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books · 8 months

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Writer Spotlight: Elise Hu

We recently met with Elise Hu (@elisegoeseast) to discuss her illuminating title, Flawless—Lessons in Looks and Culture from the K-Beauty Capital. Elise is a journalist, podcaster, and media start-up founder. She’s the host of TED Talks Daily and host-at-large at NPR, where she spent nearly a decade as a reporter. As an international correspondent, she has reported stories from more than a dozen countries and opened NPR’s first-ever Seoul bureau in 2015. Previously, Elise helped found The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit digital start-up, after stops at many stations as a television news reporter. Her journalism work has won the national Edward R. Murrow and duPont Columbia awards, among others. An honors graduate of the University of Missouri School of Journalism, she lives in Los Angeles.

Can you begin by telling us a little bit about how Flawless came to be and what made you want to write about K-beauty?

It’s my unfinished business from my time in Seoul. Especially in the last year I spent living in Korea, I was constantly chasing the latest geopolitical headlines (namely, North Korean leader Kim Jong Un’s big moves that year). It meant I didn’t get to delve into my nagging frustrations of feeling second-class as an Asian woman in Korea and the under-reported experiences of South Korean women at the time. They were staging record-setting women’s rights rallies during my time abroad in response to a stark gender divide in Korea. It is one of the world’s most influential countries (and the 10th largest economy) and ranks shockingly low on gender equality metrics. That imbalance really shows up in what’s expected of how women should look and behave. Flawless explores the intersection of gender politics and beauty standards.

Flawless punctuates reportage with life writing, anchoring the research within your subjective context as someone who lived in the middle of it but also had an outside eye on it. Was this a conscious decision before you began writing?

I planned to have fewer of my personal stories in the book, actually. Originally, I wanted to be embedded with South Korean women and girls who would illustrate the social issues I was investigating, but I wound up being the narrative thread because of the pandemic. The lockdowns and two years of long, mandatory quarantines in South Korea meant that traveling there and staying for a while to report and build on-the-ground relationships was nearly impossible. I also have three small children in LA, so the embedding plan was scuttled real fast.

One of the central questions the book asks of globalized society at large, corporations, and various communities is, “What is beauty for?” How has your response to this question changed while producing Flawless?

I think I’ve gotten simultaneously more optimistic and cynical about it. More cynical in that the more I researched beauty, the more I understood physical beauty as a class performance—humans have long used it to get into rooms—more power in relationships, social communities, economically, or all of the above at once. And, as a class performance, those with the most resources usually have the most access to doing the work it takes (spending the money) to look the part, which is marginalizing for everyone else and keeps lower classes in a cycle of wanting and reaching. On the flip side, I’m more optimistic about what beauty is for, in that I have learned to separate beauty from appearance: I think of beauty in the way I think about love or truth, these universal—and largely spiritual—ideas that we all seek, that feed our souls. And that’s a way to frame beauty that isn’t tied in with overt consumerism or having to modify ourselves at all.

This is your first book—has anything surprised you in the publishing or publicity process for Flawless?

I was most surprised by how much I enjoyed recording my own audiobook! I felt most in flow and joyful doing that more than anything else. Each sentence I read aloud was exactly the way I heard it in my head when I wrote it, which is such a privilege to have been able to do as an author.

Do you have a favorite reaction from a reader?

I don’t know if it’s the favorite, but recency bias is a factor—I just got a DM this week from a woman writing about how the book helped put into words so much of what she felt and experienced, despite the fact she is not ethnically Korean, or in Korea, which is the setting of most of the book. It means a lot to me that reporting or art can connect us and illuminate shared experiences…in this case, learning to be more embodied and okay with however we look.

As a writer, journalist, and mother—how did you practice self-care when juggling work commitments, social life, and the creative processes of writing and editing?

I juggled by relying on my loved ones. I don’t think self-care can exist without caring for one another, and that means asking people in our circles for help. A lot of boba dates, long walks, laughter-filled phone calls, and random weekend trips really got me through the arduous project of book writing (more painful than childbirth, emotionally speaking).

What is your writing routine like, and how did the process differ from your other reporting work? Did you pick up any habits that you’ve held on to?

My book writing routine was very meandering, whereas my broadcast reporting and writing are quite linear. I have tight deadlines for news, so it’s wham, bam, and the piece is out. With the book, I had two years to turn in a manuscript. I spent the year of lockdowns in “incubation mode,” where I consumed a lot of books, white papers, articles, and some films and podcasts, just taking in a lot of ideas to see where they might collide with each other and raise questions worth reporting on, letting them swim around in the swamp of my brain. When I was ready to write, I had a freelance editor, the indefatigable Carrie Frye, break my book outline into chunks so I could focus on smaller objectives and specific deadlines. Chunking the book so it didn’t seem like such a massive undertaking helped a lot. As for the writing, I never got to do a writer’s retreat or some idyllic cabin getaway to write. I wrote in the in-between moments—a one or two hour window when I had a break from the TED conference (which I attend every year as a TED host) or in those moments after the kids’ bedtime and before my own. One good habit I got into was getting away from my computer at midday. I’m really good about making lunch dates or going for a run to break up the monotony of staring at my screen all day long.

What’s good advice you’ve received about journalism that you would pass on to anyone just starting out?

All good reporting comes from great questions. Start with a clear question you seek to answer in your story, project, or book, and stay true to it and your quest to answer it. Once you are clear on what the thing is about, you won’t risk wandering too far from your focal point.

Thanks to Elise for answering our questions! You can follow her over at @elisegoeseast and check out her book Flawless here!

#writer spotlight #elise hu #flawless #k-beauty #beauty #beauty industry #feminism #gender politics #seoul #south korea #journalism #writing advice #reportage #flawlessthebook

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lokiondisneyplus · 3 years

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Prior to the pandemic, Frank Patterson would spend most days at the sprawling production facility, formerly known as Pinewood Atlanta Studios, that he runs outside of Atlanta. Then COVID-19 hit, and not even he was able to make his health and safety team's cut of essential on-site personnel.

"They were like, 'Frank, why are you here? You're setting a bad example,' " says the president and CEO of what is now Trilith Studios, the in-demand filming location known for hosting a suite of Marvel projects, including WandaVision and Avengers: Endgame.

Since Patterson took the reins in 2016, he's transformed the place from a set of soundstages to a full-fledged film community. After divesting from the Pinewood Group, Patterson led investments in new technologies and content companies, as well as expanded Trilith's footprint. The result is a 935-acre master development that includes the studio as well as a European-inspired town including homes, restaurants and schools that serve as a live-work community for the many creatives on the lot.

In a wide-ranging conversation, Patterson, 59, opened up about the most challenging aspect of COVID-era production, the studio's biggest concerns and whether he'll mandate vaccines.

You've had multiple projects in production during COVID-19. How has it been going?

We've been very fortunate. We had the first studio feature in the industry back to work in June. I can't say what it is, but they'll be finished soon. It was an intense amount of research and work to put together protocols, recognizing that the disaster version looks like an outbreak. None of that's happened. We've had enormously low numbers of positive tests. And we have a full lot: 3,200 people drove on today.

How much more expensive is it to make a film or show right now?

It's costing about 20 percent more money and 20 percent more time. Things are slower and clunkier and it's taking more space. But the good news is cast and crew are taking safety very seriously. I'm sure you heard the story of Tom Cruise getting upset at the crew for not following protocols [on Mission: Impossible 7]. I don't think that's common. What we have found is with the exception of the day player — they tend to test positive more than the average crewmember — people are taking care of themselves.

A year in, how do you feel you did with the COVID-19 protocols?

They're pretty routine now. We're not just making stuff up like we were in the very beginning.

Which of those do you expect to remain post-pandemic?

The washing hands and standing apart, that's how we keep from spreading these diseases and how we need to work. There's a heightened awareness for cleanliness. People used to drag themselves to work miserably sick because if you missed work, you were letting your team down. Well, that's changed. If you show up and you're sick, they're like, "Get out of here." That'll go forward.

Fellow Georgian Tyler Perry said when he was shooting his shows last summer, there was an elderly actress who didn’t feel comfortable coming on set given the risk, so they had to write her out of the scripts. Have you heard of anything like that happening on any of your productions?

Not leaving a show, but changing of schedules to accommodate people's tolerance for coming back to work. There's an, "OK, let's not shoot this right now because this actor is not quite ready to come back to work." They're pivoting and shooting other stuff first and coming back. That's happening across all the productions.

What are the biggest concerns that you hear from the studios now?

Everyone's overwhelmed with the need to get stuff made, but we aren't returning to the speed that we had and we're spending more dollars per frame captured in just the pure production. And it's not like people don't care because you always care when you're spending more money than you planned, but it’s a way a distant second to: Are we getting this stuff shot?

Are all the studios behind?

Nobody is meeting their goals. Just look at the Disney+ line-up, all the stuff that they want to put in place. Look at what Paramount is doing now with Paramount Plus. If you just look at these pipelines, this is the anxiety that everyone feels right now. And then, by the way, WandaVision's a hit, so you got to feed that beast, right? That’s the tension that you feel every day.

How much of that is not having enough physical space to film? Several production facilities, including yours, are fully booked.

It's not just about space. Yes, of course, we could use some more facilities, and we're putting in five more stages that will be ready by June. But that's only one small part. Even before COVID hit, there weren't enough people — I'm talking about crew, not to mention the storytellers — to meet the demand that Wall Street was pouring into the pipeline. There's a talent drain. With COVID, it's [only gotten worse].

Georgia opened sooner than other states. Did you field a lot of calls?

It was overwhelming. Guys were like, "Hey, we heard you guys figured it out." First of all, we didn't figure it out. We have a version and it's working. But there was a lot of attention on us. And we had the good fortune of not having to worry about what role our government leaders would play because they basically said, "We're going to let the industry figure it out." That's the good news. The bad news: It was on us to figure it out and take responsibility.

Are you getting involved in the vaccine rollout as you did testing?

No, we decided we would just keep our focus on the testing protocols. We have to make certain that we just take it all the way to the end — and we'll let [union, guild and association] leadership decide when that is and when those protocols can change. And then again, as an industry, we're going to have to decide what we want to carry forward and what we don't. That's the next phase, and the rate at which we're vaccinating may advance those conversations faster than I thought. I used to think [the protocols] were going to go into 2022. I don't know if that's the case anymore.

Have you had conversations about mandating the vaccine on sets?

We haven't. We know that when it comes to mandatory protocols, we'll have to work in collaboration with industry leadership. No one goes on our lot without a mask, for example. And that was a political thing. Fortunately, Governor Kemp said, "How can I help?" And we were like, "What would be helpful is if you wear a mask in public," and he said, "OK." So when a crewmember said, "It's my right [not to wear one]" or whatever, of course we can say, "This is private property, sorry," but what our security team said instead was, "Hey, listen, the governor's wearing a mask, and you should wear a mask to protect our industry." It was us taking a stand, but the stand was really only taken because the unions and guilds and associations agreed. We'll have to do the same thing with the vaccination.

You're building out a neighboring town for people to live. Is this the future of production facilities?

I don't think so. In some ways, what we're doing is what Mr. Disney did. The mill town is not a new concept. But if we didn't have a state with a reputation for being so business friendly, for having the tax incentives, for having the most traveled airport in the world, if those things didn't exist right there, believe me, we couldn't do this. I grew up in Hill Country outside of San Antonio, Texas. You cannot do this in San Antonio, Texas.

How many people are buying houses and apartments on the Trilith property?

We have 400 of the apartments built, 260 of them occupied. We’re at almost 300 homes now sold and 500 people in the town. We're working on our next set of 150 homes right now and starting our third micro village. The second micro village filled up like that (snaps fingers). We have 36 people on the waiting list. What’s happening — and this is a global trend — is that COVID has heightened our awareness of the benefits of this approach to working. The distributed workforce and the way for us to collaborate with these electronic tools is causing a lot of people to realize that they don't have to live in the town they thought they have to live in. So I think people thought it was going to be more like a second home, but they're actually staying here.

Every few years it seems there’s some controversial legislation in Georgia that pops up and Hollywood threatens a boycott, whether it’s an anti-LGBT or anti-abortion bill. Do you just assume it's going to pass?

These kinds of ebbs and flows of social discourse and its impact on the industry will never go away. Georgia is not immune to it. The film industry has been this wonderful beacon of possibility, and I do worry, given what's going on in our culture right now, that we as an industry could get caught sideways in this in some way that really dampens our ability to continue to have diverse views on the world.

Georgia's film incentives program has been criticized by some as an irresponsible use of taxpayer money. Do you see it being phased out or pared in the future?

This state is very proud of the fact that seven years in a row now it’s the number one state in the United States to do business. They saw the film industry as a way to really diversify its economy, to bring the creative class into the state. So they wrote this policy that was supported left and right, and that still is the case. I'm not a politician, but I'm on all of these committees, and what I noticed is they were so careful and specific about making it make business sense. It would be very difficult for anyone to turn it around now because it's just good, smart money — and you have both Democrats and Republicans looking at it. But in every session in every state always in the U.S., you will have people come up and write up some kind of legislation, "Let's get rid of tax incentives." It's just not going to happen. I would be really surprised.

But there were some changes to it recently, yes?

There were parts that we needed to improve on around auditing and how we manage the information and our relationship with all the productions. We needed to clean up some of the back of house stuff, so Representative Matt Dollar passed some amendments last session that are now going into effect that really helped clean up the whole process.

Interview edited for length and clarity.

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haniswritingstuff · 3 years

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Baumhaus Uni life just got even weirder

Hiiii People this is me author of the day ( honestly I just neglected all the work I need to do for 3 hours you better be thankful XD) I'll update maybe once a week? If I can make it? For now I just really wanted the idea out of my head and into chapter 1 :D It is not proof read, ignore any grammar or spelling mistakes XD

„Lea wake up. Lea. Goddamnit Julia could I get some help over here I really don’t want to be late for our first day!” Lea groaned and rolled over, not for the first time cursing her friend who was worse than any alarm clock.

She tried to peel open her eyes and saw Hanna standing in the door, still trying to fix her mess of hair with some product by looking into her mirror at the other side of the room. There were slow footsteps in the hall as Julia walked into the room and fell next to Lea on the bed.

“Move” she instructed, getting under the blankets. Grunting Lea wiggled to make room for her friend who pretended to fall asleep again. The only thing that was an indicator that she was already awake was the fact that she was dressed in jeans and a simple t-shirt and not in her RJ Pajamas. “Lier she already woke you up!” Lea accused and tried to grab the blanket from Julia again.

Dishes where heard clirring in the kitchen, followed by Hanna shouting “Wait girls, why is our coffee empty I thought we still had coffee, ohmygod how will I make it through the morning.” The stress was clear in her voice but that made the girls only laugh silently. “We’re gonna stop by Dynamite Coffee today don’t worry!” Julia answered loud enough for Hanna to hear. The girl came back into view. “Ah yes for us to make it in time though we really need to be out of the house in 5” she said, hands on her hips. Lea groaned again, though the promise of good coffee made getting up a bit more appealing. Dynamite had this really great Vanilla-Caramel Frappé creation, and as it was the first day of hell, aka the new semester, the motto was treat yourself with sugar. “Veto on the shower” she finally said, pushing the blankets (and Julia) out of the bed to get up. “Dude no need to call Veto you know I only shower in the evening” said Hanna, going back to her room. Lea blinked and looked down at Julia, who was apparently also dressed.

“Ok , at least give me 10 minutes”

They somehow still made it out of the house with time to spare and luckily there weren’t that many people waiting in Line at the coffee-shop. Lea grinned when she saw Jimin was working today. Hanna ordered first, black coffee and the biggest vegan sandwich they had on display, Julia some iced tea and something sweet. Jimin grinned and went into full pose when he saw Lea, who had already gotten into some extra stance, with her hand on one hip, the other going through her hair as Jimin would often do. “Good morning Sunshine what can I get you?” Jimin said, completing his sentence with a wink.

Lea rolled her eyes. “More like raincloud you know what day it is today, though I appreciate the positivity.” Lea answered, following up with “The usual with extra syrup please.” Jimin went to work as Hanna and Julia went beeline for their usual seat at the window. Lea stayed at the counter for a moment longer, as there wasn’t really anyone waiting to order anyway right now.

“Why do you have the morning shift today don’t you have classes?” She asked her best friend, who was busy creating magic in the form of caffeinated drinks. “Hah do you think I’m gonna turn up the first day, people might think I’m actually taking studying serious. I really don’t want to ruin my reputation like that!” Lea grinned “I wish, But I think you-know-who drinking her black coffee over there would have killed me!” Jimin finished her drink and slid it over in one fluid movement, perfectly in sync for Lea to grab the cup.

“Yea, to be honest though most of my classes start in the afternoon this semester.” Lea nodded. Jimin was a dance major and most of the morning classes where often the theoretical kind in the lecture halls. And she couldn’t really picture Jimin turning up for dance history at 8am on a Monday morning either.

“Well, I’ll see you around then, I’m going to inhale this now and hope it helps with my class at least.” She sighed. “You know my magic always works” Jimin smiled. “Don’t worry what is it again that you have today? Fashion history? You passed that one with flying colors last semester and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you study for it.”

“Yeah, but only because I already know most of the material, which still makes it a super boring class to sit in” Jimin moved a hand through his orange hair in his trademark way, before putting it on Leas Hand, morphing his face into somewhat of a pretend-pity-pout. “Don’t worry I promise I’m going to invite you to our party on Friday if you live through the week” Lea slapped his Hand away, though her eyes gave away that she was intrigued. “Your fraternity already planning for the first party of the semester?” Jimin puffed out his chest proudly. “What do you think, Beta Tau Sigma doesn’t sleep, and like hell, we’re going to top last semesters opening party by far!” He announced.

Beta Tau Sigma was probably most known for their party’s and pretty boys around Campus and while there were a bunch of different fraternities as Jimin would say “Don’t fraternitise with the enemy, especially not alpha delta psi”. In that moment the doorbell rung, signalizing a new wave of costumers. Lea turned around one last time saying “Don’t forget to keep me updated” before going to sit over to her friends. When she turned around she saw an old woman, maybe a professor?, stumble while she was trying to stand up from her table. Without thinking and in a moment of unknown agility Lea helped steady the woman and her tea set, so it wouldn’t shatter into a thousand pieces on the floor. “Wow are you alright?” She asked when the woman didn’t move for a second. She turned her head up and blinked up at her with incredibly light blue eyes. “Ah yes, thank you very much young lady!” She moved to put back her plate and cup and went to the door, when Lea shook her head and noticed she had left a little bag on her chair. She grabbed it and ran after the woman but when she looked around it seemed like the old lady had vanished into thin air.

