#...it was along the lines of 'your younger self would be MORTIFIED if they saw you today but you're happy and it doesn't bother you'

[uncanny-tranny]

When you grow up, you might feel afraid that you would hate your older self if you met them. It's weird to imagine that you could be so different than who you are now.

I think it's freeing, though, to have grown so much that you would almost be unrecognizable. There are still glimmers of who I was in the mosaic of who I am today, but I have grown and developed in such a way that... I am not just me anymore. I think that's a big aspect of growing. You won't always be this way, and that realization can make it easier to embody everything you want to be because now you aren't chained to the idea that you can only be one way, that you are beholden to everything around you.

[yukiobeyme]

Hi there! Just wondering if you could possibly write hcs for trans Beel or trans Satan? But if you can’t that’s fine.

I am supposed to doing my Civil Engineering HW? Yes.

I am coming back from the dead to answer this? Yes.

Can I talk about Trans!Beel and Trans!Satan all day? God Yes. Please ask me more talk to more about LGBTQIA+ and how it fits in Obey Me!

Thank you so much I hope I do this some justice. I am sorry how it got so long, but I got in the groove for this and I just came up with other ideas

Beel has some implied body issues, mention of top surgery and T-shots

So you more or less got Satan’s coming out story, I could have just written it as a fic and it would have probably been shorter and more concise. But I did add other headcanons as well and accidentally hc how Satan got his everyday outfit.

*Also disclaimer: Satan’s hc focus a lot on Parrotfish by Ellen Wittlinger being a gateway for him figuring out his identity. I have heard of it and seen both good and bad reviews. I recognize that some bad reviews implied that there are possibly inaccurate stereotypes but was a good starting point to introducing Trans Characters to fiction. I have never read it and can not confirm or deny what the reviews say.

Beelzebub:

From a young age he wondered why and how Belphegor were twins when he was a girl.

It caused a distaste in his mouth but more often than not he pushed it away.

 It wasn’t until the Fall; did he finally act on it.

The first time he was called “sir” his heart almost burst out of his chest

 He immediately told a sleepily Belphegor about it, he figured he wouldn’t remember in the morning

 But boy was he wrong, it turns out Belphegor laid awake after Beel told him that. In the morning they talked about it again. Belphie offered his full support.

Belphie became Beel biggest piece in his support system. Like sure a lot of problems, he said maybe a nap or food would help. But it turns out he was right? (Well for the most part) but whenever Beel felt like everyone hated him and judging him, Belphie would wrap him up in the softest blanket in the house and they would take a nap together. Or when Beel seemed to be angry at everything and hated everyone, Belphie pulled him to the kitchen and made his favorite meal.

Randomly one day Belphie asked about how Beel felt about himself. “Like it doesn’t matter if you pass in someone else’s eyes or not, but do you like how you look?”

That’s when Beelz really got into bodybuilding and weightlifting

While he didn’t necessarily come out to the rest of the brothers, but none of them came out as cis so he wasn’t going to go out of his way and come out as trans

“working your legs naturally helps build more testosterone, so does eating eggs,” it was Satan that told him shyly behind a book if Beelz noticed that Satan was eating more eggs and even doing leg exercising he said nothing

Satan and Beel would have random conversations about gender and identity. Most times Belphie sat in on it. Asking questions or making comments.

Before he got top surgery, he would wear full-body binders, he had a standard black and white, but he also had an orange one. Completely confident to wear them by themselves.

 After top surgery, he showed off (as he should)

Takes pride in his body and the work and effort he put into it. To make it his own.

·         T shots doesn’t help with his appetite at all, the horror that went through the house when the avatar of gluttony appetite almost doubled. After a few weeks, it averaged out to be just a little more than pre-T but the brothers none the less both impressed and mortified

Belphie immediately opened his closet to Beel, like Beel occasionally stole clothes before, but this time Belphie made sure that Beel knew whatever he wanted he could take.

Asmo was definitely down to help Beel with shopping, but he turned him down. Favoring to go with Belphie

Faced little backlash, only some sports watchers had problems with it but were quickly shut down. Though even after all these centuries some people still have problems. But Beel has learned to keep his head high but knows he is allowed to be upset and hurt by their words. But he also knows he can go to any of his brothers for comfort and to regroup.

Beelz doesn’t get the same attention and attraction that Satan does, but he doesn’t mind. Though when he sees younger lgbtqia+ looking in awe at him at the gym, he usually swings by to see if they have any questions or need tips.

Okay, wait hear me out… Definitely created a club specifically for lgbtqia+ to have the gym and exercise together. Whether it was leading a class, he has gotten Asmo to lead a few yoga/ meditations or letting them break out into groups and giving them tips on stance or what exercises could build muscles to help them pass. But most importantly teaches/reminds everyone that their body is their own. That no matter what happened to them, their body is theirs. It can look however they want and even if it doesn’t look perfect, it is still is worthy of love and self-care. “The only opinions that matter is your own, it is your body. Claim and make it your own. No one can take it away from you”

Satan offered to let him borrow Parrotfish, Beel isn’t too interested but Belphie wanted to read it to him.

Overall Beel is confident and comfortable with his body and his identity. On his bad days, he knows he has endless support from Belphie and his other brothers.

 Satan:

You know that feeling when something clicks and its that chilling calm that covers your body? Satan was reading a random book, Parrotfish by Ellen Wittlinger.

First came out to Asmodeus, because Satan knew Asmo would accept him and help him in whatever way Asmo could.

And of course, Satan was nervous because Asmo couldn’t go to the others not yet. Satan planned it out that Lucifer was on Earth and expected to be there for a week, so Satan had time to execute his plan.

Asmo was worried when Satan came to him all serious. Well, Satan is always serious but this time the nervousness and lack of confidence made Asmodeus sit still and hold his breath. Asmodeus was attentive as Satan slowly stumbled through his prepared speech, which mainly focused on talking about the book he had just finished.

 Asmo didn’t understand until he saw how heartbroken and lost Satan looked. He was frantic in a sense and blurted out something along the lines of, “So, you wish you were a parrotfish?” while it wasn’t necessarily the best thing to say, the laugh it go out of Satan and the uncertainty in his smile was worth it.

Asmodeus took it upon himself to go shopping for Satan, getting him new more masculine clothes.

It was Levi that got Satan’s his first Binder, “A lot of cosplayers wear them, so you should be okay for some light exercising in it”

Soon all the brothers, well except Lucifer knew and the day Lucifer came back, Satan hid and avoided him.

Satan should have known better, but he was still surprised when Lucifer summoned for him

He was terrified.

When he entered the room, he couldn’t meet Lucifer’s eyes. But when he spared the glance, he saw the disappointment in Lucifer’s eye. Satan tried to swallow around the lump in his throat and ignore the burning in his eyes.

“What are you wearing?” Not exactly what Satan thought Lucifer was going to say first. “Was it Asmodeus?” “Ugh” Lucifer shook his head and strolled to his closet and threw the door open and went searching for something. “Ah, there it is,” Lucifer returned with a yellow sweater. “This would be more suiting for you,” Lucifer offered the sweater to Satan.

“You aren’t mad?”

“The only thing I’m relatively mad at is how offensive that outfit is,”

“I might have shoes too, but they might be a little big on you,”

Satan left wearing his new sweater and shoes on, laughing how he had to keep a black undershirt on, and the shoes flopped due to being too big. But he left with a lot of weight off his shoulders and high in spirits.

That sweater is the famous one you still see him wear today. He wonders why Lucifer would have such a bright color and when he asked Lucifer just made a face and rolled his eyes as he replied with “Asmodeus thought I needed to brighten my wardrobe.”

 Satan loves it, its soft and bright. It’s a little too low cut for his liking but an undershirt fixed that problem. And it doesn’t hug his chest and honestly, it’s his favorite piece of clothing

 Parrotfish is a permanent book in his room and he reads it once a year. And has special scenes marked, so he can go back and read certain passages when needed

Once Satan came out to Barbatos and Diavolo they both requested to read the book and met with him for tea to talk about the book and life.

Lucifer even snagged the book for a bit. (He tried to be sneaky about it and Satan pretended not to notice)

 Asmodeus and Mammon is chaotic with their support, it nice and needed but can also be overboard but he knows they do it out of love. Pride is a huge thing at the house and Asmo decided to do a gender reveal party for Satan

Beelzebub, Belphegor and Levi are supportive like they are ready to fight anyone who gives Satan any issues about his gender and gender identity, but they are as obnoxious as Asmo and Mammon. They will sit with him, talk to him, or just quietly listen. Most times they can’t offer help and admit they don’t know what to say other then they are here for him and willing to listen to whatever he needs to talk about.

Lucifer is quiet support. At first, Satan thought he didn’t approve but then Lucifer would make a random statement or ask for clarification that made Satan feel comfortable. Lucifer glared at anyone who even thought about giving Satan a weird look.

Satan’s go to binder color is a light grey and most times it just a crop top rather than a full-body one. Though he has an aqua blue one he wears occasionally. (I have a drawing of this somewhere lmao)

Satan tried to give himself his first haircut but Asmo had to come in and fix up the mess and disaster he created. Sure, his hair was way too short for his liking, but it wasn’t long anymore.

Over the years has learned the different meanings behind the looks he gets, whether it’s in disgust or that longing look that demons that aren’t out give him. He somehow occasionally becomes a dad to other trans! Demons. Whether it's long talks or if it's just quick tips that help him through the years.

Ironically enough, Lucifer is his biggest support or the one he relies on the most during days or moments when Satan feels terrible. Because Lucifer won’t be fussing all over him or beat around the bush about it. Sometimes he will state he too busy to talk but will leave and come back with hot tea and Satan’s favorite biscuits. Lucifer sometimes sends him away to grab his homework and they will just work in silence together. While Satan hates to admit how much he appreciates Lucifer for these moments, it helps a lot.

Last one! The first formal after Satan came out, he realized he didn’t have clothes for it. Out of all the styles and outfits he had gotten nothing formal ever came through. His brothers came through though. Asmo couldn’t convince him on any of his extra formal wear so he went around finding pieces that the other brothers weren’t using. Satan was only missing a jacket, but the outfit looked perfect. When he ran into Lucifer, Lucifer brought him to his room and offered him one of his simpler jackets and touch him how to pin it to tailor the sleeves to a better height.

[widcwed-rasa]

Note: this is part of Rasa’s now annual tradition to write her feelings out and “speak” to her deceased husband through letters she seals and hides away. Nobody knows about their existence. Read it at your discretion.

Khatanga - October 24th, 2120.

My dearest husband,

Two days have passed since the anniversary of your death, and this year has been turbulent, to say the least. After years of watching my parents giving me sideways glances and whispering things behind my back when they thought I was out of earshot, I decided it was finally time for me to go away. They've been pressuring me to come out of my shell for so long that I believed giving them what they wanted would mean I would get a break. I was wrong.

This Khatanga experiment seems fucked up if you ask me. I understand why our parents are concerned about our safety, but throwing us all in the same place didn't sound like the smartest idea. I wish you could be here with me. You would understand what I'm talking about, though I can't say there haven't been interesting moments. I won't get ahead of myself here. Let me try to recount things as chronologically as I can.

Ausra and I made our way here together. I suppose our parents either assumed the two of us together would make this transition easier on me, or they decided she was ready to be pushed into a marriage. Whichever scenario, the result will probably be the same. And since Daina has recently arrived here as well, I imagine we'll soon all be facing the same circumstance, but so far, it's just been me.

I guess one of the first few things that happened after we arrived was stumbling into Maggie one night. You remember her, right? She's been a little crestfallen over the idea of seeing Matthias around here more often than anyone would have wished to see their ex. It's understandable, and her feelings are valid, I just don't know why anyone would make her suffer. To make matters worse, I believe Matty might be oblivious to it, which kinda makes me want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. They don't have a clue how lucky they are that things ended when they did. I keep telling people that love brings nothing but pain. Nobody believes me. No one ever seems to comprehend why I wouldn't wish this on anyone. I've just been trying to warn them. Nevertheless, I did for Maggie what any good friend should do. Actually, maybe I've done a bit more than that, but you know me. I cannot see a pretty girl upset without lending them a helping hand— or whatever else they might require. You'll be glad to hear that we have rekindled our estranged friendship, and now it's probably at the best point it's ever been.

I think it might have been at the end of May. Or was it the beginning of June?! I can't remember it too well. Anyway, it was just shortly after our arrival as well when I received a letter from mama with news that would change my life forever. Not right away, no, because I preferred to block it all out and pretend it had never happened. I thought if I could simply ignore it, therefore it couldn't be true. My world of fantasy crumbled just weeks later, and, as usual, it happened in the worst way possible.

When I agreed to come to Russia, I thought my parents would allow me a breathing moment without having to hear about my next marriage. It's still too weird to consider it, or the fact that it's really in motion. Overall, I'm surprised they managed to find a family that was willing to take me in as their daughter. Let's be honest, the past couple of years have been far from my most gracious times, and it's not as if I'm making any effort to change that. So why? Why would anyone want to associate their son with someone like me? My therapist would say I put myself down as self-sabotage. Well, I never saw her in any great rush to marry me and prove me wrong!

Anyway, my parents have been able to settle the terms of my betrothal with Eamon O'Rourke of Ireland. He's not the first in line for the throne— thank goodness for that! Can you imagine what it would be like if I were the queen of any place? —, he's younger than I am by a few years— his twin sister is one of Ausra's best friends. Maybe I should try to see if she's involved in this somehow —, and he has this shocking head of red hair that's pretty much the first thing you ever notice about him. It seems a little bit like Ausra's hair, but with a little more of an orange undertone, like the sky during sunset after a long period of drought. And... I slept with his older brother a few years ago, a piece of information he took surprisingly well, I might add.

As it habitually happens to me, when we met, or more accurately, when he snuck up on me, I made a fool out of myself. First impressions have never been my forte. You would find the entire thing hilarious, and the problem is: so did I. Not hilarious, or funny, but you know I have this proclivity for smiling or laughing when I get nervous, and I laughed for long minutes. It probably felt even longer for him. He deserves someone a tad more tactful. Instead, he got stuck with me. Eventually, we sorted that out. We seem to have a lot of dark things in common. The sort of things that would make most people run for the hills without ever looking back. If he hasn't found a deal-breaker in the past couple of days, there's a chance all this darkness in me isn't triggering to him, and this wedding might end up happening. I'm scared. And don't give me one of those bullshit speeches about facing our fears. I want to be able to chicken out like the good coward that I am.

Since our meeting was far from ideal, I thought it called for reparation. So I looked for him during the masquerade event so we might have more of a chance to talk and get to know one another. We drank and asked a bunch of questions. As it turns out, we both prefer to live in the country, and we might move to Italy after we're married, and his sister also is. Oh, and he's a cat person. Do you think I could have a cat...? Our drinking game went better than I thought it would. Maybe it could be our thing.

While here, I also had the chance to spend more time around Maggie's brother, Ivan. Nothing about our rendezvous was expected, and I must say it took a peculiar turn. Maggie invited me for tea one afternoon, but she didn't show. Instead, Ivan came around for the same reason: meeting his sister there. We quickly came to the conclusion it wasn't an accident that we were both there. Maggie had pulled those strings. I'm still not sure why. Perhaps Ivan got to the bottom of that situation, and I should ask him. The idea of spending my afternoon sipping tea with someone I barely knew wasn't among my favorite activities, and I doubt it figured among his as well. There were probably more interesting things a crown prince could be doing, but him producing a flask of whatever booze from a pocket helped with our bonding process. Immensely. With a snap of the fingers, we became acquainted with the other one's flirtatious sides, building up a tension I didn't even know existed between us. He instigated my curiosity, and I hate to admit that he had me hanging on every word just to see what would follow. I'd like to think stumbling into me also wasn't the most conventional thing that's ever occurred to him. There might be some other buttons to push or undo there. I don't know which ones yet, and I might be willing to go ahead and do that. Eventually. It's something that will come to me.

Now, let me circle back to the masquerade ball we had... So many things happened. I don't even know where to start. A few days before the party, we received letters telling us that the organization had picked out dates for everyone. f I already had my doubts about attending, giving me an obligation while I was at it wasn't how anyone would convince me I would have a nice time. My pair for the evening was Prince Callister from Greece. A very superman sort of man. Seriously, the guy looks like some artisan sculpted him in marble. As polite as polite could be. In fact, if politeness ever had a picture in the dictionary, he would be there with a smile upon his face. After fulfilling our mandatory duty, I didn't want to keep him for longer. Life's too short for us not to do what we want to do, and the man is clearly besotted with his fiancée. What a rookie mistake. Therefore, he wasn't my type.

After I freed Callister from his obligation, I sought for things I could do while I was still there, otherwise, the evening would have been a waste of my time and a beautiful dress— Oh my God, I sounded just like Day! Never tell her that! —although terrible shoes. It was how I came across the Devil. Or, well, that's how he first introduced himself, and it led to such a frustrating experience.

