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passivenovember · 2 years

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First chapter in Brush Fire, my shovel-talk fic wherein random adults and people in Billy’s life give Steve the shovel talk as the two fall, painfully, in love.

One: Carol

Thing is, Billy’s just Nancy Wheeler painted in contrasting shades of bullshit.

And Steve can’t pinpoint the day Hargrove turned into Billy, into a kaleidoscope that bleeds beyond asshole and dickwipe and evil step-brother, but really it’s all a side effect. A symptom of what’s coming, like a cough he doesn’t notice until it’s too late.

‘Cause at the end of the day Billy’s smart and Steve.

He’s got a thing for Brainiacs.

The kind of smarts that could win bar trivia. Pay for a vacation to Europe with the money from an episode of Pyramid. Even better if the guy’s got claws. Pretty eyes that narrow alongside cheeks that blush pink and red, like gumdrops.

“Help me write my essay,” Steve tells him, waiting outside Billy’s Advanced College Placement class with his collar popped.

Billy’s smiling before Steve speaks to him. He’s chatting, limbs soft and smile wide, dorky, and then he hears that voice. Goes shocked still. Looks like he’s gonna piss his pants.

“I’ll, uh, see ya later, Bills,” Says that girl. Barb Holland. She pokes at the bridge of her glasses and disappears around the corner, shooting these worried little glances at Billy like he can’t take care of himself. Like he isn’t Hawkins High’s resident bad boy, player, macho-nacho–-

“What do you want, Harrington?”

Billy’s teeth were pretty, Steve notes, when he was smiling. When he was happy. Now he's got this searing little twist to his lip, saddled with this sudden crash to reality. Steve shoves off the locker to make room for a pee-wee dork that says excuse me, calculating the way Billy’s baby blues have gone dry.

He’s exhausted and tired of it. Sick down to his fifteen-pack abs.

“I want you to write my essay,” Steve repeats, thinking if he’s more direct Billy will go for it.

Hargrove puffs out his chest. Squares his jaw. “Fuck no.” He says. Needing the fight.

“Wasn’t asking,” Steve says.

“I’m not writing your essay for you, dickweed.”

“Yeah? Why not?”

“'cause no one’s gonna believe you can spell multi-syllable words,” Billy spits, “And I’m not dumbing myself down to whatever kindergarten level class you’re taking–-”

“God, you’re a menace. You’re a forest fire.”

Billy’s cheeks flare at that. Bright red, freckles punching through like holes in notebook paper and Steve knows it.

He’s got him. Hook and line, just like Nancy, but then Billy’s walking off down the hallway. Leaning in a little hard with his boots, stomping holes into the cement.

Steve follows after him. Says, “I’ll pay you.”

And Billy says, “I don’t want your money.”

That makes Steve laugh. Loud and sudden. “Everyone wants my money.”

“Everyone wants you, right? King Steve. Whole place’d probably shut down if you graduated, right? Need the golden boy around. The gold eggs he lays in the shit-covered green just outside B-Hall,” Hargrove leads them round the corner, stopping to dial and yank his locker open. “God, you’re a fucker–”

“And you’ve got the highest marks in AP English,” Steve says. He leans against the metal closest to Billy, foot propped to pass the time.

He'll wait.

He’s already won. He’s got what he came here for, but Billy needs time to work it out for himself. All those brains behind pretty blonde princess curls and Billy devotes all his energy to the glare Steve's pinned with. Billy hisses and spits like a drowned kitten, thinking he’s tough.

“Not wasting my time on you, Harrington,” Billy says. Like it’s supposed to hurt. “You’re a lost cause. Might as well get Wheeler to suck your dick and write that shit for you-–”

“Watch your mouth," Steve says gently.

Gotta be patient. Give the boy room to think it over, run it back, mold his pretty pinks into an apology.

"Nancy and I broke up," Steve says, like it matters.

Like the way his voice still hitches a little, at the end, shaky and vulnerable, will make a difference.

It does and it doesn't. "What would you even write about," Billy demands, ignoring him. "Being rich? How it feels to be born with a silver fucking spoon in your mouth?"

Steve tenses all over, poised to take the heat of Billy's onslaught if it'll get him what he wants.

Billy lens in presses harder. "Oh, what about the way you're a washed-up beauty queen? You gonna cry about the hours and hours you put into impressing the cows around here only to have them run right over your perfect hair to get to the next freak on the list?"

Steve won't bite. "You think my hair's perfect?"

And maybe that's a step too far.

Billy grips the metal locker so tight the thing almost groans, baby blues laced with a challenge. That little lip twist has turned into a snarl and Steve.

Almost backs away.

Almost backs down.

But the flush is packed on like fresh snow, glittering and saturated with pinks and magentas. Steve really does need help with his essay, so he leans closer. Says, "What can I do to get your help on this?"

And waits for the walls to crumble around them.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Harrington,” Carol says. "You think you've got this whole school wrapped around your fingers but I see what you're doing."

And Steve knows it's Carol without having to look up from the pin-lanes scribbled in red across his essay. Knows it without swallowing the tucked-away mashed potatoes at the corner of his mouth. Knows her voice like he knew the chimes that signaled the end of nap time, all those years ago. The stick of a bandaid peeled from her skin and patted, harshly, onto his before another go on the tire swing.

He doesn’t look up at her to point out that, “If I were smart enough to fool anyone I wouldn’t need help editing this fuckin’ thing.”

But Carol doesn’t stop. Keeps rolling on. Says, in that special shade of periwinkle irritation that she used to save for Tommy, “You could’ve asked someone else.”

Steve glances at her. Notices her hair’s different. “What do you mean?”

“Billy,” Carol spits. Word travels fast. She looks over her shoulder. Scans the lunch room as if afraid that he’ll spring up from the linoleum. Knock the tray out of her fist, or something. She turns back, eyes narrowed. “You could’ve asked anyone else–-”

“He’s got the best marks in English.”

“So?”

“Like I’m gonna hinge my future on someone with anything less than a perfect grade,” Steve chuckles, trying to change its tune somewhere in the middle so Carol doesn’t take this as a notice of war. “Look, the guy’s my ticket outta this shithole.”

“Harrington, you’re stuck. Like the rest of us.” Carol says.

And the thing is? Carol was the first girl who proved chicks could be cool and dangerous and three-dimensional. They were flirts at one point and friends, way before that, giggles and weekend sleepovers stretching all the way back to a blue, cloud-covered room Steve can hardly remember, so.

He knows Carol.

Maybe not as well as he used to, but. He knows the girl. Feels like she’s got his neck in her fist, from how tight she’s gripping the lunch tray. Senses that if he makes one step out of line, she’ll dig her fangs into him.

“What’s your deal, Perkins?”

Carol’s eyes could melt through bone.

Steve takes the last bite of his mashed potatoes before shoving his tray to the other side of the table. “You got a crush on him or something?"

"What?" Carol says, incredulous.

"Look, I know you're sweet on him--"

"Harrington, you're such a skeez if you thought, for even a minute that I'd ever do that to Tommy--"

"Alright, you're friends will Billy, then," Steve says, exhausted from the theatrics. "You're like his scary big sister, protecting him from the wolf in GAP clothing."

"You're such a dumbass," Carol groans, like Steve's whole thing is getting old and she wishes he'd call it a day. "Why don't you beg Wheeler to tutor you?"

"This conversation is melting my brain."

"Seriously, it's not like she'd say no," Carol says, "She's still got a soft spot for you even if Byers is stuffing her full on a daily basis--"

"--Billy's got a better grade than Nance--"

"--I mean, seriously. Couldn't you pick on someone in your own academic caste?"

"Jesus, Carol, why do you care so much?" Steve drops the act, the good-natured small talk for old time's sake, and lets his words land like fists on the rickety table top.

All at once, Carol looks older. Wiser and mean and so, so worried.

"You know what your problem is, Harrington?"

"Enlighten me," Steve says, bored.

"You've never been told no a day in your life."

Billy walks through the lunchroom doors, then, a copy of Moby Dick under one arm and a spiral notebook snatched under the base of his lunch tray. His arms, stiff with forced swagger as he scans the crowd for Steve, jerk when they spot one another.

His cheeks are pink.

From a million miles away, swimming through a river of pissed-off Perkins, Steve can see it.

"That boy isn't any different from the rest of us," Carol says tightly. She grips her own lunch tray, and says, "He's sensitive."

Steve opens his mouth to shit all over the floor, and.

"He is," Carol tells him. "Think whatever you want to but I know him. Billy's rough around the edges but he's smart. Too smart for his own good--"

"Smart enough to deal with me?"

Carol's mouth snaps shut, frowning as Steve moves his lunch tray and Billy floats into view.

"Harrington," He says sharply. Then, to Carol, "Perch Perkins, looking frosty today."

"Fuck off, Malibu Barbie," Carol says, but there's a softness there that takes Steve back to kindergarten.

He swallows against a pang of jealousy, tracking the way her eyes go warm for this asshole.

Billy tacks a wet kiss to her forehead and then plops down onto the bench across from Steve, flipping to a blank page in his notebook, and Carol sulks away, looking every bit like she'd burn down the world to protect him.

Steve wishes he had been smart enough to recognize that conversation for what it was.

The first in a long line of people that, in the pit of themselves, for better or worse, whether they knew it or not: loved Billy Hargrove.

#harringrove #enemies to lovers #shovel talk #fic #chapter one #brush fire

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thefanficmonster · 4 years

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Corpse’s Girl

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Bullying, Swearing, Derogatory Terms

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Summary: Y/N’s life as a regular college student is forever stripped away from her when her relationship with the famous YouTuber Corpse Husband is accidentally revealed during an online class of hers. How will she cope with the sudden spotlight and the unwanted attention, some of which crosses into bullying?

Requested by my amazing Tumblr friend @itsminniekat 🥰 She’s been reading and liking my works since day one and I honestly couldn’t be more grateful. If you’re reading this, all I can say is thank you, darling. Thank you so much for sticking by my blog even when I posted some crappy fics. I’ll make sure this ain’t one of them. Love you with all my heart. ❤❤❤

P.S. - I named the mean character with my name so I hope no one who reads this has the same name. Wouldn’t want any of you feeling like the villain 😘

Who knew online class would be even more boring than being physically present for a lecture? Seriously, I find myself doing the weirdest of crap to entertain myself - like trying to balance a pen on the tip of my nose for example. I jot down some notes every now and then but that’s basically it. My mind can not fathom the concept on concentrating on whatever my professors are going on and on about. Well, full disclosure, I couldn’t concentrate even if I wanted to, especially with my boyfriend streaming in the other room.

He’s currently playing Among Us with his usual gaming squad. Listening to his input during the discussions, I can always tell when he’s lying. I honestly find it hilarious that his friends can’t pick up when he’s bullshitting them. I sometimes wonder if he has brainwashed them. And that’s one of the main reasons we don’t play Among Us together - he can’t lie to me. Not only do I pick up on his con with ease, but he always says he feels bad when he lies to me which is just the sweetest thing. Also, I refuse to play cause I’m shy. His friends are all well-known content creators and I’m a literal nobody. Every now and then I find myself wondering why Corpse is even with me. He’s always quick to push those thoughts out of my head and make sure they don’t return on a long notice, but they do interrupt my peace from time to time.

“Y/N, do you know?“ The sound of my professor saying my name takes me out of my eavesdropping of Corpse’s stream.

I panic, but quickly improvise, “Sorry, my internet is slow, you cut out for a second. What was the question?” I feel my face heating up, making me glad we are allowed to keep our cameras off.

“Question number 15 on page 82 in your textbook. Do you know the answer to it?“ My professor repeats himself, his tone annoyed.

I look down at the page that’s already opened in front of me. I let out a sigh of relief, seeing that the question is rather easy.

“Yeah, um, it’s...“ Suddenly, Corpse’s laugh reaches my room loud and clear. There’s no doubt my mic picked up the noise, especially since the door to my room is open.

The color drains from my face as I hurry to say the answer and remute myself. My eyes are wide as I stare at my screen, hoping no one will acknowledge that very recognizable laugh.

“OMG Y/N, are you watching a Corpse Husband stream in class?” One of the bitches in my class, Vy, speaks up, “Not a very goody-two-shoe move on your part, dear.”

I purposely unmute my mic to mumble a quick ‘Shut up, bitch’ that somehow manages to fly under my professor’s radar and the class continues. It’s the first time something like this has happened and I’m not sure if I handled it properly or not.

The class ends shortly after, allowing me a sigh of relief as I disconnect from the meeting.

“Fucking finally.“ I mumble to myself, leaning back in my desk chair. Tilting my head backwards, I see Corpse standing in the doorframe. I grin, not only because his presence itself makes me ten times happier, but also because he’s upside down from my viewpoint. “Well, hello there! How long have you been spying on me?“

He struts over to me, leaning his face over mine, “Long enough.” His lips linger above mine without any actual contact before he pulls away, allowing me to sit up straight and proper in the chair. “You still have classes?”

I nod my head while disappointedly rolling my eyes, “Yeah. One more. Shouldn’t be too bad since it’s English Lit. You’re done streaming?”

“Yeah, I just have some other things to do. I haven’t done a narration video in a while, I miss making that type of content.“ He plops down on my bed, running a hand through his messy black curls.

