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star-oni-stimz · 4 months

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Thanks! I'll answer them and maybe you could give me your opinion? I don't really mind :)

I'll mostly answer them based on intuition tbh

1. Were you built by Cyrus Borg? What was your relationship with him?

Yes. I was built by Cyrus Borg. He was like a father but not quite like that, i felt like he was some sort of authoritarian figure to me, not like family, i knew he didn't like that i saw him like someone to follow orders from or obey, but i felt some kind of debt with him at first as a form of gratitude for building me. I felt a deep need to protect and care for him, without receiving or expecting anything in return. But i know that urge disappeared over time, and with help from others

2. Did you meet the ninja Zane? If so, when?

Yes i did. I met him when i was still an assistant for Ninjago and Cyrus Borg. Some years after my creation, when i was still more of a robot.

3. Were you ever controlled by the Overlord? Did you interact with the Overlord at all?

Hmm. Maybe i was, if yes the memories are foggy and not that clear. And yes, i did interact with him, there were moments where i would secretly spy on Cyrus to make sure he was okay because he sounded worried, and then i found out that he talked with the Overlord, but i think i kept it as a secret.

4. Did Zane still have to give you half of his power core?

Yes. He did, and i felt somewhat guilty for it, the same urge to protect and take care of Cyrus Borg is what i felt for Zane now, but when i realized i could do more things, and fight tuned in with Zane, that's when my feelings changed, for both Cyrus and Zane. I started feeling less guilty, and i started feeling romantic attraction towards Zane, it was freeing. I think that's what inspired me to keep going and build my own identity.

5. Did Chen disassemble your body? If yes, were you ever inside Zane's head?

When Zane died and reconstructed himself, i realized he didn't have memory of anything. I felt the urge to protect him, it was different than the necessity i felt before with him and Borg. It was more like a sense of destiny even. I wanted to protect him, so i did, i wanted to take him somewhere safe, with the other ninjas or with Borg, but Chen's allies found us. I don't know how they found us so quickly, but yes. When they took us, i guess i wasn't valuable at all. Zane was unconscious, and i was disassembled.

About the other question. I'm not very sure. I think that yes, i was in his head for a short time, and i loved being with him, but that sense of freedom i felt when he gave me his heart disappeared, i felt like i was just following orders again, but i didn't want Zane to feel that it was because i didn't love him, I think that was why I decided to rebuild myself too and become the Samurai X.

6. Did you ever become Samurai X? If yes, what was it like? If not, did you do anything else for the ninja?

Yes, i did. It was like having my freedom back, like i had a purpose. I think it was the best thing that happened to me. I didn't know where to start my own identity, but having Nya as the water ninja made me think that maybe I could be the Samurai X now. And that's what i did. At first i only helped the ninjas when they would normally need a hand. When Nya found me and told me to use another color, when i started helping others and getting them to recognise me. That's when i felt like i was truly doing something and finding myself. Blue was my color, and being helpful was my thing. I felt free i think. There's no better words to explain what I felt other than freedom.

7. Did you build vehicles for the ninja? What was your favorite to build?

Well. I don't feel or remember doing vehicles for Zane, but i do remember helping Nya with her inventions. I was used to help in that area since i were Borg's assistant. But with Nya i felt like if we were working together. It felt good to have a friend to help and be useful for. As for favorites, i think i really enjoyed complex designs in small vehicles like motorcycles or mini cars, even jets. I liked doing things with complex mechanisms and many buttons

8. Who was your favorite ninja to build for?

Definitely Nya, I feel like even compared to Zane, she appreciated my work more than the others.

9. Wich villain was your favorite to beat? Least favorite villain overall?

I really enjoyed fighting princess Harumi and the Sons of Garmadon, mostly because i could be myself with the others, I was appreciated as another warrior, no longer just as the "answer-questions" program. Not to say it was easy. But i was fighting, and that made me feel like a true warrior.

My least favorite was Chen. I lost my freedom. I couldn't fight. I didn't have answers and my only purpose was to guide and take care of Zane. Not to say he wasn't important, i helped him. But i wasn't myself. It was "Zane's inner voice" and never Pixal, the nindroid warrior.

Did you and Zane go on any adventures, just you two? Or did you go on missions with another ninja? Did you go on any solo missions?

Yes to all. It all depended on the mission itself, but there was times where i was with Zane. Some with Nya or Lloyd, and some by myself.

Thanks for listening/reading my answers. It all ended up being a sum of my life haha. Thank you for the questions. They were very useful to me and to finally kinfirm Pixal as a fictionkin. Have a nice day!

- Dx. Douxie

Hello! You're welcome, Dx. Douxie! I'm glad I could help! Your life sounds very interesting! Hope you have a nice day too!

#🪷“Please don't ever stop”||Responding #🪷“Thank you so much for talking me into this”||Feedback

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sarahtran · 2 years

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The KonMari Cure

[originally written April 9 2019]

Tidying Up with Marie Kondo took the internet by storm, and naturally received critics against the KonMari Method in return. But the 15 minutes of fame glossed over the deeper meaning of the method— something established centuries ago, long before Marie Kondo ever even tried vertical folding.

I set the timer for 20 minutes. My face, stripped bare from two consecutive facial cleansers, feels like it’s being deeply pampered with this Glossier Mega Greens Galaxy Pack detoxifying face mask. Of course, my skin turns a bright shade of red every time I use it and I break out the next day, but this thing was not cheap, so maybe the seventh try’s the charm. I sit on the corner of my bed, folding the pile of clothes that’s been growing on my chair all week. To feel productive and smart, I put on a Spotify podcast telling me how to build the habits of successful people and prioritize my mental health, or something along those lines. I usually get bored around two minutes into the podcasts anyways, so I eventually turn to Netflix instead.

Ringing in the start of 2019, Tidying Up with Marie Kondo has taken over not only Netflix home screens, but nearly every part of online media. The signature approach to decluttering known as the KonMari Method claims to deep clean a house in such a way that it will never have to be deep cleaned again. By discarding possessions from easiest to most difficult (clothes, books, papers, miscellaneous, sentimental items) and subsequently using unique tricks (such as folding clothes vertically) for organization, Marie Kondo intends to rekindle the joy and gratitude in people for the things that matter the most. Given this, the KonMari Method’s widespread popularity and supposedly “life-changing magic” are usually the two criteria necessary for my next attempt at a self-care trend. I’m a total self-help junkie. The “Treat Yo Self” mentality has trapped me in this endless cycle of constant destressing, leaving me to wonder whether the consistency itself proves that it doesn’t work. A one-time, everlasting change such as the KonMari Method therefore seems like it would be my cure. It’s just my luck, then, that this one-time cure has already been tried before.

Three years ago, Marie Kondo’s book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, was gifted to me on my birthday. After that initial rush of inspiration, I quickly dove into purging my closet. This closet consisted of four separate hanger rods, five additional shelves of folded clothing, and overhead storage packed with bins of everything from old schoolwork to stuffed animals, to gift bags and book collections. The senselessness of this organization could make a grown woman cry— and it did. My mother would wince every time she opened my door, as if the bursting amount of clothes induced slight physical pain. I knew that most of the things in that closet were kept for sentimental reasons rather than actual use, but the stress of the clutter had finally outweighed the good memories. After three long summer months, I had filled four garbage bags with my middle-school wardrobe, and packed cardboard boxes with old school supplies and unappreciated toys. I was just about done decluttering this section of my life, when my mother stopped me from tossing it out. For whatever reasons — sentimental, financial or perhaps logical — she refused to let these goods go to waste by giving them away. That was three years ago. The bags still sit in our spare room today, as the literal embodiment of my emotional baggage.

These feelings against the KonMari Method aren’t uncommon. Many people criticize the minimalist lifestyle for being bougie and unrealistic, or something exclusively for rich white people (although KonMari and minimalism are two distinct ideas, both include the fundamental step of throwing things out and living with less). In truth, some of these criticisms may be valid— out of every self-help method I have tried, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up is without a doubt the most abstract, most arbitrary, and most spiritually-based thing I’ve never completed. However, it’s this very unrestricted element that makes it so easily applicable to more than just decluttering your space. KonMari isn’t just a passing trend or some falsely advertised miracle cure— it’s a mindset that has ancient philosophical roots, which speak to much more than just some trendy Ikea furniture and Apple MacBook aesthetic.

Minimalists at first glance seem to be just one of the many types of people in the world, like those who fill their daily Vitamix smoothie with chia seeds, goji berries and acai powder before their morning 5k run, and those who don’t. The minimalism undertones of KonMari, namely the mass decluttering and disposal of your possessions, are often criticized to be classist and irrational for those struggling to make ends meet. After all, the problem of having too much can only arise if you have something in the first place. Furthermore, minimalism (and by consequence, KonMari) has been associated with white privilege in developed countries. Those raised in developing countries (and their children) often have different cultural views of materialism, which can continue to thrive even after starting life in a developed country. Clearly, KonMari critics are coming from all angles to prove the problematics and “cancel” the next big thing. Though it’s easy to simply dismiss the criticism as overthinking, the real life impacts of class and culture on materialism do not stray far from the critics’ messages.

“Minimalism typically arises in circumstances of plenty,” Rachel said. Given such a lofty subject, Rachel MacKinnon, a philosophy graduate student at the University of Toronto, helped me trace the roots of the KonMari Method all the way back to Ancient Greece. In general, ancient minimalist philosophies avoided attachment to material goods to rule out any possible pain that would arise were they to be taken away. “But these philosophies were all written by pretty wealthy people,” Rachel explained, “who were happy to give the illusion of being able to live without their wealth, knowing that they won’t actually face conditions of scarcity anytime soon.” The image of an old philosopher living only on bread and water by choice, knowing that he has the means to indulge in delicacies if he ever chooses to do so, is not far off from our modern day idea of the “minimalist” with a small closet full of high-end, monochromatic designer clothing. Even at its origins, minimalism appears to have been an elitist lifestyle. “Minimalism didn’t appeal to me when I grew up poor,” Rachel added, casually. Coming from a humble maritime home to her current downtown apartment, she admits to thinking about how her values have changed. “Now that I live in Toronto, it’s suddenly very compelling— I only need minimalism because I have stuff.”

The living room had stacks of plastic storage bins lining the walls, which shrunk the already confined room. Inside the bins sat old phone books, TV guides, receipts, school supplies, and various papers. The narrow hallway to the bedrooms no longer served as a hallway, but rather as home to rows and rows of these same bins. The only way to bed was through the kitchen, since the dining area was lost in even more piles of paper. With five people living in a two-bedroom apartment, the bedroom wasn’t much of an escape either. “I hated it,” Joanne said. “I hated that we didn’t have a dinner table. I really wanted a family dinner, but we never had one.”

“If you asked my dad what sparks joy for him, he would say that everything sparks joy.” Joanne Banh is in her fourth year at the University of Toronto, and is the Co-Vice President of the University of Toronto Vietnamese Students’ Association. Her family struggled in the past with her father’s intense hoarding problem. “My dad was a Vietnamese refugee whose family lost everything while moving to Canada. Obviously it’s not the case for everybody, but maybe there’s that harbouring fear that he’ll lose it all again. It’s hard for me to understand, because I didn’t live through that.” About 8 years ago, Joanne, along with her brothers and her mother, took a year to clean out the apartment, but her father slowly grew his collection again. “I guess it just became habit,” she said. “It’s easier to just throw it in the bin, forget about it, and have it pile up.” Given that they lived in the predominantly white city of Maple Ridge, British Columbia, Joanne would use the excuse that her home was just too ethnic to have friends over. She would avoid the topic, and they would avoid the space.

The KonMari critics may have a point, to some extent. KonMari isn’t a guaranteed miracle cure for deep-seated issues with materialism such as hoarding, nor is it typically impressive to those who already involuntarily live with less. Even as a certified KonMari consultant, Michele Delory admits that the KonMari Method has not worked for everyone. “I once had a client who was going through personal things in her life,” Michele said. “Sometimes she would leave me in her home, and obviously it doesn’t work when the person’s not there. She was the only one who couldn’t follow through with it.”

Be that as it may, to say that KonMari isn’t for everybody is not to say that it’s worthless. Those who do complete the KonMari method rarely, if ever, revert back to their previous ways of life. Living her own minimalist lifestyle for the past three years and doing KonMari consultations in and around the city of Toronto, Michele has never lost faith in the method. “With every change that you make in your life, you have to first change your mindset, or else it won’t actually happen,” Michele said. In regard to that particular client, Michele believes that her mindset was the issue: “She was seeking happiness, but she wasn’t looking for it in the right way. She thought that I would just magically do it for her.” Michele still keeps in touch with past clients who regularly show her images of their organized homes, months after her consultations. Though the KonMari skeptics may remain unsure of Marie Kondo’s seemingly paradoxical anti-consumerist business model, they can’t deny the reality of Michele’s joy as a living, breathing minimalist and KonMari expert. What better way to understand the KonMari Method than straight from the horse’s (or the certified horse consultant’s) mouth?

“The philosophies of minimalism and KonMari are very similar to each other because it’s all about having a more meaningful life,” Michele explained, “but KonMari is considered different because if you really want to have 100 pairs of shoes that spark joy, you can.” This is where KonMari is often dismissed as unreliable, for its extreme subjectivity. Yet, this concept was not simply pulled out of thin air by a single peppy, 4-foot-7 Japanese woman (not that there’s anything wrong with being a single peppy, 4-foot-7 Japanese woman, just that historical evidence of the same argument can often provide more support than a single individual). The idea of minimalism in philosophy began close to the Roman Era near the end of Greek political stability, and if Marie Kondo were alive then, she might’ve been labelled as a bit of an Epicurean.

Contrary to popular beliefs of minimalist philosophies (if any beliefs of philosophies can even be said to be popular), Epicureans thought that pleasure was the good. “The point isn’t to deprive yourself,” Rachel clarified about the school of thought. “It’s to give yourself a comfortable life.” Epicureans divided pleasures into different categories based on their level of disruption, defined by how much further pain the pleasure could cause down the road. Keeping something that you love and use regularly, for example, is much less disruptive than keeping something unappreciated that constantly has to be stored and reorganized in the future. The absence of pain, for the Epicureans, also counted as a pleasure. In KonMari, the disposal of unwanted material goods is better than the stress of keeping them stored somewhere in your household. “As long as on the whole, you’re enjoying your life more than you’re not,” Rachel said, “the Epicureans gave you a much more general guideline.” Thus, although you could be a perfect Epicurean and live on only bread and water, they wouldn’t mind if you had a bit of tea — a bit of extra pleasure, like a cherished shoe collection — so long as it wasn’t too disruptive. No one said that you had to be an Epicurean, just that if you wanted to maximize pleasure, this was their way of doing so.

In the same way, the KonMari philosophy is much more lenient than most minimalist methods. “There shouldn’t be rules to the amount of stuff you have,” Michele said, “because then it becomes very competitive. It should be a positive experience when you’re going through a change like that.” Michele wears a couple basic pieces in her wardrobe, which she continues to style over five years after their purchases. She lives with her non-minimalist husband and eight year old son, who is by no means deprived of his own collection of books and toys. Her mother has not embraced minimalism or KonMari either, which Michele attributes to her cultural values back in the Philippines. Michele is not a radical minimalist living out of a backpack, but she is a genuine woman that seeks to have less stress, less anxiety, less material goods, more gratitude, more experiences, and more purpose in her everyday life. She is minimizing pain and maximizing pleasure. The KonMari Method does not claim to be the only path to happiness, but like Epicureanism, if you want the things that bring you joy, why not just choose them? History truly does repeat itself, and the KonMari Method is the ultimate revival of an age-old philosophical idea that’s finally getting its moment in the spotlight.

The real question of it all is: do I pick the rejuvenating, refreshing, or revitalizing face mask today? At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them had life-changing magic slapped across the label, either. I could also pick none of them. Instead of adding another mask, another podcast, another quick fix to my chronic stress, I could step back and focus on why I’m driven to so much self-care in the first place. Clearly, these methods don’t bring as much pleasure to me as I thought, but maybe I’m going in for the wrong reasons. Maybe I’m seeking happiness, and I’m expecting these things to just magically do it for me. Maybe instead of choosing the right pleasures, I’ve been dealing with disruptive pain. Sure, vertical folding doesn’t solve everything, but maybe changing my mindset to one that cultivates the good instead of running away from the bad is what KonMari is all about.

Whenever people are about to come over, my mother goes into a berserk state of cleaning to the point where it seems like no one actually eats, sleeps or breathes in that house. Out of all the minimalism achievements and KonMari success stories that Michele told me, the one that struck me the most was this: Michele is an Airbnb host for one of the rooms in her home. She has guests coming and going every day. “There’s no clutter in my home, to be honest,” she said. “I’ve been able to create a space that I feel good about, and I don’t ever have to worry about guests coming in. I don’t have to say ‘let me clean up first’, I never have that excuse.” If that doesn’t sound like the closest thing to a cure from chronic stress, to me, I don’t know what will.

