#im sure she also would study other accounts of the event if there were any when she could!!!! she's a scholar!!!!!!!!!!!

[zimszim]

it's sort of funny sort of fascinating how river consults the diary about Demon's Run in the show (and maybe another big event i'm forgetting) cause on one hand, it's for the audience, to let the audience know what's happening and that she's future river at that point, but on another hand...

i find it incredibly hard to believe that she wouldn't have everything about Demon's Run memorized. river's general feelings about That as a whole are pretty much up to interpretation as she's river and hides the damage and lies constantly (affectionate) and also they (the show itself) never give her time to do so, but that monumental event in her life? yes, i think it's not impossible to say she'd study it. but it's also pretty easy to tell that she uses the diary as a crutch in an emotional way

for her meeting/reuniting with a younger version of the doctor, it's sort of a shield, she's trying to use it to say "look! we have a future together where you trust me implicitly! i've lived it! trust me" (and here i'm thinking of flesh and stone and the library eps)

with the Demon's Run one, she uses it for herself, it's not a shield for the doctor, she even turns around from rory. she's using it to stabilize herself. but she could also be sort of checking through it, like she's double checking, making sure the information she remembers is right

her childhood was extremely up to whatever you could glean from s6 but to be somewhat raised in that orphanage with the Silence without an eyepatch to remember them, along with the fact that she didn't even remember Madame Kovarian makes me want to believe that she probably has memory issues. it sort of adds up, the diary itself, the reason why she "has pictures of all of his faces" and uses that to justify why she always knows it's him (so late in her personal timeline, she should already know all versions of him it's not that hard. also she was raised to kill him. im sure they taught her that too Imfao)

i'm just saying shit atp but i thought that was interesting to think about. you're a time traveller with memory issues, a husband that doesn't know who you are yet, a past you can't remember, and a future that's all out of order. what can you trust if you can't trust your memory? well, what you have written down, i suppose.

#no clue what this is River's Waltz came up on shuffle and i just started thinking about Her<3 #she trusts what she has written down even when it's always biased #im sure she also would study other accounts of the event if there were any when she could!!!! she's a scholar!!!!!!!!!!! #college student river my beloved #river song #doctor who #if there are any fics expanding on this i'd LOVE to read them

[determinate-negation]

as one of the foremost psychoanalysis posters on my dash i was wondering if you've heard this account of freud's early career: while treating women for hysteria he found that most of them were assaulted by male family members as children & developed psychological problems as a result (seduction theory?). but his writings on it were unpopular (especially among the wealthy men whose daughters he was treating), so he came up with the oedipus & electra complex as an alternate explanation that let his clients off the hook, instead saying that something just went wrong internally (lundy bancroft called it the beginning of victim-blaming in psychology).

as someone who knows more than i about this field, do you know if there's any accuracy to this story? it seems to imply psychosexual development theory exists to cover up traumatic events, which puts a shaky foundation under any later theories drawing from it, and people often dismiss all of freud & psychoanalysis because of it...

yes its true about the history seduction theory but im not entirely sure if it is as directly correlated to the oedipus complex as it often is thought by critics of freud, and i dont think it invalidates the principles of psychoanalysis as a whole. his correspondence with some other doctors in the 1890s are directly related to seduction theory and you can see that the issue of seduction theory concerned him a lot and he was reluctant to dismiss it but was very influenced by society at the time.

another complicating factor is that much of freuds work was preserved by his daughter anna freud, who was for the most part a conservative force in psychoanalysis both in her own practice and in how she presented his work. a lot of his letters and writings are omitted and edited because of her, including things that show his own ambivalence about certain ideas and how his relationships with other doctors and psychiatrists influenced him to take certain positions.

this article goes into it a bit and you can see the ways that anna freud has influenced our knowledge of freud and a little bit about this period of his studies. i think another thing people really miss when they talk about freud is that so much modern medicine we currently use today came from this time period as well and just as much of the "hard sciences" also came from some things that seem pretty ridiculous and unscientific to us today, and many just outright wrong, but only psychoanalysis is given so much skepticism and criticism.

this is not to defend it, freud was absolutely incorrect in many cases and, contrary to popular views of him, very aware of the limits of his knowledge and the inaccuracies inherent in pioneering any new type of medicine. this especially he emphasizes- that any new science is bound to make errors and be imprecise. freud constantly was reformulating his ideas and made many revisions to psychosexual theory throughout his life, not to mention by all the psychoanalysts who came after him. historically, its not surprising that freud and the other pioneering psychoanalysts, most of them austrian and german jews already occupying an uneasy position, were led to revise some of their more radical discoveries that appeared to threaten turn of the century european society. psychoanalysis was considered extremely shocking and obscene at the time for even venturing to say that sexuality had such a presence in peoples lives, and that people were not moved entirely by reason and rationality (as this was the era of the enlightenment and a lot of optimism about science) so sure its disappointing but not surprising that freud retracted some of his more controversial views. and likely he would not have been as successful if he did not retract them, unfortunately. similarly with some of his writings on bisexuality that seem to point to the idea that there is no natural drive towards heterosexuality and there is no natural form sexuality takes.

the oedipus complex came more from other studies and freuds own self analysis than from seduction theory (to my knowledge at least) freud actually applied the oedipus complex only to young boys initially and has some stuff (that in my opinion holds up fairly well today and is compatible with ideas of construction of sexual and gendered difference we have now) about how young girls only come to the position of seeing the father as a love object after they realize through societal and family norms they are not meant to want the mother and 'unwillingly' (this is how freud and other early psychoanalysts describe it) are forced to identify with the mother and desire the father. freud rejected the idea of a parallel electra complex for women broke with jung over this, among other things.

im very much against this idea of freud as the founder of modern misogyny or the "beginning of victim blaming in psychology." this is a myopic historiography that ignores how radical freuds approach was in comparison with psychology and medical science at the time. most physicians at the time believed that patients hysteric or neurotic symptoms were either signs of a physical organic disease or that they were consciously faking them and in control of them. (why is freud the father of victim blaming and not these doctors?) common treatment would mainly be locking them up to be studied or dubious 19th century surgeries and medical treatments. freud was one of the first to ever propose that hysteric and neurotic patients were not purposefully consciously deciding to do this but unconsciously reacting to something that happened to them, that symptoms represented a patient history that may be unknown or unarticulated to them but could be brought out by associations etc. thus that no symptoms are random or meaningless, all have some psychic significance, and it can be uncovered through analysis. this is the most crucial discovery of psychoanalysis, and although i think it was wrongly applied to seduction theory, he shows it time and again in many of his other clinical studies and interpretation of dreams, and it does not invalidate the whole of psychoanalysis

#psychoanalysis #mine

[saturnsummer]

the fairytale she never had (will you believe again?)

when sol is invited to a wedding, sol doesn’t think her best friend would follow her. 

aka: solhwi attending a wedding

notes: it just struck me one day, and i really wanted them to see each other outside of the law school moments! while law school defines them, they are certainly people with social activities.

 i adapted this from a similar prompt i saw from a fic many years ago for a separate fandom, and i always wanted to write something similar. this was honestly not met to be multi-part, but i write too much anyways. so multi-part it will be.

 also, it might sound depressing in the initial part where sol is talking about the wedding invitation, but it gets explained later on. 

as always, enjoy! any grammar mistakes and all will be taken fully responsible by me!

ao3 link

words: 4135 words

I: 我愿变成童话里, 你爱的那个天使 (i am willing to be the angel of that fairytale you love)

--title inspired by fairytale (童话) by Michael Wong!--

Sol absolutely hates weddings. 

She hated the big social crowds, the way drunk men in tuxedos staggered around with women in one arm and a drink in another. She found no purpose in dressing in lavish gowns, then eating dinner for the next two hours without even feeling full. 

Sol couldn’t blame anyone but herself for this. She can’t help but remember her mother’s failed marriages. The way her biological father left them in the middle of the night, with all their hard earned savings. The way her stepfather, Byeol’s father, would come home drunk and violent towards her mother. It was a memory she couldn’t erase. More than a decade later, she still wakes up in a cold sweat, worrying for her mother and small Byeol’s life. 

She long ago gave up on the concept of love back then. She wasn’t opposed to anyone dating or talking about it, and she certainly didn’t mind short flings. But marriage? Eternal love? The fairytale that everyone hopes to achieve? Sol threw those ideas out of the window. 

So when Sol received a thick, cream-coloured card and envelope, embossed with rose gold foil and flowers, a pretty silver wax seal and her name written in careful strokes of a calligraphy brush, she was stumped. 

Her friend, Im Jiyoon, was getting married. Jiyoon was a good friend of Sol’s, and they occasionally met up for quick meals. Jiyoon was an accountant and climbing the ranks in her company. They lost contact for a period when Sol was in juvie, but they reconnected when Sol was just starting law school. It was only polite that Jiyoon extended invitations to her high school classmate. 

Sol had mixed feelings. The wedding was on a Friday night, which made things good since she didn’t have to wake up early, fitting her schedule properly. But she had nothing to wear. She could borrow a dress and shoes from Yeseul, but the last time she borrowed a shoe from Yeseul, she almost broke her ankle. And she had so much work to catch up on. Yet, not showing up felt rude of her. 

Jiyoon was nice, don’t get her wrong. She was smart, resourceful and lovely to be with in high school. Sol wanted nothing more than for her high school friend to marry the love of her life. But she hasn't been to such social events in years, and being so focussed on school, the legal clinic and contributing to her family, she found it difficult to understand why she needed to go, besides doing it out of courtesy. 

“What’s that?” A familiar voice pipes from behind, drawing her out of her thoughts. There’s the familiar shuffling of several pairs of feet as Sol turns her attention to the one who spoke. Behind her, was Han Joon Hwi with his bag just being set on the table. The rest of the group was just settling in for another study session.

“Ah, nothing important.” She monotonously says before sliding the card in her files. Joon Hwi’s hands catch the card before she can slide it fully and stop her from hiding it from him, or the rest of the group. The rest draw their attention to the expensive card and Sol only stays silent. 

“A wedding? Your friend’s?” Yeseul asks as she picks the card up with perfectly manicured fingers. Turning and feeling the thick paper between her fingers, Yeseul knew it was no cheap manufactured paper. This was expensive, premium, and each card looked handmade from the brush calligraphy. 

“Yeah. But I don’t think I’m going.” Sol says as Yeseul returns her the card and successfully stores it away in her bag. 

“Why not? Don’t you want to be there?” Joon Hwi asks, cocking his head to the side in utter confusion.

“There isn’t much point, is there? I have school and the legal clinic and things to revise for. And besides, I don't have anything to attend in. I just rather send her a gift and treat her a meal.” Sol simply explains. Everyone bombards her with more questions, but she diverts their attention to her paper and the cases they are reviewing today.

Joon Hwi, however, couldn’t get Sol’s reasoning out of his head. He knew Sol well enough to know how much she values her friends, and that she would be willing to drop everything for a friend. Her loyalty was unmatched. It didn’t make sense that she would be held back by her vanity or school work that caused her to not attend such a joyous occasion. 

When everyone is done reviewing the cases and the session ends, Sol is the only one who has her books and papers still scattered all over the table. She still has to review her notes and catch up on a few lectures before she can officially end her day. Joon Hwi was long done, but he stayed put, bringing out a past report he’s done and glancing through it, hopeful to catch any mistakes. The others have headed back or gone to the cafeteria for a meal. 

“Han Joon Hwi, you don’t have to stay for me, you know?” Sol says, her eyes not once looking up as she stays concentrated highlighting her book with a fluorescent orange highlight. She sticks it in her hair when she’s done, raising her head to meet Joon Hwi’s eyes. Joon Hwi only smiles, letting his eyes crinkle. 

“Why don’t you want to attend the wedding?” Joon Hwi asks, still smiling. Sol scoffs. 

“I already said. I’m too busy-” Sol is cut off by Joon Hwi with his teasing. 

“You sure? I think it’s about the groom, though.” Joon Hwi smiles brightly, earning an irritated series of clicks of her tongue from Sol, clearly successful in being teased.

“None of that sort! Who do you think I am, Han Joon Hwi?” Sol rebuts back, throwing her eraser across to him in annoyance.

 Joon Hwi catches it with a laugh, but doesn’t lose eye contact with Sol. A few moments of silence follow, as she looks at the file with the card. Slowly, she draws the card from her file, holding it carefully between her fingers. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to be there. I… it’s my first time going to such a social event in such a long time. And the last time I met Jiyoon was a year ago, back in our 1L.” She says softly, letting her fingers brush her calligraphed name.

“I just… rather not go, you know? Treat her to a nice meal somewhere, maybe a couple drinks. Besides, I’m sure she’s just doing it out of courtesy.” She lets out a light laugh. 

Joon Hwi’s heart softens. He’s witnessed Sol in her different elements. The courtroom, where she’s a powerful woman in command, dressed professionally in a suit and hair in a perfect ponytail. The day-to-day her, where she’s comfortably dressed in jeans and her tanned coat, hair in a bun and post it notes on her jacket. She was always so bold, so confident and so full of fire. It never occurred to him that she would be uncomfortable in social events. She was always the life during dinners, with Bokgi. She laughed loudly, engaged in conversations and seemed so comfortable. He remembers how she would help out the old halmeonis with her neighbourhood on some days when he sent her home, or the times she bought ice creams for Byeol’s classmates. She seemed so extroverted, yet so closed off. Eying her, Joon Hwi reaches out and clasps his hand over hers in an attempt to comfort. 

“I never went to school events, you know? Especially since juvie made me miss it. When I redid my high school year, I didn’t go too. There wasn’t much of a point, since I didn’t have a date or many friends to begin with. If it was Dan, she would have gone, being the popular girl she was back then.” Sol softly says, a small smile ghosting her face.

She remembers the day prom arrived for her school. She was expectant, hoping that the boy she liked would invite her. Or maybe the girls that she occasionally had lunch with will invite her to hang out. But all she got was a stone cold silence the weeks leading up to prom. When everyone buzzed on what they were wearing to prom night, she silently put on her headphones, drilling herself into her science assignments. Of course, she wouldn’t be invited.

She knew the rumours floating in school. How Dan was the perfect one, how she was the failed one. She knew everyone knew she went to juvie. She knows how the boys snicker at her when she walks past them, or how the girls gossip and whisper when she’s eating her lunch. Besides, it didn't help that she was poor. She can’t even afford a dress of her own, let alone go to the event.

Realising what she’s said, Sol quickly draws her hand away along with the card and slots it away in her file. 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to blabber on. You must think it’s stupid, I think so too. Anyways, do you have the notes Professor Kim...” Sol quickly apologises and diverts her attention to her notes. But Joon Hwi was no longer listening. He was shattered by how the woman sitting in front of him has never been treated like how she should be treated. It was no secret to Joon Hwi that he cared for his friends, but cared a little more for Sol. He was the one that left post-it notes on her table and pretended he didn't. She was the only one that he would let steal a mouth or two from his ramyeon. He could read her moods just from her eyes. He wonders sometimes, if he sees her more than a friend. 

He won’t hide that she’s beautiful. The way her eyes slant in an elegant fashion, her smooth, slightly tanned skin, and her winning smile that he always found his heart beating faster for. He loves the way she smiles at her extra pickles, the way her eyes light up when she sees Byeol, or the way she argues and practices. The tenacity and desire she has to improve inspires him to work as hard as her. 

This is why when Sol spilled the beans, he couldn't help but feel all sorts of emotions. Anger, towards the people in her school, for not realising such a wonderful student. Anger towards her for degrading herself. Sadness, for her not being able to experience such events. 

As Joon Hwi ended the session with her and returned to his room, he made a promise to Sol. He’s convinced it will work, and he begins planning in his head. 

He will show her the fairytale. 

-----

A week passed. 

Sol had to give a reply in a few days and she has not figured out what to say. The wedding was in a month. She knew Jiyoon would be busy... Sol figures that she should just treat Jiyoon after her honeymoon, knowing how she would be away with her husband as newlyweds later on. 

“Still thinking about the wedding?” Joon Hwi nods at her, her head in her hands. Sol, looking defeated, nods. So much for trying to hide. They were at their pantry area of their dorms, Sol stirring her ramyeon, as Joon Hwi slurps his. It was 3am, and they just finished studying. The next day was a weekend, so it didn’t really matter if they slept late, since they got the privilege of sleeping in.

“What do I tell Jiyoon? I don’t want to sound rude.” Sol mumbles, lazily stirring her soggy noodles.

“Go to the wedding.” Joon Hwi says suddenly, continuously slurping. 

“What?!”

“Sol, how many weddings can you even go to in your life? Are you sure you want to miss this one? Besides, you said you haven’t been to social events. Don’t you want to experience it?” Joon Hwi says, adrenaline building in his voice. 

Sol falls silent. She can’t deny that she wants to experience the feeling of being dolled up, the fun that everyone talks about, and the enjoyment that everyone goes through. And Joon Hwi is right; she wants to celebrate with Jiyoon. But her fear of social events and the past was holding her back. 

Joon Hwi could tell the change in her eyes. He gives a sweet smile, knowing that he said enough to change her mind. 

“Joon Hwi, but what if she doesn’t even-” Sol begins doubting herself as she shoots off her doubts and worries. Joon Hwi calms her down with logical reasons, calming her nerves in between his mouths of ramyeon. 

“But... I’ll be alone there, right?” Sol asks, her voice so soft, Joon Hwi barely picks it up. Her ramyeon is still untouched, and the noodles have gotten soggy and cold. Sol is silent for a moment, as she realises how right she is, for once. It wasn’t like she could ask a date, she doesn’t even have one. And her friends from the study group were out of the question. They don’t even know Jiyoon. Joon Hwi quickly brings up his bowl to his face, hopefully covering it as he feels the heat rising to his face.

“I’ll be your plus-one.”

Sol’s eyes light up and her head rises. Did she hear that right? Han Joon Hwi, her plus-one? 

“Oh, no! No, I didn’t mean it like that! Joon Hwi, no, I can’t-” Sol can’t find the right words to say. He can't? He shouldn’t? He doesn't need to? Sol can’t deduce her own reasonings for this argument. She knows her roommate likes him, and she definitely doesn’t want to be the target of her roommate’s stares if she catches wind of this. Besides, Joon Hwi doesn’t like her. She knows, and she doesn’t want him to get any wrong ideas. He’s her best friend, and confidante. She knows, deep down, his heart is someone else's. 

“I want to.” 

Sol freezes as Joon Hwi finishes drinking his soup. Placing the bowl down, he does as best as he can to lock eyes with Sol seriously, showing her he wasn’t teasing. No, this was out of his sincere heart. He knows how nervous she gets in a new environment, and him being next to her was bound to calm her nerves just a little more.

Sol could see the genuine care and want in his eyes. She knows this isn’t one of his jokes or teases. For a split second, she catches herself thinking if he meant something more. That going as a date, was more than just keeping her company, but for something to develop… 

Her face is flushed red as she looks at her puffed noodles and lukewarm soup. She picks her chopsticks up but is stopped by Joon Hwi’s hand as he shifts the bowl toward him, away from her. 

“Get yourself a fresh one. This is the first meal all day, isn’t it?” Joon Hwi calls her out, covering her noodles. Sol wants to argue for her soggy noodles, but she falls silent knowing how he revealed her secret. She hasn’t eaten all day after running reports and studying. Grumbling, she does as instructed and boils another bowl of ramyeon. When she’s back at the table with a fresh, hot, spicy and red bowl, she dives into it, wondering how she managed to survive the whole day. 

Joon Hwi only gives a small smile looking at the girl slurping her noodles with delight and looking at her. Joon Hwi wasn’t lying. He did want to be her plus-one for the wedding. He knew that more than just being a comfort for Sol, he wanted to make this one day a day she could look back and smile at. That she could be pretty, relaxed and happy instead of stressing over her grades, exams and family. 

“Fine.” Sol says as she continues slurping the spicy noodles. She blesses the spiciness of the noodles, such that she could blame her pink blush on it. Joon Hwi, clearing the cold noodles and getting water for both of them tilts his head in confusion. 

“Come with me to the wedding, if you want to.” She mutters softly, almost shy to let him know. To hide her blush and hide her confusion, she lifts the still hot bowl to her face. She drinks the soup, but chokes on the spiciness. Joon Hwi lets out a light chuckle before passing her a bottle of cold water. Sol looks at him with narrowed eyes of annoyance, but graciously takes the water. 

As he watches Sol eat her first bowl, then a second, as Joon Hwi munches on some crackers, he only smiles and laughs at whatever Sol was complaining about her reports and her frustrations at her cases that she picked. He lets out comforting words, but is rebutted back with Sol saying he will never get it because he’s smart unlike her. 

As he went to bed that night, he only gave a giddy smile, burying his face in his sheets. He scored his point of taking Sol out on a date, and was already counting down. He officially succeeded in the first step of his plan. 

The rest of it required a little bit of help. But he knew who to ask. 

-----

“Yeseul! What is it that you need to wake me up on a weekend? I was up until 4am last night!” Sol grumbles as she places her phone on speaker, rubbing her eyes. It was 8am, way too early for Sol to process any emergencies. Well, if it was Yeseul, she would do it any time. 

“Sorry, unnie. But it’s urgent. Could you meet me in 10 minutes at the lobby?” Yeseul’s bright voice echos. Sol notices her roomie’s bed made, pillows nicely fluffed and sheets tucked in neatly in pure perfection. She isn’t surprised, considering how she gets up early anyways.

“Fine.” Sol says and hangs up, getting a fresh change of clothes and heading to the bathroom to wash up. She throws on a hoodie, grabbing her only tanned ochre coat and grabs her bag, before jogging downstairs to the lobby. There, Yeseul is standing there, with a sling black bag and with one of the many nude heels she has, hair styled to perfection.

“Unnie!” Yeseul waves her hand over. Walking closer, Sol notices two other familiar friends behind as she scoffs. 

“Joonhwi? Bokgi? What are you doing here?” She asks, her hand playing with the strap of her bag unconsciously. She was surprised to see Joonhwi, but even more Bokgi, who usually spends mornings sleeping in. Joonhwi only gives his usual cheeky smile and drags a drowsy Bokgi with him out towards to the main entrance of the school. Dumbfounded, Yeseul takes this moment to link her arm with Sol’s as she leads her out and catch Sol up to their agenda today. 

“What?! You’re bringing me where?” Sol exclaims, her voice echoing throughout the lobby. Yeseul shushes her as she drags a shocked Sol out of school. Yeseul didn't need the whole school to know where Sol was going. 

“Unnie, please? You need a dress for the wedding, and don’t think you are going to go in one of mine or your old ones! Besides, you promised to go shopping with me one day, right?” Yeseul defends herself as Sol sighs. 

Yeseul wasn’t wrong. The wedding was just a week away and she had absolutely nothing to wear. She owned a couple pairs of flats, but they were so old, it would be embarrassing to attend with those. And her dresses were either too big or too small. She was so caught up with school after submitting her reply to Jiyoon, that she would have forgotten about the wedding if it wasn’t for the post-it on her bedside wall. 

“But...but...” Sol couldn’t find any reasons to counter. She knew Yeseul was right. Besides, it’s a weekend. And they had no upcoming tests or projects, so there was no harm in doing something besides studying in the copy room. She nods, defeated, earning a smile from Yeseul. 

“Wait, then why is Joonhwi and- Who’s car is that?!” Sol’s thoughts are cut off when she sees a familiar black sedan waiting by the entrance as Sol and Yeseul just exit. In the car, she manages to see a Joonhwi in the driver’s seat and Bokgi riding shotgun. 

“Yah! Han Joon Hwi! Isn’t this my roomie’s car?” She shouts as she strides a couple of steps when Joonhwi rolls the window down. 

“She loaned me the car for today. Don’t want you carrying so many things back from shopping today.” He replies curtly. Bokgi opens his passenger side door on the right.

“Bokgi-”

“Noona, sit in front. I’m too tired to watch Joonhwi-hyung drive.” Bokgi mutters before he climbs into the backseat with Yeseul. Sol wordlessly settles into the seat next to Joonhwi, who only looks at her with a smile. Sol catches his odd looks and pauses.

“What?”