“Weren’t you recording some lines a few days ago?“ I frown as I try to recall if what I’m referring to actually happened or my brain is too fried to decipher reality from my bootleg perception of it. Online class, man - messes with your head like sleeping pills - makes you disoriented and exhausted with barely doing anything other than trying to wrap your brain around a lecture or two.

He hums affirmatively, “It’s not a finished project and I don’t even know if I’ll use those or rerecord them. I’ll have to listen to them again before I make a final decision.“

I tilt his chin upwards with my pointer finger, a gesture he has told me he finds very endearing, “I’m sure they’re great and you just refuse to be satisfied. Everything you do is great.“

He smiles a small, shy smile, his fingers gently wrapping around my wrist, holding my hand in place, “You’re biased. You like me too much to tell me when I do some bullshit.”

I scoff, “You know that isn’t true. If someone’s gonna kick your butt in formation, it’s gonna be me.“ I give him a quick kiss on the forehead before pulling away from him, “Go on, now. I have a class to attend. You distract me enough while you’re in the other room, I can only imagine how hard it’d be for me to focus if you were right by my side.“

He smirks, bowing a little as he makes his way out of the room, “You flatter me.”

I playfully roll my eyes, getting my headset back on as I tap the last class for the day. We have an assignment due to the start of the class which we’ll have to present if the professor approved of it. We basically had to write a psychoanalysis of a character from any book of our choice. I chose Heathcliff from ‘Wuthering Heights’ which is one of my favorite books of all time. I’m proud of what I wrote and the way I wrote it, but I’ve always barely scraped by with a B in this class, a B+ if I’m lucky, so I’ve never gotten any major credit, even when I put my 110% in the assignments and projects.

Well, color me surprised when the professor calls on me first to read my work, complimenting it on its detailed and specific nature. I get my printed assignment out in front of me and unmute myself.

“I wrote a psychoanalysis on for Heathcliff, a character from Emily Bronte’s novel ‘Wuthering Heights’.“ Just after I say this line, Corpse’s voice booms throughout the whole apartment, no doubt being picked up by my mic. It doesn’t sound like he’s actually talking, he can’t be that loud. I put two and two together when I recognize the lines he’s saying - the ones he recorded a few days ago. They’re coming from his computer speakers. He probably didn’t check the volume before playing back the recording.

I mute myself as quickly as possible, but it’s too late. The voice dies down as Corpse probably turned down the speakers.

My professor, who is already done with this lecture, just annoyedly remarks, her words overdosed with sarcasm: “Read your assignment and you can go back to whatever it is you are watching.”

“Wow, Y/N! Again?! Are you one of those crazy obsessed fans or something? Is Corpse Husband all you watch?“ This bitch is really poking a stick at me, huh? The only crazy obsessed fan here is her, and my friends but they are allowed. Little do all of them know, I am obsessed but not simply over a YouTuber. I’m obsessed with my boyfriend who just happens to be a YouTuber.

“No commentary, please.“ The professor scolds her, “Go on, Y/N.“

I finish reading without any other disturbances. The professor compliments my essay again when I’m done, the small incident at the beginning forgotten already. Well, not by everyone. One of my friends shot me a quick text to joke about it which only earned an eye roll from me.

My friends don’t know that I’m dating Corpse either. As I said, they are simping HARD over him while I act the most indifferent on the subject. Whenever they ask my opinion on him I either say ‘he’s OK’ or just avoid answering completely. I know saying anything more enthusiastic than that would turn into a snowball rolling down a snowy hill - I’d just keep babbling about how nice, amazing, wonderful and a gift to this world Corpse is, inevitably revealing our relationship in the process.

I’m afraid of revealing my relationship with Corpse in front of these people. They are all run on jealousy and selfishness and I can only imagine how mean they’d be about it. I’m already not too fond of them, it would only be worse if any of my personal life was exposed.

When the class finally ends I remove my headset, putting my forehead down on the desk, barely missing the keyboard. I groan in frustration and anger at myself for not fighting back. I could’ve and should’ve said something - ANYTHING. But what? That’s a question I can’t find the answer to.

“Hey...“ Corpse’s hesitant voice comes from behind me, “You ok?“

I straighten my posture, turning to him with a smile. “Yeah, but these people suck.”

I get up from my chair as he approaches me, basically falling in his arms. The comfort I feel radiating off of him makes me relax, forget the past hour or so. He has always had this effect on me. Like my own personal kryptonite to my anger and anxiety.

“Did I get you in any trouble because of that?“ His voice shows clear concern and guilt.

I wrap my arms around him tighter, burying my head in his chest. “No, don’t worry about it.“

And I really wasn’t in trouble. Not until now that the video is officially posted....

I can call these people dumb all I want but they sure put two and two together awfully fast. They recognized the lines they heard during class as the same ones from his new video that came out almost a week after the incident, aka two days ago. It’s safe to say I haven’t touched my phone or computer since.

“This is all my fault.“

Of all the horrible things I suspected would happen this has to be the worst - Corpse is blaming himself for it. I am prepared to take all the shit these people have to throw at me but seeing Corpse beating himself up over this is killing me. No amount of convincing can change his mind. Nothing I say helps.

“Please, stop doing this to yourself. Non of this is your fault, Corpse.“ I’ve repeated this sentence more than a thousand time these past forty eight hours, each time saying it more and more desperately.

“All of it is my fault, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I hate myself so much.“ Has been his reply single time.

I can’t watch him be so mean to himself. It’s the most conflicting thing when the person you love most is torturing themselves. It’s easy if it’s someone else doing it, you just kick their ass. But what are you supposed to do when the person you want to protect is the same one you need to protect them from.

Corpse has shut himself away in his recording room these past few hours and though he clearly needs to be alone, he still left the door open just a crack cause he knows I’ll be worried sick otherwise.

While I’m alone in the living room, I’ve finally managed to brace myself and build enough courage to power up my laptop. Last time it was on it was going mad with notifications.

“It’s digital. Only digital. It can’t hurt you too badly if it can’t touch you, right?“ I mumble to myself, already frustrated despite not having yet seen all the horrors that await me.

And horrors there were. Everywhere. Twitter. Instagram. Facebook.

My grades. Some pictures of me no one has ever seen. My school files. People from my class tweeting Corpse to ‘expose’ me for the ‘slut’ or ‘bitch’ I really am. Corpse hasn’t touched social media either and I plan on making sure it stays that way. God only knows how much worse he’ll get if he sees these claims.

And then, like a notification sent straight from hell, an email from my professor.

Practical lectures on Friday. Be here at 9 AM. Don’t forget your mask and gloves.

Good thing I opened my laptop when I did. Friday is tomorrow and I need to prepare for this day. Not only do I need to hit the books but I need to toughen up a bit. I can’t go there looking like I feel - like a mess.

Alright, time to put the brave face on. No more wallowing in it, at least not until tomorrow afternoon.

I make a study plan and hop in the shower. I feel the need to apologize to my hair for washing it so roughly, basically yanking at my strands from frustration that has been suppressed for too long.

I get our of the boiling hot shower, red as a lobster, and change into some clean comfortable clothes and put my ass in study mode. I remove all the scary expectations of the morning to come from my mind and let the information the textbooks has to offer seep into my brain.

* * *

I’m about to head out and, despite my put-together composure, I am a wreck inside. I actually put effort into my appearance, I mean - I even styled my hair. A pretty façade to hide a ruin.

I saw my friends’ texts last night, all three of them ending their friendship with me because they felt betrayed. I haven’t yet decided how to feel about that. Doesn’t matter at the moment, there are more important matters at hand, aka surviving the next three hours.

My college is within ten minutes walking distance from our apartment. That ten minute walk has never been so stressful, not even during exam season. The air feels a little harder to breathe, the path a little shorter to walk. And my moment of reckoning a little too close.

I feel eyes on me the second I start walking through the park of our campus. Sure, I could just be paranoid, but the feeling is too real to be just my imagination in overdrive. I’m glad I have my hair down and a mask on so the redness of my cheeks and neck isn’t on display. That’s a sign of weakness right now.

We have two an hour and a half long classes between which we have a snack break that’s half an hour. I usually enjoy that period but I’m dreading it now. These assholes can only be so mean in the presence of a professor, but during lunch break they can increase that tenfold.

“Well if it isn’t Corpse’s girl.“ I hear that a lot. The whispers are not so much whispers as intentionally loud enough for me to hear remarks. I’m not bothered by them, it’s the least they can do. If I let such a simple thing get to me, I’d be crumbling by the end of first period.

I hear some shuffling behind me and out of the corner of my eye I see, yeah you guessed it, THAT bitch. She’s standing as close to me as she can without violating Covid regulations. A mask is covering her face but the menacing look in her eyes tells me all I need to know about the interaction that’s about to go down.

“I’d ask how much he pays you for the hour.....“ her long nails tap the wooden desk, “but that’d be rude. I bet it’s tough being a maid. Do you just clean or are you a multipurpose lap dog? No offense, I’m genuinely curious.“

“Vy, would you be so kind as to give Y/N some room to breathe?“ The professor asks as he nonchalantly walks in.

Vy rolls her eyes, batting her eyelashes at me, “Talk to you later, sweetheart.” With a fake friendly wave she’s out of my hair, at least for now.

Remember what I said about these people not being as dumb as I pegged them to be? Yeah, scratch that. These fuckers actually tried getting away with taking pictures of me with flash in broad daylight. Like, HELLO! I have two functioning eyes and a brain, I’m onto you. Sadly, me having figured out their childish but hurtful methods of humiliating me doesn’t change much. They still posted the pics they took, using the most derogatory terms they could find in the English language, always making sure to tag Corpse and me both.

Needless to say, these were the longest three hours of my life.

* * *

Shutting the door to our apartment behind me causes relief of the highest levels. I feel like I’ve locked out all the bad shit I have had to deal with these past twenty four hours.

I’m tired. I’m fucking exhausted. I feel like a discarded piece of paper.

And it all starts crumbling. A wall is bound to start slowly falling apart after being hit over and over again, each time feeling the blows with a stronger intensity.

I slide down the door sitting down on the floor and slowly taking my shoes off. I put my bag beside me and wrap my arms around my knees, hiding my head in the space between them and my chest.

One tear slides down my cheek.

Another follows.

And another, this time accompanied by a choked sob.

A pair of arms wraps around the ball that my body has been shaped into. One of his hands comes up to stroke my hair gently, feeding me the comfort I have been longing for since I left the apartment this morning.

“I saw it. All of it. All the shit they talk about you. All the names they call you. And I’ve never wanted to beat so many people up simultaneously.“ His words make me raise my head from its low position, giving him a knowing look. “I wish I could. I would, but that would land me in jail. Which doesn’t even sound so bad cause I don’t like going out. Only problem is you wouldn’t be with me. I wouldn’t want you to be there with me, don’t get me wrong, I’d never want you to end up in jail. I-...” I cut him off by pressing my lips to his. A quick kiss that says so much but mainly shows the immeasurable gratitude for his support.

Seeing those awful tweets and comments had the complete opposite effect on him. He no longer blames himself but the people who actually deserve the blame - all those jerks from my college.

I pull away, giving him a small smile. “I would never let you go to jail.”

He smiles back at me, overjoyed that my mood is slowly being lifted, “Come on, I have a nice crowd that would like to meet you.”

I know exactly what he means. Felix, Sean, Rae, Dave, Sykkuno and the rest of his friends. The people I’ve been so shy and afraid to meet since day one. Being shy doesn’t really make sense now, seeing as how they know I exist and that I’m a part of Corpse’s life.

What do I have to lose?

“Guys, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.“ Corpse’s black avatar runs around my cyan one in the Among Us lobby.

I can’t help but giggle when I unmute my mic, “Hi everyone! It’s so nice to finally meet you.“ They each introduce themselves, expressing how happy they are to be meeting me too.

It’s the first time in what feels like a while that I’m truly having fun. These people are wonderful, each so unique and lovely. They never brought up the scandal nor acted as though they knew about it. I know they did and I am beyond grateful that they never mentioned it or treated me any differently because of it. Also, Corpse was streaming the whole time. I had my phone on his stream, my eyes nervously scanning the chat every now and then. I couldn’t believe it. Corpse’s real fans were just as wonderful as his friends - they were nothing but supportive and happy to have met me.

Now, I can either choose to believe these people were being so nice to me out of sympathy or I can believe they really like me and appreciate me for who I am and not for what happened to me.

I choose to believe the latter.

And while I’m still getting accustomed to this whole new spotlight, I know I’ll be able to handle it as long as I’m holding Corpse’s hand in the process. All I need is to have him beside me and I’m prepared to tackle anything.

“They love you.“ Corpse tells me once the stream is done and we’ve hopped out of the Discord call, “But I love you more.“

His arms wrap around my waist while mine instinctively find their way around his neck, “I love them, too. But they’re at the number 2 spot.”

He smirks at me, “I wonder who’s at number 1.”

I push up on my toes, putting my lips an inch away from his, “Hmm, I wonder...”

He doesn’t let me finish, silencing my teasing with a sweet, loving kiss.