He invited me to dance. I could never turn down something like that. Especially not when it already felt like something I hadn't done in forever. So we danced, and we talked, and we teased enough to feel like maybe we should have been doing something other than just dancing. We kissed, and things heated up quickly. The way he was touching me made it clear he wanted more. I wanted more. Unfortunately, being too honest sometimes has its problems. I told him there was a lot about the past couple of years that I couldn't remember, and he decided to use that information against me so he could leave me wanting more. He told me that was the best way to make sure someone was memorable. Can you believe that?! He dared me to find him afterward, which would be a lot easier if we had exchanged names or anything like that. Now I'm stuck with a vague sense of recognition, a challenge, and curiosity. It's terrible!

You will be proud to hear that I've made a new friend. And, of course, that happened in the least predictable way possible. She drenched the hem of my skirts with champagne. She was mortified when it happened. I was more along the lines of amused. Sure, maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have found it as endearing if she wasn't stunning. And those eyes... Those eyes, I tell you. They look like they're staring right into your soul. Sarika is a sweet woman, and she's also been through a lot. No wonder we seemed to attract each other. There might be a couple of things I could teach her as well, after all, I've been doing this mourning thing for eight years now. I've picked up some stuff here and there. If people want to give me those pity eyes, the least they should expect is for me to use that for something. This can't just be the kind of situation in which only I lose. Sometimes we need to try leveling that playfield, and it's something I know I can help her. We might be the only ones who are truly able to understand how the other feels. She was even willing to be here with me when I just wanted the whole world to be gone. I like her. I'm keeping her.

The masquerade had some intriguing twists and turns, but I suppose running into Valentin of Austria had a riveting turn out. Maybe I've read him completely wrong from our first few meetings. When we first crossed paths back in spring, he seemed like the sort of man who held back a lot. He always seemed to dodge and skirt around things he truly wanted to do, and I don't know why he'd have such reservations. Anyway, I convinced him to steal a bottle of booze for us to share. It didn't take a lot of persuading, which is probably what led me to believe there are things he wants to do, but he's reluctant. During the event, when I saw him, there were two things he wanted to do: go up on stage and sing and kiss me. I wasn't going to wait and see whether I win or lose a bet to kiss someone, so I did just that before he even had the chance to finish his proposition. Still, he went on stage anyway for his rendition of Britney Spears. I thought it was an odd choice, but it isn't my place to judge. My karaoke songs aren't what others would call conventional either. Maybe I was a little upset over the fact that he had already gotten the girl, but I had to cut my losses. When does life ever go the way I want it anyway?! He sang. We kissed. It was a win-win situation. Making out with him had unanticipated results, and he was far more willing to move past the boundaries of decency than I thought he'd be. Sure, he first freaked me out when he talked to me about love, but once we pushed past that obstacle, everything was great. He might turn into a friend with benefits. We'll see.

I saw Eamon again the other day. You know how I tend to shut myself in around this time of the year, and there are far more people here than I would have wanted to deal with when I'm in my right state of mind. When everything goes south, I push everyone away. I can be especially hard to handle during those episodes, and it was worse when I felt suffocated in a place where so many people seemed to have such easy access to me. So I bribed a maid to give me the location of a spot most people wouldn't think of looking for me: Eamon's room. Most people know how I feel about our contract betrothal. Ausra's still under the assumption our meeting went fabulously wrong— I'll tell her about it eventually —so no one would have reason to look for me there. I had already been there before a few times. He was never there. It was just a calm place for me to be when the world became too much. I don't generally touch anything, just sit or lie down in the most complete silence until my demons are appeased, and I feel like circling back to my room. But this time, he showed up while I was at it. I cannot begin to imagine how odd it must have been for him to open that door and find a woman he'd met like yesterday sobbing on his bed. It's hard to tell how he'll respond to what he encountered now that he's had the time to process everything, so I suppose I'll just have to wait to find out what the future has in store there.

I feel like this concludes my reports on the most impressive things that have happened to me lately, which means we're reaching the end of this.

I'll see you whenever I have more things to tell, well, you know how this goes.

Truthfully,

Rasa.

P.S.: I saw a man with his daughter the other day. She’s seven. That seems to have brought me way too many feelings I wasn’t prepared for. So, fuck you very much for putting the plans of having children inside my head all those years ago.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #232

“i’ve never bought a suit before in my life, but when you go to meet god, you know you wanna look nice.”

Do you have trouble typing when the room is dark? No, I don't look at the keyboard. When’s the last time you had a headache? I had an abomination of a three-day-long headache before my cycle like a week or two back or something. How often do you take surveys? Not as much as I used to now that I actually have school, but occasionally. What did you last write on paper? I think some items to Mom's shopping list? Does anything on your body hurt? No. What do you currently hear? "Bullet" by Hollywood Undead. I can hear cars outside, as well as Bentley biting himself incessantly. Sounds gross. Do you have any goals you’re trying to fulfill? As for in the near future, hopefully - I'd pray if I believed in it by this point - start losing weight again. Grow more in my photography, 1.) because I want this so badly and 2.) there's no way I could handle the stress of school and a "real" job but we're in serious need of money right now. I'd really like to make progress with driving too, but I haven't been able to in months because a headlight in broken, the license plate or whatever is expired, and the car can't pass inspection, so Mom doesn't want me at the steering wheel and get pulled over for it. Being on the borderline poverty line is A BLAST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Do you ever do the dishes? I'mma be real, real honest here. Not really. Reason being we don't have a dishwasher and I am super queasy actually hand-cleaning dirty dishes, I get frustrated because I feel I don't clean them well enough (being a germaphobe is also fun), and my OCD goes absolutely insane trying to play Tetris with the drying rack thingy. All that being said, it's my least-favorite chore. At your house, does everyone eat together as a family? No. We started to drift apart when I was... maybe a pre-teen? When did you last have butterflies in your stomach? Sara decided she wanted to try making out and I was fucking terrified of going too far or scaring her. Are you independent or dependent? I'm embarrassingly dependent. Who last made you smile? My pup. How did you find Bzoink? Taking surveys for so long. What’s your dream job? If travel and heat weren't considered, a meerkat biologist. Do you brush your teeth twice every day? Just once. Do you have a pool? No. Are the streetlights on? We don't have streetlights on my road. When you wear a hoodie, do you pull the sleeves over your hands? Not unless I'm really cold. Do you trust anyone, besides yourself, fully? Sara. I would say Mom, but I'm entirely aware she's lied and made stories up about Dad. Do you believe the saying “once a cheater, always a cheater”? No. I've never really understood this. People change. Are you in any advanced classes at school? I bypassed the freshman English class, yeah. Well, is that considered "advanced?" I don't believe it's like an AP course or anything, but it's not a class I'm supposed to be taking as a freshman, so??? How often do you eat your favorite food? Every once in a while. Have you ever fallen asleep on public transport? (including planes) Probably. What was the last TV show you watched? Uhhhh I think it was all the way back when Colleen and I were still friends and we checked out The Good Doctor. Or it was either Parks and Recreation with Sara and her family or Avatar: The Last Airbender, also with Sara. Where was the last place you went on vacation/holiday to? Who’d you go with? The beach with Colleen, her husband, and their son. Well, does that count since it was only for a day? Does the place you work have music playing? What sort? I don't have a job. What’s your favorite type of donut? It varies between chocolate frosted, glazed, and plain. What do you usually eat for breakfast? If I even eat, it'll probably be like, a meal replacement shake or Pop-Tart. Can you touch your toes without bending your knees? Surprisingly. When was the last time you went out for dinner? Like at a sit-down restaurant? Hm. I think it was El Tapatio with my mom and Nicole maybe near two months ago. What was the last thing you said to someone else in person? Idr, something to Mom. Do you use Windows, Mac, Linux, or something else entirely? Windows. How many times do you call someone on the phone a week? Like zero, usually. Have you cooked anything today? What was it? No. Do you have a lot of cousins? What are their names? Yeah. I'm not sharing all their names on the Internet, and besides, I don't even know most. What does your shampoo smell like? I don’t know. What about the body wash or soap you’re using at the moment? I don't remember, even though I got out of the shower like an hour ago. Any movies you’ve seen recently that you’d recommend to me? No, I barely ever watch movies. Why did you last go see a doctor? The primary reason was for my night terrors. Do you know how to play Minesweeper? No. What was the last thing you bought online? A new heat lamp for my snake Venus. Where do you usually park your car? I don't have a car, but Mom parks in the driveway behind the house. Does your mail get delivered to your house or do you have to collect it? It's put in the mailbox on the other side of the road. Are you more logical or creative? Creative, I'd say. Do you cut tags out of clothing so they don’t itch and bother you? Usually. How many times a year do you go on vacation? Pretty much never. Can you curl your tongue or do anything else cool with it? I can curl it a little bit, but my snake eyes piercing prevents me from doing it all that well. What was the last job interview you went to? For a deli position at a Food Lion. Got the job, lasted not even two hours. :^) What embarrassing music do you listen to? I'm not really *embarrassed* of any I listen to. Just kinda surprising to admit to some people sometimes. What’s your biggest talent? Writing, I guess? What’s the best gift you ever received? My dog. What fear would you like to overcome? More than ANYTHING? Probably being judged in a negative way or being seen as "weird," and not in a good way. AvPD is a bitch and makes me less open about myself (mostly just irl, but yeah), which I REALLY don't like. Would you rather ride in a hot air balloon or hang-glide? Hm, hang-glide, maybe. I dunno. What habit would you like to break? Procrastinating, lately. Describe the most romantic moment you’ve ever had. I can think of a few, but here's the one that had the most biggest effect on me, I think. There was one time Jason and I were kissing, I told him I loved him, and he whispered, "I love you too, wife," before going back to kissing me. Remembering that still hurts, a lot. I know now us separating was for the better, I don't want someone who doesn't have faith in my strength, just the memories like those from the time I was convinced our love story was a fairy tale are very painful. Just typing it caused a discomfort in my stomach. What’s your worst personality trait? Laziness, probably. Or impulsiveness. Have you ever cheated on a test? No. What’s your favorite karaoke song? I don't sing karaoke. Do you know anyone with two different colored eyes? I don't believe so. What was the last thing you bought for someone else? Sara's anniversary present, which was a pillow that said something along the lines of, "Hug this pillow until you can hug me" or something. Do you like hot fudge sundaes? My fat ass can't even associate with you if you don't like HOT FUDGE SUNDAES????????????? Do you like to sleep a lot? It's funny, I tend to like naps during the day, yet I don't look forward to trying to go to sleep at night. It always takes longer, and there's also the possibility of just waking back up and struggling to fall back asleep for the rest of the night. Is there a garbage can in the room you’re currently in? No. Have you ever been in a class that you thought you were too smart for? I don't think so. Can you type without looking at the keyboard? Yeah. We had a mandatory typing course in middle school, so I learned it exceptionally well. Have you ever been snorkeling? No. Who was the last person you apologized to? Maybe Sara? Do you throw things when you’re frustrated? NO. I am very conscious of not expressing my anger with physical violence of any sort. How much do you get paid at your current job? N/A Are your friends mostly older than you or younger than you? I think younger. Would you ever get a pet tarantula? Nah. Do you want to dye your hair? Ugh, you have no idea. What’s your favorite zoo animal? Meerkats, duh. Is there anything in your room you’d be ashamed to show to your parents? I'm VERY self-conscious of my artwork, so I'd be mortified if my mom saw my drawings, even though there's nothing "wrong" with them. I'm just shy about 'em. Have you ever accused someone of cheating when they weren’t? Yeah, hence the end of that day-long relationship. Him cheating was a lie from his insane ex, but at the time, I just believed it, but it was absolutely for the better. He wasn't for me. I really shoulda just listened when my art teacher literally took me aside one day and warned me about him. Wha'd'ya know, he wound up on house arrest or something similar, and who the hell knows what he's done by now. When was the last time you played hide and seek? I played with my niece and nephew some months ago. Don’t you hate when people stare at you? Fuckin' yes. I'm too self-conscious for that shit. Have you ever accidentally caught yourself on fire? Well thank god no. Are you Jewish? No. Does anyone copy the things you do? No. Is your dad still alive? Yes, yay. Have you done anything lately that you instantly felt was a mistake? Possibly. What melts your heart/makes your knees weak? Watching Mark with kids causes me severe physical pain. What would you consider unforgivable? Rape. What are your views on spontaneous human combustion? Freaky. Parasite Eve first made me think "oh shit what if this could actually happen," and I've also watched a Shane Dawson video about it, and the idea of it possibly being a real thing is absolutely terrifying. How many dryer sheets do you put in an average load of laundry? I think Mom uses one or two? I dunno. Have you ever felt trapped in a relationship? No. What is your favorite frozen treat? Ice cream. Do you have a sexual fantasy? ...What is it? There's probably something I could think up. Maybe like bang on a church pew or something lmao idk. Who was the last person to insult you? I'm not sure. What color is your brush/comb/whatever? White. Is it wicked hard for you to sleep when its hot in your room? It is almost entirely impossible. Have you ever purposely given someone wrong directions? No, but then again, it's not like I even give them. I have a horrible sense of direction and don't know street names, highway numbers and locations... What is your favorite thing to do with your best friend? I'm not sure. Everything is fun with her. Are you easily offended? It depends. In most contexts, no. Have you ever acted as tour guide for friends/relatives from out of town? Not really. If you were an anime character, would you be a yandere or a tsundere? HAHAHA I AM PAINFULLY A YANDERE. If you have glasses, do you get days when you don’t feel like wearing them? No, because I like to see. Have you ever played bingo at an actual bingo hall? No. Ha ha, this reminds me tho, I can't recall if he did it once or just WANTED to, but my brother may have gone into one, yelled "BINGO," and immediately left. Did your parents ever collect any magazines they didn’t want you to read? Uhhhh no. I'm quiiiiite sure neither of my parents had those. Have you ever pledged money to a Kickstarter and it reached its goal? No. I probably would if I had excess money and really believed in it, though. Is there a color combination that holds a significance to you? Because Jason's favorite thing in the world was the Joker, seeing purple and bright green together is one I just prefer not to see. I wouldn't call it a PTSD trigger, like I don't freak out about it, it's just like an "ugh ew" sorta thing. If you use Facebook, do you ever look at the Memories page? No. I cringe 90% of the time when they pop up. Do you have a drawer where you just throw some random stuff? No. Have you ever had to provide an alibi for something? No. What’s the funniest shirt that you own? I have a Batman one I'm trying to shrink back into that says something like "I wish I was Batman but I'm poor and hate fighting" & I love it. What is something you absolutely refuse to pay for? Idk off the top of my head. Has a stray/runaway cat or a dog ever followed you home? Cats, I think? If so, what did you do with it? Fed it with the other cats, and I'd assume Mom would've called the owner's number if given. If you could grow a beard or a mustache, would you? I'm a cisgender female so like... Is there a stranger you expect to see every day? No. What is something you take pride in? I'm proud of just how deeply and genuinely I care about people. And my writing and photography, mostly. What does the nicest dish set you own look like? All our dishes are literally the same, and they're ancient. I think they were my grandma's but given to Mom. Pattern's worn and everything. They're ceramic with a floral design. Why did you stop working at the last place you were employed? I absolutely cannot be in a position of responsibility or customer service, and the environment was way too busy. What would you do if you found out your ex was pregnant/fathered a child? I... don't know how I would react? Picturing it, I first feel like I'd be so happy for him, but I KNOW my PTSD would act up at some point shortly after and I would probably end up in a bawling ball (lol "bowling ball" that wasn't intended sorry) because "that was supposed to be me," but then I'd be fine again after I got all that emotion out. Who was the last person to smoke a cigarette in front of you? Someone at school. You can smoke outside, and it's the one thing I don't like about my college. Are you very close to your siblings? Not nearly as close as I wish we were. How often do you watch the news? Never. Do you have a dishwasher? No. What is the worst lie you’ve ever told? I don't like talking about it. Well, it wasn't a lie, but I stretched the truth because anxiety's a goddamn asshole. Where is the last place you drove to? I drove to, probably home. What is your favorite Disney movie? The Lion King. I may even like the live-action remake more, but I can't say with certainty. Do you have a fan in your room? Yeah. What color is your lampshade? I don't have a lamp. Do you like to wear belts? Not anymore. What is the most expensive electronic in your room? This laptop. Only a year old and yet it's so abused with how much it's used. Are you involved with any charity work? I wish I was in the position where I could, anyway. Do you celebrate St. Patrick’s Day? No. Have you ever hatched an egg? OKAY SO! I remember in elementary school, maybe like 1st grade or something, we incubated a chicken egg and hatched it. I can't remember where it went. Do you chew gum on a daily basis? No, I rarely do. What brand shampoo do you use? Suave. When is the last time you went to an amusement park? Years ago shortly before the breakup with Jason and Dillon. Or Dustin. Whatever his name was. Do you have a garden shed in your backyard? Nope. Are you obsessed with anything? Y'all know I don't know how to love in moderation, not even remotely. Do you prefer non-diet or diet soda? I hate diet, and the artificial sweetener also gives me serious headaches. Who was the last person you hugged? My mom, maybe? What did you do when you found out Michael Jackson died? We were swimming in the pool while Mom or Dad was grilling, idr. What’s your best friend’s favorite band? Pink Floyd, Evanescence, and Within Temptation. What’s your favorite kind of beer? Never tried it, don't want to. How do you get songs out of your head? Binge it 'til I'm tired of it lmao. Have you seen all the High School Musicals? I've only seen the first two. Do you dress appropriately for your age? I don't know? Probably not? Do "normal" 23-year-olds wear graphic tees? What’s your favorite word? "Serendipity." What’s the worst sickness you’ve ever had? A serious stomach virus that made me puke all the food I'd eaten since birth. Do you take compliments well? Of course I appreciate them, but I get shy. Are excessive piercings sexy or trashy? Well they're definitely not "trashy," but SERIOUSLY excessive ones, I don't usually find attractive. But it really depends on the person, the size, and where. What do you put on toast? Cinnamon, sugar, and butter. The Southern cinnamon toast. Have you ever watched Fear Factor? I LOVED it when I was younger, and I still enjoy it if I happen to see it. Joe Rogan was one of my earliest crushes, too. How many songs do you have on iTunes? Over 1k. What song reminds you of summer? MAN I remember as a kid, back when I liked country, my sisters and I loved "When The Sun Goes Down" by Kenny Chesney. Big summer vibes. Has a bird ever flown into your window? OH WOW I don't think so, but I do remember one flew into the car's grill when I was very young and going on a trip. Safe to say it died.