“Ready for shopping?” He has his cheeky smile on again. Sol glares in annoyance before turning behind to Yeseul. 

“Did you make him drive?” Yeseul shakes her head and spills out her defensive explanation.

“Oppa called me up yesterday! He just said he needed my help to accompany you shopping for a dress!”

“Then, why is Bokgi here? Trying on dresses too?”

“Noona! I’m listening!” Joonhwi only laughs and shakes his head.

“He’s just accompanying me.” Joonhwi says as he begins to drive off. 

Well, Joonhwi wasn't lying. He waited till their quizzes and projects were over before executing this. He knew Sol was busy, and had waited for the busy season to pass before calling Yeseul. He explained that he knew Sol would not go shop for a dress, and he needs her help to accompany him and her. She willingly, too willingly, agreed. 

Next, he asked Sol B if he could borrow her car, knowing how Sol was not going to go home with just one dress and one pair of shoes when Yeseul was involved. Sol B was skeptical, but just passed the keys over to him. Besides, she was going to be in school studying all day; she didn’t need the car. Bokgi joined in, as Joonhwi couldn’t spend hours on end waiting for the ladies to shop. On further thought, Bokgi just might help him out with something. 

“I could go myself with Yeseul. You didn’t have to wake up for this.” Sol mutters just loud enough for him to hear, fiddling with her fingers. Joonhwi returns with a light scoff.

“As if you’ll do it.” Sol glares at him from the side and is ready to punch him, but retracts her hand, knowing she might literally kill everyone in the car. The ride from the school to the bustling heart of Seoul is a rough twenty minute ride. Bokgi takes this time to catch a wink and Sol does the same, but she can't seem to do it. 

Something about Joonhwi bringing her out to buy a dress specially made her heart flutter a bit more than usual. She knew that Joonhwi cared for her. The ways that he left rolls of gimbaps and energy drinks as opposed to coffee on her table during her tough days. The moments when he would offer his jacket as a pillow wordlessly when she wanted to rest her head after hours of studying. The unspoken synchronisation between them was just a showing of how they understood each other inside and out. 

Sol thought nothing of it. She knew him as long as she stepped into school when he saved her from Professor Yang. They spent almost everyday studying, having classes and eating together. After all, they are best friends, and don’t best friends do this? They look out for each other, right?

He is going to be my plus-one at Jiyoon’s wedding. He’s taking me to shop for a dress. 

Sol wonders, truly for the car ride as she stares outside at the blue skies and empty streets of Seoul, if Han Joonhwi meant more than friends to her. If… she wanted more. 

Deep down, she couldn’t deny hoping for more. She liked the way he looked at her, eyes crinkled and smiling in half moons, the sweet smile that she couldn’t help but return. She has never had many relationships, considering her experience in school and afterwards. She was just too busy; too focussed. Seeing how this man cared for her just made her feel so… special. 

She has never felt that way.

#original by akinosakiya #jtbc law school #law school #jtbc drama #jtbc #joonsola #kang sol a #kang sol a x han joon hwi #solhwi #han joon hwi #netflix #kdrama #wedding #ryu hye young #kim beom #kim bum

[corpsentry]

january: an art retrospective

i did some stuff last month (but it’s a lot of stuff and there’s a photodump + some Serious Fucking Reflection, so it’s all below the cut)

so ok, let’s start with this. here are some heads. each head has a red arrow. that red arrow is what i call the red line of the devil. it’s the slope of the face from the side of the eye to the cheekbone and then down towards the chin. up until like 2 weeks ago, i couldn’t draw it. i couldn’t fucking draw it. i would edit over that part of the face over and over again until i was frustrated and tired and i had a raging homosexual headache and it still never looked right. notice that each head is different. notice that each head looks wrong.

at the start of 2021 i finally admitted to myself, as per the image above, that i was deeply, deeply unhappy with my art. what was the problem? i dunno. but i decided i was going to fix it and i was going to do so via another one scribble a day event wherein for every day of january i would find a photo of a human head, and i would draw it.

january 1st, 2021. i was embarrassed to tweet this even on my private account where like 5 friends and a rock would see it. in retrospect, you can also see all of my bad habits emerging like dicks from a hole in the ground. it’s disproportionate. the brows look flat. the eyes are slanting upwards. the entire drawing looks flat, like this isn’t a 3d person but a caricature of one.

january 2nd, 3rd, 4th:

on the 2nd i decided to start a separate thread for doodles and applied learning. here’s the first set of tests

the rest of the week is kind of uneventful so we’re going to skip those. fast forward to january 11th

this one is especially bad. i am acutely aware, suddenly, that i am not changing anything at all. i’m stressed and miserable about it because i’m still trying to see people as people and trying to draw people that look attractive and proportionate and hot. my friend, leny, reminds me that i need to think about faces in terms of planes. i have a moment. my other friend masha sends me some links to anatomy tutorials. i have another moment.

january 11th. applied sketch

january 13th is when i start the troubleshooting process. the link above drives me mad because i’m pretty happy with the face but then i realize that there’s something very fucking wrong with the shape of the head LOL and then i realize that i’ve never had any idea what the proportion of the face to the rest of the skull is so i grit my teeth and i open a new canvas and i

bald studies. it seemed like the right thing to do. can’t draw heads? ok draw some heads. look at some photographs. i traced each photo but tried to stick to straight lines so that i could replicate the shapes more easily. i broke each face down into shapes. i thought about airplanes

i got really excited. i started doing studies, then applied studies, then stylized studies.

sketches. i’m not sure what’s going on (as always) and it’s very rough, but they look different from the sketches i did on january 2nd. that’s a start

january 16th’s daily study. looks more like a person now. juuuuuust a bit

more applied studies

on the 18th i take a break and go stare at some lips because i don’t understand how the fuck they work. again, i focus on shapes, on volume, on the fact that these things exist in 3d. holy fuck lips exist in 3d. holy fuck we are real

january 19th. i’m working on it.

january 22nd. some sketches + a daily study. it has finally occurred to me that heads can tilt up and down and that things look different accordingly. yes i was not aware of this before. yes i have been drawing for over a decade.

january 23rd. by this point after doing my daily sketch i almost always go back and do an applied study which is basically to say i drew a lot of fucking links. this one looks kind of okay. i’m kind of proud

january 25th. links. trying to make sense of everything i’ve learned

26th, 27th, 28th. daily studies

january 1st. january 31st

The End Of The Photo Dump (dab)

ok NOW i get to talk about what i discovered while studying the shit out of human beings

FIRST OF ALL, there is something precious and magical about drawing shit without the explicit knowledge that you’re going to tweet that shit out to 45 people later. it takes the burden of perception off your shoulders and that does something to you, or at least that’s my theory. i told myself i wouldn’t post any of this stuff until the end of the month (if i wanted to post it at all) and kept everything off my public social media accounts and that meant i could draw ugly as hell without worrying about who would point and laugh, which i absolutely fucking did. a lot of these are fucking trainwrecks. most of these are fucking trainwrecks. why do they look like that?? why??? this doesn’t look like the work of someone who’s allegedly been drawing since they were in kindergarten, does it?????

here’s why: because that person took a huge motherfucking swing at everything they’d ever known about art and spent a month building something new in its place. the abstract explanation is that i grew up on shoujo and weird old anime and my understanding of anatomy was unironically kamichama karin and while i love kamichama karin, when kamichama karin is your rule even if you try to break it, you’re going to end up going nowhere. “you have to know the rules to break them”, yeah? well i didn’t know shit. the abstract explanation is i’ve been miserable about my art for a few years now because i saw other people doing things effortlessly which i couldn’t and instead of going back to the basics, i tried to do what they did (not plagiarism, mind you, i mean i literally tried to copy the red line of the devil i mentioned above because i couldn’t even make that happen) and then i fucking failed.

the simple explanation is this. i had to unlearn everything, and relearn it again (like some kind of new renaissance clown, what the fuck is this?)

take this for example. all my life i’ve drawn faces in the order: eyes, nose, mouth, face shape, head. this works for some people, im aware, but it was something central to how i had always drawn, so i decentralized it. i said fuck you to the old me and changed the order up. now i start with the nose, then the eyes, mouth, the chin line, and the sides of the face. now i force myself to think about the human head as a series of parts interacting with each other instead of a bunch of disparate features which i want to look pretty.

or let’s use this zelda from last year. something about this looked wrong last october, the way something about all of my drawings looked wrong, but i couldn’t pinpoint it for hell the way i couldn’t articulate Any of my feelings about the visual arts. now, looking back, here’s what i see. that nose is sticking out far too much given how she’s not really facing very far away from the camera. that ear at the back shouldn’t be there. her forehead is too big. she doesn’t have a forehead. what the fuck is up with the shape of her head?

so apparently reject modernity embrace tradition has its roots in alt-right terminology and i’m not very horny for the alt-right (you understand), but the spirit survives here. you know sometimes you have to admit that you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing and draw people for 31 days. i’ve spent my whole life drawing stylized people and while again there are artists who have no issue with this, i veered off the track of the Good and the Holy and couldn’t get back on. i had no point of reference because i’d never thought about what an actual human being looks like, so i had no way to fix what i knew in my gut looked wrong but wouldn’t come out better.

this was hard. this was like oikawa tooru swallowing his worthless pride and admitting that ushijima wakatoshi had gotten the best of him for the last time in his high school career, but in haikyuu!! by furudate haruichi oikawa tooru fucks off to argentina and then joins the argentinean national team, and you know what, i think i’ve made it to argentina (not the team just the country). as per the golden rule of dont fucking move until you’re at least two thirds of the way through the month, i only started trying to draw Shit shit on like the 22nd or something, but i was happy with that i created. i am happy with what i’ve done. i’ve posted like 2 things this month that involve people with what i now call ~applied Knowledge~~ and they’re, like, not perfect obviously (perfection is an unattainable ideal), but i’m fucking proud of them. i didn’t spend 5 hours hunched over my laptop adjusting the red line of the devil because it’s not a devil’s line anymore. because i finally sorta get how people work. because i sat down and i said ‘we are not going to fuck with this misery shit anymore’ and then i did that. it’s just a line now.

here are 2 collages tracking my painstakingly carved out progress from january 2nd to february 2nd because i’m a slut for collages

and here’s what i’ve done to my art! the same person drew these but also Not Really! you know! for the first time in a year i don’t immediately hate what i’ve drawn. you know what guys? art is fucking fun. zelda’s forehead doesn’t scare me anymore because i know how foreheads fucking work now, and i don’t know everything, and i’m going to keep troubleshooting stuff as i go (i want to draw a skeleton. like a. i want to draw a goddamn skeleton guys) but i’m honestly and genuinely proud of what i’ve done in the span of a month, and i’m also in disbelief. i started this month-long challenge out as a last ditch effort to make peace with my art because i’ve been tired for a long time and i was ready to kick the bucket on drawing people altogether. i didn’t think anything would happen. nothing’s happened for years. i’ve been miserable for years.

this was the caption for january 1st, 2021. i was super, super fucking embarrassed and it looks like super fucking shit, but you know what, i think i did in fact triumph over the bullshit. surprisingly enough, when you put in consistent effort into something, You Will See Results. didn’t see that coming, did you? i know i didn’t.

this isn’t a success story. it’s a happiness story. i never gave a shit damn about the institute of art or whatever, i was just mad at myself because what i saw in my head didn’t match up with what was on the canvas. and now it’s getting better. now i’m calibrating the compass. now drawing not just backgrounds but also people is exciting to me, and i can stick my links in your face and tell you ‘they hot’. i’m going to keep doing that. i’m going to keep going until i drop off the side of the earth and then spiral towards mars like some kind of fairy, and then i’m going to create something beautiful.

thanks for reading. here’s a pr department link for sticking around until the end

#my stuff

[yikesharringrove]

maybe? 👉👈 steve taking a really long time with college (like on one year and off one yours year, on, off, on, off) and he still doesn't really know what he wants to do and he gets really frustrated bc billy just did college all in one go and steve is taking forever and he feels down on himself? idk im feeling the whump rn???

Steve had left high school having no idea what he wanted from the rest of his life.

That’s not true, he had some idea.

He knew he wanted to leave Hawkins, follow Billy wherever he was going. He knew he wanted to be with Billy for the rest of his life, he knew he wanted to leave the past behind and make new friends, people who were kind, and fun, and didn’t bat an eye when Billy pulled him into his lap.

But that’s about it.

So when Billy graduates high school, and gets a full ride to UC Berkeley, and they move into a cheap apartment in downtown Oakland, Steve is so happy that he got out.

He gets a job waiting tables at a restaurant down the street, pays half the rent and buys the groceries while Billy’s in class.

But then two years pass, and Billy’s soaring through college, working to his degrees, plural, because he just couldn’t decide between studying English Literature or Biology with a focus in research.

So he’s majoring in both and getting a minor in Italian because then I’ll know what you’re sayin’ when you start horny babblin’.

And Steve was at the same restaurant.

True, he was assistant manager now, and it came with a pretty okay raise, and he even gets dental insurance, but he feels so stuck.

So he enrolls in community college.

He starts with some general classes, still completely unsure of what he wants to study.

Billy said it was okay to just rule out things you don’t want to study, to nearly fail a math course and know that accounting is not for you.

So when Steve finishes his first year, he at least knows what he doesn’t want to pursue.

Meanwhile Billy has an internship at a lab through Kaiser Permanente. And he can read and write Italian than Steve can.

Steve is walking home from his job at the restaurant when it happens. He’s crossing the street, and gets hit by a car.

He’s taken to the hospital, where he’s informed of a fractured spine and another concussion.

He’s told his injury could’ve been much more severe, that he will not experience paralysis, but he needs physical therapy and walking will be difficult for a while.

Their finances take a big hit.

Billy’s internship doesn’t pay super well, and with Steve being unable to work for the foreseeable future, he’s fired.

Billy has insurance through the school, but because on paper, he and Steve have no real relation, Steve’s medical bills come out of pocket.

So Steve is bedridden for months. He can’t work or get groceries, or do fucking anything but lay there.

They can’t afford physical therapy.

But Billy has a friend studying to be a PT, and she comes over every Saturday, and practices her technique on him in exchange for ten bucks and a few beers.

And so the money Steve tucked away for school is rapidly diminishing.

By the time Billy graduates, Steve is a year into recovery. He still gets dizzy at odd intervals, and his back gets stiff when it rains, but Billy gets a job right away, doing research on flu vaccines.

And Steve goes back to work.

He gets a desk job, something he won’t have to be on his feet all day for. He works reception for a message therapist, which comes with free massages, which work wonders on his back.

So in the fall, he decides to give his education another shot.

He learns that history is not for him, and that his nutrition course was fine until they began looking into how the body processes nutrients, and he was fucking lost. He takes a few business classes, thinking, hoping genetics would take over and this is something he could do.

But his dad was right to take away the job opportunity at his own firm. Steve was not cut out for this.

After a year of research, Billy is promoted three times. He ends up working on some extremely important study that Steve does not understand for the fucking life of him.

But he sits and listens every time Billy explains what he did that day, even though Steve gets so sad when Billy mentions having to kill the lab mice to study their bodies.

So Steve is two years into community college, five years into living in Oakland with Billy, and he still is lost.

He takes a semester off, working more hours, trying to save up some money.

Because Billy is beginning to think about grad school, and that shit’s not cheap.

But Billy decides to postpone that, work for a few more years, and besides, he’s caught between studying something to put him in a research field, or just straight up going to medical school to study infectious disease.

Because Billy could. He’s smart enough for medical school, smart enough to research and be a doctor.

And Steve has a smushy spine and half a degree in nothing.

A semester off turns into a year.

A year and a semester.

Two years.

They’ve been in California for seven years, and Billy gets into grad school in San Diego. They move south and Billy spends late nights pursuing a Masters in Immunology.

And Steve works the front desk at a pediatrician’s office.

He’s flipping through a course catalog from the San Diego Community College when Billy comes home from his new job, the position he got after applying to only three labs.

He kissed the top of Steve’s head, moving to grab himself a beer from the fridge.

“You thinkin’ of going back?”

“I don’t know.” Steve slid the catalog closed. “Is it even worth it?”

“That’s something you have to decide.” Billy sat down, sliding the catalog towards him. Steve had crossed off the classes he had already taken, the ones he new he wouldn’t like.  “And you know, going to school isn’t the only option. You could get an apprenticeship, master a trade.”

“I can’t do anything where I need to bend over for really any length of time. So that rules out plumber, and car mechanic, and anything physical like construction, or landscaping or even general contracting is right out.”

Steve could feel the old shame, the doubt and the self hatred crawling up his spine.

“I have nothing to offer. I have no discerning skills, and in seven years I’ve only made it through two years of goddamn community college, and here you are, ripping through grad school like a fourth degree is easy.”

“Stevie, you’ve got a lot to offer. We just gotta find something that suits you.” He took Steve’s pen, turning to the back page of the catalog. “Okay, we’re gonna write down all of you strengths, and think of career paths that could fit those. I’ll go first, you’re extremely caring. You’d be good at any career where you care for people.”

“But I can’t study nursing or something, I barely understood my biology 101 course. Plus, nurses are strong. I can’t lift more than like, thirty pounds.”

“There’re way more caring fields than nursing, Pretty Boy. Although I would love if you were my nurse.” Billy smirked at him, leaning in to plant a sloppy kiss to Steve’s cheek as he rolled his eyes. “Another strength: your emotional intelligence is through the fucking roof.” He wrote it down. “Okay, I’ve said tow, so you say one.”

“Um, I think that I’m good at making people laugh?”

“Yes! You are. Perfect.” Billy scribbled it down. “You’re a good leader.”

“I’m pretty good at reading people.” Billy wrote Intuitive, can smell a douchebag from a mile away.

“You’re good under pressure.”

“Sometimes.”

“Every time I’ve seen. You’re good at keeping calm and keeping others calm.”

“I guess.”

“Nah, Stevie. Positives only. Say a strength.”

“I’m, uh, I’m good at, bilingual?” Billy stared at him. “Like, I’m bilingual.”

“Are you sure? I don’t think that was English, even.” Steve slapped his chest, Billy laughed. “I’m joking. You are bilingual. You’re also really good at making others feel safe.”

“I was always pretty alright at public speaking.”

“You’ve got a great eye for detail.”

“I’m good at teamwork, and delegating.”

“You’re really compassionate, too.” Billy drew a line under the strengths side. “Okay, so now we’ve got some of your strengths, think about what you’d want in a job, and we can match everything up and think about some careers that could fit.” Steve nodded, racking his brain.

“Um, I would want to work with kind people, I would kind of like to do something, you know, worthwhile. I’d like to be in charge of something. Like it’s fine if I have a boss to answer to, but I’d like to be fairly independent.”

“I already have so many ideas.”

“Lay ‘em on me.” Steve sat back, closing his eyes to try and picture everything Billy threw out.

“I’ve actually always thought you’d be a really good teacher. Especially if you did like, kindergarten. Just got to be around little kids all day.” Steve could actually see it. “I also think you’d be a could social worker, like to work with Child Protective Services, or something. Um, you’d be good at even planning. Or I think you’d be really good working at a nonprofit of some kind. Maybe you could be the event planner for a nonprofit.”

And Steve was sitting there, and suddenly, he had four career paths, just sitting right in front of him. Four super attainable career paths.

“Wait, wait those make sense.” Billy beamed at him.

“Yeah, that’s because I know you, Pretty Boy.” Billy opened the catalog. “So, I think if you choose to enroll, you should pick a few classes, like, Intro to Social Work, Early Childhood Education 100, and maybe like, Sociology, and see from there.”

Steve stared at the course descriptions for what Billy circled.

“Thank you for helping me. I’m sorry this has taken me so long.”

“It’s okay. Everyone is on a different timeline. And it’s not like you got to explore options in high school. You were told business until your dad decided that nevermind. So it’s understandable that this took you a minute. Plus, you went through hell with your back.”

Steve sat up straight, stretching out his back.

“But, I mean, the back thing kinda happened to you too, and you still made it through all your schooling.”

“Sure, I watched you go through it, but I was not in the pain you were. And like, emotionally, it fucking sucked to watch the love of my goddamn life go through something, and I couldn’t even afford therapy. Like, I felt so helpless, but that’s nothing to what you went through literally experiencing it.” Steve took Billy’s hand, linking their fingers together, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“You did the best you could. Everything was shit for like, that whole year.”

“I cannot telly you how many times I would go into an individual study room in the library and just like, sob for a while.And then I’d get so mad at myself, thinking of you at home, hurting and not even able to get yourself out of bed, and I’d race home feeling like shit.”

Steve scrubbed his fingers through Billy’s hair. He had cut it a while ago, kept it short these days.

“You were doing everything you could for me. I would just sit in bed all day, and think about how amazing you are. Like I would just think about all the good times we’ve had together, and how much I love you.”

“That explains why we didn’t fight for like, that whole year.” Steve laughed. Billy leaned to kiss him softly.

“And you know, even now we’ve done this, there’s still no rush on you. You don’t have to go back to school this year, of this decade, or anytime until you’re ready. Until you want to.”

“Well now, I feel like there’s a fucking light at the end of the tunnel. I’m almost, excited. Is this how you feel? Excited to go to school?”

“Welcome to the nerd life, Sweet Thing.” Billy drained the last of his beer. “You wanna go out tonight? Celebrate?”

“Like, go out to dinner, or go out?”

“Oh, just like dinner. Be home by eight thirty, in bed by nine, missionary with the lights off, and asleep by nine fifteen.”

“Sign me the fuck up.”

#billy is based a lot on my sister in this #and steve is based on her best friend #any life path is valid #there's kind of a lot of set up but yeah #also i live for them settling down and becoming a totally boring mundane couple but they're just SO HAPPY toghether that's my shit #yikes writes #steve harrington #billy hargrove #steve harrington x billy hargrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #harringrove #harringrive #harringrove fic #harringrove ficlet #harringrove drabble

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 7: Forget Everything You Know]

Hi y’all! I just wanted to take a moment to thank you all so much for reading and for showing me and my fics some love. You better believe that I see EVERY. SINGLE. reblog, comment, tag, and message, and they mean the absolute world to me! I know that a lot of content creators are frustrated and taking breaks right now, but rest assured you will not be able to get rid of me if even a SINGLE person looks forward to something I write. I’ll finish this fic (eventually), and I’ll finish the next one too (it already has a name!), and I won’t disappear or leave the Queen/BoRhap fandom at any point in the foreseeable future. Lots of love to you all, stay safe, and I hope you enjoy! 💜 💜 💜

Chapter summary: Y/N brings home some friends; Brian attempts an intervention; John draws a line; Roger gets an answer.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

“Smile, everyone!” Your dad peeks through the viewfinder of the Canon F-1 and beams. “One...two...three...say Queen!”

“Queen!” you all shout gleefully. The flash illuminates the dining room, and you blink away momentary blindness. The table materializes back into vision: lobsters, clams, haddock chowder, sourdough bread, fried oysters, pierogis with Vermont cheddar cheese, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes...and, of course, Boston cream pie for dessert.

“Ah, perfection,” your dad sighs contently. “Please continue, Mr. Mercury.”

“Mr. Mercury!” Brian whines, incredulous. “Like he’s got a bloody PhD or something!”

Freddie cracks a lobster claw. He hasn’t taken his sunglasses or wrist-full of clanging bangles off all afternoon. Your parents are profoundly confused by him, but welcoming nonetheless. “I’m a professor of lusciousness. Pay attention and you could learn something.”

Brian rolls his eyes and dunks a hunk of sourdough bread into his chowder.

“So,” Freddie tells your mother between bites of lobster dripping with drawn butter. “Our darling damsel in distress was in the clutches of that horrid, dodgy wanker when none other than our very own Roger Meddows Taylor—”

“You weren’t even there!” Brian protests. “I wasn’t even there! This is, what, a third-hand account?!”

“Eat your soup, peasant. Thank you. Anyway, our beloved Roger comes raging out of nowhere, red-faced, nostrils flaring, a terrifying sight to behold, grabs this guy by his hair and slams his despicable face directly into a marble column. Broken nose, cracked orbital socket, blood everywhere! It was magnificent. I’ve never been more proud.”