#marie kondo #the life changing magic of tidying up #konmari #minimalism #philosophy #words #epicurianism #stoicism #vietnamese #immigrant #refugee #toronto #glossier #trend #feature article

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girlactionfigure · 2 years

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Shaare Zedek Senior Nurse Describes Fears, Challenges and Hope in Israeli Field Hospital in Ukraine

In recent days, Miriam Dreyer, Nursing Director in the Pediatric Nephrology Unit at Jerusalem's Shaare Zedek Medical Center has been running the pediatric emergency service in the Israeli Field Hospital currently working on the ground in western Ukraine and described her experiences as both challenging and inspiring. Dreyer has a very personal connection to the war, as her sister lived in the city of Donetsk in the country’s eastern region and had been forced to flee with her family to Austria. When Israel’s medical missions began to make their way into the affected areas, Miriam began planning to join them – despite warnings from her sister of the escalating dangers. Early in April, when Shaare Zedek received a request for personnel to help support the “Kochav Meir” Israeli field hospital, Miriam knew that this was an opportunity she couldn’t turn her back on. Days later, after receiving some dedicated training that would be relevant in the field hospital setting, she was on the ground in Ukraine. “When my sister heard that I was here on the front, she was very worried but I reassured her I was in good hands and equipped with a helmet and flak jacket,” Miriam says. “After several days of training via the Health Ministry, I was pleased to be appointed to direct the pediatric emergency department which is a real honor.” Every day, the department she directs open at 8:00 and there are already people waiting outside the door. She says they treat dozens of children of all ages every day amidst difficult weather conditions. “You can imagine large numbers of people waiting in stormy cold weather and we work actively to reduce the waiting times and get them the care they need as quickly as possible.” “The appreciation and gratitude we receive for the work we are doing gives us the strength to continue and provide the care needed for the many others who are waiting in line. Our goal is to go beyond just medical care but provide emotional support with kind words or a warm blanket or stuffed animal. These children and families are in desperate need of attention. After treating them, even if they know that they have a chronic condition that isn’t going away, we have given them patient and compassionate care and provided them with medical information they might not have had before. It’s always rewarding to watch how a child arrives all tense and withdrawn, and several minutes later they’re playing and running around. These kids are our heroes and it’s rewarding to be able to give them the care they need.” “We have encountered people in deeply challenging emotional situations where they have been ripped away from their families by the war. Just this week, a ten-year old boy arrived with his grandmother after their family had fled from the Donbas region and the grandmother explained that the boy’s mother has been missing since the beginning of the war. Another girl came with a severe eye condition in the freezing cold and we were able to warm her up and wherever possible we are able to distribute blankets to those in need.” “Every morning, we hear the sound of an air-raid siren and we run down into the shelters, something which happens at least two or three times each day. The sense of camaraderie that we have within our teams is critical to keep us going and that spirit of volunteerism and caring is deep within all if us. There is truly no way to describe it other than to say that this is the very best of what Israel is all about.”

Shaare Zedek Medical Center Jerusalem

#Israel #Ukraine #Field Hospital #stand with Ukraine

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taetaespeaches · 3 years

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“I find you absolutely fascinating.”

namjoon x reader (oc) genre: fluff word count: 2.2K

a/n: Lovelies! Namjoon and Daisy/reader are being cute and soft and in love again :(( I mean at this point you probably know the drill. These two are about to take a big step and thinking back on how they started... they deserve this! I hope you all enjoy, and thank you for reading! :))

Strolling through the museum halls, you found it quite difficult to focus on the masterpieces surrounding you as you watched Namjoon stand in front of a colorful contemporary painting. Inspecting the piece, he leaned closer to it, his gaze bouncing from feature to feature within the work.

Nodding to himself, he put his pen to his notebook, jotting down a thought. You couldn’t help but grin at the way he absorbed knowledge, every piece of art intriguing him and inspiring him. It was something you truly loved about him.

Looking up from the paper, he slowly dragged his eyes from the piece to you, his orbs meeting yours as he noticed your smile. A bashful grin overtook his features, his dimples appearing as he stepped closer to you.

“Are you amused?” He asked, you nodding.

“Always by you,” you beamed. “I find you absolutely fascinating,” you confessed, amping up the cheesy tone of your voice to emphasize your playful teasing, though the words were genuine.

Shaking his head as he let out a breathy chuckle, he draped his arm around your lower back. Pushing his lips to your forehead, he snickered against your skin.

“Are you ready to go?” He asked, just before leaving a sweet peck to your temple.

“If you are,” you told him, Namjoon nodding his head. As he started leading you down the hall toward the exit, you halted, the man looking at you curiously. “Dimples, what do you think of this one?” You pointed to a painting, Namjoon’s head darting to the piece.

Humming in thought, he squinted at the painting. “I like the palette,” he nodded. “The colors are cool in tone, it’s interesting,” he continued, his eyes drifting back to you as you stared at the piece intently, feigning a serious expression. A smirk curved up on Namjoon’s lips as he watched you pretend to critique the piece. “What are you doing?” He chuckled, you fighting to hold back your grin.

“It’s phallic, is it not?” You asked, Namjoon’s eyes widening as he cocked his head, looking back to the painting.

“What?” He asked in shock. “Is it?” He questioned further, holding back a laugh.

“Yeah,” you held your hand out, dragging your finger in the air to draw the shape you were seeing. “Like that, see?” You asked, turning your head toward Namjoon.

“Fucking hell,” he chuckled, squeezing his eyes shut as he lowered his head, trying to hide his amusement.

“Jot that down,” you nodded to his journal with a smirk, Namjoon taking a deep breath as you began walking away from him. As you left down the hall, your boyfriend watched you go, shaking his head in utter amusement and fondness, a massive dimply smile spread across his face.

Crowds of people surrounded you as you walked down the busy Seoul sidewalk, your hand intertwined with Namjoon’s. After about thirty minutes of walking, and finding yourselves at Olympic Park, Namjoon bumped his shoulder against yours. “Are you hungry?” he asked, looking to your face to see you smirk.

“Starving,” you giggled, Namjoon chuckling as he nodded.

“Good, come with me, babe,” he said mysteriously as you led you further into the park, your confusion growing.

“Are we getting something delivered?” You asked him, the man simply smiling.

“Something like that,” he said, giving you no further hints, you huffing though you couldn’t hold back your grin.

You walked for a few more minute, watching other couples stroll the park, people play with their dogs, parents as they watched their kids run around, until your eyes landed on a couple across the field who looked quite familiar.

“Wait is that Jin?” You asked your boyfriend, pointing at the recognizable man and his fiancé.

“Ah,” Namjoon simply said, changing the direction of his walking to get to his friend. “I almost walked right past you guys,” your boyfriend called out to them, Jin lifting his arms into the air.

“I thought you already did, you took forever,” Jin complained, you looking between the three people completely lost.

“What is going on?” You asked, just before giving the girl a hug, not missing the way she randomly held your face between your hands as she beamed at you, though you chose to ignore it for the time being as you simply giggled at her. Namjoon smiled shyly at you just as you followed his gaze to the picnic setup in the field and slowly realized what was happening. “Wait is this for us?” You asked in surprise. “A picnic?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon chuckled. “These two set it up for us. And cooked everything,” he explained, you looking to the couple with widened eyes.

“Oh my god, guys, that’s so sweet, thank you,” you expressed your gratitude, Jin brushing you off with a wave of his hand.

“It’s all Namjoon’s idea, he just needed some help with the execution,” Jin explained as your lips spread into a warm smile, your eyes glued to Namjoon as he ducked his head slightly, the man bashful under the attention.

The couple didn’t stay long, leaving you and Namjoon to enjoy your picnic alone, however your friend kept looking back at you both as she walked away with Jin.

“They were acting weird, don’t you think?” You pointed out to Namjoon as you both sat on the cute little picnic blanket.

“I don’t know, they seemed about normal,” Namjoon countered as he opened Jin’s old picnic basket.

“No seriously, look, she keeps looking back at us,” you nodded to the couple, your boyfriend looking after them with a small chuckle.

“She’s always strange though, is that really any different to how she normally acts?” He reminded you of your friend’s sometimes weird behaviors. Giggling, you nodded.

“Ok, kind of true,” you confirmed. “And I’m letting you dissing my friend’s eccentricity slide for now since you planned this adorable picnic” you teasingly added as you watched Namjoon lift a bottle of champagne from the basket. “Ooh, fancy,” you smirked, Namjoon’s dimples on display as he dug further inside the basket, setting different food containers onto the blanket. “Jesus, it’s a feast.”

“You said you were starving,” he pointed out, you giggling as you reached forward and opened a container of fruit. Bringing a berry to your lips, you watched the man as he uncorked the bottle of champagne. His face was full of concentration as he twisted the metal cage that held the cork in place. Dropping the wire on the blanket, he pushed up on the cork, both of you flinching at the sound of the pop, the cork being sent a few feet away and landing in the grass. “Oh, shit,” Namjoon mumbled as he set the bottle down, nearly knocking it over as he hurried after the cork, you having to catch it before it spilled all over your picnic set up.

Chuckling to yourself, you looked toward the man as he adorably made his way back, holding the object out toward you with a goofy grin on his face. There were several moments, nearly constant actually, where you looked at Namjoon and remembered all over again just why you wanted to spend your life with him. And as he sat back down, less than gracefully, dropping the cork on the blanket proudly, you found yourself in yet another one of those moments. What a blessing it would be to spend forever with this man.

As you enjoyed the meal your good friends put together for you, all you could think about was how unbelievably lucky you were in this lifetime to have found Namjoon. And how privileged you were to be on the receiving end of his love, along with his forgiveness. The man could have given up on you early on in your relationship, leaving you behind when you gave him nothing but insecurity and inconsistency. But he stayed by your side, showing you the care and patience that you’d never been given before him. He was a treasure, and he was yours.

The sun was setting over the city, casting Namjoon in a heavenly golden glow. Staring at him fondly, you wondered if he understood how beautiful he was; how beautiful you found him to be.

“You’re gorgeous,” he suddenly interrupted your thoughts, your jaw dropping slightly as he stole the compliment you were just about to give him.

“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” you grinned, Namjoon letting out a breathy chuckle. “You really are gorgeous, Dimples,” you appreciated him sincerely. “I never tire of looking at you, or talking to you, sitting with you in silence,” you shared, Namjoon’s eyes softening as he stared at your face. “You really are the most fascinating thing I’ve ever come across,” you whispered.

Namjoon’s adam’s apple bobbed against his throat as he swallowed nervously, a warm smile overtaking his features. “I have something for you,” he announced, digging inside his bag. Watching him curiously, your eyes fell upon the envelope he pulled out. Presenting it to you bashfully, you beamed.

“What’s this?” You asked as you took it, reading your name that was written across the front of the envelope. Carefully, you opened it, pulling out a folded piece of paper. You weren’t sure what the contents of the letter would be, but you had a feeling this was going to be a major moment for you and Namjoon. Opening it carefully and slowly, your eyes scanned the words across the page, mostly scribblings with crossed out words. But the first sentence told you exactly what you were looking at.

Etched in hangul were the words person and love. And below that, You make live to a love, was written in English.

Your heart raced as you realized this was the draft he started with when writing his song Trivia: Love.

Other single lines were scratched across the page such as, What if I go? If I go, would you be sad? And You’re my person, my desire, my pride, my love, my one and only love.

You could feel tears pricking your eyes as you read over the paper, the sentiment of the lyrics hitting you all over again; the love and vulnerability and purpose he revealed on the page, all feelings you caused him. The word destiny was written with an arrow pointing to, we’re meant to be. Do you feel the same?

At the bottom of the page, he abandoned single lyric ideas where he instead decided to write his thoughts plainly.

“This is love. I know it is, I just feel it. I’ve never truly known it before, but this is it. Like how the moon rises after the sun. You give meaning to my memories. Will you make memories with me forever?”

Lowering the paper to your lap, you looked across the picnic blanket to find your boyfriend holding a ring between his fingers, his eyes soft and large as he stared at you nervously. “Will you make memories with me forever?” He asked you, your breath leaving your lungs as the love you felt for the man rushed through your frame.

You couldn’t even form words as you began nodding, smiles overtaking both of your faces as you stood on your knees. Namjoon mimicked your actions as he met you in the middle, your mouths crashing into a needy kiss. Ignoring the other park goers, you and Namjoon were lost on cloud nine together.

Trailing kisses across your face, he wrapped his arms around your body, pulling you against his frame as he held you close. “I’ve wanted to marry for years,” he chuckled against your hair, you smiling against his neck in response. “I wrote this song knowing I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“I’ve known for years too,” you assured him. “You’re incredible, you know that?” You asked him, chuckling as you pulled away from him to look at his stunning face. His eyes held your gaze for a moment before they landed on your hand, his fingers grasping your hand as he slid the ring into place.

“Here’s to a lifetime of being forever fascinated by each other,” he said cheesily with a massive dimply grin.

“A lifetime,” you beamed. “That sounds perfect.”

Staring at each other for a moment, Namjoon broke the moment first by lunging forward, pushing you to the ground as he positioned himself above you. Kissing you softly, your hands brushed over the sides of his face.

“I almost put the ring in your champagne glass but I was afraid you’d swallow it,” he giggled adorably, your finger tracing over the dimple in his cheeks before dragging over his smiling lips.

“Now that would have been a story,” you teased as Namjoon kissed the tip of your finger. “Thank you, Joon,” you said suddenly, his eyes widening in question. “For believing in us even when I couldn’t.”

Smiling softly, he shook his head at you as if he shouldn’t be thanked for such a silly easy thing to do. But instead of speaking against your gratitude, he chose to gently press his lips to yours. Because it didn’t matter how you started your relationship or who believed in what. You were there, and you were in love. And he knew you both would be loving each other for as long as you both lived in this lifetime, and even into the next.

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yaomomvs · 3 years

Note

Hellow! Love your drabbles 😳 I saw your reqs were open for Shouto-kun: so can I ask a Drabble in which the reader is crushing on Shoto but feels completely unworthy of him, notably because she's from a very lower condition, something people often remind her while telling how Momo and him would make the perfect couple, because they're both from higher condition.. While reader is admittedly a hard-working person but has always been bullied for her modest origins? If you feel inspired ;o thanks :3

if i was a rich girl, yeah gwen stefani said that too

pairing: shoto todoroki x reader

little bit of angst? fluff!

warnings: self issues?? curse words??? not a warning but bakugou is reader’s best friend. also memories are in italics

plot: you couldn’t help comparing yourself to yaomomo, and clearly, your classmates comments didn’t help at all

notes: aaaa tysm i can’t believe this is my first request hopefully i did justice you your amazing idea! sorry for the delay i was in my last week b4 holiday vacation, hope you enjoy!

“i’m just sayin, todoroki and momo would definitely would look as an amazing couple wouldn’t they?”

it was kaminari’s words that were the final drop that broke the glass.

no, don’t misunderstand the situation, yaoyorozu was one of the sweetest, loveliest and most intelligent girls you’ve ever met.

but also one of the richest.

see, the thing is that you were not born in a “i have it all” family type of environment. you lived well, yes. but it’s for sure that your family did struggle way too many times in their way of spending money.

that’s why when you got into UA tears couldn’t stop falling through your face, you were finally able to do something about that. you always wanted to become the greatest hero, you thought that being able to rescue people from danger was the most selfless thing to do, you were familiar with that, so ever since you were little that was your goal. and besides that, you wanted to help you family so they wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.

also because of that your friendship with uraraka was a great one. you understood what was like to face little things that the others didn’t, and you suddenly became close that you almost considered her a sister.

she was the most important friend to you, well, along with other person.

your eyes started itching, currently at the common room table where you and your friends were having dinner.

kaminari was on the sofa among with bakugou and mina, but it was easy to hear them. so that comment took everyone’s attention, even shouto’s.

“i mean you are not wrong” asido agreed, excited they finally were talking about romance in that boring school. “can you imagine how rich the todomomo’s family would be?”

“todomomo?” todoroki asked visibly confused.

“a ship name! for you and yaoyorozu!” she answered

your eyes were a little bit red now, and the knot on your throat was growing more everytime you looked over to see shouto’s expression.

uraraka noticed this, so she gently placed her hand over yours. how could she handle the situation?

“she’s so fancy!” you overheared some girls in the cafeteria drooling over the way that momo seated.

“i can’t believe this is her whole house” jirou exclaimed cheerfully when you visited her to study form an exam.

“an intelligent girl is always a classy girl” you listened kirishima while he looked stunned the way yaoyorozu handled, not only professional but also gracefully, a mistaken order at the cafeteria.

you always admired the way she was because of her origin, not in a bad way but you were obviously impressed, and if you were honest with yourself, sometimes it made you feel small.

but until now you never thought about this new insecurity, one that came up with the fact that todoroki and momo would actually look great together.

you tried to take those thoughts away, but your dear classmates were not helping at all.

the rambling of momo being a super match to shouto was getting louder and louder every second to you.

“think about it!”

“so when is the first date happening uh todoroki” kaminari still teased.

“but” midoriya interrupted “you know uhm wouldn’t it matter the way todoroki-kun actually feels about momo”

you stared at him.

but you finally had it when you spotted a slight red tint on todoroki’s face.

he was blushing.

“uh..” todoroki’s face was absolutely fuzzy. what could he say?

“i have to go” you announced way more loud than you expected, with a broken voice only two people were able to decipher.

bakugou took over a glance to you, knowing well what was going to happen next, with a tired groan he yelled. “well done idiots”

you ran out of the common room and took the elevator to go you your room.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“be careful” a voice said over your shoulder while grabbing your back before you touched the ground.

you looked above just to find a pair of beautiful heterochromatic eyes. and also a half red and half white hair type of thing. you were embarrassed that being your first day at school you were already tripping with everything. but fortunately he catched you right before something disastrous happened.

“come on, on the first day? if you have something to tell me god do it right now!” you remembered saying yo the sky. “that was weird, i’m sorry, (l/n) (y/n), sorry for bothering you but thanks for saving me” you laughed.

“do you think god would take my complaints along with yours?” he asked serious, was that his way of making a joke? “todoroki shouto” you smiled.

“DON’T GIVE UP!” you remembered yelling from the bleachers at the sports festival “YOU OWE US!”

todorki heard you from above during his fight with bakugou. he saw you there, almost crying and although he did not understand why were you so invested on it, that gave him the extra strength to stand up to bakugou at least for a little more minutes.

“did you know that seahorses once they find their mate they keep it for life?” you randomly said one day while eating lunch with him. currently doing some extra work so you could be ar least on top 10 of your class “how romantic is that, right todoroki-kun?”

he glanced at you, confused but still admiring. you knew so many things that it was actually impressive to him. he didn’t know why but that day, his heart skipped a bit.

if i was a rich girl, na na na na na na na na na na na, see i’d have all the money in the world if i was a wealthy girl.

“if i was a rich girl”, yeah gwen stefani said that too you thought.

the song may seem stupid but your current mood made you put in on speaker.

if i was a rich girl i’d sure have a chance you thought too

“so i guess i do have a crush on him huh” you admitted to yourself.

“about time you made it, idiot” you heard bakugou say “was it hard playing dumb all this time? i mean it’s in your blood”

he was standing at your door arms crossed with that awfully big brother look on his face. you rolled your eyes.

“is it hard messing around being a dickhead? i mean it’s in your blood”

“well you shouldn’t be using that language in front of your lover boy” he said.