[angrylizardjacket]

o trespass sweetly urged {Ash/Honey}

Summary: Ash & Honey play Romeo & Juliet in a university production of  Romeo & Juliet. That’s it. That’s the fic.

A/N: 8018 words. Honey is the loml. @toplesstaylor i owe u my life; honey is hers, as is this concept, she just let me write it. there’s a lot of smoking in this one, but no real warnings. i mean there’s gratuitous shakespeare and misunderstandings, but that’s what u get with this sort of thing.

Ash had fully intended on not telling any of her friends that she was doing this; she had her audition on the night she knew Honey had work and Queen had a gig, and she made sure she was never learning her audition monologue in earshot of anyone that would blab about her little experiment. The idea of auditioning for her university theatre society’s rendition of Romeo and Juliet was too fanciful for her to entertain the idea that she’d be cast, but she was a romantic at heart, had spent too long looking at paintings and pictures of the star crossed lovers in textbooks and art galleries. She couldn’t help herself.

“Ash, call for you!” When one of her dormmates calls her to the phone, she’s confused. It’s been a week since the audition and she hadn’t been expecting to hear back.

“Freddie?” He’s the only one that calls her, the only one that has her number, though even he prefers to just show up unannounced.

“Hi, is this Ash Clarke?” The voice on the other end asks. They’re asking her to play Juliet, and she feels like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to tell her it’s a joke.

“What? Me? What do you mean?”

“You’ve got-” it’s the director on the other end, and she covers the receiver, muffling where she was presumably talking to the rest of the executives team, “we think you’ll play very well against our Romeo - who’s a woman, by the way, is that alright? It’s artistic -” Ash is quick to assure them that it’s fine, flushing though they can’t see it, and is immediately worried that they might read into her quick acceptance and realise she’s probably far more into the concept of kissing a female Romeo than they realise, but they just move on, grateful. “You had this real sweetness in your audition, and we think we can help you bring out a fierceness that will be really compelling on stage, hopefully,” she laughs. Ash laughs too, but her heart’s not in it, and her mind’s a thousand miles away, panicking; she never expected to get a role at all.

God, Fred would never let her hear the end of it.

The first read through was nerve wracking; she’d spent more than enough time in the university’s little black box theatre as the costume designer for previous shows, but never as an actor. She’s got a brand new notebook in her white-knuckled grip, smiling awkwardly at the distracted executive team, and she takes a seat in the audience, waiting patiently. As one of the first to arrive, part of her dreads every time she hears the doors open, worrying that it might be someone she knows, even in passing.

So imagine her dread when the doors are flung open, and Honey walks in with the confidence of someone who had already made the stage her home. Which, Ash considers, she sort of already had. Honey greets the director and the rest of the executives with a cool smile, her gaze scanning over the rest of the auditorium, until it settles on Ash, and her lips quirk; Ash, however, is mortified.

“Afternoon, Space Cadet, you designing for this thing?” Honey plops herself into the seat directly beside Ash, feet up on the empty chair in front of her, her tote bag full of highlighters and paper finding a home on the floor beneath the chair. 

“You don’t go to this university-” Ash frowns, suddenly incredibly self conscious- how could she ever help to be on stage in the same play as Honey Woodrow? The woman had more stage presence in her left foot than Ash was sure she had in her whole body.

“Nah,” Honey agreed, “but Lane lives with Emily and was talking about how they needed more people to audition-” it only takes Honey a moment to realise that the names were going straight over Ash’s head, and she gave a thin smile; “the production manager is a friend of Lane, you know, who I work with,” she explained, and prompted Ash, who made a noise of recognition. Looking out at the shabby, blank stage, Honey’s smile is a little bit self satisfied, “I landed Romeo.”

Ash actually blanched.

“God, of course you did,” she all but wheezed, panic building in her, bubbling away in her stomach, along with strands of feelings she couldn’t quite place or name right at that moment. After a beat, she took a deep breath, which was enough for Honey to look over with a frown of confusion at her reservation, but before the brunette can ask, Ash is already speaking, “no, I’m not designing; I’m actually playing Juliet.”

There’s a very long silence. 

When Ash finally looks at Honey, the younger woman is smiling with slight disbelief, and Ash isn’t sure what to read into it, if anything.

“Oh?” Honey asks, quirking an eyebrow, more amused at Ash’s hesitation than anything else.

“Good ‘oh’?” Ash asks tentatively, and the amusement on Honey’s face breaks as she rolls her eyes with exasperation.

“No, it’s a disappointed ‘oh’, angry ‘oh’, mortified ‘oh’; what a fuckin’ chore to have to spend time with you,” Honey leans back. If sarcasm didn’t actually drip from her words, it wasn’t from lack of trying. Ash’s nervousness is melting, little by little, a blush rising on her cheeks as she drops her gaze, chuckling a little. “It’ll be interesting,” Honey muses, which is even more cryptic than the ‘oh’, but Ash doesn’t ask, just nods.

“That’s one word for it.” 

“My star crossed lover,” Honey’s grin is evident in her words as she gives Ash’s thigh a pinch, the teasing banter doing great things for the ginger’s nerves, “you sure you’re up for it?”

“Fuck no,” Ash laughs, but Honey punches her shoulder lightly, assuring her that it’ll be great, and before too long, the director is calling them all over. Despite her nerves, Ash sticks close to Honey, mostly since she’s the only familiar face, though the director seems rather relieved that the women not only know each other, but also seem to get on.

Honey reads Shakespeare like she’s been speaking it her whole life, her words flowing at such a natural pace despite the unnatural turns of phrase. There’s an easy playfulness to the way she speaks her lines, and though the director already looks a little wary.

“I have lost myself; I am not here;” she gasps melodramatically, hand raised to her forehead as if she’s faint, though the sharpness of her grin, despite her overdramatic tone, “this is not Romeo, he's some other where.” It’s already proving to be a very interesting experience. 

Ash, on the other hand, is tentative when speaks, stumbling over the flowery language, trying not to get too flustered as she half stutters through her lines. 

They make it to Act 2, to the masquerade and to where Romeo first spots Juliet, and Honey is almost smirking as she delivers her lines, leaning back on her hands with a casual confidence, gaze flicking from her script to Ash, who was reading her own script like she could divine some infinite wisdom from it.

“What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand of yonder knight?” She asks, and though the man playing the servant speaks, Honey’s still watching Ash. When she delivers her monologue, waxes poetic about Juliet, it’s fond and a little admiring, a surprising take on the lines that somehow works, and makes the director think Honey’s actually put some thought into her character already, “Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.” Ash pauses in her highlighting, and Honey’s grin turns sharp at the faint blush she can spot tinting the ginger’s ears and cheeks pink.

“You gotta chill out,” they leave the rehearsal together, Ash asking if Honey wants to grab a bite to eat, and the moment they step into the cool night air, Honey shoves her hands into her pockets and says what’s been on her mind since she’d arrived. Ash, to her surprise, seems confused by her words, “come on, Space Cadet, you looked like you were about to blow a gasket every time something halfway saucy happened,” Honey hip checked Ash, and who laughed a little, though the set of her shoulders is still tense. “It’s just a play.”

“Yeah, no, I know, it’s just- I’m not used to being on stage.”

“Well you’re gonna need to get used to it, dude,” it may have come off a little sharper than Honey had intended it and she made a point of shifting her tone to something more fond, “you’re the leading lady, aren’t you?”

They get burgers a few blocks from Ash’s dorm and they talk about the show, which manages to help the tense set of Ash’s shoulders, though when she asks Honey if she had any theatre experience, the brunette was still cagey. 

“Performing’s performing, I’m just gifted,” she’s almost insufferably smug, but Ash has known her for long enough now that it doesn’t bother her. It’s not a real answer, but then again, Honey’s never been very forthcoming with any sort of information about her past, even something as seemingly insignificant as whether or not she’s acted before.

Honey has a natural charisma, a confidence when she’s onstage that draws all focus to her, and at first, of course it’s intimidating to be playing opposite her, but surprisingly enough it’s easy for Ash to find her groove on stage. Honey is fast and sharp, but Ash knows her innate timing far better than she had initially given herself credit, and it’s easy, in warm ups, in scenes, to play against her. Despite the younger woman’s somewhat aloof nature, Ash trusts her wholeheartedly. 

They’ve got Ash standing on a table as a proxy for the balcony they’re apparently building for her, and as they’re figuring out their blocking, Honey has taken to sprawling out on the floor just in front of the table, gazing up at Ash with admiration as she delivers her lines.

“I take thee at thy word, call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized; henceforth I never will be Romeo.” She calls up, raising a hand almost lazily and gesturing up to Ash. The ginger looks to the script in her hands before looking sharply at Honey.

“What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest on my counsel?” She asks back, crouching down and peering over the edge of the table; Honey’s giving a starry-eyed expression, and Ash is struggling not to laugh or blush. How Honey manages to keep a straight face while performing will forever be a mystery to Ash.

But the scene goes on, and the urge to laugh dies quickly as Ash finds herself sucked into the narrative, trading banter and lovestruck looks with the woman she considered to be a good friend. Honey, for all she isn’t a fan of casual intimacy, seems at home on stage carding her fingers through Ash’s hair.

“O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” She grumbled, though Ash can see a traitorous smirk at the edge of her lips. Ash, now laying on the table script in one hand, reaches out, lifts Honey’s chin with a single finger.

“What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” She asks, raising an amused eyebrow at Honey’s almost pout that hides her own amusement. The line hangs in the air for a long moment before Honey starts wiggling her eyebrows, unable to hold back her grin, and Ash bursts out laughing. The director calls for a five minute break.

That’s sort of how it goes; bit by bit, scene by scene they work through the script until it’s all blocked. Honey brings an intensity that Ash comes to mirror, until they get to a line or a moment that will end up amusing them, and causing one or both of the girls to break character. Ash is slower to pick up lines, but she finds it easy to learn them if she records herself on cassette saying them, and listening back to it when she’s working on other projects, or up late at night tailoring various garments for her friends.

Freddie’s the first and only one of the band members she tells, and she’s sworn him to secrecy.

“I think I’d do rather well in Shakespeare,” Freddie muses where he’s sprawled out over Ash’s bed of an afternoon while she’s hemming a pair of his leather pants. Ash hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t comment one way or the other. He’s always been a good performer, but never much of an actor, not in a professional capacity, but Ash has never been much of anything on stage before now so she’s doesn’t think she’s really entitled to comment.

“How are rehearsals coming along?” He’s very pointed in the way he says it, and Ash pointedly refuses to hear the smirk so clear in his words. 

“Good,” Ash muses, “we’re - what did she call it? - polishing, I think the director called it polishing. We’re polishing scenes now.”

“Oh, already?” He asked, and Ash pursed her lips. 

“We’re working on the suicide scene on Wednesday.”

A long silence hangs in the air, broken only by the sound of bedsheets rustling as Freddie moves to lie on his stomach, propping his chin in his hand.

“So what’s it like kissing Honey?” He asks, watching Ash turn pink.

“Wouldn’t know,” she avoided his gaze, hunching over the pants she was working on. Freddie’s smile grows wider. There’s a blush about her ears that is refusing to go away, especially not as he hums thoughtfully, but changes the subject.

The next rehearsal is a mess, at least for Ash, who’s in her own head about everything Freddie had said. She’d been practicing her lines rather diligently in the leadup, but they all seemed to have left her, and she feels like she’s letting everyone down on multiple levels. Even Honey, who usually seems unflappable and strangely patient, seems annoyed. 

“Is it weird?” Ash asks in a break; everyone in the room can feel that the energy’s off. 

“You’ll have to be much more specific,” Honey tells her, deadpan, before taking a long drink of water, “you’re being weird.” She adds after a beat. Ash’s expression sours. She deliberates for a long time, eats an entire apple with a pensive look on her face, and Honey actually leaves her to her brooding to go chat with the director. 

“Is it weird that we haven’t kissed in rehearsals yet?” Ash asks just as the director calls everyone back inside. Honey does actually take pause at that, and it’s the director’s turn to scowl.

“You can if you want,” the director buts in before Honey gets a chance, “but proper stage kisses don’t usually need to come into play until dress runs, you know?”

“Is that why you’ve been weird?” Honey’s half smiling, a little exasperated, but the tension in her shoulders is loosening and that frustrated aura around her is quickly dissipating. 

“I’ve never stage-kissed anyone,” Ash exclaims, and that’s the moment the tension breaks; Honey snorts, rolls her eyes and makes her way back to the middle of the rehearsal space.

“If it makes you feel better we can do it this run,” Honey offers, and Ash nods, gives a grateful smile, though her heart’s beating hard against her ribs. Ash has kissed plenty of people in her lifetime, has kissed plenty of women, but none of them are Honey. It’s not that Ash is unobservant; Honey’s hot, obviously, and she’s got this innate magnetism that draws people to her, and this secretive little smile that she wears sometimes that Ash doesn’t like to think too hard about because it makes her heart beat painfully fast. Of course she thinks Honey’s pretty, has even considered kissing her, among other things, but just in passing… this feels… hollow. 

“Eyes, look your last!” As Honey goes through her final monologue, she gently caresses the side of Ash’s face where the ginger was laying on a table in the middle of their stage, “Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss, a dateless bargain to engrossing death!” 

Ash cracks her eye open, just a little, sees Honey looking out to where the audience is, before looking down at Ash, her character breaking for a moment when she sees Ash looking up at her.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” she warns, and Ash has to bite back a smile.

“You don’t need to warn me, it’s in the script.”

"I feel like I do need to warn you since you were being weird about it."

"Telling me you're going to kiss me at the start of the run was fine, now you're making weird."

“If you’re gonna kiss her just do it,” the director sounds endlessly beleaguered, and Honey smiles gently for the barest moment before she presses her lips to Ash’s. It’s quick, chaste, but something inside Ash sparks, and when Honey pulls away she leaves the faintest residue of cherry chapstick on Ash’s lips.

“Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!” Honey’s off again with the rest of her monologue, still holding Ash close, and Ash has to fight to keep from smiling. It’s not how their first kiss should have gone, though Ash has never really considered how it should go, but it doesn’t feel as hollow as she thought it would.

When they get to the costume parade, it’s strange. The clothes don’t sit quite right; they’re sourced rather than made, though it’s what the budget allowed so Ash wouldn’t begrudge them, but it feels strange to be wearing things that she had no say in. It’s been years since someone else dressed her, and she can feel every which way the garment doesn’t fit right. They’ve got her in a high-waisted, forest green skirt, and a short-sleeved floral blouse, and she brings her own pair of shiny, black platforms from home. The skirt has to be safety-pinned into place, and the director thinks the outfit looks better with the top button of her shirt undone, but honestly she doesn’t look half bad. Ash takes a few minutes to look at herself in the mirror of the bathroom where she’d gotten changed, a little nervous to face everyone else in costume, not sure what to expect. 

Honey is the first thing she sees when she steps into the theatre, standing patiently with her hands in her pockets as the costume designer flits around her with a can of hairspray, and the makeup artist is smudging dark eyeshadow in lieu of dirt onto her face haphazardly. It’s not her usual style, but the clothes look like they were made for her. They’ve got her in a garish, blue and pink patterned shirt, untucked, unbuttoned enough that Ash wonders why they’d bothered with buttons at all, over a pair of reasonably tight white jeans, artfully dishevelled with little rips, and dirt along her knees and shins. She looks like she’s just gotten out of a fight, a perfect counterpoint to Ash’s tight, immaculate ensemble, and when she catches Ash staring, Honey just smirks.

“You look cute,” Honey practically drawls, and Ash is suddenly acutely aware of how short her skirt is and how tight her shirt is and how she can’t bring herself to look directly at Honey herself. 