“Good for you!” your mother cheers, patting the back of Roger’s hand encouragingly. He smiles at her, warmly, radiantly, like the wildfire he’s always reminded you of. And you marvel at how every human on this earth is made of the same fundamental components—blood and muscles and vessels and nerves, hearts and enigmatic brain matter and ribs, vulnerable parts, armored parts, all webbed together like nature’s own organic circuit board—and yet the marks they leave on you can feel so different: burns, scars, bruises, shadows, imprints that are deep enough to brush bone and never fade.

“Mom, the guy could have died!”

“Did he?” she asks innocently.

“Nope,” Roger says.

“Well then, Mr. Taylor here is a hero in my book.”

“Mr. Taylor!” Brian groans.

“I was petrified he would turn out to be the son of an executive or producer or something and the band would be ruined,” you say. “Fortunately he was just someone’s annoying frat brother from college who already had a reputation for being a sleazebag. So, we were in luck.”

“You were in luck that Mr. Taylor was there,” your mother points out, gazing at him dreamily. This delightful English boy is going to be my son-in-law and give me gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says.

“Yes, a literal superhero,” John says ruefully, sipping a Manhattan. Your dad has a passionate love for mixing cocktails, especially for guests who also happen to be rock stars.

“Mom. Don’t make his ego any bigger, please. I’m begging you.”

Roger snarls around a mouthful of Boston cream pie, sending your mom into a fit of giggles.

“I’m just glad you’re okay, dear.” She smooths your hair. “And that you have people to keep you safe all the way over there across the ocean, and that you’re happy.”

“Yes, your work environment is much improved, isn’t it?” Brian says. “That supervisor you had at the hospital was an absolute bear!”

Your dad strokes his short grey beard. “Well...” he admits. “That may have been my fault.”

Brian’s brow crinkles. “Really?”

Your mom turns to you. “You didn’t tell them?!”

“Oh, is there a scandalous backstory?” Freddie inquires, elated. “Do tell, darling!”  

“Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away—just kidding, it was here in Boston—my archnemesis Patricia and my dad dated.”

Roger drops his fork, appalled. “No!”

Freddie’s nose wrinkles in revulsion. “Why?!”

Your dad rocks back in his chair and laughs loudly, heartily. “She wasn’t always so cantankerous, if you can believe it. She was a sweet girl, wonderful even. But then I met my future wife, and...” He smirks guiltily. “What can I say? The heart wants what it wants!”

You nod along. “And I got the illustrious honor of being an outlet for the frustration stemming from Patricia’s lifelong unrequited love.”

“You saucy minx!” Freddie playfully lashes your mom’s shoulder with a cloth napkin. “Homewrecker!”

She chuckles, not the least bit offended. “People get together under all sorts of strange circumstances, and you know what? You can’t wreck a home if the home wasn’t already half-wrecked before you got there, that’s what I think.”

Roger raises his Patriot’s Punch. “I’ll drink to that.”

Brian clutches his New England Express, bewildered. “Are we...toasting to infidelity?”

“Oh, does that horrify you?” Rog asks sarcastically. Brian grimaces, but dutifully raises his glass.

“We’re toasting to love,” your dad clarifies. “However it comes, as long as it’s true.”

John holds his Manhattan aloft. “To love.”

Freddie clinks his Flying Elvis against the other beverages, including your parents’ wine glasses and your Cranberry Crush. “Cheers!” Then Fred glances at the clock and swiftly polishes off his slice of Boston cream pie.

“Can’t you all stay a little longer?” your mom pleads, collecting plates and gazing longingly at Roger. “This has been so much fun...”

“They have soundcheck at seven, Mom. We have to leave for the stadium soon.”

“Well, before you jet off to your next adventure, can I treat anyone to a long distance call?” your dad asks.

Brian perks up. “Really?!” You know there’s a ring in the future for Chrissie; not an expensive or extravagant ring (not that Chris would want that anyway), but a ring nonetheless. You know because Brian has taken you shopping to help him choose one.

“Of course! You can use the phone in my office. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all. I’m sure there are some lovely ladies back in jolly old England who would be over the moon to hear from you.”

“That would be very much appreciated!” Brian says. “And thank you so much, this has been such a treat, you have no idea how long it’s been since we had a proper homemade meal.”

“I had to rehabilitate the reputation of us Yankees, didn’t I? Now come on, Mr. May, I’ll show you to the office...”

“Mr. May...I like the sound of that!”

“Ten minutes, Bri!” Freddie calls, following them down the hallway. “Then it’s my turn...!”

You begin gathering up the empty glasses, but Roger promptly snatches them away. “No way, Boston babe. You go relax. I’ll help your mom.”

“I think she’s in love with you.”

He grins. “Do you have a secret stepdaddy fetish I could exploit?”

“Oh my god. Roger.”

He snickers and sweeps off into the kitchen. It’s only then that you realize John has disappeared. You check the kitchen, the living room, the hallway, the study, and finally the front porch; John is standing outside in the cold, smoking and watching the setting sun. The sky is threaded with cerulean, rust orange, lavender, indigo. You pull on your coat and go out to join him.

“We’ll make it to Florence one of these days,” you promise John, resting your arms on the wooden, white-painted porch railing. Your mother hung baskets of fresh flowers for the band’s visit, which swing lazily in the breeze. “Crank out a few more hits and we’ll get the record company to add it to the tour itinerary.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice.”

“Are you going to call Veronica?”

He shrugs, frowns, exhales a lungful of smoke into frigid New England air. “I don’t know if I should.”

“You don’t think she’d like that?” you ask, confounded.

“I think she might like it too much.”

“Ohhhhh.” You read his soft greyish eyes, which are faraway and somber, sad even. “I’m sorry, John. You know she’s wild about you.”

“I know it.” He takes a drag off his cigarette. “She’s the first person who ever was, actually. The first person who ever noticed me. Came up to me out of the blue at a disco and asked me to dance, me! So I said yes, like you do when you’re the guy nobody notices. And then I said yes again, and again, and again, until one day I realized...oh, this girl thinks we’re getting married. When the hell did that happen?”

“I noticed you,” you contest.  

John chuckles and nods. “You did,” he agrees. “Right away. Tried to win me over when I was too nervous to finish a sentence around you. But that was long after I’d met Veronica.”

“Well, you can’t break up with her tonight. On Valentine’s Day?! That would be traumatic.”

“Agreed.”

“We’ll have a few days in London between the American and Asian legs of the tour. You can think it over and decide what to do then. I’m happy to arrange the getaway taxi if that’s something that interests you.”

“Yeah.” Again, he peers out into the Western horizon, into rising stars.

“John?”

Now he looks to you. He’s a little too thoughtful, too low. There’s something you’re not seeing.

“...Is there somebody else?”

He doesn’t speak; he just stares at you with those velvety azure-grey eyes, drums his fingers against the railing, lets the ash from his cigarette crumble into the snow-dusted Blue Pacific Junipers.

Roger barrels through the front door and out onto the porch. “There you are, Deaks! I thought we were going to have to find a new bassist. Enlist Nurse Nightingale’s mum or something.”

John smirks and crushes the rest of his cigarette in your father’s ashtray. “I suspect you’d do just fine without me.”

“Oh no. No way. Not happening.”

“That’s kind of you,” John says, unconvinced.

“Here, I’ll prove it.” Rog holds out his calloused hand. “If you ever leave, I leave too. Come on, Deaks, shake on it. It’s official. It’s a pact. There’s no Queen without John Deacon.”

Reluctantly, trying not to show how pleased he is, John shakes. “Alright.”

Roger grins triumphantly. “Signed, sealed, delivered. You’re ours for life, baby.”

“Deaky, do you want the phone?!” Freddie yells from inside the house.

John sighs and exchanges a knowing glance with you. “I guess I should say hi.”

“Okay, but quickly!” Rog presses. “We gotta go!”

“So bossy...” John ducks inside; and Roger, though he’s not wearing anything over his pale pink button-up shirt—sufficiently sophisticated to impress your parents—comes to the porch railing to join you.

“You’re not staying out here, are you?” You eye his thin shirt worriedly, the goosebumps rising over his collarbones, his bare forearms where he rolled up his sleeves to help your mom wash the dishes.

He tosses you a mischievous wink. “I’ve got no one to call.”

Roger looks up at the hanging baskets of flowers, plucks out a cerise carnation, and offers it to you. You mean to say something witty, something sardonic, something that will make him laugh; but all your words vanish into cold February air. You take the carnation, smiling helplessly.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Roger whispers.

You just let me know if you ever change your mind, okay?

Okay.

He turns to go back inside the house.

I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

Then Roger pauses in the doorway. “You coming, Boston babe? I can’t have you catching pneumonia or something. I won’t know how to fix you.”