@susceptible-but-siriusexual @simonsbluee @save-the-sky @hacker-ghost @bi-andready-tocry @imtiredaffff @jazzkaurtheglorious @hereforbeebo @fandomgirl17 @chrysanthykios @maehemscorpyus @loraleiix @letsloveimagines @annshit @i-cant-choose-a-username-help @enigmaticmaze @divine-artemis @waterlilypat

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ilikemesometaetaes · 4 years

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Don’t Hold Your Breath ~ jjk

Prologue

•••> Author: @ilikemesometaetaes

•••> Summary: As the CEO of an international government security company, you have the world at your fingertips. Living life lavishly and extravagantly has become the norm. Behind closed doors, however, you host a past that renders you lonely and, quite frankly, miserable. It’s only a matter of time before your past comes back to bite you right in the ass.

•••> Pairing(s): Jungkook/Reader

•••> Inspo: This fic is inspired by the song “SAVAGE ANTHEM” by PARTYNEXTDOOR. Thank you to @btssmutgalore for everything you’ve done to help me! You’re amazing!

•••> Word Count: 2.3k

•••> Rating: 18+ • Please do not read if you are below the age of 18. I do not condone minors reading my work. Of course, I cannot stop you.

•••> Warnings: a boatload of angst, heartbreak, cursing, pining, kissing, depression. Warnings are written specifically to chapter. Refer to the DHYB Main Page for the full rundown.

Note: I don’t have a beta reader so please forgive any mistakes I may have missed. Also, if you are confused by the italics, refer to the DHYB Main Page for info on that.

Taglist: @apurpledheart

If you’d like to be added to the taglist, add a comment to this chapter or the DHYB Main Page!

NAVIGATION: | > Chapter One (M) –> Mini-Masterlist -> Series Masterlist

~#~

NOW.

The bed was cold around you.

You felt yourself breathe. You felt your heart beating in your chest. You felt the evidence of physical life within your body.

But you couldn’t help the withdrawn and frigid feeling of death laced into your mind.

You felt alone. You felt longing. You felt numb yet riddled with too many emotions to comprehend all at once.

Overwhelmed with confusion, you went to the moment that brought you calm. It brought you peace and happiness despite the things lost.

The beautiful dream-like vision of butterflies and a certain meadow filled your memory as you laid in the darkness. Sighing with content, you let yourself remember.

“Fuck Jimin and his girlfriend. We can have all the fun on our own.” He sneered in his Satoori accent. After years of knowing you, Jungkook slipped from his proper accent whenever the two of you were alone. All you could do was chuckle at his harsh words.

The blanket laid out before you was a pristine sky blue. Jungkook had gathered small stones to hold it down at the corners.

“What have you been up to today?” You asked with a hint of breathlessness due to the trek the two of you had made to get to the peak of the large hill. Turning your head to look at him while you spoke, you noticed that his head was craned upwards, gaze locked on the sky.

In response to your query, he collapsed back onto the blanket, allowing his white t-shirt to slightly ride up, revealing a small sliver of the skin on his stomach in the process. The white reflected the sun in your eyes almost painfully, but not enough to take away from the angel-like glow that it gave him.

“Nothing much. Played video games for an hour or so. Cooked and made breakfast.” He angled his head slightly to look at you. "Finished up my essay for my philosophy class. You?”

“Oh, just the usual. Didn’t finish my calc assignment by noon so I’m only going to get partial credit for that.”

Your reply reminded you of how different the two of you were when it came to school. His alone time spent in his dorms went one of two ways; he either played video games with Taehyung or studied- there was no other. His scoff broke you out of your brief thoughts.

“You know, you’re going to end up falling behind this semester, and then we won’t have the same class for our last semester as college students.” His pout that accompanied his statement had your eyes flicking to his bottom lip which shined with a slight sheen of saliva, accentuating the plumpness of it.

It was no secret that you found Jungkook attractive. Hell, even Yoongi found him attractive and Yoongi was quite impassive. Even now, with his eyes squinting under the light of the sun, his hair messy, and a thin layer of sweat covering his skin, you found him absolutely breathtaking.

You remembered how the two of you met.

Shared classes brought you closer together. Ever since you had first met him during your sophomore year when you became part of a foreign exchange program in South Korea, the two of you clicked. Realizing that he spoke English- rough English- had you giddy and eager to teach him to perfect his language skills in return for helping you with your Korean. Needless to say, you learned Korean a bit quicker than he learned English seeing as one of your majors was dedicated to the language learning.

After you decided to stay in Korea and finish the requirements for one of your degrees at your other university online, the two of you grew close in the process of mutual education. When you decided to stay was when you actually got to know him.

He was pursuing a degree in music, specializing in vocal performance, while you were working towards a double major in political science and language studies with a minor in business. Although you were packed full of classes, your work ethic was definitely capable of improvement despite having helped you survive to senior year.

“I know, Kook, but I honestly don’t know why math is required for my major anyway. I just want to be done with it.” You grumbled and adjusted your clothes before laying beside him.

He sighed wistfully, signifying his state of relaxation and calm, which you found yourself fighting a smile for. Of all of the time you had been around Jungkook, he was always emotionally charged or stressed. There was never a time you knew him to be absolutely at peace or silent in the way he acted. To hear him decompress was still a relatively new concept to you and had you giddy to relax with him in hopes that he would open up to you.

A few moments of silence rested between you both, effectively ending the previous conversation.

“Do you think about him anymore?” He voiced, distracting you from eyeing a cloud as it covered the sun. The break from sunlight was welcome on your straining brows.

It took you a moment to respond, caught off guard by the loaded question. He knew of your situation because you were open with him. But why did he care? “Sometimes. I know that he wasn’t good for me. I know that I gave him too much slack and that’s why he lied to me.” You sighed.

“Yeah,” He chuckled dryly. “That dude was an asshole.”

“I still don’t get it. I told him that everything he did was okay. I told him all he had to be was honest and that I wouldn’t be mad at him.” The frustration of your breakup with your ex-boyfriend was nowhere close to being gone. Eleven months of lies and deceit despite the good memories was difficult to remove from your conscience.

He had used drugs, something you weren’t a fan of. Despite this, on top of the fact that it was illegal, you knew that it helped his depression and you loved him throughout his questionable choices on how to treat himself. All you had asked for was his honesty; all you wanted was for him to tell you when he used.

Jungkook sat up to look at you. He frowned and then reached towards you to brush away some of the hair that fell over your forehead.

“I get that he did you wrong. Believe me. I get it. But the fact that you still think about it is irritating. It’s been a year, right?” His scowl made him look adorable.

“Something like that.” You sighed.

“And you haven’t moved on?” He asked, concerned. You were about to reply in defense before he cut in again. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I know you don’t have those types of feelings for him anymore, but you haven’t moved on from the situation?”

Your reply was curt. “I’ve moved on. I’m just annoyed.”

He sighed and looked down at his hand that he wasn’t leaning on, toying with the fabric of the blanket, before laying back down with an elongated exhale. He knew this conversation was over.

After a while of laying down in the sun in comfortable silence, you noticed that the clouds were starting to roll in more frequently, accompanied by a cooler breeze. When you craned your head back to look upwind, you saw the darkness of a storm system crawling across the sky.

“Hey Jungkook. I think we-“ Snore.

You cut yourself off at the sound, quickly snapping your head to survey the sleeping boy beside you. Eyebrows completely relaxed and lips slightly parted, he was a sight to behold. His hair had fallen over his eyes slightly, urging you to return the favor in brushing it out of the way. He stirred slightly before settling back down and sighing. What a sight to behold indeed.

The deep rumbling of thunder is what caused you both to jump and look at the sky. “Jesus.” He croaked while abruptly sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “How long was I out?”

“I’m not sure. I only realized you were sleeping a few seconds ago.” You began picking up your things whilst he picked up the blanket, draping it over his arm.

The first few raindrops of the storm had only just begun; a light pitter-patter at random places in the grass began slowly at first, gradually picking up pace as you and Jungkook were packing up the last of your things.

You giggled as the rain started hitting your face. It reminded you of tiny, cold kisses. Jungkook, on the other hand, used the blanket to shield his head after slinging his backpack onto one shoulder. His face was scrunched up in an unconscious attempt to keep the rain out of his eyes.

“Let’s get out of here.” He huffed tiredly.

“Good idea.” You laughed.

The trek down the hill and back to Jungkook’s old truck accelerated to a jog following the increased pattern of raindrops hitting the ground. Before long, even you were seeking shelter under the blanket he was holding over his head. After a few minutes of laughing breathlessly and bumping into each other on the path back to the truck, you had decided to hold the other end of the blanket since he wasn’t really holding it over your head effectively. His free arm consequently ended up slung over your shoulders while your free arm draped over his.

The tan truck came into view after your twenty-minute journey back. By this point, the blanket had soaked through and both of you were drenched. Making quick work of the passenger side door, he slid in first to cross the seat while you followed suit with a huff.

“Well…” Jungkook trailed off, placing his bag and the wet blanket between you before running his fingers through his long and very wet hair in order to push it away from his eyes. “Shit.” He looked at you with finality and a small grin gracing his face.

You gazed at his beauty, glancing at his lips as he spoke, before meeting his chocolate brown gaze. Want filled your body as the adrenaline from the past few minutes surged through your veins, rendering you mute. Heartbeat running absolutely erratic and breath suddenly short, you became acutely aware of how tight of a space the two of you were in and how quiet the cabin of the truck became.

Oh, how you wanted to kiss him.

The seconds seemed to pass like hours. The mood in the truck morphed from playful and light to something else. Something thicker. Headier. Heavier.

The pressure of the moments passing by bristled you with tremors as your previous levels of adrenaline spiked almost uncontrollably. You didn’t miss the way his bottom lip twitched in the slightest of movement.

His eyes glanced at your lips for a split second, giving you no time to adjust to the quick movement, before his hand was on the back of your neck to usher you to him in a messy kiss. Heat flooded your body as the taste of his breath caressed your tongue.

“Y/N.” He breathed after momentarily pulling away. His dark eyes were filled with passionate fire, pupils dilated almost scarily. “You-” His lips reattached to yours before he could finish speaking, illuminating just how shocked and pleased he was with your kiss.

His lips were as soft as silk as they glid against your own, slotting perfectly in shape. His warm breath tasted mildly of morning breath- not that you minded- but mostly blueberry as you came to discover that he had slipped a jolly rancher into his mouth sometime during your journey back to the truck. You giggled at the thought of how much he loved candy, earning a smile from him as he continued to press his lips to your own.

There was no way you’d be able to pull away just to speak. Speaking was so unnecessary. Words were irrelevant in that moment.

Why speak when you could kiss him? When you could feel the way his lips moved against yours in ways they could never move when speaking? When they conveyed more emotions than any word could ever express? Why would you even bother ever speaking anymore when you could spend the rest of your life kissing Jeon Jungkook?

You answered your own questions as his arm lopped around your waist to pull your body closer to his: you wouldn’t.

Of course, those were thoughts in the heat of the moment. Simpler times called for simpler feelings. The pure and innocent ardor of love and adoration paired with the excitement of new attraction was a welcome sensation in contrast to the empty and cold feeling of your everyday life. You were sick of feeling numb.

Too many years were spent in emotional solitary confinement. Keeping your emotions at bay began affecting your health, causing your hair to thin and your skin to wither like paper. It took looking at yourself in the mirror after mulling over a photo of you and Jungkook before you noticed the difference. You hadn’t even noticed that you lost a considerable amount of weight.

Therapy had helped for a little while, but it didn’t assist you when you began seeing his face on news articles and TV once your sessions ended.

Even after the things that he had done, you were no stranger to the feeling of longing that you had for him- for the echoes of what used to be.

In your cold, companionless room, tears ran down your cheeks in mourning.

Of course, it was too good to last.

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e350tb · 3 years

Text

The Owl House: A Blight on Gravesfield (Chapter Five)

Five

The sun rises over Gravesfield.

...so the first essay topic will be up online this afternoon. Now back to weird local myths!

In 1660, King Charles II was restored to the English throne, and the whole Civil War period came to a close. Sort of. There was still a lot of political and religious controversy in both the British Isles and in the colonies; but that’s mostly a topic for another course. We are going to be following the continuing adventures of the Wittebanes.

John died in 1672 of pneumonia, but before he did, he had a family house constructed on his estate; that house, the Historic Wittebane Home, is still, and access is free to all Gravesfield residents, so if you have some time it’s well worth a visit. Although it looks small and uncomfortable now, in the 1660s it was the height of colonial luxury.

John left his estate to his son, the confusingly named John Philip Wittebane. We’ll call him John Philip to avoid too much confusion. Before John Philip took over the estate, he had sailed both as a merchant and as a buccaneer in the Caribbean; we believe he sailed with Henry Morgan in the raid on Maracaibo in 1668-69. While there, he purchased investments in a number of industries, and while he divested from them when he returned to Connecticut to collect his inheritance, they had made him a very wealthy man.

He immediately put his wealth to use by buying up most of the small farmers around Gravesfield, and by 1690, it was reckoned that most people in Gravesfield were employed by him. It became effectively a Wittebane company town, with John Philip even serving as the city’s mayor several times.