“I guess I’ll maybe take this to the campus fundus later” She shrugged and placed the little item in her bag before joining her friends for breakfast.

“Ah Lea!” Hanna said, while swallowing the last of her sandwich. She placed her heads on the table and leaned forward in a serious manner. “Guess what Tae is actually in my art history class this semester!” She smiled and Julia gave Lea the look, they always shared when it came to Hanna and that certain boy. “Yeah guess how she found out, Tae just messaged her happily how his best friend ever being in the same class is just the greatest thing that happened to him today” Lea snickered and took a huge slurp from her drink. Whatever they put in there truly was like magic, lighting up her mood. Or maybe it’s just the sugar. “Hanna blinked at them, but before she could ask why they were being weird again Lea decided to share her news. “And guess what I just heard; beta tau sigma is returning to the scene this Friday with their legendary semester opening party!” Julia clapped her hands together “Dude yes we totally need to go!” She high fived Lea, both of them starting to plan their outfits and makeup for the day. “I have to hope there’s just no student council on Friday or I’ll just come Later” Hanna, who had just taken out her calendar and was nibbling on her pen said. Lea took her calendar and a pen from her bag, before writing in big, bold letters PARTY in the spot for Friday. She closed it, throwing it back into Hanna’s’ bag. Hanna gaped at her, but she just took another slurp of her Frappé “Don’t tell me you want to miss out on the chance of Tae freestyling something again for boring student council” Hanna started mumbling something about “Not that boring but…” when Julia groaned and leaned back in her chair. “Now that you mention that maybe I will come a bit later when that part of the evening is over” “Well I’m sure Suga is already appointed as the real DJ for the evening.” “Touché I’m back on board”

Lea entered the Lecture hall right on time, heading straight for a place in the last row, before pulling out her I-pad that automatically connected with the university Wlan. Thank god for that because without some distractions she truly wouldn’t survive the class. Fashion history, while being one of the more interesting subjects, was taught by an old white man called Mr. Park Jin-young and his lecture style was awkward at best and dead-boring at worst. She was really just here for attendance credits anyway, as most of the material she already knew from her free time research. The decision to study fashion was really something that happened after a failed- first attempt at studying “something useful” as her father had called it, while she just spat on it as economics hell. Julia might be convinced that subject was actually exciting, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. Economics was really just the first nail in her coffin and after dropping all her mandatory classes after one semester she decided to switch over to something that actually interested her. While she didn’t want to go full design category, though that would’ve put her in some classes with Tae or Hanna, she decided to major in Fashion history and Costume design, hoping to work for film or theatre one day, whichever way it worked out really. The class passed slower than ever, Lea caught up with the Baumhaus Blog, a university legend really as it was written by someone who clearly had all the intel into not only University politics but also most classes and famous people. Some thought it was led by the actual university president itself, as he was the only one who was always present for the last 20 years when the blog had first started out as a makeshift website. Another popular theory was that the blog was passed on from the founder to different people and every time they graduated the moderator would change as well. Lea thought that theory was more plausible, because not only would it be weird for the Uni president to trash himself in third person but also it seemed like the style had changed ever so slightly last year and 3 years before that, as Julia had once explained to her. The newest entry was about the Party on Friday, which wasn’t that surprising because for Beta Tau Sigma to keep a secret for more than an hour was nearly impossible. Not only did they have the eyes of fangirls on them, but the own members weren’t really secretive about their activities either, as much as Jimin would like to make it out to be.

The class wrapped up a tiring 2 hours later and Lea’s stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t really eaten anything this morning. She stood up, after quickly noting down the first assignment because of course Mr. Park wanted them to have an essay ready by next week already, that asshole.

The prospect of Jimin maybe still being on shift made her steer back to Dynamite Coffee, as it was also the most convenient option around Campus unless you actually dared to eat the Mensa food.

The ringing of the bell for a second time that day and the smell of coffee was so comforting, she nearly forgot all about the assignment that she had to finish already this week. Well, nearly. Lea looked around, the coffee shop was a lot busier now, as many people had the same idea to drop by during classes. Behind the counter it actually wasn’t only Jimin now, but also another guy with black hair. His sleeves were pushed up over his elbows revealing tattoos that were all over his forearm and fingers. Lea vaguely remembered seeing his face somewhere, though she couldn’t quite place it. Before she could catch Jimin’s eye he vanished in the back for something, and she sighed. “Eh excuse me could I take your order?” She looked up, confused that it was already her turn but apparently the people in front of her were in a group. She looked at the food options to the left. “I’ll take one grilled cheese sandwich and a Nutella muffin” She said, looking back up at the waiter. And suddenly she remembered where she knew him from. “Holy shit you’re stock-photo guy!” She blurted out. The guy just took out her muffin from the display and nearly dropped it because of her sudden outburst. He blushed and looked at her stammering something incoherently. “Oh my god I’m right! I always see you in memes all over Tumblr oh my god!” In that moment Jimin came from the back grinning at Lea and throwing an arm around Bartender guy. “I knew I heard your voice and yes this is our newest addition to the team may I present Model and photography student Jeon Jungkook”. Jeon Jungkook looked very uncomfortable and busied himself with trying and somehow failing to place Lea’s muffin in a bag. Lea shook her head in a small laugh, her blonde hair falling out from behind her ear. “Damn Jimin and I thought you were the only model allowed to serve coffee out here, seems new guy as you beat in popularity as I saw his ‘model photos’ somewhere else than his own Instagram thirst-tap page.” Jimin crossed his arms in mock-offend while Jungkook finally gave the bag with food over to Lea. “Here’s your dude- I mean food” he said groaning a little about his slip of tongue. “Thanks dude” Lea grinned, placing her EC card over the card reader to pay. “You’re taking it to-go?” Jimin asked. “Yeah I wanna go home for a second before my next class, I want to pick up a book that I left lying there and you know I need a good book to survive literature” “Wow that is so wannabe-author of you” Jimin answered. Lea picked up her things and waved “Thanks I’ll take it, Bye Jimin, bye stock-photo-guy!”

Considering that she had some time before her next class Lea sat down in the kitchen with her freshly-warmed up sandwich and looked around her bag for her iPad. She placed it on the table, when her hand felt something else inside the bag.

Confused she pulled it out of her bag and placed it on the table. It was the thing the old lady had forgotten in the coffee shop earlier that morning. “Shit I totally forgot to drop it off at the fundus” Lea said. Curious she opened up the bag, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to take a small look inside. It was a silver ring, beautifully crafted. She turned it around in her hand admiring the weight and style of it. Her own fingers were always full of different rings and this one was actually really pretty the more she looked at it. Before she could put it back in her bag her phone suddenly started ringing. Lea carefully placed the ring back on the little bag it came in and fished out her phone from the depth of her bag. “What the-“ The caller ID showed Julia’s name, though that was weird, because Julia was supposed to sit in class right now and she usually wasn’t one to ditch a class that easily.

“Hello girl what’s up?” Lea asked into the phone. Through the line she could hear some wind crashing and other sounds but Julia started speaking before she could even wonder further. “GIRL, where are you right now?” She asked kind of frantically. “Huh I came home for my break why?” “There’s a supervillain that just crashed into your lecture hall and I didn’t remember if you still had class” Lea pulled her eyebrows together, concentrating to make out Julia’s voice with all the background commotion. “What is that some joke?!” “You need to look at the Baumhaus blog, there’s some footage up already” Julia continued talking, through most of it was drowned out by the bad connection while Lea swiped her iPad open. And somehow, she couldn’t believe her eyes. “What the fuck-?” she whispered, when the line went dead. Suddenly worried Lea jumped up and whirled around when a bright green flash illuminated the kitchen. She screeched some high note and fell back against the sink closing her eyes. When she reopened them, she saw something floating over her left-over sandwich. Said something sniffed her half-eaten sandwich. What was happening? “Oh my god is that … cheese” Said something exclaimed. “I haven’t had that in a century!”

Lea, finding her voice and body connection again jumped up from her place at the floor and she pointed accusingly at the thing that had just started eating her lunch with huge bites.

“What the fuck!” She exclaimed again, and while it wasn’t her most eloquent moment, she truly couldn’t find any words to better describe the situation.

The something looked up at her as if just remembering she was here. “Oh hi. I’m Plagg. Let me just eat first than we can go deal with that akuma”

“Aku-what?” Lea asked slowly sitting down in front of the black creature. It kind of resembled a small cat now that she looked at it. Plagg ate the last of that sandwich in a huge bite that shouldn’t be possible for his small statue and happily rubbed his belly. “Look girl, I am a kwami, and the god of destruction” he started, flowing from the plate towards the ring. “And it’s just your luck you seem to be my new holder, as you own my ring now.” He took the ring and placed it down in front of a still silently staring Lea. “This is a dream or something, maybe I woke up in one of my fantasy novels” the girl whispered, taking the ring hesitantly. It felt cool and very real against her skin. She slipped it on one of her fingers and found out it somehow fit perfectly. “Nonono this is actually real life; I know that because I just ate very real yummy cheese, and it tastes better than in my dreams. Now we have to deal with a supervillain, but don’t worry Ladybug will surely help you so you won’t have to fight him alone. We need her power anyway as you will sure learn. Your power is more awesome anyway it’s called cataclysm and it is all about destroying stuff. Anyway listen. You mustn’t tell anyone about this okay, most important rule. “Lea blinked down at the small creature. Ladybug? Fighting a supervillain? What the hell was going on?

“Now after you say, ‘claws out’ we can actually start trying to find that villain-“ Plagg certainly wanted to go on, but as if still in denial Lea repeated “Claws out?” confused and everything happened at once.

The small creatures’ eyes widened, and he opened his mouth but suddenly he was gone, and Lea was standing in the apartment in a leather suit. She looked down at her hands that were clad in leather as well, her nails seemingly got sharper under the material.

She rushed out into the hall, towards the mirror and stopped as she looked at herself. She was wearing a freaking leather catsuit. “Again. What. The. Fuck” She looked down at herself and up into the mirror. Her eyes where light green and very cat like under a black mask that obscured her face around the eyes. Lea turned around, admiring how the material seemed to fit just right in all places and she noticed a little stick in her belt, that also kind of looked like a cat’s tail. She took it and pressed a paw-shaped button, causing the thing to open up with all kinds of options. And suddenly she somehow, as if it was instinctual, knew what she had to do. She ran back into the kitchen, checking Baumhaus blog which was still reporting life on the incident. The supervillain apparently had moved on toward the art building And Lea remembered Tae and Hanna were supposed to be there right about now.

She sprinted out onto the balcony and in a jump, that could only be described as very daring or downright suicidal, she leaped over the street. Her staff expended and like a pole-vaulter she reached the next rooftop unshattered. She stopped when her feet hit the roof, looking down at her slightly trembling hands. “Wow.” She breathed out and her face turned into a smile. “This is awesome!”

She pole-vaulted her way towards the campus which resulted her being there in second’s time. Deciding that looking at what was going on first might be a smart idea, she hid behind one of the chimneys. She peeked around again just in time to see something red and spotted crash down in front of her. On the roof. There were no red spotted giant birds as far as she was aware.

She peeked around again just in time to notice a guy with dark hair sitting up. He groaned and rubbed his head. He looked around and their eyes met, both blinking at the other person. “Wait…” Lea started, remembering some things that Plagg had been trying to tell her before she transformed. She eyed the suit that was skin-tight, showing the lean muscle of the guy in front of her, but most importantly it was reminiscent of a certain animal “Are you the Ladybug? Nice biceps by the way!” The guy shrugged and stood up to his full height. “More like Mr.Bug as you can see. And who are you?” He shot her a charming grin. Lea rolled her eyes. “I’m L-leather dressed superhero lady noir as you can see” For effect she bowed down. “And I thought my getup was bad but here you are running around like a domeownatrix!” Lea’s eyebrow twitched under her mask and she decided that maybe, she did not like this guy. “I’d take my suit any day over that spotted fashion disaster you are sporting.” She shot back but Mr.Bug only smiled, striking a pose. “Oh, really you don’t spot something you like?” “More like you are bugging me already-“ she started, when suddenly a huge rock was thrown their way causing them both to jump apart and turn around.

Oh right. There was that problem with the supervillain.

LMAO :D:D:D:D:D Did you see that coming? A reverse Miraculous AU because I can. And we are only just getting started.

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aparecium-hq · 4 years

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Welcome to Aparecium, Pat! You have been accepted for Dierdra Jones. Look, we’re both familiar with your writing already and support any character you’d write, but your ideas for Dierdra are super fun. We can’t wait to see them in action! Check out the new member checklist, and jump right in.

Character Basics

Birthday (Age): December 8 (26 years old)

Gender (Pronouns): cisgender female (she/her)

Sexuality: Bisexual

Blood Status: Halfblood

Hogwarts House/School: Hufflepuff

Occupation: Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies

Faceclaim: Laura Harrier

Any requested changes? None!

Biography

Emrys Jones lived a relatively quiet life after Hogwarts, which meant that his daughter lived that same quiet life--one that she should have been more grateful to have. Dierdra grew up in Caerphilly in a small wizarding neighborhood not far from the muggle population. Her life had been full of warnings, cautioning her to behave with made-up stories about how the muggles would take her away if she didn’t stay within those boundaries. It made muggles out to be much scarier than they were, though the only purpose of those stories as Dierdra would find out later, told by their neighbor Cardella Wopsle, was to keep the Ministry from coming in and causing everyone trouble.

Since her parents were always working, Dierdra was always at some neighbor’s house. If it wasn’t the stories of muggles, it was a fear of being disliked that kept her on her best behavior, understanding that the reason she hadn’t just been kept in her own house by herself for hours was because of the kindness of her neighbors. And it was really those neighbors who introduced her to Gwenog as someone who was much more than her auncle she saw at family Christmases and Catapults’ home games.

The closest thing she had to a role model, really, was her auncle Gwenog… or rather, Gwenog’s career. Spending time with a few neighbor kids made it easy to keep up with Quidditch every season, and Dierdra was a staunch supporter of her auncle—not quite realizing that their belligerent attitude on the pitch wasn’t just them being larger-than-life as they were during the holidays. Gwenog would still be her favorite relative, Quidditch player or not, but there was something to their brazenness that made Dierdra yearn for more than just the cul-de-sac she lived in. But hearing stories from them about their last match or their opinions on the Quidditch finals made it easy for Dierdra to see that they were in their element, and easier as well to be convinced that she too wanted stories like that to tell.

She did not, however, figure out a way to make a name for herself once she was in school. She couldn’t figure out how Gwenog managed to take up so much space and still glow in the hearts and minds of Harpies fans. Hufflepuff showed her that she didn’t need to be more than she was—but it was fortunate that what she was… was a Quidditch player. Anything else would have been acceptable, but she still hung onto Gwenog’s stories and their appearances on the sports pages of the Prophet. Everything else outside of Quidditch had been filled in by what her classmates had decided for her, her opinions molded by (if not a copy of) theirs.

Because of the unspoken rules of their magical community, Dierdra took the hint not to ask for a broom from her parents. The first time she had ridden one was the rickety older models in first year flying. It wasn’t that she had gotten a more functional broom by chance during her first class. After the second, third, and fourth meeting, it was clear that she could fly faster and higher than most of Hufflepuff house, receiving the first detention then when she strayed too far, but at the time she felt proud of herself for having proven that she had that natural talent.

Although she wrote to Gwenog about what had happened, the letter had gotten shuffled in the same pile as the fanmail their assistant slogged through for them. But perhaps by way of apology, even though Dierdra hadn’t felt like she was slighted, for Quidditch players were always just busy, Gwenog gifted her a broom after her first year to tryout for her house team, noting that the seekers are the speedy ones. Their advice made sense to her even if Gwenog didn’t tell her outright that she should be a seeker; what they said was barely advice so much as it was an observation. Dierdra did not have it in her to knock people off their brooms, nor did she want to get involved in the mid-field wrangle for the quaffle.

Dierdra’s life at Hogwarts did not revolve around Quidditch to the point where she had abandoned everything else; rather, Quidditch was a tool to remind her that the only thing worth doing was doing what she was good at. Sure, she did her due diligence, perhaps giving some of her favorite classes a little more attention than she should have--but her achievements academically were so patchworked that it was obvious that she hadn’t given much thought to how the combination of them could turn into a real career. Most of what mattered was that her marks were high enough so she could stay on the team.

While Dierdra made fast friends at Hogwarts in her first year, the peak of her popularity at school had come after victorious Quidditch matches, having broken the school record for the fastest snitch catch in her fifth year. It was then, she realized, that she didn’t need to be as boisterous as Gwenog to fill the space in someone else’s opinion of her… because most of that work was already done by whatever preconceived idea they had of what Dierdra should be. This didn’t mean that Dierdra was never honest; she had just become more selective about what she made sure to let people see, though there wasn’t much there anyway that would turn anyone’s heads. She didn’t mind; she was no trailblazer by any means.

Despite the fact that she had inherited the talent (if it worked that way), there had still been no guarantee that her Quidditch career would extend past seventeen. Even during her Career Advice meetings, she had been advised against pinning all of her hopes on the sport. She couldn’t find herself at all interested in the typical Quidditch-adjacent work: journalism at the Prophet or a Ministry position under the Department of International Games and Sports. A combination of the right OWLs and NEWTs would have qualified her to be a broom maker, had it not been for her lucky break.

Dierdra called it lucky. It was one of the matches where recruiters were watching, though she put that out of her mind and tried to treat this game like all of the other ones she had played in the last six years. For a Seeker, strategy didn’t seem to matter; no amount of height or speed mattered so much as Dierdra caught the snitch.

She was first signed to the Pride of Portree out of school and was traded to the Magpies after four seasons, though her rise to stardom didn’t start until she signed with the Harpies—though the media storm had been less about her record as a pro seeker and more about carrying Gwenog’s legacy. The Harpies were any player’s dream team to be part of, and barring being signed with them, they were any player’s dream to defeat in the finals.

Being signed on the Harpies didn’t make Dierdra work any harder than she already did. It felt as if Dierdra had done all she had sought to do, but she had wondered if being a Quidditch star had truly been a goal at all, so much as she was doing what she was good at doing. Perhaps that was the reason why she had always looked up to Gwenog: they were always so assured of themselves while Dierdra was convinced that her path to the Harpies was a series of events that just happened to be in her favor.

