#one of them is a complete sparse of the moment tho can you guess which one????

[brainworms-all-night-long]

What if I only listened to the little snail in my head telling me to draw Nine over and over again despite having numerous other w.i.p.'s

[blackberry-gingham]

Hello there! How about John x Reader where Lennon began to notice her shy gestures whenever they got the chance to hangout, and since the reader was usually comfortable with him and suddenly, her manners turned into a delicate one, at the same time, now barely speaks with him. John never asked the reader why and suspects by himself she fancies him. He’s certainly not sure about his thought so, he soon pulled his bandmates to help him find the real reason out.

Oooo interesting! John needs the whole squad to figure out your feelings lmao. So on brand tho ??? I love it 😂

Enjoy!

---

The sun beams proudly overhead, framed by sparse clouds. It's a surprisingly mild summer day and you are relaxing pool side with your best friend, John Lennon. You're at his place and he's reclining in his yard chair completely at ease, eyes closed behind his dark sunglasses.

You sneak yet another glance over at him, trying hard to play it cool. With a quiet but deep breath in, you turn your attention back to the clouds.

What's wrong with me? You think to yourself.

You see, you and John have been friends for ages now. Before Hamburg, before the Quarrymen, before the Beatles... There was just you and him.

All this time, you've both been comfortable in your friendship together. After all, it's hard to find someone who gets you quite like you get each other. And yet... you feel different somehow.

You glance John's way one more time. He's begun to stir a bit and after so many years of knowing him, you sense he'll want to find some fun soon. But for now, you continue resting.

For all this time that you've known him, it may surprise some to know that deep down, the tough and witty John Lennon everyone knows is actually something of a romantic. John's had his flings here and there on his search for lasting love, but nothing seemed to stick for him. Of course, things have worked about the same for you.

Normally it gives you both just another thing to commiserate about, but you've got to thinking lately...

It's probably stupid. After all, if it were possible, surely he would've realised it by now, or at least said something... right?

You sigh and play with your hair, a bad habit of yours, you know. The thing is, you can't help but wonder if there would ever be a chance for maybe... You and John to be together. Of course there's no guarantee things would work out, but you'd never know unless you try...

"Alright, enough of that", John sits up abruptly and takes off his sunglasses. He ruffles his hair and turns to you. "Want to cool off with me?", He nods to the water, "Then we can clean off inside. I know you have to be getting on soon"

You smile, a bit proud to have your hunch proven right. With a big stretch, you sit up as well and turn your sunny gaze to him, "Sounds like fun"

John smiles a cheeky grin and leaps up from his chair. Before you can inquire what all the rush is about, he tears off towards the water and over his shoulder he yells, "Last one in is a rotten egg!"

You gasp in playful disbelief, but you aren't about to let him win. In less then a second you're up and right after him. John slows down a touch just before the waters edge, and for a moment, you think he might let you win.

He comes to a stop right at the lip while you yourself slow down from your head of steam to join him. But, before you can stop completely...

"Ladies first!", John gives you a playful push and sends you on your way into the water. This end of the pool is shallow enough for you to stand with your head comfortably above water, so you shoot back up just in time to get splashed as John cannonballs in beside you.

You splutter and wipe the chlorine water out of your eyes quick as you can. Once you think you're safe, John reemerges and shakes his mop top out, sending another sheet of water your way.

"Oh, you-!", You clear your eyes and then, for the briefest of moments, you bring your hands to action.

John is wading there with a grin plastered on his face, as though he wants you to retaliate. Call him a name. Splash him with water. Perhaps give him a little shove... This is his idea of fun and games. Annoying people, that is.

Normally you quite enjoy it actually, but ever since you've been second guessing your feelings for John, you're not sure how to act. After all, you can't risk giving your feelings away! What if he catches on and rejects you, and then doesn't want to be around you anymore?

No, best to not do anything that could even remotely be interpreted as flirtation or teasing or anything of that sort.

You instead use your hands to tread the water and head back to the lip of the pool, "You are such a child!", You laugh.