“You too,” Ash says, smiling but still avoiding Honey’s gaze as she walks past to dump her street clothes onto her bag in the audience. The director calls her over and Ash obliges, standing awkwardly next to Honey as they play with her hair, arguing about what to do with it. “Ah, not cute,” Ash amends quietly, and Honey turns to her, raises a single eyebrow, “you look quite, uh, handsome.” Honey just snorts out a laugh and looks straight ahead.

“What if we gave her a flower crown,” the costume designer tried, though the idea was quickly vetoed by the director. Put out, the costume designer dejectedly rifles through the racks of costumes and hands over what she’s calling the ‘masquerade outfits’, saying she’d get to Ash’s hair another time. 

“A costume party is a modern masquerade,” the director says blithely when Honey and Ash exchange skeptical looks, their respective costumes in hand. Ash’s has wings. Honey’s has horns. The director isn’t exactly subtle with her symbolism.

They’ve dressed Ash like an angel, and her heart is in her throat at the thought of what Honey would be wearing. Why is today of all days the moment Ash’s latent crush on her friend decides to manifest itself. Couldn’t it have waited until after the production? Ash walks into the theatre from the bathroom and she thinks she feels her heart skip a beat. 

Honey’s leaning against the proscenium arch, as if waiting for her, illuminated by the golden stage lights. She’s wearing a surprisingly well fitting red, velvet suit, a women’s cut that didn’t actually seem like it needed to be tailored all that much judging by the way it hugged her. The jacket was undone at the front, and instead of a shirt, all she was wearing beneath was a black bralet. There’s a pair of plastic horns sitting on her forehead, and an intricate red mask over her eyes. Ash is frozen in the doorframe, following Honey’s hands with her eyes as the woman lit a cigarette and slid the lighter back into her pocket. 

“Hey Space Cadet,” Honey’s grin is all teeth, sharp, like she knows exactly what Ash is thinking, or not thinking as the case may be, all thoughts having left Ash’s head the moment Honey had smiled at her, looking as good as she did.

“You guys look fantastic,” the director enthused. Ash blinked quickly beneath her own mask, looking away from Honey as she moved to hang up her other costume, before standing patiently as the director and the costume team looked between the two girls, deliberating, making notes.

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand,” Honey begins quietly, making her way to Ash with that snake-charmer smile of hers, reciting lines from the masquerade off the top of her head, “This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.” Before Ash can comprehend what’s happening, Honey’s got a hand on her cheek, thumb brushing her cheekbone. She’s so close, Ash can smell her perfume and the smoke from the cigarette in her other hand, can see the little gold flecks in Honey’s eyes where she’s looking at Ash like-

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tease me,” Ash rolled her eyes, tone quietly derisive, taking Honey’s hand and lowering it from her face gently, stepping away where the taller woman was getting too close for Ash’s comfort.

“I’m running lines,” Honey countered, but stepped back, giving the ginger her space, the easy playfulness disappearing quickly, her smile tight as she took another drag from her cigarette. “You were struggling last time we ran this one, weren’t you?” She asks, piqueing an eyebrow, but it was far more clinical than Ash was used to her being.

“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this;” Ash rattles off slowly, frowning slightly as she recalled the lines. When Honey recites her lines, they’re flat, and she stops dead mid-sentence when the director calls them to attention, turning away from Ash with an almost comically sharp turn. It’s as if the temperature of the room has dropped ten degrees, and the silk slip dress they’ve got Ash in for her masquerade does little to hide the goose bumps that lift along her arms. 

They’re the last two in for the fitting, since the director had wanted to spend the most time with them, and she suggests to everyone that they go get drinks after. Ash hesitates for a moment, looks to Honey who, like Ash herself, was back in plain clothes, but Honey doesn’t look at her, she’s fishing around her tote bag for her wallet, not even looking up at the offer. Ash agrees, and to her surprise, so does Honey.

Honey makes conversation with everyone but Ash at the bar, and Ash has it in her to be a little offended. Of course she’s also concerned, uncertain of what had made Honey’s mood turn so quickly, but when Honey physically leaves to get out of a conversation Ash had joined, it feels very pointed; it feels like an insult.

“What’s your problem?” It comes out very sharp, and Ash isn’t drunk enough to say that she didn’t mean it that way. She has to corner Honey by the bathroom. Honey looks her over for a moment, drunker than Ash is but doing a good job of acting like she’s not. She’s still got a little eyeshadow on her cheekbone and Ash has to fight against her impulse to reach out and rub it away.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” Honey says, voice flat, looking over her shoulder at where the others were seated, talking and enjoying the night amongst themselves. “I think I’m gonna take off.” She doesn’t leave room for arguments or confusion as she slips away from Ash as the ginger is still trying to process what she’d said.

Rehearsals are… strange after that. Honey’s reserved in her performance, not in a way that anyone’s able to accurately pinpoint, but she holds back from touching Ash, from getting to close, from giving her starry-eyed looks as she’d once done. They do full run-throughs and Honey kisses her quick when scripted, but the initial playfulness, the flirty edge to her lines, it had vanished. Ash, for her part, has her lines down, but her heart’s not in it. 

Speaking of her heart; despite how cold Honey had been, that traitorous crush of hers refused to disappear, in fact, it just grew stronger. Honey barely looked at her, barely touched her, and her heart grew heavier with each passing rehearsal.

“It feels like you’re just going through the motions,” the director scrubs her hand over her face during the cue-to-cue; it was the middle of tech week and everyone was already tired. Ash was sweating beneath the lights, sitting up on her balcony, legs dangling over the edge. Honey was leaning against the set piece just below her. 

“We are; this about the tech, not us,” Honey rolled her eyes, sliding down the structure to sit, arms crossed over her chest; she’d been smart, had worn shorts despite how cold it is outside, as if anticipating how warm the stage could get under lights.

“Honey, could I talk to you for a moment?” There’s a softness about the director’s words as she looks between her two leads; Ash has her head resting against the banister, expression teetering on the forlorn side of neutral, Honey had her left foot tucked beneath her right thigh, and was refusing to look at anywhere but a single scuff mark on the stage, “come on everyone, quick water in, water out, be back here in ten minutes to pick up from the start of act two, scene two - Honey?” She offered her hand, and the brunette took it, hauling herself to her feet and following the director from the theatre. 

While the rest of the cast and crew scattered like cockroaches when the lights get turned on, Ash stays where she is, idly swinging her legs. She doesn’t feel dehydrated, just a little disheartened, her fingers curling around the bars of the banister, while she sulked. The man playing Mercutio offered to get her waterbottle, but she gave him a small smile, waving him off. 

The moment Honey bursts back into the room, she’s radiating frustration like Ash has never seen before, making a beeline for her bag and coat in the audience.

“Ash, Honey’s going to grab some lunch and we’re going to have the stage manager fill in; could you go with her?” The director asked, voice painfully innocent, and suddenly Honey’s mood made sense.

“Yeah, I mean I guess,” Ash sighs, finally standing and making her way down from the balcony. She’s glad to be out from under the lights, but the way Honey’s making a face like she’d just bitten a lemon fills her with apprehension. After pulling on her coat, Ash carefully collects up her things, looking around for Honey herself before being told that she’d already left.

They sit, unmoving, in Honey’s car for almost a full two minutes. Silent.

“She wants us to talk about whatever’s bothering us, doesn’t she?” Ash asks carefully. Honey turns the keys in the ignition instead of answering, peeling out of the carpark and heading down the road.

“Nothing’s bothering me,” Honey’s voice was eerily level, though her expression said otherwise, “I’m just trying not to overstep my bounds, you know? Fuck, I’m trying to be respectful, what’s her problem?” There’s nothing Ash can say to break the silence; she can’t look away from Honey’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. As time passes, as they get closer to whatever destination Honey has in mind, the tension in her shoulders eases, her grip on the wheel loosens a little, and she reaches over, turns on the radio.

“You weren’t the reason I was uncomfortable,” Ash finally hears herself say, and it’s not exactly the truth, it is in the way that Honey takes it. She can’t outright say that she’d developed feelings for Honey, and that having her so close, she might clue into Ash having those feelings. “I like working with you Honey, I just have my own shit going on sometimes that’s got nothing to do with you.” Another lie.

Honey’s jaw tightens for a moment before she sighs, and pulls over into a parking spot.

“We’re here.”

They get take out together, and eat in Honey’s car, and the mood has shifted to something more familiar, more comfortable. Ash feels like she can breathe again.

“We’ve been doing this shit for months,” Ash half grins as they’re pulling back into the carpark behind the theatre, and Honey gives her a confused look, “if you’d made me uncomfortable, I would have definitely told you by now.”

By the time they get back, the cue-to-cue is up to Scene Four, and the discovery of Juliet’s body, and the woman playing Lady Capulet is wailing as Ash and Honey sneak in the back. Even at a glance the director can tell that whatever had been off between them had been fixed. 

The next day was a dress run, followed by a tech run, and Ash could feel her heart in her throat. From side of stage she watches Honey laugh and make merry with her fellow Montagues, leaning herself against Mercutio to wax poetic about Rosaline, that melodramatic playfulness having come back in full force, lifting the whole performance. 

And then there she is, making her way on stage dressed as an angel, with Lord Capulet, and Honey’s wearing that red devil ensemble that makes Ash’s mouth go dry, and the music starts. She tries to keep her mind on the steps of the dance while people spoke their lines around her, and it manages to catch her by surprise when she looks to Honey, and sees the woman gazing back at her with adoration in her eyes.

“She doth teach the candles to burn bright,” Honey sighs, and Ash feels herself turning pink, and she has to turn away, dancing along with the rest of the ensemble.

The music at the end of the dance ends and the ensemble begins to filter out, leaving Ash and Honey alone on stage. Ash laughing gently, waving goodbye to her dance partner as Tybalt and Lord Capulet finish their lines and leave the stage. Ash, walking backwards, runs into Honey, as is scripted, and when Honey catches her, she holds Ash gently by the shoulders.

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand,” she pauses for a moment, her hand sliding down Ash’s arms to hold her wrists gently, she looks to Ash’s eyes for silent permission, a confirmation that it’s okay, that she’s not uncomfortable as she’d been the last time they’d been this close, saying these lines. Ash, in turn, looks at Honey with awe, with wonder, eyes large and shining with intrigue. She nods almost imperceptibly. “This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.” Taking Ash’s hand in one of her own, she steps close, her thumb brushing Ash’s palm, gentle, flirty smile adorning her lips as her other hand comes up to cup Ash’s cheek.

“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,” she tells Honey in earnest, taking the hand from her face with her own free hand, leaning into her touch for a moment before removing the hand from her face, “which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,” Ash holds out their linked hands towards the audience, carefully and deliberately linking their fingers together, “and palm to palm,” voice gentle, but still projecting, she looks back to Honey, “is holy palmers' kiss.” 

“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?“ Honey asks, stepping back and pulling a cigarette from her pocket, as they added into the blocking the week before. Ash watches for a moment as the cigarette is lit, musing.

“Ay, pilgrim,” Ash agrees with a small smile, “lips that they must use in prayer.” She said pointedly as Honey gives her a sharp grin around the cigarette. But she doesn’t move back, and Honey steps up to her, her cigarette balanced between her fingers as her other hand cards through Ash’s hair.

“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;” and she’s stepping Ash backwards, which hadn’t been scripted, though the director doesn’t call for the scene to halt, “they pray, grant thou,” Ash’s back hits the proscenium arch, and her expression is so open, so confused and a little thrilled at this turn of events, “lest faith turn to despair.”

“Saints do not move,” Ash’s words tumble from her lips very pointedly, though she’s a little breathless, looking up at Honey, who’s smiling in a way that she knows isn’t an act, “though grant for prayers' sake.”

“Then move not,” Honey smirks, “while my prayer's effect I take.” And while Honey leans in, Ash bounces up on her toes to meet her, curling her arms around Honey’s neck and kissing her hard. There it is again, that spark, that something, and Ash’s heart is singing with triumph, even if it is meant to be just for the stage. When she pulls back, Ash’s mouth is stained with Honey’s red lipstick, and the woman in red is smirking. 

“Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.” Honey’s wearing a triumphant smile, and she leans away just a little to take a draft of her cigarette. 

“Then have my lips the sin that they have took.“ Ash is smiling, bright and adoring and playful when she takes Honey’s face in her hands, pulling the taller woman back to her.

“Sin from thy lips?” Honey asks with an amused chuckle, smoke tumbling out with her words, hanging golden in the air between them, “O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.” She seems more than happy to let herself be pulls back in to meet Ash for another kiss. 

When they’re on the same wavelength, something magical happens. There’s chemistry between them, the way they seem to anticipate the other without even seeming to realise it. They play off of each other so well, so comfortable with each other, and the director could chalk it up to the two of them knowing each other before the play, being close friends before the project, but that’s not how friends look at each other, on stage or off. 

Tech week leads into show week, and every show in the lead up to opening night is brimming with that same electric chemistry, and none of the crew in the audience can seem to look away. The director thanks them for working out whatever had been plaguing them both, the wording of which has both Ash and Honey rolling their eyes, though the director looks incredibly pleased with herself. 

“You wanna grab a drink?” Honey asks after the preview, for which they’d received glowing praise from the few people and one journalism student who was reviewing that they’d invited along. By now, the panic and nerves were starting to set in for Ash, and she’d agreed without hesitation.

Ash is on her third cider when Honey tells her that she’d invited Queen to opening night. Ash gives such a start, having been taking a sip of her drink, that ciders comes out her nose. Honey passes her napkins, but she’s also laughing; Ash seems much less pleased.

“Roger and Freds are never going to let me live this down,” she grumbled, and Honey’s smile widened.

“It’s not them you’ve gotta worry about, I’m the one with access to the production photos,” Honey reminds her, and Ash’s expression drops. “I’m probably gonna get them framed, maybe get one of you in that angel outfit printed out wallet sized for Freddie, you know he’d love that.” The worst part is that she’s right, he’d show it off at any opportunity, equal parts proud and wanting to embarrass Ash.

“How in the fuck am I attracted to you when you actively try to ruin my life?” Ash sighed forlornly, taking another big gulp of her drink. Her own words take a moment to register, but Honey is already talking.

“Have you seen my face and my ass? There’s your answer.” It’s so blithe, her tone incredibly matter-of-fact, and she finishes it off by taking a sip of her own beer. After a beat, Ash takes a deep breath, looking straight ahead.

“So did they say yes to the invite?” Ash asks, and Honey laughs, low and amused.

“‘course they did.”

And another silence fills the space between them, Ash’s heart hammering hard against her ribs as she considers her next words very carefully. Turning on her stool, she faces Honey, expression uncharacteristically serious.

“Is it- is it normal to develop, like, feelings for your costar in these sorts of things?” She asks tentatively, and Honey’s lips twist into a smile, and she turns carefully, regarding a sort-of drunk Ash with affection.

“I haven’t actually been in too many of these before,” she admits, “you know my forte’s singing-”

“Honey, I love you.”

For just a moment, Honey’s usually cool facade breaks with a moment of panic; she sits up straight, eyebrows raised, mouth pressed into a thin line. Ash’s stomach drops, and after a beat, she’s apologising, but Honey takes her hand.

“Love’s a very strong word, Ash, and you’re drunk.” She says it gently, and Ash, for the moment, is terrified that she’d completely misread the situation. She wants to protest that she’s not that drunk, but Honey’s thumb is brushing against the back of her hand comfortingly, still speaking, “we can have this conversation tomorrow.” It’s far more diplomatic than Ash had expected her to be, but she can’t help but frown.

“If you’re trying to let me down, I’d rather have this conversation now, so I can repress it in time for opening night.” 

That’s enough to get Honey to laugh, and she gives Ash’s hand a squeeze.

“Listen, babe, that’s absolutely not the conversation we’re having, as long as you still mean what you said tomorrow.” And she pauses for a moment before sliding from her bar stool and in between Ash’s legs, taking the ginger’s face in her hands and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Ash’s mouth. 

They get into two separate taxis outside of the bar, and Ash, who still isn’t that drunk, spends an hour on her bed staring at the ceiling, marvelling over the past few months and everything that had happened. The next day she’s a bundle of nerves, and jumps when there’s a knock at her door.

“Your RA let me in.”

It’s Honey, who’d arrived early enough to take Ash to get dinner before the show. Ash scrambles from where she’d been trying to read on her bed, getting to her feet and making her way to Honey, who’s leaning in her doorframe when she opens the door.

“I mean it. I still mean it, absolutely,” Ash greets her with. Honey’s smile is all teeth.

“Hello to you too,” she murmurs, leaning down to actually kiss Ash. Ash, surprised by this turn of events, is quick to kiss back, her hands finding Honey’s hips, pulling the taller woman closer and smiling against her lips.

“I don’t think I’m quite at love,” Honey begins, pulling back for a moment, and Ash’s eyebrows rise, the barest hint of amusement on her lips.

“Babe, I was drunk last night, and you’re right, love is a very strong word,” Ash is quick to assure her, and she sees the barest moment of relief pass over Honey, before she’s smiling again, her arms around Ash’s neck.

“But I-” she paused, actually hesitated a little, “but there’s definitely feelings, probably,” she’s gone a bit quiet, like part of her doesn’t want to be admitting even this much, and Ash’s smile grows wider, grows far more endeared.