This is where our next myth comes to play; that in 1687, John Philip Wittebane had a woman put to death for witchcraft, and that consequently, her ghost haunts the Historic Wittebane Home.

Now, I’m a historian, I can’t tell you ghosts are real. That’s a job for ghostbusters. But was a woman really hanged in Gravesfield for witchcraft, nearly twenty years after the end of the Connecticut Witch Trials?

The local newspaper tell us that on June 13th, 1687 - a Friday - a ‘vagrant, suspected by some of heresy and witchraft, was duly hanged by the magistrate on account of the cruel and vicious murder of Henry Finch, who had been struck down while attending the ‘pigges’ on the Wittebane estate.’ So we have a clear cause for the hanging, and a ‘suspicion of witchcraft,’ but we don’t have a connection.

Frustratingly, this newspaper doesn’t tell us how poor Henry Finch died. Was he cruelly hexed? Well, if we go digging about in the archives, we might find a different story…

----

A brisk and foggy dawn was breaking over Gravesfield.

Ben Frakes was not a man of means by any stretch of the imagination, and as he stepped out into the cold air, he wished he could afford a car. (Well, he could, but it was hard to justify the expense.) It had been an uncomfortable night. Life in his one-room apartment had its charms - chief among them proximity to the college - but on cold nights it could be miserable, especially when his radiator was still broken.

Still, he was in fairly good spirits. His course on Gravesfield’s myths, and the truths behind them, was going very well, and the students seemed engaged. And it was a very good time of year to be in the history business; the annual Gravesfield History Fair was coming up, something he always looked forward to. It was always a riot; apart from a small county fair, there would be historical talks and tours of the old battlefield and the Historical Wittebane Home, and even the yearly battle reenactment; one which Ben had taken part in every year for his whole time in Gravesfield.

He was always on the Redcoat side and therefore always lost, but having fun was the main thing. Even if it was a bit of historical revisionism on the part of the townsfolk.

He was just starting off down the sidewalk to the college grounds when he spied a rustling in the nearby bushes. For a moment, he was prepared to dismiss it as a rabbit or a bird, but then, to his astonishment, a little white head poked out.

“Is that a cat?” he asked himself.

Slowly and gently, he crept forward, leaning down behind the bush. The cat emerged, gently headbutting his outstretched hand.

“Hmm… too much grooming to be a feral,” mused Ben. “Have you gotten out of someone’s yard?”

Carefully, he picked up the cat.

“Am I gonna have to print out a wanted poster for you?” he asked, chuckling. “I’ve got some milk in my fridge, maybe… what the?”

His gaze turned to the cat’s paws. Just under one of the back paws, he could see a peculiar mark, almost like a lock. He frowned.

“That doesn’t look healthy,” he mused. “Okay, pre-class prep can wait, I think you need a vet.”

He started off in the direction of the vet. He wasn’t concerned about making it to his class; that was still hours away, and he’d been planning on spending the morning doing some marking. But that mark… cats did not have marks like that.

At least, not in his world.

----

Camila was not an oblivious woman, especially when it came to her daughter.

She had had some suspicions the night before; most people wouldn’t jump through a portal into the unknown to get their friend to help, after all. But things were messy and upsetting, and people did irrational things under stress, so she’d shelved that thought.

When she walked into her living room the next morning and found them sound asleep in each other’s arms - well, suffice it to say, her suspicions grew a bit.

When Luz eventually blinked open her eyes, she found her mother sitting on the couch with a cup of tea in her hand, smiling wryly down at her.

“Good friends, are you?” she asked.

Luz blinked, and then glanced over to Amity.

She yelped and pulled herself out of her friend’s arms, which in turn woke her up with a start. Both sat up, Luz turning bright red.

“What’s going on?” demanded Amity. “Are we being attacked?”

Camila took a sip of her tea.

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “If we are, I’m sure Luz is very well protected.”

“Mooo-oooom,” groaned Luz, burying her head in her hands as Amity turned red too.

“Uh, Ms. Noceda, it’s… I’m…” Amity scratched the back of her head. “Please don’t get mad, Luz…”

“Mad?” Camila tilted her head. “Why would I be mad?”

“I… um… I…” Amity stammered.

“I need to take a shower!” exclaimed Luz. “Far away from here! Goodbye!”

She darted off the inflatable mattress and out the door.

Amity buried her head in the blanket, moaning softly. Camila frowned, moving a little closer to her.

“Amity,” she asked. “Is everything alright?”

“Sure,” sighed Amity. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Camila reached down and put a hand on her shoulder. She was surprised to see Amity jolt away from her; her frown deepened.

“If you ever need to talk,” she said. “Just remember that I’m here.”

“Thanks,” replied Amity, looking away, “But I don’t think I will.”

She got up and walked away.

----

Luz spat her toothpaste out into the sink (she was surprised at how much better-tasting human toothpaste was than the stuff they used on the Isles, although it probably didn’t provide the same magical plaque protection) and washed her hands, whistling to herself. She didn’t know why - it wasn’t as though she was calm or cheerful - but perhaps music calmed the soul.

“Okay,” she said to herself. “Gotta go back to the historical society. Maybe there’s a lead to getting Amity home on that creepy curator guy’s conspiracy board… also wanna see if the bookstore’s still there. I think Amity would like it.”

She turned to the door and immediately froze.

Camila was leaning against the closed door, arms crossed.

“I think it’s time we talked, mija.”

Luz pursed her lips.

“...do we have to do it in the bathroom?”

#the owl house #luz noceda #amity blight #camila noceda #vee #lumity #a blight on gravesfield #writing

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iknowthekoolaidflavor · 4 years

Text

Surrexit lingua vestra cattus

Thomas appears to be a friend, but he is a demon after all.

Pairing: demon!Thomas x reader

Word count: Abt 2k

A/N: The translations came from Google, so by any means, please correct my Latin. My idea for demons and their jobs is loosely based on Supernatural because I miss it so much 😭

Take Latin, they said.

It will be fun, they said.

As a senior, you thought taking a language class would somehow lighten your stressful workload, and you were wrong. Latin kicked your ass every single week.

“Why didn’t I take Spanish?”, you groaned, dropping your head on the desk

The dorm room was empty, save for the stressed-out senior studying for finals. Your roommate, the English major, breezed through all their courses with flying colors. Avery was a natural when it came to writing and criticizing your essays. They were sure to graduate at the top of the class. Y/N, on the other hand, struggled to conjugate daily activities in past tense. College may not have been too much of a stressor in life, but this semester has fucked you over in more ways than one. All you wanted to do was graduate on time and that meant for the next two semesters you had to take 18 credits.

With the final tomorrow, you knew relearning the information was a lost cause.

Can I go home and tell mom I failed? I will never hear the end of it.

I’ll have to sit through another lecture about switching majors.

The wayward thoughts took over, filling your head with how disappointed your family will be. You wrapped your arms around yourself, head dropped to your knees when you heard something hit the floor. To your left, a book managed to fall off the bookshelf, landing on its spine.

You took your time getting the open book off the floor and reading the bookmarked page. Who would have thought your precious roommate would also be interested in demonology? The page was in English except for one paragraph at the bottom written in Latin. You read it to yourself, wincing at your terrible pronunciation.

“I guess demons aren’t real after all”, you laughed to yourself as you placed the book back on the shelf

You turned on your heel, then ran into something solid.

“Who told you demons weren’t real, sweetheart?”

The figure braced himself for the scream that escaped your lips. It happened from time to time. Someone thought demon summoning was a joke, he showed up, then boom instant nightmare. The demon towered over you. He appeared to be in his thirties. The wild, but neat curls framing his face were enough to cover the bottom of his horns. He stared down at you with his pitch-black eyes, bored with your screams.

“Are you done yet?”, he scoffed, “I’m not that bad”

“You’re a demon”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing. I’m no longer disgusted in the presence of humans…although I should be. Just gross and full of emotions”

The demon walked around your small dorm, looking the at the bookshelf before his eyes landed on the book you just put away. He immediately perked up and pulled it off the shelf.

“I can’t believe they still make copies of these. Are you a fan of mine?”, he stared at you with a suggestive quirk of his brow

“It’s not my book, and why would I be a fan of you?”

“Sure, it isn’t. It’s also my book. Had to get the word out somehow”

“Everything is already stressing me out. Why would I want to add a demon to the mix?”, you hissed

“To make your life less stressful. That is what we’re here for”

“A demon just steps in, makes your life better at no cost at all?”

The demon smirked as he took a seat on your roommate’s desk. He remained composed during your interrogation. Typically, the deals were quick. Everyone knew what they wanted, and he set the nonnegotiable price for their demands. This might take a little longer, but he was up for the challenge.

“You have a point. Nothing is free, sweetheart”

“Don’t call me that”

“Don’t call me demon”

“Aren’t you a demon?”

He paused for a moment, opening his mouth for a smart remark, yet it never came. A soft laugh came in its wake.

“Thomas. You can call me Thomas”

The name put you at ease, but only for a little while. You sighed as you sat on your bed, picking up your Latin notes again.

“…and you are?”

“A human that doesn’t need your help. Nothing is worth risking a deal with a dem—you. I can’t risk that”

“There’s nothing I can help you with?”

“No”, you stated with as much firmness you could muster. The room felt slightly warmer since Satan’s spawn appeared out of nowhere.

“Not even your Latin homework?”, Thomas grinned, watching your faux hostility crumble. He knew you needed his help, but he did not mind waiting for you to ask nicely.

“I’m studying for a final and no, you can’t”

“I’ve lived for over three centuries. I think I’ve picked up more than enough Latin in my lifetime. Why do you think it’s all in my book?”

“Why would I want your help?”

“Because you’ll fail without me”

“No, I won’t. Maybe. Who cares? I don’t need your help”

“Well”, he sighed as he stepped off the bed, “te visurum”

Thomas’s hand touched the doorknob. How bad can it be? Why is he willing to help you? If he apparated in your room, why did he need to use the door?

“For dramatic effect. Do you want my help or not? I know a trick or two to help you study”, he reasoned, aware that you were already screaming yes

“Fine, but this is time for studying. I don’t need any distractions”

Thomas was indeed a distraction.

He stopped after every three phrases to ask you about your studies, hometown, and why you summoned him in the first place. You did not strike him as the type of person to summon a demon unless they were desperate.

The space between the two of you were sparse. The longer he stayed, the warmer it felt. The thermostat in the room remained untouched since he arrived. For some reason, you felt your body warming up the longer he stayed around you. You sat up on the bed with your laptop in front of you, attempting to put some space between you. Thomas laid on his side, holding himself up with his elbow. Every time his horn brushed against your arm; your skin tingled, sending small trembles to places in your body you did not want to speak about.

“Do demons have tails too?”

“Does it look like I have a tail?”

“You have black eyes and eyes, I wouldn’t put it past you”, you smirked, “Don’t get an attitude with me, blame the internet”

“I can’t do anything about the internet taking artistic liberties for what we look like, but some of it is erroneous. Don’t need a tail or wings”

“What about your horns? What’s their purpose?”

Thomas grew silent. He never wondered why he needed his horns, dark eyes, or claws. They were just there. They were a part of him. It made people fear him whenever they crossed paths and easier to get what he wanted without threatening violence. Although he loved the latter, it made his life much easier. It did not take much for him to intimidate the strongest of men, but you seemed different. Besides the initial reaction, it appeared that there’s no part of you that feared him. If no one knew who he was, one would think you were talking to another human.

“Did I offend you or something?”, you asked, finally looking up from your notebook

“No”, Thomas blinked, “Not at all. It’s going to take more than that to offend me…”

“I’m still not giving you my name and I like a challenge”

Little did you know, so did he.

“I’ve been living amongst demons for so long, I forgot that humans aren’t used to our appearance. It got pretty lonely down there, then I came here and not much changed”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone who won’t scream for the hills when they see you”, you giggled

“I may have found one already”, Thomas replied with a devious smirk, “I’m going to give you a little push. There’s no way you’re passing this class…”

Trying to look offended was no use. You knew you were not going to pass either, regardless if Thomas helped you or not. This was a lost cause, and you were back where you started. Thomas pulled himself off the bed, collecting his coat and fixing his hair.

“There is another way I can help you, darling”

You closed your laptop and notebook, moving to the edge of the mattress.

“I’m not making a deal with you”

“You don’t have to. I’ll help you pass, and you’ll give me nothing in return”

“Why?”

“Do you know how often college students ask me for penis enlargement? Not help with studying. Not passing a class or paying for tuition. But you? You’re different. I like you, which is why this one’s on me”

“You’re going to help me…for free?”

“I only want to help”, he said, offering up his hands in mock surrender, “Next time, you’ll know when you’re summoning a demon. Do you know how much danger you put yourself in? Also, I’ll be happy to know you passed that final because you’re bound to fail”

“Gee, thanks”

If he helps you pass, he may come back and renege on his offer. There is probably some fine print that says you will belong to him for all of eternity. On the other hand, no more nagging from your mother about your major.

“Fine, I accept”, you agree as you moved to shake his hand

“Oh sweetheart”, Thomas laughed, “You naïve little thing. You really are new to this. That’s not how we seal the deal”

Thomas took a step forward, stepping in between your legs. In that moment, you became painfully aware of the dampness between your thighs.