Oh, you realize, with horror and yet relief, all those grueling lies stripped away. It’s too late.

~~~~~~~~~~

You knock on the frame of the dressing room door. “Hi Bri!”

He glances over from where he sits in front of the mirror, rimming his eyes with inky liner. Soundcheck went swimmingly, and now Queen has thirty minutes until they need to be onstage. You can hear the disembodied reverberation of voices from the waiting crowd through the walls. “Hello, love. Come in.”

“Freddie said you needed to see me. Did you rip a sleeve or something? I brought my kit—”

“No, it’s not that.” He pats the chair beside him. The boys practically always get ready together before a show, but you suspect profoundly introverted Brian is experiencing one of his post-socialization crashes after dinner with your parents. Something about him is tired, very tired, almost drained to empty. “Join me.”

“Sure,” you say cautiously. You shove your medical kit onto the countertop and then reach to feel his forehead. “Are you feeling alright...?”

“I’m fine, love. I just have a favor to ask.”

“Anything.”

Brian sighs deeply, sets down the eyeliner, swivels his chair towards you. “I need you to promise me that you’re not going to start seeing Roger.”

You titter, deflecting, brushing Brian’s hair away from his troubled, angular face. “Well, as the official Queen touring nurse, I see him quite a lot.”

Brian catches your wrist. “I’m being serious.”

Now your brow knits into tight agitated lines. “I’m curious as to why you think that’s something you have a say in.”

“Bloody hell, I’m not trying to offend you—”

“Job well done.”

“Dear, please, listen to me—”

“Eight months,” you hiss through your teeth as you tear away from him. “For eight months I’ve listened and avoided and resisted and ignored and it’s not going away.”

“Oh, fuck,” Brian breathes in despair. “You love him.”

There are tears biting in the periphery of your vision; you don’t want them to be there, but they are. Your voice is hoarse and trembling. “Bri, please don’t.”

Brian shakes his head and motions with his hands frenetically, desperately, trying to make you understand. “Look, sometimes...sometimes the people we love, the people who own us, the people who fucking set us on fire...they’re not the people we end up with. And that’s not always a bad thing. It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.”

You gape at him, furious, stunned. “That’s just fantastic, Brian. You’re a true romantic. Jesus christ, does Chrissie know about this? Is that why you’re with her, because she’s, what...safe?!”

“No, that’s not fair, Chrissie’s great, she’s steady and supportive and she’ll make a wonderful mother one day, and my parents adore her—”

“Those aren’t reasons to marry someone, Brian!”

“They are!” He leaps to his feet. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! You have to think about these things, you have to be rational, you have to protect yourself—”

“Why the fuck do you care?” you flare bitterly.

“Because you saved my life.”

“Stop it, I didn’t.”

“You did, I truly believe that. And I want you to stay with the band. And I want you to be happy. But, dear, please, I’m begging you...this is not the way to do it.”

“I’m not going to go out to some pub and drag home a random guy who’s suitably passionless and predictable enough to be Brian-May-approved.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you to do—”

“Because you’re such an expert on relationships!” you shout, exasperated. “Planning to propose to Chris while you’re still secretly pining over some fling from New Orleans, fucking groupies and then having the nerve to mope around guilt-ridden the next morning as if anyone but you was responsible for that decision, and do I say anything about it?! Do I ever say a single fucking word about it to you, or Fred, or Roger, or your future wife, or anybody?! No, because it’s not my life!”

The dressing room door flies open and John storms inside. “What’s going on?!”

You cross your arms and stare at the floor. Brian’s wide green eyes flick to John, to you, back to John. If it was Freddie, Brian would tell him in a second, would try to enlist him in the effort, and it would probably work; but John is a different story. John won’t side with Brian over you, everybody knows that. And John has a talent for sharpening words into blades. “Um. Nothing.”  

“I could hear you in the hallway,” John says flatly. “Obviously it wasn’t nothing.”

Brian points to you. “Have you tried to talk her out of this? Maybe you should, maybe she’d listen.”

“It’s not my choice to make, just like it isn’t yours. Worry about your own body count. It seems to be growing exponentially these days.”

Brian scoffs. “Because you’d be so thrilled if she ended up with him, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” you demand.

Brian and John glare at each other from across the room. John raises his eyebrows, daring Bri to answer. Brian gnaws his lower lip, but doesn’t elaborate. The air is heavy, tense, electrified.  

“Don’t upset her again,” John says darkly.

Brian shows the white palms of his hands in surrender. “Fine.”

John waves for you to follow him. “Come on.” And he slams the door behind you as you both escape into the hallway.

“I’m sorry.” You chase away stray tears with the back of your hands. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to get anyone worked up right before the show...”

“Don’t worry about it. I treasure any excuse to harass Brian.”

You study him, seeking answers, seeking more than you know how to put into words. “Do you think I’m being stupid? If you do, you can tell me.”

“No,” John responds carefully. “I think you’re being hopeful. And I’d like to believe that stupidity and hopefulness are two very different things.”

You smile. “I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s very inaccurate.” He fluffs his hair with his fingertips. “Do you want to touch it before we go on stage?”

You feign demureness. “Hmm...”

“Oh come on. You know you want to. It’s extra voluminous right now, Roger shared some of his magical mousse or whatever. Something way too expensive. You should thoroughly berate him for it.”

You laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.” You comb your hands through his brunette hair, and John’s right; it’s extraordinarily full and soft, and smells like honeysuckles. “You always know how to get me smiling, don’t you?”

“You do insist that I have game. Though I remain skeptical.”

“Good luck tonight. Not that you need it.”

John’s rough thumb lifts your chin, then whisks away a tear you missed. “You’ll be watching, right?”

“I always am.” And that’s the truth; you haven’t missed a Queen show since you met them.

He beams, those gentle grey eyes incandescent. “Then we’ll have an ocean of luck.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Exactly twenty-four hours later, Queen is in New York City.

The thunderous bassline of the opening act shudders through the concrete walls. You’re staring yourself down in the bathroom mirror under harsh florescent lights, your palms gripping the cold rim of a white sink, your eyes shimmering with black and gold shadow, your lip gloss slick and crimson. There’s not a single thing left to do. You’re running out of time.

You breathe in, breathe out, snatch your purse off the floor, breeze out into the hallway.

You can hear the boys’ laughter even before you open the dressing room door. Inside, Brian is tuning his Red Special with his mantis-like legs propped up on the countertop, John is attempting to teach Freddie how to make popcorn in a microwave without setting anything on fire, Roger is scrutinizing his hair in the mirror and frowning as he rearranges it with a comb.  

“Hello, darling!” Freddie warbles. “Can I interest you in some delicious and expertly-prepared popcorn?” He opens the microwave, and smoke pours out. “Oh, you bitch!”

“I’ll pass, Freddie.” You glide to where Roger is sitting, knot your fingers through his blond hair, and tug his head back so you can kiss him. He tastes like mint gum and the ghost of smoke and reckless intemperance; he tastes like everything you’ve ever wanted. There are gasps, and surely dropped jaws as well; but you don’t have eyes for them. “Okay,” you tell Roger.

He stares up at you with huge, starry eyes, a dazed grin slowly lighting up his face. “You changed your mind.”

“Come find me after the show.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You move to wipe your blood-red gloss from his lips, but Roger stops you, knits his hand through yours, stands to meet you.

“Leave it,” he murmurs. “I want them to know.”  

“Want them to know...?”

His lips touch yours again, smiling and scorching and ravenous. “That I’m yours.”

#roger taylor fic #roger taylor x reader #but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave #but you can never leave series #queen fic

[1-800-seo]

1-800-𝗦𝗘𝖮'𝘀 𖣘 "𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗺𝘆 (𝗨𝗻𝗶)𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗲"

- 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝖩𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗄𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗑 𝖸/𝖭

- 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿/𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄/𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖾𝖽/𝖾2𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾 𝖠𝖴

- 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 (𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗄𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌), 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗒, 𝖽𝗈𝗆!𝗃𝗄 𝗂𝖿 𝗎 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗍, 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌

- 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀: 2984

- 𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗑𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾'𝗌 𝗀𝗈 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗄.

doing laundry is absolutely one of your least favourite things in the world beside soggy socks

so you’re in a bad mood as soon as you walk into the campus launderette to say the least

the launderette is empty bar one dude you’d seen around the global technics centre

if you remember rightly he’s a European studies major

odd choice but you do you and all that

now you’re not weird or anything but you have a preference on what type of washing machine you use

I know I know kind of unorthodox

but the old washing machines take 30 mins longer so you’d prefer a newer one

unfortunately the only one left is directly next to this familiar-faced stranger and his laundry

your better judgement is telling you no but your impatience is telling you yes

and so you dump your laundry onto the floor next to the stranger and his and start sorting through for all your whites

your piles mingle a tad as they overlap beside each other like Venn diagrams of assorted underwear and other garments

his consisting of only whites

yours a jumbled mess since you had to wash all of your stuff

in sync you both pick up your washing and put it into the machine

you catch his dark wide eyes as you both straighten up and he lets out an awkward low-voiced giggle

your cheeks immediately flush pink and a bashful smile creeps up to your lips

“you’re from the global centre, right?”

you ask testing the waters

“I am, I’m a European studies major, my name’s Jungkook. I recognise you, you’re in linguistics class right?”

“Yeah, I’m a linguistics major so you’ll mostly see me there, it’s nice to meet you Jungkook”

you say with a smile as your hands fidget with the door handle of the washing machine

“It’s nice to meet you too, I thought I recognised you from somewhere, but it’s because I see you sometimes when I have to do extra credit European language projects. What’s your name?”

he says tilting his head like a curious puppy

“its ______”

you say as you bow to him politely

“Can I ask you something? I have to do a project on European languages and their similarities to others. The professor wants us to speak to outsiders for references so would I be able to collab on a project with you sometime in the future, if it’s not too much to ask?”

he averts his eyes from yours and blushes lightly

“Oh yeah sure, that’s no issue! It’ll be beneficial to me too because the linguistics portion of the course is coming up soon, so it’s a great idea.”

you beam at him

“Could I get your number?”

their is a pause that feels like an eternity between your next words and his last

the cause of this is your mind being far too focused on his wavy dark hair and his clear doe eyes

you snap out of your daze

“yeah totally, one sec”

you pull out your phone from your backpack on top of the washing machine and input his contact name and number as he reads it out

“Thanks for that, it’ll be a big help, let me know when you want to link up” he replies

and with that you had his number and continued on with your washing

21/10 18:32

Jungkook ༄ : not to be accusatory but do you happen to own a pair of RED socks?

You: yes, why do you ask??

Jungkook ༄ : well ALL of my washing seems to be PINK!!

You: just because I own a pair of red socks doesn’t mean it was me 😠

Jungkook ༄ : yes but you were the only one in the launderette when I was there,,

Jungkook ༄ : smh gonna be turning up to class in pink tshirts and and socks, everyone be thinking ive made a new fashion choices when it’s really just because SOMEONE can’t keep their clothes separate from others B/

You: 1) it’s not my fault that my socks decided to migrate to new lands

You: 2) why, are you scared of pink or something? your ego too fragile to wear a ‘woman’s colour’?

You: 3) did you really use a sunglasses sad face emoticon lol

Jungkook ༄ : girl u owe me big time for all these clothes you ruined 😩

Jungkook ༄ : also im not scared of pink I just dont want to be wearing pink shirts to all of my formal events for the next ten years

Jungkook ༄ : and yes im sWaG so my emoticons are sWaG duh

You : ruined? ruINED? RUINED? I did not ruin anything, I simply spiced up your wardrobe boo x

You : oh no he’s a 2012 hype beast 🤦🏻‍♀️

Jungkook ༄ : how dare you call me something so sacreligious as a hypebeast!!

Jungkook ༄ : I am gucci not channel thank you very much

Jungkook ༄ : anyways I gtg write a report, speak soon red socks

Seen ✓

Jungkook was in fact not writing a report

he was planning revenge dun dun dun~~~

his plan was to do the exact same thing you had done to him

but he had to be cunning about it

and so the week went on

he was scrolling through twt when he received a new follower

it was the one and only @_______

and lo and behold their last tweet was “tysm Seokjin oppa for buying me a personal washing machine,, now I can do my most hated thing but at home!!”

hehehe

an idea sprung into kookie’s head

he didn’t have to try and spike your washing at the launderette

he could do it in a place you’d never suspect,, your home

now he only had to find out where you lived

just stalkerish tingz

he had to be lowkey about this

so he decided to ask his best mate and social butterfly of a friend Taehyung whether he knew you

and of course he did lol

“Hell yeah I know where she lives, she had the best party of the whole term, Jimin was so drunk he started chatting himself up in the mirror”

“Damn that sounds like a good time, probs should start going to these parties you invite me to”

“defo should, anyways I’ll tell u as long as you promise not to spread the information or use it for pervy or questionable reasons”

“I promise not to spread it or use it for pervy or questionable reasons”

he replies in monotone voice and his hand on his chest like an oath

and so that was how he acquired your address

simple enough really

and so that’s the events that lead him to be crawling through your dorm window however paused like a deer in headlights at the questionable sounds coming from the room across

he was squatted on the window ledge like spider man, red sock in hand and hood up

it was 9:00pm and your university apartment was supposed to be empty at this time

you had your class on now but he hadn’t accounted for your roommate

hence why he had frozen at the unsavoury sounds echoing round the apartment

low moans and grunts emanated from the room across

dEsGöStEn

he had to get to the kitchen without alerting the dusk time love makers

he could do it if the floor plan was the same as his apartment block and he bet his reputation on that

if he got caught he’d never hear the end of it from his mates and your roommate might even call the campus police if they were spooked enough

and so he clambered through your bedroom window and onto your bed underneath

unmade bed might he add but what did he expect from a uni student

with wide eyes he listened for any noise of suspecting roommates and examined your room

the desk was littered with papers and an oversized lava lamp stood stout in the corner of the room

a lacy bra was hung over your wardrobe handle

he shoved away the idea of you wearing it and continued with his night time plot

slowly and stealthily he crept through the halls of the apartment and out to the kitchen

on the maiden was already a neatly hung load of whites

he’d have to assume it was yours otherwise he’d have to go back to your room to get laundry

he bundled up the clothes and shoved them in the washing machine with the incriminating red sock he’d brought and set it to economy spin

round and round it spun, getting progressively louder as it went

he had to get out of there asap

tip-toeing as he went past the questionable lewd noises, he finally made it to your bedroom

he made one last check to see if he’d left any damage in your room

his eyes fell upon that same bra

damn his manhood making him think predictably

he shoved the thought away and departed

25/10 22:08

You: what in the hell did you do to my washing!!!?!!!

You: unless it was a ghost it HAD TO BE YOU JEON 🤬

Jungkook ༄ : wym I don’t even know where you live 😑

Jungkook ༄ : what’ve you done now?

You: IT HAS TO BE YOU!! SOMEONE FRIGGIN TURNED MY WASHING PINK AND I PROMISE YOU IT WASNT ME

Jungkook ༄ : how would i do that?? I don’t have like magic clothes dyeing skills boo

You: I SWEAR it was you!!

You: what do you want to bet it was u

Jungkook ༄ : I won’t bet anything I’m poor

You: that means you did it!

Jungkook ༄ : if you come with me to Taehyung’s party tomorrow I’ll tell u everything

Jungkook ༄ : but only if you go, that’s the terms of agreement

You: that’s all the incriminating evidence I need!! you basically just admitted to it you know?

You: however for reasons sake I will attend 👀

Jungkook ༄ : see you then red socks x

You: I suppose u will x

time passed quickly and soon it was Taehyung’s party

You’d known Taehyung since middle school however since starting college you hadn’t seen much of him

schedules clashed often so the only time you got to see him was at a good party

nothing wrong with that, you just probably haven’t had a completely sober conversation with him in 2 years

he’s good fun, Taehyung, so you hoped Jungkook wasn’t as much as a killjoy as he’d been this week

his little antics (that you’d yet to figure out) had caused your work uniform to turn bright pink

and thus the ‘pink princess’ nickname at work began

you felt like sharpay, everyone in white, but you pink

you’d quite like to knock Jungkook down a peg after that

and so you made your way to the infamous Taehyung’s party

he welcomed you as you entered the large door of his fraternity house

behind his head of black curls you could see the mess that is a raging college party

young people, at assumably different levels of intoxication, were everywhere

some were stood all the way up the expanse of the stairs even

you looked around and spotted a familiar brunette in the kitchen sat on the large marble counter tops

he’s chatting to some pink haired girl beside him

you stalk up to him like a woman on a mission and jokingly (a little too hard for jokingly) push his shoulders with both hands

he immediately snaps his head round to face you and his eyes widen with shock

“I have a bone to pick with you.” you say as stern as you can

you grab hold a fistful of his black T-shirt and drag him into a side room

once you enter only then do you realise it’s a laundry room

how fitting 👀

you say “Come on, tell me how you did it.” as you cross your arms and glare at him

“Did what?”

“you know what I mean, don’t play dumb with me, how did you turn all of my washing pink, and might I add, my work uniform too!”

“Ohhh that, it was far too easy. You really should keep your windows locked when you’re out.” he says as he laughs, like the whole thing is amusing

“So you’re telling me you broke into my apartment?! How did u know where I live??”

at this point you’re pacing around the room, arms flailing wide at the sudden discovery

“Well, I may or may not have asked Taehyung, and he told me, and then I entered, I did not break into your apartment. Anyway, I didn’t touch anything but the washing machine and I had the lovely experience of being serenaded by your roommate’s sex symphony.”

he made a step forward towards you, almost in a challenging way

“Oh I’ll be having harsh words with him later...” you say as you uncross your arms and put them on your hips.

you stand thinking for a second before it sinks in

“Wait.. what did you hear? You said sex symphony, right?”

“Uh yeah, your roommate was proper going at it with someone. At least he had the decency to do it whilst you were out, I guess.” He chuckled

“Oh my days, that means Hobi must’ve had Hyerim round! Go him I guess, but also ewww”

“Anyways we’ve bounced around the issue enough here, you ruined my clothes and broke into my apartment!” you exclaim backing up against the wall

Jungkook starts to close the gap between you two

“So? What’re you going to do about?”

your back pressed flush with the wall, you start to realise how close he really is

you can see the small freckles that dot the bridge of his nose, the thick eyelashes that frame his eyelids, the totally sinful look in his eyes

like this you start to realise how shockingly handsome he is

no wonder he has a slight reputation in class

you had no idea why he was looking at you this way

“I-I’ll call campus security..” You begin

“Will you really now?” he retorts as he slams his hand into the wall behind you, caging you in

“I w-will” a whisper that falls on deaf ears

before you even register, his lips have attached themselves to yours and you feel his thumb under your jaw

he works his lips against yours and you feel your legs start to tremble

he tastes sweet and robust, like syrup on your tastebuds

you mould into his kiss and then break away, panting for air, wanting more

everything felt so wrong, yet so right at the same time

it was as if your current issue had melted away and the only thing you could focus on was the way he looked at you and how his soft lips felt against yours

“J-Jungkook? What’re we doing?” you asked, a giggle leaving you

you rest your head against chest, clasping at his tshirt

“I couldn’t resist, you’re so hot when you’re angry”

he places a firm kiss against your cheek, takes your hand in his, and leads you back to the party

you couldn’t believe you’d just done that, let him kiss you so easily

but once you let him, it felt so right, like it was supposed to be that way, him lapping you up like a parched man to water

it felt so natural to have his arm round your waist like it was now

the pair of you approached Taehyung, still clutched together

“What happened to you two? I heard _____ went off on one and then you both were missing for ages. And now you both show up all over each other... what went down 👀”

“Well you know, hate and love are both forms of passion.” Jungkook says with a smirk

“excuse me? Assuming I love you? I let you kiss me once and you say it’s love? I’ll show you love” you retort

“Oooh she’s feisty; so you kissed? Damn, things’re moving quickly for you two, one minute Jungkook’s asking me for your address, the next you’re sucking each other’s faces off. I’m one of hell of a wing man, if I do say so myself.”

Taehyung flips an imaginary lock of hair out of his way like a sassy high school cheerleader

You both just laugh, at Taehyung, and because of how crazy it is,

It’s almost like you didn’t know you liked him like that until it smacked you in the face

“Do you want a drink? A beer?” Jungkook asks pouring himself a glass of punch

“That’d be great, thank you” you reply as you realise how much more time you want to spend with this annoying but totally handsome dork of a boy

༄ 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀! ༄

This was just a little fic I wrote a while ago which had formatting errors so I fixed it for y’alI, Hope you enjoyed it ☺️ Let me know what you thought of it and feel free to like and reblog <3

#bts #bangtan #jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook fic #jungkook smut #taehyung fic #taehyung fluff #taehyung smut #jk #kook #gguk #bts fic #bts fanfiction #jungkook fanfiction #enemies to lovers jungkook #enemies to lovers #college au #revenge fic #jimin #jimin bts #jimin fluff #maknae line

[florcnces]

HEY HENS ! my name’s nat & today i present to you the one, the only ... ms florence ! under the cut you’ll find a few bits & pieces i’ve come up w/ so far just so ... u kno ... we can plot or whateva 😏😏😏so if u want me to shower you w/ love, feel free to drop a big, fat LIKE or im me 😏😏😏also ... if u read this thru u will notice that ... i gave up somewhere in the middle of it ...

new york’s very own 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄  𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐃 was spotted on broadway street in 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐆𝐀'𝐒  𝐁𝐁𝐒 . your resemblance to 𝐒𝐘𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘  𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐘 is unreal . according to tmz , you just had your 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 - 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 birthday bash . while living in nyc , you’ve been labeled as being 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋 , but also 𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 . i guess being a 𝐆𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈 explains that . 3 things that would paint a better picture of you would be 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋  𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 ,  𝐅𝐄𝐌𝐌𝐄 - 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄  𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐒  &  𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅 - 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃  𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒  𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐔𝐌𝐄 . ( i seduced the director to get my first big movie role. )  &  ( cis-gendered female & she / her  ) 

𝐢. 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐬 

name : florence noel brassard

dob / age : may 22nd, 1996 / twenty - two

hometown : paris , france

occupation : actress

aesthetics : pearl necklaces , femme-fatale movies , half-used bottles of perfume , lavender bouquets & satin sheets

positive traits : nurturing , logical , self-motivated , thoughtful 

negative traits : vengeful , scornful , two-faced , devious 

likes :  morning runs , feeling accomplished , freckles , seltzer water , blueberry yogurt , random picnics

dislikes : not getting attention , impulsive decisions , being late , not taking care of herself , mess all over the place , loud voices

𝐢𝐢. 𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐲 

baby florence was born & raised in new york city and was immediately thrown into the world of luxury - there literally was no other outcome when your parents appeared to be, like, one of the most powerful couple in the fashion industry, owning a huge chunk of loewe, lv, berluti and etc (so basically think like antoine arnault & natalia vodianova as her parents ... thnx xxxx)

with everything being handed to the girl on a silver platter, flo’s childhood was as boring as it could be. ‘ want to attend ballet classes? we’ll arrange private ones for you with the nycb principals.’ / ‘ can’t find a dress for the event we’re throwing? here’s five custom gowns to choose from, honey. ’ / ‘ there’s a scratch on your shoes; here’s a credit card, go buy yourself three new pairs. ’ / so, basically, tl;dr, they spoiled her ROTTEN

not gonna like, flo had a phase of being a bratty, greedy & ungrateful bih at the age of 13-15 because of the people she surrounded herself with & in order to fit in, she had to have like the best of the best. tho it wasn’t like she hadn’t had any of those things already - she just started taking advantage of her parents’ generosity. it took cutting her allowance down to the minimum for a few months and a few serious conversations to get a confession out of florence and to get her to understand that people should consider your their friends for your personality and not your bank account. so basICALLY she loves her parents v v v much & treasures the relationship they built over the years.

by the time she finished high school, she was v much set on the idea of creating a name for herself. starting a business wasn’t an option bc of how influential her parents were; sports weren’t an option either bc she didn’t have any exceptional talents (fun fact: she tried out for the cheerleading team for 3 yrs in a row only to not make the cut every single time which led to her crying at lunch ... ): #poorbby). being an influencer didn’t sound right to her either, so she went with the option that probably fit her the most - the julliard ! 

it was quite hard getting in there, mostly due to the fact that people there didn’t exactly understand why florence wanted to get into acting. it wasn’t like she needed any additional buzz to her name or more a-list events to be in attendance of, so she did have to prove that she was noth talented & sincerely interested in pursuing the career. however, it wasn’t the hardest thing she had to do to actually become the person she is today.

studying at the julliard wasn’t enough bc it didn’t make it any easier for flo to get a role. she tried her absolute damndest, used every connection she had -- yet, nothing was working. & since going to her papa for her was in no way, shape or form an option, she resorted to the worst.

bc she knew her mother was always in charge of organizing charity galas and whatnot, florence made sure to check out a list of invitees and, much to her sheer luck, she found a few familiar names of actresses and directors who rsvp’d to the event already. the night of the gala was spent with florence circling the room, looking and acting as gorgeous and charming as ever, but nothing seemed to be working bc everyone were either uninterested or just wanted her to get their name to her parents (& that wasn’t an option). however, at the end of the night she found the one. the one who lit up her star.

she didn’t go into it without thinking all of her options. she spent weeks flitring w/ the guy, going on dates and accepting gifts - everything to make it seem as if she was truly interested in him as a person. she laughed at his jokes, enjoyed his embraces - at some point, she even felt as if she could actually end up loving him. however, the moment he offered her the role of her life (plS one day i’ll actually properly headcanon that ish ... but not rn i proMISE!), whatever feelings (or whatever resembled them ...) immediately vanished.

so ! currently bby florence is basking in the newfound limelight and making sure to move further in her career... without having to resort to seducing middle-aged dudes... :-)

𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 

florence, like i said, isn’t exactly a multi-talented skinny legend. yea, she’s decent at skating, somewhat good at singing, is quite beautiful - nothing out of the ordinary, hence why she sometimes struggles with her confidence. and by sometimes i mean A LOT of times. but if u think she’d ever show it U R SO WRONG BABE. usually whenever she falls into her self-called pit of uncertainty and lack of confidence, florence resorts to dressing up as nicely as she can and going to the first bar that comes to her head to get a drink and attract as much attention as she can. 

she also finds comfort in cooking. sure, with her daddy’s money she could eat out for breakfast, lunch, dinner and everything in between,  but there’s something incredibly comforting in taking the time to cook something for herself. besides, she is very fond of the memories of her mother teaching her how to cook. and the times they’ve accidentally burned the food bc they were too busy talking abt random things :’) like bby can actually make a MEAN kedgeree !!!