“what the fuck are you talking about-”

your body stopped working when he pulled out todoroki out of the wall letting him come out at sight.

the icyhot boy had his hands in his pockets giving that gorgeous look. you blushed, how could he do nothing and still look good?

“why are you feeling this way?” he abruptly asked.

“todoroki-kun?...”

“i’m not dumb, whenever she’s around you act so self conscious” he began “what’s worse is that i see you working so hard everyday but you are so blind that you don’t see what i see”

if anybody could hear the conversation, they would actually say that he was being rude, but you knew him he was just expressing his feelings, weird way tho.

“is it about the money? believe me, yaoyorozu is an incredible girl but you don’t have to compare yourself because how different she is to you in terms of money” your eyes were widened.

why was he talking so much all of a sudden?

“you don’t understand todo...”

“i know what it feels to mad, and seeing you this way it just does it to me over and over again. because everyone has their own opinion on perfect, but to me, you are that definition”

your heart froze at that last thing, his expression was so serious that if you weren’t listening carefully you would have thought that he was mad at you for any other reason. but that’s why you liked him so miches, deep down you understood shouto more than anyone else”

so you didn’t know any other answer that hug him in gratitude.

he was shocked, he never received some kind of display of pure love affection before.

but something in the way you did made him feel better. almost as if your hugs were some magical potion to the answer of everything he needed.

he felt so warm with you between his arms that he didn’t mind staying like this for a couple more minutes.

“wanna go out sometime?” your typical you started coming back again.

the confident and smart girl he learned to care about.

a soft smile crossed his face.

“anytime you want”

and so you thought, you did not have anything to worry about anymore.

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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

Text

Anonymous said: I didn’t know too much about the late British philosopher Sir Roger Scruton until I followed your superbly cultured blog. As an ivy league educated American reading your posts, I feel he is a breath of fresh air as a sane and cultured conservative intellectual. We don’t really have his kind over here where things are heavily polarized between left and right, and sadly, we are often uncivil in our discourse. Sir Roger Scruton talks a lot about beauty especially in art (as indeed you do too), so for Scruton why does beauty as an aesthetic matter in art? Why should we care?

I thank you for your very kind words about my blog which I fear is not worthy of such fulsome praise.

However one who is worthy of praise (or at least gratitude and appreciation at least) is the late Sir Roger Scruton. I have had the pleasure to have met him on a few informal occasions.

Most memorably, I once got invited to High Table dinner at Peterhouse, Cambridge, by a friend who was a junior Don there. This was just after I had finished my studies at Cambridge and rather than pursue my PhD I opted instead to join the British army as a combat pilot officer. And so I found out that Scruton was dining too. We had very pleasant drinks in the SCR before and after dinner. He was exceptionally generous and kind in his consideration of others; we all basked in the gentle warmth of his wit and wisdom.

I remember talking to him about Xanthippe, Socrate’s wife, because I had read his wickedly funny fictional satire. In the book he credits the much maligned Xanthippe with being the brains behind all of Socrates’ famous philosophical ideas (as espoused by Plato).

On other occasions I had seen Roger Scruton give the odd lecture in London or at some cultural forum.

Other than that, I’ve always admire both the man and many of his ideas from afar. I do take issue with some of his intellectual ideas which seem to be taken a tad too far (he think pre-Raphaelites were kitsch) but it’s impossible to dislike the man in person.

Indeed the Marxist philosopher G.A. Cohen reportedly once refused to teach a seminar with Scruton, although they later became very good friends. This is the gap between the personal and the public persona. In public he was reviled as hate figure by some of the more intolerant of the leftists who were trying to shut him down from speaking. But in private his academic peers, writers, and philosophers, regardless of their political beliefs, hugely respected him and took his ideas seriously - because only in private will they ever admit that much of what Scruton talks about has come to pass.

In many ways he was like C.S. Lewis - a pariah to the Oxbridge establishment. At Oxford many dons poo-pooed his children stories, and especially his Christian ideas of faith, culture, and morality, and felt he should have laid off the lay theology and stuck to his academic speciality of English Literature. But an Oxford friend, now a don, tells me that many dons read his theological works in private because much of what he wrote has become hugely relevant today.

Scruton was a man of parts, some of which seemed irreconcilable: barrister, aesthetician, distinguished professor of aesthetics. Outside of brief pit stops at Cambridge, Oxford, and St Andrews, he was mostly based out of Birkbeck College, London University, which had a tradition of a working-class intake and to whom Scruton was something of a popular figure. He was also an editor of the ultra-Conservative Salisbury Review, organist, and an enthusiastic fox hunter. In addition he wrote over 50 books on philosophy, art, music, politics, literature, culture, sexuality, and religion, as well as finding time to write novels and two operas. He was widely recognised for his services to philosophy, teaching and public education, receiving a knighthood in 2016.

He was exactly the type of polymath England didn’t know what to do with because we British do discourage such continental affectations and we prefer people to know their lane and stick to it. Above all we’re suspicious of polymaths because no one likes a show off. Scruton could be accused of a few things but he never perceived as a show off. He was a gentle, reserved, and shy man of kindly manners.

He was never politically ‘Conservative’, or tried not to be. Indeed he encouraged many to think about defining “a philosophy of conservatism” and not “a philosophy for the Conservative Party.” In defining his own thoughts, he positioned conservatism to relation to its historical rivals, liberalism and socialism. He wrote that liberalism was the product of the enlightenment, which viewed society as a contract and the state as a system for guaranteeing individual rights. While he saw socialism as the product of the industrial revolution, and an ideology which views society as an economic system and the state as a means of distributing social wealth.

Like another great English thinkers, Michael Oakeshott, he felt that conservatives leaned more towards liberalism then socialism, but argued that for conservatives, freedom should also entail responsibility, which in turn depends on public spirit and virtue. Many classical liberals would agree.

In fact, he criticised Thatcherism for “its inadequate emphasis on the civic virtues, such as self-sacrifice, duty, solidarity and service of others.” Scruton agreed with classical liberals in believing that markets are not necessarily expressions of selfishness and greed, but heavily scolded his fellow Conservatives for allowing themselves to be caricatured as leaving social problems to the market. Classical liberals could be criticised for the same neglect.

Perhaps his conservative philosophy was best summed up when he wrote “Liberals seek freedom, socialists equality, and conservatives responsibility. And, without responsibility, neither freedom nor equality have any lasting value.”

Scruton’s politics were undoubtedly linked to his philosophy, which was broadly Hegelian. He took the view that all of the most important aspects of life – truth (the perception of the world as it is), beauty (the creation and appreciation of things valued for their own sake), and self-realisation (the establishment by a person of a coherent, autonomous identity) – can be achieved only as part of a cultural community within which meaning, standards and values are validated. But he had a wide and deep understanding of the history of western philosophy as a whole, and some of his best philosophical work consisted of explaining much more clearly than is often the case how different schools of western philosophy relate to one another.

People today still forget how he was a beacon for many East European intellectuals living under Communist rule in the 1980s. Scruton was deeply attached in belonging to a network of renowned Western scholars who were helping the political opposition in Eastern Europe. Their activity began in Czechoslovakia with the Jan Hus Foundation in 1980, supported by a broad spectrum of scholars from Jacques Derrida and Juergen Habermas to Roger Scruton and David Regan. Then came Poland, Hungary and later Romania. In Poland, Scruton co-founded the Jagiellonian Trust, a small but significant organisation. The other founders and active participants were Baroness Caroline Cox, Jessica Douglas-Home, Kathy Wilkes, Agnieszka Kołakowska, Dennis O’Keeffe, Timothy Garton Ash, and others.

Scruton had a particular sympathy for Prague and the Czech society, which bore fruit in the novel, Notes from Underground, which he wrote many years later. But his involvement in East European affairs was more than an emotional attachment. He believed that Eastern Europe - despite the communist terror and aggressive social engineering - managed to preserve a sense of historical continuity and strong ties to European and national traditions, more unconscious than openly articulated, which made it even more valuable. For this reason, decades later, he warned his East European friends against joining the European Union, arguing that whatever was left of those ties will be demolished by the political and ideological bulldozer of European bureaucracy.

Anyway, digressions aside, onto to the heart of your question.

Art matters.

Let’s start from there. Regardless of your personal tastes or aesthetics as you stand before a painting, slip inside a photograph, run your hand along the length of a sculpture, or move your body to the arrangements spiraling out of the concert speakers…something very primary - and primal - is happening. And much of it sub-conscious. There’s an element of trust.

Political philosopher, Hannah Arendt, defined artworks as “thought things,” ideas given material form to inspire reflection and rumination. Dialogue. Sometimes even discomfort. Art has the ability to move us, both positively and negatively. So we know that art matters. But the question posed by modern philosophers such as Roger Scruton has been: how do we want it to affect us?

Are we happy with the direction art is taking? Namely, says, Scruton, away from seeking “higher virtues” such as beauty and craftmanship, and instead, towards novelty for novelty’s sake, provoking emotional response under the guise of socio-political discourse.

Why does beauty in art matter?

Scruton asks us to wake up and start demanding something more from art other than disposable entertainment. “Through the pursuit of beauty,” suggests Scruton, “we shape the world as our own and come to understand our nature as spiritual beings. But art has turned its back on beauty and now we are surrounded by ugliness.” The great artists of the past, says Scruton, “were painfully aware that human life was full of care and suffering, but their remedy was beauty. The beautiful work of art brings consolation in sorrow and affirmation…It shows human life to be worthwhile.” But many modern artists, argues the philosopher, have become weary of this “sacred task” and replaced it with the “randomness” of art produced merely to gain notoriety and the result has been anywhere between kitsch to ugliness that ultimately leads to inward alienation and nihilistic despair.

The best way to understand Scruton’s idea of beauty in art and why it matters is to let him speak for himself. Click below on the video and watch a BBC documentary broadcast way back in 2009 that he did precisely on this subject, why beauty matters. It will not be a wasted hour but perhaps enrich and even enlighten your perspective on the importance of beauty in art.

vimeo

So I’ll do my best to summarise the point Scruton is making in this documentary above.

Here goes.....

In his 2009 documentary “Why Beauty Matters”, Scruton argues that beauty is a universal human need that elevates us and gives meaning to life. He sees beauty as a value, as important as truth or goodness, that can offer “consolation in sorrow and affirmation in joy”, therefore showing human life to be worthwhile.

According to Scruton, beauty is being lost in our modern world, particularly in the fields of art and architecture.

I was raised in many different cultures from India, Pakistan, to China, Japan, Southern Africa, and the Middle East as well schooling in rural Britain and Switzerland. So coming home to London on frequent visits was often a confusing experience because of the mismatch of modern art and new architecture. In life and in art I have chosen to see the beauty in things, locating myself in Paris, where I am surrounded by beauty, and understand the impact it can have on the everyday.

Scruton’s disdain for modern art begins with Marcel Duchamp’s urinal. Originally a satirical piece designed to mock the world of art and the snobberies that go with it, it has come to mean that anything can be art and anyone can be an artist. A “cult of ugliness” was created where originality is placed above beauty and the idea became more important than the artwork itself. He argues that art became a joke, endorsed by critics, doing away with a need for skill, taste or creativity.

Duchamp’s argument was that the value of any object lies solely in what each individual assigns it, and thus, anything can be declared “art,” and anyone an artist.

But is there something wrong with the idea that everything is art and everyone an artist? If we celebrate the democratic ideals of all citizens being equal and therefore their input having equal value, doesn’t Duchamp’s assertion make sense?

Who’s to say, after all, what constitutes beauty?

This resonated with me in particular and brought to mind when Scruton meets the artist Michael Craig-Martin and asks him about how Duchamp’s urinal first made him feel. Martin is best known for his work “An Oak Tree” which is a glass of water on a shelf, with text beside it explaining why it is an oak tree. Martin argues that Duchamp captures the imagination and that art is an art because we think of it as such.

When I first saw “An Oak Tree” I was confused and felt perhaps I didn’t have the intellect to understand it. When I would later question it with friends who worked in the art auction and gallery world, the response was always “You just don’t get it,” which became a common defence. To me, it was reminiscent of Hans Christian Andersen’s short tale “The Emperor’s New Clothes”, about two weavers who promise an emperor a new suit of clothes that they say is invisible to those who are unfit for their positions, stupid or incompetent. In reality, they make no clothes at all.

Scruton argues that the consumerist culture has been the catalyst for this change in modern art. We are always being sold something, through advertisements that feed our appetite for stuff, adverts try to be brash and outrageous to catch our attention. Art mimics advertising as artists attempt to create brands, the product that they sell is themselves. The more shocking and outrageous the artwork, the more attention it receives. Scruton is particularly disturbed by Piero Manzoni’s artwork “Artist’s Shit” which consists of 90 tin cans filled with the artist’s excrement.

Moreover the true aesthetic value, the beauty, has vanished in modern works that are selling for millions of dollars. In such works, by artists like Rothko, Franz Kline, Damien Hirst, and Tracey Emin, the beauty has been replaced by discourse. The lofty ideals of beauty are replaced by a social essay, however well intentioned.

A common argument for modern art is that it is reflecting modern life in all of its disorder and ugliness. Scruton suggests that great art has always shown the real in the light of the ideal and that in doing so it is transfigured.

A great painting does not necessarily have a beautiful subject matter, but it is made beautiful through the artist’s interpretation of it. Rembrandt shows this with his portraits of crinkly old women and men or the compassion and kindness of which Velazquez paints the dwarfs in the Spanish court. Modern art often takes the literal subject matter and misses the creative act. Scruton expresses this point using the comparison of Tracey Emin’s artwork ‘My Bed’ and a painting by Delacroix of the artist’s bed.

The subject matters are the same. The unmade beds in all of their sordid disdain. Delacroix brings beauty to a thing that lacks it through the considered artistry of his interpretation and by doing so, places a blessing on his own emotional chaos. Emin shares the ugliness that the bed shows by using the literal bed. According to Emin, it is art because she says that it is so.

Philosophers argued that through the pursuit of beauty, we shape the world as our home. Traditional architecture places beauty before utility, with ornate decorative details and proportions that satisfy our need for harmony. It reminds us that we have more than just practical needs but moral and spiritual needs too. Oscar Wilde said “All art is absolutely useless,” intended as praise by placing art above utility and on a level with love, friendship, and worship. These are not necessarily useful but are needed.

We have all experienced the feeling when we see something beautiful. To be transported by beauty, from the ordinary world to, as Scruton calls it, “the illuminated sphere of contemplation.” It is as if we feel the presence of a higher world. Since the beginning of western civilisation, poets and philosophers have seen the experience of beauty as a calling to the divine.

According to Scruton, Plato described beauty as a cosmic force flowing through us in the form of sexual desire. He separated the divine from sexuality through the distinction between love and lust. To lust is to take for oneself, whereas to love is to give. Platonic love removes lust and invites us to engage with it spiritually and not physically. As Plato says, “Beauty is a visitor from another world. We can do nothing with it save contemplate its pure radiance.”

Scruton makes the prescient point that art and beauty were traditionally aligned in religious works of art. Science impacted religion and created a spiritual vacuum. People began to look to nature for beauty, and there was a shift from religious works of art to paintings of landscapes and human life.

In today’s world of art and architecture, beauty is looked upon as a thing of the past with disdain. Scruton believes his vision of beauty gives meaning to the world and saves us from meaningless routines to take us to a place of higher contemplation. In this I think Scruton encourages us not to take revenge on reality by expressing its ugliness, but to return to where the real and the ideal may still exist in harmony “consoling our sorrows and amplifying our joys.”

Scruton believes when you train any of your senses you are privy to a heightened world. The artist sees beauty everywhere and they are able to draw that beauty out to show to others. One finds the most beauty in nature, and nature the best catalyst for creativity. The Tonalist painter George Inness advised artists to paint their emotional response to their subject, so that the viewer may hope to feel it too.

It must be said that Scruton’s views regarding art and beauty are not popular with the modern art crowd and their postmodern advocates. Having written several books on aesthetics, Scruton has developed a largely metaphysical aspect to understanding standards of art and beauty.

Throughout this documentary (and indeed his many books and articles), Scruton display a bias towards ‘high’ art, evidenced by a majority of his examples as well as his dismissal of much modern art. However on everyday beauty, there is much space for Scruton to challenge his own categories and extend his discussion to include examples from popular culture, such as in music, graphic design, and film. Omitting ‘low art’ in the discussion of beauty could lead one to conclude that beauty is not there.

It is here I would part ways with Scruton. I think there is beauty to be found in so called low art of car design, popular music or cinema for example - here I’m thinking of a Ferrari 250 GTO, jazz, or the films of Bergman, Bresson, or Kurosawa (among others) come to mind. Scruton gives short thrift to such 20th century art forms which should not be discounted when we talk of beauty. It’s hard to argue with Jean-Luc Godard for instance when he once said of French film pioneering director, Robert Bresson, “He is the French cinema, as Dostoevsky is the Russian novel and Mozart is German music.”

Overall though I believe Scruton does enough to leave us to ponder ourselves on the importance of beauty in the arts and our lives, including fine arts, music, and architecture. I think he succeeds in illuminating the poverty, dehumanisation and fraud of modernist and post-modernist cynicism, reductionism and nihilism. Scruton is rightly prescient in pointing the centrality of human aspiration and the longing for truth in both life and art.

In this he is correct in showing that goodness and beauty are universal and fundamentally important; and that the value of anything is not utilitarian and without meaning (e.g., Oscar Wilde’s claim that “All art is absolutely useless.”). Human beings are not purposeless material objects for mechanistic manipulation by others, and civil society itself depends upon a cultural consensus that beauty is real and every person should be respected with compassion as having dignity and nobility with very real spiritual needs to encounter and be transformed and uplifted by beauty.

Thanks for your question.