“A quick kiss, then we’re all done”

You allowed him to move closer. He placed his hands against your cheeks as he placed a soft kiss on your lips. Thomas took his time kissing you, nails ghosting above your collar bone. The gasp that escaped gave him space to slide his tongue in your mouth. You found your hands tangled in his shirt, trying to pull him closer. Thomas happily obliged, placing his hands on the mattress, giving you the chance to wrap your arms around his neck.

Thomas’s hands inched up your shirts as he left rough kisses on your neck. The moan you released when he bit down on the flesh made him weak. His fingers wrapped around your hair and gave a slight tug. When your eyes rolled to the back of your head, he pulled harder, trying to hold himself up with his cock pressed into your thigh. You became so pliant in a matter of moments. This was all he wanted.

Before his hands could reach your bra, the faint sound of keys rang from the other side of the door. Panicked, you pushed Thomas off you.

“See you soon Y/N”, he winked before disappearing

Avery walked in as you were picking their book off the floor. You were quickly pulling your shirt down and trying to fix your hair.

“Told you the book was good”, they smirked

“Can I borrow it for a little longer?”

“Sure”

The next morning you woke up with last night as a distant memory. You quizzed yourself on past and present tense while you showered and focused on your phrases as you got dressed. You knew you were going to pass, something about today just felt right.

You stepped out your dormitory and headed to class. Across the yard, one of your classmates called out to you.

“Y/L/N, want to walk together?”

There was no reason to say no, but when you opened your mouth to say yes, nothing came out. You tried over and over, but each time, your mouth moved, your voice failed to follow suit. You stood in the middle of the yard. Everything felt like it moved in slow motion. Thomas took something valuable to you, and you were none the wiser to his game.

You yanked the demon book from your backpack, intent on summoning the very demon you now despise. In the middle of the cover was a sticky note with a message that made your blood boil.

Quid est? Surrexit lingua vestra cattus

te visurum - see you later

Quid est? Surrexit lingua vestra cattus - What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?

#demon!thomas #demon!thomas x reader #thomas jefferson #thomas jefferson x reader #thomas x reader #hamilton #hamilton fic #demon au #dark!thomas #dark!thomas x reader #dark!thomas jefferson #dark!thomas jefferson x reader

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the13colonies · 4 years

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Hey, Rev. Since you are a history major, I wanted to know approximately how many hours of class do you have per week? And is it roughly the same for all 4 years, or do the hours decrease with each year?

Well, it depends how fast you want to graduate, where you are in your degree, specifically which classes you take, and which are required credits

This is continued under the cut:

The standard semester for college students in any degree is 12 credit hours per semester, or 4 classes. With the history major, if you go to a 4 year university with 12 hours a semester you will graduate in about 4 years depending on the program requirements. 2 years to do prerequisites you need to graduate, and 2 for your major and minor

A major is what you are getting your degree in. Since my major is history, I will graduate with a bachelor's in history. A minor is something that you take classes in on the side, but do not get a degree in. My minor is classics (ancient Greece and Roman studies) and most programs usually make you take a minor, history especially. Minors that go well with history is usually political science, international affairs, archeology, anthropology, classics, and literature. Some programs also have specific minors for history majors: my school has a Russian and East European minor, along with English history as another example

History majors have to take a specific number of classes in order to get the degree. This differs from school to school, but usually include a specific amount of world history, American history, diversity, and social sciences classes. For example, I need 9 credits of American history classes to meet the graduate requirement, which is 3 separate classes

As for classes during the week. Last semester I had 5 classes, but only one was history. This semester, I only have 4, but 3 of them are history.

Depending on your schedule, you could only meet once a week for a 3 hour class (DO NOT PICK THIS.), twice a week for an hour and 30 minutes, or three times a week for an hour. This is where the "credits" come in. If you have a class that's 3 credits, that means you spend 3 hours a week IN class. Some classes, like languages and sciences, will have 4 or 5 credit hours, since you are either in labs or have more class time to focus on the material

Most classes stay uniform throughout your tenure. Colleges offer you to take a minimum of 12 credit hours (4 classes) to be a full time student, and for upwards to 18 credits (6 classes) which you need special permission to take. I know classes seem like too little, but you're pending 12 hours a week in class, not to meantion the higher course work, so PLEASE take a standard 12 credit hour semester your first year in college to get the feel for it. I went went community College for a year so that is why I took 5 classes last semester

As for outside of school, I spend anywhere between 3 to 4 hours a day on homework and studying. This is NOT including my personal reading and masterpost creations. Last semester I spent about 4+ because of classes.

COLLEGE IS HARD. ESPECIALLY FOR HISTORY MAJORS.

History is a lot of writing. I have papers due every week. By the time you finish your first year in college (two semesters) you should be able to properly write, cite, and prove a thesis for your paper. You are required to take writing classes, so pay attention to those. It's saved my life

History majors are also expected to think critically for themselves. Sure, you can memorieze a bunch of dates, but you need to understand why, the causes and effects, and finally, how does it tie in to the modern day? Why does this specific event have significance in our lives?

This is why history professors on the higher level classes (3000s and 4000s) are not going to give you exams. They will assign you a fuck ton of papers. My history class last year had 5 mini essays, which were 600-700 words long each, and a final paper, 2000+. These teachers don't need to know if you know when the Americans declared independence, they want to know why it is important, how they got there, and why it happened to begin with

History majors are usually required to take a foreign language as well. Usually it's about three semesters worth. When studying history, try to pick a language that matches your preferred region you like to study. Like European history? Take German or French. Like South American history? Take Spanish. If you're like me and like American history and want to specialize in it, take Latin or Spanish. Personally, I'm doing Latin

As a history major you will study things you won't like. Ex: I studied medieval Europe last semester and this semester, hated every second, but got an A. Just try to remember that it is history, and there will be things that shock you, horrify you, bore you, and make you jump up and down

Grad school is a whole other thing so I won't get into it rn

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sciencespies · 4 years

Text

America's First Black Physician Sought to Heal a Nation's Persistent Illness

https://sciencespies.com/history/americas-first-black-physician-sought-to-heal-a-nations-persistent-illness/

America's First Black Physician Sought to Heal a Nation's Persistent Illness

James McCune Smith was not just any physician. He was the first African American to earn a medical degree, educated at the University of Glasgow in the 1830s, when no American university would admit him. For this groundbreaking achievement alone, Smith warrants greater appreciation.

But Smith was also one of the nation’s leading abolitionists. In 1859, Frederick Douglass declared, “No man in this country more thoroughly understands the whole struggle between freedom and slavery than does Dr. Smith, and his heart is as broad as his understanding.” A prolific writer, Smith was not only the first African American to publish peer-reviewed articles in medical journals; he also wrote essays and gave lectures refuting pseudoscientific claims of black inferiority and forecast the transformational impact African Americans were destined to make on world culture.

John Stauffer, a Harvard English professor who edited The Works of James McCune Smith, says that Smith is one of the underappreciated literary lights of the 19th century, calling him “one of the best-read people that I’ve encountered.”

“The closest equivalent I really can say about [him] as a writer is [Herman] Melville,” adds Stauffer. “The subtlety and the intricacy and the nuance…and what he reveals about life and culture and society are truly extraordinary. Every sentence contains a huge amount.”

Smith was born enslaved in New York City, in 1813, to Lavinia Smith, a woman born in Charleston, South Carolina, who historians believe was brought to New York in bondage. While James McCune Smith never knew his father, a white man, university records indicate he was a merchant named Samuel Smith. (Amy Cools, a University of Edinburgh scholar who has conducted the most extensive research into Smith’s paternity, maintains, however, “Meticulous research has thus far failed to yield any records of [such] a Samuel Smith…indicating the name “Samuel” may possibly have been entered into [the] university records for convenience or respectability’s sake.”). Smith received his primary education at the African Free School #2 on Lower Manhattan’s Mulberry Street, an institution founded in 1787 by governing New York elites. Their aim was to prepare free and enslaved blacks “to the end that they may become good and useful Citizens of the State,” once the state granted full emancipation.

The school graduated a roster of boys who would fill the upper ranks of black intellectual and public life. Smith’s cohort alone included Ira Aldridge, the Shakespearean tragedian and first black actor to play Othello on the London stage; the abolitionist minister Henry Highland Garnet, the first African American to address Congress; Alexander Crummell, an early pan-Africanist minister and inspiration to W.E.B. DuBois; and brothers Charles and Patrick Reason, the first African American to teach at a largely white college and a renowned illustrator-engraver, respectively. These men’s achievements would be exceptional by any standard, but even more so, for a group who were born enslaved or deprived basic rights as free blacks.

They were also all leading abolitionists, contributing their varied talents to the cause. University of Connecticut literature professor Anna Mae Duane, who tells the intertwined life stories of Smith and his classmate Garnet in her book Educated for Freedom, says the boys at the African Free School spurred each other on to great success and that the school’s innovative method of teaching contributed to that. The schoolmaster, a white Englishman named Charles C. Andrews, brought with him from his home country the Lancasterian system to help one or a handful of teachers instruct a class of 500 boys. “The boys would teach other,” Duane says. “They were all deputized as assistant teachers, basically.” This had a galvanizing effect on their confidence.

“When you are learning something, you are learning from another black person,” Duane says. “There was so much they did for each other because of way the school was run. It gave this incredible sense of authority and community.” Just as they elevated each other, the boys were destined to do the same for their people. Garnet formed a club of among the boys, Duane says, and the boys took an oath to “get their education and free everyone down south.”

Even among this exceptional group, Smith stood out as the school’s star pupil. In 1824, the school selected him to address the Marquis de Lafayette when the abolitionist Revolutionary War hero visited the school during his farewell tour of America. Freed by New York’s Emancipation Act of 1827, and after graduating the African Free School at 15, with honors, the next year, Smith apprenticed to a blacksmith, while continuing his studies with area ministers.

He took instruction in Latin and Greek from his mentor, the Reverend Peter Williams, Jr., another African Free School alum, and the pastor of St. Philip’s Church, the leading black church in the city. Garnet recalls his friend working “at a forge with a bellows in one hand and a Latin grammar in the other.” In time, Smith would master French, and demonstrate proficiency in Spanish, German, Italian and Hebrew.

When Columbia University and Geneva College (now Hobart and William Smith Colleges in New York) refused Smith admission because of his race, Smith’s benefactors raised funds so he could attend the University of Glasgow, which Stauffer describes as “a deeply abolitionist university at the time,” with ties to the abolitionist movement in New York. “Glasgow was a far better university than any American college at the time,” Stauffer said, and “on par with Oxford and Cambridge.” The university had been the seat of the Scottish Enlightenment just decades earlier, and had graduated pioneering thinkers including Adam Smith and James Watt.

At Glasgow, Smith was a charter member of in the Glasgow Emancipation Society, joining just before Britain abolished slavery in 1833. In a span of five years, he earned his bachelors, masters,’ and medical degrees, graduating at or near top of his class. Then, he completed his residency in Paris. The African American press heralded his return to the U.S. in 1837.

In New York, Smith established his medical practice at 55 West Broadway, where he also opened the first black-owned pharmacy in the United States. He saw both black and white patients, men and women. “[Whites] were willing to go to him because of his reputation,” Stauffer says. “He was widely recognized as one of the leading medical doctors in New York.…Even white doctors who were racists couldn’t help [but respect his expertise] because of his publications.” In 1840, Smith authored the first medical case report by an African American, titled, “Case of ptyalism with fatal termination,” but was denied the opportunity to present this paper on fatal tongue-swelling to the New York Medical and Surgical Society, “lest it might interfere with the ‘harmony’ of the young institution,” the society insisted. His paper, “On the Influence of Opium upon the Catamenial Functions,” was the first publication by an African American in a peer-reviewed medical journal.

While the foregoing represents Smith’s contributions to conventional medical research and treatment (and concerned mostly white patients), Smith dedicated considerable attention to challenging pseudoscientific justifications for African American oppression. The moment he stepped back on U.S. soil, he delivered a lecture titled “The Fallacy of Phrenology,” where he attacked the notion that head shape and size dictates the relative intelligence of different racial groups.

Having embraced at Glasgow Adolphe Quetelet’s pioneering application of statistics to social science, Smith frequently marshaled sophisticated statistical analysis to make his case. When the federal government used data from the 1840 census to argue that emancipated blacks in the North, when compared to those still enslaved, were “more prone to vice and pauperism, accompanied by the bodily and mental inflictions incident thereto—deafness, blindness, insanity and idiocy,” Smith mounted a campaign to refute the claim.

The Harvard-trained physician Edward Jarvis, who had initially supported these government findings, later joined Smith in exposing fundamental errors in the census. For example, Smith demonstrated that the census often tallied more infirm or “insane” black persons than there were black persons in a given state (“to make 19 crazy men out of one man”). More fundamentally, he showed the census failed to account for the higher mortality rate among the enslaved population—the murder of blacks, he charged, at young ages. In an 1844 letter to the New York Herald on the topic, he writes, “What mockery it is for men to talk of the kindness of masters in taking care of aged slaves, when Death has relieved them of so large a share of the burden!”