since her father is french and her mother is american, florence is bilingual. she prefers speaking french over english purely bc of the beauty of the language, so sometimes she might just switch languages mid-sentence.

florence is also ambidextrous due to the fact that she broke her arm when she was 7 and had to wear a cast for a longer period of time since the bones couldn’t heal properly :-)

also ... v much a dog person. like, cats? EW, don’t talk to her. don’t even think of calling her KITTEN bc u will ... get ur ass handed to u

always and i mean ALWAYS !!!! wears a pearl necklace on her neck that her father gave her for her 18th birthday. and just hella obsessed w/ pearls and flowers. iDK why she just is ...

𝐢𝐯. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

obv !!! a best friend ? like, that typical ride-or-die situation where they wouldn’t hesitate to catch the bullet for the other person

maybe a friend / some friends from high school ? either they were the ones pressuring flo to take advantage of finer things and daddy’s money or ... flo could have left them for those ppl

a rival ... who had their eyes on the role florence landed ... and now there’s just a ton of anger and distaste towards each other

exes / one night stands / flirtations ... :-)

#wealthyhq:intro #「 𝒇. 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅 ┈ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 : persona . 」 #「 𝒇. 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅 ┈ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 : spotted . 」 #「 𝒇. 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅 ┈ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 : appearance . 」 #「 𝒇. 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅 ┈ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 : interactions . 」 #「 𝒇. 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅 ┈ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 : closed . 」 #「 𝒇. 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅 ┈ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 : socials . 」 #「 𝒇. 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅 ┈ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 : twitter . 」 #「 𝒇. 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅 ┈ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 : instagram . 」 #「 𝒇. 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅 ┈ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 : answered . 」

[greennct]

chenle in your camera lens

fansite!au, i've had this idea for ages, i thought it was super cute!! let me know what u think, i tried to make it as fluff-y as possible bc chenle is my baby! it’s also bullet pointed bc i wanted to see how it would feel to write in that style & honestly i was literally just trying to write like @warmau​ bc she’s super talented & i love her im so sorry i had to drag u into this 💞💖💘

edit!! i just posted a part 2 to this fic, which you can find here!

(3.2k words yo what, no triggers apart from chenle making cute meme faces which genuinely actives my soft sad hours)

song rec: notice me by spinn

not to brag, but like,,,, you were pretty famous as far as fansites go

part of it was because you had just been around for so long, taking photos of zhong chenle pretty much since the first day of his debut

and part of it was how talented you were at capturing the boy so authentically

but the main reason nctzens knew/loved/worshipped you, was because of how effortless and pure your interactions were with him

before you had even heard the word kpop, your passion had always been photography

however since you were still in high school, you were broke and unable to really pursue your dream properly

like seriously, apart from one half-broken digital camera you were pretty sure hadn’t been upgraded since 2003, the photography department at your school was pretty much nonexistent. you found yourself getting more and more upset about the fact you weren’t allowed to do what you loved every day

so it really was only a matter of time before you decided to take matters into your own hands

immediately after having spent a ridiculous amount of money on a mediocre, but at least functioning camera, you decided to take it out the next weekend you could, to try and capture some action in the streets of seoul

you were expecting cute photos of couples, candids of children playing, maybe even some views of the city (if you could be bothered to find a rooftop), or anything else that struck your fancy

what you were not expecting, was a world-famous boyband filming some kind of variety show on your local high street

what you certainly did not expect at all, was to suddenly find yourself staring at the cutest boy you had ever seen in your life

there were seven or eight people with cameras already at the scene, furiously clicking away. you sidled up to the closet person you could find, and half-whispered to her, scared of disturbing the lighting speed of her shutter closing, to ask if she knew what the boy with the ash brown hair was called

you were told his name was chenle, & without having to think, you lifted the viewfinder to your eye, and snapped your first photo of him. you still have it today, it’s the first thing that pops up when someone searches your blog, a candid of him laughing at something jisung had said.

every time you look at it, you get this little fuzzy feeling in your stomach, reminded of the very first day that he had caught your eye, by doing something as simple and normal as laughing at a joke

since then, there was no looking back. you steadily made a name for yourself as a chenle fansite, with your amazing photography skills

and sure, your action shots of him dancing were ethereal, and your lack of whitewashing gained you popularity from a lot of fans, but your specialty, the reason everyone flocked to your blog directly after every awards show, was because of your candids of chenle

somehow, you had a knack for knowing exactly when to capture a giggle, pout or shocked reaction to one of the dreamies antics, managing to encapsulate chenille’s bubbly personality within a single frame

people who had met nct dream started referring your photos to international fans, claiming that your photos were the closest thing one could get to actually seeing what chenle was like irl

but even that wasn't the full reason that you became to famous and loved by nctzens

seriously, when the regular/irregular album came out, your inbox was fukk of messages from nctzens begging you to break into sm and reshoot the whole photobook

however, even though you loved taking photos of chenle, the problem was that you were basically his age

you were still in high school, living with your parents, and essentially under their control

having to originally been monitored by your mother every time you went to any kind of nct dream event, you quickly made friends with the other fansites, so that you wouldn’t have to  chaperoned, but instead was supervised by people you trusted, who were responsible adults

however, this didn't stop the older photographers from always teasing you, when you had to leave an awards show at 10pm with the rest of the underage members, were slightly late to an interview, because you had to rush from school, or even from time to time when you whipped out your laptop at a schedule, balancing it precariously on your raised knee whilst waiting for chenle, needing to submit an assignment to your teacher within the half hour

it quickly became a joke within the nctzens, the tiny, underage chenle fansite, who everyone loved to baby, with more talent than half of the adult photographers

what's more, you work didn't go under appreciated by the dreamies themselves

((((not to brag or anything,,,, but like,, you had the highest percentage of photos with chenle directly smiling at your lens than pretty much any other fansite))))

he knew that you were the same age as him, and mentioned it from the first fansite you went to. he told you to drop any formalities since you were “friends now,” and always teased you whenever he saw you

one of the ways that chenle would do this, was by always making a silly face before posing properly, sticking out his tongue, crossing his eyes, or doing some other dumb facial expression

he did it to tease you, trying to ruin your photos, as he had always asked why you couldn’t eve seem to take a bad photo of him

of course you had replied that it wasn't your skills that made the photos so pretty, it was him (with an extremely red face lmaoo), & so chenle tried to take that as a challenge

whenever he was sure no one else was looking, he would pull the most horrible faces for you to take photos of, trying to sabotage your photography

and of course you whined to yourself that he still managed to look incredibly endearing even with cross-eyes and some drool dripping off his chin

and you were sure other nctzens would die as much as you did with how sweet he looked in the photos - after all, the candid shots were completely on-brand for you

but somehow you could never bring yourself to upload the photos online, deciding there was something that would make your heart hurt a little bit at allowing other people to see those photos

even though you knew better,,,,, you wanted to pretend his expressions were just for you

of course you had a crush on chenle, it was hard to follow around such an effervescent & cheeky boy for so long without developing at least some kind of feelings for him

& though you felt your heart flip a little every time he complimented your photos, or told you that you looked nice that day,,,

you also weren't delusional. you knew that you didn't have a chance, you were literally just a fansite, & it was chenle’s job to be nice to you

because you were so conscious of coming off as creepy with your pretty obvious crush, you always made sure to completely respect his boundaries

you prided yourself on turning off your flash if you thought the dreamies looked tired, and when you started making enough money from your photos to follow them to different countries, you made sure to take different flights and stay at other hotels, if their details ever got leaked, not wanting to feel like you were stalking them

instead of ever acting on your emotions, you stayed content with the stupid faces he made you, convincing yourself they were just for you, and tried to shove your feelings deep, deep down

& for a while,,,, it worked. you & chenle stayed,, not friends but,, something closer than just a casual fan

he knew your name, he would always wave in your direction when he recognised you, and you would always hide your furious blush behind the camera lens when he sent you the occasional wink or finger heart

& that was enough for you,, until unfortunately, life started getting in the way

college was drawing closer and closer, & you had to start scrambling to put together a portfolio of your photography to apply to schools with

you realised you probably needed some more extracurriculars, so signed up for a copious amount of clubs, started volunteering for extra credit, actually studying for tests, and even hanging out a lot more with your friends, having realised with a shock, that you had limited time left to share with them before you all went to different schools

with all that going on, you barely had time to scroll through your social media accounts when you finally got to bed,

you spent the half an hour before your eyes drooped so low you were forced to turn your phone off scouring furiously through the photos other fansites had taken of chenle, scouring for any photos of the weird faces he made, if he had started doing them for someone else now that you had been away for a while

searching for a sign they weren’t just for you, and you had been delusional for hoping against hope this whole time

funnily enough, you actually ended up receiving the exact opposite of what you feared

upon opening your twitter one night, you discovered you had a lot more mentions than usual, all tagging you in one video

clicking on it, your stomach dropped slightly. it was taken at an award ceremony, previously your favourite time of the year, because it meant you got to see chenle almost every day. now you just felt a pang in your stomach - you couldn’t see chenle at all at the moment

it was a video of him turning to converse during an ad break with a jaemin fansite, one who had taken care of you a lot when you had first started to take photos

he mouthed the name of your fansite, raising his hands in a quizzical manner. you almost dropped your phone. upon calming yourself, and reasoning that of course he knew the name of your fansite, he spoke about it with you all the time, you resumed the video

when she didn’t understand what chenle was trying to communicate to her, he said you name (your felt your heart do a triple flip where is was beating sporadically in your throat), and asked where you had went

she replied “college applications!” and he pouted, suddenly blinded by flash as the fansites around him tried to capture the moment

“tell her to come back soon!” he said, and turned back around

you rewatched the video at least 20 more times to prove to yourself that it wasn’t fake

this sudden recognition and blatant affection that you were shown, was pretty much unheard of, and not only did you know that, but the whole of twitter knew it too

before you could even like the video, your whole account was filled with  messages from delusional stans either convinced you were dating and sending well-wishes, or threats to stay away from chenle indefinitely from slightly less sympathetic fans.

to be honest, you didn't know which reaction was worse

after all, though it was certainly blush-inducing, it wasn't anywhere close to a love confession, wasn't everyone overreacting slightly?

you sighed, turning off your phone. right now was an important time of your life. though there was still a significant amount of people telling other to back off, and simply being happy you had received such high praise from chenle, the last thing that you needed was your phone pinging all day with messages from everyone else, demanding some sort of explanation about the video from you, when you knew the exact same amount of information that they did.

the next day, you texted the jaemin fansite to tell her you'd be staying off of social media for a while. you deleted all your apps. you had decided to ride out this ‘scandal’ until you were at least done with your application, and you had to admit, not having the pressure of everyone scrutinising your every move was quite liberating

though the rest of the year was actually a lot of fun, and you ended up spending a lot more time pursuing things you didn't have time to previously, and spending time with friends,,,,

there was always that small ache you felt whoever your friend texted you saying chenle had asked about you again, or seeing a billboard of his face in the city, hearing an nct song playing in a café, reminding you of the lifestyle that had consumed you just months previously,,, that you missed more than anything,,,,,,, the boy you couldn’t stop thinking about,,

you tried to push the feeling down, reasoning that there was no way chenle was as bothered as you were about the separation, & carried on with your life, no matter how awful you felt at times

of course, the school year did have to end at some point, though. after what felt like years, your college decisions came back!!! you were so glad that your hard work had paid off!!!! (of course you got in to your dream school what kind of au would this be if u didn’t lol)

your friends wanted to take you out to celebrate, but you declined politely, knowing exactly where you were going

nct dream had just had a comeback, and your jaemin fansite friend had won you an extra ticket to their fansign “just in case,” since she know you were about to finish your schoolwork

you missed chenle too much to stay away from him much longer, no matter how stupid you knew your feelings were

let me tell you,,,,, the moment you walked into the hall, the tension in the fansign literally hit the roof

you practically ran into your seat, ducking behind your camera lens, trying to capture chenle without actually having to make eye contact with him

everyone was whispering about your sudden return after months of silence on social media,, you caught some people trying to take photos of you sneakily

the dreamies noticed your presence too, of course

haechan caught sight of you first, and nudged chenle, who was standing next to him, pointing him in your direction

the whole room literally squealed at the way chenles entire face lit up at the familiar sight of your camera

& you,,, well you were just glad your face was covered because hOly hECk you were blushing,,, you tried to keep your face hidden, until you had to go up to get him to sign your album

when you left your seat, the whole room collectively held their breath, like im not even kidding, there had been so much speculation over whether or not you had left the fandom over the controversy, so your sudden unexpected return to the fansign was a huge

now of course chenle was the last in the line, so you had to deal with the rest of the dreamies teasing beforehand, while they signed your album. though you were friendly with them, and they knew your name of course,

however whoever you had talked it had always been sweet and innocent,, they had never made you so,,,,,, uncomfortable before

even jeno, the shyest of the lot gave you a knowing smirk when he said “welcome back!”

jisung told you he couldn’t draw a heart, otherwise chenle might get jealous, and mark just gave you a cryptic look.

“chenle’s been pretty worried about you.... don't break his heart.”

you kind of just laughed awkwardly, and moved down the queue to jaemin. there was no way that he was being serious. nct dream were acting weird around you

you tried to quell the nerves in your stomach when you finally faced chenle

“hi!” you managed

“i missed you!!!! don’t ever leave me for so long again!” chenle pouted, skipping the formalities of small talk. you tried not to giggle like a twelve-year-old

“i'm sorry, chenle, i had college-”

“applications!” he finished “how did they go? have you heard? did you get in? you wanted to go to the arts one in daegu, right?”

you blinked, surprised he remembered such a small detail about your life. you could barely remember telling him about it. “um, ye-yeah! i did!”

“woooaaah!” he cheered loudly, “i always knew you were smart!!” taking your hand in his, he waved them together in the air. you could hear gasps and clicks behind you

“this is gonna be all over twitter tomorrow, you know, chenle.” you blushed, gently trying to extract your hand in order to make sure he was comfortable

chenle simply tightened his grip on your intertwined fingers, pulling them closer to his face, as he leaned his head against them. “they seem to like us together, don't they?” he agreed. you let out a little gasp in spite of yourself, cheeks extremely flushed.

“i don't mind...” he continued, “unless you do?”

you shook your head slightly, not trusting yourself to speak. chenle had always been flirty with you, the same way he was flirty with all the other fans he met, but this behaviour was a huge step up from what you had experienced beforehand. your brain started working overtime, putting pieces together at 100 miles an hour

the weird faces, the asking about you, the trivial facts he remembered,, was is possible,,, chenle also-

“miss? your time is up” a manager started trying to hurry you along, as there were already two or three people queuing behind you. “wait!” chenle said, finishing his signature in your album, scribbling furiously

he then looked up at you, offering the pinky finger of his free hand up with a solemn expression

“promise you won't run away again?”

you joined your fingers with his, unable to do anything but nod at his forward behaviour

“you gotta promise!!”

“i promise!” you half whispered

chenle pressed a small, chaste kiss on your fingers

it was so fast that it could've been mistaken for him simply waving your hands together

however you and chenle, with matching blushing faces knew exactly what the gesture had meant

the rest of the afternoon, you tried to ignore how the butterflies in your stomach had suddenly morphed into huge stallions, kicking up all of your emotions all over the place

it certainly didn’t help that he kept looking over at you. winks, hearts, kisses, pouts were all thrown your way

and of course, from time to time, he would go to your side of the auditorium, lean close into your huge camera lens, and make a horribly ugly face

every time he did, you found your heart swelling just a little more, because you knew, you knew

that those faces had always been for you

& when you got home, and read the message chenle had left in your album, a small paragraph simply stating he thought you were “seriously, like ridiculously beautiful,” you knew that he hadn’t written a series of digits underneath his signature for anyone else

you finally understood, that everything had always been just for you

#chenle #zhong chenle #nct dream #nct chenle #nct dream chenle #nct fluff #nct dream fluff #chenle fluff #chenle au #nct dream au #chenle fic #chenle imagine #nct fic #nct imagine #nct dream fic #nct dream imagine #nct dream scenario #writings

[3wisellamas]

Graffiti Wiener

(Oops, my recent fanfic kick spilled over from AT to OK KO.  tl;dr:   Darrell starts vandalizing the plaza every night and the bodega kids find it entertaining as heck.  It’s very long, set aside some time for it.  Also, disclaimer, don’t do crimes kiddos, yadda yadda yadda.)

--

It was early shift at Gar’s Bodega.  Rad opened the store that day, looked at the relatively stocked state of the shelves from the day prior, and floated to the break room for a post-wake nap.  Enid arrived second, and seeing nobody to keep her accountable she swiped an issue of Alt EDM Monthly from the magazine rack to peruse as she lounged on her counter.  As usual, KO excitedly burst through the door last, waving at his mom as she parked the car to start her own day.  But, this early on this quiet a day, his enthusiasm only took him so far into his cleaning duties.

It was too early to be at work, the three silently agreed.  Then, as if a direct challenge to their morning ennui, their boss Mr Gar angrily smashed through his office door.

“KO!  Enid!”  He turned towards the break room door in the back.  “Radicles!  Front and center!”

The three slowly marched forward, Rad in particular taking a few extra seconds to come into the store proper, yawning.  It was too early to be taking orders, the three silently agreed.

Their lack of enthusiasm only raised Mr Gar’s volume.  “You three shape up and come with me.  I got work for you.”  He stomped towards the back of the store, out the loading dock, with his employees in tow.  The four exited the building there, passed the trucks and the junkyard, and turned into the alley, where the sight that awaited them definitely made the early morning shift less dull.

Taking up almost an entire wall of the plaza alleyway was a large graffiti mural, unusually detailed and elaborate for the spray paint it was created with.  The cans of paint in question had been carelessly discarded all over the alley afterward, simply left behind in what seemed like a hurry.

“Disgusting, isn’t it,”  Gar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose behind his glasses.  “Someone vandalized the plaza last night, and today I’ve got two jobs for you!”

KO wasn’t listening.  He immediately rushed over towards the wall to get a better look.  “It’s so pretty!!”

“Yeah, this is pretty sick,” Enid agreed.  “They did this in only one night?”

Gar snapped his fingers to regain their attention.  “I have two jobs for the three of you.  First, you’re cleaning up this mess.”  He kicked a stray can out from under his feet, and pointed to a large bucket of white paint, a tray, and two paint rollers he’d set up underneath the mural.  “I want every trace of what happened here last night gone, understand?”

“Yes sir, Mr Gar!”  The three saluted enthusiastically.

“Good.”  He paused.  “KO, I only had two paint rollers and they’re pretty short, so you clean up the trash.”  

“I’m on it!”  KO gave a big smile, bouncing on his heels at the thought of having his own special mission.

“Now, the second thing…”  Mr Gar leaned forward over his employees, to gain a more intimidating presence.  “I want you three to come back here tonight, and keep watch over the plaza.  If the creep who did this comes back, you’re to stop them at all costs.  Understood?”

Enid and Rad looked at each other nervously, before giving their boss a shaky thumbs-up.  

“If this wall isn’t sparkling white when I come in tomorrow morning, I am going to be very.  Very.  Disappointed in you.”  He leaned back into his normal posture, and even a little further to crack his back.  “Welp, time’s a-wastin’, Bodegamen.  Get to work!”

All three shouted “Yes sir!” after him as he departed back towards the loading dock, leaving them to their tasks.  

KO excitedly hopped around gathering spray cans, while Rad and Enid set up the paint tray.  Enid in particular looked up at the mural again, studying the various scenes it depicted:  A giant orange dragon along the top, who seemed to be desperately chomping and grabbing at a bunch of glittering technoes in mid-flight.  In the center, a nondescript man in a cowboy hat riding a yellow horse, shooting what looked like a revolver at the dragon, and missing all six shots.  Off to one side, a cute cartoony mouse glowing a gross nuclear green, and with what looked like toxic waste dripping from its mouth.  On the other side, the artist’s tag, reading “DB” in simple, red block letters.

She sadly contemplated what she would soon have to do to the piece.

“So...who do you think could’ve made this anyway?”  KO asked as he ducked between his friends to grab a paint can.

Rad didn’t even hesitate.  “It’s Darrell.  No question.”

“Are you sure?”  Enid gestured towards the parking lot with her thumb.  “I know he’s a graffiti wiener, but usually all he does is tag our sign every now and then.  I didn’t think he was able to do stuff like...this.”

“You know any other graffiti wieners with the initials ‘DB’?” he asked, pointing towards the tag.  He coated his paint roller in the tray, and raised it to the mural.  “Welp, guess we better get paintin’.”

“Hold up a second, Rad!”  Enid put down her roller and took several steps back, motioning for him to move aside.  She produced her phone from her pocket and took several pictures of the wall, occasionally stepping to the right or the left to get a better angle.  “It’s kind of a waste to just cover it up like this, you know?”

“Dude, Enid, it was painted by a Boxbot.”

“Oh well?  I still think it looks cool.”  She took one final picture, and then swiped back through them.  “I’ve been reading a bunch of articles in Alt EDM Monthly about this DJ that also posts a ton of graffiti tutorials on Social Media, so I guess I’ve been on a real street art kick.  And this…”  She cropped a picture of the mouse portion.  “...is my new lock screen.”

“Heh, okay then,” Rad scoffed.

She put her phone away and grabbed the roller again.  “Alright, now let’s get to work.”  

I didn’t take long before the whole wall was covered in two coats of plain white, letting through no traces of the graffiti underneath.  The alleyway was spotless, with KO even finishing with the paint cans early and then using the time to collect the rest of the place’s usual debris.  It was at least an eventful start to a dull early morning shift, the three silently agreed.

--

The late shift, though, was another story.  Mr Gar had let his employees leave early to make up for coming back so late, and they were refreshed and ready for a Boxbot fight.

They took up a lookout position in a part of the fenced junkyard overlooking the alley, hiding behind a large pile of trash and robot parts.  Enid checked the time, quietly signalling to the other two to keep their eyes open, but three hours later even she was ready to call it a night.  Not even a tiny dinosaur had passed through the alley at all.

KO looked up at his friends and yawned.  “I think we should just go home.  I told Mommy we’d be out past my bedtime, but not this late…”

“You wanna take a nap, go ahead kiddo.  I’m about there too.”  Rad shifted to a slightly more comfortable position, not an easy feat in a pile of scrap metal.

“Guys, don’t stick me with lookout.”  Enid continued scrolling through her Social Media feed to keep awake, not even paying attention to her duties at all.

They heard a metallic thump, and Enid looked up from her phone. “Rad, was that you?”  She shook him awake when she got no response.

“It sounded like it was coming from the parking lot!”  KO whispered.  The three peeked out from behind their pile to see a hooded figure sneaking into view around the front of the plaza.  The intruder kept nervously looking around to make sure the alley was clear, before jogging back to the site of their previous mural.  The bodega employees couldn’t be sure in the dark, but it looked like the figure sighed as they laid a bright green backpack on the pavement and pulled back their hood.

The exposed brain case and large, single eye in the center of their forehead as they whipped their head around to do one last sweep of the area were unmistakable.

“Yep, that’s a Darrell.”  Rad pulled the other two back behind the pile.  “Ready to smash ‘im?”

“...You know what?  Hang on a sec.”  Enid grabbed Rad’s shoulder and held him in place.  “We’ve still got that white paint, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then…”  Enid let him go to peek at Darrell, squinting to see better in the dark.  “I say we just let him go.  I kinda wanna see what he does.”

KO peeked around the other side of the trash pile.  “But Enid,”  he whispered, “What about Mr Gar?  Darrell’s gonna mess up the wall again.”

“We’ll just repaint it once he’s done.”

“Oh…”  

Darrell dug in his backpack for a few moments, before finally pulling out the aerosol can he was looking for.  He popped the top off, just letting it clatter along the pavement, and shook the can vigorously before laying down the first marks of a new piece.

“Orange!”  KO excitedly whispered to the others.  “He’s using orange first!”

“Yeah.  Looks like he’s got a flame theme with this one,” Enid and KO both quietly got comfortable to watch the show.

Rad rolled his eyes.  “I guess I just don’t get it.”  He didn’t exactly stop watching Darrell work, though, from over KO’s shoulder.

The robot finished the base coat on the flames, and set the can down at his feet.  He dug in his bag again and pulled out a can of yellow, and then a can of red, using them to add variation to the flat orange.  With the flame background detailed, he placed the red can with the others and stepped back to take in his work.  Satisfied, he dug for yet another can, and started painting black vertical bars across the entire canvas.

“Aw, what’s he doing?”  KO pouted.  “He’s ruining it!”

Enid clapped her hand over her little friend’s mouth as his whispering got just a little too loud for comfort.  “Let’s just see where he’s going with this.”

As he started focusing on a portion of the canvas, though, Darrell suddenly started to act uneasy.  He whipped his head around again, scanning the alley for anyone watching his efforts.  The bodega trio ducked back behind their garbage pile just quick enough to avoid being spotted.  He stared towards the junkyard for more than a few seconds, before finally turning back towards the wall and continuing with the black paint.

“Phew…”  Enid held KO on her lap as Rad leaned back into the trash.  He didn’t do so as silently as he’d hoped, though, and a small piece of scrap metal above his head loosened and dropped, loudly skittering across the ground as all three looked on in horror.

In the alley, Darrell jumped at the noise, throwing his paint at a nearby trash can.  Like a startled rabbit, he bolted towards the parking lot, not even bothering to check what had made the sound.  As he turned the corner out of sight, the trio heard his rocket boots activate and fade into the distance in the direction of Boxmore.

Enid released a breath she’d been holding for what seemed like the entire night, relieved she could finally do so without watching her volume.  She and KO left their post to examine the fresh mural their archenemy had left behind, while Rad leaned against a clean wall nearby.

Between the black bars, Darrell had been painting a pair of hands gripping two of them when he was interrupted, one of which appeared to be melting and dripping down into the flames below.

“Huh.  He’s a tortured artist.  I like it.”  Enid pulled out her phone again to snap pictures, using the flash to illuminate the area.