“Probably?” 

“Probably.” Honey actually flushes, but she lets herself smile, lets herself get pulled in to another kiss. 

Ash is the one who steps back this time, grabbing her coat, keys, and wallet, taking Honey’s hand as she closed the door to her room. Honey’s the one that links their fingers together as they head down the stairs to the car. They get trash food together, eating greasy burgers in Honey’s car as they waiting in the carpark behind the theatre for their call time, having arrived far too early. 

Honey’s smoking, her hand on Ash’s thigh as the ginger reads their first review in the university newspaper that Honey had picked up earlier that day. They get four out of five stars and Ash is wide-eyed, closing the paper loudly and bewilderedly musing that she never expected this.

“Which part?” Honey asks with a half-smile, cigarette balanced between her lips where she tips her head to her shoulder to look at Ash. 

“Any of it,” Ash answers honestly, taking the cigarette from Honey’s lips and having a drag herself. Honey smiles, can’t help herself.

“Who knew you were a half decent actor,” she snickered, and Ash flushed, folding up the paper, musing on the statement as smoke sat in her lungs.

“Nah,” she finally breathed out, gaze a little glassy as she looked through the windshield, the cigarette loose in her fingers, “those four stars are all yours; singing’s your forte, yeah sure, but anything you do on stage is stellar.” As soon as the words leave her lips, Honey’s gentle hand is on her cheek, guiding Ash to face her, to kiss her, and Ash laughs gently before their lips meet. It’s sweet, tastes of smoke and something else that’s just naturally Honey; Honey’s kissed her like it’s meant something plenty of times on stage over the past week, but never like this, never so intimate, so gentle. This isn’t a performance. 

Ash is the one who moves, but she doesn’t break the kiss, instead she carefully maneuvers herself, climbs over the stick shift and into Honey’s lap. Honey hums appreciatively, takes back the cigarette and inhales as Ash peppers kisses down her neck and across her collar. When Ash leans back, just a little, she takes Honey’s face in her hands and her smile is blinding. She looks so fond, so proud, and though Honey’s answer smile is much fainter, Ash knows the woman well enough to recognise the affection in her eyes. She kisses her again.

The show is the best they’d done so far, their flirting banter coming as naturally as breathing, and when Honey kisses Ash against the proscenium arch, they hear someone in the audience whistle - Honey thinks it was Roger, but then concedes when Ash says that it was probably Freddie, which they later find out it was.

“I read the review this morning,” Brian tells Ash after the show; she’s out before Honey, who has to wipe the fake dirt from her face, and Queen are waiting for them by the stage door. Each of them wraps her up in a hug in turn, Freddie going so far as to tuck her under his arm once the others had had their turn; he was almost painfully proud. “You guys deserved the full five stars.”

“Well this show was better than the one we did for the preview,” Ash laughs a little, cheeks turning a little pink at the praise. She patted down her pockets, looking for her cigarettes.

“Shame that,” John mused, regarding her fondly, offering her a lighter when she found them, “you did a really stand out job, you know?”

“Who knew you had it in you,” Roger’s beaming, and he leans forward, pinching her cheek, and Ash swats at him, playing at being irritated. That’s about the time Honey emerges, and there’s yet another round of hugs and of praise, but once they’ve all stepped back, Honey slings a casual arm around Ash’s shoulders.

“We’re heading to celebratory drinks, you guys wanna come?” She asks the band, before turning to Ash, wondering aloud if the director or the rest of the cast would mind. Ash shrugged, told her ‘probably not’, before they have a quiet moment of celebration between themselves.

“One show down,” Honey mused, voice dropping low, speaking almost into Ash’s ear.

“We did it!” Ash agreed, passing her the cigarette, smiling as Honey pecked her lips before taking it.

“If either of you-” a voice interupts them, and there, sticking herself between Brian and John, is the director, pointing at Ash and Honey, “show up with a hickey tomorrow, you’re out of the play.” She warned, before heading towards the carpark.

“I know how to cover a hickey!” Honey calls to her, as Ash is apologising quickly, and the rest of the band is struggling to decide whether it’s funny or bewildering. “She’s kidding,” Honey rolls her eyes, “we don’t have understudies.”

“How did she even know we were- ?” Before Ash can get the full question out, she catches Freddie’s very pointed look where Honey’s arm was around her shoulder, and she realised just how close they were.

“Everyone who just watched the show can tell you two are together,” Brian tells her, and Ash flushes, pressing her face against Honey’s shoulder, who’s chuckling. Her grip on Ash tightens; she pulls her closer. After a moment, she’s asking if the guys want to come to drinks, and they’re all agreeing eagerly, always ready to take any chance to get drunk. 

Honey drives her car back to her apartment and leaves it there, since the walk from her place to the pub they were all meeting at was only fifteen minutes. She and Ash talk the whole way there, arm in arm, and a cheer rises when they step through the doors, most everyone else having arrived before them. 

Crammed into a booth with her cast and her friends, with Honey’s arm around her, her hand on Honey’s knee, it feels right. Performing is a strange and wonderful experience, and though she’s pretty sure she’s happier behind the scenes, she can’t deny the rush that is the stage. Or perhaps she just gets that rush from the way Honey smiles at her.

[voicesfromthelight]

My Dance Guru Pays Me A  Visit from Spirit

In connection with my post on astral party-crashers, I recently gave an example or two of how Spirit can use social media to let us know they are with us, or convey messages through synchronicity. Last night, I was blessed with a very special instance of this, and would like to share it with you to show how portentous these little nudges from Spirit can be, if we keep our feelers out and our eyes open.

To fully convey the emotional impact of this experience, I will need to frame this story with a little bit about my background.

For many years of my early life, starting around the age of five, I developed an inexplicably intense fascination with Indian and Hindu culture. This was accompanied by a feeling of longing so deep, I felt like I belonged there, and had been born in the wrong place - as if I had been there in a past life, and was still somewhat stuck in that previous identity.

One of the outlets I eventually found for this longing was through studying the classical Indian dance form, Bharata Natyam, starting at the age of eight. I was lucky enough to be instructed by a woman named Indrani Rahman - whom I knew simply as Indrani. The reverence I felt for Indrani cannot be overstated. She was my guru. Her mother, known as Ragini Devi, American by birth, had been one of the pioneers of classical Indian dance in the West, and had also helped to revive the art form in India itself during her lifetime. Years later, I was to learn that Indrani, in addition to being a highly respected dancer, had also been crowned Miss India in 1952, but my childhood self could hardly have been more in awe of her had she been the actual Hindu goddess whose name she bore.

The way in which I parted ways with Indrani left a profound mark on me. Throughout the year that I studied with her, in between dancing, Indrani would hint at the cultural stringencies inherent in the teacher-disciple relationship in classical Indian traditions. The comment that always stayed with me was this: “You know, Emily, in India, if you insult your guru, and they throw you out, you can come back crawling on your hands and knees, and they won’t have you back.” Little did I know what it foreshadowed.

After a year of studying with her in New York City, my mother and I were about to move to Finland. I had one last lesson left. Bharata Natyam is a dance form that incorporates pantomime into its storytelling, and I was in the process of learning a dance about a woman who asks a parrot to deliver a love letter to Kartikeya, son of Shiva and Parvati. At the end of the second-to-last lesson I was to have, my mother, Indrani, and I were on our way out of the dance studio we had been working in, in an elevator. I was anxious to learn the end of the dance we had been working on before leaving, and expressed to my mother how urgently I wanted to learn it. My mother responded something to the effect of “Don’t be too impatient,” and I, with my child’s impetuousness, retorted with something silly along the lines of “Why are you always criticizing me?!”. My mother and I laughed it off. Indrani said nothing.

The next evening, the phone rang. My mother was in the other room, and I picked it up. It was Indrani. In a calm, deliberate tone, she expressed to me how horrified she had been with how disrespectfully I had spoken to my mother the previous night, and unceremoniously announced that she was canceling the last lesson. I was blindsided, and utterly mortified. On my subsequent trips back to the US, Indrani refused to teach me, referring me, through my parents, to a younger teacher (whom I would also come to adore.) We didn’t speak again for almost ten years, and I would break down sobbing every time the subject came up, for years to come. We never spoke of her rejection of me. It was one of the most painful experiences of my childhood. 

The sting eventually dulled, and I drifted away from the world of classical Indian art, but never completely forgot my experiences with Indrani. In all the years I spent moving back and forth between Finland and the U.S, I never lost my first set of ankle bells, which she had brought me from a trip to India during the year I had studied with her. They remained with me, a relic of what felt like a past life in an almost literal sense.

Indrani passed away in 1999.

Dance remained an important part of my life, albeit one that felt like a passionate but unrequited love. I continued studying Bharata Natyam for a total of six years, but when my new teacher, Arundhati, moved back to India, I never found anyone to replace her. I loved ballet, but didn’t have the build of a ballet dancer. I fell into an obsession with Argentine tango at 16, and danced it on and off in an amateur capacity for decades, but always felt a bit like an outsider. I always had my finger in many different kinds of artistic pies, and eventually, it was music and film-making that won out as my main forms of professional, artistic expression.

That is, until last spring.

Last April, I took up Argentine tango again in a serious way, dancing for hours on end, nearly daily, within a matter of weeks of returning to it. Around this time, my usual work in the film industry had become somewhat harder to find than before, and my spirit guides went so far as to straight up ask me if I was sure I was in the right career. Wouldn’t a musical setting be better for me? Working through an emotional healing process after losing a fiancé, I found myself unmotivated to do much else than dance tango and give psychic readings. Things started getting tight, financially, and I eventually asked to be sent a new spirit guide to help me find the right job. The guide presented itself the next day, and my spiritual team informed me that they were cooking up something good.

In July, after a year-long wait, I had a chance to get a reading from one of the best psychic mediums I have ever had the pleasure of working with, Medium Fleur, from Los Angeles. As she looked into my energy field, she expressed concern about my finances, but said that she saw me being offered a job, working in an office environment, part-time, receiving a salary from a corporation, through people who had known me for a while. Having been a freelancer all my life, this seemed like a huge departure from anything I had done before. However, knowing the accuracy of her second sight, I trusted her.

Around mid-September, the following popped up in a channeling session with my spirit guides: “Your professional life is predicted to grow very busy. Everyone will benefit better from your work when you have the energy to give back to the things you love. Don’t grow poor! Desire a job. Give a grand reception in which you teach messages of inspiration to your community." A couple of weeks later, a new friend of mine from the tango community - a professional ballroom dancer and Argentine tango champion - asked me to event-manage a pair of big fundraising galas he was putting together for his non-profit organization, which teaches ballroom dancing to underserved school children around the country. Applying my film-producing skills to the events, I managed to pull off the feat with a week to spare, and the evening was deemed a great success. Seeing the children perform at the galas, and the respect with which they treated each other, inspired by the dance, I was moved to tears of happiness.

A couple of days after the galas, I was rummaging through a bag of items my father had passed on to me during a move to his new apartment. There, I found a small bronze statue I hadn’t looked at for years: A figure of Shiva Nataraja - the Hindu god, Shiva, in his creative form, as Lord of The Dance. We had acquired this statue around the time I had been studying with Indrani, and the very first dance I had learned with her had been “Natanam Adinar” - a dance that brought the image engraved in that statue to life. As much as my spiritual proclivities had changed since that time in my childhood, placing the statue of Shiva Nataraja, Lord of The Dance, near a window, next to my houseplants, felt reassuring, like a small piece of my soul had been reclaimed.

Yesterday, the organization for which I had event-managed the fundraising galas officially hired me on an on-going, part-time basis, to work for them in an administrative capacity. I was thrilled to be offered a job working with friends to further a mission that brought healing to so many young people through the joy of dance. I was also thrilled that both Fleur’s and my guides’ predictions were coming true.

My new boss and I celebrated by dancing a few tangos at an event put on by another friend. I arrived home late at night, tired but content. As I was walking up the stairs to my apartment, my phone suddenly flashed. I looked down, and saw that it was exactly 1:11AM.  I’ve found myself intuitively checking the time at repetitive “angel number” times quite a bit, of late, but this particular one felt more significant than usual. I sent a mental “Hello and thank you!” to my guides.

My feet ached badly from dancing, and I decided I needed to put on a pair of silicone toe-spreaders for the night. I had lost them a week earlier, and had to push myself to muster up the energy to look for them.

Rummaging through a desk drawer in my tiny work room, my eyes were suddenly drawn to something familiar. A lone ankle bell. My gift from Indrani. I had never really noticed it there before, but I felt a strange emotional pull to it. In that moment, I had a fleeting thought: “It still hurts a little bit to think about Indrani, but see, she loved me enough to give me those ankle bells, when I was just a little girl, as a symbol of passing on her tradition, and her dance, to me. Their significance is profound.” I closed the drawer.

A few minutes later, having mercifully located my toe-spreaders on  a night-stand, I climbed into bed, and out of habit, checked Facebook one last time.

And all at once, there it was: Indrani’s beautiful face, smiling at me.

About 40 minutes earlier, Indrani’s son, Ram, whom I have never met in my life, and am not linked up with on social media, had posted a photo of his mother as a young woman, clothed in a white sari, standing next to the illustrious sitar player, Ravi Shankar.  For reasons that were not readily apparent, he had tagged Arundhati, my other teacher, in the photo, which was why I could see it.

I truly feel that Indrani was looking down on me at that moment, letting me know that for all the pain I associated with our parting, she was proud of me for contributing to the world through dance in a positive way. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had lent my guides a hand in putting me on my current path! I also feel that in the afterlife, perhaps in her life review, she may have realized how deep an effect the harshness of her disposition had had on me, and this was her way of showing up for me one more time, as my dance guru again, in a kind of reconciliation. I feel an immense sense of healing from this moment.

Have your departed loved ones ever shown up for you at important moments, communicating through synchronicities? How did it happen? How did you feel? Let me know!

[gramon-my-otp]

To The End, With You - chapter twelve

Previous Chapter |  Next Chapter

Chapter Synopsis: Russell and Gareth participate in the entrance ritual of the secret gay brotherhood of Britpoplar. The Gallagher brothers prank Damon and Graham in an awful way - which escalated to a surprising revelation between the two friends!

Alternative Universe fanfiction placed in the 1600s. 

Words: 2040

Disclaimers:  I understand that Blur, Pulp, Oasis, Suede, Elastica and other bands members belong to their own and have their own personality and personal lives. I am aware this is nothing but a work of fiction and the way the characters are represented are fruit of my imagination and do not correspond to their real thoughts and way of life. Fanfiction should not be taken seriously.

(After more than three years, I came back to finish what I have started. Thanks for the giving me motivation @skygramon​ I can’t do this without you)

Two cloaked individuals sprinted around the borough of Britpoplar at night. They were aware that there were eyes in places they would never imagine. The location chosen for a secret meeting was unfamiliar to them, but the path that led to it was infamous for the grieving memory it sparkled. It was where Simon Gilbert last walked alive - and they were there, the two cloaked men, holding hands. They stopped by the butcher shop, as it was instructed to them. A straight gated iron door opened before them, almost invisible in the corner of the slaughter house. Only then the blokes noticed a flickering light in a window above. A hidden room above the shop. The negotiators had already been waiting. The men entered and the iron gate shut closed. Damon Albarn received the visitors with a knife in hand, pointing at them.

“Identify yourselves”

They removed their own covers completely, revealing to be Damon’s fellow Russell Senior and his young lover, Gareth Coombes. Damon put his blade back and greeted them accordingly. The setting was unsettlingly silent. The glow of candles reflected upon the stairs behind them.

“Up we go”, asked Damon, gesturing with his arms and hands. 

The blonde followed the couple climbing the stairs, heading to the bedroom. Another iron gate, and also a door. Anxiety built up in the two lovers hearts. They held their hands tighter, and carried on. On the edge of the bed sat Morrissey and Alex James. He wasn’t happy to be there, but as a member of the society he had to fulfil tasks when required of him. Russell wasn’t expecting to see neither of them there. He would never guess the so much respected librarian was homosexual, and he never cared for a poor lowlife profile such as Alex. He was speechless already. Gaz took a deep breath and gathered the courage to make his question:

“Are those the ones assigned to each one of us?”

“Yes”, answered Damon, behind them. “It was easy finding someone slim, tall, and young as you are for Russell. Believe me, it’s easier to get it done when the person resembles someone you like”.

“So, I have to lie down with fellow Alex, while he has to lie down with Morrissey”, Russell was repeating the obvious. He knew Damon wouldn’t volunteer because they were kind of close. Still, the thought of that passage rite was absurd, but necessary.

“Are you going to stay here and watch us?” - asked Alex, annoyed. “Aren’t we going to have a little privacy?”

“Mr. James… Somebody has to watch the surroundings. Damon had the idea that we leave as a group afterwards, pretending we’re drunk”, Morrissey explained. “I’m sorry this room doesn’t fit your needs, but it’s the only we could find in a hurry. Now, shut your mouth and do what you are supposed to!”