#ask #question #sir roger scruton #scruton #art #aesthetics #beauty #architecture #music #paintings #film #cinema #personal

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wintersongstress · 4 years

Text

What Remains of a Butterfly

Summary: A glimpse into the after; of where you and Arthur find yourselves after the fall of the Van der Linde gang.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Tags: fluff, mild mentions of smut

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: a gift for the lovely and kind-hearted @actuallyhansolo, though this piece was inspired by a prompt I received in my inbox ages ago. I hope you enjoy ♥ Also a big thank you to @the-halo-of-my-memory for being the best beta I could ask for :)

1905 — Gallatin, Montana;

“Try not to squeeze ‘er with your heels, else the horse’ll canter. You wanna grip her sides with your legs,” calls out Arthur from across the front pasture. A little neigh follows, carrying through the heavenly sigh of the breeze whistling down through the forests and into the valley you called home. Thistle and larkspur waver in its wake, flowing and flawing with streaks and splashes of color, and the hum of bumble bees fills the air. The only intrusion to the symphony of nature’s awakening is the occasional creak of dead wood as your seat on the front porch leans, forwards then backwards.

Overhead, a flock of warblers glide across the sky. Their song, a rising whistle, twittering and sweet, melds with the leathered yet honeyed tone of Arthur’s voice. A gentleness he reserved for one special person laces his rough timbre. Your eyes draw away from your knitting needles at the sound, and the sight that greets you warms your heart.

Your daughter Cora sits astride a chestnut pony, the straw hat covering her head askew. From beneath the floppy brim the early morning sunshine warms her cheeks, revealing the determined twist of her mouth as she heeds her father’s instruction. She hangs onto the reins and her hat, her neat braid bouncing as the horse trots in circles in the grass. Autumn’s hooves below her thud the earth softly, her cinnamon tail flicking and catching the gold of the sun all the while.

A long, satisfied breath fills your lungs. The windsong, calm as a seaside, lulls you into a deep state of bliss as you listen to the harmony it inspires in the surrounding land. Your porch chair rocks as you hum a thoughtful melody, stitching together the tight, blue row of a sock while taking in the splendors of the hour.

From a thousand places in the grass, little gems of dew wink back rainbows in the sunrays. Clouds drift seamlessly along the horizon like the verses of a poem, embellishing a sky flushed the color of a ripe peach. The sunlight has breached the distant snow-patched mountain peaks, its golden warmth lifting the mantle of fog settled deep in the green dark shadows of the valley. The wind rises forever and again, breathing life into the lungs of the cottonwood forest and stirring all that lay deep within wide awake. Woodpeckers flit amongst the treetops in their quest for insects, but all around far and near bird song prevails.

Comforted by the gift of your present, you tug free more yarn from the basket beside you. A hummingbird visits the columbines growing along the side of your homestead as you knit, gone in a flash of bronze. You pause at the boon of its appearance, but your eyes distractedly settle across the way.

Arthur leans on the paddock fence with his elbows propped up as he watches over Cora. A cup of coffee steams in his hand. He raises it and takes a sip, and you note with amusement that only three of his fingers fit through the handle. His fingernails are clean and square against the tin.

In all of your time together you never tired of the way the morning light poured over his tall frame. A heavenly gold illuminates the outlines of his arms and shoulders in his cotton white shirt. His sleeves, rolled humbly up to his elbows, display his tanned forearms, and a pair of dark suspenders divide his strong back handsomely. You never ceased to appreciate how lucky you were to have this view daily, and with each day, your love for Arthur and your family grew tenfold.

After a hearty breakfast of pancakes and eggs, Arthur took your daughter out to the horse pasture to learn how to ride—much at her own insistence and prodding. From a young age Cora shared his deep respect for horses and spent time with the ones you kept every day, grooming, feeding, and bonding with them. In the mornings you washed the dishes together, and afterwards, Cora bolted outside eager to start her lesson.

Today Arthur had lingered in the kitchen once the porch door slammed shut behind her and you were at once alone. The tick of the clock on the floral-papered wall was the only sound for a moment, until Arthur withdrew from the table.

You stood before the washing basin, drying a plate with a dish towel and adding it to a stack on the counter when he slipped his arms around you from behind and held you close. All of your quiet thoughts of the arriving day paused. Together, you breathed in. Your eyes closed. No words were needed between you to speak of the content that settled in your hearts then. He had only hummed a deep sound that passed through you, and began to gently sway you in a dance as you both basked warmly in the window. A jar of amber honey on the sill bloomed light, pouring gold like a waterfall. The birds sang—they always sang in this heavenly place—and you tilted your head back against his broad chest. You melted in his arms when his mouth pressed upon yours and it was a long, blind time before he pulled away.

When the kiss ended his forehead softened against your brow, him stealing a moment to remember you like this. He traced his thumb along the curve of your cheek, a sense of deep wonder speaking through his touch, and you sighed your assent.

In the beginning doubts plagued him. Years before when he knelt before you with a ring amidst a meadow of lupines, his hands held the slightest tremble until you took them into your own, guiding the pale stone down your finger and kissing away his uncertainties. He made promises to do right by you, and he kept every one of them.

In time, he came to believe in the second chance life had granted you both. It made it all the more fortuitous that your first child was a girl.

The embrace in the kitchen was one of beyond number. Arthur was a man of few words but many looks, so you understood his silent language of showing thankfulness. From the careful touch of his hands, moving as if to measure and memorize your importance to him, to the curve of his blooming half-smile, his expression voiced an ineffable gratitude and a disbelief that you shared this life together. His devotion never waned, but the encumbrance of the past did, the fetters that once hindered your steps toward freedom breaking when he built this homestead for you. They shattered forever when you first told him you were pregnant, standing on the porch in the twilight, his arms in their favorite place around you.

When the tingle of his kiss dissipated from your lips, your eyes had been slow to open at last.

“What was that one for?” You murmured in the space between you.

His soft, sage green gaze found yours, and the love in his eyes could not be misunderstood or undervalued. As always, your heart melted like the April snows at the warmth that look bloomed in your chest.

“Nothin’. Jus’…all you do is make me happy,” he confessed, following the gentle ways the angle of the sun fell upon your face.

“Oh you.”

With your heart strings plucked, you turned in the circle of his arms to embrace him. You nuzzled your nose along the endearing divot of his and let the softness of his smile melt against yours once more. The tannic scent of oak and pine and the musk of gun oil seeped into your senses, and you let yourself get carried away and intoxicated with his nearness and the rasp of his beard beneath your touch.

Cora’s prompting from outside tethered Arthur to his promise and he broke away from you with a sigh, although his warm hands slid down your hips longingly before departing.

“Real eager, that one is.”

“You better get to it,” you laughed and made to finish putting away the breakfast dishes. The other chores of the household could wait for an hour, you decided, as you made to rejoin them on the porch with your knitting.

Cats lazed about beside you presently, preening and stretching their legs before turning their watchful golden eyes to the high grasses in search of mice. One of them stalks up to Arthur at his post, weaving between his feet and brushing a white tail against his knee with affection. He reaches down and scratches its neck, the cat lifting itself on its feet to meet him halfway.

Doubtlessly he was smiling beneath his hat, as you were. You could only imagine what the sunlight must be doing to the color of his eyes as the sides crinkle with amusement.

Cora’s pony begins to straighten its gait and walks in a line, causing her to squeal with delight from her saddle.

“Daddy! I’m doing it! I’m doing it!”

“There you go! Keep holdin’ the reins, just like that. Lead ‘em to the left and right to steer.”

“Mama! Look!”

Your joy is instant.

“You’re doing wonderful!” You cheer. Cora giggles, her cheeks dimpling from her contagious glee. The bow laced at the end of her braid flutters like a butterfly’s wings as she rides through the pasture gracefully. The image of her with her gingham neckerchief around her throat, sitting proud in the saddle struck you with familiarity. She looked so natural, so at ease; so much like her father.

They mosey along at a steady pace and Arthur laughs under his breath. “Well, look at that. You’re a natural.”

He was always so patient and attentive with Cora, shushing her cries and soothing her when she was a baby, encouraging her every little step as she grew. Long ago you envisioned how great of a father he could be, despite his own uncertainty and the paucity of his self-worth. It took years for him to believe he deserved any of the happiness you found in each other, but he always wanted to protect it, never wanting to lose what mattered most to him.

Dutch abused the protective nature of Arthur’s heart, channeled it for his own gain and allocated it to his benefit. For years he strove to bring pride to his surrogate father, giving his all. But he knew. Arthur knew before it was too late when he was being used. You were the first to confess the hidden fondness you held for him, and it was the push he needed to start thinking for himself. Much as he tried to convince you of his own lowly opinion of himself, you persisted in your beliefs that he was a good man, deserving of happiness. Regardless of whether or not he found it with you.

Moments like this were the ones you wanted to capture and hold. Because reaching this place was worth every pain you endured, every mistake, and every misfortune if it meant it all led to this moment.

A breeze stirs the porch wind chimes. Their soft notes tinkle, joining the songbirds singing the joy of another sunrise. In the warm blanket of the wind the scent of alfalfa chases up your nose. You close your eyes against it, listening to the earth and the skies and the peals of Cora’s laughter. When it settles you open them again, finding Arthur’s gaze fastened to you from across the prairie. Caught, he smiles to himself bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck while his gaze dips to the slight swell of your belly and the pair of baby socks in your lap.

Warmth floods through you at the remembrance of that same smile earlier this morning, when the first blue light of day came and slipped through the gossamer curtains. Thoughts of Arthur’s mouth—soft and warm with sleep against your bare shoulder—tucks your lip behind your teeth and turns your gaze shy under his. But it lingered all the same.

The way he traced your skin with the lightest drag of his fingertips as you laid side by side in the early dawn light. How his touches led to languid kisses along your neck until he reached the spot that always made you sigh, your hands slipping along the lovely angles of his stubbled jaw to get lost in the soft, golden brown strands of his hair. How you let him lay you below him before he settled over you, the bedsheets catching on the small of his back. The roughness of his palms sliding along the delicate lace of your chemise, raising it all until it bunched around your shoulders. Parting your legs and lifting them around his hips, his calloused thumb drifting between—

“I think horsey is getting tired,” Cora announces, and Arthur snaps his attention back to her. You cross your legs and take a deep breath to compose yourself, returning your thoughts to the chaste exercise of knitting.

“Let’s give her a rest, then.”

Cora pulls up on the reins and Autumn yields.

Arthur dumps the remaining dregs of his coffee and leaves the cup on the fence, swinging his way through the paddock gate. In a few minutes he would be leaving for town, a star pinned to his vest and a promise to return before sundown. It made it all the more precious that he spent this time with her.

He lifts Cora off the saddle, his hands swallowing her tiny waist. She yelps with delight as he spins her around once, twice, exclaiming how proud he is and how fast she is growing up. Her braid and her skirts swing around her small frame until Arthur sets her down, squatting down to her level. With a mellow voice he speaks, encouraging her to thank the animal and explaining how important it is to show your horse you respect them. Cora nods. She reaches out and strokes Autumn’s neck, patting it alongside Arthur until she whickers and leans into the girl’s touch. With a grin, Arthur produces a crumbling oat cake from his satchel and Cora obediently holds out the treat. She laughs when a wet tongue tickles her hand.

They begin to lead the horse into the stable and Arthur squeezes her shoulders, telling her how well she did. Their words fade into the barn, indiscernible from where you sit, but your heart swells with contentment and a great rush of affection floods through you.

The gold band of your wedding ring rests coolly against your finger. You admire the smooth facets of the oval stone, the mounted sapphire twinkling in the light, thinking again of the first time you saw it and the pure happiness it brought as you trace its edges. Long ago and far away were the days of turmoil and gloom, for as dark as the past was is how bright your future together became. For you were safe at last, harbored in the arms of one another, thriving under the roof Arthur built where your family could grow. And it was all more than you could ever dream of.

A butterfly alights the roses growing along the trellis on the side of the house. Orange and black wings dance, flitting among unfolded dark pink petals and seeking the golden centers within. From one, to the next, to the next, the butterfly graces each bloom and delivers the promise of a sweeter future from its visit, leaving your world also a little better from its passage through it.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan/reader #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption imagine #arthur morgan imagine #arthur x reader #red dead redemption fic #rdr #rdr fic #arthur morgan fic #rdr drabble #arthur morgan #*my writing

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harcourtholmesii · 3 years

Text

Letters of Thanks

Fandoms: MCU / Avengers

Pairings: Slight / Referenced Thor X Bruce

Warnings: - References to Violence

Words: 2954

Please don’t expect this to be perfect writing. I tried, but as much as I do love the MCU, I am not great at writing their characters.

Enjoy!

Fan mail.

Care packages.

Letters of gratitude.

The penthouse floors of Stark Tower were overrun with them. After the Battle for New York, everyone and their uncle seemed keen to say their piece and write something special to the Avengers.

Since Bruce, Thor and Steve had nowhere else to go, the general populace had come to the correct conclusion that they could send their letters to Tony Stark’s letterbox. Since his address was public knowledge and since the defeat of the Chitauri, his home had been flooded with paper and cardboard boxes.

Sorting through it all had been a hassle.

With Thor off-world, the secret agents off on their respective missions and Rogers having left for his tour of America, it was left up to Tony and Bruce to sort through it all. It was a momentous task, but it was a welcome distraction.

Over time, the piles continued to grow.

Seven piles in total.

Tony had, by far, the largest amount of letters written to him. They created an unsteady mountain range across his personal study, threatening to topple and fall if it weren’t for Tony’s effort to read them all.

As quickly as they grew, they shrank. Tony read through his mail quickly and with fervour. Some nights, Bruce, Pepper and Happy had been unable to convince him to sleep. Some nights, he would spend researching the person behind the letter, and send care packages of his own to those who had written him.

Unlike the majority of the other Avengers, Tony managed himself well. Even though most of it was kind or complimentary, there were those that expressed their disdain or their upset. When it got particularly bad, Bruce could see how it all weighed down on the man. He would wave away Pepper’s worry, and Bruce’s own concerns, with his usual snarky attitude, but it was obvious to all of them that he was most affected by those he couldn’t help.

Steve’s pile was mostly complimentary. The younger authors tended to keep their letters short, with questions about him and where he had been. How was he alive after so long? Did he know about the moon landing? Had he seen Blade Runner? Most of the letters went from serious to curious in the span of a paragraph, but Steve had been no less flattered.

Some letters were from older veterans or soldiers who cited him as their inspiration for joining the military. There were those that mentioned how their parents or grandparents had met him those seventy years ago, and how it was a piece of family history they loved to share.

Steve handled them well for the most part, but he rarely went out of his way to answer them all. With his new career path at SHIELD, Steve only narrowed down his responses to those he felt were ‘genuine’. Specifically, those that asked less questions about what he did or did not know about the future, and those that seemed to take the Battle for New York as a serious, potential threat.

Much like Tony, Thor’s pile was one of the larger ones, and it grew at a rapid pace from the start. A lot of the mail he received were care packages, cardboard boxes filled with everything from chocolates to alcohol, and other tokens of affection. Thor had been astounded when he first returned to Earth; his room, as large and royal as Tony could make it, housed a mountain of parcels and parchment awaiting his notice.

He had spent overnight opening as many as possible and reading as much as he could. Some of the language and plenty of the references used caused him a great deal of confusion, and he would seek out Bruce for help. Too many of the letters, though very sweet and thankful, contained phone numbers or an Instagram link. Bruce had caught on quickly; a good portion of these were men, women and others of all types, were hopeless romantics, seeking the God of Thunder’s attention.

No matter the intention or the person who had written the letter, Thor tasked himself with responding to each and every one. However, at the rate the pile was growing, and with Thor’s admittance that he wasn’t much a scholar, Bruce and Tony were roped into helping him in his quest. He wrote back, and had Tony show him how Facebook, Twitter and Instagram worked so he could publish quick responses online.

Bruce helped him with those that didn’t leave behind online addresses or phone numbers, and wrote back what Thor asked him to write. Though, before each parchment was shipped off, Thor would be sure to sign it himself.

The fourth and fifth piles were small by comparison; the both of them for Clint and Natasha. Without any idea where else to send them, the majority of these letters were quick and to the point. Short and simple. The writers would express their gratitude, perhaps explain their reasons for sending the letter, and then end the short paragraph.

To Clint and Natasha, these were perfect. They couldn’t easily respond to them, as much as they wished to, so they kept them close instead. Natasha filed hers away in her room at Stark Tower, and Clint had sent his away. He didn’t mention where, just that they would be safe.

It was fair that the master assassin wanted to keep it secret.

Then, there was the general pile for all of the Avengers team. Most of these were sent by families and young children, from crayon sketches to some baked goods. The team, especially Thor and Clint were ecstatic with these ones in particular.

They came together to read them, as difficult as that was. They would read out a single letter to the rest; they might have a slight chuckle and smiles would light up all their faces as they heard the praise. None of the mail addressed to the Avengers was negative, as it seemed any criticism was left to the specific ‘hero’.

The smallest pile by far, belonged to Bruce Banner. Only a few letters had been delivered that were addressed specifically to him, and unlike the others, Bruce had avoided opening them. When Natasha asked him about his letters, he would say he would ‘get around to it’, and she would leave it alone for a while, disbelieving his statement.

Thor asked him about it the most, always curious and always keen to hear what people had to say about the ‘second strongest’ Avenger. Bruce would just smile, already a little bashful under the other’s excitable gaze and warm touches.

‘I haven’t read them yet.’

‘You should!’ Large hands would take hold of Bruce’s own and he would be spun around so the other could look at him face-to-face. ‘There is much they have to say to you, and I am sure much of it is kind.’

Bruce would just shrug his words away, very aware that the other would only try to see the best in him. He hadn’t been around when Hulk had first destroyed New York, and what the God had witnessed on the helicarrier had been next to nothing in the amount of damage the Hulk had caused. They had been lucky.

Unlike the rest, Tony, though encouraging, didn’t pressure him to read the letters. He knew of Bruce’s fear, and though he found a way to bring it up subtly in conversation, he never demanded the meek scientist open his mail.

Finally, they came up with an idea.

‘Big mean and green.’ Where Bruce had been hovering over the coffee pot, he clicked his jaw in annoyance, and turned his tired eyes over to the lounge. His teammates were all sat on the half-circle sofa, with a small pile of recognisable letters in the middle. He swallowed thickly around the nervous lump in his throat, and tried to laugh away his worry.

‘What is this? An intervention?’

‘Sort of.’ Clint said, offering him a polite smile. It seemed Clint and Steve, in particular, were both nervous about this. Then why participate?