More often now, she wonders what her life would be like had she become a broom maker instead, understanding the magic between her and her broom and reliving the first time she flew. Maybe she’d be more enthusiastic about the muggle toys that started to take over the last few years, especially since GPS has become more prevalent as a broom accessory out of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Besides, what the helll was wrong with using a map? Dierdra had found herself lost trying to use the new muggle device, having chucked it in Cardigan Bay on a flight back to Caerphilly. It just felt wrong, the way it interfered with her and her broom. But that was the least of her muggle problems: having a phone now had been mandatory for the Harpies. Dierdra was wary of being forced to have a social media presence, unsure of what to fill her profiles with and unsure of how much autonomy she really had over what she was forced to give away. Now more than ever she was forced to channel the energy Gwenog had, with words like aesthetic and brand she never had to think about before. Quidditch was demanding more and more of her beyond catching the snitch nowadays.

As some of her teammates were talking about retirement because of a bad fall here, a pulled shoulder there, and bludger injuries everywhere, no one seemed to talk like their careers were over. They still had to carry the legacy through whatever they posted, and it seemed like all anyone spent their time doing off the pitch was creating something out of nothing for the sake of staying relevant.

Dierdra had never succumbed to her injuries too long to miss a significant portion of any season; how lucky was she to have fantastic healers behind the scenes. (Hell, they were even integrating muggle methods like physical therapy that kept her on the pitch, but she’d never understood how it works.) She wasn’t just in good health; seekers had a penchant for being injured often and she was doing better than most of them in the league as far as recovery time. She should be grateful that she has the next eight to ten years still to keep doing what she’s doing.

Or at least, what she thought she was supposed to do. What she thought her only job was. Muggle technology had more than just complicated what Quidditch was supposed to be. Playing the sport itself—getting on the broom, lifting off, searching for the snitch—had become less worthwhile because of the sacrifices she had to make for her career, beyond just becoming a good seeker. But even if she could cut and run, the lack of stability scared her into doing so. Dierdra had always been risk averse. On her pros/cons list, there were always more cons: it would be scandalous, she didn’t want to ruin her luck, she wasn’t qualified to do anything else, she didn’t know how to live without Quidditch…

That last detail grew into something beyond just a bullet point on her list; the mere thought of this hypothetical other life eroded her resolve and extinguished her passion. Dierdra had friends from school at this point who have had their luck lead them differently. She attended weddings and had her assistant send snitch themed gifts for their newborns. Dierdra couldn’t help but feel she had everything and nothing at the same time, missing out on something she was sure she hadn’t seen but had given up without even knowing.

Character Questionnaire

How does your character feel about their family?

As much as she admired her Auncle Gwenog, the two of them had never really been close—but that didn’t make them any less Dierdra’s favorite family member, if only because that was what people found interesting about Dierdra when she was younger. She modelled herself to be like Gwenog, but in failing that, she just ended up being more impressionable as she got to school.

Dierdra knew that they were proud of her rise to the top, especially after she joined the Harpies. Perhaps then she could say they were close, corresponding more often then, if only for the media appearances. As her career progressed, her auncle had become more of a caricature of what people found entertaining, though that didn’t mean she cared for them any less. It wasn’t disillusionment at all, since she still admired them even if it wasn’t the same sort of amazement she had in her formative years. Rather, she had come to terms with the fact that she would never deal with her Quidditch quandaries in the same way they did.

Some people called it going soft now that Dierdra’s taking the time to reconnect with her parents. The longer she played for teams far from home, the more she missed Caerphilly—even if it took missing several holidays because of the league’s schedule for her to finally admit it. Since going home more often when she can, rumor has it that she’s planning on signing with the Catapults—which didn’t seem like a terrible idea. The Catapults didn’t graze the front pages as often as the Harpies did, and maybe she could manage to look good as a hometown hero, especially since reputation was all the rage these days. Regardless of all of the Quidditch considerations, coming home and getting to know her parents better is her way of connecting to the idyllic life of being a kid in the neighborhood, and trying to capture what she had missed before. That always weighed more heavily every time she went back.

What does your character value in a friendship?

Whatever she says may as well end up in the Prophet, and whatever she posts may as well be picked to pieces out of context. Dierdra values someone who can be trustworthy. Someone who she can open up to about what’s on her mind without fear of having to hear her own news read back to her from someone else. She never thought she has much to say—but she’s never found someone she could truly open herself to.

How would your character describe their own work ethic? Is that an accurate measure of themself?

Dierdra is constantly worried she’s not working hard enough. Despite having the advantages of being well-off enough as a professional athlete, she’s terrified that everything she’s worked for would be swept aside. She’s willing to put in the work where she thinks it’s supposed to go, but very often her focus (on Quidditch) makes her blind to the bigger picture. So she’s right about having a great work ethic—whether or not she spends the time on the right task is another question.

How would a stranger who has just met your character describe them?

If this stranger knew anything of Gwenog’s threatening rage on the pitch, their niece Dierdra is much more behaved. A first impression of Dierdra is a quiet woman, having much more of her father Emrys in her than she thought. Friendly, welcoming, but not alluring by any means—someone quickly forgotten at the end of the day. Dierdra does not have a different face she puts on for the public; rather, she picks and chooses what she wants to share, and she really believes she has little worth sharing. There’s nothing she can say that hasn’t already been said better by someone else. The more she stays out of anyone’s radar, the less they care about her business—but the issue now is that there seems to be no escaping scrutiny since every witch, wizard, and wix could have a camera on their person.

What magical skill or talent is your character most proud of?

Dierdra wouldn’t consider it a skill, really, even though Dierdra wouldn’t know her way around an oven or a stove to save her life—so most of her cooking is done magically. What’s worse is that she’s incredibly out of practice. But she can confidently make two things: (1) Every year on her birthday, she bakes herself a cake from scratch as a tradition she insists on keeping, even if it falls apart as she tries to cover it up with icing. (2) She knows how to make her eggs any way she wants, realizing it takes patience to properly make them over easy without breaking the yolk. The process of cooking—getting the ingredients together, preparing them, and heating them just right—is meditative, and very rarely does she allow herself to have these moments.

Para Sample

I usually write somewhere between 150-300 words per post! See https://alices-husband.tumblr.com/ for a recent sampling of my typical writing length.

Product sponsorships put the numbers on her paycheck, though once upon a time the products were simpler: weatherproof jackets, leather gloves, reliable scrunchies. Of all the broom attachments the Harpies could have sponsored, they had to pick the one that made the most noise.

The damned GPS beeped as Dierdra had taken off from Holyhead and somehow shouted at her as if it were trying to make conversation with the air rushing past her ears. She didn’t need a muggle box to tell her which city she was over; she had made the flight back home enough times, even in the worst of weather.

It felt like her broom was being weighed down by the device, though she shouldn’t have been surprised: the device could hardly stay on her broom to begin with. Dierdra thought she was adjusting her steering more than usual, like she was fighting with the broom to fly straight. Somehow her trusted Nimbus had become the worst broom she had ever flown on after having attached the device onto it. She gripped the handle tighter with her hands.

The device was supposed to keep her from getting lost, but she was the one who was supposed to be doing the flying! A bundle of wires was no equivalent for a decade and a half of practice and Merlin be damned if she let some muggle toy take control of her broom for her.

This voyage home should have been easy. She had given the device a fair enough chance to prove its usefulness for less familiar trips. Dierdra screamed into the wind as the broom jerked again against her will.

She fumbled to get her wand with her left hand, regretting using the sticking charm now to attach the device onto her broom. But as soon as she let that hand go, the broom skittered to her left. Her body wasn’t trained for stability like the beaters were, but seekers were only one-handed on a broom for a few seconds. Except now, the few seconds turned to a dozen soon enough as she fought with her jacket to take her wand back. She calculated the next move, biting her lip hard upon realizing that it was necessary.

Her right hand lifted from the handle and she felt the broom slip, losing elevation despite her knees still steering. She kept her eyes forward, though there wasn’t much to see except the clouds she had hidden herself in. She knew she wasn’t over any cities yet so no muggles could see some “ooh-foes” out of the sky, but a water landing was complicated by the fact that there was nothing solid to land on. She slowly lifted her fingers to her jacket, fighting the force of the wind to unbutton it with both hands.

The force of the jacket billowing out behind her nearly threw her off her broom. Her heart leapt to her throat, her left hand reaching for the broom handle as her knees gripped for control. The wind tore her wand out of its inner pocket as soon as the fingers on her right hand reached for it, and she pulled the broom out of its planned path to make a swift hairpin turn.

The device screen flickered wildly, taunting her for going in the wrong direction. Her teeth gnashed together as she dove for her wand, speeding down this time to anticipate catching it from above. She needed to be out of the cloud cover to watch for the wand drop, making a wide circle before she spotted the wind carrying it further from where she had opened her jacket.

Dierdra leaned forward as she sped off towards the wand. Her muscles tensed as the broom urged her to turn back, the pull of the device stronger than ever now that she forced the broom to steer in the opposite direction. Again, she’d have to risk the broom wandering of its own accord when she made the final catch, but her timing had been nothing but impeccable: it was only half a second to reach out and grab it, its slenderness much easier to grip than a rounded golden snitch.

She inhaled sharply as she let the device bring the broom back to its intended course, clinging to the broom until she was steady again. It was only when she let the broom cruise did it finally behave, but the benefit of this was lost on her as soon as she tried taking control again to lift her back into the clouds, defying even that simple command. Her wanded hand clenched into a fist and raked over the thick strap that held the device onto her broom, opening her mouth only to shout the severing charm in frustration.

The strap would have fluttered elegantly like a broken ribbon carried by the wind—instead it looked like a misshapen tadpole diving into the sea, watched by a relieved rider securing her wand in its pocket and buttoning her jacket. Dierdra leaned forward, not bothered this time with cloud cover; she was nearly crying as the broom accelerated home, finally unencumbered.

#apareciumacceptance #rp #rpg #hp rp #hp rpg #dierdra jones

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writing-reading-inspiring · 4 years

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hey, could i request an imagine where the reader is a trans guy who’s in peter’s high school and one day he’s over at peter’s house and peter and ned coach him on how to look/act like a guy? can be funny or serious lol

Hey sweetie, so I hope that this is good and what you wanted. I’m so sorry if I disappoint or if I don’t represent trans guys correctly in this. I don’t have any personal connections to anyone who is trans, so I had to go on what I’ve read and seen. I’m sorry if how I portrayed them is wrong and I truly hope none of it’s offensive, though it shouldn’t be. I also want to apologize for how long this took to write. I have been super busy the past couple of weeks and I wanted to write this correctly, so I did some research as well.

(y/b/n) - your birth name

“Now, I know you’re nervous, but all you have to do is be yourself. Trust me, everyone will love you, bear.”

My mom smiled at me as we pulled into the parking lot of my brand new school, Midtown High. I sent her an appreciative smile as my heart beat rose to be so fast I was sure she could hear it.

Apparently my hunch may have been correct because she took my hand and looked me in the eyes.

“Listen to me, you’re going to be okay. I promise. Your father and I made sure to look for only the best educational systems when we moved. I know transferring half way through the year is tough, but sweetheart, there are so many opportunities here. I know you’re going to find the best ones.”

My mom always knows what to say to calm my nerves and get me thinking straight again. I took in a deep breath, counted to ten, and released. I’ve been doing this exercise since the guidance counselor at my old school taught me it to keep me calm when other students commented on how I’m transgender.

“Thanks mom, you always know what to say. I should probably go though, I think I heard the bell. I love you.”

“I love you too. Have an amazing day, I know you’ll do great.”

I grabbed my bag and got out of the car, shaking off any remaining negative thoughts I had. There’s no point in being scared when I haven’t even encountered the students yet. I mean, they could be really nice, right? This is supposed to be a school for genius level students, so they’re probably educated enough to know that there’s nothing wrong with being trans.

I began to walk the halls to my first period - chemistry.

Luckily, my mom set up an appointment with the school to have them give me a tour last Saturday, so I know where all of my classes are. Being a transfer student is hard enough without adding on not knowing where to go.

No one was passing a glance at me when I walked past them, so my hope began to rise. I know students will be able to tell I’m new in my classes, but at least I won’t feel like I’m clueless all the time.

The bell rang just as I made it into Mr. Cobbwell’s room. Now comes the fun part, seeing if there’s a seating arrangement. I’m praying there’s only a seating arrangement and not a mandatory introduction.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m the new transfer student. I was wondering if there was a seating arrangement that I should be aware of,” I asked who I assume is the teacher with my best smile.

“Well, there isn’t assigned seats, but a lot of students are already partnered up. We’ll find you someone though, don’t worry. For now, let’s introduce you to the class.”

My stomach dropped at his words. I knew that this was going to cause some confusion, but hopefully no hate. The school has to have my legal name and I haven’t fully transitioned, so I was going to have to inform everyone of who I actually was in an embarrassing way.

“Class settle down, I know we just had a break, but it’s time to get back to learning. We have a new student here today, Miss (y/b/n). Is there anything you would like to say to the class?”

“Yeah, um, my name is actually (y/n) and it’s Mister.”

Mr. Cobbwell was about to reply when I student yelled out from the second row. “Wait, so you’re not a chick? There’s no way you’re a dude.”

My cheeks flared red as I stood mortified in front of the entire class.

“Shut up, Flash. Leave him alone, there’s no need for your commentary.”

I smiled gratefully to curly haired boy who spoke up for me.

“I’m very sorry for the mix up Mister (y/n). Why don’t you sit next to Peter? Peter raise your hand for him.”

The boy who told the rude guy off raised his hand. I smiled and made my way over to him, even more grateful now that I know I won’t have to deal with anymore comments.

“Hey, I’m Peter. It’s nice to meet you. So you transferred?”

“Hey Peter, I’m (y/n), but you knew that since I was introduced a second ago. Anyway, uh, yeah, I just transferred from Cynthia Jenkins.”

“Oh, that’s cool. Your old decathlon is really good. We went against them last semester.”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little, “Yeah, I would hope so, I was on it.”

His eyes widened, “Really! We could really use some new members if you want to be part of it. We’re meeting after school on Friday in the lunchroom”

“You know what? I’ll probably check that out. Thanks.”

He smiled again at me before beginning to take notes of whatever Mr. Cobbwell has been talking about. I quickly got out my school supplies and began working.

The class continued on with notes until the bell rang.

“Hey (y/n), if you don’t have anyone to sit with today at lunch, you could always hang out with my friend Ned and me. We sit near the back.” Peter spoke to me before I could bolt to my next class.

“Oh, that would be cool, thanks Peter.” He nodded at me before heading off.

Most of my classes followed the same formula as chemistry. Get introduced, correct them, take notes. It was honestly really boring, but at least no one has said anything bad about me being transgender.

It was time for lunch and I was worried that Peter didn’t really want me there. He could have just been being nice, but given that I don’t really know anyone else, I’m still taking my chance on him.

I spotted Peter next to a boy who I’m assuming is the Ned person he was talking about. Peter saw me just a second after and quickly waved me over.

“Hey (y/n), this is my friend Ned. Ned this is (y/n), he just transferred from Cynthia Jenkins.”

“Really? That’s so cool. I know some people there, they’re pretty chill. So why did you transfer?”

I nervously scratched the back of my neck. This was kind of a sore subject, but of course Ned didn’t know that.

“Um, well, let’s just say some people there aren’t as chill as the ones you know. Sorry if that’s rude, I just don’t like talking about it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” I could tell Ned felt bad.

“No, it’s cool, you didn’t know.”

Peter quickly entered the conversation again trying to lead us away from the subject. “So (y/n) is thinking about joining the decathlon team. He was on the one at his old school.”

“That’s great, we really need some new members. A couple of kids quit after the whole Washington incident last year.”

I quickly figured out what he was talking about. “Wait, it was your decathlon team that was in the elevator at the Washington Monument last year?”

They both nodded their heads in confirmation.

“Dude, I saw that on the news. At least Spiderman was there to save you guys. That’s pretty cool.”

Peter perked up at the mention of Spiderman, “So, are you a fan of him. Spiderman I mean.”

“I guess. He does a lot for others, you know? He really looks out for the neighborhood and I appreciate that. It was a good thing he was in Washington though.”

“Yeah, thank goodness for Spiderman,” Ned spoke nervously now for some reason. Peter nudged him a little before turning his attention back towards me.

“So (y/n), it was really weird that Mr. Cobbwell called you (y/b/n). Did you get the problem fixed? I’m assuming there was a typo in the system when they were transferring your information.”

I sighed, thinking of how to explain the situation best. I was hoping he already figured it out, but I knew I’d have to tell people eventually, so it might have well been now.

“Actually, there weren't any mistakes. My birth name is (y/b/n).”

I could tell the two were confused by this, so I quickly continued.

“I’m transgender. My birth name is (y/b/n), but I go by (y/n) now. The school system needs my legal information and since I haven’t fully transitioned or gotten my name legally changed, the system has different information than I go by.”

The boys seemed shocked for a moment, but they quickly recovered. Ned was the first to speak.

“That actually explains a lot. No offense, but you don’t really look too masculine. Then again neither do we, but I get it now that I know you were probably raised a bit different. I hope that wasn’t offensive.”

“No, you’re right. I was raised to be different, but I’m just not. I was born in the wrong body and I’m working on correcting that. I hope that’s not too weird though. Some people at my old school had a problem with it and I was really hoping that wouldn’t happen here.”

Peter gave me a smile, “Don’t worry (y/n), it doesn’t change anything. Hey, do you want to hang out today after school? We could all go to my apartment to do something. We could also talk more there since lunch is almost over.”

“That would be great actually. Thanks for inviting me.”

He nodded his head before Ned interjected, “Yeah, that’d be cool. We could teach you how to be a manly man too. Just like I am.”

Peter gave him a look and scoffed, “You wish. He’s more masculine than you are.”

“(y/n) may be, but does he have a cool hat? No, so we have much to teach him.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the two. I could tell this was going to be fun.

Lunch ended and Peter quickly gave me his number and told me to meet Ned and him near his locker after school.

The rest of the school day was boring and went by slowly as I waited to be able to hang out with Peter and Ned again.

Eventually the dismissal bell rang and I bolted from my English class. I texted my mom earlier and told her I was invited over to a new friends. She was ecstatic that I was already making friends.

I met up with the two where I was told and was greeted with warm smiles.

“Ready to go? I just got a new Lego Millennium Falcon set that we can put together,” Ned told me excitedly.

“That sounds like fun. I really like Star Wars, it was the first movie my dad showed me.”

“Really? That’s awesome. Ned and I are huge fans, obviously. We actually built the Death Star last semester.” Peter was quick to inform me.

“That’s really cool, I definitely want to see it. Darth Vader is my favorite character, I don’t know why, but I always favor the villains in movies.”

Peter gave a nervous laugh, “I hope you don’t favor the villains in real life.”

“Nah, just movies. The one’s in real life absolutely suck. I prefer the superheros.”