John's grin falters as he watches you wade away. After being by your side for years, he can safely say that is very strange behavior for you. He's so comfortable and use to you returning his shenanigans that to see you just... Not, bothers him deeply.

In fact, now that he thinks about it, this is far from the first time you've acted this way. It's actually become a bit of a pattern with you over the last week or so, and John can't stand the mystery.

He sighs sadly, disappointed that his plan to get you to act like your old self didn't work, and crawls out after you. The two of you clean up and part ways for the day. John doesn't bring up his concerns to you, and yet he does want to know the truth...

All that evening he can't escape his thoughts.

By all accounts, nothing should be wrong! Nothing's changed between you two, no ill words or actions, so that's out. There's no outside life issues causing problems, or at least nothing that wasn't already there, so it can't be that either!

But then... What's left?

John pulls the blankets up close as he lays down for the night. The clock on the wall says 11:48, and even now he's still worrying over all this. He rolls over with a sigh. The bedside lamp is still on.

He reaches to click it off, but hesitates for a moment. Instead he finds himself digging in the messy table drawer until finally... Yes, here it is.

Out comes a little polaroid photo. It's a bit aged and ragged by now, but it's perfectly clean and one of John's most prized possessions. Within the frame of the picture, your beautiful face stares back at him, smiling sweetly. You gave him this photo as something for him to hold onto while he was away in Hamburg.

He's never told a soul, but even after all these years, he takes it with him on all his tours since.

He smiles back at your picture. He's never been so love sick in his whole life. For a minute, he dares to wonder... What if, you liked him back? It might explain why you've been acting strangely, but...

Well, that's just rediculous. John frowns and, with a little hesitation, begins to return your picture to the secrecy of it's drawer. There's just no way you could fancy him.

After all, he knows you. Just as he knows that, while he's many things, being worthy of you is not one of them.

He closes the drawer with a gentle click and turns out the light. John rolls over and falls asleep, dreaming a dream that you were here with him.

The next day, John is in the studio with the other lads. They're tuning their equipment and gearing up for the day. As such a close friend of John's, you're on friendly terms with the other Beatles as well of course! So when John tells them about the goings on with you, they're quite dumbfounded.

Even they know something is up.

Paul and Ringo suggest a few silly things, all of which John waves off. After some back and forth between those three, George speaks up and suggests something that John has been too afraid to ask.

"Well I think it's obvious... John, she likes you", George's tone is teasing, but the seriousness of the suggestion is quite apparent.

The room falls silent at George's words.

Slowly, Paul begins to nod. "Yeah... Yeah! Have you thought about that John? You two have been mates a long time, makes sense she'd might fancy you after a while"

"Exactly", George adds.

John's heart skips a beat at the idea alone, but he quickly shoots them down. However, the boys are persistent. They ask for more details on your behavior, and with every scenario John describes, they only grow more adamant. Even Ringo agrees!

There's a bit of back and forth to convince John, but... Maybe... Maybe they're right. Even if they weren't, how long was he going to lie to himself? He knows who his heart belongs to, and no one else could take your place.

He has to at least try.

It's a couple days at least before John sees you again. You must admit, you've been purposely trying to keep your distance. To what end, you don't know. But today you have no excuses to fall back on.

You arrive at John's place right on time and when you arrive at the door, he greets you with a bright smile, just as always. But today, John follows it up with a hug, something a bit unusual for him. He takes you by the hands and pulls you inside after you've said your hellos.

"John, wha-?", you laugh.

"Sh, I have something to tell you!"

You laugh some more and follow him briskly to the living room. John takes a seat on the couch and pats a spot beside him for you. First though, you have to take in the view.

There's a soft and low record on in the background and the room smells fragrant and fresh. A far cry from it's usual scent of cigarettes and musk. On the coffee table sits two cups of tea, a fresh vase of roses, and a small flickering candle.

"What's all this...?", you approach the couch slowly as you bask in the environment.