Smith served for 20 years as the medical director of the Colored Orphan Asylum, a position he assumed some years after he accused the asylum’s previous doctor of negligence for concluding that the deaths among his charges were due to the “peculiar constitution and condition of the colored race.” Smith made great improvements in the medical care at the institution, containing outbreaks of contagious diseases by expanding the medical ward to allow for greater separation and isolation of sick children. He saw the Quaker-run institution as one of the best schools in the city for black children, providing for them what the African Free School provided for him, with a critical difference: Duane says the philosophy of the African Free School was, “You need to admire a version of history that disconnects you from the history of slavery in this country…your own mother… You’re not orphaned but you orphan yourself. You leave the past behind.”

The leaders of the African Free School contemplated the children would educate themselves, gain freedom and repatriate to Africa. By contrast, Smith, says Duane, “saw education [at the orphanage] as a way of supporting families, of putting down roots in the U.S. And fighting for citizenship.”

He also knew an educated black population marked the beginning of the end of slavery. Slavery, Stauffer says, relies on a “totalitarian state” where no one is permitted to question the status quo. So, in the case of enslaved persons like Smith and his cohort who become free, he says, “That’s when they start speaking and writing profusely, and that’s what really fuels or creates the abolition movement.” Education and freedom of expression is anathema to slavery. “All slave societies do their best to prevent slaves from having a public voice, because if they do it’s going to wreak havoc on the society.”

Havoc was necessary if abolition could not be achieved by other means. Smith defied the 1850 Fugitive Slave Act, which required that citizens in free States aid in the recapture of persons fleeing bondage, as he met with other black activists in the back room of his pharmacy to arrange for the protection of runaways. In 1855, he co-founded the interracial Radical Abolitionist Party, with Frederick Douglass, former Congressman Gerrit Smith, and John Brown, the abolitionist man-in-the-arena, who in 1859 would lead a foiled attack on the federal armory at Harper’s Ferry, Virginia, in an attempt to instigate a revolt among the area’s enslaved population. The party advocated a pluralistic, egalitarian society, for men and women of all backgrounds.

Unlike William Lloyd Garrison advocated “moral suasion” as the means to rid the nation of slavery, these radical abolitionists were prepared to use violence if it would liberate their brethren from bondage. Smith reasoned in an 1856 essay in Frederick Douglass’ Paper, “Our white brethren cannot understand us unless we speak to them in their own language; they recognize only the philosophy of force. They will never recognize our manhood until we knock them down a time or two; they will then hug us as men and brethren.”

Smith predicted the institution of slavery would not give up the ghost on its own. “African Americans recognized that violence is at the heart of slavery,” Stauffer says. “Without violence, slavery cannot exist…And so, [African Americans] were practical.”

In general, Smith and the Radical Abolitionist Party believed that white Americans needed to embrace African-American perspectives in order to see America in its true light and redeem it. He wrote, “[W]e are destined to spread over our common country the holy influences of principles, the glorious light of Truth.” This access to truth, he predicted, would be manifested in African American oratory, poetry, literature, music and art. Stauffer says that one of Smith’s lifelong interests was to reveal to people the unrecognized influence of Africans and African Americans in the advance of scholarship and culture. An 1843 publication records Smith proclaiming in an 1841 lecture:

“For we are destined to write the literature of this republic, which is still, in letters, a mere province of Great Britain. We have already, even from the depths of slavery, furnished the only music this country has yet produced. We are also destined to write the poetry of the nation; for as real poetry gushes forth from minds embued with a lofty perception of the truth, so our faculties, enlarged in the intellectual struggle for liberty, will necessarily become fired with glimpses at the glorious and the true, and will weave their inspiration into song.”

Indeed, as Smith observed, songs among the enslaved were already shaping American music in his time. “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” a haunting spiritual about the separation of children from their mothers during slavery, would later, as musicologists acknowledge, form the basis for George Gershwin’s 1934 song, “Summertime.”

Smith himself made significant contributions to the American literary canon with a series of narrative sketches in Frederick Douglass’ Paper, which he called, “The Heads of Colored People.” With its title mocking the attempts of phrenology to diminish the worth of African Americans, Smith paints dignified portraits of everyday black people—a bootblack, a washerman—as examples of the unique personalities inherent to every human being.

Smith died in November 1865 of congestive heart failure, living his final years in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. He and many black families fled Manhattan after the 1863 Draft Riots, where largely working-class Irish draft resisters assaulted and killed black New Yorkers and attacked charitable institutions associated with African-Americans and the war. Most distressing for Smith were these events of July 13 of that year, as reported by the New York Times:

“The Orphan Asylum for Colored Children was visited by the mob about 4 o’clock. … Hundreds, and perhaps thousands of the rioters, the majority of whom were women and children, entered the premises, and in the most excited and violent manner they ransacked and plundered the building from cellar to garret.”

The rioters burned the building to the ground. Fortunately, the staff managed to escort all the children to safety through a back exit. An ailing Smith was not at the asylum that day, and despite attacks in the vicinity of his home and pharmacy was not harmed. But he and other black New Yorkers were shaken. The mob ultimately killed an estimated 175 people, including many who were hanged or burned alive. It’s estimated that in the riot’s aftermath, Manhattan’s black population declined by 20 percent, many departing for Brooklyn.

“I didn’t know he was my ancestor,” says Greta Blau, a white woman who learned about Smith when she wrote a paper on the Colored Orphan Asylum for a class at Hunter College in the 1990s. While she had seen his name in her grandmother’s family Bible, he was a “Scottish doctor” in family lore. Only later did she make the connection. “I think all his children “passed,” she said, meaning that Smith’s descendants hid their black ancestry in order to enjoy the privileges of whites in a segregated world. The 1870 U.S. census recorded Smith’s children as white and they, in turn, married white spouses.

Knowledge of Smith’s achievements as an African American might have endured had he published books, but his essays from periodicals were more easily forgotten. Whereas Douglass was the most photographed American of the 19th century, only one portrait of Smith exists. Blau realizes why Smith’s children did not seek to keep his legacy alive: “In order for his children to be safe and pass, he had to be forgotten,…which is tragic.” In 2010, Blau arranged for the placement of a new headstone at Smith’s grave in Brooklyn’s Cypress Hill Cemetery.

Remarkably, several white descendants of Smith are interred in the same section established by St. Philip’s Church, the black church Smith attended. Blau’s grandmother, who died in 2019 at 99 years old, joined her for the ceremony at the gravesite, as did descendants from Smith’s other children, whom Blau first met when she contacted them to share the news of their ancestor. While other descendants she contacted did not welcome the news of her discovery, these distant cousins who joined her for the ceremony made the journey from the Midwest to be there. “They were proud of it. Just proud.”

#History

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um-southridge2020blog · 4 years

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Tips for writing a college essay

1. Start early. The additional time you have, the less pressure you'll have. What's more, you'll have a lot of time to give the article your best exertion.

2. Be yourself. Pause for a minute to consider what intrigues you, what you love to discuss, what causes you to pay attention if it's referenced in class or on TV. At that point expound on it.

Perhaps the greatest mix-up understudies make is "composing what they think others need to hear, as opposed to about an issue, occasion, or individual that truly had criticalness for them," says Richard M. Fuller, senior member of confirmation and monetary guide at Hamilton College (NY). An exposition like that isn't simply exhausting to compose it's exhausting to peruse.

3. Be legitimate. You're running late (see #1), you can't consider what to compose and somebody messages you an endearing story. With simply a change to a great extent, it very well may be an extraordinary article, you think. It's what you would have composed on the off chance that you'd recently had sufficient opportunity.

Try not to be tricked! School affirmation officials have perused hundreds-even large number of expositions. They are aces at finding any type of counterfeiting. Adjusting an email story, purchasing an article from some Internet webpage, getting another person to compose your exposition affirmation individuals have seen it all. Try not to chance your school profession by taking the path of least resistance.

4. Take a danger. Then again, a few dangers can pay off. Try not to agree to the paper that every other person is composing. Envision an affirmation official up late, perusing the 50th paper of the day-yours. Do you need that individual to fall asleep on the grounds that the person in question has just perused ten papers on that subject?

"The peril lies not recorded as a hard copy terrible expositions but rather recorded as a hard copy regular papers the one that affirmation officials will peruse many," says Scott Anderson, partner head of school advising at Mercersburg Academy (PA). "My recommendation? Ask your companions what they are composing and afterward don't expound on that!"

5. Keep in core interest. This is your opportunity to explain to confirmation officials precisely why they ought to concede you. Shockingly, a few understudies attempt to list each and every explanation their heavenly scholarly record, their athletic ability, their locale administration all in a page or two. At the point when that occurs, the paper appears as though a staple rundown.

All things being equal, perused the paper question cautiously and write down a couple of thoughts. At that point pick the one that resembles the most amusing to expound on. Adhere to that principle topic all through the exposition. You don't need to list every one of your accomplishments that is the thing that the remainder of the application is for. Utilize the article to help the affirmation officials become more acquainted with you personally.

6. Write and revise. Try not to attempt to compose a show-stopper on your first attempt. It's impractical and all that weight is probably going to give you a mental obstacle. For your first draft, compose whatever rings a bell about your point. Try not to stress a lot over syntax or spelling. Simply get it down on paper (or PC screen). At that point let it "rest" for a couple of hours or a couple of days.

At the point when you return to the draft, search for approaches to make it more engaged and better composed. A few people are "fat" scholars: they compose long, tedious first drafts that should be abbreviated later. Others are "thin" scholars: they compose short and straightforward first drafts and afterward need to add subtleties or guides to "tissue out" the skeleton. In any case, don't be hesitant to roll out significant improvements at this stage. Are there subtleties that don't generally identify with the subject? Cut them. Do you need another model? Put it in.

Here are two different things to attempt, proposed by school advisor Marti Phillips-Patrick.

1. Remove the initial and closing sections, and afterward check whether your exposition appears to be more grounded. These passages are frequently the well on the way to have superfluous detail.

2. Go through the paper and cut out each "very" and each "many." Words like these are obscure, and your composing is frequently more grounded without them.

7. Get per second assessment. Indeed, even top of the line writers request that others read their original copies before they're shipped off the distributer. At the point when you've revamped the exposition agreeable to you, discover somebody who can offer you guidance on the most proficient method to make it surprisingly better. Pick an individual you regard and who knows something about composing a most loved English instructor, a parent, a companion who composes for the school paper. Request that they mention to you what they like best about your paper and what you can do to improve it.

Analysis of your composing can be difficult to hear, however attempt to tune in with a receptive outlook. You don't need to roll out each improvement proposed all things considered, it's your paper and nobody else's-except for you ought to truly think about every recommendation.

8. Proofread. At long last, you're prepared to send your exposition. One moment! Peruse it throughout once again, searching for those little mistakes that can sneak in as you compose or alter. In case you're utilizing a PC, additionally run a spell check.

Some of the time, it tends to be hard to get minor grammatical errors you've perused the paper so often that you see what should be there as opposed to what is there. To ensure you find everything, give perusing your paper a shot boisterous or having another person recited it for all to hear to you. Another procedure is to peruse the article in reverse, from the last sentence to the first. That makes it sufficiently new for blunders to stick out.

9. Don't mistake applying on the web for sending email. Applying on the web is similarly as genuine as applying "as it was done in the good 'ol days." It might feel like you're sending email, however you're definitely not.

"One thing I've frequently observed is that understudies who apply online submit shoddy articles," says Palmer Muntz, head of confirmation at Oregon Institute of Technology. He has discovered that papers submitted online will in general be a lot more limited than those submitted on paper. Furthermore, understudies frequently use email language-no capitalization, or truncations, for example, BTW or "thanx"- which are not fitting to a proper record. Put forth sure that you put as much attempt into an online exposition as you would on the off chance that you were sending it snail mail.

10. Don't expect a lot from an exposition. The application article is significant, yet it's not by any means the only thing that is thought of. "Could [the essay] have any kind of effect in getting the 'dainty versus thick' envelope? Totally," says Fuller. "However, that is the special case as opposed to the standard."

That is on the grounds that affirmation officials take a gander at the entire bundle your scholastics, extracurricular exercises, state sanctioned tests, and different variables. An incredible paper seldom compensates for a feeble scholastic record. Then again, an average exposition won't really entrust your application to the "deny" list. So create your article too composed as you can, however don't squeeze yourself that the remainder of the application blurs in significance.

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5-crofters-jams · 6 years

Text

So ADHD Roman, am I right?