The three of us continued to talk about whatever came to mind as we made our way to Peter’s apartment. By the time we were in the door, I was able to tell that I would get along really well with the two of them.

“So, this is my home. My aunt May isn’t home from work until six, so we have some time to ourselves. You guys are welcome to stay for dinner, but I don’t know if you’re going to want what she makes. I love her, but her cooking isn’t exactly the best.”

Ned and I laughed at Peters comment, Ned nodding his head in agreement before we all went to Peter’s room.

“So, do you guys want to watch a movie? We could watch Star Wars or another classic like Jurassic Park or Back To The Future.”

Ned replied to Peter first, “We haven’t watched Back To The Future in a while. You good with that (y/n)?”

“Yeah, I’ve never actually seen it.”

The two looked at me like I just told them I eat human hearts.

“What?”

“You’ve never watched Back To The Future? I can’t believe this,” Peter told me.

“We’re fixing this,” Ned interjected, putting the movie into the DVD player connected to the TV.

The three of us watch the movie, following it with Jurassic Park and Star Wars: Return Of The Jedi.

Half way through our third movie, our attention started to falter from the film and we began talking again.

“Yo (y/n), I just remembered. We have to coach you how to act and look more like a guy,” Ned said suddenly.

“Oh, yeah. Okay, where do we begin?”

Peter started first, “Okay, so you obviously have masculine characteristics given that that’s how you identify, but we kind of need to teach you how to have others realize.”

I nodded my head in agreement. “A lot of people still consider me a girl, it would be nice for them to think of me as I actually am.”

“Exactly, so let’s start there. We’ll begin with the typical posture and style.”

Ned began to object, “Peter, I don’t think you should be the one to teach him how to dress. Don’t worry (y/n), I got you. So, how do you feel about hats?”

Peter rolled his eyes and threw a pillow at Ned while I laughed.

“Don’t be dumb. Anyway, (y/n), since we have differences in styles, we can talk about how to walk and stand.”

Peter got up and began to walk around the room in an over exaggerated swagger strut. He then proceeded to stop, turn to Ned and me, and folded his arms over his chest while slumping. He quickly returned to normal, rapidly nodding his head while gesturing for me to do the same.

I timidly got up and followed what he showed me. As I uncrossed my arms, we all burst out laughing at how ridiculous this all was.

“Th - that - was absolutely terrible. It has nothing to do with you (y/n), just Peter’s terrible teaching,” Ned was barely able to get out while laughing.

“Hey, I did pretty good. In all honesty, there isn’t any set way you should act or look I guess. I think you just need to be more confident in yourself (y/n). I know whatever happened at your old school was bad, but people at Midtown are better. Well, maybe not Flash, but you don’t need to worry about him. Just be yourself and everyone will see who you really are.”

I smiled at Peter’s words. He was right, I just needed to be confident in myself and not worry about others judging me on who I am.

Maybe my mom was right, I will have a lot of new opportunities. I mean, I’m pretty sure I already started finding the best ones.

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bevioletskies · 6 years

Note

Starmora prompt to consider: Gamora and Peter are in college together and have to work on a project together.

songs in this fic: dance with me by orleans, the closer i get to you by roberta flack & donny hathawayword count: 3.7k | ao3

In the three years he’d been in college, Peter had come to learn he had a particular aversion to certain two-word phrases. Among them: morning lectures, waitlisted classes, mandatory attendance, cumulative exams, and the oh-so-dreaded…

Assigned partners.

It wasn’t that Peter didn’t like working with other people. In fact, unlike most students, he generally loved the experience. He was curious about others by nature, and getting along with people was never much of a chore for him. In any group project, even with just three people in it, he could find kinship with at least one other member. Assigned partners, however, was a different story. Especially when said assigned partner was the infamous Gamora (no last name, as far as he knew, anyway).

She was well-known around their sizable college on Xandar for a handful of reasons, most which were rather tragic. Gamora was the last living member of the Zehoberei race, largely in part to her adoptive father, Thanos. She and her sister, Nebula, were generally quite reserved when it came to sharing their private lives, but anyone could dig up old news articles and learn that they had only been rescued from their violent upbringing at the age of fifteen, leaving them physically and emotionally scarred for life. They hid it well, though, keeping their chins up despite some of the nasty comments that immature classmates threw their way.

Beyond that, Gamora was part of several different clubs and organizations, with ambitions of getting into law school. She hardly spoke in class, but she had the highest grades in just about everything, constantly booking private office hours with her professors to make her goals known. Peter could admire her drive from a distance, sure, but getting to know her up close?

“Don’t think that you’ll have it easy because you’re partnered with me,” Gamora said, dropping into the seat beside him, her bag slamming down with a loud thunk. “If you slack off, Quill, our TA will hear about it.”

Peter blinked. “Hi to you too, it’s so great to meet you,” he said dryly.

Getting to know her up close was…interesting, to say the least.

“I’m serious. I’ve seen your posts on the class discussion forums, or should I say, your lack of them?” Gamora’s lip curled. “I’m not carrying you through this class. It’s a prerequisite for two of my fourth-year classes.”

“Hey, same here,” Peter said with a surprised chuckle. “What’s your major, anyways?”

“Sociology. Yours?” It was the kindest thing she’d said to him so far, though Peter suspected it was more of reflexive habit than an actual desire to know.

“Education.” Peter turned away briefly to accept the project outline that was being passed around, grabbing one for each of them before looking back at her. He’d never been so physically up-close to her before, surprised and a little bit disturbed to see thin slivers of metal visible underneath her skin. That certainly wasn’t a Zehoberei physical trait; it had to have been the result of Thanos’s cruelty.

“I didn’t know education majors had to take communication courses,” Gamora said. She still refused to meet his eyes, instead opting to skim over the project outline. “We have to collect primary research and present a proposal to the entire class.”

“So…every college project ever,” Peter snorted. “Why is this even done in partners?”

“Because we have to be each other’s opposition.” Gamora tapped her finger on Peter’s sheet, right where the criteria said exactly as such. “That’s clever, actually. Means that you can’t rely on me to do everything for you.”

“I don’t know where you’re gettin’ the idea that I’m a slacker,” Peter protested. Gamora gave him a pointed look.

“You don’t participate in class or in the online discussions, I overheard you asking our TA at least twice if the final was cumulative when it says so on the syllabus, and you snored during our last three lectures,” she said, getting to her feet. “Excuse me for being cautious.” She hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “Meet me in the student lounge in the Nova building tomorrow? I don’t have class, so it’s up to you when we meet.”

“I was gonna…ugh.” Peter let out a resigned sigh. Clearly, his plans to head into the city and skulk around the pawn shops for Yondu were going to have to wait. “I’ll be there at noon.”

“Don’t be late,” Gamora called over her shoulder as she made her way down the steps of the lecture hall. Peter could only watch her go with a shake of his head, wondering what exactly his professor had gotten him into.______

To Gamora’s surprise, Peter arrived five minutes early (she had been here ten minutes ago, but still). He looked for all the world like he’d just rolled out of bed, his hair a rumpled mess, the collar of his T-shirt woefully lopsided. Peter dropped his bag into the seat opposite her and sank into the cushion with a labored groan. “Just woke up?”

“Nah, early morning shift.” Peter cracked his knuckles, satisfied with the way they popped. Gamora looked vaguely disgusted. “I work at the radio station.”

“Really?” For the first time, Gamora sounded genuinely interested in what he had to say.

“Yeah, I do the playlists and social media. Sometimes I help edit the announcements and current events stuff,” Peter shrugged. He began unloading his bag, yanking out his laptop and project outline. “You, uh, you write for the newspaper, right?”

“Among other things, yes,” Gamora said neatly, directing her attention back to her own screen. “We don’t really pay much attention to the radio station, though, except for that disastrous fundraiser you attempted last semester.”

“Hey, there are plenty of rich kids around here who would love to get their ships washed,” Peter said defensively.

“But by students in swimsuits? That’s dangerously archaic and a tad suggestive,” Gamora replied, though she chuckled softly as she said it. “We got plenty of quotes from the administration about your little stunt, enough for a front page spread. It was a busy week.”

“Welcome Week usually is,” Peter laughed. “So, you have any topics in mind yet?”

“It still has to be related to some aspect of communication,” Gamora pondered aloud, leaning back into her seat. “Something that can even have opposing ideas. We gather and present the same primary data, but we have to come to different conclusions.”

Peter hummed to himself, drumming his fingers against his keyboard thoughtfully. Another minute or two passed before he let out an excited shout, startling a few students trying to sleep on the beanbag chairs nearby. “I got it!”

“That was fast,” Gamora said, eyeing him curiously. “Go on, then.”

“What makes a better communicator - an introvert or an extrovert?” Peter smiled at her triumphantly. “C’mon, you can’t tell me that isn’t good.”

Gamora twirled her pen between her fingers, nodding slowly. “You know…that isn’t half-bad.” Peter pumped his fist in the air in victory. “But how would we measure it? Based on what kind of data? What constitutes an unbiased conclusion?”

Peter clapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. “Let’s start with an abstract and go from there, yeah?”

She quirked her brow, setting her pen down. “Sounds like a plan. I’m impressed, Quill. You might be smarter than you look.”

His grin widened. “Hey, I have good ideas every now and then.” He turned his laptop towards her, open to a blank word document. “After you.”______

Meeting outside of class hours became a weekly occurrence for the two, usually in the Nova student lounge. It was mostly out of necessity - after all, there was only so much they could communicate via text and email - but occasionally Peter would send her an extra message or two that wasn’t related to the project at all.

Saw your article this morning - do you have a personal vendetta against the radio station or something D:

I think your sister literally ran into me in the admin building like five minutes ago does she always look this angry or did I do something please help

Did they not have memes on Zehoberei?? Is that why you aren’t responding to the last three I sent you

“We didn’t have Internet on Zehoberei, Quill,” Gamora sighed as she sat beside him in the lecture hall one day. Peter startled at her sudden presence; she had never voluntarily elected to sit with him before. “And ignore Nebula, she’s just…tempestuous.”

“So you do have something against the radio station,” Peter said teasingly. “What’d music and campus news ever do to you?”

“Nothing, I just think it’s an inefficient way of communicating. All your reports are looped every fifteen minutes, which means whenever someone tunes in, they either miss a portion of it or miss it entirely,” Gamora pointed out. “All the newspaper’s articles are published online, which students can access whenever they want.”

“You’re against the old-school, huh?” Peter hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in his seat. His shoulder brushed hers as he did. “I see how it is.”

“Did you pull something when you jumped to that conclusion?” Gamora said dryly, though to her surprise, Peter merely laughed, shaking his head in amusement. The genuine warmth of the sound made her shiver. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, still chuckling. “You busy tonight?”

“We’re meeting on Thursday, aren’t we?” Gamora asked, frowning.

“Sure, but if you’re free…I’d like to change your mind.” Peter smiled.

Gamora hesitated, which in her mind, already said something about herself. She was planning on doing her usual evening routine - attempt to meet up with her sister, only to get spurned for one reason or another, and instead spend the rest of the night licking her wounds and doing homework in her dorm room, alone. But for some reason, the offer sounded rather appealing. “Fine, but I’ll still be bringing my laptop, whatever it is we’re doing. I can’t take the entire night off.”______

The grass was still slightly damp from the afternoon sprinklers as Gamora crossed the lawn into unfamiliar territory. There were certain areas of the school’s campus she’d never been to, considering most of her classes resided in two buildings on the other side of the quad. The stars in the night sky twinkled mischievously from up above as she paused outside the door, urging her to knock. With an inhale of anticipation, she neatly rapped her knuckles against its surface.

“Quill?” she called. The door swung open, revealing a cheerful-looking Peter, wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing earlier, only now he had a pair of headphones slung around his neck and a small device hanging on his belt.

“Hey, welcome to the den.” He stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in. She glanced around as she did, taking in her surroundings. It looked less like a radio station’s quarters, and more like a typical dorm room, with random junk strewn about. Records, tapes, and seemingly disassembled electronics were packed and stacked on nearly every surface, including the single worn loveseat that sat opposite the broadcasting booth. A student that Gamora vaguely recognized from one of her old language classes was inside, speaking animatedly into the microphone, while Peter’s bag and schoolwork seemed to be set up on a small desk by the equipment.

Peter took a minute to clear off the couch, carrying his laptop over and motioning for her to join him. They sat down together, watching the radio host in amicable silence for a few minutes before Gamora finally spoke. “Somehow, this is exactly what I pictured.”

“Okay, so we’re not as fancy as the newspaper office,” Peter shrugged. “We…we’re cozy.”

“When were you at the newspaper?” Gamora asked, pulling out her own laptop. She was beginning to suspect Peter didn’t have much planned besides spending the evening in each other’s company, which admittedly wasn’t as terrible of a plan as it might have sounded a couple months ago when they first began working together.

“I, uh, might’ve had a crush on the culture reporter, Bereet,” Peter confessed. “She was in one of my film study electives, and she seemed to know her stuff about movies, and I wanted to see if she’d be interested in my contributions on music in film. Turns out she’s kind of a Top 40 girl. Which isn’t, like, bad or anything, just…she didn’t really wanna hear anything I had to offer or say.”

“She means well, but she is…particular,” Gamora said carefully. “Anyways, what am I doing here?”

Peter unwound the headphones from his neck and held them out to her. Gamora accepted wordlessly, albeit a little uncertainly, as she slid them snugly over her ears. “Showin’ you what the radio station can do that the newspaper can’t.” He pressed play.

Dance with me, I want to be your partner…can’t you see the music is just starting?…

He watched her nervously, watched as her eyes slid closed and her shoulders dropped as the tension in her body slowly dissipated. She almost seemed to be swaying a little, absorbing the song and its lyrics - or maybe she was drifting off to sleep, he couldn’t quite tell.

Night is falling, and I am falling…dance with me…

When the song finished, Gamora pulled the headphones down to her shoulders, glancing over at him with a soft smile. “It was…pleasant. I liked it.”

Peter grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Gamora gently took the Walkman from him, turning the device over carefully in her hands. “But if you think the newspaper is lacking in music, I think I need to introduce you to streaming services, Quill.” He couldn’t help but laugh again - part of him wanted to be annoyed, but there was something about the way she spoke that left him utterly charmed. “There you go again - what is it?”

“Nothin’, it’s just…you’re funny. I didn’t expect that.” Peter held out his hand for her to give it back. “Here, let me play you another one.”

Gamora pressed it into his palm, their fingertips brushing slightly as she did. She shivered. “I don’t think anyone has ever thought of me as funny before.”

“Well, that’s a shame. Then let me be the first.” Peter couldn’t help but stare a little as she tucked her hair behind her ear before pushing the headphones back into place, shaking himself out of his reverie before pressing play once more.

The closer I get to you…the more you make me see…by giving me all you got…your love has captured me… ______

Semester-long projects, suffice to say, were just about no one’s favorite, but Peter soon found himself dreading its end. After that night, Gamora had become a semi-regular visitor of the radio station, having quickly memorized Peter’s work schedule. She dropped in at least twice a week with leftover pastries from the newspaper office or one the other dozen committees and whatnot that she was a part of. They usually spent the first ten minutes under the guise that they had something to talk about regarding the project, but would then delve into something a little personal, a little more intimate, even.

One night, Gamora had made a rather strange request - that Peter join her in her dorm room instead, and if he had spent a little more time checking himself over in the mirror before leaving, no one had to know. However, when he arrived, she seemed unusually distraught.

Her room was exactly what he expected it to be; neat and well-kept, with everything in its place. There were no extraneous decorations or trinkets to be found, just a perfectly-made bed and organized desk with nothing on the floor but her bookbag. Gamora’s tear-streaked face told a different story. “Gamora, hey, what happened?” He immediately sat on the foot of her bed, wondering if it would be too invasive to reach out into her personal space.

“Do you have a sister, Quill?” she asked.

“Yeah, uh, Mantis, you might know her from - never mind. Did somethin’ happen with Nebula?” Peter said worriedly.

“I didn’t know who else to talk to about it.” Gamora glanced at him almost apologetically. “This probably wasn’t what you were expecting when I texted, but…”

“It’s okay. I was in the neighborhood,” Peter joked, bringing his legs up onto the bed. “I mean, I’d like to think we’re at the point where we can talk about stuff that’s not about class. We’re…friends, right?”

For a moment, Peter internally panicked, wondering if he’d misspoke, as Gamora suddenly looked very odd, like she’d swallowed something sour. She clenched her jaw a little, her brow furrowed upwards, before she finally relaxed, braving a watery smile. “Yes, I think we are.”

Peter spread his arms wide, a rather goofy expression on his face. “So lay it on me. What happened?”

Despite the uneasiness in her stomach about the Nebula situation, Gamora couldn’t help but find her smile widening as she settled in across from Peter, putting her phone aside so she could properly meet his eyes. “It all started earlier this week…or really, to be more accurate, when we were children…”______

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous, Quill.” Gamora smiled almost teasingly as she slid onto the bench beside him, smoothing out her already-crisp blazer. It was presentation day, a day that both of them had been secretly dreading, and they were dressed much nicer than their usual attire, considering professionalism was a big part of their mark. “You’ve got a strange look in your eye.”

“It’s just my face,” Peter protested, though the wrinkle in his brow instantly faded the second Gamora playfully elbowed him in his side. “Are you ready?”

“I’m always ready,” Gamora drawled, smirking, before they both directed their attention to the front of the room.

The next thirty minutes dragged on in nervous anticipation as other groups went up to present. Peter bounced his leg underneath the table until Gamora literally dug her fingers into his knee to get him to stop, her hand remaining there a little longer than necessary. Finally, after what felt like forever, the two of them were called on, and they made their way down the steps.

“Communication and personality are undeniably correlated, but is there causation to be found? Do extroverts have it easier when it comes to expressing themselves and making their ideas heard, or do introverts win out in the end?” Gamora began as Peter pulled up their presentation on the large pull-down screen.

“We conducted fifty interviews with students from different faculties, different backgrounds, different dreams - to come to opposing conclusions about who has it better,” Peter continued, gesturing towards the video that was queued up in front of them. “This includes our colleagues - I work at the radio station, and Gamora works at the school paper. You might think they’re mutually exclusive, but you’d be surprised at what we found.”

Their ten minutes, all things considered, went seamlessly - Peter only fumbled his words once, and Gamora’s voice shook as she spoke of her own experiences as a person that somewhat fell in between what she called the “admittedly narrow definitions” of what it meant to be one or the other. As with any college lecture, the applause they received was obligatory and entirely disinterested, but their professor seemed impressed enough, nodding and laughing in all the right places, asking a few questions at the end that they answered near-flawlessly.