"Oh, well I um... I hope it's not too much, it's just I-I've been meaning to ask, er uh, I wanted to tell you-"

The look on your face is unreadable, and John's words begin to falter. This was a dumb idea, he's ruined everything. But then...

You lean in ever so slightly. A light dances in your eyes, a smile tugging gently at the corners of your lips. This is everything you've ever wanted...

"Yes?", You ask with baited breath

John sits in stunned silence for but a moment. Then, "Well, I-I love you"

Finally.

The tension seems to melt in an instant. You throw your arms around him, "You've no idea how long I've wanted to hear that"

"Really?", John looks utterly surprised.

You laugh and reassure him, and any last traces of his anxiety is gone.

"In that case... You've no idea how long I've been waiting to do this"

He leans in close and there, in the candle light and amongst the flowers, you share your first, tender kiss.

[karliahs]

um for prompts idk anything specific but maybe more midoriya gettin angry over stuff and dealin?? really loved the way u handled it in something else to pretend, would love to see ur take on how he deals with more aggressive/harsher anger? idk tho

content warning for discussions of bullying and brief references to (canon) child abuse

“Why did Kacchan do that?” Izuku asks. It’s one of those shards of memory that lingers far longer than it should, muddying over years and re-rememberings, but never completely fading away.

Izuku can remember the question, his grazed knees, the sun shining on the grass. He can remember his mother helping clean him up, smiling a comforting smile and saying, “I don’t know, sweetie. I think he was angry.”

Izuku isn’t sure if the question that comes next comes from his mother, or if it’s just something he’s thought about so much over the years that it’s gotten tangled up in the memory, an unwitting passenger. “Don’t you get angry, Izuku?” someone asks.

ao3 link / continued below

In hindsight, Izuku is sure the thoughts that come next can’t be part of the memory. His five year old self wouldn’t be capable of this kind of self-analysis. But the thing is, Izuku thinks he knows what anger is. It’s not really that distinct from other kinds of overwhelmed, when the world is too loud, too much, too impatient and needling - and so he cries, because this happens every time a feeling is too large to hold all of it inside him, and ‘wanting not to cry’ is always one of those feelings, so there’s no way out.

Izuku supposes he must have thrown tantrums when he was little. Thrown his toys around, fallen on the floor, screamed. He can’t remember doing any of that.

He’s never felt whatever Kacchan is feeling when he pushes Izuku into the dirt. He tries to imagine it, a feeling bubbling over into bright, harsh action, like Kacchan’s explosions. He can almost get there, but after comes a sweep of shame that pulls him back into himself. Izuku Midoriya, quirkless and strange, who causes enough problems without pushing other children over. Izuku, who can feel the aftermath so much more distinctly than that initial explosion of anger. He can’t think about explosions without thinking about wreckage.

…

“Don’t you ever get mad?” Matsuda asks.

Izuku had been on his way to take shelter in the school library over lunch. He’d been distracted, as he walked, wondering if the doors would be open today - the library is sparse and neglected enough when it’s open, but the school’s staffing levels are such that he frequently turns up at the doors to find the whole place shut up and locked, leaving him to try and think of another place where he might be able to spend the next 45 minutes safe and left alone - so distracted that he hadn’t noticed Matsuda until they almost collided in the hallway.

He was lucky, really, that it was just Matsuda, not one of Kacchan’s true entourage, but a hanger-on who rarely missed an opportunity to take Izuku down a peg. In a class without Izuku there, it wouldn’t be that hard to see Matsuda in Izuku’s place.

But something about Izuku’s distracted expression during his taunts seems to have triggered something else, a kind of disbelieving disgust. “Like, ever?” he asks. “Don’t you ever get tired of like ‘thanks, excuse me, sorry for existing and all, good luck with the test tomorrow guys!’” He says this last past in a high-pitched imitation of Izuku’s voice, and Izuku thinks maybe they’ve returned to familiar ground, but Matsuda is still staring intently at him, seemingly waiting for an answer.

He doesn’t have one to give. Half his mind is still on those library doors, and whether they’ll be open when he gets there. The rest is fuzzed over with panic, leaving him with nothing but his polite, stammering default - which never makes it better, but silence never does either.