‘We just wanna help try and release some tension here.’ Tony stated, gesturing to the pile. ‘It is no surprise to us, Bruce, you can’t stand to look at this. But you don’t have the heart to throw it all away.’

Bruce’s eyes fell to the coffee he now nursed in his hands.

‘We don’t want to make you uncomfortable.’ Steve chimed in. ‘But… Well, we don’t want you to run yourself into the ground because you’re scared of what people have to say.’

‘I’m not scared. I just know what I would see, and I do not need more confirmation that I am a monster.’

‘No!’ Thor’s voice bellowed, and he was standing in an instant. He was by Bruce’s side in a mere moment and gently nudging him (as gentle as Thor could manage) towards the lounge. ‘You do not understand, Banner! We believe that these are all letters of gratitude towards you, and rather than you think the worst, we want to disprove your claim.’

‘Yes… Well…’ Bruce’s eyes landed on the pile in front of him. He didn’t find SHIELD as frightening as he had expected when he had first met Natasha. He had not been as overcome with fear when he had first seen the Chitauri. But this small, seemingly trivial pile of notes… The words of an everyday person that he had hurt scared him more than anything.

‘If you don’t mind it, we came up with a simple system. Nothing too bad, we hope, but just so we might ease your fears a little.’ Tony said, reaching and digging around in the pile for a moment.

After a bit of shuffling about, he pulled out a small, pastel pink card, showing it to Bruce.

‘We just want you to know that you don’t have to be worried about this. We came up with this plan-’

‘Tony came up with a plan.’ Natasha interrupted.

‘- That we will each read out one letter to you. One random letter. And we’ll all be here in case you want to take a break or if you need to just…’

‘Talk.’ Steve finished.

And just like that, Clint, Steve, Natasha and Thor reached into the pile.

Clint pulled one, exceptionally thick, envelope from the top; perfectly pristine, well-kept, with ‘Bruce Banner’ written in fine, royal blue cursive.

Natasha dug her hand deep into the pile until she pulled her hand away with a large, but thin, green folder. On the front, it read Bruce’s name in a collage of cut-out, magazine letters.

Steve removed a small parcel from the pile, wrapped in dirty brown paper with a green ribbon around it. There was the sound of something gently rattling against the inside as Steve moved.

Thor pulled one letter from the pile which had a large, child’s drawing on the back. Evidently, it was of a large, green figure holding what looked like a yellow car in his hands and roaring. Bruce did not look too keen.

It was Clint that opened his letter first and had begun to read.

“Dear Doctor Banner,

You may not recall me well, but my name is Lucille Davidson. We studied together for a period in college, and I would like to consider us friends, or at the very least, acquaintances.

You’re work in nuclear physics is astounding, and I have, for years now, have wanted to address your papers and reports of your studies. I have never had the chance, as I had thought you dead after your disappearance.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I saw you on the news. Well, not you exactly, but to then have it confirmed to be you in the interview following the events, I was not only relieved but I was over the moon. Hearing you would be staying with Mister Stark for the time being, I wrote to you immediately, and I do hope this has found its way.

I wanted to just say how I am not only inspired by your work, but I wish that we could sit together for coffee and go over our theories on anti-electron collisions…”

By this point, Clint started to look a little lost. He raised his eyes from the paper, with an apologetic expression and a half smile.

‘Sorry, but I can’t understand this kind of science jargon. I am not an expert on thermonuclear… anything… Whatever this person is attempting to say, it seems…’ He turned the paper over, and glanced at the other papers. ‘Yeah… They appear to have sent you a full thesis on whatever this is…’

He passed it across to Bruce, who seemed shocked still. The coffee cup was retrieved from his hands by Tony, in case he should drop it, and placed on the coffee table. Bruce took the papers with shaking hands and read over that first part again and again, almost in disbelief. The worry in his face had lessened slightly, as he placed the essay down and looked up when Steve cleared his throat.

‘There isn’t, uh… There’s only a small card here, apart from the parcel. And it reads ‘to Bruce Banner and to Hulk. Thank you!” He passed the card and parcel over, so Bruce could open it.

He did so slowly, hesitantly, with the movements of a man disarming a bomb. Once the ribbon was undone and the tape removed, the brown paper fell apart in his hands, revealing a plastic container. Through the clear plastic there was a small pile of about eight cookies, all of them, though a little smudged, decorated to look like the Hulk’s face.

There was a chortle from Tony, and a guffaw from Thor as the God landed a hard smack to Bruce’s back. It hurt, but Bruce just smiled down at the strange but lovely gift. There was no return address or signature, which seemed a little disappointing.

“To Mister Banner.” Tony started, a sly, cattish grin on his face. Bruce could already feel his own face going red. He raised his hands to his face in a terrible attempt to hide his embarrassment as Tony continued to read with some level of theatrical exaggeration.

“I will admit, I’m a little embarrassed to write this, but I just needed to get my feelings down onto paper. I was working during the Battle for New York and we met very briefly. Well, you were Hulk at the time, but still… You saved my life. I was about to be killed by one of those weird, alien creatures when you crushed them beneath your fists. And I couldn’t help but salivate…” There was a muttered, embarrassed groan from Bruce as he snatched the letter out of Tony’s hand. The billionaire and the others shared a laugh as Bruce continued to read the letter.

Indeed, it was just a little scandalous, and as flattering as it was… He quietly tucked it away in his pants pocket, not willing to discuss it at this time. That was fair, and none of the other’s held that against him.

Natasha opened her own folder, her face brighter than Bruce had ever seen it. She showed it off like she was doing a presentation, opening the folder wide and reading it out. There were only two pages to it, the first with an image of a small building with a mural on one of its walls.

The mural showcased the Hulk with his hands raised as if holding up the roof of the building. Beneath him, as if a shadow that stood before him, was a silhouette of Bruce doing the same pose. Beneath it, written in bright lettering with all kinds of little pictures, was the message:

‘To Doctor Banner and the Hulk, the heroes that saved our daycare and the children therein.’ The second page was a collage of parents and staff thanking him and the Hulk alike, with little signatures and drawings from the children.

Natasha passed it over to him, and Bruce clutched it close, feeling himself near brought to tears.

Thor didn’t read out the letter he had plucked out of the pile, but passed it to Bruce all the same. It was difficult to read, as it was a scribble of a child’s writing. Only the address was clearly stamped out, presumably by a parent.

‘Thank you Mister Hulk. You saved mommy and daddy from the monsters. I want to be a hero like you when I’m grown up. Could you teach me to be strong like you? From Markus’

Turning the paper over to look over the image again, Bruce could now make out the scratchy faces of two people in the yellow car. At first, he thought they were screaming, but when he was able to make out the black line of a speech bubble amongst the dark blue crayon, he could read they were yelling ‘YAY!’

‘How cute.’ Natasha hummed.

‘That ought to go onto the fridge.’ Tony agreed.

Bruce shifted in his seat, wiping beneath his glasses with his sleeve. A hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting, brought his eyes up to look at the Thor.

‘Would Banner like some time alone? To read and look through his gifts?’

Despite what he had read, Bruce did not ask them to leave. In fact, he snuggled deeper into the lounge as he plucked one letter from the pile. The others didn’t mind being asked to stay. In fact, to them, it was a relief to see the doctor express anything other than worry or discomfort, and a joy to watch his face break into a smile.

#MCU #Avengers #Avengers Fanfic #Avengers Fanfiction #Bruce Banner #Hulk #Thor #Tony Stark #Iron Man #Steve Rogers #Captain America #Clint Barton #Hawkeye #Natasha Romanoff #Black Widow #GammaHammer #Thor X Bruce #HarcourtHolmesII

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sapphiics · 3 years

Text

Ashes to Ashes

summary: Emily thought this was enough. It’s not, and there’s no one to blame but herself.

word count: 1.2k

content warning: smoking and some language.

dt: @yourlocalheartbreaker cause this was one hundred percent going to stay in my google docs forever until she asked about it.

a/n: this is barely hotchniss. it’s more of an emily gen fic where she’s married to hotch if anything. and i never realized how difficult it is to fit in an Aaron somewhere instead of having her call him Hotch. not my best work but it’s all i have had any inspiration for.

—————————

She quit smoking over a twenty years ago.

It wasn’t even quitting, she wasn’t addicted. Just stupid teenage fun that got her knocked up at fifteen and exiled from the catholic church.

Desperate times call for a couple cigarettes.

Especially when your husband, the one you waited for, who you nursed and cared for for years before the two of you pulled your heads out of your asses and started dating, is late again.

And that nagging voice that’s been bouncing in your skull since you got married reminding you of that one cruel fact.

This is what happened to his last marriage. This exact same. fucking. thing.

She thought, no she hoped, in her deepest most embarrassing and shameful part of her- cause she really did like Haley, the woman who gave Emily the best son one could ever have- that he loved her more. That maybe he didn’t love Haley enough to change, but he would be here for her. That they were just so perfect for each other, understood each other better than anybody, that he wanted to be home, and he would make sure he made this work between them.

Emily could almost hear the apology, hear him rush by her with nothing but a chaste kiss to go say goodnight to Jack. His coat hung up neatly on the rack but his shoes array.

Her eyes sting, a prickly burning sensation clouding her vision. It’s so stupid, because she knew. She had always known and he hadn’t ever lied to her or said he would change. That he would step down, be home more. He never made another promise he couldn’t keep after how that destroyed him and Haley. She never asked him to change and up until now she never wanted him to.

That doesn’t comfort her in the slightest, and Emily’s still warm with something akin to anger when the car pulls into the driveway.

The door swings open as she’s blowing smoke out, the kitchen window cracked open just enough so that Jack wouldn’t smell it in the morning.

“Hello,” he belts out. She doesn’t hear his shoes hitting the wall, meaning he knows how late it is. Knows that he’s doing too much and working too hard and coming home too late to a family that’s peeling apart.

His footsteps are coming. She turns towards the window, leaning on the counter and taking a slow deep breath.

“Emily.”

She hates how much she knows him sometimes, hates how just the way he said that one word makes her feel every single emotion of his, without even glancing at his face. That exhausted and breathless tone, with every apology and sorrow from the work they do, the work that chips away at them endlessly, seeping into his voice. She used to love it, love how it meant he was vulnerable, opening up himself and letting her in. That voice meant he was there and he trusted her.

Now, all it’s doing is grating against her ears, because it’s not enough and she’s starting to think she was just that desperate for him, for a family, for someone who already knew everything, just every piece of her and loved her anyway.

Emily wonders how many times Haley heard the voice. How many times she fell for it, gave into him even when they had too many underlying issues to keep shoving under the mat.

“It’s 2 am.” Another slow stream of air escapes her, cigarette smoke evaporating in the night. She’s a shit cook, and they both know it, or else she would have tacked on ‘and your dinner’s getting cold’ just to hurt him.

Haley cooked. and cleaned. and got the lead role in the school play and gave birth to Jack and probably saved Hotch a million and a half times from his asshat father. And Emily liked her when she was alive and has never felt anything but utter gratitude for the woman’s presence in Hotch's life, but since the day Hotch revealed the divorce papers till just this morning, she never once understood how Haley could leave.

Her mind could never comprehend giving someone like him up, especially given their history and how that Hotch, pre-foyet Hotch, had a happiness and charisma and disposition that diminished when The Reaper was on the loose. That funny and guarded but willing to open up Hotch that shriveled up and sunk into the ground along with Haley Brooks Hotchner’s body December 9, 2009.

Haley had that version of him, and still decided to leave. And Emily gets his coldness, his aloof demeanor that refuses to accept help from anyone. She got those parts of him for years just for the rare moments where he shows her the love, the acceptance in who she is and will always be, that she had wanted for so long she almost closed herself off from ever receiving it. The moments that she greedily latched onto, that carried her through them dating and walked her up to the judge in the courthouse when they got married.The angry and bitter thought that she doesn’t deserve this, that she should matter enough to someone that they come home on time and open up to her and express their love to her seeps into her brain. She’s surprised by how hard she has to bite her tongue to keep it in.

Then the depressing idea that this is what she deserves, this glass half empty and bed always cold and feeling never enough for her family is all she will ever be allowed. Comeuppance for all that she’s hurt in her life, everything she’s ruined. This is what Emily Prentiss must lay in, the damaged ruins of the bed she made.

She can’t handle that, and she lifts the cig to her mouth to distract her.

He’s a good guy, Aaron. He’s one of the best, and there’s so much about him that she couldn’t imagine living without. He loves her, not who she could be, but who she is. Now. He knows her, understands her in a way nobody else does, and it would be unfair to him to forget that. And Jack. Her sweet Jack who called her momma once the other week and had her crying for a good three hours afterward. Their family, her everything. Everything she ever wanted, what she had closed herself off to for so long, right in her grasp.

But it’s hard. That type of achy-hard where you need it to end and you think it will just pass but it always ends up getting worse and worse until years have passed and there’s too much damage to salvage anything.

Smushing the remnants of her cigarette into the tray next to her, she pads over to their bedroom, knowing the bed’s empty after hearing the shower turn on.

Emily is barely conscious when she finally feels him slide in behind her, Aaron’s arm coming in around her waist underneath the blankets. He’s warm, while she’s shivering herself to sleep.

His arm, usually comforting in its heaviness against her, feels like a stone weighing her down the entire night.

#grace writes #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #hotchniss #hotchniss fanfiction #hotchniss fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #cm #cm fic

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bangtiddies · 4 years

Text

Full Moons and Arrows

Pairing: Prince!Jimin x Female Reader, a split second of Taehyung x Unnamed Female OC Genre: Romance, Angst, Fluff, Fantasy Rating: PG15 Words: 3.1k Warnings: minor violence, blood, kidnapping, mentioned death, use of weapons, mentioned sex

Summary: Despite having spent almost five full moons with Prince Jimin, you haven’t managed to tell him of your past. On the night of your fifth full moon together, your old enemies discover your whereabouts.

Note: unedited because I’m a fool. I’m so sorry that this took me so long to write jdfksnkekd but here’s my last Drinks & Drabbles fic!! This fic is heavily inspired by D&D and those fantasy historical anime I used to watch as a kid (*cough* Inuyasha *cough*) Requested by @hyyunjins for Drinks & Drabbles: i would like to request jimin + wine + whiskey ;-;

Jimin is never late, always making it by the entrance of your orchard thirty minutes after sunset. He always greets you with a kind smile, affection in his eyes. A passionate kiss, hand intertwining with yours, “I missed you today.”

So, you feel a shiver down your spine when the glass candle clock tells you that it has been almost sixty minutes since you lit it after sunset. Jimin is late. And it’s not something you can shrug off — he would send his trusted adviser to inform you if he got caught up in business. You know that with Jimin’s status as the crown prince and how fast rumours spread in the small kingdom, news of him being potentially unwell would have reached you by now. Not to mention that you had seen Jimin earlier today in the village when he was tending to some business, fond look in his eyes telling you that he would meet you tonight under the full moon.

It’s become somewhat of a tradition to meet under the full moon and spend the night together, ever since you had met him five moons ago. Since then, you had been courted by the crown prince. Since then, the nights spent together would sometimes last a full candle clock.

Five moons ago, you had arrived in the small kingdom with your friend Jungkook, deciding to settle down. There was an orchard owned by an elderly elven couple that the two of you had inherited after a mission that lasted four moons. The owners were thankful of the two of you granting their favour, and since they had no heir, they gifted their orchard to you in gratitude.

Settling down was a decision that you and Jungkook agreed on, disbanding from your party of rogue travellers and wanting nothing more than to settle in one place. To finally find a place to call home. You had offered the rest of your friends to settle alongside you and Jungkook, but they denied your offer, still wanting to live in the thrill of adventure.

On the second night of your settlement, you were greeted by a beautiful prince at the entrance of the orchard. Kind eyes and friendly conversation lead into stories of the young prince’s childhood spent playing in the orchard and picking the fruit off the trees. Several nights under the stars passed, slowly falling into a romantic rhythm with the crown prince. Until one night, under the first full moon, you were courted by the prince, confessions shared and a candle clock spent in passion.

Five moons have passed and you’re still enamoured by Jimin, Crown Prince of Jasmine, just like you were the first night you met him. A season has passed, and your lover looks even more beautiful under the cherry blossom trees. Despite your love for him, you’ve yet to tell him of your past. He knows that you were an adventurer before settling in Jasmine, but the reputation you once had is something you’ve kept in the dark.

Perchance you’ll be telling him very soon.

You see a glimpse of the shadow of a person on the path toward the orchard, worry filling your lungs as the candle clock burns past the sixty minute mark. It takes a while to find the owner of the shadow, only to have a person you had not seen in five moons appearing by the trees beside you. Your eyes widen, an unsettling feeling travelling down your back. It’s too convenient for an old friend to appear when your lover is late. There’s no way that this could be a coincidence.

“Fox,” you whisper into the silent night. “What are you doing here?”

Jung Hoseok, also known as Zinnia’s Fox, one of the best rogues you know, looks conflicted. His sombre expression brings a constricting feeling of fear to your chest. Jungkook, who seemed to have noticed Hoseok’s arrival, stumbles out of the front door of your humble house. Doe eyes wide, he looks between you and Hoseok.

“I’m sorry,” Hoseok says, taking a shaky breath in. “The Crimson River Bandits, they--”

“They have the prince, don’t they,” Jungkook says, realising the situation after seeing how much time has passed since lighting the candle clock.

“I overheard them talking about capturing the Monkey’s lover and I had to come here to inform you.”

“Is the rest of the team with you,” you ask.

Hoseok nods. “They’re in the forest by Jasmine’s Southern river.”

“The bandits?”

“By the river.”

“Of course they are,” Jungkook mutters. “Bloody river bandits and their obsession with rivers.”

“Rabbit,” you say, Jungkook’s alias feeling so odd on your tongue after so long. “Get my bow and arrows, will you?”

Jungkook’s eyes light up. “Are we fighting again?”

You smirk. “Of course we are. Those bandits picked the wrong target.”

(As you rush down to the river, Jungkook lets out a confused huff.

“Why would river bandits want to kidnap your prince?”

Hoseok lets out a chuckle. “Remember when Monkey retrieved that crimson artifact for the noble family thirteen moons ago? Apparently it was one of their most prized stolen possessions.”

You scoff. “They’ve been holding a grudge for that long? How pathetic.”