Peter exhaled shakily as they sat back in their seats, both relieved and a little remorseful. “That went okay, right? We did good.”

“We did,” Gamora smiled. “Who knew we would make a half-decent team?”

Class wasn’t over, though, as much as they wanted it to be, and they had to sit through another five presentations. Peter couldn’t help but whisper snarky commentary under his breath to Gamora throughout, in which her reactions would range from rolling her eyes to biting hard on her lip to stop herself from laughing out loud.

When the second-last presentation was halfway done, Gamora glanced down at her phone and, without warning, ducked out of the room in a hurry, her bag in tow. Peter could only stare after her despondently, wondering if that was suddenly it; if by next week, when their professor started their finals review period, she would be sitting at the front again, she would stop visiting the radio station, she would stop talking to him entirely.

Peter practically sprinted out of the lecture hall the second they were dismissed, glancing around for any signs of where Gamora could have gone, though he was sure she was long gone by now. It was only when his eyes drifted a little lower that he spotted her sitting under a nearby tree, smiling hesitantly at him from across the way.

“You sure hightailed it outta there,” Peter commented when he approached her. He was unsure of whether it would be weird for him to sit down. “Something up?”

“My sister texted, she actually wants to have dinner with me tonight,” Gamora said, holding up her phone triumphantly.

“That’s great!” Peter exclaimed, deciding to sit cross-legged beside her. “One step closer to working it out, right?”

“I hope so,” Gamora chuckled in relief. “I thought it would be kind of rude for me to go back inside and interrupt the presenters so…I’m glad you found me.”

“Yeah?” Peter’s heart thumped a little faster. “Why’s that?”

“Well, partially so I could tell you in person why I can’t come to the station tonight,” she replied apologetically, reaching across to take his hand in hers. “But…if you’re free tomorrow night…I have the keys to the newspaper office. You know, for comparison’s sake.”

“You ain’t sick of me yet?” he said disbelievingly.

“Oh, give it some time, Peter, I’m sure it will happen eventually,” Gamora teased. “So is that a yes?”

Peter nodded eagerly, his eyes crinkling in the corners as Gamora gazed up at him, her dark eyes compelling him to say the answer they were both looking for. “It’s a date.”

#ask #Anonymous #starmora #starmora fic #myfic #marvel #college fluff is always my jam #thanks for the request lovely!! i hope you enjoyed :)

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samtheflamingomain · 3 years

Text

one week down

I went into inpatient rehab last Monday and figured now would be a good time to give an update. I have a lot to say, but I know not everyone cares deeply about every minute detail, so I'll do a quick highlight reel for those mildly interested.

There's 5 of us, 3 men, 2 women. I'm the youngest by 7 years, and the only one here for just alcohol and weed. We have 6h of mandatory classes/groups every day except weekends when it's 1.5h. The classes are pretty boring and mostly stuff I learned from entry-level CBT/DBT with a few hidden gems of wisdom here and there.

We wake up at 8, DIY breakfast, class for 2.5h, lunch, 1.5h class, break, 1h class, dinner, an optional walk around the block, another 1h class, then bedtime meds and last smoke break at 10pm. No mandatory lights out time but I'm usually exhausted and out by 10:30.

The food sucks, but I'm trying to lose weight so I'm glad it does. I've already lost 6 pounds. On the other hand, I can't remember the last time I ate 2 meals with vegetables for a week straight. I'm smoking 3 times as much as I ever have, because everyone else is a "pack-a-day" smoker and it's been great to take away cravings and also socialize.

I really like the people in the group, and there are 2 staff members who are very well-liked because they're great, 2 that are okay, 2 that are serious hard-asses, and one who's just an outright asshole piece of shit with no business being in the healthcare field.

I'm in a weird kind of mindset where I go back and forth between "I never need to drink again" and "I can probably get drunk once or twice a month, the others here are much worse off than me, so comparatively, my addictions aren't such a big deal". I know that neither of these mindsets are truly healthy. The first because I know there will be days where I will want to drink and I need to plan for that, and the second because I simply cannot do moderation, and my life and problems aren't diminished by the existence of others' problems.

As for poppers, the other thing I'm quitting, I know I can never do them again. Poppers are all-or-nothing. It's impossible to moderate them because I would just do them all day every day, and the few times I've tried to quit them myself, by day 3 I'm digging through garbage to make a DIY bong. Quitting alcohol makes me restless, which I can manage. Quitting poppers makes me so depressed that I get suicidal.

Sorry, that was the "short" version but it got away from me. Now for a bit more detail.

I had to be 5 days sober of alcohol to come in, so it's been nearly 2 full weeks since my last drink, and exactly 2 weeks since the last time I got drunk. I still fantasize about getting sloshed again, but the rational part of my brain is slowly coming back and overriding those thoughts. I haven't had a severe craving to the point where I want to quit or even to the point where I've been super restless, largely because they keep us busy.

Poppers however... on day 2 I was having a fucking breakdown. On the floor sobbing. I went out for a smoke and one of the girls, call her Lisa, was out. I told her how bad I wanted to rip a popper and she said this: "What if you sucked really hard on the cigarette, held it in, then exhaled?" And it fucking worked. Instant headrush. Only about 20% as good as a real popper, but enough that I instantly felt better. Homegirl is a life-saver; I never would've even thought of that because I'd never imagined it would work. Part of doing a popper is smoking a piece of unfiltered cigarette very quickly, so I assumed smoking through a filter wouldn't get the job done.

I miss my kitty, but I'm not homesick like everyone else. They all have kids and 3 are in long-term relationships. 2 are likely going to prison for shit they did while fucked up on opioids and want to show the court that they're working to better themselves and get clean. They have reasons to quit. I... I feel like I really don't.

Yeah, my health has been slowly deteriorating for the past 4-5 years, and I've been very overweight for the past 2-3 years (beer belly), and I spend more money on alcohol than I'd like to admit, but what I spend in a year, Lisa spends on heroin in a weekend. To make things harder for myself, I literally have not had a hangover in 2+ years. I could drink a 26er in 4 hours and wake up absolutely fine.

But I know that my way of life, getting blackout drunk 7 days a week, isn't sustainable. I know that some alcoholics do that for 50+ years, but I'm still pretty young, and I don't want to wake up at age 40 realizing I've pissed away 1/3rd of my life just being drunk.

I guess, when I really boil it down, I want to go back to who I was before I started drinking. I had so much potential to do great things when I graduated high school, and since then it's been a steady decline in my productivity and motivation.

Something that's surprised me about being here is that I've gotten more shit done in the past week than I do most MONTHS. There's a piano that I play for an hour a day, which I haven't done since I was a teenager. There's a treadmill I've used a few times. There's enough down-time for me to work on some embroidery and drawing, but most importantly, I started writing again.

I "finished" my first novel 8 years ago, and I've been trying to rewrite it in its entirety ever since. Draft One was 150,000 words, and Rewrite has been stuck at 25k for almost 2 years now. After a week, it's up to 35k.

And I think I have to attribute this to my lack of drinking. I never realized just how much it affected my motivation before. I used to open the document, force myself to crunch out a paragraph or two and then put it back on the shelf for a few months.

Now, I'm not forcing anything. It's coming to me. I'm inspired. I'm confident. I'm excited.

I've been feeling like I'd lost my spark, my drive to create things, for years now. And it's only been 2 weeks sober and I'm getting that spark back. I guess I do have a reason to quit: I'm not going to accomplish anything, or at least not anything I'm excited about, if I go back to drinking.

Another thing I've noticed is that I'm much more process-oriented. The task of writing always seemed too daunting and stressful because I just want the fucker to be done already. Now, I'm truly enjoying just getting through a scene or chapter. Even just a clever turn of phrase releases the Happy Chemical for me now.

To wrap up this absolute saga of epic length, I want to talk about the people a bit more. It's pretty rare that I get put into a group of people and I genuinely like all of them and none of them annoy me. The last time I was in a classroom with others, we were literally "learning" to identify parts of sentences and doing absolute beginner-level word processing. It was agonizing, because every single person in that class was a fucking idiot and would ask the stupidest questions, take forever to read a paragraph aloud while mispronouncing very common words. I'm not being a know-it-all dick, either. It's objectively true. How do I know? Out of 25, only me and one other person passed the course despite them all attending class regularly.

All that to say, these people are genuinely smart and likeable. John is an absolute encyclopedia on guitars, machinery, cars, and has done pretty much every skilled trade under the sun. He's also had a lot of interesting life experiences. Rick is a yoga guru who brought 12 books ranging from Zen Buddhism to abstract physics, and while I don't believe in 'chakras' and 'healing energies', he doesn't annoy me because he really only talks about it in relation to himself and how it's helped him, which I can respect. Christy is a PSW, and I mention that because she has a way of phrasing things in a wise, educated way, because that's how PSWs get good: they learn to communicate very well. She actually native and lives on a reserve, so she always has something interesting to talk about. Lisa is so well-traveled that when I mentioned I could name all the capitals, she pulled out fucking Tajikistan. She'd never been there. She's also South African and lived during apartheid, and is much more knowledgeable on the subject than myself, and I consider myself pretty well-read on it.

There's no stupid questions that take up half the class to answer, nobody takes 15 minutes to read a paragraph, and everyone is truly putting in the work.

I'm still nervous about coming back home, but my worries get less and less daunting with each passing day.

One week down, 2 more to go. Back at 'er at 9am tomorrow, rain or shine.

Stay Greater, Flamingos.

#rehab #alcoholism #drugs tw #alcohol tw #sam

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amateur-troubadour · 3 years

Text

The Nebraska Chapter

When I opened my eyes, I was laying in my bed back home. Or at least it was my bed before I’d graduated high school. We’d gotten rid of it when the basement flooded during my second year of college and the bedframe became warped. Rolling out of it, I realized that I wasn’t just in my high school bed. I was also in my high school body. I’d thought I felt a pound or thirty lighter.

Being back in high school wasn’t too surprising. The dreams tended to go that way. Something about appearing as the last you that you really felt was you. I can’t remember who told me all of that, but it sounded like a whole lotta horseshit to me. The only reason high school John wasn’t coping poorly with his problems was that he was actively ignoring them. Maybe that’s exactly who I was though, and this trend of tackling issues head-on was causing some dissonance in me.

I took a couple of groggy steps out of the room and into the rest of the basement. My basement. Not dirty and dark like the house in Iowa, rotted steps and who-knows-whats lurking around the corners. Dirty and bright. Home. Slowly, testing out the limitations of my newly awakened body, I made my way up the stairs. Reaching the top, I heard the familiar “DING!” of our Pizzazz pizza maker. Two Jack’s pepperoni pizzas a day were made on that baby.

My mother rushed over to take Steven’s pizza off so it didn’t burn. Deftly, she cut it into eight, mostly equal pieces. It was a skill she’d honed every day since Steven had turned 12. He rarely ate anything besides Jack’s pizza, except when he had breakfast. At breakfast, he had six Oreos (or Chips Ahoy if Oreos weren’t available) with milk and a glass of pink lemonade. Steven was a man of routine. After cutting his pizza, my mother added a generous dose of salt and pepper to help the grease go down. She brought him his pizza, still on the cardboard cutting circle, with a cold Dr. Pepper, which she opened for him.

“When did you start giving him the full pizza?” I asked, announcing my presence.

They both turned to look at me, and my mother decided that, of the two of them, she should be the one to answer. “You startled me,” she said, beginning to compose herself a bit more, “When did you decide that you were going to wake up?”

“Right now, I guess. When did you start giving him the full pizza?”

“I don’t know. Probably around the time you went to visit your friend in Nebraska,” she said, walking back to the kitchen. She’d been cleaning before making Steven’s pizza, it seems. “Why do you ask? Do you think he’s getting fat?”

“Am I getting fat?” Steven chimed in. Since entering high school, I guess he’d gone down the path of every other high schooler, growing self-conscious about his body. He’d slimmed down a lot. The mandatory exercise classes probably helped. He’d started working out at home too, or at least making an attempt at it. My parents even brought the old exercise bike upstairs into the living room for him.

“No,” I said, “despite Mom’s best efforts to change that.”

“Will you leave him alone? You know he only eats pizza.”

“You never tried to give him anything else.” I knew how this argument would go. I’d had it so many times before with her and, given that I knew I was dreaming and that the whole world around me was based on my mind, I couldn’t imagine it going any differently. Still, it was fun to be antagonistic to her. Small acts of revenge for my childhood.

“That’s not true. Remember when we tried to tell him we weren’t giving him any more pizzas?” “And then you caved immediately? Sure.”

“What’s your solution?”

“Actually follow through on the threat. Don’t make him pizza. He’ll eat something new, or…” and I turned to Steven, pausing for dramatic effect, mustering the most sinister grin I could, “…he’ll starve.”

My mom ignored me, but a look of genuine concern flashed across Steven’s face, and I felt guilty for a moment. I wanted to feel guilty about being mean to him sometimes. It had become hard for me to separate him from my parent’s babying though, and I hated the babying. Giving him a good scare was like pushing back a little bit, like teaching him his first swears or where to safely watch porn online.

I walked over to Steven and sat in the recliner beside him. He had his little setup in his own recliner beside the window, looking over the fenced-in backyard. Two TV trays: one for his laptop, permanently on, usually browsing YouTube or DeviantArt; the other for anything else he might need at the time, like notebooks for drawing his comics or, as was the case right now, an entire pizza. Steven more or less owned the living room, forcing my parents to watch TV upstairs. He went on kicks of watching and then rewatching the same movie or show all day, and the big TV with surround sound was the best place for him to do it.

“What’re we up to today bud?” As per usual, Steven immediately closed all his tabs when I approached. I knew what he was doing. He was looking up drawings of cartoon women with large waists in the middle of the day, in front of God and everyone else. On the times that I looked through his notebook like the nosey older brother I am, I saw that he’d begun drawing his own cartoon women too.

“Nothing.” He stared at me for a bit and realized I didn’t plan on going anywhere. “Say John,” he began, firing into his question voice, “have you seen the Rise of the TMNT on Nickelodeon?”

“I can’t say I have. I don’t watch too much TV.” I gave him the same smile as earlier, “It rots your brain.”

“Well,” a pause as he processed how to take my joke, “you should watch it. It’s funny.”

“I’ll get around to it, I’m sure.”

I’d been led to believe that, when you realized you were dreaming, you could do anything you wanted. I never had that kind of luck. Anytime I realized I was dreaming, like I had now, it was always because whatever demons leading me on a goose chase had something new to show me. Well, what is it? Where are you sending me next? Get to the fucking point already. I hadn’t done much scavenging yet, but they’d already dragged me halfway across the country. How long would it be before I had to make an effort at renewing my passport?

“John,” I heard my mother calling, “would you come here for a second?” She was in the laundry room right off the kitchen. Standing from my chair, I marched my way there like a prisoner to the electric chair. Slow, slouched, resigned. She was folding my clothes in her own system that I’d never quite understood. She was really picky about it though. When she saw I was there, she held up a plaid crew sock. Along the side of it was the phrase “busy making a fucking difference” in all capital letters. I couldn’t imagine someone actually making any kind of difference wearing those.

“Where’d you get these?” she asked. It was a weird question considering I’d had them for well over a year now.

“I got them when I went to visit Taryn a while back. Some festival or something.” “Yeah,” she said, “but where did you get them?”

“I’m not sure I’m understanding the question.” This is what the demon-sent dreams were like. Boring, mundane, but just a little bit off, like the entire world was shifted just three inches to the left. If I didn’t think about it, I might not notice, but I’d been thinking a lot for a while now. I took a good look at my mom now. Sure, her line of questioning was strange, but I realized now that her face was even stranger. Her eyes were too big for a human face by the tiniest amount, and her pupils were just a bit too long horizontally. She always had a thing for frogs.

“It’s a simple question,” she said as she stepped forward, still holding the sock up for me. “Where did you get the socks John?”

I began to back up, back into the kitchen. The sun was hidden by clouds, so the light felt very grey. Her legs looked like they were growing longer and blending together, becoming something rather snake-y.

“Well, Taryn lives in Nebraska, so if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say Nebraska,” I had backed up against a counter now, but she was still coming closer. She was definitely half-snake now, and she was very slowly slithering towards me. Her arms began to grow longer, reaching down past where her knees used to be until her knuckles scraped along the floor. It didn’t seem necessary, given the whole slithering-like-a-snake thing, but I could roll with it.

“What city?”

It was only at this point that it dawned on me that the dream might be leading me towards Nebraska. Seward, Nebraska, where they threw an annual festival revolving around corn and how much they hated Idaho and their potatoes. With this realization came my mother’s shirt bursting open, revealing leathery wings on her back and a smaller, thicker set of arms beneath the spaghetti ones she used to walk. Guess I never realized how much of a monster I thought my mother was.

Slowly, one of her long arms grabbed the counter next to me, pulling her close enough for her stronger arms to grab me. I think she tried to smile, but it looked more like baring fangs. Her face had warped beyond anything human, now looking awfully frog-ish. When she blinked, you could still see her eyes, like the eyelids had become translucent. She smelled like fish.

“I got the message,” I said, trying to get my fingers between hers and my body, trying to pry her grip off of me. “I’ll just go to Seward and work it out from there. Can I wake up yet?”

“No.” Her voice had changed too. My mom’s voice was still in there for sure, but now I was getting hints of several exes and my third-grade teacher, the one that forced me to write in cursive despite the fact I could barely write in print. People I, at best, hoped to never meet again. “We are beginning to think that you might not be the one we want for this.”

“Maybe if you told me a little more about what I’m supposed to be doing, I’d be better at doing it. Hard to follow instructions that aren’t offered.”

“No. We have decided that it is better to dispose of you, be done with all of the delays, find someone stronger to free us.”

Steven was sneaking up behind the monster, dragging his blanket with him. He didn’t seem the least bit worried about the fact that we might not have a mom anymore. Before the thing could notice, Steven threw his blanket over its head and yanked down, causing it to reach up with all four hands to pull the blanket off.

“Outside John!” With that, he took off towards the front door. I followed without bothering to put on shoes, something I’d regret once hitting the pavement of the street, but desperate times and all that. We ran about a football field’s worth of dead-end street before we made it to the middle of the intersection leading to the house. There, Steven stopped and turned. Given that he hadn’t steered me wrong yet, I did the same.

Horror movies like to use the slow, determined monster to scare people. Be it a zombie or some killer like Jason Vorhees, there’s just something terrifying about seeing the inevitability of death personified, marching towards you. I do believe, however, that Hollywood has seriously underestimated how scary death can be when it hauls ass at you like a sports car, 0 to 60 in no time flat. I say this because I practically shit myself watching the frog-snake monster burst from the house and fly towards us.