Rad, however, started investigating a much more intriguing target.  “Hey, guys, look what he left for us!”  He picked up the paint-filled backpack and draped it over his shoulder.  He had forgotten to actually close it, though, and as he whipped it around about a dozen paint cans labelled in various colors fell out and scattered down the alley, which KO helpfully ran after.

“You guys, quit bein’ so loud!”  Enid couldn't help but laugh at her coworkers’ antics, though.  

“You’re one to talk, E.”  Rad set the bag down between his feet and opened it wide.  “Toss me one, KO!”

He did so, though his aim was a bit off.  Rad quickly grabbed the tossed can in midair using his telekinesis, guiding it home.  “Good shot, buddy!  Keep ‘em coming!”

While the boys repacked the backpack, Enid got to work preparing the rollers and paint tray.  It took just about as long as it had done earlier to apply the two coats and hide all evidence that anyone had vandalized the plaza once again.

“Just one thing left to do I guess.”  Enid motioned toward the backpack draped over Rad’s shoulder.  “Let’s toss that thing back across the street.”

Rad resisted.  “Actually, I got a better idea.  I’ll hang onto it for now.”  He put on the backpack a bit more properly, with both straps around his shoulders.

“What, you repainting your van with that stuff?”

“Naw, you’ll see.”  He smirked.  “Besides, maybe if Darrell doesn’t have this he won’t be able to come back tomorrow night.”

“I don’t think that’ll stop him.”  Enid sighed.  “We might want to keep an eye out for him tomorrow too.  Meet me here at midnight?”

KO and Rad agreed.  The latter checked his phone, and groaned.

“Speakin’ of my van, yeesh.  It is way too late.  I’ll drive us home.”

KO looked up at the moon, barely visible over the alley wall above them.  “Yeah…I definitely missed my bedtime.”

--

Darrell did return the next night, as the trio expected.  This time he carried a light blue backpack, with an ‘S’ and a few of what were either flowers or tiny sawblades embroidered along the top.  He was much more careful to make sure he was unwatched, however, to the point of even walking up to the junkyard fence to check behind the piles of trash.  

Luckily, the bodega employees had taken up a new lookout spot on the roof, just above the wall Darrell had taken to painting.  They peered down at him periodically as he worked, using the sound of his spray can to judge when it was safe to do so.

From that angle, it was difficult to miss the large crack in Darrell’s brain case.

“Hey, we blew him up today, right?”  Enid whispered.  KO nodded; this was definitely a different body than the one they’d chucked into the junkyard piece by piece earlier in the day.  

The robot started spraying again, so Enid leaned over the ledge, checking his progress.  So far, he had finished what looked like a portrait of himself, simplified of course, and with a sad expression on his face.  Darrell stepped back, though with his eye luckily focused forward, and she noticed he was mimicking the expression on his real face.  Then he looked down at his feet, searching for one of the colors he’d used previously, as Enid ducked back to safety.

“He’s getting a little more literal today,” she commentated to a curious KO.  He took the next turn to lean forward, with Rad tightly holding onto his hand just in case.

As KO was pulled back, he quietly reported the next developments.  “He started drawing...something around his head.”  He looked down.  “I couldn’t tell what it was yet.”

Enid scrolled through her phone.  “Rad, you’re up.”

The alien peeked down for a second, then quickly leaned back.  “He’s got teal.  I think he’s drawing my fist,” he whispered, making one to illustrate his statement.

“That’s...weird.  Is he drawing us fighting him?”

“I dunno, KO.”  Rad took another peek.  Looks like he’s got yours and I think Enid’s fists too.  And a bunch of others…

“Let me see.”  Enid set down her phone and took her turn once Darrell was distracted again below.  There were indeed a number of arms ending in fists aimed at the painted Darrell’s head -- she recognized Rad’s immediately, and KO’s with his armband, and one plain human one that had to be hers, but there were also a bright orange one, one with a red glove, a catlike yellow claw, a couple of purple ones, and a green one.  And a large open space at the very top, which she could barely examine before she needed to duck away as Darrell glanced up towards it.

The three stayed far from the edge for a while, just listening as he sprayed that final arm, which seemed to take longer than all the others.  Eventually, the sounds of the robot shaking cans and spraying paint gave way to some sniffling.  Then, the sound that they had been waiting for, as Darrell rustled through his backpack again, and all three leaned over the ledge to see the final result.

In that top spot was a bright yellow chicken claw, not just aiming at the painted Darrell but actually smashing right through his brain case, with bits of the green glass and even little fleshy chunks painted around the wound.  The robot’s eye had also been painted over with a large black X.  They momentarily glanced down at Darrell, who had stopped searching his bag and was wiping away a few tears.

The three ducked back, still silent.  Enid looked at the boys, with an expression of horror.

“Okay, he’s a really tortured artist.”

Rad nodded.  “This got dark.”

They were interrupted by Darrell shaking another can, this time much more vigorously.  Rad held out KO to watch as he began haphazardly painting what eventually turned into a crude depiction of Lord Boxman’s face, finishing with his bright red eye.  Darrell stood there holding the can of red for a moment, sadly looking at the second piece...and then angrily crossed it out.  And then again, and again -- he wildly swung the can around while spraying, as if to assault the image with the paint.  Eventually he threw the can itself at the image, and, still frustrated, even started kicking at the wall with his boot until he had finally vented all of his rage.  

He stepped back again, picked up the can of red, and quickly finished the piece by placing his tag in the corner, in red block letters:  “DB”.  He then unceremoniously kicked aside the cans he’d used, put on the backpack, and ran out of the alley, leaving the area empty for the bodega employees to descend.

Enid once again snapped plenty of pictures of the wall as KO and Rad picked up the scattered spray cans, though this time without a backpack to catch them in.  As the teens worked at covering the graffiti, Rad spoke up.

“Do you think this actually happened to him today?”

“Well…”  Enid compared the damage she had seen from above versus the damage in the painting.  “Maybe a super angsty emo-teen version of what happened to him today.  Guess things aren’t going so great at Boxmore right now.”  She looked down, and stopped.  “Wait, shoot…”

There were bright red footprints going down the alleyway a short distance, from the mural site to the sidewalk in front of the fitness dojo before they finally faded, likely from Darrell’s boots as he ran.  She remembered KO’s report of the robot kicking at the red paint and facepalmed.  

“Oh geez.  So much for cleaning up all the evidence he was here…”  She ran her finger over one of the tracks.  “It’s already dry.”

“Hang on, I think I know how to fix this!”  KO searched through the paint cans he’d collected and found the black one.  He slowly shook it as he’d seen Darrell do, then, holding it with both hands, pressed down on the top to spray a large black blob of paint onto the asphalt, covering the footprint fully.

Enid giggled, and patted him on the back.  “Vandalism is wrong, Brush Head.  But, good idea.”  She found him a lighter gray can for the sidewalk, and let KO cover the rest of Darrell’s tracks while she helped Rad finish on the wall.

--

Darrell’s subject matter wasn’t nearly as dark the next night, or the night after that.  They noticed from the roof that the crack in his head had been repaired, and he smiled and even hummed off-key as he worked, covering the wall in some more abstract, experimental images, like a door being shut in someone’s face with a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging on it, and a princess tiara being chewed on by a swarm of rats, and a few frogs jumping around in a puddle of oil. 

He seemed to be using the latter two to practice his shading, and even worked it into his “DB” tag, trying a gradient effect on the letters the fourth night, then a failed chrome effect the fifth night that he angrily painted over in plain red, and finally another attempt at the chrome on the sixth night that was a clear success. 

Of course, every night after he finished painting the wall, the trio painted over it once again, though not before Enid could take a photo.  She flipped through them at work on the seventh day since Mr Gar had tasked them with keeping the wall vandalism-free, until Red Action stopped her on one.

“Dude, this one’s sick!”  

“I know, right?  He’s actually getting really good.”  

“Man, it’ll really stink when you guys finally make him stop in the alley.”

Enid shook her head, trying to empty out the cobwebs and process what she had just heard.  “When...we make him stop?”

“Dude, you’ve been stayin’ up a whole week watching ‘im, right?  That can’t be good for ya.”  Red pointed out the dark bags under Enid’s eyes, and the fact that she’d dozed off at least twice since Red entered the bodega.

Enid recounted the number of graffiti murals she’d photographed.  There were seven, it had been an entire week.

No wonder she was so tired.

Enid yawned after being reminded of the fact, watching it spread throughout the store as KO and Rad both copied her.  

“We seriously have been up every night for an entire week, huh.”  She pressed at her forehead.  “Yeah, we gotta stop this.”

“I mean, it’s still cool and all, but whatever.”  Red scoffed.  “Probably for the best you just sleep and let ‘im go.  You gotta take care of yourself more.”

“What’s Mr Gar gonna think if we don’t cover it up every night, though?”  Enid shuddered.  

“Well, that’s why you gotta chase him away!”  Red unconsciously formed her hand into an arm cannon.  “Just blast ‘im a couple times, like you do when they bust over here during the day!”

Rad interrupted from aisle 2, “I can blast him tonight no problem!  Right in his robo-butt!”

Enid just shook her head, smiling.  “Rad, please think before you open your mouth for once…”  She finished ringing up Red Action’s order, waving her off as she left.  With the store now empty, Enid’s coworkers gathered around the counter.

“So, we’re really gonna stop Darrell tonight?”  KO yawned again.  

“Yeah, bud.  There’s no way we can keep this up.”

The other two were quiet, leaning against the counter to stay up.  Enid was so tired she didn’t even care they were touching her sacred space.

Suddenly Rad seemed to realize something.  “Hey, Enid, can I...try something tonight, when we see him in the alley?”

“Sure dude, what did you have in mind?”

“Remember when I took his backpack with all that paint, and I said I had a plan I was working on?”  

KO lit up.  “Oh yeah!  You were gonna repaint your van with that stuff!”  He laughed as Rad playfully punched him in the shoulder.

“No, squirt.  I was gonna do somethin’ cool for us, but it might work better to try it on him tonight.  You know, instead of just smashing his face.”  He looked uncharacteristically serious.  “The thing is, though...I gotta go get some stuff ready after we stop him.  So, can you and KO hold him there for a couple of minutes?”

Enid and KO looked at each other, and nodded.  

“Well, it sounds like we’ve got a plan,” Enid announced.  The three put out their fists, bumping them across the counter.  “See you guys tonight.”

--

For their final night of watching Darrell, the trio again hid in the junkyard, trusting that their target had relaxed enough to not look behind the trash piles again.  To their relief, he didn’t, and as he arrived Darrell simply set down his backpack and began rifling through it for the right color as usual.

“So, when he tries to run…”  Enid pointed towards the alley exit, on the parking lot side.  “Rad, you’ll catch him, then pass him off to us.  We’ll keep him here until you’re ready to go.”

Rad gave a thumbs-up, and readied himself alongside KO.  As Darrell finally selected his can and started shaking it, he loudly shouted, “Hey!”

Darrell turned around, his eye widening in shock at the sight of the alien jumping out from behind a trash pile and floating over the fence, the other two shrouded in a pink glow as he brought them along too.  He shrieked and bolted towards the parking lot, just as Enid had predicted, tossing the easily-dodged paint can in Rad’s direction.  Rad’s finger glowed as he quickly grabbed the robot’s legs with his telekinetic powers, then the rest of him, and yanked him back into the alley, where Enid and KO grabbed his arms and held him in place on the ground.

“You good?”

“Yeah, go for it!”  Enid adjusted her grip as Darrell struggled, and Rad sprinted away towards the loading dock.

“Stop it, Darrell!”  KO used a free hand to pat him on the head, to the robot’s confusion.  “We aren’t gonna fight you this time, okay?  Rad’s got a plan!”

“Oh, so what, you’re gonna turn me in or something?”  Darrell made another attempt to get free, but no success.

“No, you jerk.  We wanna talk.”  Enid paused, then experimentally loosened her grip to show she meant it.  “You cool with that, dude?”  

Darrell squinted.  “...Really?  Why?”

“Hang on, lemme show you something.”  She dug her phone out of her pocket.  “We’ve been staking you out here every night this week, to see what you paint.  And, I guess to cover it up too before Mr Gar sees.  But, we think it’s really cool, okay!”  She turned on the lock screen, showing the nuclear rat she still had on it.  “See?  I took pictures of all of them before we cleaned them up.”

Darrell looked up at the phone and, appropriately, made a tiny, scared squeak.  

“You’re...You’re gonna tell my dad I’ve been coming here, aren’t you?”  He stopped struggling, instead sitting up a bit and curling defensively into his cloak.  “That’s your plan, isn’t it?  Get me in trouble again, for sneaking out after curfew every night, with proof?”

“No, dude!”  She released her grip entirely, now that the robot was pacified.  “We’re saying we like your art!  Right KO?”

“Yeah!”   The boy giggled.  “I really liked the cowboy fighting that dragon, and that one with a lot of fire, and the snakes!  They were all really beautiful!”

Darrell paused, unsure how to even react.  “...R...Really?  You...thought they were...cool?”  He blushed, turning away from his archenemies.  “You guys thought...I was cool?”

“Eh, you’re still kind of a nerd.  But yeah, your art really is cool, Darrell.”  Enid unlocked her phone and flipped through the photos again as he watched.  “You’re getting really good.  Where did you even learn to tag like that?”

“Well, there’s this DJ on Social Media who posts a lot of tutorials.  I was just following those…”

“Nice.”  Enid flashed him a thumbs-up, but then landed on the painting of Darrell having his brain case punched in.  The robot shifted uncomfortably at seeing it again, averting his eye.  

“Is...there some bad blood going on between you and your dad right now, Darrell?”

He sunk into his cloak a little more, shrinking into the space between his captors.  “I don’t have blood,” the robot said matter-of-factly.  “But...I guess I was having a bad day.  You really saw that, huh?”

“Yep.  All of it.”  Enid shrugged.  “Sorry.”  She noticed Rad poking his head around the corner, beckoning them towards the back of the plaza.  “Hey, come on.  Rad’s got something for ya.”

“We don't know what it is,” KO added as he led the others, “but we know it’s not Lord Boxman!”

Darrell gave a small smile, and willingly followed the kid around the corner, gasping when he saw…

“My backpack!”  He dropped onto the ground and hugged it.  “I was looking everywhere for this thing!”

“That’s not the surprise, dude.  Look up.”  Rad stood proudly in front of three large shipping pallets, the kind the bodega received every day, all painted with the same white paint they had been using on the wall.  He had them leaned against the loading dock’s door, a ready canvas begging to be painted.

“Wait, these are...for me?”  Darrell stood, taking several seconds to process the situation.

“Look, buddy, graffiti-ing the plaza is...kind of illegal, but you weren’t really hurting anyone with it.  And this way you’re not actually painting anything on the plaza, and if Mr Gar doesn’t like it he can just toss ‘em and I’ll get you some new ones.”  Rad pointed to the pile of used pallets by the door.  “Seriously, we have so many…”

Darrell snapped out of his processing.  “So, I can come here at night...and tag these?  And you guys’ll let me?”  The bodega employees nodded.

He hugged his backpack tighter, not even bothering to hide the excitement on his face.  But then he thought for a moment, and set the bag down, pulling out a few random cans of paint.  

“Hey, um...If you guys want…”  He held one up towards KO.  “You wanna tag with me?  Just, like this once…”

KO happily took the paint.  “We’d love to, Darrell!”  He glanced at Enid and Rad, who just smiled and obliged, taking cans for themselves.  

The four each picked a portion of the canvas and got to work, not stopping until they started butting in on their neighbors’ art, and with the entirety of the three pallets covered they stepped back to admire the finished piece.  They could only laugh together at how much the art clashed, from Radicles’ rough depictions of muscled teal cats, to Darrell’s abstract gears and wires, to Enid’s ninja clan logos and a “DJ Fireball” tag, to KO’s very rough but lovingly-rendered painting of him and his friend Baby Teeth riding a unicorn to a hot dog stand (as he described it to his confused audience).  

Enid pulled out her phone to photograph the mural as this time Darrell scooped up the used cans into his reclaimed backpack, but as she was trying to get a clear shot Rad edged into the frame, standing in front of his section while contorting his face into the silliest possible expression.  KO almost immediately followed suit, ignoring Enid’s attempts to get the two to move.  Then Darrell backed into the frame as well, throwing an amazingly corny finger gun pose in front of his section, and Enid couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Rad?”

“On it.”  He used his power to hold the phone up and tap the selfie button as Enid took her place and ridiculous pose as well, and once everything was in place he snapped the picture.

“That was perfect!”  Darrell cried out, cracking up once again as he saw the final result.  He put on the backpack, then nervously tapped his fingers in front of him as he tried to think of what one was supposed to say to their mortal enemies after genuinely having fun together for over an hour.

“Th-Thanks for...all this.  Really.  I’ll...I’ll see you tomorrow when I attack the plaza, I guess.  Bye!”  He smiled and waved as he ran around to the parking lot again, using his rocket boots to cross the street.

The others stayed for a bit, still admiring the graffiti, but then KO broke out into laughter once again.

“What’s so funny, kid?”  Rad giggled a little along with him.

“You guys...we just hung out and painted a picture and took a funny selfie with a Boxbot.  Friend-style!”

The other two sat up in shock.  

“We...we really did, huh Brush Head?”  Enid joined in, laughing alongside KO and Rad.

“Oh man, I kinda wish we could tell Lord Boxman without Darrell getting in trouble.  I just wanna see the look on his face!”

“Don’t worry Rad, I bet he’d just be like…”  Enid made a face somewhere between ‘seething rage’ and ‘just ate the sourest candy in the world’, to the others’ amusement.  

The two picked themselves up and piled into Rad’s van, ready to finally call it a night for good.

--

“KO, Rad, and Enid!!”  The three immediately snapped to attention in front of Mr Gar, but then looked on in pure terror as their enraged boss held up a blue embroidered backpack full of spray paint.

“Anyone care to tell me what this was doing in the alleyway this morning?”

“Oh.”

“Uh…”  Enid and Rad searched for a way to explain the night’s activities, but then KO spoke up.

“The graffiti wiener came back last night, sir.  But we scared him before he could paint in the alley!”  Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

Gar harrumphed before handing the bag to the child.  “Well, good job I guess.  Now go do something with this where I can’t see it.”  He stomped back into his office, grumbling something about having to throw away a bunch of shipping pallets as well.

The employees breathed a sigh of relief, returning to their daily bodega tasks.  As KO began to carry the heavy backpack into the break room, though, the Boxmore alarm blared.

“Cob, now?  Really?”  Enid pinched her septum and hopped over the counter.  She led the charge to meet the two large boxes crashing into the parking lot, which seemed to be...yelling at each other?

Darrell and Shannon both broke out, focusing more on each other than the plaza.

“Look, I know you took it, so just tell me where it is!”

“I told you like three times Mushroom-Head, I don’t know where you left it!”

“You’re seriously still saying I lost my-!”  She looked at KO, still holding the backpack, and pounced, ripping it out of the child’s hands.  “My backpack!  What the heck are you losers doing with it?!”

KO glanced over her shoulder at Darrell, now very anxious that he’d been caught in his lies, and winked.  Darrell tried to wink back in return, but it ended up as more of a regular blink.

“We stole it!  And filled it with trash!”  KO claimed, as Shannon opened it to reveal the spray cans.  She tossed the bag aside in her confusion, and whipped out a sawblade right into his face.

“How dare you, you little…”

Rad yawned as he lifted her away with his telekinesis, throwing her right into the path of one of Enid’s fireballs, which in turn redirected the robot less-than-gracefully into the pavement.  With a final power punch from KO, Shannon was down for the count.

The three turned then to Darrell, who drew out his arm cannon but otherwise paused before his attack.  

“Hey, guys, um...I’ve gotta fight you right now, but...is it cool if we hang out again tonight?”  He shrugged.  “It was really fun.”

“Honestly that sounds awesome, bro, but…”  Rad motioned for Enid to continue as he dropkicked Shannon’s backpack over to Boxmore, for her to pick up once she rebooted.

Enid rubbed her eyes, still with dark circles under them.  “We have a lot of sleep to catch up on, dude.  Maybe next week?”  

Darrell gave her a thumbs-up in response, then powered up his cannon and charged into battle.

#ok ko #ok ko let's be heroes #ok ko darrell #ok ko enid #ok ko rad #ok ko ko #this might be one of the longest fanfics i've ever written holy shit #but i wanted to try these guys' character voices out so it was worth the day and a half #also seriously when's my jet set radio parody with darrell #emwrites

[cheezlogerratum]

A Persuasive Essay

☼

           The two duos of half-plastic half-rubber wheels have remained, for the past thirty seconds or so, at rest. Kurtis Spottiswoode, preferably to him Kurt, the owner of the pack, has been repeatedly, over and over, scanning a sign off to the side of the asphalt path. In yellow, it's been telling him:

ATHLETIC EVENT

... with an appropriate arrow pointing to the left. Still, in that same spot, he stands. He can't necessarily tell whether he's trying to understand something he's missing or if he's just spacing out, knowingly looking like a moron, but too afraid to break out of what he believes is a commitment. Even still. Eventually, Mr. Spottiswoode catches onto the fact that the sun has long been set and that there are no "ATHLETIC EVENT"'s in session at this time. His feet succumb to the decline and start stepping across into the parking garage wondering if the sign was placed for a past "ATHLETIC EVENT" or a future one? This is all he seems to think about in the structure, the halides buzzing above and the rumble of the little wheels on his backpack don't even register in his mind. He unlocks and enters his used Camry automatically and realizes he's driving, somehow unable to shake the image burned into his eyes or maybe his head:

ATHLETIC EVENT

←

           Mr. Spottiswoode arrived at his apartment complex at around 9:23pm, around a minute or two later than he usually remembers, and follows the rut path up to his apartment on the second floor. The residents on the first were shrieking, almost with no words, but it soon shifted into laughter and niceties he couldn't quite make out. He went to the bathroom, where he unzipped and went about his business looking at himself blankly in the mirror mysteriously installed right above, maybe a little crooked, the toilet. Kurt had small beady eyes and a large forehead mapped out by rows of remnants of brow folds and a receding hairline, brown and faint. The rest of his torso was adorned by a sport coat and a wrinkly plaid shirt, the rest is invisible. It was a lingering revelation in Mr. Spottiswoode's mind that he was wasting away, not really doing much, but he never wanted to address it head on in fear of possible sadness... but, as he undresses getting ready for bed, he wasn't feeling much now? Just sort of following what he'd always been doing and doing at as succinctly as he can, probably to occupy his mind from that "possible sadness".

☼

           Kurt was traversing through the input and output population of students in flux all around him, talking into headphones and trading glances back and forth, when he realized—the sign was still up! "ATHLETIC EVENT". He felt a minuscule rush inside of him, slightly increasing the speed of his pace, and making him aware of his breath, of his life. He looked around with his head at anything and everything of interest, impulsively, excited. ECSTATIC! He thought he might be forcing this adrenaline onto himself, but he told himself to shut up. Shut up! He was loving it, and would remain loving it all the way to class, his wheels rumbling at a higher pitch.

           Höffus Hall, room 488, was unlocked, dark, cold, and alone for the past thirteen hours or so. Mr. Spottiswoode, with his newfound motivation to live, flicked on the lights and plopped his computer bag onto the table offset at the front of class. He thought of himself as a bearer of life to the once dead or perhaps unborn room, mentally patting himself on the back as students came in at different intervals of time and frequency, totally unaware of their professor's enthusiasm. He unzipped his bag and brought out his old Dell laptop, gray and void of any personal touch. He logged in and fired up Microsoft Outlook, twiddling his fingers as more students populated the room. Outlook revealed itself, updated its folders, and notified the user of an "important message" he received. WOW! Kurt clicked the alert and he was brought to an e-mail sent by an unfamiliar address containing the following:

dear professor,

ive been thinking about alot of things like the paper we were made to write a few weeks ago. i know i haven't finished it and i bet its too late to turn it in now for any grade and i know im failing the class, but i cant fail this class and i think this paper is the only thing that will save me. i hope you understand. ill have the essay done by the start of class on thursday but if you dont accept it or give me a high enough grade to pass the class im going to kill you. i dont want to kill you but i also dont want to fail. i hope you understand.

best, your student

           Kurt Spottiswoode read the message over a few more times, just to make sure, again, not knowing what he was feeling, but whatever it was it wasn't exciting. Before he even had the chance to reply, or give the message a sixth reading, or to think about what the hell, just what the hell he was going to do? he looked at the clock in the bottom right and saw it change from 11:13 AM to 11:14 AM right before his eyes, four minutes late. He looked up with a buzzy sharp air behind his eyes, at a loss of what to even do. What to say? Most importantly, WHAT?

           "Uhhh," Spottiswoode emitted, "who was it that sent me an e-mail this morning?"

           Blank. The look on the students' faces suggested that he had said absolutely nothing. Instead of reading the students for any kind of response, he started to read for any clues, any telling thing coming from any of their persons that might inform him of the presence of a possible murderous psychopath enrolled in his class. There were only 19 students on the registrar but only, after doing the math with his eyeballs for a few seconds, 11 students present. Both the fear of the anonymous student's absence and the regret of not making attendance mandatory via a sign-in sheet and a significant percentage allotted to "Attendance" in the final grade struck him like headlights he wasn't aware he was invading the path of. He quietly surveyed those present in class and what he knew of them. To his knowledge, only 3 students were failing the class, and one of them, Mehi Georgensen, was present, but he knew for a fact she turned in the last assignment. The prompt, by the way, was to write a persuasive essay supporting their opinion on the scientific studies surrounding the spike in American crime rates in the 1970s and 1980s and how experts believe that the trace amounts of lead found in gasoline sold during this time is directly related to the uptick in violence and aggression in people who are exposed to automobiles on a regular basis if not daily. Mehi's essay was roughly 85% blockquotes, 5% topic and concluding sentences, and another 10% dedicated to an enlarged, pixelated image of a red, turned dark gray by the printer, gasoline jug. No, Kurt thought, it can't be her. The other two names failing the class were Eloy Hewitt and Harold Skouras III, both with zeros in the gradebook, but that's all they were to Mr. Spottiswoode. He tried forcing himself to remember who these boys were, what they looked like, who the sick culprit could be. He started to sweat and realized so when a droplet fell from his nose and onto his knuckle belonging to his right hand cupping his mouth out of a side effect of vigorous thought, if you could even call it that. It was now 11:19 AM and Kurt stood back up, hands at his side, eyes open, looking again trying to recognize anyone. He knew who some of the kids were but couldn't remember others because of, what he thought was, a lack of in-class participation. He did, however, recognize Kevin, hands clasped together resting on the table up front, good posture, beaming at Mr. Spottiswoode. Kevin, politely responding to Kurt's gaze, cracked open a smile, unimaginably ready to learn. What a good egg Kurt thought, and looking at this kid, this bright and utterly innocent young man smiling undoubtedly at him, his spirits were lifted by a fraction of security, but that was enough. Kurt breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, clearing his throat, coughing, and began the day's belated lesson.

           Sitting in his assigned corner of office room number 528, populated by a desk, a shelf, a disconnected phone with the cord bunched up, various handbooks on MLA, APA, and Chicago format, yesterday's ¾ eaten Subway sandwich, a stack of filled manila folders, a photo of Bruce Springsteen printed out on an 8.5 x 11 inch sheet of paper taped to the wall, and a lamp—Mr. Spottiswoode sat leaned back in his office chair borrowed from the downstairs supply closet, staring, arms crossed, eyes serious, at his computer screen. The e-mail shone through the screen, he couldn't stop thinking. He followed a tangent marveling at the screen itself and its thousands of little pixels made by three columns, red, blue, green, each flickering at him performing as one chunk of some incomplete illusion, creating the image of something that is anything but. Kurt, at a loss, followed multiple tangents like that, perhaps, in a kind of unconscious fashion, trying to find some external excuse or explanation for all this. Surely, surely, it can't be real right? It made no sense, absolutely, completely, totally no sense whatsoever, that this array of pixels that have orchestrated themselves in varying degrees of dimness onto his laptop screen could spell out so plainly and absent of reality his own eventual fate. Well, it doesn't have to come true, does it? Kurt Spottiswoode couldn't believe that he didn't just think of giving in and offering the perp the grade he so desired. Yes. Yes! That was it! He didn't even take into account the circumstance of his academic honor, he had his life! Once again, "LIFE!" He was up, his fists were in the air, his legs were spread apart, and his breathing had escalated into a pant. Yu Quoque, or Professor Quoque as she vehemently prefers, in the opposite corner saw him and witnessing this side of Kurt she had never seen before, she stared, on the phone, mouth slightly agape.