“Whatever,” Matsuda says, suddenly growing tired of him and starting off in the other direction. “It’s like you like it this way.”

Izuku takes a shuddering breath and turns the corner. The library doors are closed.

…

Izuku tries, later that day, once he’s safe at home, to get angry on purpose. He sits on his bed and tries to summon it up, like the opposite of meditating, reaching for fury instead of calm. For a few minutes nothing happens at all, except that he gets distracted thinking about other things and has to drag himself back.

He thinks about Kacchan pushing him down, and him never finding out why. He thinks about the look on his mother’s face when she came back from meetings during the dissolution of her marriage, meetings Izuku was kept well away from; he thinks about how hard she tried to be normal, but how her knuckles were white where she gripped her water glass.

Eventually, there’s a kind of hot, prickling feeling over his skin. He feels briefly untethered, out of his own body, and wonders if he really did end up meditating after all. Then comes a wave of nausea, so physical that he feels a prickling in the back of his throat. He remembers having the flu last semester, and the nausea that had flooded through him when he’d tried to walk just to get a glass of water - nausea that felt like a warning, like a plea; stop, whatever you’re doing, stop.

He opens his eyes to find he’s gripping his notebook in his hands, so tight he’s bent the spine, leaving little wrinkles of damage spreading out from where he’d held on. He releases his grip and tries to smooth it over, bend it back into shape, but it only looks sadder for his efforts, care shown far too late to help anything.

…

Always, at the root of anger, we find a desire for change. Izuku grips his highlighter pen, unsure. He doesn’t think this passage has much to do with the essay question he’s been assigned, but something about it peaks his interest anyway.

A person enraged is a person committed to affecting change in the world around them. If we all gave in to those desires at every opportunity, we would have a world of tyranny and chaos. However, the alternative extreme is no better - a world of stasis and apathy, drifting, stagnating. When we tell our children to banish their anger, we tell them to cut away a significant part of their own agency. When we tell this to some children and never to others, we invite a different, more incisive kind of tyranny.

Izuku is torn between a desire to slam the book shut, and the urge to try and pivot his essay in a direction that will let him analyse this. He highlights the words in yellow, realising that when he thinks of change, he doesn’t think of anger. He thinks of All Might, defeating impossible odds, saving dozens of terrified people, and doing it all with a smile on his face. What is that if not agency? Can you really not have one without the other?

…

He supposes what he’s doing is building a case, the way he always does. Trying to capture the sum of his understanding of something, so that when he needs the knowledge it will be there. The crucial, long, stuttering thinking will already be done, and in the heat of the moment he can just act.

That’s Hero Analysis For the Future , and he thinks that’s why he’s holding onto these memories too. Almost every aspect of a hero’s life affects their career in some ways; if anger does too, it makes sense that Izuku needs to work out what he thinks. Don’t you ever get angry, Izuku? Don’t you ever get mad? Always, at the root of anger, we find a desire for change. It’s like you like it this way.

Izuku wishes, for a moment, that feelings were as real and tangible as organs. He wishes he could go for a scan and have someone tell him yep, anger’s right there. It isn’t enlarged or shrivelled. It isn’t inflamed or sickening. It isn’t poisoning everything around it.

…

He asks his friends, now that he has friends, specifically targeting those who are more on an even keel - he already knows he can’t relate to big, obvious anger.

“Sure, Deku,” Uraraka answers. “Everyone gets angry.”

“What does it feel like, when you are?”

“Are you gonna take notes?” she teases, but then she’s concentrating, tapping her fingers together, trying to figure out how best to describe it. Izuku still isn’t used to this; if you’d asked him to predict what Uraraka would give him, even though he thinks the world of her, he assumed he’d get a quick, uninterested comment at most. Either his UA friends are so much better than most people, or his calibrations for what friendship is are all off; Izuku suspects it’s a little of both.