Seeing it in action finally gave me a sense of its locomotion that the confined space of the house had kept chained. The monster was very top heavy, so it beat its leathery wings as a way of counterbalancing its forward lean. In addition, it used the long arms as front paws, supporting itself on the knuckles. As it raced towards us, I could see that its fists were beginning to crack and bleed because of how hard it was pounding against the pavement. I tugged at Steven’s shirt to try and get him to move, but he stood still.

“We really need to go Steven!”

“I think we should stand here.” He seemed awfully calm about it all, and that calmed me down in turn. He always had a way of making me more resolute. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was the last person in the family to still think I could do something with my life, and I had to live up to those expectations.

Still, the monster was closing distance far too fast. You know how, when you try and run in a dream, it sometimes feels as if you’re doing the cartoon run-in-place thing instead of getting anywhere? The monster was currently facing the opposite side of that coin. Every one of its movements seemed to cover more ground than any three of mine. I stepped in front of Steven and closed my eyes. The best way to take a hit is to be as unaware of it as possible.

And then there was a sizzle, a scream not quite human, the smell of frog legs, and finally the feeling of the sun hitting my face. I opened my eyes.

What had been my mother was slowly burning to ash in front of me on the ground, a single long hand laying at my bare feet, completely skeletonized. The sun had formed bright, painful blisters all over the creature’s body, and I could still hear the sizzling as it was cooked alive.

“Maybe…” it croaked, “…we’ve underestimated you. Free us.” The rest of it became ash, leaving only charred bones in its wake.

I turned to Steven, exhaled for a long time, and asked him how he knew that would happen.

“How did I know what would happen?”

“The sun. The monster. The way the sun melted the monster. Any of that would be fine.”

He thought about it for a second, really mulling it over, before he gave me a smile, the kind I gave him when I teased him. Slowly and deliberately, he said, “I don’t know. It’s your dream.”

“You’re a killjoy.” I walked closer to what had been the body of the monster, some six feet away from its outstretched arm. It had truly been some kind of hideous creature, like something you could imagine lived off of a diet exclusively composed of babies. The depravity of evil knows no bounds. I’d read that somewhere, I’m sure.

#short story #creative writing #writing

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lordofthebigtimesupernatural · 6 years

Note

Hi! Would you write teenage Keith getting injured and Shiro taking care of him while he's in pain? Thank you so much! Keep up with the great writing!

Hello! Thank you to you and every fan of this AU who remains patient. As some of you may have seen my earlier post, I am in my last semester of college and will be doing my senior thesis this semester. Which means an extremely busy semester. Despite this, I love this AU and will continue to answer prompts and write but it may take time to publish asks! Thanks for all your patience and this was fun to write. I wrote Shiro but I also added in the whole big family too because Keith is so loved. Thank you so much nonny and I hope you enjoy!

x.V.x

Shiro had once thought he was prepared for anything. Back when he was first joining the military, fresh out of high school, Shiro was prepared for anything. He would laugh at people who found life full of surprises, as he and his brother felt like they were prepared. After all, Shiro was a member of a special operations unit where it was his duty to be prepared for the unexpected. Kuro was a well-known captain who was just as prepared as Shiro.

Shiro learned he was quite unprepared the day he was held prisoner and the months to follow. He learned the hard way when he had mourned his brother’s death for over two years, before being shocked when his brother was found alive.

Then came the biggest surprise of Shiro’s life.

Keith.

Raising Keith was full of unexpected surprises. From sicknesses such as cancer to radical haircuts, and ruining $200 worth of makeup, Keith was full of surprises. It took Shiro a while to adjust to this unexpected life and yet, every time Shiro felt he was prepared for anything to happen, something new always threw him for a loop.

“I don’t understand how this happened.” Shiro rubbed his forehead tiredly. The poor doctor in front of him, sighed in agreement, while the professor next to him shifted on their feet anxiously.

“Well, your son, unfortunately, lost focus during our sparing sessions in class which resulted in his opponent gaining the upper hand.” The gym professor replied quietly. Shiro breathed deeply through his nose, finally opening his eyes to look at the professor. Really?

“I get that,” Shiro said tightly, trying to keep calm and level-headed. “What I don’t understand is how a ninth grade gym class left my son with three broken ribs and a bruised back.”

“Well, sparring can get a bit rough,” The teacher tugged at his collar.

“I know that. I was in the military once,” Shiro deadpanned. “My point is if properly supervised a freshman gym sparring session never should have gotten to the point where my son would receive broken ribs for any reason.” The professor swallowed nervously.

“It takes a great deal of impact to break that many ribs.” The doctor finally intervened with a sigh. “I can understand the bruising and maybe a fractured rib, but to have three broken ribs would mean that Keith was being overpowered for a long time without proper supervision. I would expect an instructor such as yourself would have intervened if you saw this level of defeat occurring, correct?”

“Y-Yes ma’am.” The professor nodded quickly when Keith’s doctor glared at him.

The doctor glared at the professor for a few seconds longer before turning to Shiro. “He’s fine to be released whenever you want. He’ll be on the morphine for a few more hours. You should start some pain medication after dinner tonight and administer them when he becomes uncomfortable with the pain.”

“Will he be okay?” Shiro nervously chewed on his lip. He would rather not let the professor see how worried he was, but he couldn’t help it. Keith was his son, and Keith’s health came before anything else. Even Shiro’s own health.

“He should be fine. It’ll take a few weeks before his ribs fully heal. During that time I expect no high level of physical activity. For the first week or two, he should remain resting as often as he can. The bruises should fade in about a month. They’ll look worse before they go away.”

“Yeah, I remember bruises.” Shiro shuddered.

“As for you,” Keith’s doctor whirled on the professor, whose back straightened like a board. “Keith will not be allowed to participate in gym class any further. I will have a written document for the school, but I expect that he is allowed to pass this class, despite not being able to participate. It would be a shame should word get out of negligence towards a student.”

“Yes, ma’am. He can study or do other work during class!” The professor said quickly. Shiro couldn’t help but grin at the doctor, watching with slight amusement at the way the professor was squirming under the fierce glare of the doctor.

After a while, the professor was excused and the doctor left Shiro to attend Keith while she checked on other patients. Shiro sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. He paused outside of Keith’s room, hearing quiet voices just beyond the door. Shiro never would get over at how surprised he constantly was with Keith. Not that any of this was Keith’s fault. Still, Shiro didn’t know how many more heart attacks his poor, frail, young body could take. He wasn’t even that old.

Opening the door, Shiro smiled softly upon seeing Keith propped up by pillows and surrounded by his friends and family.

“Dude, do you want Hunk and I to kick their butts? Because we could totally kick their butts.” Lance was demanding. Keith looked mostly unimpressed by Lance’s claim, but only Shiro could see the quirk of Keith’s lips which meant he was very happy.

“You couldn’t kick anyone’s butt if you tried, Lance.” Keith huffed painfully.

Lance gasped dramatically, opening his mouth to argue, only for Pidge to interrupt.

“You’re right Keith, as always.” They pushed their glasses up the bridge of their nose. “But Hunk totally could. He wouldn’t even need any help.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Kuro interjected playfully. He wrapped an arm around a nervous Hunk and beamed at Keith. “I could even help Hunk here out. Just give me the name of this punk and his address and we can chat. Why I even bet that your uncles would love to help.”

Kolivan, Ulaz, and Antok all nodded without a moment’s hesitation. Shiro bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud because he knew that all of them were completely serious. They would destroy this punk. Keith’s lips twitched and his shoulders jerked for a split second.

“Dude,” Lance breathed happily, eyes sparkling as he grasped Keith’s hand in his. “If those guys all got involved, it would be just like those awesome villainous spy movies. Although they’d need super cool and tight outfits with aviators to look badass. Pidge could you rig an explosion in the background after they finish with the guy?”

Pidge rubbed their chin thoughtfully. “Oh yes. We could plant in the enemy’s house.”

“That would be awesome.” Kuro high-fived both Lance and Pidge. Shiro almost groaned. He was going to have to talk to his brother again about what was acceptable to plan with young, impressionable teenagers.

“Yes. Only after making sure no innocent animals were in the house,” Antok added quietly. Pidge nodded.

“Of course, you’re right. We can’t let any poor puppies or kittens get in the crossfire.”

“Or hamsters,” Ulaz added.

“Or tortoises and fish,” Kolivan added. Everyone stared at him and the gruff man simply shrugged. “I have three tortoises growing up. They can be quite cuddly.”

Finally, Shiro laughed, turning everyone’s attention to him. “Alright, as much as I enjoy this grand theft auto moment –”

“Shiro, no one said anything about stealing cars,” Kuro stated firmly.

“There will be no destruction of houses with explosions in the background, nor will there be any manhunting. I’ve got everything taken care of. Right now, Keith needs to go home and rest.” Shiro continued with a disappointed glare towards his brother. Kuro pouted alongside Lance, looking much younger than he actually was.

Keith immediately perked up at the noise, wincing for a moment. Instantly, Shiro felt his gut twist and how he wished to take Keith’s pain away.

“I can leave?” He asked.

“Yeah, as long as you listen to the rules the doctor has set up for you,” Shiro warned before smiling softly. Upon reaching Keith’s bed, he took a moment to observe Keith, wincing at the stark white bandages under Keith’s shirt. Gently, he ran his fingers through Keith’s hair, and Keith leaned back into the touch.

“What kind of rules?” Keith asked quietly.

“Non-negotiable rules,” Shiro chuckled when Keith sighed dramatically. “You’re not to do any physical activity for a month if you want everything to heal properly. You’re also exempted from gym class, but you’ll still pass it. And for the next week or two, it’s mandatory bed rest.”

“What?! Dad, do you know how boring that will be?” Keith groaned. Shiro shook his head and grinned.

“No way, besides you’ll always have your very own source of entertainment,” Shiro replied, causing Keith to frown in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Why you have an abundance of friends, uncles, and family who would love to entertain you and serve your needs every single day of your recovery.” Shiro beamed, this time at everyone else in the room. There was something menacing and chilling about his smile, though. Something that sent chills down everyone’s spine and compelled them to do whatever it was that Shiro wished. If only to be rid of that terrifying smile.

“Right!” Kuro said quickly and smiled. “It’ll be great in no time.”

x.V.x

Apparently, entertaining Keith was much harder than anyone thought. Who knew someone could get bored in the middle of a conversation?

Everyone had taken turns keeping Keith entertained and often alternated who was supposed to be watching Keith and when. After a few days, a rigorous schedule was kept keeping everyone’s sanity, and to make sure everyone was pulling their weight.

In Keith’s defense, he was never demanding or pushy, however, there were only so many times he could listen to his Kuro’s one hand puns or hear Kolivan’s detailed explanation on why an eraser was a better weapon than a paperclip.

Though Keith was loathed to admit it out loud, he appreciated all that his friend’s and family were doing for him. He enjoyed each and every one of their company and knew that life would be ten times worse without any of them.

Lance came over alone on Monday. Apparently, he was respecting Keith’s wishes to have a “bonding day” (yes Keith he used quotations). The two spent the day screaming at each other over several video games because one of them would die at the worst moment. Or Keith kept friendly firing at Lance because Lance was a selfish jerk who ate his last twizzler. However, when Shiro came to check on them and suggest something else to do, Keith and Lance both stared at Shiro as if he had lost his head. This was fun.

Tuesday, Hunk, and Pidge came over together. They brought their entire box of robots from the robotics club and held the meeting at the Shirogane house. Together, the three of them built a robot that kept spilling the milk on the floor and another robot that kept swinging poor Red’s leash around. She had been excited about a walk but immediately left when the robots became weird.

Wednesday was Antok’s day and he was surprisingly alone as Kolivan and Ulaz both had to work. Antok had brought over a couple of birds that hung out at the zoo, much to Keith’s inner delight. For hours the two-spent time teaching the bird how to say the most ludicrous things. Such as imitating Keith’s voice to tell Shiro he wanted to live with mermaids and change his name to Estaban. Antok also taught a parrot how to speak Arabic in front of Keith and Shiro.

Ulaz and Kolivan both came over on Thursday with monopoly and board games. Needless to say by the end of the night, a table was flipped, popcorn was spilled and bonds were severed. Keith was victoriously grinning with his hotels spread across the floor, while Ulaz cursed him in his native language about the youthful greed that ate his soul. Kolivan was content with his $45 and small railroad. Shiro was trying hard to not call bankruptcy after his son had charged him for landing on Park Ave with three hotels. Monopoly was forbidden in the Shirogane house after that.

Thace and his wife came over on Fridays to cook meals and keep Keith company while Shiro worked long hours at the rescue center. He was babied by his grandmother and coddled by his grandfather, both of whom refused to let Keith lift a finger. By the time that Shiro had returned home, Keith was swaddled in two more blankets and being fed clam chowder with a movie playing. Of course, Shiro took several pictures.

Saturdays were Kuro’s day to come and “free” Keith from his misery. He often kidnapped Keith and drove him around, with pillows all over his car and around Keith, to get food. The two usually wound up back at Kuro’s apartment, as Kuro told embarrassing (and not-so-embarrassing) childhood stories of Shiro. More often than not, Kuro would get lost in an admirable story of his brother and Keith didn’t have the heart to interrupt him. Not that he wanted to. He loved his uncle’s story and he loved hearing about his father.

Sundays were days that everyone got together at the Shirogane house for breakfast and lunch. Afterwards, only once everyone left would Shiro and Keith be alone for the first time all week. It was nice being surrounded by such a big and loving family, but Keith and Shiro both treasured the moments they had where it was just the two of them.

“It’s time for your pills. Here,” Shiro said softly, handing Keith a water bottle and his pills. Keith smiled gratefully at his dad and took them without complaint. Shiro could see the hidden pain in Keith’s eyes and he knew that Keith had been trying not to vocalize his discomfort. He was stubborn just like Shiro was and it was the biggest flaw that Shiro wished Keith hadn’t gotten from him.

“How are you feeling?” Shiro asked softly, sitting down at Keith’s feet. Keith downed his pills and shrugged.

“Fine.”

“Keith.” Shiro looked pointedly at Keith, causing him to blush lightly.

“Alright, my ribs are really sore,” He admitted. “But they don’t hurt as much as they did when I first hurt them. I swear. Plus, the bruising is finally starting to fade.”

“I saw,” Shiro chuckled. “They’re not a hideous yellow anymore.”

“Thank god.” Keith groaned. “I’m ready to get out of the house again.”

“Uncle Kuro literally picks you up off the couch and out of my house,” Shiro stated.

“And for that, I am still sane,” Keith snickered when Shiro pouted. “You know I get antsy.”

“I know, I know. You’re stubborn just like your grandfather.” Shiro said playfully. He ducked when Keith swatted at him.

“You mean, stubborn just like you?” Keith asked with one eyebrow up.

“Ah,” Shiro rubbed the back of his neck. He refrained from saying anything else when Keith leaned himself against him. Keith’s head was draped over Shiro’s shoulder with his injured ribs tucked against Shiro’s side. Keith curled against Shiro softly and sighed.

“But, I don’t mind quiet nights like this with you,” Keith said softly. “You always take care of me. Thanks, dad.”

“Of course, I’ll always take care of you, kiddo.” Shiro smiled, rubbed his prosthetic hand in Keith’s hair. “That’s what I do.”

“Thanks. You always know how to make me feel better.” Keith said, closing his eyes.

“Because you always make me better,” Shiro answered without hesitation. Keith immediately groaned to himself.

“Dad, that is way too cheesy.”

“Not as cheesy at my homemade mac n’ cheese!”

“…We are not having that a third night in a row.”

“Come on Keith! You know you love it!”

“I don’t have your weird obsession for cheesy noodles.”

“Keeeeith.”

“Daaaaad.”

#single dad shiro #single dad Shiro AU #kiddie!AU #kiddie!paladins #voltron legendary defender #thanks nonny #this wasn't angsty #love this big happy fam

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diem-writes · 6 years

Text

1 hour ficlit batch 4 #3

First of I love FFXV and its characters, so any time I get a prompt to write for them I am over thrilled. Thank you @expectogladiolus for giving me the pleasure to bring this story into the world.

Two Ways to Deal with Tongues.

Gladio knew he looked like your average all brawn and no brains, he simply accepted that people believed he got into college on a sporting scholarship and not because he had written an essay of such dept the professor had called him personally to confirm he had written it himself, it at least meant that when he was reading a book in the library people would leave him alone.

He also knew he was older than the average student but that was simply because he had served in the military for some years after high school. Family tradition was like that, and he wanted to make his father proud. Not that he wouldn't have been proud of Gladio if he'd gone to college instead.

The screeching sound gets his attention and when he looks up he sees it's that TA and the bubbly blond again who always seem to use the library the same hours as Gladio. He gives them a quick look when they see him watch them before returning to his book.

He wonders what they are going to talk about this time, just the other day they had spend the entire time discussing night light sky, as if they had been talking about an actual person. Dropping somnium in almost every sentence as if telling a joke.

Gladio had been learning latin this year just for the fun of it and knew the word had a lot of meanings. They had used it in so many combinations he was certain they had meant more than one. And he knew he shouldn't be eavesdropping, but he didn't know anyone else who spoke it and listening to them really helped him with his listening comprehension.

Today he found out three things. The TA's name was Ignis, which explained why the blond one called him that. Or Prompto as the boy was apparently called, but the biggest shock was when Prompto received a call and told Ignis that it was Noctis. So turns out they had been talking about a person with that name after all.

Prompto leaves the library to make the call back. Ignis takes some papers from his suitcase, a red pen, and goes to work on what Gladio assumes is correction work. He returns his attention to his book, having no interest in getting caught a second time in one day. It takes almost twenty minutes for Prompto to return.

“Ignis. Noct asked if you are planning to make any progress on what you talked about last night?”

Gladio feels his interest pique up. Once again these two converse solely in latin, so he let's his eyes wander over the words in his book pretending he's still reading.

Ignis sighs before giving Prompto a very clear look. “Was that really where he contacted you about?” Prompto simply sits down and nods.

“That and complain about all the vegetables you stuffed into his pantry again. He claims you are trying to poison him. I told him that he should be so lucky.” Prompto grins. “You might be happy to hear that that stuffed Moogle his father got him for his last birthday is now promoted to the first place of Noctic Lucis Caelum's best friends list.”

Gladio concludes that the third in that group just has a bit of a weird name.

“I swear he was all 'You Prompto Argentum may tell that Ignis Stupio Scientia is no longer trusted by me as he is attemting to poison me under the guise of health, and that you are pegged down from best friend till you have remembered that your loyalty should be with me and not with cauliflower.' And then he went on about how I should get you to do that thing he told you you should do when you guys had dinner without me last night.”