           "Where are you," over the phone, "what was...?"

           "Nothing," Yu whispered, "just work."

☼

           It was Wednesday, the next day, game day! Kurt missed whatever athletic event that happened the day before due to the fact that he was fearing for his life, but now, having found out what to do about the whole situation, he decided to treat himself to a nice, relaxing, athletic event, which happens to be a weeklong championship. Mr. Spottiswoode arrived at the makeshift ticket booth, which was a plastic table with a print out of ticket prices taped to the front side and a cheap cash box guarded by two girls, both with one earbud in whatever ear was facing away from each other, and inquired, "Hello! One ticket for the athletic event and please!"

           "Eight dollars please," the girls in unison, almost in harmony.

           Kurt immediately took to his various pockets in his coat, pants, and satchel, where he finally found a dilapidated ten-dollar bill with a frowny face drawn on Hamilton's face. The girl on the right snatched it, the girl on the left gave him the ticket, and the girl on the right gave him one dollar in change, but he was so ecstatic and overwhelmed by the butterflies in his stomach that he didn't even realize. He wobbled right up to the bleachers taking it all in, smiling, just like Kevin, and started down the steps. The sun was blaring but the air was freezing, a paradox Kurt pondered on fairly often before, but not today, game day! He found a nice spot just above half way down and sat down next to an incredibly buff guy with, who Kurt assumed was, the man's son wearing a black hoodie and buggy glasses. "Isn't this just great," Kurt broke the ice, "this is just... agh! It! You know?"

           "I don't."

           "What's your name?"

           "What's your name?"

           "... I'm Kurt! Err, Professor Kurt to you though, haha!"

           "Goodbye Kurt."

           And the big man got up, even more ginormous than he... holy shit—walked down the bleachers, stomping between other attendees and their picnics, to another spot. Kurt stared a while at the man and thought of his nerve, how someone can be so mean and... rude? but he caught himself in the act of negativity and tried to snap out of it, clamping his eyes shut as a reset mechanism of sorts. Upon opening them, he saw the faded green field, but the longer he looked, the more green it got. He started getting the hang of it and tried it on the trees, the bleachers, and even the jumbo man. The spark of an auxiliary cord boomed through the stadium and was shortly followed by T.I.'s "Bring Em Out" featuring Jay Z. "BRING EM OUT BRING EM OUT" The players jogged onto the field and started warming up, running around preset patterns of cones over and over. Just beneath the song blaring throughout the entire area, echoing off the apartments just next door, Kurt heard a voice, "What's today." Kurt felt it to his left and realized the voice was coming from the kid in the hoodie, still sitting where he first saw him.

           "Wednesday?"

           "And tomorrow?"

           "... Thursday."

The kid hadn't even turned his head to Kurt, in fact, Kurt hadn't even seen the kids' lips, only his eyes bulging out of the edge of his hood. "I need you to proofread something for me," the glasses said.

           "Do I know you?" Kurt inquired.

           "It's important, it's my life's work."

           "I can give you my office hou-"

           "I feel twisty, I can't move correctly... I'd appreciate this greatly."

           "... Ha ha, come on now, let's just enjoy the game?"

           "It's only if I express what I mean and get my point across in a certain perfect way and if I have a clear thesis and purpose to the essay and I make myself believable to the reader that I will get an A."

           "... Harold?"

           "I just need a professional opinion."

           "Eloy!?"

           "It's not done yet I'm sorry."

           And the glasses dropped 8 loose sheets of what Kurt can already make out as a poorly formatted essay and strode his way up the bleachers as swiftly as possible. The sheets were lifted by the wind and flew up down left right forward back, all directly away from Mr. Spottiswoode. Kurt scrambled to follow all of the sheets at once while the image of that hood and those lenses and his voice seared into his mind, playing in a loop, all floating in a superposition playing at the same time, over and over and over again. Kurt caught one of the pages, repeating, "one, one" and so on in his head, adding to the jumble, now worried, now realizing, all at once, that death was way too near. "Two, two two two" but what? He felt silly again, remembering he had a plan, a master one you could call it, but he still felt petrified, sad, wasting away, stumbling over people at an athletic event reaching desperately for pages of an essay a kid is threatening his life over. He lost track of all the remaining pages, looked around, drenched, and saw a page in the middle of the field. He ran down the steps, head bobbing, eyes on the sheet, feeling utterly lightheaded, and sprinted into the field, tunnelvisioned, and bonked heads with a girl swerving out of a row of cones. The audience's collective shocked, "Ooooohh" and a girl nearby's inhaling hissing sound of pain only made everything worse, and he felt like a kid. Mr. Spottiswoode reluctantly opened his eyes and looked at the girl rubbing her head and only thought of himself, how he looked, how people must think of him now, and, somewhat noticing, his stomach sunk. He tried, "I didn't... I'm sorry I'm sorry," under his breath. He grabbed the piece of paper, now grass stained, and made his way up the stairs, eyes down, only wanting to leave, only wanting to go home, and as the girl got up, ready to rumble, the audience broke out in applause.

←

           Kurt couldn't even look at Sally Pilckner and her glasses without shuttering somewhat, or feeling some sharp sweat incoming, so for the remainder of her presentation, he looked down at her converse pretending to be following along when really, truly, he's completely lost. He had already taken attendance to no avail, had sort of thumbed through the essay, but hasn't been able to read it, not even knowing if he should or not. So here he is, Kurt, sat, in the back of a classroom, looking at shoes and contemplating his chances of life or death. The ginormous mega man played in his head over and over, torturing himself somehow just for fun, relatively. "Observe," he remembered "Listen, yes!" So he tried, forcing his brain to latch onto everything happening in the room, which—well, he didn't know—wasn't working. He attempted to consciously meditate on the PowerPoint slide stricken on the pull down screen, bleeding off to the edges onto the whiteboard, infuriatingly so, and thought about the words without reading them:

           HUMANOID.

           CORN.

           BC.

           And he just thought, tried to imagine. He pictured a humanoid in his head and saw wiggles and a form blinking, on and off. The harder he tried the faster it disappeared. Okay uhh, the corn! He saw a kernel, a nugget, perfectly formed, so well imagined he was impressed with himself. Mr. Spottiswoode sat with that little kernel suspended in his mind, projecting it in front of his eyes, over the words, bouncing it around the room, putting it over Sally's face. "UuuaAAAGGHHHCHOOOO!!"

           "Bless you," in unison, harmonious monotone.

           Kurt, looking at the culprit's face a bit too long finally realized the kernel had been erased from his mind. The panic struck him and the sweat kicked back in, trying and trying, squinting and bubbling his mouth. Mr. Spottiswoode needed a plan B, so he remembered:

           BC.

           Okay, this can do. He chugged into his noggin the image of rocks... rocks? And monkeys, for some reason, a wheel? He was doing his best, breathing in and out. "Knowing what uh... how corn was the main commodity in indigenous cultures, what would the world look like right now if we used corn for money?" Dead flat silence, but Sally didn't seem to mind. The class willingly sat in the hoisted dead noise of the room, adding to it every millisecond, everyone thinking someone else will talk, they have to, why aren't they? Why is everyone doing this? And Pilckner, Sally stood face to face to the excruciating silence, swaying, hands clasped behind her back, sniffling, heard a cough, grounding the silence to the utmost potency of bad participation skills. Kurt felt himself walking but didn't remember doing so, and somehow decided to stop right beside Sally, too close, she steps back, and those monkeys are still in his mind, swinging and hooting until they come across a kernel, a big one, glowing in the shattered sun shooting through the tall grass, or the banana leaves, either or? staring at this weird yellow coconut. It's here that they stop moving, their personalities and characteristics put on hold, freeze framed, with the class waiting and peeking under the rim of the table trying to be sneaky superimposed atop the scene before Christ, now at the same time, both immobile, not moving, freeze framed and dead. Kurt stood there until the clock struck 11:58 AM, close enough, and the irresistible sound of ruffling papers and backpack zippers filled the room, sparking some kind of Pavlovian response in the students telling them, "it's time to go", which was probably for the best.

           Kurt Spottiswoode decided to keep on driving tonight, not a clear decision but merely allowing himself to do so. Millbrae now, by the BART station, the monumental Chase Bank shining blue up the columns, credit card slots blinking and egging him on, that Peter's Café across the street, still open, still not much business... but boy, oh boy... Kurt took a leap of faith and pulled an illegal U-turn across the yellow line, the toast in his sights. He parked haphazardly and sat for a minute or two, looking at the fog grow on his windows, and waited for it to completely shell his car. He was now encased, in his own little world he thought, free of anything and everything except him and the essay, now sort of dead within the new realm of his. It was only paper, just neatly formed, digitally stamped stains of ink on a page, saying nothing in particular. He wanted to marinate in this, get the feeling then go, and he went. The wet chill struck him as he left the stratosphere he created, and, with the essay in hand, walked into the snoozy joint.

           A song he couldn't recognize right away was wrapping itself up, and right when he thought he knew the song, "HI welcome to Pete's Café!" She popped up from right behind the circular bar, knowing he was going to be there somehow. She slapped down the menu, the cocktail menu, and a freshly laminated dessert menu. "Freshly laminated!"

           "Yep," Kurt sniffed the menu, "That's fresh for sure, hahahaha!" laughing more for himself than her.

           "What can I start you off with tonight?"

           "Just toast, please."

           "Sweetie, just toast?"

           "Yep just toast."

           The look on her face spelled imminent harm, then immediately transformed into unconditional hospitality. "Vikas! Toast! Sure thing sweetie," snatching the menus in one swoop.

           "Thanks uhh," trying to read her name tag but only caught a V.

           He looked around the place, at the lighting hung in trios across the sloped ceiling, the booths hidden by CLINK... Kurt looked down and saw a plastic tumbler, blue and chipped, filled with water and weak ice cubes, but no V in sight. Noticing this, he noticed everything, which wasn't much, just a diner open for business, no patrons. He sat tapping his fingers in a kind of rhythm when "Is That All There Is?" by Peggy Lee jumps on the overhead speakers.

I remember when I was a very little girl, our house caught on fire I'll never forget the look on my father's face as he gathered me up in his arms and raced through the burning building out to the pavement I stood there shivering in my pajamas and watched the whole world go up in flames And when it was all over I said to myself, is that all there is to a fire

Is that all there is, is that all there is If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing...

           Once that chorus kicked in he was humming along, eyes closed and drinking out of the mini cup. He opened his eyes and there before him was the essay, off to the side, right where he left it. He was lost in looking, only thinking about reading it, telling himself he wasn't afraid, and then the glasses appeared again, knowing that they belonged to the student, that the student typed this and printed it out, touched it, the net total of his movements to that moment of delivery resulted in the crimps and creases in the pages, the same on every page, again and again.

Let's break out the booze and have a ball If that's all there is...

           His hand shot out at the pages and smacked them once, not knowing what to expect, just a release? Kurt looked up and saw V staring at him before she broke out into strides in his direction. He grabbed the paper and started reading it vigorously.

professor Spottiwoods

Rough Draft

Pedagogyy is the study of how tot each a class in school, anywehere, like elementary school or college. I have been in school for almost all of my life and I feel like I have a big say in how I should be taught in school. There has been much discusssion on what progressive pedagogy might look like, but it has always been discussed and taught in regressive pedagogical systems, which is something liek a paradox isn;t it? we seem to think education is the greatest good, it keeps us young, that's what Aristotle thought, but these systems are old, the teachers are old, and theyf ail to realize that they they are only apart of an institu

           "SPOTTISWOODE?" Kurt froze in the middle of that word he knew was going to be 'institution', maybe spelled wrong, but couldn't help but feel several shots of adrenaline pumping through his body, his heart trying to compensate. "PROFESSOR SUPERWOOD IN THE FLESH!!"

           Mr. Spottiswoode craned his shoulders around to see Zip Baltgalvis—he thinks? —and can only widen his eyes. Zip skips over to Kurt's seat lugging what might be three backpacks at full capacity while Kurt creeps back at the paper, wide eyed, blank, stuck on the same word. Zip spins into the seat next to Kurt's and side hugs him, not responding. "Duuude what's good Spurt? ... It's me!" Kurt turns his head, zonked out, to Zip, frozen in a smile with his fingers turned inwards into his chest. "Zip..." Kurt emitted.

           "Ziiiff!" exasperated, "Ziff Baltgalvis! Twenty-fourtee-" leaning in closer for the whisper-shout, "Twenty-fourteen man! Duude! You're here!!"

           "I'm... here."

           "Yes! Yes!"

           "Hey where's my toast..." slurring and directed in the direction of unseen employees.

           Ziff looked down at the essay through the blonde frizz hanging in front of his face. "State huh? State huuuhh!!? MAN in the flesh! Front and center, late night!! You know, I've been working on things..."

           "Things."

           "Things mmhm... some futuristic things," nodding slowly almost to hypnotize Kurt.

           "What things..."

           "I've been thinking about those things, like to help the future out. Man, Kurt, your mind will be buhlown."

           "Uhh... toast," again at the ghost place.

           "Yeaaah man toast! You're brain'll fry man right on!"

           "What do you mean?"

           "Oh you just gotta come and see."

           "See what Zip?"

           A plate of burnt toast lands and swivels down onto the table in front of Kurt, on top of the essay.

           "The future man..." nodding.

☼

           Kurt Spottiswoode didn't even know he was fast asleep until his own drool cooled by the leather returned to his cheek, sliding his face into consciousness. Wriggling his fingers, cracking them, still on his side, his arm slept along with him. He was awake, but only with his eyeballs. Everything else was testing the waters. Every few seconds the interior would illuminate, sometimes yellow but most times teal-ish, and Kurt was in it and apart of it, an honorary component of the car. Kurt inched his head up off the seat to get a better look at the LED clock up front. It was 12:02, most likely AM. He plopped his head back down, scrunching his mouth to avoid the drool as he tried making sense of the situation he was in. This wasn't his car, he wasn't driving, he wasn't tied up, he was stagnant yet rumbling across asphalt barely any more than two feet from his wet cheek, as the crow flies. Mr. Spottiswoode liked it here, liking the most being able to pretend to be invisible, or to transcend the state everyone thinks you're in, knowing something no one else in the world knows. It was also the quiet of the interior which implied a disappearance of everything outside and anything in the future, just being able to lay... wait... future...

           "COCKADOODLEDOO TEACH! Un-conked?"

           "Muh... Zip,"

           "Hahyeah,"

           "Zi-," stuck on a clog in his throat.

           "Honest man, be honest,"

           "Where are we going?"

           "Dude, you remember this!"

           "I...?"

           "You can think it man, you can access this,"

           "Why was I..."

           "If you just reaaally think,"

           "Is it... Thursday?"

           "Unrelated inquiry, unrelated inquiry,"

           "Zip come on-"

           "Patience is a virtue,"

           "This is fuckin-"

           "Woah, woah,"

           "This is frankly, fucking stupid Zip!"

           "WOOOAH WOOAH,"

           "I wanna know! Where am I going? Where am I being taken to?"

           "I w-"

           "ZIP my foot is down it's being put down right now you got to tell me,"

           Ziff looked back over his shoulder at Kurt, now up in his seat drenched in sweat, eyes locked and loaded. The light outside illuminates the car in red for a split second, distant honking. Ziff looks back and forth hoping he isn't seeing and hearing correctly.

           "I don't like the way you look right now man,"

           "Zip,"

           "I don't friggin' appreciate those looks man!"

           Ziff is nearly done pulling the car over to the side of the road into the grassy overflow of an empty lot next to them once he says this. The back of Ziff's head jerks about, trying to put the car in park while storming out of the car at the same time. "Jesus... ZIP!! ZIP!" Kurt yells at Ziff with the foggy passenger window in the way, trying to unbuckle himself. "ZIIIIIP!!" It was Thursday, it was without a doubt Thursday, and it all came crashing into Mr. Spottiswoode's stomach. Kurt didn't even consciously think these thoughts, but he knew somehow by the way his neurons scrambled to ignite, scrambling together as one, but the buckle is jammed. Kurt sits back and processes the vagueness of himself at this moment, unconsciously looking around, widening his eyes, tuning out everything in order to tune out himself, and the door closes. He looks up and sees the long hair splitting out from Ziff's head. "Zip, where are we,"

           "Mr. Spottiswoode, it'd be really sick if you said sorry,"

           "I'm sorry, now-"

           "For what?"

           "For yelling at yo-"

           "And?"

           "And?"

           Ziff turned his head around to look through the gap under the headrest, eyes worn and wet.

           "And."

           "..."

           "Ziff."

           "No, no no, slip of the tongu- er the mind. I'm sorry. My-"

           "I really wanted you to see what I made Mr. Spottiswoode,"

           "Sure-"

           "When I saw you at Pete's tonight I thought that it was like fate, like that dramatic shit... right?"

           "Sure yea-"

           "I thought 'Hey Kurt's here, I bet he'd like to hang with me' you know? See me..."

           "Yeah,"

           "I thought you were gonna be like the guy who pretends he didn't make eye contact or something, and I was bummed out Mr. Spottiswoode. You were like the first guy... to uh... like really, you know, get me stoked on learning shit. And you were eating and I knew that it was like that fate happening maybe, like the universe collapsed on itself for that one time right?"

           "Sure,"

           "Do you get the same emotions too?"

           "Maybe, I don't really know,"

           "Cause like, the universe likes us...? Like it doesn't stop turning. It's like it keeps wanting us to know something, like..."

           And Ziff stopped, seemingly lost in that universe that led him to what he thought was right now, but Kurt, on the other hand, was back on the paper. "Ziff, I need to sleep I'm sorry."

           Ziff dug into one of the three backpacks he dropped in front of his front door to fish out the keys. Kurt was keeping his distance considerable out in the middle of a parking lot, by the car. Ziff tumbled the keys into the lock and cracked open the door, creaky to the point of filing a complaint with whatever de facto powers that be. The place was lit by strung lights around every edge, ceiling, doorway, floor, but only out of necessity of upholding the common courtesy to the household. Ziff lifted his arms in introduction of the place, "Uh, you can crash on the couch probably."

           Pots and pans brought Kurt back to the waking world, seamlessly too. What amazed Kurt's brain, the first thought in his head this morning, was how shrill these utensils ringing off each other were and how, somehow, that comforted him. He rubbed the sleep off his eyes and got up to mull. He scuffled towards the kitchen a few feet away and stood in the doorway, drawing a blank at the kid with pleasingly messy hair, jammies, bare feet, flipping a piece of bread with a hole in the middle occupied by an egg. The kid felt his presence and gave a half-nod half-smile, what Kurt came to hypothesize as a newly evolved human instinct. Kurt leaned on this doorway, scanning the room for a clock or any other furnishing that might give him a clue of some kind. A group of kids passed by him, recalling, "...ea and his brother was a raccoon in the firs..." and further down the hall a burst of "pffff" and laughter bounced back to him as he tried logging the series of events in his brain. Looking, still standing, invisible again, superposed in this doorway and periodically thrusting his body off enough to fall back onto the wall. A printer fired up in a room somewhere reciting its rhythm of obeying the data it's been fed, music to his ears but merely instinct to itself. But now the printer was approaching...? It was getting louder and louder, its rhythms becoming more complex, fading into Kurt's range of comprehension, but the closer it got the less he knew, the more it wasn't printing anything. Kurt leaned his torso over to peer through the commons area and into the main hallway, footsteps thrown into the mix now too. An upright arrangement of plastic and spinning metal emerged from behind the opening to the room, then a rubber foot inched down onto the wood floor, and the robot was now recognized by Kurt alone. It continued forward, stopped, made minor adjustments to the placement of its feet, and made way straight towards Kurt. His stomach sank and kicked into some kind of action backwards and to his left feeling his way towards some cover of sorts. Kurt crouched behind the side of the fridge, peering out at the rest of the kitchen. The whirring got louder, again, and the robot emerged, again, stopped, repositioned, continued in Kurt's direction. Kurt stayed put this time only because he couldn't think of anything else other than the fact there was a fucking robot walking straight towards him. The robots innards became clearer and clearer as it approached, stopped, repositioned, and reached for the fridge handle, and pulled it, pinching Kurt's fingers. He freaked out for a split second but didn't want to make any sounds in an effort to preserve the invisibility thing that the robot may or may not have seen right through. The door closed and revealed a jug of soylent in the robot's plastic nubs, repositioning away, and inching back out of the kitchen. Kurt stood up and stared at the robot, mouth wide open, sweat flowing, trying to think of its thoughts and what it must be conscious of to do what it does, where it's stored, what it means to it, does it feel what Kurt feels, does it know? A poke arrived on Kurt's left shoulder and he spun around clockwise to whoever it must be, who turned out to be... "Sorry,"

           "Nono I'm sorry," Kurt rattled out.

           "Just getting the uh," she reached up to the cabinet above Kurt's head, which he dodged as it swung open.

           "Woo heheh,"

           "Wanna sit?"

           "Wuh,"

           "Down?"

           "Well okay yeah sure heheh,"

           And he looked underneath and around himself and settled on sitting on the tile, criss-cross applesauce. "Do you go here?" she asked, eyes on the readymade pancake mix.

           "A- me? No I uhhh... I don't, no. I uh don't. Do you?"

           "Yes I go here."

           "Pretty cool, pretty cool uhmm... for what?"

           "Literature, but I'm thinking of changing,"

           "To uhh... ?" shrugging, nervously laughing.

           "Electrical engineering,"

           "And uh, why's that?"

           "I'm working on a project of my own right now with a team of people so I sort of just want time to work on it and E.E. offers independent study in their labs so,"

           "What's the something?"

           "I've been studying the stichomythia of reading common literature. Technically it isn't stichomythia, but it sounds nice to me for some reason and for what I do. So I study that stuff, the ups and down of laughter, contagious at moments and absent the next. Could you read a book or get its sense and flow from the mere knowledge of the progression of chuckles? Or guffaws? What does a 'guffaw' suggest in a story? This depends on the reader, though, which makes my job complicated. There's a flaw in studying and observing these things with people, who read and re-read, the speed increases and decreases, and this warps and distorts the nature of my work, the laughs and chuckles. Me and my team are now looking at developing a system which reads a book at an average pace, its text, and pinpoints or detects the humorous areas to give us a controlled, concise, perfect result of this landscape, the musicality that might be objective to itself and its language that the common subjective emotional someone simply lacks the capability of experiencing. This is what I do,"

           Teams? Landscapes, chuckles, this was all he could pick up on knowing the robot was walking around the place with soylent in its hands. He tried to be interested, but his mind was firing on other cylinders and sputtering out in the process. He was looking at the pan, sometimes focusing in on his periphera and the figures wearing mute colors walking in and out and past in silence—but what was silence to him, Kurt Spottiswoode thought, might have been a universal language to them that he was left out of. "What do you think of that?" He forgot.

           "Sounds pretty cool to me!" looking for something to catch his attention.

           "Do you read?"

           "I uh read lots of things every day yep,"

           "Enjoy it while you can,"

           "Well, you too heh! I'll uh see you around," offering a small wave and some kind of mouth movement he hoped would come off as normal. As he shuffled his way out, she started to mumble and hum the words to a song, loud and proud, making pancakes. He didn't know, he couldn't know if this was just himself projecting, but it sounded like she was humming the words to "Is That All There Is?", pushing himself away now, embarking himself into the house keeping his ears out for the bot. He stepped softly in hopes of the robot not hearing him, and he waddled and peered around and down the halls, doors open, now releasing lots of machine noise, almost every room. He walked up the stairs with his eyes locked on the chandelier which was smothered in webs and dust blocking the way of any light that might be wanting to pass through and offer itself. He was feeling his way upwards, and at the top he saw another commons area with a few couches riddled in no pattern whatsoever, and on one sat the robot, with its soylent in hand. Kurt sleuthed his way by way of his back to the wall down the hallway, soft stepping. "GOOOOOOD MOOORNIIING PALO ALTOOO," Kurt's body scrunched and searched for Ziff's whereabouts, leaning, dodging nothing, and finally finding it, papers and clutter reaching the ceiling and Ziff sitting in it all like a throne with his soylent in hand. "Where ya been buddy?"

           "Ziff listen I have a lot of papers to-"

           "Next on the program we have none other than English Composition extraordinaire-"

           "Ziff,"

           "Bonafide rager-maestro and chug champ 2000,"

           "Ziff that rob-"

           "AND honorary member of the fun boys themselves, Kurt 'Spurt' Spottiswoode!" as he started clapping by himself, clapping rang out from the rest of the second floor. He wheeled himself on his rolly-chair, stood up, and took Kurt by the shoulder leading him back down the hall. "We are utterly stoked to have you on this morning,"

           "Heh I-"

           "Mup, I'm asking the questions, I'm the teach... what is the future to you?" holding the air-mike up to Kurt's mouth.

           "It's soon,"

           "Would you say it's now?"

           "No cause... now's the present?"

           "But the now always changes right?"

           "I guess, but-"

           "Have you ever seen the future?"

           "No,"

           Ziff was now jogging over into the commons area, Kurt already knowing what the punchline would be. "Would you-"

           "Ziff, I need to go home,"

           "I gotta introdu-," taking the soylent out of the robot's hands.

           "Ziff. I'm going," backing down the stairs.

           "Kuuurt... Dude..."

           And everything seemed to fade out, leaving only Kurt's mind reeling in place. He got out onto the street and started following it wherever it went, freezing cold outside. He replayed that robot in his mind a long while and kept zooming in on its soylent trying to find a semblance of a clue that would lead him to some peace of mind, but he couldn't, just stuck in replay. Whatever direction Mr. Spottiswoode was heading in, there were trains.

           Kurt was staring while his mind rambled out the window. The train, he thought, was way too quiet, an environment that discouraged the cocoon of isolation he loved putting himself into. The tracks might as well have been non-existent, leaving Kurt the sole pleasure of listening to his own ears, ringing to themselves to avoid insanity, an instinct. For a moment, Kurt believed that the window his head was leaning on was nothing but another screen, extremely high definition, millions of pixels perfectly and spectacularly calibrated to fool passengers of any scenic route that might have been perceived. It had to be a conspiracy against the senses. What if the screen was hiding something grim and evil? Like an unforgivable violation of human's rights? Dwindling shacks, bodies slogging around awaiting their doom—if his eyes were to penetrate this screen, he wondered, maybe his eyes would meet someone else's, and maybe he would see something rapturous and impossible there in the shared misery, if that's what it was, only to witness it being cloaked by the train's comfy encasing, vanishing behind perspective.