Gaz and Alex were tops, while Russell and Morrissey were bottoms. It was difficult for the couple having to have sex in those conditions, only to be accepted, protected by the community. Proof was necessary, and now they had it. The plan for them to leave in safety proceeded well. They were mistaken by drunkards lost in Britpoplar streets. 

~

The sound of boiling metal and hammers crashing against steel filled the emptiness of the air under the hot midday sun. The Gallagher brothers had been reforming armor pieces for the soldiers for the last few days. Not that they cared for the army. In fact, they didn’t, but gold was gold. The payment was good and they needed it. They constantly thought about what Jarvis Cocker and Brett Anderson said to them. Honestly, they thought they were crazy and being paid for following people was something way over the line. They rarely did the patrols they were supposed to, and never saw anything that called their attention. That day, though, was their lucky day. 

“Fuck, I’m bored!”, voiced Liam, dropping his working material. “Tired of doing this and bored!”.

“If you leave the hard work to me again, I will take your gold for meself”, warned Noel.

“You just try it!”, Liam raised his fist toward his brother.

When they were about to throw punches at each other, they noticed movement behind them. They see Damon walking past by with Graham, chatting joyfully. In the midst of the awkward silence between the Gallagher brothers, the two peasants ignored them. In fact, they didn’t even witness the foolish discussion. They were so focused and entertained with each other. 

“Let’s fool with them just like we did with that Justin Welch moron last week” - suggested Liam, with pure mischief in his eyes. 

“Do we really have to?” - Noel questioned, uninterested.

“Are you crazy?! Stop being a slackass and let’s go!”- Liam tried to encourage him.

“Alright, alright. They are full of shit anyway…” - Noel got moving then, and Liam went along.

Graham was actually having one of the most exciting afternoons of his life. Listening to Damon nonstop, telling stories of the town and sharing his adventurous experiences. He would either blabber about managing the gay community or how much he liked Justine. Graham couldn’t avoid thinking how big of a hypocrite and selfish Damon was at that matter. What the hell did he want in life? The answer was simple, Albarn wanted the whole world, he wanted everything. However, no man was able to play God, nor he was allowed to be larger than life just for the sake of good fun and self indulgence. Damon’s sins were numerous, as he was endangering both himself and all the people he cared about. Sooner or later, Graham would suffer from some kind of backfire. The blonde one had been spending the whole day with his friend, saying lots of things, but not what he really wanted to say. Coxon was fine whether Damon knew he was attracted to him or not. It was too dangerous to risk it all for an affair. He was more than happy with his friendship.

“Oi, mates! What a pleasure to see ya in this part o’ town!” - Liam came in grinning wide.

Graham froze from his arse up. He was aware of the Gallagher’s reputation. 

“What’s wrong, newcomer? Shat your trousers?!?” - Noel already got a grip of the brunette’s shoulder. 

If Damon decided to fight them he would surely lose. Graham was nothing but a scaredy cat - there was no way he was going to help out in combat. As Liam sunk his knee deep in Damon’s stomach, Noel punched Graham in the mouth. 

“Damon, no!” - uttered Graham.

“I’m okay, Graham. He’s too weak for me…” - Damon could barely talk, and still he mocked the one who bullied him.

The two victims were dragged by their enemies to Britpoplar’s cemetery. It had both fancy tombs for the rich families and some areas to drop poor abandoned chaps. Last time Damon was there he stole Simon Gilbert’s body away, to bury him at his homeplace. 

“Right! Let’s play a game!” - Liam held Damon by his hair, almost pulling it from his scalp. They kept climbing the hill on the cemetery until they found the tiniest stone mausoleum. It must have been built for a child, but the funeral never happened. The monument was there for a really long time, and the Gallaghers often took other young men there just to terrorize them, locking them up in the tomb for several hours. They were about to do it with Damon and Graham.

“Liam, I don’t know if they will both fit in! We never tried putting two at once!” - Noel was laughing at his younger brother’s psychotic necessities. He probably participated only for gags.

“Shaddap and help me” 

The only way Damon and Graham could coexist in that horrid conditions were positioned against each other, face to face, squeezed in the vault between the stone walls. 

“Let’s see how long it will take for them to figure how to get out” - the two friends in trouble overheard the sentence, as the voices from Noel and Liam disappeared with the distance. 

It was so tight in there that their rib cages didn’t have enough space to breath. Their legs were nearly intertwined with one another. Graham’s crotch was against Damon’s thigh, as well as the same for the other way round. The whole situation was disturbingly inconvenient, and yet it could get a lot worse.

“Graham, are you okay?” - Asked Damon after noticing his friend’s face twitch. - “Can you breathe?”

Coxon could only nod positively, while a drop of sweat ran down on his forehead. Damon struggled to move his hands and looked all around the stone enclosure.

“That’s what Justin Welch meant with being abused by the Gallaghers! What a bunch of useless cunts! If he got out, we can too!”

Not that Graham was relieved with the idea of being free from that nonsense, but while Damon was slowly searching for a lump, a button, or a handle of any sort in the walls, it was hard not move accidentally against his mate, rubbing himself against Coxon’s body.

“Damon, I am sorry, I am so sorry, I can’t!”

“What are you…? Oh, my… Graham, you…”

That was it. Graham Coxon got a boner, and his stiffness was screaming inside his trousers, trapped between Damon’s thigh and below his own navel. Damon first reaction was to be in shock. Never in his mind he could imagine this chap longing for him, even though Morrissey had suggested so a few days prior. Graham was truly mortified. He refused to open his eyes and wished he was dead only not to hear what Damon had to say. Instead of what was expected, Damon suddenly burst into laughter. Graham discreetly peeked at his giggling face. 

“That’s right! Laugh at me! I deserve to be humiliated!” - Coxon cried dramatically. 

“Shut your mouth, Gra.” - Damon silenced Graham himself, surprising him with a warm, magisterial, and hopeless kiss. He forced his tongue inside the man’s mouth, relishing on his sweet taste and extreme insecurity. 

Graham, at first, got so scared with Damon’s sudden move, that he fought it, refusing to believe that his life had come that - but as soon as Damon’s large tongue made way, his whole body simply swooned. He wanted more, and he didn’t want it to stop - but Damon had a million thoughts in his head. He started it, and he ceased it too.

“We shouldn’t, Graham, you’re my friend.”

“I… I think I am in love with you.” 

When they thought they were never gonna leave that wretched tomb, Damon unexpectedly hit his elbow on a piece of the wall and dislocated, making it possible for them to push the stones apart and escape the trap. They literally fell on top of each other when they made it out.

“You don’t want to get involved in this, Graham.” - Damon was referring to joining the gay brotherhood. “I can't let you risk your life over me.”

“But - I am not confused anymore! I know now, I want this, and I want you!” - Graham embraced Albarn, still on the ground.

The blonde one held Coxon’s chin, as if he was about to kiss him again, but then let go. He got up and assisted his confidant afterwards. 

“Try to imagine yourself with a maiden or something and get rid of this hard-on you’ve got, We’re going back to the university.”

Eventually, Graham’s erection faded away, but not because he imagined a naked woman - being rejected by Damon in that way had hurt him. He felt as if his feelings had been played with, like a dart game. Damon had hit bullseye, and his heart was now bleeding.  Neither him or Albarn could sleep that night. Coxon was just too sad, regretting that he opened his heart to his friend in a moment of fragility. Damon, on the other hand, kept awake because of his guilt. He didn’t want to mess with Graham’s feelings at all. He was still resenting Simon’s death, and believed he couldn’t keep his brothers at the secret community safe. He loved Graham too, still, he wasn’t ready to put his life on the line for the sake of their feelings. 

[ilcaeryx]

Tenacity: Chapter 5 - Derive [Midoriya Izuku/Reader]

SUMMARY: Past and future, Izuku has always been surrounded by good people.

TAGS: Reader-insert Collection, Fluff, Meeting the Parents, Weddings

Link to Chapter 5 of Tenacity on AO3

or continue reading below.

Chapter 5: Derive

Midoriya Inko should be used to frequent surprises by now; her son was somehow the focal point for the eye of the storm, a cyclone with a build-up of over a decade and the efforts and tears of dozens, if not hundreds, of humans. You weren't an eye-witness to it, though you could perceive the nurture and devotion his friends and family had permeated his soul with. Frankly, it sometimes felt you had accidentally sweeped into his life only to reap the benefits of a healthy, stable Izuku without contributing to his well-being. Inside your heart, you could only wish you'd offer a quarter of support everyone else had.

You didn't dare antipating or assuming you would - the competition for most time and energy invested in Midoriya Izuku was insane, with the odds stacked heavily against you. That line-up was frankly intimidating.

Imagine devoting yourself to someone like that, you mused and swiped the photo of a younger Izuku and Mrs Midoriya with a nail, trailing an invisible bond between them. It was obvious that Izuku had been a momma's boy back then, standing closer to his mother in the picture than most teenage boys would've wanted while smiling brightly. Adorable. This photo must have been taken during high school, judging by uniform.

You compared young Izuku with adult Izuku, holding the frame an arms-width away towards the real deal. Said real deal was sitting on his mother's couch, legs apart and his elbows propped up on them. He was ruminating, as he often did, with his hands covering his mouth. Much like his older counterpart, young Izuku seemed somewhat burdened with something. There was this slight slouch in his shoulders, a hesitant inclination of centimeters that made you go 'hmmm'. Following the contour of his shoulders, down his arms you saw that his clasped hands already had the web-like net of scars back then.

Today, those scars had faded but it alarmed you how out of place they seemed in this pretty family picture. Izuku always told you that his body was a monument to his tenacity whenever your touch lingered too long over his scars. However, you could easily tell that those weren't his words. No, those words were hand-me-downs from someone else.

With care, you put down the frame next to the growing collection and joined your boyfriend on the couch.

You couldn't help but compare again. His digits and arms were marred, even if it wasn't as bad as in the photo. He didn't seem to mind, as he wore a short sleeved shirt today, and his hands were preoccupied switching between preening his hair and nervously rubbing together.

"Izuku, you're looking distraught," you said and took one of his hands in your own, a film of sweat coating his palms. You squeezed slightly, bringing him out of his thoughts. "I can leave if you want to. You don't have to introduce me to your mom right now. We haven't been together for that long, anyway…"

"What? No!" He visibly shrunk away and shook his head furiously. "I'm just nervous, is all! It's just that she won't be expecting you here. I didn't tell her about you- I mean I did tell her about you but not that you'd stay for dinner. She'll be home any minute now and she'll see you sitting here…"

The sound of someone scribbing with the lock echoed through the apartment, both of you scrambling towards each other. You weren't easy to emotionally influence, but Izuku's shaky nerves were starting to infect you.

"It's do or die now," you stated, clenching your teeth into a beaming smile, determined to make this as least awkward as possible.

"Mom! We're in the living room!" Izuku turned towards you and gave your knuckles a brief kiss. "I wouldn't have brought you here unless I could handle it. I love you and my mom will, too."

Whatever the reason may be, you knew he'd have your back.

He stood up and pulled you up, gingerly. The two of you lingered in each others' warmth, hands to hands and chest to chest. You braced yourself figuratively as Izuku braced his arm around your back, resting his hand on your elbow.

Inko Midoriya took off her ballet pumps and ordered all the pairs by the entrance into a neat file. Her simple ones, her son's boots (that were almost falling apart, goodness!) and a pair clearly targeted towards younger women. Those weren't her's.

Her son told her that they were in the living room.

We're in the living room?

A few months had passed since Izuku had brought home a friend and although it made her preen her skirt and tunic with great intensity it made her happy. Inko remembered that last time had been last winter, when the sweet girl that is Ochako had joined them for dinner. They had had a wonderful time and Inko had been delighted that Izuku had stayed friends with her, even long after they had graduated from UA. Inko couldn't prevent him from diving head-strong into danger, but a few good friends by his side would make him think twice.

"We are?" Inko quoted and stepped out of the dark hallway into her living room, where her son and a young woman she did not recognize were waiting. For a second, she was taken aback: her son's gentle disposition was evident whenever he interacted with anyone and anything, yet the way he very deliberately held her against his chest made her almost cover her mouth in surprise, before restraining herself. If she managed to make Izuku's girlfriend (?) break into hives because Inko couldn't control her reactions she would feel downright terrible about it!

It was fortunate both of them were tall though, because she couldn't cry when she was looking up.

The young woman introduced herself politely and bowed very curtly, her hair falling around her in neat strands. Beside her, Izuku rested his hand on the back of her spine.

"Mom," Izuku refocused her attention from his hand to his face, "Y/N is the girl I told you about a few days ago. Actually," his eyed shifted, "she's my girlfriend."

I see…

"I'm Midoriya Inko," she said, her bow unusually fluid and lithe. "Very pleased to meet you, Y/N."

Years later, the memories of Izuku introducing you to his mother still made you laugh hard. Such fuss and worry over something that naturally developed into an unusually strong bond between a mother and her daughter-in-law. Indeed, after your own parents passed, Inko didn't hesitate to nourish you under her wing until you had accepted reality for what it was. While the realization wasn't easier per se, her unyielding support and Izuku's patience called you back from the deep abyss into the light again.

Really, it was silly to think that you and Inko wouldn't have ended up close, much less gotten along.

"I'm surprised you didn't end up crying," you said, popping a praline into your mouth. You had eaten about two hours ago, yet you still felt starved so you had to eat whatever left over chocolate you could find in your suite. As such, you didn't stop at one praline.

"I wasn't about to mortify you," Inko said, straightening creases out of the train, allowing it to gently cascade down onto the floor. "Although I was close to. I remember thinking that you would never return if that was the first impression you got of me."

"A few tears wouldn't have kept me away from Izuku. I would probably have been more self-conscious and confused, had you cried. It would've be very strange for you to act rude when Izuku had been praising you ever since I got to know him."

Inko stood up and put her hands together, a surprised expression on her face.

"He has?"

"He still brings it up quite often, but don't tell him I said that." Your legs were itching beneath the thick layers of the wedding dress. There was some relief from grazing the fabric against your skin, but you hoped that it would pass soon. The time had almost come for you to leave. It couldn't come fast enough, though you also felt like it couldn't go slow enough for you to feel ready. "I think you've done so much for him, Inko, that he'll never forget it. Izuku's just that type of person."

You nodded at your own conclusion, satisfied.

"Izuku's a genuinely good person," Inko said, looking up to the mirror at your reflection. "He's surrounded with so many people that love him, it would be hard for him to go astray. As a mother, this is the best gift I could receive. I know that whatever happens, he'll do the right thing. It may sound presumptious, but I think that him marrying you is the right thing to do, too."

Woah. That last comment made you raise your eyebrows. Not too much though, lest you wanted to disrupt your hair or make-up.

"You really think so?" you asked, warm all over.

Mama Midoriya smiled and hummed. "I do. I thought Izuku couldn't possibly be happier, having met his heroes and entered his dream career, and then you came along. You're sharp and rigorous and I think he learns a terrible lot from you. He's always had people who've prompted him to excel but not everyone can keep up with him. I think you're doing a great job at that. That said, I think we should head down. We shouldn't leave them waiting!"

Mother and wife-to-be, past and future, gave Midoriya Izuku another reason to fight.

If you liked this, consider throwing me a like/reblog/follow!

My Masterlist can be found here.

[j-writes-and-suffers]

NaNoWriMo Day Six

Anxious for his upcoming performance, Philip had struggled to get to sleep. Nonetheless, he got up with an unusually early alarm, remembering his promise to Lucien about being on time. He downed two full cups of coffee to fight the lingering drowsiness before grabbing his bag and heading off towards campus.

By the time he reached the academic hall, Philip was bouncing off the walls. Maybe he hadn’t needed quite so much caffeine. The extra energy was sending his anxiety through the roof, and he found himself pacing nervously to kill time before the poetry slam started. Staring intently at the ground as he walked, he was too caught up in his own nerves to notice Lucien walking up behind him. The older man put a hand on Philip’s shoulder, causing the young blond to shriek in surprise.

“Fuck! How do you sneak up on people like that?”

Lucien shrugged. “Libraries are quiet. It wouldn’t suit me to be a lumbering oaf. What’s gotten you so worked up?”

Philip sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just nervous to perform. I haven’t actually been in a poetry slam since high school…”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re very animated, I bet your delivery will be excellent.” The lanky brunette rested a hand on Philip’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Besides, I’ll still make you dinner if you bomb.”

“So you think I might bomb?” The younger man asked, wringing his hands together.

Lucien rolled his eyes. “No, that’s not what I said. Stop being so pessimistic.”

Philip groaned. “I’m not trying to! I’m just scared.”

“Most of the people performing are over-dramatic undergrad hipsters that can’t actually write to save their life. I promise, you won’t be nearly the worst act.” Lucien reassured him. “Come on, everyone is gathering.” He led Philip into the lecture hall nudging him towards the front where the other performers were waiting.

The anxious blond fiddled with one of his earrings, bouncing where he stood. Dr. Samuels, the head of the English department, was currently greeting the audience, going off on some long-winded rant about the importance of poetry. When he finally shut up, he stepped aside, calling forth the first student.