Prompto tips his head aside. “What did he tell you to do?” Everything about the young man lights up when he spots a slight pink dusting on Ignis's cheeks, and his grin grows wider when he sees Iggy's eyes slip to the left. “Ignis Scientia. Did Noctis found out about your little secret.”

Ignis looks Prompto straight in his eyes. “Do I have to conclude from this that you did not tell him.” The exaggerated look of shock on Prompto's face would be funny if not so over the top.

“You made me swear not to tell him. So of course I did not. I do not wish to have to bear the wrath of Ignis to be set upon me. Noctis asked me if there were any interesting people in college on the days he wasn't here, and I just had to talk about the guy.”

Gladio feels that maybe he should stop listening in right now, there are some things you should not be listening in. And where he feels no shame over eavesdropping normal everyday conversations as you can hear those everywhere, he felt bad about listening in at something personal as somebodies interest in another person.

“I mean, he's not my type, way yo brawny, but I know you have a thing for men that can pick you up and look like they can best you in a sparring match.”

For a moment Gladio hopes that he is seriously misunderstanding what he is overhearing. He had to be, there was no way they could be talking about him.

“And he's always in the library when we are. Or better said we are always in the library when he is, even if everything we do here we could be doing in your office.” Prompto leans over the table. “So I might have said that something in the library had gotten your attention before I realized that it was a who and not a what.”

Ignis drops a hand over his face. “It's just I don't know what to say about that. I should have known better than to ask you along. You can be far too perceptive sometimes.”

“That is because I love looking through the glass and make images of the world around me. I see things in the details where others only see the whole image.” there is some moving about making Prompto land in the chair next to Iggy, which meant that both were facing Gladio. “And there is no harm in the world to think somebody is good looking. Hell I don't even care if you want to walk over there, drop into his lap, kiss him silly, and admit he gets you hot and bothered.”

Ignis jolts up, ready to tell Prompto off for using such vulgar speech, but gets stopped when Gladio practically jumps out of his chair, gathers his books and looks at them with a very distinctive red face. A fear creeps up, that gets confirmed with two simple words.

“I paenitet”

Both he and Prompto look at the man practically run from the library, never looking back around. Iggy feels his head get a bit light when the situation slowly sinks in. prompto is a bit faster in getting his words back.

“The dude speaks Latin. That usually means he also understands Latin right?” The nervous look does not fit well on Prompto's face and it deepens when Iggy simply nods.

“Yes Prompto. When people speak a language they usually also understand the language, and although he wasn't fluent we can conclude he understood exactly what you had been saying and about who you were saying it.”

Prompto drops his head on the table. Telling Ignis how sorry he is over and over again. All Iggy hopes is that he can fix the situation somehow the next time they are in the library together. But it seems that part had also been understood as the man did not show up in the library during the hours he had always been there.

After two weeks Ignis's patience had been spent and he used his connection as TA to find out exactly who the man was. Once he was done reading the file he found himself filled with even more admiration he has already felt. That essay, although a bit crude at some points had shown an insight to the matter it was about that many did not even have when they left college.

The file also told him exactly which classes were mandatory to attend and so he made it his business to one day walk into the class room right at the end and ask for Gladio to come with him. For a moment he can see the man ready to decline but then he straightens his shoulders and simply follows him to his small office.

There Ignis finds himself in lack of words. Gladio finds himself ignoring all the conversations he had been rehearing.

“If you want to drop in my lap and kiss me silly I'm not going to stop you.”

Ignis is not going to let him say that a second time. When they part both conclude it was the best kiss they have ever had.

If you like this and want your own ficlit, just check https://diem-writes.tumblr.com/post/169183572109/1-hour-ficlets-open-slots

#diem writes

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jobsearchtips02 · 4 years

Text

Pickup Trucks Getting Huge. Got Problem With That?

A FEW MONTHS ago, on an ordinary day in an unremarkable

Costco

parking lot, I was nearly squashed by an unusually large pickup. Thank God I was wearing a mask.

As that chrome grille closed on me like a man-eating Norelco shaver, time slowed. It seemed I was watching myself from afar, being nimble for a man my age, darting from the path of a towering, limousine-black pickup with temporary plates, whose driver barely checked his pace. Jerk.

What the hell was that thing? A 2020 GMC Sierra HD Denali? It was huge! The domed hood was at forehead level. The paramedics would have had to extract me from the grille with a spray hose, like Randall Jarrell’s ball-turret gunner.

He didn’t even see me.

Later, returning to my car, I noticed something: The parking lot was dotted with similarly enormous luxury pickups—many new, many taking up two spaces: Ram,

Ford,

Chevy, GMC. They stood out like Percherons in a herd of Shetland ponies.

“ Are pickups really getting bigger, on average, or do they just look scarier? Both. The average pickup gained 1,142 pounds between 1990 and 2019. ”

What is going on here? When did pickups get so big? And why are XL-sized pickups so big now?

I know. Pickup trucks at Costco. Film at 11. Except that in April, U.S. sales of pickups surpassed automobiles for the first time ever—about 112 years, give or take. Trucks and truck-based sport-utilities now account for roughly 70% of new vehicles sold in the U.S.

How we came to be Pickup Nation is a longer story (cheap gas, the Chicken Tax, IRS Section 179, marketing). But this year, to help move the tin during the pandemic, U.S. auto makers laid out a bounty of discounts and cheap financing, including 0% interest for 84 months and deferred-payment plans.

“Pickups without a doubt benefited from the great deals,” said Mark Schirmer, spokesperson for market service providers Cox Automotive. “And the deals were particularly great for consumers buying expensive vehicles.” The data suggest these incentives also juiced a boomlet in XL-sized, heavy-duty pickups, otherwise known as ¾-ton and 1-ton pickups, for private use.

That’s right: Gucci cowboys. Historically aimed at commercial customers, sole proprietors, horse-haulers and mega-RVers, heavy-duty pickups are stronger and taller than ordinary (half-ton) trucks, with cabs mounted high above reinforced frame rails and heavy, long-travel suspensions. But HD trucks have evolved in the past decade, irradiated with the same prestige-luxury rays as light-duty trucks.

Behold MotorTrend 2020 Truck of the Year, the Ram Heavy-Duty. In Limited trim (about $65,000 with four-wheel drive but before options) the 2500 HD sports an elaborate chromified grille that gleams like a tea service. Its flight deck glows with untrucky amenities such as acoustically insulated glass; active noise canceling; 12-inch center touch screen; wood trim, premium leather—all paired with a maximum 19,680-pound towing capacity. With the optional cab lights, it measures over 6-feet-9 inches tall.

Thus has been born a uniquely American vehicle type: the mega-luxury mega-pickup.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

The dimensions of Chevy’s 2020 Silverado 2500 HD LTZ. Just how big?

Photo: Chevrolet

81.85 in. wide

79.82 in. tall

249.95 in. long

It seems to be resonating. While sales of Silverado light-duty were off 18.6% in the second quarter, sales of the HD model sales were off less than a point. GMC’s light-duty Sierra was down 9.5%, while sales of our menacing new friend, the Sierra HD, were up 7.6% in the second quarter and 21.5% year-to-date.

Ford and

Fiat Chrysler Automobiles

don’t break out HD sales from pickups overall. However, Ram’s average transaction price in the second quarter soared above $50,000, according to a Cox Automotive analysis of data from Kelley Blue Book. Ford F-Series sales fell 23% (to 180,825 units) but its ATP was mostly unaffected—$51,688, the highest among pickups.

In July, J.D. Power declared Sierra HD the king of the bro-dozers, placing it first in its 2020 U.S. APEAL Study of Large Heavy-Duty Pickups, which tracks owners’ excitement and emotional attachment in the first 90 days.

“The front end was always the focal point,” GM designer Karan Moorjani told Muscle Cars & Trucks e-zine. “We spent a lot of time making sure that when you stand in front of this thing it looks like it’s going to come get you.”

Mission accomplished.

But are pickups really getting bigger, on average, or do they just look scarier? The answers are somewhat and definitely. The average pickup on the road gained 1,142 pounds between 1990 and 2019, according to the U.S. Department of Energy’s Oak Ridge National Laboratory, and 730 pounds since 2000.

“One of the most significant changes in that time was the arrival of crew-cab configurations, which added cab space to make them more family and work friendly,” said Mike Levine, Ford spokesperson.

In 2011, a change in the way the feds calculate vehicle fuel economy (the so-called “footprint rule”) gave domestic truck makers incentive to go big. Ever since, GMC, Chevy, Ram and Ford have been locked in a competitive feedback loop chasing best-in-class attributes and capacities—the “towing/hauling” wars. For MY 2019, for example, Ram’s 1500 Crew Cab gained 3.9 inches in overall length over a 4.1-inch longer wheelbase. In the same model-year, the Chevy Silverado gained 1.7 inches in length on a 3.9-inch longer wheelbase.

As a result, new light-duty pickup dimensions are approaching those of heavy-duty pickups. While the 2021 F-150 is about 18 inches shorter than the equivalent F-250, it is the same width (79.9). Mr. Levine noted that the company has gone to a common-cab design, using the same four-door living quarters for both light- and heavy-duty models.

“ ‘The face of these trucks is where the action is, a Chevy must shout Chevy. Every pickup has become a rolling brand billboard and the billboards are big.’ ”

Ask any kid with a crayon. If you draw the box in the middle bigger, you have to make the ones on the end bigger, too.

Which brings us to the 2020 Silverado HD—10 inches longer, 1.8 inches wider, and 1.6 inches taller than the previous model. The big Chevy’s challenging kisser comprises a thick, knee-high bumper; a central grille opening; several sets of lighting assemblies; a full-width transverse element helpfully informing with the message CHEVROLET…and then, above that, between very square corners, is a whole other layer, then a peaked hood with a central inlet. This hood line meets the base of the windshield about 6 inches above the side window sill.

Another cause of facial swelling? Marketing. “Full-size pickups are generally identical in profile,” Mr. Schirmer said. “The face of these trucks is where the action is; a Ford has to say Ford from head on, a Chevy must shout Chevy. Every pickup has become a rolling brand billboard and the billboards are big.”

You don’t have to be Steven Pinker to see that truck designers are leaning into the bully with these lantern-jawed bumpers and walls of chrome. Detroit’s blithe codifications of purposeful and powerful pickup design fail to describe the intimidation factor from the outside.

“A few brands, Ram and Ford, have taken to an overscale brand identity [and] applied it onto the grille,” said Kimberly Marte, associate professor of design at ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena. “The Chevy team did benchmarking of new models and followed the trend.”

It’s not clear how long pickup designs can keep getting their chrome on. In 2018 the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS) released a study examining the connection between SUV design and pedestrian fatalities. In a separate study released in June, IIHS found fatal single-vehicle crashes involving SUVs striking pedestrians increased 81% from 2009 to 2016.

While IIHS studied SUVs and not pickups, “The key is the geometry of the front end, the high and flat shape,” said Becky Mueller, a senior research engineer for IIHS. “It’s like hitting a wall.”

XL-pickups’ high-rising hoods also create significant blind spots just ahead of the vehicle. I know because apparently I was in one of them. While truck makers like Ford offer automatic emergency braking and pedestrian detection systems as standard equipment on most trims, and forward-view cameras as an option, such systems are not mandatory, as they would be in Europe.

NHTSA proposed that new pedestrian-safety tests for SUVs and trucks be included in the New Car Assessment Program in 2015. But as of this writing, the agency had not issued guidance on new standards. When asked, the industry trade group Alliance for Automotive Innovation had no comment.

And what if the next administration should issue pickup-pedestrian safety rules? Could the extra tall hoods and bluff grilles, the sightlines, the scale, the very form language of the traditional American pickup ever be made pedestrian safe? “Of course not,” said Ms. Marte. “No way.”

So watch yourself at Costco.

TOO BIG FOR ITS BRITCHES?

Sizing up Chevy’s 2020 Silverado 2500HD

Photo: Chevrolet

HIGH-END HOOD: Modern pickups like the Silverado 2500 HD LT with Z71 Off-Road Package appear huge not just because roofs have gotten taller (topping out around 80 inches), but because hoods have grown relative to a truck’s overall height.

KING-SIZE BED: The 2020 Silverado 2500 HD Crew Cab with Standard Bed is 10.3 inches longer, 1.3 inches wider, and 1.6 inches taller than the 2019 model.

GAUDY GRILLE: The vast chrome rictus of Chevy’s Silverado has been coolly received by some critics and customers. But Silverado sales are up, and there’s a booming business in aftermarket grilles.

A STEP UP: To assist you in boarding its very tall seat—which maintains proportionality with the height of the hood, the 2021 Silverado HD High Country is available with power running boards that automatically slide out to meet you.

GRILLE MASTERS

The changing face of pickup trucks over the past century

Photo: Ford Motor Company

1926: Ford Model T Runabout

Dearborn’s first pickup shared a distinctive radiator shape with the Model T, and sported a cargo box that measured 56 inches long by 40 inches wide.

Photo: Getty Images

1949: International Harvester KR-1

Old school even by 1949 standards, the KB-1 model got a little bling with chrome plated wings lateral to the grille and even a hood ornament.

Photo: Getty Images

1949: Dodge Power Wagon

This medium-duty pickup was based on a WWII-era Dodge military truck and retained the “flat fender” for which they became known.

Photo: Alamy

1949: GMC Model FC pickup

Like competing Chevys of the era, GMC Trucks were fronted with “Bumper Bar” grilles—large horizontal bars surrounded by a thick frame on the top and sides.

Photo: FCA US Media

1963: Jeep Gladiator J-200 Thriftside

Are you not entertained? The Gladiator’s early years featured the coolest grilles—centrally mounted, canted forward, with the Jeep badge in the lower-left.

MORE SWANK, LESS SCHLEP

How Ford’s uber-popular F-150 pickup has changed shape and style since 1995

PICKUPS AND SUVS have become the vehicles of choice for U.S. drivers over the last 25 years. Along the way, they’ve also become less trucklike, emphasizing comfort as well as capability. Take the F-150, the flagship of Ford’s F-Series, America’s bestselling vehicles 43 years running, which has morphed from rural work truck into a daily-driving people-mover as suburbanites ditched minivans in droves. The bestselling F-150 of 1995 was a rigid two-door set with a 6.5-foot bed; today’s bestselling F-150 has four doors, copious creature comforts, and a cargo box that’s a full foot shorter. —Aaron Stern

Photo: Ford Motor Company

1995 F-150 SuperCab XL 4×4

Length: 235” Width: 79”

Curb Weight: 4,600 lbs. Payload Box: 6.5’

Photo: Ford Motor Company

2020 F-150 SuperCrew XLT 4×4

Length: 231.9” Width: 79.9”

Curb Weight: 4,858 lbs. Payload box: 5.5’

from Job Search Tips https://jobsearchtips.net/pickup-trucks-getting-huge-got-problem-with-that/

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junker-town · 4 years

Text

No sports, no fun

Getty Images

Good bye, maybe.

I’m afraid I won’t ever feel again the way I did on Nov. 4, 2000, when I was not yet 13 years old and the pain was new and all-consuming. I loved sports so much it hurt, and that love bore bitter fruit when Anthony Thomas fumbled a football for no good reason, and Michigan lost to Northwestern, 54-51, in the most stunning game I can remember.

I couldn’t question the feeling, nor did I think it could be questioned; my amygdala pulled its trigger and I buried my face as deeply as I could into our cold, wave-patterned couch in the next room. My shock even erased the memory of the steps I took. I remember the twin feelings of a cold couch on my face and injustice. Or maybe not quite injustice, but something unfair. It didn’t feel targeted. For the first time maybe, I felt impersonal, unmotivated and heavy cruelty.

Thomas was a football player of mythic proportions, a torso of concrete and legs made thick just from making sure his upper half didn’t topple over. He was marvelous, and at all times mildly disappointing, a perfect picture of inefficient smashmouth football just before the sport discovered better ideas. Thomas carried the ball 37 times for 199 yards, but he was outdone by Damien Anderson, who rushed for 268 yards on 31 carries in a Randy Walker offense that was one of the first examples of spread football on a big stage.

That game would come to be known as one of the most influential in college football history because of the way an underpowered team shocked another team of Thomas-ian proportions. But lost in the final score is the way Thomas fumbled. He broke through the line for what should have been a game-winning first down, then he simply dropped the ball.

youtube

There was and is nothing to be learned from that. The whole was instructive; the details were not. Michigan would have won but Thomas dropped the ball, and then I hurt and I couldn’t make it stop.

I obsessed over that play. At the time, I obsessed over every aspect of Michigan football. I remember falling asleep thinking about Michigan’s ongoing high school recruiting class, its deficiencies and how the current commitments might shape the team. I used to take a football out to our front lawn and play out the upcoming games drive by drive, hucking the ball up in the air and running under it to make a big catch. If I was feeling generous, I’d give the opposition a rare interception. On a related note, I was a pretty lonely kid.

Before I developed a better relationship with sports, I approached them almost exclusively as something my team either won or lost. I decided I ought to take them very seriously, to the extent that everyone should think of me as a person who knew sports. I wanted to have the best answer to every question; I wanted to be a vessel of knowledge that others would rather submit to than challenge.

At the time, it seemed like a hobby. Now I know I was compensating for being a pipsqueak in every other regard. The problem, either way, was how much I had staked my confidence in being right.

In college, I took an internship at a fantasy sports website and learned how dumb I was. I found out there are people who seem to know every bit about everything — things like baseball — who could not only hold a greater mass of information in their brains than me, but could also do so without being an uptight dick about it.

What I should have learned was that caring about things intrinsically, and not for egotistical reasons, opens up our capacity to both know and love more about the world. Instead, I felt like I was drowning, like every moment more evidence was piling on top of me about what a fraud I was, faster than I could claw from under it.

I wondered if I could say I loved sports like I used to, or if I ever loved them to begin with. That period showed me a couple things: 1) That I could bull shit anything in writing, and 2) maybe I should readjust my relationship with sports.

I never stopped wanting to be a sportswriter, which I’ve wanted to be my whole life. But I also picked up a knack for editing, the process of turning your first thought into your best thought, of shaping and shielding and censoring an unvarnished self. That unvarnished self was often a truer self, perhaps. But it didn’t sing, and it never won.

I consider SB Nation my first real job, though when I started it only paid $1 more per hour than the fantasy gig. The difference was at SB Nation I saw a path to who I newly wanted to be. Which is to say, I started chasing a sense of superiority on moral grounds.