Jungkook laughs, excitement coursing through his veins. “This is going to be so fun.”)

The Crimson River Bandits are known for their bloody deeds, usually performed by a river so that the outcome from their fights turns the water into a deep crimson colour. You know that they’re after your head, so you have faith that they’ve yet to kill your beloved. Most bandits that you’ve come across find more thrill in fair fighting and looting — killing a prince would definitely put an unwanted target on their backs from people other than a skilled rogue party. And with the reputation that your party had, they probably only expected to fight you alone.

Your old party greets you when Hoseok leads you to their camp in the forest. Taehyung pulls both you and Jungkook into a bone crushing hug upon your arrival, blabbering about how he missed you.

“Starling has his eyes on the bandits. He’ll signal us if the bandits do anything suspicious,” Taehyung says after pulling away from the two of you.

Seokjin has a teasing glint to his eyes when he approaches you. “So, a prince, huh? You’ve really settled down.”

You feel your cheeks heat up, averting your eyes so you don’t lose your composure under Seokjin’s teasing gaze. “And?”

“They’re disgusting,” Jungkook teases. “They make love under every full moon.”

“I will skin you alive,” you grit through your teeth.

“Careful, she might actually hurt you,” Namjoon warns from where he’s sitting by the tents, eyes not leaving his spell book.

“We should also make our way to the river,” Hoseok says, before turning to Namjoon. “Are your spells ready?”

Namjoon sighs and nods. “I hope I don’t have to use them, though.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Seokjin says.

“Raccoon, make sure to signal us if anyone targets the camp,” Hoseok says, turning to the bard standing by the tents. She nods her head in response.

The river isn’t far from the forest, but far enough that the plan for rescue won’t be heard from where the river bandits are situated. Seokjin lays out the plan to you and Jungkook before you leave. Soon enough, your team of six are stealthily making your way toward the bandit camp by the river.

When the camp comes into view, your breath hitches. There’s no sight of Jimin yet — you suspect that he’s probably being held in one of the tents, away from sight. You check your peripheral vision, to see if anyone from your party is in sight, before revealing yourself in front of the bandits. They sneer and laugh at the sight of you on your own, probably thinking that they’ll have you cornered. You stand with the most powerful posture you can, keeping your head up.

“You have the prince,” you state.

A man steps forward with a menacing grin, yellow teeth showing proudly. From the red garb that he’s wearing, you assume that he’s the leader of the bandits. “You arrived quickly. How did you like our message?”

You didn’t receive the message, having already left the orchard before it was sent by arrow. But you know the contents of it, information from Hoseok’s amazing eavesdropping skills coming in handy.

“It was pretty pathetic,” you said, glaring at the leader. You want to rile them up as much as you can. “If you want to seek vengeance against me, why kidnap a prince? Why not ambush me when my guard is down?”

The leader laughs and it echoes through the silent night. “He’s your beloved, is he not? Holding him captive will prevent you from running from us just like our last encounter.”

“I had no business with you in our last encounter. I already had what I needed.”

The man’s grin drops into a sneer. “You took an artifact that was important to us.”

“The artifact was not yours to begin with.”

“Silence,” the leader growls, pulling out his scimitar. “Or I will kill the prince with my own hands.”

You smirk. “Now, you wouldn’t be foolish enough to kill a prince, would you?”

“I will make it that the river turns crimson with your blood for getting away from the Crimson River Bandits. Men! Get the prince,” the leader spits, glaring at you as his mouth widens into a menacing grin. “Don’t worry, wench, we’ll let you see your beloved before you perish.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t say a word. You need to make sure that Jimin is alive and well first.

The bandits bring Jimin out from one of their tents, the young prince struggling in their grip. His wrists are tied together by rope, the red burn around his wrists evidence that he’s been fighting the moment he’s been captured.

“Let me down!” he yells at them. “Get me out of these restraints immediately!”

When he notices you standing by the river, his eyes widen. He stops struggling, mouth open, about to speak to you.

“Dear prince, how nice of you to join us,” the leader says with a glint in his eyes, grin teasing you.

“Nice?” Jimin scoffs. “I was taken here against my will.”

The leader laughs. “You can blame your beloved for that.”

Jimin looks over to you, noticing your hostile state, the fact that you’re not in restraints like himself. His soft eyes ask you a million questions, and you try to send him a message with a single expression. He gives you a nod, and you hope that it means that he understood.

“Are you petty enough to hold a grudge for thirteen moons,” you ask the leader.

“You took an artifact from us,” the leader snarled.

“So you decided to hold my beloved captive?” you laugh. “Unfortunately, you picked the wrong enemy.”

You draw an arrow, causing the rest of the bandits to draw their weapons. Jimin’s eyes widen, trying his best to remove himself from the restraints. The situations seems unfair. There’s about thirty bandits. Against one you.

Suddenly, a yell is heard from behind one of the tents. A bandit falls unconscious, weapon now disappeared, the sound of rustling in the bushes nearby.

The leader turns to see his fallen bandit, before turning back to you with a glare.

“You have people with you,” he states.

You smirk. “Did you really think I was going to come alone?”

Lightening strikes, barely missing one of the bandits, starting the ambush from your party. Each of your party members appear from different areas of the camp, fighting away the bandits and disarming them. You jump back onto the bridge, keeping yourself at a good distance from the camp for your ranged weapons. A shadow weaves between bandits to swiftly remove Jimin from his restraints, all while taking down the bandits by his side.

“Thanks,” Jimin says to the man who freed him, taking in his black attire and harnesses. With the man is a familiar face, Jeon Jungkook, hands and feet bare, in a stance prepared to fight.

Hoseok smiles. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Monkey’s beloved.”

Jungkook scoffs from beside him, kicking and punching away any bandit that came close to the prince. “Stop being weird, Fox.”

“I have an ought to meet the man who stole the heart of my friend,” Hoseok says to Jungkook, before striking a bandit who comes up behind him and disarming him. He then turns to Jimin. “I can take you somewhere safe.”

Jimin’s eyes harden, cold stare toward the leader who’s occupied by a giant tiger. “I’m not going anywhere. I can fight.”

“Prince Jimin, please,” Jungkook starts, wanting to deter Jimin from staying the middle of the camp, the fear of the potential of the prince being struck by a weapon in his mind. But he sighs, seeing the determined look on the prince’s face. “Don’t get hurt.”

Jimin nods, picking up a weapon from one of the fallen bandits, and readying himself for the fight. Jungkook smiles with excitement and curiosity, having never seen this side of the prince before. He would assume that this Jimin was someone else completely different from the one he knew, if it weren’t for the soft glances he keeps making toward you.

Half the bandits down and disarmed, you continue to shoot your arrows toward the rest of the bandits, making sure you don’t kill them. You notice that Taehyung’s struggling with the leader of the bandits on his own and decide to help, not seeing Jimin sneaking up on the leader.

When you do, however, it’s too late.

Your eyes widen, hands shaking. It’s too late. You’ve already let go of your arrow. Your world slows as your arrow strikes Jimin instead of the leader of the bandits.

You quickly jump off the bridge, running toward where Jimin is. The leader, distracted by Jimin’s yell of pain, is suddenly disarmed by Taehyung, taking the leader’s weapons with a growl. Jimin strikes the man with his weapon before falling, arrow still lodged in his back.

“Jimin!” you yell, catching your beloved before he hits the ground. You make sure to not touch the arrow, not wanting to make the injury worse. Guilt rises in your throat as you noticed Jimin’s ragged breathing.

“Hey,” he smiles at you, love in his eyes. “You’re pretty cool, you know.”

You try to smile back, keeping your emotions at bay. You can’t show the bandits any vulnerability. “Just keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

The leader of the bandits laughs, gripping onto his bleeding arm. He opens his mouth to say something condescending, only for Hoseok to jump through the shadows to blow some sleeping powder in the leader’s face.

“I don’t want to hear another word from you,” Hoseok says to the leader, getting one last tired sneer before the man passes out. The rest of your party runs to where the rest of you are, Yoongi already by Jimin’s side to give him a quick healing spell.

“All the bandits are disarmed and unconscious,” Namjoon lets Hoseok know.

Hoseok nods. “Let’s get back to camp.”

You’re lucky that your party has some decent healers, worry no longer sitting in your chest as you sit by the fire of your party’s camp. Yoongi plays his lute to entertain the rest of your teammates as you wait for Jimin to fully heal. Taehyung, back in his human form, rests in his tent with his beloved, scars he received from fighting with the leader of the bandits being healed by her.

Jimin walks out of the tent after a few songs, Seokjin following after him. His eyes scan the camp before they land on you, a wide smile breaking out on his face. He walks to you and you intertwine your fingers with his as he sits next to you.

“How are you feeling,” you ask in a quiet voice.

“Like I’m brand new.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt still in your chest.

“Hey,” Jimin whispers, pulling you in so your head hits his chest. “I’m alive. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

Yoongi starts a new song and this time, Jungkook sings along with his soft and beautiful voice. The two of you sit together in silence, listening to the beautiful music. Seokjin is sitting close by so he can keep an eye on Jimin, but he gives the two of you privacy and starts a hushed conversation with Hoseok.

“So,” Jimin says after a while, pulling away from the hug so he can look at you, teasing glint in his eyes. “You’re a ranger, huh?”

You nod. “I wasn’t sure how I could tell you. I’m sorry.”

Jimin laughs. “It’s fine. We’ve only known each other for five moons. We have plenty more time to get to know each other.”

“Well, I guess I should also let you know that I’m known as Hydrangea’s Monkey.”

“I heard,” Jimin smirks. “Even I knew about Hydrangea’s Monkey before I met you. When the crimson bandits talked of Hydrangea’s Monkey, I couldn’t believe that they were talking about you.”

“So,” you ask. “What will you do with this information?”

Jimin leans into you, lips centimetres away from yours. “I think I want to see more of Hydrangea’s Monkey. You look ravishing when you fight.”

You close the gap between you and Jimin, locking your lips with his, kissing him with passion, desperation, love, love, love. You run your fingers through his hair and he gasps into the kiss, hands gripping your waist.

“Hey, not in front of the kids!” Seokjin yells, running to Jungkook so he can cover his eyes.

“I’m not a child!” Jungkook exclaims, fighting Seokjin’s hands. “I’ve seen enough of their lip-locking already.”

You pull away from the kiss so you can laugh at your friends, arms still over Jimin’s shoulders. Jimin’s hands don’t leave your waist, instead he grips them tighter.

“It’s a full moon tonight,” Jimin whispers.

You turn to him, a glint in your eyes, smile on your face. “Let’s go find ourselves some privacy.”

The two of you swiftly sneak away from your party, giggling together and holding hands as you find a nice clearing under the moon. You spend your fifth full moon with Jimin like you always do, only tonight is filled with more love and passion than the full moons before. That night, you make a promise. A promise for a future, a promise to get to know each other more.

Under the fifth full moon together, you find yourself loving Jimin more than you thought you ever could.

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celestialmark · 5 years

Text

A Poem Titled You - Mark Lee

- genre: heavy fluff, heavy feels - word count: 3.6K what how - warnings: none - author’s note: hey hey hey surprise! this drabble was inspired by taeyeon’s ost “a poem titled you” for hotel del luna omg it’s so beautiful her voice is amazing ;; anyways, I haven’t written anything long in centuries and I'm hoping this piece will spark inspiration for the current long fic that I'm working on. I hope you like it guys! it’s all over the place but ;~; biggest shoutout to ari @/suhdone for constantly motivating me ;; your support means a whole lot :( ily

If someone had asked you to describe Mark, you’d be at a loss for words. Because Mark embodied a lot of things, a lot of good things. And watching him now, as he walks over to you with light steps and a smile grazing his lips, convinces you that he is the very definition of good. And not in a sense that he’s good at everything he does, which could work too because Mark is crazy talented, but more of how he makes people feel around him. Though there weren’t really any proper words to pinpoint what kind of emotions he elicits at this exact moment he’s approaching you with an unwavering smile and shining eyes, all you know is that it doesn’t compare to anything else.

“Hey sweet,” he speaks, gentleness and warmth coating his words. “I’m sorry you had to wait for me, shall we go?”

It’s the little things with Mark. He’s walking on the side of the path closest to the road, having held you by the shoulders earlier to shift you away from zooming vehicles before your trek to volunteer work. Today shouldn’t be any different than the previous days just gone because Mark is still blabbering about random happenings of his day like he usually does and with you walking beside him listening intently to all the words that doesn’t make sense. But today is different. It feels different. Because you can’t focus on Mark’s stories no matter how hard you try, unconsciously getting lost mid-sentence because your eyes linger on his face too long. You trip on your foot at some point because of it and it jolts you back to your reality.

Mark’s reflexes grasp your arm before you meet the ground and you hate the way his touch sets your skin on fire despite the layers of clothing that separate his fingers from your skin.

“Careful,” he says as he steadies you. He looks down with a tilt of his head and before you know it, he’s already crouched down to the ground. You feel him tugging at your laces that you didn’t know had come undone. “Clumsy,” you hear him chuckle from below, the sweet sound getting lost in the wind that rushes past.

Mark’s heart shines through even more when he volunteers, greeting elders with a blinding smile as he hands them trays of food. The little conversations he holds with elders about four times his age highlights the sincerity of his heart and you can see that visiting and helping them bring him so much joy as much as he makes them happy. It’s a heartwarming sight to witness and you can’t help but smile to yourself while you do your share of the work.

“Handsome,” and “kind,” and “filial,” are the words Mark’s associated with in this house for the elderly. And what makes him even more endearing is that he struggles to accept the compliments thrown his way, only responding with a bashful smile and the occasional shake of his head to disagree with what he’s described as.

You catch yourself sighing as you watch him from afar. Mark was so much more than what he thought of himself and you’d wish he knew that.

On the way home, when the sun slowly sinks behind the mountains beyond the towering buildings and when the temperatures drop slightly to cater for a chilly night, Mark is the first to speak again as soon as he’s finished zipping up your coat to ensure your warmth.

“You haven’t spoken all day,” he says casually, eyes ahead on the path. “Everything okay?”

You don’t realise the truth to his words until you reflect on the day, and true enough, you really hadn’t spoke to him all day even though you’ve spent the whole day together.

“O-oh,” you say, your voice hoarse you have to take a moment to clear your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t even realise.”

“Y/n, if this has something to do with me saying I like you the other day, please don’t,” Mark says, halting in his tracks right in front of you, which causes you to stop too. “I meant what I said but if it’s something that makes you feel uncomfortable with me, then please forget what I said.”

How much Mark has grown is evident in how straightforward he’s suddenly become. At first you didn’t even notice it, having spent almost your entire life with him, but as time passed and as the harsh realities of life gradually came to challenge you both, the realisation of how mature he’s become became clearer in the decisions he’s had to make and in how he’s had to deal with certain situations he didn’t expect he’d find himself in. It became even clearer when he confronted his feelings face front, with no hesitation the moment he was sure about what he felt. And it just so happened that you were the one to trigger the first confession he’s ever made in his whole life ever. He stuttered a lot, yet it was the most perfect for you because it came from Mark and it came with nothing but genuity. After all, Mark always did and said everything with sincerity.

“Mark, my hands are cold,” you blurt out in the midst of trying to look for a reply to what he had just said.

And Mark doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a second as he holds your hands in his, raises them both and breathes onto them. He procees to rub his palms on the back of your hands then, doing all that he could to warm you. And you just watch in silence, in utter admiration and in pure awe of his existence alone. Mark always did this, on other days, without even asking him to do so. But with the recent revelation of how he felt for you, it’s been a constant challenge with yourself to dig deep and notice the small things about yourself you didn’t even pick up before.

Mark does something different today. Instead of letting go of your hand, he tucks it inside the pocket of his coat, still with his hand enveloping yours. He looks at you wearily after his gesture, a concerned glint in his eyes, “Is this okay?”

You want to tell him it’s perfect. But you settle with a nod of your head.

Later in the week, in the late hours of the evening, you find Mark just outside your work place when you come down after an exhausting day. He’s standing outside, just beside the entrance, eyes trained ahead at the cars passing along the road.

“Mark?”

With his name being called, he snaps his head to your direction and an instant smile lifts on his face. “Hi sweet.”

“What brings you here?”

That’s when you notice the umbrella he’s holding above his head as he shows you another one in his other hand. “It’s raining. And I figured you didn’t bring an umbrella.”

When you glance outwards, the rain you hadn’t noticed from earlier, is lashing down mercilessly. You try to recall your brain for the forecast you were sure you checked before leaving your home early this morning but find no recollection of any impending rain.

Thank the heavens for Mark though.

Taking a step closer to you, he tucks your umbrella under his arm so that he can zip your coat up fully as you watch in silence. “Ready?” he asks with another smile, proceeding to open your umbrella for you before handing it over. You take it from him with a nod and a small smile playing on your lips, mirroring his, as he begins to lean the way home.

You lose yourself in conversations with Mark, talking about all sorts of things, from sharing stories about one’s day like you always do, and plans for the upcoming weekend. Mark announces he’s staying in to entertain his notes for an upcoming exam he’s dreading while you offer to accompany him, not having anything better to do to which he expresses his gratitude to you for with a smile too wide that reaches his eyes and highlights his cheekbones.

You grab the sleeve of Mark’s coat when a food cart catches your eye by the sidewalk. He looks over to you before glancing at the vendor making fresh warm crepes. You turn to him with excitement, the long day at work reminding you of the fact that you haven’t eaten all day. “Let’s share one?” You suggest and it earns an approving nod from Mark.

“Can we have one chocolate crepe please,” Mark kindly asks the vendor to which he begins making straight away. You watch the process carefully, without batting an eyelash, growing all too fascinated at the precise motions of the man. Mark on the other hand, watches you instead and oblivious to you, his eyes literally sparkle under the fluorescent lights of the cart, the sight of you in a state of happiness making him happy in return.

Mark pays for the crepe as you receive the dessert from the vendor who hands it to you with a grateful smile. You turn to face Mark just as you lift the crepe to your mouth to take your first bite, when his cold fingertips comes in contact with your wrists, stopping you. You look up at him curiously and he only smiles at you.