About five or six people went ahead of Philip, and he started to relax as he realized most of them were pretty shit. After an absolutely awful love poem finished, he was called up, and he felt his nerves fading a little. He spied Lucien as he scanned the crowd, and shared a brief smile with the older man.

“Hello, everyone. I… I’m Philp Valentine, the new English professor. Here’s a piece I wrote a few years back. It’s… It’s called Late Nights.” He cleared his throat, taking a slow, deep breath before he began.

“There's a monster in my house. He roams the house at night. He screams, he hunts, he breaks things; The house is filled with fright.

No one steps outside their room after the midnight hour. A vicious, violent demon, the monster has the power.

One night, I kept a vigil to face the awful beast. The hour didn't phase me-- I like the dark, to say the least.

I didn't notice anything; I waited till the dawn. The monster always comes at night. Did I do something wrong?

As I went to lie down, I walked by the bedroom mirror. Thinking I saw something odd, I paused to see it clearer.

Menacing and soulless, the piercing eyes glared. Too mortified to look away, I analyzed and stared.

I saw hatred in the face, the scowl angry and bitter. Something seemed to click, so I looked a little deeper.

Somewhere beneath the malice the soul was worn and lonely. A silent plea for what once was: ‘Can't someone find the old me?’

I sank into an epiphany as I rubbed my tired eyes: the demon faced me in the mirror; the monster was inside.”

The audience was silent for a moment. Once the awe faded, a round of applause filled the room. Though Philip was no Robert Frost, it was easily the best piece at the show, and most of the students looked pretty damn impressed. He beamed to the crowd, grinning as he walked offstage. Lucien, however, didn’t seem as happy. His eyes had grown dark a few lines into the poem, and his expression was still dour in its aftermath. As Philip moved to sit down, he saw Lucien’s distaste, and his face quickly fell.

“You didn’t like it…” He sighed, sinking down in the seat Lucien had saved for him.

The older man snapped out of his morose state, turning to Philip and shaking his head. “No, no, it’s not that. It just got me thinking. You’re a good writer. Certainly better than any of the clowns before you.”

“Oh…” Philip perked back up, “It made you think? For real?”

“Of course. It was inspiring. You painted a vivid picture.” Lucien offered a smile.

The younger man blushed, the pink tone highlighting his freckles like a backlight. “Thank you! That means a lot, you know… You’re kind of an expert on literature.”

Lucien laughed, “You hold me too highly.”

“I respect your opinion, you old fart! Don’t brush off my compliment.” Philip stuck his tongue out.

“There you go calling me old again! For god’s sake, I’m maybe ten years your senior!”

“My senior citizen.”

Lucien huffed, rolling his eyes and giving Philip a playful shove. “You’re horrible.”

“Yeah,” The younger man grinned, “but you like me anyway.”

“I know.” Lucien chuckled, shaking his head and turning to listen to more mediocre poetry.

The rest of the slam went well, considering the quality of the poetry being read. Everyone seemed proud of their stuff, even the ones that definitely shouldn’t have been, and afterwards, the head of the English department passed out punch and cookies. The kids got to chattering, some asking questions of the teachers as well. Philip made friendly small talk, basking in the praise the students gave him for his poem. Once the kids were bored of him, he got distracted eating, too busy sucking down cookies to notice Lucien slip away. He turned to make a rude joke, only to realize he was alone. Feeling a little rejected, Philip moved to the corner, shoving another cookie in his mouth.

As the students dissipated from the lecture hall, Philip got up, dragging his feet as he reluctantly helped his fellow English professors clean up. He greabbed a trash can, gathering all the stray cups and napkins that assholes had just left on desks. Once the room was actually clean and presentable again, he walked out of the building, headed towards his apartments rather than the library. He assumed Lucien had finally gotten bored of him, and certainly wouldn’t want to see more of him. He trudged along so slowly that his hour-long walk home took a good chunk of the afternoon, and upon returning to his apartment, he simply dropped onto the couch, turning on some mindless Netflix series to distract himself.

Philip ended up passing out on the couch, sleeping through the night and well into the morning. When he finally woke up, sunlight was already pouring in the windows, and he grabbed his phone to check the time. Getting only the black screen of dead battery, he cussed and hurried to his room, plugging it in and looking at the alarm clock.

1:47. 

“Fuck!”

Throwing on a clean shirt and grabbing his bag off the floor, Philip bolted out of his apartment and down the stairs. He had been due at the dodgeball game over an hour ago, and it would take him another hour just to get to the school. He was going to be in so much trouble. Lucien’s warning about tardiness echoed in the back of his mind, and Philip cringed, still feeling shunned after yesterday. By the time he got to campus, the game was long over, the teachers having beat the students 5 - 3. He waved sheepishly at Dr. Samuels, trying to avoid eye contact.

“Heyyyyy….”

“Where were you?” The professor demanded, glaring down at Philip.

The younger man shied away, sheepishly mumbling, “I… I overslept.”

The tubby older man huffed angrily, rolling his eyes. “Don’t let it happen again, Valentine. You’re not making a good first impression.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.” Philip cringed, feeling his soul wither. “Can I do anything to help now?”

“Just go to the parade tomorrow, help clean up after the picnic, and don’t make any more of a fool of yourself. Do you think you can handle that?”

Philip nodded. “Yes sir.” He shuffled away before Samuels could dig into him any more; his self-esteem was frail enough already.

Not having any other obligations for the day, Philip simply dragged his sorry ass back home. He checked on his phone, which had barely charged while he was gone. Ugh. His charger was a fraying piece of shit, but he hadn’t had the time or money to get a new one. Oh, well. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere with it right now, anyway. He curled up on the couch, trying to ignore the growing storm of negative thoughts in his mind. He was such an idiot. Not only had he scared off Lucien, but now his boss was pissed at him, too. God, this week was a mess.

Philip was half asleep on the couch when his laptop started beeping. Who was skyping him? It’s not like he had friends that cared enough. He rubbed his eyes, opening up the computer to answer the call.

“Mom?”

“Hi, honey! How are you?”

Philip yawned, brows furrowing in confusion. “Since when do you know how to use skype?”

“Your brother taught me!” She smiled, “I wanted to see you. So does Callie. Come here, Callie!”

A loud bark echoed through the speakers as a long, furry face popped into view. Philip grinned broadly. Callie was a loving Afghan that had been his best friend since late high school, and he had been missing her tremendously. “Hi, Callie! How are you? Are you being good for mom?”

“Woof!” She replied, clearly just as excited to see him.

“I’m gonna come home and visit you as soon as I can, okay?” Callie barked again, bumping her nose against the screen. Philip laughed quietly, his spirits lifted. “I’m glad you called, mom. I’ve been missing you guys. Is something up? Did you need to talk?”

“No, I just thought I should check in on you. Something told me you could use a smile today.”

“You’re not wrong.” Philip smiled ruefully. “It’s been a hell of a day. I overslept and missed the dodgeball game. Dr. Samuels was piiiiissed.”

“Philip!” She rolled her eyes. “You promised me you were going to be better about your alarms this year.”

The young blond pouted. “I have been, I swear! Yesterday was just a bad day, and it threw me off.”

“Is there something you need to talk about, honey?”

Philip shook his head. “Nah, it’s… it’s fine. It’s nothing important. I’ll get over it soon.”

“Are you sure?” His mother sounded worried, “I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“I know, I know. I promise, I’ll talk to you if it’s serious. This is just dumb drama.” He reassured her.

“Okay, honey. As long as you’re doing okay.” She paused briefly to sniff the air, recognizing the aroma of slightly burning seasonings. “Oh dear, I need to go check on the chicken. I’ll talk to you later.”

Philip chuckled. His mom was just as scatterbrained as he was, with the tendency to forget about something the second he looked away from it. “Bye, mom.”

“Bye honey!” She hung up, running off to pull her chicken out of the oven.

Stretching back out on the couch, Philip closed his eyes. He was more relaxed than before; just seeing his family and talking to someone that actually cared had taken a huge weight off his chest. Besides, it was hard to be upset with Callie around. A faint smile still on his face, he drifted back off to sleep.

[akaanonymouth]

@briliantlybittr

It just poured out of me. This is how I write most of my fics, and develop most of my deep headcanons; slightly drunk with no filter, and just write 😂 Having said that, I was going to add to my post that maybe my thoughts are influenced by meeting Catherine and Jemma irl. Met Catherine after Bath; I hung back, there were a few fanatics surrounding her doing selfies and voicemails and what-not, and I wasn’t entirely sure I could pluck up the courage to speak to her; I was there on my own. It was the last night and she was evidently wanting to get away with her family, but as she was walking past me, she saw my notebook open and was like “do you want…[eyebrow raise]” I’ll never stop being ashamed of this till the day I die: I didn’t tell her I really admired her; I didn’t tell her I thought her performance was awesome; I was so aware that she was trying to go with her family that I just went “Just….just two minutes of your time…” and launched into a schpiel about my art and how I wanted her to contribute. She did, fair play, but when I decided to drive to London for the Berena con (I’m sure it was a ComicCon really, but I wouldn’t know) I honestly knew I couldn’t look Catherine in the chops, even though she 100% wouldn’t have remembered me. So I went to Jemma, bc I wanted her to contribute to the same art project that Catherine had, and she was so, so sweet (@marshfritillary can attest!) and it was beautiful, and then I had a photo with them both, and I just about held it together, but when I first walked up to the photo opp, I addressed th both with a quip, and Jemma started replying, but the photographer cut her off with a “smile!” and when I walked away, I could only look at Catherine and say thank you, bc by that point, I was a wreck and I knew Jemma owned my soul. But I was amazingly calm around Jemma in B'ham. I referred to the week previous in London where she’d contributed to my art project, and I gave her the 1st draft of the result, and she was so lovely. And basically, I said to her, “this is what I do, because I’m an eternal procrastinator, so by giving this to you, it’s gonna force me to do something with it.” And she was just like “thank you so much, that’s lovely.” And I have a lot of anxiety about not telling her (or Catherine, when I met her) that she was awesome in all of her roles, and I really admire her, but what I have to Jemma, had a bit of a blurb at the start, whereupon I not only said I was an eternal procrastinator and that’s why I was giving it to her, but that she was beautiful, and awesome, amazing etc (that’s how I wrote it, it was like a P.s. I’m a bit mortified) It was all about kindness and then we had a massive conversation about being kind to yourself, and then in the Q&A, someone asked her “if you could give your younger self a piece of advice, what would it be?” and she paused and said (and this may be wishful thinking, but her eyes scanned the room and landed) “Don’t procrastinate. Anything you want to do, just do it.” And something along the lines of “There is no other time.”

Anyway. TL;DR. I’d fall apart around both of them, but I can hold my shit together around Jemma more. Which makes me think that Serena would make me absolutely fall to pieces, whereas I could hold my own with Bernie.

Also, the three year old. God bless! My boy (he’s not mine but he may as well be) turned 4 end of July, and just started full time school. He cries every morning going in, the TA cwtshes him to sleep, he wakes up happy, then cries a bit at lunchtime because he hates the noise in the canteen and they have to walk past the nursery where he thinks he should be. It’s been 3 days in big school and I’m ready to whisk him away to the Amazon jungle forever just to see him smile again - this boy was made to be Tarzan, with Ape Mam cuddles, a ponytail, and sparkly nails.

[mothering-silence]

My darling Livy, You are my beautiful middle girl. 19 months old and changing before my eyes from a chubby little baba into a lean, sweet yet stubborn character. All big blue eyed, sweet blonde lashes and brows, fizzy blonde hair and that cheeky pegged toothed smile. I catch a glimpse of you sometimes and you take my breath away. If you take a nap in my arms, I love to watch you sleep. I can’t believe that something so gorgeous and perfect came from daddy and me. You are strong willed, fiercely independent to the point of stubbornness, have an unquenchable need to climb and screech and wind your brother up and never want to sit still. A typical tomboy in so many ways, always happy when you’ve got mud or sand at your feet, finding scraps of food on the floor to eat, smearing jam across your face or putting nappies on your head. When announced that your younger brother was on the way, family commented that you were always destined to be a middle child. The general consensus tells us that middle children are troublesome and awkward little sods. Resentful of their older sibling who has done everything first and is normally the golden child, and jealous of their younger sibling who will always be the baby of the family. Often rebellious, trying to catch their parents’ attention by doing something naughty or dangerous. And at the time, before you could even walk you was starting to climb on to windowsills and tv cabinets, you were all of those things. In bucketloads. People would smile and nod, knowingly, when they saw me dragging you along the pavement, wailing because I wouldn’t let you run into the road, with your older brother in tow and my pregnant belly on show, the naughty middle child they’d think. She'll be the one who turns her Mum’s hair grey and keeps her awake at night. Well, my darling girl, in lots of ways they we're right. You are a non-stop bundle of energy and enthusiasm. Verging from sweet and extremely loving to a raging screaming, stomping mess and back again in the blink of an eye, yours is the name that I shout in frustration most often 'Livvvvvy!', head in hands, and for this I am sorry. I’m sorry that you weren’t the first person I loved unconditionally – your big brother took that prize. I’m sorry that you’ve never had all of my undivided attention, coming second in line as you did. And you won’t be the last person to make me cry when you say, “mama” for the first time. That honour will go to your baby brother. I’m sorry that your baby brother pushes you away when you cuddle me because he wants me all to himself, although you graciously nod as if you understand and gently bow your head to kiss him, which makes me weep a little inside. How can you be so understanding, patient and grown up already, your unique set back in life has formed you into a such a sweet little monster. You over power your deafness by your strong personality, For this I believe you will achieve great things in life. I’m sorry that you won’t be the first one to start school, to learn to ride your bike and to swim. Luka gets all that stuff. Doesn’t mean we won’t cheer you on like we did him though, and praise every achievement, however small, in the way that you applaud your baby brother’s first wobbly steps, arms outstretched to you, his beloved sister. I’m sorry that you’ll always be compared to your big brother. All those milestones, recorded and compared for ever more. First steps, first words, first time you slept through the night. But something tells me you’ll flourish in school, career and in life once you set your mind to it. Plus you are a much better fighter and can run faster, climb faster than your big brother already. But being a middle child has given you so much too. You are confident and outgoing, self assured and sure of yourself. You don’t follow the pack, but make up your own rules and run with them, not caring whether anyone else wants to join you. Yup, that’s how things work in your World. You are a great negotiator, a skill you’ve developed, if you want that dummy you screech. You want that teddy your brother has been holding for the last hour and you've just noticed, you screech and stomp. And you are smart enough to know because I’ve got your brothers to contend with too, just how far to push things. And push things you do! Desperate to be a ‘big girl’, you hero worship your big brother, learn so much from him and love to be involved in his games, tagging along with him and screaming in delight because you've gotten the chance to be allowed into his world. But you also love to play with your baby brother, spending hours showing him your love and devotion. Always kissing him and hugging him whilst beaming of pride and are fiercely protective of him, so much so that you’ll tell off any other children or adult who come too close to your baby. You are excited to go to nursery, and not at all phased by any of it. You excel in your creative and imagination play and you've got that wiggle jiggle down to a T, you're the next adventurer to grace this earth, no fear runs through your veins. You are so, so proud when you have delightfully coat yourself top to toe in mud. You are most happiest when you've stomped into the muddiest puddle before your brother, food time is like heaven on earth, exploring all tastes and textures whether that be in your mouth or rubbed into those precious blonde curls. And the way, your little chest swells with pride, smiling like a Cheshire Cat at the fact you're older brother is mortified you've crapped in the bath, not for the first or neither the last time. So, for not being my first or my last love, I’m sorry. But you, my precious middle girl, will always be right there in the very middle of my heart. Life is never dull with you around, and your cheeky Peggy toothed grin can brighten even the darkest of days, especially when accompanied with your well timed favourite phrase, “mum mum". For all your exasperating, maddening, hair tearing out behaviour, I wouldn’t change you, or your place in the middle of our family, for the whole World. I love you, Alivia-Ellen Autumn Czyz

[sincerelybluevase]

Fanfic Friday: lips touch, part five

BECAUSE WHAT IS SELF-CONTROL? HERE, HAVE A THIRD FIC IN ONE DAY. 

Patrick only intended to clean his instruments at Nonnatus and then go home again, trying to get a few hours of sleep before the start of the new day. His new autoclave hadn’t arrived yet, and the old one still refused service, hence making him dependent on the nuns. Sister Julienne had even given him a key so he could get in at any time of night; she knew he could not sleep easy without having cleaned his instruments first.

So, making sure his instruments were sterilized was the original plan. It got thwarted when Patrick heard a thread of music winding through the cold and deserted hallway.

It is three o’clock in the morning, he thought and went to investigate the melody’s source. The light spilling from the nun’s living room proved to be a vital clue. Patrick took care to walk softly; he didn’t want to scare whoever was listening to Jim Reeves.

It’s probably Sister Monica-Joan, he mused. The nun had taken to wandering in the night. Patrick had advised Sister Julienne to keep the door of her bedroom locked, but none of the nuns felt that it was right to lock Sister Monica-Joan inside her room at night. They did lock the outer doors, though, to prevent her from straying away from the convent. She had done so once before and it was an experience that no one involved would like to repeat. When Patrick reached the living room he abruptly halted in the doorway, arrested by what he saw.