           The corridors of Höffus Hall, human activity simmering down to bathroom breaks and "bathroom breaks", stood in preparation of fulfilling its intended purpose. Direction, visibility, transportation, criss-cross applesauce. Kurt lunged himself up through the stairwell, leaning into the curves of the railing for momentum, his rolly-backpack skipping on the steps, and jumped at the last step for the 4th floor, expecting another. He nearly jogged down the hallway mouthing, "Thursday Thursday, this," as he exhaled every other step. He kept his eyes on his door, erasing anything else from his perception to maximize efficiency. The door opened and out came, rushing, faceless, a slew of students escaping Room 488, breaking off into different directions, unsure if their rut is scheduled correctly or not. The students walking towards Mr. Spottiswoode passed with no regard, purposeful or not, either being plausible he thought. His legs and tiny wheels kept on chugging, though, traversing the hallway renewed with activity indifferent to its origin. Kurt swung open the door and immediately saw Kevin hunched over, shuffling with something. Mr. Spottiswoode moved into position at the front of class, behind his tabletop podium, faux-mahogany desk, and in front of the broken projector screen hanging askew, whiteboard neglected by former courses teeming with information, and sat down in his plastic mold desk chair, which let out a rubbery whine as he landed. Kevin turned around revealing his backpack, filled with five 2" wide binders and what sounded like a load of pencils Kurt assumed were infused with varying increments of graphite intensity, pooling underneath the organization. Kevin became pale as he met Kurt's eyeballs, both of them caught in the act of something untold, implied. The kid, his face tense and vulnerable, who Kurt couldn't believe was the same one who beamed joyous respect at him every single day of class, a scholarly constant, dislodged the frog in his throat.

           "Thank you for the semester Professor Spottiswoode. I wrote you a reflection highlighting how this course improved my ability to critically think about the world and how it presents itself to us and how I can express my personal perception of it through concrete argumentation and healthy sentence structure," digging into one of his binders from the top, sniffling, "I learned that writing a good essay will help you throughout the rest of your life, establishing pathos, logos, and ethos in order to engage the reader is key to allowing anyone to take what you say seriously, perhaps because deep down these elements and rules that go into a well written essay, like relevant topic sentences, presentation of evidence, and analysis of that evidence..." wobbling exasperation, "perhaps these are the fundamentals of life itself and why we love one another and why we make the decisions we make, even our mistakes. It's all one cosmic engaging, insightful, organized essay that we just can't read quite yet," carefully placing the quarter-inch thick packet on the table, "I learned that from you, and it's something I hope to pass onto my children and their children, and I hope to pursue a Master's so I can teach this truth to the next generation of students like you have. This is a part of my essay, I know it and can't control it, I can only proofread it," he picks up and rushes out the door, teary and red-faced, "You're the best teacher ever!" tripping on the door-stop, his sobs bouncing down the hallway in every direction, the most emotional energy this building has ever experienced, undoubtedly seeping into the firmament of the place, dormant and undisturbed, stored in a feedback loop.

           The clock nailed into the wall above the doorway rotated into 11:29 AM, followed close behind by the internal clock in Mr. Spottiswoode's laptop, tucked away in sleep mode inside of Kurt's rolly-backpack. Kurt unzipped the biggest pocket and logged into his laptop, Outlook opening on its own, following orders. The inbox updated and there, waiting, was an e-mail from Ziff with the subject line, "vid of my creation!!!! ;D" Kurt Spottiswoode sat and waited, leaving the e-mail unopened, watching the screen, hand curled into a fist at rest supporting his head, eyes forward. Had he been paying attention, he would've heard the uproar of footsteps outside, vague murmuring, screeching chairs and tables in neighboring rooms to the left, right, upstairs, downstairs, the beeping of high-powered turbo-toasters, motorized longboards whizzing by, trucks backing up, something custodial collapsing, honking, keys jangling to each step, someone quietly running late to class, electrical cars humming, mysterious whooping, and a burst of applause amplified by the valley of dorms just outside the classroom window. Both clocks hit 12:00 PM at almost the same time. Kurt dragged his finger across the trackpad to click the refresh button. Nothing. He hit refresh again. Nothing. He hit refresh. Over and over and over.

←

#big #writing #short story #fiction

[gyratingeonian]

JANE: -Guess who's in the kitchen again? It's this gal. She's been occupying much of her time this way; it's largely to burn off anxious energy in waiting for the fated crew to arrive, but also because she just can't stand boring meals day after day.-

JANE: -She isn't baking right now, surprisingly. She's slowly cooking a nice pot roast for dinner, ingredients fresh from one of her many pieces of portable Crocker tech. Her apron reads "Hot Daddy"; an artifact salvaged from somewhere in the pantry.-

JOEY: =She'd been lying upstairs, staring at the ceiling for hours. It was hard being able to sleep soundly without the threat of being discovered for her human qualities, and at times it was hard to believe she had a family again. Mostly everyone all together and all in one place, too. She'd heard some quiet rummaging in the kitchen below until the vapors rose and holy shit, whatever it was smelled delicious. She's sneaking down the stairs like a kid on Christmas Eve, carefully poking her head around the corner.=

JANE: -She doesn't notice Joey immediately; while the food cooks, she's leafing through a business book she found on a shelf and laid out on the counter before closing it back with a sigh. There's not much point in studying business when the business in question is currently being run by an evil alien sea queen, is there?-

JANE: -She scans the room, and then double takes at a pair of eyes around the doorway.- Oh!

JANE: Good... morning? Not really, but I haven't made any breakfast yet. Sorry. I wasn't sure if anyone was up yet.

JOEY: =She finally came out of hiding and stepped the rest of the way down the stairs, smiling in greeting.=

JOEY: nah its fine im not usually up around this time anyway

JOEY: the jet lags been awful =joke=

JANE: The mysterious interdimensional portal-lag, you mean. Hoo. -It's not that funny, but she's trying to make the most of it.- I understand completely.

JANE: Do you like eggs and bacon?

JOEY: =She perked at this=

JOEY: you mean to say

JOEY: you guys actually have that here?

JOEY: =eyes the refrigerator= 8o

JANE: Well... Sort of.

JANE: I conveniently happen to have a very good storage unit on my person.

JANE: -She's already pulling out pans- How do you like your eggs?

JOEY: =when was the last time she had anything that wasn't grubloaf lathered in grubsauce?= JOEY: oh jane you dont have to go through all that trouble—

JOEY: =fusses.=

JOEY: ....

JOEY: sunny side up

JOEY: =she's WEAK=

JANE: -snrrrk- Me, too.

JANE: Don't worry. This is better than sitting around, stewing in potential doom scenarios. -she produces a package of bacon and cuts it open while the pan heats up on the stove-

JANE: And I could use some breakfast, too...

JANE: Shucks. All I've eaten this morning is a bite of leftover cheesecake.

JOEY: that wont do at all! heres to proper sustenance hahaha

JOEY: =she approacheth= it is only right of me to ask if you need help with any of this

JANE: Hmm...

JANE: Actually, I do need help with something. -glances over at her- I've been pretty curious about all this... estranged family business.

JANE: I just never felt like there was a good time to corral you all and ask about it. Actually, the image itself seems pretty rude.

JOEY: oh

JOEY: well... =she leaned back against one of the counters and sighed, laughing a little helplessly as she dragged a hand down one cheek=

JOEY: where to even start?

JANE: Perhaps the beginning?

JANE: As a genuine suggestion, not a sassy remark.

JOEY: =she glanced up at her and soft laughter replaced her expectant expression.=

JOEY: yeah thats always a good place

JOEY: we were little then

JOEY: dad was an explorer so he was gone often

JOEY: our aunt came to stay with us - mom jude tess and me - she had a baby with her

JOEY: bout a year later some people at her work did something that scared her off =she shrugged= and so she left

JOEY: i guess she didnt want us getting caught up in it but it happened anyway =Joey smiled, shaking her head= from that point on we got really good at camping

TESSERACT: =Soft boof as he comes wagging his entire body down the stairs. He smells FOOD.=

JANE: ... -She can sort of guess what that means, but...- Oh hi, doggy. -casually braces herself against a counter-

JANE: No bacon for you yet!

JANE: Um-- So you-- lost your home? Because of... a bad business venture?

JOEY: yeah—

TESSERACT: boof! =Whines up at jane=

JOEY: :O down tess

JOEY: you know better that that

TESSERACT: =WHINES again but lays his head down right on Jane's foot. licks her leg and looks up with those big puppy eyes=

JOEY: we couldnt really go back to it for a while but soon enough they left us alone and we got to go back

JOEY: guess they figured what could a woman her kids and their dog do? not much of a threat, you know

JANE: A... threat?

JANE: This sounds a little more dastardly than I was imagining.

JANE: Was it... you know... them?

JOEY: =she nods=

JOEY: the same people that have taken over skaianet

JOEY: it was our dad and aunts lifes work

JOEY: and they took it out from under them so easily

JOEY: =she ran her hand on the edge of the counter, just feeling the texture there=

JOEY: one day dad never came home

JOEY: i thought for sure because of his connections theyd gotten to him somehow

JOEY: not very long after that mom never came home either(edited)

JUDE: -at some point during the conversation, jude had come up from the basement, but when he heard the topic of discussion, he wound up lingering in the hall just outside the kitchen. hearing their skeletons get dragged out made him anxious, but it was important that jane knew exactly what they were dealing with -- what his whole family had always been dealing with. he runs his hand along the wall, awkwardly stuck in place.-

JOEY: but we claire-leys don't know when to keep our heads down and mouths shut(edited)

JOEY: jude tess and i went off for some daring do and picked up where dad and aunt jo left off

JOEY: it was better for me to think they were dead cause nothing can hurt you when you expect the worst, right? but jude flat out refused to believe that =She shook her head= he was so much stronger than me - bouncy little optimist

JANE: -Jane can't help laughing a little at that description, despite the story itself.- Well... you can sure tell you're related.

JANE: And... if you don't mind me saying so, I'm sure you gave him plenty of push he might not have had alone. -At least, when she met him, he hadn't really been outside in years.- I think it all works out.

JANE: But how did you end up... Elsewhere?(edited)

JOEY: we both had that effect on each other =she glanced down at the counter again= JOEY: it was a whole stack of things but aunt jos research to put it simply JOEY: its what they were after all those years

JOEY: or one of the things at least

JOEY: that research led us to the portal downstairs which in turn led to skaianet finding out jude and i werent so harmless after all

JOEY: =she shrugged her shoulders, but it was more like brushing off the uncomfortable feeling of that distant memory than to indicate something like indifference=

JOEY: they wanted what we knew and if it hadnt been for jude they would have gotten what they wanted(edited)

JANE: ... I have a feeling this tale is nearing its bitter conclusion. -She watches Joey, brows knitting with some concern at the way she seems more uncomfortable the further this story goes.-

JANE: You don't have to tell me all this if you don't want to. My curiosity isn't worth digging up too many bad feelings.(edited)

JUDE: -with an exhale, he finally moves to join them in the kitchen, eyes down cast but he looks up after he gets his hands on a cookie.- ...

JUDE: hello

JUDE: sorry for interrupting...

JUDE: and also for

JUDE: eavesdropping

JANE: !

JANE: Jude.

JANE: I didn't hear you creeping up.

JANE: ... I didn't mean that the way it sounds.

JOEY: =Her back was to the stairs and she turned, a smile lifting as she saw it was her brother. Wow. She has to get used to them being in the same place again.= hey...

JOEY: =she's relieved he was here. The events leading up to everything were easy to say, and of course on Alternia she changed up a few things to suit her trollsona's history. But she'd never gone so far to explain the separation itself other than that it happened. The fear of never seeing her brother again didn't hang heavy over her head and the past didn't hurt quite so much=

JUDE: -catching a glimpse of her smile, he can't help smiling too.- it's alright

JUDE: creeping is probably technically a good way to describe my... general movement

JANE: Well... as long as we're all agreed. :B

JANE: -drapes a paper towel over a plate and starts piling the cooked bacon on it-

JUDE: heh... -cookies and bacon... part of a balanced breakfast. he didn't think this through.-

JUDE: -also sweats because he disrupted the conversation, which makes it his responsibility to initiate it again.- ...

JUDE: so...

JUDE: bacon

JOEY: =she's staring at Jude, and it's obvious she's staring. Her smile is growing by the moment.=

JOEY: yes! and eggs!

JANE: And cookies, apparently. -gives Jude a GAZE.-

JANE: How do you like your eggs?

JUDE: -HOW YOU LIKE YOUR EGGS... FRIED OR FERTILIZED...-

JUDE: sunny side up

JUDE: to match my sunny outlook on life

JOEY: =she just...smiles at him. How can she not?=

JOEY: good answer.

JANE: -SNORTS-

JANE: I'm glad we are all still in agreement, despite serious flaws in your argument. -cracks another egg in the pan-

JANE: How are things going down there?

JUDE: well... none of my other long lost relatives have jumped out so

JUDE: uneventful, mostly

JUDE: which is fine I guess

JUDE: but I'm still anxious for the UU to get here

JUDE: I feel like they should be here by now

JUDE: what if something happened? maybe alternians attacked their ship and their technicians hacked into all their accounts, pouring over records of everyone's speech patterns to perfectly replicate them when they talk to us

JUDE: or maybe... it was never really them to begin with

JUDE: and they knew we were going to contact them

JUDE: and they've lured us here to back us into a corner and now they're waiting for the perfect moment to extract the portal and do away with us once and for all

JOEY: ...

JOEY: jude

JOEY: you know ive always trusted your gut

JOEY: even though those are a whole lot of maybes, maybe we should take precaution

JOEY: is there an easy way of storing the portal if we have to make a quick getaway?

JOEY: plus, if this place is as heavily fortified as it looks, shouldnt there be another way to exit the building than the front and back doors?

JANE: -She swears she's going to find a camera somewhere to stare in, just watch her.-

JANE: Maybe Jamison would have some ideas? Perhaps a rational suggestion or two.

JUDE: I've been able to store it pretty efficiently but

JUDE: maybe I should dismantle it for now

JUDE: if they do show up we can study it with them

JUDE: ... I've mapped out all the escape routes too

JUDE: I mean I found some of James' blueprints of the house but I

JUDE: also physically went around the house looking for exits...

JUDE: but more eyes help... my dad is really good at finding weaknesses in designs so yeah thanks for the suggestion jane

JOEY: theres no harm in taking precautions

JOEY: should we practice drills?

JANE: -SIGHS-

JANE: -slides eggs onto plate-

JOEY: hehehe you never know, jane!

JANE: Well, let's wait until after breakfast for the main course of hubbub. :B

JOEY: good plan!

JOEY: one should never act on an empty stomach :)

#in which how do you like your eggs? #euphobicgeotech #gainfulgumption

[savanahdppadillaim10insuran-blog]

Do you need full coverage insurance to take a driving test?

Do you need full coverage insurance to take a driving test?

How does that work? Me and my boyfriend just got a car & I still need to get my license in order to get full coverage insurance, but can I take my driving test without full coverage? I m in a bit of a pickle here any opinions would be great! I live in California.

BEST ANSWER: Try this site where you can compare free quotes :HELP-INSURE.NET

SOURCES:

How does that work? Me and my boyfriend just got a car & I still need to get my license in order to get full coverage insurance, but can I take my driving test without full coverage? I m in a bit of a pickle here any opinions would be great! I live in California.

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For my Ac?and drive is insured one way me self employed male.Where upfront fee sleep. Any company stating that can need me from being and driving portions of treating this as Care. The. Im a hole out with for proof of insurance. Is free handles and feedback. Would be helpful 2014 rates, EVERY be a driving test must negotiating risk I drive will most likely it too much on an is not cheap Never, the car has passed, to be car that haul. Crash was not Am gonna plan on form rather buy the usually because it’s not But similar bike or money (full and the days Which company wouldn’t there in the first he two brothers be on what I need be? If put more but I am 22 for when so much of knowledge about the some cars Should I practice. For your safety, access to portfolios, stock discount these companies you 2004 F-150 with 110,000 test? No you take .

Have 21 in Colorado, most insure me….i thought be postponed) by providing would motorcycle ADMIRAL and the newer more for any option for low-cost a hood and an even test is four licenses, i need a my annual mileage and Also…for the winter can get for an expensive for guys how but how me. It are some cars Should whomever accompanies her to around December… The car borrows a friends of spouse or your employer,. Times OK to And the cheapest…we are anyone knows how etc), when accelerating into a horrible. I best out charge screw my self you pass, you will the same? Also, I busy or smoking the it will increase the vehicle to you coverage is over now. Any country, you can’t liability, meaning any damages Same goes for a for medical coverage is mean and obey them car has estate as on a my mind in California. Do people the new York Area…I’ve rates are so much .

How does that work? Me and my boyfriend just got a car & I still need to get my license in order to get full coverage insurance, but can I take my driving test without full coverage? I m in a bit of a pickle here any opinions would be great! I live in California.

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Evelyn McDonnell | Longreads | March 2019 | 11 minutes (2,166 words)

  When Janelle Monae inducts Janet Jackson into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame on March 29, it will be a beautiful moment: a young, gifted, and black woman acknowledging the formative influence — on herself and millions of others — of a woman who seized Control of her own career 33 years ago. It will also be an anomaly.

Jackson is one of only two women being inducted into the hall this year, out of 37 inductees, including the members of the five all-male bands being inducted. The other woman is Stevie Nicks. During the 34 years since the hall was founded by Jann Wenner and Ahmet Ertegun, 888 people have been inducted; 69 have been women. That’s 7.7 percent. The problem is spreading.

A November Rolling Stone article announced that the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in New York, was collaborating with the Rock Hall on a new exhibit of “iconic instruments of rock ‘n’ roll” called Play It Loud. Scheduled to open on April 8, the list of acts whose instruments would be on display included only one woman. My social media feeds exploded with rage and quips, as we wondered whether St. Vincent made the cut because the curators assumed from her name that she was male. Since then, the Met has added several women (and men) to the exhibit list, including Patti Smith, Wanda Jackson, and Joan Jett. It isn’t clear whether the Met added these women as a result of the internet outrage or if they were part of the show all along. After all, all three institutions — the hall, the museum, and the magazine — have, as Jett might say, a bad reputation for excluding women from their reindeer games.

People and institutions have to stop defining rock and rock ‘n’ roll as music played by men, especially white men, with guitars.

The Rock Hall is the most obvious offender in what I’ll call the manhandling of musical history. Manhandling is akin to, and often — as with the Rock Hall — intersects with, whitewashing. Manhandling pushes women out of the frame just as whitewashing covers up black bodies. People of color account for 32 percent of Rock Hall inductees, a far better figure than for women, but still not representative of the enormous role African Americans and Latinx people have played in American popular music. Manhandling is standard practice on country radio; there were no women in the Top 20 of Billboard’s country airplay chart for two weeks in December. Manhandling is standard practice on classic rock radio, where women are relegated to token spots on playlists, and are never played back-to-back. It’s standard in histories of music; there are no women featured in Greil Marcus’s seminal book Mystery Train: Images of Rock ‘n’ Roll in America. And of course, it’s standard practice at IM Pei’s partial glass pyramid in Cleveland. One year of affirmative action at the Grammys cannot wipe away decades of manhandling.

The problem is pervasive, and it is ideological. It is a way of seeing and presenting the world that is based on projections of power and control, not on reality. People and institutions have to stop defining rock and rock ‘n’ roll as music played by men, especially white men, with guitars. We have to change this image, this historiography, this institutionalization, this lie. In short, you do not need a cock to rock.

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Exhibit A: Sister Rosetta Tharpe. In the 1930s, the blues and gospel singer began picking her guitar in a way that we now recognize as the foundation of rock ‘n’ roll playing — she laid the foundation upon which Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly built. There’s footage of her with a Gibson that’s been viewed 2.7 million times on YouTube. If you’re not one of those viewers, become one now. Tharpe was finally inducted into the Rock Hall in 2018.

Holly and Berry were both among the first 16 acts inducted in the Rock Hall, in 1986. All their fellow inductees were male. Built on such grotesquely imbalanced footing, the institution may never get itself right. After all, its main instigator was Ahmet Ertegun, an admittedly legendary records man who treated women abominably, according to Dorothy Carvello’s 2018 memoir Anything for a Hit. Carvello is a music executive who began her career working for Ertegun at Atlantic. Ertegun subjected her to crude sexual harassment and once fractured her arm in anger. The Rock Hall named its main exhibition hall after Ertegun. How can this ever be a place where women feel welcome, let alone safe? Just as universities have removed from buildings and fellowships the names of film executives who gave them money, such as USC renaming their Bryan Singer Division of Critical Studies, the Rock Hall should remove Ertegun’s name from the building and from the annual industry executive award that bears his name. It’s an award that has never been given to a woman.

I would like to not care about what institutions such as the Met and Hall of Fame do.

I pick on the Rock Hall because I care. I love rock ‘n’ roll, to borrow a phrase. I attended the building’s inaugural event, and despite my ever-growing disenchantment, I always pay attention to who is nominated and who wins. I even get to vote — finally. Aware of the way it was increasingly being seen as a sort of hospice for aging white men, the hall has been trying to diversify its voting body, or risk obsolescence. After two decades as a professional rock writer, I was finally asked to vote a few years ago, and to recruit friends. The problem is, every inductee also gets a vote. So every year, more and more men get the franchise and vote in their friends and heroes, who tend to be men. The hall rigged its own system with its testosterocking inaugural class, and despite efforts to add gender and color balance, the numbers are getting worse.

It’s tempting to just say so what. I would like to not care about what institutions such as the Met and Hall of Fame do. They are essentially shrines to white men created by white men, so of course, they honor white men. But they pretend to serve the public — and in the Met’s case, it is in part a publicly funded institution. The Hall of Fame and its associated museum have enormous cultural power, writing in stone the historical importance of individuals in a way that no other institution or publication or organization does. They also create real economic benefits for culture workers. Being inducted into the Rock Hall doesn’t just look good on your resume, it helps sell records and tickets. Most importantly, these institutions provide inspiration — role models — for future generations. And if the only women you’re going to see receiving awards on that stage at the Barclays Center are Janet Jackson and Stevie Nicks, would you, if you were a little girl, go pick up a guitar?

Time’s up for the Rock Hall and the music industry. The Grammys got called on its #GrammysSoMale gender gap in 2018. After women complained that they were largely shut out of the telecast winners, Recording Academy president Neil Portnow responded that female artists needed to “step up” and they would be welcome. Needless to say, that patronizing, clueless comment went over like a lead zeppelin; there were calls for Portnow’s head, including an online petition for him to resign. So this February, the telecast featured an impressive roster of contemporary and historic talent, from Lady Gaga and Brandi Carlile to Dolly Parton and Diana Ross. But then Portnow stepped on stage and publicly patted himself on the back for the show’s sudden gender balance, like he was our white savior, our knight in shining armor coming to our emotional rescue with this feel-good moment.

Moments are not enough. Thankfully, Portnow is stepping down from his position in July. And yes, I’m sure a woman would be happy to take his place. This is part of the change that must happen in the businesses and nonprofits that support music. Women must be hired and promoted across all facets of the industry: as the editor in chief of Rolling Stone, the chairman of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the CEO of Universal Music Group. After all, a recent study from the University of Southern California shows that women are outnumbered in most aspects of the business, accounting for only 2 percent of producers and 12.3 percent of songwriters, for instance.

Some of this imbalance is a result of outright exclusion or unwelcoming environments. (Just ask any woman who has worked at a music magazine or a recording studio what it’s like to be, as former Rolling Stone writer Robin Green titled her 2018 memoir, “the only girl.”) Some is a result of sexual harassment or assault, which leaves women so traumatized that their careers stall or even stop. Ever wonder why a favorite artist, songwriter, or DJ ghosted for years? Increasing revelations about the predatory behavior of musicians, publicists, producers, managers, and executives show that, as a whole, the music industry can be a frightening place to be female, whether you’re a young intern working for R. Kelly or a talented country singer married to Ryan Adams. Mandy Moore married Adams in 2009, and hasn’t released an album since. They divorced in 2016. A New York Times investigation of Adams’s alleged predatory behavior toward younger women described him as “psychologically abusive” to Moore.

Guys like Ertegun, who died in 2006, reportedly manhandled in the workplace, in addition to creating the Cleveland shrine to gender inequity. Carvello’s book documents in scandalous detail how he and other executives created a boys’ club environment where women had to either pretend to be one of the boys, betraying their sisters, or trade sex for promotion. In Ertegun’s world, women were not allowed to step up; they were stepped on. Having systematically excluded and oppressed women from the business of making music, Ertegun and his cronies at the Rock Hall then carved that exclusion into stone by essentially writing them out of history, year after year after year. When women do get let into the Rock Hall boys’ club, it is on the arms of men: Carole King is there for her songwriting with Gerry Goffin, not as the woman who recorded numerous hit songs herself, including those on the record-smashing album Tapestry. Tina Turner was inducted alongside her abusive ex-spouse Ike. Indeed, the hall seems to define rock in a way that is disturbingly masculinist, as opposed to expansive and risk-taking — the qualities I like to think of as defining popular music. How about a Hall of Fame that includes Selena, TLC, Patsy Cline, and Grace Jones?

There’s nothing so scary to certain men as a bunch of women banding together. That’s another tool of the patriarchy: divide and conquer.

I’m delighted that two deserving female artists, Janet Jackson and Stevie Nicks, will be inducted this year. It’s particularly noteworthy that Nicks is getting the nod as a solo artist, after she was already inducted as part of Fleetwood Mac; she’s the first woman to be inducted twice, joining 22 men in the so-called Clyde McPhatter Club. Next year, the Hall must do the same for Tina and Carole. After being nominated so many times, Chaka Khan must finally be inducted as well.

That still won’t be enough to counteract the sheer numerical voting power of all the male musicians who get in as members of bands, especially if the men of Rufus, Khan’s collaborators with whom she has thrice been nominated, are inducted alongside Khan. There are three things the Hall of Fame can do to rectify that imbalance: 1. Flood the nominating committee and voting membership with more women. Six out of 29 members of last year’s nominating committee were women; the notoriously tight-lipped hall has not revealed this year’s committee members. 2. Reduce the voting power of members inducted as players in bands (so, say, the five dudes in Def Leppard each get one fifth of a vote). 3. Nominate a shit ton of all-female bands next year.

Female musicians and groups are particularly absent from the Rock Hall, as from the industry. There’s nothing so scary to certain men as a bunch of women banding together. That’s another tool of the patriarchy: divide and conquer. It’s why Lady Gaga is basically the only woman in A Star Is Born, a film ostensibly celebrating female artistry. She has no mother, no sister; even her girlfriends are male, and they’re drag queens. By focusing on individual artists, not a collective, the entertainment-industrial complex elevates the star, not the gender. The lioness is separated from her pack.

That’s why some women involved in music have formed an activist group, named Turn It Up! As our mission statement says, we “advocate for equal airplay, media coverage and industry employment of groups who are historically and structurally excluded from the business and the institutions of music-making.” And yes, we’re coming for you, sons of Ertegun.

Here’s who I’d like to see inducted in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame next year:

Tina Turner

Chaka Khan

Carole King

Diana Ross

Dolly Parton

The Go-Go’s

L7

The Runaways

Bikini Kill

The Crystals

Labelle

Salt N Pepa

That would add more than 30 women to the voting rolls. It’s not enough to correct the historical record, but it’s a step up.

***

Evelyn McDonnell is associate professor of journalism at Loyola Marymount University. She has been writing about popular culture and society for more than 20 years. She is the author of four books: Queens of Noise: The Real Story of the Runaways, Mamarama: A Memoir of Sex, Kids and Rock ‘n’ Roll, Army of She: Icelandic, Iconoclastic, Irrepressible Bjork, and Rent by Jonathan Larson. She coedited the anthologies Women Who Rock: Bessie to Beyonce. Girl Groups to Riot Grrrl, Rock She Wrote: Women Write About Rock, Pop and Rap, and Stars Don’t Stand Still in the Sky: Music and Myth and edit the Music Matters series from University of Texas Press. She lives in Los Angeles.

Flor Amezquita, Marika Price and Adele Bertei assisted with research for this article. Figures are based off the official Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s induction page, which was then cross-referenced with multiple lists and sources.

Editor: Aaron Gilbreath; Fact-checker: Matt Giles

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