“It’s too hot,” Mark points out, eyes trained on the steam stemming from the crepe. He then takes it from you and starts to blow on it in attempts of cooling down the dessert slightly. Now it’s your turn to stare at him and realise that it’s always, always, without a doubt, the little things about Mark that leave you speechless.

“Here,” Mark says handing it back to you but you’re too perplexed to react so he gestures it to you again before you finally recover from your trance. You try to hide your fluster by eating but it doesn’t help that Mark is continuously gazing at every little thing you do and it doesn’t make the situation better either when he extends his hand to swipe small strands of hair that’s threatening to fall on your face. You finally have some time to breathe when he turns away from you, his attention shifting to the vendor as he requests for a bottle of water.

You barely leave any crepe for Mark, having been too distracted at the increase of your heartbeat that definitely doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Mark twists the bottle cap open before offering the water to you, taking the crepe from you in exchange.

“Slow down sweet, you’re going to choke,” he chuckles, noticing your cheeks inflated with food. Mark begins to eat shortly while you recompose yourself, silently grateful that Mark wasn’t the type to pick up on the sudden changes in your behaviour.

The heavens continue its downpours even after your short stopover for food. Your shoes are getting soaked on the trek home from having stepped on a puddle you didn’t see. Mark laughed as you glared at him with a huff, bringing his index finger to press the space between your eyebrows to erase your frown. To make matters worse, your umbrella decides to leave you exposed to the heavy droplets when a strong gust of wind blows past you, completely destroying your shelter.

“Wow could this day get any worse,” you mumble, getting beaten down by the rain momentarily before Mark pulls you close under the safety of his umbrella. His arm is firm around your shoulder and there’s a moment where you two fall silent, hearts both racing at the proximity of your bodies. Mark is staring down at you, a soft expression on his face as he searches yours. You’re blinking rapidly, his chest too close to you and his scent lingering in your nostrils; delicate yet intoxicating.

“Is this okay?” He wonders aloud in a small voice.

You bring yourself to peek up at him, your eyes unsure in contrast to the hammering of your chest. “It’s okay,” you utter. You want to tell him that you don’t mind, that you never mind if it’s him, but you think that telling him it’s alright is enough for him tonight because another gentle smile etches onto his features, one that doesn’t quite disappear and lasts the entire night.

The heavy rain stretches on until the weekend. Just as promised, you accompany Mark during his study. You try to remember the exact reason why you’ve kindly offered to stay with him for the day, but you’re secretly thankful because you get to bask in his alluring presence in his own home. Mark, in a cozy black turtleneck is seated across you on the dining table, his eyes hiding behind his glasses he wore every now and then, focused on what you guess to be notes on the screen of his laptop. You’re reading a book in silence, letting Mark’s occasional mumbles to himself fill the room along with the dulcet echoes of your pages being turned from one to another under your fingertips.

It isn’t until two hours of staying rooted in your seats that the screeching of Mark’s chair breaks the silence. When you look up, you discover he’s already stood up to leave for somewhere, towards the direction of the kitchen. You examine his space opposite you and see the paper sprawled around everywhere with numerous pens stacked on top. You’re about to reach for one that catches your eye when Mark reappears from the doorway, white ceramic mugs in either of his hands. He places one in front of you, the aroma of your favourite green tea filling your senses.

“Thanks,” you say with a smile that you hope reflects your gratitude for the small yet sweet gesture.

Unknown to you, your mere but mesmeric smile pushes his pent up affection further on edge, so much so, that if he continued to study every little thing he wants to remember about your face, he’d literally spill everything he’s been dying to say to you. So he clears his throat and looks away, taking his seat once again and taking a sip of his boiling coffee too quick. He begins to cough and hiss uncontrollably, an aftermath of his haste actions.

You quickly hand him a napkin, rising from your seat in the process, your brows knitted together in the middle. “Hey, careful,” you say even though it’s too late as he takes the napkin from you.

With a stretch of your arm, you take his mug in your hands. When you settle again on your chair, you start blowing on his beverage, images of Mark at the crepe cart flashing before your own eyes, prompting you to do the same. From the corner of your eye, you can see Mark watching you silently and you slowly begin to understand how it feels to be in his place this time; to be the one on the giving end. And it feels good. It feels warm. It feels nice. It feels even better because it’s from you to Mark.

Once you’re done, you set the mug back in its initial place and discover Mark still staring, his eyes as big and as wide as ever. And you smile and promise yourself to keep giving because the bashful smile that creeps on Mark’s face is too adorable not to witness again.

In the late hours of the night, you fall asleep on Mark’s couch accidentally, while waiting for him to finish his study. The television playing lowly in the background has lulled you into sleep you didn’t know you were in need of, the thought of Mark being the last thing on your mind before finally surrendering to slumber. Mark enters the living room some time after to find you sleeping soundly and makes great efforts to minimise as much noise as he can so as to not disturb you. He crouches down in front of you and he swears that if you could see him right now gazing at you the way he is now, you’d literally see hearts in his eyes. You looked so peaceful in your sleep, your perfect features at its calmest state and Mark feels himself falling further and amazes at himself at that fact because here you were, still as ever and not doing anything, yet causing him the greatest stress.

Mark shuts the television off and carries you in his arms. You stir in your sleep to circle your arms around his neck and to find a comfortable spot on his chest for your head to lead on and Mark stands completely still as you do all that. He’d expected his heart to hammer against his chest because that’s the kind of effect you usually had on him, but to his great surprise, he feels as calm as ever and he thinks that it’s because you fit so right in his arms. After taking one last glimpse at your sleeping figure and swearing to himself to protect you all his life, he proceeds to make his way to his bedroom, right where he can lay you on his bed to ensure your utmost comfort.

Some hours after midnight, you awake under the warmth of the duvet, the darkness greeting you in the haze of your vision as you try to decipher where you are. From the way the moon peeks through the window, shining on familiar furniture on the other side of the room, you figure you’re in Mark’s room. And you find the said person on the floor beside his bed, sleeping soundly on top of a blanket that’s too thin to shield him from the cold floor.

“Mark,” you call out from the edge of his bed. He doesn’t move until your third call and when you finally get a response, “Come sleep beside me.”

“Hm?” is the only reply from Mark through closed lids. You come to a conclusion he’s too sleepy to even understand your words so you reach for his arm and tug at it. “Sleep up here, it’s cold down there,” you repeat.

Mark complies after you tug at his arm some more, finally lying on the bed beside you but doesn’t realise the consequence of his actions until he opens his eyes to find you right in front of him. In any other situation, he would have scurried away in a rush to calm himself from being too close. But the way you’re gazing at him with gentle eyes convinces him it’s okay to stay and as he continues to gaze back, he finds new courage to move even closer to you, minimising the gap between the two of you even more. Mark closes his eyes and leans his forehead forward until it rests on yours.

“Is this okay?” he whispers quietly.

It’s your turn to study his features this time and come to a conclusion that this man may be the most beautiful one to ever exist. The fascination that stirs within you urges you to bring your hand to caress his ethereal face. Running a thumb on his cheek, you begin to wonder what great thing you must have done in your past life to have someone like Mark, and better yet, a Mark who likes you, a gentle and sweet Mark who’s careful about the boundaries he’s set for himself.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back, tracing the outline of his face with your forefinger. “It’s perfect.”

Mark raises a hand to wrap around your wrist and leans his face completely into your touch, marvelling at how surreal it feels to be receiving your affection. You smile at his actions, the sight melting your heart, silently wishing you’d shown him sooner how he really made you feel. So you decide to show him from now on.

“Mark,” you whisper again, grabbing his attention as he opens his eyes. You’re sure you’d feel nervous for what you’re about to do but meeting Mark’s eyes now only prove reassurance and provide you with the last bit of courage you needed.

You lean your face forward, closer to his, closing the gap between your bodies by an inch, “Is this okay?” you ask, your eyes trained on his to look for some kind of response. But Mark doesn’t answer because he’s too stunned. And you don’t wait for a response because there’s too much to say but too little time to find words that are fitting. So you let your actions speak instead.

Leaning in closer, feeling his nose tap yours, you ask again, “Is this okay?” And again no response. You proceed with your motions, closing your eyes in the process, your lips a mere centimetre away from his you can literally feel it. “I hope this is okay,” you whisper before letting your lips collide with his.

Mark grasps the situation a second too late but when he does come to his senses, he responds by pulling your body closer before grazing your jaw in his hand. He kisses you slow, an indirect metaphor of how time slows when you’re with him yet full of love and affection, everything he’s been unable to show. You feel his heartbeat under your fingers and it pushes you to deliver everything you need and want to say to him, that everything was okay as long as it was with him, that everything will be okay as long as he’s beside you. And that from tonight onwards, it’ll only consist of you showing him how incredible it feels to be loved by him because you know your words will never do it justice.

Mark is smiling when you pull away, understanding and accepting you wordless messages and declarations. And you smile back, finding the twinkle in his eyes to be too beautiful, your smile speaking for you. The rain continues to tap away at his windowpane but all you could focus on is the glint in his eyes that screams nothing but admiration for you. Wrapping is arms around you wholely, he whispers,

“That was perfect.”

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agir1ukn0w · 4 years

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Attention Reylo Fam!

After hearing some disturbing rumors on social media that Lucasfilm may be considering pulling back the release of The Rise of Kylo Ren in order to change some major plot details of Ben Solo’s journey to becoming Kylo Ren (specifically his involvement in the destruction of Luke’s academy), I have decided to write a letter to Lucasfilm asking them, if the rumors are indeed true, not to do so. Obviously it is more than likely that the things I’ve been hearing are no more than supposition, given that I’ve only seen them on Tumblr, however I would still like to voice some of my concerns and the collective concerns of the fandom to Lucasfilm if there is a small chance they will receive my letter and take it seriously.

I have just finished my first draft, and I wanted to post it here so that you may read it and give me suggestions on things I should change or add on in the comments. I value the input of my reylo family, and I want to be as truthful and accurately representative of the feelings of the collective fandom as I can. I will post the draft below the cut, and also, if you would like your name to be included in the signing of the letter (either your blog url or, if you are comfortable, your real name), please let me know and I will add you to the list.

Dear Disney Lucasfilm Ltd.,

I would like to preface this letter by saying think you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for all the wonderment and inspiration that you have given me these past four years of my life. These movies, tv shows, books, etc. have been a cornerstone of my cultural upbringing since before I can remember and I personally believe that Star Wars is the single greatest tale in the history of the world. I thank you with all my heart for carrying it forward so honorably.

That being said, I still very much believe in this story’s potential to be a beacon of empowerment for those who feel so disenfranchised and even oppressed in the real world. I still believe that this story is capable of making children look up and believe in themselves and their power to make a difference.

I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand the reasons why you made the choices you made with regards to Episode IX: TROS. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fine movie, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. No work of art can possibly please everyone, and I would also like to thank the cast and crew for working so hard and putting their entire souls into these projects these past several years.

This has all been a roundabout way of coming to the main point of my letter to you. Specifically, this letter concerns the character Ben Solo.

I’m sure that you have been hearing and seeing a variety of heated emotions on social media concerning the fate of this character. The first time I met him way back in TFA, I knew that he was someone special; even then I felt a very deep connection with his struggle and began to root for him. The arc that you gave him in TROS was beautiful, and everything I really wanted to see. I’d been hoping for his redemption for a long time, and to see it so beautifully acted on screen was truly inspiring. Although I must say that I really could have done without his death, for the purpose of this particular letter, I will digress from that opinion, even though I know for a fact that I am not the only one who holds it. At the end of the day, Ben’s storyline was fulfilled because he overcame the darkness within him, helped Rey to defeat the ultimate Evil, and brought her back to life with his love. I couldn’t have asked for more.

However, I have been hearing rumors on social media which are very concerning. A few people have suggested that Lucasfilm plans to pull back the release of the comic The Rise of Kylo Ren by Charles Soule in order to change some of the major details of Ben Solo’s story to better fit with what happened in the movie. Specifically, I am referring to the very important fact that Ben actually didn’t kill his fellow students in cold blood and that he didn’t set his uncle’s academy on fire. I don’t know if this rumor is even true, and I pray that it isn’t. The fact that I have as yet only seen these rumors on social media leads me to believe that there is little probability to it.

However, I cannot convey to you the depth of my despair should they turn out to be true. And I know that I am not alone. The fandom has already seen the plates, clearly showing that it was not Ben who set fire to his uncle’s academy. It would be a huge mistake to completely redo them now, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that you would lose the good faith and trust of many people in this fanbase.

I have written this letter to implore you all at Lucasfilm, if these rumors are indeed true, to please rethink your strategies; Speak with your fans directly, understand their viewpoints and how important this character is to so many. I won’t tell you how much I personally love and care for the character of Ben Solo so as not to take up too much space in the letter, but there are many others who love him feel a much deeper connection with the character than I. Should you chose to do this, you would not only be drastically changing important details of the character’s life, but you would also be taking his own past from him. So many dedicated fans will feel disenfranchised. Furthermore, your sales would go down drastically. I cannot tell you how devastated the vast majority of your fans would be. We all want justice for Ben Solo, and if we cannot have it through him living a long and happy life, we deserve to see it through the truthful telling of his past.

Both Disney and Lucasfilm have been major centers of hope and inspiration for me throughout my life. The messages that you send, that even those who have made terrible decisions in their lives can be gravely misunderstood by others, and that they can always make things right, is extremely important to me. And the story of Ben Solo is one which I have followed closely since I saw The Force Awakens for the first time. I believed in his ability to redeem himself even before the information that what happened at Luke’s academy wasn’t his fault came out. Even when it was assumed that he had killed his fellow students, I believed in him because that is what Star Wars is about. Belief, hope, and understanding. In The Last Jedi, Leia says, “Hope is like the sun. If you only believe in it when you can see it, you’ll never make it through the night.” I have held on to that message ever since I heard it, and it has gotten me through many tough, emotional times in my life. I know that you respect your fans, and we as a fandom have not given up hope that you will do what is right for these characters.

Once again, before I close out this letter, please accept my deepest gratitude for all that this company has done to bring Star Wars into a new generation, inspiring us to go forward and create our own stories and modern myths. I am, and always will be proud to be a Star Wars fan.

Sincerely,

…………

Let me know what you guys think, I am excited to mail this letter!

Peace, Love, and Reylo💜

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yeontanismypresident · 4 years

Text

Blushing Bride | myg

a/n: sorry it’s so short and took so long. it seems my inspiration and motivation to write is still not at its fullest. hopefully i’ll get it back soon and i’ll come back and edit this. i also have only been to one wedding and that was like when i was 13 so i have no clue how they really go so sorry it’s not accurate lol.

pairing: min yoongi x reader

word count: 2.4k

genre: slight angst, fluff

warnings: doubts about marriage, implications of sex, fluff fluff fluffffff, marrying yoongi bc uwu

Those six months passed by in a blur, and before you knew it, it was a week before your wedding. A week before you both state, “I do.” You could feel your nerves getting increasingly worse. Thoughts of whether Yoongi truly wanted to marry you were swirling around in your head. What if he was having doubts? If he didn’t want to have you as his wife anymore? Luckily, Yoongi was always there to get rid of those insecurities.

One night, as the two of you were cuddled up on the couch watching a movie, you voiced these insecurities, “Yoongi, are you sure you want to marry me?” He looked at you with confusion plastered on his face.

“Of course I do. I wouldn’t have asked you in the first place if I didn’t,” he mumbled, holding you closer to him. He didn’t know where these thoughts were coming from, didn’t know if you were the one starting to doubt it.

Sighing, you placed your chin on his chest and gazed into his eyes, “I just- what if you regret proposing to me? What if later on you realize this was a mistake and want a divorce? That I’m not good enough for you? Not skinny or pretty enough? You always said you didn’t care for marriage."

He could see the fear in your eyes and heard the way your voice started breaking. Yoongi felt his heart clench at the sight, and he pulled you into a chaste kiss, effectively cutting off your panicked rambling.

"Hey, none of that. I’m in love with you so fucking much and I never want to lose you. I should be the one worried. You’re literally so perfect and deserve so much better,” Yoongi said calmly, his gaze locked with your own.

Pressing his forehead to yours he whispered “I will love you no matter how you look, baby. You’re perfect to me, even with all the flaws you think you have.” His sincere words had tears sliding down your cheeks as you leaned up to kiss him tenderly.

“I love you too,” you muttered against his lips, sighing as he deepened the kiss and tugged you to lay on top of him.

Shaking your head, you cleared your thoughts and focused back on the task at hand. It was now four days before the wedding, and tonight was your bachelorette party. Yoongi would be staying at the dorms while your friends came over to your shared apartment. There were drinks - lots of alcohol - and snacks on the table. A pile of movies was also arranged next to the refreshments. You’re making sure you have everything ready when you hear the doorbell. Walking over to your security system, you see the girls at your door, and you push the button to let them enter.

“Y/n!!” Jinwoo shouted, pulling you into a hug.

Chuckling, you pulled away from her “Hi, Jiwoon.” The others bring you into their own embraces, all stating how they’re ready for a night of fun.

“I still don’t get why we weren’t allowed to hire a stripper,” Minsoo pouted as she crossed her arms.

You giggled, leading the way to the living room where everything was, “Cause when Yoongi heard about it he got jealous and firmly stated there were to be no strippers."

"We can still have fun without all of that, Minsoo,” Hana said, and you gave her a smile of gratitude.

If you were being honest, you didn’t even want an adult dancer. You were perfectly fine with a quiet night in. When the maknaes had told you they were bringing one to Yoongi’s bachelor party, you were the one to be jealous and put your foot down. So imagine your shock and anger when you receive a text from Jimin.

Jimin: Sorry, Y/n. We couldn’t resist (; *image attached*

Inhaling a deep breath, you clicked on the message. A snort escaped you when you saw the picture. There Yoongi was, sitting on a chair with a bright red face. Someone was sitting on his lap with a flirtatious expression. It seems the ‘stripper’ they hired was actually Hoseok in short shorts and a crop top.

“What are ya laughing at?” Jinwoo mumbled around the spoon in her mouth. There was chocolate sauce smeared across her lips and on her fingers. How the fuck did she already make a mess…?

You handed her your phone, allowing them to see the text “Apparently, Yoongi is getting a lap dance.” They all giggled, handing your phone back. The night went on, and you all had tons of fun.