A young woman dressed only in a white nightgown was dancing, slowly rocking along to the music as if in the arms of an invisible partner. She had hair the colour of honey; it spilled down the curve of her neck, the tips ghosting her shoulders. Patrick’s brow knitted; he didn’t know this person. What was she doing here, in a convent, dancing to music in the wee hours of morning? He wished she would turn around and see him; he was reluctant to make her aware of his presence for reasons that he could hardly fathom.

“May the good Lord bless and keep you,” she sang. A burst of electricity shot along Patrick’s spine. He knew that voice.

“Sister Bernadette?” He had never seen her out of the habit and without her wimple, but he knew her sweet soprano voice, having heard her singing in chapel. She turned around. She didn’t wear her glasses, which made her seem younger. Patrick guessed she had no need of glasses, now; her eyes were closed and her face wore the peaceful mask of deep slumber.

She’s sleepwalking, Patrick realised. Tenderness and embarrassment pulsed through his veins. He felt like an intruder, knew he should avert his eyes and stop acting voyeuristic. At the same time he could not help looking at her. He doubted whether she knew the effect she had on him in daily life, the ever-growing love she inspired that he kept locked away deep inside his heart. Now, dressed in a nightgown that did nothing to hide her lovely legs and her creamy throat he felt positively dizzy.  Patrick felt torn. This dancing was not appropriate for a nun, but the beatific smile that hid in the corners of her mouth made him feel guilty for even entertaining the thought of stopping her. Besides, he was sure she would be mortified if he woke her, being dressed in only her nightgown, not even wearing a cap to cover her hair.

“Sister Bernadette?” Patrick asked again, taking a few hesitant steps in her direction. Even though she was safely cradled in the arms of Morpheus she must have felt his presence, for she turned towards him and smiled.

“Would you like to dance, sir?” she whispered in her lovely Scottish lilt. Before Patrick could make up his mind she stepped forward. Sister Bernadette took his hand in hers, put her other hand on his shoulder and leaned her head against his chest, over his heart. Patrick’s arm snaked around her waist almost of its own accord. They rocked slowly, keeping time with the music.

“Fill your dreams with sweet tomorrows, never mind what might have been,” she murmured. Patrick wanted nothing more than to kiss her, hold her, make this moment last forever, but he kept himself in check. He reminded himself that the person he held in his arms was a nun, thus a woman in name only. Never mind that she looked sweet and innocent and that her hand held his ever so softly.

The song ended, filling the room with soft crackles. Patrick stopped dancing. Sister Bernadette made a sound of disapproval in the back of her throat and knit her brows. The small line that appeared between her eyebrows made her look adorable.

“You have to go back to bed,” he whispered.

“I want to stay here, with you, forever,” she murmured.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” “Why not? You’re Doctor Turner, you make the impossible possible.” His cheeks turned very hot at her mentioning his name.

“Sister Bernadette, do you know who I am?” She nodded.

“I wish you would stop calling me ‘Sister Bernadette’. It makes me sound like a nun.” She pressed herself closer to him, making a small sound of contentment as she inhaled the scent of his shaving soap and cigarettes. He forced himself to recite every bone in the human foot in an attempt to distract himself from feeling the subtle swell of her breasts against his ribs.

“Now, let’s dance.” “We can’t. It would be inappropriate. You’re a religious sister.” “Stop saying that.”

“But you are a nun, Sister,” Patrick gently corrected her.

“No, I’m not,” she mumbled.

“Yes, you…” She stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. Patrick was too baffled to stop her. Only when her tongue flicked against the seam of his lips did he gently take her face in his hands and break the kiss.

Not so innocent now, he couldn’t help but think.

“You talk too much. I just want you to take me dancing,” she huffed.  

“Let’s dance, then,” Patrick decided. She smiled serenely and kept smiling all the time it took Patrick to dance their way to her room.

[wanderingfan]

To Anyone Invested in the Current Pewdiepie Drama I Have Some Things to Say

I Have a Horrid Confession to Make...I was one of those kids that watched peediepie religiously. (yes I misspelled his name and no I won’t change it)

Don’t get me wrong. I stopped watching him in like my second year of high school. But it’s not because I realized he was a awful glob of wood glue right then and there.  This was almost a decade ago, before his antics made even gaming new sites, and while I was aware he made some awful jokes (namely ones about periods and that one Ao Oni video that I sincerely hope has been deleted by now) it didn’t stop me from simply moving on to the next video.  Sadly what stopped me was just that I got bored of him.  I, unaware of myself, quietly grew out of that phase of my life where I loved when he’d mentioned barrels and looked at deviantart to see how people depicted a pig and a golden statue from Amnesia. 

I was one of those embarrassing commenters who’d talk about the bro army and how we should be mad at barrels instead of each other and yes I deleted my entire account because I had the same one for five years and Youtube wouldn’t let me delete all my comments at once.  I did similarly embarrassing things for the Nostalgia Critic and MatPat too.  And like Pewdiepie, I grew out of that phase before their crap caught up with them.  I didn’t have the ability to reflect on my watching habit until my third year of college, and that’s because I was a closeted white girl who didn’t know I was closeted, who didn’t have a tumblr account until I turned 18, and had a high school history teacher that compared Pearl Harbor to the Atomic Bomb that was given the Best Teacher Award every year (she was fired eventually but it was long after I graduated.)

I think the name Wandering Fan suits me because while I fixate of certain sources of entertainment I move on fast.  When its good it can pull me back to series I loved (Undertale dont at me, Fruits Basket, The Last Airbender, ect.) but oftentimes when I look back on the stuff I used to obsess about I’m mortified (Ib, Twilight and Host, that one film about the two headed dragon that wore an Elvis outfit, god I can’t believe I told my family about Vampire Knight, ect.)

And I think as a wandering consumer I’ve gotten lucky to not put all my eggs in the wrong basket, but don’t think I’m fooling myself or that I think I’m above the people who are still in that eggs-in-one-basket phase.  If Pewdiepie did his anti-semite antics and his “oh i didn’t MEAN to promote a neo-nazi” spiel back when I was in middle school I absolutely would have been one of his defenders who thought his critics were just a little too mean to him.  Because I was part of the “bro army.”  Because I invested myself to watching his videos daily, even at the expense of the numerous things I could have done to improve myself, like actually reading the assigned books or practicing music.  I couldn’t have wasted my time watching him.  He was “important” to me.

But now I’m 23 years old.  I’m not the teenage girl who was encouraged to be kind and understanding to the worst kinds of people anymore.  I’m not the very smart very intellectual young lady who tried debating sexist boys younger than me when the new hip new thing to say was “not all men” and “sjws hate all men” and every girl who complained about character designs.  So when I learn that the people I currently follow and look up to do a bad, I can move on pretty easily.

Here’s the thing though.  While I naturally grow out of phases, I still had to actively learn to change how I view people and what it really takes to be observant.  I can still be nice, but I can also refuse to play polite when I know people are being malicious, unawares or not.  People have to actively learn to do better and be better for others, even if that means stepping on a few toes and letting go of the people you like.  Pewdiepie is 29.  As far as I know he never had to learn to do better, so he won’t be better.  There’s no incentive for him to.  There will always be young fans who will always watch him, because even if these fans move on there’ll always be younger fans to take their place.

All of this to say if you’re a 13-16 year-old mad at people being mean to Pewdiepie, you’re not an awful human being because the person you enjoy is in trouble and you want to defend them.  But he’s not worth it, and you’re going to grow out of him.  Pewdiepie is not the hill you’re going to die on.  People do not die on the hills they’ve claimed to be ready to die on, because eventually they’ll forget why they’re there and climb back down.  They’ll move on to other hills to die on, or they realize they can’t die on this hill, and will just enjoy the view for what it is.  But the people around them also don’t forget how they’ve been hurt, and threatened, and scared because of people who’ll die on the hill at the expense of everyone else’s safety and well-being.

But while Pewdiepie’s the hill you plan to die on I’m going to give you a bit of advice: next time you go on Youtube, search for something random, it could be about a game you’re interested in, or an animal you like, or a Simpson’s clip you heard referenced tons of times but never actually saw firsthand, or that vine where a guy high-fived a bumble-bee.  Do about three searches for different topics, then pick a video out from the suggestions page from an uploader you’ve never watched before.  Then go back to a Pewdiepie video.  You might realize you forgot about Pewdiepie for awhile, and maybe, just maybe, you’re interest in him will slowly but surely fade out of you’re mind.

And maybe a few years down the line you’ll be a little more ready to reflect on the people you looked up to and what you did in the time.  Look at your old comments and/or videos defending Pewdiepie and saying what he did wasn’t as bad and didn’t really hurt anyone, and anyone criticizing him is just an overreacting pc sjw.  Look at the people you might have hurt along the way and ask if they deserved it.

Self-reflection isn’t an ability that can grow without your awareness, like your nails or your hair.  Its like puberty.  It feels gross, and uncomfortable, and it’ll make you feel like a rotten apple a lot of times.  It’ll hurt.  It will make you feel bad, and you will not want to do it, and there’s a lot of people online who won’t make the attempt until they hit their twenties like me.  But the earlier you do it the easier it’ll be to avoid being fixated on people like Pewdiepie.  You don’t have to force yourself to hate Pewdiepie.  You just have to realize he’s not going to do better, but you can do better than him, and you no longer need him in your life.

Sorry for impromptu Ted Talk/ You’re-Not-Even-A-Mom-Stop-Acting-Like-One Lecture I just remembered my really embarrassing bro army comments from way back when and the fact that I deleted my account and had to resubscribe to like 200 channels ADD A DELETE ALL COMMENTS OPTION YOUTUBE PLS THX. 

[natg1rl-blog]

Scars

It’s been too long!....

Chapter 2 Part 2 of ‘Little Black Book’

Do you want to know my opinion of the very best part of School? Well that’s easy - The holidays! It almost seemed monotonous waking up every single morning at 6:30am just to follow the same robotic routine over and over. Eat breakfast, shower, make one-self look presentable, effortlessly wait at the bus stop and soon after arrive at school by 8:15, ready for seven hours of complete torture… especially when you didn’t enjoy going there. I feel as though everybody has their own way of learning. Not one human being on earth is tarred with the same brush. My way of learning was through real life experience, television, music, radio. I often found myself zoning out when it came to teachers banging on about Hamlet, or Vincent Van Gogh… even Hitler’s antics was never quite enough to peak my interest. Although in saying that I have always been more of an artsy, creative and imaginative type of person so essay’s, oral presentations and exams were never my forte. I felt as though I learnt more in the school holidays by living life than I ever did in a classroom sitting behind a desk listening to a teacher who clearly didn’t want to be there as much as I didn’t. Nevertheless there was a lot more of school than there were school holidays and it was a five-year feat so the only possible way to get through it was to take each day as it came.

    On the first day back I was reminded of why I hated that place so much. I had way too many classes with people that I didn’t get along with and it made me feel like utter crap every single day I was present. Millee and her friends had made up their minds about me and that was not going to change. I had to move on and start to live my own life. There was no point daydreaming about what could have been because the fact of the matter is that reality is what counts. The one silver lining to being back at school was learning that Scott had ended things with Pamela. This didn’t change my feelings toward him, there was no going back after what he had done, but it felt quietly victorious that she had gotten what she deserved. As much as school wasn’t on my list of places I wanted to be, at this point in time I was happy for the escape because things were beginning to deteriorate at home.

    I always knew that my mum had a temper. I’d seen it many times in the past and I knew I would see it many more times in the future. When I was eight years old mum was seeing this guy. They were together for over a year and really happy with one another. Seeing my mum happy made me happy. The two of them were engaged and he moved in with my mum, my brother and myself so it didn’t take long before it felt like we were a family. One night the four of us went out to a really lovely dinner. I don’t know what happened exactly, but something had put mum in a bad mood. Mum’s boyfriend had bought me a really pretty floral dress earlier that day. It was white all over with patterns of pink, purple and blue flowers. It was one of the prettiest dresses I had ever seen. When the four of us returned home mum asked my brother and I to get into our pajamas and get ready for bed. Normally I would do whatever my mum said, but I had received a beautiful present and I wanted to see what it looked like on. So before getting ready for bed I went to my room and stood in front of the mirror wearing my new dress. I couldn’t quite get the zip all the way up so it wasn’t sitting quite right and my impatience got the better of me. I could hear my mum in the kitchen and I didn’t want to bother her so I took the long way around in order to enter the lounge room where Gordon was relaxing in front of the television.

‘Excuse me Gordon, can you please zip my dress?’ I asked him.

Gordon was more than happy to help so I turned around whilst he zipped me up.

‘It’s beautiful Bella,’ he complimented.

I looked down at myself and squealed with excitement about how much I loved my pretty new dress, but it didn’t take long before something broke my reverie.

‘What the fuck?’ Mum’s voice came booming into the lounge room.

My heart sank as she stormed towards me and grabbed my arm.

‘What did I fucking tell you?’ She screamed.

I started to cry, she was hurting my arm. As she released her grasp I momentarily let out a sigh of relief, but then I could suddenly feel her cold knuckles down my back. I took me a moment to realize what had happened; she had ripped my dress off. As the dress fell to my ankles, I stood there in my underwear and continued to cry. Gordon did nothing but sit back and watch the drama unfold before his very eyes. I was too young to remember, but I am assuming he was in shock.

‘I’m sick of your bullshit Bella.’ Mum accused.

I had no idea what she was talking about, I was a good kid. When mum retreated back towards the kitchen I thought that was the end of it and so I picked my dress up and held it over my body before turning away in order to make my way back to my room. Just then I felt a soaring pain shoot through the side of my head. My eyes began to feel heavy and I could hear a faint ringing sound in my ears. I stopped in my tracks to observe what had just happened and as I turned back towards my mother I noticed our home telephone stagnant on the ground. She had hit me across the head with it.

‘Call your father to come and get you!’ She demanded.

At this point I couldn’t contain my tears. I knelt down to the floor and picked up the handset only to find that there was no dial tone. She had broken the phone. I felt sick. For a moment I thought about pretending that I did call my dad just so she wouldn’t inflict anymore punishment, but when he didn’t show up I figured that it would do more harm than good.

‘The phone’s broken.’ I managed in between tears.

Mum stood there with a blank, but scolding, look on her face.

‘Go to your room now.’ She said this with a lot more calm in her voice, but it was the anger behind her eyes that worried me.

I couldn’t get to my room fast enough. That was my first major life lesson to never go against my mum’s wishes ever again, no matter how trivial they were.

Mum didn’t often impose her anger towards my brother or myself, it was normally people outside of the family that would often endure her wrath. For instance we had a neighbour who lived in a house at the end of the street. She was a similar age to my mum and the reason the two of them were acquainted was because her son was friends with my younger brother. Their friendship was just the same as any neighbour – they would borrow things from one another, they would sit down for a coffee from time to time, and everything was always quite harmonious between the two of them. However as it so happens boys tend to fight, so somewhere along the line my brother and our neighbours son had a falling out. What the fight was about, I was never let in on the details, but there is one afternoon that will always stay with me.

     My brother was riding his bike home from a friend’s house and it just so happened that he had to ride past our neighbours house to get home. Fueled by annoyance, our neighbour saw my brother riding past and tried to drag him off of his bike. My brother Gale is two years younger than me so at the time he was only eleven years old and a little too young to be able to stand up to a grown woman. After falling off of his bike whilst trying to get away from her reaching grasp, he injured his wrist and scraped some skin off his leg in the interim. Upon coming home in tears and managing to explain the story to our mother, a specific chain of events occurred, which led to mum facing assault charges. I saw mum leave the house in a rage of fury and I knew that it was in my best interest to follow in case there was something that I could do to prevent her from doing something she would regret. By the time I reached the neighbours front door I could hear a lot of arguing. I let myself in and looked around to see where the voices were coming from when I realized that the two of them were in the kitchen.

‘You hurt my son? I’ll fucking kill you!’ My mum screamed.

As I entered the kitchen my mum’s fist was raised and our neighbour was standing there in pure terror, fearing what my mum was about to do to her. Before I could work up enough courage to scream out, mum’s fist collided with the woman’s face and she fell limp before hitting the floor.

‘MUM!’ I screamed whilst tears uncontrollably started to run down my face.

Mum turned to see me standing there and it was enough to break her stance. She looked down at the woman on the floor and I could tell that she was mortified about what she had just done. She brushed past me and left the house in a hurry. I stood frozen with absolutely no idea what to do. If I called the police I was essentially dobbing in my own mum and I couldn’t muster enough courage to do that. Our neighbour slowly began to sit up so I could see that she was okay, but I wasn’t about to stick around and wait to see what she was willing to do to me either.

    It was maybe an hour before we had a police officer at our door questioning mum about the turning of events. All she could really do was explain that she was sticking up for her son. She made sure to tell them that I was never there, and I had to follow suit, but it didn’t change the fact that our neighbour was pressing charges. Mum had essentially broken the law. If convicted there was a good possibility that mum would have to serve jail time. I knew that there was every chance my life was about to change dramatically, and all I could do about it was sit there and wait for it to happen.