“I guess I have two types of anger?” Uraraka muses. “Like, there’s…determined anger? Like at the sports festival, I just got really fired up and wanted to win so bad!” She makes a fist, as if to demonstrate, and man, Izuku likes her so much.

She lets her hands drop. “Then there’s the kind that’s less fun. Like…when your heater is broken and you’re mad that it’s broken, and that you’re cold and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Your heater isn’t really broken, right?” Izuku asks. “It’s been getting really cold out!”

Uraraka gives him a warm smile. “No, Deku. It’s fine.” He stares at her smile for a second too long, trying to grasp the idea of Uraraka being really, truly angry. He thinks it’s like how no one can really know that they’re seeing the same colours everyone else sees. For all he knows, they’re feeling totally different things and giving them the same name; he can’t imagine Uraraka feeling anything in the disjointed, sickly way that rage finds him.

…

Ashido is his next target, and she laughs before realising he’s serious. “Anger feels like anger, you know?” she says idly. “Like…” She holds up her hands in a claw-like gesture, and makes a kind of ‘rrargh’ noise.

Izuku must look slightly disappointed, because Ashido sighs and throws up her hands. “I don’t know, man! I don’t like to think about it. Everything is stupid when you’re angry, and I’m always there, so it’s like I’m stupid. The stupidest thing in all the stupid.”

She looks down at her shoes as she talks, and it’s so unlike the Ashido he knows that Izuku wants to apologise for having asked. Before he can, she lightly punches his shoulder, giving him a smaller, more subdued version of her usual bright smile. “You don’t always gotta dwell on stuff, you know?” she says. “No one’s gonna give you points for it. Chin up! Plus ultra!”

She skips away, and Izuku feels like he understands her both more and less than he did five minutes ago.

…

He doesn’t actually plan to ask Todoroki, but he’s in Todoroki’s room taking back his notes for English class when he finds himself doing it anyway.

“You…get angry sometimes, right?”

Todoroki blinks at him. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his left hand, cupped in a way that makes Izuku anticipate flame, makes him aware of the ghost of it among his fingers.

“Yes,” Todoroki says simply.

“Yeah,” Izuku says, wanting to smile to soften things but not wanting Todoroki to think he’d been making fun of him. “I’ve been asking a lot of people. People in our class, I mean.” He fidgets with his hands for a second. “I think I’m doing it wrong? I don’t know if I have too much anger or too little, but…I don’t know. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Todoroki waits patiently while he speaks, all his attention fixed on Izuku. Izuku thinks that’s one of the reasons he likes Todoroki; even for all of his ambition, he gives off this impression of patience that makes it feel okay to talk, to talk imperfectly and at length, now that he’s past Todoroki’s initial barriers. The other ambitious people Izuku knows, himself included, aren’t like that - he’s dogged, determined, but not patient. It comes from starting so far behind everyone else, making it feel as though no movement is ever really fast enough.

Todoroki thinks for a long moment before replying. “It can’t be worse than what’s wrong with me.”

Izuku gives him a small smile. Kind things hover in the back of his mind, wanting to offer reassurance, but he knows from experience that when you offer some glimpse of how you feel about yourself, sometimes the best thing to receive back is just space and acknowledgement, instead of attempts to convince you otherwise that mostly just make you regret speaking up in the first place.

Izuku knows he’s so behind with this, too; having friends, talking to people, trying to give them reasons to be glad that they talked to him. But maybe Todoroki would understand that, out of all of his friends - maybe they can muddle through together.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately,” Todoroki offers, and Izuku thinks maybe he made the right choice after all. “I used to want to never be angry, so that I’d never act like my father. Now I think if I don’t get used to it, get control of it, I’m more likely to make the same mistakes he did.”

Todoroki flexes his left hand, frowning.

“You’ve come so far, you know?” Izuku says, before he can stop himself.

Todoroki meets his eyes. He’s familiar and strange all at once. Even now that they’ve spent more time together, Izuku can so rarely predict what Todoroki will say or do, just that he likes him, likes the strange angles of him, likes that for some reason he chose Izuku as the subject of his honesty.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Todoroki says, but there’s a softness there, like gratitude.