A bullet point fic

Word count: Just about 1.2k

Warnings: Medicinal drug reference, panic attacks, self deprecation

Roman who was never diagnosed as a child because he was a bright kid and never had issues learning

Roman who didn't see anything wrong with giving the people at his table the answers to worksheets

Roman who would always blurt out the answer before anyone else could

Roman who never had an inside voice

Roman who spent the entirety of second grade at a desk alone by the door because he was "too distracting"

Roman who was always high energy, but also developed subtle tics like rubbing his nose or shaking his leg

Roman who constantly fidgets with anything he can get his hands on

Roman who never seemed to be able to get his homework done one time

Roman who began to struggle in middle school when it came to finishing tasks and getting organized, but still managed to pull through

Roman who tried hard not to cry in eighth grade when he got his first-ever B on a report card in English, solely because he forgot to turn in a singular assignment

Roman who begins to muddle through freshman year

Roman who may be easily distracted, but isn't dumb

Roman who has to tell himself this when more Bs and even Cs follow

Roman who realizes he has a problem in tenth grade when final projects roll around and he has to do them all in one night

Roman who doesn't sleep that night and still doesn't finish everything

Roman who's on the brink of panic but still can't force himself to concentrate

Roman who can't "buckle down and do it" like his parents tell him to

Roman who turns in his first incomplete essay and buries himself in Patton's sweater, trying his best not to cry on the bus and failing as he writes his English teacher an email of apology

Roman who can't keep a schedule and can't conceptualize time

Roman who grows so terrified of failure he can barely start an assignment

Roman who turns in another incomplete essay

Roman who makes the conscious choice not to take AP English because he knows he can't handle it, and it hurts him

Roman who knows he's only doing so well because of his impeccable memory and good test taking skills

Roman who's so frustrated with himself because he's better than this, he knows he could be better if... if something...

Roman who won't move on from a topic until he understands it completely, hyperfocusing on a math problem for twenty minutes trying everything he can to work it out, even when people tell him to move on and come back to it later

Roman who acts out grand stories alone in his room and leaves homework to the wayside as he stays up unholy hours

Roman who gets the sudden urge to write poetry instead of sleeping

Roman who fixates on fandoms for years at a time until a new one forcefully yanks away his interest

Roman who gets complimented in theatre for being smart because of how quickly he memorizes his lines, but can't memorize a math formula

Roman who goes to the therapist for fear of having OCD and is shocked when she mentions ADHD instead

Roman who takes the tests and goes through the motions and is genuinely surprised that his IQ is as high as it is and wonders if there was a mistake on the sheet

Roman who's finally officially diagnosed, though it's not what he expected

Roman who insists on getting the first medication he can be on to "fix himself"

Roman who doesn't notice a huge difference in himself on adderall, though Patton swears he's more relaxed and less fidgety

Roman bringing this up at a med evaluation and the doctor suggesting he take a higher dosage

Roman who goes from ten total milligrams to forty over the course of one day

Roman who can't sleep that night

Roman who takes another twenty milligrams the next morning

Roman who can barely eat the whole day

Roman who's almost fine until his hands and face start to feel as though they're vibrating in last period

Roman who tries so hard to stick it out and see the class through, but looks at the clock and realizes he can't take another half an hour of this

Roman who has to rationalize everything aloud to himself or else he can't process it in the moment of adrenaline

Roman who has to talk himself down from a panic attack in the bathroom

Roman who tells the teacher this, and luckily she lets him sit outside in the hall and try to eat something

Roman who's absolutely petrified, but doesn't show it

Roman who's packing up his things and talking to his friend Virgil about what's going on with him, verbally reassuring himself just as much as Virgil that he was going to be fine

Roman who hates how he starts to panic again and tear up when Virgil makes a passing joke about Roman landing in the hospital, even as Virgil profusely apologizes once Roman told him how much that comment set him off

Roman who makes a comment about his current state to his kinda friend Logan, who tells him he has ADHD too and knows exactly what he's going through

Roman who almost wants to cry with relief knowing that what was happening to him was normal and that he wasn't headed to an early grave due to an accidental overdose

Roman who guiltily tells his mom that they're going to have to cancel their college visit that night due to his current state of still feeling the effects of the panic attack

Roman who's mom knows her son and takes him to the urgent care to quell his overthought worries

Roman who nervously rambles and over describes his symptoms along with their probable causes to the nurses and doctors as they run a few minor tests

Roman who realizes with relief that the effects wear off with time, just as they said they would

Roman who comes home absolutely wiped out and wants to sleep for twelve hours, but unfortunately has school the next day

Roman who doesn't take any meds whatsoever for at least week for fear of that happening again

Roman who's mom gives him paperwork to turn in to the special ed department to work out any accommodations he might need

Roman who almost doesn't turn it in because kids are mean and kids will talk and they tell him that special ed was a place for the dumb kids, and no matter how untrue that may be, he fell into a pit of self-consciousness and insecurity

Roman who outwardly insists with gusto that he's just fine and won't ask for help

Roman who has to assure himself he's not dumb every time he struggles to finish a late night assignment or finishes a test last because he spent a good portion of the time thinking about how he would direct a production of Newsies

Roman who is smart, but disorganized. Creative, but struggles with executive dysfunction

Roman who's got a long way yet to go, but is trying his damnedest to be the best he can be.

#Roman Sanders #Sanders Sides #Sanders Sides fic #Sanders Sides fanfiction #Thomas Sanders #Rolo writes

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bvbuntin · 4 years

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Book Review: A Good Neighborhood by Therese Anne Fowler

I have not had much opportunity to read for fun since graduating college this spring. “Fun” is a very subjective word here, mostly referring to picking something not necessarily related to academia but laced with an underwritten tension of reading something relevant to current events. I ended up borrowing an ebook copy of A Good Neighborhood somewhat at random. I was not looking for anything “serious,” but at the same time, reading with a disconnection to literature’s political implications makes reading for fun—particularly after recently graduating with a degree in English—nearly impossible. Therefore, my conclusions from reading this novel reflect the often simultaneous pros and cons of producing racial discourse. A Good Neighborhood deals in racial politics as its explicit subject, but the narrative itself is also deeply embedded in unavoidable racial politics that may be detrimental to the issues it attempts to illuminate.

The story follows two families in a North Carolinian suburb. One family consists of widowed mother, Valerie, a professor of ecology, and her son Xavier, a freshly-graduated teen preparing to pursue his promising career in music at a school in San Francisco. Next door, the Whitman family has recently moved into their custom-built house: Julia, mother of teenage daughter Juniper, who married wealthy HVAC business-owner Brad and added their grade-school age daughter Lily. It is important to note that Valerie is black, her son Xavier being mixed (but for all intents and purposes, counted as black by society), while the Whitmans are white. Valerie sues Brad for damage caused during the construction of the Whitmans’ new home to the roots of her massive, ancient oak tree; at the same time, the teenagers, Xavier and Juniper, fall in love. The racial politics of the book are evident from the start, with Brad, for example, appearing to assume Xavier is hired help as he does yard work for his mother. Over the course of the novel, these racial dynamics escalate into the main conflict, and the story ends in tragedy.

It is impossible to understand the novel’s complexity without also understanding the circumstances under which the novel was written. Reading the beginning acknowledgements reveals some important information about the author: first, she is white, and second, she wrote this novel for its relevancy to current issues in the hopes of spurring conversation about race. I would be interested to have had the experience of reading the novel without knowing such information first. Whatever the case, this story about racial politics is itself steeped in the racial politics which birthed it.

The novel exhibits an awareness of the many dimensions of power. For example, race, class, education, gender, and life experience all compound to complicate relations between the families. For example, Julia Whitman and her daughter Juniper both experienced a large class jump when Julia married Brad. Julia used these newfound opportunities to place Juniper in a religious program meant to support teenage girls in the way that religious programs often do: emphasizing traditional gender roles and conducting ceremonies such as making a purity vow with her stepfather Brad. We also see that Valerie and her son deviate from the poor urban stereotype often associated with POC: Valerie is a single black mother working as a college professor in STEM, and Xavier has received a generous scholarship to pursue his love of music at a school in San Francisco.

And yet, some of these aspects can feel heavy-handed. Is Xavier portrayed as a “good kid” because of author bias toward what constitutes the “proper conduct” of a POC in society? Does he obtain a scholarship because, as the societal narrative goes, hard work always pays off (no matter your race or privilege)? Readers cannot be certain, but the questions remain. These multi-faceted power dynamics, on the one hand, capture the complexities that arise from conflict, as they do in real life. On the other hand, the presence of these traits may at times reduce characters to tokens, making them feel more like the sum of their traits (as given to them by a white author) rather than complex characters.

The narration style of the novel provides an interesting perspective into racial tension. Written in the collective first person perspective “we,” it is the titular neighborhood that narrates the story. The omnipresent perspective is offset by explicit reminders that neighborhood, despite its collective and wide perspective, is ultimately limited by the boundaries of privilege and the limitations of the human perspective. Though at times the narrative seems to provide a neutral understanding of the situation, we are reminded that this neutrality is not total: the narrative perspective exemplifies the collective consciousness of white society when faced with issues of race. This type of narrative perspective enables the narrative to draw explicit attention to overt and covert racism in ways which feel a bit more organic than if an impersonal third-person narrative were to suddenly launch into an explanation about racism.

There are pros and cons to explicit acknowledgement of racism in narrative: on the one hand, racism often acts very covertly, and pointing it out explicitly means one is aware of the narrative they are narrating/writing and wants to make their readers aware of the issue rather than hoping (white) people will pick up on it. On the other hand, it may make the writing feel inauthentic, a moral lesson to be conveyed, which the collective narrative style mitigates but does not do away with altogether. The novel’s resigned ending feels intimidated by its own implications, edging into the all-too-common resolution of “let us witness the tragedy inherent in being black and use it to make us all more conscientious people.” Such a resolution leaves too much at stake for very real issues of systemic racism and violence, sacrificing the individual for the sake of the whole and reproducing the violence it attempts to combat.

When I was about halfway through the novel, I was chatting with a friend who suggested we start a book club. Because I was reading A Good Neighborhood, I suggested this novel. Upon completing the novel, I feel like I would genuinely discourage my friend from reading this book. What concerns me about this specific novel is that this novel’s reality is not what we need right now, especially in the realm of fiction. Not that creating a fictional racism-free world is the answer—such a perspective exemplifies white desire to simply make the problem go away, to rectify without facing reality—but one must ask the question about how effective repeatedly reiterating the violence enacted on black bodies is in the fiction genre. Coupled with the fact that most readers may not dwell on the complexities of the internal narrative and the external politics that produced it, I do not feel the book is productive for racial discourse and runs a high risk of only adding to the trauma that our society forces black persons to confront daily, ultimately desensitizing us to reality. Though there are black characters and references and quotes to the work of famous black activists, the book lacks a black voice, which I believe it what we need most right now.

I would not prioritize this book on your to-read list. If you choose to read this book, make sure you do not read it in a vacuum. Read what other people—especially POC—have to say about such books. Better yet, read novels and essays by POC. If you are looking to understand racism through literature, there are far better options. This book may serve better as an example of how white writers attempt to talk about race with varying degrees of success.

I understand that this is a difficult subject matter to handle, and I understand that a novel cannot cover everything. However, I think considering all the facets of the narrative, and the circumstances which produced the narrative, is what ultimately produces a productive reading. I am just unsure how many people will have the time or knowledge to do such work, and therefore would recommend other works before this one.

Check out this book on Goodreads

#book reviews #bri's reviews #racism #fiction books #realistic fiction books #ya fiction books

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songanalysisessays131 · 4 years

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jamesmartin30-blog · 4 years

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What Is Academic Writing And Why Is It Important?

Academic writing is becoming an extremely essential aspect of schooling as parents and teachers understand the importance of analytical thought abilities and prepare students for college.

Nevertheless, many pupils, guardians, and even many teachers have no understanding of this field of learning and why it is so important.

As such, it is necessary in English not just to teach scholarly literature, but also to make people understand why it is crucial to produce insightful and competent students.

What Is Academic Writing?

First of all, what is scholarly writing? Some students see writing as something they only have to do as the instructor said so, so it's going to be a boring so time-consuming task. Our goal is to bring an end to this kind of thought.

Clearly stated, scholarly learning shows students how to compose essays. It seems pretty easy, but there's a lot more to it than that.

Writing essays is a means of expressing abstract concepts, feelings, or views. Writers learn to create a very complex statement or description by merging sentences into phrases and phrases of an article.

Why Should Students Learn Academic Writing? Because Writing Is Thinking

Learning how to compose powerful essays is essential not just to get a good grade or get to a decent school and you'll get a good career or something. It 's vital because, at the most basic point, it's about having your own ideas and then rendering them rational and real, first to yourself then to your readers.

It is when you take these ideas out of your head and crystallize them on paper or on a computer. They 're in a situation where you don't always have to accept them for what they really are, but other people will do so. When the theories are convincing and strong, such thoughts will become the thoughts of others. It's the crux of conversation.

In other terms, positive thoughts are equivalent to good prose. If the words are not straightforward or consistent or lack structure, they would be bad prose, and many do not appreciate or approve.

Many authors begin at a point where writing is not especially strong, but through learning writing skills, they learn how to be more better writers, which means they are better thinkers.

Practicing writing is about sharpening the thought method – the more you practice something and the better you do it, the more people can listen to you.

The other significant aspect about academic learning, of course, is that students really need it for college! This is a very realistic and simple educational talent, so if anyone is trying to be a professional student, they ought to be at least a good writer so communicator.

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Skills Academic Writing Develops

Academic writing is important, but what particular skills do students have? They 're:

Strong communication

Students who can compose a persuasive and coherent article will talk in a straightforward, organized and assured manner. Not only are these people able to compose well, but they can communicate and analyze with the same techniques.

