of enslavement in Get Out: cutting open black people’s bodies against their will is nothing new.

As Harriet Washington documents in Medical Apartheid, modern gynecology was built upon observations and experimental surgeries practiced on enslaved black women in the United States. Credited with pioneering techniques and knowledge in the field of gynecological surgery, physician and slaveholder James Marion Sims restrained his black female slaves and repeatedly sliced open and sewed back together their vaginas, most often without anesthesia. These surgeries were extremely painful and the black women who were experimented upon protested violently. Dr. Sims and others justified their actions with the belief that black people were not fully human and therefore, incapable of suffering. This meant there were no moral consequences for experimenting upon and exploiting their bodies.

The movie Get Out reverses the traditional lens of Hollywood cinema, which is usually positioned from a white and male perspective. The film is frightening because the community and form of enslavement it imagines is twisted yet familiar considering the history of slavery and medical experimentation on black people in the United States. Peele makes moments of laughter and serious contemplation possible by presenting a scenario that is outrageous but not altogether unfeasible to the viewer who is aware of the intricate and intimate forms of subjection that black people have endured throughout this nation’s history.

Positioning the viewer from the perspective of a black figure, Get Out also references another tendency in American history – the emancipatory uses of the camera by black people. As Deborah Willis and Barbara Krauthamer bring to light in their book Envisioning Emancipation: Black Americans and the End of Slavery, photography was a new and powerful tool in the final decades of legal slavery in the United States: “the intensifying national conflict over slavery and black freedom played out through competing campaigns of photographic imagery” (3). On one hand, slaveholders and scientists made images of enslaved black people as evidence of their supposed inferiority and to document them as property. On the other hand, black people began making images of themselves that presented an alternate narrative.

As photographic technology became available in black and white en masse, photographers and photo studios began popping up across the country. Many professional photographic practices, among white and black entrepreneurs, created images for Civil War soldiers and families of some means. Some of these photos were studio portraits of individuals and families with dignity –in uniforms of the Union, wearing the finest dresses and hats, and teachers with school children at newly-formed schools. Many portraits included people posed with things like books, pocket watches, and musical instruments to convey education and rising status. These images expanded the visual archive of blackness to include family, community, and everyday life; countering the dominant white gaze that had fixed black people as less than human. In a context of dispossession, black people used photographs create a sense of belonging and envision beauty in blackness in the first decades after emancipation.

In Get Out, the camera is key to Chris maintaining his freedom through really seeing black people and bringing them back into their bodies by taking flash photos of them. Through the lens of his camera at the party, Chris notices a black woman (enslaved to grandmother Armitage) strangely admiring her face in the mirror, furthering his suspicions that something weird is happening among black people at the Armitage house. The flash of the camera on his phone brings Andre back to life, and the photo that results helps him confirm his suspicions when his friend back in New York recognizes Andre as a brother from Brooklyn. Flipping through photographs of his girlfriend with black people she has tricked and trapped solidified that all the black people around him are not fully themselves. And finally, when Chris faces being shot by Rose after discovering the grand scheme and killing the rest of the family to escape, Chris again uses the flash to emancipate the black man who is enslaved to grandfather Armitage. When the man returns to his conscious self, he shoots Rose and then fires the gun through his own body, killing the brain that is not his own. In this moment, the man finds freedom in death rather than risking being returned to the sunken place and living in a horribly altered physical state. It is through seeing other black people for who they are that Chris eventually walks away with his body and mind intact.

Get Out is a thrilling, humorous, and painful movie created through a black lens. Jordan Peele uses both humor and horror to reference the ways the beliefs and tactics of white racism are passed down through generations, as well as the legacy of black people claiming agency and freedom in contexts of domination through images and the camera. In a world where we come to know ourselves and our reality through images, the movie takes the viewer to an alternate reality that is an extreme and contemporary version of things we have already seen happen in this nation.

#getout jordanpeele blacklens humor horror surgery slavery

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