“I don’t know if it ever does,” Izuku answers, thinking of all the times this year he’s been told that he’s making progress, and how sometimes he’s still convinced that he’s exactly the same on the inside; the same friendless nothing who spent his lunch breaks cowering in the library. “I just feel so guilty for being mad,” he says. “Even if I just sit with it and don’t do anything, it feels so…dangerous.”

The notes in his hands bring him back to that day in his room, trying to be angry on purpose. “One time I messed up one of my notebooks when I was angry, and even though it’s just paper, I felt so bad…I can’t think about anger without thinking about damage, you know?”

He looks up from the notes, from his own scarred hands, to find Todoroki watching him with a new intensity in his eyes. Immediately he wishes he hadn’t spoken, because of course Todoroki knows more about damage than he ever will. “I’m sorry-” he starts, but Todoroki shakes his head.

“I didn’t know anyone else thought about this the way I do. Especially you.”

Their eyes meet again and Izuku finds himself smiling, just from having spoken and been understood - it was still wonderful and new, every time, each moment where he realises he really does have friends. “Maybe there’s a class we can take?” he jokes.

“I think that’s just therapy,” Todoroki says, sounding thoughtful and disappointed in equal measure. “Tell me why you think you’re doing it wrong?”

Izuku gently sets the notes back on Todoroki’s desk, realising with another little leap of joy that he won’t be leaving for a while yet. He takes a seat and starts to talk about being five years old, about the time Kacchan pushed him over and the only explanation anyone could offer was anger.

[literature-islit]

Short Story: Raymond Carver - Cathedral (1981)

So I feel like the day that I can pick up a Raymond Carver short story and completely fully understand it, is the day I master the craft of literature lol

Raymond Carver is considered to be one of America’s greatest writers (Wikipedia). 

The day i understand how he decides where to start and finish... the day i understand how his editor knew what to cut and what to leave in... 

He writes these sparse, like, minimalist stories about single revelatory moments in the lives of his characters, that could be as simple as, for instance, waking up in the middle of the night and going outside, running into the neighbour for a chat, going back to bed and realising the gate has been left unlocked (I Could See The Smallest Things). Or a husband and wife getting woken up by a wrong-number caller, and spending the night chain-smoking in bed and talking about whether either of them could pull the plug on the other if they were in an accident and gravely incapacitated (Whoever Was Using This Bed). I really don’t think my summaries are doing the stories justice, they’re absolutely exquisite to read............. 

if only I could work out truly, exactly what they were about lol. 

But that’s what makes them so good! They’re like little drops of dew on grass in which you can see the world reflected. No, don’t give me credit for that line - I think I read it in a self-help book about how to write short stories. 

Raymond Carver’s characters drink a lot (Carver himself struggled with alcoholism) and in an article written for The Airship, Freddie Moore made little graphics depicting what was drunk in each short story and in what quantity: 

As you can see above, some of the alcoholic drinks depicted are questionable at best. Instant coffee and vodka? Like, is it a generational thing? The stories were written pre-gentrification, so I guess there were far fewer “small bars” to “pop down to” and drink two for one espresso martinis. 

Still. Everyone seems to get on the scotch and waters in a Carver story. Were there no other mixers available? Lemme go down to my local distillery and ask the bartender for a scotch “just a couple drops of tap water in there tho”

Just kidding I don't drink scotch. It could be a totally reasonable and delicious request. I just have not seen that drink combination on the menu, so to speak.

^^^ That right there above is the “drink receipt” for the short story I am going to share with you today! It’s my favourite Carver story of all time.

Cathedral is about a relatively insular and repressed man, and a journey he goes on over the course of one evening that allows him to let go, just a little. To trust a little, to delight a little bit in life... 

Let me stop rambling and let this story speak for itself. Get yourself out your bottle of gin, or scotch and water, sit back and let the contours of Raymond Carver’s pen take you along for the ride... 

Raymond Carver - Cathedral