Critical Thinking And Reasoning Skills

The willingness to switch from one thought to another and to grasp the relation sounds simple, but it is shocking how few people really learn this skill. Nevertheless, learning to compose shows students how to think. In other terms, writing introduces "structured learning" to students.

Throughout fact, teaching shows pupils how to evaluate, or what scholars term "serious thought." Students tend to think, "Does what I tell make sense? "And," Is that what I read true? ”. We learn to accept facts, to understand complexity and context, and eventually to build the capacity to make up their own minds about issues. We believe that's the whole point of schooling.

Understanding An Audience

When you're writing an article, you ought to consider how it's supposed to be, what it's supposed to be, whether it's required or what it's intended to be, and how to deliver it in the most persuasive or approachable way. Through practicing writing, students know how to talk of their audience as well as how best to meet them.

Language skills

Academic research is a composite of all such language capabilities. You ought to have a good grammar. You ought to use an advanced language. You need to be able to respond to and appreciate the orders, and you will need to be able to speak freely and pose questions and voice your views. Perhaps more significantly, you need a lot of training.

If the improvement of professional English skills is something you are seeking, there is no easier way than to study academic prose.

Research Skills, Because You Learn A Lot

Finally, writing shows students how to carry out work. The truth is, students do not know the answer to any of the queries they are asked to respond in writing. It means they're going to need to go find out. The sophisticated word of "going to find out" is "study."

Through conducting research, students learn to appreciate their writing concepts at a finer level than other would would imagine. When they write on a science, cultural or literary topic, they know from doing work not only what they need to get a decent score, but they do recognize that there is a great deal to know on nearly any topic.

Types Of Academic Writing

Okay, so we may accept that writing is necessary and useful, but then what do students will need to know directly in academic writing classes? There are several types of essays with specific reasons. Here's a short sampling of a couple of them:

Persuasive essays – seeking to convince people of your view on the topic

For example: “In Praise of Idleness” by Bertrand Russell

Expository essays – explaining a topic to an audience

For example: “I’m an environmental journalist, but I never write about overpopulation” from Vox.com

Narrative essays – to convey a story in an essay.

For example: “Shooting an Elephant” by George Orwell

Composite essays - Essays that inspire, justify, or reveal a tale

For example: “Politics and the English Language” by George Orwell

Compare and contrast essays – taking two subjects and analyzing their similarities and differences

For example: “Once More to the Lake” by E.B. White (this is also a narrative essay)

Cause and effect essays – Essays that describe whether something has occurred or the consequences of an occurrence or operation.

For example: “The Adults in the Room” by Megan Greenwell

Analysis – not an essay sort, but a lot of essays seek to get readers to grasp the topic better.

For example: “A.A. Gill on Autobiography by Morrissey”

Research papers – typically convincing, expository or comparing and contrasting, while often involving quotes and analysis to justify the author's statements.

Characteristics Of Academic Writing

Until we wrap up, it is necessary to consider the characteristics that characterize quality academic learning. For any piece they compose, both students and authors will look for such qualities for their writing.

Focused, clear, and logical

One of the very first things we 're telling writers is that they need to Stay On Point. As a matter of fact, we literally scream that phrase in class because it was so essential to the process of writing.

Writing needs to be about a specific subject and only about that scope. In addition, readers should be able to fully understand not just thoughts and phrases, but how they communicate to form a larger argument. In other words, academic writing needs to make sense of it.

Convincing and interesting

The concept may make sense to a person, but that doesn't imply they 're in agreement with it. Academic writing has to move beyond reasoning and still be compelling – audiences will come to believe that the speaker makes a valid argument.

In addition, scholarly writing should be engaging irrespective of the topic. Sure, academy may be boring, but it's the writer's task to make the subject fascinating and worth reading. Each of the essay references in the segment above are thought-provoking and persuasive, even though some of their concepts might be less than thrilling to all readers.

Based on evidence

Finally, scholarly writing must be real. Storytelling articles are never imaginary, but if they were, they would be short tales, which are a particular type of character.

Writers of scientific literature should give proof of their arguments and conclusions, and analytical reasoning must be focused on what is true and can be claimed honestly rather than speculation or mere fiction.

Academic writing is a must for teachers. It is necessary for practical reasons, as students will have to write an essay for tests such as TOEFL, IELTS, and SAT, college applications, and then so many once they reach college. After graduation, whatever their role is, they'll have letters, papers, interviews, and speeches to write. It's not just philosophy – academic writing skills make sure students are ready for their future.

However, scholarly writing is critical far beyond bottom line. Reading scholarly writing sharpens brains, shows students how to relate, and strengthens their analytical abilities and capacity to comprehend others. Publishing is talking around,

But every student needs to be a successful thinker.

Let the English aid them move in there.

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arcticdementor · 5 years

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“Bourgeois Values,” “Anti-capitalism,” and Restoration.

(Time for another exercise in wasted effort in writing a long post nobody’s going to bother to read.)

Now, I don't exactly like using the term "bourgeois," what with the Marxist baggage and polysemy leading to ambiguity. But, lacking a better term for "bourgeois values" — as used by the likes of Amy Wax — I find myself using the term in this essay.

Now, per the polysemy mentioned above, the values of the "bourgeoisie" have been characterized in a number of ways by different folks from differing perspectives. "Materialism" — particularly in the sense of prioritizing material concerns over spiritual or other non-material concerns — is common, as are "philistinism" and conspicuous consumption. Or, there's also there’s more positive formulations, like that of Deirdre McCloskey, or the description from Wax and Alexander:

Get married before you have children and strive to stay married for their sake. Get the education you need for gainful employment, work hard, and avoid idleness. Go the extra mile for your employer or client. Be a patriot, ready to serve the country. Be neighborly, civic-minded, and charitable. Avoid coarse language in public. Be respectful of authority. Eschew substance abuse and crime.

I'd definitely rate this sort of thing as better than the kind of alternative one sees in places like the "hillbilly" communities suffering in the opioid crisis, the "rust belt," dysfunctional inner cities, etc. Now, the criticism of this I see is almost entirely from the left, and mostly consists of posing these values as some matter of "-ist." For example, Elie Mystal attacking Robert L. Woodson's defense of Wax, Alexander, and bourgeois values, as Uncle Tom groveling:

If a white guy said this, the only people defending him would be Nazis, but because a black guy wrote it, it falls to me to point out that this right here has ALWAYS BEEN the argument deployed by House Negroes to justify their position. I PROMISE YOU that if you went back to 1830 and asked the chuckling HNIC how he can live with himself, he’d say: “Look at my back. It ain’t got no scars because I reject undisciplined and irresponsible behavior. Without me, this whole damn plantation would fall apart. Now please excuse me, it’s time for Master to take a dump and I need to be there to wipe his ass.”

I point out that Woodson’s argument is steeped in the long history of coonery not to denigrate Woodson — his own words have done that far better than I could — I point it out to show that large swaths of Black America have adopted “bourgeois values” from the very beginning. Post emancipation, the bourgeois blacks actually won out. Now, most all of us African-Americans have totally adopted the white man’s cultural norms and are just trying to get our share of the rewards.

(I'm not unsympathetic to the argument that it's a foreign imposition of "white man’s cultural norms," and that resistance in favor of defending one's indigenous culture and values against such foreign impositions is valid; I just wish it were applied more consistently and broadly for all rival cultures to "universal culture,” as well as recognizing the tension between rejection of an alien culture's values and yet expecting said culture to provide you with all the benefits of those values all the same.)

But I'd like to push back from the right.

First, there's how the American right has deeply internalized these norms, and how this affects the issue of political organization and activism — or lack thereof — on the right versus the left. Especially the sort of thing David Z. Hines talks about. When you ask you're average Republican voter why we don't do this sort of thing, the usual answers are some variety of "nobody's got time for that; we've got jobs to go to and bills to pay—" (as if the left were composed entirely of college students, welfare layabouts, and paid astroturf) "—and besides, that's Not Who We Are." (As Hines put it: "THAT’S NOT HOW THE RIGHT DOES THINGS, they bellow, by which I assume they mean unpleasant stuff like “winning.”")

I'd like, some other time, to explore this in further depth, but in short, these replies all reduce to the same thing — the tactics are rejected because of incompatibility with the above "bourgeois values."

But our choices aren't only "bourgeois values" — with concommittant dedication to being dignified losers who will somehow win through our willingness to let the enemy destroy us — or Detroit/Middletown. Because, consider, what would Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, think of those sort of "I've got a mortgage to pay" excuses? Or Otto, Fürst von Bismarck, Herzog zu Lauenburg? Charles the Hammer? Godfrey of Bouillon? George Monck, 1st Duke of Albemarle? What would the sort of man who rated non-material things like *honor* highly enough to risk their lives over them think of this sort of "think of the bottom line" mentality? What about aristocratic values?

I'm also somewhat hesitant about using the term "capitalism" unqualified, for the same Marxist-baggage-and-polysemy reasons as "bourgeois." On the one hand, I've seen people both on the far left and the far right use "capitalism" to mean pretty much anything short of outright Communism, and on the other, there's the "real capitalism has never been tried!" libertarians for whom the existence of a single business regulation renders a system "non-capitalist." Add in that I accept the arguments, by Jim Donald and others, that the Marxist model of "Capital" as entity/class is fundamentally inaccurate, and that "capitalists" are never actually the people in charge.

That said, this is where I have some overlap with what is often characterized as "anti-capitalism." Because I'm against the system which promotes and selects for the above "bourgeois values." Not in the sense of wanting to replace them with some sort of "socialist values," or with the antithesis of Wax and Alexander's list, but in the cause of restoring aristocratic values. As I once said a couple years back at Slate Star Codex:

But competent at what is key. Here, it’s “the aristocratic being overwhelmed by the competent” at making money. After all, there was a previous period where being competent at making money didn’t let you “overwhelm” the aristocrats. And, of course, there’s the issue of how the aristocrat lineages became such in the first place, which was, basically, as warlords. They were competent at being and leading a warrior elite. So there was a time when being capable at breaking faces on horseback was more important than being capable at making money, so the leaders-of-face-breakers and their descendants ruled.

Of course, I now dispute the idea that it was the money-making "bourgeoisie" who actually "overwhelmed" the aristocrats, or that it happened at the time the conventional narrative places it. For example, Wikipedia has it as "the late-16th and early 17th centuries" when the developing urban business class "had become the financial – thus political – forces that deposed the feudal order."

A better model, I'd say, is that changes in military technologies — particularly, the decline of castles — led to a trend of centralization of power away from the distributed feudal hierarchy (with weak, "first among equals" monarchs) towards "absolute monarchy" and the rise of modern states, and that the "bourgeoisie" were an effect, not a driving cause, a useful foil for centralizing monarchs to leverage against an aristocracy based in control of agricultural lands. Aristocracy and "military power in the realm of politics" looks to have still been pretty powerful, at least in most of Europe, through the English Restoration, and through the Napoleonic wars. From the very same Wikipedia page:

The English Civil War (1642–51), the American War of Independence (1775–83), and French Revolution (1789–99) were partly motivated by the desire of the bourgeoisie to rid themselves of the feudal and royal encroachments on their personal liberty, commercial prospects, and the ownership of property. In the 19th century, the bourgeoisie propounded liberalism, and gained political rights, religious rights, and civil liberties for themselves and the lower social classes; thus the bourgeoisie was a progressive philosophic and political force in Western societies.

[Emphasis added.]

Nor is the rise of science as big a factor as some portray; after all, "father of chemistry" and pioneer of the scientific method Robert Boyle was the son of Richard Boyle, 1st Earl of Cork, and it was the restored monarchy of Charles II that chartered The Royal Society out of Boyle's "invisible college." The scientific progress of the likes of Newton thrived under the Restoration aristocratic system. So, I reject the idea that aristocratic virtues are achievable only by reversion to "ignorant superstition" and 1400s technology.

That is, it looks like 1848, and the surrounding decades, were more of a turning point with regards to aristocratic values than any time in "the late-16th and early 17th centuries." The Crimean War, with Jim's favored example of the smearing of Lord Cardigan and elevation of Florence Nightengale, is another mid-19th century case. And, also [https://blog.jim.com/politics/defining-restoration-and-reaction/]per Jim[/l], this looks driven less by "capitalists" as by "priests." Wikipedia, again, has the "capitalists" having ascended to "the upper class" only by the end of the 19th century. And there, it looks to me like the elites at the forefronts of the various social reform movements, most with roots in one or another (mostly Protestant) religious "awakening," were clearly more powerful than "capitalists," whose influence is frequently overstated. That is, in line with Jim's recurring thesis, "warrior rule" was slowly replaced not by "merchant rule," but by the "priestly rule" of the post-Puritan religion, still headquartered in Harvard and Yale, with continuity of organization, personnel, and institutions all the way back to the Roundheads.

I see no reason why "bourgeous values" must inevitably displace "aristocratic values," nor that the latter is, as some claim, fundamentally incompatible with scientific progress. So, how do we of the “Red Tribe” go about prying ourselves away from our stubborn, self-defeating adherence to bourgeous values and shifting the system toward selecting for aristocratic ones again?

#long post #tl;dr #nobody's going to bother to read this #why am I wasting my time on this?#bourgeois values #aristocratic values #what would lord wellington do?#what would charles martel do?

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