The night before your wedding you were a shaking mess, worried for the next day. Once again Yoongi was spending the night at the dorms while the girls stayed with you. They could all see you were nervous and they didn’t know what to do to calm you down.

“Y/n, are you okay?” Hana asked you, her voice quiet. You hummed, leg bouncing, only stopping when Jinwoo placed her hand on your thigh.

Glancing at them, you could see their concerned looks, “I’m fine. Just worried and excited for tomorrow. What if I trip while walking down the aisle? What if he’s not even at the end waiting?” You worried your lip between your teeth, leg starting to bounce again.

“Please, Yoongi is so whipped for you, and so in love, he’ll definitely be there waiting for you,” Minsoo stated, distracting you as Hana pulled out her phone.

Jinwoo grabbed your hand, “Yeah, you’re the love of his life, babes. I mean, c'mon, he’s literally getting married to you when he doesn’t care for an official marriage."

Before you can say anything, Hana handed you her cellphone. When you gave her a perplexed expression she nodded to it. Looking down at it, you could see an ongoing call with Seokjin and brought it up to your ear.

"Hello?” you asked, not expecting Yoongi’s voice to come through.

His voice is soft and full of love, “I hear you’re nervous? Is it for the same reasons, or is it something different?"

"I’m just…scared I’m going to trip, or you won’t be there waiting for me…” you trailed off, knowing he wasn’t going to like your words.

Yoongi sighed, “Baby, I promise you, I will be there waiting because you mean the world to me. And if you trip, then I’ll be there to catch you. You don’t have to be scared, love."

"Alright…I love you,” you breathed out, a small smile on your lips.

He chuckled, and you could tell he had a huge grin when he spoke, “I love you too, princess. I’ll see you tomorrow."

You hung up and handed Hana her phone back, thanking her quietly for what she did.

"Y/n, how do you feel?” Minsoo asked as she curled your hair. It was finally the day of your wedding, and your friends were helping you get dressed.

You grinned, “I’m still anxious, but I think it’s more of an excited anxious.” She looked at you with happiness, glad you were feeling relaxed.

“Oh, honey, you look so beautiful,” a soft feminine voice spoke. Glancing behind you in the mirror, you saw your mom and dad standing at the door. Minsoo backed up and allowed you to move around her.

Quick to tug the two into a hug, you gave a soft greeting. “Hi mom, hi dad.” They returned the embrace, tears in their eyes as they took a closer look at you.

“Oh, sweetie. You look so grown up. Yoongi is a lucky man,” your mom told you as she fluffed part of your skirt lightly. Your dad nodded, showing he agreed with his wife.

A bashful smile appeared on your face, “I’m the lucky one.” Once you were dressed and ready to go, you all made your way to the doors you would be walking through.

As soon as the pianist started playing the wedding march, Yoongi could feel his hands become sweaty. He wasn’t having doubts, no, he was just afraid you wouldn’t be there, or that he would mess up his vows. He’s so caught up in his mind, that he doesn’t notice you making your way down the aisle with your dad. Only when Hoseok nudges him does he look up from the ground.

His breath hitched in his throat and liquid gathered in his eyes when he saw you in your wedding dress with your makeup and hair done. You looked absolutely gorgeous, and he was so fortunate to be the one marrying you. His gaze was solely focused on you, and when your eyes met, he couldn’t stop the gummy smile that spread onto his face.

When you saw Yoongi standing there in his black tuxedo with glassy eyes, you felt your heart beat faster. In just a few moments, you would permanently be his. You’d be Mrs. Min. Min Y/n. Yoongi’s wife. Your father handed you off to Yoongi once you reached the altar. Placing your hands in his, you gave him a shy smile.

“You look so beautiful, princess,” Yoongi whispered so just the two of you could hear.

A bright blush coated your cheeks, “Thank you, so do you.” He gave you his gummy grin and looked back to the priest as he started to speak.

“Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of these witnesses, to join Yoongi and Y/n in matrimony commended to be honorable among all; and therefore is not to be entered into lightly but reverently, passionately, lovingly and solemnly. Into this - these two persons present now come to be joined. If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together - let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

Yoongi let out a loud sigh of relief when no one stood up or spoke. The guests laughed, causing him to blush with a shy smile.

“From what I can understand, you two have your own vows you’d like to say?” the priest asked.

Yoongi gulped, “I do- I mean yes, we wrote our own.”

Hoseok - his best man - laughed. Everyone could tell Yoongi was nervous, and you giggled, squeezing his hands. Once the priest gave him permission, your soon-to-be husband took a shaky breath in. God, please don’t let him mess up.

“Here I stand in front of you, the love of my life, to show you that you mean the world to me. Ever since I first saw you that night at the convenience store, I knew you were the one for me. You were sitting there just slurping up ramen - quite messily if I do say so myself,“ Yoongi started, teasing you at the end, earning chuckles from the guests.

He fondly smiled at you, "I never really thought I would get married, it wasn’t that important to me. That is until I met you. As we grew together and became closer throughout the years, I realized that I would go through with all of this if it meant I got to spend the rest of my life, and even after it, with you by my side.”

“Y/n, you may now say your vows,” the priest turned towards you.

You cleared your throat, “Yoongi, I love you with all my heart. You are my best friend. Today I will give myself to you in marriage. I promise to encourage and inspire you, to laugh with you, and to comfort you in times of sorrow and struggle.”

“I promise to love you in good times and in bad, when life seems easy and when it seems hard, when our love is simple, and when it is an effort. I promise to cherish you and to always hold you in the highest regard. I will always love you, no matter what, for the rest of our existence,” you said, unadulterated love in your gaze.

A tear makes its way down your cheek and Yoongi raises his hand to gently wipe it away. You let out a teary giggle, sniffling as your thumb rubbed against the back of his hand.

“We will now have the exchanging of the rings,” the priest said as Hoseok holds out the rings.

Yoongi grabbed a your ring as the priest asked, “Do you take Y/n as your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish until death do you part?”

“I do,” Yoongi grins, placing the ring onto your ring finger.

The priest looks to you, “Do you take Yoongi as your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish until death do you part?"

"I do,” your voice is filled with happiness as you place the band on Yoongi’s ring finger.

He smiled at the two of you, “You may now kiss the bride."

Yoongi grinned, his eyes closing as he put his hands around your waist. tugging you into a passionate kiss. You kissed back, letting your mouth part when his tongue licks your bottom lip. The two of you are too caught up in each other to hear the sounds of clapping and the rest of the members shouting.

The reception after the ceremony was filled with laughter, jokes, and dancing. Yoongi and you had multiple people coming up to congratulate you on the marriage. All of the members were tipsy on the fancy champagne. Jungkook was busy stuffing his face with food, Taehyung and Jimin were drunkenly dancing on the dance floor. Namjoon and Seokjin were seeing who could take the most shots. Hoseok was discussing the honeymoon with your husband. God, it felt so nice and made you feel bubbly calling him that.

You were so caught up in your head, that you didn’t notice Yoongi coming up behind you until he had his palms on your sides. He leaned down and whispered into your ear, "Hey, princess. Are you ready to head out? We have to catch our flight in an hour.”

“Yeah, yeah I am,” you said, voice breathy as you felt his warm breath on your neck.

He placed an open-mouthed kiss on your throat, his voice in a growl, “I can’t wait to see this wedding dress on the floor of our hotel room, baby girl.”

“I guess we should go then, huh?” you gasped, tilting your head to give him more room.

Yoongi smirked, “Yeah, let’s go, baby.”

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nishinoya-is-baby · 4 years

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🌸Restoration🌸

🌹Hi!!! This is dedicated to @yamagucji and our shared love of plants and nature! Go check their blog out and give them some love!🌹

🌺(Yamaguchi x GenderNeutral!reader) {TW: Mentions the death of reader’s cousin} Angst (this is my first angst, please be nice)->fluff (The italicized word/words after a flower are what the flower symbolizes, and the reader isn’t saying it!)🌺

🌼**Please be aware of the fact that flowers have different meanings based on your sources! My source is from a book where the author did research on the flowers and chose either the most common definition or the definition that made most sense to her!**🌼

Everyone knew of the garden. The massive 3-acre garden. The garden that had flowers, succulents, and various other plants. The garden that was open to all visitors on Saturdays. The garden who’s owner memorized the meanings and history of the flowers that graced it. The garden that held various activities for families and the elderly. The garden that gave so much, but took nothing. Everyone knew of the garden. The garden that closed it’s gate four months ago. The garden that was filled with dead plants. The garden that no longer had visitors. The garden that stopped holding events. The garden that had cracks in the once moist and rich soil. The garden who’s owner’s heart felt the pain of every fallen petal and every bug-ridden leaf.

The owner, Y/n, hadn’t had the mental or physical energy to tend to the large garden. Not after their cousin had passed away four months ago. Their cousin had been the co-owner of the garden, tending to the look of the garden. Had Y/n had it their way, the garden would be unruly, the pathways non-existent as the plants took over the land. Their cousin, however, knew that couldn’t happen. How would they hold all their activities if there was no place to sit or walk? Y/n’s cousin had died without warning, crushing them. After the news had reached Y/n, the garden was immediately closed, a sign taped to the gate saying, “Closed until further notice”. As Y/n’s mental health declined, so did the wellbeing of the garden. Before Y/n could even think about the garden, it had already died. Their beloved plants nothing but dried up scraps that blew around in the gated area. This broke their heart even more.

The garden incident happened two months ago. Four months had passed in total, and they knew they couldn’t live the way they were anymore. They knew their family was running out of excess money to give them. They knew the garden was calling to them louder and louder every day. They knew the innocent plants didn’t deserve the neglect they received. However, when they had tried to walk through the barren garden, they were hit with a wave of nausea. Memories flooding down from their brain into their throat, pushing into their lungs, forcing their way into their stomach. Y/n laid on a random path, shaking and gasping for air until they eventually fell asleep. They woke up two days later, the sour taste of stomach acid on their tongue, a pounding migraine, and an ache in their bones that would last for at least two weeks. After that, they stayed in their house, sleeping during the day and crying at night.

One thing did bring them joy, though. That thing, or rather person, was Yamaguchi Tadashi. They called him Dashi, per his request. He brought them groceries once a week and read to them every 3 days. He was also the one to convince their boss to not fire them and to just give them time. They met a couple of years ago when he came to the garden with a tall blonde boy. He soon became a regular at the garden, often following Y/n around, asking them questions about the flowers they memorized. They became friends quickly, hanging outside of the garden. Y/n remembered the time their cousin told them to ask Dashi out every time he came to read to them. Every day when they woke up to a text from him, they felt their heart heal just a little bit. He gave them the inspiration to keep going. The way he showed them soft and tender care, made them feel like the chills in their bones was slowly going away. They knew he loved them. The only issue was that they didn’t know how long it would take for them to get back on track and know that they truly loved him back. That was why Y/n was currently at a floral shop, about to design a personalized bouquet meant for the sweet and quiet boy. They had already practiced their speech in the morning and texted him to meet them at their local coffee shop.

“What would you like to be in your bouquet?” the nice florist asked. “May I have White Jasmine amiability, Hibiscus delicate beauty, Angelica inspiration, Aster patience, Bellflower gratitude, White Carnation sweet and lovely, Flax I feel your kindness, and Lily of the valley return of happiness, please?” they asked. After the florist gave them their bouquet, Y/n made their way towards the coffee shop. When they got there it was 12 in the afternoon. “Right on time,” Y/n thought. They saw Dashi sitting at a two-person table in a pretty empty corner. When he saw them walking towards him, he quickly got up and gave them a firm hug. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you inviting me places again!” he exclaimed. “Yea, it’s nice to be out again,” Y/n said. When they both sat down was when Y/n noticed a cup of (favorite hot drink) sitting on their side of the table. Yamaguchi noticed their gaze at the cup and let out a quiet, “I thought I’d order it early. I know this place makes their drinks too hot for you.” “Thank you, Dashi,” they said. “Of course! Who’s that bouquet for? You haven’t talked about flowers for a while now? Is everything okay?” Y/n smiled at the way his words were laced with both care and concern. “Well, this bouquet is for you, Dashi,” they said, handing the delicate flowers to him. “Oh! That’s really sweet of you, Y/n. Do you want to explain the flowers to me?” he asked, a blush gracing the soft skin on his cheeks. “The Jasmine means amiability, and it’s there because you’re so friendly to not only me but others, too. The Hibiscus means delicate beauty because you’re beautiful inside and out. The Angelica means inspiration because you inspire me to wake up and at least try to make things better. Aster means patience because you’ve stuck with me throughout this whole ordeal. Bellflower means gratitude because I’m grateful for you. White Carnation means sweet and lovely because that’s exactly what you are. Flax means I feel your kindness because anyone and everyone can feel your kind and loving heart from a mile away. Finally, Lily of the valley means return of happiness, because every time you talk to me, I feel the cracks in my heart feel a little less deep. Listen, I know you like me romantically. I would have to be blind to not see it. As much as I want to say I like you too, I can’t. My brain and heart are still feeling so many things, and I think I should focus on myself before I focus on if I have feelings for anyone in general. Thank you for being there for me. Maybe, when I’m better, we can go out on a date and see how things go. I guess I did all this just to ask you this question. Will you restore the garden with me?” Y/n asked. There was a silence between them for a few moments, but Y/n knew it was needed for him to process everything and arrange his thoughts. They both drank their drinks for a few minutes before Yamaguchi spoke up, saying “Thank you for the bouquet. It’s probably the nicest thing anyone has done for me in a long time. As far as my feelings go, I respect your decision and maybe we can talk more about it when you’re ready. Hell yeah about the garden. I wouldn’t want to do anything else than to restore that place with you!” “Sounds great!”

After that interaction, the two immediately got to work. To say it was hard work would be an understatement. The first step was to get rid of all the dead plants and weeds that were still in the garden. It took about two weeks to get a majority of the junk out. He held them every time they started to break down. Whether it be sadness about their plants or memories of their cousin. When they were in a happier mood, they would chase Yamaguchi with a rake, both laughing their asses off. The second step was to remove the old and nutrient-deficient soil in the planters. this was probably the hardest step. Digging 3 inches into the soil of all the places designated for plants was a hard job. As the days went on, Y/n’s mental health improved. They knew that if their cousin was there, they would’ve been happy, and that made Y/n happy. Not only that, but as the restoration went on, Y/n and Yamaguchi became more flirty and comfortable with each other. He started staying the night at their house. His excuse being that he wanted to be there so he could jump straight into work in the morning. It took about 3 weeks of daily work to get all the soil out. Word had gotten out that there was something going on at the town’s beloved garden. People started a donation page for the garden, wanting to help out Y/n with the finances. The third step was to get new soil in the places where plants were going to be planted. This was the easiest step, as all they had to do what pour soil into the planters. This took about 4 days to do. Some might say that’s a long time to just pour dirt in certain places, but the whole garden was 3 acres with a majority of it being planters filled with flora. The fourth and final step was to choose the plants that would be put into the planters. This was Y/n’s favorite step. When choosing the plants, Y/n let Yamaguchi choose the succulents, vines, and other plants. Anything that wasn’t flowers. Y/n went on their own to get the flowers, knowing they had to get meaningful flowers. They ended up choosing the same flowers that were in the bouquet she made for Yamaguchi, Allium prosperity, Alyssum worth beyond beauty, Baby’s breath everlasting love, Pink carnation I will never forget you, Chervil sincerity, Coreopsis always cheerful, Cosmos joy in love and life, Everlasting pea lasting pleasure, Fennel strength, Feverfew warmth, Freesia lasting friendship, Hawthorn hope, Wisteria welcome, and a bunch of other flowers that had lovely meanings.

When they were putting in the last flower, their hands patting down the soil, getting closer and closer until their fingers interlocked. The earthly smell of the soil contrasted the sweetness of all the flowers. Bees had already found the gorgeous once more. Once they had both showered up, Y/n walked Yamaguchi toward the gate of the garden. Y/n delicately placed Yamaguchi’s hand on one side of the “Closed until further notice” sign and then placed theirs on the other side. All it took was a nod and smile from the two, and the sign fell to the ground. With the extra funding they received, they were able to advertise the reopening of the garden.

Both Y/n and Yamaguchi were ecstatic, beaming as people passed by them at the front gate. The day went perfectly, families were bonding, kids admired the beauty of the flowers while their parents simply basked in the calming aura of the garden, and elderly people enjoyed watching the insects and birds from the comfort of various benches. That night was when Y/n decided to have a serious talk with Yamaguchi. They had him sat down on their couch, sitting on the other side themselves. “So, you wanted to talk?” he asked, concerned that they weren’t happy with how the day went. “Yes. Let me go get your gift,” they said. When they returned, they held a bouquet in their hands. “Another bouquet? What’s the occasion?” asked Yamaguchi. “Well...I believe I’ve taught you enough for you to know the meanings of these flowers,” they said. It was true. Throughout their friendship and the time restoring the garden, Y/n taught Yamaguchi all they knew about plants. Specifically flowers. Yamaguchi stared at the bouquet before saying, “Agapanthus means love letter, Baby’s breath means everlasting love, Clove means I have loved you and you have not known it, Heliotrope means devoted affection, Jonquil means desire, Lilac means the first emotions of love, and Myrtle means love. If you’re trying to say what I think you’re saying, I’d love to hear you say it.” Y/n let out a deep sigh before saying, “Dashi, I love you. I realized it slowly as we rebuilt the garden. I feel as though the garden represents my heart, somehow. When my cousin died, the garden died too, along with my heart. When you helped restore it, though, you also helped restore my heart. All while finding your way into it. I’ve never been happier. Seeing the garden in full swing again is what my cousin would’ve wanted.” “Y/n, will you go out on a date with me?”

~Time skip 4 years~

“Y/n, do you take Tadashi Yamaguchi as your lawfully wedded husband?” “I do!” “And Tadashi, do you take Y/n L/n as your lawfully wedded spouse?” “I do!” They stood in the middle of their garden. Flowers representing love and devotion surrounded them. Family and friends applauded as the two kissed, sealing their marriage. When they stopped, Y/n saw butterflies flying around everyone. Somehow, they knew it was their cousin.

🍄Thank you for reading!🍄

(2.2k words)

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