Working at SB Nation has never not been exciting, but my first and maybe last thrill was getting to say I worked with Spencer Hall. He’d become my favorite writer by crafting guttingly funny and guttingly poignant things about college football. A universe unfolded out of EDSBS.com, one that was weird and empathetic and antagonistic towards the capital-S Sportswriter lens and voice. Reading him gave me a physical sensation like my belly was made of splintered wood and a family of feral critters was tearing through, and that I ought to be happy for them.

I’ve read Spencer’s 2011 essay GOD’S AWAY ON BUSINESS dozens of times now and it never fails to scare the shit out of me.

None of this matters now. The man or woman in the desk is gone. They will not be returning anytime soon. Outside there are men roaming the streets. No one’s wondering who’s in charge, and that’s why the doors are locked, and the children inside quivering. When the desk is empty, it means anarchy is at your door. There are no permissions or courtesies. Shit just happens, and it happens all the time, and there’s no stopping it until everything you have is gone and bouncing out the door on the shoulders of thieves.

God, or anyone like him, is away on business.

I started aping Spencer then, and I’m still aping him now, though I feel more like myself. Mimic something long enough and you might accidentally discover some of the substance that makes the aesthetic work.

SB Nation taught me a better way to love sports. That what is true and good wasn’t in the results — on the field, or off where discourse boiled down to soggy debate — but in the ephemera. It was in baseball players taking pitches right to the beans.

SB Nation was dedicated to silliness and inclusivity. It highlighted the good people that sports elevated on rare occasions. It never fought along the chauvinistic battle lines that can feel like a mandatory part of fandom; in fact, it emphatically ignored them. And yet even after a decade-plus of existence, people still get upset when we suggest sports don’t have to be experienced in rote, tribalistic ways. Typically all you have to do is check the replies.

We never stated this mission very clearly, which has always kinda been a problem. Probably the problem. But if you paid attention, you saw it reiterated in countless ways. (Just click a letter, and note that none of these people work here anymore.) GOD’S AWAY ON BUSINESS was my value set among the many options, however. It told me that what we love most sometimes isn’t scored; that everyone has a responsibility to define and find joy for themselves, even if it may be outside the rules; and that to invest oneself in wonder and silliness also means taking on the duty to defend them.

At SB Nation I learned I didn’t have to identify by sports. I could have a relationship with them, I could be objective towards them, and I could turn them off. I learned that I have a self outside of what I like.

Working here has forced me to look back and figure out what I truly loved about sports. So far I’ve found two things: Charles Woodson, and the way sports helped a shy kid introduce himself. For me, sports’ best utility has been the way they facilitate genuine connection. Which is almost funny, because we know now the extent that sports are artificial by how easily they’ve disappeared.

But to know that sports have had some importance in one’s life is proof they can’t be trivial. They are real in the fact that we choose to empower them. The score has never mattered. Sports live because we give them life.

I don’t always feel good about that fact. Although I’ve come to terms with being mildly stupid, and I’ve gotten better at appreciating things intrinsically, I still often hate that sports are integral to me and that I’ll leave this mortal coil defined by something that never gave me agency.

There’s an image I’ll never shake. My last visit with my grandfather as he lay on the bed he’d die on. He was person I’ve perhaps wanted to emulate most in this world. A French history professor. The funniest, most considerate person I knew. He made everyone feel heard. I said this at his funeral:

He always paused before he laughed, turning over what you said and taking even the bad jokes and finding their point of redemption. Funny enough, this was a sign that he took you seriously, that he thought what you said mattered, even if you were five years old and nothing you had ever said to that point had ever been important. And because he laughed with you, you couldn’t help but laugh along side.

Just a month or two before I saw him among his final days, prostrate, suffering terribly from dementia and barely able to speak. He no longer embodied the self he had curated over 85 years. I talked to him about Michigan football because that had been the thing we talked about the most. He responded only in smiles and hmphs. I didn’t know if he retained anything I said until I started to leave the room. He said the last words I’d ever hear him say: “Go Blue.”

The image that haunts me isn’t my grandfather: Every memory of him makes me love him more, and I’m more grateful than words can say that in our last interaction we felt connected and happy.

Rather it’s my imagination, seeing myself dissolved layer by layer, body and soul disappearing. What would be left in a reduction of my experiences, love, regrets and relationships that I cultivated or destroyed? It might be sports’ afterimage, an outline of Anthony Thomas.

I feel sports’ absence. Maybe I’ve become accustomed to a constant hum of play, or maybe this pandemic has, in a terrible roundabout way, helped us see what is intrinsic.

But I do miss sports, even if that feeling is a byproduct of muscle memory. I miss fun, and sports have been the best outlet I’ve even known to find it. I’ve had a hard time not seeing this period as an attack on fun, that, more and more, the world is becoming something I don’t want to go back to: stodgy and bitter, a self-perpetuating game to see who’s winning at any moment. It feels like there’s no room left to be quiet and gentle.

I don’t know when fun will come back, and it feels fair to ask if it can. There has never been a good answer whether dumb anger is simply the natural state of things, or something we’ve reinforced on one another. There’s only the imprint that anger has left, deep with slippery walls.

The only thing I know is we all want to belong; that at the root of every fight is ostensibly the same impetus — to be full of love and free of worry once again, to feel complete and want for nothing. We just can’t agree on terms.

But I believe there is a healthy definition of belonging. One that does not subsume you, but lets you position yourself amongst the world, and create your own space as opposed to being dictated its rules. A way of editing that doesn’t entrench self, but amplifies it.

The end of the world is demanding, but we have options. And when I close my eyes, I can still see the world I want.

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littlefrostwrites · 4 years

Text

Prompt: a group of boys find a dead body

for my writing challenge

Kell puts his phone down on his desk, having just finished a phone call with a client. He had good news for her today, happy he was able to let her know that the opposition had decided to settle [description of case here]. It had been nice to hear her happy and grateful voice when he call, but he admitted it had been far more satisfying to see the opposing lawyer’s face when he had executed the winning move. He shrugged his suit jacket back onto his shoulders, having removed it early when he felt warm. But now he wanted to feel put together, as he headed to his managing partner’s office to report the good news.

He swept through the doors, not bothering to knock as he could see through the glass that she wasn’t busy.

“I settled the London case!” he declared, dropping the file on Astrid Athos’ desk and plopping into the seat across from her. She didn’t look up from where her eyes were fixed on the screen of her laptop.”

“That’s great,” she said. Kell frowned. “But it’s just pro bono. None of that money is going to the firm.” At this, she finally looked up and took off her glasses. She was unimpressed.

“Yes, but it does make our firm look good, doesn’t it, to be taking on all these pro bono cases, and not only that, but also winning them. So spectacularly as well!” Kell laughed. “You should have seem opposing counsel’s faces-”

“Yes it’s all very well a good that we won, but it needn’t have been you.” Kell sighed as Astrid launched into a well trodden argument. “As a firm, I agree we have to do pro bono, but that’s what we have associates for. You don’t only don’t pass off your mandatory two cases per year to associates as most partners do, you’ve already taken on triple that number this year. And it’s only March.”

“What can I say, I’m a benevolent guy,” Kell quipped. It was lighthearted in delivery, but they both knew it wasn’t truly. Astrid got up from behind the desk and walked over to where Kell was sitting. He stood up, uncomfortable with her looming over him. This way, he was taller and felt more in control, and so when she put a hand on his cheek gently, it didn’t sting as much.

“Son, you are a good person. You don’t have to keep making up for the past.” She let her hand and her words linger for a few seconds, before retracting her arm and turning back to her side of her desk. “Besides, you left your silly dreams of civil law behind a long time ago and are a corporate lawyer. And in this field, you do what is best for the firm. What is best for this firm is for you, our highly skilled junior partner, to continue winning cases for paying clients. So I ask that you focus on that for the remainder of the quarter. Do you understand me?” Kell sighed and then nodded sharply.

“Yes.”

_____

Delilah is in the kitchen when Kell finally gets home around 8 PM, the table set and the food cold on top it. She’s not mad though, just greets him with a kiss, asking him how work was and chiming, “You work so hard!” when he told her briefly about his day. They eat dinner in silence, a simple pasta salad. Delly had grown up in a house with not one, but multiple maids to clean the large rooms and cook for her family of six. When they moved in together, Kell had refused Delly’s inquiry of hiring a maid for themselves, citing that two young professionals should be able to also keep the house clean and cook for themselves. When she had accepted his marriage proposal though, she had made him promise that they would at least get a nanny when they eventually had a child. He had agreed reluctantly, supposing that hiring on one staff wasn’t all that uncommon and would necessarily write them off as rich and out of touch. He hoped.

He asked after Delly’s day as well, which had ended at 4 pm as it always did. She informed him that she had lunch with a number of sponsors, pitching to them the mission of the non-profit that she worked at rather successfully too. Delly was good at her job, and people instantly took to her, charmed by the story of the daughter of the CEO of one of the largest tech companies in the world using her business degree to work for a non-profit that paid far less than reasonable to support the luxuries that she was accustomed to. What was often left out of the conversation was hefty trust fund that had be deposited into her account at the age of 25 and the company shares that her father had bought in her name since she was four years old.

Image mattered though, and Delly was perfect for Kell, not only because she was genuinely kind and wanted to help people, but also because she was beautiful, well-connected and had a do-gooder reputation. And Kell was perfect for Delly, a lawyer at a firm that often took on high-profile pro-bono cases, showing they cared about the public, but also a corporate lawyer, with a salary that meant they and their children would never want for anything, even without any of Delly’s family money.

“Dinner with your parents tomorrow,” Delly reminded him once they had finished dinner and gotten ready for bed. They were lying together in the center of the bed, with his arm around her and her head tucked against his chest. They felt perfect together like this, Kell thought to himself. The kind of couple you would see in a movie, the couple you would root for because they just seemed to fit.

“Right, 6 pm yeah?” Delly hummed in agreement before extracting herself briefly from his arms to turn off the light on the nightstand. Then she was back again and Kell found himself drifting off to sleep.

***

Delly and Kell have dinner with his parents once a month, and have dinner with her parents once a month as well, alternating every two weeks to be fair. Today is a Tuesday and they make the forty minute drive from their condo downtown to the very outskirts of the city, watching as the skyscrapers vanish and are replaced by highways, trees and hills, and grand mansions. They park on the driveway of the largest one on the block, a pure ivory two story with five garages and a lakefront view. The first time Kell had brought Delly over, she had spent most of the meeting gushing with his mother about interior design, complementing her exquisite and classy taste in decor, and gathering inspiration for their future house. Kell knew that Delly was already scoping out the market on top of her involvement in their wedding preparations, and had even gone to a couple of open houses with her mother.

Astrid and Athos greeted Delly and Kell with hugs, before graciously accepting the cherry pie that Delly had baked, instructing the maids to take it to the kitchen to keep warm until it was time for dessert.

They settled down for their meal and made idle small talk, before Athos spoke more purposefully.

“Kell, I heard that your highschool class is having their ten year reunion this weekend?” He looked pointedly at his son. “Are you planning to make an appearance?”

“Oh we should! It would be so nice to meet some of your old classmates!” Delly exclaimed before Kell could respond.

“Yes, I think it’d be a good opportunity to touch base with them, reminisce on old times and also, show them your achievements, how much you’ve changed and grown since you all saw each other last.” Athos gives Kell a meaningful look and Kell understands what he’s getting at. He considers for a moment and then says,

“I’d forgotten that was coming up. Yes I agree, it’d be good to make an appearance.” Delly made an excited noise at that and they continued on with their meal.

Later, as they were getting ready to leave, Astrid took her son aside.

“I’m proud that you’ve decided to see your highschool classmates again. I know it must have been hard for you to make that decision.”

“I think it’s time to confront them, don’t you? I’m a different person now, and it’s time to show them all that.” Kell’s voice was steady with conviction, but inside he felt a bit uneasy, a ball of anxiety starting to unfurl. He tapped it down and smiled at his mother. “I’m sure it’ll go fine. And Delly’s so excited to meet everyone, I’m sure she’ll smooth over any awkward moments.”

“Yes I’m sure it’ll go great, you’ll both impress everyone. Delly was such a good choice for you, she brightens your whole demeanor.” Kell sniffed at that remark, but gave his mother a kiss of the cheek goodbye and his father a hug, finally leaving with one last remark that he would see Astrid bright and early tomorrow at work.

Scene 3 (unfinished): The reunion happens and goes well. Catches up with boys. No classmates approach them at first, but then slowly some people integrate. Main character repeatedly points out good deeds he has done. Gets internally angry when another classmate takes attention off him recounting his probono work. But halfway through, some of the classmates take the stage to commemorate the death of one of their classmates. Fiance, “you never told me someone in your class died?”. The word “suicide” is explicitly used at one point. When getting refreshments, Fiance asks him if he knew the other boy well bc he seems “sad”. He mutters not really, is overhead by another classmate. They confront him about it, fiancé finds out.

The reunion is on Saturday, so Wednesday morning, Kell reaches out to his old crew from highschool, asking if any of them are planning on attending as well. When he’s

“The people here are so rude.” Delly interrupts him and Holland with a sniff and a light stomp of the foot. Kell asks her what she’s on about. “We were chatting so nicely and then they asked who I was with, so I told them I was your fiance and then they suddenly made up some sort of excuse and left! I was just in the middle of convincing them to become donors too.” Delly tried to use every opportunity to promote her causes. As shallow and airheaded as Kell thought she could be, it was moments like this that reminded him why everyone else bought into her passion for making the world a better place. She put so much effort into it that how could anyone doubt her intentions?

“You never told me someone in your class died? Is that why you’ve been so off today? Did you know him well?” Her beautiful face turned inquisitively towards his, her face scrunched in empathy. Kelly adjusted his tie uncomfortably, lowering his voice.

“Uh, no we weren’t close. I barely knew him,” he lied, trying to keep his voice down. But clearly someone heard him.

“Excuse me?” Kell and Delly turned to face a red headed lady with a wine glass in her hand. She looked irate and her face was red, a juxtaposition against the cream white of her business casual dress.

“I’ve heard you! Boasting about all your achievements, all your phony do-gooding. You’re trying to erase what you did in the past, but we all remember. No matter how many cases you win, how many donations you make to anti-bullying campaigns, how many[...] we won’t be fooled again. You’ll always be a cruel, hateful boy and someday, you’re going to trip up again and show those you’ve fooled who you really are - a mean, hateful man, and now a liar and phony.” Kell thought she was done speaking but then she turned to Delly and said, “I’m so sorry honey,” before turning to him again to finish off with, “Go home Dane. Nobody wants you here.”

A crowd had gathered around them, and Kell could see in the eyes of his former classmates and just as they hadn’t wanted him at their school graduation, they didn’t want him at their reunions either. It didn’t matter that some of them had been genuinely interested in talking with him about the various non-profit initiatives he was invested in and the one he was setting up at his firm, now they were reminded of their shared past and everything he had done since was tinged with insincerity. So he lifted his glass in acknowledgement, set it half empty down onto a nearby table, before taking his leave, sweeping a slightly starstruck Delly against him and towards the exit.

******

Delly was quiet in the car and didn’t speak until they got home. She took her heels off in the front entrance and then dropped onto the couch in their living now. Kell hovered into the kitchen, but could still hear her when she said,

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Kell flipped the kettle on and let the sound of the water heating up fill the space between them for a few moments.

“I didn’t want you to think any different of me.” He sighed as he walked towards her and then sat down on the coffee table in front of Delly, taking her hands in his. She didn’t look at him. “We were silly teenage boys back then, too caught up in our own worlds to understand the effect that we were having on him. If we had known how sensitive he was--”

“Sensitive?” Delly interrupted, and the tone of her voice would have keyed him into the danger of the situation he was stepping into. He hurried to correct himself.

“My point is that I understand what we did wrong back then, I wouldn’t do it again. I regret it every day. I’ve changed.”

“Have you? Do you regret what happened because a boy died or do you regret it because your classmates think you’re a terrible person? You know I always did wonder if you truly wanted to do good why didn’t you go into civil law? Why corporate? It never did make sense to me. And now I know! You don’t really care about the less fortunate, you only care about your image! It’s not about helping your client out, it’s about winning, and showing the world how many pro bono cases you’ve done so that they’ll all say, Wow look at Kell Dane, such a champion for the voiceless! You’re a fraud!” Her voiced gradually got louder as she spoke, to the point where she nearly screamed her last accusation at him.

“You’re one to talk! You’re always going on about new initiatives, and helping those more fortunate than you and then turn around and buy clothing that has been created in sweatshops by the very people you say you care about. I may be a fraud, but you’re a hypocrite!” He lashed out. Delly stared at him with wide eyes. Kell had never yelled at her before, had always made sure to never raise his voice, present himself as a soft hearted, but capable, man. She slowly crumpled, like a butterfly with a broken wing would, and he saw one tear start to fall, and then she slapped him. The force of it whipped his head to the right. Kell didn’t go after her when she ran off to the bedroom.

Delly cries herself to sleep and Kell waits until her tears subside before crawling into bed next to her. He wonders if this is the beginning of the end again. Everyone had been so quick to turn against him in high school, the students, the teachers, the administrative staff, and especially the school board who were only negotiated into allowing him to graduate with the contingency that he was homeschooled for the rest of the year, didn’t attend the ceremony and didn’t speak to the press. The other boys were treated the same way, and they barely talked to each other either, too shocked about what had happened and each ruminating on their own role in Rhy’s fate. Kell spent the next year, next few years, angry with everyone. He was angry with himself for being so stupid as to not have seen it coming, for his friends for the same, at his parents using their money to get him out of any consequences, at everyone at school for deeming him a villain. He vowed to prove them wrong, show them that he wasn’t bad, that he had just been a normal teenage boy, maybe with a bit of a mean streak, but really he was quite decent, good even. He would show them, he had thought.

But now it was clear that he had failed.

Kell tried not to think about Rhy before, because thinking about him made him sad and angry and hopeless, and Kell was trying to remake himself so he could not afford to feel sad and angry about hopeless. Maybe that’s why he never told Delly, because he didn’t want to believe that it had happened, choosing to remove those moments in highschool from his character. But now, after being rejected once again by his classmates and lying in his bed with his fiance turned away from him, he does think about Rhy. Specifically, he thinks about how Rhy had felt when it had happened, if he had been scared. Or if he felt all those years ago the way Kell does now, empty and hopeless, as he set the scene and pulled the trigger on himself.

#frostweeklychallenge #did better this week #outlined earlier and wrote a lot more #but didn't actually finish the story - i ran out of time #i actually really like my idea for this week? may return to this #unfinished may return #also have not read this over at all oops #I think I've started to understand how to structure my time for writing throughout the week

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